Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (6 page)

Seven

In mid May the remnants of Rorik’s raiding party limped into their camp on the Isle of Thanet, licking their grievous wounds, a far cry from what Rorik had planned: a glorious summer of looting throughout the Saxon kingdoms before returning home to praise and admiration from his appreciative brother, whose eyes would sparkle like the mounds of booty presented to him. Rorik racked his brains to find excuses with which to placate the ill-tempered king, but could think of none.

That godly old man, Aethelwulf, must have calculated his moves so very well. His army had taken them unawares – asleep, if he were honest – having laid such a tight trap around that cursed plain at Aclea that Rorik himself had only escaped by the skin of his teeth. Leaving his men to face their fate, he’d fled with a mere half dozen men back to London, to be further assailed by the loss of the waiting ships. He’d had no option but to ride back to Thanet, trying not to contemplate Harald’s temper when he learnt that the ships he’d financed were amongst those burnt to a crisp.

On Thanet only two of the longships landed in April remained: Rorik’s own vessels, guarded by thirty men awaiting the return of their jarl with the dozen ships from London. The rest had cast off two weeks since with their booty. Did Rorik imagine it, or could he see scorn in the men’s eyes as Egil informed them of the rout, and the destroyed ships?

He said nothing and headed for his tent. A night with the Mercian woman would lift his spirits. Yanking back the skins of the tent flap, he was already unbuckling his leather belt.

* * *

Aros, Denmark: summer 851

At the beginning, Eadwulf’s new life seemed unreal, like a nightmare that refused to end. Days became nights in regular succession but he’d withdrawn so much inside himself he barely noticed. As on the knarr, events seemed to occur around him rather than involving
him. He detested the coarse woollen tunic and breeks he was given to wear, and carried out his tasks slowly and inefficiently, as though his body awaited orders from a mind that had ceased to function but was awash with horrifying and unnatural images. Scoldings and punishments were frequent, though he was too rapt in his own misery to care. But little by little his mind broke free of the nightmarish images and he was able to take stock of the village to which he now belonged.

Aros was a sizeable farming community, so named after the little river on whose waters its people depended, and ruled over by Jarl Ragnar Lodbrok, the fur-clad chieftain who’d plucked them from the slave stall. Little over two miles downstream the river widened and deepened to form the estuary that embraced the blue-grey waters of the Kattegat Strait. Cattle grazed on the water meadows aligning the banks, behind which the cluster of buildings nestled at the foot of a low rise and the undulating country beyond. On the drier slopes was the cultivated land, where Eadwulf now knelt, weeding between rows of cabbages.

He counted five farms within the jarl’s community, stretching out along the river. One of these was Ragnar’s own and on which Eadwulf’s work was focused. Each farm consisted of half a dozen or so buildings of various size and purpose, along with vegetable gardens and animal pens, all enclosed within a fenced compound. The largest building on each farm was the longhouse, each one a hall in its own right, where the family and thralls lived, and in some cases, also the cattle during the winter. The jarl’s huge hall stood at the centre of this community, dominating the view and presiding over his domain. An open, communal area reached out in front of the hall, where people could meet and festivities were held.

‘Jarl Ragnar not only controls the farms in this village,’ Sigehelm told him at the end of another long day as they made ready their beds against the hall’s long walls, ‘but a very sizeable portion of the surrounding area. Ragnar has far more power than most of the jarls in Danish lands. He’s hailed as a king by his people and treated with the utmost respect. The people owe him allegiance and Ragnar owes them his service as both administrator of the Law, presiding over their Assembly, which they call the
Thing
, and as priest to the gods.’

‘He’s the strangest priest I’ve ever seen,’ Eadwulf huffed. ‘No Mercian priest dresses in wolfskins and eats like a ravenous bear.’

Sigehelm agreed with a shudder. ‘Their pagan ways leave us quite bewildered.’

Jarl Ragnar’s hall was a magnificent affair, well fit for a king, Eadwulf decided, climbing into his bed. It was over a hundred feet in length and towered far higher than any of the neighbouring longhouses. He recalled the first time he’d stood outside, thinking how Thrydwulf’s hall would have paled into insignificance beside it. This huge building also had smaller rooms and compartments adjoining it, including sleeping rooms for the jarl’s own family, and the fireroom, which housed the mealfire, where most of the bread, pastries and other delicacies were cooked.

The sturdy oak-planked walls were broken by a few small windows, their shutters flung open during the summer days. The jambs of the doorway were carved with swirling patterns and figures that reminded Eadwulf of the stories of ancient heroes that Sigehelm had so often told him. A thick reed thatch sat atop the walls to present a solid and compact-looking roof, with a hole at its centre to allow smoke from the central firepit below to find its way outside.

The idea that Ragnar’s wealth and power depended on the proceeds of raids like that on Thrydwulf’s manor filled Eadwulf with revulsion. A picture of Aethelnoth’s laughing face flashed through his mind and he choked back a sob, wondering whether he’d ever see his friend again.

* * *

After the first few weeks Eadwulf came to understand what the Danes demanded of their thralls and his life took on a fairly regular routine. He learnt that to speak or act out of turn earned him a thrashing, and if he didn’t complete his work satisfactorily he’d forego his evening meal. He soon realised that no one cared about his aching stomach and that punishments would be dispensed without lenience. But he also found that if he did exactly as he was told, he was well fed and provided with a warm bed for the night inside the jarl’s hall.

And, very soon, he learnt that his mistress hated him.

Ragnar’s small, dark-haired wife, Aslanga, was strict and unforgiving and insisted Eadwulf was punished if he refused to lower his eyes when she spoke to him or didn’t complete a task to her satisfaction. He was denied food for a day simply for meeting her dark and scornful gaze, which was so like that of her strange son, Ivar.

‘Stupid, ignorant boy!’ Aslanga spat at him so frequently. She shrieked and ranted at her husband who infuriated her even further by grinning in response.

‘Our mistress is livid that the jarl bought us instead of the female thralls she asked for,’ Sigehelm told him one evening in early July as they stacked away the trestles after the meal. All was peaceful in the hall at that time of day with most of the young men away. The women sat repairing clothes or sewing tapestries in the light from the fire and oil lamps, whilst a few of Ragnar’s men rolled their dice on a table in the corner. Rarely did anyone sit up late: most needed their sleep ready for the next day’s work. The jarl’s family would retire to their private quarters whilst the rest prepared their beds for the night.

Eadwulf’s eyes watered and he stifled a huge yawn. The days were so long and started well before dawn: he’d never known life could be so hard. He’d spent the morning working in the fields and the afternoon helping with the dyeing of huge skeins of wool, which would be woven into clothes and blankets for the winter.

‘I urge you to be very careful, Eadwulf,’ Sigehelm whispered, glancing to make sure he wasn’t overheard. ‘Aslanga seems to have taken an unreasonable dislike to you. I’m unsure what the problem is, but during more than one of her tirades she’s
made rather sarcastic remarks regarding your red hair.’

‘My hair? Well, I can’t do anything about that. Surely she’s not so simple as to overlook that fact.’

‘No, but you could, perhaps, tie it back . . .’

‘I know what you mean, Sigehelm, you don’t have to demonstrate!’ Eadwulf yelped, pushing the fumbling hands away from his flowing locks.

* * *

Eadwulf’s first summer in the Danish lands passed quickly. He tried hard to do as he was told in order to avoid the constant lash of Aslanga’s tongue and soon her derisive comments had lessened. But still, at times, he felt the heat of her scornful stare. All he could do was keep out of her way as much as possible. To make matters worse, Eadwulf had long since realised he must also avoid Ivar and Halfdan. Ragnar’s two sons were hostile and vindictive, constantly finding ways of tormenting him and getting him into trouble with Aslanga.

The elder, dark-haired boy, Ivar, had some sort of disability and couldn’t walk unaided. His short legs were extremely bowed; his back twisted and stooped like that of a hunchback, though his arms were thick and muscular. Ivar’s whole body looked out of proportion and his facial features were decidedly ugly, and much too old for the face of a boy. He was accompanied everywhere by two aides, on whom he leaned heavily, and a fearsome dog that resembled some snarling wolf with a menacingly feral glint in its yellow eyes. Whenever Eadwulf neared, a deep growl emanated from its throat. Ivar himself constantly accused Eadwulf of time wasting, and threatened severe punishment if Aslanga found out.

Ivar’s behaviour puzzled Eadwulf, since he’d never consciously done anything to annoy the boy. His only crimes seemed to be that he was Mercian, and a thrall. He came to see Ivar as a pitiful person, with whom life had dealt most unkindly. His twisted body would never know the joys of running, climbing trees or swimming in fresh, cool streams.

Halfdan, just a year older than Eadwulf, also found it a great game to belittle and poke fun at the new thrall. But unlike his brother, Halfdan was healthy and agile, spending much of his time practising battle skills. And rarely did any of the other lads best him at wrestling – an activity prized more for its sporting and entertainment value than its use in combat.

Images of the times he and Aethelnoth had rolled around in the sunshine always hovered close. The bright flames of his memories burned through every fibre of his being, dominating his thoughts as he worked, possessing his dreams as he slept.

And along with Eadwulf’s memories was the ever-present desire for revenge.

Eight

The warriors’ return in the autumn was eagerly awaited by their loved ones: wives, mothers, children and grandparents – and others, whose eyes sparkled in anticipation of the plunder they would bring and the great feasts planned to welcome them home. And with the onset of September, expectation of their homecoming heightened.

‘Once the young men return,’ Thora explained as they weeded between the clumps of scented herbs in the vegetable gardens, ‘the women will be freed to pursue tasks needful before the frosts and snows set in. There are so many jobs that get neglected in the men’s absence; we have so little time, and after supper we’re all ready for our beds.’ The Danish woman looked at Eadwulf, her brown eyes twinkling. ‘We need to pay heed to the weaving, so we have woollen cloaks and blankets, and complete the embroidery on new wall hangings to stop cold winds whistling through cracks in the wood planking of our longhouses. Many folk will require new winter tunics too, or repairs to their old ones. We must soon begin the preparation of winter foodstuffs as well.’

Eadwulf enjoyed working with Thora because she chattered away and explained about the Danish way of life. She was not a young woman, possibly around her fortieth year, he estimated, and garbed in the usual attire of a thrall: a dress of thin, grey wool with a sleeveless, white tunic over. Her grey-streaked fair hair was mostly hidden beneath a white kerchief, and her round face and ready smile ensured she was well liked by the other thralls. Even Aslanga treated Thora well, if not exactly kindly.

‘The autumn months will be just as busy as the summer,’ she said as they continued their weeding. ‘Many foods need careful preparation so they last through the winter. We make preserves from forest fruits and berries, and pickle vegetables from the gardens: nothing is wasted if we can help it. We make mead from the honey from our hives and brew beer from harvested barley and hops. There’s cheese and butter to be made, hazelnuts and logs to be brought from the woods, and peat to be cut to supplement the logs as fuel. Oh yes, Eadwulf, you’ll be kept
very
busy,’ she said, smiling as she, put down her garden fork, ‘especially with Aslanga watching over you. As you probably know, our mistress runs the hall with an iron fist. She’d not insult Ragnar by having him go short of anything. Between you and me,’ she added with a conspiratorial wink, ‘I think she still feels the need to compete with Gudrun.’

Eadwulf had no idea who this Gudrun was, but felt no inclination to ask.

‘I imagine you’ll be given the job of collecting fruit, or cutting peat – though you may well end up making cheese with me, Eadwulf. I should like that, you’re better company than some I could name.’

‘And I would quite like to see how cheese is made. I’ve often wondered how milk suddenly becomes solid.’

Thora laughed and ruffled his hair before becoming serious again. ‘During Blotmonath we slaughter all but our best breeding stock, so we’ll be busy preserving the meats: some will be salted in vats of brine and some smoked in the big barns, like that one over there,’ she said, pointing to a large barn at the other side of the byre. ‘Some of it we simply hang to dry.’

Eadwulf nodded. On his father’s manors the November practice had been similar, although he’d never actually been involved with Blotmonath before.

‘Well, I can’t see a single weed hiding in there, can you, Eadwulf?’ Thora stood and brushed down her skirt. ‘Ouch,’ she winced. ‘If I stayed in that position much longer I swear my knees would lock solid and I’d never rise again.’ Her fond gaze scanned the patches of aromatic plants, predominantly different hues of greens but broken by clumps of tall, pink foxgloves in their second flowering of the year. ‘I’ve become quite adept at preparing healing potions over the years Eadwulf, the main reason Aslanga rarely uses her sharp tongue on me, I think, although I’ve also been useful in caring for the children. And I’m training young Freydis in medicinal skills. The jarl’s daughter’s a real aptitude for herblore. When I’m dead and gone, she can take over my work. Such skills are vital to a community.’

‘Have you been a thrall for a long time?’ he asked as they gathered their tools to return to the hall. It was almost time for the morning meal and he’d be needed to help with the serving.

‘Too long, Eadwulf, she said with a sigh. ‘It must be . . . Well, it’s nigh on eleven years since my husband died. Before that – about six or seven years I’d say – we gave up our freedom when we could barely afford to buy food. We were mere youngsters then, wed less than three years, with our whole lives ahead of us. Bjarni was a karl, owned his own farmstead, fifteen miles west of here. Our fields gave smaller yields each year until we had naught to sell, or eat. Much of our country makes poor farmland, you see; woodlands, heath and marshes cover a great deal of it inland. We gave ourselves to the jarl simply to survive,’ she said, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘That’s probably hard for you to understand, since you’re not a thrall by choice, but there are many people in our land forced to do the same. Then there are others who forfeit their freedom because they committed some crime. Thralldom is their punishment; it can be for as little as a year or two or as long as the person lives, depending on the crime.

‘Well, when Bjarni died after a fall from the roof of the hall while he was repairing the thatch,’ Thora went on, gazing up at the high roof, ‘I was left here alone. And Ragnar still had need of me. I thank the goddess, Freya, she didn’t bless Bjarni and me with children, or they would have become thralls too. So,’ she said, with a glance at Eadwulf as they left the vegetable gardens behind, ‘many of our young men travel far away in the hope of finding new homes.’ She paused, as though uncertain of how to continue. ‘Others go raiding, to bring back coin or goods to trade to help their families survive the winter. Oh, I understand your indignation,’ she said quickly as he scowled. ‘But I tell you these things so you’ll understand a little about our people and – rightly or wrongly – how the custom of summer raiding started. I’m not saying it’s right, and I
know you’ll say that killing serves no purpose, but desperation leads people to act in ways they would not under normal circumstances. No man wants to see his family starve. Remember, our gods do not abhor killing as does your Christian god, but applaud men who give their own lives for their loved ones.

‘But let’s put such thoughts behind us. September is the golden month and the sun still holds its warmth. Let’s enjoy it before winter comes. Know how to use a flail, Eadwulf?’ She smiled at his bemused expression. ‘No? Well, tomorrow I do believe you’ll find out. Tomorrow we begin threshing the grain.’ Her face suddenly grew wistful. ‘I pray that Thor will guide our men safely home. Summer’s over and they should be here any day now. It’s too long since we heard Bjorn’s cheerful voice about the village.’

* * *

By the second week of September, Eadwulf felt he’d been relatively successful in avoiding any outright clashes with Ragnar’s sons. Work in the fields with Cendred, ploughing after the harvest with a device called an ard, had kept him away from the hall during most days, and when the day’s work was over, he would sit with Sigehelm, reading, or simply sharing thoughts, and Ivar and Halfdan could do no more than scowl at him in Ragnar’s presence. But, returning from the fields late one afternoon, his stomach lurched. Ivar and Halfdan were sitting outside the hall with their younger sister, several other children around them, giggling as they bent over something in Ivar’s hand. Ivar glared in Eadwulf’s direction. ‘Over here, Mercian. We need your assistance.’

‘Go on, lad, I’m not going anywhere,’ Cendred urged, nodding toward a pile of logs at the side of the hall. ‘I’ve some wood needs cuttin’ right here. I can’t see ’em trying much with me choppin’ right next to ’em.’

With a deep breath Eadwulf stepped toward the now silent group and, as he’d anticipated, his presence was not requested in order to ply him with niceties. Ivar thrust a piece of parchment into his hand, a lengthy poem written on it.

‘Read that to us, Mercian. We need to hear it again to fully appreciate it.’

‘I can’t,’ Eadwulf lied, looking into Ivar’s dark eyes. If he spoke the words of the vulgar poem he knew it would be reported to Aslanga. ‘I can’t yet read well enough.’

‘So what
has
that sour-faced scribe been teaching you these past weeks? Could it be that you’ve such limited intelligence the words don’t penetrate your thick head?’

The group of children tittered but Eadwulf was surprised to hear the boys’ sister speak up. ‘Let him be, Ivar,’ Freydis said, frowning. ‘He’s probably telling the truth. Thralls aren’t given the time for learning.’

But Halfdan seemed intent on prolonging their fun. ‘How could anyone as thick as pig shit ever learn
anything,
other than how to grunt and wallow in the mud?’

A particularly loud thud as Cendred swung his axe into a log behind them made the children jump.

‘Move away from here, you filthy Saxon,’ Ivar yelled. ‘No one in his right mind chops wood this close to the hall!’

‘Another one thick as muck,’ Halfdan joined in. ‘Go back to your pig swill, Saxon!’ The big man’s fists balled and his eyes narrowed, but Halfdan was enjoying himself. ‘See how the ugly hog snorts and stamps his trotters,’ he sniggered. ‘And have you ever seen such piggy little eyes? We really must pen him up with that fat old sow Burghild, and see if they produce some plump piglets for our pot.’

By now Cendred was seething, his every breath like that of a tormented boar, his eyes focused on Halfdan. He advanced on the shrieking children with a roar, his axe still in his hands – just as Ragnar stepped from the hall with a group of his men. With a hiss of drawn swords Cendred was surrounded and overpowered. The children scattered like mice with a cat in their midst, only Ivar remaining, unable to move away unaided. Eadwulf hardly dared move. Cendred was pinned to the ground, swords at his throat.

‘I want him alive,’ Ragnar seethed, before the over-zealous guards could finish Cendred off. ‘Instant death is much too good for a thrall who dares to threaten a jarl’s children. Throw him in the pit. I’ll deal with him when he’s had time to reflect on the folly of his actions.’

Ragnar stood statue-still, the enraged expression set into his stone-like features as Cendred was dragged away. ‘By Odin, Scribe, I should never have listened to your words!’ he threw at Sigehelm, hovering in the doorway. ‘The Saxon dog had trouble written all over his face – and I knew it! Be very grateful I value your work as tutor to my sons. If I did not, then you’d now be in the same place as him.’

Sigehelm’s face blanched and his eyes grew wide, but Ragnar said no more to him. His glacial stare fixed on his son, still hunched against the hall. ‘Have your servants bring you inside, Ivar.’ His tone was soft and ominous as he stepped through the doorway. ‘You and your brother have a lot
of explaining to do about what went on here.’

* * *

Over a week had passed and Eadwulf still didn’t know what had transpired following Ivar and Halfdan’s audience with their father, or how Cendred fared. Ragnar’s men ensured that no one neared the pit and Cendred could have been dead for all anyone knew.

‘What will they do to him?’ he asked Sigehelm as they set out the trestles for the morning meal.

Sigehelm held Eadwulf in his steady gaze, releasing his breath as a weary sigh. ‘I know you blame yourself for causing Cendred to behave as he did, child, but he’s entirely responsible for his own actions. Ragnar is right to believe the man isn’t safe to let loose. No sane person would advance upon children with an axe. But I did overhear the jarl issuing orders to have him moved into one of the huts by the end of the week. At least that will be somewhat better for him than remaining in that dreadful pit, open to all weathers – particularly if he is to be incarcerated for very much longer.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I fear that whatever punishment Ragnar dictates for the Saxon, it will not be pleasant.’

* * *

Eadwulf rubbed his sleepy eyes and squatted on the river bank to fill his first pails for the day. The late September weather still held warm and dry and the sun had risen to greet an almost cloudless sky. Trees were turning golden, the grain was in and the threshing done. Preparations for winter would now begin in earnest and Eadwulf anticipated a hard day ahead.

Drawing the pail through the clear water he spotted a kingfisher perched on a willow branch that trailed down to the silvery surface. He couldn’t believe his luck. It was only the second one he’d seen at Aros and he was fascinated by the colouring of this tiny bird: the shiny, metallic blue-green of its back, wings and head, the little white parts around its neck and chin and the amazingly bright orangey-red breast. The dazzling mass of vibrant colour dived so fast Eadwulf wasn’t sure he actually saw it move at all until the tiny thing flew back to its branch, a small, wriggling fish in its dark beak.

‘Is this what you call work, thrall?’ Halfdan’s voice caused Eadwulf to lose hold of the pail and he struggled to retrieve it before the current could take it. ‘Does Aslanga know of your fascination with our feathered friends and how long you spend staring at the damned things?’

Eadwulf did not respond to the taunts. What would be the point?

‘Kingfishers are excellent divers, I’m told,’ Halfdan said. ‘They seem to know everything that goes on below the glassy surface that we see: all those fish and things. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to see what
they
see–?’

Halfdan’s move was so fast that Eadwulf was sinking in the cold water before he realised anything had happened. The river deepened rapidly only inches from the bank but he surfaced quickly, gasping for breath.

‘That’s for getting us into trouble with Ragnar,’ Halfdan sneered. ‘Enjoy your swim. I’m sure Aslanga will be eagerly awaiting your return.’

Halfdan sped off and Eadwulf dragged himself onto the bank, dripping and shivering. The water was very cold and the early morning sun yielded little warmth. He cursed Halfdan. The wretched boy must have been watching, waiting to follow him.