by Millie Thom
‘Is this leading anywhere, or is that it?’ Ulf’s anger was rising again, roaring through him to match the frustration he felt at the disruption to his plans; this wasted time. ‘As far as I see it, there’s only one way I’m getting out of here. And that’s right through you. I’ll probably have to kill you – whether I want to or not.’
Ulf heard the sudden intake of breath, imagined the pained look on Bjorn’s face and felt the familiar pulls of loyalty, admiration and gratitude.
‘You’d do that, would you?’ Bjorn’s voice was a mere whisper but the hurt rang loud. ‘You’d actually kill me?’
‘It would never come to that, and you know it. Your men would be here long before I got the chance.’
‘Answer the question, Ulf. Would you kill me if I tried to stop you leaving?’
‘I don’t know, Bjorn. Settling my score with Rorik means more than anything else to me right now.’ He sighed, his anger tempered by a sensation of deep sorrow. ‘I’d never willingly harm you, you must know that. But–’
‘Your desire for revenge overrides all else. I understand that, and I’ll admit, you’ve suffered a great deal. I, for one, wouldn’t be sorry to hear of the demise of that obnoxious swine, Rorik.’ Bjorn paused, seeming to consider what he would say next. ‘And I know that losing Freydis almost broke you. Believe me, I’ve been expecting you to do something like this for weeks. In fact, I’ve watched you slipping food into bags for the past few days. That’s why I followed you out here now; you seemed particularly on edge tonight.
‘And you’re right, Ulf. I still believe that your leaving Aros is vital. But not like this. You’ve already spelled out the inevitable consequences of that.’
Ulf waited as more precious moments passed, angry with himself for even listening to all this. Bjorn was just playing for time; coaxing him to stay.
‘In two weeks’ time we set sail for Ribe,’ Bjorn reminded him, ‘then on to the Middle Sea. You know how long we’ve planned for this, and how much the venture means to me and Hastein. Well, I believe your leaving might well be achieved once we get to Ribe. And that way, no one in Aros would know you’d even gone until my return.’
‘But how . . .?’
‘Don’t ask me that, Ulf, because I can’t yet give you a full enough answer. But I’ve been toying with the idea for some time and things are just starting to come together. And I think you could find your way from Ribe to Aalborg easily enough.’
Ulf grunted. ‘How do I know you won’t have me thrown in the pit once we leave these stables?’
‘I suppose you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?’
Thirty Nine
Aros –Ribe: late April 859
Thirty colourful sails snapped taut, gripped in the vicelike jaws of a howling wind that drove the dragonships north through the Kattegat. Like a swarm of grotesquely-headed beasts the ships soared over the foaming brine, gaping maws blood-red, salivating with the expectation of fresh kill. Nearing the Limfjord, Bjorn turned his back to the Sea Eagle’s prow and faced his men, his hair and cloak streaming out behind, eyes glistening with the sting of wind and sea spray. ‘To fortunes greater than we have ever known!’ he yelled, punching the air above him. ‘And the charms of olive-skinned women with hair as black as night! What red-blooded Dane could ask for more?’
The crew cheered and whistled but Ulf silently concentrated on his rowing, mentally preparing himself for the days ahead. As they sailed past Aalborg, he smiled grimly to himself, imagining his return to the town, very soon. How that would be achieved, or how he’d even get away from Ribe, he had no idea. He’d put his trust in Bjorn, and so far, Bjorn had kept his word. He’d not ordered Ulf thrown into the pit, nor even referred to the incident in the stables again.
The following afternoon they sailed into the estuary of the Ribea, and while the rest of the fleet berthed at Ribe, where the men could enjoy the port’s many attractions, the Eagle continued upstream to Hastein’s village.
Freydis was too busy catering that night to offer more than general greetings. Ulf felt relieved at that; just seeing her was enough to tear his emotions to shreds. But he did manage to catch Jorund alone.
‘Are you and Yrsa happy here?’ he asked, taking in the boy’s decent tunic and sturdy shoes compared to the shabby clothing Aslanga provided for her thralls. ‘You certainly look well cared for.’
‘We are,’ Jorund replied, his eyes briefly finding Ulf’s as he made ready his bed. ‘Freydis and Lord Hastein are very kind to us. And Yrsa and I have plenty to eat and nice clothes. But . . .’
‘Come on, out with it,’ Ulf prompted, ruffling his brother’s hair.
Jorund’s face crumpled. ‘It’s just that I’ve no friends here. The other boys keep telling me I’m just a measly thrall and won’t let me play with them. They aren’t nasty when Freydis is around; then they pretend to like me! And I miss Ubbi.’
Ulf hugged his brother, knowing too well what it felt like to be an outcast amongst other children. ‘I’ll speak to Hastein, or Freydis, if you like. But if the children think you’ve gone crying to the master or mistress, it could make matters worse.’
‘I know. I’ve just got to find a way to make them like me on my own.’
* * *
The following morning, Hastein and his crew were down at the river, loading their ships for sailing, leaving the hall strangely quiet. Ulf wandered outside, noticing that even the Eagle’s crewmen were nowhere to be seen. Thralls were busy at their chores, and small children chased about, shrieking excitedly. Ulf watched them, envious of their joy in life; it had been a long time since he felt that carefree. He wondered when Bjorn would inform him of his plans. The joint fleets would be sailing with the morning tide and any move Ulf made would have to be soon . . .
The sudden arrival of the master he was about to desert startled him from his thoughts.
‘Let’s go inside so we can talk away from all this mayhem,’ Bjorn said, gesturing to a group of lads about to embark on a punch-up, before heading for the hall door. ‘I’ve sent our men with Hastein so we’d be left in peace,’ he began, his voice suitably lowered once they were seated indoors. A handful of women were now busy sorting through skeins of wool by the looms along the far wall, chatting to each other as they worked. Ulf tugged at the neck of his tunic. Anxiety was making him nervous. ‘I don’t want anyone overhearing what I’ve got to say, even though I still can’t give you any last minute details until later.’
Ulf just nodded, willing Bjorn to divulge his plans quickly. He wasn’t in the mood for a long preamble.
‘Agonising over the best way for you to get away unseen has caused me many a sleepless night,’ Bjorn confessed. ‘And I’ve had no one to talk it through with, other than Leif.’
Ulf stared at him. ‘Leif knows I’m about to run . . .? I thought you said no one else would be involved in this. Does he also know about my relationship with Freydis?’
‘Leif’s a trusted friend, Ulf, who happens to think highly of you. I told him about you and Freydis weeks ago, and he’s been as concerned as I have over what could be done. We’ve pondered on it many times. He doesn’t know about events in the stable, though. I won’t tell anyone about that. But he does know that you’ll not be sailing with us.
‘I’ll tell my sister exactly what I’m about to tell you. Though her heart may bleed for want of you, she’ll continue to care for Hastein, for whom she feels great affection, if not the deep love she has for you.’
‘Then I’d be grateful if you’d tell me quickly what you’ve decided,’ Ulf croaked.
Bjorn held Ulf’s gaze. ‘You’ve been far more than a thrall to me, Ulf, saving both my life and Ubbi’s after all. But we both know that you and Freydis need to move on. And if things in Aalborg go as you intend, news of Rorik’s regrettable death will reach Aros before too long. Of course you and I will be far away in the Middle
Sea at the time,’ he added with a wink, ‘so no one’s likely to suspect you.’ He suddenly grinned impishly. ‘I wonder if you’ll ever think of us when you’re back in Mercia.’
Ulf gaped, but subsequent explanation was forestalled by the arrival of Freydis, laden with bread for the morning meal. Close behind her toddled little Yrsa, toting a flatbread wider than herself.
‘We’ll talk later, Ulf, as soon as Leif returns. Then I’ll speak to Freydis.’
* * *
By early afternoon Leif was back, and once the helmsman had downed a second mug of ale, Bjorn led them to the cemetery where Giermund was buried so they could speak openly. Cross-legged at the edge of the graveyard amidst a profusion of spring flowers, they were silent for some time before Bjorn said, ‘Of course you realise that Hastein won’t initially be told of your leaving. If he notices your absence during our boarding and moving out, I’ll be very surprised. But if he does, I’ll simply say you’ve fled and nothing can be done about it. Hastein’s fleet will be waiting at the mouth of the Ribea by sunrise, so our sailing can’t be delayed.’
He plucked a couple of shiny yellow celandines, examining them as though that were his sole purpose in life. ‘What I’ll tell him later on I don’t know yet. I just hope some feasible explanation grabs me.’ He paused, inadvertently crushing the small flowers he’d held so tenderly just moments before. ‘Hastein will be dismayed by the thought that you’ve run, Ulf, I know that much, and will want explanations regarding your motives. But one thing is certain: Hastein must never know that any involvement has ever existed between you and Freydis. I won’t see my cousin so hurt.
‘Do you both understand?’ he said, his green gaze flicking from Ulf to Leif. ‘Forgive me for laying this demand at your feet too, my friend. I know you always speak and act with prudence – but my fondness for my cousin . . .’
Leif gave a dismissive wave. ‘I understand, Bjorn. You have my word that Hastein will hear naught from my lips.’
‘Nor from mine,’ Ulf affirmed as Bjorn squinted at him in the sunlight.
Bjorn nodded. ‘The only time this can be done is today: late this afternoon, or early evening, whilst there’s still light. Tomorrow we sail, and you must be gone before then.’ He gestured to Leif, who took his cue:
‘This morning, when most folk were busy with preparations for sailing, I sort of borrowed one of Hastein’s ponies and rode into Ribe. I’d a job avoiding our own men, and some weren’t entirely convinced I’d been sent on my own to purchase extra provisions. Can’t say I’m surprised, mind you. Not a very likely story, is it? I bought a couple of coils of rope to carry round with me, look more convincing, like. Anyway, my real motive for going was to find an old acquaintance of Ragnar’s and mine – someone we’ve met up with many a time over the years: Kaupang, Hedeby, Birka . . . We’ve even enjoyed a few mugs together here in Ribe. He’s a Norwegian, an old seaman who spends more time aboard ship than we do. I found him exactly where I’d expected – down at the quay with his ships. Like us, he sails tomorrow.’
Leif shifted his bony backside into a more comfortable position on its hard seat. ‘Olaf hasn’t changed a bit since you and I last saw him ten years ago, Bjorn – though you were little more than a lad yourself then. He sends his regards and hopes we can all meet up again soon, Ragnar included. Next year perhaps?’
Bjorn shrugged. ‘Perhaps, although I can’t answer for my father. I recall Olaf as an irascible old rogue, but deep down, he’s a good sort. Talked a lot about his family – probably because he so rarely sees them.’
‘How did you know he was in Ribe?’
Leif shot Ulf a glance and picked up a sharp stone that appeared to be the major cause of his discomfort. He lobbed it across the grass, prompting the screeching alarm call of a startled blackbird. ‘Hastein mentioned it last night,’ he said, selecting another stone to hurl. ‘Few ships berth at Ribe without him knowing about it. Seems Olaf’s been in Ribe this past week and – here’s the best bit – he’s short of crew for his voyage. A few of them decided they’d rather not go home right now and disappeared a few days ago. Beats me why they’d do that, but do it they did. Olaf’s mad as can be, but has no way of finding them.’
‘So you asked him to take me on. But isn’t he just sailing to the Norwegian lands?’
‘The first bit of that’s true enough, but not the second,’ Leif said, glancing at Bjorn, who nodded for him to continue.
‘Well, lad, on leaving Ribe, Olaf’ll first be making a detour up the Limfjord to Aalborg for a day or two – says he’s got some cargo bound for the place and he’s hoping to recruit a few more crewmen there. It’s an interesting town, Aalborg,’ he added, staring at Ulf and nodding slowly, ‘and we think you’ll find plenty to occupy you whilst you’re moored up.’
Ulf’s looked from Leif to Bjorn as the implications of the steersman’s words hit. But neither man spoke, leaving him time to digest this new development. Olaf would be taking him straight to Rorik’s door.
‘Does Olaf know what I intend to do in Aalborg?’
Bjorn shook his head. ‘Though he might guess, especially if the hue and cry’s raised before you set sail again.’
‘Anyway,’ Leif continued, breaking the awkward pause, ‘after dropping off the goods for his own people, Olaf’ll be on the move again. You’ll not like what I’m about to say, Ulf, but say it I must. He plans to raid along the coast of Northumbria, then work his way south along the Mercian and Anglian coasts. There’s some very convenient rivers along the way too.’
Seeing the way to Mercia open up before him, Ulf disregarded thoughts of raids in his homeland. ‘And he agreed to me leaving him once we’re over there?’
‘He did. And I’ve paid the old scoundrel enough to hire several more men in your stead.’ Bjorn suddenly shot a worried look at Leif. ‘You did remember to give him the purse?’
‘I did that. And very pleased he was to accept it.’
‘Then it’s all set.’ Bjorn heaved himself to his feet and started back to the hall. ‘You need to get to Ribe before nightfall, Ulf. No goodbyes to anyone, not even Jorund and Yrsa, and Freydis will keep them out of the way when we leave tomorrow. As to your absence from the meal tonight, should anyone notice, I’ll say you’re doing some job for me.’
‘And the crew?’
‘I’ll tell them what I tell Hastein: that you’ve fled – unless you’ve any better ideas. And don’t worry about having no coin. I’ve another purse put aside, for you. You’ll need most of it once you’re back in Mercia, so keep it out of sight until then. As long as you sail with Olaf, you’ll be well fed, but after that . . .’ Bjorn flashed a roguish grin. ‘I don’t want you to waste away due to starvation – especially after I’ve gone to all this trouble to send you home.’
* * *
With the hood of his coat pulled up to hide his conspicuous red hair, Ulf pushed through the crowds still thronging Ribe’s waterfront, the early evening air thick with the smell of fish and brackish water. He tugged the sack slung across his back round to his chest: it contained all his worldly possessions, including the heavy purse and silver armband from Bjorn, and he couldn’t risk the chance of a thief snatching it. Drawing comfort from the feel of the dagger Leif had given him pushed through his tunic belt he moved on, keeping his head bowed. Scores of vessels were moored along the quayside, many loaded for sailing with the morning tide. Crewmen sat aboard or on the quay, drinking companionably, their voices mingling with the screams of seabirds seeking last minute scraps. He didn’t glance at the men guarding Bjorn’s fleet. Most had known him for years and would recognise him too easily.
He located the Norwegian dragonship, Fenrir; exactly where Leif had told him, along the most southerly of the jetties. She was a fearsomely beautiful-looking craft, as long as Bjorn’s Sea Eagle, her prow supporting the head of the great wolf after which she was named.
Ulf’s sc
rutiny of the ship was cut short by the appearance of someone peering at him over the vessel’s side. The greying hue of his long, lank hair matched the trailing moustaches and plaited beard: a man easily old enough to have once caroused with Leif and Ragnar.
‘Step aboard,’ Olaf shouted down in answer to Ulf’s query. ‘We’re a fair way from your lot here, but best keep your hood up till daylight’s gone.’
Ulf boarded the longship, nodding at the group of hardened-looking men talking quietly over their ale. They eyed him with ill-disguised suspicion before returning his nod and resuming their muted conversation.
‘They’ll treat you fairly – Ulf, is it?’ – Olaf said, ‘as long as you pull your weight. Can’t expect them to be too friendly till they know what you look like, can we?’
‘I suppose not,’ Ulf agreed, his lips twitching.
‘Well then, seat yerself and we’ll eat some bread and good, strong cheese and down a few mugs. The rest of the crew’ll stay in the town till we sail.’ Olaf flicked his chin to indicate the length of the ship. ‘We’re all loaded for off, so I’ve a few more men aboard with me tonight. Don’t want no buggers trying to relieve us of our stuff, do we?’
Ulf eventually closed his eyes to Ribe’s flickering lights. In a few hours he’d be sailing away from the life he’d known for the past eight years. What lay ahead, only time would tell. All he could see was the bloodied knife in his hand.
And Rorik, dead at his feet.
Forty
Aalborg: late April 859
The Fenrir spent a day and night at sea, following the Danish coast north before veering east into the Limfjord. Ulf slept little during his allotted rest periods, his thoughts preoccupied with possible ways of killing Rorik. And then, having achieved that, he’d have the problem of disposing of the body. At the very least, it must not be found until the Fenrir was well clear of the Limfjord . . .
By the time they reached Aalborg, Ulf still had no answers to his problems.
