As Einar went south, Affreca was taken north. It took two days to ride from Jorvik to the monastic settlement that was to be her prison. She travelled in the back of a waggon with the other nuns while eight armed warriors rode alongside, their purpose both to deter any would-be attackers and also to stop anyone in the waggon with plans to run away.
There were ten nuns in all. One of them, a Saxon woman called Osgyth, sported a black eye and a bruise to the side of her cheek. That was Affreca’s work. When Einar had turned her down, she knew she would have to get the Raven Banner herself. She had observed the troop of nuns crossing the city to visit the Kings Gard in Jorvik the morning before. Seeing the long hoods they wore, even when inside, the plan had come to her for how she might get into Kings Gard. The next morning, as the procession of nuns weaved its usual way through the narrow streets of the city, their heads bowed to avoid the worldly sights that surrounded them, Affreca pulled the last nun into an alley, knocked her on the head and took her clothes. That nun had been Osgyth.
She could not have picked a worse person to hit.
Osgyth, it turned out, was some sort of leader of the nuns. She was a few winters older than the others and the young women all deferred to her. From the speed they jumped to obey her barked orders it was clear she was someone they both respected and feared. As the waggon rocked and bumped its way along the old Roman road, the occasional looks she shot in Affreca’s direction left her in no doubt that Osgyth was the sort who nurtured a grudge the way some folk nurture pet kittens. Still, Affreca felt no real fear of the woman. Princess or not, her step-mother had beaten her many times. Her own father had tried to kill her. She had already knocked this woman out once. If she wanted to give her another go, well that was her choice.
Affreca also found out she was not the only prisoner.
There was a very small, dark haired nun who was not from the same order as the others. Her name was Eithne and she explained she was from the land of the Scots. From the nuns’ discussions, Affreca learned that there was some sort of dispute between the Christians as to how best to worship their God. Eithne had been sent south by her nunnery to learn how the Saxon Christians did their rituals. Now war loomed between the Aenglish and the Scots and she was as much a hostage as Affreca.
There was also another woman who was perhaps seventeen or eighteen winters. She kept her mouth shut and avoided the eyes of the others. Unlike Affreca’s lean, almost starved features, the other woman’s cheeks were slightly plump and she had eyes like a doe, the sort that, Affreca knew, when combined with a glimpse of the deep valley between the ample cleavage of her chest, could turn men’s knees to water. Her clothes were simple and without decoration but Affreca was a daughter of a king and could spot the cost of the material they were made from. This woman was no poor cowherd’s daughter, going into a nunnery to escape the poverty of her family’s hovel. Like Affreca, her head was not shorn. Instead her long hair was bound behind her. It was so black that Affreca assumed she was Irish.
‘What’s your name?’ Affreca said in the tongue of the Gaels.
The confused look the other woman returned told Affreca she was wrong about her origins.
‘No talking!’ Osgyth ordered in the tongue of the Saxons. ‘Especially you two.’
Affreca exchanged glances with the black-haired woman and shrugged. She considered punching Osgyth, just to see what the woman would do, but realised there was little to be gained. With the armed riders alongside the waggon there was little chance of escape anyway. She would just have to bide her time until a better opportunity arose.
As the night approached, they stopped in a burgh. Affreca could see the hungry looks in the eyes of the warriors of the garrison at the sight of the young women. This changed when their commander ordered them to give up their warm beds in the barrack house to the nuns. As they trooped outside to put up tents, the only looks they shot in the nuns’ direction were surly with resentment.
The nuns each took one of the wooden, straw cots that the warriors usually slept in. With some foreboding, Affreca could tell from the looks of excited delight on some of their faces that even these basic beds were a lot more comfortable than they were used to.
‘Sisters,’ Osgyth barked. ‘Every one of us must take out half the straw from our bed. I don’t want any of you getting distracted by luxury and forgetting your vows.’
Affreca sat on her bed as she watched the nuns dutifully begin scooping out the comfortable, fresh straw from their cots and dumping it on the floor.
‘Did you not hear me, Dane?’ Osgyth said, striding over to Affreca. The nun towered over Affreca, fists bunched on her hips. ‘That means you too. Perhaps you do not understand civilised language?’
Affreca looked up at Osgyth.
‘I understand your tongue fine,’ she said. ‘But I see no need to do what you say. I am not one of your religious fanatics. I am Affreca Guthfrithsdottir, daughter of the King of Dublin. I’m not stupid enough to willingly make my bed more uncomfortable than it already is.’
Osgyth glared at her. She clenched and unclenched her fists. Her cheeks flushed red as she gritted her teeth.
‘You will do what I say, Dane,’ she said in a voice that sounded almost strangled. ‘By Christ’s holy name you will.’
With that she turned on her heel and left the dormitory.
Affreca smirked.
‘You’ve done it now,’ the black-haired young woman said. She had taken the bed beside Affreca and like the nuns she was lifting straw out of hers. She spoke the Saxon tongue but with an odd, lilting accent as if she was singing. ‘She’s a right bitch that one.’
‘I don’t care,’ Affreca said. ‘What can a nun do to me?’
‘So you’re Irish, then?’ the other woman said.
‘Norse Irish,’ Affreca replied. Her voice had a sharpness to it. ‘You’re no Saxon either. What are you doing here?’
‘My name is Angharad ferch Hywel,’ the dark-haired woman said. ‘Ferch in our tongue means daughter of.’
Affreca could tell from her tone of voice that she was supposed to be impressed by this name. There was indeed a Hywel she knew of.
‘Is that Hywel ap Cadell, King of the Welsh?’ Affreca said.
‘Yes,’ Angharad said. ‘And he’s King of the Britons. Welsh is a Saxon word. Do you know what it means? To the Aenglish the word means foreigner. Can you believe that?’
‘So you’re a king’s daughter too?’ Affreca said.
‘I am,’ Angharad said. Then her voice became bitter. ‘You’ll know that isn’t much of an honour. What are we? No more than gaming pieces our fathers use. We are factors in alliances. Peace cows to be married off to resolve a war with another kingdom, then nothing but stock for breeding another king’s sons.’
Affreca smiled. ‘If only my father were so nice. So that’s why you’re joining these nuns? To get away from a forced marriage?’
‘No!’ Angharad said. ‘You think I wouldn’t want to run my own court? Aethelstan of Wessex calls himself King of all the Aenglish people and he wants to be Emperor of all Britain. He’s preparing to lead an army against the Scots, the Picts and the other kingdoms of the north. My father has pledged to support him.’
Affreca frowned. ‘I thought you said your father was already King of Britain? Why would he support Aethelstan then?’
Angharad smiled. Affreca was not sure she liked the way Angharad’s expression suggested she was explaining something simple to a child.
‘My father is King of the Britons, yes,’ she said. ‘The people called the Britons. We still have territory where we Cymry live free. Aethelstan, alas, rules most of the land called Britain. He has demanded support from the other most powerful kings. He’s made it clear that anyone not with him will be regarded as against him. My father, shall we say, knows what side of his bread is buttered. He has pledged his support and will march north with his warriors as part of Aethelstan’s army. The trust of the King of the Aenglish only goes so far, though. He demanded a hostage to ensure my father’s loyalty. That’s why I am here.’
‘At least your father is on Aethelstan’s side,’ the Scots woman, Eithne said from nearby. ‘Mine will be fighting with Constantine of Scotland.’
‘When will this war start?’ Affreca asked.
‘Perhaps it already has,’ the Welsh woman shrugged. ‘Aethelstan was gathering his army near Jorvik. My father was the last to arrive as far as I was aware. He delivered me as a hostage then rode to join his men and the rest of the army. They were to march north straight away.’
Affreca was about to speak when the door of the room crashed open. All the women in the room turned to see two burly warriors clad in leather and mail, helmets on. Behind them, eyes blazing, came Osgyth.
‘Seize her!’ Osgyth screeched, pointing a long bony finger at Affreca. Affreca sprang to her feet but it was too late. The warriors were already on her. One grabbed her by the left wrist. She lashed out, driving her foot hard into the other warrior’s crotch. It was Affreca who cried out though. A stab of pain shot through her toes as they struck his mail breeches and the padded leather beneath. Trying to ignore the pain, she clawed at the face of the warrior holding her left wrist. He shouted in fear as much as pain as Affreca’s nails raked his cheek and probed for his eye.
The second warrior grabbed Affreca’s hand and hauled it away from his comrade’s face. He drove a fist into her stomach, forcing the breath from her lungs and doubling her over. Both arms now held firm by the warriors, she sagged between them, gasping as she tried to get her breath back.
‘Get her up,’ Osgyth said.
Affreca felt herself being hauled upright by the warriors holding her upper arms. She raised her head and saw Osgyth standing before her, teeth bared in a vicious grin. With a loud slap, the nun whipped the back of her hand across Affreca’s face.
‘You will do what I tell you, Dane,’ Osgyth said. ‘You will.’
She hit Affreca again and again, striking one cheek then the other. Affreca tasted the iron flavour of blood in her mouth. Then Osgyth bent and scooped all the straw from Affreca’s bed, dumping it on the floor.
‘Get rid of it,’ she ordered one of the other nuns who rushed to gather handfuls of straw and throw them out the door. When they were done, Osgyth struck Affreca once more across the face, this time so hard Affreca saw the world dissolve into stars for a moment. Her knees gave way and if the warriors were not holding her up, she would have fallen to the floor.
Osgyth retreated to the doorway. The two warriors holding Affreca threw her to the ground. One swung a kick into her gut then they sauntered out of the room.
‘I’m locking the door,’ Osgyth said. ‘It’s to make sure you are all safe with those men outside. Also in case any of you think you can escape.’
She left, the door clunked shut, followed by the sound of the key rattling in the lock.
Affreca lay on the floor for a few moments, trying to catch her breath. Her stomach ached and it sounded like someone was whistling in both her ears. Then she dragged herself over to her bed and collapsed on the hard wood of its now bare boards.
‘Osgyth used to be an important noblewoman,’ one of the other nuns whispered to her from her own bed. ‘The Danes killed her husband and she had to become a nun.’
Affreca did not reply. She stared at the roof thinking what to do. If Osgyth was driven by hatred then she would make sure every moment of Affreca’s life from now on was misery. Ulrich and the Wolf Coat crew would be headed for Jorvik, expecting her to be there with the location of the Raven Banner. Einar was presumably somewhere on the whale road to Ireland.
One way or another, she had to escape.