by Martin Lake
‘We went back to Sighelm,’ Cuthred said, ‘and tried to persuade him and the Frankish horsemen to attack the heathen camp and rescue Ulf. But they refused.’
‘And besides,’ Grimbold said, ‘they told us that if we did attack then Ulf would certainly have been slain before we reached him. I think they were right in this. By not attacking he had a chance of survival.’
‘But only a chance?’
Grimbold did not answer.
Holdwine reached out and touched her arm. ‘But what do you think, Inga? Can you sense him in your heart? Do you think he yet lives?’
She gasped at his question. So shocked had she been at the dire news that she had not even considered this.
She held up her hand to ask for silence and closed her eyes. Her bonds with Ulf were strong enough to reach across oceans. And now she had the added power taught to her by Ymma. She closed her eyes, summoned the shadows to her. Long time she sought him and then, like a glimmer on the edge of sight, she saw him walking with a dark shape by his side.
‘He lives,’ she whispered. ‘Ulf lives.’
FRENZY
Spring 884
Hrólfr gestured Ulf to follow him towards the edge of the village.
‘So, Saxon, you belong to me now.’
‘It appears so.’ His words were cold and gave nothing away.
Hrólfr stared at him, trying to fathom out the nature of Ulf’s response.
‘You know that I am a mighty warrior,’ Hrólfr continued, ‘and a powerful chieftain. I will feast on the Frankish lands and, if you aid me as I intend, you will be well rewarded.’
Ulf stared at him but gave no reply.
Hrólfr frowned. ‘You will thank me in time,’ he said. ‘For I know you are a warrior and you crave a life of battle. Hæstenn would have worked you to death before the year is out.’
Hrólfr felt the muscles on Ulf’s arm. ‘You’re wasting away, man. Hæstenn was a fool not to have fed you. And even more a fool to have sold you.’
‘For three hundred marks?’ Ulf said.
‘I shall get far more out of you than that,’ Hrólfr said. ‘And at the end I can always sell you back to King Alfred.’
‘You think I will fight for you?’
Hrólfr nodded. ‘I know you will fight for me.’
Ulf crossed his arms and stared at him. ‘But I am a man of Wessex, not a Viking.’
‘You’re a warrior. Your birthplace is of no importance. What is your name, Saxon?’
‘Ulf.’
He turned to his warriors and cried aloud. ‘This is Ulf, formerly in the service of King Alfred of Wessex. He is my man now and I would have you welcome him as an equal.’
A few of the men cheered and a handful even raised their cups of ale in salute. But most remained silent. They had no love for the King of Wessex nor for his servants.
Ulf sighed. At every turn his existence seemed to worsen. The old weavers of destiny delighted to sport with him. Yet, as his eyes fell upon the Norse warriors, on their shields and swords, he experienced the strangest feeling of hope and joy. Perhaps Hrólfr was right. Perhaps he was meant to be a warrior and it did not matter on which side he fought.
He was to come to know the truth of this in the days ahead. Although he was weak from six months of constant labour and little food he soon found that he had lost none of his fighting skills. Despite the grumbling from his men, Hrólfr had insisted that he be given a sword and shield. He spent the days practising, swinging the sword until he felt his arm would drop off, thrusting against nearby trees as if they were the enemies in a shield-wall.
He ate everything which was given to him but was more sparing of ale. He needed his wits about him for few of the Norsemen felt any fellowship with him. Once his shackle had been removed the running sore about his ankle grew healthier, helped by the continual care of Rebekah. Apart from the times when she dressed his leg he saw less of her than before. This was the one thing which he missed from his life as a slave.
The only Norsemen who showed him any friendliness were Hrólfr himself and two of his chief men, Asbrand and Grimar. Asbrand was a young warrior, a great favourite of Hrólfr and the rest of the army. He was loud and good-humoured, ever ready to laugh and cheer. When one of the more surly warriors cursed Ulf and threatened to beat him, Asbrand took his side and faced his companion down.
Grimar was a man who had recently been in his prime but was beginning to age and feared it. One morning, early on, he tramped out to the forest edge where Ulf was busy trying to push over trees and silently joined him.
Later that day he suggested they fight together and they spent many hours exchanging blows. Ulf was not surprised to find that Grimar was much stronger and more highly skilled. But this did not disappoint him. It merely spurred him on to push himself still harder.
Over the next few months, Hæstenn and Hrólfr led their men in several combined raids. These had not proved of great success for the Frankish villages had suffered badly in the harsh winter and there was precious little food to be taken. The churches proved fatter prey, their pantries and wine-cellars were stripped and their gold and treasure looted.
Hrólfr expressed surprise that they still had anything left to steal. Hæstenn explained, like a patient father to a son, that a skilled Viking does not take everything from a village or church. He treats them as a flock of sheep, to be fleeced time and again but always allowed to grow new wool. Only when times were truly desperate would the sheep be slain.
Ulf was not allowed to go on any of these raids which was a relief to him. He preferred to spend time improving his strength and skill. And, despite his delight in becoming a warrior once more, he had no desire to attack unarmed villagers or churchmen.
‘You cannot be proud of this,’ he said one day to Grimar. ‘It is not the mark of a true warrior.’
Grimar frowned at him, not at first understanding.
‘You prefer to fight other warriors?’ he asked eventually. ‘To kill men who are not really your enemy and risk being killed by them?’
He spat on the ground. ‘The Viking way is better. We are not reckless, not fool-hardy. Why attempt to steal from a giant when you can take very easily from a dwarf?’
Ulf was astonished at the speed with which he recovered from his long ordeal as a slave. He gained weight and muscle and his fighting skills improved day by day.
What was harder to measure but even more important was his mood.
He felt sick to his core when he realised how slavery had gnawed at his heart and mind, had overthrown his sense of worth and hope. He realised that he had become a creature of despair and resignation, clinging onto a life so wretched it was not worth living. Any warrior would have disdained such an existence and now Ulf felt sickened at the memory of it. Now he was free once more and could hold his head high.
He did not know how his destiny was being woven but he felt in his heart that good times were coming.
The spring was now well advanced and the days growing warmer. Hæstenn and Hrólfr were continually planning new attacks, out of necessity choosing targets ever further afield. More and more warriors were leaving the settlement to go raiding. Most returned within a few days although two who had been sent hunting far to the south had been gone for several weeks.
‘I don’t think it will be long before Hrólfr lets you off the leash,’ Grimar said to Ulf when they returned from their practice, one evening.
Ulf’s heart raced at the news. He was not sure at the cause of this tumult of feelings. Was it joy at the thought of riding off to action? Or was it horror at the thought of pillaging innocent men and women? He searched inside himself and found, to his dismay, that he could not disentangle the two, could no longer distinguish between them.
As they approached the village they saw that a band of warriors had returned from sacking a monastery far to the south. It had been led by Asbrand, who sat at the high place of honour, feasting between Hæstenn and Hrólfr. A pile of silver coins was he
aped up by the cooking fire, and next to it were golden crosses, fine vestments and vats of wine. True to his reputation, Asbrand had ferreted out a mass of treasure which had been hidden from previous raids.
Grimar took a seat at the head of the table close to Asbrand who was wild with ale and exultation. Ulf took a seat at the edge of the table. A slave poured him some ale, he did not notice who she was. He emptied the cup, gestured for another and snatched hungrily at a piece of meat. It was spring lamb, soft and juicy. The slave poured him another cup of ale and looked at him with dead eyes before going on to serve the next man.
Asbrand hammered on the board for silence. He got only a lessening of the din but it was enough for him to start to recount the exploits of his band and himself. Ulf could hear only snatches of it but he had heard many such tales before and knew them to be a tapestry made up of some truth and more lies. They were intended to glorify the warriors although the constant boasting was always leavened by sardonic comments and self-deprecation. A great leader was proud of his accomplishments but never too proud. The tales he told were meant to bolster the fellowship, not to sunder it.
Asbrand’s account was well received, for he was a marvellous teller of tales. He loved the acclaim and his face was red with excitement and pleasure. A slave approached bearing him a horn of mead which he snatched from her and guzzled down. Ulf smiled for the slave was Rebekah and he could well imagine the contempt in which she held this boastful young captain.
Asbrand turned to give her back the horn, loudly demanding more. Then he paused.
‘No more drink for me,’ he cried, ‘no more food. There’s better meat on offer here.’
He swept the platters from the table and threw Rebekah on the table. ‘Can I take this sweetmeat, Hæstenn?’ he cried.
Hæstenn looked uncertain. ‘I don’t advise it,’ he said.
But Asbrand paid no heed. He pushed up Rebekah’s skirt and tore the top of her tunic to reveal her breasts. He pressed his mouth on her lips and she screamed in alarm and rage. He pulled her legs wide apart, preparing to enter her, his voice baying with pleasure.
Ulf dived across the table, throwing him to the ground. The warriors craned their heads to watch, excited at this turn of events. Rebekah pulled her clothing together as best she could and watched in horror as Ulf and Asbrand leapt to their feet and began to circle one another.
‘Don’t do it, boy,’ cried Grimar. ‘He’ll kill you.’
But Ulf did not hear him. He was watching Asbrand’s every move. Unlike Ulf, the Norseman had not spent the last month starved and beaten. He had eaten well, taken exercise and was strong and tough. He was a seasoned warrior, far more experienced than Ulf, far more skillful.
He also had a knife. Even as he was thrown to the ground he had fumbled for his dagger and now he used this to keep Ulf back, jabbing and slicing the air, threatening, commandeering a killing space which Ulf dare not enter.
But Ulf was barely aware of it. The blood was pounding in his veins, a vast throbbing which filled his chest, his ears, his limbs, his head.
‘I’ll slay you, Saxon,’ Asbrand cried. ‘And then I’ll rape the girl and slice her up.’
A terrifying, savage howl rang out over the village. Ulf’s eyes lifted to the sky, his throat baying like a wolf.
And then he leapt.
Asbrand’s dagger cut Ulf’s chest but he managed to thrust the blade away before the Norseman could land a second blow. Ulf seized him by the throat and forced him to his knees. The image of Asbrand assault on Rebekah filled his mind with reckless fury. He spat on Asbrand’s face and then began to pummel it, his arms as fast as oars when a Longship attacks, fast as a war-horse galloping to battle.
The Norseman’s face changed, became red and raw, blood spurting from every surface, cartilage cracking, bones smashed. Ulf’s thumbs went into the Norseman’s eye sockets and, despite Asbrand’s desperate attempts to pull them off he gouged out both eyes, the slippery jelly spurting through his fingers and onto his face.
Many hands pulled Ulf to his feet but he battered them away. Then he stamped on Asbrand’s groin with relentless fury, crushing the very thing he had intended to use on Rebekah.
Finally, he was dragged off. Asbrand lay on the ground, bleeding, broken, alive still, though barely so, a living corpse.
‘Don’t kill the Saxon,’ Hæstenn cried. ‘I have a far worse fate in mind for him.’
KETIL THE DANE
April 884
The unusually heavy rains of April had flooded the fields and rivers surrounding the city. So, the sentries were surprised to see a line of horsemen appearing from the east.
One of them hurried to the Horse-thegn to give him warning.
‘How many are there?’ Edgwulf asked, buckling on his sword.
‘About two score,’ the man answered. ‘All warriors, all armed.’
He sent the man to find Alfred and hurried up the stairs to the walls. Even as he ran he marvelled that the stairs had remained intact for all these centuries. He would give anything to find men capable of building such fortifications.
The walls were twenty feet high and he could see far in every direction. Sure enough, a line of horsemen were wending their way along the road from Essex. Edgwulf leaned against the parapet and stared at them. There were too many to be merely the guards of some merchant, yet too few to be considered a great threat.
‘Are they Danes?’ Alfred called as he reached the top of the stairs. His sword was in his hand rather than hanging from his belt, a sign of his haste.
‘It appears so. They’re coming from the east and are well armed.’
The two men watched the horsemen approaching the city. Edgwulf scanned the land in every direction but could see no sign of any other warriors. ‘That seems to be all there are,’ he said.
‘Let’s greet them,’ Alfred said. ‘Outside the walls.’
King and Horse-thegn rode out of the city followed by a guard of fifty men. The Danes came to a halt a little in front of them and then one man approached.
‘Hail to King Alfred of Wessex,’ he cried. ‘My lord, Guthrum, King of the Danes sends greetings to his brother.’
‘To his father, you mean,’ Edgwulf said.
The Dane inclined his head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
‘You are welcome here,’ Alfred said. ‘If you come in peace.’
Alfred stared at him more closely. ‘You are Ketil, are you not? Recently the commander of the Danes within this city?’
Ketil nodded. ‘It is so.’ He pulled off his helm and held it under his arm. ‘And I do come in peace.’
‘It is good to see an old adversary visit us with peaceful intent,’ Alfred said, warmly. Only Edgwulf knew him well enough to detect the hint of wariness still remaining in his voice.
‘Though I wonder at such a large following,’ Edgwulf added. ‘Is the land of Guthrum so treacherous that even his chieftains dare travel only with armed guards?’
‘These men are a sign of respect to King Alfred,’ Ketil answered. He gave a wry smile. ‘And we bring great gifts which we would not wish lost on the road.’
He beckoned to servants who hurried forward with six mules, each with two treasure chests hanging from their saddles.
Ketil flung open one to reveal a heap of silver pennies.
‘Are these East Anglian coins or mine, from Wessex?’ Alfred asked. ‘The first I might consider a gift, the second, not so much.’
Ketil grinned. ‘East Anglian, Mercian and Frankish, my lord. Guthrum is not so crass as to insult you by returning wealth which was once taken from your kingdom.’
‘Why has Guthrum sent this? Edgwulf asked. He did not bother to hide his suspicion.
‘To show that he is still the sworn friend of King Alfred,’ Ketil said. ‘To demonstrate that he is not angered that you took this city from him.’
‘The city did not belong to him,’ Alfred said. ‘It has been a Mercian town for a century and more.’
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�And now it is a West Saxon town,’ Ketil said. His tone was polite and smooth but there was no mistaking the irony of his words.
Alfred chose to ignore it.
‘You are welcome, Ketil,’ he said. ‘I have never had the chance to thank you for your kindness to my daughter. Come, enter the city and feast with me.’ He gestured to his soldiers who hurried to take the mules into the city, and hurried still more swiftly to divest the Danes of their weapons.
Ketil was lodged in a fine room within the fortress, his men allocated to a dormitory close to where Alfred’s soldiers were lodged. The Danes were guests and could not be harmed. But all knew that if things went awry they might remain unwilling guests for a very long time.
‘Are you treating them as hostages?’ Ethelnoth asked when the situation had been explained to him.
‘Not for the moment,’ Alfred answered. ‘It may come to that but not yet.’
‘I don’t trust them,’ said a voice from the door.
‘Wulfric,’ Alfred cried. ‘It is good to see you.’
The man bowed. ‘You also, lord.’
Wulfric slapped Edgwulf on the shoulder and poured himself a cup of wine.
‘How goes it in the west?’ Ethelnoth asked.
‘The Cornish are quiet,’ Wulfric said. ‘We are not loved there but they are beginning to accept our lordship. Mordaf agreed that henceforth he is to be termed Ealdorman and not king.’
‘He was never king,’ Ethelnoth said.
Wulfric shrugged. ‘His father was. It is not surprising that Mordaf would like to believe the same.’
‘He should remember that his father drowned,’ Ethelnoth said.
Alfred shot him a sharp glance to end the discussion. An uncomfortable silence filled the room.
‘We have to think of the Danes,’ Edgwulf said, changing the subject. ‘Like Wulfric I don’t trust them,’ he continued. ‘But we should sift their deeds of today.’
‘You’re right,’ Alfred said. ‘I can’t completely believe Guthrum’s words but there may be a grain of truth behind them. He may be alarmed that the peace is about to break down.’
