To the Death, page 1
part #2 of Viking Chronicles Series
TO THE DEATH
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organisations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © Martin Lake 2018
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without express written consent of the publisher.
Martin Lake has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Cover Design by Jenny Quinlan
Historical Fiction Covers
For Glenn, still my hero
BOOKS BY MARTIN LAKE
NOVELS
Wolves of War
Land of Blood and Water
Blood Enemy
The Flame of Resistance: The Lost King Book 1
Triumph and Catastrophe: The Lost King Book 2
Blood of Ironside: The Lost King Book 3
In Search of Glory: The Lost King Book 4
Outcasts: Crusades Book 1
A Love Most Dangerous
Very Like a Queen
A Dance of Pride and Peril
The Artful Dodger
Mr Toad to the Rescue
SHORT STORIES
For King and Country
The Big School
Mr Toad’s Wedding
The Guy Fawkes Contest
Nuggets
Contents
A New Lord
News of a King Slaying
An Heir and Plans
A Lord and a Tinker
Uprising
Past and Future
Ivar’s Plans
Bagsæc
War Plans
Archbishop and Ealdormen
The Road to Wessex
The Ealdorman’s Wife
News of a Foraging Party
Ambush at Englefield
Return to the King
The Witan at Swinbeorg
Escape
The Battle of Reading
Licking Wounds
Reinforcements
To Battle
The Battle of Ashdown
Drawing Breath
To be a King
Battle Plans
Words of Counsel
Whisper and Doubt
Renewal
Doubt and Debate
The Battle of Ealdormaston
Escape
The World is Not as it Should Be
The Road to the West
The Battle of Marden
The Great Summer Army
A Deadly Spear
The Passing
Funeral and Battle
The Battle of Wilton
A Purchased Peace
This year came the heathen army to Reading, in Wessex
A NEW LORD
November 870
‘You think this will be the start of a new life,’ whispered a voice in Leif Ormson’s ear, ‘but it will lead to your death.’
Leif shuddered at the sound. For the voice belonged to Loki, god of malice.
He willed the voice to disappear and stared at the path ahead of him.
The column of men snaked along the track, heading north-east from Thetford towards Norwic. Oswald, the new King of the East Angles, led the way with fifty of the most senior thegns to escort him. Escort but not guard him. That was no longer possible. Their weapons had been taken from them by the men to the rear of the column.
There were two hundred of them, Vikings, well-armed and swaggering after their victory of five days before. They sang and joked as they marched, unlike the Englishmen who trudged in bitter silence.
Leif Ormson rode towards the rear of the column, his brother Sigurd and his closest friends by his side. There were twenty of his men still alive after the battle and he had been given another fifty to emphasise his new status.
‘You’ll be leaving shortly,’ said the tall, powerfully built man riding next to him.
‘Yes, my lord,’ Leif answered.
The man shook his head. ‘Don’t call me lord any more. I’m a jarl and so are you. Remember it.’
‘How can I?’ Leif asked. ‘I don’t really believe it’s happened.’
‘Well it has. And it’s just reward for you slaying King Edmund.’
‘That was merely revenge, for what he did to Aebbe.’
‘Nevertheless. And from now on, you call me Guthrum.’
Leif nodded and turned his head away to hide his disquiet.
In truth, he had meant to kill Guthrum in the battle, believing it was he who had sold his wife to Edmund. Only afterwards did he find out that this was not the case.
He pursed his lips ruefully. How could he have been such a fool to believe it? Only Eohric, Guthrum’s brother, would stoop so low to do such a deed. Rage began to build in him at the recollection.
Nevertheless, he knew why Eohric had done it. Since the day they met, Eohric’s hatred for Leif had been unwavering, and it had grown prodigiously over the last six months. What he could not understand was why Eohric had masqueraded as his brother when negotiating the deal. Did his treachery reach even to his kin?
A horseman cantered back from King Oswald. ‘That village is called Hingham,’ he said to Leif. ‘It’s the largest of your holdings in Forehoe Hundred. It used to belong to Edred.’ He could not keep the anger from his voice.
‘Return to your king and say I bid him farewell,’ Leif said.
The man shook his head. ‘I’m to come with you. To tell the villagers that their lord is dead and that they have a new one.’ He stared at Leif coldly.
‘I do not wish to put you to the trouble,’ Leif said. He had no desire to have such a disgruntled man anywhere near him.
‘It’s little trouble. I am Toglos, lord of Deopham, the next village. Which means that you are now my lord.’
Without another word he turned his horse and trotted towards the village.
‘Be careful of that one,’ Guthrum said.
‘I’ll be careful of every Englishman,’ Leif said. ‘I think Ivar is unwise to foist us onto the locals.’
‘You’ve got some sturdy men with you,’ Guthrum said. ‘And the fact that you’re wed to an Englishwoman should mean something to the villagers.’
‘I’m sure it will. It will mean they think I’m a woman-stealer. I don’t know how I’ll sleep at night.’
‘Just make sure you don’t sleep with any unwilling women, at least for a while. That way leads to trouble.’
Guthrum grinned, grasped Leif by the hand and turned towards one of the horsemen nearby. ‘Keep a close eye on him, Thorvald,’ he said and cantered after the column.
Leif stared at the seventy men who waited with him. He could trust twenty of them, the men who’d followed him for half a year, but was less certain of the rest. Their lords had died in the recent battle and he wondered if some might have their doubts about him. He was, after all, a Skald, a story-teller, rather than a warrior.
‘No use dawdling,’ Sigurd said, tapping him on the shoulder.
‘Thank you, brother,’ Leif said, ironically. ‘I won’t dawdle but I’ll not ride heedless into the village.’
He turned his horse towards the village. Sigurd and Thorvald exchanged looks and moved up to ride on either side. Another warrior, an older man with white hair and ruddy face, urged his horse closer to two women. One was in her twenties, extremely well-dressed with fur cloak and many brooches. Her name was Nerienda and she had spent her life as whore and then whore-mistress before taking up with Leif’s brother.
Aebbe, the other woman, Leif’s wife was younger and held a child in her arms.
The village was very large and looked prosperous. Fifty cottages were dotted around a large green with two ponds. Two families of ducks waddled across the green, each in the process of swapping one pond for the other. A small flock of sheep grazed on the still rich grass and half a dozen tethered goats tore up grass, weeds and brambles. But prosperous though it was it would not be able to house all seventy of Leif’s men. He would shortly have to farm out most of them to his other holdings nearby.
But now he had a more immediate concern. To one side of the green a large crowd was gathering to Toglos.
‘We’d better get there quick,’ Thorvald said. ‘Make sure he’s not spreading dissent.’
They spurred their horses into a canter and arrived just as Toglos was beginning to speak.
‘I come with doleful news,’ he cried. ‘King Edmund has been slain in battle and with him many fine men. Amongst the dead is your lord, Edred.’
There was some murmuring amongst the better dressed members of the crowd, but the poorer ones did not react, save the few who crossed their arms and looked at Toglos with suspicion.
‘And do we have a new lord?’ asked a wealthy-looking man in a long tunic and a cloak. ‘Is it you, Toglos?’
‘No.’ Toglos stared at the sky for a moment, struggling to master his anger. He looked once more at the crowd. ‘But we do have a new king, Oswald, lord of Wymondham. He was ever a wise adviser to King Edmund.’
‘Wise enough to let Edmund get killed and grab the throne for himself,’ cried a young, ill-dressed man. Several of his friends laughed loudly at his jest.
‘Hold your tongue, Selred,’ the wealthy villager called, eliciting a round of cat-calls from the crowd. He turned once more to Toglos. ‘So, if not you, who is our new lord?’
Leif urged his horse forward. Thorvald and Sigurd kept in step with him.
The villagers stared at him in silence, their eyes narrowed warily.
‘Are you a man of Forehoe Hundred?’ the rich villager asked.
‘No,’ Leif answered.
The crowd murmured at this reply. It was worrying enough that their new lord was not from the village but they could have coped if he’d been from one of the other villages in the Hundred. It was alarming to hear that he was from further afield.
‘But you are of the North Folk?’ the man continued. He suddenly looked anxious ‘You are not of the South Folk? We don’t hold with them here.’
‘I’m not of either folk,’ Leif replied. ‘I’m not from East Anglia. I’m not even English.’ He drew himself up in his saddle. ‘I’m a Dane.’
The only sound that could now be heard was the snorting of horses and the cries of the sheep. The villagers were stunned. Leif could see that some of them were readying themselves to flee. He had to do something, and quickly.
He slipped out of his saddle and strode towards them. Thorvald and half a dozen other warriors hurried after him.
‘I am honoured to be your lord,’ Leif said. ‘My wife, Aebbe is English and I am glad that my son will grow up here.’
He gave a wide smile. It was not returned.
‘Why are you our lord?’ asked the wealthy villager. ‘Why not one of our own people?’
‘Because they won a battle,’ Toglos said before Leif could answer. ‘Won it because of him.’
The crowd stared at Leif with increased interest. He did not have the look of a warrior, being slim and slight of build. But he did have only one eye, presumably from some battle, and his face was scarred. They did not like that he had bested their warriors but they felt some stirrings of respect nonetheless.
But the eyes of the crowd did not linger on him. They turned instead to the young woman who was pushing her way through the Viking warriors, escorted by the older, red-faced warrior.
‘My name is Aebbe,’ she said. ‘I am the wife of Jarl Leif and this is our son, Nefi. I hail from Fritton near the great east sea. I am of the North Folk as was my family.’
‘Was?’ asked the wealthy man. ‘What happened to them?’
She looked alarmed at the question, uncertain how to answer.
‘They died,’ she said, simply, hoping this would suffice. She did not want to admit that they had been slaughtered by the Viking army and that she had been taken as a slave.
‘And now she is my wife,’ Leif said hurriedly, ‘as you are now my people.’
He undid a strap on his saddle and held up a large bag. He thrust in his hand and pulled out a mass of coins, heedless that a good number dropped on the ground.
One of the Vikings went to pick them up but Leif stopped him with a look. Then he glanced at Sigurd who understood what was required immediately.
He put his hand into Leif’s bag, pulled out a coin and gestured to some children on the fringes of the crowd. ‘Would you like one of these pretty things?’ he called.
The children looked at their parents. Most shook their heads and held more tightly onto them. But Selred, the man who had jested about Oswald grabbing the throne, whispered to his son to go towards the strangers. The boy grinned and hurried over, taking the proffered coin and grasping it tight. He waited there a moment longer.
‘You want a second coin?’ Leif asked with a smile.
‘For my father,’ the boy answered.
Leif chuckled and pulled out a handful of coins, dribbling half a dozen into the boy’s outstretched hands.
‘I reckon he’ll make a fine lord,’ Selred called as his son returned with the coins.
‘And tonight,’ Aebbe said, ‘we shall celebrate with a feast. And all are welcome.’
This news was received with sighs of pleasure.
Toglos led them to Edred’s Hall which was on the western side of the green. It appeared to have been built recently and was large and well-made.
Edred’s wife and children were waiting nervously for them. She had heard Toglos give the news of her husband’s death and immediately hurried home to gather together her most precious things: some pewter drinking cups, sharp kitchen knives, two cooking pots, and the bracelet her husband had given her on their wedding. Her eldest son was just stuffing the last of their coins into a bag when the Vikings arrived.
She bowed nervously to Leif. ‘The hall belongs to you now,’ she said.
Leif looked embarrassed. He had no appetite to throw a family from their home but knew that it would be expected of him. ‘Do you have somewhere to go?’ he asked.
The women shook her head.
‘They can come with me,’ Toglos said.
Sigurd grunted in relief. ‘I’ll bring some horses.’
‘No,’ Leif said sharply. He did not want Toglos to house them for it would make the English lord look generous and Leif uncharitable.
‘Did your husband have any other houses in the village?’ he asked the woman.
‘Two or three,’ she answered. ‘But they have tenants living in them.’
‘Then you can stay here in the hall,’ Leif said. ‘Until my men have built you a new home.’
The woman looked astonished at this offer. Toglos scowled and then shrugged resignedly. ‘Do as he says, Tola. He’s your lord now.’ He turned to Leif. ‘I must return to my village.’
‘You’re not coming to the feast?’ Sigurd asked in mock surprise.
For answer Toglos strode to his horse, climbed into the saddle and rode out of the village.
‘We’d be wise not to antagonise such a man,’ Leif said.
‘Why not?’ Sigurd asked. ‘He’s only an Englishman.’
‘We’re surrounded by Englishmen,’ Leif answered. ‘We can’t win their acceptance with swords.’
‘But we can win their fear.’
Leif shrugged. ‘Swords and coin and honest dealings. That’s what we need to stay here safely.’ He glanced anxiously towards Aebbe. Keeping her and Nefi safe was his chief desire.
Aebbe busied herself with settling into the hall while Leif and his men stood outside, keeping watch on the villagers. Some seemed ill at ease but most seemed to have decided that the best thing they could do was to enjoy the feast. Within a short time, most of the village was helping prepare for it.
‘They have short memories,’ Leif said.
‘Don’t depend on it,’ Thorvald said. ‘Some will be quick to support you but others will wait for any chance to do mischief.’
Leif sighed. Thorvald was experienced in the ways of war and always gave him good advice. He pulled out a sword and began to sharpen it with a whetstone, ostentatiously, so that the villagers would notice.
All the food to be consumed at the feast was provided by the villagers but they did not begrudge it for Leif paid handsomely for it.
‘That was wise,’ Thorvald said, as he watched Leif pay a farmer more than its worth for an ox. ‘But don’t be over-generous. You don’t want to be considered a fool.’
‘For the moment I’m content to pay well,’ he answered. ‘But only for the moment.’
‘Every hour you’re acting more like a jarl and less like a skald,’ Aebbe said. It was clear that she meant it as criticism and not praise.
‘I am a jarl now,’ he said, although he looked troubled by the thought.
‘Why not be both jarl and skald?’ said the man with red face and white hair. ‘I’ve seen it elsewhere. In the land of the Franks there are men who are as skilled in harp-song as in fighting. And it’s the same in Irish lands.’
‘That’s good to hear, Asgrim,’ Leif said. It was the most hopeful thing he’d heard in a long time. ‘I bow to your knowledge of the world, my friend.’
‘Well, let’s hope these peasants bow to you,’ he replied. ‘But as for myself, I shall sleep with my sword close to hand.’
‘We’ll all sleep like that,’ Thorvald said. He turned to Aebbe. ‘You have no need to fear for your safety.’
‘Just help me keep an eye on Nefi,’ she said, ‘all of you. Especially at the feast. He’s fascinated by everything and I fear he may get into trouble.’
‘I won’t leave his side,’ Asgrim said. ‘And Thorvald won’t leave Leif’s.’
