by Millie Thom
Despair threatened to destroy Ulf’s very soul and he wept until succumbing to a deep and dreamless sleep.
* * *
Ulf had no idea how long he’d slept by the next time he roused but it was night again; a lamp still glowed from the shelf and no daylight seeped through the wattle walls. But he knew that Sigehelm would be somewhere, watching over him.
‘You should go and rest, Sigehelm. As you said, I can’t go anywhere.’
‘Sigehelm’s gone to eat, and fetch food for you.’ Bjorn’s voice was hushed as he moved to squat beside Ulf. ‘You’ve eaten nothing for almost two days – but you’ve not exactly been with us for two days either. How’s your head? I didn’t mean to hit you so hard, but I had to stop you from striking Rorik.’
‘You! Then you risked great disfavour from your father, not to mention Rorik.’
‘They both understood my reasons.’ Bjorn looked steadily at Ulf. ‘But you need to understand how we – Danes I mean – see things. In our lands you’re a thrall, Ulf, and as such, you belong to me. That is the way of things, whether you like the idea or not. In our law, a thrall has no rights, and a master is at liberty to treat him, or her, as he chooses.’ He raised his hand to prevent Ulf’s intended interruption. ‘I tell you this to explain that no one had the right to interfere in Rorik’s treatment of your mother. He had every right to mete out the punishment he did for what he saw as unpardonable behaviour in a thrall – as did my father all those years ago with that Saxon. But your behaviour is my responsibility. It’s up to me to chastise you as I see fit.’
‘Then why didn’t you just kill me?’
‘Perhaps you don’t give a damn whether you live or die, but I do,’ Bjorn snapped in Ulf’s face. ‘You’re one of my crew and I’m greatly indebted to you for saving my life; you’ve also become a true friend. But if I’d allowed you to attack Rorik, I would have been compelled to see you meet the same end as Morwenna.’
Bjorn eyed Ulf’s bandages with a frown. ‘I ordered Rico to bind you in case you roused when everyone was at the ceremony. But it seems he doesn’t know his own strength! You have Thora to thank for tending you, by the way.’ He rose as Sigehelm entered with food and ale. ‘I’ll leave you in Sigehelm’s hands now, but mull over what I’ve said. The good scribe would never forgive me if I let you come to harm. And Freydis would skin me alive.’
The next few days were the most harrowing that Ulf had ever endured, and he sank into a state of melancholy from which his succession of visitors could not retrieve him. At first he blamed himself for his mother’s death: if he’d not come here she’d stll be alive and little Yrsa’s life would not be in danger of being discarded as of no consequence. But his self-recrimination soon turned to rage; a blistering fury that kept him pacing the floor of the small hut like some tormented beast. Rorik’s face would hover before him and he knew that the callous jarl was responsible. It was he who’d ordered Morwenna’s death, he who exhibited not a shred of compassion. Ulf could feel himself thrusting the knife into the jarl’s cold heart.
And always, from the recesses of his mind, the treacherous face of Burgred would emerge. All blame lay at Burgred’s feet.
Sigehelm came and went many times during these days, maintaining a respectful silence through Ulf’s darkest times. Rico and Toke’s visits were cut short, their fearful faces when he raged adding shame to the tangled emotions swirling in his head. Thora changed his bandages and applied fresh salves each morning, but it was not until the evening before they would return to Aros that Freydis appeared. Ulf had been dozing when the door quietly opened, but he sensed her presence; Freydis carried her own unmistakable fragrance, a mixture of the scented oils she bathed in and the aromatic herbs she handled daily. Her shadow fell across him before she knelt and reached out to touch his cheek.
‘I’m so sorry for all your hurt,’ she whispered. ‘None of us foresaw such a disastrous turn of events. And, though it will give little comfort to you now, your mother was a good and kind woman, whom everyone admired, and–’
‘I don’t want your pity, Freydis, if that’s all you’ve come to offer.’ Ulf rolled away from her, knowing his words were unwarranted but unable to stop them. ‘Save your pity for those two children in the hall – if that’s where they still are!’
Freydis didn’t move or become angry at his barbed response. ‘I haven’t come to shower you with sympathy, Ulf, though my heart truly aches for you. I just needed to speak with you before we leave Aalborg.’ She paused, and his heartbeat quickened in dread of what she might say. ‘Your brother and sister will be coming with us to Aros.’
He turned and stared at her, barely able to take in what she’d said. ‘I’ve been unable to visit you in here,’ Freydis continued, glancing round the hut, ‘because I’ve been caring for them – Jorund and Yrsa, I mean. Jorund is distraught and cries almost constantly. And nightmares plague his sleep. Rorik would not allow anyone to miss the ceremony to Odin.’
An agonised groan racked Ulf’s body. Freydis enfolded him in her arms, and when his body ceased to tremble, she brushed his tangled hair from his face and kissed his brow. ‘It will take many months for your brother to forget that dreadful day, Ulf, if he ever does. But the pain will lessen in time. And Yrsa is too young to have known what was happening.’
Ulf nodded, fighting down the fury that threatened to erupt. Freydis didn’t deserve to witness such a scene. ‘I know Rorik wouldn’t have suggested that we take the children, Freydis,’ he said. ‘So is it to you, or Bjorn, that I owe thanks?’
‘Perhaps both,’ she replied with a wan smile. ‘The children have responded well to me. Yrsa frets a great deal, missing her mother, but I can cope with that and occupy her otherwise. And Jorund simply needs patience and kindness, which I haven’t seen forthcoming from anyone in Rorik’s hall. No one here is prepared to take responsibility for them. I spoke to Bjorn and he persuaded Dalla and Helga to sell the children to him. He told them that Jorund could provide him with a much needed thrall, and convinced them that gaining silver for Yrsa was better than merely disposing of her. Perhaps the suggestion was put to Rorik when he was drunk, but he agreed, and Bjorn has paid him.’
‘But who will take care of them in Aros?’
‘I will, with Thora’s help of course. Their lives will be far better in Aros than anything they could expect in Aalborg. And they will grow up knowing their elder brother is close by.’
‘And Ragnar will allow this?’
Freydis smiled. ‘My father has never refused any request from Thora.’
* * *
In the afternoon of October 25, Bjorn’s cavalcade arrived back in Aros. Life quickly took on a welcomed normality, although, as always during the winter months, Ulf spent his days willing spring to arrive. His own pain settled into a constant ache, deep in his chest, kept in abeyance by his daily responsibilities to his newfound siblings. But his murderous plans for Rorik rendered sleep a long time in coming each night, the opportunity of carrying them out a particular frustrataion to his raging thoughts. It could be years before he got the chance.
The children steadily became more comfortable in Ulf’s company, though as yet, they did not realise he was their brother. The time for explanations would come later.
Yrsa responded well to the love and attention lavished upon her by Freydis and Thora, and was a cheerful little soul. With Jorund, progress was much slower. Although the nightmares gradually lessened he was prone to bouts of dark brooding, when he would withdraw inside himself, shutting out everything around him. His loss was magnified a hundredfold by the mental images that would not leave him. Thora was confident the boy would be mended within a year: the young are very resilient, she assured, and early memories fade. But Ulf was not so certain.
December came and with it the celebrations of the Yule. Ulf helped Rico to loop thick ropes round a huge oak log and drag it across the frozen earth into the
hall, where the women and children decorated it with sprigs of fir and holly. Throughout the festivities it smouldered in the hearth, helping to bring light and cheer to the darkest time of year. A wild boar was sacrificed to Frey, the god of fertility, to ensure a good growing season in the coming year, with warm days and gentle rain. A goat was slaughtered, and people dressed in goatskins and sang in honour of Thor, who rode the skies in his chariot pulled by two goats. The roasted meats were eaten during the celebratory feasts, and unlimited supplies of ale and mead kept everyone in festive mood.
And Jorund smiled for the first time since October.
Thirty
Canterbury, Kent: early January 858
‘Why did Mother have to die, Aethelswith?’ Alfred sobbed into his pillow. ‘What shall I do without her?’
A gentle hand touched his shoulder. ‘Be at peace, young lord. Your mother has been with her Maker for three years now. And she would not wish her youngest son to be still grieving.’
Alfred woke from his dream, sweat-soaked and fraught with distress, and rolled to face the woman seated on the edge of his bed. Daylight writhed through the shutters and sounds coming from the hall told him it was morning. A cold, January morn, filled with sadness.
‘Judith?’ he mumbled, rubbing his eyes as he watched the blue-robed figure of his stepmother rise to open the shutters. He pushed himself up on his elbows, shivering as the cold air hit him. ‘I think I was dreaming. I thought that mother–’
‘I know, Alfred. Disturbing dreams can come at the worst of times. It is most likely that your father’s illness has brought that harrowing time back into your mind.’
Judith picked up the heavy book lying on the fur cover of Alfred’s bed and turned the gold-edged pages. ‘A most exquisite thing,’ she remarked. ‘Given to you by your mother, I think you said?’
‘Yes,’ Alfred acknowledged, ‘but only because I was the only one who could be bothered to read it all the way through. None of my brothers was interested enough, but I knew as soon as I saw it that I wanted it. It’s just so beautiful. I couldn’t read at the time,’ he admitted, frowning, ‘so Father Felix helped me to learn it off by heart, and just recite it. So I suppose you would say I cheated.’
Judith lifted his chin between her thumb and forefinger, her blue gaze holding his. ‘No, I would not call it cheating,’ she said, her face thoughtful. ‘It was very enterprising of you. I think that Lady Osburh would have known full well of your illiterate state, and valued your efforts all the more. So that is why she gave her precious book to you.’
Alfred smiled at her. He was very fond of Judith. Herself barely fifteen, she was always ready to talk and offer advice, especially since his father had been too ill to do so. And, unlike many others, Judith did not treat him like a young child.
‘Then, reading your book and thinking of your mother before you slept explains your distressing dream,’ Judith reasoned, twisting round her finger a strand of dark hair peeking out from under her head veil. ‘During your slumbers such thoughts would have mingled with your fears for your father’s failing health. Your dream-mind merely confused the details.’
Alfred blinked back the tears. ‘Will God take Father from us soon?’
Judith was silent for some moments, seeming to battle her own emotions before replying. ‘His passing will be soon, Alfred, so we must be very brave. I have kept vigil over him through the long night, and he is very weak. I have left the physician with him for now, though I dare not stay away too long.’ Her shoulders slumped and in the brightening light, Alfred could see how tired she looked.
‘Aethelbald should arrive in the next day or two, though I fear that Aethelswith and her husband may be too late,’ she continued with a weary sigh. Tamworth is far away, and your fickle Saxon weather can so easily prevent travel at this time of year.’
Alfred scowled at the mention of his sister’s husband. Although he’d not set eyes on Burgred for some years, his dislike of the man continued to fester, greatly fuelled by the fact that he had not yet permitted Aethelswith to visit her family in Kent.
Well aware of his feelings about Burgred, Judith did not comment on his reaction. ‘Father Felix has ensured the terms of your father’s will are clearly laid out,’ she said. ‘But Aethelwulf so hoped to see all his children, one last time . . .’
Alfred took her hand as her voice faltered and she gave him a sad smile. ‘Aethelberht and Aethelred are about to attend the chapel,’ she said softly. ‘Perhaps you could accompany them, young lord.’
At that moment, Alfred could think of nothing more appropriate to do than pray.
* * *
Late the following afternoon Aethelbald arrived from Southampton with his large entourage. Notified of his arrival, Aethelwulf summoned his four sons to his bedside where, in the presence of Father Felix, his physician and his young wife, he struggled to explain the main issues of the document he’d recently had drawn up.
Alfred stared at the stone-grey hair, splayed lank against the pillows that propped his father up, and listened to the crackling whisper of the once forceful voice. Memories of his mother’s final hours resurfaced and he strove to control his crushing grief. This was surely another such prelude.
In his will, Aethelwulf stipulated that the kingdom should remain divided. Aethelbald would continue his rule of the West Saxon shires, whilst Aethelberht would resume his earlier kingship of the East. Aethelred and Alfred were to be endowed with properties in the West, where, as king, Aethelbald would be custodian over them all.
Both Aethelbald and Aethelberht were compliant to these specifications – until Aethelwulf’s final demand. ‘I am adamant that my two youngest sons shall rule the West Saxon shires in their turn after Aethelbald,’ the dying king rasped. ‘I have worked to this end throughout my life, and will not abandon my most fervent desires now.’ A wheezing breath rattled through his chest and he coughed violently, struggling to catch the breath to continue.
Aethelbald’s dark good looks barely concealed his smouldering rage, though his voice remained calm and controlled. ‘Father, this plan would be foolproof if I were not to produce heirs. But what if I were to tell you that I’m considering marriage within the next few months? Must any sons of mine have to stand down in deference to their uncles? Surely that is not how the laws of inheritance work.’
The red hue of Aethelbald’s skin was deepening, a sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. Alfred cringed: his brother’s temper was on the boil.
‘The Danish threat escalates yearly,’ Aethelwulf laboured on, fixing his eldest son with a cold stare and ignoring the imminent outburst. ‘Our kingdom needs strong and firm rulers: we cannot wait for babes to grow or allow lesser men to–’
Another fit of coughing ended whatever the king had been about to say and the physician ordered him to rest and regain his strength.
Aethelbald stormed from the bedchamber, leaving Aethelberht and Alfred staring after him, whilst Aethelred’s amiable features crinkled into a wide grin. Then together they followed their eldest brother into the hall.
* * *
‘It is simply not right that we should accept such terms,’ Aethelbald fumed, his dark eyes moving from one brother to another in search of accord. Servants fussed round the table, clearing the last of the evening’s meal, and Aethelwulf’s sons had moved around the hearth to continue their discussion. Alfred watched, hoping that Aethelbald’s rage would not be unleashed physically. ‘Why should a dying man dictate to his heirs how the kingdom should be governed in future years? Surely the rules of inheritance stand for something!’
‘But we’ve always known of our father’s desires for the ruling of Wessex, brother,’ Aethelberht reasoned, his pale eyes on his older sibling. ‘And I believe he’s shown wisdom in retaining this stipulation. Wessex can’t afford to show a modicum of weakness, or the Danes would tear her apart. I’ll certainly be vigilant w
here defence of the East is concerned and–’
‘Oh, it’s all right for you, Aethelberht. Any sons of yours will rule in the East when you’re gone! But as soon as I die, my sons will simply be ignored, unable to benefit from all the improvements I intend to make in fortifications and armed forces.’
Aethelberht bristled. ‘It’s unlikely our brothers will “ignore” their nephews, Aethelbald. They’d still hold a fair degree of sway in the West. But until such time, remember that you rule a far superior kingdom in both power and wealth than I do. ‘And,’ he stressed, ‘Kent is far more likely to suffer Danish raids than your shires. Think of the times the pagans have overwintered on Thanet, or Sheppey, and how Canterbury suffered.’ He picked up his mug and quaffed a mouthful of ale. ‘So your griping won’t wash with me, Aethelbald.’
His fists tightly clenched, his face thunderous, Aethelbald heaved himself to his feet. Alfred held his breath, waiting for a hefty blow to strike Aethelberht’s head. But at that point Aethelred decided to add his grain of wisdom.
‘You both seem to have overlooked the role of the Witan,’ he stated, pausing to allow his words to take effect. ‘If our Councillors deemed any of us – or any future “heirs” – to be unsuitable, we’d be tossed aside without a further blink. So where does that leave your laws of inheritance, Aethelbald?’
Just as Aethelbald began to give Aethelred a piece of his mind, Judith entered the hall. ‘How can you think of your selfish quarrels at a time like this?’ she admonished, her tired gaze moving between the solidly built Aethelbald towering over them all and the more slender Aethelberht. ‘Surely you should show your respect in the home of a dying man – your own father!’
