Jorvik

by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)

  In the south the Witan was already beginning to regret its decision to welcome Ethelred back, for he had returned to his old ways, paying Thorkell the Tall and his army at Grenewic twenty-one thousand pounds in the hope of keeping their services. Thorkell and his nine ships had now rowed out of Grenewic harbour: no one was privy to his whereabouts.

  This uncertain state of affairs continued into the autumn when a flood-tide swept far inland destroying many homesteads and drowning a countless number of human beings. The vernal equinox brought no alleviation. Sigurd, now twelve and officially a man, waited for news of Cnut’s return, but none came. In company with most of those inside the Danelaw, he knew little of what went on down in the south; it was a completely different world.

  If Sigurd had but known it, the enemy had fallen into disarray. At the Great Council at Oxnaford, Ealdorman Eadric Streona had redeemed his folly of backing Cnut by murdering the leading thegns of the Danelaw, Siferth and Morcar who had given in so easily to Swein Forkbeard. Ethelred had been accessory to this by confiscating the dead men’s properties and ordering Siferth’s widow to be taken hostage to keep the Danelaw quiet. Out of the blue, Ethelred’s son Edmund – perhaps with a thought to winning the affections of the people – rescued Siferth’s widow, and not only had the audacity to marry her but grabbed all Siferth’s and Morcar’s property too. This might endear him to the folk of the Danelaw but not unexpectedly it alienated him from his father and also enraged Eadric. The might of the English army was gradually eroded by private feuds.

  Messengers brought the news to the north. In Jorvik Sigurd and the rest of the population waited anxiously behind the wooden barricades to see what happened. What happened was that Edmund had enough strength behind him and was such a good general that by September, with his father laid low by illness he had captured most of the Danelaw. As the fall of Jorvik seemed unavoidable, Thorald held a council of his remaining men. Sigurd, eager to be involved, joined them at the table.

  ‘We must weigh matters very carefully.’ In the shadowy interior, Thorald played with one of the rings on his fingers, twisting it round and round. ‘’Tis all very well waiting for Cnut to return, but what sort of position does that place us in? If we make a stand – always assuming that we could find enough men to stand with us – and we fail, then even if Edmund does not kill us he will certainly confiscate all our property.’

  My property, thought Sigurd childishly.

  Thorald laid his palm firmly on the table. ‘I say we should ride out and offer Edmund our services.’

  Sigurd expressed shock at the disloyalty. ‘But he is the son of Ethelred!’

  This meant nothing to those who sold their allegiance to the highest bidder; most regarded him with derision. Only Ulf and Eric voted against the action, but even they agreed to fall in with the majority verdict.

  ‘You cannot!’ Sigurd thumped the table and glared at each one of them. ‘Cnut is our rightful King.’

  Thorald looked tired. ‘But Cnut is not here.’

  ‘He shall be!’ Sigurd beat the table again, rattling spoons. ‘And when he comes I shall inform him of your treachery!’

  ‘He is a personal friend of Cnut,’ was Ulf’s dry explanation to Thorald.

  The mountain of hair sighed. ‘I knew I should live to regret permitting you to keep your life, Smallaxe. My heart has grown too fond of you. I hope you will not be so foolish as to pursue that intention for I would not enjoy killing you.’

  I shall enjoy killing you, though, thought Sigurd as the motion was carried and the meeting broke up.

  When the inevitable came and Jorvik fell, life was not so very different. Allied to Edmund, Thorald was allowed to keep all his property and Sigurd retained his precarious role. Then came the glorious news that Cnut had landed in the south bringing with him the vast experience of Jarl Eirik, Regent of Norway, his own brother Harald, and a massive army. It was also clear at last where Thorkell the Tall had crept off to all those months ago; familiar with Ethelred’s penchant for leaving his mercenaries in the lurch, Thorkell had taken his money and had sailed to enlist with Cnut. There was little effective resistance to Cnut’s army, for Ethelred lay wasting in his bed. Sigurd was quick to point out Thorald’s mistake in bartering with Edmund; they should all ride out now and join the viking force.

  Thorald seemed unconcerned, picking his teeth with a bone needle. ‘You little schemer! Up to your tricks again – you persuade me to go in the hope that I am killed and then you can have your land back.’

  ‘That is not so!’ objected Sigurd. ‘I want to go and fight too. We should support the King.’

  Teeth cleared of meat, Thorald put the needle back into the hollow bird-bone that hung from his belt and explained as if to an infant: ‘Smallaxe, as we speak there are three kings in England. I support whichever one is close at hand and at the moment that happens to be Edmund.’

  There was another who saw the wisdom in this attitude. Eadric Streona despatched a messenger to Edmund, suggesting that they join forces. Edmund was well aware that most of his father’s past difficulties had been because he had accepted poor advice from his councillors. He had also seen how treacherous Eadric could be. However, his own army was jaded from constant battle whilst Cnut’s was fresh; reluctantly he agreed to meet Eadric. Afterwards, the ealdorman paid another call.

  On this dreary evening, Sigurd and a group of Thorald’s men were kicking an inflated pig’s bladder around the yard, when a party of riders clattered through the gates.

  ‘Attend the horses, boy!’ A richly-dressed man alighted and threw his reins at Sigurd. The latter, startled into compliance, barely saw the visitor’s face as he hurried through the dusk, but he brought with him an air of menace and the grammar was English.

  Thorald’s portly frame barred the doorway. ‘Who comes?’

  Jaundiced of mien, the boy poised with the reins in his hands, his ear cocked for the identity of the one who had insulted him.

  ‘You are Thorald?’ The voice was muffled by the restless jingling of harness. Sigurd tied the reins to a post and hurried towards the house but the door was barred to all save the host and his visitor whose own men were left standing in the dusk. Sigurd leaned towards Ulf and from the edge of his mouth asked, ‘Doest know who he is?’

  Ulf shrugged and viewed the newcomers with mistrust until the more gregarious Eric called for them to join the game. Undeterred at being barred, Sigurd unlatched the door and marched inside just in time to catch the announcement, ‘I am Eadric of West Mercia, counsellor to King Ethelred.’

  If Sigurd had held a weapon then he would have used it. ‘A dog of Ethelred’s in my house!’ The words were uttered under his breath but Eadric glanced up at him sharply. His eyes were those of a predatory rodent. Punctual as a moulting stoat, Eadric would change his colours with autumn and spring. Like the stoat he might change hue, but he could not shed the black tip of his tail that marked his wicked nature.

  Thorald looked up too and noted the boy’s shiver. ‘What ails thee, Smallaxe?’

  Sigurd gathered his wits. ‘I came to ask if your guest requires wine, hersir.’

  By the glint in his eye, Thorald had seen through the politeness, but allowed the youngster to eavesdrop for the moment. Accepting the offer of wine he bade Eadric voice his business, discounting Sigurd’s presence. ‘Have no care for him, he is just a boy. So, my lord Eadric, I have long wished to meet you!’ Sigurd glanced at them as he went to pour the wine. With the room in darkness, apart from the immediate area around the fire, he saw only disembodied faces. The effect was one of evil.

  Eadric drank from the wooden cup provided and spoke to his host. ‘I am flattered.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ replied Thorald.

  A silence followed in which each man came to gauge a likemindedness in the other. From outside came the jeers and exhortations of those who played more innocent games. Eventually, it was Eadric who breeched the hiatus. ‘I am given to understand that you are a man of some influe
nce in this city.’

  Taking a second or two to interpret the comment, Thorald gave a diffident shrug. ‘There are some who listen to what I have to say.’

  ‘You are a loyal subject of Edmund?’

  The Norseman became more wary; his eyes glittered over the rim of the cup. ‘But of course.’

  Eadric regarded him for a while, then was blunt. ‘Some say that you are an opportunist.’

  ‘A lie!’ Thorald looked wounded. ‘Which man told you this? I will stick him on a skewer!’

  Eadric showed disdain at his melodrama. ‘I have come to ask, what price your loyalty?’

  Thorald narrowed his eyes and placed different emphasis on the last comment. ‘You come to ask can I be bought.’

  Eadric took another gulp of wine. The way he moved his tongue against his palate showed he had drunk better. ‘I make no offers yet, but should it happen that Edmund’s men become disaffected and wish to return their allegiance to the rightful King…’

  Thorald cut him off abruptly, deciding it was time for Sigurd to leave. ‘More wine, my lord?’ When Eadric shook his head his host turned to the boy. ‘Leave us now, Smallaxe.’

  Sigurd pressed his lips together at being so dismissed, but was forced to exit. However, he had caught the gist of the conversation: Thorald was being asked to fight with Ethelred – and after all they had been through to conquer him! Outside he sought the company of Ulf and Eric, drawing them away from the game, to tell them of the conspiracy.

  ‘That man is one of Ethelred’s counsellors!’

  ‘I could have told you that,’ drawled Eric.

  ‘Then why did you not say?’ demanded the boy.

  ‘You did not ask.’

  ‘What else do you know of him?’

  Eric tried to look intelligent. ‘Oh, there is a great deal I could say if I had the time, but hark! The others call me back to the game.’

  Sigurd grabbed him. ‘You knew that he was in there conspiring with Thorald to fight against our King?’

  ‘Well…’ Eric was saved by Ulf.

  ‘Pay no heed to this bag of wind. Art certain what you heard in there?’

  ‘Have I not ears?’ Sigurd waggled a lobe. ‘They intend to join Ethelred.’

  Ulf pondered, nipping his weak chin. ‘Then I fail to see what we can do.’

  ‘We must ride and warn Cnut of this treachery!’

  Eric shook his black mane. ‘Oh, nei! The risk it is too great.’

  Sigurd grew angry. ‘You are both cowards!’

  ‘We are fond of living,’ amended Eric.

  ‘Overfond! Look at your fat belly. Tell me, why did you fight for Swein and not his son? Why did you come to England in the first place? If all you wanted to do was sit on your arse why not sit at home?’

  ‘Hush! Keep your voice down.’ Eric looked over his shoulder then replied to the angry questions with logical calm. ‘We fought for Swein because he was mighty. Cnut is only a stripling. We are not mercenaries like Thorald, but farmers. We came to England for land…’

  ‘But you have no land!’ argued Sigurd.

  Eric had to agree and waved his flippers. ‘Not yet, but Thorald permits us to…’

  ‘Thorald has no land either! The land he holds is mine, and when Cnut triumphs it shall be so again!’ Sigurd’s voice turned crafty. ‘But I could be persuaded to grant some of it to my friends.’ He waited for a response. When none came immediately he spat at them, ‘Well, I for one will not hang back and watch my father’s murderer reclaim this country! I go to ride with Cnut.’

  ‘Wait, wait!’ Ulf dragged him back. ‘You cannot go alone and you certainly cannot go now, for Thorald will guess at your absence and have one of us ride after you.’ He thought for a while about the boy’s offer, speaking his views aloud to Eric. ‘We should not be so hasty to throw away this chance of land that the lad offers. Cnut is young, it is true, but he has men of vast experience as his shoulder-comrades – Jarl Eirik and Thorkell. ’Tis said he makes great headway in Wessex; with English loyalties split between father and son it is not impossible that Cnut could be victorious.’ After the briefest of pauses Ulf made his decision. ‘So be it, we will go with Sigurd.’

  He looked taken aback by this himself, but no more than Eric who reeled in dismay. The surprise was not that the decision had been taken for him – it was always thus between the two of them – the question was, why did Ulf bother to appoint himself as Sigurd’s protector? ‘There is no need for the boy to go, Ulf, no one forces him.’

  ‘Nei, but he is right about Cnut. We should not desert him. Besides, what have we to lose?’

  ‘Our lives?’ Eric spoke the obvious.

  Ulf confirmed Sigurd’s previous opinion. ‘Thorald keeps promising to give us land but we see none.’

  ‘The only land you will see is six feet of earth if you go creeping off with this headstrong fool.’

  ‘Who said we must go now?’ asked Ulf. ‘We wait until tomorrow when Thorald goes hunting. He will think it odd if we decline to go with him but we can slip away in the forest.’

  ‘In broad daylight?’ Eric was stunned.

  ‘Better than trying to sneak out after curfew.’

  Eric gave a cynical laugh. ‘Better to stay put altogether…’ He glanced at Ulf and abandoned his argument. ‘Oh, I see my mind has been made up for me! So be it, I go – but this little prick had better not be fooling us.’

  Sigurd made dignified comment. ‘I never lie to those I call friend; to them I am loyal unto death.’

  ‘You are no good to me dead,’ grumbled Eric. ‘A dead man cannot give me land.’

  ‘Then you will just have to ensure I stay alive.’ Sigurd directed a pointed grin at Ulf.

  The next morning, with the rough knowledge of where Cnut’s army could be found, they gave Thorald the slip and rode for Wessex. One by one the horses went lame, forcing the trio to proceed on foot. Autumnal storms chased them over heath and marsh. Shoes burst, were repaired and burst again. Sigurd’s feet throbbed as if on fire. ‘By the gods, I wish I had eight legs like Sleipnir.’ He spoke of Odin’s horse as he limped along.

  ‘I wish I had eight penises but no one will give me them.’ Eric looked so deadly serious that the boy was forced to giggle.

  Eric chuckled too, walking in his cumbersome fashion, flap, flap, flap, but Ulf could not see the joke. ‘Christ, where is this damned King?’ He stopped at a spring where a tin cup dangled on a pole, put there for the convenience of wayfarers. In the bottom was an inch of rainwater and an assortment of dead insects. Ulf tipped them out and ladled water from the spring. The others waited to make use of the cup too.

  After drinking, Eric spat. ‘If there is no alehouse soon I shall turn back.’ He broke wind.

  Ulf wafted with a hand. ‘Well, you have put paid to our chances of finding the King today. If he was in the vicinity he will be miles away after getting a whiff of that.’

  Sigurd was taking his turn when his deeply-set eyes were lit by a glimmer of recognition. Almost invisible against the banks of pewter cloud was a wisp of smoke from a campfire. Urging his friends on, he was relieved to see more tendrils of smoke and a large assembly of men and tents. This surely must be the King. ‘It is best if I approach alone,’ he told the others. ‘For Cnut knows my face.’

  Ulf agreed and sat upon the ground, not caring that it was wet for his whole body ached. ‘Ja, ’tis best. If he sees this ugly old fart he may kill us without quarter.’

  Sigurd had no horn to blow in order to show that he came without subterfuge, but confident of his reception he marched openly across the pasture to where Cnut’s army camped. No one took any notice as the boy wandered around the group of tents. Only when he saw a tent more splendid than the rest with the King’s banner fluttering at its apex, did his approach give others cause for concern. Within feet of his target, he was seized by guards and treated as an enemy.

  ‘I come as friend to see Cnut!’ It was difficult to talk with the soldier’s arm choking
him.

  ‘How did he get this near to the King without anyone stopping him?’ demanded the furious Commander of the Guard, whilst his free hand pulled the knife from Sigurd’s belt. ‘This could now be embedded in Cnut’s heart!’

  ‘I come not to harm the King but to warn him!’ croaked Sigurd, hands gripping the restrictive arm.

  ‘Cut him down!’ ordered the Commander and sent him tumbling.

  A guard pulled his sword. About to die, the boy shrieked in horror, ‘Cnut, my friend!’

  The flap of the tent was pulled aside and there stood the King. ‘Who calls upon my friendship?’

  The executioner stayed his hand, giving Sigurd precious time to call out his identity. ‘It is I, Sigurd Einarsson!’ Unable to stand, his white face appealed.

  ‘He came armed to your tent, my lord,’ explained the Commander, holding up the knife.

  ‘Stand!’ Cnut was twenty-one now but had altered little since that meeting with Sigurd. The boy, on the other hand, had grown out of all recognition; the King did not know him. ‘Who sent you?’

  Sigurd was frantic. ‘None, my lord! I alone come to serve you.’

  The hawkish face showed rejection. ‘Serve me with a knife in the back!’

  ‘Nei! Upon my oath I am a loyal subject. Do you not remember? We passed a summer at Gæignesburh when your father laid siege to Lunden.’ He enunciated his claim to friendship. ‘Sigurd Einarsson!’

  The King shook his head. Sigurd felt wretched that he should be so unmemorable, but was now forced to rush on in order to protect himself. ‘I came here to warn you of treachery! Thorald of Jorvik who was your man now fights on the side of Eadric of Mercia. I came to offer my aid in his defeat.’

  The golden young King looked accusing. ‘An honest man would have warned of his coming, not crept in like a serpent.’

  Perspiration oozed from the boy’s armpits. ‘Lord, I have no horn to blow! But I am ready to pledge my loyalty.’

  ‘Why should I trust you?’

  Sigurd could offer no reason. ‘I can only give you my word that I hate Ethelred with all my heart and have promised vengeance on him and all his kin. If I lie you may cut off my tongue!’