by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
With all these taunts, Ulf began to detest the boy’s very existence. To deter comparison, he would take himself as far away as possible from whatever vicinity Sigurd happened to be in. For this reason he had declined to join today’s mock battle, and sat apart with his friend. Yet even here he could not escape; Eric Fart was laughing and gesticulating at the boy who wore a scabbard that was much too long and dragged along the ground as he paraded manfully about his business, finally becoming entangled with his legs and tripping him. Eric fell onto his back laughing.
Ulf fumed. ‘What is so funny? The little runt, he is no better than my arsehole. I would dearly love to teach him some humility. He crows and struts too loudly, boasts that he is not afraid to die but first he should be made to look death in the face.’ He was tired of others indulging Sigurd, allowing him to inflict wounds which, if caused by a man, would bring harsh punishment.
Eric sprawled upon the ground, paunch to the heavens, his vigour spent for the moment. Built like an Icelandic pony, with heavy body, short limbs, his face as dark and ugly as a troll, he too was often the butt of Thorald’s jokes, hence he and Ulf shared a common bond. ‘Why not teach him then, instead of moaning to me?’ Expert in the art of conserving energy, he raised his shoulders just enough to extend a slothlike arm for a cup of ale.
Ulf grew angrier, watching the boy being permitted to win so often. ‘Ja, indeed I will!’ He jumped up, inserted his fingers into the handle of his shield, hefted the sword on loan from his leader and, with menace tensing his lips, advanced on his unwitting victim.
Breathless at yet another triumph, Sigurd was about to rest when Ulf’s sword bore down on him. Only just in time he twisted his body and parried the blow with his shield, but its force knocked him into a sitting position. Expecting to be allowed to rise, Sigurd half-grinned, dropped his guard – and was appalled to see Ulf’s blade lunging for his throat. He had no recourse but to collapse onto his back and hope that the point would stop short.
Ulf straddled him, exerting firm pressure on the hilt. Sigurd felt the tip bite through nerve and gasped. Appeased at having produced a look of fear, Ulf was about to grant mercy, but Sigurd could not afford to wait. Fearing that Ulf meant to kill him he panicked and with a haphazard swipe of his own weapon tried to knock Ulf’s blade out of position.
Thorald heard the clang of iron and looked up, annoyed. ‘Hey! Who mistreats my sword!’ He bullocked his way through the onlookers, shouldered Ulf aside and, by means of a handful of tunic, dragged Sigurd to his feet. ‘Doest not know how to treat a blade by now?’ With weapons being extremely valuable it was a fool who crossed sword with sword; thrusts were always met by shield or flesh.
‘I had no choice!’ Sigurd clutched his throat and looked horrified when his fingers came away smeared with blood. ‘He meant to kill me!’
Thorald grabbed the sword which he had lent the boy. ‘I will kill you myself if you’ve ruined my life-quencher! You can keep to your own axe until you are competent.’ He ran his frown along the blade looking for serrations – then without warning swung it at Ulf s head. The younger man parried with his shield but dared not make a retaliatory blow. The onlookers, including Sigurd, watched the two press against each other like sparring walruses, waited for Thorald’s next move, but all that came were wounding words. ‘Are you a suckling that you have learnt so little respect for your weapon?’
Livid, Ulf retorted through a grimace, ‘’Twas not I who struck metal!’
‘So! The boy was right, your aim was for flesh?’ Thorald growled into the younger man’s face. ‘Then take care, Bareface. I would not wish to see my young friend harmed in any way.’ He gave a hefty shove, dismissing Ulf, and when the other turned to go delivered a kick to his patched buttock.
Belittled, Ulf slunk off to moan to his friend. Sigurd took the opposite direction and went into the barrack house. The rapid change from sunlight to darkness blinded him for the moment. He groped for a bench, sat down, vision swimming. Quaking at how near he had come to death, he touched his throat again. The blood had begun to clot. Instead of wiping it away he left it there as a badge of initiation, and yet it continued to puzzle him why Ulf was so sullen and dangerous towards him, when they were about to face a common enemy.
Knowing his friend well, Eric was in no such state of confusion. He observed with languid eye, hiding a grin as Ulf threw shield and weapon on the ground and paced before him like one demented. Ulf did not like to lose at anything. Eric had known him come to violence over something as trivial as a board game.
At last Ulf’s shallow jaw opened to articulate his displeasure. ‘I can only imagine that Thorald has designs on the boy!’
‘Then shouldst you not feel pity for him?’ Eric rubbed his eye with a knuckle, each grubby finger adorned by a ring.
Ulf ranted and fumed a while longer, then finally acquiesced. ‘Ja, in that you may be right.’ He shook his cropped head. ‘I will grant Smallaxe credit, he did not beg for mercy as I had thought.’
‘Hoped,’ corrected Eric, shuffling his body into a more comfortable position upon the hard-baked ground. ‘I cannot see why you waste so much energy on fry like him. He is cocksure, ja, but he has done you no personal harm. For myself, I like him. ’Tis Thorald who has stirred your temper. He is too big for you so you vent your anger on the boy.’
‘Look at you, pig in shit!’ Ulf threw himself upon his fat lazy friend and a wrestling match ensued, which ended as it always did with Ulf winning and his good humour restored. The two fell away from each other laughing, to find Sigurd looking down at them.
‘And what crave you, pup?’ Ulf tugged his red tunic into place but remained in his supine position alongside Eric.
‘Take care!’ jeered the ugly one. ‘He may have come for revenge.’
Sigurd replied with dignity, ‘I crave only answer; what harm have I done that you should want to kill me?’
‘Fie!’ Eric assumed a generous air. ‘Cease this talk of murder and sit you down – take some ale, some cake, take anything you will.’ His offer rebuffed, he shrugged, reached for a cake himself and popped it whole into his mouth.
Ulf sat up to retie one of his criss-crossed garters. ‘Had I wished to kill you then you should not be standing here.’
It was hard to uphold a dignified profile in the face of such disdain. Sigurd wanted to kick him. ‘I only stand here because I knocked your blade from my throat!’
Ulf sneered. ‘And almost cut your head off into the bargain! Fool, I was set to release you when you acted so rash.’
‘Even so, ’twas a good move,’ donated Eric. Ulf gave his friend a dangerous look but Eric’s eyes were closed.
Sigurd pressed for an answer. Always eager to make friends, he hated it when people snubbed him and was prepared to make numerous attempts before relegating them to his short list of enemies. ‘I believe if Thorald had not intervened you would have killed me and…’
‘Do not put great faith in Thorald,’ cut in Ulf.
‘…and I would know why!’ finished Sigurd.
Garter tied, Ulf leaned back on his palms and looked mystified. ‘But do you not tell everyone you are not afraid to die?’
‘For a cause!’ The deep-set eyes widened with boyish frustration. ‘Not at the hands of a supposed friend.’
‘You would gain more friends if you stopped crowing like a rooster,’ returned Ulf. ‘That was all I wished to teach you – that you are no more nor less than any man here, and that death is not something to be scoffed at.’
Eric endorsed this. ‘You should really thank him, Smallaxe. It is the most useful lesson you have learnt here.’
Sigurd looked down at the recumbent goblin and pondered over his words. It had indeed been a dreadful shock and admittedly a good lesson, but he still felt the need to hit back at Ulf for his unprovoked savagery. Ulf’s face reminded him of something – ah yes, that was it! Often the waves bored hollows in rocks at the water’s edge, the ebb-tide leaving droplets of brine in each
cup: that was what Ulf’s face resembled. His jaw might be shallow but was chavelled from granite, obstinate, ungiving. Folding into a squat, he began to pare the chipped nail on his big toe and asked, ‘How old are you?’
‘Four and twenty.’ Ulf used Eric’s belly as a pillow.
‘Then why have you no beard?’
Ulf shot upright, but Eric with the minimum of action held him back and told Sigurd, ‘The gods think him too beautiful to hide under a matt of hair.’
Content to have pricked Ulf in this childish manner, Sigurd found the ability to grin and told Eric, ‘They must consider you most ugly – they gave you double measure.’
The dark one responded with a cacophony of flatulence to show that he was not in the least offended and shut his eyes again. Disgusted, Ulf moved out of range.
Sigurd tried to put all ill-feeling behind him. ‘I heard such an incredible tale from the man called Roric – his ship was bitten in two by Orca!’ Amongst sailors, the killer whale was feared above all.
Ulf ignored him, but Eric replied, ‘If it’s tales you want you should have come to me. I could have told you that – but no, everyone thinks Eric is just a fart-box and knows nought.’
The boy, eager for another saga, asked, ‘You have seen Orca?’
‘Of course.’ The black lashes never lifted.
‘What colour was he – and how big?’
Eric’s reply was shirty. ‘Why should I waste my breath when you come to me last?’
‘Oh, I beg you to tell me!’
‘Well…’ As the thud of footsteps signalled another’s arrival, Eric opened one eye. ‘Ah, here is Thorald, it will have to wait until later.’
A hulking Thorald joined the trio. ‘Good! I see you have made friends.’
Sigurd glanced at Ulf then went back to fiddling with his toenail. He was performing more gingerly now, having tugged the loose part close to the nailbed. Thorald hunkered with them and shared their ale. For a time the talk was on the coming invasion, then in a lull, Sigurd asked, ‘Did any of you know my father in person?’
Thorald splashed ale from the jug in his haste to dive in with an answer. ‘I had that honour! Einar was the best friend a man could have. I have never known anyone to compare in strength nor courage. There was one time…’ He went on to relate many anecdotes in which the two men had supposedly committed various deeds of valour, ending with the flattering comment, ‘You are very like him.’
Sigurd, who had been leaning forward attentively, now blushed with pride. Despite Thorald’s rough veneer the boy had begun to regard him as a father figure. He was so very different to Uncle Olaf.
Ulf shared a knowing look with Eric. Now, each was certain Thorald had plans for the boy. After listening to the homily, Ulf examined his farmer’s hands and mused, ‘If he was so skilful, how is it that he is dead?’
Sigurd erupted, and the action caused him to rip the nail into flesh, increasing his ire. ‘He was caught unawares by Ethelred’s men!’
‘That shows a certain lack of judgment,’ goaded Ulf, yet privately marvelled at the way the boy contorted his toe up to his mouth and licked away the blood. ‘A man should always keep his sword at hand.’
‘And so he did!’ Sigurd’s toe throbbed; he sucked it and spat. ‘But what use is one blade against a hundred!’
‘He went unaccompanied amongst his enemy?’ Ulf clicked his tongue and shook his head in woeful fashion.
Sigurd’s voice rose to a yell. ‘He had five men! He did not need an army!’
The more the boy shouted the calmer Ulf’s response. ‘It seems to me that he did.’ The whiskerless mouth smirked at Eric. Sigurd, growing more and more heated, was about to throw himself upon his tormentor, but a commotion turned all heads.
‘The King!’ Thorald jumped to his feet. ‘The time is nigh. Keep your energy for the English, Smallaxe – to the ships!’
* * *
Swein unleashed his fleet of wind-steeds upon the North Sea, the host of multi-coloured sails in contrast to the brilliant blue of the sky, two hundred craning necks with England in their sights. Inebriated by the magnificence, Sigurd gazed in awe at the might and beauty of the langskips, none so resplendent as that of the monarch who sailed at their midst, his prow and tiller embellished with gold.
The sea was kind, parting in sensuous swell to oaken breast and belly. With neither map nor compass the viking fleet navigated by means of sun and star, the feel of the wind, and centuries of experience by their forefathers. Sigurd daydreamed of these brave explorers who had left the legacy of their voyaging: how had they felt, sailing into the unknown? Had their hearts trembled with the same boyish worries as Sigurd’s whilst on the outside remaining firm and resolute, that none might know their cowardice?
‘Make yourself useful!’ Ulf threw a bailing scoop which knocked the dreamy look from Sigurd’s face.
The boy responded with a bad-tempered howl and rubbed his head. ‘Why do you not take your turn?’
‘Because I tell you to do it!’ Ulf’s face defied argument.
Grumbling, Sigurd knelt, lifted a plank and peered into the cavity. ‘It is not worth bailing. There is hardly two inches of water.’
‘I have known men drown in two inches of water.’
So threatening was Ulf’s face that Sigurd had to do as he was told, but managed to flick at least one scoop in Ulf’s direction before the hollow eyes warned him to desist.
The hours rolled by. Some craft travelled faster than the others, some ploughed on whilst others slept. The leaders covered over a hundred miles in that first twenty-four hours, and thus during the ensuing voyage the fleet began to thin out. Sigurd reckoned they had been at sea a week when at last, new land was sighted, a land very different from the mountainous fjords of home. Piloted by auk and gull the warships made for the coast of Kent where they dropped anchor to assess the situation and adjust the rudders to the shallower waters. In place of grassy banks there were long ribbons of shingled beach where the creamy tide rushed and whispered. Shields were displayed on a rail along the sides of the ships, their metal bosses catching the light to dazzle the group of fisherfolk on the shore. To these simple onlookers the gilded craft appeared as mythical beasts – their flanks studded with a hundred silver nipples, their gaping jaws invoking terror – and they fled to give warning.
Impatient at the delay, Sigurd turned to Ulf – Thorald had extracted much delight in forcing them into a rowing partnership. ‘When are we to launch the attack?’
Ulf stretched his lithe bronze hands to the July sun and yawned. ‘Why ask me? I am not an important warrior like you. I just follow orders.’
By now, Sigurd had come to understand that the lugubrious expression was not reserved for him alone but was Ulf’s natural mien. Still, it was irritating, especially when in addition to this Ulf never gave a straight answer. He looked to Eric who provided sapient conjecture but no real explanation. The thin chest heaved with impatience. Why he endured the company of these two was hard to say; one stank, the other was gloomy and neither was in the least informed about their mission.
He called out his question to Thorald, who could always be relied upon, telling Sigurd, ‘The King gives leave for us to refresh ourselves whilst the rest of the fleet catches up. He says it would be reckless to attack here where resistance is greatest. We shall sail north up the coast and be in the Humbre by tomorrow morn. I wonder what England will say when she wakes to find us in her back passage – a nice surprise, ja?’
‘I cannot think of a more horrible shock than to wake and find you in my back passage,’ muttered Ulf. In the same breath he rose from the bench, stripped naked and dived overboard.
Others adopted this brazen romp, displaying to any English spectator just how confident they were of victory. The sea threshed as if with netted fish. Sigurd, too, peeled off his clothes and dived. Sunny though it was, this had no effect on the temperature of the waves. The impact sent him gasping upwards, tossing the freezing water from his hair an
d making rapid retreat to the launch. He had almost dragged his shivering haunches back on board when Eric shouted, ‘Sigurd no-balls!’ and grabbed his ankle to pull him back with a splash.
There was much horseplay, even from Ulf. No one seemed to be concerned about attack, only the effect of the icy water on their genitalia. When they clambered back on deck there was raucous laughter and comparison of parts.
After breakfasting on salted herrings, battle helmets were donned and full weaponry displayed. The mood remained merry. Swein Forkbeard led his awesome fleet northwards along an everchanging coastline, sailing as planned into the Humbre and from there up the Treante into the heart of the Danelaw, laying waste to both sides of the river so that by the time they reached Gæignesburh word of their viciousness preceded them and Earl Uhtred of Northumbria submitted almost without resistance. Shire by shire, they accepted Swein as overlord until all the land to the North of Watling Street, the old Roman boundary, was his.
Sigurd, primed for battle, suffered days of melancholia at this anti-climax. Turning his back on the city of Gæignesburh he slouched upon the riverbank, chin on palm, and gazed across the water at a flat landscape that covered miles and miles. Somewhere out there beyond the fields of blue flax, Jorvik beckoned.
Catching him so despondent, Thorald crouched beside him and offered a sup of ale that was an identical shade of brown to the river. When Sigurd refused he shook his head, jingling the elaborate earrings. ‘I cannot understand you, Smallaxe. Are you not pleased at our success? Look! They give us aid freely.’ There was great activity around the riverbank with locals delivering food and horses to the camp.