by Martin Lake
‘A man who talks sense,’ Ivar said. ‘I congratulate you, Edmund, on having at least one adviser who is not a braggart or hothead.’ He gave a ghastly grin at Hwita who blanched under his gaze.
‘As I congratulate you on yours,’ Edmund said, gesturing to Leif. ‘When first we met, and he spoke for you, I assumed he was a jarl. But now I hear that he is your Skald.’
‘Who told you this?’ Ivar asked suspiciously.
‘My men come and go with supplies to your camp,’ Edmund said in an innocent tone. ‘They hear gossip and sometimes that gossip comes to my ears.’
Ivar’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘A wise lord does not listen to gossip.’ His voice was a warning hiss.
‘But I like the news that your man, Leif, is a Skald,’ Edmund said. ‘I like him and wish him to be mine. As a gesture of good faith, a seal to our brotherly bargain.’
Leif swallowed, wondering if Ivar’s earlier jest had contained some truth. Edmund would not be the first lord to bed men as well as women.
‘And what would you do to him if I give him to you? Will he be hamstrung or slain?’
‘Certainly not slain,’ Edmund said. ‘Where is the profit in a dead Skald? And he will only be hamstrung if he’s foolish enough to try to flee.’
Ivar shook his head. ‘He’s my Skald and I keep him.’ He paused. ‘You can have my whore, though. I grow tired of her.’
‘Nerienda?’
Ivar laughed. ‘Your spies are well informed. Yes, Nerienda. She is a marvel in bed but she prattles too much for my liking.’
‘And for mine,’ Edmund said. ‘You are welcome to her.’
Guthrum and Thorvald exchanged glances at the news that Nerienda had serviced more than one great lord. Ivar did not even blink.
‘But I still desire your Skald,’ Edmund continued.
Ivar turned to Leif. ‘You’re a free man, Leif. Do you wish to be Skald to a king? I’m sure your English woman would prefer it if she came back to her people.’
‘I dwell with my people and my lord,’ Leif said, bowing his head. ‘That is all I desire.’
‘Then there’s your answer,’ Ivar told Edmund. ‘Find yourself another boy to bugger.’
Edmund’s face grew ugly with loathing but he hid it in an instant. ‘I desired only the occasional good tale,’ he said. ‘But if the Skald is unwilling…’
‘He is,’ said Leif, quickly.
Edmund waved his hand in the air to suggest he had no further interest in the matter.
‘And the food?’ Ivar asked.
‘It will come shortly,’ Oswald answered.
‘Make it sooner,’ Ivar said. ‘And in the meanwhile, I shall not restrain my men from seeking extra provisions from your people.’
‘But —’ began Oswald.
‘Don’t but me,’ Ivar said, and strode from the hall.
‘How can such a wretch be a king?’ he fumed as they walked through the gates. ‘He scorns my woman and lusts after my Skald. Well, he will rue his words.’
He wasted no time when they returned to the fortress. Scavenging parties were sent out to plunder and despoil the surrounding villages, to teach people and king that Ivar the Boneless brooked no opposition to his demands.
Edmund’s words had been correct. The nearby villages had been denuded of much of their harvest to feed the Vikings. But Ivar’s men were skilful and cunning thieves. They searched every hut and cott, every church and every plot of land for hidden food and treasure. The savagery and violence of their search demolished many of the worst constructed homes.
Villagers pleaded to keep their last ox for plough work, to no avail. They begged to keep one cup, one cooking pot, one spoon for every family, to no avail. Priests hung on to their holy books and relics, to no avail.
The villagers drove their pigs into the forest but the Vikings found and slaughtered them. The last remaining sheep or mules were taken back to the fortress. Anyone who resisted too strongly was slain. And when each village had been completely ransacked, the strongest sons and prettiest daughters were taken as slaves.
Ivar completed his lesson to the English by sending Nerienda from his bed; he wanted no cast-offs from an English lord. Instead he took a comely nun from a nearby convent, raped her in front of his assembled warriors and cut out her tongue to keep her from annoying him with any talk.
Nerienda kept herself to herself for seven nights and then asked him if she was free to choose another man. Ivar gave a casual shrug, part indifference, part assent and she went to Sigurd.
And on that day, twice the usual number of waggons trundled into the fortress, all heavily laden with food, ale, wine and warm furs for winter.
WEST AND NORTH
It continued a savage winter but finally, two months after Yule, the sun grew warm and the men grew hot for action. Ivar sent the swiftest longships up river to check that the other three camps were ready to move. And then, at the beginning of spring month, the horses arrived at the fortress.
The finest steeds were chosen by Ivar and his chief men: the ten ship captains, their helmsmen and the most renowned warriors, fifty in all. Sigurd spent two days fitting the iron shoes he had made earlier in the winter. The rest of the mounts were given leather hoof-boots, not as hard-wearing but sufficient if they were ridden carefully.
That proved a problem at first for few of the men were used to riding horses. Many could not keep their seats and those that did rode with all the grace of sacks of meal. There were many bruises and several broken limbs in the first weeks after the horses arrived. But Ivar insisted that the men grew skilful in riding their mounts and it seemed that they would remain in the fortress for ever.
In the end, Jarl Frene sought Ivar out. He was captain of half a dozen ships, the son of a wealthy man from the island of Borghund, although this was the first time he had sailed on a raid to the west.
‘The men feel like fools,’ he said. ‘We are not merchants or farmers, content to trudge on broken-winded nags across fields and fens. We are made to ride the waters. Why can’t we keep to our ships?’
‘Because we need to go inland,’ Ivar said.
‘The rivers go inland.’
‘But not everywhere. And many grow narrow which makes our ships vulnerable to attack.’
‘Attack by who? The English?’
‘Don’t underestimate them. We Northmen have only struck at easy prey in the past, villages and little towns, isolated monasteries, most of them close to the coast. But the English kings are powerful and once they have the time to gather their forces will prove fitting adversaries.’
Frene looked dubious. ‘And what of our ships?’
‘I will send them by sea to the northern kingdom of Northumbria.’
‘Why there?’
Ivar turned to Guthrum who had been quietly listening to the conversation. ‘Why there, do you think, young Guthrum?’
‘Because they have great wealth?’
‘The Mercians and the West Saxons have greater.’
‘Then we should attack one of them,’ Frene said.
‘No, we shouldn’t,’ Ivar said. ‘Because Wessex and Merica have more than just greater wealth. They are the most powerful kingdoms. Their kings have more people, more warriors, more resources to pit against us. But Northumbria is divided between two enemies who both claim kingship. Fatally divided, I hope.’
Ivar was a great war-captain, not so much for his prowess in battle as for his cunning and command of the issues which led for victory. Nevertheless, Frene remained unconvinced and did not attempt to hide his doubt and dissent, giving Ivar a look of contempt before walking away, shaking his head all the while.
That night Ivar ordered an especially lavish feast. It was partly to use up the supplies before they left, partly to remind the warriors that Ivar was in command and was a man of great wealth and largess. But it soon became clear that there was another reason.
The feast was well underway and yet there was no sign of Ivar. Leif wondered at t
his for he had been at all previous feasts, allowing himself to be relaxed and at ease with his men, less the unquestioned leader than the first among equals.
‘Why isn’t Ivar here?’ he asked Asgrim.
He shrugged. ‘Maybe the murmurings against him have diminished his appetite.’
The idea surprised Leif and he sipped at his ale as he pondered it.
At that moment a shape leapt up on the table to his left. At first he thought it was a cat but then he realised his mistake. It was Ivar but not as he normally appeared.
He had folded himself up as a washer-woman might fold a bulky garment. His chin rested on his knees, his knees touched his chest and his feet were tucked away, completely hidden. He was the size of a child, no bigger.
And then he moved along the table with a curious waddling gait and Leif saw that he was walking on his hands. His head turned from side to side as he approached, as if he were searching for something or someone. Men drew back as he neared them for he was hideous, a monster lurking in a nightmare, a thing of terror made flesh.
At last he found what he was looking for. He stopped in front of Jarl Frene and turned, crabwise to look at him. He said not a word but stared directly into his face, not moving, not speaking, unblinking.
How long he remained like that no one could tell. Leif felt it was as long as winter. The hall fell silent, the eyes of every warrior, slave and servant straining to see what would happen.
Jarl Frene suddenly lifted his hand to shield his eyes, almost retched, then staggered up and fled from the hall.
Ivar gave a ghastly smile, leapt from the table and disappeared.
‘I feel sick,’ Leif whispered to Asgrim.
‘Not as much as Frene does, I warrant,’ he replied.
The longships from inland returned and, together with the ships at the fortress, were crammed with supplies: salted meats, pickled fish, grain, ale and spare weapons. Some of the women, the best slaves and the whores, were also selected to go on them. Leif and Sigurd were relieved that this included Aebbe and Nerienda. Northumbria was said to be cold and bleak and their warm bodies would prove comfort indeed.
Skeleton crews were selected and the ships headed out to sea. Leif stood by the shore and watched them depart. He felt a pain in his heart at being separated from Aebbe although he very much doubted she felt the same. She acted more pleasantly towards him with every day, it was true, but he sensed no real affection from her. It was only then that he wondered if she had been fond of any man before she was enslaved.
Sigurd met him as he trudged back into the fortress. He held out a clean, new scabbard.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘What’s it look like?’ Sigurd answered, his voice gruff.
Leif took the scabbard and withdrew a new-made sword. It was magnificent. The blade was sturdy and highly polished, the hilt was covered in shark skin and the pommel decorated with runes for luck.
‘This is the sword of a great warrior, a captain,’ he breathed. ‘Not for a man such as me.’
‘Why should only wealthy men have the finest weapons?’ Sigurd said. ‘I want you to bear a sword to make Eohric grind his teeth in rage and envy.’
Leif grinned but then his face grew more serious. ‘Perhaps I will grow to be worthy of it,’ he said, as much to himself as to his brother.
‘You talk nonsense, as always,’ Sigurd answered. ‘I give you this to protect yourself from harm, not to try to become the warrior you’ll never be.’
Leif laughed and slapped Sigurd on the shoulder. ‘It is a marvellous gift. I thank you for it.’
‘Just don’t get yourself killed. Practise with it. Thorvald will help.’
‘And did you make yourself a fine sword?’ Leif asked.
For answer, Sigurd led him to the smithy. On the anvil was a large hammer, one side like a heavy club, the other shaped like an axe with sharp and deadly blade.
‘That’s not a sword,’ Leif said. ‘You’ll look like Thor with his hammer.’
‘I have no skill with a sword,’ Sigurd said. ‘It was Guthrum who gave me the idea when he told Eohric that a peasant could crush a man’s skull with a club. I’ve spent my life hammering iron and steel. I think I should be able to hammer English limbs and heads.’
The army moved out a few days later. The horsemen were not encumbered by carts or pack-animals; Ivar meant to plunder the lands they passed through.
They journeyed to Eye to pick up Jarl Sidrac and his men, on to Thetford where Ubbe awaited them and finally on to Exning to join with Halfdan and the last of the army.
They crossed over the earthwork called Devil’s Dyke, headed west to the river Granta and then onward until they struck the ancient road of Ermine Street. They were now within the Kingdom of Mercia and it was not long before they were being shadowed by an army.
Ubbe rode his horse close to Ivar. ‘Will they fight?’ he asked.
‘I doubt it. They are only half our number.’
‘But if they’re joined by others?’
‘Then we may have a fight on our hands. The Mercians people are not like the men of East Anglia who are more interested in farming and trade. Mercia was once the greatest kingdom in the land. The mere name of it inspired fear from north to south. The Mercians will not idly let a challenge to them go unanswered.’
‘So we fight?’
‘I would prefer not. Northumbria makes an easier target. It’s not the land it once was and is riven by the ambition of two wretches who seek to be king.’ He clapped his brother on the shoulder. ‘Fear not, Ubbe, in the far north there will be meat enough for our swords to feast on.’
And with these words he pulled Havoc from its scabbard and gazed on it lovingly.
‘It’s not yet tasted blood,’ Ubbe said.
‘That is good,’ Ivar said. ‘The longer it grows hungry the better it will feed.’
The Vikings continued north, followed every mile of the way by the Mercian army. The men began to feel that they were prey being stalked by a pack of wolves and seven days after crossing into Mercia the jarls demanded a meeting with Ivar and his brothers.
The warriors sat on either side of the road with the three leaders on a pile of furs which raised them high enough to enable them to be seen by all.
Many voices called out in a tumult of noise until Halfdan yelled for silence. ‘We cannot make decisions with so many voices,’ he cried. ‘Let us hear from some spokesmen.’
The venerable Jarl Sidrac stepped forward accompanied by Jarl Frene. Frene had been terrified by Ivar’s appearance on the feast table and was haunted by it. But now it made him the more determined.
‘Wisdom and vigour, I see,’ said Ivar with a smile. ‘Speak, friends, we would hear your counsel.’
‘We are tired of being hunted by the Mercians,’ Sidrac said. ‘They are less than half our number. I say we should attack and destroy them. They’re getting on my nerves.’
There was much laughter from those who knew Sidrac. A man more cold, calm and calculating could not be found, a reputation of which he was justly proud.
‘I know what he means,’ Leif whispered to his brother, with a shudder. ‘The Mercians are like the nightmare which haunts you every time you fall asleep.’
‘As long as they don’t attack us,’ Sigurd said with a shrug. He put his fingers to his lips to quieten Leif.
Now Frene stood forward, until he was beside the pile of furs, where he turned as if to address the army rather than its leaders.
‘I agree with Sidrac,’ he said. ‘To ignore the Mercians is craven.’
The assembled warriors shot nervous glances at the three sons of Ragnar, wondering how they would react to such inflammatory words. They seemed unconcerned.
‘What seems craven to a spear-man,’ Ivar said, ‘is wisdom to a chieftain.’
‘I am not a spear-man,’ Frene cried, angrily. ‘I am a Jarl.’
‘Indeed you are,’ Ivar said, smoothly. ‘You brought six ships to this enterprise,
one hundred and twenty warriors.’ He gestured to the army. ‘One hundred and twenty out of an army of more than a thousand, and all here following my brothers and me.’
‘A thousand warriors who are sick of being held on a leash,’ Frene said. ‘Like hunting dogs refused their quarry.’
‘Ivar won’t like that,’ Thorvald muttered.
‘I agree with Frene,’ Eohric called. ‘We are twice the Mercians’ number and twice the men they are.’
‘So says the boy, Eohric,’ Ivar said, his face grown suddenly cold. ‘When I wish to speak to one of your family it will be to Guthrum.’
He dismissed Eohric like a man swats a fly and turned his gaze to Guthrum who reluctantly climbed to his feet.
‘And I wish to hear why we abide being followed.’ His eyes swept over the army and then turned to rest on the brothers. ‘As Ivar said, there may be reasons which are obscure to us.’
Ivar held his gaze before turning to address the warriors.
‘Of course we could attack the Mercian army,’ he said, ‘and of course we could destroy them. At worst we will be mauled but we will win the battle. Or things may go even better for us and we will destroy them completely and congratulate ourselves. Why we can even get Leif the Skald to tell a brave tale about it. But what then?
‘I’ll tell you, what then. The King of Mercia will simply raise another army, one much larger, and attack us. And then it will be our corpses that are left to rot on the battlefield.’
The men murmured at this, undecided at the choices before them.
‘But surely they will attack us anyway,’ Sidrac said. ‘They are merely waiting for more favourable ground.’
‘I think not,’ Ivar said. ‘They would prefer it if we leave Mercia behind and attack their ancient enemies to the north.’
‘You cannot be sure of that.’
‘I think I can.’
The warriors watched the two men for a moment later. But then Sidrac lowered his head in acquiescence and Ivar bade the army disperse.
He decided to demonstrate his reasoning the very next day. He sent a large attachment to the west of the road with orders to ransack a nearby village. They did so with dreadful ferocity. The Mercian army looked on, unmoved by their depredations.
