by Millie Thom
The musicians bowed to the jarls and greeted their audience with outstretched arms. When the enthusiastic welcome abated they seated themselves on their stools facing Rorik’s table. The lyre player performed first, accompanied by the man with the rattles. The tune was a lively one which had people clapping hands and tapping feet. Next, the panpiper and drummer played another lively tune, with an interesting little solo by the whistle player in the middle of it. Ulf was fascinated by the many different sounds and by the time they’d finished, everyone was in animated mood.
Everyone but Rorik, it seemed.
Beside the scowling jarl, Ragnar beamed his enjoyment of the evening and even Aslanga was enjoying the music. It seemed strange that Rorik should be in such a dour mood: he’d certainly had his fill of mead.
‘Now, this instrument is a lur,’ Sigehelm said, breaking Ulf’s contemplations. ‘See how it is shaped like a long, straight trumpet, just flaring a little at the end rather like a horn? Such instruments have often been used by shepherds and such like to call in their flocks and herds. It produces a rather doleful, haunting sound.’
Ulf nodded, watching the lur player preparing to play. In contrast to the previous presentations, his tune was a mournful one. Yet the audience seemed beguiled, and fuelled by the ale in their bellies, the desolate air brought a tear to the eyes of a few.
Rorik suddenly thumped the table hard with his fist and surged to his feet. ‘Cease this dirge!’ he roared, glowering at the lur player. ‘Music should be for us to enjoy, not cause us to weep into our cups.’ He moved slowly between the tables towards the terrified quartet. ‘Soon your group will be required to play more cheerful tunes, but for now you will retire. And take these with you,’ he said, kicking at one of the stools. ‘I’ve business to attend to.
‘I stand before you as your jarl,’ he declared, addressing the hall after long moments of silence. ‘Others are here as our guests; members of my own family and their retinue. All are welcome to share our hospitality. But tonight, something is preventing me from feeling even a little bit merry. And that dirge induced me to deal with it. Now!’
He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘As jarl I provide protection and leadership for my people, as is my duty. In return for which I ask – no, I demand – certain things.’ He struck his left thumb with his right forefinger. ‘One, I demand respect at all times. Two,’ he continued, bending back the first finger, ‘I expect loyalty to me and our community, and three, all must work hard for the benefit of the community.’ He gave his third finger a few, slow taps, then struck his fourth finger hard. ‘Instant obedience! There can be no leadership without obedience from those being led. If I need to raise men to arms, I need to be certain they will rally instantly to my call. Are these not valid points, cousin?’
‘You’ve covered the requirements well,’ Ragnar agreed. ‘All members of a community must be prepared to follow their jarl in all things.’
Rorik nodded. ‘Thank you, cousin,’ but I have a fifth point to add. For a jarl to lead, he must know his people. And to know another person – on whom your life may depend at some stage – requires that person to be entirely honest with you.’
Ulf suddenly realised where this was leading. Across the room his mother stood rigid, clutching a stack of bowls, her eyes unwaveringly on Rorik. And the restraining hands of Sigehelm and Toke clamped firmly on Ulf’s shoulders.
‘If I am to trust a person – beside me in battle or simply preparing my food or reaping my crops – I need to be certain of that person’s honesty!’ Rorik yelled, striking hard at the little finger of his left hand.
‘Morwenna! Out here before me, woman. Let’s all have a look at you.’
Bowls smashed to the floor as Morwenna’s legs gave way and she staggered against a table. Egil dragged her up and thrust her before the jarl, whose eyes bored into her like hot knives through butter. ‘Have you been honest with me, woman?’
Trembling silence brought Morwenna a back-handed blow that sent her to the floor where she scrambled to her knees, blood streaming from a split lip. She stared up at Rorik for a moment before rising, steeling herself for further assault. Then a child’s sobbing protests reached her and, recognising the sound, her head flicked round in desperation to locate the source. Ulf watched his mother’s eyes follow Freydis as she took it upon herself to escort the distraught Jorund from the hall. Beside her, Thora carried little Yrsa. He choked back anguished tears but thanked the gods they’d given Freydis to this world.
But Rorik let pass the incident, too swamped in his own malice to be sidetracked. ‘You are my concubine,’ he snarled, making the word sound like something abhorrent. But Morwenna jutted out her chin and pulled back her shoulders. ‘You are here as my property; my plaything,’ Rorik continued, ‘and as such I owe you nothing. I could have you slain any time I choose. But you owe me obedience, in bed and out of it. ‘So, I’ll ask again: have you been honest with me?
‘Your precious Eadwulf can’t help you,’ he snarled, thrusting an arm toward Ulf. ‘But I’m not asking you about that son of Beorhtwulf. He’s of little concern to me.’
‘The answer to your question is no, my lord. No, I have not been honest with you.’
‘Then explain to these good, honest people, exactly how you’ve deceived me.’
‘Jorund is not your son,’ Morwenna said, a simple statement of fact.
The communal intake of breath was followed by intense silence. Morwenna frowned, seeming uncertain of what else to say, but Rorik was in no mood for patience and delivered a stinging blow to the side of her head. Ulf groaned, feeling her pain, and made to launch himself to his feet. But Toke and Sigehehm held him down.
Composing herself, Morwenna addressed the seated Danes as though the strike had not occurred: ‘Your jarl raped me when I was already carrying my second child by my husband, King Beorhtwulf of Mercia.’ All remained silent, waiting for her to continue. Ulf knew too well that accusations of rape meant nothing to Danes; even the women accepted that their men raped the female victims of raided settlements. ‘But your savages killed Beorhtwulf!’ she hissed at Rorik, ‘and you took me as your prize. And until yesterday I didn’t know whether my son was alive or dead. So why should I feel guilty about lying to you?’
Rorik raised his arm to deal another blow but seemed to change his mind. ‘I remember well why I wanted you. And not just to stop that cur, Burgred, having you.’ His words hit Ulf like a thunderclap: he hadn’t known the full extent of Burgred’s treachery. ‘But now your looks are fading and I no longer desire you in my bed.’
‘May I speak, my lord?’
Rorik scowled but gave a grudging nod, and all eyes followed Dalla as she came to stand before her husband. ‘We are all now aware of how Morwenna has deceived you,’ she said, her nervous gaze shifting between Morwenna and her husband, ‘but I would speak in her favour.’ Rorik nodded tersely, and Dalla pushed on: ‘Morwenna has contributed much to the running of your hall these past years. She is adept in domestic chores, works without complaint, and is young enough to give us–’
‘Weren’t you listening just now, woman!’ Rorik’s chest heaved, his face grew scarlet and he stepped menacingly towards her. But Dalla held her ground. ‘This thrall may seem obedient to you,’ he conceded, ‘but I say that none of us could ever trust her again!’
No argument to counter the vehement tirade, Dalla shuffled back to her women and Rorik focused again on Morwenna. ‘Your brat of a son, Jorund, will remain a thrall for the rest of his life,’ he spat. ‘The girl is too young to be of interest to me.’
‘She’s your daughter!’
Another back-handed blow sent Morwenna sprawling. Rorik hovered over her, his lips curled back like a wolf over cornered prey. ‘But she’s also the daughter of a thrall – and too young to survive without a mother. And I wouldn’t burden one of my honest women with her upbringing.’
‘What . . . what are you saying?’
‘Simply that I’ve not yet decided whether the girl will live or die.’
Morwenna’s agonised groan caused gasps of sympathy, instantly quelled by a flick of the jarl’s hand. ‘Either way, at dawn tomorrow you will be given to the All-Father.
‘Take her,’ he snapped, gesturing to Egil.
Ulf broke free of the restraining hands, aiming to leap over the table and choke the life out of Rorik. The last thing he saw before the blackness claimed him was the ugly face and a mouthful of blackened and broken teeth.
* * *
Ivar glared at his fair-headed brother slumped next to him with one elbow on the trestle, propping up his chin. Halfdan’s usually well groomed hair was dishevelled, sticky residues of food clung to his long moustache and his eyes were glazed: distinct signs of overindulgence in mead. Ivar sniffed, disgusted. He’d long since learnt that too much liquor blunts the mind. But his brother’s mind had never been too sharp in the first place. Perhaps that was why Ivar couldn’t feel envious of his handsome sibling, who bore such a physical likeness to their father. In many ways he felt sorry that Halfdan couldn’t see things as he did: the way of an intelligent, thinking being.
Ivar let his ideas flow. Halfdan had always been a weak strategist. He was one of those people who would act first and think later, although he was undeniably as unscrupulous as himself, and brave enough to face any physical threat. But Halfdan was better at following orders than issuing them. Still, Haldan had his uses.
Comfortable in a high-backed chair, Ivar ran his fingers through his wiry, dark hair. His own looks and colouring resembled Aslanga’s, as did Ubbi’s. But Ubbi was a strong, healthy boy who’d grow tall and straight like Halfdan, whilst Ivar’s diseased body remained wizened and shrunken, his legs useless. From bitter experience he knew that no woman would ever come willingly to his bed. Even thralls, not at liberty to refuse him, shuddered as he used their bodies to sate his sexual needs.
He stopped the self-pity: such thoughts could become all consuming and ultimately self-destructive. He’d lived with his deformities for long enough, after all. And no one dared poke fun at him. Ivar knew his own power over people, saw it in their eyes. They feared him, as though mystic powers compensated for his malformed body. He let them believe it.
Halfdan suddenly turned his head and squinted at him. ‘A good night, eh?’ he slurred. ‘But right now I’m ready for my bed.’
‘You did well, brother. We’ve waited a long time for such satisfaction.’
Yes, Ivar contemplated, things had worked out excellently. They’d finally wreaked vengeance on that red-headed Mercian in a most agreeable way. What better way than to force the scum to watch the humiliation and destruction of the mother with whom he’d just been reunited? But one small detail marred his near-perfect contentment.
Eadwulf was still alive.
Why couldn’t his cursed half-brother have stayed in his seat and let the thrall leap over the table and attack Rorik? Ivar knew the answer: if Bjorn had not acted then Eadwulf – Bjorn’s esteemed ‘Ulf’ – would have been joining his mother strung up in Odin’s oak tomorrow. And Bjorn would not have liked that.
Ivar scowled, recalling how Bjorn had made his way round the back of the tables, so inconspicuously that even Ragnar hadn’t noticed, and dealt a heavy blow across the back of the thrall’s head with a clay jug, rendering him senseless. Bjorn had known that all eyes would be on Rorik and the Mercian harlot.
Halfdan was watching him, waiting for further comment: he’d learnt not to interrupt when Ivar was deep in thought.
‘So, you managed to conceal yourself completely behind the pig-pens, Halfdan, and listen to their treacherous talk.’ It was not a question. Ivar knew full well how earlier events had taken place. Halfdan nodded, grinning idiotically. ‘Your stealth on this occasion has impressed me.’
Halfdan’s brow furrowed and he took another slurp of mead. Ivar smirked. He could almost see his brother’s small mind trying to work out whether the comment was praise or criticism. And Ivar would leave him wondering.
Halfdan suddenly leaned toward him and blinked several times. ‘And you were right about the woman. Being Mercian, I suppose she was likely to know the cursed thrall,’ he burbled on, pulling a piece of hair from his mouth and shoving it behind his ear. ‘But she’s his mother! And then I found out about that boy!’
‘You did indeed,’ Ivar said, pushing him away. Halfdan’s mead-soaked breath was enough to repulse an evil troll. ‘We’ve learned much to our advantage.’
‘Pity the thrall didn’t get over that table.’ Halfdan chuckled inanely at the thought. ‘What do you think would have happened if–?’
He glanced at Ivar’s glowering face and clamped his mouth tight shut.
Twenty Nine
Ulf was aboard the Sea Eagle, sailing north towards the beguiling Lofoten Islands. The heavy sail flapped and seabirds wheeled and screeched, guillemots, gulls and kittiwakes amongst them. Waves slapped the hull, sunlight glistened on the blue-grey water and the salty breeze ruffled his hair. Coastward, the green-swathed Norwegian mountains, intersected by steep-sided fjords, almost took his breath away. Colonies of black and white puffins with brightly coloured beaks perched on their nests along the cliffs and cormorants stretched, drying their wings in the sun. A sea-eagle swooped to inspect the ship to which it had given its name before plucking a fish from beneath the brine. Whilst seaward, foam-white sea-horses played on the water’s surface and whiskered seals bobbed. The massive bulk of a silver whale shot great spouts of water high in the air, to cascade down again, rainbow colours of light dancing in their midst.
Somehow Ulf knew he was dreaming; yet he refused to wake up. His mind was cushioned by this sense of peace, taking him to where he wanted so much to be: this place out at sea with Bjorn and his crew, where he was valued, respected for what he was. He inhaled deeply, savouring the aroma of salty air. But the smell gradually lessened, evolving into the sharp tang of spices, mingled with the earthy smells of vegetables.
His eyes shot open. He was lying in a hut where sacks and jars were stored. Memory smacked into him like a raging torrent. His mother! Where was she now? Was it night or day? Had the heinous ceremony already taken place? Pray the gods it hadn’t and he could somehow save her. He tried to rise but his wrists and ankles were bound. He struggled until his skin was ragged beneath the bonds and blood seeped into his clothing.
‘Help my mother,’ he screamed. ‘Save her from the cruel fate to which she’s been condemned!’
But no one answered the pleas from his tormented soul.
Then the cockerel crowed.
Ulf’s scream tore at his throat, his pain too terrible to bear. Morwenna’s face shimmered across his thoughts, her words a balm to his searing misery: ‘Let those who love you soothe your wounded soul.’
The pain eased and he drifted . . .
He seemed to be flying. He laughed as he glanced at his outstretched arms, a joyful sound that welled up from somewhere deep inside before rushing from his lips to be carried away on the wind. This must be what total freedom felt like. Beside him a flock of starlings swooped and spiralled in their exotic ritual, and he shared their sheer delight of the open skies. Then uncertainty hit, and he squinted into the blindingly blue expanse beyond the hazy, translucent clouds. Why was he flying? Was he now dead, not a solid body at all, but a spirit rising towards heaven? A woman’s voice reached his ears, passing by in its ascent. ‘Do not grieve for me, my son: I am free of the cares of this world now.’
Far to the west the sun was sliding behind the Welsh hills, splashing shades of vermilion and purple haphazardly across the blue. Above the landscape he soared, over fields of grazing cattle, corn ripening with the season’s warmth, and winding blue streams. Soon he was hovering over the edges of a dense forest and instinctively he knew that it was Brunes
wald. This beautiful, green land was Mercia: his home.
Then he realised it was not summer at all and he was not home. His mind grew angry and cast the scene away.
* * *
People were gathering. He could hear them milling around, excited; seeming to drift towards a common destination. When at last he forced his eyes to open, the darkness of night greeted him, relived only by the oil lamp’s dim glow. The cockerel had crowed long ago and his mother would be dead, killed in a way abhorrent to Christian souls. And Morwenna had always been a devout believer in Christ.
‘Christ! Where were you?’ he shrieked, pushing himself up on his elbows. ‘How many more of your people will you abandon? I say you are no god!’ His scathing laugh tore from his constricted throat and he sobbed like a child, wrapping his arms round his drawn up knees – and realised he was no longer bound! His chafed wrists had been bandaged and a sweet-smelling salve applied. Someone had been here while he was . . . asleep? Tentatively he fingered the swelling on the back of his head, sticky with congealed blood, guessing he’d been unconscious for a time. He glanced at the closed door.
‘The guards have instructions not to let you leave. You must remain in here, for your own good.’
Ulf twisted toward the familiar form emerging from the shadows. ‘Sigehelm . . . my mother?’
‘. . . has gone to her Maker, Ulf.’
‘Did she . . . suffer much?’ Ulf’s own voice came as a laboured whisper and he waited, dreading the answer.
‘She did not.’ Sigehelm’s voice was heavy with his own pain. ‘Thora was permitted to attend her before the ceremony and the draught she persuaded Morwenna to drink numbed all senses, all thoughts. When your mother stood beneath the oak, I could swear she’d already left her body, and knew nothing of the falling axe.’
Ulf fell back to his bedroll, sobs of anger and unbearable grief racking his body.
‘You’ll not be permitted to see her,’ Sigehelm said as his sobs lessened. ‘Bjorn has ordered this, not Rorik. You’ll stay in here until we leave in a few days’ time. I’ll bring your food and sit with you when I can. And there are others who wish to offer solace. But you’ll see nothing more of Aalborg other than this hut. The door may be opened for light and air once you give your word not to try to leave.’
