by Millie Thom
Gradually, customers began to wander over. A ragged boy watched glumly as the churlish man he followed prodded Eadwulf in the ribs. An ugly purple bruise stained the boy’s left cheek and Eadwulf knew there would be no kindness in his future life should this brute become his master. But the man turned away, the boy trailing miserably after. A ginger-haired young man wandered past, his fine blue tunic and darker blue cloak indicative of some high ranking family. He was so engrossed in eating a steaming delicacy he almost tripped over a yapping mongrel hurtling past. Yelling curses after the dog he sauntered off.
By mid-afternoon all the young women had been taken, so had Alric and Aethelnoth. His friend’s new master seemed to be a wealthy lord, accompanied by the young man dressed in blue that Eadwulf had spotted earlier. Whether that meant that Aethelnoth’s life would be any easier, Eadwulf couldn’t begin to guess. Besides himself and Sigehelm only two of the little group remained: a matronly woman who barely raised her eyes to anyone, and a dark-headed man who scowled at any who neared, for which he’d been repeatedly lashed.
The crowds had now thinned and traders were packing away unsold goods. Eadwulf ached with exhaustion and his bound hands had long since gone numb. His legs suddenly buckled and he collapsed in a heap. One of the guards yanked him roughly to his feet – just as a fierce-looking man in a cloak of thick, dark fur appeared before them. His long, flaxen hair and plaited beard resembled those of many of the Danes that Eadwulf had seen during the day, but he emanated an air of power, like a chieftain. He spoke briefly to two armed men on his flanks, gesturing angrily to the stall.
Behind this trio, accompanied by four more armed men, were two boys, one of them astride a sturdy pony. Eadwulf guessed that both were a little older than him. Both were finely attired, but physically they were very different. The dark-haired youth slouched in his saddle, his misshapen back hunched, his feet in stirrups adjusted to suit his short legs. The other boy had a robust, muscular build, and was as fair as his companion was dark. Both stared at Eadwulf with arrogant disdain.
The scowling chieftain snapped at the two boys, then moved to tower over Eadwulf, his meaty knuckles pressed to his hips. Few men could compete with him in girth, though his height was not as impressive as Thrydwulf’s – or even Beorhtwulf’s. Eadwulf reeled as thick fingers yanked up his chin and piercingly blue eyes bored into his. Then the man stepped back, examining every inch of him, before subjecting Sigehelm and the two others to the same grousing scrutiny, continuously muttering and snapping at the two boys.
Attentions suddenly focused on Sigehelm, who had boldly addressed the chieftain. Eadwulf felt certain his tutor would be struck down for his audacity. But the chieftain’s expression was one of interest and, after a short conversation, words were exchanged with the guards, silver was handed over and the four captives led away.
* * *
At Hedeby’s waterfront the dragonship Sleipnir loomed, the maw of her monstrous, horse-like head snarling dislike of her master’s most recent purchases. At the top of her mast, a flag depicting an eight-legged horse rippled in the breeze.
Eadwulf squatted on the wharf beside the other three, rubbing his wrists, chafed raw where the tight bindings had been. Household goods and wine barrels were loaded onto the ship and, eventually, crewmen took their positions at the oars and the new slaves hustled aboard to huddle with the cargo at the stern. The mooring ropes were released, the ship was pushed out and the Sleipnir glided into Haddeby Noor. The sail was hoisted and the helmsman steered the vessel towards the Schlei Fjord.
As the sun sank low in the western sky the Sleipnir veered from the mouth of the fjord and followed the Danish coast north. They sailed on through the night and as the sun hailed the new day, Eadwulf turned to speak to Sigehelm. But his tutor’s head was bowed in prayer.
‘Never held much with faith myself,’ the dark-headed man said, shuffling uncomfortably beside them in the limited space between the wine casks. He grinned to reveal a wide gap where three front teeth must formerly have lodged. ‘Knew someone just like him once,’ he continued, jerking a thumb at Sigehelm. ‘Killed he was, in Canterbury, when the Danes set about burnin’ and killin’ before King Aethelstan could do aught about chasin’ the buggers off. No, faith didn’t do Uffa much good. The name’s Cendred, by the way. And I don’t bow down to no heathens.’
‘Then you’ll not survive for very long!’ Sigehelm snapped, making them both jump. ‘If you value your life, think most carefully before you act, or speak.’
Cendred bridled but held his peace.
‘I believe we’ll reach our destination before noon, Eadwulf,’ Sigehelm said with a weary sigh. ‘I urge you to remain calm and do exactly as you’re told. Your life will be very hard if you don’t. We must hope our master treats his thralls well.’
Too terrified to think of what lay ahead Eadwulf nodded, shoving his clenched fists into the folds of his tunic to hide his trembling. ‘What did you say that so interested the chieftain in Hedeby?’
‘You’ll remember at the market the chieftain was scrutinising us from head to foot?’ Sigehelm whispered, his eyes fixed on Cendred. ‘Well, it seems his wife wanted several young women for working around the hall, but their party arrived late at the stalls because they’d met up with some of their kinsfolk, so by the time they began looking for slaves, all the suitable women had been sold. But after looking us over he decided to take you and me and leave these two behind. The traders were not happy to be left with unsold goods,’ he continued, his voice now barely audible, ‘but resigned to keep them until the Midsumarblot – the midsummer festival – when they could string them up as offerings to their god . . .
‘You are right to look aghast, Eadwulf. These people think no more of offering a human being to their gods than we do of slaughtering livestock to keep us fed. Their gods demand blood to keep them satisfied. Gods like Odin and Thor.’ Sigehelm gestured to the flag atop the mast. ‘That’s Sleipnir up there: Odin’s eight-legged horse. Odin is said to ride across the skies on the beast. So you see, child, it was in desperation that I explained how useful these two could be in his village. A woman of Burghild’s age would be skilled in domestic chores and Cendred’s muscles could prove invaluable for manual labour. I could think only of the consequences should the chieftain not purchase them. Admittedly, I spoke before I had time to think. Pray God Cendred doesn’t bring doom upon us all.’
‘I thought the chieftain would strike you down when you spoke.’
‘That thought crossed my mind too, Eadwulf, but I soon realised he was more interested in what else I could do. When I told him I was a tutor and learned in many things, he said he knew the very role for me in his hall.’
By late afternoon the Sleipnir swung into a narrow estuary and a few miles upstream the ship was moored along the bank, in sight of a large settlement. Eadwulf promised himself he’d do their work and pander to their whims, whilst over the months and probably years, he’d plan his return to Mercia.
Seven
In mid May the remnants of Rorik’s raiding party limped into their camp on the Isle of Thanet, licking their grievous wounds, a far cry from what Rorik had planned: a glorious summer of looting throughout the Saxon kingdoms before returning home to praise and admiration from his appreciative brother, whose eyes would sparkle like the mounds of booty presented to him. Rorik racked his brains to find excuses with which to placate the ill-tempered king, but could think of none.
That godly old man, Aethelwulf, must have calculated his moves so very well. His army had taken them unawares – asleep, if he were honest – having laid such a tight trap around that cursed plain at Aclea that Rorik himself had only escaped by the skin of his teeth. Leaving his men to face their fate, he’d fled with a mere half dozen men back to London, to be further assailed by the loss of the waiting ships. He’d had no option but to ride back to Thanet, trying not to contemplate Harald’s temper when he learnt
that the ships he’d financed were amongst those burnt to a crisp.
On Thanet only two of the longships landed in April remained: Rorik’s own vessels, guarded by thirty men awaiting the return of their jarl with the dozen ships from London. The rest had cast off two weeks since with their booty. Did Rorik imagine it, or could he see scorn in the men’s eyes as Egil informed them of the rout, and the destroyed ships?
He said nothing and headed for his tent. A night with the Mercian woman would lift his spirits. Yanking back the skins of the tent flap, he was already unbuckling his leather belt.
* * *
Aros, Denmark: summer 851
At the beginning, Eadwulf’s new life seemed unreal, like a nightmare that refused to end. Days became nights in regular succession but he’d withdrawn so much inside himself he barely noticed. As on the knarr, events seemed to occur around him rather than involving him. He detested the coarse woollen tunic and breeks he was given to wear, and carried out his tasks slowly and inefficiently, as though his body awaited orders from a mind that had ceased to function but was awash with horrifying and unnatural images. Scoldings and punishments were frequent, though he was too rapt in his own misery to care. But little by little his mind broke free of the nightmarish images and he was able to take stock of the village to which he now belonged.
Aros was a sizeable farming community, so named after the little river on whose waters its people depended, and ruled over by Jarl Ragnar Lodbrok, the fur-clad chieftain who’d plucked them from the slave stall. Little over two miles downstream the river widened and deepened to form the estuary that embraced the blue-grey waters of the Kattegat Strait. Cattle grazed on the water meadows aligning the banks, behind which the cluster of buildings nestled at the foot of a low rise and the undulating country beyond. On the drier slopes was the cultivated land, where Eadwulf now knelt, weeding between rows of cabbages.
He counted five farms within the jarl’s community, stretching out along the river. One of these was Ragnar’s own and on which Eadwulf’s work was focused. Each farm consisted of half a dozen or so buildings of various size and purpose, along with vegetable gardens and animal pens, all enclosed within a fenced compound. The largest building on each farm was the longhouse, each one a hall in its own right, where the family and thralls lived, and in some cases, also the cattle during the winter. The jarl’s huge hall stood at the centre of this community, dominating the view and presiding over his domain. An open, communal area reached out in front of the hall, where people could meet and festivities were held.
‘Jarl Ragnar not only controls the farms in this village,’ Sigehelm told him at the end of another long day as they made ready their beds against the hall’s long walls, ‘but a very sizeable portion of the surrounding area. Ragnar has far more power than most of the jarls in Danish lands. He’s hailed as a king by his people and treated with the utmost respect. The people owe him allegiance and Ragnar owes them his service as both administrator of the Law, presiding over their Assembly, which they call the Thing, and as priest to the gods.’
‘He’s the strangest priest I’ve ever seen,’ Eadwulf huffed. ‘No Mercian priest dresses in wolfskins and eats like a ravenous bear.’
Sigehelm agreed with a shudder. ‘Their pagan ways leave us quite bewildered.’
Jarl Ragnar’s hall was a magnificent affair, well fit for a king, Eadwulf decided, climbing into his bed. It was over a hundred feet in length and towered far higher than any of the neighbouring longhouses. He recalled the first time he’d stood outside, thinking how Thrydwulf’s hall would have paled into insignificance beside it. This huge building also had smaller rooms and compartments adjoining it, including sleeping rooms for the jarl’s own family, and the fireroom, which housed the mealfire, where most of the bread, pastries and other delicacies were cooked.
The sturdy oak-planked walls were broken by a few small windows, their shutters flung open during the summer days. The jambs of the doorway were carved with swirling patterns and figures that reminded Eadwulf of the stories of ancient heroes that Sigehelm had so often told him. A thick reed thatch sat atop the walls to present a solid and compact-looking roof, with a hole at its centre to allow smoke from the central firepit below to find its way outside.
The idea that Ragnar’s wealth and power depended on the proceeds of raids like that on Thrydwulf’s manor filled Eadwulf with revulsion. A picture of Aethelnoth’s laughing face flashed through his mind and he choked back a sob, wondering whether he’d ever see his friend again.
* * *
After the first few weeks Eadwulf came to understand what the Danes demanded of their thralls and his life took on a fairly regular routine. He learnt that to speak or act out of turn earned him a thrashing, and if he didn’t complete his work satisfactorily he’d forego his evening meal. He soon realised that no one cared about his aching stomach and that punishments would be dispensed without lenience. But he also found that if he did exactly as he was told, he was well fed and provided with a warm bed for the night inside the jarl’s hall.
And, very soon, he learnt that his mistress hated him.
Ragnar’s small, dark-haired wife, Aslanga, was strict and unforgiving and insisted Eadwulf was punished if he refused to lower his eyes when she spoke to him or didn’t complete a task to her satisfaction. He was denied food for a day simply for meeting her dark and scornful gaze, which was so like that of her strange son, Ivar.
‘Stupid, ignorant boy!’ Aslanga spat at him so frequently. She shrieked and ranted at her husband who infuriated her even further by grinning in response.
‘Our mistress is livid that the jarl bought us instead of the female thralls she asked for,’ Sigehelm told him one evening in early July as they stacked away the trestles after the meal. All was peaceful in the hall at that time of day with most of the young men away. The women sat repairing clothes or sewing tapestries in the light from the fire and oil lamps, whilst a few of Ragnar’s men rolled their dice on a table in the corner. Rarely did anyone sit up late: most needed their sleep ready for the next day’s work. The jarl’s family would retire to their private quarters whilst the rest prepared their beds for the night.
Eadwulf’s eyes watered and he stifled a huge yawn. The days were so long and started well before dawn: he’d never known life could be so hard. He’d spent the morning working in the fields and the afternoon helping with the dyeing of huge skeins of wool, which would be woven into clothes and blankets for the winter.
‘I urge you to be very careful, Eadwulf,’ Sigehelm whispered, glancing to make sure he wasn’t overheard. ‘Aslanga seems to have taken an unreasonable dislike to you. I’m unsure what the problem is, but during more than one of her tirades she’s made rather sarcastic remarks regarding your red hair.’
‘My hair? Well, I can’t do anything about that. Surely she’s not so simple as to overlook that fact.’
‘No, but you could, perhaps, tie it back . . .’
‘I know what you mean, Sigehelm, you don’t have to demonstrate!’ Eadwulf yelped, pushing the fumbling hands away from his flowing locks.
* * *
Eadwulf’s first summer in the Danish lands passed quickly. He tried hard to do as he was told in order to avoid the constant lash of Aslanga’s tongue and soon her derisive comments had lessened. But still, at times, he felt the heat of her scornful stare. All he could do was keep out of her way as much as possible. To make matters worse, Eadwulf had long since realised he must also avoid Ivar and Halfdan. Ragnar’s two sons were hostile and vindictive, constantly finding ways of tormenting him and getting him into trouble with Aslanga.
The elder, dark-haired boy, Ivar, had some sort of disability and couldn’t walk unaided. His short legs were extremely bowed; his back twisted and stooped like that of a hunchback, though his arms were thick and muscular. Ivar’s whole body looked out of proportion and his facial features were decidedly ugly, and much to
o old for the face of a boy. He was accompanied everywhere by two aides, on whom he leaned heavily, and a fearsome dog that resembled some snarling wolf with a menacingly feral glint in its yellow eyes. Whenever Eadwulf neared, a deep growl emanated from its throat. Ivar himself constantly accused Eadwulf of time wasting, and threatened severe punishment if Aslanga found out.
Ivar’s behaviour puzzled Eadwulf, since he’d never consciously done anything to annoy the boy. His only crimes seemed to be that he was Mercian, and a thrall. He came to see Ivar as a pitiful person, with whom life had dealt most unkindly. His twisted body would never know the joys of running, climbing trees or swimming in fresh, cool streams.
Halfdan, just a year older than Eadwulf, also found it a great game to belittle and poke fun at the new thrall. But unlike his brother, Halfdan was healthy and agile, spending much of his time practising battle skills. And rarely did any of the other lads best him at wrestling – an activity prized more for its sporting and entertainment value than its use in combat.
Images of the times he and Aethelnoth had rolled around in the sunshine always hovered close. The bright flames of his memories burned through every fibre of his being, dominating his thoughts as he worked, possessing his dreams as he slept.
And along with Eadwulf’s memories was the ever-present desire for revenge.
Eight
The warriors’ return in the autumn was eagerly awaited by their loved ones: wives, mothers, children and grandparents – and others, whose eyes sparkled in anticipation of the plunder they would bring and the great feasts planned to welcome them home. And with the onset of September, expectation of their homecoming heightened.
