Elmenham, 866
Osmund, thegn of Norfulc, left the town longhouse with a sense of grim purpose.
To soothe his ailing nerves, the man inhaled deeply, breathing in the fresh, crispy air. The morning was still early, but already the town of Elmenham was bustling with activity: merchants setting up their stalls, fishermen hanging early catches to dry, and farmers bringing in livestock to the market. Those simple, pastoral sights brought a smile to the aging thegn's face. Osmund's people were a hard-working lot, and he loved them for it.
He took another breath, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun with one hand. Around him, men were saddling the horses and gathering the final of their supplies. Osmund pressed his mouth into a line, suddenly reminded of the current circumstances. He rarely joined young King Edmund in battle. Elmenham was a town of peasants, and most of its youth had never been conscripted in a fyrd. Yet it was Osmund's duty as war thegn to protect East Anglia and her people from threats. He did not ride out to battle with joy, but he did it with pride.
Osmund inspected the faces of the men making preparations beside him. He did not see the one he most wanted to find. The boy had not been in the longhouse either. Osmund frowned.
"Have you seen my son?" he asked the man saddling his horse. "I would have thought the lad would have wanted to see us off."
"He went out before daybreak, lord," another young man answered. "Set out for the village before you awoke."
Osmund smiled, shaking his head. "I should have expected it. Will he be tending to the hogs or the sheep today, I wonder?"
The men laughed—but in a good-natured manner. They cared about the boy as much as they cared about their lord. Of course they did. Osmund might have been a bit biased, but in his opinion his son was rather easy to love.
Still smiling, he descended to the village in search of his wayward offspring. Osmund's people respectfully bowed their heads as he passed by—a far cry from the warm manner with which they usually greeted him. It was another reminder of the ghastly business marring this otherwise beautiful day. After some inquiries, Osmund was directed to a nearby field. As expected, he found a certain teenage boy shoveling hay for the livestock, working with some youths from the town. Since his tender years, Osmund's son had helped the villagers with a number of their daily tasks. In fact, the boy seemed to derive more joy in menial labour than in any of his other duties as heir to Elmenham.
The only other place where Osmund could have found his son would be by the river's edge. The lad was pious, much like his mother had been, but he found more peace when soaking in the water than when attending a sermon in church. The lad often dreamed about the sea, about great boats cutting through raging storms and courageous sailors meeting those tempests with naught but a grin at their lips. Fanciful notions for a fanciful boy, Osmund had always thought.
Oswald was laughing at something one of his fellow farmhands had said. He was rather short and slight, which made him appear younger than his sixteen years of age. His tousled blond hair and large blue eyes, both inherited from his mother Eadith, made him resemble more a peasant boy than a lord's son. Still, anyone who saw the two of them together could not doubt the lad's parentage; Osmund saw an older version of his son's plain, pleasant face every time he looked at his own reflection.
Oswald greeted him with a smile. "Father! You're up already?"
"I would say the same of you, my son. Then again, you've always been an early riser."
"One of Hardwin's ewe gave birth during the night," Oswald explained, as if every thegn's son in England helped with such matters on a regular basis. "The lamb is healthy, and so is her mother! An auspicious way to start the day, would you say? What about you? You are usually a hard one to rouse, Father."
"I have to ride out early to meet up with the king and his men," Osmund said. "Had you forgotten?"
"Oh." The lad looked askance. "No, I hadn't forgotten. I just hadn't realized you would be leaving so soon."
The lie was so evident that Osmund nearly laughed. Oswald tended to occupy himself with busywork whenever his mind was troubled. The fact that he had set out to the village so early was proof that he harboured some apprehension about Osmund going to battle.
Osmund put a hand over the lad's shoulder. "The men are ready to leave. And I'd make a poor war thegn if I was late to lead my own soldiers, wouldn't I?"
"It's just a border skirmish, isn't it?" Oswald said. "Just a few raiders causing trouble. That's what the men have been saying in town."
"Yes," Osmund told him. "That doesn't mean it is not a serious matter."
"Is it those brutish Norsemen? The ones who wintered in Theotford, I mean. They're stirring some trouble in Northumbria, aren't they?"
Osmund's mood darkened. Not for the first time he cursed that his fellow ealdormen had simply let these raiders cross the country unmolested. The other thegns had thought to buy the Danes' peace by offering tribute. Still, Osmund knew those heathens would undoubtedly set their greedy eyes back on East Anglia once they would be done pillaging Northumbria. There was no concession to be made with these pagan murderers, none.
"No," he told Oswald, not breathing a word of his worries. "They're simply Mercian raiders. Nothing we haven't seen before."
"Should I come with you, then?"
Osmund looked at his son—at the bright-eyed youth standing before him, bits of straw in his hair and dirt on his knees—and tried to imagine him killing someone. No, he could not. The very thought made him want to vomit.
"No," Osmund replied, trying to keep his voice light, "you shall stay here and rule when I am gone. It will be a good learning experience, I think."
"If you say so," the lad replied. "It's just that… I've heard people say…" He glanced at the other youths behind him. They hurried back to their work when they noticed Oswald staring.
Osmund frowned. "Don't concern yourself with such talks."
"I know I'm doing poorly in my fighting lessons, but—"
"Do you really want to go to battle, son?"
To his relief, Oswald went bone white. "N-No, of course not! I'd be a dreadful soldier, don't you think?"
"There you have it, lad," Osmund said, clapping his son on the back. "Focus on your duties as ruler of Elmenham instead." His smile then dissipated. "Walk with me, Oswald. There is much I have to tell you."
Osmund took the boy aside, and the two of them followed the path leading to a hill north of the village. From this height, father and son were offered a splendid view of Elmenham, one that included the village longhouse as well as the small stone church where Osmund had been married. The boy standing at Osmund's side was all that remained of the family he'd promised his bride that day, Oswald's mother and sisters having died of illness some years past. That made him all the more precious in Osmund's eyes.
"What is it that you wanted to tell me?" Oswald said, taking his father out of his wistful recollections.
Osmund inhaled deeply. The air smelled of spring flowers—and of sheep dung, of course. It wouldn't feel like home otherwise. "Son, do you know why some men are born peasants while some are made to have positions of power?"
Oswald seemed to think about it. "I cannot say. It always seemed a tad unfair to me that—"
"You were wise to befriend the people you will lead someday," Osmund interrupted him. "However, you must understand that you have been given privileges that your young friends working in the fields cannot even dream to attain. Servants to dress and feed you. A religious and literary education. The friendship of the lords of East Anglia, and a direct line to the king's ear." He grabbed his son by the shoulders, looking him in the eye. "Not many people have had such charmed lives. Many will come to you for guidance and protection. In exchange for their fealty and services, you will use what you've been given to provide for them. Because if you do not stand for the people of Elmenham, then who will? Who will protect them in their time of need?"
Oswald's brow creased with worry. "Yes, well, I understand your point, Father, but… why are you telling me this? Why now? There's no reason to be so serious, so solemn, is there?"
Osmund did not answer, only casting his gaze over Elmenham. His town did not have the grand stone walls of Northwic; it was not a bustling centre of commerce and culture, and it was not blessed with any of the awe-inspiring Roman ruins found in so many cities across the British isles. Elmenham was simply a few humble houses with thatched roofs, and fields stretching as far as the eye could see—simply the lifework of humble, honest people. And for that reason Osmund loved his home more than he could even put in words.
"Bah!" Osmund waved a hand around. "Do indulge an old man his nonsensical ramblings, eh? Do not worry, it is simply my age catching up to me."
"Right," Oswald said, sounding unsure. "If you say so."
Osmund looked at his son, committing that dear, sweet face to memory. "Well," he said. "I must be off. Someone needs to make sure Elmenham's fearsome fighting peasants arrive to Northwic, after all. I leave my lands in your competent hands, lad."
"'Competent', he says," Oswald said, chuckling. "Absolutely no pressure, is there?" Then, his expression grew a little more serious, and he nodded. "I'll pray for your safe return, lord. Take care, and come back soon."
"I will most certainly try. Goodbye, my son." And Osmund went down the path leading to the village, leaving the boy alone on that hill.
Those were the last words that Oswald ever shared with his father.
Northwic, 869
The world had gone to Hell, Oswald was sure of it.
The youngest of King Edmund's thegns could not still his pounding heart. He could not stop shaking either. He wiped the sweat pouring from his brow with a trembling hand, still unwilling to stare at anything but his own feet. Here he was, sitting in the longhouse at Northwic—a place he had visited dozens of times before, first as a boy when he'd accompanied his father, then when he'd replaced him as the newest member of King Edmund's witan. A place where wise, good men once gathered to decide the future of East Anglia and her people.
A place that now stank of ale, piss and blood.
The Dane invaders had removed the corpses of the unfortunate few who had stood with King Edmund, but the stench of death still clogged Oswald's nostrils. The brutes seemed barely aware of it; they laughed and drank and feasted as if they hadn't just been executing people only a few hours ago, as if the survivors of this massacre weren't huddled in a dim corner of the longhouse, awaiting an uncertain fate.
As if King Edmund's headless corpse wasn't still slumped in his throne, riddled with arrows.
Oswald hid his face in his hands, unable to stop a whimper from escaping his mouth. The moment of King Edmund's death remained etched in his mind. After the disastrous battle outside Theotford, the royal council had urged Edmund to allow the Danes into the longhouse at Northwic—to allow the wolves into the sheep's pen—and negotiate the terms of their surrender. After some coaxing, Edmund had agreed to meet the three brothers at the head of the heathens' army: Halfdan Ragnarsson, the eldest, eyes grey as a thundercloud, Ubba, tall and steady like an oak tree, and Ivarr—
Twitchy, sinewy, ever-grinning Ivarr, a devil in a man's flesh.
What had made the king's infamous temper flare? Oswald did not know. He had not heard exactly what the Danes had asked of Edmund, he'd not been privy to that fatidic moment. He'd only seen his king drawing his blade with an exclamation of rage.
"I'll die before I'll renounce God!" Edmund had shouted. "Do your worst, heathen! God has given me strength! There's nothing you can do to take that away from me, you hear? Nothing!"
The one called Halfdan had raised his hand. "Sheath your sword, lad," he'd spoken in the Saxon language. "Nothing good will come out of such stubbornness."
But his brother Ivarr had simply smirked. "You want to meet your god? Is that it? Well, I'll gladly send you to him." And he'd swung his axe, detaching Edmund's head from his body.
Oswald shuddered again at the memory. He'd been useless, utterly useless. He had cowered in a corner while Ivarr's dogs had propped the king's body on his throne, using his corpse as target practise. If you do not stand for the people of Elmenham, then who will? Oswald's father had once told him. And yet Oswald could not stand, could not move. Here he was, sitting with his face in his hands, tears pricking his eyes, while the monsters who'd murdered his king were deciding the future of East Anglia and her people. What would his father even say if he'd seen the coward his son had become?
Oswald was almost glad that he would never know.
Someone put a hand on his shoulder. "Come now, lad," a familiar voice said. Aethelred, another member of the witan. His penchants for worldly vices made him a rather terrible priest, but he was a good man nonetheless. "Take heart. The Lord will guide our way, I know He will."
"Stop coddling him!" someone snapped. It was Eadwulf, the second youngest of the king's thegns. "We cannot appear too weak or…"
"Stop!" Wynnstan, the reeve of Theotford, had risen from his chair. "They're coming back."
The raiders guarding Oswald and the others parted to let the brothers through. The Ragnarssons were accompanied by a fourth man; grey-haired and grey-bearded, he looked at the thegns of East Anglia with utter apathy, arms crossed over his chest.
Halfdan exchanged some words with the grey-haired man. The latter dropped his arms to the side, his face expressing surprise. He spoke in an agitated manner, gesturing at Oswald and the others, but Halfdan snapped at him, and the man fell silent.
Eadwulf's face was getting redder with each passing moment. Finally, he could not contain himself; he leaped out of his seat, unable to keep silent any longer. Wynnstan tried to drag him back, but Eadwulf escaped his grasp, advancing toward the brothers and pointing angrily at them.
"The least you could do is to speak our language when deciding our fates!" Eadwulf roared. "You can't treat us that way! East Anglia will not bow to—"
"Stop that, will you?!" Aethelred was shouting, tugging on Eadwulf's other arm. "You will get all of us killed!"
That mad dog Ivarr simply grinned, and Oswald's stomach lurched in anticipated terror. The Dane warlord lifted his chin, goading Eadwulf. With another roar of fury, Eadwulf launched himself forward.
Ivarr evaded the blow in a fluid motion, then hit Eadwulf in the gut. The thegn stumbled backward, holding his belly. A sickening crack resounded in the air as Ivarr's fist then collided with his nose. Eadwulf's legs finally gave from under him, but Ivarr grabbed him by the collar, hitting him again and again and again—
"Stop it, you'll kill him!" Oswald cried, rushing to his feet.
For a split-second, he was acutely aware of the looks of horror his fellow thegns were sending his way. Ivarr Ragnarsson's eyes widened ever so slightly. Oswald managed to pry Eadwulf out of Ivarr's grip—only to feel a searing white-hot pain exploding in his face. In the distance echoed screams—and laughter, so much laughter.
When Oswald finally regained his wits, it was to realize that blood was pouring out of his nose and mouth. Behind him, Eadwulf was sprawled on the ground, unmoving. Ivarr Ragnarsson was cocking his head, looking at Oswald with a strange expression. Not amusement, not rage—more like the curiosity of a cat who had just plucked a bird from the safety of its nest.
Oswald felt frozen under that stare. Still, he managed to hold up his hands and say, "P-Please, stop. There doesn't need to be more b-bloodshed."
What a pathetic sight Oswald must have made, blood all over his face and tears of pain welling up in his eyes. He must have appeared as threatening as a newborn lamb. Yet Oswald remained standing on trembling legs, blocking Ivarr's way. He could still hear Eadwulf's moans of pain coming from behind.
"I… I apologize for my fellow thegn's passion," Oswald continued, not knowing where those words were even coming from. "Please, do forgive him for—"
"What strange people you Christians are," Ivarr said, rather softly. Oswald noted with some trepidation that he had spoken in the Saxon language. "You apologize to those who do you harm. You ask for their forgiveness. And you seek peace at the expense of your own dignity." There was the sharp edge of something in his voice—a hint of pure acrimony that had not been there before, even as he had been beating Eadwulf to a pulp. "What must drive a man to live this way, I wonder?"
"I…" Oswald stuttered. "I…I don't…"
"What's with this one?" one of their raiders said. "He doesn't just look more sheep than man, he bleats like one too. Was he fathered by one?"
The other Danes roared with laughter, but their glee was abruptly cut short when Ivarr grabbed the man, slamming his face on a wooden pillar. The raider fell to the ground, groaning and holding his nose.
"Poor form," Ivarr said. "If you are to insult someone, do it with some wit, at least."
Oswald blinked, still lost in a daze. Someone was tugging on his arm.
"Please, lord," Aethelred said, "the boy was acting with the folly of youth." He pulled Oswald away, while Wynnstan and Uhtric, ealdorman of Beodoricsworth, were helping Eadwulf to his feet.
The one called Ubba snorted. "Well, at least these two have shown some grit. Even if it amounted to nothing, in the end."
Halfdan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That is enough. Ivarr, stop picking fights with the Saxons. We need them alive."
"But why?" Uhtric said. "Why put us through all this hell? Do you mean to humiliate us further?"
"Your king rejected our offer of peace," Halfdan said. "But I'd rather have a Saxon man on the throne of East Anglia. It will be less troublesome that way."
"You hear that?" the grey-haired Dane said. "One of you lucky bastards will have the privilege of plodding his arse down Edmund's chair." He looked at the poor man's corpse, then grimaced. "Ech. Well, after we give the cursed thing a good cleaning..."
"As steward of East Anglia, Finnr here will oversee the process," Halfdan Ragnarsson continued, gesturing at his grey-haired companion. "He will act in my name. As such, any who ascend to the throne will also answer to me."
There was another tense silence. Oswald could only hear the thumping of his heart and the pathetic moans of Eadwulf. Even the Dane savages had stopped making any sound. Their gazes were set upon Oswald and the other members of the witan. They seemed more like animals slobbering over a piece of meat than men endowed with the gift of reason.
Ivarr Ragnarsson's ice-blue eyes were the coldest of them all, and they were sorely fixed on Oswald. "I'd say," he began, "perhaps this one would—"
Aethelred immediately placed Oswald behind him. The old priest was gripping Oswald's arm so tightly his knuckles had gone white. "If you need a puppet," he said, voice hoarse, "let it be me."
Halfdan exchanged a look with Finnr, while Ivarr gave Aethered a wry grin.
"A priest?" he said. "You are a priest, are you not? You've not just killed one in order to steal his garments?"
"Ordained and anointed with sacred oil, aye," Aethelred said gruffly. "Now, speak plainly and tell us what it is I need to do to keep my people safe from you lot." He threw a surreptitious glance toward Oswald. "I will dance on command if it's what you ask… but you will leave them alone."
Halfdan nodded. "Good. I was starting to tire of these games as well. Come, and let us be done with it."
Aethelred followed the three brothers to the other end of the longhouse, his fellow thegns watching with mute horror. Wynstann made the sign of the cross with a trembling hand.
"God preserves us all," he whispered. "We've just made a deal with the devil."