Viking Revolt

by Gavin Chappell

  Gest walked through the streets with a purposeful gait. He had come ashore in the busy haven only moments ago, after paying the skipper who had carried him there. The unwalled town sprawled laxly along the waterside some way inland, and it was a maze for anyone unaccustomed to its winding streets and thoroughfares.

  After so long spent in Earl Sigvaldi’s backwater of a country, Gest felt excited to be amongst so many folk. He heard the Frankish tongue vying with the English, saw Swedes talking to Wends, Saxons chaffering with Northmen, even at one point saw a small group of dark-skinned men clad in colourful robes strolling down the streets, looking very cold in the weak spring sunshine.

  He had sailed here alone, leaving Hild in charge of the steading. She had been unhappy to see him go alone, reminding him that men had already tried to kill him. She told him that he would be vulnerable on his own, but he did not want anyone to join him on this journey. He had matters to discuss with certain parties, and they were secret; he did not require an audience. Besides, how much danger would he be in sailing one of the most frequented stretches of sea in the Northlands? The water between Rogaland and Lindesnes, southernmost promontory of the land, was often rough, certainly, but after that it would all be plain sailing. And he would meet no vikings off Kaupang. The king’s ships patrolled these waters.

  He paused to buy meat and a stoup of ale at a booth, and as it began to drizzle he paused to eat and drink in the shelter of a high roofed smithy. Once the rain was gone and his eating done, he walked on, flinging the ale pot to the littered ground. After further searching, he reached the place he was seeking.

  The clang of hammer on iron rang out from the entrance to the forge, and a glow of fire shone from within. He halted in the open, peering inside. A brawny man crouched over an anvil, pounding a glowing chunk of metal with a great hammer, the muscles in his arms bulging in his sweat slick skin.

  Further within, another man sat quietly linking the rings of a byrnie, pausing from time to time to solder each one. Smiths were not highly regarded at court, and the guardsmen of the household affected to despise them. Yet Gest, whose origins were humble, felt nothing but fascination with the intricate work they did. It seemed to him that it was as praiseworthy and hard a job as the king’s, welding together the many and fragmented lands of Norway.

  The first smith gave him no heed as Gest walked past him and went to sit on the ground before the man with the mail coat.

  ‘Wealth is a source of strife among kinsmen,’ he observed.

  The second smith looked up abruptly.

  ‘Dross comes from bad iron,’ he replied, pushing to the half-finished byrnie to one side with a ringing sound. ‘What brings you here, Hunding Hringsson?’

  ‘They call me Gest these days,’ the king’s man told him. He had not heard the former name for quite a while, but Hauk the Smith had known him in another life, at court. ‘I have taken over the king’s steading that was Thorstein’s.’

  Hauk regarded him sombrely. The other smith continued to pound his hammer. Hauk was a big man, as befitted his trade, his pate hairless but for a fringe above his ears, and his beard was hacked short. He wore breeks, a worked leather belt clasped with a splendidly wrought buckle, and shoes of Spanish leather. But he had no tunic; like his fellow, he worked bare chested, and his shaggy torso was scarred with white burns from where flying sparks of metal had struck him.

  ‘I heard Thorstein was no more,’ Hauk commented, setting out the pieces on a game board. ‘So you have taken his place, have you? What did Hrafnsvart tell you before you left?’

  Hrafnsvart was the king’s spymaster, the chief of the Gestasveit, the so-called ‘guests’ who made up the lower ranks of the king’s housecarls. He it was who sent out men on secret missions.

  ‘Thorstein sent word to the king that something was afoot in those parts,’ said Gest, making the first move. ‘Before winter fell, he sent a message, through you I presume.’ Hauk nodded. ‘He was killed before he could learn more. But we know all this. What matters is what I myself have found.’

  ‘What matters,’ said Hauk sharply, ‘is that he was killed. Who slew him? That must be your first priority.’

  They continued to play their game as they spoke. ‘I have not learnt the name of the killer, nor of the man who ordered his death,’ Gest admitted, ‘but I believe I have found what Thorstein was seeking.’

  He told Hauk what he had discovered, and what had happened when he mustered the local levy. Hauk listened dourly.

  ‘You should not have spoken of this to the local earl,’ he said. ‘It is clear that word got back to these vikings, and they moved their hiding place.’ He shook his head. ‘It will be hard work to find them again. I say you return to court and ask for ships and men.’

  Gest shook his head. To do as Hauk suggested would be to admit to failure, and that he would never do. ‘If they got word of a levy, they will get word of a fleet,’ he said. ‘We must learn what they plot. I hope to find them, and to infiltrate them, learn what it is they intend.’

  ‘You know what Thorstein thought,’ Hauk said. ‘That this town itself was under threat.’ He pounded the packed earth with a fist that looked big enough to hammer iron unaided. ‘There was a plot to make an all-out attack on Kaupang. That was what he had heard.’

  Gest let this sink in. Kaupang had been founded by Danish merchants but early in its history it was seized by King Harald Finehair’s forefathers, shortly after they fled from Sweden where they had ruled as kings. It had been the source of much of the king’s wealth, indispensable during his long fight to unite the petty kingdoms of Norway. The king’s wealth and strength was what kept the kingdom from sinking back into the chaos from which the king had raised it, just as Odin had lifted the world of men from the chaos of Ginnungagap.

  If Kaupang was destroyed it would be a death blow to any hope for a united land, and endless war would rage as petty kingdoms fought amongst themselves and fleets of vikings raided settlement after settlement. Gest was old enough to know what life was like before the Battle of Hafrsfjord, when the king’s last rivals had been defeated, and his father had told him more of how things had been in the old days. Peace had reigned for nine years. If that peace were to end, it would be bad news for the folk of Norway. He tried to control a shudder.

  But why would anyone want that? The answer was simple: power. A scrap of power was better than none at all. They might call it freedom, but it was the freedom to loot, to burn farmer’s fields and slaughter livestock, as had happened every summer before Harald made himself king of all Norway. It had been a game, a game of kings. Too many kings, all squabbling in the dirt for a scrap of power. He had seen the results. He never wanted to see them in Norway again.

  ‘Who was his informant?’ he asked.

  Hauk shook his head. ‘It was something someone else overheard, one of his spies,’ he said. ‘He gave no details, but he was told that two of the earl’s men had been talking together in whispers.’ He shrugged dismissively. ‘Did Hrafnsvart tell you that Thorstein had met with another agent of the Gestasveit in those parts?’

  ‘A girl?’ Gest asked, thinking of Hild.

  Hauk scowled. ‘Not a girl, nay. Why do you think of girls at a time like this? He did not mention a girl, though there was one with him when he made his reports, a thrall. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I have spoken with that thrall, his leman,’ Gest said. ‘She has been taught the watchwords.’

  Hauk shrugged. ‘He made her his spy, it seems. But he did not speak of her. Perhaps it was she who overheard the earl’s men. But he made contact with another man, he told me.’

  ‘One of Earl Sigvaldi’s followers?’ Gest asked. He could think of no man who might be a king’s man, but a good spy would keep his true nature hidden.

  Hauk shrugged again. ‘Maybe,’ he growled. ‘All I know is that he will reveal himself by saying, “Yew is the greenest of trees in winter,” which you must answer by speaking the words “It is wont to crackle when it
burns”.’

  ‘Yew is the greenest of trees in winter,’ Gest murmured. ‘That is one of the highest of watchwords. So this spy is highly trusted. But you don’t know his name.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Hauk said impatiently. ‘And only under the worst of circumstances will he reveal himself. Bear it in mind, Hunding—Gest, if you prefer—that he is there. But for now you are alone.’

  Gest grunted. For a moment only the clang of iron was to be heard under that sooty roof. Hauk busied himself with fitting more rings onto the byrnie lying in his lap. Gest looked away.

  He had made a fool of himself, running to Earl Sigvaldi and demanding he raise a levy. It seemed that the enemy, whoever they were, had men amidst Earl Sigvaldi’s ranks, and word had reached the vikings ahead of the levy. That was the only explanation for the vanishing of the ships.

  But it had made him look like a numbskull in the eyes of Earl Sigvaldi’s men. It must have been spoken of throughout Rogaland. The king’s steward leading them on a hunt for naught! Was he going mad? Had he dreamed of those ships? He knew that he was not witless, but the folk of Rogaland would have lost their faith in this king’s man. He must regain his standing amongst them if he was to have any chance in future.

  Despite all this, he had been invited to Earl Sigvaldi’s stronghold to attend the Sacrifice for Victory, the feast held at the beginning of every summer when beasts would be sacrificed to Odin in return for success in the wars over the summer months. Despite his recent shame, the king’s steward would be welcome at such a feast; it was the king’s victory that they would be praying for.

  ‘Earl Sigvaldi seems a poor choice for those parts,’ he said. ‘He is a weak man in body and mind, it seems to me. Why the king has permitted him to steer his land so ill is beyond me.’

  Hauk paused in his work and fixed him with a glittering eye. ‘For two reasons does the king deem Earl Sigvaldi fit to be his steward. Firstly the folk of that land have bowed the knee to men of his bloodline for many lifespans. Secondly, he is indeed weak, all know that. Yet a weak man in such a position does not threaten the king’s rule.’

  ‘Not directly,’ Gest argued, ‘but by his own weakness he may be allowing all manner of lawlessness to breed in the darker corners of his land. I say he should be replaced.’

  ‘I will pass on your words to Tunsberg,’ said Hauk, ‘but I believe the king is certain of the rightness of his judgement. Besides, he is currently unreachable, since he is readying his ships for the summer cruise against the vikings. It may take some time before he hears your recommendation.’

  ‘What else did Thorstein have to say?’ Gest asked. ‘You spoke with him more than once. You knew he had stumbled on something. What did he tell you? Did he find ships hidden away?’

  ‘He spoke of nothing like that to me,’ said Hauk, setting aside the byrnie again, ‘but I should say that the ships were what he found before they slew him. They tried to kill you, too, as you say. Nay, he said nothing of such a hidden fleet, but he did make mention of vikings in those waters last summer. They moored off one of the offshore islands around midsummer, before sailing on to raid merchant vessels. There were dealings between them and the folk of Earl Sigvaldi. In secret, of course, but word came to Thorstein.’

  ‘Many of the folk fled when Earl Sigvaldi surrendered to the king,’ Gest mused.

  ‘Some who remained may still have sympathies with the vikings who raid Norway each year,’ said Hauk.

  ‘I told you of Ivar,’ Gest added.

  Hauk nodded. ‘This tale that he was jealous of a thrall girl bears no credence for me,’ he said. ‘And then there is his death. You may want to learn more of that.’

  ‘A man called Asgeir slew him,’ said Gest, ‘because he was trying to escape. Brought him down with a throwing axe. Few seemed to mourn his passing, not even Earl Sigvaldi.’

  ‘Killed him before he could talk,’ muttered Hauk. ‘I would counsel you to learn more of this Asgeir. Be wary of him, but learn more. Who does he have dealings with?’

  ‘You think it was he who sent the warning to the vikings?’ Gest asked.

  Hauk nodded. ‘He may well have been in league with Ivar. How they communicated we can only guess. But it is likely that they are not the only ones involved. You would do well to suspect any who come from the old families. It is the same story in many of the old petty kingdoms. Those who sailed away still have links with those who remained. And the king is unpopular with such folk. You know your duty.’

  ‘I know my duty, both to the king and to the kingdom,’ Gest agreed. ‘And what threatens Kaupang threatens all Norway. Without its wealth, and its trade with towns like Hedeby and Birka, Harald’s kingdom will plunge into the lawless ways of old, when every fjord, every valley, every island was a kingdom, at war with each of its neighbours. The king rescued us from that, brought peace with an iron hand. I must find that fleet and send word of its position to you. If I do, you must ensure ships are sent to sink it.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Hauk. ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘I return to Rogaland,’ Gest announced. ‘I have been invited to the Sacrifice for Victory at Earl Sigvaldi’s hall. I must attend, or they will all think me too ashamed to show my face. And while I am there, I will have a chance to learn more of this Asgeir. Perhaps he will lead me to the vikings.’

  ‘Be careful,’ said Hauk gruffly. ‘The king has already lost one of the Gestasveit in Rogaland. They have already tried to kill you. And someone, this Asgeir or another, is working against you. Tread softly, or another man will need to take your place. And the Gestasveit only has so many agents.’

  Gest gave him a bleak smile, then rose, shook his hand, and walked out into the cold and the rain, departing the hot smithy that still rang with the clang of metal on metal. It sounded almost as if men were duelling.

  —10—

  When Gest reached Earl Sigvaldi’s stronghold near sunset, a horse fight was in progress. The men of the surrounding districts, and many of their women and children, were gathered in the garth watching as two stallions fought it out in the middle of a ring.

  As Gest dismounted and flung his reins to a waiting stable boy, one of the horses reared up, front hoofs flailing, mouth frothing, and caught his opponent a solid clunk across the skull. Like a poleaxed ox the second horse fell on his side in the mud and lay there panting and wheezing, blood flecking the spittle that creamed between his huge teeth, and gushing from the wound in his stove-in skull.

  Gest forced his way through the crowd to the spot where Earl Sigvaldi and his retainers watched the fight. Not far from the earl stood Asgeir, his eyes fixed on the shuddering flanks of the downed steed. Slowly the horse panted out his last, bleeding into the muck as the victor pranced and caracoled triumphantly before the yelling crowd.

  Gest moved to stand alongside Earl Sigvaldi. ‘Who was your money on?

  Earl Sigvaldi’s gaze wandered up to take in the king’s steward. ‘On my own steed, of course,’ he said, reaching out proudly to pat the side of the winning horse, ‘Gulltop.’

  ‘And Asgeir?’ Gest asked.

  Earl Sigvaldi turned away. ‘I believe he laid his wager on the other horse,’ he said, before moving away to address the others.

  Gest stood looking after him. His stock truly was low, he could see. That abortive trip had shamed him in front of the folk, king’s man or no. He watched moodily as the dead horse was dragged away, and the winner was garlanded with flowers and led in procession towards the hall doors.

  As he walked along with the chattering crowd, a man drew alongside him. ‘Seems the earl is not so friendly with you, king’s man,’ he commented. It was the man who had tended his hurts during the expedition.

  ‘I don’t think I remember your name,’ said Gest, glancing at the speaker.

  He was a wiry man with a mop of hair that spilled from beneath a woollen cap, and long moustaches. He wore a mud stained green cloak and walrus hide boots, breeks of mustard yellow and tunic of russet, and
gave the air of a down-at-heel dandy.

  He thrust out a hand. ‘Bjorn of Tunsberg,’ he said with a grin, and Gest shook his hand. ‘I’m a settler in these parts. My steading is just down the fjord from yours. We’ve had troll trouble too.’

  Gest was about to query this when one of Earl Sigvaldi’s men lifted a horn and blew into it. A belling note resounded from the hall pillars. At once a hush fell upon the multitude. Earl Sigvaldi stood with the horse who had won the fight, a burnished axe in his trembling hands. Before them stood a pile of stones, black with the dried blood of many years. Two men calmed the horse and held his bridle as the earl lifted the axe high.

  ‘Now I give thee to Odin,’ the earl wailed in his reedy voice.

  ‘Seems a shame that the winner must die too,’ Bjorn muttered.

  Earl Sigvaldi’s axe edge clove the stallion’s skull and the carcase fell heavily forwards. Now other men came forward to slit the beast’s throat and blood spurted onto the blackened rocks.

  ‘You’d give a weak stallion to the gods?’ Gest mused. ‘Odin won’t grant victory to the king if we send him the loser.’

  Bjorn nodded. ‘No doubt,’ he said. ‘But that horse had many years of life left in him. I’m a farmer, Gest, if that’s your name. The gods live far away. I think in terms of this life and this world. Seems a waste.’

  The coppery stench of blood hung in the air. Gest watched as the stallion was butchered, and the rest of the blood was sprinkled on the earl, his men, and the crowd. Children leapt to catch the blood droplets, licking their fingers, smearing it on their faces.

  Now Earl Sigvaldi led the throng into his hall, where cook pots bubbled over the long fires. Gest followed, Bjorn at his side. The man certainly seemed eager to speak with him. Gest felt a little irritated. He wished to talk with Asgeir, or at least keep an eye on him.

  Asgeir had killed Ivar. There must be a reason why. It could only be as Hauk had hinted, that Asgeir was part of the plot. But while the horse meat seethed in the cook pots and the ale and mead was passed over the fire to hallow it, Gest found it hard to get himself near the man. The crowd filled the hall, it was hard going to get beyond the fire. And Bjorn was limpet-like in his adherence to Gest.