“I now command a company of warriors,” Geirmund said. “We have fought in battles and fought well. But I feel I should tell you that I have slain many Saxon warriors.”
“I have slain a few Danes,” the priest said.
“You have fought in battle?”
“No, not battle.” John looked down at the ground. “When I was with the wagons, and I saw the Danes fleeing, I thought they would try to kill me or take me with them. I… fought for my freedom.”
Geirmund felt a conflict inside that the priest must also feel when hearing about his dead countrymen, namely that it angered and saddened Geirmund to think of Danes dying, but it pleased him that John lived.
“I think there is more to you than I realized, priest,” Geirmund said. “Much more.”
John held his open hands before him. “I make no claims to might in battle,” he said, “for I am a poor soldier. But if I must be a soldier, I will be a soldier for Christ.”
They reached the edge of the encampment, where Geirmund bade farewell to the priest. He then returned to his company, where his warriors shared in his confusion and frustration over the outcome of that day’s battle. Geirmund did his best to explain King Guthrum’s plan, and despite their misgivings, most seemed to welcome the thought of silver, and a time of rest to heal and enjoy it.
When the kings left the encampment two days later, they each took only a handful of jarls with them, and they returned from Wiltun that evening well pleased. Ælfred had agreed to pay them a vast weight of both gold and silver, and in return no Dane would cross the river the Saxons called Avon, and within that year the Danes would leave Wessex altogether. Guthrum and Halfdan planned to withdraw from Readingum and Wælingford, after which they would bring their ships down the River Thames to Lunden.
Before leaving Searesbyrig, Geirmund gazed over Wessex from the top of that hill with Steinólfur and Birna beside him.
“Halfdan is on his way to being a powerful king,” the older warrior said. “Some might say you and your Hel-hides made him so.”
“Then let us hope he will be a good king,” Birna said.
“He will be the king he is fated to be,” Geirmund said. “Only the Three Spinners know what is to come. As for me, I believe my fate will bring me back here, and I swear that so long as I breathe, I will have Wessex.”
Part Four
Jorvik
18
Geirmund had never before seen a place such as Lunden. It was not a town, but rather two towns sitting a rest apart from each other on the northern riverbank of the Thames, each with its own steads and fields that spread into the lands surrounding them. The first that Guthrum’s fleet passed was an unwalled Saxon settlement called Lundenwic. From the river, Geirmund looked across its low wooden dwellings and high halls, its wharf a throng of ships coming and going, carrying travellers, traders, and wares, like bees coming and going from the hive.
Next to Geirmund, Guthrum nodded towards the town and said, “North of the river is Mercia, and there is a peace, at least for now.”
“I passed through Mercia,” Geirmund said. “From what I saw it would be easy to take.”
“Perhaps,” Guthrum said. “But that is for Ivarr and Ubba to decide. It is to them the king of Mercia pays tribute.”
“Ubba?”
“Yes. A son of Ragnar. Halfdan’s brother.”
The name of that Dane reminded Geirmund of Fasti, the kinsman of Ubba, and therefore perhaps Halfdan’s kinsman also. He remembered the heat of the man’s blood on his hand, and the sound of his kicking in the grass as he rowed away from Ancarig. “Where is Ubba now?”
“These days he is often found in the north fighting Picts, or raiding Irland to the west.”
Geirmund nodded, feeling relieved, but kept his expression still.
They left Lundenwic, and a short distance on they arrived at the walled Dane-town of Lunden. Geirmund saw that Romans had built it, another of their bone-cities left empty by the Saxons, and therefore useful to the Danes, with stone fortifications three fathoms high already built and able to defend them. The town also appeared to be twice as large as Lundenwic, with twice the activity on its wharf, for traders undoubtedly knew who had the silver now.
The arrival of Guthrum and Halfdan’s armies filled the river with enough ships to make a floating town to rival the two on land. Much of the encampment travelled from Readingum by road, but, even so, the unloading of those ships into Lunden took several days.
The town walls boasted six gates and enclosed an area well over three hundred acres in size. Most of Guthrum’s army, including Geirmund’s company, took up a place among the broken Roman columns, walls, and courtyards that lay between Lunden’s easternmost gate and the gate that opened onto Earninga Street, a stretch of which Geirmund had travelled with John.
Guthrum planned to winter there, so Geirmund and his warriors worked to build roofs over their heads and walls where there were none, making Lunden into a town that looked half Roman and half Dane. A few weeks after Guthrum’s army arrived, the commander of the town, a Dane named Tryggr, came to see the work those warriors had accomplished.
He was an older man, perhaps Steinólfur’s age, with silver in his hair and the hardened leather skin of one who had spent much time with the sun, and wind, and salt, and spray of the sea in his face.
“This is all well done,” he said as he strode through Guthrum’s quarter of the town.
“I’m glad you approve,” the king said.
Several of Guthrum’s jarls and commanders trailed behind, including Geirmund, who did not understand why Tryggr’s approval should be necessary. Guthrum stood above the town’s commander in rank, equal to Halfdan. But Geirmund also knew both were kings without lands, and guests in Lunden, so perhaps that accounted for Guthrum’s deference.
Tryggr turned around and nodded past Guthrum. “Your warriors have served you well.” He looked over the faces of the jarls and commanders, but he stopped when he saw Geirmund. At first he seemed perplexed, but, a moment later, his eyes hardened, and his expression darkened. “Word of their deeds has reached us even here,” he said.
“I could not ask for braver or stronger men,” Guthrum said. “Now, Jarl Tryggr, please join me in my hall. There are matters we must discuss.”
Tryggr’s glare lingered on Geirmund before he broke his gaze and went with Guthrum, leaving Geirmund to wonder what had caused the Dane’s apparent hostility. He was well accustomed to stares and suspicion, but Tryggr’s eyes had seemed to contain more than that, and he hoped that did not bode ill.
When not working with wood and stone, Geirmund explored the town, carrying plenty of silver to enjoy it, since King Guthrum had kept his promise and rewarded him well. Walking through the streets of Lunden, it seemed to Geirmund that it drew the world unto itself. He saw merchants and goods from all corners, and lands so distant Geirmund had never heard their tongue or their name. He drank wine from Spanland and bought himself a costly shirt of ringmail from Frakkland. He tasted the oil of olives from Langbardaland and Grikkland, and spices from Affrika and Indialand. Between his fingers he rubbed silks from Tyrkland, and Persiðialand, and places even further east, fabrics so soft and fine he had to use his eyes to know they were there, for his skin could barely feel them. After traders weighed his silver, they sometimes returned the excess to him in coins from Serkland marked with runes that curled like vines. He spent the night with a Frisian woman and learned to play dice and other new games from men with skin of many shades and hues. Unlike the Danes upon first seeing him, the travellers and traders gave Geirmund no second glances, and some even guessed that he had come from Finnland or Bjarmaland. To Lunden the world came, and then the clever left in their empty ships much wealthier than when they had arrived.
In this way weeks passed in Lunden as days and hours had passed in the battlefield, and those weeks turned into months with ea
se. Wounds healed, but Geirmund didn’t want his warriors to grow soft, for still Wessex waited. To keep his company ready he asked daily work and training of them in the courtyard where they lived and slept.
Geirmund sat with Birna and Aslef one day, watching Rafn and Vetr sparring. The two men, fast and agile, one with a spear and the other with two swords, put Geirmund in mind of a dove and a raven wheeling and fighting in mid-air. Their combat took place over a colourful floor of small tiles, broken and set together in an intricate pattern of twisting and interlocking lines. A tiled man looked out of a ring at the centre of the floor, wearing a white tunic and a ring of leaves about his head. If he appeared as all Romans had appeared, Geirmund thought, he looked every bit a mortal and not a god.
“I could be content here for the rest of my days,” Aslef said. The gash on his nose and cheek had healed, but with a scar that had almost, but not utterly, ruined his features.
Birna looked around. “It’s a good place,” she said, then elbowed him. “Eventually I’d want a change of company.”
“I mean this town,” he said. “Lunden.”
Geirmund understood what he meant, and a part of him wished for the same thing, but another part could not imagine being idle for much longer. “You may not enjoy it so much when you run out of silver,” he said.
Aslef nodded. “That’s true.”
“I would grow bored,” Birna said. “Truthfully, I am bored already, but I’m trying to enjoy the peace before we return to war.”
“I’m already tired of war,” Aslef said. “I will fight if necessary, for honour or for kin, but I would rather settle down.”
“What, to be a farmer?” Birna asked him.
“I don’t know. I think I would like to have a wife and children, at least.”
Birna turned to Geirmund. “What about you?”
“I want to have a wife one day, and children.”
“Well, don’t either of you look at me,” she said, laughing. “Not until you pups have grown into your paws.”
Geirmund smiled and went on. “I also want land to call my own, but not as a farmer. My brother will have a kingdom, and I would have the same.”
“You want to be a king?” Aslef asked, sounding a bit surprised.
“I don’t need to be called a king.”
Birna smirked. “You just want to be seen as one.”
“What I want is to live up to the honour and reputation of my forebears. I want to know I’ve earned my place at their bench in Valhalla.”
Birna clapped him on the back. “Then you, my friend, are well on your way.” She rose to her feet.
“Where are you off to?” Aslef asked.
“To find a wolf,” she said as she walked away, and then looked back over her shoulder. “A fully grown wolf!”
Aslef called after her. “Would that wolf by chance be a Dane who fights with a bearded axe?” But she made no reply to him.
He and Geirmund laughed, but neither of them spoke again for a few moments, and the sounds of fighting by Rafn and Vetr took up the silence. Then Aslef said, “My father wanted to be a king.”
Geirmund turned towards him. “Where is he now?”
“Valhalla, I hope. He died fighting for a crown in Jutland.”
Geirmund gave him a slow nod of respect. “When I first met Guthrum, he said the Danes have seen much war.”
“They have,” Aslef said. “I came west to get away from my father’s enemies. Away from war.” He looked up at the square of sky visible above the courtyard. “Perhaps I shall stay here in Lunden. If you would release me.”
“Release you? That is no small thing to ask.”
“I know,” he said. “But I am no oath-breaker. I will fight for you until I am released, or I die.”
“You are a warrior, Aslef,” Geirmund said, “and I would hold no warrior against fate and will. Only stay with us for now. When Guthrum marches, you can decide then whether to march with us or remain behind.”
Aslef bowed his head. “I will do as you say.”
“What do you two speak of?” Rafn asked, breathing hard. He and Vetr had finished their fight and stood huffing and sweating in the courtyard’s middle.
“Fate,” Geirmund said.
“Bah.” Rafn waved them off. “Talking about fate is no more useful than talking about the weather.”
Vetr wiped his shining forehead and face. “Come, Rafn. I need to wash.”
“As do I.”
The two warriors then left the courtyard to seek one of the Roman baths that could be found throughout Lunden. Many of those large basins remained empty and dry, but some Danes and other merchants had figured out how to fill and heat a few of them, for the use of which they asked coin and gained wealth.
“All we have here is ale,” Aslef said. “I want some mead. Will you join me?”
“I will,” Geirmund said.
They left the courtyard through an arched portal and walked down several narrow passages until they reached a wide road laid in stone. There they turned south and headed towards the town’s wharf and market streets. Away to the west, above the ruins and roofs of wood and Roman tile, Geirmund could glimpse what remained of the flat top and straight walls of another stone bowl even bigger than the place in which they had camped at Calleva. He had learned from a Langbardaland merchant that such a building was called a coliseum by the Romans.
“When do you think Guthrum will march?” Aslef asked.
“I don’t know,” Geirmund said. “But I have heard him speak of unrest in Northumbria. We may be marching north to an encampment at Turcesige, on the River Trent.”
A commotion in the road ahead drew Geirmund’s attention, where it appeared that a wagon had tipped, causing a blockage of traffic. Merchants and Danes yelled, fists raised, while oxen bellowed, and some men tried to move the wagon out of the way.
Geirmund and Aslef stopped. Then Geirmund nodded his companion towards an earthen byway off the main road they could use to get around the din and trouble. It led them into a part of the town where the buildings stood closer together and the shadows climbed higher. They had only walked a short way when two Danes stepped out in front of them, blocking the road with their hands on their weapons in a way that seemed intentional.
“Stand aside,” Aslef said. “This is Geirmund Hel-hide, one of King Guthrum’s commanders.”
“We know who he is,” one of the Danes said. He wore a ring in his nose, and dark slithering lines marked his skin in the shape of a snake around his neck. “We’ve been watching him and waiting for a good long while.”
Geirmund looked over his shoulder behind them and saw that two more warriors had entered the street, their weapons already drawn. He and Aslef carried weapons but had no reason to wear armour about the town, and so they were vulnerable.
“You know who I am,” Geirmund said, turning to look at the leader who had spoken. “Who are you?”
“Krok,” the snake-Dane said. “I am one of Halfdan’s commanders, soon to be made a jarl.”
“Why would Halfdan give a turd like you that honour?” Aslef said. “I’ve never even heard your name.”
The Dane drew his sword and pointed it at Geirmund. “For slaying the Northman who murdered Ubba’s kinsman, Fasti.”
Before Geirmund could respond, they charged.
Aslef spun with a warrior’s instinct and put his back to Geirmund’s. Though outnumbered, they fought their attackers with enough ferocity to drive them back, but that reprieve would last only a moment. They had to reach the main road, where Geirmund hoped the presence of witnesses would stop the attack for long enough to make a true escape.
“Go north,” he whispered.
Then he lunged to the south with a wild roar, swinging his sword and axe, putting the enemy on their back feet and taking Aslef’s foes by surprise also. Then Ge
irmund spun and rushed with Aslef at the two Danes blocking the north passage, who regained their wits too slowly to react in time to stop them. But they did raise their weapons, and Geirmund fought the warrior on the left, who swung his axe at Geirmund’s head. He ducked aside and slammed his elbow into the side of the warrior’s head, sending him reeling as Krok and his warrior raced towards them from the south.
“Go!” Geirmund shouted.
Aslef had just given his opponent a nasty slash across his sword arm and broken free. Together, they ran back along the passage and turned west down an alley, then onto the main road, where another of Krok’s Danes waited, keeping watch. Aslef put his shoulder into the man’s chest and threw him aside like a boar tossing a hound, but the man had a knife and stabbed Aslef with it, then fell, sprawled on the Roman stones.
Some in the street took note of the fight, pointing as Krok and his warriors emerged from the byway, red-faced and snarling. But the enemy looked around and stopped short of attacking, as if weighing their choices. An open fight in the street could bring allies, as well as witnesses.
Aslef stumbled, and Geirmund grabbed him up, putting the Dane’s arm over his shoulder to support him. “Are you going to attack an injured man?” Geirmund asked Krok, loud for all to hear.
Krok looked again at the crowd, which had now turned more of its attention on them, and he sheathed his weapon. His warriors did the same. “I swear I will kill you, Hel-hide,” the Dane said.
“And I swear you will pay in blood for what you have done.” Geirmund then turned north and hurried along the road. “Hold on,” he said to Aslef.
“I’m holding.”
They hobbled along together until they reached Guthrum’s quarter, and then Geirmund called for help. As he reached the tiled yard, Hel-hides and other warriors came running to meet them. Thorgrim was there, with Birna, and they both hurried to Geirmund’s side, helping to lay Aslef down upon the sun-warmed ground.
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