by Millie Thom
Eadwulf was beginning to see a strength and selflessness in his quiet, god-fearing tutor that he’d overlooked before. Sigehelm had risked great punishment by these actions, but in Eadwulf’s interest he’d simply ignored that possibility. Since arriving in this land, he couldn’t remember a single time when Sigehelm had voiced concern for his own well being: his concern was always for Eadwulf. It had just taken Eadwulf a long time to realise it.
Nine
Fallen leaves crunched beneath Eadwulf’s feet as he collected twigs and branches for winter tinder in the small patch of woodland on the elevated ground behind the village. Accompanied by Toke, Aslanga’s ageing Norse thrall whose dialect he found hard to understand, conversation was minimal. But away from Aslanga’s sharp tongue, Eadwulf worked contentedly enough.
The October day had dawned fine and bright, but as the morning wore on the breeze picked up and heavy, grey clouds drifted in, threatening a wet and dreary afternoon. By now a commendable mound of firewood sat in the cart and just as Toke motioned they should be heading back, a shrill horn blast stopped Eadwulf in his tracks. He dropped the bundle of twigs he’d been about to toss into the cart, his heart racing. The horn must surely mean the village was under attack!
He grabbed Toke’s arm and pointed across the ploughed fields at the people streaming toward the river.
The old man smiled reassuringly, his bony hand patting Eadwulf’s arm. ‘Bjorn,’ he said simply, shoving Eadwulf into the cart before clambering up himself and rapping the rump of the ox with the reins. ‘Bjorn has come home.’
* * *
Aros was in chaos. Eadwulf was jostled amongst the throng of elated villagers congregating in the communal compound, all too engrossed in their emotional reunions to consider the plight of the thralls proffering ale. He could barely squeeze between embracing families or those involved in amicable back-slapping. Returning fathers fussed over squealing offspring who’d made their appearance during their lengthy absence, others admired the swollen bellies of wives whose pregnancies had barely begun to blossom in the spring. Laughter and tears mingled freely; tears of joy for most, tears of sadness for an unfortunate few. Not all the men had come home; nor had all returned unscathed. Some scars were displayed with pride: a hideously scarred face or hacked-off earlobe was evidence of courage. But other injuries, such as loss of limbs or eyes, would ensure the bearers would never again go raiding.
The ale in Eadwulf’s jug spilled copiously onto the grass and the men had insatiable thirsts, resulting in his frequent returns to the barrels in the hall. He’d caught Aslanga’s glower the last time he’d sneaked in and knew he’d be sorely berated before long. Outside the doorway, Ragnar beamed as he congratulated the warriors delivering the plunder, including five human pieces of merchandise.
At Ragnar’s side Ivar hunched on a stool, and beside him stood Halfdan. In their fine woollen tunics, their affected air of superiority contrasted sharply to the genial manner of their father. Pondering reasons for their surliness, Eadwulf didn’t see the small dog wheedling between the shuffling feet. He tripped right over the yelping cur and fell flat on his face, half a jug of ale splattering down the right leg of a young warrior who seemed intent on squeezing the life out of a giggling woman.
The man was not pleased. With a throaty growl he yanked Eadwulf up by the shoulders. Eadwulf squeezed his eyes shut, lifting his arm to protect his head, bracing himself for the blow. But nothing came, not even a clip round the ear. Tentatively, he opened his eyes . . . and gaped at the face barely inches from his nose – with eyes as green as his own.
The young warrior pulled up to his full height and stood back, balled fists on his hips, continuing his scrutiny. A grin suddenly creased his face, setting his eyes twinkling. He tweaked his ragged beard and shook his head of wild red hair.
‘By all the gods, what trick is being played on me?’ he roared, his voice cracked with laughter. ‘I leave my home, risking life and limb in the hope of bringing prosperity to our people and within so short a time my father finds a replacement for me! Now, lad, I know you’re not my brother and by Frey’s prick, you’re too old to be my spawn. So where in Thor’s name did you spring from?’
Eadwulf continued to gawk. It was like looking at a bigger and older version of himself. Eventually, he found his voice. ‘I am called Eadwulf, and I’m a thrall. And I’m a Mercian,’ he added, jutting out his chin.
‘Well, Eadwulf, it’s good to be proud of who you are. Why be otherwise? We cannot change what the gods have destined for us. How were you taken?’
‘The r-raid on London . . .’ Eadwulf stammered, hoping the man would not request the details.
‘Your parents?’
‘They’re dead. Jarl Ragnar bought me with three others in Hedeby – for his wife.’
‘So, you belong to Aslanga?’
Eadwulf nodded, feeling more miserable than ever to admit to that.
‘And do you work hard for her, and escape punishment, Eadwulf? From your reaction to me, I’d guess you’ve had a few thrashings already.’
‘She doesn’t think a great deal of me, I fear, and yes, I’ve sometimes been punished – though I do work hard.’ Eadwulf didn’t elaborate on the beatings he’d had, or on the week he’d been banished from the hall, and wondered why he’d even admitted as much as he had.
‘Her dislike of you isn’t really surprising.’ The warrior grinned. ‘The lady simply detests red hair.’
‘But lots of people have red hair,’ Eadwulf huffed, gesturing to the man’s bright thatch.
‘Ah, there’s a story and a half there, lad. Aslanga is . . .’
‘Bjorn!’ Ragnar’s booming voice rang out. ‘Get your arse over here and let the boy get on with his work!’
‘Certainly, Father.’ The warrior swung a low bow to his sire, bringing hoots of laughter from those around. ‘We’ll talk again, Eadwulf, when you’re less busy.’
Eadwulf just nodded, dumbfounded.
‘Don’t forget tonight,’ the woman yelled to the retreating back.
Without a backward glance Bjorn flicked out a wave and continued on to the hall. Beside the jovial Ragnar, Ivar and Halfdan glowered as their red-headed brother strutted towards them. Eadwulf followed to refill his jug, thankful they were so preoccupied in scowling at Bjorn they didn’t even notice him pass by into the hall.
* * *
Preparations for the evening’s feast were well underway. Women chopped and mixed with determination and a variety of foods covered the long tables. Aslanga had been watching her daughter as Eadwulf entered, her expression one of extreme exasperation. The pretty, flaxen-haired girl was kneading dough in a big trough, apparently with little success. Enveloped in clouds of floury dust with white streaks patterning her tunic, face and braids, Freydis muttered her intense dislike of the pastime. Eadwulf found it difficult not to laugh out loud.
‘Careless, thoughtless boy,’ Aslanga scolded as he headed for the ale barrels. ‘Will you ever become steady handed enough to be of any use at all?’
Hearing her mother’s acerbic tones Freydis glanced up and smiled at Eadwulf, her blue eyes full of sympathy – though whether for him or herself, he wasn’t sure.
‘Do you think we spend so many hours brewing ale just for you to slosh all over the ground?’ Aslanga continued, glowering at Freydis until she bowed her head and resumed walloping the dough. ‘How many other thralls do you see running in and out like you? That’s right,’ she answered herself with a flick of her hand, ‘none. And if you return too soon again you’ll forfeit your own meal tonight.’
Eadwulf sighed and strove to walk steadily with two full jugs to the door.
‘Mayn’t I go and welcome my brother home yet?’ Freydis pleaded behind him.
‘Bjorn’s busy enough with your father without having you clinging to his trouser leg,’ Aslanga snapped.
‘But
it is so unfair!’ the girl shrieked, with what sounded like an extra hard wallop of the dough. Her petulant outburst made Eadwulf jump, and ale slopped to the rushes. Silently cursing, he half turned to look, hoping Aslanga hadn’t noticed.
‘I want to see Bjorn!’ Freydis demanded, stamping her foot. ‘He’s my favourite brother – and just because you don’t like him, you think I should hate him too. But I don’t! I love him to bits and–’
The resounding slap and ensuing whimper caused a wave of sympathy to wash over Eadwulf, but he walked through the doorway as though he’d heard nothing.
Ten
‘Good people! Fellow Danes! Warriors of Thor!’
Ragnar’s booming baritone caught the immediate attention of the occupants of the heaving hall. His ruddy face beamed and he raised his silver cup in salutation. ‘Welcome home!’
The respondent cheers and hammering of fists on tables was almost deafening. Eadwulf froze, intrigued, the skewers of beef he’d been turning lying still across the hearth, in danger of being badly scorched. Euphoria swept the hall and he gawked at the sea of faces, all filled with admiration and pride.
The huge room was ablaze with light and colour. Torches flared and soapstone oil lamps and beeswax candles flickered, picking up the colours of the wall hangings and polished shields. The trestles had been set up and Eadwulf had laid out some of the mistress’s cherished curved brass spoons and little knives with walrus ivory handles. Her fine, Rhineland pottery plates and bowls were stacked at the side, awaiting their freshly cooked contents. All had been such a rush. Aslanga had protested all evening at having to prepare a huge meal at such short notice.
In sudden panic, Eadwulf returned his attentions to the skewers. The meat didn’t appear to be burnt, although one side was decidedly darker than the rest. Thankfully, Aslanga was still in the fireroom and could not have witnessed his inattention.
It seemed to Eadwulf that everyone had donned their finest attire for the occasion. Ragnar stood in his place at the centre of a table in an elevated position at the end of the room, where he could be seen by all. In his bright red tunic, with its glittering trims and heavy silver belt, he looked quite dazzling. Even the striped blue trousers and calf-length boots were in stark contrast to his usual drab attire. His flaxen locks were held by a black silk headband, colourfully decorated with a delicate tendril pattern, and his beard had been neatly plaited. Rings adorned his fingers and an armband of twisted gold lay testimony to his status in society.
To the jarl’s right, Bjorn’s red mane could hardly be missed, though the wild locks now hung tamed about their owner’s collar. His red beard and moustache had been trimmed and Eadwulf could not help noticing how well he suited the emerald green tunic. Ivar and Halfdan sat at their father’s left, after an unoccupied space which Eawulf knew to be reserved for Aslanga. Both looked in jovial spirits, wearing splendid tunics of brightly dyed hues. Ivar’s aides stood attentively behind him, though Eadwulf was surprised to note the absence of his snarling wolf-dog, since several dogs sprawled under tables by their masters’ legs.
‘An entire season has passed since we feasted together beneath this roof, my friends,’ Ragnar resumed, all eyes following his gesture towards the high thatch. ‘We celebrated Sigrblot at the onset of spring and gave offerings to the gods. Did not Frey accept our gift of the sacrificial boar? Was he not pleased that his statue was paraded around our village in the cart decked with fragrant blossoms? I say to you that Frey was pleased and has answered our prayers by giving us a plentiful harvest.’
A wicked grin lit up the jarl’s face as his gaze swept the hall. ‘And has not his sister, Freya, bestowed her most fruitful blessings on many of our women?’
Lewd comments and gestures erupted and men patted the swollen bellies of their scarlet-faced wives. ‘Our harvest elsewhere has also been truly great,’ he continued, his hand raised for silence. ‘Tonight we celebrate not only our bountiful crops, but also the bountiful riches that will enable our village to prosper.’ He motioned to the mounds of shining goods close to his table. Engraved bowls, plates and goblets, swords and daggers with hilts studded with precious gems, and golden chalices and candlesticks were heaped beside chests brimming with coins. ‘Tonight we feast in honour of our warriors, whose plunder will fill our trading ships next spring.’
Ragnar flung out his arms to acknowledge the thunderous cheers, then again raised his hand. ‘Tonight we eat and drink as much as our bellies can take. And you all know the standard of my lady wife’s cooking!’
He offered an exaggerated bow to Aslanga, now standing with Thora and Toke by the fireroom door, dressed in her finest clothes. Over her yellow, pleated dress her azure tunic was edged with colourfully decorated appliqué and the shoulder straps fastened with jewelled brooches. And although her dark hair remained mostly covered beneath the matching yellow kerchief, Eadwulf was surprised to see a necklace of heavy amber beads around her neck. She acknowledged her husband’s compliment with a gracious nod and her usually frosty features melted into a smile. More cheers reverberated round the hall.
‘Tomorrow, when our men are recovered from the rigours of tonight’s festivities,’ the jarl chortled, pointing meaningfully at his mead cup, ‘we have our first ceremony to the gods. To Thor, the slayer of giants, god of thunder and storms, of travellers and warriors, we will offer thanks for guiding our men throughout their venture. As the sun leaves Midgard tomorrow, we will show Thor exactly how grateful we are and beg for his continued benevolence. Then tomorrow night, we feast in his honour. In three days’ time we welcome the onset of winter.’ Ragnar’s tones became hushed, his face sombre. ‘Before the morning sun casts its rays over the horizon, we make our yearly trek to the sacred grove to deliver our offerings to Odin. We entreat the All-Father for a mild winter and his blessings for a successful year . . .
‘But these things are for later. Tonight we eat and get drunk, as only true Danes know how. Good health and the blessing of the gods to you all, my people!’
Aslanga took her place beside her husband and the feasting began.
The thralls kept up a hectic pace, serving food and running back and forth to the ale barrels and mead jars to refill rapidly emptied vessels. Toke and Thora served at the jarl’s table, a relief to Eadwulf: he hadn’t relished the thought of Aslanga and her sons finding fault with everything he served. The chicken and leek soup, always a favourite, brought many compliments. The aromatic liquid had been thickened with oatmeal and packed with chunky pieces of chicken, leeks and garlic, with additional carrots, onion and celery. Eadwulf’s stomach whined pitifully as bowls of the steaming broth were carried to the tables. The skewers of meat followed. Greasy juices dripped down chins as jaws chomped on the succulent beef. A variety of freshly baked breads with honey or butter were offered to all.
Finally it was time for the dessert. Aslanga and Thora had mixed the batter for the berry pancakes earlier, leaving it in jugs in the fireroom, ready for cooking on the wide griddles. Mounds of forest fruits sweetened with honey had been stewed in pots over the hearth until they were mouth-wateringly syrupy, ready to be spooned inside the sizzling pancakes. Ragnar yelled for a barrel of his best wine to be opened and Eadwulf wondered how long it would be before arguments and brawls erupted. The door to the fireroom opened and trays heaped with golden pancakes were carried in, and his concerns were instantly curtailed as his stomach groaned anew.
‘Freydis has barely touched a morsel,’ Thora said, coming to stand next to him. ‘I wonder what’s upset her.’ Eadwulf said nothing; it wasn’t his place to relate what had occurred. ‘Carry some pancakes over for the little ones, lad,’ Thora continued, ‘and try to persuade her to eat one. And tell Burghild from me they need to be in their beds as soon as they’ve finished. Most of the women will be retiring soon, leaving the men to their carousing. They do like to boast of their exploits.’
At the far end of the hall, close
to the door, a table had been set up for the children of the village. Hollow-eyed and white-faced, Burghild sat with Ubbi on her lap, amidst several women from neighbouring families with their own charges. The matronly thrall had taken Cendred’s punishment hard and, according to Thora, greatly feared for her own safety, should she unwittingly commit some minor offence. Her nerves seemed shattered in recent weeks. Even Eadwulf had noticed her constantly dropping things, her anxious gaze too often darting around the hall. He just hoped that Aslanga hadn’t also noticed . . .
Her swept his concerns for Burghild aside and focused on Freydis next to her. The jarl’s daughter looked very pretty in an embroidered blue linen dress, with her shining blonde hair tumbling down her back. But by no means was she in festive mood. She refused to look at Eadwulf as he extolled what he imagined to be the delights of the pancakes, and pushed the proffered dish to join the others she’d rejected. Eadwulf had no time to dwell on Freydis’s moods. No doubt she’d get over her pique. Passing Thora’s message to Burghild he moved off about his work.
The women soon retired, Aslanga marching Ivar and Halfdan out with her, and the men shared riddles and tales of heroic deeds; bawdy songs drowned the flute player’s melodies. And though still attentive to the demands for refills from the revellers, the thralls were now able to fill their own bellies.
Eventually, the jarl heaved himself onto unsteady legs.
