Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (8 page)

Eleven

‘Eadwulf, it is past daybreak. We must stir before the mistress rises!’

Eadwulf vaguely heard the voice and felt someone shaking him, but he’d been deeply asleep and took some moments to rouse. ‘The cockerel crowed some while ago,’ the voice persisted, ‘but I confess, even I was too weary to pay heed. We must not be lying abed when Aslanga appears!’

Eadwulf forced his heavy eyelids open and squinted at Sigehelm’s worried face.

‘Be quick now. Down to the river with your pails. I’ll busy myself raking the ashes and stacking firewood. I hope to have a fire burning soon. A few others are already busy at their chores. ‘There’s much to be done after last night.’

Barely awake, Eadwulf did as he was told. Sigehelm was right, Aslanga would be unforgiving if she had to rouse the thralls herself. But the cold morning air helped, and as he plodded down to the river, a pail in each hand, he felt his senses reviving. The weak October sun had already emerged from its other world and the cockerel perched silently on the fence, his morning’s work accomplished. Eadwulf didn’t feel too guilty for being late; no one else was about either.

By the time he returned to the hall, Sigehelm was feeding sticks to the newly lit fire, the yellow flames greedily licking at the new wood. Surprisingly, Aslanga was still absent but most of the thralls were busily removing all evidence of night-time revelry, stepping carefully around a handful of men still snoring on the rushes. Dishes were piled ready for washing, trestles stacked away until later.

‘We’ll need as much water as you can bring,’ Thora said, emptying the pails into a cauldron over the hearth and handing them back to Eadwulf. She wrinkled her nose at the heaps of food-smeared pots. ‘A few journeys to the river, lad, quick as you can.’

Returning with his brimming buckets several journeys later, Eadwulf’s attention was caught by a woman’s giggle coming from inside the large, wood-planked barn. A man’s throaty chuckle followed, and Eadwulf grinned. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d heard couples engaged in noisy lovemaking, and in a variety of places, but he was curious as to which pair of lovers had risen for such an early-morning tryst after the late-night feast. But whoever they were, he decided, they definitely couldn’t be thralls. Servants late to their chores risked a severe thrashing.

A hazy memory from last night suddenly crossed Eadwulf’s mind and he wondered . . . And since the door was already ajar, he supposed a quick peep inside could do no harm.

On first glance the barn appeared to be empty and he crept a little further in. Then a huge mound of barley straw in the far corner moved; a gentle kind of movement that rose up and down, slowly at first but gradually gaining momentum. The back of a woman’s blonde head surfaced then disappeared, to be followed by a flash of bright red hair.

As he backed silently out again, Eadwulf smiled, pleased to have proven himself to be right.

* * *

By the time the morning meal had been served Aslanga had still not made an entrance and, having eaten his fill, the jarl summoned his men and headed off about his business. Nor had Bjorn yet returned to eat, which surprised Eadwulf. He’d have a long wait until the evening feast.

‘It seems Aslanga has a gargantuan hangover,’ Sigehelm said with an uncharacteristic smirk as they sat at a table to take their own meal. Our mistress rarely drinks wine but last night Ragnar refilled her goblet a few times too many.’

‘On purpose, I imagine, so she’d retire and leave him to enjoy himself,’ Eadwulf replied, returning the smirk as he tore off a chunk of bread to mop up his stew. His eyes flicked to where Ivar and Halfdan skulked in the corner of the hall. ‘And those two are very quiet; didn’t even join their father for the meal.’

‘If you look closely, Eadwulf, you’ll notice they’re both somewhat pale and puffy-eyed this morning. Halfdan’s been sitting there looking as though he would vomit and Ivar tried his usual tack of threatening to castrate me if I so much as speak to him again today.’

‘I saw them downing mead last night. I hope they throw up all day.’

‘Such uncharitable thoughts,’ Sigehelm admonished with a shake of his head. But you know, Eadwulf, for once I wholeheartedly agree with you.’

‘And exactly what do you two agree about, may I ask?’

The cheerful voice made them jump. Bjorn seemed to have materialised from nowhere, still wearing the tunic he’d worn for the feast, although it now looked rather the worse for wear. Spikes of straw bedecked his hair and Eadwulf was forced to mask his inappropriate laugh with a strangled cough.

‘We were discussing the after effects of strong drink, as a matter of fact, Master,’ Sigehelm said, flashing Eadwulf a questioning glance.

Bjorn grinned. ‘What is there to agree upon other than such effects being utterly undesirable?’

‘That hangovers are usually well merited,’ Sigehelm supplied sagely.

‘Well, I can see my two loving brothers look a little green this morning, and a little bird told me that Aslanga’s also feeling under the weather. Shame,’ Bjorn said, facetiously. ‘But observe that I am not afflicted by such a malady. Sometimes there are better things to do than simply getting drunk. Fetch me a bowl of pottage, and a few chunks of that bread, would you, lad. I’m quite ravenous now.’

Thora ladled stew into a bowl for Eadwulf as Bjorn’s genial tones carried across the hall. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things we’ve resorted to eating on our travels, Scribe. Ever tried octopus? No? Nor had I until we got to Iberia. It’s not too bad – better than fish if you ask me . . .’

‘I’ll wish you a proper welcome home now, Master Bjorn,’ Thora gushed, hurrying over as Eadwulf deposited his food. ‘I had little opportunity to do so yesterday but my heart went out to you all the same. You made us all hoot with your tales last night.’

Bjorn rose and threw his arms around the Danish woman, lifting her off her feet and planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. Thora returned his embrace, sobbing tears of joy into his shoulder. Eadwulf and Sigehelm shared a bemused glance. It seemed these two shared a long-founded friendship.

‘Let me drink in the sight of you,’ Thora said, wriggling free of the vice-like grip and holding Bjorn at arm’s length. ‘You’ve been away so long, had us all fair worried for your safety. I’ve heard naught but your name from your sister’s lips for weeks.’

‘And where
is
Freydis?’ Bjorn asked, glancing round. ‘My little sister hasn’t yet been to greet me. I noticed her in here last night, but she didn’t run to me as usual. I confess, there were so many people to see yesterday, I quite overlooked her.’

Thora’s brow creased. ‘Freydis was in a strange mood last evening. I think she’d fallen on the wrong side of Aslanga, though over what, I can’t say. She ate less than a sparrow at the feast and when you didn’t arrive this morning she took Ubbi outside to amuse him until Aslanga rose.’

‘Then I’ll speak to the two of them as soon as–’

‘I should think you’ve all had ample time to feed yourselves by now.’

The biting tones of Ragnar’s shrew-faced little wife rang out as she strode into the hall, inspecting everything from the hearthfire to the mealtime food and last night’s crockery. Nor did Bjorn’s crumpled, straw-decked tunic escape her scrutiny. She was certainly hiding her hangover well, Eadwulf thought. Even her clothing looked crisp and fresh.

‘I insist my sons have their usual tuition today, Scribe, whether they like it or not,’ she said, shooting a look at Ivar and Halfdan that would brook no rejoinder. Her arm swept round the hall. ‘The rest of you, the sooner we get this meal cleared, the sooner we start preparations for tonight’s feast. Eadwulf, you will collect the nettles I need for the soup. There are still plenty growing by the river. Remember to pick the freshest leaves – they’ll not sting too badly if you pick them carefully.

‘Thank you for taking over this morning,’ she added, addressing Thora and Toke. ‘I must have overslept due to the late night.’

Bjorn let out an outright guffaw. ‘Would you care for some pottage, Aslanga? You can always scoop the floating grease from the top.’

Aslanga cast her eldest son a look that could have turned a person to stone. ‘The company has quite taken away my appetite,’ she said caustically. ‘I prefer to eat with those who do not
look as though they’ve been rolling around in the straw with the pigs.’

Twelve

October was not the best month for nettles. The thick clumps that had sprouted profusely along the riverbank throughout the summer had now sadly died back. Eadwulf chuntered as he tried to find enough fresh growth to fill his bucket, his sleeves pulled down to protect his hands. He kicked the stubby plants, quite the opposite of the fresh, new leaves Aslanga had requested, wondering what she’d do if he returned with insufficient for her soup. Why did she want to make nettle soup anyway, when there were vegetables aplenty in the storage huts?

He followed the river seaward, plucking at the sorry specimens. The Kattegat Strait was less than a couple of miles away and the slate-grey water of the widening river flowed steadily towards its expansive freedom. Seabirds circled and the sharp, salty tang of the sea carried on the cold wind. There were fewer and fewer of the wretched nettles as he walked and he was on the verge of turning back when, on rounding a bend, he was brought up short.

Freydis and Ubbi were wandering about on the sandy flats at the river’s edge, the jarl’s daughter pointing out interesting-looking pebbles and stones. Ubbi’s chubby face glowed in the bracing wind, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. Catching sight of Eadwulf staring down at them from the shrub-covered bank Freydis smiled and tugged Ubbi in his direction.

Eadwulf returned the smile, feeling envious of her thick coat of white fur. ‘You shouldn’t be here alone, mistress. It’s a cold wind, although you are wrapped up well in your furs.’

Freydis’s smile instantly dropped. ‘I don’t need a thrall to tell me what I can do! And – not that it’s any of your business – the coat
is
very warm, thank you. It’s made from the fur of an ice bear, and since they live near the edge of Midgard where it snows nearly all the time, I think it should keep me nicely snug . . .

‘Oh dear,’ she giggled, ‘don’t I sound pompous.’ Unsure of whether that was a question, Eadwulf said nothing. ‘In truth, I wanted to be out of the hall before Aslanga could insist I knead dough again. And
someone
had to take care of Ubbi: everyone else was too busy.’

‘I didn’t mean to criticise,’ Eadwulf assured, before the girl really took offence. ‘I’m merely concerned for your safety, so close to the river with the little one.’

‘I can look after us both very well,’ she huffed, hoisting her little brother into her arms, where he proceeded to pull on her flaxen plaits. She jerked her head but Ubbi clung on with grim determination. ‘I spend a lot of time playing with Ubbi, especially when Burghild’s busy with other chores. Aslanga’s not exactly the motherly type, in case it had escaped your notice.’

Eadwulf nodded, trying hard not to laugh at the child’s antics and Freydis’s growing irritation. ‘I meant no disrespect, mistress, though perhaps some help in carrying him would be useful.’

‘Oh, he walks well enough. He walked most of the way here, as a matter of fact.’ She winced as Ubbi tugged a handful of hair and buried his face in her shoulder. ‘And I am
not
carrying you all the way back!’ she declared, pulling her braids from Ubbi’s grasp and firmly lowering him to the ground. He thrust out his bottom lip and stretched up his arms, demanding to be picked up again.

‘Perhaps he’d let me carry him,’ Eadwulf offered, sizing up the sturdy child, ‘although I’d need to ask you to carry the bucket, mistress.’

Freydis flashed a grateful smile. ‘Let’s see how far he can walk on his own first. He loves walking, as a rule. But what brings
you
so far from the hall? Are you collecting something?’

‘I don’t think Aslanga will be amused,’ Eadwulf said, as they laughed at the shrivelled specimens in Eadwulf’s pail. ‘But I can’t fetch something that isn’t there!’

‘Eadwulf!’ Freydis suddenly shrieked. ‘Where’s Ubbi?’

Freydis was hard on Eadwulf’s heels as they rounded a bush in time to see Ubbi paddling into the water, squealing with delight as it splashed round his legs. He waded further in until the water reached his chest, his squeals of glee soon turning to alarm as the current washed him off his feet, carrying him on downstream – and gradually further away from the bank, to where the water rapidly deepened. Unable to stay afloat, his dark head disappeared.

‘Eadwulf!
Do
something!’

But Eadwulf was already diving towards where the child had gone down.

His first dive proved futile, the silt-laden water rendering visibility for more than a few feet impossible. Resurfacing quickly he caught sight of the boy, bobbing along a mere few yards away before disappearing again. He took several strong strokes and dived again, this time managing to clasp hold of Ubbi’s shoulders and haul him up from the murky depths. But the panicked infant would not succumb to his rescue placidly. Gulping down great lungfuls of air he struggled and kicked so wildly that Eadwulf lost his grip. Ubbi sank a second time, to re-emerge several yards downstream.

Swimming for all he was worth, Eadwulf reached the gasping boy just in time to stop him from sinking yet again. In desperation he threw his arm across the child’s shoulder and chest, his fingers clamping fast onto his left armpit. Then, with his strong legs kicking hard against the flow, Eadwulf, somehow, managed to propel them both to the bank.

He laid Ubbi face down on the pebbly beach and collapsed beside him, shaking with cold and exhaustion. Though not yet icy, the water had been cold enough to take his breath away as he’d made his first dive, and only his determination to prevent Ubbi from drowning had stopped him from abandoning his quest. And now the bitter wind was driving his sodden clothes against his skin. His panted breaths mingled with Fryedis’s anguished sobs and the harsh screams of the gulls.

‘He’s not breathing!’ Freydis suddenly shrieked, desperately rubbing the infant’s back in an effort to revive him. ‘And he’s so cold . . . Please, gentle Freya,’ she prayed. ‘Don’t let my little brother die.’

Eadwulf knelt to take over her revival efforts and, after some moments, Ubbi suddenly coughed and spluttered, retching on mouthfuls of briny water. Eadwulf’s relief was overwhelming, and as he helped Freydis to wrap the child in her thick coat, his streaming tears almost matched hers.

‘I’m so sorry for all this, Eadwulf,’ Freydis blubbed. ‘I shouldn’t have let Ubbi out of my sight. I brought him out here, just to get away from Aslanga’s stupid chores! And it was my responsibility to take care of him.’ Her tear-filled eyes looked straight into his. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t been here. I can’t even swim . . . and Ubbi would have been swept out to sea and . . .’ She stopped, unable to put the predictable ending into words.

Eadwulf didn’t remind her that if he hadn’t distracted her with those cursed nettles, she wouldn’t have taken her eyes off Ubbi in the first place.

‘I’ll never forget what you did today,’ Freydis assured him, with a wan smile, ‘and I’ll make sure everyone knows what a hero you are. I just wish I had a coat to wrap around you, too,’ she said, suddenly seeming to notice his chattering teeth. ‘But I have nothing else – although if you’re not too weak to carry Ubbi, the coat is full enough to wrap around you both.’

Eadwulf was shivering too fiercely to refuse and, without a thought for the nettles, he lifted up the wailing child. Freydis placed her coat around his shoulders, fastening it with her brooch so that it enveloped them both before she sped off to the village to get help.

‘Thank you, mistress,’ he shouted at her retreating back.

Struggling with the squirming weight, Eadwulf forced his legs to move, sheer doggedness alone keeping him upright. He’d made little progress when a group of people came hurtling towards him, with Bjorn leading the way.

The jarl’s firstborn unfastened Freydis’s brooch and wrenched Ubbi from Eadwulf’s grasp. ‘Keep the coat tightly round the child,’ he ordered, passing Ubbi into Toke’s waiting arms. ‘Ignore his protests. He’s merely panicked, so get him before the fire as quick as you can and out of those clothes.’ He motioned to two women. ‘You two, go with them and help. Aslanga will undoubtedly instruct you further,’ he added, dryly. ‘I’ll see to the lad here.’

Without the thick coat Eadwulf could not stop the violent shudders. ‘Here,’ Bjorn said, wrapping him in his own coat, then bending forward and tossing him over his shoulder like a sack of corn. ‘Tell me if you’re uncomfortable like that, lad,’ he urged, setting off back to the village. ‘It’s just the easiest way for me to carry you, you see.’ Eadwulf was too exhausted to even consider complaining. ‘My sister said you’d pulled Ubbi from the river,’ Bjorn went on. ‘I don’t yet know the details of this feat, of course, but no doubt I’ll find out soon enough. Freydis was already singing your praises as we rushed from the hall.’

Eadwulf could do no more than grunt. It wasn’t easy to speak hanging over the hard shoulder of his means of transport.

* * *

Bjorn carried Eadwulf into the hall to the rhythm of heartfelt applause, Freydis’s vivid story having induced everyone to fervent admiration for his actions.

‘You’ve performed well for us today, boy,’ Ragnar boomed as he made his way out. ‘We’ll talk later, once you’ve recovered, but right now I need to be in the stables.’

In dry clothes and seated by the hearth with a bowl of steaming broth, Eadwulf soon felt the cold numbness wane. His head slumped onto his cushioning arms and he dozed off, oblivious to the sounds and movements around him. On rousing he stood to resume his chores before Aslanga could scold him, but Bjorn would hear none of it.

Around the hall, women were busy with preparations for the feast and Freydis was hacking so wildly at carrots she spent more time retrieving chunks from the floor than chopping. As she worked she repeated her tale, with considerable embellishment of Eadwulf’s bravery, her doe-eyed smiles making him squirm. Aslanga listened, so stony-faced at first he felt sure she’d demand the whereabouts of the requested nettles. But eventually her frosty expression melted.

‘It’s not every day we have call to praise the actions of a thrall, but today we cannot doubt that thanks are in order,’ she admitted. ‘Although I’m puzzled as to why two of my children were by the river in the first place,’ she added, peering at Freydis in disapproval. ‘Eadwulf was on an errand for me . . . but you and Ubbi? I look forward to enlightenment regarding your actions, Freydis.’

She wiped her floury hands on her pinafore. ‘Now, carry the prepared vegetables to the fireroom, Freydis. I was intending to make nettle soup, but vegetable it shall be.’ With a half-smirk at Eadwulf, she swept herself out of the room.

* * *

The sun hung low in the near-cloudless sky, the late afternoon dry and cold with the promise of frost when darkness fell. Winter was nudging her icy nose into people’s lives and they did not relish the prospect. They’d done all in their power to ensure the well-being of the village during the bleak months ahead and hoped their hard work would reap its dividend. All that was needful now was the blessing of the gods. In sombre mood, villagers waited for the ceremony to begin.

‘Remember they are pagans, Eadwulf,’ Sigehelm urged as they watched the sun touch the distant horizon, ‘and we do not understand their ways.’ He sniffed and pointed across the compound. ‘See that flat-topped rock over there with the bowl and twig on top of it? That will likely be used as the altar, where the sacrifice will be made. The jarl and his entourage are already congregating about it and as soon as the sun disappears, the ceremony will start.’

Eadwulf nodded, staring at Ragnar in a flowing robe of brilliant white. His long hair was unbraided, held by a silver band around his brow; about his waist a belt held a long knife with a jewelled hilt in a leather sheath. At his sides, his three eldest sons and four men were all splendidly garbed.

‘The jarl is acting in his role as high priest,’ Sigehelm said. ‘Today he‘ll lead the first of the rites to honour the gods, pleading their munificence during the winter months, when the land yields little sustenance. Blood sacrifices will be offered to demonstrate their sincerity.’ Contempt soured Sigehelm’s words and Eadwulf glanced about, fearing someone might overhear. Ahead of them Aslanga stood with her younger children and thralls, all too intent on their own conversations to have heard Sigehelm’s words.

‘The pagans believe the blood will strengthen the gods and urge them to look more favourably upon them,’ Sigehelm continued. ‘The sacrifice could be a pig, or more likely a horse, since Ragnar’s spent so long in the stables today.’

Eadwulf baulked at the idea of sacrificing a horse: in Mercia, horses were prized animals. But he blanked out thoughts of home and concentrated on the present. In two days’ time they would all attend the ceremony to Odin, the highest of the gods, but today it was to the red-headed, short-tempered god of thunder that people turned.

Thor was well loved in Danish communities. Warriors, farmers and those to be married, all prayed for his guidance and protection as he raced across the skies in his chariot pulled by goats, controlling lightning and the forces of nature. Many people were named in his honour, including Thora and Toke.

Ragnar stepped forward with raised arms and silence descended. Eyes followed Ulrik leading a proud old stallion towards the altar, its dappled markings identifying it as belonging to Ragnar. Recognising his master, the stallion whinnied and picked up his pace. Eadwulf sighed, envisioning the animal’s sad end.

‘It will be quickly over,’ Sigehelm assured. ‘Ragnar would not inflict unnecessary suffering on an animal that has been his favourite for many years.’

Ragnar caressed the stallion’s neck, speaking in low, soothing tones, whilst behind them Bjorn slowly lifted the bowl and twig from the altar. The jarl’s hand slid to the hilt of his dagger and he inched the long blade slowly from its sheath.

Death came fast, the wide slash across the horse’s neck dealt with practised dexterity. Ragnar held on to the soft muzzle as the forelegs buckled and the animal dropped to his knees, then onto his side, shuddering in his death throes. Bjorn knelt to hold the bowl beneath the gash, collecting the life-blood as it gushed forth, and Ragnar sprinkled the bright red fluid across the altar and ground around it with the twig.