by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
But Sigurd was in no mood to forgive. On Christmas Eve whilst Asketil watched the sacred branch of mistletoe laid ceremoniously upon the high altar of the Minster, Sigurd was holed up in a Norwegian cabin, plotting war. On first arrival he had made for the house of King Harald at Oslo, but the monarch was at his palace in the capital Nidaros and so he had rowed back along the Oslofjord to spend winter with his kin. There could be no attack before summer anyway. Depressed and betrayed, he could not concentrate on the winter games, the songs, the riddles: all he saw was Asketil with Mildryth.
In England, King Edward’s humiliation over Tostig had caused a seizure and more were to follow. In January 1066 Asketil returned from a visit to the palace with the news that the King was dead.
Mildryth, far advanced into her pregnancy, was instantly worried about a successor. ‘Will Earl Tostig take his chance to return, and with him Lord Sigurd?’
‘If he does he shall have a formidable opponent,’ replied Til, eating the handful of raisins given to him by the cook – he had found Mildryth in the kitchen. ‘Harold Godwinsson has been chosen as King.’
‘Another Godwinsson.’ His wife fingered her necklace of garnets, her apprehension shared by the cook. ‘The northern men will not take kindly to it.’
Til was concerned about this too. ‘Neither will the earls.’ Rivalry between the families of Godwin and Leofric had been passed down to their heirs. ‘Let us hope the disunity will not unleash an invasion from other sources – William of Normandy has a thirst for English ale. Still, Harold is a different kettle of fish from his brother. He will be a good King. Besides, has he not virtually ruled for the last ten years?’
‘There is something else,’ accused Mildryth. ‘I can tell by your face.’
Til pretended that his mouth was too full for him to answer at the moment. Impatient of feature, Mildryth went to help a servant cram her mixture of lard, meat and blood into an intestinal membrane. When the sausage was made, she turned back to her husband. ‘Well?’
Til was reluctant to worry her lest it harmed the child, but concluded that it was better to be truthful; there had been enough deceit with Sigurd. He used a fingernail to dislodge a raisin from his tooth. ‘It is just that… well, I heard tell of a dream that King Edward had before he died. In this vision he met two monks whom he had known in Normandy - both were long dead – and they told him that because of the wickedness of the earls and churchmen, God has cursed this country. They warn that devils will come through the land with fire and sword and war…’
‘Oh, hush! Do not tell me any more.’ Mildryth had turned pale.
‘Nay, I knew ’twould be wrong of me to worry you with such nonsense!’ Til grabbed a stool and put it under her whilst the cook brought water. ‘The King was likely raving, there is no truth in it. Whatever we might think of Godwinsson he is a great leader. He would not let England be overrun.’
Mildryth refused the cup of water, hugged her belly and prayed that he were right, but the seed of fear had been sown. She could not rid her mind of the omen.
The announcement that Harold was to be King met with resistance from the north, but the new monarch soon overcame this with a display of bravery. Without aid of arms he rode to Jorvik and offered himself to the mercy of the Northumbrians. A gemot of earldoms was held in the city. Til, having great admiration for Harold’s audacity, supported his claim to the throne. The earls were convinced and pledged their swords, and the whole of England was behind Harold. This was just as well, for within ten days of his coronation there came a threatening message from William of Normandy who saw himself as a claimant to the throne, and the fyrd was put on alert.
When no attack came, the people dropped their caution and the celebration of Easter was as big as ever. But on the Tuesday night after the festival, a terrifying vision appeared in the sky – a ball of light with a long shimmering tail. Mildryth, ripe for birth, saw it as a portent of doom. Still nothing happened.
Catkin-bearers turned to leaf, pale-green buds with silvery hairs adorned the beeches, woodland came to life with fawn and fledgling, and in the early eve when badgers coaxed their cubs abroad, Mildryth’s son was born – a child of the spring, a new beginning.
Almost at the moment of his birth, came news that Tostig’s fleet had been spotted in the Humbre. Asketil thought it best to keep this from his wife when he was finally allowed in to see her, and this was not difficult for his thoughts were immediately centred on his firstborn son. ‘Oh, see his hair!’ He laughed and bent over his wife who held the babe in her arms. ‘It is black as night. And his fingers – see the way they grip mine! Oh, he is wonderful.’ After a few moments of admiration he remembered Mildryth’s screams and lifted his face from the babe to show concern. ‘Thank God your suffering is over. I could not have borne another second.’
Mildryth laughed, her face was radiant in the glow of candles that surrounded her bed. ‘Nor I, neither.’
Til looked abashed and laughed too. ‘What are we to call him?’ He moved aside as the midwife brought a cup of warm milk and honey for the mother and, taking the baby, laid him in a crib nearby.
‘That is for his father to say,’ replied Mildryth, wondering why her hands trembled upon the cup while she felt so strong in spirit. ‘But I rather like the name Elfin myself.’
‘Yea, it suits him.’ Asketil nodded and enquired of the midwife, ‘Good mistress, what do you think to my son?’
The midwife, a plump woman with Slavic features, made ready to leave, tucking her mysterious bottles and potions into her bag. ‘He is a good lad and caused no trouble coming into the world – but what a day to be born on! I wonder how far down the Humbre Lord Tostig has got. Have you heard, my lord?’
Asketil could have punched the woman for her stupidity. Mildryth’s joyous expression had calcified and she dropped the cup, spilling milk over her bed. Throwing the empty vessel to the floor he clutched her arms. ‘There is nought for thee to worry about! We do not even know if the reports are true.’ A glare over his shoulder sent the midwife into retreat.
Mildryth was stricken. ‘Is Lord Sigurd with Tostig?’
‘We do not even know if the news of Tostig is true.’ Asketil tried to sound calming.
But Mildryth was not to be calmed. What should have been a celebration was instead a day of terror. ‘Why did you not tell me at once? And why do I lie here in bed when the man who would kill us may be at our door!’ She flung back the covers and tried to get out of bed.
‘Wife, you are too weak!’ It took little effort from Asketil to prevent her from rising. In her mind she brimmed with energy but the moment her feet hit the ground her legs buckled and she fell back onto the bed.
‘Fetch me my child!’ She reached frantic arms for Elfin and when Asketil lifted him from the crib she clutched him to her breast, violet eyes almost popping out of her head with fear.
‘Do you think I would let him hurt thee?’ breathed Til. ‘The day is gone when I put my father above all, Mildryth. He shall not get within one inch of Jorvik. I was but waiting for our son to be born before joining Earl Morcar’s army. We go to rout the invaders.’
‘Nay!’ Mildryth snatched at him with one hand. ‘Do not leave us!’
‘You will be safe enough here…’
‘Nay, Til, do not leave us!’ Mildryth burst into tears. Asketil had never seen her so emotional.
‘Be calm!’ He put his arms round her with the snuffling child in between them. ‘I will not go with Morcar if you do not wish me to.’
‘Do not go at all!’ she begged him. ‘Not even from this room. Lord Sigurd comes, I know he does!’
Try as he might to assuage this worry, Mildryth would not allow her husband to leave her side for hours, and even then he was only able to creep away when she fell asleep. But he made sure she was never alone during those next few days and was always at her bedside when she woke. This being so, her panic subsided, and good news was to herald her return to the world outside the bower where she
had given birth.
‘A messenger has just come with news of Earl Morcar’s progress.’ Asketil beamed at his wife. ‘Tostig’s force was cut to pieces – and my father’s ship was not spotted amongst his fleet.’
Mildryth was only slightly pacified, shushing the crying babe whom she had never let out of her care for one moment. ‘Did Tostig die?’
Til was less jubilant. ‘Nay, he escaped northwards – but he has not enough ships to make another attack. You can sleep more easy now.’
‘How can you say that when we do not know Lord Sigurd’s whereabouts? I shall not sleep easy until he is dead.’
Whilst others rejoiced at Tostig’s defeat, Mildryth retained her nervousness, convinced that any moment she would see Lord Sigurd’s ship in the Use.
If only she had known, Lord Sigurd remained in exile. As usual the Norwegian winter had been endless, and Sigurd was almost out of his mind with boredom. The moment the ice began to melt he sailed for Nidaros and an audience with Harald Hardrada, launching with the grand announcement, ‘I have come to offer my services in the war against England.’
Hardrada surveyed the visitor and saw a lean old man with leathery skin, thinning pate, tufts of white hair sprouting from ears and nose, and eyebrows that were almost two inches long. Apart from the boldness of his eye, Sigurd had changed a lot since their last encounter. The King regarded him with amusement. ‘We are at war? Why did no one tell me?’
Sigurd hated this sort of conversation. Others had tried it with him, thinking that because he was old he was no longer a man; he had soon taught them otherwise. ‘Do not try to pretend you are ignorant of the state of affairs in England, for I know that you have long had your eye on that prize. If ever there were time to grab it then that time is now, with all the squabbling that goes on between its earls – and if Earl Tostig has not sent word to you then ’twill not be long before he does so. With his army and mine to bolster your fleet you cannot fail against such disunity.’
‘You do not offer your services unless there is glory in it for you,’ cognized Hardrada, reaching for a drink. The goblet was engulfed by his huge hand. Despite the King being seated it was evident that he was a very large man with a voice to match.
Sigurd gave one of the reasons for joining Hardrada. ‘I have never forgotten that Ethelred was responsible for my father’s death and that Edward is part of that line. Fifty years ago I made a blood-oath not to rest until every one of my enemy’s kin is dead.’
‘If that is your only reason then you can rest easy.’ Hardrada’s normally severe brow was relaxed today; there was no hint of the ruthlessness that his enemies feared. ‘Word arrived from England last week that Edward is buried; he perished in mid-winter.’ Ringed fingers came up to wipe the long fair moustache.
Sigurd’s face changed. ‘Who reigns now?’
‘My namesake Harold Godwinsson.’
Sigurd returned a grim nod, fixing his gaze to Hardrada’s misaligned eyebrows. ‘It does not surprise me – Godwin and his brood were yet another bane on my ambitions. All my life I have coveted the earldom of Northumbria and have been robbed by one means or another, whilst Godwin by virtue only of his smile was showered with titles.’
‘Aha!’ Hardrada did not need to be told more. ‘The mud clears. You offer your help in return for Northumbria.’ He chuckled. ‘Unfortunately, Tostig has offered his services too. You cannot both be jarl, so why should I give preference to the older man?’
‘Because I am the only one who knows how to keep your northern kingdom in order,’ replied Sigurd. ‘Tostig has been deposed by his own people for his treachery; not even his friends can trust him. On the other hand, if a man or a king does me one friendly deed he has my loyalty for life. Give me the earldom and I will pledge my sword and fifty men – more when we land on Northumbrian soil.’
‘But what use have I for an old man’s sword? And if all your men are as toothless as you…’
Sigurd retaliated for the blow to his pride. ‘Draw your blade! King or no I will fight you now and you will see who wins!’ It was a rash boast; Harald would likely kill him.
But the warrior belied his harsh reputation with a languid wave of his arm and merely laughed. ‘I tease you, Sigurd. You do not have to prove your manhood. That you remain alive at such a remarkable age is proof enough of your cunning – and you are right about Tostig: he is no leader. I shall make use of his army and if he is still living after the battle, I shall appease him with some other title. Northumbria is yours.’ He could not resist a further tease. ‘If you think you will survive to claim it.’
The old man replied with dignity. ‘I have survived six English kings and will outlive a seventh. Besides, I do not merely go to claim my title, I have a little bride awaiting me in Jork.’
This set Hardrada laughing. Not many were capable of amusing him but the Norwegian King had always liked this old battle-scarred warrior. ‘Then prepare for a summer wedding, my friend!’
* * *
The waiting had become unbearable.
‘Dear Lord in Heaven, I feel that I am like to go mad!’ raged Mildryth to her husband as they made a futile attempt to relax outside on this warm July evening. ‘Where is he?’ She swiped at the hoverflies that hung in the sultry air. ‘Why does he not come, if that is his intent?’ Elfin started to wake and whimper. His mother began an agitated rocking of the cradle.
Til was on edge, too. It was difficult not to be with the thought that Sigurd could have joined Duke William’s force, but he tried to keep calm for Mildryth’s sake. ‘Why does he need to come at all when the mere threat of him can ruin our happiness?’
It was a good choice of words. Mildryth frowned at the truth of them, then exploded, ‘Why, you are right! What a fool I am to let that happen.’ She gave up trying to soothe Elfin and lifted him from cradle to breast. ‘From this eve I refuse to worry about him again. After all, he could be dead! I must give myself more to do. ’Tis all very well being the lady but an idle mind breeds unwelcome thoughts.’ She looked down at the guzzling babe and fingered his cheek. Asketil knew that her mind held the same thought as his; a thought too terrible to be spoken.
Whilst they sat on the bench and talked, birds flew in and out of the open hall to peck crumbs from the table. A combination of aromas wafted from the herb garden – sage, lemon balm, lavender. Starlings flocked in black clouds to their evening roost, all was as normal, yet throughout the nursing of her child Mildryth exhibited agitation. When Elfin had taken his fill she adjusted her clothes and got up. ‘I think I will go and collect the last of the honey. The bees should all be home by now. Will you come, husband?’
The beekeeper was pleased to hand over his task to the mistress, and after doffing his cap went home to his wife. Before starting, Mildryth knelt within safe distance of the hive. ‘See all the bees, Elfin? We must not go too near for they become angry if folk keep passing their door – that is why it faces away from the path. Now, lie quiet in the grass by your father and maybe you will learn.’ She laid him down beside her husband.
Til had brought his flute. Spotting two friends, he called for them to enjoy a musical half-hour and interplayed with lute and lyre whilst Mildryth occupied her hands. Bringing a flame, she ignited some dried puff-ball fungus and wafted the smoke into the hive. Soon the buzzing went quiet and she was able to remove the honeycombs. ‘The bees are not dead,’ she reassured the child as if he could understand. ‘They merely sleep.’
When the combs were all collected a more relaxed Mildryth and her husband went home, each enjoying a piece of sweet beebread. Their journey took them by a clump of goatsbeard, its creamy plumes jolting Mildryth back to her nervousness. Lord Sigurd is not dead; he merely sleeps.
* * *
Ever since the thaw, Hardrada’s heralds had ridden through Norway bearing the iron arrow that was the symbol of war; each man who set eyes on it must join the King’s army or be outlawed. Gathering an army was less of a problem than the weather. All summer Harald
of Norway awaited a favourable wind; midway through August it came. Sigurd had become more and more crazed by the delay and was therefore one of the first to congregate off the mountainous island of Solund where Hardrada directed his magnificent fleet. All assembled, Harald of Norway left his son Magnus to rule and with his two hundred ships embarked for the Shetland Isles.
In England King Harold’s fyrd had been in the same position for over two months, waiting for the Duke of Normandy’s attack. It was becoming more and more difficult to feed the men from resources in that part of the country and now food was having to be brought in by packhorse from other shires. Moreover, the army had already completed the required service for that year and its members were eager to return home – what of their families, the harvest and the thousand jobs that needed to be done before winter? How long did the King intend to keep them here? Surely the Normans would not come now. The wind was against them and autumn just around the corner. Why could they not go home? Only a man of Harold Godwinsson’s calibre could milk from them the last drop of loyalty: just a few more weeks until the danger was over…
The dragons came with the September gales, meeting with Tostig in the Tyne and rampaging down the east coast, their number risen to three hundred. Before steering inland, they attacked the village of Skarthaborg where, having lit a huge bonfire atop a mount, they pushed it down onto the roofs of the fishermen’s houses.
Sigurd was impatient at Hardrada’s boyish tricks. The town was of no significance; it was all a game and he resented the delay that kept him from his real goal, Jorvik. Whilst the boys romped the old man remained on his ship and brooded over Mildryth. Once the fun was over Hardrada urged his ten thousand men onwards, into the Humbre and on to Jorvik.
* * *
Asketil, Mildryth and their son had enjoyed a week’s feasting at the home of one of his thegns who dwelt ten miles east of Jorvik, and now travelled home through the Forest of Galtres in the company of fifty soldiers. From the corner of his eye Til gauged the effect that the forest had upon his wife, but saw that her face was for once calm, and he smiled to himself. With autumn nigh the danger of attack from abroad had lessened and Mildryth had begun to relax. The trip had helped – and the new gown she wore. It was violet with wide embroidered cuffs of golden thread and a similar border around the hem. She wore gold in her hair too, a circlet encrusted with amethysts to hold her white veil in place. Asketil marvelled at how lovely she looked, and had to tell her. ‘Wife, you are even lovelier than when you were a girl.’
