Viking Revolt

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘We had just penned the cows,’ added Gerd shyly, ‘when they rode in. So the gates still stood open.’

  ‘They dragged us into the hall,’ added Signy. ‘And then they rounded up the men. We were afraid that they would burn the steading around us, but instead they asked us many questions.’ She looked down at her hands, which she wrung.

  Dufthak took up the tale. ‘They asked us all about you. Who you were, what you did, what you had told us about yourself.’ He shrugged. ‘We know little about you, little to tell them, since it’s not our place to ask, but they were not happy to hear that. They struck us until we would tell them the lies they wanted to hear.’

  ‘And what lies were they?’ Gest asked quietly.

  ‘That you are a spy for the king,’ said Kraka. ‘They said the old master was a spy, too. That was why he had to die.’

  ‘Who were these men?’ Bjorn demanded. ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Thorstein died because they thought he was spying for the king?’ Gest asked. ‘Good question,’ he acknowledged, with a nod to Bjorn. ‘Who were they?’

  ‘They were high-ups,’ said Dufthak with a shrug. ‘Like yourselves. I don’t know the names of my betters, but I have seen their leader before, when I’ve been out with the master.’

  ‘Describe him,’ said Gest.

  ‘Burly,’ said Dufthak. ‘With a beard.’

  ‘Could be anyone,’ said Bjorn with a disgusted grunt.

  ‘He wore a fine spun red cloak and a green tunic,’ Kraka added, looking to the others for confirmation. They all nodded encouragingly. ‘And his beard was shot with grey, or white. He looks like a badger.’

  Gest’s eyes widened. He glanced at Bjorn. ‘Einar,’ he said in an undertone. ‘It sounds like our friend Einar.’

  Bjorn nodded darkly. He addressed the thralls. ‘Tell us more. What else did they do other than wring lies from your lips?’

  ‘They went through the hall and the outbuildings,’ Dufthak said, ‘looking for… something.’

  ‘For what?’ Gest asked, glancing wryly at the clutter on the floor.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Dufthak admitted. ‘They didn’t take us into their confidence. But they did tell us that you were dead, that the troll had killed you.’

  ‘That was their plan,’ said Gest scornfully. ‘Instead it was I who killed the troll. Unfortunately that has led to other troubles. I suppose we should be grateful that they did not carry off the king’s cattle.’

  ‘You can’t take this sitting down, neighbour,’ Bjorn protested. ‘If anyone led armed men into my lands, harassed my thralls, and left my hall in disarray, I would round up my own friends and go and take reprisals. And you are the king’s man. Whenever they go against you, they go against the king.’

  ‘I’m the king’s man, aye,’ said Gest, ‘but right now my stock is not high in this land. I’m facing a sentence of outlawry at the Midsummer Thing.’

  ‘It’s a plot,’ Bjorn muttered. ‘A plot against you, against the king even.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ Gest told him. ‘Einar is part of the plot, Asgeir too. But there is something else. Remember what we saw from the crag.’

  Bjorn studied him in silence. Gest turned to his thralls. ‘So, you were told that I was not returning, and you downed tools at once?’ he roared. ‘Get back to work. Tidy this place up, take the cattle out to pasture…’ He sprang up and chased them back to their duties, leaving Bjorn sitting deep in thought on the high seat. As she passed, Gest collared Kraka. ‘Get me and my guest horns of ale,’ he told her, and stalked back to the high seat.

  ‘I saw sails on the horizon,’ Bjorn murmured. ‘A fleet of longships.’ He looked at Gest, but at that moment Kraka came hurrying back, carrying two foaming drinking horns. Gest motioned for silence, and they took the horns. Kraka hovered for a moment, looking expectant.

  ‘What do you want?’ Gest snapped at her. ‘Get back to your work!’

  ‘Aye, master.’ Kraka bit her lip as if she wanted to say more, then thought better of it, and hurried away.

  Now the hall was empty, Gest sat back and sipped from his horn. The ale was cool and bitter, and he drank more. His tired limbs began to feel less weary. He was getting old.

  ‘Now that we can be sure that there are no ears listening…’ he began.

  ‘You suspect your own thralls?’ Bjorn asked, shocked, gazing after Kraka as she clattered out into the garth.

  ‘I suspect everyone,’ Gest said levelly, ‘even myself. Not of plotting,’ he added with a grin. ‘But you must understand that anyone could let slip what they know, either by oversight or under torture. The less my thralls overhear of my intentions the better. So, as we were saying earlier. There is a fleet of longships anchored off one of the outlying islands. An uninhabited rock, by the looks of it, little more than a skerry. But the fleet is hidden there.’

  ‘You think it is the fleet that you found in that inlet?’ Bjorn suggested. ‘The fleet that no one believed in, because by the time we got there it was gone?’

  ‘Asgeir and Einar are working with these vikings,’ Gest said. ‘That much is clear. But they are small fry, we can be certain of that. The real threat lies out to sea, with those longships.’

  He remembered what Hauk the Smith had told him. These vikings had to be stopped. But he was a man alone. He had only Bjorn to help him, and did not know if he could trust even him.

  ‘The king should be told,’ said Bjorn. ‘We can’t keep this to ourselves. These vikings threaten the lives of the king’s subjects. Every summer we hear of viking raids on the kingdom. None have struck here before, not that I have heard of. But the king should come here with his own fleet and put them to flight.’

  Gest looked at him. ‘Before I send the king word, I must be sure I have word worth the sending. For all we know, what we saw from the crag is nothing more than a passing fleet of vikings, who will soon be on their way west over sea to raid English shores. We must have something stronger to go on before word is sent to the king.’

  ‘Where can we find what we need to learn?’ Bjorn asked. ‘Before you send word to the king?’

  Gest looked pensive. ‘First I think we must net ourselves some small fry.’

  Bjorn laughed. ‘You mean…?’

  Gest nodded. ‘Einar and his men paid me a visit while I was away. It is high time I returned the compliment.’

  ‘Remember that Earl Sigvaldi has asked you to stay at your steading,’ Bjorn said. ‘Perhaps he had your own safety in mind. Besides, you did say that you would do as he bade.’

  ‘And as I have already told you,’ Gest said, ‘keeping my word, keeping my honour, is nothing besides my duty to my king.

  ‘I grew up on a poor steading in Naumdale, my father the tenant of a richer farmer. I killed his son after he tried to abduct my sister—it was a matter of honour; it went on all the time in the days of the petty kings, as you’ll remember—and was outlawed. I spent years living in the woods with nothing to my name but the shirt on my back and whatever I had stolen. It brought me little honour, but the life hardened me, and when at last I came to Tunsberg, I was so good a fighter that they took me on, no questions asked. But I am not of noble blood, so I joined the Gestasveit.’

  ‘The Gestasveit?’ Bjorn mouthed the word. His face was pale. ‘I’m a loyal subject, but what I have heard of the Gestasveit…’

  ‘You’ll have heard the stories: that we have little regard for personal honour,’ Gest said. ‘We will do whatever is needed to further the king’s aims. Murder a man, spy, steal… All crimes are praiseworthy, if they are committed in the name of the king.

  ‘You’ve had it easy, Bjorn,’ he went on. ‘You’ve bought yourself a steading in this country, you’re a farmer, a man of wealth and lands. You can afford high ideas of honour. But I live in a murkier world.’

  ‘I’m not of noble blood,’ said Bjorn. ‘But how can I hope to better myself if I lack the honour of a nobleman?’

  ‘Honour?�
�� Gest spat. ‘The kind of honour that kept the petty kings fighting each other until this whole land was mired in endless war.’

  ‘War is glorious,’ Bjorn protested. ‘War is noble, honourable.’

  ‘Says the farmer,’ Gest replied. ‘War is blood and death, no honour except in the lies of folk who survive. All you hold dear, the king excepted, has no meaning. You’ve helped me so far. Now I have told you the truth about myself, something I have not risked with anyone else—although it seems that Einar has guessed who I truly am. I am a king’s spy. And I want you to help me. Will you do that?’

  Bjorn stared searchingly at him. He looked down suddenly, as torchlight glinted on a dagger that Gest had begun to unsheathe. Mouth dry, he looked up.

  ‘Of course, neighbour,’ he said. ‘The king must know that he has a loyal subject in Bjorn Oddgeirsson.’ He glanced down again, meaningfully, and Gest sheathed his blade. ‘You need not threaten me,’ he added.

  Gest shook his head. ‘It was no threat,’ he said. ‘But my true identity can be known only to men I can depend upon. Anyone I cannot trust who learns who I am will have to die.’

  ‘You can trust me,’ Bjorn exclaimed. ‘I will keep your secret. And I will come with you, wherever you go. When this is over, speak of me to the king. He must know that he has a loyal subject here. Perhaps he will grant me lands and rank.’

  Gest grinned. ‘The king is openhanded,’ he said, ‘perhaps even as openhanded as you, it seems, are ambitious. I shall speak your name in the king’s ear, when I have a chance. If I ever get back to Tunsberg.’

  Bjorn mopped sweat from his brow and took a long deep pull at his drinking horn. Then he lifted it high. ‘To the king,’ he said.

  ‘To the king,’ Gest echoed him, raising his own horn. ‘To victory and the king.’

  They both drank deep, sealing their deal in ale. ‘Now all that is decided,’ said Bjorn, ‘what shall we do?’

  Gest looked thoughtful. ‘Your lands lie beside Einar’s,’ he said. ‘I suggest we return to your steading, and after dark make our way to Einar’s lands, to see what we can find.’

  ‘But what will we be looking for?’ asked Bjorn, puzzled.

  ‘We’ll know that when we find it,’ Gest told him.

  —19—

  That evening found them on the far edges of Bjorn’s land, where a thorn brake made progress difficult as they forced their way down a slope. Both men were afoot, having left their horses in the care of Bjorn’s people. Ahead of them, the cliffs that marked either side of the mouth of Boknafjord were limned in the last, garish light of the sun. Both men were armed. Both were proceeding cautiously through the thorns, which were black and gnarled, spotted in places with lichen and hung with draggled tufts of sheep wool. Sheep droppings slimed the rocky path, and the stink of sheep hung in the wet air.

  Much of Bjorn’s wealth was tied up in flocks of sheep. The land he owned was broader than that of the king, stretching flatly towards the strand, but it was poorer, and sheep and goats thrived where cattle would not prosper. Back at his own steading Bjorn had taken the time to discuss the running of his farm with two shepherds. He anticipated being away for some time, though Gest told him privately that they would not spend longer than necessary spying out Einar’s steading.

  To the surprise of Bjorn’s wife, they set out on foot. ‘My lands that march with Einar’s are rocky,’ he had told Gest. ‘Horses would be more a hindrance than a help. We were best to go on foot.’

  So they went. When the sun set, they were still crossing Bjorn’s fields, heading up slope to a pass among rocks that would lead into Einar’s fields by a secret route. Many times as an outlaw Gest had followed wild ways, so this was little hardship, but now, as they forced their way through the thorn bushes on the edge of Bjorn’s land, he wondered how far they would have to go.

  Bjorn pointed ahead. ‘That standing stone marks the edge of my lands,’ he said, indicating a pillar of crudely carved rock that stood out amidst the bushes. A path wound past it, a track, rather, transformed into slush by the hoofs of sheep. Ahead was the ridgeline, and Gest could see nothing of the land beyond. ‘Beyond that we will be in Einar’s fields. Then we will have to tread cautiously.’

  Gest nodded. Einar wanted him dead. That was why he and Asgeir had prevailed upon Earl Sigvaldi to have him tried for murder. As an outlaw, he could be killed out of hand, king’s man or no. And the king would not speak up for a man who had let himself to be outflanked by the foe. Yet by entering Einar’s lands, they might be playing into the man’s hands. It would be an easy matter for him to have them slain, the deaths excused as the killing of suspected vagrants or outlaws.

  ‘If we meet any of his men,’ he said, ‘we fight as a last resort. This journey is to be as fast and effective as possible.’

  ‘It would help,’ Bjorn remarked, as they made their way up to the standing stone, ‘if you could give me a better idea of what we are looking for.’

  Gest halted. ‘As I said, that will be easier to determine when we find it,’ he said. ‘But what we are looking for is evidence that Einar has links with the vikings.’

  ‘The ones who are moored off that island,’ Bjorn murmured. ‘Well, we know that Einar spends much time at sea. Surely he is aware of their presence.’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Gest said. ‘I should think it was at his word that the longships were moved to the island from the inlet where I found them. And we know now that the attack on Thorstein was not carried out by any supposed troll; it was vikings who burnt his steading. And they could only reach Gandsfjord if Einar turned a blind eye. But we need proof, neighbour. Not speculation. I cannot trouble the king with guesswork.’

  They started walking again. ‘So if we were to see Einar making contact with them,’ Bjorn was saying as they crested the rise. He broke off. ‘Look!’

  Beneath them the fields of Einar’s lands swept down towards the mouth of Boknafjord. Smoke rose from the peaked roof of a steading by the shore. Boats were moored in a narrow inlet fenced with stakes. Gliding swanlike into the haven was a broad beamed trading ship, a knar.

  They watched from the thorn bushes as the crew reefed the sails and guided their vessel up to a wharf. A gangplank was run out, and down it swept a group of men, led by one whose red cloak and green tunic were visible even in the waning light. As they marched up towards the hall, men lit torches.

  ‘Einar has returned,’ Bjorn muttered. ‘But from where?’

  In the distance lay Kvitsoy, the island in the mouth of Boknafjord. Here shone the beacon Einar tended, to give the folk advanced warning of vikings. Gest could see little of the sea beyond, and the other island, where vikings were moored. Had Einar come from that direction?

  ‘He’s hardly had time,’ Gest said after a moment’s discussion. ‘He was at Earl Sigvaldi’s stronghold when last we saw him. All he needs to have done is sail across the fjord to his own steading.’

  ‘So no suspicion falls on him for that,’ Bjorn said. By now, the men in Einar’s train had followed their chief inside the hall. ‘Now what should we do?’

  ‘We’ll get a little closer,’ said Gest. ‘There is nothing to be learnt watching from a distance. Come.’

  He led Bjorn down the field that opened out beyond the thorn brakes.

  From what Gest could see in the rapidly vanishing light, much of Einar’s own wealth came from the sea. The reek of sheep was replaced by that of fish, and the salty tang of the ocean. Down by the strand, close to the steading, fish hung drying on racks. If Einar’s men were chiefly fishermen, it would afford him an opportunity to parley with any of the vikings and sea kings who laired among the offshore islands. And were they plotting to sack Kaupang? If only Thorstein had told Hauk more about what he had learnt.

  Of course, Gest remembered as they crossed to the far edge of the field, Thorstein had not got so far in his investigations before he was killed. But Gest had heard nothing of the plan except from what Hauk had passed on. How had Thorstein found o
ut so much? So much that they had been forced to kill him. The plotters had made a foolish mistake by thus drawing attention to themselves. But right now Gest needed hard evidence...

  They reached the edge of the home field. So far they had seen no sign of Einar’s men, but seeing movement from ahead, Gest gestured to take cover, and they both ducked behind a drystone wall.

  Gest peered over the top. Two men stood together under the eaves of an outbuilding. They were talking together quietly, one of them holding a lantern. The length of the home field was between him and the two figures. He wished he was closer.

  ‘Who is it?’ Bjorn hissed.

  Gest could barely make them out. It was almost pitch dark by now, and the torch one of the men carried served only to throw their faces into shadow. They turned to go and Gest caught a brief glimpse of one man’s beard. It was streaked with white. He remembered what Kraka had said about Einar: he looked like a badger.

  They were gone now, and with them went the light of their torches. But in the gloom, Gest thought he saw someone or something else moving, shambling after them. Gest thought he heard the clinking of a chain… Then it too was gone as if it had never been.

  ‘If we could get a little closer…’ he remarked.

  ‘It was him?’ Bjorn asked.

  Gest ducked back down. ‘Aye, neighbour,’ he said. ‘Who knows, we may have missed something important. And there was someone else, but I couldn’t quite make them out. And someone or something followed after them… Let’s get a little closer.’

  They rose and slunk through the shadows along the edge of the home field, following it round until they had drawn close to the outbuildings of Einar’s steading. The sound of boisterous conversation and the thud of fists on feasting boards filtered from the hall, bringing with it the reek of smoke and cooking food. Gest felt an overwhelming loneliness, a sharp reminder of the years of wandering when he had watched halls of feasting men from outside, in the cold, envious of folk leading humdrum lives while he was condemned to outlawry.