by Millie Thom
Tears coursed down Judith’s cheeks. Alfred moved toward her to offer comfort, but Aethelbald beat him to it, putting his arm around her shoulders and gazing with surprising tenderness into her eyes. ‘You are overwrought, Judith,’ he said, ‘and overtired. I know you didn’t sleep at all last night. And we all owe you so much for the kindness you’ve shown us these past two years.’
‘Thank you, Aethelbald.’ Judith sniffed. ‘I have much on my mind.’
Aethelberht put down his mug and stood to address his stepmother. ‘You are naturally heartbroken at the thought of losing your husband, my lady. And thoughts of organising a funeral must be causing concern. But, we are all here to help, and no doubt Aethelswith will soon arrive. She will be of comfort to you.’
Judith sank to the bench beside Alfred. ‘You are right about all of those things,’ she admitted. ‘I shall feel my lord’s loss deeply, but I am also in great dread of returning to Francia. I shall be married off to some pompous lord and I may not have the same, er, privileges I have had here with your dear father.’ She pulled a small handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose. ‘I will miss you all so much.’
Alfred inanely patted her back for want of something more appropriate to do. He’d miss Judith but knew that, as a young widow, her future would be dictated by the will of her powerful father, Charles the Bald.
* * *
‘Just what did you find so funny today?’ Alfred asked his fair-headed brother as they headed for their bedchambers a little later. ‘Don’t you find Aethelbald’s outbursts just a little alarming?’
‘Of course I don’t! He’s just a big bag of wind. All puff and no punch.’
‘How do you know that?’
Aethelred shrugged. ‘He’s always been the same: likes the sound of his own voice. But I’ve never seen him actually hit anyone.’ Alfred looked thoughtfully at his brother. Nine years older than himself, Aethelred knew so much more about the other siblings than Alfred did. ‘But, what I really found funny,’ Aethelred went on, ‘was the way Aethelbald kept eyeing up Judith!’
‘I noticed that too. You don’t think . . .’
‘That he’ll marry her after Father dies?’ Aethelred’s smile faded and he turned sorrowful grey eyes on Alfred. ‘I can’t imagine life without Father. Just speaking of his death turns my stomach to water.’
Alfred nodded, tears welling afresh. ‘Father’s always been there for us. Even after Mother died, we still had him.’
Aethelred wrapped his arms around Alfred’s shoulders. ‘Come with me to the chapel and we’ll pray together.’
As they headed for the little church, Alfred repeated his earlier question, ‘Do you think Aethelbald will marry Judith?’
‘I do,’ Aethelred said, after a moment’s thought. ‘And I think it will cause quite a commotion in Wessex. But Aethelbald has powerful friends, as we well know from when you and Father returned from Rome. They’ll back Aethelbald, no matter what unconventional things he wants. And we all heard Judith say she didn’t want to return to Francia. I can’t see her refusing Aethelbald if he offers her marriage. At least she knows him – and he’s not bad looking, in a dark, hairy sort of way. At least he’s not some fat old Frankish lord!’
‘No,he’s not,’ Alfred agreed. ‘And as we’ll be living at the West Saxon court, at least we’d have Judith for company.’
* * *
A short while before noon the following day, Alfred was summoned to his father’s bedchamber, watching with heightened anxiety as Aethelwulf insisted that even Father Felix and the physician should leave the room.
‘Come close,’ his father urged as the door clicked shut. ‘I cannot raise my voice more than a whisper and I want you to hear clearly what I say. That’s better,’ he said, taking Alfred’s hand as he came to stand by the big bed.
Alfred focused on the gaunt frame of his father, noting how the deathly pallor of his skin almost matched the leaden tones of his hair. He bit his bottom lip hard, still battling the welling tears.
‘Do not weep for me, Alfred,’ Aethelwulf said gently. ‘I am ready to meet my Maker and will soon be reunited with your mother. But before I leave this world, I must speak to you about the future of our kingdom.’
Though puzzled as to why he’d been singled out for this talk, Alfred nodded anyway.
‘I believe you were sent to your mother and me late in life for a purpose, Alfred. ‘Do you know what that purpose will be?’
‘I know I shall be king of Wessex one day, Father. I believe what Pope Leo said. I think I shall be needed to defend the land.’
Aethelwulf smiled at that answer. ‘I believe that too, so remember that you must prepare for that time. You and Aethelred must continue your courtly training when you reside with Aethelbald. Keep up your arms practice, and hone your riding and hunting skills. Become proficient in the use of spear and bow as well as sword, and enjoy your falcons. A king must prove superior in all these things. And continue to read and write the hymns you love so much. And one day you must marry and produce heirs.’
Aethelwulf slumped lower on his pillow, his eyelids drooping. ‘I need to sleep now,’ he whispered, his voice rasping from overuse. He reached out and took Alfred’s hand. ‘Be strong, Alfred. Never show your enemies your weaknesses, or they will leap on them and tear you to shreds. Promise me that, on my deathbed.’
Alfred leaned to kiss the sunken cheek. ‘I promise, Father,’
‘Then go with my blessing, my son. I know you will not let Wessex fall.’
* * *
Tamworth, Mercia: mid January 858
Burgred slammed his fist hard on the table, causing his cup to brim over. ‘Damn the woman,’ he roared as a serving girl hurried to mop up the spilt ale. ‘Can she give me no peace!’
Attendant warriors and the two visiting monks sped about their business but Burgred cared naught for their discomfort. His men were used to scenes of domestic disharmony in his hall. And those two mealy-mouthed clerics were only here to scrounge more funds for the Tamworth church, but as yet, they hadn’t had the guts to come straight out and ask. Pah! He was surrounded by fools, sycophants and spongers.
His wife would be in the bedchamber now, weeping like the babe she seemed incapable of giving him. One still birth and two miscarried pregnancies were all Aethelswith had managed in almost five years. Oh, he was doing his part well enough, getting her with child, but she seemed incapable of growing a healthy babe in her womb. Again he was gripped by the terrifying thought that God was punishing him. He covered his face with his hands and let out a long groan.
‘Are you ill, my lord . . .?’
‘Just get out and give me some peace,’ he yelled at the girl.
Peace? Would he ever feel at peace again? Even his wife detested him, all the more so in recent weeks. Aethelswith had not yet forgiven him for forbidding her to travel to Kent when the message of her father’s impending death had arrived almost two weeks ago. And today, a second message had arrived, informing them that the old goat had died.
No, he would not travel all the way to Steyning in Sussex just for a funeral. Aethelswith could weep and rant all she liked. The weather may be snow-free now, but that could change overnight. Besides, Aethelswith was with child again and he couldn’t put this pregnancy at risk. The child would not be born until May, but his wife must wait until after the birthing to see her family. Then, perhaps, if affairs of state permitted, they would visit Aethelbald at his Wessex court. At least Aethelswith’s eldest brother was more tolerable than her God-fearing old saint of a father.
Resignedly, he headed for the bedchamber to make amends with his wife.
Thirty One
Aros – Birka: late March 858
As spring approached, Bjorn decided not to go raiding this summer.
‘The truth of the matter is,’ he said, facing Ulf and leaning back against the
Sea Eagle’s hull, ‘the village is in dire need of goods that are best purchased from the Baltic lands.’
Bjorn silently mulled over his thoughts and Ulf watched the river frothing its agitation at the strong wind that seemed bent on preventing its entry into the Kattegat, the pallid sun doing little to warm the air. The snows had only recently cleared and trees showed little sign of greening, though downy catkins festooned the limbs of the willows trailing over the water.
‘My loving brothers plan to try their luck raiding along the coasts of northern Britain,’ Bjorn eventually continued, turning his back to the strong north-easterly, ‘which leaves me to do the bartering and buying. We’ve bags of loot left from our raids in Francia for trading, so it makes sense that I be the one to do it. I’ll not take the Eagle this time, since we’ll not be raiding; just a couple of knarrs. We’ll sail as far as Birka on the east coast of Sweden . . .
‘That sour expression tells me you don’t find the prospect appealing, Ulf – and I know you were hoping to see the Norwegian coast again. But I tell you, the Baltic lands hold their own unique charm. The island of Gotland, for example, is a veritable treasure chest for all kinds of manufactured goods, jewellery included. Gotlandic craftsmen create the most intricate brooches in bronze, gold and silver, as well as items from glass and amber. Many of our women would prove very generous to whomsoever should so provide,’ he added, with such an exaggerated wink that Ulf burst out laughing.
‘But alas, we need to purchase more useful items than jewellery,’ Bjorn said, assuming an air of disappointment. ‘The whetstones, fishing implements, tools and weapons on Gotland are exceptional. Of course we can also find some of those goods at Birka, as well as furs from the ice bear, brown bear, wolf, fox and squirrel, and soft down from the eider duck and Siberian goose to stuff our pillows–
‘Ulf, are you listening to me?’ Bjorn thrust his fingers into his hair and pulled his face in exasperation. ‘I’ve the distinct feeling I’ve been talking to myself!’
‘I’m sorry, Master. I have been listening but I was wondering how my absence will affect Jorund. He’s only just started to feel at ease with me and my leaving for the summer may set things back.’
‘I don’t think your absence for a couple of months would be too much of a problem. Jorund has Freydis and Thora doting on him after all.’ Bjorn paused, his brow creased in thought, then he said: ‘But there just may be a way to solve the problem of your absence.’
‘I don’t ask, nor do I wish, to remain behind. I already long to be away–’
A flick of Bjorn’s hand cut Ulf off. ‘I hadn’t contemplated the idea. I had something else in mind. Now, this is still only a possibility,’ he murmured after further moments of silence, ‘but what if we take Jorund with us?’
‘But he’s only six!’
‘Are you saying you think the idea foolish?’ Bjorn grinned and slapped Ulf’s shoulder. ‘I can tell you that I was only three the first time Ragnar took me into the Baltic, and I not only survived, I enjoyed myself immensely – so Ragnar told me. I remember little about it. I think I’ll ask my father if we can take Ubbi as well,’ he continued as Ulf gaped, too surprised to express his gratitude. ‘I know Jorund has taken to my brother, and it will do Ubbi good, if only to get him away from Aslanga for a few weeks.’
Bjorn nodded curtly, dismissing the subject, and started back to the village. ‘Tomorrow I’ll inform the crew of my plans. Like you, they’ll probably scowl – all hot-blooded Danes live for the spring when they can go raiding. But the smiles will return when I tell them about next year.’
‘Next year . . .?’
‘Next year,’ Bjorn declared, thrusting out his chin, ‘Hastein and I will lead a large fleet on the adventure of our lives.’ He stopped in his tracks and faced Ulf, who grinned at the look of childlike excitement on his face. ‘Next year, we sail south to the blue waters of the Middle Sea.’ He took a deep breath and finished with a flourish, ‘Then we aim for that most celebrated of cities hailed as the centre of all Christendom.
‘Next year we attack Rome!’
* * *
The two knarrs sliced through the slate-blue waters that sparkled in the late May sunshine, laden with goods for trading: wheat seed and oak logs for the most part, but also sacks of precious objects from last summer’s raids.
‘We are fortunate that across our own lands oak forest is abundant,’ Bjorn had told Ulf as the ships were being loaded. ‘We couldn’t build our fine ships without it. Other timbers are not nearly as reliable. Of course, in some regions it is necessary to use a variety of timbers: ash, elm, birch and pine to name a few. People from the northern Norselands – whose lands are covered in pine forest, with perhaps a few birch in sheltered places, look forward to doing trade with us. Like ourselves, they are all people of the sea, who rely on their ships for everything from fishing to trading and raiding. And for sturdy hulls, solid oak is the shipwright’s choice, every time.
‘In Gotland, farming is important,’ Bjorn continued, tweaking his short beard thoughtfully. ‘The soils are fertile and the climate mild, and wheat grows well, so the people are always in need of high quality seed. And from Ragnar’s lands alone we have ample to spare. I’ve seen wheat growing well in southern Norway and Skåne, but further north it’s too cold and they rely on oats, barley and rye.’
Ulf was just beginning to feel alive again after the months of pain and anger that followed his mother’s death. The familiar sensation of freedom on the open sea afforded salve to his injured spirit and he hoped it would have a similar effect on Jorund. Ubbi was overjoyed at being aboard the dragonship but with Jorund the joy crept upon him more slowly. At first, he’d cowered close to Ulf’s oarport, lifting his white face occasionally to peep over the ship’s side. But the combination of cajoling by Leif and Ulf and the beauty of the seascape gradually persuaded him to stand with Ubbi and marvel at the sights.
They wove between the islands that guarded the entrance into the Baltic from the Kattegat, the two largest, Sjaelland and Fyn, looming to east and west; Lolland and Falster lying further south. As evening neared they reached the southerly tip of Sjaelland and veered east, wheedling between many small islands as the slightly larger Mon appeared on the horizon. They camped on one of the tiny, uninhabited islands, sailing on at dawn through the narrow strait between Mon and Falster, heading for the open waters of the Baltic. In the middle of the hazy afternoon they reached Bornholm, a rocky island with steep coastal cliffs backed by dense forest: an ideal place for two boys to play and hide. But Bjorn had other ideas.
They traipsed along the pebbly beach behind the master’s striding form, turning inland to climb beside a winding stream that spilled down to the sea. Ulf fell into step with Leif. ‘Are we having a tour of the island?’ he quipped.
Leif flashed a wide grin. ‘We go to pay our respects to King Alfarin and secure his esteemed permission to stay on his island.’
Ulf contemplated the need for that. They’d never requested permission anywhere before.
‘It’s like this,’ Leif explained at Ulf’s puzzled frown. ‘This may not look like much of a kingdom, but her king holds her jealously. Bornholm’s warriors are a fierce lot, and few raiders dare approach the island, let alone attack it. But I’m glad to say that King Alfarin and Ragnar are old comrades. Alfarin’s also acquainted with Bjorn, though they’ve not set eyes on each other since Bjorn was sixteen. So now we go so they can be reacquainted, for courtesy’s sake. And because we don’t want butchering as we sleep!’ Ulf could not agree more and said so. Leif gave a throaty chuckle. ‘You never know, we might even get a good meal out of this. Last time we were here we had a fair banquet.’
King Alfarin’s fortress comprised a collection of wooden buildings surrounded by a thick stone wall that could repel most assailants, and which served as a refuge in times of attack for the occupants of the homesteads on the island. The large hall, wit
h its carved doorway, internal support pillars and rich furnishing, suggested that Bornholm did not lack for wealth. Alfarin seemed pleased to entertain anyone who could break the quiet tedium of his everyday life, and did, indeed, insist they share his evening meal, proving to be the epitome of hospitality. Though his commanding personality left little doubt that he was the seat of authority on the island, his sallow complexion and yellow tinged eyes spoke of days with little to do other than drink mead and strong wine – which he wasn’t averse to sharing with his guests. And his sturdy-looking wife, Svala, served them a hearty meal.
With heavy heads and queasy stomachs they set sail the next morning, Bjorn in a downcast mood at leaving the company of Alfarin’s only daughter, a raven-haired beauty whose dark eyes never seemed to leave his face all night. The two boys stood at the stern, waving at the cornucopia of splendid vessels as the brisk south-westerly thrust the ships onward. They sailed through the night and by mid-afternoon the following day they pulled into a sheltered bay on the western side of the large Swedish island of Gotland, and moored at the crowded harbour of the small market town of Paviken.
Over the next two days trading was good. Though the market was small, the variety of goods was impressive, and by the end of the second afternoon, Bjorn had exchanged most of the seed and several Frankish cups and crosses for whetstones, Rhineland pottery, tools and farm implements.
‘Bjorn’s keen to be off to Birka first thing tomorrow,’ Leif told Ulf as they watched the sun dipping to the watery horizon from their camp behind a sandy beach. Ubbi and Jorund skimmed pebbles across the water, lost to the pleasure of each other’s company. ‘He wants to spend some time there once we’ve done trading. He’s a mind to look for a woman.’
Leif hooted at the look of astonishment on Ulf’s face. ‘It seems Ragnar’s been pressing him to wed and produce a few offspring. And, between you and me,’ he added, tapping the side of his nose with his finger, ‘Bjorn’s been a bit disgruntled since Ingrid wed last year. So be prepared for him to be going a-wooing once our buying and trading’s done.’
