Viking Revolt

by Gavin Chappell

  Gest met Kari, whose hair was tangled and awry, his handsome face a mask of blood. He grinned fiercely, swinging his axe around his head.

  ‘Get back to the ship,’ Gest shouted. ‘Help the men with the cattle, and get them back to the ship.’

  Kari roared orders at a group of vikings and they came to help him herd the frightened, stampeding cattle towards the strand. The remainder of the seafarers still fought a rear-guard manoeuvre against what remained of the defenders.

  As they urged the cattle seawards, using spears to goad the frightened beasts in the right direction, Kari bellowed, ‘Is this all I am to be today? A neat herd? But it was a good fight, friend Hunding!’ He guffawed lustily. ‘Aye, a good fight!’

  Gest had no such relish for battle, though he would never have admitted it. He had killed men today and it had passed like a dream. He had found his own men impossible to control, his orders so much wasted breath. A stampede of cows had been more decisive than any of his strategy.

  They urged the cattle down the cliff. Several leapt down so hectically that they broke their necks at the bottom. Had the vikings been neatherds as Kari said, this would have been a disaster. But in truth it saved them from slaughtering the beasts.

  ‘Kill the rest,’ Gest said when they had driven them all down onto the strand. ‘Then butcher them and get the meat aboard.’

  Back up the cliffs he saw his men withdrawing under the onslaught of the angry Scots. More cattle stampeded through the meadow, the ground thundering to their frenzied hoofs. More armed men were appearing from the trees. The country was up in arms. And butchery was skilled work.

  He joined his retreating men. ‘Pull back,’ he yelled. ‘Pull back and guard the cliffs. We’ll embark as soon as the beasts are slaughtered.’

  They formed up a ragged line on the cliff edge, bloody spears at the ready. Valgard was there, shouting words of praise at the men to put heart into them.

  ‘Where’s Ulf?’ Gest yelled down his ear. The clash of blade on blade was deafening, and Gest barely caught Valgard’s words.

  ‘What did you say?’ Gest shouted.

  The line lurched, and one viking misstepped and went slithering over the side.

  Valgard laughed, eyes crazed. ‘A cow!’ he bellowed. ‘A cow!’

  A spear ran through the viking at Gest’s side, and he turned to fight the Scot who had killed him.

  ‘What was that about a cow?’ he yelled after he had cut the man down.

  ‘A moo-cow trampled him!’ Valgard roared with laughter. ‘We should give her a place in the sea king’s guard!’ Despite the laughter, tears were on his cheeks, mingling with the blood of the men he had killed. ‘It wasn’t like this when we carried off the herd of the king in Rogaland.’

  The men on the strand below were carrying aboard lumps of meat from the carcases that lay blood laced in the sand. Gest gave the order for the rest of the vikings to withdraw to the ship.

  In a hail of Scottish spears and arrows They sprinted across the sand. As the first man reached the gangplank he fell shrieking as an arrow pierced him through the neck. Gest shoved his corpse into the water and led the vikings aboard the Sea Eagle.

  Orm came to meet them, face grim. ‘Get to the oars!’ he yelled. ‘The tide had yet to turn. We must row for safety!’

  Men leapt to the oars and began to row. On the shore where the Scots still stood, shouting and throwing spears or rocks. The deck was slimy with blood, slabs of meat lay everywhere. The stink of blood was whipped away by the sea breeze as the longship pulled away from the shore. Looking back as he heaved at an oar, Gest saw that armed men stood lining the strand, the reinforcements. A few cows still stampeded in the distance.

  Once they were so far from shore that their foes were no more than dots on a green background, the sail began to belly in the growing wind. Gest left his oar to another man and crossed over to Orm.

  ‘Now we’re under way, we’d better get this meat salted,’ he said.

  The raid had been a bloody disaster. But at least they had the meat the fleet so desperately needed. From now on, he told himself, it would be plain sailing.

  But he was wrong.

  —27—

  Out of sight of land, Orm the skipper gave the command for the men to cease rowing. As soon as the oars were stacked in the oar-trees, they set to salting and pickling the meat. A few were told off to swab the decks down of the blood that was smeared everywhere, and Gest watched wryly from the stern, remembering his first day aboard the Sea Eagle.

  ‘Would you have me join them?’ he asked the skipper mockingly.

  ‘Nay, sir,’ said Orm, keeping his eyes on the billowing sail. ‘Such a task is not befitting a man of the sea king’s guard.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ Kari muttered darkly.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Gest asked. He and Ulf were watching him with sour expressions.

  ‘You led us into a disaster,’ Ulf said accusingly. ‘Sigfrid Redhand will hear all about this.’

  ‘He set you to spy on me, did he?’ Gest said.

  ‘We’re not spies,’ said Kari. ‘We came to fight alongside you. But aye, the sea king did ask us to keep an eye or two open. He wants to know how well you do. Or how ill.’

  ‘And why not?’ asked Ulf. ‘You killed Bork, aye, and by the laws of the brotherhood that means you take his place in the sea king’s guard. But you’re no berserk,’ he added with a twist of his lips. ‘You’re not one of our kind! Why should we trust you?’

  ‘Going by your poor leadership,’ Kari said, ‘you don’t have it in you to lead men.’

  Gest turned away. His men were cutting up meat or soaking it in barrels of brine. These were good, well trained vikings, as crafty at beast slaughter as at warfare, as good butchers as sailors. The sea king did not accept lesser men into his ranks.

  Would Gest, a king’s man, a housecarl of Harald Finehair, who ruled not a fleet of robbers but one of the greatest kingdoms of the North, fail to qualify for a place amongst them? And if he was found wanting, what would be his fate? They would not let him go, to bring word of their presence to the king. He would be killed, as swiftly, brutally, efficiently as these vikings had butchered the cattle.

  ‘We had losses,’ he said, turning back to the two berserks and Orm, who had remained silent. ‘But I do not accept that the attack was a failure.’ He gestured at the busy men, the bloody deck. ‘We have the meat we were sent to get. We are successful. Granted, the raid could have been better carried out. It seems that the folk of Scotland were more prepared than their calm shores gave tell. However, we prevailed in the face of their attacks, carried off the cattle we came for, and escaped more or less unscathed. Scot free, you could say.’

  ‘Unscathed, he says,’ Ulf growled, ignoring the grim jest. ‘We are undermanned, and now must sail back barely able to fight any vikings who might challenge us. As for our escape—what honour does it bring us? Our names will be forever tainted by the reputation we earned as cowards on this day.’ He stalked away, cursing at the crewmen who got in his way.

  ‘What matters,’ said Gest patiently, ‘is that we have meat for the sea king’s fleet. Matters of personal honour pale by comparison.’ He looked at Kari, but the berserk pushed past and went to speak with Ulf. ‘Isn’t that right, skipper?’

  Stolidly, Orm kept his eyes on the sea. ‘We’ll need more meat than this,’ he commented. ‘You’ll have to carry out another raid.’

  Gest glanced at him, but the skipper did not meet his eyes. ‘Another raid?’ he asked. He gestured at the crew. ‘Look at what remains after a single raid! We can’t afford another fight.’

  Orm took his eyes off the sea for a moment and beckoned Gest closer. ‘It’s not for me to say this,’ he said in a low tone, looking to port and starboard. ‘But you can’t afford to come home empty handed. Very well,’ he added, as Gest opened his mouth, ‘not empty handed. But you’ve lost men and you have little to show for it. You’ve lost one of the sea king’
s guards…’

  ‘A stampeding cow trampled him,’ Gest said testily.

  ‘Aye,’ Orm cut in. ‘And that’s no death for a man of the brotherhood. That’s what hurts most of all, what will hurt the sea king most of all. And those two’—he pointed for’ard to where the berserks stood by the prow, moodily looking out to sea—‘will hold it against you for a long time.’

  Gest laughed mirthlessly. ‘Should there be special treatment for berserks?’ he asked bitterly. ‘I must ensure that no cows go on the rampage during the raid, because they might, just might, trample one of the sea king’s guard? Is that it?’

  Orm looked out to sea. ‘I’m just advising you as a friend,’ he said. ‘You’ve got it in you to go far, I can see that. I’m no seer,’ he added, ‘but I can see things about men. And you’ll go far. If you’re careful. Remember Skipper Orm, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll be sure not to forget you,’ Gest assured him, and he walked away to help the men carry the barrels of salted meat down into the small hold. As he did he came near the prow, where the two berserks stood refusing to look at him. But he heard them whispering.

  ‘See him working alongside the men,’ Kari muttered. ‘He knows his place, it seems.’

  Gest told the men to take what was left of the meat and seethe it in the cauldron by the foot of the mast. They did so, and soon the men who were not on duty were gathered round the steaming water, flesh hooks in hand, eager to snag a juicy piece of meat. Even the two berserks relented and came to join the feast, which lasted until a wave washed right over the sloping deck and put out the fire.

  As the bedraggled men began baling out the hold, there was a cry from Orm.

  ‘Longships to aft!’

  Gest ran up the sodden deck to see what the skipper meant. Skidding to a halt by the quarterdeck, he saw on the far-off horizon two darting shapes, sails bellying in the wind, oars bestraddling the grey green waters. Both were bearing down on the Sea Eagle, on a direct course.

  ‘You thought you had got away scot free?’ Orm said. ‘I knew that this would happen. They’ve followed us.’

  Gest shaded his hand and tried to make out his pursuers. He went to the foot of the mast and clambered up onto the yardarm, from which windy height he received a better view.

  The two Scottish vessels were arrowing straight for them, sleek, deadly shapes cutting through the waves. They were curraughs, built of wickerwork and boiled leather, but as big and fast as any longship. Sunlight flashed on arms and armour. Gest guessed what had happened.

  He shinned back down the mast, hitting the deck with a resounding thud. Immediately he was a figure of action.

  ‘Oarsmen, back to your oars,’ he barked. ‘We have ships on our tail. Get arms and armour, and throwing spears. Orm, squeeze some more speed out of those sails. Kari, Ulf, get ready for attack.’

  The two berserks trotted down from the prow. ‘What is happening?’ Kari asked, ducking with a curse as two men ran past with an oar.

  ‘The Scots have sent ships after us,’ Gest said hurriedly. ‘We’ll be hard pressed to get away.’

  ‘We should turn and fight,’ said Ulf. ‘It would be ignoble to flee once again.’

  Gest grinned. ‘Do you want this raid to fail?’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘We need to get this meat back to Sigfrid Redhand. Perhaps you are bound for Valhalla, but this cargo is going to Rogaland. And you’ll defend it, if it comes to an attack. But in the meantime, we’re going to do what we can to flee.’

  He gazed out to sea. For a moment he thought that the curraughs had abandoned the hunt, but then he sighted them again, leaping the waves like dolphins as they followed across the foaming waters. They were drawing closer.

  The men had fitted the oars to the rowlocks, thrusting them out so they jutted out like wings. Oars remained in the oar trees, those belonging to men who had fallen in the fight in Scotland. Orm still stood at the steering oar, but he was yelling orders.

  ‘Now row!’ the skipper cried. ‘Put your backs into it, dogs! Row like all the hounds of hell are after us!’

  He glanced over his shoulder as the oarsmen began to row. Gest ran to the oar trees, and hauled one oar down singlehandedly. He shouted to the berserks.

  ‘Help me here,’ he yelled. ‘Get an oar and row! We need all the strength we can get.’

  Grudgingly Kari and Ulf each took an oar and all three helped each other thrust oars into rowlocks. Gest sat down on an empty sea chest and pulled, matching his thrusts to the heaving of the crew. Looking to starboard he saw Kari and Ulf similarly engaged.

  Now all the crew heaved at the oars, all bar Orm, who skilfully kept them on an even keel as they leapt across the surging sea. In the distance behind the skipper was only a haze, but black rainclouds were gathering overhead, and soon they began to disgorge their contents in curtains of rain that raced across and across the deck, drenching the oarsmen. A gale whipped up, and the sail threshed against its stays. Orm clutched to the steering oar for support.

  The sea grew choppier, then stormy as the rain came down in freezing ranks. Gest’s hands at the oars grew numb. His skin was blistered and tender; he wished he had had the foresight to put on gloves, but now there was no time.

  If they could put the two enemy ships far enough behind them, they would cross over into waters patrolled by the ships of Norway. That might deter their pursuers, but it would be bad news for the vikings, who would be caught between one enemy and another. All this for some fresh meat! Gest wished he had suggested they go fishing.

  His shoulders were aching, afire with pain. The men were flagging. He had pushed them hard, but they needed to keep a good pace. Gest hoped that the crews of the enemy vessels were hurting as much—more, preferably. How long would they be able to keep this pace?

  ‘Are the Scots still pursuing us?’ Kari yelled into the wind.

  Orm caught his words, looked back, and then nodded.

  ‘They’re drawing closer,’ he sent word. ‘Only a few ship’s-lengths lie between us now. Now would be the time to ready ourselves for attack.’

  Gest let go of the oar loom, grateful to have something else to do, dusted off his blistered hands and sprang up.

  ‘Half of you,’ he shouted, ‘keep rowing. The rest, come with me and get yourselves armed. Kari, Ulf, you’re with us.’

  They rose from their oars and went aft. Here the spears, bows, shields, helmets and byrnies were kept. Gest shrugged into a mail coat and donned a helmet, seized a shield in his left hand, a throwing spear in his right, and went to the side.

  The rain still lashed down, and he could barely make out a thing in the grey and dreary air. But in the gap between curtains of pouring rain he caught sight of them still leaping the waves towards him, oars bristling, sails flapping—the two enemy curraughs.

  Kari joined him, testing a bow that he had just strung. He glanced at Gest, who looked inquiringly at the weapon. ‘We’ll want to keep them off as long as we can,’ the berserk grunted. ‘The men are tired and wounded from the last fight. It’s vital that we get our cargo back to the sea king. Thoughts of honour can wait.’

  ‘I knew you’d come round to my way of thinking,’ Gest said.

  Wincing at the pain from his blisters, he hefted his throwing spear, aiming it at an imaginary opponent. Spray hissed over the deck and a wave leapt after it, dancing across the strakes to drench everyone and everything. Even the sail dripped, and the deck swam with water which no one had time to bale. But the oarsmen, undeterred, rowed onwards into the storm.

  Ulf joined them on Gest’s other flank, a throwing spear clasped in his hand. ‘Those ships are getting closer,’ he observed. It was true; the gap between them and their pursuers was growing ever narrower. ‘Seems we’ll have to fight now. Nothing else for it.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘They’re fresher than we are, and haven’t been in a fight so recently. Those ships will be fully manned, too.’

  ‘We’re on our own now,’ said Kari, catching Ulf’s dark mood. ‘No o
ne will come to aid us. We must fight, aye, fight for a cargo of beef. But two against one, two ships of fresh men against an undermanned hulk like the Sea Eagle…’ He shook his head. ‘We’ll be in Valhalla ere supper time.’

  Gest was surprised to see that Kari did not relish the prospect.

  ‘We’ll fight,’ he told them, ‘as befits men of the brotherhood. Remember that Sigfrid Redhand needs our cargo. We do not fight to die, we fight to live. Valhalla can wait. It’s for Rogaland that we sail, and don’t either of you berserk bastards forget it.’

  He turned at a ragged little cheer. The oarsmen he had told to arm themselves were standing on the deck, arms and armour wet with spray. He brandished his spear in the air.

  ‘We fight for the sea king!’ he yelled.

  ‘Aye,’ they yelled back. ‘We fight for the sea king. For King Sigfrid Redhand!’

  ‘Sigfrid Redhand!’ shouted Kari. ‘For the sea king!’ bellowed Ulf.

  The wet air whistled as if steel birds were in flight. Ulf cried out. He felt at the arrow point that projected from his chest.

  ‘Feels like the work of a Norse smith, not a Scot,’ he said wonderingly, and fell flat on the deck. His blood gushed out to redden the bilges.

  —28—

  ‘On my mark, attack!’ Gest shouted to his vikings

  The two curraughs were now cutting through the waves two ship’s-lengths from their position. The rain lashed down, shrouding their sinister shapes, but Gest could see archers lining the deck of the nearer ship. They were preparing to send another volley.

  ‘Now!’ Gest yelled, and flung his spear.

  The rest added their own efforts to the attack and spears winged across the closing gap. Men aboard the nearer ship fell back, spears pinning them to the deck or jutting from their chests. The archers loosed and the air whistled. Gest leapt aside as an arrow whipped straight towards him, colliding with Kari.