Victory!
The taste of it is even sweeter than the mead spilling down my throat.
Around me the hall is raucous, with jubilant men already feeling the silver running through their palms. Sigefrid is beside himself with joy; he already sees Wessex defeated, and himself the ruler of most of southern Britain. Even Guthrum may look towards his borders when we have established ourselves, have grown fat on the wealth of Mercia and Wessex. Who knows? With these in our hands, we may conquer Cornwallum. Wealas perhaps is beyond us, with its fortress mountains, but with the warriors such success would attract, we may even look towards Cumbraland, towards Northumbria itself... On such a night as this, dreams come easily, and even I – normally a cautious man and a realist – find myself swept along by them. A rich kingdom circled by the rich seas, and all ruled by the Danes!
A woman wrenches free from the grip of a warrior at one of the lower tables, and tries to run. Her dress is torn, baring her breasts. Half-blinded by her unbound hair, she trips over a hound. She falls head-first into the firepit and screams as they drag her out; her hair is ablaze and someone throws a jug of ale over it, amid much laughter. Then she is hauled back into the crowd, and her cries become part of the noise again.
She is a Saxon. A prisoner. A slave. Nobody knows her name, and nobody cares.
Sigefrid guffaws with the rest, and fondles the serving-girl who refills our drinking-horns. Her gown hangs loose, and she giggles as his hand slips inside. Doubtless he will have her in the straw, later.
I think of the Lady Æthelflaed on my saddle-bow as we rode into Beamfleot. Such a seat could not have been comfortable, for all that we packed it with sheepskin, but she made no complaint, riding with a straight-backed dignity. Of course she must have my arms about her, to keep her steady. I made no effort not to notice the supple slenderness of her body against mine, though I paid her queenliness the tribute of carefully keeping my touch from her bosom, which was temptingly close above my arms.
Sigefrid may be outspoken and impulsive, but he knows me well, and he is no fool. He notices I am drinking far more than is my usual custom. "Drinking to our triumph, eh, Little Brother?" he bellows. "Or is it the little princess who has stirred your cock?"
"She is a hostage." I take another swallow of mead. "She is valuable. She will be less valuable if she is harmed."
"Pah! A good humping never harmed any woman!"
The slave with the burned hair, naked now, is being passed from man to man. There is blood on her thighs, and I can see the tears running down her face. Perhaps yesterday she was beautiful.
I set down my drinking horn and stand, without knowing I am going to.
Sigefrid laughs uproariously. "Show her what a Danish cock feels like!"
Without replying, I walk down the hall.
Once again without thinking, I pull men aside. Some of them are mine, but all of them know who I am. They bluster and curse, but they obey.
An arm-ring – even a small one of twisted silver wires – is an absurd price to pay for a slave. It falls ringing on the table, the focus of startled eyes. I do not have to pay them anything, simply declare her my property, but this is a victory feast and I want them distracted and happy.
I catch her by the wrist. Her bones are thin in my grasp, like those of a sparrow. The men are arguing over the arm-ring as I drag her from the hall, feeling Sigefrid's eyes boring into my back.
Outside the rain is falling hard. Few people are about. I had thought to take her to Æthelflaed, but that would be too obvious, too clear a sign of my sympathy. I go to the stable, but rather than go in I summon Esbjorn from among the others; Dagfinn must remain here, on guard. Esbjorn is loyal and quick-witted and I can trust him to keep his mouth shut.
"Get her a dress and a cloak and get her out of the fortress," I order him, low-voiced. "See she gets as far as the Saxon lands and then let her go." I can do no more, and even this is risky. I am angry with her and with myself, and I do not watch them go.
I do not look at the stable again either, though the glow of lanterns within speaks of warmth, and Æthelflaed is there. She thinks of me as a barbarian and an enemy. She is a married woman, and maybe she is weeping for her husband, thinking she may never see him again. In any case, she is a hostage, and ... precious.
My belly is already awash with mead, and to return alone to the hall so soon would invite suspicion. So I go to my own house instead, the drink I have consumed souring in me already.
On the way I brush against Hynydd. She is a slave from among the Cymraeg, slender as a whip and supple as a polecat. Men talk, and over the ale I have heard she is good bedsport, her body warm and welcoming.
I am a man like other men. Never before has the bed waiting for me seemed so empty. I pause, and Hynydd stops. If I crook my finger, she will follow. She has no choice, and her hair is long and dark and soft.
But tonight I all I notice is that her eyes are as blank as slate in the
