by Angus Donald
‘Then came the men, with their axes and their fire. They came to cut and to build, to burn and clear the ground for their animals and their crops.
‘Before the men came, not even light could penetrate into the heart of the First Forest, which was itself alive, and at its centre was the mighty Irminsul, the Mother of Trees. Yet the coming of the men meant the slow death of the great forest. They cut down many of the Irminsul’s children with their bright axes and burnt their bodies for fuel. They stripped the earth bare and planted their barley and their rye. They made beams from the ash, alder and oak and built their longhouses. The First Forest began to die.’
‘But it did not die,’ asserted Bjarki, yawning.
‘No, it did not, and I shall explain why. Now where was I… Ah, yes! The arrival of the gods. Of course, along with their axes, and their fire, when the men first came into the First Forest, they brought all their gods with them – Odin and Thor, Tiw and Freyr, Loki and Hel and Heimdall and all the rest of them – drawn into the Middle-Realm by the worship of the people. But the spirits of the First Forest, who were more ancient even than the gods, resented this intrusion and a terrible war began between the different deities.
‘After much conflict, much destruction of both folk and forest, a truce was called between the gods of men and the spirits of nature, and to ensure a lasting peace, Odin, the greatest god, called the All-Father, offered to sacrifice his own life for the sake of harmony between Man and Nature.
‘So he gave himself up to the Mother of Trees, allowing himself to be hanged by the neck from one of the Irminsul’s sacred boughs. There he hung for nine days and nine nights as still as a corpse, and yet it was not truly so – the Mother of Trees was tricked by Odin. The cunning god had swallowed a bar of iron and the rope by which he was hanged could not crush his neck with the iron lodged deep inside it. Odin did not die. Instead, on the ninth day, he cut himself down, spat out the bar of iron, and was reborn, stronger, wiser and even more cunning than before – because, of course, by his sacrifice he had gained the wisdom that comes from cheating Death itself.’
Tor could feel her eyes closing. On the far side of the fire, close enough to feel its warmth, the blanket-less youth was curled up on the turf, barely awake.
‘The Mother of Trees was tricked by Odin,’ repeated Valtyr, ‘yet she was not angered by the god’s subterfuge. Instead, she was impressed and amused by his antics. She forgave the god, and a true and lasting peace was then made between the ancient spirits of the forest and the new-come gods of men. It was agreed that, every year, the Irminsul would render up a few of her many children for the needs of men, for their fires and their fields, to build their dragon-ships and their houses. And deep in the heart of the First Forest, a high place known as the Groves of Eresburg, where the Irminsul still grows between the nine worlds, would remain sacred for ever.’
‘That’s where we’re heading?’ Bjarki’s voice was a drowsy murmur.
‘It is, son. Now it’s time for sleep. We’ll need our strength tomorrow.’
* * *
After a cold breakfast of the remains of the fish stew and some twice-baked barley bread, the three travellers resumed their southward march.
Tor had slept soundly, in spite of herself, and was mildly surprised to find the oaf still with them in the grey light of morning. But there he was, noisily swilling out his mouth with ale from the skin, scrubbing his teeth with a chewed birch twig, and spitting voluminously into the dew-wet grass.
They passed through a flat, pleasant countryside as they walked, fields of sprouting rye, a few verdant sheep and cow pastures, sticking always to the main road that took them south. Away to their left, a mile or two to the east, they occasionally glimpsed the sea, a strip of white-flecked blue.
By midday Tor could see the flat, dirty, brown smoke bank above a substantial settlement at the mouth of a glittering tongue of sea, and Valtyr, stopping them briefly, passed out barley bread and cheese and said they would shortly enter the town of Flens where he hoped to do a little trading.
‘You are both to behave yourselves,’ he said. ‘No fighting; even if you are sorely provoked. Do you hear me, Bjarki? If they call you a milksop or a low-down dirty dog – you do nothing at all. You smile and walk on. Yes?’
‘Smile and walk on,’ said Bjarki, nodding. ‘What else would I do?’
‘Don’t forget this. I will not pay wergild for you a second time. And you, Torfinna Hildarsdottir, you had better behave yourself too, my girl.’
It was a market day and Flens was teeming. Hundreds of farmers and their families had come into the town from miles around to exchange their goods: milk curds, preserved fruit, pickled vegetables, fresh fish and dried, and cuts of fresh meat, new-brewed ale, wool and cloth, linen shirts, as well as a variety tools, nails, knives, hammers, cooking pots, bowls and kettles.
Valtyr found a spot in the corner of the main square and laid out a blanket on the ground on to which he set out his wares: rows of delicately carved bone hairpins and combs, bunches of coloured ribbons and amulets on leather thongs blessed by magicians from the frozen north and guaranteed to ward off marsh fevers or ensure that blades could not pierce your flesh.
Tor and Bjarki sat down beside the blanket, munching hot mutton pies that Valtyr had purchased, and watched the crowds as they passed by – red-cheeked, brightly dressed, cheerful countrymen and women, prosperous folk, enjoying a day of spring sunshine and a chance to swap gossip with their more distant neighbours. Valtyr, too, did not seem particularly eager to sell his wares. He greeted several of the townspeople by name, and was seemingly well known and liked here. He chatted to a sheep farmer about his flocks and the damage caused by packs of hungry wolves coming out of the southern forests in winter; he exchanged news with a hersir, very stern in his mail and polished helm, leaning on his spear. They spoke at length about the Dane-Work, the mighty earthwork fortification that King Siegfried, ruler of the Mark, was repairing and extending in the south, on the Saxon border.
Madness, the hersir called it, for Siegfried was offering cold, hard silver from his own treasury to any workers who would help complete this monumental task, labouring alongside his thralls. All the young freemen of fighting age, the hersir said, were flocking to join the work gangs. Warriors were turning themselves into ditch-diggers. Where was the honour in that?
Valtyr spoke to a jolly ale-wife about the shocking price of barley per bushel due to last year’s rain-soaked harvest, and praised her fresh brew extravagantly – Tor thought he might even be flirting with her. He sold a clay love amulet to a youth with a face marred by a plague of angry pustules who was hovering nervously near the selling blanket. The amulet, if placed under the pallet of a sleeping girl, would compel her to fall in love with the first face she saw upon waking. Pity the poor girl, if she ever saw that pimpled face looming over her in the light of dawn, thought Tor.
Through all this, Bjarki just sat on the beaten earth beside the selling blanket and smiled, eyes closed, his big, stupid face tilted up into the sunshine – still apparently savouring his continued existence after the close brush with death. Once she saw him put a hand to his neck and gently touch the angry red mark under his chin that the hemp noose had made there.
The young man’s unnatural serenity began to irritate Tor. Who was he to be so content? He had nothing to his name – not even that wench who wept so embarrassingly at his departure from Bago. He didn’t even own a pair of shoes, a blanket or eating knife. He was a thrall. A big dolt who this time the day before had been almost hanged like a stray dog. Tor could not imagine the circumstances in which she would allow herself to accept such a bad death, such ignominy – and at the hands of her friends and neighbours, too. To suffer such a miserable, cowardly end was too shameful to bear.
‘Let’s take a look around,’ she said. ‘Come on, oaf, stir yourself.’
Bjarki opened one eye. Then the other. He glanced over at Valtyr, who nodded briskly at him and snapped: ‘Best y
ou remember my words, lad.’
The two of them set off together to explore the market.
* * *
Bjarki tried not to gawp. He had seldom been much further than a few days’ travel from Bago, except on Thialfi’s small fishing craft, and then only to visit other bedraggled villages on the coast of the various islands, which were all remarkably similar to his own; even the faces of the people seemed to be the same. But Flens was at least ten times larger than Bago village, and was home, he supposed, to at least five or six hundred folk. Today there seemed to be at least that many just walking in the streets, calling out to each other merrily, peering at the wooden stalls that held the mounds of shining herrings, fingering the dry goods, joking with the stall holders. A group of three young local lads, all painfully near manhood, swaggered past them in a line, taking up nearly the whole muddy street. Bjarki put his hands on Tor’s shoulders, guiding her to the side of the street to allow the three youths to pass by unchallenged, and she rounded on him, eyes blazing, spitting fury.
‘Take your filthy paws off me! You think I need your protection?’
Bjarki was taken aback. He lifted both hands, palm out, in surrender.
‘I meant no harm,’ he said.
They continued walking in angry silence. Tor stopped at a stall selling knives, a handsome collection of seaxes: bone-handled, sharp steel blades as long as her forearm, housed in beautifully engraved leather sheaths. Bjarki wondered if she had any money to spend. He had none. For a tiny moment he considered stealing a seax. Then rejected the thought as unworthy. Also, he suspected that in big towns like this, thieves were hanged for their crimes. One experience in the shadow of the noose was more than enough for him.
Bjarki turned away from the stall and saw on the far side of the street a large open space in which two big men, stripped to their waists to expose oiled, fish-belly-white chests, were grappling with each other. The space had been marked out as a rough square with long, slender hazel branches, denuded of their foliage, marking each of the four sides.
The two men were not fighting in earnest, Bjarki knew immediately. One man threw the other, almost gently, then stepped forward to help him back to his feet. A small chattering crowd was forming outside the hazel square. So Bjarki left Tor with the knives and crossed the street to join it.
The taller man, with hair the colour of dirty straw, stepped outside the hazel square, leaving the other man inside, and said: ‘Who fancies a bout? Who here is man enough to take on Black Svein in bare-handed combat? A silver penny to compete, a purse of ten if you manage to throw him. Ten times your wager! Haven’t got a penny? A loaf of bread for ten loaves in victory. Who will place a stake on his own strength? Who will fight?’
Black Svein, a squat, raven-haired bruiser with a mat of chest hair, was strolling around the square, flexing his impressive muscles, rubbing grease into his shoulders and arms. Grinning at the crowd. Striking poses.
Three youths to the left of the hazel square were shoving each other and laughing, making jests; the same ones who had swaggered past in the street.
‘How about you, young warriors? Got a silver penny to wager on your prowess? Nothing a pretty maiden likes more than a brave fighting man. You, young hersir, can you best Svein? Can you throw him in the mud?’
One of the youths had accepted the challenge, and was stripping off his tunic. He was half a head taller than the dark-haired wrestler, ten years younger, strapping and well made. He stepped into the square to the cheers of his two friends, lifted his hands in the air as if anticipating an easy victory, and winked lasciviously at a pretty girl holding a basket of bread.
Bjarki turned away to see where Tor was, only for a few moments, and missed the whole bout. When he looked back, the young man was lying on the ground with Black Svein standing over him holding his right arm vertically in a complicated twisted position, which was evidently painful.
‘Best of three,’ said Black Svein, helping his scowling opponent back to his feet. The youth shook his head and went back to his convulsed friends.
It was soon clear that none of the other onlookers wished to try their luck, despite the pleading of the straw-haired man.
‘Tell you what – wager a single egg and receive a dozen if you can win. No? Nobody? How about a free bout, then? Any man who wants to have a turn, with bare hands, blunted swords or just the quarterstaff, any man brave enough to step into the hazel-wood square with Black Svein, come now, step forward. No charge, no wager – just for the fun of it.’
There were still no takers.
‘How about you, son? You look like a strapping fellow. Care to try your strength?’ Bjarki realised the tall blond man was speaking to him.
He shook his head.
‘No need to be afraid. I’ll tell Black Svein to go easy on you.’
‘I’m not afraid,’ Bjarki said.
‘Then come inside the hazel square and prove it.’
Bjarki shook his head. He smiled.
The straw-haired man turned away. ‘There must be one or two here today who are not snivelling cowards,’ he said, his back turned to Bjarki.
Bjarki stopped smiling. He felt suddenly cold. He took a step forward.
‘He’s not a coward,’ said a voice at his elbow, a cool hand there, too, restraining him. ‘He just doesn’t want to fight your friend today. And calling him one won’t change his mind.’
The straw-haired man turned back and looked at Bjarki – and Tor, who was now standing beside him.
‘You his girl then?’ he said. Then to Bjarki: ‘Aren’t you a one – getting your little girlie to speak for you. I see now why you won’t fight.’
‘He won’t fight your friend,’ said Tor, ‘but I will. You said you had quarterstaffs? Yes? All right then, I accept your challenge.’
The straw-haired man was nonplussed. This scrawny young woman, with arms like kindling sticks, was about half of the weight of Black Svein – and a head shorter than him, too. It was a ridiculous match.
‘You can’t fight him,’ he said.
‘Oh yes? Why is that? Is he afraid of me?’
That started a howl of laughter from the crowd, which had thickened considerably by now. The straw-haired man flushed pink with irritation.
‘You cannot fight him, girlie. It would not be a fair contest.’
‘What if I go really easy on him?’ said Tor. ‘I promise I won’t hurt him all that much – hardly at all. I’ll be as gentle as a lamb with the poor idiot.’
The crowd was roaring with mirth by now. Straw-Hair was scowling at her like a man who would like to commit murder. ‘No, no match.’
‘Perhaps it is your friend Svein who is the snivelling coward,’ said Tor.
Bjarki whispered: ‘Enough, Tor, you’ve made your point. Let’s go.’
‘Or maybe it is you,’ said Tor, ‘who hasn’t the stomach for the fight.’
The man leaned in and hissed: ‘You’ve just earned yourself a beating, you silly bitch. If he breaks your skull, you’ve only yourself to blame.’
‘Don’t do it, Tor,’ said Bjarki. ‘He’ll kill you. I’ll fight him for you.’
‘Fuck that. I accepted his challenge. I’ll give this troll a fine spanking.’
And Tor stepped over the hazel branch and into the square.
* * *
The quarterstaff was taller than she was. An inch-thick pole of oak, six feet long. Tor held it in both hands, seemingly taking the measure of its great heft. Bjarki watched with increasing alarm. On the other side of the square Black Svein was twirling his staff with one hand, spinning the wood in a blurred circle just with his strong fingers. Grinning. This joke had gone far enough. Bjarki wondered if he ought to step into the square and plead with the straw-haired man to cancel the bout before Tor was hurt, or even killed.
The crowd was thick about the space now, with people calling out jests and encouragement to the fighters. One man shouted out: ‘Kill the little slut!’ Bjarki glared at him, memorising his f
eatures for future punishment.
‘Fight!’ Straw-Hair gave the command and stepped away from the two combatants. Black Svein attacked, a slow, lateral swipe at Tor’s upper body. He was treating this like a child’s game. Tor put the vertical staff across her body and blocked the swipe easily with the upper part of her wood. Then she reversed the blow and struck Svein’s leg, hard, with the lower portion of the heavy staff. The staff smacked into Svein’s thigh with a noise like a clap.
A couple of men in the crowd laughed.
The dark-haired man was stung, more shocked than hurt. But he didn’t go down, as a weaker man might have. He stepped back quickly out of range and rubbed his limb. His face changed. The grin was long gone, and his eyes seemed to fill with new-found wariness. He attacked, a series of short, fast blows alternately striking at Tor with the top and the bottom of the staff.
The girl blocked each strike – clack-clack, clack-clack – with her own pole. She easily anticipated where the blow would fall and her own staff was there just before his. She was quick, Bjarki saw, very, very quick. And she obviously had trained with the quarterstaff before – and trained with serious opponents. She fought like a man, in fact, like a seasoned warrior. But nothing could make up for the superior strength of her opponent. Each whack from Black Svein’s weapon drove her back a pace, and now she was on the far left-hand side of the square, by the hazel branch. All she had to do to end the bout was step beyond the barrier, and it would be over and done.
Bjarki opened his mouth to tell her to do exactly this – and stopped.
Tor dived forward, rolling over her own staff, which was tucked tight into her middle. She passed under Black Svein’s heavy, swinging blow, bobbed up on the other side quick as a hunting stoat, and delivered a thudding, double-handed thwack of her staff across her opponent’s buttocks.
