Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (9 page)

‘Accept our offering, mighty Thor,’ he intoned. ‘Let the life-force of this noble beast be a token of our thanks and devotion, strengthening the ties between you and your humble servants. Look upon us benevolently throughout the coming year.’

‘The jarl’s priestly robes will be put aside for a day or two now. He’ll attend the feast as chieftain tonight, and behave as loutishly as the rest of them!’ Sigehelm ran his fingers through his hair. ‘It is difficult for us to equate the two roles, is it not, Eadwulf? But, there’s much in this land to be wondered at. And though Ragnar may truly mourn the loss of his favoured mount, he’ll believe he chose wisely from his stables. The stallion had outlived his usefulness and would have died of old age before the year was out. According to their beliefs, great honour has been bestowed upon the animal by being selected for presentation to a god.

‘The women will take over here now, preparing the meat for cooking,’ he went on, gesturing towards the group huddled round the fallen stallion. ‘I imagine it will be roasted on skewers as last night’s beef, whereas on some occasions during my travels I’ve seen sacrificed beasts cooked in pits.

‘Your bravery this morning seemed to impress our mistress,’ he added as they turned to head back to the hall.

Eadwulf pulled a face. ‘Perhaps, but Aslanga’s opinions change by the moment.’

Sigehelm nodded at the truth of that. ‘Nevertheless, I’ve never felt as proud of you as I did when Ragnar congratulated you. You are a true son of Mercia.’

* * *

For the celebratory feast in honour of Thor, Eadwulf was instructed to serve at the jarl’s table and he concentrated hard to avoid splashing mead or dropping hot food on anyone’s lap. He was also very aware of the wolf-dog, snarling at Ivar’s feet. Aslanga’s cooking triumphed again and the generous steaks of horse meat were savoured with gusto. He noticed that neither Ivar nor Halfdan was drinking mead tonight – but Bjorn was downing cup for cup with his father.

‘I’m relieved to see Freydis happy again,’ Thora said, passing Eadwulf on her way to the children’s table with a jug of buttermilk. ‘Whatever the cause of her dour mood last night, it now seems forgotten.’ Eadwulf nodded, wishing the girl would just stop smiling at him.

Bjorn eventually heaved himself to his feet a little unsteadily and tapped the table with his scramseax to gain attention. ‘It is now my duty to thank our illustrious jarl for this glorious feast,’ he slurred, casting a silly grin at Ragnar, who looked anything but illustrious. ‘You’ve done us very
proud tonight, Father. You’ve given our sacrifice
to Thor in the hope of his blessing this winter, and now we must ensure that mighty Odin is appeased. Isn’t that so, Father?’

Ragnar nodded in inebriated acquiescence as Bjorn sank to his seat. A minstrel proceeded to sing a sad song of lost love, accompanying himself on his lyre. But few men listened, embarking instead on a session of riddle telling. Eadwulf tried to ignore Ivar and Halfdan’s scornful looks as he moved along their table with his jug, but suddenly he found himself sprawled on the rushes, the jug’s contents dripping from the jarl’s boots – and the wolf-dog’s slavering maw moving toward his face.

Ragnar sprang to his feet, arm poised to strike, but Bjorn yanked Eadwulf up before his father – or the dog – made contact with his target. ‘And you two can stop that stupid noise!’ he snapped at his hooting brothers. ‘Eadwulf’s not at fault here.’

‘The fool gave me a dousing, there’s no doubt of that!’ Ragnar held out his leg to show a sodden boot. ‘He was a clumsy imbecile, that’s all there is to it.’

‘It is
not
all, Father.’

‘Well then, let’s hear what you’ve to say and we’ll call an end to the night. It’s late and I’ve downed too much mead to think too hard.’

Bjorn nodded and glowered a little squint-eyed at Halfdan before facing the men. ‘This boy,’ he began, ‘has performed a deed today that would do credit to the reputation of any warrior. He risked his life willingly, not on anyone’s orders, to save that of another.’ The murmurs of agreement were embarrassing and Eadwulf stared down at his feet. ‘The boy has served at our table tonight, efficiently until now. Now it seems as though he clumsily fell over, so wasting a fine jug of mead.’

‘Well then, are you saying he wasn’t clumsy at all? Or that someone pushed him over?’

‘Not pushed, Father, but tripped. I saw the offending foot being deliberately moved into Eadwulf’s path as I waited for him to reach me with the jug. Honour dictates I don’t squeal on another, but I’ll be having strong words with someone tomorrow.’

‘You don’t know how close you came to licking the mead off my boots, boy,’ Ragnar growled, swaying ominously and sinking to his seat. ‘But, Bjorn’s right. ‘You’ve shown courage today. And no doubt the boot will dry off.’

Ragnar dismissed the incident but Bjorn was of a different mind. ‘I propose we show our appreciation to Eadwulf, who saved young Ubbi’s life today. To our brave thrall: hearty thanks!’ he yelled, raising his drinking horn.

The hall rang with Eadwulf’s praises. His cheeks burned and, although he knew Bjorn meant well, he also knew that Halfdan and Ivar would not forget this. Before long they’d find something far more hurtful to do to him.

Thirteen

In the sombre, grey light before sunrise on October 14, the people of Aros filed from their longhouses and followed their priest in his flowing white robes. Guided by the fiery luminance of torches borne by a handful of thralls, the column moved in respectful silence along a narrow path that snaked between the cultivated fields and up the gentle slope behind the village. On the crest of the hill stood the sacred grove, a short way from the woodland where Eadwulf had recently collected kindling for winter fires. The ancient oaks loomed dark and ominous against the silvery-grey of the lightening sky, and Eadwulf shivered, overcome with sudden foreboding.

Fallen leaves felt wet and slippery beneath the mist enveloping his feet, and he stepped warily, trying to ignore the fearful flutterings in his stomach. Surely there was nothing to fear? He glanced sidelong at Toke, but the old thrall seemed lost to his own thoughts. He looked behind to the rear of the column where another four torches lighted the way for a wagon carrying Ivar, and hauling along a snorting pig. In front of him, Sigehelm walked beside Burghild and Thora, escorting Freydis and Ubbi, and ahead of them, Aslanga followed behind the jarl and his sons, Bjorn and Hastein, accompanied by five of Ragnar’s men.

The silent train streamed between the outer rings of trees to a clearing within. At its centre a solitary oak towered proudly over its attendants; a truly gigantic tree, the girth of its trunk of such immense proportions, Eadwulf thought it must be hundreds of years old. Its lower branches were thick and sturdy, reaching out and dividing into myriad, twisted routeways; its still abundant foliage evidence of the oak’s jealous retention of its leaves long after most forest trees stood denuded and exposed.

Ragnar and his small group positioned themselves into the shape of an arrowhead, tapering away from the wide trunk, though one side of the blade exhibited a definite chink, a missing component. The single figure of the jarl comprised the arrowhead’s tip, with Bjorn and Halfdan immediately behind and Ragnar’s five men at the rear. And when the covered wagon rolled to a halt, Ivar was supported on his crutches to take his place at Bjorn’s right, the chink in the arrowhead thus repaired.

Sigehelm’s head was bowed, seemingly in respectful silence, as those around him. But Eadwulf knew better, and the fact that his tutor
needed
to pray at this time gave him little comfort. Aslanga held her head high, as befitted the wife of a jarl, and at her side, Freydis stared fixedly at her father, and clung to Thora’s arm. Ubbi slept peacefully on Burghild’s shoulder, wrapped in a blanket. Behind them, Eadwulf stood close to Toke, trembling.

Ragnar took two paces forward and turned to face the oak, his robes shimmering in the torchlight. Tilting back his head he reached out to the branches above.

‘O . . . di . . . in,’ he intoned, sinking to his knees. ‘All-Father, lord of wisdom, war and death, mighty god of all gods . . .’ Around the grove the people knelt, lifting their arms to the tree. ‘We are humbled in the shadow of your sacred oak, knowing that you are close. I, Ragnar, priest of the gods, beseech you, Father: hear the voice of your humble servant.’

‘Odin, Odin . . .’ The chanting began, rising to fever pitch before settling to a lilting hum; outstretched arms swayed like meadow grasses in the breeze. People were surely evoking the very presence of their god.

‘The wheel of the seasons has turned and winter will soon be upon us,’ Ragnar’s baritone rang out. ‘We bring our gifts of thanks and ask that you safeguard your people from the hardships of the frozen months. Let them live
to serve you.’

A strong, unheralded gust swept the grove, whistling through the oak’s branches. Torches listed wildly and the droning stopped. ‘God of gods, lord of earth and sky, giver and taker of life,’ Ragnar intoned, his hands reaching up to two black shapes, now perched on the thick branch above his head. ‘We are unworthy to look upon your holy companions and avert our eyes in their presence.’

Eadwulf stayed on his knees, not understanding what was happening. He knew little about Odin’s ravens other than what Thora had told him. Hugin and Munin – Thought and Memory – were the god’s eyes and ears; awesome, black birds sent out each dawn to fly over Midgard, gathering information to report to Odin by the evening. He’d always dismissed such a story as pagan nonsense.

Ragnar rose and faced the kneeling crowd. ‘To your feet, my people, and witness our offerings to the All-Father, who has given his sign of acceptance.’

The wasted body of Cendred was dragged from the wagon, his wrists bound behind him. Panic and anger surged through Eadwulf and he drew breath to cry out.

‘Do not make a sound,’ Toke hissed. ‘Great insult to Odin if you do.’ His eyes flicked up to the tree’s thick branches. ‘Could be you or me up there next.’

Cendred slumped, seeming resigned to his gruesome end after weeks of imprisonment. His filthy clothes hung limp on his half-starved body; his hair greasy and matted from his bowed head, concealing whatever expression was on his face. At his sides two of Ragnar’s men stood grim-faced, and a few paces behind, Ulrik held a huge, heavy-headed axe. Close by, Bjorn carried a large coil of thick rope.

‘Odin!’ Ragnar shouted. ‘May the lifeblood of our people’s enemies please and strengthen you.’

Cendred was yanked to his feet and the heavy, flat handle of the axe-head crashed down on his skull. Eadwulf recoiled from the sickening crunch of shattering bones as Cendred’s head caved in like a crushed eggshell under the force of Ulrik’s strength. Had Ulrik used the sharp blade, far more than Cendred’s head would have been split in two.

The lifeless body sprawled on the rotting leaves, his blood soaking into the earth. Bjorn severed the bonds holding Cendred’s arms and rolled him over, rebinding his wrists above his head with one end of rope. The two warriors dragged the corpse beneath a thick branch close to the ravens and Bjorn hurled the loose end of the rope over it. Cendred’s body was hauled up high, where Eadwulf guessed it would stay, dangling by the wrists to feed the crows.

A second man was dragged from the cart, whom Eadwulf recognised as a thrall of one of Ragnar’s karls. He threw his body from side to side, frantically straining at his bindings, strangled, animal sounds gurgling from his throat. Eadwulf could think of no crime that could warrant such a death. But the Danes needed scant excuse to give a life to their gods and Ulrik’s axe promptly despatched another offering to Odin.’

The third victim’s frenzied attempts to beg for mercy gained him a blow to his head before the fall of the axe put an end to his miseries.

Finally the pig was hauled forward, squealing in terror at the smell of blood. Ragnar slashed the creature’s throat and the carcass was hoisted up by its hind legs to hang next to the three men, its blood streaming to the forest floor. Eadwulf prayed to any god who would listen for this to be over soon.

Bright eyed and motionless, the ravens surveyed all.

Ragnar clutched the sacrificial knife above his head. ‘Odin!’ he yelled. ‘Remember our gifts when winter comes. Let the season be kind, our huntsmen find success, and our people survive!’

The ravens lifted their wings to take flight and the strange, gusting wind raged a second time. The flapping of silken feathers hummed through the grove, then the black shapes soared into the distance to continue their daily tasks for the All-Father.

Filing down the winding path, people sang joyful songs of praise to Odin, while Eadwulf strove to erase the images of dangling corpses from his mind. His anger was slowly burning down, leaving the smouldering ashes of helplessness in its place.

* * *

The winter months passed uneventfully in Aros as people coped with the cold, dreary days and long, dark nights. With Sigehelm’s help, Eadwulf finally ceased to have nightmares over Cendred’s death, though the memory would stay with him for a very long time. Sigehelm dismissed the timely appearance of Odin’s ravens as pure coincidence. Ravens were not uncommon, he said, and the birds probably nested in the grove, since they disliked the dense forests. But Eadwulf was not totally convinced by his reassurances.

The daily routines of the season continued in much the same way as Eadwulf recalled of his life in Mercia: people busy with the necessary chores and retiring early to their beds. Yet food was plentiful: last year’s harvest had been a bountiful one. People thanked the gods for their good fortune, many offering gifts at ceremonies in their own homes. At the Yule, when the old year was dead, a boar, a sheep and a horse were sacrificed and the gods entreated that the year to come should be a good one.

By the start of the last week of February it was still bitterly cold, the land white as far as the eye could see. It had snowed hard in the night and the wind snatched greedily at drifts that had amassed against the buildings, causing flurries of feathery flakes to spiral frantically around, making visibility unclear. Carrying a large basket of vegetables into the hall, Eadwulf battled with the heavy door, the biting northerly determined to fling it from his grasp. He triumphed in time to witness one of Haldan’s usual tirades at Sigehelm. His throat constricted as he recalled the many times he’d griped like Halfdan – though he’d respected his tutor too much to be openly rude to him. But to Halfdan, Sigehelm was simply his father’s property – and the boy treated him as such.

Sigehelm caught Eadwulf’s eye and smiled, as though he’d read his thoughts. Ivar glanced up and witnessed the shared glance. The look in the boy’s dark eyes filled Eadwulf with unfathomable foreboding.

* * *

Aalborg, Northern Danish Lands: February 852

Morwenna sat on the edge of her bed in the small chamber to the side of Rorik’s hall, cradling the drowsy babe close to her heart and thanking God that the soft curls were not the fiery red of Beorhtwulf’s, nor were his sleepy eyes green. The infant’s gaze was as clear as the summer sky. Blue – like Morwenna’s own. There had been no reason why Rorik should deny the child was his. By Morwenna’s own calculations from the true date of his conception, his birth had been two weeks late. And it had been easy to feign a heavy fall once labour was already underway, making it appear that the fall caused the birth pains to start and the child to be born two weeks early.

The babe’s round cheeks glowed pink in the lamplight as he drifted into a contented slumber, unaware of anything other than the security of a mother’s love and warm milk to sate his appetite on demand. He would grow for many years believing himself to be the son of Jarl Rorik and his Mercian concubine.

Her heart filled with love for her new son, but the deep aching for the son who was lost to her would not abate. He was somewhere in this pagan land: some farmstead deep in the barren heath or perhaps on one of the many coastal settlements. Please God that
someone
would bring news of a red-headed Mercian boy one day.

Certain the child was asleep she laid him in his cradle, hoping he’d sleep for some hours. It was late afternoon and soon she must help with the evening meal. Darkness was closing in and the icy cold would soon send people hurrying indoors. Another snowfall had been threatening all afternoon; as yet there had been only a few flurries, but she anticipated a thick covering by morning.

In truth, Morwenna’s working life as Rorik’s woman had caused her little discomfort, particularly during the weeks prior to the birthing, when her rotund form had made heavy manual work difficult. To their credit, the Danish women had respected her condition. Even Rorik’s two wives accepted the new concubine into their midst: concubines were as much a part of Danish life as was polygamy, or summer raiding. In the early months, she’d worked with the women around the village, glad to be busy to keep her from utter despair. She’d been well fed and given cool tunics to wear during the summer, and warm, woollen ones as winter neared. But the long summer nights had been a different matter. Rorik would come to her, his breath stinking of ale, and callously use her exhausted body. Yet by the time her belly had swelled, he took pleasure in the belief that he had sown his seed within her and became almost tender. Morwenna could barely conceal her repugnance.

Though Rorik had sated his carnal lust elsewhere since the weeks prior to the birthing, today he’d declared his eagerness to resume his nocturnal activities with his Mercian concubine. The babe was now three weeks old and he would wait no longer.

An even greater dread now swamped Morwenna. Before long her womb could be swelled with a true child of Jarl Rorik.