Sidroc the Dane

by Octavia Randolph

The boys turned to each other; this was the first time Yrling had promised this.

  Sidroc caught his breath. He did not have the chance to speak his assent, for Toki was chiming, “Why him? I will go too!”

  Yrling regarded Toki. “Ha! You have no need to seek treasure abroad. You are the only boy. This will be yours.” He lifted his hand to the work yard of the farm.

  “Phhh! I do not want it!”

  “Do not want it?” Yrling shook his head at Toki. “This is a good farm, and it will be handed to you one day. You will wed a woman who brings silver with her, and live a good life, right here.”

  Sidroc had not taken his eyes from his uncle, but Toki’s restless glance swept all around the farm buildings. He was about to speak when Yrling did so again.

  “I have nothing,” he told his yellow-haired nephew. “Only what I have earned myself. My sister, your mother, wed and came here.” His eyes shifted to Sidroc. “Your father, my brother, got our farm. All I have from it is the silver I demanded from his sharp-tongued wife.”

  He looked back to Toki now. “And Sidroc is like me; he got almost nothing. The silver I keep for him will help him win more, in Angle-land.”

  “I will go,” Sidroc vowed. For the first time he saw that he had been cheated of his rightful portion. Yrling was saying as much. And he had no real place here; that he had already felt. His uncle could help him to a bigger life, one in a new land of good farmland and rich folk.

  “You will not go without me,” Toki demanded. He had crossed his arms at his chest.

  His uncle looked at him and laughed. “We will see. Only the best warriors will make their fortunes in Lindisse, in the land of the Saxons.”

  Toki’s thoughts leapt there. “Is that where Berthe and others are from, Lindisse?”

  “Já. Lindisse, on the eastern coast of Angle-land. Berthe was one of the cottar women in the hamlet in Lindisse.” He glanced over at the kitchen yard, where she stood, paddle in hand, at her dyeing work over the cauldron. “The way she carried on, one of the men I killed was likely her brother, or husband.”

  “Were there children?” Sidroc asked. The image of the dog had again flashed in his mind, before he thought to ask this, about the young.

  “Já. We left them behind. There were old folk as well; we did not kill them either.”

  Toki went on, as if thinking aloud. “Angle-land. Where they all speak as Berthe and Ebbe do, when they speak amongst themselves.”

  “Já,” Yrling answered. “You should learn that tongue, have them teach you.”

  Toki grinned. “There are other things Berthe can teach me. Things I want more to know.”

  Yrling had set his axe down while talking. Now he took a short stride to where Toki stood, and with an open hand slapped his face. Toki rocked back on his heels, but in his pride would not raise his hand to his flaming cheek.

  “Do not even think of it,” Yrling told him. “She is my thrall.” Now he laughed again. “Not that you have timber enough.”

  Toki’s cheek grew even redder, and they all turned back to their work.

  Yrling readied himself to leave. The boys had better understanding of what he was going to, and also some glimmering realisation that he might not return. The risk was well worth it, their uncle had made clear, and there was more of this new land he hoped to see. Angle-land had few folk, and great stretches of forest waiting to be cleared. The soil was dark and rich, where much of Jutland was sandy waste. Others had told him that war-chiefs and Kings kept large timber halls loaded with silver and gold treasure, and he had heard that in some places groups of men and women lived apart, with even more treasure, much of it kept on tables for all to see.

  Yrling made no show of the dangers facing him, and let both nephews help him pack up his kit as if he took a two or three day trip to Ribe to trade sheep or cattle. But a young farmer heading to Ribe would not spend the hours honing and polishing his knife as Sidroc and Toki watched Yrling do, nor would he have set off with as many hours of spear-practice under his belt.

  Yrling now had a shield, one he had made himself. It was a round of alder-wood planks, covered with cow-hide he had wet and let shrink to tightness. The shield was centred with an iron boss, and rimmed round with a thin band of iron to hold and protect the plank edges. The farm had forge and anvil, as all farms did, and the boys had helped Yrling in the making of the iron fittings, holding the metal by long tongs in the fire until it glowed, pumping the skin bellows to blow air into the charcoal as it reddened. Ful helped in the shaping of the boss, behind which Yrling’s left hand would grip, but Yrling himself hammered out the rim iron, shaped the alder, and cut and fashioned the inner arm-sling, and the longer leathern tether so that the shield might be worn on the back. Both boys took careful note of these proceedings, and could not get enough of holding and wielding the shield themselves, even though it covered them from nose to past knee, it was so large.

  To meet up with his fellows Yrling must travel to the coast. He need not walk there, as he owned a horse, but the animal must be returned to the farm. Ful would not allow that one of the boys ride his own horse, and Yrling told his nephews that he would decide which of them he would choose to ride with him, and be allowed to return alone to the farm on his horse.

  Both boys were good riders, and both took care of Ful’s animal, a buckskin gelding with near-black mane and tail. It was typical of many of the horses of Dane-mark, a sturdy and broad-backed creature, not much bigger than a pony, but willing enough. Yrling’s horse was much the better, a sleek and spirited mare, dark chestnut, with a blazed face and single white stocking. Yrling was justly proud of her. Three years ago he had travelled down to Haithabu and come back with her, and with the story that she was of the stock of Angle-land. Whether or not this was true, she was noticeably better than most of the horses Yrling had ever seen. She had her own part in improving his fortune, as he had bred her shortly after buying her, and the foal she had provided him with grew to a strong colt. He had kept the colt for two years, training it up, and then sold it for a pile of silver at Ribe. Toki argued that he should keep the colt and sell the mare, for why should Yrling ride a mare when he might ride a stallion? Yrling laughed at that, and shook his head.

  “You see only what is in front of you, Toki, and never beyond. A good mare like mine will produce more good foals. I will breed her to the best horses on Jutland, and her blood will make her get better than the sire. And those good foals will be mine.”

  The chestnut mare was not a placid beast, and like many mares could test the limits of her rider. She was also noticeably taller than Ful’s horse. Sidroc’s height gave him the long legs to better straddle her, and he was altogether quieter in his hands with the reins. When Yrling told Sidroc he would ride with him to the coast, Toki first scoffed, then sulked.

  “You chose Sidroc because he is your brother’s son,” he complained.

  “And you are my sister’s son, she who gave me a home. To me you are the same,” Yrling returned. “I chose Sidroc this time; next I might choose you.”

  Toki was not mollified by this, and at last Yrling said, “Then you too come. Trot alongside my mare.”

  Yrling laughed aloud at Toki’s screwed-up face, and Sidroc could not help but smile. He was proud but not surprised to have been chosen; the mare had bucked Toki off her back more than once, and he knew Yrling did not want the boy breaking his neck.

  They were starting early, and Sidroc should be back in a single day, if the men Yrling was to meet were in fact at the coast awaiting him. Signe shed tears over Yrling, as she had last Summer on his first raiding trip. She did not approve of his going, and knew their dead parents would look askance at such dealings in their youngest; Hroft and Ashild were hard-working and held that goods and silver must be earned, and not at the end of a spear-point. Signe had long before this accepted that her father’s judgment of Ful had been correct, and viewed her young brother’s dabbling in raiding her husband’s
influence. Now both her own and Hrald’s boy were watching, eyes round as ale-cups, and she could not counter any of it.

  They set off, Sidroc behind Yrling, seated nearly on the mare’s rump, Yrling’s shield boss digging into the boy’s chest, Yrling’s packs bumping his dangling legs. Yet the sense of adventure was full about them both, and Sidroc’s spirits were nearly as high as if he himself would sail. The mare too showed them, prancing and chafing under the loads she bore, and only Yrling’s skillful handling kept her going forward without undue protest. Yrling held his spear upright in his right hand, and Sidroc looked out from behind him to a world split in two by the long shaft of ash wood.

  At one point they stopped to water the mare at a streamlet. Sidroc slid, not too gracefully, off the beast’s rump, to fall on the grass. He jumped up readily enough, and joined both horse and uncle at the stream bed. It was early enough in the Summer, and in the day, for the birds to be chirping about them, and the reeds that grew at water’s edge swayed in the breeze as they drank. The peace of the place was such that it put Sidroc in mind once more of what Yrling was going to do.

  “Last night,” he hazarded. “Did you...make Offering to Odin, as you said you would?”

  Yrling paused a moment. “I did, this morning. You will see the rooster hanging in the ash out in the far end of the sheep pasture.” He glanced down at his hands now. Sidroc saw both were scratched; the young cock had not gone willingly to Odin.

  Sidroc nodded. Ash trees were of Odin, his sacred tree. Any Offering made at its roots or hung in its boughs would find special favour with the one-eyed God.

  “I will make another, that you come back,” Sidroc said now.

  Yrling gave out with a soft laugh. “Ful will birch you if he loses another bird.”

  “I would not take anything that is his, but leave something of my own making,” Sidroc quickly explained. He did not know what he could make that would be worthy gift for a God, but said it nonetheless. Yrling had given him a home, and was keeping silver for him. Yrling was his father’s brother, and he felt bound to him. Just as he felt bound to Toki, despite the differences between them.

  “Thank you for that,” Yrling allowed. “But I will come back. I must keep going each Summer, win more silver and thralls, until I have enough to buy my own ship. Then I will be able to gather men to sail with me.”

  He now said to Sidroc which he had said to no man. “I will win great treasure in Angle-land; silver, and land. My fame will be as great as Guthrum or Halfdan, who the Gods have smiled on in that rich place.”

  Yrling paused to let the boy take this in. Even Sidroc and Toki had heard of these two Danish warriors, both of whom had met rich reward in plundering the fat shores of Angle-land.

  Yrling went on, his eyes now lifting above Sidroc’s head to the unseen future.

  “I will wed a chieftain’s daughter, or even the daughter of a King of that place. I will ride a grey stallion, my sons at my side.”

  This last prompted Sidroc to a question. “Not a mare as good as yours, who earns you more wealth by having colts?”

  Yrling grinned. “Unlike Toki, you listen, and you learn,” he said. “I will have mares in plenty, but so many good horses that I need not concern myself with the getting of foals.”

  Sidroc nodded. Yrling knew what he wanted, and it all sounded fine.

  They resumed their path, heading now due West on a trackway that passed out of the birch and hazel woods of the streamlet. A growing number of crofts met their eyes, single farms with pasturage for beasts, and those where three or more families had settled. From some dogs barked as they rode by, putting Sidroc into mind of Hlaupari, who he had tied up before he left this morning, judging the trip too tiring for a hound of his years.

  Sidroc, peering around the shoulder of his uncle, saw the glint of open water rise up before them, the North Sea. Just as at his father’s farm, an island sat across the expanse of water, forming a channel before open sea was reached, but the sight was impressive enough. Also impressive was the size of the single farm that sat at the end of the track, one of its fields vanishing into the sand of the beach. There lay a narrow beamed long-ship, beached, and waiting. A cluster of figures moved around her.

  Yrling chirruped to his mare in response, and she tossed her head and moved even more smartly. Yrling called out, and the men at the ship, and some coming too from the house, hailed out their greeting. The pleasingly smoky smell of tar wafted from the ship, the black and shiny stuff showing on the brown hull where it had been daubed on as proof against leaks.

  Sidroc found himself amidst a group of some ten or twelve men, of which he thought Yrling might be the youngest. All were eager to be off, as the tide was soon to turn in their favour. The man who owned the ship was easy to spot; it was he who gave orders which all followed. Sidroc saw at once that this man owned a sword; it was there, in its scabbard and belt, with the rest of his kit, lying on the beach. Sidroc, now standing and holding the reins of the mare, drew near it, but knew enough not to touch a man’s weapons.

  His uncle was the subject of some chaffing, for much of the hard work of lading was over, the water barrels already aboard, but the men wore grins as they jested. Yrling worked hastily to join them, tossing his leathern pack over the side, handing his shield and spear to a man already within. They would have to push her out, and he took his boots off too, to save them the wet. From their talk Sidroc understood that they would first sail further up the northern coast, and pick up still more men there. After that they would trim out across open water, to Angle-land.

  “You marked the track well, coming,” Yrling was asking him now. On their route Yrling had several times pointed out landmarks to his nephew, a split tree here, a rock cairn or field of old burial mounds there. Sidroc nodded, but at the same time felt the lack of Hlaupari. A hound with a nose as good as he would be sure to get him back. Still, his return was almost due South, and they had passed enough farms at which Sidroc could stop and ask of the folk the way.

  Women and boys had come from the house now, carrying small baskets of additional foodstuffs, making final farewells. The ship captain’s wife embraced her husband, and Sidroc saw he had boys of about his own age. The captain saw Yrling turn back to his nephew, and called out to Sidroc with a laugh.

  “In a few Summers you will join us, bean-stalk.”

  Sidroc grinned at this; he knew he was as tall and lean as a reaching plant.

  Then Yrling put his hand on the back of Sidroc’s neck, gave his head a little shake. “Take care of my mare,” he said in way of parting, nothing more than this.

  “Já,” Sidroc answered, not knowing himself what more to say.

  Some of the men were already at the prow, pushing, and Yrling took his place alongside them. From within the ship others had taken up oars to help ease her way into the shallow water. She was not a big ship but even so Sidroc was surprised at how quickly she was in the water, and Yrling and the others scrambling over her gunwale and inside.

  There was nothing other than the sleekness of her shape to give the ship beauty; her hull bore signs of patching, and the prow and stern posts ended in simple curves, and not the fearsome carved dragon-faces that Yrling had told him his own ship would bear. But the speed with which she moved out into deeper water held Sidroc’s eye, and those too of the woman and children standing there watching. This ship needed no carved dragon to name her a drekar. Her purpose was clear by her speed, and the look of the men who sailed her.

  The captain’s voice rang over his crew, and the thick pine mast was lifted, to be set upright in place. When the sail was unfurled the ship became almost a living thing, the madder-red linen catching and billowing, thrusting the prow forward through parting waters.

  Sidroc stood there, the reins in his hand, the mare nibbling at the seagrasses. The woman turned to him, gestured him to the kitchen yard with the rest of the children. She gave him buttered bread, much welcomed after his long morni
ng.

  “He is your brother?” she asked him. He saw now that the brooches at her shoulders were large and silver, and that strung from them was a thick coiling chain of the same metal.

  “Nej. My uncle,” he told her.

  “He went with my husband last year,” she went on. “When you are older, and if your father allows, you too might join him.”

  “My father is dead,” Sidroc admitted.

  “Then you will surely sail,” she said.

  Sidroc took his leave of them. He would have almost his full share of chores awaiting him, but he looked forward to the ride back and alone. The mare had cropped grass, and one of the woman’s sons brought her a deep bucket from which to drink. Now, freed from the weight of Yrling and the awkwardly bumping packs, she stepped out under Sidroc with a frisking eagerness. The flatness of the trackways they travelled made it easy to canter, and she broke into a gallop with little urging. When she was reined in, head tossing and snorting, she whinnied in a way to tell him she wanted more. Riding her thus, alone and in surroundings strange to him, made him feel almost as if this fine mare was his very own. Ever since Yrling had first boosted him up on her saddle when he was little he knew he wanted a good horse one day. Now he wanted one even more.

  He had passed one of the landmarks he remembered, a boundary cairn of stacked stones, when two horsemen came into view, heading down the track towards him. They were cantering their horses, and as they grew closer Sidroc saw from the horses’ lathered necks that they were pushing the beasts. Sidroc was walking the mare now, to rest her, and pulled her off the track and into the grassland so they might pass. Instead they reined up.

  One was a young man, of Yrling’s age, Sidroc thought; and the other a youth three or four years older than himself. Both were red-haired, broad-chested, and blunt of face. They were surely brothers, Sidroc felt. Even the younger of them was big, making the small horses they rode look the smaller.

  “Who are you,” the elder one demanded, with no greeting at all.