The Wolf and the Raven Read online

  ‘Of course Froh wasn’t best pleased and he assembled his jarls and their men to take his revenge on Sigvard. Our king was so besotted with his new bed mate that he ignored warnings that Froh was going to attack. After all, Arendal is a large place with many bondis and their families living within the stout palisade around it, and Sigvard had a hundred men in his hird. He thought that he was invulnerable.

  ‘But Froh came by sea and at night. They swooped like the Valkyries collecting souls for Valhalla when everyone was asleep and killed everyone in Sigvard’s longhouse; his hirdmen, the king, his daughters, his thralls; even the new queen and her predecessor too. Evidently Froh didn’t want soiled goods back, just revenge.’

  ‘So does Froh rule here now?’

  ‘Yes, Agder is a more prosperous kingdom than Alfheim. He gave his old kingdom to his brother.’

  ‘Didn’t Sigvard’s jarls contest his right to the throne?’

  ‘Why should they? Sigvard was dead and his son Ragnar had never returned from Orkneyjar. The other drekar that went raiding with Thorkel – that’s the ship that Ragnar sailed on – limped back badly damaged by a storm and they said that Thorkel and his crew had been lost. Besides, Froh paid the jarls well from Sigvard’s chests of silver for their oaths to him.’

  Whilst Olaf was in the tavern Ragnar had taken a more direct approach to find out what had happened. He went straight to Thorkel’s hall and spoke to his wife. He had expected her to be relieved to find out that her husband was still alive but there was a complication. Believing herself to be a rich widow, she had married a young bondi and had no intention of returning to Thorkel.

  It was only after he’d left to make his way back to the ship that he realised that he might well have put all of them in danger. If Thorkel’s wife had used his money to buy herself a young replacement, she might prefer him to stay dead. If she went to tell Froh that Ragnar was back and could be found on Thorkel’s longship they were all in peril.

  When Ragnar told Thorkel what he’d found out the hersir was furious and, despite the risk, he set off with three of his closest companions to kill his wife and her new husband. In his anger he didn’t even reprimand Ragnar for recklessly endangering them all.

  Ragnar waited anxiously for Thorkel’s return, and that of Olaf. For a while the settlement remained quiet but sound travels far at night and soon he heard the unmistakeable sound of fighting coming from somewhere in the centre of the settlement. Olaf and his companions arrived breathless ten minutes later and told him that everyone was saying that Thorkel had returned and killed his wife and her lover, only to be killed himself by Froh’s hirdmen.

  ‘Ragnar, they’ll come here next. We need to leave. Now.’

  He realised that, with Thorkel and their king dead, the other men were looking to him as the obvious person to lead them. Much as he wanted to stay and avenge the death of his family and of the old hersir, his duty now was to his crew.

  ‘Get to your oars and cast off.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Sitric the helmsman asked.

  ‘To visit my mother’s brother, Jarl Gutfred of Aarlborg.’

  ‘A Dane?’ Sitric asked in surprise.

  ‘Yes, a Dane. Hopefully he’ll prove more trustworthy than my father’s jarls and the accursed Swedes.’

  Chapter Four – Toppenafdanmark

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  Several snekkjur pursued Thorkel’s ship out of the river and into the Skagerrak but they soon gave up the chase as the larger drekar progressively increased the distance between them.

  Once it was clear that they had outpaced their pursuers, the crew had to make a quick decision. With Thorkel dead they needed to elect a new hersir and shipmaster. There were several seasoned warriors who the others respected, but most either felt that they didn’t have the brains to be a leader or they didn’t want the responsibility. In addition all were still suffering from the shock of losing their homeland and that undermined their confidence. It was Olaf who proposed Ragnar.

  ‘After all, he is the son of King Sigvard and should succeed him.’

  ‘Except that he no longer has a kingdom to rule,’ Kiǫtvi pointed out. ‘No, you need an experienced man like me to lead you.’

  ‘No kingdom for the moment,’ Ragnar corrected him vehemently. ‘Do you think that I will rest until I have killed Froh and taken back what is mine? If so, you don’t know me very well.’

  His eyes swept around the warriors challenging them to contest his right to lead them. No one except Kiǫtvi met his eyes, though there was some quiet muttering about his youth and inexperience. He knew he would have to fight the other warrior to become hersir and he welcomed it. His reaction to the other man’s snide remarks about his relationship with Leofstan had eaten away at him like a cancer for long enough and he welcomed the opportunity to cleanse it with blood.

  ‘Very well, Kiǫtvi, we could settle this by a show of hands but you have challenged me and besmirched my honour in the past. We’ll fight to decide the outcome. Sword and shield?’ he asked.

  Kiǫtvi was more of a troublemaker than a leader and had only challenged Ragnar out of mischief. Now he’d been put on the spot. He didn’t want to fight Ragnar and he certainly didn’t wish to become the hersir. However, he couldn’t back down now. It was unthinkable.

  Although fighting on board ship was something that Vikings were used to, there would be little room for a duel on an overcrowded longship. Sitric therefore steered them towards the northern tip of Denmark and beached the ship on the deserted golden sands. He drew a wide circle in the sand with his sword and the crew crowded round just outside the circle. The warriors all brought their spears, which they would use to jab at either contestant if he came too close to the boundary.

  A few yelled encouragement to Kiǫtvi but most were shouting for Ragnar, Leofstan’s unbroken voice as loud as anyone’s.

  As Kiǫtvi didn’t possess a byrnie, Ragnar felt that it would be unfair to use his and so both men wore just a leather jerkin to protect their bodies. They fought bareheaded and were armed with just a sword and shield. The older man was the more experienced fighter but he was at a disadvantage because he didn’t really want the prize he was fighting for. On the other hand Ragnar was angry at the insinuations that Kiǫtvi had made about him and Leofstan and what he really needed at the moment was a cool head.

  Ragnar made the first move; jumping in the air and making a feint at his opponent’s head, Kiǫtvi instinctively raised his shield and Ragnar landed in a crouch, bringing his sword around in a sweeping motion to cut at Kiǫtvi’s legs. The other man jumped backwards just in time so that only the tip of the blade connected and made a shallow cut into the front of Kiǫtvi’s right thigh just above his knee.

  Dimly he heard Leofstan’s high pitched cry of ‘first blood’ above the roar of the crowd. Ragnar fought to control his anger. Olaf had told him enough times that he was prone to impetuosity and he needed to be calm and think clearly if he was to beat the experienced warrior facing him.

  This time it was Kiǫtvi who acted unexpectedly; he retreated but, when Ragnar went to follow him, the other man stepped forward so that he was inside the sweep of Ragnar’s sword. Kiǫtvi had the pommel of his sword raised, ready to bring it down on Ragnar’s exposed head. However, it met the rim of his shield instead and Kiǫtvi’ wrist struck the thin metal band protecting the rim. His fingers spasmed in reaction to the blow and flew open, the sword falling to the ground.

  Ragnar could have thrown away his own shield and used his left hand to pull the other’s out of the way so that he could end the fight with his sword, but he didn’t. He stepped back and allowed Kiǫtvi to retrieve his sword. It was a foolish but magnanimous gesture and the crowd loved him for it; all except Leofstan who had yelled for Ragnar to kill Kiǫtvi. Olaf cuffed the boy hard around the head and he shut up, rubbing his head and giving Olaf a hurt look.

  ‘You don’t understand, boy,’ Olaf hissed at him quietly. ‘By that act of generosity to his enemy Ragnar has won ove
r all those who doubted him. Now no one is shouting for Kiǫtvi.’

  The latter had picked up his sword and was circling Ragnar warily. The right leg of his trousers was now dark red with the blood that had flowed out of the flesh wound to his thigh and his right hand hadn’t recovered fully from striking the rim of the shield. He was also tiring. In contrast Ragnar was unmarked and was breathing easily. He had all the appearance of enjoying the duel.

  The sun was low on the horizon now and Ragnar was anxious to finish the fight before dark. He lunged forward with his sword held horizontally and Kiǫtvi went to knock it away with his shield. At the last moment, just before the shield would have made contact, Ragnar lifted the point. The shield missed it and Kiǫtvi was momentarily off balance. He had begun to stab forward with his own sword but Ragnar twisted to the side and raised his right hand, tipping the blade down to strike over Kiǫtvi’s shield. The point entered his neck and Ragnar thrust with all his might so that the point emerged the other side.

  He worked the blade to and fro, half severing the head, and Kiǫtvi crashed to the ground as the last of his life blood pumped into the sand. Everyone rushed forward to clap Ragnar on the back and congratulate him. He felt euphoric but he was dimly aware that someone had grabbed him around the waist and was hugging him. He looked down to see Leofstan grinning up at him. He laughed and tousled the lad’s mop of fair hair before picking him up and throwing him in the air and catching him.

  They set sail again the next morning but the wind was fickle. When it did blow in the right direction it pushed them along at barely two or three knots and they spent most of the day rowing. Ragnar didn’t mind. After the adrenalin rush of the fight with Kiǫtvi, he found the effort and monotony of rowing strangely soothing. They had erected a pyre the previous evening and burnt his body as a mark of respect. Whatever his faults, Kiǫtvi had died a warrior’s death.

  Finally in the middle of the afternoon the wind picked up and the rowers thankfully shipped their oars as Leofstan and the three Pictish boys rushed to haul up the sail. As dark descended the ship’s boys shortened sail so the drekar slid over the calm sea at a mere two knots. Ragnar didn’t want to risk overshooting the entrance to the Limfjord, especially as he only had a vague idea where it was.

  Dawn found them in that part of the sea known as the Kattegatt which was the straight between Sweden and Denmark. Suddenly the Pictish boy who was acting as lookout called out in broken Norse that there was land dead ahead.

  ‘It looks like an island,’ he added.

  ‘Probably Læsø,’ Olaf, who was standing beside Ragnar at the prow, suggested.

  ‘Læsø?’

  ‘Yes, according to Sitric it lies in the middle of the Kattegat just north of the entrance to the Limfjord.’

  Ragnar cursed. He should have thought to ask the helmsman what he knew of these waters. Evidently Sitric wasn’t a man to offer advice if he wasn’t asked for it.

  ‘Do you know the entrance, Sitric?’ he called back towards the stern.

  ‘We pass to the west of Læsø, lord. It’s only about another four hours sailing from there before we turn into the Limfjord,’ he replied from his position at the steering oar.

  Ragnar remained at the prow as the drekar left the Kattegatt. The ship’s boys hauled down the sail and his crew rowed it into the mouth of the Limfjord. It wasn’t a fjord as he understood the term. The land on either side of it was flat, unlike the mountains that lined the Norwegian fjords. However, unlike Norway, it looked to be good pasture land with large herds of livestock eating the lush grass. He later found out that the narrow waterway widened out beyond the major settlement in his uncle’s domain of Lindholm into a series of connected lakes and inlets. The fjord eventually ran out into the Nordsee, which the Anglo-Saxons called the German Ocean. It made the northern part of Jutland effectively an island.

  His uncle Gutfred was Jarl over the area to the north of the Limfjord and to the south as far as the Marianfjord, another inlet from the Kattegatt. In Norway or Sweden he’d call himself a king as ruler of such a large domain, but Denmark had been united as one kingdom by Angantyr Heidreksson more than a hundred years previously. The present king was called Harald Klak, though he was lucky to have retained his throne.

  He’d been restored earlier in the year with the help of Louis the Pious, the son and successor of the late Charlemagne, who ruled Frankia, Frisia and Saxony. One of the conditions for his help had been the baptism of Harald as a Christian and the establishment of a church at his capital, Hedeby, near the border between Denmark and Saxony. This had increased his unpopularity with his pagan subjects and weakened his power base. Gutfred might be called jarl, but he ruled his lands independent of much control from Hedeby. He hadn’t even paid any taxes for the past few years.

  He was therefore pleased to see Ragnar. The addition of nearly fifty trained warriors and a drekar to his forces was welcome at a time of such turbulence in Denmark. Furthermore it meant that his forays to plunder his neighbours could be extended. Danish longships were designed to sail in the shallow waters of the Frisian coastline and the Baltic, unlike Norse ships, which could cross oceans with their deeper keel and high freeboard. However, he hid his pleasure well at their first meeting.

  ‘Well, nephew. If you’ve come here in the belief that I’ll help you against Froh and the Swedes you’re mistaken. He and his brother rule the lands across the sea to the north and east of mine and I need to keep the peace with him.’

  Ragnar had indeed expected his uncle to help him avenge the murder of the latter’s sister, if nothing else, and he said so.

  ‘Do you intend to let the murder of my mother and your sister go unpunished then?’

  ‘Don’t sneer at me, you whelp. Your accursed father divorced my sister in order to take some twelve year old child into his bed. It’s him I blame, not Froh, who only acted as I would have done in the same circumstances.’

  Ragnar kept his temper with difficulty. He needed a safe haven for the moment and it would do no good to antagonise Gutfred.

  ‘I, er, I suppose I can understand you thinking like that. I too was furious with my father when I found out what he’d done. Perhaps Froh was provoked, but I cannot forgive his killing of my mother or of the hersir I was pledged to serve until I became a man.’

  ‘If you want to stay here and serve me you will forget all about seeking to avenge yourself on Froh. Is that clear?’

  Ragnar took a deep breath and bit back the retort on the tip of his tongue.

  ‘Yes, uncle. Very.’

  He paused for another moment before continuing.

  ‘If I and my crew are to serve you, what can we expect in return?’

  ‘A place to sleep in the warriors’ hall, a free berth for your longship and half of whatever the proceeds are from raids that I send you on.’

  ‘So you get the other half? The jarl’s share is normally a tenth.’

  ‘And the king’s share is a quarter, which you won’t have to give him if we keep quiet about your raids, so I’m not asking for much more that you are bound to hand over, are you? In any case it seems to me that you have little choice but to agree to my terms, or I will see what price Froh will give me for your head.’

  Ragnar regarded his uncle through narrowed eyes. It seemed that their relationship meant nothing to the man; he was only interested in what he could squeeze out of the situation.

  ‘Not nearly as much as you’ll get from the proceeds of my raiding,’ he said, trying to keep the derision out of his voice. ‘However, I want more than you are offering. My men and I need farmland - a place to settle and spend the winter when we’re not away raiding for you.’

  Gutfred sucked his teeth and thought about what Ragnar had said. It was during the silence that followed that Ragnar was conscious of a pair of eyes studying him from a corner of the hall where women were sewing and embroidering clothes. From their clothes Ragnar assumed that they were members of the jarl’s family, or perhaps of a rich bondi. The gir
l who was studying him was probably about twelve or thirteen, a few years younger than he was. Ragnar realised with a start that she was extremely pretty. He was captivated by her and was still returning her bold look when his uncle spoke again.

  ‘Land in Jutland is scarce; that’s why so many people left in the past and settled in England.’

  Ragnar recalled hearing that it was the Jutes who had conquered Kent and part of the south coast of England from the Britons who used to live there.

  ‘However,’ the jarl continued, ‘few want to live on the exposed northern peninsula, known as Toppenafdanmark. There is one small settlement at Skagen but the bondi who lives there owes me taxes for the past ten years so I would be justified in confiscating his land and giving it to you.’

  So it was that Ragnar sailed north again and beached his ship on the broad white sandy beach behind which he could see a few huts and a small longhouse. He was expecting trouble and so he and his men donned their armour and helmets and picked up their shields and weapons before jumping down into the shallow water.

  They had mounted the dragon’s head on the prow of the drekar to make it clear that they didn’t come in peace. Armed men and boys started to gather in the dunes above the beach as they waded ashore.

  Ragnar stood and looked at the opposition once he reached dry sand and smiled. There were barely a dozen men and about the same number of boys, ranging from eight to fourteen, facing him. Then, to his dismay, a load of women and a few girls joined their menfolk. They brandished knives, pitchforks and other everyday items that could be used as a weapon. However, he had no intention of making war on women.

  He strode up the beach accompanied by Olaf and Sitric until he was near enough to the people confronting him to be heard.

  ‘Which one of you is Aksel?’

  ‘Who wants to know?’ a large man with red hair called back in a low booming voice.

  ‘I’m Ragnar, nephew of Jarl Gutfred. You owe him taxes for ten years or more and have forfeited this land as a result. You may leave with your family, but not your tenants or your thralls, or you may stay here and die on this beach.’