by Jason Born
Killian gave his king a nod. The Irishman was clearly pleased. “Very Christian of you, good king,” said Killian.
I suppose it was, though at the time I did not even know what that meant.
The king waited for the first of a flood of volunteers. An older man with a deformed ear stepped forward. He fumbled with his hands.
“Speak, Turf Ear,” said Godfrey.
“Huh?” asked Turf Ear.
“He said speak,” shouted Killian.
“Oh. I’m no man of Man according to many of these. I’ve lived here for many years, but count myself as a Norseman, so I am no coward like some. But there’s a problem, King Godfrey. It’s that your call for an army will be difficult to fill. Another assault on Dal Riata is nothing short of tough. We lost many fine men in the rain last year. It is in my memory, for you know I was there. I was wounded and crawled away in the rain. Like you, I saw our men hanged as I curled up on the distant hill. It will be tricky to get even a kinsman to join, if you had one, that is, when the payment is plunder on the come, with no guarantee of silver.” Turf Ear took a step back, still nervously playing with his hands.
“Good speech,” said Godfrey. If he was angry, he now hid it well. “So you will not be with us when we avenge our fallen heroes and return victorious?”
Turf Ear threw his arms to his sides and again stepped forward. “I didn’t say that!” He was shouting so that he could hear himself. “I’ll not miss a chance to thump the soft head of a Scot! Toss in the head of a Welshman and I’ll be a happy man. What else do I know other than fighting? Should I farm like the old blind man?” Several men laughed at the thought of Turf Ear settling into domestic life.
Godfrey was pleased with his first official and public reenlistment. While Killian rested a hand on Turf Ear’s shoulder, the king called to the crowd. “We have our first in a long line of heroes.” He spread his arms wide and waved both hands to himself. “Now the rest of you may come. If you be Christian, Killian will lay a hand upon you to give thanks to the One God and to bless your fighting spirit. If you still follow the old gods, drink! I’m sure some of our newcomers from Greenland will happily celebrate with you.” The king turned and sat down. He received an encouraging stroke on his hand from Gudruna. He patted the pale skin of her arm.
His closest guards piled their way to the front. Loki left his spot at our table. They didn’t have to volunteer, for they were all that was left of his army and would follow their king in bounty or to their deaths if need be. However, they did publically enlist that night in order to spur more men to courage. Randulfr, Brandr, and Loki led the charge, followed by the rest of the crew of Godfrey’s command ship. There was a smattering of Manx among them.
No others from Man came forward. They sat glued to the seats of the mead benches. Mumbling. Mumbling. Grumbling. Ketil snorted. It almost sounded like he laughed.
It was a growing embarrassment for the king. Were it not for the crackle of the hearth’s great fire, I believe that the chirp of crickets could be heard from the corners of the hall. Some men stared at their boots, others allowed their eyes to nervously dart around to see what their comrades would do. The as-of-yet un-enlisted men of Man were united in their quiet rebellion. Godfrey, undermanned, could do nothing about it.
Young Leif tapped my chest with the back of his hand. “Let’s help this king out.”
We had already volunteered and the more I thought about the task at hand, the more I hoped that King Godfrey had been too drunk to remember my bellowing moments before. I was not a raider. I had fought in scraps. I had killed a few skraelings in Greenland, but had not experienced war. Leif, however, younger than I and more confident, would not allow the potential horrors of battle to dissuade him.
Leif stepped forward. Magnus and I locked eyes, rolled them, then walked to join our fearless, though inexperienced leader. Tyrkr, loyal to a fault, veritably bound up after his owner’s son.
“King Godfrey, I, Leif, grandson of Thorvald, son of Erik, who is jarl of Greenland, who hails from Iceland and Rogaland in Norway before that, swear to bind my crew to yours.” He reached his hands up and smacked one onto my shoulder and the other onto that of Magnus. “These are my captains. Though they clearly have much to learn on the knattleikr battlefield, they bring strong arms and passion to the coming fight.”
Godfrey stood again. He made no great speech this time. Rather, the king walked to Leif and took his hand, shaking it vigorously. “It’s the mark of true men, to take a beating like you did today. You are welcome and I thank you.” The king moved to again sit down. His English thrall glided next to him and gave Godfrey an encouraging tap.
Killian walked over to us and I noticed just how small of a man he was. His ears even appeared small to me. “Are you lads Christians?”
I laughed out loud. “No. Until a month ago, I’d never met one in my whole life.”
Killian didn’t seem to mind my outburst. “Then Christ has just begun his work on you.” Under his breath, Killian said, “Let’s hope it doesn’t take as long as his work on our king. Godfrey sleeps with women who aren’t his wife. His wife sleeps with men who aren’t her husband.” Killian craned back and gave the royal pair a smile before returning his attention to us. “I’ll pray for you nonetheless.” The earnest priest reached a hand over and grasped Leif’s shoulder. He tried to reach up to mine, but found he could not. He clutched a paw on the sleeve of my cloak and wrenched it down. Then, with me awkwardly crouching to one side, he began his prayer. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Adveniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo et in terra. Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie, et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris. Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo.”
Killian paused here and many of the men in the hall filled in the gap in unison with ‘amen.’ I looked around and these same men had their eyes averted to the floor, heads bowed. Even the king had done this as if such corporate prayer was common. It was strange for me. The congregants began to slowly bring their heads upright. I gently tried to straighten myself, but Killian’s grip was strong and he wouldn’t allow me to budge. When the priest went on, the Christians in the assembly again dropped their heads.
I did as well, but I studied the priest’s narrow arm that reached up out of his vestments. It was covered in black hair and scars. “Pater, quos habuimus sub manu tua, et congregabo ea in signum. Conforta cor eorum. Robora in acquisitionem animæ. Eas ad vos.” Killian paused again. This time the Christians in the hall were not duped into saying ‘amen.’ They waited on their holy man. The priest changed to the Norse tongue. “Father, bring these men wealth so that it may be used for your people. Allow their labors to bear fruit for your glory. Bring these Greenlanders to the faith, Lord. Give me the strength to lead them and the king in your word. Amen.”
Other than the improbable requests in Killian’s Norse-tongued finale, I understood none of what he said. It was in a language I later learned was called Latin. It had been spoken by an ancient culture called Rome. As difficult as it may be for you to believe, I had never heard of either the tongue or its people. My only excuse is that I was born and raised in the farthest reaches of mankind. The days of my people were filled with the activities of survival. We never had time to consider what went on far from the shores of our fjord. Of course, if you read this, you know that in the intervening years I’ve learned not only the spoken Latin, but also the written.
The crowd raised their heads. A man far in the back audibly expressed his relief that the prayer finally ended. I could see that Godfrey and his woman brought their heads up at the same time. The king wore a determined expression. The queen’s face, turned, said that she feared for her husband and his next adventure as she stared at the side of his head. The king clenched Gudruna’s hand, worried that our public declaration would bring no further enlistments from the citizens of Man.
He was right to be concerned, for the
hall again grew quiet.
“It’s not enough, it’s not enough,” Godfrey was muttering so that only those of us at the head of the hall could hear him. “What kind of king has an army of, what, sixty men in his hall? Sure I’ve got some sentries on the wall, but not many more.”
Godfrey fretted. Sweat broke on his brow. He could see his kingdom slipping through his fingers.
. . .
Gudruna stood and broke the silence that had taken over the Tynwald. She brushed between Leif and me and mounted the stones of the hearth. I thought it was time for another speech. A strong woman could often shame men to do her bidding, especially if the strong woman was beautiful, which Gudruna was. I was wrong. “Bring in a skald!” Gudruna shouted. “When an evening is near over, when a king has assembled a brave army of retribution, Thor’s Army, as the Irish would call it, it is time for song and poetry. It is time for the heart strings to be played. Now where is a skald?”
Gudruna scanned the room. A ruckus began working its way to the front as men were parting the way for a cloaked and hooded figure. Without seeing the man’s face, Gudruna called, “We’re in luck!” Her praise was genuine. “We’ll be delighted with the words and tales of Eyvind the Troublesome.”
As Eyvind completed his path toward the royals, Leif walked over to the hearth and offered a hand up to the queen. Gudruna looked down at the young man and was fixed by his green eyes. I’d seen it happen before. There were plenty of young maids in Greenland who wanted nothing more than to stare into his orbs. I had never seen it happen with a queen, though, let alone one who must have been twice his age. Gudruna gathered her senses and climbed down with Leif’s assistance. Before he could step away, the queen planted a kiss on the now-delighted Leif. A jealous ripple trickled through the crowd of young men. Godfrey appeared indifferent. Killian grunted at the sight.
The enshrouded Eyvind stepped next to Gudruna. She snatched his arm and led him toward the twin thrones. “Thor’s Army?” Godfrey cursed, under his breath after they had approached. “What are you doing? I have two longboats, one with experienced men, the other filled with youngsters from Greenland. That is hardly an army. There are poverty stricken pirates who can muster more men. You embarrass me.”
Gudruna knelt to her husband. She clutched his knees. “There is still time before the dawn. Let the skald inspire us with his stories. Instead of begging for an army, perhaps hearing of heroes past will bring out the heroes of the present.”
King Godfrey frowned, but patted his wife’s hand. “I’d sooner crack the men over their heads to make them join, but I don’t have the manpower even for that. The mind of a woman is mysterious to me. Have your way.”
As Godfrey nodded in agreement, Eyvind the Troublesome turned around to face us and the rest of the crowd. He took a dramatic step forward and un-cinched the cord tied at his neck. With both hands, Eyvind lifted the cloak off and allowed it to drop to the floor behind him. I was already impressed, for skalds, or poets, were usually impish things, versed in words and not showmanship. Eyvind, though, was different from those traveling artists. He was mostly average in every way. His hair was sandy blonde. His beard had just a few flecks of white. His arms were strong, but not overly muscular. If I passed by him in the marketplace every day for a year, I would never have noticed him, save one thing – his manner of dress. The tumbling of the shabby cloak revealed a warrior’s uniform, shining. His mail shone bright even in the low light. I could see my reflection in his recently scrubbed helmet. He wore gold and silver medallions around his neck. Arm rings decorated his upper limbs. It was all too perfect and too clean, however. Eyvind had never had to fight a feeble Christian nun over a meal, let alone survive a pitched battle. His clothes were part of his show. They were probably gifts from the jarls and kings he’d entertained over the years.
He stepped forward again so that he was nearly on top of me. Without uttering a word, he pointed to the earthen floor. I and my comrades followed his command, unquestioningly. The entire hall obeyed and a few moments of rustling, crouching, and sitting went by. Gudruna had moved from the foot of her husband and now sat next to Leif, holding him as if they were longtime lovers. She stroked his wispy red beard. Leif wore a satisfied grin. The king had moved with the English thrall to sit next to another one of his housemaids. He grasped his ale mug with one hand and the maid’s midriff with the other. Killian, too, had found a place to sit among the crowd. All grew quiet.
Eyvind let the moments linger. Surprisingly, though the night was long and I was beaten and exhausted, I did not find myself getting irritated from the wait. My ale mug found my lips and I sipped at it gently. My broken fingers throbbed. The room and my head became mellow. I could feel the warmth of the hearth on my back. It soothed my aches and bruises.
Eyvind began his first song at a whisper. The low volume forced me to hold my breath just to hear his words. “What follows comes from the mighty Odin, giver of the poetic arts, blameless and without blemish.”
You must climb up on to the keel,
Cold is the sea-spray’s feel;
Let not your courage bend:
Here your life must end.
Old man, keep your upper lip firm
Though your head be bowed by the storm.
You have had girls’ love in the past;
Death comes to all at last.
That had always been a favorite of mine. It was especially popular when I lived on Iceland. After Eyvind finished the last line I heard a few guttural grunts of agreement from the crowd. All knew that poetry could grant or deny immortality. In that way, Odin’s gift to man was even more powerful than the war axe, which could only kill.
Eyvind told three more well-known tales of honor and glory. With each passing moment, the hall grew quieter.
“A love poem,” called Gudruna as she nestled her head to Leif’s chest and her hand elsewhere. She seemed to have forgotten, or at least she no longer cared, about her original reason for calling a skald forward.
Eyvind cleared his throat. “Kormakr meets Steingerdr.” I knew this one, too, for it hailed from Iceland as well.
The bright lights of both
Her cheeks burned onto me
O’er the fire-hall’s felled wood;
It’s no laughing matter.
By the threshold I gained a glance
At the ankles of this woman
Of glorious shape; yet while I live
That longing will never leave me.
The moon of her eyelash – that Valkyrie
Adorned with linen, server of herb-surf –
Shone hawk-sharp upon me
Beneath her brows’ bright sky;
But that beam from the eyelid-moon
Of the goddess of the golden torque
Will later bring ill to me
And to the ring goddess, Eir.
To my left, Gudruna was kissing Leif. Leif did not stop her. Nor did her husband make the attempt, for he was occupied with his housemaid and the thrall, performing much the same actions with them as his wife was on Leif. Throughout the hall, men who had had the sense to bring their wives, found Eyvind’s words as an aphrodisiac. Men who did not have a woman beside them curled under their cloaks and began to fall asleep. The Tynwald ended without ceremony. It ended without the king building an army. Eyvind and I were left staring at one another, the only two in the hall not thinking of amorous passion or peaceful sleep.
So it seemed that the recitations of Eyvind the Troublesome did not have the patriotic effect Gudruna had hoped. I looked again at Leif and the queen. Perhaps the effect was working out for them. I blocked out those lusty thoughts, having been rebuffed twice in a year’s time by Leif’s sister, Freydis. One of those times was a vast, public humiliation. I wanted nothing to do with women, even though for the first twenty-one winters of my life they are all I had longed for.
“Why do they call you the Troublesome?” I asked the skald.
He peered around the room and saw that no one wa
s paying him any attention. He gave a knowing smile. “No one has ever asked me that before. I suppose they assume that to do so would bring trouble.”
“I guess I’m foolish that way.”
“I killed my mother. It wasn’t intentional, you see. I was birthed, she died. Friggas saw that she was fertile, but not hardy.” Eyvind sighed at that heavy thought, but quickly smiled as he pointed to where Leif’s young hand groped its way onto Gudruna’s rump. “My father called me Troublesome ever since.”
I thought it time to change the subject. “Do you know any tales of mystery or adventure? I’m your only audience member now and I’ve got no woman on whom to use your love words.”
Eyvind offered me a hand up. I took it and the two of us walked to one of the hall’s long mead tables. I pushed a drunken man off the end of a bench. He crumpled to the earthen floor. Not once was his snoring interrupted. Eyvind sidled onto the bench opposite, between two snoozing free women. He grabbed a nearly empty pitcher of warm ale and topped off our mugs. “To Odin,” he said, raising the cup.
“To poetry and tales and love and battle,” I answered, though at the time I had failed at all my attempts at the first three and had never truly engaged in a full-scale battle.
“Have you ever heard of Wales?” asked Eyvind. Still at his place on the floor, Edana’s drunkard for a husband farted behind me, interrupting the settling peace. He finally seemed truly asleep to me, pleased with himself for dashing Godfrey’s hopes.
I shrugged at Eyvind’s question. I had heard of it. I had even spoken out against the stinking Welsh when I was at the mead hall. In truth, I wasn’t sure why I didn’t like them or where their putrid land must be. My travels had taken me over what seemed the entire Midgard realm. It just so happened that until we had arrived on Man, most of the regions in which I had lived had very few men of any kind, let alone Welsh.