Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One (23 page)

Halfdan suddenly leaned toward him and blinked several times. ‘And you were right about the woman. Being Mercian, I suppose she was likely to know the cursed thrall,’ he burbled on, pulling a piece of hair from his mouth and shoving it behind his ear. ‘But she’s his
mother
! And then I found out about that boy!’

‘You did indeed,’ Ivar said, pushing him away. Halfdan’s mead-soaked breath was enough to repulse an evil troll. ‘We’ve learned much to our advantage.’

‘Pity the thrall didn’t get over that table.’ Halfdan chuckled inanely at the thought. ‘What do you think would have happened if–?’

He glanced at Ivar’s glowering face and clamped his mouth tight shut.

Twenty Nine

Ulf was aboard the
Sea Eagle,
sailing north towards the beguiling Lofoten Islands. The heavy sail flapped and seabirds wheeled and screeched, guillemots, gulls and kittiwakes amongst them. Waves slapped the hull, sunlight glistened on the blue-grey water and the salty breeze ruffled his hair. Coastward, the green-swathed Norwegian mountains, intersected by steep-sided fjords, almost took his breath away. Colonies of black and white puffins with brightly coloured beaks perched on their nests along the cliffs and cormorants stretched, drying their wings in the sun. A sea-eagle swooped to inspect the ship to which it had given its name before plucking a fish from beneath the brine. Whilst seaward, foam-white sea-horses played on the water’s surface and whiskered seals bobbed. The massive bulk of a silver whale shot great spouts of water high in the air, to cascade down again, rainbow colours of light dancing in their midst.

Somehow Ulf knew he was dreaming; yet he refused to wake up. His mind was cushioned by this sense of peace, taking him to where he wanted so much to be: this place out at sea with Bjorn and his crew, where he was valued, respected for what he was. He inhaled deeply, savouring the aroma of salty air. But the smell gradually lessened, evolving into the sharp tang of spices, mingled with the earthy smells of vegetables.

His eyes shot open. He was lying in a hut where sacks and jars were stored. Memory smacked into him like a raging torrent. His mother! Where was she now? Was it night or day? Had the heinous ceremony already taken place? Pray the gods it hadn’t and he could somehow save her. He tried to rise but his wrists and ankles were bound. He struggled until his skin was ragged beneath the bonds and blood seeped into his clothing.

‘Help my mother,’ he screamed. ‘Save her from the cruel fate to which she’s been condemned!’

But no one answered the pleas from his tormented soul.

Then the cockerel crowed.

Ulf’s scream tore at his throat, his pain too terrible to bear. Morwenna’s face shimmered across his thoughts, her words a balm to his searing misery: ‘Let those who love you soothe your wounded soul.’

The pain eased and he drifted . . .

He seemed to be flying. He laughed as he glanced at his outstretched arms, a joyful sound that welled up from somewhere deep inside before rushing from his lips to be carried away on the wind. This must be what total freedom felt like. Beside him a flock of starlings swooped and spiralled in their exotic ritual, and he shared their sheer delight of the open skies. Then uncertainty hit, and he squinted into the blindingly blue expanse beyond the hazy, translucent clouds. Why was he flying? Was he now dead, not a solid body at all, but a spirit rising towards heaven? A woman’s voice reached his ears, passing by in its ascent. ‘Do not grieve for me, my son: I am free of the cares of this world now.’

Far to the west the sun was sliding behind the Welsh hills, splashing shades of vermilion and purple haphazardly across the blue. Above the landscape he soared, over fields of grazing cattle, corn ripening with the season’s warmth, and winding blue streams. Soon he was hovering over the edges of a dense forest and instinctively he knew that it was Bruneswald. This beautiful, green land was Mercia: his home.

Then he realised it was not summer at all and he was not home. His mind grew angry and cast the scene away.

* * *

People were gathering. He could hear them milling around, excited; seeming to drift towards a common destination. When at last he forced his eyes to open, the darkness of night greeted him, relived only by the oil lamp’s dim glow. The cockerel had crowed long ago and his mother would be dead, killed in a way abhorrent to Christian souls. And Morwenna had always been a devout believer in Christ.

‘Christ! Where
were
you?’ he shrieked, pushing himself up on his elbows. ‘How many more of your people will you abandon? I say you are no god!’ His scathing laugh tore from his constricted throat and he sobbed like a child, wrapping his arms round his drawn up knees – and realised he was no longer bound! His chafed wrists had been bandaged and a sweet-smelling salve applied. Someone had been here while he was . . . asleep? Tentatively he fingered the swelling on the back of his head, sticky with congealed blood, guessing he’d been unconscious for a time. He glanced at the closed door.

‘The guards have instructions not to let you leave. You must remain in here, for your own good.’

Ulf twisted toward the familiar form emerging from the shadows. ‘Sigehelm . . . my mother?’

‘. . . has gone to her Maker, Ulf.’

‘Did she . . . suffer much?’ Ulf’s own voice came as a laboured whisper and he waited, dreading the answer.

‘She did not.’ Sigehelm’s voice was heavy with his own pain. ‘Thora was permitted to attend her before the ceremony and the draught she persuaded Morwenna to drink numbed all senses, all thoughts. When your mother stood beneath the oak, I could swear she’d already left her body, and knew nothing
of the falling axe.’

Ulf fell back to his bedroll, sobs of anger and unbearable grief racking his body.

‘You’ll not be permitted to see her,’ Sigehelm said as his sobs lessened. ‘Bjorn has ordered this, not Rorik. You’ll stay in here until we leave in a few days’ time. I’ll bring your food and sit with you when I can. And there are others who wish to offer solace. But you’ll see nothing more of Aalborg other than this hut. The door may be opened for light and air once you give your word not to try to leave.’

Despair threatened to destroy Ulf’s very soul and he wept until succumbing to a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * *

Ulf had no idea how long he’d slept by the next time he roused but it was night again; a lamp still glowed from the shelf and no daylight seeped through the wattle walls. But he knew that Sigehelm would be somewhere, watching over him.

‘You should go and rest, Sigehelm. As you said, I can’t go anywhere.’

‘Sigehelm’s gone to eat, and fetch food for you.’ Bjorn’s voice was hushed as he moved to squat beside Ulf. ‘You’ve eaten nothing for almost two days – but you’ve not exactly been with us for two days either. How’s your head? I didn’t mean to hit you so hard, but I had to stop you from striking Rorik.’

‘You! Then you risked great disfavour from your father, not to mention Rorik.’

‘They both understood my reasons.’ Bjorn looked steadily at Ulf. ‘But you need to understand how we – Danes I mean – see things. In our lands you’re a thrall, Ulf, and as such, you belong to me. That is the way of things, whether you like the idea or not. In our law, a thrall has no rights, and a master is at liberty to treat him, or her, as he chooses.’ He raised his hand to prevent Ulf’s intended interruption. ‘I tell you this to explain that no one had the right to interfere in Rorik’s treatment of your mother. He had every right to mete out the punishment he did for what he saw as unpardonable behaviour in a thrall – as did my father all those years ago with that Saxon. But your behaviour is my responsibility. It’s up to me to chastise you as I see fit.’

‘Then why didn’t you just kill me?’

‘Perhaps you don’t give a damn whether you live or die, but I do,’ Bjorn snapped in Ulf’s face. ‘You’re one of my crew and I’m greatly indebted to you for saving my life; you’ve also become a true friend. But if I’d allowed you to attack Rorik, I would have been compelled
to see you meet the same end as Morwenna.’

Bjorn eyed Ulf’s bandages with a frown. ‘I ordered Rico to bind you in case you roused when everyone was at the ceremony. But it seems he doesn’t know his own strength! You have Thora to thank for tending you, by the way.’ He rose as Sigehelm entered with food and ale. ‘I’ll leave you in Sigehelm’s hands now, but mull over what I’ve said. The good scribe would never forgive me if I let you come to harm. And Freydis would skin me alive.’

The next few days were the most harrowing that Ulf had ever endured, and he sank into a state of melancholy from which his succession of visitors could not retrieve him. At first he blamed himself for his mother’s death: if he’d not come here she’d stll be alive and little Yrsa’s life would not be in danger of being discarded as of no consequence. But his self-recrimination soon turned to rage; a blistering fury that kept him pacing the floor of the small hut like some tormented beast. Rorik’s face would hover before him and he knew that the callous jarl was responsible. It was he who’d ordered Morwenna’s death, he who exhibited not a shred of compassion. Ulf could feel himself thrusting the knife into the jarl’s cold heart.

And always, from the recesses of his mind, the treacherous face of Burgred would emerge. All blame lay at Burgred’s feet.

Sigehelm came and went many times during these days, maintaining a respectful silence through Ulf’s darkest times. Rico and Toke’s visits were cut short, their fearful faces when he raged adding shame to the tangled emotions swirling in his head. Thora changed his bandages and applied fresh salves each morning, but it was not until the evening before they would return to Aros that Freydis appeared. Ulf had been dozing when the door quietly opened, but he sensed her presence; Freydis carried her own unmistakable fragrance, a mixture of the scented oils she bathed in and the aromatic herbs she handled daily. Her shadow fell across him before she knelt and reached out to touch his cheek.

‘I’m so sorry for all your hurt,’ she whispered. ‘None of us foresaw such a disastrous turn of events. And, though it will give little comfort to you now, your mother was a good and kind woman, whom everyone admired, and–’

‘I don’t want your pity, Freydis, if that’s all you’ve come to offer.’ Ulf rolled away from her, knowing his words were unwarranted but unable to stop them. ‘Save your pity for those two children in the hall – if that’s where they still are!’

Freydis didn’t move or become angry at his barbed response. ‘I haven’t come to shower you with sympathy, Ulf, though my heart truly aches for you. I just needed to speak with you before we leave Aalborg.’ She paused, and his heartbeat quickened in dread of what she might say. ‘Your brother and sister will be coming with us to Aros.’

He turned and stared at her, barely able to take in what she’d said. ‘I’ve been unable to visit you in here,’ Freydis continued, glancing round the hut, ‘because I’ve been caring for them – Jorund and Yrsa, I mean. Jorund is distraught and cries almost constantly. And nightmares plague his sleep. Rorik would not allow
anyone
to miss the ceremony to Odin.’

An agonised groan racked Ulf’s body. Freydis enfolded him in her arms, and when his body ceased to tremble, she brushed his tangled hair from his face and kissed his brow. ‘It will take many months for your brother to forget that dreadful day, Ulf, if he ever does. But the pain
will
lessen in time. And Yrsa is too young to have known what was happening.’

Ulf nodded, fighting down the fury that threatened to erupt. Freydis didn’t deserve to witness such a scene. ‘I know Rorik wouldn’t have suggested that we take the children, Freydis,’ he said. ‘So is it to you, or Bjorn, that I owe thanks?’

‘Perhaps both,’ she replied with a wan smile. ‘The children have responded well to me. Yrsa frets a great deal, missing her mother, but I can cope with that and occupy her otherwise. And Jorund simply needs patience and kindness, which I haven’t seen forthcoming from anyone in Rorik’s hall. No one here is prepared to take responsibility for them. I spoke to Bjorn and he persuaded Dalla and Helga to sell the children to him. He told them that Jorund could provide him with a much needed thrall, and convinced them that gaining silver for Yrsa was better than merely disposing of her. Perhaps the suggestion was put to Rorik when he was drunk, but he agreed, and Bjorn has paid him.’

‘But who will take care of them in Aros?’

‘I will, with Thora’s help of course. Their lives will be far better in Aros than anything they could expect in Aalborg. And they will grow up knowing their elder brother is close by.’

‘And Ragnar will allow this?’

Freydis smiled. ‘My father has never refused any request from Thora.’

* * *

In the afternoon of October 25, Bjorn’s cavalcade arrived back in Aros. Life quickly took on a welcomed normality, although, as always during the winter months, Ulf spent his days willing spring to arrive. His own pain settled into a constant ache, deep in his chest, kept in abeyance by his daily responsibilities to his newfound siblings. But his murderous plans for Rorik rendered sleep a long time in coming each night, the opportunity of carrying them out a particular frustrataion to his raging thoughts. It could be years before he got the chance.

The children steadily became more comfortable in Ulf’s company, though as yet, they did not realise he was their brother. The time for explanations would come later.

Yrsa responded well to the love and attention lavished upon her by Freydis and Thora, and was a cheerful little soul. With Jorund, progress was much slower. Although the nightmares gradually lessened he was prone to bouts of dark brooding, when he would withdraw inside himself, shutting out everything around him. His loss was magnified a hundredfold by the mental images that would not leave him. Thora was confident the boy would be mended within a year: the young are very resilient, she assured, and early memories fade. But Ulf was not so certain.

December came and with it the celebrations of the Yule. Ulf helped Rico to loop thick ropes round a huge oak log and drag it across the frozen earth into the hall, where the women and children decorated it with sprigs of fir and holly. Throughout the festivities it smouldered in the hearth, helping to bring light and cheer to the darkest time of year. A wild boar was sacrificed to Frey, the god of fertility, to ensure a good growing season in the coming year, with warm days and gentle rain. A goat was slaughtered, and people dressed in goatskins and sang in honour of Thor, who rode the skies in his chariot pulled by two goats. The roasted meats were eaten during the celebratory feasts, and unlimited supplies of ale and mead kept everyone in festive mood.

And Jorund smiled for the first time since October.