Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) (3 page)

‘Father, just tell me where Eadwulf’s gone.’

‘Nottingham,’ Wigstan replied reluctantly. ‘Eadwulf’s gone to Nottingham.’

‘But what for?’

‘Because we’d heard that the king will be residing there for the summer.’

‘Burgred is in Nottingham?’ Eadwulf’s uncle – the one responsible for . . .’ Leoflaed closed her eyes, willing the act to sweep away the fear that gripped her.

‘Perhaps now you’ll understand why I couldn’t bring myself to tell you yet,’ Wigstan whispered, holding her close. ‘And if Eadwulf had told you, wouldn’t you have tried everything in your power to stop him going?’

Leoflaed pulled away, the question unanswered. ‘Then when, exactly, did you plan to tell me?’ she threw at him, her voice cold and controlled. ‘When he’s dead?’

‘Daughter–’

Leoflaed cut short whatever solace Wigatan had intended to offer. ‘I know as well as you that Eadwulf will never rest until he’s confronted his uncle. No,’ she corrected herself, ‘he won’t rest until Burgred is dead
–
or Eadwulf himself is killed. What madness has taken over his sense of reason?’ She shook her head, her features contorted in anguish. ‘How can he possibly believe he can slay the king and get away with it? He is but one man, and Burgred will be surrounded by warriors trained to protect his life. Oh Father, I daren’t contemplate what they’ll do to him.’

‘Eadwulf’s a big man, Leoflaed, strong as an ox and fast, skilled with sword and axe. He’ll find a way of confronting Burgred when the man is either alone or poorly attended.’ Wigstan looked tenderly at his daughter. ‘And he swore to me he’d take no risks. If the opportunity doesn’t arise for an easy strike, then he’ll do nothing.’

‘Then I’ll pray for that to be the case,’ she said, turning to return to the hall. ‘I cannot lose Eadwulf yet. Nor can Aethelred grow up without his father. That would be too cruel a demand to make of our son.’

Three

Nottingham, Mercia: early August, 864

The town of Nottingham was sited on high ground above the fast flowing River Trent, with a ridge of red sandstone running through the middle of it. Atop the south-facing ridge perched a wooden tower. Square in design, it was of two storeys, as suggested by the positioning of the windows, through which the guards kept constant vigil. A particularly tactical site, Eadwulf had considered on first appraisal, giving clear views up and downstream of the river, whose waters offered a perfect corridor into the heart of Mercia for raiders from across the Northern Sea.

The entire settlement was encircled by a series of defensive ditches and embankments, several sections of which had fallen into disrepair over the years. The Mercian royal hall, with its stables, kitchens and housing for the warriors, sat at the foot of the ridge, further cosseted behind a sturdy wooden palisade, which, along with patrolling guards, presented constant impediment to Eadwulf’s plans.

It was now Wednesday of his third week in the town. Dusk was falling and his stomach growled its need of food; he was dog-tired, and the disappointment of finding the security around his uncle so tight lay heavily upon him. He skulked between the dwellings, workshops and alehouses cursing man and beast, kicking at stones that littered his path in sheer frustration. How could he have believed he’d get close enough to kill the man? Even on the few occasions that Burgred had left the hall he’d been surrounded by guards – and in recent days, accompanied by his Saxon guests.

Thor’s thunderbolts strike the West Saxons dead! Why did they have to come now? And why stay for so long? It was already over a week since the Saxon king and his two brothers had made themselves at home in the Mercian hall. Some forty men strong, the extra number of guards had made Eadwulf’s task impossible. Despite his constant vigil he could find no way through so many guards, day or night.

So Eadwulf had waited, following the comings and goings of the hall, becoming increasingly despondent as the days passed. And now, after over two and a half weeks, he was resigned to the fact that his quest had failed and it was time to leave. Another time; another place, he promised himself . . .

He scratched his itchy scalp as he walked, his fingers parting the stiffened strands. Tomorrow he’d rinse off the black sludge he’d daubed on his fiery hair and three-week old beard and set off home. His heavy eyelids drooped, but needing first to appease his stomach, he headed for an alehouse that sold extremely palatable beef pies and good, strong ale. Then, with his stomach pleasantly full and the ale intensifying his fatigue, he set out to find a sleeping place for the night.

The ridge on which the watchtower stood was riddled with man-made caves, chiselled out of the soft, red sandstone. Some were inhabited by impoverished families, but some of the smaller, less conspicuous ones were used only by needy travellers, like Eadwulf himself. Although the August nights were warm, and sleeping outdoors would have been no great hardship, the caves offered a degree of safety from thieves and cut-throats about the town. He’d been careful not to establish any nightly pattern that could be monitored by watchful eyes, since his sack contained money for food as well as his dagger – the gift from Leif – and his bedroll. And having no intention of being slain where he slept, his treasured sword from Wigstan, concealed beneath his cloak by day, lay reassuringly by his side as he slept.

The last traces of daylight were fading as Eadwulf made his choice of bed chamber, relying on his ears and nose to determine the likelihood of the cave’s occupancy. Sensing nothing, he unpacked his bedroll and laid it down a short way from the entrance. Confident that the cave was too high on the ridge to be easily reached in the dark, he quickly succumbed to his cravings for sleep.

*****

Roused by the touch of warm sunlight on his cheek, Eadwulf’s eyelids fluttered open and he squinted into the bright light of early morning. Momentarily disorientated, he stayed on his side, trying to make sense of his whereabouts. He was facing east, he decided, before the mists of sleep evaporated and the memory of his crushing failure returned. He groaned and rolled onto his back but, striving to remain positive, he focused his thoughts on his wife and child. Leoflaed and Aethelred were now his life, and he must live for them. He contemplated just how much he really did love Leoflaed, and smiled as the image of her pretty face filled his mind. Memories of Freydis would remain with him forever, but he knew his life must move on. Leoflaed’s love had eased his pain, and he felt the joys of fatherhood deeply. Aethelred’s first smile had seemed especially for him.

Today he had intended to return to his wife and son, but he decided to chance one more day in the town. Perhaps today he’d be lucky and something positive would happen.

*****

A little before noon, the royal column streamed through the gates of the palisade that enclosed the Mercian hall at Nottingham. Eadwulf eased his way through the crowds milling about the workshops and stalls, noticing that few folk gave the nobles a second glance. Only the less industrious and a handful of children ogled the rich apparel and fine horses as the cavalcade passed.

Shuffling alongside at a suitable distance, Eadwulf kept his head down, trying to be inconspicuous. His ragged clothes and muddied hair made him resemble one of the town’s many beggar-men and it was unlikely that his uncle would recognise him, particularly having not seen him for thirteen years. Surrounded by guards, Burgred rode at the head of the column, beside King Aethelberht of Wessex. Burgred’s slack jaws wobbled as he guffawed at some jest, his ageing features no longer handsome. His demeanour was less suave than in his younger days and his once red-brown hair now more stone-grey. He slumped in his saddle, squat beside the straight-backed figure of his Wessex counterpart – a man close to his thirtieth summer, Eadwulf guessed, with thin, fair hair and beard, a wiry stature and a grey complexion that spoke of underlying ill-health. But the two kings seemed relaxed in each other’s company.

At the rear of the convoy, amidst more guards, rode Aethelberht’s two brothers. But it was the sight of a woman riding easily between the two that drew Eadwulf’s attention. Burgred’s woman, perhaps? After all, it was unlikely that his uncle had never married. The woman was perhaps a year or two older than Eadwulf, with a natural grace and beauty that arrested the eye of the beholder. Her dark-green cloak enhanced the creaminess of her skin, and the golden tresses that refused to stay covered stirred such memories of the two women Eadwulf had lost that he was compelled to look away until the bittersweet emotions abated.

The elder of the Wessex king’s two brothers, Aethelred, rode on the far side of the woman, conversing with her in animated fashion. He appeared to be close to Eadwulf’s own age, was sturdily built and of fair colouring. His bearded face was pleasant, and he laughed readily, evidently enjoying the ride and companionship. In contrast, the younger brother, Alfred, who rode on the woman’s nearside, looked a serious youth, who constantly shuffled in his saddle as though in discomfort. His shoulder-length hair was the shade of ripened wheat, and as yet, he exhibited no beard-growth. Long legs suggested he was tall, his physique holding promise of muscularity with the oncoming years. He responded with a smile when addressed directly, but it was evident that his mind was elsewhere.

Alfred suddenly tugged at his reins, causing his edgy black stallion to snort in confusion. The wheaten head turned, his finger motioning to Eadwulf to draw closer. Piercing amber eyes fixed on him as Alfred leaned down from his saddle in pretence of adjusting his saddle strap. ‘You seem to be paying us more than a modicum of attention,’ he murmured. ‘Why is that, I wonder? Is it Wessex royalty or Mercian that intrigues you . . . ? There’s something about your appearance that doesn’t gel with the impression I get of you as a man,’ he went on, leaving Eadwulf speechless. ‘Your disguise is a little thin on close inspection: the mud in your hair is well cracked. A little uncomfortable on the scalp, I should think. Itchy too . . .’ He winced and pulled himself upright. ‘But whatever your purpose, I don’t feel you to be a threat. And I’ve a strong feeling that one day we will meet again.’

The corners of Alfred’s mouth flickered with the hint of a smile, the amber eyes blinked and he urged his mount on to reach his companions riding on ahead, unaware of his conservation with a stranger.

Struggling to make sense of the strange encounter, Eadwulf followed along after him, watching as Alfred and the woman halted their mounts. As he drew close enough to hear their words, he stood still and listened to what seemed to be the end of their conversation.

‘Then of course you must return,’ the woman replied to whatever Alfred had said, reaching out to touch his cheek, her face full of concern. ‘Rest until the pains ease; we can ride again another day. My husband will understand. It’s fortunate you haven’t far to ride back, but I insist that two of Burgred’s men accompany you, nonetheless.’

‘Thank you, Aethelswith,’ Alfred said simply as she rode off in order to catch up with the rear guards. As the two Mercians reached him, Alfred turned his stallion and headed back to the hall, his owl-like eyes flicking momentarily in Eadwulf’s direction as he passed.

Four

Elston and York: late May – early June, 865

Eadwulf drew rein and stared at his father-by-marriage, finding difficulty in taking in the news just imparted by way of idle conversation. ‘Can you be sure it’s true, Wigstan?’

‘As sure as I can be of any news carried by word of mouth,’ Wigstan replied, halting his own mount and scowling at the heavy clouds that had blown in with the afternoon, threatening rain before long. With several miles to go before they reached Elston, Eadwulf knew they should keep moving, but the news had shocked him. A discreet distance from their lords’ conversation, their escort of four waited patiently.

‘The only travellers we get seem to be merchants and pedlars, but more than one has said the same,’ Wigstan went on, booting his blue roan into motion. ‘He was captured in mid-April, they say, after his ship was washed up on the Northumbrian coast in a freak storm. And now King Aelle has him imprisoned in York.’

‘Then I must go to York,’ Eadwulf stated matter-of-factly as they rode. ‘I don’t doubt that the Northumbrian king will kill him, likely after he’s made sport of him. But I want to see this captive with my own eyes. Preferably alive.’

‘But York’s nigh-on seventy miles away! Does this man mean so much to you?’

Eadwulf frowned, considering how much to say. Although he’d been honest about much of his life as a thrall, he’d been careful not to give any names and had kept more personal information to himself. He’d even allowed his new family to believe his mother had died during the attack on London. Nor had he yet divulged the existence of his brother and sister. He took a breath. ‘It was Jarl Ragnar Lodbrok who bought me at Hedeby. I was given to his wife, Aslanga, to use as she saw fit about their homestead.’

‘Aslanga was the cause of much misery, I take it?’

Eadwulf nodded. ‘She and two of her sons, who tormented and ridiculed me from the first time we set eyes on each other. Their lies caused me unwarranted thrashings and they even attempted to have me killed.’ He shrugged dismissively and gazed at the open meadows and patches of spring-green woodland beyond. Visiting some of the villages on Wigstan’s lands had been enjoyable and he’d been anticipating spending time with little Aethelred. But hearing of Ragnar had caused unsettling memories to resurface.

‘You’ll understand my reluctance to dwell on this, Wigstan,’ he said. ‘It’s in the past and best forgotten.’

But the ealdorman’s interest was piqued. ‘Do you wish to see this Dane degraded at Aelle’s hands merely so you can gloat? Perhaps you’ll see his death as reprisal for the years of misery you suffered at his hands?’

The uncharacteristic brusqueness of Wigstan’s questions took Eadwulf by surprise. ‘No, I don’t want to gloat,’ he said, trying to hide his indignation, ‘perhaps just to say farewell. Ragnar’s not one with whom I’ve vowed to settle scores. He’s not unduly cruel – although our people might see his actions as that.’ He heaved a sigh, finding all this difficult to talk about. ‘The ways of the Danes may be hard for our people to understand, Wigstan, but they merely act in accordance with the demands of their gods. Raiding and offering sacrifices to ensure good fortune and plentiful harvests are part of Danish life.’

Wigstan nodded. ‘Our forebears were no different until Christianity changed things. But regarding Ragnar,’ he persisted, ‘what does Lodbrok mean?’

‘“Hairy breeks,”’ Eadwulf replied with a grin.

Wigstan chuckled at that. ‘In what way, exactly, were his breeches hairy? Did you ever see them?’

‘I didn’t, but I know he’d had them for years – made especially for him from very hairy cowhide by Gudrun, his first wife. When she died, he couldn’t bear to look at them, kept them locked in a chest in his sleeping chamber. But I believe he wore them often when she was alive. According to the skalds, they kept him warm and sweet-tempered in winter, and the hide was so tough that even snake fangs couldn’t penetrate it. Yes, those breeks are as famous as Ragnar himself.’

‘Well, I can’t imagine what you’ll have to say to this “Hairy Breeks” – supposing you get close enough to do so, that is. He’ll be well guarded. But that’s your affair and I can only hope you know what you’re doing.’ Wigstan’s face creased into a grin. ‘What you do need to consider though, is what you’ll say to Leoflaed.’

‘I think the truth is my only option with Leoflaed,’ Eadwulf admitted. ‘But if she asks to accompany me, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint her. I’ll be travelling alone, with no escort. If Leoflaed came along she’d want to bring Aethelred and his nurse – and perhaps the odd servant or two. We’d end up with a convoy of wagons and–’

‘Your point is well taken,’ Wigstan cut in light-heartedly, ‘but I trust this will be the last time you’ll need to leave us. I dislike seeing my daughter so morose, not to mention my grandson.’

‘I hope it will be the last, for some time at least,’ Eadwulf replied, prodding his left ear meaningfully. ‘My ears still haven’t recovered from the multiple scoldings they suffered when I returned from Nottingham last year.’

‘My daughter has a formidable temper once she gets going. Takes after her mother in that, and I saw no need to curtail her outbursts as she grew: they were just part of the child I doted on. Since Cynewyn’s death, Leoflaed’s been my rock. If not for her, the running of this manor would have come to a standstill. I confess my wife’s death left me numb for a long time.’ Wigstan looked intently at Eadwulf. ‘But in all honesty, I’ve never known Leoflaed’s rages to be completely unfounded. I think we were both wrong to keep your venture to Nottingham from her. Her anger on your return was, in part, the release of many days of repressed anxiety for your safety.’

‘I know, and I truly regret the pain I caused her. And yes,’ Eadwulf said, raising his hand to stay the question on the ealdorman’s lips, ‘I have said all this to Leoflaed, many times. I also know that if I disappeared again without explanation, she’d never forgive me. But you know, Wigstan, I wouldn’t have minded the scolding so much if my journey had been worthwhile.’

The ealdorman was quiet awhile, seeming deep in thought. The clouds were thickening and the wind had picked up; a downpour was imminent. ‘You’ve told us little of that time,’ he said eventually. ‘Was the endeavour a complete waste of time?’

Eadwulf shrugged. ‘Not altogether fruitless, I suppose. Although I didn’t get to kill Burgred, I did see him, so at least I know what he looks like now. I also managed to see the Wessex king and his family. I didn’t know my uncle had married Aethelberht’s sister. She looked a kind soul; too good for that toad, Burgred. She seemed very close to her youngest brother, Alfred.’

‘She is a delightful lady,’ Wigstan agreed. ‘I’ve met her on several occasions and she’s always gracious and welcoming. Lady Aethelswith has had her sorrows – losing several babes before they could be born. She’s given her husband one child – a little girl, who must be about seven by now. But by all accounts he has no time for the child.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It’s widely known he’s no time for his wife either, since she failed to produce a son.’

Eadwulf joined Wigstan in a sad nod. ‘The Wessex king didn’t look in the best of health from what I could see. Is his illness serious?’

Wigstan frowned thoughtfully. ‘If Aethelberht is afflicted by the malady that took his two elder brothers then I fear his prospects aren’t good. It seems the illness can strike members of the same family, so we may well see Aethelred take the Wessex crown before many more years.’

‘And Alfred was unwell on the day I saw them, too – couldn’t sit still on that big black horse of his.’

‘Ah, now that’s something quite different to Aethelberht’s illness,’ the ealdorman explained. ‘Alfred suffers from painful haemorrhoids which, as you can imagine, makes riding somewhat difficult – although they say he often forces himself to ride and hunt for lengthy periods, as though feeling a need to punish himself. But enough of this depressing talk,’ he declared, grimacing as a few heavy spots of rain began to fall. ‘Let’s get home before the real downpour starts.’

By the time they were dismounting the glowering clouds had burst and released a torrent of warm rain upon the earth. Eadwulf waited in the stable doorway for it to lessen, planning how best to explain his imminent departure to Leoflaed.

*****

On the last day of May, Eadwulf finally neared the most important city in the kingdom of Northumbria. The overcast morning had progressed into an afternoon of sultry heat, and though the persistent veil of cloud obscured the rays of direct sunlight, it seemed to inhibit any movement of air. After over three days in the saddle he was extremely weary and now uncomfortably hot. His tunic clung to his sweaty skin and he tugged at it irritably, longing for a mug of ale to slake his thirst.

His journey to York had relied for the most part on the routes of the old Roman roads, albeit that many sections were in a state of almost total disrepair through lack of maintenance over the years – which seemed somewhat negligent to Eadwulf, since these roads still provided the most direct routes through the Saxon kingdoms. After leaving Wigstan’s hall at Elston he had followed the Fosse Way to Lincoln, from where he took the alternative route of Ermine Street, which eliminated the need to cross the Humber estuary by ferry, as required by the more direct, northerly route through the rolling Wolds. Eadwulf’s route swept in a wide arc west of Lincoln, taking him through Doncaster and Castleford – once the Roman Danum and Lagentium respectively – before it swung in a north-easterly direction towards York.

The city was not a place to steal upon a person unannounced, hidden away behind some hill or leafy wood, Eadwulf considered. York was proud to make its presence known. Located in the middle of this vast vale of fertile land crossed by numerous rivers and streams, the most striking part of the city stood along the far side of the River Ouse as Eadwulf approached. Even from some distance the silhouette of the imposing stone-built minster dominated his view; then, as he drew closer, the encompassing stone walls caught his attention.

According to Wigstan, the original Saxon settlers of over four hundred years ago had simply taken advantage of the site of the old Roman fortress of Eboracum, refortifying the dilapidated walls and building their houses along the existing grid pattern of streets inside. Two hundred years later, York had become the capital city for the kings of Deira, and now that Deira and its northerly neighbour, Bernicia, had become incorporated into Northumbria as a whole, York was still the kingdom’s main city, its ecclesiastical importance evident in the great stone minster.

The city walls had once again fallen into a state of disrepair and Eadwulf could see they would be of little use in times of attack. Yet it was inside those crumbling walls that he was bound; the place where the Northumbrian king had his palace, and where his captive would likely be held.

On the south side of the city walls, where the waters of the smaller River Foss added its volumes to those of the Ouse, was the thriving manufacturing and trading area of the city. It was not difficult to see why this area had developed here: the Ouse was still tidal at this point, a great advantage to any manufacturing town. Trading vessels bobbed along the quayside, some from places across the Northern Sea, Eadwulf noted, picking out at least two from Francia, another from the Rhineland and one from Frisia. Yet another was definitely Norse – a knarr –though whether a Dane or Norwegian, he couldn’t tell.

He crossed the Ouse by a wooden bridge that led directly to one of the gateways in the walls, but veered right and headed for the manufacturing area, keen to get a closer look at the knarr. On the quayside he dismounted and looped the reins of his bay to a fence surrounding a workshop before venturing to peer at the men unloading crates from the sturdy vessel.

A calloused hand grasped his shoulder from behind. Eadwulf thrust back with his elbow, striking his assailant hard in the stomach, causing him to bend double; a knife-edged crack to the back of the man’s neck with his open hand bringing him down. Glowering at the shape huddled on the quayside, he gasped as the bald head turned upwards and a face glowered back at him – just as two men jerked Eadwulf’s arms behind him and a knife-tip pricked the skin of his throat.

‘One of these days, Ulf, I swear I’ll learn not to do that. I’ve had more than my share of punches after creeping up on a man unawares – and I’d forgotten just how quick your reactions are . . .

‘You can release him now,’ Olaf said, winking at his two crewmen, his voice heavy with the Norwegian lilt that Eadwulf knew so well. ‘Ulf’s a friend of mine – we’ve just had a little misunderstanding, that’s all. My fault entirely. So, thanks for your concern, but now you can get back to work, lads.’

Mortified, Eadwulf yanked Olaf to his feet and clasped him in a bear hug embrace, reluctant to inform the old seaman he’d discarded his Danish name on arriving back in Mercia. ‘Forgive me, Olaf. What else can I say – except perhaps to ask what happened to your hair? You’re bald as an egg!’

‘The loss of my hair is the least of my problems just now,’ Olaf wheezed, dramatically twisting away from Eadwulf’s hold and clasping his belly with one hand whilst rubbing the back of his neck with the other, his expression hovering between indignation and agony. ‘You could have asked whether I was all right, lad.’

Eadwulf grinned. ‘I stand chastised, old friend.’

‘Less of the “old”,’ Olaf retorted, pulling a face, ‘I’m not ready for Valhalla just yet. And I shaved my hair off, if you must know; got so thin on top I thought I’d look better without any at all. Grey was never my best colour anyway.’ He stroked his plaited grey beard and chuckled. ‘Can’t bring myself to part with this just yet though; I’d feel fair naked without it.’

Eadwulf tilted his head toward the impressive stack of crates and sacks piling up alongside the knarr. ‘So you’re here to trade?’

Olaf nodded. ‘Only got here at noon and, as you can see, we’re well loaded. And I don’t want to be taking it all back home again.’

‘What’ve you got this time? It’s a little late in the year for winter pelts.’