For years the Danes had limited themselves to brief forays on the Saxon coast; lightning quick assaults on villages and abbeys. But Ambrose knew that even in his brother's empire of Wessex the Danes had several times landed in force.
The far north of the island, as Canute had pointed out, was already partly settled by Danes. Larger and larger armies wintered in the parts of Frankland that were weak, and, in recent years, they had started to build permanent settlements.
When Ambrose heard the drums of an approaching force, he ran to the hut that served as the village's school. Polonius and the few students suffering numerical sums willingly stepped outside in response to the noise and excitement. Ambrose watched with a critical eye as the force of over eight hundred warriors marched along the coastal road and through the village itself.
Ambrose spoke to the thin Byzantine standing by his side. "Look, Polonius! They seem well armed. Each man carries both spear and sword or battle axe. And look! Each man has an identical metal cap to protect his head, and all wear a chain-mail shirt."
The eight hundred soldiers marched by in neat columns; stepping in unison and singing bawdy songs. Even Polonius seemed reasonably impressed.
"Aye, lord. They are well armed, and at least seem to have trained enough to march in formation. I see no cavalry, however. Not since the days of the ancient Romans has an army consisted only of infantry."
"But Polonius, their ships are their steeds. They but march to join their fleet south of here."
The troops were followed by a vast column of ox-carts and military camp followers. There were the supplies and spare weapons, wives and children, prostitutes and traders, of the powerful army. There were more than enough soldiers to fill the Jarl's fleet that waited at anchor.
Polonius watched the column march by for a full minute before he spoke. "How would your Saxons handle these invaders, Prince?"
The sheer numbers are not a problem, Polonius. My brother has raised several times this number at short notice, and, given time, he can call upon his sworn men from Cornwall all the way to the Kentish coast. These Danes appear to be professional warriors, however, and that is a matter of great concern."
"Oh, how so?"
"Against such disciplined ranks would be thrown a horde of churls, leavened with some thanes, ealdormen and athelings; each armed in his own manner, and each fighting as he chose. Of all the Saxon forces, only the veteran fyrdmen, all mounted and well armed, could match this force man for man. My brother, however, has less than two thousand sworn fyrdmen spread across his entire kingdom, including even the subject provinces. Most of the forces that march to battle in Wessex when the call to arms is sent out are the retainers of the fyrdmen, and any other peasants who are able to carry a mattock or axe.
Polonius spoke quietly, but it seemed as if he was reading the prince's mind. "It would take more than mattocks and sickles to halt such a force, my lord. If your countrymen wish to throw such into the sea, they must copy my own people, and keep a standing army of well-trained professionals. Only thus, in conjunction with your levies of village archers, slingers, and pikemen, would they stand a chance."
"Polonius, each Anglish king, even each important ealdorman, retains a Personal Guard at his side at all times. These men, well mounted and well armed, are the flower of the king's warriors."
"And how many does your brother keep with him?"
"It varies, Polonius, but it may be up to a hundred, or even more."
"Even a hundred of the finest warriors in the world cannot hope to meet such as we just saw march past."
"Aye, I suppose you are right, scholar. But you well know the island of Britain is divided into small kingdoms. The Angle, Saxon and Jute tribes once fought their way across Germany, and then conquered all of Angleland from your Roman ancestors."
"But, Ambrose?"
"But brave as they are, they remain divided, and each kingdom is unable by itself to keep a strong enough army together to face a serious attack. Only a new Bretwalda over all Angleland would stop this Danish scourge."
"Ambrose, you use a new term. What is a Bretwalda?"
"My apologies, Polonius. A Bretwalda is a king who is so much more powerful than the others that all kings on the island pay tribute to him and recognize him as an over-king.' Ambrose spoke proudly. 'My own grandfather was declared Bretwalda of all Britain."
"And does your island have a Bretwalda today?"
"No. The power is too evenly split. I realize now, when I see what we are up against, that, one by one, our island nations are likely to fall victim to these fierce intruders. Yet the British kingdoms insist on fighting their petty squabbles, and waste gold and lives killing and raiding fellow Christians."
"I know, my lord,' Polonius replied. 'My people rule an empire of many million citizens. They rule as much by keeping the enemy divided as by force of arms. If ever, God granting, I have a chance to show you golden Byzantium, I will show you many nationalities held together by bonds of trade."
As the year moved towards the summer solstice, the tale of the previous summer repeated itself. Phillip was once again driven to the edge of exhaustion, and a whistling lash was his reward if he paused in his labours. Polonius continued to teach the village boys when they could be spared from the farm work and the military training, and Ambrose helped out when Canute could spare him.
When not helping Polonius, Ambrose helped Anna in the fields. Anna, in turn, began to swell until her abdomen was egg-shaped. Her breasts became fuller, and she bloomed with the loveliness that is unique to an expectant mother. She continued to tend elderly Canute, but often slept on Ambrose's pallet.
Life, although far different from what Ambrose had known in Wessex, was placid and pleasant enough. Polonius' life was also relatively easy, except for his being required to tolerate the abuse of rude peasant boys.
On the third day before the full moon of June, however, disaster struck. The villagers had worked over the winter and the past summer on a new long-ship. It was to be their donation to their jarl's fleet, and if he did not call for it, well, the young men might try another raid on their own. Yet, in order to fittingly launch the ship, the village elder, in his capacity as priest, demanded the customary tithe. He commanded that ale would be poured on the waters to placate Aegir, and that a slave was to be hanged as the vessel hit the water, thus buying the blessing of Odin.
Ambrose whispered to Canute. "Master, why would a slave be sacrificed when the ship is launched?"
"My boy, even as we talk, Odin looks down from his throne in Valhalla. With just his one eye he can see everything that happens in the nine worlds. He is the god of war, but also wisdom. We want him to give our young men not only strength in battle, but also to impart to them some of his hard-earned wisdom. Thus we antagonize no god, and hopefully we buy our ship good luck."
All of the villagers, including most of the thralls, had gathered two days before the official launching, in order to hear the elder's pronouncements, and to admire the vessel's clean lines and solid construction.
Lief the Drunkard, Phillip's master, staggered up to the priest, and in a slurred voice, called out to the assembled villagers.
"I wanna offer my Saxon thrall as a sacrifice to Odin. The lazy bastar' won' hardly work no more anyway. All I ask in return is that you ask Odin for a blessing for my family.' He tried to snap his fingers, but was unable to produce any sound. At last he just called out. 'Boys! Bring the lazy bastar' 'ere!"
His two older sons then dragged the Weapons-master, naked, emaciated, and covered with his own blood, forward. Throwing the beaten and bloody body onto the ground, they both exclaimed how this worthless slave was lazy, ate too much, and had actually dared to try and prevent Lars, the youngest of his boys, from seizing and raping another slave-girl of their neighbours.
"Fifty lashes from my bull-roarer showed this carrion who is master in my father's house!" shouted Lars.
Ambrose felt sudden nausea. He had, when chopping firewood, heard t
he screams emanating from a whipping from the other end of the village. He had thought little of it, for it was not uncommon for a master to beat a thrall for some offense.
The slave-owners, however, seldom did more than administer a mild whipping, for the purpose was to encourage greater effort, not to mutilate or kill a valuable commodity. Slaves thus treated generally suffered no more than welts and stiffness for a few days. What had happened to Phillip, however, was another matter, and Ambrose could tell from the stony faces of the crowd how they felt about this kind of viciousness and wanton cruelty. Nevertheless, it was the right of the master to dispose of a slave as he pleased. A freedman and a bondi both had specific duties to their master, but also certain rights. The life of a thrall, however, was utterly dependent upon the whims of his owner.
At last the village elder, acting in his role of priest, nodded assent, and Phillip was seized by several villagers and quickly fastened to a tree near where the vessel sat upon the shore. There he would stand or hang limply by his wrists until dawn two days hence, when he would be hung while the ship slipped into the waters. Even through his filth and emaciation, all could see the great cords of his muscles when his wrists were tied around a branch of the tree. He made a superhuman effort, and his gaunt head, bloodstained and covered with matted hair and beard, stared straight into the silent crowd.
With agony, Ambrose saw Phillip's haggard eyes piercing the crowd. They finally focussed on him. He could feel the eyes burning into his head. After an eternity of perhaps four seconds, Phillip's head dropped forward, and the battered thane slipped into merciful unconsciousness.
The village elder posted two sentries to guard the now sacred body of the sacrifice. He then bid all the villagers go and prepare for a great celebration feast in two days.
Quickly forgetting the sordid ugliness of the evil deed done by Lief and his sons, the villagers spilled out of the square to their homes in excitement. A summer feast was a time of great excitement, when oceans of drink and mountains of food were consumed. All celebrated, and even the thralls drank and slept freely with one another.
CHAPTER9.
The Flight.
On the way back from the tribal gathering, Canute spoke to the prince. "My boy, I know that the death of your friend is a hard thing to accept, but to be sacrificed to Odin is a great honour. Of course you and Anna may attend, and if it pleases you, I will send a keg of good ale for Phillip to imbibe. If he drinks enough, he will feel little. Now let us retire. I am tired."
Ambrose, when he sensed the arrival of the early morning light, rose with heavy heart. He dressed silently and headed out to weed Canute's field. He did not even pause to break fast, but took along cheese and bread to eat later. As the sun neared its zenith, Anna suddenly appeared. "Prince, Canute has asked me to send you to him at once."
Concerned, Ambrose hastened back to his master's house, even leaving behind the now slow-moving Anna. The prince found Canute sitting in the privacy of his bed chamber.
The old man looked up and spoke. "My son, for I think of you as such, though I know you to be from another land, we must talk."
Sensing the gravity of the old man's words, Ambrose knelt at his feet. "Yes, Master." Ambrose answered humbly.
"My people . . . my people are a brave and good people, but in . . . all tribes, there are good and evil people. I always thought that in each tribe there are greater differences between individuals then there are between tribes as a whole.'
Ambrose knew that such philosophy, worthy of some of Polonius' Greek ancestors, hinted at much thought from the habitually easy-going Canute. The old man was obviously struggling with some deep or conflicting emotions. After a pause, he stumbled on.
'In our village, it is only Lief and his family who bring dishonour to our tribe.' Canute paused again. 'But I ramble. Let me get to the point. I have an urgent errand for you. You are to take this message, written by your friend Polonius the Scribe, to a friend of mine in the tribal lands of the Rus. His town is on the north shore of the Viking Sea.
Doubtless you will wish to stay with him awhile, and in the letter I have asked him to teach you a little of trade, for the Rus are famous for their great trading houses . . . You are to go as my adopted son.'
Ambrose, shocked at the words, lifted his head and made to speak, but was silenced by a wave of Canute's hand.
'Nay! Say nothing - you have been to me as a son and more. Hear me out. You may, by coincidence, arrive with some fellow travellers . . . I have made a request that any such companions would be cared for. Further, you will carry this purse of silvers and coppers to spend as you see fit.'
With that, he handed Ambrose a heavy leather purse.
'You are to take Victory-Maker to protect yourself with, and my boat, the Falcon, is moored around the point, in the bay where we went fishing last autumn. Although she is big for one sailor to handle alone, I am confident you can manage her. Anna has seen to its provisioning. Go with my blessing, my son, and that of your Christ god."
Ambrose, conscious of the gnarled old warrior's pride, detected a watery glint from Canute's eyes. He gently and lovingly kissed the foot of his master. His head low, his mind reeling, he backed out of Canute's presence, and went off to make swift arrangements.
His arrival at the hut where Polonius slept when it was not being used as a school found his friend packing food and writing utensils into a leather pouch. Anna sat nearby.
Polonius said to him. "Anna has told me that Canute feels I might be able to help you on a forthcoming journey. I would be honoured if you would let me escort you to the wild lands of the north. It occurs to me, too, that perhaps you or Anna could suggest another companion for our expedition. We need someone who is as strong as an ox, though it would not hurt if he was more intelligent than one.
Ambrose couldn't help but smile. "I think I know just the one! He used to teach errant princes how to fight. But Polonius, if you come with me, you will be a fugitive. If they catch you, they will not deal kindly with you."
"Then, my prince, we had better make sure that we are not caught!"
Ambrose grinned with excitement and happiness, until his eyes fell on Anna, swollen and near ready for childbirth. His good humour vanished instantly. She saw his glance, and spoke sadly.
"Good my lord, much as it grieves me to be parted from you, I intend to stay and tend foolish old Canute. He has more need of me than you."
Even as Ambrose reached out to clasp her, she whirled and fled the room. Polonius and the Prince managed to successfully sneak their personal goods into the woods and across the sandy peninsula to where Canute's small sailing vessel lay pulled up on the shore and covered with brush.
Thanks to Anna's hard work, a good supply of food was stored aboard, and the water cask had been freshly filled. The vessel was ready to sail on the next high tide. Both Ambrose and Polonius knew, however, that they still had the dangerous job of freeing Phillip and transporting him to the boat.
"My Prince, it occurs to me that we really need that third member of our expedition. Perhaps, if we could borrow a horse to carry the great hulk, we could go collect Phillip."
Ambrose, in spite of the cramps of nervous tension that tortured his stomach, smiled at his friend. "The very man I had in mind, my Greek scholar!"
By midnight, most of the revellers, both servant and master, had fallen asleep over their mead, or had wandered off into the bush with a member of the opposite sex. The boat's launching was a major event in the life of the little village.
It took little effort for Ambrose and Polonius to crawl unseen back to behind the school hut where they had left their weapons. Feeling only slightly guilty, Ambrose buckled on the slim foreign sword which he loved so dearly, and picked up his bow and quiver. He knew the blade, with its amazing edge and suppleness, to be worth a king's ransom. Old Canute, however, had insisted that he take it for personal defence. Polonius strapped on a straight sword borrowed by Ambrose for the occasion, and followed his compan
ion through the woods to the horse corral.
Anna had long since made sure that the horse guard had drunk his fill of mead, and more. The man lay in a drunken stupor when the two travellers arrived to conscript a horse.
Ambrose and Polonius prepared a quiet mare, and were ready to move off when one of the other horses nickered loudly. Instantly Ambrose and Polonius froze. No one came, however, and not even the cursory challenge of a sentry greeted the horse's cry.
With great care, Ambrose and Polonius crawled close to the two sentries watching over the Weapons-master. Lars and Kiarr, two of the youths taking turns guarding the sacrifice, had had the poor grace to take their sacred task seriously. They had abstained from most of the mead, and only stolen a little of Phillip's ale. They were thus relatively alert.
Ambrose stared into the darkness. Within a thousand foot-lengths lay over a hundred stalwart warriors, who, whether they condoned Lief's cruel actions or not, would protect with their lives the sacred sacrifice to their god Odin. Thus, Polonius and Ambrose reasoned, they must reach the sentries simultaneously. One single cry and the entire village would be roused.
They had few illusions about their own value to the villagers, or of the people's drunken state. Ambrose knew well that all of the men had trained for war, and would fall into order within seconds of any alarm being sounded, whether they were drunk or sober. It was something the village practised occasionally, in case of sudden attack. Each warrior knew his place. A vigorous pursuit would take no more than a few minutes to organize.
At last Ambrose reached one hundred by slow count, as Polonius had suggested. He knew they must attack now or Phillip was a dead man.
Not more than ten foot-lengths from Ambrose stood the sentry who the prince knew to be a bully. Lars had great strength, however, and had more than once given Ambrose a good drubbing. Ambrose leapt from the bushes and raced for the youth's unprotected back.
He carried in his hands a stout branch of two elbow's length and a wrist's thickness, while Polonius had elected to use the flat of an axe blade. Their other weapons lay behind the bush that had served as a screen.
Ambrose, Prince of Wessex; Trader of Kiev. Page 8