Gest shook his head. ‘Kraka, Signy, and Gerd are to go to the cattle sheds and see what milk they can get after a disturbed night. Kormak, Dufthak and Njal are all to come with me.’
‘And what of me?’ Hild asked with a proud jut of her chin.
‘Get breakfast ready,’ Gest said. ‘And braid your hair. You look like you haven’t slept all night.’
He took the men to the stand of trees outside the garth and they spent a busy morning lopping limbs, felling trees and shaping wood. It was long past the hour of the morning meal when they brought the felled wood back in the cart, but the gruel was still cooking.
‘What will you do with all this wood?’ asked Hild, puzzled.
‘You ask many questions,’ Gest commented, and began to eat.
After breakfast, he and the men dug a ditch surrounding the steading, leaving only one part undug, where the main track led out between the barn and the byre. The rest of the day was spent hammering stakes into the mud until half of the steading was surrounded by them, then hewing them into points.
By sunset Gest was weary beyond measure, his arms and back aching. After the evening meal he posted Kormak and Dufthak as sentries, one taking over from the other at midnight, and went to the shut bed to find rest in a long, dreamless sleep.
In the morning the work went on. Around noon, as they were fencing off the rear or landward side of the steading, the drumming of hoofs announced the approach of new visitors. Gest mounted a horse and went to greet them.
Earl Sigvaldi rode in the forefront. The other riders were men of his retinue, twelve of them. There was no sign of Ivar. Earl Sigvaldi accepted Gest’s greetings and stared hard at the new stockade.
‘Do you expect more trouble with trolls?’ he asked.
‘We did have trouble the other night,’ said Gest. ‘An interloper. Not a troll, to my thinking, only a man. But troll or man, I am putting up a fence to keep out such interlopers. I don’t know why Thorstein didn’t do so himself.’
‘Perhaps because he felt safe in my land,’ Earl Sigvaldi said, a little reprovingly. ‘No man in my country should feel fear or the need to throw up ramparts. My men keep the land safe from robbers or vikings.’
‘Thorstein was not safe,’ said Gest, ‘and nor it seems am I. Where is Ivar this morning?’
Earl Sigvaldi looked thoughtful. ‘Ivar… He seems to have gone missing,’ he said. ‘Since the other night.’ An odd look danced across his eyes. ‘You don’t suppose the troll has him?’
Gest grinned. ‘Who can say?’ he said. ‘Perhaps you should look to your own defences.’
Earl Sigvaldi shifted uncomfortably.
‘But everything belongs to the king these days,’ he said at last. ‘I must not think of these as my lands, they are the king’s. And it is the king’s man who has the duty of keeping us safe in our beds.’
Gest admired the neatness with which Earl Sigvaldi evaded his responsibility. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you?’ he asked.
Earl Sigvaldi did not reply at once. First he surveyed the steading’s growing defences. Then he turned in his saddle and looked across Gandsfjord towards the fells. Gest thought his gaze was on the cave mouths up there. The earl seemed about to speak, but then he shook his head.
‘Send word to me if you have any more trouble,’ he said at last. ‘It is high time this land was purged of trolls.’
With that he galloped away, his men trotting behind him, shooting dark looks at Gest.
The king’s man rode back to the garth to find that Hild had been watching the exchange, a spindle gripped thoughtfully in one hand.
‘Earl Sigvaldi would like me to solve all his problems for him,’ he called down as he came alongside her.
‘What do you mean by that?’ she asked, spinning flax idly as he dismounted and led the snorting horse to the stable.
‘I think he deems it my responsibility as king’s man to clear the land of trolls,’ he said over his shoulder.
She looked up from her spinning and smiled slyly.
‘We both know what your real responsibility is here,’ she said. ‘Don’t we?’
Gest grinned but he said nothing.
That night, after a long, hard day, Gest lay in the shut bed, Hild beside him. She slid a hand onto his shoulder, needing at his tired muscle, then moved it further down, until she reached his crotch and squeezed. He took her hand and moved it firmly away.
‘Nay?’ she whispered. ‘That’s not like you.’
‘Tell me,’ he murmured. ‘Where did Thorstein go?’
She drew back from him. ‘I can’t say.’
‘Can’t?’ he asked. ‘Or won’t?’
She stirred a little. ‘No one knew where he went,’ she said. ‘No one who worked at the steading, that is. Others may have known.’
‘And I thought he trusted you,’ he said meaningfully. ‘The wolf grows up in the woods,’ he added.
She turned to look searchingly at him. ‘Then I was right,’ she murmured, half to herself. ‘You do know the watchword. You are…’
He laid a finger over her pert lips. ‘Nothing more needs to be said. But if Thorstein trusted you so much, why did he not trust you with what he had learnt on his wanderings?’
‘I wasn’t privy to much,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I knew who he was, of course. What he was. What his work was here, in this little land. But where he went and what he learnt I do not know. He went up to Kaupang from time to time. There was a man he met there, an armourer.’
Gest nodded: he thought he knew the very man.
‘I saw him once when I sailed there with him. They spoke long, but in whispers. No doubt he was passing on tidings.’ She lay her head back. ‘All I know is that he went wandering in fair weather or foul, neglecting his duties at the steading. His last journeys took him westward, over the hills and into fjords where few dwell, if any. What he sought there, I do not know. And he took his secrets to Hel’s cold kingdom.’
Gest grinned. ‘Then that is where I will begin,’ he murmured. ’Westwards, that is. Not in Hel.’
—4—
He rode through the trees, following an overgrown path that had seen little traffic on foot or mounted in recent years. All was still and silent, and the endless avenues of beeches swept away on either side like the aisles of some great lord’s hall.
He had had his thralls saddle the sturdy grey stallion that he had called Grani, after Sigurd’s horse in the old songs, then ridden over the top meadow to the treeline at the edge of his lands, leaving the running of the steading in the capable hands of Hild. From here an old track wound into the woods; he had followed this at first, but after some time riding up the snaking roadway, he had seen another trail leading over the flank of the hill.
Now it was taking him due west and from time to time, through openings in the trees, he saw the grey, rolling expanse of the sea. A small ship was visible on the horizon. He wondered where it might be bound.
He had little notion of what he sought. Thorstein had wandered in these parts day after day, if what Hild said was true. What had he been looking for? Had he found it? And did it have any link with his death at the hands of mysterious assailants? That was what Gest must learn, if he could.
All that day he rode as far as he was able, finding nothing of interest other than an abandoned old hut at the far end of the overgrown path. It had been easy to break down the door but inside all was cold and dank, the ashes of a long ago fire in the hearth, a reek of rot over everything. Whoever had stayed here, whether hunter or woodcutter or outlaw, they were long gone.
And not long after, he decided to turn for home, riding across the meadow towards the lights of the hall as twilight was falling. Hild seemed angry with him, and said little as they ate their evening meal, while the usual chatter of the thralls was subdued. He told her nothing about what he had found—there was little to tell. The journey had wearied him, and he had little wish to engage in conversation.
The next morning, he r
ode out from the garth in the same direction. Before he went, Hild came to stand beside his horse, looking up at him, her face troubled.
‘Did you not find what you sought yesterday?’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘I found nothing to justify Thorstein’s wanderings,’ he said, ‘but I don’t suppose I got far. Whatever it was, I doubt it would have been so close to inhabited lands.’
‘Be careful,’ she said, then bit her lip. ‘The last time he came back, I could see that he had been fighting. A broken arrow jutted from his shoulder. Shortly afterwards they came to burn the hall. I fear that whatever he found was the cause of his death.’
‘I had considered that too,’ he said, ‘which gives only added reason to find it.’ He rode into the trees.
But he found nothing that day nor for many days of searching. It was only after a week during which he got to know the tenantless hills and woods west of the steading very well, that he found what he was looking for. When he found it, he knew it could only be what Thorstein had discovered, there could be no question of that. But he found himself fearing for his own life shortly afterwards.
He had glimpsed the waters of the narrow inlet the previous day, but it had been growing dark and he was forced to turn back and ride for home, reaching the top meadow long after sunset. Its sides were mantled with trees almost as far down as the water. He rode his horse up over the ridge that led to the inlet and left Grani tethered to a tall fir, beneath which lay a grassy sward. Then he proceeded on foot into the trees.
Silence hung over all, broken only by the gentle padding of his feet in the deep layer of leaf mulch. In places the branches grew so close he was forced to crawl on hands and knees.
The croaking of a raven echoed from somewhere above the trees, and looking up, he saw a dark form circling overhead, wings outstretched, wing feathers like grasping fingers. Soon it was out of sight.
His progress took him down the slope. From nowhere else could he see the waters of the inlet clearly, but the evening before he had seen something from further up that he thought would repay a second look. Now he was so deep amongst the trees he saw nothing of the water, but he could smell it, a briny reek that suggested that the inlet led to a fjord that opened out on the sea. And from what he seen, it was wide enough, perhaps deep enough, to be navigable.
And yet the inlet was far enough away from habitation to be a secret to all but a handful. Was this what Thorstein had been looking for?
Gest emerged from the trees at last and crouched on the edge of a cliff at the bottom of which the waters of the inlet extended into the broader waters of a wide fjord. Brambles grew in the narrow space between the edge of the trees and the top of the cliffs, seeming to snatch at him and hold him back as if they did not want him to see the vessels moored in the shadows of the trees. But he ignored them and sat watching the motionless longships as they rode at anchor.
The sails had been lowered, and lay wrapped round the yards on deck. The oars had also been stacked. Not a single man could be seen aboard. There had to be at least fifteen, longships of some size, including a dragon ship fit to rival that of the king himself.
But they were deserted, abandoned. Neither a rower nor a helmsman was visible. Nobody. Someone had had a fleet of longships built and then set it to drift in this remote and unknown body of water. Or maybe… He felt a chill of fear. Maybe it was waiting. Waiting for its crew. Waiting for the signal to sail out and strike.
Or had it already struck? He remembered the trolls who had supposedly attacked Thorstein’s steading. Trolls… Gest spat scornfully over the cliff side. The slaughtered cattle, the hall-burning. That had been the work of vikings. It bore all the hallmarks. Vikings were still rumoured to lair amongst the islands and skerries of the sea, even some in the lesser frequented fjords. Each summer vikings cruised the coasts of the kingdom, rebels who had fled the king’s rule, and who now spent their time attacking trade ships, sometimes plundering coastal settlements. The worst was that fleet commanded by the sea king Sigfrid Redhand.
For several years King Harald Finehair had sailed out on cruises of his own, to put down the vikings, but each summer they sailed out from the sea to strike, then sail back, none knew where. Some were said to have settled on islands across the sea, Scotland and the Orkneys, the Faeroes and Iceland. Others hailed from the waters around Denmark, where they paid scot to the Dane-king, in return for which he turned a blind eye.
But these longships in the inlet could pose little threat without men to crew them. What had happened? Had the vikings aboard been slaughtered in some unsung sea fight? But the hulls were whole and the ships showed no signs of recent battle. They were pristine, as if they had been recently built and sailed here in secret for safekeeping.
Gest peered over the cliff, gazing down into the deep waters. From here, with the inlet in full sun, he could see far into the still, beer brown waters. Barely a ripple troubled them, and they were very deep. Swimming them would be a possibility, but he would not want to be caught with cramps in the middle of the inlet. With no one around for miles to hear his cries, he would drown.
Ruefully, he began making his way round the edge of the inlet. It was a long way to the far end, where a stream rushed over rocks to plunge whitely down the cliff. Once he had crossed the stream on impromptu stepping stones, he had to make his way along the opposite shore until he was nearing the stationary fleet.
Close up, the longships were no less of a mystery. Strakes creaked gently, lines and rigging thrummed in a slight breeze, decks rose and fell, but no one was visible. No one stood on those decks.
Gest went down to the shore. From here it would be a short swim to the closest ship. He dropped his cloak, shook off his shoes, and began wading out.
A yell from further up the cliff alerted him. Splashing, he turned to see a black bearded man with a spear hurtling down through the trees towards him. At the same instant two more armed men broke from the treeline further along the shore. One held a strung bow, and even as Gest looked, he fitted an arrow and sent it winging towards him.
Gest flung himself aside and the arrow plunged into the water, shooting up a spray. Gest himself splashed into the water, went under briefly, then broke the surface to see the spearman had already reached the shore. As he lifted up his spear to fling it, Gest turned and dived into the deeper water.
He swam underwater for some way. The side shelved deeply here, as he had seen from the cliff, and he saw no sign of the bottom as he swam into the shadow of the closest longship. Reaching the sunnier waters on the other side, he broke surface again, shaking his head to dash the wet hair from his eyes, and clung onto the side of the bobbing vessel. It towered over him like a cliff of painted wood. Grimly he hung there, straining his ears for a sign of his foes. From here he was out of sight of the land, but the ship’s hull blocked any hope of seeing how they had reacted to his disappearance.
He heard angry shouts from the men. Had more come down to join the first three? They seemed bewildered. They could hardly have been expecting a visitor.
Or could they? Surely they had seen Thorstein when he had come this way—and Gest was sure he had. This fleet was the secret he had stumbled upon, and he had been burnt in his own hall to keep him quiet. What would they do now they had found a second spy?
He heard the splashing of feet and the echoing thump of men coming aboard one of the nearer ships. They were searching them. There was a thudding clatter from above him and the ship shuddered so he knew that they had come aboard it. He looked up.
Above him, fierce bearded faces peered out across the water. One man wore a helmet whose eye protectors covered his face. Gest tried to make himself one with the shadows that shrouded the ship’s hull.
One yelled, ‘No sign of him in the water. He must be aboard one of the ships.’ The beards withdrew and he heard feet stamping away across the deck. He breathed again. They had not thought to look straight downwards, the fools. He was safe. For the moment.
But now the cramps he had feared were coming on, jabbing pains. He could not remain here much longer. He looked over his shoulder. The stretch of water seemed like an ocean, the cliff like an insurmountable wall. But he could not remain where he was much longer. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he struck out.
A shout rang out as someone spotted him. The air whistled and he looked back to see men on the ships, some with bows in their hands. Arrows pinked the water around him. One went effortlessly through his outstretched arm.
The agony was almost unbearable, but he swam on, teeth gritted. He had little choice. Again the air whistled and more arrows showered down. Still he swam on. He heard splashing sounds and gathered that some of the men were now swimming after him. His arms were aching almost as much as the pain from the arrow wound. He had to swim on, had to escape, had to ensure that this news was heard in the right quarters. But he seemed to be no more than halfway across the water and he was flagging. His chest pained him as he gasped for breath after breath.
At last, to his surprise, he found himself scrambling up onto the rocky shore on the far side, staring up at the cliff. He looked back. Three men were swimming after him but they were still no more than halfway across the water. Archers on the ships loosed another volley but their arrows sank into the water some way from him. He was out of range.
But he had no time to waste. He must get up the cliff and through the trees. Only when he was mounted would he have any hope of escape. He peered at the arrow still projecting from his arm, and paused long enough to snap the shaft. Then he began climbing.
Several hours later, he rode out of the trees to see the stockade surrounding the garth. He was lightheaded, the wound was throbbing, and he wanted nothing more than to stop riding and sit down for a while. The prospect of a horn of ale had been tormenting him throughout the journey, even after he had seemingly lost the men amongst the trees.
Njal was with the cattle and Gest beckoned him over urgently. The thrall came running, but before he could reach his master, Gest fell from the saddle and hit the turf with a thud.
Viking Revolt Page 3