by Millie Thom
Memories of that day in early March last year sent shudders down Morwenna’s spine. She’d been sorting through the remnants of winter vegetables in one of the huts, when Rorik had leapt at her from behind, his great weight plunging her to the floor. Taken so unawares she screamed like a banshee. Rorik roared with laughter, his vulgar mouth salivating on the back of her neck. ‘By Thor’s hammer, the sight of that arse takes me back a few years,’ he taunted. ‘I like a good scuffle with my mares and you always give me a good ride!’
He’d taken her then, flinging up her skirts and mauling her buttocks before thrusting into her. She’d fought for breath, her face pressed into the hut’s filthy straw.
Morwenna had thought she would hate the child growing in her womb, that the babe would be a constant reminder of Rorik’s depravity. But, although the brutal rape would stay with her for ever, just one look at the tiny face of her newly born daughter had been enough to change that. Morwenna knew she would always love the child, who was just as innocent of her father’s cruelty as was her mother.
‘Are you sad, Mama?’
Morwenna ruffled her son’s blond head. ‘No, I’m not sad; just thinking. How could I be sad when I have you? And I’m very glad to know that Yrsa will always have her big brother to take care of her. Now,’ she said, wiping the infant’s food-covered face, ‘would you like to sit on the floor with your sister for a while? You could build a big tower and try to stop her knocking it over.’
‘I’m good at building things,’ Jorund enthused. ‘And I’ll watch she doesn’t crawl near the firepit.’
Morwenna kissed his smiling face. ‘I’m so lucky to have such a good son. And we’ll all need to work really hard for the next week or two.’
‘Because Papa will have more guests?’
‘That’s right,’ she said, trying to mask her revulsion at the thought of the two young men who’d already been at Aalborg over a week. And in a few days time, more of their household would arrive to enjoy Rorik’s hospitality and attend the sacrificial rites to the gods. ‘Rorik will have many guests, whom we must feed,’ she explained, leading Jorund to a space in the hall where he could amuse his sister. ‘Now, I’ll be over there at the looms, so you can just call me when you’ve had enough and I’ll put Yrsa in her pen. There are lots of nice wooden bricks here, see. Most of these were yours, when you were small.’
‘I know,’ Jorund replied. ‘But I’m a big boy now. I’ll soon be a man!’
* * *
The small convoy of wagons, carts and mounted men made its way up the low rise, nearing the final stage of its near sixty-mile journey north from Aros to Aalborg. After almost five days of trundling along dirt-tracks and making overnight camps, the travellers were bone-weary and not in the best of tempers. Despite having demanded to travel overland rather than sailing, Aslanga had constantly assailed Bjorn with complaints. But his countering platitudes served only to amuse Ulf and further incense the mistress.
Required to remain in Aros until yesterday, Ragnar had been obliged to take the faster sea route to Aalborg with his men. In his father’s absence, Bjorn rode at the head of the column, and behind him a dozen men accompanied the two horse-drawn wagons carrying the jarl’s family and female thralls. But Freydis had adamantly refused to be bumped along inside a covered wagon, claiming she’d be repeatedly sick, and took her place proudly beside Bjorn, proving to be as good a rider as any man. And not wanting to cause further offence by riding alongside them, Ulf accompanied Toke on one of the three carts.
Ulf avoided thinking of the impending sacrifices to Odin, but was plagued by visions of Rorik. In truth he remembered little of the man, other than the unkempt brown hair and hulking body, and he could not imagine how he’d react on seeing him again. Then there was always the chance that Ragnar’s cousin was not the same Rorik.
Of the possibility of seeing his mother again, he dared not dwell.
At the top of the rise Bjorn dismounted and waved everyone forward. ‘Have you ever seen such a sight?’ he yelled as they gathered round, flinging his arms out wide to indicate the expanse of sparkling water before them. ‘The Limfjord looks truly magnificent from up here. See that little island over there, Aslanga? We spent a comfortable night on one just like it not so long ago, did n’t we, Ulf?’ He swung his arm to indicate a sizeable settlement at the fjord’s edge. ‘As I’m sure you know, Aalborg is an important trading post. And Jarl Rorik is fortunate in being admirably located for sailing either east or west,’ he added, pointing in both directions with further arm swinging. ‘And at Lindholm Høje, over there on the opposite bank, is one of the biggest cemeteries in our lands.
‘Just inhale that briny air, Aslanga,’ he almost purred, breaking her glowering disapproval of Freydis’s attire. ‘Couldn’t you just stand here all day, filling your lungs with the delicious odour?’
Aslanga’s scowl was thunderous as she stalked back to her wagon.
Bjorn smirked and gestured at the sinking sun. ‘I’d say we’ve less than a couple of hours before sunset, so we need to keep moving if we’re to reach Aalborg before dark. We can probably assume that Ragnar is already there.’
* * *
Gleeful squeals drew Morwenna’s attention to two brawny arms holding up a small, wriggling bundle. Panicked, she put down the ale jug and pushed through the chortling guests, trying to reach the man to whom the arms belonged. She got there just as Jorund did.
‘Yours?’ the grinning, red-headed man asked, handing over the giggling child. ‘I think she liked being up there – better than tugging at my trouser leg at least.’
Grasping her little daughter, Morwenna opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it again and stared at the stranger’s face. Those green eyes . . .
‘If the little one is your daughter, I assure you, I didn’t hurt her. I merely held her up so her rightful owner would see her and–’
‘Forgive me, my lord,’ Morwenna mumbled. ‘It’s just that seeing you gave me rather a shock.’
‘Well, I’m used to having an odd effect on women, but not usually one that causes them distress. You seem a little perturbed by my appearance.’
‘In truth, my lord, you remind me of someone I knew in my homeland.’
‘Ah. And where would this have been?’
‘In Mercia, my lord: across the Northern Sea.
‘I know of it, but have never been there.’ The man’s eyebrows rose. ‘Of whom do I remind you?’
‘My husband . . . but he’s been dead these past six years.’
Morwenna smiled down at Jorund, wondering whether she should say anything else about Beorhtwulf, but her son seemed to be engrossed in watching a dark-headed boy who was twisting energetically in an attempt to escape the grip of a sharp-featured woman of similar colouring. Jorund giggled as the boy pulled a funny face at him, pointing to the hand gripping his shoulder.
‘You have my sincere thanks for retrieving my daughter,’ she offered to the man, losing her train of thought and smiling at the boy’s antics. ‘I admit I laid a burden on my son in charging him with her care. But I fear I must do so again.
‘Can you manage to play with Yrsa a while longer, do you think, Jorund?’ At his nod she thanked the man again and took Jorund’s hand to lead him back to the corner where he’d been building a tower of bricks for Yrsa, before she’d, somehow, escaped his supervision.
‘I am Bjorn, eldest son of Jarl Ragnar, who is cousin to Jarl Rorik,’ the red-headed man said as they turned to leave.
‘I am called Morwenna,’ she replied, facing him again.
‘And who is father to your two fine children?’
‘Rorik is their father, my lord, but–’
‘I understand your meaning, my lady. Say no more. Now I must allow you to get back to serving ale. I hope the little one allows you to do so.’
Bjorn took his mug from the man at his side an
d walked away. Morwenna stared at his retreating back. ‘He called me “my lady”, she murmured. ‘No one has called me that for years.’
Jorund wrapped his arms around his mother’s legs as she wiped a tear from her cheek.
Twenty Seven
Whilst Bjorn’s family enjoyed the hospitality of Rorik’s hall, the thralls of Ragnar’s household stabled the horses and unloaded wagons and carts. Indignant at being required to help, Sigehelm had suddenly felt the urge to thank God for their safe arrival at Aalborg and disappeared behind one of the huts. And since he was absent when a woman fetched them a jug of ale, no one saw reason to inform him.
‘That’ll teach him to shirk,’ Ulf grouched, glancing at the now empty jug. He was as tired and hungry as the rest, but orders were orders. He hauled himself onto one of the carts and handed sacks of gifts for Rorik’s family down to Rico. ‘Just because he’s a scribe doesn’t mean he’s above physical work now and then!’
‘Our sleeping place,’ Toke said, ignoring Ulf’s bad mood and tilting his head towards a large storage shed. ‘Girl who brought ale said hut used for vegetables. Space for ten, maybe more. No draughts perhaps: daub looks good.’
They carried straw from the barn into the hut, enough to cushion their bedrolls and mask the cold of the earthen floor. There was space to sleep a dozen men inside the windowless hut, but only the half-dozen Aros thralls would be using it. Pungent smells from sacks of onions mingled with the spicy aromas from storage jars on the shelves.
‘It’s not too unpleasant in there, provided no rats come seeking sustenance in the early hours,’ Sigehelm remarked, standing outside as daylight finally faded into night. Toke and Rico had already left for the hall to seek orders from Aslanga.
‘It seems comfortable enough,’ Ulf answered indifferently.
Sigehelm laid his hand on Ulf’s arm, a bleak smile on his lips. ‘I know the reason for your anxiety, Ulf, because I share it. But if Morwenna isn’t here, I fear we must accept that she is lost to you forever.’
‘I know that,’ Ulf snapped, ‘but I don’t want to think about it. Curse Rorik for ever invading our home!’
Sigehelm drew breath to speak but released it again. Ulf knew he’d be thinking him to be the worst kind of hypocrite. ‘I should go and find Bjorn,’ he said, avoiding eye contact. ‘He may need me for some chore by now.’
‘And I must offer Burghild some respite from Ubbi. The boy wears her down with his boundless energy. Ubbi’s no more high spirited than other boys of his age, but Burghild isn’t a young woman. Do you know, Eadwulf, had I not feigned severity with you from an early age, I think you’d have led me quite a merry dance!’
Ulf didn’t miss the slip, but didn’t remark on it. In his heart he knew he’d never be anyone but Eadwulf.
* * *
They headed for the hall, passing groups of Aros men making for the barn to snatch some sleep before the meal. It was now fully dark, moon and stars hidden behind the thick banks of cloud that had blown over. One or two men carried lamps, curled fingers shielding the listing flames from the gusting wind. Loud jocularity professed their enjoyment of more than a few mugs of ale.
The hall door suddenly swung open, the flood of light from inside outlining a tall, bulky figure possessing an unmistakable air of authority. And not wishing to walk straight into the Aalborg jarl, Ulf and Sigehelm stepped aside. ‘My lord,’ they said, almost in unison, dipping their heads as they made to enter the hall.
Rorik threw them a disinterested glance and looked away. Then he turned back, holding out his arm to stay them. ‘Frey’s crotch, what trick is this? I could’ve sworn you to be Ragnar’s son – but I’ve just left him inside my hall.’ He scratched his own crotch and looked Ulf up and down, distaste replacing puzzlement on his face. ‘But now I see you clearly, you’ve a different set to your jaw and your attire tells me you’re just a mangy thrall.’
Ulf fought down the impulse to beat the ugly face to a pulp. ‘You are right, my lord,’ he said, despising the servility of his tone. ‘The similarity must be no more than a trick of nature. Bjorn is my master.’
‘They say we all have a double somewhere,’ Rorik said, giving his crotch another determined scratch. ‘I confess I’ve never seen such a likeness between two unrelated people before.’ He turned to a big blond man at his side. ‘What say you, Egil?’
Egil stared hard at Ulf, his eyes cold and calculating. ‘You’re right, my lord. It is strange.’ He blinked several times and pulled at his plaited beard. ‘But there’s something about this thrall that stirs a memory in me somewhere. I’m just too befuddled with ale right now to figure it out. Perhaps I’ll remember tomorrow.’
Rorik shot Egil an amused look and returned his attentions to Ulf, his amusement dropping. ‘What’s your name, thrall?’
‘Ulf,’ my lord,’ he replied, returning the jarl’s stare unflinchingly, silently thanking Bjorn for giving him the name. His old name may have been known to these two, even if his face were not.
Rorik’s eyes narrowed. ‘Well Ulf, Danish name you may own, but you weren’t born on Danish soil with that accent.’
‘So you’ve found your way here at last, you lazy churl,’ Bjorn snarled as he stepped through the open doorway. ‘You took your time with those horses. Serves you right you’ve missed the ale. You’ll wait for your supper now – after you’ve finished the chores for me.’ He jerked his thumb to the hall behind him. ‘You, Scribe, the mistress is asking for you.’
Sigehelm disappeared into the hall and Bjorn turned to the grinning jarl. ‘My apologies, my lord, but I can’t abide idleness in my thralls.’ He glared at Ulf. ‘Why I ever took this one on, Odin knows.’
Rorik grinned and slapped Bjorn’s shoulder. ‘I like a man who allows no indolence in his thralls. I brook no nonsense from my own. Take a stiff belt to the women and a rod to the men. You’ll have little trouble if you follow that advice.’
Bjorn’s fists were clenched at his sides, knuckles white beneath the taut skin. But he feigned an obsequious smile. ‘There can be no other way, of course.’
‘You should keep this one clean shaven,’ Rorik said, glowering at Ulf. ‘And perhaps shave his head to prevent shocks like he just gave me. Should be a good meal tonight,’ he added, turning to leave. ‘And you’ll have your pick of women. I only choose those whose tits and arses have plenty to squeeze.’
Ulf stood silently with his master as Rorik strode into the darkness. The hall door was closed now, the only light leaking through the cracks around it. Bjorn let out his breath as a long sigh. ‘I’m beginning to think bringing you here was a mistake, Ulf. If Rorik thinks he’s been duped in any way, Odin knows what he’ll do. But there’s something I have to tell you. I don’t know how to do it, but you need to know, so we can decide what to do about it.’
‘Can’t you just just tell me straight out?’
‘No, I can’t just tell you, Ulf. It’s . . . it’s difficult.’
Ulf didn’t press for more. ‘I think Egil sees my likeness to my father and will soon make the connection. He and Rorik both know that Beorhtwulf had a son called Eadwulf.’
‘Then they must not hear anyone call you that. Not easy, but I’ve arranged for our thralls to have their own table for tonight’s meal. You’ll not be serving ale, so no one’s likely to shout out your name in front of Rorik.’ Bjorn grasped Ulf’s shoulder. ‘Now, get some rest before we eat. But don’t be surprised if someone comes looking for spices, or perhaps onions, in your sleeping chamber.’
* * *
Ulf lit the lamp and glanced round the hut. Sigehelm was right; it seemed warm and dry enough. He poked about, lifting the lids on spice jars, wrinkling his nose at their sharp pungency, and though he recognised the distinctive tang of some used by Aslanga, he could name hardly any. He tugged out some of the vegetable sacks, satisfied to find no sign of infestation by vermin.
&
nbsp; Too fraught to sleep he left the lamp on a ledge beside the jars and wandered outside, squatting down to rest against the wall of the hut where it was sheltered from the sharp wind. He closed his eyes, picturing his mother’s face, remembering how much she’d loved him – and how much he’d loved and depended on her. But a person can change over the years; time moves on and people adapt to new situations. And Morwenna – if she still lived – would have had a hard life as a thrall.
His heavy eyelids succumbed to the dark tranquillity and images of Morwenna and Freydis floated alternately across his mind. Rorik’s snarling mouth was suddenly thrust before his face and all beauty vanished. He jerked his head back and stared at the hideous black teeth, rancid breath hot on his face. Morwenna’s face was still there, bright in the glow from the lamp she held. Then Rorik’s sour breath was assaulting his nostrils again. He shuddered and twisted his face sideways. So the ugly jarl was still in his dream – but not Freydis.
‘Where’s Freydis?’ his own dream voice sounded in his ears.
‘Come away, Burakki,’ his mother ordered, tugging at the collar of a large, black dog.
‘My lord Bjorn doesn’t want your muzzle in his face! I’m sorry, my lord. Barakki would do no more than wash you from head to foot, though his breath would perhaps render you senseless. But to answer your question, your sister was playing a board game with your young brother but a moment ago. Were you not also in the hall just now . . . ?
‘Are you unwell, my lord?’ she asked, clearly puzzled. ‘Shall I send our healer with something to ease you?’
This was no dream: it really was Morwenna! Her face was just as he remembered, though her shabby, thrall’s clothing was very different to the garb of the Mercian queen she’d once been. But she had evidently not recognised him. Had he changed so much? He touched his face, knowing his thick beard and moustache would disguise the features she would have remembered. And, of course, she’d assumed him to be Bjorn.
