by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
Sigurd was impressed by the grandiosity of Jorvik, the main part of which was protected by earthen ramparts topped with a wooden palisade – though many buildings existed outside these defences, too. On either bank of the river Use was a network of straw-littered alleys, so narrow that the eaves almost kissed. Many of the tightly-packed dwellings were fronted by stalls that displayed various commodities. Most were dark with age, but occasionally the line was relieved by the construction of a replacement building giving the streets the appearance of rows on a gaming board.
The majority of the townspeople seemed prosperous, and richly dressed, though Sigurd was taken aback by the way they and their dwellings stank; in the thinly-populated coastal area where he had lived, the wind would dispose of most objectionable smells. Relief was to come as the men walked their horses across the wooden bridge; the stench of decaying refuse, excrement and rotting timber was overthrown by the more pleasant aroma of fish, for Jorvik was a busy fishing port, too. Along the wharfs, where patient mallards waddled and herring gulls dived and mewed and wheeled about the masts, festoons of nets hung out to dry, glittering with the remnants of their last haul. Sigurd’s mouth began to water over baking bread and ale – and strangers! Not one person here knew so much as his name.
Many centuries ago his ancestor, an army officer, had been granted a tract of land in reward for good service to the King. This had been subdivided by the officer and each portion given to a man who had served under him and who might prefer domesticity to the harsh viking existence. The descendents of these men continued to live here; Sigurd wondered aloud over the total number of citizens.
‘Mm… between eight and ten thousand, I would guess,’ answered Thorald.
‘Eight thousand!’ Eight thousand strangers. Sigurd beamed and rode tall in his saddle, eyes missing nought as they neared their destination.
Armed with details from his mother as to where the family property lay, Sigurd and his band of helpers made for the shire called Peseholme, situated in the north-eastern corner of the city. To one side it was protected by ramparts, to the other lay the Fosse, so dispensing with the need for a defensive wall to repel invaders. But the Fosse itself was prone to invade the city – even when it kept within its banks the land around it was permanent marsh – and the inhabitants had protected themselves with a long floodbank, eight feet high by forty feet wide, made of clay and brushwood held down with rocks. Within these barricades the wooden houses were grouped around an open space of grass and trees, amongst them a stone church dedicated to St Cuthbert. Each building was fenced off from its neighbour by a wattle enclosure and had a ditch for drainage. One house was larger than the rest, a barnlike structure composed of wedge-shaped sections of tree trunk, with an acre plot and various outbuildings. Sigurd voiced the assumption that this surely must be his father’s house.
Thorald sat astride his horse and weighed the view inside the open gates. All was tranquil, with fowl scratching in the dirt, slaves tending the vegetables in the garth, a cat curled up in a patch of winter sunlight. No one ventured to accost them as they urged their horses forward and into the enclosure, though the thralls did look inquisitive at the large number of visitors. A red kite scavenged a midden pile, flying off with a bone in its beak. The men dismounted and threw back their cloaks to give easy access to swords. A veiled woman came out of the house to greet them, but on seeing their demeanour her face lost its convivial air and she immediately fled, scattering hens.
Thorald donned an expression of mild offence and made comment to Eric, ‘Cover your face, ugly one. The mistress obviously fears she is beset by demons.’
The men and Sigurd filed cautiously into the main hall of the house. Its walls were insulated with wattle and daub, skins and other hangings. Across the glassless windows, little more than slits, were stretched the membranes of animals in order to let in the light but not the cold; nevertheless it was dingy enough to require illumination and pottery lamps with liquid fat and floating wick were dotted about the room. The flooring to each side of the room was raised and upon these platforms were benches and stools. A tripod straddled the central hearth, and suspended from it by an iron hoop was a pot containing fish broth tended by a slavegirl. A look of panic rippled her dirt-smeared features, but Thorald reassured her with a casual flick of his hand. ‘Worry not, ’tis that broth I am after… first.’ He flopped his meaty buttocks upon a bench and sat with legs agape. ‘Plenty of time for you later.’
Unsure of what to do in her mistress’s absence, the girl served the men with wooden bowls containing broth. Sigurd marvelled at their casual air while his own gut churned in anticipation of attack. However, he was famished and not wishing to appear frightened, he accepted the soup. Whilst it was being consumed the master of the house, alerted by his wife, returned with several carls, all armed. The bowls were cast unceremoniously to the floor. In his shock Sigurd tipped the hot liquid over his knee and hopped about, thereupon being knocked aside in the mêlée. There was swift locking of weapons; jugs and vessels fell from shelves, furniture toppled, only the lamps remained anchored but flickered and spat dangerously as the men jostled. Sigurd gripped his axe and made ready for the first opportunity to use it but alas, the battle was brief. Their tactics and numbers much superior, Thorald’s men soon had the advantage, with the carls lying dead upon the floor and their master held against the wall at swordpoint.
‘What shall we do with him, my lord?’ Thorald was looking at Sigurd, a devilish gleam to his eye. At the boy’s look of astonishment he added, ‘Is it not your right to decide his fate, and have you not been aching to put your weapon to good use? What better use than on the man who robbed you of your landright?’
Sigurd was hesitant now. He wanted to kill the man, not simply from revenge but also to learn how it felt to take human life. Had his enemy faced him with a weapon then he knew he would have been able to do it, but to raise his axe now…
Thorald’s voice stirred him. ‘What holds you, Sigurd? All these months you have been pestering to kill an Englishman, well, here is one before you…’ His expression became teasing. ‘Do not tell me you are afraid?’
‘I am not afraid!’ Sigurd glared at the man and began to heft his axe, causing his intended victim to sweat more profusely. He had killed pigs and cattle without qualm, but it was one thing to provide food and another to use one’s axe on a weaponless fellow. He began to imagine the impact of his axe on the man’s skull. The man who a moment ago had been lord of his estate was now at his mercy. Delaying the moment, he said, ‘You took my father’s property. Can you give good reason why I should not take your life?’
His victim’s eyes showed fear but he spoke bravely. ‘I know nothing of your father. This land was granted to me by King Ethelred; it is rightfully mine.’
‘Your king is vanquished,’ retorted Sigurd. ‘His boons are forfeit, and so will be your life lest you go peaceably and vow not to return and attack us.’
Before the man could reply, Thorald laughed aloud and embraced his soldiers in the joke. ‘I begin to see that friend Smallaxe is less brave than he pretends.’
Sigurd blushed with anger.
Ulf offered a logical explanation, which was meant as jest but unwittingly aided the boy’s predicament. ‘Have you considered, Thorald, that you are standing very close? Mayhap Smallaxe doth hold the fear that he might strike off your head by mistake – his aim is not so good.’
Thorald guffawed in recognition and with much theatricality held the prisoner at arms’ length.
Sigurd was furious at Ulf. He raised his axe, then lowered it. ‘He is too tall! I cannot reach.’
‘Fetch him a stool,’ called Eric, who broke wind and then sat himself down.
Thorald groaned with impatience. ‘Wouldst fetch him a stool in battle? For Frigg’s sake get it done, boy!’ He bullied the unfortunate man to his knees.
Sigurd looked around him. The assembled faces wore a uniform disregard for his plight. Death was commonplace to t
hem. He rebelled in firm voice. ‘Nei! I refuse to kill a man as I would a slave. He put up a good fight, let him go free.’
Thorald gave a dismissive swipe at the air. ‘Oh, you disappoint me. The lion’s roar hides a little mouse.’ Sigurd thrust out his chest. ‘This is my house and I shall say who lives and dies here!’
Thorald shrugged and tapped the boy with his sword. ‘You are a fool. He will creep back in the night and kill you.’
Sigurd locked eyes with his captive. ‘If he returns it shall be he who dies – now go!’
The merchant moved warily through the knot of hostile men, his eyes flitting from one to the other until he reached the door. There, he turned tail, collected his weeping lady and ran.
‘You should have killed him,’ warned Thorald, though in light rather than heavy mood. ‘He will be back if he has any spine – oh, look! The bastard spilt my soup. Let me run after him and cut off his ears.’ Jingling as he moved he cupped a huge hand to the boy’s scalp. ‘Christ, grant me the wisdom to understand you, Smallaxe. In play you inflict all manner of wounds upon your comrades and yet when I give you your enemy on a plate you touch not one hair of his beard!’
Eric came to the youngster’s defence. ‘Doest not remember the first time you killed an enemy, Thorald?’
The hairy face was split by a grin. ‘Ah, I do indeed! What a fight that was.’ Thorald proceeded to give all the glorious details.
‘Then do you wonder that Sigurd spared the man?’ asked Eric when the catalogue was finished. ‘’Tis no fun to kill an undefended opponent. Let him have something worthwhile to remember. Killing your first man is like having your first woman.’
The change of topic was welcomed by lewd ululations from the men and the proposal that they should go a-courting. Then one of them spotted the thrall who cowered in the murk and she was dragged before them. ‘Did you ever see ought so skinny?’ demanded Thorald. ‘’Tis like throwing a starving dog a meatless bone.’ He turned to Sigurd and added to his education. ‘My friend, there are three things a man needs after a battle: wine, meat and a fat woman… but never mind, this one will do for now.’ He tripped her and threw her to the floor.
Sigurd’s mouth fell open as the chieftain dropped his breeches, pulled up the girl’s threadbare dress and without ceremony raped her.
That the girl was accustomed to being used by her previous master did not lessen the indignity and her face showed distress. Sigurd watched with a combination of interest and revulsion. Afterwards, Thorald offered her to his men, four of whom accepted. Ulf and the rest seemed more concerned in salvaging what was left in the cauldron. ‘And what of you, Smallaxe?’ enquired Thorald. ‘Is there any service the girl can provide for you?’
Sigurd hesitated, then with a flourish of bravado dropped his trousers and stepped out of them. ‘She can mend this hole – and be quick about it!’ Thorald doubled over in laughter, then grabbed a bowl of broth from one of the others and gave it to Sigurd, patting him on the head in sympathy. ‘Poor bairn, take this and build up your strength.’
Whilst they were eating, a nervous deputation arrived. Word of the new thegn had already reached the other occupants of Peseholme and now their representatives came with prudent gifts of meat and honey.
Later, when the light outside was failing and the shutters were closed against the hoary eve, the men sat drinking ale. One of them complained that it would take a long time to get merry on this weak brew and so it was jointly decided that they would go and purchase local wine. Some of the men took baths in order to impress the gentler womenfolk of Jorvik, for they had been without the fair sex too long. On returning from his own successful joinder, Thorald helped Sigurd with an inventory of his chattels, undertaking a thorough search of the house which produced two kists full of silver and gold. Despite all of this Thorald appeared somewhat disgruntled. ‘I fear you have misled me as to the extent of your father’s holdings, Sigurd. I had visioned more land.’
‘I, too.’ Sigurd looked perplexed, then paid homage to Thorald for his assistance. ‘But I am greatly in your debt, hersir, and I would like to reward your services and those of your men.’
‘Oh, there is no need,’ Thorald was quick to reply, the ghost of a smile lifting his moustache. ‘We acted as friends.’
‘Then I most humbly thank you, but my friends must have some reward.’ Sigurd adopted the fatherly air that made him so endearing. ‘Afore you depart you shall all be my guests at a feast of celebration.’
Thorald shared a cunning grin with his men who had one by one returned. ‘We will be honoured to be guests of Sigurd Smallaxe if that would not be too great an imposition.’
‘You are welcome to remain for as long as you desire,’ responded Sigurd, and was puzzled by the inexplicable burst of laughter that followed. When it died away he added, ‘I wouldst bring my mother to live with me, but I am not sure how to…’
‘Cease your worry, Smallaxe!’ Thorald cut him off. ‘There is bound to be a ship returning to Norway soon. I personally will arrange for your mother to be brought over.’
Sigurd voiced his gratitude, and was to reiterate this when the deposed thegn put his case before the vapnatak, or local assembly, to argue that his estate had been taken by foul means. Too inexperienced to speak on his own behalf, the boy appointed Thorald to state his claim that the land was rightfully his and so eloquent was his defence that the twelve leading thegns of the wapentake reached their majority verdict: the land had indeed been wrongfully taken. Sigurd gave wholehearted praise to his supporters and once again fêted them, but when they were still his guests many days afterwards he became irritated by their obtrusion. Their depletion of his winter food stocks was nothing compared to their sniggers whenever he gave the thralls a command – in fact, they seemed to be laughing most of the time at some private joke. He was therefore relieved when Thorald announced that the threat of attack from the previous occupant was now unlikely and, along with his men, finally left for Gæignesburh.
Alone but for the servants, the boy began to stalk about the house, for the first time able to assume the role of master, although not entirely certain of his obligations in that quarter. Perhaps he should be out hawking or riding around his estate, but his estate was not so extensive as he had imagined from listening to his mother’s tales. Had her memory and bitterness played tricks upon her, or was there yet more to discover? He squatted by one of the chests and opened it, playing with the shiny contents. There had been moments when he feared that Thorald might ride out of here taking the money with him, but here it still was, and Thorald had even been generous enough to leave him a horse too. He dropped the hasp, padlocked the chest and began to pace the hall again. He had already investigated most of the city, conversed with each of his neighbours and had bought himself a pair of boots, a hat, a sheepskin tunic and thicker breeches, for it had recently snowed. What could he do now? Bored, he reached up to a shelf and took down several clay pots to see whether they contained anything nice to eat. In doing this he came across two pieces of wood with a series of lines etched on them. Familiar with the runic alphabet thanks to his uncle, Sigurd was able to tell that these compiled a register of dues and tributes owed to the lord of this estate and prayers to the gods to protect them. But of much greater significance than this was the message cut at the foot of the list: This was carved by Einar. The simple thrill of holding something of his father’s turned Sigurd’s limbs a-wobble. He hugged the dusty pieces of bark to his breast and swore an oath that he would run this estate in a manner of which his father would be proud.
When his heart stopped racing, he perused the list again. Into Sigurd’s government came a township called Osboldewic. Among its inhabitants were several freedmen, once slaves, of whom he could demand a few days’ work per week and tenants who owed him rent. Thorald, unable to decipher the runes, had overlooked this important document, but Sigurd, eager to imprint his authority on those underlings acted upon it without delay.
Asking the way to
Osboldewic, he was told that it was some two miles east of Jorvik and was directed under the old Anglo-Saxon Stonebow, across a narrow wooden bridge and onwards towards the Forest of Galtres, a mixture of densely-packed trees, flat marshes and scrubland. In all innocence he rode out alone, his only concern being the sharp bite of frost, unaware that the forest was a haven for outlaws, wild boar and wolves. Luck transported him safely to the other side. The first indication that he had arrived was a fence that marked the outer boundary. He dismounted at the gate, then led his horse through to the common grazing land. Riding on, he traversed a frozen meadow before finally coming to the garden plots that surrounded a collection of mean wattle shacks. The occupants, darned of breech and lank of hair, abandoned their various labours to assemble, shifty-eyed, around the visitor who from the platform of his horse introduced himself.
‘I am Sigurd, lord of this estate. I am led to understand that certain men from this village owe me two days’ work per week. To whom does this apply? Raise your hands.’ When the chapped hands were held aloft he nodded and continued, ‘In future, all dues will be paid to… what are you laughing at?’ He elevated himself in his stirrups and lanced a finger at one kotsetlan who was grinning. ‘You dare to laugh at your master, dog!’
For some reason the other villagers found his attitude comical, too; his remark met with blatant laughter. ‘Master!’ came a derisive mutter. Sigurd rode his horse at the culprit who was forced to jump out of the way to avoid being mown down. ‘You, keep a civil tongue in your head or I will cut it out!’ His angry breath clung to the January air whilst his eyes toured the gathering. ‘Which of you is the man Algrim?’
Lips creased in irony, Algrim raised his arm then bowed. ‘It is I… my lord.’
‘I come to remind you that you owe me one lamb and two pence at Candlemas. I expect them to be paid on time.’
Algrim clasped his hands over the rope that knotted his mantle and cowered in a suitably inferior pose. ‘Would my lord not prefer a nice fat ewe… so’s he can suckle from her teat when he misses his mother!’
