Mog and Ned swung the gate open and Tormod entered, riding an impressive black stallion that pranced as it stepped. Behind him, a woman in a periwinkle blue cape and hood sat perched on a cart drawn by a dappled pony, followed by three men on foot. In the back of the wagon rode two children, both under a rug in the crisp winter evening. Yeru caught Gaute sizing up the Friesian, rubbing his hands against his thighs. What a monster, she thought, hands taller than their ponies. At least we have horses—she had heard that the Saxons in Wessex had forbid horses to any but royalty. Agne stepped forward.
“Greetings Tormod, son of Tormod, well met and welcome to my home.”
“Greetings Agne Alfenson,” Tormod sprung down from his mount, agile despite his apple round belly. “Let me introduce you to my wife, Inga Hansdatter, and my eldest Tormod, who we call Espen.” Inga drew back her hood, revealing a cream cap and a mole high on her cheek near her right eye. The young man stepped forward and bowed to Agne and Gurid, his nose and cheeks red from the cold. Tormod stepped up to his wife and helped her climb down from her seat, then lifted each child down to stand holding their Mother’s skirts.
“Well met young Tormodson,” Agne sized up the young man. His forehead wide and unblemished, his jet-black hair pulled back from his face and tied with a leather string, his nose straight and thin like his Mother, he stood proud and tall, his lips parted, his eyes eager.
“And with him are my men, Sven, son of Gorn and Mono, son of Hans.” Both men stepped forward and dipped their heads formally. “With my wife you see Heigl, my younger son and his sister, Gisle.” The children, still bundled against the cold, peeked around their mother at the crowd around them.
“I am pleased that you have all joined us,” Agne smiled magnanimously, “This is my wife Gurid of Eddisbury, known as Blue Eyes, holding my youngest daughter Neeta.” Inga nodded stiffly at Gurid. “These are my children, my eldest daughter Willa, my eldest son Agne Agneson, who we call ‘Cub,’ Kara our second daughter of fourteen summers, Thorfinn my third son of ten summers, and little Hilda just five. Our middle son, Sorven, is not feeling himself. He may join us later.” The Agneson children bowed and curtseyed to their guests, making Yeru proud—she had practiced them carefully over these past few days. Even little Hildie made her curtsey without tumbling over herself. Yeru sighed, one hurdle passed. Espen wiped his nose, watching Willa.
Agne continued, “Mog, Son of Yrso is my first banner man.” Mog stepped forward and nodded to Tormod, Espen and the two Tormod men at arms. “Gaute will take care of your horses, there is room in our barn. The others, including our witnesses, you will meet later this evening. Please don’t stray here in the cold, let’s continue into our hall…” and with a wide sweeping motion, he waved them forward.
Yeru hurried in before the crowd, hanging her wrap on her peg and directing Mae and the serving girls to lead the guests to their place of honor at the table. Tormod entered with a chest under his arm, set it beside his chair and gave Agne a bear hug. The two men laughed and began discussing a hunt story. Yeru couldn’t pay attention, too many details demanded her time. Drinks to be offered, the roast piglet to call in, Cub and Finn set to minding Heigl and Gisle, Mae sent to take Sorven a fresh drink and check on his fever, more bread offered, the meat carved and served, the first side dish unveiled—a grain porridge flavored with honey, boiled cabbage and carrots—a sip of strong mead for Gurid and Inga…bundling off Neeta to a waiting Tima when she started to cry, pressing Hilda back into her place, reminding Thorfinn to “smile”…the night seemed one chore after another, not a moment to waste.
When they arrived, Mog brought the witnesses into the house to join the feasting. Agne’s old friend Err Kenjason entered first, followed by Bjorn, Agne’s shield man, a renowned freeman of the community and recently back from a successful winter hunt. Mono, Tormod’s attendant took the third witness chair, the fourth held for Mog. Yeru had never before seen the last two witnesses, a tall bald man with tattoos on his neck, and a red-haired man with a broad back and three gold circles on his left arm. They rounded out the six required for a legal witness. All hunched over the table with Agne and Tormod and held their discussions in subdued voices.
Sweat stains under her arms, hairs clinging to her forehead, Yeru directed the meal like a general in battle, all the while keeping a watchful eye on Espen and Willa, who they had sat across from each other at the table. In addition to managing all the meals, she allowed Agne to press her into chaperone duties during the visit—Still too early to tell if that job would be a curse or a blessing…Willa acted shy, and Espen boasted.
“We cruised from Jorvik port with twelve stout crew to our snekke,’ Espen sat tall in his seat, speaking to his father and Agne, glancing occasionally at Willa to see how attentively she followed his story. “The weather held, and we traveled south to Wessex where we traded at two ports and continued across the channel to the lowlands of Lotharingia, near East Francia.” Yeru noted his fine features, thin nose not so red now it had warmed and well-shaped ears still a bit pink from the frost. He continued, turning to both sides as he spoke, “We carried our long boat ashore and readied our shields. Knowing my pledge to never return empty handed to my father,” He smiled and tipped his head to Tormod to his side, “my men jumped to follow my lead.”
Espen talked with his hands, waggling his fingers and swinging with his arms. Yeru watched him, thinking of her own father. ‘Paint with your words not your hands,’ he often told her. This boy clearly imitated a skald he had seen, perhaps a member of Tormod’s household.
“Sighting smoke from a fire, we marched and marched until coming over a rise we found a lowland village, out on a small island in a shallow lake, with a single dirt levee as bridge into the stockade. The place was defended by a sheriff and two bannermen, who raised the alarm at our approach. Suddenly we were outnumbered two to one, farm hands armed with pitchforks and clubs, fishermen with paddles and even shield women. They charged across the bridge, howling and screaming like angry bears.” Espen paused dramatically and drank from his horn, “We formed a shield wall and met them in the pitch before the bridge. The battle was joined! Shields clashed! Blood spilled! Dead and dying fell at our feet. Greatly outnumbered, our superior skills were not to be denied! We held our line and turned the tide back. Only a few of the farmers were true warriors who fought to the death. Survivors ran to their stockade gate, hoping to swing it fast and bar us entry. But quicker than they we were! At my command my crew charged the gate, seizing it before it was thrown to. Calling ‘Put your backs into it!’ I drove my raiders to push, to push the gate back, back, and then with a crack the doorway gave way, the defenders fell, running pell-mell over each other to escape our rush. We entered the city conquering heroes and drove those lowlanders, through the buildings and out into their stinking pond.” He smiled wide and swelled his chest as those gathered around the table politely clapped for his achievement. Especially interested in the story, Cub leaned across his plate to catch every word and applauded in earnest. Espen nodded to all sides, and then made a grasping motion to his father, indicating that he wanted something. Tormod reached into his small chest and handed a bundle to him, wrapped in linen.
“Our raid was a success, and to honor you Agne Alfenson and your household,” at this he looked directly at Willa, who demurely dropped her gaze, “I have returned with this gift for you.” Laying aside the cloth, he offered a dagger to Agne with both hands, the jewels on the scabbard flashing in the fire light. Agne took the gift and nodded, placing the blade on the table.
“Many thanks to you, young Espen, you have proven yourself a man of rare ability,” Agne flattered him. “Perhaps we can hear more of your exploits later, man to man, when the terrors of battle won’t upset our fair ladies.” Espen agreed and backed into his place.
Yeru grabbed Mae’s arm and pointed to the mead, making a circling motion with her finger to indicate time to make a serving round again. She waved to Tima and Ursep, lollygagging by the do
or where a breeze cooled the room and held up two fingers. Ursep understood and came forward with an iron pot filled with roast partridge and sparrows, which she served to each guest at the table. Old Gyn carried in a stuffed goose and placed it in the center of the table where Agne could carve and serve. The second course of the meal went well, and even Inga smiled, loosening the scarves about her neck.
“It has been years since we last met,” Tormod said to Agne. “Tell me, does your household still host that famous skald, Jormander? I should love to hear him recount the sagas for us….”
“Ah, Jormander, he left with my younger brother Karl. I suspect they still travel together, they were fast friends.”
“Your younger brother Karl, I do remember him. A good man, bothered by all that bad business,” Tormod mused.
“What bad business?” Inga asked, furrowing her brow. Yeru squinted at her--Oh, bad business piques your interest does it? Protecting your son from a bad choice more like it….
Agne sighed. Yeru paused to listen.
“Years ago, my father, Alf Alfenson and my eldest brother his namesake, were waylaid and robbed on the old road into Jorvik. They had sold our cattle at auction and were alone with a heavy purse, returning from the Guild Hall in the old city. It was in the early years of Danelaw, a more lawless time than today…we will never really know what happened, there were no witnesses. Our men found the bodies and brought them home. In their honor the pyre burned for two days and two nights. Our household was devastated and mourned for a full year, and for once I was glad my mother had passed in child birth all those years before, no wife should have to see her husband and son both so savagely treated. Sorrow weighed on us all. But my youngest brother, Karl, his sadness turned sour and cross, for he was hot blooded and nursed his anger like a dog worries a sore.”
Yeru watched Cub frown and dig at the remains of his meal, while Thorfinn glanced from his mother to his father, for the first time truly understanding this story—Agne seldom spoke of his father and brothers, and Finn had never heard these tales.
“Now Karl had heard rumors that a certain clan had been behind the murders and robbery. There were circumstances that seemed to support this idea, the clan had been troubled by bad crops, their sheep wasted and dying, and then suddenly, almost too soon after my father and brother’s tragic deaths, they purchased a new herd, expanded lands and purchased slaves.”
“Magnuson,” Tormod supplied the name.
“Yes, but it was all hearsay. It occurred one night Karl was in his cups. He came across Magnus, son of Magnus, on the Jorvik wharf and in front of many witnesses, accused Magnus of the crimes. Offended, publicly embarrassed, and just as drunk as my little brother, Magnus angrily drew his sword and attacked. Now everyone watching told the same tale. Karl was angry but a much better swordsman. He blocked each stab, parried each stroke, easily defending himself. Everyone gathered could see he was playing with Magnus, which only seemed to anger the drunk more. According to witnesses, Magnus foamed and spit like an animal, and ferociously hacked with his blade. I heard this from many who were there. It was Magnus that drew first blood, with a cut to Karl’s side, and then he whispered something to Karl that none could hear save my brother.
“Whatever was said, fury rose in Karl like a dragon from the sea and he began to slash in earnest, pounding Magnus into submission. Magnus dropped to his knees and dropped his blade, and Karl’s friends stepped in and stopped the fight, blocking Karl from Magnus. That should have been the end of it.
“But when Karl’s back was turned, the cowardly Magnus jumped to his feet and tried to stab him in his back. Hearing warnings from the crowd, Karl quickly responded, parried the stroke and put his blade through Magnus’s middle.”
“I heard a similar telling,” Tormod murmured. “They said you could smell the onion soup from across the room, the gut had such a deep cut. It was a long and painful death, that belly wound.”
“Yes. A council was called, witnesses heard, and a fair judgement made, murder in self-defense. We paid the wergild to the Magnus household and that should have been the end of it,” Agne shrugged. “You know how things are. Karl felt it would be better for the household if he took leave and set off raiding. A number of our most loyal men went with him, including Jormander and many we miss to this day. They are Viking still. It has been nearly four years since they left,” Agne placed his hand on Gurid’s. “And not a word….
“Enough of this sad tale!” Agne grinned and opened his wooden chest. “Where are my manners? You have traveled far and through such cold weather, perhaps we can give you something to warm you?” and he passed an embroidered woolen scarf to Inga who held it up for her husband and children to see. While the women admired the scarf, Agne held up a cedar box inlaid with horn, carved with runes and scratched with a drawing of a longboat in full sail, and offered it to Tormod.
As Agne passed out welcome gifts to Tormod and his household, Yeru turned back to her chores, directing the women to collect the dinner remains and refill the horns and bowls with ale. Crusts of bread, bones and scraps tossed in a bucket for the swine, she guided the ladies to gather and stack the plates and pile them next to the well for scrapping in the morning. Mog and Sven chatted with Tormod’s bannermen at one end of the table, swapping tales of battles, raids and chasing women. Gyn, stooped and slow as always, carried in fresh buckets for night water, quietly placing one in each alcove, and Gaute slipped inside to sit by the door with Tima, his husbandry complete, the big stallion combed and brushed, watered and given a bed of fresh hay. Cub and Dundle entertained young Heigl, and Finn and Hilda led Gisle to a corner to play dice. To her dismay, it appeared to her that Dundle had drunk too much ale, he acted sloppy—I must speak to Ned about his behavior, she noted to herself.
Tormod and Agne spoke of the coming summer plantings, while Espen moved down the bench to sit with Kara and Willa, amusing them with jokes and stories under their mothers’ watchful eyes. Yeru thought Inga warmed to Gurid and Willa seemed to like the boy…at least she isn’t unhappy—that Willa is a quiet child, one never knows what she is thinking. Pretty like her mother, but so quiet. Around the table the men and women laughed, drank, and still nibbled on the goose. She sighed, her banquet a success. Yeru took a drink from her wooden cup. Yes, it turned out well. She brushed crumbs from her skirt.
Wiping her forehead, she turned to Mae, “I am going to slip out and check on Sorven. If those two move,” indicating Willa and Espen with a toss of her head, “You follow, understand?” Mae smiled and winked at her Mother.
Yeru gathered her wrap and a bowl of dinner scraps, slipped on her garden clogs and quickly stepped out the door to keep the heat inside the hall. A bright half-moon hung low in the clear sky and lit the yard, frost brittle beneath her feet. Wind whistled through the posts of the stockade wall. Yeru pulled her wrap tighter around her neck and shook off the chill as she crossed the yard to the barn. As she came around the building, a black shape fluttered on the roof of the boy’s shed, and she grumbled to herself, that worthless scrounging bird. I must convince Agne to get rid of that raven, once and for all.
As she approached the X-shaped beams that framed the door, the dark shape moved, rising up, unfurling unexpected bat-like wings high above its head.
It’s huge! Blood red eyes peered menacingly at her.
Yeru gasped, dropping the bowl. This is no raven, it’s much too big…seated on its haunches, the creature hissed at her, and she smelled its fetid, stale breath. Leaping from its perch, it flew directly at her and swooped over her head, off into the night sky. Overcome, Yeru collapsed in the frozen grass, shivering, unable to cry or sound a warning.
A night mare!
Her mind raced, a night mare, here to prey on us! And she quickly spit through her fingers and signed to ward away evil.
Finn
As the feast settled into drinking, storytelling and boasting, Err Kenjason motioned to Cub and pulled him aside to a corner. Finn followed quietly.
>
“What is it, Uncle Err?” Cub asked.
“I brought you this,” and he pulled a dagger from his pocket, a short, hooked blade with a leather wound hilt, made for skinning animals.
“Thank you, Uncle.” Err turned to Finn.
“Where’s your brother?”
“Oh, Sorven’s sick.” Cub answered for Finn, who nodded timidly. Err rubbed Finn’s head, messing his hair.
“I have one for both of you, too,” and he pulled another knife from his pocket. Finn mumbled thanks and examined the knife.
“Uncle Err,” Finn leaned closer, “Is it true that Tormod is here because Espen is in love?”
“What?” Err barked his laugh. “Where did you hear that nonsense?”
“Well, Yeru and my mother were talking…”
Err chuckled, “Women! No little Finn, this is an important alliance your Father and Tormod are negotiating.”
“But why is Willa important to Tormod?”
Err looked around conspiratorially and put his arms around the boys’ shoulders. “Boys, there is more here at stake than Espen’s infatuation with your long-haired sister. This goes back to long before you were born. It all started when your grandfather Ironfist took his three sons to their first battle, Alf was twenty-one summers, Agne was nineteen and young Karl was seventeen. I was there as well, shield bearer to your father. Mog, too.” He chuckled deep in his throat, remembering.
Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse Page 11