The sight of a burning Viking longship, under sail and with only a ghost-spirit as its master and crew, will stay with me forever. The tide was full, covering the maze-like entrance channel and a brisk offshore breeze blew steadily out of the north-west. The lowering sky was burnished by the sun’s parting, streaks of gold were splashed through the heavy, orange bellies of the rolling clouds. Wheeling gulls shrieked their mournful cries while, behind us, all dressed in brilliant white, the dead priest’s brothers and apprentices chanted, then sang a farewell lament.
The flaming warship, plunged gently as it cleared the land and caught the fullness of the breeze and, bowing slightly, it bore its silent cargo directly out into the loneliness of the deserted ocean. The flames, whipped into a leaping activity by the wind, guaranteed an eventual watery grave. It was an honour which was normally only given to the highest of the high Chieftains.
As we watched, the gleaming flares from the ship were slowly swallowed by the distant shroud of a misty horizon and the winter twilight.
There was no doubt in my mind that Brent had sacrificed the expensive longship, not to placate the religious order, but for two reasons closer to his interests. The first was to buy the continued comradely assistance of the islanders and secondly, perhaps more importantly, to ensure that his was the only ship available to sail on the coming voyage. And as far as I could see, he had succeeded on both counts.
While all these ceremonies were going on, I was kept busy loading yet more stores and arranging more water casks so that they could be filled from the island’s water supplies. So I only managed to furtively look now and again. But I still managed to take in and briefly study a deal of my surroundings.
The small village settlement boasted several farming areas along the coastal strips of ground which, as far as I could ascertain ran around a central, mountainous region of twin-peaked hills. I was sure that this was one of the island group which lay to the west of Cornwall’s steep grey cliffs. Ivar had called it Sullya, but that was the old Romanish name, we called them the Scilly’s. They were a final bastion facing the onslaught, and unknown enormity, of the rolling seas that swelled away to fill every corner of the world.
And we were going out there. Soon!
Morbidly, my imagination dwelt on the funeral ship, picturing the wizened corpse racing through cold green water towards the rock strewn, weed forests of the seabed. With an effort, I shrugged aside the dark and depressing demons that swung and clawed at my thoughts.
‘No-man!’
The sharpness of Brent’s voice made me jump, the hair bristled on my neck.
‘Sir.’ I answered from the cramped space below the deck and I scrambled over packages and casks to stick my head out of the hatchway. The cold air prickled the sweat on my body.
‘Come with me.’ he snapped.
I followed the one-handed man off the ship and along the stone jetty, my tired legs aching as I kept up with his vigorous stride towards the village. Did he never tire?
The tension in the man’s frame emanated, like the heat from a brazier. He was constantly scheming and planning, everything that we did happened because he pushed for it or grabbed it. He was certainly skilled, his seamanship was a fascination, but he also had a way with the people. The majority would follow him anywhere, and not merely by the goad of fear or promise of gold. I had seen such skills in our own King Alfred. Some said Brent was mad, but they were mainly his enemies, or those not favoured by his many contentious judgements. There was, I realised, a fine division between the sanity of genius and the raving of madness. An uncomfortable fence at the best of times I supposed, but one that must approach the unbearable in the loneliness of a commanding leader.
Automatically, my fingers made the sign of the cross as we passed the two poles with their grotesque adornments of severed heads, dimly visible in the gathering gloom of early evening.
‘You still carry your puny beliefs then, No-man.’ chuckled Brent without turning.
He really didn’t miss a thing.
‘Yes sir, but privately now of course.’ I answered wearily.
‘That’s good. I don’t want you infecting my people.’
‘No sir.’
We had reached the heavy door of a substantial building, Brent pulled a cord and we could hear the silvery tinkle of a bell from somewhere within.
‘You’re a fair shot with a bow No-man.’ Brent commented, his eyes watching me carefully. ‘I have taken you back from Ivar, you’ll serve me now.’
He paused for my comment. When I didn’t reply he carried on,
‘I understand that you can write. Is that so?’ he asked.
‘Yes sir, but not in your language.’ I answered.
Brent nodded thoughtfully. ‘Your new duties will be simple enough, but I’ll tell you later.’
The door was opened by an ancient housekeeper who creakily bowed as Brent swept past him without acknowledgement. I followed along behind the Viking as he stooped his tall frame to walk under the low ceilings of a long, dimly lit corridor, closed doors led off to each side. Brent pulled a key from his belt pouch and unlocked one of the doors. I followed him in. The housekeeper hovered at the doorway.
‘That’ll be all Raddle, thank you.’ Brent said, almost absently, as he rummaged in a large wooden chest. ‘You may send my lady Elspeth to me.’ he added, his eyes glittered and the suggestion of a rare smile creased his cheeks.
‘Right away sur!’ said the old man, as almost crab-like he scurried away.
Brent found what he searched for and dragged out a small, portable bureau. It was an ingenious device which, beneath its hinged lid, housed all the necessary implements and tools for writing, including a large packet of new, unused parchment. An almost unheard-of luxury. The whole thing, when closed up and fastened, could be slung from a broad shoulder strap for carrying. With some reverence, the barbarian fingered the finely carved scrollwork that traced its edges.
‘I have a mind to chronicle my travels. Produce some readable records of visits and the notable events along the route. I cannot use a pen in my remaining hand, so I need a writer.’ he looked up from the cabinet. ‘Can you write well enough, in good Latin to do it?’ he asked.
‘Yes sir.’ I answered, hoping I didn’t sound too eager. It was a god given opportunity to learn all that I wanted...And more.
He was silent for several moments, his hands passed gently across the leather inlay of the writing surface. Obviously the cleverly crafted cabinet held a considerable sentimental value. Another aspect of this man that seemed out of place in the nature of his warrior personality. Almost reluctantly, he picked it up and thrust it towards me,
‘Take the case No-man. Guard it well.’ he handed me the box. ‘We’ll start work on my saga in the morning. Now, go down the hall to the kitchen, Raddle will give you some supper before you go.’
And with a wave of his hand I was dismissed. On the way out of the room I stepped aside to allow a young woman, a raven haired beauty to sweep past. Before the door closed behind me I heard Brent’s stern voice,
‘When you leave, make sure you go directly to the ship No-man. Do not loiter or I will have you whipped.’
‘Aye sir.’ I answered.
The kitchen was well equipped and warmed by a log fire that blazed in a big open hearth. The man called Raddle ordered an even older woman, that I presumed to be his partner, to get me some hot soup and some bread. The last time that I’d seen a kitchen, it had been in my father’s new house in Cynwit. The last time that I’d tasted food so good, was at Athelney, even longer before. I sat with the old couple for a while, warming my bones. I looked down at my grimy hands and arms with a sudden embarrassment.
‘Do you think that I could have a little hot water and some soap.’ I asked the old lady.
She looked at me thoughtfully and nodded. Silently she filled a copper pan and brought a strip of linen and a block of hard soap.
‘Our son would have been about your age. If he’d lived.’ she muttered, as she turned and sat again in contemplative silence, next to the old man.
The hot water was wonderful, I stripped off my tunic and jerkin, my body shuddered with the cleansing feel of the soap and water. The scarring on my chest had healed and, apart from a tightness, I had forgotten about it. The old man was watching me and he noticed it.
‘The master’s work?’ he asked nodding his head towards the door to the hall.
I nodded, it seemed a rudeness to break their silent communion.
For communicate they did. Without a word, the old lady nodded, rose and brought me a set of clean clothes from a large wicker basket. They were of the now familiar style belonging to my captors, but they fitted well and smelled of that warm, homely scent of clean laundry. She also produced a small parchment bag which she held out to me.
‘It’s powdered Sanicle root. The most powerful medicine that we have here...it’ll cure almost everything. You’ll need it if Brent is his usual self.’ she said quietly.
Old master Styg had told me about Sanicle in my herbal's instruction.
‘I know of it well, ma’am and I thank you.’ I said as she sat down again.
The old man gave me a small bag of cheese and bread, all neatly wrapped in what looked like large cabbage leaves.
‘Eat the leaves as well.’ he told me seriously. ‘Take ’em raw, they’ll help your body while you’re at sea.’
I let myself out of the house and found myself stumbling into a lane that seemed darker than the inside of a cold baker’s oven. It was several moments before my eyes began to grow accustomed to the frosty darkness. The breeze had dropped to barely a whisper and not a glimmer of starlight pierced what must be an overcast sky. The village tracks were deserted, only the soft smoke of log fires tumbled from cottage roofs to betray the human presence in the settlement. The events of today would be talked about for many years to come I thought. Descriptions would gather weight and size as they passed, father to son, mother to daughter.
When I’ve a moment I thought, I’ll compose a song to tell the story.
As I picked my way towards the dock, I wondered if I’d be able find an instrument anywhere, a harp or even a simple whistle would help pass the time.
It wasn’t until after I had passed the place where the severed heads had been put on their poles, that I noticed something obviously wrong. The blood slippery posts had been lowered, and even through the gloom, I could see that their grisly burdens had been removed.
A hissed, sharp word of warning came out of the darkness and, head bowed, I hurried on my way.
Now I knew why the village was so inordinately silent after its day of excitement. Some loyal members of Jarl’s crew, under the shelter of darkness, must have taken the remains of their leader and his servant to lay them to rest, in secret. If they were caught, the executions would be long and dreadful.
Most of the Norsemen spent the night on shore, at one house or another, invited or not. The only people aboard the dragon ship were a party of deck and mooring watchmen. They all ignored my approach and nobody spoke as I and my box dropped into the shelter of the storage space below the deck. I’d found a snug spot amongst the folds of the spare, coarsely-woven, woollen sails to sleep.
Partly because of the cold and partly from the events of the day, I found it difficult to find sleep that night. When I did, I dreamt wild dreams of battles, dismembered bodies and an endless task of chronicling the events of the entire world.
Suddenly, I was sharply awakened. One moment sleeping, the next, fully alert and awake. The thought that had broken the sleep-stilled surface of my mind was Silver. Boxes of it. Or rather. There weren’t.
To get to the place I’d found I had to clamber over the boxes and packages of food stores as well as the three stolen boxes of silver coin. Except that I had only crawled over two. It came to me, propelled by a fragment of a dream, that one was missing. I’d been working at loading and packing stores for most of the day and hadn’t seen the taking of the missing box so it must have gone during the evening. If that grand hall in the village was Brent’s home, then it was possible that it was also used as the resting place for many valuable items. It would certainly explain the locked doors and the general robust feel to the place. But if that were the case, then one, or perhaps more of the crew would have to be in the plot with him.
Slivers of silvery-grey light threaded their way through the gaps between the deck planking, probing into my dark retreat. A short way away, the square of the deck’s hatchway showed as a pale patch in the ceiling of dark timbers. Another new day was about to thrust its labours upon me.
Above, I could hear the watchmen talking. They were arguing about the need to put to sea when there was the almost guaranteed probability of bad and stormy weather.
‘Everyone else has laid their ships up. But not Brent. Oh no.’ said one
‘He’s crazy with greed.’ answered a voice from the quayside.
‘Aye.’ agreed the first. ‘I’d rather bide here for awhile, at least until the earth feels the movements of spring.’
‘You two don’t know what you’re saying.’ broke in a third voice, sharper than the other two. ‘We’re bound for southerly waters where it’s warm all year. I’d rather we got down there, as soon as you like.’
‘Hah!...What do you know.’ sneered the first voice. ‘Never been at sea in a proper storm. We’re as likely to sink as we are sail.’
‘Look out.’ called a fresh voice with quiet urgency. ‘Ere he comes.’
Rubbing my eyes and stretching out my stiffened muscles, I rolled out of my nest and hoisted my tired body out of the hatchway and into the full light of the dawn. The first rays of the rising sun stabbed from the distant horizon and washed the sleeping village behind us with a warm glow. Striding through the frost rimed grass was the tall figure of Brent, two urchins trotted along behind him laden down with a couple of wicker baskets and a large travelling bag.
With a lithe grace, Brent grabbed a backstay and swung himself onto the deck. Words were not needed, his confident smile confirmed to all that we’d be sailing soon. There’d be no lay-up for the reluctant members of his crew. He grabbed his bag and baskets from the two young ruffians and, tossing each of them a small silver coin, he sent them off to rouse out his warriors and the remainder of his crewmen.
I had a headache and my joints ached from work and the cold, I felt as though I had partied the night away, Brent had obviously been busy, but looked as fresh as a springtime daisy.
‘Come No-man, we’ll begin our chronicles.’ he called enthusiastically. ‘I shall want you to do some drawings as well. Simple things, showing the outline of the various coasts and headlands as we pass them. They will serve as way-markers for those who may follow.’
My stomach growled its impatience and my throat was parched, but start we did. We laid out the overall shape of the saga, what was to be included and what should be ignored. The main result, I gathered, should leave the reader with no doubt as to the skill and genius of the principle character and my patron. For the most part he dictated what should be written and I scratched my way across smoothed wooden tablets, with some inferior charcoal, making notes to use later in writing the fair copy using the valuable parchment.
Much later, when Brent was busy with preparations for sea, I managed to satisfy the thirst and urgent hunger pangs of my body.
The typical Danish breakfast was not as filling as I had been used to and contained mostly fish and fruit, usually dried, but fresh when it could be got. I ate my own ration with what must have seemed to them, a gluttonous speed, and then searched the pots and dishes for anything unwanted by its rightful owner. Fresh water was rationed in the form of one beaker-full, four times a day, and that was strictly enforced when we were at sea.
I had been taken off the gruelling task of rowing, for the time being, and in Brent’s words, I had to buckle down to the writing.
He had called for volunteers from the other ship’s crew for tasks such as manning the sweeps and general duties. As a crew we now numbered more than sixty men. My puny efforts I thought, would not be missed.
I amused myself during the early part of the morning by making sketches of various aspects of the ship and our surroundings. And even if I say so myself, they were rather good, they also gave me the needed excuse to study the ship’s construction and to ask questions.
A small party of villagers, among them I spotted Raddle and the lady Elspeth, came to the water’s edge to wave us good luck and a fortuitous voyage. They didn’t wish us farewell and that intrigued me. I asked why and was told that, in their curious language it meant you were departing for good, never to return. And there was one sadly pale face in the throng that would not wish that.