by Millie Thom
Ulf watched her enter the hall, the light from the opened doorway spilling across the bare earth. His legs suddenly went weak and he slumped down against the wall of the barn, his throat so taut he could barely swallow. The multiple emotions roused in him by Freydis had given him cause to hope for his own humanity. If Freydis could find some good in him, perhaps he wasn’t the depraved creature he’d imagined.
* * *
Ulf looked down at his former tutor, taking in the silver streaks in his hair, the dark shadows beneath the soulful brown eyes. His long, grey tunic was worn and drab, like those of an ageing cleric.
‘You should rest more, Sigehelm. No more sitting up all night studying those Latin texts.’
Sigehelm smiled at his former pupil, who’d just delivered a lengthy apology for his discourteous behaviour yesterday. ‘Thank you, but I am well enough, just getting older.’
‘But that’s no reason for hastening the process along.’
Sigehelm’s lips parted, a thought waiting to be spoken, his scrutiny of Ulf’s own dark-circled eyes discomfiting. The early mist was slowly dissipating as the sun climbed in the pale sky, the assortment of barns and huts still blurred through the haze. Odours of wet earth and woodsmoke mingled with those of baking bread and pottage; thralls scurried between the buildings, their day’s work underway. In the barns the laborious work of putting up the hay for winter fodder had already begun. Soon the slaughter of livestock and preservation of meat would begin, and animals required for breeding next spring herded into the barns. Ulf thought of the chores he must do before the jarl returned. Ragnar had ridden out at daybreak with Bjorn, intent on meeting with two of his karls, at loggerheads over some marriage settlement.
Sigehelm’s face took on a familiar softness as he followed Ulf’s gaze across the village and river beyond. ‘How easy it is to ignore the things that cannot be taken from us, no matter how difficult we perceive our situations to be,’ he said, turning to face Ulf. ‘I’m glad you came to me this morning. I realise you must have swallowed your pride to apologise as you did. My lowly status demands neither apology nor explanation from you, but we’ve been through much together and I feel responsible for your welfare. Forgive me if you think I pry.’
Ulf raised his right arm and gave Sigehelm’s shoulder a genial squeeze, an enquiring look appearing in his tutor’s eyes at the sudden flash of silver. Ulf broke eye contact, not yet ready to explain how he’d earned the armband. ‘It was entirely me at fault yesterday and I’m truly ashamed of myself,’ he stated, ignoring the unspoken question. ‘You’ve been my only lifeline all these years, Sigehelm, yet I chose to forget that in favour of my newfound status with Bjorn and his crew.’
‘Then I should dearly love to hear an account of your summer ventures. Little has happened here during your absence; summer tasks have kept everyone busy as always. You probably already know that Ivar and Halfdan arrived back a few weeks ago?’ Sigehelm gave an uncharacteristically low chuckle as Ulf nodded. ‘Though they were reluctant to elaborate, I think they took little booty in the Low Countries.’
‘And they are now on some errand for Ragnar?’
‘They are, and we’ve been informed that the rest of the household will be joining them within the week.’ Sigehelm ignored Ulf’s half-started question as to exactly where they’d all be going, and added hastily,’ I should be pleased to hear more of your adventures.’
They moved inside the hall to sit at the table where Sigehelm worked with Ubbi, away from household activities. The lively eight-year-old would soon be propelled in by Aslanga for his studies and Sigehelm arranged his parchments and scrolls into some sort of order as Ulf composed his thoughts.
‘As you probably know, it was a joint venture,’ he began, ‘forty ships and close to eight hundred men of Ragnar and Giermund’s lands. Giermund is the father of Hastein, Bjorn’s cousin and our co-leader.’
Sigehelm nodded. ‘This much I had heard, though neither Hastein nor his father is familiar to me.’
‘No, but you did see Hastein once – on the same day that I first saw him.’
‘I’m still none the wiser; you will simply have to explain.’
‘Just one word may jog your memory.’
‘And that word would be?’
‘Hedeby.’
Sigehelm stiffened. ‘A thousand images enter my head on hearing that word.’ His dark eyebrows rose. ‘A few more clues would be helpful.’
Ulf smirked, enjoying the game. ‘A young Dane . . .’
‘There were hundreds of those!’
‘. . . in a blue cloak, and an encounter with a wandering canine.’
Sigehelm’s eyes rounded in accordance with his mouth as recollection took hold.
‘Aethelnoth . . .?’
‘. . . is alive and well. At least he was when Hastein left Ribe in the spring.’
Sigehelm’s shoulders slumped, the tension easing from his thin body. ‘I’ve prayed for news of both your mother and Aethelnoth all these years and now at least some of my prayers have been answered. So, is there much to tell about the rest of your venture? Something happened to your left shoulder if I’m not mistaken. Your movements are unnaturally stiff, and I’ve seen you wince a few times.’
Ulf nodded, idly twisting the armband, not yet ready to explain.
‘Bjorn has regaled us with tales of the booty taken and the number of Christian churches burned. All but four, he says. Is that so?’
Unable to look Sigehelm in the eye, Ulf responded with another nod, focusing on the thralls plucking chickens amidst chattering children.
But Sigehelm did not push him further. ‘What I’d like to hear is how Bjorn came to bestow the name of Ulf upon you,’ he said instead. ‘Could he merely be wishing to make you a Dane, do you think?’
‘Perhaps,’ Ulf replied, ‘though I think it unlikely. I’m still a thrall, aren’t I? But as I told you, I did earn the name.’
‘Then I’d like to hear how it came about.’ Sigehelm tilted his head to one side in anticipation of the tale.
Ulf gazed at his fingers, intertwined on the table before him, knowing he’d have to relate the incident on that cursed island in order to answer Sigehelm’s questions. He took a breath.
‘Bjorn didn’t exaggerate about the plunder we took, or the havoc we inflicted on the Franks. Charles the Bald despaired of ever ridding his lands of us. By the middle of May we’d made our base on an island in the Seine and for a few weeks it was ideal.’ He lowered his voice and glanced round to ensure no one could overhear. ‘I’ll tell you the truth of events Sigehelm; I know you won’t repeat it,’ he added with certainty. ‘It would cause embarrassment to Bjorn and Hastein if you did, especially when Bjorn’s brothers return. Bjorn didn’t actually lie – and the plunder taken speaks of the overall success of our venture – but he did omit part of the story. For twelve weeks we’d been within a hair’s breadth of disaster; the reason we were so late returning to Aros. The wily old crow, Charles, imprisoned us on the island, attempting to either starve us to death or surrender to him. And after twelve weeks we’d barely any food left and things were desperate.’
‘But evidently something happened to your advantage, or you’d not be here to tell the tale,’ Sigehelm said, ignoring Ulf’s ignoble reference to the Christian king.
‘No, we likely wouldn’t,’ Ulf agreed. And as succinctly as he could, he relayed the tale of the Franks’ withdrawal and the unforeseen appearance of Weland’s men in their place.
‘Bjorn’s own countrymen? But why?’
Ulf shrugged. ‘They’re raiders, interested only in increasing their booty. Weland was intent on relieving us of ours, after already receiving a huge sum from Charles to continue the siege in his place. So, in return for our loot, Weland agreed to let us go, duping the Franks still further by continuing his own raids in Francia.’
Sigehelm’s opini
on of such duplicity was evident, but he did not remark. ‘You haven’t yet told me how you were wounded. Or got your name,’ he added, averting his eyes..
Ulf explained briefly how he’d taken the arrow in Bjorn’s stead, and how Hastein had cut out the barbed head. ‘Whilst camped in Frisia on the journey back, Bjorn rewarded me with this armband,’ he said, his fingers inadvertently following the swirling patterns. ‘And the new name was bestowed in front of all the men. How could I refuse and insult my master?’
‘You could not, and your actions on that island would have made your parents proud.’ Sigehelm smiled, holding Ulf’s gaze. ‘Nonetheless, when we depart from Aros in a few days time, I suggest you keep the silver trinket out of sight. It might not be such a good time to draw attention to yourself, considering where we’re destined.
Ubbi suddenly plonked himself next to Ulf, relieving Sigehelm of the need to answer Ulf’s question, yet again.
Twenty Five
Canterbury, Kent: October-December 857
Alfred had watched his father growing increasingly morose as the weeks passed. At times Aethelwulf seemed to be drowning in his sorrows, unaware of the effects it was having on those around him. He often seemed lost in the past, his mumbled conversations with Lady Osburh heartrending to hear. He ate and drank little, despite Judith’s valiant attempts to coax him otherwise, and his once robust body appeared to be wasting away, bit by bit. The ruling of the eastern shires was left to Aethelberht, who took it all in his stride, simply continuing as he had done for the past two years. He reported to Aethelwulf on matters raised at Council meetings and, at times, asked for advice as to the appropriate way forward. But Aethelwulf would fix him with his misty gaze, his reply always the same:
‘You must do what’s best for Wessex, son.’
Alfred often brooded over why things had come to this, frequently condemning his eldest brother for allowing his ambition to override his loyalty to his father. Weren’t families supposed to stick together and support each other? How could Aethelbald betray the father who loved hm so much? Alfred didn’t understand; Aethelwulf meant the world to him.
The October afternoon was dark and cheerless. Alfred stomped from the stables, glaring at the heavy black clouds that threatened imminent release, piqued at the groom’s assertion that only fools would ride out today. He’d so hoped to spend some time in the saddle, just to break the monotony of moping about indoors. On returning the hall, he was greeted by the comforting glow of oil lamps and the chatter of servants as they worked at their chores. But then he spotted his father, huddled in his chair by the hearthfire, wrapped in a woollen blanket and staring into the flames. At his side, Judith patiently clasped the cup of buttermilk he was loath to drink. Seated opposite them, Aethelberht and Aethelred’s faces were creased in concern. Their father looked particularly downcast today. Alfred joined them by the sputtering fire and Aethelwulf’s sorrowful gaze shifted from one to the other.
‘‘Where did I go so wrong?’ he murmured. ‘Aethelbald would’ve had the West anyway, after my death. Why couldn’t he have just waited a few more years?’
‘Don’t torment yourself, Father,’ Aethelberht said, reaching out to touch Aethelwulf’s hand. ‘We’re all here with you, trying our best to get you feeling yourself again.’
The old king nodded at that, smiling wanly at Aethelberht’s troubled face. He licked his parched lips and Judith again proffered the cup of milk. ‘You must drink, my lord,’ she urged, ‘or you will become quite unwell. You have not taken more than a few sips all day, and I worry for you.’
‘You are kind-hearted, Judith, and I couldn’t wish for a more attentive nurse.’ Alfred watched his father gaze at his young wife, her presence, as always, offering him comfort. ‘I have failed you, too, my dear,’ Aethelwulf whispered. ‘You expected the life of a queen, yet you spend your days looking after an old man.’
‘You have not failed me, husband. I am content just to be here, with you and your lovely family. I have found love and friendship here that I could never have found in Francia. And that is all I ever wanted.’ She held the cup close to his lips. ‘But I would be happier still, my lord, if I thought my nursing was being of use.’
Alfred smiled at his stepmother, knowing that she spoke the truth. Judith didn’t know how to lie. For the daughter of an emperor, she required little luxury in life.
‘Then I shall drink, just for you,’ Aethelwulf responded, pulling a face as the buttermilk slid down his throat. ‘But that must suffice, for now. If you want me to eat later, my stomach must first rest.’
No one questioned the statement. Alfred knew his father found great difficulty in eating, the food often sitting too heavily in his stomach to stay down. A few nibbles were his limit.
As autumn turned into winter and the land was scoured by icy fingers of frost, Alfred spent most of his days reading poetry, or writing out the prayers he found so moving. Occasionally, he’d ride into the forest with Aethelberht and Aethelred and the royal huntsmen, in search of game, from smaller hares and birds to larger deer, and even ferocious wild boar. At almost seventeen, Aethelred was already adept in his hunting skills, but for nine-year-old Alfred, such talents presented another challenge. Yet he soon found himself enjoying the hunts and, although not permitted to attempt larger game, before long he was wielding his spear and bow with some finesse.
By the beginning of December, Aethelwulf appeared to have sufficiently risen above his miseries to potter about the hall, even finding time to discuss issues of government with Aethelberht. But as the Advent progressed, ill-health struck, and physicians ordered the once powerful king to his bed. Too weak to refuse, Aethelwulf obeyed.
Christmastide was a dismal event in the Canterbury hall that year. Burgred had again refused to allow Aethelswith to visit her family. It was now almost three years since Alfred had seen his sister, although she continued to write, ever hopeful that her husband would soon give way. Alfred’s dislike of the Mercian continued to grow. Judith spent most of her time at Aethelwulf’s bedside, along with the chief physician and Father Felix, who sorrowfully informed them that the king was presently constructing his final will.
Aethelwulf was making preparations for his imminent death, and leaving his beloved Wessex to the mercy of his sons.
Twenty Six
Aalborg, Northern Denmark: mid October 857
In Jarl Rorik’s hall on the shores of the Limfjord, the thralls were satisfying their own stomachs after attending to the morning meal. At one of the tables a young boy in dull woollen tunic and leggings dolefully scooped up a spoonful of pottage, watching his mother across the table feeding the lively, brown-eyed baby perched on her lap. His nose wrinkled in disgust as his blue gaze fixed on his little sister’s bowl.
Morwenna smiled at him. ‘Believe it or not, Jorund, you used to love your pottage mashed up when you were only ten months old like Yrsa.’
‘But it looks all mushy, and I know I wouldn’t like it now! Is there any meat in it? I like meat.’
‘There is, but chopped into tiny pieces so she won’t choke on it.’
Jorund seemed to think about that for a moment. ‘You’d be upset if Yrsa choked, wouldn’t you, Mama?’
Wondering where this conversation was heading, Morwenna nodded. Around them the remnants of the meal were being cleared away, and soon she must join the women at the looms.
‘I wouldn’t be sad,’ he said at length, staring at the infant through half-closed eyes. ‘If she choked and died you’d be able to love me more.’
Tears streamed down his cheeks and Morwenna reached out to take his hand. ‘Come round here, Jorund. Now, I want you to listen to me,’ she said gently, shifting the babe to her opposite thigh, allowing him to nestle into her side. ‘Yrsa’s birth makes no difference at all to the love I feel for you.’
‘But you’re always fussing over her now; never have time to
play with me or tell me stories.’
‘Well, babies do take up a lot of time,’ she agreed, wanting so much to ease his pain. ‘But babies soon grow; soon walk and feed, and dress themselves. Why, it seems like only yesterday that you had to sit on my lap to be fed, and just look at you now . . . almost six years old, and such a help to me.’
Jorund beamed at the praise and Morwenna cuddled him close, relieved that the hurt in his eyes had abated. ‘You’ll be a man one day, Jorund, strong enough to look after yourself in the world. But your sister will become a woman, and all women need their menfolk to take care of them. You are Yrsa’s big brother and will have to make sure no one hurts her. Do you think you could do that?’
‘If Yrsa becomes a weak woman and I a big man, then I will look after her,’ he said, puffing out his chest. ‘But won’t Papa take care of her, too?’
‘Yes, he’ll do his best for Yrsa and make sure she chooses a suitable husband,’ she started, knowing full well that Rorik would never take any interest in his daughter. ‘But the jarl is away a great deal, especially during the summer.’
‘I’m proud to be a jarl’s son, Mama, though I see little of him,’ Jorund responded with a frown. ‘And Papa has so many children, he hardly notices me.’
Morwenna’s stomach lurched. How different Jorund’s life would have been if he’d been born in Mercia with Beorhtwulf to love him and an older brother to spoil him. She had never abandoned the belief that Eadwulf was still alive, and one day she would tell Jorund about him. She glanced down at her drab tunic, thinking of her lowly status in Rorik’s household – merely one of the many household thralls. Her position as the jarl’s favourite concubine had, thankfully, ended: Rorik’s lustful desires had long since turned elsewhere. Yet, even now, she rarely felt safe from his clutches. Rorik could seek out any of the women whenever he chose.