by Henry Treece
‘Then take care of yourself,’ said the monk, ‘and God may let you see again, for it is only the outer casing of the eye that is troubled. The precious sight of the eye is still there, but cloaked with pain. It is sometimes the same with a man’s spirit; the spirit is good enough, but he has let it become surrounded by disease. The disease of the spirit, and that is more deadly than the disease of the flesh.’
Thorkell made a movement of irritation. ‘I did not come to hear a sermon,’ he said. ‘I hold to other gods than you. I came to say that you shall come to no harm on this ship, if I have the power to prevent it. If you should be sold into slavery, then I promise to buy you from Ragnar, and will turn you free straightaway. You will not be kept against your will once we strike shore.’
The holy man smiled and said, ‘Thank you, Viking. But it is something which you must decide. I am content, whatever God asks me to tolerate. I will only tell you that this is, in its way, a joyful meeting for me.’
Thorkell broke in scornfully, ‘Joyful? To be held captive by men you do not know or love?’
The monk said softly, ‘But I do know you. I saw you in a dream I had but last night. I saw the very bandage about your eyes, and in my dream you told me that the cruel winds of Orkney had blinded you. That is why I asked but now – and you gave me the self-same answer. Then I knew that I was sent to you with a purpose.’
Thorkell clapped his hands to his bandages, as though he would tear them off. But the fit passed and his hands fell again. He turned from the monk and said, half to himself, ‘So we met in our dreams, the two of us. It was meant to be, all this. Now I know the answer to one thing at least, that there is another world, another life, beyond that which we know waking.’
He walked back slowly to the cabin, no longer leaning on Harald’s shoulder. It was as though he had found direction, blind as he was. To Harald it seemed that Thorkell had grown older, much older, in that last hour.
When night fell, the Nameless was still ploughing a southerly course. She was among the narrows between the smaller islands before Rolf realized it, for he had never navigated this stretch before. Then they all were concerned to hear not only the dull booming of surf on both sides of them, but the vicious rushing of water about some rocky outcrops before them.
Sven said, ‘We should have made landfall earlier, while there was still light to see by. This is a shallow, treacherous sea, I have heard.’
Even as he spoke a beacon flared up to their left. Then, almost within a breath of the first, another to their right. Gnorre said, ‘Praise Odin, now we may steer through the channel between the rocks.’
Within the pull of five oars later, the Nameless shuddered in every timber, then groaned, and then gave a great heave like a stag when the spear probes deep, and turned half-about, her deck tilting so high and violently that men fell hither and thither, sliding down towards the frothing breakers that now ringed the longship.
Thorkell gave a great cry, as though of agony, and stumbled out from the cabin, tearing off his bandages in a vain effort to see. Aun ran and grasped him, then clutched hard to the mast so as to save him from being swept overboard by the great waves that washed the doomed vessel. But for her loose keel, the Nameless would have broken her back there and then. As it was, she took the violence of the first shock, then pitched sideways and filled almost straightway and began to settle. At the least a dozen Vikings were thrown into the darkness and went swirling away to their deaths, silently, as though they had never been.
Then the longship settled, heeled half-over, and men the Vikings did not know were scrambling over her like flies about a meat-bone. They were laughing and shouting to each other joyously. Some carried torches, and by their light the Vikings saw that these men had come out in long tarred curraghs.
Harald tried to draw his sword, but a great skin-clad man clubbed him viciously at the side of the head. As the boy fell, he saw Aun shielding Thorkell from the assault and trying in vain to reach out for the axe which Gnorre offered him. Then as Harald lost consciousness, he saw Gnorre fall face downwards, and the axe flying from his hand and over the side of the longship.
18
Leire’s Strongroom
The score of Vikings who had survived the wreck lay on the damp earthen floor of Leire’s strongroom. Leire looked down at them from the stone steps that led to the street above. Aurog was behind him, slavering like an animal. Leire said harshly, ‘Which is your leader?’
At first no one stirred, for the Vikings had been cruelly treated on their march up the stony pathway from the sea. Then Ragnar raised himself on his elbow and pointed to Thorkell. ‘That is our shipmaster, man. But as you see he is too sick to be meddled with. I am his second and will take on my shoulders what you may ask.’
Aun said to Horic, ‘He has some good in him, after all.’ But Horic’s head only swayed weakly, as though he were too far gone to understand the words spoken to him. Gnorre lay between the two, his eyes closed and his face twisted with pain from the great club wound at the back of his head.
Leire smiled down at blind Thorkell, who sat with his hands clasped about his knees, his head sunk. ‘I shall regard the blind one as your leader,’ he said. ‘He will be responsible in my eyes for whatever you shall do.’
Then he went out and a short while later two men came armed with spears and flung pieces of smoked meat into the dungeon. The Vikings ignored it, though the monk, who was still with them took up a piece and ate a little of it. ‘Forgive me, friends,’ he said, ‘but I have been fasting for three days and now I must eat or I shall lack strength should I need it.’
No one heeded his words, so he munched on silently. At last he went to Harald, who lay beside Thorkell, staring up at the little square of window that stood at street level.
‘Try to eat something, my son,’ he said. ‘You must keep strength in your body. God would wish you to make the best of this adventure.’
He smiled as he offered the lad a piece of the meat. Harald overcame his repugnance at the sight of it and tried to do as he was told.
The day passed slowly. Men spoke little except to ask how their friends had died. Rolf Wryneck was among the dead. By some fatal irony, his neck had been broken with the first shock of the wreck, for he stayed at his steerboard till the last, trying to steer away from that awful rushing water. The fate he had escaped five years before had now come on him again, when no man thought it would.
Ottar, the son of Olaf and Asa, was dead too. He had died bravely, trying to fight with the wreckers, barehanded. His two brothers, Sven and Rollo, still lived, but their cousins were among those swept overboard in the first rush of the sea over the gunwales.
Harald gazed up at Thorkell’s hopeless face and wished that he had the words to comfort him. But Thorkell was beyond consolation for the time being. He had spoken but once, and that was to ask if the Nameless was a wreck. When he had heard that her ribs were stove in on one side, he had laughed and said, ‘Thank Odin that he has prevented this rabble from sailing her.’
Then he fell silent and brooding and had not spoken again.
As darkness came on, men came with small clay lamps, filled with oil and burning twisted hemp for a wick. Others brought in two pannikins of water. They all waited until Thorkell had wet his lips before they drank. The monk was given his share like the rest and the pannikin handed to him with a certain respect. His bearing throughout the day had impressed them all, though they would not have admitted to this weakness.
When he had drunk, Ragnar came to Thorkell and took him by the hand, kneeling before him. ‘I ask forgiveness, brother,’ he said. ‘It was my evil-doing that brought this disaster upon us all.’
Thorkell’s lips twisted for a while, trying to speak. Then he said softly, ‘Get up from your knees, Raven. Kneel to no man, brother. If you have been a fool, then you have been a fool – but that is no reason to kneel! In any case, I know now that this would have come upon us whatever we had done.’
He took Rag
nar’s hand and pressed it. Ragnar turned from him then for the tears were beginning to run down his gaunt and swarthy cheeks. ‘I shall repay your kindness, Thorkell,’ he said.
‘Whatever you say, you will never become Ragnar Dove,’ said Thorkell; ‘it will always be Ragnar Raven.’
‘They understand each other,’ said the monk to Aun. Aun nodded. ‘They are not saints, Christ-man,’ he said, ‘yet there is a strange good in them both, if a man will only try to look for it.’ The monk said, ‘Yes, so is it with all men, my son.’
Aun said, ‘If you call me son, must I then call you father?’ He was already laughing, in his old jesting way. The monk laughed too. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Your father was a bear from the forests! No, you can call me John, if you choose, for that is my name.’
‘John! John! John!’ said Aun, trying the name over on his tongue. Then he nodded, ‘Very well, John,’ he said. ‘That is what I shall call you.’
Towards night, Ragnar made a man hold a blanket over the window-hole so that none of the folk outside should see them. Then he called the others into a circle and said, ‘Vikings, if we stay here we shall grow weak and lose heart. If we are to escape from this dungeon, it must be soon. When shall it be?’
There was some argument, then Rollo said, ‘I say that we should go at dawn-time. That would give us time to sleep and refresh ourselves.’
Ragnar slapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘That was in my own mind too, young Viking. Now, say on, Rollo, and how shall we go from here?’
Rollo said, ‘I have tried the window bars and they are too strong for a man to move them. There is an archway of stone in the wall behind you, but that is shored up with stout planks of wood and will lead nowhere. The only way is through the door at the top of the steps and into the street.’
Ragnar said, with a slight sneer, ‘Have you set your back against that door, Rollo?’
Rollo nodded his head. ‘It is a good three inches thick, Master,’ he said. ‘I felt it with my finger and thumb as they dragged me in.’
Ragnar said, ‘Then how shall we go through that door, friend?’
And Rollo scratched his head, defeated. Ragnar said then with a smile, ‘Well, what muscle cannot do, guile must. I will open the door at dawn, and be you all still as mice in the thatch at wintertime.’
He stood up then and said, ‘How many will come with me?’
Most of the Vikings put up their hands to show their willingness. Those who did not were Thorkell, Wolf Waterhater, Harald, Horic, Aun Doorback and Gnorre Nithing. The monk stood with his arms folded. He did not join in the discussion at all.
When they had decided that they would escape at dawn, the Vikings became more jovial, for it was as though a weight had been lifted from their minds by the decision to take action.
Now men began to hammer on the door and call for meat and wine. Ragnar pushed a gold coin that had not been stolen from him under the door and soon one of the guard brought in a wooden platter of bread and smoked fish and a great stone jar of a rough-tasting mead.
‘You robber,’ shouted Ragnar, in pretended rage. ‘You have cheated me, bringing only the orts from another’s table, in return for a true gold piece.’
The man shrugged and grinned, presenting his keen spearpoint at Ragnar when he moved towards him. Ragnar saw three more men standing behind the guard, in the narrow doorway, their axes ready. He made no further demur and the door was shut once more.
‘We shall need much good luck at dawn,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘It is a narrow place and one man could hold it against twenty, if he were armed and they barehanded. Well, we shall see.’
Those who were planning to escape sat about the meat and wine and made themselves a feast. Though the others were invited to join them, they did not do so for there was little enough food and drink, and those who were going at dawn would need as much sustenance as they could get.
Only Thorkell sat with them for a moment or two and drank from Ragnar’s clay cup to wish him luck. There were fourteen of them, all strong men, most of them scarred in many battles. Yet now they seemed innocent and young in Harald’s eyes, as though they were untried boys about to perform an act of dedication. In the flickering light of the little lamps, their eyes were bright and anxious, and looked up at Ragnar when he spoke, as though he knew the secret of eternal life.
Aun turned away, his head down. He wished that he were making the attempt with them, but he could not leave Thorkell. A blind man could not make such a hazardous attempt, for he would endanger the safety of the others. That had been understood by them all from the start.
Now the feasters became merry and called on Horic to amuse them before they lay down to rest. He stood in the torchlight with a little pebble in his hand, on his flat palm for all to see. ‘Watch the mouse,’ he said, and swiftly waved his other hand over the pebble.
The Vikings saw the long tail and the grey fur and the bright beads of eyes as the tiny creature held up its head and wrinkled its nose.
Aun said to the monk, ‘What think you of that, John?’
The monk smiled and said, ‘That is wonderful.’ But to him the stone had never changed, though he knew that the Vikings had seen a mouse.
Horic passed his hand over the mouse again and it had gone. The Vikings cheered him and shouted, ‘Another trick, Horic! Another one before we go!’
Horic took out his length of twine. It dangled from his fingers. ‘This twig will flower,’ he said. All men but the monk saw the twine stiffen and then climb upwards in his fingers until it stuck up as straight as a twig.
Yet at that moment a man outside the window coughed and a woman in the street laughed out raucously. Horic shuddered and the twig fell, to become a length of twine once more. He turned to the Vikings and said, ‘The magic has gone out of me. It will not come again tonight.’
Then the Vikings shook hands with each other and many of them kissed Thorkell as though they were going on a long journey and would wish an older brother farewell. He did not speak to them, but the tears ran down his face unhindered.
Then Ragnar blew out the lamps and the Vikings made themselves as comfortable as they could, those who were going with Ragnar in one group, those who were to stay behind in another.
In the darkness Ragnar went to Thorkell and put his arms round his neck lovingly. ‘Goodbye, brother,’ he said. ‘When I hated you most, I loved you most.’
Thorkell said, ‘In Valhalla there will be no more hate, only love. There you shall tell me of this escape.’
Then they parted and were silent, though no man slept much that night.
When the dawn came and the chill winds blew into the dungeon, Harald raised himself on his elbow and waited. Ragnar rose silently and went to the door. He peered a while through the great keyhole and then whispered, ‘Guard! Hey, guard!’
At length, Harald heard the shuffling of feet outside and the sound of a smothered yawn. Ragnar turned to those in the room and put his finger over his lips.
‘Guard,’ he said again, through the keyhole. ‘Are you listening to me? Harken then, there is one in this place who wears a necklace of gold that would buy a man twenty horses. He lies asleep now near my feet.’
The guard mumbled sleepily for a moment and then made a slight exclamation of surprise. Ragnar sensed his growing interest and said, ‘He lies ready for the plucking, warrior. He is an old enemy of mine and I tell you because I would pay back old scores. If you wish for a fortune, then it is yours, but you must take it with your own hands for I dare not touch him. I am afraid of him.’
Ragnar waited long then and it seemed to them all that the trick would not work. The man outside moved away from the door as though he were listening for something. All in the room lay still, scarcely breathing. Then Ragnar said, ‘If you tell others, they will share it. If you take it, it will be yours alone – and you will bring vengeance on my enemy for me.’
Ragnar lay on the top step, a smile on his face that was not good to see. Harald
shivered to see the thin lips almost bitten through by the strong white teeth.
Then the door began to creak slightly and, in the uncertain light of the early dawn, began to move. Ragnar moved back with it, so as not to be seen. When it was open a foot wide, the man peered forward, a rough sword in his hand. Still Ragnar did not move. The guard leaned, so as to see the man who lay near the foot of the steps, as Ragnar had said. As he did so, Ragnar suddenly sprang into life, and with a cruel lunge, slammed the thick oaken door hard on the man and his weapon. The head and sword-arm were trapped as in a vice. The man had only time to give a sharp gasp when Ragnar had struck him with clenched fist hard on the temples, and the sword fell into the dungeon from the unclenched hand. Then Ragnar swung open the door and the man dropped down the steps, limp as a pennant drenched in a heavy sea.
Ragnar stooped to pick up the sword. He spared a glance at the man and smiled grimly. Rollo went over and lifted the man’s head by the hair then let it fall. With that one blow Ragnar had broken his neck. The Vikings smiled and rubbed their hands together in admiration. They would have cheered had they been able.
Harald did not dare watch them go through the door. When he looked up again they had gone. Aun was staring at the closed door, his fists clenching and unclenching.
At length he rose and opened the door cautiously. Then he bundled the dead guard outside and shut the door again. Thorkell, his red eyes still closed, whispered, ‘That was well done, friend.’
19
The Awakening
It seemed that day would never come. The dawn lingered over Leire’s Dun as though wishing to torment the waiting Vikings in the dungeon. They lay with closed eyes, listening, but for a while all that they heard were the cries of swooping gulls above the village roofs, and the distant thudding of the sea on the rocky shore.
