Mindful of watching eyes, Æva settled herself at their feet, the place of a servant. Wulfram handed her a chunk of the bread, and she chewed on it gratefully.
Though the sun remained hidden, Æva thought the morning was still very young. The square was quiet; the hustle and bustle of the day not yet begun.
She had no idea what they would do today, or the next day, didn’t know whether the men would keep her with them, or if they could. And if they didn’t, what would happen to her?
She thought of the girls from last night, serving beer, and then themselves, to whoever demanded. Would that be her fate? She hoped not. To be a handmaiden to a good man like Wulfram would be tolerable, but she knew servants did not choose their masters. Her thoughts drifted back to the noble in Maelton and his poor, beaten servant girl. Both would likely have died in the Viking raid; for a fleeting moment, she wondered if the girl had welcomed her death.
She chewed on her lip, looking hesitantly up at the men. A minute slunk by before she drew up the courage to speak.
“Wulfram,” she said timidly, “What’s going to happen to me?”
It was a relief to say the words out loud, but they seemed to hang in the air, turning the atmosphere to lead. Idin and Ælric both looked away at once, Ælric shifting uncomfortably. Wulfram took a long moment to form his answer.
“I don’t know,” he told her. “If we are called to battle, we cannot take you with us.” He grimaced. “If I can look after you, I will.”
“And if you can’t?” she asked in a whisper.
“It may be that we can send you to a nunnery, but times are not safe for such places. I might be able to find you a place as a handmaiden. I promise you, I will do my best to keep you safe.”
She struggled to smile up at him in thanks. That was far beyond what Wulfram was obliged to offer her, but it wasn’t enough. Æva’s life hung in the balance, dependant on so many uncertain things.
“What are we to do today?” Idin asked, a deliberate attempt to change the subject. Wulfram sighed.
“There is nothing to do but wait here and get fat,” he huffed, disgusted.
“Or fulfil promises,” Ælric said, smiling and winking down at Æva. “I promised to teach you to fight. I would hate people to say that I reneged on my pledges.”
Æva remembered the promise from one of their early, stilted conversations. Then the idea had horrified her. She could not imagine causing pain, instigating violence. Hers had been an existence of peaceful worship; the thought of murder, of taking another life – even in self-defence – was abhorrent. Now, she thought about the brutality and cruelty that she had witnessed and experienced in the past few days, from the thoughtless blow of an irritated soldier to the savage carnage of the Viking raiders. She thought about the sadistic noble, the knife she had carried that she could – and should – have used. She could not afford to be naive and weak. Her eyes resolute, Æva nodded.
Wulfram did not want to proceed in front of so many prying eyes. On the pretence of taking his men out to exercise, he led them a mile from the town. They walked over the sandy dunes onto the beach. Though the wind whipped off the water, chilling Æva even through the thick weave of the woollen dress, the stretch of coast was protected and hidden. No dwellings stood within sight and the undulating dunes blocked their actions from the view of the soldiers watching from the height of the palisade.
Ælric tossed her a bundle he had carried with him.
“You’ll need to change,” he told her. “You cannot fight in a dress.”
Æva glanced down and saw it was a tunic and leather breeches, similar to the outfit she’d worn when first she had encountered the three men. Thankful for the rolling dunes, she scampered into the nearest deep trough and yanked the dress over her head. It was strangely comforting to be wearing trousers again. From the beach, she could hear the sounds of grunting and the occasional bout of laughter.
Once dressed, she hiked up the steep sandy bank. Staring down at the beach from the height of the dune, she found Ælric and Idin wrestling. Their tunics lay discarded on the sand, guarded over by Wulfram who leaned against a small boulder, refereeing. Æva watched, entranced. It was like a dance. The two men circled each other, legs bent in a low crouch, arms stretched out to the side. Their eyes were focused, watching for the slightest movement of their opponent: a shift to the side, a step forward, a reaching arm.
Without warning, Ælric lunged. His foot kicked out at Idin’s shin, one shoulder dropping down and driving into his chest. Momentum propelled him forward. Idin tried to respond, the bulging muscles in his arms straining, but without his balance the battle was lost. He toppled backwards, leaving Ælric standing over him, victorious. After a moment of gloating, Ælric reached down and pulled Idin to his feet, good-naturedly laughing as he ducked away from Idin’s retaliatory swinging first.
“Your turn,” Ælric called, turning to face her, the grin still wide on his face. Æva started, shocked and a little embarrassed that he knew she had been watching his display.
As she joined them on the flat of the beach, she eyed him warily, hoping he was not expecting her to try to wrestle. Behind him, Idin moved beside Wulfram to laze on the sand, their faces expectant. Æva knew they were going to enjoy watching her education. She focused her eyes back on Ælric, trying to ignore them as much as possible.
“We’ll start with this,” he said, tossing her a stick. Startled, she caught it inches before it smacked into her face. With both hands wrapped around its width, she stared at the length of wood. A crude weapon the thickness of her wrist, its surface had been sanded and polished into smoothness. The top had a tapered end and was much more roughly cut. It seemed incomplete somehow.
“An axe without the axe head,” he explained, catching her puzzled look. “The real thing would be too heavy for you.”
Æva tested the weight of the stick in her hand and had to agree with him. Even without the heavy iron axe blade on top, the stick felt very solid; the muscles in her forearm straining to hold it aloft. She looked at Ælric’s empty hands.
“What will you have?” she asked doubtfully. Idin and Wulfram laughed at the worried look on her face. Ælric merely smiled, the joking facade replaced by a more serious, focused attitude now that he was in his element.
“I’m not going to try to hit you just now,” he explained. “I just want you to get used to the idea of attacking someone.”
Æva looked even more unconvinced. She waved the stick hesitantly.
“You want me to hit you?”
“Yes,” he grinned. “If you can. You won’t hurt me,” he assured her.
Æva advanced on Ælric, feeling foolish, the stick held at waist level in her hand. With each step she took, he danced away, drawing her in a circle. When she stopped, he paused in tandem, staying just out of reach. Æva twisted her mouth to the side, considering her line of attack. Speed and surprise, she decided, would be her best weapons against this experienced opponent.
Darting forward, she closed her eyes and swung the stick, pushing against the resistance as it whooshed through the air. Her aim was off, however. She couldn’t bring herself to connect the stick with his flesh and deliberately missed.
A barked laugh made her open her eyes. Ælric was grinning at her. He hadn’t moved a muscle. In the background Idin was shaking with obvious laughter.
“Hit me,” he told her again.
Annoyed at Idin’s amusement, she swung the stick again. This time her aim was dead on, but there was no power behind the shot. Ælric’s arm whipped up. He caught it in his hand mid-swing, jolting her arm. A hiss of shock and pain fizzed from her lips. Ælric seemed unconcerned.
“Better,” he applauded her. “But you need to put some power behind it. You won’t incapacitate an attacker with a soft blow like that.”
Taking a deep breath, Æva stormed forward, swinging the club wildly. Ælric leapt away, his eyes alight, watching every move she made. Grunting, Æva followed, swiping at the air
. His agile feet seemed to goad her, skipping away, forcing her to twist and turn. Around in circles they danced, Æva’s attempted blows falling harder, but less accurately, as she began to pant with exertion. At last she stopped, letting the end of the stick drop to the ground, her arm aching.
“I can’t do it,” she complained. “You’re too fast.”
Ælric just laughed, his feet planted in the soft sand. He wasn’t even breathing hard. From behind him, Idin rose.
“Let me show you,” he offered, brushing past Ælric and reaching for the stick. Æva gave it up gladly, and staggered to sit next to Wulfram, pleased at the chance to rest. She watched Idin and Ælric square up to each other. For a moment neither moved, each eyeing the other, testing their resolve; then Idin exploded into attack. The stick sung as it whistled through the air, almost imperceptible to the naked eye. Each blow missed Ælric by a hairsbreadth as he ducked and weaved and twirled to stay just beyond reach.
“Notice what Idin’s doing,” Wulfram pointed with his arm. “He’s not aiming for where Ælric is standing. He’s trying to move him with his body, then swinging the stick at where he wants him to go.”
Æva tried to see Wulfram’s words in Idin’s actions, but the movements were so quick she could find no pattern. Both men were panting now; sweat forming on their brows as they struggled to outwit each other. Finally, Idin let out a yell of triumph. The stick halted in mid-air - just before it was due to connect with Ælric’s shoulder.
“One each!” he announced, before holding the stick back out to Æva. “You try.”
Convinced that she would not do any better, Æva let out a resigned sigh and hoisted herself to her feet. She waded through the sand, now rutted and furrowed with all of their activity. The stick hung no lighter in her hands, but as she turned to face Ælric she was filled with a sudden desire to win, to beat him in this game. Think, she told herself. Breathe. Moving forward, she turned in to the left and then watched as Ælric shifted right. Next, she tried turning in to the right. Automatically Ælric moved to the left. A half smile at this small victory curled on her lips. She thought she understood. A gleam came into her eye. Out of sight, Wulfram leaned forward, nodding.
Rushing to the left, she swung hard to the right of where Ælric was. He moved towards the stick, herded, but she was too slow. At the last second, he realised his mistake and threw himself backwards. Æva’s swing hissed through the air, just missing its target. Frustrated she growled, but Ælric looked delighted.
“That’s it!” he cried, then bit off his next words as she advanced on him immediately. They began the ritual again, Æva pressing forward, Ælric bouncing out of reach. But this time the contest had changed. Æva moved with a purpose, driving him into position each time, getting closer and closer to landing a blow. She began to breathe heavily, and the muscles in her arm burned, but her concentration was absolute. She was determined. Slowly she herded him back over towards Idin and Wulfram.
The men watched intently, but Æva was clearly getting tired. Deciding she deserved a victory, Idin slipped his foot out into Ælric’s path. Ælric tried to jump back, caught his heel, and toppled towards the ground. Expecting to swing and miss again, Æva pulled the stick round with all her might. It connected with Ælric’s flailing arm with a sickening thud.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” she cried, dropping the stick and dashing to his side. Ælric lay sprawled on the sand, his hair in disarray across his face. He swept the dishevelled locks aside to find Æva’s face hovering above him, horror-struck. One hand grasped the wrist of the arm that she had thumped, the other rested on his bare stomach.
“Are you alright?” she gasped.
“I’m fine,” he told her, reaching over to pat the hand that lay on his abdomen. She quickly pulled it away. “But if you do that to an attacker, don’t stop to check if he’s all right.”
Æva smiled tentatively and climbed to her feet. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes bright.
“I want to try again,” she said, the stick clutched in her fingers.
“I think you have worked poor Ælric hard enough for one day,” Wulfram interjected. He walked over to her and pulled the weapon from her fingers. Æva’s brow creased with disappointment. Beside her, Ælric hauled himself to a standing position, brushing the sand from his back and testing his arm, stretching it in a circle. He frowned as he noticed something high up on the heath behind them.
“Who is that?” he asked. Wulfram and Idin turned to stare. A figure on horseback sat watching them. From this distance it was impossible to identify him. Realising he had been spotted, the person turned the horse and rode swiftly away. Wulfram shrugged nonchalantly, but his eyes were tight.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Time to get back.”
ᚻ
When they arrived back at Babbanburth, the town was in a state of high excitement; the soldiers standing guard on the palisade more interested in what was happening inside than searching for oncoming threats from the surrounding landscape. Æva, Wulfram, Idin and Ælric walked back in almost unnoticed, receiving only a quick, curt nod from the guardsman on the door before he turned back to the friend he was deep in conversation with. As they wandered up the wide road, they became aware that the town’s populace, too, appeared distracted. Ignoring whatever tasks they had to do, wives gossiped in doorways and children peeked from behind their long skirts.
As they approached the Great Hall, the cause of the excitement became clear. Two men sat slumped on the steps, collapsed against each other. Their clothes were ragged and dirty, stained with dark patches of muck or blood. Bare arms revealed networks of interweaving scratches and slashes surrounded by dark scabs of congealed blood. Their faces were haggard, dark shadows under eyes half closed in exhaustion.
“Messengers,” Wulfram told her, realising how engrossed she was by the pair.
He asked Æva and the others to wait, approaching the men alone. For several minutes he questioned them. Idin and Ælric appeared unconcerned, but Æva watched with interest. At each enquiry from Wulfram the men spoke animatedly, faces contorting with emotion, their hands cupping and squeezing the air as they sought to emphasise the strength of their words. Throughout Wulfram kept his face expressionless and at last the two men fell silent. Wulfram gripped one man’s shoulder in thanks, or it might have been comfort. When he returned to where Æva sat, his face was a dark cloud.
“Well?” Ælric asked, turning to him as soon as he approached.
“They are from Deira,” Wulfram began. Æva saw consternation on the face of each man at this news. Her eyebrows drew together, confused. Deira was a large province to the south. An important stronghold, its lord was the third most powerful man in the kingdom of Northumbria, behind only the King and the Lord of Bernicia.
“So it has happened?” Idin asked. Wulfram nodded, his mouth squeezing into a thin line. Unable to decipher this confusing exchange, Æva tugged on the sleeve of Wulfram’s tunic.
“What’s happening,” she asked.
Wulfram pursed his lips, considering. For a moment, Æva didn’t think he was going to tell her, but then he gave a small shrug.
“Eboric is under siege,” he told her. “The Vikings amassed a huge force and have surrounded it. The town is holding firm just now, but they cannot do so for long. Their lord, Ælle, is here, meeting with the King.”
“Surely now the King must act!” Idin growled, his dark eyes glaring at the Great Hall.
“I don’t know,” Wulfram responded. He, too, looked towards the massive doors of the hall. They stood closed today, guarded by two soldiers standing to attention, powerful arms crossed across their chests. “I will go and see what I can find out.”
He swept away from them, his hulking frame bouncing up the stairs with surprising grace. At the entranceway he had a brief word with the sentinels, before they moved aside, pulled open one door, and bowed him through.
“Can we not go too?” Æva asked, watching the door close behind him.
&n
bsp; “Not today,” Idin told her. “Only the men of importance can gain admittance when the doors are closed.”
“Scum like us just have to wait outside,” Ælric told her. Æva bit her lip, considering this.
“Is Wulfram an important man?” she asked. He was treated with deference by many, but Æva had always thought that was because of his size and demeanour, not to mention the deadly sword that always glinted – ever ready – at his hip.
Ælric snorted at the question, amused, but Idin replied, smiling condescendingly.
“Yes,” he told her. “He is leader of the army of the Lord of Bernicia, a man named Renwearde.”
Æva nodded silently, taking this in.
There was nothing to do but wait. They sat in the square throughout the afternoon, watching the sky darken. At times, Ælric and Idin talked quietly, but for the most part they idled in companionable silence. After a while, Ælric took out his wet stone and began to sharpen the head of his spear. The sight of him, colossal, flame red hair, stroking the razor-sharp glinting weapon drew alarmed glances from the servants and women scuttling about. Ælric smiled to himself, aware of the unease he was causing.
As night fell, Æva’s eyes began to grow heavy. The floor that she sat on was hard and uncomfortable, small pebbles dug into her and the wall against her back was unforgiving, sharp edges of stone scratching across her shoulders. She shifted sideways a little, leaning against the softness and warmth of Idin’s leg. She glanced up at him to check that such contact was okay, but he met her gaze with a smile, reaching down to pet her head. Much more comfortable, Æva’s eyes began to close.
It was very late indeed when Idin shook her awake. She groaned, her every muscle feeling stiff after the activity at the beach and the awkward position she’d been sleeping in. She opened her eyes to see Wulfram striding towards them, his expression thunderous.
“Nothing,” he spat when he reached them, so disgusted he didn’t even bother to keep his voice down.
Aeva The Wild Page 7
