Ambrose, Prince of Wessex; Trader of Kiev.

by Bruce Corbett

  The old man smiled at, presumably, the sound of Ambrose butchering his language. "Well spoken, my boy. What is your name, and that of the young woman?"

  "Ambrose, sir, if it pleases you." Ambrose then turned to the girl and asked her in Anglish what she was called. She responded timidly.

  "Anna, Sire."

  Ambrose passed on the information to the old man, who asked a series of questions about their home, their interests, and their likes. Before they reached the house, they were quite at ease with him, and quite forgot the ludicrous spectacle of two naked youngsters following an ancient man of over sixty seasons.

  They arrived at the old man's home, and Anna seemed intimidated at the size of it. The compound consisted of several outbuildings and one large building. Inside, Ambrose and Anna were surprised to see that the building was divided into two separate rooms, with hide curtains providing privacy.

  Ambrose, used to his brother's eight room burh at Winchester, was not overly impressed, except for the fact that the house was extremely snug, and would provide good shelter from the raging storms that would surely sweep along the coast come winter. Anna, however, stood in awe at the size of the building.

  Seeing them hesitate, the old man introduced himself to them and then explained the domestic arrangements.

  "My name is Canute. Sit, barbarians, and I will tell you more about myself. You see before you my house, built by Jorn, my son, and myself, for my dear wife. She passed away last winter, always mourning for our dear son. Somewhere in Frankland, some years ago, a barbarian spitted him. His body now lies mouldering on some riverbank, and I will never be able to do him the honour of a Viking funeral."

  Canute paused. His eyes, even in the limited light, appeared misty to Ambrose. Ambrose did his best to translate for Anna, who desperately wanted to know what the old man was saying. At length the old man continued.

  "But I stray from my subject - my quarters are beyond the curtain. It is the way my wife wanted it."

  With that he pointed at the far end of the room, and then turned again to look at Ambrose and Anna. Suddenly he clapped his hand to his mouth.

  "My dear little savages, I had quite forgotten your state of undress. Ambrose, go you to that wooden trunk over there, and look for clothes that will fit - they were my son's.

  Anna, come you with me. I will try to find something to match your barbarian beauty."

  Anna hesitated, and then, after Ambrose's translation, followed Canute into the old man's personal quarters.

  CHAPTER 7.

  Ambrose Works Hard, Trains, and Learns to Make Love.

  Thus Ambrose settled into his new home. Canute was a kind and gentle man, if somewhat given to shouting great oaths when he dipped into his mead. He took good care of both of his thralls, however. It was not long before a strong bond of friendship grew between the strange trio. Anna was called but seldom to sleep with her master. She spent most of her time tending the field of crops that belonged to Canute, or grinding meal and cooking for the three of them.

  Ambrose, slight of build, helped her when he could, but he was often also instructed to help Polonius in the hut of learning the village chief had set up within his own compound. Of all the inhabitants of the entire village, only the two of them could write or read any southern languages, and even Ambrose's skills were rudimentary.

  In a matter of weeks, Ambrose's Danish was more than adequate, while Polonius' was as smooth and polished as anyone in the village. Daily, Polonius and he drilled away at an odd assortment of lads. The two foreigners attempted to teach them the basics of math and how to read in Latin, although here Polonius was handicapped by not knowing the Danish runes. He had been surprised to learn that most adult Vikings could read runes, as well as write them. Thus he threw himself into mastering the Viking runes.

  Life in the village wasn't terribly onerous, though all, Danes and slaves together, worked hard. The thralls saw much of each other in the evenings, after the chores were done for the day. Of them all, only a few had brutal masters. One girl, ill-used by her master and several of his drunken guests, went insane and ran naked through the village, screaming and foaming at the mouth. Even the thralls were thankful when an accurate boar-spear ended her torment.

  On one particularly fine summer morning, when Ambrose was free of any duties, he eagerly sought out Phillip. More than once, when sent on some errand, Ambrose had seen the massive thane working the fields of his new master.

  Ambrose's old friend and tutor wore a heavy thrall's collar and was harnessed to a plough. Only his great strength and endurance allowed the Weapons-master to survive, as his master was generous with a whip and frugal with food. Village thralls told Ambrose that Phillip's master was a drunkard who believed in the theory that it was cheaper to overwork and underfeed a thrall to death, rather than wastefully feed him the amount of food that the strenuous work required.

  Worrying about Phillip alone kept Ambrose from settling into a rut of contentment, for he himself had considerate treatment, good food, companionship, and fresh air. His muscles hardened and skin bronzed in the summer sun.

  Although still small for his age, the prince put on weight and grew some two hand-heights in height. Polonius went to great efforts to push the young man's mind hard on the mastery of several tongues and the many mysteries of the universe.

  Ambrose was splitting firewood when Anna approached and called his name. The prince turned to see Anna silhouetted against the sun. Her blond hair glowed with the reflected light, and Ambrose could clearly see that she had nothing on under the thin gown. He looked away from her lithe body, but he could feel a flush spreading across his face.

  She too, seemed to blush as she spoke to him. He had often noted the blush when she said something to him. Although he wanted to say something about her blond beauty, he just spoke tersely.

  "Yes, Anna?"

  "Master Canute asked me to send you to him right away."

  "Then I am on my way.' He blushed again. 'Will you walk with me?"

  Anna looked down at her feet, and Ambrose loved the way strands of blond hair slid over her face. "I would be honoured, Atheling."

  Ambrose thrust aside the hide covering that acted as door in the summer heat. He stepped into Canute's home and looked around in the semi-darkness for his master. At last, as his eyes adjusted, he saw the old Viking warrior standing by his weapons chest.

  "You wanted me, Master?"

  "Aye, Ambrose. Come stand beside me."

  "Of course, Master."

  When Ambrose had joined him, Canute reached into the open weapons chest and withdrew a sword made in the Viking manner. Stripping the oiled protective cloth from it, he held it high in the air.

  "Ambrose, I fear that this is not as fine a weapon as a prince might have, yet it is a good and serviceable blade. My own son wielded it in battle. Its name is Deep-biter."

  "It looks to be a fine blade, Master."

  "Do you know how to use such a blade, Ambrose?"

  "Until I was captured, I spent several hours a day practising martial arts, Master."

  "Were you good with a sword?"

  "I lacked strength, Master, but Phillip, my instructor, said that I had a good eye and fast reflexes.' Ambrose spoke with sudden pride. 'Phillip said that when I got a man's strength, I would be a formidable fighter."

  "Well, Ambrose, I have watched you at work for some time now. I think you now have developed that strength."

  "I know I have grown a lot since I first arrived, Master, and the physical labour has hardened my muscles beyond anything I ever knew. I fear, however, I will never grow to the height of most Viking men. The lack of height is from my mother's side of the family."

  "Ambrose, you have never told me about your mother. Was she a small woman and of Saxon blood?"

  "Master, she was of royal British blood. In her veins ran both the blood of the ancient Romans and of the tribal chiefs who ruled my homeland even before the coming of the Romans."

  "An
d that made you a prince, Ambrose?"

  "No, Master. Our family long ago fell into hard times. When the Saxons came, my ancestors were defeated in battle. My mother's people became tenants in their own lands."

  "But your people call you a prince, young Ambrose."

  "My mother was of royal blood, Master, but my father was king of the empire of Wessex."

  "Ah, then he saw your mother and made her a queen."

  Ambrose smiled. "Not quite, Master. She was a slave, but he did fall in love with her and made a royal mistress of her. And he recognized my birth. It is this kindness that made me a prince, Master."

  "Until the terrible Vikings captured you, young prince."

  "True, Master. That is how we see your people. But you have been very kind to me, and I am grateful."

  "I do not think that you will always be a thrall, Ambrose. I want you to take that sword and clean it well. There is a wooden scabbard in there somewhere.

  Starting tomorrow, the village lads will be training for war. I want you to join them."

  Ambrose looked shocked. "Master, I cannot! I could lose my right hand or even my life if I raised a weapon against a free man of the village!"

  "I spoke in the last meeting of the Thing. Thralls and Freedmen are allowed to train with the sons of the village. You are only punished if you raise a weapon against a Viking in anger or disobedience."

  "Then I will do as you command, Master. I will strive to make you proud of me."

  Canute smiled. "Tomorrow at noon, Ambrose. Go and learn the Viking art of war."

  Lars, the youngest son of Lief the Drunkard, owner of Phillip, laughed as the diminutive Ambrose joined the little group. "Go back to your dung heap, slave! You have no business here amongst men."

  "What you say may be true, Master Lars, but my Master Canute bade me come and learn the Viking way of fighting. I must obey."

  "Ha. Then strap on your shield, and I will show you how a man fights!"

  Without even waiting for Ambrose to unsheathe his sword, the bully attacked. Ambrose desperately swung up his shield. It saved his head, but he was driven to the ground with the force of the blow. Kiarr, the eldest of the unblooded youths, called out in alarm.

  "Lars, we are supposed to train with the wooden swords! Ambrose is wearing neither protective padding nor helmet! If he had not been able to throw up his shield in time, he would be dead!"

  "Then my father would pay the blood-price. This thrall thinks he is good enough to train with us. I will teach him otherwise."

  Kiarr yelled in anger. "Amongst his own people he is a prince! And he only does what he is told by Canute. Your own father agreed to let him train with us."

  "He didn't. He was outvoted. And no one asked my permission. If this Saxon from the dung pile is to pretend that he is a man, he will have to learn to fight like one!"

  As Lars spoke, he started forward again. Ambrose rolled several times across the grass, and then climbed to his feet. Deep-biter slid from the scabbard.

  "Master Lars, let me get a wooden practise sword. Deep-biter is sharp, and I have no wish to harm you!"

  Lars started his own glittering blade swirling through the air. "Then throw down your weapon, slave, and return to the dung pile from whence you came!"

  He stepped forward steadily, until he was within reach again of Ambrose. Keeping his light wooden shield high, he swung his sword again and again at Ambrose. The prince backed and shifted from side to side. Most of Lars' swings missed him completely, or grazed harmlessly off Ambrose's own shield.

  Ambrose, afraid to harm the boy, protected himself from the hammering blows without attacking. Lars became furious when he realized that Ambrose's quick reflexes and skill prevented him from landing any telling blows.

  "Stand still, you dancing fairy. Come here and fight like a man!"

  "Master Lars, I am here to practise, not to fight a real duel with you!"

  Lars turned in triumph to his friends. "You see? All slaves are cowards! A real man would die in battle before he is taken. Only cowards live to feel a thrall collar around their neck!"

  With no place left to retreat, Ambrose was again forced to his knees.

  "Lars!"

  The mob of boys looked up to see old Uigbiorn approaching. Dressed in a fine shirt of chain-mail, the grizzled veteran of a hundred battles strode angrily into their midst. He had been responsible for training the village boys for more than a dozen years, and he was known as a fierce taskmaster. Amongst the unblooded youths, his word was law.

  "You are attacking a thrall who is afraid he will be punished if he hurts you, boy! Only a coward would do such a thing. Both of you put down your weapons and pick up the wooden practise swords!"

  Lars burned in embarrassment. "Why is this piece of Saxon shit amongst us? He is thrall and we are free men. He has no business here!"

  "And do you wish to be old Canute's right arm and eyes? The Thing approved Ambrose's training, and you will obey your elders or find yourself exiled for life! Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, Warrior."

  "Good. Then strap on some protective clothing, get a practise sword, and then you can have at him. You, Ambrose, will do the same. You will then be able to defend yourself properly from this blowhard . . . No, Lars. You two are to use the weighted swords. Well, go to it, lads. You will fight until one of you cannot stand."

  The two young men circled each other warily. Assured by both the weapons and the padding that he could not accidentally seriously hurt Lars, Ambrose attacked with a vengeance. The stocky and much heavier boy found himself driven back by the sheer fury of Ambrose's attack.

  Pitting shield against sword and sword against shield, Ambrose pressed Lars to the edge of the crowd. At last, however, the sheer weight of the heavily weighted practise sword wore down the last reserves of Ambrose's strength. He faltered, and Lars, though sore and bruised from Ambrose's many successful hits, was finally able to return to the attack.

  A powerful stroke from Lar's blade drove Ambrose's wooden sword from his nerveless fingers. Lars grinned and carefully stepped over Ambrose's blade. Triumph glinted in his eyes and Ambrose was sure that he intended to beat him half to death.

  Ambrose's eyes flicked to his sword. Lars had positioned himself so that Ambrose had no chance to retrieve it. The prince saw Lars' sword descending. He deflected the blade with his shield, and then unexpectedly threw his shield at Lars' unprotected legs. Even while the shield struck Lars hard, Ambrose tried to roll into the attacker. Lars shrieked in sudden pain, but his sword struck hard against the padding Ambrose wore.

  The blade fell again and again, until Uigbiorn called out. "Enough! That's enough, Lars. You have won. You, Ambrose! Can you get to your feet?"

  Ambrose struggled to rise. His arm and shoulder were on fire. In spite of the thick padding, the blows had been very painful. "I think so, Warrior."

  "Good. Lars, you are training to be a warrior, not a butcher. If that is the best you can do, then you have a long way to go before you can call yourself a warrior. This man has far faster reflexes than you. In a real fight and with a real sword, Ambrose would have carved you to pieces.

  And you, Ambrose. You will have to work hard on developing your arm muscles. A Viking sword seems to be too heavy for you. And why did you throw away your only protection?"

  "I'm sorry, Warrior. I hoped to close before he could use the sword on me. In real combat I would have attacked with my sax."

  "And did it work?"

  Ambrose hung his head. "No, Warrior."

  "Then what would you do next time?"

  "Go for the head, Warrior."

  The old warrior and trainer threw back his head and laughed. "You will yet be a great fighter, little one. You have the spirit and the drive."

  Lars was furious. "He is but a slave, Warrior! He should lose his right hand for even lifting a blade to me."

  The old warrior turned to face the brash young man. "He did not, boy! Knowing that he could not defend himself pr
operly against you, you chose to try and kill him. Only a coward would take on a man forbidden to fight back!"

  Lars paled. "Are you saying that I am a coward, Warrior?"

  "I do not yet know, Lars, son of Lief. If I find that you are, you will never go a-viking with these young men! There is no place amongst a warrior band for a coward."

  Ambrose dejectedly slid around the deerhide that kept the insects from Canute's home. Canute was sitting in his seat-of-honour, and called out to the young man.

  "The warrior returns! How went the training, boy?"

  "I was able to batter Master Lars with the heavy wooden sword, but in the end I tired and lost my weapon. He beat me until I could not rise."

  Canute's eyebrows lifted. "Oh ho! And is he as stiff as you?"

  Ambrose suddenly smiled. "I think so, Master. If we had been using real swords, I would have killed him several times over before he was able to strike me."

  "Then you have nothing to be ashamed of, young Ambrose. Strip off your shirt and let me see the damage."

  Both Canute and Anna stared at the many marks criss-crossing Ambrose's arms and chest. Showing red now, Ambrose knew they would soon show as purple welts."

  Canute looked concerned. Anna! Go and fetch my healing unguents. We will rub it into Ambrose's muscles, and he will be a little less stiff tomorrow morning. Boy, what is that bruise by your left nipple?"

  Ambrose's finger went to the mark Canute's old eyes had spotted. "Do you mean this, Master?"

  "Aye, that one."

  "It is but a birthmark, Master. My mother had the same mark on her left breast, and she told me her mother and her mother's mother had the same mark, down through many generations."

  "My eyes do not focus as well as they used to, but from here it looks to be in the shape of a leaf."

  "It is in the shape of an oak leaf. My mother told me the leaf was sacred to the ancient Druids, and the birthmark was proof of our claim to royalty. All the kings of our ancient lands had such a mark."

  Canute looked thoughtful. "Your own Christ-priests have eradicated most of the Druids, but I have landed on islands in the Irish Sea which the Christ-priests have not yet conquered and the Druids still rule. The old-ones had powerful magic."