Viking Warrior

by Judson Roberts

  What Sigrid told me was no surprise, of course. It is difficult to keep secrets living in a longhouse.

  Sigrid stood and straightened her apron.

  “I must go prepare my roast. When you finish your bath, it would give me pleasure if you would wear your new clothes, so I may see how they fit you.”

  My bath—and probably the mulled mead—left me feeling relaxed and lazy. After I dressed, I was lounging on the bench along the longhouse wall, contentedly watching Sigrid and Gunhild at the main hearth preparing the venison, when Ing flung the door open. He paused a moment while he panted for breath, and gasped out, “Ubbe sent me. He sent Hrut to warn the village. A ship has entered the fjord under full sail. Where is Harald?”

  The doors of Harald’s bed-closet swung slightly open, and Harald’s head emerged, peering out between them.

  “What kind of ship?” he asked.

  “I could not see it clearly enough to tell,” Ing replied. That was no surprise. Ing’s vision was notoriously bad. If a hawk was hovering in the sky overhead, he rarely could see it, even after you pointed to it. “But Ubbe said it was moving too swiftly across the water to be a trading vessel,” he added. “He said it must be a longship.”

  Harald pulled his head back in. A moment later he climbed out, clad only in his trousers. Standing beside his bed, he pulled his tunic over his head, sat on the bed’s edge, slipped his shoes on his feet, and laced them to his ankles. As he did so, three of the carls who lived on the estate rushed in, ran to where their shields and weapons were hanging on the wall, and took down their swords. One also retrieved Ubbe’s sword from where it was hanging. Harald stood up and buckled on his own belt and sword.

  “Halfdan,” he called to me. “Get your bow and quiver and follow me to the shore.”

  Harald was already running out of the doorway. As I passed the open doors of Harald’s bed-closet on the way to retrieve my bow, I saw Astrid inside, arranging her clothes.

  Harald and the three carls had slowed to a fast walk. I caught up with them before they reached the shore.

  “Do you think it’s raiders?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you have your armor and shield?”

  Harald shook his head. “It is unlikely to be raiders. They’d be foolish to approach like this in broad daylight, in this area where there are other villages and estates not a great distance away. It may be an acquaintance of Hrorik, or a ship that has gone i-viking and now has goods to sell or trade.”

  “Then why did you and the others get your swords?” I asked.

  “A wise man keeps his weapons with him, and is careful when entering any door if he knows not what lies beyond. We do not know who comes on this ship. If we greeted it unarmed, with no sign that we are cautious and watchful men, our laxity might tempt the crew to take advantage.”

  Ubbe was standing on the small rise beside the boathouses, his hand shading his eyes.

  “I believe I recognize the sail,” he said. “It looks to be the Sea Steed.” There was disgust in the tone of his voice.

  Harald squinted for a time at the ship, then responded. “Ubbe, you’ve always had eyes like a falcon. Now that you’ve told me, I can just make out the sail’s pattern.” He sighed. “Brother Toke has returned.”

  Harald turned and saw that Sigrid and Gunhild were standing at a distance, back near the longhouse.

  “Gunhild!” he cried. “Your son has returned.”

  It had been almost two years since Toke had left. I remembered it clearly. It had been a harsh winter with many deep snows, and we’d often been confined to the longhouse by the weather. It was difficult for everyone, but especially for Toke. He was a berserk, and the darkness lay on him heavily that winter.

  Some believe that berserks are not really men at all, that they’re shape-changers who sometimes walk among folk in the form of men, but in the dark of night can turn into beasts. It is the beast’s nature, they say, that makes berserks so difficult of disposition and savage in combat. Personally, I do not believe it, but it is certain that berserks are not like other men. Many men, in the heat of battle, have at one time or another lost themselves in a fury of blood and killing. But with berserks, it’s as though that fury is always there, lurking just below the surface, like a great pike lurks beneath the surface of the water, waiting to strike at a moment’s notice.

  That winter most of the thralls, and even one or two of the carls, had felt the weight of Toke’s fists during his fits of black anger. Toke and Harald had bristled at each other often, but had never come to blows.

  Seeing Toke’s ship racing towards us, I remembered the trouble that had occurred between Toke and Hrorik that had led to Toke leaving. It had started late one night, when during one of his frequent drunken binges, Toke had caught Astrid alone and unawares. Clapping a hand over her mouth to keep her from calling out, he’d dragged her out into the animal byre and there had taken her against her will, and roughly. Afterwards, the girl had fled crying and screaming to Sigrid, who, blazing with anger, had awakened Hrorik.

  When Hrorik confronted him, Toke—who by then was already a huge, hulking brute of a man, though he was only a year older than Harald—laughed in his face and dared Hrorik to do anything about the rape. I think it was that night when Hrorik realized for the first time that in a fight without weapons, Toke might win. I can think of no other reason why he would not have attacked Toke after his insolent challenge. At any rate, Hrorik did nothing but shout and threaten, to which Toke responded in kind.

  The air in the household stayed poisonous after that, but violence did not erupt again for several weeks. Then one afternoon, when my mother went to the byre to check the chickens’ nests for eggs, she encountered Toke lurking there, drunk again. He doubtless did not expect so much resistance from so small a woman. When he grabbed her from behind, ripping her shift open and clutching at her with his rough hands, Mother clawed backwards at his face, drawing blood in long stripes across his cheeks and temporarily blinding his eyes. She broke free from his grasp, but Toke roared in anger and lumbered after her like an enraged bear.

  Mother grabbed a pitchfork from a stack of hay, turned, and stabbed it into his thigh, just as Toke swung and caught her a glancing blow on the side of the face with the back of his hand. She was knocked almost senseless, and stumbled backward, falling into the loose hay on the floor of the byre in front of the hayrick. She would have been defenseless had Toke continued his assault, but his wound distracted him from the chase.

  I was in the main hall of the longhouse when Mother staggered, weeping and clutching at her torn dress, from the byre. Her face was already red and swelling from the force of Toke’s blow. Hrorik and Harald were seated at the large table near the fire, playing hnefatafl, while Sigrid, Gunhild, and Astrid were preparing the evening meal at the hearth. I sat nearby, plucking the feathers from a duck.

  All eyes turned toward the door of the byre at the sound of Mother’s weeping. Sigrid dropped the pot she was holding and ran to her. Hrorik sat motionless and silent, but I watched his face growing a darker and darker red. When Sigrid brought Mother near, he uttered in a strangled whisper a single word: “Who?”

  “Toke,” Mother gasped. As she spoke his name, Toke emerged, swearing, from the entrance to the byre, holding his leg to staunch the blood, and limped across the hall to his bed-closet. Seeing that he was wounded, Gunhild uttered a cry of distress and ran to him.

  Hrorik stood up from the table and stalked down the hall to his sleeping chamber. When he remerged, he was carrying his war-axe. The handle was as long as a man’s leg, and the blade, though thin and light, had a broad, curved edge as long as the span of a man’s hand.

  Toke was sprawled crosswise on his bed, cursing angrily, his legs stretched out from the closet onto the floor. His trousers were pulled down, and Gunhild was kneeling in front of him, binding his wound with a strip of cloth she’d torn from the hem of her dress. She looked up and saw Hrorik approaching, axe in hand.

  “No, Hrorik! Do not!�
�� she screamed, and ran to intercept him. Hrorik swept her aside with one arm, so forcefully that she fell to the floor. All in the longhouse—carls seated idling along the side benches, and the thralls at their work—stared, motionless, as though frozen in their places. I felt certain—and hopeful—that I was about to see Toke chopped into bits. I could not look away.

  As he reached the bed-closet, Hrorik swung the axe sideways in a great sweeping blow that smashed through the side planks of the closet wall on one end, slightly below the top, showering Toke with shards of splintered wood. Toke tried to stand up before Hrorik could swing the axe again, but Hrorik kicked him in the face, knocking him back into the bed. Hrorik swung the axe again, once, twice, three times, chopping at the sides and back while Toke cowered inside, till the boards of the closet’s sides were all chopped through and those of the top collapsed upon Toke.

  Hrorik raised one foot high and smashed his heel down on the boards lying across Toke’s chest. I thought I heard a muffled gasp from beneath the shattered lumber.

  “Hear me,” Hrorik shouted, leaning forward so his face was close to Toke’s. “Since I married your mother, I have raised you as if you were my own son, and I have tried to show you every kindness. But you are as a wild animal in my household. You respect nothing and no one. I will tolerate it no more. I give you my smaller ship, the Sea Steed. It is a parting gift far more generous than you deserve. Take her and be gone tomorrow. After this, you have no claim upon me. If you do not go, if you choose to remain and there are any more incidents, I will not restrain myself as I did today. Blood will be spilled.”

  It was a tense night. My mother did not sleep at all. She stayed by the main hearth and kept the fire blazing. I stayed at her side, helping her feed the fire. I sat close to her and told her not to fear, that I would let nothing happen to her. It was an empty promise. I, too, was filled with fear. I hoped that Toke would leave us alone, because I knew I would be powerless against his great strength. Most grown men would be, and I was but a child. Toke had beaten me too many times before, just for the pleasure of causing someone pain, for me to have any illusions that I could resist his force and will.

  Toke had sailed away the next day, with a skeleton crew of only ten. None of the carls from Hrorik’s household who’d lived in close vicinity to Toke would accompany him. All of his meager crew were from the village, disaffected sons at odds with their parents or younger brothers with little hope of fortune at home.

  Neither Hrorik nor Harald nor Sigrid came to see Toke off that dreary, late winter day that he departed. Only Gunhild came down to the water’s edge to witness his leave-taking. Only Gunhild and I, for my curiosity led me to sneak down to the waterfront and watch from behind a corner of the boathouse.

  “Where will you go?” I heard Gunhild wail. “How will you survive with so small a crew?”

  “We will survive,” he snapped. “We’ll sail for Dubh Linn-town, in Ireland. I’ve heard that there they do not lack for men with stomach for a fight. I’ll fill my crew in Dubh Linn.”

  At Toke’s command, his men had used their oars to push the ship away from the wharf. A stiff wind was blowing off of the land. They’d raised the yard, letting the sail billow and fill, and pulled in on the sheets to trim the sail to the wind. The ship had moved away, gathering speed, Toke standing in the stern at the steering oar. For as long as I could make him out, he stood unmoving at the helm and never looked back. I’d hoped to never see him again.

  He had not returned during the two years since. I wondered what had brought him back now.

  When the ship neared, I could make out the detail on the gilded, wooden horse’s head, mounted on the stem-post at the bow, from which the Sea Steed drew her name. It had been carved by Gudrod the Carpenter, with great care and skill, so that it was at once both recognizable as a horse, a familiar beast, yet at the same time appeared some strange and fanciful creature, wild and dangerous.

  A beast of a different nature, and far more frightening and dangerous than a carved statue, stood in the stern of the ship. There Toke stood, arms folded across his chest, beside the steersman.

  Where Harald was slender and supple, with the dangerous grace of a cat, Toke possessed the build, disposition, and power of a bear. His shoulders were so broad, and his chest so thick, that his head, perched above them, looked to me too small for his body. Perhaps Toke thought so, too, for he’d let his black beard and hair grow long, and they blew unbound and wild around his head like a mane.

  As the ship continued its approach to the shore, I could see that judging from the treasure he was displaying on his person, the two years since he’d left had been profitable for Toke. Silver rings hung from each ear, and multiple silver bracelets graced each thick wrist. Around each of his upper arms, he wore a torque of thick, twisted silver wire. If he’d had a neck, doubtless he would have decorated it, too, with a silver neck ring. All in all, Toke was wearing a chieftain’s ransom in precious metal. In addition to the jewelry, he was dressed in a sleeveless tunic made of the coarse, brown fur of a bear, belted over a woolen shirt and trousers, both dyed a deep red, and high, black leather boots.

  Toke headed his ship straight for the wharf. The Red Eagle, Hrorik’s ship—now Harald’s—had long since been pulled ashore and stored under cover of the boathouse. Toke’s crew looked rough, but they handled his ship skillfully, and brought it smoothly and gently in against the wharf. Ubbe directed two of our men to help them secure it.

  Toke alone disembarked and swaggered down the plank walkway of the narrow wharf. We greeted him where it met the shore. Harald nodded his head coolly.

  “Toke,” he said. “I had expected we might meet again in England, but the fates chose otherwise.”

  “Son,” Gunhild added, “your father is dead.”

  Toke stared coldly at Gunhild, the mother he had not seen in two years, and responded, “My father died years ago, in the first great raid on Dorestad. I heard, though, that the man you married is dead, or close to it, and that is why the Red Eagle fled from the battle with the English and abandoned the others who fought there.”

  Clearly, time had not mellowed Toke. I hated him. Hated and feared him.

  Sigrid was standing close behind me. I could feel her body jerk and hear her quiet gasp when Toke said that the Red Eagle had fled the battle. Harald had killed men over lesser insults.

  We all stood silently, waiting for what would happen next. Even Gunhild looked appalled. Toke stood smirking, his hands on his hips, watching Harald for a reaction. Harald stood motionless, no expression on his face, staring at Toke as if deciding where best to cut.

  Suddenly Harald smiled and spoke. He acted as if he had heard no insult.

  “How heard you news of the battle? I’ve often wondered since that day how many other ships escaped the trap.”

  I heard Sigrid let her breath out in a long sigh of relief behind me. Toke looked confused, as if unsure how to judge Harald’s response, for he showed neither anger at the insult nor fear at the implicit challenge by Toke.

  “Two other ships escaped the English that day,” Toke finally responded. “Some of the crew on one of them saw Hrorik being hoisted aboard the Red Eagle, spouting blood. From what they saw, I reckoned he was dead, or close to it.”

  “Hrorik died the night after we reached this shore,” Harald said quietly. “Why have you come? Do you wish now to offer him the honor and respect, at his tomb, that you never gave him in life?”

  Toke hawked and spat upon the ground. “Two days after the battle, our ships from Dublin found the two ships remaining of the Danish fleet that had fought the English, and we joined forces. The English army had already withdrawn, but we harried the English countryside hard. Whatever respects I had to pay to Hrorik, I did so by spilling English blood upon the ground.”

  “So then,” Harald asked, with a humorless smile on his lips, “If your respects to the dead have already been paid, why are you here? Surely you did not expect, even with Hrorik gone, t
o be welcomed?”

  The bluntness of the question plainly caught Toke by surprise.

  “Do you deny that this was for many years my home, too?” he blustered.

  “I deny nothing. It was you who chose, by your actions, to make this place no longer your home.”

  “I came,” Toke said, “to see if there was an inheritance.”

  Harald shook his head, smiling disdainfully. “So you’ve come to seek an inheritance from a man you say was not your father, but merely the man your mother married? A man whom you insulted and showed no respect or honor to—though he raised you as a son and treated you fairly? From a man who finally banished you from these lands, and told you never to return—you expect an inheritance? It is a strange view of the world you carry, Toke. Your journey was in vain. The only inheritance Hrorik left you is what bore you here. The Sea Steed was your inheritance. And in giving you that much, Hrorik was truly a better man and more of a foster father than you deserved.”

  Harald and Toke stood glowering at each other. Each hated the other, and had for years. When both were young boys, Toke—a bully even then—had relentlessly picked on Harald, who was slighter of build and not nearly as strong. The beatings had stopped the year Harald had turned nine. That was the year when Harald gave up trying to match strength with Toke.

  One afternoon, when Toke bloodied Harald’s nose and knocked him sprawling one too many times, Harald got up from the ground holding a stone in his hand, as big as a grown man’s fist, and hurled it into Toke’s face. Toke had dropped on his back, knocked senseless. Harald leaped upon his chest, picked up the stone, and commenced pounding Toke’s face and head to a bloody pulp. Only the thickness of Toke’s skull, and the fact that Hrorik had quickly arrived and pulled Harald off, had saved Toke’s life. He’d been unconscious for an entire day, and his face still bore scars from the beating.