by Terry Deary
“Of course,” the Viking king nodded, and sat at the table with his warrior chiefs.
Alfred waited till the men were quiet … quiet except for the noises of men eating, slurping and belching, and of dogs crunching on bones, or yelping as they chased rats from the tent.
At last he began.
Alfred told the tale of Freyr and the sword that fought all by itself. No one could defeat him while he owned the sword.
“Great Freyr, the god, he fell in love,
With lovely Gerda, what a dove.
‘Please marry me? I have to know.’
But Gerda said, ‘The answer’s no.’”
Freyr was upset, Alfred said, but his servant assured him that he’d win Gerda’s heart for his master. And Freyr promised the servant his magic sword, if he managed it.
“The servant said to Gerda fair,
‘There’s no one finer than my Freyr.
Just marry him, his heart is true.’
She changed her mind and said, ‘I do.’”
The poem was a very long one. The Viking warriors cheered when Freyr won Gerda. But most had fallen asleep by the time Alfred reached the last part of the poem.
The story moved onto the great battle at the end of the world. Gods against giants. When the gods fight in that battle, who will be the first to die? Freyr, of course. He’d given away his magic sword.
“Freyr fought, the foolish lord.
And lost without his magic sword.”
By then, all the Vikings were snoring. King Alfred smiled at young Ethelbert. “Are we ready to go?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” the boy nodded. “We’re ready.”
Chapter Seven
The Battle
King Alfred stood on Ethandun hill and watched as the Viking army marched its dusty way towards him.
“Are they mad?” his general, Athelstan, asked. “Do they want to be beaten?”
“They think they can’t be beaten,” Ethelbert said.
“We have a great army. Half of England’s finest warriors have come to King Alfred’s side,” Athelstan said. “We are on top of a hill. We will shoot them down with arrows as they climb. If any reach the top, with their heavy leather armour and great iron swords, they’ll be too tired to fight.”
The Viking army lined up at the bottom of the hill. They left their carts with tents and food on the road and made ready to charge.
“Which madman decided Ethandun Hill was the best place to fight?”
“I was the madman,” King Alfred said, and he laughed. “But Gudrun is maddest of all … he took the word of a travelling minstrel.”
The English king turned to his army. He raised the sword of Freyr above his head. “We cannot lose. We have the hilltop … and we have a lucky charm. For England … and for freedom!” he cried.
“For freedom!” his soldiers cried and turned to face the scrambling, slipping sweating, staggering, sliding Viking soldiers.
The first rows of Vikings fell under a black rain of arrows. The next row had to climb over their moaning, bleeding friends. Only the strongest reached the top and raised their weary arms with swords that felt as heavy as lead.
Gudrun and Eric were the first to reach the top. The king turned and called back to his straining men, “Come on! Let’s finish them off. Eric, fetch me the sword of Freyr.”
“I don’t have it,” Eric muttered quietly. “I thought you had it.”
“I don’t have it,” the Viking king hissed. “I thought you did.”
“You’ve lost it,” Eric said.
“So find it,” the king said under his breath.
“It’s a bit late to start looking now,” Eric groaned. “We’re facing a thousand Englishmen who want our blood.
Gudrun sighed. “Don’t let them see you’re scared,” he told his captain.
“I’m not,” Eric replied.
The Viking king looked at the line of English soldiers. They stood shoulder to shoulder. “Come on,” he panted and raised a common iron sword. “Who will be the first to die?”
The English soldiers didn’t move.
Eric rested on his sword a moment. “Why not send out your leader, the young Alfred. Let him fight me, man to man. If I beat him, then you surrender – I’ll let you live to be my slaves.”
King Alfred stepped forward from the line of soldiers. “And if you lose?”
“I know your face,” the Viking king said. “I’ve met you somewhere, haven’t I?”
Alfred nodded.
“Great Freyr, the god, he fell in love, With lovely Gerda, what a dove,” he said.
“The minstrel? A spy? A coward’s trick,” the Viking king sneered.
“I asked what will happen when you lose?” Alfred said.
“I won’t lose,” Gudrun said.
Alfred looked over his shoulder. “Ethelbert?” he called. “Come here. Show King Gudrun what a wicked English thief took before we left his camp.”
Ethelbert stood alongside his king. He held out the sword of Freyr.
“Gudrun fought, the foolish lord. He lost without his magic sword,” Alfred said.
“My sword!” Gudrun cried. “My lucky sword. I cannot fight without it.”
“What shall we do with your body, Gudrun?” King Alfred said. “Bury it here or send it back to Denmark?”
Gudrun threw down the old iron sword he had been carrying. “Alfred, my friend,” he said. “I’m glad we’ve met this way. I wanted to talk to you about peace.”
Alfred nodded. He placed an arm around the shoulder of young Ethelbert. “Peace? Yes. I don’t want boys like Ethelbert here to grow up fighting and dying. Peace would be good.”
Ethelbert clutched the sword and watched as King Alfred walked across the grassy hilltop to shake the Viking king by the hand. The boy was sure he felt the sword of Freyr glowing warm in his hand. He looked at it.
“Peace? Yes, Freyr, you would like that,” he smiled.
Epilogue
There is a famous story of King Alfred burning the loaves in a peasant woman’s cottage. She gave him a telling off before she found out who he was. We don’t know if the story is true.
There is another story that says he went into the Viking camp, disguised as a minstrel, and learned their plans.
In the last great battle, Alfred beat Gudrun and the Vikings at Ethandun Hill. Gudrun gave up and Alfred let him live. The English and the Vikings divided the country between them. They lived in peace while Alfred ruled.
The Viking god Freyr gave his name to a day of the week … Freyrday … or Friday as we call it. The story of him giving up his magical sword for the love of Gerda is one of the old Viking stories they liked to tell.
We don’t know what day the battle of Ethandun was fought. It would be nice to think it was fought on Freyr-day, wouldn’t it?
First published 2010 by
A & C Black
Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP
www.acblack.com
This electronic edition published in March 2012 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Text copyright © 2010 Terry Deary
Illustrations copyright © 2010 Helen Flook
The rights of Terry Deary and Helen Flook to be identified as the
author and illustrator of this work have been asserted by them in
accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
ISBN: 978 1 4081 3592 1
A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage
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