by Martin Lake
Ulf slowly moved his hand from the hilt of his sword.
‘I did not expect to be greeted by the lord of the city,’ Ulf said.
Ketil smiled. ‘I am not lord of the city. My king, Guthrum, is the lord. I merely do his bidding.’
Ulf frowned at mention of Guthrum’s name and scrutinised Ketil more carefully. A fleeting memory came to him, as if he recognised the man. He tried to track down the memory but it eluded him. Perhaps he merely imagined he had recognised him.
Ketil crossed his arms upon his chest. ‘Tidhelm’s messenger said you have come with a purpose,’ he said.
‘I have,’ Ulf said. ‘Two days ago, Viking ships attacked one of my villages. They took a woman captive. I think they brought her here.’
‘Viking ships, you say? Were they Danish?’
‘Norse. Or so their captain claimed.’
A flicker of uncertainty slipped across Ketil’s face. He hid it in an instant although not quickly enough to prevent Ulf from noticing.
‘Then what has this to do with the Danes?’ Ketil asked.
‘This,’ Ulf said. ‘The Norse ships come to this city and remain here still. So I assume they are guests of the Danes and that the woman is with them.’
‘Many ships and many traders come to this city. They are not all our guests.’
Ulf took a deep breath. ‘But they are within your city. And as such you are responsible for their conduct.’
Ketil did not answer for a little while. When he did, it was with sudden sharpness.
‘Who are you? Who comes knocking at my door so brazenly?’
The relaxed calm had disappeared and Ulf was caught by surprise, wrong-footed. But he had to answer.
‘My name is Ulf. I am a King’s-thegn.’
Ketil frowned, pondering this news. Ulf sensed that his words had given the Dane pause. One of King Alfred’s companions was not a man to be insulted or dealt with high-handedly.
Ketil bowed his head. ‘Then you are welcome, Ulf, King’s-thegn. We are all friends now.’
And with this gesture and these words, Ulf remembered that he had seen Ketil before, that it was not his mind playing false.
‘We’ve met before, Ketil,’ he said. ‘You were one of the hostages Guthrum gave to us at Chippenham. You spoke to my sister, Inga.’
He immediately regretted his words. Keeping information secret was important in negotiation. Telling your adversary anything at all might put you at a disadvantage.
Ketil looked at him in surprise. ‘Inga? You are Inga’s brother?’
Ulf nodded but Ketil did not seem to notice. His eyes lost their intensity and he seemed to peer far away, search elsewhere. A fleeting smile crossed his mouth and he returned his gaze to Ulf.
‘How is your sister, friend Ulf? I trust she is well?’
Ulf frowned. It seemed a gracious question but the Danes never said a word without some devious reason, some attack lurking behind the pleasantry.
‘She is well,’ he answered in as casual a voice as he could conjure.
In his mind’s eye, Ulf saw once more their earlier meeting. It was after Alfred had won the victory at Ethandun and chased the Danish survivors to Chippenham. The West Saxon army had besieged them for weeks, starving them, and, in the end, Guthrum had been forced to submit and give hostages. Ulf recalled that it was Ketil who had led the Danish hostages into Alfred’s camp, defeated yet defiant.
Then, in vivid detail, he saw once more the moment when Ketil had noticed Inga and Aethelflaed. How he recognised the girls, knew them, bowed to them. He had paid most attention to Inga, telling her that she had made a great impression on him. Then he rubbed the back of his head with a rueful smile and said that they were all friends now.
Inga thanked him and said that she owed much to him. Much. It was then that Ketil said that they were all friends now, before marching away with a lighter step than before.
Ulf felt once again the shock he had experienced that day. He had demanded that Inga tell him how she knew the Dane. She refused.
She had refused ever since.
Ketil’s voice brought him back to the present. ‘Is Inga still as doughty with a rock?’
‘A rock?’
‘Yes. She used a rock to knock me out and then made her escape from our camp. I remember the blow as if it were yesterday.’
Ulf blinked. So this explained why he had rubbed the back of his head on meeting Inga. The blow on the head was the great impression she had made on him.
‘Yet despite this, you were friendly my sister,’ he said. He failed to hide the suspicion in his voice. ‘And she said that she owed a lot to you.’
Ketil’s face reddened a little and for a moment he did not answer. ‘I protected both girls,’ he said, finally. ‘After all, they were only children.’
The blush deepened on Ketil’s face which increased Ulf’s disquiet. Yet, at the same time, he saw his opportunity and seized it.
‘I am glad to hear that you protected my sister,’ he said. ‘For I ask that you do the same for Siflaed, the woman from my village.’
Ketil took a deep breath and glanced at the three Danes by his side. One shook his head in warning. The others straightened, as if readying themselves for a fight.
Ketil turned once more to Ulf, staring at him thoughtfully. He had been outmanoeuvred by the young King’s-thegn and he could not see a way to retrieve the situation.
‘I shall do what I can,’ he said. ‘But I make no promises. The men who attacked your village do not owe allegiance to King Guthrum.’
‘But you are in command of this city.’
Ketil’s eyes hardened. Ulf’s words were a challenge, almost a taunt.
‘I am in command,’ he said. ‘Yet still, I make no promises.’
He turned and the Danish warriors placed themselves behind him. One of them gestured to Ulf to follow.
Ulf pushed through the warriors to Ketil’s side. He was determined to be seen as the Dane’s equal. Ketil looked surprised but decided to allow this privilege to Ulf.
They walked for almost a furlong before turning left along a narrower street towards the northern walls. A large circular building stood to their right, its walls a dozen feet high. From inside came the bleating of sheep and snorts of pigs. It was presumably a pen but one of stupendous size.
Yet even this was dwarfed by the sight of the fortress in front of him. It was square in shape and nestled against the western and northern walls, thrusting out into the city to the south. Its walls rose thirty feet high and looked impregnable. A few Danish warriors could be seen leaning over the wall, gazing down upon the city at their feet.
More Danes were sprawled at the gate to the fortress, about two score men. They watched idly as Ulf and Ketil approached. But one man looked more intently and rose to his feet. It was Hrólfr, the man who had led the attack upon the village.
‘You are bold, Saxon,’ he said. ‘To walk alone into King Guthrum’s stronghold.’
‘The King of the Danes has submitted to King Alfred,’ Ulf answered. ‘Why should I show fear to walk here?’
A few Danes growled angrily at his words but Ketil silenced them with a look. ‘This man is my guest,’ he said. ‘He is our companion while he remains here.’
The tension was palpable. The Danes bore no love for the Saxons, even less since Alfred had defeated them and made them submit to him. Guthrum and his chieftains had been forced to become Christians, baptised like children, lectured by priests. Guthrum had been humiliated still further, becoming Alfred’s godson and given a Saxon name. Their army, so used to victory, had been forced to withdraw from Wessex and swear never to return.
Such was Alfred’s power that Guthrum had retreated to East Anglia and, for the last five years, kept his promise and the peace. But it did not mean he liked it.
The Danes mastered their wrath and subsided, muttering sullenly to themselves.
Hrólfr looked at them with amusement. ‘This one Saxon youth must be mighty t
o muzzle the Danes,’ he said.
‘He is a King’s-thegn,’ Ketil said sharply.
Hrólfr shrugged as if the title had no impact upon him. His men chortled at his response, which made the Danes shift angrily where they sat.
‘I seem to recall that when we last met my title gave even Hrólfr pause for thought,’ Ulf said. ‘That it had the power to restrain him.’
Hrólfr stared at Ulf for a moment and then grinned. ‘Either that or a wish not to displease my friend King Guthrum.’
He held out a mug. ‘Come, King’s-thegn, join me in some ale.’
‘Later, perhaps,’ Ulf replied. ‘When you give me what I came for.’
Hrólfr gave Ketil a questioning look.
‘The Saxon says that you stole a woman from his village,’ Ketil said. ‘This is contrary to the peace between my king and his.’
Hrólfr glanced towards a dozen men who were sitting a little apart from the Danes, presumably some of his own warriors.
‘Guthrum may have made peace with the king of Wessex,’ he said. ‘But Hrólfr has not.’
The three Danes who had accompanied Ketil moved closer towards Ulf. He could sense their anger; they might at any moment be forced to fight their Norse friends in defence of their Saxon enemy.
Out of the corner of his eye Ulf saw the Danes and Norsemen nearby readying their weapons.
‘You are all my guests,’ said Ketil quietly. ‘Matters of peace and war weigh nothing against the laws of hospitality.’ He placed his hand on the pommel of his sword.
The Danes and Norsemen, bristling dogs, backed away from the fight. The hubbub of talk gradually replaced the silence.
‘The woman was not stolen,’ Hrólfr said, crossing his arms and staring at Ulf.
‘Her husband says she was.’
Hrólfr tapped his finger on his lips. ‘Her husband is a bastard. So says the woman. He beats her and delights to humiliate her.’
‘And this surprises a Viking?’ Ulf said.
‘Yes it does.’ Hrólfr leaned closer. ‘We fight men, not our own wives. Our goddess Freya, it seems, is a better protector of women than your Virgin Mary.’
‘A man may treat his wife as he pleases,’ Ulf said, though even as he said them the words felt like ash on his lips.
‘Then Saxon men are cowards and their wives spineless.’
Ulf did not reply. Hrólfr was correct about Hunsige but, perhaps, less so about Siflaed. She always fought back against her husband’s attacks, never gave in until he had pummelled her to the ground.
‘Nevertheless,’ said Ulf. ‘I have come to take the woman back to her husband.’ He could barely push the words through the lump in his throat.
Hrólfr sneered at him. He felt the eyes of the Vikings watching him, wondering what he would do next.
Perhaps Hrólfr was right, perhaps Siflaed was not stolen and went with the Norsemen gladly. He grew suddenly angry. If that were the case then he felt inclined to leave her here.
Yet to do so would make him lose face with his foes, make him appear as weak and spineless as Hrólfr claimed. He was in the same situation as the Danes earlier, supporting a countryman he despised and opposing an enemy who he did not.
He knew he could not fight. There were far too many Vikings and, as Ketil had said, the laws of hospitality forbade all conflict from either host or guest.
‘Let us see what the woman wants,’ he said, finally. ‘Let her decide.’
Hrólfr made to answer, his face contemptuous, but Ulf interrupted. ‘I am sure that your wives and your goddess would approve.’
The atmosphere grew more tense and then Ketil laughed. ‘Well said, Ulf. Let the woman decide. In matters of love, they always do, and in our hearts every man knows it.’
His words ended the stand-off. Hrólfr told one of his men to fetch the woman and now, Ulf accepted his offer of ale.
Ketil moved some of his men from a bench and sat in the middle with Ulf on his left and Hrólfr on his right. They watched in silence as Siflaed approached.
She looked startled to see Ulf sitting there. Startled and alarmed.
‘What are you doing here, my lord?’ she asked. Her voice was high and strained.
He yearned to say the true reason but knew he could not.
‘I have come to take you back to your husband,’ he said. ‘He told me that you were stolen by these men.’
Siflaed stared at him for a little while, then turned her gaze to Hrólfr who returned it in silence. A silence which Ulf thought full of threat.
‘I was not stolen,’ she said at last. ‘I went freely.’
She took a step towards Ulf, a stance he had seen her take many times with her husband. He almost flinched.
‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘I begged the Vikings to take me. Better to live a slave with heathens than die every moment with a savage, brutish husband.’
Hrólfr smiled but for the moment kept his peace.
Ulf gazed into Siflaed’s eyes. Does she mean what she says? he wondered. His heart began to hammer. He searched desperately for any sign from her, the slightest look of fear, some plea for him to seize hold of her and flee, hands held fast, for now, forever.
But he could not read anything in her face which remained distant and seemingly uncaring.
Ulf saw his chance and took it speedily.
‘Like my hosts, I accord free choice to our women. If this is what Siflaed truly desires, then this is what she shall have.’
He felt Ketil relax beside him, while Hrólfr stuck out his long, spider legs in a show of relaxed triumph.
Ulf rose and approached Siflaed. He knew he had to make a greater show yet, show Ketil and the Danes that he was in command of the woman and the situation, though in truth he knew that neither was so.
‘Do you truly desire this, Siflaed? Do you truly desire to forswear your wedding vows and seek to leave Hunsige for these men?’
‘I never liked him,’ she said. ‘Not after what he did to me on the first night.’
The Danes and Norsemen roared with laughter at her words.
He licked his lips which felt too dry to give words to his thoughts. ‘I understand this,’ he said. ‘But to leave your life and live with Vikings?’ The unspoken plea hung heavy on his face but either she could not read it or chose not to.
‘I will not return to my husband,’ she said.
Ulf glanced at the warriors around him. He had said that she could make the decision, he had taken a gamble and lost. To pursue things further would mean his death, perhaps even hers.
‘Then I allow this,’ he said, although only those closest to him could hear it.
Siflaed bowed her head and walked away.
‘A wise decision,’ Ketil said. ‘Wisdom must run in your family’s blood.’
Ulf could not answer for a while, not until Siflaed had disappeared from view.
‘If it does it comes from our mother,’ he said, at last. ‘My father is far from wise.’ Even as he said it he wondered what had made him do so.
‘Then if I could counsel still more wisdom,’ the Dane said, ‘it would be to drink the ale Hrólfr gave to you and leave as soon as you have. I will come with you to the gate.’
Ulf nodded his thanks and raised the mug to his lips, downing the ale in two gulps.
‘Farewell, Saxon,’ Hrólfr said. ‘We may meet again before we are both called to meet our gods.’
‘Perhaps,’ Ulf said. ‘And then it may be my time to offer you a mug of ale.’
Ketil led Ulf back to the city gate and bade him farewell.
Ulf stepped beyond the walls and breathed more easily. I’m out of the lion’s den, he thought. He turned to thank Ketil and then froze. Coming up the river were forty Viking Longships.
Ketil noticed his reaction and turned also. His hand went to his mouth in surprise.
‘King Guthrum still keeps to his pledge of peace?’ Ulf asked, warily.
Ketil nodded. ‘He does, I am sure. These are Norse ships. Th
ey are friends of Hrólfr.’
He held out his hand to Ulf. ‘I must go,’ he said, his words tripping over themselves. ‘Send my greetings to Inga.’ And he hurried back through the gate.
Ulf strode towards where Holdwine was waiting.
‘Danish Longships,’ Holdwine said. ‘What is Guthrum playing at.’
‘They’re not Guthrum’s. They’re Norse ships, led by the man who attacked my village. He’s a wild and dangerous man. We must take word to the King.’
NEWS OF HRÓLFR
Winchester, April 883
Ulf, Holdwine and Cuthred cantered into Winchester at the end of a wet and miserable day.
‘There’s been some changes,’ Ulf said to Holdwine.
They had last been in the city four years before and were surprised to see how much the city had altered since then. The Roman wall surrounding the city was being strengthened and lodgings for the guards made good. The area to the west of the cathedral had been cleared of houses and replaced by a large open square. It had been designed to hold a market but it had a second, even more important purpose. It could be used to house thousands of people from surrounding villages should they ever have need of sanctuary from marauding Vikings.
Many of the old buildings in the rest of the city had also been demolished and rebuilt along straight streets wider than the old Roman ones. The main street still bore the worn cobbles from five centuries before and Ulf’s horse stumbled on them, whinnying with discomfort.
Ulf dismounted, avoiding Cuthred’s gaze, and walked the rest of the way.
They arrived at Alfred’s Hall close by the cathedral just as the light was failing.
A groom took their horses, muttering to himself at how hard they had been ridden. ‘The mare is near lame,’ he said. ‘The poor beast is almost broken.’
‘I know,’ Ulf said. ‘My friend Cuthred has been saying the same for two days now. Do what you can for her and find me another horse.’
The man mumbled to himself, called for his boy to come and help him, and led the horses to the stables.
‘Where shall I go, lord?’ Cuthred asked. His eyes scanned the Hall anxiously. ‘Shall I seek lodgings in an inn?’
