Viking Revolt

by Gavin Chappell

  Evening was drawing on. Gest was tired, having only reached his own steading that noon after hard sailing back from Kaupang. He had barely had time to speak with Hild before he had to ride to Earl Sigvaldi’s stronghold. It would not do for a man of his standing to spurn an invitation of this kind. And yet it seemed that no one wanted to know him. No one except Bjorn.

  The man took one of the horns of mead that had been passed across the fire, and then another which he handed to Gest. Gest thanked him brusquely, barely concealing the irritation he felt, and they raised their horns as Earl Sigvaldi lifted his own high, and cried out, ‘To victory!’

  ‘To victory!’ responded the crowd. ‘To victory,’ yelled Bjorn, ‘victory and the king!’

  ‘Victory and the king,’ Gest echoed.

  ‘Victory, and the king,’ said Earl Sigvaldi with a smile, and then they all drank deep.

  Now dishes of horsemeat were served out, the boiled meat swimming in a broth of ale and leeks, and folk sat at the benches to eat and drink. The reek of cooked meat and spilled blood and wood smoke filled the air. Bjorn sat beside Gest. They were not close enough to the hall doors to sit among the wanderers and beggars, but they were still a long way from the high seat and Earl Sigvaldi’s cronies.

  ‘Tell me of your trouble with the trolls,’ Bjorn said to him.

  ‘Trolls?’ Gest said. ‘There are no trolls. You’ve been in this backwater too long. Trolls live in tales for children, a man of Vestfold should know that.’

  Bjorn looked hurt. ‘Folk say that trolls haunt your steading,’ he said. ‘That it was trolls who burnt it to the ground. I saw the fire that night, you know. I went down there with some of my farmhands as soon as it was light.’

  Gest stopped eating and stared at the man. ‘You saw the attackers?’ he said.

  Bjorn shook his head. ‘I saw nothing but the burnt hall. But there was a reek there that I know, not just the reek of ashes. A rank reek. The reek of trolls.’

  Gest remembered his first visit to the steading, to its ruin. ‘Very well, I met with a reek like the one you describe,’ he said, ‘when first I came to the steading. Someone attacked me. Perhaps an outlaw.’

  Bjorn shook his head. ‘A troll,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen him, or one of his ilk. He came to my steading too, on many nights, took away calves and lambs and more recently…’ He halted, and it seemed it was a struggle for him to go on. ‘A, a girl child of my own has gone missing.’ He looked away. ‘I was all for getting up a war party and going in search of him after I surprised him on his last visit,’ he added, ‘chased him back to the fjord. But these brave men, who sneer at you, the king’s man, behind your back, they wouldn’t go. For all that everyone knows where the trolls have their lair.’

  ‘I met only one troll,’ Gest said, ‘if troll he was. He sounds like the same one you speak of, but it was more than one man, or troll, who burnt down the king’s steading. Did you see nothing of attackers? Vikings, coming up from the sea to burn the hall.’

  Bjorn shook his head again. ‘Vikings wouldn’t sail up from the sea,’ he said, ‘not without the beacon fires being lit on Kvitsoy. The whole of Rogaland would be alerted, mark my words. Long before they could reach Gandsfjord, they would have been driven off. They don’t fear vikings round here, but they do dread trolls. Still, you and me, king’s man, we’re not backwater boors. We could track the trolls down to their lair and kill them.’

  ‘If they are as many as attacked the steading when Thorstein was killed,’ Gest told him, ‘we would need more than two men.’

  ‘But you could lead us,’ Bjorn urged him. ‘You would win new respect from Earl Sigvaldi and his folk if you were to free them from the troll.’

  Gest grimaced. ‘I’m a king’s man,’ he admitted. ‘And I’ve fought the king’s enemies. But I am not some hero out of legend, and nor are you. I don’t believe there are trolls in this land; more likely there are a few outlaws from the woods, perhaps only one. But I have made a fool of myself once seeking out menaces that were not there. If, as you say, I’m the laughingstock of Earl Sigvaldi’s folk, I will not gain fresh respect proposing a troll hunt. I’m not green,’ he added meaningfully. ‘Not as green as a yew in winter.’

  Bjorn looked at him sadly. ‘I remember the king’s men as brave fellows,’ he said. ‘When I lived in Tunsberg…’

  ‘Not even King Harald Finehair himself,’ Gest told him, ‘would be so rash as to seek sorrow as you suggest.’

  He turned his attention to the horsemeat, which had been boiled just as he liked it. He drank deep from the horn that sat on the table in a metal holder, and as he finished the sacrificial meal he listened to a skald chanting a lay of Odin’s visit to Suttung’s hall in search of the mead of wisdom. If he was an Odin, or better still a Thor, he might be able to slay the trolls that infested Bjorn’s nightmares. But he was just a man, even if he was one of the Gestasveit.

  So Bjorn was not the spy he had at first thought he might be. Or was this some strange way of sounding him out as to his true identity? But no. Had Bjorn been hoping to speak with him, agent to agent, he would have used the watchword Hauk had given. And he seemed not to know it, despite the hint that Gest had dropped.

  He turned his gaze to the high seat and the men who sat on the highest benches. His eyes fell on Asgeir, who was listening absently while another man, a burly man whose beard was streaked with grey, whispered in his ear. If only he could get closer to them, listen in on their speech. He nudged Bjorn.

  ‘Who is that man with Asgeir?’ he said. ‘I’ve not seen him before.’

  ‘That’s no surprise,’ said Bjorn. ‘I’ve not seen much of him myself. He was the foster father, some say, of the earl and the earl’s brother, but he seldom comes to the hall instead spending much time at sea. I think they call him Einar.’

  ‘Spends much time at sea, does he?’ Gest’s eyes narrowed. ‘Has he a farm?’

  Bjorn nodded. ‘Near the mouth of Boknafjord. On an island there stands the beacon, and his thralls and hirelings tend it.’

  ‘A great responsibility,’ Gest commented, ‘for a man who is so often away at sea.’

  He kept his eyes on the two. Suddenly Asgeir looked up, and saw Gest’s eyes upon him. The man’s hand fell to his belt, and his fingers curled lovingly round the hilt of his sword. Gest glanced away. When he looked back, Asgeir was gone.

  As the feast broke up, drunken men reeled away in search of their horses while others slept on the hall floor where they had fallen. Gest bade his farewell to the earl. Sigvaldi looked up only briefly from where he was playing with his two hounds, and Gest turned on his heel and went to the stables. As he mounted, Bjorn appeared in the entrance.

  ‘Think about it, king’s man,’ he pleaded. ‘We’re better men than these folk. We can show them what Vestfolders can do.’

  ‘I’ll sleep on it,’ said Gest, not bothering to say that he was from Naumdale. And he rode from the stable so fast Bjorn had to leap aside.

  His face grim, he galloped back up the strand. It was a chill night for spring, and his breath turned to smoke as he rode. Not long afterwards, he was trotting up to his own gate, which stood open. He frowned. That wasn’t right. Even if they had known he was returning, those thralls should have left it shut until he got back.

  He rode into the garth to find it a scene of consternation. The thralls had gathered near the doors and all were talking volubly. Except—he couldn’t see Hild. As he rode in, they looked up, and one of the milkmaids shrieked.

  Njal rushed forward to take the reins.

  ‘You’re back, lord,’ he cried as he helped him dismount. ‘Just in time!’

  ‘What has been going on?’ Gest demanded as he landed on the packed earth floor with a thump. ‘Where is Hild?’

  ‘That’s it, lord,’ Kormak cried. ‘She’s gone! Been carried off!’

  —11—

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ he said, although he felt a dreadful foreboding. ‘But first let’s go inside. Njal,
take a spear and stand on guard at the gate.’

  He led the rest of them into the hall. The fire crackled low, casting lurid shadows on the walls and roof pillars. Gest told Kormak to add more wood to the fire and went to sit in the high seat while the others crowded before him.

  ‘She went looking for you,’ Kraka wailed. ‘Hild was worried that you had run into difficulty, so she went down to the strand. As she went out of the gate, we heard her shriek, cry out. I came running, and met the rest in the garth. The din was terrible, snarling and growling, more like a beast than a man, but…’

  ‘But it was a man,’ said Dufthak. ‘Or at least… it was more man than beast.’

  ‘We didn’t know what to do,’ added Kormak, as he carried in a pile of logs from the wood store. As he added them to the fire one by one, he went on; ‘I said we should go after her, but Njal said we should wait for you to come back. I argued with him. But then you did return.’

  ‘So this… abduction happened only a short while ago?’ Gest asked.

  ‘Aye,’ said Dufthak. ‘Whatever it was, man, troll, or beast, it must have been lurking just outside the gates. Waiting for you, maybe. Or waiting for Hild.’

  Impatiently, Gest rose to his feet and pushed his way through the gathered thralls. He seized a torch from the wall.

  ‘Then whatever it was, it may still be in the area. Come with me!’

  He led them out into the garth, then to the gate where Njal greeted them.

  ‘Any sign of our visitor?’ Gest asked, but Njal shook his head wordlessly, and turned to peer out into the all-encompassing night. Gest pushed open the gates and examined the ground outside. The hoof tracks of his horse across other fresh prints. One set of footprints led from within the garth, another came in from the meadow.

  The mud here was soft from the frequent passing of feet and hoofs, but the fresh prints stood out as they would in newly fallen snow, only dying away when they reached the grass of the meadow. He investigated them, torch held high, for some time, while the thralls clustered in the gateway and watched him. At one point he saw something lying on the ground and picked it up, slipping it into a belt pouch.

  ‘Did none of you see Hild being carried off?’ he asked.

  Njal shook his head. ‘We were too afraid,’ he said. ‘We dared not venture out until it was quiet.’

  Kraka had her knuckles pressed to her lips. ‘Is she taken?’ she whimpered. ‘Is Hild taken by the troll?’

  ‘What have you found, master?’ asked Dufthak. ‘Can you unriddle these marks in the mud?’

  Gest crouched down again, torch held high, and scanned the ground one last time. Then he rose, and showed it to his audience.

  ‘Footprints run this way,’ he said, ‘out of the garth. A woman’s footprints, in the soft shoes that Hild, alone of you all, wears. Then a line of bare footprints comes out of the meadow, crossing the mud, wide spaced to show that whoever made them was running. They meet Hild’s prints here. The mud is churned up, as if there was a struggle. I found this,’ he produced a copper bangle from his pouch, ‘over here, where the mud is churned. Hild wore it.’ He sniffed. That beast odour still hung in the air, although the night breeze was beginning to dispel it.

  ‘Where do the prints go from there, master?’ asked Dufthak.

  Gest lifted his torch higher. ‘Hild’s prints vanish,’ he said. ‘The bare footprints veer round and return the way they came. They vanish when they reach the grass, but even in this poor light I can see the silvery trail of broken and bent grasses. It leads towards the strand. Stay here. I will follow them.’

  The thralls watched from the gates as the ruddy light of Gest’s torch bobbed away across the meadow. It vanished for a moment as he went down onto the strand, then appeared again as he strode to the edge of the moonlit water.

  Here Gest knelt down. He had found prints in the sand that corresponded with those he’d seen in the mud. And there was something else, strange scratches, lines in the sand, leading straight into the water. He rose, and looked out across the fjord, but the waters were broad and still in the moonlight. The crags on the far side loomed black against the star strewn sky.

  A pounding of hoofs alerted him. Whirling around, he saw two men on horseback galloping up the strand. They were riding from the direction of Earl Sigvaldi’s stronghold, and as they came into the light of his now guttering torch, he recognised the closer of the two. It was Bjorn. With him was another man in the drab garb of a thrall.

  Bjorn snatched at his reins, and his horse reared with a whinny and came to a shuddering halt. The thrall also reined his snorting steed and the two looked down at Gest.

  ‘Ho there, neighbour,’ said Bjorn cheerfully. ‘What brings you out so late? Late night fishing, is it?’

  Gest lowered his torch, which seemed to frighten the two horses, and said tersely, ‘Hunting.’

  Bjorn exchanged a glance with his thrall. ‘Hunting?’ he echoed with a laugh. ‘You choose a strange time for it. Well, you know best.’ He paused. ‘Have you thought on what we spoke of?’

  Gest’s eyes narrowed. ‘Trolls?’ he said. Bjorn nodded. ‘It’s a strange coincidence…’ he went on.’

  ‘What is?’ Bjorn asked, trying to control his frightened horse.

  ‘A very strange coincidence,’ Gest added. ‘Almost uncanny. But it seems my leman has been carried off.’

  ‘Carried off?’ Bjorn said with an involuntary glance at the crags on the far side of the fjord. ‘Carried off by whom? Outlaws?’

  ‘My household folk don’t seem very certain,’ said Gest wryly. ‘Seemingly, they were too afraid to intervene. And look at your horses. Something has spooked them.’

  ‘I know,’ said Bjorn, struggling to gain control of his mount. ‘They’ve been like this before.’ He glanced at his thrall. ‘You remember?’

  ‘They were like that when your girl child was carried off,’ the thrall grunted.

  ‘It can only mean…’ Bjorn broke off.

  Gest nodded slowly. ‘That the troll has carried off my leman. And yet…’ He peered at the sand again.

  ‘No time for that,’ said Bjorn brusquely. ‘This only proves what I was saying. It means only one thing. Is your horse saddled, king’s man?’

  Gest shrugged. ‘Grani is back in the stables,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Get him saddled and ready,’ Bjorn said commandingly. ‘We ride back to Earl Sigvaldi’s stronghold. It is high time we raised a band of men and went in search of this troll.’

  Gest gazed at him for a long time. Bjorn shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. ‘Quickly, neighbour,’ he added. ‘Do you want your womenfolk to suffer needlessly at the troll’s hands?’

  A quarter of an hour later, all three were riding back down the strand, the moonlight glinting off their spears and buckles. Gest had returned briefly to the steading to tell his thralls what was happening, and urge them to mount guard, lock the gates, and let no one in. Then he had another horse saddled, to spare Grani more riding, and trotted back to join Bjorn.

  They reached Earl Sigvaldi’s stronghold long after midnight. Two men nodded over their spears by the main gate, looking up in confusion as the three riders approached. Otherwise, the stronghold was silent and deserted, all the folk having taken to their beds after the excitement of the sacrifice.

  ‘Open the gate!’ Bjorn cried. ‘Important message for the earl.’

  The two guards did not move. ‘The earl is abed,’ said one. ‘What message is this that cannot wait until morning?’

  ‘The trolls have struck again!’ said Bjorn impressively. ‘Rouse Earl Sigvaldi from his bed and tell him that Bjorn of Tunsberg is here, and with him is Gest, the king’s man. The trolls have carried off one of his household.’

  ‘Is this true?’ the guard asked the silent Gest.

  Gest inclined his head a little. ‘So it seems,’ he said. ‘The girl has gone.’

  The guard stroked his beard. ‘This is ill news,’ he said. ‘But what can Earl
Sigvaldi do about it?’

  ‘It’s high time,’ Bjorn declared, ‘that the earl took responsibility for his lands. These trolls must be hunted down and wiped out, not allowed to snatch beasts and folk whenever it takes their fancy. See what his slackness has achieved! And what if the king came to hear of this?’

  ‘He has a point,’ said the other guard. ‘It won’t look good for old Sigvaldi if the king hears of this.’

  ‘Right,’ said the first guard. ‘So you’re the one who can go and wake him.’

  A quarrel followed, which Gest ended with the suggestion that the guards allowed them to enter and they would waken the sleeping earl themselves.

  ‘Very well,’ said the first guard sullenly, and let them through.

  They rode across the garth and up to the hall, not stopping to dismount but riding through the open doors and on into the echoing space beyond. Here Gest dismounted, followed by Bjorn and the thrall. Sleepy looking men came running out of partitioned sections beyond the hall pillars, and Gest demanded to see the earl.

  After a short wait, Earl Sigvaldi entered, accompanied by Asgeir and Einar and several other men, all yawning and blinking, although Asgeir seemed fresher than the rest. Sigvaldi was the sleepiest of them all.

  ‘What has happened that you drag us from our beds like this?’ the earl yawned. ‘King’s man you may be, but this is against all custom…’

  ‘Trolls have struck again!’ said Bjorn. ‘I warned you over this, my lord, I…’

  ‘Trolls again?’ Earl Sigvaldi said. ‘Your steading has been attacked? But what can we do? We have spoken about this in the past…’

  ‘Not my steading this time,’ said Bjorn. ‘Gest, tell them!’

  Gest looked round at the weary faces. For a moment his eyes met those of Asgeir, and he thought he saw a taunt in them. ‘I returned to my steading to find it in uproar,’ he told them all. ‘My leman has been carried off.’