Free Pit of Vipers (Sons of Kings Book 2) by Millie Thom Page A

great to bear. ‘My life is over; I’m resigned to the idea of death – whatever means that fool king has chosen. Mistakes I’ve made can’t be undone. Nor do I seek forgiveness for them; I did what I thought right at the time. Captives taken in battle or raids lose all rights, save those bestowed upon them by their masters.’ He raised a finger at Eadwulf. ‘And you became the property of my son. If Bjorn freed you, then there’s no fault on your part.’
    The heavy door swung open. ‘Time’s up,’ the sentry ordered, beckoning Eadwulf and Olaf outside. ‘If you’re here before noon tomorrow you can follow the procession to where the execution will take place. We expect quite a crowd.’
    *****
    As noon approached, a hissing mob hovered round the prison, tempers fired by the liberal intake of ale since mid-morning. Eadwulf and Olaf were shoved and crushed as they waited in their midst, desperate to be seen by Ragnar, assure him his death would be witnessed by people who knew him. A loud fanfare rang out and a company of armed men moved in to drive back the protesting crowd, enabling the king and queen to reach the prison door.
    Mounted on near-matching grey geldings, the couple’s crimson cloaks were adorned with jewelled brooches; neckbands and finger rings flashed in the sunlight. On their heads sat golden circlets, Idona’s perched daintily around the flowing white veil that covered her pale hair. She beamed at the gaping crowds, clearly unaware that most of York’s inebriated poor viewed this flagrant display of wealth with unreserved contempt. But Aelle quickly assessed the crowd’s mood and, eager to direct the object of its animosity elsewhere, he raised a jewelled hand.
    Ragnar was hauled through the prison door, averting his eyes from the assault of unaccustomed sunlight. Eadwulf’s pity almost choked him and Olaf cursed. Ragnar had been denied the dignity of meeting his god in the apparel of the great chieftain he was. Only a pair of knee-length breeches covered his otherwise naked body and even his boots had been removed. The mob went wild, baying and mocking, and bombarding him with broken pieces of building stones – until one of the guards was hit, and the activity rapidly curtailed.
    Aelle and Idona urged their greys into motion, skirting the royal palace on its north-west side, the great minster looming ahead. Two mounted guards jerked the long chains attached to Ragnar’s manacled wrists and dragged him along behind them. He stumbled frequently as sharp stones cut into his bare feet, the crowd’s jeers rising as the chains yanked him on and his knees scraped along the ruined Roman cobbles. Olaf’s low groans went unheard by all but Eadwulf.
    Behind the palace they reached an open area of crumbled ruins, overlooked by the commanding minster. A low, circular wall, perhaps fifteen feet in diameter, stood in the centre, patrolled by extra guards. Olaf gripped Eadwulf’s arm. In this bleak, dilapidated place, the life of the jarl and priest of Odin would end; a place where the Christian god could glower down from his sacred place as a pagan life was forfeited in his name.
    By a gap in the circular wall the royal couple dismounted and the jarl was hauled before them. Horses were led away and the crowds fanned round, all jostling for a better view. Aelle waited with ill-concealed impatience, and Eadwulf and Olaf inched as close to Ragnar as the guards would allow, so gaining their first view of the deep pit inside the wall. Approximately ten feet wide and fifteen feet deep, the cavity was rimmed by a narrow ledge. Ragnar registered their presence and turned to stare calmly into the pit, as though merely considering an interesting situation. Eadwulf’s respect for the proud jarl soared.
    ‘So, jarl , you’ve come to the end of your days,’ Aelle said, his lips curling back in a sneer as Ragnar was thrust to his knees. ‘And I can’t even say you’ll be missed.’ His arm swept the now