by Millie Thom
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 c
ommunities. 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.
‘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.’