Jorvik

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

  When told that they would be spending winter in Lunden, Ulf was none too pleased. ‘We should really get the news of Eric’s death to his wife as soon as possible.’

  ‘It is I who have been ordered to stay in Lunden,’ replied Sigurd. ‘There is nought to prevent you from going home.’

  Ulf would not hear of it. ‘I remain by your side.’

  Sigurd patted his hand. ‘You are a good friend. I will be glad of your company. In truth…’ It took courage to utter even to a friend. ‘I am afraid to go home, Ulf.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Is that not ridiculous? Sigurd Einarsson who is afraid of no man’s sword, yet…’

  Ulf waived the explanation. ‘You do not have to give your reasons.’

  Sigurd nodded, patted the other man again, then sighed. ‘So, what do we do about Eric’s widow? Send a messenger?’

  ‘Nay, I would rather it came from my own lips,’ replied Ulf. ‘Whether she receives the news now or in the spring it will not bring Eric back.’

  It turned out that Eric’s widow was not to receive news of his death in the spring, either. Cnut, having been keeping an eye on Sigurd during the winter months in Lunden, was disturbed that all his efforts to bring the man out of his melancholy were ineffectual. Oh, Sigurd carried out his duties to the letter, but there was no enthusiasm in him. When the thaw arrived it might be expected that Sigurd would ask to be relieved and go home but when he failed to do so Cnut sent for him.

  ‘You will be pleased to know that my envoys inform me that there is no imminent threat of attack from Normandy. Robert has not the strength to try his hand yet. So, you must be eager to return north.’ The eagle eyes watched the other’s reaction carefully. ‘I thank you for all the work you have done for me these past months.’

  Sigurd bowed his head and studied the lines on the palm of his hand. He and the King were alone; he felt able to speak honestly. ‘There is nought to go home for. I might as well stay here if I can be of use to you, my lord – if you deplete your troops Duke Robert might decide to attack.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe.’ Cnut was silent for a while before digressing to a more cheery topic. ‘Oh, I have word that my plan seems to be working in Norway! The promise of a title has brought many chieftains over to our cause.’

  ‘That is good.’ Sigurd tried to show pleasure.

  ‘There is also news that the coronation of the new Emperor of Rome will take place at Easter. I intend to go there and pay homage, and on my journey I will pay court to those whose territories bound the Great Road in the hope that my overtures will safeguard passage for our pilgrims – and also for our tradeships!’ He gave a statesmanlike grin. ‘Mayhap I could even persuade them to reduce tolls – and one never knows, I may even be able to do something about Robert of Normandy while I am there. So! Instead of going home with your tail between your legs why not come with me? There is much excitement for a young man in Rome, they say.’

  Sigurd was pensive. A voyage such as was prescribed might help to lift the veil of maudlin. ‘If such is your will I shall come.’

  Cnut heaved in his throne. ‘Christ above! Why do I feel that you are the one to grant me favour?’ Grappling with his frustration, he tried to put himself in his friend’s shoes, saying quietly, ‘You still hate yourself so much that you will not allow yourself to live. Well, if I am to bestow titles on those who mean nought to me should I not reward those whom I call friend? Let me grant you favour so that you may learn to love yourself a little more – as much as I do.’ Cnut looked upon the other fondly. ‘When we return to England from Rome you will be my ealdorman.’ This was the King’s representative acting between monarch and people, a highly respected position in the shire. ‘Ealdorman Aelfric of Eoforwicshire is dead from the bloody flux. You shall fill his role, take care of my royal estate at Eoforwic,’ he used the city’s English name, ‘preside over the shire courts and keep the peace.’ He laid great emphasis on the last word. ‘I give you leave to build a house at Earlsburh and a company of my housecarls to guard it.’

  ‘I am greatly honoured, my lord!’ Sigurd’s face showed that the thanks were genuine. To be granted leave to reside there was to announce one’s importance to the whole city. For that moment a spark of his old ambition was rekindled – there was chance of an earldom yet!

  ‘So, will you come to Rome with good heart and join me in giving thanks to God for His help in the fight for Norway?’

  ‘Gladly, my King.’

  ‘Good!’ And for once Cnut appeared satisfied with his friend’s reaction.

  When informed of Sigurd’s new title Ulf was glad for him too, and without objection agreed to accompany him on the pilgrimage to Rome in the hope that it would heal their winter melancholy over Eric’s death.

  The winds across the channel between England and France blew icy cold and the pilgrims’ ships had to forge their way deep into the rivers of Aquitane before they began to feel any change in the temperature. Once the warmth was felt, however, it was not limited to the sunshine, for here Cnut was to achieve one of his great aims: the friendship of the ruler of Aquitane.

  When their ships would go no further they changed to horseback and no church along the way went unvisited. At every one Ulf, like the King, paid penance for his role in the violence that had brought about Eric’s death. Sigurd joined in these pious interludes, but hedged his bets by making secret offerings to the old gods. Despite Cnut’s words he remained convinced that the move towards total Christianity would be his downfall. If he deserted Thor and Odin, how was he to win battles? This Jesus was meek, preached things unknown to Sigurd – it was all very well for Cnut to say he preferred to win wars with friendship, but sometimes one just had to fight.

  The only fighting that took place in Rome was that in the circuses, between grotesque horned beasts whose skins were tough as mail. Sigurd was agog at this spectacle – and with all he had witnessed since his arrival that morning. ‘Never have I known such an exciting place, Ulf!’ was his enthusiastic verdict as he and the vast audience rose in applause at the bloody conclusion of the afternoon’s performance and jostled their way from the amphitheatre. ‘And the people – look, they are every colour under the sun! Black, brown, yellow…’

  Ulf gave him a dig. ‘People? You mean women! Your eyes have been everywhere. I am surprised you have not sampled any local flesh yet.’ Immediately he realized he had said the wrong thing and quickly changed the subject. ‘But I would not be surprised if you are loth to return to flat old Jorvik after this!’ He spread his arm in an admiring gesture. Rome was a city that shouted grandeur from its seven hills. There were colossal Parian figures that had been visible from miles away as the pilgrims approached, shimmering in the Mediterranean sun – as indeed everything was wont to shimmer here. The houses were built of stone, gleaming white with huge pillars, porticos and domes. ‘If I do succeed in dragging you back I can see what kind of house you will build at Earlsburh.’

  Sigurd’s long nose wrinkled in disagreement. ‘It would look good but I wager it would be like an ice-palace to live in.’

  Ulf noticed that his friend’s gay mood had regressed and holding himself responsible for this with his careless remark, said, ‘Well, let’s go and find out!’

  Cnut had arranged for his loyal retainer to have a room in the palace; Ulf as his friend would share the privilege. On admittance to the palace it was necessary for them to find a guide who would take them to the King. Once on his way along the marble corridors Sigurd regained some of his former buoyancy for there was none of the draughtiness he had expected. ‘Why, I have to admit that I was wrong, Ulf. It is as warm as my own wooden house. How is it so?’ As he moved along the network of passages he swivelled his head about in child-like awe, looking for fires, not understanding that the hot air blew from ducts throughout the royal residence. The splendour of the bronze equestrian statues which loomed up at every turn of the way, the painted women – and men – whom they encountered, the hospitality, all made him giddy, so too Ulf.

/>   ‘So, you have changed your mind,’ teased his friend after listening to numerous compliments about the palace. ‘You think you would like to live here after all?’

  Sigurd looked bemused as they toured the marble labyrinth. ‘I am impressed, but… oh, how can I explain that which is lacking after I have praised it so highly? I do not know what it is.’ The lack which he felt was the cosiness of shadows, for in every vaulted hall he felt as if on display against a glare of marble. ‘I feel like one of those men.’ He pointed to the frieze that graced each wall. ‘Everyone is looking at me.’

  Ulf mistook his meaning and snorted derision. ‘Even here you think that you are the most important person in the world! These people prepare for the coronation of their Emperor – they have not time to stare at you!’

  And Sigurd let the misunderstanding pass as they finally arrived at the quarters that had been designated to the King. Bowing on entry he presented himself to Cnut whilst Ulf waited in the background.

  The King was tired from his travels but had a smile for his visitor. ‘What think you to this splendour, my friend – was it worth the journey?’

  ‘Forsooth it was, my lord, though I am probably too exhausted to fully appreciate it at present.’ All of a sudden the only thing Sigurd craved was rest.

  ‘I, too – so eat well then go to your bed and be fully refreshed to honour the Emperor tomorrow. Your quarters ajoin mine, the guide will show you the way – and Sigurd!’ About to turn away, the other halted for the King to add, ‘All will be well here, you will see.’

  * * *

  Sigurd was led to doubt the King’s sentiment when made to endure hours of piety at the coronation, but after the prayers came feasting and entertainment on a scale that gave him back his zest for living, and he went to his bed much happier than he had done for many a month. He was even happier at the discovery that he was not to sleep alone. Yet there was hesitation too before he approached the couch on which lay a girl clothed in diaphanous gown and golden jewellery. ‘I crave your pardon, lady.’ His eyes scanned her body which could be seen clearly through the dress. ‘I fear that I intrude upon you – I thought this to be my room.’

  The girl’s smile never wavered. She looked very foreign with dark hair and eyes, olive skin, but spoke in English. ‘I am sent to please you, master.’

  At the term of address Sigurd’s face dropped. ‘You are a slave?’ His voice held total disbelief.

  The girl affirmed, looking somewhat concerned at his expression. ‘Am I not beautiful enough for you, master?’

  Sigurd came to his senses. ‘Ja, ja! I had just not expected… You are so richly-dressed for one so low.’

  The smile returned and there was pride in her reply. ‘That is because my lord is so rich and powerful. It is good to have such a master.’

  Sigurd nodded and, thinking of his own thralls, learnt a valuable lesson. He must set about clothing them in a manner that reflected his new status. He dithered by the couch, looking down at her, wanting to touch but fearing Una’s curse. The girl reached out for him. He took a pace backwards. ‘I am not ready yet. Wait there.’

  He left the room and stood for a while, biting his knuckle and wondering what to do. It occurred to him to go into the small room next door and confer with Ulf, but then what use would that woman-fearer be? He began to wander along the marbled corridor. By chance his feet led him past a tiny chapel. He paused for thought, backtracked and went through the fretwork doors. There were shadows here. Diffused candlelight shone through an iron grille speckling the feet of a Christ who dominated the tranquil room. There was no one else present. Sigurd knelt on a mat and asked for the help of the Christian God, begged that he might not go flaccid before he had even entered her. Then, loosening the thong of his purse, he took a handful of silver and laid it at the foot of the statue.

  When he made his apprehensive return he thought for a moment that he had taken a wrong passage; on his bed was not one girl but half a dozen, all of equal beauty and clad in similar diaphanous robes.

  The original girl peered from under her long lashes. ‘My lord saw you leave, master, and thought that he had offended you by only offering one girl.’

  Sigurd was even more confused; he had passed no one either on his way to the chapel nor on his return, he was too low a subject for the Emperor to trouble his mind over, so who was responsible for the favour? He stared at the collection of female flesh on the bed. They seemed not human; six heads but one smile. Where did he begin?

  The girls giggled at his obvious dilemma and leapt up to pull him onto the satin couch. They plied him with figs which he refused, then began to strip off his clothes, one taking charge of his boots, whilst another unbuckled his belt and relieved him of his jewellery and yet another was pulling off his breeches. Whilst they made admiring remarks on his long blond hair, Sigurd’s mind reeled with one thought: I cannot pleasure one, how am I expected to cope with six?

  One of them kissed him full on the lips. In the time this took, her companions had shed their own flimsy garments. Naked, he was tugged into an ante-room where a deep mosaic bath awaited. The females escorted him down the steps and into the warm water, its ripples distorting the elaborate picture on the bottom. They began to wash and stroke him. A dozen hands slithered over his body, into his groin, tumescence formed, in a moment of panic that he was going to lose it, and so lose face, Sigurd grabbed one of the girls under her bottom and entered her. Beneath the water she wrapped her limbs around his torso and drew him into her. He ejaculated at once, grinding his chin into her shoulder and with an embarrassed laugh explained his poor performance. ‘I am not used to such lavish attention!’

  The girl smiled her permanent smile and uncoupled herself. ‘I will fetch you something, master.’ She waded towards the steps. He watched the water trickle down her haunches as she left the bath, then he too was led out by the girls who patted him dry, laid him on a couch and began to massage him with perfumed oils.

  The friction produced warmth deep within his muscles. He closed his mind to all things past, concentrated only on what was happening to his body. The first girl reappeared with a silver cup from which she bade him drink. Sigurd refused, thinking it was wine or ale, which was the last thing he needed, but the girl was firm in a coaxing provocative way and to please her he tossed the contents down his throat.

  They all tittered when he made a face and spat. ‘By the gods! You give me piss to drink!’

  The bearer of the cup retrieved it from his hand. ‘No, master, it will bring you much happiness. Turn over and let us pleasure you.’

  Still grimacing, Sigurd turned onto his belly and closed his eyes. One of the girls caught his long hair in a towel and rubbed it gently. Hands began to massage him, rubbing the oil into every crevasse of his body. Sinew by sinew, he relaxed, opened himself to the sensual experience. They talked in a low foreign murmur as they worshipped him. He became more and more aware of their hands: fingers stroked gently at his temples, gliding in circular motion round and around… palms lubricating his back, easing shoulder muscles, up his arms, round each of his fingernails, down between each digit, fingers locked with his fingers working oil into every battle-scarred muscle, up and down and round and in between, hands massaged his thighs and calves, ankles, heels, toes… A pause. He felt oil dribbled into the small of his back; fingertips worked it round and round, widening the circle, over his clenched buttocks, smoothing, relaxing. Fingertips traced a pattern around the hollows of his back, probed gently at the very base of his spine, slid down the cleft of his buttocks… He groaned.

  Without a pause in their massage they turned him over, anointed him with oil from temple to neck to chest to belly to thigh, knees, shins, ankles, toes. Blood began to pulsate through his body. Fingers crept into his groin, around his genitals, cupping, stimulating, worked up and down and round.

  Relaxation was displaced by vigour and apprehension. Sigurd opened his eyes, dark slits of excitement. Instantly the girls ceased their m
assaging. One of them threw her leg astride him and impaled herself, wriggling her flesh down around his. Sigurd arched to meet her, expecting any minute to explode; but it did not happen. The girl writhed and brought herself to climax, fell away to be replaced by one of her sisters. Whilst she coupled with him, her sisters ran their lips and tongues about his body, breathed warm breath in his ear.

  His thoughts swirled as if he were in some dream. When the next girl threw back her head and shouted in ecstasy his confidence soared. The Christ had listened! Before the third houri could straddle him he had thrown her onto her back and thrust himself at the perfumed flesh…

  It was thus so all evening. He coupled with them all and went with each again, and still he was not spent. Exhausted, he lay back on the couch and paid thanks to Christ: You certainly deliver Your money’s worth, oh God. If anything You are a little too generous. Amidst the ecstasy he thought he saw one of the wall curtains move and the glimpse of a familiar face, but was too tired to object. He tried to sleep, cocooned in female flesh, but the virile member proved a distraction.

  By morning it was still there. One of the girls laid a drowsy hand over his groin, encountered the hardness and obligingly opened herself to his sleepy attentions. Even now it did not wilt. Jaded and extremely sore, he gave up trying and using her breast as a cushion, fell back asleep. When he woke again the girls were sitting up around him. Their eyes on his nether regions, they did not notice that his own had come open to watch them. They spoke in foreign tongue but it was obvious from the note of marvel in their tone just what they were discussing.

  ‘I have never seen it last this long. Do not tell me we have to go through last night’s performance again, it is too tiresome to fake at this time of morning. If he expects me to remedy it he had better wake soon. I promised Sophia I would put beads in her hair, she will be tearing it out thinking I am not coming – and I badly need to shave. Look at the state of my legs!’ She ran a hand up and down them. ‘The way young Priapus performs I shall be here for a week and they’ll begin to look like his beard – oh hush, he awakes!’