Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (22 page)

‘Yes, of course I must go.’ Morwenna half turned away, then glanced uncertainly back at Ulf, drawing breath to speak.

‘I suggest you go, Lady Morwenna,’ Bjorn said, forestalling her. I’ll explain the situation to your son – as far as I know it, of course. Take care not to make public your reunion with Sigehelm. There are some who can put two and two together too easily, and things could become more than difficult for all of you should they do so. I’ve told Sigehelm the same.’

‘Every fibre of my being thanks you for caring for Eadwulf these many years, my lord,’ Morwenna replied with a brave smile. ‘I know you can make him understand about my life here. I simply had no choice.’ To Eadwulf she said, ‘I would have told you everything Eadwulf – later, in my own way.’

‘Well, Master, what is this
situation
about which you’re going to enlighten me?’ Ulf smirked as Morwenna hurried away. ‘Could it be that my mother believes my ears too sensitive to hear that she is Rorik’s concubine?’

Bjorn pulled a face of feigned shock but seemed at a loss for words. He gave an extended shrug, releasing his breath as a somewhat elaborate whine.

‘I’ve lived amongst Danes long enough to understand your ways,’ Ulf said, still smirking. But Rorik’s ugly face came to mind and his smirk vanished. ‘I only hope he’s treated her well. She’s such a gentle soul.’

‘I share your hopes on that, Ulf. But before we enter the hall there’s something else your mother wished conveyed to you.’

‘That I have brothers and sisters perhaps?’ Ulf shook his head, his amusement returning. ‘From what you so tactfully said about overtired children, even a complete imbecile could have guessed!’

Bjorn chuckled. ‘Edidently, tact is not my strongest point. But surely the children I mentioned – only two of them, by the way – could have been anyone’s?’

Ulf grunted. Such a remark did not deserve dignifying with an answer.

* * *

Ulf found it impossible to approach his mother the following morning. Sheltering from the high winds and threatening black clouds outside, people sat around the hall in convivial conversation, and any move in her direction would have been noted. He occupied himself by wiping down Bjorn’s travel-stained cloak, glancing occasionally at Morwenna, who was shaping flatbreads with two of the women. And though she avoided eye contact, he knew she’d registered his presence.

Sitting beside Aslanga with Rorik’s wives and a veritable gaggle of daughters, Freydis looked utterly bored. At another table, Ragnar and his four sons conversed with Rorik and three men so like him they could only be his sons. All seemed in good spirits, though like Freydis, Bjorn glanced often at Ulf. But hostile stares from Ivar and Halfdan were also directed at Ulf, and on one occasion, he caught Ivar staring at Morwenna – before the dark stare slowly returned to fix on him. Like a startled hare caught in the torchlight, Ulf could not look away, until Ragnar made some jest and Ivar’s scrutiny was broken.

Just before noon the jarls and their sons rode out to exercise their mounts and watch the fishermen raking in oysters and mussels along the fjord. The hall was peaceful once they’d gone, and since Ubbi was with them, Ulf sat with Sigehelm, hoping to catch Morwenna at some stage. Then Aslanga’s shrill voice disturbed the silence.

‘If you’ve naught better to do than sit around on your backside, thrall, you can get outside and chop some logs. Our good hostesses here,’ she went on, smiling at Dalla and Helga, ‘tell me the stack is low and the pile of timber is high.’ Her outstretched finger swung from Ulf to Sigehelm. ‘And you can do likewise. So get out and make a start.

‘Now!’ she shrieked, pointing to the door.

Not bothering to hide his furious scowl Ulf strode from the hall with Sigehelm on his heels.

The tree trunks were stacked under a lean-to shelter behind the pig pens, left to dry out after felling, with several long-handled axes propped next to them. Ulf noted the variety of timbers – from ash, beech, hazel, birch and pine to fruit-woods like apple, pear and cherry – and looked at Sigehelm in dismay. It would take many hours to make a dent in this lot. He seethed at this new attack on his favoured status with Bjorn. Aslanga had found a way of demeaning him before Rorik’s women – and Ulf’s mother, had she but known it. He vented his fury in powerful strokes that cut the trunks into lengths suitable for the hearth. Buffeted by the strong wind, Sigehelm made slow progress at first, but by the time they’d built up a good sized stack, he’d become quite adept at his new-found calling as woodcutter.

Few of the men gave the two thralls more than a fleeting glance on their return from the shore and, deep in conversation with his father, Bjorn didn’t notice them at all. But Ivar did, and his deep, calculating eyes fixed on Ulf. But he didn’t linger and continued on to the hall with the rest of the party.

Sigehelm laid a consolatory hand on his arm and they, too, made to return to the hall – just as Morwenna appeared, heading towards them.

Perched on her hip was a babe; a little girl. A young boy bounced along beside them: Ulf’s half-brother and sister, no doubt.

‘I’m glad someone is pleased to see me,’ Morwenna said, looking from Ulf’s anxious face to Sigehelm’s smiling one as she lowered the child to the ground. She reached out to take Sigehelm’s hand. ‘I’m so sorry to have been unable to speak to you sooner, Sigehelm. I can never repay the kindness you’ve shown to Eadwulf all these years. No, do not try to lessen or deny the extent of your care: both Bjorn and Freydis have commended it. You’ve always been the truest of friends to me. When I was a little girl, you were there for me. Even after I married, you found me again in Mercia.’ She paused, her eyes probing into Sigehelm’s, as though she’d just unearthed some buried truth. ‘You loved me, didn’t you? And I was just too blind, too self-centred, to see it. After all these years I suddenly understand why you left Anglia before my marriage. But you came back to me.’

‘I could not stay away from you forever Morwenna, no matter how hard I tried.’

‘And now you care for my beloved son. I do not deserve such a friend as you.’

His throat swollen with emotion, Ulf watched his mother take comfort in the gentle embrace of the man who’d so selflessly cared for her and her family for so long. At length she pulled herself away and moved towards him.

‘We’ve already had our initial reunion, Eadwulf,’ she said, enfolding him in her arms. ‘Now we need time to become reacquainted and discuss the situation in which we find ourselves.’ She stepped back a little, holding Ulf in a determined gaze. ‘But, whatever happens now, should we never see each other again, I am content to know that you are alive and well.’ She glanced at the two children, happily playing with pebbles. ‘My life isn’t likely to change, but in my heart I know that one day
you
will be free and return to Mercia.’

‘I’ve been saying the very same these past six years, my lady.’

Morwenna flashed Sigehelm a grateful smile and bent to scoop up the small girl, then beckoned Jorund to join her. ‘This is my son Jorund,’ she said, patting the boy’s shoulder. ‘Jorund, meet . . . er . . . Ulf, a man from Jarl Ragnar’s village. And this is Sigehelm, a very clever scribe who could teach even the dimmest of pupils his letters. You would love his wonderful stories, Jorund: all about heroes and great battles.’

Jorund beamed and peered up at Ulf. ‘I shall be six in January, so I’ll soon be as big as you. And I am learning my letters very well,’ he added in a matter-of-fact tone, his blue gaze shifting to Sigehelm. ‘And I really like listening to stories.’

Sigehelm grinned down at the boy. ‘Then one day you’ll be a tall, clever man, who’ll be able to tell his own fantastic stories.’

‘When I’m a man, I’ll be a jarl, like my father,’ Jorund responded. ‘He’s very brave and leads raids.’

‘Jorund is very proud of being a jarl’s son,’ Morwenna supplied by way of apology at Sigehelm’s grimace. ‘Everyone has told him he should be so since he was tiny. And this is Yrsa,’ she continued, ‘who’ll be a whole year old just before the Yule.’

Sigehelm smiled at the dimple-cheeked child. ‘You have a very pretty name, Yrsa, and very pretty curls.’

Yrsa flung her chubby little arms around Morwenna’s neck and just giggled.

Ulf surveyed the children, taking in their similarities and differences. In Jorund he could see Morwenna: the pert little nose and wide mouth, almond-shaped blue eyes and pale complexion, framed by a head of soft, flaxen hair. Yet there was a definite set to the boy’s square jaw that was so like Ulf’s own. In Yrsa, Ulf perceived features of both parents. Like Jorund, she had an attractively wide mouth, but although she had her mother’s dainty, heart-shaped face and high cheek bones rather than Rorik’s broad visage, Yrsa’s longer nose resembled her father’s. And like the jarl, the child was brown-haired and dark eyed. Long dark lashes swept her cheeks, her complexion of a naturally tanned hue.

‘They are pretty children,’ Ulf said, once Morwenna had set Yrsa into Jorund’s care. ‘I just hope Rorik treats them well.’

Morwenna smiled at the sight of Sigehelm, who’d wandered after the little ones, and now seemed intent on showing them how to play a simplified version of knucklebones with their pebbles. Ulf realised his tutor was simply affording a degree of privacy for his conversation with his mother, for which he was very grateful.

‘He doesn’t treat them ill,’ she replied with a small shrug. ‘But nor does he love them, or even acknowledge them as his own. He just seems to ignore them. Yrsa’s too young to know but Jorund has become increasingly distressed by it of late.’ She frowned, seeming to be considering her next words carefully, then took a breath to continue. ‘There’s something I must tell you, Eadwulf; but I’m finding it hard to get it out. I suppose the best way is to just say it . . .’

Ulf watched his mother’s anxious face, fearing this ‘something’ would not be pleasant.

‘When Thrydwulf’s manor was raided, Rorik came to my bower and raped me.’ Morwenna’s words had poured out quickly, shame and embarrassment on her face.

‘Don’t dwell on it, Mother. I’d already guessed that Jorund was conceived at that time.’

‘No, you don’t understand, Eadwulf. That was not the case.’

Ulf stared at her, not understanding, and she took his hands in hers. ‘Eadwulf, before I go on, I want to swear to you that what I’m about to tell you is the truth. You know I wouldn’t lie to you, don’t you?’ He nodded. ‘When Rorik raped me I was already a few weeks with child. The nausea and tiredness were already pronounced, as is the way in the earliest weeks. So, before you ask, no, I am not mistaken in this. Beorhtwulf was Jorund’s father, as much as he was yours.’

Ulf gaped at her. ‘Then, Jorund is my true brother, not my
half
-brother. Is that why Rorik ignores him?’ He paused, trying to unravel the conflicting pieces of information. ‘But that doesn’t make sense,’ he said at last. ‘You said Jorund believes Rorik is his father, as does everyone else in the village. So what
does
Rorik believe?’

‘To my everlasting shame I’ve let Rorik believe Jorund to be his child, though I doubt it would have made any difference had he known the truth.’ Morwenna almost spat out the words. ‘In my folly I thought Jorund would escape a life of drudgery if it was believed he was Rorik’s son. But a concubine’s son is little better than a thrall.

‘I can never reveal any of this to anyone else, Eadwulf. Rorik would not hesitate to kill me if he learned the truth.’

Ulf hugged his mother, suddenly engulfed by an overpowering sense of foreboding.

Twenty Eight

By the time the evening meal had been served, most of the men in Rorik’s hall were well on the way to being uproariously drunk. Ale had flowed since late afternoon and during the meal the mead horns were constantly passed round. Although the meal itself was a relatively simple affair, compared to that planned for tomorrow night after the sacrificial ceremony, the hall had a festive feel. Rorik seemed determined to impress his cousin with his hospitality. Torches flared along the walls and the tables were arranged in the usual U shape, with a few gaps between to facilitate the movements of the thralls bearing food and drink. Rorik sat at the centre of the high table, his guests at his sides, according to status.

The thralls eventually took their own meal at a table close to the ale barrels, from which they constantly refilled the cups of revellers. Ulf sat between Sigehelm and Toke, longing for his bed; the hour was late and before dawn they’d be heading for Odin’s oak. He’d attended many sacrificial ceremonies over the years but had never become hardened to them. And he’d always felt extremely fearful in the presence of Odin’s ravens. Even when the huge birds had not become manifest in the flesh, he’d felt that unnatural wind that heralded their arrival and the unnerving sensation of being watched.

The quartet of musicians was now setting up in the central area. Ulf recognised most of their instruments – hand drums, a stringed lyre, a bone whistle, a pair of rattles and some kind of long trumpet. But one unfamiliar piece looked just like a small section of wood with a tapering end and holes bored into its top edge.

‘It is called a panflute, or panpipe,’ Sigehelm told him, following Ulf’s gaze. ‘I’ve heard one played before; it can make a merry little tune or a sad one, depending on the mood the player wishes to create.’

The musicians bowed to the jarls and greeted their audience with outstretched arms. When the enthusiastic welcome abated they seated themselves on their stools facing Rorik’s table. The lyre player performed first, accompanied by the man with the rattles. The tune was a lively one which had people clapping hands and tapping feet. Next, the panpiper and drummer played another lively tune, with an interesting little solo by the whistle player in the middle of it. Ulf was fascinated by the many different sounds and by the time they’d finished, everyone was in animated mood.

Everyone but Rorik, it seemed.

Beside the scowling jarl, Ragnar beamed his enjoyment of the evening and even Aslanga was enjoying the music. It seemed strange that Rorik should be in such a dour mood: he’d certainly had his fill of mead.

‘Now, this instrument is a lur,’ Sigehelm said, breaking Ulf’s contemplations. ‘See how it is shaped like a long, straight trumpet, just flaring a little at the end rather like a horn? Such instruments have often been used by shepherds and such like to call in their flocks and herds. It produces a rather doleful, haunting sound.’

Ulf nodded, watching the lur player preparing to play. In contrast to the previous presentations, his tune was a mournful one. Yet the audience seemed beguiled, and fuelled by the ale in their bellies, the desolate air brought a tear to the eyes of a few.

Rorik suddenly thumped the table hard with his fist and surged to his feet. ‘Cease this dirge!’ he roared, glowering at the lur player. ‘Music should be for us to enjoy, not cause us to weep into our cups.’ He moved slowly between the tables towards the terrified quartet. ‘Soon your group will be required to play more cheerful tunes, but for now you will retire. And take these with you,’ he said, kicking at one of the stools. ‘I’ve business to attend to.

‘I stand before you as your jarl,’ he declared, addressing the hall after long moments of silence. ‘Others are here as our guests; members of my own family and their retinue. All are welcome to share our hospitality. But tonight, something is preventing me from feeling even a little bit merry. And that dirge induced me to deal with it. Now!’

He drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘As jarl I provide protection and leadership for my people, as is my duty. In return for which I ask – no, I
demand
– certain things.’ He struck his left thumb with his right forefinger. ‘One, I demand respect at all times. Two,’ he continued, bending back the first finger, ‘I expect loyalty to me and our community, and three, all must work hard for the benefit of the community.’ He gave his third finger a few, slow taps, then struck his fourth finger hard. ‘
Instant
obedience! There can be no leadership without obedience from those being led. If I need to raise men to arms, I need to be certain they will rally instantly to my call. Are these not valid points, cousin?’

‘You’ve covered the requirements well,’ Ragnar agreed. ‘All members of a community must be prepared to follow their jarl in all things.’

Rorik nodded. ‘Thank you, cousin,’ but I have a fifth point to add. For a jarl to lead, he must
know his people. And to know another person – on whom your life may depend at some stage – requires that person to be entirely honest with you.’

Ulf suddenly realised where this was leading. Across the room his mother stood rigid, clutching a stack of bowls, her eyes unwaveringly on Rorik. And the restraining hands of Sigehelm and Toke clamped firmly on Ulf’s shoulders.

‘If I am to trust
a person – beside me in battle or simply preparing my food or reaping my crops – I need to be certain of that person’s honesty!’ Rorik yelled, striking hard at the little finger of his left hand.

‘Morwenna! Out here before me, woman. Let’s all have a look at you.’

Bowls smashed to the floor as Morwenna’s legs gave way and she staggered against a table. Egil dragged her up and thrust her before the jarl, whose eyes bored into her like hot knives through butter. ‘Have
you
been honest with me, woman?’

Trembling silence brought Morwenna a back-handed blow that sent her to the floor where she scrambled to her knees, blood streaming from a split lip. She stared up at Rorik for a moment before rising, steeling herself for further assault. Then a child’s sobbing protests reached her and, recognising the sound, her head flicked round in desperation to locate the source. Ulf watched his mother’s eyes follow Freydis as she took it upon herself to escort the distraught Jorund from the hall. Beside her, Thora carried little Yrsa. He choked back anguished tears but thanked the gods they’d given Freydis to this world.

But Rorik let pass the incident, too swamped in his own malice to be sidetracked. ‘You are my
concubine
,’ he snarled, making the word sound like something abhorrent. But Morwenna jutted out her chin and pulled back her shoulders. ‘You are here as my property;
my plaything,’ Rorik continued, ‘and as such
I
owe
you
nothing. I could have you slain any time I choose. But
you
owe
me
obedience, in bed and out of it. ‘So, I’ll ask again: have you been honest with me?

‘Your precious Eadwulf can’t help you,’ he snarled, thrusting an arm toward Ulf. ‘But I’m not asking you about
that
son of Beorhtwulf. He’s of little concern to me.’

‘The answer to your question is no, my lord. No, I have not been honest with you.’

‘Then explain to these good,
honest
people, exactly how you’ve deceived me.’

‘Jorund is not your son,’ Morwenna said, a simple statement of fact.

The communal intake of breath was followed by intense silence. Morwenna frowned, seeming uncertain of what else to say, but Rorik was in no mood for patience and delivered a stinging blow to the side of her head. Ulf groaned, feeling her pain, and made to launch himself to his feet. But Toke and Sigehehm held him down.

Composing herself, Morwenna addressed the seated Danes as though the strike had not occurred: ‘Your jarl raped me when I was already carrying my second child by my husband, King Beorhtwulf of Mercia.’ All remained silent, waiting for her to continue. Ulf knew too well that accusations of rape meant nothing to Danes; even the women accepted that their men raped the female victims of raided settlements. ‘But your
savages
killed Beorhtwulf!’ she hissed at Rorik, ‘and
you
took me as your prize. And until yesterday I didn’t know whether my son was alive or dead. So why should I feel guilty about lying to you?’

Rorik raised his arm to deal another blow but seemed to change his mind. ‘I remember well why I wanted you. And not just to stop that cur, Burgred, having you.’ His words hit Ulf like a thunderclap: he hadn’t known the full extent of Burgred’s treachery. ‘But now your looks are fading and I no longer desire you in my bed.’

‘May I speak, my lord?’

Rorik scowled but gave a grudging nod, and all eyes followed Dalla as she came to stand before her husband. ‘We are all now aware of how Morwenna has deceived you,’ she said, her nervous gaze shifting between Morwenna and her husband, ‘but I would speak in her favour.’ Rorik nodded tersely, and Dalla pushed on: ‘Morwenna has contributed much to the running of your hall these past years. She is adept in domestic chores, works without complaint, and is young enough to give us–’

‘Weren’t you
listening
just now, woman!’ Rorik’s chest heaved, his face grew scarlet and he stepped menacingly towards her. But Dalla held her ground. ‘This thrall may seem obedient to you,’ he conceded, ‘but I say that none of us could ever trust her again!’

No argument to counter the vehement tirade, Dalla shuffled back to her women and Rorik focused again on Morwenna. ‘Your brat of a son, Jorund, will remain a thrall for the rest of his life,’ he spat. ‘The girl is too young to be of interest to me.’

‘She’s your daughter!’

Another back-handed blow sent Morwenna sprawling. Rorik hovered over her, his lips curled back like a wolf over cornered prey. ‘But she’s also the daughter of a thrall
– and too young to survive without a mother. And I wouldn’t burden one of my
honest
women with her upbringing.’

‘What . . . what are you saying?’

‘Simply that I’ve not yet decided whether the girl will live or die.’

Morwenna’s agonised groan caused gasps of sympathy, instantly quelled by a flick of the jarl’s hand. ‘Either way, at dawn tomorrow you will be given to the All-Father.

‘Take her,’ he snapped, gesturing to Egil.

Ulf broke free of the restraining hands, aiming to leap over the table and choke the life out of Rorik. The last thing he saw before the blackness claimed him was the ugly face and a mouthful of blackened and broken teeth.

* * *

Ivar glared at his fair-headed brother slumped next to him with one elbow on the trestle, propping up his chin. Halfdan’s usually well groomed hair was dishevelled, sticky residues of food clung to his long moustache and his eyes were glazed: distinct signs of overindulgence in mead. Ivar sniffed, disgusted. He’d long since learnt that too much liquor blunts the mind. But his brother’s mind had never
been too sharp in the first place. Perhaps that was why Ivar couldn’t feel envious of his handsome sibling, who bore such a physical likeness to their father. In many ways he felt sorry that Halfdan couldn’t see things as he did: the way of an intelligent, thinking being.

Ivar let his ideas flow. Halfdan had always been a weak strategist. He was one of those people who would act first and think later, although he was undeniably as unscrupulous as himself, and brave enough to face any physical threat. But Halfdan was better at following orders than issuing them. Still, Haldan had his uses.

Comfortable in a high-backed chair, Ivar ran his fingers through his wiry, dark hair. His own looks and colouring resembled Aslanga’s, as did Ubbi’s. But Ubbi was a strong, healthy boy who’d grow tall and straight like Halfdan, whilst Ivar’s diseased body remained wizened and shrunken, his legs useless. From bitter experience he knew that no woman would ever come willingly to his bed. Even thralls, not at liberty to refuse him, shuddered as he used their bodies to sate his sexual needs.

He stopped the self-pity: such thoughts could become all consuming and ultimately self-destructive. He’d lived with his deformities for long enough, after all. And no one dared poke fun at him. Ivar knew his own power over people, saw it in their eyes. They feared him, as though mystic powers compensated for his malformed body. He let them believe it.

Halfdan suddenly turned his head and squinted at him. ‘A good night, eh?’ he slurred. ‘But right now I’m ready for my bed.’

‘You did well, brother. We’ve waited a long time for such satisfaction.’

Yes, Ivar contemplated, things had worked out excellently. They’d finally wreaked vengeance on that red-headed Mercian in a most agreeable way. What better way than to force the scum to watch the humiliation and destruction of the mother with whom he’d just been reunited? But one small detail marred his near-perfect contentment.

Eadwulf was still alive.

Why couldn’t his cursed half-brother have stayed in his seat and let the thrall leap over the table and attack Rorik? Ivar knew the answer: if Bjorn had not acted then Eadwulf – Bjorn’s esteemed ‘Ulf’
– would have been joining his mother strung up in Odin’s oak tomorrow. And Bjorn would not have liked that.

Ivar scowled, recalling how Bjorn had made his way round the back of the tables, so inconspicuously that even Ragnar hadn’t noticed, and dealt a heavy blow across the back of the thrall’s head with a clay jug, rendering him senseless. Bjorn had known that all eyes would be on Rorik and the Mercian harlot.

Halfdan was watching him, waiting for further comment: he’d learnt not to interrupt when Ivar was deep in thought.

‘So, you managed to conceal yourself completely behind the pig-pens, Halfdan, and listen to their treacherous talk.’ It was not a question. Ivar knew full well how earlier events had taken place. Halfdan nodded, grinning idiotically. ‘Your stealth on this occasion has impressed me.’

Halfdan’s brow furrowed and he took another slurp of mead. Ivar smirked. He could almost see his brother’s small mind trying to work out whether the comment was praise or criticism. And Ivar would leave him wondering.