—5—
Njal cried out, seizing Gest and hauling him to his feet with difficulty. As he led Gest towards the gates, Dufthak and Kormak came running up from the shore. Kormak took the horse, Dufthak and Njal manhandled Gest into the garth.
‘I’m alright,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I don’t need you nurse-maiding me.’ He tried to push them away but Njal grabbed him before he could fall again. Unwillingly he allowed them to take him inside the hall where Hild dashed forward from where she had been speaking with the milkmaids.
‘What’s happened?’ Her words came out in a rush. ‘Where did you go? Who did this to you?’
Her eyes focused on the broken arrow shaft protruding from his arm. ‘Bring him over here,’ she ordered. ‘Kraka, Gerd, bring hot water.’
They sat him down on the high seat and Hild cut away the sleeve of his tunic. It was half glued to his flesh by dried blood, and he winced more than once during the process. The two milkmaids hurried up with a pail of water that they had heated with hot stones from the fire, and Hild sponged away the blood before seizing the arrowhead with iron pincers and drawing it through the wound. Then she bandaged the arm and Gest lay back against the high seat, feeling faint, muttering his thanks.
‘Your clothes are wet through,’ she scolded. ‘Where did you go? For a swim?’
‘Tend the horse,’ he said. ‘Grani did me proud today. I had to ride and ride fast. Aye, I went for a swim,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘Bring me ale.’
Hild herself took his drinking horn to the vat and filled it with frothing ale, then hurried back. She chivvied the others away, telling them to return to their business. Dufthak and Njal went to the stables where Kormak and Njal were already tending to Gest’s horse. Hild stood before Gest and proffered him the horn of ale.
He drank it down in a series of gulps and gestured to her to fill it again. With a look of annoyance, she did so. He lay against the back of the high seat, warmth spreading through his limbs, finally relaxing after the harrowing ride. When she returned with another brimming hornful, he took it and drank deep. Brushing the foam from his moustache, he looked into her anxious face.
Gest patted the seat with his free hand. ‘Sit beside me,’ he said.
She did as he bade, her eyes still on him, brimming with worry. ‘You went there, didn’t you?’ she said at last.
‘Went there?’ he said sharply. ‘Went where?’
She studied him a while. ‘Wherever it was Thorstein went,’ she said. ‘He too spent time away from the garth, and on one occasion he came back showing signs of being in a fight. It was shortly afterwards that the attackers came.’
‘These “trolls”,’ said Gest with a curl of his lip.
She nodded gravely. ‘They fired the hall and he was killed. They must have followed him here.’
Gest nodded. ‘They may try something similar this evening,’ he said. ‘I thought I shook them off in the wood, but who knows? Best we stay on our guard.’
She rose as if to go, but stood surveying him a moment. ‘You’re in no fit state to fight,’ she said bitterly, then swept out.
Gest drank sombrely, gazing into the embers of the fire, watching as the smoke curled upwards towards the smoke hole in the roof, eager to escape. He had been foolish to draw attention to himself, he knew. He should have been warier in his explorations. Now they knew he had seen their secret. Had Thorstein found the same thing? Was that why they had come to kill him? He had been sure the tales of trolls were untrue… Although there had been his mysterious assailant when he’d first come to the steading. Well, that was another matter. This fleet of longships, hidden away in an obscure inlet, was more tangible.
It could only mean vikings, rebels against the king. But what were they intending? It was spring, the traditional beginning of the raiding season, which would continue until the end of summer. In a few days the Sacrifice for Victory would be held, when loyal Northmen would toast the king for his own success in the wars, but when rebels would pray to the gods for victory in raids on the kingdom. The king spent every summer cruising the islands and fjords in search of such rebels and robbers, but it was an impossible task to flush them all out. And yet who would have thought that vikings would lair so near to important seaways?
Except he had seen no vikings to speak of, only longships and a few men clearly set to keep an eye on them. They had not been enough to crew a single ship, though they had been plenty to send him running for safety. Gest remembered what Hild had said about the man in Kaupang who Thorstein had visited. He thought he would pay a visit to the town sometime soon, and see what he could learn. What had Thorstein discovered before he died?
The doors opened and in flurried Hild, the frightened milkmaids clustered at her back.
‘I spoke to the men,’ she said, ‘and they have brought in the beasts, closed the gates, and armed themselves with spears. It is growing dark, so it is hard to see if anyone is about, but everything is quiet. Njal told me to say to you that we should send word to Earl Sigvaldi if you think we are under threat.’
Gest dismissed the suggestion with a shake of his head. ‘There’s no reason to assume they will attack,’ he said. ‘I think I lost them in the wood. This is simply a precaution. They know only that an interloper was sighted…’ He broke off.
Hild sat beside him while the three other women gathered on the benches and spoke in hushed tones, casting fearful looks at the doors.
‘Who are they?’ she asked. ‘Who is after you?’
Gest studied her thoughtfully. She knew at least one of the watchwords. Thorstein had clearly taken her into his confidence. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘I found something wary in an inlet a few hours’ ride from here. Men were there and they saw me. They attacked, and gave chase. I think I lost them, but I don’t know. Is this what happened to Thorstein?’
‘Thorstein was not so forthcoming,’ she said dryly. ‘All I know is that one day he came back having been in a fight, and then…’
There was a shout from outside. Someone was yelling in the distance, his words indistinguishable. The hall doors burst open and in ran Njal carrying a spear and looking frightened.
‘Men are out there,’ he gabbled. ‘Or maybe trolls. It’s difficult to see in the twilight. They carry torches. I think they mean to burn the hall. They demand to see the master of this steading.’
Gest rose and nodded to the women. ‘Get down into the passage,’ he said. ‘Njal, move the high seat so they can access the trapdoor, then get back outside. Speak with them. Tell them that your master is sick in bed.’
Njal shoved the high seat back after Hild vacated it, then dithered. Gest growled at him and he turned and ran back outside.
Hild folded her arms. ‘And will our lord and master be taking to his bed?’ she said furiously.
Gest grinned. He went to the wall where a bow hung. As he strung it, wincing at the pain from his bandaged arm, he laughed grimly. He heard Njal’s thin tones from outside, and a much deeper voice bellowing a response. ‘Get down the passage,’ he told the women. ‘If they attack the hall, you must run for Earl Sigvaldi’s. But don’t leave the passage yet. Go no further than the far end.’
He slung the bow over his back, attached a quiver to his belt, and began climbing up a hall pillar towards the roof and the smoke hole. When he reached the rafters, he glanced back. The milkmaids were clambering awkwardly down into the passage, grumbling and complaining and giving little shrieks at the cobwebs that clogged it. Hild stood in the middle of the hall floor, downcast.
He gestured for her to go. Without waiting to see if she had obeyed him, he swung himself over the rafters to the smoke hole. The smoke thick in his nostrils, his eyes streaming, he hung from the edge of the thatch opening, legs dangling down, feeling like the biggest flitch of bacon ever.
Coughing, he hauled himself upwards until his elbows were out in the cold night air. Then he lifted his face above the rim of the smoke hole, peering out into the darkness. Down
there, he could just make out the edges of the stockade, and beyond it dark figures carrying flaming torches. The wind whistled, cutting out all but a whisper of the earnest negotiations between the thralls and the attackers.
He got one leg up over the rim of the smoke hole, then the other. For a moment he found his progress impeded by the strung bow over his shoulders, and he had to shift around a little until it was free. Then he was outside, crouching low on the thatch roof with a good view of the surrounding lands. The fjord waters gleamed beneath the stars, and he could see the boatsheds standing beside the water. In another direction, the wood led away into darkness. But down below him stood the gates of the garth, and at them were the three thralls, spears in their hands. Beyond were the attackers, their faces dark in the flickering torchlight.
Gest drew an arrow from his quiver and set it to his bow. Leaning against the slope of the thatched roof, neither hand free to cling on, very gradually he drew the bowstring.
The wind dropped. Gest caught a brief snatch of a deep voice, saying, ‘…for the last time, rouse your master from his bed and bring him here to answer to us. Or we will force our way in and burn the hall down around his ears.’
The three thralls shouted in reply, but Gest could make out little of their words. He aimed at the speaker, eyes narrowing as he did so, and then he loosed.
The air whistled. A voice cried out in surprise. An arrow jutted from the speaker’s face. It was so quick that for a moment Gest couldn’t believe it was his own arrow. Then the corpse fell backwards, dropping the torch as it did so. The grass burst into flame.
The other torchbearers yelled out in confusion and cast searching looks about them, lifting their torches high enough for Gest to catch sight of the faces, not of trolls, but of bearded men. In the darkness, he must be almost invisible even if any of them thought to look up at the roof. The only thing that might give away his position was the thrum of his bow. But there was nothing he could do about that, he told himself, as he notched another arrow.
The thralls were looking about in consternation and confusion. Gest’s arrow whirred over their heads with a noise like a migrating goose and buried itself in the body of another torchbearer, who fell to his knees with a cry, but kept a hold of his torch. Other men gathered round to stare at the arrow that jutted from his shoulder. Gest cursed. He snatched another arrow and loosed, catching another man from behind, who leapt up with a startled squawk, dropping his torch and clutching in anguish at the arrow that pierced his backside.
‘Where is he? Where is the archer?’ a man yelled.
‘I can see nothing in this darkness,’ yelled another, and then he cried out in pained shock as Gest put an arrow through his neck.
‘Force down the gates!’ shouted another man, as the previous speaker sank down to the turf, scrabbling vainly at the arrow shaft, and one of them produced a long handled axe and swung it at the gates. Gest wasted two more arrows, both of which narrowly missed the thralls, who leapt about in fright, before he saw that the axeman was out of his line of sight.
The gates burst open and torch-bearing men flooded in. The thralls jabbed at them with spears and one fell, but the rest forced the defenders back up the narrow lane. Fumbling at his quiver Gest found that he had only three arrows left. He must make them count, he told himself as he notched the first. If the attackers fired the hall, then he would be roasted like an ox.
A twinge of pain shot through him and his vision blurred as his arm throbbed. He felt himself beginning to slide. At the last instant he dug his feet into the thatch and halted his precipitate fall. Gasping for breath, he took out another arrow and notched it.
The thralls withdrew inside, and a shudder ran through the thatch as they slammed and bolted the doors behind them. He hoped they would see the trapdoor leading to the escape passage. Now the torchbearers moved to surround the hall, their torches held high. Gest waited, waited, waited—then loosed. Down below a man leapt up with an arrow jutting from his throat, then fell back, his torch landing in a heap of straw, which started smouldering.
Grim-faced, Gest notched another arrow. Rank, reeking smoke was rising from the burning straw. He could hear frightened whinnying and lowing from within the byres and stables. Already the garth was alight. But the brighter grew the light of torches or fires, the more the shadows obscured him as the attackers hunted for a glimpse of their unseen assailant. He loosed again, and another man was wounded, the arrow plunging into his leg.
One arrow left. It had to count. It really had to count, he told himself. He notched it, raised his bow…
But then he lowered it.
‘Back!’ yelled a big man, whirling his torch round and round. He flung it up at the roof, then turned to run. As the torch landed on the thatch, which began to burn, Gest loosed at his running form, his arrow sank between the man’s shoulder blades and he fell flat. Two men seized him and dragged him alongside them.
The roof was burning, the flames now licking perilously close to Gest’s precarious perch, and he felt as hot as he might if he was right next to a forge. The wound in his arm had broken out afresh and his bandage was red with blood, but he watched in satisfaction as the red dots of torches bobbed away towards the broken down gate. Dragging their wounded companions with them, the attackers retreated into the night.
Wearily, Gest scrambled back through the smoke hole and leapt down to muster his folk. They had a fire to extinguish.
—6—
Hild’s head popped pertly out of the hatchway in the floor.
‘What’s happening?’ she said. ‘Have they gone?’ She sniffed warily, looked up suddenly and shrieked.
The fire on the roof had already scorched through the thatch, and black smoke was drifting down, wisping round the rafters. Kormak and the other thralls appeared from the porch, spears in hands.
‘They’re withdrawing,’ said Kormak proudly. ‘We scared them off!’ He brandished his spear in triumph.
‘I scared them off,’ Gest corrected him. ‘I feathered a few with clothyard shafts.’ He patted the bow he still wore round his neck. Hild saw the fresh blood that reddened his bandage.
‘You’re bleeding again!’ she scolded. ‘You should not have exerted yourself.’
‘Never mind that,’ he said, pushing her away. ‘There’s a fire out in the garth and a fire on the thatch above. Kraka, Signy, Gerd. Run to the dairy, get buckets of whey. Kormak, Dufthak, Njal, when they bring the buckets, use them to put the flames out. Make sure the fires don’t get to the beast sheds.’
For the next hour or two, the garth outside was a scene of frenetic activity as the household scurried to put out the blaze. Gest came out with them to see that one of the outhouses had taken light from the burning straw. Despite the throbbing pain from his arm, he helped the others as they flung whey at the flames.
Whey was plentiful at the farm, a by-product of cheese- and butter-making, used for pickling and preserving; the thralls sometimes drank it too. There was enough and to spare for firefighting.
At last the fires were put out, the red light that had so luridly illuminated the garth was gone, and only darkness and the reek of smoke and sizzling whey remained. Just as the fire ended, by some perverse whim of the gods, it began to rain, and a wind rose, lashing down the fjord and stirring up foaming waves.
Gest told Njal and the other men to tend to the frightened beasts with the help of the milkmaids, and to repair the gate as best they could, then went inside and sat himself down carefully on the high seat. Rain hissed in through the smoke hole, the fire smoked greyly and a reek of wet ashes filled the hall. Hild appeared at his side, holding up a lantern.
‘Get me ale, woman,’ he said.
‘You don’t need ale,’ she told him. ‘You need rest. You need rest or you will be losing blood.’
‘I can take care of myself,’ he said wearily. ‘Besides, there’s too much work to do.’
‘Rest,’ she said firmly. ‘The thralls can tend to the steading without
you. After all, they do most days.’
He fixed her with a glower. ‘I don’t mean farm work,’ he said. ‘Plots are afoot. I must go to Earl Sigvaldi in the morning and demand he takes action.’ He told her more about what he had discovered, and her eyes grew very large.
‘This must be what Thorstein found,’ she murmured. ‘They came after him and they killed him for it before he could do anything. But what do you expect Earl Sigvaldi to do?’
‘His duty to his king,’ said Gest dourly. ‘Those fine warriors of his he rides about the countryside with, unless they’re just for show, they’ll have work on their hands. Now get me ale, woman.’
Reluctantly she left his side, leaving the lantern burning on the high seat arm rest, and returned soon afterwards carrying a brimming horn. He drank deep, and regarded her thoughtfully over its rim.
The thralls came hurrying back inside, struggling out of sopping wet cloaks.
‘The beasts are settled now,’ Kormak sent word, water dripping from his nose, ‘and we’ve propped up the gate again.’ He looked pale. ‘There are bodies beyond the stockade. They left their dead behind.’
‘Good,’ said Gest. ‘We will take a look at them in the morning. It will be good to see the faces of our faceless attackers. Who believes they were trolls now?’
Njal shook his head. ‘They were men,’ he admitted. ‘But there is at least one troll who lives up in the fells on the far side of the fjord. One of the earl’s shepherds saw him one evening when up on the high pastures there, loping away. He stank like a beast but was shaped like a man. Other folk have seen him, and he has carried away lambs in his time, and calves, and even…’ he lowered his voice, ‘some say he had carried off children.’
Gest remembered his attacker on his first visit to the steading. ‘Maybe trolls haunt these lands,’ he said, ‘Maybe they have been here since the days of the frost giants. But our attackers were men.’
Viking Revolt Page 4