Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (19 page)

Eadwulf nodded. ‘The second reason?’

‘Ragnar, of course.’

Hastein and Leif grinned at Eadwulf’s bemusement, and Bjorn laughed out loud. ‘Weland’s been a friend of my father’s for years. Few kingdoms around the Northern and Baltic Seas haven’t been besieged by those two. Weland was with Ragnar during the sack of Paris thirteen years ago. That would make Charles and Weland old acquaintances, I’d say. So I feel rather confident that Weland wouldn’t wish to antagonise my father by starving to death his eldest son and beloved nephew.’

‘It would be most unfriendly of him to do so,’ Hastein agreed. ‘He wouldn’t be in a hurry to set foot back in our homelands either. But I still think the main reason for Weland’s double-dealing is–’

‘The booty,’ Leif finished for him, scratching his head. ‘You two seem to forget that I sailed with Weland and Ragnar for many a year. And a more devious bastard than Weland you’re not likely to find. I can’t see him being much afraid of Ragnar these days. He’s got his own lands now, his own men; owes loyalty to no one. And you’re right, Hastein; he’d sell his own mother for the merest glint of silver.’

‘Then we’d best not turn our backs on the devil,’ Bjorn conceded with a grimace.

* * *

At the end of the third week of September, Bjorn and Hastein’s fleet eventually pulled away from Oissel Island. The lightening day saw a gradual easing of the downpour which had been heavy during the night, and the clear, sharp air smelt good. Relieved to be on the move the men concentrated on their rowing, reserving their thanks to Thor until they were well away from their island prison. Slumped on his sea chest beside Leif, Eadwulf felt wretched. His shoulder throbbed and he was much too weak to row. How could he justify his place on Bjorn’s ship if he could do nothing but sit and watch others work? But he had no choice in the matter; hailed as Bjorn’s hero he must endure the embarrassing praise and remain seated.

Leif’s hairy visage was solemn, his darting eyes edgy as the ships glided past the riverbanks lined with Weland’s men. Somewhere in their midst was his former comrade, undoubtedly revelling in his easily acquired wealth from both the Frankish king and his fellow Danes. As most of the men, Leif was not convinced that Weland would not renege on his word and attack. The booty had been exchanged for hostages in the diminishing drizzle at first light. Six warriors, each a chieftain in his own right, would be their only assurance of safe passage from the Seine. One of those six now squatted at the
Eagle’s
stern, glowering. Other ships held his comrades: none to be freed until they reached the Danish lands.

Half starved and brimming with anger after weeks of enforced confinement, the men rowed hard. They raided villages along the Seine without mercy, seizing food, burning homesteads and taking slaves. Five days after leaving the island they reached the open sea and veered north towards Frisia, sailing into creeks and estuaries to continue their raids.

Eadwulf stayed with the ships during these times as he’d done in past years. But he despised the feeling of helplessness, and though his shoulder only bothered him when suddenly jolted, he was still too weak to wield a weapon. He felt like a child again; the child who’d willed away the years to the day when he’d become a man, able to fight at Bjorn’s side and make him proud.

Though his Mercian heritage still burned deep in his heart, Eadwulf had long since come to respect the Danish way of life: the elemental need to raid in order to survive. He thought of his father, a noble king who’d died a victim of one such raid, and his mother, snatched as a prize by the victor of that same incursion. And Eadwulf himself, thrust into a life of endless drudgery, his happy childhood gone forever. By rights he should deplore everything the Danes stood for. But he did not . . .

Bjorn’s kindness had saved him, taken him away from the relentless torment at the hands of Aslanga and her two spiteful sons. And for that, the jarl’s eldest son had become his saviour, whom he would follow and obey without hesitation. Even during the raids in Francia, Eadwulf had participated without question. Bjorn expected it of him. Had he lived, Beorhtwulf would surely abhor what his only son become: a callous raider who dealt in death and destruction. And his mother, should she still be alive, must never know. Though, perhaps, having lived amongst the Danes herself, Morwenna would understand.

Now, even in his darkest moments, when his nostrils filled with the stench of burning and terrified screams resounded in his ears, Eadwulf thought of Bjorn and the men who had become his friends. And he smiled.

* * *

The amber glow of the setting sun danced across the waters of the pretty bay, highlighting a couple of the low-lying islands that formed part of the chain along the Frisian coast. The light offshore breeze now held a definite chill and the early October evening would soon rapidly darken. Campfires on the sandy beach already crackled and the men were setting whatever meats they’d obtained during the day’s raids to roast. Eadwulf laid out breads, cheeses and apples with little concern as to how they’d been acquired. He’d have acted no differently to the other men, had his wretched shoulder permitted. He glanced at the thralls taken during the last week or so, hunched together with that terrified look Eadwulf recognised too well. He fought down the mixture of anger and sympathy he felt for their loss of freedom. To allow such emotions to dominate his thoughts would serve no purpose. He could not change the way of things.

The meal was devoured quickly; the Frisian wine downed too fast to be savoured. The men were still rebuilding their strength after the weeks of slow starvation, and the night-time meals were enjoyed more with a sense of relieved desperation than merriment. Thor must surely have smiled upon them to have saved them as he did. Though silver coin, elaborate swords and chalices, and other ornate goods were few in Frisia – the area had suffered many years of Norse raids – food was plentiful on most of the homesteads they’d raided. And since leaving Oissel Island, food was the one commodity the men still craved. Ample silver and gold from Francia was already in their possession; all they wanted now was to get home in good health. And tomorrow they’d be setting sail.

Just before they made a move towards their bedrolls, Bjorn rose to his feet, a big grin on his face, and addressed the fifty or so men seated around his campfire. At his master’s left, Eadwulf paid little attention. Bjorn often ended the evening with jovial anecdotes and a summary of their recent achievements, goods accumulated. But after a few moments Bjorn raised his hands for silence, a serious expression on his face.

‘In years to come we’ll look back on this summer with mixed emotions,’ he said, his eyes sweeping the faces, glowing in the flickering light. ‘Our bulging sacks speak of our incredible success in Francia. Ragnar will be delighted that we laughed in the face of the pretentious Charles. But,’ he added with a slow shake of his head, ‘we’ve all felt the brush of death; all felt what it would be like to be barred from Valhalla. Sadly, but inevitably, we leave some of our comrades behind. Those men died as true warriors, doing their best to please the gods. Odin will smile upon them and open the doors into Asgard, where they can feast and drink in the great hall, Valhalla. But the rest of us . . .? Had we died on that cursed island, starved until our bodies could function no longer, we would not have been as fortunate as they. Valhalla would not have been our destination.’

He suddenly grinned and threw out his arms. ‘But we are here. Alive! Perhaps a little thinner,’ he jested, patting his midriff. ‘Though in some cases – and note, I mention no names – perhaps that’s not such a bad thing. Some of you will now be able to see your toes.’

The men hooted and Eadwulf noticed others gathering round Bjorn’s group, drawn by the laughter. ‘I, more than most, have reason to be grateful that I’m still alive,’ Bjorn went on. ‘And the one person responsible for my continuing good health is sitting right here beside me, still suffering considerable pain from an arrow, skilfully aimed to kill me. If not for Eadwulf’s swift actions, I’d not be here enjoying this chat with you all now.’

Eadwulf shuffled as eyes fixed on him. He was not looking for admiration from the men and would prefer the incident simply to be forgotten. He’d merely acted instinctively to the sight of that cursed archer taking aim.

Hastein suddenly appeared between Eadwulf and Bjorn, a canvas bag in his hand, a great grin on his face. ‘I imagine you’re about ready for this, cousin,’ he said, holding out the bag. ‘If you continue to talk much longer, I fear Eadwulf may well slink away in embarrassment before you accomplish the intended purpose of this little gathering.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Leif yelled round to the men from his seat at Bjorn’s right. ‘I swear our young master doesn’t even shut up in his sleep!’

Bjorn threw up his hands with a feigned expression of astonished indignation before taking the bag from Hastein’s grasp. ‘Then I shall bore you all no longer with my inane chatter. No doubt I’ll continue to talk to myself when I nod off. So now, at the risk of causing him still greater discomfiture, I ask that Eadwulf rises to stand beside me.’

Eadwulf silently groaned. Hadn’t his master praised him enough already? Why couldn’t he just let things lie?

He pulled himself up and shuffled between Bjorn and Hastein, trying not to look at the many grinning faces. Bjorn faced him and gripped his one good shoulder. ‘I owe you my life, Eadwulf, for which I’ll be eternally indebted to you. Never have I known a thrall with such courage as you. You could so easily have died in my stead . . .’ Bjorn’s voice was choked, and Eadwulf felt a lump in his own throat. ‘You’ll never know how much I prayed to the gods when you lay unconscious for so long, Eadwulf . . . when we all thought your life was ebbing away. Mighty Thor must have acknowledged your bravery, recognised your true, Danish spirit and the need for you to live. He knew that you are, without doubt, one of us.’

For some moments Bjorn gazed silently at Eadwulf, as though unable to put further thoughts into words. Then he opened the bag and withdrew something that glinted silver in the firelight. It took Eadwulf a moment to recognise what it was. An armband; a thick and heavy silver ring, embossed with spiralling stems and leaves, the open ends resembling the gaping maw of some sea creature. He stared at the object, unable to believe that Bjorn should bestow such a costly item upon him.

‘Accept this gift, Eadwulf, as a token of my appreciation for the courage you’ve shown throughout our venture into Francia. I’ve already declared my heartfelt thanks for saving my life, and I know the men have valued your weaponry skills during the raids, and your comradeship. But, mere words can be forgotten, whereas this handsome token cannot.’ The men cheered as Bjorn placed the silver band around Eadwulf’s upper right arm then grasped him at the wrist to make the favoured greeting of warriors.

‘Just don’t lose it!’ Hastein quipped, taking his turn to clasp Eadwulf’s wrist.

The cheers and laughter eventually died down and Bjorn looked round the men, evidently about to speak again. Eadwulf fingered the unfamiliar band round his arm, his heart filled with pride, despite his embarrassment. He just hoped that Bjorn would now focus his attentions elsewhere. The night was already fully dark and a few men had started to yawn. It had been a long day.

‘I’ve one last thing to say to our brave comrade before we retreat to our beds, my friends,’ Bjorn began, turning back to face Eadwulf, who felt his face flush red again. ‘After some in-depth consultation with Hastein and Leif, I’ve come to the decision that since you’re now a Dane in all but heritage, you need a Danish name.’

Eadwulf blinked at this unexpected assertion. Changing his name had been the last thing he’d expected, and he wasn’t at all convinced he liked the idea. He was Eadwulf, a Mercian, and always would be. Wouldn’t he? His emotions reeled and he knew his confusion would show on his face.

Bjorn roared and the others joined him. ‘Well, I can see that the idea has hit you like a slap with a wet fish.’

‘It’s not distaste at the idea, Master,’ Eadwulf said quickly before Bjorn became offended. ‘I’m just stunned. What name did you have in mind?’ he asked, hoping he sounded pleased.

Laughter again rang out. ‘Now, that’s more like it.’ Bjorn’s voice trilled amusement. ‘We believe that “Ulf” will suit you very well,’ he said glancing sideways from Hastein to Leif, who were both nodding in agreement. ‘After all, you do fight somewhat like a wolf. And Ulf is not too unlike your original name. But it’s a popular name in our lands – and it will always signify your acceptance as one of us. A Dane.’

Ulf sat on his sea chest the following day as the ship ploughed north through the foaming brine, wondering how he’d explain all this to Sigehelm. Soon they’d leave Hastein’s fleet behind at Ribe, and within the next two days they’d be back in Aros. Confusion made his head throb, to add to the pain of his shoulder. The armband would be hard enough to explain. But the name change . . .?

Sigehelm would see his acceptance of the name as a betrayal, a denial of who he was and his true heritage: everything he’d tried to keep alive in Eadwulf since the day the Danes destroyed his family, and his home. And made him the thrall he still was.

But now he was a Dane, and proud of it. He’d raided and killed like the rest of them. And Bjorn valued him so highly. Or did Bjorn still just see him as a useful thrall?

Confusion continued to rage. He sought desperately to find that comfortable, dark place; the place where he’d found such solace after he’d been wounded.

But oblivion eluded him.

Twenty Four

Aros: early October 857

‘Well, Eadwulf, I’m truly glad to see you back. I confess I feared the worst. We all did.’

Sigehelm found it hard to keep his voice on an even keel. His relief at seeing his former pupil safe and well was marked, despite a whole day having elapsed since his return. He wanted to ask Eadwulf so many questions, but didn’t know how to begin. He’d caught much of Bjorn’s embellished account of events at last night’s homecoming feast, but from Eadwulf he’d heard nothing.

Thora’s uncharacteristically impatient tones interrupted his thoughts: ‘The evening meal must be nearly ready when the jarl and his sons return from their rounds of the village,’ she snapped at the thralls. ‘The men won’t want to resume their merrymaking surrounded by vegetable peelings and animal guts!’

Eadwulf would be a part of those celebrations, as Sigehelm had seen last night. Bjorn would insist.

It had been another hectic day. Family reunions continued and people pursued their work, hampered by the after-effects of last night’s excesses. Sigehelm’s own routine had changed little – he still had his tutorial and clerical duties to perform for the jarl – but the disruption around the village could not be ignored and he was pleased that the day would soon be drawing to a close.

‘The autumn gales and treacherous waters of the Northern Sea could so easily have taken you,’ he continued, shuddering at the thought. He would never lose his fears of those vast, grey depths.

‘Ulf. My name is Ulf now.’

Sigehelm blinked at the terse rebuke, his quill poised over his parchment. He stared at Eadwulf, whose head was bent over the boot he was buffing, his body stiff, a pained expression on his face. ‘Of course,’ he acknowledged, ‘I recall someone saying as much yesterday. But I can’t remember the reason
why
you changed your name.’ He glanced at eight year old Ubbi, practising his letters at the end of the table. But the women were making too much noise chopping vegetables for the boy to hear. ‘Eadwulf is a fine old Mercian name; a name to be proud of.’

‘I don’t feel like a Mercian any more,’ Ulf snapped, doggedly polishing without looking up. ‘I’m not a Dane – and I’m still a thrall. I know that. But what’s the point of harking on about my Mercian heritage? I’ll never go back. And I’ve
earned
the privilege of being named Ulf, so please call me that in future.’

Ulf dropped the boot and polishing cloth to the floor, pushing back his hair as he raised his head. Sigehelm noted how the thick mane hung unkempt about his shoulders, in dire need of grooming. It had grown considerably since the spring. He held Ulf’s gaze, desperately seeking the boy he once knew. But Eadwulf – Ulf – was now very much a man. The once boyish features had sharpened and red whiskers sprouted from his chin and upper lip. His physique was powerful and well muscled, his every reflex that of a warrior. At seventeen he was a head taller than Sigehelm and looked so much like . . . He swallowed hard. Ulf was a mirror image of how he remembered Beorhtwulf to be.

‘Bjorn is my master,’ Ulf said with a one-shouldered shrug. ‘He re-named me Ulf and I must obey his orders. But it’s more than that, Scribe! You’ve always had your God – your Christ. I could never understand your trust; your faith.’

Sigehelm struggled to grasp the connection between Eadwulf’s change of name and his own faith. His former pupil was watching him, doubtless reading his confusion, and when he spoke his tone had softened.

‘You’ve always taught me that Christ would be the salvation of his followers. But I could find no comfort in such a belief, Sigehelm, you know that. Bjorn has been my only salvation. If not for him, Ivar would have killed me years ago.’

‘I do believe that when Bjorn took you under his wing it gave you relative freedom and the chance to get away from Aros and see some of the world. Heaven knows, you’ve not seen summer here for five years. You could undoubtedly sail one of those dragonships singlehanded!’ Ulf’s lips twitched at Sigehelm’s quip but he said nothing. ‘Bjorn certainly took you away from the intolerance of Aslanga,’ Sigehelm continued, glancing about to ensure the mistress was still in the fireroom, ‘and the constant taunts of Ivar and Halfdan. But whether Ivar would have killed you is doubtful indeed.’

‘Believe it,’ Ulf spat. ‘You don’t know the truth of it!’

Sigehelm gasped, the unexpected discourtesy astounding him. At a loss for words he looked away to collect his thoughts. He’d put down his quill in haste and unwittingly knocked over the ink pot. The black liquid streamed across his parchment, rendering his work utterly ruined. He felt the unaccustomed prickle in his eyes as memories of a day long ago resurfaced and he looked at Ulf.

Ulf glanced at the parchment and then at Sigehelm, his features impassive. He picked up Bjorn’s boot and recommenced his polishing.

* * *

The hall was stifling, the heat from the hearthfire intense, and Ulf’s face burned, his body uncomfortably clammy. Rowdy singing filled his head – or was it screams he heard? He needed time to think; time to contemplate the significance of recent events, unscramble his tangled emotions. His sense of self had become so deeply buried he didn’t know who he was any more. Was he Eadwulf, or Ulf? Mercian or Dane? Whoever he was, he wasn’t the same person who’d set sail for Francia in the spring. Did his deeds in Francia make him evil and depraved? If so, why had he done those things . . . slaughtered and raped? They contradicted everything he’d once believed in; every principle his parents had instilled in him. But when all was said and done, he’d really had little choice over his actions: Bjorn had simply expected him to act in accordance with the rest of the men. When Ulf contemplated how he’d felt about that, he had to admit he’d had no objection to doing so. And once caught in the frenzy of the moment, there’d been no turning back, no time to consider the wantonness, the very wrongness
of it all. And he’d so desperately wanted to please Bjorn and earn acceptance as a warrior. Being the lowliest member of his master’s crew was no longer enough.

He slunk outside, the heaviness in his chest weighing him down. How could he have been so contemptible to Sigehelm, his one true friend; his one true link to his real self? Tomorrow he’d apologise, tell Sigehelm about Francia. He would not dwell on the raids. How could he explain to Sigehelm things he did not understand himself?

Drinking in the sweet, cool air, he basked in the peace away from the hall. The blue skies of the October day were now cloaked in the velvet shades of night, the waxing gibbous moon bathing the land in pale light. Millions of stars twinkled and beguiled, some swept in bands across the heavens like huge brushstrokes, others massed into clusters. Countless millions of others shone alone. His heavy eyelids closed, his tense muscles began to loosen, his mind to wander.

He’d seen so many night skies on his sea voyages over the past five years and never ceased to feel small and insignificant beneath such grandeur. He wondered whether Asgard lay somewhere beyond the stars, and whether Odin, Thor, Frey and other Danish gods were looking down on the antics of humans from their magnificent halls. Could the Christian god be there with them? It seemed to Ulf more likely that there were no gods at all, that Thor’s storms and Odin’s ravens were just part of the nature of things.

On clear nights at sea, when their sun compass was rendered useless and the routes of seabirds unseen, their navigators would use the stars to locate their position. Ulf had learned a little of that skill and could name several of the stars and constellations. The most important star was the North or Lode Star, which was easy enough to find, since it sat between two great constellations with unmistakable formations. His eyes were drawn to a group of stars called Odin’s Wagon, for Odin was ruler of the wagon road of the heavens. Ulf found this seven-star arrangement intriguing. Four of the stars formed the body of the wagon itself, the other three the pole, or handle. His gaze moved from the two pointer stars at the front of the wagon until it rested on the North Star. On the opposite side of the North Star from the Great Wagon, Casseopeia sat in its great zigzag formation. He followed an imaginary line drawn from the open end of the first V of this zigzag and again located the North Star.

There were many old myths about these wonders of the heavens. Bjorn had once told him how the sun, the moon and the stars had been formed at the beginning of time. The story told of a hot, bright, glowing land guarded by the fire giant, Surt. This was the land of Muspelheim. It was said that the warm air of Muspelheim had drifted into the opposite cold, dark land of Niflheim, melting the ice and causing Aurgelmir, the father of the evil giants, to be formed. The gods themselves took the sparks and burning embers of Muspelheim and placed them in the midst of the vast space above and below the Earth. These became the sun, the moon and the millions of stars.

Ulf found the story little more than interesting. To him it was just that: a story.

At first Ulf had felt lost and alone at sea, surrounded by men more at home in their ships than on land. He’d been so young five years ago, so ignorant. But he was learning. Sailing with Bjorn, he’d seen places he hadn’t known existed, places even Sigehelm hadn’t heard of: trading towns and ports, peaceful villages, and mountains so breath-taking he’d felt totally humbled. Sometimes, they’d sailed into settlements to trade. At others they’d looted and killed.

He snapped his mind shut to the raids and thought of the Norwegian lands of the far north, close to where the world of humans abruptly ended and those strange and beautiful lights danced across the skies as the gods played. He’d quaked with fear the first time he’d sailed past the Lofoten islands to the fishing settlement of Tromsø. The crew had teased him relentlessly and he couldn’t help smiling at the memory . . .

‘If we sail much further north,’ Leif had told him, wide-eyed, ‘we’ll surely be thrust from the edge of Midgard into that wild ocean where the most hideous of all serpents, Jormungandr, lives. The monster will close his foul, gaping jaws around us and swallow us all in a single gulp!’

The men had kept up the pretence for days. Only much later had Ulf learned that ships often sailed even further than Tromsø. As a boy, Bjorn had sailed with Ragnar over the very top of the Norwegian lands, continuing east at the edge of a vast, cold ocean the Norwegians called the Whale’s Road until they reached the land of the Finns. Bjorn had seen nothing of any monstrous serpent, just an abundance of whales and great floating lumps of ice.

A feeling of warmth swept through Ulf as he recalled those early voyages. The Danes had taken to him, a lad of thirteen, as one of their own, even though he cleaned and cooked and fetched for them. He had his allotted place in their company, and been respected for it.

Hearing footsteps he spun round to see a young woman coming toward him from the hall. Her unbraided hair shone like pale silk in the moonlight. She stopped and stood there, hands on her hips, glowering at him. ‘

I hope you’re truly ashamed of yourself, Eadwulf. I feel ashamed
for
you!’

Ulf immediately bristled. ‘You know your brother named me Ulf!’

Freydis advanced on him, fury shaping her features. ‘Oh, I know all right. I also know
why
Bjorn gave you that name, and I commend your actions. But you seem to have let it go to your head! What gives you the right to treat Sigehelm with such disrespect?’ she demanded. ‘We’ve all benefited from his learning, and he’s earned the respect of us all. And he cares for you more than anyone else in all of Midgard. He’s a fine person with a noble heart, Christian or not. But you just–’

‘And what gives
you
the right to try to put me in my place? I’m not
your
thrall!’

With a hiss of rage, Freydis leapt to stand barely an arm’s length before him, tilting her head back to glare up at his face. Ulf glared defiantly back. ‘I can put you in your place because you are a
thrall!’ she seethed, punctuating her reply with sharp jabs to his chest that sent jolts of agony through his shoulder.

His reaction was instinctive: he grabbed Freydis’s wrist in a vicelike grip, fuming at the affront. Sudden pain contorted her face, a glimmer of fear momentarily flashing in her eyes. Then the anger took over. Her eyes fixed on Ulf’s hand on her wrist before moving up to his face. ‘I could have you flogged for this! Then my father would throw you into the pit and give you to Odin at next week’s ceremony.’

‘Then run and tell him, Freydis.’ Ulf released her in a sudden gesture, his hand still raised, fingers splayed, clawlike. ‘Run and tell Ragnar whatever you like. You’re right; he wouldn’t hesitate to have me strung up if he thought I’d laid so much as a finger on you. I’d be just another thrall to forfeit his life to appease your vengeful gods.’

Freydis stepped back, rubbing her wrist, her expression softening with uncertainty. Her eyes glistened in the moonlight, searching Ulf’s face. He felt a wrench at his heart as he watched her gnawing her bottom lip. This was not how he’d expected to greet Freydis on his return. In the spring they’d parted as the friends they’d always been. And as long as that friendship remained within the bounds of mistress and thrall, it was acceptable in the eyes of the Danes. But Ulf’s feelings for Freydis had developed into something so much deeper over the years.

‘I don’t understand you any more,’ Freydis said, shaking her head. ‘Where’s the Eadwulf I knew, the Eadwulf who would not have hurt people’s feelings? He seems to have been left behind in Francia, and a stranger returned in his stead.’

Ulf squeezed his eyes shut, stung by the accuracy of her observation.

‘Can’t you see that Sigehelm is very worried – no, he’s
upset
about you?’

‘I know!’ Ulf snapped, turning his back on her. ‘By Odin I feel badly enough without you rubbing it in. I’d already decided to talk to Sigehelm tomorrow.’ He rubbed his aching brow, his shoulders slumping with weariness. ‘And now I’ve made matters worse by offending you. And you have only ever shown me kindness.’