by Martin Lake
It appeared that Ivar was right. The Mercian commander must have been ordered to do nothing other than watch the Vikings as they made their way across the kingdom. The occasional sacked village was a price worth paying as long as they kept moving northward.
After a few more days they entered a flat plain which seemed to go on endlessly. There were no longer any heights to the west to offer the Mercians a vantage point and they withdrew. But the next morning the Vikings awoke to find that their enemies had increased mightily overnight, with near a thousand on the road ahead of them and another thousand behind.
‘They’re going to attack us,’ Thorvald muttered. ‘What will Ivar do?’
He did something quite surprising. He sent Leif and Deor to seek out the Mercian commander.
‘What will I say to him?’ Leif asked.
‘Whatever it takes to prevent him attacking us on this open plain.’
The Mercian commander was a seasoned warrior by the name of Ceolred, hair grey with age but with eyes as sharp as those of a young man.
‘You come to treat?’ he asked. It seemed to Leif that, despite his words, he had no interest in what they had to say.
‘Not to treat,’ Leif answered, ‘but to ask advice.’
Ceolred’s suspicion changed to curiosity. ‘Say on.’
‘My leaders, Ivar the Boneless, and his brothers, Halfdan and Ubbe wish to know the swiftest way to get to Northumbria. Do we stay on this road and go north until we cross the River Humber or head west?’
Ceolred’s look changed back to one of deep suspicion. His eyes flickered towards the Viking army, pondering their numbers and strength.
‘I had not thought the Danes to be horsemen,’ he said at length.
‘They’re not,’ Deor said. ‘They hate the beasts.’
Leif glared at him. It was unwise to give any information of weakness to a foe such as Ceolred.
‘They?’ Ceolred said. ‘Are you not a Dane?’
‘A man of East Anglia,’ Deor answered. ‘Held captive by them.’
Ceolred sniffed. ‘If you wish, you can cease being their captive and come to me.’
Deor gnawed at his lip, uncertain how to answer. The Mercians had been the mortal enemy of his people for a hundred years and more. He doubted he could trust them overmuch. And with them he would be a nothing, just a man who owed them a debt. With the Vikings, it was he who was owed a debt of gratitude by Guthrum.
‘I think it best if I stay with the Danes,’ he said at last.
Ceolred’s lips curled with distaste but he said nothing more to him.
He raised himself in his stirrups and gazed to the north and to the west, calculating the shortest distance the army could take to leave Mercia. He summoned one of his thegns and they conversed together a while.
‘How will you cross the Humber?’ Ceolred asked at last.
‘We have a fleet waiting for us,’ Leif answered. ‘They will ferry us across.’
‘Or ferry you back down the Trent,’ said a thegn.
‘Silence,’ cried Ceolred. Like a fool the man had pointed out the best route to attack the heartlands of Mercia.
‘Your warships will not easily take horses.’ Ceolred spoke swiftly to distract attention from the thegn’s words. ‘But we would allow you to use our ferries.’
Leif watched the Mercian intently as he appeared to ponder the best choice. At last he made a decision. ‘On balance,’ he said, ‘I think you should go thither.’ He pointed to the north-west.
The thegn looked astonished at his words, a look which was not lost on Leif.
Ceolred, however, ignored the thegn and carried on. ‘Another Roman Road goes that way. It will take you to the river Don. Once you cross that you are in Northumbria. I will escort you that way. If you keep to this path you need have no fear of us. If you seek to go any other way, we will slaughter you.’
Leif bowed and returned to the camp with the news. The brothers and the captains listened to him carefully.
‘I think it’s a trap,’ Ubbe said. ‘Why else would he want us to go that way?’
‘I agree,’ Halfdan said. ‘The road directly to the north is shorter and the Mercian says he will allow us to use their ferries.’
Ivar did not respond for a moment.
‘And what does our emissary think?’ he asked Leif. ‘You were with the man.’
Leif swallowed, unhappy at being asked for his opinion. Fortunately, he had given it a lot of thought on the road back.
‘I think the Mercian is an experienced commander,’ he said. ‘He knows how to tempt and trick. I agree with Ubbe that he is laying a trap but I disagree as to where.’
The captains leaned forward, intrigued by his words.
‘He mentioned the direct route,’ he continued, ‘and said we could use the ferries. But then, without giving a reason, he changed his mind. This raises our suspicions and we do right to conclude that he is luring us into a trap.
‘But consider this. The English think we Northmen are cunning and deceitful fighters, more given to setting traps than walking into them. I think that Ceolred has suggested the western route expecting we will immediately suspect it to be a trap.’
‘Why would he do that?’ Ubbe said.
‘Because he thinks that, fearing such a trap, we’ll decide to take the other route, direct to the ferries. And that, I believe, is the way he really wishes us to go. Because that is where he has actually laid his trap.’
‘This is just an opinion,’ Halfdan said. ‘What if the Mercian is not as subtle as you believe?’
‘I think he is,’ Leif said, quietly.
‘Leif’s words make sense,’ said Ivar. ‘The Mercians would not send a fool to negotiate with us. We must weigh his words very carefully.
‘And think about the situation at the ferries. It will take days for us to cross with all our mounts. This Mercian can bide his time until the odds are in his favour, until half our army are left on this side of the river and half on the north. He will attack and destroy the men remaining on the southern bank. Who knows, he may even have another army lying in wait on the northern one.’
The captains were alarmed and confused at the same time. Ivar seized the moment, ignored the notion of weighing Ceolred’s words and decided that they would take the western road.
An hour later, two horsemen trotted back from Ceolred. They gave the brothers a sack of silver pennies, as payment for their acquiescence.
The army cheered. Ivar and his brothers were considered lucky commanders and luck was the most valuable of any man’s attributes.
Ivar took Leif on one side. ‘I hope you’re right about the advice you gave us.’
‘If I’m wrong, then we’re all dead men,’ Leif said.
Ivar laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
INTO THE NORTH
They made good progress from then onwards and came at last to a river which flowed swiftly from east to west. Ceolred deigned to ride back to the assembled Vikings to speak with Ivar and his brothers.
‘This is the river Don,’ he said. ‘North of it lies Northumbria. I cannot tell you who is king there for cousins and friends feud eternally for the crown. The last I heard, Aelle had seized the throne from the previous king, Osberht, and they are now in contention. So, two hounds fight over the carcase of a pig.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘May you have good fortune in Northumbria.’
The Mercian warriors stood to one side and watched the Vikings as they made ready to cross the river. The Vikings cast anxious looks at the mounted warriors, fearing they would attack them mid-stream and at a disadvantage in any fight. But the Mercians made no move, merely watched as the Viking horses picked their way across, content to let them leave and go on their way to Northumbria.
The river was fast flowing but shallow and they forded it without mishap. The brothers remained on the Mercian bank until the last of the army had crossed over. Then, with a cheery wave to Ceolred, they trotted across the river.
‘
That was a dangerous time,’ Halfdan said. ‘I thought they might fall upon us as we crossed.’
‘They would have if they’d intended to slaughter us,’ Ivar said. ‘But they’re happy for us leave. I suspect they want us to cause problems for the Northumbrians.’
He called Asgrim over. ‘So, Traveller, what do you know of this kingdom?’
Asgrim chewed on his bottom lip, searching his memory. ‘I’ve been here only a few times, Ivar. The first time was a dozen years ago when King Osberht was the king. I returned three years ago. Osberht had been deposed by Aelle who is some relative of his, brother or cousin, perhaps. Osberht had retreated to the far north to try to raise an army to win back his throne. The Northumbrians are ever like this, a pack of wild dogs fighting over a corpse.’
‘Is the corpse of any profit to us, then?’ Halfdan said. ‘Will there be pickings enough for us?’
‘Even though it’s not as wealthy as Mercia, Northumbria’s still a rich land,’ Ivar said. ‘And it’s especially rich in churches and monasteries. While its kings and nobles fight each other incessantly the Christ followers quietly pile up their wealth and jewels. There will be pickings enough even for you, brother.’
‘And women?’ Halfdan asked.
‘Small in the main,’ Asgrim said. ‘But frisky in bed, it’s said.’
Halfdan rubbed his hands together. ‘Then let’s find some.’
They set about this in earnest the next day. Two villages lay a little to the west of the road and as dawn stole over the land, the host surrounded the larger of the two.
‘I don’t like the idea of attacking defenceless villagers,’ Leif whispered to Asgrim.
‘They won’t be defenceless when they wake up. And when a villager fights you, even with only a knife or a scythe, you’d better fight back. Either that or be prepared to die.’
‘I don’t like it, is all I’m saying.’
‘You want to eat, don’t you,’ said Thorvald grimly. ‘Either the English fill their bellies or we fill ours.’
I wish I hadn’t come, Leif wanted to say, but dare not. It would do no good to admit that he’d been forced to come on the expedition. And Ivar, he felt sure, would be angry if he did so.
He pulled his sword part way from the sheath and stared at it.
‘I haven’t even got a name for it,’ he said. He was suddenly alarmed at the thought that it had not been given a name at the proper time, at its forging.
‘Don’t worry,’ Sigurd said. ‘I named it for you. Sharp-Tongue, I called it. I thought it would suit you.’ The laughter rumbled in his throat.
‘Just be thankful that my sharp tongue has got you out of many difficult situations.’
‘It has got me into far more,’ Sigurd said, although without rancour.
Guthrum slipped through the men and crouched beside them. ‘Ivar says we are to search for food, ale and pack-horses.’
‘Not slaves?’ Thorvald asked.
‘We’re too far from the sea to transport captives to the slave markets. So, we’re only to take women ripe for fucking and young lads who can carry supplies for us. No old folk, no men, no children.’
At that moment, Ivar and his brothers strode out in front of the massed troops and began to lope towards the village.
‘Stay close together,’ Thorvald said to Leif and Sigurd. Leif nodded mutely and followed him at a fast stride.
The village dogs were the first to notice the onslaught, giving vent to howls and barks. Moments later the villagers piled out of their homes in consternation. Some of the men bore paltry weapons: knives, hunting spears and clubs but they were no match for the well-armed Vikings. They fell on the villagers with a horrendous roar.
Leif was between Sigurd and Thorvald, his gorge rising in fear. A tall, gangling villager, stood in their path. Sigurd smashed the man’s shoulder with his hammer then, as he staggered, gave a second blow which stoved his skull in. Leif grimaced but Sigurd laughed, part pleasure, part relief that he had won the contest.
Thorvald leapt into a handful of men who parried him with feeble thrusts of their knives. He slashed open the arms of two of the men and drove his sword-point into the stomach of a third. But a fourth man, unscathed, leapt on him, wildly slashing with his blade.
Leif did not think, he stepped in and hacked with his sword, a clumsy, idiot movement more akin to chopping fire-wood. But it was enough. The sharp-honed edge of his sword cut through the man’s tunic and sliced a huge gash in his side. He looked down at the wound in horror and fell to his knees. Leif wondered whether to stab him but he had no need. The man collapsed on the ground, blood flowing from him like melt-water.
‘Thanks,’ Thorvald grunted. ‘This way.’
He led the way into a hut which stank of cows and bodies. A woman cowered in the corner, trying in vain to hide her children from their eyes. Thorvald seized her face in his hands and turned it to get a better look. ‘Good enough for fucking,’ he said and hauled her towards Leif. ‘Keep hold of her and stay out of trouble.’
‘What about the children?’ Sigurd asked.
Thorvald glanced at them. ‘Too young to carry supplies,’ he said.
‘Then are we to kill them?’ Leif stuttered.
‘I won’t,’ Thorvald said. ‘I have no stomach for such work but plenty of others do.’ He glanced at the eldest girl, who was perhaps ten years old, then stepped forward and sliced open her neck. She fell without a gasp.
‘I thought you had no stomach for killing children,’ Leif cried angrily.
‘But even less for little girls being raped to death.’ He said no more and hurried from the hut.
The woman struggled from Leif’s grasp and cradled her dead child in her arms. Leif felt sick. Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a shape lurking in the shadows. He turned, his sword shaking in his hand. And then he gasped. It was Loki, god of ill-deeds, delighting to see what had just occurred. He seemed to raise his hand as if to bless Leif and then faded from earthly view.
Leif staggered against a stool, barely keeping his feet. He had to do something, anything to try to master himself. ‘Come with me,’ he ordered the woman.
‘Don’t kill me,’ she cried.
‘I won’t. I promise.’
‘My children. Can they come with us?’
Leif hesitated for a moment. ‘No. But I can take them to the edge of the village, away from this slaughter. If they can get away they might yet live.’
‘I want to go with them,’ the woman cried.
Leif considered this for a moment but shook his head. Thorvald had made him responsible for her and he needed to keep her safe. Besides, she was comely, and Thorvald would want first use of her. ‘They flee or they die,’ he said. ‘But you must stay.’
He felt sick as he said it. The youngest was only two or three years old, the others, a boy and a girl must have been six or seven at most.
‘It’s up to you,’ he gasped, his voice so thick he could hardly force out the words.
She stared at him, eyes wide with horror.
Leif’s determination wavered at the sight of this. ‘I’ll take them, then,’ he said. ‘But if they’re killed I bear no blame.’
The woman nodded and pulled the children close.
He led the way out of the hut and to the side of the village where the women and young lads were being gathered.
‘We don’t want children,’ cried one of the guards, an older man with thin hair and skinny arms. He drew his knife and advanced upon them. The woman grabbed her children and used her body to shield them. The man cursed and tried to stab them but she twisted and turned so much every blow missed.
‘You’ll harm the woman,’ Leif cried. ‘And Thorvald has taken her for Guthrum.’
The man stopped and stared at him suspiciously. ‘And the children?’
‘That’s for Guthrum to decide. Perhaps he’ll sell them to some monks.’
The man cursed and spat at Leif’s feet.
‘Bring them he
re,’ Leif said to the woman and helped her drag the children to the edge of the crowd.
The village now echoed with the screams of children and old people as those less fastidious than Thorvald went to work, slaying without pity. Others walked out of huts bearing the tiny scraps of food they had find there. A few smirked with triumph, jangling a couple of silver pennies from the richer peasants, or a choice trinket or knife. But overall the pickings were poor.
Thorvald, Sigurd, Guthrum and Eohric appeared and made their way towards him.
‘It was barely worth doing,’ Guthrum said to Thorvald. ‘Where’s the woman?’
Thorvald pointed her out and Leif pushed her forward. ‘Pretty enough and a good body,’ Guthrum said to Thorvald. ‘Have her and good pleasure of her.’
The old guard gestured to Leif. ‘This little bastard said she was to be yours.’
‘What’s it to you?’ Guthrum said, his voice dangerous and threatening.
‘And Ivar said we weren’t to take children,’ the man continued.
‘What children?’
The man gestured angrily at them. ‘I tried to kill them but this bitch got in the way. And the Skald said you wanted her unharmed.’
‘Of course I want her unharmed,’ Guthrum said.
The woman began to weep.
‘Are these your children?’ he asked, roughly.
She nodded.
‘Then they can live.’
He grabbed hold of her and passed her to Thorvald. ‘We can sell them at the next monastery,’ he muttered to him.
‘I think we should kill them,’ Eohric said, drawing his knife. ‘It’s what Ivar commanded.’ His eyes glittered with blood-lust.
‘I’ve decided,’ Guthrum said. ‘The children live and we’ll sell them.’
‘They’ll slow us down,’ Eohric said. ‘And the bitch will try to escape with them.’
‘I’ll answer for that,’ Leif said.
‘Ah,’ Eohric said. ‘So your cock is hungry for this bitch as well.’ He spat on Leif’s groin.
‘Enough,’ Guthrum said. ‘Come with me, Eohric. Ivar and Halfdan will want to hear our report.’
