by Martin Lake
‘And what do you brothers have planned?’ she asked. ‘Destroying the north as you have destroyed so much else.’
‘Milking it rather. Although Ivar has his eyes on a richer prize.’
‘Wessex?’
‘Not yet. Mercia.’
‘That is a mighty mouthful to swallow in one gulp.’
‘We shall see.’
Kolga shrugged. ‘I can see that you will have need of my men.’
‘Our numbers swell daily,’ Ubbe said. ‘But none have brought as many warriors as you.’
‘Then I shall take my place at the council table,’ she said.
Several of the jarls looked uncomfortable with this but Halfdan, Ubbe and Jarl Sidrac assented.
There is history between these men and Kolga, Leif thought as he turned away from them and headed towards his home and Aebbe.
KOLGA
Aebbe gave birth on the longest day of the year. Leif had been convinced that it would be a boy. He was half right. One baby was a boy, the other a girl.
‘Twins,’ Sigurd said, grinning happily. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you, brother.’
The boy was named Nefi, which pleased Sigurd as it meant both hand and nephew. ‘He will make a great smith,’ Sigurd said. ‘See how he grips my finger.’
Aebbe insisted that they gave an English name to their daughter. Leif’s friends demurred but he was happy to do so. They called her Godgyth and she was the delight of all.
Leif spent the rest of the summer going on slaving expeditions and crafting songs and tales for the forthcoming winter. He already had a good stock of the deeds of Ivar and the other chieftains, rooted in fact as so many of the warriors knew the truth of each tale, but with just sufficient embellishment to flatter the subjects of the tales and amuse the listeners.
But when his stock began to grow thin he decided that Kolga might be a good source of stories and sought her out.
She had spent the months since arriving very quietly. It was rumoured that she occasionally visited Ivar in his bed for this seemed to explain how some mornings he awoke unusually contented or abnormally enraged.
It was common knowledge amongst those who had no knowledge of her, that she was a fickle lover, demanding and demeaning on one night and loving and considerate on the next. But all agreed that, whatever her approach she was always passionate and abandoned. All agreed and all lusted. Not that anyone would make a move in her direction. They were all too aware of the jealousy of Vafri, Ivar and Asta. And all too aware of the cold and cruel nature of Kolga herself.
This was as welcome to Leif as mead to a warrior. He plucked up the courage to seek her out.
‘Good morning, Skald,’ she said as he approached. ‘Have you come with some plea from Boneless which he’s too scared to ask for himself?’
‘No, my lady,’ Leif replied. ‘I come for tales which I can recount in the halls in the long winter months. Tales which will entertain and enthral and encourage men to do great deeds. Tales which I believe you can tell me.’
She closed her eyes and a little smile played upon her lips. He sensed that his words had flattered her.
‘Pour me some wine,’ she said, settling herself comfortably in her seat. ‘What would you have me tell you?’
‘The tale of yourself. Of your kin, your friends, your enemies, your deeds.’
‘Ha. It would take more than one winter to tell all there is to know about Kolga Iceberg.’
‘Iceberg?’ he said. ‘I had not heard that nickname.’
‘Few dare use it and nor shall you. But it was given me by my father Blackbrow.’
‘Bjorn Blackbrow, I presume?’
She nodded. ‘A violent and vindictive tyrant, who amassed riches as he amassed victims. He slew one of my brothers in a rage and banished the other from his lands. So it is that I now own all he had. I loathed him.’
‘And what of your other brother? Does he still live?’
She shrugged. ‘He was a weak and stupid boy. Some say he dwells in England, others that he went to Francia to seek succour from my father’s old friend Hæstenn.’
‘Hæstenn,’ Leif said, in surprise. ‘My father was a smith to Hæstenn.’
‘Now Hæstenn was a man to admire,’ Kolga said. ‘Deep and cunning, much given to plans and stratagems. You remind me of him, Leif, a little.’
Leif didn’t know whether to be flattered by the comparison or appalled. Even amongst Danes Hæstenn was considered one of the most dangerous men alive.
‘So tell me,’ he asked, ‘why do you admire Hæstenn but not your father?’
‘Hæstenn is touched by Thor, my father by Loki.’
Leif swallowed at her words for a lump had instantly filled his throat. He saw once more the image of Loki in the mists of the smithy.
Kolga laughed suddenly, as if she had seen into his heart. ‘Don’t flatter yourself that any of the great gods should take an interest in one such as you, Leif. Bragi, god of poetry is the only one who might take passing notice of you.’
‘Bragi was the enemy of Loki,’ he said, trying to put a bold face on things.
‘Only fools seek the enmity of the great gods,’ Kolga answered. ‘I do not take you for a fool.’
At that instant Leif realised for the first time the strange power she wielded for he felt it so keenly. She made him feel a bigger, more consequential, more powerful man. For the briefest moment he even imagined himself as her lover, then dismissed it. Some might wish to bed a dragon but he was alert to the peril of her fire.
‘Tell me of your deeds, Kolga,’ he continued, anxious to stop his galloping thoughts. ‘It is rare to hear of a woman who rules so many warriors.’
‘Rare but not unknown,’ she said. ‘There are more of us than you men realise. I myself have met three although none with so many followers as me, or as successful in battle.’
‘Do you fight then?’ he asked. He was aware of the surprise in his voice, and anxious how she might react.
‘Why so astonished?’ she said. ‘You have seen my sword, my mail-shirt and how I ride my fierce horse, Blood.’
‘Indeed I have. Forgive me.’
‘I thought a Skald would have sufficient imagination to see me as a warrior. I suspect you see me battling in bed well enough.’
He blushed, hotter than he had for a long time.
Kolga chuckled. ‘Perhaps if your songs please me, I shall let you fight such a battle with me.’ She pursed her lips in a kiss.
‘I am your servant,’ he stammered.
She eyed him speculatively for a moment longer.
‘If you must know,’ she continued, ‘I have been a fighter all my life, from the moment I could walk. My brothers and our servants can vouch for this. When I was little more than a girl I met Boneless and was bewitched by him. Such a tall, lean man, with power and calamity oozing from his pores.
‘We bedded. I’m sure he’d say he bedded me but my mind is not so certain. He turned me from a farmyard brawler to a warrior. He won many great victories in Ireland before he decided to seek more glory by joining Hæstenn.’
‘I didn’t know that. It must have been after my father left Francia.’
‘I care not about your father the smith,’ she said. ‘But I did care about Boneless, more fool me. I followed him to Francia and fought alongside him for three years. In the end I gained my own renown, much wealth and many followers. And then, a while after that, he left. Without a word of farewell. I returned to Dublin and have not seen him until now.
‘My father had grown old, worn out by too many wounds and too fierce a bitterness. He was gaga, mumbling like a hen in the coop, drawling on his beard. I did him a great service by slitting his throat and sending him to Odin.’
Leif started at this revelation but she did not notice.
‘And so,’ she concluded, ‘I inherited his wealth and warriors.’
She gave a broad smile, content with what she had told him.
‘Thank you, my lady,’ he
mumbled. ‘I will tell fine tales of this. Although I will not speak of the death of your father.’
‘Why ever not? It does no harm to let others know. And it may serve as a warning to those who choose not to love me.’
Leif nodded and hurried outside. For the first time ever, he felt concerned about Ivar.
TO NOTTINGHAM
Once the harvest was safely in Ivar gave the order to leave York. Echberht and Ricsige remained behind. They had their own soldiers, of course, but Ivar insisted that two hundred Vikings remain in the city, lodging them in the tower. They were led by their jarl, Osbern who Ivar trusted to look after his interests and not risk his men in needless adventures.
He also left twenty longships in the city. The rest of the fleet was sent south with a third of the army, their supplies and women. The remainder of the warriors took horse and travelled south. This time they did not retrace the route along the western branch of Ermine Street but took the more direct, easterly route which headed straight to the river Humber.
Leif was fortunate because Ivar had decided to travel by ship and wished his skald with him to beguile the journey with songs and tales. Aebbe and their babies were allowed on his ship, and so was Kolga.
She affected no interest in the little ones, as if to make plain that she was too stern a warrior to do so. Yet, oftentimes, Leif found her watching them with a smile upon her face. Once, when they made camp, little Godgyth began to wail while Aebbe was at the cooking fire. Leif could not quieten her and began to despair. Then Kolga appeared and took Godgyth in her arms, rocking her gently and crooning until she was calm.
‘Would you like a child?’ Leif asked her gently.
‘Are you offering to give me one?’ she said sharply.
He raised his hands, seeking to calm her as she had soothed Godgyth. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I may yet bed you, Skald, but I will be the one who decides, not you.’
She did not come near the children again.
The fleet sailed down the Ouse until they reached an islet close to the northern bank, a few miles west of the English ferry. They camped there for three days until the horsemen joined them. The horses were loaded into the ships and the army crossed the river. The Vikings had returned to the Kingdom of Mercia.
Ivar’s ship led the fleet south along the Trent. There was a stiff northerly wind to fill the sails and no need to row, for which Leif was very thankful. His skin had never hardened enough to wield oars without peeling and he still found it difficult to keep time with the other rowers.
He leaned against the prow of the ship and watched the empty land beyond the river, content that they were moving at a gentle pace.
‘Mercia will prove more difficult to subdue than Northumbria,’ Ivar said, coming to stand beside him. ‘It is rich and powerful, was once by far the greatest kingdom in the island.’
‘It doesn’t seem so now,’ Leif said, gesturing to the flat marshes on either side. ‘There are more wild-fowl than people here.’
‘It will be different as we journey farther south. Mercia is full of folk and crammed with riches. You’ll see.’
‘But why do you seek to conquer Mercia?’ Leif asked. ‘You’ve always argued against it before.’
‘Hunting dogs are vicious and if they aren’t allowed to hunt they can turn against each other. So it is with we Northmen, and I fear this. It is folly to keep beasts on too tight a leash.’
He turned towards the crew of his ship and watched them thoughtfully as they lounged at ease on the deck.
‘And Northumbria proved easy to conquer,’ he said, ‘and I deem that our warriors desire a more fitting foe. As, perhaps, do I and my brothers.’
Leif nodded sagely, sensing this was the safest response he could give.
‘And where are we going?’ he asked after a little while. He was surprised that Ivar was sharing so much information and was keen to make the most of it.
‘To Repton,’ Ivar said. ‘The king of Mercia’s great palace lies there and I have a mind to enjoy its hospitality.’
In the event they did not go so far. After a few days sailing they reached a large town a little way north of the river. It was well defended with a ditch and palisade and in the centre was a fine timber hall of large size.
A hundred of the Vikings leapt off the ships and raced towards the town, the inhabitants fleeing them like hens from a fox. A few resisted but were swiftly slain.
‘Who dwells here?’ Ivar asked an old man as they approached the hall.
‘Thegn Wignoth,’ he answered, struggling to keep his teeth chattering from fear. ‘He is a doughty warrior.’
‘We’ll see,’ Ivar said, with a smile as bleak as death.
He’d no sooner said this than a man strode out of the hall, carrying a sword in one hand and a spear in the other.
Wignoth did indeed look a mighty warrior, a tall, well-made man with massive neck and barrel chest. He stared at Ivar with a haughty, contemptuous look.
‘Who are you to rampage through my town?’ he demanded.
Ivar gave a pleasant smile. ‘Ivar the Boneless and his brothers Halfdan of the Wide-Embrace and Ubbe the Swift.’
‘I have heard of you,’ Wignoth snarled. ‘Danish scum, wolves and carrion-eaters.’
Leif shuddered. The man was a fool to speak to Ivar thus.
But Ivar merely laughed, as did his brothers. ‘We, on the other hand, have not heard of Wignoth the Witless.’ His tone had become harsh and challenging.
But it soon became clear that Wignoth was far from witless. While they were talking, four score warriors had sidled out of his hall. By talking to Ivar, Wignoth had bought them the time to don mail and grab shields and weapons.
Ivar’s eyes flickered from the Mercians to his men. Halfdan was itching to attack, it had been months since he had dismembered the Northumbrian kings. But Ivar was more cautious, weighing up the odds. Despite his reputation for ferocity, he was not prepared to risk all in battle while he still had other choices.
‘We have no wish to fight you, Wignoth,’ he said, now speaking in a conciliatory tone. ‘We come to trade, that is all.’
‘From what I hear you trade only in death,’ Wignoth replied.
‘Not true. We have ended the civil war in Northumbria and put a true king on the throne. Have you not heard this?’
‘I’ve heard a tale concerning it,’ Wignoth said.
‘This tale is true,’ Ivar said. ‘My skald will bear witness to it.’
Leif nodded mutely, fearing Ivar would ask him to spout the story in front of this suspicious Mercian.
‘So,’ Ivar continued, ‘can we trade?’
Wignoth looked doubtful but then nodded slowly. ‘Perhaps. What is it you wish to trade?’
‘Food and ale. For gold and silver.’
‘My people cannot eat gold and silver and winter is close.’
‘We do not want much,’ Ivar said. ‘Just enough to last a few days so that we can leave you in peace here.’ He said the words in a friendly, reasonable manner but there was no mistaking the threat behind them.
Wignoth called one of his men and they whispered together. After a short while Wignoth gave him curt instructions then turned to address Ivar once more.
‘My steward says we can sell you five hundred loaves of bread, two dozen sheep and eight barrels of ale,’ he said. ‘We offer a good price.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ said Ivar. He gestured to Asgrim and spoke quietly in his ear. Asgrim hurried back to the ships.
The opposing warriors stood facing each other for a good while, neither side prepared to move or relax their guard. At last the Mercians stirred and turned towards the river.
Two score Vikings were trudging up the path, bearing chests and bags.
‘Have you no slaves to carry your goods?’ Wignoth asked.
‘No,’ Ivar answered. ‘We left them in Northumbria.’
The Vikings approached and Ivar signalled to them to o
pen the chests and empty the sacks upon the ground.
Leif gasped. What was Ivar thinking? He was offering a vast amount of money for precious little in return.
The Mercian warriors had never seen such wealth, they pressed forward, mouths wide-open.
‘There’s enough for all of you,’ Ivar said. ‘Take what you want.’
‘Hold,’ Wignoth cried. But he spoke too late.
His warriors threw themselves on the ground, scrabbling for the coins and jewels cast before them. Almost immediately they began to quarrel, a few even threatening each other over the most valuable coins or gems. Their voices rose, some began to push and shove and all the while Wignoth shouted for them to stop.
Suddenly his voice was stilled. Ivar had thrust his sword into his throat.
Wignoth clutched at Snake’s narrow blade, vainly trying to pull it free but Ivar pushed it deeper, turning it from right to left to open up a larger wound. At the same time the Vikings threw themselves upon the scrabbling Mercians.
Few had the chance to draw their weapons, most did not get off their knees. Within moments all were dead, their blood staining the ground, their hands grasping not their swords but the coins with which they had bought their deaths.
‘I like this trade,’ Ivar said, pulling Snake out of Wignoth’s throat.
The Mercian toppled to the earth, gasping, wild-eyed, in agony; yet still clinging to the last moments of his life.
‘Scum, are we?’ Ivar said. ‘Carrion eaters? Well it’s you who are now the carrion, my friend.’
He watched until Wignoth breathed his last, chuckled and led the way to the hall, gesturing to Leif to follow.
‘This will make a fine tale,’ he said. ‘Remember to include my jest about carrion.’ He threw open the door and stepped inside.
Leif stopped on the threshold and whistled with amazement. This hall was almost as impressive as that of King Edmund’s in Norwic. Like his it was white-washed to reflect the light. But it was also decorated, in glorious colours, red, blue and gold. The pictures were of animals, many of which he’d seen but some he’d always thought the work of men’s fancy.
