by Millie Thom
Again he broke into a run, heading further upstream until the gushing water appeared shallow enough to reach little higher than his knees. He wrapped his coat round his shoes to make them easier to carry, rolled up his trouser legs, and scrambled down the sloping bank into the river. Icy water pummelled his legs but he gritted his teeth and turned upstream. The riverbed was strewn with pebbles and rocks, most worn smooth by the flowing water but others sharp and jagged, making it difficult for him to find footholds; stringy weed entwined his toes. Each step was laboriously slow but he struggled on.
After less than a quarter of a mile he could no longer bear the river’s icy embrace and scrambled up the slippery bank on legs so numb he could barely feel them. Cold air drove at his skin and he donned his coat and shoes between bouts of violent shivering. Somehow he’d managed to keep them relatively dry, though, as he’d expected, his trousers unrolled stiff and wet. But he’d no time to worry over trivialities and was too cold to stand still any longer.
A ribbon of pink lined the eastern horizon as Eadwulf careered on, the wooded banks and lush water meadows gradually changing into the desolate and uninhabited scenery of the heath. But he paid scant attention to the short, undeveloped vegetation sprouting its new season’s green: the stubby shrubs and brackens; the purple flowering heather and yellow-blossomed gorse. He absently registered the occasional pine and spindly silver-barked birch standing conspicuous in its solitude. He ignored the scratches inflicted on his hands by the shrubs’ sharp prickles as he tore past. His mind focused only on the low hills in the distance.
The arc of the rising sun signalled the start of the new day, engulfing Eadwulf in another wave of panic. The wolf-dog would now be after him! Where was there to flee to out here? Scanning the horizon he could see nothing but endless heath. The forest seemed further away the faster he ran. Why had he run into this open place where he was so exposed and vulnerable? ‘Curses on you, Ivar! Curses on you, Halfdan!’ he screamed. ‘Why can’t you just leave me alone!’
He could not have run any faster. His throat was raw from continuous panting and every inch of his skin was hot and clammy. On the verge of collapse he staggered on until the agonising stitch in his side allowed him to run no further. He threw himself forward, toppling onto a cushion of heather, where he stayed long enough to ease the stitch. He scrambled to his feet and ran again for the forest. As the land gradually rose the gorse and heather petered out, trees became more abundant and soon Eadwulf was into dense woodland. Then he heard that dreaded sound. Distant as yet, the barking struck utter terror in him. Which way should he run – deeper into the forest, or round the edges? Or should he find a tree to climb?
Panic gave little room for deliberation and he pushed deeper into the forest, dodging between the heavy oaks, the less grand birches, hazels, hollies and spindly saplings. Last year’s rotting leaves still littered the floor and their odour filled his nostrils. But no birdsong rang in the treetops, no squirrels scampered along the boughs; only the sounds of the distant barking of the wolf-dog reached his ears. Perhaps his fear would allow them to register nothing else.
He stumbled on until brought up short. Ahead, huge oaks loomed and between them fallen branches blocked all pathways but the one along which he’d come. He searched frantically for a way through as the barking grew louder. But it was useless, and he knew he had no option but to face his tormentors. That vindictive boy, Halfdan, must have set off well before sunrise. How else could he have been so close behind . . .?
He picked up a stout branch and waited. The barking became a menacing growl and the great beast pushed from the undergrowth, dragging Halfdan after him on the short leash, with the two grinning Danish boys close on his heels.
‘So, Mercian, time for Viggi’s reward, I think,’ Halfdan said slowly, straining to hold the the snarling dog in check. ‘Nice try at the river, by the way, but I knew you must have crossed somewhere once the water became shallower. Didn’t take much to work that out! The broken branches and flattened grasses up the bank were a bit of a giveaway. And naturally, Viggi had no problem picking up your scent across the heath.’ Halfdan picked gorse flowers and bits of foliage from his breeks with his free hand and smoothed down his tunic. ‘Nothing to say, thrall? Then let’s get this done with.’
Heart pounding, Eadwulf gripped the branch as Halfdan bent to unfasten the leather leash, the two boys peering from behind him, slavering in anticipation of gruesome entertainment.
‘Release the dog, Halfdan, and it’s dead.’
Halfdan spun round in alarm, treading on the hound’s tail and falling against Skorri and Reinn, bringing them down with him. The dog let out a yelp and snapped at Halfdan’s ankles, causing him to cry out in pain. The sight of his red-headed brother ready to loose the arrow from his bowstring caused Halfdan to emit such a startled cry that Eadwulf almost laughed.
‘What are you doing here, Bjorn? How long have you been standing there?’ Guilt coloured Halfdan’s face and he seemed to shrink beneath Bjorn’s scathing gaze.
‘More importantly, what exactly are you are doing here? But before you attempt your feeble explanations, Halfdan, I’ll answer your second question: I’ve been here long enough to see what you were about to do and apparently I’m only just in time to put a stop to it!’
Bjorn glowered at Halfdan, his arrow aimed unwaveringly at the dog. His gaudy evening tunic and baggy trousers were muddy and adorned with fragments of heath. ‘I’ve been roused before daybreak with a tale of my brothers’ wicked scheme and the request that I dash across miles of open land to deal with it. I’m now saturated to the skin and exhausted by moving faster than Sleipnir across the sky. Is it any wonder my temper’s simmering close to boiling?’ He released his breath with controlled calmness. ‘What I demand, Halfdan, is an explanation: preferably one that sheds a more favourable light on these antics and possibly justifies your behaviour, which frankly I, for one, cannot condone.’
Halfdan hung his head, mustering up the courage to answer. ‘We were apprehending an escaped thrall,’ he lied, looking for support from his two minions. But they had shrunk into the shadows, fearful of the authority of Ragnar’s firstborn. ‘This thrall thought he could just run away – from the jarl!’
‘And just why should he do that? Where do you think a boy, a foreigner at that, could run to in a strange land? And manage to survive, of course?’
‘How should I know where he’d go? We just saw him running off.’
‘And at what hour would that have been?’
Halfdan’s brow puckered. ‘Perhaps two or three hours before sunrise.’
‘And you and Ivar are usually outside at that time?’
‘No, but . . .’ Halfdan faltered, clearly searching for a plausible lie. ‘We were roused by noises outside.’
‘So, you’re saying that this would-be escapee made so much noise he could have roused the whole village?’
Halfdan stared at his half-brother, opening his mouth to reply, but the words seemed firmly lodged in his throat. At length he garbled, ‘I saw the thrall running off when I went to the, um, latrine. I ran and told Ivar, who said that Viggi would soon find him. So we followed his trail to here . . .’
Bjorn’s bowstring remained resolutely taut. ‘Unfortunately for you, I have evidence to verify that events took place quite differently.’ He shook his head, his expression more of sorrow than anger. ‘And it’s apparent that had I not arrived when I did, Eadwulf would now be little more than a bloody mound at your feet!’
Unable to find words of reply, Halfdan remained mute, returning Bjorn’s calculating stare with cold-eyed defiance.
‘Get back to the village, the three of you,’ Bjorn said, flicking his bow. ‘You’ve no idea how tempted I am to sink this arrow in that evil cur’s skull anyway. Believe me, Halfdan, you’ll not get away with this. I’m not the only one who knows the truth of your intentions for this day.’
Eadwulf’s head swam with wild fears as he trudged back across the heath beside Bjorn. What yarns would Halfdan already have spun? Memories of events on the day he’d seen the kingfisher were never far away. Yet this time was different: this time the jarl’s eldest son was on his side. At least, that’s what he hoped. But so far, Bjorn had remained silent and grim-faced. The morning’s events had clearly angered him, and unsure whether Bjorn held him partly responsible, Eadwulf dared not interrupt.
Bjorn suddenly stopped in his tracks. ‘I’ve thought much about you over the past months, Eadwulf, and decided there’s more to you than it would seem.’
Confused by the implications entwined in the sweeping statement, Eadwulf shuffled his feet. ‘I know not how to answer, Master.’
Bjorn tugged at his beard, questioning green eyes boring into Eadwulf. ‘Then I’ll explain further. You’re unlike any thrall we’ve ever acquired. You have that extra something that other thralls, even high born ones, do not. What is it that I just can’t put my finger on?
‘I realised months ago that Sigehelm was devoted to you,’ he continued. ‘He’s a good man – despite his Christian ethics – and I believe he regards himself almost as what you Christians call your Guardian Angel?’
Eadwulf nodded slowly. He couldn’t deny his tutor’s selfless care for him. How often had Sigehelm kept alive the belief that Eadwulf would one day return to Mercia? Remember who you are! The words exploded inside his head and he squeezed his eyes shut as emotion welled.
‘Then would I also be correct in believing you to be of noble blood?’ Eadwulf’s eyes shot open. He felt as though his skull had been pierced, his most intimate thoughts hooked out. ‘Your entire demeanour would suggest that is so.’
Eadwulf did not want to lie to the man who had undoubtedly saved his life today, but he was not yet ready to divulge the entire truth. ‘Sigehelm has cared for my welfare for as long as I can remember,’ he supplied, evasively.
‘You’ve not answered my last question,’ Bjorn murmured, surveying the meadows across the river, the gentle rise and wooded slopes beyond. The village of his people sat at the foot of those slopes. ‘We’d best get back,’ he said, walking on and relieving Eadwulf of the need to reply.
They waded across the river and at the top of the bank Bjorn laid down his bow and replaced his leather boots. ‘Who were your parents, Eadwulf?’ he asked, adjusting the leather strap of his quiver across his shoulder.
Eadwulf shoved his feet into his own tired-looking boots, knowing that Bjorn would not be satisfied until he had an answer. ‘My mother was Morwenna, the daughter of an Anglian ealdorman,’ he said eventually. ‘She was – is very pretty, so everyone said. I think she’s still alive, Master, but Sigehelm says it’s folly to cling to such hopes.’
‘We’ll talk about that later,’ Bjorn said, laying a hand on his shoulder. ‘But now, tell me who your father was.’
‘My father’s dead, so what difference does it make who he was?’
Bjorn momentarily considered the question. ‘Nothing, I suppose, other than I’d hoped you may wish to confide in me.’
They walked along the riverbank in awkward silence. The deepening water no longer flowed in its menacing pre-dawn mood; sunlight danced on its surface and nettles sprouted profusely amidst the greening shrubs along the banks. Eadwulf mulled over Bjorn’s question. Of all the people he knew, other than Sigehelm, he considered Bjorn to be the most deserving of his confidences. Yet Bjorn was a Dane, the jarl’s son at that, so why did he want to know about Eadwulf’s father?
Seeing no other option, he said, ‘My father was Beorhtwulf, King of Mercia.’
A broad grin transformed Bjorn’s sombre face. ‘Then I was right: you’re too proud to be aught but a king’s son. I knew it the first time you spoke, after you’d doused me with ale. Such things can’t be hidden. My brothers sense it too and–’
But whatever he’d been about to say remained unsaid. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, lad, but I can’t apologise for our raids. Raiding is necessary to our existence. But I do know several jarls who’ve raided in Saxon lands. Someone may know of an Anglian woman taken in London. Pity you don’t know the name of your captor.’
‘It was Jarl Rorik!’ Eadwulf blurted. ‘His nephew told me his name – the warrior who caught me as I tried to run from the manor. I think his name was Godfried. His men said Godfried’s father was a king.’
Bjorn gave a humourless laugh. ‘Rorik is my father’s cousin, brother of Harald, who calls himself “King of the Danes”. And Harald does have a son called Godfried. There’s no love lost between Rorik and Harald. Rorik would happily eliminate his brother and take his place. Harald simply has more silver to buy the support needed to keep his position. But if you’re certain of those names, Eadwulf, I may be able to discover whether Rorik still has your mother, or has sold her elsewhere. I can’t promise anything, but we occasionally see Rorik at the autumn rites. Keep up your hopes, but don’t harbour expectations of success.’
Aros gradually came into view, a cluster of dark shapes with columns of rising smoke that dissipated into the still morning air. Reminded of Aslanga, Eadwulf asked, ‘Why is it your mother and brothers hate me, Master, yet you do not seem to do so?’
Bjorn squatted down on the grassy bank, motioning with his bow that Eadwulf should do the same. ‘You’ve saved my life and helped me at other times,’ Eadwulf ploughed on, finding only a thoughtful furrow on Bjorn’s brow, ‘whereas they do everything they can to hurt or humiliate me. I don’t know why they do so, except that I’m a foreigner and a thrall. And they hate my red hair,’ he admitted, his eyes flicking briefly over Bjorn’s fiery mane.
The jarl’s son hooted. ‘Aslanga hates my hair as much as she does yours!’
‘But she’s your mother! Why should she hate your hair just because it’s a different colour to her own?’
‘Let me ask you, Eadwulf, what colour was your father’s hair? No, let me guess. I’ll wager it was red, like yours?’ Eadwulf nodded, not seeing the significance of that. ‘Well, Aslanga’s hair is black as a raven’s wing. What do you think that implies?’
Eadwulf shrugged. ‘That she was born on a dark night?’
Bjorn snorted at his comical guess. ‘What I’m getting at is parentage, Eadwulf. Offspring usually resemble both parents, in some ways at least, no matter how small those likenesses are. I am Ragnar’s son,’ he stated proudly, pulling back his broad shoulders. ‘I’m told I have his muscular physique, his nose, the same square jaw, and his large hands. And one day I’ll probably have a paunch to match!’ He gestured to each feature in turn, grinning when it came to his well muscled midriff. ‘But,’ he added, fingering a strand of red hair, ‘not one thing about me bears similarity to Aslanga: not even my hair colour, or my eyes. Yet neither of those resembles Ragnar’s either.’
Eadwulf’s lower jaw dropped and Bjorn nodded. ‘That’s right, Aslanga is not my mother. Gudrun was my mother, Ragnar’s first wife.’ Eadwulf snatched at memories of Thora mentioning that name; it had meant nothing to him at the time. ‘Gudrun died when I was a babe, so I don’t remember her, though many in our village do,’ Bjorn explained. ‘I’m told she was a woman of great kindness and that Ragnar loved her so much he almost gave up the will to live during the months following her death, and he married Aslanga in an effort to lessen the grieving. Then Ivar and Halfdan were born – and lastly little Ubbi.
‘I can’t say whether Aslanga’s made my father happy, but he did have a concubine for many years after Halfdan was born. Though as far as I know, he hasn’t bedded her since Aslanga gave birth to Ubbi.’
Eadwulf caught the expectant flicker in Bjorn’s eyes as he said all this, but could see nothing to comment upon. He neither approved nor disapproved of concubines.
‘But Aslanga has never accepted me as a son. Nor has she ever attempted to raise me in any
way at all. That task was given to Thora, whose love I have willingly returned.’
‘So, your real mother had red hair and green eyes,’ Eadwulf broached, trying to piece together the fragments of information. Bjorn nodded. ‘And Aslanga and her sons hate you because you remind them of the wife Ragnar loved best.’ Bjorn nodded again. ‘So they all hate me because I remind them of you and your mother.’
‘I believe that’s how Aslanga sees it, certainly. But Ivar’s hatred of me is most intense because I’m Ragnar’s first-born, a status he desperately covets. Needless to say, his jealousy is constantly fanned by Aslanga. Ragnar’s lands will be mine when I’m jarl and Aslanga’s sons will need to seek their fortunes elsewhere. But Ivar’s hatred of you is something else. It stems from some dream he had a few years ago.’ Bjorn’s gaze fixed into the distance. ‘In this dream Ivar and Halfdan are grown men, leading an army against some king. Their army wins many battles until a red-headed warrior appears at the enemy king’s side, bringing about my brothers’ downfall. I don’t know the details, so don’t ask how all that comes about, but Ivar’s come to believe that you will be that warrior one day – unless he can kill you first.’
‘What foolishness to give credence to a dream!’ Eadwulf gasped, springing to his feet. ‘There are many red-headed warriors – and I know of no king who could need my help. Ivar will gain nothing by killing me.’
Bjorn patted the ground, gesturing to Eadwulf to sit down again. ‘Yet you are a king’s son, Eadwulf. Who knows what the gods have designed for your future? And, like me, my brothers sense something in you – perhaps a destiny to greatness. And they are fearful of it.’
