by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
‘You jest!’ groaned Ulf, his face a mass of cuts and one more fearsome gash upon his brow. ‘How shall we find him amongst thousands?’
‘His evil odour shall mark him,’ responded the youth and, after many circuits, by some miracle finally led them to the grotesque hairy corpse.
Ulf grimaced. How small was man in death, how flat, how shrunken. ‘Will not the brooch suffice? The rest, I confess, was mere boast.’
For answer Sigurd picked up a fallen axe, raised it and brought it down to cut through bone and gristle and sinew – at least, this was his intent had his green limbs been strong enough; the axe had to be employed twice more before the head was removed.
That night it was boiled in a cauldron over the fire until the flesh and hair floated off it and Sigurd held the cleaned skull upon his palm. The lower jaw had broken away from the top and was somewhere at the bottom of the cauldron. ‘He does not look so dangerous like this.’ Sigurd upturned the cranium, filled it with ale and handed it to Ulf.
Ulf took a deep breath. ‘No one else would induce me to do this but my good friend Sigurd who today saved my life. I shall never forget.’ So saying, he put the grisly cup to his lips, then passed it to Eric who drank too. The boy watched him closely for signs of hesitation, but there was none, which made him glad.
After living alongside these men for the past three years, and in particular after what they had gone through today, Sigurd felt overwhelmed by the sense of comradeship. His eyes burned with emotion as he toasted his dear friends. ‘By this cup we three are bound together.’ He tossed back his head to drink the last drop, then with no particular aim he flung Thorald’s skull over his shoulder, away into the night.
* * *
It was difficult to wind down after a battle and the violence continued in the form of competitions and games. Despite the horrors he had faced, or perhaps because of them, Sigurd had the yen to snatch at a boyhood he had never really known, do the silly things that boys did if unencumbered by a mother such as Ragnhild. That evening as he sat by the campfire watching Ulf doze, a wicked thought came to mind and he whispered it to Eric. ‘I wonder what Ulf would look like with a beard?’ Eric, half-asleep himself, just grunted. The boy sprang up with impish face and temporarily left the group. When he returned he had a bunch of hair cut from his pony’s tail; this he draped gently over the sleeping Ulf’s chin.
Eric viewed the mischief through heavy lids and gave a word of caution. ‘You sail close to the wind.’
Sigurd turned from his prank with a devil-may-care grin… a mistake, for Ulf was a light sleeper. The moment the hair tickled his chin he jumped up ready for attack. Sigurd rose too, laughing. ‘Only a jest, my friend!’
Ulf clawed the threads of horsehair from his mouth, eyes like pools of acid.
‘How soon doest thou forget!’ mocked Sigurd. ‘Did I not save your life?’
Ulf’s fingers sought the last elusive hair on his lips. ‘When you have saved my life ten times, then you can make jest! Until then…’ The fingers at his mouth became a fist that aimed for Sigurd’s jaw.
The boy was unconscious for ten minutes. He woke to hear concerned words from Eric. ‘I think you have broken his skull.’
‘Nei, it is too thick,’ growled Ulf. ‘See, the little bastard wakes.’
Sigurd looked up at Ulf with an expression of glazed bewilderment. Eric laughed. ‘I think you will never play a joke on Ulf again, ja!’
Fully rested, Cnut’s army trailed Edmund into Gleawanceastershire, but before any fresh engagement Eadric Streona came creeping back to ingratiate himself with Cnut, making out that his pretend partnership with Edmund and his flight from the field at Assandun had been deliberate policy in support of the young Dane. Sigurd began to think that perhaps this man was a wizard, for just as Edmund had taken him back without question, so Cnut appeared to forgive his lapse. Eadric had come to offer advice: despite the massive losses at Assandun, Edmund’s army remained devoted and an outright victory was impossible. Would it not be better for all if Cnut came to terms with Edmund?
Sigurd could gnash his teeth all he wanted at the thought of Ethelred’s line continuing in office, but Cnut accepted the stoat’s advice and decreed that to protect lives he would come to an arrangement with his brave and tenacious adversary. A meeting was arranged on an island in the Sæfern where the two kings exchanged gifts and drew up a charter that divided the country thus: Cnut himself was to hold the main body of England, but Edmund could have Wessex.
Sigurd almost choked on his resentment when he heard. ‘That Ethelred’s whelp is to have even an inch of English soil is too much to bear! The King must have lost his mind to listen to Eadric.’
‘Hush, lest you lose your balls,’ urged Eric.
But Sigurd was too angry to listen. ‘Eadric must have some reason of his own for suggesting this arrangement, for he hath no love for Edmund.’
These suspicions were heightened the following month when news came that Edmund had died unexpectedly at the age of just twenty-two. Rumours were rife that Eadric was responsible, and Sigurd thought so too. ‘Hah! Watch closely now, Eadric will jump into Edmund’s shoes as if they were made for him.’ But for once he did not care if his predictions were right. With the rest of Ethelred’s sons in exile and his line brought to a halt, as far as the crown of England was concerned, Sigurd assumed his father’s honour to have been revenged.
Ergo, in 1017 Cnut succeeded to the throne of all England, dividing it into four parts: himself retaining Wessex, and giving East Anglia to Thorkell, Northumbria to Jarl Eirik and Mercia to Eadric.
Sigurd was pleased to find himself invited to follow the King to his palace at Wintanceaster, but was somewhat discomfited by the state of his clothes which, like those of his fellows, were gored and in tatters. There was even more of a contrast now that Cnut had changed out of his own stained garb. However, he was not to be on open display for the audience was held in private – an even greater honour in Sigurd’s opinion, yet he was curious to know why this was so. Cnut bade his young friend to sit beside his throne, noticing that he had acquired a sword. Rank decreed that the spoils of war were his, but his fondness for Sigurd caused him to overlook the impertinence. ‘You warned me of Thorald’s treachery and I did not heed.’
Such noble confession brought generous response from the boy. ‘Thorald had a way of winning people’s affection, my lord. He duped me, too. When I think of the way I let him take my land…’ He puffed out his lips. ‘He has paid for that now.’
Cnut drank from a golden goblet. ‘You killed him?’
‘Ja – at the Battle of Assandun.’ Sigurd rubbed at the carvings on the base of the throne.
Cnut leaned the back of his head against the timber and gazed into the past. ‘Ah, I was too busy there myself to notice. Was it an honourable end?’
The boy hung his head, not certain what answer was expected.
‘Good.’ The King nodded thoughtfully and put down his goblet. ‘There are others who deserve such an end, too.’
Sigurd wondered, during the thoughtful pause that followed, whether Cnut referred to Eadric. He made a tentative offer. ‘Should ever you need my sword in achieving those ends, my lord, it is at your disposal.’
‘Even for less glorious deeds than battle?’ The monarch appeared to read his mind and Sigurd in return deciphered his unspoken command.
‘Whatever you ask of me I will do it,’ he pledged, fully understanding now why the audience was in private.
Cnut nodded, still thoughtful, then a flashing smile transformed his hawkish face into one more handsome. ‘As from now your land is returned to you.’
‘I thank you, munificent one.’ Sigurd thought it impolitic to reply that he had been going to claim it anyway.
The monarch called for one of his English clerks to put this in writing. ‘And for your services you shall return to Jorvik bearing the rank of King’s thegn. I will call upon you when I need help in building bridges. There is much rebuild
ing to be done both in land and hearts.’
Sigurd bowed in recognition of the honour, though he hoped that the title would not impinge too greatly on his time, for he had much work to do on his own behalf.
From the way Cnut was nodding, the audience was obviously at an end. Sigurd himself had more to say. ‘I pay homage to your favour and your friendship, oh mighty King… There is just one matter I would air. Thorald was the owner of a longship…’
The palatial hall resounded to Cnut’s laughter. ‘The audacity of the lad! I honour him with titles and he would seize the prizes too! Are you not content with your sword – ja, I know it did not start the battle in your hand! Methinks I should hold fast to my crown.’ He leaned forward as if to deliver rebuke, but his eyes were yet merry. ‘Sigurd, if every man in my fyrd was to ask for a ship in reward…’ He had no need to finish, point made.
But the boy was dogged. ‘My lord, what is one less ship to you who hath a hundred? And have I not just promised you my sword? What is a sword without a ship? If you should ever have need of it I promise it, too, will be at your disposal.’
Cnut remained amused at the way Sigurd always tried to manipulate an extra favour. ‘I am mad to listen but yes, if you can find Thorald’s ship amongst those I have from Edmund’s gesture of goodwill then you may take it. Now go, before I lose my throne to you!’
Inflated by self-importance, Sigurd went to tell Ulf and Eric. ‘I go to Jorvik now. Will you come to claim the land I promised you? If so, you are welcome in my house until you choose to build your own.’
‘Your house?’ questioned Eric with a sly look at Ulf.
‘My house, my land,’ declared Sigurd. ‘If you do not take the word of a king’s thegn then ask the King himself.’
Both showed how impressed they were by making noises. ‘King’s thegn, eh?’ breathed Ulf. ‘Shall we dare speak to our noble lord?’
‘I give you leave to speak when spoken to.’ Sigurd grinned to show this was a jest – though only half a jest.
‘Why, we are so honoured,’ exclaimed the sober face. ‘How shall we celebrate our master’s good fortune?’
‘Baptise him!’ said Eric, and without further ado the two emptied their pots of ale over Sigurd’s head.
He took the teasing well, though made sure he got his own back by drenching them with ale too.
The next day the three friends travelled on foot to the place where the captured ships were moored, and amongst them found Thorald’s. As soon as they had hired a crew they rowed to Jorvik.
Grimy and aching for a bath though he was, the new thegn’s first act was to go from chair to chair with a knife, carving runic marks in the wood. Curious, Ulf asked for explanation. His young friend began to point. ‘Sigurd’s chair, Sigurd’s table, Sigurd’s stool…’
Ulf summoned Eric to look for himself. ‘No man will cheat our young friend again, methinks.’
‘We had better watch ourselves,’ replied a droll Eric. ‘Or he will be drinking ale from our skulls.’
Still carving, his tongue nipped in concentration, Sigurd answered the jocular doubts. ‘Friends need never fear my wrath. To them I am loyal unto death. But those who break my trust, try to make mock of me… they are not so wise.’ He sat back on his heels to brush the dust from the woodcuts. ‘Today another such fool is to discover that.’
It had been three years since the incident between Sigurd and his tenants. Algrim, the main culprit, had wiped it from his mind and did not recognize the battle-stained youth who rode up to the group of men working in the field. Sigurd reined in his horse before Algrim and looked down from his platform. The man broke off working and squinted up at him. When Sigurd did not explain the object of his visit but continued to glare, Algrim frowned his puzzlement. ‘Good day to you, friend.’
Sigurd did not return the greeting, upholding his rigidity. Algrim shrugged and was about to go back to his work when the youth broke his silence. ‘What do you hear?’
The lines on the walnut face deepened as Algrim listened. ‘I hear nought.’
‘Then allow me to open your ear so that you may heed your master when next he speaks to you.’ With a deftness of blade, Sigurd lopped off Algrim’s left ear before he even had time to feel it.
The kotsetlan were at once angry and fearful, cowering in a horrified group around their mutilated friend whilst the blood trickled in rivulets between his fingers and down his breast.
The fourteen-year-old Sigurd held them with his cold, deeply-set eyes, then thrust his weapon back in its scabbard. ‘Remember me,’ he said, and rode home to eat at his own table.
Chapter Six
Cnut’s reign was launched with a demand for tribute and a purge of all eminent Englishmen, upon whose banishment or execution their estates were given to Cnut’s fellow Danes. His next action was to marry, not his consort Aelgifu of whom he was still very fond, but Ethelred’s widow, either as a genuine gesture of harmony between the two cultures, or merely to show domination of the English. Ulf saw the move as even shrewder. When Sigurd voiced his incomprehension at such a choice – ‘Why does he marry that old troll, she must be over thirty!’ – he was given the likely explanation by his friend.
‘By marrying the Duke of Normandy’s sister, he reduces the risk of invasion from that quarter,’ Ulf told him, and Sigurd had to concede to the ruler’s mastery of a situation.
The union meant that Aelgifu’s children would lose out to Cnut’s legitimate heirs, but even so they fared better than Ethelred’s descendants, some of whom were exiled into Europe, the other infant son packed off to the King of Sweden to be secretly disposed of. By Yuletide most obstacles in Cnut’s way had been removed; only one remained. Nauseated by Eadric Streona’s perfidy towards former allies, the King decided his time had come. Whilst those in Jorvik thought Sigurd was enjoying a merry Yule with Cnut in Lunden, he and two more of the King’s trusted men were disposing of Eadric’s body over the palace wall.
Sigurd was happy to do this for his friend, and admired Cnut’s iron rule, for this was also his way – though after establishing that he was lord of his own estate he was proving to be a fair master, telling his retainers, ‘You have the right to leave, but if you stay I shall protect you well so long as you are loyal.’
Things went smoothly until the following year when he was once again wont to question Cnut’s judgment, and this time it was over matters more serious than marriage. Cnut had paid off his fleet and sent most of it back to Denmark, retaining only forty ships, but even more worrying, the Norse element in Cnut’s entourage had begun to decrease in favour of Englishmen, one of these being the influential Archbishop Wulfstan of Jorvik. Included in Cnut’s announcement that England would once again be ruled by the laws set down by King Edgar – which were judged to be fair ones – was the decree that his subjects must honour one God and keep the Christian faith. There was pressure upon those who were not yet baptised to rectify this immediately. Sigurd resisted, convinced that this total rejection of the gods would be his own downfall.
For those like himself who had interest in politics, there was also a new figure to watch, an Englishman called Godwin who had appeared from nowhere and risen to the rank of Earl in just one year. He too had great favour with the King; this irked Sigurd, who moaned to his friends, ‘What has Godwin done that is so special? Nought out of the ordinary that I can see. What reward have I got for my loyal service? Little, except the return of what was rightfully mine – and in truth I won that for myself.’
‘Some of us would be thankful to have the tributes paid to a King’s thegn,’ reproved Eric.
‘Huh! I work hard for it. I doubt that you would take kindly to spending every third month at court, on duty day and night. Oh, I am not ungrateful,’ Sigurd was condescending. ‘But it is hardly comparable to an earldom, is it? I have nought against Godwin save for the fact that he does not deserve the prizes heaped upon him.’
It was fortunate that there were things to be done at home to take hi
s mind off such annoyances. One of these – a most revolting task but one which could not be shirked – was to exhume his uncle’s body from the cesspit. Naturally, there were thralls to do this, but their lord must be present and the mere sight and smell of the remains caused him to heave. With the need to assuage himself of his part in Olaf’s murder, Sigurd paid deep thought to the type of burial his uncle might have wanted and hence, though pagan himself, had the body interred in the nearby church of St Cuthbert’s.
Thoughts of Uncle begat thoughts of Mother. Duty decreed that he should have sent word to her long before this and indeed he had pondered upon it many times, but Sigurd had been out of her clutches for too long, enjoyed being left to his own devices. Until now he had fobbed off his conscience with the reply that he must bring the estate back to its former glory before his mother came to live here, but in truth it was simply the knowledge that when Ragnhild did come she would try to take over completely. Now, though, there was no excuse: he was old enough to resist her bullying. Perhaps the time had come for their reunion. With a ship of his own he could have gone for Ragnhild himself, but not wishing to face the rest of Olaf’s family, decided otherwise. Carving his message on a twig, he gave it to the owner of a vessel bound for Norway, and waited for his mother to come.
At the very same moment as he carved his message, Ragnhild was thinking also of him. Sigurd had been away for five years, during which she had heard nothing at all of his welfare. Of course there had been snippets of information about the viking army’s progress, but of her son and brother – nothing. At least her sister-in-law was in the same boat; she did not know if Olaf had come through the fighting either. Their shared dilemma brought them a little closer. Thora’s face might be as dour as ever, as she squinted over her lace-work in the dim candlelight whilst Ragnhild cooked supper for the ten people who sat around the hearth, but her voice showed genuine interest. ‘I wonder what young Sigurd looks like now? After all this time it will be hard for you to recognize him.’