by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
His mother reared away under the cascade of droplets and laughed at his obvious disgust. ‘Come, take those broks off and let me mend them while I have a spare moment to breathe.’
‘Er… nei!’ He pulled his kirtle down over the rip, backing away as he spoke. ‘I promised Uncle I would help look after the farmstead while he is away. If you do not wish me to assist with the hare then I have many tasks to attend.’
Ragnhild cocked her scarved head in disbelieving manner. ‘You think your mother is an addle-brain?’ For a moment Sigurd feared she was wise to his plan, but was relieved when she smirked, ‘You go to wave the ships off – and with your genitals hanging out! Such respect you show our heroes.’
Dropping his manly stance, he pleaded with her, face wreathed in earnest, ‘Can the mending not wait until later, Mother? ’Twill be such a sight it would be cruel of you to make me miss it.’
She clubbed him with the skinned hare. ‘Oh, I am such a cruel mother! Be gone then, if you must.’ Sigurd made as if to kiss her, paused and agonized for a moment, then after a quick look to make sure the act was unobserved he lunged a peck at her cheek and tore off across the flowered pasture, blond hair bobbing as he ran.
Ragnhild shook her head and waved after him, though he did not turn to see it.
Chapter Two
Sigurd was not so dimwitted as to hide on his uncle’s ship. On discovery of the stowaway Olaf would have turned back whatever the outcome – and for his nephew the outcome would have been very painful. Instead, last night, he had chosen another vessel which carried a rowing boat in its belly, packed with leather sleeping bags and tents; the perfect hiding place for the broad-axe he had stolen from his uncle’s ship. He would have preferred a sword, but these were all kept on their owner’s person and at least the axe was a respectable weapon and not the usual tool of a farmer.
What a nerve-racking task it had been to accomplish his plan with no darkness to shroud him! When he crept from his bed an hour or so before midnight the sun was yet visible, turning the whole bay pink in its descent. It had required great pluck to tiptoe between those camped upon the meadow and down to the jetty, steal aboard his uncle’s ship, transfer the axe to his appointed vessel and return to bed without anyone hearing. Now, in triumphant mood, he lay hugging the axe beneath a goatskin, listening to the swish of the water, the activity and cursing of the crew. The ship was a more lissome vessel than his uncle’s, its red sail billowing to the wind and carrying it on the outer edges of the fleet across the Vik. Atop the bowed fore-stem a dragon curled its tongue at the air, tasting for salt. Sigurd did not know to whom the ship belonged and did not care. He was on his way to kill his enemy at last!
But as the protective breakwater of skerries gave way to open sea and the rampant prow began to heave and plunge, his exhilaration dwindled. The sun beat down, transforming his goatskin hideaway into an oven. Already, he sweated profusely. His leggings stuck to his limbs and worked their way into the cleft of his buttocks. He grew so hot and irritated that he feared his blood must boil dry. It had been his intention not to reveal his presence until the fleet was well on its way to Denmark, but whether it was safe or no he could not bear the heat a moment longer. Lifting a corner of the hide, he squinted against the cerulean glare.
‘Spy!’ A fist grabbed his tunic and hauled him into full view of fifty angry vikings who noisily agreed with the punishment. ‘Over the side with him!’
Before he could shout anything more than, ‘Nei!’ Sigurd was lifted off the deck and cast through the air. He had no time even to close his mouth as his body plummeted into deep water. When he bobbed to the surface, gasping, the ship had put a good length between them. In panic, Sigurd held up his arm, called, ‘Hold!’ and promptly sank again. Regaining his wits he began to paddle with arms and legs towards a nearer vessel but then, remembering his axe and unwilling to abandon it to those wretches, he felt compelled to swim after the ship from whence he had been flung.
The crew were laughing and pointing at his floundering efforts. When one of them finally extended an oar as a means of rescue he realized that they had only been making sport of him and anger flared. On being hauled aboard dripping, Sigurd took a few moments to recover then leapt for his uncle’s axe and began to swing it at his tormentors. Whereupon they roared and whooped with glee, prodded him with swords and aimed their axes at his bare feet, making him dance. Driven to frenzy by their taunts, Sigurd rotated the weapon above his head, but his only accomplishment was to make them roar the louder when he skidded on the wet deck and lost his balance. All belligerence was put aside to enjoy the comic actions of this boy with the axe almost as big as himself. The mercenaries clutched their bellies in mirth – which perpetuated Sigurd’s wrath and made them laugh all the merrier.
Eventually, a brutish-looking Norseman wiped the tears from his cicatriced face and begged him, ‘Cease, biarki, before you kill us with laughter. Oh! my gut aches as if it has eaten rotten meat.’ He spread his tightly-breeched legs and inserted his thumbs into the belt that held his kirtle in place. ‘Tell me, what is the name of this noble warrior who is to slay the English for us?’
The boy showed resentment at being dubbed ‘little bear’. ‘I am Sigurd, son of…’
‘Sigurd Smallaxe!’ interrupted a voice, causing renewed merriment.
‘Sigurd, son of Einar the Short!’ retorted the boy, puce with rage.
The mockery was now replaced by murmurs of admiration, some fake, others genuine. Einar’s size and abilities were renowned, as was his cowardly murder. The chieftain, Thorald, appraised the dripping boy whose chest rose and fell with sustained temper. He was a tall lad with deeply-set eyes that varied from light to dark blue with the intermittent flashes of sunlight. He had also a fringe which even when plastered with brine refused to lie down and fell into two curls that kissed in the centre of his brow. Despite the innocent looks and that ridiculous axe there was conviction in his stance. Thorald began to pay him more courtesy. ‘So… you think you will come and fight the English with us? Why, then, does one so brave skulk like a rat?’
Sigurd merely glared at Thorald from beneath his eyebrows, receiving an overall impression of hair. The viking’s head was encompassed by matted straw-coloured locks that merged with his beard. His eyes, too, were almost obscured by overhanging brows, and it was impossible to tell through the tangled moustache whether Thorald had any teeth. Only his nose was clearly visible, obviously a frequent target, for its bridge had a pronounced dent in it. Notwithstanding the heavy distribution of gold jewellery around his body, it was evident that Thorald had achieved his rank through brute strength rather than birth; his manner and speech were exceedingly coarse.
At the boy’s reticence, Thorald cast back his cloak to reveal bangled arms, placed one large foot on a rowing bench and leaned on it. ‘I have heard it said that Einar’s son was born on the day that he himself perished. If that is true then by my calculations you are too young to join us.’
The boy seethed. ‘Everyone tells me I am too young! If I had asked my uncle to take me on his ship he would have made me stay behind; that is why I did not ask. I may not officially be a man,’ this transition would not take place until he was twelve, ‘but I am taller and stronger than boys three years older than I. There is not a youth within miles who is as skilled with the sword…’
‘As skilled as with an axe?’ teased Thorald.
‘I have even beaten my uncle! I am grown weary of being treated like a child. I must avenge the murder of my father and my brother and sisters.’
The chieftain asked the name of Sigurd’s uncle.
‘Olaf Sweinsson. He is my mother’s kin. He goes to win back our land stolen by the English.’
Thorald played with his grubby beard. The boy noticed that the outer finger of his right hand had been partly severed. The rest of his digits were calloused and scarred from battle. To Sigurd he represented experience, the type of experience that could never be found in Uncle Olaf. What bette
r ally to throw in with? For the moment he decided to overlook the recent mockery.
‘Hmm… and where lies your land?’
‘At Jorvik – but the task of winning it back should fall to me, not my uncle.’
Something flickered in Thorald’s eyes. In his eagerness to curry help, Sigurd misinterpreted the innate cunning for genuine interest. Thorald supported his elbow on his belly and tapped a thoughtful finger to his moustache, concealing all slyness. ‘It shall be a fierce battle – are you not afraid to die?’
Sigurd looked indignant. ‘A true warrior is afraid of nought. If I succeed in avenging my family’s murder then I shall ride to Valhalla a happy man.’
The chieftain draped an arm round the boy’s wet shoulders. ‘My own brother was murdered by Ethelred also.’
Sigurd appeared even more keen. ‘If that is so then we have much in common! You must let me join your force.’
‘Have no fear, Sigurd Smallaxe,’ the title was meant more kindly now but it continued to sting the boy’s pride, ‘this time there is no price the English can pay to escape our weapons. We will set our dragons at their throats, put our King on the throne and win back your father’s land.’ There was a unified roar of approval from the crew members who drifted back to their occupations.
Thorald’s steely eyes had noted that his conversation partner looked none too well. He pointed at Sigurd’s green cheeks. ‘Er, tell me, bold warrior, these are your fighting colours, ja?’
Whilst others guffawed Sigurd admitted that this was the first time, since he was a babe in arms, that he had actually been on a proper voyage and a mouthful of brine had exacerbated the sickness. Thorald groped through his rough outer layer to find a note of comfort and said it would pass if the boy sucked a pebble, a few of which he kept for such a purpose. It then became evident that the wind had dropped. In this and neighbouring vessels men were beginning to haul in the huge rectangular sails and unstep the masts. Pine oars were taken down from their supports and the shutters removed from oar-holes. Thorald pushed the lad at one of the rowing benches which were more numerous than in his uncle’s ship. ‘Come! Shake yourself off, yellow-shanks, we have need of you after all. Share an oar with Ulf Bareface. He has only the muscle of half a man and you will help to balance the rowing power.’
Ulf, a young man with cropped neck and a fringe that almost tangled with his lashes, showed contempt of this unfair remark. What had the lack of a beard to do with ability? Thorald was well aware of his sensitivity in this area and his comments were merely designed to taunt, but Sigurd, appraising the rangy man with the watery blue eyes in their bony sockets, shallow jaw and only the faintest wisps of hair on his cheeks, took the comment literally. ‘Move over!’ He squelched onto the bench beside Ulf, tucked his axe underneath, and tried to grasp the oar; this was difficult, for Ulf had already leaned into his stroke. Surly of feature, he ignored the command, leaning to and fro, increasing the beat with each second. With Thorald’s hugeness denying any form of backlash, Ulf would have to take reprisal on the boy who was far too arrogant by half.
Thorald grinned and relieved the helmsman. From his raised position in the stern he could catch a good view of the boy’s comical attempts to pair up with Ulf. Finally achieving hold, Sigurd clamped the oar and leaned into the stroke, comparing his own arms with those of Ulf which he now noticed were not weak at all but knotted with muscle – too late! In that same instant he was catapulted by the violence of Ulf’s backwards lunge onto the feet of the man behind. Thorald hooted with laughter and almost lost control of the steerboard. The rear oarsman delivered a good-natured kick to the boy’s head, whilst Ulf, still rowing, turned to issue derision from beneath his heavy fringe.
Irate at being humiliated by one so despised as Ulf, Sigurd made great drama out of retaking his position for another attempt. This time Ulf deliberately stopped rowing to allow the boy access to the oar, further advertising his scorn. By now Sigurd was well aware that he had made an enemy, though was not quite sure how that had come about; had he not been trying to help the weakling? No matter, Ulf was of little consequence when one remembered the task ahead. Grabbing the oar, he determined to keep tight hold of it ever after.
As the hour finally came to bed down for the night his blistered hands and chafing limbs had caused him to forget all about his seasickness. When Ulf Bareface made the unexpected gesture of kindness – ‘Come, take my place and share Eric’s sleeping bag tonight,’ he was too tired to question this newfound generosity. Only when he was tucked up and unable to escape did he realise that Eric Fart had been well-named.
* * *
It took almost three days to reach North Jutland. Never once in that time did it occur to Sigurd just how frantic his mother would be at his disappearance. If he spared a thought for her at all it was to imagine how proud she would be of her son. Was not this what she had raised him to do?
Ragnhild held other opinions. ‘That worthless, scheming little worm. If Ethelred does not kill him then I will!’ Only when Sigurd had missed two meals and had failed to come home that night did she propound this theory to her sister-in-law. ‘He has gone with Olaf and not a weapon to his name!’
Red with both anger and exertion she leaned on her pitchfork to snatch a well-earned break. Haymaking had begun early this morning. Olaf’s wife had not permitted any of the workers nor Ragnhild to rest even though the sun was now at midheaven and unbearably hot. Across the meadows ranks of womenfolk and the occasional male scythed and raked the grass, tossed it this way and that then hung it over poles to dry. Ragnhild’s shoulder groaned for mercy but she was not to receive it from her sister-in-law.
Olaf’s wife Thora, as dour as her husband, dismissed the matter with a flick of her hand. ‘The worthless child will be safe enough with his uncle. Back to work now or we shall not be done before nightfall.’
‘Surely we could pause for a morsel to eat!’ objected Ragnhild.
‘It is not good to work on a full belly,’ responded Thora, and made chivvying movements with her hands to urge Ragnhild on.
Ragnhild’s temper was up and she slapped at the interfering hands. ‘Stop that! I am not an ox to be goaded and worked till I drop. When you work as hard as I do then you can order me about.’ Refusing to go further she threw aside her pitchfork and sat down with a bump amongst the sweet-smelling hay, ripped off her headscarf and used it to mop her face. ‘You carry on if you want to. I shall rest – and do not dare to say my son is worthless!’
‘You have just said as much yourself!’ scoffed Thora.
‘I am his mother. I can say what I like about him, you cannot! Besides, I repent of my words. They were only said out of anger because you treat me like a slave. When Sigurd wins back my estate I shall be gone from here in a flash.’
‘Oh, there is gratitude for you!’ Thora bumped the seated Ragnhild with a knee. ‘Where would you have been without me when you were widowed and left with nought? I have fed you, clothed you…’
‘Not you! Olaf!’
‘Where is the difference?’ demanded Thora. ‘And do we get any return for our kindness? Nei, all we have for those years of sacrifice are constant moans and laziness!’
Ragnhild’s mouth gaped at this slander, but to offer her instinctive retort would be to make a fool of herself. So, she simply clamped her lips together, and folded her arms until she could produce a suitable reply. ‘I understand that you have always viewed me as a threat…’
Thora frowned. ‘What foolery is this you spout?’
‘Einar was much richer than Olaf, my clothes when I came here were much finer than yours, you felt envious – nei, nei!’ She spoke over Thora’s objection. ‘I can quite understand your feelings. It must have been very difficult for you to live life in the shadows. It would not do to have a servant dressed more finely than her mistress.’
Thora gasped. ‘We never treated you as a servant!’
But Ragnhild continued evenly, ‘I suppose it was a little foolish of me to expe
ct that I would be treated with the same respect I had in Jorvik. You as a country-dweller have not been privileged to learn the niceties of a lady’s role – but I can assure you now, Thora,’ her voice was oh, so sincere, ‘that you do not need to worry much longer. The moment I have word that Sigurd has won our land back I shall cease to be a burden on you and will sail at once for England.’
Ragnhild’s false generosity was more insulting than a curse. Thora grew spiteful. ‘Hah! If Olaf allows you to!’
‘Olaf has no say in the matter.’
‘You do not think a bairn will be capable of doing as you say?’
‘Sigurd shall succeed,’ came the firm reply.
Such hauteur provoked Thora to cruelty. ‘He may be dead already!’ She flounced away across the shorn meadow to bully others who had started to flag.
Ragnhild remained firmly in her place, trying to feign triumph but at the same time unable to force Thora’s words from her mind. No, he was not dead. ‘Wait till I get my hands on you,’ she warned him! Then: ‘Oh where are you, son? Where are you?’
* * *
Aggersborg, a circular fortress with massive ramparts and towered gates, was the largest of the Danish strongholds, a huge pimple on the flat and featureless landscape around the Limfjord. Within its sphere the barrack houses, each over a hundred feet long, were placed in blocks of four so as to form a series of inner courtyards where the men of Swein’s army polished their fighting techniques. During the time spent training here, Sigurd warmed to these rough men who with good humour had so far managed to shield him from his uncle’s eye. Though conscious of the differences between the northern races, he had not inherited his father’s aversion to Danes and treated all as welcome company – and such incredible tales they told him! For themselves, the men were endeared by his deadly serious air and attempts to look manly, and in their leisure hours would engage him in mock battles, though one or two were not so well-disposed when the weapon they had lent him drew their own blood. Especially intolerant was Ulf, for the boy provided Thorald with the constant excuse – as if he needed one – to compare the two beardless chins, tilting them this way and that and announcing, ‘Ah, I do declare that Sigurd is sprouting fluff. Poor Ulf, he is still as bald as a girl-child’s twat!’
