“But it seems that this caused dissension among the heathens. Indeed there is a strange story that the execution was put to an end by a machine of some kind. Everything at Eoforwich seems to have something about machines attached to it.
“Yet the important news is the dissension. For after it the Viking army split.”
Mutters of surprise and pleasure.
“Some of them have now left Eoforwich and are marching south. A lesser part of the Army, but still formidable. Where, I must ask myself, are they heading? And I say, they are heading back to East Anglia, from where they came.”
“Back to their ships,” snapped Alfgar.
“That could well be. Now, I do not think the East Anglians will fight them again. They lost their king and too many leaders, thanes and warriors in the battle by the Stour, from which you, young man, so valiantly fought your way. Yet, as you have all been telling me,” Burgred glanced sarcastically at Alfred, “the Vikings must be fought.
“So I shall send East Anglia a war-leader, with a strong force of my men to support him till he can rally his own.
“You, young man. Alfgar, son of Wulfgar. You are of the North-folk. Your father was a thane of King Edmund. Your family has lost more, suffered more and dared more than any other. You will put the kingdom back on its feet.
“Only it can no longer be a kingdom.”
Burgred locked eyes with the young atheling, Alfred of Wessex: eyes as blue and hair as blond as Alfgar’s, a true prince of a royal line. But something queer, cross-grained about him. A clever look. They both knew that this was the sticking point. Burgred of Mercia had no more claim to East Anglia than Ethelred of Wessex. Yet the one who filled the gap would clearly become the mightier of the two.
“What would my title be?” asked Alfgar carefully.
“Alderman. Of the North-folk and the South-folk.”
“Those are two shires,” objected Alfred. “A man cannot be alderman of two shires at once.”
“New times, new things,” replied Burgred. “But what you say is true. In time, Alfgar, you may win a new title. You may be what the priests call subregulus. You may be my under-king. Say, will you be loyal to me and to Mercia? to the Mark?”
Alfgar knelt silently at the king’s feet and put his hands between the king’s knees in token of subjection. The king patted his shoulder and lifted him up.
“We will do this more formally by and by. I just wanted to know we are all agreed.” He turned to Alfred. “And yes, young atheling, I know you have not agreed. But tell your king and brother the way of it is now this. Let him stay his side of the Thames and I’ll stay mine. But north of the Thames and south of the Humber: that belongs to me. All of it.”
Burgred let the tense silence hang a moment and then thought to disperse it. “One strange piece of news they told me. The Ragnarssons have always led the Great Army, but they have all stayed in Eoforwich. Those who marched away are said to have no leaders, or many. But one report is that among their leaders, or their main leader, is an Englishman. A man of the East Angles by his speech, the messenger said. But he could only give me what the Vikings call him, and they speak English so badly I could not make it out as a man’s name at all. They call him Skjef Sigvarthsson. Now what could that be in English? Even in East Anglian?”
“Shef!” It was the silent woman who had spoken. Or gasped. Her eyes, her brilliant liquid eyes, blazed with life. Her husband stared at her like one who measures a back for the birch, while her father-in-law goggled and reddened.
“I thought you saw him dead,” snarled the heimnar accusingly at his son.
“I will yet,” muttered Alfgar. “Just give me the men.”
Nearly two hundred miles to the north, Shef turned once again in his saddle to see if the rear-guard was keeping up. Important to have everyone well closed up, all within earshot of each other. Shef knew that four times his own number were pounding the filthy road behind him, unable to attack while Shef held his thirty hostages, the choirmonks of St. John’s and their abbot Saxwulf. It was important too to keep up the pace, even after their long night’s ride, to outrun the news of their coming and prevent any arrangement being made for their reception.