Ambrose, Prince of Wessex; Trader of Kiev., Page 3

  It was as the royal Weapons-Master talked that Ambrose for the first time became aware of the fact that none of the other prisoners were talking. Instead, they all seemed to be looking at him and Phillip with pleading eyes. They seemed pathetically hopeful that these two noblemen could somehow solve their problems.

  The looks of desperation cut Ambrose deeply. Once again he remembered that, to these villagers, he was the king's representative. As an atheling, he was so far above their status that they were normally afraid to even talk to him. Shame for his ineffectiveness and humiliation for his own plight filled him. He bowed his head forward until it was resting on his knees, and there he sat, mute with despair.

  Phillip, seeing the disinclination of his young charge to talk further, slipped into a state of apathy himself.

  CHAPTER 4.

  Ambrose and Phillip Help to Fight the Savage Storm.

  Ambrose's head slipped from his knees, and the sudden motion jerked him awake. He realized that he had been dozing and was disoriented for a moment. The hard deck and the rope around his neck quickly reminded him, however, just where he was.

  He looked for the shoreline of his beloved island. No land was visible! Ambrose cast frightened glances in all directions, and finally noted, far to the stern, a tiny touch of purple-haze that separated the dark waters of the sea from the vast vault of blue sky. His heart started hammering in his chest. Although near to sunset, the prince realized that the insane pagans were heading out directly onto the unknown sea!

  Never in his life out of sight of land, Ambrose was terrified by this new event. The route the Angles, Saxons and Jutes had used from time immemorial was to sail east or south, until Europe and Angleland were both visible. At this point, crossings were customarily made. Starting early in the day ensured that the far shore was reached before darkness. Further, all vessels were beached or anchored for the night. No sane captain travelled the dangerous island waters after sunset.

  The rumour then, that these people sailed directly across great stretches of water, seemed to really be true! In Ambrose's mind he had always known this, for how else did these pagans attack the islands far to the north even of the Scots and Picts? How else did they arrive unseen on the Angle, Saxon and Jute shores, in spite of thousands of watchful sentries and signal fires prepared all along the coast?

  Although intellectually it was a concept simple to grasp, the sheer bravado of it struck Ambrose hard. From the Meon river valley, it might be several days journey to the Continent.

  Even as the momentary panic sent adrenaline coursing through his body, however, Ambrose's mind flicked along a checklist of potential consequences. The list started with fear of unknown terrestrial creatures and lands, and ended with sudden visions of the Viking vessel being attacked by a ravenous sea-monster. A great gaping mouth was poised just below the ship, while great tentacles held the ship high above the water. One by one, the crew slid into the gaping maw, while the chain of captives dangled from the ship like a broken necklace.

  A great fire roared in his bed-chamber, and Ambrose felt relaxed and secure in his father's palace. The sheets were of silk, and he lay buried under a pile of the finest wool blankets. A sudden lurch of the vessel forced Ambrose's mind to cease its random associative chains of thought. His mind returned reluctantly to reality.

  The ship had heeled when the breeze mischievously changed its angle of pressure on the sail. Behind the ship's stern, a great fiery orb of molten gold was sliding into the sea. The clouds above reflected some of the glory, and the celestial colours varied from a sombre grey to gorgeous reds and orange. Directly astern of the ship, a long simmering trail of gold was visible in the water, stretching back to the sun. Surely, thought Ambrose, that trail will link me with my homeland, now so far away. He prayed that the intangible connection would one day lead him home again.

  With a minimum of shouted orders, the crew shipped their oars for the last time that night, and the ship's travels became dependent upon the massive square sail and the steering-crew who patiently held the massive steering-oar that was attached to the ship near the stern.

  Spent, the rest of the crew lay where they had worked for much of the day; on the open deck. Soon only the sleeping crew and one lad, who had spent most of the day staring at the captives, remained awake. The boy continued to faithfully watch over his charges.

  Once it was dark, Ambrose carefully felt the ropes with his fingers. He could easily loose the slip knot. But if he did, what could he do? Not more than a few body-lengths away, on all sides, dozed a score or more of work and battle-hardened warrior-sailors. While their swords were secured in their oak chests, yet all wore knives on their belt. Any one of them, so armed, was capable of easily killing an unarmed boy. Ambrose decided to follow the lead of both the sailors and the other captives, and lay back in the hope sleep would reclaim him. .

  With the sea calm, there was little seasickness among the prisoners. The only sounds, other than the occasional creaking of ropes and wood rubbing against wood, was some snoring, and the occasional whispering or gentle sobs of his fellow captives.

  Ambrose lay on his back and idly looked skyward. There, a vast array of glittering gems were encased in deepest black. Ever so gently, the myriad stars shifted, first to one side, then to the other. A few hid momentarily behind the towering mast. Ambrose idly wondered if the day's events were enough to rouse the heavens to such movement, but he knew all the time that the vessel simply never ceased rocking. Gradually the black velvet of the heavens closed in around his mind, and he escaped again into temporary oblivion.

  Two days passed thus, relatively uneventfully. On the third day, however, strong winds arose. The large square-sail was lowered, and a small storm sail was hoisted in its place. Again and again Ambrose marvelled at the carpentry skills that had made the long-ships so sturdy. The clinker construction meant that a severe pounding of the hull merely meant a great groaning as one oaken board slipped slightly over another. Instead of being unable to give, and therefore breaking, the boards of the ship were thin enough that they could flex. The worst that a terrible pounding did was to force out some caulking and allow sea-water to penetrate into the hull.

  At the worst of the storm, several of the captives were ordered by curt gestures to bail out the ship's bilges. Ambrose was handed a wooden bucket, and he hurried to join the others already dumping water over the side.

  The wind increased steadily until even the storm sail split under the pressure. The rowers were all sent to the oars in a desperate attempt at keeping the ship from turning broadside to the waves. Their companion ship was long gone from sight, and now all the terrified captives, ill as they were from repeated bouts of sea-sickness, worked feverishly to bail out the bilges with the wooden buckets.

  Even as Ambrose scuttled to the side of the ship to dump a pail of sea-water back into the ocean, a freak wave rose suddenly and smote one of the oar-banks unexpectedly. While one rower was lifted bodily and thrown overboard, another received the full force of the transferred energy on his jaw. Although the sound of the striking oar-handle couldn't be heard over the banshee howling of the wind, Ambrose saw the rower sail high and then fall back onto his rowing chest. By the unnatural angle of his neck, it was clear that he would never again see his loved ones or tread the paths to his home village.

  Without thinking, Ambrose slipped from his neck-rope and raced to the oar. He strained mightily and was finally able to draw it in before its frantic thrashing could entangle the oars of the other rowers and break the rhythm of the strokes. Ambrose did not need to be told that the oars alone kept the ship from turning broadside to the waves and instantly turning turtle. He had seen already that even three strong men leaning on the steering-oar could not singlehandedly control the direction of the wildly heaving ship.

  Ambrose had the presence of mind, once he pulled the long oar in and laid it on the deck, to grab a coiled rope from a cache on deck and race to the stern with it. The man, however, had been swe
pt far astern of the ship within seconds. In the short time it took Ambrose to subdue the oar, the man had been lost to sight. Clearly, there was no hope for a rescue.

  With a sudden, almost contemptuous gesture, the sea hurled another rogue wave down the length of the entire ship. One man mis-stroked, and the entire starboard oar bank became tangled.

  An intolerable weight of water struck the mess, and massive oars shattered like campfire kindling in a giant's hand. Several more sailors suffered terrible blows from the flailing oars, and a couple of them fell unconscious onto the deck.

  Inexorably, the bow of the ship began to turn broadside to the waves. No ship, of whatever construction, could long survive a broadside position.

  Ambrose desperately crawled back to where he had pulled in the oar and thrust it back out. He heaved on the heavy oar, trying to match his puny strength against that of the elemental forces.

  With a roar that could be heard over even the wind and waves, Phillip struggled to his side. Near the free end of the coffle, he had nevertheless to drag with him two terrified men and a woman. They slid helplessly across the deck in his wake. Ignoring the protests and panic-stricken pummelling of the three people in front, he reached the oar, and the two Saxons started rowing desperately.

  Several Vikings recovered. They and the officers raced to unlash spare oars and push them out to replace the broken and lost ones. From the other side of the vessel came several more crewmen, and slowly, grudgingly, the ship turned away from the wind until it was once again running cleanly before the storm.

  All that day, and well into the night, Phillip and Ambrose, occasionally spelled by Phillip's coffle mates, rowed steadily and desperately. They rowed until their hands were raw and their muscles screamed for mercy from the unaccustomed labour.

  After an eternity, the wind dropped. As suddenly as it had come, the wind left them and the sea gradually calmed.

  Everyone aboard ship dropped to the decks and slept as though drugged. For several turns of an hourglass, there were no slaves or masters aboard ship; only survivors.

  CHAPTER 5.

  A Frisian Port is Reached.

  "Land ho!"

  The cry woke both captors and captives. Ambrose, still physically exhausted, yet raised his head in curiosity. The ship floated serenely off a low and sandy shore. Immediately the ship's crew sighted the land, they manned their oars. Under the captain's direction, the ship turned to the north and paralleled the coast.

  Within hours the comatose captives saw the first signs of civilization. The crew started to cheer up as occasional tufts of smoke indicated small hamlets on the shore. The ship, still without its companion vessel, coursed smoothly between the many islands. Several times they passed large vessels. Some had much higher sides and no provision for oars; obviously true merchantmen. While the long-ship's crew ignored the great clumsy vessels, yet they posted lookouts high up the mast, with instructions to look for both their missing companion ship and also for any hostile craft.

  When the first ship had passed, Ambrose turned to his faithful companion. "Phillip, what strange land is this we have come to?"

  A portly man, next to Phillip on the chain, took it upon himself to reply.

  "My lud, 'tis the land o' the Frisians. See them little islands?' At that he pointed a dirt-encrusted finger at the low sandy isles past which the ship was sailing.

  ''Tis the land of the folk who used to come to our village to trade for the wool of our sheep. 'Tis the same kind of ships I see tied up, and they telled us of their sandy and flat lands. But, my lud, 'tis many years since they last landed on our shores."

  Ambrose nodded thanks for this information. He looked around at his fellow captives. He felt a new and curious kinship with these simple people of the plough. After all, his own mother, for all her royal ancestry, had been a British slave who had been taken and used by a Saxon king. Ambrose had been born to a slave and a king.

  Ambrose's curiosity was completely satisfied when, towards dark, the ship rounded a headland. There, spread out before them in all directions, lay one of the trading emporiums of Europe. Even Ambrose, young as he was, had heard of the great trading centre of the Frisians, Wyk te Duurstede, and had no doubt that this was it. He had heard that this town of wooden buildings, some of which soared to four stories above the ground, was the nexus of a great commercial empire.

  To Ambrose, however, the town also had a more sinister connotation. This was one of the cities that traded any goods gathered from mystical Byzantium to the Northern lands of perpetual snow. Ambrose shivered. He knew also that Wyk te Duurstede specialized in a single commodity - slaves!

  The battered long-ship slid past the breakwater and into the harbour proper. The ship found a haven near a small covey of similar vessels; all Viking pirates by the long and lean shape of the ships. Ambrose stared at the lines of gaily coloured shields that hung along the relatively low waists of each vessel. Although it was no surprise to Ambrose after the terrible storm, he noted that their companion ship was not amongst the anchored vessels. Ambrose idly wondered if they would ever see it again.

  Nearby, three Frisian merchantmen swung at anchor, and a large number of Frankish galleys were moored near the breakwater. Even more interesting, a group of frail-looking ships in the inner harbour were manned by turbaned men who wore hugely baggy pants. The crew were all of a swarthy complexion, but a few seemed to have been burned black by exposure to some giant sun.

  Ambrose, in spite of his predicament, was fascinated by this great metropolis where men of so many lands seemed to meet in peace and for trade. His only concern was that his captors might decide that he should be some of the merchandise they haggled over.

  For some reason the sight of the strange craft appeared to cheer the captain greatly. He was a tall man, with his long blond hair tied in two pig-tails. The man emerged from his re-installed deck-shelter dressed in splendid finery. He ordered several crewmen to unlash the skiff, a double-ended shell of some eighteen foot-lengths. Willing hands lowered it into the calm water, and, with its three pairs of oars, it fairly skipped across the ripples towards the quays where many other ship's boats were tied. Once again the young armed Viking appeared at the captives' side, and the ropes were carefully replaced around their necks.

  The crew, except for waves at the brash women on the quay, lay in the warm sun, and relaxed as sailors do, splicing ropes and swapping tales of bravery and treachery. Ambrose already was vaguely able to follow some of what was being said. His learned tutor had told him once that Ambrose's father's ancestors had come from Germany, and that they, though good and true Christians, were kin to both the Danes and the Frisians. Indeed, the language did seem to have many similarities and Ambrose's quick mind and good memory was able to fill in many of the gaps in understanding the sailors' conversations.

  Ambrose glanced at Phillip. The giant Saxon warrior lay mute and glum on the deck near Ambrose. Ambrose was concerned. "Old friend, you do not wish to look at the great city?"

  Phillip touched the slave collar. "I have visions of my beloved Matilda and my precious daughters. They are far away and I wear this damned collar. Prince, we may soon be parcelled out, and that could mean we will be separated forever. My king entrusted me with you, and I have failed in my task."

  Ambrose spoke. "We are alive, Weapons-master, and where there is life, there is hope."

  Phillip slipped back into his despondency, and Ambrose just continued to watch all the activity. Shortly before sunset, Ambrose noticed the tall figure of the captain, towering even in this land of tall and blond people, stroll to the wharf-side. With him walked a darker figure. At the distance, even Ambrose's keen eyes couldn't make out subtle distinctions. He could see, however, that the man was swarthy and wore a green turban. As the captain's boat scuttled back towards the long-ship, the other man's boat moved towards one of the strange and seemingly fragile vessels, which Ambrose had earlier thought looked out of place amongst the sturdy ships of the Northern seas.<
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  The crew proceeded to change into fresh clothes. Several, to the prisoners' surprise, dove overboard naked into the freezing waters before dressing. Finally dressed to their own satisfaction, and carrying coins metered out carefully by their captain, they were ferried ashore group by group. At last only eight crewmen and an officer, well armed and alert, remained on board. With the sounds and smells of gaiety so close at hand, the bonds of slavery never chaffed Ambrose as much as they did that night.

  The remaining crewmen assigned to stay on board were now aloof and short-tempered. They grudgingly fed the prisoners dried fish and biscuits; monotonous fare for everyone. The crew themselves took great pains to buy several plucked chickens from a passing boat vendor. They set up a cook fire in the sand-pit amidships; a dangerous practise that the captain had forbidden during their voyaging upon the open sea.

  The aromas of this repast struck Ambrose, and wafted his mind back to the great house where he was a prince; a master amongst many minions and servants, his every wish a command. Now, he thought, looking down at his torn and grimy rags, he felt the part of a farm animal, less than human, and certainly of less value than a good horse. His own father's many estates had been partly maintained by slaves, and Ambrose had never before considered how they had felt. Hard work had merited a curt nod, and slackness had merited painful punishment.

  Of course, he reminded himself, his father's slaves had all been heathen, for Mother Church did not condone a traffic in Christians. Nevertheless, Ambrose began to develop a distinct aversion to the whole idea of one man owning another's body.

  With self-pity welling up within him, the prince reached out mutely for Phillip's arms. Embraced there, like a little child, he lay still. The gentle motion of the ship gradually relaxed him, until at last he fell asleep.