Jorvik

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

  But when his eyes came open, she was not there.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The fitfulness of the King’s mood was echoed in nature; in the year following his altercation with Sigurd the harvest failed and a great famine swept throughout the land. Peasants turned to charms and priests to mass, but Sigurd was a rich man, his barns full of grain, and neither he nor Asketil would perish. The child had become the most important person in Sigurd’s life; never before had he found ought to match the rejuvenation he felt after a good battle, but he found it now in Til’s company. The boy was much altered in appearance. His new front teeth had just begun to show, and with no mother in attendance to check on his hair, this had grown out of its pudding-basin style and was more like a girl’s, though whenever he paid a visit to his old home he returned neatly shorn. In character, Asketil had many similarities with his natural father – he was brave and would fight other boys if he had cause, but he lacked Ulf’s spiteful temper and preferred the academic life to that of the land or the battlefield. Due to the efforts of the brethren he was now able to read English, though he still loved the verbal accounts of his foster-father’s travels.

  There was just one thing that marred these tales. Sometimes, in the middle of them, Sigurd had noticed a cloud passing over the child’s face, but had never been able to prise the reason from him.

  ‘What is it, Til?’ he begged one day, expecting to receive the same old answer, a dumb shake of the head. ‘I wish you would tell me. Do these tales of mine bore you?’

  ‘Oh, no!’

  ‘What, then? Do they frighten you?’ The change of expression was ever so slight but the man noticed it at once and knew he had hit upon the truth. ‘Yes, I think they do! Why is that? Do tell me. I would not have you afraid.’

  Asketil was hesitant, looking down at his bare toes. ‘It is not the stories. I am…’ he bit his lip. ‘I am just afraid that one day you will fall off the edge of the world and not return!’

  Sigurd could not help but laugh. ‘Oh, Til! The earth has no edge.’

  Embarrassed, the boy objected. ‘Everyone else says it has!’

  ‘If it did I should have fallen off it years ago, the amount of travelling I have done. Nay, lad,’ Sigurd put his arm around Asketil and squeezed. ‘Believe me, the world goes on and on and on! Do not listen to the prattle of fools – they have never sailed the world like Sigurd Einarsson!’

  Asketil grinned to show that he was pacified and in future would gain full enjoyment from his foster-father’s tales. Indeed, these were many, for with the combination of his duties as ealdorman and his restless nature, Sigurd was away from home quite frequently and always had exciting things to relate about the places he had visited: the land of the walrus, the land where the sun never set and the land of wild men with red faces. The vastness of the world was lost upon one who had travelled no more than two miles in any direction, but Asketil yearned to see these places too. One day he would, said his fostri, who never failed to bring back some gift – a seashell, or a little charm made from amber – and on that special day when Asketil was allowed out of the burh to play with older boys he brought Sigurd a gift from his adventures, in exchange for all those he had received. The glossy horse chestnut had sat upon the table as ornament for many weeks before it had shrivelled and gone dull. Even then Sigurd had not thrown it away but tucked it safe inside his pouch: thus was the affection they had for each other.

  The frequent absences did not worry Asketil unduly, for he was secure in his adoptive father’s love and had now made many friends here. Diligent by nature, he made a point of asking everyone’s name, became involved with the running of the household and learned how to do the most menial tasks, which Sigurd had never bothered to show him. He even managed to befriend Murtagh whom others tormented, and would follow the slave about the place chattering away for hours. Murtagh did not seem to mind; sometimes Asketil even made him smile, which was a feat no one else could perform, or indeed had even cared enough to try.

  Another year passed. At the age of forty the confirmed misogynist King Edward married Earl Godwin’s daughter. Sigurd’s instant reaction was to joke about this with his old friend Ulf, but then he remembered that Ulf was long dead and the only person he had to share it with was Asketil. Though the boy was too young to grasp the full humour of it, this did not prevent Sigurd from musing.

  ‘I wonder if it was Godwin who manipulated this, or whether Edward sees the marriage as a way of getting closer to his enemy so that he doth not have to stretch so far to plunge the dagger in.’

  ‘Does the King want to kill Earl Godwin?’ Asketil frowned.

  ‘I spoke poetically, but yes, he would not shrink from bringing his enemy down. There has never been any goodwill between them. He will never forget Godwin’s part in his brother’s death nor mine nei…’ Sigurd broke off, aware that he had gone too far. He glanced at Asketil to see if his words had registered; they had.

  ‘You killed the King’s brother?’ The boy was wide-eyed.

  ‘You must not repeat that to anyone! But yes… I will admit it only to you, I had a hand in his death. He was a wicked man, Til, tried to seize the throne from its rightful heir. Something had to be done.’

  Til nodded acceptance. ‘But I am puzzled as to why King Edward allows you to go free. Indeed he acts with such charity towards you.’

  ‘It is all pretence, as is my subservience to him. He dare not move against me, I am too strong. But believe me when he gets the chance he will take it.’

  ‘Are you not afraid, that he hates you so?’

  ‘I give not one jot for the King’s opinion! In the time of the great Cnut it was a privilege to be invited to court, now it is a chore – nay, an embarrassment! You should see them all apeing Edward’s mode of dress in order to curry favour with him. Why, one could almost forget that one is in England with their fancy talk and their arses on display!’ – the French style of tunic was absurdly short – ‘If that is what the English wear now I shall remain up here lest someone takes a fancy to my noble buttock. I wonder that Earl Godwin can bear it.’

  Not unexpectedly, the obtrusion of the King’s Norman friends was a continuous source of displeasure to Godwin, but he reminded himself that Edward was English and stayed loyally patient. Edward in turn hated this most powerful man, but was too weak to deny the earldoms which Godwin demanded for his sons and nephew, knowing that he could not rule without him. Between them, the hearty, pragmatic extrovert and the priggish weakling thwarted all invasions of English shores – though many tried their hand. The Norwegian King Magnus who, through his treaty with Harthacnut regarded England as his, was one such challenger. When news of this threat reached the North, Sigurd gave it mixed reception: he was English now, with a position of power, and the earldom he had long sought was within his reach. As strong as Godwin was, what if he failed to repulse Magnus and the Norwegians claimed victory? Sigurd might find himself with nought.

  However, whilst Magnus plotted against England another would have his Norwegian throne: his ruthless Uncle Harald had allied himself with Swein Estridsson, Magnus’ rival for the Danish crown. This helped to form Sigurd’s decision; rather than bob up and down with the rest of Edward’s fleet that waited off Sandwich to repel viking invaders, Sigurd decided to steal a march and join forces with Harald, so preventing Magnus from ever reaching England.

  Asketil begged to be allowed to go too, but he was only nine and Sigurd forbade it. ‘There will be fierce battles.’ Even as he uttered the words, there came echoes from his own boyhood and the fleeting image of Thorald which he soon dismissed. ‘If you would see the land of my blood let it be in peacetime. I shall take you, be patient.’

  ‘But what if you are killed?’ Asketil displayed no fear though it tingled his heart.

  ‘I – the greatest warrior who ever lived? Such confidence you show in your teacher! I shall be back within the year.’

  This was a mite optimistic, for things were not as straightforward
as they might appear. Though Sigurd could not place him, the Harald in question was the one who, fifteen years ago, had escaped from the battlefield at Stiklestadir when Sigurd had helped defeat his brother Olaf, and had fled abroad. Now he was home from Byzantium, a rich man, famous for his harsh leadership. Like Sigurd he had a passion for battle and had fought in every corner of the world, but news had reached him that his nephew Magnus was in possession of two kingdoms since the death of Harthacnut, and now he himself returned to stake his claim to the Norwegian crown.

  Naturally, Magnus was not about to capitulate and so Harald, through sheer expediency, allied himself to Swein, his nephew’s rival for the Danish crown. Predictably, huge losses resulted from this three-cornered battle and Harald decided to hold talks with Magnus to see if he had changed his attitude.

  Sigurd was not privy to what went on in these talks, but was to discover that the alliance had changed; Magnus had agreed to give Harald half of Norway if he would turn coat against Swein and help protect Denmark. This put a different hue on things – for if Magnus won this round he could soon be attacking England. Instead, Magnus’s death was to remedy all three men’s problems: Harald took Norway, Swein claimed Denmark, and Sigurd Einarsson sailed home to the worst winter in living memory. Men, beasts, fish and fowl, all perished, and to compound the torture an earthquake was to follow, convincing Sigurd that it was the gods’ disapproval of the way England was ruled by her King.

  The gods were not alone in their anger. In this same year, 1048, Godwin and the monarch came to quarrelling about Edward’s foreign favourites who were in danger of taking precedence over the English at court. During the next couple of years Sigurd watched the crumbling relationship with interest, eager for an opportunity to unseat the King.

  Asketil, now almost come to manhood, had learnt most of his foster-father’s skills – apart from the ability to swim. Only the strength was missing, but that would come in a few years and he was blessed with an agility that Sigurd at the ripe age of forty-eight could not recapture. The latter retained his muscularity, but his skin had lost its tautness and he had a slight paunch. His only advantage apart from brute strength was a cunning born of many engagements. This did not come easily to Asketil, who was open and honest to the point of naivety. It would have to be perforce instilled, and his tendency to dream be curbed if he was to remain alive as long as his mentor.

  Discounting these weaknesses, Sigurd had much pride in his son – for he was his son as surely as if grown from his own loins. Asketil felt the bond too, except when he visited his mother, who was always quick to remind him of his true paternity when he spoke so warmly of Sigurd. However, the memory of Ulf had grown dim and secretly Asketil preferred his life now with Sigurd. Their amity was the one unshakable thing in the turmoil that plagued England at the moment.

  On Asketil’s twelfth birthday, Sigurd carried out his promise to Ulf by giving the boy his father’s sword, though something made him cringe from revealing its previous ownership, as if by mention of Ulf’s name the bond would be rent. It was petty, he knew, and he begged his dead friend’s forgiveness, but his love for Asketil made him wary of ought that might take the lad away.

  In the six months that Asketil had owned the sword he had put it to good practice, though the displays were done more to please his benefactor than himself. Possessing a weapon had seemed so important to him at six years old; nowadays he derived much more enjoyment from his books and music, but for Sigurd’s sake he was today once again involved in mock battle in the yard.

  After a good hour of parry and thrust in the hot May sunshine, Sigurd felt the need to quench his thirst. Requiring shade, he took a drink by the open door watching Asketil who now larked with a boy of his own age, a friendship made just recently. He moved his eyes from Til to look around at the summer activities: women were cooking outdoors, others tripped from well to animal trough, there were hides stretched out on racks and bees flitting round the hives. Unobserved by his lord, Murtagh took a rest and watched the bees too. Their flight had become more agitated and the hive throbbed with their hum – suddenly those inside the hive began to hurl themselves through the exit, jostling to be free, a black ribbon soaring up, up into the sky in their thousands, wheeling and soaring in a dense mass… oh, how Murtagh envied them.

  To Sigurd they were just bees. About to drink from his cup, he noticed over its rim that Asketil had passed his sword to the other boy and now came loping towards the house, fringe adhering to his brow. Sigurd gagged his annoyance for the time being, moved aside as the boy entered and helped himself to a drink. Asketil gasped relief, then sprawled on a pile of cushions and opened a book lent to him by the brethren.

  Sigurd’s voice was terse. ‘Why did you give Aelred your sword?’

  ‘Because he asked for it,’ came the artless reply.

  ‘Wouldst you give your sword thus to an enemy?’

  Asketil looked up from the page and smiled bewilderment. ‘But Aelred is my friend.’

  Sigurd compressed his bearded lips. ‘You are sure of this?’

  ‘Has he not told me?’ Asketil went back to reading.

  The ealdorman was having difficulty in holding on to his temper. ‘Friendship speaks not in word but in deed! I have had men call me friend who tried to kill me. A true friend would not have taken your sword but would have given their own. Whilst you sit idly reading he could lop off thine head – heed me when I instruct you!’ When this drew the boy’s attention, he continued. ‘You have had life too easy. You show contempt for your weapon because you did not have to earn it like I did. When you have been deprived of all your possessions and had to fight to get them back then will you cherish them. It is time you learnt this – Murtagh! Saddle two horses. And you, pick up your book and fetch it along.’

  Earrings tinkling with each bad-humoured turn of his head, he took Asketil out of Earlsburh, along the Great North Road, through some wooden gates that spanned the highway and out into open country where they rode for many miles. Asketil dared not enquire whither they went. Finally Sigurd reined in his mount and took hold of the other horse’s bridle. ‘Get down.’

  Book under one arm, Asketil did as he was told. ‘Now, let us see how that book compares to a sword as a means of protection!’ Sigurd wheeled away, towing the other’s horse.

  Asketil’s lower jaw dropped and he made to follow. ‘Fostri! Where do you go?’

  But the man kicked his mount into a gallop and rode out of sight.

  * * *

  Marooned in the sprawling acres of wasteland Asketil stood perplexed and ill-equipped. The weather was calm and the sky clear, there was no wind. He should have been glad, yet instead he felt threatened by the stillness of his environment, shifting nervously in his boots and waiting for his fostri to return.

  He waited, and waited. The sun reached its apex and began to descend. Still Asketil had faith that his mentor would return and hence did not stray from his position. Only when it grew dark did his optimism fade. With the dying of evensong he knew that he was going into the night alone and wished he had used the day to search for a means to light a fire instead of reading his book. What use was a book in the dark? Raking about, he cleared a site on which to arrange clumps of dried grass. With no trees in the vicinity it was unlikely that he would find wood and even when he managed to produce a spark from two rocks and ignite the grass it soon fizzled out. Something screamed. A butterfly of panic tickled his gut; he ducked into a frightened ball, covering his head with his arms.

  The barn owl hooted again. This time the boy recognized it for what it was and half emerged from his cramped position. Even so, he did not sleep. Throughout that long cool night, a night that lasted a hundred years, he grasped the little pendant that hung from a thong round his neck – a pair of writhing beasts carved from amber – rubbed their little elbows and knees, took comfort in their smooth familiarity.

  Daylight came and drove away the evil spirits, but there was no Sigurd. Asketil stood, rubbed his
dead buttocks, arched his back and looked around. Nothing had changed. Attacked by thirst and hunger he did as he had seen Murtagh do and uprooted some leaves of plantain. Unpalatable though they were to one accustomed to rich living, he ate them gladly. After some consideration he decided not to search for water; in doing so he might become completely lost. As it was, by remaining in the area in which Sigurd had left him he had a good chance of finding his route home. Heavy of limb and heart he picked up his book and followed the direction taken by Sigurd yesterday, reassured by the intermittent appearance of a hoofprint in a patch of dust. Stopping only to relieve himself he eventually completed the ten miles back to Jorvik. Passing through wooden gates he almost cried with relief as a familiar figure told him he was nearly home.

  ‘Murtagh!’ Unable to run he limped and hobbled as fast as he could to catch up with the slave who, though acknowledging his shout with a wave, continued on his way.

  Wincing at the blisters on his heels Asketil finally drew alongside the man who had been working in the fields, judging by the hoe he carried over his shoulder. ‘Do not walk so fast! My poor feet are howling.’ Murtagh slowed but did not offer to carry the boy on his back as he had done in the past for he was too exhausted himself.

  At the slave’s questioning look Asketil told what had befallen him, eyes brimming with self-pity. ‘I could not believe it! He left me there with no food, no shelter – no water, even! What did I do that was so bad? Lent the sword which he had given to me, that is all. He cares more about possessions than he does about folk.’

  Murtagh bestowed a shrewd glance.

  ‘Yes, you would know,’ nodded the boy and took the weight of the book on his head for a while.

  Earlsburh came into sight. Asketil slowed the pace to a crawl. ‘Why do I come back here, Murtagh? ’Tis plain he does not want me…’ He made a swift decision. ‘I shall go instead to my mother’s house!’ Without a goodbye he left Murtagh to proceed home. The downtrodden creature watched him with envy; how lucky is the little hog that he can pick and choose wheresoever he goes.