Geirmund's Saga

by Matthew J. Kirby

  To the east a lowland of green stretched as far as Geirmund could see, a country of thick woods, gentle rises, and endless open fields for planting and grazing, but he saw no houses, no halls, no crops, and no livestock. It was the sort of land Geirmund had come to England seeking, and it seemed to be lying there for the taking, unclaimed and unused.

  “Does this land belong to anyone?” he asked.

  “All land belongs to someone,” John said. “We are west of the Ouse and the Granta, which means we are in Mercia. I know of no ealdorman here, so I suppose this land belongs to King Burgred.”

  “Ealdorman?”

  “A kind of jarl. But we are near the border with East Anglia, which means there may now be Danes who believe they have claimed it.”

  Several rests from the Roman city, through the trees, a shimmer of water appeared to the west across the marsh, broad enough on the horizon to be an inland sea. John said it was called Witlesig, after a village on its far shore, and it was one of many such meres, shallow and full of fish and fowl.

  They walked a full three rests before the shimmer of the Witlesig sea came to an end. Another three rests beyond that, cultivated fields appeared out of the forest to the west. Then Geirmund sighted a village ahead, at the edge of the marsh. He saw no smoke rising from its houses, and heard no sounds, as though it were as empty as the Roman ruin had been.

  “Do you know that place?” he asked the priest.

  “Not with certainty. But I made a study of the road before leaving Northumbria, and that may be called Salters Stream.”

  “It looks abandoned.”

  “Perhaps it is.” He stopped in the road and turned to face Geirmund. “If we meet Danes on the road, then I am your captive. If we encounter Saxons or Middle Angles, then we are messengers on our way to Lundenwic.”

  Geirmund nodded, and they continued towards the village.

  When they reached it, they found it empty, just as it had seemed from afar, with only a few chickens left pecking in the dirt. It was a small settlement, with several huts gathered around a modest hall, along with workshops, byres, and a few other outbuildings. The undisturbed condition of the place suggested it had not been long abandoned, nor had it fallen victim to Danes intent on destruction.

  “The villagers can’t be hiding in the fens or the woods,” Geirmund said. “They took everything, even their carts and wagons.”

  “They must have gone west, deeper into Mercia. With Danes on the march, and Danes at their border, this place is hardly safe.” The priest looked round. “But it will serve us well enough. We’ll find no better quarters to spend the night.”

  Geirmund agreed, so they went to the hall, thinking it the most preferable of the buildings in which to sleep, and found it dry and comfortable inside, about the length that Guthrum’s ship had been. A few old benches remained, but by the shape of the charcoal left in the hearth, Geirmund could see that someone had used another bench or two as fuel, rather than searching for dry wood in the nearby forest.

  “We’re not the first travellers to use this place,” he said.

  Unlike the hall at Avaldsnes, which was entered at the middle of its length, the door to this Saxon hall lay at one end. John moved past Geirmund towards the other wall, where the wall bore a kind of shadow where something had hung for a long period of time and changed the colour of the wood in the shape of a cross, like the one the priest wore around his neck, except larger.

  “Was this a Christian temple?” Geirmund asked.

  “No. But the people of this place were good Christians. I assume they continue to be, since they took their cross with them.”

  For food Geirmund went outside, snatched one of the chickens, and twisted its neck. After giving it a rough plucking, he cleaned it using water from a nearby stream and roasted it over a fire made from wood he gathered. As night fell, the aroma of sizzling meat filled the hall, along with the faint smell of burning feathers. Then a storm came, pounding the roof with rain and rumbling with distant thunder. Geirmund was glad they had stopped there for rest, and grateful the hall stayed warm and dry as he ate his chicken and sucked on the bones. He even felt contented there at Salters Stream. It was a humble place, but it had a fine house and good land, the sort of demesne he wanted for himself, and there it was, abandoned and empty.

  “With a few good warriors and their families,” Geirmund said, “I could settle this place and hold it.”

  “Against an army of Danes?”

  “Against bandits and thieves, after the war is won.”

  The fire in the hearth cast a glow that touched the rafters and walls of the hall with red, as outside the rain turned the dark night to pitch.

  “It is a good place,” John said, looking around and nodding. “You can be sure that many have known it. Before this land belonged to Mercians, the Britons were here, and before their tribes there were the Romans, who conquered another people here before them. Wave after wave breaking on these shores.”

  “That is the way of things,” Geirmund said. “Land breeds war.”

  “Must it be so?”

  “Yes, if all land must belong to someone.”

  “I disagree. I believe that if all lands submit to the One True God in baptism and common Christian faith, there could be peace between kingdoms.”

  Geirmund scoffed at that. “Envy is the end of peace. No god or goddess, no matter how powerful, can deny the greedy man his nature.”

  “You are right, of course. It is we who must deny the temptations of our fallen nature and submit to the will of God.”

  “Then you Christians are nothing but thralls to your god.”

  The priest tipped his head in amusement. “If we are, it is a curious bondage, for I have yet to meet a thrall who is willingly bound.”

  Geirmund felt his eyes growing heavy. “Enough priest talk for now.”

  “Very well,” John said.

  As Geirmund fell asleep, he heard John praying silently, but that did not keep him awake, and neither did the storm. It was the sudden ceasing of the rain that woke him just before sunrise, and because he couldn’t fall back to sleep, he left the hall and returned to the stream. There he stripped himself of his armour and clothing, careful of Völund’s arm-ring, and washed himself in the cold water. The forest leaves around him continued to shed delayed rain, and birds came out from their shelters to sing.

  Back at the hall, Geirmund found the chicken roost and recovered a few eggs, which he knew would be free of chicks, for he had not seen or heard a cock in the yard. He found a bucket that had been left behind, which he washed and filled at the stream, and he used stones from the fire to heat the water enough to cook the eggs in their shells. John didn’t wake until the eggs were ready, and then he simply sat up and bit into his whole, crunching up the shells with his teeth as he stared at nothing. Geirmund peeled his first, and after they had both breakfasted they resumed their southward journey.

  Though the storm had moved on, heavy clouds still held the battlefield of the sky, threatening rain for much of the day without sending more than an occasional fine mist. A road of plain earth would have been turned to mud overnight and become difficult, or even impassable, but the Romans” use of crushed rock let the water drain through, leaving the path firm and easily travelled.

  The country they passed through remained much the same as the previous day, forest and field, though more of the land they saw had been put to good use. They also found a few more small villages and holdings, all abandoned as Salters Stream had been, but some had seen more destruction by travellers, or by those hoping to find hidden wealth left behind.

  At mid-morning, after they’d walked almost four rests, the road turned slightly to the east, towards a gap between two low hills on the horizon. Geirmund smelled smoke.

  “Is there a village ahead?”

  “There is, yes, a place call
ed Godmundceaster, but it is still some distance away.”

  They proceeded with caution after that, especially when passing through stretches of wood that had been allowed to grow close to the road, affording robbers easy concealment, and soon they could not only smell smoke but also see it rising from the trees. Dozens of campfires burned across the land between the two hills, but did not seem to belong to a village or town.

  “Danes,” Geirmund said.

  “I believe you are right,” John said. “But we are still in Mercia, where King Burgred rules.”

  “If they are Danes, then Burgred doesn’t rule here. This is Daneland.”

  The priest paled but nodded. “Then we go into Daneland. I am hereafter your thrall.”

  Geirmund felt he had to be honest with the priest. “When Danes look at me, they do not see another Dane. They don’t see a Northman. If they distrust me, this could go badly for us, but especially for you.”

  “Then I will trust in God that the Danes trust in you.”

  Geirmund sighed. “I did warn you, priest.”

  They walked another half a rest, but not so quickly as they had travelled earlier that morning, as if their feet were reluctant to tread that road, knowing who had claimed it. Geirmund believed that if he were alone he could overcome any suspicion and convince these Danes of his name, but the presence of the priest, thrall or not, would give them pause and make Geirmund less convincing. He began to plan what he could say in his defence, wondering if he could safely claim that John belonged to Guthrum, and that the Christian was important to the jarl somehow.

  “Ho, Father!” a voice called from the woods to the west.

  Geirmund turned in that direction, weapon drawn, and saw a Saxon warrior approaching them through the trees, looking sodden and sullen, and not at ease with the armour he wore or the spear in his hand.

  “Good day!” John said. He sounded quite overjoyed at the sight of the stranger, and Geirmund couldn’t tell if the priest meant that to put the warrior at ease, or if he truly felt it at the sight of another Saxon. “How fare you this day?” John asked.

  “I wish it were dryer, and I wish I were home instead of here.” The warrior came up to the edge of the road, and Geirmund kept his seax unsheathed at the ready. “What business brings you this way, Father?” the stranger asked.

  “Oh, I am but a humble mass-priest,” John said, “travelling to Lundenwic.”

  The warrior shook his head. “I suggest you reconsider that plan. Danes lie to the south. They’ve fortified the area around Huntsman’s Hill.”

  “Yes, we had noticed that.” John nodded and gazed down the road. “It seems a great many Danes are now camped in Mercia.”

  “There is a peace,” the warrior said. “King Burgred and King Halfdan agreed to terms. The Danes can move through Mercia, and they will cause no trouble.”

  “No trouble?” Geirmund said. “I think the monks at Ancarig and Medeshamstede would say otherwise.”

  The warrior looked hard at him, at the seax in his hand. “Who are you?”

  “He travels with me,” John said, “as my hired guard on the road. And he is in the right. We have come from Medeshamstede, where Danes slaughtered the monks and burned the abbey only days ago.”

  The Saxon looked over his shoulder, deeper into the woods. “We’ve heard reports of war-bands in the fens. Our border with East Anglia isn’t always clear to the Danes. Mistakes have been made.”

  “Indeed they have,” John said. “Deadly mistakes. Costly mistakes.”

  “Some mistakes can even cost a king his crown,” Geirmund added. He knew well that Halfdan would have moved his army through Mercia regardless of any agreement, but he had likely received a payment of gold and silver to cause no trouble, if only for a time. Geirmund also knew the Danes would not be leaving Mercia now that they had a foothold, and Burgred had merely bought a delay in his downfall. “No agreement lasts forever,” Geirmund said.

  “That’s why we’re here,” the Saxon said. “We’re keeping watch over these Danes.”

  If all Saxons dealt with the Danes so foolishly, then England would surely fall. The man seemed not to comprehend that he had been appointed the task of watching over the very axe that would one day take his head.

  John may have understood that also, for he was frowning. “And what do you watch these Danes doing in their camp at Huntsman’s Hill?”

  “They march,” the Saxon said. “They come out of the fens and they turn south.”

  “Where do they go?” Geirmund asked, though he knew the answer. The Danes marched to Readingum. He simply wondered if the Saxon knew it also.

  “They take the Icknield Way to Wessex.”

  “Does that trouble you?” John asked.

  The man shrugged. “So long as they don’t turn north or cross Earninga Street, it is not my concern.”

  “I hope for King Burgred’s sake, and for yours, it remains that way.” John gestured towards the distant campfires. “If there is a peace, why can we not travel on this road?”

  “Oh, you may travel, Father,” the Saxon said. “I simply advise against it. Unless you trust the pagans.”

  John looked at Geirmund. “I trust some pagans.”

  “Do as you will, Father.” The warrior retreated from the road. “May the Lord protect you on your journey.”

  “May the Lord protect you also,” the priest said. “May he protect all of Mercia.”

  The Saxon vanished back into the wood, returning no doubt to the hidden place from which he and his men watched the road. Geirmund sheathed his seax. “It is no wonder the Saxon kingdoms are falling if they are protected by warriors such as that.”

  “Most Saxon warriors are farmers,” the priest said. “They fight with their ealdorman’s fyrd when summoned but would rather be at home with their crops and their flocks.”

  “And why would your god protect these people from their own foolishness?”

  John set off again, heading south. “If you saw a child about to put his hand into the fire, would you not move to stop him?”

  “Of course I would. Are you saying that Burgred is a child?”

  “No, I am saying that we are all of us God’s children.”

  Geirmund laughed again at the priest’s faith. He imagined Valhalla full of children, all of them crying to Óðinn for milk instead of mead, and he couldn’t help his amusement. Óðinn did not want children in Valhalla, and Thór would not grant strength to those who hadn’t earned his respect and favour.

  “You must think me foolish,” John said, “walking into Daneland.”

  “I knew you were foolish when you gave me a sword.”

  “And yet you haven’t used it to kill me. I would say the Lord has protected me, wouldn’t you?”

  “Fate has protected you.”

  The priest tipped his head. “Or perhaps your fate and my god are one and the same. I will have to think on that.”

  Geirmund found it difficult to consider that comparison. The closer they came to Huntsman’s Hill, the more he worried that no deception would succeed. He could hear the distant sounds of the encampment, the loud voices, the animals braying, the trees falling, the iron ringing, but none of that seemed to frighten or disturb the priest. Foolish or not, John walked as though his god had removed his fear.

  They saw the first Danes at another Roman bridge, which crossed a wide river John called Ouse. The encampment, Geirmund could now see, lay on the other side of the bridge, on a wedge of land created by a bend in the river. The arrangement reduced the need for extensive fortifications since the river protected it to the west, north, and south. The Danes had only to hold the bridge and defend the encampment’s eastern edge. That location also gave the Danes mastery of the road and all who wished to travel it, leaving Geirmund with little choice but to approach the invaders as one of them.

&n
bsp; “I am Geirmund Hjörrsson,” he said. “I am sworn to Jarl Guthrum.”

  One of the Danes on the bridge stepped forward. He had two axes, and behind him stood half a dozen men similarly armed, and two bowmen. “Jarl Guthrum isn’t here,” the Dane said, looking at John. “Where do you come from?”

  “I am a Northman of Rogaland. I was taken by the sea in a storm and washed ashore north of here. I travel to join Jarl Guthrum at Readingum, and I bring him a valuable thrall.”

  “A priest?” The Dane chuckled and looked back at the men behind him, who all joined in his laughter. “How is a priest valuable to Jarl Guthrum?”

  Geirmund struggled to find an answer, but none came, and then John spoke.

  “I read and write the Saxon tongue,” he said, head bowed. “I can read messages that are not meant for the eyes of Danes.”

  That was not a skill Geirmund would have suggested, but it seemed to give the Dane before them pause. “Come with me,” he finally said.

  The other warriors on the bridge parted to let them pass, and the first Dane guided them through the encampment to a large open tent where several warriors sat eating and drinking. Two of the men sat in fine chairs and looked alike in their features, especially the pale blue of their eyes, but one of them had grey in his beard. Geirmund assumed them to be father and son.

  Their bridge-Dane stopped a few paces from the tent and waited until the older of the two men waved him forward. “What is it?” he asked, eyeing Geirmund and John.

  “This man claims to be a Northman sworn to Guthrum, my lord,” the Dane said. “And he says the priest is his thrall.”

  “Does he?” The younger of the blue-eyes rose from his chair. “He does not look like a Northman.”

  “I am a Northman,” Geirmund said. “I am Geirmund Hjörrsson, and I can speak for myself.” He then told what had happened to him, in much the same way he had told it to Odmar, and when he was finished the warriors in the tent were silent. “I ask that you let me pass, to continue my journey to Jarl Guthrum,” he said.

  The older man crossed the tent to stand before Geirmund. “I am Jarl Sidroc, and this is my son, Sidroc. I know of King Hjörr of Rogaland, and you are ugly enough to be one of the sons in the tales I have heard. But I must be sure.”