Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (5 page)

‘Let’s just see what his cloths look like first, Earic,’ Sigward said, still scowling as he reached for Eadwulf’s bag. ‘If the quality isn’t what you say, pedlar, you’re on your way.’

Suitably impressed by the superiority of the fabrics, Sigward disappeared into the palace, soon to re-emerge, the scowl still fixed on his ruddy features. ‘The queen’s agreed to view your wares, but just you remember, there’s armed guards in there.’ He thrust a warning finger in front of Eadwulf’s nose before flicking the same finger in the direction of a squat, stone building guarded by more armed men some fifty yards away. ‘The king may be over yonder with the prisoner, but he never leaves the queen unguarded, so don’t even think about trying anything funny.’

Feeling vulnerable without the comforting presence of Leif’s dagger, Eadwulf hoicked up his bag and headed into the palace. At least he’d learned of Ragnar’s whereabouts.

As he’d imagined, the main hall was impressively large, partitioned off from smaller, more private areas in places. And, Roman though the original building may have been, its layout was little different to other halls Eadwulf had seen in Saxon or Danish lands. The shuttered windows were open, allowing the late afternoon sun to stream in, adding to the glow of the central fire. Slaves hurried about their work as slaves did anywhere, and armed men stood around the room.

At the far end of the hall, a small group of women were engaged in their needlework and on seeing Eadwulf, one of them rose from her seat. ‘You may approach, pedlar,’ she said, beckoning him in accordance with her words. ‘The queen will allow you audience directly.’

Placing his bag on a trestle close to the women, Eadwulf unrolled a little of each of the two shiny fabrics and waited for a response from the woman he’d decided was most likely to be Queen Idona. From what he’d deduced from the guard outside the gate, Aelle was approaching old age, which implied that the queen was of similar age. A few wisps of fading hair had strayed from the woman’s head veil and when she glanced up, a multitude of fine lines about her mouth and eyes were evident. But she merely returned Eadwulf’s appraisal with an air of indifference before bowing her head to resume her work.

Eadwulf knew the rudeness to be intentional. A menial must exhibit patience when permitted to approach royalty. But eventually, as though at some preset signal, the women laid down their embroidery and stared at him. Disconcerted, he focused on the older woman, waiting for her to speak.

‘So, you thought to bring your goods directly to me, did you, pedlar?’ A pretty young woman rose and approached him, her face full of merriment at his surprised expression. Her youthfulness had confused him and he tried not to gape at her face, or her supple body, garbed fetchingly in a gown of pale green trimmed with darker green, appliquéd leaves. ‘Highly irregular, of course,’ she continued, her voice holding a cadence that Eadwulf tried to place, ‘the usual procedure surely being to set up your stall at the market and wait for customers to come to you?’

Eadwulf opened his mouth to reply but Idona waved a small white hand to forestall him. ‘You are fortunate that Sigward convinced us that your wares are worth looking at – so you may wish to thank him on your way out. But for now, I am the one you must convince of their quality.’ Startlingly blue eyes flashed and her eyelashes fluttered flirtatiously. ‘Or else your journey here will have been wasted, will it not? By the way, I cannot recall Sigward giving you a name, other than “Pedlar” – which sounds so impersonal, don’t you think?’

Eadwulf grinned, despite the discomfiting sensation that he was being ridiculed. ‘My name is Egred, my lady,’ he supplied. ‘From Mercia.’

‘A stranger to Northumbria too,’ she mused, ‘though you will doubtless soon return to your home, unlike I, who will never see my beautiful Lofoten Islands again.’

Eadwulf was unsurprised at Idona’s origins, having noted the extreme fairness of the hair not covered by her veil. ‘My friend Olaf – the owner of these fabrics – is also from the Lofotens,’ he said.

‘Then you must bring Olaf to meet me,’ Idona ordered, her face bright at the prospect. ‘I have not spoken with one of my own countrymen since my marriage to King Aelle two years ago.’ Her gaze swept the hall and the faces of her doting companions and she smiled. ‘But I am more than happy in Northumbria; my life has been pleasant here. Come, Egred,’ she said, eyeing the silks, ‘show us your wares.’

It was not difficult to convince the young queen that she simply must have several gowns made from the exquisite silks. She held the delicate fabrics to her cheek, draping each alternately about her, relishing their sensuous embrace. Turning to Eadwulf, her finely shaped eyebrows arched. ‘Olaf has other designs also?’

‘Indeed, my lady. Perhaps tomorrow we might return with further samples?’

‘Until tomorrow then.’ Idona smiled as he packed away his wares. ‘You may tell Olaf that if all his silks are as beautiful as these, he can expect a good sale. And the guards will be ordered not to obstruct your entry next time. They can be quite resolute with visitors at times, but they are only following their orders, after all.

‘Who knows where we’d be if they just allowed anybody to walk in.’

Five

Olaf had enjoyed a successful afternoon trading and was happy to accompany Eadwulf into the walled city the following day. Driving a small horse-drawn cart loaded with bolts of silk and barrels of Rhenish wine, they found no difficulty in securing access into the Northumbrian palace. Queen Idona was delighted with the fabrics and since her husband was present on this occasion, a good price was soon agreed for enough silk to make a number of robes.

Eadwulf considered King Aelle to be of late middle age, his dark hair greying at the temples, his sagging stomach muscles suggesting indolence and a loathing of physical exercise. He was a foppish-looking man, who constantly adjusted the folds of his fine, blue tunic, and inspected his carefully manicured fingernails. A self-satisfied smirk seemed permanently fixed on his face. But it was apparent that Aelle doted on his young wife, who constantly smiled and flirted with him, ensuring he remained well and truly besotted. And when Aelle suggested she choose as many silks as she liked, her willowy arms latched around his neck and her well-toned body, adorned in pale yellow today, pushed against his drooping one.

When the price-haggling for silks and wine was done, Eadwulf and Olaf were invited to share a mug of ale with the king and his wife.

‘You may not know it,’ Aelle said, tweaking his liberally salted dark beard and addressing them both, ‘but we hold a notorious prisoner at this very moment, a Danish raider, responsible for much loss of life in the Low Countries. He and his thieving sons have also been a thorn in the side of Charles the Bald for years, and this year he had the effrontery to sail to Northumbria to try his filthy antics!’ The conceited smirk widened. ‘And I have had the good fortune of capturing him.’

‘Is that so, my lord?’ Olaf replied in complimentary tone. ‘Then your prowess will be spoken of for many a year.’

‘His name is Ragnar something or other,’ the Northumbrian king added with a flick of his hand at the name’s irrelevance.

Olaf’s voice was soft and even. ‘If the man is who I think he is, his name is Ragnar Lodbrok, my lord, which means Ragnar Hairy Breeks.’

The king and queen chortled as Olaf related the story of those famous breeches. ‘You mean to say the breeches actually protected him from
snake
bites?’ Aelle guffawed and slapped his palm on the trestle. ‘That’s simply too ironic . . .

‘They say many songs are sung about this “Hairy Breeks” in the halls of his homeland,’ he continued, unaware of Eadwulf and Olaf’s shared glance. ‘But even great heroes can find their profitable little jaunts abruptly curtailed. And tomorrow, this particular hero dies.’

Becoming bored with this conversation, Idona pecked her husband’s cheek and behind his back, fluttered her eyelashes at Eadwulf before wandering off to admire her new silks.

‘You know, I’m not sure whether I’ve seen this Ragnar, my lord,’ Olaf ventured. Eadwulf stayed quiet, knowing where his bald friend was heading. ‘Word was that the great man himself was in Birka when I was trading there some years back, and I believe I may have seen him in an ale house. Couldn’t get close enough to find out though – the place was packed and, to be honest, at the time I was more interested in my ale. Pity, I’d’ve liked to have spoken to such a fearsome man.’

‘Then meet him now, if you wish,’ Aelle offered cheerfully. ‘Any man who can bring my wife such pleasure has earned my thanks and the least I can do is to satisfy your curiosity about this man. Mind you,’ he warned, his round face affecting a serious expression, ‘he doesn’t look so fearsome now. He’s been incarcerated for a few weeks and I’m told he’s been refusing to eat. He’d likely be dead soon if we weren’t putting an end to his miserable existence tomorrow. We’ll share another mug, then Earic can escort you to our little prison. I’ll instruct the guards to allow you inside so you can speak to the Dane. Though, of course, I can’t guarantee he’ll respond to you.’

Earic led them to the small building, two of the guards standing sentry-like at either side of the door. ‘Can’t imagine what you’ll say to this rogue,’ he said, rubbing his misshapen nose once he’d explained to the sentries that the two traders were to be permitted inside. ‘You’ll probably be out as soon as you’ve had a good look at him. Collect your cart when you’re done,’ he added, heading back to the palace.

The sentry unlocked the heavy door with a large key and pushed it open. ‘Two men here to see you, Dane,’ he yelled, ‘so you can speak to them – or not – but they’re coming in anyway.’ He paused, and Eadwulf thought he heard a grunt. ‘You may know one of them; he’s a Norseman, like yourself. The other’s a tall redhead.’

They were ushered inside and the door closed behind them. High in the far wall a missing stone served as the only window through which sunlight streamed onto the cell’s sole occupant huddled on the straw-strewn floor. The features that met them were unmistakably Ragnar’s, though the weakened body bore little semblance to its former robust form. His ragged clothes hung loose, encrusted with food and dried mud, and stone-grey hair and beard clung greasily to his face, spiked with musty straw.

Ragnar dragged himself to his feet, the jangling wall-chains attached to his ankles preventing him from moving forwards. But his eyesight had not yet failed him.

‘You
,
’ he snarled. ‘That guard said . . . For one glorious moment I thought Bjorn had come for me. But it’s you, the runaway thrall!’ He shot a gobbet of spittle at Eadwulf’s feet. ‘I’ve naught to say to a traitorous cur.’

Olaf eased a little further into the cell. ‘Do you not know me, Ragnar? It’s been some years, but we had some good times together.’

‘I know you, Olaf, even without your hair – though I might have wished our last encounter to have been under more favourable circumstances.’ He gestured round the filthy cell, the movement rendering him unbalanced and he staggered a little. ‘Welcome to the hall of the Great Ragnar,’ he said, his tone heavy with self-mockery. ‘They tell me that today will be my last. Well, death I can accept, Olaf; it finds us all eventually. But to be barred from Valhalla!’ He hung his head, a pitiful whimper stemming from his throat, like a dog cowering beneath a cruel master’s lash. ‘Had I been conscious when they found me on that beach I’d have taken a few of them down with me, died a true warrior. But now Valhalla’s doors are closed to me forever.’

‘I know,’ Olaf murmured, his fingers raking through imagined hair on his smooth scalp. No words of consolation would be enough. ‘But raiding again, Ragnar? If you’d stayed in Aros you’d not be in this predicament.’

Ragnar gave a thin smile. ‘Couldn’t let my sons get all the praise. I was jealous, simple as that; wanted to be a warrior again – just one last time.’ His attention suddenly focused on Eadwulf. ‘Tell me, Olaf, how do you come to be with this Mercian dog? Watch him carefully, my friend, he’ll betray any trust you put in him.’

Olaf shook his head. ‘You’re wrong about that, Ragnar. It was Ulf who brought me to you now. He was no traitor to anyone – just a man desperate to return to his homeland, as you or I would have been in his position. Bjorn understood that, the reason why he arranged for Ulf to sail with me.’

‘You lie!’ Ragnar strained against his fetters to hurl himself forward. ‘Bjorn would not have done that . . .’

‘I swear by Odin I speak the truth. Bjorn owed Ulf his life and felt the need to repay the debt.’ Olaf beckoned Eadwulf to stand next to him. ‘And Ulf worked hard for me for over a year before we parted. I’d trust him with my life, as did your own son. And you’ve never had cause to question Bjorn’s judgement before.’

Ragnar sank to the floor, the effort of standing suddenly too great, and rattled the heavy manacles in frenzied frustration. ‘Curse these shackles. If not for these I’d have struck the guards with my bare hands; death beneath their swords may have won Odin’s approval.’ He hung his head, struggling to control his ragged breathing. ‘Why tell me this now, Olaf?’

‘Tomorrow you’ll die, Ragnar; I see no way of preventing it. Aelle will use your execution as a means of convincing the people of his superiority over his rival for the kingship. He knows that eventually either he or Osberht will be ousted. A kingdom can only be ruled by one king.’ Olaf tore his gaze from the anguished jarl, momentarily lost for words.

Eadwulf felt an unexpected lump in his throat. He’d never anticipated feeling sympathy for Ragnar, but had always held him in respectful awe, seeing a powerful man and wise leader. Never would he have wished the jarl’s days to end like this.

‘But to answer your question, Ragnar,’ Olaf continued, ‘telling you about Ulf just seemed the right thing to do. He came to York intent on seeing you, simply to say goodbye. It was mere coincidence he found me here trading. My silks provided the means of gaining admittance to the palace.’

Ragnar’s sunken eyes focused on Eadwulf. ‘You were one of the strangest thralls I ever came across. My wife and middle sons called you idle and insolent, yet Bjorn insisted you were honourable and trustworthy. I was undecided either way. In truth, I took little notice of the bickering between my sons.’

Wrist chains rattled as Ragnar’s meaty hands clutched the sides of his head as though it raged with an agony too great to bear. ‘My life is over; I’m resigned to the idea of death – whatever means that fool king has chosen. Mistakes I’ve made can’t be undone. Nor do I seek forgiveness for them; I did what I thought right at the time. Captives taken in battle or raids lose all rights, save those bestowed upon them by their masters.’ He raised a finger at Eadwulf. ‘And you became the property of my son. If Bjorn freed you, then there’s no fault on your part.’

The heavy door swung open. ‘Time’s up,’ the sentry ordered, beckoning Eadwulf and Olaf outside. ‘If you’re here before noon tomorrow you can follow the procession to where the execution will take place. We expect quite a crowd.’

*****

As noon approached, a hissing mob hovered round the prison, tempers fired by the liberal intake of ale since mid-morning. Eadwulf and Olaf were shoved and crushed as they waited in their midst, desperate to be seen by Ragnar, assure him his death would be witnessed by people who knew him. A loud fanfare rang out and a company of armed men moved in to drive back the protesting crowd, enabling the king and queen to reach the prison door.

Mounted on near-matching grey geldings, the couple’s crimson cloaks were adorned with jewelled brooches; neckbands and finger rings flashed in the sunlight. On their heads sat golden circlets, Idona’s perched daintily around the flowing white veil that covered her pale hair. She beamed at the gaping crowds, clearly unaware that most of York’s inebriated poor viewed this flagrant display of wealth with unreserved contempt. But Aelle quickly assessed the crowd’s mood and, eager to direct the object of its animosity elsewhere, he raised a jewelled hand.

Ragnar was hauled through the prison door, averting his eyes from the assault of unaccustomed sunlight. Eadwulf’s pity almost choked him and Olaf cursed. Ragnar had been denied the dignity of meeting his god in the apparel of the great chieftain he was. Only a pair of knee-length breeches covered his otherwise naked body and even his boots had been removed. The mob went wild, baying and mocking, and bombarding him with broken pieces of building stones – until one of the guards was hit, and the activity rapidly curtailed.

Aelle and Idona urged their greys into motion, skirting the royal palace on its north-west side, the great minster looming ahead. Two mounted guards jerked the long chains attached to Ragnar’s manacled wrists and dragged him along behind them. He stumbled frequently as sharp stones cut into his bare feet, the crowd’s jeers rising as the chains yanked him on and his knees scraped along the ruined Roman cobbles. Olaf’s low groans went unheard by all but Eadwulf.

Behind the palace they reached an open area of crumbled ruins, overlooked by the commanding minster. A low, circular wall, perhaps fifteen feet in diameter, stood in the centre, patrolled by extra guards. Olaf gripped Eadwulf’s arm. In this bleak, dilapidated place, the life of the jarl and priest of Odin would end; a place where the Christian god could glower down from his sacred place as a pagan life was forfeited in his name.

By a gap in the circular wall the royal couple dismounted and the jarl was hauled before them. Horses were led away and the crowds fanned round, all jostling for a better view. Aelle waited with ill-concealed impatience, and Eadwulf and Olaf inched as close to Ragnar as the guards would allow, so gaining their first view of the deep pit inside the wall. Approximately ten feet wide and fifteen feet deep, the cavity was rimmed by a narrow ledge. Ragnar registered their presence and turned to stare calmly into the pit, as though merely considering an interesting situation. Eadwulf’s respect for the proud jarl soared.

‘So,
jarl
, you’ve come to the end of your days,’ Aelle said, his lips curling back in a sneer as Ragnar was thrust to his knees. ‘And I can’t even say you’ll be missed.’ His arm swept the now silent mob. ‘How many good Christians would your rampaging swine have slain, had God not seen fit to wreck your ship before you reached our blessed kingdom?’

The crowd screamed for blood and Aelle nodded. One of the guards unfastened the chains attached to Ragnar’s manacles and shoved him through the gap until his bare toes touched the pit’s edge. But Ragnar twisted round, the move fast and unstoppable, and grasping the tunic of the unwary guard, he leapt.

‘O . . . din!’ The name of his god rang exultantly from Ragnar’s lips.

A crunching thud conveyed the impact of their landing, the groans the pain it wreaked. But Ragnar recovered quickly, staggering to his knees and looping his manacled hands over his victim’s head. And with a strength born of desperation, he yanked back the hapless guard’s neck, squeezing and twisting until the last breath sighed from his body.

The mob screamed outrage, and the fuming king gestured to his men.

Guards pushed between the crush of people, creating an aisle from the palace to the wall. Expectation buzzed, heightening as Eadwulf caught sight of movement along the route. Four women in the garb of menials moved slowly towards the pit, each pair carrying a large bucket-shaped basket between them, held from the ground by small handles on either side. Both baskets had tightly fitting lids.