Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One

by Millie Thom

  ‘Your tutor could always charm the pants off people with his stories.’

  Ulf grinned at that. ‘Before we reach the hall, Aethelnoth, you need to know that my name is Ulf now.’

  At Aethelnoth’s enquiring look Ulf merely said, ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  Thirty Four

  Bornholm: September 858

  ‘No more secret rendezvous with the generously accommodating Ingrid then, cousin. You’ll be kept too busy producing a string of little Bjorns!’

  Hastein hooted at the expression of pending doom on Bjorn’s face. ‘No going back now,’ he added with impish merriment. ‘Alfarin’d never let you off the island, and Svala would flay you alive, at very least. Not to mention that I would be most displeased to go all the way home deprived of a great feast.’ He pulled an earlobe thoughtfully. ‘On the other hand, if you should decide to abscond, I’d deem it my absolute duty to take your place beside the delectable Kata–’

  Bjorn launched himself toward Hastein, fists clenched. ‘I’ll break both your legs if you so much as touch her!’

  Ulf, Leif and Aethelnoth chuckled as they watched the antics across the large chamber provided by King Afarin for the groom and his attendants. Bjorn’s anxiety was manifesting itself in uncharacteristic outbursts of pique. Ulf felt a degree of sympathy for him. Tomorrow, Bjorn would take on the responsibilities of providing for a wife, making his vows before so many people. And once the mead-soaked days of feasting were over, Kata would sail back with him to Aros.

  ‘Now, that’s more like it.’ Hastein laughed, holding up his hands to fend off the outraged Bjorn. ‘Kata has eyes only for you. And you know it. Anyway,’ he added with an air of mischievous mystery, ‘I’ve cast my own eyes in another direction.’

  Bjorn opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again, the unasked question swallowed, and squatted down to resume his rummaging through the wooden chest.

  Numerous tunics already lay strewn across the rushen floor as Bjorn tried to select the most suitable attire for his wedding: Kata would look ravishing and he needed to match her standard. His everyday ‘shabby’ simply wouldn’t do.

  Ulf sighed. His master had umpteen appropriate tunics, all cut from high quality cloths and richly dyed, with intricate embroideries in costly threads. But only Bjorn could make the selection; he simply scoffed at anyone else’s suggestions. He picked up some of the rejected garments and piled them on a chair and lifted a massive sword in a discoloured, leather-covered scabbard from the table top. ‘I’ll polish the sword now, Master,’ he said, sliding the ancient weapon from the scabbard and holding it up. ‘It’s a beautiful thing. So old . . . But it should shine like the sun when it’s cleaned.’

  ‘Good idea,’ Bjorn responded from somewhere deep inside the chest. ‘And Aethelnoth can polish my best boots. They’re over there in the corner.’ He flicked a wrist, gesturing in the general direction of the boots, and then suddenly raised his head to face his cousin. ‘If Hastein doesn’t mind, that is.’

  ‘Not one bit,’ Hastein replied. ‘Fresh air will do these two good. And perhaps Leif could do with a breather. Then you and I, Bjorn, need to sort out this business of your marriage garb before Ragnar storms in to lecture you on the role of a good husband.’

  Bjorn groaned and rubbed his brow. ‘Tomorrow night I intend to be so mead-sopped I can think of nothing but feasting on Kata’s luscious curves.’

  September on the island of Bornholm was very beautiful; a perfect time for a wedding. The forests were turning to golds and russets and the Baltic lapped the long beaches and craggy cliffs. Ulf and Aethelnoth sat together, enjoying the smell of briny air mingled with the woodsmoke of housefires. Women carried baskets of fruits and berries and in the storage huts vegetables were being put into crates and sacks. The mellowing sun shed golden light on the recently scoured fields beyond Alfarin’s fortress: the harvest was in and there would be food aplenty for the wedding feast.

  ‘Some sword that,’ Aethelnoth said, watching Ulf still hard at work. Bjorn’s boots stood cleaned and polished, and he leaned his head back against the hall, enjoying the afternoon sun. ‘Your master should impress his lady love with that. Their first born son will inherit a beauty. Frankish, I’d say,’ he mused, taking in the sword’s impressive length and reaching out to touch the intricately decorated hilt. ‘Look at the way it’s inlaid with hundreds of pieces of silver wire. I don’t care what anyone says, Frankish craftsmen can’t be bested.’

  ‘Stolen in some raid, no doubt,’ Ulf agreed, smiling at his friend’s relaxed mien. Thankfully, Aethelnoth seemed to be putting the horrors of Hilde’s death behind him. ‘It’s a good few hundred years old, too. Well worth scrabbling about in that burial mound for.’

  ‘A bit spooky, if you ask me. Couldn’t Bjorn have made do with a sword already in his family’s possession instead of digging up some reeking ancestor just to pinch his sword?’

  Ulf shrugged. ‘Meeting the ghost of an ancestor is believed to prove the link in a man’s noble bloodline – as well as impressing everyone with his courage. Our own people once did the same.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad we didn’t see any ghost. We’d probably have shit ourselves if we had!’

  They laughed as they recalled that moonless August night at the burial ground near Aros, a few days before they’d sailed for Bornholm. Just the four of them: Bjorn and Hastein; Ulf and Aethelnoth. They’d dug into the mound, the eerie silence broken by the regular slicing of their spades through the earthen barrow and the occasional screeching of an owl and calls of creatures of the night. Low humps of earth piled up steadily beside the burial mound, bizarre hillocks illuminated by the dim glow from a single oil lamp. Eventually the narrow entrance to the tomb was uncovered. But only Bjorn entered the musty chamber, locating the relic so quickly that, within moments, they were replacing the spadefuls of black earth.

  ‘Well, tomorrow’s the day,’ Aethelnoth said with a smirk. ‘You’ll have a new mistress as well as a master, Ulf. Had you thought of that?’

  ‘I try not to. But you needn’t look so smug. From what Hastein said earlier, he may soon be wed himself.’

  ‘I wonder which poor girl he’s set his sights on. It’ll have to be someone who can put up with his warped sense of humour.’

  Ulf could only grin at his friend and shake his head.

  * * *

  On September 12 Bjorn married King Alfarin’s daughter, Kata. It was Friday, Frigga’s day, the day devoted to the goddess of the sky and wife of Odin. As the goddess of marriage Frigga protected the love of those married on her day, blessing housewives with fertility and successful management of their households. A bunch of keys was her symbol. As always, when confronted with the workings of the gods, Ulf retained an open mind – and a glance at Aethelnoth told him that his friend was decidedly disparaging.

  Kata did, indeed, look ravishing. She had spent the morning sequestered with her attendants – including her mother and married sisters – to be stripped of all her old clothing and symbols of her unmarried status. She had been bathed before being dressed in a new green dress and white tunic adorned by jewelled brooches. On her head she wore the decorated silver bridal crown of her family with undisguised pride, her dark curls tumbling loose for the last time. At Bjorn’s side by the stone altar in a forest clearing, she smiled radiantly, dappled sunlight playing on her crown and tunic brooches. And resting on the altar was a splendid sword, which she would give to Bjorn during the ceremony.

  Bjorn had undergone a similar ritual, intended to remove all trace of his identity as an unmarried man, attended by his father and other men experienced in the state of wedlock. Ulf had stood well clear throughout the marital advice and bawdy jokes, grinning at his master’s decidedly nauseous expression. Now Bjorn positively glowed, considerably more smartly garbed and groomed than Ulf had seen him for some time, and seemed unaware of anyone but Kata. His green tu
nic – quite coincidentally – matched the green of her dress, and from his belt hung the ancient sword, its stained scabbard scrubbed as well as Ulf was able.

  The sun shone brightly on the joyful gathering. Accompanying the grinning Ragnar, Freydis and Ubbi’s happy smiles contrasted markedly with the forced smile of Aslanga and the sullen faces of Ivar and Halfdan. Next to them, Hastein enjoyed the ceremony with his usual exuberance with his mother and sister, and Kata’s many siblings, nephews and nieces beamed their delight with Alfarin and Svala. Other guests vied for a good view of the bride and groom. But as a menial, Ulf could only watch from afar.

  Following the exchange of the dowry and bride price, sacrifices were made to the different gods. Thor demanded a goat, Freya a sow and Frey a boar. The blood from the slit throats was collected in bowls and sprinkled with fir twigs over the bridal couple and guests to sanctify the union. The exchange of swords and finger rings ensued, Bjorn offering his ring to Kata on the hilt of his new sword, and Kata presenting hers on Bjorn’s ancestral one. Then, with the rings on their fingers the couple made their vows, pledging love and devotion, respect and loyalty to each other in the presence of so many witnesses.

  At last Bjorn and Kata were married and it was time for the traditional run of the bride and groom back to the hall. Ulf thought this great fun, as the women ran on foot whilst the men charged ahead on ready saddled horses. So it was hardly surprising that Bjorn should arrive at the hall before his bride, ready to carry her over the threshold. It would be a bad omen for the marriage should Kata trip and fall in the doorway, which was a portal between worlds and a place where spirits gathered. Ulf huffed at that idea, but enjoyed the spectacle anyway. He laughed with the rest as Bjorn thrust his new sword into a supporting pillar of the hall, and watched intrigued as the elders of both families examined the scar. The Danes believed that the deeper the scar, the better the luck of the marriage. Bjorn’s scar was very deep indeed.

  * * *

  The next four weeks passed in hazy revelry on Bornholm. Feasting became the everyday norm and the honeyed mead flowed. Ulf had never seen his master so happy. The guests remained to celebrate the annual sacrifices to Odin on October 14, for which Svala valiantly provided yet another great feast. To the Danes this further added to the joy of the season. To Ulf, it brought back sickening memories of last year’s events in Aalborg, and it was in a state of brooding misery that he helped Ragnar’s crewmen make ready the Sleipnir to sail.

  Two days after the sacrificial feast they set sail from Alfarin’s island, with an extra, tearful passenger aboard. But Kata’s tears were short lived, her joy at being with Bjorn soon overriding her sorrow at leaving her family. She sat happily with Freydis in the stern, and Ulf smiled as he watched the new sisters sharing their laughter and thoughts so easily.

  By October 19 the Sleipnir and Jormungandr were safely moored at Aros. Relieved to be home before the autumn gales whipped the sea into a frenzy, thanks were duly given to Aegir, the giant god of the sea, and his giantess wife Rán. Hastein, however, had still to sail back to Ribe. But Hastein could read the seas like the inscriptions on the runestones and Ulf knew he would not take unnecessary risks, especially with his mother and sister aboard. He’d sail only when the sky was clear, the Kattegat calm and the prospective outlook good.

  After secluding himself with Ragnar for a lengthy period of talks, Hastein departed two days later, promising to return for the Yule should the weather permit overland travel. A sea journey in December was not to be contemplated. Ulf’s parting from Aethelnoth was tempered by the prospect of seeing him again soon, then again in the spring, when they’d sail to the Middle Sea. But Ulf could only wonder about the subject of Hastein and Ragnar’s talks, since not even Bjorn or Freydis could throw light on the matter.

  ‘Possibly something to do with Hastein’s new role as jarl,’ Bjorn surmised as he wrestled with Ulf as part of his exercise routine. ‘I think he’s more concerned than he lets on about managing his extensive lands. Thank Odin I won’t be burdened with such responsibilities for a few years yet. But if you succeed in breaking my head right off,’ he growled as Ulf grasped him in a fierce headlock, ‘I’ll never get the chance!’

  Bjorn and Kata settled contentedly into married life, Kata proving to be a willing worker and amenable companion to the other women. Ulf’s life became a routine of chores. The usual work of Blotmonath and food preservation continued, though Ulf was more often engaged in repair work, which suited him better. Mending thatch, furniture and tools were tasks he enjoyed. Nor did he object to helping the ironsmith at his forge.

  And on most days, he had his rendezvous with Freydis to look forward to.

  As the weeks passed, Ulf realised that Sigehelm knew of his dangerous relationship with Ragnar’s daughter. The worried gaze that followed him as he slipped from the hall each night left little doubt of that. But, as dangerous as he knew the meetings to be, Ulf could no more put an end to them than stop his heart from beating. He’d never felt as alive as he did in her arms, never smelt such sweet fragrance as that suffusing her silken hair. The softness of Freydis’s skin and the suppleness of her body filled him with such ecstasy he could scarce draw breath. Wrapped in her arms, all sense of danger simply melted away.

  Then the Yule was looming and Ulf eagerly awaited Hastein and Aethelnoth’s arrival. And to everyone’s surprise but Ragnar’s, when the party from Ribe did arrive three days before the festivities, Hastein’s mother and sister were amongst the guests.

  ‘It’s good to see you again, cousin,’ Bjorn said, hugging the frozen Hastein then embracing Bera and Astrid as they came into the hall. Hastein had travelled on horseback with half a dozen of his men, Aethelnoth amongst them, and all looked stiff as boards. Outside, the air was bitter enough to seep through the thickest furs, the scant layer of winter’s first snowfall beginning to freeze on the ground as the afternoon progressed. ‘Prise off your coats and come to the fire. Warmed ale and hot griddle cakes will soon thaw you out.’

  The hall door opened again and Ragnar appeared, snowflakes speckling his greying hair and beard. It had just started snowing again. ‘Frey’s great phallus!’ he yelled as an icy gust tore the door from his grasp and flung it back with a crash. ‘A thousand curses on this weather!’ He pushed the heavy door shut and swept the snow from his cloak before tossing it aside and coming to greet his guests. ‘Not a good time for travel, Hastein,’ he said, yanking his nephew to his feet and engulfing him in his meaty embrace, ‘especially with ladies along.’ He gave Bera and Astrid a dutiful kiss and seated himself, pulling Hastein down next to him. ‘In Odin’s name, sit down, Bjorn! I’m not fond of people looming over me.

  ‘Good to see you’ve made it in one piece, though,’ Ragnar went on, his attention again on his guests. ‘It’s not the easiest of routes you’ve travelled. The heaths and marshes between here and Ribe can be treacherous if you stray off the paths. And it’s easy to do just that when all’s beneath the snow. You’re fortunate the snows have only just started as your journey ends. But you’re here now, and we’re all glad about that. Let’s hope there’s no more snow before your trek home. Now sup up and get warm; the meal shouldn’t be too long. And your sleeping quarters are ready, should you wish to rest before you eat,’ he assured Bera. ‘Now, I need to check all’s well in the stables, so I’ll leave you to make yourselves at home. Bjorn can keep you company, as can Ivar and Halfdan. Hear that, you two?’ he bawled across the hall. ‘You can play Knucklebones later. Come and be sociable for once!’

  Ragnar hauled himself to his feet, ready to leave. ‘We’ll resume our talks tomorrow, Hastein. We’ve several details still to clarify’.

  * * *

  ‘Do you polish that damned sword every day?’

  Aethelnoth grinned and sat beside Ulf as he burnished Bjorn’s wedding gift from Kata. The rest of Hastein’s party huddled round the fire, enjoying the warmth, and Aethelnoth had taken the
opportunity to spend some time with his friend.

  ‘Mmm,’ Ulf murmured. ‘This, and the one from the burial chamber.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ Aethelnoth said, waving at Sigehelm across the hall. ‘I hate cleaning and polishing. At least I can spend most of my days at Ribe in the stables.’ His chest puffed out in pride. ‘I’m head groom now, as well as chief bodyguard.’

  ‘Then I’m happy for you; you were always good with horses.’ Ulf’s glance strayed briefly to the preoccupied guests. ‘What do you make of these talks between Hastein and Ragnar?’

  Aethelnoth frowned thoughtfully. ‘I think they’re the real reason we’ve traipsed all this way in the middle of winter.’

  ‘I’d gathered that much myself,’ Ulf retorted. ‘But what are the talks about? I just hope Ragnar isn’t putting the downers on this Middle Sea voyage. I think he’s peeved he can’t go himself,’ he added, lowering his voice. ‘And his two sons over there make things worse, griping that Hastein should be dealing with his new responsibilities instead of gallivanting around the Iberian coast – and that Bjorn should have more care for his new wife.’

  Aethelnoth hooted. ‘Since when did having a wife cause the Danes to hold back? There’d never be any raids if they paid heed to that load of bullshit. Anyway, why are these talks of so much importance to you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ulf replied. ‘I just have a feeling they involve something I won’t like.’

  Thirty Five

  The twelve days of Yule passed with much jollity. The usual boar was sacrificed to Frey to ensure a prosperous growing season and some folk garbed themselves as goats in honour of Thor. People got drunk and ate too much and the Yule log smouldered in the hearth. But the time for Hastein to return to Ribe soon neared, and by the first week of January the weather was bright and though bitterly cold, was dry enough for travel. Hastein would be departing in the morning.