Blood Enemy

by Martin Lake

  ‘The Christians say there are three worlds,’ Ymma said, ‘earth, hell and heaven. They are wrong.’

  She bent to tend to the fire she had just lit. An icy wind blew through the cracks in the hut and she hunched over the young flames to protect them.

  ‘Where does this wind hail from?’ she asked.

  Inga frowned. ‘The north.’

  ‘But from which north? Earth’s, heaven’s, hell’s?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Or is it from a hidden world? One of the many which surround us but which the Christians deny.’

  The flames took hold of the moss and stalks, ate greedily at the dry twigs and began to strengthen.

  ‘See here,’ Ymma said. ‘Come closer.’

  The old woman seemed to cradle the tiny flames in her hands, protecting them, guiding, nurturing.

  ‘Where does the wind hail from,’ she repeated, ‘and where do these flames? There is fire on this earth and we are told that hell blazes hot with it. And there must be fire in heaven or else how would the dead women cook?

  ‘But although these flames burn here, on this earth, in front of our eyes, they were not necessarily born here. They may have been given life in one of the worlds around us, worlds unseen by most folk but which I can see as clear as I see your face.’

  She took Inga’s hands in hers. Some of these worlds are kindly and they send fire to warm poor old women and cook their food. Some worlds are cruel and send flames which grow wild and savage, which destroy homes and crops and people. Others are places of trickery or knavery and they send fire which waxes strong at first, then becomes difficult, lazy, disinclined to do your bidding. Yet sometimes such a fire does not hail from there but from a different world. This world is a place of tests and choices, it sends a wayward flame not out of malice but to see how you will manage it. This world is, above all else, a teacher.

  ‘Like you, Ymma?’

  Ymma allowed herself a little smile. ‘Greater than me, child, far greater. And when I draw breath no longer, if you open yourself to this world, it will teach you still.’

  And then the old woman told of many other worlds, most never glimpsed or imagined by dwellers on this earth. Some haunted her nightmares for many weeks while others gave her dreams of hope and content. And, little by little, Inga grew more wise.

  Eventually, after many months, she learned how to swallow her fear of the dark places of the soul and, trembling, blend with the shadow and the light and the dark. She mastered at last the final, most powerful thing of all. How to act as a bridge between the myriad worlds unseen and this one, between the lost time and the now time, between the unknown of the past and the still less known of the future.

  She would have learned more, no doubt. But as the cold of winter lost its grip so Ymma released her hold on life. As the old woman bade farewell, she seemed content that she had given Inga so much knowledge, so much wisdom. Yet Inga wondered, and always would, whether Ymma had lacked the time to tell her many other things, knowledge which passed out of the world along with her.

  AN OLD ENEMY

  Winter and spring 883-884

  It was a hard winter. Snow came early to northern Francia, blowing shrill and fierce across the land. Icicles long as daggers hung from the eaves of huts and men had to pull hard to open doors which had been locked fast by the clinging night-time frost. Even the largest fires could not banish the cold.

  Ponds turned to ice and the ridges where cattle had churned the ground grew hard as iron. The river froze and the slaves had to slither to the centre to find where the ice was thin enough to smash a hole to draw water. Two women fell through the ice and were swept away by the river beneath.

  The slaves froze in their poorly constructed huts. Food was scarce for even the Northmen and the slaves got sufficient only to keep them on their feet. Babies, old men and women withered and died.

  ‘I think God has deserted us,’ Ulf said bitterly one evening.

  ‘You must never say that,’ Rebekah murmured. ‘He cares for those who care for Him.’

  Ulf shook his head. She trusted God more than he did.

  ‘I loathe this cold more than you or anyone else,’ she continued. ‘The sun shines hot in my land Axum every day. Until I came north I did not know winter.’

  Ulf shook his head in confusion. ‘How could there be no winter? It makes no sense. Where is your land?’ The question had been troubling him for some time and he was glad to have the chance to voice it.

  ‘Far, far to the south,’ she answered. She sighed. ‘It took me three months to travel from my home to the city of Cairo in Egypt.’

  ‘I haven’t heard of any of these places,’ Ulf said. ‘Why did you go from your home to Cairo?’

  ‘I was stolen. Arab slave traders came down the great river and attacked our village. That was ten years ago. I was still a child and one of the traders let me stay with my grandmother, Sara. She was a wise woman and taught me how to heal the sick and injured. I soon came to realise that plants which could do good could also be used to do harm.’

  Ulf did not comment, although he recalled Rebekah saying she had poisoned and killed the man who had attacked her.

  ‘I know a wise woman as well,’ he said. ‘She’s called Ymma. Do you know her?’

  ‘Is she from Axum?’

  ‘No, from Wessex, where I was born.’

  Rebekah laughed. ‘How would I know this Ymma? I was born five thousand miles from your land.’

  Ulf frowned. Five thousand miles. He had no idea that the world was so large.

  ‘So how did you come to be here?’ he asked. ‘In Francia with the Norsemen?’

  ‘Five years ago, my grandmother died,’ she said, ‘and I became a wise woman in place of her, working in the markets and streets of Cairo. The Arabs are great physicians and al-Mansur, a good man, hearing of my reputation, sought me out. He was impressed by my skills and knowledge, took me into his household and taught me Arab and Roman medicine. My skills and knowledge were better than his other servants and I soon became his chief assistant.’

  She closed her eyes and leaned her chin on her hand. ‘Those were good times, Ulf, and I would have them back again. But the lord God had laid out a different path for me. My master decided he wanted a new life where there would be less competition for his skills. He decided to move to Cordoba in al-Andalus. But our ship was attacked by Viking raiders as we crossed the Great Sea. They sold me on to their fellows, one band after another, always taken north, further away from my home. Eventually I was bought by Hæstenn.’

  I’m glad, Ulf thought. But for this I would not have met her.

  The thought startled him and he dismissed it from his mind.

  ‘And what about you, Ulf?’ she asked. ‘How did you come to be a slave to Hæstenn?’

  Ulf scowled. It was not a tale any warrior would choose to admit to. Rebekah stared at him for a moment and then a ghost of a smile came to her lips. ‘You do not have to tell me,’ she said.

  He almost took her at her word but then thought better of it. His story came tumbling out, his long silence breached at last. He felt shame at first as he told her but then, towards the end, he felt a terrible burden lifting from him. He fell silent at last and breathed easily.

  ‘So you are an important man,’ Rebekah said eventually.

  ‘I was,’ he said. ‘Or wanted to become one. Now, I’m just a slave.’

  ‘Only if you believe so. Wise men do not turn into fools nor heroes cowards.’

  ‘Just now you told me that you were once a wise woman.’

  ‘I was and am still. No thief or pirate can ever rob me of that.’

  Ulf shivered a little but not from the cold. Her words had kindled hope in him but he knew that it was a hope which could only wither.

  Spring came at last, just when people had begun to think they would live out the rest of their days in winter.

  It was a fitful thing, one day warm and dry, the next seeming to hearken back to
the days of snow and ice. But little by little the earth warmed and then, one day, catkins appeared on twigs and the fields were studded with snowdrops.

  And something else appeared. A fresh band of Vikings descended upon the settlement. Hæstenn thought to refuse them entry but they bought him treasure and offered to join with him in despoiling the land. He cut the slaves rations still further and feasted his new friends.

  Ulf’s heart sank when he saw them. They were the band of Norsemen who had attacked his village. And they were led by Hrólfr.

  He tried to keep out of sight as much as possible but this proved a vain strategy. On the third day he was spotted by Grimar, one of Hrólfr’s chief men. He seized Ulf by the arm and dragged him to his chief.

  Hæstenn and Hrólfr were at the feast table, drinking ale and planning which of the nearby villages to attack on the morrow. Hæstenn looked surly at this interruption but Hrólfr grinned with pleasure.

  ‘What do we have here, friend Hæstenn?’ he said. ‘Where did you find this man?’

  ‘He was captured ten miles north of here,’ Hæstenn said. ‘He was with a large party of priests. He held a bridge against my warriors and the priests were able to escape with all their goods.’

  He paused in the story and looked at Hrólfr suspiciously. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I have met this man three times before today. He is one of Alfred of Wessex’s thegns.’

  Hæstenn stared at Ulf in surprise. Ulf had said that Alfred was his lord but had not told him that he was one of his warriors. Such a captive might prove of value. It would be unprofitable to work him to death.

  ‘Do you think Alfred would ransom him?’ he asked.

  He tried to make his question seem casual but without success.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Hrólfr answered swiftly. ‘Alfred has plenty of such fighters and besides this one is young and inexperienced.’

  Hæstenn was disappointed but dismissed the idea from his mind. Hrólfr, however, continued to stare at Ulf, his mind a whirl of calculation.

  ‘I might want to buy him off you, though,’ he said, in the most casual of tones.

  Hæstenn was immediately all suspicion.

  ‘You think to buy him cheap from me and then sell him back to Alfred at a higher price?’

  ‘No. I mean to keep him as my slave.’

  Hæstenn did not answer for a moment. His mind raced to understand the reason for Hrólfr’s offer. He suspected that he was in danger of being cheated in some way but could not work out how.

  ‘Why would you do this, Hrólfr?’ he asked with a sudden grin. The thought had come to him that perhaps his new friend had a liking for boys rather than women. In which case he should be able to extract a high price for the slave.

  ‘I can tell you why he wants to buy me,’ Ulf said.

  The two chieftains turned to him in surprise.

  ‘I’m a berserker and Hrólfr thinks I will be a useful addition to his army.’

  Hæstenn glanced at Hrólfr, scratching his chin thoughtfully. This was the truth of it, no doubt. Hrólfr was a young man, keen to make his way in the world. A berserker might well help him in this.

  Hæstenn felt his heart race and shot a glance at Ulf’s bonds. It was lucky the Saxon had not had the blood frenzy already. A piece of rope and timber shackle would prove no impediment to a berserker. They gave more trouble than they were worth. He had no interest in such a man.

  ‘I will sell him if the price is right,’ he said. He held his hands aloft. ‘In fact, I will sell him cheaply to you, Hrólfr. As a proof of our friendship.’

  Hrólfr smiled. He knew Hæstenn’s reputation. He considered how he might bargain for Ulf but realised he had no hope of defeating Hæstenn when it came to haggling. No man in the world could.

  He decided to accept whatever price Hæstenn offered with good grace. But this resolve was shattered immediately.

  ‘Four hundred marks,’ said Hæstenn. ‘A fine bargain, my friend.’

  Hrólfr looked at him in astonishment. This was preposterous. But he swallowed his angry words. ‘Make it two hundred,’ he said.

  ‘Make it three hundred,’ Hæstenn said. ‘He will soon recoup the cost for you.’

  Hrólfr thought quickly. If he haggled longer he might antagonise Hæstenn which would be a very dangerous ploy. Three hundred marks was far too much but he might well be able to make use of the Saxon in battle for a while and eventually sell him back to Alfred.

  ‘Three hundred then,’ he said.

  Hæstenn spat in his hand and Hrólfr did the same. Their hands clasped to seal the bargain. And each wondered if he could have done better.

  INGA RETURNS

  Spring 884

  Inga returned to Aethelflaed in the spring.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re back,’ Aethelflaed said, flinging her arms around her.

  ‘As am I,’ Inga said. She held Aethelflaed tight and felt the fluttering of her friend’s heart against her breast, like a bird she was cradling in her hand.

  ‘You have agreed to wed Ealdorman Æthelred?’ she asked.

  Aethelflaed nodded. ‘I did not have much choice. Not after what Ymma said. I understood her words and my father’s. I don’t like it but I understand it.’

  She uncurled herself from Inga’s hug. ‘How is the wise woman?’

  ‘She has passed. Gone into the twilight. But she seemed content to go, knowing it was her time.’

  ‘So you are a wise-woman, now?’

  Inga hesitated to answer. Was she? Could she lay claim to such a title?

  ‘I don’t know. I cannot say I have the wisdom that Ymma had. But I am wiser than I was, that I know.’

  ‘Ymma was old,’ Aethelflaed said. ‘She must have grown wiser with each passing year. Perhaps you will as well.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Aethelflaed smiled and kissed her on the cheek. ‘But you’re not old yet. You’re a girl like me. And you’re still my friend.’

  ‘And servant,’ Inga said. She took Aethelflaed’s hand. ‘Does your father still wish me to marry one of Æthelred men?’

  ‘He does. A young man, thankfully. He’s called Blecca.’

  ‘It sounds unwholesome, like a child’s cough.’

  Aethelflaed smiled. ‘He’s handsome enough. And your father approves.’

  Would Ulf, though, she wondered. How would her brother feel about her living far to the north, perhaps never seeing her again?

  She shuddered at the thought. Every moment the twins were apart felt like the fall of a dying leaf. She had felt this most acutely all the winter, a hollowness inside. Yet, no matter how often she asked, Ymma had refused to answer questions about this. It was as if the bonds between the two were too powerful for even the wisest to ponder.

  ‘Has Ulf returned?’ she asked.

  Her heart clenched at the sudden change that came over Aethelflaed.

  ‘He is hurt?’ she whispered. ‘Wounded?’ She dare not say what she dreaded more than even this.

  Aethelflaed took her hand. ‘He was captured by a band of heathens in Francia. He held them off so that the priests and the treasure could escape and continue their journey to Rome. They returned some months ago.’

  ‘And nobody fought beside him?’

  ‘Holdwine, but he was wounded. Ulf’s smith only just got him to safety.’

  ‘And is there news of my brother?’ Inga’s voice was cold. A slithering beast of fear reached out for her.

  Aethelflaed began to weep. It was answer enough.

  She sought out Holdwine and found him with Grimbold and Cuthred playing dice in a quiet spot behind the buttery. A mile to the north lay the deep scar of Cheddar Gorge. The wound in her heart felt even deeper.

  ‘Inga,’ Holdwine cried, leaping to his feet. He went to embrace her but then stopped, his face red.

  ‘Do you stop yourself because of Ulf, ’ she asked. ‘Or because I am to be wed?

  Holdwine swallowed. ‘Because of Ulf. You have heard the
news?’

  ‘Aethelflaed told me. But I would hear it from you.’

  They all sat together and the three men told her of the last day they had seen Ulf. Of his courage in deciding to hold off the heathens to let the rest of the royal party escape. Holdwine emphasised that Ulf had made his decision in a calm manner, that it was not the result of any mad frenzy.

  They finished at last, their tale trailing off in a halting manner.

  ‘And the others did not stand with him?’ she asked. There was condemnation in her voice.

  ‘There was only room at the bridge for two men,’ Holdwine said.

  ‘It was not just that,’ Grimbold said. ‘The priests were frantic with fear for their lives. And Ealdorman Sighelm demanded that we come with him to guard their lives and the treasure.’

  Inga sighed. She knew he spoke true. She knew that, no matter how much they wanted to fight beside Ulf, they had to obey the ealdorman’s command.

  ‘Ulf did not die,’ Cuthred said at last. He chose his words cautiously, anxious to allay her worst fears, yet not to give her too much hope.

  ‘I saw him from afar,’ he continued. ‘One of the heathens, an ox of a man, swung at him and knocked him down. I thought he had been slain but he was dragged to his feet alive. They bound him and took him with them.’

  ‘And why didn’t they come after you?’ Inga asked. ‘Having won the bridge why did they not pursue the treasure?’

  ‘A troop of Frankish horsemen appeared,’ said Grimbold. ‘They were too many for the heathens to attack. They returned the way they had come.’

  ‘And you went with the Franks and the priests?’

  Grimbold shook his head. ‘Cuthred and I disobeyed the ealdorman. Thinking the priests and treasure were now safe we tracked the northmen across many miles. Ulf was taken to a large heathen settlement, far too large and well-guarded for us to try to sneak into.’

  ‘We were told later that the settlement belonged to the heathen chieftain called Hæstenn,’ Holdwine said. ‘He is a man greatly feared for his prowess in battle.’

  ‘What did you do then?’