The men's aggravation turned hostile by midday. They cursed him and his lack of rowing skills, calling him a half-breed and a boy not worthy of his father's bloodline. They blamed their lack of wind on Hakon's presence, for surely the gods would not let the winds die so suddenly. Hakon ignored their comments as best he could, but he could not calm the warning voices in his head. Unlike the boy who had encountered prejudices in Athelstan's court, he enjoyed no protection here. These men would not hesitate to kill him if they thought he would bring them ill luck, and he would be powerless to stop them.
That night was the worst night of Hakon's journey. The oars had rubbed his hands raw. The muscles of his neck and back burned as if branded. His ribs and stomach were bruised where the oar had slammed into him. His entire body screamed for rest. Yet fear would not let him sleep. He no longer trusted these men. Led by Udd, the bull-necked man who had insulted him the night before, their comments had progressed from surly and bitter to outright hostile. The distance between words and knife blades grew ever shorter.
Hakon took no chances that night. He was the last to leave the ship, and the last to join the campfires. When he sat, he did so with his back to an easy escape. As the men sought the refuge of sleep, he remained awake and poised for an attack.
The following morning brought no relief to his body or his mind. His muscles screamed at his every movement. His head ached and his hands throbbed. His eyes stung from lack of rest. He yearned to run, to be left behind, to forget this whole adventure and return to the safety and comforts of Athelstan's court. But pride drove him to his feet.
The men laughed at his labored movements, promising that this day would be even more difficult. Hakon was too tired to be bothered by their words. He packed his belongings without comment, and sat on the rowing bench, waiting quietly for another day of torment to begin.
By the middle of the second windless day, Hakon's muscles loosened and he found his stroke. His hands, now wrapped in soft wool, gripped the oars more easily. He was so numbed by sheer exhaustion that the stroke came to him thoughtlessly, automatically. Every once in a while he would make a mistake, but these grew less and less serious as the day wore on.
The second day also brought an uneasy reprieve from the insults. The men had grown tired. It was taking more and more energy just to focus on rowing. Occasionally Udd uttered something disrespectful, but it came in a labored whisper, and no one paid him any heed. Hakon thanked God for the peace, but held onto no false hopes. He knew that, like a sleeping boar, one false step might rouse the danger.
Shortly after midday on the third day of the voyage, the tiny fleet of knarrs reached the Humber and, to Hakon's utter relief, hoisted their square sails. A gentle wind blew out of the southwest and filled the woolen sails almost immediately, propelling them through the river's swift current for their entire eastward journey. It took another day to reach the hooked peninsula of Spurn Head at the mouth of the Humber, and another four to reach Katanes at the northern tip of Scotland.
These were quiet days filled with soft breezes, sunlight, and boredom. The men occupied themselves with board games, jokes, fishing, sleeping, and any other activity that could keep them sane on the cramped decks of the knarr. Hakon mostly kept to himself, using the time to heal and rest, and to prepare himself for the days ahead.
On the fifth day, the calm came to an abrupt and violent end. The men awoke to gray skies and screaming winds that churned the seas around them and threatened to rip the sails from their masts. At the steer board, Egil fought to keep the prow heading into the swells while keeping a firm eye on the sail. “If the winds get too heavy,” he yelled to the men, “unmast the ship.”
The sudden change in weather drove Hakon to his knees. When he was not purging himself of his meals, he was praying to God that the bending, creaking strakes would hold against the pounding whitecaps. A few times, Hakon could actually see the gray waters through the ship's hull. He was utterly certain that the ship would break in two.
The Northmen, on the other hand, were unfazed by the danger. The more the ship pitched and bowed, the larger their smiles and the louder their songs became. Had Hakon not been so preoccupied with his sickness and his fear, he might have been heartened by their courage.
The men caught sight of the Orkneyjar as the sky reddened toward sunset. Hakon relaxed his strained nerves and muscles and thanked God for the wonderful sight before him. Though distant, land was visible, and that in itself was cause for joy.
“We'll head around to the eastern side of Rognvaldsey and move north.” Egil stood at the steer board, pointing northeast to the one visible mass of land.
“Why don't we beach at the first island we come across?”
“We will,” Egil explained. “That large mass is all one island—Rognvaldsey. But we want to keep to the east so that, if ships come at us, we can head straight back out to sea. Besides, staying to the east side of the Orkney chain takes us on a more direct route home.”
Hakon's brows dipped as he contemplated Egil's explanation. “Who would come at us? We are no longer in Constantine's kingdom.”
Hakon's question brought a sour frown to Egil's face. “You have a lot to learn, Hakon. These islands are controlled by Turf-Einar, an ally to Erik. In the short time he has been jarl here, he has earned a reputation as a blood-letter and pirate. Even if he does not recognize us as enemies of Erik, I doubt that he would hesitate to attack us. It matters not with Turf-Einar—every man here is an enemy.”
Hakon breathed deeply to calm the bile that rose in his throat. He turned to the gunwale, feeling the sickly saliva on his tongue. In a moment it passed, and he turned back to his pitching view of the islands that had, moments before, offered such a safe haven in his mind.
Chapter 14
Hakon swallowed a mouthful of dried cod and peered at the men about him. Like feeding pigs, they grunted their delight as they tore into the lamb they had stolen from one of Rognvaldsey's nearby farms.
Hakon turned to Egil. “Do you find it strange that the owners of the farm are nowhere to be found?”
Egil chewed his lamb while he thought on Hakon's question. “No,” he finally answered. “Here in the islands, it is common for whole families to leave their farms and visit relatives and friends on other islands.” He waved his bone toward the farmstead they had just sacked. “These people just picked the wrong time to leave.”
Hakon ignored his little joke. “Even now? As the autumn months begin?”
“If the weather permits.” Egil examined a chunk of lamb hanging from the bone before tearing it off with his rotting teeth. “The meat always seems better in the Westlands. You should try some. Believe me, boy, you will have enough of that cod while at sea.”
“Thanks, but no.”
“Are you certain, Hakon? Stolen meat is the best meat there is, eh.” Udd laughed and brazenly waved his bone at Hakon. A stream of fat juices ran from the red tangle of Udd's beard onto his belly. “If you pay me, I'll give you some of mine.”
Those who heard the comment roared with laughter. Even Egil, who had managed to ignore Udd most of the time, snickered.
Hakon looked away. Guilt-ridden over the theft of the farm's lamb, he had offered to leave silver for the owners—an offer that earned nothing but jokes and ridicule from the others.
The bull waved his bone at Hakon. “It seems that young Hakon is still angry at our theft.”
Hakon glared at Udd over the fire.
“Ahh.” Udd nodded. “I have offended our young atheling.” He laughed, ignoring the circumspect looks of the others.
Egil placed a calming hand on Hakon's shoulder. “Ignore him, boy. He is but a loose-tongued fool.”
Udd's sickly smile immediately vanished. “Loose-tongued? Mayhap. Foolish? Never. I know an inexperienced, Christ-loving pup when I see one.” Udd turned to the others. “He may look like his father, but he is not half the man Harald was. And he follows the White Christ. We would be smarter to leave him here a
nd let him make amends with the farmers.”
“Udd. You have hounded me since our departure. What is it you really seek? If it is proof of my abilities, then you need wait no longer. I am tired of your churlish banter.”
Udd smiled through his fiery beard. “I welcome the chance to rid us of your company.” For a man whose frame was as solid and round as an ancient oak, he stood with the speed and dexterity of a cat.
Hakon jumped to his feet and reached for his sword.
Before either could draw his weapon, Egil was on his feet, his arms raised. “Udd. We have an obligation to Jarl Sigurd.” Udd faltered.
Hakon cut in before Egil could press his point. “Egil. It is clear that Udd, and mayhap others, lack confidence in my abilities. Let me prove to all here that I am worthy of their trust.”
“Close your teeth, boy. You know nothing. I made a vow, and I intend to keep it. Your blood can drain on Sigurd's soil. But while you are my charge, you will remain hale.” Egil watched Udd closely as he spoke. “Udd. If you intend to fight, then prepare to fight me first.”
Udd scowled. “You protect bad luck, Egil.”
At this Egil smiled. “Our luck changed the moment Harald died. This boy has nothing to do with your luck.”
Chapter 15
The next morning, a sharp kick to the head woke Hakon. He cursed and sat up, blinking in the hazy light. It took his sleep-filled mind a few moments to grasp the chaotic activity around him. Like a nest of angry hornets, men scurried this way and that, shouting commands and grabbing their weapons. Hakon grabbed his cloak and sword and sprang to his feet.
Everyone ran for the ships. One glance seaward explained why. Three mighty longships had rounded the southern shoulder of the bay. They were so close that Hakon could see the ocean foam dripping from the dragon-headed prows as they cut through the swells.
“To the ships, Hakon!” somebody yelled.
Hakon sprinted for Egil's ship, where men laid their shoulders to wood in a desperate effort to get the knarr into the sea. Egil stood at the steer board, yelling for the men to push harder as he struggled to steady the vessel in the waves. Once the ship was in the water, the men threw themselves over the gunwales and scrambled for their seats. Hakon raced to his bench, grabbed his oar, shoved it through its oarlock, and pulled with all his might.
He glanced over his shoulder at the approaching ships. Steel helmets and spear-tips bobbed with the rise and fall of the enemy deck. “Who are they?” he called to no one in particular, not attempting to hide his fear.
“Does it matter?” came Udd's labored reply.
Egil's voice thundered above them as he cursed the other two knarrs, slow in casting off.
“They will never make it,” observed Hakon.
“Nor will we,” retorted Udd, “if you do not keep your teeth together and row!”
The enemy came on quickly, and the escape route narrowed. It did not take long to see that Egil's men had reacted too slowly; no matter how hard they rowed, the Orkneymen would catch the two slower ships. As the enemy neared, bloodthirsty berserkers climbed forward to the prows of their respective ships, spears in hand. Their frightful yells and curses ripped through the morning air.
Hakon pulled at his oar, concentrating every bit of his energy on his stroke, while the cold hand of dread closed around his heart. Behind him Udd cursed under his breath. At the steer board, Egil called a steady but rapid cadence.
The longships bore down on the two slower knarrs. Egil's men tried their best to evade, but the longships were remarkably swift. In an instant the enemy was upon them, throwing their grappling hooks and leaping from deck to deck. Spears flew back and forth at close quarters. Some men died at their oars before they could even reach their weapons. A spear passed through the chest of a man and pinned him to the mast.
There was a moment of hesitation as all eyes turned to Egil. He did not waver. “Row!” he bellowed. “They are finished.”
Hakon sat at his oar, gawking, unaware that he had slowed his stroke.
“Row, you damn coal-eater,” cursed Udd, “or we'll be next!”
The men rowed beyond the bay and headed north, leaving their friends to their gruesome fate. As the battle passed from sight, a breeze picked up and Egil ordered the mainsail hoisted. The men dropped their oars and scrambled to do his bidding. When the task was completed, Hakon collapsed onto his bench. Sweat drenched his body. His head spun from the exertion, and for a moment he thought he'd lose all the fish he'd eaten the night before. He leaned against the gunwale and gulped at the cool ocean breeze.
“What ails you, Hakon? Has fear turned your belly soft?”
Hakon scowled at Udd. “The only thing that turns my belly is the sight of you, Udd.”
The crew roared with the laughter of men who needed a distraction.
The islands slowly disappeared over the western horizon, and the sole knarr tacked again to leeward and headed northeast into the wind. The seas and wind remained mild, and the day passed quietly after the morning's tragedy.
It did not take long for the tedium of ship life to set in again. The crew erected two deck-awnings to shade themselves from the sun that had begun to peek through the morning clouds. Some sharpened weapons with strips of leather. Others repaired holes in their clothing with bone needles and thread. Still others slept off the morning's emotional turmoil or the previous night's ale.
Hakon moved to the steer board and asked Egil to teach him something of his knowledge. Perhaps glad of the distraction, the older man proffered his Norse knowledge of the currents, the sun, the clouds, and the wind. He explained to Hakon how the waves and wind were controlled by the god Njord, and how the storms were brewed by the hand of Thor—and how those events in turn affected the ship he piloted. How, for instance, a mass of gray clouds on the horizon meant the coming of a storm, or how the presence of seagulls meant that land lay nearby. He showed Hakon how to ride the swells when they grew to heights that dwarfed the ship, and what to do when the wind failed and land lay nowhere in sight.
Hakon listened quietly to the lore of the sea, despite the blasphemy that dripped from it. Norse deities or not, there were many useful hints to be remembered, should Hakon ever find himself in command of a ship, and it was these that Hakon focused upon.
“Tell me, Hakon. Do you not feel more at ease now that you understand many of the ocean's secrets?”
“In truth, all this talk of gods and sea monsters makes me more fearful.”
Egil laughed. “You need not fear. If it is not your time, then you will not die.”
Hakon studied the vast gray ocean swirling around their ship. “Your reasoning gives me little comfort.”
As evening approached, storm clouds gathered on the northern horizon. As the clouds drew closer, Hakon could see the steely-gray sheet of rain stretching from sky to sea. Deciding it better to find land than brave the storm at sea, Egil turned the ship about and headed west toward the sinking sun. The wind and swells did not propel them fast enough, and the wall of the storm swiftly overtook them. It began lightly, with small drops that were more of a nuisance than a torment. Slowly, however, the wind picked up, filling the sail and propelling the knarr through the whitecaps. Rain and ocean alike washed the deck and soaked the crew huddling under the awnings.
The Shetland Islands, known to the Northmen as the Hjaltlands, appeared as a black mass on the darkening horizon. As the storm gathered force, the knarr settled into a protected bay along the eastern coast of a small, flat-topped island the men called Whalsey. The bay itself was surrounded by high walls of rock that shielded the ship from the pounding swells, but did little to protect them from the rain. There was a small, rocky beach on its northern end large enough for a ship to beach and for the crew to camp. But there would be no such luxury. Egil would not allow another disaster to befall his men, and ordered them to sleep on board in case a quick retreat was necessary. Many had left their cloaks and blankets behind on the Orkney coast and cursed in the dark
ness as they tried to find some warmth. To make matters worse, the wind-driven waves had soaked the stores of dried fish, bread, and sour milk they had brought from York, adding fuel to the already hot tempers of the men.
Sleep evaded Hakon that night. His mind reeled with thoughts as numerous as the raindrops pattering on the wool overhead. Thunder cracked continuously through the night, adding even more tension to his already frayed nerves. He listened jealously to the cacophony of snores around him and wondered how these men could sleep so well in such miserable conditions. Frustrated, Hakon stood and worked his way to the prow of the ship where the dark shape of Egil kept watch over the dark bay.
Egil peered out from under his hood as Hakon approached. “Sleep eludes you tonight?” His breath swirled in a cloud from his lips and vanished in the night air as he asked his question.
“It is nothing,” Hakon lied. “The storm robs me of sleep.”
“Storms come in many forms, Hakon. I think the storm that bothers you has nothing to do with this forsaken weather.”
Hakon kept his mouth shut, afraid of the words he might utter, and turned his eyes to the inky water that rolled against the ship's hull.
“Give your worries a rest, Hakon. No one can change the life-patterns woven by the Norns, not even the gods. There is little sense fighting or fretting over that which is unavoidable.”
“You forget that I am not of that belief, Egil.”
Egil smiled wryly beneath his hood. “I have known many men in my day, Hakon; some of them Christians. Seems to me they believed that their God, like our Norns, controlled their fate. Take those men who died in the Orkneyjar. Had they been Christians, you would have said that it was God's will. Northmen call it the Fates.”
Hakon thought about Egil's words as he listened to the rain patter on the deck. “I have never heard it spoken so.”
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