Wolves of War

by Martin Lake

  ‘Why does he want you?’ Aebbe asked. She looked alarmed. Despite her questions Leif had told her nothing about his dangerous visit to the enemy lines before the battle. He had explained his absence by saying that Ivar had kept him in his hall to beguile the long hours of waiting for the attack by telling tales. Aebbe hadn’t believed it.

  Now she pressed him even more forcefully.

  ‘I don’t know what he wants,’ he said irritably.

  ‘More tales? This early in the day?’ She did not hide the disbelief in her voice. ‘The only lords to ask for a skald while the sun is high are those in their dribbling dotage.’

  ‘Well Ivar isn’t that, believe me,’ Leif said. He kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘Now I worry,’ she said, shaking her head miserably at his words.

  It was a cold, dank day with a ceaseless rain which, although not heavy, seemed to sink right into Leif’s flesh. He made his way through the narrow streets towards Ivar’s hall. The townspeople stared at him with sullen, angry eyes, despairing at the failure of their king to relieve the town. Leif ignored them, his mind churning with suspicions of his own.

  ‘Welcome, Leif,’ Ivar said. He stood by a door at the back of the hall and gestured him to enter.

  Leif found himself in a small chamber with no windows. The only light came from a stack of candles upon a table. As his eyes got used to the gloom he saw a number of people sitting on stools as if waiting for him: Halfdan, Ubbe, Sidrac, Guthrum and Kolga.

  ‘Ivar has told us about the bargain you struck with King Burgred,’ Ubbe said. ‘You did well. I see now why he sets such great store by you.’

  ‘Does he?’ Leif muttered, staring nervously at Ivar. He had no wish for such high repute. It always seemed to come with a heavy price.

  ‘I do,’ Ivar said. ‘And now you have the chance to win even greater glory. I want you to go to King Burgred and finalise the agreement.’

  He nodded to Guthrum who pushed a piece of parchment across the table.

  ‘These marks are words written in the English tongue,’ Ivar explained.

  ‘I have seen such marks,’ Leif said. ‘Deor can scribe them.’

  ‘It was Deor who made them,’ Ivar said. ‘It is a demand for tribute from the Mercians.’

  He gestured towards the shadows at the back of the hall and Deor stepped forward, took up the parchment and began to read.

  ‘A thousand pounds of silver,’ he began, ‘five hundred head of cattle, one hundred stallions and two hundred mares, a thousand sheep, a thousand hogs, ten thousand bushels of wheat and the same of barley, five hundred barrels of ale and one hundred of mead, five thousand slaves, all young women, two thousand bolts of fine woollen cloth and four score barrels of salted fish.’

  He rolled up the parchment and passed it to Leif.

  ‘Are you coming with me, Deor?’ he asked. He doubted that he would be able to manage the negotiations on his own.

  ‘He’s not but I am,’ Kolga said, before Deor could answer. ‘The leech is needed here to tend to the wounded,’ she continued. ‘I understand the Mercian tongue well enough.’

  Leif gave a wan smile. He was not sure if she would prove a help or cause disaster. But he knew there was no point in arguing.

  An hour later they entered the Mercian camp. The sky had cleared now and the sun shone brightly which was very different to how Leif felt. He walked in his own sodden rain-cloud.

  King Burgred sat in front of his tent with scores of warriors standing guard and four men on either side of him. To his right was King Æthelred of Wessex and beside him a younger man who Leif recognised as the prince, Alfred. The young Saxon glanced briefly at Leif and then turned his gaze on Kolga, placing his finger on his lip in a rapt and thoughtful manner.

  To Burgred’s right sat Ceolred, the man who had led the Mercian forces that had shadowed the Vikings on their way to Northumbria. He looked at Leif with sharp eyes. ‘Ivar’s Skald,’ he said, giving a nod of welcome.

  ‘My lord,’ Leif said, bowing his head. He comforted himself with the fact that Ceolred had dealt honestly with us on that occasion.

  But then his heart hammered. He realised that he had told Burgred that he was Eadbald, a monk from Kent.

  Burgred stared at him for a moment and gave a chill smile, as if this knowledge gave him power over Leif.

  To Ceolred’s left sat an older, wealthy looking man with locks well-groomed and hanging down to his shoulders. He was dressed in raiment almost as costly as that of the two kings and he wore it lightly as if it was his right and proper due.

  ‘This is the heathen’s emissary,’ Burgred explained.

  His words let slip that he had already met Leif but no one appeared to notice. None apart from the Saxon, Alfred, who gave the Mercian a look of surprise before swiftly masking it.

  Burgred indicated Kolga. ‘Is the woman Ivar’s whore?’

  The young warriors laughed although none of the men seated by the king did so.

  ‘I am Jarl Kolga,’ she said, putting one hand on her hip and eyeing Burgred as if she had a mind to cut out his tongue with her dagger.

  Burgred’s eyes narrowed. ‘I have heard of you,’ he said. ‘The daughter of Bjorn Blackbrow, I believe.’

  ‘You hear right,’ she said.

  ‘You claim to be a jarl?’ Alfred said, leaning forward, his eyes shining.

  ‘Not claim. Am.’

  ‘I hear it said that you are not Blackbrow’s daughter but Odin’s.’

  Now she laughed. ‘Not true. I do not search the battlefield for dead warriors, as Odin’s daughters do. I fill the battlefield with dead. Pray to your god that you won’t be one of them.’

  Alfred laughed quietly and received a stern look from his brother.

  ‘What do you want, Skald?’ Ceolred asked. ‘Why have you come here?’

  Leif risked a glance at Burgred who pretended to be equally curious.

  ‘Speak up,’ he said. ‘I also desire to know why you have come.’

  ‘Lord Ivar seeks only peace and friendship from the King of Mercia,’ Leif began. ‘He wishes to remain in this town for the winter months while travel is difficult. Then, in the spring, he will lead his companions back to Northumbria.’

  ‘Why such giddy movements?’ Æthelred asked. ‘You’ve only just left Northumbria.’

  ‘We came south because some of our men wish to return to their homelands.’

  ‘Then why did you come so far into Mercia?’ asked the old man beside Ceolred. ‘My lands lie close to the river Humber. You should have followed it directly east to the sea. But instead you journeyed down the Trent.’

  ‘Mucel is right,’ Ceolred said. ‘Explain yourself.’

  Leif was lost for words for a moment. Then inspiration came.

  ‘Although some of his men desired to do so,’ he said, ‘Ivar the Boneless had no intention of voyaging home overseas. He journeyed to Mercia to seek a treaty of friendship with King Burgred. He has long heard that he is a great and wise king.’

  His eyes flickered towards Burgred. He was not so wise, Leif decided, for these honeyed words appeared to flatter him. Not so the two young Saxons who stared at Leif with sharp suspicion.

  ‘A treaty,’ said Burgred in a thoughtful tone. He hesitated for a moment and glanced at his two lords although not at the Saxons. ‘This speaks wisdom on the part of Ivar.’

  He turned his gaze on Leif once again, his face composed and serious. ‘Peace is something wise lords desire for their folk, Eanbald.’

  Alfred had grown still more intense and said to Burgred, ‘It is truly a wise king who has never met an emissary but knows that he is called Eanbald.’

  Burgred hesitated for a moment but quickly recovered. ‘I had message from one of my guards,’ he said smoothly and then turned to address Leif. ‘I presume the guard was right in saying your name is Eanbald?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Leif replied, nervously. He was alarmed that Alfred had seen through the pret
ence.

  ‘Enough of talk,’ Kolga said, sharply. She thrust the parchment at King Burgred. ‘This is what Boneless demands.’

  ‘This is what he requests,’ Leif added quickly. ‘Merely enough to keep his warriors well-fed and content.’

  He decided there was no need to say how Ivar would react if he were not bought off in this manner. He had no need to.

  Burgred studied the parchment swiftly and rolled it up. ‘That seems very reasonable,’ he said. ‘A fair and just request.’

  He leaned over Ceolred and handed the parchment to Mucel before anyone else could get sight of it.

  ‘There is no point in your seeking to keep the document,’ Kolga said. ‘As a good Skald, Leif has memorised it and knows exactly what we demand.’

  Alfred and Æthelred exchanged glances. ‘You are a man of many names,’ Æthelred said, at last.

  Leif forced a smile upon his face. He decided it would be safest if he spoke the truth to the two sharp young Saxons.

  ‘My name is indeed Leif,’ he answered. ‘I gave my name as Eanbald in order to make my way more easily through the camp.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Alfred said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

  ‘I should return to Ivar,’ Leif said, unnerved by his tone. ‘He’ll want to know your response.’

  ‘No,’ said Burgred. ‘We would have you stay here, friend, as our guest.’

  Guards began to hustle Kolga and Leif away. They tried to protest but it did no good.

  Leif looked back and saw that the Mercian and Saxon lords were already locked in bitter dispute.

  ‘We came all this way at your request,’ Æthelred shouted. ‘Many of our men died in battle for you. Yet now you give up the fight.’

  ‘I am King of Mercia,’ Burgred cried, climbing to his feet. ‘I do as I please.’

  The Vikings heard no more for they were pushed along at still faster pace until they were out of earshot. Ivar will be pleased when I tell him of the discord between the two kings, Leif thought. If I get back to bring him the news.

  They were lodged in a large tent with costly furnishings and a table laid out with food and drink. Leif was hungry but did not think it was intended for them. But being here calmed his fears, a little. If the English had wanted to kill them, he reasoned, they would have done it straight away and not brought them here.

  He sank onto a stool and wondered how long Burgred would keep them captive. Presumably until he had considered how much of Ivar’s demands he could meet. And until the Saxon’s suspicions had eased.

  A little later a figure entered the tent, with three warriors by his side. It was the older man, Mucel.

  ‘Leave us,’ he said to the guards.

  ‘But Ealdorman,’ one of them said, ‘they are Vikings.’

  ‘A woman and a wordsmith,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘I have no fear of them.’

  Reluctantly the guards left the tent although they were careful to position themselves on either side of the opening.

  ‘You are an ealdorman,’ Kolga said. ‘The same rank as me.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, half-Dane. I am of the lineage of great men, stretching back into distant years. You’re merely the child of a pirate.’

  ‘And weren’t your ancestors pirates?’ Kolga said. ‘This was not originally the land of your folk, and you know it.’

  ‘True. But my ancestors wrested it from lesser people.’

  ‘As we will wrest it from you.’

  Mucel gave a derisive laugh. ‘You may try. But the boastful killer who leads you is not the man to do it.’

  ‘Then a woman, perhaps?’

  Mucel chuckled. ‘Perhaps. On the day the sun rises in the west.’

  At that point the door to the tent opened and a young woman entered. She was dressed in a flaming red gown with a fur-trimmed cloak on top of it.

  ‘Father,’ she said. ‘Why are you alone with these Vikings?’ She tried but failed to quell the anxiety in her voice.

  ‘I want to talk with them, is all.’

  She shot him a dubious glance.

  ‘This is my daughter, Ealswith,’ Mucel said. ‘She is betrothed to the young Saxon, Prince Alfred, and will wed him tomorrow.’

  She looked astonished at his words. ‘So soon?’

  ‘King Burgred wishes to return to Tamworth,’ Mucel said. ‘Your mother and I will go with him. You, however, will go to Wessex with your new husband.’

  ‘So you are to wed the prince with the lustful eyes?’ Kolga said with a malicious smile.

  Ealswith blushed. ‘I did not know he looks at me in that fashion.’

  ‘I’m not talking about you,’ Kolga said. ‘It was me his eyes devoured in such wanton fashion.’

  Ealswith’s face now turned white with fury. ‘How dare you speak of my betrothed like this,’ she cried.

  She took a step towards Kolga as if she meant to slap her but Kolga moved swift as a pouncing cat, towering over her with a deadly dagger gleaming in her hand.

  ‘Harm one hair of her head and I’ll skin you alive,’ Mucel said quietly.

  Kolga did not respond for a moment, then sheathed her knife and sat down. Leif don’t know if she believed the ealdorman’s threat but he certainly did.

  Suddenly there was a loud hubbub from without, the sound of voices raised in anger. Then one of Mucel’s guards ducked into the tent.

  ‘A thousand pardons, my lord,’ he said nervously. ‘But the Saxon brothers are here and say that the wedding must take place now.’

  Mucel frowned. ‘Why now? It was going to be tomorrow.’

  ‘Because we’re leaving today,’ said Æthelred, pushing his way into the tent. He saw Ealswith and bowed courteously. ‘Lady. I hope that this haste does not cause you any difficulties.’

  ‘It does, actually. My ladies have not finished their preparations.’

  ‘Then they must shift themselves. The wedding takes place before dusk.’

  So, to Leif’s astonishment, he was one of the few people who witnessed the royal marriage ceremony.

  Ealswith had changed into a white gown which gleamed like the first snow of winter. Her hair was dark, almost black, which was in marked contrast to the rest of the gathering with their straw-coloured hair and pale faces. She looked strained, angry and fiercely beautiful.

  Alfred was dressed in gleaming chain-mail with a dark blue cloak flapping in the breeze behind him. The ceremony was long and tedious, spoken by a fat priest in a language which neither Leif nor Kolga could understand and which, Leif observed, few of the rest of the assembly could either. He guessed it to be the language of the Christ God.

  He was surprised to see that the only person with even a scrap of understanding was the young prince himself. The priest was forced to give instructions by gesture and in whispers in the English tongue. But Alfred appeared to understand a modicum of the strange tongue, responding to the words before the priest signed or whispered.

  So, Leif thought, lustful, intelligent and holy. A strange combination.

  At length the ceremony was completed and the couple were pronounced man and wife. But there was to be no feast of celebration. The Saxon army had already made preparations and were waiting only for the conclusion of the wedding to strike camp.

  The young brothers were courteous enough to King Burgred but that did not hide the anger they clearly felt at his making peace with Ivar. The two kings gave each other a swift and cursory embrace and mumbled curt words of farewell. Ealswith climbed into a covered waggon and the army moved out.

  Leif stood watching with Kolga, thinking that with the Saxons gone, they would soon be allowed to go back to the town.

  But as he considered this he was seized by strong arms.

  ‘You’re coming with us,’ said a voice in his ear. ‘King Æthelred wants to know more about you and your bastard chieftain.’

  Kolga fought furiously with the men who laid hands upon her but to no avail. They were overwhelmed and, as darkness fell, were carried
off in the wake of the Saxon host.

  THE ROAD TO WESSEX

  The Saxon army pressed on for hours by the light of the moon. Leif wondered at this. Surely the King of Wessex could not think Kolga and he an important enough prize to justify this haste? It was a foolish notion. It was more likely that Æthelred had lost all trust in King Burgred. Perhaps he even feared that the Mercian would ally himself with Ivar and attack the Saxon army.

  At any rate Æthelred drove his men forward at speed and it was only when clouds began to shroud the moon that he called a halt. He ordered pickets to surround the camp and told his men to keep their weapons close to hand. He was taking no chances.

  Nor were the Saxons taking chances with their captives. Their wrists had been bound when they were captured and now that the army had halted their ankles were tied as well.

  Leif could hear Kolga cursing as they bound her. It would go ill with the Saxons if she ever got loose.

  He sat with his head bowed, cursing the fate which had befallen him, muttering angrily and miserably. Things had been going well with him, with ample money, a good woman, children, good friends and high standing with his lord and peers. And then this. He muttered even more angrily.

  ‘What are you complaining about?’ Kolga demanded.

  ‘At my life,’ Leif snapped. ‘One day, everything is good and the next I am thrown into the dirt.’

  ‘Some men are born unlucky. Perhaps you are one.’

  ‘It’s not that. I’ve been cursed by Loki.’

  She fell silent so he knew that she was intrigued. So he told her all that had happened between the god and him since the day he caught sight of him in the smithy.

  ‘I suspect it is Loki who curses me,’ he said finally. ‘I am his plaything.’

  ‘Then what are you going to do about it?’ she asked.

  ‘What can I do?’

  When she spoke again it was in a gentler tone.

  ‘You can learn from him, Leif,’ she said. ‘Loki is a trickster god. He turns a smiling face upon a man while sharpening a knife behind his back. Learn from him. Become a trickster, yourself. Many men worship Loki. Perhaps if you do you’ll reap the reward.’

  Leif did not reply. But he spent much of the night pondering her words.