by Jason Born
“How will we get past that?” asked Randulfr, pointing to the people with torches and the growing blaze.
“I don’t know. We will or we won’t,” said Leif with maddening indifference. “Move fast. I’ll jump aboard and haul the sail. You all push.”
“The wind is against us!” Brandr protested.
“If it stays that way, we die,” said Leif. He burst from our hiding place, ending all chance for argument. He was over the gunwale before anyone on the opposite bank even noticed. The roar of the fires covered any noise he made. Leif pulled on the fat rope with his hands and strong forearms, lifting the sail higher and higher.
We followed him, ramming our shoulders into the strakes and prow. My head was tucked between the ship and Aoife. We grunted and worked. The shallow-keeled vessel slipped back easily. The men began scrambling up the strakes. Randulfr reached down for Aoife. He gently lifted her and set her among the baggage. I stayed in the water and easily guided the ship to face the proper direction.
The movement at the side of his vision finally caught Maredubb’s attention. He looked once, then twice. The king screamed at his horsemen. “Get them!”
His riders hadn’t yet seen us. They hesitated a moment to see what the king was shouting about. We would need every heartbeat they gave us. We used them. Brandr found a bow, strung it and began sending poorly aimed arrows toward shore. The rest found oars. Leif tied off the tall red and white striped sail. Magnus took his place at the rudder.
“Leif, the damn sail is pushing us back,” shouted Magnus. “The wind is against us. The oars and current are barely enough to move us forward. Drop the cloth or you’ll get us killed.”
“We’re dead anyway,” answered Leif.
Brandr’s arrows took down two riders as they splashed into the river. Leif sent spears in their direction. Three horses went scrambling when he buried steel head into the necks. I pulled myself up into the ship. “Take an oar,” commanded Magnus. “We need force. If the soldiers don’t get us, the fire will.” I stood looking at Magnus. Something was tugging on my mind, trying to be remembered. “Unless you can control the wind with your thoughts, grab some oak, idiot!”
The wind! I plunged into the baggage, tossing men’s packs out of the way. One of Aoife’s hands fell onto my hudfat. The girl was again saving us. I unlaced the sinew cord of the sack, found my quarry, said a prayer, to whom I don’t recall, and tugged.
Tyrkr used an oar to strike a rider. The rest of our oarsmen stayed put. They pulled. Every muscle on their naked backs bulged. Slowly we moved downstream. Then the smoke that was beginning to choke us cleared. It ran away north, ahead of us instead of into our faces. The pennant snapped. Our sail billowed – in the right direction. The winds had shifted. We skipped forward, propelled by the triple power of men, current, and wind.
The riders were left in our wake. They tried to pursue in the stream’s center, but their horses would soon be swimming instead of running. They halted, sending a few impotent spears after us. We squeaked through the narrow channel created by our burning fleet. I found a bucket and leaned over the gunwale. I used the river water to quickly put out any fires that started from the flying ash.
When we sailed out of the mouth of the River Add I looked to port. There on the far bank was Maredubb. He alone had raced his horse to the shoreline. The king sat there watching us go. He could do nothing else.
We had survived. Some of us survived, I mean.
Maredubb was victorious. Godfrey and his hopes for kingdom were dashed.
CHAPTER
13
The river had become Loch Crinan. The wind I’d unleashed from the knotted ropes given me by the witches on Man stayed with us for the remainder of the day. We were thankful for the wind and stowed every oar. Except for Magnus at the helm, we fell on top of the baggage and stared at the sky.
I say that I changed the course of the wind, because in the midst of our flight, when the riders were upon us and the breeze blew us backward, I laid my hands on those ropes given to me by the crazed sisters. I pulled. To this day I still wonder about that moment. Was it my fate all along that the wind would change in that instant? Perhaps the norns would think it funny and they wove my thread in such a way. Was it the ropes? I don’t know. Or, was it Providence? I’d prayed to the Christian God once that day. Maybe that is how he answered.
Very quickly the loch turned into a long, narrow finger of the Irish Sea. Magnus leaned on the rudder and turned us on a southwest tack. Loki didn’t like that direction. “We should return to Lismore and warn the men we left behind. Maredubb or the Dal Riatans could sack them before they finish the palisade Godfrey wanted built.”
Randulfr sat up on a sea chest. He was picking at an old, stray piece of leather he’d found. Randulfr slapped it against his hand and threw it into the sea. “Or, the traitors among the men we left on Lismore have already slaughtered our side.” Randulfr swallowed his spittle. It appeared as if it was a real chore. And it was an unpleasant task, for he was in the process of swallowing much more. His pride went down in that gulp. He’d served a king who went from victorious to ruin on a crisp morning. Now he was agreeing to serve a kid. “What do you think, Leif?”
Leif rolled off the hudfat on which he’d been resting. “Randulfr is more than right. Our men may already be dead. If they are not, what will an exhausted band of rubble be able to do if Maredubb lands?”
“We can warn them!” protested Loki. We could have I suppose. No one really wanted to, however.
“Well, where do we go?” I asked. “Man will be crawling with Maredubb’s soldiers in a week or two or now! By Hel, Killian’s replacement priest may run the island already. We can’t return to Greenland, we haven’t even been gone a year.”
“We have to abandon the tiny hoards of treasure we all probably buried on Man. We must find a king to follow, a new ring-giver,” answered Leif. He studied Randulfr, who nodded in agreement.
“Rogaland?” I asked. “Should we return to the land of our fathers and grandfathers?”
“No,” answered Leif. “None of us will be satisfied with serving some jarl who is vassal to a king’s vassal. As I said, we need a real king.”
“To where? To whom?” Loki asked. “And what about our brothers on Lismore?”
Randulfr and Leif exchanged knowing glances. Randulfr, in those moments, had accepted Leif’s command. He waved for his captain to answer.
“I’d say we know only one king who is wily and has proven he is capable through a long reign. We go to Dyflin and offer our services to King Kvaran and his sons.”
“Sitric Silkbeard and Iron Knee,” I whispered. I had heard Godfrey and Kvaran mention those names in the church on Iona. They were the best names I could think of for warriors. I hoped they lived up to the monikers.
“And what will make Kvaran want to send help to the outpost on Lismore?” asked Loki.
Leif grinned, “I don’t know. Maybe we tell him that is where his ten men are held captive.” Leif rattled around in his bags. He pulled out those cylindrical pieces of iron he’d stolen from Watchet’s mint. “And if that doesn’t work, we’ll sell him these coin dies. With them the Viking King Kvaran of Dyflin will soon be minting his own English pennies with Aethelred’s smirking face looking back at him.”
Like Aethelred’s image, we smiled. It felt wrong to grin after such a grim day. We’d all lost men with whom we’d drunk ale. Dead were men with whom we’d bled. Gone was a priest, small in stature, large in personality. Evaporated was the erstwhile sea king, Godfrey. He’d died the way he would have wanted, leading his men in a great battle. It was even as though the lovely and sharp Gudruna never was. They were carrion.
And vanished was the lively Irish thrall, Aoife. We moved toward the setting sun and I thought of her and all she’d done in order to find herself a bit of freedom and adventure. The girl had belittled me. She’d poked and prodded. She talked back to a king. I stirred.
The rest of the survivors wa
tched silently as I tore a long section of extra sail. I set Aoife’s body crossways on the cloth. Among the baggage of dead men I found heavy war axes and swords. None of my compatriots complained when I set the valuable items onto the girl and wrapped the fabric tightly around her, tying it so that the weights would stay secure. Leif lowered the sail so that we slowed.
Randulfr helped me pick Aoife’s cloaked body up. I know that Christians say things when a loved one dies. They recite words from the One God, from the Word. I didn’t know any such details then. I bent and kissed the cloth that covered her nose. I straightened and nodded to Randulfr. The two of us leaned over so that we set her on the top of the sea. When we let her go, Aoife’s white grave wrappings dropped into the depths. I could see her for only a single heartbeat until the darkness swallowed her whole.
The sound of rope rubbing on timber meant that Leif was already pulling up the sail. The others wanted to be far away from Dunadd. I leaned on the gunwale and stared at the murky sea. It began slipping past my view faster and faster as the sail gathered the strength of the wind. The rest of the men went about their business in respectful silence.
My time of sadness had passed. I no longer mourned the girl, not because I hadn’t grown to love her. No. I stopped whimpering because I did love the little imp. With my chin resting on my forearm, I smiled when I thought of Aoife, for I knew that of all the women I’ve ever met, she, along with the daughter that I have yet to tell you about, would meet me in Valhalla.
THE END
(Dear Reader, See Historical Remarks section to help separate fact from fiction.)
HISTORICAL RE
MARKS
Godfrey Haraldsson and his brother Magnus pillaged their way around the Irish Sea and even around the entire island of Ireland itself for much of the second half of the Tenth Century. For clarity, I’ve eliminated brother Magnus so that he was not confused with my character, the helmsman, who bore the same name. Godfrey’s brother is thought to have spent time attacking the west coast of Ireland – which is where Godfrey in my story gathered up Aoife – while Godfrey battered the Irish Sea.
There are some who say the brothers’ base of operations was the Isle of Man. Other historians say no, Godfrey more likely operated out of the Hebrides, further north. There is, of course, a correct answer that is as of yet unknown with certainty. A new document find or a new archaeological study may one day give us the right answer. I chose Man simply because it was central to the places that Godfrey and Magnus raided and has a rich history all its own.
The Isle of Man has had more Viking hacksilver hoards discovered on its lands than all of Ireland – astonishing when you think of the size differences. But, the finds demonstrate the economic power and gravity that this weigh-station on so many northern trade routes wielded. Man has many interesting Norse graves, constructed of stones arranged in the shape of a ship’s hull. Some of these can be found at Balladoole and Ballateare. The stone I described with the mixture of Christian and Norse theologies is real and exists to this day. Similarly, the stone dedicated to the traitor named Horse Ketil still sits on Man, though no one knows who Horse Ketil was or what he did to be so maligned for eternity.
The Norse peoples in Norway and abroad in Iceland and Greenland and Man were free compared to their English or other medieval counterparts. It took much longer for kings to consolidate their power over the large stretches of difficult terrain in the mountains and fjords and independent peoples. Under these conditions one of the governing mechanisms that evolved was the Thing, or local assembly. The Thing was called occasionally to settle disputes between participants in the open. The Thing on the Isle of Man has become known as the Tynwald. Its roots go back to the Viking sea kings over 1,000 years ago. Tynwald is still what the island’s parliament is called, allowing the small island to claim to have the oldest parliament in the world with an unbroken existence. I am certain that the proud descendents of Iceland’s first settlers may want to argue the claim when it comes to their Althing. But that is another story.
Exactly who was Godfrey Haraldsson’s father is not known with certainty. Many believe it was Harald Bluetooth, famous son of Gorm the Old from Denmark and the man for whom we’ve named Bluetooth communication technology today. Others say, as have I, that Godfrey’s father was Harald of Bayeux, a Norman Viking. For an in depth discussion of this topic and much of the history in Norseman Raider, read Viking Pirates and Christian Princes by Benjamin Hudson. It contains a wealth of information.
Godfrey was known as a King of the Isles. Exactly which islands were among those Isles was something that was in constant flux. It ebbed and flowed with the despairs and fortunes of its kings and the strength of the peoples that surrounded the islands kingdom – Irish, Welsh, and the Scots.
Dal Riata was founded by an Irishman back when Scotland was known as Pictland during the Dark Ages. Like the Kingdom of the Isles, its borders expanded and contracted many times over the years. Generally speaking, Dal Riata included a smidgen of northern Ireland in the Ulster region and the western reaches of Scotland, Argyll today.
Our hero, Halldorr, is fictional. Leif Eriksson is not. Tyrkr, the German thrall is not. Both were very real men who lived extraordinary lives, but it is unlikely that they were involved with Godfrey in any way. You may want to read the original three of The Norseman Chronicles: The Norseman, Paths of the Norseman, and Norseman Chief if you wish to have a better understanding as to why they wound up where they did in my tale.
The incidents that set Godfrey’s actions in motion were real. In 986 A.D. Godfrey attacked Dal Riata; we’re not sure where, but I assumed Lismore and its monastery. During the raid, 140 of his warriors were caught and hanged. Godfrey went away, but came back in the dark of Christmas night. He and his company killed the bishop, the abbot, and 13 monks who prayed in the monastery’s church before his army scurried away. In my mind he got ample revenge, but I figured Godfrey, an up-and-coming Viking king, would want more.
Godfrey is thought to have raided the Welsh island of Anglesey many times during his career. The raid I highlighted actually did take place in 987 A.D. In that raid his band of unknown numbers took 2,000 captives while soundly defeating the Welsh ruler Maredubb ab Owain. Maredubb had to flee from the island to the heart of Wales. He didn’t return to pay the ransom of treasure for his people until 989 A.D.
The barrow grave I used as my model for the one on Anglesey, the one told of by Eyvind in my story, is called Bryn Celli Ddu. It rests to this day on the southeastern edge of Anglesey Island. The mound is in an open field, but it is thought to have been surrounded by trees at some time in its history. The grave was robbed long ago. It was built for a man of importance in the Stone Age. Different phases of its construction are thought to have taken place as far back as 4,000 B.C.
In 988 A.D. Godfrey’s army is thought to have raided the mint at Watchet. This is conjecture, sound perhaps, but still a guess. Godfrey was one of the most active Vikings in those waters during that time. Since the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle is silent on exactly who wreaked the devastation on Watchet that year, scholars assume it was King Godfrey. Devon nobles, Goda and Strenwald, were killed during the attack. You can still see remains, albeit meager, of the mint on the cliffs west of the modern day town of Watchet in what is today Somerset. At the time our story takes place it was considered part of Devon. The mint on the hill was active from 979 to 1050 A.D. It was abandoned for a time due to the erosion on the cliffs. Its location moved westward and it again began producing coins in 1080.
Immediately after the raid in Watchet and across the Irish Sea in Dyflin (today’s Dublin) English coins began to circulate. Obviously, many coins were stolen from the mint. However, at the same time, the first coins to be minted in all of Ireland began to appear. They were English pennies stamped by dies taken from Watchet.
Godfrey was actually killed in a raid in Dal Riata in 989 A.D. The exact circumstances are unknown, but I thought it a nice yarn to spin to have him still hun
ting for his revenge. The climactic battle at the ancient fort of Dunadd is pure, made-up fun. But the fort did exist and it was the capital of Dal Riata for centuries. At the time our tale took place, it would have been surrounded by swamps known as the Moine Mohr, making it difficult to reach by anything other than the main road. You can visit the ruins today.
I spent some time in the story talking about strange Frankish blades. I intentionally spelled the names with slight variation. Modern science has proven that the blades marked with +ULFBERH+T are of a quality of steel superior to any steel in Europe until the Twentieth Century. Those blades are strong, durable, light, and flexible. They were perfect for battle. Blades marked with +ULFBERHT+ are thought to be weak copies. Their steel is of a typical low grade for the times. They were brittle. Just like manufacturers must contend with intellectual and trademark piracy today, so did the Frankish sword smiths. In 2013 Nova and National Geographic produced a fine documentary called The Viking Sword which lays out a strong case for the two types of blades.
The readings I used to prepare for Norseman Raider included the previously mentioned work by Mr. Hudson as well as the Poetic Edda and Prose Edda, which are Icelandic writings from the Thirteenth Century. The latter two works were penned by Snorri Sturluson, but included oral tales carried down through the ages by the poets of the day, skalds. The stories written by Snorri would have been familiar to all of the broader Scandinavian culture. As in my previous Halldorr novels, I utilized Vikings: The North Atlantic Saga, edited by Fitzhugh and Ward. Viking Poetry of Love and War by Judith Jesch gave great ideas for the types of things the people of my tale held dear. The two verses recited by Eyvind the Troublesome in our story are translations from Icelandic poems. The first was originally recited on the night Porir Jokull died, August 21, 1238. I found the verse in a paper by Professor Anthony Faulkes who is at the University of Birmingham. For the Kormakr poem I used a combination of translations from Rory McTurk, Emeritus Professor at the University of Leeds and Lee M. Hollander. Finally, Aoife’s speech near the beginning of the novel was based upon a Tenth Century poem by Egil Skallgrimsson. In it a young boy dreams of going a-Viking and killing a man or two.