Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (9 page)

In Jorund, Leoflaed saw a cheerful young man who, like most growing boys, seemed to have a voracious appetite. Having little time for speech whilst shovelling pottage into his mouth, he simply grinned at everyone. In looks he was little like Eadwulf, the only similarity being in the strong, square jaw. In colouring he was fair; his eyes a vivid, cornflower blue.

Filled with sudden foreboding, Leoflaed forced herself to stay calm. Why had these people come here? No one had yet spoken of that, since her father insisted they enjoy the meal before discussions ensued. Her greatest dread was that they would entice Eadwulf back to the Danish lands. They couldn’t force Eadwulf to go with them – but would he want to go? Everything she knew of Eadwulf over the past five years screamed that he would not. But a niggling doubt remained to tear at her heart.

‘My lady, will you not join us now?’

So deep was Leoflaed in thought, she jumped at the unexpected address and a few drops of ale splashed from her jug onto Bjorn’s arm. He let out such a guffaw that several pairs of startled eyes fixed on him.

‘I beg your pardon, my lord,’ she said, utterly mortified. ‘I can’t think why I’m so clumsy tonight. I–’

Bjorn flicked a hand, halting her shamefaced apology. ‘It is I who should apologise, Lady Leoflaed. My reaction to what amounted to be no mishap at all was unforgiveable. But sometimes, memories rise unbidden.’ He flashed a wide grin at Eadwulf sitting opposite. ‘Ulf alone shares this particular memory, which I’m sure he’ll be happy to share with you all. Suffice it to say that a certain incident with a wine jug was my first introduction to the young Mercian whom I later came to value so highly. Please join us, my lady,’ he repeated, shuffling along the bench to make room for her beside him.

The meal was enjoyed in amiable conversation and Leoflaed found herself at ease in the company. She learned that both Bjorn and Hastein were married – to Kata and Freydis respectively – and that they had children of their own. Bjorn’s eldest was a fine boy of six, his younger child a daughter of two, and Kata was expecting their third early next year. Hastein and Freydis had two sons, of five and two. Eadwulf listened to this news with a strange look in his eyes and Leoflaed felt again that unwelcomed stab of envy, recalling his earlier joy at the news of her pregnancy by way of consolation.

Eventually the trestles were stacked away and the men sat around the hearth to enjoy their ale. Leoflaed hovered with her jug, observing the interplay between them.

‘I’m itching to hear of your exploits in the Middle Sea.’ Eadwulf raised his eyebrows expectantly, his eyes flicking between the three Danes.

Bjorn smirked at Hastein. ‘What say you, cousin? Have I your permission to tell this tale, or would you tell it yourself?’

‘Oh, I think it best that you tell this particular story, Bjorn,’ Leif answered instead. ‘Hastein’s much too modest to do the tale justice.’

Hastein merely shrugged.

‘Then if our gracious host will endure our tales, I’ll be happy to tell them.’

‘I can’t wait to hear them,’ Wigstan said with an affable smile. ‘We’ve had little excitement here since the day Eadwulf arrived at our door.’

‘Very well then, but I must stress that the entire story is true: I’ve neither fabricated nor exaggerated any part of it – which many people in our own lands have so ungraciously suggested,’ Bjorn said, trying to keep a straight face. ‘I must also explain that our planned year-long venture took somewhat longer. We spent four summers and three winters away from home – not that those mild winters and warm summer seas were hard to bear – but by then we were all aching to see our families.

‘I’ll not bore you with great detail of our journey south and into the Middle Sea,’ he stated, casting an apologetic glance at Wigstan on his right. ‘We spent many weeks raiding along our route.’

Wigstan flicked his hand dismissively. ‘Eadwulf’s spent much time explaining about the Danish need to raid.’

Bjorn nodded at Eadwulf on the opposite side of the hearth and took a breath. ‘We were sixty-two vessels in all; a large fleet, you may think, but still not large enough to escape challenge to our passage. We had a few run-ins with the Moors, losing two ships to them off the west coast of Iberia on the way south, already laden with booty. Then, after pillaging along North Africa, eastern Iberia, and the islands they call the Balearics, we sailed up to southern Francia. After a summer of profitable raids on cities like Arles, Nimes and even as far north as Valence, we overwintered on an island at the mouth of the Rhône. But by the following spring, when we resumed our raids, the Franks had gathered their wits and unceremoniously forced us to move on.’ He scowled at the memory before reshaping his features into a smile as Leoflaed refilled his ale mug. ‘As it happened, we were aiming for the Italian lands anyway . . .

‘We captured the city of Pisa with little trouble, then continued sailing south, on to Rome. Soon we reached a splendid city, so big and beautiful, and shining white in the hot sun. This is surely Rome, we thought. No other city could possibly be so splendid. But the city was impregnable and we despaired. How we could breach those walls and find our way to the treasures inside dominated our thoughts and conversation for some time.’

Leif chuckled. ‘You’ll love this next bit, Ulf. It was so funny we laughed for days – until we were on our way home and–’

‘It was indeed amusing, Leif,’ Bjorn cut across his helmsman’s words before he could jump ahead with the tale. ‘Hastein in particular deserves praise for this escapade. It was his idea, and he was the one who put his life at the greatest risk.’

Hastein shuffled in his seat. ‘Just get on with it, cousin. Tell the tale and leave the embarrassing flattery alone.’

‘As you wish,’ Bjorn agreed as the men chortled. ‘So there we were, wondering how to break through those massive walls, when my over-modest cousin came up with an ingenious plan that took us some time to consider. But this
was
Rome and we’d come too far to be disappointed. Hastein decided that the only way to get past the walls was through the gates. Quite a logical assumption, of course – except that it overlooked the problem of exactly how to get the Romans to
open
those gates. But Hastein’s plan confronted that challenge.

‘We sent messengers to inform the bishop that we were good men, who’d been ousted from our homeland. We were in dire need of a peaceful haven for a while and replenishment of provisions. To add to our woes, our beloved leader had recently died, and having had a deathbed conversion to Christianity, had begged for burial in consecrated Christian ground.’

Eadwulf almost choked on his ale. ‘And they actually believed you?’

‘Amazingly, those overly pious Christians did believe us,’ Bjorn replied with a shake of his head, ‘so Hastein’s plan continued to unfold. We made a semblance of a Christian coffin, into which he duly stepped.’

‘Not the most pleasant experience,’ Hastein informed them with a grimace. ‘It was fine until the cursed lid went on, then it felt as though my last day had really come. But, my temporary discomfort served its purpose.’

‘That it did, cousin.’ Bjorn thumped Hastein on the back with gusto. ‘What a sight we must have been: a procession of mourning Danes following the sad spectacle of a coffin to the graveside next to a Christian church. And there we stood; ready to lower our chieftain into that deep hole . . .’

‘Tell them what happened next, my lord!’ Jorund blurted.

Leoflaed smiled at Jorund’s excited face as she gestured to one of the serving women to start pouring the mead. She wondered how a Mercian boy could view Danish raids with such enthusiasm. But, of course, Jorund had never known anything other than Danish ways.

‘I think everyone can probably guess what came next, Jorund,’ Bjorn replied, fixing Wigstan in an uneasy gaze. ‘My lord, I must stress again that you’ll probably find our actions unacceptable. But I can offer no apologies for them. Raiding is–’

‘I know,’ Wigstan interrupted with a reassuring smile. ‘Raiding is what you Danes do because it’s in your blood.’

Bjorn returned the smile and tweaked his beard. ‘Then I must ask that you appreciate my discomfort in explaining things to . . . well, to other Christians.’ Acknowledging the nods he winked at Jorund and downed another draught of ale.

‘So, there we were, our men watching for the signal to draw their weapons. Hastein leapt from the coffin and we rampaged through the town, folk scattering like grains of sand in a gale. And though we amassed a fair amount of plunder, it was much less than we’d expected. Rome did not seem the affluent city we’d been led to believe.’ He cast a look of mock sympathy at his cousin. ‘And after all the effort we’d put into gaining entry.’

‘You can imagine our outrage when we discovered that the city was not Rome at all, but a place called Luna!’ Hastein said, taking up the tale. ‘So we made certain that nothing was left of that shining city by the time we left. But we spared the women.’

Leoflaed choked back a gasp and turned away, unable to comprehend such callous, inhuman treatment of people who’d done naught but simply exist.

‘We never did reach Rome,’ she heard Hastein saying once her revulsion had calmed. ‘We decided it was time for home, and sailed south-west towards the narrow straits that give access to the Middle Sea. But alas, again we met resistance to our plans in the face of the Moors.’ His fingers raked his gingery hair, sorrow shaping his beardless features. ‘We lost forty ships: two-thirds of our entire fleet.’

Eadwulf’s face blanched, which, Leoflaed noted, it had not done on hearing of the slaughter at Luna. ‘All those men,’ he murmured, staring into the firepit. ‘Such losses must have been hard to bear.’

‘Our return home was not the happiest we’ve ever experienced,’ Hastein admitted, shaking his head. ‘So many bereaved families to face . . . But, as always, we’d set out knowing that some of us would not return.’

‘I can’t believe that forty of your ships were lost,’ Eadwulf said, tearing his eyes from the glowing logs as they dropped with a blaze of sparks before resettling. ‘Are the Moors such masters of the seas?’

Bjorn nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s not their seamanship that makes them such formidable opponents, Ulf, but their possession of an exceptionally potent weapon in the form of a strange, unnatural fire that they shoot through the air from some kind of tube. A ship hit by this
liquid fire
has no chance of survival, since the substance bursts into flames on impact with the hull, sail or deck.’

‘Then you were fortunate that any of your ships escaped intact,’ Selwyn remarked, peering from beneath his bushy brows. ‘I’ve heard tales of this substance, and they describe exactly what you’ve just told us – though some maintain that the substance is hurled by catapults, suggesting it can be projected in different ways.’

‘We’ve also heard that this liquid fire has been used on
land
in the east,’ Wigstan added. ‘City walls are of little use when it can be propelled over their top.’

Hastein nodded. ‘Well, twenty of our ships did survive, and we sailed back north,’ he continued. ‘But we’d lost so much of our booty that we put to shore at Navarre in northern Iberia, where we gathered vast amounts of plunder and managed to capture one of the princes of Pamplona. We collected a huge ransom for the prince, and eventually arrived home with shiploads of coin, precious objects and thralls.’

Bjorn gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘So, there you have the highs and lows of our venture. But we didn’t journey all the way to Mercia merely to regale you with our tales. We have other issues to discuss with you before we leave.’

Wigstan coughed politely. ‘My lords, it is late and too dark to be crossing fields. I hope you will accept our hospitality further and remain at our hall to take your rest?’ He gestured at the benches around the walls. ‘We have ample space to see you comfortable for the night. It’s the least we can offer after your long journey. Your crew will be comfortable on your ship?’

‘Thank you, my lord; and yes, our men are used to sleeping aboard,’ Bjorn replied. ‘But our talks must be concluded tonight since by daybreak we sail. The seas are unlikely to improve with the passing days.’

Odella’s arrival at Leoflaed’s side interrupted her musings on what these Danes could still have to say to Eadwulf.

‘Aethelred is waiting for you to tell him the story you promised, my lady. He’s already yawning his head off, so you’d best be quick.’

Leoflaed nodded at the pretty blonde girl as she refocused her thoughts.

‘I’ll go directly, Odella. I’m tired of listening to all this bravado.’

Nine

Eadwulf settled back and sipped his mead, savouring the warm glow that shivered through his innards as he swallowed. The fire was gradually burning down, though enough heat would radiate from its embers for most of the cold October night. It felt quite natural to be with these people he’d not seen for so long; as though he’d never been away from them. Yet the one person he missed the most was still miles away.

His life was so different now. He commanded respect; the respect of a Mercian lord. Not the status of a king’s son, perhaps, but a huge step up from the lowly status of thrall. He was older and, hopefully, wiser, with a wife and son he loved – although he was honest enough with himself to admit that even that love was not enough to eradicate the depth of his feelings for Freydis. Nothing in this world would ever do that. Except perhaps, his death.

Silent amidst the conversations around him, he stared into the amber liquid in his cup, wondering how Aethelnoth and Jorund were feeling. They’d been brought to Mercia, their rightful homeland, only to be taken away again come morning. And although Jorund may view the Danish lands as home, Aethelnoth would not, despite his undoubted attachment to Hastein.

Bjorn’s voice drew Eadwulf’s attention. ‘There are several things we need to say which involve all of you here. Our conversation so far has merely allowed Ulf to satisfy his curiosity about our exploits. Such exploits hold no consequence for any of us regarding the future, but what we are about to tell you will undoubtedly do so.

‘In the second week of June, Olaf reached our homeland, first making for Ribe, on the off chance that Hastein would be there. But my cousin and I were trading along the Norwegian coast, and Olaf found only Freydis running the household. As you can imagine, my sister was inconsolable on hearing the details of Ragnar’s death and immediately sent messengers to our brothers in Aros.’

Bjorn and Hastein shared a glance and Hastein took up the story. ‘We returned to Ribe in early September to find my wife sick with worry.’ Hazel eyes fixed on Ulf. ‘In August, Freydis had stayed for two weeks in Aros, distressed to find her brothers too consumed with rage to grieve and vowing to make the Northumbrian king pay. Ivar had used the weeks since June to raise an army from across our lands. Many powerful jarls vowed to provide warriors, and scores of ships already lined the Aros estuary and Kattegat coast. Dozens more were arriving daily. Ivar and Halfdan’s plan was to sail before the autumn gales rendered the seas too treacherous.’

‘Since it’s now October, do we assume that this army has already landed here?’

‘You do, Ulf. They should have made landfall by mid September.’

Ulf nodded slowly. ‘Then are you at liberty to tell us where, or would that involve you betraying family loyalties?’

It was Bjorn who answered. ‘It makes little difference whether you hear from us or someone else that my brothers planned to sail to Anglia. The news will soon spread throughout your kingdoms anyway. Our purpose in bringing this news is simply to warn you that many hundreds of our countrymen are intent on reprisal, meaning that sooner or later they’ll make their way to wherever Aelle is hiding out. What they’ll do to him we can only guess. But,’ he added, turning sombre eyes on Wigstan, ‘they’ll likely pass through your lands on their way, my lord.’

The ealdorman’s ruddy cheeks paled. ‘Wouldn’t they be more likely to sail north along the coast, then use the rivers to move inland?’

‘Undoubtedly some will do just that,’ Hastein agreed. ‘They could hardly leave the ships in Anglia, after all. But Freydis was informed that after spending the winter in Anglia, and gathering enough horses, many of them would be riding overland.’

‘And will the lands they cross to reach Northumbria fall prey to raids?’

Hastein shrugged and held out his upturned hands. ‘There will be many bands of men, led by jarls from across Danish lands, my lord. Each will make his own decision on that. But it stands to reason that men must eat. And raids for food can so easily become much more.’

‘Make no mistake,’ Bjorn cut in, ‘my cousin and I feel no less aggrieved at the manner of Ragnar’s death than do my brothers. Vengeance for such a heinous death is well justified. But Ivar and Halfdan are more than able to co-ordinate this enterprise. Indeed, it had already been organised before we returned from the Norwegian lands.’

Bjorn’s gaze softened as it fell on Eadwulf. ‘Ulf’s daring feat of tricking his way into that prison, and the caring that instigated him to bid farewell to Ragnar in the first place, deserved our sincerest thanks. And the best way we could do that was to warn him of my brothers’ intentions.’ His small laugh was mirthless. ‘That you would ever flee from danger is highly unlikely, Ulf, so for what purpose you use this information is up to you. Just remember that Ivar and Halfdan construed years ago that you’d return to Mercia after you left Ribe. Of course they have no way of knowing whether you even survived. But Ivar has never forgotten his dream. Odin forbid he should learn of your whereabouts.’

Shuffling as questioning eyes fixed upon him, Eadwulf was relieved when Hastein broke the silence.

‘My cousin and I have had too many years away recently; Bjorn hasn’t even been back to Aros since leaving in the spring. It’s time we stayed home for a while, particularly as this endeavour shows little sign of being quickly over. Our women have been left to tend our lands for too long.’

‘There’s something else we need to tell you, Ulf, which I know you’ll find distressing.’ Bjorn heaved a sigh. ‘There’s no easy way of telling you this, so here it is. Sigehelm is dead.’

Stricken by that gut-stabbing statement, Eadwulf stared at his former master. Bjorn averted his eyes, his fingers moving agitatedly around his mead cup.

‘How . . .?’ Eadwulf asked. Somehow that seemed more important to know than
when
his childhood tutor had died. Sigehelm had been his only link to his true heritage throughout their early years of slavery and leaving him in Aros had caused Eadwulf to feel considerable guilt.

‘It was in late June,’ Bjorn said, choosing to answer the unasked question. ‘No,’ he said quickly, halting the tirade that threatened to pour from Eadwulf’s lips, ‘Sigehelm was not sacrificed at the Midsumarblot.’

‘Just tell me straight that Ivar killed him, Bjorn. He’d threatened to do it more than once that I know of.’

‘The scribe was slain on Ivar’s orders,’ Bjorn admitted, fixing Eadwulf with a sympathetic gaze. ‘We can assume it would have been quick, if that’s of any consolation. His throat was cut and his body dumped in the river to be washed out to sea.’

‘How do you know this?’ Wigstan’s voice was little more than a whisper.

‘From Thora, my lord.’ It was Hastein who’d responded. ‘Whilst in Aros in August, Freydis begged Ivar to permit Ubbi and Thora to return to Ribe with her. Ubbi would have none of it, relishing the prospect of a voyage of retribution as much as his brothers. But Ivar did allow Thora to leave – and she informed us about Sigehelm.’

‘Thora is a relative?’

Hastein nodded at Selwyn’s question. ‘Thora had been Ragnar’s concubine for many years, and is Freydis’s mother,’ he admitted matter-of-factly. ‘Once Ragnar was dead, Aslanga was extremely keen to see her leave with Freydis.’

‘Aslanga has me to answer to for that,’ Bjorn said, unaccustomed venom thick in his voice. ‘The Aros lands and hall are now mine, as are all thralls who serve there, and whilst I’m away, Kata is mistress there. And though I can think of no better place for Thora than with Freydis, Aslanga has no right to make that decision in my stead. But knowing how well the lady loves me,’ he added sardonically, ‘I can readily believe she did it so to spite me.’

‘As did Ivar when he ordered the death of one of your thralls?’

Bjorn glared at Eadwulf, his face black at the further insult to his newfound status as jarl. But he heaved a sigh and acknowledged, ‘True, Ulf. Ivar had no right to give that order. I can only guess that his rage at Ragnar’s death provoked him to do so. A man from Britain would have been a blatant reminder of the one who threw our father into that pit. And Ivar could never tolerate the way Sigehelm continuously spouted Christian dogma. Or that he was a constant reminder of you.’

‘I’ve thought much about Sigehelm over the past few years,’ Eadwulf admitted, unable to disguise the grief in his voice. ‘And I don’t doubt he would have wondered about me. He would have died without knowing I’d returned to Mercia. Leaving Aros without even saying goodbye to him was hard to bear.’

‘Sigehelm knew of the plan to see you back home, Ulf,’ Bjorn assured him. ‘I told him on our return from the Middle Sea – felt I owed him that much, since it was my fault you had no opportunity to do so yourself.’

‘It would have meant much to him,’ Eadwulf said by way of thanks.

Leoflaed’s return to the hall drew Eadwulf from his anguished thoughts and he beckoned her to sit beside him. He squeezed her hand, noting how tired she looked. It was late and they were all in need of sleep.

‘If you intend to make an early start tomorrow,’ Wigstan addressed his guests, ‘I suggest we draw our conversation to a close and head for our beds. It’s been a long day and an old man like me needs his rest.’

He made to rise, but Hastein’s raised hand stayed him. ‘If you would bear with us but a moment longer, my lord, there’s one last issue we need to raise.’ Wigstan resettled himself and Hastein continued, ‘What I’m about to propose will come as a surprise not only to everyone in Elston, but also to Aethelnoth and Jorund. And, acceptance of this proposal will depend as much on those two as on your good selves.’

Aethelnoth and Jorund displayed their ignorance of any proposal by gaping at their jarl, who ploughed into a garbled explanation. ‘Bjorn and I have discussed the possibility of this frequently over the past weeks. I confess it was Freydis who first broached the idea regarding Jorund and, quite independently, I’d been contemplating a similar possibility with regards to Aethelnoth. So you see, our appearance in your hall has more to do with this possibility than of bringing news of the Danish army.’

‘In Odin’s name, cousin, get to the point!’ Bjorn rolled his eyes in exasperation. ‘You’re not even making sense to me and I know what this is about.’

‘Very well,’ Hastein said with a smirk. ‘Since Aethelnoth and Jorund are a part of my household and thus answerable to me in all things, I wish to offer them their freedom. If everyone is agreeable, our two faithful thralls will remain here, where they belong, Aethelnoth in the land of his birth and Jorund with his brother.’

A moment of stunned silence was followed by a confused babble as opinions were simultaneously voiced. Eadwulf could scarce believe what he’d heard. To have Jorund and Aethelnoth in Mercia was more than he could ever have hoped for. But the Elston hall was not Eadwulf’s, and Wigstan may object to two strangers living beneath his roof.

The ealdorman raised his hands for quiet. ‘I think you may have underestimated a little when you anticipated our being surprised, Hastein. Astounded, or staggered, would have perhaps been a more accurate prediction. Nevertheless, before any decisions are made by those who really matter in all of this,’ he added, motioning towards Aethelnoth and Jorund, ‘I wish to make clear that as far as I’m concerned, I’d be pleased to welcome these two young men into my home.’

Eadwulf sent silent thanks to the kindly, round-faced ealdorman. All that remained was for Aethelnoth and Jorund to want to stay in Mercia. To his brother, Mercia may seem as alien as the very depths of Africa, though his face revealed nothing but bewilderment. And Aethelnoth simply stared down at his feet, deep in thought.

‘You have your reasons for making this proposal of extreme kindness,’ Wigstan addressed the jarls, ‘which, in my opinion, puts many Christians to shame. But even an outsider could see that, in part at least, your decision stems from your regard for Eadwulf – Ulf, as you endearingly call him.’ He ran a hand across his near-bald crown and stifled a yawn. ‘Tomorrow you leave, and decisions have to be made before then. Perhaps Aethelnoth and Jorund need to sleep on Hastein’s proposal before they decide. But, from what I know of Eadwulf, to have both his brother and his friend restored to him would bring him immeasurable joy . . .

‘It has been evident these past five years that Eadwulf left much that he loved in Danish lands,’ he continued. ‘His distress at the barbaric execution of Ragnar revealed how much he revered the man. And today it has been a pleasure to witness the close bond he shares with you all. Your friendship has transcended the barriers of kingdoms and faiths, and I believe that, no matter what transpires from the landing of this vast army, such friendship will endure. Whatever decisions are made now will be tinged with sadness for what will be lost.

‘Now I shall take my leave. I hope your rest is comfortable and that whatever decision is made, it is the right one for all of you.’

*****

‘You’ll walk with us to the river?’

Eadwulf nodded. ‘It would be discourteous to do otherwise, Bjorn. And Aethelnoth and Jorund will wish to say their last farewells to you.’

‘Then we’ll take our leave of your gracious family and be on our way.’

The rising sun spread rose-tinted light across the inky, pre-dawn skies, bringing colour to the meadows over which they trudged; copses of woodland became splashes of vermilion and gold. Eadwulf walked in silence beside Bjorn and Leif, whilst a short distance ahead Jorund and Aethelnoth shared light-hearted banter with Hastein.

‘Freydis sends you her love,’ Bjorn said quietly, his eyes fixed on the backs of the three ahead. ‘She wishes you to know she still misses you – made me promise to tell you that.’ He smiled wanly at Eadwulf’s startled expression. ‘Interpret her message however you wish, as long as you remember that Freydis remains Hastein’s dutiful wife. She’s made my cousin an extremely happy man.’

Bjorn’s smile broadened into a grin. ‘Like you and I, Hastein is thoroughly enjoying the joys of parenthood. As, indeed, is my sister. Freydis has made a good life for herself in Ribe. She runs the household proficiently and is admired and respected by Hastein’s karls. And she continues to practise herblore, especially since Thora joined her, and intends Yrsa to be trained in the art. Speaking of whom, Yrsa delights in being the older sister to Freydis’s offspring, so much so that she refused outright to leave Ribe to come here, threatened a tantrum if we tried. And Freydis would have been heartbroken to part with her anyway. Of course we could also argue that Yrsa is as much Dane as Saxon, so we should let her choose where she makes her home when she is old enough.’