by Martin Lake
Ivar and his brothers welcomed Echberht and his men with great cheer and directed them to a comely house, promising a feast for the evening.
When they had gone out of earshot, he gestured Guthrum and Leif to him. Eohric made to follow but Ivar stared coldly at him until, cursing silently, he stalked off.
‘What do you think of this Echberht?’ Ivar asked.
‘He’s a trouble-maker,’ Guthrum said. ‘He goaded Leif and Eohric on the journey south, fanning the enmity between them. He did it for spite, nothing more. I do not trust such a man.’
Ivar glanced at Leif.
‘Guthrum’s right about this. He played me for a fool. He seems to know exactly how to winkle out any grievance or malice.’ He paused and considered further. ‘But I don’t think he did it solely for spite. He was testing Eohric and me, using our reactions as a potential weapon for the future. When Eohric and I raged at each other he spent almost as much time watching Guthrum as us.’
Ivar rubbed his hands with pleasure. ‘Exactly as I hoped. A vicious brute with just enough intelligence. The harder I ride him the more savagely he’ll bite his countrymen.’
Guthrum frowned. ‘Is it not dangerous to have such a man as King of Northumbria? Might he not try to bite us?’
‘Northumbria is made up of two wolves, Bernicia and Deira,’ Ivar said. ‘When one wolf is strong, it rules. But the other bides its time, sniffing out weakness, planning to seize power. I do not intend to make Echberht a powerful wolf.’
Guthrum nodded although he still looked a little dubious.
‘Northumbria is still a divided kingdom,’ Ivar continued, ‘with little love between the people of Bernicia and those of Deria. It is why I came north. A divided land is more easily conquered.
‘And, I will leave Jarl Sidrac here to keep an eye on our new friend.’
Guthrum smiled. Leif, on the other hand, was less sanguine. Ivar might talk about setting up a new king but two other men, each with a better claim to the throne were still at large.
‘Osberht is in Bernicia,’ Leif said, ‘and gathering an army.’
‘To fight us?’ Ivar asked. He seemed completely unconcerned.
‘To fight Aelle for the throne.’
Ivar smiled. ‘That proves my point, young Skald. Two wolves, each preparing to fight for a petty crown. Yet all the time a dragon is waiting to consume them.’
GATHERING STORM
The winter was as hard as any Leif had known. Frost came the day before the Yule feast and once it had its claws upon the land it refused to relent. The days grew ever more bitter and men walked in fogs of their own breathing. And then, a month after Yule, vast black clouds rolled in from the west and a blizzard fell upon the land.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Nerienda said as she peered out of the shutters at the swirling whiteness.
‘Aye,’ Aebbe said, ‘but it will be the death of many folk, I fear.’
‘But not us,’ Leif said. He stared at the storm for a moment and then returned to his stool beside the fire.
He was right. The English were going hungry but not the Vikings.
When they’d conquered York they had found the stores well stocked with food and ale. In the months since they had plundered the land with systematic ruthlessness, filling the stores to over-flowing.
Ivar had ordered them to leave the immediate hinterland of the city untouched, reserving that for the worst days of winter when travel would be difficult. Instead they attacked a wide swathe of land between ten and thirty miles around. Not a farm escaped their depredations, not a herd of cows or flock of sheep still grazed, not an orchard bore fruit nor fish-pond remained stocked.
The Vikings took the strongest men and most beautiful women to the city as slaves. Some were loaded onto ships bound for the great slave markets of Dublin and Scandinavia but hundreds more remained in the city to serve the army. Sigurd now spent as much time forging manacles and iron collars as horse-shoes or swords.
Ivar and his brothers were delighted at the influx of slaves. Every ship’s crew were given an allotment of half a dozen men and women. Even the poorest warriors began to think of themselves as lords.
The male slaves laboured in the freezing cold to repair the walls, make good any damage to the ships and assist their masters in hunts and wild-fowling. The women laboured to make wool for the fleet’s great sails, to maintain the houses, cook and mend clothes and to satisfy the men’s lust in bed.
The only ones unhappy at the arrival of the slaves were Nerienda and her whores. Nerienda charged the warriors good money, while the slaves were free. Inevitably her trade began to fall away. In the end, desperate to keep the business, Nerienda began to offer the best of food and ale in her brothel and made her girls offer ever more erotic and unusual services. Word got around the camp and it stemmed the exodus for a while. But in the end the men grew tired of paying for what they could demand for free from their slaves and her trade fell off once again.
Eventually she decided to buy those slaves who were prettiest or most celebrated for their bed-skills. Most of the warriors were persuaded to sell their slaves because of the price she offered.
‘Why would any man sell their slave only to later pay for her services?’ Sigurd asked her, bewildered.
‘Because men cannot count as well as I can,’ she said. ‘A handful of coins seems a good bargain to them. They cannot see that I will recoup it from them many times.’
Her wealth was sore depleted but she remained one of the wealthiest people in the city and as time went on her wealth slowly but surely increased.
Throughout the winter a constant series of slave convoys arrived in the city, new blood to export abroad or expend within the walls. The slaves were treated worse than dogs, insulted and beaten on the slightest whim, forbidden to meet in more than twos or threes and given only enough food to keep them working. They had little shelter and the rags they wore were little use against the dreadful cold.
Many died in these months and their corpses were thrown outside the walls to be eaten by dogs and wild beasts.
This last practice caused great grief to the Christ-followers.
Their archbishop, Wulfhere, had remained in the city, making peace with the conquerors for the sake of his people. Eventually, as he watched the wretched slaves endlessly carting emaciated bodies for disposal beyond the walls, he found his courage and determined to speak with Ivar.
Leif was intrigued by the old man’s bold move, wondering what he intended to do, and hurried after him to Ivar’s hall. This might make for an amusing story, he thought.
‘What is the nature of your complaint?’ Ivar asked the archbishop incredulously, waving a half-eaten knuckle of pork in the air.
He listened to Wulfhere’s long peroration with a bored half-attention but eventually lost any semblance of patience. ‘Slaves die,’ he growled, ‘and their bodies can’t be left to fester and rot in the city. When spring comes, the stench will become unbearable.’
Wulfhere closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to his God.
‘It is not about where the bodies are deposited,’ he said. ‘It is about how they are treated.’
‘I will order that they are carried more respectfully,’ Ivar said. ‘They shall be covered in cloaks to shroud them from prying eyes.’
‘But you still intend to dump them on the open ground, to be eaten by wild and savage creatures?’
Ivar shrugged and began to gnaw once more upon his meat.
‘But these people are Christians,’ Wulfhere cried. ‘They need Christian rites, prayers, holy words, and burial.’
He paused both for breath and dramatic effect.
‘Yes, they must be buried,’ he continued, ‘for if not, they will be devoured by beasts. And then how can they rise for the Final Judgement?’
‘At Ragnorak?’ Ivar asked in surprise. ‘They rise up to fight for Odin?’
He exchanged a bemused look with his brothers.
‘No,’ Wulfhere snapped. ‘Every Christian
rises from the grave and stands in front of Christ for Him to cast eternal judgement upon them.’
Ivar’s only response was a yawn.
‘My lord,’ Wulfhere said, ‘I beg you to let my priests give a Christian burial to every man, woman and child who dies.’
Ivar sighed and looked at his brothers. They both shrugged, bored beyond words by the whole discussion.
‘And if I agree to this?’ Ivar asked, wearily. ‘What do I get in return?’
Wulfhere had been expecting this and had his answer ready.
‘I shall acknowledge you as lords of the city,’ he said. ‘And I shall levy a tithe upon every church and monastery in my province and this shall go to you.’
‘I have no need of your help in taking money from your churches,’ Ivar said. ‘I take what I want, when I want.’
‘But this will come to you without any effort on your part. And proclaiming you lords of the city will be a great blow to your enemies.’
‘Then why would you do it?’
‘For the sake of the dead. They must be given a Christian burial.’ He got down on his knees. ‘I beg you.’
Ivar stared at him in silence, pondering how to wring out the greatest advantage. ‘If you must,’ he said, at last. ‘But no slaves are to dig the graves and no slaves are to carry the bodies. They work for us and us alone. From henceforward, these tasks must be done by your priests.’
Wulfhere swallowed. This was a harsh imposition and he knew that many of his priests would be unhappy at being forced to this work.
‘I shall be the first to dig the graves,’ he said, humbling himself still more by bowing low to the ground.
‘I like that,’ Ivar said. ‘A man who leads by example. I shall come and watch.’
He waved Wulfhere away and returned to his pork knuckle.
Wulfhere was as good as his word. He helped carry the next slave to die, an old woman from a village near the coast. She was little more than skin and bones and even the aged archbishop had little trouble with the stretcher. A crowd of warriors followed him through the gates, a few cheering his efforts but most jeering.
Ivar stood beneath the walls, wrapped in a heavy fur coat and with a cup of hot wine in his hand. He had ordered Leif to attend, thinking this a fine topic for a song. Aebbe had insisted on coming along as well and watched proceedings anxiously.
The archbishop began to dig the grave. The ground was hard as rock and he made little impact with his spade. He changed it for a pick and resolutely chipped away at the soil. But he was an old man and unused to manual labour and he was soon panting from the exertion. A bevy of young priests who had accompanied him went to take the pick from him but Ivar bellowed to them to stop. Wulfhere had insisted he would dig the first grave and he intended to hold him to his word.
The crowd fell silent as the old man continued to hack at the unyielding earth. He staggered a few times but made the sign of the cross and continued with his task. But then his foot slipped on the icy ground, the pick dropped from his hands and he almost fell. The Vikings gave a loud hoot of laughter to see his arms whirling to keep his balance.
‘This is terrible,’ Aebbe cried. Before Leif could stop her she darted forward and took up the pick.
‘I shall dig the grave, Father,’ she said.
Ivar opened his mouth to stop her but thought better of it. He’d suddenly realised that if the old man completed the grave he would become a hero to his people. But if a girl had to finish his work for him he would be a figure of contempt.
But Aebbe was also having difficulty, so hard was the ground. She had made little progress when she stopped, leaning on the pick handle and gasping for air.
Leif could watch no longer. He strode forward, took the pick from her and began to chop at the ground. He realised it would anger Ivar but felt he had no choice. He cared nothing for the old holy man but did not want to see Aebbe exhaust herself fruitlessly.
But no matter how hard Leif swung the pick he could make little headway. The ground was more stubborn than Wulfhere had proved to be.
The sweat poured from his face as he worked, hot at first but icy cold within moments. He paused to see how far he had broken the earth. Hardly at all. At this rate it would take him until sundown to complete the grave. By then, he thought, he’d be so exhausted he might well fall into it with the corpse.
But then the pick was snatched from my hand.
‘Out of the way, brother,’ Sigurd said.
He spat on his hands, raised the pick above his head and sent it crashing to the ground with a thud which echoed against the walls.
Leif blinked in amazement. With one blow Sigurd had removed more soil than Wulfhere, Aebbe and he had managed in total.
He lifted the pick again and attacked the hole with unerring accuracy and strength. The onlookers marvelled at his strength and determination. In a surprisingly short while he had made a trench deep enough to take the corpse and keep it safe from the depredations of wild creatures.
Ivar watched for a moment longer, nodded his head once to give his agreement and headed back into the city.
The body was laid to rest and Wulfhere began the funeral service.
Sigurd threw the pick to the ground and smiled at Leif.
‘That was easy work for a smith,’ he said. ‘You shall have a harder task to make a tale which will amuse Ivar and not drop you or me in the shit for helping the old fool of a priest.’
‘He didn’t do it for the priest,’ Aebbe said. ‘He did it for me. And I am glad for I am with child and do not wish to lose it.’
Leif’s mouth fell agape.
‘Lost for words, Leif,’ Sigurd said. ‘Now, there’s a first.’
THE NORTHUMBRIANS GATHER
Aebbe’s belly grew fatter as the days grew longer. Leif could not believe that a baby was growing there. Was it like a flower or a vegetable, climbing on a stalk? Or was it a tiny person, growing larger day by day as children and animals do in the world? He asked Aebbe which it was and she had no answer, nor did she seem to need one.
‘When will he be born?’ he asked, hoping that at least he would learn something.
‘You’re certain it will be a boy?’ she said with a smile.
‘I just thought it would be,’ he answered.
Aebbe squeezed his hand affectionately. ‘Time will tell. And the baby will be born in summer, on the longest day of the year, perhaps.’
Leif smiled, relieved for some reason. He could find nothing more to say, so he sauntered outside and sniffed the air. The days were still cold but there was a scent of warmth in the breeze, elusive but noticeable. A few bushes were budding, oak trees were starting to leaf and blackbirds and starlings were beginning to build their nests.
He walked to the smithy and found Sigurd hammering a horse-shoe into shape.
‘So, you’ve finished with slave bonds,’ he said.
Sigurd nodded. ‘Halfdan asked me to make more horse-shoes. And more swords and spear-heads.’
Leif felt a little worm thread its way through his bowels. ‘So we’re getting ready for war?’
‘Seems that way.’
Leif’s lips grew dry. The mere mention of war sent his imagination spinning.
He saw himself in the midst of battle, hacking enemies in a shield-wall, falling maimed or fatally injured, or fleeing his foes in terror or standing stupefied by overwhelming fear. His nostrils filled with the stench of blood, shit and horror.
Sigurd whistled happily as he worked.
‘Aren’t you worried about going to war?’ Leif demanded.
Sigurd shrugged. ‘What’s the point of worrying? It won’t change anything.’
Leif sighed. His brother was right, of course. But it didn’t make his words any use or comfort.
‘I wish I was like you, Sigurd,’ he said. ‘I wish I didn’t worry.’
Sigurd flung the horse-shoe on a pile beside the anvil. ‘I like you to worry,’ he said. ‘It saves me the trouble. And besides, if you wo
rry enough you might figure out how to keep us out of trouble.’
‘There is that, I suppose. And it’s important now that I’m going to be a father.’
‘It’s more than just that,’ Sigurd said. ‘I’m going to be an uncle. We don’t want the boy to have an uncle who’s been made useless by his wounds.’
‘Aebbe thinks it might not be a boy.’
‘Don’t listen to her. What do women know about offspring?’
Leif did not answer for his attention was taken by a man racing to Ivar’s Hall. He was breathing heavily and looked alarmed.
‘Come on,’ Leif said. ‘Something’s happening.’
The Hall was crowded with the chieftains of the army, Jarls and the greater thegns. Other warriors were streaming in behind.
Leif and Sigurd pushed their way to the front of the crowd and saw the messenger talking to Ivar and his brothers, his arms gesticulating wildly. He finished at last and Ivar rose to his feet, staring at the door of the Hall as though his gaze could pierce the timber.
‘What’s happening?’ Jarl Sidrac demanded.
Ivar turned to him and gave a dreadful grin. Leif could not understand his look. Was it anxiety or excitement?
‘The two Northumbrian Kings have put aside their differences,’ Ivar said in a voice which carried to the furthest corners. ‘Their armies have joined together and are marching south towards us. They will be here within days.’
There was an eruption of noise.
Leif glanced at the rest of the warriors. Most looked exultant although a few seemed concerned.
‘Two armies?’ said Jarl Osbern. He was a cunning man with eyes which roved everywhere except the face of the person he addressed. ‘Can we fight such a force with hope of success?’
Ivar spoke quickly to quell any uncertainty Osbern’s words might cause. ‘How many warriors?’ he asked the messenger.
‘A thousand —’
‘There,’ cried Halfdan, in triumph. ‘That’s less than we have.’
The messenger gulped and spoke once more. ‘In each of the king’s armies.’
There was silence in the Hall. Even the most stupid of the men could do this sum.