Sidroc did not like his tone, and at once pulled himself the straighter on his horse. Nonetheless, he answered.
“Sidroc, son of Hrald.” After a moment he added his own demand. “Who are you?”
“Old enough to ignore the question of a whelp,” came the answer.
Now the younger one spoke, looking down the road beyond Sidroc. His hair was even redder than the other’s, and his face spotted with freckles. “Une. We must hurry,” he warned.
It gave time for Sidroc to turn the head of the mare. She was a far better animal than those they rode, and she had had a rest, whereas theirs were winded. He was ready to dig his heels into her barrel and leave them gaping.
Instead the older one, Une, reached forward and snatched at the rein Sidroc held. His mare whinnied and danced at the sudden yank on her mouth.
“Where did you get that horse?” he asked.
Sidroc felt a flush of fear mix with his anger; these two might steal the mare. Hanging from this red-haired ruffian’s saddle was the steel handle of a skeggox, the battle-axe some Danes favoured, its wedge of sharpened metal sheathed in a fold of hard leather.
Sidroc closed his left hand over the rein his accoster held, closer to the mare’s head, to relieve the pressure on her mouth, and tried to pull it free.
“Let go. It is my Uncle Yrling’s horse.” He said next the only thing he thought might matter. “He will kill you if you steal her. He has already killed two men.”
The red-haired Une opened his hand, and pulled back. “Yrling, of Ful’s farm?” he wanted to know. He began to laugh. “That is the only Yrling I know who has speared two Saxons. I ride now, to sail again with him.”
Une was laughing, and had dropped his threat of horse-theft. He knew Yrling, and had taken part in the raid in Lindisse. Yet knowing all of this was not enough for Sidroc. His fear and anger still roiled within him.
“Une, there is no time,” the younger one repeated. He had made a shrugging grimace to Sidroc, as if to excuse Une’s actions to him.
“Jari. You scold like an old woman,” Une chided.
“Jari is right,” Sidroc announced. “You are too late. I watched them sail, at tide-turn.”
Une opened his mouth in an oath. His younger brother Jari leaned back in his saddle.
“You see? Now you have missed them.” He rolled his eyes up in a gesture for Sidroc’s sake. Une was still swearing and did not notice.
Sidroc took a deep breath. Jari was not a bad sort, that was clear. He must have come with his older brother to see him off, just as he had with Yrling. As his breathing slowed Sidroc found his hand rising to rest on the knife his father had given him. It made a difference knowing it was there. Knowing the mare was not to be taken from him made the difference all the greater.
He looked over at the pair, and made his voice as steady as he could.
“You have horses,” he told them, looking first to Une and then to Jari. “The ship is making a stop up the coast, at Geirmund’s farm. You could catch them there.”
“Geirmund’s farm,” Une repeated. “I will find it.” He put his heels to his horse and was off.
Jari held his a moment. “I am sorry for my brother’s manners,” he told Sidroc, before taking off after him.
Chapter the Tenth: Endings
The Year 860
IT was nearing Mid-Summer, and the time of the annual law-gathering, or Thing. Besides the hearing of complaints and meting out of justice, each Thing was a chance for local folk to trade, and to visit with distant friends and family not seen since the Winter festivities of Jul, or perhaps not since last Summer. It was also the time for young folk to mingle. Families who lived far from each other were thrown together for a few days, and youths and maids both looked forward to the opportunity to see and be seen.
There were many such assemblies throughout Dane-mark, and this year’s was of particular importance. Old King Horik had been killed a few years earlier, felled by one of his own kin, and in his own hall. The new King, who also was Horik, lived only two years, and another man now rose to take his place. Any new King of the Danes could not be considered a rightful ruler unless the majority of freemen accepted him as such. This must be done by public affirmation.
Sidroc and Toki had only twelve years, and their voices could not be counted, but Ful and Yrling must be there. Oddi as a freedman was entitled to call out a vote, but must do so following his former master’s own inclinations, so he would travel as well. Women could not vote, yet many were known to hold strong opinions which could sway that of their husband or sons. Most who held the distaff took keen interest in who should reign over them, and did not in private keep themselves silent if they could prompt their men to a favoured outcome. And all women looked forward to the Thing, with its stalls of traders and merchants displaying goods, and chances to sit chatting with other women while pairing up maids and youths for possible marriage. Despite this, only the spear-side of the family set out to the Thing this Summer. Signe still lived, but was unwell, afflicted as she was with a dizzying unsteadiness each time she stood up. She would stay at the farm with the thralls.
The regional Thing was held almost a full day away. Because there were five of them going, and would be gone at least two nights, Oddi yoked up the oxen to carry tent and food. Ful and Yrling would ride their horses, with Toki and Sidroc behind them, with the boys walking at times with Oddi to spell the beasts. Ful had three bushels of barley also on the waggon bed, ready to sell or trade.
The chief business of the Thing was always the proclaiming of new laws by the King’s agent, which the designated Law-speaker would be quick to commit to memory. The local Law-speaker was always one of the most well-respected men in the area, one often of some wealth, and possessed of keen recollection and judiciousness of mind. He heard the complaints of those aggrieved, and the defence of those suspected. The crimes cited were many. Men were accused of encroaching on long-held family pasturage, of injuring man or beast through carelessness or spite, of cattle-theft, or far-worse, theft of a thrall or even a daughter or wife. Many of these crimes were settled in private and with the use of blade or spear-point, assuring a bloody outcome. This led more often than not to further violence, and ever-growing hostility. Bringing the case before the Law-speaker meant that both sides agreed his word would be final.
This year, with a new man seeking to be acclaimed King, brought more folk to the Thing than normal. The oxcart rolled into meadowlands transformed into campgrounds, a doubled ring of merchants who had thrown up stalls from the backs of their own waggons, and a centre area, filled with benches, from which the Law-speaker would hear disputes.
To the eyes of Sidroc and Toki it was as if the trading town of Ribe had been carried thence; there was that much noise, bustle, and as many new things to see. Even pounding stakes into the Summer-hard ground to string their tent was no labour, so glad were they to be part of the excursion. The tent they hung was for them and Oddi to sleep in; Yrling and Ful would claim the wooden bed of the waggon. With an oiled linen tarpaulin cast over the framework it would keep off night damp as well as any tent, and had no need for ground cloths of cow-hide. They helped Oddi gather field stones to lay their fire-ring. Lengths of fire wood were within the cart, as with so many folk gathering a ready supply from the nearby woods could not be depended upon.
Ful and Yrling carried the bushels of barley to where the other grain-traders stood. Ful would get the best price he could for them; he was always a sharp dealer. He was far from alone in using the gathering as his chance to barter for wanted goods. Hastily thrown up pens held surplus sheep and cattle, and folk milled about, picking out those they might want. Some folk had driven geese or pigs, and stood watching over them, ready to retrieve any chosen by a farmer looking to increase his stock.
Yrling now set off with Sidroc and Toki to wander the stalls. There was plenty of choice goods to catch the eye. When they neared the stall of a weapon-smith, their pac
e quickened, then slowed, as they stood before he who offered wrought blades, honed and ready knives, and long and lethal swords.
All free and freedmen carried a knife, and there was of course always need for them about the kitchen yard. Yet those who stood before the wares of the weapon-smith were largely of a different ilk, men and boys whose thoughts went far beyond daily necessity. The spear-points he offered were arrayed on a planked table set on trestles. Their points faced those who approached in bristling display, waiting to be fitted on an ash shaft of length to suit the thrower and the target. Some of the steel points were as long as a man’s outstretched hand, others nearly as long as a man’s hand and forearm both. One might kill a boar or kill a man with such spear points, and those who looked regarded them well. Most of the points were plain, but a few had received special care, and sported scrolling designs etched into the steel. Sidroc and Toki found themselves wordlessly studying their tapering forms.
On the other side of the table, hung from long nails pounded in a pair of upright boards, were six swords of varying lengths. They had yet to receive their finished grips, and their naked tangs made them even more formidable for it.
“A grip of horn, with golden rivets,” mused Toki to his cousin.
“Or more steel, with copper wire beaten into it for brightness,” Sidroc returned.
Thinking on what treatment their new owners would order was part of the pleasure of looking. Yrling’s keen eye was also fixed on these weapons, and he and his nephews spent some little time considering the merits of each. Three of the six in particular were objects of envy.
Swords by the nature of their use needed to be good. An ill-made sword was brittle and would break in the stress of combat. A shattered blade presaged a dead warrior. The best blades were those which had the greatest care lavished in their forging, days and weeks of heating and working, hammering, quenching, cooling. Thin plates of varying steel were layered together, and under the alchemy of fire and the brawn of the smith’s arm twisted over and over, and hammered flat, so that the finished blade rippled from its many thin edges glinting from one smooth and deadly face. Such were the three blades the onlookers longed to hold and heft, pattern-welded swords that caught and seemed to throw the light. One might imagine a lightning bolt in one’s service with such a sword.
Yrling had a good knife, and a spear which had cut short the lives of two men. But he was far from owning any sword. Hidden back at the farm he had enough to buy a good one, but he would not spend the silver. Still, the two boys flanking him could not help but see how their young uncle’s eyes latched onto the naked blades before them. Even his hand had made a slight gesture towards the board from which they hung, glinting in the Sun.
“I will win one,” he said, almost to himself.
He had gotten close to picking one up from a dead warrior back in Lindisse. It was not a man he had killed but he had thought the Dane who had done so dead as well. Yrling almost was run through by the man when he stopped to strip the Saxon’s body. Stealing another man’s battle-gain warranted such punishment, and Yrling found himself sputtering apologies to his Danish brother in arms. He must kill his own Saxon warrior to win one.
“Next Summer,” he told the boys.
They nodded. They wanted to see their uncle with a sword at his side, but knew he had shrewdness in holding out. He would not spend good silver when he could win both a good blade and glory by snatching one from the hand of a downed enemy.
They passed on. A cluster of girls and women stood before one stall, signalling that some niceties must be on show, amber beads, newly-cast bronze brooches, or some fine thread-worked linen. It was none of these things. As they neared they heard, rather than saw, what had drawn the onlookers, for the chirping song of caged birds came to their ears. They could spy the tiny creatures, hopping about in their withy cages. They were passing on when Toki paused and elbowed Sidroc, then gestured to one of the watching maids.
The maid Toki had spied was named Gunnborga. She was a new neighbour of the farm, and the boys had met her over the feasts of Winter. Her mother, who stood with her now, had lately wed their nearest neighbour, whose wife had died in childbed. Maid and mother were well, even richly dressed, in linen shifts of snowy whiteness, and sleeveless over-gowns of closely woven wool, Gunnborga’s of soft green, her mother’s of deep blue. Both gowns sported costly silver shoulder clasps, and were further adorned by coloured thread-work, proof that mother and daughter had leisure to bend over such needlework, and together make gay their clothing.
Gunnborga had been standing on tiptoe to see around those before her, catching a glimpse of the tamed linnets and wrens as they sang from their cages. Now she dropped on her heels and turned away, turning almost into the two boys.
Her mouth opened in surprise. “Toki. Sidroc,” she remembered. The first was well-knit, with eyes the confident blue of a noon sky, and waves of yellow hair falling to his shoulders. The second was tall, lanky even, with eyes a blue so dark she was not at first certain of their hue. His face was narrow like the rest of him, and his hair dark brown, and held in two plaits.
“Gunnborga,” answered Toki, his lips curling in a smile.
She smiled back at this. Her mother had turned to glance at the three young people, and smiled too.
Unlike her mother Gunnborga did not return her eyes to the caged birds. Toki began prattling away to her, asking her if she wanted a songbird of her own, and before she could answer reminding her that she had been invited to his parents’ farm for the Mid-Summer fire. The man who was selling the birds now opened one of the cages to withdraw one for a buyer. This made Toki boast he could catch her a better bird than those the merchant offered. She did not try to answer this. To Toki’s dismay Gunnborga was looking at Sidroc, and her smile seemed the warmer for him.
Sidroc for the first time truly regarded her. He judged her hair neither yellow nor brown, but rather that shade of dried river reeds in a strong and slanting Sun, a warm and golden hue. Her cheeks were round and faintly flushed with pink. Sidroc was suddenly aware of what Toki had known for a while, that she was pretty. He found himself smiling back at her.
Toki ran out of words for Gunnborga, and turned to his silent cousin.
“You are as dumb as a dead tree,” he charged, trying with a jest to turn the maid’s attention back to him. Sidroc had in fact said nothing, but this opened his mouth.
It was Gunnborga’s mother who spoke. She had been half-watching the youngsters in the discreet way many mothers had mastered, and felt called to offer her opinion.
“There are some who need not speak to be noticed,” she observed in a quiet voice, looking first to Toki, and then to Sidroc.
This made both boys and their uncle look at her. Even the cousins knew she was a handsome woman, and her daughter was a fresher copy of that loveliness. Yrling further knew that this woman had wed one of the most prosperous farmers in the area. Her daughter would have her pick of suitors, with the dowry she would bring.
Her remark shut Toki up. Sidroc found himself grinning. Gunnborga’s pink cheek went the pinker, but her smile, as she and her mother walked away, was aimed at the taller of the cousins.
Yrling was grinning himself, as he looked to his nephews. “We know whose hand that maid will take, at the Mid-Summer dancing,” he laughed.
Toki looked as if he would answer, then snapped his mouth closed. He rarely paid girls any mind, but he knew that some looked at him. Now here was one he liked, who, though she had said little to either boy, seemed to spurn him. Her mother had said aloud what Gunnborga herself must be thinking; the maid had indeed a different smile for Sidroc than for him.
A horn blew now, from a long and wooden lur raised above the crowd. The low tone from its summoning throat bid them gather by the Law-speakers post, to take the vote. They went back to stand with Ful and Oddi with the other grain sellers. The Law-speaker stood ready; he would gauge the number of assenting voices. Already stan
ding by him and the lur-sounder were three men from the new King.
The man himself, a Jarl of great wealth, was not here; he would more likely appear at a larger Thing, but the warriors who had been sent to stand in his place and to hear the vote were impressive enough, Sidroc thought. There were three of them, standing before them in full war-kit, swords at their sides, ring-shirts on their backs, and helmets on their heads, as if to show to all gathered that this was what they might expect of the new King.
“To fight off invaders,” Toki mused aloud.
“And wring taxes from us,” Sidroc reminded. He had not forgotten his father telling him of how King Horik’s men had seized his thralls and nearly all the livestock, leaving those left behind to starve. Sidroc could not know his own mother had been one of them, but the tone of his father’s voice as he recounted what he had come home to was not forgotten.
The vote was an open one, and as simple as men calling Já or Nej. The Law-Speaker addressed the crowd, summoning all eligible to vote to come forward. Free men and freedmen stepped forward. As the Law-Speaker went on, Oddi turned to Sidroc.
“Would you have me vote for the man, Master?” Oddi asked of him.
The first and only time Oddi had ever called him thus was a few days after Sidroc’s father had vanished. It was a sign to Sidroc that Oddi believed his father dead, when Sidroc himself hoped he still lived. He had not liked being called Master then, and felt there must be reason now why Oddi called him thus.
“You are a freedman,” he reminded Oddi. “My grandsire made it so.”
Oddi gave a grave nod. “Freed, but not free to choose. I must vote as you wish.”
Oddi’s eyes were a watery blue, but he kept them fixed on Sidroc long enough to make the boy flinch.
The youngster knew Ful and Yrling would cast an affirming vote for the Jarl who now claimed King-ship of Dane-mark. He had many warriors at his back, he had heard them say, and most of the smaller chieftains had thrown in with him. Naming him a King meant that his men would collect the taxes used to arm and feed his warriors. He would fight off other war-lords who tried to usurp lands, and patrol and guard the trading towns and posts so that merchants might arrive unafraid of piracy or lawlessness. There was no other man strong enough to claim King-ship, but if a majority of free and freedmen did not affirm his claim he would be turned away.
Sidroc the Dane Page 14