Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One

by Millie Thom

  ‘Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now!’ Bjorn fumed, shaking an almost hysterical Freydis from his arm. ‘By rights I am honour bound to do just that – or else throw you into the pit.’ He turned to his sister, sobbing on the straw. ‘But if I did, then your dishonour would be no secret. If anyone hears of this you’ll be brandished a whore. Did you think of that, sister?

  ‘How could you betray every trust I had in you?’ he hurled at Ulf, his released breath a loud, exasperated groan. ‘It’s my own fault, I suppose, for giving you too much freedom. But I thought you were different to other thralls, that you valued integrity and trust. And I can’t deny you’ve shown great courage.’

  ‘I beg you, brother, let us both go and you’ll never need to see either of us again.’

  ‘Just how far do you think you’d get, before the dogs picked up your scent? And if they didn’t rip you both to shreds, Father probably would! No, Freydis,’ Bjorn said firmly, ‘you’ll marry Hastein. He doesn’t deserve to be treated this way, nor would my own honour allow it. He’s a good man, and I could want no better husband for a sister I happen to love dearly.’

  Freydis rose and Bjorn held her gently as she sobbed into his shoulder. Ulf turned away, overcome with shame at the misery he’d inflicted on people who meant so much to him. But he heard Freydis’s whispered voice.

  ‘What do you intend to do with Ulf?’

  ‘Ulf must leave.’

  ‘Won’t you take our word that we’ll not see each other again?’

  ‘I can’t risk the possibility of you breaking that promise. Love can cause people to lose all sense of right and wrong.’

  Tense moments passed as Bjorn said nothing, his every breath imparting his anger. Nauseous and dizzy, Ulf recalled the night he’d fled from Ivar’s wolf dog. Bjorn had been his saviour, then.

  ‘What are we to do?’ Freydis could bear the silence no longer. ‘Please, Bjorn, help us!’

  ‘You will simply carry on as though nothing has happened. As I said, you will marry Hastein – and if you want Ulf to stay alive, you’ll spend your days going cheerfully about your work. As for you, Ulf,’ he said with a sigh that hovered in the darkness, ‘the only certainty is that you must go; when and how I’ve still to decide . . .

  ’And don’t think I’m unduly concerned for your hide, thrall. If anyone learns of my part in your deceit, I’d be deemed unfit to be called a Dane, let alone the son of a jarl!’

  Ulf drew breath to beg forgiveness but Bjorn was too angry to listen. ‘Don’t say anything,’ he hissed. ‘I don’t want to hear your voice again tonight.’ He turned to his sister. ‘Get back to the hall, Freydis.’

  Freydis lingered uncertainly in the doorway, silver tears striping her white face in the moonlight. Then she obeyed, her footfalls gradually fading into the distance. Bjorn’s breaths were slow and loud as he strove to control his turbulent emotions. ‘I need my bed,’ he said at last, his hands circling the sides of his head. ‘I’ll think more clearly tomorrow.’ On reaching the door he threw over his shoulder, ‘My orders to you, Ulf, are the same as those I gave Freydis: complete your chores as usual and say nothing to anyone, not even Sigehelm. When I’ve decided what to do, you’ll be the first to know.’

  * * *

  By the first week of March, Ulf still had no idea of Bjorn’s intentions for his future. Whether he’d be forced to flee from Aros, pursued by men intent on stringing him up to mollify the gods, or sold elsewhere, he didn’t know. Bjorn had become an indifferent master, who spoke to him only to give orders or curt thanks. Gone were the cheerful conversations and shared trust: Ulf had destroyed all that by allowing his love for Freydis to override his better judgement. The lengthening days and prospects of a summer at sea held no allure for him now. Engulfed in misery he shied from contact with anyone, especially Sigehelm, and focused on the tasks assigned to him.

  Then Hastein arrived for his spring wedding, and Ulf felt as though his life had abruptly ended. Relieved to have arrived safely at Aros the Ribean guests chatted with unrestrained cheerfulness. Too early in the year to risk sailing, their overland journey had been beset by its own perils. Melting snows had rendered large tracts of land waterlogged, impassable in places. Re-routing had added miles to the already lengthy journey and wolves prowled too close to their camp, drawn by the scent of fresh horsemeat. But today all thoughts of travel were left behind; it would be several weeks before they returned to Ribe.

  Aethelnoth grinned across the hall, but much as Ulf was pleased to see his friend, it took considerable effort to return the grin. He focused on repairing a broken stool, resolving to speak with Aethelnoth later.

  It was when Ulf was serving ale that evening that Hastein beckoned him over. At the young jarl’s side, Bjorn held out his cup for a refill, then abruptly turned his head. Hastein seemed not to notice the friction between them, his own joy in life overriding all else. ‘So, Ulf, you’ll attend with Bjorn and Aethelnoth to prepare me for my wedding?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ Ulf replied, ignoring the pain that seared his chest.

  ‘You know what’s required: strip me of my old identity and all that. And since I no longer have a father to advise me in the finer arts of matrimony, with all its joys – and intrinsic responsibilities of course – my mother’s brother will stand in his place. A more debauched character than Uncle Arne I’ve yet to meet!’ Hastein grinned, nodding toward a corpulent figure slumped on the bench a few feet away, more than a little drunk already. ‘It should prove interesting to hear his advice on taking care of a wife!’

  ‘I can give you all the advice you need there, cousin. Kata believes the sun shines out of my arse – and I’ve no mind to disillusion her just yet.’

  ‘Then I’ll look forward to your wise advice, Bjorn, though I’m sure you won’t mind if I ignore most of it. Until tomorrow then, Ulf, and remember, it’s Aethelnoth’s job to clean my ancestral sword, not yours, so don’t let the scoundrel shirk on that score! The sword’s in good condition anyway, been handed down in my family for a few generations, so we didn’t need to dig about in a burial mound to get it. Not nearly as old as Bjorn’s, of course, but the craftsmanship is very fine and I think Freydis will approve.’

  It was past midnight when Ulf eventually climbed into bed, having spoken with Aethelnoth for some time – though he’d kept his friend ignorant of his feelings for Freydis. Aethelnoth did not deserve to be burdened with such knowledge.

  * * *

  Ulf could recall little of Hastein and Freydis’s wedding other than it had seemed like a repeat of Bjorn and Kata’s. He’d witnessed the rites and traditions of the marriage ceremony as through a dense wall of fog. The long days of the honeymoon had been agony as family and guests celebrated in wild abandon. With each day’s close Hastein steered Freydis away to their bed, leaving Ulf fighting back tears of misery, regret and jealousy. He found little solace in knowing that Freydis had had no choice in her marriage and must learn to make the most of her new role in life.

  Too soon it was time for Hastein and his bride to leave. And though the day was cold for the second week of April, it seemed the entire population of Aros had gathered to bid farewell to the jarl’s lovely daughter. Emotions ran high; Ragnar’s embrace of his only daughter fierce and long. Freydis composed herself throughout, until she turned to Bjorn and Ubbi, when fortitude deserted her and her tears flowed. And when she eventually tore herself away it was only to sink into Thora’s waiting arms, the pain of their parting viewed by most through misty eyes.

  For Ulf, the pain of losing Jorund and Yrsa added to that of losing Freydis. But with his young brother and sister his emotions need not be curbed and he hugged them unreservedly.

  ‘You’re doing well,’ Sigehelm whispered at Ulf’s side. ‘I’m proud of you.’

  Ulf was well aware that Sigehelm had been watching him, most noticeably when Freydis ha
d come so close to wish them happiness. The brief flash of desperation in her eyes had almost caused him to cry out, only Sigehelm’s touch on his arm preventing him.

  Freydis eventually moved to stand by her smiling husband, ready to climb into the wagon with Jorund and Yrsa. Unaware of the great changes about to occur in her life, Yrsa giggled excitedly. But Jorund was on the verge of tears, unable to bear the thought of being separated from Ubbi.

  Ubbi suddenly hurtled from Ragnar’s side to clasp his friend by the shoulders. ‘When I’m a man I shall journey to Ribe and beg Hastein to allow you to become my thrall, Jorund. Just like Bjorn asked for Ulf,’ he proclaimed. ‘I shall pay handsomely, of course.’

  ‘Then I’m sure we can come to some amicable arrangement,’ Hastein replied, giving Ubbi a hug before moving to take his pony’s reins from Aethelnoth. ‘But until that time, we’ll take good care of your friend and his little sister. Freydis would cut off my . . . er . . . well, she’d certainly attack my person in some way if these two youngsters suffered any harm.’

  ‘Thank you, Hastein,’ Ubbi replied, grinning at everyone. ‘So, that will not be many years, Jorund. And Father says I can spend this summer in Ribe, so we’ll not be parted for long.’

  Hastein shouted final thanks to his hosts and mounted his waiting pony, and soon the wagons and carts rolled steadily away. From the back of her wagon, Freydis momentarily caught Ulf’s eye before turning her attentions to Ragnar. ‘You will keep your promise and bring Ubbi to Ribe in the summer, won’t you, Father? And I’d like you to see how good I am at managing the lands whilst my . . . my husband is away. I’ll make you proud of me, you’ll see.’

  Ulf headed back to the hall to hide his misery.

  Thirty Eight

  Aros: mid-April 858

  Losing Freydis served to galvanise in Ulf all the hurt, all the insult, resentment and rage that had accumulated over the years. Faces of his tormentors loomed in his head as he worked, opting for the most physical of tasks on which to vent the anger boiling in his guts. His chest heaved as he shovelled the stinking manure out of the stables, remembered words ringing in his ears:

  I know that, one day, you will be free and return to Mercia . . .

  You are destined to become a great warrior . . .

  Remember who you are . . .

  But Ulf needed no reminder of who he was. He was Eadwulf, atheling of Mercia: the proud son of King Beorhtwulf. And it was time to take his destiny into his own hands; put an end to his miseries on the whims of others. No longer would he let the injustices done to his family go unavenged. He was not a child any more; he was a man, strong and skilled in the use of seax, sword and battleaxe . . .

  He was no man’s thrall!

  The decision surged into Ulf’s mind as though it had always been waiting, just hovering on the periphery of his consciousness. Tonight, when Aros lay silent in sleep, he would flee. That would give him several hours start before the chase began – the baying hounds, and men intent on stringing him up to pacify the gods. He had no fears for the welfare of his young brother and sister; Freydis and Hastein would take good care of them. And one day, he’d return to Ribe and take them home to Mercia.

  But the crushing misery that engulfed him at the thought of betraying Bjorn almost destroyed every shred of his resolve. He’d already betrayed his master once, simply by loving Freydis, and was still uncertain as to whether he’d ever really be forgiven. A second betrayal was tantamount to openly obliterating all ties of friendship and respect between them. Bjorn might initially be distressed that Ulf could do this to him, but that distress could soon turn to rage. Above all else, Ragnar’s son was a Dane, whose injured pride would demand its own retribution. He’d probably lead the hunt.

  And yet, to find his real self, and avenge the deaths of his parents, and the damage done to those two young children, Ulf realised he must steel himself from conflicting emotions and forget his life of the past seven years.

  Now the decision was firmly lodged in his head and there was no evicting it. After years of obeying orders, Ulf would seek out his own path to follow.

  And his first stop along the way would be Aalborg.

  * * *

  Little under an hour had passed since the occupants of the hall had retired for the night, but Aros had already descended into silence. Ulf stepped warily towards the stables, the pale light of the quarter moon enough to betray the movements of an escaping thrall. He prayed to all the gods that if anyone had witnessed his leaving the hall, they’d think he was simply going to relieve himself.

  A night bird suddenly screamed, the sound splitting the air like a lightning bolt, swift and terrifying; a portent of doom. Ulf shook the thought away and focused on getting to the stables.

  An old sack slung across his back contained chunks of food wrapped in a cloth, and a waterskin tied about his waist would be fastened to the pony’s saddle, once away. It was all the sustenance he had for the sixty-mile journey, until he could steal more from somewhere. He’d face that problem when it arose. Of more immediate concern was the lack of a weapon: those he used at sea were forbidden to him, a thrall, once back home. The journey to Aalborg alone could be fraught with dangers. And for killing Rorik . . . ? He’d just have to rely on finding some discarded implement on reaching the town. Or else use his bare hands.

  He pulled open one of the two rickety stable doors, cringing at the creaks and groans it made as it shifted in irregular jerks. Unsettled by the sounds, ponies shuffled, the odd whinny causing Ulf’s heart to race. Tugging the door shut behind him, he murmured softly and they soon calmed. His voice was one they’d heard regularly over the past weeks, after all.

  Shut away from the moonlight, the darkness was intense, and Ulf stared into the large, wattle-walled building until his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. He inched his way towards the pony he’d previously selected, fumbling along the wall behind him until he located a lightweight saddle and bridle. Lifting them down he moved across to the stall, ready to back the pony out.

  The sudden creak of the door stopped him in his tracks. He peered over the side of the stall, his eyes fixing onto a on a dark shape outlined in the doorway. It appeared to be a single man, motionless, and likely staring into the sudden darkness. Silently, Ulf laid down the saddle and crept to crouch down at the end of the stall. He peered out, his ears strained to detect movement.

  The sudden thwack of a foot striking a wooden pail pinpointed the man’s position: the bucket always sat in that particular place against the wall. Ulf dived out, colliding with a solid figure and landing on top of him on the earthen floor. His victim yelped, too stunned to retaliate, as Ulf rained blows to his head and stomach.

  ‘Enough, you damned fool! Are you so intent on leaving that you must kill me to do so?’

  Ulf recoiled at the sound of the familiar voice, pulling himself up and staring down at the object of his fury. But his shock was rapidly replaced by rage at being called ‘a damned fool’. ‘I’m doing exactly what you want me to do, Bjorn,’ he snapped. ‘You made it quite clear I had to leave. I just decided it would be at my own instigation.’

  Ulf’s use of the name was deliberate. Never again would he call anyone ‘master’.

  Wincing at the effort, Bjorn dragged himself up to face him, so close that Ulf could have reached out to touch him. He could just make out Bjorn’s features now, and the slight tilt of his head as they stared at each other.

  ‘Though I didn’t know it was you sneaking up on me,’ Ulf admitted, breaking the awkward silence. ‘I imagined you’d be curled up in bed with Kata . . . But don’t expect me to give up my plans. I will leave, even if I have to knock you out or truss you up to do it. If I stayed, you’d never be able to trust me again. You’d always be thinking I was plotting to flee. And you’d be right. It could only end with me dangling from Odin’s oak.’

  For some moments Bjorn did not
move or speak, but at last he leaned wearily against the wall. ‘We need to talk about what you’re intending to do,’ he said quietly, all trace of outrage gone from his voice as he slid to the floor. Warily, Ulf sat beside him. ‘I’ll overlook your attack on me if you can see reason,’ Bjorn went on. ‘There are things I need to say before you embark on this foolhardy venture – which, as you said yourself, could only end up one way. No matter whether you knock me out, or even kill me.’

  Ulf felt the attention full on his face, glad he couldn’t see the look in Bjorn’s eyes. The hurt would be too much to bear. ‘I know you’ve been tormenting yourself with the belief you could have saved your mother, Ulf, but you could never have done so. Morwenna’s fate was sealed as soon as Rorik discovered her secret. And we won’t go into the possibilities of how that could have happened, right now. But, if I know anything about you at all, the need to wreak revenge on Rorik has been gnawing at your guts ever since. Oh, you put up a brave enough show on our Baltic trip, and I’d hoped you were coming to terms with the events at Aalborg. But now I realise the warrior in you would never let that happen. You won’t rest until Rorik lies dead at your feet. Or you at his.’

  Bjorn ignored Ulf’s grunt. ‘I know you don’t want to hear this again, Ulf, but your relationship with Freydis was also doomed from the start. I’d seen the two of you becoming very close over the years, as, no doubt, had Sigehelm. But discovering that your feelings for each other had developed into such passion hit me like one of Aegir’s spiteful waves. If I hadn’t noticed Sigehelm staring at the door as you left the hall each night, I might never have known what was going on. The look on the scribe’s face said it all. I’ll say no more about that night. I’m not proud of the way I lost my temper. But Hastein is my cousin, and honour dictated–’