Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (31 page)

Ulf eventually closed his eyes to Ribe’s flickering lights. In a few hours he’d be sailing away from the life he’d known for the past eight years. What lay ahead, only time would tell. All he could see was the bloodied knife in his hand.

And Rorik, dead at his feet.

Forty

Aalborg: late April 859

The
Fenrir
spent a day and night at sea, following the Danish coast north before veering east into the Limfjord. Ulf slept little during his allotted rest periods, his thoughts preoccupied with possible ways of killing Rorik. And then, having achieved that, he’d have the problem of disposing of the body. At the very least, it must not be found until the
Fenrir
was well clear of the Limfjord . . .

By the time they reached Aalborg, Ulf still had no answers to his problems.

Sunrise shimmered over the shallow waters as the
Fenrir
glided alongside the Aalborg wharf. Olaf’s crew secured the great ship as the port roused from its brief sleep. A few men were already sauntering about or shifting goods, but Ulf’s attention was fixed on the dozen dragonships berthed further up the quayside.

‘Looks like the Aalborg jarl’s about to set sail on his raiding,’ Olaf said, as though reading Ulf’s mind. ‘That’s Rorik’s ship, the
Nidhogg,
in the middle over there,’ he added, pointing to a huge vessel with the head of a ferocious dragon atop its lofty prow. Ulf nodded, thinking how well the feared dragon of Niflheim suited Rorik’s nature. ‘So, until they pull out, there’ll likely be a lot of coming and going around here; all the more reason why we need to be extra vigilant with this beauty.’ Olaf’s gaze swept his beloved ship. ‘I’ve never left her unattended yet, and don’t intend to start now.

‘I’ve put you on the first watch, Ulf, along with Sven and Koll and their mates. You’ll stay aboard till noon, and make sure you’re seen from the quay – put any thieving buggers off. If you feel like a nap, check with yer mates. No more than two of you sleep at a time, the other six stay wide awake – not so much as a yawn. And no one leaves this ship, so if you need a piss, it’s still over the side. Am I making myself clear?’

Ulf nodded and Olaf grinned. ‘Right then. I’ve arranged four different watches to take us to sunrise tomorrow, then we’ll start over. Two days is all we’ll have here, just long enough for me to deliver those crates of goods over there and recruit a few more men. Most of the alehouses’ll be heaving with this lot in town,’ he said, nodding at Rorik’s fleet, ‘but there are enough alehouses here to accommodate a vast army. Anyways, at least you’ll get two full nights off, lad. You’ve looked fair down in the dumps during our journey here, and a few mugs and buxom women should cheer you up before we sail.’

Ulf gave a grim smile. ‘You’re right, Olaf. A night on the town is just what I need.’

* * *

The arrival of the second watch came as a relief to Ulf. By noon he was more than ready to stretch his legs, and itching to get out to the jarl’s hall, a short way from the southern edge of the town. He’d planned to spend the first day here just watching, and figuring out some way of getting at Rorik. Then tomorrow night, just before they sailed, he’d strike.

But Ulf hadn’t anticipated the solidarity of Olaf’s crew. The seven men with whom he’d shared the morning watch seemed to have claimed him as one of their own, taken for granted that he’d spend his time ashore in their company. In actual fact, Ulf had enjoyed his hours on watch, playing board games with the jovial bunch of men. He’d even managed a much-needed nap. But once ashore, Ulf had a task to do that was utterly at variance with socialising.

He spent the afternoon wandering about Aalborg’s small market with his new shipmates, sharing food and ale, and tales of places seen and memorable raids. But, as dusk closed in, Ulf racked his brains to find a means for going off on his own. Oddly enough, it was the brawny, dark-headed Sven who provided one for him.

‘We’ll be back on watch at sunrise,’ Sven reminded his comrades, his voice already a little slurred,’ so it stands to reason we can’t spend all night on the ale.’ He took another slurp and tweaked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Olaf’d flay us alive if we didn’t turn up for our watch on time. So here’s what I suggest . . .’

A wicked grin spread across Sven’s face. ‘There’s a certain establishment I know that stays open all night.’ The men nudged each other, knowing full well what was coming. ‘Now this place is the lodging house of some very lonely women, just longing for some wholesome – and generous – male company. So, as long as we’ve silver in our pockets, I say we go and keep those lovely ladies company.’

The brothel was a large, wood-planked structure, close to the centre of the town. Oil lamps glowed on benches along the outside walls, illuminating the handful of women strutting there, eyeing up potential clients and vying for trade. The whores’ bawdy comments induced further merriment in the men, and Koll swept a gaudily dressed woman up in his arms and disappeared into the building.

‘We’ll not see him again till daybreak,’ Sven said, eyeing up the remaining women.

‘Best make your choice quick,’ a brash redhead informed them, hitching her skirts up to her thighs and nodding in the direction of an approaching group of prospective clients. ‘If you’re too picky, you’ll end up all on your own, out on the town.’

Sven threw an arm around the woman’s waist and pulled her to him, before heading indoors. The rest of the men soon followed suit, leaving Ulf to be jostled inside in the midst of the recent arrivals. The large room was heaving with eager clients, further aroused by the distinctive smells of sex that the reek of stale ale failed to mask. Whores paraded round the tables, the expanse of naked flesh increasing as they competed for masculine attention. Lewd banter and raucous laughter added to the grunts and groans coming from inside the booths edging the walls. Pairings were made quickly as men pulled women onto their laps, lust-filled gropes triggering further giggles and squeals. Several pairs headed outside, too impatient to wait for a vacant booth.

Ulf inched towards the door, certain that no one would notice his leaving. And with so many couples copulating in sheltered nooks outside, who was likely to question his whereabouts? He could easily have been occupied in one of those cosy niches himself.

He slunk away and out into the night, hardly able to believe his luck.

* * *

Dusk was giving way to darkness as Ulf neared the Aalborg hall. From the shadows of one of the huts he stared at the light streaming through the partly-opened door, his ears attuned to the hum of voices and the occasional burst of laughter. Savoury aromas of cooked meats drifted on the night air and his stomach rumbled. He’d eaten nothing since mid-afternoon, but that wasn’t likely to be remedied for some time yet. His thoughts returned to the events of his last visit to this place: his confrontation with Rorik on the night of their arrival, and his own unbearable urge to beat the ugly face to a pulp; of the hope that shone in his mother’s eyes when they’d met outside the storage hut, and how boldly she’d faced up to Rorik’s accusations. Then the cold barbarity of her death . . .

Ulf’s grief surged anew, gripping him pitilessly for some moments before being swamped by the smouldering rage he’d lived with for the past eighteen months. He leaned against the hut to steady himself, willing the trembling fury to abate. He’d achieve little if he allowed his emotions to control his deeds. For what he was planning, he needed a clear head and rational thought – and a steady hand.

Yet again, Ulf reached for the comforting feel of Leif’s dagger through his belt.

A few thralls traipsed back and forth from the hall, and Ulf moved further into the shadows. Remnants of the evening meal were carried into a largish hut, which he knew served as the kitchens, and a cask of ale taken back to the hall. Evidently, the meal was over and the usual drinking would continue.

After what seemed like hours of uneventful waiting, Ulf was suddenly alerted to movement. The hall door swung open and a group of Rorik’s men made their exit.

‘Another couple of days and we’re off,’ one of them said as they headed for the barn. ‘By tomorrow, Godfried should be here with his ships. King Harald just had to send his son along to make sure Rorik doesn’t pocket his share of the plunder, didn’t he? But I suppose Friesland’s as much Harald’s domain as Rorik’s – although the fool never seems to get there too often.’

‘The sooner he drops dead the better it’ll be for all of us,’ another voice declared. ‘Call himself a king . . . ! Rorik’d make a far better one, is what I say.’

‘But if Harald meets an untimely end, his son’ll expect to step right into his shoes,’ the first speaker returned. ‘Mind you, Godfried’s young and strong, and not one to stay home in Viborg like his miserable father, waiting for booty to come to him. He’d not be a bad leader to follow – but don’t tell Rorik I said that.’

The chuckles diminished as the men made their way into their sleeping quarters and Ulf settled down for a long watch, reminded of his own encounter with Godfried all those years ago. But now was not the time for such recollections and he focused on the grim task ahead.

He knew that the jarl’s sleeping chamber was inside the hall, so getting to him during the night would not be an option, especially if he was sharing his bed with one of his wives or concubines. But at some stage, Rorik would likely need to piss out all the ale he’d drunk. And then Ulf would need every ounce of his willpower to stop himself from unsheathing Leif’s dagger. Rorik must not disappear before the
Fenrir
was ready to sail.

More time passed and, lulled by the dark silence, Ulf battled the overwhelming urge to close his eyes. He stood to rouse himself and crept closer to the hall. Shadowy figures had begun to emerge, disappearing round the side of the hall to relieve themselves before heading back to their beds – and Ulf needed to know whether Rorik was one of them. But, as night moved closer towards its inevitable clash with the dawn, he’d seen no sign of the jarl. Surely the man’s bladder must be bursting by now! And before long, Ulf would be obliged to return to the ship, still ignorant as to how he’d accomplish Rorik’s death.

Tomorrow night he’d try again, and tomorrow night, failure was not an option.

Just as he rose to make his retreat, the door opened again. And this time there was no mistaking the hulking figure of the Aalborg jarl.

Ulf held his breath, his body suddenly rigid. Bloodlust swept through him like a raging torrent, powerful and all-consuming, until he could see nothing but his chance – perhaps his only chance – of killing Rorik. His resolution to wait until tomorrow vanished with the thrill of that single thought as he watched his prey disappear behind the hall. Silently, he stepped out of the shadows, Leif’s dagger already gripped in his hand.

The hall door swung open again and Ulf dived for cover as someone else emerged to follow after the jarl. He caught the muffled voices as the two acknowledged each another in passing, then Rorik was in full view again, reaching for the door and entering the hall.

Ulf stood there, staring after him, cursing himself for missing such a perfect opportunity. He turned and crept away, knowing only too well that tomorrow night was his last chance.

Everything hinged on the timing of Rorik’s need to piss.

* * *

The second day followed much the same pattern as the first, and another visit to the brothel was a foregone conclusion. Ulf did his best to hide his escalating anxiety, feigning cheerfulness as the men laughed and jested, and joining in as they shared descriptions of the women’s charms by extolling the attributes of the non-existent ‘Inga’, with whom he’d supposedly spent the night.

As he’d expected, the brothel was busy again – with so many ships in port it was unlikely to be otherwise. Most of his crewmates were soon blissfully engaged, either grunting in one of the booths or cavorting around somewhere outside. The April nights had lost the bite of winter, and sexual romps beneath open skies exerted the usual pull on men of the sea.

Ulf sat around for a while, waiting and watching for the best time to take his leave. But the sudden arrival of a curvaceous young woman on his lap delayed any possibility of him going anywhere. At first, he was quite disgruntled, seeing her as a further hindrance to his plans, and refused to respond to her persuasive advances. So it wasn’t surprising that before long she lost her patience.

‘I’ve a queue waiting for my favours,’ she announced tartly, jumping off his knee. ‘So if you can’t be bothered to do what you came here for, get yourself off to an alehouse.’

Not wishing his crewmates to witness his reluctance to ravish the girl’s voluptuous body, and thereby question his virility, Ulf declared his preference for a romp outside, and led her to the door.

He selected an empty space between the brothel and an adjacent hut, and the girl set to work. Her skills in her chosen profession were considerable, and for some time Ulf succumbed to her ministrations. She spoke little – not even enquiring after his name, which suited him well – simply doing her utmost to make his experience satisfying and memorable. The interlude served to ease some of the crippling anxiety that had built up during the day and he paid her well, having delved into the purse from Bjorn for a handful of coin. She walked off without so much as a smile, undoubtedly in search of her next client.

Ulf was now free to head to Rorik’s hall. He’d thought about doing little else all day as he’d battled to control the fits of panic, when his heart thundered and he sweated like a hog. But the sexual release had induced in him calm and lucid thought, and as he approached the hall, his mind was focused solely on the ugly jarl’s end.

* * *

Ulf guessed that midnight could not be far away when he arrived to watch the play of events around the hall. The post-meal drinking was lasting longer tonight, and seemed to be taking its usual toll. Angry voices carried through the part-opened door, suddenly broken by what sounded like a table being hurled over. Someone yelped, followed by a deathly hush. Then mayhem erupted . . .

A tangle of bodies fell through the doorway, arms and legs flailing, and Ulf stepped swiftly back between the storage huts. Suddenly, Rorik was there. His outraged roar rang out and the tangle instantly unravelled.