Gest looked back at his, his eager face intent on him. ‘All I know is we will be going for some important target now that the king has gone,’ he said. ‘Somewhere on the mainland.’
‘Tunsberg?’ Gram hazarded. ‘We’ll burn the king’s hall?’
‘Why wait until the king is gone to do that?’ said another man uneasily. ‘It’s cowardly to stab a man in the back, or kick him when he’s down. Honour lies only in meeting a man face to face.’
Gest pointed at the longships ranked on either side of the Red Grasp. ‘Have you seen King Harald Finehair’s fleet?’ he cried. ‘I saw it the other day. Ask skipper Orm if you don’t believe me, but beside the ships of the king of Norway, the fleet of Sigfrid Redhand is nothing. The sea king shows good sense when he does not attack King Harald Finehair head on.’ That said, they were a pitiful handful even to attack Kaupang, if that had ever been the plan.
The awning rustled, and out came the berserks, grouping to either side of the mast, one holding the flap open when Sigfrid Redhand followed them out into the cold light, wearing his masked helm. He looked about him, stretched his red gauntleted arms, and went to speak with Stafnglam. The awnings were lowered, the berserks tramped for’ard to stand in the stem, and the sea king went aft with the helmsman.
Orders were shouted across the water. With a great creaking of oars and bellying of sails, the longships of the fleet creaked into life, banks of oars lifting slowly and splashing into the water as the men rowed towards the foaming waves of the breakwater. The dragon ship followed the first three longships, and was followed in turn by the rest.
Gest forced his aching limbs into life as he hauled on the oar, looking over his shoulder from time to time to see where they were sailing. As soon as they crossed the breakwater, the ships spread out, giving each other leeway as they headed south.
As they rowed, they kept the mainland on the starboard bow; the far-off hills towered high against the grey sky, their flanks swathed in pines. Sunlight dappled the waters, filtering down from the clouds. He saw Kvitsoy. Then something glided out from behind it, into the channel between the island and Einar’s lands.
It was a longship, sail filling in the salty breeze, oars rising and falling rapidly as it followed their course. Another appeared from the lea of the island, followed by another. And another. A dragon ship sailed with them. For a moment Gest thought they were under attack. But he knew those ships. He had known all along that the ships he had discovered in the inlet could not have been Sigfrid Redhand’s fleet. Now he had a better idea of where they had gone to.
Their hiding place had been somewhere within the fjord itself. How he could have failed to find them he did not know, bit there were any number of inlets where they could have been concealed. Now they were sailing to join the sea king’s fleet. Reinforcements. The viking fleet was doubled. Two dozen ships were now on course in convoy due south down the Rogaland coast.
They hugged the coast, letting it take them first south then south east as they sail round into the broad waters of the Skagerrak. It was hard going, with waters that creamed with surf all along a shore that held few havens. Gest felt certain that Kaupang was their destination. Kaupang, like the king’s chief town of Tunsberg, lay on the shore of Oslo Fjord, at the northern tip of the triangle formed by the Skagerrak. Everything pointed to the settlement being their target. And now that the ships from Rogaland had joined them, they were enough.
Could the defenceless trading settlement fend off a concerted attack by two dozen shipfuls of vikings? They would descend upon it, put the folk to the sword and the houses to the torch, and then nothing would remain to remind later generations of the wealth and power that had fuelled King Harald Finehair’s rise to power.
The sea lanes were not empty, despite the departure of the king for the western islands. Trading ships were sighted from time to time, although they fled at the appearance of the viking fleet. Once they saw longships, two of them, but these did not show fight, but again vanished over the horizon. Some might be sailing for Kaupang with word of warning, but they would not reach it much before the fleet.
At last as night was falling they sighted the Vestfold coast and the mouth of Larvik, the fjord close to Kaupang, and weighed anchor off a small coastal island. The sea king’s own ships were moored on one side of the island, those from Rogaland in the channel to the east.
Aboard the ships the excitement was intense. Gest was listening absently to Vivil’s excited chattering when Stafnglam joined them. The awnings had been pitched again, and the sea king was not on deck although the surviving berserks were up in the prow.
‘The sea king wants to speak with you,’ the stem-man told Gest gruffly. He pointed to the awnings. ‘In there. Alone.’
Gest glanced at Vivil, who had gone white.
‘Good luck,’ the oarsman muttered as Gest rose.
‘Thanks,’ said Gest, and walked across the deck.
Stafnglam followed him, halting by the opening and ushering him in curtly. Ducking under, Gest entered the musty gloom, leaving Stafnglam standing in the opening, hand on the pommel of his sword.
The sea king sat cross legged with a horn of mead in one hand, his face lit by the glow of a lantern on the deck. He gestured to Gest to sit, then dismissed Stafnglam.
‘I spoke to Orm, as you remember,’ said Sigfrid Redhand as Gest sat down. ‘He told me what happened on your raid.’ He shook his head. ‘It seems to have gone ill.’
Gest felt uncomfortable. This was all in the past. What was more important was the attack in the morning. He said as much.
‘And can you be trusted?’ the sea king asked. ‘What happened in Scotland sounds like more than simple incompetence. It’s almost as if you were trying to bring your vikings down. You lost me three of my best men. One to a cow, I hear!’
‘This is true,’ Gest admitted warily. ‘There was much confusion. The cows we were leading off to slaughter stampeded.’
‘So I hear.’ The sea king shook his head. ‘I gave you one simple task and what happened? Disaster.’
Gest lowered sullenly, and he wasn’t wholly playing a part. ‘We returned with meat,’ he said, looking down at the deck.
‘And the meat,’ said the sea king. He shook his head. ‘Not enough. Do you mean to starve us? As luck would have it, word came for us to sail.’ He shook his head. ‘I blame myself. I should have sent a more experienced man. You’re green, Hunding. Like yew, which is the greenest of trees.’
Gest looked up. After a moment’s silence, he remarked; ‘It is wont to crackle when it burns.’
—30—
The mist hung eerily over the pre-dawn waters. Gest’s muffled oars were almost silent as they dipped into the calm, clear sea. It was still dark, and the lights of Kaupang glimmered to the north. Between his position and the coastal town, the Rogalander ships were dark, looming shapes as they bobbed at anchor. It was towards them that he was slowly rowing.
From time to time, he would trail his oars, and as his skiff drifted on the water, turn to scan the indistinct shapes of the longships. All was quiet, apart from the creak of deck strakes and the ceaseless thrum of the rigging. From time to time, he heard movement from one ship or other as lookouts went their rounds. It was they who he was especially eager to avoid.
He inched his way across the water, silent oar stroke by silent oar stroke, towards the mist hung dragon ship that dominated this fleet just as the Red Grasp towered over Sigfrid Redhand’s own longships. Gest recalled when he first saw this ship in the hidden inlet, deserted and lifeless. As he passed between two slumbering longships and drew closer to the dragon figurehead, it seemed equally untenanted, but awnings had been pitched towards the stern. He crept closer with another muffled oar stroke.
Something moved in the mist. A dark figure detached itself from the prow where it had been standing and crossed the deck. As it approached the awnings the mist almost swallowed it up. Gest rested on his oars and let the skiff drift. At the last moment, bef
ore his little boat collided with the side strakes of the dragon ship, he extended an oar and thrust it gently against the other vessel’s hull.
The skiff bobbed on the water beside the much bigger ship. Gest unshipped his oars, then got to his knees, reaching out to grip the richly painted dragon figurehead. He used this to haul himself to his feet, then swarmed up it and scrambled over the gunwale to land catlike in the stem.
Damp mist hung in the air, swirled across the deck. The awnings were almost out of sight in the foggy gloom. The mast towered over the deck, but the yardarm was dim and indistinct. The deck was bare of sleeping forms; the crew must be sleeping under the awnings with their skipper. Gest’s lip curled. These vikings were not as tough as some.
He made his way aft. The deck rose and fell. The tall mast, hewn from a single pine, towered over him; the rigging drizzled water on the deck. All was hushed; the mist muffled what little sound there was. In the far off mist, the lights of Kaupang still glowed, like the embers of a hall-fire long after the feast is over.
Gest reached the mast. Placing a hand on its smooth flank, he moved cautiously around it, staring at the scene that opened before him. Aft of the mast the awnings glistened, wet with mist, and water dripped. Gest halted and listened.
He heard a muffled rumble that might be the snores of sleeping men and saw that the entrance flap was bound tightly shut. The leader of these vikings would lie within, asleep amidst his warriors. Gest stepped away from the mast, one hand on his sword hilt. Just as he drew it, he glimpsed movement from behind him and began to turn, but then a forearm, bare but for a leather bracer, wrapped around his throat, choking him.
Gest’s sword clattered to the deck as he seized his assailant’s arm and tried to wrest himself free. Was it the man he had seen earlier, who had vanished into the mist? He must have been hiding on the far side of the mast, awaiting his opportunity. Gest felt the man’s torso pressed against his back as he tightened his hold.
‘A spy,’ came a familiar voice. ‘A spy!’
Choking, Gest struggled to tear the man’s arm away. His attacker planted his left hand on his forehead and twisted his head round in an effort to break his neck. Gest gripped the man’s left wrist in both hands and heaved on it, hurling himself bodily forwards at the same time.
The man flew over Gest’s shoulder and fell sprawling upon the glistening, mist slimed deck. Gest pushed himself up, searching for the glint of his sword. The man rolled over and sprang to his feet, drawing his own blade as he did so. For a moment they stood facing each other.
‘You!’ the man spat. It was Asgeir.
Gest spotted his sword, lying where he had dropped it on the deck, but it was at Asgeir’s feet. Seeing where he was looking, Asgeir kicked the blade and it went slithering away across the deck.
‘I always knew you were a spy,’ Asgeir snarled. ‘You were working for King Harald Finehair all along.’
Gest sprang to one side, in an attempt to reach his sword, and Asgeir swung. Gest dodged back and Asgeir cut again. This time his blow went wild, his sword cutting through a halyard and sinking deep into the mast. Something shifted up on the yardarm. Asgeir looked up.
Gest ran to the side. Hearing a shout from behind him, he snatched up his sword and whirled round. Asgeir was struggling to free his blade from the mast. Someone else was opening the awnings from the inside.
As Gest ran back, sword in hand, Asgeir wrenched his weapon free and turned to face him. Gest swung a blow at him but Asgeir sprang back and it was Gest’s turn to shear through a line. With a whizzing sound, the sail came shooting down the mast, struck Asgeir’s skull to send him staggering backwards over the side. He vanished into the waters with a splash loud enough to wake everyone on the surrounding ships.
The awning flap burst open and out poured a welter of dark figures. Boldly Gest turned to face them sword in hand, but they were too many. He was seized and disarmed, his arms bound behind him, and was forced to his knees with blows.
Another figure appeared in the opening, a man with a red cloak and a green tunic, his black beard silvered with grey. His face was like thunder.
‘Bring the spy here,’ growled Einar. Gest was dragged struggling across the deck.
Under the awnings it was warm and dry after the dank air outside. There was a reek of sweat, and a smell of smoke from the soapstone lanterns that dotted the deck. Gest glimpsed tangled bedrolls, clothes and kit. Towards the far end sat two figures. As Gest was thrust forwards, one lifted a lantern high in a shaking hand. A yellowish light glimmered fitfully on his unhealthy features.
Einar stood beside Gest. ‘Here is the spy,’ he said. ‘Asgeir is missing...’
‘He was knocked overboard…’ Gest broke off as Einar turned to strike him.
‘Speak when you’re spoken to, spy,’ he roared.
‘Do not hit him, Einar,’ said the man holding the lantern. ‘I want him to speak.’
He hobbled to his feet and drew closer. Gest looked into the face of Earl Sigvaldi.
‘You don’t seem very surprised,’ the earl said quietly.
‘Why should I be?’ Gest asked. ‘I knew full well that you never truly accepted King Harald Finehair’s rule. After all, why should you, with your uncles to avenge? Your brother took ships and men and adopted the life of a viking, but you stayed ashore to plot your revenge.’
‘And now that my brother has returned,’ Earl Sigvaldi said, ‘we shall strike! We shall raze Kaupang and tear out the heart of Vestfold. King Harald Finehair’s kingdom will wither and perish. And a king shall rule again in Rogaland, King Sigvaldi.’
‘And what will your brother think of that?’ Gest asked. ‘Or is he content to remain a sea king?’
Earl Sigvaldi studied him. ‘You have learnt much, king’s spy,’ he remarked. ‘When did you guess that Sigfrid Redhand was my brother?’
‘I suspected as much when I heard that your brother had taken to the viking life,’ Gest said, ‘but when I joined your brother’s fighting force and saw him face to face, the likeness was obvious. He is a stronger, younger man, but any man could see that you are kin.’
Einar spat. ‘We should have killed this spy as soon as he set foot in your land,’ he said. ‘We should have killed him like your brother’s men slew his predecessor.’
‘If you remember,’ murmured Earl Sigvaldi, ‘we tried. Several times. We even sent him against the trolls, sure that he would die as had all others.’ He looked mournfully. ‘How was I to know that I was sending him to slay my own father?’ He snarled. ‘For that alone I should have had you killed—aye, and would have done, working within the law, but you fled the land like a guilty man ere I could declare you outlaw at the Midsummer Thing.’
Gest grinned. ‘For that I must thank your friend Einar,’ he said, ‘who provided me with the means to make my escape.’
There was a mutter from the assembled men, and Earl Sigvaldi looked oddly at Einar. The latter started back. ‘It’s a lie!’ he shouted. ‘The king’s spy seeks to make trouble between us! I am your loyal subject, sire!’
This time he struck Gest twice in the mouth. Blood trickled from Gest’s lip, but he gazed up at Einar unspeaking.
‘I told you not to strike him,’ Earl Sigvaldi snapped. ‘Go and find out what has happened to Asgeir, if he lives or is drowned.’
Dismissed by his king, Einar, turned and pushed his way through the vikings who thronged the space beneath the awnings. Earl Sigvaldi turned to Gest again.
‘I must apologise for my man’s eagerness,’ he said. ‘But you will suffer if you do not tell us the truth. How did you escape? Was it with the aid of Bjorn Oddgeirsson? He left the land at the same time. Where is he now?’
‘I could not say where Bjorn is now,’ Gest said. ‘We parted, went our separate ways. But I spoke truth when I said that it was with Einar’s help that we left. Unwitting help, of course. It was we who stole his ship with its cargo of arms.’
Earl Sigvaldi’s eyes narrowed. ‘You thought
to foil our plans? A feeble hope. You had little chance of success while you were in my lands. I knew your every plan, your every move.’
‘You did not know that we stole Einar’s ship,’ Gest told him. ‘But it was not something we planned. The opportunity arose and we took it.’
‘I knew everything else.’ Earl Sigvaldi laughed. ‘Sometimes a spy will find himself spied upon.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Come into the light, my own spy.’
The figure who had sat in the shadows stepped softly forwards and the light of the earl’s lantern fell upon a familiar face.
‘I sent word your every move, your every word,’ Hild said, ‘to my king, whenever I had the chance. It was the same with Thorstein. Neither of you had a hope while I was at your side.’
‘I began to suspect something of the sort,’ said Gest. ‘Why should I trust a thrall provided by the earl? It shouldn’t have surprised me when the ships vanished from Hafrsfjord. You sent the earl word, didn’t you, and then they were moved to some other inlet of Boknafjord, I gather. I changed my mind about you when you were carried off by the troll—but you never were, were you?’
She shrugged. ‘You seemed to be growing wary, so we worked it that I would vanish, and make you believe that the troll had me. You were supposed to die at his hands.’
‘But you did not,’ said Earl Sigvaldi bitterly. ‘No matter. It will be an easy matter now that you are in my power. As soon as the sun rises, my ships and those of my brother will descend upon Kaupang and put it to the torch. Beforehand, however, we will make a sacrifice of you, a sacrifice for victory, a human sacrifice to Odin.’
A thunder of footsteps and Einar burst in. ‘Sire!’ he cried. ‘I cannot see your brother’s ships!’
‘What is this?’ the earl hissed. ‘You are either blind or drunk! Sigfrid moored his fleet nearby. Go and look again! Besides, I sent you to look for Asgeir…’
‘Asgeir is dead,’ Einar said. ‘His drowned body floats alongside this ship, beside a skiff I have never seen before. I found him soon enough; the light is growing stronger. But then I looked to where your brother’s ships moored. They have gone.’
Viking Revolt Page 22