by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
‘You are only six and twenty and yet you act like a grandmother!’ retorted Olaf, a dour and reserved man. ‘Does it not make you crave for more children of your own when you deliver other women’s?’
Ragnhild was fond of infants and loved her own son dearly, but as she said now, ‘I would sacrifice the child I have if it would bring Einar back. I shall never, never find one who measures up to him – and I shall never marry again so if you want to be rid of me you must find some other method!’
Olaf matched her prickliness. ‘I have no wish to be rid of you, woman! You are my sister – all I wish for is to see you happy.’
Ragnhild’s brother could argue all he liked but he still made her feel like a burden. To salve the pain of injustice and to keep the blood-feud alive she would tell Sigurd of his noble forebears and of their prosperous living in Jorvik, the metropolis of the northern world. Even from babyhood the graphic tale of the massacre was impressed upon him, so nurturing revenge.
The saga never lost its impact. At each telling Sigurd would be unable to rest, his mind alive with the picture of his father’s death at the hands of cowards. Not for him the frivolous games of other boys, he must use his days for practising his sword-strokes in readiness for the English. When Uncle Olaf had carved him a set of farm animals out of bone his mother had flung them away and scolded his tears of disappointment. ‘A man does not weep! Especially the man who is my hope for the future. One day when you are old enough you will avenge your father and your brother and sisters, and reclaim your position. Then I will be proud of you. The monster Ethelred shall rue the day he gave the order to spill our blood.’
Yet where had all this rhetoric led? Now, when Sigurd felt old enough to enact the role his mother had planned for him she and others held him back. Fired with such tremendous rage at the English king for his cruel deed, he grew impatient with those who told him he must wait until he was old enough. Where was this country called England in which he had been sired? What did years matter when one was capable of knocking the sword from one’s teacher’s hands and having him cry for mercy? Sigurd could do this… at least, he had managed it once. That he had earned a whipping afterwards for his dishonourable method of fighting did not count. He had done it – and for the sake of Odin, where did honour come into this? You were meant to kill your enemy, not furnish him with the chance to kill you. That was what came of all this Christian rubbish; his foster-father Uncle Olaf had, like most Norwegians, adopted this religion but Sigurd preferred the old gods favoured by his mother. What use was this Christ who preached peace when what Sigurd needed was muscle and courage to avenge his father’s murder? To this end he wore round his neck a silver amulet depicting Thor’s mighty hammer which, one day, would crack the skull of the English king whom Sigurd had grown to loathe.
If only they would let him go! Why had his mother suddenly become so protective of him? Truth to tell, it was a rather nice feeling in one respect, for Sigurd had always been jealous of the affectionate way his mother indulged other young boys, contradicting every statement she had made to her own son about playing childish games. Not for Ragnhild the selflessness of motherhood. Any pride she might have in her child was conditional upon him winning back her own position. Indeed, Ragnhild was a paradox: she could be warm and maternal or downright vicious. The English blade might have maimed her shoulder, disallowing her to raise her left elbow above breast level, but that did not prevent her from using the other arm. If Sigurd upset her he could only hope that if she held ought in her hand it was a stick and not a club, for she would use either to beat him. She had a tongue on her like Loki, god of mischief, and was far more aggressive than some of the men. And yet at night, Sigurd would hear frightened little mews coming from her bed. For all her faults she was his mother and he loved her. It was good to know that under the disciplined crust she really cared for his well-being.
The boy might have been sobered to learn that it was not just out of fear for his personal safety that Ragnhild held him back, but fear that he would be defeated. If Sigurd died her future died with him. He must wait, achieve potency, or all her nurturing would be wiped out in one stroke.
King Swein had proved something of a disappointment to Sigurd’s mother. The raids on England that had occurred over the last decade were little more than acts of piracy. Content to be bought off with thousands of pounds of English silver, the vikings would retire to their own lands, leaving the hated Ethelred still monarch. Sigurd himself did not mind this so much, for he wanted personal involvement in Ethelred’s downfall, longed to be at him, pined for adventure of any kind. He noticed not the stupendous beauty of the Norwegian fjords and mountains, only the boredom of his pastoral life, the long dark winters soaked to the bone with rain and snow, chapped by howling winds, and the claustrophobic attentions of neighbours who knew more about him than he did himself. Oh, to meet a man he did not know!
Then, in 1013 when Sigurd was in his eleventh year, a strange phenomenon occurred; a host of warships appeared in the bay. Like eels they came, pulled as if by instinct to the sea. Every river, every fjord, disgorged their shoals of men, men drawn from peaceful occupations by the greater pull of war and the promise of wealth, for King Swein had decreed that England was once again ripe for attack. This was to be no lightning raid but a highly organized military operation. This time he would not be fobbed off with bribes but was intent on conquest and political power. With every day the fleet swelled, until now it was ready to sail for Aggersborg, one of the King’s fortresses in the north of Denmark, where all would unite with other Scandinavians to make an awesome force.
The once-tranquil meadow came alive. People scurried back and forth to load the ships with weapons and food. How great was Sigurd’s thrill at confronting all these strangers; his only quandary being which one he should talk to first. Their stations varied from thrall to farmer to mercenary. The latter he admired from a respectful distance, eager to engage them in conversation but kept far too busy by his Uncle Olaf who was making ready his own ship. Sigurd longed to be part of the expedition, but he had learnt from past experience that there was little point in asking… However, if one did not ask one could not be told No. The plan was as yet incomplete, but Sigurd’s mind worked on it as he paused now to watch his mother baking in the open air – every sunbeam was utilized after the long dark winter holed up indoors. Ragnhild was part of the problem; how could he escape under her eagle eye in broad daylight?
He leaned on the timber wall of the house and made casual enquiry of her. ‘Will you go to wish Uncle farewell when he sets sail?’ Sigurd’s voice was as yet at the opposite end of the scale to the deep guttural tone of his uncle, however hard he might try to sound manly.
‘Hah!’ Ragnhild barely glanced up from the wooden trough in which she pummelled dough. Moisture glistened on her temple. ‘Where would I find the time with all this extra work to do?’ There had been herrings to pickle, ale to brew and meat to cure ready for the voyage. ‘And who will get the praise when the battle is won, eh? Not the womenfolk. I’d like to know where they’d be without us to feed them.’ Like that of her son, her own voice danced up and down along the sentence, ending with an upwards inflection in the manner of Nordic speech. She gave a last angry thump at the dough then tore off a large fistful and began to shape it ready for baking. ‘The ships will sink before they are out of the bay with all this food on board – and who would care?’
His mother was inclined to forthright views but Sigurd was puzzled by her attitude today of all days. ‘Are you not glad that we…’ He checked himself hurriedly, ‘that Uncle is going at last to punish the dog Ethelred for the death of my father?’
Her expression was mean. ‘Uncle – pff! He is not interested in avenging your father. All he cares about is his own gain. He says he’ll win back our land for us, but you can be sure if he wins anything it will be for himself: You and I, he treats like slaves. My own brother! I am not a vindictive woman but sometimes I could cut out his lying t
ongue and stick it up his rear. “Come and live with me,” he tells us. “I will take care of you.” And this is the way he takes care of us!’ Ragnhild banged floury hands at her bosom. ‘Look at me in this sack, when his own wife wears cloth of gold!’
Sigurd thought there could be another reason for her anger. ‘Does your shoulder hurt today, Mother?’ The old wound still caused pain, showing itself in these bouts of irascibility; but this happened mainly in low temperatures. The weather was glorious today, not a cloud in the sky, the lambs were shorn and now grazed high on the slopes.
She rounded on him in an explosion of flour. ‘Do I have to feel pain before I voice a grievance?’ Then after an extended glare she sighed and dropped her chin to rest between the bronze oval brooches which held the shoulderstraps of her dress. ‘Ja, ja… it hurts, even the sun cannot help now. I fear I shall not live to see the English rat defeated. You must pardon me if I do not share your joy, but I have seen it all before. Time after time our men sail away to England, and still he thrives while I grow old.’
The lines of annoyance had smoothed into a world-weary expression. Her frame was well-fed, with pads of fat upon her hips and breast, yet discomfort pinched her face, lending the illusion that she was undernourished. The last decade had brought silver to her hair-roots; each year the gold diminished and each year Ragnhild felt even more devalued. Her shins were turning bandy from squatting by the fire. Though the latter were hidden by the long gown, Sigurd had to concede that she did look old, old and sad and worn. He wondered what she was thinking of now, for her mind was obviously far away. His mother often drifted off like this whilst he was speaking to her.
Ragnhild was thinking of Einar and her three dead infants. Even Sigurd, precious as he was, could never make up for their loss. For all her talk of vengeance, she knew in her heart that even when Ethelred was conquered it would not help the pain, would not stop the vivid nightmares from which she woke terrified and crying out loud. Often, whilst she toiled, she replayed her life with Einar, how she had met him, their first kiss…
Moved by her doleful expression, Sigurd wanted to put his arms round her but that would not have been masculine, would label him a child. Instead he injected his voice with a gruff affection. ‘Old – nei! No one would guess you have a man for a son.’
Ragnhild laughed then, became a different person, squeezed his cheeks between floury hands and squashed her nose against his, before returning to her task. Placing the loaves on an iron plate she grasped its long handle and set it over the embers of the fire. ‘Is this man to carry those herring barrels down to the ship or does he think they will walk there by themselves?’
Sigurd brushed the flour from his cheeks, hefted one of the barrels onto his shoulder and loped down the path to the jetty. Denuded of their figureheads lest they upset the good spirits of the land, the longships basked in the glittering waters like harmless ducks. Tomorrow, the ducks would metamorphose into dragons whose snarling teeth would rip into the very bowels of Ethelred’s kingdom. Sigurd paused, barrel on shoulder. It was impossible to count the ships – the bay seemed crammed with them – and even more difficult to pinpoint his uncle’s craft amongst the identical prows. Sigurd’s deeply-set blue eyes narrowed further against the glare of sun on water. Ah! there was Uncle Olaf’s pennant dangling at the top of his mast. He hefted the barrel and directed his gangling legs toward the far end of the stone jetty where he now noticed Uncle Olaf himself giving instructions to his crew; instructions, not orders, for Olaf had no following. Apart from his thralls the crew was made up with men of equal status who had merely banded together in their cause.
As he approached, Sigurd evaluated the man in a new light, remembering his mother’s opinion. Would Olaf really steal what belonged to his kin? Honourable Uncle Olaf, who had taught Sigurd how to read the runes, had encouraged his natural talent for wood-carving and spent as much time with him in swordplay as he had with his own sons? Dour, unimaginative Olaf – did he really have such an ambitious spirit? Maybe… for why did he leave his sons in charge of the Vestfold estate instead of taking them along to fight? Unless perhaps Uncle Olaf had his eye on something better across the North Sea. Jorvik, perhaps?
No, Sigurd was not convinced. He had always been fond of his uncle and despite Ragnhild’s grumbles she and her son were treated as part of this closely-knit family. His mother liked to grumble. It was also a habit of hers that she trusted no one – understandable after the horrors she had endured, but Sigurd felt that this mistrust should not extend to one’s kin. Nevertheless, Olaf was a farmer, and were not farmers always hungry for land?
‘Ah, fostri!’ Olaf turned and caught sight of the boy with the barrel. ‘What delicacies has your mother sent us?’
‘Herrings.’ The barrel was beginning to rub Sigurd’s shoulder.
‘And I’ll wager she sent them with her blessing for a safe voyage.’
Sigurd grinned. Uncle Olaf was not the merriest of souls but his sarcasm did hold a ring of humour. Receiving instructions to put the barrel in the cargo hold, Sigurd stepped into the boat which was almost on an equal level with the jetty. Being a merchant craft it was bulkier than the warships, but retained a certain grace, its stem and stern rising in elegant curves out of the water. Between these two points stretched eighty feet of oak and pine. Amidships was an open cargo hold, with decking fore and aft where there were also four rowing benches. At present, its rectangular sail was hauled neatly into the yard. Sigurd deposited the barrel and paused to wipe the gloss from his brow.
‘Tired after carrying just one?’ teased Uncle Olaf. ‘’Tis fortunate we do not have to rely on your stamina to win England.’ Sigurd gave an innocent smile and allowed his blond hair to be ruffled as he went on his way back to the house for another barrel. When he had transported half of them, Uncle Olaf said he deserved a short rest. In gratitude, he sagged to the deck and leaned against one of the rowing benches in the stern, one arm draped over the side. Hypnotized by the rippling azure waters, his mind drifted. Absent fingers picked at the tufts of tarred animal hair that caulked the grooves in the planking. The daydream wafted him to one of the warships, steered it through treacherous waters and sea-battles, to cleave in glory England’s rivers.
His eyes perused the stack of weapons that his uncle’s crew would use. With their lack of ornamentation, the spears and axes failed to inspire, for Uncle Olaf was less prosperous than his brother-in-law had been. Sigurd promised himself now that on retrieving his estate he would buy a sword with a silver hilt like his father would have owned, and a shield embossed with gold that would blind his enemies – perhaps, he decided affectionately, he would have one made for Uncle too, just to repay him for… Sigurd’s eyes focused on his uncle’s axe and his thoughts were instantly funnelled into the present. He stared at it, sucking on his necklace of blue beads. A plan took shape but, glancing about him, he decided there were too many folk around for him to enact it right now. That was the nub of the matter – there were always too many folk about – but the answer would surely come to one so determined. Jumping to his feet he leapt back onto the jetty and resumed work.
‘Hey, frog’s legs!’ One of his neighbours, a toothless old man, hailed him with a wink. ‘You are in fine leaping form today. I see a look in your eye that tells me you intend to sneak off with the fleet when it sails.’
Alarmed at being so easily read, Sigurd tried to assume melancholy. ‘Alas, I must stay behind to take care of my mother.’
The elder bared his gums and delivered a crafty nudge. ‘You cannot fool me! I was young once…’
‘Er, my pardons, old friend!’ Sigurd edged backwards. ‘I must not tarry for there is work to be done.’ He spun and hurried on his way praying that Uncle Olaf had not overheard the old goat’s comment. That was yet another disadvantage of this place; he could not tell any of these folk a thing they did not already know about him.
The following morning, when Ragnhild took advantage of the climate and squatted outside th
e timber house to clean a hare, Sigurd hovered round her, showing particular concern for her well-being. ‘Here, let me do that for you if your shoulder pains you.’
She did not look up, her fingers wrenching the skin from the carcase. ‘The day I cannot remove a hare’s kirtle is the day I cannot lift my hand to your backside.’
Sigurd looked hurt and sank to the ground. ‘I wanted but to help. I thought that now the food is loaded and Uncle about to leave you deserve a well-earned rest.’
His altruism was met by an outraged laugh. ‘Rest? Look at those broks you wear!’ In the way that he was seated with his knees drawn under his chin she could see a portion of buttock peeping through his yellow leggings. ‘And your good aunt will no doubt have many a task for me when her husband is not around to curb her.’ Ragnhild complained about Olaf treating her with disrespect but his wife, unchecked, could be a hundred times worse. ‘As if it is not bad enough him creeping off just as haymaking is upon us – oh, quickly!’ She wagged a blood-smeared finger at the milch cow which had lifted its tail to urinate.
Well-primed, Sigurd grabbed a bowl and, running to the cow’s rear, held this out beneath the flow. The urine splashed up from the wooden surface into his face. Sigurd contorted his mouth but remained there dutifully to catch the rest. It was rather aggravating that his mother forbade him to waste his time on childish pursuits yet seemed not to regard this as trivial. Had he been in two minds over his plans before then this had nudged him into a decision: he was not going to stand here catching cow’s piss for the rest of his life, even for his mother’s sake.
When the beast finished he transported the bowl at arms’ length to a vat and tipped in its contents which would be used for its ammoniac properties in the cleaning of clothes. Still wearing the look of distaste he then submerged his head into a barrel of water, sloshed it around vigorously, withdrew it and shook it like a dog.
