Jorvik

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

  * * *

  Night fell. Sigurd, alone in his private quarters except for the dogs and a cat, was beginning to feel concern. Had he been too optimistic in comparing Til to himself at twelve years old? He, coached by rough fighting men and a mother who could almost match them for toughness, would soon have made a shelter, fed himself and walked home the next day, but Til had never known hardship and in retrospect it was foolish to think that by throwing him into deep water he would naturally bob to the surface – he had employed this very method when trying to teach the boy to swim and Til had almost drowned. The noise from his men, drinking in the grand hall, grew irksome. Sigurd found his eyes perpetually flicking to the water clock, and he began to contemplate a search. He cursed himself as an ogre. What kind of guardian is it who abandons a child with no weapon, no sup of water even? Then he argued with himself – did I not do it for his own good? For I will not always be here to take care of him.

  His thoughts moved to Ulf and how his old friend would react to the treatment of his son. Again he justified his actions: this was a foolish argument, for Ulf played hard himself – look at the way he had almost drowned Sigurd in Ireland. Memories took his thoughts away from Til for a while, memories of Ulf and Eric… and Una. Totally immersed, he remained unaware of another presence for some time. Then, through his thoughts, came the prickling realization that someone else was in the room. He had heard no door open but felt the intruder’s presence without turning. Their stealth was tangible, making his body hair stand on end. He tensed for the attack, fingers inching from his lap towards the axe beside his chair, his ears picking out every footfall to gauge from which direction the attack would come. The intruder was mere feet away – Sigurd grabbed the handle of his axe and whirled from the chair to confront his assassin. A second before the heavy blade embedded itself in his brain Asketil ducked and threw aside his knife, a look of sheer horror on his face.

  It could scarcely match the horror felt by Sigurd. In relief and anger he lashed out and sent the boy flying. ‘Fool! You could be slain! Have you not listened to a thing I have told you? Never, never creep up behind me…’ He heaved a roaring sigh, bent his head, then laid down the axe and pulled the boy to his feet. ‘I could have killed you – the only son I will ever have!’

  Enveloped in a great odorous hug the boy’s voice was muffled. ‘I waited for you to come and you did not.’

  Sigurd clasped him, thumped his back, then held him at arm’s length to see his face. ‘I did not come because I wanted you to learn how to fend for yourself.’ A thought struck him and he voiced it. ‘Is this why you try to kill me?’

  ‘Nay!’ Til was aghast at the very suggestion. ‘’Twas merely a prank. I would never have harmed you.’ Sigurd nodded and closed his eyes; when he opened them again they were kind. ‘And there you have learnt another valuable lesson. Never creep up on a man with a weapon that you do not intend to use – and never underestimate your fostri’s wits. I might seem ancient to you but my ears are keen and there is yet strength in my arm to tan your backside.’

  Asketil rubbed his head and managed a sheepish smile. ‘I know, I felt it.’

  ‘I am sorry for the blow and also for leaving you yesterday.’ Sigurd put an arm round the boy and led him to a seat. ‘You must be hungry, I will call for meat.’

  Asketil’s tone was lighter. A moment ago Sigurd’s bower was the most dangerous place on earth, now it was cosy with the glow of candlelight reflected in its wooden panels. ‘Not for me, my belly is full.’

  Sigurd looked impressed. ‘So, you did manage to fend for yourself after all.’

  The boy risked an impudent grin. ‘Nay, I have been at my mother’s house since dusk. She fed me well.’

  Sigurd’s laughter held a rebuke. ‘Your mother will not always be there, Til, and neither will I. That is all I aimed to teach you yesterday.’

  ‘I know.’ Asketil settled upon a cushion and hugged his green-breeched knees, a frog on a lily pad. ‘And I understand what you meant about the book. I see it all now, but I could not see it whilst I was shivering alone and afraid. My mother explained.’

  ‘She did?’ This was news to the man for he knew Ulf’s widow resented losing her son to him.

  ‘In her opinion your methods are too harsh.’

  Sigurd conceded. ‘She is right. I will not abandon you thus again.’

  ‘You shall have no need to. I accept what you were trying to teach me and will show more respect for the things you have fought so hard to give me.’

  ‘It is not just that, Til.’ Sigurd laid a hand upon the fair head and rubbed. ‘Yes, one day I shall die and you must be strong enough to keep the lands and riches I have won. However, it is not just possessions that you must respect but yourself. If my teachings seem harsh it is because you are so dear to me that I cannot bear to see others take advantage of you.’

  Asketil felt rather stupid. ‘They do not do that.’

  ‘See! You do not even recognize it.’

  ‘If you mean the sword that I lent to Aelred, he really is my friend, I swear it.’

  ‘That is the nub, Til! You call every man friend, even the slaves. I have seen the way you help them with their chores.’

  ‘Only Murtagh and he is my frie…’

  ‘He is not your friend!’ Sigurd was firm but not angry. ‘He is a slave and twice your age. You think he would be friend to the son of the man who killed his mother and father and aunt? He takes your help to ease his burden, but ask him to protect you when your enemy lifts his weapon and he would as likely wield the sword himself.’

  Asketil looked chastened. ‘Why did you slay his parents, fostri?’

  ‘’Twas a long time ago. His father was killed in a raid we made upon Ireland while Murtagh was still in his mother’s belly. Murtagh was born into captivity. He knows nothing else, you must not weep for him.’

  Asketil thirsted for more. ‘What of his mother?’

  Sigurd could speak of Una now without experiencing pain – time and Asketil had both helped to ease it – but the wound of losing his child was as raw as the day it was inflicted. ‘I thought that she poisoned my daughter and so I killed her.’

  Asketil understood a lot more now. ‘But it was really Black Mary.’

  Sigurd inclined his head.

  The boy wore a look of pity for the orphaned slave. ‘Could you not treat him a little more kindly? After all, you killed his mother unjustly.’

  Sigurd chuckled at this sentimentality, but would do almost anything to please the boy. ‘Very well. I shall try not to beat him so much, though he tests my patience sorely at times.’

  ‘It is terrible to be so wretched,’ sighed Asketil, looking downcast.

  His fostri tried to cheer the atmosphere. ‘You will never have to know such wretchedness, Til… and there is something I kept from you. The sword, it was your father’s.’

  The weapon took on a new significance. ‘It is? I did not recognize it. Why did you not tell me?’

  ‘Because…’ The man dropped his chin to his breast. ‘You will not understand this.’ He shook his head a couple of times as if reluctant or unable to explain. ‘Though I loved Ulf I did not want to remind myself that you had once had another father… for I covet that role myself.’ The admission lured a warm smile from Asketil. Sigurd appeared to be embarrassed. ‘Come, call for meat and drink! For even if you are not hungry I am. I have eaten barely a morsel for worrying over you, young rascal. Tell me, why did you not come straight home?’

  Asketil went to call for a servant, then reseated himself. ‘I was sad that you had done this to me so I went to my mother’s house… but I grew bored listening to women’s talk.’

  Sigurd laughed. ‘It is as I always told you, my son – what need have we of women?’

  Asketil grinned back to show that he was beginning to agree with the philosophy. There was just one topic concerning women that he would wish to have explained. ‘Fostri, how did Murtagh get into his mother’s belly?’


  * * *

  In 1051 Edward’s Norman companions finally overstepped the mark. Spurred on by their insidious requests, Godwin’s quarrel with the King erupted into mutiny. A fracas had taken place at Dover; a Norman count and his retinue had made overbearing demands and the local men sought to put them in their place, killing and wounding many. The Count complained to the King who ordered Godwin to sack the town. Godwin refused and knowing what the outcome of his rebellion would be, began to muster all his forces.

  As ever, news was slow to reach the northern lands: when it did Sigurd called immediately upon his neighbour the jarl and asked what position they would take.

  There was no prevarication from his leader. ‘I owe nought to Godwin. We must stand loyal to the King.’

  ‘But Godwin is more king than Edward,’ argued Sigurd. ‘Is it wise to oppose one so powerful?’

  ‘Wise?’ the grizzled warrior barked. ‘There is nought wise about Englishman fighting Englishman. In war there is no winner – but the King is the King and we must stand with him. Leofric of Mercia is of like mind.’

  Dwelling on it, Sigurd knew that there was no choice; much as he would like to see Edward deposed he would not sacrifice everything in its accomplishment. The majority of earls were on the side of Edward and for this reason only he too rode south to mass with the King’s army, though it went against his code.

  Powerful as Godwin was, he could not match these odds and damned his own miscalculation; he had counted upon the English hatred of Normans working to his advantage. Now instead of the rapid removal of the King it looked as if he might be in for a long war of attrition.

  Good sense prevailed. The earls persuaded Edward to see that civil war would be catastrophic for England. Keen as he might be to destroy Godwin once and for all, the King was wise enough to agree and an arrangement was reached whereby hostages were taken and a witan would be held at Lunden in September when Godwin and his sons would appear to answer charges brought by the King. However, the threat of war was not totally averted; Godwin refused to come to Lunden without the King’s promise of immunity. Confident of his own support, Edward retorted that if Godwin chose not to appear then he and his sons had five days to leave the country and in addition packed his wife – Godwin’s sister – off to an abbey.

  ‘So is there to be no war?’ enquired Asketil, who had been somewhat apprehensive of his first time in battle.

  Sigurd tousled his hair. ‘Nay, Godwin has gone to Flanders and we, my son, return to Jorvik.’ This they did and Sigurd was never so glad to reach home. ‘I must be getting old. Though I would rather see Edward in Godwin’s place I am not sorry we were robbed of a fight.’

  ‘I thought you loved to battle, fostri,’ teased the youth as they relaxed by the fire.

  ‘Not with my own countrymen. I have too much to lose.’

  ‘Is that why you sided with the King even though you hate him?’

  Sigurd nodded. ‘I trust that he will reward my loyalty when the earldom of Northumbria falls vacant – as I hope it shall before his memory of this favour is gone.’

  Asketil spoke mischievously. ‘The old jarl looks to have plenty of life in him yet.’

  His foster-father rolled a warning eye. ‘Speak thus often and you shall not enjoy the treat I had in mind.’

  There was instant compunction. ‘What is it?’ When Sigurd remained tight-lipped Asketil craned forward. ‘Oh, do tell, fostri!’

  Sigurd gave in with a smile. ‘Now that the dust has settled, I thought we might make that trip about which you have always harried my ear.’

  ‘Norway!’ Til danced to his feet. ‘I shall go prepare straightaway!’

  ‘Hold!’ Sigurd laughed as his foster-son bolted for a chest and began to drag items from it. ‘I do not intend to go before spring.’

  ‘Oh, you tease me!’ Asketil threw down the spare breeches he held. ‘Why tell me now if you would make me wait so long?’

  Sigurd was amused at the display of immaturity – the boy was almost fourteen and sometimes acted ten. ‘’Tis not that long, six months.’

  ‘An age!’ Asketil fell at Sigurd’s feet. ‘Why can we not go tomorrow? The weather is good.’

  The ealdorman was easy. ‘We could, but we should not be able to stay long afore winter comes.’

  ‘It matters not! I hunger to sail. You keep promising and promising that I shall go to sea but that day never comes – why, you could be dead afore spring.’

  ‘Oh, my thanks,’ was the dry response.

  ‘Please, please.’ Asketil writhed and grovelled like a worm. When Sigurd merely grinned the boy rose and backed away. ‘You are telling me we can go? You are, I can see it in your eyes.’ Unchecked, he backed towards the door, hands still clasped in prayer. ‘I shall get my weapons together, yes? My sword, arrows…’ His back was pressed to the door, he groped behind him for the handle.

  Sigurd laughed, waved a permissive hand and the lad vanished like a puff of wind.

  * * *

  It took a little longer than Asketil might have wished to summon a crew and load victuals for the trip – partly because everyone thought it mad to go in autumn – but within the week he and Sigurd were out in the North Sea with two other ships for company, one a trader, the other bearing folk who went to visit their homeland and relatives. Sigurd thought this latter a good idea and when planning the trip had told Asketil that they would make for Vestfold and see if there were any of his own kin left alive, for he had not visited them in years.

  Fizzing with excitement, Til gripped the mast and leaned starboards, swinging to and fro, his face alight. Although he could not swim, he was a good sailor. ‘Is it not the best feeling in the world?’ he entreated Murtagh, who had been brought along at Til’s insistence. ‘All my life I have longed to sail the ocean.’ He inhaled loudly through his nostrils – ‘Taste the wind!’ – and grinned at Murtagh whose eyes, in spite of their obliquity, gleamed with a brilliance Til had never seen at home. Was it just the reflection of the waves or did Murtagh’s soul take wing as did his own?

  Notwithstanding his crooked eye, the man appeared quite handsome today, his black hair swept in the wind to reveal a different profile from that of the cowed beast of Earlsburh. Looking at him now, Asketil felt such affinity that he wanted to clasp his arm, swear oaths of kinship, but Sigurd would be livid. Instead he waited for Murtagh to turn and the instant he did Til caught the straighter of the two eyes and pierced it with his secret joy. One day, when I am master of the estate I will free you. Whether the thought reached Murtagh’s brain he could not tell, but it gave him pleasure to think it.

  Murtagh’s eyes smiled back in their crooked way, but he hoped that his own thoughts would not be conveyed. You are my only friend, but if I thought that by killing you I would gain my freedom then I would do it.

  The good weather did not last. With but a day of their voyage left to go, the sky took on a sulphurous tint in the advent of an electric storm. Til first became aware of it when the noise of the wind ripping though the sail drew his eyes upwards. Yellow clouds like old bruises rumbled across the face of the world. Gulls shone luminous against the moody firmament. The wind began to wrench more insistently at the sail. Sigurd bawled orders for the mast to be lowered and himself checked that the cargo was secure. The other two ships alternately vanished and reappeared on the undulating water. The wind burgeoned to a gale, took hold of the ship whose rowers narrowed their eyes against the spray and held on for life, their mighty wave-stallion reduced to a twig on a pond. Thoroughly drenched, Asketil knelt and clung to the lowered mast, unable to open his eyes under the stinging onslaught. Murtagh had joined one of the oarsmen and fought to keep the ship on course. The god of thunder ranted and raged and whisked the sea with a truculent finger, the balers worked frenziedly against his tricks – and then a huge jade wall rose up before them, towered and plunged and crashed down upon the ship, raping its timbers. Asketil was wrenched from his position, washed away like a leaf in a stream. Sigurd’s
yell was ripped from his mouth by the gale as he made a lunge for the boy, missed and watched in horror as Til slithered helplessly along the planking. His son was going to drown.

  Without thinking, Murtagh reached out and grasped a handful of tunic as the boy floated past, locked his fingers tightly into it, dragged him back, held on, muscles straining, whilst others came to the rescue, then returned to his task without waiting for thanks.

  * * *

  The storm died. Battered and sodden, the men fought to keep the crippled ship afloat. The accompanying vessels had gone, whether sunk or merely blown off-course none could tell. There was land in the distance: not the land that should have been, for the gale had foiled their navigation, but it was clearly Norway and any land where they could make good the damage and dry out was welcome. Now that all was calm, Sigurd made a head-count and found that none were lost, not even the wretched Murtagh.

  Asketil’s first act was to thank the man who had saved his life and knowing how dear he himself was to his fostri, expected Sigurd to offer some reward. But Sigurd ignored the boy’s rescuer and was bent only on castigating his foster-son. ‘’Twas madness to come in autumn! Why do I listen to thee?’

  Asketil hung his head whilst the rebuke was issued, thinking, poor Murtagh, such a brave deed with no reward. When I am lord I will most definitely grant him freedom – and not only this, I shall make him my right arm.

  ‘Boy, do I talk to myself?’

  The bellow made Asketil jump.

  ‘Thou art forever dreaming!’ Sigurd’s white face moved up and down with the sea, nausea compounding his fury. ‘If you do not heed my rebuke how are you to learn?’

  Asketil raised guilty eyes. ‘I did heed, fostri. I wondered only… would it not be kind to offer Murtagh reward for saving my life?’