by Martin Lake
‘Thank you,’ Leif said, gnawing on its hard crust. Asgrim was the only one of the crew who had given him anything other than curses and jeers.
‘You’ve been friendly to me,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful.’
‘Have I?’ Asgrim said. ‘I didn’t mean to. I’ll make sure not to do it again.’ But he grinned as he said it, making clear it was a jest.
Asgrim was older than him, by twenty years or so. He was nick-named Traveller for even amongst the Vikings he was renowned for the seas he had sailed on and the lands he had crossed.
His face was burnt red by sea and sun, his hair beginning to turn white. His eyes were weary and wary, as if they had witnessed too many disquieting things. Leif suspected that he was the cause of many of them.
His arms were massive from pulling on an oar and wielding a sword in battle and they showed the scars of many wounds. His long questing nose had been broken more than once.
‘How many times have you gone a-Viking?’ Leif asked.
Asgrim opened his left hand five times. ‘At least that,’ he said.
He looked at his hand thoughtfully, as if trying to recall each of the raids he had been on. ‘But never one as late in the year as this.’
Leif felt the grip of unease. ‘Does this alarm you?’
Asgrim shrugged. ‘The Norns will decide my fate and that of every man on this ship.’
‘And you don’t think that Ivar had a part to play in it? He’s the one who decided to sail so late in the year.’
‘Maybe that’s because the Norns have decided his fate also.’
Leif sighed. Sometimes he wondered about the point of doing anything, what the use of making choices, having plans. He hated the idea of being the plaything of the gods.
‘But sailing this late in the season?’ Leif continued. ‘Why do you think we’re doing it?’
‘For our advantage,’ Asgrim said with a chuckle. ‘I don’t think Ivar gives a fuck about the Norns. He is his own man and rules his own destiny. You should know that after telling us what he did to the Emperor of Miklagard.’
Leif almost told him that he had made the whole story up but thought better of it. A good story could be ruined by explanation.
Asgrim pointed to the west. ‘There’s the coast of England. We’ll be there soon enough. Grab your spear and a shield.’
‘I don’t mean to do any fighting. I’m Ivar’s Skald.’
‘You know that and I know that. But I don’t think an English warrior will realise.’ He unhooked a shield from the gunwale and passed it to Leif. ‘And wake your oaf of a brother. He may lack your wits but he’s got enough strength and courage for the both of you.’
‘He has,’ Leif said absently as he stared anxiously at the coastline. ‘We swapped our virtues with each other when we were children.’
‘I think you may have made a bad choice. We always tell ourselves that the English are weak and cowardly but I’ve found it isn’t the case. They’re kin to us, you see, from long ago.’
‘I’ve heard so. Is it true they can understand our speech?’
Asgrim nodded. ‘And we their words, or at least most of them.’
Leif pondered this a moment, wondering if this would prove useful or not. Then he aimed a kick at Sigurd to wake him.
The coastline was low and flat, with a shingle beach good for securing the boats. Just behind lay a line of low sand-dunes. Two men sat on horseback on the largest dune, watching them approach. Then, as the fleet grew closer, they turned and rode off.
‘Going to tell their lord, no doubt,’ said Asgrim.
‘Where are we?’ Leif asked. ‘Do you know?’
Asgrim studied the landscape for a moment. ‘Judging by its look and our journey hither I would say we are in the Kingdom of the East Anglefolk, probably on the borders of the land of the south and north folk.’
‘You’re right, Asgrim,’ said Ivar, hunkering down beside him. ‘It was a deliberate choice. Most chieftains go for the richest targets, the churches, the fat towns. I go for the most useful.’
He pointed to the river in front of them. ‘That’s the river Waveney. It stretches a hundred miles inland and is the border between the north and the south folk. They may have been part of one kingdom for hundreds of years but they still think themselves different from each other.
‘When terrible things happen, those differences grow stronger. And what can be more terrible than Ivar the Boneless and his brothers?’ He gave a good-humoured laugh.
‘We will sail up river, attacking settlements on either bank. The north folk will believe they have suffered the greatest harm and the south folk likewise. And in this way we will spread discord amongst them.’
‘And presumably,’ Leif said, ‘if things go ill with us we can simply cross to the other bank.’
Ivar gave him an angry look. ‘How can things go wrong for Ivar? How can the Christ followers stand against him?’
Then his anger subsided, so abruptly it seemed to have been fabricated.
He stared at the river thoughtfully. Then he gripped Leif firmly on the arm and lowered his voice. ‘You’re right, of course, Skald,’ he said. ‘This too is part of my reason for attacking here. But don’t ever tell anyone, not even my brothers.’
Leif shook his head. From now on, he thought, it might be wiser to keep his opinions to myself.
Or perhaps not. Ivar had obviously been surprised by his words. Perhaps it was no bad thing for him to realise he was not the only cunning and far-sighted man in the army, that Leif could do more than merely tell tales.
Not that Ivar seemed impressed for more than an instant. He pushed Leif out of the way without a word and took up position by the dragon-headed prow. The ship was now approaching the shore and two men readied themselves by the mast. Ivar watched the shore carefully and raised his hand. The sail was struck, the ship slowed and a moment later slid up the beach, sending shingle flying everywhere.
Ivar leapt to the shore and yelled in a huge voice: ‘I am Ivar the Boneless and my brothers are Halfdan and Ubbe. We claim this kingdom for ourselves.’
Asgrim exchanged a look with Leif. ‘I’ve never heard that before. I thought this was just another raid.’
‘Ivar is not a normal Viking, then?’ Leif said.
‘Oh no. But I had not thought he wanted to conquer a kingdom.’
The rest of the crew followed the brothers off the ship. On either side more longships rode up onto the beach, halting abruptly like cats which have caught sight of a mouse. Their crews leapt onto the shingle and formed into ranks, shield high and spears thrusting, ready for trouble.
Ivar and his brothers seemed pleased with this display and immediately led the way up the dunes. Leif, Sigurd and Asgrim and the rest of the crew followed.
The morning sun lit up the land ahead of them. It looked a rich place, with rolling meadows dotted with flocks and herds, and many, many fields ripe with crops ready for harvest. A fat village was to the north and they could see that people were already streaming from it at the news of their landing.
‘Do you think they will make good slaves?’ Halfdan asked.
‘Better than the Irish, so I hear,’ said Ivar. ‘Sullen and resentful at their plight but strong and hardy.’
‘Then we should capture them,’ Ubbe said.
Ivar shook his head. ‘No. I don’t want slaves, not yet. I want horses and supplies. And to do that we must judge our attacks to a nicety. We want to cause enough of a problem for the East Angles to choose to make peace rather than fight.’
‘But the men are spoiling for a fight,’ Halfdan said.
‘There will be plenty of opportunities for that,’ Ivar said. ‘This is no raid for plunder, brothers, this is far, far more.’
His eyes opened wide with lust. Asgrim grinned with approval. Sigurd thought about horses and horse-shoes.
Leif felt sick.
‘How many men does Ivar command?’ he asked Asgrim, hoping that there would be more than enough to keep
Sigurd and him safe.
‘As many as you see,’ Asgrim answered. ‘I have not the skill to count them.’
Leif gave a look of surprise and turned to the fleet. He calculated that there were over sixty ships drawn up on the shore. Each had about thirty warriors so that meant Ivar’s army numbered many more than a thousand, a truly immense number. He wondered whether the King of the East Angles would be able to speedily gather such a host.
He was soon to find out. Ivar led the men across the dunes to the nearby village.
It was deserted when they got there, even the most elderly and lame had managed to hobble to hiding places in the nearby woods.
The warriors went from house to house, stripping them bare. There was little of value: pots, pans, tools and knives with the occasional trinket, keepsake or coin. Discarded clothes were taken for the winter, whatever food or drink could be found, and some small wooden items which would do for swift-burning fire-wood. Only the hall provided anything of real value, some goodly clothing, three fine swords, some spears, jewels and coins in a strong box.
There was a small church at the far end of the village and this proved more profitable, as churches usually did. The men made off with a good haul of gold and jewels, together with fine fabrics. Ivar was most pleased with a sacred book decorated with lavish pictures of demons, flying women and tortured and dying holy men. ‘It must be about a Viking attack,’ he mused, stuffing the book into a sack.
A little after this a sudden wind blew in from the west and within minutes a fierce storm lashed the land. Although it was still only a few hours after noon, Ivar decided to spend the night in the village. The three lords and their chieftains settled into the hall with their closest companions. The rest found what shelter they could in the remaining huts, pig-sties and cow-sheds.
Leif and Sigurd had the good fortune to count as members of Ivar’s crew and were allocated space within the hall. The warriors feasted well on the food that was found in the larders and drank even better of the good ale they found there.
Leif felt only relief at no longer being thrown around by the terrible sea and soon began to drift towards sleep. He searched out a space far from the cold air of the windows and lay down with his cloak wrapped around him, watching Sigurd taking part in a drinking contest.
So far, he thought, his new life was proving not so bad as he had feared.
THE KINGDOM OF THE EAST ANGLES
‘Wake up,’ Sigurd whispered into Leif’s ear next morning.
Leif struggled out of a deep sleep and looked around, uncertain for a moment where he was. He began to drift back to sleep but Sigurd shook him vigorously. ‘Ivar has summoned us,’ he said.
This woke Leif up. What could Ivar the Boneless want with them? He suspected it boded ill.
He pissed into an empty ale jug and followed Sigurd out of the hall.
They trudged through the cold dawn to the edge of the village, overlooking the river. The piercing cries of crows rang out from nearby trees. Leif shuddered. Too often these birds proved harbingers of disaster.
Ivar, Halfdan and Ubbe were deep in conversation with Guthrum. Leif’s eyes narrowed. If it Guthrum had not found them they would still be snug in their homeland instead of cast adrift on this dangerous venture.
‘Welcome Skald,’ Ivar said to Leif. ‘I have good news for you.’
Leif cocked his head, careful to seem neither interested nor dismissive.
‘I have decided to wait here with the fleet for a little while,’ Ivar continued.
‘That is good, my lord,’ Leif said. ‘I will be delighted to entertain you with tales and songs.’
‘You won’t have the chance,’ Ivar said. ‘I am sending Guthrum to seek out the King of the Angles. I need someone to bear witness to all that is said and done at their meeting. Guthrum will have to keep his wits about him while he negotiates with the king. I need somebody to remember all that is agreed. That will be you.’
Leif opened his mouth to argue but Ivar continued without noticing or taking breath. ‘More importantly, I want you to try to listen beyond what their king says. In my experience frightened lords speak honeyed words which are coated with venom. I need you to detect the poison and tell me about it.’
‘But I have no experience of such things, lord —’
‘I care not for your excuses,’ Ivar said. ‘You leave immediately. As sign of my favour you may take your brother with you.’ He stared at Guthrum. ‘As may you, Guthrum. But remind Eohric that Leif and Sigurd are my men now. I will not have any harm come to them.’
‘You can rely on me,’ Guthrum said.
‘I hope I can.’ Ivar smiled but it was as cold as a winter frost.
‘We go within the hour,’ Guthrum said. ‘Get your things.’
Asgrim was sympathetic at their plight and pressed a long knife into Leif’s hand. ‘In case of enemies,’ he said.
‘But surely the English will not dare to harm us.’
‘I was talking about Eohric,’ he said. ‘I deem he has a strange madness and, for whatever reason, he has taken against you.’
‘I could not fight Eohric.’
‘No. But the knife may give him second thoughts about attacking you.’ He gave Sigurd a skin of ale. ‘For the journey,’ he said.
The brothers headed outside but Asgrim called once more. ‘Your spear, Leif. Don’t forget your spear.’
Guthrum stood by the river watching his ship approach. Eohric turned and gave Leif a mocking smile but contented himself with that. Leif was grateful for Asgrim’s gift of a knife. He hoped that Ivar’s warning would be enough to constrain Eohric but the knife would be a good back up.
‘I hear you’re no oarsman,’ Guthrum said to Leif. ‘What can you do?’
‘I’m a lookout,’ Leif said, ‘a good one.’ He hoped that Guthrum had not heard otherwise.
‘We’ll soon find out the truth of it,’ Guthrum said. ‘We’re heading to Norwic which is the biggest town in the kingdom. If the king of the Angles isn’t there our arrival will be sure to draw him.’
Leif nodded, impressed by Guthrum’s grasp of tactics.
‘The rivers we travel will grow narrow,’ he continued, ‘so I need you to watch out for danger on either bank. I have no doubt we will be shadowed by English warriors so I want you to watch them closely. A few men are not to be feared. But if they act suspiciously let me know. I want forewarning of any trap up ahead.’
Leif forced down the sickness in his throat and nodded enthusiastically.
‘What does he mean by the English acting suspiciously?’ he hissed at Sigurd. It was a bad sign when he was forced to seek advice of his brother.
‘When they gloat, I suppose.’
‘When they gloat?’
Sigurd nodded. ‘Knowing that we about to die.’
Leif shook his head wearily. But maybe, just maybe, there was some wisdom in Sigurd’s words.
They clambered onto the ship. Sigurd was directed to take an oar and Leif settled himself in the prow. ‘When they gloat,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘It’s more likely the first suspicious sign will be an arrow in my throat.’
His fears grew as the ship moved up river. The land was flat, the current was slow and the river meandered in great loops, turning from west to east and then to north and back to west again. But little by little they moved deeper into the kingdom.
As the day wore on the river began to narrow. Leif’s neck grew stiff from constant turning to look at either bank, his eyes ached from peering so intently for any sign of danger. Occasionally he would spy horsemen on one side of the bank or the other. At first he alerted Guthrum every time he saw this and Guthrum would join him in the prow to watch intently for a while. But eventually, seeing they made no move other than to shadow them, and being too far away to know whether their faces were gloating, bored or fearful, Leif stopped raising the alarm.
At length as the daylight began to fail, the river turned straight towards the north. On the eastern ban
k stood a line of stone walls, perhaps a dozen feet high, with round towers at regular intervals.
‘What’s that?’ Leif asked in amazement.
One of the oarsmen spat into the sea. ‘A fortress built by demons,’ he said. ‘A deadly place.’
Leif was surprised at his words. A fortress seemed to him the safest place to spend the night.
But as the longship passed beneath the walls many of the men grasped the hammer-shaped amulets they wore about their neck and breathed prayers to Thor to protect them. Even Guthrum’s hand went to an amulet although, apart from Leif, he was the only one to scrutinise the walls.
The ship suddenly entered a wider expanse of water, silent and tranquil, shimmering in the last of the sunlight, dotted with ducks and geese. Guthrum signalled to his men to stop rowing. They obeyed the moment the words had left his mouth. It had been a gruelling day of constant oar-work.
Guthrum strode towards the prow of the ship and glanced across the waters. ‘What think you, lookout?’ he asked. ‘Do you smell the sea?’
Leif sniffed and thought he could just detect a hint of salt on the air. ‘Perhaps, my lord,’ he said. ‘But I think they may be a truer sign.’ He pointed east to where a flock of seagulls swooped and banked.
Guthrum grunted. ‘We don’t want to go that way.’ He peered across the waters more intently. ‘The river grows wider here which suggests it will soon empty into the ocean.’
‘There’s another river there,’ Leif said, pointing to the west.
A second river, wider than the one they had journeyed on, emptied into the river basin.
Guthrum followed his gaze and smiled. ‘That would appear the way we should take although these rivers twist and turn more than a liar’s tales.’
He fell silent for a moment longer and then made up his mind. ‘We will rest here for the night and decide tomorrow.’
‘Perhaps we could find a villager,’ Leif said. ‘Ask him the way.’
Guthrum frowned. ‘Why would an Englishman speak truthfully to us? Unless he is suffering torment.’
They slept fitfully under the stars. A cold wind blew from the waters to the north, and Leif found his cloak too thin to keep the piercing blasts from his flesh. He was glad when the sun rose, tinting the waters the red of a robin’s winter breast.
