by Millie Thom
‘Norse,’ he said, gesturing to his clothing, his roguish grin bringing an involuntary smile to her lips. ‘From the Norwegian lands . . .?’
‘Oh, I see,’ Leoflaed replied, inanely. ‘Are you in our lands to raid?’ She glanced nervously about in case there were others like him waiting to strike. Feeling utterly ridiculous at his loud guffaw, she pulled her shoulders back and attempted a self-important stance. ‘Then I’ll take you to my father. He is the ealdorman and will know how to speak to you better than I.’
‘Why so? I speak perfectly good Saxon, though I may look like a Norseman.’
Flummoxed and burning with embarrassment at being so teased, Leoflaed turned on her heels and fled to the hall, leaving the chuckling man trailing behind her.
Extremely tired, hungry and dirty after many days of riding from the Northumbrian coast, and intent on reaching Nottingham, a further twenty miles to the south-west, this unusual stranger simply offered another pair of hands to be turned to the hard work of reaping. In return, he asked for no more than the use of the barn for his slumbers and daily rations of bread and pottage. He’d intended only to stay for a few days . . .
But the days had become weeks, the weeks months and the months, years.
Eadwulf had become so much a part of her family, so much a part of Leoflaed herself, yet somehow she still felt that her husband would never completely belong to her. An intrinsic part of him seemed to be locked away in the past, hidden from all who had so recently come to love him. Whether that part remained in the Danish lands, in Mercia as a king’s son so long ago, or even somewhere beneath the vast heavens as he’d sailed the seas, Leoflaed didn’t know. She had loved Eadwulf since the earliest days of his arrival, seeing through his rugged and unkempt appearance to the combination of strength and gentleness beneath, and lived in hope that the sadness deep in his eyes would fade as their friendship developed into so much more.
And now, she believed it had, for most of the time. That Eadwulf respected and loved her, she didn’t question for one moment. But that he loved her more than any other, she doubted – despite his joy in his marriage and child being evident for all to see. For although Eadwulf professed to have put his past behind him – and Leoflaed knew how hard he’d tried to do so – she was certain that many details of that past would continue to fester inside him. She was equally certain that those details included someone who still held a part of his heart.
Leoflaed’s father had quickly realised that this striking-looking stranger was a man who’d endured more than most in his life, and readily accepted the story of his true heritage and years of slavery. Wigstan was well aware of the Danish raid on London thirteen years ago, which had – so it had been believed – resulted in the deaths of King Beorhtwulf’s entire family, including his young son, Eadwulf. Beorhtwulf’s brother, Burgred, had also survived, due to his absence from the London hall at the time, and had readily stepped into his brother’s shoes.
Having attended many meetings of the Witenagemot with King Beorhtwulf, Wigstan recalled him as an honourable man. And having met Burgred on a number of occasions, he’d believed Eadwulf’s account of his uncle’s treachery in betraying his own family to the Danes. Besides, Eadwulf’s similarity to his father was indisputable.
So, having formed his own opinion of the young man, Wigstan had been happy to observe the growing attachment between him and his daughter – and had welcomed Eadwulf’s request for her hand only a year later.
It had been a quiet ceremony at the estate’s little chapel. Leoflaed had noted Eadwulf’s deliberate evasion of any reference to God in his vows. From the very start, he’d been honest about his lack of belief in any deity. And it seemed that the omission had passed unobserved by all, including the priest. If her father had noticed, he’d never remarked. Several of Wigstan’s thegns had attended with their families, and villagers had showered the newlyweds with flower petals. No one questioned ‘Lord’ Eadwulf’s identity or past, the joy on his face seemingly enough to satisfy any misgivings regarding his suitability as a husband.
But his prolonged absence had caused confusion and doubt to set in. Leoflaed hadn’t even had the chance to wish him safe journey, let alone ask where he was bound. He must have risen well before dawn on the morning he’d left, since not even the servants had seen him go. The gentle touch of his hand against her cheek had roused her, but still enmeshed in the remnants of a dream, she’d barely registered the tender kiss that followed. His words of farewell and promise to return in three weeks had seemed a part of the dream. Only later had the hazy images resolved into the realisation that Eadwulf had gone.
Determined not to dwell on his likely destination and resort to morose brooding, Leoflaed had filled her days with maternal and domestic activity. And although she’d thought it strange that her father seemed to accept Eadwulf’s disappearance for three weeks as normal, she’d pushed it to the back of her mind.
But today, a half-formed suspicion seemed to be hovering. Suddenly, she stopped in mid-stitch . . .
Her father had not questioned Eadwulf’s whereabouts because he already knew!
Leoflaed threw down her needlework, ignoring the stunned stares of the women. How dare her husband and father share secrets? How dare they exclude her from knowledge that had caused her to question Eadwulf’s feelings for her?
Without a word she strode from the hall, gulping down the afternoon air as she leant against the wood-planked wall. It was cool here, shaded from the sun by the tall barn opposite, and she closed her eyes, allowing equanimity to return. In her mind’s eye she saw the farmland and meadows beyond the outbuildings, and Eadwulf riding towards her, his face filled with joy at being home again. But on opening her eyes it was not Eadwulf she saw but her father, riding towards the stables with his brother, Selwyn, and a handful of retainers.
Wigstan’s round face beamed as she neared. He dismounted stiffly and handed the reins of his blue roan to the waiting groom before embracing her warmly. Pulling himself away he removed his heavy cloak and wiped the back of his hand across his damp forehead. He looked so tired, his face pale and drawn, his creaking knees seeming to baulk at the prospect of supporting his body weight after hours in the saddle. She held out her hands to support him, her determination to question him before he’d rested wavering. Her father was not a young man and he undertook his duties as ealdorman conscientiously, which gave him little time for rest.
‘Missed me so much, you can’t wait until I reach the hall?’
Leoflaed smiled at the jest, watching her father stroke his balding pate – a habit that invariably drew attention to what he deemed ‘a most unfortunate condition.’
‘Should have some good harvests this year,’ he remarked, ‘provided the rains are light until August and the days stay warm.’
‘Not asking for much, then,’ she responded, struggling to keep the smile on her face.
Wigstan gently pushed a stray lock of her hair beneath her head veil, his concerned hazel eyes locking onto her own. ‘Come on, daughter, out with it. Something’s bothering you; you can’t fool me with false joviality.’ Taking her hand he led her to sit on an old bench beside the hay barn. ‘Now, how about starting at the beginning and telling me all about it?’
‘Father, it’s Eadwulf . . .’
‘I wondered when you’d get round to asking me about him.’
‘But why, Father? I mean, why should I need to ask you about him? There’s something you know that I don’t, isn’t there?’ Realising that a reply was not readily forthcoming, she continued, ‘I think you know where Eadwulf’s gone and why – though I don’t understand why you’ve not told me.’
Wigstan lowered his eyes, his lengthy silence giving credence to the truth of her accusation. ‘You’re right,’ he said at last, his eyes again meeting hers. ‘I know how you’ve agonised over Eadwulf’s absence – and I do know where he’s gone.’ He let out a heartfelt sigh. ‘I should have told you but . . . What I mean is, I haven’t done so
because I didn’t wish to upset you.’
Leoflaed leapt to her feet, her hands on her hips. ‘Didn’t it occur to you that I might be more worried by not knowing? And I am Eadwulf’s wife!’ She turned her back to hide her welling tears. ‘Doesn’t that give me the right to know his whereabouts?’
‘Daughter, surely it hasn’t escaped your notice that Eadwulf himself said nothing of his destination to you?’ Wigstan stood and placed his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. ‘Do you believe Eadwulf loves you?’
She stared at him, confused as to the reason behind the question.
Wigstan smiled. ‘A simple yes or no will suffice.’
‘Then yes, I believe he loves me. But I don’t understand the need for this secrecy. Perhaps he doesn’t trust me enough to–’
‘Put such ideas right out of your head,’ her father said, a note of irritation in his voice. ‘Eadwulf loves you and Aethelred dearly, so much so that he agonised for days over the need to leave you both for these weeks.’ He touched her cheek in a way that was as familiar to her as his encouraging smile. ‘And regarding trust . . . Eadwulf trusts no one more than you.’
‘Then why has he not told me . . . told me anything?’
‘Is the reason not obvious?’
‘Yes, It is quite obvious, Father,’ she admitted, holding the intensity of his stare. ‘But that doesn’t mean I agree with that reason.’ Her anger was rising again and she snapped, ‘I’m not a child to be treated so! Why must you both seek to protect me from what any wife should know? Do you think I’d crumble like a piece of charred bread beneath the slightest pressure?’
Wigstan simply shook his head, so Leoflaed surged on, her emotions in full swing. ‘Loving someone . . . trusting someone . . . should surely mean that problems can be shared with that person. What good am I as a wife if Eadwulf refuses to tell me anything for fear of upsetting me? I’m stronger than that, Father, and I resent the fact that you’ve both tried to wrap me in swaddling bands.’
She scowled at his amused grin, annoyed that he found her reasoning so funny.
‘You are strong, Leoflaed; you’ve had to be since your mother died – you’ve had to run my household almost single-handedly for eight years, after all. And you definitely have her temper as well as her lovely auburn hair.’
‘Father, just tell me where Eadwulf’s gone.’
‘Nottingham,’ Wigstan replied reluctantly. ‘Eadwulf’s gone to Nottingham.’
‘But what for?’
‘Because we’d heard that the king will be residing there for the summer.’
‘Burgred is in Nottingham?’ Eadwulf’s uncle – the one responsible for . . .’ Leoflaed closed her eyes, willing the act to sweep away the fear that gripped her.
‘Perhaps now you’ll understand why I couldn’t bring myself to tell you yet,’ Wigstan whispered, holding her close. ‘And if Eadwulf had told you, wouldn’t you have tried everything in your power to stop him going?’
Leoflaed pulled away, the question unanswered. ‘Then when, exactly, did you plan to tell me?’ she threw at him, her voice cold and controlled. ‘When he’s dead?’
‘Daughter–’
Leoflaed cut short whatever solace Wigatan had intended to offer. ‘I know as well as you that Eadwulf will never rest until he’s confronted his uncle. No,’ she corrected herself, ‘he won’t rest until Burgred is dead – or Eadwulf himself is killed. What madness has taken over his sense of reason?’ She shook her head, her features contorted in anguish. ‘How can he possibly believe he can slay the king and get away with it? He is but one man, and Burgred will be surrounded by warriors trained to protect his life. Oh Father, I daren’t contemplate what they’ll do to him.’
‘Eadwulf’s a big man, Leoflaed, strong as an ox and fast, skilled with sword and axe. He’ll find a way of confronting Burgred when the man is either alone or poorly attended.’ Wigstan looked tenderly at his daughter. ‘And he swore to me he’d take no risks. If the opportunity doesn’t arise for an easy strike, then he’ll do nothing.’
‘Then I’ll pray for that to be the case,’ she said, turning to return to the hall. ‘I cannot lose Eadwulf yet. Nor can Aethelred grow up without his father. That would be too cruel a demand to make of our son.’
Three
Nottingham, Mercia: early August, 864
The town of Nottingham was sited on high ground above the fast flowing River Trent, with a ridge of red sandstone running through the middle of it. Atop the south-facing ridge perched a wooden tower. Square in design, it was of two storeys, as suggested by the positioning of the windows, through which the guards kept constant vigil. A particularly tactical site, Eadwulf had considered on first appraisal, giving clear views up and downstream of the river, whose waters offered a perfect corridor into the heart of Mercia for raiders from across the Northern Sea.
The entire settlement was encircled by a series of defensive ditches and embankments, several sections of which had fallen into disrepair over the years. The Mercian royal hall, with its stables, kitchens and housing for the warriors, sat at the foot of the ridge, further cosseted behind a sturdy wooden palisade, which, along with patrolling guards, presented constant impediment to Eadwulf’s plans.
It was now Wednesday of his third week in the town. Dusk was falling and his stomach growled its need of food; he was dog-tired, and the disappointment of finding the security around his uncle so tight lay heavily upon him. He skulked between the dwellings, workshops and alehouses cursing man and beast, kicking at stones that littered his path in sheer frustration. How could he have believed he’d get close enough to kill the man? Even on the few occasions that Burgred had left the hall he’d been surrounded by guards – and in recent days, accompanied by his Saxon guests.
Thor’s thunderbolts strike the West Saxons dead! Why did they have to come now? And why stay for so long? It was already over a week since the Saxon king and his two brothers had made themselves at home in the Mercian hall. Some forty men strong, the extra number of guards had made Eadwulf’s task impossible. Despite his constant vigil he could find no way through so many guards, day or night.
So Eadwulf had waited, following the comings and goings of the hall, becoming increasingly despondent as the days passed. And now, after over two and a half weeks, he was resigned to the fact that his quest had failed and it was time to leave. Another time; another place, he promised himself . . .
He scratched his itchy scalp as he walked, his fingers parting the stiffened strands. Tomorrow he’d rinse off the black sludge he’d daubed on his fiery hair and three-week old beard and set off home. His heavy eyelids drooped, but needing first to appease his stomach, he headed for an alehouse that sold extremely palatable beef pies and good, strong ale. Then, with his stomach pleasantly full and the ale intensifying his fatigue, he set out to find a sleeping place for the night.
The ridge on which the watchtower stood was riddled with man-made caves, chiselled out of the soft, red sandstone. Some were inhabited by impoverished families, but some of the smaller, less conspicuous ones were used only by needy travellers, like Eadwulf himself. Although the August nights were warm, and sleeping outdoors would have been no great hardship, the caves offered a degree of safety from thieves and cut-throats about the town. He’d been careful not to establish any nightly pattern that could be monitored by watchful eyes, since his sack contained money for food as well as his dagger – the gift from Leif – and his bedroll. And having no intention of being slain where he slept, his treasured sword from Wigstan, concealed beneath his cloak by day, lay reassuringly by his side as he slept.
The last traces of daylight were fading as Eadwulf made his choice of bed chamber, relying on his ears and nose to determine the likelihood of the cave’s occupancy. Sensing nothing, he unpacked his bedroll and laid it down a short way from the entrance. Confident that the cave was too high on the ridge to be easily reached in the dark, he quickly succumbed to his cravings for sleep.
*****<
br />
Roused by the touch of warm sunlight on his cheek, Eadwulf’s eyelids fluttered open and he squinted into the bright light of early morning. Momentarily disorientated, he stayed on his side, trying to make sense of his whereabouts. He was facing east, he decided, before the mists of sleep evaporated and the memory of his crushing failure returned. He groaned and rolled onto his back but, striving to remain positive, he focused his thoughts on his wife and child. Leoflaed and Aethelred were now his life, and he must live for them. He contemplated just how much he really did love Leoflaed, and smiled as the image of her pretty face filled his mind. Memories of Freydis would remain with him forever, but he knew his life must move on. Leoflaed’s love had eased his pain, and he felt the joys of fatherhood deeply. Aethelred’s first smile had seemed especially for him.
Today he had intended to return to his wife and son, but he decided to chance one more day in the town. Perhaps today he’d be lucky and something positive would happen.
*****
A little before noon, the royal column streamed through the gates of the palisade that enclosed the Mercian hall at Nottingham. Eadwulf eased his way through the crowds milling about the workshops and stalls, noticing that few folk gave the nobles a second glance. Only the less industrious and a handful of children ogled the rich apparel and fine horses as the cavalcade passed.
Shuffling alongside at a suitable distance, Eadwulf kept his head down, trying to be inconspicuous. His ragged clothes and muddied hair made him resemble one of the town’s many beggar-men and it was unlikely that his uncle would recognise him, particularly having not seen him for thirteen years. Surrounded by guards, Burgred rode at the head of the column, beside King Aethelberht of Wessex. Burgred’s slack jaws wobbled as he guffawed at some jest, his ageing features no longer handsome. His demeanour was less suave than in his younger days and his once red-brown hair now more stone-grey. He slumped in his saddle, squat beside the straight-backed figure of his Wessex counterpart – a man close to his thirtieth summer, Eadwulf guessed, with thin, fair hair and beard, a wiry stature and a grey complexion that spoke of underlying ill-health. But the two kings seemed relaxed in each other’s company.
