by H A CULLEY
He arrived back at Fladstrand with more ships than he could moor alongside the jetties. In addition to the knarrs and the snekkja he had captured at Visby he had come across another drekar as he rounded the southern tip of Sweden. He would have left it alone – he had enough of a problem as it was manning all the ships he’d captured – but its mainsail proclaimed the fact that it belonged to King Froh, the killer of his parents.
Shouting for the four knarrs to stay well clear, he made a course to intercept the Swedish drekar. It was a little smaller than his own ship and it was rowing into the wind whereas Ragnar’s two longships were sailing with the wind behind them. The Swedish ship immediately turned and hoisted its own sail in an attempt to make a run for it, but it was slower than either of Ragnar’s longships.
When they drew level with it, one on each side, Ragnar ordered his archers to open fire. The Norns must have been smiling on him because the Swedish steersman was killed in the first volley and the ship slewed to one side until it was broadside on, the wind spilling from its sail. Minutes later Ragnar’s ships threw their grappling irons and secured their prey. Warriors poured into the Swedish longship from both sides and trapped the crew between them.
The Swedes were as numerous as their enemy but they were hemmed in with little room to wield a sword, let alone an axe or a spear. They were butchered where they stood but they refused to yield. In the end only the wounded survived and Ragnar ordered them thrown overboard. He had lost ten men in the encounter and another fifteen were wounded, but he considered it a price worth paying to have taken the first step towards hitting back at Froh.
Rowing at any speed above a snail’s pace with so many ships and so few men to crew them was impossible. It meant that he was at the mercy of the wind. It took twice as long as normal to get back but he eventually limped home at the beginning of July.
He had intended to sally forth for one more raid that year but his knarrs were weighed down with silver, furs, wool and captives who he’d either put to good use on his land or sell as thralls. He would have to give some of his spoils to his uncle, but perhaps not half. After all, he wouldn’t know exactly how much he’d plundered. However much he gave Gutfred he was now a rich man. His warriors were more than pleased with their share and the skálds would sing of his exploits. That would attract more young men to serve him.
He was beginning to think that the year couldn’t get any better. He was wrong.
Chapter Six – The Raid on Neustria
824 to 825
Ragnar had expected his uncle to come north as soon as he heard that he had returned in order to claim his half share of the plunder, but he didn’t. Eventually Ragnar came to the conclusion that the jarl must be away raiding himself; then he heard what had happened.
Gutfred and his two sons had taken their four longships to go raiding along the Frisian coast, but they had been betrayed. The king, Harald Klak, had got wind of Gurfred’s plans and had secretly plotted with Louis the Pious to ambush Gutfred. The jarl had two hundred and fifty warriors with him but Harald and Louis had mustered a fleet of ten ships and a thousand men on land.
Gutfred had escaped but he’d lost two of his longships and over half his men in the process. It was even more of a disaster because both his sons were among those killed. Now his only children were his three daughters, the eldest being Thora.
When Ragnar eventually sailed south with what he’d decided should be the jarl’s share of what he’d looted from Sweden he had one object in mind: marriage to Thora. He sailed into the Limfjord in his drekar with two knarrs carrying his tribute to Gutfred and escorted by his two other longships. It might have been difficult to man them all but, as he’d hoped, a number of young warriors from Denmark and Norway had come to join him as his reputation spread. Of course, it meant that word would eventually get back to Sweden as well, but that couldn’t be helped.
He couldn’t afford to keep them all as his hirdmen but there was enough spare land for him to make those with families his tenants. As they brought the land under cultivation and bred more livestock to graze it, so his own income would increase. Nevertheless, he realised that he would need to be as successful at raiding next year as this if he was to keep on top of his outgoings. Not for the first time, he resented being expected to pay half of the proceeds to Gutfred.
Since he’d last seen her Thora had grown into a young woman and he could hardly take his eyes off her. With a jolt he realised that Gutfred was waiting for a reply to a question he’d asked.
‘I’m sorry, uncle, I didn’t hear what you said.’
‘No, you were too busy ogling my daughter,’ the man said sourly.
‘What are your intentions for her?’ Ragnar asked, quite unabashed.
He sensed that he’d said the wrong thing when Thora looked up from her needlework and gave him an angry look.
‘King Harald has a brother, Hemming, who is his heir as things stand. His wife has just died and an alliance with him would be useful to me.’
‘Huh, I’d rather die; he’s as old as the hills,’ Thora retorted.
‘He’s only in his late thirties, as you very well know, and he is the Count of Walcheren in Frisia. He has a lot to offer you.’
‘The Frisians are our enemies, or at least they used to be,’ she replied heatedly.
‘Not since their king put Harald Klak back on the throne of Denmark.’
‘And that’s another thing, both Harald and Hemming are followers of the White Christ; we’re not!’
‘Why are you so keen to ally yourself with Harald and Hemming, uncle?’ Ragnar interrupted. ‘Klak is only king because Louis the Pious lent him an army to regain his throne. He’s unpopular with his jarls and the people. It’s foolish to ally yourself with someone whose days are numbered.’
‘Who asked you?’ Gutfred asked heatedly.
Ragnar shrugged. ‘As I must now be one of your most powerful bondis, I thought my opinion might count for something, especially as I’m now your closest male relative.’
‘Don’t get above yourself, boy. I’m not dead yet and I can still sire more sons.’
‘Father, be realistic. You’re in your fifties and mother is beyond child bearing age.’
Her mother, who had studiously continued with her embroidery work on a new tunic for her husband up to this point, looked sharply at her daughter.
‘Thora, that is not something to be discussed in the hall, or anywhere else come to that. I’m ashamed of you.’
‘Why? It’s the truth.’
‘It may be,’ her father said, a dangerous glint in his eye. ‘But there is nothing to stop me taking a younger wife, who will give me sons.’
Both his wife and his daughter looked at him in shock. His wife sat there dumbfounded but Thora let out a wail and ran out of the hall.
‘You are not thinking clearly, jarl,’ Ragnar said. ‘Even if you sired another son next year, you would have to live into your seventies for him to be old enough to be accepted by the Thing as jarl.’
What Ragnar had said was true. Although it was normal for a son to follow his father as jarl it wasn’t necessarily always the case. The Thing was the assembly of all bondis held whenever necessary to resolve disputes, decide on policy, pass new laws or repeal old ones and, most importantly, elect their jarl.
Gutfred sat in his chair fuming for a while and Ragnar had the good sense to let the silence lengthen. Eventually the jarl’s shoulders’ slumped in resignation. He got up and, ignoring his weeping wife, sent men to find Thora.
She had no idea where she was running to when she left the hall, all she wanted to do was get away from her father. She was oblivious to her surroundings until she was nearly run down by a wagon. The carter cursed her roundly as he pulled his horse to a sudden halt.
‘Get out of the way, girl. Why don’t you look where you’re going?’
The man evidently had no idea who she was or, if he did, he couldn’t care less. Thora stood there shaking with emotion when she
felt two strong hands on her shoulders. She started and whipped around to find herself staring into Ragnar’s concerned eyes.
‘Would you marry me, Thora,’ he asked gently.
‘Yes, oh yes, there is nothing I want more, but my father will never agree.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ he said with a smile.
Gutfred hadn’t gone looking for his eldest daughter himself, of course, but had sent his hirdmen to find her. When they saw that she was with Ragnar and heading towards the jarl’s hall they called off the search.
Ragnar and Thora didn’t go straight to the hall though, they went via the quayside so that, when they did reach the hall, Ragnar entered first followed by his men carrying bales of furs, sheep and goatskins, flax for weaving into linen and two sizeable coffers containing silver.
‘Your share of my raiding this summer, uncle.’
Gutfred sat there open mouthed. Ragnar had made him a wealthy man. Now he could afford to replace the ships and men he’d lost in his abortive raid on Frisia. It would also mean that he wouldn’t need to appease Harald Klak. His shrewd eyes narrowed. If this was his share he imagined that Ragnar had kept more than half of the plunder. He knew that he needed to keep Ragnar loyal to him now.
‘What do you want in return, nephew?’
‘Two things, jarl. The freedom to wreak my revenge on Froh and his brother. Once I have regained my kingdom I give you my oath that I will enter into an alliance with you and we will support each other.’
‘Agreed. Try not to upset all of Sweden though. Even together we would never stand a chance in a war against the combined Swedish kings.’
He paused.
‘You said two things?’
‘Thora’s hand in marriage.’
At that moment his daughter appeared in the doorway and went running up to her father, throwing herself at his feet.
‘Please forgive me father but I implore you to agree. Ragnar is the man I wish to marry.’
Gurfred’s instinct was to deny his wilful daughter but he saw how tense Ragnar was out of the corner of his eye. His answer really mattered to the seventeen year old Norseman. If he said no then Ragnar would probably turn against him, attack Froh anyway and, if he did regain the crown of Adger, he could prove to be a powerful enemy.
His furrowed brow cleared and he smiled.
‘Nothing could please me more,’ he lied.
-℣-
The wedding took place on a bitterly cold day in January 825. Instead of wearing a thick woollen tunic or a long robe and a cloak made of oiled wool like everyone else, Ragnar appeared wearing a byrnie of steel rings polished by Leofstan until it looked as if it was made of silver. The servant walked behind him carrying a helmet with a gold band and a golden raven as a crest. But that wasn’t what had surprised the bondis and other guests; he also wore trousers and a jerkin under his byrnie made of goatskin. The trousers were tucked into calfskin boots stained to match the dark grey goatskin. Over his armour he wore a cloak made from the skin of a large wolf. It was obvious to all that he was making a statement; he wasn’t just a bondi and a hersir, he was a warrior in the mould of Beowulf.
The goatskin trousers were stiff and uncomfortable, though they would become suppler the more that Ragnar wore them. He later found them to be effective protection in battle and he continued to wear them as well as his byrnie when dressed for war. Thus he acquired the byname Lodbrok – hairy breeches.
Thora looked uncharacteristically demure as she entered the hall and stood beside him to watch the godi perform the ritual sacrifice and pronounce the omens propitious for their future together. They swore their vows to each other and then everyone present proceeded to get uproariously drunk.
Thora left once things began to get a bit unruly and Ragnar did his best to stay sober enough to make love to his bride later. However, he failed, and when he was half led, half carried into the chamber they were to share he was far beyond doing anything except snore the night away – much to Thora’s disgust and disappointment.
She made her feeling about his inebriation perfectly clear the next morning when she woke up and kicked him awake. He sheepishly apologised and found that he felt much better than he had any right to be. He turned her anger away with soft words and endearments, accompanied by kisses and caresses. Eventually she gave in and he proceeded to take her virginity, trying to be gentle.
However, there was no doubt that Thora enjoyed the experience and clawed at his back and bit his neck in her passion. Thus encouraged Ragnar stopped trying to be nice and gave way to his own animal lust. The experience left them exhausted and, after a suitable pause, eager for more.
He and Thora returned to his hall in the north and, by the time that Ragnar went raiding that summer, she was able to tell him that their passionate coupling had born fruit. She was expecting their first child.
‘Stay with me this summer until our child is born, husband.’ she said, not so much pleading as demanding.
Her own mother hadn’t prepared her for the changes that pregnancy would bring and she became less sure of herself as a consequence. Instead of being her normal self-sufficient self, she wanted her husband to comfort her and help her through it. Ragnar didn’t understand this, of course, and her imperious tone annoyed him.
‘I’m sorry Thora but I need to gain wealth and ships and thus attract more warriors to my banner if I am ever to regain Agder.’
‘You think more of that accursed place than you do of me,’ she accused him, her eyes blazing.
His face grew cold and he left her without another word. The next thing she knew he had sailed without even saying farewell. She broke down and cried, more in frustration at her failure to bend Ragnar to her will than anything. He, on the other hand, felt no remorse. Thora needed to understand that being a husband was only part of who he was.
-℣-
As the summer wore on Thora’s resentment grew. Thankfully the birth of their son was straightforward but, instead of waiting to see what Ragnar wanted to call his first-born she went ahead and named him Agnar, meaning terror. It seemed a fitting name for the son of Ragnar Lodbrok.
It was a name that could be applied to the father rather more appropriately. Ragnar had raided all the way along the Frisian coast from the enclosed bay known as Jadenbusen to the end of the East Frisian Islands. However, the inhabitants had got used to Viking raiders and had built watch towers at intervals along the coast. As soon as Ragnar’s men landed the locals fled inland taking their valuables and possessions with them.
Apart from burning settlements to take out their frustration, they had precious little to show for their efforts. Olaf threw a flaming torch into a hut as they left the last of them on the banks of the estuary of the River Ems and then trudged angrily back to the ships.
‘What now?’ he asked his hersir angrily.
From being something of a hero to his men Ragnar’s stock had fallen and they were dispirited and feeling mutinous.
‘Don’t take out your resentment on me, Olaf. I’m as infuriated as you are. This coast has been raided too often, that much is clear.’
‘Is it too late to try Sweden again?’
‘Probably not, but it would be a mistake to repeat what we did last year. They’ll be ready for us this time.’
‘So do we just give up?’
‘I can’t afford to. Men follow a leader because they think he has the favour of the gods and because he makes them wealthy. I have to find somewhere new to raid.’
‘Further along this coast then?’
Ragnar shook his head.
‘I can’t risk having the same problem in West Frisia. No, I think we’re going to have to try even further west.’
‘You mean Neustria?’
It was the heart of the Carolingian Empire ruled by Louis the Pious, but the emperor was currently busy trying to put down a revolt by his sons in the south. Consequently there were few soldiers in Neustria at the moment. It was reputed to be a prosperous kingdo
m with many wealthy monasteries, though no Viking had raided there as far as Ragnar knew.
‘Yes, Neustria.’
The first place they landed contained a large settlement with a monastery standing on a high hill near a wide river estuary. As Ragnar’s hundred and fifty warriors leaped into the sea and waded ashore the Neustrians gathered to oppose them. Ragnar was surprised how many there were but only thirty of them were properly armed warriors; the rest seemed to be some sort of local militia and, although some of them had spears, helmets and shields, most were armed with scythes, pitchforks and even broom handles with a knife strapped to the end.
However, they did have quite a few archers and they, coupled with a score of boys with slings, forced the Vikings to advance with shields raised. Even so one received a flesh wound to his shin from an arrow and another had his arm broken by a stone. This only served to enrage the raiders and they quickened the pace to close with the Neustrians as quickly as possible without breaking formation.
They crashed into their opponents and forced them back. Ragnar yelled for them to adopt the boar’s head as they advanced and those on the flanks dropped back, allowing Ragnar and his hirdmen to form the point, or snout. They sliced into the armoured warriors in the centre of their opponents, forcing them apart and giving the warriors in contact with Ragnar’s men little room to wield their weapons.
Once the Vikings had split the enemy in two, they continued to push the two halves apart. The Neustrians in the rearmost ranks had little idea what was happening and they lost their nerve. Those at the back always tended to be the timid and the least experienced; now they turned and ran. Flight became infectious and the militia routed, leaving the experienced warriors outnumbered and surrounded. About half of them had died or were badly wounded by the time that their leader – the local count – decided that the battle was lost and fled the field, his men streaming after him.