by Peter Fox
Helga looked at each man in turn. ‘What wolves?’
‘These,’ Thorvald said, pulling the carefully folded wrap from his belt pouch and handing it to Helga.
‘Are you still carrying that thing around?’ Sigvald asked, incredulous. He looked at his friend with great displeasure. ‘You and I have a lot of talking to do.’
Helga peered at the design, eyebrows raised in wonder, then turned her attention to the British woman, who had backed all the way to the far end of the longship.
‘There’s a trunk, too,’ Thorvald said. ‘We rescued it from the Sea Swift before she foundered. Turns out that it was thrown into the Sea Swift with those two when we collided. Eirik believes we’ve kidnapped someone important.’
‘Indeed,’ Helga said thoughtfully. ‘The fates have been hard at work here.’
Sigvald chuckled. ‘Well, I’m not sure for whose benefit they’re toiling. Thorvald’s gathered himself a handful. She’s a feisty girl, and I doubt she’ll be much use as a servant.’
Helga cocked a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Someone who is guarded by such powerful omens is unlikely to be either useless or a servant, husband.’ With that, she hurried back down to the shore.
Thorvald and Sigvald both watched as she strode aboard the Osprey and proceeded to cluck over the young woman and her child. Thorvald had no idea what she said to calm the woman, but within moments Helga had swept them into her arms and was herding them up towards the hall.
Sigvald turned to his friend, a broad grin lighting his tanned face. He grabbed Thorvald’s cheeks and gave him a sloppy kiss on the forehead. ‘Who would have believed it?’ he crowed. ‘For once in your life, you’ve actually managed to get something right.’
Thorvald frowned, not quite understanding.
‘The bairn,’ Sigvald explained. ‘Helga turns to blubber around them. She’s forgotten about the Vixen already. You’ve just saved my life, Thorvald.’
‘Don’t thank me,’ Thorvald replied. ‘It’s the babe you owe your life to.’
Sigvald laughed. ‘Then I suppose it’s just as well you rescued him after all.’
PART II
Norvegr
Late Winter, 823AD
(Fifteen years later)
3. Troll!
Thorvaldsby, Aurlandsfjorden, Norvegr
Thorvald carefully unbuckled the leather strap that bound the oaken coffer, surprised that his fingers shook as he removed the mould-spotted belt. He unwrapped the oilskin covering and saw that it had served its purpose well, for the trunk beneath was in surprisingly good condition after its long interment. It had been thirteen years since he had buried the chest deep in the earth, where it had lain throughout his son’s childhood, its secrets safely concealed. He had dug it up the previous autumn – before the ground had frozen over – and had transferred it to the byre as a tentative step in readiness for today. On more than one occasion since, he had fought the temptation to put it back in the ground, not at all convinced his actions were for the best.
He paused for a moment, took a deep breath and freed the iron latch. The hinges screeched in noisy protest and the Norseman threw a quick glance in his son’s direction. Rathulf’s soft snores continued unbroken. Thorvald reached for the pig fat and greased the rusty metal. This time the hinges gave with little more than a squeak, and he eased the lid open.
He reached into the chest and lifted out a sword and scabbard, careful to ensure the coins beneath did not tumble aside in a noisy cascade. The decorated scabbard showed a few spots of mildew, but otherwise, the leather looked in good shape. He wrapped his hand around the carved hilt and gently tugged at the blade. It slipped easily from the scabbard and to Thorvald’s relief, the finely patterned iron and gold inlay also showed few signs of decay. Satisfied that no real damage had been suffered by its burial, the Viking returned the sword to its sheath and set it aside.
He glanced at his son to ensure he remained asleep, then he returned to the chest and drew out a folded piece of burgundy cloth. Other precious things lay in the trunk, but he ignored them, aware that they held little consequence against the treasure that now rested in his lap. He gazed at it for a long while, knowing that if he did this, there could be no turning back.
This coming summer Rathulf would celebrate his sixteenth birthday with the taking of the Leap. It was the last in a series of contests to prove his character, and in so doing he would seal his place among the men and women of the fjordlands. Thorvald looked across at his son. A plain woollen curtain separated the young man’s sleeping place from the rest of the room, but tonight it was tied open so that he could catch the warmth of the fire. Behind it were all the things that Rathulf had gathered around him over the past fifteen summers of his life as a Norseman. At the foot of his bed stood a large pine trunk that spilt lazily stored clothing. His plain iron sword and decorated leather scabbard lay on its lid. A small stool stood beside the trunk, propping up a circular shield, as yet unpainted and unmarked by combat. Rathulf had made it himself last summer, and Thorvald smiled proudly as he took in its well-crafted lines. A wooden shelf above Rathulf’s bedplace held an assortment of prizes including sea urchins, a piece of Frankish enamel, three bronze arm rings, a carved ivory box, and various pieces of ironmongery. His son’s entire world could be found in that tiny space; all the possessions of a Viking warrior-to-be.
Amongst it all lay Rathulf, with one hand thrown up beside his cheek, the other resting on the bedclothes that covered his waist. His bare skin glowed richly in the soft firelight, and his tawny hair fell untidily about his broad shoulders where the braiding had come undone. His youthful face bore the hint of a frown, and he sighed and shifted position, unaware of his father’s critical gaze. A heaviness settled upon Thorvald as he looked upon his adopted son, so peaceful and innocent in slumber. You are so strong in body, he thought, but what of your strength of spirit? Will it stand this, the greatest of trials you have yet faced?
He reached down into his lap and unwrapped the little parcel, gingerly lifting each fold of cloth. A golden ring glinted back at him. He picked it up and held it to the light. Two beautifully contrived wolves chased one another around the band; their fangs bared and tails streaming in urgent flight. Thorvald peered into the tiny ruby eyes of one of the wolves and shook his head in wonder.
He knew their story well, for Tegen had drummed it into his head during her last days on Midgard. Indeed it had seemed to Thorvald that her dogged need to recount their heritage was the only thing that had kept her fever-racked body alive. Thorvald had listened out of compassion for the dying woman, wondering whether Tegen had created the tale to protect her poor boy, who would now be left to fend for himself in a hostile land. But upon her dying breath, Tegen had made Thorvald promise to give the boy the sword and the ring when he was old enough to understand their import, and Thorvald had agreed. For their part, Eirik, Bardi and Sigvald had been more than willing to believe her story, convinced now that the collision had been no coincidence, and that they all had a part to play in whatever course the fates had set them upon that fateful day sixteen years ago.
Soon after her passing, Thorvald had adopted Tegen’s son as his own; refusing to cast the three-year-old out as some of the more heartless had advised. Thorvald had become attached to the little rascal, despite his attempts to uphold the boundaries of master and slave. Rathulf had been too bright, too charming a boy to treat with the detached disdain deserving of a thrall. The farmer had been met with much mockery – though most of it gentle – when he had announced at the summer Althing his intention to adopt Rathulf. He had stolidly borne the taunts, knowing that many among the assembled folk felt as he did toward the lad, blessed as Rathulf seemed to be by Odin’s companions of good luck; the two wolves, Geri and Freki.
The following summer Thorvald had hosted the adoption rites, celebrating the occasion with a grand feast at Sigvald’s steading. As custom had dictated, Thorvald had slaughtered a three-year-old ox with his own axe, then fashioned a b
oot from the hide of its right leg. This he had set down in the centre of Sigvald’s hall, whereupon first he, then his new son, followed by all those present had, in turn, placed their right foot in the boot, thereby proclaiming their acceptance of Rathulf as an equal among them. That most moving of days remained fixed in Thorvald’s memory, and not once afterwards had he regretted his decision.
That day had been important for another reason, for it was also the occasion of the sealing of the blood-pact between the four expedition leaders: a pact in which they promised that they would all, together, ensure that the little boy grew to become a well-rounded warrior, well versed in the ways of the Norseman and imbued with all the skills necessary to be a leader of men. The boy would remain ignorant of his past until the time came for him to step into adulthood. Only then would they present Rathulf with his true heritage, when he was ready to understand its significance, and, more importantly, acknowledge the role of the four Vikings in bringing him safely into manhood. In return for their lifelong dedication and military assistance in reclaiming his birthright, the four Vikings would share in the wealth and opportunities offered by Rathulf’s rich southern kingdom.
It had been an easy thing to do back then, but as time had passed, Thorvald had increasingly lamented the making of that pact. As he became more attached to his adopted son, it felt increasingly wrong to keep the truth from him, and on more than one occasion Thorvald had been tempted to retrieve the trunk and tell his son the truth. At other times, Thorvald had felt completely the opposite, convinced he should take the trunk far out to sea and hurl it overboard because Rathulf seemed so secure in his Viking identity that to wrest it from him would surely be a cruel thing.
The farmer let out a long sigh and looked once again at his charge. But now I must let you go, he thought sadly, for who am I to question the will of the Gods? Soon it will be your true birthday, and so I shall keep my promise and hand these things on to you. I only hope that one day you will understand why I have done this and that you might find it in your heart to forgive me.
✽ ✽ ✽
Rathulf dragged the byre door shut and rammed the bolt into place. Snow fell in large flakes, settling on his hair and shoulders and adding to the ever-thickening mantle on the ground. The drifts were so deep now that in some places they threatened to swallow entire buildings, forcing Rathulf and his father to dig ramps down to the doorways to keep them clear. Rathulf climbed away from the byre and glanced up through the grey twilight to the towering walls of the valley that enclosed their little farm. Somewhere up there the fell monsters of Utgard lurked, poking and nudging at the drifts in the hope that one of them might be dislodged. Pray that they leave us alone, Rathulf thought, tugging his sheepskin jacket more tightly around his shoulders. Somewhere up there too was Sol, riding across the sky in his great chariot, but no one had seen him for weeks now, and Rathulf wondered whether he would return at all.
He made his way along the wall towards the door to the house, aware that with so much snow around, the trolls would be hungry for warm meat. He flinched at the thought of one of the monsters plunging its claws into his skin, and he pushed his way inside and quickly closed the door behind him. He coughed as his lungs drew in the stale, smoke-tinged air and the other unpleasant smells that embodied his confinement: the musty aromas of damp earth and mould mingled with the ever-present haze of peat smoke from the smouldering fire in the centre of the floor; and the sharp scent of bodies and clothes long in need of washing.
Rathulf stripped off his jacket and dropped it on the raised earthen bench that ran the length of the wall, then he reached for a mug and poured himself some mead. He took a long draught and settled down on the bench opposite his father. One of the lamps beside Thorvald’s head guttered and went out with a fizz, and the gloom in the house deepened. Rathulf sighed as Thorvald reached up and took the lamp down to refill it. That was another thing he hated about winter; the endless darkness, both inside and out. He understood why they didn’t have windows in the houses, but it meant that you were forever living in a dingy half-light; unless you were rich like Sigvald and could afford beeswax candles and huge torches to line the walls. In Sigvald’s fire-hall, you could actually see your hands in front of your face.
Somewhere water dripped onto the floor, but Rathulf ignored the voice that prodded him to go and find a pail to put under it. There was no point anyway, as they’d long since used all the available vessels. The weight of the snow on the roof had weakened it, causing some of the planking to split, but there was little they could do to remedy it until the thaw arrived.
Thorvald waited patiently on the other side of the room, his grey eyes fixed upon his son. He was dressed for outdoors and had just finished tying up his waterproof sealskin leggings when Rathulf had come back into the house. He leant back against the wall and cleared his throat.
‘You had best tell me the bad news,’ he said. ‘The snow continues to fall?’
Rathulf nodded.
‘By thunder! Is there no end to it? How many days is it now?’
‘Nine.’
Thorvald shook his head slowly. ‘And the animals?’
Rathulf saw in his father’s resigned expression that the farmer had already guessed the answer. ‘It’s too cold for the sheep,’ he said. ‘Another one has died.’
‘Then it’s time to move them into the house.’ Thorvald said ruefully. ‘Sorry, I know how much you hate that, but what choice do we have?’
None, Rathulf thought, knowing too well the need to keep their precious flock alive. Nevertheless, the idea of sharing this already cramped space with thirty smelly animals did not give him much comfort. He sighed, a realisation coming to him. ‘Actually, father, there’s not a lot of point moving them. Their feed has gone to mould.’ He pointed at one of the pails standing nearby on the floor. ‘The roof has sagged, just like in here.’
Thorvald’s shoulders slumped. ‘Then it is as we feared,’ he said, shaking his head. Suddenly he brightened, and a wry smile lit his face. ‘At least we shan’t go hungry. How many ways do you know to prepare mutton?’
Rathulf managed a rueful grin in return. ‘I told you we should have gone to Sigvald’s when we had the chance. He was right when he said you were too stubborn for sense.’
There was another reason Rathulf wanted to go to Sigvald’s – the jarl’s eldest daughter Ingrith – whose company had become more agreeable as the year had drawn towards its close. To his surprise, Rathulf had found he was missing her. He had even dreamed about her on two occasions, much to his embarrassment.
‘Rathulf, we cannot rely on Sigvald for everything,’ Thorvald said gently. ‘A man is his master at home: a couple of goats and a corded roof are still better than begging.’
Rathulf sighed inwardly. There he goes reciting the Hávamál again. ‘We are beggars, living like this, and before you quote me any more words of wisdom, it would only have been for the winter anyway.’ Rathulf had no wish to sound like a petulant boy, but how could he make his father see sense? Thorvald was too proud for his own good.
‘There was no warning that Ull would be so vicious. The seers had no indication, Rathulf, as you well know. The best we can do is pray to the Gods for an early summer.’
‘Early? At this rate we’ll be lucky if it comes at all,’ Rathulf said.
It was true. The Gods had turned their faces from the people of Norvegr this winter, throwing them into a darkness that saw no end. The short autumn had disappeared overnight, swept away by a callous wind that had blown relentlessly for days, ripping the leaves from the trees and hurling sleet and snow upon the unprepared folk of the fjordlands. Shepherds and their flocks were caught unawares in the open, and they simply disappeared without trace under the drifting snow. The Goddess Hel had gleefully wreaked her destruction, sweeping across the meadows on her three-legged horse, her cackling cries echoing throughout the fells and dales. Rathulf flinched at the thought of the grim bounty that would be revealed by the spring thaw.
And what of the crews of the longships? Of the eleven longships which had set sail earlier that summer, only five had returned, their sails torn to shreds, their cargo abandoned, their crews utterly exhausted. As to the fate of the remaining ships, none could say, though all knew in one way or another that they had fallen victim to Aegir’s wrath. Most of the settlements along Sognefjorden had lost someone, and the impact was deep and painful. Until this ill-fated autumn, the ships had always returned home heavily laden with booty from their raiding forays in the south. That cargo had consisted of food and tradable items, essential for the struggling farmers to survive the winter. Such was the profit to be had in raiding that some families had dispensed with tilling the unyielding earth altogether. With the loss of both the menfolk and their means to provide for themselves, the isolated farming communities began to collapse. Fights broke out between friends, desperate families stole from one another, and slaves turned upon their masters.
Rathulf shook his head at the thought of him and his friends fighting over the last scraps of food. Pray to Odin it doesn’t come to that, he thought, instinctively touching the little amulet around his neck. He leant back against the wall, took another gulp of his mead and closed his eyes. His thoughts drifted to a place where the sun shone warm and strong all year round, and the streets were paved with gold: the fabled city of Konstantinoupolis.
Ever since he had heard an Arab trader’s description of the incredible metropolis two summers ago, Rathulf had yearned to sail there and see it with his own eyes. His friends had scoffed at him of course, because everyone knew that no such place existed, except in Rathulf’s dreams perhaps. But no amount of jibing could dull Rathulf’s excitement. He was convinced the city of gold was real. How he dreamed of wandering the crowded markets and cobbled streets, or sitting in the incredible circus watching the gladiators fight to the death, or – his most cherished wish of all – riding a Byzantine warhorse on the arrow-straight roads that led in all directions from the city gates. He had listened keenly to the trader’s reverent description of the magnificent Eastern mounts and had since imagined himself, Rathulf Thorvaldarsson, the noble Byzantine warrior, sitting astride his proud warhorse dressed in his fine purple tunic of damask silk. How Ingrith would admire me then! One day, he told himself, I shall go and seek my fortune there.
