by Martin Lake
‘It’s wound-rot,’ the Leech said, after the most cursory glance. ‘I warned him yesterday.’
‘Can you do anything?’
Deor shrugged. ‘I might be able to. But why should I?
‘Because we will free you, give you your life.’
Deor stared into his eyes. ‘Can you make such a promise? You do not seem a great warrior, nor does your leader treat you with respect. His men even less so.’
‘I can make this promise,’ Leif said with more confidence than he felt. ‘I am the Skald of Ivar the Boneless, highly placed in his service.’
Deor looked doubtful for a moment. But he had little to lose and much to gain.
‘I cannot swear to heal him,’ he said. ‘But he’s a strong man and the wound is just beginning to fester so there may be some chance. Fetch me two strong men and the sharpest knife you can find.’
Leif remembered the only other wound-rot he had seen and shuddered. ‘You mean to cut off his arm?’
‘If I did I would ask for an axe. No, I intend to cut away the source of the poison. Now hurry.’
Leif returned with Sigurd, Thorvald the helmsman, and a very sharp knife.
Eohric was squatting by his brother, glaring murderously at the Leech. ‘If he dies I shall flay you alive,’ he hissed.
‘No you won’t,’ said Guthrum. ‘The man is a healer and his pride will make him do his utmost.’
Deor laughed. ‘You are wiser than I thought possible for a Dane.’
‘Get on and do what you must.’
Two men returned from the river bearing buckets of water. Deor sniffed at it, plunged in a rag and began to wipe at the wound. They could hear a faint sound of ulcers popping and the stench wafted towards them like the wind from a midden. Leif gagged. Eohric shuffled back a little.
Deor gestured to Sigurd and Thorvald.
Thorvald was smaller than Sigurd but stocky and with massive arms. He had the bull neck and face of a mastiff. He looked every bit as strong as Sigurd.
‘Hold him down,’ Deor said. ‘As firmly as you can.’
Then he took the knife and began to scrape away at the wound. Guthrum’s strength and courage almost failed him but he managed to clamp his mouth shut and make no noise.
Deor worked swiftly, gouging out the most discoloured flesh and slicing off the blisters. Blood ran everywhere and he allowed it to do so. ‘A little like flaying, isn’t it?’ he said to Eohric with a chuckle.
Eohric cursed him but did not move.
At last, with Guthrum’s arm awash with blood and his head lolling with pain, Deor stopped his butchery work. He reached into his bag and pulled out a jar with a wooden stopper, some leaves and a long, narrow piece of cloth.
Swiftly he wiped Guthrum’s arm with the wet rag, revealing how deeply he had cut. Then he reached into the jar and pulled out a fistful of maggots. He slapped these into the wound, placed the leaves on top of them and then wound the cloth around Guthrum’s arm, fastening it with a knot and a couple of pins. He leaned back on his haunches and pronounced himself satisfied.
‘Will he live?’ Eohric asked.
Deor shrugged. ‘He might. But I would pray to your gods if I were you. If the wound gets worse I shall have to remove his arm. And then…’ He left the rest of the sentence unspoken.
‘We cannot go to Norwic now,’ Thorvald said.
‘Why not?’ said Eohric. ‘My brother will recover or not as much in his longship as in this fetid isle.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ Thorvald said. ‘We need him to talk with the king.’
‘I can do that,’ Eohric replied.
Thorvald stared at him silently for a little while. Then he shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Such talk calls for a calmer man than you, a man more far-seeing and subtle. We shall have to wait until Guthrum recovers.’
‘That will take many days,’ Deor said. ‘The fever has already begun to take him and will grow worse. He will begin to ramble and talk nonsense, hardly the display you wish to give to King Edmund.’
‘Then we shall have to wait here,’ Thorvald said. ‘Unless…’ And he turned to Leif and put his hand on his shoulder.
KING EDMUND
King Edmund’s hall was situated on the north bank of the River Wensum, on the eastern edge of Norwic, close to the palisade. It was bigger than any hall Leif or Sigurd had seen, large enough to feast a hundred men with ease.
They exchanged nervous looks. Their dealings with wealthy men had rarely been easy, forced to endure a continual series of complaints about the quality of their work and haggling over price. And now they were entering the hall of the wealthiest man they could ever imagine.
‘Are you sure about having me speak to the English king?’ Leif asked Thorvald anxiously.
The helmsman smiled grimly. ‘More sure than having Eohric do it. We wouldn’t leave the hall alive if he were to speak for us.’
‘Should I pretend to be Guthrum? To give myself more authority?’
‘You claimed the authority of Ivar when you promised the Leech his life. You can boast the same here.’ And with that he pushed Leif towards the door-wards.
‘Vikings,’ said one of the men, suspiciously. ‘Some of your kin are traders in our city. Do you wish to negotiate such rights? Do you come in war or in peace?’
His speech sounded strange to their ears, with less iron and strength than their own tongue, but they could understand it well enough.
‘We come for many purposes,’ said Thorvald. ‘But our leader will talk with your king, not with you.’ He gestured towards Leif who gave a sick smile.
‘Have you weapons?’ the door-ward asked.
Thorvald pulled his sword from its scabbard and handed it to the guard. Leif and Sigurd gave over their knives.
The door-ward considered them for a little longer. ‘This seems strange,’ he said to Thorvald at last. ‘You have the sword and the manner of a warrior. Yet your companions act like common tradesmen and you say that one of them is your leader.’
Thorvald did not reply. The man gave them a final, puzzled look before opening the doors.
The hall appeared larger inside than out. This was because it was astonishingly bright. There were dozens of windows with shutters wide-open, rush-lights burned on every bench and torches flickered upon the walls. And the walls were white, covered with lime-wash to catch every last drop of light from sun and flame.
Leif could not imagine the wealth and power of a king who owned a hall so splendid. Richer than the kings of Denmark and of Frankland. Richer perhaps than even the Emperor of golden Miklagard? And now he had to barter with him.
Half a dozen men sat at a high table at the rear of the hall. From their age and apparel they appeared to be powerful lords, perhaps advisers to the king. They watched with curious, wary eyes as the three men approached.
‘Who are you?’ one called as they got close. ‘What do Vikings seek from King Edmund?’
Thorvald pushed Leif forward.
‘My name is Leif Ormson,’ he said. Even to his own ears his voice sounded weak and tremulous. ‘I am Skald and adviser to the great Viking lord, Ivar the Boneless.’
The English lords gasped at the name of Ivar. They stared at one another, words failing them, their eyes resting finally on the youngest man amongst them.
He wore a simple tunic adorned with a single golden jewel upon his chest. His eyes had widened considerably at Leif’s words and now he chewed on his bottom lip. Finally, he clenched his hands and leaned forward.
‘I am Edmund, King of East Anglia,’ he said. ‘Step closer and say what you must.’
He gave a swift signal. Two dozen warriors appeared on either side, swords unsheathed and pointing at the Vikings.
Leif coughed to clear what felt like rocks clogging his throat. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a croak. ‘Lord Ivar and his brothers Halfdan and Ubbe have arrived on your shores in a fleet of sixty ships.’ He paused, uncertain what to say next.
&n
bsp; He had no need for concern. The name of Ivar had caused dismay amongst the Angles. The size of the fleet threw them into state of consternation.
Edmund was the first to control himself and raised his hand for silence. ‘Sixty ships do not come to trade,’ he said.
‘Sixty ships hold more twelve hundred warriors,’ Leif said. He could sense the panic flowing from the king’s advisers.
But Edmund shrugged, as if unconcerned. ‘I can put four times that number of thegns into battle, ten times that number of fyrdmen.’
‘Which is why we have come to talk,’ Leif said.
But, in contradiction to these words, he fell silent once more, desperately wondering what to say. He had not realised that Edmund’s kingdom was so powerful and wondered if Ivar had either. Any threat he could make seemed pointless and futile against such a mighty power.
The silence grew longer, unbearably longer.
Leif began to panic, uncertain how to respond and believing his silence marked him as a fool. At the same time, Edmund and his advisers grew apprehensive, ascribing all manner of threat and disaster to his silence. Ivar could never wreak havoc as dreadful as the doom their imaginations began to conjure up.
‘Then talk,’ Edmund said from behind gritted teeth. ‘Say what your master bids you.’
Leif swallowed, having no idea what Ivar wanted. Only Guthrum knew this and he was in his ship, fighting a losing battle with his wound and fever.
‘Ivar wants winter quarters for his men,’ Leif said, desperately clutching at any straw. ‘Food, lodging, and servants.’
Edmund did not respond for a moment. The man to his right bent and whispered something in his ear.
‘I can give this,’ Edmund said at last, ‘for three months. Until after the Christmas feast.’
Leif glanced at Thorvald who refused to give him eye-contact. The helmsman was as much at a loss as Leif, it seemed.
He looked at his brother who seemed equally baffled. But looking at Sigurd made him suddenly realise something. This was just like bargaining for the price of a sword or a scythe. On a grander scale but, in essence, just the same.
‘Three months is not long enough,’ Leif said.
He took a deep breath, feeling himself on familiar ground now. ‘Three months will take us to the coldest, bleakest months of the year. We need quarters until the spring.’
Edmund and his advisers huddled together, their voices hissing like angry cats. Thorvald glanced at Leif doubtfully, his face showing he thought that he had over-played his hand.
Finally, the Englishmen grew silent. Edmund drew back his shoulders. ‘Quarters until the spring, it is’ he said. ‘But I insist that your army be divided into four divisions. And I will decide where they are settled.’
‘That is satisfactory,’ Leif said. ‘You know where your best pastures lie. We ask only that they are close to rivers so our ships can come and go.’
Edmund’s face grew grim but eventually he gave a curt nod. ‘Is that all you desire?’ he asked, his voice thick with sarcasm.
Leif blinked in surprise. So, the king’s barbed words were the strongest weapon he dared to wield. And, moreover, these words had given Leif an opening.
‘I’m glad you asked,’ he said with a winning smile. ‘When we leave your kingdom in the spring we will need horses for all our warriors.’
The faces of King and advisers turned to stone.
‘For all your warriors?’ said the man to the king’s right.
‘For all twelve hundred.’
‘Preposterous,’ cried the man. ‘We could not provide so many mounts.’
Leif shrugged. ‘In that case, we shall be forced to remain here for longer.’
He made to leave but Edmund raised his hand to stop him.
‘I agree,’ he said. His voice was little more than a whisper. ‘But you must swear oaths that you will leave by two months after twelfth night.’
‘I accept,’ said Leif. He turned on his heel and marched down the hall, followed by the others.
‘When’s twelfth night?’ he asked Thorvald as they collected their weapons.
‘It’s twelve days after Yule,’ he said. ‘Which means we stay until the beginning of March.’
He slapped Leif on the shoulder with delight. ‘I’m proud of you, my friend. And I think Ivar will be as well. I doubt Guthrum could have done better.’
Leif beamed with pleasure. His mind leapt with thoughts of a bountiful future. He would, indeed, become Ivar’s chief adviser, he would receive much treasure, fine clothes, a comely hall and beautiful women to share his bed. Maybe his new life would not be as bad as he feared.
He glanced in triumph at his brother. Sigurd merely scowled.
RETURN TO IVAR
Guthrum was still raving in his fever when they returned to the longship. Eohric claimed leadership of the men but there was immediate dissent and Thorvald was chosen in his stead. Eohric raged and refused to take his oar, standing beside the helm as Guthrum had done. There was much anger at this but none dared challenge him too openly. In the end, Thorvald took the helm with a dark look at Eohric and steered the ship back down the river.
They made better time now as the current of the river aided their progress and a westerly wind enabled them to use the sail. Within a day they reached the place where they had been attacked.
‘We should camp in that great fortress,’ Leif said to Thorvald. ‘We would be safe from attack there.’
‘So speaks the great Skald and spokesman for Boneless,’ sneered Eohric. He spat at Leif’s foot. ‘Demons and monsters dwell in such places. We would be mad to go there.’
Thorvald looked thoughtful but, in the end, shook his head. ‘It’s too risky,’ he said. ‘We do not want to incur the wrath of any gods or demons so deliberately.’
Later, as they camped by the river, he approached Leif and squatted beside him. He stared into the darkness for a while and then sighed. ‘You may have been right about the fortress,’ he said. ‘I almost ordered the men to camp there.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘I am not their lord,’ he said, ‘except for a little while. I doubt I would have been able to persuade them. And if I had done so and demons appeared…’ He fell silent as he contemplated such a dread situation.
‘You’re clever, Leif,’ he continued, at last. ‘Wise men such as Ivar and Guthrum will make use of your wits. But fools, and especially arrogant fools like Eohric, will resent your wisdom and seek to harm you. Remember this.’
He got up to leave.
‘And are you a wise man, Thorvald?’ Leif asked.
Thorvald chuckled. ‘Wiser than most. Which is why I choose you as my friend.’
Sigurd grunted when the helmsman was out of hearing. ‘I wouldn’t trust him, little brother. He is too watchful. Just like Eohric.’
Leif shook his head. ‘I don’ t think so, Sigurd. Some men watch others to protect themselves from attack or purely out of curiosity. I think Thorvald is one of these. Others, like Eohric, watch only to find the opportunity for malice and cruelty.’
‘And they, as often as not, are our masters.’
Leif did not answer for a while. ‘I don’t intend that to be the case for us any more,’ he said finally. His voice bore a new, determined tone.
The next morning, Thorvald sniffed the air and made the decision not to return by the winding river they had taken before but to head to the open sea a few miles east and then sail down the coast to join Ivar’s fleet.
They were followed by a mob of seagulls as they left the calm of the river and breasted the waves. A stiff northerly breeze filled the sail and they swept down the coast at speed, arriving at the fleet before noon.
The longships still lay where they had beached and a wooden fortification had been thrown up beside it. Inside stood half a dozen tents.
Thorvald steered the longship close to the fortress and the crew disembarked to loud shouts of welcome. These shouts turned to groans at the sight of Gut
hrum.
He was placed on a make-shift stretcher of oars and shields and carried up the slope to the fortress. He was still locked in a fierce fever but his raving had grown quieter and more intermittent.
Deor the Leech walked beside the stretcher, his face full of foreboding. He had confided in Thorvald only that morning that he believed that Guthrum’s arm would have to be amputated. He prayed that he was not the one to do the job. If anything went wrong he knew that he would be slain.
Ivar and his brothers had seen the longship return and hurried down to greet them. They looked alarmed at Guthrum’s condition. Thorvald swiftly told them all that had happened.
‘Will he survive?’ Ivar asked Deor. His voice was icy with threat.
‘That is in the hands of your gods,’ Deor answered.
Leif glanced at him, surprised that he should speak of Norse gods instead of the Christ.
‘Then we must pray to Eir to heal him,’ Ivar said. ‘Take him to my tent. Go with him, Leech. If he dies, I’ll throttle you with my own hands.’
Eohric’s grinned at the thought of this, although he would prefer to be the one doing the throttling.
‘Why are you smiling, boy?’ Ivar said. ‘You should be fretting about your brother. And fretting even more about what will become of you, should he die.’
Eohric’s smile was replaced by a look of terror.
Leif glanced away, worried that Ivar would notice his pleasure at how he had dealt with Eohric. He was not swift enough.
‘You two are still the best of comrades, then?’ Ivar said, punching him on the shoulder. His voice, however, held no trace of condemnation.
He looked from Leif to Eohric and back again, his eyes growing more thoughtful. ‘My advice to you, Leif, is to keep clear of Eohric,’ he said, ‘even more so if Guthrum dies. Guthrum can keep his brother in check. I do not have the time.’
He turned to Thorvald. ‘Did Guthrum speak with the English king?’
Thorvald shook his head. ‘He was already too far gone in his fever. We left him on the ship. The men chose me to take his place.’
