much pressure on the oar, but in time I came to feel the ship’s will in the long oar’s shaft and learned to love the quiver in the ash as the sleek hull gained her full speed.
‘I shall make you my second son,’ Ragnar told me on that voyage.
I did not know what to say.
‘I shall always favour my eldest,’ he went on, meaning Ragnar the Younger, ‘but you shall still be as a son to me.’
‘I would like that,’ I said awkwardly. I gazed at the distant shore that was flecked by the little dun sails of the fishing boats that were fleeing from our ships. ‘I am honoured,’ I said.
‘Uhtred Ragnarson,’ he said, trying it out, and he must have liked the sound of it for he smiled, but then he thought of Rorik again and the tears came to his eyes and he just stared eastwards into the empty sea.
That night we slept in the mouth of the Humber.
And two days later came back to Eoferwic.
The king’s palace had been repaired. It had new shutters on its high windows and the roof was freshly thatched with golden rye straw. The palace’s old Roman walls had been scrubbed so that the lichen was gone from the joints between the stones. Guards stood at the outer gate and, when Ragnar demanded entry, they curtly told him to wait and I thought he would draw his sword, but before his anger could erupt Kjartan appeared. ‘My lord Ragnar,’ he said sourly.
‘Since when does a Dane wait at this gate?’ Ragnar demanded.
‘Since I ordered it,’ Kjartan retorted, and there was insolence in his voice. He, like the palace, looked prosperous. He wore a cloak of black bear fur, had tall boots, a chain-mail tunic, a red leather sword belt and almost as many arm rings as Ragnar. ‘No one enters here without my permission,’ Kjartan went on, ‘but of course you are welcome, Earl Ragnar.’ He stepped aside to let Ragnar, myself and three of Ragnar’s men into the big hall where, five years before, my uncle had tried to buy me from Ivar. ‘I see you still have your English pet,’ Kjartan said, looking at me.
‘Go on seeing while you have eyes,’ Ragnar said carelessly. ‘Is the king here?’
‘He only grants audience to those people who arrange to see him,’ Kjartan said.
Ragnar sighed and turned on his erstwhile shipmaster. ‘You itch me like a louse,’ he said, ‘and if it pleases you, Kjartan, we shall lay the hazel rods and meet man to man. And if that does not please you, then fetch the king because I would speak with him.’
Kjartan bridled, but decided he did not want to face Ragnar’s sword in a fighting space marked by hazel branches and so, with an ill grace, he went into the palace’s back rooms. He made us wait long enough, but eventually King Egbert appeared, and with him were six guards who included one-eyed Sven who now looked as wealthy as his father. Big too, almost as tall as I was, with a broad chest and hugely muscled arms.
Egbert looked nervous but did his best to appear regal. Ragnar bowed to him, then said there were tales of unrest in Northumbria and that Halfdan had sent him north to quell any such disturbances. ‘There is no unrest,’ Egbert said, but in such a frightened voice that I thought he would piss his breeches.
‘There were disturbances in the inland hills,’ Kjartan said dismissively, ‘but they ended.’ He patted his sword to show what had ended them.
Ragnar persevered, but learned nothing more. A few men had evidently risen against the Danes, there had been ambushes on the road leading to the west coast, the perpetrators had been hunted down and killed, and that was all Kjartan would say. ‘Northumbria is safe,’ he finished, ‘so you can return to Halfdan, my lord, and keep on trying to defeat Wessex.’
Ragnar ignored that last barb. ‘I shall go to my home,’ he said, ‘bury my son and live in peace.’
Sven was fingering his sword hilt and looking at me sourly with his one eye, but while the enmity between us, and between Ragnar and Kjartan, was obvious, no one made trouble and we left. The ships were hauled onto shore, the silver fetched from Readingum was shared out among the crews, and we went home carrying Rorik’s ashes.
Sigrid wailed at the news. She tore her dress and tangled her hair and screamed, and the other women joined her, and a procession carried Rorik’s ashes to the top of the nearest hill where the pot was buried, and afterwards Ragnar stayed there, looking across the hills and watching the white clouds sail across the western sky.
We stayed home all the rest of that year. There were crops to grow, hay to cut, a harvest to reap and to grind. We made cheese and butter. Merchants and travellers brought news, but none from Wessex where, it seemed, Alfred still ruled and had his peace, and so that kingdom remained, the last one of England. Ragnar sometimes spoke of returning there, carrying his sword to gain more riches, but the fight seemed to have gone from him that summer. He sent a message to Ireland, asking that his eldest son come home, but such messages were not reliable and Ragnar the Younger did not come that year. Ragnar also thought of Thyra, his daughter. ‘He says it’s time I married,’ she said to me one day as we churned butter.
‘You?’ I laughed.
‘I’m nearly fourteen!’ she said defiantly.
‘So you are. Who’ll marry you?’
She shrugged. ‘Mother likes Anwend.’ Anwend was one of Ragnar’s warriors, a young man not much older than me, strong and cheerful, but Ragnar had an idea she should marry one of Ubba’s sons, but that would mean she would go away and Sigrid hated that thought and Ragnar slowly came around to Sigrid’s way of thinking. I liked Anwend and thought he would make a good husband for Thyra who was growing ever more beautiful. She had long golden hair, wide-set eyes, a straight nose, unscarred skin, and a laugh that was like a ripple of sunshine. ‘Mother says I must have many sons,’ she said.
‘I hope you do.’
‘I’d like a daughter too,’ she said, straining with the churn because the butter was solidifying and the work getting harder. ‘Mother says Brida should marry as well.’
‘Brida might have different ideas,’ I said.
‘She wants to marry you,’ Thyra said.
I laughed at that. I thought of Brida as a friend, my closest friend, and just because we slept with each other, or we did when Sigrid was not watching, did not make me want to marry her. I did not want to marry at all, I thought only of swords and shields and battles, and Brida thought of herbs.
She was like a cat. She came and went secretly, and she learned all that Sigrid could teach her about herbs and their uses. Bindweed as a purgative, toadflax for ulcers, marsh marigold to keep elves away from the milk pails, chickweed for coughs, cornflower for fevers, and she learned other spells she would not tell me, women’s spells, and said that if you stayed silent in the night, unmoving, scarce breathing, the spirits would come, and Ravn taught her how to dream with the gods, which meant drinking ale in which pounded redcap mushrooms had been steeped, and she was often ill for she drank it too strong, but she would not stop, and she made her first songs then, songs about birds and about beasts, and Ravn said she was a true skald. Some nights, when we watched the charcoal burn, she would recite to me, her voice soft and rhythmic. She had a dog now that followed her everywhere. She had found him in Lundene on our homeward journey and he was black and white, as clever as Brida herself, and she called him Nihtgenga, which means night-walker, or goblin. He would sit with us by the charcoal
