Blood of Kings, page 8
“Run!” Aerlene screamed as she saw a chance to escape.
She made to flee but large, rough hands grabbed her by her hair and threw her to the ground.
“Where are you going, bitch?” Handel cackled viciously. Esma screamed as she too was grabbed by one of the newly arrived Viking warriors. Wulf, however, was small and nimble; he slipped from the grasp of the warriors and ran away as fast as his legs could carry him.
*
Acca groaned. He sat up and spat out a mouthful of sand. He staggered to his feet and saw Ceadda being held at bay by half a dozen fearsome Vikings. Osfrid’s wife and daughter were being dragged aboard the longboat and a small boy was running away up the beach. He picked up his sword. Nearby, the large Dane that had killed his mount was dragging himself back onto his feet. He gulped, as the monster of a man saw him. A wicked grin crossed his features.
“Ceadda, we have to stop the boat,” he called. The older man nodded and with a roar charged the Vikings. He swung his axe savagely and desperately trying to break their wall of shields. Slowly, they began retreating towards the boat. Acca could see that the wall would not break; Viking warriors were disciplined when compared to Scottish raiders.
Despair filled him. The two women were roughly dragged aboard the boat, their screams tearing at his heart. His attention snapped back to the big man approaching him.
Blood poured from a cut on the Dane’s head into his beard to give him a demonic appearance. In his hand, he carried the now broken in half spear.
“Come on you bastard,” Acca growled.
They began to move around each other; sword held high; spear held low. Acca feinted with a shift of his shoulder. The Dane read the feint and forced him back a step with a lunge of the spear. The blades clashed, and the fight began.
The Dane bellowed as he swung the spear point, narrowly missing Acca’s chest. Acca parried another blow and launched a series of quick thrusts and cuts; they struck, coming together in a twist of sweat and straining muscle. Acca took two quick steps forward and brought his blade up in a neat slice, breaking the Danes defence and cutting deeply into the growling man's chest.
The Dane grunted in surprise as Acca pressed his attack without pause. He slashed again and again, but each strike was blocked by shifts of weight and movements of the spear. Sweat poured into Acca’s eyes. Desperation filled him as he tried to think of new moves to break his foe's defences. He flailed and missed. As he lost balance, the Dane struck, sinking the spear point into Acca’s abdomen.
He cried out as he felt his strength fail. His legs seemed weak sticks and gave way under him. Blood splattered the sand, but the colours had gone from his sight replaced by the thump of his heartbeat and flashes in his eyes.
“Pathetic Saxon dog” the Dane spat as he stood over his defeated foe.
Just as he was about to deliver a killing blow, Ceadda, out of nowhere, tackled the Dane to the ground, his fight with the shield wall forgotten to save his friend.
“Forgotten me?” he shouted at the Dane as they untangled from one another.
The two large men stood glaring at one another; one armed with an axe, the other a spear. For a heartbeat neither moved, then suddenly and with explosive force, the two fighters smashed into each other.
Ceadda began his attack by dashing in past the Dane’s guard and out again before his opponent could react. He buried his axe deep into the Danes' chest piercing both flesh and bone. Blood burst from the mortally wounded man's mouth before he crumpled into the sand. Ceadda hurried over to Acca. He knelt at his side and raised him into a sitting position.
“The family...” Acca tried to say.
“They’re gone,” Ceadda replied miserably.
“The shieldwall was too strong. I couldn’t get to them in time. The boat is already off the beach. It seems we got here just as the tide came in.”
Acca groaned in pain and misery. He had failed in his promise to the man who had saved his life.
“Rest here friend. It seems not all has been lost.” Ceadda said as he pointed to a small boy hiding amongst the dunes.
It was Wulf.
Part Two
Quest
12.
January 1066
Westminster
Harold Godwinson strode through the corridors of the palace, a sense of nervous excitement coursing through his veins.
The King was on the verge of death. The last three months had taken everything out of the frail man, and now Harold’s chance had arrived.
He stopped and listened to the howling wind raging outside. The winter had struck with an ominous ferocity, heavy snow and terrible storms had ravaged the land.
Many priests were preaching that the end of days was coming. Famine and disease were rife. He leant against a pillar and looked out a window.
The cold from outside blew in, chilling him and forcing him to wrap his green woollen cloak tighter about himself.
Thatched roofs lay as far as the eye could see, interspersed with church spires and rising smoke from countless hearths.
The populace was suffering, but none more so than he. His conscience was troubling him. Not his glee at the prospect of Edward’s death, no, that didn’t bother him in the slightest. It was the exile of his brother that weighed heavily on his heart. Once, they had been close. They’d fought and bled together against the enemies of the realm. Now, Tostig was his foe. Perhaps the most dangerous of them all.
The King had loved Tostig and had seen Morcar’s rebellion as a personal insult to himself and his Queen. A series of seizures had struck him in his grief at the loss of his friend, and for weeks it had been Harold, not Edward who had seen to the affairs of the Kingdom.
Morcar and the other Northern Earls had kept the peace, and in exchange, Harold had repeatedly denied and thwarted Edward’s demands for Tostig to be retried. Now, finally, as the winter struck in its full ferocity, the King was in his death bed, and the matter of the succession was on everyone’s mind.
In this matter, Harold had no doubt who should take the crown.
It would be him and no other. He was the best candidate by far. Edward’s nephew, and only eligible blood relation, was a weakling and would never gain the respect needed to keep the Kingdom together and united.
He watched a blackbird swoop down and land in the courtyard. Its orange beak, desperately seeking food buried under inches of snowfall. After a few minutes, the bird was rewarded with its prize of a long, fat, juicy worm which it devoured hungrily.
Harold shuddered at the sight. For him, that was the fate he envisioned for England if he did not become King. Its enemies would peck away at her soul until one emerged victorious and devoured her whole.
“Not as long as I draw breath,” he uttered before turning away and returning to his quarters.
*
Driffield
“Will this bloody weather ever relent?” moaned Ceadda as he lost his footing for what must have been the fiftieth time that morning. The snow was waist high, and the small boy accompanying him was almost completely buried. He grabbed the boy and put him onto his shoulders.
“At least you should stay dry little master,” he said to Wulf.
The young boy smiled impishly.
They’d headed into the village to buy a new axe head for the estate when they had been caught in yet another snow flurry. Both wore heavy animal fur cloaks over their woollen clothes but the chill still seeped in.
“Will my father be back soon?” Wulf asked sheepishly.
Whenever the boy spoke of his father these days, he would look away in shame. Ceadda sympathised with the lad. Since returning to Driffield, the boy appeared to be filled with guilt at having fled from his captors. Repeatedly, Ceadda had tried to tell him that none of it was his fault.
Osfrid had returned from Oxford a few days after the failed rescue on the beach. At seeing his son run out to greet him, Osfrid’s eyes had widened with happiness.
He’d embraced his only son with a fierce love. But then, he had called out to his wife and daughter. He saw the look of sorrow on Ceadda’s face, and the happiness Osfrid had felt had been torn away.
Ceadda gently squeezed the small boy’s hands that were now wrapped around his neck.
“Aye lad, he’ll be back soon, don't you worry,” he said. “You have to be strong for your father, and your mother and sister.”
Tears threatened to spill from Wulf’s eyes at the mention of his lost mother and sibling. Angrily, he wiped them from his eyes and bit back the emotions.
“Are they even still alive Adda?” the boy asked miserably using the pet name he always used for Ceadda.
“You’re Ma and sister still live boy. Your father believes so, and if he does, that’s enough for me. He’ll search the world and nay even Hell itself to find them, and may God help any man who gets in his way.”
Wulf sniffed miserably and took Ceadda’s hand as they continued their long walk back home.
It took them close to an hour before they crested the hill that overlooked the valley in which Osfrid’s hall lay. The wooden palisades were blanketed in thick snow causing the place to blend in with its surroundings. An unknowing traveller would have to look extra hard just to spot the structure, only the wisps of wood smoke giving an inkling to its presence.
The small stream that normally ran under the rise on which the hall and outhouses stood was frozen over. Some children were playing on the banks, and a hunter could be seen returning home with a handful of dead birds over his shoulder. The hunter waved in greeting.
Since Osfrid’s return, the place had come back to life. The smithy was constantly busy preparing tools or forging new blades. The carpenters were constantly chopping wood and repairing the palisades and houses. The only thing missing, however, was happiness. The people of Driffield knew of their master’s misery. The mood had infected them all.
Ceadda was shaken from his thoughts by the insistent tugging on his sleeve by Wulf. He glanced up at the boy on his shoulders.
“Adda, what’s that banner flying over the hall?”
Ceadda frowned. Sure enough, a white flag emblazoned with a blue cross was flapping proudly in the breeze.
“It can’t be?” he muttered in wonder. “Who else could it be?”
Wulf looked at him in confusion and concern.
Ceadda laughed at the little boy.
“Don’t worry lad. It looks like your grandfather has come.”
*
Hunweld Hunweldsen stood in front of the hearth warming his large hands.
The voyage back to England had been long and tortuous, but the feeling of relief he had felt when setting foot back on the soil of his homeland was indescribable.
Wulf sat on the reed strewn floor and looked at his grandfather in awe. In his early fifties, he had a bushy grey beard and despite his years, his head of thick hair reached his shoulders and was tied in a single knotted ponytail. His shoulders were massive from years of swinging his beloved war axe Rapture. In height, he was as tall as his son, with both men sharing similar features. Both had fierce blue eyes, but Hunweld had a deep scar over his right eye socket caused by a Saracen blade.
“Where is my son?” he asked in a quiet but deep voice.
Ceadda stepped forward.
“He said that he was in the south gathering supplies for a voyage my lord. He should be back any day now,” he said nervously.
Despite Ceadda only being a few years younger than Hunweld, he’d always been nervous around the old warrior. Long ago, Ceadda had been Hunweld’s brother in arms, together they had fought many battles. Ceadda told the tale of the loss of Osfrid’s family and all that had transpired in the Kingdom since the sacking of York.
“My daughter in law and my granddaughter are to be sold as slaves?” Hunweld said with venom in his voice. “That toad Tostig will pay.”
“He will father,” boomed Osfrid’s voice as he entered the hall and embraced Hunweld. His clothes were covered in snow, but his father did not care.
“It is good to see you father,” he said stepping back from the embrace. He shrugged off his cloak and gloves before picking Wulf up from off the floor. The little boy laughed.
Osfrid looked around his hall and frowned. A dozen men he didn’t recognise were mooching around and helping themselves to mead and food.
“Friends of yours?” asked Osfrid with a raised eyebrow.
Hunweld laughed.
“Friends? Aye, you could say that lad. These fellows are the meanest sods you’ll ever meet. These are my Varangian.”
He opened his arms wide, and on hearing their name, the men shouted in greeting.
Osfrid could see that the men were from many different places, he could see Norsemen, dark skinned Greeks and even a Saracen.
Hunweld had served as a captain in the Byzantine Empire’s Varangian Guard for years and had made a small fortune fighting for the Empire. Norsemen, Russ, Bulgars and many other warriors often travelled to the east to offer their services to the Emperors.
“Not one of the buggers speaks Anglisc sadly; this is the first time in five years I’ve been able to have a proper conversation,” Hunweld cackled.
Osfrid put Wulf down and poured himself a cup of mead before turning back to face his father.
“If that’s the case, then how do you talk to them?” he asked.
“Latin or Greek.’ Hunweld replied, “All those who serve the Empire have to learn either one of those languages. I know both,” he added proudly with a grin.
Osfrid had been taught Latin when he was a boy and now searched his memory for some words. He faced the fierce looking men and uttered a few phrases that serviced cloudily in his mind.
Wulf looked at his father in confusion as he said the strange words.
“What did you say papa?” he asked.
Osfrid frowned as the men laughed at his clumsy attempt.
“Hello, I think,” he muttered.
Hunweld bellowed with laughter and chided his son for his lack of learning.
“I forget how little education is respected in this land.’ He turned to Wulf and frowned. ‘The boy needs an education Osfrid, is that scoundrel Elgar still alive?”
Elgar was a monk from York and had been a family friend for many years. He was a good teacher and had taught Osfrid how to read and write as a child. The old man was clever but had a reputation for chasing the ladies despite his religious background.
“Aye, he still lives. Last I heard he was at the monastery not far from here. But father, we have more pressing matters to discuss than Wulf’s education.’ Pain entered his voice as he went on; ‘My wife and daughter are captive somewhere across the sea, I’ve spent the past few weeks arranging a ship and supplies to go after them.”
Hunweld put an arm around his son’s shoulders.
“We will get them back. I promise you that.”
***
13.
Acca waited patiently for the fisherman to finish putting away his nets and pots. Idly he watched the sea washing on the shore, its rhythmic sound comforting, like a heartbeat of the Earth. His wounds were almost healed, only a livid scar remained on his abdomen where the spearhead had narrowly missed puncturing his stomach. For weeks he’d been forced to rest at Driffield unable to get the vision of the young woman he let slip away out of his mind. Her large blue eyes had penetrated his soul. It had only been for a split second that their gazes had met but to Acca, it felt like an eternity had passed.
The fisherman finished his task and gestured for Acca to follow. After a brief walk along the shore, they arrived at a small shack which the fishermen used as a storehouse. The acrid smell of smoked fished wafted into his nose making his stomach growl in hunger. The winter so far had been extremely difficult for both rich and poor. Supplies were running dangerously low across the land, but these fishermen seemed to be doing well for themselves.
The elderly fisherman sat down on a wooden stool with a grunt of satisfaction as he looked over the days catch. Two huge earthenware jars were crammed to the brim with all sorts of fish.
“I can tell ye what ye want to know.” The old man said.
Acca’s spirits rose, and for the moment his hunger was forgotten. It had taken him days, and many false leads to find this old man. Not many men on the Yorkshire shore knew the coast as intimately as the man he now sat with.
“The slavers come twice a year, once in the spring and again in the autumn. Some trips they come for nothing but other times I’ve heard the Scots tribes and vagrants of the wilds deliver a lot of unfortunates to them.’ The man paused as he picked dirt from under his fingernails. ‘They say a Norseman called Olaf Forkbeard is the one behind them. Can get a lot of coin for Saxon slaves I hear.”
Acca leant in closer and asked; “Where does he come from? What port?”
The old man clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, deep in thought for a few moments.
“I heard he sails from a port in Norway. Oslo is the place.”
“Have you ever been there?” enquired Acca.
The old man smiled revealing a set of yellow and black teeth.
“Aye, I’ve been there. It was years ago, but I sailed there with a merchant's vessel. The Norse don’t take kindly to Saxons; we got ourselves into many a scrap I tell ye.”
Acca thanked the old man and left the hut. Finally, they had a place to start looking, Osfrid would be pleased.
*
Oslo, Norway
The smell of rotting fish and the sounds of a bustling market battered the senses of Esma and Aerlene. The voyage to this cursed place had taken more days then they cared to remember.
The rough winter seas had made them sick to their stomachs. Aerlene had heard tales of the Norsemen; of how they loved the sea, and battle. As a little girl she had once seen a Norse raiding ship off the coast, her mother told her that she should thank god that those devils were no longer the scourge they once were.
