by Millie Thom
‘A-wooing!’ Ulf exclaimed. ‘Now that should be fun to watch.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Leif gave his head a good scratch. ‘But you know, lad, I wouldn’t be surprised if we pull into Bornholm on the way home to see a certain somebody.’
They sat companionably watching seals bobbing in the water as the sun gradually disappeared, taking its light to another world. Ulf sighed. ‘Bjorn’s right: the Baltic does have its own majestic kind of beauty.’
‘I know what you mean,’ Leif said, getting to his feet. ‘But we’ve work to do once we’ve finished admiring the views.’
* * *
By the following evening they were approaching the island of Björkö in Lake Mälaren, on which the market and trading centre of Birka was sited. The town presented a formidable appearance as they approached from the south in the fading light, presided over by a huge bare rock that seemed to loom from the depths of the sea, a stone fortress sitting menacingly at the top. Ubbi and Jorund simply gawked.
‘This is the richest of all the trading centres in the Baltic,’ Leif told them, ‘so it stands to reason it’d be the target of raiders: hence the fortress, which is also a place of refuge in times of attack, like Alfarin’s stronghold on Bornholm.’ He flicked his chin upward. ‘Just beyond the northern gate is the garrison that mans the place.
‘Thor’s bollocks!’ he yelled as the ship rolled, too close to a large rock, barely visible above the water. ‘I’d forgotten to look out for those cursed rocks. More defence strategies! Best do your own sight-seeing now, lads, whilst I do my job. And you’ll be rowing soon, Ulf.’
They sailed through a defensive palisade that straddled the wide bay, the sails were furled and they rowed for the jetties of Birka’s harbour. Tomorrow the trading and purchasing would begin in earnest.
* * *
As at Hedeby, Birka’s market area was immediately behind the busy waterfront, where transactions were accompanied by the harmonies of mewling gulls, honking geese and shrieking children. Workyards and homes blended together just the same and the reek of rotting matter in the ditches along the walkways was equally gut-churning. People with skin colours and clothing as varied as meadow flowers in June vied for bargains, and the two boys were utterly enthralled.
After four days of hard bartering, Bjorn had acquired many of the items he’d set out to obtain; only the furs, necessary for the depths of winter, having eluded him.
‘Come back this time next week,’ a swarthy Swede in a leather jerkin told him in answer to his enquiry, straightening out the thin squirrel and fox furs on his stall. ‘Varin’ll be back by then. He’s late this year, though I’m told he’s on his way and to expect him within the week. They say his packhorses are well loaded, and his furs are top quality. Cost yer, mind – quality don’t come cheap.’ His tongue snaked out to moisten dry lips, his shrewd gaze ranging Bjorn from head to foot. Ulf turned his head to hide his smirk. His master did not flaunt his wealth like most high-born Danes, and many traders had displayed the same concern regarding his ability to pay.
‘Varin promised me reindeer, as well as marten, wolf, bear and white fox. He may even fetch sable if the Lapps are trading, and ice bear furs if he got far enough north.’ The stallholder drew his brows together. ‘We don’t get those beasts in our lands – the bears with fur the colour of snow, I mean. They come from the frozen lands of the north, close to the sea where the serpent Jormungandr swims. What man in his right mind wants to go up there, I ask.’ He leaned forward, resting his hands on his stall, squinting at Bjorn. ‘What were you hoping for, exactly?’
Bjorn held out his hands. ‘I’ll look at whatever you have, my friend. No promises though; it happens to be real quality I’m after. My father’s a fussy man.’
‘Aren’t they all?’ The trader grinned. ‘Until next week then. Best be here early – furs go quickly, especially the good ones.’
Over the next few days their goods for trading rapidly disappeared and their newly acquired items gradually filled the holds in the knarrs.
‘Three more days before this Varin’s expected,’ Bjorn said with a sigh as they lounged around their camp fire on the gentle rise behind Birka’s palisade. To their left the walls of the fortress loomed, a constant reminder to any would-be miscreant. The long northern day was fading, the bustle along the waterfront slowing; the waters of Lake Mälaren lapped the island’s shores and the breeze stirred the long grasses. Ulf swatted at a cloud of midges, smiling at memories of Hastein. It was almost a year since that day along the Seine.
The number of small circles of light dotting the town gradually increased and the two boys soon retired to their tent, drowsy after a long day. The laughter of night-time revellers carried to their ears and the men gazed longingly at the appealing scene. Ulf knew how they felt: they all needed a night of entertainment and pleasure.
‘Let’s just hope he’s worth the wait,’ Bjorn went on. ‘Another few days here will be more than enough for all of us. But we need the furs so we’ve got to try our luck.’
‘I thought you wanted to spend more time here, my lord – on private business.’
Bjorn momentarily glowered, then his lips twitched and he lurched to his feet. ‘I’ve decided my “private business” can wait, Leif. Why waste time looking for a woman when there’s a perfectly good brothel or two down there?
‘Who’s for a night of fun?’ he yelled to his seated men.
The respondent cheer was enough to alert the entire town to their intentions.
* * *
By their twelfth day in Birka the novelty of wandering around the market had long since worn off for the two boys. Jorund gradually retreated into himself, his dark moods pervading the tent he shared with Ulf and Ubbi. Oddly, Ubbi found Jorund’s sulks hilarious, and took delight in teasing the boy.
Bjorn had now traded the last of the loot from Francia and bought a variety of goods with silver coin: leather shoes, belts and jackets; items made from reindeer antler, like combs, spindle whorls, needles, gaming dice and even antler-handled knives, and walrus ivory for their craftsmen to carve into ornaments. Crates of iron from the northern lands would undoubtedly delight the smiths. And Bjorn had been well satisfied with Varin’s pelts. Tomorrow they’d be leaving and Ulf hoped that sailing again might lift Jorund’s spirits.
As they gathered their belongings early the next morning, Ubbi hurtled towards Ulf.
‘I can’t find Jorund anywhere,’ he bleated, his eyes flicking to the dense woods behind them. ‘Do you think he’s just gone up there for a piss? He wouldn’t have gone far on his own, would he, Ulf?’
Concern clouded Ubbi’s dark eyes and Ulf wondered whether he felt guilty at having teased Jorund so much. He glanced down at the town, considering that his brother was more likely to have headed there. If he had, he’d be very difficult to find once the market was in full swing. ‘Just give him a little longer,’ he urged, squeezing Ubbi’s shoulder. ‘He knows we’re sailing this morning. If he’s not back soon, I’ll see what can be arranged to find him.’
* * *
Too worried to wait for Ulf’s help, Ubbi decided to search for Jorund himself. He darted between the scattered birches down the hillside and headed for one of the palisade gates, considering that his friend was unlikely to be roaming round the market. He squinted up at the fortress on that bleak rock, recalling Jorund’s interest in it. Now that was a possibility . . .
Once through the gate, he sped along the inside of the palisade as it swung to join the rampart that encircled the fortress, creeping past the garrison outside the northern gate, where voices through an open window conveyed the presence of off-duty guards. A confrontation was the last thing he needed and he moved warily on, knowing other guards could be patrolling. Keeping close to the rampart, only a few yards from the precipice that plummeted to the beach far below, he reached the tip of the headland.
And the
re was Jorund, statue-still, gazing down at the ships that bobbed like tiny toy boats on Lake Malaren’s glassy water.
‘Jorund! What on Misgard are you doing up here?’ Ubbi blurted. ‘You know we’re sailing this morning!’
Jorund’s sad eyes held his friend’s. ‘I just needed to be on my own for a bit – get rid of my bad mood before we sailed.’ He retrieved a gold ring inset with a bright red stone from inside his tunic and held it out to Ubbi. ‘Mama gave it to me, just before you all came to Aalborg and I was feeling jealous of Yrsa. She said it would always remind me of how much she loved me. Sometimes I can’t get her dying out of my head, and looking at the ring makes me forget she’s gone. I don’t mean to be so miserable, Ubbi, especially when you’ve been so kind to me.’
Ubbi put his arm round Jorund’s shoulder as the tears flowed. ‘Well, I’m your friend, aren’t I? I’ll always be your friend, if you let me. And I owed your family a favour, anyway.’
Jorund stared at him and Ubbi laughed. ‘I don’t suppose your brother’s told you how he dived into the river and saved me from drowning. I was only two, so I don’t remember, but Freydis is always going on about it.’
‘But I haven’t got a brother! There’s just me and Yrsa.’
‘How can you forget someone that big? And Ulf’s good at saving people; he saved Bjorn from an arrow in Francia.’
Jorund’s little heart-shaped face creased in confusion. ‘But I’d never met Ulf before he came to Aalborg, and Mother never mentioned him. Why didn’t he live in my father’s hall like all his other children?’
Ubbi frowned. Was Jorund really unaware of his relationship to Ulf, or had the loss of his mother blocked out all other memories? ‘Rorik isn’t Ulf’s father, or yours,’ he said, wishing he hadn’t spoken about Ulf at all. ‘I don’t know who your father is – you’ll have to ask Ulf about that. Only he knows, and perhaps Bjorn and Sigehelm. But no one ever talks about it. Certainly not to me.
‘Come on,’ he said, determined to cheer his little friend up. ‘Let’s get back before we both get a bollocking.’
Thirty Two
‘Can’t say I’m surprised to see you back,’ King Alfarin said, mopping the last of the mutton stew from his bowl with a chunk of bread and popping it into his mouth. He took several gulps of ale and swept his sleeve across greasy lips. ‘Svala’s ears ache from hearing your name,’ he added, grinning at Bjorn’s expression of feigned ignorance.
Bjorn’s crew had again been welcomed to Alfarin’s hall and offered a bed for the night. Svala had provided another substantial meal, for which a goat had beeen slain to accompany the pottage, and was presently organising the servants for serving the dessert. Bowls of autumn fruits preserved in honey – juicy plums and sloes, bilberries, loganberries, blackberries, rosehips and rowan berries – would be served topped with dollops of skyr. Ulf licked his lips in anticipation of the smooth, creamy mixture made from buttermilk. Its touch of sourness complemented the sweetness of the honeyed fruits so well.
‘Kata’s normally quite a reserverd girl, rarely speaks unless the subject’s of importance: not one to waste time with frivolities or gossip, you might say.’ Alfarin’s fond smile told of his love for his only daughter. ‘Sometimes I believe she thinks too deeply for a woman, worries about things of more concern to my warriors. And she’ll speak her mind if she thinks an injustice has been done or an unwise decision made. Then there’s no stopping her!’
From his seat with Leif and the two boys lower down the hall, Ulf followed the conversation with interest. At Alfarin’s right, Bjorn was nodding vigorously, his elbows on the table, hands clasped together. ‘Your daughter sounds just like my sister,’ he said. ‘Freydis doesn’t like tittle-tattle either, but give her a subject she feels strongly about and she’ll match any man’s argument. And I confess, she’s generally right in her opinions. But I feel she needs a woman of her own age to share her interests; someone with strong opinions, like Kata.’
Alfarin guffawed, banging down his ale cup and swivelling his bulk to face Bjorn. Even from some distance away, Ulf could see the mischievous glint in his eyes. ‘It does sound as though your sister and my daughter would get along famously,’ Alfarin said, still chuckling as he glanced round the hall.
‘Just where is Kata?’ he threw at his wife hovering with a bowl of skyr.
Svala scuttled off to find her daughter and Alfarin slapped Bjorn’s shoulder. ‘So you think my Kata would fit well into your family, do you? But what role did you have in mind for her, exactly? Remember, she’s a king’s daughter.’
Bjorn’s face cracked into an enormous grin and he rose to his feet, all attention focusing upon him. ‘My lord,’ he started, bowing his head to Alfarin, ‘and esteemed residents of this household.’ He saluted each table in turn with his cup. ‘You do us great honour by extending your hospitality to us for a second time. Be assured, my father will be made aware of every detail and hear our praises.’
‘The honour is mine,’ Alfarin assured. ‘I couldn’t have had a better comrade than your father. But I think you’ve a point to make somewhere here, a certain request to make?’
‘I confess, I’ve counted the days to this meeting as we’ve traded,’ Bjorn admitted, feigned embarrassment on his face. ‘You see, my lord, I’ve never made such a request before, and I’ve somewhat surprised myself in wanting to do so. But “wanting” is the only word that springs to mind to describe my feelings.’
‘Would this, perhaps, be the object of your “wanting”?’ Alfarin asked, rising to embrace his daughter who’d come to stand beside him.
Kata’s dark eyes held Bjorn’s as she tilted her head, a ready smile on her lips. She was a very pretty girl, Ulf thought, used to adoration, which, as the king’s only daughter, she’d probably been freely given since birth.
Bjorn was entranced by this smiling beauty. His eyes fixed on her face with its ivory skin and pert little nose, framed by the shining black curls that cascaded like a bubbling waterfall down her back. Her shapely figure looked firm and lithe beneath her pleated, apple-green dress, the silver brooches fastening her white tunic glinting in the lamplight.
‘You wish to take my little girl away from my hall and into your own? Would she please you as a wife?’ Alfarin asked, his voice holding a teasing edge.
Kata showed no surprise at her father’s directness, though her smile was replaced by a small frown as she waited for Bjorn’s response.
Bjorn tore his attention from Kata to Alfarin. ‘My lord, although we barely know each other, I feel that Kata and I were somehow meant to be. And I would be more than gratified to receive your permission to marry your enchanting daughter.’
A roar of approval filled the hall and Afarin clapped Bjorn on the back whilst Svala hugged her daughter. Ulf knew the intended bride would not be consulted in the matter, though Kata’s reaction left little doubt regarding her delight at Bjorn’s reply.
‘But . . .’ Bjorn uttered the word quietly once he could make himself heard.
‘You have a but?’ Alfarin’s beaming face transformed itself into a frown. ‘Then pray tell us what this “but” would be.
‘A simple request, my lord. I would ask permission for myself and my men to remain on Bornholm for perhaps another week or so in order for Kata and I to become better acquainted. After that time we would return to Aros to prepare my own family for our happy event. I would suggest a September wedding.’
Alfarin nodded. ‘That seems a fair request. You’re in no rush to be home?’
‘It’s early in the year; our trading’s done and the goods will keep,’ Bjorn replied, gazing adoringly into Kata’s dark eyes. ‘And I’d much prefer to spend the time with my bride-to-be. Properly chaperoned, naturally.’
Alfarin threw back his head and roared, his mirth rubbing off on everyone in the hall. ‘“Properly chaperoned” it shall be!’ He slapped his meaty thigh, still c
hortling at the expression. ‘My island’s your home until such time as you return to Ragnar with your happy news.’ He squeezed Bjorn’s arm and turned to his daughter. ‘Now that we’ve sorted out your future you can return to whatever kept you earlier, Kata. Tomorrow you may spend some time with Bjorn, but only in this hall, in the presence of your mother.’
Leif caught Ulf’s attention and rolled his eyes. ‘And just what does Bjorn think we’re all going to do whilst he’s off a-wooing his fair maid? Spend a week or so here, he says. A week my arse! Bjorn’s no intention of reaching home before summer’s done. He’d be bored to tears during the harvest. We’ll likely be here at least three weeks – then probably take our time visiting Sjaelland or Fyn!’
‘The ceremony will be here, I take it?’
Leif nodded. ‘The bride’s father holds the marriage feast in his own hall, and pays for it.’ He suddenly smirked roguishly. ‘Aslanga’s face should be a picture when she’s told she’ll have to sail to Bornholm for Bjorn’s wedding. Our master’s not exactly the apple of the mistress’s eye, is he?’
* * *
During the first week on Bjornholm, Ubbi and Jorund played happily with the king’s numerous grandchildren, released from many of their own duties whilst the visitors were here. But on occasion Ulf had caught Jorund staring at him, a puzzled look on his face. It was time to have a talk with the boy.
‘You’ve found a good friend in Ubbi,’ he said as they ate their morning meal together in the noisy hall. ‘He told me you’re his best friend now.’
Jorund glanced at Ubbi, chatting with Bjorn at Alfarin’s table. ‘I like Ubbi, too. And he looks after me, because he’s older.’
‘That’s good to hear. Were you lonely in Aalborg, Jorund?’
‘I wasn’t lonely. Mother told me stories and taught me my letters, and we played with my bricks and built towers and bridges. But when Yrsa was born Mother had no time for me. I was very unhappy, until she told me that all babies take up lots of time – and gave me this to remind me that she still loved me.’