by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
Immediately all adopted their fixed smiles and became attentive to his needs. When they tried to lead him to the bath he groaned and instead they brought sponges to mop his fatigue.
He was still in bed when Ulf paid a visit. ‘I was concerned.’ Getting no response to his statement he approached the couch and looked down at Sigurd. ‘When you did not come to the table I thought mayhap you had been slain in your bed.’
‘You would not be far wrong.’ Sigurd delivered a grin that Ulf had not seen for a long time and, rolling onto his back, presented the reason for his non-appearance.
‘By Christ!’ Ulf stared down at it.
‘You may well praise His name for He is responsible.’ Sigurd could not drag his head from the pillow. Still displaying the trophy, he gave Ulf the details of what had occurred last night. When the other showed disbelief he cried, ‘I fool you not, my friend! I had been with each of them at least twice and still I could not come, and when I woke there was I with this massive great shaft pulsing to be at them and the girls all sitting round discussing a remedy.’ Sigurd pretended to cry, entreating with his hands. ‘Ulf, what am I to do if it does not go down?’
Ulf sat on the edge of the couch and pondered over the dilemma. ‘Hmm… we could always tie a sail to it and float you home.’
At this point a girl entered, a different one from those of the night before. She did not speak but came towards Sigurd with a cup. ‘Oh, be gone, woman!’ With pained expression he waved her away, but she insisted on holding it to his lips until he drank it. As he did so his mind became alerted to the foul stuff he had consumed last night, and he wondered if that had anything to do with his predicament. The girl put aside the empty cup and disappeared for a while, during which time Ulf made more jokes at his friend’s expense. The girl returned naked and without a thought for the spectator climbed onto the couch and mounted Sigurd. Ulf stood and watched the show. He had only to wait seconds.
This time semen flowed, burning, releasing. Sigurd closed his eyes and gave a beatific grin. Never had he been so glad to droop.
Ulf was unimpressed. ‘What a liar!’ He flicked a dismissive hand as he left. ‘All night, says he – hah!’
* * *
In the afternoon Sigurd, Ulf and their friends accompanied the King on an expedition into the market to buy luxuries to take home with them. Cnut demurred the offer of transportation, preferring to go on foot through the narrow streets where he again illustrated his greatness by rubbing shoulders with beggars. A retinue of slaves followed behind to carry the purchases. Far from being lifted by the exotic music, the fun of haggling and the peacock he had bought, Sigurd was toppled into a deep melancholia. He could not stop thinking about Gytha and the pointlessness of life. Depression sat upon his brow like a crown of thorns. Finally, he explained his disability to the King. ‘I must return to my quarters, my lord, for I am like to die.’
Cnut seemed not to regard the malady as life-threatening, and whispered encouragement into the haggard face. ‘Fret you not, it is but the drink you had last evening. It will lift soon.’
Sigurd lowered his gingery brows. ‘How did…?’ Then probing that mischievous smile he remembered the face peering out from behind the wall curtain.
‘My friend the Emperor is a very generous host, would you not say?’ Cnut winked and before Sigurd could offer either rebuke or thanks, the King went on his route.
‘I must be more careful what I drink whilst I am in Rome,’ muttered Sigurd to Ulf who had remained at his shoulder. ‘By the gods, I have never felt so bad in all my days. It will lift soon, sayeth the King; it had better – Ulf, take my knife lest I open my veins and do not give it back to me until I am mended… though I feel that I never shall be.’
However, his depression did ease and his physical problem appeared to have been remedied too. Whether by Christ or King he was unsure, but he was glad of the chance to prove to Ulf that he had been right all along: it was Estorhild who had caused it.
His was not the only success during their stay here. As had been his hope, Cnut had charmed the foreign rulers into giving safe access for English pilgrims and traders along the route to Rome. Spirits were high when they finally sailed home to England, and were boosted even higher with the news on landing that the opportunity had come to take Norway. As Cnut had prophesied, Olaf Haraldsson’s most powerful enemies had been bought over.
‘You cannot go home now!’ the King urged Sigurd. ‘We must spend the winter repairing our boats and strike as soon as possible. I did not take you for a man who would refuse the chance of a fight.’
Ulf, when told that they would not be going home after all, threw up his arms and swore. ‘The King certainly knows how to manipulate you! All he must do is mention the word fight – do you not recall that I am sworn never to fight again after Eric’s death? Did you not consider that I might just like to spend some time at the plough? When all is said and done we have been away for almost two years.’ He caught the expression in Sigurd’s eye. ‘You are still afraid to go home, aren’t you? I thought you were over Gytha’s loss. You seemed much more cheerful of late.’
How could Sigurd explain to one who had never had a child? ‘It is not so much that I am afraid to go home now. There is just something missing. Something that can never be replaced.’
‘And what of your poor mother? Does she not care about you? You cannot spend the rest of your life in perpetual fight, Sigurd.’
The reply was stern. ‘You are a farmer, Ulf, I am a soldier. Do not speak of things you know nought about. If you want to go home, then go.’
Ulf was exasperated. ‘One last time I come with you! But I shall not fight, and the next time I set foot on English soil I swear I shall never leave it again – that is, if I ever manage to see its shores alive.’
Ulf was to be greatly relieved, for when Cnut’s fleet landed in Norway they met with no opposition, only cheers. The tyrant Olaf had flown.
Cnut acknowledged the triumphant shouts of his men, whilst apologizing to Sigurd with a laugh. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you – you were so looking forward to a battle. But it is as I told you. Battles can be won from one’s fireside if one is clever.’
Sigurd shrugged. ‘There will doubtless be others.’ In the anti-climax he thought of Gytha. The pain was ever-present, but none could read it under that mask. Each man here must get on with his own life, and so must Sigurd; what was one man’s grief to another?
On this note he returned with his crew to the ship. The fleet sailed up the Norwegian coast to spend winter in Nidaros where Cnut was hailed as King.
Chapter Fourteen
In 1029 the fleet sailed home to England, taking hostages to ensure peace in Norway. Cnut’s son, Harthacnut, was left behind as King of Denmark and one of his jarls, Hakon, as Regent of Norway. Sigurd arrived in Jorvik with his title of ealdorman and a ship full of exotic goods and captives. In the act of unloading these on to the Staith he asked of Ulf, ‘What will you do now that Eric is dead? You are welcome to live with me if you wish. I know my mother would be pleased.’
Ulf refused. ‘It is because of me that our friend died. Now that I am finally home I must take care of his wife and daughters. But I will stay with you this eve whilst I get my land legs.’ With the goods loaded on to a wagon, he and Sigurd made for Peseholme.
Not far from here, Murtagh was playing truant. It was too fine an afternoon for a ten-year-old to sit waiting for rats to creep out of hiding; he had instead been hunting on the marshes with a net borrowed from his master. His lord had been gone for three years now – hopefully killed in battle – and it had become much easier to sneak from under the old lady’s failing eye. Murtagh could have run away for good had he wanted to and she probably would never notice that he had gone. He had tried to convey this in sign-language to his Aunt Mary but she refused either to understand or to take the risk and he would not leave her. She would doubtless be worried over his absence now, but when she saw the brace of godwits that dangled from h
is fist she would not be so cross. Nearing home he hid the birds inside his ragged tunic lest the Lady Ragnhild confiscate them. It was then that he saw the wagon entering the gates and all his geniality collapsed into terror. From instinct he ran and hid behind a drinking trough, almost in tears so frightened was he.
Inside the enclosure a reunion was taking place between Sigurd and his mother, who appeared to have aged dramatically in his absence. Her posture was stooped, her hair completely white and her downy upper lip puckered as if she were in the constant act of sucking fruit. Yet the rest of her face was remarkably pink and healthy. ‘You do well to catch me at home! I have been out for hours collecting ergot.’ She patted the basket on her arm in which were the black fungus-like spurs that she had picked from shafts of grain.
‘I do not know why you have to do this yourself at your age,’ opined Sigurd as she mopped her brow with a rag.
‘I will tell you why! If I let the wenches do it they’d be using it to abort themselves, and then where would we get our new supply of workers? By Odin, what is this you bring me?’ Breaking with tradition, she reacted most favourably to the peacock and to the other gift her son had brought her – a set of opaque glass cups painted with animals. ‘They are just the thing for a wedding feast!’
Sigurd’s heavily-bearded jaw dropped. ‘Mother, how many times must I tell you, I am finished with wives…’
Ragnhild bristled. ‘Who said ought about thee? ’Tis my own wedding of which I speak.’ When her son gawped at Ulf, she explained. ‘You left me alone for so long that I had to find company.’ Her voice became an exaggerated whisper. ‘The poor fellow, he is not long a widower and needs a woman to take care of him. He cannot bear to be in the house where he lived with his first wife so I have said he shall live here.’
‘The moment my back is turned she gets up to mischief.’ Sigurd received a blow for his impudence.
‘Rascal! Come, he is in the house.’ Ragnhild ushered both men inside where they met her prospective husband, a handsome but unassuming man with the build and attributes of a poplar tree, bending easily to Ragnhild’s whims. ‘We did but wait for your return before we wed. Everything is prepared. Now that you are here the wedding can occur tomorrow.’
‘Hold!’ Sigurd laughed. ‘Grant me time to have clothes made for so wondrous an occasion, for I cannot appear like this.’
‘Quite so,’ his mother agreed, though secretly thinking that under the dirt was a fine-looking man, who had at last grown into his hands and feet. ‘But do not delay or I may be a widow before I am a wife.’
‘That would surprise me not,’ laughed Sigurd to Ulf when they were out of earshot. ‘I would count it a miracle if the poor fellow outlived his wedding night. He is certainly not what you might call robust.’
‘What?’ Ulf sounded indignant for the victim of this criticism. ‘He is a most noble man!’
Sigurd remained merry. ‘Because he diverts Ragnhild’s attention from you?’
Ulf reflected the humour. ‘Any man who takes on Ragnhild has my full admiration. I wish the fellow luck; he shall need it.’
Ulf left the next day to give Eric’s wife the sad news of her husband’s demise, promising to return for Ragnhild’s wedding. At his mother’s carping insistence, Sigurd called for a sempstress and ordered an outfit to be made from the richest material she had, but even this was unacceptable to Ragnhild when she was presented with the finished article.
‘What is the point of having the finest cloth then skimping on the breeches? Look, I can hardly nip an inch on either side of your thighs!’
‘Have a care where you nip, Mother.’ Sigurd jumped.
‘They are no good! You must have three times as much cloth in them. What is the use of being made an ealdorman if you do not advertise your title?’ And the sempstress was packed off to cut the cloth more generously.
There were other cuts to be made. Ragnhild insisted that half a foot be trimmed off Sigurd’s hair. ‘You are seven and twenty years old, a titled and wealthy noble; you must curb your boyish urge to play the Hun. What woman would marry a man whose hair is longer and more lustrous than her own?’
‘I have said there will be no more wives.’ Sigurd protected his crowning glory from her grasp. ‘But I will trim it to a suitable length to appear at my beloved mother’s wedding.’ A ghoulish cry brought a curse from his lips. ‘Before I take a blade to my hair I would sooner take it to that damned bird!’ The peacock had woken him every morning since he came home, strutting amongst the fowl in the garth with its crowned head and fanned tail as if it were a king.
Only on the eve of the wedding did it give them some peace. Sigurd was to find out why at the feast: there it was on the table, complete with head and feathers, its tail fanned out in all its glory.
‘Mother, I did not fetch it all this way just to eat!’
‘Oh, pooh!’ The wrinkled lips jutted out. ‘You complained about it shrieking through the night – and does it not grace my table well?’
Sigurd gasped a laugh and turned to Grimkell, her mild-mannered husband. ‘I trust you are well prepared for my mother’s expensive tastes?’
Grimkell smiled and reached into his pouch. ‘I have something here which may please her.’
‘I doubt it,’ murmured Sigurd to Ulf who hid his smile in a goblet.
Ragnhild showed the gift, a brooch, to all assembled. ‘Such workmanship, such quality… of course, ’tis not as fine as the one my son gave me.’
Sigurd blew bubbles into his wine, drenching his beard and the front of his clothes. Dabbing at them, he laughed heartily, and realized that it was the first time he had done so since before Gytha’s death. Feeling guilty, he rearranged his lips and thought deeply for a moment, thoughts that were only for his child. Since Rome, he had begun to think less and less of Estorhild and Una. Maybe this was the time to start a new life, try to dispel the pain that had haunted him so long.
This he began by having plans drawn up for his new house which the King had given him leave to build on the stretch of high ground that the English called Galmanhowe. But alas, before the builders could be instructed Sigurd was called to accompany Cnut’s fyrd to Scotland, which was a persistent source of danger.
Naturally, he called upon the services of his friend.
‘No,’ came the blunt response from Ulf who did not even stop digging.
Sigurd frowned. ‘What do you say?’
‘I said no, I will not come with you. Have you lost your memory, Sigurd Einarsson?’
Sigurd pulled a face. ‘Oh, I have not forgotten that you swore never to leave English soil again, but…’
‘I meant it, Sigurd.’ Ulf rammed his fork into the soil, unearthing another root. ‘I will not come for you, nor even at the King’s command.’
Sigurd grew pompous. ‘I am your lord and I have need of your services. If you refuse to fight I shall demand a fine!’
Ulf merely sneered. ‘Your browbeating does not work with me, Smallaxe.’
Sigurd compressed his lips. ‘Then I cannot rely on you ever again?’
Ulf drove his heel at the fork and answered tersely, ‘If you refer to my sword, then no. But my friendship is yours forever and my prayers go with you for a safe return.’
And that was as much help as Sigurd was going to get. However, the outcome in Scotland was good. King Malcolm was finally made to pledge his obeisance, and the fyrd returned to England. With his wise administration and respect for law and order Cnut was now at the height of his powers, King of the North Sea, overlord of all those Scandinavians in Ireland and the northern isles, his rights of free passage extending to the Baltic, and Sigurd had taken part in all these triumphs.
His proud mother, as usual, barely gave him chance to get into the house before demanding to hear the tales of his latest exploits. She was not yet dressed from her bed for it was early, but pulled on her clothes whilst he listed his achievements, and beamed at his conclusion. ‘Oh, to think that my son has shared in all the K
ing’s great deeds!’
Sigurd was for once relaxed and apparently happy as he held out his cup for another dash of ale from a sleepy Grimkell’s pitcher. ‘Do not let the King hear you speak of him thus; it has become almost a crime to do so. Oh yes, it is true,’ he told the listeners. ‘Cnut refuses to accept praise for these feats. He says that we should instead give glory to God. His modesty verges on obsession – do you know, he will go to extraordinary lengths to prove that he is not the powerful King we think he is. Oh, you would not believe it…’
‘Tell us!’ begged his mother, still dressing.
‘Very well.’ Sigurd leaned forward in his chair as if about to issue revelation. ‘We had all been showering him with compliments one day, telling him he was lord of all the seas, when he grew most irritated and ordered us all down to the seashore. To prove to us how insignificant he is, he planted his throne at the edge of the incoming tide and commanded the waves to turn back, and when they kept on coming and were lapping round his ankles he cried with great delight, “Know all inhabitants of earth, that vain and trivial is the power of kings, nor is anyone worthy of the name King save Him Whose nod heaven and earth and sea obey under laws eternal!”’ Sigurd ended on a laugh, but then looked concerned. ‘I begin to worry about him and trust that all his great deeds are not to be undone in madness. He will not even wear his crown now, but has placed it on the altar as tribute to One greater.’
‘What a waste!’ breathed Ragnhild.
‘True – but anyway!’ Sigurd changed the subject. ‘There is enough here to occupy my thoughts. If the King is losing his mind he may just decide to withdraw his offer of a house in Earlsburh and make me follow his holy example by scorning riches, so I must get it built as quickly as I can.’
