They were still pulling up the tent when two on horseback approached them. All three of their horses were now staked at their campsite, freed from saddles or harness. The two men who rode up to them reined their own horses in, and looked the mare and filly over. The third horse, Ful’s gelding, was much like their own, a sturdy and willing enough beast. But the mare and her daughter were long of limb and had fine heads.
Sidroc, on his knees pounding a tent stake, was facing them, and after giving the sharpened stake a final blow, stood up. He still held the broad-headed steel hammer in his hand. The two who sat their horses looked at him.
They were large figures, one bigger than the other, and red of hair. Sidroc recalled both the riders and their horses. The elder one screwed up his face, as if trying to place Sidroc. The younger one began to grin at he who stood watching them.
“He wants to buy, this time,” Jari assured him.
Sidroc gave a laugh. Toki, who had been hammering in the stake to the ridge line of the tent, now came and joined him. Yrling appeared from over by the waggon, carrying packs from it, and called out to the horsemen.
“Une! I heard you did not return.”
Une snorted his laughter, and he and his brother got off their horses. “Not me. But Gye was killed, and we lost the ship to the Saxons who did it. It took us a few days to find Danes who would carry us back.”
Gye was the ship captain with whom Yrling had sailed to Angle-land, all three times he had gone, the same man who Sidroc had met. Yrling had not ventured out this year, and his face showed that Une was the first to bring him this news. Sidroc had clear memory of the man, of his sword and ship, and the way he had named him bean-stalk, and said that soon he might join them. Now he was dead. Sidroc thought of Gye’s wife, she who had given him and her own young buttered bread to eat.
As Yrling and Une spoke about this, Jari came up to Sidroc. He was as tall as he was, and much broader. His face was covered in freckles and his front teeth were slightly crooked, a youth’s head set on a man-sized body. Sidroc watched Jari’s blue-green eyes flick to the scar on his cheek. Jari swallowed, and to keep him from asking, Sidroc spoke first.
“Did you go?” Sidroc asked him, making a slight gesture to where Yrling and Une stood talking about the ill-Fated trip.
“Nej,” answered Jari, though he grinned in a way that showed his pride in Sidroc thinking he might have. “My father will not let me go yet.”
“Maybe you and I will go together,” Sidroc offered. “My uncle will have a ship one day, and I will sail with him.”
Toki had come up to them, and Jari was now looking at him.
“You will have to prove you are as good a fighter as me,” Toki proclaimed. “Only the best warriors will sail with us.”
Jari laughed good naturedly, but Sidroc spoke.
“It will be Yrling, not you, who chooses who is to sail,” he reminded.
“And I will choose who I challenge to fight,” Toki returned.
Jari stepped forward with surprising quickness in his large body. He grabbed Toki by the arm, laid hand on his shoulder, leaned into him and flipped him over on the hard ground. Jari was still smiling as he did so. Une and Yrling joined Sidroc in laughing at Toki lying flat on his back in the dust.
“Jari will fight you anytime,” the red-haired youth answered, looking down at him.
Toki got up from the ground and slapped off the dust. With all watching he could do nothing but offer a cracked smile back at he who had bested him. He would not risk further laughter at his own expense.
Une’s eyes shifted over to Sidroc. He was one of the biggest men Sidroc had ever seen, with a chest that looked an ale cask, and wrists the thickness of Sidroc’s upper arm. The dark red hair and drooping moustache he sported suggested a fiery temperament. Une’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Sidroc. He looked then to Yrling.
“I thought of stealing your mare, that second year we went out with Gye.” This admission was offered in a light tone.
Yrling’s eyes widened. He had not heard of the small adventure his nephew had suffered, upon his returning to the farm.
“But this one –” and he raised his hand to Sidroc – “made sure I knew whose animal it was.” Une was smiling now, looking at both Sidroc and Yrling. “And the forfeit for stealing her.”
“All say nephews fight best with uncles,” Yrling answered, with his own grin. This pairing of nephew to uncle deepened the bonds of kinship, tying the uncle’s sibling closer to him as their son took up arms for the greater family. Kinned warriors fighting shoulder-to-shoulder were ever formidable.
Une had returned his eyes to Sidroc, and gave a low grunt. “It looks like you have already made the warrior’s bargain,” Une told him, studying his scar. “You are willing to pay the price for fighting.”
Sidroc kept himself from flinching, both under Une’s searching gaze, and his words. He knew it was a form of praise that fell from this big man’s mouth, and in response he held himself the taller, and lifted his chin. The scar was ugly, but not to Une.
From the tail of his eye Sidroc could see Toki on his right. It would be like Toki to pipe up now and lay claim to his deed, looking for praise himself. Instead Toki cast his eyes down on the ground from which he had just arisen. His mouth twisted, whether in shame or envy Sidroc could not know.
Yrling took a step forward, his hands on his hips, and regarded them. “When they are ready, both will sail with me,” he said. Toki would not be stayed, that was clear, even if he had the farm awaiting him.
“Já,” Une agreed. “And if I still walk Midgard by then, Jari and I will join you.”
Yrling tossed his head and grinned at this; Une, skilled with his battle-axe, had known good luck in fighting so far. He then asked, “Did you come alone?”
“Our folks are here, camped across from the Law-speaker’s circle.” Une pointed with his hand. “They brought mead,” he ended, with a sly smile.
“Then we will see you at dusk,” Yrling laughed.
Later that night he and his nephews left their horses behind without concern. All would be safe in their absence. Theft was the most grievous of offenses, and no one would risk plundering at the Thing, where the law was heard, and justice sought. Before they banked their cook fire Yrling took some little time in combing out his hair, straightening his clothes, and wiping the dust from his boots, things which his nephews noted, and in their small ways, echoed.
It was not hard to find Une and Jari’s campsite. Their father, a prospering farmer with more than sixty head of cattle, had two wives and many children, and most of the family seemed to have made the outing to the Thing. Campfires winked from all around them as they made their way in the deepening gloom, but they headed for the largest. A booming male voice guided them; Une’s father making jest, filling up another crock of mead from the cask he had brought, making all welcome.
Nearing the fire, they saw one distant beyond it, from which strains of music wafted. After giving their greeting to their host and his amber-adorned wives, the younger of which had a babe at the breast, they made for the smaller beacon of light. The hulking form of Une was readily discerned, the dark mass of his back to them as they neared. Ever-smiling Jari sat next him and waved them into the circle, into which a number of small siblings was also gathered. Most sat cross-legged on the ground, a few on stools and short benches. There was just enough coolness to the night to make the fire pleasurable, and the bright and ruddy half-light it threw on the faces of the young around it cast its own attraction. Une had already secured a small crock of mead, and now dipped three shallow wooden cups into it, passing them to Yrling and his nephews. The boys were likely the youngest there handed the strong drink, and accepted their cups with quiet gratitude.
There were as many maids as youths flanking them, and Sidroc saw his uncle scan the faces of the former as he sat down. Some of these must be Une’s sisters or other kin, so caution was needed, but others would
have been strangers, drawn by the music and laughter from their family’s own camps. A few of the maids looked up as the three joined them, but their eyes swiftly returned to the youth who sat opposite, strumming a long, oval-bottomed harp of wood, set upright in his lap.
The harpist played well, with surety in his touch, and the melody that arose under his fingertips was sweet. His voice was lacking, though, wavering and strained, and he could not well follow his own tune. After a song or two Toki, having downed his cup of mead, arose and went over and sat beside him. He gave a glance at the harpist, then began to sing in his stead. He had in fact a fine voice, of a timbre rich and silvery, high in pitch, and yet the voice of a young man and not a maid. At once all eyes shifted to Toki, his face alight with song.
One could not but look at him. Toki, even at fourteen years, had the kind of manly beauty that both women and men will notice, and maids pause at. The fairness of his skin; the sharp colour of his eyes, gem-blue and bright even in the fire’s heat and haze; the wealth of long yellow hair streaming down from his white brow were all things to capture a woman’s eye, if not her heart. Add to this his voice, one unexpected in one so young, a voice of tenderness and even yearning. When he finished his song he gave a smile, one which could have melted a far harder heart than in the breast of any female who surrounded him. It was not meant to do so; Toki smiled because he himself was so well pleased with his song.
In the morning Sidroc and Toki took a roam around the many merchant’s stalls. Behind the waggon of a seller of iron pots they spotted a knot of youths, kneeling on the ground, casting dice across planks of smoothed wood, and whooping at the results. At least three or four of the dice throwers had been amongst those gathered around the fire the night before. The harpist was one of them, and his instrument, half revealed in a leathern pack, lay off to one side as he tossed the dice.
To judge by the pile of silver at the harpist’s side, his play had been good; the hack silver and coins at his knees was twice that of the other player.
Both Sidroc and Toki liked gaming with dice, and they stopped to watch. The harpist made two more good throws, and the other player, sitting back on his heels in disgust, watched his wagered silver be pulled over to the harpist’s growing pile.
The harpist was crowing with his win, and glanced about the faces of those watching.
“I will play you for your harp,” Toki said, moving forward.
The harpist’s surprise was clear. The offer was from one a number of years younger than he. He remembered Toki well from the night before, and had to admit the songster deserved the attention he had received around the fire. He might be a better singer than he, but now he could put him in his place at gaming. He gestured Toki into the circle.
Toki squatted down on his heels. First he picked up the dice, smooth cubes of walrus tusk ivory, and shook them in his fist by his ear, to ascertain they were solid. He had seen Yrling do just that when playing with strangers.
The other boys jeered, but Toki paid them no mind. For wager he took the ring of twisted silver from his little finger and set that next the harp. The harpist looked down at Toki’s wager. “The ring is not equal to the harp,” he pointed out.
Toki squinted up at Sidroc. His cousin knew Toki squandered almost every bit of silver that came into his keeping. Still, Sidroc found himself pulling at his own belt, and setting a few pieces of broken coinage atop the ring. Sidroc did not need to mutter to his cousin that he had better win; his look did it for him.
Within four tosses the harp was Toki’s.
Sidroc had taken no part, but had watched the play with careful eyes. The dice were not his cousin’s, and there was no way for him to cheat. But Toki’s hamingja, his luck-spirit, was always strong. And Sidroc already knew that no winning streak went on for long; mayhap it was time for the harpist to lose. Still, Bragi, the God of poetry and song, must have wanted this harp for Toki.
“Bragi favours you,” Sidroc said, as they walked away, the harp in his cousin’s hand.
“And now the women will too,” Toki laughed back.
“Once you learn to play it,” Sidroc reminded.
On the ride back to the farm Yrling was well content. He had sold his filly to a copper-smith for a large cluster of bent and broken hack-silver, and whole and half coins. He had seen Une, knew that he lived, and talked with him about returning to Angle-land next year, should they find a captain they could trust. Until he had command of his own craft that is what he must do, sail on another man’s ship. He thought Une and his brother Jari would one day serve as a core group of warriors to surround himself with. With his own nephews that made four men, ready to throw in with him once he had his ship.
His two nephews did not share his high spirits. They were leaving the freedoms and excitements of the Thing behind them, for a return to the drudgery of daily chores. These must continue on until they were old enough to flee Jutland with their uncle. Sidroc, driving the waggon, was lost in thought about this. It would be long years before he could sail to Angle-land; that was the barb in the arrow. He still had the whole coin of the King of Wessex, that which Yrling had told him was Æthelwulf. He had kept it, apart from his spending silver, in the same pouch he carried his flint and striker in. He often took it out and looked at it, recalling his uncle’s words that a great deal more silver awaited in the lands of the Saxons. He wanted to be old enough now to go. With his height he almost looked it. Then he reflected that he had no shield, and did not yet have the skill he needed with his spears. The one thing that gave him satisfaction was recalling Une’s words to him, telling him he had already made the warrior’s bargain, and could accept hurt. It was the first time he had heard any words about his scarred face that did not make him wince within. The scar marked him, it was true, but marked him as one to become a warrior. It made him remember that old woman he had met in the Spring, Åfrid, who had told him that there would be those who could truly see him.
Toki, beside him on the waggon board, had his new harp in his lap. He quickly learnt that to strum the six strings to begin or end a song was one thing. To pick out a pleasing melody and sing along with it was quite another, and more challenging, task. He plucked away at the strings, trying to find a melody there. He felt angry enough at times that he wanted to hurl the thing out onto the packed ground they rolled over. Yet the harpist coaxed music from its wooden body, music which made those who heard it stop in admiration. He must too.
Once back at the farm both boys were restless and distracted. Toki, intent on mastering his harp, spent enough time at it that his chores, of which he was ever careless, grew neglected. Ful could no more curb his temper as could his son, and one day, finding Sidroc alone at work splitting kindling, called Toki to him, to birch him. Toki had been careful to set his harp down and in a safe place on the work bench in the barn, but knew his father had heard him playing while Sidroc chopped. Now father and son confronted the other, Ful grasping the birching rod in his fist.
Toki looked at the man before him. As his father raised the switch to lash it against the back of his son’s legs, Toki reached up and closed his own hand around Ful’s wrist. He stepped towards him, wrenching his father’s arm back. The birch switch dropped from his father’s hand.
Ful looked open-mouthed at Toki, and stood as if frozen. A moment passed, in which Toki feared his father was enraged and would attack him. Instead Ful began to laugh. He had now more than fifty years, and had gained no wisdom. But he saw his son had overpowered him, and fairly. He would put the best face on it he could.
“I have been looking for this day,” Ful said.
Toki blinked at him. He knew all too well the sting of the birch rod from his father’s hand, and acted without thinking in stopping that hand. His father stood grinning at him, even though he was holding his wrist where he had twisted it back. It was clear now they were nearly equals.
Sidroc had paused in his work at the tree-stump, and stood watching this. He had not
gotten a birching from Ful in more than a year, but he did not go out of his way to warrant one, as Toki did. Maybe it meant his cousin would grow up some.
But Toki, thinking on it, realised that if he had only acted out earlier he might have avoided several good beatings.
Chapter the Fifteenth: What Ribe Held
The Year 865
THIS year the Mid-Summer feast and fire was held at Gunnborga’s farm. Sidroc had seen her many times since his scarring, at the feasts of the Winter’s Nights festivals, and at each Mid-Summer. She was grown into a most comely maid, and when they met she was able to nod and quickly smile at him before dropping her eyes or turning them elsewhere. He would nod and do the same. He had never gone, as Toki had, to her family home to spend a day. Gunnborga was Fated to wed a man with a farm as good as that she lived on. Sidroc knew this, and he had no land. But that was not why he avoided her. He did so because he read in her quick glance that it was hard for her to look at him. Now though, her mother and step-father were hosting the feast and fire.
Four families were there, that of the hosts and their several offspring; the members of Ful and Signe’s farm; another family whose unruly group of children increased by the year; and a family coming for just the second time. The land which had belonged to the elderly Åfrid was now being farmed by them. They were a tenant family in need of house and fields, and Ful had installed them there on what had been the old couple’s holdings, which they had so far made profitable. They were also a large and active family, of both youths and maids nearing, or of, marriageable age. Sidroc and Toki knew that Yrling had at times this warming season ridden there to see the eldest daughter.
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