When I awoke, it took several moments for me to decide if I was still alive. Almost every part of my body competed for attention with painful signals. My head throbbed as though fit to burst and my body ached as though I had been caught under a smithy’s hammer.
I decided eventually that these had to be earthly qualities and therefore, somehow, I was still in this brutal world. And I was cold. Soaking wet and very cold. Instinctively, I knew that I mustn’t surrender to the sleepiness that comfortably beckoned me.
Try as I might to open my eyes, they didn’t seem able to move, my whole face felt swollen. Just as it had years before when, as a boy, I’d investigated old Master Styg’s bee hives. The angry little creatures had repeatedly stung my face before I got away. Funny that I should think of the old gardener now I thought. But the best I could manage was a narrow, blurred slit, which only showed me a strip of gloomy greyness peopled with shadowy shapes.
My hands seemed unable to move to relieve my eyelids, almost as if my arms had been broken. But the pain didn’t seem that ugly. They must be tied I thought, and tied very tightly.
My other senses resurrected themselves more slowly. I became aware of a regular movement and almost at the same time, my nose was overwhelmed by the dreadful smell of stale, sick humanity.
The movement seemed to coincide with the sound of waves. The realisation crept into my thoughts that I was somehow, once again at sea, and if the sense of smell served true, it was not on a British fishing boat. The realisation that I was a prisoner flashed into the dullness of my brain and struck sparks of panic in my mind. I tried to move, stand, or at least roll over and became aware of another person close by.
‘Be still and rest yourself, master Ranulf, sir.’
It was the voice of Deaks. Faithful servant, or had he a hand in all this.
‘We have worse to come.’ he added, his voice a hoarse whisper close to my ear.
The memories of our battle came flooding back. Surely we had won. I’d heard the blare of Edmund’s horn, felt the earth tremble from the hammering hooves of his troop of horse. Then came the memories of those red bearded devils that had risen, as if from the very earth, and had thrown themselves upon us, like waves on the rocks, in a final frenzied attack.
I tried to use my voice, but my swollen tongue stuck to my mouth. I shook my head in angry frustration.
‘Where are we?’ I managed in a rough, hollow sounding whisper.
‘You don’t remember then?’ asked Deaks softly.
His trembling hand mopped my face with a damp rag and in a barely audible mumble, he briefly described the final events on the beach.
Edmund’s first charge had started a rout, with many of the Viking warriors drowning in the mud and slime of the river as they tried to regain the decks of the ships that were not burning. Others, in a hurrying, fleeing mass had leapt upon our exhausted group. One of their leaders had stopped the haphazard killing and twelve of us had been taken prisoner.
‘I believe they are going to set us to rowing their dragonships.’ he explained. ‘Slaves to replace some of the crew they have lost to our good British steel.’
The other half of the enemy’s army, the ones that had been deployed on the eastern bank, gave a valiant display of archery to cover the retreat of their comrades on our side. And Deaks thought that Edmund’s losses may have been significant.
‘How did I get here?’ I asked. ‘I don’t remember a thing.’
‘I carried you, master.’ he said simply.
Apparently I had been battered unconscious by an enemy warrior and then trampled by those in the retreat behind him. Deaks had managed to pull me clear as the order was given to take prisoners and, despite his serious wound, had taken me to the beach and onto one of the ships that had been rescued from the fires.
Another group of the fleeing Viking warriors had a job of paramount importance and they would be picked up later a short way down the coast. They were to carry out the burial ceremonies of one of their greatest warrior chieftains, a man called Ubba. He had apparently been slain early in the engagement, during our own, very first attack.
This fact did not bode well for my future. Apart from any other Pagan reasons, it was very likely that my life would be forfeit to avenge his memory.
Deaks had managed to wipe away much of the crusted, drying blood from my face and I found I could now open my eyes. The scene that greeted me was not one that I could ever wish to relive.
We were lying in the bilges of the rolling longship, amongst the tumbling leakage water, rubbish and coils of rope. A diluted winter sun was throwing its cool early light over the edge of a hatchway and onto the exhausted and pale, frightened faces of ten of my good men. It could not have been very long ago that we had welcomed a hard fought victory.
None of us seemed seriously wounded, except for Deaks, but we all looked in a desperate and shabby condition. The cold and wet, on top of the battle weariness, was doing its worst. I could see that some of them would succumb and could probably perish where they lay.
It dawned on me that Deaks, bastard son of Halfdan, was the only one not to be bound by the wrist. The rest of us were held fast by cords that had bitten into the flesh and numbed arms and hands. He must have seen my thought.
‘I’ve been recognised and they wanted me to look after you.’ he explained with a sigh. ‘I’m an embarrassment that my father could well do without just now. It doesn’t look good.’ he added.
‘For me, or for all of us?’ I asked.
‘Things will probably never be the same sir. I don’t think they mean to let us go. Ever...’
Carefully, so as not to attract attention, Deaks fumbled with the knots of my bindings and loosened the bite of the cord about my wrist. The blood surged painfully into my fingers and made me bite at my lip to stop myself crying out. I nodded my thanks and eased my arms as an exquisite ache greeted the return of my numbed bones and joints.
Feet thumped across the deck above us and through the hatch opening I could see the great sail being lowered from the mast head. Loud voices called urgent orders and gave rough encouragement to the crew. It seemed that we were about to land. A leering face, framed by a mane of copper-red hair blocked my view as it looked in at our prison. He spat at the huddle of bodies below him and in a rough Norse dialect which I couldn’t understand, he pointed at me and shouted a string of abuses and curses.
The harsh rattle and grinding of pebbles and shingle against the ship’s hull announced our arrival on a beach and the Viking guard ordered us out. As my head came above the hatch combing, a swirl of breeze brought a clearing chill of fresh air to my chest. Above the ship’s side rose the short steep cliffs of Shear Holme. We were indeed, deep within the enemy’s lair.
Deaks helped all of us hobble onto numb legs and stumble onto the ship’s broad main deck. We stood quietly, fearfully awaiting the fate that must inevitably await us. Our red haired gaoler gestured for us to make our way over the side and onto the shore. Deaks translated and told us to hurry. I quickly told the men what they must do and stood at the side so that Deaks could help us over. But we didn’t move quickly enough for the bear-like guard and he savagely flogged us with a knotted ropes-end as we rolled over the broad sweep of the gunwale to drop into the waist deep surf. It was unbelievably difficult to accomplish the normally simple matter of reaching the shore, with hands pinioned and cold-numbed, legs. But the red-haired demon came at us as we struggled, his ropes-end crashing like a corn flail onto heads and backs. One of the poor men could not take any more and his body, face down, floated spread-eagled past us, spiralling slowly as it went.
Betraying my rough knowledge of their main language I commended the heathen’s soul to hell. His response was predictable. He pushed each of us headlong onto the beach, face down before a group of their warrior chieftains. A boot buried itself into my side, below the ribs and a vice-like hand rolled me over, to once more face the Viking High-Chieftain, Halfdan.
His voiced bellowed with a hearty laugh in recognition and the sound echoed from the hanging cliffs. He pledged a purse of silver to each of his men for my capture.
‘Now British pig. You are mine and I will teach you some manners before you entertain us once more with your death. It will be artfully done.’ he announced to the cheers and laughter of his men.
He threw his back and his devil’s laughter rumbled. But he stopped abruptly when I struggled onto my elbow and made a hoarse plea for my men. With the speed of a striking viper he kicked away my supporting arm and, standing astride me, he spat into my face.
‘You are the lowest of low. Fit only to lie in my mud.’ he shouted. ‘I piss on you!’
I gasped as the hot, stinking stream stung my nose and eyes. I turned my face away and clamped my mouth shut, but still some of the vile stuff seeped past my lips. He roared with laughter as he swept away with his band of chieftains.
‘Keep them there. Feed the others, but not him.’ he shouted over his shoulder to our guards.
I was still totally stunned by what had happened, how could anyone be so completely barbaric. Within my soul the rage of the warrior was beginning to smoulder, even though I had thought it quenched by the chill of our defeat.
I was helped to my feet and made to sit a short distance away from the nine remaining men, Deaks bustled about wiping away the filth from my face and tunic. He was becoming visibly weaker now with the loss of blood from his wound.
A guard cut the thongs that had cruelly bound the men’s wrists and with liberally applied kicks he forced them to kneel while he doled out some darkly burned, coarse loaves and a pot of water. They glanced guiltily at me as they stuffed their mouths with the rough black bread and washed it down with gulps of water.
In open defiance, Deaks brought me some water and, holding the cup, made me drink it slowly. Our guard watched and unsure of Deaks’ illegitimate rank, left him alone. Everyone here avoided poor Deaks’ cross-eyed gaze, in case it were a look from the evil eye. His father, apart from a fierce glare, had ignored him completely. His bastard offspring had trembled with fear, his pale, ashen face turned away towards the ground.
‘You can see why I hate him.’ muttered Deaks as he further loosened my bonds while the guard was busy. Then in a curious, quiet voice he said.
‘I fear that I may not be of much more use to you master. Perhaps the axe bit too deeply, I’m afraid that I grow weaker by the moment.’ then, almost dreamily, he added. ‘But, there. I think that there may yet be one service.’
The poor deformed young man stumbled a little as his short legs carried him across the rocky shore. The leader of the guard moved to stop him, but a glare from Deaks’ cross-eyed gaze stopped him in his tracks and the guard made a sign to ward off evil.
‘I’m going to see my father. Be sure you treat these men with honour while I am away.’ he said to the guard.
The guard didn’t answer, but went back to a noisy game of dice. My men muttered accusing threats towards Deaks. They didn’t understand, how could they? I silenced them with a growl and they greedily went back to their breakfast. After the men had eaten, our nervous guards retied the bindings about their wrists and made us all sit with no talking.
There must have been a village of sorts, somewhere behind the cliffs, for later that morning came the sound of chanting and the dull rumble of what might be ceremonial drums. The effect on our guards was almost electric, their nervousness became increased and proportionally, so did their brutality. Eventually they herded us back into the water leading us to the side of the ship that had brought us. One of the men, under the threat of a slow death if he fled, had his bonds severed long enough to help us over the shear side and onto the deck. A crewman bundled us roughly back into the shallow hold which had been our earlier prison. This time they slammed shut a grating cover and fastened it by hammering home some wedges.
All the while the drums rumbled on and the sound of the chanting floated down to us on the gently gusting breeze. Water lapped and purred at the ship’s hull and I have to confess that I fell into a stone-dead sleep of exhaustion.
My head crashed against a timber frame as I woke with a sudden start and tried to sit up. A half remembered and shattering noise was still singing in my head.
‘What is it?’ I asked the nearest body in the gloom. ‘What was that noise?’
‘We don’t know your worship.’ he answered hoarsely in a frightened whisper. ‘It sounded like a right fearful scream and a sort of clashing noise. But at least the damned drumming has stopped.’
Rolling and scrabbling, I managed to get myself across the ships bilges and onto my knees under the hatchway grating. A soft rain fell on my upturned face as I looked out at the fading light of the grey day. I must have slept for a long while, very nearly most of the day. Through my half-awake haze I began to remember the unbidden, grey dreams that had invaded my mind. There had been a sensation of a strange brightness. It was as though I was inside the brightness rather than before it. Then I knew, somehow, that the mind splitting scream had come from Deaks.
I called out to the guard, asking him what was happening, but he ignored me.
We huddled silently in the now fast gathering darkness for warmth. We were all hungry and thirst began to be a problem again. A man somewhere started to hum a favourite hymn and before he had managed more than a few bars, the rest of us joined him, our hoarse voices booming in the confined space.
It was fully dark when a voice called down the hatchway for the stinking British chief. I shivered my stiff joints into motion and shuffled into a pool of wavering lamplight below the hatch. From behind the light came the sound of muffled voices, one of which sounded like a woman, but their words were cut off by the hammering out of the wedges and the opening of our foul cell.
A hand reached in, grasped a handful of my hair and hauled me to my feet. With my head above the level of the deck it was some moments before my eyes could adjust to the light and pick out the shapes of our visitors. One of them was definitely a woman, her face was covered by her hood, but it was someone that I thought I vaguely recognised. If I was not too mistaken it was Hild, the bright young woman from the Viking village of Westburg. The one that had befriended me.
The guard roughly helped me to reach the deck and shoved me to my knees before the young lady.
‘The mistress would speak with you pig. Though the gods know why.’ he snarled in his guttural language. ‘Lay one finger on her and you’ll get the punishment that was meant for you the last time you met. Damned if I don’t do it myself anyway.’
‘You will not lay a finger upon him.’ said Hild with authority, flipping back her hood. ‘I need to speak to you Ranulf. Come we will walk on the beach.’
She reached behind me, and with her lady’s dirk, smoothly severed my loosened bonds. I dropped over the ships side and onto the firm sand of low tide and reached up to help Hild down.
‘You should have stuck to your songs and your harp Ranulf. It was better that way.’ her voice was husky.
After a few moments of silence, while we picked our way along the rock strewn shore, Hild brought me to a small fisherman’s shack and opened the low door. Ducking under the beam we sat upon a couple of wicker crates, and she told me the terrible tale of the fate of her, new-found, half brother. My manservant Deaks. Who, it seemed, should be commemorated as a hero.
On leaving us on the beach, Deaks had laboriously walked up to the village and burst in upon his father, Halfdan. The old Chieftain had many urgent things to deal with and was about to have him thrown out. But the young chap had turned his eye upon any that came close and demanded to have audience. Reluctantly the older man agreed, warning him to be swift.
Deaks had then given his father a proposition that solved most of the Chief’s immediate problems, and one that had been a longer term embarrassment. The young man offered his life as a willing sacrifice to the gods to safeguard the spirit of Ubba. He also demanded to be recognised as his father’s son. A prince in his own right and to be the substitute for Hild’s ritual execution.
Of course, Halfdan had roared with brutish laughter until the tears ran down his face. He had struggled for breath and commanded his guards to take the insolent pup outside, and put him to death right away.
Deaks had pulled his body to full height and in a loud voice, silenced the room by calling his father a stupid oaf and not being able to see past the ugly nose on his face. And in that same, commanding voice, he had explained his offer in detail.
Halfdan the King of the Norsemen in this area, was required to offer a sacrifice to the gods for the safe transport of Ubba’s spirit to Valhalla. Ubba, being a great Warrior and famous in their home lands as well here, was worthy of a very substantial offering. Also, Deaks went on, the recent defeat of the Viking army, not five miles distant, was the result of a stupid, ill devised action which was obviously not averted by the gods of war that are supposed to watch over them.
The sacrifice that he proposed was that of a Royal Prince who was willing and, most powerful of all, a complete virgin. Looking like I do, he’d said, who’d have me?
But the bargain would have to be that he would be treated as a Royal Prince for the day and the life of his British master would be spared.
His father had remained silent for a long time. You could have cut the air with a blade, Hild told him. Then Halfdan had said, How do you know that I will not have you killed and then follow your miserable spirit into hell with that of your Britain.
Deaks had his answer ready, and had said to the assembled courtiers, You are a noble person sir, and if you turned on an honourable agreement you would lose respect and credibility. The assembly rumbled, whether in agreement or astonishment Hild wasn’t sure, but amazingly her father agreed. In reality, he had no other choices that could surpass the powerful efficacy of Deaks’ solution. Save the sacrifice of his favourite daughter. And he had already privately told Hild that he would do all he could to avoid that.
For the remainder of the daylight hours Deaks had been treated as a Prince. He was bathed, dressed and waited on hand and foot. Lords called with their Ladies to pay their respects, and to give him messages for folk in the afterworld. Their gifts were piled high at his door.
The priests, in their desperation, devised a sort of double death to appease two gods. Deaks had been strangled by garrotte to within a breath of his life and then his throat had been ceremonially cut and his blood drunk by the celebrants.
Hild shuddered as she described this to me and I sensed rather than saw the tears coursing her plump cheeks.
‘Why have you come to tell me all this?’ I asked gently.
‘He asked me to. Deaks called on me this afternoon and told me you were here. He said for me to wish you good luck.’ she said.
‘What have they done with his body?’ I asked. ‘Can I fetch it away for a Christian burial?’
‘Would that we could.’ she looked carefully around. ‘I am secretly converted you see. But they are already burning the poor man’s remains.’
‘We could at least say a few words of prayer for him then.’ I offered.
We both knelt on the hard earth floor of the tiny room, silently thought of the brave deed that had been done that day and I recited the few formal prayers that I could remember, more or less anyway.
I looked into Hild’s eyes and without thinking put my arms about her shoulders and gently drew her close. Her sobs stopped and her breathing became steady. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, to hold her close. My lips sought hers and we became enveloped by a blanket of instant, overpowering passion. As it swept us up in its urgent strength we made love quietly on the cold floor of that fisherman’s hut.
Afterwards I quietly told her of the events of fate that had held me in their grasp since last I’d seen her. We made a solemn promise, that we would each seek out the other...should I ever return.
As we walked back to the lamplight and the ship that had become my prison, I asked if she had any idea what would happen next.
‘You are to go to sea with one of our expeditions to the southern world. Not many ship’s return, so maybe my father will get his way after all.’
‘I will be alright.’ I said confidently.
‘Father has given my brother a second chance. Your ship’s Master will be my brother, Brent-one-hand.’ she said chillingly.
I thanked her and climbed back over the ship’s side, on the deck I leaned over the broad gunwale to wave my farewell.
Hild had already turned to walk away, but turning back said softly. ‘Should you return I would right gladly see you. Take care Ranulf my love.’ And she was gone, swallowed by the gloom of the night.
High above, beyond the cliff edge, was the hazy glow from a large fire. The pyre for my faithful Deaks.