East Anglia, 890
Elmenham had changed quite a lot over the last decade and a half.
The once-sleepy village had grown in size, with a tall wooden palisade now encircling its borders. A lively market had sprung on the riverbanks, with merchants peddling wares from all across England. The voices filling the chill autumn air spoke in the Saxon and Dane languages alike; a few years back, that would have been difficult to fathom. Pagans and Christians, living together side by side? Once that would have seemed an impossible dream.
An older drengr with a scar on her neck took in those new sights and sounds, a smile tugging at her lips. She had arrived in Elmenham a little before midday and had found that she was not the only visitor in town. Indeed, a large party had come from Jorvik to accompany Guthrum, current king of East Anglia.
Current king of the eastern part of England, where the Danelaw held sway.
The scarred drengr followed the king's party into the town longhouse, where she knew she would get some much-needed warmth. The large structure was soon filled to bursting with all of Guthrum's men. If the thegn ruling Elmenham felt uneasy about hosting a horde of ravenous Vikings, then he did not show it. He remained courteous to a fault, even as the king's drengir mocked him in their cups, ridiculing his meek demeanour and unimpressive looks. Still, their barbs grew sharper, angrier, the more they saw the man interacting with the residents of his holdings.
Indeed, the people of Elmenham treated their thegn with more reverence than they showed King Guthrum himself.
Not long after, the thegn had gone on a hunt with Guthrum, leaving his wife to provide for the men who remained behind. The scarred drengr listened as the warriors at her table cursed the man's name, but she did not move to intervene. Unlike them, she had not sworn her axe to Guthrum's service. In truth, she had more of a history with the mild-mannered Saxon hosting them, though she knew better than to say it out loud.
"Why does King Guthrum allow such an insult to his honour?" one warrior said, slamming his tankard on the table to better illustrate his point. "Those people… who cares that this man was king many years ago? Guthrum rules over us all now, including their precious lord."
"I remember what happened in Northumbria all those years ago," an older man added. "What the last Saxon client king did to Halfdan Ragnarsson. Does Guthrum want a knife to the back as well?"
The scarred drengr remembered a man dying in the snow, clutching the cross hanging from his neck. A hero in his own tales, she'd called him, a man who loved his kingdom. A man who'd died begging to be brought home. She drank from her own tankard, feeling—well, not quite regret, but something much like it.
"Guthrum himself doesn't mind," the scarred drengr pointed out.
"No," another warrior added, completely ignoring her intervention, "Guthrum would be better off without Saxon puppets."
His words resulted in more mutters of assent from the others. The noises drew the attention of a child of maybe thirteen years of age. She was dressed in a sensible tunic, her dark wavy hair gathered in a messy ponytail. That little scowling face of hers seemed familiar to the scarred drengr.
"And the nerve of this one in particular!" the first youth added with a nasty laugh. "Does he believe himself higher than royalty? For that alone, Guthrum should strip him of his title and have him flogged!"
There was a loud noise, and the group of drengir startled in response. The child had slammed the tray she'd been carrying on their table. She was staring at the group of raiders with green eyes full of fire. The scarred drengr hid a smile, just realizing who this young lady's parents happened to be.
One of Guthrum's men chuckled. "Is something the matter, little one?"
"You've threatened my father in his own house," the girl said in the Saxon language. "This won't stand."
The men roared with laughter, and the child narrowed her eyes even more.
"You're the daughter of this one-time king? " a young drengr said. That last word had been dripping with derision. "Of this Christian puppet?"
"He's no puppet," the girl said, switching to the Dane language without a beat, "not like you are. At least he understands the importance of duty. He's faced fiercer fighters than you lot and lived to tell the tale. He's no parasite hanging to the first famed warrior he's seen in hopes of leeching his master's successes."
Her words were met with more disdainful laughter. The young man she had addressed, however, stood up, face contorting with rage.
"You little bitch. Hold your tongue or—"
"Or what?" the scarred drengr said, standing as well. Her hood fell, revealing her face. His companions regarded her with some unease, but the girl's eyes widened. "The child showed some wit, and your only retort is a threat? What manner of drengr has such an easily wounded pride?"
The young man sputtered, staggering back into his seat. The scarred drengr smirked, before turning to the girl.
"Your father is lucky to have someone willing to show her fangs in defense of his honour," she told the child. "What's your name, little wolf?"
"Eivor," the girl replied. "Eivor Oswaldsdóttir."
The daughter of a Saxon father, presenting her lineage in the Dane fashion. The drengr shook her head, somewhat amused. "Your father has won his own glory, you say? How, if I may ask? I'm sure it must be quite the saga."
"It is," Eivor answered, "though I may not be the best one to tell it. "My brother has a better way with words. And my sister is livelier when she tells stories."
"I'm sure you could spin us quite the yarn, my young friend," the scarred drengr said. "So, if you may, tell us of the ruler of this land, and how he won himself a crown, all those years ago."
Young Eivor seemed a bit taken aback, but the drengr motioned her over, offering the child a seat. The girl's scowl returned in full force as she slumped into the chair. She crossed her arms, surveying the whole of the table with her chin in the air. Again, the scarred drengr had to stifle a laugh at the sight of that proud little face.
"All right," Eivor said, "but no braying from you asses, you hear? I've got better things to do than entertain a bunch of louts who can't keep their mouths shut."
The drunken lot responded with sneers and snickers, and one of Eivor's eyes twitched. The scarred drengr hid her smile behind her hands.
"Do go on, my fang-baring friend," she told the child.
Young Eivor nodded. "It all started when Halfdan Jarl and his brothers first reached the shores of my home, long before I was born…"
Edit 2022-04-11: As of this date, there are some new parts to chapter 12! So the sections that begin with "Theotford, 873" and "King's Bury, 873" are new material as of 2022-04-11! The rest of Chapter 12 was moved to a new Chapter 13 ("For Glory, Part IV"). Sorry about the confusion!
