Geirmund's Saga

by Matthew J. Kirby

  Few warriors could afford a sword until after their first raid, and Skjalgi received the weapon as though it were made of gold. “Thank you, Geirmund,” he said.

  One corner of Steinólfur’s mouth lifted in a grin, and he gave Geirmund an approving nod.

  “Hel-hide!”

  Geirmund turned towards the ship, where Guthrum stood on deck. Behind him, the crew raised the mast and stepped it into place.

  “I hear you wish to sail with me!” the Dane said.

  Geirmund moved closer but did not yet board. “I do, Jarl Guthrum.”

  “I admit I am surprised to see you,” Guthrum said, “after the offence your father gave me.”

  “I am not my father,” Geirmund said. “And I will not apologize for him.”

  “Good. No man should apologize for another. Each must make an answer for his own actions and his own honour.” Guthrum nodded towards Steinólfur and Skjalgi. “But you come to me with no ship, and but one oath-man and a boy.”

  “We have swords,” Geirmund said, “and I now swear them to you.”

  “Can you use that sword?” the Dane asked, nodding towards Hámund’s blade.

  “I am trained to use it, but I have yet to take another’s life with it. Is that enough?”

  Guthrum shrugged. “It is enough. But before you take any lives, you will take your turn at the oars, and make no mistake, Hel-hide. You may be a grandson of Half, but you will lead no Danes until you have proven yourself.”

  “I expect nothing more,” Geirmund said. “But make no mistake, Jarl Guthrum. One day, even you will fear the warriors who follow me.”

  The Dane laughed and waved them aboard. “I await that day as a stone awaits moss.”

  Geirmund crossed the plank from the dock to the ship, followed by Steinólfur and Skjalgi, and the three of them found places to sit among the crew on the deck towards the bow. Geirmund looked down the length of the vessel and counted sixteen oars to a side, with the first company of hole-men already seated upon their sea chests, ready to pull as the ship’s commander ordered. The helmsman stood at the steerboard, surrounded by an additional dozen men ready to take an oar when those already seated reached their thousand strokes, while the lookout took his position at the prow. A moment later, Guthrum gave the order to depart.

  The commander took up his position at the mast and bellowed commands at the linemen, who moved down the length of the ship, untying the walrus-hide rigging and pushing the vessel away from the wharf with long poles. Then the hole-men dropped their oars into the water and the commander directed their movement, easing the ship away from the wharf into the currents of the Karmsund, where the water sloshed against its thin skin of wooden strakes.

  The hole-men rowed them west and south, around the peninsula where the hall of King Hjörr stood, and though the ship passed under the building’s gaze, Geirmund felt out of its reach for the first time in his life. He felt free.

  Guthrum poured an offering of costly wine into the water and called on Rán to give them a safe journey, and then he crossed the ship’s deck to stand near Geirmund. “I won’t mock you if you want to wave goodbye,” he said.

  “Yes, you will,” Steinólfur said, grinning at the Dane. “And I’ll join you.”

  Geirmund laughed and said nothing. Neither did he wave, but instead he bade a silent farewell that was the closing of a door he accepted might never open to him again. With Avaldsnes behind, and the shores of the Karmsund to the east and west, Geirmund felt penned in on three sides, but he fixed his eyes on the one path left open to him. Not long after that, the commander ordered the sail raised to catch a wind out of the north. The hole-men pulled in their oars, and the ship sped southward.

  Part Two

  The Crossing

  7

  The goddess Rán gave them calm seas for most of the journey from Rogaland to Jutland, and the wind filled the ship’s sail so fully that Geirmund had to take only a handful of turns at the oar. Those were enough to strip his hands of skin and strain the muscles in his arms, shoulders, and back. When he complained, Steinólfur told him he knew nothing of the ocean’s true rage and brutality, the storms that reached into the ship and stole the man at the oar next to you, the waves like rolling mountains that would twist and wring ships like wet rags.

  Guthrum’s vessel was named Wave Lover, but sometimes called Wave Humper by the men, depending on their humour and the temperament of Rán’s daughters. The ship’s crew viewed Geirmund with suspicion. He would catch them casting wary stares at him, and they rarely spoke to him, but as they journeyed he managed to learn a few of their names.

  The ship’s commander was called Rek. He had a scar across his scalp that mangled the hairline of his brow, as though someone had tried to take the lid off his skull. The curses and complaints he sent Geirmund’s way whenever he sat his turn at the oar, and often when he was doing nothing at all, spoke to an instant and unexplained hatred. The commander had a brother onboard, a giant of a man with a broad back and powerful shoulders, who seemed to have a less violent temper than Rek. His name was Eskil, and he was a mere hole-man, although the other hole-men seemed to defer to him and, unlike them, Eskil would nod when Geirmund caught him staring, rather than look away.

  On their fourth day under sail they arrived at Ribe, on the western shore of Jutland, where they joined a fleet of some two hundred ships or more. The regular tides along that coastline shoved the shallow seas there up against a shore of grass and reeds, then pulled the water far away, carving channels and exposing wide flats of sand and silt. Geirmund had never seen anything like it, and Guthrum said that if they were to sail southward to the end of that mud-sea, the journey would take another three days of sailing at least and carry them all the way to Frisland.

  They idled in deeper waters just off the Jutland coast until they could use the evening tide to carry their ship inward, to anchor nearer dry land with the rest of the fleet, and then the tide retreated, stranding Wave Lover with the other boats like a beached whale.

  They disembarked down a plank that flexed under their weight, then trudged through clumps of seaweed and splashed across a saltmarsh that bubbled with buried crabs and shellfish. Proud white storks strode that land, feasting on prey they pulled from the mud with their beaks and tossed in the air. The wind there smelled of fish and brine, and even that soft ground seemed to resist their feet after the days they had spent riding the unstable seas.

  “How long do you suppose we’ll stay here?” Skjalgi asked.

  “That depends on whether the expected jarls are all here,” Steinólfur said. “But the Danes will wait for favourable winds and waves, at least.”

  Skjalgi glanced over his shoulder, back towards the ships. “The seas seem favourable now.”

  “Sailing south, yes,” Geirmund said. “But from here we travel west.”

  At the boundary of the tideland the sand beneath their feet dried out and became shifting and pale, windblown into dunes. The three of them scrambled up from that beach onto higher, grassy ground, where they found the fleet’s encampment spread out over hundreds of acres, almost as far as Geirmund could see. The noise of it rumbled like distant and unceasing thunder.

  “Now there’s a sight,” Skjalgi said.

  “Hel-hide!” Guthrum stepped up onto the plain from the beach and motioned for Geirmund to follow. “Come with me.”

  Geirmund nodded, but before he left he told Steinólfur to find a place to camp near Guthrum’s men, but as far from the water as he could manage, so as not to wake up swimming in the sea if a storm swell should come in the night. Then he followed Guthrum to a wide thoroughfare that ran through the encampment towards what seemed to be its centre. They passed blacksmiths hammering near makeshift forges, craftsmen of leather and wood, sewers and weavers, butchers and firepits, and the deeper they went, the more the encampment smelled of life and its refuse, a moveable c
ity much larger than Avaldsnes.

  There were many shield-maidens among the warriors that they passed, and Geirmund searched their faces, wondering if Eivor was among them. The warriors there all bowed their heads at Guthrum, whereas Geirmund’s passing attracted stares from the tents along that makeshift road, and Guthrum seemed to notice it.

  “They’ve never seen anyone so ugly before,” he said.

  “Have they not seen Rek?” Geirmund asked.

  Guthrum’s laugh was like a single blast from a goat horn. “I’d mind that tongue when Rek can hear you. You’ll be in his company for the time being.”

  Geirmund had feared as much.

  “I understand why they stare,” the Dane said. “You don’t look like a Northman.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Is Hjörr your father?”

  The bluntness of the question stopped Geirmund from answering right away, and it almost stopped him in the camp road.

  “Or were you already in your mother’s belly when she left Bjarmaland?” Guthrum said.

  That did halt Geirmund’s feet, and he fought to keep his hand from seeking the grip of his new sword. “You will take that back, Jarl Guthrum.”

  The Dane stopped, turned, and stood up taller, his head cocked to one side. “Will I?”

  “You will. Insult me if you must, but you will not insult my mother.”

  A tense moment passed, and then Guthrum nodded. “Fair enough, I withdraw what I said about your mother. But what about Hjörr?”

  “He is my father.” Geirmund resumed his march through the encampment, catching the odour of livestock on the air from wherever the animals were penned. “My brother and I take after my mother’s people.”

  The Dane seemed to accept this. “After the manner of your leaving, I wondered if you still call him father. If he is still your king.”

  Geirmund had not asked that question of himself, or, at least, not in those words. “Frankly, I don’t know how to answer.”

  “It took courage, what you did,” Guthrum said. “Coming to me like a beggar, with no ship and no warriors.”

  “I didn’t beg,” Geirmund said.

  “I meant no insult. I admire your courage. But courage and honour are not the same thing. Even traitors and oath-breakers can show bravery. I am simply wondering where you place your loyalties.”

  “I suppose that’s fair.” Geirmund noticed a large tent in the distance and assumed that to be their destination. “But I would say that loyalty and honour are not always the same thing. There are times when honour calls for the end of loyalty.”

  The Dane frowned, as if doubting the truth of that. “Perhaps,” he said.

  “But I have sworn to you,” Geirmund said, “on my honour.”

  Guthrum looked at him for a moment and nodded, then pointed down the lane towards the large tent. “You are about to meet my king. You will say nothing to Bersi until asked.”

  “Yes, herra.”

  They reached the tent and found its entrance guarded by two warriors in ringmail, armed with spear, sword, and axe. They recognized Guthrum and bowed their heads, but they stepped in front of the opening to block Geirmund’s path.

  “Who is this, Jarl Guthrum?” one of them asked. The other kept his attention on Geirmund, weapons at the ready.

  “This is Geirmund Hjörrsson,” Guthrum said. “A son of the king of Rogaland.”

  The two guards exchanged a glance, then moved to allow entrance.

  Geirmund followed Guthrum and they came into a dim enclosure. A fire burned in a hearth near its centre, blue smoke rising lazily up to the vent at the peak of the tent. Geirmund noted several tapestries and rugs from distant Serkland and Tyrkland, while tall folding screens of ornately carved wood set a few smaller rooms apart from the central chamber. A half-dozen men sat or stood around the fire, some with gilded ale horns, and judging by their furs and rings they were all of them jarls.

  “Guthrum!” one of the men bellowed as he lumbered across the room to grip arms. He was loud and red of beard and cheek, and his presence dominated the tent. He towered over Guthrum and most of the other Danes, likely not a swift or agile fighter, but powerful and strong. Geirmund knew him instantly to be Bersi. “I thank Óðinn for your safe return,” the Dane-king said. “How many ships have you brought me from the North Way?”

  Guthrum bowed his head. “None, I regret to say.”

  “None?”

  “The Northmen are consumed with their own troubles. In every hall I visited they spoke of war with Harald of Sogn.”

  “All the more reason to join with us and seek new lands.”

  “I made that same argument, but they could not be persuaded. With one exception.” Guthrum gestured towards Geirmund. “This is one of the sons of Hjörr Halfsson and Ljufvina.”

  “One of the Hel-hides?” Bersi looked down at Geirmund and his mouth split into a broad smile that revealed two gaps in his teeth. “Which are you?”

  “I am Geirmund.”

  “And how many men have your brought me, Geirmund Hjörrsson?”

  Geirmund hesitated and looked at Guthrum before answering. “Two.”

  “One and a half,” Guthrum said.

  Bersi’s smile vanished into his beard and his eyes narrowed.

  “I defied my father to join with you,” Geirmund went on. “That is the reason I have nothing from him.”

  The other jarls stood waiting, as silent and still as winter pines, as Bersi looked Geirmund over from heel to hair. “He gave you a fine sword by the looks of it,” the king finally said.

  Geirmund thought better of correcting him. “It thirsts for Saxon blood,” he said.

  Bersi’s smile reappeared. “And it will be sated. Your sword will bathe in Saxon blood, if that is what it wishes.” Then he turned and addressed his jarls. “With Guthrum returned we can look to the crossing.” He strode to one side of the room and stepped up to take his seat upon a raised dais, the chair groaning under his weight. “Halfdan now marches through Mercia, to a place called Readingum on the River Thames, and we will use the Thames to bring our ships to that same place. If the gods are with us, Halfdan will have taken it before we reach him. But our ships will be vulnerable on the river.” He called on an older jarl with grey hair who wore a stubby Saxon sword at his side. “Osbern, what is the latest from your men at Thanet and Lunden?”

  As the jarl answered him, Guthrum leaned in close to Geirmund. “My men will be situated at the south-west corner of the encampment,” he said. “Go and find them. Eat, then rest.”

  Geirmund wanted to stay and learn more of what lay ahead, but he nodded and slipped away from the gathering, then from the tent.

  Outside, the sun had set, and dusk descended over the encampment, which was now lit by the scattered glow of fires and torches. Geirmund returned the way he and Guthrum had come, heading west towards the sea, surrounded by the sounds of revelry and the frenzy of warriors eager for war and plunder.

  Near the edge of the encampment, the mud-sea came into view, spread with the dark humps of the waiting ships, and he turned south, wandering through and around the clusters of tents. He searched the firelit faces of the warriors he passed, looking for men he knew from Guthrum’s ship, and he eventually spotted Eskil seated before a small bonfire in a circle of twenty or more Danes.

  He approached the warrior and asked if he had seen Steinólfur. Eskil looked up at Geirmund, then nodded and pointed to his right without saying a word. Geirmund thanked him and moved in that direction.

  “Hel-hide!” a rough voice shouted from across the circle.

  Geirmund turned towards it, recognizing the voice. “What is it, Rek?”

  The ship’s commander got to his feet, leaning a bit with ale. “Tell me something. Are the men of your mother’s people fighting men?”

  “I cannot
say,” Geirmund said. “I have never been to Bjarmaland. Why do you ask?”

  Rek stepped inside the ring of Danes and came around the fire towards Geirmund. “I’m just wondering what– what kind of man you are. Because it is plain that you are no Northman.”

  “That’s enough, brother,” Eskil said from behind Geirmund.

  But Rek continued his advance. “It’s not enough until I’m satisfied, brother.”

  “Satisfied of what?” Geirmund asked, refusing to lift one boot or give any ground.

  Rek came near and stepped right up to him, face to face, staring into his eyes with ale on his breath and the bonfire at his back. “Satisfied of your mettle, half-breed.”

  By that point some of the other Danes were also on their feet, ready for whatever was coming. But Geirmund knew well what was about to happen. It had happened before. Many times. “Do you mean to test me?” he asked, as the pounding of his anger reached his ears. “Because if you do, I will–”

  “You! Rek!” Steinólfur stepped into the circle then, arms outstretched. “Perhaps you wish to test my mettle?”

  “Enough of this.” Eskil sounded irritated as he also stepped into the circle. “All of you, sit down,” he said, glowering at the Danes around the fire.

  The warriors settled back as they were, but reluctantly, and Geirmund wondered how it was that a hole-man had such authority. Only Eskil, Rek, Steinólfur, and Geirmund remained on their feet as the same north wind that had brought Guthrum’s ship to Jutland whipped through the encampment, stirring sparks and embers in the fire.

  The commander pointed at Geirmund. “You are an ill omen, Hel-hide,” he said, and murmurs of agreement moved through the circle. “I would be rid of you.”

  Steinólfur took a few steps and placed himself in front of Geirmund, arms folded. “He’s an ill omen for you if you continue to speak that way. I could easily be rid of you.”