by H A CULLEY
‘I’m not the only one of your ealdormen who trade abroad, Cyning. Several trade with Mercia and with Ireland. Are they to be asked to pay you additional taxes too?’
‘That’s not your concern.’
‘Isn’t it? I think it is very much my concern. As a member of the Witan I am vitally interested in what amounts to a change in the law, especially if it is to be applied selectively.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘No, Cyning. Of course not; merely suggesting that this is a matter for the Witan to decide.’
‘No, it is a matter for your king to rule on. You will return to Bebbanburg and obtain your ledger for the past one hundred years from your reeve in Paris. My clerks will then assess what you owe me. Once you have settled your debt I will release your brother.’
‘Release my brother?’
‘Yes, Edmund will remain with me as my guest until you comply with my commands.’
The king nodded to a monk standing by a side door and seconds later several of the king’s gesith entered the church and surrounded Ilfrid and his companions.
‘You needn’t think that the men you left outside the monastery will come to your aid. They have already been disarmed by my warband. Now get out of my sight and do what I’ve told you to do. I’m afraid that your brother will be confined in uncongenial surroundings until you return, so I would hasten if I were you, or his health may suffer.’
Ilfrid stood there numb with shock for a moment and then, with a cry of rage he drew his dagger and lunged towards the sneering king. He never made it. With a yelp of fear Eanred leaned back to escape the dagger and his chair toppled over, taking the king out of Ilfrid’s reach. The king’s gesith were taken by surprise but Æthelred reacted quickly, throwing himself at the enraged ealdorman and locking his arms around him. It didn’t take Ilfrid a moment to shake the boy off. But Æthelred’s prompt intervention gave the king’s warriors time to gather their wits. One of them thrust his sword into Ilfrid’s back before he could attack Eanred again and Edmund watched in horror as his brother fell face down on top of the prostrate king, blood staining the back of his yellow tunic a dark crimson.
Eanred extracted himself angrily from under the dead ealdorman and he kicked the corpse several times before he recovered his composure.
‘Traitor,’ he spat. ‘Take his treacherous brother outside and hang him.’
‘Father, wait. Aren’t you going to thank me for saving your life?’
‘What, oh, yes. Thank you Æthelred. You did well.’
‘I don’t think it’s a very good idea to kill Edmund out of hand.’
‘Be quiet! You may have saved my life, but that doesn’t give you the right to be impudent.’
‘I’m not being impudent, father, just sensible,’ the boy replied calmly. ‘It will be difficult to explain to the Witan what has just happened here. Your enemies will accuse you of murdering the most important noble in the north and, if we aren’t careful, that could inspire a revolt.’
‘Who are these enemies you speak of,’ his father asked suspiciously. ‘What do you know of such matters?’
‘I keep my ear to the ground, father. I speak of the ealdormen of Lothian, Bernicia and the western shires. They all admired Ilfrid and looked upon him as their leader. It’s hardly surprising; you have never shown your face outside Deira.’
Eanred was about to rebuke his son when he realised that they were not alone. His first instinct was to order that Ilfrid’s body be taken out of the church and thrown on the midden heap. However, what his son had just said made him realise that he might need to tread carefully. He looked at Edmund, who was weeping and struggling with impotent rage against the men who held him. Perhaps killing him wasn’t the wisest move in the circumstances, but he knew that the youth would be his implacable enemy after what had happened. He needed time to think.
‘Take this wretch and chain him up in one of the cellars whilst I think about what to do with him,’ he ordered. ‘The rest of you can leave us now.’
‘What about the crew of Ealdorman Ilfrid’s longship, Cyning,’ his captain asked. ‘We have them outnumbered and surrounded but they are hardly disarmed, as you claimed.’
Eanred looked at the man sharply. He wasn’t certain but he thought that there was a hint of derision in the man’s voice.
‘Well, go and disarm them now.’
The captain looked uncomfortable and didn’t move.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
‘I may have more men than they have but they will fight back if we try to disarm them. You are likely to lose a significant number of your warband in the ensuing fight.’
‘And a battle with the Bebbanburg warband is hardly likely to improve the sticky situation you have got yourself into, father,’ his son added.
Eanred bridled at their implied criticism of him, but he knew that they were right. He was normally a careful man and he quickly realised that his greed was likely to end up costing him his throne if he wasn’t careful. He needed time to think.
‘Very well, tell them that they are to return to their ship and wait there for their ealdorman to rejoin them. After all, they won’t know that Ilfrid is dead.’
‘It won’t take long for word of what has happened here to spread, Cyning,’ his captain pointed out.
‘What about the body?’ the abbot asked. ‘Ealdorman Ilfrid deserves a Christian burial.’
Eanred nodded.
‘Yes, thank you Father Abbot. See to it would you? But I don’t want any fuss, just a quick internment in consecrated ground as soon as it’s dark.’
‘I want to take the body back with me to bury it on Lindisfarne with our ancestors,’ Edmund stated forcefully.
‘You’re not going anywhere.’
‘What about if I give you my oath to be faithful to you, much as it goes against the grain. My brother wouldn’t want to see some royal favourite given Bebbanburg.’
‘You expect me to believe that you would stay loyal if I released you?’
‘I will never forgive you for what you have done, Eanred, but I’m not stupid. No-one need know what transpired here today. You will need to hang the man who killed my brother, of course, but I’ll keep quiet about the reason behind his death. You can blame it on a man who went mad.’
Eanred looked dubious, but he gave what Edmund had said some thought.
‘I need time to think,’ he said again. ‘Leave me for now. Edmund, you and your two men will remain in the church. Go and wait over there until I’ve made a decision. Father Abbot, you can get your monks to prepare this traitor for burial. Whether it stays here or goes to Lindisfarne, it needs to be purified and placed in a coffin before it begins to stink.’
The way that Eanred spoke about his brother infuriated Edmund even further, but a warning glance from Æthelred was enough to make him bite his tongue. He would bide his time, but he promised himself that he would have his revenge on Eanred.
PART THREE – RAGNAR THE KING
THE RAVEN
Chapter Eleven – The Shield Maiden
829 to 830
Ragnar lay unconscious for several days after the blow to his head. For a time Olaf thought that he was going to die but Torstein, the godi, cast his runes and predicted that he was destined for great things, so his death was hardly likely to be imminent. It reassured Ragnar’s followers, but deep down Olaf was not convinced. He felt that Torstein would say what was necessary to keep the disparate warband that Ragnar had gathered around him from disintegrating.
When he did regain consciousness, Ragnar was desperately weak. However, he was not the sort of person to lie on his sick bed when there were things to be done. With the help of one of his hirdmen he managed to clamber to his feet. He stood on the aft deck of his drekar swaying like a drunk whilst the world seemed to be spinning around him. Suddenly he lurched to the gunwale and spewed bile and stomach acid over the side. He gripped the wooden rail under his hands tightly to stop himself falling
forwards over the side of the moving ship and then he felt strong arms grab his shoulders and force him to lie down again.
‘That was foolish, jarl,’ he heard Lars say as he and Bjarke lowered him onto his bed of furs.
He was about to utter a stinging retort when the world went black and he slipped back into unconsciousness. When he awoke next it was dark and he lay there for a moment looking up at the stars and the full moon. There were a few clouds in the sky and, as he watched, one of them obscured the moon from view. The sea and ship beneath were plunged into darkness again.
‘Are you awake, jarl?’
He didn’t recognise the voice and the face was difficult to make out until the cloud moved on and then he saw a beardless boy crouched beside him offering him a leather beaker. He recalled that the lad was the youngest of the ship’s boys, but at first he couldn’t remember his name.
‘Drink,’ he croaked, indicating that the boy should give him the beaker he was holding.
He was pleased to find that it contained mead. The usual brew of fermented honey and water had been supplemented by herbs, a concoction of Torstein’s which he claimed had healing properties. Ragnar slowly sipped the contents, with the lad’s help, until the beaker was empty. He sighed with contentment and went back to sleep.
He awoke next when rain splattered down onto his face. The sky was grey and for a moment he watched the scudding clouds as he blinked the water drops out of his eyes; then someone erected a piece of oiled wool cut from an old sail over his makeshift bed. The ship’s boy knelt by him again and helped him to drink another beaker of mead.
‘Where’s Lodvik?’
‘Who, jarl?’
‘My body servant.’
‘Oh, the thrall,’ the boy said dismissively. ‘I believe that he was killed by an arrow during the battle.’
Ragnar was annoyed at the boy’s casual indifference to the young man who’d been his constant attendant for some time and who he’d come to like and respect. But then he supposed that this boy wasn’t to know that. To him he’d just have been another thrall – the lowest of the low.
‘What’s your name, boy? I’ve forgotten,’ he managed to croak between mouthfuls.
‘Gedda Bótolfrson.’
‘Bótolfrson? Who is your father? Bótolfr is not a name I recall.’
‘He was a bondi in Agder, a rich landowner, but one of Froh’s hirdmen coveted his land and laid false charges against him. Naturally that bastard, Froh, found in his man’s favour and so we were forced off our own land. My father went back to our hall and killed the usurper, for which he was hanged. My mother, my sister Lagertha, and I sought refuge with my uncle, who is a jarl in the north of Agder.’
Gedda was about to continue but he noticed that Ragnar was slipping into unconsciousness again and so he got up and went to help the other ship’s boys to collect the rain and fill the water barrels.
‘You were telling me about your family,’ Ragnar said when he awoke again. The rain had stopped but his shelter had been left in place as the sky still looked ominous.
‘Oh, well, Lagertha has always been strong willed and more of a warrior than most boys. When we were evicted she became a shield maiden and formed her own small warband from amongst our uncle’s young warriors. They started to attack those Swedes who had been given land by Froh until she became such a nuisance that he offered a chest of silver for her head.
‘Of course, this just increased her renown and more and more young men looking for adventure joined her. I wanted to as well but my uncle said I was too young. However, he allowed me to join one of the other jarl’s as a ship’s boy. When two of yours were killed in the battle against Froh, he sent me and another boy to report to your shipmaster as replacements. As I was the youngest, at twelve, I was tasked to look after you.’
He was about to continue and tell Ragnar what had become of Lagertha but the man interrupted him.
‘And a good job you’ve made of it too. Right, Gedda Bótolfrson, get rid of this damned awning and help me to get to my feet again. This time I don’t feel as weak as a new-born baby, so maybe I’ll manage to stay upright.’
Ragnar made it to the gunwale without feeling faint this time and, although he was still quite feeble, he determined to get back to normal as soon as possible. In the meantime he needed to know what was going on. Why were they still in the anchorage at Bohus, for example?
‘Where is Olaf, Gedda?’
The boy shrugged.
‘Raiding, jarl. He and the other jarls are laying waste to Alfheim whilst you recover.’
Ragnar groaned.
‘Are you alright, jarl?’
‘What? Oh yes. I’m feeling much better, though my belly is rumbling as if the pipe between it and my mouth has been cut. No, that wasn’t why I groaned. Never mind, just see if you can find me something to eat.’
In fact Ragnar had groaned because they were wasting time here when they should be heading north to secure his kingdom of Agder before anyone else did so. When Gedda came back Ragnar sat down and greedily ate the bowl of mutton stew that he’d brought him. After the first few mouthfuls he was sick again, so he learned to eat it slowly and not to try and consume too much in one go.
The next day Ragnar was feeling more like his old self, but Torstein warned him not to try and do too much at first. The one thing he did do was to send messengers, found from the force left behind to besiege the fortress on the top of the hill, to find Olaf and the jarls and get them to return post haste.
By the time that they set out two days later Ragnar was feeling much better. The fleet left the fjord behind and turned into the Kattegat before heading north-west into the Skagerrak, on the far side of which lay the Kingdom of Agder.
-℣-
Lagertha Bótolfrsdotter had always regretted being born female. Growing up she had been able to outrun and outwrestle most of the boys her age. Of course, such behaviour earned her reprimands and the odd beating, but it made little difference to her behaviour. When she was twelve she started to badger her father to be allowed to join the boys in their training with sword, shield and spear. Both her parents were adamant that it would make them a laughing stock amongst their fellow bondis. However, Bótolfr did agree to let her have a bow.
Lagertha had become the best archer in their valley by the time she was fourteen. Then disaster struck. King Sigvard and his family were killed and the Swede, Froh, seized the throne of Agder. When her father was hanged Lagertha, her mother and her seven year old brother, Gedda, fled to her uncle, Jarl Magnus, at Lysebotn in the far north of Agder.
Magnus’ base lay at the end of a fjord some twenty five miles long called the Lysefjord. It was surrounded by steep-sided mountains, whose summits were covered in snow for most of the year.
Magnus’ bondis and their thralls existed by fishing and farming the flat land alongside the river behind Lysebotn. They were also successful raiders. Because of its inaccessible nature, the settlement was the perfect base for Lagertha to use to exact her revenge on Froh and the Swedes who came to settle in their new kingdom.
Her first foray was against the Swedes who had occupied the nearby island of Rennesøy, whose jarl also ruled over a number of other islands on the south side of the Boknafjord. These islands guarded the entrance to the Lysefjord and, when a Swede and his hirdmen killed their Norse jarl and subjugated the people who lived on them, Magnus’ bondis were furious. However, he was still dithering about how best to deal with the Swedes when Lagertha acted.
Taking two dozen warriors who acknowledged her, at least unofficially, as their hersir, she stole a snekkja one evening. In truth it belonged to the father of one of her young followers and so she regarded it as borrowing, rather than stealing. The night was relatively balmy with scarcely a light breeze to ruffle the dark waters of the fjord and they rowed silently westwards under the sporadic light of a new moon.
Clouds scudded along, obscuring the only source of light from time to time as they made their way slowl
y towards the mouth and on into the Boknafjord. At first Lagertha worried that it might be difficult to navigate when clouds intermittently obscured the moonlight, but such periods of inky blackness didn’t last long. By the time that the main settlement of Vikevåg on the south coast of Rennesøy hove into view they had been rowing for some six hours. It was now only an hour before the sky would start to lighten but her men needed to recover after rowing all that way.
By the time they were ready, the tops of the mountains to the east had started to appear, silhouetted by the rising sun. The shores of the island were rocky and so they had no option but to land on the wooden jetty at Vikevåg where the other longships, knarrs and fishing boats were moored.
At that time of the morning there was no one around. There was a sentry in a lookout tower near the jetty but when they drew close they could hear the unmistakable sounds of snoring. Lagertha signalled to one of her men and he silently climbed up the tower. It seemed a lot longer to those waiting impatiently below, but within a minute the man reappeared and quickly descended. When he reached the ground he grinned at Lagertha and drew his hand across his throat.
Her warriors followed the shield maiden through the filth strewn streets of Vikevåg towards the jarl’s hall. The only sound was the odd bark of a dog but no one seemed to pay any attention to it. Then, as they rounded a corner, Lagertha nearly bumped into a man with his trousers around his thighs as he relieved his bladder into the fetid mud outside his hut.
It took her barely half a second to recover her wits. The man had turned, still pissing away the ale he’d consumed the previous night, and stared at Lagertha and her followers as they came to a halt behind her. He opened his mouth but didn’t have the chance to utter a sound before she brought her shield up so that the rim smashed into the man’s throat, cutting off the yell of alarm before it started.
The warrior behind her jammed his spear into the unfortunate man’s chest and the group moved on. Lagertha had regretted his death, and that of the sentry, as they were both probably Norse, rather than Swedes, but she didn’t have much of a choice if they were to remain undetected until they reached their destination.
