Winter of the Wolves Read online

  For everyone at ALCS

  ‘Forþon ic mæg singan ond secgan spell…’

  (‘So I can sing and tell a tale…’)

  – ‘Widsith’, sixth-century Old English poem

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Black Smoke, White Skull

  Chapter Two

  A Blind Old Fool

  Chapter Three

  First to Draw Blood

  Chapter Four

  Winter of the Wolves

  Chapter Five

  Dark Red and Glistening

  Chapter Six

  Taking the Whale’s Road

  Chapter Seven

  A Bargain is Struck

  Chapter Eight

  Their Best War Gear

  Chapter Nine

  Only the Strong Survive

  Chapter Ten

  Red Dragon, White Dragon

  Chapter Eleven

  A Tale to Tell

  Historical Note

  Glossary

  CHAPTER ONE

  Black Smoke, White Skull

  The Land of the Angles (modern-day northern Germany), 525 CE

  It took Oslaf most of the afternoon to bury his mother. The ground was hard on the hillside behind their farmhouse, and he wanted the grave to be deep. If it were too shallow, the wolves would be sure to dig her up, especially since autumn was turning into winter and there was less prey for them in the woods. She deserved peace after all her suffering, and he just couldn’t bear the idea of what they might do to her.

  He stopped digging when the sides of the grave were level with his shoulders, then set about pulling his mother into it. She was wrapped in an old cloak with only her white face showing and she felt lighter than air. The sickness had steadily sucked the life from her, leaving nothing but skin and bones. Oslaf wasn’t tall for a boy of thirteen summers, but now she was smaller than him, like a child herself.

  He placed her in the bottom of the grave and climbed out, only glancing down briefly before he started shovelling the soil back in. When it was full he piled rocks and stones on top to give her more protection. Eventually he turned to look beyond the farmhouse’s thatched roof at the cold grey sea and the sky above it. A lone seagull circled slowly in the fading sunlight, squawking and mewing as if it were lost.

  ‘Great goddess Friga,’ said Oslaf, raising his hands, with the palms outward. ‘I beg you to care for the spirit of my mother Leofwen on her journey to the Land of the Dead. We are not rich, so I have no fine clothes to bury her in, nor gold for her to take with her. But I promise that I will make a sacrifice to you when I can.’ He put a hand on his chest. ‘And you will be in my heart forever, Mother,’ he said softly.

  Oslaf wiped the tears from his eyes and walked down to the farmhouse. Inside, the hearth-fire had almost gone out and it took him a while to get it going again, blowing on the embers and feeding them with twigs. Once they were crackling, he sat on a bench and let the warmth soak into him, the familiar yellow glow of the flames pushing the shadows back to the corners of the room and up into the roof beams.

  The farmhouse smelled stale from the days and nights of his mother’s sickness. At first, desperately hoping that she would get better, Oslaf had only left her side to feed the chickens and check on the sheep in their pen. There had been just the two of them since his father had drowned the year before – he had gone fishing in their small boat and run into a storm. Oslaf’s mother had never been the same after that. But then neither had he, come to think of it. He sorely missed his father.

  The question was – what should he do now? He had no other kin who might take him in. His mother’s parents had died before he was born, and his father had never spoken of any family. Oslaf had gone to the village to ask for help, but that had been a mistake. The people there had chased him off, and then a couple of days before his mother died, three men had come and stolen the sheep and the chickens and anything else they could lay their hands on. Oslaf had tried to stop them, of course, and eventually one of them had simply knocked him flat.

  ‘Times are hard, boy, and we have families to feed,’ the man had said, standing over him. ‘Just give thanks to Woden and Thunor that we haven’t killed you.’

  That had been a bitter moment, one Oslaf would never forget. Now, as he sat alone in the farmhouse, he wondered about staying on there. Maybe he could steal back the sheep and chickens, do some hunting and fishing to keep himself going. But even as he thought about it, he knew the idea was impossible. The villagers would kill him if he tried anything like that. And if even wolves struggled to live through the winter on what they could catch, he certainly wouldn’t be able to – he’d starve before Yuletide.

  He frowned, and stared into the flames. There was one place he could try… As she had neared her end, his mother had told him over and over again that he should ask Alfgar, the chieftain of a nearby village, to take him in. ‘Alfgar is a strong chieftain, but he is a good man too,’ she had said to him one night. She had been feverish, but she had come round long enough to say it one last time. ‘Besides, his wife Elfritha and I were best friends when we were girls, before I met your father. Elfritha will remember me.’

  Oslaf rose to his feet and went to stand by the door. The sun was setting behind the hill and darkness was filling the sky in the east. He knew he would have to follow his mother’s advice, yet he could see no point in setting out this close to nightfall. So he closed and barred the door as they had always done, and made himself a bowl of porridge with a handful of stale oats that the men from the village had missed.

  It was a lonely night in the farmhouse. Oslaf sat huddled beside the hearth, feeding the flames with the last of the logs, listening to the wolves howling hungrily in the woods. He tried to think of a better time, his mother sewing by lamplight while his father told them an old story. Oslaf’s mother was an Angle, and a native of this coast. But his father was a Geat from a tribe across the sea, and they were great storytellers. Oslaf’s favourite had always been the ‘Tale of the Monsters from the Lake’.

  He dozed off at last and slept badly, dreaming of monsters and his mother lying in her grave and his father’s body sinking to the bottom of the sea. He woke just after dawn and decided not to drag things out – it would be best to get going quickly. The men from the village hadn’t left him even a hunting spear or a knife, and he had nothing to take with him except the clothes he was wearing – his old brown tunic and trousers and shoes. After one last look round the farmhouse, he made for the door.

  But there he paused. Suppose someone came to see if there was anything else left to steal? They would find an empty house waiting for them to move into…

  Oslaf scowled at that thought. He strode back to the hearth and poked the embers with a twig to get the fire going again. Then he found the jar of resin-soaked rags his father had kept for making torches, and a piece of wood the right length. He wrapped a rag round the end of the wood and held it in the flames until it caught.

  Moments later he was walking round inside the farmhouse, setting fire to anything that would burn. He went outside and ran the torch along the edges of the thatch, finally throwing it high up on to the roof. The flames took hold quickly, both inside and out, and soon they were greedily eating the whole farmhouse with a roar.

  Oslaf walked away, a thick column of black smoke rising behind him.

  Alfgar’s village was a good two days’ walk to the west, beyond the wide marsh that lay inland from the coast. Oslaf knew the marsh well and took the quickest route across it, sticking to the main track. A cold breeze from the east followed him, the tall reeds rustling as he passed between them, the marsh geese honking mournfully. They would be flying south soon, leaving the north before the winter cam
e.

  At sunset he reached the woods on the far side of the marsh, and spent an uneasy night trying to sleep in the branches of a tree. The next morning he left the woods and followed a stream that led through another marsh. He could drink from streams, but he had begun to feel hungry and was looking forward to reaching the next village. He hoped the villagers there would be kinder and give him something to eat.

  The village, however, appeared to have been abandoned. Oslaf thought that was strange and he peered into the thatched log-houses, wondering where everyone had gone. They had left almost nothing behind, although he did find three withered apples in a pot that had been forgotten. He thought of sleeping in an empty house, but he didn’t like the ghostly quiet of the place. So he passed another night in a tree, and late the next day he finally climbed a hill that looked down on Alfgar’s village.

  It filled most of a wide valley. Alfgar’s hall was big, its walls made of oak logs, its thatch thick and grey like the bristling pelt of some giant wild boar. A cluster of houses huddled round it, a blue haze of woodsmoke from their hearth-fires hanging over them. The buildings were enclosed in a timber stockade, and outside it were animal pens and ploughed fields. Oslaf walked in through the open gates.

  He followed a muddy track, marvelling at what he saw. The village blacksmith stood at the anvil in the hot red cave of his smithy, banging away with his hammer at the bent blade of a scythe. Elsewhere men and women went about their business: babies cried, children played, dogs chased each other, chickens squawked. Nobody seemed to take any notice of Oslaf. It was as if he were invisible.

  He knew the hall would be the best place to find Alfgar, but he hesitated. The skull of a bull was fixed above the doors, its empty eye sockets staring down at him. Suddenly Oslaf felt afraid, his empty stomach twisting in on itself and making him wince with pain. If Alfgar turned him away he might just as well be dead…

  Oslaf closed his eyes and tried to get his fear under control. He knew he shouldn’t worry about what might, or might not, happen. The fate of everyone – their wyrd – was decided by the Three Sisters, the legendary Norns who sat at the foot of Yggdrasil, the Tree that Bears the World. The young hero in the ‘Tale of the Monster from the Lake’ had dealt with that by bravely facing every challenge. It was still hard, though, especially when you were completely on your own…

  Oslaf took a deep breath, slowly let it out, opened his eyes – and crossed the threshold. It was dark inside the hall, although a fire burned in the hearth and oil lamps hung from the high roof beams. Long tables and benches stood against the walls, and Oslaf could just see a group of people at the far end, several men and boys and a woman. He walked on, heart pounding, and came to a halt in front of them.

  They had been talking quietly, but now they all turned to stare at him. Oslaf guessed immediately which one was Alfgar, even though he had never seen him before. The chieftain was tall and broad-shouldered, his eyes blue and his hair and beard the colour of wheat just before harvest time. He was frowning, and he had the look of a man who was used to being instantly obeyed when he gave orders.

  Oslaf had worked out what to say, going over it many times in his mind during his journey. ‘Great chieftain, my name is Oslaf, son of Sigvald the Geat and Leofwen. They have both gone on their spirit journey to the Land of the Dead, and I beg you to give me shelter, warmth and food. This I ask before Woden and your people.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Father,’ said someone from behind Alfgar. A boy a couple of years older than Oslaf pushed forward. He was almost as tall and broad as the chieftain and had the same colour hair, but his eyes were hazel. ‘We can’t take in every stray that turns up! We already have far too many mouths to feed.’

  ‘He is not a stray, Wermund,’ said someone else. The woman stepped forward, and Oslaf guessed she must be Elfritha. She also was tall, but she had raven-black hair, pale skin and dark brown eyes. ‘My heart aches to hear that my old friend Leofwen is dead,’ she said. ‘There was a time when she and I were like sisters. You are more than welcome to stay here, Oslaf. Of course my husband and I will take you in.’

  ‘Is that right, wife?’ said Alfgar, looking round at her. ‘It is good that you know my mind even before I do.’ Elfritha met his gaze stubbornly, and he smiled. ‘Yet we are as one in this,’ he said. ‘I will give you shelter, warmth and food, Oslaf son of Sigvald the Geat. But you will have to work for your keep – understood?’

  Oslaf nodded, smiling too as relief flooded through him. Only one thing slightly spoiled the good feeling, and that was the sour look on the face of Alfgar’s son.

  But Oslaf decided not to worry about it – for the time being, anyway.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A Blind Old Fool

  Elfritha made sure Oslaf was fed well that first evening, fetching him a bowl of lamb stew herself. There was good bread too, with plenty of sweet honey to spread on it, and a jug of ale to wash it all down. They sat in a corner of the hall, Elfritha watching him as he ate and drank. Alfgar and the others had gone, and the room was empty except for the two of them and an old man sitting on a stool by the hearth.

  Oslaf glanced at the old man. His long hair and beard were white, but he sat upright and looked as if he had been strong in his youth. After a while Elfritha asked Oslaf if the stew was good, and at the sound of her voice the old man turned his head towards them. Oslaf saw then that he was blind, his eyes as milky-white as his hair. The old man listened for a moment, but said nothing and turned away once more.

  ‘I should have guessed you were Leofwen’s son,’ Elfritha said. ‘You’re stocky like your father, yet your face and colouring is your mother’s. When we were girls I was jealous of how brown her skin turned in the summer. Mine just burnt.’

  Oslaf had never really thought about the way he looked, but Elfritha was right, he did have the same dark hair and eyes as his mother. Something else in what she had said interested him, though. ‘Did you know my father?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I knew Sigvald.’ Elfritha smiled. ‘He and his friends were passing through, a bunch of young lads looking for adventure. Alfgar’s father Aldhelm was still alive then and took a few of them into his war-band. Everyone could see Leofwen liked Sigvald, and that Sigvald felt the same about her. So it was no surprise to us that they got hand-fasted and went off together. Did they have happy lives?’

  Oslaf had never really thought about that either, but now he did. His mind suddenly filled with memories of his mother and father laughing, and he realised that they had spent a good life in their little farmhouse by the sea. They had rarely paid much attention to what was going on in the rest of the world. His mother had always said they were enough for each other and needed nothing and nobody else.

  ‘Yes, they did,’ he said. ‘All three of us were happy.’ Until his father had died, he thought, and everything had changed. But he didn’t say that.

  ‘Well, I am glad to hear it,’ said Elfritha, smiling. ‘And I hope you will be happy with us, Oslaf. But Alfgar was serious when he talked about you earning your keep. My son was right, we have taken in others, and we have many mouths to feed. So there is no room here for those who will not work – we all have to pull our weight.’

  Oslaf found his eyes drawn again to the old man, and was surprised to see he was smiling too. ‘I know what you’re thinking, boy,’ said the old man, his voice rich and deep. ‘A blind old fool like me can’t do anything useful. Probably best to let the wolves have me, wouldn’t you say? Although there’s not much meat on my bones these days, and what’s left might be too tough even for a hungry wolf pack.’

  ‘I… I wasn’t thinking that, truly I wasn’t…’ Oslaf spluttered, taken aback. The old man’s words were something of a shock. Oslaf had not expected him to speak, or even to know that he was being looked at. But he had instantly sensed Oslaf’s gaze – and had known much of what was in his mind. ‘Not the part about giving you to the wolves, anyway,’ Oslaf said. ‘But I did wonder what work you might do.’<
br />
  ‘At least you are honest,’ said the old man. ‘I do the most important work of all. I am Lord Alfgar’s wordsmith, his praise-singer, his teller of wondrous tales…’

  ‘Or to put it more simply, Widsith is our poet, our scop,’ said Elfritha. ‘Poets can be irritating, mostly because they’re so vain. But every hall should have one.’

  Oslaf had heard of scops before, so he knew a little about them. His father had told him how respected they were among the Geats, and how the best were sought out by great chieftains and princes. He looked at the old man rather differently now.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Widsith, laughing. ‘You will see how useful I can be, boy.’

  ‘But not tonight,’ said Elfritha. ‘I think Oslaf needs rest after his journey.’

  It was true; he could hardly keep his eyes open now that he had eaten. Elfritha showed him to a place at the far end of the hall where he could sleep and gave him some furs to keep him warm. He lay down and darkness swept over his mind.

  He was woken early the next morning by Beornath, Alfgar’s steward, the man who was charged with running the village in the chieftain’s name. Elfritha had warned him that Beornath would be coming, and Oslaf recognised him as one of the men who’d been with Alfgar the night before.

  Beornath the steward was short and broad, with plenty of thick black hair on his cheeks and chin but not much on his head.

  ‘Up you get, boy,’ he said, standing over Oslaf. He turned and walked off, and Oslaf jumped up to follow him, pulling on his shoes and nearly falling over.

  Beornath was waiting for him outside. ‘So then, what can you do?’

  ‘Most things that need to be done on a farm,’ Oslaf said nervously.

  ‘Really?’ said Beornath, looking him up and down. Clearly he was not very impressed. ‘We’ll see about that, won’t we? You’d better come with me.’