by Martin Lake
He had heard it said that Viking ships had sailed down the coast of the huge kingdom, past the realms of the Saracens and onto Rome. He wished that they could do this rather than face a long trudge across land. How long, he wondered, as he had done repeatedly since Holdwine told him it would take only twenty days. He had not said this to his friend but he had a suspicion it would take a little longer. He thought of asking one of the others, Bishop Athelstan, perhaps. But he did not want to admit to his ignorance. Time will tell, he thought. Time will tell.
YMMA
Somerset, September 883
They had been travelling for several days and were now well on their way to Somerset. Aethelflaed fumed every step of the way at the thought of being married off to Æthelred. She was equally incensed by her father’s clumsy attempt to placate her by suggesting that Inga marry a Mercian lord and go with her to Mercia. Inga had said nothing in complaint, of course. But it had strengthened Aethelflaed’s resolve still further.
They spent eight days on the journey and arrived at Athelney in the early afternoon. Inga’s heart soared at the sight of her home, even though many changes had been wrought upon it in the time she had been away.
The hut she had grown up in had been demolished and replaced by a good-sized, well-made dwelling place, suitable for the enhanced status of her father. Outbuildings clustered near it, some of them sleeping quarters for the men and women who now helped him work his holdings. These had been increased far beyond his capacity to tend them alone, with triple the area of land and flocks of sheep beyond count.
The fortress which Alfred had built still stood but next to it there was now a small abbey with dormitories for a dozen monks. Inga wondered how her father took to these neighbours and how they viewed him.
But the rest appeared little changed; the long slope of the hill crowned by elm and ash trees, the old walls to the west where her father used to go alone to think, the surrounding land of marsh and streams, where pools and ponds waited for winter rains to swell them to a sea and make her isle an island.
‘It’s good to be home,’ Inga said.
Aethelflaed gave her a curious look. ‘You’re luckier than me,’ she said quietly. ‘My father has many great halls with hundreds of servants. Yet there is nowhere that I call home. No one place where my heart dwells in comfort.’
Inga squeezed her hand gently.
Aethelflaed smiled sadly at the touch, thankful for the gesture but not comforted. Her wistfulness was much more than merely the lack of a home.
Aethelflaed missed her mother.
She never questioned her father taking Merewyn as a mistress. And she never allowed herself to acknowledge he had treated her mother cruelly. But she knew that such a thought lay hidden deep in her heart.
Sometimes, as she drifted off to sleep, it seemed her mother would appear and whisper words of reproach and accusation in her ear. She could never be sure whether these words were intended for her father or for her. Perhaps both.
There were three women in the king’s life. All of them knew that his wife took third place, his mistress second, and his daughter, first.
At this thought, Aethelflaed felt a strong pang of guilt. Not because she had the first place in his affections, for this seemed her right and proper due. No, she felt guilt that she had forgotten her youngest sister Ælfthryth and, worst of all, her poor, disfigured sister Æthelgifu, shut away in a convent.
I will go to visit her, she thought, and take Ælfthryth with me. One day, one day soon. And perhaps, if her father continued to insist that she marry the Mercian, she would ask to join Æthelgifu and dedicate herself to God.
‘It’s so wonderful to see you,’ Hild said when she had settled the two girls in front of the fire.
She gave a little bow to Aethelflaed and then took hold of Inga’s hands. ‘Are you in good health? And do you give your lady good service?’
‘I’m in the best of health, mother. As for the quality of service, it’s not for me to say.’
‘She’s dreadful,’ Aethelflaed said. ‘The worst servant imaginable. I don’t know why I put up with her.’
Hild looked horrified for a moment but then Aethelflaed laughed at her own jest.
Hild smiled in relief and crouched beside Inga. ‘And your brothers?’ she asked. ‘How are they?’
Inga took a deep breath and told her mother all that had happened in recent months. She told of Ulf’s daring battle against Hrólfr’s raiders, his visit to the old Roman city, the ever-greater esteem he was held in by the king and great lords.
‘There is something wrong?’ Hild said.
With tip-toe words Inga recounted the battle in front of the city walls, of Ulf’s uncontrollable fury, the havoc it wreaked and the deadly effect it had upon him.
‘I knew it,’ Hild said. ‘It is the same with your father. Poor Ulf bears the same rage in his blood.’
The same, Inga wondered, or worse? Far worse. She had seen her father’s attacks of anger but, though frightening, they were paltry things compared to Ulf’s ferocity.
‘But he’s fine now, mother,’ she continued. ‘He has been given a task of great honour, guarding the treasure the king has sent to the Holy Father in Rome.’
His mother gave her a dubious look. A great honour? More like a way to remove a young man the king now thinks too dangerous to keep close by him.
‘It is good to see you both,’ Hild said at last. ‘How long will you stay?’
‘Not long, mother. We need to seek the advice of Ymma.’
‘Ymma? Why?’
‘Because my father wants me to marry an ugly Mercian lord,’ Aethelflaed said, ‘and have Inga marry one of his warriors.’
Hild saw the sorrow and disquiet in their faces. She took a deep breath. ‘A father has the right to decide this for his daughter. A king even more so.’
‘But it’s not right,’ Aethelflaed said. ‘Father has the right to marry who he chooses, and to love who he chooses. Why can’t I?’
‘Because it’s the way of the world, child.’
‘We’ll see about that. And I will go to this wise woman of yours and find out what she has to say about it.
Brand’s friend Gamal rowed the girls to the tiny Isle of Newts where the wise-woman Ymma dwelt. It was a lonely, forsaken place, lost in the middle of marshland so wet it was impassable by foot even in high summer, the first land to become an island with the rains of the autumn equinox, the last the winter waters regretfully abandoned.
‘I’ll not step foot on it,’ Gamal said. ‘I have no love for Ymma nor she for me.’
He would not say more but tied his boat up to an old root and threw a line into the river to bait a fish.
It had been three years since Inga had last seen the wise woman. She did not seem to have aged, was bent and twisted like an ancient thorn bush assaulted by too many years of wind and rain. Bent but not broken.
‘Welcome my child,’ Ymma said. Her voice was surprisingly strong for one so old, with a sing-song tone like a lark in summer. ‘You bring with you the daughter of the king. The poor, weak, frail man, the beggar-lord.’
Aethelflaed stiffened at what seemed like an insult to her father. But then she recalled that Ymma had first seen Alfred when he seemed, indeed, little more than a beggar, when he had been gripped by fear so dreadful he had fled even his own warriors. When he had suffered his worst ever attacks of the falling sickness and been cured and cared for by this old woman.
And now she hoped that Ymma would provide as much succour to her and Inga.
They had brought food and drink from Athelney for Ymma dwelt on a knife-blade of hunger and starvation. She was paid in food whenever she provided healing but it was rarely enough to sustain her. She would have perished long ago had not Brand, Hild and other kind folk seen fit to bring her food not as payment but from charity.
Now, she insisted that they shared the sparse meal she made of Hild’s fresh-baked bread and cheese from their flocks. The dried fish, smoke
d meat and eggs she put to one side to be consumed piece by little piece in the weeks ahead.
‘You come with questions of love and loathing,’ Ymma said to Aethelflaed, suddenly.
Aethelflaed looked at her in surprise. How did she know? But then she wondered if this was not merely a successful stab in the dark. For why else would young women come to seek her advice if not about men they loathed but their fathers loved?
‘You are half Mercian yourself, are you not?’ Ymma continued. ‘Why then are you so afraid of being bedded by a Mercian?’
Aethelflaed’s surprise turned to disbelief. How could the old woman know of this, lost as she was in the fastnesses of Somerset a hundred miles and more from where the agreement had been wrought?
‘Or is it because the Mercian is not a king? Does that not suit a maid so full of notions of her own worth and value?’ Ymma’s tone was sharp and cutting.
Inga saw the dangerous fire flaming in Aethelflaed’s eyes. ‘She is the king’s daughter,’ she said in a tone that while soft, was full of warning.
Ymma shrugged. ‘And do I care a jot for that?’
Inga leaned forward and looked long at the old woman. ‘We do not mean to offend, Ymma,’ she said. ‘We come only to seek your counsel. Aethelflaed is more to me than the king’s daughter, more than my mistress. She is my friend and I would have you help her see the path ahead of her.’
Ymma grumbled to herself for a moment but then nodded.
She beckoned Aethelflaed to come closer and took both her hands in hers. She closed her eyes and began to rock gently backwards and forwards, her mouth moving silently as if in distant song. Long time she did this. Aethelflaed looked questioningly at Inga who put her fingers to her lips to caution her to silence. Ymma continued to rock, continued her breathless chant.
‘You have no choice in this matter, child,’ she said, at last. ‘Inga does not have to marry the man chosen for her. You do.’
Aethelflaed gasped. ‘But that’s not right. I am the daughter of the king.’
‘Which is why you have no choice in the matter. Only the poor can choose the person they wed, and precious few of them are allowed to by their kin. The daughters of kings have no such luxury. You must wed and bed who your father chooses. You can either to it with good grace or in bitter, resentful rage. But do it you must.’
‘It’s not fair.’
‘Life is not fair. Besides, you have a debt to pay, your father’s debt, and the weavers tell me that your marriage to the Mercian is the cost.’
‘What debt?’
‘I deem you already know.’
The two girls glanced at one another. They recalled how Inga and her mother had been raped by Alfred’s warriors and how reluctant he had been to punish them.
So the debt caused by men’s violence was to be paid, yet again, by a woman.
Aethelflaed began to weep, silent tears, but more of anger than of sorrow.
‘Do not pity yourself so,’ Ymma said although her tone was gentler than her words.
She closed her eyes once more and again began the silent chant, her body swaying more gently this time, with the suppleness of a maiden dancing in the night.
Finally, she opened her eyes and stared at Aethelflaed. She seemed thoughtful, wondering, perhaps perplexed.
‘The cloth of your life had been prepared for you, daughter of kings. But beyond your marriage I can see no further pattern fixed on it, none whatsoever. All around lie a mass of threads, a heaped profusion. Any one of them can be chosen by you, any colour, strength or quality. I have never seen this, never in all my days. The old weavers have given up their right to set your destiny. They have given this right to you.’
Inga felt a shadow of fear grow inside her at the words. She glanced at Aethelflaed in alarm. But her friend did not seem concerned at all. Indeed, the old woman’s words seemed to have excited and inspired her. Her face glowed and then she bent and kissed Ymma’s gnarled hands.
‘Thank you, wise woman,’ she said.
‘There is a price for my telling you this.’
‘A price?’
Ymma turned to Inga. ‘I grow old, Inga. I have not many winters left on my loom of life. I need to pass on my knowledge to a younger woman. One who I have already told much to and is already highly skilled in our craft. You will stay here with me for the winter and I will teach you all I can.’
‘But I need her,’ said Aethelflaed.
‘You can wait,’ Ymma said. ‘I cannot.’
There was no arguing. So, when Gamal rowed his boat back to Athelney it contained one passenger and not two.
And when Aethelflaed made her long journey back to her father she went alone with only her thoughts.
THE LAND OF THE FRANKS
September 883
Ulf blinked as the morning sun rose to the east. They had been marching through the land of the Franks for two days now. The land was flat and open although there were a number of forests along the way. The Roman road they trudged along was better than any he had seen in Wessex. There were still many potholes along the route but it was clear that many had been filled with gravel and stone.
They even came across places to rest: monasteries and hostels for pilgrims, and grim, filthy drinking dens for those less fastidious. Sighelm was wary of staying at the latter although he readily followed Athelstan’s suggestion to make use of the church’s charity.
Day by day Ulf had grown warier of the Ealdorman. He had learnt early on that he bore a mixed reputation. Some considered him a man of great wisdom and daring. Others thought him sly and deceitful, someone to beware of. A few, his friends, thought that he was adept at working out what was best for him, veering like a boat in a storm to find the safest haven.
Ulf did not care to ponder which attributes Sighelm bore. Perhaps he possessed all of them. Such complexity was too much for him to deal with or even think about. His task was clear. He had to help guard the party and the treasure and get all safely to Rome. Equally important, he had to do so without falling prey to the wild beast within.
Getting to Rome was beginning to seem less easy with every mile they journeyed south. Everywhere they looked they saw signs that the land had suffered some terrible calamity. Many farms and cottages had been put to the flame, some hastily and haphazardly rebuilt, others allowed to decay completely. A number of villages appeared to have been completely abandoned. Some places were littered with corpses, although most, to their surprise, were not. In these areas herds of pigs had grown fat and multiplied. None commented on this although many suspected they knew what they had feasted on.
‘Perhaps there’s been a pestilence,’ Holdwine said as they marched past yet another derelict settlement.
Cuthred grimaced at the thought of this, and stepped a little away from the others.
Bryni laughed. ‘That’s not the cause, I warrant.’
But, even though Ulf pressed him, he refused to say more about his suspicions.
‘Outlaws?’ Ulf muttered. ‘Bryni would be well informed about such men. I wish you hadn’t brought him with us.’
‘Set a thief to catch a thief,’ Holdwine said. ‘That’s what my father used to say.’
Cuthred sniffed, demonstrating how little he thought of that advice.
‘Do you think it’s outlaws?’ Ulf asked Bryni. ‘I imagine there must be gangs of them hereabouts.’
Bryni gave a knowing smile but said nothing.
They pushed on as fast as they could for the next few days and reached lands which did not show the same look of depredation. There were a few villages and some larger farms although there were few people to be seen and these were unfriendly. The crops seemed sparse and the herds of cattle thin and unhealthy.
Nevertheless, it was a welcome relief from the lands they had just journeyed through and with every mile south the land grew fatter and the villages wealthier-looking. Their spirits soared. The warriors frequently burst into song as they marched. Even the priests joined in. At first A
thelstan scowled at this, and tried to prevent them, but he soon realised that singing made them walk more swiftly and he allowed them to continue.
They had been travelling for five days in these well-tended lands when Bryni cried out in alarm.
Ulf and Holdwine turned to where he was pointing. On the skyline stood a hundred or more men, their shadows dark and long from the sun rising behind them.
‘Outlaws?’ Holdwine said.
‘Probably,’ Ulf said. He shielded his eyes from the sun. ‘Though they’re well-armed for outlaws.’
‘Shield-wall,’ Holdwine cried. ‘Form a shield-wall.’
The King’s-thegns moved immediately, with the other warriors following more tardily. Holdwine ran back to the main body of the party and urged the priests to gather together. He eyed the treasure chests uncertainly.
‘The chests should be guarded by your warriors,’ Sighelm said.
Holdwine shook his head. ‘That will attract the outlaws to them. It would be better to try to hide them.’
‘I doubt we’ve got time to do that,’ Sighelm said. He unsheathed his sword and loped off to join the shield-wall.
Sighelm was right. Holdwine cursed himself for allowing his warriors to get so distant from the treasure. He raced after Sighelm to join the shield-wall, thrusting his way into his accustomed place next to Ulf.
The outlaws were racing across the fields towards them, screaming at the tops of their voices.
Bryni was right, these were no ordinary outlaws.
‘Vikings,’ Ulf cried. ‘We’re being attacked by Vikings.’
‘What are they doing here?’ Cuthred asked. ‘I thought they only attacked Wessex.’
‘They don’t,’ Sighelm said. ‘These wolves hunt far and wide. They have put Francia to the torch and all the lands to south and east. They will eat up the world ere long.’
