Blood Eagle: King Alfred and the Two Viking Wars (The Sceapig Chronicles Book 3) - John Broughton

Historical Viking Fiction Set In 9th Century Saxon England

Blood Eagle: King Alfred and the Two Viking Wars (The Sceapig Chronicles Book 3) by John Broughton

Book excerpt

Sceapig, Kingdom of Kent, 856 AD

Eolf sat cross-legged on the bank of ground, an islet within the marshland that he and Normund the bumbling ferryman had chosen for their refuge. How he hated Ealdorman Raedulf for ostracising him here, and how he despised the idea of spying! Not that he was doing much of that. He was more intent on survival, and from that point of view, the marsh was a plentiful food provider. The idiot boatman, whose banal company he would miss, used to make a delicious eel soup.

Eolf considered his plight. Now, he was alone, and he shuddered as he recalled Normund’s atrocious end that he had witnessed from the cover afforded by the reeds.

The sleepy fool of a boatman had allowed the dawn to come and go instead of using the blanket of the dying night to check his eel traps. So, he had stumbled on a group of Vikings, likely out on an early-morning hunt. The panicked Saxon had alarmed the wildlife on the fringes of the marsh as he attempted to flee from the pursuing Norsemen. The moron, may he rest in peace, had tried to run back to their hideout, which would have put Eolf in danger, too. Luckily, from his point of view, one of the Vikings winged an arrow and transfixed Normund’s thigh, causing him to fall screaming to the ground before he could start along their track. The five Vikings were on him like a pack of wolves on a helpless hind. Peering through a screen of reeds, Eolf stared aghast as they dragged him, squealing, back to the higher land where whooping and laughing, they cut away his clothes and flesh. The cruelty of their entertainment, even in retrospect, made Eolf break out in a cold sweat and tremble. He had watched them gouge out their victim’s eyes, slice out his tongue and mutilate his face, tossing his ears in the air, exulting at their handiwork. The body was still out there, picked over as carrion and rotting where they had left it. Luckily for Eolf, the Norse curs had not considered that Normund might have had a companion lurking nearby. Instead, they returned noisily to their previous sport.

The slaughtering of the ferryman had happened three days before. Meanwhile, Eolf had not found the courage to light a fire for cooking. Whatever his faults, Normund had mastered the art of fire lighting, and his ability to cook without sending a tell-tale column of smoke to alert the enemy was beyond Eolf. Only now did Eolf appreciate the poor fool’s worth. He had been blinded by Normund’s constant chatter and affability, his good-hearted friendliness, which had irritated the sullen Eolf, whose popularity was confined to the loose women he had seduced. He had never had much luck socialising with other men. Frankly, with hindsight, he had been envious of Normund’s easy cheerfulness and, why not admit it, he had hated him for it. Only the poor fellow’s horrible death made him likeable after the event.

It was clear to Eolf that he could not go on skulking in the sedge. Resentment was eating at his empty stomach. What he would give for a warm bed and a woman’s soft body, not to mention a foaming ale and an oven-fresh cob. If he ever got his hands on his bastard son, Faruin, and his whore mother, he’d make them pay for this suffering. But first, he’d have to slit the throat of that ealdorman swine. Of course, none of this was possible—he knew that—and it fuelled his indignation further.

Vulnerability and despair drove him to a decision. He would cross the marsh on the secret paths he knew so well. It would bring him to the edge of the settlement, where, had he taken his spying commission seriously for one moment, he should have made his base. What plan could he devise? None! Mere survival was his priority. He would have to live life by the drop— a dram of luck here, a dribble of happy chance there. That approach had served him well in the past; it was a question of knowing how to react when fate tossed him a golden opportunity.

High on cunning, low on intelligence, Eolf sneaked up to the tavern on the edge of the settlement. Why he should think that the inn would offer him anything when the population of Sceapig was long dead or gone—only he knew. His craving for ale made him slip through the half-open door after furtively glancing around to ensure he wasn’t seen. He hastened behind the bar to the row of casks, seized a pitcher, held it hopefully under the tap, opened it, and gazed forlornly as only air came out of the barrel. Absurdly, he repeated the operation with the remaining casks— not a drop. The Vikings had swilled the lot; he might have known.

“By Thor! There’s a man with a thirst!”

Eolf spun round at the high-pitched voice. A young woman, a vision to his sex-starved eyes—no older than sixteen winters, he judged—was laughing at him. She held a long knife in her right hand while her bare left arm bore the same Norse symbols he was familiar with from his thieving and trading days.

“I saw you sneak into my tavern,” she said, drawing nearer to him and speaking in her Nordic language that he had no difficulty understanding.

In the same tongue, he replied, “You’re right about my thirst.” He tried his hitherto infallible charm with women, adopting a pleading look in his eyes that never failed to melt hearts. “It almost matches my craving for a beautiful maiden.”

She smiled and came closer, stretched out her left hand and placed it on his breeches, cupping his manhood. She watched him smile cockily, then squeezed with all her might, causing him to scream and double over in pain.

“Good try, Saxon vermin,” she said. “I should cut the thing off!”

“Wait! You don’t understand. I’m no spy. I have Norse blood,” he lied. Desperately, he tried to remember names. Without hesitation, he said, “My mother was from Kaupang, her name was Gudrun; she came here trading with her father. Mine traded her for twenty sheep, and they handfasted when he decided the time was right. That’s why I speak your language.”

For most of this lie, she had released the pressure on his genitals. Now she gave one last twist, smiled, and said, “It also accounts for why you are a good-looking dog and for why I won’t cut you. Her fierce blue eyes stared into his. “So, you have cravings, do you? What’s your name, halfling?”

“Eolf.”

“That’s no good—I’ll call you Ulf; that’s a proper name. So, listen carefully, Ulf—I have made this tavern my home, and you’ve entered uninvited. If you wish to stay, you’ll obey my rules.”

“I’ll do anything you say—”

“Good dog!” she sneered.

“But do you not have a husband? What’s your name?”

“Astrid. I have no man, for Norsemen do not care for a woman with a mind of her own. Hark! I will let you stay here, just as long as you obey me and don’t draw attention to yourself. Now come this way!”

She led him through a door into a large kitchen. He remembered that the inn once had a thriving trade in Minster, when it had served food as well as drink.

“You must be hungry,” she said, blue eyes twinkling. “Let’s see if I can satisfy your cravings, Ulf.” She pointed to a sideboard. “There’s bread and sheep’s cheese in there. I’ll fetch the ale.”

They sat opposite each other at the wooden table, its top bleached by years of scrubbing. Astrid had tugged her long braid of blond hair forward over her shoulder to let it fall over her ample breast.

Speaking with his mouth full, Eolf asked unclearly, “Where do you get your ale?”

“What? Don’t speak while you’re eating! By Freya! It must be your Viking blood; you’re no better than the rest.”

He gulped down his cheese, his heart rejoicing because he had thoroughly deceived her. “Sorry, you’re right. I said, where do you get your ale, Astrid?”

“As if I’d tell you, worm! You’d only go helping yourself and if you did, I’d be forced to cut your balls off and that would be a pity! I have plans for them.”

“You do?” He tried what he thought was his most appealing expression. It worked.

“You’re a handsome dog, Ulf: no two ways about it. Finish your ale, and I’ll show you my intent.” She studied him and smiled when he swilled the beer with discreditable haste. “Come!” She conducted him through another door into a bedroom, where a straw-filled mattress made a low pallet covered with animal furs. Eolf thought they were wolf pelts, but wasn’t sure.

Soon, he examined them at close quarters when she sent him sprawling onto the bed. Next, she hauled his breeches down and straddled him. Her lovemaking was rough and demanding but, starved as he was, he didn’t care. When she had finished with him, he tried to kiss her for the first time, but she gripped his face, squeezing his cheeks together.

“Don’t you dare! Not until I decide whether I like you and want to keep you.” She pushed him away so he fell onto his back.

Seething inwardly, he managed, “You are lucky to have this place to yourself.”

“Shut up! It’s not luck.” She would say no more, concentrating instead on his body, coaxing him into arousal again.

I’ll let the little bitch have her way as long as it suits me, he thought. I’ll find out all her secrets, and then I’ll sort her out; by God, I will!

Almost as if she could read his thoughts, the oval-faced blond grinned into his face, showing perfectly even white teeth.

Oh, you’re a beauty, all right!

“You’re the lucky one. As long as you do as I tell you and don’t take liberties.”

She rocked on top of him until his face burnt red, and he lay as spent and helpless as a babe.

She slept next to him with her wicked knife in her hand. He only discovered that knife when he woke from a deep refreshing sleep. He could not remember how long he had been sleeping on the hard ground wrapped in his cloak—it had been months, and he had worried about the approaching winter. Well, he need not worry anymore. Lying there, he reflected that all his miserable hopes of the day before had been fulfilled. Not only did he have a comfortable bed, but he also had the soft woman he’d dreamt of stretched out next to him—not some snaggle-toothed whore, either, but a beautiful young Viking. He would need to tame her, sooner rather than later, because he had his pride. If need be, she’d feel the wrath of his fists. He only had to hide that evil-looking blade. He would do it now as she slept, but first, there needed to be a gradual shift in their relationship. He wanted her to fall in love with him and become dependent, so he could gain the upper hand.

Ten days passed before he gained his first kiss. But it was she who delivered it, roughly and demanding; nonetheless, it served as a landmark in their changing relationship. He took advantage at once to persuade her to let him wander into the woods.

“I’m an expert in the woodsman’s craft. I can bring you game, and I’ll cook it for you. Nobody will catch sight of me as I blend into the trees.”

That first day, he fetched her a pheasant, plucked it, and roasted the fowl on a spit.

“If only I’d had my trusty bow, I’d have brought you a hare; it didn’t scent me, although I was ten paces from it. I wouldn’t have missed.”

“You shall have a bow, Ulf; I have a taste for hare.”

She kept her word, bringing him a yew bow the next day. He did not ask her how she had obtained it, discouraged by the warning flash in those cold blue eyes. They only ever softened when they were in bed together. Eolf’s confidence grew to the extent that he became complacent since he was now armed with a bow and a quiver full of arrows. He longed for contact with anyone who was not Astrid. Increasingly, the tavern appeared as a gilded cage in his mind. The freedom gained from roaming the woods had inspired him.

His overconfidence led him to swagger into the Viking hall, since he was blessed with little imagination and plentiful cunning. As fate would have it, he still possessed coins from the day he escaped from Sceapig, so he was able to offer money for an ale to a Viking standing by the casks. This caused a stir because, as conquerors, none paid for the ale accumulated from the island stock. This simple act of payment betrayed him as an outsider.

“Who are you, stranger?” The Viking’s tone was suspicious and deliberately loud to draw the attention of all the men lounging around nearby.

“I am Ulf of Kaupang, woodsman on this isle these last ten winters.”

The Viking’s eyes narrowed. “You speak our language, stranger, but your accent is that of a Saxon.”

“Ay, by force of habit, my chieftain tasked me to spy on the Saxon curs. I had to mingle with them and, by fading into the woods, I never attracted notice: nobody suspected me. But now you are here, friends, I felt the need of good company and a decent beer. I haven’t supped one in an age.”

The Viking grinned, pushing Eolf’s coin towards him. “Keep it! Come, sit with us Ulf of Kaupang, drink the Saxon piss for free, as we do! It’s not so bad once you gain the taste for it.”

Exulting inwardly and with the brazen confidence of one not endowed with great wit, he settled with his new acquaintances and swilled back the passable Saxon ale with relish. By the time he decided to leave, he had spun such an elaborate web of lies about his past that he almost believed them himself. He did not doubt that the gullible Norsemen had swallowed his story—hook, line and lead sinker. His tale relied on these Danes never having been as far north as Kaupang and, as luck would have it, none of them had. He passed some problematic moments of close questioning about that trading outpost, but survived by dint of past conversations with traders on Sceapig. He remembered they traded iron and soapstone, and these details gave a ring of truth to his tale. He had always found that he could contrive a better deal by showing a keen interest in his customers, and now, he congratulated himself; his scheming had paid off handsomely, so he could come and go at will in the heart of the Viking headquarters.

Back in the woods, he realised he had been away from Astrid for too long and had nothing to show for his morning’s hunting. Briefly, he wondered whether to concentrate on a kill or return to the tavern. Opting for the latter, he hurried along the trail and took the fork that led to the outskirts of Minster.

“What do you mean, you’ve nothing for the pot? Have the woods suddenly emptied of game?”

“I cannot lie to you, Astrid,” he lied. “I have been drinking ale with your countrymen.”

“You fool! I told you to stay away from them. Nobody must know that you are with me, understand?”

Whenever Eolf drank quantities of ale, it brought out the darker side of his nature.

“Watch your tongue, bitch! I’m tired of you telling me what to do.”

Unwisely, she moved towards him threateningly; a stream of invective that he barely understood, except for its tone, provoked him. His fist crashed into her face. Unlike Linveig, she did not submit without a struggle. Her nails clawed across his face, drawing blood, which drove him wild with anger, his fists smashing into her ribs. The fight suddenly went out of her; she lay on the floor, her left eye swollen and closed, her lovely face transformed into that of a snarling, spitting wildcat.

“Get out of my home and don’t come back! If you do, I swear I’ll cut your heart out—if you’ve got one!”

Eolf shouted expletives at her, calling her a whore and a bitch. Once his temper roused, he lost control of what common sense he had. Without a thought, he tossed away his only refuge on the island. This only occurred to his foolish brain when he plunged into the woods, where the gentle sough of the wind through the treetops brought him to his senses.

What had he done? He had thrown everything away. The bitch! It was her fault for trying to tell him what to do. If he wanted a drink with his new comrades, he would have one.

In this defiant mood, he returned to the hall, where Haldor, his former drinking companion greeted him.

“By Tiw’s stump, Ulf! What happened to your face?”

“That bitch Astrid—”

“Hold! Astrid? The young woman at the old tavern?”

“Ay, that’s her.”

The rugged man nudged Eolf and tilted his head towards a mighty Viking who was drinking and laughing, surrounded by a group of half-drunk Norsemen.

“Our chieftain, Bjorn Bladesong,” he explained. “Astrid is his daughter; a she-wolf if ever there was one! Listen, Ulf, take my advice—get back to your woods and steer well clear of Bjorn. If Astrid tells him you’ve upset her, well, he’ll make a blood eagle of you. Mark my words. Sup that ale and pray to Odin that Astrid doesn’t come here!”

Eolf stared at Bjorn Bladesong, his inked arms like tree boughs, and his blood ran cold. Even his befuddled brain told him that his life was not worth a crumb if Bjorn learnt of the beating he had inflicted on his daughter. He slurped his ale and cursed under his breath. How was he to know that the wench was the spawn of a chieftain? Flee! Flee! That was the message that he barely received from his worried mind. But it was enough. “Goodbye, friend Haldor; I will take your advice.” He hastened out of the hall, keeping a wary eye open for Astrid, but since she did not appear, he plunged into the woods on the trail down to the marsh. Thence he would take Normund’s boat, row across the Channel, and not set foot on Sceapig again until the Vikings left the isle.

As he scrambled along the track, slightly inebriated, he tried to work out what he would report to Ealdorman Raedulf. He sighed; truth be told, he had nothing to refer: he would have to invent something when his head was less befuddled.

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: John Broughton

BOOK TITLE: Blod Eagle

GENRE: Historical Fiction

SUBGENRE: Medieval Fiction / Viking Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 254