by Millie Thom
The lightening sky signalled the rapidly approaching dawn, and there was still the possibility of someone coming to piss. Ulf needed to get rid of the body, and quick. He glanced at the dense thicket barely twenty yards away. That had always been a possibility. Then he looked at the hut and wondered . . .
Inside the old hut, the latrine consisted of a deep pit bridged by a wooden plank with a hole in it for use as a ‘seat’. Ulf had made use of it himself when he’d been here on that ill-fated visit with Bjorn. Next to the pit sat a shovel and a mound of soil, with which users were expected to cover their own excrement. Many didn’t, and the place usually reeked.
The ideal burial place for the brutal jarl.
Ulf released his hold on the dagger and eased the heavy body to the ground. Then, gagging at the stench as he opened the door, he dragged the corpse inside the hut, and kicked the wooden plank away. Carefully, he pulled his precious dagger from Rorik’s chest, wiping it in the soil before returning it to the sheath at his belt. Blood gushed from the wound now that the dagger had been removed, and Ulf shoved the body quickly to the edge of the pit . . .
Rorik dropped, and landed with a muted slap in his stinking grave.
Ulf shovelled in the soil until certain that the body was no longer visible, and replaced the wooden plank. Guardedly, he opened the door. All was clear, so he used the edge of the shovel to remove any trace of something being dragged inside. Then, checking that the coast was still clear, he made his retreat to the ship, exulting in his triumph.
* * *
Ulf watched the islands of the Limfjord slip by, and by mid-morning the Fenrir veered north, heading for the Norwegian lands. He’d already said his goodbyes to those he loved, and those he knew he’d never forget, and now he was heading home to Mercia. Exactly when he’d get there, however, he’d no idea: Olaf was already considering a trading trip to Gotland after taking the supplies up to his people in the Lofotens, with a stop at Kaupang on the way back. So by the time they’d done all that, it would probably be too late in the year to sail again. Ulf would be stuck in Olaf’s village for the winter.
But Olaf swore he’d be crossing the Northern Seas the following spring. The old seaman had heard that trading was good in some Northumbrian city. And of course, there was always the possibility of a bountiful raid or two . . .
Ulf knew nothing about Northumbria, except that it lay to the north of Mercia and, like the Mercians, the people were descended from the Angles. But once he was on Anglo-Saxon soil, he’d find his way to Mercia, no matter how long it took. He was in no particular hurry, now. The first object of his revenge had been dealt with, and he’d ride on the elation of that success for some time yet.
And firmly lodged in his head was the absolute certainty that, one day, he’d deal with his loving uncle, Burgred.
