I was in a place called Northumbria, a land that tasted of the sea, the salt sharp in the air. Cold, rugged, it had once been a Saxon kingdom. The south and east were ruled by the Danes, while the north and west clung to Saxon lords, fractured and divided. The lords quarrelled among themselves, each guarding his patch of land as if the others were enemies.
Mercia, sister to the Saxon kingdoms, lay broken. The Danes had set up their puppets, allowing some Saxon lords to cling to their titles so long as they kept their peasants quiet and the tribute flowing north. Across the land, towns and halls were stripped away and handed to Danish jarls, who took their fill of land, silver, and plunder.
My father, Harthacnut Sigurdson, grandson of Ragnar LothBrook, was a Danish jarl of some renown. He raised his banner and declared himself King of Northumbria. Some men followed him for his silver, some for his strength, a famed Danish fighter in his own right.
My mother was a Saxon noblewoman, taken in a raid. She told me stories of Jesus, of how he died for men's sins, of God's son given up, of Moses parting the Red Sea with a hand. She died of the flux. I watched her waste away. The sickness took her quickly.
I was her son and my father's bastard, a boy of two worlds, neither fully Saxon nor Dane. When my father was killed, I was taken. Kjartan's men came in the night, storming the hall while my father's silver lay hidden. They fell on me before I could reach my sword—five men or more. And even if my hand had found the hilt, it would have done little but delay them. These were warriors, men hardened by battle, and I was no match. My sister, Gisela, escaped. At least I did not see her among the line of men and women bound.
I was bound, thrown with others, and driven to the coast where men are sold like cattle.
The slave market sat beside the sea, near Eoferwic on the outskirts of the city. Torches burned along the tents and elevated platforms. Chains clanked as captives were herded into place. Men and women, boys and girls, all were lined up, inspected, and sold. The smell of human sweat hung thick in the night air.
My hair, long and brown, hung to my shoulders, darkened with mud. I was sixteen, yet taller than most men around me.
The new slaves told stories about the city of Eoferwic, how the brothers, Erik and Sigefrid, were gone on a raid to Ireland and left Haesten in charge of Eoferwic.
They spoke of Wessex. How King Alfred beat the Great Heathen Army. Uthred of Wessex. He charged a shield wall and ripped a gap through it, single-handed.
The priests and the nun rode forward, their horses stirring mud and torchlight. The market fell silent at their approach. One priest was stout, round-bellied, his head bald at the crown with a fringe of short, thinning hair. The other was lean, hair dark and cut short, his robes plain, travel-worn, and streaked with mud from constant movement. The nun rode beside them, older, with pale blonde hair, her simple habit likewise stained by the road.
They came to the front of the slaver's tent. At their head rode the priest with thinning hair. He called down, "I have the ransom. But let me see Guthred first."
I said nothing. I had been here long enough to know when silence was wiser, for words unwanted drew the lash. The priest's eyes searched the crowd.
Below the platform, Gelgill the slaver stood. His belly hung like a drum, his nose crooked. He was bald, the torchlight shining on his scalp. His voice boomed across the market.
"Coins first!" he roared. "No silver, no man! I have mouths to feed, debts to settle. You understand, priest."
His men laughed, rough voices carrying, hands never straying far from their blades. One muttered to another, eyes narrowing at the priests.
A man stepped forward. One-eyed, his hair a dirty blond, his beard thick. This was Sven, son of Kjartan, a shit-turd of a man. He had little skill with a sword, but the slave market was his to command, for his father's name carried weight.
"My man says there were four of you," Sven said. "Is he correct?"
The shorter priest, broad and round of belly, raised his voice, though fear edged his words. "Yes, he is correct. But that one was no mere man. He was a traveler. Best not speak his name… for he may appear."
A group of hooves struck the mud, and skull-faced riders emerged from the dark. Their cloaks were tattered. They came with menace, with death in their eyes. They were the very ghosts of Odin.
At their head rode a warrior, tall and broad, his face hidden behind a mask of bone. His voice rang out, hard as iron striking stone.
"We have come to take your souls."
The market scattered. Sven was dragged down, pinned beneath the hand of the skull-masked rider. Around him, the warriors that had gathered scattered, and with them, all courage broke.
The haunting figure spoke, his voice deep and vengeful, carrying across the market like a curse.
"I come for Kjartan, and for his son. Odin hungers for their souls."
The slavers fled. The captives pressed back, chains rattling. "Guthred, are you here!?"
For a moment, I hesitated. The priests had known this would come. Their faces showed no fear, and that told me enough. So I stepped forward from among the slaves.
"Are you Guthred?" one of the priests asked, shocked that I towered over him. I gave a single nod. "Yes… who are you?"
"I am Father Beocca, and this is Brother Trew. We need to get out of here. I'll explain later," He said in a hurry
Every nerve was on edge. Around us, the riders swung their torches, flames burning into canvas and timber, the market breaking into panic. The old priest with thinning hair stepped forward, a small knife in his hand. "Hold out your hands," he said. His voice was steady, though his eyes flicked to the Danes running to get to their horses. He struck at the iron once, twice, cursing under his breath when the blade slipped. On the fifth try, the shackle split, falling away with a sharp, ringing clatter.
"Get on the horse," the thin-haired priest ordered.
The riders cleared the way. The riders moved like spectres, cloaks ragged, bodies gaunt, eyes bright beneath the bone-white masks. The priest, robes travel-worn and mud-streaked, his round face calm but determined. We have been moving for hours now. We rode for hours, northward.
The lead horseman was the first to dismount, pulling away the skull mask to bare his face. He stood with the easy poise of a fighter. He was the tallest among them, save for me by a head, but there was a sharpness about him that no size could best. His frame was lean and hard. His hair, long and dark, was tied back, with loose strands falling about his face. Across his back hung a sword, the hilt with an amber pendant jutting above his shoulder.
A priest came to a halt beside me. "Guthred," he said quietly, "King Alfred sent us. Your sister petitioned him."
I blinked, stunned. How had she convinced a king to send men for me? "My sister… is she safe?" My voice betrayed the worry I tried to keep in check.
The priest shook his head slightly, a faint smile touching his lips. "Truthfully, I do not know. I have never met her. But she waits in Carlisle with Abbot Eadred. Where you are to be crowned king."
"Me, King?" I said, a laugh almost escaping me. But then I thought. Why else would they risk this? I have no silver or men; it was all taken by Kjartan. If what this priest said was true, I could raise an army overnight and take everything that Kjartan has.
Beocca's eyes held mine, steady. "It was shown to Abbot Eadred," he said quietly. "St. Cuthbert appeared to him in a vision. He named you, Guthred Hardacnutsson, king of Northumbria. A sign, lord, though its meaning is in God's hands, not ours. Come, we are taking you to your hall."
A hall to call my own that thought set my blood stirring. It could give me everything I wanted, men at my command, silver, power. All at once within reach, and most importantly, my revenge against Kjartan. But I knew it would not be so simple. Saxon lords and Danish jarls would not bow because a priest dreamed. Some might bend for their own safety, yet most would not. I would have to bind men to me, by silver, by loyalty, or by force. Only once the north answered to me could I turn my hand on Kjartan.