They'd moved out as soon as the order came from King Sweyn. Sailed across vast waters to the grassy hills that the Angles lived on and quickly began their march southward, toward Wessex where they were to take the capital for their king. Taderfit imagined it wouldn't be much longer. It felt like every city they passed already knew to fear them. Even upon their first landing the nobles had all but thrown money at their feet, begging for their lives in the face of the Danish forces. She'd never seen anyone give up so fast in all their raiding. She sighed and hefted her atgeir higher in the crook of her arm. Her shoulder ached from carrying the weapon across Mercia but she refused to put it down. Should she set it on a cart there was no doubt it would be stolen off by someone and that would be far more pain than it was worth.
"Ah, Taderfit," her father called, waving as he approached from the side, "look, just over there, right before the trees."
She squinted where Troels pointed, "That black mass there?"
He nodded, "The very one. The men tell me that's the last Burh before we reach Wessex."
She smiled slightly, "Then not so much marching left to do."
Troels laughed, big and loud. A booming, jolly sound that drew irritated glancing from the men around them, "Not so much marching and far more fighting."
"Well...perhaps the Anglos will give us their jewels and land again."
"And perhaps!" Arnulfr yelled in her ear as he threw his arm around her shoulder, "they'll spread their cheeks for us too. Let us take whatever we want!"
He laughed loudly despite the silence of his family unbothered, as he always was, by their lack of amusement.
"And where have you been?" Troels asked, frowning hard enough that it made his beard dip down.
Arnulfr sighed, pushing himself away from Taderfit, forcing her to take a hard step forward to avoid falling, "You worry too much, old man. I was just off visiting a nearby town. We came back in time to join the group. It's all for the glory of the King!"
He laughed again but Taderfit frowned at him, "You shouldn't make such a joke."
He smirked at her, a grossly lopsided expression that made it clear he'd been drinking, "I didn't know you were so loyal to the king. What a good little girl my sister is."
Taderfit huffed, "I'm only loyal to keeping my head on my shoulders."
That made both the men laugh, though from the cough Troels quickly took up she assumed he hadn't wanted to.
"You're a funny one, Taderfit," Arnulfr said, rubbing his hand roughly on the top of her head before stumbling forward to find his friends ahead of them in the march.
Taderfit glanced at their father from the corner of her eye. He towered over her. He was a beast of a man anyway, broad and tall like a bear set for hibernation, but beside her, he almost looked like a giant. He was chewing on the hairs of her mustache again. A nervous habit he'd had all her life. His eyes fell on hers, and she quickly looked forward.
"Your brother…" He took a deep breath, "he's not always been this way...has he?"
Taderfit thought for a moment, shifting her atgeir to her other arm and rolling her shoulder. Of her three older brothers, Arnulfr was the youngest at just a year her senior. He'd always been a free spirit; quick to joke and eager to fight but this was far beyond his norm. Breaking ranks to pillage a town on a whim, drinking on a march. Even his crass jokes were becoming cruder by the day.
"No," she frowned, it bothered her how quickly she could lose her fondness for her brother, a boy that had snored loudly in her ear through many cold winter nights. Who'd carried her over rivers when she wasn't yet strong enough to swim across. "He's changed. Since...Ulf."
"Yes…" Troels said, his voice distant. He put his hand on her back, patting her gently, "well, we will watch him and see that he mends."
Taderfit nodded, looking forward on the path. Somewhere far ahead, between glints of the sun of silvered helmets and rattling wooden carts of supplies was Wessex and at Wessex, a swift victory would mean they could return home and repair their family.
The encampment was disgusting. It reeked of waste and rotting food. In the distance, Canute could hear the clanging of swords, screaming women, and men laughing in voices thickened by their drink. His lip curled. He glanced at Ragnar who had been watching him closely. He nodded, a reassuring look in his eye.
Canute turned away. His father had called him to London, where a fortress built over the river had halted all of their ships. The Danish forces marching from the Humber would bypass the issues the forces at London were facing, but if they reached Wessex without the rest of the forces their defeat was far more likely. It was a critical time for the war effort and his father had called him to the front. Maybe another boy with another father would feel honored to be so trusted, but Canute wasn't foolish enough to mistake Sweyn's behavior for such a kind gesture. With the kingdom on the line and his health growing weaker with every change of the season, Sweyn's interest in deciding the successor of the Danish crown had grown. Traditionally the crown would have gone to Harold, Canute's noble elder brother, and in all honesty, Harold would make a fair and just king and in all honesty, Canute knew he was the better one for it. But courtiers took any chance they could find to vie for power and a handful hoped that if their support won Canute the throne he would shower their family with status and power. They were wrong of course, but that didn't matter to them.
"My beloved son," Sweyn said, opening his arms wide as he stood from his chair.
"Your majesty," Canute mumbled, bowing his head politely and allowing his father to clasp him by his upper arms. Canute could hear Ragnar's heavy boot sliding into the tent behind him, the flap falling shut and casting them into the dim candle-lit tent that his eyes struggled to adjust to.
"You look well, I hope your journey over was most pleasant," Sweyn said, sitting back in the chair that served as his throne on these campaigns.
"Yes, your highness," Canute bowed his head.
Sweyn took a deep breath but he did not speak. Canute raised his head at the flowing sound of Sweyn's chalice being filled with wine. He took a long sip, the slurps of his drinking filling the room. When he lowered his glass he set Canute with a hard stare before speaking once more, "I have a gift for you, as it is your first time on the field of battle."
Ragnar took a sharp breath behind him, one so quiet it probably went unnoticed by anyone but Canute himself. Sweyn waved his hand and a young maid walked toward Canute, a chest as wide as her torso balanced on one arm and the other reached over the top, primed to pull it open and reveal his father's present. She stopped just in front of him and looked back for Sweyn's signal before opening the box. Resting in delicate red fabric was a helm. Silver and gold with the proud wings of an eagle arching off from the brows.
"Thank you, father, this is far more than I deserve you are most generous," Canute said, not daring to reach for the helmet. Not wanting to.
"Perhaps you will earn it here," Sweyn nodded, "You may prove yourself to be a true leader among the Danes here. Put it on."
Canute stalled, he gazed at his father. The flames casting terrible shadows against his sagging face. At that moment he was certain his father sought his death in England. That the helmet he was urged to lift from the box was all but a burial shroud in the eyes of his father. Sweyn waved his hand toward the box, impatient with Canute's lingering.
He lifted the helmet and slowly lowered it to his head. It fit well, though it was heavy and limited his sight. In a strange way, it was comforting to know how it masked his face. He felt hidden from the leering eyes of his father and the soldiers that accompanied him.
"I will wear it with honor," Canute bowed, "I thank you for the gift."
When he stood Sweyn's expression had darkened as though he was disappointed with Canute's reaction. Perhaps he hoped a fire would awaken in him among the camp and finally transform him into the warlike men so often found in their country. Or perhaps he'd hope that his jab would upset him, that Canute would show a flash of the pain that passed over him when his father made his hatred clear.
"You have traveled long," Sweyn said, waving dismissively, "go get settled to your tent. Tomorrow more troops will arrive for the battle."
Canute bowed and receded from the tent, Ragnar close behind. They didn't speak until they reached the tent designated for them and as the tent flap fell back into place Canute took of the helm and stared down into the face of it.
"Your highness…"
"I'm fine, Ragnar," Canute sighed, setting the helmet aside on the table.
Ragnar looked at him doubtfully.
"The King's actions are nothing new to me. A helm is far less the jab than the call to the front," Canute said, looking to Ragnar. He wanted to be brave, not for his father but for Ragnar, the man who had raised him who, in another life, had been a powerful and noble warrior in his own right.
"I will ensure your safety, your majesty. After all, as a prince of your age, it is unlikely you'll be in a dangerous position. Soon we will overtake the English and we can return home," Ragnar's smile was gentle, a constant soft reminder of Canute's youth playing and learning beside his beloved retainer.
"Of course," Canute smiled as much as he could bear, anything to ease the tension that still seemed to plague Ragnar, "I know I can trust you. I also know I'm growing hungry. If you'll gather what you can I'll cook for us here. I don't wish to share a meal with the men out there."
Ragnar grimaced toward the tent's entrance, "Of course not, graceless pigs the lot of them."
Canute huffed, a small laugh that surprised Ragnar, "Yes well, hopefully, pigs with ingredients enough for a stew."
"I'll go and gather what I can, your majesty, I will return shortly," Ragar said as he exited the tent.
Canute tied back his hair, glancing around the sparse dust-covered furnishings in his tent. Though he knew it was far nicer than the tents the men slept in it made his heart ache for his room at him. His books and his drawings. As he gathered his supplies and tended to the dwindling fire he hoped it wouldn't be long until he could return to Jelling, if he survived.
They'd walked long into the evenings. So long that now Taderfit struggled to see enough in order to set up their tent. Despite the myths and legends, shieldmaidens were rare. Troels had always told her stories of the women he'd once fought alongside. She had even met a handful, part of a band they met during the raiding season but in this army, she was the sole one. It was a terribly lonely feeling. Though she trusted her strength to defend against any opportunistic soldier it was tiring to stay on alert. Her failings meant more to the men that fought at her side and her successes less. Coupled with her young age she often found her guidance on the battlefield ignored.
"Shit!" she reeled back, clutching her thumb to her chest and rocking, air sucking through her teeth, and heat pulsed into her swollen finger.
"Trouble?" Arnulfr said, squatting beside her.
"I smashed my damn thumb," she spat, angered by the pain.
Her brother laughed, "Well something had to bring you back. You looked a million paces off." He teased, rocking his head around as though he was in a daze.
"Then you do it," she huffed, dropping back to sit in the dirt.
Arnulfr picked up the hammer and continued her work silently though he seemed to struggle with something. A thought that buzzed through his head like a fly.
"What is it?"
He glanced back at her, a brief flash of amusement, "You have such sharp eyes, little sister."
"Ugh, will you just speak on what bothers you?"
"...Father's cross with me, innit he?"
Taderfit huffed, laying back on the ground, "Of course he is. You're being foolish. Running off and pillaging a random place. What if you ran into soldiers? Or what if the king's men saw you?"
"That's all that bothers him?" Arnulfr asked, an edge to his voice that hinted at a coming fit of rage.
Taderfit sat up on her elbows, staring at the back of her brother's head. They looked nothing alike. Arnulfr was the last son of Troels first wife and like her his skin was fair and hair orange and yellow like the fire that cast dancing shadows over his broad back. Of her older brothers, he'd always been her favorite. Njal and Ulf had been old enough to grow bitter when Troels returned from raiding with a foreign woman he wished to make a concubine. Arnulfr was only learning to totter across the floor and Natir had birthed Taderfit not long after her arrival in Denmark. Their closeness in age and all the nurturing Natir provided Arnulfr once his mother divorced Troels bonded them. It wasn't until he was old enough to learn to fight that he truly grew closer with his old brothers. When he returned from his first summer of raiding he'd almost been cold to her, too wrapped up in the friendships he'd formed with his brothers and the other young boys to pay any more attention to his sister.
Since she'd joined them she thought the worst of it was over. Though far from a veteran she'd made a name for herself. Even earned a monicker much to the rollicking joy of her brothers. Just as Njal and Ulf had finally begun to warm to her, Ulf died.
"It bothers father," she knew he would understand her meaning. More than that she knew it was best not to say their brother's name.
"He doesn't show it well."
"Father hasn't been known for handling family situations with much grace."
Arnulfr smiled back at her wryly, settling down in the dirt by her and casting the hammer to the side lazily.
"He could show more caring for the loss of a son."
"How can he when your grief makes you act a fool in a foreign country?"
Arnulfr frowned and started to speak but she cut him off.
"No. You run around and fight like an idiot and cry. Father's so busy worried he won't be able to keep you alive he can't cry for Ulf. And I'm already weary of having to handle both of your feelings," Tarderfit said, voice strong though, judging by the glances from men camped nearby, perhaps a little too loud.
"And you're sad?"
It took her aback enough that she straightened, leaning away from her brother. She looked into her lap, wringing her fingers together, "I'm destroyed." She bit her lip. The severity of the loss suddenly welling into a lump in her throat. She took a deep breath and tried to swallow it back.
Arnulfr's hand hovered at her shoulder but before he reached her their father rushed up, "Take down the tent."
"What?" Arnulfr asked, glancing between them.
"The tent, take it down," Troels said, quickly moving around the tent and beginning to wrench spikes from the ground, "we've gotten orders to march on London. The King's forces need support."
Taderfit, "The king…"
"Get up!" Troels urged and his children clamored to their feet, hurrying to roll the bedding before their father brother the tent down on them.
"Why is it so urgent?" Taderfit asked, barely getting free from the tent before it collapsed to the ground.
"Thorkell the Tall has joined the English forces," Troels said quickly, not even looking up from his packing. Arnulfr and Taderfit paused, looking at each other in shock. They'd heard many stories of the famous warrior. The prospect of facing him would chill the blood of any Dane and by the sweat that gathered on her brother's brow, she knew he felt the same rush of concern that she did.
"You two!" Their father snapped, "get to work!"
Their father's sharp works broke them from their stupor and they quickly set about breaking down camp. The men around them rushing just as fast as they did. Soon they were marching again, sleepless and bleary-eyed from the strain of the torches fending off the looming darkness of the night. Taderfit wondered if they'd sleep again before they arrived in London. She wondered if they'd see Thorkell, or worse if they'd face him. But most of all she found herself wondering how much further London would take her from home.