Warriors of the Storm. Bernard Cornwell

       FOUR

      Our horses were waiting in the street where Godric, my servant, carried my fine wolf-crested helmet, a newly painted shield, and my bearskin cloak. My standard-bearer shook out the great banner of the wolf’s head as I heaved myself into the saddle. I was riding Tintreg, a new night-black stallion, huge and savage. His name meant Torment, and he had been a gift from my old friend Steapa who had been commander of King Edward’s household troops until he had retired to his lands in Wiltunscir. Tintreg, like Steapa, was battle-trained and bad-tempered. I liked him.

      Æthelflaed was already waiting at the north gate. She was mounted on Gast, her white mare, and wearing her polished mail beneath a snow-white cloak. Merewalh, Osferth and Cynlæf were with her, as was Father Fraomar, her confessor and chaplain. ‘How many men are coming from the pagans?’ Æthelflaed asked me.

      ‘Eleven.’

      ‘Bring one more man,’ she ordered Merewalh. That added man, with her standard-bearer and mine, and with my son and Finan as my companions, would make the same number as Ragnall brought towards us.

      ‘Bring Prince Æthelstan!’ I told Merewalh.

      Merewalh looked at Æthelflaed, who nodded assent. ‘But tell him to hurry!’ she added curtly.

      ‘Make the bastards wait,’ I growled, a comment Æthelflaed ignored.

      Æthelstan was already dressed for battle in mail and helmet, so the only delay was as his horse was saddled. He grinned at me as he mounted, then gave his aunt a respectful bow. ‘Thank you, my lady!’

      ‘Just keep silent,’ Æthelflaed ordered him, then raised her voice. ‘Open the gates!’

      The huge gates creaked and squealed and scraped as they were pushed outwards. Men were still pounding up the stone steps to the ramparts as our two standard-bearers led the way through the arch’s long tunnel. Æthelflaed’s cross-holding goose and my wolf’s head were the two banners that were lifted to a weak spring sunlight as we clattered over the bridge that crossed the flooded ditch. Then we spurred towards Ragnall and his men, who had reined in some three hundred yards away.

      ‘You don’t need to be here,’ I told Æthelflaed.

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because it will be nothing but insults.’

      ‘You think I’m afraid of words?’

      ‘I think he’ll insult you and try to offend you, and his victory will be your anger.’

      ‘Our scripture teaches us that a fool is full of words!’ Father Fraomar said. He was a pleasant enough young man and intensely loyal to Æthelflaed. ‘So let the wretch speak and betray his foolishness.’

      I turned in my saddle to look at Ceaster’s walls. They were thick with men, the sun glinting from spear-points along the whole length of the ramparts. The ditch had been cleared and newly planted with sharpened stakes, and the walls were hung with banners, most of them showing Christian saints. The defences, I thought, looked formidable. ‘If he tries to attack the city,’ I said, ‘then he is a fool.’

      ‘Then why is he here?’ Æthelflaed asked.

      ‘This morning? To scare us, insult us, and provoke us.’

      ‘I want to see him,’ she said. ‘I want to see what kind of man he is.’