Winter of the Wolves

by Tony Bradman

  ‘Does the red dragon stand for the Britons, and the white for us?’ said Oslaf.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Wermund with a shrug, a strange look on his face. ‘Or perhaps they stand for all those who cannot settle their feuds. Listen, Oslaf, I wanted…’

  Suddenly there was a new noise, a whooshing sound, and the sky darkened with arrows fired by the Britons. ‘Shields up!’ Tovi yelled. Oslaf got his raised just in time, as an arrow thwacked into the wood, its barbed head punching through. Others were not so fast, and there were screams from men and horses who were hit. Wuffa’s archers fired back, but then the Britons swept down the hill, their lances lowered.

  ‘With me, men!’ Alfgar called out, urging his horse forward up the slope to meet the Britons. His hearth-companions followed, among them Oslaf and Wermund. Oslaf’s mind emptied of everything except the sound of his horse’s hooves pounding on the ground and the sight of Alfgar and Tovi ahead and the Britons rushing down towards them. He gripped his horse with his knees and bellowed a war cry.

  The Britons smashed into the hearth-companions. On both sides shields were splintered and men were flung from their saddles. A Briton jabbed his lance at Oslaf’s face but he ducked, thrusting his own spear in return. Another Briton slashed at him with his spatha and Oslaf only just managed to take the blow on his shield. Soon he found himself trapped in a dense, struggling mass of flesh and sharp steel. The noise around him was deafening – men were shouting, horses screaming, blades clanging.

  Then his mount stumbled on something under its hooves, a body perhaps, and Oslaf was thrown headlong, losing his grip on both shield and spear. He crashed to the ground and lay stunned for a moment, the battle strangely distant now…

  After a while he shook his head to clear it, and rose unsteadily to his feet. The fighting had moved on down the slope, leaving a trail of blood and death in its wake. The twisted bodies of warriors and horses lay around him, a few of the men groaning, a horse squealing horribly as it tried to stand. Then Oslaf saw something that made his own blood run cold. Alfgar was lying on his back, a lance sticking out of his chest, the shaft broken off halfway. Wermund was kneeling beside him.

  Suddenly Oslaf heard the pounding of hooves. A Briton with a spatha was galloping his white horse up the slope towards Alfgar and Wermund. Oslaf cried out a warning, but Wermund didn’t hear. So Oslaf ran in front of the Briton’s horse, waving his arms and yelling as loudly as he could. The horse was startled and reared over him, pawing the air with its great hooves, the rider yanking at the reins, struggling to stay in the saddle and get his mount back under control.

  Then the horse brought down its hooves and trampled Oslaf into the ground. After that there was only darkness shot through with pain, the most terrible pain…

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A Tale to Tell

  For a long time Oslaf didn’t know where he was. Strange flashes lit up the darkness and faces appeared, their mouths moving, saying words he didn’t understand. There were strange visions too – his parents on the hillside above the farmhouse, reaching out to him, the seagull circling above. The young Briton he had killed coming back to life and attacking him, brushing his shield aside, slashing at him with his sword…

  Oslaf woke with a shock and sat bolt upright, gasping for breath.

  ‘Fear not, Oslaf, I am here,’ said somebody, the voice calm and soothing. He felt an arm round his shoulders, and realised it was Elfritha. ‘Drink this,’ she said, holding a cup to his lips. His mouth filled with a warm, sweet liquid that had a tang to it.

  He saw that he was in the private chamber of Alfgar and Elfritha, lying on their bed. Gunnhild was on the other side of the bed, smiling at him. Elfritha and Gunnhild helped him lean back against the headboard, but then the pain returned and he cried out. He looked down – his left leg was tightly bound with bandages from his groin to below the knee. It was throbbing, and the hurt was almost too much to bear.

  Suddenly memories of the battle flooded into his mind and he gripped Elfritha’s hand. ‘Lord Alfgar…’ he murmured. ‘And Wermund, does he still live?’

  ‘Alfgar is in the Land of the Dead,’ Elfritha said, and now Oslaf noticed the dark rings like bruises under her eyes and heard the sadness in her voice. ‘Wermund lives, and he and Tovi and the others brought Alfgar home. We raised a mound of earth to make a tomb fitting for a great chieftain, and buried my husband in it three days ago. Then we proclaimed Wermund chieftain, as his father would have wanted.’

  ‘Three days ago?’ said Oslaf, confused. ‘But… how long have I been asleep? And what about the battle? Did we beat the Britons? Tell me, I have to know!’

  ‘Calm yourself, Oslaf,’ Gunnhild said softly. ‘We will bring you food now you are awake at last, and while you eat we will tell you everything that happened…’

  When the food arrived – a bowl of stew and some crusty bread – Oslaf realised he was starving and he ate ravenously, listening to Elfritha and Gunnhild. He was relieved to find out the Angles and Saxons had been victorious, and proud when he heard why. If Alfgar hadn’t ordered his men up the hill to meet the Britons, the enemy would almost certainly have destroyed Wuffa’s war-host, like a wave sweeping all before it. As it was, they were broken on the rock of the hearth-companions.

  But the Britons were tough and stubborn, and the fight had gone on for some time. Eventually Wuffa had led the war-host to the top of the hill and driven them off. They had left hundreds of their men dead on the battlefield, and had pulled back deeper into their own lands. The war wasn’t finished yet, though – it seemed Wuffa was sure there would be another battle before long, with the Britons turning like a stag at bay.

  ‘Not too soon, I hope,’ said Oslaf, wiping the bowl with the last of the bread. The pain in his leg had receded a little, perhaps because his stomach was full now, or more likely because of the drink Elfritha had given him. ‘I want to be at that battle so I can take vengeance for Alfgar. When will I be able to ride and fight?’

  Gunnhild looked at her mother. Elfritha took Oslaf’s right hand in both of hers. ‘I am sorry to tell you this, Oslaf,’ Elfritha said, her voice gentle. ‘In time you might be able to ride again, at least after a fashion. But your fighting days are over.’

  It felt to Oslaf as if all the air had instantly been sucked out of his lungs.

  ‘What… what do you mean?’ he said, staring at her. She held his gaze.

  ‘Your thigh-bone was broken and your knee smashed,’ she said. ‘I have set the bone and done everything I can for your knee, but I do not think it will ever be as it was before. You will limp for the rest of your days, perhaps quite badly…’

  She said more, but Oslaf stopped listening. He wanted to argue, to shout and scream and tell her she couldn’t possibly be right. But everyone in the tribe trusted her judgement in such matters. So if the Lady Elfritha said he would never be a warrior again, he knew he should accept it. And just like that, in the space of a few heartbeats, he felt the life he had built for himself begin to crumble into dust.

  ‘Leave me,’ he said. He lay down and pulled a blanket over his head.

  Then he closed his eyes and burrowed deep into the darkness inside.

  Spring turned into summer at the settlement of the Alfgaringas, as they still called themselves, even though Alfgar lay in his mound. Oslaf slowly got better, the pain in his leg fading. There were some bad days, and for a while in the hottest part of the summer he had a fever that kept him in bed and gave him strange visions again. But by autumn he could walk, although he needed the help of a wooden staff.

  Wermund and Tovi and the other men had returned to the war-host after Alfgar’s funeral. News came of them from time to time – there was another battle, the Britons were pushed westwards even more, but they still refused to give up. Then one chilly, rainy day Wermund and the rest of the hearth-companions rode into the settlement. Both sides were exhausted and had agreed there would be no more fighting until next spring.

  That winter, as the
nights grew longer and the days darker, Oslaf sank into a deep gloom. He rarely spoke, not even to Gunnhild, preferring to sit in silence on Widsith’s old stool by the hearth-fire, looking into the flames, brooding on how things might have been. One afternoon, Wermund pulled up a stool and sat down on the other side of the hearth from him. Apart from the two of them the hall seemed empty.

  ‘Don’t worry, Wermund,’ said Oslaf. ‘I can save you the bother of telling me I don’t have a place here any more. I will leave tomorrow and never return.’

  ‘Is that what you think I want?’ Wermund met his gaze across the flames.

  ‘Of course! You have hated me from the day we first met and never wanted me here. It was your father who took me in. But now you are chieftain of the tribe, you can finally throw me out.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Oslaf, you are wrong. I am here to thank you for saving my life. And I wanted to ask why you did it. You are right, I have never been a friend to you.’

  Oslaf had wondered about that himself, but now he knew the answer. ‘I swore I would fight to the death for your father… and my shield-brothers,’ he said with a shrug.

  ‘I swore the same oath, and now I see what it truly means,’ said Wermund. ‘I am sorry for how I treated you in the past, Oslaf. You are one of us, and you will always have a place by my hearth. I only hope you can forgive me for everything…’

  ‘Forgiving you is easy,’ Oslaf said. ‘But I will not stay if I cannot be of use to the tribe. I can’t be a warrior now, so what else can I do? I will just be what I was to begin with – another useless mouth to feed. No, I will leave tomorrow.’

  Wermund spoke again, trying to make him change his mind, but Oslaf refused to listen or even look at him. Eventually Wermund gave up and left him alone.

  ‘He was telling the truth, Oslaf,’ someone said. He looked round and Gunnhild came out of the shadows. ‘None of us wants you to leave… especially me.’

  ‘But what can I do?’ he said. ‘You know I would rather die than sit idle while others work or fight. I cannot do that… it just wouldn’t be right or fair.’ His eyes filled with tears, and he turned away from her so she wouldn’t see.

  ‘There is something you can do,’ she said. ‘You can be our scop.’

  Oslaf shook his head. ‘I am too young to be a scop, and I would never be good enough. A scop needs to have lived long and seen and done many things.’

  ‘No, you’re wrong. Widsith thought you were good enough already. In fact he was always telling everyone you were much better than he was at your age.’

  ‘Did he?’ Oslaf was surprised and pleased. Maybe the idea wasn’t so impossible then. If Widsith had believed in him, perhaps he should believe in himself…

  Later that day he went to retrieve Widsith’s harp. He had put it away in an old wooden chest to keep it safe when he had gone to fight the Britons. The harp was a little out of tune, but fine otherwise, and seemed to come alive, twanging when he ran his fingers lightly over the strings. He thought about the wonderful stories Widsith had told in his spellbinding way, and realised he knew most of them by heart.

  Then it occurred to him that he knew quite a few other stories too, the tales of the Geats his father had taught him. Widsith had said the ‘Tale of the Monsters from the Lake’ was one of the best stories he had ever heard. Suddenly he heard Woden’s voice in his mind once more – or was it the voice of Widsith? It is your fate to be a scop, Oslaf, your wyrd, he said. And a hall needs a scop as much as it needs a hearth-fire…

  Oslaf went off to find a quiet place where he could practise alone.

  Five days later, on the longest night of the year, the people of the settlement gathered in the hall – Wermund’s hall now – for the Yuletide feast. Outside a cold wind howled, bringing sleet and snow from the north. But inside there was warmth and light, the hearth-fire burning brightly, and plenty of food and drink and talk and laughter. There were tears and sadness too, as toasts were made in memory of all those who had died.

  After a time Oslaf rose from the bench where he had been sitting with Gunnhild and Elfritha and Wermund, and went to sit on Widsith’s stool by the hearth.

  ‘Quiet, everyone!’ Wermund yelled, and an expectant silence fell in the hall.

  Oslaf looked at all the faces, his eyes coming to rest at last on Gunnhild, her golden hair shining in the firelight. She smiled at him and he smiled back, although he felt almost as sick with fear as he had done before the battle with the Britons.

  ‘I will start with a story my father told me,’ he said. ‘The Tale of Beowulf.’

  He took a deep breath, let it out, and boldly struck the opening chord.

  Listen! I sing of Spear-Danes and doom in days gone past,

  Of grim Kings and great deeds, of death and gore,

  Of monsters and mayhem, a young man of courage…

  The silence in the hall seemed to deepen and everyone leaned forward to listen, so Oslaf knew he had them gripped. He realised he was telling the story well, better than he had ever told it before. Perhaps it was because he had been through so much himself. Now, when he sang of fear and triumph, happiness and grief, he understood just how those things felt – and that they all passed, or became something else.

  He finished the tale at last, and the hall was filled with cheers and people calling out his name. Wermund stood and raised his drinking horn to him in salute.

  ‘I give you Oslaf, our new scop!’ he roared. ‘Here’s to his next tale!’

  Oslaf smiled. He did have another wonderful tale to tell, the story of a kinless boy who found a new family and went with them to build a home in a new land.

  He struck an even bolder opening chord on the harp, and started to tell it.

  Historical Note

  Britain was part of the Roman Empire for nearly four hundred years. The original Celtic inhabitants had their own culture and language, but had gradually become very Romanised, particularly in southern and eastern Britain. Many of them probably spoke Latin, the language of the Romans, as well as their own tongue. They had also given up their gods and become Christians, along with most of the Empire.

  However, during the fourth and fifth centuries, the Roman Empire faced many problems, and was being invaded by tribes from beyond its borders. By the end of the fifth century the Empire – at least in its western part – had completely collapsed, and the invaders began to carve their own lands out of its remains. The peoples who came to Britain were originally from the part of Europe we now know as northern Germany and Denmark. They were called the Angles and the Saxons, and it was said their original homelands remained almost empty of people for years after they left.

  This period of history in Britain is something of a dark time. There are few written records of what happened, but quite a few legends. We do know that the Britons fought the Angles and Saxons for centuries, but were pushed westwards, into Wales – ‘Wales’ is actually the Anglo-Saxon word for ‘foreigners’. People in Wales still speak Welsh, the language descended from the original tongue of the Britons. The language of the Angles and Saxons eventually became English. It was very different at that time, more like German, but we still use many of the same words today.

  The Angles settled in the east of the country, which is why we now call it East Anglia. They were divided into the ‘north folk’ and the ‘south folk’ – which is where the names ‘Norfolk’ and ‘Suffolk’ come from. The East Saxons and the South Saxons gave their names – Essex, Sussex – to the lands they settled. Wessex – the land of the West Saxons – became the strongest kingdom. Its most famous king was Alfred the Great, and he defeated another wave of invaders, the Vikings. Alfred’s grandson Athelstan was the first king of the whole of Angle-Land – or England as we now know it.

  The Romans generally thought of peoples such as the Angles and Saxons as savage ‘barbarians’, but the ancestors of the English had a rich culture. They had their own gods – Woden, Thunor and Friga, among others. The names are similar to those of the Viking
gods, Odin, Thor and Freya. The Vikings came from lands close to where the Angles and Saxons had been living, and the Viking language – Norse – was also very much like that of the Angles and Saxons.

  The Angles and Saxons loved riddles, wordplay and poetry. We know that because quite a few of their poems have survived. Some are about battles (‘The Battle of Maldon’), others are about voyages across the sea (‘The Seafarer’), and one is about the remains of a Roman town (‘The Ruin’). The greatest is ‘Beowulf’, the tale of a hero who fights three monsters. Reading these poems today – even in translation – helps us to understand how the people of those times thought about their lives.

  The story of Beowulf was probably first told before the Angles and Saxons came to Britain. Beowulf is said to be a hero of the Geats, a tribe known to have lived in southern Sweden, and he helps Hrothgar, King of the Danes. It may well have been a legend, an ancient tale that people liked to hear being recited by a poet – a scop – on long winter evenings in the hall of their chieftain. Over the years other poets then told versions of the story, making it their own, adding and changing things.

  I’ve always loved the poem – it’s exciting and scary, but full of sadness too. So I wondered how it might have come to these shores, and that led me to create the character of Oslaf. Another poem to have survived is called ‘Widsith’, and that gave me Oslaf’s mentor – although the original Widsith was pretty big-headed. Wuffa was the legendary founder of East Anglia, and was said to be the ancestor of the seventh-century King Raedwald, probably the man buried with his incredible treasure at Sutton Hoo in East Anglia. There were also connections between Raedwald and southern Sweden.

  So it all seemed to fit, and I simply had to weave it together, as Widsith might have done. Somehow I don’t think the art of telling a story has changed much over the centuries. I hope you enjoyed reading Oslaf’s story as much as I did writing it…