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    The Last Kingdom
    The Last Kingdom
    The Last Kingdom
    Ebook438 pages8 hours

    The Last Kingdom

    By Bernard Cornwell

    4/5

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    The first installment of Bernard Cornwell’s New York Times bestselling series chronicling the epic saga of the making of England, “like Game of Thrones, but real” (The Observer, London)—the basis for The Last Kingdom, the hit  Netflix series.

    This is the exciting—yet little known—story of the making of England in the 9th and 10th centuries, the years in which King Alfred the Great, his son and grandson defeated the Danish Vikings who had invaded and occupied three of England’s four kingdoms.

    The story is seen through the eyes of Uhtred, a dispossessed nobleman, who is captured as a child by the Danes and then raised by them so that, by the time the Northmen begin their assault on Wessex (Alfred’s kingdom and the last territory in English hands) Uhtred almost thinks of himself as a Dane. He certainly has no love for Alfred, whom he considers a pious weakling and no match for Viking savagery, yet when Alfred unexpectedly defeats the Danes and the Danes themselves turn on Uhtred, he is finally forced to choose sides. By now he is a young man, in love, trained to fight and ready to take his place in the dreaded shield wall. Above all, though, he wishes to recover his father’s land, the enchanting fort of Bebbanburg by the wild northern sea.

    This thrilling adventure—based on existing records of Bernard Cornwell’s ancestors—depicts a time when law and order were ripped violently apart by a pagan assault on Christian England, an assault that came very close to destroying England.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateMar 17, 2009
    ISBN9780061760884
    Author

    Bernard Cornwell

    BERNARD CORNWELL is the author of over fifty novels, including the acclaimed New York Times bestselling Saxon Tales, which serve as the basis for the hit Netflix series The Last Kingdom. He lives with his wife on Cape Cod and in Charleston, South Carolina.

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    Reviews for The Last Kingdom

    4/5

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    • 4/5
      I like this story better than the Sharpe series, and it's almost as good as his pleasant Stonehenge novel. The dispossessed Northumbrian, created, I'm sure with Sean Bean in mind, roaming the desolate landscape of England when Wessex was the last holdout against the Danes, is a fine vessel for Cornwell's ideas. It is a fine adventure novel.It was copyright in 2005.
    • 4/5
      Loved it! Definitely going to keep reading the series.
    • 4/5
      This is the first book I've read/listened to by Bernard Cornwell. The reason? I'm not a great lover of "the great battle scene" and I've always felt the author would go there. Now I know for certain that he does. But...listening to battle scenes is much different to reading them. And listening to battle scenes in this story was a new experience for me. A good experience.I enjoyed the story and the characters. I know it was based on history, how much so I don't know, but it was well written. I must admit that I found it difficult to keep track of the characters because of their strange (similar sounding) names. However, I worked out the ones that matter and became totally engrossed in the plot.The other thing that surprised me was the realisation that I don't read many books written by men. It has never been intentional, but during this book I discovered I liked the different style of writing I found here. It's hard to explain, but for me, it was a nice change of pace. It was gritty, no holding back, masculine. Don't mess with me. Simply gripping. I will be listening too the next two books for sure.
    • 5/5
      This book is amazing. If you are a fan of the historical battles between the Saxons and the Danes, this book is for you. Cornwell paints a stark picture of life during the time of the Viking invasions into Great Britain. Couple that with the life of one confused boy who is torn between his birthright and the people who accepted him as their own.
    • 4/5
      About ten years ago, I read Stonehenge by Cornwell, and loved it. So, I was very excited to read this book. This is everything I like! The Anglo-Saxon period England and the Vikings/Danes are very fun to read about. And it is a good book with an interesting storyline, but I found myself flagging in the middle, and put it down for a while to read other things, until I told myself I could not read another book until I finished it. I was disappointed by the lack of detail. If you are going to write a series, you might as well put a lot of detail in it! I also felt like there was not a lot of character development. Brida had the potential to be a really interesting character, but then Cornwell all but wrote her out of the story! Also Uhtred bouncing back and forth, am Danish, no I’m British, but I’m still good friends with the Danes, was confusing.When I finished to book, however, and read Cornwall’s Historical note at the end about how his ancestors held Bebbanburg and how he was trying to keep it as historically accurate as possible while still being interesting, I liked it more. I feel like he was sort of hemmed in for his story telling by the historical accuracy he has, while still being creative. I’m not sure why we don’t just have the book from Alfred’s point of view, except that having Uhtred gives us the background of the Danes invading England from a first-person perspective.Late in the book, and Englishman asks Uhtred why he fought with the Danes, and Uhtred replies “I fought to survive” So maybe him fighting with the Danes, and then siding with the British but still being friendly with the Danes is not that he has no character development, or that he is not loyal, but he is just doing what he needs to for survival. I think real people are more likely to switch sides and be unsure of their loyalties that is sometimes portrayed in books.
    • 5/5
      I absolutely LOVE anything to do with history. Especially books. So anybody who knows me will not be surprised that I found The Last Kingdom really interesting. This book is the first in a series that tells of the exciting (yes it is exciting, - sword fights and all!) of the making of England during the 9th and 10th centuries. This was a period that the Danish Vikings were attacking the English and had captured most of their kingdoms.The author, Bernard Cornwell, was able to get the information for this series of books through his own family records. Seriously... how cool is that?!?! Netflix even made a series based on the books back in 2016! Of course I'm one of those people that has to read all the books before I can watch the show so it'll be a while before I can watch it. I can't wait though, so now I have to hurry and read the rest of the series!If you enjoy history then I'd recommend reading this book. Cornwell does an incredible job of making what could be a dry subject (since it's from such a long time ago) be super interesting. There's sword fights, kidnappings, murders, and definitely wars - the whole book is talking about wars . During the narrative, everything is explained from the perspective of a young man (he grows from a boy to a teenager in the book) named Uhtred, who is fictional.
    • 5/5
      Very good - enjoyed historical aspect and a good way to learn about some of these past events. TV series was good but this is much, much better. So many constant themes through history - we might consistently increase our knowledge but with each generation having to relearn the emotional side of things, we repeat the same mistakes and suffer the same consequences and horrors.
    • 4/5
      I'm becoming a fan of historical fiction but have not read enough to offer comparisons or to have developed a distinguishing palate. Nonetheless, I found The Last Kingdom interesting. There was gore galore, and very little romanticism of the age. One gold nugget I'll take away from this story is its insight into the psyche of a warrior--the drive, the blood lust of battle, the song of the sword -- I can't say I've understood as well as after having read this novel.

      The central theme of The Saxon Stories revolves here, around King Alfred. This was a fascinating period of history--the invasion of England by the Danes. The brutality of the age has sharpened my appreciation of the difficulty with civilizing our species. Every gain in an evolved and peaceful consciousness has been hard fought. This fictional walk through history has whetted my appetite for more.
    • 1/5
      Uhtred is the son of a 9th century Northumbrian lord, and is orphaned and taken hostage in a Viking attack. He becomes a pawn, and then double-agent, in the wars between the Danes and Alfred, King of Wessex. I've read a lot of historical fiction, and I've developed strong likes and dislikes in the genre. One of the things I strongly dislike is the endless battle scene, another is tiresome political maneuvering. This book is almost all one long battle. Also, The Last Kingdom is an entirely androcentric world, with a few females mentioned only as chattels or potential rape vessels. What did I expect, considering this novel is about Vikings? I expected more . . . I've read non-fiction about Vikings, and have seen numerous documentaries, and actually, they weren't at war all day, every day. And last I checked, the populations of both medieval England and Scandinavia were 50% female. I really wanted to hear more about their day to day lives, and not endless battles full of war strategy and bloodshed. Overall, I found this book to be a disappointing bore. Rating: Sorry, can't give it more than one star. I have no problem with the technical aspects of the writing, although there really wasn't much story arc--it starts with a battle, then there are some battles, and then it ends and the reader is supposed to go on to the next book in the series. Recommended for: Cornwell has an excellent reputation for well-researched novels, and I'm sure this one is no exception. It was just so very boring. I'm sure someone who doesn't notice when half the population is missing from a novel, and who likes reading action scenes will find this a good read. Obviously, I'm not the target audience for this one.
    • 4/5
      First class historical fiction about 9th Century England during the early days of Alfred the Great. Exceptional descriptive writing in the battle scenes.
    • 4/5
      I love historical fiction. Granted, my definition of the category is fairly broad – covering pretty much any piece of fiction that delves into a realistically historical past. I love the more literary works, but also love good historical action and adventure. I cut my teeth on Conn Iggulden’s “Conquerer” series, which provides a fascinating look at the lives and conquests of Genghis Khan and his immediate successors. I’m a big fan of Roman historicals as well, and so Simon Scarrow’s military-focused “Eagle” series does the trick. What I’d read from both Iggulden and Scarrow is that they look to Bernard Cornwell as one of their own authorial heroes. With their recommendations, there was little to hold me back, so I finally jumped into Cornwell’s world with “The Last Kingdom” – a story follows the invasion of what will become England by the Danish, (aka Vikings). Cornwell focuses his story around the young Uhtred, inheritor of an Earl-dom in the North who’s abducted and eventually adopted by the Danes. Uhtred’s allegiances vary over the course of the novel but he never loses his foundational character elements born from both his English and Danish upbringings. Cornwell deftly balances these characteristics without forcing all-too-easy clichés. Through Uhtred’s eyes, we visit a world in transition – between early British settlers, or what the Roman’s would’ve considered barbarians, and those that would become ‘English’, with the Danes/Vikings making a significant play for outright ownership of the British Isles. Being a fan of Roman history, I liked Cornwell’s integration of the ghosts of Roman existence throughout the locations in the story. Roman ruins exist throughout the kingdoms, some only as ruins, and some as the foundation for current inhabitants. Cornwell also explores the role of religion through the comparisons of the monotheistic world of the English and the pagan world of the Danes. And again we see world in transition. While few Danes start adopting Christianity, we see many in England who still hold tightly to the pagan gods of the North. Some of Cornwell’s funniest exchanges revolve around religion, and usually delve into its most practical impact on their lives. King Edmund and the Danes are negotiating a peace and he states, “There is only one god, and you must serve him.” A Danish leader responds rather pragmatically, “But we’re winning,” Ivar explained patiently, almost as if he talked to a child, “which means our gods are beating your one god.”In the most practical sense, the Danes are invading England as a play for more land and more territory, but Cornwell also imbues the story with a more cosmic view, “There’s a war between the gods, Uhtred, war between the Christian god and our gods, and when there is a war in Asgard the gods make us fight for them on earth.”Another running theme is the role of fate in the lives of these characters. While they’re free to make decisions and run with their own lives, characters on both sides of the religious divide believe, in the end, that “fate is unstoppable”. Cornwell writes with the fluidity of the seas that surround the islands that he clearly loves. He develops believable characters, and personalities that are intimately relatable despite the great width of time and circumstances that lies between the pages and the readers. The story lines are dramatic and heavy, but Cornwell doesn’t mind poking fun either, as evidenced in this introduction to one of Uhtred’s more distant uncles: “I found another uncle, this one called Ealdorman Æthelred, son of Æthelred, brother of Æthelwulf, father of Æthelred, and brother to another Æthelred who had been the father of Ælswith who was married to Alfred, and Ealdorman Æthelred, with his confusing family, grudgingly acknowledged me as a nephew…”“The Last Kingdom” succeeds, as all good historical action novels do, by permeating its blockbuster scenes of battle and blood, with good characters and effectively threaded plotlines. I’m a Cornwell convert and have already placed his next Saxon Chronicle on my wishlist.
    • 4/5
      This book was great fun to read and I am definately going to read the other parts in the Saxon Chronicles.The final battle was very exciting to read, but I did feel that some parts of the book lacked a bit of feeling. Like the hall burning. The main character seems very distant from everything even though it is his family being burnt.
    • 3/5
      One of those instances where I enjoyed the tv series more than the book and I'll probably not be going back to the book.Uhtred is a Saxon who is captured by a raiding party of Dances at 10, and is brought up as a Dane, he finds himself torn between the two lives and two worlds. His life takes different twists and turns and it's told by his older self.There are very few women in the book and none of them aren't involved with the male character at some point. Scads of male background characters but this comes across as very like a lot of films.It wasn't bad but I don't intend to read more in this series.
    • 4/5
      I picked up this book after discovering the TV series on Netflix. Love historical fiction and the narrative style of this series has me hooked.
    • 5/5
      I love the character in this book! Ubercool! Excellent telling of the Alfred the Great story
    • 5/5
      Wow, just wow. Bernard Cornwell continues to impress me not just with his characterization and prose, but with his attention to time-setting and historical accuracy. In any case, this is one rowdy story filled with passion, honor, personal truth and lots of blood. :) Can't wait to pick up the next installment.
    • 5/5
      This book maintains a great pace, as it reads alomst too fast and after finishing I am left wanting more. It has good plot twists and the characters, both major and minor are all engaging.
    • 4/5
      The story of an English boy named Uhtred who is captured and raised by the Danes and struggles with conflicting loyalties to men and country.
    • 3/5
      A jolly little viking romp, some mindless entertainment. Some nice historical details, as I would expect from Bernard Cornwell. The story is quite interesting and moves across almost the entire country as it would become. The development of the main character from a small boy to a skilled warrior was interesting to read. I expect I will read the next in this series if I find myself at a loss.
    • 4/5
      The story opens in 866 and continues through to 877. Uhtred, the main character, is captured by a Danish invader called Ragnar. Ragnar is impressed by Uhtred's bravery, as Ragnar was a great warrior, whereas Uhtred was a ten-year-old boy who took him on in battle. Thus the English boy is raised by a Dane. He grows to love Ragnar as a father and he is in turn loved as a son.As Uhtred grows up he learns the Danish ways and Danish language whilst remaining on occupied English soil. But as he nears manhood his natural affection for his own country becomes more prominent. He ends up torn between fighting for the Danes and fighting for the English. He appears confused as to what and who he actually is, stating at one point that he feels loyal to the last person he converses with.This was my first sample of a Bernard Cornwell novel and I must admit I'm impressed with his writing style. He has done a great amount of research for this tome. He includes a note at the end detailing which characters were real and which events actually took place. This is the first in a series of novels and I will definitely read book two.
    • 5/5
      This is the second time I have read The Last Kingdom and I still find it to be a great book. I think Bernard Cornwell is one of the best writers of historical novels with adventures added into the mix writing today.
    • 3/5
      I'm going about this all the wrong way. I think I read the second book in this series first and this, the first book I'm reading second. Hopefully I'll read the third book third but you never know. It was more of the same really. The story starts with Uhtred losing his father and brother to the Danes. In the following battle he goes beserker (if you read the historical note at the end you'll get the joke) and challenges Ragnar. Ragnar sees something in the young Uhtred that he likes and takes him under his wing. There's an interesting concept in this book that I didn't really realise before now. Basically, Uhtred identifies most with the invaders of his country. He is a Saxon by birth in a time when the Saxons where embracing Christianity. Yet Uhtred identifies most with the Danes, Pagans who invaded his country and slayed his family. Maybe that's what's really relevant about this book. All the scare mongering in the News of the WOrld and the Mail on Sunday about immigration but really, this country has always been a cultural melting pot. Since the Romans we have been invaded by the Danes, the Saxons, the Normans etc, etc. Remember, the next time someone tries to tell you that our cultural heritage is being diluted that our cultural heritage IS diversity.
    • 4/5
      Bernard Cornwell, perhaps our best writer of the historical adventure novel today, scores high with the first book in his Saxon Stories. I'm a devoted follower of Cornwell, and in my opinion, The Last Kingdom ranks with the better Sharpe stories and exceeds The Heretic. The Last Kingdom tells the story of the 9th-century Danish (Norse or 'Viking') invasion of Anglo-Saxon England (or Englaland as they said a millennium or so ago). The fierce Danes roll over three of the four kingdoms and have only to finish off the pious Alfred, King of Wessex. This book begins the story of Alfred's resistance. The Saxon Stories relate how Alfred became known as the only 'Great' king in English history. Highly recommended for fans of Cornwell or anyone who like historical adventure stories. Terribly exciting battle scenes on the 'shield wall'.
    • 4/5
      As action historical fiction, Cornwell delivers with The last kingdom, the first volume of his series on King Alfred and the war between Saxons and Danes for England. The narrative carries you forward as told by the main character, Uhtred, a Saxon ealdorman, who grows from the age of ten to adulthood against the background of the Danish conquest. Cornwell writes vivid characters here as well as vivid action. Cornwell is good at setting the scenes and making the time seem alive. In particular, one feels what it meant to fight on the shield wall. Enjoyed it a lot and probably going to get the next volume.
    • 3/5
      Bad for Cornwell but not still not bad. Not enough revenge or love.
    • 5/5
      Cornwell seems to be more at home in the dark ages than anywhere else and despite some structural similarities with his Arthur trilogy this is a superb start to a new series.
    • 4/5
      I'm still wading through the Sharpe books and came across this one on Alfred the Great during the Danish invasions. Annoying at times if you admire early Christianity. Great adventures and battle scenes as you would expect. Read it quickly and now for sale on Amazon. Not a keeper, but definitely a good read.
    • 5/5
      First in the Saxon Chronicles, Bernard Cornwell’s The Last Kingdom vividly recreates a land under threat of Danish invasion and colonization, as seen through the eyes of a young Northumbrian. The voice is convincing as protagonist Uhtred, son of Uhtred, tells how his childhood was interrupted by war, and his loyalties altered by pleasing accident. Those shifted and now conflicting loyalties make for a truly intriguing tale as the English youngster grows up in a Danish family, learning to fight his own people, yet always remaining uniquely loyal to his heritage. It’s a fascinating tale, blending details of well-researched history with complexly authentic politics, vivid social lives and customs, and generous acceptance of different circumstances, religions and needs. The characters on both sides are enthrallingly believable. And the protagonist’s dry humor, human imperfections, and determined honesty make for a great narrator to a tale of great and exciting times. I’m eager to read more, and to watch more of the series on TV!Disclosure: I loved the TV series and now I love the books too.
    • 5/5
      I received this book from Goodreads first-reads, thank you!The cover edition is dedicated to the TV series which I haven't seen yet, but it does work and the story seems more personal for me. This is my first book read by the author and I am glad that I like the story so much to give fully 5 stars.The plot is surprising with it turns and story plotline, the set is between Danish and English, aka viking time. For me it is not the very first story to be read about Vikings, but more from Scandinavian -Norwegian /Swedish aspect in history and history-fiction. The book is about a boy who nearly gets killed at the point where he has seen his father go into the battle and die, taking the sword and attacking the enemy by himself...only to face the sword given by his dad is not a real sword to fight...Luckily the destiny plays a role and the opponent doesn't kills him, instead takes him with and from then on... The little boy is about to discover what means to have a dad in nowadays interpretation, someone who shows example of caring dad, keeping family traditions and teaching him how to live within their customs, testing but awarding...Its up to a boy to grow up and take sides, up to a man to follow his heart and home and take decisions.
    • 4/5
      I had this book on my TBR for several months but only got to it after watching the first season of the TV series on BBC. The book is a detailed account of the battle for England in the late 800s between the Danes (Vikings, Norsemen, etc) and King Albert. The story follows Uhtred Ragnarson a Saxon who was captured by the Danes when he was 10 and raised as a son by Ragnar. Uhtred struggles with his upbringing as a Dane and love for Ragnar and the love of his ancestral home Brabbenburg in Northumbria.Note for those interested in both the TV series and the book - The first season of the TV series extends beyond Book 1.

    Book preview

    The Last Kingdom - Bernard Cornwell

    The Last Kingdom

    Bernard Cornwell

    The Last Kingdom

    is for Judy, with love.

    Wyrd bi ful ræd

    Contents

    Map

    Place Names

    Prologue: Northumbria, A.D. 866–867

    Part One

    A Pagan Childhood

    One

    The Danes were clever that day. They had made new walls inside…

    Two

    Springtime, the year 868, I was eleven years old and the Wind-Viper…

    Three

    The next day we made a pavilion in the valley between the town…

    Four

    King Edmund of East Anglia is now remembered as a saint, as…

    Five

    We gathered at Eoferwic where the pathetic King Egbert was…

    Six

    These days, whenever Englishmen talk of the battle of Æsc’s Hill,…

    Part Two

    The Last Kingdom

    Seven

    I settled in southern Mercia. I found another uncle, this one called…

    Eight

    We spent the spring, summer, and autumn of the year 875…

    Nine

    I suppose, if you are reading this, that you have learned your letters,…

    Part Three

    The Shield Wall

    Ten

    Alfred’s army withdrew from Werham. Some West Saxons…

    Eleven

    Ealdorman Odda did not want to kill Danes. He wanted to stay…

    Historical Note

    About the Author

    Books by Bernard Cornwell

    Credits

    Copyright

    About the Publisher

    Map

    PLACE-NAMES

    The spelling of place-names in Anglo-Saxon England was an uncertain business, with no consistency and no agreement even about the name itself. Thus London was variously rendered as Lundonia, Lundenberg, Lundenne, Lundene, Lundenwic, Lundenceaster, and Lundres. Doubtless some readers will prefer other versions of the names listed below, but I have usually employed whatever spelling is cited in the Oxford Dictionary of English Place-Names for the years nearest or contained within Alfred’s reign, A.D. 871–899, but even that solution is not foolproof. Hayling Island, in 956, was written as both Heilincigae and Hæglingaiggæ. Nor have I been consistent myself; I have preferred the modern England to Englaland and, instead of Nor hymbralond, have used Northumbria to avoid the suggestion that the boundaries of the ancient kingdom coincide with those of the modern county. So this list, like the spellings themselves, is capricious.

    PROLOGUE

    Northumbria, A.D. 866–867

    My name is Uhtred. I am the son of Uhtred, who was the son of Uhtred and his father was also called Uhtred. My father’s clerk, a priest called Beocca, spelt it Utred. I do not know if that was how my father would have written it, for he could neither read nor write, but I can do both and sometimes I take the old parchments from their wooden chest and I see the name spelled Uhtred or Utred or Ughtred or Ootred. I look at those parchments, which are deeds saying that Uhtred, son of Uhtred, is the lawful and sole owner of the lands that are carefully marked by stones and by dykes, by oaks and by ash, by marsh and by sea, and I dream of those lands, wave-beaten and wild beneath the wind-driven sky. I dream, and know that one day I will take back the land from those who stole it from me.

    I am an ealdorman, though I call myself Earl Uhtred, which is the same thing, and the fading parchments are proof of what I own. The law says I own that land, and the law, we are told, is what makes us men under God instead of beasts in the ditch. But the law does not help me take back my land. The law wants compromise. The law thinks money will compensate for loss. The law, above all, fears the blood feud. But I am Uhtred, son of Uhtred, and this is the tale of a blood feud. It is a tale of how I will take from my enemy what the law says is mine. And it is the tale of a woman and of her father, a king.

    He was my king and all that I have I owe to him. The food that I eat, the hall where I live, and the swords of my men, all came from Alfred, my king, who hated me.

    This story begins long before I met Alfred. It begins when I was ten years old and first saw the Danes. It was the year 866 and I was not called Uhtred then, but Osbert, for I was my father’s second son and it was the eldest who took the name Uhtred. My brother was seventeen then, tall and well built, with our family’s fair hair and my father’s morose face.

    The day I first saw the Danes we were riding along the seashore with hawks on our wrists. There was my father, my father’s brother, my brother, myself, and a dozen retainers. It was autumn. The sea cliffs were thick with the last growth of summer, there were seals on the rocks, and a host of seabirds wheeling and shrieking, too many to let the hawks off their leashes. We rode till we came to the crisscrossing shallows that rippled between our land and Lindisfarena, the Holy Island, and I remember staring across the water at the broken walls of the abbey. The Danes had plundered it, but that had been many years before I was born, and though the monks were living there again the monastery had never regained its former glory.

    I also remember that day as beautiful and perhaps it was. Perhaps it rained, but I do not think so. The sun shone, the seas were low, the breakers gentle, and the world happy. The hawk’s claws gripped my wrist through the leather sleeve, her hooded head twitching because she could hear the cries of the white birds. We had left the fortress in the forenoon, riding north, and though we carried hawks we did not ride to hunt, but rather so my father could make up his mind.

    We ruled this land. My father, Ealdorman Uhtred, was lord of everything south of the Tuede and north of the Tine, but we did have a king in Northumbria and his name, like mine, was Osbert. He lived to the south of us, rarely came north, and did not bother us, but now a man called Ælla wanted the throne and Ælla, who was an ealdorman from the hills west of Eoferwic, had raised an army to challenge Osbert and had sent gifts to my father to encourage his support. My father, I realize now, held the fate of the rebellion in his grip. I wanted him to support Osbert, for no other reason than the rightful king shared my name and foolishly, at ten years old, I believed any man called Osbert must be noble, good, and brave. In truth Osbert was a dribbling fool, but he was the king, and my father was reluctant to abandon him. But Osbert had sent no gifts and had shown no respect, while Ælla had, and so my father worried. At a moment’s notice we could lead a hundred and fifty men to war, all well armed, and given a month we could swell that force to over four hundred foemen, so whichever man we supported would be the king and grateful to us.

    Or so we thought.

    And then I saw them.

    Three ships.

    In my memory they slid from a bank of sea mist, and perhaps they did, but memory is a faulty thing and my other images of that day are of a clear, cloudless sky, so perhaps there was no mist, but it seems to me that one moment the sea was empty and the next there were three ships coming from the south.

    Beautiful things. They appeared to rest weightless on the ocean, and when their oars dug into the waves they skimmed the water. Their prows and sterns curled high and were tipped with gilded beasts, serpents, and dragons, and it seemed to me that on that faroff summer’s day the three boats danced on the water, propelled by the rise and fall of the silver wings of their oar banks. The sun flashed off the wet blades, splinters of light, then the oars dipped, were tugged, and the beast-headed boats surged, and I stared entranced.

    The devil’s turds, my father growled. He was not a very good Christian, but he was frightened enough at that moment to make the sign of the cross.

    And may the devil swallow them, my uncle said. His name was Ælfric and he was a slender man; sly, dark, and secretive.

    The three boats had been rowing northward, their square sails furled on their long yards, but when we turned back south to canter homeward on the sand so that our horses’ manes tossed like wind-blown spray and the hooded hawks mewed in alarm, the ships turned with us. Where the cliff had collapsed to leave a ramp of broken turf we rode inland, the horses heaving up the slope, and from there we galloped along the coastal path to our fortress.

    To Bebbanburg. Bebba had been a queen in our land many years before, and she had given her name to my home, which is the dearest place in all the world. The fort stands on a high rock that curls out to sea. The waves beat on its eastern shore and break white on the rock’s northern point, and a shallow sea lake ripples along the western side between the fortress and the land. To reach Bebbanburg you must take the causeway to the south, a low strip of rock and sand that is guarded by a great wooden tower, the Low Gate, which is built on top of an earthen wall. We thundered through the tower’s arch, our horses white with sweat, and rode past the granaries, the smithy, the mews, and the stables, all wooden buildings well thatched with rye straw, and so up the inner path to the High Gate, which protected the peak of the rock that was surrounded by a wooden rampart encircling my father’s hall. There we dismounted, letting slaves take our horses and hawks, and ran to the eastern rampart from where we gazed out to sea.

    The three ships were now close to the islands where the puffins live and the seal-folk dance in winter. We watched them, and my stepmother, alarmed by the sound of hooves, came from the hall to join us on the rampart. The devil has opened his bowels, my father greeted her.

    God and his saints preserve us, Gytha said, crossing herself. I had never known my real mother, who had been my father’s second wife and, like his first, had died in childbirth, so both my brother and I, who were really half brothers, had no mother, but I thought of Gytha as my mother and, on the whole, she was kind to me, kinder indeed than my father, who did not much like children. Gytha wanted me to be a priest, saying that my elder brother would inherit the land and become a warrior to protect it so I must find another life path. She had given my father two sons and a daughter, but none had lived beyond a year.

    The three ships were coming closer now. It seemed they had come to inspect Bebbanburg, which did not worry us for the fortress was reckoned impregnable, and so the Danes could stare all they wanted. The nearest ship had twin banks of twelve oars each and, as the ship coasted a hundred paces offshore, a man leaped from the ship’s side and ran down the nearer bank of oars, stepping from one shaft to the next like a dancer, and he did it wearing a mail shirt and holding a sword. We all prayed he would fall, but of course he did not. He had long fair hair, very long, and when he had pranced the full length of the oar bank he turned and ran the shafts again.

    She was trading at the mouth of the Tine a week ago, Ælfric, my father’s brother, said.

    You know that?

    I saw her, Ælfric said, I recognize that prow. See how there’s a light-colored strake on the bend? He spat. She didn’t have a dragon’s head then.

    They take the beast heads off when they trade, my father said. What were they buying?

    Exchanging pelts for salt and dried fish. Said they were merchants from Haithabu.

    They’re merchants looking for a fight now, my father said, and the Danes on the three ships were indeed challenging us by clashing their spears and swords against their painted shields, but there was little they could do against Bebbanburg and nothing we could do to hurt them, though my father ordered his wolf banner raised. The flag showed a snarling wolf’s head and it was his standard in battle, but there was no wind and so the banner hung limp and its defiance was lost on the pagans who, after a while, became bored with taunting us, settled to their thwarts, and rowed off to the south.

    We must pray, my stepmother said. Gytha was much younger than my father. She was a small, plump woman with a mass of fair hair and a great reverence for Saint Cuthbert whom she worshipped because he had worked miracles. In the church beside the hall she kept an ivory comb that was said to have been Cuthbert’s beard comb, and perhaps it was.

    We must act, my father snarled. He turned away from the battlements. You, he said to my elder brother, Uhtred. Take a dozen men, ride south. Watch the pagans, but nothing more, you understand? If they land their ships on my ground I want to know where.

    Yes, Father.

    But don’t fight them, my father ordered. Just watch the bastards and be back here by nightfall.

    Six other men were sent to rouse the country. Every free man owed military duty and so my father was assembling his army, and by the morrow’s dusk he expected to have close to two hundred men, some armed with axes, spears, or reaping hooks, while his retainers, those men who lived with us in Bebbanburg, would be equipped with well-made swords and hefty shields. If the Danes are outnumbered, my father told me that night, they won’t fight. They’re like dogs, the Danes. Cowards at heart, but they’re given courage by being in a pack. It was dark and my brother had not returned, but no one was unduly anxious about that. Uhtred was capable, if sometimes reckless, and doubtless he would arrive in the small hours and so my father had ordered a beacon lit in the iron becket on top of the High Gate to guide him home.

    We reckoned we were safe in Bebbanburg for it had never fallen to an enemy’s assault, yet my father and uncle were still worried that the Danes had returned to Northumbria. They’re looking for food, my father said. The hungry bastards want to land, steal some cattle, then sail away.

    I remembered my uncle’s words, how the ships had been at the mouth of the Tine trading furs for dried fish, so how could they be hungry? But I said nothing. I was ten years old and what did I know of Danes?

    I did know that they were savages, pagans and terrible. I knew that for two generations before I was born their ships had raided our coasts. I knew that Father Beocca, my father’s clerk and our mass priest, prayed every Sunday to spare us from the fury of the Northmen, but that fury had passed me by. No Danes had come to our land since I had been born, but my father had fought them often enough and that night, as we waited for my brother to return, he spoke of his old enemy. They came, he said, from northern lands where ice and mist prevailed, they worshipped the old gods, the same ones we had worshipped before the light of Christ came to bless us, and when they had first come to Northumbria, he told me, fiery dragons had whipped across the northern sky, great bolts of lightning had scarred the hills, and the sea had been churned by whirlwinds.

    They are sent by God, Gytha said timidly, to punish us.

    Punish us for what? my father demanded savagely.

    For our sins, Gytha said, making the sign of the cross.

    Our sins be damned, my father snarled. They come here because they’re hungry. He was irritated by my stepmother’s piety, and he refused to give up his wolf’s head banner that proclaimed our family’s descent from Woden, the ancient Saxon god of battles. The wolf, Ealdwulf the smith had told me, was one of Woden’s three favored beasts, the others being the eagle and the raven. My mother wanted our banner to show the cross, but my father was proud of his ancestors, though he rarely talked about Woden. Even at ten years old I understood that a good Christian should not boast of being spawned by a pagan god, but I also liked the idea of being a god’s descendant and Ealdwulf often told me tales of Woden, how he had rewarded our people by giving us the land we called England, and how he had once thrown a war spear clear around the moon, and how his shield could darken the midsummer sky, and how he could reap all the corn in the world with one stroke of his great sword. I liked those tales. They were better than my stepmother’s stories of Cuthbert’s miracles. Christians, it seemed to me, were forever weeping and I did not think Woden’s worshippers cried much.

    We waited in the hall. It was, indeed it still is, a great wooden hall, strongly thatched and stout beamed, with a harp on a dais and a stone hearth in the center of the floor. It took a dozen slaves a day to keep that great fire going, dragging the wood along the causeway and up through the gates, and at summer’s end we would make a log pile bigger than the church just as a winter store. At the edges of the hall were timber platforms, filled with rammed earth and layered with woolen rugs, and it was on those platforms that we lived, up above the drafts. The hounds stayed on the bracken-strewn floor below, where lesser men could eat at the year’s four great feasts.

    There was no feast that night, just bread and cheese and ale, and my father waited for my brother and wondered aloud if the Danes were restless again. They usually come for food and plunder, he told me, but in some places they’ve stayed and taken land.

    You think they want our land? I asked.

    They’ll take any land, he said irritably. He was always irritated by my questions, but that night he was worried and so he talked on. Their own land is stone and ice, and they have giants threatening them.

    I wanted him to tell me more about the giants, but he brooded instead. Our ancestors, he went on after a while, took this land. They took it and made it and held it. We do not give up what our ancestors gave us. They came across the sea and they fought here, and they built here and they’re buried here. This is our land, mixed with our blood, strengthened with our bone. Ours. He was angry, but he was often angry. He glowered at me, as if wondering whether I was strong enough to hold this land of Northumbria that our ancestors had won with sword and spear and blood and slaughter.

    We slept after a while, or at least I slept. I think my father paced the ramparts, but by dawn he was back in the hall and it was then I was woken by the horn at the High Gate and I stumbled off the platform and out into the morning’s first light. There was dew on the grass, a sea eagle circling overhead, and my father’s hounds streaming from the hall door in answer to the horn’s call. I saw my father running down to the Low Gate and I followed him until I could wriggle my way through the men who were crowding onto the earthen rampart to stare along the causeway.

    Horsemen were coming from the south. There were a dozen of them, their horses’ hooves sparkling with the dew. My brother’s horse was in the lead. It was a brindled stallion, wild-eyed and with a curious gait. It threw its forelegs out as it cantered and no one could mistake that horse, but it was not Uhtred who rode it. The man astride the saddle had long, long hair the color of pale gold, hair that tossed like the horses’ tails as he rode. He wore mail, had a flapping scabbard at his side and an ax slung across one shoulder, and I was certain he was the same man who had danced the oar shafts the previous day. His companions were in leather or wool and as they neared the fortress the long-haired man signaled that they should curb their horses as he rode ahead alone. He came within bowshot, though none of us on the rampart put an arrow on the string, then he pulled the horse to a stop and looked up at the gate. He stared all along the line of men, a mocking expression on his face, then he bowed, threw something on the path, and wheeled the horse away. He kicked his heels and the horse sped back and his ragged men joined him to gallop south.

    What he had thrown onto the path was my brother’s severed head. It was brought to my father who stared at it a long time, but betrayed no feelings. He did not cry, he did not grimace, he did not scowl, he just looked at his eldest son’s head and then he looked at me. From this day on, he said, your name is Uhtred.

    Which is how I was named.

    Father Beocca insisted that I should be baptized again, or else heaven would not know who I was when I arrived with the name Uhtred. I protested, but Gytha wanted it and my father cared more for her contentment than for mine, and so a barrel was carried into the church and half filled with seawater and Father Beocca stood me in the barrel and ladled water over my hair. Receive your servant Uhtred, he intoned, into the holy company of the saints and into the ranks of the most bright angels. I hope the saints and angels are warmer than I was that day, and after the baptism was done Gytha wept for me, though why I did not know. She might have done better to weep for my brother.

    We found out what had happened to him. The three Danish ships had put into the mouth of the river Alne where there was a small settlement of fishermen and their families. Those folk had prudently fled inland, though a handful stayed and watched the river mouth from woods on higher ground and they said my brother had come at nightfall and seen the Vikings torching the houses. They were called Vikings when they were raiders, but Danes or pagans when they were traders, and these men had been burning and plundering so were reckoned to be Vikings. There had seemed very few of them in the settlement, most were on their ships, and my brother decided to ride down to the cottages and kill those few, but of course it was a trap. The Danes had seen his horsemen coming and had hidden a ship’s crew north of the village, and those forty men closed behind my brother’s party and killed them all. My father claimed his eldest son’s death must have been quick, which was a consolation to him, but of course it was not a quick death for he lived long enough for the Danes to discover who he was, or else why would they have brought his head back to Bebbanburg? The fishermen said they tried to warn my brother, but I doubt they did. Men say such things so that they are not blamed for disaster, but whether my brother was warned or not, he still died and the Danes took thirteen fine swords, thirteen good horses, a coat of mail, a helmet, and my old name.

    But that was not the end of it. A fleeting visit by three ships was no great event, but a week after my brother’s death we heard that a great Danish fleet had rowed up the rivers to capture Eoferwic. They had won that victory on All Saints Day, which made Gytha weep for it suggested God had abandoned us, but there was also good news for it seemed that my old namesake, King Osbert, had made an alliance with his rival, the would-be King Ælla, and they had agreed to put aside their rivalry, join forces, and take Eoferwic back. That sounds simple, but of course it took time. Messengers rode, advisers confused, priests prayed, and it was not till Christmas that Osbert and Ælla sealed their peace with oaths, and then they summoned my father’s men, but of course we could not march in winter. The Danes were in Eoferwic and we left them there until the early spring when news came that the Northumbrian army would gather outside the city and, to my joy, my father decreed that I would ride south with him.

    He’s too young, Gytha protested.

    He is almost eleven, my father said, and he must learn to fight.

    He would be better served by continuing his lessons, she said.

    A dead reader is no use to Bebbanburg, my father said, and Uhtred is now the heir so he must learn to fight.

    That night he made Beocca show me the parchments kept in the church, the parchments that said we owned the land. Beocca had been teaching me to read for two years, but I was a bad pupil and, to Beocca’s despair, I could make neither head nor tail of the writings. Beocca sighed, then told me what was in them. They describe the land, he said, the land your father owns, and they say the land is his by God’s law and by our own law. And one day, it seemed, the lands would be mine for that night my father dictated a new will in which he said that if he died then Bebbanburg would belong to his son Uhtred, and I would be ealdorman, and all the folk between the rivers Tuede and the Tine would swear allegiance to me. We were kings here once, he told me, and our land was called Bernicia. He pressed his seal into the red wax, leaving the impression of a wolf’s head.

    We should be kings again, Ælfric, my uncle, said.

    It doesn’t matter what they call us, my father said curtly, so long as they obey us, and then he made Ælfric swear on the comb of Saint Cuthbert that he would respect the new will and acknowledge me as Uhtred of Bebbanburg. Ælfric did so swear. But it won’t happen, my father said. We shall slaughter these Danes like sheep in a fold, and we shall ride back here with plunder and honor.

    Pray God, Ælfric said.

    Ælfric and thirty men would stay at Bebbanburg to guard the fortress and protect the women. He gave me gifts that night; a leather coat that would protect against a sword cut and, best of all, a helmet around which Ealdwulf the smith had fashioned a band of gilt bronze. So they will know you are a prince, Ælfric said.

    He’s not a prince, my father said, but an ealdorman’s heir. Yet he was pleased with his brother’s gifts to me and added two of his own, a short sword and a horse. The sword was an old blade, cut down, with a leather scabbard lined with fleece. It had a chunky hilt, was clumsy, yet that night I slept with the blade under my blanket.

    And next morning, as my stepmother wept on the ramparts of the High Gate, and under a blue, clean sky, we rode to war. Two hundred and fifty men went south, following our banner of the wolf’s head.

    That was in the year 867, and it was the first time I ever went to war.

    And I have never ceased.

    You will not fight in the shield wall, my father said.

    No, Father.

    Only men can stand in the shield wall, he said, but you will watch, you will learn, and you will discover that the most dangerous stroke is not the sword or ax that you can see, but the one you cannot see, the blade that comes beneath the shields to bite your ankles.

    He grudgingly gave me much other advice as we followed the long road south. Of the two hundred and fifty men who went to Eoferwic from Bebbanburg, one hundred and twenty were on horseback. Those were my father’s household men or else the wealthier farmers, the ones who could afford some kind of armor and had shields and swords. Most of the men were not wealthy, but they were sworn to my father’s cause, and they marched with sickles, spears, reaping hooks, fish gaffs, and axes. Some carried hunting bows, and all had been ordered to bring a week’s food, which was mostly hard bread, harder cheese, and smoked fish. Many were accompanied by women. My father had ordered that no women were to march south, but he did not send them back, reckoning that the women would follow anyway, and that men fought better when their wives or lovers were watching, and he was confident that those women would see the levy of Northumbria give the Danes a terrible slaughter. He claimed we were the hardest men of England, much harder than the soft Mercians. Your mother was a Mercian, he added, but said nothing more. He never talked of her. I knew they had been married less than a year, that she had died giving birth to me, and that she was an ealdorman’s daughter, but as far as my father was concerned she might never have existed. He claimed to despise the Mercians, but not as much as he scorned the coddled West Saxons. They don’t know hardship in Wessex, he maintained, but he reserved his severest judgment for the East Anglians. They live in marshes, he once told me, and live like frogs. We Northumbrians had always hated the East Anglians for long ago they had defeated us in battle, killing Ethelfrith, our king and husband to the Bebba after whom our fortress was named. I was to discover later that the East Anglians had given horses and winter shelter to the Danes who had captured Eoferwic so my father was right to despise them. They were treacherous frogs.

    Father Beocca rode south with us. My father did not much like the priest, but did not want to go to war without a man of God to say prayers. Beocca, in turn, was devoted to my father who had freed him from slavery and provided him with his education. My father could have worshipped the devil and Beocca, I think, would have turned a blind eye. He was young, clean shaven, and extraordinarily ugly, with a fearful squint, a flattened nose, unruly red hair, and a palsied left hand. He was also very clever, though I did not appreciate it then, resenting that he gave me lessons. The poor man had tried so hard to teach me letters, but I mocked his efforts, preferring to get a beating from my father to concentrating on the alphabet.

    We followed the Roman road, crossing their great wall at the Tine, and still going south. The Romans, my father said, had been giants who built wondrous things, but they had gone back to Rome and the giants had died and now the only Romans left were priests, but the giants’ roads were still there and, as we went south, more men joined us until a horde marched on the moors either side of the stony road’s broken surface. The men slept in the open, though my father and his chief retainers would bed for the night in abbeys or barns.

    We also straggled. Even at ten years old I noticed how we straggled. Men had brought liquor with them, or else they stole mead or ale from the villages we passed, and they frequently got drunk and simply collapsed at the roadside and no one seemed to care. They’ll catch up, my father said carelessly.

    It’s not good, Father Beocca told me.

    "What’s not good?’

    There should be more discipline. I have read the Roman wars and know there must be discipline.

    They’ll catch up, I said, echoing my father.

    That night we were joined by men from the place called Cetreht where, long ago, we had defeated the Welsh in a great battle. The newcomers sang of the battle, chanting how we had fed the ravens with the foreigners’ blood, and the words cheered my father who told me we were near Eoferwic and that next day we might expect to join Osbert and Ælla, and how the day after that we would feed the ravens again. We were sitting by a fire, one of hundreds of fires that stretched across the fields. South of us, far off across a flat land, I could see the sky glowing from the light of still more fires and knew they showed where the rest of Northumbria’s army gathered.

    The raven is Woden’s creature, isn’t it? I asked nervously.

    My father looked at me sourly. Who told you that?

    I shrugged, said nothing.

    Ealdwulf? He guessed, knowing that Bebbanburg’s blacksmith, who had stayed at the fortress with Ælfric, was a secret pagan.

    I just heard it, I said, hoping I would get away with the evasion without being hit, and I know we are descended from Woden.

    We are, my father acknowledged, but we have a new God now. He stared balefully across the encampment where men were drinking. Do you know who wins battles, boy?

    We do, Father.

    The side that is least drunk, he said, and then, after a pause, but it helps to be drunk.

    Why?

    Because a shield wall is an awful place. He gazed into the fire. I have been in six shield walls, he went on, and prayed every time it would be the last. Your brother, now, he was a man who might have loved the shield wall. He had courage. He fell silent, thinking, then scowled. The man who brought his head. I want his head. I want to spit into his dead eyes, then put his skull on a pole above the Low Gate.

    You will have it, I said.

    He sneered at that.

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