Viking Revolt

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘Ahoy, the cliff!’ he yelled back. ‘What do you there?’

  Men aboard sat up, startled from sleep by his bellow. The opening to the awnings twitched, and a bearded face appeared, scowling, surveyed the deck, and then withdrew inside again. A mumbled conversation came from within. The men on deck were also talking amongst themselves.

  Stafnglam ignored them, holding a hand cupped to his ear as the man on the cliff replied:

  ‘May I come aboard? Our ship hit a hidden reef and went down with all hands but me, her skipper, who swam ashore on this barren island. I spent the night here wet and shivering. Only near dawn did I hear the creak of your timbers.’

  Stafnglam did not reply at once. He had been on watch half the night, and was cold and stiff as he strode aft and knelt by the awnings.

  ‘Man wants to come aboard,’ he told the scowling, balding, black bearded face that appeared.

  The face grunted, withdrew, spoke with someone else. Then it reappeared.

  ‘Tell him to come aboard,’ said the balding, black bearded man. ‘We need another oarsman. Does he know how to row?’

  ‘Says he was the skipper of a foundered vessel,’ replied Stafnglam.

  The man nodded. ‘Tell him to come aboard,’ he repeated. ‘We’ll try him out. If he fails us, the sea king says he goes in the drink.’

  Stafnglam relayed the invitation, and he leant against the prow, with its figurehead of a dragon lifting blood reddened talons skywards in triumph. Slowly the cliff grew lighter as the sun crept up the sky, and the beetle like shape of the man traversed the cliff. Sea mews rose in shrieking clouds and darted viciously at him, afraid he might be after their eggs. At last he jumped down onto the rocky strand, slithered across seaweed and rock pools to the water’s edge, then waded into the water.

  On deck, the men who Stafnglam had woken with his bellow were cooking gruel in the cook pot over the fire at the foot of the mast. One man stirred the gruel while the rest lounged close by, grateful for the warmth. The opening to the awnings remained shut; those within had their own breakfast. The sea king kept his own kind of state, even in mid campaign.

  The man swam nearer the hull until he was in the shadow of the dragon prow. Stafnglam flung a line down to him and he climbed up to fling a leg over the sheer strake. He looked at Stafnglam and grinned.

  ‘My thanks,’ he said, and jumped down onto the deck, to stand there dripping.

  Stafnglam saw a brawny, saturnine man in early middle age, with a wild, unruly beard. His drenched clothes were salt stained but of well woven linen. His thigh and arm were both wrapped in blood stained bandages. He held a sheathed sword by its sword belt, which he proceeded to strap around his waist. Otherwise he was unarmed and unarmoured, but wore gold rings around his arms.

  Noticing Stafnglam’s gaze, he shrugged, and laughed. ‘I left my helm and byrnie aboard when the ship went down,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t leave my blade. I held it above the water as I swam with one hand. I had no notion there was land nearby, but I swam regardless.’

  ‘What is your name?’ Stafnglam barked so loudly the men round the cooking fire looked up. ‘And what were you doing in these waters?’

  ‘Hunding Hringsson is my name,’ said the newcomer, gripping his well worked belt and looking keenly around the deck. ‘I sailed from my home in Iceland at the close of winter, with a ship and a score of men provided by my father, on a raid. Instead, as soon as we reached the old country, we hit a hidden reef and sank.’

  ‘We need another oarsman,’ said Stafnglam. ‘We lost one in an engagement off Stad. You can take his place, if you prove good enough for us.’ He gestured to a berth beside a rowlock on the starboard bow.

  The newcomer grinned, and held out a hand for Stafnglam to shake it. ‘Are you the skipper?’ he asked artlessly.

  Stafnglam shook his head. ‘I’m the stem-man,’ he said proudly. ‘And you’ll follow my commands.’

  ‘I want to speak with the skipper,’ said the newcomer.

  Stafnglam shook his head. ‘The sea king speaks to no one,’ he told him. ‘Go to the cook pot and get some gruel. Then to your berth. We’ll be having exercises this morning.’

  ‘Exercises?’ asked the newcomer.

  Stafnglam nodded. ‘We may not be at sea,’ he said, ‘but all crew members must keep their hands in. And we shall be trying you later. A man does not simply join the fleet of Sigfrid Redhand.’ He turned on his heel and went to seek his own berth.

  Gest stood looking after him, his wet clothes steaming slightly in the sun. He would have to change them soon. He squeezed his cloak and water pooled on the deck.

  He was aboard the dragon ship, flagship of the fleet of the famous sea king Sigfrid Redhand. The other longships moored nearby were of the kind men called snakes, fifty feet from stem to stern with a score of oars on either side. As he crossed to the cooking fire and greeted his fellow crewmen, he counted six ships, seven including the dragon ship herself, a monster one hundred and ninety feet long, intricately carved and brightly painted from prow to stern, with thirty oars on either side.

  An impressive enough fleet, but surely not sufficient to launch a raid on Kaupang. He felt a twinge of doubt. Were these the longships he had seen in the inlet?

  No one seemed to think it strange that he had been shipwrecked on the island, or that he had come to them seeking a berth. It all seemed a little too easy. He’d taken a chance, seeing nothing else for it, and it had worked! But what was this about him being tried? A trial… He didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘An Icelander, are you?’ asked a well-built youth with a fuzz of beard. ‘My father’s steading is in the West Quarter. Whereabouts do you hail from?’

  Gest squatted down beside him, supressing a wish to groan. ‘The East Quarter,’ he hazarded. He had not been expecting to meet vikings from that far flung, new found land. ‘But my folk settled there only recently. I was born in Naumdale. How did you come to join this fleet?’

  The youth, whose name was Vivil, had joined Sigfrid Redhand’s viking brotherhood when little more than a boy, but even then he had been so skilled a swordsman that a display of his skill had secured him a berth aboard the dragon ship Red Grasp. Since then he had spent his life at sea, raiding trade ships and coastal settlements, or fighting with rival vikings.

  A wave of doubt wash over Gest. Was he truly aboard one of the ships he had seen before? Where had this crew come from? The only way he could settle his doubts was if he became privy to the plans of their leader.

  ‘I swore never again to sleep under sooty hall beams,’ Vivil concluded, ‘and so it has been ever since. All these men could tell a similar tale.’

  His fellow vikings gathered round to make their own boasts. Few if any of them had been ashore in many years other than to harry farms and settlements, except when they took winter quarters off one or other island in the Orkneys, Shetland, or the Faeroes. Their raids had taken them west to England and east to the kingdoms of the Baltic. One man, Gram, had sailed down the rivers of Russia to the kingdom of the Greeks, seen the golden towers and domes of Miklagard, the Great City, where the Greek Emperor had his throne.

  ‘But that was when I was a young man,’ he said, rubbing at the empty socket of his left eye. A long red scar seemed almost to cut his face in half; it went straight across where his eye would have been. ‘Before this winter, when I was deemed good enough to join the sea king’s fleet.’

  Gest glanced at the awnings. ‘Is that where the sea king has his quarters?’ he asked idly. ‘Sigfrid Redhand?’

  ‘That’s where he sleeps,’ Vivil agreed, and the others nodded. ‘And his berserks stay with him at all times. He is only seen on deck when we are at sea, and we get our orders from Stafnglam, his chief warrior…’

  After finishing their gruel, the men drifted away from the cook pot. Gest went to the space that Stafnglam had singled out as his berth. It was no more than a stretch of deck beside the gunwale on which sat a seaman’s chest. A rowlock s
tood in the hull in about the right spot for the oar loom to be at hand-height were Gest to sit upon this chest.

  Several of the men had already jumped overboard to bathe in the salt water; after leaving his clothes on the chest and the gunwale to dry in the sun Gest did the same. The men were sportive and rough, competing in swimming races and playing a kind of sea-wrestling where they would compete to see who could be held underwater longest. The men of the other ships joined in.

  Gest, knowing he would have to make allies if he was to succeed in his mission, went along with their games, which reminded him of the rough and tumble of King Harald Finehair’s housecarls. Since their leader presumed to call himself a king, he supposed they were housecarls themselves. But it was a much more informal court, and much smaller, than that belonging to the king of Norway.

  He had heard wild tales of Sigfrid Redhand, most notorious of the sea kings whose viking fleets troubled the kingdom of Norway. Legend had it that his crews were fiends and sons of whores, all of them, but Gest concluded after a morning with them that their wickedness had been much exaggerated.

  He climbed back up onto the deck and towelled himself down with his cloak, then donned the breeches and tunic that had been drying in the sun.

  Stafnglam joined him. ‘We need an oarsman, but your place here is not assured until we’ve tried you. First, I’ll give you the laws of this viking brotherhood.’

  He lounged against the gunwale, folding his arms. ‘No man shall sail with us unless he has seen eighteen winters, nor do we accept a greybeard of two and a half score years. Our plunder is divided by lot. No man in King Sigfrid Redhand’s brotherhood will eat raw meat—it’s common for some vikings to squeeze fresh flesh in a cloth and call it cooked, but the sea king deems it a habit fit for wolves not men. None but the king and his closest men may pitch awnings on the deck. Never do we rob farmers or traders unless we need to restock our supplies, nor may any man lead a woman back to the ships against her own will. Never do we sleep beneath sooty hall beams. And never do we flee from fire or iron.’

  He slapped Gest on the back. ‘Now that is straight, we will go on to the next part of your trial: we shall decide if you are good enough to sail with us, or in another ship, or…’

  Gest spoke. ‘Do none of us ever see the face of the man we serve?’ he asked, nodding over at the tented section of deck. It seemed a foolish policy to draw such a sharp division between the sea king and his warriors. Besides, he wished to meet the king and speak with him, find out what the fleet intended. This was the only reason he had joined.

  Stafnglam seemed angry at the interruption. ‘Remember you are here on sufferance until we have tried you,’ he said warningly. ‘In answer to your question—Seldom. Few see the king except at sea and in battle, when he wears a helm that covers much of his face. Few see him except his guard.’

  Gest was silent a moment. ‘What would a man need if he wanted to become one of his closest men?’ he asked.

  Stafnglam glared at him forbiddingly. ‘His guard consists of twelve berserks,’ he said. ‘Even I must speak to the sea king through them. And no man can join the guard unless he proves himself by slaying one of their number. No man has succeeded in doing this all the years I have sailed with the sea king, but rather the very few to issue a challenge have gone to seek a new berth in the hall of Aegir and Ran, the sea giants.’

  —22—

  The rest of that morning was spent in training and manoeuvres aboard ship, half the oarsmen fighting the other half, armed with wooden training swords. Gest knew that Stafnglam’s eyes were upon him the whole time, gauging his reactions, assessing him as a newcomer to the fleet. But he fought absently, his mind on what he had learnt so far.

  The longships he had seen in the inlet must have some link with this fleet, but he was sure that this was a separate group of vikings. Nevertheless, two viking fleets could hardly be at large in the same waters without there being either an alliance or a fight. Sigfrid Redhand was notorious the length and breadth of Norway. It seemed highly likely that he would be involved in a planned attack on Kaupang, and yet his forces were too small to take on an entire town, even if King Harald Finehair went fighting vikings across the western sea.

  This was the only clue he had found. The other fleet had vanished beyond his ken, but they must surely be intended as reinforcements. Perhaps it was Sigfrid’s men who had burnt Thorstein’s steading. Perhaps it was with them that Einar was in league. Was that it? Did Einar and Sigfrid mean to join forces and attack Kaupang? If only Thorstein had been clearer in his report to Hauk…

  Pain cracked through his skull and he skidded on the deck, clumsily steadying himself by gripping the sheer strake with his shield arm. Vivil, who had struck him, guffawed.

  ‘You’re only half awake, new boy,’ he crowed. ‘You’ll never be taken on if you don’t fight your hardest.’

  Ruefully, Gest rubbed his throbbing head with his left hand, hampered as he was by his shield. Like Vivil, he wore a byrnie, carried a shield, and held a wooden sword. All around them the men of the ship were fighting, the clock-clock-clock of wooden blade on wooden blade ringing out across the deck. A black bearded face watched them from the opening to the awnings. Gest wondered just how many men lurked within. So far he had seen only one.

  ‘You’re fast,’ he acknowledged in reply to Vivil’s words. ‘But…’ He swung his wooden sword in a feint at the youth’s throat, then changed direction as the youth raised his shield, and rapped him on the kneecap, ‘not fast enough.’

  Vivil cried out and dropped his wooden sword to rub at his bruised knee. His mouth broke open in another laugh. ‘That’s a good one,’ he said. ‘A dirty trick. You’ll have to teach me it.’

  Stafnglam hove into sight, barging round Gest’s elbow and striking Vivil’s hand with the butt end of a spear. ‘Pick up your sword,’ he barked. ‘Never drop your weapon, whatever the provocation.’

  Chastened, Vivil obeyed. Stafnglam turned to look at Gest. ‘You fight well,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Seems the rumours about you Icelanders are ill-founded.’

  ‘I’m an Icelander too.’ Vivil brandished the sword he had retrieved from the deck. ‘We’re all good fighters up in Iceland. What have you heard?’

  ‘Icelanders spend all their time humping their livestock,’ said a harsh voice from behind them. ‘They don’t know how to fight.’

  Gest and Vivil turned to see that the bald, bearded man from the awnings had come out on deck. He looked about him proudly, eyeing the fighting men as if he thought he could do better. After stretching and spitting over the side, he looked scathingly at the two men.

  ‘That’s what men say about Icelanders,’ he said, stepping close to Gest and peering aggressively up at him.

  To Gest’s surprise, this berserk was quite short, about five feet at the most, but broad with it, his arms rippling with muscle. He wore a cloak of wolf fur, baggy breeches of maroon linen, and a broad leather belt from which hung a bearded axe. A waft of unwashed flesh came from him, almost as sour as the wild beast reek attributed to trolls. ‘What do you have to say about that, fellow?’

  Gest grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Why do you think I left the place?’ he asked. ‘Aye, Icelanders spend all their time humping livestock—or else they get ships and men and sail in search of fame and plunder. Right, Vivil?’

  Vivil laughed. The bald man shoved Gest’s hand from his shoulder. ‘You’re full of yourself for a newcomer,’ he said resentfully.

  ‘And who are you?’ Gest asked with another grin.

  Stafnglam coughed nervously. ‘This is Bork Wolf-mantle,’ he said. ‘One of the chosen guards of our king, Sigfrid Redhand.’

  Gest and Bork eyeballed each other. ‘So that’s who you are,’ said Gest with a laugh. ‘I thought some dwarf had come up from Hel’s cold kingdom, but the sun hasn’t turned you to stone yet, has it, little man?’

  Stafnglam gave a sharp intake of breath. Vivil’s face was pale as whey, his eyes da
rting from one man to the other. Bork’s ruddy face grew redder, almost purple.

  Stafnglam seized Gest’s arm and led him hastily to the prow, dodging round fighting men. ‘You show promise, newcomer,’ he said as they walked, ‘but you’ll last no time if you anger Bork. He’s no bear to be baited. The wolf whose hide he wears he killed with his bare hands, years ago.’

  His face was as white as Vivil’s. The stem-man valued him, Gest saw, though he kept this hidden. ‘He’s an old man, then?’ he said. ‘I thought I saw white in his whiskers.’

  Stafnglam gave him a serious look. ‘Don’t make jokes about him or any of the other berserks,’ he said. ‘You’ve not seen them in the fray. You’ve not seen that greying beard dyed crimson. Fear Bork, newcomer. Do not anger him.’

  ‘I’ll heed your words,’ Gest said agreeably, ‘but I’d wager that I could soon bring that dog to heel.’

  Stafnglam shook his head. ‘Don’t be a fool. I’ve got my eye on you. You’ve got what it takes, maybe, but if you blunder on like this…’

  ‘Isn’t it true that he who kills one of the king’s berserks will take his place?’ Gest asked.

  Stafnglam looked away. ‘That’s what is said,’ he muttered. ‘But no one has ever succeeded. You’d be wasting your life, throwing it away uselessly, if that’s what you mean to do.’

  ‘You see a long way,’ said Gest, ‘but not far enough. I am a fine warrior, and of noble blood. It is not for me to heave at an oar, but instead I should stand at the side of the sea king in the fight.’

  Stafnglam tugged worriedly at his beard, twisting it in knots. ‘You’re just out of Iceland, boy,’ he said, although Gest was his senior by several years. ‘Just out of Iceland with nothing to brag of but a shipload of men gone to the bottom. You may have been deemed of noble blood on that frozen rock, but here it means nothing. Aboard the Red Grasp, it’s the blood we shed that matters, not the blood in our own veins.’