by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
The youngster wheeled his horse to rebuke those who sniggered at Algrim’s taunt, but his horsemanship was none too adept; he unseated himself, falling heavily onto a frozen puddle and breaking the ice, whereupon the onlookers could not restrain their jollification.
The horse cantered off. Now that Sigurd was on the ground it was not so easy to be masterful; the men, though clods, were all so much bigger than he. One of them had the affront to hand him his axe which had fallen with him. He stood opposing them for long furious seconds, before turning on his heel and charging off to stalk his horse. Trying to deafen his ears to their remarks on his wet behind, he caught the rein, jumped into the saddle and, more carefully this time, drove the horse at them so that they had to scatter. ‘You shall not laugh so loud on my return!’
Sigurd galloped back to his house where further humiliation was to come in the form of his uncle. His angry entrance was pulled up short at the sight of Olaf and two men eating from his table.
‘Heill, Sigurd.’ The atmosphere was even cooler than outside. Olaf had been unamused to learn from one of the thralls that his nephew had beaten him to Einar’s estate – he had not had the slightest inkling that the boy was even in England.
Sigurd, red-cheeked from his exercise, lingered in the doorway. His uncle pushed aside the bowl of mussels and crooked a finger. ‘Come you here.’
The boy pulled off his hat and approached warily, then flinched at the quick movement from his uncle’s hand. But it was the axe that Olaf was aiming for.
‘Mine, I think.’ He pointed to the runic letters carved on the handle.
‘Your pardon, Uncle.’ Sigurd looked chastened. ‘But I did not have a weapon worthy of…’
‘You did not have any weapon at all so you stole mine!’ Olaf thumped the axe’s shaft at the floor. ‘Do you know what the law does to thieves?’
Sigurd did not wish to know. ‘I humbly beg your forgiveness, Uncle!’
‘Humility is a trait you have not yet acquired, Sigurd!’ Olaf put the axe aside. ‘Your mother will be ashamed of you.’
‘Not when she knows the reason. I only took it so I could win back my father’s land!’
‘You knew I had sworn to do that for her! Did you not trust me?’
‘Ja, of course, but…’
‘Silence!’ Olaf glared him into submission, then continued in hurt tone to his friends, ‘He does not trust me, when I have treated him as my own son for eleven years.’
‘Please, Uncle, let me speak,’ Sigurd urged. ‘’Twas not a matter of trusting you. I had to do it for myself, to revenge my father’s honour and fight for what is mine. I do not want any man to risk his life on my behalf.’
Olaf glared at him for a while, then nodded his understanding and uttered less harshly, ‘Well… in that at least you are to be admired.’ He indicated for the boy to join him at the table.
Sigurd shuffled along a bench and rested clasped hands on the greasy wood. ‘So you won’t send me back to Norway?’
‘Nei – but I am still angry with you for deceiving me!’ Olaf became more avuncular then, leaning towards his nephew. ‘Sigurd, you cannot possibly hope to run your father’s estate… I am sorry, your estate, alone. You need help.’
‘I have help.’ Sigurd pointed at the thralls who hovered should there be any request from their masters.
Olaf smiled his condescension. ‘Not of the right kind. It takes experience to run a place like this.’ He brought his palm down on the table. ‘Nei! I insist on giving you the benefit of my advice. My sister would never forgive me if I left you to the mercy of unscrupulous tenants who would shirk from paying their dues.’
‘I know how to deal with them,’ the boy assured him, heart sinking. He had just got rid of Thorald and now his uncle wanted to interfere.
Alas, no matter how he tried he could not persuade his uncle to leave. Life was even worse than when Thorald had been here, for at least then Sigurd had had some kind of freedom. There were times when he even considered riding to Gæignesburh to enlist the mercenaries’ help. Every day he clutched the tiny hammer that hung around his neck and made secret offerings to Thor and Odin the All-Father for assistance. Then, one day, his prayers were heeded. At the sound of many visitors, Sigurd left his meal and ran outside. There was Thorald with what appeared to be his entire crew, most of them on foot though some were mounted, having travelled along the riverbank as the ship would not take the horses. The youngster beamed.
‘Such hearty welcome, Smallaxe!’ Thorald jumped down from his horse and delivered an affectionate cuff to the excited boy. ‘I did not expect you would be so pleased to see…’ His voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed as Olaf came out of the house with his two friends in attendance. ‘And who have we here, Sigurd?’
‘Tis I who should ask that of you,’ replied Olaf, equally suspicious at the large number of men, a motley collection.
Sigurd explained quickly to Thorald, ‘Hersir, this is my uncle. Uncle, these are the friends who helped me win back the estate.’
‘Ah, then I must thank you on behalf of my sister.’ Olaf was courteous, but retained his guard. ‘You have business in Jorvik, ja?’
Thorald shook his head, tinkling his earrings. ‘We go north and merely dropped anchor so that we may pay our respects to friend Sigurd.’
‘Then you must come and take meat with us.’ Olaf extended his arm as indication for the men to enter.
Whilst those on horseback gave custody of their mounts to the thralls and joined the rest inside, Sigurd held back and hissed to Thorald, ‘I cannot rid myself of him! He insists that I am not old enough to run the place myself. Can you stay and help me?’
‘Why, have we not always done so, biarki?’ Thorald dropped his leonine head to conspire. ‘Tell me, how many men does your uncle have?’
‘Just the two you see with him.’ Sigurd twiddled his unruly fringe. ‘The rest remained to serve the King. I have tried every way to persuade him to go but he will not heed. Mayhap he wouldst listen to another man.’
Thorald winked and patted the boy’s shoulder. ‘It should be easy. Now, come before your uncle is more distrustful of us than he is already.’ His great hand scooped Sigurd into the gloom of the house.
Beside the welcoming crackle of the fire, the men and the boy partook of a meal of fish and beer. After which, Thorald delivered a belch, performed an exaggerated stretch and announced to Olaf, ‘Well… we would not wish to outstay our welcome, hersir. I thank you for your hospitality.’ He tweezed a last morsel of pike from the wooden trencher, stuffed it into his beard and rose. ‘Come, men, let us row whilst light prevails.’
Too astonished to object, Sigurd watched as his friends filed outside, mounted their horses and deserted him. He went to bed that night cursing them – but when he rose the next morning there was Thorald, Ulf and Eric and the rest of the dirty band eating breakfast!
The boy rubbed his eyes. ‘Wha… I thought you had deserted me!’
‘What a slur to cast upon one’s bosom friends!’ scolded Thorald. ‘You enlisted our help, did you not?’
‘Ja – but you spake not a word to Uncle, so I though…’
‘We did not speak then for we had things to do, but we returned later.’ Thorald bit deep into a shive of warm bread.
Sigurd peered around the room. ‘Where is Uncle?’
Thorald projected surprise. ‘Why, we persuaded him to leave as you asked us to do. Here, eat some of this loaf before Eric crams it all down his neck.’ He grabbed the flat loaf of barley bread from Eric’s hand and slammed it before the boy.
‘But how?’ Sigurd was delighted.
The bearded jaw chewed vigorously. ‘Oh… we simply explained to him that he is not the master here.’
Sigurd could not believe that it had been accomplished so easily but was nevertheless grateful to Thorald and sat between him and Eric to eat a bowl of skyr brought by a thrall. ‘I never heard a thing.’
‘Ja, I notice you are a very sound slee
per.’ Thorald’s eyes glittered.
‘Where has he gone?’
‘To Gæignesburh, so he said.’
The boy’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth. ‘I suppose he has taken my axe with him?’ When Thorald nodded, he looked downcast at the loss, but not for long. ‘Ah well… I have enough money now to buy one of my own.’ He swallowed the porridge and grinned. ‘I did not have the chance to tell you last night but I have discovered where the rest of my father’s land is.’
Thorald tried not to look too alert. ‘Ja?’
‘Alas, my tenants need to have sense knocked into them. They refuse to pay their dues. Uncle was going to attend to it…’
‘Fear not, little brother!’ Thorald seized the boy under his armpits and hoisted him playfully from the bench, the spoon still in his mouth. ‘Their geld will be in your coffers by noon.’
And so it was. Confronted by Thorald, the kotsetlan performed their obligations without a whimper. However, Sigurd himself had cause to complain when Thorald and his men showed no sign of leaving. Out of gratitude for their aid, he tolerated his guests’ presence for a week before asking when they planned to row north as had been their spoken intent.
Thorald was stooped over a game of hnefatafl, his opponent Ulf. The others, replete from yet another meal at Sigurd’s expense dozed about the golden shadows. Thorald’s voice was vague as he tried to concentrate on his next move. ‘Oh, you are so hospitable, Sigurd, that I have no plans to leave just yet. Besides, you will need us here if your uncle should return.’ The fingers holding one of his chalk pieces hovered over which square to lay it on.
Sigurd was not to be detoured. ‘It has been weeks. If he was planning to return he would have done so by now. I am grateful for your assistance in winning back my land, hersir, but my purse is not bottomless. I fear that when my mother comes from Norway there will be nought left for her.’
Thorald merely grunted and made his move. Ulf fingered his bare neck and studied the board from under his fringe. He had wagered a great deal of money on this game and Thorald’s red pieces had his hnefi, or king, almost surrounded. He hesitated too long. Thorald began to torment him about his lack of skill, managing to equate this with his lack of manhood; an angry Ulf would relinquish the game more quickly.
Sigurd was annoyed both at Thorald’s lack of attention to his query and to his insults to Ulf. Having no facial hair yet himself he sometimes wondered if Thorald’s remarks were aimed at him, too. He persisted with his interrogation. ‘When does she come?’
‘Soon,’ mumbled Thorald. Ulf still dallied over where to deposit his white piece. ‘Come, Bareface, get it over with. You know you must lose to a superior player.’
Sigurd persisted. ‘But when does she come? You said…’
Thorald lost patience both with Sigurd and Ulf. ‘I said soon! Now quiet your tongue – Ulf, make your move or the game is forfeit.’
Sigurd was furious. ‘You dare bid me quiet in my own house!’
In a trice he found himself sprawled at Thorald’s feet, his ear burning. ‘Your house – hah!’ Thorald reached down, grasped a handful of the sheepskin tunic and worried him like a rat. ‘You live here by my grace only! Think you that I would waste my sword to get the land for a little fish like you? You can thank Christ I am a kindly man or you would not even have reached the coast of England! Now run outside and play with the other children!’
Sigurd fell again under the weight of his shove, but before Thorald could reseat himself the boy grabbed the man’s own sword, propped close at hand, and lunged at him.
Only by an agile jerk of his hips did Thorald escape disembowelment. As the boy’s swordarm brushed harmlessly against his flank he caught Sigurd and dealt a blow that sent him hurtling yet again to the floor with his nose bleeding. ‘That is your first and last try, Smallaxe!’ Enraged, he picked up the sword and wagged it at the boy.
‘If you would stick that in me then you had better do it now!’ retorted Sigurd, blood trickling down his upper lip. ‘For I have not come here to let my land be taken from one rogue by another. The first chance I get to remove you I shall take it.’ He glared defiantly at the man who towered over him.
‘I do not soil this noble weapon with the blood of weanlings!’ roared Thorald, and began to attack Sigurd with the hilt. His victim rolled up like a hedgehog but the blows did not stop.
The commotion woke even Eric who at first observed the beating with dozy eyes, but then became concerned at the ferocity of the attack and tried to intervene. ‘Hey, Thorald, a bent sword will not serve you well in your next battle unless you aim to fight round corners!’
Things were looking desperate for Sigurd. Thorald seemed to have lost his reason. Handicapped by rage and the absence of his little finger, he would occasionally lose his grip and drop the sword, only to retrieve it and begin again. With everyone gathered round the event, Ulf took the opportunity to move one of Thorald’s pieces backwards, then decided that he too must help the wretched boy. It took only three words. ‘Your move, Thorald!’
The tense moment broken, Thorald looked up and after a few breathless seconds of indecision, leaned his weapon back against the bench. Face still livid, he picked Sigurd up, one hand at the scruff of his neck, the other at his breeches, carried him outside and hurled him into a midden pit. ‘Go practise with your wooden sword before you are man enough to use a real one!’ He went back to his seat and looked down at the board… then rolled a mistrustful eye at his opponent.
‘Your move,’ repeated the granite lips.
* * *
Face bloodied, seething with rage and frustration, the boy clawed his way from the putrid, maggot-ridden debris and stood there trembling, fighting tears. It was pointless trying to attack Thorald with only the small knife that hung from his belt. Instead, he worked out his anger on the boundary fence, stabbing at the timber, gouging and tearing with his blade, his mind supplanting wood for flesh. ‘I have a good mind to go and sink his shit-ridden boat!’
But when Ulf came upon him later he was in less defiant mood, huddled pathetically against a wattle hut. The young man paused. ‘You are badly hurt?’ His words hovered in a cloud then dissolved into the cold afternoon air.
Sigurd had always found Ulf detached and cold. The enquiry astonished him. He shook his head, looked up into the insipid eyes and offered hesitantly, ‘I should thank you for preventing my death.’
Ulf brushed his part off. ‘Twas only favour for favour; you did me service by interrupting the game. Thorald was cheating. When he was preoccupied with you it gave me a chance to even things out.’ The shallow jaw gave hint that its owner was amused.
‘Did you win?’ Sigurd’s nose was red. There was dried blood around his nostrils.
Ulf nodded, swaying from heel to toe as the cold ground permeated his boots. ‘Ja, a good thing too. I had wagered all the money in my purse on that game.’
The boy adopted the role of a father. ‘Was it not rash to wager all that you own against a cheat?’
Ulf countered, ‘Is that not what you just did?’ Sigurd gave a rueful smile and touched his brow to see if it was still bleeding.
At the resulting wince, Ulf felt sorry for Thorald’s victim and descended beside him, hugging his shaggy cloak around himself. ‘I tried to warn you he was dangerous.’
Sigurd looked confused. ‘I thought you were the dangerous one. He has always been so friendly.’
Ulf shrugged. ‘He will probably be so again when he has slept off his temper.’
‘He is no friend of mine.’ Sigurd’s eyes turned dark. ‘And I shall prove it to him.’
‘Take care, Sigurd.’ Ulf did not call him Smallaxe this time. ‘Now that you have served your purpose and he knows the full extent of your landholding, Thorald can kill you at any time. But if you do not offend him you will be safe enough.’
‘I am not af…’ began Sigurd, then gave sheepish acquiescence.
‘Ja,’ cognized Ulf. ‘You learn.’
A
fter a pause, Sigurd asked, ‘Why do you follow Thorald when he insults you so?’
‘Everybody insults Ulf,’ came the phlegmatic reply. ‘I may just as well ride with one as another.’
Sigurd turned to him with new enthusiasm. ‘Then ride with me and I will share my land with you!’
‘You and I against Thorald!’ Ulf laughed aloud at the combination, making Sigurd aware that he had never seen this young man so amused.
‘Not just we two.’ Sigurd kept his voice low. ‘Your friend Eric will join us and the two of you could persuade the others.’
‘Eric, ja it may be so, the others will refuse. They are totally bound to Thorald.’ Ulf scrambled to his feet, dismissing the plan as boyish fantasy. ‘I am going for a pee.’
In Ulf’s absence, Sigurd thumped his body against the cold and mulled over the idea. When Ulf returned and asked if he was coming back into the house he shook his head. Ulf turned to go.
‘If I was older would you ride with me?’
Ulf was moved to kindness by the wistful tone. ‘Perchance, ja.’
Sigurd put conviction into his response. ‘Then I shall call upon your help again some day.’
Ulf gave a curt nod, then after a second’s thought dropped his mantle over Sigurd’s head, plunging him into darkness. When the boy emerged Ulf had gone back inside the timber house.
Later, when Thorald had slept off his bad humour he came looking for his victim who totally ignored him. This helped to rekindle animosity. ‘Oh, stop sulking! Are you not back in your father’s house? And that is what you wanted, ja?’
Sigurd could not help but retort, ‘I wanted to be master!’
‘He who would be master should first learn how to act the part! Your uncle was right about you, you are just a silly child.’ After a tense moment, Thorald managed to control his temper. ‘Come, it does not befit a warrior to mope.’ He held out his mutilated hand. ‘Let us be friends – did I not help you be rid of your uncle?’
