"If that be what you wish, I will start to strengthen my thickest bow in the morning."
Ambrose and his two companions stayed for several weeks in the little hamlet between the two mountains. Phillip mended quickly, except for the scars that he would carry forever on his back. He was thrilled with the giant blade that Polonius fashioned for him. At first he could only swing the massive weapon a few times before he was exhausted, but he persevered. Within a week he could swing it with effortless ease.
Polonius finished his eight throwing daggers. After patiently grinding the blades and wrapping the handles until they had the perfect balance he was looking for, he bought a scrap of leather and proceeded to stitch a sheath for the blades. Only when this, too, was completed did he agree to give Ambrose and Phillip the promised demonstration.
On the chosen day, many of the villagers joined Ambrose and Phillip. Little exciting happened in the isolated village, and Polonius' boast had been reported. Polonius asked for eight volunteers, and asked each to retrieve his shield. Once the men had returned, Polonius used a little honey to stick a piece of birch bark on each shield. He spoke to the crowd.
"Is it agreed then, that if I hit each piece of parchment fairly, we will consider that as a kill?"
Ambrose teased the thin Byzantine. "Are you saying that your blades can not penetrate chain-mail?"
"Canuteson, the key to victory is to apply sufficient force to a vulnerable place. It is vainglory to attack your enemy's strongest point and still assume that you will win. All I need to do is to hit the face, or bare leg, or find a chink in the warrior's armour."
"Polonius, you are truly good enough a thrower that you can exploit such tiny targets?"
"We shall see, Canuteson.' He turned to the eight men holding their shields. 'Warriors! Please form a semi-circle around me. When I give the signal, hold the shields in front of your face, and do not move! All right now. Shields up!"
As Polonius swivelled, he launched all eight blades. Each struck truly, and the crowd cheered the dark foreigner. While no warrior, yet he had skills that could unerringly kill from a distance. This earned him a respect from the rough Vikings that all his knowledge could not.
Phillip, not to be outdone, had an archery target moved well out-of-range of the best of the village archers. The big man then notched an over-long arrow and drew the massive bow until the string brushed his face. When he released the arrow, it arced high and fell within feet of the target. The Vikings looked at Phillip in awe. None had ever seen an archer shoot such a distance.
Phillip, however, just looked irritated. "Sorry, Canuteson. I do not yet know the bow. May I try again?"
"Of course, Phillip, shoot away!"
The second shaft struck the target truly. The audience gasped. It was now obvious that the first shot was not a fluke. The big man could hit targets far out of range of any of the village archers.
Polonius borrowed a fidla from a villager, and deftly put his stories into rhymes. Soon all the villagers pleaded with him to sing one of his ballads. For the thirty day span they remained, Ambrose and Polonius spent the days either hunting in the mountains or fishing in the fjord. Phillip, for his part, spent much of his time exercising or practising with his new weapons. Evenings all three feasted with Eric.
At last, however, Phillip was well enough that they could travel. While Eric was sorry to see his interesting guests move on, yet he knew that the mountain passes would be closed for the winter in another two or three months. The village elders, keen mountaineers in their time, and still experts in the lay of the land, drew upon a sheepskin a map of how to pass through the worst of the mountains to the rolling hills and land of the Rus on the Viking Sea.
By good luck, the trio's destination was nearly opposite them, though a massive backbone of mountains and many weary Roman miles were still between them and their destination.
Ambrose, Polonius and Phillip, in turn, each firmly hugged Eric in farewell and waved to the other villagers. The three of them mounted up.
Eric, standing in front of the assembled village, boomed out a farewell of his own. "My friends! I know not what drove you to dare the mighty ocean in your tiny boat, but my people have measured your hearts, and I want you to know that we find you worthy of our friendship.'
When he noticed Ambrose move his hand to his purse, he laughed merrily. 'Don't reach for silver, my friend! Such a base reward for hospitality would be insulting to our honour. We charged you the value of the horses, as we are not rich, and they must be replaced when next our envoys go to the place of the yearly gathering of the tribes. Food and lodging, however, is something we freely offer any way-farer. In your cases, it afforded us much pleasure to have had you here, and we, indeed, are in your debt. Fare you well, friends. Know you that our continuing friendship awaits your return."
The journey through the high mountains took the three comrades over two weeks. Although much of the trail led along green valley floors, or beside stream-beds, parts of the trail were through areas where nature had never consented to allow a pathway fit for a man. Here, generations of men had hewed, sometimes from solid rock, precarious trails. Several stretches were literally built out of the side of a cliff, so that the supporting timbers hung over the edge of precipices.
On two occasions, it was necessary to blindfold the horses, inured though they were to heights, and lead them, ever so gently, along the narrow trail. One slip at this point would have sent man or beast plummeting hundreds of foot-lengths to rivers beds chattering far below.
The land they passed through was magnificently wild. Tall trees stubbornly climbed the mountains until they reached the heights where even the most tenacious couldn't survive the slope and the altitude. At that elevation the vegetation grudgingly gave way to Arctic shrubs, and, sometimes, snow-capped peaks.
Evidence of settlement was almost non-existent, except in the occasional fertile valley bottoms, but they all felt unseen eyes upon them in several of the remote areas. Their reception, when they found evidence of habitation, was generally good. The fact that Eric the Round had hosted them and sold them horses seemed to put them in good stead.
It appeared from various comments of the people that this trail, if not a paved road of Imperial Rome, was at least relatively well used by messengers and local travellers. Thus, by the tradition of hospitality by which the Norse met travellers in their own land, the road was generally free of brigands and slavers.
On the thirteenth day of travel, weary, the three travellers broke out of the high mountains of the Norse. According to what they had been told by Eric and his men, they would still have a long way to go, but the worst was behind them. They understood that they would be shortly entering the land of the Rus.
The mountains gave way to hills. Here the debris of the mountains, over eons, had filled the valleys, and the land became progressively more fertile. The Rus territory was one of rolling hills and dales. The land, wherever possible, was intensely cultivated.
It was obvious to even the inexperienced Ambrose that this land would support many more people then the high mountains and stony slopes of the Norse. Nevertheless, compared to the flat land of the Danes, it remained largely a mountainous and barren territory.
After finally reaching the 'traders' highway', which paralleled the sea only a part of a day's march inland, they turned north toward their destination. Here at last they met other travellers on the road, and the local villagers, though hospitable, were much less willing to put up travellers. Unlike the Norse, the people expected payment in return for their food and lodging.
Only once, when the soldiers of a local Jarl stopped them to charge them for the use of a toll bridge, were they challenged. Polonius' glib tongue and masterful command of various dialects, however, got them safely through.
Finally, less than a day's journey from their destination, they were stopped by a troop of soldiers. At spear point, they were forced to dismount. Polonius spoke up quickly.
"Warriors
, why do you stop innocent travellers?"
The leader of the troop, a gaunt man of inordinate height and blond braided hair, answered. "We look for brigands and escaped slaves. Three days ago a merchant was robbed in this very place. Where are you going, and why are you, foreigners, in our country?"
"Good captain,' Polonius responded. 'My master and I seek the house of Gunnar, son of Carl the Brave, of the tribe of the Rus."
"What proof have you of this?"
Polonius turned to Ambrose. "Master, please give me the message, that this officer may read it for himself."
Polonius smiled smugly, for he knew well that the soldier would be unable to read the letter, especially as it had not been written Viking runes, but was in Latin. Even the runic translation he had made was indecipherable to many of the Vikings. Ambrose handed both documents to Polonius, who in turn handed it to the officer.
Holding the letter at first sideways, and then upside down, the sergeant carefully scanned the missive. "Umph!" he stated indecisively, not wishing to admit he was able to neither read a letter in a language he had not even heard of, or even read the runes of his own land. He was, however, afraid to let three foreigners slip through his cordon. At last, he was inspired.
"Umph!' he stated again. 'All appears to be in order, but because of the danger of brigands, I will detail you four men to escort you to the family you speak of. They are very rich and proud, and would doubtless expect no less of me . . . You four! Mount up and show these travellers the way!"
With that, honour salvaged, the Viking commander turned to the next group who was approaching, and imperiously gestured Ambrose's party, with its new escort, on its way.
Towards dusk the three of them, along with their escort, entered a long, wide, and obviously fertile valley. The flat bottom land was planted with a variety of crops. There was little land wasted. On the steeper or higher slopes, woods alternated with pasture land, and flocks of sheep could be seen grazing complacently. The houses looked to be made of timber, and well constructed. Several times in their several hours' journey the assorted group had passed through prosperous farming villages. Here, obviously, was a concentration of population and wealth that they had not seen since the Danish lands.
Ambrose turned to the closer of the two escorts. "A prosperous and populous place, Warrior. Is this the land of the Rus?"
"Aye, sir', came the reply 'and much of what you see belongs to Gunnar, the man you are to visit. He be a wealthy landowner and trader both. In the southern lands of the Swede tribes, there be much of such land, but our northern tribes live in a bleaker land, where there is little but for grazing livestock and hunting."
After thanking the man for his information, all five of them rode a way; each too engrossed in his own thoughts to break the silence. Suddenly, however, cresting a small knoll that was contained in the much larger valley, they saw before them the sparkling waters of the Viking Sea. All paused to admire the view, and each person's attention focussed eventually on a great stone and timber dwelling that towered two stories; far above the nearby town.
"There, travellers, is your destination; the house of Jarl Gunnar, lord of this valley, and son of Carl the Brave, he of the Rus,' commented the second escort, a trifle smugly. 'Not every day do you see such a sight!"
Passed through the town gates with a wave, Ambrose and Phillip stared at their surroundings. Here was civilization at least as advanced as any they had known in Angleland. Town walls circled both Gunnar's house and much of the rest of the town. The palisades had sentry walks along the tops, and thus presented a formidable obstacle to any attackers.
The streets were laid out neatly, and the buildings were made of both stone and wood. Substantially constructed, the houses indicated a degree of wealth here that had not been evident in the interior areas of the country that the little party had traversed.
Open sewers had been carefully constructed, and the escort leader bragged that a diversion channel had been constructed so that each rain swept through the channels and removed all offal, draining it into the sea. In truth, Ambrose noted that the odour, in spite of small quantities of putrefying faeces and food, was no worse than Ambrose's brother's own favourite royal burh at Winchester.
At last they arrived at the gate of the large house whose very silhouette had so attracted their attention. Ambrose, Phillip and Polonius exchanged glances. How did Canute, a humble farmer and former warrior, merit the right to call upon such an important person for help?
Two alert men, armed and dressed in like outfits, stepped up to the closed gate and asked the group its business. The escort leader responded.
"Peace, warriors! I have been sent by my commander to escort these three travellers to your gate. They carry with them some message from far away, and it is doubtless imperative that it be taken to your master at once. If you would be so good as to open the gate, we will stable our mounts and quench our thirst at your servants' table, for in truth it has been a long and hot ride, and the fame of your table has . . ."
"Enough! Enough!' shouted the first sentry. 'Give me the letter and I will take it immediately to our master. Bosk! Open the gate and let them in as far as the courtyard . . . but no more, mind, until I return."
With that the servant reached through the massive grill of the gate, and Ambrose handed him the letter. As the sentry walked off into the home with the message, Bosk, the other guard, swung open the gate. Inside, the entrance opened into a large courtyard, framed by the wall, a portion of the great house, and stone stables.
Signalling the little group to follow, Bosk, after he closed the gate, led the five travellers to a hitching post for horses. Several young stablehands ran out of the stable to take charge of the horses after everyone dismounted.
The first sentry appeared on a second-story balcony which overlooked the courtyard. "Bosk! Have the grooms rub down and stable their horses. Our esteemed guests are to be shown to the family's private quarters and there given a chance to freshen up. Have the maids heat the stones for a sauna, and make sure that we show our proper gratitude to these four stalwart soldiers by getting them each a horn of mead and something to eat!"
And thus, as honoured guests, Ambrose, Phillip and Polonius were led to the luxurious quarters of the main house itself. There they were shown a sauna, where they sat happily and felt the dust of the long trip flush off their bodies.
Afterward, refreshed, they found that their clean clothes had been laid out for them, and a smirking house maid told them that her master would be pleased to have their company for the evening repast, which would be in but a few minutes.
CHAPTER 13.
Gunnar Hears Their Story.
Led by the maid, the three travellers descended a wide staircase directly into the main room of the house. They were led to a great oaken table laden with food. The man at the end of the table stood up at their approach, and smiled a broad welcome.
"Welcome to my humble house. I am Gunnar."
With that he stepped around the table and approached the trio.
Ambrose, still uncertain about his exact status, swept the stranger with his eyes. The man had long, reddish hair, expertly trimmed, and he was clean-shaven. Slightly taller than Ambrose, the man wore loose robes of the finest red wool. Around his neck and on his left wrist were ornaments of bright and beautifully worked gold.
When Gunnar reached the three of them, he hugged each in turn, and spoke to them individually. "Canuteson, is it? Adopted son of Canute, I welcome you to my home. My house is yours . . . And you must be none other than Phillip. The letter mentioned only that you were in great danger, and that you might be coming with Ambrose. Yet judging by your size, I warrant that you are not a man easily faced down . . . And you, dark as you are, must be Polonius the Scribe. The letter appears to be somewhat vague about you, as well, but I'm sure we will have time to fill in any gaps. Your writing, sir, is excellent, and if it is not too presumptuous of me to mention it here, you may have a scribe's job with me
any time. But come, I speak too much and you all must be hungry after your long journey. Come! Sit you down and eat!"
Chuckling heartily, Gunnar clapped his hands, and a bevy of serving-girls came out from behind a curtain and proceeded to place both mead and wines in front of the guests, as well as adding still-steaming cuts of beef, pork, lamb, and salmon to the already overloaded table.
Silence reigned as the three travellers set to with a will. Only after much feasting did they all sit back, adopting Gunnar's relaxed manner, and sip delicious wines.
Polonius spoke. "My lord Gunnar, you keep a most excellent larder and cellar. It has been many years since I have sampled a good wine, for, as you know, the Viking custom is to drink mead. Yet do I detect a light wine of southern Greece, or perhaps Crete?"
Gunnar laughed mightily. "Well done, Polonius. You are indeed a connoisseur of fine wines, and it will be my pleasure to hold discourse with you upon the merits of your Byzantine wines. In fact, what you are drinking is Spartan. But first, honoured guests, allow an old man to indulge his curiosity. What are these mysterious insinuations that I seem to read between the lines of Canute's letter? As you know, it bids me make welcome the adopted son of Canute, and asks me to help him in his desires. Yet it refers only vaguely to some trouble of Phillip's, and only mentions Polonius as close friend and boon companion."
Ambrose looked slowly from one face to another. Neither Phillip nor Polonius nodded negatively. It was obvious that they must trust someone, and Gunnar appeared to be as good a bet as they were going to find.
Ambrose recounted their story carefully, leaving out no details, even from the day Ambrose and Phillip were captured in far-off Angleland. Gunnar easily absorbed all Ambrose said; only occasionally stopping to ask perceptive and pertinent questions.
As the tale finished, he sat back silently, pushing his two hands together repeatedly in a reflex action. At length he spoke.
Ambrose, Prince of Wessex; Trader of Kiev. Page 11
