There was a king called Aelle, who ruled the part of Britain called Northumbria, which in those days ran from the Humber all the way to Scotland. He had a stronghold at Crayke.
Ragnar spent his summers raiding and harrying all around Scandinavia, but when he heard how famous his sons were becoming he grew jealous. He began to pour a huge amount of money into building and fitting out two large transport ships. People realised that he must be planning a big war expedition.
‘What are those ships for?’ asked Aslaug.
‘I have harried in many places but never in England, which is very rich. Those ships will carry all my men there,’ replied Ragnar.
‘I think it would be more sensible to have smaller ships because they are less likely to be wrecked. The coast of England is treacherous.’
‘No one has ever conquered England with just two ships,’ he objected, ‘I’ll be all the more famous if I pull it off.’
‘You won’t be famous if all your men are drowned or lose their weapons in the sea, because then the king of that land will very quickly beat you. Longships are much easier to steer into harbour and they’re cheaper.’
‘I have never known a pile of gold protect anyone when his enemies were at the gates,’ he retorted, ‘I shall spend my money as I please!’
‘Hmm!’ said Aslaug. She went away and began to weave a magic shirt for him.
The ships were at last ready. Ragnar’s gold attracted many men to sail with him.
On the day they departed, Aslaug came to bid them farewell. She gave Ragnar the shirt. ‘I have woven this shirt from grey hair,’ she said, ‘it will protect you from all wounds. Please wear it for my sake.’
Ragnar thanked her gratefully. She was only ever known to have shed one tear. It was when her stepsons were killed – and it had been red and hard as a hailstone, but people around them could see that she was deeply unhappy as the ships rowed away. Some thought it a bad omen.
As she had predicted, Ragnar’s ships were wrecked in storms on the coast of Yorkshire (then part of Northumbria). Fortunately, however, none of the men drowned and they all managed to keep hold of their weapons. Once they were all gathered together again, they set off to raid towns and villages.
King Aelle had already been warned about Ragnar’s sailing from Denmark. He had assembled a great host. Now he spoke to them: ‘Make sure that you do not kill old Hairy Breeches. Try to work out which one he is and then capture him. He has five fierce sons who will not spare any of us if we kill him!’
Ragnar and his men prepared for battle. He wore Aslaug’s shirt over his mail and had his great serpent-killing spear in his hand.
The two hosts came together, but Ragnar’s was much smaller than Aelle’s. Ragnar did great deeds of arms, slaughtering many of Aelle’s best men, but in the end, his army was destroyed. He himself fought so well that no one would attack him anymore, but pressed him down with shields so that he could be captured.
The men brought their prisoner before the king in Crayke, saying that he refused to say who he was. Aelle thought he was probably Ragnar, but he could not be sure.
‘We will put him in the snake pit until he tells us his name. We can easily take him out again if he really is Ragnar.’
They dragged him away and threw him into the pit. The snakes did not bite him and he sat there in the dark for a long time. The king’s men were worried.
‘This is a mighty man,’ they said. ‘No one could wound him in battle and now the snakes won’t dare bite him!’
They went and told the king. Aelle said, ‘There is some sorcery here. Take off his clothes and then we’ll see.’
They stripped Ragnar and put him back in the pit. This time the snakes fastened themselves onto him greedily. Ragnar said, ‘The piglets would grunt now if they knew what the old pig suffers!’ The men on guard did not understand what he was talking about. Then he said, ‘I have fought in fifty-one battles, a good tally, and have slaughtered many men, but I never guessed that I would be killed by a snake! What a joke!’
He began to grow weaker. After a little while, he said again, ‘The piglets would grunt now if they knew what the old pig suffers!’ Then he lay down and died.
When King Aelle heard his words he knew beyond doubt that it was Ragnar he had killed.
‘We must handle the piglets carefully!’ he said. ‘Let us see whether a trough full of gold will stop their squealing.’
He prepared to send messengers to Ragnar’s sons.
IVARR’S REVENGE
King Aelle told his messengers, ‘Watch carefully how each of the sons takes the news of his father’s death. I want to see which of them is the most dangerous.’
One of Ragnar’s sons had been killed in Italy, but the surviving four had returned to Denmark some time before this. They were entertaining themselves in various ways when Aelle’s messengers arrived. Ivarr sat in the high seat; Sigurd Snake-in-the-eye and Hvitserk the Swift were playing chess; Bjorn Ironsides was fitting a spearhead to a shaft.
The leader of the messengers related the story of Ragnar’s death without omitting any details. When he got to the part where Ragnar said ‘The piglets would grunt’, Bjorn’s hand clenched the spearshaft so hard that he left his handprint on it. Hvitserk gripped a chess piece he had just taken so violently that blood spurted out from under every nail. Sigurd was paring his nails with a knife and cut his finger to the bone, without noticing. Ivarr quietly asked a few questions, though his face went red and then black and then deathly pale. The messengers could see that his very skin was swelling with anger, but he spoke politely to them and sent them away with gifts.
When King Aelle heard what the messengers had to say he thought about it for a while. Then he said, ‘Ivarr is the only one we need to fear. We should be able to defeat the others easily.’ And he set a watch on his kingdom.
Ragnar’s sons held a council. Ivarr took the lead and stated, ‘I’m going to accept compensation from Aelle. Our father was far too reckless. He had no reason to invade England.’
The others were angry with him because they wanted to take revenge. ‘We will never take money for our father.’
‘Well, we shall see what will happen,’ retorted Ivarr. ‘I shall go to Aelle and see what he offers me. You three can rule Denmark, but be sure to send me money when I ask you.’ Though they were not happy, they agreed to that.
Ivarr crossed the sea and presented himself before King Aelle.
‘I have come to discuss compensation for my father,’ he said, ‘I don’t see why we can’t settle this amicably.’
‘Some men say that you say one thing and do another,’ replied the king. ‘How do I know that I can trust you?’
‘The proof of the pudding is in the eating,’ replied Ivarr. ‘I shall not ask a great deal and I will swear never to oppose you.’
The king could not see any flaws in this, so he asked what compensation Ivarr wanted.
‘As much of your land as an ox-hide can cover. I shall build on that.’
Aelle said, ‘That will not harm the kingdom. I agree providing you take an oath never to fight against me.’ This was done.
Ivarr took an old ox-hide, soaked it and stretched it. Then he split the flesh side from the hairy side and cut each into a very thin, long thong. When they were stretched out, they enclosed enough land to build a town on. Ivarr got carpenters and had them build houses. He called the town York, or Eoforwick, the Town of the Boar, remembering his father’s last words, and many people came to live there. Ivarr became very well thought of because he was generous and always gave good advice. King Aelle received much help from him in battle as well as in the running of the country. He began to trust him and gave him important tasks.
Ivarr sent messages to his brothers asking for lots of gold and silver. They were curious but realised that he had some plan they did not know about. They sent him all he asked for.
When the money arrived, Ivarr began giving great presents to the most important men in the ki
ngdom. Soon he had persuaded many of King Aelle’s best fighting men to swear that they would stay at home if the king went to war.
The following summer he secretly summoned his brothers to raise levies and come over to Northumbria with as large an army as they could get.
Soon King Aelle heard that Ragnar’s sons were coming against him. He tried to summon his own levies but few came. He asked Ivarr what he should do.
‘Let me go and meet my brothers,’ said Ivarr, ‘it may be that I will be able to stop them advancing any further’.
He went to see his brothers. ‘Advance as quickly as you can!’ he told them. ‘The king’s army is much smaller than yours.’
‘Don’t teach your granny to suck eggs!’ they replied.
When Ivarr came back to King Aelle he shook his head sadly. ‘I’m afraid that my brothers are far too angry and revengeful to sign any truce. When I tried to suggest it, they howled like wolves! I shall not fight you, as I have sworn not to, but I won’t fight against my brothers either. Good luck!’
King Aelle marched with his army against the sons of Ragnar, but they were so filled with fury that they cut through the ranks of his men like a knife through butter. The army fled and King Aelle was captured. He was dragged before Ivarr and the other sons.
‘Now you can see that the piglets have tusks!’ said Ivarr to him. ‘We shall fill our troughs with your blood!’ He ordered the blood eagle to be cut on Aelle’s back so that he died in agony after a long time. Then Ivarr took over the kingdom of Northumberland and ruled it from York for a long time.
Thus, the sons of Ragnar Lodbrok took their revenge on his killer.
BROTHER JOCUNDUS
Whether Brother Jocundus was the worst monk ever I am not sure, but he was certainly ill-suited to his calling. For a start, he loved food more than was strictly proper; he also enjoyed a merry song, a bit of a dance, a mug of strong ale, a saucy joke and a pretty – but enough!
In those days, York was a city of churches and monasteries. St Leonards Priory, where Brother Jocundus was a monk, was situated, so the story says, right slap next to the great Abbey of St Mary, famous for its good living and rich endowments. St Leonard’s was much poorer and rather austere – not ideal for a jolly soul such as Brother Jocundus!
One day he was sitting in his little cell looking gloomy. He was supposed to be meditating on the scriptures but the noise of music and merriment floating in through the window was proving something of a distraction. He knew all too well what it was: the sound of the St Bartholomew’s Day Fair.
‘There will be stalls with sausages and pies and oysters and ale and sweetmeats and gingerbread and –’ he thought, ‘… games and races and bearded ladies and tumblers and merry Andrews and merry-go-rounds and freaks and seesaws!’
He sighed and tried harder to concentrate on the Lamentations of Isaiah, but it was no good. Two minutes later, after hearing a particularly loud burst of ‘Belle qui tien ma vie’ played on the sackbut, he slammed his Bible shut and leapt to his feet.
‘St Leonard forgive me, but I have to get out of here!’
He opened the door, and peered around. Everyone seemed to be safely studying in their cells. He crept out and down to the porter’s little cubby hole. He was in luck; the porter was having an after-dinner snooze. He was just about to creep on when he remembered something that threatened to spoil his afternoon: he had no money.
‘Well, might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb!’ he thought and grabbed the poor-box that stood on a table near the door. Then he was gone out into the busy crowded street.
What joys awaited him! Bootham was crowded with all the things he had imagined – and more. There were jugglers who tossed flaming brands in a bright circle about their heads; there were sword-swallowers and fire-eaters; there were contortionists whose writhing made his eyes water. Some people were doing a long dance to bagpipes, up and down the street. In one place, there was a crowd around a couple of slippery, straining, grunting wrestlers. In another people were cheering a boy trying to climb a well-greased pole at the top of which was tied a squealing piglet.
Brother Jocundus strolled through the throng watching and laughing, his hands full of pies and sausages. His poor-box money did not last long, but he found, to his amazement, that folk were so amused to see a portly monk enjoying himself out of his cloister that they bought him things just to see him eat them. Soon, since he did not seem averse to it, some troublemakers started buying him drink as well.
‘What do you think of this?’ they asked him.
He tried new ale, old ale, spiced ale, cock ale, mead, metheglyn, malmsey and the special St Bartholomew’s Strong Feast ale. Then, just as he was beginning to think he should get back to his monastery and wondering vaguely where it was, he saw the seesaw.
It was not like the pathetic ones you still occasionally find in children’s playgrounds, it was a proper one: a ten-foot plank (no handles) balanced over a barrel. The idea was to try to dislodge the person sitting at the other end. Now, it so happened that Brother Jocundus had excelled at this when he was a boy and when some of his new drinking companions suggested that he have a go, he forgot about the dignity of holy orders and jumped at the chance. Soon he was whizzing through the air singing ‘In dulci jubilo-o-o, Up-up-up I go-o-o!’ Then he hit the ground with a bone-shattering crash and rolled off singing ‘Do-ow-own I go-o-o!’ He lay on the ground giggling helplessly.
Suddenly the laughter around him ceased. Brother Jocundus did not notice, but people were falling back and bowing respectfully. A nearby bagpipe gave a dying wail and fell silent. There stood the Prior of St Leonard’s, surrounded by monks, his face like thunder. Brother Jocundus peered at the prior. ‘Hello Father, want a go?’ he began, but before he could say any more, brawny monkish arms had seized him and started carrying him back to the monastery. He lay back happily and continued singing.
The prior was so infuriated by Brother Jocundus’ behaviour that he called a hasty council of older monks to decide on a suitable punishment. They decided that the only one severe enough was for him to be walled up in the cellar.
‘Only right for one who has insulted our monastery by behaving like a drunken tinker!’
Brother Jocundus was still as drunk as a lord and was affectionately telling the prior that he was his very bes’ mate as they laid him on the ground in a handy cellar room and began walling him in. One monk, kinder than the rest, put a jug of water and a loaf of bread beside him as, to the sound of prayers and the clinking of trowels, the wall slowly grew upwards. The last thing the monks heard from Brother Jocundus as they trooped up the cellar stairs was a fading ‘In dulci jubilo-o-o’ that ended in a long snore.
He woke in the dark with a raging headache and a terrible thirst. He thought he was in his cell, but when he flailed around with his arms, he realised that it had shrunk. Why was he on the ground? He found the jug of water and drank, but as alcohol receded, fear took its place. Had he gone blind? Had he ‘died’ and been buried alive? He struck out in terror. Some stones in the wall on his left moved. Filled with a sudden desperation born of terror and hope, he hit and kicked the wall as hard as he could. A stone fell out and light leaked in. With a mighty heave he forced a hole in the wall and squeezed through in a flurry of mortar. He looked around. He was in a cellar, but not one he recognised. He shook the dust off his robe and stood up. Cautiously he crept past rows of barrels towards the light of the staircase. At the top, he heard a familiar sound; the slapping of monkish sandals as brothers headed towards the monastery church for a service. Pulling his cowl down over his face, he nipped out of the doorway and joined the end of the line.
And that was how Brother Jocundus unintentionally joined the monastery of St Mary’s.
Monks are not encouraged to speak and though a few puzzled eyebrows were raised, no one wasted precious words questioning him. He joined in the usual tasks, though he found he had to work harder at St Mary’s as it was a much bigger monastery. Despite wha
t he had heard about its rich food, it seemed that ordinary monks did not see much of it. After a year, he was both fitter and leaner.
His brush with death meant that he was so worried about being caught again he became a model monk, but it was this obedience that brought him to the attention of the abbot.
One day he was summoned to the abbot’s room.
‘Well, Brother – John, is it?’
‘Yes, your reverence.’
‘Brother John, I have noticed that you seem a very modest hard-working monk.’
Brother Jocundus looked modestly at his feet.
‘And so, as Brother James has unfortunately left us to take his heavenly reward, I have decided to make you my cellarer in his place.’
Brother Jocundus stared at him in shock. ‘But–’
‘No need to thank me! Just make sure that my valuable wines are well kept. That is all.’
Poor Brother Jocundus! It was a sentence almost as cruel as being walled up, because the abbot’s cellar was famous. Even the king had been known to visit him unexpectedly just to sample his old burgundy. A cellar full of delicate wines, just sitting there slowly maturing! They sat in their casks, smiling coquettishly at Brother Jocundus, saying ‘Drink me! Drink me!’ With a tremendous effort, he withstood their temptations …
Until …
One day the abbot sent for Brother Jocundus and told him that he wanted a very special wine sent up for dinner. He was entertaining some important French merchants and wanted to show them that he knew his wines.
‘Which wine, my lord Abbot?’
‘The old malmsey in the little cask. It should be just right now. Send up a silver jug of it when you hear grace being sung. The big silver jug, mind you, well scoured. Not a pottery one’.
Brother Jocundus went down into the cellar and soon found the little cask. As was his job, he broached it and hammered in a tap. A very little of it leaked out onto his fingers. He licked it off. ‘Oh, that’s nice! That’s very nice! Well, I’ve been a good boy for a whole year now. It’s time I had a tiny treat!’ He poured a small bowl of the malmsey and drank it off, smacking his lips.
North Yorkshire Folk Tales Page 13