Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One

by Millie Thom

  ‘Once the young men return,’ Thora explained as they weeded between the clumps of scented herbs in the vegetable gardens, ‘the women will be freed to pursue tasks needful before the frosts and snows set in. There are so many jobs that get neglected in the men’s absence; we have so little time, and after supper we’re all ready for our beds.’ The Danish woman looked at Eadwulf, her brown eyes twinkling. ‘We need to pay heed to the weaving, so we have woollen cloaks and blankets, and complete the embroidery on new wall hangings to stop cold winds whistling through cracks in the wood planking of our longhouses. Many folk will require new winter tunics too, or repairs to their old ones. We must soon begin the preparation of winter foodstuffs as well.’

  Eadwulf enjoyed working with Thora because she chattered away and explained about the Danish way of life. She was not a young woman, possibly around her fortieth year, he estimated, and garbed in the usual attire of a thrall: a dress of thin, grey wool with a sleeveless, white tunic over. Her grey-streaked fair hair was mostly hidden beneath a white kerchief, and her round face and ready smile ensured she was well liked by the other thralls. Even Aslanga treated Thora well, if not exactly kindly.

  ‘The autumn months will be just as busy as the summer,’ she said as they continued their weeding. ‘Many foods need careful preparation so they last through the winter. We make preserves from forest fruits and berries, and pickle vegetables from the gardens: nothing is wasted if we can help it. We make mead from the honey from our hives and brew beer from harvested barley and hops. There’s cheese and butter to be made, hazelnuts and logs to be brought from the woods, and peat to be cut to supplement the logs as fuel. Oh yes, Eadwulf, you’ll be kept very busy,’ she said, smiling as she, put down her garden fork, ‘especially with Aslanga watching over you. As you probably know, our mistress runs the hall with an iron fist. She’d not insult Ragnar by having him go short of anything. Between you and me,’ she added with a conspiratorial wink, ‘I think she still feels the need to compete with Gudrun.’

  Eadwulf had no idea who this Gudrun was, but felt no inclination to ask.

  ‘I imagine you’ll be given the job of collecting fruit, or cutting peat – though you may well end up making cheese with me, Eadwulf. I should like that, you’re better company than some I could name.’

  ‘And I would quite like to see how cheese is made. I’ve often wondered how milk suddenly becomes solid.’

  Thora laughed and ruffled his hair before becoming serious again. ‘During Blotmonath we slaughter all but our best breeding stock, so we’ll be busy preserving the meats: some will be salted in vats of brine and some smoked in the big barns, like that one over there,’ she said, pointing to a large barn at the other side of the byre. ‘Some of it we simply hang to dry.’

  Eadwulf nodded. On his father’s manors the November practice had been similar, although he’d never actually been involved with Blotmonath before.

  ‘Well, I can’t see a single weed hiding in there, can you, Eadwulf?’ Thora stood and brushed down her skirt. ‘Ouch,’ she winced. ‘If I stayed in that position much longer I swear my knees would lock solid and I’d never rise again.’ Her fond gaze scanned the patches of aromatic plants, predominantly different hues of greens but broken by clumps of tall, pink foxgloves in their second flowering of the year. ‘I’ve become quite adept at preparing healing potions over the years Eadwulf, the main reason Aslanga rarely uses her sharp tongue on me, I think, although I’ve also been useful in caring for the children. And I’m training young Freydis in medicinal skills. The jarl’s daughter’s a real aptitude for herblore. When I’m dead and gone, she can take over my work. Such skills are vital to a community.’

  ‘Have you been a thrall for a long time?’ he asked as they gathered their tools to return to the hall. It was almost time for the morning meal and he’d be needed to help with the serving.

  ‘Too long, Eadwulf, she said with a sigh. ‘It must be . . . Well, it’s nigh on eleven years since my husband died. Before that – about six or seven years I’d say – we gave up our freedom when we could barely afford to buy food. We were mere youngsters then, wed less than three years, with our whole lives ahead of us. Bjarni was a karl, owned his own farmstead, fifteen miles west of here. Our fields gave smaller yields each year until we had naught to sell, or eat. Much of our country makes poor farmland, you see; woodlands, heath and marshes cover a great deal of it inland. We gave ourselves to the jarl simply to survive,’ she said, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘That’s probably hard for you to understand, since you’re not a thrall by choice, but there are many people in our land forced to do the same. Then there are others who forfeit their freedom because they committed some crime. Thralldom is their punishment; it can be for as little as a year or two or as long as the person lives, depending on the crime.

  ‘Well, when Bjarni died after a fall from the roof of the hall while he was repairing the thatch,’ Thora went on, gazing up at the high roof, ‘I was left here alone. And Ragnar still had need of me. I thank the goddess, Freya, she didn’t bless Bjarni and me with children, or they would have become thralls too. So,’ she said, with a glance at Eadwulf as they left the vegetable gardens behind, ‘many of our young men travel far away in the hope of finding new homes.’ She paused, as though uncertain of how to continue. ‘Others go raiding, to bring back coin or goods to trade to help their families survive the winter. Oh, I understand your indignation,’ she said quickly as he scowled. ‘But I tell you these things so you’ll understand a little about our people and – rightly or wrongly – how the custom of summer raiding started. I’m not saying it’s right, and I know you’ll say that killing serves no purpose, but desperation leads people to act in ways they would not under normal circumstances. No man wants to see his family starve. Remember, our gods do not abhor killing as does your Christian god, but applaud men who give their own lives for their loved ones.

  ‘But let’s put such thoughts behind us. September is the golden month and the sun still holds its warmth. Let’s enjoy it before winter comes. Know how to use a flail, Eadwulf?’ She smiled at his bemused expression. ‘No? Well, tomorrow I do believe you’ll find out. Tomorrow we begin threshing the grain.’ Her face suddenly grew wistful. ‘I pray that Thor will guide our men safely home. Summer’s over and they should be here any day now. It’s too long since we heard Bjorn’s cheerful voice about the village.’

  * * *

  By the second week of September, Eadwulf felt he’d been relatively successful in avoiding any outright clashes with Ragnar’s sons. Work in the fields with Cendred, ploughing after the harvest with a device called an ard, had kept him away from the hall during most days, and when the day’s work was over, he would sit with Sigehelm, reading, or simply sharing thoughts, and Ivar and Halfdan could do no more than scowl at him in Ragnar’s presence. But, returning from the fields late one afternoon, his stomach lurched. Ivar and Halfdan were sitting outside the hall with their younger sister, several other children around them, giggling as they bent over something in Ivar’s hand. Ivar glared in Eadwulf’s direction. ‘Over here, Mercian. We need your assistance.’

  ‘Go on, lad, I’m not going anywhere,’ Cendred urged, nodding toward a pile of logs at the side of the hall. ‘I’ve some wood needs cuttin’ right here. I can’t see ’em trying much with me choppin’ right next to ’em.’

  With a deep breath Eadwulf stepped toward the now silent group and, as he’d anticipated, his presence was not requested in order to ply him with niceties. Ivar thrust a piece of parchment into his hand, a lengthy poem written on it.

  ‘Read that to us, Mercian. We need to hear it again to fully appreciate it.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Eadwulf lied, looking into Ivar’s dark eyes. If he spoke the words of the vulgar poem he knew it would be reported to Aslanga. ‘I can’t yet read well enough.’

  ‘So what has that sour-faced scribe been teaching you these past weeks? Could it be tha
t you’ve such limited intelligence the words don’t penetrate your thick head?’

  The group of children tittered but Eadwulf was surprised to hear the boys’ sister speak up. ‘Let him be, Ivar,’ Freydis said, frowning. ‘He’s probably telling the truth. Thralls aren’t given the time for learning.’

  But Halfdan seemed intent on prolonging their fun. ‘How could anyone as thick as pig shit ever learn anything, other than how to grunt and wallow in the mud?’

  A particularly loud thud as Cendred swung his axe into a log behind them made the children jump.

  ‘Move away from here, you filthy Saxon,’ Ivar yelled. ‘No one in his right mind chops wood this close to the hall!’

  ‘Another one thick as muck,’ Halfdan joined in. ‘Go back to your pig swill, Saxon!’ The big man’s fists balled and his eyes narrowed, but Halfdan was enjoying himself. ‘See how the ugly hog snorts and stamps his trotters,’ he sniggered. ‘And have you ever seen such piggy little eyes? We really must pen him up with that fat old sow Burghild, and see if they produce some plump piglets for our pot.’

  By now Cendred was seething, his every breath like that of a tormented boar, his eyes focused on Halfdan. He advanced on the shrieking children with a roar, his axe still in his hands – just as Ragnar stepped from the hall with a group of his men. With a hiss of drawn swords Cendred was surrounded and overpowered. The children scattered like mice with a cat in their midst, only Ivar remaining, unable to move away unaided. Eadwulf hardly dared move. Cendred was pinned to the ground, swords at his throat.

  ‘I want him alive,’ Ragnar seethed, before the over-zealous guards could finish Cendred off. ‘Instant death is much too good for a thrall who dares to threaten a jarl’s children. Throw him in the pit. I’ll deal with him when he’s had time to reflect on the folly of his actions.’

  Ragnar stood statue-still, the enraged expression set into his stone-like features as Cendred was dragged away. ‘By Odin, Scribe, I should never have listened to your words!’ he threw at Sigehelm, hovering in the doorway. ‘The Saxon dog had trouble written all over his face – and I knew it! Be very grateful I value your work as tutor to my sons. If I did not, then you’d now be in the same place as him.’

  Sigehelm’s face blanched and his eyes grew wide, but Ragnar said no more to him. His glacial stare fixed on his son, still hunched against the hall. ‘Have your servants bring you inside, Ivar.’ His tone was soft and ominous as he stepped through the doorway. ‘You and your brother have a lot of explaining to do about what went on here.’

  * * *

  Over a week had passed and Eadwulf still didn’t know what had transpired following Ivar and Halfdan’s audience with their father, or how Cendred fared. Ragnar’s men ensured that no one neared the pit and Cendred could have been dead for all anyone knew.

  ‘What will they do to him?’ he asked Sigehelm as they set out the trestles for the morning meal.

  Sigehelm held Eadwulf in his steady gaze, releasing his breath as a weary sigh. ‘I know you blame yourself for causing Cendred to behave as he did, child, but he’s entirely responsible for his own actions. Ragnar is right to believe the man isn’t safe to let loose. No sane person would advance upon children with an axe. But I did overhear the jarl issuing orders to have him moved into one of the huts by the end of the week. At least that will be somewhat better for him than remaining in that dreadful pit, open to all weathers – particularly if he is to be incarcerated for very much longer.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I fear that whatever punishment Ragnar dictates for the Saxon, it will not be pleasant.’

  * * *

  Eadwulf rubbed his sleepy eyes and squatted on the river bank to fill his first pails for the day. The late September weather still held warm and dry and the sun had risen to greet an almost cloudless sky. Trees were turning golden, the grain was in and the threshing done. Preparations for winter would now begin in earnest and Eadwulf anticipated a hard day ahead.

  Drawing the pail through the clear water he spotted a kingfisher perched on a willow branch that trailed down to the silvery surface. He couldn’t believe his luck. It was only the second one he’d seen at Aros and he was fascinated by the colouring of this tiny bird: the shiny, metallic blue-green of its back, wings and head, the little white parts around its neck and chin and the amazingly bright orangey-red breast. The dazzling mass of vibrant colour dived so fast Eadwulf wasn’t sure he actually saw it move at all until the tiny thing flew back to its branch, a small, wriggling fish in its dark beak.

  ‘Is this what you call work, thrall?’ Halfdan’s voice caused Eadwulf to lose hold of the pail and he struggled to retrieve it before the current could take it. ‘Does Aslanga know of your fascination with our feathered friends and how long you spend staring at the damned things?’

  Eadwulf did not respond to the taunts. What would be the point?

  ‘Kingfishers are excellent divers, I’m told,’ Halfdan said. ‘They seem to know everything that goes on below the glassy surface that we see: all those fish and things. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to see what they see–?’

  Halfdan’s move was so fast that Eadwulf was sinking in the cold water before he realised anything had happened. The river deepened rapidly only inches from the bank but he surfaced quickly, gasping for breath.

  ‘That’s for getting us into trouble with Ragnar,’ Halfdan sneered. ‘Enjoy your swim. I’m sure Aslanga will be eagerly awaiting your return.’

  Halfdan sped off and Eadwulf dragged himself onto the bank, dripping and shivering. The water was very cold and the early morning sun yielded little warmth. He cursed Halfdan. The wretched boy must have been watching, waiting to follow him.

  Having no alternative, he trudged back to the hall in his sodden state. Aslanga would be waiting for the water.

  * * *

  Aslanga’s fury seemed to flow from her in waves. Her dark eyes blazed, fixing resolutely on Eadwulf as he crept into the hall and placed the full pails by the door. Servants moved out of her way and two of Ragnar’s men put their dicing game on hold. Sigehelm’s quill hung motionless over his parchment and beside him, Ivar and Halfdan smirked.

  Dripping wet and shivering, Eadwulf waited for the unwarranted tirade to begin. His mistress remained by the hearth, breathing fast, the floury whiteness of her face contrasting sharply with the black hair straying from beneath her head covering. Her choice of clothing was equally severe: a long-sleeved brown dress, fastened round her thin neck with a drawstring. Her plain white over-tunic was held at the shoulders by two simple round brooches, and from a chain around her neck hung a knife, scissors and keys: symbols of her complete control in the hall.

  ‘Come here.’

  A shudder of dread shot down Eadwulf’s spine. Burghild’s anxious gaze fixed on him as he stepped slowly forward. Without doubt, Halfdan had spun some highly incriminating yarn.

  ‘What have you to say in your defence?’

  ‘My defence of what, Mistress?’

  Aslanga’s sharp slap sent him reeling. ‘Don’t dare give me your insolence! I’ll have you flogged for using that tone with me. Get up. Now.’

  Not trusting himself to speak, Eadwulf obeyed. His face stung and he knew Aslanga would not believe anything he said.

  ‘Let’s start again. Explain, if you will, why you attempted to push my son into the river. Yes, you may well shake in your boots. Your actions will not go unpunished.’

  ‘But I didn’t–’

  ‘Didn’t what, exactly? Didn’t expect to be seen? Didn’t expect to fail? Perhaps you did expect to push Halfdan into the river and run off before he could see you?’

  ‘Mistress, it was I who was pushed into the river.’

  ‘You’ve certainly been in the river!’ she snapped, eyeing Eadwulf’s sodden clothing with contempt. ‘And I know just how you came to be in there. Halfdan avoided your intended push by darting aside, afte
r which you slipped on the wet bank and landed yourself in the water, precisely where you’d meant my son to go.’ Aslanga shook with outrage and indignation. ‘From the moment I set eyes on you, I could tell you’d not make an agreeable thrall.’

  Eadwulf could barely contain his own indignation at the sheer injustice of this. He’d done nothing but obey Aslanga’s orders. And he’d tried very hard to be amenable. That wretched boy, Halfdan!

  ‘Nothing you say can lessen your guilt,’ she ranted on, giving him no opportunity to defend himself. ‘You stand there, feigning innocence, whilst the son of a jarl has suffered your disrespect and plots against his person. Did you believe it would be a great jest to see Halfdan soaked and bedraggled?’

  Eadwulf shook his head, more by way of reaction to Aslanga’s imbalanced condemnation than as answer to the question.

  ‘Your disrespect is intolerable! I knew as soon as I saw the red hair that would be the case; the brash colouring comes with insolence ingrained at birth. It’s a pity my husband failed to see that fact years ago.’

  Eadwulf gaped, confused by this sudden line of thought.

  ‘You are unfit to share our food, or our roof. For the next week you’ll sleep outside and if we save you scraps from our table, you will also eat those outside.’

  ‘Mistress, I swear I’ve done nothing.’ Eadwulf could not believe such harsh punishment could be inflicted so unjustly. All evidence was based on malicious lies.

  ‘Ulrik,’ Aslanga shouted to one of Ragnar’s men. ‘Take the lying thrall outside. Use your belt and beat him soundly.’

  * * *

  Eadwulf spent seven nights banned from the hall. Oddly enough, he found it no great hardship. The nights had not yet turned bitter, nor had rainclouds released more than a fleeting shower, and after a long day’s work he was able to sleep almost anywhere. Mindful to avoid the vicinity of Cendred’s new prison, guarded by successions of Ragnar’s ever-vigilant men, he’d found a nook between one of the storage sheds and a sturdy wicker fence, and piled fallen leaves under an old sackcloth to make a soft bed. Other rags afforded him some cover. For the first three days the pain of the thrashing made finding a suitable sleeping position difficult, but curled on his side was his preferred position anyway. Once asleep, he rarely roused before the cockerel heralded daybreak. Nor was he starved. The ‘scraps’ Aslanga sent out were not much worse than the usual leftovers given to the thralls. And on most days, Sigehelm sneaked him out a little extra.