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

  Abruptly Ambrose realized that the constant jarring he felt was his bruised body moving. He opened his eyes and forced his pupils to focus. The prince shifted his weight, and instantly a gruff voice responded.

  "Lie still, Prince. You're safe enough for now," it said.

  Ambrose slowly forced his thoughts to go past the pain. He ran through the catalogue of voices he knew. The voice was one he had never expected to hear again . . . Phillip! Fearless warrior; long-time member of the king's Personal Guard, and Weapons-master to royal princes!

  The gruff familiar voice brought tears to Ambrose's eyes. Once again he felt the cocoon of security this brave warrior and faithful friend represented. The feeling was only momentary, however, as Ambrose's vision also followed the loose rope from Phillip's neck to that of the several peasant girls following. In the periphery of his vision, he saw one of the cloaked and armoured raiders stalking along, his naked and blood-stained sword poised to punish disobedience.

  Ambrose, with his head pounding and his stomach churning, managed to croak a few words. "Phillip, put me down. I think I can walk."

  Phillip responded quietly. "Nay Prince, for if you are on your feet and unable to keep the pace, they will kill you where you stand. Lie still and let me carry you until you have regained some more of your strength."

  Secure over Phillip's shoulder, Ambrose was about to let himself succumb to his weakness, until he saw the upper extremity of a terrible gash that was on the back of Phillip's lower neck. He spoke more easily now.

  "By the good God, Phillip! You're injured!"

  "The pagan twisted his blade as he struck me so that it is nothing more than a surface cut. 'Tis nothing, Prince, except that it stopped me from being at your side when they took you. I am so sorry that I failed you!"

  Touched by the eloquence of this man of few words, Ambrose started to demand that Phillip put him down at once. As he was trying to organize the words, however, he slipped back into unconsciousness.

  When next the blackness lifted from Ambrose's mind, he found himself lying on soft, yielding moss. As he opened his eyes he had an ant's view of Phillip looming above, sitting cross-legged beside him.

  Not more than fifty feet away lay the gentle ripples of the Meon River. The tide being out, an expanse of wet sand and gravel was exposed that stretched almost all the way between the beach and two long-ships that lay close offshore.

  Ambrose noted with sudden surprise that the Vikings seemed totally unprepared for any hostile action. An attack from an avenging Saxon force could cut the Vikings to pieces! Instead of being in a military formation that could quickly transform into a defensive posture, the enemy warriors were strung out along the entire length of the slave coffle. Equally important, the Danish ships seem to have been stranded by a retreating tide.

  Ambrose felt a surge of sudden hope. Saxon horsemen charging along the wet beach could separate the Viking marauders from their ships, and archers and spearmen from the near-by woods could easily finish off any cores of resistance.

  Where was his brother's fyrd? The smoke from the burning village should have alerted the fyrdmen for miles in all directions. Why weren't his brother's brave warriors charging the disorganized and stranded enemy? Instead of brave Saxon fyrdmen charging across the tidal flats, he saw only a human chain of captives ripple and struggle to its feet. Shouts and prodding spears made it very clear that the prisoners' break was over.

  Phillip spoke warningly to Ambrose. "Stand now, Prince, if ever you could. Now that they have seen you conscious, they will kill you where you stand if you do not seem capable of keeping up."

  Doggedly, and calling on sources of energy he didn't know he had, Ambrose struggled to his feet. "Except for a splitting headache and some nausea, I think I'm all right, Phillip."

  Unfettered, he was able to stand at Phillip's side. The coffle of captives in front of Phillip were now in motion, and Phillip was forced to walk across the wet sand towards the beached long-ships.

  Ambrose continued to walk at Phillip's side. He saw that, as he started to move, a gaunt Viking clasping a wicked-looking spear moved silently along, paralleling his route. Ambrose spoke quietly to his giant companion.

  "Phillip, I'm confused. I thought that you were killed when the second bastard struck you. I ran to get my sword when two Vikings burst through the door. One killed old Dael and the other disarmed me. When I didn't see you in the square, I leapt the palisade and ran for the safety of the forest. That's about all I remember. I was about to enter the woods when I caught a glimpse of a warrior and then darkness closed over me."

  Phillip's gruff voice was music to Ambrose's ears. "There's little enough to tell, Prince. I was struck a glancing blow from the side, but it didn't crack my thick skull. When they saw I wasn't mortally wounded, they dragged me to the square. I only awoke after you made your run for freedom. I'm told that you had the bad luck to run into the arms of one of their outer sentries."

  As they spoke, the human baggage train neared the closer of the two long-ships. Ambrose, a keen sailor, studied the two ships critically. He could see that they were clinker-built of overlapped planks, and he could even see the rust spots where iron rivets held the hull together.

  Sailors at his brother's royal court had told him that the swift Viking vessels could withstand even the most violent pounding of the North Sea. Relatively shallow of draft, the ships could sail with impunity through shallow and treacherous water. Above each ship towered the dread symbol of these pagan Northerners; an intricately carved dragon's head. The heads were exceeded in height only by the single masts, which towered overhead. By their sheer size, they looked fully capable of supporting the weight of a single huge square sail.

  A Viking strode purposely towards the middle of the coffle. He drew his sax, and Ambrose wondered momentarily if he was going to kill someone. The warrior, however, only sliced the rope between two women. The captives were now in two separate groups.

  Ambrose and Phillip were part of the second group. They were herded out into knee-deep water and then forced to climb aboard the nearer ship. Once again, Ambrose's mind was stimulated by the novel situation, even as he obeyed the threatening gestures and obediently moved amidships, towards the base of the bare mast. Once seated, the prince inspected the ship from his new vantage point. Though he saw the hull was decked, Ambrose knew that relatively little room lay below, except for some limited storage space. In the stern, there was a small but gaily striped canvas tent.

  The loot stolen from the village was carefully wrapped and then stored under the planking, and the captives all sat just aft of the great mast. Surrounded by the fierce sea-raiders, exhausted by their ordeal of the last few hours, and again mindful of their terrible vulnerability, several of the younger women began to wail. Finally a short, swarthy crew-member, who had been with the commander in the stern, was sent forward to where the wailing women were. His accent was abominable, but his Anglish was comprehensible.

  "We not able to sail for another little time, until tide come higher. Any noise until then, you sorry!"

  Matching his gestures to his words, he uncoiled a stout length of rope. One woman, the grief of having both her baby and husband killed in front of her fresh in her mind, was still unable to stifle her wails. The rope lashed out with a vicious whistle, struck her back, and curled around to tear at her breasts.

  The woman responded with a scream and then a renewed wail of horror and pain. When the Viking next drew his sax, one of the other women, sensing his intentions, placed her hand firmly over the wailing woman's mouth. Although the distraught woman bit the hand until it bled, the neighbour would not let go, and her cries were effectively stifled.

  Satisfied, the swarthy sailor resheathed his weapon and continued his speech. "Some of you will be chained. No chains for all, so some must be tied with rope. You touch knot, you die - understand?"

  Even as he spoke, he beckoned to a group of waiting sailors. The crewmen stepped forward with a long chain
and an armload of massive iron collars. With less than twenty metal collars, and over thirty captives, they collared only the most mature of the captives. One by one the chosen were led to a massive oak stump that lay amidships. There, a brawny man, presumably the ship's smith, placed a rivet through a hole in the neck collars, and, with the captive laying his neck on the stump, hammered each rivet open.

  Within minutes all of the men, and a few of the most intransigent women, were connected together by iron links going from collar to collar. One end was fastened to itself through the last person's collar. The other end was permanently fastened to a large iron bolt set into the mast mounting. Ambrose was mortified to be tied by rope with the beardless youths and the girls, until he realized that his own sparse beard and small statue had caused the Vikings to misjudge his age.

  Again the swarthy sailor approached them from his post in the stern. "The ship, soon she float again. You give us no trouble, we no hurt you. Any trouble - you die. No one to move without you ask him." At that he pointed to a young sailor, little older than Ambrose himself, who was sitting idly on the deck just behind them. At his shipmate's gesture, the young man smiled slightly, exposing bad teeth, and hefted an axe.

  CHAPTER 3.

  The Ship.

  The ship lifted free of the sand with a sucking sound. As each warrior was sitting on his storage chest and had his oar pushed out and ready, the ship rapidly got underway. Ambrose was surprised to see how many empty chests there were. The vacant seats seemed to indicate that the crew had somewhere suffered severe casualties. To the tune of some chant unknown to Ambrose, the warriors stroked rhythmically. Noise was obviously no longer a concern. The sea pirates were again free of the land.

  With some twenty long oars to a side, the craft was soon turned about and heading towards the open sea. Almost immediately Ambrose was able to spot, on one of the headlands, a large party of horsemen. The armour of many men glinted in the sunlight. Because of the distance, they looked like children's' carved wooden toys.

  Anger filled the young prince. In spite of the fact that the Saxons should have been able to muster almost 500 men with a few hours notice, they had chosen to let the pirates just sail away! Where was the courage that had brought the ancestors of his brother's people over the water in ships, and, along with the tribes of the Jutes and Angles, allowed them to conquer this land from a formidable enemy? Where were the glorious warriors of song and legend who had successfully defeated entire British armies almost single-handedly? He turned to Phillip and pointed.

  "Look, Phillip! The fyrdmen have gathered, and they knew where we were.'

  A single tear rolled down the prince's cheek. 'Why? Why did they not come to our rescue?"

  Phillip stared hard for long moments before he answered. "I count enough warriors to be a match for two ship crews. That leaves only treachery or cowardice."

  Ambrose glared at the mounted fyrdmen. "Who would betray us, Phillip?"

  "There are many royal Athelings, Prince, and few enough shires to go around. I do not know if you were betrayed, but I do know there are many jealousies in the royal household. Your own father promised your mother on her deathbed that he would someday give you Dorset to rule."

  "But Phillip, my mother's British ancestors once ruled it as sovereign kings."

  The burly thane shrugged "That fact does not make it yours, Atheling. A major province of Wessex's heartland was promised you, and that is enough to cause jealousy."

  "But of who?"

  "Well, Ethelbert is new to the throne, and he does not much love you. Unlike Ethelbald, he intends to keep the various subject kingdoms united under his crown."

  "True, Phillip, but Dorset is not going to make a difference to Ethelbert's power, even if he did choose to honour my father's request."

  "Ethelbert is ambitious, Prince. One less atheling around would simplify matters."

  "But Ethelbert has not even agreed to give me Dorset!"

  "With you gone, there is no need to even consider honouring your father's promise."

  Ambrose sat silently for a long time. At last he spoke. "Do you really think Ethelbert could have done this to us, Phillip?"

  "I do not know, Prince, but it is at least possible. Someone kept the sentries on the river-bank from sounding the alarm, and perhaps held the fyrdmen back from riding to our rescue."

  A new resolution grew in Ambrose. Just let me return safely to my brother's court, and I will hunt down my betrayer! If only . . . Ambrose knew he dreamed the thoughts of adolescents. Reality was that he was a captive of a cruel and pagan people. His fate might yet be to be castrated so he could safely serve in the boudoirs of noble women in the East, or perhaps he would be hitched to an iron plough; to live out his life as a human beast-of-burden.

  The ship started to rock more violently and Ambrose feared that soon they would be on the open sea. The faint sound of a ram's horn wafted to his ear, and Ambrose knew that the shepherd sentries had finally decided to announce the movement of the sinister ships now nosing their way towards the open sea.

  Within what seemed like only a few hundred heartbeats, the two ships cleared the last headland, and Angleland had been left behind. The rest of the prisoners sat as quietly and glumly as Ambrose. Until the land had been left behind, there had been hope for some kind of miracle. Now, it was clear that there would be no miracle.

  Casting aside his despairing thoughts with a great effort, Ambrose spoke to Phillip, who had pulled on the chain until he could sit near his charge.

  "Phillip, do the Vikings coast the shores, as do our ships, or do they really venture beyond sight of shore and sail directly across the great Northern Sea?"

  Phillip answered quietly. "Of that I know little, my Prince, but I suspect that they will coast east to the white cliffs. From there they can see across to land friendly to their kind. From the Narrows, south to the mouth of the Seine, lie settlements of Danes. The Frankish king is too busy elsewhere, and the Danes too powerful, for him to drive the heathen pirates from his shores."

  "But if', Ambrose mused, 'the raiders sail east, they might pass the mouth of the Thames, where even now my brother's continental courier fleet sits idle. Is it not possible that our vessels would give chase to two pirate ships?"

  Phillip spoke glumly. "I wish I could give you hope, Prince, but it's been many years since the Saxon fleet tried to clear the waters of pirates. These ships are under-manned, but they are very impressive to the watchers-on-the-shore. I think your brother's captains count themselves lucky if they can successfully escort ambassadors and official royal messengers to safe territory on the Frankish coast."

  "Phillip, old Dael told me many times how our ancestors broke the back of massive Roman fleets. We still sing the ballads!"

  "Truth be told, they broke the backs of a few local ships long after the main Roman fleet was withdrawn. We have become land-people, farmers, and the Vikings are now the daring sailors. Each year now they come south again. The islands to the north of Briton no longer swear allegiance to us. Instead, they have become bases for the pirates. The northern Saxon lands are all facing raids from the Danes, and the Norse are sweeping down the Irish coast. There are few island kingdoms left which have not suffered the calamity of having the pagan Vikings raid their shores. And finally, Prince, if it is your brother who is the culprit, then there is little chance his ships will dash out after two Viking long-ships. Even if not, there is little likelihood that news of your abduction has yet reached your brother's ears, let alone the commanders of the fleet in far-away Kent."

  As they talked quietly, the two ships moved parallel with the coast. Ambrose realized that they were moving steadily towards the Thames, but he had lost all hope.

  Whenever the fickle breeze gave evidence of blowing from their stern, ten or eleven sailors eagerly hauled up the great square sail. This done, the oars would be shipped and all the sailors would relax on deck. When the breeze shifted back, however, as it often did, since they were still near the
coast, the sail would come crashing down and the oars would be pushed out again. The Vikings were clearly in a hurry to leave the area.

  Further, Ambrose noticed a strange transformation of the warrior-sailors. Although when not on duty they tended to cluster about the captives and ogle the younger women, they did not lay a hand on them. Rude comments and obscene gestures were the worst things that befell the captives. The women, already more humiliated than they had ever been in their lives, took the visual inspection of their bodies mutely, or broke into sobs of mortification and despair.

  Ambrose cast about for an explanation of this in his mind. Finally, he ventured to ask his faithful weapons tutor. "Phillip, why don't they take our women? They seem to ache to pleasure them."

  "Prince, I can only guess. I would like to think it is because they think of their own women and children at home, but I doubt it. The Vikings are known as brutal masters."

  "Then why?"

  "Most like, they are forbidden by the captain. At sea is not the time to fight over women. It doesn't lend itself to ship-board discipline."

  Ambrose sat quietly for a few minutes, digesting the comment. His mind, normally very active, sped on, questioning the events of the last day, as well as the reason why they occurred.

  "Phillip, I had heard that on Viking ships all men are free companions. Why then, do the men man oars like galley-slaves, and obey their leader as if he were a god?"

  "Prince, Galley slaves require extra food and water, and must be constantly watched to prevent rebellion. By replacing the slaves with warriors, you more than double your ship force and, at the same time, need to carry less food and water.

  I understand that each pledges obedience to the commander for the duration of the voyage. It seems to me to be the only way any expedition can work effectively. I expect no less from my fyrdmen when I lead them into battle. It also occurs to me, Prince, that we must soon learn their heathen tongue if we are to survive."