Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (18 page)

Twenty Three

In the afternoon of the following day they took up residence on what looked to be a conveniently placed island in the middle of the Seine, ten miles upstream of Rouen and inhabited only by a dozen tonsured monks in shapeless black robes. Wailing pleas to the Christ god, the monks were hounded into the Seine where their heavy woollen habits ensured that most of them drowned, their bodies washed away downstream. Eadwulf felt no pity for such pretentiously pious men.

‘By Thor’s bollocks,’ Hastein declared to anyone within earshot, ‘this place will serve our purpose well.’ He patted the sun-warmed wall of the tiny stone church against which he leant, watching his comrades piling provisions into the scattering of wooden buildings. ‘We couldn’t have asked for a place with better shelter and storage.’

Eadwulf followed his grinning master to join his cousin. ‘And those vegetable plots could prove useful,’ Bjorn added, pointing beyond the huts. ‘Or perhaps not,’ he grunted, as they strolled over to inspect the produce. He kicked at a row of holey cabbages crawling with oversized caterpillars. ‘It seems the greedy little lodgers have already taken the lion’s share.’

‘But these could give us a few boilings to go with the livestock over there,’ Eadwulf said, pulling up a couple of half-grown carrots and gesturing at the forming pods on spindly pea plants along the fence.

Bjorn scowled at the scraggy-looking cattle grazing on a small patch of enclosed grassland. Equally scraggy chickens strutted near the pens holding half a dozen lean pigs. But it was Hastein who remarked, ‘If we can do no better than those scrawny beasts we may as well lie down and die right now! Of course, we can always throw out our fishing nets.’

‘By Odin, cousin, you know how I hate fish!’

Bjorn’s indignant face was so funny, both Eadwulf and Hastein creased with laughter.

Much of the following day was spent raising an earthen bank around long stretches of the island. The work was hard and sweaty, but fortifications were vital to their safety. The ships were carried inland, protected by the barricade from fire arrows that could deprive the men of their only means of transport home.

For over two weeks, Oissel Island provided an ideal base from which to move out and continue the raids. Using the few, small boats once owned by the monks, they rowed across in relays to their well-guarded mounts on the banks, and struck out, bringing chaos and destruction to the land. More churches and cathedrals were targeted and Eadwulf rode with Bjorn and three hundred men to sack Paris, returning with plunder that surpassed all expectations. The men found it hilarious that Charles the Bald despaired of ever ridding his kingdom of them. Nights were filled with merriment, aided by barrels of looted Frankish wine. Food was plentiful: bread was easily acquired from besieged villages and sheep and pigs were ferried across to supplement the island’s meagre offerings. Eadwulf enjoyed these early weeks on the island, although his status as thrall was never completely overlooked, and he spent much of his time doing necessary chores. Bjorn eagerly anticipated their return to Aros, when he’d proudly report their successes to his illustrious father. He was also hoping the Frankish king would soon be prepared to pay a huge tribute to see the back of them.

But their good fortune was soon curtailed. The indomitable Charles saw the opportunity to lay his own siege: a possibility they had overlooked when taking over the island. By the start of the second week of June, Oissel Island was completely cut off from the outside world. Charles’s soldiers lined the banks on either side of the Seine and arrows rained down on the Danes if they moved beyond their earthen barricade. Suddenly the island base did not seem such a good idea and Eadwulf commiserated with the two leaders, who shouldered all responsibility for the choice of site.

For three weeks they remained hopeful that the siege would not last, that Charles would soon withdraw his men for duty elsewhere in his beleaguered kingdom. Food supplies would last for some weeks yet. But as the siege dragged on throughout July and August, and Frankish soldiers remained an obdurate presence, stores were so low that starvation seemed an inevitable ending to the venture.

On a bright morning in early September, now twelve weeks into the siege, some of the men squatted against the wall of the church, despondent and lethargic from inadequate food. Eadwulf had never seen the two leaders look so low.

‘Ragnar will never know how much plunder we took, how much we rattled that cunning bastard, Charles; never know why we didn’t come back!’ Bjorn raged. ‘And it’s my fault! The island was my choice! And look where it’s got us: facing an ignoble death from starvation. Not a hope of reaching Valhalla.’

No one refuted his arguments, or offered consolation.

In the fading twilight at the end of the twelfth week one of their lookouts hurtled into camp from his post along the barricade, halting before the two leaders.

‘The Franks, my lords – they’ve gone!’

Bjorn blinked a few times as though struggling to comprehend what he’d heard. But Hastein composed himself first. ‘What,
all
of them? Are you sure?’

The lookout nodded emphatically. ‘They just seemed to slink back and disappear, taking our horses with them. Our guards are probably dead . . . The banks have been deserted since late afternoon, but we thought it best to wait a while before getting anyone’s hopes up.’

Hastein eyebrows rose. ‘Well, let’s go and look, shall we?’

Hundreds of Danes lined the earthen wall around the island, all as flummoxed as their leaders. ‘Who’d have believed it?’ Leif muttered to Eadwulf. ‘They seem to have well and truly vanished.’

Next to them, Bjorn shook his head. ‘Don’t be
too
sure of that, Leif. It could be one of that old buzzard’s tricks: get us to lift out the ships, then attack. Fire arrows could finish us. And in our weakened state–’

‘The very reason we can’t afford to be so negative!’ Hastein declared, dismissing his cousin’s pessimism. ‘We must make our move at dawn.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Bjorn admitted, ‘but it wouldn’t surprise me to see the Franks reappear as soon as we do.’

In the grey light of approaching dawn Eadwulf accompanied Bjorn to the shore. After ordering the lookouts back to camp to prepare for sailing, his master headed for the water’s edge to scan up and down the river. Eadwulf hung back, affording him solitude in his contemplations. Eventually, though clearly still perplexed, Bjorn turned away – and didn’t see the archers rise from behind the makeshift barricade across the river. But Eadwulf did.

He yelled and charged full pelt, diving at Bjorn and knocking him down as arrows thudded into the earthen wall. But a single arrow hit home. Eadwulf’s legs turned to water as searing pain shot through him and he crashed heavily against a huge boulder. He was vaguely aware of being dragged, followed by the sensation of floating.

Then darkness claimed him.

* * *

‘Eadwulf! You must drink.’

Eadwulf heard the voice, somehow recognised it, but could put no name to it. Then water washed over his lips. That felt so good; his mouth was parched, his tongue thick and woolly. God of gods, what was happening to him? He hadn’t even the strength to open his eyes.

‘Open your mouth and swallow some water, Eadwulf. You can’t go on like this!’

The pain! Someone was stabbing him in the shoulder. He cried out, tried to make his right arm beat his attacker away, but found it wouldn’t respond. Why was someone making him drink if he was stabbing him? He couldn’t even think straight, couldn’t make sense of the pain, and sank back into that comfortable, dark place . . .

Something cool and damp was pressed onto his burning forehead and water trickled over his lips again. Suddenly he wanted to swallow it. He forced his lips apart and felt hands lifting his head up as water washed over his tongue. He swallowed and drew in more.

‘Well done, lad. We’ll soon have you on the mend. We should be ready to sail in two days, but don’t worry, you won’t be expected to row. After what you’ve done, you deserve to be ferried home in comfort.’

Eadwulf suddenly knew the voice belonged to Bjorn, but he was too drowsy to even try to understand what he was talking about. Perhaps if he returned to the darkness for a while he’d understand next time the voice spoke to him . . .

‘He’s rousing again, Leif. Lift his head up and I’ll try to get him to drink.’

He gulped greedily, too fast, and spluttered the last mouthful down his chin. The coughing hurt his shoulder and he felt again that agonising pain.

‘Steady on, Eadwulf. Smaller sips just might go down your throat and not your chin.’

He forced his eyes to open and looked straight at Bjorn’s grinning face.

‘Welcome back, lad. I’m not sure where you’ve been for the last three days, but it wasn’t here. No, don’t try to move. You’re not strong enough yet.’

‘What . . . what happened to me?’

‘You don’t remember anything?’

Eadwulf waded through the incomprehensible jumble inside his head. ‘I remember a dark place, where the pain couldn’t find me.’

‘But you don’t remember what caused the pain?’

He tried to move his left shoulder and flinched. ‘I’ve been wounded?’

‘You were wounded saving my life, for which I’ll be forever in your debt. It was down on the shore . . . at dawn . . . three days since,’ Bjorn prompted. ‘To my shame, archers found me a sitting duck! My back must have seemed Odin-sent to them. Does that frown mean you’re beginning to recall something?’

‘Just fragments, like distant dreams, and archers aiming at us,’ he murmured. ‘And you, walking towards me. You haven’t seen them!’ He held his breath as the fleeting images flashed. ‘The Franks haven’t gone, have they?’

Bjorn was silent, as though unable to speak of the continuing siege, the inevitability of their deaths. But Eadwulf didn’t need an answer. His master had been right: the withdrawal had been a trick. Though hadn’t someone said they’d be sailing soon? Floundering in confusion he glanced about the little church. Sunlight poured through the tiny windows high in the walls and he knew it would still be warm outside, where the crew would be sitting around in their hopelessness. Bjorn was kneeling by his bedroll with Hastein at his side. Behind his head, Leif squatted.

‘So it was you, Leif, who kept lifting my head so I could drink?’

‘It was, lad,’ the helmsman acknowledged. ‘Getting real worried about you we were. You’d not swallowed a drop for days; been unconscious most of the time.’

Tentatively, Eadwulf touched his shoulder, frowning as his memory returned. ‘I took an arrow, didn’t I?’

Bjorn gently squeezed his right arm. ‘What can I say, except that you took that arrow instead of me? I’d have been dead for sure had the arrow pierced my back and punctured a lung. The arrow went deep into your shoulder. It was a good thing you struck your head on that boulder as you hurtled me to the ground: that arrow took some digging out! It’s Hastein we’ve to thank for the deft handiwork, by the way. He makes a fine surgeon: must be those long fingers.’

Eadwulf smiled at Hastein. ‘My lord, I owe you sincere thanks.’

‘You’ve more than proved your worth on this voyage, Eadwulf,’ Hastein said, serious for once. ‘And now you’ve saved Bjorn’s life. It is I who should be thanking you. And without Thora’s needles and silks, I could have done little – we would’ve had to seal the wound with a burning brand or heated iron. The barbs on the arrowhead meant we couldn’t pull it out without tearing your shoulder to shreds,’ he continued, grinning at Eadwulf’s widening eyes. ‘I had to make a very deep cut to release the wicked thing! So either stitching up the wound – or otherwise sealing it – was vital. Your unconscious state proved most convenient. But you seem to be truly back with us now. Do you remember Bjorn telling you we’re soon to sail?’

Eadwulf nodded, perplexed. ‘But I thought the Franks were still out there. Aren’t they? They shot at us . . . didn’t they?’ The three men shared a glance and he knew there was something they hadn’t told him. ‘Are we really sailing soon?’

‘The Franks
have
gone; and yes, we sail in two days. But the siege is still on.’

Eadwulf gaped at his master. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘The Franks have withdrawn, apparently to counter an attack on West Francia by Louis of Bavaria, one of Charles’s brothers,’ Bjorn explained. ‘But Charles is a cunning bastard, as we know. He actually paid
three thousand pounds of silver to some of our own countrymen to continue the siege in his stead! It was
Danes
who fired at us, Eadwulf. They’d moved in that morning at first light. And by Odin, if I ever come across that treacherous dog Weland again, I swear I’ll tear him apart! He’ll die the slowest of deaths possible. I’ll–’

‘I’m sure we all feel the same, cousin,’ Hastein smirked. ‘Weland would betray his own mother for a single piece of silver. But the point is, Eadwulf, it’s because
Weland is
such a double-crossing cur that we will be leaving soon.’

‘We’ve arranged an exchange, of a sort, with Weland,’ Bjorn elaborated. ‘We give him a share of our booty and he’ll turn a blind eye to our departure.’

Eadwulf snorted.

‘My sentiments exactly, lad: to betray your own countrymen is beneath contempt; but to take our hard-won booty is doubly so!’ The expression of insult on Bjorn’s face made Eadwulf laugh. Red-hot needles shot through his shoulder and he gasped. Bjorn waited until he’d composed himself before speaking. ‘Yesterday, Weland and a small party rowed across to the island under a white flag – which being principled Danes, we honoured. After much haggling, a price was agreed for which he was prepared to let us go. The amount has made a dent in our plunder, but considering how much we’ve actually got, it seems relatively little. Naturally, Weland is ignorant of how much we
have
taken, or he’d have undoubtedly pushed for more.’

‘Can you trust him to let us do that, Master, let us go, I mean? Once he’s got our loot, might he stop us sailing?’

‘That’s always a possibility, but two things make me believe he’ll keep his word on this occasion.’ Bjorn considered Eadwulf’s expectant face and grinned. ‘Firstly, whatever else Weland is, he’s a Dane, and like all Danes, he enjoys duping non-Danes. And Charles the Bald with his Christian pomposity – not to mention his great wealth and power – has become not only the butt of jokes for all Danes, but also the main target of our raids. Charles’s outrage when he finds he’s been outwitted should be something to see, especially when he learns that Weland’s no intention of leaving Francia yet, not when there’s still rich pickings to be had.’