‘I’m not sure I know what you mean by political,’ I replied, dragging my ale-sodden wits together, ‘but she speaks her mind Lord, and ’tis perilous to stop her.’
It was the right answer. Harold boomed with laughter, and Valla gave me a genuine smile – the first time ever, and I felt a warmth.
‘The Lord protect us from wise women,’ laughed Harold. ‘The Lady Valla reminds me of my own Lady Swanneshals, who will join us at table.’
‘The Lady Valla,’ I whispered, smiling at her, but her own smile faded and she said to Harold, ‘Are you political Lord?’
‘What man is not?’ asked Tostig, answering for his brother. ‘But I know what I would do with a political woman young Brand … give her something else to think about. Some sons perhaps?’
Most of the men laughed, and I found myself saying, ‘Valla hopes for a daughter.’
‘A daughter, Lady Valla?’ asked Harold.
‘Yes Lord,’ she replied, and at that moment, the room temperature changed again as all marked a new presence in the doorway – a woman – tall and comely, with long blond hair and dressed in white samite with a silver bodice.
‘Eadgifu!’ announced Harold. ‘My Lady Swanneshals … come meet our guests and neighbours, from Stybbor.’
And so I first beheld the beautiful Swanneshals – daughter of Danes and married to Harold more danico – a union regarded as honourable among men but unbinding by the church, which is why Carl had suggested it to Valla as useful for her predicament.
‘You were discussing motherhood?’ enquired Swanneshals, gliding towards us but with eyes only for Valla – the only other woman in the room. ‘But surely this wife is yet young to bear children.’
Valla blushed, embarrassed by the attention, as Swanneshals examined her and continued, ‘For a young woman, motherhood is akin to heaven. We all want to get there … but not yet.’
The men all laughed, admiring her wit.
‘As I was just saying, my Lady Swanneshals,’ said Harold, ‘the Lord protect us from wise women.’
‘We are perilous,’ agreed Swanneshals, ‘but more tragic yet it is to go through life without a partner of whom one is worthy.’
There were some tight smiles but also frowns as her words were digested. She seemed to be staring at me, as though her words had special meaning for me personally and I felt an awe, as though she had been an invisible presence during my conversation with Valla on the same subject. The ale seemed to be surging again in my head and I resolved to speak as little as possible in order to retain the dignity I knew I was in danger of losing – although it was hard to seem undignified in the company of Tostig, who threw his arm around my shoulders and shouted to the room, ‘Six men he would take on, when we met him! Six! And two of them Godwinsons! Not yet fifteen but this Brand is already a warrior after my own heart and together we shall slay thousands!’
I was in my element among the warriors (despite never having slain anyone), and held myself tall as my bones and sinews would allow. Despite my youth, I was already taller than some of the retainers and seemed to understand for the first time that I might grow to be a large man. Certainly my dead brother Gram had been tall, and Holgar also had been large and well muscled. I joined eagerly into the drinking and the boisterous conversation but was aware of Swanneshals leading Valla by the hand to an alcove with divans either side of a window made of many glass panels, which flickered red in the light of the hearth. There were rushes on the stone floor and many candles about the room giving a strange but cheerful glow to proceedings. The other men, retainers and warriors for the most part, were already quite drunk and boasting of their various exploits. The petty skirmish of the day was soon forgotten as they passed on to more honourable and close-fought battles against Danes and others of whom I’d never heard.
‘The Danes are few and scattered these days,’ said Harold, ‘which is one of the things that makes Brand’s tale so curious. We are entertained more regularly by the Welsh.’
‘The Welsh?’ I echoed thickly. ‘Who are the Welsh?’
‘Sheepfuckers!’ shouted Tostig. ‘The Welsh are a race of sheepfuckers who live in the west … and Gruffydd ap Llewelyn is their king. King Sheepfucker!’
‘All hail King Sheepfucker!’ roared Hereborn, one of Tostig’s men and somehow it seemed like the funniest thing I’d ever heard. My head whirled with delirious mirth and I felt my lungs and guts would explode trying to get all the laughter out. Tostig also was purple-faced once again, with tears rolling down his cheeks. Only Harold seemed to be unaffected by either ale or laughter, but he smiled at the mood of the men.
‘Fond of sheep they may be,’ he said, ‘but they fight well, and ’tis perilous to go into their marches unprepared. They will not show themselves in numbers but raid camps in the night, ambush stragglers and shoot shafts from thickets to take brave men in the van. So tell me Brand … how do you fight an enemy that will not openly fight?’
‘Make them fight,’ I said, without thinking. ‘Go where they have no choice and burn their homes … as the Danes do.’
Carl glared at me, tight-lipped with disapproval, but most of the men growled their agreement.
‘That must be the final resort,’ agreed Olwin, ‘but if you are to rule these people Lord, I would have them love you … not hate you and swear revenge.’
‘Rule?’ I echoed drunkenly, as a servant refilled my cup, and once again I sensed the hidden violence in the room. ‘Doesn’t the king rule?’
But at that moment a bell rang at the end of the hall, and the fat chamberlain bowed to Harold, announcing that meat was now set on the boards.
∞ ∞ ∞
We were seated at three large tables, and I was honoured to sit with Harold and Tostig, but disappointed that Valla and the Lady Swanneshals were seated separately with Carl.
The food was like a wedding feast – rich and varied – with hot, fragrant loaves, thick cuts of pork and beef, game pies, eels and duck. There was salt, for those who desired it, and herbs steeped in broths of pease, grain and chicken bones. Then there were honey cakes and a sharp, pleasant cheese.
And ale. Ale was poured constantly into the wooden cup by my right hand, although some of the men were now drinking a wine like blood from goblets fashioned of dark metal. It was incredible that I could be so full, accepted and content just days after the slaughter of my family, then the flight and famine and somehow I understood that it was the acceptance more than the ale that was responsible for my happy mood. With Harold’s support, my revenge on Malgard seemed a formality.
But through my drunken haze I was slightly troubled by Olwin’s words. ‘Doesn’t the king rule?’ I had asked, stupidly speaking my thoughts aloud. And Harold had agreed, ‘Yes Brand … the king rules.’
Amid all the laughter and tumult, I found myself staring at him – a tall, strong and handsome man. Kingly he seemed, yet not the king.
‘Lord Harold,’ I asked, aware that I was possibly trespassing on delicate ground, but heedless under the influence of ale. ‘How does one become king when not the son of the king?’
There were some surprised glances about the table, and suddenly the room was silent.
‘One must have the favour of the witan,’ said Olwin. ‘Even the son of a king cannot rule without the witan.’
I dimly knew from listening to my father and brother talking politics that the witan was a council of lords that met twice a year to discuss matters of importance to the realm, but Olwin seemed to accord them power concerning the king.
‘Lord Harold already has such favour,’ claimed Tostig, but Harold shook his head.
‘I have the favour