by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
The Irish called this place Eochaill, on account of its surrounding hills being covered with yew trees. Here, the inhospitality of the coastline was not matched by the people whom Sigurd found warm and friendly, too friendly for his purposes; it was adventure he wanted, not ceilidhs. After a brief sojourn, much to the disgruntlement of his crew, he raised anchor and rowed inland up a skein of black water.
It was late afternoon. Oars flexed against the current, the serpent cleaved the darkly flowing waters, past wooded hills and ancient rocks where moss and fern and ivy vied for prominence and every fissure was probed by some green tendril seeking hospice. The land to either side varied with each contour of the river, from lush to barren, but always there was about it an air of mysticism born of the claustrophobic silence that pursued them. Enclaved by greenery, the viking craft slunk around each curve, feeling its way like an asp hunting prey, but no human did she see.
Towards evening, the waters became shallower. Between them, the vikings decided to make camp for the night and a fire was set on the bank in preparation for the salmon that were to be baked upon it. After the meal, Sigurd prescribed an observation on foot away from the river, but still no humanity could be found. The woods in which they trod began to adopt an aura that was not of this world. As darkness fell, the vikings placed talismen around the camp to ward off evil forces.
In the morning, whilst the mists still hovered round the treetops they relaunched the ship in the hope of catching out some lie-a-bed. Ulf, balanced in the prow, was the one to spot the tents, inducing a ripple of excitement from the crew. The land was more open now, requiring stealth. Mooring the ship, they proceeded on crouched tiptoe, inching forth to take a closer look. Like the wolf they loped in single file, each in the footsteps of the one before so as to present the smallest profile.
The sleepers in the tents were on a return journey from Waterford to Cork. By the number of horses and tents, Sigurd estimated that he was up against only a dozen men at most. If there were horses there would be silver, too. There was no look-out. Pausing, he turned to those behind and by gesture of hand urged the group to split and approach from different angles. The advance proceeded, great precision to each footfall. The lazy atmosphere of the morning took on a sharper edge. As the circle of strangers tightened around them, the horses became uneasy and snorted a warning to each other. From one of the tents emerged a drowsy face – becoming instantly awake as it saw the invaders.
Sigurd gave cry. He and his fellow vikings charged upon the tents, legs leaping high over the tussocks of grass and heather, hacking at the panicked occupants neath the canvas who squealed like piglets in a sack. Some managed to flee the tents before the vikings fell upon them and gave good battle, but most were killed where they lay. An accompanying monk called out to his Maker, but no Christ could protect him from Sigurd’s pagan axe. Since the carnage of Assandun the killing of men, armed or unarmed, came easily. Women and children, wearing only their shifts, ran amok, looked in vain for hiding place, but found no tree to screen them from the awful vision of their men and boys being cut down. Panicked by the open country, their whinnies joined those of the terrified horses which wrenched and bucked against their hobbles.
The killing was over in minutes, terminating in a crescendo of shouting and whooping from the attackers. Fifteen women and young girls were rounded up to be paraded half-naked before the howling savages, poked and prodded in every vile manner. Exhilarated, Sigurd whipped his blond hair from his face and marched up and down the row of trembling females, passing over each sobbing wench until he came to one that he liked the look of. Her face was striking in its terror. She was not dark like many of the others but had wavy, light-brown hair that fell past her shoulders, and very fair skin. Her blue eyes were glazed with shock. She had a very distinct cupid’s bow to her mouth, but this delicacy was at variance with the rest of her, for her bones were large; combined with good carriage this lent the impression of height, however on comparing her with the others Sigurd noted that she was if anything slightly shorter. His detailed examination told him also that her hands were strong and practical-looking, more like a youth’s if they had not been so clasped in entreaty to her breast. Sigurd’s eyes ran south and he was dismayed to notice the bulge of her abdomen.
All desire went. Una shrank as the youth’s tattooed arm reached for her throat, but instead of strangling her he grasped a handful of tousled locks and dragged her forward. When she resisted he uttered guttural words, few of which she understood. The gulf between Norse and Irish was so great that the original invaders had long since dropped their own language to assimilate with the native population, but Norse words had survived and Una who had lived amongst the Ostmen for most of her sixteen years, had learnt to interpret them. However, this man’s accent was very different.
Una’s heart pumped terror through her veins, her whole body quivering under his grip. The other men were older than the one who had selected her. His height and bearing had misled her at first but now, looking at him, she saw that his face was that of a boy, his beard hardly more than fluff. He had a long narrow head, deeply-set eyes and a straight nose. Had she not just experienced his cruelty at firsthand, then the thinness of his lips would have been proof enough. He had the blond flowing locks of the other Lochlannach she had known – though much longer – held back with a band woven of red, blue and silver threads. He was quite slim, his hands and feet appearing too big for such a frame. In a mad sort of logic Una hoped that she would go to him for he would not rape her; the disgust in his eyes when he had noted her pregnancy had told her this.
But alas! Another man was trying to take possession of her. She cringed into her shift. The youth spoke in guttural tongue. His dark and swarthy opponent ignored the threat and pulled her towards him. The youth clamped his arm. It appeared that they were going to fight… Then the older one backed down with a laughing shrug and chose a different woman. Sheer terror and incomprehension of the accent made it difficult for Una to grasp what was being said. At one point, judging from his authoritative posture, she had thought that the youth must be in command, but now she changed her mind as the savages began an undisciplined orgy of rapine. Their only master was Satan. Una stood rooted like a tree whilst all around her women and girls were violated. Sigurd dragged her off to some long grass, where he pulled her down. She screamed and resisted.
That look of disgust appeared again. ‘Do you imagine I would touch you who looks and smells like a sow? Hold your noise and lie there until I tell you to move!’ He formed his words in such a way that made it easy for Una to grasp the gist of them, but she was to frightened to respond to the insult.
Sigurd flopped over onto his belly and parted the grass with his hands in order to watch the proceedings. There was no compassion in his action towards her. Had she not been filled with child he would have raped her. Watching the orgy he grew hard but did not know what to do about it. He felt like rushing out and flinging himself on top of one of the women who lay spreadeagled and weeping, but he did not want an audience for his debut. He had had no sexual dealings with women until now. What if he failed? Besides, he had discarded most of these women as too ugly, apart from the one who sat trembling like the grass nearby. He cast an eye over his shoulder, wondering whether he could force himself to overlook her belly. Her face was as white as that of a Scandinavian woman and the brush of her long hair against his skin when he had grasped her neck invigorated him more than any experience since battle. Whilst others enacted their lust, Sigurd made plans: now that he was a man he needed a wife. This woman was as good as any he had seen; after the child was born he would take her.
Una shivered in fear under his icy blue stare. Fear of him certainly, but fear, too, of her own powers. Yesterday she had witnessed all this as if it were real, seen the golden youth charging through the scrub, blond hair flying, seen the murder and rapine… It had not been a dream. She had been fully conscious and the night had been hours away. Transfixed, she had stood and
watched it happen, whilst others tried without luck to shake her from her trance. When it was over she had fainted and on recovery had attempted to convince herself that it had been imagined, but it had not. Today’s reality corroborated each fact.
It was not the first such happening, but was positively the most vivid. Una’s grandmother had been similarly possessed, able to see these terrible things that no one else could see. It had been her death earlier this year which had marked the onset of Una’s visions, as if they were bequeathed. Una had not wanted them, felt cursed, but knew that she was powerless to resist. Grandmother had predicted long ago that in the passage of time the Sight would be handed down to Una. Until then, she had said, Una must be content to gain her knowledge from the runes. By this source she had also foreseen that Una would suffer a loveless marriage, and it was at this point that Una began to doubt the authenticity of her grandmother’s claims, for the Irish lord to whom she had been given last year in marriage was as noble and handsome a man as any maid could wish for… until the wedding night. Subjected to Eoghan O’Cellaigh’s bestial appetite, Una prayed for escape. To lie beneath his body was an act of such abhorrence that each time her husband went to battle she hoped he would die… and now he was dead, leaving his child in her belly and his brains on the grass.
Una sneaked a look at her captor who was once more watching the violation. At first too terrified to care, the knowledge that he found her repellent now tacked hurt pride to her emotions. Who was this boy to uptilt his nose when he himself stunk of fish and beer and sweat? Wary of eye, she followed the line of his legs, his buttocks, his hard unyielding back, the painted arms and that yellow hair.
His lust unsated, Sigurd grew impatient and rolled over, his body knocking into hers. Una was quick to avert her eyes, but he just laid there, did not speak until the cries of the women had died.
There was much jocularity from the others when Sigurd rejoined them, dragging his captive after him.
‘That was quick work,’ quipped one of them, pointing at Una’s belly.
Sigurd laughed and made a coarse response which Una did not understand, and pushed her at the less-fortunate huddle of women whilst he and others examined the rest of their loot – gold, silver, ivory and silks, goblets encrusted with precious stones; these latter were not to the vikings’ aesthetic taste but would be useful as barter. The women’s clothes were sorted out, the finer kept and the rest thrown back to cover their bruised bodies. Then goods, horses and women were divided up amongst the raiders. Some, like Ulf, preferred to take their quota in metal rather than flesh. Sigurd kept the girl Una and chose another strong-looking wench; Eric selected four.
Morning became noon. Despite the orgy of rape and killing, perhaps because of it, there remained a certain giddiness of manner in the group. Whilst Ulf and Sigurd argued with the others over how many each had killed, Eric pried metal inlay from the spine of a book. ‘Did you see the way that bald one died? He was so fat that when I pricked him he exploded like a troll caught in the midnight sun – poof! I have never in my life seen anything like it.’
‘Fat!’ Ulf stopped arguing and beheld his friend with mockery. ‘Have you never looked down? The gods help us if that were ever pierced.’ He shoved a toe at Eric’s belly. ‘We would all be drowned in blubber – come! Let us take a dip, I badly need to cool off.’ Leaving two of their number to keep an eye on the prizes, the vikings stripped off and pelted naked for the water, laughing and braying like children.
Ulf fought to arrive first, plunged in and began to splash around in circles. One by one bodies hit the water, crashing into each other. ‘I propose a contest!’ yelled Eric.
‘To see who can make the most bubbles?’ Sigurd eschewed the offer. ‘You would win easily, fart-arse.’ He pressed his sole into Eric’s black beard and shoved him disparagingly. ‘And that would not please Ulf who always has to win. Now, if we had a contest to see who has the smallest tool…’
Ulf dived for his friend, knocked him backwards and thrust his head under water. Sigurd tried to wriggle free but Ulf held on. He then tried lashing out with his feet but kicked only water. Above the boiling surface, Ulf clung onto his neck, grimacing with the effort. With no chance to fill his lungs before being pushed under Sigurd was now desperate for air. Expelling the last bubble through his lips he started to buck and thrash about. The dragons reached for life. Still Ulf held him under. Sigurd’s head began to pound. He must breathe, he must… reflex forced him to inhale, water flooded into his belly and lungs, he began to drown… a warm black cloak descended over his eyebrows.
Una witnessed this accident from the bank, watched in grave concern as the youth’s limp body was dragged from the water and his friends started to pump his back. The concern was for herself, not Sigurd; if he died she had lost her protection from the others.
Sigurd barked and hawked, buttocks lifting from the ground as his retching body vomited water. Eric cackled and Ulf delivered one of his rare grins. ‘Me-thinks you win the bubble contest, Sig!’
Una realized with a jolt that it was not an accident at all, it was a game! These men were truly mad. She continued to watch as the young viking aimed a vicious foot at the one with the cropped hair. ‘Bastard! I will not play your games again.’ He barked, coughed, then rubbed his gut.
‘Here!’ Still naked, Eric made a generous offer. ‘I caught this fish this morn, you can take it.’
‘Fish! I have probably swallowed half the river.’ Sigurd got to his feet, coughed loudly and shook the water from his limbs as if nought untoward had occurred. ‘Nei, I go hunting. I have a fancy for something on four legs.’
Eric passed a look of disgust to Ulf who was now dressing. ‘By Christ, this man will shag anything. If you are tired of your little girl already will you not loan her to me whilst you are away?’
Una was heartened to get the gist of her captor’s remark, ‘Touch one hair and you die, fatman,’ though all the while he was away she felt at risk. Relief at seeing his blond head bobbing across the heath with his fellows was sullied with what occurred next.
‘Not a thing!’ railed Sigurd. ‘No so much as a blackbird in this wretched countryside – we walked for miles! Well, I am sick of dried meat. I, am determined to have fresh fayre even if it means having to kill one of the horses.’ With this he sized up the captured nags, selected one and ordered his men to despatch it, whilst Una looked on in disgust.
Her loathing was to be compounded when the horse had been skinned. Sigurd hacked off a piece of its rump and threw it at the captives, spattering them with blood. ‘Here! You shall cook this, then maybe we will give you a bite.’
‘I have something they could take a bite of,’ offered Eric, ever generous.
‘Filthy pig,’ muttered Una, and interpreted the lewd suggestion to those who did not understand. A few of the women complied with Sigurd’s order whilst others dumbly refused to budge. By some hand or another the meal was served and consumed – though not by the prisoners, whose stomachs were too bilious with torment.
The afternoon was passed mainly in rest. Towards evening, the vikings drank heavily from the barrels they had brought from their ship and at sunset were once again playing dangerous games. The large bonfire provided more fun. ‘I wager three of my women to your girl that you cannot walk through flames,’ slurred Eric, addressing Sigurd.
Una tensed, but the youth was contemptuous. ‘They are all hags – if you put up ten marks of silver I might consider it.’
‘Done!’ Eric thumped the ground. ‘Let us see you.’
The glowing embers were poked and tossed about to form a smouldering carpet. Sigurd, the worse for drink, teetered on the edge of the fire, eager for an opportunity to show off in front of the girl.
‘Oh, ja, very good!’ sneered Eric. ‘Anyone can do it with boots on! I do not pay ten marks to cheats. Take them off.’
‘Off! Off!’ chanted the drunken horde.
Sigurd objected loudly, but in the end unlaced his boots, thre
w them at Eric then belched and primed himself. The flattened fire could not be more than three yards wide; it should be easy. He hesitated… then performed the wager in one swift rush. ‘Aah, ooh, shite!’ He was only into the middle, his legs working faster and faster as his soles began to burn, he hopped and jumped the last portion and fell over to great appreciation from the onlookers, whence he rolled about nursing his badly blistered soles. After much theatrical display, he hobbled bandy-legged on the edges of his feet to collect his money from Eric. ‘As my mother would say, “I am not a vindictive person, Eric, but I hope your balls drop off”.’ He dropped his impersonation of Ragnhild and spoke in a normal voice to negate Eric’s offer of the women. ‘Nei, you can use the old hags for now, I will have them for labour when we go home.’ He flopped heavily beside Una to drink more ale and bawl lewd songs. Occasionally he put his hand inside her dress when he knew he had an audience, though it was done more from bravado than lust; she hummed worse than a goat.
Una permitted this indignity, having endured much worse at the hands of her dead husband. Besides, to remain serene under such childish molestation helped to elevate her above his heathen level. As the youth grew drunker she took from a knotted corner of her shift a collection of stones marked with runes and put them down before Sigurd.
‘You want me to throw them, ja?’ He made a drunken gesture. She nodded. In exaggerated manner he took the pebbles one by one into his fist then scattered them at her dirty feet and joked, ‘Will I die the morrow?’
Catching his drift, she scrutinized the runes for a moment, then replied in her own tongue, ‘Ye’ll live to be an old man, finn-gall.’
He understood the term of address – ‘fair-foreigner’, having heard it in Eochaill, but the rest was gibberish. He shook his head to show incomprehension. With the headband gone astray, his hair tumbled about his bleary face. Una could have pretended ignorance, need not have spoken to him at all, but something compelled her to repeat her statement in halting Norse, ‘You shall live to be an old man, very old.’
