by H A CULLEY
Ragnar was caught up in the excitement as much as anyone but, when he reached a boy of about twelve or thirteen who had evidently pulled a ligament in his haste to get away and was now hobbling as quickly as he could, he refrained from killing him. Instead, Ragnar hit him on the head with the pommel of his sword and the boy dropped unconscious into a shallow dip beside the track.
The palisade proved little obstacle to the Vikings. It was about ten feet high, low enough for a man to grasp the top if he stood on a shield held at waist height by two others. Ragnar was the first to reach it, closely followed by Olaf and one of the younger warriors. Olaf was the lightest so Ragnar and the other warrior held the shield horizontally and bent their knees to take the weight as Olaf jumped onto it. They strained to lift the shield up so that Olaf could grasp the top of the timbers and then he was over the top and onto the parapet behind.
A monk was waiting for him, screaming curses at him as he swung a stout cudgel at the young Viking’s head. Olaf ducked and grabbed the dagger he held in his teeth. There was no time to draw his sword and he’d dropped his shield and spear outside the monastery before springing onto the shield. As the monk made another swing at his head Olaf dropped his shoulder and rolled on it, coming to his feet a foot away from the monk. He was too close for the monk to use his club so he dropped it and fastened his ham-like hands around the young Viking’s throat. Olaf struggled for air but he managed to stab his opponent in the stomach just as he was about to black out. The monk released Olaf’s neck from his vice-like grip and tumbled off the parapet screaming in agony. He hit the earth below with a resounding thump.
Olaf saw several more monks armed with cudgels and staves heading towards him and he drew his sword, but then Ragnar was at his side and several more Norsemen appeared at various points along the parapet. From then on it was a massacre. Both Ragnar and Olaf did their fair share of killing. Their victims included women and young children as well as men who tried to fight back. Once the blood-lust was on them they just wanted to kill and go on killing.
It wasn’t until Thorkel knocked Ragnar to the ground just as he was about to kill a young boy that sanity returned. All in all it was a good haul. Five young women would be sold as thralls together with a few monks and a dozen children. The monastery itself had yielded a gold altar cross, several silver cups, plates and chalices and a few ornately illustrated books that Thorkel knew would fetch a significant sum if he could manage to auction them in Frankia.
However, only three boys of the right age to serve as ship’s boys had survived the massacre. Ragnar and the other ship’s boys knew that they would have to train the young Picts and teach them Norse before they could take over from them. They really needed four though, and then Ragnar remembered the boy he’d knocked out on the way up to the monastery.
He raced down the hill ahead of the others but, of course, the boy was no longer there. Ragnar was a good hunter and the Pict’s trail wasn’t difficult to follow. He stood there debating what to do. He knew Thorkel would want to get away just in case the alarm had been raised and he would be furious if he had to wait for Ragnar. Anyone else he might abandon but not the king’s only son.
However, it was nearly dark and so he would probably decide to spend the night on the beach in any case. His mind made up, Ragnar ran along the clear trail left by the young Pict. He had to hurry. As the light failed the boy’s trail would be impossible to follow, however obvious it was in daylight.
Twilight was deepening and Ragnar was about to give up when he saw a lean-to built into the hillside ahead of him. Presumably it was a shelter used by shepherds and a likely place his quarry to hole up in. He approached cautiously and peered inside. In the failing light it was too dark to make out anything inside, but the sound of breathing meant that there was someone inside who was fast asleep.
The boy awoke with a start and went to sit up until the prick of a dagger at his throat persuaded him otherwise. Ragnar found his arm in the dark and pulled him outside. In the twilight he could just make out that it was probably the same boy. He looked to be about twelve or thirteen with a mop of dirty blond hair. Ragnar found this strange as he was under the impression that most Picts had dark or black hair.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked, then cursed when he realised how foolish that was; there was no chance that the boy spoke Norse. However, he tried again in English. To his surprise the boy sullenly replied ‘Leofstan’.
‘How come a Pictish boy speaks English,’ Ragnar asked curiously, then added, ‘no, never mind, we need to get back to your settlement. Do you know the way?’
Leofstan gave him a pitying look.
‘Of course. Even if I didn’t, you could follow the light of the campfires.’
Ragnar looked down and could just make out three pinpoints of light where the ships’ crew had lit cooking fires on the beach. He smiled ruefully to himself. He should have thought of that. At least it meant Thorkel was staying the night.
Ragnar thought that Leofstan might make a run for it in the dark, despite his pulled muscle, but the boy made no attempt to escape. As they descended the narrow path he told Ragnar his story. He was an Angle from near the great fortress of Dùn Èideann, the stronghold that the Vikings had seen on the south bank of the Firth of Forth.
He’d been captured during a raid by the Picts two years ago, when he was eleven. There was peace between the Picts and the Northumbrians but raids by both sides still occurred occasionally. His father had been a fisherman but his parents had been killed in front of him, as had his elder brother. He’d been kept as a slave to one of the Pictish shepherds and so exchanging one master for another didn’t particularly bother him.
‘Well, you might not have to be a thrall.’ Ragnar explained what being a ship’s boy entailed and Leofstan grew positively enthusiastic at the prospect. Ragnar thought that if Leofstan was used to working a fishing boat, then he should pick up his new duties quite quickly.
The other boys had all been fishermen’s sons so they too were used to a life at sea. Their lives before they were captured by Thorkel’s men had been hard. Every day they had helped their fathers to eke out an existence and they had grown inured to hunger and exhaustion. In contrast life as a ship’s boy might not have been easy, but they were well fed and treated fairly.
After the young Picts had got used to their change in circumstance and picked up enough rudimentary Norse to understand instructions without translation by Ragnar into English and by Leofstan from English into their language, they readily accepted their new roles. The promise that they would not become thralls if they behaved made them positively enthusiastic to perform well.
‘Have you noticed that Leofstan has become quite attached to you,’ Olaf asked Ragnar one evening as they sat by a campfire back on the island in Orkneyjar.
Ragnar glanced over to where Leofstan was cooking a fish stew for them and their closest friends amongst the Norse Warriors. The light of the fire illuminated the grin that the boy gave him as soon as he was aware that Ragnar was looking his way. Ragnar laughed and smiled back.
‘He’s like a puppy, that’s all.’
‘Maybe, but I think he’s got a bad case of hero-worship, Odin knows why,’ one of the other warriors said. Ragnar went red and punched the other man on the shoulder so hard that he fell over. The others around the fire laughed but Ragnar wasn’t sure whether it was at the man who’d fallen on his side or at the idea that he was some sort of hero.
The young boy’s evident devotion to Ragnar drew the occasional lewd comment as well but only one man was foolish enough to tease Ragnar about it. Kiǫtvi had sneered and called Leofstan Ragnar’s bum boy. Not wanting to cause a fight Ragnar had pretended to ignore the comment but he didn’t forget it.
He brooded over it and knew that he had to do something or his reputation would suffer, however unjust the accusation, so he started to treat the boy harshly. It wasn’t something he was proud of but it had the desired affect; Leofstan stopped fawning o
ver him but he became withdrawn and resentful. However, his ire wasn’t directed towards Ragnar but at Kiǫtvi. He was a bright boy and he was well aware what had caused Ragnar to change his stance towards him.
Olaf had watched what had happened with some dismay and thought less of his friend because of it. It wasn’t the action of a man with a strong character and he told Ragnar so. It didn’t help that he knew that Olaf was right; you didn’t reward loyalty and devotion with scorn and derision. He bitterly regretted reacting to the comments of a bully like Kiǫtvi, but he didn’t know what to do now to correct the situation. However, he soon had bigger problems to deal with.
A week later the drekar entered the mouth of the River Søgneelva after an absence of over two years. They headed upstream to the settlement of Arendal, which was King Sigvard’s base. However, as they rounded the last bend, Ragnar saw that, instead of his father’s raven banner fluttering in the breeze before the king’s hall, the one that flew there now was blue with a golden spread-eagle - the emblem of King Froh of Alfheim.
-℣-
King Eardwulf was not pleased.
‘You mean to say that you captured a Viking crew and you let them go? Are you so stupid, Eafa, that you don’t realise that they will only return and raid my kingdom again? Your action was not just irresponsible, it’s akin to treachery.’
‘I’m neither stupid, nor am I am traitor, Cyning,’ Eafa replied, keeping his temper with difficulty. ‘Their hersir swore not to raid Northumbria again and I believe him to be a man of honour. In any case, his was only one longship; there are scores more that raid the shores of Britain and Ireland. In return for his freedom he has built me two of the largest longships that I have ever seen. That ensures protection for my knarrs when they trade with the Continent and my craftsmen now know how they are built, so we can build them ourselves. How is that foolish or traitorous? I believe that I have done Northumbria a valuable service.’
‘Your opinion is not shared by me.’
‘There are other ealdormen with shires on the coast who have already shown an interest in my new longships. They seem to think the idea was a good one.’
‘Are you trying to unite your friends against me?’
‘No, of course not, Cyning. I am merely telling you the facts.’
Eafa looked at the ceiling in despair. The older Eardwulf got, the more paranoid he became. He’d been on the throne for ten years when he’d been deposed by Ealdormen Ælfwald and he’d defeated two challengers for his crown before that. He’d fled to the court of Charlemagne at Aachen, where he’d married one of the emperor’s daughters, and had returned in 808 with an army of Frankish mercenaries to reclaim his throne. Ælfwald was killed and for the last fifteen years Eardwulf’s rule had been unopposed.
‘You are treading on very dangerous ground, Eafa. Because you were one of the first ealdormen who rallied to my side when I returned from exile, I’ll forgive you this time. However, I’ll be keeping my eye on you from now on. Now get out and send my son in to see me.’
Eanred was thirteen and his father doted on him. He was being schooled by the monks at the monastery of Eoforwīc, but his father kept sending for him, to the despair of both the Master of Novices and Eanred himself.
The prince was sitting by the central hearth in the new hall talking to the captain of the king’s gesith. The previous king’s hall had been built in timber and, although much larger, compared unfavourably with Eafa’s stone built hall at Bebbanburg. However, unlike the latter, which had been built of rough cut stone, this new hall at Eoforwīc had been constructed using faced blocks.
The roof was impressive too. It was supported on square columns of stone running down each side of the hall and consisted of timber ‘A’ frames on top of which planks had been nailed and then any small gaps had been filled in much the same way as the hull of a ship was waterproofed. This would have been enough by itself to keep out the rain which dripped down on the occupants of most buildings, but Eardwulf’s masons had covered the roof with overlapping stone tiles.
It was the most impressive hall that Eafa had ever seen. Nevertheless, the smoke and soot from the central hearth, which took the form of a fire trough, still tainted the interior with acrid fumes. The new roof beams were already darkened in the area of a strange structure that evidently served to extract the smoke – or most of it.
It consisted of a square hole at the apex of the roof above the fire trench, over which something that looked like a pyramid on stilts had been erected in wood. It was intended to keep the rain out whilst allowing the wind to suck out the smoke as it blew across the space under it. Eafa had to admit that it worked better than the hatch in the side of the sloping roof on his own hall.
However, stone buildings had one drawback, they seemed to suck the heat out of you and there wasn’t even a brazier to take the chill off the air in the king’s private chamber. Eafa therefore made for the hall’s central hearth to warm himself up.
Eanred sighed and walked towards the door into his father’s private chamber when Eafa passed on the message, his monk’s habit making the lanky youth look like a beanpole.
‘Like a few of our kings in the past, I think that he’d be more suited to the life of a churchman than a warrior prince,’ the captain muttered as Eafa joined him to warm himself.’
The man was silent for a moment before changing tack.
‘Eardwulf was furious when he heard that you’d released those Vikings you captured. He isn’t alone either. Every shire with a coast has been raided this year. You’re not popular.’
‘Then my fellow nobles are short sighted idiots. Our coastline is too long and too vulnerable for us to defend it ashore. The answer is to tackle them at sea before they can land. That’s why I did the deal with Thorkel for my two longships. Now I can patrol the coast and fight them at sea. At least my close neighbours have welcomed the idea.’
‘Can you defeat them at their own game? I hear that they are experts at sea battles.’
‘We can learn. Besides, if we give them a hard time they will seek easier prey; the Land of the Picts or Ireland, or even Mercia and Wessex.’
‘I see. Perhaps it’s a good idea after all. What did Eardwulf say?’
Eafa snorted. ‘What do you think? Building a hall in stone is about as new as his ideas get.’
‘Perhaps you ought to have a word with Eanred. If anyone can convince Eardwulf, he can.’
-℣-
Thorkel had hated the idea of using a plain sail but now it proved fortuitous. Vikings like to boast and have the skálds laud their deeds. Sailing incognito was anathema to them. However, had he arrived displaying the raven of Agder he would have had to turn tail and flee without finding out what had befallen Arendal. As it was, he decided to moor alongside one of the empty jetties as if he was a trader. In a way he was as he had several Pictish slaves to sell.
However, he and those of his crew who came from Arendal would have been recognised and that might have proved dangerous, given the obvious change in who now ruled the place, and presumably the rest of Agder. Although Ragnar had put on several inches and had filled out in the two and a half years they’d been away, he was still recognisable. Thorkel therefore sent Olaf with two men who came from outlying farms to find out what had happened to Ragnar’s father and family and, more importantly to him, what had happened to his own wife and daughters. Other married members of his crew who came from Arendal were equally keen to discover the fate of their families.
When the official who collected the tax from visiting ships appeared Thorkel kept his face hidden and another man pretended to be the shipmaster, though Thorkel didn’t recognise the man and he was evidently a Swede.
‘How long will you be staying,’ the man asked whilst the two warriors escorting him gave the female Picts lascivious looks.
‘We’ve come to sell these thralls. When is the next market?’
‘In three days.’
‘Then we’ll be departing as soon as we’ve
sold them.’
‘That’ll be three pounds of silver then,’
‘That’s extortionate,’ the supposed shipmaster said, pretending to look dismayed.
‘That’s the price set by King Froh. Pay it or leave now and sell your wretched thralls somewhere else.’
‘Wait here. I’ll fetch some silver and my scales.’
After the official and his escort had left Thorkel went to speak to Ragnar to see if he knew anything about this Swedish King Froh, but he couldn’t find the lad anywhere.
‘The bloody idiot has slipped ashore. If he’s recognised we could all be in trouble,’ he muttered to Sitric.
It didn’t take Olaf and his companions long to find a tavern. They sat down in the crowded interior reeking of smoke, stale sweat and vomit and ordered three tankards of ale and a bowl of stew each. They were lucky to find a place where they could sit together but they had to share the table with a group of young men.
In due course they got talking to them and found out that were apprenticed to a blacksmith. All of them had been born in Arendal and would presumably know what had happened there.
‘The last time we came here to trade the king was Sigvard, a Norseman, not a bloody Swede; what happened?’
One of the youths snorted. ‘The old fool fell for a pretty face – the daughter of one of his jarls; I forget his name. The trouble was the girl was already promised to Froh of Alfheim.’
‘I thought Sigvard was married?’
‘So he was, but he divorced her. He forced his jarl to break off the betrothal to Froh and give the maid to him instead.’
Olaf wondered how he was going to break the news to Ragnar about his mother but worse was to come.
