Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (32 page)

‘By Odin, I’m tempted to put an end to the miserable existence of you six imbeciles! If we weren’t short on crew for the sailing, I’d do just that.’ He turned to the beefy man at his side. ‘Take some of your men, Egil, and lock these fools in one of the huts. They can reflect on their stupidity for the rest of the night. And it’ll be a long one at that,’ he added. ‘After all the mead I’ve downed, anyone who wakes me before mid-morning can expect a flogging.’

Ulf cringed behind some empty food crates as Egil and a handful of men followed Rorik’s orders. Fortunately, the chosen hut was not in his direction and he resumed his watch.

‘Pity you had to witness that, Godfried,’ Rorik was saying, addressing a younger man who’d come to stand next to him. The men are fired up, impatient to be away raiding, and tempers can fly at such times.’

‘I take no offence at the antics of your men, Uncle. Believe me, I’ve seen far worse.’ Godfried gave a throaty chuckle. ‘But I fully concur with your sentiments regarding rising too early tomorrow. Since we’re sailing at first light the following day, this could be our last chance to sleep a little later for some time. Now, I’ve a full cup of mead waiting for my attentions, and I see no reason to waste it.’

Rorik threw an arm round his nephew’s shoulders and they returned to the hall. The door closed behind them and darkness returned. From inside, voices were now little more than a muted buzz, the threat of spending the night locked in a hut evidently hitting home with the men. Ulf crept back to his former position, squatting down for the interminable wait and contemplating his plans.

He’d already registered the arrival of the half-dozen longships during his morning watch aboard ship, so wasn’t surprised to see that Godfired was here, especially since hearing Rorik’s men discussing his anticipated arrival last night. But, Ulf reasoned, Godfried’s presence shouldn’t make any difference to his plans. His major problem still lay in finding a way of getting Rorik alone, with or without Godfried’s presence in the hall.

The more he racked his brains, the more he was convinced that his only chance lay in Rorik’s need to relieve himself during the night. And even then, the timing had to be right. Too soon after he’d retired there were still likely to be thralls about, and too close to sunrise would be too late for Ulf. The
Fenrir
sailed at dawn. Ulf felt no qualms, no trembling fear at what he must do; he just hated the idea of everything hanging on chance. But the possibilities arising from Rorik’s threat to anyone who roused him too early, added to the fact that he slept in a private chamber, could prove useful when Ulf came to making his getaway.

It was well past midnight before the men made a move, many of them heading for the huge barn. And once all seemed settled for the night, Ulf crept closer to the hall to continue his long vigil.

The sky was showing the first signs of paling when Rorik staggered through the door. He moved slowly towards the side of the building, one hand trailing along the wall to support himself. The night’s excesses were, evidently, exerting their ugly after-effects, and Ulf smiled grimly: Rorik’s reflexes would be considerably dulled. He pulled up his hood, drew Leif’s dagger from his belt, and stepped out to follow.

Not bothering to enter the roofless hut that served as household latrine, Rorik stopped to release his waters against its outside wall, the hiss of the steady stream breaking the silence. He swayed a little as he refastened his belt, and leaned his brow against the wall to steady himself. Ulf pulled down his hood and waited for him to turn . . .

He struck fast, gripping Rorik in a fierce, one-armed hold and pressing him back against the hut whilst bringing the dagger up and thrusting it deep into the soft flesh beneath his breastbone, angled towards his heart. Rorik stared down in confusion at the hand clasping the hilt of the knife lodged in his chest. Then his eyes moved up to fix on Ulf’s face, growing wide as recognition hit.

‘That’s for my father, King Beorhtwulf,’ Ulf whispered, feeling the thrill of victorious vengeance course through him. ‘And this,’ he added, twisting the knife,’ is for my mother, Morwenna. Neither of them deserved to die. Unlike you . . .’

Already dead, Rorik’s eyes were still wide as he slumped against Ulf.

For some moments, Ulf stood there, locked in the deathly embrace with a man he’d dreamed of killing for so long. Now the job was done and, as long as nothing went wrong, he’d be aboard the
Fenrir
and sailing out of the Limfjord before anyone even realised the jarl was missing.

The lightening sky signalled the rapidly approaching dawn, and there was still the possibility of someone coming to piss. Ulf needed to get rid of the body, and quick. He glanced at the dense thicket barely twenty yards away. That had always been a possibility. Then he looked at the hut and wondered . . .

Inside the old hut, the latrine consisted of a deep pit bridged by a wooden plank with a hole in it for use as a ‘seat’. Ulf had made use of it himself when he’d been here on that ill-fated visit with Bjorn. Next to the pit sat a shovel and a mound of soil, with which users were expected to cover their own excrement. Many didn’t, and the place usually reeked.

The ideal burial place for the brutal jarl.

Ulf released his hold on the dagger and eased the heavy body to the ground. Then, gagging at the stench as he opened the door, he dragged the corpse inside the hut, and kicked the wooden plank away. Carefully, he pulled his precious dagger from Rorik’s chest, wiping it in the soil before returning it to the sheath at his belt. Blood gushed from the wound now that the dagger had been removed, and Ulf shoved the body quickly to the edge of the pit . . .

Rorik dropped, and landed with a muted slap in his stinking grave.

Ulf shovelled in the soil until certain that the body was no longer visible, and replaced the wooden plank. Guardedly, he opened the door. All was clear, so he used the edge of the shovel to remove any trace of something being dragged inside. Then, checking that the coast was still clear, he made his retreat to the ship, exulting in his triumph.

* * *

Ulf watched the islands of the Limfjord slip by, and by mid-morning the
Fenrir
veered north, heading for the Norwegian lands. He’d already said his goodbyes to those he loved, and those he knew he’d never forget, and now he was heading home to Mercia. Exactly when he’d get there, however, he’d no idea: Olaf was already considering a trading trip to Gotland after taking the supplies up to his people in the Lofotens, with a stop at Kaupang on the way back. So by the time they’d done all that, it would probably be too late in the year to sail again. Ulf would be stuck in Olaf’s village for the winter.

But Olaf swore he’d be crossing the Northern Seas the following spring. The old seaman had heard that trading was good in some Northumbrian city. And of course, there was always the possibility of a bountiful raid or two . . .

Ulf knew nothing about Northumbria, except that it lay to the north of Mercia and, like the Mercians, the people were descended from the Angles. But once he was on Anglo-Saxon soil, he’d find his way to Mercia, no matter how long it took. He was in no particular hurry, now. The first object of his revenge had been dealt with, and he’d ride on the elation of that success for some time yet.

And firmly lodged in his head was the absolute certainty that, one day, he’d deal with his loving uncle, Burgred.