by James Duncan
Ordulf was forced to his knees, and his hammer was stripped from his grasp. His roar turned to a mournful cry as these heathens toyed with him. His arms were pinned and then tied behind his back. He was left there kneeling at the edge of the river, head down, the fight gone from his body.
Ordulf took it all in. The bloody water swirling at his knees, the body of a Saxon soldier lying face down in front of him in the gentle waves. He raised his eyes across the river.
On the far bank, the rest of the Saxons were watching in silent rows, some sitting on their haunches, helpless, having watched their friends die. In the shallows, a single figure sat on his horse, sword still in hand, dark slits watching, shoulders slumped in defeat.
He couldn’t meet that dark-eyed stare. He waited for death, terrified and angry, mind racing. He thought of Minden… his home…
An unseen blow hit the back of his head and his world snapped out.
Across the ford, Sir Hans slowly turned his horse to leave. He had forced himself to watch Ordulf kneeling in the sand. He had looked on as the blow fell and the smith died, falling to the sand among the bodies of his lost men. The men he had failed so bitterly. He could watch no more as the Norse started to strip them of their gear, careless, their laughter and jests audible from across the seething water. He left the faceless helm on as he passed back through his sullen men. It hid his face, and it hid his shame.
Chapter 13
Slavery and Solitude
‘By the gods, that big bastard was strong!’ exclaimed Ulf. He was rubbing his back, which was sore from being thrown over the Christian’s shoulder.
‘Like a god,’ mused Leif. He was sitting on the bank, nursing his left arm, which was numb from the elbow down, and staring at his shattered shield. ‘I swear, that was like being used as an anvil by Thor himself.’ He shook his head in amazement.
The Norse were collecting their dead and stripping the Christians of any valuable gear. They had lost seven men to the desperate enemy. The seven men were lined up along the bank, their swords and axes in their hands folded on their chests. One of the men was standing over them, intoning some words. A few others stood around watching or recounting to each other what they had seen of the dead men’s last fights and the manner of their deaths.
The huge Saxon lad was lying motionless in the sand, hands and legs strongly bound, chest rising and falling weakly, blood trickling through his greasy hair.
‘So why did we spare him?’ asked the man who had tried to charge Ordulf down, fury still written on his face as he glared at the prisoner.
Ragnvald walked across the sand. ‘Look at what he was using: a hammer. Look at the tools he is carrying. He is clearly a smith and thus valuable as a slave,’ he replied. ‘Judging by the way he hammered Leif flatter than a dried fish, I bet he is a good one too!’ The men laughed and poked fun at the rueful Leif, sitting on his wet arse in the sand, still rubbing his arm back to life. ‘I know I said no prisoners, but I make an exception for such a special one.’
Ragnvald was dressed head to toe for war. He was armoured in fine maille with a rich fur cloak, golden arm rings shone on his left arm and Bjóðr sat in its worn leather scabbard at his waist. His helmet was a steel-plated dome with four riveted strips culminating in a decorated, scaled bronze rib that ran from the crown of his head all the way down to the point of his nose and made his face look ridged, like a reptile. His eyes were recessed behind a steel eyepiece that came down to the level of his top lip. Hinged cheek pieces were tied under his chin, leaving only his mouth exposed. A thick maille curtain was attached all the way around the back of the helm, covering his neck while allowing him ease of movement. He looked like a lord of war striding across the sand, with the proud crest of a dragon’s snout on his magnificent helm.
If the warriors’ laughing and joking at Leif’s expense made them seem unaffected by their companions’ deaths it was because, largely, they were. These were experienced raiders, Vikings of the old ways who lived for battle and rejoiced in a good death. Their seven companions had fought worthy enemies and died well with their weapons in their hands. They would soon be drinking in the halls of Valhalla with Odin or be collected by the Valkyr to fight in the Fólkvangr with Freyja.
It was the wish of most men in that band to die thus. Their deaths would be celebrated, not mourned. Only one man there was not sharing the celebration: Fenrir. He was a proud man. Being shoved to the ground and denied his kill in front of everyone grated on him bitterly, and his eyes burned on Leif like a noon-day sun.
Ragnvald looked across the river at the retreating Christians. He had set this ambush on the ford hoping to catch unwary scouting parties, but he had not had the men to take on this whole force. So he had waited until enough had crossed to allow an easy victory. Much as he and his men celebrated death in battle, that didn’t mean he wanted to waste their lives. He was deeply impressed by the green-clad warrior in the steel-faced helm. He had seen that man take the lives of two of his men and force back others without a scratch in return and still fight his way clear to safety across the river.
A great warrior. A shame we did not face each other. His men had finished paying their respects to the dead. They would be given to the sea, to Ran’s care; they would be in the hands of the fickle sea goddess now. Ragnvald gathered the men around their bodies. ‘We will raise mead to our brothers when we return with tales of their victory,’ he said, and men nodded and thumped their chests. ‘ir, my huscarl, died fighting bravely, holding the ford and preventing the enemy escape. We honour his deeds.’ The nine remaining huscarls hammered their swords on their shields and howled at the sky as the rest looked on in respect and anticipation. They all knew what would come next.
‘Another must stand in Frangir’s place, to be at my side in peace and in war, to bear my shield and guard my back in dark places, to stand with Frangir’s brothers in the shield wall.’ Ragnvald looked around the assembled men, saw the hunger in the faces of many of them. ‘So many of you deserve it and have fought bravely here and in a dozen other places. But only one can be called.’ His eyes settled on one of the men. A tall, slim warrior with long braids in his beard and a fine maille hauberk and long spear. ‘Svend, step forward and take Frangir’s body. You will bear him to the boat and forever bear his responsibilities.’ The men, even those who were clearly disappointed, shouted their respect to Svend as the man gave his spear away and strained to take up the body of Frangir to carry him to the boats. It would be no easy task in the soft sand, but he would not dare fail.
‘Take the rest of our brothers. We will give them to the sea. Let’s go.’ The men gathered the bodies, and everything of value, and made their way down to the riverbank, following Svend.
One of his men had gone upriver to signal to the boats hidden around the next bend to come and collect them. With the Christians now on the north bank heading overland to Aalborg and another force of them closing the road around the fortress of Fyrkat to the west, he was trapped against the coast with nowhere to go but the sea. He could not reach King Øystein, whose whereabouts he did not know for sure, but he suspected he was in Fyrkat. That alone was truly disappointing.
He could row upriver and die in the futile defence of the fortress trying to reach the new Norwegian king, but he considered that pointless. No. He and his men had fought three skirmishes, killed over fifty Christians and filled their boats with captured equipment. All at the cost of thirteen of their own. He decided this was enough. He would take his men home and prepare for whatever came next. When he returned to Uppsala, he would have to make new plans with King Eric, find another way to reach Øystein, if he even survived.
The Norsemen packed the bodies of their comrades, the looted maille, weapons and valuable possessions of the dead Christians into the two longboats and boarded them. It was around midday, and if the winds held fair they would reach the Scanian shore before nightfall and camp overnight before making the five-day voyage back to Uppsala. Although they could sail
and row through the night, it was unnecessarily risky in these coastal waters. They would land the ships and make camp each night ashore.
They pushed the two longships out into the river current with oars and then settled into their benches as the river took them gently out towards the sea, which was just a handful of miles downstream, already visible. Their shields were lined along the sides, maille, leather armour and other heavy gear wrapped in greased covers and stowed under the benches. Each warrior now became an oarsman with seamless ease.
The benches were a little more sparsely occupied than they had been on the journey there, but this was of no concern. The boats were now merely lighter and rode higher in the water. Those fine-built ships could sail as well with six men aboard as sixty, unless the weather turned foul.
The rowers settled into the cadence of the oar master’s sing-song voice as they pulled their way downstream. Once at the mouth of the river and clear of shallows and bends, they would raise the sail and ship the oars.
As the last sandbank passed the ship’s side and the water started to get rougher, the shipmaster, Ulf, the oldest of his huscarls and his best sailor, called the oars in. Four warriors sprang to the central mast and laid hands on the ropes that would raise the sail. Four more grabbed the long boom from which the sail hung, which was laid lengthwise along the centre of the boat. They lifted it to waist level while others untied most of the wraps holding the sail to the boom.
A well-practised series of movements followed. The four men on the ropes released them from their cleats and played out the slack. The men holding the boom walked forward with it and swung the front out and towards the side from which the wind was blowing. They swung hard, hard enough for the rear end of the boom to clear the vertical ropes that tied the top of the mast firmly to each side of the boat, holding it upright against the power of the wind.
As the back of the boom cleared those ropes, the men at the mast began hauling vigorously on their rope halyard, taking the weight of the boom off the men at the front and lifting the wooden spar into the air above their heads. As the boom swung up above them, the front men pulled on the loose end of the remaining sail ties, and the sail burst out of its tight folds, blooming and billowing into shape.
As the boom reached its point near the top of the mast, ropes attached to each corner of the sail were being pulled in and adjusted, allowing the sail to fill and pull on the boat in the stiff breeze. They all felt the shift in power as the sail filled and the ship surged forward.
The whole process had taken less time than a thirsty warrior takes to drink a horn of ale. Ragnvald smiled from his position near the steering oar, where Ulf played the great oar and watched the sail and water like a hawk. This was a fine crew of sailors and warriors, one of the best he had ever led. He was glad he had not decided to spend their lives in vain any further. They had done enough to return with some stories of victory, loot and, most importantly, no shame. That would have to be enough. Victory and revenge would wait for another day.
Turning to look at the quickly receding shore of Denmark, he wondered if he would ever see it again and how long it would be before the Christians turned their gaze across the narrow sea to his homeland. He suppressed a shiver at the thought. He had seen their numbers and witnessed the quality of their army. Above all, he had seen the awesome power of their armoured knights, and he felt a dread he had not felt for as long as he could remember. Shaking the thought away, he turned back towards the bow and set his eyes, and his mind, on the way home.
Ordulf woke slowly, feeling confused. His limbs were numb, and his head felt as if a tiny hammer team were using it as an anvil. His body was swaying and moving most disconcertingly. Was he in a wagon? Was Orbert here? His groggy mind slowly kicked in, and his memory returned. Oh God, the battle at the ford, kneeling in the sand.
Why wasn’t he dead?
Was he dead?
Why would death hurt this much?
He tried peeling one eye open. His body didn’t want to respond to command. He got an eye half-open, but the image was blurred, unfocused. Whatever he was seeing was close and brown.
Wood. He was in a wagon, then. He was freezing. His body suddenly noticed this and started shivering uncontrollably. This had the unpleasant effect of waking him up very quickly, and the full pain of his frigid body and injured head suddenly hit him.
He moaned, long and low, and tried to lever himself up. His legs and arms still wouldn’t respond. They felt dead. He wriggled and tried to bring his hands up to his face, but they wouldn’t move.
Tied. He could remember it now; he had been tied up.
He rolled his head to the left to look around the wagon. The wagon was large and had water sloshing around in the bottom of it. Men were sitting chatting on benches, and a big white sail was hanging above them.
The wagon was a boat.
Oh God. Panic started to set in over his pain. He was in a Viking’s boat, being taken captive to be eaten or sacrificed to the gods. He had heard stories about this, how Christian captives were taken by the Viking raiders, never to be heard of again. How the heathen Norse sacrificed them to their gods and ate the captives at great festivals and horrific gatherings.
He retched into the bottom of the boat. A voice near and above him made angry noises. Hands grabbed his arms, and he was lifted into a sitting position. A tall warrior with a braided beard crouched down in front of him, a huge knife in his right hand resting point down on the deck, a serious expression on his face.
The man looked over his shoulder and nodded. The command he gave, his air of authority, made it clear this older warrior was the leader. Someone behind Ordulf pulled his arms back; he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see that big blade coming for him. But the bonds on his arms loosened and fell away as the ropes were untied.
Ordulf opened his eyes after a moment, and still no one was trying to kill him. He gingerly brought his arms around in front of him. His hands were totally numb and useless; he shook them and tucked them under his armpits. The leader just stayed there, watching him. Why?
For a minute or so, the old warrior continued to watch. Then, very deliberately, he lifted his free hand into a clenched fist and shook it, then stopped and shook his head. He then indicated Ordulf with the point of his seax, mimicked slitting his throat and inclined his head and eyes towards the side of the boat.
The message was clear enough: any trouble and you go over the side with a hole in your neck.
The warrior continued to look at Ordulf and raised an eyebrow, so Ordulf nodded slowly. Whatever was going to happen to him, he decided he preferred that to going over the side with a second mouth.
They gave Ordulf a fur cloak to wrap around himself and pointed to a corner of the boat where he was to sit. It was above the sloshing water, so he was pretty satisfied with that, and he sat there and hugged his knees to his chest.
The first night camped on the shore he tried to run. Of course, they were ready and waiting for him to do just that. They caught him in less than ten paces and beat him bloody. He didn’t try to run again. He had only done it out of panic and really had no idea where he would run to. He was in the lands of the Norse and had no hope of escape in any meaningful way.
For the rest of the voyage, which passed in a mixture of cold and despair for Ordulf, the Vikings watched him day and night, but thankfully they didn’t throw him over the side, and he caused no more trouble.
On the sixth day, or rather, what he thought was the sixth day but couldn’t be sure, they rowed up a wide river for about half a day, twisting and turning and passing side channels, sailing through wide lakes and seeing small villages and two large towns on the banks.
Eventually, they arrived at the head of a broad lake, and a forest of masts was visible in front. There was a wooden dock there, as big as the one at Bremen. Ordulf thought there must be fifty ships clustered on its many branches. They were mostly longships like the one he was carried in, but there were some barges too. Over th
e trees behind the dock, he could see a broad haze of light smoke rising. There was a settlement there. A big one.
The two ships sailed past the dock and up a narrow river hidden to the right of it, which couldn’t be seen until you were right next to it. They rowed up this river, narrow enough that the ships were forced to row one behind the other, for a few more miles until they arrived at another dock along the bank. The dock was long, and eight or so longships, all richly decorated with pagan symbols and strange creatures were tied to it.
Fully armoured guards stood on the dock with shields and spears. They called out to the oncoming boats, and the old warrior called back. One of the guards turned and jogged across the flat, cleared space behind the dock, calling to someone. The space, maybe twice the size of the training square that had been in the Saxon camp, had various boxes, supplies and spare equipment piled along the sides and rear. Bundles of rope, spare sails and bits of boat were visible. A low wall surrounded the area, about high enough for a tall man to sit on comfortably.
The two boats slowed to a crawl and drifted into a space alongside the dock. The men secured them with ropes and started unhurriedly unloading their gear and loot. Ordulf saw his pack and tools being carried ashore and made to stand up and reach for them, but the man merely laughed and said something incomprehensible to him. Their language was very odd to him. It was rough but flowing, unlike the sing-song French he had heard or his own familiar, sharp German tongue.
The men finished unloading the boats and lounged around, some sitting on the wall, others examining their gear or rinsing it in the river water and drying it with bundles of the tall, tough grass lining the bank.
After some time had passed, Ordulf could hear wheels and the sound of voices approaching. A convoy arrived at the bank with a single cart drawn by a pathetic-looking pony and a number of very plainly dressed men around it. In front of them were some more fully armed warriors and a man in fine furs and boots. Despite all the armed men, no one looked remotely concerned.