by Martin Lake
The army set out early the next morning. The captives were given ponies to ride; it seemed that they were considered worthy of some consideration. The straps on their wrists had been loosened sufficiently to allow them to hold the reins but they were still an encumbrance. It would be impossible for them to escape.
‘Why do you think they want us?’ Kolga whispered. ‘Do they really think we have much to tell them about Ivar?’
‘I expect that’s part of it,’ Leif said. ‘We Vikings have always been raiders in the past; Ivar is behaving differently and they’ll want to know why. But I suspect they also did it to annoy Burgred and cause him grief. They’ll believe that Ivar will be angry at our capture and may seek retribution on him.’
Kolga laughed. ‘As if Boneless would bother that much about us.’
Leif nodded. ‘Well it shows they don’t know much about him.’
He fell silent, pondering his next words, anxious to say them right. ‘But the Saxons will also be pleased that they have captured a jarl. Especially one who has Ivar’s favour.’
‘I take Boneless to my bed when it suits us both,’ she said. ‘I’m hardly a cause for him to stir himself to hunt for me.’
‘I’m not so sure. He won’t be happy that his woman has been so brazenly taken from him.’
She did not answer although Leif noticed a swift smile of pleasure cross her face.
They journeyed fast and next day passed through the Mercian town of Leicester where they took a good, straight, ancient road leading to the south west. From then on, they were able to make even swifter progress and the brothers forced the pace. They seemed to be in a hurry to get across Mercia.
The kingdom appeared to be a wealthy one, more like East Anglia than barren Northumbria. If Ivar were to see this, his eyes would grow huge with greed. It was no wonder that Burgred had been keen to buy him off.
But if Mercia appeared rich then Wessex was wealthier yet.
The army reached Æthelred’s kingdom after a further five days of hard slog. Mercia had been heavily forested but Wessex was more open, with high downs dotted with sheep and cattle and small hamlets every few miles.
The mood of the Saxons lifted the moment they crossed the River Avon. The men had force-marched across Mercia with heads down and sour hearts. Now they were home they felt safe and relaxed.
Leif hugged this observation to himself. The English were more divided than even Ivar believed. The ancient enmity between each kingdom was living and potent. We could make good use of this, he thought.
Æthelred dismissed his army and headed west with his brother, their household warriors and the Viking captives. They arrived at the king’s Great Hall in Cheddar as the sun was setting. Even in the failing light it looked huge, a slumbering fat beast of a building. Inside it was more richly decorated than the other halls Leif had seen. There were three huge fires and the air seemed made of the scent of meat and mead.
The Saxons were welcomed by Æthelred’s wife, Wulfthryth and his two young sons, the younger only a babe in arms, the elder a toddler.
Wulfthryth made a great fuss of Alfred’s bride who seemed sullen and unhappy. Little wonder, Leif thought. She must feel as much a captive as I do.
Except he soon found out this was not the case. There was a warm welcome for Ealswith but that for the Vikings was colder than ice. They were taken out of the hall and Kolga was marched off to a mean hut a little way distant with a guard placed outside the door. Leif was taken even further. Next to some kennels there was a small shed and he was forced into this.
He was no great size but the shed was barely large enough for him; he filled almost the entire space. He sat on the floor with his back to one wall and his knees raised high. There was no hope of stretching out his legs, let alone lying down.
He reached up in the darkness and felt the roof a little way above his head. His heart began to race. He felt trapped, unable to breathe.
Feverishly he pushed at the door but it was locked fast and only gave a little. A faint glimmer of light came through the crack but it was barely enough to even see his hand.
I’m doomed, he thought. I’ll never see my friends again.
He had no idea how long he languished in the cell. Food and foul water were passed in through the door but he was not allowed to go out even to move his bowels. He pissed where he sat and had to scoop his shit into the corner of the cell. The stench grew unbearable but, after a time, he barely noticed it.
His only companions were unseen ones, the hounds in the nearby kennel. He spent each day listening to their noise: growls, whimpers, barks. After a few days he was able to distinguish them by the sounds they made. There were about a dozen all in all. Some he imagined to be tiny, little larger than kittens, while others were great brutes reared to fight bulls and wolves and bears. And me, he wondered? I am less than a hound, less than a brute.
He began to lose hope, his mind descending to an endless cycle of despair. Will I be left here to die? Is this the famous charity and compassion of the Christ-followers?
He knew well that the Danes had a reputation for savagery and, some, no doubt deserved it. Eohric and Halfdan, for example.
But not me, he thought. I never sought to be a Viking. Never sought the harm of others. And now I’ll be kept here until I die. Why has this happened to me?
And then he realised. He saw again Loki’s shadowy shape in the smoke and steam of the smithy. The god of tricks and falsehood had been biding his time, allowing Leif to enjoy life, to find a pretty woman, have children, rise high in the esteem of his lord and grow richer. And now this. Kolga had told him to make friends with the god and he had heard this and decided to play ever more false. Loki had thrown him to the wolves.
But finally, when Leif’s body was continually burning with pain and he thought he was on the verge of madness, the door was opened and a gruff voice told him to get out.
He had no idea of the time but the light was so bright he felt blinded by it. He shifted himself to his knees and began to crawl out, each movement a fiery agony. As soon as he poked his head outside he swallowed great gasps of air. It tasted wonderful.
‘King Æthelred wants you,’ the guard said. He leaned closer and sniffed. ‘Christ, you’re disgusting. You can’t go to him in this state.’ The man pushed him towards a well.
Leif glanced into the kennels as he passed, eager to see if he had been correct in his picture of the dogs. He was, more or less. There were about a dozen of them, of all shapes and sizes. They watched as he passed by and he thought that they did so with sympathy.
It was now close to mid-winter but, despite this, Leif was ordered to strip naked and the guard threw bucket after bucket of freezing water over him. His teeth chattered so much he thought they would jump out of his mouth and he began to shake uncontrollably.
‘Get him some fresh clothes,’ the guard called to a servant. He kicked Leif’s noisome rags away. ‘And burn these.’
He was soon dressed in a rough tunic and thick woollen leggings. The heat gradually began to return to his body.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said. He was surprised how weak and frail he sounded.
‘Do you think I care,’ the guard said. He thrust Leif towards the hall.
To what, he wondered. My death?
He almost swooned when he entered. The warmth engulfed him like the thickest of blankets and the smell of food was a torment. At the back of the hall he saw a number of fires with meat turning on spits: beef, mutton, pork and game. He had to wipe his mouth clear of dribble.
‘Bow when you get close to the king,’ the guard grunted in his ear.
Leif forced his legs to cross the hall to where Æthelred and Alfred sat talking with great animation. Two brothers at heart, despite their great standing. Leif wondered if Sigurd believed him alive or dead. He thought of Aebbe and the children and his heart ached. Would he ever see any of them again?
He stopped in front of the brothers. Their conversation ended and they looked
him up and down. He recalled what the guard had told him and bowed his head.
‘How do you like your lodgings?’ Æthelred asked.
Leif did not know how to answer. What did he expect him to say?
‘I do not care for my cell,’ he said finally. ‘I think it might be the death of me.’
He said it lightly for he did not wish to antagonise them. But neither did he wish to hide the fact that he was suffering in a hell-hole.
‘Well, clearly it hasn’t proved so, yet,’ Alfred said. ‘You look disgusting but still very much alive.’
‘And for that I’m grateful,’ Leif said.
‘You’ll be returned there,’ Æthelred said, ‘the moment we’ve finished with you.’ He picked up a cup of wine and sipped it. ‘Unless…’
The word hung on the air, so pregnant with meaning, so powerful, yet so devoid of any sense of how to respond.
‘Unless?’ Leif repeated.
‘Unless you tell us what we want,’ Alfred snapped. ‘Your friend has been forthcoming as far as she’s able. But she’s told us that you are closer to Ivar and have been so since childhood. That you are the more privy to his hopes and plans.’
Leif cursed Kolga for saying these lies. He wouldn’t be able to tell the Saxons things that a man close to Ivar would know. But he realised she had probably done it for the best, to give him some chance of survival.
He tried to hold his sense of panic in check. And then he heard a voice whisper in his head.
It doesn’t matter that you have no knowledge of Ivar’s plans, the voice said. Indeed, who does? It’s doubtful if even Halfdan or Ubbe have more than an inkling.
Leif gasped at this revelation. He could say anything and the Saxons would not know if he spoke true or false. The vital thing was to tell them things that they thought important. Important enough for them to wish to hear more. Important enough to keep him from being dragged back to the cell.
‘I would answer fully,’ he said, ‘but my head is light from lack of food and drink.’
Alfred stared at him for a moment, his eyes sharp with suspicion. Then he glanced at his brother who beckoned to a servant.
‘Sit, Leif,’ Æthelred said. ‘Eat and drink and then you will be in a fit state to answer us.’
‘And if you don’t,’ Alfred said, ‘we’ll send you back to your cell.’
A fine Christ-follower you are, Leif thought. You’re as ruthless as Ivar.
A WEB OF LIES
A servant brought Leif a plate of meat hot from the spit. His fingers burned as he tore it into chunks but he was heedless of the pain. He shovelled it into his mouth, wincing at the heat, chewed swiftly, swallowed and gulped a mouthful of ale to cool his mouth. Then, once more, he tore at the meat, shovelled, swallowed.
Æthelred and Alfred watched him in silence. Their former antagonism appeared to be fading. If anything, they seemed amused at the way he was wolfing down his food.
Casually, they turned towards their own plates and picked slowly at their meat. More slowly than Leif. They did not know what it was to starve.
Finally, the hole in Leif’s stomach was filled and he leaned back and regarded the brothers. ‘The food is good,’ he said.
‘You are no longer faint?’ Æthelred asked.
Leif shook his head.
‘Good. Then you can answer our questions.’
He glanced at his brother. Alfred’s eyes were bright with anticipation and he leaned forward, cradling his chin in his hands.
‘Why has Ivar the Boneless come to this land?’ Æthelred asked.
‘He is a Dane,’ Leif answered, ‘a Viking. He comes as all Vikings do, to plunder and grow rich.’
‘But he dwelt a long time in Ireland, or so the woman Kolga told us. Why did he not stay there where he held many lands and enjoyed great wealth?’
Leif took a sip at his ale. In truth he had no clear idea why Ivar had left Ireland. But then he recalled Kolga taunting him once about his enemies there.
‘Ireland had grown less profitable for him,’ he said cautiously. He saw that this had piqued the brothers’ interest. So far, so good.
‘There were rivals for his wealth,’ he continued, more confidently, ‘men from Norway and the northern isles as well as the Irish themselves.’
Even as he spoke Leif was thinking fast. His life might well depend on what he said.
He needed them to believe that Ivar was a powerful lord, and potentially a threat to them. But not too great a danger because that might turn their fear and anger against him. He wanted them to think that Ivar was the sort of man who could be bought off, controlled. But, of course, they must be made to realise that they could only achieve this delicate act if they had an ally who would work with them.
A man who knew Ivar as intimately as Kolga claimed that Leif did.
‘So his power was waning in Ireland?’ Æthelred asked.
‘Not waning,’ Leif replied. He was all at once the helpful ally they needed. ‘But things were proving more burdensome.’
‘And he thought there would be easier pickings in England?’
Leif nodded.
‘But why did he bring such a large army?’ Alfred said. ‘And why did he overwinter? Not just once, but now, a second year?’
Leif felt his teeth gnawing at his lips. This was not a question he relished. He dared not say that Ivar had come to carve out lands for himself for that would put the fear of the gods into them and make them savage with anger. But Alfred, he suspected, was not the sort of man to have the wool pulled over his eyes. He had to come up with something plausible.
Fortunately, he was given time for Æthelred asked a different question.
‘You said he came to plunder? But a large host needs much plunder. Where was the sense of it? Why didn’t he come with a smaller number of men?’
‘Vanity,’ Leif said.
‘Vanity?’
‘Yes, my lord. Ivar is vain beyond all measure. He does not wish the world to think him a common pirate, master of half a dozen longships and a crew of ragged vagabonds. He wants to appear a great and mighty lord, with more renown than any other Dane.’
‘Like a king, perhaps?’ Alfred said quietly.
Leif’s eyes shifted to him. He was as watchful as a cat hunting a bird.
This was the most dangerous question imaginable. Leif had allowed himself to walk into a trap.
For a while now Leif had begun to suspect that becoming a king was what Ivar wanted deep in his heart. He had shown no evidence of it, as yet. He had demanded vast tribute from Edmund of East Anglia, slain the rival kings of Northumbria yet seemed content to place Echberht on the throne. But Leif sensed that this was no longer enough.
He suspected that Ivar’s decision to leave Northumbria for Mercia was more than just a raid for slaves and treasure. Why else would he have taken so much of his army with him? The story he had told Burgred about his men seeking to return home was a blatant lie. But was his purpose to seek a kingdom? Leif closed his eyes a moment, as if by doing so he could glimpse the workings of Ivar’s heart. Were his suspicions about Ivar’s ambition correct? Were Alfred’s?
Leif shook the question from his mind. It didn’t matter a whit what Ivar’s real wishes are. What matters is that I say something, anything, to keep me alive.
‘More food, my lord?’ he asked, playing for time. ‘My hunger is still great.’
Æthelred looked annoyed at the request but gestured a servant to bring him more.
Leif eyed the plate carefully. There was less meat upon the plate this time, and much of it fat and gristle. But that meant it took him a while to chew the first mouthful. Time to come up with what he hoped was a good answer.
Finally, Alfred lost patience. ‘I asked if Ivar desires to be a king?’
Leif took a deep breath, realising that a carefully constructed answer might satisfy all their questions.
‘You see with clear eyes, my lord,’ he said. ‘Ivar hungers to become a king.’
&n
bsp; Alfred glanced swiftly at his brother. Æthelred blanched. This was clearly a thing they had long debated.
‘Of Wessex?’ Æthelred asked. His voice seemed suddenly faint and weak.
‘No,’ Leif said as briskly as he could. ‘Wessex is far too powerful for that. He seeks an easier prey. He aims for the kingdom of the East Angles.’
There was silence while the brothers digested this news.
‘Then why did he go south into Mercia?’ Alfred asked at last.
‘To gain more supplies before turning to the east. And to surprise the East Angles by attacking overland from the west and not using his ships to land on the northern coast.’
Leif glanced at the brothers as casually as he could manage. Would they allow themselves to believe it? The alternative, that Ivar had set his eye on Wessex, was far too alarming.
‘You are certain of this?’ Æthelred asked at last.
‘Not certain, my lord,’ Leif answered. ‘Ivar has also talked of taking the throne of Northumbria or of returning to Denmark. He is cunning and devious and it requires a shrewd man to ascertain what he plans.’
‘A man like yourself, perhaps?’ Æthelred said.
‘I am his Skald, my lord,’ he answered in self-deprecating tone. They could read into that what they would.
‘We must ponder this carefully,’ Æthelred said. ‘In the meanwhile, you will be housed in a hut more to your liking. But your legs will be leashed so don’t bother to think of escape.’
‘I’ve no idea where I am,’ Leif said. ‘Only a fool would try to escape.’
‘And you’re no fool, are you?’ Alfred said. His tone was a mix of admiration and suspicion.
‘I believe not,’ Leif answered.
Æthelred dismissed him with a gesture.
He was led out of the hall and taken into a hut by a couple of guards. They lashed his ankles together with strong leather bonds. They did a good job; without a knife it would be impossible to sever them.
‘There’s bread and ale,’ one said gruffly, or at least that’s what Leif thought he said. He spoke in a strange, sing-song, drawling manner, as did many of the Saxons.