June 2023 – The Road to Hastings and other Stories

This piece is from the first novel in the series. Horstede is celebrating a betrothal, but some of the guests are not happy with the entertainment.

“Wulfhere, do you think you could have employed a better band of musicians? This lot are bloody awful!” Harold exclaimed, nudging Wulfhere’s elbow with his own.

“They were the best I could do given the time in which I had to organise it. Good musicians are hard to come by in these parts – and at such short notice. Perhaps someone else could take over the entertainment? Skalpi, I hear, is an excellent scop.”

Harold shook his head and said, “Not Skalpi! He will frighten the children with a face like his.”

Hearing his name mentioned, Skalpi turned and gave his master a rude gesture which Harold returned with infectious laughter.

Wulfhere knew Skalpi of old. He was one of Harold’s chief huscarles and an old war veteran. He was powerfully built, stocky and shorter than most of his fellow Danes. A leather patch covered his left eye and his deeply scarred face bore the evidence of many a past battle. He had acquired the scars as a young warrior serving with Harthacnut in his troublesome Scandinavian kingdoms.

“On second thoughts,” reflected Harold, “I do believe that he scares me just as much as he does the children. I’d better be careful. Skalpi does not like his feelings hurt.” He laughed heartily as the old Dane swore and scowled at him. Wulfhere chuckled, knowing that Harold’s easy-going nature meant that he could trade insults with his men and not be offended. This was a side of Harold that he loved.

“Hoy, Skalpi!” Harold called loudly.

The Dane looked round with mocking eyes. “Ah, Lord Harold, at your service.”

“Lord Wulfhere has heard that you have a fine singing voice. He wishes you to perform,” Harold called from the dais, cupping a hand to his mouth to project his voice above the din the tuneless musicians were making.

“My lord knows full well that my employment with him is that of personal bodyguard. If it is a skald that he desires, he needs to seek one,” replied the huscarle. Wulfhere noticed he used the Danish term skald instead of the Englisc scop.

Skalpi turned his back and Harold threw a silver coin that bounced off his shoulder.

“As you know, Skalpi, I pay well.” Harold laughed as Skalpi retrieved the coin from where it had fallen.

“One silver coin, my lord, does not make a generous and benevolent patron. Skills a good skald might possess cannot be bought for a mere silver coin.” he remarked, mockingly.

Harold sighed and brought out a small purse. “You want to ruin me,” he complained good-humouredly. “Is this your fee?”

Harold threw the purse and Skalpi deftly caught it. He felt the weight and appeared to be satisfied with the payment. Then he stood and said with a flourish, “It will do, so fetch me a harp. For tonight I am Skalpi, Lord of Skaldr.”

Wulfhere sent someone to fetch a harp and signalled to the musicians to stop. The Dane took the instrument and checked its tuning. Then the hall fell silent as he began his recital. He introduced the piece he was about to perform as a saga of his ancestors: one of men spending the last night before battle in their lord’s meadhall, feasting, drinking, and making merry with their women.

“Death stalls not, its bloody hand

From steel sundered vein they spill

Their heart’s blood

And their soul’s release

Upon the scarlet field of slaughter

“The span of lives lay hidden

The destinies of all good men

Fates woven from birth to death

When with sword in hand

Draw their last earthly breath

“I see my lord, I see my father

They call me unto them

We fight and drink freely

In the Lord’s golden halls, forever

Spared of the pains of mortal men

“Once again mail-clad and weapon fierce

When Armageddon calls to us

We mere black raven’s carrion

The Almighty’s angelic horde

Loyal shield companions of Christ our Lord.”

Skalpi’s song written by Robert Bayliss

Work in Progress

The Sons of the Wolf series is set in the second half of the 11th century and is centred around the fortunes of a Sussex family. The main character, Wulfhere, is a king’s thegn, holding his land from the crown, though he also owes his loyalty to the the Earl of Wessex who governs the land where Wulfhere lives.

Set against the backdrop of the politics of the late Anglo-Saxon period, Wulfhere not only has to navigate the labyrinth of intrigue at court, but contend with an enemy that is far closer to home, and brings danger to him and his family at every turn.

This is the start of the third book, I know many of you are waiting for this to be released. I’ve had a few things going on recently, but am back on it now! Just a taster for you.

Prologue

Horstede

February, 1059

Wulfhere stirred. His eyes flickered as dawn light seeped through the eaves. Plumes of frost hovered on his breath before disintegrating into the air.

Winter had been long and harsh in the lands of the Suþ Seaxa, and though February had arrived, there was still no abating of the frost. Wulfhere shivered, and pulled the fur covers tight to his chin, not wanting to face the cold. The fire must be out. Whoever should have tended the hearth had neglected their duty. There’d be a bloody whipping when he got hold of them.

Not that he was a cruel master. Not one to abuse his tenants or servants. But he had a temper; hot it was, and as fierce as a bear. Nothing troubled the bear while it was docile, but when its wild was up, God help anyone who came within its path. And though of late, his anger shamed him, he could no more stop the wildness stirring within him, than he could stop himself breathing.

He slung an arm across his forehead. A wave of gloom filled his soul. His gut told him that something worrying had happened. His head throbbed. Visions flashed beneath his closed eyes. There’d been mead – strong – and plenty of it. But he remembered nothing of what had occurred the night before, nor the one before that either. He stretched out his other arm, feeling around the mattress. In a heart-stopping moment, he realised she was not there. Probably hadn’t been for some days.

Wulfhere lifted his head, moved his arm slightly, gingerly opening a sensitive eye. This was not his bed. Or rather, it was not thebedhe shared with his wife.

He sat up, threw off the furs and blankets. Shaking, he struggled to pull on his braies. Once they were on, he sat massaging his head. His mind was no clearer. The last thing he recalled was going up the stairs to the bed chamber; he and Ealdgytha had words – which was usual – and they made love – which was unusual – and then…

Heart beating rapidly, he grabbed hold of the curtain, and ripped it aside. Sleeping bodies were scattered around the floor, snoring. Some were sitting upright, having fallen asleep where they had stood the night before, slinking down against the wall. There was a rhythmic mead-induced wheezing filling the hall, and the pungent reek of vomit made him gag. It must have been a good night. He looked around for the rest of his clothes, found his tunic and trousers – at least he thought they were his – grappled with them and gave up. How long had he lain there…? Days? Weeks…?

But where was Ealdgytha? He must find her.

Dressed only in his braies, he stumbled up the staircase. His eyes adjusted to the growing light. He burst into the chamber and stopped when he saw the empty bedframe. The fear in his chest was unbearable. He looked around the chamber. The coffer that Ealdgytha kept her possessions in. Gone. The mattress they once shared. Gone. The bedding his mother had left them. Gone. Her smell. Gone.

He collapsed to the floor, struggling to breathe. He shook uncontrollably.

Fragments of memories flashed before him; the night they made love, then quarrelled… Hands around her throat… Had he…? Oh God.

He hurried down the steps, almost losing his footing, and flung open the porch doors. Rushing into the courtyard, he called her name.

“Ealdgytha!”

Snowflakes floated around him, lightly feathering his quivering, bare flesh. He cupped his face. It felt sticky and clammy. His legs trembled and he slowly folded, his knees sinking to the icy ground. Head spun. Heart galloped. He was stone-cold sober.

Where were the children?

“Winflaed!” he called out. “Wulfric?”

There was nothing but the cock crowing.

The sky suddenly brightened through the haze of grey cloud. Winflaed… His daughter’s face swam before him. Large, hooded blue eyes filled with tears, vanishing before he could reach out and touch her. Not there… She was not there. Stupid, stupid fool to have forgotten. Neither Wulfric, nor Winflaed, nor his youngest, Gerda…. They had all left him. She had left him.

His fault… it was his fault.

“Sigfrith!” he bellowed, falling on all fours with the effort.

Waves of nausea travelled up his gullet and he heaved… expelled nothing. Sweat dripped off his brow.

“Sig…” he spluttered, coughing. He continued to heave until he thought he would lose his insides, but instead, nothing came but yellow bile.

Something lightly touched him, draping over his numb flesh. His cloak. He was not alone, then.

“Lord, what are you doing out here in the cold in nothing but your skin?” Sigfrith tutted, and helped him hobble back inside.

“They’re all gone,” Wulfhere muttered as he was settled down to rest.

“Aye, lord,” Sigfrith said. “That they are.”