‘Lord?’ I said, half smiling because I thought he must be joking.
‘Fetch three shields for the Englishman. Good shields with iron rims,’ he said. ‘And don’t let him forget his sword,’ he added, tying back his hair, which was a dull gold by the flamelight. ‘Godi, prepare the ground. And stop fretting about your knife being dry. We’ll make a sacrifice when it is over.’ Asgot stood with a nod of his greasy head and enlisted the help of Bjarni and Bjorn before clacking off down the beach towards the lean silhouettes of the ships, their sterns glowing by the light coming off the white breakers at the water’s edge. I stood still for a moment watching Black Floki hissing in his jarl’s ear. Floki’s hand was on his sword’s hilt and I knew he was begging Sigurd to let him fight Mauger instead, but Sigurd put a hand on the warrior’s shoulder and shook his head and Floki’s shoulders slumped in defeat.
I turned towards Fjord-Elk to fetch three good shields.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BJORN AND BJARNI LAID TWELVE OLD CLOAKS ON THE GROUND IN A square measuring some nine feet across. We were up past the round stones, beyond the low murmur of the sea and the fire’s crack and pop. The ground was more or less level here. Ahead, the stand of low trees shifted and swayed cumbersomely, their leaves rattling in the night breeze. Some of us had prepared the ground, hacking away clumps of honeysuckle and bindweed vines whose sweet smell drifted in currents as we disturbed them. With the cloaks laid out and pegged down, Asgot took the point of a spear and carved a series of three lines into the ground around the outside of the square, each a foot apart. At every corner he set a roughly hewn post of hazel and this boundary was made complete with four ropes. Then Olaf and Bram Bear lit the torches they had stuck in the ground. Their flames gave off a restless, stuttering light which twisted and pulled the arena, distorting it into some weird dreamscape. Resinous smoke tendrils meandered around us, gathering stealthily and curling upwards like black wraiths seeking the paler night sky.
When all was prepared, the old godi stood and considered it and with a grunt of what I took to be satisfaction told me to fetch the putrid pig’s bladders, by which he meant Mauger and Ealdred and the other Wessexmen.
I found Mauger on his back on the sand beside the longships. One knee was hugged tight against his broad chest, whilst the other leg pointed to the top of Fjord-Elk’s mast. He grabbed the calf of the raised leg and pulled it higher, stretching the hamstring, his arm muscles swollen and tight. The warrior rings, of which he was so proud, were already sitting amongst the treasures in Fjord-Elk’s hold, but there were still dents in his arms where they had sat. You can strip a warrior of his hard-won treasures, but some, men like Mauger, look no less impressive without them. You have to cut the pride out of these men with a good blade.
‘Sigurd is waiting,’ I said. Black Floki stood in the shadows keeping a hateful eye on the Wessexman, his spear’s butt buried in the sand. Ealdred and his household warriors were still up by the fire, though like the remaining Norse-men they were stirring now with the whiff of the fight in the air.
‘Let him wait,’ Mauger rumbled, wincing at the self-inflicted pain of the stretch. Then he rolled over and stood in one fluid motion and my heartbeat quickened because I was within the man’s reach. I knew Mauger’s strength was enormous, that he could have snapped my neck or back as easily as I could have a dog’s. He loosened his shoulders and neck, staring at me the whole time, and I could smell the sharp, violent stench of his sweat.
‘I will be your shield-bearer,’ I said sullenly.
He frowned, pulling his thick neck in. ‘You?’
I shrugged. ‘Me.’
‘Why would you be my second?’ he asked.
‘I would not if it were up to me,’ I said. ‘If I had my way we would tie you up and use you for archery practice.’ Black Floki stepped forward, sensing trouble. ‘But Sigurd told me I must hold your shields. So I’ll hold your shields.’
Mauger smiled and flexed his huge muscles, making the tattoos on his arms squirm. Then he turned towards the sea and took three deep breaths, his chest rising and falling like the slight swell beyond the breakers. He turned to me again, glanced at Black Floki, then back to me. ‘All right, lad,’ he said. He hawked and spat into the sand. ‘Let’s go and see your jarl.’
We gave Mauger his arms, his brynja, helmet, sword and shield, and I brought two more shields which were well made and undamaged, then we made our way up the beach. We passed the campfires, glowing piles of embers which pulsed red and black in the breeze, and the three surly Norsemen whose bad luck it was to remain with the longboats when they would have given anything to watch the fight. Then we stood for a while in the darkness, allowing our eyes to readjust, before Floki spotted the guttering flame of a torch and the dark shapes of the others disappearing amongst the scrub.
‘You don’t strike me as a Christ thrall, Mauger,’ I said, ‘but if you are a Christian now would be a good time to see to your soul.’
‘You think your jarl can beat me, blood-eye?’ he asked, seeming more surprised than affronted.
‘Sigurd’s veins carry the blood of the Aesir,’ I said. ‘He is descended from Týr, Lord of Battle. Maybe even from Óðin. You have a high reputation, Mauger, and I am sure you have put one or two warriors in the ground. But Sigurd is something different. He is a slayer of men.’
‘We shall see what Sigurd is,’ Mauger replied, clacking heavily over the rocks and barging his way through a tangle of thorns. I had merely been trying to scatter a few seeds of doubt in the warrior’s mind, but of course I was wasting my breath. A man of Mauger’s experience could no more be shaken by words than a mountain could be shaken by wind.
The crowd parted and the Wessex warrior strode through them, and I behind him, my palms slick with sweat and my breath short and ragged. The shadow-played, bearded faces were grim and tight-lipped and the press of warriors was heavy. Their smell – sweat, leather, grease and filth – filled the place, drowning the honeyed scent of flowers.
Mauger nodded to his ealdorman and Ealdred nodded back, and then the clearing was silent but for the hiss of the torches, the rustle of leaves and the woody snaps and cracks from the night-shrouded trees beyond. Somewhere a bird of prey screeched and was answered by the howl of a wolf claiming a fresh kill. Blood was already seeping out there in the dark.
Sigurd stood inside the ropes and I could not help but smile when I saw him. His steel helmet reflected the flamelight and below its rim was a line of shadow from which his unseen eyes stared out at Mauger. Beneath those eyes his cheekbones pressed like knife blades against the skin and his beard was full until beneath his chin where it hung plaited thick as a rope. The rings of his brynja glinted in the torchlight so that they looked to be made of gold, and his father’s sword hung at his hip where it looked as much a part of the man as his limbs. He held a round shield against his chest, its boss polished and undented, and on that shield was painted a wolf’s head. He was magnificent.
I knew Cynethryth was somewhere in that gathering but I resisted the urge to look for her. The Wessexmen stood with Ealdred and one of them cheered for Mauger, making the others bellow encouragement too, and then Sigurd’s men clamoured for their jarl and for a moment all was chaos. I saw Penda. He stood, arms folded, and raised his chin at me and that one small gesture somehow embodied the gravity of what was about to happen. I wanted to ask Sigurd to get someone else to second Mauger, one of the Englishmen perhaps, or even Ealdred himself. Why must I hold the man’s shields? I would sooner see him dead and I wanted to tell my jarl as much, but not a man alive would have interrupted Sigurd then. So I held my tongue and took my place behind Mauger who had ducked under the rope and now stood facing his opponent. Olaf stood behind Sigurd. The older man’s face was hard as a cliff face.
Asgot shuffled into the middle of the skins and stood between the warriors, his yellowed eyes heavy with worry and his lips cracked and dry from prayers. With a raised hand the godi silenced every tongue.
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p; ‘Mauger has accepted a challenge by the ancient rite of the hólmgang,’ he crowed, nodding to me, meaning I was to translate for the Wessexmen, which I did. ‘Each man must stand on this cloak and not draw a finger’s length outside it. Normally, the fight is over when one man’s blood shows on the cloak. Not tonight. This hólmgang will not end until one of these men is a corpse.’ Now Olaf ducked under the rope and stood within the lines Asgot had etched in the earth. I wondered what he was doing as Asgot continued. ‘Each warrior has his own shield-bearer who will defend him for as long as his shields hold.’ I felt as if I had been struck in the face. Asgot pointed a bony finger skyward. ‘But neither shield-bearer may strike his opponent or his opponent’s man or take part in the fight other than to defend.’
I looked at Sigurd, my eyes boring into him for some explanation or reprieve. It was one thing to hold Mauger’s shields, but defend him? How was I supposed to defend Mauger? Against Sigurd! I would sooner sink my knife into Mauger’s rancid guts.
‘As the representative of the man who has been challenged, Mauger may strike the first blow. After that the fight must rage unfettered and no man here may play a part.’ Now Asgot turned to Mauger and his face was a twisted knot of ancient hatred. ‘When my jarl has killed you,’ he hissed, ‘I will cut your limbs from your corpse. I will peel the skin from your flesh. Your soul will go screaming to the afterlife and for all eternity no other soul shall ever recognize you for a man.’
The words chilled my blood and I could not see Mauger’s face, but I did see him spit at the godi’s feet and I admired him for it. Olaf gestured to me to climb into the square and I did, my heart hammering like a banner in the wind. Silence reigned for three heartbeats, then Mauger drew his great sword and roared like the opening of Hel’s gates. He leapt forward and smashed his sword into Sigurd’s shield, hoping to split it, but it was a good shield, as was the arm behind it, and Sigurd took the blow, though it must have shaken the marrow from his arm. Now the jarl lifted his father’s sword up and over his head and crashed it into Mauger’s shield, but Mauger angled the shield well, catching the weight of the sword on the iron rim. The onlookers yelled with a storm’s fury as the combatants swung their swords. The shields were battered and neither Olaf nor I could get close, not that I dared to even try.
Sigurd was taller but Mauger was broader and heavier. He slammed his right shoulder into Sigurd’s shield, forcing the jarl back so that the heel of his right foot was over the edge of the cloak. Sigurd leant into his shield and heaved, the corded veins in his neck fit to burst as he drove Mauger back, growling like an animal. Then Mauger dropped his shoulder, rolling left and throwing Sigurd off balance. The Wessexman scythed his blade full circle and Sigurd raised his shield just in time but the limewood split with a loud crack. Both men jumped back, breathing heavily, their faces sweat-soaked. Sigurd did not have to look at his shield to know it was damaged and he must have known he was taking a risk by using it still. But it was too early in the fight to be down to two shields. I suddenly realized why each man got three. It was so they would exhaust themselves smashing each other’s shields to kindling, and not have the strength left for a killing blow. But this was no ordinary hólmgang, and it would not end with the first spilled blood.
Sigurd dragged his forearm across his head and spat saliva thick as frogspawn. The two men circled, their eyes locked. Sigurd slashed high, fast as lightning, but Mauger was already moving and the sword’s point passed a breath away from his face as he swung for Sigurd’s shield, cutting the thing clean in half. Sigurd gripped the lower half, kicking the other part away. At least the iron boss still held, though he would not have long. So he attacked, launching a series of hammer blows which Mauger took on his own shield, and I cursed because I had chosen that shield and it was harder than a wheel from Thór’s chariot.
Now Mauger attacked, no grace, just swinging his sword like a man hacking through brambles, battering what remained of Sigurd’s shield and lopping another quarter from it, leaving the jarl with the iron boss, two mangled strips of metal and a sliver of wood. Blood dripped rhythmically from the inside of the shield boss.
‘They said you were a great warrior, Mauger,’ Sigurd said, giving his wolf’s grin, ‘but I can see that you are an old dog whose best days are long gone. Come. I will end your shame.’
‘This dog still has teeth, heathen,’ Mauger said, raising cheers from the Wessexmen. I glanced at Ealdred and saw that his eyes were gleaming with pride, or hope, or both.
Olaf handed Sigurd a new shield and Mauger waited until Sigurd had set himself, then the English warrior attacked again. Sigurd stood his ground and when Mauger stepped back to suck air into his belly, the jarl thrust for his neck. Mauger caught the point with his shield and drove it up and away, but Sigurd’s lunge was a feint and he thumped his shield into Mauger’s face, sending the big man reeling. Sigurd stepped up and slammed his foot into Mauger’s thigh, almost taking him down. Mauger staggered and yelled and planted himself again, dipping his head and bringing his shield and sword up. Sigurd hacked at the man’s shield. Splinters flew as he kept up the vicious assault and it was all Mauger could do to catch each blow, though each must have felt like Ragnarök, the end of the world. The Wessexman edged around the cloak, his shoulders bouncing with ragged breaths. He yelled and threw his right foot forward, swinging his sword from left to right, attacking Sigurd’s unshielded side, but Sigurd hefted his sword. The blades bit and a shard of steel flew, slicing Sigurd’s cheek. Sigurd punched his sword’s pommel into Mauger’s teeth, breaking them, and I heard Mauger’s deep grunt as blood spilled from his chin like water down a mountain. The Wessexman was dazed. He stumbled, his thighs straining to keep his knees locked, and Sigurd sensed victory. He came on, his sword thundering down like a god’s vengeance, and I threw myself forward, catching the sword on a shield, that one blow hammering me into the earth like a tent peg. Sigurd stepped back, wide eyes shining like silver coins. Around me the Norsemen clamoured. I cringed, expecting cold steel to tear my flesh.
Mauger had stumbled over to the far edge of the arena and was shaking some sense back into his head, spitting cracked teeth and great gobs of thick blood on to the cloaks. Sigurd had his back to the Wessexman. He was staring at me and I thought I had ruined everything. I had done my duty as a shield-bearer when I should have let Sigurd cleave Mauger in two. But then Sigurd’s eyes flashed. He grimaced and turned back to Mauger, and the fight rolled on like a storm. The shields crashed, their bosses crumpling. Mauger swept his sword low and Sigurd blocked with his own blade but then the Wessexman slammed his shield’s rim into Sigurd’s temple, sending the jarl’s helmet bouncing. Mauger frenzied like a bear stuck with arrows, chopping his opponent’s second shield to a splintered mess. But Olaf was suddenly there, the last shield raised before his jarl, taking Mauger’s blows. Olaf might have been older than the other Norsemen but he was an oak of a man. Try as Mauger might, there was no way through to Sigurd, though I did not know how a man could have such strength as to maintain an assault like that – or resist it. And this is how it went. Into the night. Each warrior taking his turn to attack, then defend, and breathing with an ocean’s appetite at any moment in between. I have never known shields to take such punishment and yet hold so long, for all they could not possibly last.
Sigurd’s golden hair had fallen loose and now hung soaking across his face, one half of which was sheeted in blood that glistened in the torchlight. He snatched the last shield from Olaf and banged his sword against it, beckoning Mauger to come again. Mauger’s mouth was a gory, blood-filled hole. He was on his second shield now and he was limping. He was too exhausted to speak. He nodded at the Norseman, raised his shield and hitched across the space to the cheers of his countrymen. I moved too, staying behind and to Mauger’s left, watching both men and hoping I would be quick enough to dodge or defend any wild sword swing from either of them. Olaf had no more shields for Sigurd and so he stood helpless now on the lines etched in the earth beyond
the cloaks. His fists were balled like knotted rope, his brow was heavy, and he was growling under his breath, ‘Finish it, Sigurd, finish it.’
The two warriors slammed shields, stepped back and swung their swords, Mauger high and Sigurd low. The Norseman was faster and his blade hacked into Mauger’s hip, shattering the rings of his brynja, but Mauger’s sword sliced through the mail on Sigurd’s shoulder, carving a chunk of flesh from it. Sigurd yelled in pain and fury and slammed his sword against Mauger’s shield and Mauger staggered backwards, cleaving Sigurd’s shield in two with a mighty swing. Sigurd cast the broken remains aside and prepared for Mauger’s attack. The Wessexman grinned savagely, limped forward and swung his sword to take off his enemy’s head, but Sigurd dropped, spinning, and came round from the left, thumping his blade into Mauger’s right thigh with a sound like a log being split. It must have broken the man’s leg bone for he cried out and fell to his knees. The wound at Sigurd’s shoulder was spilling blood, and the whole of his left side was drenched and shining slickly as he came at Mauger again. His father’s sword hung for a moment, flamelight riding its length, then it fell, but Mauger caught it on his shield and Sigurd swung again. This time Mauger’s shield split with an echoing crack. I ran forward with the last shield and Sigurd snarled but stepped back, allowing me to slip the leather straps over Mauger’s forearm. Mauger grunted thanks and tried to stand but he could not. I jumped clear as he deflected another blow and then somehow Ealdred’s man hacked into Sigurd’s lower leg so that the jarl collapsed to his knees. The combatants stared at each other, their faces clenched in pain and their battered bodies heaving and shuddering with exhaustion. Norse and Englishmen hollered at their champions, willing them to rise and end the thing, but Mauger and Sigurd were in their own agony-filled worlds and seemed deaf to the noise.
Mauger laid down his sword, removed his helmet, shook off his shield, and threw out his arms, enticing Sigurd on with a bloody, hateful smile. Sigurd spat, then with a grunt thrust his father’s sword through the cloaks into the earth. The crowd fell silent as the grave for a heartbeat, then Sigurd and Mauger slammed into each other like reindeer bulls and I cringed, hoping Olaf would stop the fight but knowing that he could not. They were punching and clawing wildly and then they were rolling, each straining to get the advantage, and then the air was rent by a blood-curdling scream. The sound was terrifying. It was Mauger. Sigurd had torn out his eye and it dangled on its bloody string, bouncing on the man’s cheek. Mauger was screeching horribly but somehow he clubbed a fist into Sigurd’s chin. His fingers found the slice in the jarl’s cheek and those fingers dug and gouged, and a low moan came from the watching Norsemen. Sigurd slammed his forehead into Mauger’s face, bursting his nose, then wrapped one of the warrior’s brawny arms between his own and slammed himself down to the right, snapping Mauger’s arm with a hollow crack. Then Sigurd roared, and taking the dangling eye in his fist he ripped the bloody strings out of the socket and threw it at Ealdred’s feet.
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