by Millie Thom
‘I am not Bjorn.’ He wanted to stand, but could not until the shaking stopped. ‘My name is Ulf.’
‘Then are you another of Bjorn’s brothers, Ulf? You are so like him.’
‘According to Rorik I should have my face and head shorn to avoid confusion!’ he snapped, instantly regretting his words. ‘I’m sorry. I seem to be having a bad day. But I’m not Bjorn’s brother. Nor am I ill; just overtired.’
‘Well, we all have bad days,’ Morwenna said softly, ‘some worse than others. And a good night’s sleep will usually remedy the tiredness. I take it my lord Rorik didn’t impress you with his suggestion – about your hair, I mean. But I also mistook you for Bjorn, for which I’m sorry. I came only to collect some extra pepper for Lady Freydis’s soup.’
Ulf grinned, the scheming of Bjorn and Freydis becoming clear.
‘We’ve all learnt to tread carefully and keep to our work,’ Morwenna whispered, lowering her eyes. ‘Of course, I speak for the thralls here. But if you are high born, you can stand your ground with Jarl Rorik without fear.’
‘I am high born, my lady,’ Ulf murmured, ‘but Rorik doesn’t know that. He called me “a mangy thrall” – and in these lands, that’s all I am.’ He stood to retrieve the lamp from inside the hut and was now looking down on Morwenna’s face. Like Freydis she was tall and willowy, reaching almost to his chin. ‘But Bjorn allows me much freedom. He renamed me Ulf – for loyal service.’
With the extra lamp Morwenna would be able to see him clearly now, and her breathing had quickened. Ulf understood too well the inner battle she’d be fighting, the snatching at shreds of hope. He searched for the right words to relieve her pain, but could find none. Averting his eyes, he pulled at the neck of his woollen tunic.
‘Who are you, Ulf, and why do you, like Bjorn, call me “my lady”? No-one in these lands has ever addressed me so.’ She reached out to touch his sleeve, the corners of her mouth turning up in a smile. ‘I had a son who swore that when he became a man, he’d never wear wool because it made him itch. It seems that wool has a similar effect on you,’ she said looking steadily into his eyes. ‘My son had green eyes too, the green of emeralds, like his father’s . . .’ Her words caught in her throat and she took a steadying breath. ‘I dare not hope you are who I want you so much to be. I couldn’t bear it should you tell me you are not.’
‘Not Eadwulf, you mean?’
He opened his arms and she threw herself at him. ‘Eadwulf . . . is it really you? Pray God this is no dream from which I’ll wake and find you gone.’ She pulled back a little, drinking in the sight of him. ‘You are a man, so tall and broad; so like your father. How could I have taken so long to see that?’
‘The light . . .’ was all Ulf could find to say.
‘But I think you recognised me,’ she said eventually, looking up at his face.
‘I came to Aalborg in the hope that you’d be here,’ he replied, smiling at her puzzled frown. ‘Bjorn told me some years ago of Ragnar’s cousin who’d led the raids in Kent and Mercia. And Rorik wasn’t a name I was likely to forget.’
‘But you could not have known that Rorik had taken me, surely?’
‘I saw him push you into the cart on that day at Thrydwulf’s manor. I recognised your gown, and your hair. But I didn’t know where you’d been taken; you could have been sold to anyone. Bjorn promised to help me find out, one day.’
“And you, Eadwulf, were you taken straight to Aros?’
He shook his head. ‘We were bought by Jarl Ragnar at the Hedeby market.’
‘We . . .?’
‘Several of us from the manor were taken: Aethelnoth, Alric, and some of the serving girls. Ragnar bought Sigehelm and me.’
‘Sigehelm is still alive!’
‘He is here, in the hall, though he would have avoided you until you’d seen me.’
Morwenna took Ulf’s face in her hands, her eyes glistening. ‘You’ve barely left my thoughts for a moment. I mourned your father for so long, but no one could tell me what had happened to you. And I could never lose hope.’
‘My lady . . . ?’ Bjorn’s voice was hushed as he approached, carrying no lamp and peering warily into the shadows between the huts. ‘I fear you may be missed if you stay here much longer. Dalla’s already asked for you; it seems you’re needed to deal with some of the children.’ A flash of alarm crossed Morwenna’s face. ‘My sister is telling them a story, though stories do little to alleviate tiredness.’
‘Yes, of course I must go.’ Morwenna half turned away, then glanced uncertainly back at Ulf, drawing breath to speak.
‘I suggest you go, Lady Morwenna,’ Bjorn said, forestalling her. I’ll explain the situation to your son – as far as I know it, of course. Take care not to make public your reunion with Sigehelm. There are some who can put two and two together too easily, and things could become more than difficult for all of you should they do so. I’ve told Sigehelm the same.’
‘Every fibre of my being thanks you for caring for Eadwulf these many years, my lord,’ Morwenna replied with a brave smile. ‘I know you can make him understand about my life here. I simply had no choice.’ To Eadwulf she said, ‘I would have told you everything Eadwulf – later, in my own way.’
‘Well, Master, what is this situation about which you’re going to enlighten me?’ Ulf smirked as Morwenna hurried away. ‘Could it be that my mother believes my ears too sensitive to hear that she is Rorik’s concubine?’
Bjorn pulled a face of feigned shock but seemed at a loss for words. He gave an extended shrug, releasing his breath as a somewhat elaborate whine.
‘I’ve lived amongst Danes long enough to understand your ways,’ Ulf said, still smirking. But Rorik’s ugly face came to mind and his smirk vanished. ‘I only hope he’s treated her well. She’s such a gentle soul.’
‘I share your hopes on that, Ulf. But before we enter the hall there’s something else your mother wished conveyed to you.’
‘That I have brothers and sisters perhaps?’ Ulf shook his head, his amusement returning. ‘From what you so tactfully said about overtired children, even a complete imbecile could have guessed!’
Bjorn chuckled. ‘Edidently, tact is not my strongest point. But surely the children I mentioned – only two of them, by the way – could have been anyone’s?’
Ulf grunted. Such a remark did not deserve dignifying with an answer.
* * *
Ulf found it impossible to approach his mother the following morning. Sheltering from the high winds and threatening black clouds outside, people sat around the hall in convivial conversation, and any move in her direction would have been noted. He occupied himself by wiping down Bjorn’s travel-stained cloak, glancing occasionally at Morwenna, who was shaping flatbreads with two of the women. And though she avoided eye contact, he knew she’d registered his presence.
Sitting beside Aslanga with Rorik’s wives and a veritable gaggle of daughters, Freydis looked utterly bored. At another table, Ragnar and his four sons conversed with Rorik and three men so like him they could only be his sons. All seemed in good spirits, though like Freydis, Bjorn glanced often at Ulf. But hostile stares from Ivar and Halfdan were also directed at Ulf, and on one occasion, he caught Ivar staring at Morwenna – before the dark stare slowly returned to fix on him. Like a startled hare caught in the torchlight, Ulf could not look away, until Ragnar made some jest and Ivar’s scrutiny was broken.
Just before noon the jarls and their sons rode out to exercise their mounts and watch the fishermen raking in oysters and mussels along the fjord. The hall was peaceful once they’d gone, and since Ubbi was with them, Ulf sat with Sigehelm, hoping to catch Morwenna at some stage. Then Aslanga’s shrill voice disturbed the silence.
‘If you’ve naught better to do than sit around on your backside, thrall, you can get outside and chop some logs. Our good hostesses here,’ she went on
, smiling at Dalla and Helga, ‘tell me the stack is low and the pile of timber is high.’ Her outstretched finger swung from Ulf to Sigehelm. ‘And you can do likewise. So get out and make a start.
‘Now!’ she shrieked, pointing to the door.
Not bothering to hide his furious scowl Ulf strode from the hall with Sigehelm on his heels.
The tree trunks were stacked under a lean-to shelter behind the pig pens, left to dry out after felling, with several long-handled axes propped next to them. Ulf noted the variety of timbers – from ash, beech, hazel, birch and pine to fruit-woods like apple, pear and cherry – and looked at Sigehelm in dismay. It would take many hours to make a dent in this lot. He seethed at this new attack on his favoured status with Bjorn. Aslanga had found a way of demeaning him before Rorik’s women – and Ulf’s mother, had she but known it. He vented his fury in powerful strokes that cut the trunks into lengths suitable for the hearth. Buffeted by the strong wind, Sigehelm made slow progress at first, but by the time they’d built up a good sized stack, he’d become quite adept at his new-found calling as woodcutter.
Few of the men gave the two thralls more than a fleeting glance on their return from the shore and, deep in conversation with his father, Bjorn didn’t notice them at all. But Ivar did, and his deep, calculating eyes fixed on Ulf. But he didn’t linger and continued on to the hall with the rest of the party.
Sigehelm laid a consolatory hand on his arm and they, too, made to return to the hall – just as Morwenna appeared, heading towards them.
Perched on her hip was a babe; a little girl. A young boy bounced along beside them: Ulf’s half-brother and sister, no doubt.
‘I’m glad someone is pleased to see me,’ Morwenna said, looking from Ulf’s anxious face to Sigehelm’s smiling one as she lowered the child to the ground. She reached out to take Sigehelm’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry to have been unable to speak to you sooner, Sigehelm. I can never repay the kindness you’ve shown to Eadwulf all these years. No, do not try to lessen or deny the extent of your care: both Bjorn and Freydis have commended it. You’ve always been the truest of friends to me. When I was a little girl, you were there for me. Even after I married, you found me again in Mercia.’ She paused, her eyes probing into Sigehelm’s, as though she’d just unearthed some buried truth. ‘You loved me, didn’t you? And I was just too blind, too self-centred, to see it. After all these years I suddenly understand why you left Anglia before my marriage. But you came back to me.’
‘I could not stay away from you forever Morwenna, no matter how hard I tried.’
‘And now you care for my beloved son. I do not deserve such a friend as you.’
His throat swollen with emotion, Ulf watched his mother take comfort in the gentle embrace of the man who’d so selflessly cared for her and her family for so long. At length she pulled herself away and moved towards him.
‘We’ve already had our initial reunion, Eadwulf,’ she said, enfolding him in her arms. ‘Now we need time to become reacquainted and discuss the situation in which we find ourselves.’ She stepped back a little, holding Ulf in a determined gaze. ‘But, whatever happens now, should we never see each other again, I am content to know that you are alive and well.’ She glanced at the two children, happily playing with pebbles. ‘My life isn’t likely to change, but in my heart I know that one day you will be free and return to Mercia.’
‘I’ve been saying the very same these past six years, my lady.’
Morwenna flashed Sigehelm a grateful smile and bent to scoop up the small girl, then beckoned Jorund to join her. ‘This is my son Jorund,’ she said, patting the boy’s shoulder. ‘Jorund, meet . . . er . . . Ulf, a man from Jarl Ragnar’s village. And this is Sigehelm, a very clever scribe who could teach even the dimmest of pupils his letters. You would love his wonderful stories, Jorund: all about heroes and great battles.’
Jorund beamed and peered up at Ulf. ‘I shall be six in January, so I’ll soon be as big as you. And I am learning my letters very well,’ he added in a matter-of-fact tone, his blue gaze shifting to Sigehelm. ‘And I really like listening to stories.’
Sigehelm grinned down at the boy. ‘Then one day you’ll be a tall, clever man, who’ll be able to tell his own fantastic stories.’
‘When I’m a man, I’ll be a jarl, like my father,’ Jorund responded. ‘He’s very brave and leads raids.’
‘Jorund is very proud of being a jarl’s son,’ Morwenna supplied by way of apology at Sigehelm’s grimace. ‘Everyone has told him he should be so since he was tiny. And this is Yrsa,’ she continued, ‘who’ll be a whole year old just before the Yule.’
Sigehelm smiled at the dimple-cheeked child. ‘You have a very pretty name, Yrsa, and very pretty curls.’
Yrsa flung her chubby little arms around Morwenna’s neck and just giggled.
Ulf surveyed the children, taking in their similarities and differences. In Jorund he could see Morwenna: the pert little nose and wide mouth, almond-shaped blue eyes and pale complexion, framed by a head of soft, flaxen hair. Yet there was a definite set to the boy’s square jaw that was so like Ulf’s own. In Yrsa, Ulf perceived features of both parents. Like Jorund, she had an attractively wide mouth, but although she had her mother’s dainty, heart-shaped face and high cheek bones rather than Rorik’s broad visage, Yrsa’s longer nose resembled her father’s. And like the jarl, the child was brown-haired and dark eyed. Long dark lashes swept her cheeks, her complexion of a naturally tanned hue.
‘They are pretty children,’ Ulf said, once Morwenna had set Yrsa into Jorund’s care. ‘I just hope Rorik treats them well.’
Morwenna smiled at the sight of Sigehelm, who’d wandered after the little ones, and now seemed intent on showing them how to play a simplified version of knucklebones with their pebbles. Ulf realised his tutor was simply affording a degree of privacy for his conversation with his mother, for which he was very grateful.
‘He doesn’t treat them ill,’ she replied with a small shrug. ‘But nor does he love them, or even acknowledge them as his own. He just seems to ignore them. Yrsa’s too young to know but Jorund has become increasingly distressed by it of late.’ She frowned, seeming to be considering her next words carefully, then took a breath to continue. ‘There’s something I must tell you, Eadwulf; but I’m finding it hard to get it out. I suppose the best way is to just say it . . .’
Ulf watched his mother’s anxious face, fearing this ‘something’ would not be pleasant.
‘When Thrydwulf’s manor was raided, Rorik came to my bower and raped me.’ Morwenna’s words had poured out quickly, shame and embarrassment on her face.
‘Don’t dwell on it, Mother. I’d already guessed that Jorund was conceived at that time.’
‘No, you don’t understand, Eadwulf. That was not the case.’
Ulf stared at her, not understanding, and she took his hands in hers. ‘Eadwulf, before I go on, I want to swear to you that what I’m about to tell you is the truth. You know I wouldn’t lie to you, don’t you?’ He nodded. ‘When Rorik raped me I was already a few weeks with child. The nausea and tiredness were already pronounced, as is the way in the earliest weeks. So, before you ask, no, I am not mistaken in this. Beorhtwulf was Jorund’s father, as much as he was yours.’
Ulf gaped at her. ‘Then, Jorund is my true brother, not my half-brother. Is that why Rorik ignores him?’ He paused, trying to unravel the conflicting pieces of information. ‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ he said at last. ‘You said Jorund believes Rorik is his father, as does everyone else in the village. So what does Rorik believe?’
‘To my everlasting shame I’ve let Rorik believe Jorund to be his child, though I doubt it would have made any difference had he known the truth.’ Morwenna almost spat out the words. ‘In my folly I thought Jorund would escape a life of drudgery if it was believed he was Rorik’s son. But a concubine’s son is little better than a thrall.
‘I can never reveal any of this to anyone else, Eadwulf. Rorik would not hesitate to kill me if he learned the truth.’
Ulf hugged his mother, suddenly engulfed by an overpowering sense of foreboding.
Twenty Eight
By the time the evening meal had been served, most of the men in Rorik’s hall were well on the way to being uproariously drunk. Ale had flowed since late afternoon and during the meal the mead horns were constantly passed round. Although the meal itself was a relatively simple affair, compared to that planned for tomorrow night after the sacrificial ceremony, the hall had a festive feel. Rorik seemed determined to impress his cousin with his hospitality. Torches flared along the walls and the tables were arranged in the usual U shape, with a few gaps between to facilitate the movements of the thralls bearing food and drink. Rorik sat at the centre of the high table, his guests at his sides, according to status.
The thralls eventually took their own meal at a table close to the ale barrels, from which they constantly refilled the cups of revellers. Ulf sat between Sigehelm and Toke, longing for his bed; the hour was late and before dawn they’d be heading for Odin’s oak. He’d attended many sacrificial ceremonies over the years but had never become hardened to them. And he’d always felt extremely fearful in the presence of Odin’s ravens. Even when the huge birds had not become manifest in the flesh, he’d felt that unnatural wind that heralded their arrival and the unnerving sensation of being watched.
The quartet of musicians was now setting up in the central area. Ulf recognised most of their instruments – hand drums, a stringed lyre, a bone whistle, a pair of rattles and some kind of long trumpet. But one unfamiliar piece looked just like a small section of wood with a tapering end and holes bored into its top edge.
‘It is called a panflute, or panpipe,’ Sigehelm told him, following Ulf’s gaze. ‘I’ve heard one played before; it can make a merry little tune or a sad one, depending on the mood the player wishes to create.’
