Jorvik

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

  ‘Why should he expect reward?’ snapped the tyrant. ‘It is his duty to protect his master.’

  ‘Nay, you foretold that he would not protect me!’ Certain that he was in the right Asketil refused to be cowed. ‘You said that when the moment came he would not be counted as a friend. Well, he hath proved you wrong, fostri.’

  Sigurd was not going to allow a youth to get the better of him. ‘He hath proved nought and he shall get no reward! Now come, make yourself useful, we are about to land.’

  And what a land! All sense of injustice was forgotten. Asketil’s mind soared with the spectacular rise of the mountains as the boat limped into the yawning chasm. To either side were sheer rock walls; in the aftermath of the tempest there was about them a fearsome grandeur, like a giant’s palace, shades of black and grey and purple. Asketil bent over to peer into the sinister waters, and asked his fostri, ‘Is it very deep?’

  ‘The fjords have no bottom,’ replied Sigurd, his belly calmer now. ‘If you who cannot swim fall over we shall never see you again.’

  In awe, Asketil gazed around him as the ship nosed deeper into the fjord, looking for a place to land. Gradually the sky began to clear and the sun came out – and oh, such a transformation! The sombre fjord glittered with diamonds, all oppression slid away and the mauve crags were now etched against vivid blue.

  Asketil was enraptured. ‘How could you bear ever to leave this country?’

  ‘What do you see here?’ asked Sigurd. ‘Why do you think that there are more Norwegians in every other country in the world than there are in Norway? There is nought important enough to keep them here.’

  Asketil could not believe the ignorance of this remark and threw his arm in sweeping gesture around the wonderful landscape, his mind already composing verse in its praise.

  Sigurd laughed. ‘Beauty cannot fill a man’s pocket nor his belly. Yea, there are fish aplenty in the rivers, and birds and beasts – but travel the whole of this land and you will find it is long and skinny, and in the winter, fooh! You would not wish to live here, Til.’

  Asketil was stubborn. ‘I would.’

  ‘You have not yet seen the winter.’

  ‘Then let us stay and see it,’ urged the boy.

  ‘What! You think I risked life and limb in England just to end my life here?’

  ‘It would not kill you,’ teased Asketil, putting an arm around Sigurd’s waist.

  ‘You do not know the Norwegian winter.’ The mere thought of those long depressing nights locked in one’s cabin by snow and ice was bad enough. Only under an avalanche of begging and pleading from the boy did Sigurd give in. ‘Oh… you can talk me into ought, you fiend! So be it – but we must find a place to live and use what is left of the good weather to gather supplies. By the gods I must be addled.’

  Eventually the fjord opened up and they found a place to land. Whilst one group investigated the area the other hauled the ship out of water to inspect the damage. Still Asketil could not believe the magnificence of all this, and lay on his belly dreaming into the green glass of the fjord until Sigurd barked for him to stop idling and do some work. Yet even as he toiled the lad was composing verse, digressing only to ask, ‘Why are the mountain tops white, fostri?’

  ‘It is snow.’

  ‘And not yet winter?’

  ‘Even in summer it never goes. See what is yet to come? Now wilt thou stop this dreaming and get thee to work!’

  Those early weeks of autumn were spent coasting around the fjords, each one different with new forests to explore and people to meet. To Sigurd this was of most import, for he derived no joy from lifeless rockpiles, classed each mountain the same. Asketil was more sensitive to how drastically the landscape changed from valley to valley and so too did the language – often he could barely understand what was said, but then as his attention usually drifted halfway through a conversation anyway, it hardly mattered. How he wished that he could live this amphibious life forever instead of returning to Jorvik. Alas, cities were what his fostri loved best, for they meant people.

  Whilst the weather remained clement Sigurd decided to visit the capital Nidaros. To Asketil’s relief they did not stop too long and went no further north than this but returned south again in preparation for the winter. Away from the city, Til relaxed and once again began to compose verse: to one side of the fjord the land was heavily wooded with lanky red trunks and branches that did not sprout until the very top of the tree – like a quiverful of arrows. To the other side were green pastures dotted with cabins. Around the next headland he pointed. ‘Look! The mountains are on fire.’ A shroud of smoke hid their pinnacles. Then Sigurd explained that it was only a cloud forgotten by the wind and impaled on points of arrows, and Til relaxed to marvel.

  For hours they coasted effortlessly along without change in the weather until gradually the cloud increased, the land turned barren and there were no trees just a range of angry mountains – yes, even the mountains had personality, thought Til – jagged peaks that no snow could soften. To the foot of the slopes the land was drab with rocky outcrops, but even here he saw beauty for in the distance a gap had opened in the clouds and a heavenly light shone down on a glacier. Asketil thought it the most wonderful sight. After this the fjord opened into the sea and the motion of the ship increased. Sigurd began to look unwell. Murtagh, unaffected, hid a smirk as his lord vomited over the side and remained in this position until, an hour or so later, the pilot steered a quieter course and the turbulence eased.

  After some nights camping under the stars they came to the place where Sigurd had lived as a boy and passed an enjoyable week with his kin. His aunt was now dead but her children were hale. With such a long absence there was a great deal to say to his cousins, and talk Sigurd did, far into the night. Asketil, normally the centre of his fostri’s world, began to feel left out. The elders spoke over his head and when he tried to ask a question the tone of their answer made him feel a nuisance. So, after he had eaten tonight’s meal, which to him looked like frog-spawn, he settled back to compose more verse.

  It was a particularly eloquent attempt he decided, on mentally reciting it, and could not wait to find an audience. However when he tried to interrupt the conversation Sigurd waved him away. ‘Later, Til. I am talking with my kin whom I have not seen since I was a lad. I will listen to your verse later.’

  Asketil turned away. ‘It does not matter.’

  Sigurd knew this tone by now. ‘Do not sulk. I have said I will listen to it later. What difference does an hour make to we who are always together?’

  Asketil made for the door, head down. ‘It does not matter, it was no good anyway.’

  The look of martyrdom exasperated Sigurd. ‘Oh, come and recite for us, then!’

  Forgiveness was not one of Asketil’s qualities. He stubbornly refused and crept off to find an audience in Murtagh.

  Sigurd shook his head and laughed at his cousins. ‘He is such a child sometimes. I do not know that I shall ever make a warrior of him. Oh, but he is the most precious thing to me! If ever I lost him I know that I should die.’

  The next day they made for Oslo where they would spend the winter. Asketil draped his upper half over the stern, fascinated by the globs of jelly in the water. Whilst so involved, he did not notice the two ships which sneaked from a concealed waterway and began to follow. His companions were working at the oars and did not see them either. Only Asketil was in the right position to give warning, but as usual he was lost in a dream of his own. The ships began to close.

  Luckily, just then Sigurd happened to turn and look back at Asketil, saw the ships and bellowed a warning that precipitated a furious increase in speed from his rowers, but the pirates had drawn too close to be so easily repulsed. With the ships almost clipping his tail, Sigurd urged the rowers on with curses and gesticulations. A viking prow was almost to his stern. Timbers collided, jolting men to the bone. Sigurd righted himself, hurled a lance and perforated one of the enemy, but even as he did so ano
ther grabbed the nearest victim, Asketil, and dragged him from one ship to the other.

  Sigurd cried out to the rowers. ‘Stop! They have taken my son! You must stop!’

  But they were too worried for their own necks. Every muscle straining, their efforts pulled the ship away from its attackers. Sigurd yelled and lashed out at them but it did him no good. There was only one course of action. Without a thought for himself the ealdorman dived overboard and swam back to try and rescue his son.

  Asketil struggled and kicked out at his captors, yelling, ‘Save me, Father! Help! Help!’

  Plunging through the cold waters, Sigurd cried out with his mind, I’m coming, my son! I’m coming! But to what was he coming? You fool, you damned fool, you should have stayed with the ship! We could have returned to rescue Til, now you will both be captive. But it was far too late to turn back. He was hooked from the water by a member of one crew, whilst the other ship rowed after the escaping craft. Dripping, he picked himself up from the deck and made a grab for Til, who clung to him in terror before they were ripped apart. ‘Take your hands off him!’ Sigurd yelled and wrestled with his captors, but was punched and kicked into submission. Preoccupied thus, he failed to see whether his own ship was captured. Only later when he and Asketil were taken to the chieftain’s lair and the other pirate ship returned empty-handed did he know that it was safe. However much he cursed its crew for leaving him he nurtured the hope that they might return, and used this to calm Asketil’s nervousness. ‘Fear not, Til, they shall come and rescue us.’

  The two were bound hand and foot, on a wide shelf of rock. Behind them was a pine forest, in front of them the fjord, but the shelf was raised so that all they could see of the ships were their masts. Sigurd was wringing wet. There was a fire nearby, around which the vikings sat, though it cast no warmth this far. In the dusk the surrounding mountains had once more become a giant’s palace.

  Til was too afraid to reply and could only look back at Sigurd with wide blue eyes. When he did find voice it was to condemn his own stupidity. ‘I am most sorry. If I had not been dreaming…’

  ‘Yea, if,’ returned Sigurd, hair dripping. ‘But knowing how you dream I should have been more alert.’

  Til’s voice quavered. ‘If we are freed…’

  ‘When we are freed,’ corrected Sigurd. ‘You will be the wiser.’

  The chieftain, a handsome man, came to interrupt their exchange, damning his friends who had allowed the ship to escape. ‘A rich haul we got for our efforts – an old man and a suckling.’

  ‘Cut these bonds and I shall show thee what this old man can do,’ warned Sigurd.

  ‘Ah, a spark of life! I am most glad. I thought that I had wasted my time on a dotard but you shall make a slave after all.’

  ‘Sigurd Einarsson is no man’s thrall!’

  The pirate threw up his arms in fake alarm, then relaxed into a laugh. ‘’Tis obvious I am meant to be impressed by the name. I regret I have never heard it.’

  ‘Cut these ropes and I shall make sure you never forget it!’

  The chieftain probed his lip. ‘Mm, maybe I shall not waste you on thraldom after all. You would make better sport, you and the boy. ’Tis a long time since I saw the blood-eagle carved on a man’s back.’

  Purely for Til’s benefit Sigurd became wary of invoking further punishment.

  ‘Ah, he is quieter now!’ The chieftain laughed and eyed Asketil. ‘Doest know of this ceremony of which I speak?’

  ‘Leave him be!’ There was threat in Sigurd’s voice. His heart had begun to thump.

  ‘Nei, he should be forewarned of the honour that his father’s show of spirit has earned for him.’ The pirate bent down and spoke in cheerful manner to the shivering Asketil. ‘Tomorrow when it is light I shall take my knife and run it down your spine, then I shall peel the flesh back and one by one prise your ribs up to give you wings…’

  ‘Cease!’ Red-faced, Sigurd rocked in his bonds.

  ‘Then I shall lift out thy lungs…’

  ‘Leave the lad alone! I consent to be your thrall and do whatever you wish.’

  ‘Oh, I am most downhearted,’ sulked the chieftain. ‘I do not know if I care to accept your offer. Maybe I shall allow you to think about it until morning.’ He left them and joined the circle by the fire.

  Never had Asketil felt such terror. It encompassed his whole mind and body, took him out of his own control into a place that he had not known existed, where he could not tell if it were day or night, his only instinct being to run and run and run.

  ‘Do not worry, Til, he is bluffing.’ Sigurd looked at the youngster whose face was turned away. ‘Til? Look at me.’

  The voice carried Til out of that black pit and into the present, but it was some time before he could react.

  Sigurd urged again. ‘Til, look at me!’

  There came a wet sniffle and a shuddering sigh. ‘I cannot! I am too shamed.’

  ‘Oh, Til…’ groaned the man.

  ‘I have shit myself.’ Asketil sobbed quietly into his chest. ‘Such a coward.’

  ‘Nay, a man’s bowels are nought to do with his heart. That demon would frighten any man – I am afraid, too.’

  ‘But you do not soil your breeches!’

  ‘Oh, you force me to say it – I have pissed myself but no one knows for I am drenched already!’ It was a lie designed to give the boy heart.

  Til gave a little laugh and turned his face slowly; it was wet with tears.

  ‘That is better.’ Sigurd laid warm eyes upon his son.

  ‘You only say this to make me feel less shamed.’ Til’s nose was running; he gave a huge sniff and gulped. His legs felt like jelly.

  The man nudged him with a shoulder. ‘Does not your fostri always tell the truth? Now take heart. Before the morning we shall be freed.’ Sigurd looked up as a young girl came through the dusk with food for the vikings.

  The chieftain noticed him watching her and called, ‘Ah, I see you are not too old that you would refuse this little virgin if I offered her to you! How would you like to taste that sweet flesh before you die?’ He lifted the girl’s rough garb; she wore nothing underneath. The viking laughed and shoved the girl from him. ‘I regret, I am saving her to barter with the Arabs next summer. But you are welcome to dream if you wish.’

  After feeding the pirates, the girl came across the rocks to sit near to the captives. This irritated Asketil; he did not want her laughing at his odour.

  She did not laugh but, when her captors were engaged in conversation, edged her bottom nearer and whispered, ‘My name is Mildryth.’

  Immediately Til recognized the dialect and, momentarily forgetting his dilemma, turned to her with interest. ‘You are from Northumbria?’

  She nodded. ‘I was on the shore collecting mussels when they came and took me in summer. My kin shall think I am dead. How did they take you?’

  With four sisters of his own, Til was not awed by the girl as some youths might be, and he addressed her as an equal, telling her briefly of his capture and what was to happen in the morning.

  Mildryth heard the tremble in his voice. ‘Mark not his threat too strongly. The old pisspot puffs and blows like the whale but has no teeth. He says these things to frighten you. He has tried the same with me for months, threatening to ravish me, but I fear him not.’

  ‘You are worth money to him,’ said a worried Asketil, descending once more into the pit. ‘I am not.’

  With Til between them, Sigurd could not hear the words she spoke, but watched her like a hawk. When, briefly, their eyes met, he detected a twinkle of candour as if she were laughing at him. The eyes were round, ever so slightly protuberant and of a shade as close to violet as he had ever seen. No… not quite pure violet; in the light of the fire they were like purple agate with little flecks in them. Despite his mistrust of women, the purity of her smile was the most erotic thing he had ever seen; it made his flesh crawl. He was almost fifty years of age, had known all nationalities of women –
voluptuous women – had thought that after Una he would never feel that way about a female again. Yet this twelve-year-old child held him captive and with one twitch of her lips gave him life. Mildryth blinked, her eyelids descending with the slow movement of a lizard; it turned his gut inside out.

  Mildryth failed to recognize his lust, but noticed that he was wet from head to foot and rose to drape a blanket around his shoulders. She moved away.

  After serving Asketil in like manner, she tossed back her straggly fair hair and went off to her bed. The night was cold. Neither Sigurd nor Asketil slept, the former anticipating rescue, the boy in terror of the morning’s ordeal.

  But before birdsong came a whisper: ‘Do not stir!’ Asketil felt his bonds cut through and, with a quick rub of his wrists, turned to offer a look of gratitude to Mildryth. Sigurd gave no thanks but tapped Asketil on the elbow and beckoned. Shamed by the mess in his breeches, Til hesitated in getting to his feet but the thought of what would happen if he tarried soon changed his mind and he ran after Sigurd. Mildryth ran with them.

  A shout went up – their escape had been heard! Asketil yelled out, already feeling that knife cutting its way down his spine, his lungs ripped out… he pelted with Sigurd down the rocky slope for the water but neither had an inkling of what he would do when he arrived, for how could two men handle a boat made for thirty? When Sigurd saw a canoe he dashed towards it, hoping that Til followed – and a screaming horde of warriors rose out of the darkness! His path blocked, Til screamed too, then realized with joy that they were his own friends come to rescue him! Apeing Sigurd, he grabbed an oar and used it to crack heads, much braver now behind numbers. Whilst the fight raged Mildryth ran for the ship to watch from a safe distance.

  Another watched too, alert to see if Sigurd would be killed. There were weapons in the hull. Murtagh’s fingers itched to use them – had already begun to reach for a spear – when Mildryth jumped aboard. He looked startled, then quick-wittedly handed the weapon to Mildryth who leapt back on to land where she jabbed at leg and groin and buttock. Her earlier comment had been prophetic; the pirate chieftain was all bluster and could not match Sigurd’s ferocity. He was the first to die at his former captive’s hand. One by one his men followed, and the remainder fled. Wasting no time to gather prizes, Sigurd pushed Asketil and Mildryth on board, called his men to oars and off they rowed into the night.