Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One

by Millie Thom

  Bjorn was silent, as though unable to speak of the continuing siege, the inevitability of their deaths. But Eadwulf didn’t need an answer. His master had been right: the withdrawal had been a trick. Though hadn’t someone said they’d be sailing soon? Floundering in confusion he glanced about the little church. Sunlight poured through the tiny windows high in the walls and he knew it would still be warm outside, where the crew would be sitting around in their hopelessness. Bjorn was kneeling by his bedroll with Hastein at his side. Behind his head, Leif squatted.

  ‘So it was you, Leif, who kept lifting my head so I could drink?’

  ‘It was, lad,’ the helmsman acknowledged. ‘Getting real worried about you we were. You’d not swallowed a drop for days; been unconscious most of the time.’

  Tentatively, Eadwulf touched his shoulder, frowning as his memory returned. ‘I took an arrow, didn’t I?’

  Bjorn gently squeezed his right arm. ‘What can I say, except that you took that arrow instead of me? I’d have been dead for sure had the arrow pierced my back and punctured a lung. The arrow went deep into your shoulder. It was a good thing you struck your head on that boulder as you hurtled me to the ground: that arrow took some digging out! It’s Hastein we’ve to thank for the deft handiwork, by the way. He makes a fine surgeon: must be those long fingers.’

  Eadwulf smiled at Hastein. ‘My lord, I owe you sincere thanks.’

  ‘You’ve more than proved your worth on this voyage, Eadwulf,’ Hastein said, serious for once. ‘And now you’ve saved Bjorn’s life. It is I who should be thanking you. And without Thora’s needles and silks, I could have done little – we would’ve had to seal the wound with a burning brand or heated iron. The barbs on the arrowhead meant we couldn’t pull it out without tearing your shoulder to shreds,’ he continued, grinning at Eadwulf’s widening eyes. ‘I had to make a very deep cut to release the wicked thing! So either stitching up the wound – or otherwise sealing it – was vital. Your unconscious state proved most convenient. But you seem to be truly back with us now. Do you remember Bjorn telling you we’re soon to sail?’

  Eadwulf nodded, perplexed. ‘But I thought the Franks were still out there. Aren’t they? They shot at us . . . didn’t they?’ The three men shared a glance and he knew there was something they hadn’t told him. ‘Are we really sailing soon?’

  ‘The Franks have gone; and yes, we sail in two days. But the siege is still on.’

  Eadwulf gaped at his master. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The Franks have withdrawn, apparently to counter an attack on West Francia by Louis of Bavaria, one of Charles’s brothers,’ Bjorn explained. ‘But Charles is a cunning bastard, as we know. He actually paid three thousand pounds of silver to some of our own countrymen to continue the siege in his stead! It was Danes who fired at us, Eadwulf. They’d moved in that morning at first light. And by Odin, if I ever come across that treacherous dog Weland again, I swear I’ll tear him apart! He’ll die the slowest of deaths possible. I’ll–’

  ‘I’m sure we all feel the same, cousin,’ Hastein smirked. ‘Weland would betray his own mother for a single piece of silver. But the point is, Eadwulf, it’s because Weland is such a double-crossing cur that we will be leaving soon.’

  ‘We’ve arranged an exchange, of a sort, with Weland,’ Bjorn elaborated. ‘We give him a share of our booty and he’ll turn a blind eye to our departure.’

  Eadwulf snorted.

  ‘My sentiments exactly, lad: to betray your own countrymen is beneath contempt; but to take our hard-won booty is doubly so!’ The expression of insult on Bjorn’s face made Eadwulf laugh. Red-hot needles shot through his shoulder and he gasped. Bjorn waited until he’d composed himself before speaking. ‘Yesterday, Weland and a small party rowed across to the island under a white flag – which being principled Danes, we honoured. After much haggling, a price was agreed for which he was prepared to let us go. The amount has made a dent in our plunder, but considering how much we’ve actually got, it seems relatively little. Naturally, Weland is ignorant of how much we have taken, or he’d have undoubtedly pushed for more.’

  ‘Can you trust him to let us do that, Master, let us go, I mean? Once he’s got our loot, might he stop us sailing?’

  ‘That’s always a possibility, but two things make me believe he’ll keep his word on this occasion.’ Bjorn considered Eadwulf’s expectant face and grinned. ‘Firstly, whatever else Weland is, he’s a Dane, and like all Danes, he enjoys duping non-Danes. And Charles the Bald with his Christian pomposity – not to mention his great wealth and power – has become not only the butt of jokes for all Danes, but also the main target of our raids. Charles’s outrage when he finds he’s been outwitted should be something to see, especially when he learns that Weland’s no intention of leaving Francia yet, not when there’s still rich pickings to be had.’

  Eadwulf nodded. ‘The second reason?’

  ‘Ragnar, of course.’

  Hastein and Leif grinned at Eadwulf’s bemusement, and Bjorn laughed out loud. ‘Weland’s been a friend of my father’s for years. Few kingdoms around the Northern and Baltic Seas haven’t been besieged by those two. Weland was with Ragnar during the sack of Paris thirteen years ago. That would make Charles and Weland old acquaintances, I’d say. So I feel rather confident that Weland wouldn’t wish to antagonise my father by starving to death his eldest son and beloved nephew.’

  ‘It would be most unfriendly of him to do so,’ Hastein agreed. ‘He wouldn’t be in a hurry to set foot back in our homelands either. But I still think the main reason for Weland’s double-dealing is–’

  ‘The booty,’ Leif finished for him, scratching his head. ‘You two seem to forget that I sailed with Weland and Ragnar for many a year. And a more devious bastard than Weland you’re not likely to find. I can’t see him being much afraid of Ragnar these days. He’s got his own lands now, his own men; owes loyalty to no one. And you’re right, Hastein; he’d sell his own mother for the merest glint of silver.’

  ‘Then we’d best not turn our backs on the devil,’ Bjorn conceded with a grimace.

  * * *

  At the end of the third week of September, Bjorn and Hastein’s fleet eventually pulled away from Oissel Island. The lightening day saw a gradual easing of the downpour which had been heavy during the night, and the clear, sharp air smelt good. Relieved to be on the move the men concentrated on their rowing, reserving their thanks to Thor until they were well away from their island prison. Slumped on his sea chest beside Leif, Eadwulf felt wretched. His shoulder throbbed and he was much too weak to row. How could he justify his place on Bjorn’s ship if he could do nothing but sit and watch others work? But he had no choice in the matter; hailed as Bjorn’s hero he must endure the embarrassing praise and remain seated.

  Leif’s hairy visage was solemn, his darting eyes edgy as the ships glided past the riverbanks lined with Weland’s men. Somewhere in their midst was his former comrade, undoubtedly revelling in his easily acquired wealth from both the Frankish king and his fellow Danes. As most of the men, Leif was not convinced that Weland would not renege on his word and attack. The booty had been exchanged for hostages in the diminishing drizzle at first light. Six warriors, each a chieftain in his own right, would be their only assurance of safe passage from the Seine. One of those six now squatted at the Eagle’s stern, glowering. Other ships held his comrades: none to be freed until they reached the Danish lands.

  Half starved and brimming with anger after weeks of enforced confinement, the men rowed hard. They raided villages along the Seine without mercy, seizing food, burning homesteads and taking slaves. Five days after leaving the island they reached the open sea and veered north towards Frisia, sailing into creeks and estuaries to continue their raids.

  Eadwulf stayed with the ships during these times as he’d done in past years. But he despised the feeling of helplessness, and though his shoulder only
bothered him when suddenly jolted, he was still too weak to wield a weapon. He felt like a child again; the child who’d willed away the years to the day when he’d become a man, able to fight at Bjorn’s side and make him proud.

  Though his Mercian heritage still burned deep in his heart, Eadwulf had long since come to respect the Danish way of life: the elemental need to raid in order to survive. He thought of his father, a noble king who’d died a victim of one such raid, and his mother, snatched as a prize by the victor of that same incursion. And Eadwulf himself, thrust into a life of endless drudgery, his happy childhood gone forever. By rights he should deplore everything the Danes stood for. But he did not . . .

  Bjorn’s kindness had saved him, taken him away from the relentless torment at the hands of Aslanga and her two spiteful sons. And for that, the jarl’s eldest son had become his saviour, whom he would follow and obey without hesitation. Even during the raids in Francia, Eadwulf had participated without question. Bjorn expected it of him. Had he lived, Beorhtwulf would surely abhor what his only son become: a callous raider who dealt in death and destruction. And his mother, should she still be alive, must never know. Though, perhaps, having lived amongst the Danes herself, Morwenna would understand.

  Now, even in his darkest moments, when his nostrils filled with the stench of burning and terrified screams resounded in his ears, Eadwulf thought of Bjorn and the men who had become his friends. And he smiled.

  * * *

  The amber glow of the setting sun danced across the waters of the pretty bay, highlighting a couple of the low-lying islands that formed part of the chain along the Frisian coast. The light offshore breeze now held a definite chill and the early October evening would soon rapidly darken. Campfires on the sandy beach already crackled and the men were setting whatever meats they’d obtained during the day’s raids to roast. Eadwulf laid out breads, cheeses and apples with little concern as to how they’d been acquired. He’d have acted no differently to the other men, had his wretched shoulder permitted. He glanced at the thralls taken during the last week or so, hunched together with that terrified look Eadwulf recognised too well. He fought down the mixture of anger and sympathy he felt for their loss of freedom. To allow such emotions to dominate his thoughts would serve no purpose. He could not change the way of things.

  The meal was devoured quickly; the Frisian wine downed too fast to be savoured. The men were still rebuilding their strength after the weeks of slow starvation, and the night-time meals were enjoyed more with a sense of relieved desperation than merriment. Thor must surely have smiled upon them to have saved them as he did. Though silver coin, elaborate swords and chalices, and other ornate goods were few in Frisia – the area had suffered many years of Norse raids – food was plentiful on most of the homesteads they’d raided. And since leaving Oissel Island, food was the one commodity the men still craved. Ample silver and gold from Francia was already in their possession; all they wanted now was to get home in good health. And tomorrow they’d be setting sail.

  Just before they made a move towards their bedrolls, Bjorn rose to his feet, a big grin on his face, and addressed the fifty or so men seated around his campfire. At his master’s left, Eadwulf paid little attention. Bjorn often ended the evening with jovial anecdotes and a summary of their recent achievements, goods accumulated. But after a few moments Bjorn raised his hands for silence, a serious expression on his face.

  ‘In years to come we’ll look back on this summer with mixed emotions,’ he said, his eyes sweeping the faces, glowing in the flickering light. ‘Our bulging sacks speak of our incredible success in Francia. Ragnar will be delighted that we laughed in the face of the pretentious Charles. But,’ he added with a slow shake of his head, ‘we’ve all felt the brush of death; all felt what it would be like to be barred from Valhalla. Sadly, but inevitably, we leave some of our comrades behind. Those men died as true warriors, doing their best to please the gods. Odin will smile upon them and open the doors into Asgard, where they can feast and drink in the great hall, Valhalla. But the rest of us . . .? Had we died on that cursed island, starved until our bodies could function no longer, we would not have been as fortunate as they. Valhalla would not have been our destination.’

  He suddenly grinned and threw out his arms. ‘But we are here. Alive! Perhaps a little thinner,’ he jested, patting his midriff. ‘Though in some cases – and note, I mention no names – perhaps that’s not such a bad thing. Some of you will now be able to see your toes.’

  The men hooted and Eadwulf noticed others gathering round Bjorn’s group, drawn by the laughter. ‘I, more than most, have reason to be grateful that I’m still alive,’ Bjorn went on. ‘And the one person responsible for my continuing good health is sitting right here beside me, still suffering considerable pain from an arrow, skilfully aimed to kill me. If not for Eadwulf’s swift actions, I’d not be here enjoying this chat with you all now.’

  Eadwulf shuffled as eyes fixed on him. He was not looking for admiration from the men and would prefer the incident simply to be forgotten. He’d merely acted instinctively to the sight of that cursed archer taking aim.

  Hastein suddenly appeared between Eadwulf and Bjorn, a canvas bag in his hand, a great grin on his face. ‘I imagine you’re about ready for this, cousin,’ he said, holding out the bag. ‘If you continue to talk much longer, I fear Eadwulf may well slink away in embarrassment before you accomplish the intended purpose of this little gathering.’

  ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Leif yelled round to the men from his seat at Bjorn’s right. ‘I swear our young master doesn’t even shut up in his sleep!’

  Bjorn threw up his hands with a feigned expression of astonished indignation before taking the bag from Hastein’s grasp. ‘Then I shall bore you all no longer with my inane chatter. No doubt I’ll continue to talk to myself when I nod off. So now, at the risk of causing him still greater discomfiture, I ask that Eadwulf rises to stand beside me.’

  Eadwulf silently groaned. Hadn’t his master praised him enough already? Why couldn’t he just let things lie?

  He pulled himself up and shuffled between Bjorn and Hastein, trying not to look at the many grinning faces. Bjorn faced him and gripped his one good shoulder. ‘I owe you my life, Eadwulf, for which I’ll be eternally indebted to you. Never have I known a thrall with such courage as you. You could so easily have died in my stead . . .’ Bjorn’s voice was choked, and Eadwulf felt a lump in his own throat. ‘You’ll never know how much I prayed to the gods when you lay unconscious for so long, Eadwulf . . . when we all thought your life was ebbing away. Mighty Thor must have acknowledged your bravery, recognised your true, Danish spirit and the need for you to live. He knew that you are, without doubt, one of us.’

  For some moments Bjorn gazed silently at Eadwulf, as though unable to put further thoughts into words. Then he opened the bag and withdrew something that glinted silver in the firelight. It took Eadwulf a moment to recognise what it was. An armband; a thick and heavy silver ring, embossed with spiralling stems and leaves, the open ends resembling the gaping maw of some sea creature. He stared at the object, unable to believe that Bjorn should bestow such a costly item upon him.

  ‘Accept this gift, Eadwulf, as a token of my appreciation for the courage you’ve shown throughout our venture into Francia. I’ve already declared my heartfelt thanks for saving my life, and I know the men have valued your weaponry skills during the raids, and your comradeship. But, mere words can be forgotten, whereas this handsome token cannot.’ The men cheered as Bjorn placed the silver band around Eadwulf’s upper right arm then grasped him at the wrist to make the favoured greeting of warriors.

  ‘Just don’t lose it!’ Hastein quipped, taking his turn to clasp Eadwulf’s wrist.

  The cheers and laughter eventually died down and Bjorn looked round the men, evidently about to speak again. Eadwulf fingered the unfamiliar band round his arm, his heart filled with p
ride, despite his embarrassment. He just hoped that Bjorn would now focus his attentions elsewhere. The night was already fully dark and a few men had started to yawn. It had been a long day.

  ‘I’ve one last thing to say to our brave comrade before we retreat to our beds, my friends,’ Bjorn began, turning back to face Eadwulf, who felt his face flush red again. ‘After some in-depth consultation with Hastein and Leif, I’ve come to the decision that since you’re now a Dane in all but heritage, you need a Danish name.’

  Eadwulf blinked at this unexpected assertion. Changing his name had been the last thing he’d expected, and he wasn’t at all convinced he liked the idea. He was Eadwulf, a Mercian, and always would be. Wouldn’t he? His emotions reeled and he knew his confusion would show on his face.

  Bjorn roared and the others joined him. ‘Well, I can see that the idea has hit you like a slap with a wet fish.’

  ‘It’s not distaste at the idea, Master,’ Eadwulf said quickly before Bjorn became offended. ‘I’m just stunned. What name did you have in mind?’ he asked, hoping he sounded pleased.

  Laughter again rang out. ‘Now, that’s more like it.’ Bjorn’s voice trilled amusement. ‘We believe that “Ulf” will suit you very well,’ he said glancing sideways from Hastein to Leif, who were both nodding in agreement. ‘After all, you do fight somewhat like a wolf. And Ulf is not too unlike your original name. But it’s a popular name in our lands – and it will always signify your acceptance as one of us. A Dane.’

  Ulf sat on his sea chest the following day as the ship ploughed north through the foaming brine, wondering how he’d explain all this to Sigehelm. Soon they’d leave Hastein’s fleet behind at Ribe, and within the next two days they’d be back in Aros. Confusion made his head throb, to add to the pain of his shoulder. The armband would be hard enough to explain. But the name change . . .?