Ambrose, Prince of Wessex; Trader of Kiev. Read online



  Ambrose, Prince of Wessex;

  Trader of Kiev.

  By Bruce Corbett

  Copyright 2010 Bruce Corbett

  Table of Contents

  1. Author's note.

  2. Chapter 1

  3. Appendix I: Characters

  4. Appendix II: Glossary

  5. Appendix III: History of Russia and Wessex in the ninth century.

  6. Appendix IV: Map of Ambrose's travels

  7. About the author.

  8. Other Books coming soon from the author.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  You are about to read a fictional story set in an era several centuries after the fall of the Western Roman Empire; circa 859 A.D. Ambrose, Prince of Wessex; Trader of Kiev is the first novel of a series. It is a work of fiction, and I freely admit that when I was unable to discover the true facts, or when there was a conflict of opinion between scholars, I did not hesitate to use my literary license to invent facts that would best fit my story. The truth is, however, that most of my story is based on historical reality.

  The Angles, Saxons and Jutes were already involved in the first skirmishes of a quickly escalating struggle with Danish Vikings, though the major invasion of the Danish 'Great Army' was actually some five years in the future. The slave-trading port of Wyk te Duurstede did exist. The Rus, or some other Viking tribe, probably living in what is presently Sweden, really did travel the Russian rivers in their boats; even navigating as far as the Black and Caspian Sea. The trade to Constantinople is well documented. A Rus chief apparently was invited to Novgorod to help the native rulers.

  There is considerable debate as to who actually founded Kiev, but it appears clear that Viking tribesmen were involved at some stage. The Khazars did control the mouths of several major rivers emptying into the Black Sea, and they fought off other marauding nomads who travelled the vast open steppes.

  The Viking funeral is based on descriptions by contemporaries of the time. Many towns along the rivers of what is now Russia and the Ukraine were attacked by nomad raiders from the steppes, and this, in fact, continued for several more centuries. There was a documented attack on Kiev by the Pechenegs some twenty years after the date the Russian Chronicles tell us that Dir and Askold arrived in Kiev.

  Ambrose clearly did not exist, nor Polonius, yet they may have. This was a time of great turmoil and change in the world. The travels they made in this book are at least plausible. First and foremost, however, this is a novel. I hope you enjoy it. Return

  CHAPTER 1.

  The Vikings!

  As the first rays of sun pierced the fading night, the throbbing note of a Saxon war-horn echoed through the little village. The sound swelled and then suddenly stopped. Roused by the eerie sound, several village dogs responded with a chorus of barks and yips.

  Ambrose, young atheling of Wessex, raised his blond head from his sleeping pallet. His protector, Phillip, weapons-master to a king, was listening intently.

  "Phillip, what is it? What is happening?"

  "Sleep, Prince. I will investigate. It is probably nothing, but something has roused the dogs, and that worries me."

  As Phillip spoke, he threw off his deerskin cover and stood naked.

  Ambrose noticed the grizzled warrior did not seem to feel the cold. He reached for the broadsword that he had used in his life to protect three kings and his father had used before that. With the famed blade in his hand, the giant warrior stumbled through the doorway of the sturdy residence. Ambrose, wrapped in a deerskin, strode close behind.

  The mystery of the blaring horn was quickly solved. The sentry in the watch tower over the main gate lay crumpled over the log wall of his post. His long signal horn lay on the ground below. The distance to the gate was considerable and the light still poor, but Ambrose could see what appeared to be a javelin protruding from the man's chest.

  Even as Ambrose and Phillip stared, a motley horde of raiders poured through the open gate. Almost simultaneously, Ambrose's peripheral vision caught more motion at the other end of the village. He turned his head in time to see a second group burst through the much narrower harbour gate. Ambrose realized instantly that the sturdy log walls of the village had suddenly become a potential death trap.

  "Sweet merciful Jesus!' Phillip muttered. 'The pagan devils are amongst God's sheep, and there is not even time to get the villagers up and prepared."

  Ambrose stared at the hut where an even dozen of the king's own Personal Guard slept, not twenty paces away!

  "Phillip, my brother's Personal Guard . . ."

  "Nay, back you go, Prince. If you value your life, you will return to your lodging and bar the door! He raised his voice in sudden anger.

  "Aldrich! Eadward! Get the king's thanes out here! Satan's devils are amongst us, and it is time to show the heathen bastards some good Saxon steel!"

  The dogs' noise turned to a shriller barking, and then a frenzied yapping as they charged at the strangers. The business end of axes and spears greeted the boldest, and suddenly there was no barrier at all between the Vikings and the villagers.

  Ambrose heard muffled noises from the huts where his escort was quartered, but he feared that it was already too late for any systematic defence. Phillip would need more men and the few he had, had had more than their fair share of mead the night before.

  The attackers, now safely through both gates and aware that they had lost the element of surprise, broke forth into battle cries. Their wild cries of "Odin! Odin!" woke any villagers who had not already been roused by the growing din.

  As the mob of cloaked warriors fanned out in disciplined teams, Ambrose knew with a sinking certainty that the worst nightmares of Christian Wessex were being realized. These pirate raiders, the dreaded sea-Vikings, scourge of all civilized Europe, must have slipped past the shepherd sentries on the lower Meon River. The bastards had somehow managed a secret landing!

  Moving efficiently in multiple pairs, the raiders swiftly moved to each hut, charged in, and cut down anyone who was armed or dared resist. Phillip spoke quietly to his young charge.

  "Now, Prince! Inside and shut the God-cursed door!"

  Ambrose retreated to the residence, but kept the door open a crack and watched his protector standing before an even dozen pair of barbarians advancing toward him at a run.

  Phillip yelled again for his men. Even Ambrose could see that they had only seconds left to form a defensive line. "Get out here, you lazy bastards! I have work for you!"

  The running line of pagan warriors closed the distance quickly, however, even as the first of Phillip's men stumbled out into the soft morning light. The befuddled warriors stepped into the light, only to be struck down by a fusillade of javelins. The three nearest Vikings, having already thrown their spears at the groggy Guardsmen, drew swords or axes and slowly sidled towards Phillip.

  The attackers saw Phillip's giant sword and realized that few men living could effectively use such a massive weapon. The naked man holding it, however, twirled it with contemptuous ease while he awaited their arrival.

  Buckler held high, the first Viking came within reach and swung his axe at Phillip. The Saxon warrior parried the blow skilfully and retaliated with a fast low swing of his long sword. Not expecting anyone to be able to swing such a huge weapon with such speed, the warrior was unable to lower his shield in time. The massive blade of polished iron hit the lower corner of the attacker's buckler with tremendous force and glanced off it on to the man's legs.

  The powerful stroke, even slowed, almost cut entirely through the man's right leg. With a look of stunned disbelief, the Viking crumpled to the ground.

  Ambrose watched Phillip
turn toward the other two. They seemed to show a sudden respect for the Saxon thane. Calling a companion to join them, they formed a loose line and spread out, hoping to trap Phillip against the hut wall. Without their spears, they would have to close on him if they wanted to get him.

  Three swords rose in unison, and Ambrose bit his knuckle in fear for the giant protector. Sighing, Phillip started his huge sword swinging in glittering arcs that threatened death or mutilation to anyone foolish enough to enter its reach. The defence was effective against any single foe, but it could not provide adequate protection on three exposed sides indefinitely. With precision born of obvious experience, the Viking directly in front of Phillip tentatively engaged him, while the other two edged in on either side.

  Phillip's powerful vertical stroke split the front man's wooden shield in two. Before the surprised warrior could recover, the thane thrust right through the man's chain-mail. The hard-driven blade penetrated right through to the man's heart.

  The Viking fell beside his own crippled comrade. As soon as Phillip thrust, however, Ambrose knew that it would take a few precious seconds for the weapons-master to withdraw the blade. In using the point of his weapon, he had left himself vulnerable on both sides. The Viking warriors, too, were veterans, and they had been patiently waiting for any opening they could exploit. While the fur-clad barbarian on his left aimed a cut at Phillip's shoulder, the man's partner on the right swung his own blade. Even as Phillip parried the first cut, the second flashing sword begin its descent. The big man collapsed.

  Ambrose closed the wooden door and then realized that there was no bar to secure it shut. He ran to his bed to get his own sword when he felt the renewed chill of the cool morning air. He turned toward the door he had so recently closed. The door was open again, and the early morning light silhouetted two strange men!

  Ambrose was momentarily paralysed with sudden fear. Though not the giants of Anglo-Saxon imagination, the northern strangers were nevertheless strong and fearsome looking men.

  Hastily Ambrose remembered the catechism so well known to all civilized Britons. He repeated it silently. "Oh Lord, deliver us from the fury of the Northmen!"

  Ambrose's brief prayer was interrupted as Dael, his tutor and a frail and old man of over sixty winters, rose stiffly up out of his own nearby bed to protest the intrusion. The old man's hearing was going, and he was near-sighted, which only increased his natural garrulousness.

  The scholar stumbled towards the door to confront the intruders. "Just who are you that you dare to come in here and disturb my lord's sleep!? Get you gone before I have you thrashed!"

  A quick swing of a sword ended Dael's protestations. The look of indignation never left the old man's face as he toppled backward with his throat slit.

  Ambrose, splashed with his tutor's blood, was suddenly trembling. He drew his own sword from its scabbard. The second Viking swordsman noted both the movement and spotted the shiny blade. He stepped forward and swung his own weapon. At the last second the sword was twisted sideways, and the powerful blow descended on Ambrose's arm and numbed it. The sword fell onto the fresh rushes that covered the earthen floor.

  Unable to understand the words thrown at him, Ambrose stood, irresolute, while cradling his injured arm with his other hand. Finally a sax point conveyed clearly that they wanted him outside. Still nursing his numbed arm and unmindful of his nudity, he stumbled outside of the hut that the villagers had so recently erected in honour of the young atheling's visit.

  Outside, a scene of horror and debauchery greeted the young prince. The prince's mind struggled to accept what he saw. His entire Personal Guard lay butchered in front of their residence. Phillip, his mentor and guardian, lay unmoving on the ground. The entire town was some hundred odd paces in each direction, and was surrounded by a dry moat and palisade. The village was bathed in the reddish light from the sun just rising above the horizon. Under its gentle light, numerous victims were being driven towards the central square. Where men had fought in defence of their families or treasures, bodies lay still and blood-stained. Several more men were cut down even as Ambrose watched.

  Nearby, young children were being callously butchered, along with old men and women. Perhaps, felt Ambrose in a momentary flash of pity, they were the lucky ones. The older girls and the women, most still naked from their beds, were driven, with much prodding and laughter, towards the central square.

  Already some of the huts, having been stripped of their meagre treasures, were going up in flames. A touch of a Viking spear point encouraged Ambrose to keep moving. In shock, he shambled towards the fast-growing group of boys and women in the square.

  The Viking warriors both fought and pillaged with grim efficiency. They were, in short order, through with the last Saxon home.

  The blood-spattered Viking warriors gathered in the village square, along with their captives and the loot. For the first time, Ambrose saw that the 'great savage horde' in reality consisted of perhaps a hundred men; barely two small ship-crews.

  The captives were allowed to cover their nakedness with rags from the piles of belongings that just the night before had been theirs. They were then tied with rope looped from neck to neck. Ambrose's mind, curiously detached from the terrible scenes he had just witnessed, idly compared the human pack train, now being secured and loaded down with the villagers' own goods, to the mule trains of the London traders.

  The traders heralded spring when they arrived at the royal court on their yearly journey around the island. Faithful as the seasons, the trade caravans had visited his father's lands annually since beyond the memory of even the very oldest living men.

  Ambrose suddenly remembered that the time for the yearly visit was soon. If he didn't return to his brother's court soon, he would miss the excitement of seeing the laid-out treasures, gleaned from a huge and mysterious world. He would also miss the festivities that would continue unabated for two full days and nights. It had even been his hope to celebrate by lying with a willing wench for the first time; an event he had recently been dreaming about a lot.

  Suddenly the state of passivity and shock lifted, and Ambrose felt the keenness of fresh loss and grief. It cut into him like a sharp knife. His own men were lying butchered nearby. Phillip, friend and mentor, had died defending him. His tutor had his throat slit, and around him men, women and children were still dying. These were his brother's subjects! These people had sworn allegiance to the crown of Wessex, sacrificing a measure of their personal freedom in exchange for guaranteed protection from the pagan hosts. In God's own time, they would have sworn allegiance to a nephew, to another of his brothers, or even to him, if the Witan so willed it.

  Brought back to reality by the dawning implications of what was happening, the adrenaline coursed through his arteries. For the first time since he awoke, he was both fully alert and not disoriented. He saw that he was soon to be added to the coffle. The rope would effectively end any chance of escape.

  Darting between two Vikings who were more than a little distracted by the glimpses of soft curves on a pretty girl stooping to pick up a load of goods, Ambrose raced madly for a pile of logs stacked against the palisade. Using them as steps, he quickly scrambled up to within a few feet of the tops of the sharpened stakes. From that height, he was easily able to vault over the top.

  With the expectation of a spear in his back at each step he took, Ambrose had leapt without hesitation or estimation. He landed hard, but exultantly, twelve feet below.

  Remembering the Weapons-Master's training, he let his body absorb the shock by collapsing and rolling. Scrambling to his feet, he quickly climbed the embankment of the dry moat and raced across the budding fields. Less than a thousand foot-lengths away lay the dense forest and freedom. Lithe of body and unencumbered by any sort of clothing, Ambrose felt sure he would now be able, since he was out of spear-range, to give the sea-pirates a good run for their gold.

  Lungs heaving and heart pounding, he ran with a last desperate burst of s
peed. Ambrose safely reached the forest's edge. He hoped its cover would make his recapture impossible.

  The prince knew that the Vikings had to move quickly, for within hours the alarm fires would have been lit both up and down the coast, and, for a day's journey in every direction, the thanes would gather their sworn men and march to the smoke.

  In his eye's mind Ambrose could envision the Saxon Fyrd now, as he had seen it so many times; the thanes and wealthy churls that made up the core of the force, heavily armed and mounted. And behind the Fyrdmen of the king, who held land in exchange for their military services, would come their retainers and the landless churls. Many of these would march on foot. Some would carry bows and axes, while others carried mattocks or spears. All, however, would be armed and ready to fight the heathen invader.

  Ambrose knew that these assorted weapons could be used to deadly effect in support of the better-armed fyrdmen, as long as the force was leavened with enough well-armed veterans. The Saxons of Wessex, when they managed to gather enough forces quickly enough, had turned the table on the Viking invaders more than once. Even as the image of brave Saxon warriors filled Ambrose's mind, his eyes caught a flash of movement to the left. From behind a giant oak, an evil-looking warrior stepped forth. For the second time that day a sword blade hit Ambrose flat-side on, and this time he toppled heavily to the ground, like a poleaxed ox.

  CHAPTER 2.

  Phillip Carries Ambrose, and They Reach the Ships.

  As Ambrose regained consciousness, he felt a terrible throbbing in his temples. As long as he didn't attempt to move any part of his body, the pulsing thunder remained bearable.

  Gradually the prince regained control of his senses. Very slowly, as if his mind was returning from a very long nightmare, he searched through his memories. As he reconstructed the confusing events, anger, mixed with self-pity and fear, pushed aside his previous preoccupation with the pain.