by Martin Lake
‘I cannot call you Saxon,’ he continued. ‘You have a name and calling?’
‘I am Ulf, son of Brand.’ He paused for a heartbeat. ‘My lord is Alfred of Wessex.’
Hæstenn gasped and his hand went to his mouth. ‘You know the mighty Alfred,’ he exclaimed. ‘How very exciting.’ He gave a high laugh, almost like the giggle of a girl. ‘I would love to know more about the man who defeated Guthrum the Dane so spectacularly.’
‘I am yours to command, my lord,’ Ulf said. ‘I can recount many splendid tales of Alfred and his great lords.’
‘And of Guthrum? Of how he was bested?’
‘I can say more than that. Five years ago, Guthrum was outwitted by my sister, a girl of only fifteen summers.’
He regretted saying this immediately. The story put Guthrum in a very poor light which would surely not go down well with his fearsome compatriot.
He thought wrong. Hæstenn seemed keen to hear the tale and insisted that Ulf tell him what had happened.
So Ulf told how Inga and Aethelflaed had been captured by the Danes, how they had told Guthrum lies about themselves while finding out about the Danish battle-plans. And how, finally, Inga had poisoned herself and Aethelflaed with lily of the valley so that they vomited on Guthrum and his brother Eohric and made their escape in the ensuing uproar.
Most of the warriors found the tale far from amusing. To think that one of the mightiest Vikings of all had been bested by a young girl was not to be borne.
Hæstenn on the other hand, delighted in the tale and asked Ulf to tell it once again. He could barely contain his mirth and had to stop Ulf several times to wipe his eyes and regain his composure.
‘Now, dear friends,’ he said when Ulf had fallen silent, ‘Guthrum has fame of a sort because of his encounter with Ulf’s sister. But it is not one that I should relish.’
‘But he fought a battle immediately after it,’ Snorri said.
‘And lost it,’ Hæstenn replied, sharply. He turned to Ulf. ‘Is that not true?’
Ulf nodded. ‘Lost it and had to capitulate to my king. He was forced to give hostages, convert to Christianity and leave Wessex pledging never again to take up arms against us.’
Hæstenn did not reply for a moment, considering the words deeply.
‘So, friend Ulf,’ he said. ‘I welcome you to my home, not so much as a captive but rather as a friend. I bid you stay for as long as I need you and ask only that you return my hospitality with tales of Wessex, Alfred and of Guthrum.’
He rose from the board and walked around it, clapping each warrior on the shoulder in a friendly manner. But when he reached Snorri, Hæstenn drew a knife from his belt and thrust it into his neck.
Snorri slumped on the board, blood pumping from him. He gurgled and threshed, trying in vain to pull out the blade.
Hæstenn stared at him with those mild unblinking eyes until Snorri gave a great gasp and died. Then he pulled out the knife and wiped it on the dead man’s hair.
‘Perhaps it isn’t yet time for me to give way to a younger man,’ he murmured and strolled away.
The rest of the warriors reached for their mugs and swallowed swiftly.
Finally, after a long period of silence, one of them raised his mug and bellowed, ‘More ale, girl.’
There was a movement from behind and a serving girl appeared bearing a large jug of ale.
Ulf stared at her in astonishment. Her skin was the colour of a chestnut, and her hair black and tightly curled. She had brilliant white teeth and eyes like sloes.
‘A devil,’ he whispered to himself, the cold bile rising in his throat. She was a denizen from hell, sent by Satan to aid the Northmen. Only a priest could defend him against her and there would be none in Hæstenn’s camp.
His eyes followed her as she moved along the table, waiting for her to reveal some demonic power, perhaps flying across the camp, growing as tall as a tree or summoning up yet more demons from the darkest pit.
Yet she did none of these things, merely poured ale into the warriors’ mugs. She moved with an easy grace, swaying like a flower in the breeze, obviously the prelude to some horrific, savage dance.
Ulf could not drag his gaze from her. Not so the warriors. They kept their eyes downcast as she poured, though once she had walked past several looked up and regarded her nervously.
Ulf tensed for she had now reached his side.
‘I am no devil,’ she said quietly.
He gulped in terror. How had she heard him say that? Had he even said it? But devils had strange and deadly powers, could see the wind, read the face, reach into a man’s chest and clutch his heart. They could vanquish even the mightiest warrior.
‘Do you want some ale?’ she asked. ‘You need not fear, I have not poisoned it.’
She spoke in a gently, caressing voice. If she had been an English maiden he would have been charmed and excited. But she was a demon and her words were traps to beguile him. She would drag him screaming down to hell.
‘I am no devil,’ she repeated. ‘I am a captive, just like you.’
He still did not answer but she filled his mug up, nevertheless. She spilt a little on his hand and gave it a swift wipe with her fingers. Her skin was cool, not like the burning coal he imagined it would be.
‘If you’re not a devil then what are you?’ he managed to whisper.
‘I’m a girl from Axum. A good Christian girl. The only devils here are those you drink with.’
And with that she turned on her heel and left.
The big man with one eye had been listening to them talk. ‘She’s no devil,’ he said. ‘But she is a witch.’
‘A witch?’ Ulf swallowed hard.
‘She makes potent brews and curses men when angry,’ the Northman continued. ‘She is so powerful none dare touch her, though many lust after her.’
‘How can they lust after a witch?’
The warrior laughed and shook his head, as if astonished by his words. ‘Watch her, Saxon, and then you’ll know.’
‘You lust for her don’t you, Dag,’ said the man next to him. ‘You’d love to thrust into her little black cunny.’
‘It would unman me,’ Dag answered. ‘I am content to imagine the deed and not perform it.’
‘Well I am grateful to her,’ said an older man. ‘She brewed a potion which cured me of the flux.’
‘She has skills true enough,’ Dag said. ‘Which is why Hæstenn keeps her here.’
‘Are you sure there isn’t another reason?’ said another of the warriors.
‘Who knows,’ Dag answered. ‘If any man is fiend enough to sleep with a witch then that man is Hæstenn.’
‘Then why not you, Dag? You’re his half-brother.’
‘Yes, but I knew my father. Hæstenn does not. His sire could well have been a dwarf or troll.’
‘It doesn’t say much for your mother, Dag.’
‘Probably not. Which is why I killed her.’
ESCAPE
October 883
Ulf stared at the western sky. The sun had just sunk below the horizon and the evening star was shining like a jewel upon a purple cloak.
Everything about him ached. Despite Hæstenn’s words he had not been treated like an honoured guest. As soon as Jokul had finished eating he had set him to work chopping and stacking firewood. Ulf was as strong as any man in his early twenties but he was unaccustomed to such unremitting, manual labour. He was determined that this would be the one and only day he had to suffer such indignity.
He turned towards the east. The forest he had glimpsed earlier was now a smudge upon the darkening horizon. He calculated that, even in the dark, he would be able to reach it in an hour. He would get as deep into it as he could and lay low until the morning. And then he would head south after his companions.
The world grew dark and chill. Birds hurried to their nests and bats usurped the skies. In the distance an owl hooted and was answered by another. Sounds seemed magnified. He could hear the snorts of
horses and the grunts and groans of pigs. And, finally, the sounds of men and women drifted to an end as the inhabitants of the settlement fell asleep. As his ears got attuned to the noise he began to pick up the sound of men snoring and the rhythmic sounds of intercourse. He wondered for a moment if Hæstenn was coupling with the black girl and shook the thought from his head.
Finally, when all noise ceased he began to make his escape. He moved as softly as a cat, fearful of making any noise to waken man or beast. At last he reached the edge of the settlement and was into open country. He picked up speed a little, though not too fast for him to see his footsteps in the starlight and run the risk of tripping over something or blundering into bushes. He had an intense desire to run as swiftly as possible but he mastered it and made steady, painstaking progress towards the forest.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he touched the first of the trees. They grew wide apart at first for many had been felled for wood. The stumps were a menace in the dark, he bumped into them continually, bruising and gashing himself. But then the trees grew thicker and he began to feel safer from any pursuit. But this came at a cost. The trees were now so dense that no starlight pierced to the forest floor. He tripped and sprawled on the ground a couple of times. At last, he thought to pick up a stick and, like a blind man, waved it in front of him as he walked, using it to search out the safest paths.
He travelled all night and when the dawn finally came, clambered into the branches of an oak tree. He would not be seen here, by any wild creatures or pursuers. As he drifted off to sleep he wondered if the Northmen would bother to hunt for him. He was merely one man, they had slaves a-plenty and could easily steal more. It seemed more likely that he would be left alone to make his escape.
He woke several times throughout the day and hearkened carefully for any sound of pursuit. He could hear nothing other than the sound of the wind in the trees, the song of birds and the occasional passing of some creature on the ground. As the day waned he climbed higher in the tree to get his bearings. The forest continued for another mile or so and then gave way to more open countryside. He could see a small village in the distance and, close by, a large building with high stone walls. The fortress of the lord of the village no doubt. He decided he would go there in the morning.
He spent half the night making his way through the trees. Fortunately, the moon had now risen, he could glimpse its light glimmering through the leaves and used it to navigate through the woodland. He congratulated himself on his skill but as the sun rose he realised that he had deluded himself. He assumed that he had been treading a direct path and would find himself close to the village. But he must have blundered to the right as he traipsed through the forest and the village was now several miles to the north of where he expected.
He wondered whether he should stay another day safely hidden in the trees and approach the village at nightfall. He shook his head at his foolishness. Nobody walked into a village at day’s end except for vagrants and fugitives. He would be wiser to approach in the clear light of day like any honest traveller.
He found a stream, drank from it and washed the sleep from his face. He realised that he had not eaten for several days now and his belly gnawed with emptiness. He had no coin, he thought bitterly, but perhaps he could offer to labour in the village for some food.
The closer he got to the village the more this plan seemed foolish. Fields which should have been heavy with crops had been stripped bare and there were only a few scrawny sheep to be seen. A couple of ducks sat beside a pond but that was all. The whole place seemed deserted.
But then he saw a few men peering at him from behind a hut. They were gaunt and wasted looking, as though they had not eaten for many months. A number of women drifted over to join them and they looked even worse. Two of them held babies in their arms but Ulf could see only one child, a tiny, wizened girl of three or four with a face like that of an old woman.
He made towards them but they shrank back as if he was carrying some dreadful pestilence. A few of the men shouted at him but he could not understand their speech.
But then they raised their fists at him and one of the men pulled a sickle from his belt and brandished this. Ulf stopped in his tracks. The men looked weak and feeble but they had recourse to weapons which he did not.
‘I want some food,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m willing to work for it.’
The men looked at each other. ‘Nordman,’ they cried in alarm. The women retreated behind their menfolk. One of the younger men hurried to the edge of the village and scanned the surrounding country as if searching for something. Then he loped off in the direction of the fortress.
Ulf looked around the village warily. He had once seen a similar village on the coast of Wessex. It had been sacked by a lone Viking ship, stripped of food, most of the men-folk slain and the women raped.
This was far worse. The whole village had been laid waste and all life and hope sucked out of it. There would be no food here, no comfort and no welcome for strangers.
He heard the sound of hoof-beats behind him and his heart lurched. Had he been tracked by Hæstenn’s men? Would they really have bothered to chase him?
He turned and saw five riders cantering towards him. To his relief he realised that they were Franks, dressed in costly garments, with swords and spears and mail-shirts.
The leader of the group approached him, drawing his sword as he did so.
‘You are a Nordman?’ he asked. He was speaking Danish as best he could. The accent was strange but Ulf could understand enough.
‘I am not a Nordman,’ he said. ‘I am a Saxon, from Wessex.’
The man looked puzzled. ‘From Saxony?’ he said. ‘From the east?’
Ulf shook his head. ‘From Wessex. In the island to the north of Francia.’
‘Angleterre? Where the Angles live?’
‘Yes. Where the Angles and the Saxons live. I am one of King Alfred’s household warriors.’
The man’s eyes flashed at mention of Alfred, he had clearly heard this name before.
‘I am greatly beloved of the King,’ Ulf said. He hoped that this would impress the Frank and make him more willing to aid him.
‘You are a foe of the Nordmen?’ the man asked.
‘Yes. I am their sworn foe.’ He stepped closer to them. ‘I was guarding a party of my kinfolk who were taking treasure to the Holy Father in Rome. I was captured by the Nordmen but made my escape here.’
He assumed that this would impress the Frank and make him more inclined to help him.
He could not have been more wrong.
He gestured to his men who leapt from their saddles and knocked Ulf to the ground. His hands were thrust together and tightly bound. Then he was hauled up on his feet and pushed towards the lord.
‘We hate the Nordmen,’ he said. ‘But we fear them even more. They have ravaged my lands, slaughtered my people, stolen all my wealth. Perhaps if I return you to them they will look more kindly upon me.’
Ulf stared at him in horror. He was betrayed.
THE GIRL FROM THE EDGE OF THE WORLD
There came a clamour from the Viking camp as Ulf and the Franks approached.
The Frankish lord climbed down from his horse and ordered his men to do likewise. They crept into the camp, as nervous as mice when a cat comes close.
They reached the centre of the settlement, and were swiftly surrounded by Viking warriors. Finally, Hæstenn appeared from one of the huts and made his way towards them.
The Franks, including their lord, bowed to him.
Hæstenn grinned at this.
‘Welcome Lothair,’ he said.
‘I thank you, Lord Hæstenn,’ Lothair answered. ‘I have come bearing you a gift.’
He gestured to one of his men who thrust Ulf forward.
‘So I see,’ Hæstenn said. He approached Ulf and smiled in his face.
‘You don’t like me, Saxon?’ he asked. He sounded surprised and disappointed. ‘But why didn’t you tel
l me? I would have given you a horse, supplies and treasure and you could have returned to your friends in peace and honour.’
He sighed. ‘But you fled. You acted like a fugitive, like a slave.’ He paused and beckoned to Dag and Jokul, then he placed his hand gently on Ulf’s shoulder. ‘You disappoint me, dear Ulf. I had thought you were my friend, that we could share tales over mead and good food. Food which has been provided by Lothair here and his villagers, out of love for me.
‘Yet you do not like me. Not one little bit. And that is a difficulty for me. It is a riddle which I don’t know how to solve.’
He signalled to Dag who stepped forward and smashed Ulf in the face.
It was a colossal blow and Ulf slumped to the ground. Hæstenn gestured again and Dag and Jokul began to kick Ulf with other warriors hurrying to join in.
Ulf rolled into a ball, trying to protect his head with his arms. He could not protect the rest of his body. The kicks continued relentlessly, a vicious tempest, until finally he blacked out.
He gained consciousness at last. The day was waning, the Franks had left, the Northmen warriors were sitting by the fire, feasting and drinking. He lay slumped on the ground, his body on fire with pain. He tentatively moved his arm, stretched his fingers and then uncurled his legs. Every move was an agony. His sides ached the most and he thought that the savage assault had probably broken several of his ribs. One of his fingers was definitely broken, hanging like a bent twig from his hand. Thankfully it was his left so it would not affect his sword hand.
He laughed bitterly at the thought. He doubted he would ever escape the Northmen now. He would never ride with his comrades, never serve his lord as he should. The thought was enough to unman him, far more painful than his breaks and bruises. He was a warrior no longer. He was a captive, a slave, a piece of property, a non-man. He wept at the thought of it and did not care who might witness it.
There was one witness however, and, as the daylight faded, she made her way cautiously towards him. It was the black-skinned servant girl.
