The Wolves of Dumnonia Saga Box Set

by Peter Fox

  Neither Alrik nor Rathulf got much sleep that night. An eerie silence hung over the camp, and the abiding sense of anticipation left both boys on edge. For Rathulf, Sigvald’s mention of the trolls had brought back the disturbing memories of the avalanche and its aftermath. Rathulf had rarely enjoyed a settled night’s sleep since that troubling visit to the land of the dead, and it was in the darkest hours of the night that his brother would return to visit him. Night after night he was beset by the same nightmares, not of the trunk or of Dumnonia or even the fear of his father’s death, but always his kinsman, wandering the icefields alone. It had reached the point where Rathulf feared going to bed.

  Alrik, on the other hand, lay awake through sheer impatience to get on with the next day. He desperately wanted to be the one who found the trunk, whilst Rathulf was equally keen that he did not. It would be bad enough that the thing was found, let alone that Alrik be the one to hand it over. He would be intolerable! Even so, Rathulf thought to himself as he lay awake under the heavy blanket he shared with Alrik, you deserve the right to absolve yourself of your past misdeeds. And then there’s the whole disaster of the failed rescue attempt, which will ensure I remain in your debt forever; not that that’s such a bad thing. Rathulf turned his head and looked at his friend’s face, which was just distinguishable in the dim light. Alrik’s eyes glinted in the filtered moonlight, and the boy sighed at some unknown concern. He became aware that Rathulf was watching him, and he turned to meet Rathulf’s gaze.

  ‘What?’ he whispered.

  ‘Nothing,’ Rathulf murmured quietly, and he turned away to look up at the top of the tent.

  ‘We’ll find it,’ Alrik said after a while.

  Rathulf glanced back at his friend, and his stomach tightened when he saw the look of excitement on Alrik’s face. How can I make you understand that it’s not what I want? Rathulf thought sadly.

  That task proved more difficult than anyone, including Rathulf, had anticipated, despite the fact that the byre had been relatively easy to find; its roof having collapsed like the house, leaving the innards of the building exposed. Nevertheless, much of it was an unrecognisable confusion of mud, broken timbers, smashed stone and turf, so it was impossible to tell which bits had belonged where in the original building, and therefore where they should start looking. In the end, Sigvald abandoned any pretence of due care and just set everyone to work dismantling the whole structure; a dangerous and unpleasant task made all the more uninviting by the sheep carcasses that were mixed amid the wreckage. A guard was mounted from that night onwards to keep watch for jötunn and draugar, who would likely be drawn out by the exposed food.

  By the end of the third day, the byre had been completely dismantled, but there was no sign of the trunk, nor had they been accosted by any monsters. Sigvald remained confident, saying that it was not surprising given that the byre now stood more than twenty feet from its original location. They would just have to work backwards through the rubble until they found it.

  The next day proved just as unyielding, and by the afternoon of the fifth day, people were snapping at each other as tempers began to fray. Rathulf kept well out of the way, instead choosing to spend the time with his father. Thorvald sat quietly on a chair brought along for the occasion, surveying the ruins of his home with much sadness. He said very little and responded to Rathulf’s comments with barely a word or a nod. For a while Rathulf let it pass, but in the end, he simply had to find out what was so distressing his father.

  ‘We’ll have it all rebuilt before you know it,’ Rathulf said by way of reassurance. ‘Sigvald and Bardi have already pledged their help, and Thorkel, Ottar and Brodir have also offered their services.’

  Thorvald let out a grunt, evidently unimpressed with Rathulf’s efforts. ‘And the point of that is…?’

  ‘Father! There was a time when you would hear of nothing else. In fact, the whole reason we were here when this happened,’ and he waved his hand at the wreckage of their home, ‘was because you wouldn’t go and live with Sigvald.’ Rathulf could not believe his father would have a change of heart now.

  ‘And that bloody-mindedness nearly got us all killed. Look at me! I can’t walk, curse you, and if I ever do, it’ll only be with the aid of sticks. It won’t work anymore, Ra. We won’t ever live here again.’

  Rathulf stared at his father, shocked by his uncharacteristically defeatist attitude. But the fact remained that Thorvald could not stand unaided, and although he was improving, it seemed that everything below his waist was useless. He often complained that he could feel neither of his legs, and the only way he could move them was to lift them by hand. Until now, Rathulf had refused to accept that his father was a cripple, but somehow, seeing him sitting there stewing in all that anger brought it home to him. All around them people worked feverishly whilst Thorvald remained trapped in his chair – a vulnerable old man – unable to move or help. The thought of his father withering away in a dark corner in someone else’s hall was simply too much to bear.

  ‘I will rebuild our home, father, and you will live here, with me. I’ve already told you we won’t be alone. We’ll have slaves to do all the hard manual work, and I will buy a woman-servant who can look after us and a steward to take care of the day-to-day running of the farm.’

  ‘No!’ Thorvald said angrily. ‘Come summer you’ll be gone, and… and then what?’ he stopped, unable to say it.

  ‘Gone? Why?’ Rathulf said, dropping to his knees and taking Thorvald’s hand in his own. ‘This is our home. Everyone is going to help us rebuild it.’

  ‘No Rathulf,’ Thorvald responded angrily. ‘You will – you must – return to your birthplace. It is written in the stars; it is your destiny. Do you think I don’t know that? All the while you’ve been growing up I have been consulting the oracles and praying to the Gods that you might remain here, as my son, but always their answer has been that you are not my son; and that you will go back. I was wrong to lie to you, to hide the trunk from you, and the Gods have punished me well for it. I didn’t want to lose you, Ra, but look what good it did me, and you. The shadow of Fenrir has always hung over us whilst I have kept your birthright hidden from you. You don’t need that trunk to know who you are. You are of wolven blood, Lord of Dumnonia! Do you know what that means? No, of course you don’t, so for the love of Odin stop tormenting me with this talk of rebuilding our house.’ He tried to rise, to get away from his son, but of course he couldn’t stand, and he fell heavily to the ground, swearing bitterly at his incapacity.

  Confused and hurt, Rathulf bent down to lift his father back into his chair, but Thorvald snatched his arm away from his son. ‘Just leave me be, damn you. Leave me be!’

  Shocked, Rathulf stared down at his father, unable to think, unable to move. One of Helga’s house servants appeared and immediately admonished Rathulf for letting his father fall, but Rathulf didn’t hear her. He looked over the shattered remains of his homestead, horrified to think that all of this was happening to some divine plan; and that no matter what he might wish, the Gods would not permit him to rebuild his home here. And most disturbingly, what did his father mean, “Lord of Dumnonia?”

  Sigvald arrived moments later and, like Helga’s servant before him, began to scold Rathulf until he saw the expression on Rathulf’s face.

  ‘Rathulf?’ the jarl asked, ‘what’s the matter?’

  When Rathulf said nothing, the Viking turned to Thorvald, who was now back in his chair with the aid of the servant. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Tell him,’ Thorvald said. ‘What’s the use pretending anymore? Tell him what I never had the courage to.’

  Sigvald glanced at Rathulf, whose face had turned a shade paler. ‘I’m not sure he wants to hear it,’ he said.

  ‘Tell him! Tell him about the ring, the sword, and his birthright,’ Thorvald pressed on, his voice angry, bitter.

  ‘Ah, Thorvald, this wasn’t quite how I thought it would play out,’ Sigvald responded.

  ‘Ri
ng?’ Rathulf said, his voice barely audible.

  ‘Sword?’ came Alrik’s voice.

  Sigvald let out a loud, explosive breath, looked up to the heavens, then turned to Rathulf. ‘There is one truth yet to be told,’ he said, his tone carrying a hint of regret, ‘but I’m not sure you’re going to like it.’

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  ‘Are you going to tell him?’ Sigvald asked the question of Thorvald for the second time, but the crippled farmer turned his face away.

  ‘Right, over to me then,’ Sigvald said, twisting his moustache in thought. ‘So, where to begin?’

  They had all moved to the large fire that had been set in the home field and around which the tents were pitched. Thorvald sat a little to one side with his back to the gathering, staring out over the fjord, his arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

  Rathulf turned from Thorvald and looked up at his foster-father, his stomach fluttering nervously.

  Sigvald took that as his cue to begin. ‘Thanks to Alrik’s little escapade with Thorvald’s carpentry box, you know about the blood feud with your uncle, and that Tegen wasn’t your mother, but–’

  ‘There wasn’t a crash, was there?’ Rathulf broke in, suddenly realising. ‘You stole me in the raid. You took me from my family when you killed them–’

  ‘Whoa there,’ Sigvald said, holding up his hand. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree. Like we said before, everything we’ve told you is true. This isn’t about what happened; it’s about who you are.’

  Rathulf swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘I know who I am,’ he said. ‘I’m a British orphan. I get that my parents weren’t fisherfolk and were someone important…’ His voice trailed off when he saw Sigvald’s guilty expression.

  ‘Yes, well, about that…’ The jarl took a deep breath, then he leaned forward and peered at his foster son with sudden intensity. ‘What do you know about the notion of kings?’

  The young Norseman frowned, taken aback by the unexpected question. Francia, he understood, was ruled by a man who used such a title, and closer to home the southern Vikings of Jutland spoke of one so-called. Rathulf had also heard that in the lands where these men ruled, all people must pay homage to their Kronung. They were required each year to relinquish a part of their harvest, as well as their best-bred stock, and Rathulf had even heard they had to hand over their children. It was also said that the penalties were great for those who refused to submit to their king’s will. Rathulf could not imagine allowing himself to accede to the humiliation of such an existence. Especially given that these men had reputedly come to power simply by the fact of birth. Why didn’t the people just get together in an assembly and vote him out? he had wondered.

  ‘You come from such a land, Rathulf. A land where its people live in subjugation to such a man.’

  ‘Sigvald!’ Helga interrupted. ‘What are you playing at?’

  ‘For reasons known only to the Gods, the boy was raised as a Norseman. He must never forget the principles which make our society strong and fair. He will be a great leader of men if he remembers what he has learnt here.’

  Leader of men? Rathulf thought, his heart racing.

  Sigvald continued. ‘The place of your birth, Dumnonia, holds a wealth of people, land and other riches beyond your wildest dreams. That is why Eirik, Bardi, Thorvald and I sailed there on our raid sixteen years ago. Dumnonia is not like Norvegr. There is no assembly of free men, no council of chiefs. Instead, it is ruled by one man alone, the King. This man holds absolute power over the destiny of every man, woman and child in the land. When he dies, there is no vote for his replacement; that right instead goes to his oldest surviving son. If we are to believe Tegen, however, the King of Dumnonia was a fair and just man, and the people prospered under his rule. His name was Cadwyr.

  ‘Sixteen summers ago, Dumnonia was betrayed by men who fought for the king’s brother. The contest did not go well for Cadwyr. The King was killed defending his home, as was his eldest son, Owain, who perished at his side. But Owain was not Cadwyr’s only child. His second son, Aneurin, escaped from the enemy on the same day that Owain and Cadwyr were killed. He was nine years old at the time.’

  Rathulf’s eyes widened. Aneurin? But that’s… He felt Helga’s hand tighten about his own.

  Sigvald continued. ‘Cadwyr also had a third son, born just months before the kingdom was attacked. The babe and his wet-nurse escaped along with his brother, fleeing by boat from the flames of their burning home. They were headed for sanctuary in the west of their country, but they never arrived at their intended destination.’ He paused. ‘For reasons you already know.’

  Rathulf stared at his foster-father, his heart pounding. The gathering had fallen silent, and all eyes were turned upon the young Briton. The crackling fire suddenly sounded very loud in the taut silence.

  ‘The third son,’ Rathulf said at last, his voice wavering, his throat as dry as hearth-ash. ‘What was his name?’

  The Viking chieftain held Rathulf’s hazel gaze, and when he spoke his tone was solemn. ‘That you already know. Tegen called you by it.’

  The world suddenly began to close in on Rathulf, and he found he could scarcely breathe. ‘But it can’t be,’ he said at last. ‘I am Rathulf, adopted son of a slave…’ He stopped, unable to find voice anymore. It simply could not be true.

  ‘Adopted yes,’ Sigvald said, ‘but you are no slave. You are Caelin; son of Cadwyr, King of Dumnonia, and as his only surviving child, heir to that kingdom.’

  5. This is home

  Ruins of Thorvaldsby, Aurlandsfjorden, Norvegr

  Rathulf gaped at Sigvald, open-mouthed. He glanced over at his father, but Thorvald hadn’t moved. Rathulf’s mug tilted perilously in his hand. Sigvald retrieved the cup and put it on the ground beside his foster-son. Alrik too stared at Sigvald, astonished. Ingrith just gazed upon Rathulf with even more adoration than before.

  ‘I’m a king?’ Rathulf said at last.

  Sigvald gave this some thought before he answered. ‘Technically no. To be king you’d first have to go and get your kingdom back.’

  ‘Get it back?’ Rathulf asked, dazed.

  ‘You forget your uncle; the one who killed your family and started this whole affair,’ Sigvald said. ‘By Tegen’s account, he committed murder to take the title from your father, and indirectly, you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You. Although,’ Sigvald added with some care, ‘ultimately it’s your choice. The empty cup, remember? Just know that we’ll be right behind you when you decide to go back.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Sorry. If.’

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ Alrik said, bursting with excitement. ‘We should go right away!’

  ‘I’m coming too!’ Ingrith cried.

  Sigvald wagged his finger at them. ‘No one is going anywhere. There’s a lot to be done, not least of which is for Rathulf to learn what it means to be a king. And we don’t have the chest, which does, I’m afraid, contain the proof, as Alrik pointed out. You must understand this will be no small undertaking.’

  ‘How hard has it got to be?’ Alrik said. ‘You said you know who killed Ra’s father. Why don’t we just go and challenge him in their assembly? Better still, take a sword to him.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. We–’

  ‘Stop!’ Rathulf cried.

  Everyone turned to him, surprised.

  ‘What if I don’t want to go back?’

  ‘Of course you do,’ Alrik said, frowning. ‘You have to avenge your family. You’re the king!’

  Rathulf shook his head. ‘Maybe I don’t want to be one.’

  Alrik frowned at Rathulf. ‘Why not?’ he asked, clearly bemused.

  ‘I don’t even know what it means, Alrik. One moment I’m slave-born, then I find out my mother wasn’t my mother, and today I’m told my parents owned a whole country, which now belongs to me. All I ever wanted was to be an ordinary old Viking.’

  ‘But being a king is so much b
etter!’ Alrik said.

  ‘Says who? Do you know how to be one?’

  Alrik didn’t have an answer for that. ‘You sound like you’re scared,’ he said finally.

  ‘Ah now,’ Sigvald interrupted, evidently fearing a renewing of hostilities between the two friends. ‘Perhaps we should take a break from this for a while. Come on you lot, we’ve got a trunk to find.’

  Rathulf felt dizzy and closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he saw that Sigvald, Helga and Ingrith were leading Thorvald and Alrik away, astutely recognising that Rathulf needed some space to himself. Rathulf stood up and walked down towards the shore. To his surprise he found that no one had yet touched the boatshed, then he remembered Sigvald’s systematic plan of excavation. Presumably, this building was to be the last resort, given that Alrik had already looked there. He splashed inside and sat down on the damp sand, shaking his head at the holes that peppered its floor.

  It can’t be true, he told himself, still reeling from this latest revelation. I can’t be Caelin. I’m Rathulf Thorvaldarsson the Norseman. But even as he thought it, he knew that it was not to be. His life continued to hurtle in a direction over which he had little control. He leaned back against the rough wooden wall and stared out at the fjord, trying to calm his shattered nerves. Beyond its mouth and far over the sea lay his birthplace; a land completely unknown to him, and he unknown to it. I’m a king? he thought. I don’t even know what that means.

  Rathulf’s contemplations were disturbed by the sound of splashing from outside, then Alrik appeared at the entrance with something clutched in a grimy hand.