by Martin Lake
‘Why not? Danes have always traded here, many live in Norwic and Gipswic, at peace with their neighbours. You don’t have to fight and war. You never did before you came here.’
His face grew thoughtful. Maybe she was right, maybe he could settle here and live the life he thought he had lost for ever.
She saw his hesitation.
‘After all, Leif, you’re not really a warrior.’
‘That I’m not,’ he said with a wry smile.
‘So why pretend? You’ve told me that you’d never have come to England if Ivar had not forced you. In some ways, our fates are the same. I was enslaved by the Vikings. You were enslaved by Ivar.’
He bristled at her words. ‘No I wasn’t. I’m his sworn man.’
But even as he said this he remembered that he could not recall actually swearing to be his follower. And journeying to England had been Ivar’s choice, not his.
He let go of Aebbe’s hand and began to pace up and down. Could this happen, he wondered. Could he leave the army, take his wealth and start a new life here, a life like the one he had enjoyed in his village back in Denmark?
It was a beguiling idea. But then he thought that it could never be. Loki would see his happiness and find a way to ruin it.
He felt defeated by the thought.
‘You could even become a Christian,’ Aebbe said.
He looked at her in astonishment. It was almost as if she had read his thoughts.
His mind began to race. Perhaps this was the answer. Perhaps he could become a Christ-follower and escape Loki’s venom. But then he hesitated. It would also mean deserting Odin and Thor, swapping them for a paltry, sickly, half-dead god. No, that would never do.
But he could still do the rest. Still leave the army and settle with Aebbe. Perhaps Sigurd would come with him, and Nerienda. Maybe even Asgrim, Thorvald and Higbald.
His mind churned ceaselessly, as if it were adrift in a raging river. It was all too much for him to think about.
He was relieved when Sigurd appeared.
‘Ivar and the Englishman have ended their jabber,’ he said. ‘The army has been told to assemble. And you’re to come as well, Aebbe.’
She frowned in confusion but allowed him to lead her to the site of the battle.
The dead had been laid in two barrows, the Viking warriors in one and the English in the other, larger one. A Christ-priest stood by the English barrow. He was making odd gestures and appeared to be talking to himself. Perhaps one of the dead men was his brother and the grief had turned him mad.
Ivar and the chieftains of the army were seated on camp stools a short distance from the mounds. The English lords sat to one side of them, with the old adviser, Oswald a little apart.
When all the Viking warriors had gathered Ivar stood and raised his hand for silence.
‘The King of the East Angles is dead,’ he said, ‘rightfully punished by Odin for his many sins.’
The Englishmen looked angry at his words but none dared raise their voice in protest.
‘It has fallen to us, therefore, to look to the good ordering of the realm. It seems fitting that the new king of the East Angles should be Edmund’s wisest adviser, Oswald.’
There was general assent from the English, general indifference from the Vikings.
Oswald showed no sign of surprise. He got to his feet and his eye took in every man there.
‘I pledge to act as a wise King of the East Angles,’ he said. ‘I welcome our friend Ivar the Boneless with his strong arm and sense of justice. I feel confident that our two peoples will dwell peacefully together from this day forward.’
He paused as if he were expecting some approbation for his words. There was none.
‘But I have a question,’ he continued.
His voice took on a more intimate tone. Leif thought it almost a sly one. He placed his hands on his chest, as if he were a supplicant.
‘Surely it is not possible for ordinary men to make me a king?’ he said. ‘Surely that can only be done by men who are already kings themselves?’
And here he turned towards the Viking lords.
‘It seems to me,’ he continued, ‘that by the very act of appointing me king, Ivar and his brothers must, in fact, be kings themselves.’
Leif exchanged a glance with Thorvald. This was nonsense and everyone in the army knew it. But every man seemed convinced by the argument and they leapt to their feet.
‘Hail to the Kings,’ Jarl Sidrac cried.
‘Hail to the Kings,’ the warriors echoed with a show of enthusiasm.
The brothers stood to acknowledge the acclamation. The men began to cheer and pound their feet on the earth.
At last, Ivar raised his hand for silence.
‘This victory belongs to us all,’ he said. ‘Every last warrior here. In recognition of that, each man will receive two slave women as his own and a pound in silver.’
The men yelled with even greater enthusiasm at this.
When the clamour eventually died down, Ivar drew his sword and grew more serious.
‘The victory belongs to us all,’ he repeated, ‘but a few men played the greatest part in it. One is my brother, Ubbe the Swift, who tracked the oncoming English host, chose the site of battle and devised the battle plan. To him, to King Ubbe, we have agreed to give two hundred pounds of silver.’
The men cheered. This was a just amount.
‘Jarl Guthrum led the attack upon the English flank,’ Ivar continued, ‘and that was vital in assuring our victory.’
There was less agreement with this opinion but none dared voice dissent.
‘We have agreed that he shall receive fifty pounds of silver.’
Guthrum got to his feet and bowed in thanks to Ivar.
‘But the greatest debt is owed to one man,’ Ivar said. ‘The man who slew King Edmund. For the battle was on a knife edge at this point and Edmund’s death proved vital in our victory.
‘Until now, few have known who shot the fatal, fateful arrow. But I now tell you that it was my Skald, Leif Ormson.’
The men got to their feet and cheered more loudly than they had done hitherto.
‘Were it not for his arrow,’ Ivar said, ‘the English would have won and every man here would have ended the day as a slave or a corpse.
‘So I give due and fitting reward to Leif. I give him two hundred pounds of silver and a new title. He shall not be known as Skald Leif anymore. He shall be known as Jarl Leif.’
Leif’s jaw dropped. He could not believe what he’d heard. But the thumps on his back showed that his ears had not deceived him.
‘Jarl Leif, Jarl Leif,’ cried the warriors.
He turned to Aebbe. She looked crestfallen, imagining her plans would now come to nothing.
That might not be so, he thought. Most Jarls led their men in battle but everyone knew he was no warrior. Perhaps he could settle here with his title and treasure. Perhaps this was what Ivar planned all along. He could live here and keep a watchful eye on Oswald. Look after Ivar’s interests.
He turned to look at the army. They were still saluting him, still chanting his name.
This will make a good tale, he thought in a daze.
And then Ivar did something even more startling. He gave Leif his sword, Havoc.
Leif looked at it, looked at Aebbe and shook his head in confusion.
Did this mean that Ivar wanted him to remain in the army, remain his Skald perhaps? Was his path set out for him for ever?
‘What does this mean my lord?’ he asked nervously.
‘It means I give you my sword,’ Ivar said. ‘You can do what you will with it. I did not use it much in battle but it was, nonetheless, a potent symbol. You can use it in either fashion, as you see fit.’
And with that he returned to his brothers.
Leif looked at the wonderful sword once more, wondering what decision he would take. Then he put the sword in his belt. He would decide tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that.
&
nbsp; CHARACTERS IN WOLVES OF WAR
(Historical figures are listed in bold.)
Leif Ormson, Skald to Ivar the Boneless
Sigurd Ormson, Master-Smith and sword-maker
Aebbe, Leif’s English wife
Nerienda, Sigurd’s wife
Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar Lothbrok and leader of the great Viking army
Halfdan of the Wide-Embrace, brother of Ivar
Ubbe the Swift, brother of Ivar
Guthrum, a young jarl in Ivar’s army
Eohric, Guthrum’s brother
Thorvald, Guthrum’s helmsman, a good friend of Leif
Asgrim the Traveller, crewman of Ivar and good friend of Leif
Deor, a healer
Jarl Kolga, daughter of Bjorn Blackbrow
Jarl Sidrac
Jarl Frene
Jarl Osbern
Burgred, King of Mercia
Æthelred, King of Wessex
Alfred, his brother, later King of Wessex
Wulfthryth, Æthelred’s wife
Edmund, King of East Anglia
Aelle, King of Northumbria
Osberht, rival King of Northumbria
Echberht, Northumbrian nobleman, Ivar’s puppet king
Wulfhere, Archbishop of York
Ricsige, Echberht’s cousin, later puppet king
Oswald, Edmund’s chief adviser, later puppet king of East Anglia
Hwita, adviser to King Edmund
Ceolred, Mercian lord
Mucel, Mercian ealdorman and father to Ealswith
Ealswith, young wife of Prince Alfred
Ketil, Thorvald’s son
Klack, the lord of Leif’s village
Asta, Kolga’s lover
Vafri, Kolga’s champion and lover
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OTHER BOOKS BY MARTIN LAKE
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