by Millie Thom
Freydis was so tired. The celebrations seemed to have gone on for ever and she was beginning to feel she’d never see anywhere but the fireroom for the rest of her days. She sighed wearily. Perhaps she should tell Ulf she couldn’t meet him tonight. But the thought of seeing the disappointment in his eyes caused her resolve to vanish rapidly.
Aslanga suddenly laid a hand on her arm. ‘Let us eat now, Freydis. You’ve worked hard these last days and you look bone tired. I’ve already told Kata the same and she’s gone to the hall.’ She tilted her head toward the olive-skinned girl loading the trays. ‘Benita can help Thora finish off in here. Come,’ she insisted, ushering Freydis to the door.
Though surprised at this unaccustomed concern, Freydis needed no second prompting to leave the serving to others.
At the end of the meal Bjorn rose to his feet and held up a hand for silence. Freydis smiled, wondering what tales he’d amuse them with tonight. She noted the starry-eyed way that Kata gazed at her handsome husband, and feeling more than a little envious of the couple’s happiness, she glanced at Ulf as he poured mead for the guests.
‘I’ll make this brief,’ Bjorn said, sweeping his audience with his cheerful gaze, ‘because I know my esteemed father wishes to address you all when I’m done.’ He turned to grin at Ragnar and Hastein next to him. As always, Ivar and Halfdan’s faces remained sullen. ‘But for what I’ve got to say, I’d like my beautiful wife beside me . . .
‘Well,’ he resumed, as Kata reached his side and he grasped her hand in his own. ‘We’ve been wed for almost three months now. And I can say that those months have whizzed by so fast that I could scarce distinguish night from day.’
‘That’s because you’ve scarce been out of the bed-chamber!’ Hastein yelled, to the hooted delight of everyone.
Bjorn flashed a grin at his cousin. ‘True, I suppose. But just look at what I’ve had to occupy me in the bed chamber!’ He engulfed his wife in his arms as the hall erupted into a cacophony of whistles and lewd remarks. ‘I said I’d make this quick, so here’s the thing: by July I shall be a father!’
The roars of approval ricocheted round the hall until the beaming jarl rose to his feet with raised hands. ‘To my mind you’ve been perhaps a little precipitate in sharing your excellent news, son. Three months is a relatively short period of time. But your secret’s out now and can’t be taken back.’ Freydis could almost feel her father’s delight at this news: a babe would be a welcomed first grandchild. But Aslanga’s frosty expression revealed that she was not at all pleased. ‘Perhaps a few more weeks would have allowed you to be certain,’ Ragnar was saying. ‘But I’m sure Kata knows her own body – almost as well as you do, son!’
Kata blushed scarlet at the bawdy comments and Bjorn tactfully steered her in the direction of her seat amongst the women. ‘Thank you for your wise observations, Father,’ he said with a bow. ‘We’ll be sure to inform you if our news was too, er, precipitate.’
Ragnar stood and faced the hall. ‘Bjorn’s news was no surprise to anyone,’ he started, grinning again. ‘Earlier than expected, I’ll grant, but still expected sometime soon! But what I have to say will come as a surprise to all of you, with the exception of my wife and one or two others. And now, arrangements have been finalised.’ He smiled down at Hastein, smartly attired in a tastefully embroidered brown tunic, his gingery-blond fringe neatly trimmed, his face clean shaven, as was his preference. Freydis would miss him when he left for Ribe.
‘And now it falls to me to inform you all to what I refer,’ Ragnar continued. ‘Freydis, my daughter, come forward.’
Puzzled, Freydis tried to ignore the questioning eyes boring into her as she rose. Aslanga had abandoned all trace of her earlier concern and now displayed nothing but disdain. Her father was smiling – but Freydis knew well that his smiling pleasantries were often a prelude to reprimands, or orders that were not to be questioned.
‘You have always been a dutiful daughter,’ Ragnar said as she crept to his side, her heart thudding wildly as he took her trembling hands. ‘You’ve been of marriageable age for some years now, during which time I’ve met no man good enough to assume care of you. And I’m a patient man when my daughter’s happiness is at stake.’ He smiled, slowly nodding. ‘But now the perfect man for you has approached me, requesting you as his wife.’
The words bounced about inside Freydis’s head until she could hardly think.
Sweet Freya, my father’s going to make me marry. No! It’s Ulf I love, Ulf I’ve given myself to. I could never love another!
‘No need to panic, Freydis,’ Ragnar said, gently lifting her chin. ‘You’ll find this man more than meets my exacting standards as a husband for you. He has status and lands, is not lacking in fine looks and, er, other manly attributes.’
Though the jest raised a few titters, most ears were pinned, waiting for the name. Freydis wanted to scream, ‘Who are you talking about?’
Her father shifted position, fixing an unsmiling gaze on Aslanga, who returned his stare with frigid calm. But, though his eyes addressed his wife, his words did not. ‘You will be the wife of a jarl, Freydis; the only fitting position for the daughter of a jarl.’
Silence descended; Aslanga visibly recoiled at the barb and Thora’s hand rose to her breast. To hail a concubine’s daughter as the true daughter of a jarl was against all protocol.
‘Perhaps at this point, I might address these good folk?’
Unable to wrench himself from the silent battle with his wife, Ragnar absently nodded, and Hastein rose to his feet. ‘It must be apparent that the man to whom Jarl Ragnar refers as “the perfect man” for his daughter is somewhere in this room,’ Hastein stated, sweeping them all with his hazel gaze. ‘Might I introduce myself to you now as that very person?’
Freydis almost keeled over. She’d known Hastein all her life, but as nothing more than Bjorn’s cousin and friend. Never had she considered him as a potential husband!
‘I realise how much of a surprise this must be to you, Freydis,’ Hastein said, concern in his eyes, ‘but I assure you, I’ll make you a good husband. You’ll be happy at Ribe, and your father and I have decided that Jorund and Yrsa may come with you, if you wish. I’m sure Ulf would agree you care for them so well.’
Ulf acknowledged Hastein’s enquiring look with an expressionless nod and Freydis’s heart reached out to him. A thrall could not disagree with requests from his betters. She forced a smile, her mind awhirl with screaming words of refusal. But she could not contest her father’s decision: she was duty bound to obey.
‘I am honoured to be chosen by you, my lord,’ she said, choking on the lie. ‘You will not find me lacking as a wife.’ The hall erupted with cheers and Freydis stood beside her father, too distressed to move; her dreams crushed like grains of wheat into flour.
Thirty Six
Wilton, Wessex: Christmastide 858
Christmastide at Wilton was a joyful affair, the snow-free weather allowing many of the kingdom’s ealdormen and clergy to contribute to the festivities and spiritual devotions over the twelve days. The hall was decorated with the customary sprigs of evergreens from surrounding woodlands and a Yule log glowed merrily in the firepit, reminders of the Saxons’ own pagan heritage. For the sons of King Aethelwulf, it was also a time to remember events of the previous Christmastide, and the imminent death of their father. As always, time had played a great healer and, although neither of their parents would ever be forgotten, the immediate grief of loss had long since subsided.
Much to Alfred and Aethelred’s relief, as well as that of the elite of Wessex, Aethelbald had soon become reconciled to reigning only in the western shires, and appeared to hold no grudge against Aethelberht’s rule of the East. The two brothers communicated often, and news of events and developments in the two parts of the kingdom were shared between them. Since Aethelwulf’s death, little had actually changed in the governmen
t of either region. Aethelbald continued to be guided by the ealdormen and bishops appointed by his father, and Aethelberht was supported by the powerful nobles of the East who had saved Aethelwulf from dishonourable exile.
Aethelberht had managed to find time to join his brothers for three days during the Advent, but Alfred’s beloved sister was, yet again, conspicuous in her absence throughout the period. However, Alfred refused to be too saddened by that. The birth of Aethelswith’s daughter in May had already given them cause to celebrate. To Aethelswith’s delight, and Burgred’s evident discomfiture, in early June they’d all travelled to the Mercian hall at Worcester to welcome little Mildrede into their family. And besides, Alfred told himself, any long journey at this time of year was a risk, particularly with a young babe.
During the first and most holy of the Christmas days, once the long church services were over until the evening, the royal household and its many guests gathered round the tables to partake of the festive fare. Alfred had soon seen enough of food, and keen to be reading his poetry, he found a quiet corner away from the noise in order to enjoy it. He’d read little more than a few lines when he saw his stepmother approaching.
‘You have eaten your fill already, young lord?’ she asked, smiling as she sat next to him on the bench. Alfred greeted her and smiled back. ‘Like me, you seem to become easily bored with the art of overfilling your belly.’
Alfred laughed at her peculiar expression. ‘I just find it a waste of time, my lady. There are more useful things to do than making oneself feel ill. Besides, the table will be laden all day. The servants will see to that.’
They chatted for some time, simply enjoying each other’s company. Alfred had always felt at ease with Judith, and no one he knew could match her kindness and generosity. Occasionally, however, he’d caught the hint of sadness in her eyes, especially when she gazed at her new husband. But, ignorant of its cause, he felt helpless to offer her comfort.
As she glanced across to the high table, Alfred noticed that same sadness flash again. It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for.
‘I know you think me rather strange at times, Judith,’ he started, shooting her an apologetic look,’ but I was wondering what it is that sometimes make you look so sad. Aren’t you happy being married to Aethelbald?’
Judith contemplated the question for a few moments. ‘Do you remember how I felt at the prospect of marrying your father?’ she asked, once she’d gathered her thoughts. Alfred nodded. ‘I was truly terrified of leaving my home in Francia, and marrying a man so much my senior. But in King Aethelwulf, I found a gentle soul, a soul in need of affection and comfort. He was not in love with me, nor I with him.’ She gave a small, reflective smile. ‘Your father could never love anyone as he loved your mother. But he treated me with such kindness and respect that I came to love him in a different way. As a daughter loves a father, perhaps. My own father had rarely shown any interest in me, other than as a valuable asset with which to secure a propitious marriage alliance.’
She paused, and Alfred waited patiently for her to continue, hoping she’d actually answer his question this time.
‘King Aethelwulf never recovered from Aethelbald’s betrayal,’ Judith said at last. ‘He never stopped loving his son, but I believe that during those two years in Kent, your father gave up the will to live. He just wanted to be with Lady Osburh.’ Alfred’s throat suddenly seemed so swollen, he could barely swallow. ‘And now I’ve been married to King Aethelbald for ten months, and I cannot say I’ve been unhappy for most of that time. I am still here, in Wessex with you all; I am still a queen, and am always treated like one. Aethelbald is very kind, and shows me great fondness and respect.’ She sighed and looked intently at Alfred. ‘If I had stayed in Francia, I could have been married to a cruel and uncaring man.’
Alfred nodded, sensing that the answer to his question was on the tip of her tongue. Judith’s attention strayed again to Aethelbald at the high table and, for a few moments, she seemed lost to her thoughts.
‘Although our marriage was against canon law and Christian custom,’ she continued eventually, still relaying facts that Alfred already knew, ‘our union has served us both well. It took little time for our ealdormen and thegns to become accustomed to the situation, and now, to our great relief, even the holy bishops seem to have accepted our marriage.’
Alfred wondered whether Judith had forgotten all about his question as she gazed round the festively decorated hall with a small smile on her lips. She straightened the folds of her purple gown and adjusted her head veil, her lips seeming to have sealed. But Alfred had broached the query once, and felt bold enough to repeat it.
‘No one could ever fool you, young lord,’ Judith said in reply, an observation she had often voiced before. ‘Your eyes and ears miss nothing. Yet since you are so persistent, I shall tell you why I sometimes feel a little sad. But,’ she added, waving a forefinger at him, ‘you must promise not to repeat what I say.’ Alfred nodded and Judith drew breath to continue.
‘Over the last few months I have come to love Aethelbald dearly. He is everything I could want in a husband, as I have just explained to you. But he does not love me, and I don’t know how to make him do so.’ Judith suddenly looked so forlorn that Alfred put his arm around her shoulder. ‘I know he wanted me because of my status,’ she said, raising a delicate white hand to touch Alfred’s comforting arm. ‘I was still the crowned queen of Wessex, after all. And I am also the daughter of a powerful emperor, which made me doubly desirable. But I live in hope that Aethelbald will, one day, grow to love me for just being myself.’
Aethelred came to join them, relieving Alfred of the need of a suitable response. He had none to offer. Aethelred held his belly in his hands, a pained expression on his face. ‘I swear I never want to eat again. But the venison is simply mouth-wateringly irresistible. Right now I think we should flog the cooks. My discomfort is entirely their fault.’
Alfred and Judith laughed, but Judith’s brow suddenly creased. ‘Did my lord Aethelbald seem quite well when you left the table, Aethelred?’
Aethelred looked at her troubled face, evidently deciding that this was not the time to be flippant. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t believe my brother ate a great deal, Judith. I was sitting next to him and I can’t say I noticed him actually eating for some time. He was quiet, too, despite the frivolity around him, which I must confess to being party to. Oh, and I do believe his wine cup hadn’t needed filling since we sat down. But whether or not Aethelbald felt unwell, I couldn’t say. He showed no signs of being in pain.’
Judith nodded, as though she’d expected that reply. ‘Aethelbald has barely eaten for days. He has been feeling unwell for some weeks now, but has tried hard to hide it. He does not want physicians fussing over him.’ She glanced again at her husband, now speaking with Bishop Ealhstan. ‘But he has promised to allow a physician to examine him after the Christmastide. Illness can come upon us so suddenly,’ she said, worry creasing her pretty face, ‘yet it can take so long to leave.’
Alfred thought of his eldest brother, Aethelstan, who had died when Alfred was but a child of two. He knew that Aethelstan’s illness had lasted for some years before eventually resulting in his death. Learned physicians had been unable to find a cure, since they’d never understood the cause.
He sincerely hoped that whatever Aethelbald’s ailment might be, it was something quite different to that of Athelstan’s.
Thirty Seven
Aros: late January 859
The stillness and uncanny silence were unnerving and Ulf tensed, fearful his footfalls on the frozen earth would be detected by someone. But at well past midnight on this icy night, Ragnar’s village slept.
He kept to the shadows of huts and store-sheds, moving only when the bright gibbous moon claimed refuge behind the scattering of dark clouds. Inside the barn he leant against the wood-planked wall as his eyes a
djusted to the gloom, the silence intense. He recalled an October morning, many years ago, when he’d peeked into this very barn, inadvertently witnessing another young couple enjoying a tryst in the straw.
Filled with sudden foreboding he thrust his hands through his hair. What perilous game was he playing? What right had he to put Freydis at risk of being disgraced in the eyes of her family; cast aside by Hastein? What right had he to betray Hastein’s trust – or Bjorn’s?
He had no right at all. And tonight he’d tell Freydis that their meetings must end, though the mere thought of it tore his heart to shreds.
Footsteps were nearing: two people at least. His heart pounding, he dived behind a mound of straw. If Ragnar’s men had come to find him, he was dead for certain. The barn door creaked open.
‘I’m so sorry, Ulf . . . so sorry.’
The distress in Freydis’s voice was palpable, but he dared not move. He could hear her moving into the barn, searching for him in the shadows. She was barely feet away now. ‘I was so sure I hadn’t been seen.’
Her words were engulfed in heartbroken sobs. Moments passed and Ulf prayed that it was only Sigehelm with her, come to warn of the dangers they faced. Unable to bear the suspense any longer, he raised his head, just enough to see over the straw. . .
Large hands grasped his tunic and yanked him to his feet. Freydis shrieked as an iron fist slammed into Ulf’s stomach and he doubled over, gasping for breath. Then the fist cracked against his jaw, sending him tumbling back. His head reeled, but the pitiless hands hauled him up, every vigorous shake accompanied by enraged words: ‘What in Thor’s name are you playing at? What kind of fool do you think I am?’
Ulf sought out the face of his fuming master but could see only the vague outline in the darkness. He opened his mouth to speak, but could not find the words. And though he was bigger and stronger than Bjorn, and would doubtless prove the victor in an outright fight, he offered no resistance to the assault. He couldn’t deny that Bjorn’s rage was justified.