by Henry Treece
When the tears of weakness gathered in the boy’s eyes, Thorkell bit his lips and looked sheepishly down at the floor.
‘I was teasing, lad,’ he said. ‘There will be time enough another day, mayhap. Look, Aun tells me it is time to bring you these gifts.’
He put two packages on to Harald’s lap, one as small as his hand, the other as long as his arm, both wrapped in oiled cloth. Harald tried to unwrap the small one, but his sick fingers only fumbled at the knot which held the package together. Thorkell took the gift and slashed the string with his knife. Then carefully he unwound the cloth. A perfectly carved model of a Viking longship lay in his hand, gleaming white, fragile and beautiful. Harald gave a gasp of excitement. His hands lay on the sheepskin coverlet. Thorkell put the ship on the boy’s lap, where he could touch it.
‘Björn made it,’ said Thorkell. ‘It is of ivory that someone brought from Miklagard long ago. Björn carved it when he made his first voyage, when they were becalmed in the White Sea. He told me that he wanted to give it to you after your first battle. He is not here to give it. It is yours, Harald Sigurdson.’
Harald remembered poor Björn, fighting alone in the long hall, a torch in his hand. The tears filled his eyes again.
Thorkell said, ‘Do not weep for Björn. That is the death he wanted. He is a lucky man. Not all of us will die so well.’
He unwrapped the long package. Harald watched him and saw, slowly revealed, a sword. At the sight of it he felt exhausted again with wonderment and could only sigh. The polished hilt was of ebony, inlaid with rings of silver; the pommel was a globe of rock crystal, carved into the shape of an acorn; the guard was a curved cross-piece of bronze, chiselled to form ivy tendrils curling round a bough; the blade was long and leaf-shaped, with thin runnels going its length, from hilt to point. It shone blue-black in the dim light of the cabin. He did not dare to touch it.
Thorkell smiled happily. ‘Take this,’ he said. ‘It was made for me when I was but a little older than you are now. It was my warrior-gift after I had been lucky in my first foray. Now I give it to you, and may it bring such luck to you as it has done to me.’
When he had said that, he laid the sword across the boy’s knees and went from the cabin, turning back only once, to smile down at Harald. The boy gazed stupidly at the two precious gifts and wished that his father were there to see them. Then he fell into a contented sleep, and dreamed that he was running down the path back to Gudröd’s hall with the gifts in his hand to show his father. And when the door opened at his shouts, he saw that not only his father but his mother also stood on the threshold, waiting to welcome him. And Harald wept in his sleep, for his mother had died when he was very small, and he could not recall her face.
It was while he was weeping thus, in his sleep, that Aun came in and shook him gently and woke him.
‘Good fortune!’ he said. ‘We have run upon a fleet of Orkney fishermen, eight smacks in all. They will tow us back with them.’
Harald said, ‘Are they our own people?’
Aun answered, ‘Yes, all Northmen, though they sailed out to Orkney a generation ago. We are in luck’s way, Harald. Now you will get well again, and we shall have no more rowing for a while at least!’
As he finished, a strange man wearing a woollen cap over his grey hair looked into the cabin. ‘Is this the young warrior?’ he said, and Aun nodded. The man came forward and gently examined his shoulder. ‘My wife, Asa, will know what to do with that,’ he said. ‘She is a great woman for herbs.’
‘That is Olaf,’ said Aun. ‘He is a fisherman and a farmer, and has a family of his own; a prosperous man, who will look after us now.’
And truly the Vikings of the Nameless needed someone to look after them, for the breaking of their mast came near to costing them their lives. No man had tasted water for two days, and they were too weak to battle any longer against the sea which seemed determined to keep them from the shore. Yet, even though they suffered agonies of thirst, they had agreed to let the sick boy have what water there was. Harald never knew this. No Viking would tell him a thing like that.
13
Olaf’s Steading
Olaf’s hall was a comfortable place, built solidly of wood and set in the shelter of a large rocky hill. A great fire of driftwood always burned, and Asa saw that the rushes on the floor were changed regularly, although her sons grumbled at having to do this. There was enough work cleaning out the byre and gutting the fish, they said. But they always obeyed their mother.
Asa was a plump woman with a red, smiling face. Her fair hair was bound in a scarf of blue linen. Her sleeves were always rolled back over her strong arms, for there was ever a job to do, either milking or baking or washing, and she had no daughters to help her – only three huge sons, lazy louts, she called them, though she loved them dearly.
Asa’s great sons were all red-headed, as their father had been before he became grey. They were Sven, Rollo and Ottar. Each day they could, they went down to help in the task of getting the Nameless ready for her next voyage.
The battered longship lay, a hawk among gulls, in the midst of the fishing-smacks, in the little grey stone harbour under the shadow of Olaf’s hill. Seabirds screamed over her as the men worked hard, stepping the new mast, renewing the tackle and recaulking the seams. Thorkell was hard at work every day, whatever the weather. He gave himself no rest. His once-beautiful eyes were now always red-rimmed and bloodshot. The winds were cruel to the eyes.
Under Asa’s care, Harald grew well again, though at first she had almost despaired of him. Once she came to his bedside when he lay in a troubled sleep, crying out to his father, telling him of the man he had killed. Asa saw the boy’s pale hands and his sunken face. She saw the sword and the ivory longship that he always had at the side of his bed, and for a moment she had an impulse to destroy them in her anger.
‘A fine lot of warriors you are, to bring a lad to this, with your swords and silly boats,’ she said to Aun, who only scratched his head and looked away. ‘Butchers, I call you! I pray that Odin never puts such tomfoolery into my lads’ heads!’
But her prayer was made a little too late. Asa’s three huge sons grew to love the Nameless as they worked on her in the harbour, and one day when they were shown the treasure that was placed for safety in their father’s strongroom, their eyes glistened with envy. That night they told their father that they wished to sail with the Nameless when she left again. Olaf shrugged his shoulders. He did not tell them that it would be hard for him to make a living without them, farming and fishing. He only said, ‘You are of age. You will do as you please.’
That night he said to his wife, ‘We must pull in our belts a little when the boys have gone.’
Asa flew into a great rage, but she saw that it was no use arguing. Olaf had left his people in Norway, and she hers. Their sons were only doing the same. ‘Very well,’ she said at last, when her eyes were dry, ‘then I shall keep Harald to make up for them. He shall be our son.’
Olaf smiled sadly and patted her gently on the shoulder. ‘He is worse than our lads,’ he said. ‘He is already a Viking. They are only fisherfolk, though they have big arms and bigger ideas!’
And Asa knew that he was right. The next day she asked Harald if he would stay, but he shook his head and said, ‘I have a father already, Asa, and I promised him to make the voyage. He lies sick and I must go back to him one day. Besides, I am pledged to Thorkell and must follow him until he sets me free.’
Not all men were so loyal to the young leader, however. While the Vikings were resting on the island, Kragge went round to many of them, spreading tales of Thorkell’s lack of leadership. Many now began to look to Ragnar, who had after all got them the treasure they carried. Indeed, before a month was out, only a handful still thought of Thorkell as their true shipmaster. These included Rolf, Aun, Gnorre, Horic and, of course, Wolf. Harald did not know of this treachery, but even if he had, Thorkell’s place in his affection was too high for him to be
replaced by any living man but Harald’s own father.
At last the Nameless was ready again, and looking as bright and fresh as when she had been launched. Provisions were laid aboard, and there was some feasting in Olaf’s great hall, though it had an air of sadness about it now. Olaf’s sons were there, and three of their cousins, big men like themselves, who wished to leave the island and sail away on their adventures.
They were all waiting to take the oath, but Thorkell was still down at the harbour, with the longship. At last he came up the path to the hall. All men heard his slow, shuffling step. They watched him stand by the doorway for a while, fingering the rough wood of the doorposts. When he looked up, his half-closed eyes seemed to look beyond them. Olaf said, ‘Drink a cup of wine in celebration of your sailing, Thorkell.’ And he stepped forward and handed a cup to the young shipmaster. But Thorkell put out his hand to the side of the cup and grasped the empty air. Men drew in their breath. Olaf led Thorkell towards a chair, but he could not see it and fell down beside it. Gnorre whispered, ‘He is blind. Great Thor, we have a blind captain!’ Then all men except his friends shrank from Thorkell. They helped him to his feet and led him weeping to his bed.
That night, Olaf’s sons and their cousins took the oath to Ragnar, and the others, who sided with Ragnar, took the oath again, now no longer Thorkell’s men.
When Wolf went to comfort Thorkell, the young leader struck out at him, but Wolf only smiled and put his arms about him.
‘I will be your eyes, Thorkell Fairhair,’ he said, ‘You have lost nothing.’
‘I will be your right arm, Thorkell Fairhair,’ said Aun. ‘You have gained something.’
‘I will be your spell-master, Thorkell Fairhair,’ said Horic, crying a little as he said it. ‘You will gain everything.’
‘Where is Harald,’ said Thorkell, pushing them away. ‘Where is my young Viking?’
Harald stepped forward and stood by Thorkell. The leader put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, ‘Are you with me, lad?’
Harald said, ‘I would try to kill anyone who asked me that but you, Master.’
Thorkell smiled then and said, ‘So be it. Now I know that I have lost little.’ And with that he fell into an exhausted slumber while his friends watched over him.
14
The Nameless Sails Again
Asa turned Thorkell’s eyelids up as he slept. She said to Aun, ‘I have seen such blindness before among those who come here. It is the bitter wind which scours our island and blows dust into the eyes.’
Aun said, ‘Will he see again?’
Asa said, ‘Only Odin can say that. I have known such eyes to see again. He should stay here indoors and not go on to the sea.’
Aun answered, ‘He would rather be blind than leave the sea.’
Asa said, ‘He is a fool then, like you, and like my own sons. One would think their mothers were seals. Look, I will give you herbs with which you must make a poultice, then bandage them to his eyes. He must be kept quiet, in the dark and away from the wind. Then perhaps Odin might take pity on him and let him see. Who knows? We can only do our best.’
Aun turned to Harald and said, ‘Thorkell is a difficult man to treat. He will knock my teeth out if I try to make him sit still. You are the one to do it, boy. He will listen to you.’
The next day a great crowd of islanders gathered above the stone harbour, and a pathway was cleared for the longship between the clustered fishing-boats. The Vikings went aboard, led by Ragnar, who took Kragge as his second-in-command. Wolf and Thorkell came last. Harald led Thorkell by the hand and many women wept as they watched this. As Thorkell went up the plank, he stumbled and almost fell into the water. One of Olaf’s sons said, ‘Thank goodness we have a leader who can see.’
Ragnar heard these words and strode down the longship to where the man sat. He said in a loud voice for all to hear, ‘Though the Vikings have elected me their leader, Thorkell is still my blood-brother, young sniffling. Were we in open sea, I would have you whipped for what you have said. But since we have not started, then get up and go back to your cow-byre where you belong.’
The young man’s face flushed with embarrassment. He said, ‘I am sorry, Ragnar. I will beg Thorkell’s pardon.’
He went to Thorkell and knelt before him but Thorkell pushed him aside and paid no heed to him. Ragnar felt that the young man had been punished enough and sent him back to his seat.
Olaf, at the dockside, was furious with his son and wanted to go aboard and thrash him. But Asa said grimly, ‘Leave him be, husband. Between the two of them, that Ragnar and that Thorkell will bring the young lout to his senses!’
When the Nameless sailed, Thorkell sat in the darkness of the rear cabin, with Harald by his side. Now he obeyed the boy for he trusted him in a way that he trusted no other man on board, not even faithful Wolf, who would have leapt overboard at the merest whisper from his master.
While they were still rowing and before their sail had caught a good wind, Ragnar stood on the forward platform and spoke to all the Vikings. He said, ‘Sea-warriors, we sail southwards now for Ireland where there is great treasure in the holy places. The Christ-men lay up great stores of gold. It does no good lying there in the dark. We Northmen can use it to good advantage. Let it be ours to take back to the fjord. How say you?’ And they all roared and cheered these words, save only Thorkell’s friends.
In the darkness, Thorkell said, ‘These same Christ-men can bear pain, they tell me. Is it so?’
Gnorre said, ‘They are men, like anyone else. Any man will bear pain if he has to.’
Wolf said, ‘I think they are more than ordinary men. I have heard that their holy men go out of their way to find pain, so that they may master it.’
‘I have heard that, too,’ said Aun. ‘Their leader did just that, in the time of the Romans. He seemed to seek death, so at last the Romans gave it to him, when they nailed him on to a cross.’
‘I like the sound of these Christ-men,’ said Thorkell. ‘They would make good Vikings.’
‘Many of them were Vikings, long ago,’ said Wolf. ‘They went to Britain in their own sort of longship when the Romans were there.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Gnorre, ‘but the Romans had gone.’
‘I tell you the Romans were there,’ said Wolf.
‘It all depends on what you mean by Romans,’ said Thorkell, his mind taken off his pain for a while. ‘So they were Vikings, were they?’
‘In a way,’ said Wolf, ‘though they went to stay, not to plunder like us and then to go back home.’
Aun scratched his head. ‘What difference does it make where you live?’ he said. ‘There is only eating and drinking and sleeping, call it home, call it what you will.’
Thorkell, who loved an argument, as did most Northmen, especially if it were on a point of life or death, said, ‘Some ways of living are better than others. A man’s life is better than a pig’s, for instance. Do you deny that?’
Aun said, ‘No, but a god’s life is better than a man’s.’
‘Yes,’ said Gnorre, ‘the gods feast and fight all the time and never have to row longships through contrary tides.’
Thorkell said, ‘How do you know what the gods do? Have you ever seen them? Do you know anyone who has seen them?’
Gnorre said, ‘No, but every man knows that the gods do this or that. It is in the stories.’
Horic said, ‘In my stories bears can talk, but have you ever heard bears talk?’
Aun said, ‘Be quiet, Horic, you are simple and do not understand arguments about these things.’
Thorkell said, ‘Horic is right though. We know nothing for sure. We do not even know whether we shall eat our dinner today. I did not know I would be blind, but I am blind.’
Aun said, ‘Do you deny that we shall go to Odin when we die, then?’
Thorkell said, ‘I cannot answer that, but I will tell you a story. Two Vikings sat in a longship, chained to a log, for they had been tak
en prisoners in a sea-fight. They had such an argument as we are having now. Then one of them said, “Look, the headsman is coming with his axe. We shall soon know the answer, friend.” The other one said, “I am first so I shall know first.” His friend said, “That is a pity, for you will not be able to tell me. Let me go first.” But the other said, “No, it is my turn. But look, I will take this cloak pin, and if I know anything after my head is off, I will stick the pin into the log I am sitting on. Then you will know.” And that was what they agreed to do.’
‘What happened?’ said Harald, who had been listening excitedly, though not daring to speak before.
Thorkell grinned. ‘When the axe fell, the pin dropped out of the Viking’s fingers.’
‘So nobody knew,’ said Gnorre.
‘Oh yes they did,’ said Wolf. ‘It is obvious, even to a fool like you, that there was nothing after death.’
‘No,’ shouted Aun, ‘only obvious that there was no control of one’s fingers after death, and any fool should know that, even you, redhead!’
By which time Thorkell was in a fine good humour, in spite of the glowing pain that never lessened, and the Nameless was well out in the open sea and setting a course south-westwards.
15
Leire’s Dun
Leire’s dun was built on a promontory, backed by a gaunt purple mountain. Though to say built is not an accurate description; it had been added to as occasion demanded, its houses of widely differing types flung together helter-skelter in haste. At first there had been only a rough stone hut, to which Leire had come from Ireland, foraging. He had killed the shepherd who built the hut and had lived there himself, his small boat having been wrecked on the treacherous rocks that lined the narrow channel below the neck of land. Soon he was joined by others, each of whom had made a house for himself, of wood or wattle or rough stone mortared with mud. That was many years ago, though Leire’s descendants still ruled as chieftains in the place. Now there was a street and a square of sorts in Leire’s Dun, and in the square a strongroom, sometimes used for storing wood or even fish, sometimes for keeping prisoners for whom a ransom was expected. For Leire’s Dun was nothing more nor less than a pirate stronghold. The custom of the place was to lure passing ships on to the dog-toothed rocks that lined the narrow channel by lighting beacons on either side of the channel, as though there were a clear way between. Then when the ships had struck, the curraghs from Leire’s Dun would put out and salvage what they could, in kind or humankind, if the humankind were still living and saleable in any slave market. It was the dear hope of the village that one day a ship might run aground without breaking her back, then they would have a vessel that would let them forage out beyond the islands, where there would be good pickings from the ships that passed back and forth with holy relics and church treasures. But alas, no ship had ever survived the dog-toothed rocks, and so the pirates of Leire’s Dun still relied on their curraghs, long clumsy shells of tarred cloth or hide, stretched over wooden frames, able to hold a dozen men, the biggest of them.