Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (7 page)

Having no alternative, he trudged back to the hall in his sodden state. Aslanga would be waiting for the water.

* * *

Aslanga’s fury seemed to flow from her in waves. Her dark eyes blazed, fixing resolutely on Eadwulf as he crept into the hall and placed the full pails by the door. Servants moved out of her way and two of Ragnar’s men put their dicing game on hold. Sigehelm’s quill hung motionless over his parchment and beside him, Ivar and Halfdan smirked.

Dripping wet and shivering, Eadwulf waited for the unwarranted tirade to begin. His mistress remained by the hearth, breathing fast, the floury whiteness of her face contrasting sharply with the black hair straying from beneath her head covering. Her choice of clothing was equally severe: a long-sleeved brown dress, fastened round her thin neck with a drawstring. Her plain white over-tunic was held at the shoulders by two simple round brooches, and from a chain around her neck hung a knife, scissors and keys: symbols of her complete control in the hall.

‘Come here.’

A shudder of dread shot down Eadwulf’s spine. Burghild’s anxious gaze fixed on him as he stepped slowly forward. Without doubt, Halfdan had spun some highly incriminating yarn.

‘What have you to say in your defence?’

‘My defence of what, Mistress?’

Aslanga’s sharp slap sent him reeling. ‘Don’t
dare
give me
your insolence! I’ll have you flogged for using that tone with me. Get up. Now.’

Not trusting himself to speak, Eadwulf obeyed. His face stung and he knew Aslanga would not believe anything he said.

‘Let’s start again. Explain, if you will, why you attempted to push my son into the river. Yes, you may well shake in your boots. Your actions will not go unpunished.’

‘But I didn’t–’

‘Didn’t what, exactly? Didn’t expect to be seen? Didn’t expect to fail? Perhaps you
did
expect to push Halfdan into the river and run off before he could see you?’

‘Mistress, it was
I
who was pushed into the river.’

‘You’ve certainly been
in
the river!’ she snapped, eyeing Eadwulf’s sodden clothing with contempt. ‘And I know just how you came to be
in there. Halfdan avoided your intended push by darting aside, after which you
slipped on the wet bank and landed yourself in the water, precisely where you’d meant my son to go.’ Aslanga shook with outrage and indignation. ‘From the moment I set eyes on you, I could tell you’d not make an agreeable thrall.’

Eadwulf could barely contain his own indignation at the sheer injustice of this. He’d done nothing but obey Aslanga’s orders. And he’d tried very hard to be amenable. That wretched boy, Halfdan!

‘Nothing you say can lessen your guilt,’ she ranted on, giving him no opportunity to defend himself. ‘You stand there, feigning innocence, whilst the son of a jarl has suffered your disrespect and plots against his person. Did you believe it would be a great jest to see Halfdan soaked and bedraggled?’

Eadwulf shook his head, more by way of reaction to Aslanga’s imbalanced condemnation than as answer to the question.

‘Your disrespect is intolerable! I knew as soon as I saw the red hair that would be the case; the brash colouring comes with insolence ingrained at birth. It’s a pity my husband failed to see that fact years ago.’

Eadwulf gaped, confused by this sudden line of thought.

‘You are unfit to share our food, or our roof. For the next week you’ll sleep outside and
if
we save you scraps from our table, you will also eat those outside.’

‘Mistress, I swear I’ve done nothing.’ Eadwulf could not believe such harsh punishment could be inflicted so unjustly. All evidence was based on malicious lies.

‘Ulrik,’ Aslanga shouted to one of Ragnar’s men. ‘Take the lying thrall outside. Use your belt and beat him soundly.’

* * *

Eadwulf spent seven nights banned from the hall. Oddly enough, he found it no great hardship. The nights had not yet turned bitter, nor had rainclouds released more than a fleeting shower, and after a long day’s work he was able to sleep almost anywhere. Mindful to avoid the vicinity of Cendred’s new prison, guarded by successions of Ragnar’s ever-vigilant men, he’d found a nook between one of the storage sheds and a sturdy wicker fence, and piled fallen leaves under an old sackcloth to make a soft bed. Other rags afforded him some cover. For the first three days the pain of the thrashing made finding a suitable sleeping position difficult, but curled on his side was his preferred position anyway. Once asleep, he rarely roused before the cockerel heralded daybreak. Nor was he starved. The ‘scraps’ Aslanga sent out were not much worse than the usual leftovers given to the thralls. And on most days, Sigehelm sneaked him out a little extra.

Eadwulf was beginning to see a strength and selflessness in his quiet, god-fearing tutor that he’d overlooked before. Sigehelm had risked great punishment by these actions, but in Eadwulf’s interest he’d simply ignored that possibility. Since arriving in this land, he couldn’t remember a single time when Sigehelm had voiced concern for his own well being: his concern was always for Eadwulf. It had just taken Eadwulf a long time to realise it.

Nine

Fallen leaves crunched beneath Eadwulf’s feet as he collected twigs and branches for winter tinder in the small patch of woodland on the elevated ground behind the village. Accompanied by Toke, Aslanga’s ageing Norse thrall whose dialect he found hard to understand, conversation was minimal. But away from Aslanga’s sharp tongue, Eadwulf worked contentedly enough.

The October day had dawned fine and bright, but as the morning wore on the breeze picked up and heavy, grey clouds drifted in, threatening a wet and dreary afternoon. By now a commendable mound of firewood sat in the cart and just as Toke motioned they should be heading back, a shrill horn blast stopped Eadwulf in his tracks. He dropped the bundle of twigs he’d been about to toss into the cart, his heart racing. The horn must surely mean the village was under attack!

He grabbed Toke’s arm and pointed across the ploughed fields at the people streaming toward the river.

The old man smiled reassuringly, his bony hand patting Eadwulf’s arm. ‘Bjorn,’ he said simply, shoving Eadwulf into the cart before clambering up himself and rapping the rump of the ox with the reins. ‘Bjorn has come home.’

* * *

Aros was in chaos. Eadwulf was jostled amongst the throng of elated villagers congregating in the communal compound, all too engrossed in their emotional reunions to consider the plight of the thralls proffering ale. He could barely squeeze between embracing families or those involved in amicable back-slapping. Returning fathers fussed over squealing offspring who’d made their appearance during their lengthy absence, others admired the swollen bellies of wives whose pregnancies had barely begun to blossom in the spring. Laughter and tears mingled freely; tears of joy for most, tears of sadness for an unfortunate few. Not all the men had come home; nor had all returned unscathed. Some scars were displayed with pride: a hideously scarred face or hacked-off earlobe was evidence of courage. But other injuries, such as loss of limbs or eyes, would ensure the bearers would never again go raiding.

The ale in Eadwulf’s jug spilled copiously onto the grass and the men had insatiable thirsts, resulting in his frequent returns to the barrels in the hall. He’d caught Aslanga’s glower the last time he’d sneaked in and knew he’d be sorely berated before long. Outside the doorway, Ragnar beamed as he congratulated the warriors delivering the plunder, including five human pieces of merchandise.

At Ragnar’s side Ivar hunched on a stool, and beside him stood Halfdan. In their fine woollen tunics, their affected air of superiority contrasted sharply to the genial manner of their father. Pondering reasons for their surliness, Eadwulf didn’t see the small dog wheedling between the shuffling feet. He tripped right over the yelping cur and fell flat on his face, half a jug of ale splattering down the right leg of a young warrior who seemed intent on squeezing the life out of a giggling woman.

The man was not pleased. With a throaty growl he yanked Eadwulf up by the shoulders. Eadwulf squeezed his eyes shut, lifting his arm to protect his head, bracing himself for the blow. But nothing came, not even a clip round the ear. Tentatively, he opened his eyes . . . and gaped at the face barely inches from his nose – with eyes as green as his own.

The young warrior pulled up to his full height and stood back, balled fists on his hips, continuing his scrutiny. A grin suddenly creased his face, setting his eyes twinkling. He tweaked his ragged beard and shook his head of wild red hair.

‘By all the gods, what trick is being played on me?’ he roared, his voice cracked with laughter. ‘I leave my home, risking life and limb in the hope of bringing prosperity to our people and within so short a time my father finds a replacement for me! Now, lad, I know you’re not my brother and by Frey’s prick, you’re too old to be my
spawn. So where in Thor’s name
did
you spring from?’

Eadwulf continued to gawk. It was like looking at a bigger and older version of himself. Eventually, he found his voice. ‘I am called Eadwulf, and I’m a thrall. And I’m a Mercian,’ he added, jutting out his chin.

‘Well, Eadwulf, it’s good to be proud of who you are. Why be otherwise? We cannot change what the gods have destined for us. How were you taken?’

‘The r-raid on London . . .’ Eadwulf stammered, hoping the man would not request the details.

‘Your parents?’

‘They’re dead. Jarl Ragnar bought me with three others in Hedeby – for his wife.’

‘So, you belong to Aslanga?’

Eadwulf nodded, feeling more miserable than ever to admit to that.

‘And do you work hard for her, and escape punishment, Eadwulf? From your reaction to me, I’d guess you’ve had a few thrashings already.’

‘She doesn’t think a great deal of me, I fear, and yes, I’ve sometimes been punished – though I do work hard.’ Eadwulf didn’t elaborate on the beatings he’d had, or on the week he’d been banished from the hall, and wondered why he’d even admitted as much as he had.

‘Her dislike of you isn’t really surprising.’ The warrior grinned. ‘The lady simply detests red hair.’

‘But lots of people have red hair,’ Eadwulf huffed, gesturing to the man’s bright thatch.

‘Ah, there’s a story and a half there, lad. Aslanga is . . .’

‘
Bjorn!
’
Ragnar’s booming voice rang out. ‘Get your arse over here and let the boy get on with his work!’

‘Certainly, Father.’ The warrior swung a low bow to his sire, bringing hoots of laughter from those around. ‘We’ll talk again, Eadwulf, when you’re less busy.’

Eadwulf just nodded, dumbfounded.

‘Don’t forget tonight,’ the woman yelled to the retreating back.

Without a backward glance Bjorn flicked out a wave and continued on to the hall. Beside the jovial Ragnar, Ivar and Halfdan glowered as their red-headed brother strutted towards them. Eadwulf followed to refill his jug, thankful they were so preoccupied in scowling at Bjorn they didn’t even notice him pass by into the hall.

* * *

Preparations for the evening’s feast were well underway. Women chopped and mixed with determination and a variety of foods covered the long tables. Aslanga had been watching her daughter as Eadwulf entered, her expression one of extreme exasperation. The pretty, flaxen-haired girl was kneading dough in a big trough, apparently with little success. Enveloped in clouds of floury dust with white streaks patterning her tunic, face and braids, Freydis muttered her intense dislike of the pastime. Eadwulf found it difficult not to laugh out loud.

‘Careless, thoughtless boy,’ Aslanga scolded as he headed for the ale barrels. ‘Will you
ever
become steady handed enough to be of any use at all?’

Hearing her mother’s acerbic tones Freydis glanced up and smiled at Eadwulf, her blue eyes full of sympathy – though whether for him or herself, he wasn’t sure.

‘Do you think we spend so many hours
brewing ale just for you to slosh all over the ground?’ Aslanga continued, glowering at Freydis until she bowed her head and resumed walloping the dough. ‘How many other thralls do you see running in and out like you? That’s right,’ she answered herself with a flick of her hand, ‘none. And if you return too soon again you’ll forfeit your own meal tonight.’

Eadwulf sighed and strove to walk steadily with two full jugs to the door.

‘Mayn’t I go and welcome my brother home yet?’ Freydis pleaded behind him.

‘Bjorn’s busy enough with your father without having you clinging to his trouser leg,’ Aslanga snapped.

‘But it is
so
unfair!’ the girl shrieked, with what sounded like an extra hard wallop of the dough. Her petulant outburst made Eadwulf jump, and ale slopped to the rushes. Silently cursing, he half turned to look, hoping Aslanga hadn’t noticed.

‘I want to see Bjorn!’ Freydis demanded, stamping her foot. ‘He’s my favourite brother – and just because
you
don’t like him, you think I
should hate him too. But I don’t! I love him to bits and–’

The resounding slap and ensuing whimper caused a wave of sympathy to wash over Eadwulf, but he walked through the doorway as though he’d heard nothing.

Ten

‘Good people! Fellow Danes! Warriors of Thor!’

Ragnar’s booming baritone caught the immediate attention of the occupants of the heaving hall. His ruddy face beamed and he raised his silver cup in salutation. ‘Welcome home!’

The respondent cheers and hammering of fists on tables was almost deafening. Eadwulf froze, intrigued, the skewers of beef he’d been turning lying still across the hearth, in danger of being badly scorched. Euphoria swept the hall and he gawked at the sea of faces, all filled with admiration and pride.

The huge room was ablaze with light and colour. Torches flared and soapstone oil lamps and beeswax candles flickered, picking up the colours of the wall hangings and polished shields. The trestles had been set up and Eadwulf had laid out some of the mistress’s cherished curved brass spoons and little knives with walrus ivory handles. Her fine, Rhineland pottery plates and bowls were stacked at the side, awaiting their freshly cooked contents. All had been such a rush. Aslanga had protested all evening at having to prepare a huge meal at such short notice.

In sudden panic, Eadwulf returned his attentions to the skewers. The meat didn’t appear to be burnt, although one side was decidedly darker than the rest. Thankfully, Aslanga was still in the fireroom and could not have witnessed his inattention.

It seemed to Eadwulf that everyone had donned their finest attire for the occasion. Ragnar stood in his place at the centre of a table in an elevated position at the end of the room, where he could be seen by all. In his bright red tunic, with its glittering trims and heavy silver belt, he looked quite dazzling. Even the striped blue trousers and calf-length boots were in stark contrast to his usual drab attire. His flaxen locks were held by a black silk headband, colourfully decorated with a delicate tendril pattern, and his beard had been neatly plaited. Rings adorned his fingers and an armband of twisted gold lay testimony to his status in society.

To the jarl’s right, Bjorn’s red mane could hardly be missed, though the wild locks now hung tamed about their owner’s collar. His red beard and moustache had been trimmed and Eadwulf could not help noticing how well he suited the emerald green tunic. Ivar and Halfdan sat at their father’s left, after an unoccupied space which Eawulf knew to be reserved for Aslanga. Both looked in jovial spirits, wearing splendid tunics of brightly dyed hues. Ivar’s aides stood attentively behind him, though Eadwulf was surprised to note the absence of his snarling wolf-dog, since several dogs sprawled under tables by their masters’ legs.

‘An entire season has passed since we feasted together beneath this roof, my friends,’ Ragnar resumed, all eyes following his gesture towards the high thatch. ‘We celebrated Sigrblot at the onset of spring and gave offerings to the gods. Did not Frey accept our gift of the sacrificial boar? Was he not pleased that his statue was paraded around our village in the cart decked with fragrant blossoms? I say to you that Frey
was
pleased and
has
answered our prayers by giving us a plentiful harvest.’

A wicked grin lit up the jarl’s face as his gaze swept the hall. ‘And has not his sister, Freya, bestowed
her
most fruitful blessings on many of our women?’

Lewd comments and gestures erupted and men patted the swollen bellies of their scarlet-faced wives. ‘Our harvest elsewhere has also been truly great,’ he continued, his hand raised for silence. ‘Tonight we celebrate not only our bountiful crops, but also the bountiful riches that will enable our village to prosper.’ He motioned to the mounds of shining goods close to his table. Engraved bowls, plates and goblets, swords and daggers with hilts studded with precious gems, and golden chalices and candlesticks were heaped beside chests brimming with coins. ‘Tonight we feast in honour of our warriors, whose plunder will fill our trading ships next spring.’

Ragnar flung out his arms to acknowledge the thunderous cheers, then again raised his hand. ‘Tonight we eat and drink as much as our bellies can take. And you all know the standard of my lady wife’s cooking!’

He offered an exaggerated bow to Aslanga, now standing with Thora and Toke by the fireroom door, dressed in her finest clothes. Over her yellow, pleated dress her azure tunic was edged with colourfully decorated appliqué and the shoulder straps fastened with jewelled brooches. And although her dark hair remained mostly covered beneath the matching yellow kerchief, Eadwulf was surprised to see a necklace of heavy amber beads around her neck. She acknowledged her husband’s compliment with a gracious nod and her usually frosty features melted into a smile. More cheers reverberated round the hall.

‘Tomorrow, when our men are recovered from the rigours of tonight’s festivities,’ the jarl chortled, pointing meaningfully at his mead cup, ‘we have our first ceremony to the gods. To Thor, the slayer of giants, god of thunder and storms, of travellers and warriors, we will offer thanks for guiding our men throughout their venture. As the sun leaves Midgard tomorrow, we will show Thor exactly how grateful we are and beg for his continued benevolence. Then tomorrow night, we feast in his honour. In three days’ time we welcome the onset of winter.’ Ragnar’s tones became hushed, his face sombre. ‘Before the morning sun casts its rays over the horizon, we make our yearly trek to the sacred grove to deliver our offerings to Odin. We entreat the All-Father for a mild winter and his blessings for a successful year . . .

‘But these things are for later. Tonight we eat and get drunk, as only true Danes know how. Good health and the blessing of the gods to you all, my people!’

Aslanga took her place beside her husband and the feasting began.

The thralls kept up a hectic pace, serving food and running back and forth to the ale barrels and mead jars to refill rapidly emptied vessels. Toke and Thora served at the jarl’s table, a relief to Eadwulf: he hadn’t relished the thought of Aslanga and her sons finding fault with everything he served. The chicken and leek soup, always a favourite, brought many compliments. The aromatic liquid had been thickened with oatmeal and packed with chunky pieces of chicken, leeks and garlic, with additional carrots, onion and celery. Eadwulf’s stomach whined pitifully as bowls of the steaming broth were carried to the tables. The skewers of meat followed. Greasy juices dripped down chins as jaws chomped on the succulent beef. A variety of freshly baked breads with honey or butter were offered to all.

Finally it was time for the dessert. Aslanga and Thora had mixed the batter for the berry pancakes earlier, leaving it in jugs in the fireroom, ready for cooking on the wide griddles. Mounds of forest fruits sweetened with honey had been stewed in pots over the hearth until they were mouth-wateringly syrupy, ready to be spooned inside the sizzling pancakes. Ragnar yelled for a barrel of his best wine to be opened and Eadwulf wondered how long it would be before arguments and brawls erupted. The door to the fireroom opened and trays heaped with golden pancakes were carried in, and his concerns were instantly curtailed as his stomach groaned anew.

‘Freydis has barely touched a morsel,’ Thora said, coming to stand next to him. ‘I wonder what’s upset her.’ Eadwulf said nothing; it wasn’t his place to relate what had occurred. ‘Carry some pancakes over for the little ones, lad,’ Thora continued, ‘and try to persuade her to eat one. And tell Burghild from me they need to be in their beds as soon as they’ve finished. Most of the women will be retiring soon, leaving the men to their carousing. They do like to boast of their exploits.’

At the far end of the hall, close to the door, a table had been set up for the children of the village. Hollow-eyed and white-faced, Burghild sat with Ubbi on her lap, amidst several women from neighbouring families with their own charges. The matronly thrall had taken Cendred’s punishment hard and, according to Thora, greatly feared for her own safety, should she unwittingly commit some minor offence. Her nerves seemed shattered in recent weeks. Even Eadwulf had noticed her constantly dropping things, her anxious gaze too often darting around the hall. He just hoped that Aslanga hadn’t also noticed . . .

Her swept his concerns for Burghild aside and focused on Freydis next to her. The jarl’s daughter looked very pretty in an embroidered blue linen dress, with her shining blonde hair tumbling down her back. But by no means was she in festive mood. She refused to look at Eadwulf as he extolled what he imagined to be the delights of the pancakes, and pushed the proffered dish to join the others she’d rejected. Eadwulf had no time to dwell on Freydis’s moods. No doubt she’d get over her pique. Passing Thora’s message to Burghild he moved off about his work.

The women soon retired, Aslanga marching Ivar and Halfdan out with her, and the men shared riddles and tales of heroic deeds; bawdy songs drowned the flute player’s melodies. And though still attentive to the demands for refills from the revellers, the thralls were now able to fill their own bellies.

Eventually, the jarl heaved himself onto unsteady legs.

‘The food’s been to your liking?’ he yelled. Roaring cheers and hammering on tables with fists and spoons gave him his answer. ‘The wines have titillated your discerning palates?’ The same resounding reply. ‘Have I not been a generous host tonight?’ The men rose to their feet, those too drunk to do so buttressed between others who could barely stand themselves, and raised their cups to salute their jarl.

‘Sit, if you will, good people. The day’s been long and I fear your already buckled legs may buckle further before long.’ He gestured amusedly to a few particularly drunken individuals. ‘Once, I’d’ve been raiding at your sides. But now this old shoulder wound keeps me home, like an old, old man.’ His tone was self-deprecating as he rubbed his injured shoulder. ‘Tomorrow we share out the goods, though I’m told these few thralls already have owners. Pity,’ he shrugged at Bjorn’s grinning nod, ‘Aslanga still hasn’t forgiven me for not bringing back young women the last time I went to Hedeby!

‘But before our beds beckon,’ he said, quietening down the laughter, ‘I’d like to hear from my rogue of a son what antics he’s been up to for the
entire
summer. Enlightenment would be appreciated, Bjorn . . .’

To ringing cheers Ragnar’s firstborn rose to his feet. He didn’t appear particularly drunk, quite clear-eyed and steady, Eadwulf decided. He flashed a white grin and saluted the men with his own silver cup. ‘We have, indeed, been away many months, Father,’ he said, whilst heads nodded sagely. ‘We’ve greatly missed the glorious summer as she blessed our homelands, causing the days to grow long and mellow and the corn to ripen . . .’

‘Don’t get sentimental on us, son,’ Ragnar interrupted, bringing further hoots from the men. ‘Much as I’m sure you feel glad to be home, don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the thrill of the raids. You’d not be a son of mine otherwise!’

Laughter grew even louder when Bjorn said, ‘Certainly, Father.’

‘As I was saying,’ Bjorn continued, ‘Mighty Thor saw fit to render success in our quest and guided us home without disaster in stormy waters. I speak for us all when I say we feel honoured to have helped to ensure the well being of our people for another year–’

Ragnar’s loud cough stopped that line of thought and Bjorn grinned roguishly. ‘Our initial intention was to spend some weeks raiding along the coast of Frisia, but after a few minor raids we chose to sail on south to Iberia, which held promise of richer takings.’

‘We’d thought you might sail up the Seine to pay your respects to Charles the Bald. I’m sure he’s missed me these past six years. The Danegeld he so kindly gave us is in dire need of replenishment.’

‘That option was
considered, Father,’ Bjorn admitted, nodding, ‘but somehow the warmer climes held greater attraction.’

‘I suppose it’s understandable that you youngsters should want to make your own mark elsewhere.’

‘Youngsters
some
of us may be, Father, but we certainly did make our presence known to the Frankish king! Our raids in Nantes from our camp on the island of Noirmutier proved very lucrative.’ Bjorn motioned to the heap of plunder. ‘Frankish swords are fine pieces of workmanship, as are their silver dishes and bowls – or goblets, like the one holding your own wine tonight. And as you see, their churches have kindly donated many Christian crosses and chalices to our safekeeping . . .

‘By mid-July we reached the north of Iberia, where the towns of Corunna and Santiago de Compostela offered us their warm hospitality and their church doors welcomed us with open arms! We gave daily thanks to the Christian god for his benevolence to poor travellers such as ourselves. It was in Corunna we found these five wandering the streets. Well, we found the two young ones wandering the streets,’ he clarified, gesturing to the olive-skinned girl and boy. ‘The other three beauties – although strictly speaking, we’d call them whores – well, some of us merely happened to be inspecting the best brothel in Corunna, and since we couldn’t bear to part company with three of their best er,
delicacies
, we made a quick getaway with them in tow.’

Laughter erupted and Ragnar had tears of mirth streaming down his face. Bjorn’s tale was even holding Eadwulf rapt, though he noticed that Sigehelm’s expression was grim.

‘By the time we reached Lisbon it was August and very hot,’ Bjorn went on, sweeping his arm theatrically across his brow. ‘Lisbon is a well-fortified city and the Moors are formidable opponents. Their huge blades, called scimitars, are used with deadly precision, and after being twice repelled from the city walls, we thought it best to sail back north. But we do
intend to go back, Father. Perhaps not next year, or even the next, but one year we’ll return with better plans of attack. So, here we are, returned to you, my lord, with our offerings.’

The trestles stayed up for the night, more than a few men slumped across them, others recumbent on the rushen floor. Ragnar retired to his own sleeping room and Bjorn headed for the door, giving Eadwulf a mischievous wink as he passed.

At long last, Eadwulf fell to his bed, knowing that in only a few hours he’d have to be up again.