by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
‘Huh! You are twice as bad!’ Sigurd gave a feisty tug at Ulf’s cloak, huddling right into it, knees and all.
Patience waning, Thorald flourished his hand. ‘I offer you one last chance to make the best of things.’
Sigurd beheld him with contempt. ‘I think it is you who has the best of things. You have my land, my house, my food…’
‘Go rot then!’ Thorald turned his back on the boy and strode back to the house. ‘If you do not want to be my friend you can bed down in the slaves’ hut!’
‘What do I care when you treat me like a slave already! Tell me where my uncle has gone and I will gladly fetch him back.’
Thorald gave a nasty laugh and slammed the door.
As the night grew even cooler so did the boy’s blood. Shivering and bouncing up and down Sigurd realized he would indeed have to spend the night with the thralls or freeze to death. First, he visited the cesspit to empty his bladder. The stream of urine disturbed the contents, emitting a foul odour. Sigurd pulled his shirt down, came from behind the wattle fence and went towards the mean shack where he showed his contempt of the thralls by curling up amongst the dogs.
In the morning he extricated himself from the pile of musky fur and visited the cesspit again. This time he noticed something other than the smell. A lock of blond hair floated amongst the green scum; it was attached to someone’s head. The boy gasped, then knelt and peered closer. A pair of male legs came up behind him. He swung round in alarm.
Thorald urinated calmly into the pit. ‘Are you in better mood this morn?’
‘There’s a fellow in there!’ Sigurd jumped up and pointed.
Thorald’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Is there? Must have come out for a piss in the dark and stumbled right in – it is a treacherous place.’ Unconcerned, he turned away. ‘Art coming in to breakfast?’
‘It is my uncle!’ There was horror in Sigurd’s voice.
‘What?’ Thorald was still half-asleep. ‘Nei, it cannot be. I saw him leave. That is just a bit of dog hair.’
‘You killed him!’
‘Me?’ Thorald’s belly jutted with indignation. ‘I was not the one who wanted rid of him.’
Sigurd panicked. ‘I did not want him dead!’
‘Aha…’ Thorald shook his head with a look of reproof. ‘You should be more cautious, young friend. I and a dozen others heard you say, “I cannot get rid of him”.’
‘But no one would believe…’
‘Of course not.’
Sigurd’s heart leapt. ‘What of the two men who were with him?’
‘With whom?’ Thorald overacted his role of innocence. ‘There has been no one here but we friends.’ He put a finger over his lips. ‘Have no care, your secret is safe with me. I will tell no one how fond you were of the axe he took from you.’
Sigurd’s thoughts made him giddy. He wanted to ask what Thorald had done with the axe – he would never have cast such a valuable weapon into a cesspit – but he had no time to utter a word for Thorald was laying an arm across his shoulders and drawing him towards the house. ‘Now, have you yet decided if my friendship is preferable to that of the thralls?’
Dumbfounded, Sigurd looked up into the ursine face. It appeared to be friendly, but knowing what he knew now the boy was more respectful. Trying to hide his distaste of the word he murmured, ‘Ja.’
‘Gooood!’ Thorald delivered a magnanimous slap to his back, aggravating a bruise. ‘Then come and eat at my table.’
Unwilling to be completely dominated, Sigurd made a correction. ‘My table.’
Thorald had to laugh. ‘Have it your way, little mule – your table. Now, wilt thou come and eat?’
Sigurd might have found his uncle irksome, but the bonds of family were irrevocable; he would not allow Olaf’s death to go unpunished.
‘I will eat,’ he replied, then added the silent oath: I’ll eat at your table until I am old enough to make it my table, and then I shall kill you.
Chapter Four
Sigurd was never to discover what had happened to the other men nor to the axe, and he did not enquire for fear of bringing Thorald’s wrath down upon himself. When the initial trauma receded he considered making application to the law over his uncle’s death, but decided that his word against Thorald’s was not a fair contest. His only recourse was to bide his time and pretend fealty.
There were others in England more practised in this art. Eadric Streona, ealdorman of West Mercia and one of those responsible for Ethelred’s unwise decisions in the past, now came over to Swein offering to kill Ethelred’s heirs in return for favours. However, there was no time for him to carry this out, for on Candlemas 1014, just five weeks after his conquest of England, King Swein died. In the absence of his elder son who now ruled Denmark, the throne fell to the eighteen-year-old Cnut, and thus came the answer to Sigurd’s problem. With Cnut in Jorvik for his father’s interment at St Peter’s Minster, all he had to do was get close to the monarch and remind him of their summer friendship. No matter that it had ended on a sour note, the young King would remember the good times and, enacting the promise he had made to Sigurd, would command Thorald to leave.
Enlisted for help, Ulf said the boy should leave well alone. ‘Were I in your shoes I should consider myself fortunate.’
‘Fortunate? To be treated like a guest at my own table!’
‘Wouldst rather be a meal on that table? Be enslaved or dead?’ Ulf repeated his grim statement. ‘Leave well alone, boy.’
Sigurd had glimpsed the inner Ulf now, knew that there was real human fellowship here if one could avoid the bouts of vindictiveness to which Ulf was prone – he and Eric were the only ones Sigurd could call genuine friends – but still he did not appreciate the advice. He hated relying on Thorald for food and clothing, but would not abandon what was rightfully his, even if there had been somewhere else to go. Thorald knew what was in Sigurd’s heart but merely showed his contempt by turning his back on the boy, and as yet Sigurd did not dare to take advantage. But now perhaps he would not have to.
As the whole city prepared for the burial, Sigurd told Ulf: ‘I need someone to keep Thorald out of the way whilst I speak with Cnut.’
‘On first-name terms with our King, eh?’ Ulf was using a whetstone to sharpen his knife. The sun was bright for February and both were taking every advantage of it, keeping their indoor work for a less clement day.
‘We met at Gæignesburh whilst you and Thorald let Ethelred slip out of the country.’ Sigurd could not help the taunt. ‘He and I were great friends. I know that if I ask he’ll command Thorald to be gone from my property.’
Ulf ran a light thumb down the blade. ‘He can command all he likes but can he bring you back to life after Thorald has ripped out your lights? For this he will do if he hears of your plotting.’
Sigurd ruminated, eyeing the activity in the yard: a thrall mending hurdles, another employed with a besom, yet another carting dung. ‘Mayhap ’twould be best if I ask Cnut to send him into exile.’
‘Cnut, this! Cnut, that! It is the King you speak of – Eric! Where is that fat little fart? He is meant to be helping me.’ Arms akimbo, Ulf swivelled his cropped head in search of Eric.
The boy was dismissive. ‘Only a king, not a god, and he is my friend.’
‘So was Thorald – once,’ Ulf reminded him. ‘Ah, there you are, loose buttocks!’ Eric had appeared in the act of lacing his trousers. ‘What was it, women or ale?’
Eric gawped, his short legs making no effort to rush. His mode of walk was very ungainly, chest puffing, head lolling from shoulder to shoulder, hands moving like turtle flippers. ‘What?’
Ulf repeated the sarcasm. ‘What was it that forced you into the laborious act of dropping your breeches, a woman or a surfeit of ale? If you have enough strength left could you perchance help me to butcher this horse?’ He indicated the small, rough-coated animal tethered to a pole some yards away. For five years it had been put to work until ripe for slaughter, now it would
provide a welcome change to the dried and salted flesh of winter fare.
Eric wiped the back of his hand over his nose and went to fetch ropes. The horse sensed what was to befall it and began to dance and buck; its executioners cursed and struggled over it. ‘Hold the bastard down!’ Ulf tried to grip his rope whilst the horse almost swung him off his feet. An audience of dogs yelped with drooling anticipation. ‘Sit there, young one! Do not bother to exert yourself, we have everything under control!’
Sigurd watched unmoved as the horse was cornered, stunned by Ulf’s axe and dropped like a boulder. ‘You will not help me, why should I help you?’
‘Help you do what?’ asked Eric, relaxing into a yawn.
‘He entreats me to occupy our hairy friend whilst he petitions the King.’ A black kitten had leapt onto Ulf’s shoulder. Totally disregarding it, he beavered away at the steaming carcase whilst Eric appeared to be assisting but in fact did very little. ‘He is a personal friend of Cnut, did you not know?’
‘I am!’ bawled Sigurd at Eric’s disbelieving laugh. ‘He will tell you so himself if you help me get close to him.’
Under Sigurd’s constant pestering, Ulf finally gave in just to be rid of the whining voice. ‘Stop! Stop! I agree to help. Though it will all be a dangerous waste of time. I doubt you will even snatch a glimpse of him.’
This last opinion was prophetic. Vast crowds lined the old Roman route of the via principalis as the royal bier was transported with reverence into St Peter’s Minster. Behind the malodorous wall of bodies Sigurd could see little, but kept nudging Ulf into action. Irritated, Ulf nudged him back and knocked him into his neighbour who in return cuffed the boy. Sigurd changed tactics, gazing up at Ulf with childish accusation. Ulf, never loquacious, could not think of a topic that would engage Thorald long enough for the boy to slip away. Then he saw an old woman in the crowd and tugged at Thorald’s sleeve. ‘See the kerling over there? She has more hair on her chin than I!’
Thorald spotted the moustached grandmother and gave a rude laugh. ‘’Tis true – look, look, men!’
Ulf felt the boy slip away, using bodies to screen his escape, and kept a nervous eye on his passage through the crush until he lost track of him. The joke that he had instigated became a succession of jokes, all at his expense. He bit on his tongue. If this did not work he would murder Sigurd himself.
Well-distanced from the others, Sigurd waited impatiently for the ceremony to be over, never taking his eyes from the massive stone cathedral. With its arches and columns, vaulted roof and large windows it would make a fitting palace. One day, he would own a house like that. When Cnut eventually stepped through the great doors with his entourage of courtiers, the boy approached without awe, but long before he had reached his target the way was barred by soldiers. ‘Let me pass! I wish to speak to Cnut.’ No one heeded him except to issue an oath and shove him back into the crowd. Sigurd, jostled to the rear, was unable to fight his way back through and so began to run behind the wall of bodies, jumping up and down like a gazelle and shouting, ‘Cnut!’ but his voice was lost amid other cries of homage. The golden young king rode away without Sigurd coming within twenty yards of him.
‘Damn them!’ he complained angrily to Ulf later when they sat juxtaposed in the latrine. ‘Why would they not let me near him?’
One of Ulf’s hollowed eyes beheld him with spite. ‘Clearly they were ignorant of your intimate relationship with the King.’
The boyish temper soared. ‘You talk as if Cnut is a god! He is a man, our equal. You or I could be King if we wished.’
‘You, maybe, not I.’
‘You have no ambition, Ulf.’
‘My ambition is to stay alive. Which will be a feat in itself if Thorald finds that I have conspired with you. All that ridicule for nought.’ Shallow jaw morose, Ulf made use of a square of moss and tugged up his breeches.
Sigurd remained on the plank with the holes cut into it. Virtually every time he came here he had the same thought: what would my mother say if she knew I was doing this on my uncle – and even worse, that I am partly responsible for him being in there? Ulf was leaving. Sigurd, never keen to be left here alone, tried to delay his exit. ‘Have you really no ambition?’
Ulf was outside the withy fence now. His stolid face appeared above it, looking down at the boy. ‘A house and a piece of land is all I desire. That is what I came here for.’
‘I too,’ nodded Sigurd. ‘And once I purge myself of that hairy-arsed villain I will have it.’
Ulf sighed and walked away.
* * *
With Cnut’s return to Gæignesburh, Sigurd was forced to continue life under Thorald and wait until he was old enough to carry out the eviction himself. But oh! The road to adulthood was so very tedious.
This thought had barely emerged when an uprising took place. The Danelaw might accept Cnut without question but in the south the councillors of the Witan were already scheming for the return of Ethelred, who must surely have learnt a valuable lesson during his brief exile. In this hope, they despatched a messenger to Normandy, offering their King a second chance if he would promise to rule them more justly in the future. In usual cowardly response, Ethelred sent one of his sons to test the ground first, saying that he would remedy their past complaints and would not retaliate for their lack of help in regard to Swein, if they pledged total allegiance to him. With both sides in agreement, came the declaration that never again would a Dane usurp the English throne.
On Shrove Tuesday, whilst Ragnhild was still hunched over the fire in her snowbound Norwegian cabin dreaming of her son, the Christian community of Jorvik ate up all their rich food in preparation for Lent. It was during the weeks of abstinence that the news came of Ethelred’s landing in the south; this infuriated Sigurd who was immediately on the alert. ‘Will you ask Thorald if I may come?’ He worked alongside his friends Ulf and Eric in the yard, each at their separate occupations.
Ulf continued to repair his boot, stitching on a new flat sole. ‘Come where?’
‘Come with you when you go to fight Ethelred.’
Ulf snorted. ‘I go nowhere. So long as he remains down south he can do whatsoever he likes.’
Sigurd found it hard to understand Ulf: he would fight violently if one of his friends upset him, yet when there was a real threat he acted with caution. ‘I’ll wager if Ethelred called you Bareface you would go.’
He ducked as Ulf lashed out, but the taunt made little difference to the outcome. Even when warning came that Ethelred was advancing upon Lindissi, Ulf did not seem to care as long as he himself was safe in the fortress of Jorvik. His attitude was typical amongst Thorald’s men; only when a direct plea came from Cnut did they grudgingly rally to him.
‘Can I come?’ Sigurd jumped up and down as they prepared to travel to Gæignesburh.
‘Shall we let him?’ teased Thorald, looking around at his partners, then dealt mean judgment. ‘Nei, you are still too young for fighting and I would hate to see my little friend hurt. Bide here and guard the house.’
Idiot, thought Sigurd privately. How can I be old enough to protect the house and yet not old enough to fight for the King? But, left on the wharf to watch Thorald and his men row away he could not help a thrill of anticipation, cradling the hope that the great bear would be killed by the English, even if it would mean robbing Sigurd of that pleasure.
It had not occurred to Sigurd that Cnut could be defeated, and so he was greatly shocked when Thorald returned after Easter minus half his force. The remaining half was not without injury: Eric was badly slashed across the thigh and Ulf’s brow was encrusted with blood. ‘Do not fear,’ Eric calmed the excited boy. ‘’Tis not fatal. Ulf sweats blood because he lost his purse in the skirmish.’ Ulf was too tired to offer retaliation. Indeed, all looked exhausted.
The bearlike mercenary explained as he and his men took comfort in ale, their stench overpowering. ‘Ethelred took us offguard in Lindissi, outnumbered us. When I saw him at the head of the a
rmy I knew – did I not say, Ulf?’ Ulf was too tired even to nod. ‘When I saw him leading his men I knew it was already written that we would lose. Ethelred never leads unless he is sure of victory – and by the gods, he was victorious that day!’ Thorald took a clumsy swig of ale; some of his men had fallen asleep with their heads on the table. ‘Burnt every living thing, all those good folk who had harboured us, little babes too, the butcher… And the one called Eadric Streona! I would surely love to meet him face to face – he left us in the lurch and went back to Ethelred!’
‘Where is the King now?’ asked Sigurd.
‘Cnut?’ Thorald drained his cup. ‘Gone to sea.’
‘But he still held hostages!’ Sigurd referred to those given to King Swein during last year’s victory. ‘Why did he not bargain?’
‘You think a devil like Ethelred could care about them?’ Thorald’s head began to droop. ‘Cnut let them go to make room on the ships.’
‘In one piece?’ exclaimed Sigurd.
Thorald thumped the table. ‘For pity’s sake, boy, let me sleep! Nei, they did not go in one piece but four – he lopped off their hands and noses. Now, art thou sated?’
‘And then he turned tail.’ Sigurd showed contempt, viewing the decision to run and fight another day not as proof of maturity but cowardice. ‘Could he not have rowed with you to Jorvik instead of leaving its loyal citizens at Ethelred’s mercy?’
Thorald settled back, eyes closed, but defended the action. ‘He merely goes to Denmark to gather levies. He will return.’
‘So why did you not go with him?’ demanded the boy scornfully.
Thorald’s chest rumbled with laughter, but his voice was drowsy. ‘And leave you to your land, you mean. Cabbage head, do you believe you would be any better off if I did go? You think the English would let you live here as I do? They would flay you alive and nail your skin to the door. That is why Thorald stays in Jorvik – to protect his little friend. Now get you gone and let me sleep!’
