Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2)

by Millie Thom

  Eadwulf knew that Aethelnoth was right. ‘So, all I need’s a few scoops of mud from the edge of that stream to rub through my hair and smear across my face. Like I did on my first visit to Nottingham.’

  Aethelnoth knew all about Eadwulf’s failed attempt to get at Burgred and did not comment on it. ‘I suppose a smear of mud wouldn’t do my face any harm, either,’ he conceded. ‘We’d best not overdo it, though. That could be just as conspicuous as your hair.’

  ‘True,’ Eadwulf agreed. ‘The last thing we want is to be seen – and recognised. But perhaps, we may just be able to get into the camp and sort of mooch about amongst the men. We may catch an odd pointer or two towards Ivar’s whereabouts.’

  ‘If we tread carefully, we may just manage that. There are many different groups of Norsemen out there, and I’ll bet most of them have no idea what most in the other camps look like.’ Aethelnoth grinned, his earlier pique evidently forgotten. ‘But now, I think we’d best bring the horses through for the night. They should’ve had a good feed by now, and we’ve risked them being spotted by enemy foraging parties for long enough.’

  ‘Let’s hope no Danes come foraging into the woods as we sleep.’

  ‘They won’t,’ Aethelnoth stated with certainty. ‘Not when there’re still cattle out there for the taking.’

  ‘So that’s settled, then,’ Eadwulf summed up. ‘Before dawn tomorrow we set out for Thetford.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Someone there may be able to point us in Ivar’s direction.’

  Seventeen

  Daybreak on November 19 was still several hours away as Eadwulf and Aethelnoth approached the northern edge of Thetford, an ancient settlement that had developed around the ford on the Little Ouse River. They’d come on foot, leaving their horses hobbled in the woodland glade, hoping it would provide adequate forage for a couple of days. On foot they’d have little difficulty in slipping between the buildings undetected.

  But, as it turned out, Eadwulf was amazed at such lax security. The single inattentive night watchman they encountered presented no obstacle whatsoever to their movements. Even the king’s hall seemed openly inviting to intruders; the two guards squatting at either side of the doorway snoring loudly as they slept.

  They spent the next couple of hours dozing in a dilapidated hut before emerging once the streets sprang to life with the dawn. Few of the townsfolk gave them a second glance, most preoccupied in their own tasks for the day. And, since many looked as unkempt and grimy as the two Mercians, their appearance did not cause questioning glances.

  Their intention was to mingle with these people and, hopefully, discover in which area of the vast camp menacing the town’s southern edge, Ivar could be located. It sounded easy when Eadwulf said it quickly – but he knew that few of the simple town dwellers were likely to know such things. He found it odd that Ivar hadn’t yet taken the town and either killed the Anglian king or simply ousted him. Eventually, replies to carefully disguised enquiries at alehouses provided a few answers.

  It appeared that the Danes hadn’t yet taken Thetford because they’d been waiting for the king’s reply to a proposal put to him by Ivar a little over two weeks ago. Whatever that proposal had been, Edmund was enraged by it, and within days of its receipt, had ridden from Thetford with his resident thegns and all townsmen of fighting age. Rumour maintained he’d since been rallying his forces throughout the land.

  ‘Which explains the shortage of young men in the town,’ Aethelnoth said, voicing their shared realisation. ‘Funny how you can notice something and not really take it in until someone actually puts it into words.’

  By mid afternoon it became apparent that the battle had already been fought. And lost. The army of Norsemen paraded into Thetford, flaunting their captives before the stricken townsfolk as a statement of their subjugation of the Anglian kingdom. Inconspicuous amongst the crowds, Eadwulf and Aethelnoth scanned the procession for a sighting of Ivar. The hoods of their thick cloaks were pulled well forward in an effort to stop the grime being washed off their faces. The rain had been bucketing down since early morning, and underfoot, their boots squelched through the thick mud of the earthen streets.

  ‘There’s the bastard!’ Aethelnoth hissed, suddenly grasping Eadwulf’s arm. ‘Can’t miss that wizened shape, even in this rain.’

  Eadwulf’s stomach lurched as he followed the line of his friend’s stare. Ivar was hunched low on his horse, his collar upturned against the driving rain, his short legs in stirrups hitched high on the saddle. An image of the first time he’d set eyes upon the malformed man flashed through his mind. Both he and Ivar had been mere boys that day at Hedeby, but even then, malevolence had emanated from every fibre of Ivar’s being.

  ‘That must be King Edmund,’ Aethelnoth yelled, trying to make himself heard above the wailing crowd. Eadwulf felt a lump in his throat as he observed the defeated king. Dripping wet and bedraggled, Edmund retained great dignity as he shuffled along beside his men, occasionally acknowledging his people with a small nod and a raised hand. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes, right now,’ the big man added, lowering his voice. ‘Ivar’s not likely to be over-pally with him after he’s openly challenged Danish control, is he?’

  *****

  King Edmund’s reply to Ivar’s message had conveyed his outright refusal to submit to the stated demands. He was the God-chosen king of the East Angles, and would never concede to becoming king in name only, with no more autonomy than a string-controlled puppet. He would fight to the bitter end before willingly subjecting his people to the rule of barbarous pagans.

  The response had been no less than Ivar had expected, but Edmund’s added proposal left him howling in amusement . . . In the event that Jarl Ivar should consent to being baptised into the Christian Church, Edmund had averred, he would be willing to reconsider the said request . . .

  The outcome of this reply was inevitable.

  At mid-morning on November 20, with a freezing rain teeming down on the battlefield at Haegelisdun, a few miles west of Thetford, King Edmund’s hastily formed army faced the might of Ivar’s seasoned forces of Norsemen. By noon, bloodied corpses lay strewn across the squelching mud. Over two hundred of them were Angles; a mere handful of the Great Army had been lost.

  Ivar had watched the battle progress from the low rise at the edge of the battlefield, considering that Edmund must have realised that his army of untrained villagers, his fyrd, would stand no chance against battle-hardened warriors. Even without Ubbi’s recently landed forces, the East Angles would have suffered ignoble defeat. Ivar cursed the pious fool for not simply agreeing to his terms.

  The remnants of Edmund’s army were herded back to Thetford to await their fate at the hands of their jeering captors. Most of the fifty or so were ceorls from Anglian villages, a mere five claiming to be thegns and demanding preferential treatment. But whatever they chose to call themselves made little difference to Ivar. As far as he was concerned, they were all inept in battle and deserved treating with contempt. They were bound and shoved inside a vacant corral, exposed to the still pouring rain, with a succession of vigilant guards assigned to keeping watch.

  Edmund himself was escorted into the royal hall, still clinging to the stout golden crucifix that had been his only comfort as the battle raged. The crucifix now stood on a table beside his jewelled crown. The defeated king slumped on a low stool in sodden, mud-splattered robes, water dripping down his face and shoulders from his wispy-fine hair. Opposite to him, Ivar reclined in the high-backed chair of kingship, watching the thin lips move in silent prayer as he considered how to handle this situation for maximum benefit. His two loyal aides waited patiently behind him for further orders, whilst warlords and jarls warmed themselves around the firepit, Bagsecg, Halfdan and Ubbi amongst them. Conversation was muted. It had been a long day and some of the men mourned the loss of trusted comrades and friends.

  Stepping around their new masters, servants were preparing the evening meal, seemingly as though nothing had
changed. But Ivar knew that a sharp tone or raised voice from himself or any one of his men could result in shrieks of alarm, or crockery crashing to the straw-bestrewn floor. Despite their efforts of self-restraint, Edmund’s servants were quaking in their boots. And Ivar liked it that way; they knew their place. Right now he had enough to think about without dealing with menials overcome with outraged loyalty. He leaned his head back against the heavy chair as aromas of roasting meats reached his nostrils. His stomach growled; he’d eaten nothing yet today.

  ‘So, you had to put us to the test, Edmund,’ Ivar murmured, his eyes fixed on the pitiful figure before him. Absently he wondered whether the king’s fluffy beard ever needed trimming. But, he reasoned, the insubstantial blond growth did suit the character of this puny king. Several of the warriors glanced his way, perhaps wondering whether Edmund would shrink beneath his penetrating stare. ‘Why couldn’t you have just accepted my terms?’ Ivar continued in an even tone. ‘You could have lived out your life in peace, and many of your people would still be alive. Now, however, you give us no choice but to treat you as our enemy. Our captured enemy.’

  ‘I would sooner die than rule my kingdom on your terms,’ Edmund replied, his back instantly straightening, his tone steely. ‘How could I face my God if I agreed to your heathen hordes draining our lands of every resource until my people were reduced to little more than servitude?’

  Ivar forced a thoughtful nod, determined not to lose his temper. At least, not yet. ‘I’m sure we can accommodate your desire for death, Edmund, though frankly, I don’t understand such a desire myself. For someone who hasn’t yet lived for three decades, dying seems such a waste.’ He paused, allowing Edmund time to consider his words. ‘You could have enjoyed the pleasant life of a king for some time yet – although, naturally, we would have expected regular payments from you for the privilege. And, of course, you would have been required to establish your own hall elsewhere. This fine building and excellent city would have been ours, whatever you’d decided.’

  ‘You cannot intimidate me with your piercing stare and vile threats – as you undoubtedly can with your own people,’ Edmund said quietly, a tolerant smile playing on his lips, as though he were reproving an errant child. ‘The only mystical powers in this world are those emanating from Our Lord. And be assured, Lord Ivar, it was not your wretched missive that incited me to oppose you. That decision was made the moment you stormed back into our kingdom, disregarding the goodwill and hospitality shown to you in the past – goodwill which you repaid by slaughtering our people and burning our most revered churches and monasteries. Your message simply determined the timing of our battle. Had I known earlier of the imminent arrival of your reinforcements, I would have acted as soon as you launched your first barbarous attacks . . .

  ‘But it is too late to analyse reasons for our defeat. It is over and I can only mourn the loss of so many of my men. Now, I am ready to face my own end. God will help me to endure whatever wicked means of death you devise for me.’

  Ivar couldn’t decide whether to be amused or incensed at Edmund’s bold words and the strange light that blazed from his pale eyes. But enough was enough, and he was tired and hungry. He motioned to his aides to assist him to stand and, when supported between them, stared down at the defiant face. ‘You will leave my hall now, Edmund. I need to eat, and your Christian talk is enough to give a man indigestion.’

  He summoned two of his men. ‘Secure our guest inside one of those storage huts for the night,’ he ordered, before turning again to the seated king. ‘By which time, I will have decided upon the most satisfactory means of execution for one so pious . . .

  ‘At least you’ll be out of the rain, Edmund, unlike your men. And you’ll have all the peace and quiet you need to pray to your god.’

  Eighteen

  By morning the rain was over. A biting north-easterly had risen during the night, shifting the low, black clouds and allowing the November skies to assume their usual leaden hue. Eadwulf and Aethelnoth had spent the night in the small hut they’d appropriated, thankful for the shelter from the rain provided by the largely unbroken roof. But the wind whistled through gaps in the mud-daubed walls, and they shivered beneath their wet cloaks. Lighting a fire had not been an option. They dared not show themselves before the working crowds filled the streets, needing anonymity in their midst from the patrolling Danes. Although many of the warriors had returned to their camp last night, a sizeable company had remained in the town, most to provide frequent changes of guard at the corral.

  A little before noon, surly Danes began hustling the townsfolk towards the eastern edge of town. ‘Something’s in the offing,’ Aethelnoth muttered, as he and Eadwulf were swept along by the human stream, clutching at the hoods of their still-damp cloaks. ‘And since the corral’s in this direction, I’m guessing it won’t be too pleasant.’

  ‘But I don’t think they’ll simply kill the prisoners,’ Eadwulf said, following Aethelnoth’s line of thought. ‘Not just as a straightforward – or quick – execution, I mean. If Ivar wants to make a point, he’ll choose a way that will have a longer-lasting impact than that.’ Again, he thought of the blood eagle, knowing that such a rite was unlikely to be inflicted upon so many. But on a single man . . .?

  Aethelnoth shrugged. ‘Well, you know the ugly cur better than I do. But, from what you’ve told me about him, plus his antics in York, I’m expecting the worst.’

  Eadwulf nodded grimly. Like his friend, he did not anticipate leniency from Ivar. ‘Then there’s the question of whether Edmund will become the next Danish puppet,’ he added. ‘I’m pretty sure the Danes won’t hang about to rule Anglia themselves. They’ve been enjoying the spoils of victory for some time now, so I think they’ll be moving on again before long.’ He paused, contemplating a question that had often cropped up in conversation over that past weeks. Would the Great Army return to Merica, or head south to challenge Wessex?

  Aethelnoth glowered at the back of a man who’d hurtled into his side in his haste to reach a woman ahead. But, unusually for the big Mercian, he kept both his expletives and his fists to himself. ‘What I’m wondering is what they’ll do to Edmund if he does refuse to dance to their tune,’ he admitted as they walked. ‘Somehow I can’t see him bowing down to pagans. Folk hereabouts reckon he’s a real saintly one. Perhaps he fancies becoming a martyr.’

  Eadwulf grimaced. ‘Well, we both know what could happen to him, don’t we? Having already had one king publicly butchered, Ivar’s unlikely to baulk at doing so a second time.’

  They eased their way as close to the corral as possible, staying far enough back to be hidden by several rows of shivering and nervous citizens. Ivar was a mere few feet away, sitting astride his pony near to the corral fence, his dark hair wafting about his face in the wind. At his sides were his two aides, and close by stood two warriors, one instantly discernible as Halfdan . . . and with a jolt, Eadwulf recognised the good-looking features of Ubbi. A boy no longer, Ubbi was as tall and broad as Halfdan and as dark-headed as Ivar.

  Eadwulf recalled the day he’d saved the toddler, Ubbi, from drowning, and the many years after, during which the boy had deemed the Mercian thrall his saviour. Ubbi would have done anything for him then, even willingly taking the distraught and motherless Jorund under his wing.

  But would Ubbi, the warrior, still proffer that same hand of friendship to either himself or Jorund?

  He silently cursed as a sudden sharp gust blew his hood down, fingering his mud-encrusted hair and grimy face, hoping the disguise was enough to fool the three people most likely to recognise him. He relaxed as he glanced at Aethelnoth, who’d abandoned all hope of keeping his hood in place. But, Eadwulf considered, his friend’s filthy face and clothes looked little different to others around him, so there seemed little to worry about. He’d just have to trust that his own appearance blended in as well.

  Clustered around Ragnar’s three sons were several more influential-looking men, jarls and warlords fro
m the Danish lands, no doubt. One in particular caught Eadwulf’s attention, a seasoned, battle-scarred individual who cast frequent, dark glances in Ivar’s direction, leaving little doubt as to his opinion of the malformed man. Beyond the corral, the open ground was filled with warriors of the Great Army, and more were drifting in from the camp. Around Eadwulf and Aethelnoth, townsfolk huddled together against the wind, the bleak weather intensifying the sense of foreboding reflected on their ashen faces. Their sudden, communal groan signalled the approach of the Anglian king.

  Edmund staggered through the parted crowds, goaded towards the waiting warlords by his guards. The wails and moans escalated as people realised that Edmund had been badly beaten. His face was bruised and swollen, his every laboured step testament to similar injuries inflicted to most parts of his frail body. On his head was his jewelled crown, perched at an angle that would have been comical in any other circumstance.

  Ivar spoke briefly as Edmund reached him, but whatever he’d said, the king defiantly shook his head. His face like thunder, Ivar swung in his saddle and held out his arm to indicate a solitary oak at the far edge of the open land. Several of his men were summoned, the corral gates were opened, and the captives hustled out and steered towards the oak.

  ‘Prospects for continuing life are looking bleak for those poor bloody souls,’ Aethelnoth whispered, squinting against the invasive wind as they followed the crowd across the wet grass. ‘And I’m wondering what that damned tree’s got to do with things.’ He glanced quickly about. ‘Perhaps Ivar’ll have them all lined up over there and shot. There’re more than a few Danish archers around.’

  But the captured men were bunched together at the far side of the leafless oak and the anxious townsfolk gathered at the near side. In the wide gap between, Norse warlords glowered beside the Anglian king. At Ivar’s curt signal, Edmund was shoved towards the tree and roped to its trunk. The crowds cried out in protest, only to be silenced by the armed Danes holding them back. Half a dozen archers stepped forward and three of them took aim at the single target. Rapidly indrawn breaths hissed from the horrified citizens, before a deathly silence fell.