Jorvik

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

  A priest who was amongst the hostages had just finished Mass, but prayers lived on in every heart. Mildryth, about to feed Elfin, caught Sigurd watching her. As she put the baby to her breast the old man looked away. ‘Ah dear Til, I feel much sorrow for him.’

  Believing that she referred to their son, Asketil brushed Elfin’s cheek with a finger. ‘Do not worry, I will ensure he comes to no harm.’

  ‘Nay, I meant the old man.’ Arms occupied with the babe she inclined her head towards Sigurd.

  Til gasped. ‘How can you pity one who nearly killed you?’ Every last drop of respect for Sigurd had evaporated now.

  She shook her head. ‘I have had much time to dwell on it over the last few days. Remember his face – did you not witness the pain there? Much as we had hurt him he could not have killed us if his own life had depended on it – and if he had, then I would hold myself partly to blame. I led him on, allowed him to believe that I returned his love. You told me it was cruel but I was too young to see it then, I cared too much for my own appetites. Now I know how he must feel. He is old and will die soon. We must make our peace with him, Til.’

  ‘Never!’ vowed Asketil. ‘By God, Mildryth, you have changed your tune – and how do you know that he will be the one to die and not us?’

  ‘If we are to die then even more reason why we should repent of our sins against him.’

  ‘Our sins?’ Her husband was scandalized.

  ‘Nay, I phrased it badly.’ Mildryth dropped her head to kiss the suckling child, her voice low. ‘The sin was all mine. I meant only that you should make peace with him before either of you dies.’

  ‘I will never grant him peace! All my life I was loyal as a son. When I knew that he wanted you as his wife I tried most desperately not to love you, supported him through thick and thin in his fight for the earldom – and he calls me traitor, when he fights for the Norwegian against his own people! Well, I have done with him, Mildryth. If I am to die then there is only one with whom I would share my last words.’ He put his arm round her, squeezed and rubbed her fondly.

  His vigour dislodged the child from her breast; Elfin complained loudly. Mildryth redirected his gaping mouth, then was quiet for a time whilst he took sustenance. When he lay bloated in her arms she came to a decision. ‘You must do as you see fit, Til, but that man loved me once and I cannot go to my Maker without thanks for that at least.’

  Expelling a sigh, Asketil took charge of the babe and let her go alone, watching the old man’s face turn up to her as she stood before him. Through the rage came uncertainty as twenty years of memories filled his mind. But no, he swore to himself, I will not join her.

  Sigurd was rubbing grease on the links of his bymie to guard against rust. His peripheral vision had caught Mildryth’s approach but when she arrived to stand before him he glanced up only once. Once was enough to make his heart bleed at her loveliness. Even in her desperate state she had combed her blonde hair – looked as pure and clean as ever.

  Mildryth looked down at him. ‘I have only short speech to make.’ There was no edge to her voice, neither cold nor warm. ‘I ask no forgiveness for wedding Asketil. I love him more than life itself and would do the same again if he asked me to… but I am much in your debt for all that you have given me in the past and must make amends. Right or wrong though either of us be in our actions, I know that I should not have tried so hard to come between Til and the father he loved. For that I am truly repentant, and I wish you only peace.’ On her conclusion, she gazed for a while at the faded dragons on his arms, the working sinews making them writhe into life. When no response was forthcoming, she turned and walked back to her husband who did not scoff at her attempt at reconciliation but hugged and kissed her.

  ‘You are a brave lass for trying,’ he comforted. ‘The ogre is not worth it.’

  Sigurd rubbed furiously at his byrnie, never lifting his eyes from it. When this was done he polished his sword, then his axe, and every blade in his possession. In each polished surface shone Mildryth’s face.

  * * *

  They slept on the ships, some remaining on land to guard the hostages. Sigurd was amongst these, though at midnight a younger man came to relieve him and told him to get some sleep. Little chance there is of that, thought Sigurd, with my old man’s bladder and the thoughts that plague me, but he laid his head down anyway and must have drifted off at some point for when he woke it was dawn. For a time he lay there, wondering what this Monday morn held in store. Then, he stretched, pulled himself into a sitting position and finally got to his feet, passing a few more moments looking up at the sky. At least it was going to be a fine day.

  Hundreds of miles away a wizened Irishman emerged from his bothy and looked up at that same sky. Murtagh O’Cellaigh stretched, and yawned, then moved away from the house before passing water. Whilst so engaged he looked at the sky again. It was going to be a fine day for ploughing. There was no dread attached to the thought; Murtagh’s land-holding was but a crumb when compared with the huge expanses he had been forced to work for Lord Sigurd. And it was his own land! He would have ploughing over well before dusk, then he would set upon building a winter sty for the pig.

  Having relieved himself, Murtagh enjoyed another few moments of idleness, running his crooked eye over the Irish landscape, for some strange reason thinking of Asketil and Mildryth. Had they grieved long over Lord Sigurd’s death? Had they cursed his murderer? Murtagh did not really care. He had just celebrated his forty-seventh birthday. Who would have thought that the former slave would outlive his master?

  ‘Father!’ A small boy came running out of the house. Murtagh grinned and caught the child up in his arms.

  ‘Mother says, food is on the table.’ The black-haired child linked fond arms round his father’s neck.

  Murtagh nodded and, heading towards the house, carried his child in to breakfast.

  Hardrada had finished breaking his own fast and ordered his trumpeters to signal for the men to disembark.

  ‘Christ in Heaven!’ objected the man next to Sigurd. ‘This bread has not even touched my lips yet – does the King expect us to march on an empty belly?’ Others joined his complaint. Sigurd ate little these days and was already preparing to depart, but sympathized with those who went hungry before going to find out Hardrada’s plans for the day.

  The King of Norway announced that he was to divide his army. ‘One third of the men will look after the ships, the others will accompany me for the hostages.’

  With fifty years’ experience of war Sigurd was a good military tactician. ‘It would be unwise to so weaken your force, my lord.’

  Hardrada was a clever strategist too, but the lack of resistance to his invasion had caused him to relax. ‘I have decided.’

  ‘What do you intend to do with the hostages you already have?’ asked Sigurd.

  ‘We will leave them here.’

  Sigurd was uneasy. ‘I would advise you to take them along in case of ambush.’

  Tostig thought this wholly unnecessary, but this time Hardrada gave credence to the old warrior’s instinct. ‘Bring them along and you will be responsible for keeping them in order.’ He knew that Sigurd’s adopted son was amongst the group, but the old man had not been keen to acquaint him with the reason and Harald was not particularly interested.

  It was a warm morning, sun and blue sky adding depth to the autumn colours. The King was so sure the fighting was over that he and his men left their coats of mail behind, carrying helmets and shields, bows and arrows, swords and axes. Sigurd was not so blasé and wore his mail even though it caused discomfort. He took up a position behind the hostages, mounted on the horse he had taken from Earlsburh. The King, Tostig and other nobles rode at the head of the procession. All were merry except for the wretched captives and Sigurd, who brooded over Mildryth’s words, as he had done all night. A child cried. Mildryth’s child… Til’s child. Forgive them, urged his heart. Let Til have her; you are an old man and would soon make her a widow.
But when had Sigurd ever listened to his heart?

  The army crossed a ploughed field, disturbing a flock of lapwings that wheeled and called overhead. Dust rose from the thousands of boots that tramped across the dry soil, parching throats. One hour passed, then another. Sun-warmed fruits perfumed the air, luring hungry hands to reach out and grab at branches, turning mouths red and purple. Sigurd was too consumed with thoughts to eat: thoughts of all the comrades who had died over the years, thoughts of Una and Estorhild, thoughts of his mother, thoughts of Gytha. His daughter would have been a woman of forty-four now! But for as long as he lived his mind would always see her as a three-year-old child.

  The morning grew hotter and the destined river crossing was a most welcome sight. Stanfordbrycg was a village of some importance, for many roads converged here. On either side of the brown ribbon of water the land sloped gently upwards. Hardrada’s soldiers, grateful that their march was over, relaxed around both ends of the wooden bridge in a disorderly heap, some on the Jorvik bank of the river in flat water meadows and some on the rising ground of the opposite edge. Sigurd ordered the hostages and his own company of men to halt, then dismounted and allowed his horse to bend its head over the river. His face glowed from the heat, but he kept on his mail and only removed his helmet. A thirsty Mildryth begged Asketil to fetch water for them both in his hat. She was famished, too, but unlikely to be fed by her captors, and would have gone hungry this morning also if Til had not found some mushrooms and fruit. She gulped from his hat before the water soaked in. Sigurd drank too, swearing at those whose boyish rompings clouded the river with mud. With their lewd songs and japes the young men were beginning to grate on his nerves, but it was impossible to get away from their mass. Thousands upon thousands lined the river, cooling their throbbing feet. Sigurd moved a little way back from the water and flopped to the ground.

  All were in this leisurely, scattered pose when a look-out alerted the King that the new hostages were almost arrived; they were about a mile away and clearly visible atop the gentle hill on the road from Jorvik.

  Hardrada had sharper eyes. ‘These are no hostages but an army – see, the glint of weapons!’ He called Tostig to him and asked who the arrivals could be.

  ‘It will be my friends come to make their vows of obedience to you their King,’ answered Tostig. As the army drew nearer, however, he had the dreadful realization that it was his brother, but did not give him away, saying only to Hardrada, ‘My lord… I am mistaken. I think we shall have a fight on our hands.’

  A curious Sigurd had wandered up to Hardrada’s shoulder; the Norwegian dwarfed him. ‘Do you know who he is, my lord?’

  Hardrada narrowed his eyes. ‘Whoever it is, he is obviously an important personage.’

  ‘It is Harold Godwinsson.’ Sigurd took malevolent delight in evening the score with Tostig for his revelation of Asketil’s identity to Hardrada. ‘I am surprised the Earl did not recognize his brother.’

  At Tathaceaster Harold Godwinsson, having learnt of the battle of Fuleford and the capture of Jorvik, had wasted no time in going there. He had set out from Lunden with around three thousand housecarls and during the march his army had grown; at each village he had rallied men to him and last night he had done the same with the battered folk of Jorvik who now came to face Hardrada, not to surrender but to fight.

  By now interest had spread and the Norse army was gathering form. Sigurd made ready for war. The King of Norway was asking Tostig’s advice but the old man answered first. ‘You have taken enough instruction from him! If we had not dallied for days we might have had our extra hostages and could make treaty. Where are Tostig’s friends that he promised? We should have gone south whilst we had the upper hand.’

  Tostig could not believe that his ealdorman had so turned against him, but ignored the slur for this moment. ‘We must retreat to the ships and fight them there.’

  Sigurd was against any retreat. ‘We would be cut to pieces by their horse soldiers.’

  Hardrada had already thought of this. ‘We will have to make a stand and send messengers on the best horses to fetch the others here.’

  Whilst the messengers rode for help, Tostig made a suggestion. ‘We should try to barter, using the hostages already in our possession.’ A look at Sigurd showed that he was attempting to get his own back.

  Hardrada decreed this useless. ‘There are too few to have any influence. We might as well kill them lest they aid the enemy from within.’

  Sigurd tried to conceal his alarm. ‘Tis a great waste to do that, they might come in useful later. Besides, we have not the time, the enemy are almost upon us.’

  Hardrada conceded. ‘Very well. Line them up over that side of the bridge – they will bear the brunt of English arrows.’

  Sigurd faltered, but with the attack imminent he had his men round up the captives and shepherd them over the narrow wooden bridge. It was as he crossed it himself that he knew he was going to die today.

  ‘What does he intend to do with us?’ Mildryth asked her husband, covering Elfin to avoid him being elbowed by the terrified people around her – they were at the centre of the group.

  Asketil guessed and spoke bitterly. ‘We are to act as a shield. It is as I said before – he will not kill us himself, but wants others to do it.’

  Mildryth gasped outrage and swivelled her head to look for Sigurd but could not see above the crowd of greasy heads. However, once the hostages were on the other side of the river their captors came amongst them, prodding them with spears and making them thin out into a line. Mildryth still looked around wildly for the old man who had brought them to this. There he was! Without warning she broke from the line and ran towards Sigurd. Til made a grab for her but missed and was forced to run after her. Norse voices called for them to stop or be killed but Mildryth reached her objective first.

  ‘You cannot do this to Asketil and his son!’ She fell on her knees before him, babe in arms, and before Til had a chance to muzzle her gave the added cry, ‘If one of us has to die for what we did to you then let it be me!’

  ‘Take no heed!’ Asketil reached for his wife’s arm and pulled her to her feet. ‘I want no woman and babe to die in my place.’

  ‘Neither of you will die,’ muttered a dispassionate Sigurd, and waved away the soldier who had chased the pair. His eyes were not on them now but on the approaching army. ‘Take the child and go back to Jorvik.’

  Both were too astounded to move at first, but as Sigurd turned his back Mildryth shouted after him, ‘And that is all – after what you have put us through? No word for the loving son whom you treated so badly? And what of our fellow hostages? We will not go without them!’

  Sigurd turned, looked her in the eye then gave both a hefty push. ‘Be gone, I say!’

  She took a pace after him but Til dragged her from the river and away up a slope. ‘Mildryth, it is not in your power to save the entire world! Be just grateful that he hath spared us three.’

  She closed her eyes and nodded acceptance, then looked back over her shoulder as they hurried to escape. ‘Still, he could have made peace with you!’

  ‘It requires no words to do that.’ Asketil continued to put more distance between them and the battle that was to come. ‘This is his way of saying all is forgiven.’ When they were far enough away, he paused to look at her, gave a tight smile and pulled at his beard. ‘It must have been your words last night that pricked his conscience. What did you say?’

  Mildryth came to a halt and looked blank. ‘Nought of substance… Are we to go home, then?’ She noticed a fluffy seedhead clinging to his whiskers and teased it out.

  ‘Not until I know the outcome.’ Leaden-hearted, Asketil sought a place from which to observe the impending clash, found one and sat down with his wife. Quaking grass shivered in the breeze, sending waves across the field and bringing to Asketil an emptiness that he had not experienced since Ulf had died.

  The main bulk of Hardrada’s army was by now formed into a circle
; many of the approaching Saxons were on horseback and Sigurd offered the wise advice that Hardrada should prepare for a mounted attack in case under Edward’s influence the English had adopted the continental manner of warfare. He had taken up a position to the rear of the hostages just in front of the bridge. As ever when in battle, age had drained away, he was filled with youthful enthusiasm, keen to engage the enemy, and even more heartened now to see the English dismount – battle was to be in the good old hand-to-hand style to which he was accustomed. Archers took their positions. At the first warning twang of bowstrings the hostages scattered, but were not quick enough to escape the deadly rain. There were bursts of thistledown as a host of them fell, coated with the fluffy seeds. Watching from his hillock Asketil winced, experiencing the pain in his own breast. The air whistled with missiles – stones, arrows, javelins – and another batch of vikings fell dead and wounded.

  With King Harold at their nucleus, the Saxon warriors presented a shield-wall; flanking them were the lightly-armed civilians, many of whom Sigurd had passed in the alleys of Jorvik; one day neighbours, the next enemies. The man beside him fell dead, a throwing-axe embedded in his brow. The byrnie-clad mass edged towards him, thump, thump, thumping shields, faint mumbles growing into one enormous chant – ‘Holy Cross!’ Sigurd responded with customary boldness, ran out from the line, danced and gyrated between the corpses, feinted with his axe – ‘Come and get us!’ Closer, closer, edged his foe, ploughing through the water meadows, trampling flowers and dead alike.