Harald paused and spat upon the floor to show his disgust. “Perhaps one of the new columns of smoke rising above the trees was from their ship,” he said. “I do not know, nor do I care. We all must die some day. We cannot avoid that fate, but we can meet it with courage and honor. But those men did not. They turned from our shield-wall and fled down the beach, heading for the ships. Their fear spread like a fever through our army. At the sight of them running from the battle, two more crews turned and fled, then three more followed after them.
“The Saxons chased the fleeing men like wolves after deer, stabbing and hacking at their unprotected backs. Thus do cowards die. But doom also stalked those of us whose courage held, for now there were large gaps in the line of our shield-wall. English warriors poured through the gaps and circled behind so that in an instant we were under attack from all sides. Our battle line disintegrated, as each ship’s crew tried desperately to form into its own defensive circle.
“The warriors from the Red Eagle did not shame themselves. Though our further retreat was now blocked by a howling mob of Saxons, our crew fought fiercely. We formed into a tight circle, our shields and spears facing out on all sides, and soon the beach around our position was thick with English bodies. Seeing that we could not be overwhelmed in a quick rush, the Saxon warriors encircling our crew pulled back a brief distance to regroup.
“When they did, Hrorik formed a plan. ‘Take some men and cut a path through the Saxons behind us,’ he shouted to me. ‘Clear a passage, then let half of our crew run for the ship. Tell them to cast off and ready oars, while I and the rest of our warriors try to hold off these dogs. When the ship is ready, those of us still standing will run for it.’
After he recounted Hrorik’s words, Harald looked around the hall at the faces watching him. “Thus does a true leader of men face danger,” he said. “Thus did Hrorik, a chieftain of the Danes, boldly choose to risk his own life, that at least some of his followers might survive.”
I glanced over to where Hrorik lay on the platform near the fire, covered in furs. His head was resting in Sigrid’s lap, and her hand gently stroked his brow, but her eyes were on her brother Harald. Hrorik’s eyes were closed. For a moment I thought he might already be dead, but then I saw the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
“I moved from man to man through the press of our crew,” Harald continued. “They stood jammed together, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the Saxons to resume their attack. All knew that those I picked were most likely to survive that day, yet no man dishonored himself by asking to be chosen. All were willing to stay behind and fight to protect their comrades and the ship. When all was ready I moved with my chosen men to the back of our defensive circle.
“The line of Englishmen blocking our way toward the river was only a single rank deep. The main fight, and the thickest press of Saxon warriors, was still on the side where the original battle lines had been. At my signal, the warriors who’d gathered with me in the rear of our circle suddenly surged forward in the direction of the ship. We caught the English by surprise. A few ran and escaped. Those who tried to stand against us were badly outnumbered, and we cut them down quickly. When they died, there was nothing between us and the Red Eagle except open beach, and we sprinted for the ship.
“When the mass of English at the front of our circle saw some our crew running across the beach toward the ship, they must have thought our courage was breaking, for they howled triumphantly and surged forward again against our line. Though other ships’ crews also still stood and fought on the field in their own circles, the battle was fiercest around our men, for where Hrorik stood the pile of Saxon bodies grew deepest, and their bravest warriors pressed forward against him, all wanting the honor of cutting him down. The Saxon leader himself, and the warriors of his household guard, joined in the attack against him.
“When our ship was freed from the shore, its mooring lines pulled aboard and our men ready at the oars, I leapt back onto the shore and ran toward where Hrorik and those of our crew who still stood were fighting. The English line was still thinnest on the side toward the river, and all of those Saxons were facing toward our dwindling circle, looking for openings to strike. They did not see me approach. With three quick blows I felled three of them.
“‘Hrorik,’ I cried. ‘Come now, quickly before the way is blocked again.’ He swung his axe back and forth in two great sweeps, felling one Saxon and driving the rest back beyond its reach. Then he and the men with him turned and we all ran for the ship, the Saxons racing in pursuit.
“Two of our men stood in the prow of the Red Eagle, armed with bows to cover our flight. As we neared the ship, they began loosing arrows over our heads at our pursuers. The English behind us were howling in anger and frustration that we might escape. A spear whistled past my head and thudded into the back of the man in front of me, felling him at the water’s edge. It was Gunnar the Blacksmith. He died only steps away from safety. More spears flew among our men, striking them down. Close behind us, I could hear the Saxons’ leader, Eanwulf, urging his men forward with hoarse shouts.
“The Saxons caught up with us as we entered the shallows at the water’s edge and were slowed, wading out toward the Red Eagle. Hrorik and I turned to hold our pursuers back, while the rest of our men—and only a few had survived the run—clambered over the sides into the ship.
“Eanwulf himself led the assault against us. As the Saxon leader closed in, Hrorik struck at him with his axe, so mighty a blow that it split the Saxon leader’s shield, the axe’s blade cleaving through the wood and leather down to the iron boss in the shield’s center. The force of the blow drove Eanwulf to his knees. But while Hrorik struggled to free his axe blade from the shattered Saxon shield, one of Eanwulf’s houseguards, standing at his leader’s side, lunged forward with his sword and swung a mighty cut at Hrorik’s arm, chopping it through above the elbow.
“Hrorik staggered back, a fountain of blood spouting from the stump that remained. His severed arm, the hand still clutching the shaft of his axe, hung down across the front of Eanwulf’s shield.
“I swung Biter, my sword, and cut through the neck of the warrior who’d wounded Hrorik. He dropped, dead, into the shallow water, but I was too late for aught but revenge. Even as I swung my blade and killed the Saxon warrior, Eanwulf stabbed forward with his spear, driving it through Hrorik’s mail shirt and into his chest.
“Spears and arrows began to rain down on the Saxons as more of our men rushed to the Red Eagle’s prow to cover us. In moments, three more Saxons fell, and the rest, including Eanwulf, staggered back onto the shore.
“Hrorik was bleeding badly, and by now could barely stand. Pulling him with me, I waded to the ship’s side, where eager hands reached down and pulled us both aboard.
“Our oarsmen backed us out into the river while I ran to the stern and seized the steering oar. The ship turned and we headed toward the sea and safety. The men who’d been shooting from the ship’s bow at the retreating Saxons now took their seats and ran their oars out into the water, and we picked up speed. As we pulled away from the river’s mouth into the open waters of the bay, I looked back upriver at the carnage we’d left behind. Of the forty ships in our fleet, only three others besides the Red Eagle had left the shore and were underway. One of those had been boarded by Saxon warriors, and fighting was raging on her deck. I do not know if she managed to escape. Of the other ships still moored along the riverbank, most were aflame or surrounded by English warriors. Back on the beach, four ships’ crews still remained, formed into circular shield-forts, selling their lives dearly in a brave but hopeless fight against the ever-increasing numbers of the enemy who swarmed around them.”
Harald looked around the hall, silently gazing at the faces staring intently at him. When he spoke again, his voice sounded hoarse with emotion.
“For the English, the battle we fought that day was a great victory. Many of our warriors fed the carrion birds, and their bones now lie bl
eaching white in the sun on the sands of that distant beach. Many of you here tonight have been robbed of kinsmen, of husbands and fathers, brothers and sons, by the Saxons’ victory over us. Yet though your menfolk may have lost their lives, the Saxons did not take all from them. Every man who sailed this voyage on the Red Eagle fought bravely in the face of doom. Be assured that the Valkyries have carried the spirits of all of your men who died that day to the feast-hall of the gods. Be comforted that their courage and honor will live forever, honored in songs sung by the skalds of the gods in the halls of Valhalla.”
3 : The Bargain
After Harald ended his tale and sat down, many among the folk in the hall approached him with questions, seeking to learn the details of their own kin’s death. Harald could not have witnessed every man’s fall, yet he assured all who asked that their loved ones had fought and died heroically.
From the tale he’d just told, I knew that some who’d died had been speared in their backs while they were running for the safety of the ship. To me, nothing seemed heroic about such a death. But men and women tended to believe what Harald said, just because he was Harald. Being able to make folk believe what is obviously untrue is one of those special qualities often possessed by a leader.
It was late by the time the last guest left and we slaves could wearily begin the task of restoring the hall of the longhouse to order. Even before the last guest had gone, Gunhild, ever frugal, began snuffing the oil lamps hanging from the row of great posts—each the trunk of a tree that had been stripped of its bark—that supported the beams and rafters of the longhouse’s roof. I thought it churlish to send the last of the guests off in near darkness. As soon as the thought entered my head, I could hear Gunhild’s reply in my mind: it was they who were ill-mannered, for staying so late. Gunhild always had a quick reply to any criticism and always managed to find a way to blame someone else for wrongs she did.
Gunhild of course would not have considered leaving the lamps lit until we thralls had completed our work. Oil was too expensive to waste on mere slaves. And so we labored in the shadows, the only light coming from the dimly flickering flames of the remains of the fire on the main hearth.
As I worked, my mind was filled with visions of the battle Harald had described. I imagined myself fighting beside Harald, against great odds. That was a life of honor and glory! My mind was so filled with my foolish fantasies that, unseeing, I tripped over one of the hounds and spilled a half empty cup of ale I was carrying. It splashed across the back of one of the serving girls. She cursed me, and the dog snapped at my leg. I shook my head to clear my thoughts, and looked around me. I was not in England or some other distant land. I was not a warrior. I was just a thrall, working for my masters in the longhouse where I’d grown up. That was my reality. That was my world, a small one, and was the only one I’d ever know. Thralls do not live heroic lives.
While the slaves cleared the hall and the other members of the household stumbled off to their sleeping positions on the platforms along the walls, Gunhild, Harald, and Sigrid stood huddled around Hrorik, where he lay near the main hearth and the warmth its dying fire provided. I was helping my mother take down one of the feast tables when Harald broke away from them and walked over to where we were working.
“Derdriu,” he said. “Hrorik would speak with you.” He hesitated, looked at me, then added, “Perhaps you should come, too.”
As we approached, I saw that Hrorik appeared even weaker than when he’d been carried into the hall that afternoon. When he spoke, his voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.
“Derdriu,” he rasped. “Soon now I will leave this world and journey to the land of the Gods and the dead. I do not wish to make that journey alone.
“Gunhild is a noblewoman and wealthy in her own right. Life still holds many prospects for her after I die, and she is not ready to make the journey I must travel.
“You have given me much pleasure in this life, and for that I thank you and would honor you. It would comfort me now, in my passing, to know you will be at my side, to give me the comfort of your companionship and the pleasure of your body in the next life, too. I wish you to travel on the death ship with me.”
It was a high honor that Hrorik offered my mother, to accompany a great chieftain on his death voyage. In my thoughts, though, I damned him for it. I damned Gunhild, too. She was his wife. Why couldn’t she die, to comfort him in the next life? Of course I knew that women of noble birth did not sacrifice their own lives at their husband’s graves. Their lives mattered, so slaves accompanied the rich and powerful on their final voyage. But why should I lose my mother?
Mother paled, and for many moments was silent. Then her back straightened and she raised her head and spoke.
“Since first we met, Hrorik Strong-Axe, you have been as a thief and a robber to me. I was born the daughter of a king in Ireland, but you stole me from my home. I was a princess, and might someday have been a queen, but you made me a slave. I hoped someday to be wed, but instead you made me your concubine. Now you plan to steal my very life, so that your death can be more comfortable. Why should I care if you are comforted in your death?”
I was astonished by my mother’s boldness, but proud of her courage. Sigrid gasped in surprise and raised her hand to cover her mouth. Harald’s eyebrows rose and a muscle in his cheek twitched. Only Gunhild spoke, though.
“She is a slave. You do not need to ask her,” Gunhild snapped to Hrorik. “I’ll gladly tighten the knotted cord around her neck myself when the time comes.”
Ignoring her, Hrorik asked my mother, gasping at the effort it took him to speak, “Have you known no happiness in your life with me?”
I could not believe his words—he who had stolen my mother from her home and family, made her a slave, and raped her. Should she be grateful to him for that? Should she be pleased to have had his attentions? Is a dog thankful for the foot that kicks it?
My mother turned away, her head hanging down and her hands covering her face. I thought she, too, must have been astonished by Hrorik’s words. She stayed so, silent, for so long I thought she did not intend to answer. What would have been the point anyway? What difference would a slave’s words make? When did a master care about a slave’s feelings?
Finally, though, my mother turned back toward Hrorik and raised her eyes to meet his. When she spoke, her words surprised me even more than his had. “No, not totally,” she told him. “You are right. You know it is so, and my heart will not let me deny the truth about the past, though bitterness may fill it today. We did share some happy times, when first you brought me into your home. When your first wife had not long been dead. When your children, Harald and Sigrid, were young and sad and alone. When I became as a mother for them. When I became as a wife to you. And soon enough my belly filled with a child of my own—our son, Halfdan.
“During that time, those first years, you did treat me with kindness and affection. But those days have long been past. I’ve often wondered what path our lives might have taken had you not married Gunhild. But now the only attention you pay me is late-night visits to my bed, whether I wish it or not. And Gunhild does her best to fill my days with sorrow, from jealousy over the number of nights her own bed is cold and empty because you are in mine.”
At this, Gunhild’s face flushed red with anger and her eyes flashed dangerously.
My mother covered her face with her hands again and stood with her head bowed. I could see her lips were moving, as if to speak, but they made no sound. Had her voice failed her in her fear? All eyes were on her, but no one spoke.
“Very well, Hrorik,” she finally said, looking up. “I will sail on the death ship with you. But in exchange I will extract a bargain.”
At that Gunhild stepped forward and struck my mother hard across the face—so hard that it turned her head.
“A slave does not bargain with a chieftain,” she snarled. “You forget your place.”
My mother shook her head to clear it, then lo
oked at Gunhild with a cold gaze.
“I have endured much at your hands, Gunhild,” she said. “I, who was once a princess, of greater rank than you will ever achieve. It appears I am soon to die, so now I have little to lose. It would be wise for you to tread carefully around me until I am gone.”
Gunhild drew back her hand to strike Mother again, but Harald stepped between them.
“Stay,” he said.
My mother turned back to Hrorik.
“I know that I can be forced against my will to accompany you on your death voyage, Hrorik. No doubt any of your men would willingly slay me on your bier. Gunhild herself is eager to speed my passing. But to do so would be unwise. I would die cursing you to my God and his angels of destruction. The afterworld is the realm of all the Gods. On its voyage to the lands of your Gods, your death-ship might not escape the wrath of my God and his angels. Their anger would fall upon it like a storm batters a ship trapped on the open sea. And even if you did safely reach the hall of your Gods, you would find little comfort in me there if you force me on this journey against my will. I swear on all that is holy to me I would be a companion who would seek to bring you eternal misery rather than pleasure.
Mother paused, took a deep breath, then continued.
“I will go willingly with you, though, if you grant me this request. My son Halfdan is the grandson of a king in Ireland. He is your son, too—the son of a great chieftain of the Danes. He should not be a slave. Free him this night, so that you and I can look on him together and see him as a free man. Then, in the afterworld, we can remember him proudly and listen for tales of his exploits. Acknowledge Halfdan now as your son, and have him raised as a chieftain’s son should be.”
I could not believe my mother’s words. My mouth fell open and I gaped like a fool.
Hrorik nodded his head slowly, as though he was thinking on the words my mother had spoken. Then he looked at me and spoke, and in that brief moment my world changed.
Viking Warrior Page 3
