by Tony Bradman
‘Hear us, great Woden and Thunor,’ he chanted as the people looked on. ‘Hear us, spirits of the place where we have lived and died since before remembering. We give you these beasts in thanks, and beg you to wish us well as we cross the sea…’
Then the animals were brought forward one by one, and held steady by Beornath and several other men as Alfgar cut their throats, using the sacred seax that had been handed down from each chieftain to his son. He made sure the blood spurted on to the stone, and soon the slab was dark red and glistening, and the coppery smell of blood filled the glade. At last only the sheep was left, and Alfgar turned to Oslaf.
The chieftain held the handle of the sacred blade towards him. ‘Take the seax now and make the sacrifice for your mother,’ Alfgar said quietly. ‘And ask her to look after the spirits of the dead, those of our kin we leave behind in our homeland.’
Oslaf felt Widsith give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and he stepped forward, taking the knife from Alfgar. Beornath and Tovi held the sheep down for him, Tovi pulling back its head so its throat was ready for the blade. The creature’s eyes rolled in fear, but then Tovi crooned softly in its ear and it seemed to grow calm. Tovi glanced up and nodded, and Oslaf made the sacrifice quickly and cleanly.
‘Thus I keep my promise, Woden,’ he said. ‘Hear Alfgar’s words, Mother.’
A sudden breeze rustled through the tops of the trees, and somehow Oslaf knew it was his mother speaking to him from the Land of the Dead, telling him she would do as Alfgar had asked. Oslaf raised his eyes to the sky and thanked her in his heart.
When he looked down again he saw Wermund staring at him with a mocking smile. Oslaf smiled back, and thought – next time I won’t be such a fool. And he knew there definitely would be a next time. It was as if they were stuck in a war now, with neither of them able to back off or let their feelings go.
Oslaf had thwarted Wermund’s wishes, and he was going to Britannia, so there was bound to be more trouble between them.
The days seemed to pass quickly from then on, which was strange in the deepest part of winter. This was when people usually stayed indoors as much as they could, and did as little as they could too. But the tribe was getting ready to leave and their days were full. They cleared out store cupboards and filled chests with the things they wanted to take with them to Britannia, and put food aside for the journey. Hard decisions were made – who would be left behind, what animals they would take with them or slaughter, and many more. Alfgar told the blacksmith he would have to leave his anvil behind – it was far too heavy to carry with them.
One day Alfgar rode to the coast with Tovi and his hearth-companions, and struck a deal with a seafaring tribe. They agreed to take the Alfgaringas across the Frisian Sea to Britannia in their boats. But it would cost most of the gold and silver coins and other treasure that Alfgar had inherited from his father and acquired himself.
Oslaf was curious about the place they were going to, and he soon made it his business to find out as much about it as he could. It seemed the Britons had not been totally defeated. They had fought hard for their land, and still held on to most of it.
‘They nearly won too,’ Widsith said. ‘In the time of Alfgar’s father, the Britons had a great leader called Artos who fought many battles against us. Artos died, and the Britons argued with each other – which made them easier to beat. But they are strong and cunning, and Alfgar will surely have to take the war-trail against them.’
Oslaf felt a thrill at the thought of Alfgar riding out with his hearth-companions against the Britons, and dreamed of being one of them. He was determined to become a warrior, to find a place that would always be his, no matter what happened.
A small voice deep inside him wondered if he would succeed.
CHAPTER SIX
Taking the Whale’s Road
They set off on a cool, bright morning in early spring, a long column of people and ox-drawn wagons and herds and flocks all moving westwards. Alfgar rode at the front with Wermund and Tovi and a few of the hearth-companions, and the rest of them guarded the flanks and the rear. Elfritha and Gunnhild were in a wagon carrying the chests that contained the most important things from the hall, and Oslaf rode beside it.
At the top of the nearest hill he stopped to take one last look at the village. It already seemed small and distant and forlorn. The gates were wide open, and a few of the people who had been left behind stood watching the column as it moved away. Then a cloud passed over the sun and a shadow swallowed the hall and houses. Oslaf turned his back on the sight, and hurried to catch up with the rest of the tribe.
It took them ten days to reach the coast. They camped each night at dusk, forming the wagons into a defensive ring and making big fires for cooking and warmth. The weather stayed dry, and nothing much happened, except that an old woman died, a baby was born and three sheep were lost to wolves. When the column finally arrived at the coast, Widsith said it was a wonder they hadn’t lost many more animals.
‘We might lose plenty now though,’ Beornath muttered. He and Tovi had gone with Alfgar to talk to the chieftain of the coastal tribe in his hut by the sea. ‘The rogue is saying he wants our animals as well as the treasure or he won’t let us use his boats.’
A long day crept past as Alfgar haggled with the sea-chieftain, and then another day, but on the third morning things were settled – Alfgar gave up the animals. But they couldn’t have got them on the boats anyway – it turned out the sea-chieftain only had seven. As soon as he saw them, Oslaf knew that fitting in everyone and everything was going to be quite difficult. Each boat had twenty benches for the oarsmen provided by the sea-chieftain, and they took up a lot of the room on board.
The boats were drawn up on a long, windswept beach, and it took another day just to load them. At dawn the following morning the incoming tide lifted the boats off the sand and they finally got under way, the oars biting into the waves. Oslaf was in the leading boat, with Alfgar and his family and servants. The other boats were spread out behind, three on either side, and Oslaf found himself thinking again of the skeins of geese that flew south each autumn, honking their lonely farewell.
‘Now I wander the waves, I take the whale’s road,’ Widsith murmured. He and Oslaf were standing in the stern of the boat, beside the steersman, one of the sea-chieftain’s men. Widsith gripped the gunwale with both hands and raised his eyes to the sky, his hair streaming back in the breeze, his nostrils widening as he breathed deeply. ‘Sea salt on my lips, a storm to come, sadness at journey’s end…’
‘Hush, Widsith, such words are dangerous!’ said Oslaf. ‘What if the Norns hear you? They might think that sounds like a good idea and make it our wyrd.’
‘I’m sure the Norns listen to me all the time,’ said Widsith, smiling. ‘So they will know those words are from one of my poems, the “Tale of a Sad Seafarer”.’
‘Well then, you must tell me more of it,’ said Oslaf. ‘I like a good story.’
‘It is a fine tale, though I say so myself.’ Widsith’s smile broadened into a wolfish grin. ‘And don’t worry, you will hear plenty of my tales on this voyage. I was a seafarer in my youth, and I know this journey will take many days, and also that there won’t be much else for us to do… Although I was going to offer to teach you something of my craft. I have a feeling you might be interested to learn.’
Oslaf stared at Widsith for a moment, surprised yet again by the old man’s ability to see into his heart. It was true – he had been thinking it would be good to learn how Widsith made his poems. They were such wonderful creations – words brilliantly strung together to make amazing pictures in your mind, gripping tales that drew you in until you were desperate to know what could possibly happen next.
‘It is a fine offer,’ Oslaf said as the sunlight sparkled on the waves and the boat skimmed the water like a leaping dolphin. ‘And one I am happy to accept. I have a few stories I might be able to give you in return, tales my father told me.’
; ‘Ah, I think we’re going to get along very well on this voyage, Oslaf…’
The sea-chieftain’s men kept the boats close to the coast as they voyaged to the west. Oslaf liked the comforting sight of land always being on their left. He had often gone fishing with his father, so he knew just how dangerous the open sea could be. He was also used to the rolling motion of boats, but others were not so lucky. They spent most of their time moaning, groaning and throwing up into the waves.
Then one morning, Oslaf woke to see that the land was gone. The sky was grey with clouds, the air was filled with a fine rain and the only sound was the splashing of oars as they dipped in and out of the water. Oslaf looked one way and another, but there was no sign of any coast – the sea and sky merged seamlessly together in the distance. He felt uneasy, and whispered a prayer to Woden under his breath.
‘Fear not, Oslaf,’ said a voice behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that it was Alfgar. The chieftain was standing in the rear of the boat, beside the steersman, and smiled at him. ‘The next coast we see will be Britannia…’
That moment came a while later, when a thin, smudged line appeared ahead of them. As they got closer, Oslaf saw tall cliffs with narrow rocky beaches below them. The sea-chieftain’s men turned the ships northwards, following this new coast for another day and a night. They crossed a wide estuary, the mouth of a great river that led far into the west, and spent an uneasy night resting at anchor by the northern shore.
The next day a gusty wind blew from the east, chasing rags of cloud across a blue sky, and they arrived at their destination, a flat coastline where several streams and small rivers flowed into the sea. They rowed up the largest river, its banks thick with reeds, and Oslaf realised this too was a country of marshes, just like the Land of the Angles they had left behind. Eventually they came to a bend where the river widened into a deep pool. A long wooden quay had been built along the bank.
Alfgar gave the order to tie up the boats and jumped on to the quay, followed by everybody else. They were relieved to be on dry land, and for a while there was chaos as people filled the quay, the men throwing chests and boxes ashore, mothers chasing children. Oslaf stayed with Widsith, helping the old man off the boat – but then he felt a sudden strange prickling in his neck that made him look round.
A group of riders had appeared on the crest of a hill that rose beyond the river, the dark outlines of men and horses clear against the sky. As Oslaf watched, one man kicked his heels into his horse’s sides and rode down the slope. A dozen more followed, and Oslaf saw now they were all armed, and their helmets and spear-tips and chain mail glinted in the sun. The sound of their horses’ hooves was like thunder.
‘Lord Alfgar!’ Oslaf called out, pointing at the warriors heading their way.
‘I know, Oslaf,’ said Alfgar. ‘It seems there is a welcoming party for us. With me, men!’ he added, raising his voice. ‘Get your weapons! Form a line here…’
The hearth-companions gathered round their lord, shields raised, spears at the ready. Wermund stood next to his father, the rest of the men and boys fanning out on either side, the women and small children behind. Oslaf was impressed by how quickly they all got organised, and noticed most of the women and girls had armed themselves with knives too. The sea-chieftain’s men stayed in their boats.
Everyone fell silent as the riders halted just twenty paces from the shield-wall, their horses snorting and stamping. The leading rider nudged his mount forward, then stopped again and studied the Alfgaringas, his eyes moving slowly over the shields and spears, the people, the boats tied up behind them. Oslaf’s heart pounded in his chest, and he wondered how Alfgar could stand there looking so calm.
‘I am Breca, Lord Wuffa’s coast warden,’ the man said at last. ‘What kind of strangers are you who come from the sea armed for war? Are you friends or enemies? You should know we are ready with the right welcome for you either way.’
Alfgar stepped through the shield-wall to face him. ‘We are friends,’ he said. ‘I am Alfgar, son of Aldhelm, and we have come from Wuffa’s ancestral homelands across the sea to settle here in Britannia. Wuffa is kin to my wife Elfritha.’
‘Yes, Wuffa’s father and mine were brothers,’ said Elfritha, also stepping out of the shield-wall to stand beside her husband. ‘So Lord Wuffa and I are cousins.’
‘That may well be true,’ said Breca with a shrug. ‘But I cannot let you pass to Wuffa’s hall unless you can prove that you are who you say.’
Now Alfgar looked angry, and a frown like a storm cloud passed over his face. But Elfritha put her hand on his arm and smiled up at Breca on his horse.
‘I will send Wuffa a token, something of mine he will recognise,’ she said.
Suddenly Oslaf saw a chance to serve Elfritha, and even perhaps gain a little glory. ‘Let me be your messenger, Lady,’ he said, stepping forward.
‘But… but I should be the one who does that, not him…’ said Wermund.
‘Too late, my son,’ said Alfgar. ‘Oslaf spoke first, so the honour is his.’
Elfritha pulled a ring from her right hand, a silver band with a green stone. ‘Show this to Wuffa,’ she said, giving it to Oslaf. ‘He will know it was passed down to me by our grandmother, and has been in our family since before remembering.’
Oslaf nodded and slipped the ring over one of his own fingers. He turned to Breca, expecting that he would have to climb the hill on foot. But the coast warden held out a hand, and Oslaf realised he would be riding to Wuffa’s hall instead. He gripped Breca’s forearm and the man hauled him up on to the horse’s back. ‘Hold tight,’ said Breca, and Oslaf did just that as the horse turned and they galloped off.
The other riders followed, and they all went up the slope. Oslaf couldn’t resist looking over his shoulder, searching for Wermund among the Alfgaringas. Wermund was staring, and even at a distance Oslaf could see the sheer fury in his face.
Oslaf smiled, then looked ahead as they rode over the crest of the hill.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A Bargain is Struck
It turned out to be a short ride to the village of the Wuffingas, Lord Wuffa’s tribe. His hall stood on another hill looking down across the river to the sea beyond. Like Alfgar’s hall it was surrounded by houses, but there were far more, and the hall itself made Alfgar’s seem small in Oslaf’s memory. There was a timber stockade too, its gates guarded by a dozen warriors who waved Breca and his men through.
A huge bear of a man was standing before the carved doors of the hall, legs wide apart, hands on hips, a stern look on his broad, meaty face. He had a mane of black hair and a bushy beard that cascaded down over the front of his fine woollen tunic. A seax in a scarlet leather scabbard hung from his belt and he wore two thick silver arm-rings, one above each elbow. Oslaf knew instantly this must be Wuffa.
‘I bring a messenger from the boats that have arrived, Lord,’ said Breca.
Oslaf jumped down from the horse and walked up to the chieftain. Wuffa stared at him, and Oslaf saw that his eyes were blue, the colour of warm summer skies.
‘And I bring you a token from my lord’s wife,’ said Oslaf. He took the ring from his finger and handed it to Wuffa, who looked down at it nestling in his palm. Oslaf was about to say it was Elfritha’s, and mention Alfgar, but there was no need.
‘My grandmother’s ring…’ said Wuffa, and a giant smile spread across his face. ‘Breca, go back and fetch Elfritha and her people up to the hall. We will show them that even in this new place we still keep to the old ways of welcoming kin.’
As Oslaf discovered, that mostly seemed to involve putting on a colossal feast. Wuffa was clearly delighted to see his cousin, and sat her and Alfgar and their children at the top table beside him and his wife Aelfgifu. There were places for the whole tribe at tables in the hall, and the evening passed in a haze of eating, drinking and singing. Wuffa had a scop of his own, but Widsith wasn’t impressed.
‘He sounds like a wildcat that’s being stra
ngled,’ the old man muttered. ‘In fact, someone should strangle him. It would be a great mercy for the rest of us.’
‘Stop it, Widsith,’ laughed Oslaf. ‘You’re just jealous because he’s young.’
But Oslaf felt that Widsith was right. Wuffa’s scop did have a poor voice, and he mangled the words. There should be a rhythm to a tale – four strong beats in every line, the sounds in each half of the line echoing each other. A good scop came up with clever ways to express things too, saying ‘taking the whale’s road’ for setting out on a sea-journey, ‘bone-house’ instead of body, or ‘enemy of wood’ for fire. This man did none of that, and his tales were as flat and dull as a grey day in winter.
‘Why don’t you offer to take his place, Oslaf?’ said Widsith. ‘You’re better than this wretch will ever be. I’d love to hear you tell that story about the monsters.’
Oslaf smiled. During their voyage to Britannia he had told Widsith the ‘Tale of the Monsters from the Lake’, as far as he could remember it, and Widsith had liked it very much. That wasn’t really a surprise – Oslaf knew it was a wonderful story.
In the tale, the hall of the Danish king, Hrothgar, is attacked each night by a monster called Grendel. A young hero of the Geats called Beowulf comes to fight Grendel, and after a great struggle manages to wound him. Then the hero has to fight Grendel’s mother, an even more powerful monster, and then there’s a battle with a dragon. Widsith said Oslaf told the story well, but Oslaf wasn’t so sure. He thought something was missing from his telling, although he didn’t know what.
