The warriors leapt ashore whooping their happiness at stamping again so soon on dry land. I watched enviously and stayed where I was. To gain any sort of freedom I would have to behave, outwardly at least, in a circumspect manner, bide my time, learn what I could and during some battle chaos, for there were bound to be more, make my move and leave.
‘The luck of your puny god must be with you No-man.’ said Ivar thoughtfully. ‘I’d have sworn Brent would have had you tossed over the side by now.’
Despite my hatred of the callous old man I smiled and nodded, ‘Where are we?’ I asked.
The question was burning in my mind and had burst out of my mouth. I was surprised to find that not only had I spoken automatically in their coarse tongue, I had thought in it too.
‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in you knowing. This is a place called Sullya.’ he nodded towards the steep hills behind us. ‘They are a group of small islands where we often stop to shelter, or to take on water and food before the long crossing to the South.’
‘The people don’t look like you. Like Danes I mean.’
‘They call themselves Celts. And came from the mainland a long time ago.’ Ivar frowned, annoyed by his own frankness. ‘That’s enough No-man. A slave don’t need to know these things.’
‘But I’m not an ordinary slave.’ I answered, then seeing a smouldering in his eyes, added. ‘My Lord Ivar.’
‘You’re right.’ he sighed. ‘And I’m not the master that you would find in most of our good people.’ he hesitated and looked around at the nearby crewmen who were busy with stores, moorings and a thousand other tasks. None paid us any heed.
‘Many have already offered to take you off my hands as a catamite, offered good payment too. But I don’t hold with those things. No more does Brent.’ he said. ‘So, my young man, it’ll be in your interest to keep me alive.’
I couldn’t agree more and nodded. Very obviously, as far as I was concerned, he was probably the best of a bad bunch. ‘Yes, master.’ I said, the word caught in my throat like a fishbone.
The arrival of the other ship brought a halt to my thoughts of questions. It was obvious from the outset that the ship's master was not overborne with seamanship skills and was going to make a hash of bringing his craft to the opposite side of the narrow jetty. I followed Ivar’s worried glance, it was headed directly for us. I felt sure that we should be rammed and looked quickly towards the shore for a line of escape.
Ivar saw my look, and misjudged the reason. ‘The people here are our very good friends. They’ll not hide you.’
‘No my lord, you misunderstand.’ I nodded towards the approaching ship. ‘I was looking to save us from a cold ducking if they should turn too late.’
The old man’s brown leathery face crinkled in a smile, his eyes like the currants in a Christmas bun.
‘No...No need to worry. They’ll not touch Brent’s ship, but we’ll get some fun nonetheless. Stay aboard. It’s a whipping if I catch you on shore.’
Rubbing sore knees, Ivar stood up and climbed ashore to join his comrades who were busy emptying a cask of some locally brewed beer.
Our sister ship, apparently commanded by a warrior called Jarl, turned its tall serpent headed stem away from our side and began to head towards the sea. The wind, still blowing gently across the jetty, would not act in his favour. The ship’s swinging turn, now assisted by the breeze, propelled the stern of the vessel towards our bow and the end of the jetty. The drum beat quickened and the oarsmen valiantly tried to keep pace.
The curled and carved tail of Jarl’s ship swung past so close that I thought it could have squeezed the breath from a sparrow. A white face with wide, dark eyes peered at us from the master’s deck. The lips moved intoning the words of a prayer for deliverance and help. The efforts of the men at the sweeps didn’t quite take them to total safety and the sturdy craft swept into the end of the jetty.
The watching, and growing crowd roared with delight and yelled insults soared across the breeze to darken the reddening face of the master. As more local beer found empty stomachs, the shouted insults became louder and more daring.
Unfortunately at that moment the swirling, inshore breeze gusted, caught and turned the bow of Jarl’s longship. The efforts of the toiling oarsmen had now succeeded in increasing the speed of the ship, but now it was in a direction away from the crowded jetty.
The arrival of Brent one-hand at the landward end of the jetty put a disciplined silence over the men. Without a word said, a pathway opened before him along the wooden deck-top of the sturdy pier and Brent strode through the laughing throng to stand, arms folded watching the efforts of Jarl.
‘Jarl, sit down! Rowmaster, back your oars on both sides. Hold the helm steady.’ Brent shouted across the widening gap of saltwater.
The men sprang eagerly to his order. Slowly the ship stopped and began to move astern, the wind carrying it to lie in line with the jetty’s leeward edge.
‘Ship your oars men. Well done.’ called Brent to the sweating faces that peered at us from the rows of benches below the bulwarks. ‘Stand by you men there, look alive! Take a line from them and make fast.’
Easily Brent swung aboard his own ship and, striding across the scrubbed planking towards his own raised masters deck, he called for the stores tally board.
He could see the trouble that loomed between the rival crews and called for Ivar to set the men to work, scrubbing the already whitened deck and moving the filled casks of drinking water down from the village pump.
Jarl clambered ashore and, accompanied by a giant of a fellow, stamped angrily down the jetty to come abreast of where Brent now stood, reviewing his stocks of loaded food and stores.
‘Brent! That’s the last time you’ll take anything from me. Get your sword and come ashore...Right now, I demand satisfaction.’
‘Jarl, calm down man. Come aboard, we’ll have a beer and talk things over.’ said Brent, his voice calm.
Brent’s ice-blue gaze gave a lie to the friendship offered by the tone of his voice. He moved past me and around the opening of the hold to stand on the Master’s deck, where he could look down on the other commander.
The atmosphere surrounding the scene tightened. Everyone had stopped work to see the outcome. I found I was holding my breath in fascination.
The swish of Ivar’s cane shattered the stillness as he coaxed the men back to work.
Jarl’s crew remained on board their ship, many faces downcast amid a buzz of muttering, some words were stern with support for their chieftain, others held a groaning embarrassment.
Brent pointed to the giant. ‘Have Einar set your men to work and we’ll talk.’ he said.
Brent’s calmness flattened the excitement that had rippled through the onlookers.
Jarl muttered a quiet order to his man and the giant unshouldered and strung his bow, it was as tall as a normal man, but he notched the cord with an ease that demonstrated a bone-crushing strength. The big man drew an arrow into position and held the weapon defensively in a hand that would have dwarfed a peat cutters hod.
‘I hope your action doesn’t seek to threaten me, Jarl.’ Brent’s voice had lost its friendly cloak and began to reflect the harshness of the light in his eyes. ‘It is your choice, back off now or take the consequence. Either way, your ship will not sail in company, you will return to overwinter at Steep Holm.’
Jarl squared his shoulders and looked about him. ‘I say that they shall sail together. And on time.’ he turned back to look up at Brent. ‘And I shall be the leader. As of now!’
A weak cheer burst from the growing mutterings aboard the other ship.
Brent laughed. ‘You. The greatest ‘Landsman’ among us would take two ships across the southern seas to the Iberias?’ his laugh was heavily mocking.
‘The Landsman, as you call him, has the advantage of you at the moment.’ he gestured to Einar. ‘We will make the voyage very comfortably. Without you.’
Our own warrior crew ignored the encouragements to work and gathered into groups, the more senior on the main deck below Brent and the rest in a defensive line along the jetty. The situation looked ugly and I was sure that it threatened to explode any moment.
Jarl turned to the men. ‘Good Norsemen, today I shall rid you all of this man and his cruel, savage pleasures. Our voyage will go forward, and each one of you will take a share of the profit. My quarrel with this vicious bully, who would cut the throat of his own kin for bloodthirsty pleasure, is an old one. Don’t be afraid of him. Stand behind me and we shall all win.’
Nobody moved. The scene looked like one of the pictures in the old books I thought. A frozen slot of time.
Brent slowly shook his head with, what seemed to me, regret. ‘That old argument. I thought all that was all resolved.’ he said, his voice was quiet, almost like an escaping thought.
‘It can never be closed while you breathe our free air. I loved the lady that your cruelty and deceit ruined.’ Jarl shouted passionately.
‘A misunderstanding Jarl. A fleeting passion.’ Brent called back. He smiled, his lips compressed to a narrow line. ‘If I recall correctly, it was your own sword that took her life.’
‘After you had taken her honour. I had no choice. She was my wife and carried your bastard.’
‘So you say, Jarl. So you say.’
‘You know that I am right. Surely, even your evil heart cannot deny the truth. Get your sword and come ashore damn you.’ Jarl almost choked with rage. ‘Or Einar will dispatch you where you stand.’
‘Then you call for a trial of combat.’ Brent stated coldly. ‘A duel in our sacred tradition of the Holmganga.’
‘If that is how you choose to die.’ Jarl shrugged. ‘Get ready now.’
‘It is the only way that a lowlife such as you, may challenge a true Chieftain.’ growled Brent. ‘We will have to forgo the pleasure of combat with the bow and arrow in the third of the competitions that the ritual demands.’ he held up his foreshortened arm. ‘With your permission we will substitute the long spear.’
‘As you wish. But the first round, with the short axe, will be as far as you get.’ Jarl’s mouth twisted in a sneer as he turned away. ‘I will wait for you on the shore, be swift.’
I gulped and closed my opened mouth. I’d heard of such duels, the contestants faced each other consecutively with three different weapons; axe, long sword and arrow. And, if no mortal wound had been caused at the end, they began again until just one person was left alive. Almost as big a test of stamina, as skill with arms.
I hoped Jarl would not cheat me of the pleasure of fulfilling my oath, but at the same time I wished Brent dead. A confusion of conscience and guilt fluttered through my mind as I was swept along by the mob of spectators.
Brent was correct when he said that it was the only way, and the men, despite who they backed at the moment, would respect the Holmganga decision and all would follow the emerging winner.
The villager’s leader and an elderly, pagan priest were brought to officiate and the men formed up into a rough square on the flat grass of the meeting and market place. The drinking had stopped and a sober air of silent responsibility settled on the cloaked and armoured shoulders of the witnesses.
The priest busied himself lighting a brazier, onto which he sprinkled a dried spice of some sort that produced a sweet smelling, oily vapour. A barrel of sand was brought and the contents spread evenly over the area by Ivar and by Jarl’s man, the giant Einar. When they had finished they took up a position opposite to each other, some twenty paces apart. Here they laid out the weapons that would be used and planted a brightly coloured standard on a pole beside them. One depicted a black Wolf’s head on a brilliant yellow background the other a simple red circle on white. The two men then faced each other, aggressive scowls darkening their faces.
We all waited. From the beach, the laughter of two children playing ducks and drakes with pebbles on the flat sea echoed from the cliffs. But they were soon silenced by the impending seriousness of the awesome situation. The feeling was similar to the instant before the breaking of mighty storm, heavily quiet, the air thickened by its presence.
The situation that Brent found himself in had been brought about by his own impetuous character, fuelled by his devious dishonesty. Those same factors that had caused him to be put at a distinctly heavy disadvantage with just one complete arm.
But he was cool and calculating, I had seen it for myself. If, like some others around me, I had been a gambler, I’d have sided against Jarl being the winner.
Jarl’s entrance to the ring was full of bravado and cheering, as he was carried shoulder high by a group of his young warriors. His face was flushed, perhaps with excitement, but probably with wine. With careful, exaggerated attention, his man made sure that he was ready with a securely bound shield and a wickedly curved, short-handled battleaxe.
Brent’s arrival, by contrast, almost passed unnoticed amid the fuss from the opposing camp. His long hair had been braided and tied with a leather thong, his quilted tunic was clean and covered a gold trimmed mail armour that was almost a work of art. He stood silently, stock still, as Ivar fussed around him. Lashing a small shield to his foreshortened arm and passing up an axe for the man’s only hand. The axe was of a curious design, having a slender, perforated blade which was opposed, on the other side of the shaft, by a curved, spur-like spike. From the handle of the battleaxe, fell a long loop of silken rope with a heavy tassel. Brent carefully placed his wrist through the loop before gripping the haft of the double edged weapon.
Above all his rich splendour, our Chieftain’s face was the striking feature, the sharp pale eyes glittered as they glanced at his opponent, they missed nothing, and his expression was totally devoid of emotion. His band of senior warriors, that gathered behind him at our end of the square, were also silent. Ominously so. Had they seen all this before I wondered?
The pagan priest splashed around some blood from a freshly slaughtered goat and in a nervously cracked voice, began a chanted intonation to bring the attention of their gods onto the duel that was to take place. The village elder spoke to each of the contestants in turn to ask if there were any special requests and to ensure that neither man was mad, a condition that would have excused its sufferer from any of the consequences of this world.
The priest’s monotonous, stumbling litany ceased abruptly and he fell to his knees. A look of intense relief on his wizened features.
A lonely gull mewed as it passed overhead.
Jarl and Brent approached each other and began to circle warily. Each man was in a semi-crouched position balancing carefully, ready to spring to attack or retreat in a flash. Sweat streamed down Jarl’s face.
Predictably, Jarl attacked first. Brent smoothly turned the blur of lethal steel away with his small shield.
As cool as winter rain, Brent stepped fluidly back and smiled icily at the reddened, excited face of his opponent.
Again and again Jarl swooped to fell his dead wife’s lover. Each time, Brent parried the attack with apparent ease and made no attempt at a death blow. His only strike in reprisal was with the flat of his shield front to Jarl’s head, knocking the fur trimmed helmet to the churned sand. It was almost an action of mockery, and it inflamed the opposing side’s supporters. Cries of coward and other taunts roared from wine lubricated throats. But to Brent, their calls were as a spittle of rain landing on the back of a drake.
Where his opponent was tiring, Brent appeared to thrive. When Jarl staggered or slipped, Brent soared and I swear I heard him chuckle.
In the twinkling of an eye, Brent’s body stretched as he swung the slender axe letting it smoothly slide to the extremity of its silk rope. As it swooped down toward the struggling Jarl, the pierced pattern in the curved blade sang a keening note. Silence fell upon the onlookers as the whistling blade surprised and mesmerised supporter and opponent alike.
Like a scythe through autumn wheat it split Jarl’s wooden shield into two. In its passing, the razor-like edge removed several of the clutching fingers from the tired man’s grasping hand.
Brent stood back, watching the face of his challenger as a merlin will size a sparrow.
The crowd from either end roared. Our end in triumph. The other in astonished surprise. Calls of Trickery and Unfair, came from Jarl’s senior warriors.
The remains of the shield fell to the ground, Jarl watched it in disbelief. The body’s protective numbness saved his tired mind from the shock and pain.
The old village elder, eyes wide, hopped in between the antagonists with his carved staff-of-office outstretched.
Brent turned on his heel with an expressionless mask over his features. He handed the now infamous short axe to Ivar, who in turn offered a flask of spring water and a towel.
Brent sipped the water and mopped his neck as he listened to the howls and taunts from the opposing group of warriors.
Without re-arming he strode across the combat ring and faced them. A stumbling, fragile silence fell upon his angry audience. Holding up the stump of his arm he called in a strong voice.
‘You call me Coward. Yet who of you would face me.’ he said.
Silence greeted his words and he waved the stump of his arm at them.
‘I have been challenged by a whole man, one who had both hands. I was outnumbered from the start. Who would deny me the advantage of intelligence.’
A rumbling of angry words swelled from Jarl’s men.
‘We are now equal. In body at least.’ Brent added, but the inference was beyond them.
He turned and strode past the ashen faced Jarl without a glance. Einar was binding his master’s wounded hand, but already the bandages were blood soaked and dripping. Brent took his sword from Ivar who checked the strapping of the shield. Alone, our warrior chief stood at the centre of the area, waiting for the wounded wreckage of his antagonist.
Surely I thought, Jarl can’t take another beating. He will be sent to the Feasting Hall of his ancestors in the next round. I knew that no mercy could be shown, even if there was an inclination, because it would be deemed an insult. Once this road had been embarked on, there was no turning back. I felt sickened by the excitement around me and guilty that I had joined the cheering, bellowing mass in the crucial moments of the previous bout. I made myself watch silently, I had no option but to stay.
Jarl staggered as he got to his feet, a poorly made hide shield had been brought for him and was bound to his forearm and the blood soaked bandages covering his left hand.
The shock and the sharpness of the pain had deflated his wine lifted spirits and left a calmer purpose. He drew his knife and placed it in the left side of his belt so he could still use it in close quarters if he were disarmed. Jarl wiped his face with a cloth and gripped the handle of the broad bladed sword that Einar held towards him.
Both men, once again, faced each other across the centre of the ring. One was undoubtedly the master. A glance could tell you that. The warriors from each end yelled and called out encouragement and lewd advice to their leaders. Each group was becoming bolder in its attempt to outdo the opposition, both in volume and audacity.
The clash of blades was lost amid the howls and yells. A chip of timber and bronze, struck from Brent’s shield, flew high into the air, glinting in the sun as it tumbled. Forward and backwards hacked and parried the duellists. Each man a sharpened extension to his own lethal weapon. The clashing ring of steel and the dull thud, of a blade as it bit into a shield echoed around the harbour. Children and townsfolk sat in trees and on the high boulders that surrounded the settlement to get a view of the spectacle. Here and there a frightened child was comforted by its mother as its innocence was battered by the naked aggression of the battle.
Jarl appeared to slip on some mud. But no sooner was he on the ground than he swung his sword at Brent’s ankles. Brent, surprise flashing for an instant in his face, leapt into the air and narrowly avoided a totally disabling wound that would have quickly finished the affair.
Jarl swept his sword upwards and it bit into the soft flesh of Brent’s inner thigh, passing through the skirts of his chain-mail tunic.
The wound bled freely, but could only be a flesh cut. The armour undoubtedly saved his moment. But the round of the sword went to Jarl.
Both men retired from the combat area which was re-sanded by several willing hands.
There was no long interval this time, each man grabbed the warrior’s spear that was held for him and wheeled about to gain the advantage. Fighting with heavy infantry spears was difficult with only one hand and resulted in a series of heavy lunges swings and leaping dodges.
Jarl, with a heart stopping scream, decided to give all and, seeing an opening hurled his weapon at our man’s chest. Brent, almost daintily, stepped sideways and the heavy lance passed within a whisker of his throat to embed itself in the stomach of a wine sodden warrior. Jarl, defenceless now, except for his small shield circled away from Brent in an attempt to use distance as an advantage.
Brent yelled to his battle god and charged at his opponent with the spear tucked beneath his good arm.
Jarl, wild eyed, sought for escape. There was none. The bone-splitting point of Brent’s spear was charging across the arena and aimed directly at his target’s heart.
The instant before his chest was laid open to the sky, Jarl grabbed the thin body of the wizened old priest and held him forward as a shield. The spear head, such was the force of the thrust, passed clean through the old fellow’s emaciated frame and, deflected, pinioned Jarl to the ground by his throat as they both fell to the greasy ground.
Brent, his breath coming in ragged gasps, dropped to his knees by the side of the spitted corpses and, as gently as he could, lifted the frail old priest from the shortened wooden shaft.
With his head bowed he slowly carried the twisted body across the stained and stinking sand. The now silent ranks of spectator warriors opened before him like the curling of a wave and Brent slowly carried his burden through them and along the pier of the jetty to Jarl’s ship.
‘This man, a man chosen by the gods, has been wrongfully slain.’ Brent called all to witness as he laid the wretched body on the master’s deck of Jarl’s longship.
‘He shall have the burial of a High Chieftain.’ he turned to a group of warriors. ‘Land the stores from the hold and replace them with some dry firewood and an opened cask of oil. Quickly about it, do it now!’
The victor wearily cast his glance around the clear horizon. ‘When it is done, rig a sail. I shall set alight to the timber and let the dragon-ship speed the priest to the gods.’
A movement caught my eye and I looked around in time to see Einar string his bow and begin to notch an arrow. He stood beyond the gathered folk, at the top of a short rise facing our way. His target was too obvious. I needed Brent’s protection and, as much as I relished the thought of his death, I frantically searched about for help, the nearest men were unknown to me and shrugged me off. In desperation, I snatched up a bow and grabbed an arrow from a passing quiver.
Shouting a warning to Brent, I aimed and loosed the hissing shaft in one movement.
The arrow sped true. Einar pulled his own great bow to its full draw and, as he seemed to be on the point of sending the missile to its target, my arrow reached him and hit the bow full on the handle. The bow cracked and shattered into a dozen shards, its vengeful arrow falling harmlessly to earth ten paces away.
The giant, seeing the folly of his position, turned and tried to escape, but the sheer weight of townsfolk dragged him to the ground. Roaring and flailing about, he managed to snatch a dagger from a belt and to the shock of all around, plunged it deep into his own belly.
For several moments, there was a relative silence. I could feel the stares of many eyes upon me. Carefully I laid down the bow. Slaves were forbidden the use of any arms.
‘No-man.’ Brent’s voice cut through the quietly expectant air.
I looked up, into the mildly amused frosty stare. ‘Yes sir.’
‘Slaves do not carry weapons, No-man. Much less use them.’
‘No sir.’ I answered stupidly.
Brent turned to his senior men and, angrily snapping his instructions, started them with the task of preparing a funeral.
He ordered that the remains of Jarl and his servant Einar should be beheaded and, without ceremony, the bodies tossed onto the settlement’s dumping ground for the crows and the dogs to feast. The bloody heads were impaled on two tall wooden spikes which were set up, side-by-side, on the shore. A gruesome reminder of the law.