by Millie Thom
‘The food’s been to your liking?’ he yelled. Roaring cheers and hammering on tables with fists and spoons gave him his answer. ‘The wines have titillated your discerning palates?’ The same resounding reply. ‘Have I not been a generous host tonight?’ The men rose to their feet, those too drunk to do so buttressed between others who could barely stand themselves, and raised their cups to salute their jarl.
‘Sit, if you will, good people. The day’s been long and I fear your already buckled legs may buckle further before long.’ He gestured amusedly to a few particularly drunken individuals. ‘Once, I’d’ve been raiding at your sides. But now this old shoulder wound keeps me home, like an old, old man.’ His tone was self-deprecating as he rubbed his injured shoulder. ‘Tomorrow we share out the goods, though I’m told these few thralls already have owners. Pity,’ he shrugged at Bjorn’s grinning nod, ‘Aslanga still hasn’t forgiven me for not bringing back young women the last time I went to Hedeby!
‘But before our beds beckon,’ he said, quietening down the laughter, ‘I’d like to hear from my rogue of a son what antics he’s been up to for the entire summer. Enlightenment would be appreciated, Bjorn . . .’
To ringing cheers Ragnar’s firstborn rose to his feet. He didn’t appear particularly drunk, quite clear-eyed and steady, Eadwulf decided. He flashed a white grin and saluted the men with his own silver cup. ‘We have, indeed, been away many months, Father,’ he said, whilst heads nodded sagely. ‘We’ve greatly missed the glorious summer as she blessed our homelands, causing the days to grow long and mellow and the corn to ripen . . .’
‘Don’t get sentimental on us, son,’ Ragnar interrupted, bringing further hoots from the men. ‘Much as I’m sure you feel glad to be home, don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the thrill of the raids. You’d not be a son of mine otherwise!’
Laughter grew even louder when Bjorn said, ‘Certainly, Father.’
‘As I was saying,’ Bjorn continued, ‘Mighty Thor saw fit to render success in our quest and guided us home without disaster in stormy waters. I speak for us all when I say we feel honoured to have helped to ensure the well being of our people for another year–’
Ragnar’s loud cough stopped that line of thought and Bjorn grinned roguishly. ‘Our initial intention was to spend some weeks raiding along the coast of Frisia, but after a few minor raids we chose to sail on south to Iberia, which held promise of richer takings.’
‘We’d thought you might sail up the Seine to pay your respects to Charles the Bald. I’m sure he’s missed me these past six years. The Danegeld he so kindly gave us is in dire need of replenishment.’
‘That option was considered, Father,’ Bjorn admitted, nodding, ‘but somehow the warmer climes held greater attraction.’
‘I suppose it’s understandable that you youngsters should want to make your own mark elsewhere.’
‘Youngsters some of us may be, Father, but we certainly did make our presence known to the Frankish king! Our raids in Nantes from our camp on the island of Noirmutier proved very lucrative.’ Bjorn motioned to the heap of plunder. ‘Frankish swords are fine pieces of workmanship, as are their silver dishes and bowls – or goblets, like the one holding your own wine tonight. And as you see, their churches have kindly donated many Christian crosses and chalices to our safekeeping . . .
‘By mid-July we reached the north of Iberia, where the towns of Corunna and Santiago de Compostela offered us their warm hospitality and their church doors welcomed us with open arms! We gave daily thanks to the Christian god for his benevolence to poor travellers such as ourselves. It was in Corunna we found these five wandering the streets. Well, we found the two young ones wandering the streets,’ he clarified, gesturing to the olive-skinned girl and boy. ‘The other three beauties – although strictly speaking, we’d call them whores – well, some of us merely happened to be inspecting the best brothel in Corunna, and since we couldn’t bear to part company with three of their best er, delicacies, we made a quick getaway with them in tow.’
Laughter erupted and Ragnar had tears of mirth streaming down his face. Bjorn’s tale was even holding Eadwulf rapt, though he noticed that Sigehelm’s expression was grim.
‘By the time we reached Lisbon it was August and very hot,’ Bjorn went on, sweeping his arm theatrically across his brow. ‘Lisbon is a well-fortified city and the Moors are formidable opponents. Their huge blades, called scimitars, are used with deadly precision, and after being twice repelled from the city walls, we thought it best to sail back north. But we do intend to go back, Father. Perhaps not next year, or even the next, but one year we’ll return with better plans of attack. So, here we are, returned to you, my lord, with our offerings.’
The trestles stayed up for the night, more than a few men slumped across them, others recumbent on the rushen floor. Ragnar retired to his own sleeping room and Bjorn headed for the door, giving Eadwulf a mischievous wink as he passed.
At long last, Eadwulf fell to his bed, knowing that in only a few hours he’d have to be up again.
Eleven
‘Eadwulf, it is past daybreak. We must stir before the mistress rises!’
Eadwulf vaguely heard the voice and felt someone shaking him, but he’d been deeply asleep and took some moments to rouse. ‘The cockerel crowed some while ago,’ the voice persisted, ‘but I confess, even I was too weary to pay heed. We must not be lying abed when Aslanga appears!’
Eadwulf forced his heavy eyelids open and squinted at Sigehelm’s worried face.
‘Be quick now. Down to the river with your pails. I’ll busy myself raking the ashes and stacking firewood. I hope to have a fire burning soon. A few others are already busy at their chores. ‘There’s much to be done after last night.’
Barely awake, Eadwulf did as he was told. Sigehelm was right, Aslanga would be unforgiving if she had to rouse the thralls herself. But the cold morning air helped, and as he plodded down to the river, a pail in each hand, he felt his senses reviving. The weak October sun had already emerged from its other world and the cockerel perched silently on the fence, his morning’s work accomplished. Eadwulf didn’t feel too guilty for being late; no one else was about either.
By the time he returned to the hall, Sigehelm was feeding sticks to the newly lit fire, the yellow flames greedily licking at the new wood. Surprisingly, Aslanga was still absent but most of the thralls were busily removing all evidence of night-time revelry, stepping carefully around a handful of men still snoring on the rushes. Dishes were piled ready for washing, trestles stacked away until later.
‘We’ll need as much water as you can bring,’ Thora said, emptying the pails into a cauldron over the hearth and handing them back to Eadwulf. She wrinkled her nose at the heaps of food-smeared pots. ‘A few journeys to the river, lad, quick as you can.’
Returning with his brimming buckets several journeys later, Eadwulf’s attention was caught by a woman’s giggle coming from inside the large, wood-planked barn. A man’s throaty chuckle followed, and Eadwulf grinned. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d heard couples engaged in noisy lovemaking, and in a variety of places, but he was curious as to which pair of lovers had risen for such an early-morning tryst after the late-night feast. But whoever they were, he decided, they definitely couldn’t be thralls. Servants late to their chores risked a severe thrashing.
A hazy memory from last night suddenly crossed Eadwulf’s mind and he wondered . . . And since the door was already ajar, he supposed a quick peep inside could do no harm.
On first glance the barn appeared to be empty and he crept a little further in. Then a huge mound of barley straw in the far corner moved; a gentle kind of movement that rose up and down, slowly at first but gradually gaining momentum. The back of a woman’s blonde head surfaced then disappeared, to be followed by a flash of bright red hair.
As he backed silently out again, Eadwulf smiled, pleased to have proven h
imself to be right.
* * *
By the time the morning meal had been served Aslanga had still not made an entrance and, having eaten his fill, the jarl summoned his men and headed off about his business. Nor had Bjorn yet returned to eat, which surprised Eadwulf. He’d have a long wait until the evening feast.
‘It seems Aslanga has a gargantuan hangover,’ Sigehelm said with an uncharacteristic smirk as they sat at a table to take their own meal. Our mistress rarely drinks wine but last night Ragnar refilled her goblet a few times too many.’
‘On purpose, I imagine, so she’d retire and leave him to enjoy himself,’ Eadwulf replied, returning the smirk as he tore off a chunk of bread to mop up his stew. His eyes flicked to where Ivar and Halfdan skulked in the corner of the hall. ‘And those two are very quiet; didn’t even join their father for the meal.’
‘If you look closely, Eadwulf, you’ll notice they’re both somewhat pale and puffy-eyed this morning. Halfdan’s been sitting there looking as though he would vomit and Ivar tried his usual tack of threatening to castrate me if I so much as speak to him again today.’
‘I saw them downing mead last night. I hope they throw up all day.’
‘Such uncharitable thoughts,’ Sigehelm admonished with a shake of his head. But you know, Eadwulf, for once I wholeheartedly agree with you.’
‘And exactly what do you two agree about, may I ask?’
The cheerful voice made them jump. Bjorn seemed to have materialised from nowhere, still wearing the tunic he’d worn for the feast, although it now looked rather the worse for wear. Spikes of straw bedecked his hair and Eadwulf was forced to mask his inappropriate laugh with a strangled cough.
‘We were discussing the after effects of strong drink, as a matter of fact, Master,’ Sigehelm said, flashing Eadwulf a questioning glance.
Bjorn grinned. ‘What is there to agree upon other than such effects being utterly undesirable?’
‘That hangovers are usually well merited,’ Sigehelm supplied sagely.
‘Well, I can see my two loving brothers look a little green this morning, and a little bird told me that Aslanga’s also feeling under the weather. Shame,’ Bjorn said, facetiously. ‘But observe that I am not afflicted by such a malady. Sometimes there are better things to do than simply getting drunk. Fetch me a bowl of pottage, and a few chunks of that bread, would you, lad. I’m quite ravenous now.’
Thora ladled stew into a bowl for Eadwulf as Bjorn’s genial tones carried across the hall. ‘You wouldn’t believe some of the things we’ve resorted to eating on our travels, Scribe. Ever tried octopus? No? Nor had I until we got to Iberia. It’s not too bad – better than fish if you ask me . . .’
‘I’ll wish you a proper welcome home now, Master Bjorn,’ Thora gushed, hurrying over as Eadwulf deposited his food. ‘I had little opportunity to do so yesterday but my heart went out to you all the same. You made us all hoot with your tales last night.’
Bjorn rose and threw his arms around the Danish woman, lifting her off her feet and planting a smacking kiss on her cheek. Thora returned his embrace, sobbing tears of joy into his shoulder. Eadwulf and Sigehelm shared a bemused glance. It seemed these two shared a long-founded friendship.
‘Let me drink in the sight of you,’ Thora said, wriggling free of the vice-like grip and holding Bjorn at arm’s length. ‘You’ve been away so long, had us all fair worried for your safety. I’ve heard naught but your name from your sister’s lips for weeks.’
‘And where is Freydis?’ Bjorn asked, glancing round. ‘My little sister hasn’t yet been to greet me. I noticed her in here last night, but she didn’t run to me as usual. I confess, there were so many people to see yesterday, I quite overlooked her.’
Thora’s brow creased. ‘Freydis was in a strange mood last evening. I think she’d fallen on the wrong side of Aslanga, though over what, I can’t say. She ate less than a sparrow at the feast and when you didn’t arrive this morning she took Ubbi outside to amuse him until Aslanga rose.’
‘Then I’ll speak to the two of them as soon as–’
‘I should think you’ve all had ample time to feed yourselves by now.’
The biting tones of Ragnar’s shrew-faced little wife rang out as she strode into the hall, inspecting everything from the hearthfire to the mealtime food and last night’s crockery. Nor did Bjorn’s crumpled, straw-decked tunic escape her scrutiny. She was certainly hiding her hangover well, Eadwulf thought. Even her clothing looked crisp and fresh.
‘I insist my sons have their usual tuition today, Scribe, whether they like it or not,’ she said, shooting a look at Ivar and Halfdan that would brook no rejoinder. Her arm swept round the hall. ‘The rest of you, the sooner we get this meal cleared, the sooner we start preparations for tonight’s feast. Eadwulf, you will collect the nettles I need for the soup. There are still plenty growing by the river. Remember to pick the freshest leaves – they’ll not sting too badly if you pick them carefully.
‘Thank you for taking over this morning,’ she added, addressing Thora and Toke. ‘I must have overslept due to the late night.’
Bjorn let out an outright guffaw. ‘Would you care for some pottage, Aslanga? You can always scoop the floating grease from the top.’
Aslanga cast her eldest son a look that could have turned a person to stone. ‘The company has quite taken away my appetite,’ she said caustically. ‘I prefer to eat with those who do not look as though they’ve been rolling around in the straw with the pigs.’
Twelve
October was not the best month for nettles. The thick clumps that had sprouted profusely along the riverbank throughout the summer had now sadly died back. Eadwulf chuntered as he tried to find enough fresh growth to fill his bucket, his sleeves pulled down to protect his hands. He kicked the stubby plants, quite the opposite of the fresh, new leaves Aslanga had requested, wondering what she’d do if he returned with insufficient for her soup. Why did she want to make nettle soup anyway, when there were vegetables aplenty in the storage huts?
He followed the river seaward, plucking at the sorry specimens. The Kattegat Strait was less than a couple of miles away and the slate-grey water of the widening river flowed steadily towards its expansive freedom. Seabirds circled and the sharp, salty tang of the sea carried on the cold wind. There were fewer and fewer of the wretched nettles as he walked and he was on the verge of turning back when, on rounding a bend, he was brought up short.
Freydis and Ubbi were wandering about on the sandy flats at the river’s edge, the jarl’s daughter pointing out interesting-looking pebbles and stones. Ubbi’s chubby face glowed in the bracing wind, but he seemed to be enjoying himself. Catching sight of Eadwulf staring down at them from the shrub-covered bank Freydis smiled and tugged Ubbi in his direction.
Eadwulf returned the smile, feeling envious of her thick coat of white fur. ‘You shouldn’t be here alone, mistress. It’s a cold wind, although you are wrapped up well in your furs.’
Freydis’s smile instantly dropped. ‘I don’t need a thrall to tell me what I can do! And – not that it’s any of your business – the coat is very warm, thank you. It’s made from the fur of an ice bear, and since they live near the edge of Midgard where it snows nearly all the time, I think it should keep me nicely snug . . .
‘Oh dear,’ she giggled, ‘don’t I sound pompous.’ Unsure of whether that was a question, Eadwulf said nothing. ‘In truth, I wanted to be out of the hall before Aslanga could insist I knead dough again. And someone had to take care of Ubbi: everyone else was too busy.’
‘I didn’t mean to criticise,’ Eadwulf assured, before the girl really took offence. ‘I’m merely concerned for your safety, so close to the river with the little one.’
‘I can look after us both very well,’ she huffed, hoisting her little brother into her arms, where he proceeded to pull on her flaxen plaits. She jerked her head
but Ubbi clung on with grim determination. ‘I spend a lot of time playing with Ubbi, especially when Burghild’s busy with other chores. Aslanga’s not exactly the motherly type, in case it had escaped your notice.’
Eadwulf nodded, trying hard not to laugh at the child’s antics and Freydis’s growing irritation. ‘I meant no disrespect, mistress, though perhaps some help in carrying him would be useful.’
‘Oh, he walks well enough. He walked most of the way here, as a matter of fact.’ She winced as Ubbi tugged a handful of hair and buried his face in her shoulder. ‘And I am not carrying you all the way back!’ she declared, pulling her braids from Ubbi’s grasp and firmly lowering him to the ground. He thrust out his bottom lip and stretched up his arms, demanding to be picked up again.
‘Perhaps he’d let me carry him,’ Eadwulf offered, sizing up the sturdy child, ‘although I’d need to ask you to carry the bucket, mistress.’
Freydis flashed a grateful smile. ‘Let’s see how far he can walk on his own first. He loves walking, as a rule. But what brings you so far from the hall? Are you collecting something?’
‘I don’t think Aslanga will be amused,’ Eadwulf said, as they laughed at the shrivelled specimens in Eadwulf’s pail. ‘But I can’t fetch something that isn’t there!’
‘Eadwulf!’ Freydis suddenly shrieked. ‘Where’s Ubbi?’
Freydis was hard on Eadwulf’s heels as they rounded a bush in time to see Ubbi paddling into the water, squealing with delight as it splashed round his legs. He waded further in until the water reached his chest, his squeals of glee soon turning to alarm as the current washed him off his feet, carrying him on downstream – and gradually further away from the bank, to where the water rapidly deepened. Unable to stay afloat, his dark head disappeared.
‘Eadwulf! Do something!’
But Eadwulf was already diving towards where the child had gone down.
His first dive proved futile, the silt-laden water rendering visibility for more than a few feet impossible. Resurfacing quickly he caught sight of the boy, bobbing along a mere few yards away before disappearing again. He took several strong strokes and dived again, this time managing to clasp hold of Ubbi’s shoulders and haul him up from the murky depths. But the panicked infant would not succumb to his rescue placidly. Gulping down great lungfuls of air he struggled and kicked so wildly that Eadwulf lost his grip. Ubbi sank a second time, to re-emerge several yards downstream.
