Casca 47: The Viking

by Tony Roberts

  Casca saw the danger, and he filled his lungs and roared at the top of his voice, “Odin!” and swerved to one side. Both served to un-nerve the second guard and the spear flew past harmlessly.

  Casca struck at the first man, his blade knocking the guard’s own blade aside. The vicious follow-up cut across the defender’s chest. The luckless victim crashed into the wall behind him and slowly sank to the ground, clutching his wound, his eyes screwed up in agony.

  The second man came for Casca in desperation. His downward blow somehow missed. Casca had spun aside, and now grabbed the man by the collar and rammed his sword up through the guard’s back. It exploded out of his chest in a shower of blood. A twist, a pull, and the man was allowed to fall and become one with the earth.

  He turned and raised one foot. The door splintered and crashed open, split all the way down from top to bottom. Kicking the remnants aside, he stepped into the cavernous interior. Inside the hall a few lamps flickered as the disturbed air from Casca’s entry eddied around them. He slowly looked around, and heard a stifled sob to the right.

  Slowly, he made his way over to a wooden screen that stood above two steps that seemed to separate the end from the rest of the hall. Stout wooden beams rose from the ground to the roof, and hanging from these were a wide variety of household objects, lamps, ropes, sacks and belts to name just a few. A fireplace stood to the left but it was unlit.

  He reached the screen and flung it aside in one violent movement. There was a metal bath tub on the other side and sat in it, clearly pregnant, was a woman who had been taking a bath. She covered up her breasts and stared up at him with frightened, wide eyes. She was fair-skinned, long legged and of around twenty years of age.

  Taking a long look at her, Casca picked up a drying cloth lying on the floor. “Here, dry yourself, dress and then join me.” He picked up the screen and replaced it. She hadn’t appeared to have understood his words, but she got the meaning, and he heard her step out of the bath, dripping water, as he faced back down the long hall.

  Two of his men came in, swords and axes in hand. Casca stepped up to them and learned the town was virtually theirs now. The few remaining pockets of resistance were being dealt with. Their eyes strayed to the woman who hesitantly came out from behind the screen, her bulge clear to all.

  “She’s under my protection,” Casca explained. “Remain here, I’ll see what treasures she has, and you can take them out.”

  He tried a few tongues of the northmen on her but she gave no indication of understanding him, and shot back a torrent of a language he’d never heard. Finally, he tried the Frankish language.

  She suddenly looked at him in comprehension. “You speak a civilized tongue?” she asked acidly, “I am surprised!”

  Casca grunted. “I didn’t use it before since your people hardly qualified that yourselves.”

  The woman looked furious. “Animals! You slaughter helpless women and children, steal property and then flee like the dogs you are! A curse on you!”

  Casca felt a frisson pass through him. “That’s already been done. Now, you’re under my protection, whether you choose it or not. Before I put this place to the torch, tell me where the valuables are, and anything you need for a long journey by sea.”

  She tossed her head haughtily, then pointed to the far corner. Casca waved his men to go have a look and the two men triumphantly lifted a long wooden box over to the center where they opened the lid to reveal clothes, jewels, cups and plates of good quality. The two Vikings chattered excitedly.

  “Go take it outside,” Casca said. When they had left, he faced the woman again. “I’m going to burn this place down now. You’d best follow me out.” He picked out a torch from a wall holder and walked to the doorway. He turned. “Anything else you need before it goes up in flames?”

  “It’s of no importance,” she sneered. “All I need and have is here,” she touched her belly.

  “Not long, is it?”

  “Two months. I presume my husband is no more, thanks to you?”

  “Presumably. He was an important man?”

  “Harbormaster, and third most important man of the town.”

  Casca hazarded a guess. “Long fair hair, chain armor shirt?”

  She nodded, her face stricken.

  “He died bravely,” Casca admitted. “I regret depriving your unborn child of a father.”

  “Noble words,” she spat venomously. “I loved him!”

  “So I see. It’s not something that can be changed, but I can tell you he died quickly. He didn’t suffer. I mean it when I say I’m sorry. Now let’s go. We have far to travel.”

  She huffed and stalked past him out into the warm day. She stood looking away from her home as Casca put it to the torch, literally. He waited till be was certain the place was going to go up and then walked up to her, grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her in the direction of the town center. It was visible off to the right by the harbor.

  “Let go of me!” she spat.

  “Silence, woman,” Casca growled. “If you don’t hurry up you’ll get burned in the flames, and I’m in a hurry. As I see it my responsibility to look after you, especially as I killed your man, where ever I go, you go too.”

  She tugged at his hand and shook it off. “I can walk perfectly fine without you pulling me all over this island!”

  “Have it your own way,” he said, “but if you look like you’re going to struggle, I’ll make sure you’re carried. You’re heavily pregnant and I’m not having you put under unnecessary strain.”

  “Oh, you are so kind,” she said sarcastically. She lapsed into silence and walked alongside Casca, holding the underside of her swelling. He looked at her a couple of times to make sure she wasn’t suffering unduly.

  The street, which was in reality just an open expanse of dried mud pocked with footprints and wheel ruts, curved away from the waterfront and came to a large space which had three sizeable buildings facing onto it. One was a temple, one was the chief’s residence and the other the main feasting hall. The fourth side was the jetty where three large ships were moored.

  Gudfred was there, shouting orders. He turned to see Casca arrive with his captive. “Oh? Being the noble rescuer?”

  Casca grunted. “I killed her husband and the father of the unborn child. Suppose I ought to look after them both for the moment.”

  “Good. This is how any man with decency ought to behave. You hear that, you flea-bitten ragtag bunch of renegades?” he bawled to his men who were gathering, many with roped captives by their sides. “This man, Jarl Casca, has agreed to look after this woman and her child-to-be for killing the father. Mark it well; this kind of behavior is something I will look for in all of you! We are not savages.”

  The woman looked at Casca. “What was all that about?” she asked in the Frankish tongue.

  “Saying how he expects all of us to be as caring of pregnant woman as I am.” He stared her down, daring her to say something. “Or would you prefer to be put into any of their tender care?” he nodded to where one man had a young girl by a rope, her hands bound, the rope that she was led by fixed around her neck.

  She scowled. “That girl is only fourteen. She is the daughter of the chieftain!”

  “Was, you mean. He’s no doubt lying dead. She’s his now.”

  “And I’m yours? To do with as you please?”

  Casca turned and faced her fully. “Why don’t you shut it up? All I’ve heard from you is an earful of moaning and bitching. You should worry about your child, rather than the plight of people you can no longer do anything about.”

  She tightened her lips but remained silent. Casca hailed Gudfred. The prince looked at him quizzically. “Yes, Jarl?”

  “These ships,” he waved at the three Wagrian vessels. “Are we taking them, or burning them?”

  Gudfred turned around and looked at them directly. “Of course! Thank you for reminding me.” He waved to two of his biggest and meanest men. “Set these afire
. We don’t want them being used in future against us. Burn the entire settlement to the ground! Then we go!”

  The trip back was slower, as they were fully laden and had reluctant captives. Two separate bands ran off to deal with the other small settlements while the main group continued across the grassy and boggy land towards where the Viking ships awaited them, with their guards. While they walked, Casca kept close to the woman who he learned was called Adalind.

  “Gentle noble?” he said, grinning.

  “What’s funny about that?” she snapped.

  “Nothing,” he smiled. “You certainly live up to your name.”

  “I can see you and I are not going to get along.”

  “Shame,” Casca commented. “So you’re Frankish then. Thought you were, judging by your accent. A bridal gift to these people, were you?”

  “What if I were?”

  “By Odin’s gonads,” Casca muttered, “bet your father worshipped the poor bastard who agreed to take you.”

  Adalind glared furiously at him. “That is of no concern to you! And do not use such pagan terms; they are sinful.”

  “Oh, don’t go bleating about god this and god that. I had a gutful when I served Charlemagne in Aachen.”

  “You?” she said in total surprise. “You served in Karl’s Court? You lie!”

  So Casca described the great Christian king, Karl the Great, or Charlemagne, and his Court in Aachen. He described the wars against the Saxons and Avars. By the time he finished, they had reached the boats. Adalind was quiet, perhaps it was the fact she was tired, or maudlin, or finally realizing she was a widow, or maybe homesick through listening to Casca’s tales.

  He helped her up and she didn’t resist or fight him, and he made sure she was comfortably settled down in a bed of furs under a skin tent in the center of the ship. The booty was loaded into the hold below the deck, and the other captives herded together, hands tied, and made to kneel. They were roped to the ship, so they couldn’t jump overboard or attack anyone.

  Night was falling and so they decided to remain where they were rather than risk sailing aground or running onto rocks. Casca organized a guard roster, both for the temporary palisade on the shore, and for the prisoners on board. As for him, he squatted in the tent opening where Adalind was lying. “If you need anything just call out. You’ve got water, and food. Don’t go wandering out on deck; its not advisable.”

  “I’ll stay here, thank you – my feet hurt and I am very tired.”

  He grunted and stood up. How he was going to accommodate her and her child when he or she was born was anyone’s guess. He was stuck with her, so he would make the best of it.

  It would be interesting to see how she settled into his household.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The voyage back was made without any problem, or incident. Their raid on the island had gone smoothly, and had dealt the Wagrians a severe blow. Casca spent a lot of his time with his charge. Adalind had been very quiet the first night, and he guessed she had been crying. Now the shock had worn off she had been able to think and it had been an unpleasant realization as to her exact plight. She was scared but as she was a noble, or a minor one at least, she did her best to cover up.

  Casca wasn’t fooled for one minute and neither were the tough Vikings. At least though she wasn’t wailing or weeping out loud like some of the other captives. One or two of the warriors told them to shut up or be beaten.

  Casca had Hafnar put a stop to that kind of shit. He had no wish to be in charge of men who readily beat helpless women. He’d managed it at Helsfjord and by all the gods of the heavens, he’d make sure the same happened here.

  He sat at the tent entrance on the first day after they had sailed off into the sea once more, and this time they sailed away from the shore. Word might have gone out by now and they didn’t want to be seen if it could be helped. He gathered that Adalind had indeed been a wedding gift from the Franks to the Wagrians, brokered by the Obotrite chieftain Thrasco, to seal an alliance. The alliance had been made to finally bring the Saxons to heel as they were still striving to throw off Frankish suzerainty and reject the Christian god.

  She had been taken by wagon from her home in Cologne to her new husband only two years previously. It had been a lonely time for her, with only her handmaiden and one other companion to accompany her. And now she was even lonelier. Casca felt bad about it all; of course there was no way he’d’ve known that the man he’d killed had been her husband and a father-to-be. That was the thing with war; it always took those who were fathers, sons, brothers, husbands. Then plague did too. And hunger. Shit, best not to get too philosophical about things. That way led to depression. Best to have a fuck-it, shit-happens attitude.

  Adalind was taken into the household on their return and cared for by Hilde who took it upon herself to be nursemaid. Gertrude shrugged and was left to undress Casca who looked at her in surprise. “Don’t go thinking I have designs on you,” she said severely, “I’m merely getting you prepared for your bath. You don’t smell that pleasant.”

  “Ah, and I was beginning to think my manly appearance had finally won your heart.”

  Gertrude smiled briefly, shaking her head. “It shouldn’t be that surprising my sister and I don’t fall instantly in love with any man who passes our sight, especially seeing how we’ve been treated recently!”

  The Eternal Mercenary handed her his armor, sighing with relief at finally having it removed. “Nope, but don’t go including me with those bastards who mistreated Hilde and yourself. I only screw women who want it from me, or…”

  “Or what?” Gertrude asked, folding the hauberk over her arm.

  “Or I pay for it.”

  She snorted derisively. “Ah, I thought that might be the case.”

  Casca grinned and tugged off his boots. “Gods! It’s a relief to get these off.”

  “Not for the rest of us it isn’t,” she responded. She hurriedly scuttled away as Casca threatened to throw them at her.

  Hilde appeared a little while later and stood hesitantly a little distance from him. “She’s comfortable, but the journey has exhausted her. She’ll need care for the rest of her term.”

  “You volunteering?” Casca asked, a mug of ale in his hand. “That’d be great, and very good of you.”

  She nodded, giving him a hard look. “She needs someone to care for her, especially seeing that her husband was killed by you.”

  Casca waved her away irritably. “Don’t start that shit, woman! I had no idea he was who he was when he tried to cave my head in. Now get out of my sight and go tend her. You’re dismissed from serving me.”

  Gertrude, meanwhile, had filled up his bath which was a wooden tub with iron banding. It was something one of the former Jarls had taken as plunder on a raid sometime in the past. She called him over to the partitioned-off area that served as a wash-room. He divested himself of his remaining clothing and gratefully sank into the warm water. Not too hot, just right. Gertrude had got things spot-on.

  She appeared, dressed in a loin piece and brief chest cloth, and began to wash him. He lay there, eyes closed for a few minutes, then he opened them. She was concentrating on cleaning his chest. He felt a familiar stirring down below and she had certainly noticed it. Was her breathing a little ragged? Her nipples were hard, yes. He reached out and lifted her head by the chin, leaned forward and kissed her. She didn’t resist, so he pulled her against him, kissing her much more passionately. Her arms came up and linked around his neck.

  Pausing for a moment, he pulled her chest cloth off, then removed her loin piece, and now they pressed against one another naked. She moaned softly. He kissed her, sucked her lower lip, then grinned, looking into her eyes that were full of desire. “Lucky you weren’t influenced by my manly appearance, mm?”

  “Mm,” she echoed, then pushed her lips against his and began hungrily devouring his tongue.

  It was a nice way to be welcomed back after the raid.

  ___ />
  The effect of the raid was hardly noticed, for Thrasco had led an Obotrite-Frankish army against the Saxons that had crushed the rebellion against Christianity. From now on the southern borders of the lands of the Danes would be Christian, and the priests and kings would follow the wishes of the popes not to trade with the evil godless pagans.

  War, however, had exhausted the Franks and Charlemagne’s attention was focused elsewhere, and the Saxons were too shattered to even think about forcing their new religion on their northern neighbors.

  As autumn came, Adalind gave birth to a son. Hilde had been midwife and had presented the tired but happy mother with her child wrapped in swaddling cloths. Casca raised a mug of mead in celebration, joined by the others who had been sat around the table in the main room while Adalind had screamed and cried her way through her ten-hour birthing labor. Sigurd and Hafnar as well as a couple of others toasted the baby’s arrival into the world.

  The new arrival, Baldemund, which meant ‘bold protector’ in the Frankish tongue, became the center of attention in the household. He had been named after Adalind’s father, a nobleman in the Cologne court. Casca thought the name was familiar, and after a little recollection, thought he remembered the man when he had stopped briefly in the city en route on one of Charlemagne’s many campaigns. He asked whether the man had been a florid-faced individual with a bushy mustache and eyebrows, and she had nodded with a smile.

  “You met him?” She spoke in the Northman tongue, having learned it throughout her stay in the Hold so far. With not much else to do other than endure the latter stages of pregnancy, the birth and now the recovery phase, she had decided to learn the Viking’s tongue as quickly as possible.

  “Briefly, yes, a few years ago when I was one of Charlemagne’s Counts on the Saxon campaign to the Suntel Hills.” He almost bit off his tongue at that moment; that had been sixteen years previously, and as he looked around thirty or so, it would have made him too young to have served as a Count at that time. “I don’t recall seeing you though.”