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Authors: V. M. Whitworth
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their horses under the gateway and out of the Bishop’s courts, Wulfgar wasn’t paying heed to Ednoth’s cheerful babble. I never said yes, he thought, I never agreed to carry his message.
Light the fire at All Hallows
. What’s that supposed to mean? He chewed his underlip. It didn’t matter whether he had acquiesced or not, he realised. The Atheling took it for granted that he had: he was stuck with it.
The streets of Worcester were thronging with carts and barrows, flocks of ewes with their lambs, dairywomen with the first cheeses of the season, salt-wagons coming in from Droitwich. The market-day crowd made for slow going, but at last they came out by the east gate. The circuit of the walls was mostly in timber but here along the river-front – so potentially vulnerable to Danish attack – they were reinforcing the revetment in stone. The gate guards recognised Wulfgar, holding the carts back to let them ride through and greeting him in the Lady’s name. Despite everything, he was beginning to feel at home in Worcester. He had a role to uphold. People knew him in Worcester, and they respected him, even if respect seemed all too often to ride pillion with resentment.
He realised Ednoth had been asking him something.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The Bishop said you spoke Danish?’
Wulfgar nodded.
‘There are a couple of Danish hostages in Winchester. Handed over as part of a peace treaty when they were still little boys. Baptised, of course.’ Young devils, he thought. ‘I was teaching them to read and picking up some Danish in exchange. It was the old King’s idea.’ The boys had seen it as a punishment; he hadn’t learned as much as he would have liked. And they had thought it funny to teach him obscenities, without telling him the real meaning, until their sniggers had betrayed them. He felt his cheeks grow warm, remembering.
‘Go on, then. Say something in Danish.’
Nasty, spiky language. What can I remember?
‘They taught me some songs,’ he said at last. He cleared his throat, hummed a note: ‘
Skegg-old, skálm-old, skildir ro klofnir, Vindold, varg-old
—’ He saw the look on Ednoth’s face then, and had to laugh.
‘Is it rude?’ Ednoth sounded hopeful.
You and those Danish ruffians, Wulfgar thought, you’d have had a lovely time together.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s religious.
Axe-age, sword-age, shields are cloven. Wind-age, wolf-age
… About the end of the world. The Last Judgment, though I don’t think the Danes call it that.’
‘What do they call it, then?’
He frowned, trying to remember.
‘The sunset of the gods. Their gods, I mean. False gods. Who will die and not come back.’ And we’re going into the lands where those unholy powers hold sway, he thought with a shiver. It hadn’t really sunk in yet.
‘And did they tell you about their sacrifices?’ Ednoth asked. ‘Do they really hang people to their gods?’
‘I’m told they do.’
As chance would have it, they were reaching the edge of the Bishop’s jurisdiction. At the crossroads, workmen were busy on ladders, refurbishing the gallows for the new crop of sinners the shire-court would no doubt be reaping after Easter.
‘But so do we.’
He gestured at the gallows, that gateway to assured perdition, and his thoughts turned at once to his Lady, thrust so precipitately into Mercia’s judgment seat. She had never held the court before – never sent a man to his death. Could she bring herself to do it?
‘But that’s different.’ Ednoth sounded very confident. ‘They’re criminals.’
‘Is it different? Really?’ Wulfgar found himself genuinely unsure. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And do they – the Danes, I mean – do they really do that blood-eagle thing to your ribs? And lungs?’ Ednoth sounded enthusiastic. ‘You know, what men say they did to King Edmund of the East Angles? Flaying, and then—’
‘St Edmund,’ Wulfgar said reflexively, longing to change the subject. Wasn’t the boy
Light the fire at All Hallows
. What’s that supposed to mean? He chewed his underlip. It didn’t matter whether he had acquiesced or not, he realised. The Atheling took it for granted that he had: he was stuck with it.
The streets of Worcester were thronging with carts and barrows, flocks of ewes with their lambs, dairywomen with the first cheeses of the season, salt-wagons coming in from Droitwich. The market-day crowd made for slow going, but at last they came out by the east gate. The circuit of the walls was mostly in timber but here along the river-front – so potentially vulnerable to Danish attack – they were reinforcing the revetment in stone. The gate guards recognised Wulfgar, holding the carts back to let them ride through and greeting him in the Lady’s name. Despite everything, he was beginning to feel at home in Worcester. He had a role to uphold. People knew him in Worcester, and they respected him, even if respect seemed all too often to ride pillion with resentment.
He realised Ednoth had been asking him something.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The Bishop said you spoke Danish?’
Wulfgar nodded.
‘There are a couple of Danish hostages in Winchester. Handed over as part of a peace treaty when they were still little boys. Baptised, of course.’ Young devils, he thought. ‘I was teaching them to read and picking up some Danish in exchange. It was the old King’s idea.’ The boys had seen it as a punishment; he hadn’t learned as much as he would have liked. And they had thought it funny to teach him obscenities, without telling him the real meaning, until their sniggers had betrayed them. He felt his cheeks grow warm, remembering.
‘Go on, then. Say something in Danish.’
Nasty, spiky language. What can I remember?
‘They taught me some songs,’ he said at last. He cleared his throat, hummed a note: ‘
Skegg-old, skálm-old, skildir ro klofnir, Vindold, varg-old
—’ He saw the look on Ednoth’s face then, and had to laugh.
‘Is it rude?’ Ednoth sounded hopeful.
You and those Danish ruffians, Wulfgar thought, you’d have had a lovely time together.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s religious.
Axe-age, sword-age, shields are cloven. Wind-age, wolf-age
… About the end of the world. The Last Judgment, though I don’t think the Danes call it that.’
‘What do they call it, then?’
He frowned, trying to remember.
‘The sunset of the gods. Their gods, I mean. False gods. Who will die and not come back.’ And we’re going into the lands where those unholy powers hold sway, he thought with a shiver. It hadn’t really sunk in yet.
‘And did they tell you about their sacrifices?’ Ednoth asked. ‘Do they really hang people to their gods?’
‘I’m told they do.’
As chance would have it, they were reaching the edge of the Bishop’s jurisdiction. At the crossroads, workmen were busy on ladders, refurbishing the gallows for the new crop of sinners the shire-court would no doubt be reaping after Easter.
‘But so do we.’
He gestured at the gallows, that gateway to assured perdition, and his thoughts turned at once to his Lady, thrust so precipitately into Mercia’s judgment seat. She had never held the court before – never sent a man to his death. Could she bring herself to do it?
‘But that’s different.’ Ednoth sounded very confident. ‘They’re criminals.’
‘Is it different? Really?’ Wulfgar found himself genuinely unsure. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And do they – the Danes, I mean – do they really do that blood-eagle thing to your ribs? And lungs?’ Ednoth sounded enthusiastic. ‘You know, what men say they did to King Edmund of the East Angles? Flaying, and then—’
‘St Edmund,’ Wulfgar said reflexively, longing to change the subject. Wasn’t the boy
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