“I am,” Geirmund said. “But I have a question.”
“Ask it.”
“What became of my sword? It was stowed on the Wave Lover, but Steinólfur said it disappeared sometime during the journey.”
The king looked at Eskil, who nodded. “I know where it is. My brother has it. He claimed it after you went into the sea.”
“There.” Guthrum looked back at Geirmund. “You have your answer.”
Geirmund had never liked Rek, but now he had one more reason to hate him. “Then your brother is a thief,” he said.
Eskil took a menacing step towards him. “Be careful with your words, Hel-hide. My brother believed you were drowned, as did we all.”
“But I am not drowned,” Geirmund said, “and that sword belongs to me. Rek must be–”
“Enough.” Guthrum frowned in irritation. “You know where your sword is. If you want it back, then you must claim it. I will hear no more about it.”
Geirmund turned to Eskil, resolved to do exactly what Guthrum said. “Where is your brother?”
“Rek is with the rest of our company,” he said. “Near the ships on the south riverbank. But Hel-hide, you–”
“Jarl Guthrum,” Geirmund said, “know that I remain sworn to you.”
Guthrum nodded. “I welcome your service.”
“May I take my leave?” Geirmund asked.
Guthrum looked at Eskil as he answered. “You may. But be mindful of the peace, Hel-hide. In this encampment are Danes, Northmen, Jutes, Frisians... All are here as allies against the Saxons, despite our previous disagreements.”
Geirmund bowed his head. Then he, Steinólfur, and Skjalgi left the jarl’s tent, but they had not put it far behind them when Geirmund heard Eskil call his name. He ignored him and marched towards the south riverbank, but the Dane hurried to catch him up.
“Hel-hide,” he said. “What do you mean to do?”
“I mean to reclaim my sword.” Geirmund stared straight ahead. “Just as Jarl Guthrum suggested.”
“And if Rek won’t give it up?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Steinólfur asked. “It belongs to Geirmund.”
“I don’t always understand my brother’s reasons,” Eskil said. “But I do know him.”
He said nothing more, but he walked with them now as they crossed the encampment, and when they approached the circle of tents belonging to Rek’s company, he strode ahead of Geirmund, calling for his brother. Rek heard him and stepped forward, surrounded by Danes whose faces Geirmund knew from his time at the oar aboard Wave Humper. When the crew saw him, their eyes and mouths opened wide, and none could speak, but Rek’s eyes held more hatred than disbelief.
“The Hel-hide is with us once more,” Eskil said, looking at each of them in turn. “Jarl Guthrum has welcomed him back. As should we all.”
Geirmund knew those words would not be the last heard or said of his return, but for now he moved towards Rek and his purpose there. “I am told you have my sword,” he said.
Rek rubbed his chin with the saddle of his thumb. “I do.”
“I am here to retrieve it.”
The Dane shook his head. “No. You abandoned it.”
“Abandoned it?” Geirmund’s blood roared in his ears. “Only a weak man without honour would make such a claim–”
“You accuse me of being without honour?” Rek said. “You, the cursed Hel-hide who nearly sank my ship?” He moved towards his brother. “I must be allowed to answer this.”
“No,” Eskil said. “There is a peace in the encampment. None may slay another between the wall and the rivers.”
“Then let it be to first blood,” Rek said. “Only let us fight. I would teach this little shit a lesson in honour.”
Geirmund raised his voice so all could hear him. “And if you lose?”
Rek glared at him, then glanced at the warriors that surrounded them. “I will return the sword to you.”
Eskil looked down at his brother as if considering his request, and then he turned to Geirmund. “If I allow this, will you consider the ownership of your sword to be settled at the end, regardless of the outcome?”
Geirmund did not believe he should have to fight to reclaim his own sword, but the disagreement over it had become a matter of honour between him and Rek, so it seemed a fight had become unavoidable. “I will,” he said.
“Good.” Eskil motioned to the warriors around them. “Make the square!”
The Danes obeyed, spreading themselves out to form a four-sided wall, with nine or ten warriors to a side. Geirmund strode towards one corner of the opening battleground, and Steinólfur and Skjalgi walked with him.
The older warrior leaned in close. “Are you well enough for this?”
“I am,” Geirmund said, though he wasn’t sure of it. He pulled the blood-stained linen wrappings from his skull and tossed them in the dirt, trying to ignore the sudden swimming in his head. “Skjalgi… fetch me a shield and a sword.”
Skjalgi nodded and ran away through the gathering men and the tents. The air felt cold against Geirmund’s scalp, the sky overhead a grey and tattered shroud. He could hear the river nearby, and above the heads of the Danes he could see a long row of prows, the many ships pulled up onto the shore.
“Geirmund,” Steinólfur whispered, “perhaps some patience would serve you well in this moment.”
“How so?” Geirmund asked, watching Rek arm himself with a shield and Geirmund’s own sword. The Dane intended to use the blade against its rightful owner, a further insult Geirmund would soon punish.
“This fight can wait until you are healed,” Steinólfur said. “There would be no dishonour in asking for a delay so you–”
“No.” Geirmund could not abide the thought of returning to his tent while Rek carried his sword openly among the other warriors. “I will settle this now.”
Steinólfur looked as though he remained worried, but he ceased his objections, and then Skjalgi returned with the blade Geirmund had given the boy back at Avaldsnes, as well as one of the shields bought at Ribe. Geirmund took both in hand and turned to face his opponent, and Eskil stepped into the middle of the square.
“This fight will end when first blood touches the ground,” the Dane said. “If either man keeps fighting after that mark has been called, the same will forfeit his silver, his freedom, or his life, according to the judgement of Jarl Guthrum.” Eskil looked back and forth between them. “Are you both readied?”
“I am,” Rek said.
Geirmund nodded, but it felt as though his sight lagged behind the movement of his head.
“Begin.” Eskil stepped back and joined the wall of men behind him.
Rek charged at Geirmund with surprising speed, yelling and snarling. Geirmund barely had his shield raised in time to deflect the Dane’s repeated and savage sword blows. Each impact jarred his bones and made his head reel with pain and disorientation. He wondered if Rek was truly that much quicker than him, or if he remained too weak for combat and should have heeded Steinólfur’s cautions. Neither mattered now that the fight had begun, and he dodged out from under Rek’s assault and blinked, trying to steady his sight and his mind.
When the Dane charged again, Geirmund was better prepared, and used his shield to push Rek’s strike aside, then attempted to land a blow of his own. But the Dane brought his shield up, blocked Geirmund’s blow, and shoved him backwards.
Geirmund staggered and almost lost his footing. The pain in his head had become blinding, and he knew he would not win this, but also knew he would not surrender. He dropped his shield and flew at Rek wildly, wielding his sword with two hands.
His sudden attack put Rek on his heels for a moment or two, but the Dane recovered quickly, and after Geirmund made a desperate swing that sliced only air, Rek used Geirmund’s imbalance against him and threw him to the grou
nd.
Geirmund hit the earth hard, and his sight went black. Then he felt Rek kneel on his chest, and he saw the Dane leaning over him. Then Rek used his sword to slice Geirmund’s cheek.
“First blood,” he said. “But know that I could have killed you.”
The weight on Geirmund’s chest eased, allowing him to breathe again, and then Rek moved away. Geirmund laid there until Steinólfur and Skjalgi came to his side, helping him to his feet and to stumble back across the encampment to his tent, where he collapsed in exhaustion, pain, and shame.
14
Geirmund’s defeat cost him more than his pride and his sword. It set back his healing, and he returned to his bed for several days. Then Steinólfur came to tell him the Danes were marching to battle with the Saxons at a place called Basing.
Upon hearing that, Geirmund sat up. “We must go with them–”
“You must stay where you are,” the older warrior said, pressing him back down. “I will not be ignored again.”
“But I must–”
“There will be other battles. If you wish to fight in them, you will wait until you have your strength.”
Geirmund ground his teeth together, causing pain in his head. “The coward believes he will live forever if he avoids the battle.”
“And the wise man knows which battles to fight,” Steinólfur said.
“You sound like my father.”
“Your father has his flaws, but he is no fool. Every warrior receives wounds, and every warrior must heal from them.”
Geirmund closed his eyes, accepting that Steinólfur would have his way this time, for he could also admit, if only to himself, that he wasn’t yet ready to wield a sword. “Where is Skjalgi?” he asked.
“With a woman.”
Geirmund sat up again, this time in surprise. “What?”
“Not in that way,” the older warrior said. “Her name is Birna, a shield-maiden, one of Jarl Osbern’s best warriors. She tells me Skjalgi reminds her of her brother who died several summers ago. She’s been helping me with his training, and I think the boy could be in love with her if he wasn’t also frightened by her.”
Geirmund met Birna the day after Halfdan, Guthrum, and the other jarls had marched. She was older than him by half a dozen summers, tall and strong, with tangled red hair, green eyes, and a nose that seemed to have set a bit crooked after a break. Geirmund stood with her, watching Steinólfur train Skjalgi in the uses of a spear, the way a high backhand grip is good for attacking over a shield, or throwing if necessary, and a low reverse grip is good for defence, how the ground can be used to brace the end of the weapon.
“You were sworn to Osbern,” Geirmund said. “Who do you fight for now?”
“Most of Jarl Osbern’s warriors now fight for Halfdan,” she said. “The ones who are still alive anyway.”
“Then why did you not march with Halfdan?” Geirmund asked her.
“The king doesn’t know us. We were ordered to stay behind with some of the others to guard the encampment and ships.” She glanced him up and down. “And to protect the wounded and the sickly.”
Geirmund touched his chest. “I will surely sleep better knowing you are here.”
One of her eyebrows went up, along with one corner of her mouth. “Are you mocking me? Because from what I heard about your fight with Rek, you do need protecting.”
Geirmund heard the humour in her voice, so he took no offence, even though his shame called for it. “Perhaps you should train me when you’re finished with the boy.”
“Why wait?” She walked to where Skjalgi had laid his sword and shield, picked up both, and brought them to Geirmund. “I’ll go easy on you.”
He laughed as he took them, but he stopped laughing as soon as their bout began. Birna proved to be an agile and formidable warrior, which was not surprising, considering her reputation. She moved with quick and brutal efficiency, wasting no effort on strikes intended only to intimidate or dominate. Geirmund didn’t know how easy she went on him, but he knew she beat him easily, and he wasn’t sure he could blame that entirely on his wounded head.
“I’ll sleep better knowing you are here,” Geirmund said once again as he collapsed onto the dry ground, struggling to catch his breath.
“And I’ll await your recovery.” She sat next to him, also breathing hard. “Even wounded, you fight well.”
“I was trained well,” Geirmund said, nodding towards Steinólfur.
“Yes, your oath-man is good. He doesn’t fight with his pride.”
“What do you mean? Steinólfur has more honour than–”
“No, not honour. Pride. The two are not the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“A warrior with honour will act with honour even when the gods alone will see it.” She pulled a sharpening stone from a pouch at her belt and went to work on her sword, honing the notches caused by their bout. “Honour unsung is no less honourable for it and will still gain a warrior entry to Valhalla.”
“And pride?”
“Pride needs an audience.” Her sword sang with each stroke of the sharpening stone. “Pride is honour that a warrior wants others to see, and pride makes a warrior weak. Some warriors fight with their pride, as if it’s a weapon that will help them win. But pride in battle is more often a burden that makes warriors careless and witless. Steinólfur knows this.”
Geirmund nodded. “He wanted me to delay my fight with Rek.”
“Perhaps you should have heeded him.” She sighted down the length of her sword, inspecting its edge. “Pride is a common weakness. Even Halfdan marches to restore his pride after his loss at Ashdown. The Saxons know this, I think. They taunted him into battle.”
“Where is Basing from here?”
“South. A day’s travel.”
“South?” Geirmund puzzled over that. “But Wælingford lies to the north. The Saxons must have marched a great distance out of their way to avoid us.”
“So it seems.”
That seemed a poor strategy to him, for the Saxons had cut themselves off from the safety of their stronghold. If the fight at Basing turned against them, they now had a Dane encampment blocking the path of their retreat. Geirmund assumed that if the Wessex king and his brother were clever, as John had claimed they were, they must have taken that risk for a reason, and he pondered what that reason might be.
He thought about what he had seen of Wælingford from a distance, its defences, its many ships, and its bridge over the Thames. He had floated down that river after falling from the bridge at Garinges, and he realized the Saxons could easily do the same in their ships to attack the encampment, especially with most of the Danes now drawn a day’s march away in the opposite direction.
“You believe the Saxons taunted Halfdan into battle?” he asked.
“Perhaps. They surely provoked him, appearing the way they did so close to this place.”
Geirmund rose to his feet.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I think we must prepare for an attack.”
“What? Where?”
“Here.” He pointed at the river. “I think the Saxons might try to take the encampment by ship.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. But I saw many boats at Wælingford, and I think it likely enough that we need to prepare.”
“How?”
They had no time to build a bridge or a sea-gate, but Geirmund remembered the wharfs made from wooden stakes that he had seen in the fenlands. “I know a way,” he said.
The commander left in charge of the encampment was a man named Afkarr, a capable but unambitious warrior who had served Jarl Osbern. He needed some convincing, but he trusted Birna, and he chose to be cautious and prepared after hearing of the many ships Geirmund had seen at Wælingford.
“But how can you build a wall ac
ross the river?” the Dane asked.
“The Saxon boats sit heavy and deep in the water,” Geirmund said. “I’ve rowed one. The stake-wall would only need to stretch across the width of the river’s channel.”
Afkarr seemed not to fully understand the plan, but at Birna’s urging he shook his head and put Geirmund in charge of building the defences, ordering all the Danes in the encampment to work.
Geirmund quickly found a suitable place for the wall where the waterway narrowed, just one rest to the west, distant enough to keep the encampment safe, but near enough to respond quickly if the enemy attacked. The riverbank there fell into deep water very close to the far shore, while on the near side the current flowed over a wide, shallow bar of sand and rock.
Geirmund set some of the Danes to cutting and sharpening young trees into long stakes, while the rest worked from the decks of two anchored ships, pounding the stakes deep into the river bottom and lashing them together with leather and rope to bind their strength. Though Geirmund’s head still swam and his body felt weak, he worked hard alongside the Danes without slowing or showing his struggle.
The building of those defences used up the rest of that day, and when the stake-wall was finished it resembled a thick and impenetrable bramble. It blocked the middle channel completely and butted up against the steep riverbank on the northern shore, but it left the southern shore open. Saxon boats rowing downriver would have only one path forward, and if they tried to push around the edge of the wall, they would be driven aground, stranded and vulnerable. The finished stake-wall did nothing to dam the river but made it impassable for any boats except the light and swift Dane ships that could easily traverse the shallows.
As the sun set on that day, Geirmund stood on the shore near the wall with Steinólfur, Skjalgi, and Birna, exhausted but satisfied.
“You have either saved the encampment,” the older warrior said, “or we have wasted a day of hard work for nothing.”
“The Danes were bored,” Geirmund said. “Their hands needed something to do.”
Birna nodded. “Even if the Saxons don’t attack, this wall is a good thing.”
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