“Let us hope Halfdan and Guthrum agree,” Steinólfur said.
“Let us hope the wall won’t be tested,” Skjalgi said.
The Danes set watchers and returned to the encampment, where they ate and drank Saxon wine that Afkarr gave them to reward their efforts. They sat easily around their fires telling stories, and for the first time since leaving Avaldsnes, Geirmund felt truly welcomed among them. Even the Danes who had balked at the beginning of the task now seemed pleased with what they had accomplished, in agreement with Birna that it was a good thing.
Before long, Geirmund felt his eyes closing against his will and bade a good night to Steinólfur, Skjalgi, and Birna. Then he drifted away from the fire to his tent, where he fell into his bed utterly drained. When distant horns blared, it seemed his eyes had only been closed a few moments, and he rushed from his tent in confusion to find the encampment quiet and waking with him.
“Saxons attack!” he shouted. “To the river!”
Then the Danes charged forth with spear and axe, bow and sword, ready for battle. They raced along the waterline to the wall, where they found four or five boats already pressed up against the stakes, their Saxon crews shouting in alarm. Another dozen boats still came down the river, but they seemed to have slowed, confused by the horns and unknown peril ahead.
“Arrows!” Afkarr shouted.
Bowmen fired a volley by moonlight upon the Saxons at the stake-wall, and warriors screamed and splashed in the darkness. Enemy bowmen attempted to return a volley of their own, but their arrows were few and in the chaos of their tossing boats hit no mark. The nearest enemy ships also received hurled spears, and some of the Saxons leapt into the river to escape. Those that tried to push through the stakes became entangled in the wall and the Danes filled them with arrows. Those that swam along the wall towards the shallows, perhaps thinking to fight their way free, found axes and swords waiting for them.
Then the Danes lit torches, revealing their numbers along the riverbank, and by that firelight the oncoming boats saw the stake-wall, and their slain countrymen, and they knew their plan had been thwarted. The Saxons then had to choose whether to turn back or to press their attack, and though Geirmund felt unsteady on his feet, he readied himself should they decide to fight.
Instead, the Saxons dropped oars and retreated, rowing upriver, and the battle was over almost within moments of its beginning, and without the loss of a single Dane. Afkarr sent bowmen after the boats to harry their escape and insure they would not turn back and make a second attempt, and then the commander came to Geirmund.
“You were right, Hel-hide,” he said. “You and your wall may well have saved the encampment. King Halfdan will know of it.”
Back at the encampment, as the first birds sang with dawn and the sun rose, many Danes sought Geirmund out to pay him similar honours. Several of them had been sworn to the slain Jarl Osbern, like Birna and Afkarr, and now found themselves far distant from their homes and without a loyal leader to reward them. There was Aslef, a man who was Geirmund’s age but generally regarded as much more appealing to the eye. There was Muli, a warrior closer to Steinólfur in age whose only son had died fighting the Northumbrians a few years previous. Then there was Thorgrim, a boulder of a Dane in form and temperament, and lastly were Rafn and Vetr, companions of long standing, the former an enormous man named for his black hair, the latter a sinewy warrior called after his nearly white hair and pale skin. Geirmund found he got along well with all of them.
Two days later, Halfdan returned, having defeated the Saxons and scattered the armies of Æthelred and Ælfred from the field of battle, though many Danes had fallen at Basing. Shortly after Guthrum came to fetch Geirmund for a meeting with the king.
“You have made a name for yourself,” the jarl said as they walked towards Halfdan’s tent. “Are you ready for what comes next?”
“What do you mean?”
“You are soon to know that reputation brings cost as well as reward.”
“What kind of cost?”
“The king–” Guthrum looked around them, as if to see who might overhear. “Halfdan’s power and reputation have been weakened by his loss at Ashdown. The jarls who sailed with Bersi are angry, and Halfdan’s control over this army is faltering.”
“You sailed with Bersi,” Geirmund said. “Are you angry?”
“I am displeased. Just as Halfdan was displeased when he learned of the attack on the encampment in his absence.”
“But we defeated the Saxons–”
“Yes, you did, and your reputation has grown considerably as a result.” Halfdan’s tent then came into view, and Guthrum lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “Tread carefully, Hel-hide. The king and the other jarls understand very well the disaster you prevented, which has earned you their respect. But some see it as another failure for Halfdan, and you are a reminder of that failure, especially for the king.”
They reached the tent then, and Geirmund could ask no more questions before they both entered. Guthrum crossed to where the other jarls stood at hand, while Geirmund went before the high seat and bowed his head.
“I am pleased to finally meet you,” Halfdan said. He was a dark-haired Dane with eyes the blue of Frakkland steel. “You are the son of Hjörr Halfsson, king of Rogaland. Afkarr has told me that were it not for you, I would have lost this encampment and all my ships. It has even been said that you drowned and returned from the land of Hel itself. I have heard much of you, Geirmund Hel-hide.”
The way the king said the name Hel-hide made Geirmund think he meant it as praise, not as an insult. “I do not make those claims for myself,” he replied.
Halfdan left his seat and stalked closer to him. “But it is true that you built that wall in the river, yes? It is true you guessed rightly that the Saxons would attack with boats down the Thames?”
“That is true,” Geirmund said.
“How did you guess that?” the king asked.
Geirmund sensed that danger had just entered the room, and he did his best to explain his thinking without suggesting that Halfdan’s march to Basing had been part of a Wessex trap. From what Geirmund had been told the Saxons had fought in earnest, and the battle had been hard won, and was therefore no mere diversion but a second front. “Credit is owed to Birna and Afkarr for trusting in me,” Geirmund said. “And the wall could not have been made without the hard work of every Dane in the encampment, so honour goes to them also.”
“That may be true,” the king said, “but none of it would have been accomplished without you. You will have silver for it, and my gratitude.”
Geirmund bowed his head. “I thank you, King Halfdan.”
“And you will have warriors.” Guthrum now stepped forward. “A company of your own. Several Danes have asked to fight for you.”
Geirmund had not expected to be made a commander of Danes that day, not so soon. He had seen little actual battle, and his loss to Rek would surely be known to both Guthrum and the king. “Who has asked to fight with me?” he said.
The king folded his arms. “Many of them were Jarl Osbern’s warriors. They built your wall with you.”
“They honour me,” Geirmund said.
Guthrum came to stand beside Halfdan, Völund’s ring gleaming on his arm. “I told you before we sailed from Avaldsnes that you would lead no Danes until you proved yourself. You have now done that.”
Geirmund bowed his head again. “I thank you for this, Jarl Guthrum, King Halfdan.”
“Go, gather your warriors,” Halfdan said. “I may have a task for you soon.”
Geirmund bowed his head one last time, and he left the tent somewhat bewildered, but eager to share the news with Steinólfur. He found the older warrior working with Birna to train Skjalgi to fight with an axe, and when he informed the three of them of what had just occurred not one seemed surprised.
“You h
ave been the subject of much talk,” the older warrior said. “I’m not sure what else you expected when you returned to us like some draugr.”
“And saving the encampment has only helped your reputation,” Birna added. “I was one who asked Halfdan if I might join you.”
“You?” Geirmund looked at her in surprise. “But surely you could lead Osbern’s warriors better than–”
“I could. And I will one day, if that is to be my fate. For now I would fight for you.”
“Why?”
Her eyebrows creased together, as though Geirmund should already know the answer to his question. “Because Halfdan has not yet given me that honour. He does not yet favour me. In this moment he and Guthrum favour you. To fight with you is to share in that honour and gain favour. Perhaps now I will not be ordered to stay behind to guard the encampment when they march to battle.”
“I see,” Geirmund said, smiling. “Your wish to fight for me has nothing to do with your faith in me.”
“Remember what I said about pride, Hel-hide.” She clapped him on the back. “You have impressed me a little. Be content and lead well, or I will seek honour and riches elsewhere.”
“We should gather with your warriors,” Steinólfur said, “as Halfdan suggested.”
Geirmund agreed with him, so they moved their tents to where many of Jarl Osbern’s warriors had already camped. There they were joined by several more warriors, all previously sworn to other jarls who had fallen at Ashdown, all now wanting to fight for Geirmund. He knew most of their faces from the day spent building the river-wall, and he was pleased to see Aslef, Muli, Thorgrim, Rafn, and Vetr among them. All told, Geirmund now had a company of more than twenty warriors looking to him to lead them, and though that was an honour he had long wanted, the sudden weight of it fell heavy on his shoulders. Later, as they all ate their night-meal together, he stood to address them.
“I am the son of Hjörr Halfsson,” he said. “The deeds of my grandfather are well known to both Northmen and Danes. We here are twenty-three, which is the same number who swore to Half when he first took to the whale roads. I see fate in that, and though I do not have a ship, if you fight with me there will be honour for you, and riches, and land, and one day there will be a fleet of ships.”
Geirmund looked into the eyes of each warrior before him, thinking of what Bragi had told him about his grandfather.
“I will not ask you to swear to me alone,” he said. “Like Half and his heroes, each of you here will swear to fight for all, not upon my sword, but upon your own. And I will make the same oath to fight for each of you that you make to fight for me. But before we make our oaths, know this. In my company we will harm none but warriors who raise weapons against us. If you can abide this rule, then your sword is welcome. If you cannot abide it, you are free to leave now.”
Geirmund paused, but none of the warriors moved.
“Then let us make our oaths,” he said, and he went first, swearing to always lead them in honour, to wrest glory and silver from the enemies they would face, to never flee from battle, to fight and die for each warrior in his company, and to avenge them if they were slain. Those words then passed over the lips of every Dane in that circle, until they were all bonded by the same oath, and after that they all drank together.
Geirmund spent the next few days speaking to each of his warriors in turn, to learn their names, where they had come from, and what skills they possessed. All claimed to be dangerous and deadly fighters, but some were more deadly when wielding their weapon of choice.
Aslef claimed to have the eyes of a hawk when using a bow. Thorgrim and Muli both fought with bearded axes and seaxes. Rafn carried two swords, one of them a common Dane-blade, the other an odd single-edged weapon he said came from Miklagard, far to the east. Vetr fought well with his spear, which he had named Dauðavindur, for with it he said he brought death like the wind.
Some warriors in the company had seen many battles and bore the proof of it in scars, while others had seen no more fighting than Geirmund. For several days he ordered the most hardened warriors, including Steinólfur, Birna, and Muli, to train in the uses of weapons and the shield-wall, and when Halfdan and Guthrum came to speak with Geirmund, they seemed pleased by what they saw.
“You have established order quickly,” the jarl said. “That is good.”
“They are strong warriors,” Geirmund said.
“Let us see how strong they are,” the king said. “I said I would have a task for you, and I do.”
Geirmund nodded. “Say it, and it will be done.”
“If we are to defeat Wessex,” Halfdan said, “we must control the Icknield Way and the River Thames. I want you and your company to take Wælingford.”
15
Geirmund didn’t understand what Halfdan was asking of him. “You are marching to Wælingford?”
The king shook his head. “I am not marching. I am sending your company alone.”
Geirmund hesitated, unsure of what to say to Halfdan because he was still unsure of what Halfdan was saying to him. “Wælingford is strong. I would need an army to take it, but I have only twenty-three warriors–”
The king held up his hand, silencing Geirmund. “The Saxons of these Berkshire lands have suffered great losses, including their ealdorman. Æthelred and Ælfred have moved south, where they are stronger and can call up new warriors to replace those that have fallen.”
“I see,” Geirmund said. “How many warriors did they leave behind to hold Wælingford?”
Halfdan frowned. “Not many.”
Geirmund did not expect that Æthelred would make it easy to take such an important place on the river. “But more than twenty-three, I think,” he said.
“Perhaps.” The king’s blue eyes narrowed. “Perhaps not.”
Geirmund looked at Guthrum, who stood a little behind Halfdan and said nothing either for or against the wisdom of the plan.
“You know Wælingford,” Halfdan said. “You knew they would send ships–”
“I saw that hold from a distance,” Geirmund said. “That is all.”
“Nevertheless, Geirmund Hel-hide.” Anger sharpened the king’s voice, and his gaze hardened. “I have given you this task, and you will see it done. Are you not Geirmund Hel-hide who built a river-wall and defeated a Saxon attack? Are you telling me I was wrong to give you a company to lead?”
“No, you were not wrong.” Geirmund realized then he had no choice but to follow Halfdan’s order, despite its seeming impossibility. “I will see it done. But I would ask one thing.”
“What?”
“I keep any silver we find there. If the hold is mostly emptied, as you say, there won’t be much. But it will mean at least some reward for my warriors.”
Guthrum smiled at that, but Halfdan did not, and he was silent for several moments.
“Very well,” he said at last. “You and your men will depart tomorrow at first light. And may the gods be with you.” He then turned and left.
Guthrum stayed a moment longer, and it seemed he had something he wanted to tell Geirmund but he left without voicing it. Steinólfur, however, had much to say when Geirmund told him and a few others of the task Halfdan had given them.
“It is a fool’s errand!” the older warrior nearly shouted. “Does he want you dead?”
“That seems likely,” Birna said.
“Guthrum warned me about this,” Geirmund said. “He told me my reputation would come at a price.”
“Your life?” Steinólfur said. “That is a heavy price.”
“If that is my fate,” Geirmund said.
Vetr and Rafn sat nearby, and the white-haired warrior spoke up, his voice as sharp as the cracking of ice over a pond. “Halfdan can’t kill you. You saved the encampment, and everyone knows it. But your reputation is a threat to his, so he has found another way to get rid of
you, by using your reputation against you.”
“What are we going to do?” Skjalgi asked, quietly.
Defeat seemed imminent, but Geirmund remembered the future that Völund had foretold, that he would surrender to his enemy, and he resolved to defy it. “We have no choice,” he said. “We must take Wælingford.”
“How do you propose we do that?” Birna asked. “We are too few to take such a hold by force.”
Rafn spoke up then, nodding towards the river. “We have Saxon boats. We could take the Saxon clothing and armour from the dead.”
“You suggest we use guile,” Steinólfur said, but Geirmund couldn’t tell whether the older warrior disapproved.
Rafn shrugged. “It might get us inside their defences.”
“But if they are fifty,” Geirmund said, “or one hundred, and we are twenty-three, being inside their defences will give us no greater chance of success.”
“Do you have a better plan?” Vetr asked.
Geirmund thought for several moments and considered everything he had learned about the Saxons, searching for weaknesses he could make use of to attack them. “Saxon warriors are mostly farmers,” he finally said. “Almost to a man, they would rather be at home than fighting here, and I think we should allow them to leave.”
“Allow them to leave?” Steinólfur said. “I didn’t think we were stopping them.”
Geirmund shook his head. “I mean that we should give them reason to leave. Æthelred has gone south. He has abandoned Wælingford with Danes almost at its gates, and I don’t imagine the warriors there are happy about it, especially after the defeat we dealt them at the river-wall. If they believe they are doomed, perhaps they will simply leave.”
“Why would they believe they are doomed?” Rafn asked. “We are hardly an army.”
“We don’t need numbers,” Geirmund said. “We only need them to think their Christ has abandoned them.”
“How?” Steinólfur asked.
“We use their fear of our pagan ways,” Geirmund said.
Geirmund's Saga Page 17