Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One

by Millie Thom

  ‘I don’t suppose she hinted at who she thought I should marry?’

  ‘Edith flicked a stone-grey plait over her shoulder, smiling impishly. ‘Maybe we did catch the odd name.’

  ‘Please Edith, don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me, please.’ But, assailed by a sudden thought, Aethelswith stopped herself. She could be married off to some nobleman she’d never met – or even someone from another kingdom. Then she’d have to leave her beloved Cynric and Wessex for ever! ‘On second thoughts, perhaps you’d better not.’

  Osberht grinned. ‘Oh, we think you’d approve of your parents’ choice for you, Lady Aethelswith.’

  ‘You know him?’

  The groom’s old eyes twinkled. ‘Of course we do. And I think the whole court knows how you feel about the young man. The trouble is, the young man doesn’t know how you feel, though why he doesn’t is beyond me. But I’m sure he absolutely worships his cousin.’

  Aethelswith’s heart lurched. ‘Cynric’s my only cousin of marriageable age!’

  Osberht grinned. ‘You know, Edith, I think Lady Aethelswith’s got the message. Your parents will be speaking to you after–’

  ‘Thank you so much for telling me,’ Aethelswith said, jerked back to the present and glancing at her seven-year-old brother who was staring glumly into the hearthfire. ‘But now I must speak with Aethelred. He’s as much in need of comfort as the rest of us.’

  * * *

  Halting at the doorway Edith threw a worried look over her shoulder. Grief hung over her mistress’s chamber like a shroud. ‘Are you sure I can’t take Alfred for a while, my lady?’

  ‘No, it’s all right, Edith,’ Osburh replied with a wan smile. ‘Alfred’s happy just now and may prove some distraction to his sister.’

  Edith nodded, unconvinced. ‘I’ll not be far away should you need me.’

  The door closed and Osburh moved to embrace her daughter, who had barely stopped weeping since hearing the awful news two days since. ‘God works in ways we may find hard to understand, Aethelswith, but we must believe He truly cares for all his children. Time will heal your pain. You will find another.’

  ‘Never!’ Aethelswith sobbed, prising Alfred’s grubby little hands from her skirt with uncharacteristic intolerance and throwing herself onto Osburh’s bed. ‘Cynric was my only hope of happiness.’

  Osburh perched at Aethelswith’s side and brushed the tears from her cheeks. ‘Take comfort in knowing that Cynric died a noble death. It was bravery indeed to move into the path of a falling mast on a burning ship to save another. Had he not done so, it would have been his dear friend, Deormod, we bury tomorrow.’

  Aethelswith was utterly distraught and had eaten nothing since the return of Osric’s party bearing Cynric’s crushed body. Osric had helped to carry his son to the church to await burial and not emerged from his own quarters since. Deormod had kept constant vigil in the chapel.

  ‘My brother is much in need of our support now,’ Osburh said gently. ‘We need to be strong for his sake. To lose an only son . . .’ She faltered, struggling to control her own emotions; Cynric had been like a son to her. How could she comfort a young girl’s romantic ideas? And yet, she trusted Aethelswith’s feelings to be sincere.

  ‘There will always be losses during combat, daughter, and loved ones waiting behind must be prepared to face the worst. We must thank God for your father’s safe return. I prayed for him constantly during those awful days and my prayers have been answered.’

  Osburh lifted Alfred up beside his sister and encircled them both in her arms. ‘We will never forget Cynric, Aethelswith, but time does heal. Keep his memory locked in your heart.’

  Five

  Thanet to Hedeby: May 851

  Half a dozen knarrs, the sturdy sailing vessels used by the Norsemen for carrying cargo, cast off from Thanet on a fine morning during the first week of May. The host of dragonships carrying throngs of warriors set sail with them, but their sails quickly picked up the strong south-westerly and soon became no more than tiny specks on the distant horizon.

  In the hold of the knarr, Njord’s Bounty, Sigehelm retched, though his stomach had long since ejected its meagre contents. He tried to focus on his silent prayers, his mind baulking at the reality of the situation into which he’d been thrust, and refused to look at the billowing water. Sigehelm had never been a brave man. Only once, eleven years ago, had he crossed the Northern Sea, and on that occasion, he had not been held captive. Yet even then he’d hated the sea. And the Northern Sea was notorious for being perilous and unpredictable. Storms could sweep in without warning to release their fury in ear-splitting thunderclaps and luminous, jagged streaks of lightning. Driving winds and rain could whip the sea into a frenzy, capsizing ships and sending their booty to the ocean bottom.

  But for Eadwulf’s sake, he must stay strong. The boy had no one else to turn to.

  Huddled beside him, Eadwulf stared vacantly across the vast waters as though his mind had withdrawn to some distant place, a place that Sigehelm could not reach. He seemed unaware of the stinging tongues of icy water that lashed the decks and soaked them to the skin as the ship ploughed through the crested foam, and was unaffected by the unbearable nausea. Perhaps it was his way of dealing with the truth too awful to accept: that he’d never see his parents or homeland again. But two young women whom Sigehelm did not recognise constantly groaned in their misery. Bound at the wrist and linked to each other, the four were surrounded by sacks of looted goods and could barely move.

  The first night at sea was a petrifying experience. Sea and sky merged into each other, the moonless expanse an all-consuming blanket of darkness, the silence broken only by the water’s incessant slapping against the hull. The Danes slept in turns, sufficient crew remaining alert to man the ship. To Sigehelm, sleep became a distant hope and he almost envied Eadwulf his state of oblivion.

  For four days and nights the weather held clear and the sea calm, a favourable breeze conveying the knarrs at a steady pace as the crew sang songs of their homeland. Sigehelm cursed the pagans to everlasting damnation, the small replicas of Thor’s hammer, Mjöllnir, around their necks a constant reminder of their misplaced faith.

  In the afternoon of the fifth day the lookout’s cry of ‘Landfall!’ sent an excited buzz through the crew. Sick with foreboding, Sigehelm watched the Danish coast draw near: a narrow strip of sandy beach backed by low, grass-speckled dunes. Whatever happened now, their lives would not be easy in this pagan land.

  The wind kept good faith with the ships, and they sailed upstream for almost two miles. Coastal dunes gave way to large tracts of wetlands where abundant wildfowl hovered: coots and moorhens, mallard, marsh tits and red-necked grebes caught Sigehelm’s eye, as well as the occasional whooper swan. He’d seen such species in his homeland, but recoiled from the possibility that this hostile world could be anything like Mercia. Smoke rising from the hearths in nearby homesteads purveyed an air of tranquillity that Sigehelm could not feel.

  Then the port of Ribe came into view, lying on the northern bank of the River Ribea. It sat on a sandy, wooded peninsula, raised above the surrounding marshes. Several vessels were moored along the wharves, some being loaded ready for sailing, others seeming to have recently berthed. The striped sails of the knarrs were lowered and the Danes heaved at their oars, grunting with the effort of driving the ship steadily towards the jetties.

  * * *

  They spent their first night on Danish soil in a large, wood-planked warehouse along Ribe’s quayside. Besides Eadwulf, few of the fifteen captives were familiar to Sigehelm. Young Aethelnoth was one of them. Like Eadwulf, the boy was sunk in despair, his head bowed as though to avert attention with which he couldn’t cope. Another was Alric, one of Thrydwulf’s cooks, who stared numbly at the wall, gaunt and exhausted. The third was a serving girl whose striking looks had attracted many a young man’s attention in the Lon
don hall. But now she squatted, whimpering, scraping dried vomit from the front of her tunic.

  Sigehelm’s pity for these people welled. The terror of not knowing their fate was etched into their haggard faces as they huddled together on the straw.

  Soon after dawn the next day, guarded by four of Rorik’s rough-looking crewmen, they left Ribe on what proved to be a slow and uncomfortable journey. Bounced and jostled as the two ox-drawn carts trundled over the rough track, it would have been difficult to speak, even had they been permitted. The road was crammed with traffic moving in both directions, and livestock being herded to market at Ribe constantly forced them onto the verges. Bright May sunshine offered little comfort. Sigehelm ran his fingers through his hair, meeting a tangled thatch encrusted with sea water.

  Next to him, Eadwulf stared ahead, unseeing and unfeeling.

  In the early afternoon they turned south onto a road of substantial width and improved surface. Dense forests covered the slightly elevated land whilst vast expanses of water meadows and marshland flanked innumerable streams. Sigehelm shuddered. This was, indeed, a God-forsaken land, one in which the pagan gods played with the souls of the misguided.

  They stopped each night at small homesteads where they were shunted into some kind of barn and fed a meagre meal before being locked in for the night. Then, as daylight faded on the sixth day, they approached a settlement that Sigehelm instinctively knew was their destination. It was larger than the homesteads of previous nights and near to the sea. The odour of salty air filled his nostrils and the harsh keening of seabirds added to the steady rumble of the carts’ wooden wheels.

  Daylight had almost faded as they trundled through the town’s narrow streets toward the waterfront, the buzz of voices and clamour of activity bearing evidence of a thriving community. Lamplight flooded through open shutters, glinting on the dark water as it lapped the wharves. In happier circumstances the melodic murmurings would have created a lulling sense of peace. But fear seized Sigehelm’s chest so tightly he could scarcely breathe.

  Rough hands grabbed his tunic and dragged him from the cart, hustling him inside one of the large warehouses that lined the quay. The low-roofed building was similar in design to that at Ribe – a wood-planked, thatched structure with a straw-strewn floor, empty but for the pitiful souls thrust inside. The raucous laughter and inebriated singing of night-time revellers carried through the walls long after they’d been fed the usual quota of dried rye bread and water; the racket gradually evolving into vicious arguments and brawls, and the screams and sobs of women.

  Sigehelm knuckled his stinging eyes and massaged his throbbing head; he was so exhausted that merely standing was further punishment. He longed for respite from the reality of past weeks but, as dawn approached, he’d spent yet another night almost devoid of sleep. The other poor wretches had eventually succumbed to restless slumbers, some sobbing themselves into a state of total exhaustion. In the pre-dawn light he could just make out Eadwulf and Aethelnoth, curled side by side, their young bodies, for the moment, blessedly unaware.

  What would the new day bring? Sigehelm prayed that he wouldn’t be separated from Eadwulf, whose grief had remained buried throughout the tortuous journey. But once the harrowing memories eventually surfaced, the boy would have great need of guidance and comfort.

  * * *

  As the first glimmers of light squeezed through gaps in the wood-planked walls, Eadwulf roused from his sleep and rolled stiffly over. He blinked several times and glanced around before pulling himself up and tweaking stalks of straw from his salt-stiffened hair.

  ‘Take heart, child; I am here,’ Sigehelm said gently. ‘You’ve been far away these past days, unaware of our sea crossing or our journey here.’

  ‘I did see those things, Sigehelm, but somehow they just seemed like dreams.’ Eadwulf’s face contorted as cruel reality returned and his agonised groan tore at Sigehelm’s heart. ‘Sigehelm, my father and mother! The Dane who captured me said my father’s dead, that he died like a true warrior. But I can’t bear to think about it!’

  ‘Months, perhaps years, will offer consolation and acceptance of your loss, Eadwulf. But for now you must focus on your survival. Conduct yourself with dignity and never give up hope of returning home one day. Such hope may keep you alive.’

  ‘But I must know what the Danes have done to Mother! She isn’t dead – I know she isn’t. I saw her! I know it was her – I recognised her hair, and the green gown she wore so often. That ugly Dane was pushing her into a wagon just as we were leaving.’

  Sigehelm’s mind reeled. Pray God that Eadwulf was right, though even if he were, finding Morwenna would surely be impossible.

  ‘What will they do with us, Sigehelm?’

  ‘If I’m correct,’ he replied, holding Eadwulf’s intense gaze, ‘this place is Hedeby, an important trading town. Goods from as far as the Orient, Samarkand, Byzantium and even deepest Africa can be purchased here.’

  ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘I have not, but I have been to other towns like it – Kaupang and Birka, for instance, both in the lands far to the north of here. All markets have many similarities but Hedeby is renowned for one particular commodity, for which purchasers will travel many miles.’

  Eadwulf stared in silent expectation.

  ‘That commodity is slaves, Eadwulf. I believe we’ll be taken to the market place and sold to whoever offers a good price for us.’

  ‘I already knew the reason for our capture,’ Eadwulf huffed. ‘But if I’m to become a slave, I shall escape!’

  Sigehelm grunted. Now was not the time for lectures, but escape was as plausible as the sun falling from the sky. And without doubt, Eadwulf’s life depended on his obedience to his new master, no matter how harsh his commands might be.

  * * *

  Eadwulf lay down beside the still sleeping Aethelnoth, the conversation with his tutor playing on his mind, his nostrils filled with the reek of putrid straw. He was weak from days without proper food, though the gurgling sickness in his stomach would not acknowledge hunger. He drifted in and out of a sleep where vivid images swamped his mind: of bloody slaughter and the sickening stench of burning flesh. Once fully awake he kept his heavy eyelids closed, unwilling to acknowledge the wretchedness around him. A moan and a soft sob told him that others were beginning to stir; the rhythmic breathing at his side revealed that Aethelnoth still slept.

  Beyond the warehouse the first carts were rumbling along the waterfront, just the odd one at first . . . then another . . . and another. Occasional shouts from what sounded like men loading and unloading cargoes mingled with the interminable screeching of the gulls. From inside the warehouse the sounds seemed far away and indistinct.

  But Eadwulf knew they were not.

  Six

  Soon after daybreak the four guards entered the warehouse, gesturing to the captives to eat the thin gruel they’d brought. Eadwulf forced down what he could, under threat of a whipping if he refused. Their wrists were bound and the long cords used to link them together before the guards again departed. The hum of the town’s business intensified as the morning wore on and Eadwulf envisaged the crowds of bargain hunters goggling at the human merchandise.

  The gruel sat heavy in his stomach and he swallowed hard to keep it down.

  On their return, the guards shunted them out into the sunlight, worsening the dread pounding in Eadwulf’s chest. He sucked in calming breaths of briny air and watched the seabirds swooping to snatch scraps from the jade-blue water. The jetties were packed with barrels, crates and bundles being moved to and from the moored vessels. Fishing boats and trading ships sailed in and out of the inlet – which Sigehelm had told him was Haddeby Noor – to the Schlei Fjord, which connected with the open waters of the Baltic Sea.

  They were goaded along wood-planked walkways towards the town’s centre. The stall-lined streets swarmed with
people of skins and clothing of diverse hues, all seeming intent on spending the silver in their purses, and the hapless captives were knocked and shoved as they struggled through, trying not to entangle anyone in their bindings. Along broader thoroughfares, ox-drawn carts rumbled amongst shoppers on foot and a few wealthier people on horseback. Between the streets, smoke seeped through the thatched roofs of domestic buildings to blend with the stink of putrid waste from the shallow ditches alongside the fences. In many yards, craftsmen were hard at work; in some, women threw scraps to honking geese, or drew water from their wells.

  The peaceful normality of the town’s everyday life was too much for Eadwulf to bear. He choked back an anguished sob; for him, nothing would ever be normal again.

  In the heaving market place the aromas of cooked food failed to mask the gut-churning reek of raw fish and Eadwulf’s stomach heaved anew. They were steered between merchants’ tents and stalls surrounded by eager customers vying for a vast selection of wares – from exotic trinkets, fine silver, jewellery, glass, spices, amber, silks and furs – to more mundane household goods like soapstone bowls, beeswax candles, tools, knives, handsomely carved wooden chests, and leather shoes and belts. Eadwulf registered them all in trembling dread. His own ragged little group would soon be on display, like cattle, or fattened geese.

  They were dragged to a vacant space and strung out like beads on a string. The guards called out, gesturing to their offerings, but for some time they were hardly given a second glance. Animated bargaining competed with the bleating of sheep and goats, the honking of geese and the shrill calls of traders enticing folk to buy. Loose dogs yapped and squealing children chased between the stalls, whilst overhead, the dirges of seabirds reflected Eadwulf’s feelings of utter despair.