by Ceri Bladen
She made her way over. “Ay, Sire. Is it time?”
“I think so.” He nodded at his wife and noticed sweat bead on her top lip. “I will help you to our bed-closet.” He turned to look at Hilde. “Has everything been arranged?”
Hilde nodded. “Ay, Sire. Everything is in place to encourage a speedy and easy birth.”
“Good. Let’s make haste.” He turned and bent, picking Rosfrith up as though she was as light as a feather. “It’s time to meet our new barn.”
Ubba waved his hand at his oldest child in an attempt to encourage him to enter the bed-closet. “Come, Ragnar, meet your new brother.” He ignored the scowl on his son’s face – it was permanently present on his young features. “Come. I’d like you to meet him.” He waved his hand again and let out a small sigh when it was Hilde, nudging him from behind, who managed to get him to move forward, not his words.
When Ragnar neared the box-bed, Ubba grabbed him around the waist and hoisted him up onto the end of the bed, so he could get a better view. He weighed nothing for four winters. Underneath his large hands, he felt him struggle to free himself. “Careful now, son. Once you are stable, I will release you so you can get a better look.”
“I can see from here.” He wiggled his shoulders until his father released him.
When Ubba noticed the protrusion of his bottom lip, he rolled his eyes. Ragnar could be as rotten in mood as his mother, Astrid. “Do you like your new brother, Ragnar?” He detected him shrug his shoulders. “He will be someone to play with you and Brynjulf when he is older,” he added, trying to make a connection with his sibling for him.
“I want to go to mother.” Ragnar turned and tried to jump off the bed, uninterested by his father’s words.
Ubba grabbed him and helped him, although his son seemed less than pleased. He frowned, troubled that his eldest son showed no interest in any, other than his mother. That would change — one day soon — when Astrid would no longer be at Ranaricii.
Since he’d arrived back home from Dunwich, he’d worked hard to find out who was involved in causing Rosfrith’s pain. Some culprits had been easy — they hadn’t covered their tracks — but some had been well hidden behind the scene. Astrid being one of them. The disappointment that he felt in her betrayal had been enormous, he hadn’t believed Eirik’s words at first, until his father’s words came back to him – “A women scorned…” After he’d calmed, it made sense. She’d wanted him back and used any way for that to happen — even letting him think Rosfrith was dead. It had taken him a while to think of a revenge, mainly because, however poor a mother she was to their son, Ragnar still needed her. But his son was growing older and surlier. Mayhap he’d been too soft on his former bedmate? His plans for her needed to be speeded up as it was evident she wasn’t a good influence on little Ragnar’s life.
“Ubba?”
He turned and smiled at his wife. Rosfrith was another matter — she was an amazing mother to his children. “Ay, love?”
Although she looked tired, she glowed with pleasure. “Watch. See how strong your son is.”
His insides clenched as he watched his son latch on to Rosfrith. The barn was indeed strong like Brynjulf had been. While he observed, he felt himself relax, his clenched hands uncurling. He’d been looking forward to welcoming another child, but he’d been worried. He never told his wife what the Seer had told him all those years ago — five children, three souls — for it was enough that he held the burden of the knowledge. So, with each birth, he’d panicked that they would be born, only for its soul to be taken to Helgafjell — the ‘holy mountain’ — soon after. But, so far, he’d been blessed by Frigg by having five healthy children, and he’d be a fool to continue to worry about the Seer’s word. Mayhap it was just an omen that they would never meet their twins? They were somewhere in Briton — perhaps lost to them forever.
Ubba lost time on how long he lay on the bed, next to his wife and child — enjoying the moment. People came and went, offering their congratulations. It was only when Astrid stepped into the bed-closet that he felt his stomach clench. His arm reached around Rosfrith.
“Blessings to you and your growing family, Sire, Mistress.” Astrid nodded at them.
“Well, thank you, Astrid,” replied Rosfrith.
He didn’t know how he felt about the smile on his wife’s face when she greeted Astrid. She didn’t know about Astrid’s part in the plot to separate her from him, so she felt no ill towards her. Ubba didn’t reply — he wasn’t going to be pleasant to her.
“Um … I will leave you, now, Sire, Mistress.” Astrid gave a tight-lipped nod before she stepped out of the room.
Only when she was out of sight, did his guts unclench. He knew what he had to do — he just wished Astrid hadn’t deceived him in the first place. But she had, and a Viking always got his revenge — one way or another.
Chapter 2
Weodmonað (August) 876 - Dunhill Fortress
Lord Bryan Guader stood by the opening in his bedchamber and inspected Dunwich estate. From his elevated position, he could easily see the activity in the fields beyond the fortress’s walls. This year, due to the mild year-long weather, it seemed as though they were going to have a bumper harvest. It was the first day of Weodmonað — August — and the crops had grown long and tall, so his tenants would be harvesting and gathering them ready for the sparse winter months. His eyes narrowed at a couple of serfs who seemed to be chatting, not working. It mattered not to him whether they were discussing work, they were still idle.
It was Lughnasa today — the beginning of the harvesting season — when the first sheaves of corn were ground up to make into loaves to offer to God. His lips pursed, there would be enough slacking later on when they celebrated the first fruits of the harvest. His gaze narrowed and his finger tapped his lips. Those lazy serfs couldn’t benefit from all the bumper crops. They were just renting his land, after all. He’d wander down when they started gathering to remind them of his generosity. Obviously, he’d expect plenty in return. He studied them again and his lip curled. Failing that, he’d resort to putting their rent or taxes up. He smirked to himself. Ay, that sounded better than having to mix with them in the fields. He would put a call out, in the middle of their celebrations, of course, for them to meet him. The smile curved more fully on his lips. Yes, that’s what I will do. He marched out of his room to find the estate’s accountant, Aldred, and a young lad to gather the masses.
Wearied with the proceedings, but happy by his gains, Bryan glanced up at, yet another, dirty serf who stood in front of him. It had been a long day, listening to their life’s struggles, but, in the end, they had no choice but to pay. All his serfs, villeins, and cottars were receiving the same news about their tax and contributions to the estate.
“So, ye see, m’lord. With my daughter wanting to leave to marry that lad, I lose a good pair of hands during harvest season.”
Bryan sat back in his seat and said nothing, examining the small man, who was fidgeting with his cap. He continued to stare at the man, enjoying the tension growing in the room. To drag the moment out — because he’d heard too many sob stories to care — he templed his fingers, tapping the tips together. After a while, he sat forward and picked some lint off his sleeve.
“Lord? What am I to do?”
“You have mentioned the loss of your daughter to,” – he drew his eyebrows together – “a serf from another manor?”
The man nodded.
“Ah,” he said, smiling politely but not genuinely. “That means that if she marries this serf, you owe me a fee for her right to leave. No one is allowed to leave my land without compensation for lost labour.” He waved his hand in dismissal. While the man tried to cough out an argument, Bryan turned to Aldred. “Arrange for the collection to be seen to.” He turned back towards the flustered man and narrowed his eyes. “Next.” The conversation with this tenant was dead.
“Have we nearly finished, Aldred?”
The accountant
nodded.
“Good. I don’t think I could bear to listen to another feeble hard-luck story. They are lucky I let them tend to my land.” He pursed his lips. “Sometimes I think it would be easy just to accept a couple of extra eggs at Easter or a chicken at Yule, and send you out to collect their taxes and agricultural fees so I don’t have to get involved with them.” He circled his hand. “Anyway, enough of them, how have we done with the taxes?”
“We have a respectable increase in Dunwich’s income, Lord.”
“Which, of course, won’t be reordered in that ledger we send to that barbarian?”
Aldred smirked. “Nay, Lord. Ubba Ragnarsson or your sister will never get to see the true worth of Dunwich fortress.”
“Good, good,” said Bryan as he stood, stretching his back.”
“I’ve been thinking, Lord. How about sending a request for more coin to help the place run?”
Bryan felt his breath hitch and his pulse race. “Nay,” he shouted before tempering his voice — there was no way he wanted to give Ubba any excuse to come over to East Angles. “Nay, we’ll leave it at that for now, Aldred. Just send the false ledgers and they can take a look — if they can read.”
When Aldred shrugged and shut the two ledgers, Bryan relaxed. Luckily, his accountant was as crooked as he. He turned swiftly around when the door burst open. He hoped it wasn’t a disgruntled serf with too much ale in his belly who has in mind to argue the tax hike. His eyes narrowed on the maid who looked after his cabbage of a father. She looked flustered.
“Lord,” Cate bowed. “You must come quickly.”
“Now?”
“Ay, Lord. Pray, it’s your father.”
Bryan felt the blood drain from his face. He stood. “Aldred, finish up here. I will speak to you later.” Ignoring the inquisitive looks, he followed Cate towards his father’s bedchamber.
When Cate opened the door, he hesitated at the threshold. It smelled stale inside. Since Rosfrith, his sister, had left, he’d ordered for the shutters to be kept shut. He didn’t agree with her belief that fresh air was good for the body and soul. He’d never visited his father in the three winters since she’d left, so he hadn’t realised how humid and smelly the room had become. He wriggled his shoulders, mentally preparing to go in.
“Lord?” Cate turned towards the door and waved for Bryan to come in.
He plucked a handkerchief from his pouch and placed it over his mouth and slowly entered further into the room. When he was close enough, he looked down at the skeletal body in the middle of the bed. He looked nothing like the father he once knew. “What’s wrong with him?”
Cate looked over her shoulder at Bryan before leaning over to hold Lord Arter Guader’s frail, cold hand. “He is dying, my Lord.”
“What?” Bryan spluttered out, his heartbeat racing, nearly exploding. He couldn’t die because if he did, Ubba Ragnarsson would come back and kill him. He’d promised! He held his rock-hard stomach with his spare hand. What am I to do?
“Are you all right, my Lord? You have paled.”
He felt dizzy and weak in the knees — not from the knowledge of his father’s impending death — but images of Ubba returning with his men.
“Lord?”
He flinched when Cate touched his hand. He shrugged her off. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” he said, attempting to keep his voice light. “I’m just upset about my father.”
“That is understandable, Lord.”
He gave her a watery smile, which he forced into place, before using his handkerchief to pretend to wipe away his tears. He needed to get out from the room. “Cate, you continue to tend him. Call me when he had passed.”
Her brows knitted together. “You don’t want to be near when he passes to the Lord?”
“Nay,” he said through gritted teeth. When he saw the shock on her face, he moderated his attitude. “Sorry, I mean that I’m too upset to be here. I would like you to be here with him,” — his eyes narrowed as a plan formed in his mind — “just you. No one is to be allowed into the room, and no one, except me, is to be told of his passing.”
“No one is to be allowed in?” she said in an uncertain tone.
“Nay. No one.”
“Um…”
“I mean it, Cate. Only you and I are to know of the passing of my dear father, for now.”
“All right, Lord.” She twisted her head to look at the dying man before looking back at the young lord. She sighed, he was up to no good, but what could she do? “I will seek you out when he has passed away.”
Without saying anymore, Bryan turned on his heel and left the bedchamber.
Bryan spun around when he heard the knock on his bedchamber door. “Enter.” He watched Aldred enter.
“Lord? You called for me?”
“Ay, have you finished with my tenants for today?”
“Ay, Lord.”
“Any problems?”
Aldred shrugged. “The usual complaints about the increase in taxes. But, what can they do?” he gave a short laugh.
“Indeed.” Bryan walked towards him, so he could lower his voice. His chamber door was open and he couldn’t chance someone outside overhearing. “Who was that man, this morning, the old one? The one complaining about the death of his wife.”
Aldred thought for a while before he nodded when he remembered. “Ah, Gifre. He is a cottager on your land, Lord.”
“So, he doesn’t rent land from me?”
“Nay, Lord. He is low down in the social hierarchy, Lord, ranked below your serfs. He holds a cottage and just enough land to feed a small family.”
“And he has no children?”
Aldred shook his head.
A smirk slowly appeared on Bryan’s lips. “Aldred, I need you to bring that man, Gifre, to me. Keep it quiet. I have a job for him to do, but it must be of the utmost secrecy.”
Aldred frowned, before nodding as he was used to his Lord’s sometimes strange requests. He bowed and backed out of the room, almost bumping into Cate. “As you wish, Lord.”
Bryan’s eyes narrowed on Cate as she entered. She was pale and there were red rings around her eyes. She’d been crying. His father was evidently dead. He didn’t feel anything, except panic for himself. “Close the door, Cate. We have some matters to discuss.”
Chapter 3
876 – Viking occupied Wareham
“Arter, Brigitta, where are you?” Edeva grabbed her tunic and increased her pace. Panic overrode the previous annoyance that she’d been experiencing because she couldn’t see the three-year-old twins anywhere. “Arter! Brigitta!” She stopped to scan the surrounding area — through the gates of the town, and towards the nunnery. She couldn’t see them. Her lips thinned as she tried to think.
They hadn’t been here long, so they didn’t know their way around. It was only recently that Guthrum had sailed his army around Poole Harbour, and after linking up with another Viking army — who were invading the area between the Frome and Piddle rivers — they’d captured King Alfred’s castellum. But since her Sire had taken the ancient square earthworks of Wareham by force, King Alfred had been determined to take it back. So, he had blockaded them in, consequently leading to daily skirmishes between the two when they scouted for food. She just hoped the twins were wise enough not to go far from the safety of the fortress.
When she heard a child’s squeal, she turned quickly, recognising the noise. She spotted them, and luckily, they were within the walls. “Arter, Brigitta, come here!” She grabbed her tunic to lift the hem from the mud and puddles on the floor. It was too dangerous to go to the river to wash clothes, at the moment, due to the king’s scouts. From what she could see about the state of the twins, neither had thought of that — but then they were only mere babies. She moved forward and shook her head when she saw the little boy jump into a puddle. “Get out of that puddle, Arter.” He ignored her. Her lips narrowed as she watched him jump, splashing his sister even more. Edeva’s hands clenched. She’d have to physically fetch
them as they were in too much mischief to heed her voice.
She searched around to attempt to find the driest route to the two. Normally, they would never get into so much strife because they would have been under her watchful eye, or her friend’s, Edith, but at the moment, all the women were busy tending to wounded Vikings warriors. The children had to pretty much amuse themselves.
Warriors came and went daily, fighting King Alfred’s soldiers stationed outside the walls of Wareham. It hadn’t bothered her at first, for as long as she’d lived with the Vikings, they were always fighting someone. But, this time, the women and children were near the action and some of the warriors returning were badly injured, which the children saw — the harsh realities of life were on their doorstep.
A mischievous giggle regained her focus. “Arter!” She noticed Brigitta standing — her mouth open in shock, her hair dripping, and her hands clenched. She was soaking. When her little face screwed up and a large wail came out of her mouth, Edeva knew she had to get them both. No more messing around.
