by Jason Born
Another broad-shouldered thrall was just sold to a merchant ship captain. It was the fifth one he purchased today so he must be trying to fill out a crew to man the oars of his knarr. The thrall was escorted away and another stepped into his place. The line was long today.
Just then Leif walked across the back of the spectators and approached. “My lords,” he said, giving a slight bow to the seated men. “Sweyn and his men are sitting in your longhouse.”
Kvaran answered, “I suppose we ought to go meet with him then.” He stood to make the four-block walk to his home tucked in the corner of the southeast of the town embankment.
Still seated, Olaf placed a hand on Kvaran’s arm and said, “Brother, the negotiations have already started though Sweyn doesn’t know it. We are making our first point that the agreed upon meeting time was mid-day. We should remain here for a time and let Forkbeard wait.”
Kvaran caught Olaf’s meaning, shrugged, and sat back down. He was a mostly apathetic king. I thought it a stretch to call him a king. He ruled Dyflin in Ireland and sometimes we held control of Jorvik in Northumbria. The areas outside Dyflin were still lawless lands in the possession of the Irish. In fact, he was on the brink of losing his kingship to an Irish rival when Olaf and his men arrived. With Olaf’s menacing projection of power Kvaran’s reign was no longer in question. He owed Olaf his kingdom.
By contrast Olaf inspired those he led. He performed all the tasks he expected his army to do. He was bold, but sometimes reckless. Over his years of leading he accumulated a dedicated force of nearly one thousand five hundred fighting men, and now commanded a fleet of sixty warships. There were kingdoms that could not put together such might. I loved him and decided long ago that I would follow him for the rest of my life. He was only thirty-one years old, about six years my senior, but I had found my third father.
While the two disparate leaders continued their conversation on the bench, Leif and I stood a short distance behind and began our own. In the four years since our exile he had grown to resemble his father more and more. The once sparse beard had filled in with thick red hair, though Leif preferred to trim it shorter than most men. His thin frame, that slight body which prevented him from immediately dropping the reindeer in Greenland, had filled out complete with broad shoulders and enormous forearms. “Are the ships prepared to leave?” Leif asked.
“They are almost done. We probably need two or three more days. The leaks in the Dragon Skull are plugged with tar-soaked wool. They should hold for many years. I checked with the rope maker this morning before coming here, his ropewalk is filled with our new rope. We should be able to pick it up tomorrow and replace the rigging on both boats. I will coordinate the loading of supplies Wednesday,” I answered efficiently.
Though both Leif and I pledged to serve Olaf shortly after he came to Dyflin, we were allowed the freedom to operate on our own most of the year. A true warship, the Dragon Skull, had been added to Leif’s original longboat, the Charging Boar, so that Leif now commanded two ships. Our original crew expanded from twenty-two to forty-eight men. We planned a raid to Wales across the Irish Sea. The wealth was not as concentrated as in Wessex or East Anglia, but neither were the defenses. Since their King Alfred one hundred years earlier, their armies remained formidable and two warships would quickly find themselves overwhelmed. So we would attack the Britons in Wales and get sheep and thralls.
My fate decreed that I would become a great warrior even though my plans had always been otherwise. I wanted a farm and family. If Freydis only knew that I had become the wealthy soldier she so desired, I thought. Maybe someday I could have the revenge of letting her see the man she threw away so easily. It was unlikely, though, since destiny intervened on all of my plans.
After many more sales, the last thrall was finally auctioned off and it became time to formally join the negotiations we had begun in our absence. I smiled, thinking of Olaf’s simple but shrewd bargaining tactic. The crowd dispersed and was careful to make a path when they saw the king and warrior coming their way down the narrow streets of Dyflin. I no longer marveled at the place. Norway, Iceland, Greenland – my previous homes were rural and we lived on widely separated farms. Here, ten thousand people lived in an area smaller than fifteen acres. We walked past the fenced yards which lined the streets. Each yard had a longhouse owned by a family and many also had separate out buildings in the back. Some homes served as shops from which their owners sold their merchandise. Vigi, like all dogs, loved the smells and ran in and out of the vendor’s stalls as we made our way through town.
The entire city was lined by an earthen embankment over twenty feet tall. The earth was then topped by a timber palisade which added another formidable line of defense. Dyflin sat on a strip of land that extended between the curving River Poddle to the south and east and River Ruirthech to the north. Merchants from the sea who beached their knarrs on the north side could bring their goods into the city by way of one of four sets of well-defended sets of stairs up and over the embankment. A single, massive ground level gate stood on the southwest side facing landward. We were safe indeed from our numerous enemies.
Not only did the scenery around me undergo massive changes since leaving Greenland, but so did my own appearance. My baggy woolen trousers were replaced by softer and closer fitting linen. I had several pairs from which to choose. I had a similar selection of brightly colored tunics too. Today I wore a deep red tunic pulled taut around the waist with a leather belt. From the belt hung my old saex, but I had replaced my tarnished sword with one made by a somewhat famous swordsmith in Dyflin. It was balanced perfectly with an oversized pommel acting as a counterweight to the heavy blade. The blade itself was forged with intricate designs swirling their way down its length like intertwining serpents. My shoulders were covered by a deep blue cloak held together at the neck by the silver ring-pin given to me by Erik. Finally, I wore a gold arm ring given to me by Olaf as a sign of appreciation. My mail, axe, helmet and shield remained at home. In short, like Leif, I had become an upperclass resident of Dyflin.
We crossed through the gate into Kvaran’s courtyard. To our left, several of his men practiced assembling a shield wall for some inevitable, future battle. The place bustled with activity with scores of men, thralls, and servants coming and going out of the many buildings of the compound. Our small group was approaching the main longhouse when we heard Sweyn shouting at his men inside, “Where are they! Do they realize I am the King of the Danes and here I sit drinking poor ale and eating hard bread?” Wisely, his men chose not to answer his question.
Olaf placed a hand on the door and turned to us with a mischievous smile before pushing his way into the house. Sweyn sat at Kvaran’s large table while his men-at-arms stood around him. Olaf gave a show of bowing to Sweyn, “King Forkbeard, we apologize for our unexpected delay. We had a bit of an issue to take care of in our marketplace.” Sweyn was seething and made no attempt to speak. Olaf continued, pretending not to notice, “Allow me to introduce Kvaran, King of Dyflin.” The two kings nodded to one another and Olaf went on, “And I am Olaf Tryggvason, a modest wanderer.” He made no mention of Leif or me which we did not expect and Forkbeard did not care.
Sweyn at last stood and crossed to greet the Dyflin king. “Thank you for hosting us at your table Kvaran. It is an honor to meet you. This is an amazing city you’ve built here.” The last was probably the only genuine thought, the others obligatory.
“Thank you for gifting us with this visit. It is a wonderful port, is it not? Goods from Kiev to Greenland and from Norway to Rome traverse these walls,” Kvaran answered with obvious pride.
Sweyn turned to Olaf and said, “I know exactly who you are, and you know that I know that. A modest wanderer! It is you I am here to see. Let’s get down to business shall we?” The two kings and the warlord sat back down at the table. Leif and I stood behind Olaf and Kvaran, staring across at Sweyn’s men.
As we stared I noticed an unfamiliar, pretty young woman of abo
ut sixteen sitting on one of the platforms along the wall behind Sweyn. Olaf noticed her too and said, “Sweyn, before we come to the business of the day, who is the uncommon beauty sitting behind you?”
Sweyn looked over his shoulder and answered matter-of-factly, “That is Thyre. She is my sister and should already be married, but she is stubborn and thinks she should be able to choose who it is she weds. I brought her on our trip to find her a husband.”
Olaf chuckled, “And how does the search go? Are you successful thus far at finding a husband for her?”
Thyre entered the conversation here, “As Sweyn says, I am stubborn so I haven’t found a husband yet. I may consider you though.”
Sweyn frowned and Olaf laughed. When he finally contained himself he pounded a fist on the table, “Thyre you are right! You should remain stubborn. You are intelligent, that much is clear. You are beautiful too. You remind me of my dear departed Geira when we were your age and would gladly accept you as my wife, but am married to Gytha who is honorable and just. She also happens to be this sullen man’s sister,” he said pointing his thumb at Kvaran. Olaf laughed again and Thyre joined in with him. Kvaran frowned.
Sweyn could take it no longer and exclaimed, “Yes, she is my sister and yes, she is stubborn, but I did not travel to Dyflin to discuss the meandering thoughts of a woman!” Thyre huffed, stood, and walked outside attended by one of Sweyn’s men as a personal guard in the unfamiliar city. As she walked through the door she turned to Olaf and said, “Please remember my offer if you ever find yourself in need of a bride.”
The visiting king immediately turned the conversation to business, “I want to expand my kingdom. The might of Alfred, Edward, and Athelstan is long dead. Aethelred is weak and poorly advised. Wessex, Mercia, and East Anglia can be captured and the Danelaw reestablished,” Forkbeard paused a beat to let the massive gravity of his proposal to sink in. “We can reclaim the lands that the Great Army of over one hundred years ago took. Northmen are destined to rule the lands of England.”
“Why would Olaf be willing to help a Dane do that?” asked Kvaran.
“Profits, men, profits!” exclaimed Sweyn, slamming his wide palm onto the table. At the mention of profits both Kvaran and Olaf both looked over their shoulders at me. Thyre and her beauty and her marriage offer were forgotten and I then knew we would soon be at war with the English.
With a flurry, Kvaran immediately called to his household thralls who were working outside the door to the longhouse, “Prepare a meal to honor our guests! We are in the presence of a great king.” The thralls stopped whatever they were working on and entered the home walking directly to the hearth. I was impressed at their efficiency as they set about dividing the tasks of stoking the flames, preparing loaves from flour, and preparing the freshly caught fish which hung on a line from a post in the kitchen area. After his initial enthusiasm over the food, Kvaran resumed his normal indifferent posture by reclining back on his palms with his legs crossed.
While we waited for the feast, Olaf and Sweyn traded ideas about how and where we may approach the war. Sweyn, who had clearly spent time thinking of a course of action, started, “The Great Army was led by Halfdan Ragnarsson and Ivar the Boneless, two of the most celebrated Danes in history, and at first eliminated all threats before them. They initially landed in East Anglia, but truly started their campaign in the north by taking and then reinforcing Jorvik. From there, they moved south and burned, killed, and conquered until that bastard Alfred defeated the Danes at Ethandun. I want to repeat that early success. This time, however, we won’t face Alfred at the end of our march. We face the pathetic Aethelred.”
“End of the march? Do you mean to again start in Jorvik as your Great Army did and work south to Wessex?” asked Olaf.
“Of course,” answered Sweyn, “the campaign was extremely successful. Even with the loss at Ethandun, we held a firm grasp on Mercia and East Anglia for years until Alfred’s son, Edward, consolidated his power. Today we also have the benefit of an ally who controls Jorvik,” Sweyn finished, pointing to Kvaran with his thumb.
“No, no, no!” responded Olaf. “That won’t do it. I’ll grant you that Aethelred appears weak, but he did inherit a formidable group of earls who control many men. We would have to fight our way across a long path. Along the way we have to provision our men. We would have to go through countless earldoms with their powerful thegns.”
“Perhaps, but those earls and thegns are mostly Danes. They’ll fight for us when they see our flags coming!”
“Their great-grandfathers were Danes. At best they are Anglo-Danes. We can’t count on their loyalty to the homeland.”
Sweyn was not convinced but asked, “What do you propose?”
Olaf didn’t have an immediate response, but gave it some thought. Kvaran just fidgeted in his chair looking bored. I listened with some anticipation for Olaf’s answer.
“If the march is to end facing Aethelred’s army, why not defeat him in the beginning? We can land south of Winchester and strike due north, capture the city, and be done. The kingdom would be yours and we wouldn’t have to figure out how to protect such a long supply line.”
“How many ships will you bring to the invasion,” I asked out-of-turn, facing Sweyn.
Sweyn looked up with some surprise on his face, but didn’t protest the interruption as neither Olaf nor Kvaran appeared ready to scold me. “I hope to land forty or fifty ships and over one thousand five hundred men. Why should I answer your questions?”
“Because you want to win,” I said with some arrogance. “Olaf and his army are necessary for you to do what you propose since we will make up nearly one-half your strength. Neither plan will bring the success you desire. You want to run a larger kingdom. We will only be fighting for profits. Striking south from Jorvik will sap your armies’ strength. It took years for your ancestors to build the Danelaw from the north. Olaf and his army will not follow you for that long.”
“Do you suppose to speak for Olaf? Who are you?” asked an incredulous Sweyn.
“His name is Halldorr Olefsson and the man is correct,” said Leif.
“And his name is Leif Eriksson and they are both correct. My men are brutal fighters, but will not accept an endless campaign. You would need a completely Danish force for such a fight,” answered Olaf. He rotated on the bench to face me and asked, “You said neither plan would work. Why would the short attack to Winchester not work?”
“My lord, your acumen regarding England is dated. Let’s step outside,” I said. I motioned to Leif and we both stepped outside into the light, leaving the two kings and warlord to decide what to do next.
Olaf was the first through the door looking eager to find out what I had in mind. Sweyn and his men came next. We all waited around staring at one another waiting for Kvaran. We heard some mumbling and he finally came out holding a mug of mead. Olaf coaxed us into action by flapping his hands.
Leif and I looked to each other and knew without uttering a word that now was the time to unveil our own plan to invade and defeat England. Many nights we sat around the fires on our raiding trips along the Welsh, Irish, or Scottish shores and entertained ourselves by speculating on such a plan. We had come to a conclusion on our last strandhogg. Now placing our hands on our sword hilts, we immediately drew them from their wool-lined, leather scabbards. Sweyn’s men reacted with impressive speed each producing a weapon out of thin air. I rolled my eyes. Leif said, “The concern for your king is noted and your swiftness remarkable, but both are unnecessary today.” Neither he nor I moved a muscle so as not to provoke the men-at-arms.
Sweyn, at last, held out his hands and told his men, “Put them away men. We are safe here.”
When they again concealed their weapons, Leif and I set about scratching a rough map of the shoreline of southern and eastern England in the dirt. Aiming the point of his sword somewhere near the center of the far south of England, Leif said, “Winchester certainly remains a source of power in Wessex. However
, partly because of the influence of your ancestors’ activities, wealth and prestige are moving east. London, at the confluence of East Anglia, Mercia, and Wessex, is fast becoming the center of authority in the combined kingdoms of England.”
Sensing a pause I joined in, “We should land in Essex at a spot upstream in one of the rivers just north of the Thames estuary. If we surprise them we will reach London without any trouble. We’d have the short march favored by Olaf. We’d have the final battle with the pathetic Aethelred favored by King Forkbeard.”
The seconds passed like hours then Sweyn’s hands went on his hips and he said, “I like these men.” Pointing to me he went on, “This one needs to learn how to address a king, but I bet he fights. The red-haired one is more deliberate, more thoughtful, and I like his instincts. I believe I can work with what they propose.”
“Then there’s the matter of those profits you mentioned,” said a smiling Olaf. This brought a round of laughter and we began to file into the longhouse for the meal.
