Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (29 page)

The men chortled at that and Alfred glanced at his brother, hoping the embellished praise was over.

‘It is with all these things in mind, that I nominate Lord Alfred – already my second in command – as the future king should I not survive the coming conflict. Alfred and I both believe that our fight against the Danes will be a long and gruelling period in our kingdom’s history. Our destiny will depend upon superb leadership. And in my heart I know that no one could provide it half as well as Alfred.'

Radulf, the ealdorman of Hampshire, raised a hand and Aethelred invited him to speak. ‘I heartily agree with everything our king has said about Lord Alfred,’ he declared, as he rose, his gaze sweeping those below the dais as he tweaked his red beard. ‘I’ve always thought him a clever sort . . . had an answer for everything when he was a lad.’

He nodded at Alfred over the head of the Bishop Heahmund. ‘No offence intended, my lord. I’m just putting in a favourable word for you. I’d be honoured to serve someone with your abilities.’

The yells of agreement reverberated round the hall, and Aethelred held up his hand, unable to conceal the relief on his face. ‘Then now we must draw up and sign the statutes to that effect, which will also ensure that, in the case of either of our deaths, our lands, properties and goods are carefully allocated where they are due.’

Alfred now felt compelled to have his say. Having listened to the embarrassing praise, he believed his brother had missed a vital point. ‘My lords,’ he started, once Aethelred had given him leave to speak. ‘I want to make something clear that I feel has been overlooked. The king has been profuse in his praise of me, and all I can say is that if I have been my brother’s rock, he has always been my guiding star, especially since our father’s death. He and I have always been close, and I have loved him dearly for as long as I can remember. I can’t imagine my life without Aethelred in it.’

He turned to face his brother at his side, noting how Aethelred’s eyes were as moist as his own already felt. Never before had either brother shared such sentiments, even in private. To have their feelings out in the open, for all to see, felt somehow overwhelming.

‘But what I have to say is this. Our king has long been agonizing over the future of his kingdom, his main concern being the succession of the crown. Today we have aired this worry, and you have all reached the decision that I know my brother had hoped for.’ He hesitated, his throat suddenly thick with emotion. ‘Words cannot describe how your trust in me has made me feel. I am deeply honoured that you deem me a worthy successor to Aethelred, who has more than proved his worth as king these past six years. But, as yet, nothing has been said about the possibility of my death before our king’s. I think we are all agreed that no one can ever foresee the outcome of any battle.’

Alfred allowed a few moments for the relevance of his words to be fully understood. ‘The statutes we are about to sign will make it clear that in the event that I die first, all my lands and properties, other than those bequeathed to my wife and children, will become the king’s. And, of course, should it be Aethelred who falls, the same stipulation will apply. The kingship will thenceforth remain in the family of whichever of us survives.

‘But before any of you ask, should it occur that both King Aethelred and I die
at the same time,
the need to find a suitable king will be in your own hands, my lords. Perhaps that is something we should all be constantly considering . . .’

Alfred let the thought hang, and Archbishop Aethelred stood, sweeping the councillors with a commanding gaze. ‘If Lord Alfred were to become king at any time in the future, you can all rest assured that he will have my fullest support.’ He gave a somewhat lopsided grin. ‘I have it on extremely good authority from my predecessor, the inimitable Archbishop Ceolnoth, that Alfred could outthink any of the men on these islands – whether they were born here or not!’

Twenty Six

Ribe: early March, 871

Freydis’s hands moved quickly, shaping the dough for the flatbreads. She gave little thought to the procedure as she performed the familiar task alongside the household servants, her mind filled with a nagging dread of the inevitable. Huddled inside a thick blanket and slumped in a huge chair by the firepit, her ailing mother was sleeping now. Freydis had seen enough of old age to know that Thora would soon follow Hastein’s mother, Bera, to her grave.

Yrsa’s hand was now on her sleeve. ‘Go and sit beside her, Freydis,’ the dark-headed girl said, a small smile on her lips. ‘I’ll take over here, so you can close your eyes for a while. I’ve watched you roll out that same lump of dough three times now. I’ll see to the organisation of the meal, as well. Aguti’s out at the barn, watching the mare birthing her foal with Hastein and Dainn, so I can, at least, do this for you.

‘You’re tired out,’ she added, steering Freydis towards a chair next to Thora’s. ‘I know you were at your mother’s bedside most of the night.’

Freydis lowered herself into the wicker chair and gazed up at Yrsa. Now fourteen, and on the threshold of womanhood, Yrsa had grown to be a most kind and thoughtful person. And with her tumbling dark curls and pretty, heart-shaped face, she was causing quite a stir amongst the young men on Hastein’s lands.

‘I don’t want her to leave me before I can tell her goodbye . . . tell her just how much I’ve loved her all these years,’ Freydis whispered, feeling herself so close to tears again. She smiled at her memories, watching Thora’s shallow but regular breathing.

Yrsa knelt down beside the chair and took her hand. Gazing at the girl’s face, Freydis saw pity and a deep sadness in her dark eyes. ‘At least you’ve had your mother for a long time,’ Yrsa said softly. ‘I don’t even remember mine. When Jorund was here he’d sometimes talk about Morwenna, and how pretty she was. And I can’t bear to think of how she must have suffered before that awful death. I just know that if Rorik hadn’t died, I would have found some way of killing him myself when I was grown.’

Freydis’s admiration for the feisty girl swelled still further. ‘The gods dealt your family the cruellest of blows, sweet one. But Rorik was still your father – although you have every reason to hate him – and he gave you life, for which I can only thank him. You have been a wonderful daughter to me. That you don’t remember Morwenna is perhaps a mercy, for you would have grieved far more for her loss if you did. But I can tell you that Morwenna was a true noblewoman, and a lovely, sweet natured lady. And I see many of those qualities in you.’

Yrsa reached out and hugged Freydis. ‘I have been very happy with you and Hastein, and I never want to leave you. I feel your pain at Thora’s illness and wish I could do something to help.’

‘You just have, by offering to do those flatbreads for me,’ Freydis quipped, trying to allay the downcast mood.

‘Well then,’ Yrsa replied, rising and turning towards the flour-covered worktable, ‘I’d best get on with them, hadn’t I?

Freydis rested her back in the chair, her eyes on Thora’s face. Her mother had not had an easy life, yet her kindness and generosity had made her beloved of all who met her, Freydis’s own father included. Ragnar had always preferred his pretty, dimple-cheeked concubine to his sharp-tongued wife. It was hard for Freydis to think of the past without the familiar lump rising in her throat, the tears welling in her eyes.

Her family in Aros had all but gone now. Her father and one of her brothers had been killed most horribly: news of Ivar’s strange death had reached them over a year ago. And Halfdan was reported to be enjoying himself as the Great Army’s leader, making a fool of the young Wessex king. But nothing had been heard of Ubbi since the news of him sailing his fleet from Anglia to attack the major towns along the south coast of Wessex. That had been almost a year ago now.

Freydis did not, truthfully, expect to see either Halfdan or Ubbi again. In battle, even the mightiest of warriors can fall. For Ivar and Halfdan she felt only the deep sadness of lives wasted. But for her younger brother, Ubbi, she truly grieved.

Only her beloved eldest brother, Bjorn, was left, and his lovely wife and children. Even Aslanga was dead now. The news of Ivar’s death had hit her so hard . . .

Lulled by the warmth from the hearthfire, Freydis closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting back to the day that Bjorn had brought Aslanga to Ribe in his dragonship. Ivar had been Bjorn and Freydis’s half-brother, after all, and Bjorn had felt it was Aslanga’s duty to take the news of his death to Freydis herself. Besides, he had told Aslanga, she hadn’t visited Ribe in over three years.

It was in the early spring in 870 when the
Sea Eagle
had appeared on the River Ribea and moored at the small jetty beyond the water meadows close to Hastein’s hall. Observed by a group of the hall’s children, Freydis was well prepared, and joyfully awaited her brother’s arrival. Hastein, too, was delighted to hear of his cousin’s visit. But as soon as the party from Aros entered the hall, with Aslanga in their midst, Freydis knew the news would not be good.

As the daughter of her husband’s concubine, Freydis had always been treated with overt contempt by Aslanga. Yet still, Freydis’s heart went out to the distraught woman as she wept for her lost son. No words she could find would offer Aslanga consolation, so she said nothing, hoping her embrace would convey her deepest sympathy. Aslanga had doted on her malformed son, and hoped he would be the Aros jarl one day. Only Bjorn, Ragnar’s son to his fist wife, stood in Ivar’s way. And how Aslanga had hated him for it.

That was the last time Freydis had set eyes on Aslanga: the grieving woman died three months later. Nor had Freydis seen Bjorn and his family for some time now, although Hastein was expecting his arrival within a week or two. Bjorn had some venture or other to discuss with her husband, and Freydis sensed she would be left to run Hastein’s estates again for the summer. She thought little of it; the men were away for the summer months almost every year. But Hastein and Bjorn hadn’t sailed together since their venture to the Middle Sea, seven years ago.

The gentle touch of fingertips on her cheek roused her from a dreamless slumber. Her eyes shot open to see her husband’s smiling face in front of her. Daylight must have faded, she noted. The shutters had been closed and oil lamps shed their muted light about the room. She was relieved to see that Thora, too, was awake now, a small smile on her lips and looking much better than she had done earlier.

‘Do you feel a little restored after your nap?’ Hastein asked. Returning his smile, she nodded. ‘You’ve hardly slept these past few nights so I’m not surprised you nodded off. No, don’t worry about the meal,’ he urged, as he caught her eyes flick across the meats roasting on the hearth. ‘Yrsa has everything in hand.’ He glanced over at the girl, who was busily stacking flatbreads on the trestles. ‘I don’t know what we’d do without her.’

‘Nor do I,’ Freydis agreed. ‘But I can’t leave her to do everything. And thank you, husband, I do feel much restored now.’ She leaned across and kissed Thora’s cheek before pulling herself to her feet. ‘I’m glad you’re awake in time for the meal, Mother. You’ve eaten less than a sparrow these past days.’

Thora shook her head, but the smile on her face was heartening. ‘I can’t eat when I’m not hungry. And I’ve done little of late to give me an appetite . . . Don’t frown so, daughter. Everything is as it should be – and I don’t want you fretting over me. At my age, people don’t need to eat as much as you young ones do.’

Freydis laughed at that. ‘Mother, in my thirtieth year I can hardly be described as young! I left that particular phase behind a long time ago.’

‘You don’t look a day over sixteen to me,’ Hastein put in, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close, a wicked grin on his face. ‘But I know that can’t be right, because we’ve been wed these past twelve years – which would have made you a bride at the tender age of four. Of course, you would have been a very pretty bride and–’

‘Father, you sound like a complete idiot, do you know that?’ Eleven-year-old Dainn’s words cut across Hastein’s, bringing a chuckle from everyone. The flaxen-headed lad grinned, evidently pleased with the response.

‘I’ve had that said to me before on numerous occasions, Dainn. But as long as you know it’s all in jest, I think you must agree, it’s better to be light-hearted than constantly miserable?’

‘I suppose so,’ Dainn, said, with a shrug that said he wasn’t at all convinced.

‘I’m hungry.’ Aguti’s sorry-for-himself voice came from across the room, close to the tables being laid with bread and cheeses to be served with the meal. ‘And Yrsa won’t even let me have a piece of bread.’

‘I most certainly won’t,’ Yrsa admonished. ‘You’d not eat your meal if I did and then your mother wouldn’t be at all pleased. A big boy of eight should be able to wait, like everyone else.’

‘Well, how long will that be?’ the child whined. My stomach’s aching so much I think I might die of the pain.’

‘Right then, Yrsa,’ Freydis said, unwinding Hastein’s arms from around her and bending down to check the roasting chickens. ‘Shall we get the meal served? I really don’t want Aguti dying on us tonight. I’ve got far too much to do to be bothered with that!’

*****

The dream came again that night and Freydis’s heart ached as she propped herself up in bed, sweeping the tears from her cheeks. She looked down at Hastein sleeping beside her, and hoped she had not called out, or spoken Eadwulf’s name out loud. It was impossible to know when she was not awake herself. If he’d ever heard her dream-voice, he had never said as much.

She had prayed fervently to Freya over the years to take Eadwulf from her mind, and it seemed that the goddess had almost answered her prayer, but not entirely so. In the last five years, the dream had plagued her sleep on increasingly fewer occasions. But when it did come, it came with a vengeance, racking her body with heartache and sorrow at what had been lost. Each heartrending dream was followed by days of guilt at her own selfishness and inability to put the past behind her. Repeatedly she reminded herself that her family was all that mattered now.

Yet memories of Eadwulf still lingered in the recesses of her mind. They were easy to constrain during her busy days, but at night whilst she slept, they broke free of their bindings to dominate her thoughts. At liberty to roam inside her head, they played out whatever scene they pleased. And the scene they favoured most highly was the one that showed her Eadwulf’s face on the day she was leaving as Hastein’s wife.

It seemed that, in her wisdom, Freya had decided that Freydis must keep Eadwulf’s memory alive.