Jorvik

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

  So savage was the torture that Alfred died. Sigurd awaited repercussions for his impulsive act, but only Alfred’s mother the Queen was there to mourn. With this opposition disposed of and the most powerful of Englishmen on his side, Harald Harefoot was crowned King and Emma was exiled to Bruges. His position fortified, Sigurd returned to Jorvik where life went on as before.

  * * *

  At Lammastide Ulf brought the dues he had collected from Sigurd’s tenants, explaining the presence of the lamb that he carried under his arm. ‘I am away to St Peter’s to have it blessed.’ Setting the lamb down, he began to unfasten the pouch from his belt. ‘But I thought I should bring this first or some thieving monk would filch it in the crowd.’

  Sigurd made a grunt of acknowledgement. ‘As if they don’t take enough.’ He resented giving his dues to the church – Peter’s Pence on St Peter’s Day, Ploughman’s after Easter, tithe of young beasts at Whitsun, hardly a month went by without such extortion. ‘You know, Ulf, I think I shall build a church at Osboldewic so as to retrieve some of the money I’ve paid. If it is on my property I should get dues.’

  ‘Well, here are some to be going on with.’ Ulf put his leather bag of cash into Sigurd’s hand and accepted the offer of a seat and refreshment. They were the only occupants of the main hall, the housecarls in rough play outside on this hot August morn. Through the open door came oaths and the clanging of weapons.

  Ulf appeared to have something to get off his chest. It was not long before Sigurd discovered what that was.

  ‘I hear rumour that disturbs me. They say you did blind the Ӕtheling, and so viciously he died.’ When Sigurd did not respond, Ulf looked him in the face. The hollows of his eyes gleamed with sweat. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘You are well aware of the blood-feud I have with Ethelred and his kin.’ Sigurd’s hair hung lank with the heat.

  Ulf’s bland visage changed to one of accusation. ‘Yea, but to treat a lad so vicious…’

  ‘’Tis done, Ulf.’ Sigurd’s voice warned his friend not to press the recrimination.

  But Ulf would not be bullied. ‘These grudges of yours, they last too long, they shall destroy you.’

  ‘Hah! You are a fine one to talk of grudges, you who almost drowned me once.’

  ‘That was not grudge!’ Ulf looked at him as if he were mad. ‘I say my piece and then ’tis over, but you… ’Tis thirty-five years since your family was massacred – how long shall the feud prevail?’

  ‘For as long as Ethelred’s heirs lay claim to the English throne.’ Sigurd rose and called for more drink. A terrier got in his way; he kicked it out of temper with Ulf. The dog yelped.

  Ulf regarded him with wry mouth. ‘And you will tell me now that that is the dog who pissed on your boots in 1026.’

  Sigurd had to laugh, but reminded his accuser, ‘I once told you that to a friend I am loyal unto death, but the reverse applies to my enemies. I had every right to kill him, Ulf.’ He donned a pained expression. ‘Besides, he insulted me… called me dunghill cock.’

  Ulf shook his head and leaned his elbows on his knees. During the quiet interval Sigurd watched the lamb which bleated plaintively and eyed the lounging wolfhounds by the hearth. With the lack of conversation from Ulf, Sigurd felt that he was brooding over his friend’s unchivalrous deed, but when he looked more carefully he thought there might be something else. Ulf appeared shifty and ill at ease. ‘What is the trouble, my friend?’

  ‘Trouble?’ Ulf looked not at him but down into his cup. ‘Why should there be trouble?’ A glob of sweat trickled down his nose and hung on its tip.

  Sigurd indicated the bag. ‘If the money is short…’

  ‘The dues are all paid!’ The droplet flew off. ‘Have I ever failed in my duties as reeve?’

  ‘Nay, I did not mean to offend,’ hurried Sigurd. ‘But something is amiss, I can tell. It is not just this other business. I just fancied…’ He spoke earnestly. ‘You know you need never fear me, Ulf. If one of my tenants is being truculent…’

  ‘Fear you? Hah! I have told you it is all there. Count it if you do not believe me!’

  Sigurd threw the moneybag at the table with a curse. Alarmed, the lamb skittered across the wooden floor and stood baa-ing next to the huge dogs. One of them unfolded its great wiry frame and loped off to a quieter corner. The other lifted its head to nose the lamb, then flopped back unconcerned.

  Ulf emptied his cup at one go and put it down. Standing, he clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace up and down the hall, trying to appear nonchalant but only making his manner more staged. The lamb tottered after him. He coughed, his back to Sigurd. ‘Did you hear that Eric’s wife is with child?’ After a moment’s calculation, Sigurd frowned. ‘But how can this be? Eric has been dead eight – nay, nine years!’

  Ulf dealt a withering look over his shoulder.

  ‘You mean…’ Sigurd laughed aloud. ‘Why, you have been taking care of her – Ulf you sly old woolf!’ He slapped his knee and howled amusement. ‘By the gods, you could give me no greater shock if you told me my mother was risen from the dead!’

  Ulf turned on him, highly offended.

  ‘Nay, nay, old friend I cast no slur!’ Sigurd grabbed Ulf’s upper arms. ‘I think it is wonderful. ’Tis just that you have shown not the slightest inclination to take a wife… well, well, well.’ He shook his head. ‘This calls for a feast of celebration.’

  At centre table was a great drinking horn that he used for ceremonial purposes and otherwise kept for ornament; even without the silver mounts it would have been most beautiful, ivory-coloured with smudges of grey and black – resembling marble or agate rather than horn. It held four quarts of ale and was often the source of competitions and after-dinner toastings. He grabbed it now to toast the auspicious news.

  ‘Leave it till the child is born,’ bade Ulf. ‘I would not tempt the gods.’ Still embarrassed, he edged on to the bench hardly able to look at Sigurd. ‘You are not angry, then?’

  Sigurd was nonplussed. ‘Why should I be angry?’

  Ulf examined his hands, constantly a-fidget. ‘I am angry with myself. Eric was our friend, I feel I have betrayed him.’

  The reply was uttered with amazement. ‘By taking care of his widow?’

  ‘By taking advantage of her. I had no intent… it just happened.’

  ‘Ulf, you have lived with her for nine years. It is a miracle that it has not happened before. Come! Be not melancholy. I am so happy for you that I will even come to St Peter’s to pray for a healthy child. When is it to be born?’

  ‘Around Yule.’ The rock-face grimaced. ‘What sort of father would give a child such a bad start in life?’ He picked up the lamb and rubbed its curly poll.

  Sigurd thought of his dear Gytha and said gruffly, ‘You will be a good father to this one just as you are to Eric’s girls.’

  Ulf looked gloomy and shook his head.

  But his pessimism was groundless; in the depths of the winter solstice his wife – or Eric’s wife, as he insisted on calling her – gave birth to the most robust of sons.

  ‘A boy?’ Sigurd showed disbelief when Ulf arrived with breathless news.

  ‘Ja! And fists on him like a pair of hammers!’ Ulf could not conceal his pride, lapsing into his old dialect.

  ‘A son…’ Sigurd remained mystified as to how this could happen. ‘But we all had girls. Eric sired four daughters, I myself…’

  ‘You think I did not have it in me?’ Ulf delivered a pointed glare and thumped his own chest. ‘It takes a man to get a man!’

  Sigurd delivered a thump too, half in retribution but mostly in pleasure. ‘You do not use it very often, Ulf, but when you do it is certainly to good effect – my friend, I am most happy for you!’ He grasped the other’s arm, face sincere. ‘Come, let us toast the child and then you must take me to see him.’ A crafty twinkle lurked in the deep-set eye as he held the ceremonial horn for a slave to fill. ‘I will not believe this till I witness it for myself!’


  * * *

  Sigurd was to have little acquaintance with Ulf’s son throughout Asketil’s babyhood. Less than a year after his birth came the news that Harthacnut had made a pact with Magnus of Norway that allowed him to leave Denmark without fear of losing it, and sail for England to claim his throne here. Apart from Harefoot, who awaited his homecoming with apprehension, Sigurd and Earl Godwin had most to lose, not only for their support of Harald but being responsible for the death of his other half-brother, Alfred. Much was the relief of all three when they heard that he had dropped anchor at Bruges to seek his mother’s advice.

  Prepared to fend off Harthacnut’s attack, Sigurd was devastated when the sickly King Harald expired without heir, leaving the way open for his brother. As Harthacnut approached England with sixty-two warships, he and Godwin, hundreds of miles apart from each other, sought frantically for a way out of their predicament and both reached identical conclusions: when a group of the King’s housecarls arrived to take Sigurd to Lunden for prosecution he, like his coaccused, had his speech and witnesses prepared.

  ‘My lord king.’ Sigurd performed an extremely low bow before the new monarch, his beard almost trailing the floor. ‘I come to swear my loyalty and to pledge fifty fighting men with swords and axes and five thousand pounds in silver.’

  ‘And this purports to compensate for my brother’s death?’ Harthacnut looked bitter. In contrast to his feelings for his other sibling Harald, he felt great kinship for his mother’s sons by Ethelred and grieved deeply over Alfred’s cruel treatment.

  Sigurd was contrite, but it was all an act, as was the King’s display of authority. Harthacnut had always been afraid of Sigurd, and the raddled cheeks spoke for themselves; their owner had needed much wine before having the courage to face these two lions. However, it paid to be diplomatic to one so unstable. ‘My lord, nought can compensate for the death of a brother, but I swear I took no part in his death.’

  Harthacnut stroked his chin and mused. ‘Strange, Earl Godwin has also denied any part in it, and his gifts were even more generous than yours.’

  ‘My lord, Earl Godwin is far wealthier than I. It is not out of guilt that I bring tribute but out of loyalty to your father Cnut who numbered me amongst his friends. He was a great king and…’

  ‘Enough!’ Harthacnut was tired of being judged on his father’s reign. ‘You try to deflect my thoughts from the murder of my brother.’

  ‘Nay, my lord…’

  ‘Earl Godwin doth tell that the last occasion he saw Alfred alive was in your company. He denies giving the order for him to be blinded.’

  The response was swift. ‘Lord, I deny this cruel deed also! When I took him captive I acted upon the orders of the King your brother Harald. What is a man to do against a King’s demands? If you give me an order wouldst I not obey? Just as I must take orders from a jarl.’ He glanced maliciously at Godwin who stood with his fellow-accused Bishop Lyfing of Weogornaceaster. ‘But upon my oath I was not party to the Ӕtheling’s mutilation. Forsooth, I was not even present. The last I saw of him he lived.’

  Harthacnut’s bloodshot eyes glared at him for long moments, their owner swaying. Sigurd remained in humble pose on one knee, head and shoulders bent, vowing that if he lived he would repay Cnut’s son for making him grovel, whilst one by one his many friends, including the Earl of Northumbria, spoke on his behalf. None of the housecarls witness to the blinding made comment now, though it must have been one of them who had leaked the gossip to the King’s ears.

  Eventually, as he had done with Godwin, the King accepted the financial offering and gave only verbal punishment, except to Bishop Lyfing who was deprived of his see. To show Harald’s supporters just how foolish they had been, Harthacnut ordered his brother’s body to be disinterred from its tomb at Wintanceaster and thrown into the Temes.

  ‘He is a madman!’ complained Sigurd to his visitor, Ulf, who was glad to see him home unscathed though as ever his face did not reveal any emotion. ‘He has caused havoc down south with his new taxes, the people are murdering his collectors and I cannot say I blame them – Murtagh!’ He gave a roar which made the child on Ulf’s lap jump. Asketil was three years old and in awe of his father’s friend.

  The cross-eyed slave appeared. ‘Fetch us drink!’ commanded Sigurd. Murtagh bowed and hurried to obey. Asketil pressed himself into his father’s chest as Sigurd went on ranting about the King.

  ‘I cannot believe it, Ulf! It is beyond belief that he is a son of our great Cnut. He must be some… some changeling put there by Loki – what is that?’ He sprang forward, weapon at the ready, glaring across the room. ‘Oh, ’tis the dog’s tail.’ He relaxed. ‘I saw this thing curled around the chair-leg and thought it was a snake. I almost lopped it off.’

  From the safety of his father’s knee, little Asketil chanced a thoughtful remark. ‘Would it hurt if you had?’

  ‘’Twould not hurt me.’ Sigurd gave a laugh that frightened the boy into silence and the man returned to his pet topic. ‘There he sits in his father’s court with that runt of Ethelred’s by his side…’ Harthacnut showed great fondness for Edward. ‘…how can I stand by and watch him destroy all that my friend Cnut has built – that I, Sigurd Einarsson, helped him to build!’

  Murtagh arrived with the flagon and goblets, too slowly in Sigurd’s opinion for when the thrall had put them down he jumped up and beat him viciously about the head with his fist. Asketil cowered. Murtagh ran. Ulf watched dispassionately and kept his ear available to his friend’s grumblings as Sigurd flopped down, rolled up his sleeves to uncover the dragons and gulped his wine before starting again. ‘Twould not surprise me if Harthacnut favoured Ethelred’s cub as his heir!’

  Despite this outburst he was surprised – outraged – when his prophesy came true. Within two years of his unworthy reign Harthacnut had fallen dead at a feast. Upon his exit the thrones of Denmark and England became vacant. Magnus of Norway lost no time in claiming the Scandinavian crown, enforcing the treaty made with Harthacnut. The witan, grasping this chance to be free of Danish kings, chose Edward who was crowned the next year. Sigurd’s had been the only voice raised against the motion. The viking empire had started to crumble.

  ‘Ulf, the world is surely gone mad!’ Sigurd played with one of the intricately-carved bone strap-ends of his belt, face nonplussed. ‘And Godwin maddest of them all. He who was so opposed to Ethelred’s brats now plays Edward’s shoulder-comrade. I ask you, what claim does he have?’

  Ulf hoisted one shoulder and offered logic. ‘Cnut’s line is come to an end. Edward’s father was once King of England…’

  ‘Thirty years ago! By that yardstick I could lay claim myself for having once shared a whore with the King’s cousin! Magnus of Norway has as much right as Edward – why, the man doth hardly speak our language! Oh, how can it be that Cnut had such weak offspring?’ He spun testily on Asketil, whose playful voice intruded on the serious debate. ‘Such noise you do make, child! What game is this?’

  Asketil had fashioned a red beard from a large fur glove which he gripped in his teeth, and danced like an elf, whacking a stick at the furniture. ‘I am Eric the Red!’ he put forth in deep voice.

  ‘Well, if you do not cease you will be Eric with the red arse. I came in here for peace and quiet.’ They sat in his ante-room. Warning heeded, Sigurd went back to griping. ‘Maybe those simpletons in Lunden will accept him but I will die first!’ He was too furious to notice that Ulf looked unwell; his friend was never ruddy of cheek and the slight change of pallor went undetected.

  A quieter Asketil had climbed on to his father’s lap. His hair was light, but not as blond as Sigurd’s, and was cut like his father’s, short at the neck, deep in the fringe. Ulf shifted under his featherweight and, unable to get comfortable, put Asketil back on his feet. After eyeing Sigurd with caution the five-year-old began to wander around the room, tracing his fingers over carvings on the furniture and licking a cluster of wooden grapes to see how they tasted. Sigurd p
roceeded to grumble. Asketil looked at Murtagh who hovered unobtrusively in a corner, as frozen as one of the carvings on the panelled walls. He felt sorry for the wretched creature, for he knew what it was to be afraid of Sigurd; even though the man had never beaten him as he did Murtagh, his voice alone could instil fear. Trailing his fingers round the walls, he encountered the dogs’ leashes and unhooked them. Immediately the wolfhounds leapt to their feet and bounded over.

  ‘Oh, see what you have done now!’ Sigurd broke off complaining about the King to rebuke Asketil again. ‘They think they go hunting – down!’ The huge dogs would not be subdued but pranced and fussed around Asketil, nudging him into attaching the leads to their studded collars. ‘Ulf, can you not keep this boy of yours in check?’

  ‘May I take them outside?’ Asketil was looking at his father.

  ‘You should not ask me, but their master.’ Ulf winced and shifted in his seat; no one noticed.

  Sigurd clicked his tongue and waved a permissive hand. ‘So be it – but do not come crying if they pull you over.’

  ‘Keep inside the burh,’ warned Ulf as his son made for the door, almost invisible between the hounds. Asketil turned to give a smiling nod; his two front teeth were missing.

  ‘Bring me a pot to piss in!’ Sigurd shouted at Murtagh who hurried over and tried not to listen to the sound of running urine for his own bladder was fit to burst.

  ‘He who can afford to piss on silver need not worry over church dues,’ muttered Ulf, observing the fluted silver vessel being so abused. ‘I eat from lesser bowls than that.’

  ‘Then you may have it with pleasure!’ Sigurd offered him the receptacle, laughed, then handed it back to Murtagh, his expression twisting. ‘Oh, get out of my sight, black one!’ The grateful slave dashed outside.

  Ulf did not mind that the thrall received an occasional beating, but opposed this constant display of tyranny. ‘Why do you keep him ever-present when he so annoys you?’