by Merry Farmer
I board her with Bjorn. The voyage is to be led by Úlfar, helmed by Magni. The stores are already loaded; water butts, dried meat and fish, hard travel-bread; all stowed to the rear.
Hjalli is here too, a part of the crew. I could have wished him elsewhere. Not that he can touch me now, but his glowering ill-will is uncomfortable. He scowls as he notices my arrival, then turns away.
I don’t care. I am in a dream, living a dream. Bjorn is ahead of me, taking his seat on the fifth row of oars. Carry-sack slung over my shoulders, I am dressed too warmly for this land. But mindful of our destination, I carry an extra fur in a roll on my back and have a thick cloak to double as my blanket for sleep. Stepping aboard, I hover, wondering where I should sit. Is there some order of rank to the seats? Some place I am expected to be? Or not to be?
Bjorn solves my problem, nodding to the space next to him. “Take the oar by me.” Hjalli glares.
Bjorn stares him down. “Problem?”
“No.” But his expression is black.
I take my seat, flexing my shoulders experimentally. I’ve not done too much rowing and I’ll be expected to pull my weight, all too literally.
If you want to have the status of a man…
And with everyone aboard…
Úlfar is calling orders. The sail is raised then, “Take oars!”
Our jarl standing at the prow, Magni on the steering oar, with cheering and shouting from the shore, we pull. And gradually, gracefully, Water Skimmer glides out and into the fjord.
At first, it’s hard going, with only the oars driving the ship. But a few hundred yards out, the breeze catches, filling our striped sail and suddenly, Water Skimmer remembers her name and we surge forward. The air is clean and fresh, and I fill my lungs. Setting oars aside, after only minutes it seems, we leave the mouth of the inlet, heading for the open sea. And there, towards an endless horizon, in our beautiful ship, we race the waves, flying like the dragon at our prow.
The last I travelled in such a ship, I was a child. A captive. A slave. Terrified and wondering what had befallen me and more, what was yet to come? Could any reality have been worse than my imaginings?
But now, I am one of the Lords of the Sea. Foam splashes at the prow as we scud the surface, out-pacing the gulls which squeal and wheel overhead.
One dives, plunging like a spear into the water, to emerge splashing. Quicksilver wriggles and flashes at its beak before, with a jerk and a gulp, it vanishes.
And Bjorn sits beside me, his hair rippling copper in the breeze, his teeth flashing white. “Happy?”
“Yes. Oh… Yes.”
The sea roils, an angry grey-green. The men mutter, pointing to the horizon where clouds loom, darkening by the moment. As we watch, the tallest boils upwards, reaching high then spreading, forming an anvil.
Bjorn stands by me, feet astride, arms folded. “Thor is ready to throw his hammer.”
In that instant, the clouds flash from grey to startling bright then dark again, blacker by the moment. The swell rises, but true to her name, our ship rides the waves like one of the pond skimmers one sees on puddles and pools in Summer.
Bjorn tosses me a coil of rope, his voice rising over the sound of the sea. “Hold on tight. Lash yourself to the ship.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then you’re a fool,” he snarls. Then he blinks an apology. “You won’t be the only one doing it. When the storm hits, if you wash out of the boat, you’re lost.” Gripping the side of the ship with one hand, he palms my cheek with the other. “You must take care.”
Emphasising his words, he loops cord around the mast and then around me. “Stay with the ship if at all possible. In the ship, you can ride the storm. But if the sea takes you...” He shakes his head. “Only if the ship goes down do you leave it.”
“And then?”
“And then, you are in the care of the gods.” As he coils rope around me, his eyes settle on mine. “Have a prayer for Thor and another for Aegir.”
The sail is lowered, rolled tight, and the sea rises by the moment, our ship rolling ever more, ever higher. After two weeks aboard, I thought I had my sea legs, but as the anger of the ocean grows, my feet stumble and slide.
The water surges under us and our ship, which I thought so fine and strong, seems ever more fragile; a shell to be tossed and broken on some whim. Strong men are thrown across the deck. Eilif hits the timbers with a cry as his arm twists under him. Broken? I’m not sure, but after that, he seems unable to hold on and Magni lashes him to the mast by me. I barely know him, but find myself admiring his fortitude as, despite his obvious pain, he displays no fear.
If you’re going to die, then die well…
Although it is, so far as I can reckon, only mid-day, it could be night-time. The storm carries us where it wills and all we can do is hold on to the uncertain safety of our craft.
Will I see tomorrow?
The sea’s rage passes. Or at the least, we have passed through the storm. I’m not sure which. The wind drops, the waters calm and the clouds break. Long fingers of sunlight slant down and as the clouds dispel altogether, the air grows hot and still.
The waters become glassy and now, with no breath of a breeze, we row, and hard. Above us, the sky is a pure vault of blue, broken only by the outstretched wings of some great bird, wheeling ever higher.
Úlfar releases a raven and all eyes follow it as it rises, circles then, flapping strongly, makes across the ocean. He bellows, “Oars!” Then, to Magni, he jerks his head after the bird. Our helmsman is already steering us after it.
A grey smear on the horizon; nothing my inexperienced eye can make out as anything but a bank of cloud. It is no more than dark smudge on the horizon.
“Is it land?” I ask.
Bjorn shades his eyes against glaring sun. “If it isn’t land, then it’s the cloud that sits over land.”
My shoulders burn from rowing, and the blisters on my hands have long since become a torment my mind dismisses. Everyone on board holds an oar, including Úlfar. Even Magni takes his turn away from the helm, surrendering the steering oar to one after another, only keeping an eye on our path as he pulls with the rest of us.
But as the sun climbs and we draw closer, the dark smudge becomes a green blur. The green blur resolves into detail; the curve of hills, the delve of valley and ravine, the gold of the shores.
Gulls wheel and scream. The raven has not returned and there, rising from land to sky, smooth grey columns of smoke.
Everyone is laughing and boasting: of how many they will kill, of how much gold they will take, of how easy it will be.
A soft land of soft people.
And I will be wealthy and free.
Chapter 11
ATTACK
We land on a shore edged with pebbles, then with golden sand running up to green turf and gentle hills.
My neck prickles. It feels eerie…
Familiar…
Not this place exactly. This isn’t my childhood home, I’m sure. But the shape of the place stirs something in me; the form of the land, the colour of the sand and earth, the scent of the air. A part of me delves into my memories, reaching for that familiarity. Another part shies away, not wanting to feel the connection.
Beyond the spit of land where we have beached the ship, behind the line of the ridge, smoke rises, spiralling lazily into the blue.
Our brightly conspicuous sail is covered and the ship itself moved behind a rocky outcrop, out of sight of any casual observer. Bjorn stands looking over the ground, arms and legs akimbo, his expression assessing.
I stand beside him, trying to see through his more experienced eyes. “Is that where we're going?”
“Yes, but not yet.”
“No?”
“No. They've not seen us. At least, I don’t think so.” He nods to our jarl, deep in discussion with Magni. “It’s up to Úlfar of course, but I’m guessing we’ll scout, then attack after dark.”
And he’s righ
t. After a short time, Úlfar calls him across along with others of the veterans. Obviously issuing his instructions, he waves out over the landscape, pointing here and there along the shoreline; and at copses, delves and rocky outcrops that might make good cover. Deep in discussion, heads bowed, arms crossed; they talk, whilst I and the others on their first raid, await our orders.
Úlfar sends out three small groups to scout, circling around in different directions. I join the group led by Bjorn, moving along the shore by perhaps a mile, then uphill from one patch of cover to another.
“Stay close,” he mutters.
At the crest of the hill, we pause. Lying flat to the ground, screened by scrubby gorse, we watch. The gorse, strongly scented in the warm sunshine, is heady, the air fresh and exhilarating, and my heart pumps. I don’t mean to, but I find myself grinning. And as I look around, most of the rest are too.
There below us is a settlement of perhaps two hundred people; maybe more. Thatched huts and sheds are set into a square, centred around another, much larger building.
People go about obvious daily tasks. Chickens scratch in the dirt, carefully avoiding a dozen or so geese and a couple of mangy dogs. Women gut and split fish then skewer them to racks to dry in the sun. Toddlers play on the ground beside them. A few men work on a new building, a barn perhaps, half-constructed. From one hut comes the ring of hammer on anvil. Outside, a horse, stocky but heavily built, moves uneasily, shifting its hooves.
And from the village, a well-worn track leads to the peak of the next hill, and a small stone building.
The church?
I dredge my memories. What do I remember of churches? Priests. A golden cross. Shiny silver plates, bowls and goblets. Candlesticks…
Beautiful things. Valuable things. Treasures that will make me and my companions wealthy. Whatever we take, I will have my share from it.
Where are the rest of the fighting men?
As the sun westers, we see them, returning with game; several dozen men carrying short spears or bow and arrows. Some have hounds on leashes, pulling ahead, eager to be home. Some laugh and joke, carrying game birds and hares tied in pairs at the feet, dangling limp. One pair carry a deer between them, swinging upside-down from a pole between the shoulders. Another pair tow along a kind of sled loaded with the carcass of a wild boar.
“It seems there is fine hunting here,” mutters Bjorn.
“Isn’t that good?” I ask. “They’ll be distracted while they eat, and then they’ll sleep well.”
He grins and flashes brows at me.
Wriggling backwards on our bellies, we edge back down the ridge then take our circuitous route back to rejoin the boat. Bjorn and the other group leaders report to Úlfar.
When he returns to us, “When do we attack?” I ask.
“We’ll set out early while we have the moon. We launch the attack just before dawn.”
As the sun sinks behind the hill, the moon rises, huge and reddish, setting a bloody trail rippling over the sea. And as darkness falls, it soars, brightening to silver on black against the myriad stars, following its nightly path.
Each man at his oar, the night is almost a dead calm and the splashing as we row seems loud. Hugging the shore, we make our way around the headland, Water Skimmer casting long shadows towards the pebbled beach before, dropping the anchor, we slip silently over the side.
Wading through moonlit glitter which splashes and whispers around the ankles, we make our way onto the shore then, following Úlfar, up the slope towards our target.
The going is easy: sheep-clipped turf, springy and silent under my feet. Like wraiths, we creep to the village, with its tiny stone-built church and its huddle of huts and sties; a score of men…
… and one shieldmaiden…
… to assault a village of at least two hundred.
Perhaps one in three of them are women. Another one in three will be children. Of the remainder, some will be too old to fight. Perhaps fifty will be men of fighting age.
In any case, these are not warriors we face, just peasants. And of course, we have surprise on our side.
You were one of them once…
I dismiss the thought.
Úlfar draws us close, divides our party into three. “My group will move in from the rear by those pig-sties. Magni, you go to the landward side. Circle round. Bjorn, take your men around by that church.”
Bjorn tugs my sleeve. “Gunhildr, you're with me.”
Hjalli glowers, “Why do you take her with you?”
Bjorn stares him down. “Any man on his first raid accompanies an experienced warrior. She's no different. And I'm not sending her with you.”
As we reach our destination, the sun has not risen. But the cold, pale light of pre-dawn ghosts over the horizon casting grey light over the sea. A blackbird calls its melodious greeting from high on some tree, but otherwise, all is silent.
Our group spreads out, men positioning themselves behind walls, granaries and huts; all watching. Bjorn nudges my elbow. “Stay close.”
I nod. Against all my expectations, I'm nervous. My gut clenches and cold sweat trickles down my spine.
Bjorn eyes me sidelong. “Don't worry about it. We all feel the same way the first time.”
Abashed, my face flames. “How did you know?”
He chuckles. “Because I had a first time too. Training is one thing. Sparring with friends is another. A real battle is yet another. Now, I repeat, stay close.”
A door opens and a long slit of light glimmers out as a man exits, stands against a wall fiddling with the ties at his belt then, with a small sigh, relieves himself.
As he makes water, Bjorn tiptoes up close from behind. What light there is glints on the edge of his knife as he claps a hand over the man’s mouth then draws the blade across his throat. He holds the position for a moment or more as the Saxon struggles and gasps then falls limp.
Bjorn lowers the body into the deeper shade of the wall. “Come on.”
But before we move, the door opens again, and we drop back into the shadow. This time, two exit, heading side-by-side for the same wall, again with that odd urgency that suggests nature is calling.
Speaking together in a language both familiar and strange to me, they seem entirely relaxed, noticing nothing. Bjorn is already moving in, his knife at the ready. But as they settle into their task, one sidesteps, tripping over the body at his feet.
He curses, then after a short stark silence, snaps something to his companion, the tone urgent. The voices rise, shrill with alarm, but already, Bjorn is on one, and right by his side, I move to take the other.
He's taller than I am, bulkier; but he's looking to his friend, to Bjorn and he doesn't see me as I close in behind him.
My blade slices over and through his flesh so easily; across the pulsing vein at his throat, cutting off his panicked cry, turning it to a grunt and then a gargle. Blood spurts over my hand and blade, black in the darkness. It smells metallic, like the scent of rust. Except that rust is a cold smell. This is visceral and hot.
Nothing has ever grated so loud as his death-rattle as he drops before me, clutching at the gaping flesh of his neck. The sound echoes inside my head. And in the growing light of the dawn, I see his eyes, the white showing all round, panic and fear and pain dancing there as he claws at himself, as though to prevent his life spurting free.
Something slaps into my shoulder. Bjorn’s hand. “Good work. Your first blood. Come on.”
And with his words comes shouting. Then abruptly, a scream slices through the silence; a female scream, from somewhere on the far side of the settlement, cut short.
The door in front of us opens, then to a woman’s wide-eyed terror, slams closed again. But Bjorn kicks it back on itself, his sword drawn, and I follow.
The woman, screaming, backs into a corner, clutching a young girl to herself. A man charges forward, sword in hand. But it is clear he is no warrior. He leaves himself open and falls to Bjorn at the first swing of his
sword.
A bell clangs; an unmusical sound and Bjorn and I tumble back outside into the golden-grey light. Men are spilling from doors on all sides. Arms raised, fear raw on their faces, some are armed with swords or axes. But many wield scythes or forks; whatever they have to hand. Good enough for the hay-making and deadly enough in their way, but no match for properly armed, trained warriors.
One rushes at me, his weapon upraised; a spade.
The world around me… somehow… is moving slowly and I react easily, calmly. The griping in my stomach has faded. I am calm and measured.
The peasant leaves his neck exposed. And my blade swings, bringing him down.
Another rushes me, this one with a real sword. But he moves clumsily, like some child holding a weapon for the first time. Easily, I parry his strike, then thrust, and he falls.
The church bell is ringing like some mad thing. Everywhere, Saxons are running, screaming, fleeing. More men emerge from the huts, some with weapons in hand, others without. Most are cut down as they appear.
Flames rise, crackling from thatched roofs. In their weird, otherworldly light, I see Hjalli lighting pitch-coated arrows, launching them into neighbouring buildings. Within seconds, women and girls, carrying small children, emerge shrieking. One is already burning. Acrid smoke and the scent of roasting pork fills the air.
A man, a head taller than myself, approaches me, warily this time. He shows some skill; is quick and agile, slashing one way whilst dodging the other, and I stagger back. But he follows through, thinking he has me, leaving his side undefended and my sword slides in and up, slashing through skin and gut, and his insides tumble out in a hot, wet slippery gush, I see first the terror, and then the disbelief, in his face as he clutches at his torso, trying to hold himself together, before he falls to the ground and the light leaves his eyes.