Halfdan of Jorvik, page 5
“Let them go,” said Ubba. “They’ve earned it. As for me, I’m going to find a cask of mead! Coming?”
The minster was the first target, as that magnificent building, finer than anything in Danmork, screamed wealth and attracted the Vikings like wasps to a honey pot.
****
Archbishop Wulfhere looked up from his missal with astonishment when the great west doors burst open to admit a rabble of Viking warriors. How could it be that their psalms and prayers had not protected them? He gave a nod to Canon Fulberht, who lifted up the golden reliquary which contained the hallux of St Bosa and waved it at the intruders, but to his surprise, they did not quail, nor did a glorified St Bosa appear in person, waving his crosier at them. Instead, a young Viking, attracted by the glint of gold, ran forward, thrust his sword into Fulberht’s guts and grabbed the reliquary. He shook it vigorously, and the precious relic fell to the floor. A nearby monk fell on his hands and knees and scrabbled to pick it up, but just as his hands closed around the bone, the young Viking gave the monk a vicious kick to the head which caused him to drop the relic and slump to the floor. Cynewulf, without thinking of the consequences, stepped forward to help. The young Viking glared at him contemptuously, even piteously, through the visor of his spectacle-plate helmet, as he raised his sword for the fatal stroke. But he had underestimated his enemy.
Not so many years ago, Cynewulf had led the Hessay fyrd, and he was no stranger to the use of polearms – and that was exactly what he had in his hand – a large bronze cross set on a pole about seven feet long and an inch and a half thick. He hefted it with both hands, and it was no longer a processional cross but a war hammer. He swung it horizontally in front of him, using it to push the raider out of the reach of his sword. Doubt flashed in the raider’s eyes, and he took a step back. But he recovered quickly, and with a sideways flick of his sword, tried to chop the cross off the end of the pole. But the wood was thick and his blow lacked force. Now that the raider was where he wanted him, Cynewulf raised the warhammer and brought it smartly down on his helmet. No purpose-made weapon could have been better designed for the job; the weight of the cross, the momentum of the swing, and the concentrated force of the crossbeam were enough to split the Viking’s helmet – and his skull – like an egg, except that the yellow yolk was his red blood, and the egg white was his brains.
Cynewulf felt sickened at the sight, despite the fact that the youth would have done the same to him. After all, what business had he – a man of peace, a man of God – with killing one of God’s creations in such a brutal way and with such a holy object?
A cry from the archbishop brought him back to reality.
“The hallux! Get the hallux!”
Cynewulf scooped up the toe bone of the saint and, as an afterthought, grabbed the sword of the dead Viking, thinking he might need it to defend himself. Then he followed the others to the Baptistry, where they were escaping through a rear door.
The raiders let them go. They were too intent in stripping the minster of its treasures. A monk turned back, desperate to save a golden candlestick, but the archbishop stopped him with the words, “Leave that – it’s just a bauble – we have saved the only thing that matters – the hallux of St Bosa.”
****
The brothers didn’t trouble themselves with looting. A Viking leader was entitled to half of the loot, and as there were three of them, they would receive a sixth part each. Instead, they set about making themselves comfortable. There were many fine buildings in the borg, some of them of stone, but Ivar, thinking to impress the Eoforwic folk, chose the high hall of the last king of Deira, King Edwin, who had been driven into exile by Æthelfrith, king of Bernicia at some time in the seventh century. It was a mead-hall in the old style which had been built long ago in the ruins of the old Roman forum, and was now crumbling with neglect, being used mainly as a hay barn and stable.
Ivar ordered it to be cleaned up, and found, at the far end, under a some bales of hay, the old throne of the kings of Deira, battered, dirty and stripped of its gold decorations, but still impressive with its high back, carved with the symbol of Eoforwic, the boar, surrounded by gripping beasts. He had it refurbished and set up at the head of the hall, and rows of benches and trestles tables set around it. He planned to hold court here with his jarls, who would be given sleeping places under the eaves where they would spread their furs and hang their arms and armour, just as in the days of yore.
As it began to take shape, he rubbed his hands together with glee and pronounced, “Ha! it is like the Barnstokkr of the Volsungs. Sing of it, Gisli!”
In fact, it was nothing like it, but Ivar was seeing what it could be, not what it was.
Gisli was an elderly huskarl, too old for the shieldwall, who had changed his sword for a skaldharpa – which he played indifferently, since he was missing two fingers of his right hand. Neither was his voice up to much, having being worn to the consistency of gravel from years of screaming insults at his enemies. But he knew the old sagas inside out, and was not beyond turning an original verse or two. Now, at his lord’s command, he sang of the Volsung hall, in the much-loved and often repeated, Volsungasaga:
“Thus was the dwelling of Volsung,
the King of the Midworld’s Mark,
As a rose in the winter season,
a candle in the dark;
And as in all other matters
’twas all earthly houses’ crown,
And the least of its wall-hung shields
was a battle-world’s renown...”
Ubba’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “‘Earthly houses’ crown’! – it’s a barn...” he wrinkled his nose and added, “...and it smells like one!”
“A good feast will see to that!” laughed Ivar, “and the rich smell of roast meat and spilled mead, will replace...”
“...the smell of horseshit. I hope so!”
****
Meanwhile, Halfdan had found something better for himself – a fine homestead, standing proud not far from the minster. It was a hall built of stone and timber, with a high gable facing onto the street in Goodramgate. He could already see it as his hearth-home, a place he could retire to when the revelry in the high hall became too much.
He pushed at the door, but it was barred, so he took a few steps back, then shouldered it open. He drew Dainsleif and went in cautiously, but seeing that the hall was empty, he sheathed it again.
The only light came from the embers of a dying fire, but it was enough for him to make an inspection of the place. At the other end of the hall, he found an old man sprawled on a straw mattress, his face pale from the blood loss of a sickening stomach wound. His breath was shallow, and his hand lay limp by his side, fingers curled in pain.
Before he could decide what to do about it, the silence was broken. From the shadows, a young maiden sprang toward him.
“Don’t touch him!” she hissed, her voice venomous, like a snake preparing to strike. In her hand was a seax which she shook in his face.
“Who are you, skjaldmær?” he sneered, though he was impressed by her bravery, “screaming like a valkyrie?”
The fire of her anger made her fair skin redden, and the sudden movement shook her blonde mane free. Her lips were set in a thin, determined line, and her bosom rose and fell with her heavy breaths. It was the kind of fierce beauty that could move a warrior’s heart – strong, untamed and unwilling to bow before any man, not even one of her conquerors.
Her lips curled into a snarl. “I’m no shieldmaiden,” she spat. “I’m this man’s daughter. He’s old and he’s dying from a wound that one of your people gave him, so don’t you dare touch him!”
Halfdan laughed at her and tried to grab her, but she sprang aside like a she-wolf and sliced his arm with her blade. The sight of his red blood running down his white arm wiped the smile off his face, and he made a feint with his fist which fooled her. She stabbed at a fist that wasn’t there, and he caught her wrist before she could strike again. Then he twisted it, and her weapon fell to the floor, but the wonder of her beauty stabbed him instead, and, acting on impulse, he kissed her on the lips, but she bit his and drew blood. He smacked her face hard and she staggered backwards. He grabbed at her gown and she groaned and struggled, but he ripped it away, revealing her heaving breasts, tipped by two large, pink nipples, which seemed to taunt him, like two staring eyes.
She saw how he looked at her, guessed her fate and sighed resignedly, “You can do what you like with me, but spare my father.”
Enraged by the fight and aroused by the sight of those provocative breasts, he answered angrily, “I will have you anyway. But to show I’m the master, I’ll make an end of him,” and, with those words, he drew Dainsleif and put the man to death. Then he rolled the body off the blood-covered bed, ripped off the girl’s shift, pushed her on the bed and raped her viciously.
She struggled and screamed and scratched his back, but the more she struggled the more he enjoyed it. When he had finished she lay there weeping, though it was more for her father than herself.
“Don’t take it too hard,” said Halfdan, softening a little now that he had worked off his lust and assuaged his anger. “He would have died anyway with a wound like that. I have saved him days of agony.”
“You didn’t spare me,” she sobbed.
“That’s because I like you,” he said, failing to see the contradiction – because, if a Viking liked a woman, he just took her – that is, if she didn’t have any powerful relatives, in which case, he would have to negotiate with them first. The woman was rarely consulted.
“I wish you’d kill me as well,” she keened.
“Perhaps I will,” he said, stroking the blade of his bloodied sword.
She looked at him, horror struck.
“Don’t worry,” he laughed. “I’d rather stab you with my other sword. What’s your name?”
“Eowyn,” she spat.
“Well, Eowyn,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “I’m taking this hall and I might as well take you.”
****
“No you won’t!” cried a voice from the doorway.
Halfdan spun round and saw the spare figure of a cleric, his white surplice spattered with red blood. He laughed his defiance, standing there, quite naked, like Beowulf ready to fight Grendel.
Cynewulf hitched up his surplice and drew the sword he had taken from the dead Viking. The sight of it seemed to add to the raider’s amusement: a minster-man with a sword – what could be funnier?
He picked up his own sword from the pile of clothes beside the bed and sprang forward, executing a diagonal cut. Cynewulf parried with the second guard, deflecting the blow, and followed up with a lunge aimed at the raider’s belly. It took Halfdan by surprise, but he jumped backwards just in time, only to be pushed forward by Eowyn, who had jumped up, naked, to help her lover. Cynewulf’s outstretched sword made a deep gash in Halfdan’s side, and, somewhat belatedly, he began to take his opponents seriously. He turned quickly, kicked Eowyn back onto the bed, then lunged again, aiming at Cynewulf’s sword arm. He caught his arm in a glancing blow, numbing it and causing Cynewulf to drop his sword. Halfdan strode in for the kill, but the naked shieldmaiden jumped on his back and bit his neck.
“Run!” she screamed, her lips dripping with Viking blood.
There was nothing that Cynewulf could do without his sword, so he ran.
Halfdan shook Eowyn from his back and thumped her in the face so hard that she passed out. Women were like horses, he reflected. You have to break them – beat them and keep on beating them until they lose the will to fight back.
The Victory Feast
The noise of looting had died down, and Ivar concluded that his men had grabbed all the gold they could find, and raped all the women they wanted. He made his way to the ruins of the Roman forum, where the men had fixed up a makeshift mead-hall of their own and gave them new orders:
“Tend to the wounded first, then take the dead and prepare them for the brennuferd, the funeral pyre. We will light it tomorrow, under the guidance of Guðbrand the goðr. But tonight,” he continued in a lighter tone, “Tonight we make merry!” He lifted a flagon of mead high in the air, the glint of firelight dancing in his eyes.
****
Later, in the high hall, Ivar sat on the old throne of the kings of Deira, and Ubba raised the toast: “To Ivar, King of Jorvic!”
Ivar leaned back and laughed. “King?” he said, “with Aella still in the field? Anyway, where’s my crown?”
He pointed to a tattered and faded tapestry which showed one of the former kings of Deira wearing an old fashioned crown – a thin gold band with points like the crenellations of a fortress.
“Find me that!” he laughed.
They had scoured the place earlier, but everything of value had been looted by the rapacious kings of Bernicia and taken to their fortress at Bamburh from which they ruled the whole of the united kingdom, which they called Northumbria.
“Use this!” cried Ubba, throwing him a golden girdle, which had, no doubt, been ripped from some unfortunate Eoforwic noblewoman.
Ivar arranged it round his unkempt locks and sat up straight, in what he hoped was a kingly posture.
Ubba, laughing, threw the woman’s shift over his head. “That’s better!” he cried. “You never were much to look at!”
Ivar, pulled it off, sniffing the sweet woman-scent.
“Where is she?” he said, thoughtfully
“Round the back, fighting Ketill off.”
“Kick him off and bring her here,” said Ivar.
Moments later, a blonde-haired beauty wrapped in a cloak was led into the hall, followed by an angry Ketill in process of lacing up his hose.
Ivar liked what he saw and said, “I’m not yet a king, but you can be my queen-for-a-night.”
Ketill opened his mouth to say something, but a hard stare from his master made him shut it again. You don’t argue with a berserker.
Ubba, entering into the spirit of it – for a joke, as always – found a stool, set it beside the old oak throne, and sat the woman on it. Tears were pouring down her cheeks and she was trembling, but she managed to retain some of her dignity as the wife of an eorl (now lying face down, dead in the mud).
“What’s your name?” asked Ivar.
“Cyneburh,” she said, then added, with emphasis, “Hlafdige Cyneburh.”
“So much the better. You will know how to offer the victory cup to my jarls – as Grimhildr did, when she served mead to Sigurd in the Volsungasaga – you know the old tradition.”
She did. It was an Englisc tradition too.
“But no spells!” quipped Ubba, “referring to the scene in which Grimhildr served an enchanted drink to Sigurd to gain power over him.
****
The fire crackled in the hearth as the hall filled with the murmur of voices and the clink of arm-rings. At the high table, Ivar the Boneless sat flanked by his jarls, their grey war-gear exchanged for woollen tunics of red and green. Then came Cyneburh, robed in deep blue, bearing the mead-cup in both hands. She moved with solemn grace, offering the first draught to Ivar, with the Englisc toast, “Wæs hæl,” and he replied, according to custom, with the Norse toast, “Skal,” drinking from the common cup. One by one, she served his foremost jarls: Halfdan, Ubba, Olaf, his war chief, and the rest. When they had drunk and toasted, Cyneburh stepped back, and the kitchen-thralls moved down the benches, pouring for the rest.
The air thickened with warmth as food was brought to the tables: a dozen boars on a spits, each carried by two thralls, followed by a procession of serving maids bearing platters of every kind of fish, flesh and fowl, fruit and vegetables.
Ivar raised a toast: “To Victory! Hard won, but worth it! Jorvic – as we call it – is a rich city. We’ve taken enough loot to make us all rich. Even the common soldiers celebrating in the forum will have enough to buy a homestead back in Danmork. But, for us, Ragnar’s sons, it’s more than that. It is mannbot for Ragnar’s death!”
These words were received with wild acclaim, even though most of his jarls had come for loot rather than revenge. When the noise had died down, he called for Gisli and asked him to sing of the trick by which he had won it. Gisli had expected this and had something ready:
Word-wolf spoke -
outfoxing Aella.
throne-thief thegn,
miserly with mannbot.
“Give me a borg
no bigger than a bull’s hide.”
The ring-giver agreed,
thinking he had won.
Fellmonger flayed
Silk-thin strand,
Wound the wall
of Eoforwic,
Burh of the Boar.
“Ours!” said Halfdan,
and I rename it
with jortr – “boar”,
and Vik – “Viking”
Jorvik! –
“The Boar Borg
of the Vikings” –
Jorvik!
It was Gisli trying to be what he wasn’t – a skald – and getting cluttered up in his own kennings. But as his audience had lived through the incident, they could just about follow it, and the cry of “Jorvik!” shook the rotten rafters of the old hall. This time there was no-one to contradict them with a shout of “Eoforwic!”, for the woman who had shouted it was, at that moment, nursing a swollen cheek in hall in Goodramgate.
****
The long hours of feasting passed in a blur, filled with the clash of mead-horns, the scent of roasting meat, and the excited hum of laughter and song. Ubba stuffed his face like never before, and Ivar, going berserk on beer, danced on the mead benches. Yet, as the night wore on, many of the warriors slumped into the deep sleep of exhaustion, their bodies sprawled out across the floor, unable to stay awake even to enjoy themselves. What did they dream of? More fighting – or more fornicating? Perhaps Ubba dreamed he was already King of Worms and the wormsmen were welcoming him. Perhaps Ivar dreamed of taking on the whole of the army of Northumbria single-handed and beating them bare-shirt. Perhaps Halfdan dreamed of another fight with his skjaldmær sex slave. He could only dream, because he deemed it his duty to sleep in the high hall with his brothers and their jarls on that fated night.
