Jorvik

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

  Ragnhild did not give acid retort on the stupidity of this comment as she might once have done: she knew that Thora must be as worried about Olaf as Ragnhild was about her son. ‘When I think of him I see only Einar on our wedding day.’ In this rare moment of intimacy with her sister-in-law, Ragnhild’s smile was warm but sad. ‘I cannot imagine him any other way. Oh, why does he not send word, Thora?’ But Thora could only shrug and pretend to concentrate on her lace-making, otherwise she would cry.

  Ragnhild would have been comforted in her loneliness to know that her son was indeed very much like his father. In his seventeenth year Sigurd was four inches taller than the average man, had overtaken Ulf’s height and stood head and shoulders above Eric. His legs remained long and skinny but the upper half of his body had become more muscular from the use of heavy weapons. He was proud of his blond hair and had allowed it to grow very long – almost to his shoulder-blades. A silken covering of hair had developed on his cheeks too, but so fine that it could barely be seen.

  As for every soldier returning from battle, life for the youth was an anticlimax. The first flush of victory at being his own master was now diluted by the stifling mundanity of life in Jorvik. For a time he had been content to perform his skills as a wood-carver, providing new furniture for his home, and to pass his leisure hours hunting; but enacted every day even the latter became just as monotonous as the table games Ulf loved so much. Restless by nature, Sigurd felt trapped, but could not explain what it was he wanted from life. As promised, he had marked out tracts of land for Ulf and Eric, but neither had come around to building themselves a house yet, simply allowing others to work it and drawing the dues. Both seemed content to remain here, if the melancholic Ulf could ever be deemed content. All they wanted was a roof over their heads, food, women and good hunting, each of which the now wealthy young noble could provide. According to his rank of king’s thegn, he was dressed in blue knee-length tunic of finest quality wool, tightly-thonged trousers, flowing cloak, gold brooches and soft leather shoes. His armoury was well-stocked and to ward off boredom, Sigurd had been practising every day with all types of weapons, lately achieving the aim he had set himself, that of ambidexterity – a spear from either hand would now reach equal target. How frustrating, then, that aside from local competition there was no outlet for his wizardry. What was needed was an expedition.

  ‘You mean a viking raid,’ said Ulf when Sigurd made his proposal.

  ‘Ja, it could be called that,’ agreed Sigurd who, hunkered outside in the cloudless morn, was employed in carving himself a saddle bow. After a week of rain it was good to feel the warmth on one’s back – even if it did amplify the stench of rotting offal. Around him echoed the sounds of Jorvik, the lowing of milch cows and cattle brought to slaughter, the methodic clanking and acrid whiff of molten lead from the smelting works, the honking of geese, the shouts of encouragement from man to horse when his wagon got bogged down in the unpaved road.

  ‘On where?’

  Sigurd mused. ‘Ireland?’

  Ulf began to sweep up the chips of wood with a handbrush. ‘The King will not be pleased.’ There had been peace in Ireland for some years and there had always been great links between Jorvik and Dyflinn. Cnut hoped to nurture those good relations.

  ‘The King is not here.’ Sigurd grinned and blew the dust from his handiwork. Cnut’s brother King Harald had died childless and he had sailed to Denmark to assume sovereignty and also to ensure that no new viking raids could be launched on England. Sigurd had not been called upon to accompany him and, as the King was not there to require his duties, had also been excused from his month at court which left his summer free to do as he pleased. ‘There will be women,’ he added, seeking to offer inducement to Eric, who was quite degenerate in this regard. Sigurd himself had recently become more interested in females too, though he had not enjoyed any intimacy yet.

  ‘Knowing you, there will also be fighting,’ grumbled Eric.

  ‘Fat old toad!’ Sigurd tossed his blond hair, nose and upper lip coated in sawdust. ‘How can you bear just to lounge there day after day after day? ’Tis hard to tell the difference between you and that dungheap. It drives me insane to watch you.’ Outside the enclosure, the neighbour was still trying to remove his cart from the mud. Irritated by his exhortations, Sigurd leapt up and went out to offer aid. There were already five men pushing the cart, themselves bogged down to the ankles in mud. Further along the street lengths of duckboard had been laid out to avoid such an accident, but here there were none. Whilst two gossiping housewives leaned over a fence and watched with interest, Sigurd fetched some bits of wattle fencing that he kept for such a purpose and tucked them against the front wheels. Eventually, the timber wagon broke free with a slurping noise. Sigurd’s neighbour thanked his assistants and went on his way. The women returned to gossiping, eyeing the young thegn and letting out an occasional giggle. Self-conscious of his thin legs, and feeling that the laughter was directed at him, Sigurd walked quickly to escape them. Large or small, he had reached the conclusion that communities were identical the world over – everyone was interested in everyone else’s business; yet another reason to get away for a while.

  When Sigurd came back he did not resume his carving but injected all energy into persuading his friends to join his expedition. ‘You eat my food, drink my beer and yet you refuse to keep me company on a little trip!’

  ‘In my experience you are very dangerous company, Sigurd. Little trips have big swords at the end of them.’ Ulf proceeded to brush the chips of wood into a neat pile, then gave way with an air of resignation. ‘But… if you choose to present us as leeches then we have little option.’

  Sigurd grinned and punched his friend in the chest. ‘Do not portray it as such a chore! We will have a merry old time. Now, we must make preparations…’

  ‘First you need thirty or forty other fools such as us to crew the ship,’ instructed Eric.

  ‘I can already name a score who would jump at the chance, and the others will not be hard to find. But as to the route… I have asked around and a merchant tells me that the way to go is down the Use, up the east coast and into the fjords of Lothene and Straeclyd. There is only a narrow piece of land to cover – about twenty miles. He says we can save six hundred miles this way!’

  ‘I could have told you that.’ Eric finished making a ring from twisted strands of tin and leaned back against a wagonwheel. ‘But you must waste your time listening to others.’

  Sigurd was eager to share Eric’s navigatory skills. ‘So you have been to Ireland before?’ Eric’s shrug was noncommittal. ‘Then tell us which way would you go? The man said the northern route is safer.’

  ‘Oh, true, true!’ Eric sounded knowledgable. ‘For ’tis mainly by sea and you save six hundred miles.’

  ‘But I wish to see more of southern England, and perhaps the land of the Wealas…’

  ‘Ja, ja, that would be interesting…’

  ‘…But this man said that the Wealas are savages.’

  ‘And he is right!’ Eric gave a sapient nod. ‘You have never met men like them – in fact they are not men, but devils. I could have told you that.’

  ‘So you do not advise it?’ pressed Sigurd.

  ‘Nei, the northern way is best.’ Eric leaned forward and gave Sigurd the ring he had made. ‘Here, take it, my fingers are laden.’

  Sigurd thanked him and put the ring on his longest finger. It was his first such adornment; though the silver talisman remained on its thong, the blue beads had disappeared in battle. For more permanent decoration he had chosen to have dragons tattooed on his forearms.

  Eric went off to the latrine. In his absence Sigurd paid dubious compliment. ‘You would never guess to look at Eric that he possessed such wide knowledge. I’ll wager he could answer questions on any topic that you put to him.’

  ‘Ask him about the skurrahnefalskrim,’ suggested Ulf without looking at him.

  Sigurd had never heard of this and prodded
Ulf to enlarge, but received only the laconic instruction, ‘Ask Eric, he will know.’

  When Eric returned, shuffling his breeches into place, Sigurd pestered for the answer to his question.

  ‘Have I heard of the skurrahnefalskrim?’ Eric sat down. ‘Of course! Another of these men you keep meeting told you of it, I suppose – he will not know as much as I.’

  ‘I know nothing at all,’ replied the youth. ‘’Twas Ulf here who…’

  Ulf jumped in. ‘I said that you could probably tell him, for I have never heard of it.’

  ‘Never heard of the skurrahnefalskrim? Well, I shall tell you. It is huge.’ Eric spread his arms. ‘Ten times the size of Orca.’

  Sigurd gave an exclamation. Ulf made no murmur and kept his face averted.

  ‘It has teeth like… like the points of that spear! Twenty rows of them. It can both swim and walk and fly. It has a mouth that could swallow ten houses…’

  ‘And there is one behind you,’ announced Ulf.

  ‘What!’ Eric swivelled.

  Ulf turned to Sigurd. ‘That is how knowledgeable he is – there is no such thing as a skurrahnefalskrim. It is a nonsense word.’

  Sigurd collapsed into laughter at his own gullibility, and accused Eric, ‘So you know nought of Ireland neither, you old rogue!’

  ‘He is expert at nothing save how to fart,’ denounced Ulf.

  Eric shrugged off the laughter. ‘I just misheard what you said, that is all! You may have invented the skurrahnefalskrim but believe me there is such a monster as I describe – its name escapes me for the moment. I just pray that we do not run into one for then you will not be laughing.’

  The mustered crew totalled thirty-five, which was only just sufficient to man the oars with no relief in times of fatigue. Sigurd, eager to go, dismissed this, said they would have to place their trust in the wind and with a spirit of adventure he embarked for Ireland. The first leg of his journey down the east coast – which involved the inevitable bout of seasickness – was undertaken without delay for he had made this trip several times before. Much of the coast around the southern tip of England, though, was new territory and Sigurd chose to drop anchor here for a few days, not only from a yen to investigate the towns but to restock with food before continuing.

  As they rounded the peninsula of Cornwall, Ulf and Eric shared the muttered hope that their young friend had forgotten about his desire to see the land of the Wealas; he had not.

  ‘Had I wished to go straight to Ireland I would have taken the northern route,’ he told them. ‘Nei, I am eager to see if these Wealas are really as fierce as you say they are.’ He ordered the helmsman to continue to follow the coast until they came to Brytland whence he gave instructions to haul into the first stretch of beach they encountered.

  One by one the crew members hopped into the sea and dragged the boat ashore. Once landed, Sigurd vaulted from ship to beach and took up a demanding stance, arms akimbo, whilst the wavelets eddied round his feet. ‘Where are all these devils you bragged of then, Eric?’ Noticing that he was getting his feet wet he squelched his way through the shiny belt of worm-casts and seaweed to firmer ground. ‘Why do none of them come out and attack us?’

  ‘Let us hope it is because they have poor hearing,’ suggested Ulf.

  ‘Come! Let us go look for them.’ Sigurd ordered a number of men to remain and guard the boat, then crunched purposefully across the bank of shingle, leading the expedition. Ulf and Eric reluctantly followed.

  The blue sky and sea breeze made it a pleasant if monotonous walk. Keeping to a coastal path they saw nothing for miles and were beginning to get hungry, when the outline of a town appeared on the horizon. Sigurd called a halt, took stock and advised the crew to approach with caution.

  ‘As if we need to be told,’ muttered Ulf.

  Long before they reached the main town they came across a solitary house which, in their numbers, they felt safe enough to enter. There was no one at home. Sigurd opened a door onto a room that smelt of onion broth, which awaited the owner’s return for dinner. There was no woman to tend it. A few of the men went in and sauntered around, picking up bread, apples, a cold fowl and consuming them there and then.

  With no one to detain them they purloined everything of value and moved on to the town, where the relaxed atmosphere served to relax them also.

  The discovery that it was a Norse settlement did not please Sigurd. ‘Devils?’ He rounded on Eric and mocked him for his alarmist conjecture. ‘They are just like us.’ It was for this very reason the young viking did not tarry. There was no excitement to be had here. After a leisurely afternoon amongst the locals they made their way back to the ship. It was still light as they passed the solitary house which they had rifled earlier. Again there was no sign of life. They did not stop this time but marched straight on for it was a long way to their ship.

  The hour grew later. Darkness hindered their passage. Luckily there was not far to go now and shortly there appeared a beacon to guide them; the men whom they had left behind had lighted a fire on the beach, their dark shapes sprawled hither and thither around it.

  ‘Lazy dogs,’ muttered Sigurd, whose feet were aching now. ‘Not even a look-out. We could kill them where they lay and they would know nought.’ The words brought a glint to his eye. ‘Hah! What a devilish plan. Gather you round, men, and listen. We will divide into groups and give them the fright of their lives. The day has been wasted up to now, so let us have a little sport. When I shout the signal we will charge upon them from different angles; they will not know whether to run or piss themselves.’

  Eric did not think much of the plan. ‘What if they do not recognize us and retaliate?’

  ‘It is easy to recognize you even in darkness, fart-arse!’ grumbled Sigurd. ‘Why do you always have to spoil my games? If you move those fat legs fast enough the others will not have time to react. Come! Do as I say.’

  Once in position he gave the signal and his men charged down the grassy embankment onto the beach screaming like lunatics and brandishing weapons. Thoroughly enjoying himself, Sigurd leapt astride the nearest victim, raised his axe and roared, ‘You are dead!’

  To his disappointment there was no scream of fright, in fact no reaction at all. He frowned, lowered his weapon and stooped quickly to peer at the man on the ground. The victim’s eyes were open but he was already dead, congealed blood upon his neck. Sigurd shot upright in alarm, others did the same, but before a word was uttered the Wealas attacked, pouring in their dozens from rock and dune where they had been waiting for the rest of the viking crew to return, streaming across the beach, wielding the weapons they had taken from Sigurd’s dead comrades whom they had massacred earlier.

  Sigurd jumped round to face them but the attack was so sudden and so violent that he was carried backwards and almost lost his footing in the rush. After a brief and painful skirmish he saw that there was little merit in continuing the stand and had to concede that these foreigners were too savage even for a blooded veteran like himself. He gave one last wild defensive swipe with his axe and fled after his comrades to the ship. The pursuing Wealas continued to spear them as they desperately tried to lug their craft into the water, chased them right into the waves and even when they had successfully launched it, the rain of missiles and arrows followed them. When the frantic rowers had put a safe distance between themselves and the land, Sigurd looked back to see fifteen of his crew dead upon the beach.

  A wild-eyed Ulf berated him, leaning vigorously into the oar and addressing his anger to Eric. ‘This is the last time I let him talk us into his mad games! If you hear me agree to anything he proposes, just wrap me in chains!’

  Eric was equally irate, black hair caked with sand and blood, though none of his wounds were serious. ‘When have you ever listened to me? Nor him, neither – I warned him the Wealas were devils!’

  Sigurd made lame excuses. ‘They took us by surprise, that is all! Had I been prepared…’

  ‘Shut up and prepare y
ourself now for hard work!’ barked Ulf. ‘I do not intend to set foot in Brytland ever again and with only twenty of us to man the oars it will be a long haul to Ireland – and Christ knows what you will get us into there! I shall deem myself lucky if I ever get home.’

  After tempers had abated there followed a period of sensible discussion and it was decided that they should try to find a sheltered bay where they could anchor for the night and so recoup strength for the arduous journey ahead. In the morning luck smiled upon them, sending a wind that made the oars redundant for most of that first day of their journey. On the third morning, to the relief of the exhausted crew, land came into sight.

  When the Norse had first invaded this emerald isle they came upon a country of petty kingships and warring tribes. Over the following centuries, internal battles raged between Irish and Norse, Irish and Irish, Norse and Norse… whilst during each tentative truce, native kings intermarried with Norse princesses and raised children of mixed race who were in turn attacked by outsiders of Scandinavian blood. Now, by the grace of Brian Boroimhe, Erin had been free of Norse domination for the past five years. Though terrible foes, the Irish were generous in victory and had allowed the Norse kings to remain in the great seaports they had built along the east coast, where the inhabitants had, in speech and religion, become almost Irish themselves.

  Originally, the young viking had elected not to put in at any of these seaports, for his men would only waste their time drinking and looking for women. However, the ferocity of the coastline and the inadequacy of the crew changed his plans. More than once the ship almost fell foul of jagged rocks, thrown to and fro by the foaming white-tops, and so when a welcoming harbour came into sight he called for the helmsman to steer her inshore.