by Martin Lake
‘I’ll do it,’ Aethelflaed said, taking the needle from her. ‘Just tell me how close to stitch.’
‘Make a splint,’ Alfred told the servant. ‘A strong one.’ Gingerly he raised himself from Ketil’s chest.
Inga found some clean cloth in her box and steeped it in the water. As soon as Aethelflaed had finished she placed the cloth on the raw wound. ‘I could do with a poultice,’ she murmured, ‘but there isn’t the time. We must get the splint on at once.’
‘Where’s the splint?’ Alfred bellowed. ‘We need it now.’
The servant returned a few minutes later bearing a strong, well-made splint.
With infinite care Inga lifted Ketil’s leg while Aethelflaed and Alfred placed the splint around it. ‘Let’s draw it close,’ she said. ‘But we must be careful not do dislodge the bone.’
Inga supported Ketil’s leg while Alfred and Wulfric pushed the splint close. ‘Wind the fastenings tightly,’ Inga told Aethelflaed.
They worked as swiftly as possible. Time held its breath.
Inga glanced at Ketil. Mercifully, he was still unconscious.
‘The splint’s done,’ Aethelflaed said at last. ‘Now what?’
Inga sighed. ‘Now we just have to wait until he wakes. And pray that he is not bleeding inside.’
She bit the inside of her lip.
Poor Ketil, she thought. Poor, poor man.
FLIGHT
They ran until their legs gave up. Rebekah leaned against a tree, her breath laboured and catching.
‘I shall have to rest,’ she gasped.
Ulf nodded. ‘Me too. But only for a little while. Hrólfr will have managed to crawl to his camp by now. His men will be after us.’
She nodded, fighting to get her breath.
Ulf wondered if he should have taken her advice and killed Hrólfr. But the man had twice saved his life and it was a debt he felt he had to repay.
He stared towards the north. The trees were thinning here which meant they would make better progress. But so too would the Vikings. And they were fitter and stronger than either of them. For a moment hope failed him.
He glanced at Rebekah. She could not attempt to disguise herself as a local woman, she would be spotted straight away by any pursuers. Nor would any villagers be likely to take her in and hide her. She presented too great a risk of discovery. Besides, he recalled how he had first thought of her, as a demon. The Franks would be just as terrified at the sight of her.
Their only hope was to get away as swiftly and secretly as possible.
‘I’m thirsty,’ Rebekah said. ‘I could drink a river.’
Ulf grabbed her by the arm.
‘A river,’ he cried. ‘A river where we can steal a boat.’
‘But won’t Hrólfr’s men have horses? They will move swifter than a boat.’
‘But they will be looking for us on land. And we will leave no tracks on water.’
She gave him a dubious look but she had no better plan.
‘Can you manage a boat?’ she asked.
Ulf looked at her in astonishment. ‘Better than any Viking. I’m from Athelney. My home was as much water as land.’
‘And I am a daughter of the Nile, the Queen of Rivers.’ She touched him on the arm. ‘This is a good plan, Ulf.’
He found himself reddening and looked down.
‘There’s a river about half a mile beyond this forest,’ he said. ‘It goes south, which is not the way I would choose to go. But that may be for the best because the Vikings will assume I will go north, towards my land, and will search for us in that direction.’
‘South?’ she said. ‘My home lies to the south.’
He stared at her for a moment. He did not want to think about them going their separate ways.
‘We must hurry,’ he said. ‘The river is that way.’
They felt vulnerable once they had left the forest and forced themselves to run as fast as possible across the more open ground. They reached the river at last and hid in the mass of bushes and trees on the riverbank, too exhausted for the moment to go further.
‘We can’t stay here for ever,’ Ulf said. ‘We must find a boat.’
They scurried along the river bank for a quarter of a mile until they saw it. A small fishing boat hidden beneath a white willow tree. Ulf examined the hull for holes but could find none.
‘This will do. Come on.’
‘Should we steal a boat?’ Rebekah asked. ‘It’s wrong.’
‘I don’t think it’s been used for a while,’ Ulf said. ‘There are spider webs everywhere. I think the owner must have died.’
She looked doubtful but allowed herself to be persuaded. Better to be a thief than a slave destined for torture and death.
They climbed into the boat and both took an oar. It was now close to noon and they kept alert for any sound of pursuit. Eventually, Ulf sighed in relief. The Vikings must have assumed they had fled north and gone that way. He set his mind to the south and pulled still harder.
A passing merchant told them they were on the river Oise which headed south towards Paris. Apart from him, they saw no one else on the river.
After several hours, Ulf gave in to his exhaustion and stopped rowing, content to let the current take them south. His hands were red and torn from the oars and felt as if they were on fire.
Rebekah had fallen asleep. He watched her thoughtfully, wondering if he would ever be able to escape with her. Her appearance would arouse interest and consternation wherever she went. And it might not be too long before news of her reached their enemies.
It was a quiet river, meandering through the countryside, avoiding most of the villages they glimpsed on either side. This surprised Ulf for settlements normally clung to river banks for ease of transport. But the Northmen had long infested the rivers of Francia and perhaps their depredations had caused people to build settlements some distance away. Whatever the reason, Ulf was pleased the river was so quiet for it meant their journey was safer.
The sun was drifting down to sunset when Ulf saw that the river turned towards the west before taking a lazy bend back to the south. Nestling in the bend was a small village with a church, the closest settlement to the river they had come across.
Ulf cursed and shifted in his seat to get a better look at it. The movement woke Rebekah from her slumber. She sat bolt upright and clutched his arm. ‘Northmen?’ she gasped.
‘No. There’s no sign of them. I was looking at that village yonder.’
She followed his gaze.
‘We should go there,’ she said. ‘And buy food for our journey.’
‘Buy food?’ Ulf scoffed. ‘And where would we get money?’
Rebekah reached inside her tunic and brought out a leather money-bag. She undid the clasp and dribbled a pile of silver pennies into her hand.
‘This is a gift from Hrólfr’s men,’ she said, ‘though they had no idea they were giving it to me.’
Ulf clapped his hands in joy. ‘How much have you got there?’
‘A hundred silver pennies or thereabouts.’
‘Then we shall eat well today, tomorrow and for who knows how long.’ And without meaning to he bent forward and kissed her.
They rowed half a mile south of the village and stumbled on a small islet surrounded by osiers. They hid the boat behind a screen of bushes and settled down to eat. A full moon rose in a sky which was just beginning to darken.
‘What did you buy?’ Rebekah asked.
Ulf produced a loaf of bread, a flask of ale and some cheese.
‘You chose well,’ she said. Then she gave him a strange look. ‘But you cannot keep me hidden for ever.’
‘What else can I do? If any villagers see you they will become alarmed. And you can be sure that Hrólfr’s men will be seeking news of a woman with a black face.’
‘That might be for the best. The people here hate the Northmen. They will not give them any news of me.’
‘You have more faith than I do. People will
sell their own mothers if a sword is pressed at their throat.’
She held out her hand. ‘Give me your little sword. I will cut the bread and cheese.’
‘It’s a kitchen knife,’ Ulf said, handing her the blade. ‘It will be happier being used for what it was made than for fighting Hrólfr.’
She cut the bread and cheese in half and they began to eat.
‘Tell me three things,’ she said softly. ‘Why did you make those strange noises when you fought Hrólfr. And how did you manage to escape from that terrible cage?’
Ulf chuckled. ‘Those horrible noises were what my friends told me I sounded like before I was going to have an attack of frenzy. I thought if I made them it might alarm him and it did. He lost his concentration which is why he slipped on the hind. A warrior of his experience would not normally make such a mistake.’
‘And the cage?’
He fell silent, remembering the terrible prison he had suffered in. ‘For the cage,’ he said at last, ‘I really did use the power of my frenzy.
‘You saw what that is like when I attacked Asbrand. I was a prisoner of the rage, monstrously strong, yet powerless to control it. But in the cage, rather than being gripped in its claw, I managed to summon it, to master it to my purpose. I used my rage to force the iron cage off me.’
He paused and then grinned. ‘Although I’d also spent the night loosening the soil with a bone. That helped.’
He took a deep breath, wondering if he would be able to control his fury in such a manner in the future. His father never could, that he well knew. But now he knew that he had done so. And if he could do it once then maybe he could do it again.
He took a swig at the ale. ‘You said you had three questions,’ he said. ‘What is the third.’
She rested her chin in her hands and gazed at him. ‘The third question is why did you come to find me? Why did you do something so reckless and dangerous?’
He stared at her. He could find no words, none at all.
‘I believe I have the answer,’ she said, finally. And she pulled off her tunic and pressed herself to him.
Ulf woke first, just as dawn was breaking. They were still naked, twined in each other’s arms. He nuzzled his face into her hair, drinking in her scent. She was no demon. She was a woman. His heart beat faster. He had never lain with a woman before and she had told him that he was her first man.
A vast grin spread across his face. It was all he could do to stop from shouting out with joy.
‘You seem pleased with yourself,’ she murmured, sleepily.
‘I am.’ A momentary pang of anxiety gripped him. ‘And you, Rebekah? Are you pleased?’
She reached for his hand and squeezed it. ‘I have never been happier.’
He sighed and stared at the tree above them. The light was filtering through the leaves which were rippling in the morning breeze. He wanted to stay here for ever, holding her tight until the end of life. But he knew that they had to make a move, had to head south as far from Hrólfr as possible. As far from Hæstenn as well.
‘Should we go?’ she asked.
‘We must.’
She sighed and kissed him gently. ‘Let us love once more,’ she said. She did not say the reason and nor did she need to. Both knew that they might never get the chance again.
LOVE BLOOMS
May 884
For a week after she had set his bone, Inga barely left Ketil’s side. He burned in a fever which no amount of wet rags could quench. He seemed as likely to perish as to survive.
After their defeat at Ethandun Guthrum and the other Danish lords had been forced by Alfred to submit to becoming Christians. The priests claimed Ketil as one of their own, therefore, sending one of their number to pray over him, reckoning his soul another token in their accounting against the old Norse gods.
Inga knew better. Ketil raved in his fever and the names on his lips were Thor and Odin, never Christ. She sought out Ethelnoth to see what she should do to guide his soul but he had no answer and told her to see the king.
Alfred listened patiently to her worries and told her that Ketil was a Christian and she could rest content that the priests would guard his soul and make certain that he passed into heaven.
But as she went to leave, he called her back and gave her a small sword. ‘Put this in his hands,’ he said, although he did not tell her why.
Slowly the fever abated and Ketil became lucid. He began to eat the broth she spooned into his mouth and bit by bit grew in strength and hope.
‘Will the bone heal?’ he asked Inga one morning.
‘I hope so,’ she answered. ‘But you must rest in bed. For a month at least.’
He grimaced but then forced a smile on his face. ‘Well at least I have you as a companion and not Edgwulf or Ethelnoth.’
A companion, she thought. Just what Ethelnoth had asked her to be. She smiled to herself and brought him a cup of mead.
‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Aethelflaed will have need of me.’
‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘But before you go, can I ask you one thing?’
She paused in the doorway.
He picked up the sword. ‘Who gave me this? Was it you?’
‘No. It was the King. He did not tell me why.’
Ketil looked at the blade thoughtfully. ‘I wonder,’ he murmured.
‘Wonder what?’
Ketil licked his lips, wondering whether to share his thoughts. He glanced at her, saw her look of interest and concern, and made his mind up.
‘We men from the north believe that only the mightiest warriors join their gods after death, and then only if they have a sword in their hands. Do you think that your king knows this?’
‘He is wise and very learned.’
Ketil ran his finger along the blade. ‘Wise and compassionate,’ he said. ‘I deem he gave me this blade to ensure that, had I died, I would have joined my gods in Valhalla.’
‘He also commanded the priests to pray for your Christian soul.’
Ketil smiled. ‘A wise lord leaves himself choices. A battle can ebb and flow for a long while before the outcome is certain.’
Day by day, Ketil improved in strength. The wound showed no sign of festering and after another week Ketil begged to be allowed out of bed. But she refused to allow this and threatened to get a priest to watch him day and night. He gave in to her command.
They spent much time together that month, every moment that Inga was free of her duties to Aethelflaed. Ketil told her of his home on the west coast of Jutland, of his father who was a fisherman and of his brothers and sisters. He was the youngest of the family and his fascination with the sea had been not with fishing on it but in sailing and adventure.
‘So how did you come to my land?’ she asked.
‘I became a warrior,’ he said, ‘and a good one. Guthrum was famous throughout the north and I journeyed here to offer him my service. I proved a good warrior and he came to value my counsel.’
‘That sounds a little like my brother Ulf,’ she said. ‘King Alfred and his Horse-thegn think highly of him, as much for his thoughts as his deeds. Although that has all changed now.’
Ketil listened in silence while she told him of Ulf’s torment. She began to weep, she could not help herself, for his pain was hers, as hers was his.
Ketil took her hand and squeezed it, encouraging her to talk and offering soft sounds of comfort.
‘Ulf has his path,’ he said when she finished. ‘Only the Norns know which one he will choose.’
‘You sound like my father and the old wise woman Ymma, who taught me healing.’
‘If they are in any way like you than I am content to be compared with them,’ he said.
She smiled and it was only at that moment that she realised they were still holding hands.
The splint was removed from Ketil’s leg in early June. Inga had asked her younger brother Osgar to help support him to get out of bed.
‘I feel as week as a baby,’ Ketil g
asped.
‘That is why you must use this staff,’ Inga said. ‘For a few days at least. The last thing we want is for you to fall over.’
‘I do not need a staff,’ he said. His voice was harsh with fear of humiliation.
‘Put him back into bed, Osgar,’ she said. ‘If he wants to act like a child I shall treat him like one.’
Osgar laughed and made to lower Ketil back into bed.
‘Have done,’ Ketil cried. He glared at Inga. ‘I will take your wretched staff, just as long as I can leave this bed.’
‘Wise warrior,’ she said. She gave him a triumphant smile and he could not help but laugh.
‘I shall pay you back for this, Inga,’ he said.
‘I doubt you will ever have enough wealth to do so,’ she said. She gave him the staff and grasped him round the waist. ‘Now, slow steps and steady ones. Let’s go and see how the world has changed since you’ve been lounging around in bed.’
They stepped out of the hut and into the air. It was a warm day with banks of cloud rolling in from the west, threatening. Huge flocks of swifts wheeled overhead, silent and determined, moving like one in the heavens.
‘I sometimes wish my warriors would act like swifts,’ Ketil said. ‘They would be so easy to command and invincible.’
COUNT EUDES OF PARIS
June 884
The next morning they came to a place where the Oise flowed into a river more than twice its size. An old man and woman stood on the river-bank, staring at them suspiciously.
‘Where are we?’ Ulf called.
The old man shook his head, not understanding Ulf’s speech.
‘What is this river?’ he asked.
Again the old man shook his head.
‘Where is Paris?’
The old woman recognised the one word and pointed down the river to the east.
‘This must be the River Seine,’ Rebekah said. ‘Paris sits on an island in the middle of it.’
They both glanced east, not realising that the city was twenty miles away and lost to sight.
