by Millie Thom
‘Let’s see your god save you now!’ a voice rang out from amidst the warriors, followed by jeers from those around him.
Ivar’s raised palm silenced them and the archers steadied their aim.
Edmund’s eyes focused on the vast expanse of dismal sky, a smile on his battered lips. ‘My God is opening the doors of Heaven . . .’
Three arrows found their mark: one in either shoulder and one in his left thigh. Edmund had not uttered a sound.
‘What do you say now, king?’ Ivar snarled. ‘Will you endure another round of my men’s archery practice, or make things easy for yourself and give us the answer we want?’
But Edmund’s attention was still fixed somewhere high above. ‘I am ready for Your heavenly kingdom, Lord,’ he cried out. ‘Take me now . . .’
The pious obstinacy was the last straw for Ivar. His fury on the boil, he signalled to the archers and all six took aim. They fired repeatedly, until arrows protruded at every conceivable angle from the puny torso, rendering Edmund a human replica of a bristly hedgehog. Only his back, flat against the tree, his head and his lower legs remained unpierced. Yet he clung on to life with grim resolve.
Ivar again snapped his orders and the pitiful king’s bindings were cut. Too close to death to stand unaided, Edmund’s legs buckled and he slid down the oak’s trunk, coming to rest folded into its base. He slumped there, motionless, and it seemed he was finally dead. Then his right hand moved and he lifted his arm . . . just far enough to enable him to point to the heavens.
The grizzled warrior who’d caught Eadwulf’s attention earlier strode towards him and thrust him forward, away from the tree. But the rigid spines penetrated the grassy earth, preventing Edmund from reaching it, and he became lodged in an odd position, hovering over it. A horrified gasp rang out as the formidable Dane unsheathed his sword and swung the huge weapon. In one deft stroke, Edmund’s head was severed from his body, dropping to the earth with a barely audible thud.
Halfdan moved quickly, scooping the bloodied object into a sack and retrieving the Anglian crown from where it had fallen before returning to Ivar’s side. The aides grasped the pony’s bridle as it sidled widely and snorted at the metallic stench of blood.
A shaft of sunlight suddenly burst through the high grey cloud to illuminate the headless corpse. Eadwulf nudged Aethelnoth, who was staring fixedly at the gory spectacle. ‘No doubt Edmund’s loyal citizens will believe he’s travelling along that golden pathway to the Christian heaven right now,’ he whispered, to avoid being overheard in the shocked hush that had fallen.
‘I suppose the idea of life hereafter with the Christ-God is no more foolish than that of being whisked across the Bifrost by a bunch of warmongering Valkyries to feast with Odin in Valhalla,’ Aethelnoth replied quietly, dragging his attention from the gruesome sight to face Eadwulf. ‘I recall you telling me the tale of Ragnar’s last moments.’ He gave a humourless smile. ‘But you and I, my friend, know better than to believe in either load of crap.’
A raised voice captured their attention. ‘Five amongst you have requested preferential treatment,’ the sword-wielding executioner yelled at the quivering remnants of Anglia’s army. ‘You claim this right to be obligatory, since you are men of noble birth. So, my lords, we intend to demonstrate to these good, Anglian citizens,’ he sneered, gesturing to the Thetford crowds, ‘how Danes interpret such an obligation. Step out, the five of you . . . .’
‘Stand forward!’ he bellowed when no one moved.
Eadwulf and Aethelnoth shared a look as the crowds muttered uneasily. It didn’t take much to work out how things were about to play out for these unfortunate thegns.
Five men eventually emerged from the obscurity of the group, two needing more than a little ungallant persuasion from the ceorls so recently under their command. For some moments they squirmed beneath the scowling scrutiny of their captors. Having witnessed their king’s brutal end, Eadwulf could only imagine how they’d be feeling right now.
‘I’ve decided that one amongst you could be most useful to us,’ Ivar eventually informed them, his tone holding its usual contemptuous calm. ‘That person will be spared our gift of “preferential treatment”. The others will not be as fortunate . . .’
He let that thought hang as five sets of pleading eyes fixed on him. ‘I’ve already decided which of you will suit,’ he continued, staring at a tall, burly man with a sycophantic smile on his face. ‘We need someone who is good at taking orders, and not averse to punishing those who would think to do otherwise.’ He leaned down from his pony and spoke briefly to Halfdan before indicating the fawning thegn. ‘You, my lord, will assume the role of King of East Anglia. Come forward, and be crowned.’
‘Your name . . . ?’ Haldan demanded as he placed the jewelled crown on the mouse-brown head.
‘Oswald, lord,’ the man croaked.
‘Well, Oswald . . . you are now King Oswald,’ Halfdan announced, grinning stupidly as he glanced round at his watching brother. ‘And you have indisputable power over the people of East Anglia, accountable to no one but us.’
‘I’m honoured that you should deem me suitable, lord, and know you will not regret your choice. I shall–’
‘You’ll do well to know when to hold your tongue!’ Ivar snapped. ‘If we regret our choice, you will very quickly know of it. As my brother said, you will take your orders from us and obey them without question. Now move aside, we have other matters to attend to.’
The remaining thegns were pushed forward and, without forewarning, the arrows flew, all aimed at the heart. Within moments, another four corpses littered the grass.
‘That is how we reward those who dare to make demands from us,’ Ivar yelled as his aides led his pony to face the remaining captives. ‘Favoured treatment must be earned, and we cannot deny that these “nobles” raised their swords to oppose us. As did all of you . . .’ he added, his arm sweeping a wide arc to encompass them. ‘A fact that we will not readily forget, since such behaviour hardly warrants our good favour! Yet, on this occasion, I am prepared to be lenient . . .’
He paused, undoubtedly intending to keep them guessing as to the nature of his lenience. ‘You will be permitted to return to your villages and carry on your lives as normal,’ he resumed at length. ‘But, should any of you object to the terms we set for the ruling of this land, you will find further mercy unforthcoming. Your deaths will be instant. Be satisfied that we have not made thralls of you all . . .
‘And make no mistake, Oswald,’ he spat, twisting to address the trembling man, ‘you will be given the same treatment should you fail us. A substantial number of our men have chosen to settle in these fertile lands, and will take pains to ensure that your rule follows the manner specified by us.’
Ivar said no more and headed back to the royal hall, followed by the jarls and warlords escorting the newly crowned king. The five lifeless bodies were left where they had fallen, to be buried by the grieving townsfolk.
‘Now what?’ Aethelnoth asked as he and Eadwulf wandered back into town, clutching at their cloaks as the sharp wind caught them. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting we stay here throughout the winter. For one thing, I don’t think that hut’ll take much more hammering from winds like this. A few more holes in the walls and the place won’t be any use at all. Besides, there are too many Danes here, and we can’t stay covered in mud for months! If we can’t get to Ivar in the next few days, I say it’s time to head home. In fact, we ought to get back to the horses today.’
Eadwulf nodded. ‘And we need to spend a night or two at our camp. But then, I think we should come back here for a couple of days, just to find out how things are going. We might see some way of killing Ivar while he’s still in Thetford.’
So far, the big man was nodding, and Eadwulf pushed on. ‘Staying here for the winter wasn’t in my plans either, to be honest. But until we learn what Ivar’s immediate intentions are, I’m not sure what our next move should be. I’ve a hunch he’ll stay in
Anglia longer than he originally intended – at least long enough to see how this client king manages things.’
‘That could be anything up to a year,’ Aethelnoth said thoughtfully. ‘In which case, we could probably go home now and come back here in the spring. But, I’d be happy to go with your idea.’ He grinned. ‘I can wait another week or so to see Odella.’
Eadwulf frowned, suddenly reminded of Leoflaed and what he’d have to face when they did get back to Elston. But he refused to dwell on that right now. He was relieved, at least, that Aethelnoth had not objected to staying here a little longer; it made more sense to have one last try at getting to Ivar.
‘Come on,’ Aethelnoth urged at his sudden silence. ‘If we get a move on, we might be in time to see what Halfdan intends to do with Edmund’s head. Perhaps he’ll hoist it up on a pole or something. You can reflect on Leoflaed’s unpredictable temperament when we’re riding home.’
Nineteen
Eadwulf and Aethelnoth spent two days at their woodland camp, heading back to Thetford for one last time the following day. Tomorrow they’d set off on the long ride home.
A light mist writhed about them as they rode, the early morning November sun too feeble as yet to shift it with any degree of efficacy. Arriving in the wakening town they headed for an alehouse where they broke their fast with warm bread and ale. Then, leaving their horses to be fed and watered by the stable lad, they headed off on foot.
The streets were markedly quiet, just a few merchants setting up stalls and even fewer folk looking to purchase their wares. But, despite the menacing Danish presence, Eadwulf noticed that most of the craftsmen were working as usual in their yards. Families still needed feeding, so coin had to be earned.
Yet Thetford seemed to be functioning under the constraints of shock, Eadwulf considered, noting the nervous glances flicking their way as they passed. After witnessing the callous slaughter of their king, combined with the knowledge that their lives under Danish dominance would be extremely harsh, these people were bewildered and utterly terrified. Even the unctuous Oswald, their new king, was no more than a lap dog for the Danes, and unlikely to show lenience in his ruling for fear of facing the same end as Edmund.
But the absence of the crowds along the walkways was unnerving. Despite their disguises, two tall, muscular men, seemingly just wandering about, would certainly warrant the attention of the patrolling Danes.
‘We need to find a way of looking like merchants, Eadwulf,’ Aethelnoth said, as though reading his thoughts. ‘We stand out like a pair of women on a longship.’
‘Any suggestions?’
‘Well, first off, some kind of cart would be useful.’ Aethelnoth glanced about. ‘Like that wine merchant’s over there.’
‘Fine,’ Eadwulf agreed, ‘except that there don’t seem to be any spare carts standing around.’
Aethelnoth shot him an exasperated look. ‘We’ve got plenty of coin left, haven’t we? How about we use some of it to pay for the loan of one? We could also buy something to stick in it – like some vegetables or something.’
Eadwulf thought about the idea as they walked, and decided it had possibilities. On the lookout now for a suitable cart or small wagon, he scanned about him until Aethelnoth suddenly yanked him towards the gate of the closest yard. A group of armed warriors were heading their way. Darting into a yard criss-crossed by lines of unworked hides, they squatted down behind the fence until the patrol had passed.
‘Can I be of assistance?’
Starting at the voice so close behind them, they sprang to their feet . . . to be greeted by the squat body and amused face of a leather-worker.
‘It seems that you two like the Danes as much as I do,’ the craftsman said, still grinning. ‘Though I don’t recognise you as one of us – Thetford folk, I mean.’ He gave a small shrug. ‘But, whoever you are, you’re unlikely to avoid those Norse swine around our streets. Patrols pass this way all too often – and strapping lads like you are likely to warrant a little more than a passing glance.’
Eadwulf nodded. ‘We realise that, my friend. And you’re right, we’re both Mercian.’ He paused, wondering how much he could safely reveal to this stranger. He reasoned that, although their present predicament dictated the need to take chances, he didn’t have to be completely honest. ‘We’re here to settle certain matters with one or two of those “swine”,’ he said. ‘Peterborough’s suffered much at their hands, and my father was amongst those who died trying to save our monastery and the good monks.’
The man nodded but asked no questions, and Eadwulf gestured to an old cart he’d spotted, standing redundant further along the wattle fence. The wheels and bodywork looked reasonably sound, and would likely serve their purpose – as would the sturdy pony, tethered to a post close by. ‘Would you be willing to loan us the pony and cart for an hour or two, my friend?’ he broached. The leather-worker frowned, the beginnings of a refusal on his lips. ‘Believe me, we’ll pay you well for the service,’ Eadwulf put in quickly. ‘In advance, of course.’
The craftsman’s brow relaxed a little. ‘And I’ll get them back in one piece?’
‘We’ve every intention of making sure you do,’ Aethelnoth assured him. ‘The cart’s only needed so we’re not on foot while we mooch around. As you pointed out, we’re not particularly inconspicuous walking about.’
The leather-worker took a few moments to consider the deal, staring at the leather belts and boots displayed on a trestle table close to his wattle-walled house. A woman and four small children peeped through the open door, evidently curious as to what was taking place.
‘It’s a deal,’ the man said at last, seeming to reach a sudden decision. ‘I’ll likely see no purchases today. Most folks are too scared to linger on the streets. They might pop out for a moment or two to buy food and suchlike. But leather goods . . .?’ His face contorted as he shook his head. ‘I’ll not do much trade until things settle down a bit. And your coin could keep us fed till then.’
The deal struck, Eadwulf passed over a generous payment for a mere few hours’ use of an old cart. The craftman beamed at them gratefully, as he hitched the pony to the cart. ‘I wish you luck in your mission,’ he said. ‘And if, by chance, you manage to kill a few of them bastards, I’ll be heartily glad.’
*****
Approaching the wide space that surrounded the royal hall, it became obvious to Eadwulf and Aethelnoth that something was going on. Half a dozen warriors stood rigidly outside the hall door, watching the comings and goings around them, hands on the hilts of their swords in readiness. A few townsfolk scurried warily past, giving their oppressors wide berth, only too aware of the suspicious eyes following them.
Holding well back, the two friends glanced about for somewhere suitable to halt the cart and uncover the mounds of vegetables they’d purchased from a delighted vendor further out. The decision made, they headed to a spot some distance from the hall, but close enough to observe what would transpire, pulling up just as the wine merchant they’d spotted earlier did the same.
The young merchant looked as dirty and unkempt as they did. Murky fair hair straggled from beneath some kind of old cloth hat, and his facial features were indistinguishable through the thick layer of grime. He gave them a long, withering look before hopping down from his seat and heaving a few barrels from the back of his cart.
‘Bloody cheek,’ Aethelnoth muttered. ‘Does he think he owns this particular spot?’
Eadwulf noted his friend’s balled fists and laid a steadying hand on arm. ‘Use your head, Aethelnoth. A brawl right now is hardly going to help matters.’
‘Well, that clod’d better not give us that look again or I’ll wipe it right off his face!’
No more was said and they followed the wine merchant’s example and uncovered their own wares. But, other than the sale of a bunch of onions and a few turnips to a couple of townsfolk, trade was at a standstill. The young wine merchant did no trade at all.
Eadwulf suddenly
nudged his friend and gave a cursory nod towards a horse-drawn wagon emerging from one of the streets that headed off south, towards the Danish camp. It was escorted by a further eight mounted warriors. The driver pulled up outside the hall door and one of the stationed guards disappeared inside.
‘Interesting . . .’ Eadwulf murmured. ‘I bet that wagon’s about to transport someone somewhere; someone who doesn’t ride very well.’
‘Thor’s bollocks, Eadwulf!’ Aethelnoth exclaimed. ‘Can’t you just say his bloody name? We both know you mean that rabid cur, Ivar. And we’re probably both wondering about possibilities if he–’
The big man’s mouth clamped shut at Eadwulf’s sharp dig. The hall door had opened wide and a moment later, Ivar stepped out, wrapped in a thick cloak and supported by his aides. Following behind were the ageing warrior who’d severed Edmund’s head from his body, and Ivar’s two brothers, Halfdan and Ubbi.
A sudden gasp made Eadwulf start. He turned to see the young merchant standing at his side, staring at the group outside the hall. Again he nudged Aethelnoth, whose eyes narrowed as he saw what his friend was tilting his head at. The young man suddenly realised they were both staring at him and stepped back apace.
Aethelnoth opened his mouth to spit out further retort, but held his tongue as Ivar made a move towards the covered wagon. He was helped inside by his two aides before they mounted up to join the eight riders escorting the trundling wagon.
‘So, are we to follow . . .? Because if we are,’ Aethelnoth ploughed on at Eadwulf’s hesitation, ‘we need to get the cart back to the leather-worker first. We can hardly drive off after Ivar in it. Odin knows how long we’ll be traipsing after the ugly dog. Besides, our own horses are still tethered up, unless someone’s already stolen them.’
