Dragon's Way: The Chronicle of the Ostmen; Book Two

By Ian McKay Nunn

A kingdom faces foreign invasion to emerge as the country that defined a modern nation

The Saxon kingdoms of Britain saw their land immersed in the ‘dark age’ of assault from the men from the east, the Ostmen. Only one kingdom was spared the occupation of the Danish warlords and their men hungry for a new land.
Crisis forces us to look to leaders. One who shows us a vision for life and our place in a land. A person considerate to all people, able to provide justice and protection, a leader gives hope to the community.
The Chronicle of the Ostmen: Book Two continues the clash of peoples, a conflict of cultures, a contest of religions, written by Mael MacConaill who sees the rituals and beliefs that nurtured the people to survive, grow and succeed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Aug 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669830344

Book preview

Dragon’s Way

The Chronicle of the Ostmen; book two

Ian McKay Nunn

Copyright © 2022 by Ian McKay Nunn.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 08/11/2022

Xlibris

AU TFN: 1 800 844 927 (Toll Free inside Australia)

AU Local: [phone] ([phone] from outside Australia)

www.Xlibris.com.au

831556

Contents

Place Names

Readingum 871AD

Lundinium 871AD

Northumbria 872 AD

Mercia 872 AD

Wessex AD 875

Defnascir AD 875

Sumorsaete AD 877

Gleawecestrescir AD 878

Dragon’s Lair AD 878

Ethandun 878 AD

Acknowledgements

About The Author

Characters

Reviews for The Chronicle of the Ostmen, Maelstrom

The story is led by suspenseful twists, beginning when Mael is taken. He struggles to accept the capture of his people, and wrestles with his inability to help them. Instead, he awaits his fate ...

More compelling are the book’s religious details, as of those around Norse mythology, with its ideas about the world of the dead. ... details about the ancient kingdoms. - Foreward Clarion Review ***

. ... But Wessex and its king, Æthelred, seem the most resistant and may prove the Danes’ greatest challenge. While the battles rage, Mael must deal with Cuthbert, a boy whose unveiled animosity results in his recurrent bullying of both the lute player and Godiva. This epic series opener is brimming with vivid fictional and real-life characters.

- Kirkus Review

Life very quickly becomes about merely surviving. He learns many skills that will serve him well as he matures. His music and his value as a hostage keep him from certain death. … a lyrical story based on a strong foundation in history. He artfully weaves in critical myths and legends of the people to broaden the perspective of the narrative. These variations help illustrate how diverse and colorful the communities were who lived together during that era. His characters are vivid and multidimensional. The author demonstrates patience with developing them, which draws readers in. Full-scale battles and smaller sneak attacks pack the book with exciting action. The author introduces diverse military tactics used by the different nations. Leaving the audience at a critical point in the story, Nunn sets the table for the second book. Readers will be anxiously awaiting its arrival.

- The US Review of Books

Ninthth century Britain

pg2%20Albion%2001%20grey%20scale.JPG

69391.png Place Names

Æthelingaeg – Athelney

Aesce Hill – battle site near the Ridgeway north east of Reading

Afen – River Avon

Albion – Britain

Apeltun – Appleton-le-street, Yorkshire

Andefera – Andover, Wiltshire

Ard Mhacha – Armagh, Eire

Avreberie – Avebury

Baðum – (pronounced Bathum) Bath, Somerset

Basinga - Basingstoke

Beardastopol – Barnstable, Devon

Brycgstow – Bristol (place of the bridge)

Beorrocscir – Berkshire

Bristeinestune – Brighton

Caestre – Chester (Roman Deva)

Cantuctun – Cannington near estuary of Parrett Rv.

Cent – Kent

Ciltestere – Silchester (Roman Calleva)

Cippanhamm – Chippenham

Cirrenceastre – Cirencester

Cissa – Chichester

Colncaestre – Colchester

Contwaraburg – Canterbury, Kent

Cornwallum – Cornwall

Cranbone – Crambe, Yorkshire

Cunnit – River Kennet

Cynuit – old hill fort near Cantucton on Parrett Rv.

Defnascir – Devonshire

Denmearce – Denmark

Dereham – Durham

Dornwaracester – Dorchester

Durnovaria – ancient kingdom now mostly Dorset

Duhb Linn – Duhblinn, Dublin, Eire.

Eireann – Eire (Ireland)

Eoferwic – (Saxon) York

Ethandun – Edington

Escanceaster – Exeter, Devon

Fens – Wetlands of Norfolk

Flaot – Float River

Fording River – River Trent

Gifle – Yeovil, Somerset

Ciltestre – Silchester

Gipeswic – Ipswich, Suffolk

Givel – River Ivel, Yeo, Somerset

Givelcestre – Ilchester

Gleawecestre – Gloucester, Mercia

Glestingaburg – Gladstonbury a monastic enclosure

Grantabrycge - Grantaceaster – Cambridge

Haithabu – Hedeby, South Denmark

Hamtun – Southhampton

Hreapandune – Repton

Hrofeceastre – Rochester, Kent

Hymbre – River Humber (Anglo-Saxon)

Jorvik – (Danish) York

Kaldey – Caldey Island (Ynys Bŷr)

Leatestow – Lectestowe

Lindcyln – Lincoln

Lundene – Old Roman town Lundinium

Lundenwic – Saxon town up stream of Lundinium

Lyccidfeld – Lichfield

Maerlebeorg – Marlborough

Medeshamstede – Water Newton, Peterborough

Medwaeg – River Medway, Kent

Norðhymbreland – Northumbria

Old Sarum – Ancient settlement near Stonehenge

Ostangel – East Anglia

Palfleot – River Pawlett, Somerset

Pedredan – River Parrett

Readingum – Reading

Rhegged – south west Caledonia (Scotland)

Saefern – River Severn

Safernoc – Savernake Forest, Somerset

Sceapig – Isle of Sheppey

Sceptesberie – Shaftsbury

Scireburnan – Sherborne

Searoburh – Salisbury near Old Sarum

Snotengahamm – Nottingham, Mercian trading town

Sumorsaete – Somerset

Spinae – Newbury

Suth-sæxe – Sussex

Temes – River Thames

Thon – River Tone, Somerset

Trent – River Trent

Thornsaete – Dorset

Uisc – River Ex

Usa – The Ouse, Yorkshire – tributary of the Humber

Waecelingacaestre – St Albans (paved road for people of Waecel)

Wasche – The Wash, Norfolk,

Wedrebi – Wetherby, Northumberland

Werhamm – Wareham

Wiltun – Wilton

Wiltunscir – Wiltshire

Winburnan – Wimborne Minster, Dorset

Wintanceastre – Winchester

Worceastre – Worcester

Worgemynstre – Warminster

69391.png Readingum 871AD

When kings die, men look for leaders. They look to men of repute, men whose words unite them. Men who will regard, respect, value their worth. Hygel had come to be lord of a warband when its leader had died in battle. Only to lose two crews who deserted so they could take his hoard.

Hygel had accepted a leader’s role before he knew what it was to be. Caring for all his men and their people; showing them his plan, his vision, considering what they expected. Hygel was chosen before others who thought their experience and seniority mattered, more worthy, more deserving. But they could not capture the men’s imagination. They gave their oaths to serve the young lord but their words did not bind them. They desired wealth that was not theirs. They deserted and stole from their own people.

He opened the door of his hall, he expected it to be ransacked at the least if not burnt, but it looked much as he had left it, better in fact. They knew he had been coming; he was one of the last to return, of those who could return.

‘Good to see you, my lord.’ Arvid stood to welcome him.

‘And it is good to see that you are still with us.’ He told his old ship master who only looked a little fuller than he remembered, and waited till Hygel seated himself on a bench. Mead was served by a servant who received visual inspection from the men who followed their lord into his hall.

‘We had to get help, after we were raided.’ Arvid announced.

‘We were told Odomir died. Anyone else?’ Hygel inquired.

‘No, we were warned that Fornjot was coming. He was never happy that you were made leader over him,’ said Arvid.

‘Who warned you?’ Hygel asked with eyebrows raised. He did not expect that. It was his greatest fear that Fornjot would do as he liked when he passed the sentries into the palisade, all unaware of his desertion.

‘Well Magne knew something, because he acted as if he was lord soon after you left. Even Blythe could tell he was up to something. She heeded the warning signs, he treated her and Godiva like servants. As soon as Fornjot turned up with his men they forced us to a hut and they searched wherever they could.’ Arvid said.

‘Magne would not have told you,’ Hygel stated, and his old ship master smiled.

‘You would never guess who did.’ He paused, ‘Olaf told Blythe.’ Arvid slapped the table, ‘Blythe, you there?’ he yelled. The thin stern woman with hair tied back showing her familiar sharp features appeared with a pot of fish stew and bowls and spoons supported on her other hip.

‘I knew you would be hungry,’ she placed the steaming pot in front of her lord and dropped the bowls and spoons. Men stood to help themselves; Blythe glared at them until a full bowl was placed in front of Hygel. He rested his forearms on either side of the bowl, looked at her and smiled.

‘So, you are still available then?’ She pursed her lips.

‘They took Godiva,’ she said, tears welling in her eyes she paused, ‘It is good to have you back in one piece, my lord.’ She was to marry the unfaithful ship master, Magne. Hygel just starred and she was gone before he could ask any more of her. Hygel turned as he felt Arvid’s hand rest on his shoulder.

‘They took Godiva with them,’ he said quietly when she had left the hall.

‘Did they take anyone else?’ Hygel asked.

‘No, and they lost quite a few. It would have been a sorry tale if Olaf had stayed quiet,’ Arvid admitted.

Thinking back to his return, Hygel had expected to find his hoard dug up by the deserting ship masters. He sighted Meintet who had stayed within the palisade of the Danes stronghold as he had been injured and Hygel had entrusted him to look after his interests.

‘What did Odomir say to you?’

‘He told me ‘Go, just get out,’ he said.

They walked over to enter Odomir’s hut.

‘He cursed them all, their women, their children, their mothers. He wielded a sword in their faces as he said, I curse your fathers whoever they might be. Meintet described Odomir’s tirade at Magne and Fornjot after his men arrived.

He didn’t need a sword, someone must have given him one, the returned warlord thought to himself.

‘We told him to get out, but he said, he was not going to hide; they would suspect the hoard was moved if no one defended it.’ Hygel dropped his head to stare at the trampled reeds strewn on the earthen floor still familiar. He had confided in the old sage often. Meintet went on. ‘Blythe had gone to stay with the women of Oscytel’s men, and they told their men to help us.’

‘And did they?’ Hygel questioned.

‘Yes, men arrived from all camps when they heard ‘raiders’ called.’

‘Did Mael leave enough to satisfy them?’ Hygel asked

‘Fornjot and Magne left as soon as they found the sacks, took to their boats and went down stream.

They were delighted with the sacks of river pebbles mixed with scraps of iron the boy had prepared for them.’ Meintet was about to continue. ‘Don’t call him a boy. He is more of a man than that scum.’ Hygel interrupted.

‘They were lucky to get the sacks on their ships, the other men harassed them. I would have given my share to see their faces when they opened the sacks.’ Meintet told him.

‘Where is he?’ The young lord asked.

‘He’s usually in here; he’ll be down by the river banks,’ Meintet told him.

‘I might find him,’ Hygel said, thinking he would like to come back to the old shaman’s hut again. It dawned on him how much he had relied on the old man, not for his concoctions to stop gut complaints or his insistence on sacrificing, but for his view on life that came from another world. A feudal world where all knew their place in the village hierarchy and the gods and spirits were acknowledged for their role in guiding the shoals into their nets, and bringing the herds back to the corral and ripening the harvests for the tribe. They were predictable times, raiding was undertaken after the final harvest was stored, and warriors returned home with their hoard for winter’s chilling calm.

He walked through the town of a thousand hungry men. It was quiet, they sat outside their huts drying their few clothes, sharpening blades on stones. One man was whittling a horse from a block; Hygel noted a previous attempt on a piece of green timber.

After some time he went back and stood in the doorway of his old shaman’s hut. It looked much as it always had, cluttered with skins of cats, squirrels and rodents, containers on crude shelves and dead birds hanging from the rafters, snake skins, cobwebs and a bundle of cocoons. Odomir had always marvelled at the caterpillar’s metamorphosis into a butterfly. ‘What gave these grubs the ability to change shape to something so beautiful and fly?’ He remembered being asked.

‘Get out of the doorway, you’re blocking the light.’ He was surprised to hear that voice, it was Blythe. He had expected that she would have gone with the renegade Magne. The petit woman straightened, she had been sorting some of the old shaman’s dried plants on the floor. Blythe had capably helped the ailing and the wounded who had come to Odomir for healing.

‘I am relieved to see you here,’ Hygel said. To see her at all he really meant. Blythe had been betrothed to the ship master Magne before he plundered their warband’s hoard and took off. ‘I have to thank you for alerting everyone to Magne’s doings.’ He said to her.

‘I was blinded more than any. It was Olaf you need to thank. I only started to think he may not be what he seemed after he hit my daughter when she asked him why he wasn’t fighting the Saxons with the rest of you. I only wanted to believe him, he was a gift of the gods.’

Yes, a gift from Loki, Hygel thought and was about to say he was sorry for her. ‘Well I am not sorry he left you. It is good to have you with us.’ He paused, ‘seen Mael?’

‘He’ll be up one of the rivers,’ Blythe told him. He was uncomfortable having interrupted Blythe while she was undoubtedly having to come to terms with the loss of someone she had become close to. He had said enough and did not want to become sentimental. She gave him an intense stare.

‘They took my daughter.’ She mouthed between sobs. He left and looked about again.

He was watched, people assessed him as one of the new lords of a warband. He was one of many who wandered the trail of fatigued battle weary men walking, riding and limping back into the town.

‘Seen Mael?’ He asked the men on the palisade wall and held his hand at shoulder level to indicate the lad’s height. ‘He went out that way, lord,’ one on the platform who had a better vantage point answered. Hygel could sense an air of discontent as he waved to the guard and walked down the well worn track toward the river bank. It was the main trail north as it led to a fording place where travellers crossed the Temes to go north into Mercia. It had not seen much traffic lately, just foraging parties out of Danish held Readingum. The town was settled on a ridge at the conjunction of the River Cunnit from the west and the Temes from the north west.

He looked north toward the field where he had seen many Danes killed by the West Saxons. The few Saxons killed were carried off to be buried, the Danes dead, far too many were burned so their shadow bodies could not be occupied by spirits. He wished he did not have to remember that killing field. The Saxons came to call it Engel’s Field to acknowledge the battle victory they claimed on it. Battle gives the impression of two armies facing each other intent on bludgeoning combat to grind their way to glory. In reality it was more of a running ambush onto a field crossed with hidden pits. The Danes were led into the trap and two warlords sacrificed their lives as were many of their men and horses. A new leader was sought and he was chosen, but not by all. Some were not content with the young Dane’s command and plotted against him.

He had ridden this way often to get onto the Ridgeway that went through West Saxon territory toward the great waterway that would take a ship deep into Mercia, the River Saefern. Now he just walked the path down by the banks of the upper Temes. It wound its way through stands of hazels and down to willows arched over the banks. A curlew’s call caught his attention, he looked up but failed to sight it. He came to a shelf of rock exposed by the river’s past floods. He picked a rock and thought it was the same grey brown of the mud then noticed it was the light chalk that underlay all the hills in these parts. Sitting on it he let go his desire to find the young lad he had claimed as a hostage from Eireann and watched the water float passed. He only then thought that it was the first time since coming to this land that he had been by himself. He enjoyed the momentary freedom from concerns of providing or planning or responsibility for his men and women.

Mael was the only one who had no choice in it. The rest had decided to give their oath to serve Hygel as their lord. Mael had been taken from his village, the son of the lord who controlled the land about the monastery they had raided. Does he trust me as I have come to trust him? Hygel thought.

Movement downstream caught his eye. It was a longship. Why was he surprised to see one, he owned six. No, I’ve just lost two that the renegades took. He watched it approach, he had seen enough of them bring hundreds of his kind to Albion as he thought of the land of the Saxon Kingdoms. It looked familiar and they stroked slowly. Then he recognised its helmsman and the small figure who was now pointing at him. It was his own ship, the Red Wasp, he had inherited from their former lord who died on Engels Field. He pointed to a mud lined bank short of the rocks he had been day dreaming on. He climbed onto a tussock of reeds to get out of the mud. Orders were yelled, oars were pulled in so the blades alone protruded from the hull.

‘Now’ Arvid bellowed and the slight figure at the bow jumped out into the water and disappeared below the surface. Hygel fell forward at full stretch to hold the bow and its momentum eased him back and up as it slowed to a stop just nestled between tussocks. An arm stretched down from the hull to grab Mael from the river as he bobbed up and pulled him on board in one action. ‘Well stopped lad,’ his rescuer said, crying as he tried to control his laughter.

‘You had better take us back, that water is freezing,’ Hygel announced as he leapt his way into the ship’s bow and pushed off. ‘Deeper than you thought,’ he said to the young lad who was already shivering uncontrollably. A few nodded as they slid oars back out their oar-holes.

‘Backstroke ... and again,’ Arvid commanded. The white haired aging helmsman had the ship turning up stream but not enough. ‘Small men only, row,’ Meintet and Uisdean responded keenly to show how easily they could pull the hull round to point back down stream to cheers from the larger men who could row for hours without relief if required.

Hygel sat the soaked lad in front of him and wrapped his arms about him. ‘It is good to see you boy,’ he said in his ear as he embraced his body to warm him. Those rowing laughed and told their own stories of inexperienced enthusiasm. The ship soon beached back with the other ships at the settlement, ‘They will all need re-caulking,’ Arvid said as they walked up to the palisade.

A big man met them before they got to the hall that Hygel had claimed. ‘You need to tell someone what you are doing, if you’re going to walk off like that without a spear or shield.’ The reprimand came from Eirikr, arguably his most experienced warrior. Imar the Boneless once had Eirikr’s oath. They had both come over the sea from Eireann. Eirikr had seen a confident young man with initiative to act and that decisive timing that wins battles. So when his lord returned to Eireann he offered his oath to Hygel to invest in the land of the Saxons.

‘I wanted to walk alone,’ he responded, not understanding everyone’s concern.

‘You have just had a raid on your hall by your own deserters. You don’t know who you can trust here.’ Alerted now Hygel looked one of the men he did trust in the eye.

‘That was why I wanted to talk with Mael, alone.’

‘Halfdan goes about with a bodyguard, you should think about it.’

I don’t need a bodyguard, he could hear himself saying, but he did. Just because I have an oath does not give me their loyalty, thinking of the two ship masters who had just raided his camp.

‘Find Olaf for me.’ Then realising he shouldn’t ask his experienced battle commander to run messages for him. ‘Meintet may know where to find him.’

Hygel went to Mael who was encouraging the fire to glow by blowing furiously on the coals under the wood he had just piled on. ‘That is a good way to get warm while you have the breath,’ Hygel said to his young skald as he first considered him. Mael looked up at him quizzically, not fully understanding. Hygel handed him his cloak, ‘Get those wet things off so you can dry them. I want to speak with you later.’

Magne was not the only ship master to give Hygel his sworn oath after losing his leader at Aesce hill. A Gotlander, Gerbruht had chosen to join Hygel’s band. He was sitting with a group of warriors away from the smoke of the fire.

‘Gerbruht, would you walk with me? I have been told I need guarding.’ The young warlord said to the group. Gerbruht stood up took hold of a spear and shield and made for the door to howls and laughter from the rest. Perhaps Eirikr is right, these men do need me, he thought. Outside he looked at his recently acquired ship master slide the spear shaft through the arm strap of the shield so he could carry it over his back. He was older than his new lord, but had that familiar welcoming appeal with a weathered face of a seaman. One eye was partially closed, a scar parted his eyebrow, his broad forehead and rounded face was accentuated by his bristling beard that grew out as much as down and his coarse hair he tried to pull back with a leather strip tied behind his head.

‘I am pleased you chose to give your oath to me. Why did you not give your oath to Herlov or Halfdan?’ Hygel asked, the ship master a little taken aback by the question.

‘Herlov likes the sound of his own voice too much. He was always ready to give his opinion to Beigsecg,’ he paused, ‘Halfdan does not say much at all. It appears only when he has to. I would have been just like one of his spearmen looking for an opportunity to make a name for himself. Just one more in his army.’ Gerbruht was beginning to feel free to disclose as his lord was paying attention. ‘And I saw him leave the saddle at Aesce Hill as soon as Alfred appeared with his horsemen,’ he said with bitterness. Hygel was also reminded of that afternoon between the hills when an easy victory turned to a chaotic rout. It gave me a poor opinion of him, but in truth he saved more men by quickly retreating than staying to fight a disciplined shield wall that had the high ground, Hygel thought. The unexpected arrival of Alfred and his horsemen wrought the battle to havoc. Hygel thanked his new oath man for his candid impressions.

‘What will Halfdan do next?’ Gerbruht asked. As I would like to know what he is thinking, Hygel thought.

‘He needs more men to hold the lands he wants. He will probably wait out winter until the spring when more ships will come.’ Hygel said. They had both left the poor sandy flat lands of Denmearce in longships to settle on Ostangel’s coast. They wanted a better life which the soils of Albion offered.

Mael had stopped shivering and had his tunic and leggings draped over two sticks which he was holding in the smoke above the fire. Hygel came over and ruffled his damp lank hair as he sat by the fire. ‘You did well bagging up my hoard, I am told,’ he said.

‘Odomir told me what to do,’ Mael revealed.

‘I will miss him dearly,’ Hygel admitted. ‘I will get you to show me what you did, when you are clothed, say nothing about it now,’ he said quietly. ‘Tell me about Magne.’

‘He came to Odomir’s hut often, because Blythe was there and they spoke of their wedding and what they planned to do when he got land. He kept giving me messages to give his men, and what the men in Herlov’s camp were asking about, and which traders they expected, and what the foraging parties had brought in,’ Mael said and Hygel nodded.

‘So he wanted to know about supplies and the merchants; what else?’

‘He wanted to know what I was writing,’ Mael said.

‘What you were writing?’ His lord asked.

‘Odomir told me, I should be writing down what is happening,’ Mael said. ‘He said the monks will be claiming that the heathen men from the east are rampaging over their land. You have heard what their skalds sing. The Saxons are doing God’s work in defending their land from the demonic menace of the pagan scourge. He said your story needs to be told and skalds need to sing of the named men and their quest for a good life in this land.’

‘You must read what you have written. I would like to hear your story,’ Hygel voiced with some surprise to Mael.

‘It is your story, my lord,’ Mael watched his lord’s response, in a tired and haggard visage. ‘He told me to write this tale of the Danes in Albion.’ His leader just smiled, nodded his head and rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

‘Do this saga.’ Hygel turned away ‘leave my father out will you’, and thought better of telling his skald.

‘Men are always willing to tell their story. How have you written it?’ Hygel asked.

‘Lyfing has helped me with the words and how to prepare the ink, and Odomir bought the parchment from a trader,’ Mael said. The old sage will be missed, Hygel thought.

‘Who gave him the sword?’ Hygel asked

‘Meintet,’ Mael answered coldly. The scum of Fornjot and Magne search my camp, Odomir defends the false cache with sword in hand, to avoid a natural death, ensuring he will be permitted into Valhalla. The Valkyries will announce him, Hygel realized. He had Mael read some of his story but the lad read it poorly, hesitating often as he had written in Latin and had to think of the Danish words to tell his lord. Latin was the language of the monks who had taught him, and Lyfing had studied with the monks in their scriptorium before he joined the Danes as an interpreter. Hygel recognized the names of Ímar the Boneless, Lord Sidroc, his predecessor, Halfdan of the Wide Embrace and the men who had died, King Beigsecg and their own shaman Odomir. The story he knew well so he halted the excruciating reading.

What he did not know was, why had Olaf warned them and where had the renegades gone. He needed to talk with him.

‘You need a guard, lord?’ A voice said as Hygel went for the door. He turned to look at Gerbruht and one of his men had stood and held a shield and sheathed sword. He glared at them, the humour of the recent incident was lost on Hygel.

‘Your clothes dry yet, skald?’ The lord asked loudly.

‘Almost, lord,’ Mael, aware that was the first time anyone had referred to him as a teller of tales. Pride infused him, his body warmed.

‘Put them on, we’ll walk quickly so my enemies cannot catch us. And you men could take some young men for spear and shield training,’ their lord told them.

He walked out with Mael trotting behind tying up his breaches. At the house used by Magne the ship master who had orchestrated the raid on Hygel’s camp, he found Olaf sitting on the front step with one other man gutting small fish they were pulling out of a net. ‘Get those nearby?’ Hygel asked.

‘We catch them just up there,’ indicating upstream in the Cunnit.

The tall fair haired Olaf was described by Magne as a forthright and capable seaman. He looked worried, the man with him was also one of Magne’s crew who also decided against staying with a leader who broke his sworn oath and stole from his lord. The older seaman had the appearance of spending much of his time exposed to sun, wind and salt. He said he did not want to join the lord-less spearmen drifting about the countryside looking for opportunities to raid or steal. He, like many, had come to settle and make a home amongst the Danes in this land. He was called Third because he was said to be as old as Oðin.

‘I have good reason to be grateful that you are still here,’ Hygel said, ‘to thank you man to man for your courage to warn my men.’ He put out his hand for Olaf to grasp, and pulled him to his feet and embraced him. ‘And because I have someone to share the hatred those stealing scum will have for us.’ Third stood to greet the young lord but was puzzled. ‘The hoard they took was a sack of stones and scrap iron,’ he paused, ‘we are lucky they were in a hurry to get away.’ Hygel put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Have you given your oaths to a lord yet?’

‘No we waited till you returned.’ Olaf said

‘You have not broken the oath that your master gave me, I would be happy to retain reliable honest men, and you will be rewarded together with all my oath men.’ Hygel told them. ‘Are you ready to give me your oaths now? Here?’ Hygel asked.

They nodded their ascent, if a little apprehensively. ‘Name your gods.’ Hygel demanded, Olaf looked at Third,

‘Oðin,’ he called to the All Father, ‘Thor and Frigg, I pray and sacrifice to them.’

‘In the presence of Oðin Thor and Frigg do you swear to be loyal to me, otherwise forsake your life.’ Yes they said. ‘Say it.’ Their lord instructed them. They did and he embraced them both.

A messenger arrived at the gates of the palisade carrying a fir branch indicating he only wanted to talk. The West Saxons want to talk.

‘We talked with them at Wiltun.’ Halfdan said.

‘They want peace.’ Osbern said. The warlords had assembled in Halfdan’s hall.

‘They want us out of Wessex.’ Halfdan said.

‘This is the frontier for the Saxons. We have to buy all our food supplies, while they have learned to protect theirs behind armed walls. And they are not about to let us plough fields to plant crops.’ Lord Oscytel said.

‘What are you getting at?’ Halfdan became irritated by the tone of the comments.

‘Ask them how much they will pay us to leave,’ Oscytel said.

‘They claim we got all their gold at Wiltun.’ Halfdan said.

‘The churches still have plenty.’ Osbern said. All the other lords turned to him, the mumbling stopped and there was quiet.

‘I will talk with their King Alfred then,’ exasperated Halfdan said.

‘He is going to demand we leave,’ Hygel paused, ‘to where?’

65495.pngP12%20HOUSE%20BADUM.jpg

Alfred, King of Wessex receives lords, bishops, and

monks into his royal family residence.

Cippanhamm

Tunberth was present to introduce himself as the man most likely to replace Ealhferth, Bishop of Wintancaestre.

‘Who is your father paying tribute to?’ The priest asked.

‘Ceolwulf arrives with some Danish warlord and his guards to collect. I am sorry to hear of your loss, I imagine the trauma of being held hostage by the Danes was too much for his poor soul to bare.’ Ethelhelm, the son of Burghred, spoke as though neither event was of much concern to him.

‘They keep Snotegahamm garrisoned with their heathens I hear.’ Wulfstan, Bishop of Winburnan, said.

‘How many Danes would you say are in the town?’ Alfred asked the Prince of his neighbouring kingdom. He knew but he wanted to know what the young heir of Mercia had in mind.

‘They maintain two hundred armed men at all times,’ the prince said with some concern.

‘So there might be four hundred within the town’s walls.’ Alfred said. Ethelhelm nodded.

‘And are they settling around Snotengahamm?’ Alfred asked.

‘Yes, but mainly in the north.’ Ethelhelm said. That was well known.

‘And are any settling in the south?

‘No, my king, they fear the might of the West Saxons,’ Ethelhelm declared, and Bishop Wulfstan gave the prince a smile and nodded agreement.

‘Have their ships been sighted in the Saefern?’ Alfred asked. He had received reports of a few.

‘No sire, I believe they arrive up the Hymbre or Temes in midsummer.’ He said he had no knowledge of new arrivals. And that was his king’s main concern. If new replacements were not coming for the Danes, that would keep them cautious.

Alfred looked over to his wife Ælhswyth holding his two year old daughter who struggled to get free to pick up the cockroaches she saw emerge from the wood by the fire. Ælhswyth summoned an attending maid to take the frisky infant outside. She had been studying the mature and confident priest from Wintancaestre, in his clean robes with his freshly shaved face and tonsure.

‘Bishop Ealhferth was always a welcome guest; he offered his valued insights into the ways of our holy lord. I trust you will be guided by his example and grant us wisdom of God’s counsel.’

‘Thank you my lady, we mourn his loss to our country, he will be genuinely missed by all of us’ Tunberth said. I’m impressed you knew my correct title, not making the blunder of thinking I am queen. Another obsequious cleric gliding into my husband’s confidence. She thought.

‘We can be comforted that he will be in the glory of God’s company now,’ said Wulfstan.

‘Indeed Bishop,’ Ælhswyth added, ‘we can all look forward to joining our Lord.’ I trust you are right my love, Alfred thought.

‘Do you hear anything of the Danes, father?’ Alfred asked, and Tunberth thought.

‘There have been few sightings from the coast of their longships. We understand they have wintered at Readingum, Sire.’

‘It is time I reminded them of their agreement’ Alfred said.

65525.png

Readingum

One of the conditions Halfdan had agreed to at the negotiations at Wiltun was that the Danish leaders be baptised by Wessex priests. They arrived in number, twelve in black robes and twelve men at arms, several packing saddle bags. News of their arrival flew through the town like bees after nectar. The platform at the palisade soon filled, and then Danes went out the gates. Men with spears and shields pushed through the crowd, it was Halfdan’s guards, his commander Laurtis, and a tall slight man in a robe red haired with trimmed beard, plainly no warrior introduced his lord to their visitors.

‘My lord Halfdan Ragnarson welcomes you to Readingum. For your well being he has consented to meet you here.’ The spokesman looked over his shoulder at the mob gathering outside the palisade. At a glance they were in poor condition, many wore fur skin or rags to insulate themselves from the cold.

Bishop Wulfstan came forward, he had not expected a scholarly spoken man as their interpreter. The Bishop of Winburnan introduced himself, a fellow bishop Tunberth, and a very young monk.

‘Barely fourteen years old, Cuthbert, a slave of the Danes who had escaped to join a Christian community of Wantage. He has taken the monks’ vows and has pledged his life to bring the news of the gospels to the Danes.’ They turned to look at the young monk in a faded robe and fresh shaved tonsure. He was ushered to stand with the bishop and appeared nervous as he looked at the Danes faces, he searched the crowd then he spotted Hygel. Right next to him stood Mael, his eyes fixed on the young skald. Mael could feel the vehemence from the novice monk, who was free to torment Mael in the Danes camp and now had status in the eyes of the Saxons, his own people. He felt a hand on his back.

‘Smile at our guest,’ Hygel said, sensing the intimidation.

‘We are here to expedite your agreement you made with King Alfred at Wiltun,’ the bishop looked at Halfdan and back to his interpreter Lyfing, ‘to leave his kingdom.’ Grumbles came from the Danes as it took time for the meaning to be relayed so all could understand.

‘We have wounded, unable to travel and our ships are now being prepared,’ Lyfing said.

‘The King has sent us as a measure of his good faith with a casket of silver and the priests,’ this time he spoke to the whole crowd and spread his arms toward the black robes behind him, ‘to conduct your lord’s baptism.’ Lyfing looked the bishop in the eye, gauged he was sincere then looked to Halfdan. ‘Did you agree to be baptised, my lord?’ Halfdan chose to ignore the question.

‘That was one of Alfred’s conditions,’ one of the Saxon horsemen brought a saddlebag, in it the bishop found a scroll and unravelled it to show Lyfing, who read toward the bottom.

‘According to this, you, Halfdan Ragnarson and your lords have agreed to be baptised into the Christian faith for the payment of ten pounds of silver.’

‘I may have,’ Halfdan casually admitted.

‘I can see your attraction to the Christian fold under those terms, but I would council you to think very carefully before you do, my lord,’ his Saxon advisor stressed. The warlords were called to the gathering in front of the palisade gates of the town. Oscytel walked over with Amund, Herlov took his shaman with him. ‘Come with me,’ Hygel guided his young skald to the gathering lords, ‘smile,’ he told him.

Knowing Cuthbert was watching every intonation, a glance or hesitation, Mael was emboldened.

‘Lyfing says we should think before we bathe for that crate of silver,’ Halfdan told them.

‘That bath with the monks is the Christian rite that pledges you to follow their