Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (27 page)

‘Lady Aslanga’s calling for you everywhere, Freydis,’ Jorund added. ‘She’s ready to serve the soup.’

Their errand accomplished, the boys bolted back to the hall.

‘I’m amazed at how close those two have become during your Baltic trip,’ Freydis said as they followed behind. ‘They’re almost inseparable. But they’ll be disappointed to learn they’re not going to Ribe. Aslanga won’t let Ubbi miss any more lessons.’

Ulf shrugged. ‘They’ll soon get over it; summer sunshine can work wonders.’ Turning to face her, he said, ‘I want to thank you for taking such good care of Yrsa, Freydis. She thinks the world of you, almost as though you were her mother.’

‘Not really surprising when she spends most of her days with me
and has her cot in my bed-chamber. No, I’m not complaining, Ulf, so don’t frown. Your sister’s a delight, and I do think of her as my own now. Of course we all know Yrsa is your sister, and I can never take your mother’s place,’ she added quickly, ‘but you can’t blame me for loving her.’

‘I’m just grateful that you do care for her!’ Ulf exclaimed, aghast that such a thought should cross her mind.

Freydis smiled in relief. ‘Now, don’t let Yrsa spoil your meal. If you allow her to climb onto your lap she’ll be splashing soup all over your clothes.’

‘You’ve been teaching her excellent manners, then?’

Her playful shove almost landed Ulf in the water trough.

Thirty Three

Ribe: late July 858

‘My lord Hastein! Many men are coming!’

The red-faced youth slumped against the door frame of Jarl Giermund’s hall to catch his breath, shoving greasy brown hair behind his ears. He stretched his skinny arms out wide. ‘From a
huge
dragonship.’

His breathing steadied and he stepped towards a table where Hastein sat playing Tabula with one of his men. ‘It came up the river, Master, and pulled ashore near our water meadows.’ The spotty brow puckered as he pondered on the scene, his gaze flicking over Hastein’s bemused features. ‘It had a big bird on its flag – with a fish in its mouth! I was checking the cattle,’ he added, lest Hastein should think he was shirking his duties, ‘and I saw the men. Two of them with bright red hair.’

Hastein’s frown was replaced by a grin as he turned to his mother and sister at their looms. ‘It seems my cousin has chosen to visit us, he said.’

* * *

Bjorn’s crew secured the
Sea Eagle
along the banks of the Ribea, a mile upstream of Ribe, and traipsed across the water meadows towards Jarl Giermund’s village. Swatting at huge flies that swarmed around the lumbering beasts and avoiding cowpats, Ulf grinned. Bjorn bounced along like a child about to open a longed-for gift, impatient to see Hastein and his family again and relay his happy news.

But it seemed their arrival had been spotted. Hastein was waiting for them as they reached the village, conspicuous in a blue tunic against the greys and browns of his men. His welcome was a hearty one and Ulf stood aside with the rest of the men as the familiar slapping embrace ensued.

‘Drink deeply, men. Refresh yourselves and rest.’ Hastein beamed as they seated themselves in the hall. ‘You won’t believe how glad I am to see you here. We’ve not ventured far from the village this year and, by Frey’s prick, am I bored!’

Bjorn’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’d have thought you’d be keen to set sail, cousin, even if only to trade. There can’t be many years Giermund’s stayed put. Where is my uncle, by the way?’

Hastein’s reply was halted when a serving girl thrust an earthen jug beneath his nose. ‘More ale, lord jarl?’

‘Jarl!’ Bjorn spluttered on his mouthful of ale. ‘You’re the
jarl
now?’

Hastein chuckled as Bjorn swept his sleeve across his wet beard. ‘My father died a month ago, his long illness the reason we chose not to sail in the spring.’ He glanced at his mother and lowered his voice. ‘He’d been ill all winter; his racking cough almost tore him in two, and towards the end he’d been coughing up great clots of blood. By the time he died he’d been bed-ridden for some weeks, weak as a kitten and feverish. We rarely left his bedside, my mother, sister and me. Each breath rattled through his body. Then one morning the breaths just stopped.’

Bjorn squeezed Hastein’s shoulder but it was Leif who said, ‘Then it was for the best, my lord. No man wants his last days to be a burden on his family.’

‘Truly spoken, Leif,’ Bjorn said, finding his voice. ‘And once the burial’s over, the family can mourn him and get on with their lives. The funeral ceremony . . . ?’

‘Giermund went to the next life in his ship,
Raven’s Claw
,’ Hastein replied. ‘Not a sea burial; nor a burning at all. The funeral ship was buried on land, as is our custom here.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘My father had everything he could need for his future life – his sword and shield, knives and daggers, heaps of jewellery and silver. He even had spare clothes, fur rugs for his bed, enough food and ale to feed an army, with plates and bowls to eat it from. His two favourite horses, and Hopp, his shaggy hunting hound, were laid close beside him – and of course, a thrall to take care of his everyday needs. I just hope I do as well when I go. It was a joyous day for him, and will be long remembered by our people.’ Hastein motioned in the direction of the open lands behind the village. ‘His grave is in our cemetery.’

Conversation mellowed as serving women refilled their ale pots. Ulf downed the strong brew, its silky smoothness sliding down his throat, refreshing and enlivening him. Anxious for Aethelnoth to appear, he watched a skinny youth laying logs on the fire ready for cooking the meal. Aethelnoth was likely still about his work, but he’d undoubtedly appear to eat . . .

Hastein’s voice snapped Ulf from his thoughts. ‘I rejoice in your happy news, Bjorn, and you have my heartiest congratulations, though you make me quite envious: it’s time I took a wife myself. Alfarin’s daughter, you say. I haven’t set foot in Bornholm for years. Kata must be quite something to snare you in her net.’

The new jarl glanced again at his mother. ‘A wedding would be a welcome distraction for us all. This year’s been hard for Bera, and Giermund’s death has left a big void in her life. He threw back his head and chortled. ‘And I can’t think of a better diversion than the marriage of my cousin.’

Women were becoming eager to start the cooking and the men gradually moved back, allowing them space. Some headed outside and as Ulf rose to follow, Bjorn’s voice stayed him. ‘Ulf, I’ve news for you. Aethelnoth will be at the burial site about now. It seems he visits it every evening, out of loyalty to his master. But I believe there’s also another reason,’ Bjorn added with a glance at Hastein. ‘Go find your friend, Ulf. You’ve time to do some catching up before we eat.’

* * *

The dark shape huddled next to the long, boat-shaped grave was motionless. If not for the straggling hair Ulf would have guessed it not to be human at all, just a pile of old clothes. The shape didn’t flinch as Ulf approached, making his footfalls deliberately loud and kicking at stones. He stood for a few moments, waiting for some form of response, but to no avail. He reached out and laid a hand on the nearest shoulder and the straw-coloured head slowly lifted. Sorrowful brown eyes met Ulf’s questioning stare, but no spark of recognition flashed.

‘Aethelnoth . . .?’ Ulf said, uncertainly. The face before him was not instantly recognisable as that of the boy he’d once known. Thick blond whiskers obscured parts of his lower face that the unkempt hair didn’t cover, and other visible skin was deeply bronzed by the sun. Yet Ulf felt certain that this was Aethelnoth.

‘What do you want?’ the brooding shape murmured.

‘Don’t you know me, Aethelnoth?’

‘Should I?’

Ulf crouched down beside his old friend. ‘You would have done, once. But I’ve grown a bit in seven years – though not as much as you, it seems.’

The big man blinked and stared at Ulf. ‘Seven years is a long time. I was only a lad back then. And I’ve been in Ribe for seven years. Before that . . .’ He stared even harder. ‘You can’t be–’

‘I’m a Mercian, Aethelnoth, the same as you. We knew each other as lads, before–’

Aethelnoth lurched to his feet, pulling Ulf up with him, his eyes narrowed, his stance threatening. He was as tall and thickset as Hastein had said. ‘Tell me your name – and the name of your father!’

‘I am Eadwulf, Aethelnoth. Surely you recognise my hair? My father was Beorhtwulf, my mother was called Morwenna and your father was Thrydw–’

Aethelnoth threw his thick arms around Ulf and hugged him until he gasped for breath. ‘I hardly dare believe it,’ he said, pushing Ulf to arm’s length and looking him up and down. ‘I’d given you up for dead years ago, yet there you stand, handsome and well fed. You found a good master at Hedeby then? How did you find me?
Where in these lands do you live . . .?’

Ulf held up his hand to halt the onslaught of questions. ‘I’ll tell you all in due course, but right now I’m just overwhelmed at finding you again.’ He glanced at the stone-edged grave. ‘It seems your master was a good one.’

‘He was that. Treated me well and gave me much freedom. I’ve sailed with him on many a raid, and I know he valued my strength and weapon skills. Yes, I’ll miss Giermund – but I’ll miss Hilde more.’

Aethelnoth stared down at the grave, a haunted look in his eyes, and Ulf suddenly realised who Hilde must have been.

‘I’d loved her for years, Eadwulf, since she was captured on a raid in Frisia. We’d planned to be married, if we were permitted. And I think Giermund would have been agreeable. If only he hadn’t died.’

Aethelnoth sank to his knees. ‘She was buried alive in the ship with the master.’ He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. ‘I can’t get her screams out of my head. A month now and still I hear them.’

Ulf stared, appalled. He’d never witnessed such a ceremony, but knew the custom was prevalent in Norse lands. In some cases – if the slaves were fortunate – they were killed before burial. He knelt beside his distraught friend. ‘We’ll probably never understand some of their ways, Aethelnoth, but whilst we serve them there’s naught we can do about it.’

Aethelnoth composed himself sufficiently to speak. ‘I’ve a new master now.’

Ulf nodded. ‘Hastein’s a fair man, like his father.’

‘You know him then?’

‘He’s the cousin of Bjorn, my own master. But even Bjorn didn’t know about you until we met up with Hastein for the raids in Francia last year.’

‘Well, I’ll be damned. To think I’d’ve been on that voyage if Giermund hadn’t needed me here. Hastein wanted me along, but we get scores of ships berthing at Ribe, it being a market town. Some of the foreigners like to take their chances on a few raids inland, so Giermund kept a contingent of warriors on the ready. The Norwegians are the worst: paying us back for our raids along their coasts, I suppose.’

Aethelnoth stared at the grave, his face fraught with grief. ‘I know I can’t bring Hilde back, but I feel close to her here. Never thought I’d love a woman that much.’

‘We’ve both had our losses,’ Ulf said gently. ‘But I’ve one piece of news that may hearten you: Sigehelm is alive and well. He’s been with me in Aros since Hedeby, and become invaluable to Jarl Ragnar and his family. He enthrals them all with his tales.’

‘Your tutor could always charm the pants off people with his stories.’

Ulf grinned at that. ‘Before we reach the hall, Aethelnoth, you need to know that my name is Ulf now.’

At Aethelnoth’s enquiring look Ulf merely said, ‘I’ll tell you later.’

Thirty Four

Bornholm: September 858

‘No more secret rendezvous with the generously accommodating Ingrid then, cousin. You’ll be kept too busy producing a string of little Bjorns!’

Hastein hooted at the expression of pending doom on Bjorn’s face. ‘No going back now,’ he added with impish merriment. ‘Alfarin’d never let you off the island, and Svala would flay you alive, at very least. Not to mention that I would be most displeased to go all the way home deprived of a great feast.’ He pulled an earlobe thoughtfully. ‘On the other hand, if you should decide to abscond, I’d deem it my absolute duty to take your place beside the delectable Kata–’

Bjorn launched himself toward Hastein, fists clenched. ‘I’ll break both your legs if you so much as touch her!’

Ulf, Leif and Aethelnoth chuckled as they watched the antics across the large chamber provided by King Afarin for the groom and his attendants. Bjorn’s anxiety was manifesting itself in uncharacteristic outbursts of pique. Ulf felt a degree of sympathy for him. Tomorrow, Bjorn would take on the responsibilities of providing for a wife, making his vows before so many people. And once the mead-soaked days of feasting were over, Kata would sail back with him to Aros.

‘Now, that’s more like it.’ Hastein laughed, holding up his hands to fend off the outraged Bjorn. ‘Kata has eyes only for you. And you know it. Anyway,’ he added with an air of mischievous mystery,
‘I’ve cast my own eyes in another direction.’

Bjorn opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, the unasked question swallowed, and squatted down to resume his rummaging through the wooden chest.

Numerous tunics already lay strewn across the rushen floor as Bjorn tried to select the most suitable attire for his wedding: Kata would look ravishing and he needed to match her standard. His everyday ‘shabby’ simply wouldn’t do.

Ulf sighed. His master had umpteen appropriate tunics, all cut from high quality cloths and richly dyed, with intricate embroideries in costly threads. But only Bjorn could make the selection; he simply scoffed at anyone else’s suggestions. He picked up some of the rejected garments and piled them on a chair and lifted a massive sword in a discoloured, leather-covered scabbard from the table top. ‘I’ll polish the sword now, Master,’ he said, sliding the ancient weapon from the scabbard and holding it up. ‘It’s a beautiful thing. So old . . . But it should shine like the sun when it’s cleaned.’

‘Good idea,’ Bjorn responded from somewhere deep inside the chest. ‘And Aethelnoth can polish my best boots. They’re over there in the corner.’ He flicked a wrist, gesturing in the general direction of the boots, and then suddenly raised his head to face his cousin. ‘If Hastein doesn’t mind, that is.’

‘Not one bit,’ Hastein replied. ‘Fresh air will do these two good. And perhaps Leif could do with a breather. Then you and I, Bjorn, need to sort out this business of your marriage garb before Ragnar storms in to lecture you on the role of a good husband.’

Bjorn groaned and rubbed his brow. ‘Tomorrow night I intend to be so mead-sopped I can think of nothing but feasting on Kata’s luscious curves.’

September on the island of Bornholm was very beautiful; a perfect time for a wedding. The forests were turning to golds and russets and the Baltic lapped the long beaches and craggy cliffs. Ulf and Aethelnoth sat together, enjoying the smell of briny air mingled with the woodsmoke of housefires. Women carried baskets of fruits and berries and in the storage huts vegetables were being put into crates and sacks. The mellowing sun shed golden light on the recently scoured fields beyond Alfarin’s fortress: the harvest was in and there would be food aplenty for the wedding feast.

‘Some sword that,’ Aethelnoth said, watching Ulf still hard at work. Bjorn’s boots stood cleaned and polished, and he leaned his head back against the hall, enjoying the afternoon sun. ‘Your master should impress his lady love with that. Their first born son will inherit a beauty. Frankish, I’d say,’ he mused, taking in the sword’s impressive length and reaching out to touch the intricately decorated hilt. ‘Look at the way it’s inlaid with hundreds of pieces of silver wire. I don’t care what anyone says, Frankish craftsmen can’t be bested.’

‘Stolen in some raid, no doubt,’ Ulf agreed, smiling at his friend’s relaxed mien. Thankfully, Aethelnoth seemed to be putting the horrors of Hilde’s death behind him. ‘It’s a good few hundred years old, too. Well worth scrabbling about in that burial mound for.’

‘A bit spooky, if you ask me. Couldn’t Bjorn have made do with a sword already in his family’s possession instead of digging up some reeking ancestor just to pinch his sword?’

Ulf shrugged. ‘Meeting the ghost of an ancestor is believed to prove the link in a man’s noble bloodline – as well as impressing everyone with his courage. Our own people once did the same.’

‘Well, I’m glad we didn’t see any ghost. We’d probably have shit ourselves if we had!’

They laughed as they recalled that moonless August night at the burial ground near Aros, a few days before they’d sailed for Bornholm. Just the four of them: Bjorn and Hastein; Ulf and Aethelnoth. They’d dug into the mound, the eerie silence broken by the regular slicing of their spades through the earthen barrow and the occasional screeching of an owl and calls of creatures of the night. Low humps of earth piled up steadily beside the burial mound, bizarre hillocks illuminated by the dim glow from a single oil lamp. Eventually the narrow entrance to the tomb was uncovered. But only Bjorn entered the musty chamber, locating the relic so quickly that, within moments, they were replacing the spadefuls of black earth.

‘Well, tomorrow’s the day,’ Aethelnoth said with a smirk. ‘You’ll have a new mistress as well as a master, Ulf. Had you thought of that?’

‘I try not to. But you needn’t look so smug. From what Hastein said earlier, he may soon be wed himself.’

‘I wonder which poor girl he’s set his sights on. It’ll have to be someone who can put up with his warped sense of humour.’

Ulf could only grin at his friend and shake his head.

* * *

On September 12 Bjorn married King Alfarin’s daughter, Kata. It was Friday, Frigga’s day, the day devoted to the goddess of the sky and wife of Odin. As the goddess of marriage Frigga protected the love of those married on her day, blessing housewives with fertility and successful management of their households. A bunch of keys was her symbol. As always, when confronted with the workings of the gods, Ulf retained an open mind – and a glance at Aethelnoth told him that his friend was decidedly disparaging.

Kata did, indeed, look ravishing. She had spent the morning sequestered with her attendants – including her mother and married sisters – to be stripped of all her old clothing and symbols of her unmarried status. She had been bathed before being dressed in a new green dress and white tunic adorned by jewelled brooches. On her head she wore the decorated silver bridal crown of her family with undisguised pride, her dark curls tumbling loose for the last time. At Bjorn’s side by the stone altar in a forest clearing, she smiled radiantly, dappled sunlight playing on her crown and tunic brooches. And resting on the altar was a splendid sword, which she would give to Bjorn during the ceremony.

Bjorn had undergone a similar ritual, intended to remove all trace of his identity as an unmarried man, attended by his father and other men experienced in the state of wedlock. Ulf had stood well clear throughout the marital advice and bawdy jokes, grinning at his master’s decidedly nauseous expression. Now Bjorn positively glowed, considerably more smartly garbed and groomed than Ulf had seen him for some time, and seemed unaware of anyone but Kata. His green tunic – quite coincidentally – matched the green of her dress, and from his belt hung the ancient sword, its stained scabbard scrubbed as well as Ulf was able.

The sun shone brightly on the joyful gathering. Accompanying the grinning Ragnar, Freydis and Ubbi’s happy smiles contrasted markedly with the forced smile of Aslanga and the sullen faces of Ivar and Halfdan. Next to them, Hastein enjoyed the ceremony with his usual exuberance with his mother and sister, and Kata’s many siblings, nephews and nieces beamed their delight with Alfarin and Svala. Other guests vied for a good view of the bride and groom. But as a menial, Ulf could only watch from afar.

Following the exchange of the dowry and bride price, sacrifices were made to the different gods. Thor demanded a goat, Freya a sow and Frey a boar. The blood from the slit throats was collected in bowls and sprinkled with fir twigs over the bridal couple and guests to sanctify the union. The exchange of swords and finger rings ensued, Bjorn offering his ring to Kata on the hilt of his new sword, and Kata presenting hers on Bjorn’s ancestral one. Then, with the rings on their fingers the couple made their vows, pledging love and devotion, respect and loyalty to each other in the presence of so many witnesses.

At last Bjorn and Kata were married and it was time for the traditional run of the bride and groom back to the hall. Ulf thought this great fun, as the women ran on foot whilst the men charged ahead on ready saddled horses. So it was hardly surprising that Bjorn should arrive at the hall before his bride, ready to carry her over the threshold. It would be a bad omen for the marriage should Kata trip and fall in the doorway, which was a portal between worlds and a place where spirits gathered. Ulf huffed at that idea, but enjoyed the spectacle anyway. He laughed with the rest as Bjorn thrust his new sword into a supporting pillar of the hall, and watched intrigued as the elders of both families examined the scar. The Danes believed that the deeper the scar, the better the luck of the marriage. Bjorn’s scar was very deep indeed.

* * *

The next four weeks passed in hazy revelry on Bornholm. Feasting became the everyday norm and the honeyed mead flowed. Ulf had never seen his master so happy. The guests remained to celebrate the annual sacrifices to Odin on October 14, for which Svala valiantly provided yet another great feast. To the Danes this further added to the joy of the season. To Ulf, it brought back sickening memories of last year’s events in Aalborg, and it was in a state of brooding misery that he helped Ragnar’s crewmen make ready the
Sleipnir
to sail.

Two days after the sacrificial feast they set sail from Alfarin’s island, with an extra, tearful passenger aboard. But Kata’s tears were short lived, her joy at being with Bjorn soon overriding her sorrow at leaving her family. She sat happily with Freydis in the stern, and Ulf smiled as he watched the new sisters sharing their laughter and thoughts so easily.

By October 19 the
Sleipnir
and
Jormungandr
were safely moored at Aros. Relieved to be home before the autumn gales whipped the sea into a frenzy, thanks were duly given to Aegir, the giant god of the sea, and his giantess wife Rán. Hastein, however, had still to sail back to Ribe. But Hastein could read the seas like the inscriptions on the runestones and Ulf knew he would not take unnecessary risks, especially with his mother and sister aboard. He’d sail only when the sky was clear, the Kattegat calm and the prospective outlook good.

After secluding himself with Ragnar for a lengthy period of talks, Hastein departed two days later, promising to return for the Yule should the weather permit overland travel. A sea journey in December was not to be contemplated. Ulf’s parting from Aethelnoth was tempered by the prospect of seeing him again soon, then again in the spring, when they’d sail to the Middle Sea. But Ulf could only wonder about the subject of Hastein and Ragnar’s talks, since not even Bjorn or Freydis could throw light on the matter.

‘Possibly something to do with Hastein’s new role as jarl,’ Bjorn surmised as he wrestled with Ulf as part of his exercise routine. ‘I think he’s more concerned than he lets on about managing his extensive lands. Thank Odin I won’t be burdened with such responsibilities for a few years yet. But if you succeed in breaking my head right off,’ he growled as Ulf grasped him in a fierce headlock, ‘I’ll never
get the chance!’

Bjorn and Kata settled contentedly into married life, Kata proving to be a willing worker and amenable companion to the other women. Ulf’s life became a routine of chores. The usual work of Blotmonath and food preservation continued, though Ulf was more often engaged in repair work, which suited him better. Mending thatch, furniture and tools were tasks he enjoyed. Nor did he object to helping the ironsmith at his forge.

And on most days, he had his rendezvous with Freydis to look forward to.

As the weeks passed, Ulf realised that Sigehelm knew of his dangerous relationship with Ragnar’s daughter. The worried gaze that followed him as he slipped from the hall each night left little doubt of that. But, as dangerous as he knew the meetings to be, Ulf could no more put an end to them than stop his heart from beating. He’d never felt as
alive
as he did in her arms, never smelt such sweet fragrance as that suffusing her silken hair. The softness of Freydis’s skin and the suppleness of her body filled him with such ecstasy he could scarce draw breath. Wrapped in her arms, all sense of danger simply melted away.

Then the Yule was looming and Ulf eagerly awaited Hastein and Aethelnoth’s arrival. And to everyone’s surprise but Ragnar’s, when the party from Ribe did arrive three days before the festivities, Hastein’s mother and sister were amongst the guests.

‘It’s good to see you again, cousin,’ Bjorn said, hugging the frozen Hastein then embracing Bera and Astrid as they came into the hall. Hastein had travelled on horseback with half a dozen of his men, Aethelnoth amongst them, and all looked stiff as boards. Outside, the air was bitter enough to seep through the thickest furs, the scant layer of winter’s first snowfall beginning to freeze on the ground as the afternoon progressed. ‘Prise off your coats and come to the fire. Warmed ale and hot griddle cakes will soon thaw you out.’

The hall door opened again and Ragnar appeared, snowflakes speckling his greying hair and beard. It had just started snowing again. ‘Frey’s great phallus!’ he yelled as an icy gust tore the door from his grasp and flung it back with a crash. ‘A thousand curses on this weather!’ He pushed the heavy door shut and swept the snow from his cloak before tossing it aside and coming to greet his guests. ‘Not a good time for travel, Hastein,’ he said, yanking his nephew to his feet and engulfing him in his meaty embrace, ‘especially with ladies along.’ He gave Bera and Astrid a dutiful kiss and seated himself, pulling Hastein down next to him. ‘In Odin’s name, sit down, Bjorn! I’m not fond of people looming over me.