Viking Revolt

by Gavin Chappell

  He quelled the feeling, and led Bjorn down a narrow alleyway between two outbuildings. Rounding a corner, they saw that it gave onto the garth, on the far side of which stood the hall. Beyond it, a wharf jutted out into the water, and the lapping of waves was audible.

  ‘This way,’ he said, pointing to the track down to the wharf.

  ‘Not to the hall?’ asked Bjorn.

  ‘I don’t think we’re invited,’ Gest said wryly.

  ‘But we could say we are travellers,’ Bjorn suggested. ‘Gain entry into the hall and sit on the lower benches. Then who knows what we might hear?’

  ‘Nothing that would make it worthwhile,’ Gest said. ‘We’d be recognised.’ He put a hand on Bjorn’s arm. ‘A good thought, neighbour,’ he admitted, ‘but it would need time for preparation. And time is in short supply. This way,’ he repeated.

  They passed the hall and made their way down the path to where the dark waters lapped against the wharf. Nearby, three or four fishing boats had been hauled up on the strand, but it was the knar that had drawn Gest’s attention. The gangplank remained lowered, bridging the gap between the wharf and the prow. Gest looked around him. The wharf was deserted.

  The steading was quiet, except for the hubbub from the hall. No guards were to be seen. Einar was confident, Gest thought. Perhaps too confident for his own good. But why should he fear any interlopers? Apart from the apparent fact that he was plotting against the security of the kingdom. Or was he? Had Gest mistaken his man? Were his intentions honourable? But how then had vikings sailed up Gandsfjord to burn Thorstein in his hall?

  He paused, hearing a shuffling, padding sound from back down the alleyway.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Bjorn asked, as he turned to look. ‘What will we learn down here?’

  ‘I’m going to spy out that ship,’ Gest told him absently. He could see nothing down the alley. ‘Stay in the shadows, and if anyone comes this way, hoot twice like an owl, and that will be my signal to flee.’

  ‘And what do I do then?’ Bjorn asked as Gest slipped out into the open. But he received no reply.

  Gest had heard his question, but he had no very good answer. If Bjorn could not take care of himself, that was his own affair. He had proved a useful helper in many ways, but Gest thought he would make better progress on his own. Reaching the gangplank he glanced back. He could just make out Bjorn’s eyes glinting in the darkness at the end of the narrow alley. Should he tell him to return to his own steading? No. He would search the ship for what he could find, and then return to Bjorn’s side.

  The gangplank sprang under his tread as he crossed it, then he jumped down onto the deck with a clatter. Bent double, he hurried across the swaying strakes to the opening to the hold aft of the gangplank.

  The deck was strewn with coiled ropes and chests of provisions. More chests lay within the hold. Gest went to one, a long, heavy chest almost long enough to hold a body, but too narrow. He crouched beside it, staggering a little as the deck swayed beneath him. He reached out to open the chest.

  It came as little surprise that it was locked. He knelt down on the deck and gripped it in both hands, dragging it closer. It was heavy. What did it contain? He found the lock by feel rather than sight, then drew his dagger and forced it into the keyhole: he had no time for subtleties. He jabbed the tip into the lock until something broke with a metallic snap. He opened the chest.

  Inside it lay a sheaf of spears. About a score of them. War spears. He could see them only dimly, but by feel he knew them as Frankish make. What was Einar doing with so many spears? And the other chests, did they hold weapons too? He forced another lock. This chest was filled with iron rings. Hauling out a handful, he realised that they were linked. This chest contained a byrnie.

  A frenzied yell split the night, and Gest looked up at a sudden snarling. What had Bjorn got himself into now?

  —20—

  He ran back up the deck. In the darkness, it was impossible to see what was happening on the shore, but he could hear snarls and shouts. It sounded like Bjorn had been attacked by some beast.

  The gangplank bounced under his running feet as he dashed down, drawing his sword as he ran. Reaching the wharf, he sprinted for the alleyway. Two shapes were pelting through the blackness, a larger one pursuing a smaller. He couldn’t make out what was what or who was who.

  ‘Bjorn,’ he hissed. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Gest! Neighbour!’ Bjorn’s voice was loud, desperate. ‘Help me!’

  Bjorn was running from a huge bear. In the gloom it looked almost as big as an ox, its fur black and bristling, its snout brimming with teeth. A chain formed a collar round its neck. As Gest stepped forward, brandishing his sword, the bear veered away from Bjorn and sprang.

  Gest met it with his drawn sword. Somehow the bear dodged his glinting blade and a mass of stinking fur and ranking claws and teeth collided with him. Gest was bowled over backwards, and had to seize hold of the edge of the adjacent outbuilding’s roof to steady himself. The bear hit the ground and seized Gest’s thigh in its slavering jaws.

  Wildly Gest swung his sword, felt it sink into flesh, but still the pressure from the bear’s teeth did not lessen, and its claws raked again and again at his calves. Bjorn tried to haul the bear off Gest, but it turned to snap at him, then returned to the attack.

  Gest withdrew up the alleyway, blood running freely from his thigh, swinging his sword. Again he felt his blade make contact, then a third time. This time he hewed off the bear’s left leg, and it fell to one side, but still dragged itself snarling at him. Gest lifted his sword high, reversed it, and brought it whistling down.

  The bear gave one last yelp, and was still. Gest put his foot on its skull and dragged his blade free. As he did so, shouts rang out from the direction of the hall.

  Gest looked up. Bjorn faced him across the carcass of the bear. Gest cursed.

  ‘They heard that clamour,’ he hissed.

  Bjorn looked over his shoulder. From here, the hall was hidden from view by a turn in the alleyway, but the yells of men and the pounding of feet was coming closer. He looked down at Gest’s torn breeches and the sticky mass of blood that fouled them. The king’s man clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Get down to the wharf,’ he instructed. ‘Find us a boat and prepare to cast off.’

  Bjorn stared at him. Then he nodded, and brushed past, sprinting down the alley. Gest stood astride the bloody carcase and waited for the first man to appear. The pounding of footsteps grew louder. He stood patiently, the scratches and bites of the bear stinging in the cold night air.

  A man turned the corner, spear in hand. He did not see Gest’s sword as it whirled through the air, and if he had, it would have been the last sight he saw. His corpse dropped into the mud beside the dead bear. Two more appeared, following him, one carrying a flaming torch, and both halted at the sight of the sword wielding man.

  ‘Who are you?’ shouted one in challenge.

  ‘He’s killed Thorkill,’ noted the torchbearer. ‘And Bjarni! He’s killed the lord’s own bear!’

  ‘The bear must have found him wandering round the garth,’ said the first one. Gest surmised that the bear had been left to patrol the steading. That was why there had been no guards. Well, he had slain that beast guard, but the noise had brought a worse threat.

  The first man lunged, thrusting his spear across the alleyway, and Gest dodged awkwardly, feeling a hot flash of pain as the spearhead nicked his arm. He leapt back, arms spread wide, sword in one hand. With the other he beckoned wordlessly. In the distance, more men were audible searching the garth.

  ‘So he wants a fight,’ said the first man. ‘Well, he’ll get one! Asleif, get the rest. They’ll want to see this.’

  As Asleif ran off, the first man rushed Gest. In the darkness, he stumbled over his fallen comrade, and Gest struck. The blade sank deep, the man cried out in a high pitched voice, then fell to his knees, spraying blood. As more men hurtled down the alleyway towards them
, Gest ran back to the wharf.

  Where was Bjorn? Gest could see no sign of the man—no, there he was! The fool was aboard the knar, hauling unaided on a halyard; the sail was halfway up the mast. Scowling Gest ran up the gangplank.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he called from the prow. ‘We can’t take this ship!’

  Bjorn looked up. The sail was more than halfway up the mast, but it had yet to be lowered. He glanced back at Gest and his eyes widened. Pointing, he shouted, ‘Too late for that! Cast off!’ Gest turned.

  The shore was lined with grim faced warriors, their spears glinting in the light of torches. More were hurrying from the alleyway, these bearing bows.

  Another man came to join them. It was Einar, a helm on his silver shot brows.

  Gest cut the line that kept them tethered to the wharf. With his foot, he shoved the gangplank overboard. He was about to shove off when Einar spoke.

  ‘Surrender at once!’ His voice carried, harsh and deep. ‘Bring my ship back to shore or my men will riddle you with arrows!’

  Gest ignored his words. He reached out with an oar and shoved against the wharf, and the ship began to wallow her way across the water. Angry, Einar looked to his men. ‘Archers!’ he cried. Men notched arrows and drew back bow strings.

  Gest ran across the deck to help Bjorn, and together they lowered the sail, which unfurled with a deep hiss, bringing with it a musty reek of wet homespun. Bjorn, his face besmirched with blood, looked back. The shore was lined with torch bearing men and archers.

  ‘Very well,’ yelled Einar to his men. ‘We gave them a chance. Loose!’

  A dozen arrows leapt from the bow, lifting in the air hissing like a skein of geese, their tips glinting in the torchlight, before they swooped like hunting hawks. Gest seized a shield from a heap of them on the deck and lifted it high, sheltering himself and Bjorn from the deadly hail.

  Arrows thudded into the deck on either hand. The shield banged and jumped as arrow after arrow struck it. Gest flung it aside, glancing ruefully at the arrows that covered it like the spines of a hedgehog. They were now passing beyond the lines of posts that sheltered the haven from the fjord waters.

  ‘Archers!’ came Einar’s voice, thin and distant now.

  Bjorn turned to Gest. ‘Get another shield.’

  As Einar shouted ‘Loose!’ again, they lifted their shields high. Gest peered up into the darkness. Even as he did so, the night sky began raining death. He ducked under the shield and the arrows fringed the deck around him. One pierced his shield and stopped an inch from his eye. He heard a strangled cry. Still the knar wallowed across the water, sail billowing in the night breeze.

  Bjorn lay on the deck, clutching at an arrow that had pierced his leg. Gest ran to him and dragged him into the hold.

  ‘This won’t shelter you from attack,’ he said grimly, ‘but you had better keep out of the way.’

  He heard another shout from Einar, and again the air whistled. He scrambled back out of the hold to grab a shield, but as he did so, the waters aft of them hissed as more arrows plunged into the waves. Einar’s steading was a distant red glow. Darkness surrounded the ship. Far off to starboard scattered red stars lined the strand, indicating other steadings. The one furthest off would be Earl Sigvaldi’s stronghold.

  But the wind was taking them out to sea. They were out of range of Einar’s archers, which was nothing to mourn, but the ship was going its own way. Gest tried to picture the haven. Had Einar had any other vessel capable of pursuing them? He had a vision of fishing boats packed with warriors rowing after them, but quelled it. He shook his head. They had stolen Einar’s ship. He would have to ride to the nearest steading to get help if he wanted to sail after them. He laughed.

  ‘What is it?’

  Bjorn’s voice was weak, but he had risen to his knees and crouched in the opening to the hold. Gest turned with a grin.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said. ‘Einar will have to find someone to help him if he wants to sail after us. He could go to his neighbour… but…’

  Bjorn’s laugh was a harsh bark. ‘His neighbour is absent. He’ll have to ride some way up the strand before he finds a man who can spare him a ship.’

  He glanced at the chest that sat beside him, its lid broken open. ‘Spears?’ he muttered.

  ‘Aye,’ said Gest. ‘I found them earlier, while you were befriending Einar’s bear. Seems like a lot of spears for a small steading with what, a score of warriors at the most.’

  He crossed to another chest and smashed it open. The story was the same. Spears, a few axes. Knives.

  ‘Now, where were these bound?’ he muttered.

  ‘Einar meant to trade them,’ Bjorn said. ‘He has a forge.’

  ‘His smith has been working flat out all winter,’ Gest said absently, ‘if he’s made all these weapons alone. It would take every forge in the district to produce so many. Perhaps he means to trade steel... but with whom?’

  ‘Neighbour!’

  Using a spear as a crutch, Bjorn limped out onto the deck. He was pointing towards the shore. He had snapped the shaft of the arrow that protruded from his thigh. He joined him in the stern, dodging through the arrows that now grew across the deck in small thickets.

  Boats bobbed on the water. Gest caught a sheen of steel from the nearest.

  ‘Einar has decided to follow us,’ he said. He looked about him, then went to the steering oar. ‘We’re undermanned,’ he said, ‘but we have the bigger ship. Let us make use of her!’

  The island at the fjord mouth stood a few ship’s-lengths on their starboard bow. They were dangerously close to foundering on the reefs that surrounded it. He shoved down hard on the steering oar and the knar began to turn about, hoving to until the island was aft. Bjorn went to the larboard gunwale.

  ‘They’re still making for us,’ he said.

  It was some years since Gest had last been at the helm of a ship, and he needed all his concentration. He had taken hold of the sheet and now he hauled doggedly at it. The sail yard creaked as it turned to swell in the wind, which was now blowing from the south-south-west.

  ‘Make yourself useful,’ Gest said. ‘Get a bow and use it to discourage our pursuers.’

  Bjorn limped back and returned with an unstrung bow. He strung it and notched an arrow that he took from those lying on the deck, then loosed. With a wild whoop it vanished into the windy darkness.

  A cry of pain drifted down the wind, and Bjorn raised his fists in exultation, brandishing the bow. He snatched up another arrow and sent it after the last. This time he was not so lucky, and the wind caught the arrow and flung it contemptuously out to sea.

  By now Gest had sailed them round the island and they themselves were bearing towards the open waters. He squinted into the salt tanged wind. Stars wheeled overhead, mirrored in the choppy sea below. Far off, on the distant skyline, another island bulked black against the stars. The ruddy light of fires winked in its lea, marking the location of ships. Aboard them he imagined men sitting by cooking fires, eating and drinking to keep out the cold. But it was too dark and they were too far off to make them out.

  Gest looked to windward. Still the fishing boats dogged them, dark shapes vaulting the waves. But now they were drawing further and further aft as the knar cruised into the windswept waters.

  The sail rattled against the mast as the wind grew fiercer, taking them where the fishing boats could not follow. Bjorn had lowered his bow now, and was standing by the gunwale, the wind tugging manically at his long hair. He had lost his hat somewhere in the recent confusion. He turned to Gest, and yelled across the deck, ‘Where to now?’

  Despite the hair that streamed across it, Gest could see the man was in pain, and no doubt. In the last hour or so he had been savaged by a bear and pierced by an arrow. They had both fled from danger, and it had afforded little time to care for their hurts—Gest became aware of his own wounds again. Maybe Bjorn could make use of his skills as a healer, but without herbs and potions it did not seem
hopeful. But now they were out of the worst of it.

  ‘I’ve been so taken up with getting away,’ he said, ‘that I’ve thought little of where we should go. But the wind, or the Norns, will decide. Do you see where we are bound?’

  Bjorn looked to leeward. ‘I see nothing but the night,’ he grumbled. Then, as Gest opened his mouth to speak again, he added, ‘Nay, I see it! So that’s where we are. I had no idea. We’ve left Boknafjord behind us and we’re out in the open sea. And we’re on course for that island.’

  He looked back. ‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ he asked. ‘That’s a viking fleet we’re headed for. You have us running from the smoke into the flame, neighbour. Those men will kill us!’

  Thin-lipped, Gest shook his head. ‘Not if we’re wary,’ he said, ‘and know what we’re about. Besides, that is where I want to go.’

  —21—

  ‘Ahoy the ship!’

  Stafnglam the stem-man of the Red Grasp was pissing over the side when the call drifted down from the cliffs. He looked up in puzzlement as it came again.

  ‘Ahoy the ship! Ahoy!’

  The amber stream came to an end, he shook himself, retied his breeches, and pulled his fur cloak close against the cold. Then, squinting in the light of early dawn, he peered up at the cliff again.

  Aft of his post, the rest of the crew dozed in their sleeping bags. Awnings had been raised over deck before the stern, but most of the men slept under the paling stars. A reek of stale beer hung in the still air. The embers of the cooking fire still glowed by the mast, though they were paling in the growing light of dawn. The spars and stays creaked a little, the men grumbled in their sleep or rolled over, grunting. The air was cold.

  Both to port and starboard, other ships lay at anchor in this haven, which was sundered from the rolling green waters of the sea by a long sandbar. A breakwater creamed between the strand and the bar.

  The island itself was a barren prominence of rock topped by sparse, wiry grass. Sea mews and other marine birds nested amongst the cliffs in vertical cities of squawking, squabbling life. Above the tideline seaweed festooned barnacle-rough rocks. Otherwise there had been no sign of life on the island during the week that the Red Grasp and her consorts had been anchored there. Off in the east, a dark line now reddened by the rising sun marked the mainland. Sometimes they had seen boats passing from the nearby fjord. But not once had Stafnglam seen a man on the island.