Northwic, 872
Setting foot in Northwic was ever a strange experience these days.
In many ways, the city had barely changed. The marketplace was still filled with people arguing about the right price for wares, and by weary drovers bringing livestock to sell. Women gossiped as they hung freshly laundered linens, while stray dogs ran down the muddy streets, pursued by laughing children. In the distance one could hear the clanging hammer of a blacksmith at work and the grinding wheel of the town's aging mill. If he pretended hard enough, Oswald could almost believe the world had not been turned upside down.
And yet… he only had to raise his eyes to see the truth of the matter. Great banners were draped over the city walls, all showing the same sigil, a golden boar on blue. The same symbol could be found on the round shields of the brutish men patrolling the city. Oswald did not dare meet the eye of any of the Dane warriors. They never paid him any mind, but… Oswald thought of the tooth he'd lost to Ivarr Ragnarsson, feeling its empty spot with his tongue. It was always better to be careful.
It did not take him long to arrive at the base of the hill where the longhouse had been erected. Oswald looked up the wooden stairs, inhaling deeply before putting one foot on its first step. He knew the city had been settled by some of Halfdan Ragnarsson's distant relations. A pair of brothers led the Boar clan, that much Oswald could recall. Aethelred didn't seem to hold them much in esteem, however. The old priest had admitted to Oswald that he would be better served by dealing with their sister, who had apparently more of a head on her shoulders.
"She rules the clan," were Aethelred's exact words, "but gets no respect for doing so. You can imagine how happy she is with the situation."
Oswald had never met the woman or her apparently incompetent brothers—and he was keen on keeping it that way. He looked down at his feet, mouth tasting sour. He could not imagine that any relations of the Ragnarssons were easier to deal with than the three beasts in human skin who had killed his king.
Lost in bitter musings, Oswald did not see the reddish blur speeding toward him from above.
He yelped as it hit him on the brow, though more out of surprise than out of pain. Oswald rubbed at his head, before grabbing the object that had struck him. A ball made of leather—the simplest kind of toy, one that brought back fond memories. He could indeed hear the cries of some children at play coming from above. Oswald climbed the steps, feeling a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. That smile froze as he arrived at the top of the stairs; the place was crawling with more of these Dane brutes.
And all of their eyes were fixed on Oswald.
He stopped dead in his tracks, feeling as if he'd been pinned under those stares. A high-pitched voice let out an exclamation, and Oswald flinched; it took him a few precious seconds to finally notice that some children were also gathered nearby. One boy was motioning over to him. Oswald let out a nervous chuckle, finally managing to move his legs.
"There you go," he said, handing the ball over to the child. "Keep a closer eye on it next time, will you?"
The boy frowned in confusion, before saying something in the Dane language. Oswald could only stare stupidly at him. The child tugged on the arm of a warrior standing guard nearby, pointing at Oswald.
Oswald's neck prickled with dread. He cleared his throat, ready to offer a needless apology, but the Dane spoke first, saying in heavily accented Saxon, "The boy is offering his thanks. For bringing back his toy."
"It's..." Oswald said, hesitating. "It's no trouble, truly."
He took a shaky step backward, and the man lifted a thick eyebrow in response. Before the Dane could place another word, Oswald hurried inside the longhouse, heart hammering inside his chest.
In a way, it was like stepping into a twisted version of a place he knew like the back of his hand. There were a few Saxon men and women gathered inside, most doing busywork, some eating and drinking together—but they were quiet, too quiet. By this time of the day, a fair number of people should have come to feast at the king's table, and there should have been laughter and songs aplenty to fill in the silence. Instead, those present spoke in hushed tones, shooting worried glances toward the other half of the longhouse.
The other half of the longhouse, where the Dane invaders were singing and drinking, completely indifferent to the distress that could be read on the face of every Saxon present.
Oswald kept his head down as he passed through this rowdy bunch to make his way to the king. No one paid him any attention—except for a dark-haired young woman clad in a warrior's garb. As Oswald found her gaze, she looked away, face smoothing into a mask of pure indifference.
Oswald finally reached the throne. Or rather, the seat that Aethelred used. The man refused to sit in the ornate chair from which Edmund had ruled. Oswald stole a glance at the cursed thing, shivering. He could still see the dried blood stains darkening the wood.
From the glazed look in his eyes, Aethelred was deep in his drink. A crease formed between his brows when he finally noticed Oswald.
"My king," Oswald said, offering a slight bow, "you look well."
Aethelred let out a snort. "Oh, drop this, will you, lad? I'm about as kingly as you, which is to say, not at all."
Oswald chuckled a little. "I've seen more regal figures, that is true. But you are a king all the same, and I've come at your summon."
"My summon…" Aethelred repeated, sounding wary.
Oswald nodded. "Yes. Just say the word, and I will bring my men here in a levy to join with the rest of the fyrd."
The fyrd. It was strange to say that word out loud. Aethelred had not yet called for one, in truth. In the letter that had brought Oswald to Northwic, the king had said that the band led by the warlord laying waste to Sudfulc—a Geat named Rued—was ill-equipped and badly disciplined. "There will be no need for an army," he'd written, "not while my crown still buys us the services of our 'friends' from the north. Let's put their skills to use first, shall we?"
Aethelred's smile dissipated at Oswald's words. "Is that so? And here I thought you'd come to Northwic just for the pleasure of my company…"
Oswald looked at the man with some concern. Aethelred's red-blond beard was bushier than ever, and he could spy some new strands of grey in it—and even some droplets of ale. Oswald grimaced at his sorry state. "Aethelred… how are you, truly?"
Aethelred sank back into his chair. His eyes were fixed on some Dane louts feasting at a nearby table. A red-haired man raised his mug with a loud exclamation, and his tablemates roared with laughter in response. Aethelred's mouth twisted at their merriment.
"Aethelred?" Oswald prompted. "What are you…"
"We should not speak here," the king said, rather gruffly. He stood from his chair. "Follow me."
Aethelred guided Oswald toward the end of the longhouse, where the man's personal quarters could be found. Aethelred's chambers mirrored the king's own state of disarray, with clothes, parchment and various objects laying scattered everywhere. A book—most precious of all treasures—was even lying open at Oswald's feet. He picked up the tome reverently, putting it back on a table beside other texts.
Aethelred wouldn't have amassed such a valuable collection, Oswald thought. Those had been Edmund's quarters, he remembered. The previous king had been an impetuous man who often seemed to have trouble remembering that Oswald even existed. Still, Edmund had not deserved the cruel fate Ivarr Ragnarsson had served him.
No one did.
Aethelred walked up to his desk, pouring himself a drink. Oswald frowned as the man took a long swing out of his cup.
"You shouldn't drink so much," Oswald chided. "You're a man of God. You should give the example and live free of vices, don't you think?"
In response, Aethelred laughed. "When you reach my venerable age, you will change your tune. My sin is the drink. Which one will be yours, I wonder? Surely not greed or sloth." He considered Oswald for a moment. "Lust, I would say in your case. You are still quite young. Your blood must flow red-hot in your veins at the sight of a pretty face, I think."
"Aethereld," Oswald said, feeling his cheeks warming up, "I do not wish to speak of such a matter with you, of all people."
The king smirked. "Bah! You should indulge as much as you want, for the sake of us poor souls who cannot." With a snort, he added, "Did you know that Halfdan Jarl expected me to wed his young cousin? Imagine! A man of the cloth, marrying a heathen girl young enough to be his daughter! I refused her, of course."
"I doubt they took that well."
"Oh, they stomped and moaned, but they understood well enough I would not budge on this. Besides, the girl in question is about as far from a good Christian wife as one could be. Colder than the arse-end of Northumbria, too. Embracing her must feel like holding a block of ice in one's arms."
Oswald grimaced. "Please, Aethelred. No lady deserves to be disrespected in such a way."
"That's your mother speaking, boy. What a saint that woman was." Aethelred's smile grew wistful. "They were good people, your parents. Gone too soon, the both of them. And you're all that's left of them."
Oswald nodded, not exactly understanding where the man was going with this.
"I remember when you were born," Aethelred continued, watching the liquid sloshing as he twirled his cup in his hand. "Such a tiny thing you were... I could carry you in one arm. I've known your father since we were lads, but that was the only night I ever managed to get him drunk. God! He was so proud, so happy! We all were…"
Oswald managed a weak smile. He had trouble imagining his father drinking to excess.
Aethelred walked up to him, patting his shoulder. "And this is why you should return to Elmenham. For the sake of your poor folks, may God rest their souls."
"What?" Oswald exclaimed. "But the battle—"
Aethelred laughed again, but the sound seemed forced. "I'll have a hundred screaming Danes at my side. What good will your little peasant militia do? Better that they stay on their fields to tend to the crops, I say."
"If you say so," Oswald said, uneasily.
"You'll understand my reasoning well enough once you find yourself in my situation." Aethelred looked at Oswald for a moment, his expression inscrutable. "You will, sooner than later."
"Once I find myself in… what? What do you mean?"
Aethelred only shook his head in response. "That Rued should have thought better than to attack an already settled land," he said, rather than elaborate on his previous comment. "We have the combined might of my men and our Dane… well, not allies, not exactly, how could I put this…?"
"They will fight as a combined force, truly? I find the idea hard to believe."
Aethelred smiled. It was a strangely twisted expression, one that sent chills down Oswald's back.
"Well," the king muttered, "if it ends with a culling of our own heathen infestation, then…"
"Aethereld!" Oswald whispered. "Don't let them hear you say such things!"
The man scoffed. "Nothing they can do to me on this earth will be any worse than the torment that awaits me in Hell."
"You don't know that," Oswald said, despairing. "There might still be hope for your soul yet—"
"We've all whored ourselves to the devil, that day," Aethelred answered. "Except maybe you. If God is willing, perhaps you'll get out of this mess with your soul intact."
"I…" What could Oswald say to such a declaration? "You acted with good intentions, Aethelred, I'm sure our Lord knows that." And if you think yourself a coward, then what does that make me?
Aethelred drank from his cup. Again, his eyes shone with something strange and cold, something that made the hair on Oswald's neck stand on end.
"My soul might be damned," the king said, a little feverishly, "but so are theirs. Between a lesser and a greater evil, I know which one the Lord will choose to strike down. We will prevail, and drive those ravenous beasts away from East Anglia."
Oswald noted that Aethelred was looking outside his chambers—where came the laughter of the Danes feasting back in the meadhall.
"All of them," the king said, teeth showing in a predatory smile.
Outside of Burgh Castle, 872
The first thing that Oswald noted was the stench.
He recognized the foul odour of blood and vomit and feces. The foul odour of death on a battlefield. Oswald had been subjected to this horror only once before, during King Edmund's disastrous rout outside of Theotford. He had been knocked unconscious at the beginning of the battle, and had woken up to find himself being unceremoniously slung over a horse and carried out of danger by Aethelred.
He had woken up to find Edmund's forces in the middle of being slaughtered by the rampaging Dane raiders.
Oswald shuddered, suddenly feeling as if he'd returned to that dreadful day. With great difficulty, he made his way through the war camp Aethelred had set on the plains outside Burgh Castle. The Dane brutes looking suspiciously at him very much resembled the monsters he and his fellow East Anglians had fought almost four years ago. Except…
Except these men were battered and bloodied. These men were the ones who reeked of death and decay. Some of the Dane warriors were screaming, writhing in pain as their comrades tried to hold them down to treat their wounds. A fewer number seemed to have lost the strength to even raise their voices, instead staring at the clear blue sky with empty gazes. Those sights were also frightfully familiar to Oswald's eyes. The entire war camp was in a disarray. Too many of these Dane savages ran and shouted in that strange language of theirs, clearly struck by panic. Where were their leaders, Oswald wondered?
More importantly, where was the king?
As he advanced deeper into the camp, Oswald noticed something else that iced the blood in his veins. There were no Saxons. He saw none of the brave, devout few who had gone to fight at Aethelred's side. No wonder every eye that followed Oswald was filled with barely concealed scorn—with barely concealed hatred.
Oswald picked up the pace, heading toward the largest tent erected on the premises. Surely that was where the king had directed his troops. Oswald entered the tent, finding no one inside. A fetid stench caught in his nostrils, making want to retch again. He cursed under his breath, covering his nose and mouth with his hand.
"May I help you?" came a voice coming from behind.
Oswald flinched, turning on his heel. A young woman was standing at the tent's entrance—one of the Danes's fabled shieldmaiden, from the fierce looks of her. Oswald recognized her face; he had seen her a few times in the meadhall at Northwic, but never from up so close.
"Yes, well," Oswald began. "I came to meet… I'd heard the battle was done, and…"
The young woman frowned, tilting her head. Her black hair was chin length, shaved in an undercut on the left side of her head. Barbarous symbols were painted upon her brow and chin, while a great scar ran along her right cheek. The rest of her features were… surprisingly delicate. She had a heart-shaped face, with full lips and fine brows. A subtle touch of dark blue powder on her eyelids brought attention to the striking green colour of her irises. Oswald had seen a few shieldmaidens he'd found comely, to his great (and secret) embarrassment, but he had never met one quite so lovely.
…the young woman also looked a little worse for wear, her face dirty and covered by a fine sheen of perspiration—and by a spray of dried blood, he realized with a start. Her dark hair was slick with sweat, and her warrior's tunic was torn in some places. Oswald's gaze then found the cuts and bruises showing on her bare arms; she'd just fought in the battle against Rued's forces, he finally understood.
"You're the thegn who rules over Elmenham," she said in the Saxon language. Her accent was rather thick. "The one called Oswald."
Oswald blinked, surprised to hear someone actually saying his name. To have a Dane actually remembering his name. "Yes. I am Oswald of Elmenham. To whom do I have the honour of speaking?"
Instead of answering, she only looked at him with greater scrutiny. Oswald fought to keep his smile from souring.
"Is there something the matter?" he asked her.
"You were part of the witan. King Edmund's council."
"Yes," Oswald admitted. He did not specify that he had been half a boy then, and that none of his fellow thegns had truly sought his opinion on important matters.
"Why did you not seek the throne after his death?"
"What? Why would I seek the throne?"
"Why not? Most men would kill to be king."
Oswald was chilled by her words. "No, not me." Under his breath he added, "Too many good men have died for this thrice-damned chair already."
She made a noncommittal noise, and Oswald realized with some embarrassment that she had heard his last comment. He cleared his throat to add, "Besides, the throne is Aethelred's by right. He's a good and just man—exactly what East Anglia needs."
The shieldmaiden responded with a shrug.
"Where is the king, anyway?" Oswald said. "The battle is over, evidently enough, but no one will tell me anything. Did we win? Where is Aethelred, where is the rest of the men who rode with—"
The young woman let out something that sounded like a curse. She glared at Oswald with an intensity that made him feel insignificant, worse than a bug she wanted to crush.
"Where were you?" she spat. "You're a thegn, are you not? Why were you not fighting alongside your king?"
"He," Oswald said, "he asked me to stay behind…"
"Why?"
Oswald could not hold her fiery gaze. "I cannot say… he must have had his reasons…"
She scoffed. "Well, whatever these reasons are—"
"There you are," said a gruff voice. Oswald and the shieldmaiden turned to look behind—Finnr, Halfdan's chosen steward, stood at the entrance of the tent, lightly swaying on his spot. Was he drunk, Oswald wondered? "Your brothers said you were looking for me…"
"Steward Finnr…" Oswald began. "Where is the king?"
Finnr squinted at Oswald. "Wait… who's this one?"
"Thegn Oswald of Elmenham," the shieldmaiden answered with some irritation. "Where were you, steward? Were you puking your guts out in some ditch while we worked to clean your messes?"
"Valdis," Finnr said. "Ever the charming young lady, are you?"
Valdis. The name was familiar to Oswald. He blinked, suddenly remembering. The distant relation of Halfdan Jarl. The young shieldmaiden whom Aethereld had refused as a bride.
The leader of the Boar clan in all but name.
Oswald tensed, feeling like the biggest of fools. No wonder she'd treated him with such scorn for his show of cowardice…
"Where are my brothers?" Valdis asked Finnr. No, demanded of him would have been the better term.
"Brothir is getting his wounds treated. Broder is no doubt drowning his anger with ale." Finnr held his head. "Ugh. I should be doing the same." He walked up to the table in the middle of the tent, where remained one unopened cask of ale. Valdis swatted his hand away, her scowl deepening.
"You should be seeing to your duties, old fool," she said. "The king is—"
"Where is he?" Oswald said, with some despair. "Where is Aethelred?"
Both Finnr and Valdis looked at him in surprise. They seemed to have completely forgotten that he was there.
"He can't have…" Oswald's voice choked. "He… he's not…"
"We lost the battle," Valdis said, bluntly. "The king and his men were slaughtered."
Oswald felt faint. "No, no, no… this can't be happening, it can't… Aethelred cannot be dead..."
Rolling his eyes, Finnr moved to grab something behind Aethelred's chair. Oswald's head began to swim at the sight of it. A bag, with a thick, tar-like liquid seeping through and dripping to the ground. That had been the source of the foul stench filling up the tent. Oswald's hand went to his mouth, and bile rose to his throat, acrid and burning.
Finnr emptied the contents of the bag on the table. Oswald screamed in dismay, stumbling backward as if he had been struck. He had taken just one look at the decomposing object before squeezing his eyes shut, but the sight remained etched on the back of his eyelids. Half-rotten skin sloughing off, eyes pecked out, dark blood pouring out of every orifice—that could not have been a human head, that could not have been Aethelred. Oswald covered his face with trembling hands, finally managing to peer through his fingers. No, he thought with a heave, there was no mistaking that red-gold hair and beard. This time, Oswald could not stop the bile from reaching his mouth, and he turned away, retching copiously until his throat was burning.
He could hear Valdis saying something to Finnr in a chiding tone, but he was in no state to make anything out of her words. Oswald could not stop trembling, and tears now prickled at his eyes.
When would this nightmare end, he wondered, stifling a sob? What grave sins the people of East Anglia had committed to be subjected to such horrors, why had God turned his back on his Saxon flock? What else would these murderous heathens take from his beloved kingdom, what other losses could Oswald endure?
Even if he prayed, just as Aethelred had taught him when he'd been a boy, Oswald knew he would not get the answers that he sought.
Northwic, 872
Oswald remained in a daze even as he reached Northwic with the remnants of the king's army.
He vaguely remembered entrusting poor Aethelred's remains to his fellow churchmen. With feet heavy as stone, Oswald had made his way back to the longhouse, wandering the streets of a city in shock. People spoke in hushed tones, their faces frozen in the same mask of fear and grief. A number of Northwic's men had followed Aethelred to battle—and almost none had returned. Once more, the brutality of a Dane warlord had made widows and orphans out of good Christian people. Once more, the homes and hovels of East Anglia would be filled with wails and weeping.
Once more, Oswald wondered: when would it end?
Again, he kept his head down as he took place within the longhouse, which was filled to bursting with Danes frothing at the mouth like rabid beasts. Finnr stood by Aethelred's old seat, trying to calm the flaring tempers of his warriors, while Valdis remained silent, arms crossed over her chest. Two red-haired men hovered near her—brothers, from the striking physical resemblance they shared.
The few remaining Saxon leaders of East Anglia sat huddled together. Beside Wynnstan, the reeve of Theotford, Oswald was the highest ranking among them. Uhtric had ridden with Aethelred to battle, losing his life alongside his king. Eadwulf had never been the same after the brutal beating he'd suffered at Ivarr Ragnarsson's hands; harsh voices whispered that the man had become feeble-minded. No other member of Edmund's royal council remained; all had been killed, either at the hands of the Ragnarssons or as a result of Rued's cruel raids.
"Calm down, all of you!" Finnr was shouting over the clamour. "Once things have settled, I'll look for another candidate and—"
"Your shitstained Christian king sent us all to our death, and you know it, old man!" a shieldmaiden shouted. "Why should we trust any word coming out of your cursed mouth?"
"He was throwing our numbers against the enemy to shield himself and his followers!" yelled one of the two red-haired men beside Valdis, his face twisted with anger.
His brother seemed equally furious. "He wished to see us dead, this fool king did!"
Oswald felt sick. Surely Aethelred could not have been so cruel as to send his own men—send their allies—to their death simply because they were pagans? He remembered his father's boisterous friend, who so enjoyed telling bawdy jokes to rile up old Lord Osmund. Aethelred had been the one to teach Oswald his scriptures; he had baptized him and his younger sisters, he had officiated his parents' wedding... No, Oswald thought, feeling a surge of nausea, this could not be. Aethelred was Christian, he would not have acted in such a vile manner…
…would he?
"We don't want another like him!" a second shieldmaiden screamed. "We've had it with Saxon puppets!"
"Halfdan left specific instructions!" Finnr said, voice rising as well. "You young fools have no idea—"
One of the two red-haired warriors jabbed a finger in direction of Oswald and the rest of the ealdormen. "And this is the selection you've brought? Among these cowering sheep is our next king, you mean to say?"
"These are Halfdan's orders and—"
The whole of the meadhall exploded with more shouts of fury. Oswald's table companions remained silent, staring at their drinks with the empty eyes of men resigned to the cruel fate chosen for them. Wynnstan was pale as death. The man was surely thinking of his children and grandchildren as he considered the poisoned cup that was sure to pass to him.
Oswald looked toward Finnr again, but met Valdis's eyes instead. Unlike the rest of her brethren, she was quiet, eyebrows furrowed into a slight frown. He remembered the disdain she'd shown the first time they had met. There was no such contempt in her eyes now, but…
But she seemed to be searching his face, as though she expected to find something there. What was she seeking, exactly?
Oswald did not know… but he'd grown absolutely certain that he did not want, ever, to have her look upon him with such scorn again.
"Stop!" he found himself yelling, standing from his seat. "Stop fighting!"
His shouts could not be heard. The rest of his fellow ealdormen looked at him with visible panic. Wynnstan tugged at Oswald's sleeve, shaking his head over and over. "No, no, no," he kept muttering.
"Stop!" Oswald tried again. "There is something I must—"
"ALL OF YOU, SHUT UP!" Valdis roared.
This time, the shouting immediately died down. Dozens of startled eyes fell on her. Oswald understood well enough that she did not raise her voice very often.
"This Saxon lord is trying to speak," Valdis said, jutting her chin toward Oswald. "Let us hear what he has to say."
The gazes of everyone in the longhouse became fixed on Oswald. The heat of these stares nearly made him lose his nerve, and his knees began to shake. Once again, Oswald was well aware of just how these people loathed him, how weak he must have appeared to their eyes.
Still…
If you do not stand for the people of Elmenham, then who will?
"I will do it," Oswald announced, heart pounding so loudly in his ears he could barely hear his own voice. "I will take the throne of East Anglia. I will rid us of Rued's tyranny."
First there was silence.
Then came the laughter.