by Martin Lake
‘Make your mind up,’ Halfdan said. ‘If one doesn’t suit, you can swap her for another.’
‘That one,’ Leif said, pointing to a dark-haired girl at the end of the line.
Ivar gestured to her and she walked nervously towards them.
‘What’s your name, girl?’ he demanded.
‘Aebbe,’ she said. She began to bite her lip, anxiously.
‘This is your new master,’ Ivar said, shoving Leif towards her. ‘You do whatever he demands. You’re his to do as he wishes with.’
The girl looked horrified and then began to weep silently.
Leif reached out and touched her on the shoulder. ‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said.
She wept even more.
OF GODS AND GODDESSES
Ivar was right in saying that attacking the nearby villages would influence Edmund. For the next few days the Vikings systematically destroyed everything in the vicinity. A day later Edmund sent word that the army could over-winter in the locations they preferred.
With the same speed with which they attacked their enemies, the great army struck camp and headed for their separate destinations.
Leif was unhappy that Guthrum and Eohric were also going to the fortress at Cnobheresburg. He’d hoped that they would be sent with Ubbe to the far west, as far as possible from him. His one consolation was that Thorvald would also be coming with them to the fortress.
‘Don’t worry about Eohric,’ Sigurd said. ‘He’s been warned off by Ivar and Guthrum will make sure the little shit keeps his distance. And besides, you’ve got your bed-slave to take your mind off things.’
Leif nodded enthusiastically. But the truth about his bed-slave was very different.
He had owned Aebbe for three days and three nights. She was a willing enough worker in the day but at night, as he got into bed with her, she grew rigid with fright. He had tried to kiss her but she would start to weep and he felt too disheartened to do more. He spent the nights restless with frustration, hot with desire yet not caring to force himself upon her.
Each morning he received the jests of the other men with good humour, agreeing with them that she was a voracious lover and would wear him out. But inwardly he squirmed. On the previous night he had gone to bed long after his friends, waiting until they slept so they would not notice the silence coming from his own bed.
Now, as the longships headed north towards the fortress, Aebbe approached him and rested her hand lightly upon his.
‘Where are we going, lord?’ she asked.
Leif brightened at her words. This was the first time she had spoken to him except in response to his own words.
‘To the fortress at Cnobheresburg,’ he said. ‘We’ll spend the winter there.’
She nodded but did not say more.
‘Do you know the fortress?’ Leif asked, at last.
‘Yes. I am from Fritton which is a mile from there.’
Leif wondered whether he should ask the next question, fearful that it would diminish him in her eyes. ‘Some of the men think the fortress was built by demons and that ghosts dwell there still.’
‘I have heard the same.’
He gave a quick laugh. ‘That’s not very encouraging.’
‘Who am I to encourage you?’ she replied with sorrowful voice. ‘You are my master and I am your slave.’
‘But you’ve not always been a slave.’
‘No. Until a few days ago I was free. I had a father and a mother, and two little sisters. And now they are dead, slaughtered by your friends.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
She turned towards him, her eyes contemptuous. ‘Are you?’ She shook her head. ‘I very much doubt it. For what Viking is ever sorry for another person?’
‘I am,’ he said, hesitantly. ‘I am for you.’
She turned to look at him, her eyes big with suspicion but also, perhaps, a growing hope. The moment was all too fleeting. She turned away once more and stared at the river foaming as the longship sliced through its waters.
They reached Cnobheresburg at noon and Ivar wasted no time in securing the fortress. The walls were fifteen feet high and sentries were allocated to the walls for Ivar had as little trust of the Angles as they had of him and assumed that an army might appear at any time. He gave his captains responsibility for the bastions which were sited at each corner of the fortress and at intervals along the wall. He himself took over the large gatehouse to the east which was the most likely point of attack. Tents were erected and a beginning made to the construction of wooden huts.
Leif was allocated a place in the gatehouse so that he could entertain Ivar with song and stories. Sigurd was sent to Guthrum who had been given command of the south-west bastion and told to organise a smithy.
Thorvald, Leif and Asgrim helped him unload his anvil from the ship and drag it to the crude wooden shed slaves were constructing close to the bastion.
‘You should have made the slaves carry this great weight,’ Asgrim said as they positioned the anvil in the centre of the shed.
‘I wouldn’t trust them,’ Sigurd said. ‘This anvil is centuries old and has come down to me from my forefathers.’
‘All the way back to Wayland the Smith,’ Leif added.
‘Wayland was your ancestor?’ Asgrim asked in an awed voice.
Leif adopted a stern and serious face. ‘Father to son, a line unbroken.’
Asgrim turned to Sigurd. ‘And you learned your skills from your father?’
Sigurd nodded.
‘He was a famous man,’ Leif continued. ‘He was Smith to the great warlord Hæstenn and journeyed with him to the kingdom of the Moors, to Rome and to Frankland. In each of them he sought out the most famous sword-makers, worked alongside them and thereby enhanced his craft and knowledge still further. And those skills he passed on to my brother.’
‘It’s no wonder that Ivar sought you out to make his sword, then,’ Asgrim said.
Sigurd gave a fleeting smile. ‘Havoc is a good sword, despite what my brother thinks.’
Asgrim and Thorvald turned to him, their eyes bright with curiosity.
‘What do you mean?’
Leif refused to say more so Sigurd explained. ‘Leif claims he saw Loki hiding in the steam when the sword was being quenched.’
Leif gave him dagger looks, not wishing this to be common knowledge.
‘I may have been mistaken,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it was only the shifting shape of the steam.’
‘But Loki is a shape-shifter,’ said Thorvald, clutching his hammer amulet to ward off evil. ‘It must have been him.’ Asgrim nodded in agreement.
Leif groaned. Both men were now convinced about the story and there was every danger that it would spread around the camp until it reached Ivar. There was no telling what he would he do when he found out that the god of mischief had been present at his sword’s making. And that Leif and Sigurd had kept this information from him.
‘What does the appearance of Loki mean?’ Asgrim asked. ‘Is the sword cursed?’
Leif raised his hands in an ambiguous gesture. ‘In one way only,’ he said, inventing desperately. ‘Loki said that the sword would prove the doom of any man who stole it from its rightful owner and sought to use it in battle.’
The men, even Sigurd, looked astounded at his words.
‘But Loki was not the only god I saw in the dark of the smithy,’ Leif continued.
He glanced around as if to see anyone who might overhear. Then he gestured the three men closer.
‘You must swear not to tell anyone of this,’ he breathed.
They swore.
Leif lowered his voice. ‘I also saw the great god, Thor. He appeared at the anvil, his hammer Mjollnir in his mighty grip and made a second prophesy. He said that the true bearer of this sword would never be vanquished in battle, would be the slayer of kings and destroyer of kingdoms. That he would become the mightiest ruler in all the world.’
‘We should tell Ivar this,’ Asgrim
said.
Leif held up his hands nervously. ‘We must not. For Thor also said that his prophesy would work best if the wielder of the sword had no knowledge of it.’
‘Why would that be?’ Thorvald asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Leif said irritably. ‘I’m not privy to the thoughts of the god. I merely report what he said to me.’
At that moment Leif was rescued from any more debate by a mighty roar from the eastern gate. But it was not a cry of dismay at sight of an enemy army. It was a cry of welcome. Entering through the gate were four large carts pulled by oxen. Each cart contained half a dozen women, dressed in the finest clothes.
‘Whores,’ breathed Asgrim. ‘It’s like a prayer from the gods.’ He led the way to see them.
News of the whores spread swiftly across the fortress and the four carts were soon surrounded by laughing warriors. But when one attempted to clamber onto the foremost waggon a tall young woman kicked him in the chin, sending him sprawling to the ground.
‘Get your filthy hands off,’ the woman cried. ‘These are my girls and I’ll tell you when you get to touch them. And for what price.’
‘How much?’ cried one of the warriors.
‘More than an ugly fool like you can afford, I warrant,’ she answered. The men cheered her loudly for this reply.
‘Now, where’s your leader?’ the woman continued. Her eyes lit on Sigurd. ‘You have big arms and strong thighs. Are you Ivar? Are you the fearsome heathen lord?’
‘No,’ shouted one of the men. ‘He’s only a blacksmith.’
‘Better a blacksmith than a piece of shit like you,’ she said to him. ‘I happen to love blacksmiths; my father was one. I’ll take him into my bed, little turd, but you’ll never get as much as a touch or a sniff of me.’
She glanced around the camp. ‘So? Where is your lord?’
‘He’s here,’ came a loud cry. The throng made way for Ivar to approach the whores. ‘And who may you be?’
‘My name is Nerienda,’ the woman answered, ‘and I bring my girls to keep you and your men warm this winter. They’re the finest whores in the kingdom and they don’t come cheap.’ She smiled. ‘But then I’ve always heard that you Vikings desire the costliest treasures.’
‘That we do, Nerienda. And you are welcome to spend the winter here. I am Ivar the Boneless, lord of this host.’
‘I hope one part of you isn’t boneless,’ she said. ‘I can promise it won’t be once I begin work on you.’
Some of the warriors cheered at her words, but not those who knew Ivar best.
A slow smile came across his face. ‘And how much do you charge?’ he asked.
‘More than any of your warriors can afford,’ she answered. ‘But I’m sure you have enough about you to satisfy even my appetites.’
He reached up and helped her jump to the ground. ‘You’re welcome, Nerienda. You and your whores.’
She looked around the fortress intently, her eyes taking in everything in moments. ‘Well, there’s nowhere quite good enough for my girls,’ she said, ‘but we’ll have to make do for a little while.’
‘Not you, Nerienda,’ Ivar said, pointing to the gatehouse. ‘These are my quarters.’
She gave him a little pout, enticing and challenging, and strolled off to the gatehouse.
‘You know your price, girls,’ she said. ‘Don’t let these robbers try to pay a farthing less.’
The women climbed off the waggons and the most powerful men each led one of them away.
Leif and Sigurd were not amongst them, although neither seemed disappointed at this. Sigurd’s eyes followed Nerienda as she entered the gatehouse.
Leif caught a glimpse of Aebbe. She was standing by the well, unmoving, her eyes fixed upon him. For a moment he did not move, then he began to walk towards her, his pace increasing with every stride.
‘Am I a good slave?’ she asked as she reached him.
‘I do not want you as a slave,’ he answered.
She stared into his eyes and then, very slowly, reached out and took his hand. ‘Then what do you want me to be?’ she asked.
‘My woman.’
Her eyes relaxed although she did not yet smile. ‘Come then,’ she said, leading him back to their hut.
THE GREAT ENDEAVOUR
The Vikings had barely finished building their dwellings when winter descended with a month of fierce storms and tempests. They hauled their ships up high on the river-bank, fearful that the gales would damage them, or worse yet, sink them or cast them adrift. Roofs that had been built too hastily blew away and the ground in the fortress became a quagmire. Men walked hurriedly in ceaseless rain, heads bowed, wet as water rats.
Sigurd and Leif spent the month making horse-shoes for the mounts which were to be given to the chieftains of the army. The rest of the army would have to make do with unshod beasts with all the dangers of them going lame. Iron was precious and once enough shoes had been made they turned their attention to making more spears and swords.
Leif and Aebbe grew more comfortable with each other although she sometimes made it very clear that she was with him only under duress. Leif did not mind. He delighted in her good looks and soft body and the fact that now she rarely refused him in bed.
‘You’re strutting like a cockerel,’ Sigurd said to him one morning. ‘A man can get tired of seeing this.’
‘Then do something about it,’ Leif said. ‘Go to one of the whores. Choose one you like and make her something pretty as payment.’
Sigurd did not answer other than to hammer with extra strength upon the anvil.
‘I see,’ Leif said, light dawning on him. ‘You are hot for a whore. But it’s the one whore who’s not available.’
Sigurd brandished his hammer in anger. ‘Do not talk of her,’ he said.
Leif smirked. ‘You lust for Nerienda. That’s very foolish. She belongs to Ivar.’
‘She belongs to no man,’ Sigurd answered. ‘She has made that very plain.’
Leif frowned. ‘You’ve spoken with her?’
Sigurd nodded. ‘We talk sometimes, in the evenings. She seeks me out.’
Leif touched him on the arm. ‘That’s very dangerous. Ivar will show no mercy if you seek to take her.’
Sigurd sighed. ‘That’s true. I’m no fool. I will not touch forbidden goods.’
He glanced around and when he spoke again it was with lowered voice. ‘But Nerienda says that Ivar has little interest in her anymore. His mind is full of battle plans and bold dreams. I will be patient and, when he tires of her, she will come to me.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Leif said. ‘But just remember that although a man may lose interest in his woman he may not be happy for others to take his place.’
Sigurd shrugged. Such ideas were not worth wasting thought on.
The storms ended at last and the days grew bright but bitter cold. Frost gripped the land until late each morning and a sharp wind needled beneath cloak, tunic and even fur. Ponds began to ice over and the only birds noticeable were crows and rooks. Their mocking cries floated from the nearby trees, making the men miserable and ill at ease.
Despite the bitter weather, carts arrived each day bearing provisions sent by Edmund. But as the days drew short and Yule approached, the carts diminished in number and carried fewer goods.
Ivar summoned his chieftains to him and announced that he was losing patience over this and would go to see the king.
‘And you come with me,’ he said to Leif. ‘Let’s see if your honey tongue can work your wiles upon him once again. And if you have to give him your arse for more meat, then so be it.’
‘I think he likes women,’ Leif said, nervously.
‘The leech tells me he likes anything with a hole he can thrust into. So be prepared.’
The next day Ivar, Thorvald and Leif marched up to the walls surrounding Norwic and demanded entry. The gates opened silently and they strode inside.
Ivar’s eyes darted everywhere, taking in the clothes
of the townsfolk, the goods on display on the market stalls, the beauty of the women and the robust looks of the men.
‘Good pickings here,’ he said to Thorvald. ‘And we may yet have to come and get them.’
Edmund had heard word of their arrival and welcomed them courteously in his hall. Yet, despite his affability, he had placed twenty of his household warriors close to hand.
‘Welcome, Lord Ivar,’ he said. He picked up a goblet of wine and himself approached Ivar and placed it in his hands.
Ivar drained it in one gulp and handed the empty vessel to Leif.
‘I shall get you a sack for that,’ Edmund said, his voice betraying not a shred of the disgust he felt at such naked thieving.
‘Good,’ Ivar said. ‘But I did not come for wine cups. I came to find out why the supplies you send me are dwindling. And to see how many horses are being gathered for my men.’
Edmund indicated an empty seat by his throne. His advisers shuffled nervously as Ivar took his seat.
‘Supplies,’ Edmund began, ‘are dwindling because they are being depleted by the appetites of your men.’
‘That’s not my concern,’ Ivar said.
‘But my people are going hungry in order to feed you.’
‘Also, not my concern.’
‘If the fox eats all the hens,’ said Hwita, Edmund’s young adviser, ‘there will be no eggs to last through winter.’
‘A fox?’ said Ivar, his voice growing harder. ‘I’m a wolf and if I eat all the hens I move on to tastier meats. I care nothing for eggs.’
Edmund could barely hide a shudder.
‘We are endeavouring to find food from further afield,’ said the old adviser, Oswald, his voice calm and soothing. ‘This will take a little time for the paths across the kingdom are sodden by the recent rains. But come they will, be assured of this.’
‘And the horses?’
‘They have been earmarked for your warriors, have no fear. But we are keeping them in their pastures until the spring when you need them.’
