by Millie Thom
Twenty Six
Ribe: early March, 871
Freydis’s hands moved quickly, shaping the dough for the flatbreads. She gave little thought to the procedure as she performed the familiar task alongside the household servants, her mind filled with a nagging dread of the inevitable. Huddled inside a thick blanket and slumped in a huge chair by the firepit, her ailing mother was sleeping now. Freydis had seen enough of old age to know that Thora would soon follow Hastein’s mother, Bera, to her grave.
Yrsa’s hand was now on her sleeve. ‘Go and sit beside her, Freydis,’ the dark-headed girl said, a small smile on her lips. ‘I’ll take over here, so you can close your eyes for a while. I’ve watched you roll out that same lump of dough three times now. I’ll see to the organisation of the meal, as well. Aguti’s out at the barn, watching the mare birthing her foal with Hastein and Dainn, so I can, at least, do this for you.
‘You’re tired out,’ she added, steering Freydis towards a chair next to Thora’s. ‘I know you were at your mother’s bedside most of the night.’
Freydis lowered herself into the wicker chair and gazed up at Yrsa. Now fourteen, and on the threshold of womanhood, Yrsa had grown to be a most kind and thoughtful person. And with her tumbling dark curls and pretty, heart-shaped face, she was causing quite a stir amongst the young men on Hastein’s lands.
‘I don’t want her to leave me before I can tell her goodbye . . . tell her just how much I’ve loved her all these years,’ Freydis whispered, feeling herself so close to tears again. She smiled at her memories, watching Thora’s shallow but regular breathing.
Yrsa knelt down beside the chair and took her hand. Gazing at the girl’s face, Freydis saw pity and a deep sadness in her dark eyes. ‘At least you’ve had your mother for a long time,’ Yrsa said softly. ‘I don’t even remember mine. When Jorund was here he’d sometimes talk about Morwenna, and how pretty she was. And I can’t bear to think of how she must have suffered before that awful death. I just know that if Rorik hadn’t died, I would have found some way of killing him myself when I was grown.’
Freydis’s admiration for the feisty girl swelled still further. ‘The gods dealt your family the cruellest of blows, sweet one. But Rorik was still your father – although you have every reason to hate him – and he gave you life, for which I can only thank him. You have been a wonderful daughter to me. That you don’t remember Morwenna is perhaps a mercy, for you would have grieved far more for her loss if you did. But I can tell you that Morwenna was a true noblewoman, and a lovely, sweet natured lady. And I see many of those qualities in you.’
Yrsa reached out and hugged Freydis. ‘I have been very happy with you and Hastein, and I never want to leave you. I feel your pain at Thora’s illness and wish I could do something to help.’
‘You just have, by offering to do those flatbreads for me,’ Freydis quipped, trying to allay the downcast mood.
‘Well then,’ Yrsa replied, rising and turning towards the flour-covered worktable, ‘I’d best get on with them, hadn’t I?
Freydis rested her back in the chair, her eyes on Thora’s face. Her mother had not had an easy life, yet her kindness and generosity had made her beloved of all who met her, Freydis’s own father included. Ragnar had always preferred his pretty, dimple-cheeked concubine to his sharp-tongued wife. It was hard for Freydis to think of the past without the familiar lump rising in her throat, the tears welling in her eyes.
Her family in Aros had all but gone now. Her father and one of her brothers had been killed most horribly: news of Ivar’s strange death had reached them over a year ago. And Halfdan was reported to be enjoying himself as the Great Army’s leader, making a fool of the young Wessex king. But nothing had been heard of Ubbi since the news of him sailing his fleet from Anglia to attack the major towns along the south coast of Wessex. That had been almost a year ago now.
Freydis did not, truthfully, expect to see either Halfdan or Ubbi again. In battle, even the mightiest of warriors can fall. For Ivar and Halfdan she felt only the deep sadness of lives wasted. But for her younger brother, Ubbi, she truly grieved.
Only her beloved eldest brother, Bjorn, was left, and his lovely wife and children. Even Aslanga was dead now. The news of Ivar’s death had hit her so hard . . .
Lulled by the warmth from the hearthfire, Freydis closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting back to the day that Bjorn had brought Aslanga to Ribe in his dragonship. Ivar had been Bjorn and Freydis’s half-brother, after all, and Bjorn had felt it was Aslanga’s duty to take the news of his death to Freydis herself. Besides, he had told Aslanga, she hadn’t visited Ribe in over three years.
It was in the early spring in 870 when the Sea Eagle had appeared on the River Ribea and moored at the small jetty beyond the water meadows close to Hastein’s hall. Observed by a group of the hall’s children, Freydis was well prepared, and joyfully awaited her brother’s arrival. Hastein, too, was delighted to hear of his cousin’s visit. But as soon as the party from Aros entered the hall, with Aslanga in their midst, Freydis knew the news would not be good.
As the daughter of her husband’s concubine, Freydis had always been treated with overt contempt by Aslanga. Yet still, Freydis’s heart went out to the distraught woman as she wept for her lost son. No words she could find would offer Aslanga consolation, so she said nothing, hoping her embrace would convey her deepest sympathy. Aslanga had doted on her malformed son, and hoped he would be the Aros jarl one day. Only Bjorn, Ragnar’s son to his fist wife, stood in Ivar’s way. And how Aslanga had hated him for it.
That was the last time Freydis had set eyes on Aslanga: the grieving woman died three months later. Nor had Freydis seen Bjorn and his family for some time now, although Hastein was expecting his arrival within a week or two. Bjorn had some venture or other to discuss with her husband, and Freydis sensed she would be left to run Hastein’s estates again for the summer. She thought little of it; the men were away for the summer months almost every year. But Hastein and Bjorn hadn’t sailed together since their venture to the Middle Sea, seven years ago.
The gentle touch of fingertips on her cheek roused her from a dreamless slumber. Her eyes shot open to see her husband’s smiling face in front of her. Daylight must have faded, she noted. The shutters had been closed and oil lamps shed their muted light about the room. She was relieved to see that Thora, too, was awake now, a small smile on her lips and looking much better than she had done earlier.
‘Do you feel a little restored after your nap?’ Hastein asked. Returning his smile, she nodded. ‘You’ve hardly slept these past few nights so I’m not surprised you nodded off. No, don’t worry about the meal,’ he urged, as he caught her eyes flick across the meats roasting on the hearth. ‘Yrsa has everything in hand.’ He glanced over at the girl, who was busily stacking flatbreads on the trestles. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without her.’
‘Nor do I,’ Freydis agreed. ‘But I can’t leave her to do everything. And thank you, husband, I do feel much restored now.’ She leaned across and kissed Thora’s cheek before pulling herself to her feet. ‘I’m glad you’re awake in time for the meal, Mother. You’ve eaten less than a sparrow these past days.’
Thora shook her head, but the smile on her face was heartening. ‘I can’t eat when I’m not hungry. And I’ve done little of late to give me an appetite . . . Don’t frown so, daughter. Everything is as it should be – and I don’t want you fretting over me. At my age, people don’t need to eat as much as you young ones do.’
Freydis laughed at that. ‘Mother, in my thirtieth year I can hardly be described as young! I left that particular phase behind a long time ago.’
‘You don’t look a day over sixteen to me,’ Hastein put in, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close, a wicked grin on his face. ‘But I know that can’t be right, because we’ve been wed these past twelve years – which would have made you a bride at the tender age of four. Of course, you would have been a very pretty bride and–’
‘I’ve had that said to me before on numerous occasions, Dainn. But as long as you know it’s all in jest, I think you must agree, it’s better to be light-hearted than constantly miserable?’
‘I suppose so,’ Dainn, said, with a shrug that said he wasn’t at all convinced.
‘I’m hungry.’ Aguti’s sorry-for-himself voice came from across the room, close to the tables being laid with bread and cheeses to be served with the meal. ‘And Yrsa won’t even let me have a piece of bread.’
‘I most certainly won’t,’ Yrsa admonished. ‘You’d not eat your meal if I did and then your mother wouldn’t be at all pleased. A big boy of eight should be able to wait, like everyone else.’
‘Well, how long will that be?’ the child whined. My stomach’s aching so much I think I might die of the pain.’
‘Right then, Yrsa,’ Freydis said, unwinding Hastein’s arms from around her and bending down to check the roasting chickens. ‘Shall we get the meal served? I really don’t want Aguti dying on us tonight. I’ve got far too much to do to be bothered with that!’
*****
The dream came again that night and Freydis’s heart ached as she propped herself up in bed, sweeping the tears from her cheeks. She looked down at Hastein sleeping beside her, and hoped she had not called out, or spoken Eadwulf’s name out loud. It was impossible to know when she was not awake herself. If he’d ever heard her dream-voice, he had never said as much.
She had prayed fervently to Freya over the years to take Eadwulf from her mind, and it seemed that the goddess had almost answered her prayer, but not entirely so. In the last five years, the dream had plagued her sleep on increasingly fewer occasions. But when it did come, it came with a vengeance, racking her body with heartache and sorrow at what had been lost. Each heartrending dream was followed by days of guilt at her own selfishness and inability to put the past behind her. Repeatedly she reminded herself that her family was all that mattered now.
Yet memories of Eadwulf still lingered in the recesses of her mind. They were easy to constrain during her busy days, but at night whilst she slept, they broke free of their bindings to dominate her thoughts. At liberty to roam inside her head, they played out whatever scene they pleased. And the scene they favoured most highly was the one that showed her Eadwulf’s face on the day she was leaving as Hastein’s wife.
It seemed that, in her wisdom, Freya had decided that Freydis must keep Eadwulf’s memory alive.
Twenty Seven
Wessex: late March – April 871
Two weeks after the meeting at Swinbeorg, the Danes emerged from their Reading stronghold and renewed their efforts to subjugate Wessex. They headed west across the Berkshire Downs for some fifteen miles before veering south for a further five. They looted the settlement at Newbury, raising most of it to the ground and leaving few of its inhabitants alive. And now they were riding south-west towards Wiltshire.
News of their activities reached Alfred and his brother within the day. It was not unexpected, nor did it find them unprepared. From Winchester, the city to which they had returned following the Council meeting, they were ready to move out.
‘There’s only one place in that direction they can be heading,’ Alfred said, when the messengers arrived.
Aethelred nodded. ‘The bastards are aiming for my estate at Wilton. They’ll likely target all our major centres. They intend to take Wessex, brother, so why would they bother with villages, other than for food as they move from one to the other?’
Soon after daybreak the following morning the Saxon army was heading west, aiming to cover as much of the thirty-mile journey to Wilton as possible before dark. It was a dull, overcast day, which reflected the cheerless nature of their journey, though the absence of rain offered a degree of consolation. Alfred was once more reminded of his father as he rode his black stallion, Caesar, at Aethelred’s side. King Aethelwulf had always loved his estate at Wilton. The lump that rose in Alfred’s throat took some time to disappear. But when it eventually did, the surging wave of anger almost took his breath away.
The Saxons had been mustered at Winchester for the past six days. The Berkshire, Wiltshire and Surrey fyrds had been raised and the men were well rested and ready for combat. They looked an impressive force, although Alfred felt their numbers would simply not be enough.
On this occasion, it was Aethelred who allayed some of his fears.
‘I’m inclined to think the Danish forces won’t greatly outnumber our own,’ he said, twisting in his saddle to face Alfred. Behind them rode Bishop Heahmund, four ealdormen and a score of thegns, followed by eight hundred men of the fyrd, marching with grim determination. In his mailshirt and helm, the bishop struck an imposing figure as he headed towards his first major battle for Wessex. ‘They’ve had no more sizeable reinforcements since mid-January, whereas we’ve now amassed our troops.’
Alfred acknowledged that with a nod. ‘And, let’s not forget,’ Aethelred continued, ‘the “Great Army” we now face is a much less ferocious beast than the one that initially landed and swelled to obesity on the Anglian coast six years ago. For a start, a considerable number of Danes chose to settle in Anglia, substantially lessening their army’s size before it stormed into Wessex. We could even take a further step back and contemplate how many Danes must have fallen in Northumbria.’ He glanced at Alfred, who was curling strands of Caesar’s long mane round his fingers as he listened. ‘So what I’m saying is that even by the time they took Reading, the Norse army was considerably reduced. And –'
‘No, brother, let me finish,’ Aethelred said, raising a hand as Alfred drew breath to speak. ‘You’ll have your say when I’m done. At Ashdown, you’ll recall, it was we who had the larger force. And Danish losses there were higher than ours, which meant that we still had the greater number . . .
‘So it’s probable that the Danes’ win at Basing was simply a stroke of luck on their behalf,’ Aethelred added, frowning. ‘The addition of the new fleet in mid-January was the only reason for that particular victory. Our own army at that time had not been reinforced since Ashdown, which – despite our victory – also took a great many of our men.’
‘So you’re saying we’re once again evenly matched?’ Alfred got in at last.
‘I believe our numbers will be close, certainly. Which doesn’t necessarily guarantee us victory, I know. But it surely gives us grounds for hope?’
Alfred was impressed by his brother’s positive attitude which, in turn, lifted his own spirits. ‘It does indeed, my lord,’ he said with an encouraging smile. But he kept his innermost thoughts to himself. Even should a victory at Wilton prove decisive, the likelihood of many more Norse ships arriving over the following weeks would ensure that the war continued. And the task of increasing the Saxon forces would not be easy.
The main problem was that so many of the kingdom’s shires lay along the coast – from Kent to Cornwall – and were presently combating problems of their own. A large fleet of over a hundred dragonships had been gradually moving along the shores of Wessex throughout the previous summer and into winter, beleaguering coastal towns and villages. Their habit had been to disperse into groups and attack simultaneously at a number of locations. Towns and villages could never be certain the ships had moved on, or when they’d be safe from further assault. Alfred had advised leaving the port reeves and ealdormen of the shires to deal with these attacks, believing them to be isolated incidents, of a type that Wessex had been experiencing for years. Aethelred’s carefully chosen ealdormen and reeves were capable leaders and there seemed no reason to interfere.
In early December this large fleet had sailed on westward to overwinter in the many creeks and bays of Cornwall, raiding the Cornish homesteads repeatedly in their quest for winter food suppli
es. But, with the spring the Danish fleet had turned back east, and now their concentration was focused on Devon and Dorset. They attacked with renewed ferocity, surging in from the sea to leave townships and coastal villages stripped of all food and valuables. Port reeves had had little success in holding them back, and the raiders were moving further and further inland.
It would have been unjust to demand that the men of those shires should rally to the king’s aid. All Wessex men were fighting the same battle, after all. Alfred now felt certain that the coastal attacks were part of a prearranged plan on the Danes’ behalf: to assault the Saxons from all sides in an attempt to dilute their numbers at every turn. Although he could not deny the ingenuity of the strategy, he cursed the heathens to eternal damnation. And, not for the first time, considered the need for a substantial fleet of Saxon galleys to patrol the coasts. Building such a fleet, however, was out of the question during their present state of invasion.
For the time being, at least, Hampshire was free from coastal raids. But faced with the probability of that suddenly changing, Aethelred had insisted on leaving the Southampton reeve with a good-sized force.
Alfred mused on all these things as they rode. It was rumoured that the leader of this Danish fleet was another son of the famous Ragnar Lodbrok, who had been thrown into a pit of vipers by King Aelle of Northumbria. If the rumours were true, it would certainly make sense of his belief that the seaborne raids were all part of the Great Army’s predetermined plan. Again Alfred contemplated the advantages of Wessex having her own fleet of ships . . .
Beside him, Aethelred also rode in silence. His face showed no fear, just a steely determination that made Alfred feel proud to be his brother. When the king addressed his men during periods of rest and refreshment for themselves and their mounts, his voice held that same resolve. The look on the men’s faces reflected Alfred’s own admiration and pride.
