by Millie Thom
‘I realise that, Mother, but Yrsa’s come up with a very good solution. And I think it might just work.’
‘Well, Yrsa,’ Thora said with a big smile after hearing what Freydis had to say. ‘I think that’s a very clever idea. The little lad does love you, and I’m sure he’d never be afraid of anything, whether it’s dark or not, with you in his room.’ She ruffled the girl’s dark curls. ‘Your brothers would be so proud of you.’
At the mention of her brothers, Yrsa lowered her eyes, and Freydis said quickly, ‘You’ll see them both again, some day, Yrsa. Jorund will want to see you, I’m sure of it, and so will Eadwulf.’
‘I miss Jorund a lot,’ Yrsa admitted. ‘And I’m sorry I used to shout at him so much, even when he tried to help me.’ She glanced at Thora then returned her attention to Freydis. ‘But I don’t remember Eadwulf. I know you’ve told me about him, but I was only little when he went away. I know you miss him, though, because I’ve heard you saying his name in your sleep.’
Freydis gaped at her. Yrsa must have thought she was waiting for further explanation, and gabbled on. ‘I woke up early, two days ago it was, and thought I’d go and see if Aguti needed me to help him dress. But he wasn’t even there. I guessed he’d gone off to your room again, so I peeped in, just to be sure. And there he was, asleep next to you.’
Yrsa looked at Freydis as though deciding whether or not she should continue, and then added, ‘But I could hear you crying a little, and then you called out his name. Eadwulf’s, I mean. So I thought you must miss him as much as I miss Jorund. You’ve always told me he was like a brother to you.’
Freydis glanced at Thora, whose face held such understanding that Freydis felt like a child again, wanting comfort in her mother’s embrace. Thora had always known of the overwhelming love that Freydis felt for Eadwulf.
‘It is strange the things that come to us in dreams,’ Freydis said, composing herself in front of Yrsa and fabricating a little, plausible lie. ‘Eadwulf had a difficult life as a thrall with Ivar and Halfdan around, and I always felt sorry for him. He was always kind to Ubbi and me, and I did come to think of him as a brother. He was only a year older than me and we often chatted to each other. On the day Eadwulf saved Ubbi from drowning, I thought they were both going to die, washed out to sea by the river. I called out their names in despair . . . Perhaps I dreamt about that awful day the other night.’
Yrsa nodded, seemingly content with the answer, but then she said. ‘I didn’t hear you call to Ubbi. Perhaps you’d already done so before I looked in.’
Freydis nodded, not wanting to pursue the conversation. She had not enjoyed lying to Yrsa, but she could hardly have told her the truth. Her main worry now was whether Hastein had ever heard her calling out Eadwulf’s name. And the expression on Thora’s face reflected that thought.
Eleven
Elston, Mercia: early May, 866
It was a glorious spring morning when Leoflaed presented her husband with his second child. They named the small, wriggling bundle Leofwynn, since she bore such striking resemblance to her mother. Her small head was already covered in shiny auburn hair, and bright, hazel-green eyes seemed to fix appraisingly on Eadwulf’s face.
Eadwulf was instantly smitten and knew that his new daughter had captured his heart forever. The prospect of actually rearing a girl-child, however, was a new concept to him – one which he secretly found quite daunting.
Leoflaed recovered quickly from the exertions of the birthing chamber and the following week Wigstan ordered a celebratory feast, to which many thegns and several of the local ceorls were invited.
‘Would you like to hold your new niece awhile?’
‘Me!’ Jorund exclaimed, his mouth gaping wide in competition with his eyes. ‘But I might drop her, Aunt Leoflaed, then you’d never forgive me. Can’t I wait until she’s big enough to sit on my lap all on her own, without falling off?’
The guests chuckled at Jorund’s protestations and Eadwulf felt compelled to come to his brother’s rescue. ‘Leoflaed is teasing you, Jorund. Your aunt doesn’t even allow me to hold the babe unless she’s watching me like a–’
‘That’s because you’re all fingers and thumbs, husband,’ Leoflaed cut in, mischievously. ‘If you just relaxed and accepted that Leofwynn won’t break when you pick her up, you’d be fine. Girl babies are no less hardy than boys, you know.’
‘I can certainly vouch for that, Eadwulf,’ Wigstan added with a grin at his daughter. ‘And many grow up equally hardy, too. As to tempers . . . Boys come nowhere near on that score.’
The light-hearted banter continued throughout the afternoon and into early evening. Everyone ate their fill and enjoyed their share of mead. A minstrel serenaded and Leoflaed disappeared at intervals to the bed chamber to feed the object of everyone’s attention. By the time dusk was falling most of the guests had taken their leave and servants attempted to clear away food and drink and generally restore order to the hall. Exhausted, Eadwulf sat with the dozing Aethelred on his lap whilst Leoflaed and Odella settled Leofwynn in her crib in their bedchamber, wondering how many times his daughter would wake tonight. He’d forgotten just how tiring a new babe could be. He rubbed his son’s head, trying hard not to yawn again.
Aethelnoth sauntered over, a big grin on his face. ‘Still think you’d like a third?’
Eadwulf’s grunt turned into a suppressed yawn and Aethelnoth guffawed. ‘You could always go off somewhere, raiding like the Danes, until the little one sleeps through the night, I suppose.’
‘A very enticing idea right now, Aethelnoth. But I think it just might meet opposition from several parties, don’t you? Haven’t Mercians moved on from such barbaric activities?’
‘Perhaps – though I enjoyed such activities myself. On the other hand, I don’t want to go anywhere right now. Odella and I are getting to know each other very well, if you know what I mean.’
‘You sly old dog, Aethelnoth. How long has that been going on?’
‘Since Christmastide, if you must know. She seemed a bit lonely, and I was lonely – so we decided to make each other unlonely.’
‘Well, I hope you won’t just break her heart. Odella means a lot to us, especially to Leoflaed and Aethelred.’
‘What about me? I’d be gutted if Odella broke off with me now. I think I’ve truly fallen for her, Eadwulf. Never thought I’d ever love again, not after Hilde . . . I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see how things progress, but the way I feel right now, I’d like nothing more than to settle down with Odella and produce a few offspring of my own. But . . .’
‘She’s a thegn’s daughter, did she tell you?’ Eadwulf cut in, disregarding the misery suddenly clouding Aethelnoth’s eyes.
‘That’s just the problem . . . Why should a thegn’s daughter look at me? I’ve naught to offer her – no home of my own, not even a king to follow.’
‘You’re a royal reeve’s son, Aethelnoth, so it would be a very good match for Odella. She’s in exactly the same position as you and I – no family home, I mean.’ Eadwulf stared at his friend, knowing just how he felt; he’d felt the same about taking Leoflaed to wife. ‘Wigstan took Odella into his household after the lung disease took most of her family a year before I made my appearance. My father-by-marriage seems to enjoy taking in waifs and strays,’ he explained in an attempt to cheer up his friend.
‘You’re lucky, Eadwulf. Wigstan’s a rare and generous man. If Odella and I marry one day, I’ll not have a father-by-marriage at all.’ He suddenly gripped Eadwulf’s sleeve. ‘I hope you’ll keep all this to yourself. I haven’t yet made my deepest feelings known to Odella, let alone raised any hopes for the future.’
Eadwulf smiled reassuringly. ‘My lips are sealed. And I can tell you now that Wigstan would be grieved to hear you say you haven’t got a home.’
*****
The long, hazy days and muggy nights of summer passed quickly in Elston. Little rain had fallen since the end of June, just a few gentle showers; ide
al for ripening the wheat. Then the harvest was in full swing and Elston hummed with activity, which continued as August merged into September, when ploughing the newly scythed land and collecting forest fruits and kindling kept everyone busy. Eadwulf and Aethelnoth worked as hard as Wigstan’s servants; hard physical work was no stranger to either of them, after all, and it allowed them to vent their pent-up energies. For Eadwulf, it also helped him to block out his escalating fears, albeit temporarily.
Reports of the situation in East Anglia filtered through periodically – and with each one the likelihood of Danish action increased. News told of vastly swelling numbers; of shipload after shipload of foreign war-bands joining their confederates throughout the spring and summer. As autumn neared most were now horsed; the many women and children amongst them equipped with wagons and carts. It seemed to Eadwulf that the Anglian kingdom had been well and truly ravaged. The overly pious King Edmund would likely be permanently on his knees, praying that the Danes would soon leave . . .
Then, one dismal afternoon in the latter half of October, the news reached Elston that Eadwulf had dreaded. The Great Heathen Army was on the move, heading for York. Some ships were following the coast north, but the bulk of the now mounted army, and their many dependants, were heading up Ermine Street towards the Humber. By tomorrow they would likely have passed Lincoln. Eadwulf thanked the gods he didn’t believe in that they’d not chosen a more westerly route through Mercia. Yet Lincoln was less than thirty miles from Elston, and not every marauding band may decide to follow the direct route to York – especially if supplies were running short.
Spirits were low at the meal that night, as recent developments were discussed. ‘I suppose we must be thankful for the Roman roads,’ Wigstan remarked, his forefinger circling the rim of his ale cup. ‘Foreigners to these parts will likely know they provide direct links between our main towns – and perhaps be wary of straying too far from the known routes. But could that be mere wishful thinking on my part?’ he asked, of no one in particular.
‘No, it isn’t, Wigstan. I think you’re right, to a degree,’ Eadwulf got in first, smiling up at his wife who was serving ale. ‘I used the Roman roads myself on my journey to York. And if the war-bands are as well provisioned – courtesy of King Edmund,’ – he added with a grim smile – ‘as we’re led to believe, they may not need to rampage the countryside for food. But whether or not we’ll experience raids in the future, we cannot know, yet.’
‘So you’re saying it will depend on how long they remain in York – or in Northumbria in general?’
Eadwulf nodded at his father-by-marriage. ‘We know from Bjorn that his brothers’ priority is to wreak revenge on Aelle. They’ll undoubtedly kill him and take York in the process. What they’ll do after that is anyone’s guess – especially taking into account the scores of unrelated groups. The number of women and children reported with them would suggest many have plans to stay in our lands. Settlement may not be on Ivar and Halfdan’s agenda but, as we’ve said, Norse war-bands don’t act as a single unit.’
Wigstan’s worried gaze moved between the faces around the table. ‘What I can’t get out of my head is the thought of just where they’ll all choose to settle. Mercia borders Northumbria, and we could well be inundated with Norsemen. Now that idea only bothers me if the settlement they intend isn’t a peaceful one.’
‘I hope Ubbi decides to settle here,’ Jorund murmured, so quietly that only Eadwulf, sitting next to him, heard.
*****
News of York’s fate spread like wildfire, reaching Elston by the end of the first week of November. The vast Norse army had seized the Northumbrian city on the first day of the month – and had taken it with ease. Fear and panic rippled in all directions, throughout Northumbria and south into Mercia. Townsfolk and villagers prayed they wouldn’t be the next target of this mighty force. Resistance against such numbers would surely be futile.
Eadwulf leaned back against a wall of the stables, next to a ladder propped against the building’s roof, his legs stretched out in front of him, ale mug in his hand. Beside him, Aethelnoth and Jorund did likewise. Though cold and overcast the day was dry, quite unlike that of two days ago, when a violent storm had wreaked havoc, rendering several thatches in urgent need of repair. He and Aethelnoth had readily taken on the task, and whilst they were engaged in the repairs, Jorund carried the bundles of straw up the ladder. The work had taken most of the afternoon and they were enjoying the quenching ale carried out to them by Odella.
‘Ivar and Halfdan must be laughing up their sleeves,’ Eadwulf mused with a bitter grunt. ‘They certainly got the timing of the attack spot on, I’ll give them that. What fools the Northumbrians were to leave the city virtually undefended with such an army camped so close – especially considering the state of those walls.’
Aethelnoth took another swig of ale and swept the back of his hand across his wet lips. ‘And let’s not forget, the last thing the Northumbrians would expect on All Saints’ Day is an attack. To Ivar, the Christian festival would have seemed Odin-sent. Most of the inhabitants would have been grovelling on their knees in the churches – or else cavorting about in drunken orgies.’
Jorund scratched his head. ‘But what about Aelle’s warriors – and the city guards? Surely they weren’t all drunk?’
Aethelnoth harrumphed. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me to learn they were. They probably lost patience waiting for Aelle to order the next move in their ridiculous civil war, and took it upon themselves to join in the festivities.’
‘What was that pathetic king thinking of?’ Eadwulf spat. ‘Did he imagine the huge army practically camped on his doorstep was just passing by?’ His two companions merely shook their heads. Who could fathom such lunacy? ‘From what we’ve heard, bloodshed was heavy in the city,’ he went on. ‘And any Northumbrians left alive would be better off dead. But most of our sources are certain that Aelle wasn’t killed or captured. The slimy bastard somehow managed to escape . . .’
Jorund suddenly jumped to his feet. ‘Well, if you two intend to sit here till it’s completely dark, I’ll leave you to it. That roasting hog’s making my stomach feel sorry for itself and, if I ask really politely, Aunt Leoflaed might give me a chunk of bread and honey, like she did yesterday.’
‘We’ll just finish our ale, then follow you in,’ Eadwulf yelled at the retreating back of his young brother, then murmured to Aethelnoth, ‘I’d give anything to see what’s going on in York. More to the point, I’d give anything to get my hands round Ivar’s neck.’
‘Well, don’t leave without me if you do decide to go,’ Aethelnoth ordered. ‘There’s not much going on around here right now and I’d relish some action. Trouble is, I doubt we’d even get into the city, let alone get near to Ivar.’
*****
Christmastide revelries at Wigstan’s hall were tempered by the ubiquitous awareness of the alien presence to the North. Most folk agreed on the implausibility of any full-scale movement out of York now that the winter snows had settled, but no one could rule out the possibility that the pagans might use the festive period to make a surprise assault on neighbouring Mercia. The attack on York on All Saints’ Day had proved they had no qualms about using the Christian holy days to achieve their goals. Though no news had filtered through for weeks, it could simply mean that travellers could not get through – due either to winter weather or patrolling bands of Norsemen.
It was mid-April of the following year before further reports of the situation at York arrived. Two exhausted men rode into Elston on lathered mounts, seeking food and shelter for the night. They claimed to be heading for Nottingham, where they hoped to acquire help from King Burgred. Whatever they hoped Burgred could – or would – do, Eadwulf couldn’t imagine. But Wigstan offered his hospitality and, as they slaked their thirst in his hall, they relayed their news. The spokesman for the duo, Durwin, was a man of middle years with the muscular build of someone used to hard graft. His companion appeared a younger version
of the same. A son perhaps? Eadwulf wondered.
Durwin swallowed a mouthful of ale and eyed the anxious faces around the table: Wigstan and his brother, Selwyn, with Eadwulf, Aethelnoth and Jorund. At a separate table, a handful of women waited with equally concerned expressions. He nodded politely at them all and continued his account.
‘In mid-February our two bloody kings decided to pull together, for the benefit of the kingdom,’ he said, with ill-disguised sarcasm. ‘Excuse my venom, my lords, we’re all just angry as hell they ignored the invaders' threat until it was too late. If they’d acted sooner, York may not have fallen, and our kingdom may have stood some chance of resistance. But they put their their pathetic argument before defending people's lives, and now these heathens ravage our lands. They leave little alive in our homesteads, and many of our churches and monasteries have been destroyed.’
He took a deep breath, attempting to regain some composure. Eadwulf’s sympathy went out to him. Though he’d craved the death of the spineless Aelle himself, he’d not wished to see the Northumbrian people harmed.
‘The kings picked March the twenty-third for their attack. Bloody Palm Sunday!’ Durwin shook his head. ‘Perhaps they tried to use the Danes' own tactics and catch them off guard. An attack by Christians wouldn’t have been expected on such a holy day. But whatever . . . it didn’t do them much bloody good. The Danes retreated behind the walls, and though the kings’ forces found little difficulty in getting through them, once they were inside they didn’t stand a chance–’
‘They wouldn’t have,’ Aethelnoth threw in. ‘In my experience, the maze of streets and alleys in York would well suit the Danes’ method of attack.’
