“I would be proud to fight at your side, my son. But if it is my choice, I would be done with war. I want what Guthrum said he wanted when he came to Avaldsnes. Lands and peace. Your mother and I have found both here.”
“I understand,” Geirmund said, and he did, though it saddened him to see his father diminished. “Will you seek to prevent me from going, as you once did?”
“I was wrong before,” his father said. “Even were it not a matter of honour between you and Guthrum now, I would not try to hold you back from your fate.”
Geirmund bowed his head. “Thank you, Father.”
“But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped worrying about you being a reckless fool.”
Geirmund smiled. “I know.”
The clouds had finally begun to clear, leaving the air and the dome of the sky rinsed and polished. They stood together upon the wharf, watching the light of the setting sun turn the river to gold, and before the day had turned fully to night they walked back through Jorvik, across the bridge, towards the house where Ljufvina waited.
Part Five
Wessex
25
Geirmund stayed with his mother and father for several days, and during that time he learned more about their life in Jorvik. In many ways, Hjörr led the people there by fulfilling the same duties he had performed at Avaldsnes. He negotiated trade with merchants, he oversaw matters relating to the town’s supply of silver, food, and ale, and he acted as lawspeaker for lesser disputes and crimes that did not need to involve Ricsige. Ljufvina worked at many of the same tasks, but it seemed she also came and went from Jorvik, sometimes answering Eivor’s calls for help and allies.
For Geirmund’s part, he spent much of his visit working with his father, taking on responsibilities that before had only ever been given to Hámund. In doing so, he began to see more of what the burden of high office demanded, and he understood better why warriors like Halfdan and Ubba preferred to leave such daily governance to others under their control.
When word reached Jorvik from Ravensthorpe that Guthrum and Halfdan had divided their armies, and that Halfdan would soon return to Northumbria, Geirmund finally told his parents about Fasti, and about his blood feud with Halfdan through Ubba because of it. Though he would be leaving, he worried what it would mean for them upon the Dane’s return, but they seemed unconcerned.
“Halfdan will not turn against us,” his father said as they sat together at the table, eating their night-meal. “If not for us, there would be no Jorvik to which he could return.”
“If not for Eivor, you mean.” Ljufvina raised an eyebrow at Hjörr as she tore a piece of bread from a loaf.
“What did Eivor do for Jorvik?” Geirmund asked.
His mother handed him the piece of bread and broke another for herself. “She came here to hunt members of an order hidden among us. Some were even Ricsige’s trusted advisers, but they secretly worked to further their own plans. They would have destroyed Jorvik from within.”
“What kind of order?” Geirmund asked.
“That we still do not fully understand.” She dipped her bread into the porridge of barley and beef in her bowl. “We know only that they are powerful, and their reach is long, from as far away as Egiptaland, and before the time of Nor.”
“By the gods.” Her words reminded Geirmund of the ancient lands beneath the sea that Völund had described. “And you stopped them?”
“It was Eivor who stopped them,” Hjörr said, giving Ljufvina a slight nod. “We simply did what we could to help her.”
“We owe her a debt,” Ljufvina said. “So does Halfdan, and he also owes us a debt. Our service to Northumbria will more than satisfy the demands of the blood feud, or any wergild he may have set.”
“But that may not satisfy Ubba,” Hjörr said. “Be wary of him.”
“I will.”
“Halfdan has been away fighting for many summers,” his father went on. “His jarls and his warriors are tired. When they return, they will expect their rewards, and Halfdan will give the greatest among them lands.”
“And you?” Geirmund asked.
Hjörr nodded and glanced at Ljufvina. “We will have a hall again.”
Geirmund looked down at his porridge. “Peace and lands,” he said, and then ate a mouthful.
His mother leaned towards him. “You have a place here, should you choose to stay.”
Geirmund knew that to be true, and a part of him wished he could remain with them in Northumbria. Hámund would return one day, and together they could build a lasting legacy for their family, their children, and their children’s children. But the greater part of him knew he could not stay, or that he would not choose to stay.
“I swore to Guthrum,” he said. “I am sworn to my warriors, and they to me. I hear they have gone to Hreopandune to find Guthrum, and they will wait for me there. And I swore to myself that I would take Wessex.”
His mother said nothing, but she seemed disappointed as she accepted what he had said with a nod.
“You must do what you will,” his father said, “for honour and destiny. I assume you plan to leave soon?”
“Yes. I would leave tomorrow if I could.”
Hjörr took a drink of his ale. “Can you not?”
“I thought you might have need of me before I go. I don’t want to leave you as I did before–”
“This is not like that,” his mother said. “Do not delay for us. We will be well.”
Geirmund bowed his head to both of them in thanks, and after they had finished eating, they helped him gather food for the road, along with everything else he would need. The rest of the evening they spent talking, drinking, and playing hnefatafl, and when they finally went to their beds, Geirmund lay awake restless. Thoughts of his return to Guthrum and his warriors kept sleep away until the deep-night, and then it was sunrise.
Unlike the last time Geirmund had left his parents, stealing away as a thief, he ate a morning meal with them, and afterwards they surprised him with the gift of a warhorse, a Saxon stallion with a shining chestnut coat, a pale mane the colour of straw, and a burst of white across his brow.
“His name is Enbarr,” Hjörr said. “He comes from the Picts.”
“He is breathtaking.” Geirmund looked the horse over, noting the strength in his muscles and form. He then let Enbarr smell him, and he stroked the stallion’s muzzle and mane, sensing the animal’s will and sureness of temperament. “Has he seen battle?”
“He has,” Hjörr said.
“May he serve you well,” Ljufvina said.
Geirmund thanked them both for such a kingly gift, and then they walked with him as he led Enbarr down through Jorvik’s streets to the city gate. There he bade them farewell with quiet words spoken while embracing, then mounted his new horse and set off down a south-westerly Roman road.
He and Enbarr came to better understand each other as they travelled. With each passing rest, the stallion seemed to feel more at ease with Geirmund upon his back, while Geirmund learned the kinds of guidance and command the horse answered to best. Together, they covered twenty rests a day, making their way first down the Roman road, and then along the course of the River Trent towards Hreopandune. Enbarr carried his own feed, but Geirmund made sure to allow him plenty of time for grazing each day, and in the evening on their fifth day of travel they came upon a vast field of new burial mounds over which no grass yet grew.
The light of the falling sun set ablaze the haze of dust and smoke hanging over that place, casting shadows against dozens and dozens of barrows. They rose from the ground, some high, some low, and Geirmund could tell by the offerings left there that the mounds had been raised by Danes to honour their fallen warriors. He knew some would contain the ashes of the victorious dead, but others would be empty of remains, the warriors they honoured having been left behind on the field of battle where they f
ell, either as food for the swans of blood or burned on the pyre.
Geirmund wondered if one of those barrows belonged to Aslef.
The air there felt restless, as though the dead had not yet settled, and even Enbarr rolled his eyes and seemed anxious to move on, but before Geirmund left he poured out the last of the ale in his skin upon the ground with a prayer to honour those now drinking mead in Valhalla.
From that high field, he looked down into a river valley, where he sighted a town in the distance to the west, and he descended the rise towards it. He had seen no army encamped there from the hill, but as he drew closer, he knew that place to be Hreopandune. The town’s Christian temple had been put to good use as a fortified gate in a new wooden wall, which stretched to the east and west until it reached the shores of the river, enclosing a well-defended Dane-hold. As Geirmund approached those defences, he found that some Danes still remained within, and he learned from them that King Guthrum had marched his army south-east to a place called Grantabridge.
He stayed there that night and paid in silver to buy food for himself and his horse before setting off again, following directions given by the Danes for a Roman road they called Wæcelinga, a day’s travel to the south. After another two days of riding, past the smoking ruins of several Saxon farms and towns, he came to a crossroads and turned from Wæcelinga onto an old trackway leading east.
For the next three days, Geirmund made slower progress on the winding and rutted trail than he had on the even Roman road, covering only ten or fifteen rests before stopping each night to sleep and let Enbarr graze, but on the fourth day he came at last to the outer walls of Grantabridge.
A large and thriving Dane encampment filled the land within those defences, and a Roman ruin on the banks of the River Granta formed the heart of the town. Though not quite as busy with trade as Lunden, Geirmund saw many of the same wares from distant lands for sale in the town’s markets, and the smiths and other craftsmen there seemed to have no shortage of work. As he made his way down the roads and byways, the sharp smells of forging, tanning, burning, and cooking surrounded him, mixed with the scents of human and animal waste.
He rode in search of Guthrum and his army, and eventually he found them on the north side of the encampment, where his Hel-hides welcomed him back with joy, and some fresh sorrow over Aslef. The young warrior had died just a day after Geirmund left Lunden, having never truly awakened again from his last sleep, but Thorgrim had been with him at the end. The Hel-hides all drank to Aslef, and after word of Geirmund’s return spread, Guthrum summoned him, and Steinólfur walked with him on his way to speak with the king.
“Hjörr and Ljufvina are well?” the older warrior asked.
“Well enough,” Geirmund said. “But they have lost much.” Then he told Steinólfur all that his father had told him about Avaldsnes and Harald of Sogn, none of which seemed to surprise him.
“The rings of kingship can be golden shackles,” he said. “Perhaps there are times it is better to be free of them. Did you make peace with your parents?”
“I am no longer at war with them,” Geirmund said.
The older warrior nodded. “That is something, at least.”
When they reached the Saxon building Guthrum had claimed for his hall, Steinólfur waited outside while Geirmund entered, where he found the king a changed man. Guthrum had more grey in his hair, and it seemed that a weariness had begun to hound him, biting him ragged at the edges and cutting his temper short. He invited Geirmund to sit, and then he poured him wine into a silver goblet that reminded Geirmund of the cup he had seen in the temple at Torthred’s monastery. The Saxon wine tasted of leather and metal, and though it was doubtless of high quality, Geirmund would have preferred the ale brewed by Brother Drefan, or Tekla’s ale at Ravensthorpe.
“I’m glad to see you, Hel-hide.” The king poured wine for himself in an ale horn and sat in a high seat draped with a wolf’s pelt, the animal’s empty head and eyes laid over one of its armrests. “When you left Lunden, I feared you would not return.”
“There were times I shared that fear. Halfdan sent a war-band after us.”
The king leaned an elbow on the arm of the chair and plucked at the fur between the wolf’s ears. “What became of that war-band?”
“They are dead.”
“All of them?” Guthrum sounded surprised, but also pleased. “Your reputation grows.”
It was not reputation Geirmund cared about in that moment, nor even the king’s approval, but rather the truth of the wergild. “I slew their commander in single combat,” he went on, “witnessed by Eivor of Ravensthorpe. A man called Krok.”
The king’s hand went still. “I know the name. You spoke with him?”
“I did. Before we fought, he told Eivor that Halfdan had set wergild. Eighteen pounds.”
Guthrum stroked the wolf’s ear with his thumb. “That is not true.”
“Then why did he say it?”
The king threw his hands up. “He said it because Halfdan asked for eighteen pounds.”
Geirmund opened his mouth, then shook his head. “Then why–”
“It doesn’t matter what Halfdan asked for. Only the Althing can set wergild.”
Geirmund knew then that Guthrum had lied to him back in Lunden, or had at least withheld the truth, and he took a drink of wine to cool his rising anger at the Dane. “Althing or not,” he said, “if I had known, I would have paid–”
“No, I could not allow that. Eighteen pounds?” Guthrum leaned forward, his voice rising with irritation. “The boy you killed, Ubba’s kinsman? He was no jarl, nor even a landed karl! He was not worth half that weight in silver. Halfdan wanted to punish you, one of my most cunning warriors, and enrich himself while doing it.”
That did not answer Geirmund’s anger and confusion, and he still doubted whether Guthrum had even spoken the full truth, but he felt unsure of how to press the king on the matter, so he turned to a greater goal that mattered more. “When do we march on Wessex?” he asked.
“Wessex.” Guthrum sighed and sat back deep into the wolf pelt.
“Yes, Wessex. When do we march?”
“Soon.”
“What do you wait for?”
The king downed the wine in his horn in several large gulps, and then leapt to his feet with a suddenness that almost caused Geirmund to flinch. Guthrum stalked over to the table and poured himself more drink.
“Ivarr is dead,” he said.
For Geirmund, and for his blood feud with Ubba, that meant one less son of Ragnar to worry about. “What does that mean for Wessex?” he asked.
“Nothing for Wessex.” The king began to pace around the room, which reminded Geirmund of a Saxon hall more than a Dane’s, with its carvings, hangings, tableware, and benches. “It means there is much land to be ruled in East Anglia and Mercia. I could see to it that some of that Daneland is yours.”
Geirmund pushed his goblet of wine aside. “What are you saying?”
“Halfdan and Ubba are now the last two sons of Ragnar.” Guthrum tipped his horn back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “When Halfdan learned of Ivarr’s death, it seemed that a fire went out in him. He took his warriors and returned to Northumbria to enjoy his wealth before he dies. Wessex no longer matters to him. His days of war-making are at an end. Only Ubba remains.” He looked around the hall. “I have wealth and land that I won in hard battle. I have been made a king, and I have my honour. So, I ask myself, if it is my fate to die, what shame is there in dying here?”
“What shame–” Geirmund worked to keep his anger from raising his voice. “Are you now content to rule here and leave Wessex standing?”
The king stroked his beard, clinking the silver beads woven into it, as if he had to think about his answer, before finally waving away Geirmund’s question. “No, of course not. Wessex must fall.”
; Geirmund could only hope that Guthrum meant what he said.
Over the next few weeks, the king sent scouts south and west into Wessex, and as they returned with knowledge of the enemy, Guthrum and his jarls planned their final attack. The loss of Halfdan’s warriors meant they needed both cunning and care if they were to win against Ælfred. Some warriors from the north would answer the call to battle, including Eivor and her allies, but not enough that their tally alone would secure the Wessex crown.
The Danes coming from Northumbria and other distant places would travel quickest by sea-road, and Guthrum needed to offer them a safe harbour in which to land their longships. He chose the town of Wareham on Wiltescire’s southern shore, which would give the Danes a firm foothold in Wessex, raiding distance from Ælfred’s high seat at Wintanceastre, with a second hold as a fallback in a Roman ruin on the River Exe some sixty rests to the west of Wareham, near the shore of Defenascire. Geirmund knew this much when the king summoned him again to his hall for a private council.
“I will send some warriors by sea,” Guthrum said. They sat together at the table, and this time Guthrum drank wine from the silver goblet, while Geirmund drank ale from a horn. “But I will march most of the army overland to Wareham.”
“How long will that take?” Geirmund asked.
“At best, four days, possibly five. Longer if we have evil weather.”
“Ælfred will be ready.”
“He is ready now. My scouts tell me he has the fyrds of Wiltescire and Bearrocscire under his command, and he watches the River Thames and the Icknield Way. He expects we will attack that way. That is why we will march by night, south down Earninga Street to Lunden, then west over the Roman road to the ruin of Calleva, which you may remember from our march to Bedwyn. From there, we march to Wareham.”
“That is a long way. If Ælfred learns of your plan–”
“He must not learn of our plan. We must slip past the Saxon army unseen. That is why I have summoned you.” Guthrum poured himself more wine. “I need the eyes of Wessex turned northward, away from the roads we will use, and I want you to draw their gaze.”
Geirmund's Saga Page 30