It was Gerda who had woken Helgi in the middle of the night, less than a year ago, to tell him about the calamitous event that was to change all of their lives so dramatically and lead to their exile. Helgi was a light sleeper and the urgency in her voice made him open his eyes at once. Someone had lit the lamps in the large living room where the whole household slept. Gerda’s face was distressed, as pale as ash, and she had been crying—there were telltale signs around her eyes. That was the first inkling Helgi had that they were all in trouble. Propping himself up on one elbow, he saw that the servants were getting up and hurriedly pulling on their outdoor clothes. Gaps on the benches where they slept indicated that some had already left.
‘Helgi,’ Gerda said, ‘something’s happened—we’ve had some very bad news.’
Helgi’s thoughts flew instantly to his father, whose bedcloset, he saw, was empty. ‘What’s happened?’ he cried, his eyes wide with alarm.
Gerda sat down on the edge of his bed. ‘Don’t worry—your father’s all right. It’s his friend, Earl Sigurd. A messenger has come with some terrible news. The earl was attacked two nights ago—the house where he was staying was set on fire and Sigurd and all his men are dead. No one escaped alive.’
Helgi stared at her, confused and uncomprehending. Surely this could not be true! Why would anyone want to kill the earl? How could such a warm and friendly man possibly have had any enemies?
‘It can’t be true,’ he told Gerda. He knew, even as he said it, that no one would invent such a horrific story—but still he could not believe it. Burnt to death! What could possess people to inflict such a cruel death on anyone—even their worst enemy? ‘Why? Why would anyone do such a thing?’ he wondered aloud. ‘Everyone loved Earl Sigurd—nobody would want to hurt him.’
‘We loved him, Helgi, but he had powerful enemies. And now we must be on our guard too.’
Helgi frowned and then realization dawned. ‘Do you mean Sigurd’s enemies will come after us?’
‘Your father seems to think so. He’s gone to gather his friends and allies just in case. And he’s sent out scouts to find out about any unusual movements of troops and ships in the area.’
Helgi felt a cold tingle of fear but was also strangely excited by the drama and proud that his father was playing such a leading role. He was confident that everything would be put right. It was terrible that the earl had died, but his father would protect them and see to it that the wrongdoers were punished.
‘My father’s very brave and he has lots of men. If Sigurd’s enemies come, we’ll be ready for them. We’ll be stronger than them, won’t we Gerda?’
‘I hope so, Helgi.’ Gerda tried to speak reassuringly but the words caught in her throat and came out as a strangled whisper. Helgi suddenly felt foolish and naïve for not having asked her the obvious question.
‘Who are Sigurd’s enemies? How powerful are they?’
Gerda looked at him gravely. She seemed to be trying to make up her mind. Eventually she said, ‘It’s better that you should know. I don’t see any point in hiding the truth from you just because you’re young. I know you will be brave and strong like your father.’
Helgi knew the situation was serious when she said that.
‘The messenger said that Sigurd’s brother Grjotgard was responsible for the killing, and that the king and his brother Erling were there and helped him to carry it out.’
Sigurd’s brother? And the king? Helgi could make no sense of this so he asked, ‘What happened?’
‘The earl had gone to Stjordale for a round of feasts … one of the eight shires he ruled in Trondheim. He was staying at Aglo farm, not far from home. Apparently he didn’t have many bodyguards with him. Sigurd’s brother, Grjotgard, must have spied on him and sent word to the king that he was vulnerable to attack. The king and Erling took four ships and many men and sailed north during the night to Nidarnes, where Grjotgard joined forces with them. They got to Aglo in the dead of night. Nobody at the feast was expecting an attack. They were all sleeping off the beer—they hadn’t even bothered to put guards outside to keep watch.’
She broke off and began to cry. Helgi put his arms around her and they held each other tight until Gerda wiped her eyes and was able to continue.
‘The men surrounded the house, stacked bundles of dried brushwood against the walls, set them alight, and soon the whole building was ablaze. Some of the men inside, including the earl himself, managed to break out but they were ringed in by the attackers. Although they defended themselves bravely, all those who managed to escape the fire were put to death by the sword. Now we’re waiting to hear if the king and Grjotgard have gone south or if they’re coming further north. Your father’s gone to muster the other chieftains who were friends of Earl Sigurd.’
Helgi scrambled out of bed and pulled on his leather jerkin and boots.
‘I’m going to help guard the house while father’s away,’ he said. ‘I’ll need a weapon.’
He ran through the entrance lobby into the hall, where the swords and shields hung above the benches, and lifted down the shortest sword he could find. It was surprisingly heavy compared to the wooden training swords he had used, so he decided a spear would be easier to handle. The spears were kept in a barrel near the door; he selected one with a sharp iron tip and a long shaft made of ash wood. Then he stationed himself by the front porch, where Malachi was keeping a vigilant watch together with several of the other household servants, all of whom were bearing weapons.
It was a clear starry night, almost as bright as day, for the sky was illuminated by a spectral curtain of green light which undulated eerily over their heads. A crescent moon hung above the high shingled roof and lit up the low ridge on which the house stood. Their breath was cloudy in the cold night air; there was frost and snow on the ground and Helgi’s hands and feet soon grew numb so he marched up and down to keep warm.
Because the house was so very long, it had four front entrances, as well as a door round the back. As far as Helgi could see, there were sentries guarding every entrance. The doors appeared to be recessed because a thick turf wall had been raised all round the house close to the timber walls to protect the building from the strong winds that ravaged the island. Wooden hatches, attached to the top of the timber walls, covered the gap between the roof and the high turf bank. Along the wall to Helgi’s left was a wide gateway that led to the storeroom which adjoined the banqueting hall. An internal door connected the storeroom to the hall, which was the heart of the house, so it came as no surprise to him that the gate was guarded by a group of well-armed men from the barracks. The third door along gave access to the hayloft and the barn where the livestock were kept; and the fourth door belonged to the workshop. This part of the longhouse was sealed off on the inside from the rooms where the people lived, but it still had to be defended because it shared the same roof. Helgi could see the dark outlines of three or four men standing at the far end of the building, with spears in their hands. He felt reassured. Nobody would dare attack their house with all these men keeping watch outside.
The house had been built as high on the farmland as a building that long could possibly be placed. Helgi had always supposed that it had been built on a ridge so that people could see and admire it from afar, but it occurred to him now that from where he was standing any enemies approaching the house could be spotted just as easily. The house commanded a wide view of the grassland, the road that ran down to the shore, the inner waters of the bay, and the mountainous islands across the water. A low hill lay at their backs, and grass-covered mountains rose behind it, streaked with snow. A small stand of conifers, planted many years ago by Helgi’s great, great-grandfather, stood on the low-lying land near the boathouses, but there were no other trees to provide cover. Sigurd’s brother and the king would never be able to take them by surprise. The house was almost impregnable, their position easy to defend. Even the roof made an intimidating sight, with its fierce animal-head finials fitted at the gable ends.
Helgi had never before thought of his home as a place under threat of attack, and the idea seemed strange to him. Borg was an ancient landmark: the house had stood there for almost three hundred years, and the family had lived there for generations. The bones of Helgi’s ancestors were buried in the graveyard which lay north-west of the house, just a short walk away. There were eleven large cairns that ringed a rowan tree and countless smaller burials, the more recent mounds marked out by large kerbstones arranged in circles. The number of graves was proof of how long they had lived there. The soil itself was formed out of the flesh and bones of those who had come before them.
The dead, who dwelt in these mounds, watched over the house. They were honoured at certain times of the year and left offerings in remembrance, because it was through them that the family had always received and would continue to receive its luck and prosperity. The family was deeply rooted in this land, its ancient roots reached deep down into the earthy ground, and this was why their line continued to flourish and remained unbroken.
Helgi’s family had lived there in peace and ruled the northern part of the island as far back as anyone could remember. Helgi could not see why this should ever change, but he felt nervous precisely because the crisis was so unprecedented. He wasn’t sure why the news of Sigurd’s death had thrown the household into such a state of alarm. Did they expect an imminent attack? Nothing like this had ever happened before.
Gerda brought out a tray of hot spiced wine and everyone took a cup. Helgi stood close to the others, warming his hands on the cup and inhaling the sweet fumes, while he listened to the men talking in muted voices. Malachi was muttering fervent prayers and occasionally crossing himself, as if he expected grim Death to ride past and sweep them all away at any moment. The rest of the servants were shaking their heads in sorrow and disbelief as they discussed the earl’s death, clearly as shocked by the news as Helgi was. Nobody, it seemed, had foreseen it, but Helgi got the feeling that the adults understood the implications of Sigurd’s death better than he did. He did not like to ask the servants questions though, for that would have revealed his ignorance.
‘Things have come to a sorry pass when a man will betray his own brother,’ said one of men, who worked on the estate as a bird-catcher.
‘Nothing is sacred any more these days. Not even kinship,’ muttered an old fishermen. The other servants took up his theme and grumbled for a while about falling standards of decency. Then one of them asked, ‘Do you think it’ll mean war?’
‘Certainly it will, if the earl’s followers take up arms against the king,’ replied the bird-catcher. ‘There’ll be death and destruction the like of which no one has seen before.’
‘They say that brother will kill brother when Ragnarok is at hand,’ a farmhand remarked darkly. ‘Perhaps this is a sign.’
Malachi nodded enthusiastically at this doom-laden pronouncement. ‘May the good Lord deliver us and spare the faithful from His wrath,’ he intoned.
Ragnarok. The end of the world, thought Helgi, glancing up at the slowly shifting curtain of ghostly green light that streamed across the heavens. Their gloomy talk made him feel anxious and restless: he needed to do something, rather than just stand around waiting and worrying.
‘I’m going to take the rowing boat out so I can scout around for enemy ships,’ he announced, and ran off down the path to the boathouses before anyone could stop him.
The little rowing boat was moored at the jetty beside the boathouses. Helgi clambered down into it, loosed the rope, and pushed off with the oar. He rowed a little way out across Borgpollen, the inner waters. The ripples caused by his passage spread far out over the smooth, glassy surface of the bay.
It was a desolately beautiful place. The dark expanse of water was broken here and there by skerries and walled in by grassy mountain-islands. Borgpollen normally felt sheltered and safe. Helgi had fished and paddled around so many times in these still, glacial waters. But now he wondered whether a fleet of warships belonging to his father’s enemies might be lying in wait in an inlet, hidden by the steep cliffs. There was barely a ripple; the water was eerie and mesmerizing in its tranquility, but Helgi was more conscious than usual that it was shallow in places, masking treacherous reefs, and that the rocky islets mirrored in the polished surface were the tips of mountains that plunged downward, unfathomable distances below, forming a precipitous underwater range. The steep, empty hillsides were inscrutable, the pre-dawn sky chill and now greyed with cloud, and he felt a shivery sense of foreboding. Everything he saw looked familiar enough, but also somehow ominous.
Helgi’s heart beat fast; he huddled in the boat, and waited, scanning the waters and rocks for signs of movement. He wondered what he would do if Sigurd’s killers entered the bay before his father got back, and decided it would be a good idea to find a lookout post that was less exposed. He paddled a little way along the edge of the island and then steered the boat into a narrow finger of water, concealed between two steep walls. There, he waited and kept watch.
While he watched, recollections of Earl Sigurd, whom he had last seen the previous autumn, stirred at the back of his mind. Sigurd and his father had talked about the king on that occasion. Helgi remembered it well because it had only been three months ago. His first meeting with the earl had made such a lasting impression on him that he was always particularly attentive to Sigurd whenever he met him thereafter. He studied the earl’s dress and manner closely, and listened carefully to whatever he said. He could still recall quite a lot of their conversation about the king, though he hadn’t been aware of its significance at the time. Now, however, the bits of it he understood seemed peculiarly prophetic.
Helgi remembered his excitement when the great man had arrived for the feast with his entourage. Halfdan had shown him into the hall and offered him the high seat which had been moved close to the fire that burned in the long hearth. A servant had eased off the earl’s snow-caked boots and slid his frozen feet into some fluffy sheepskin slippers. Sigurd’s attendants filed in and filled the benches along the wall to either side of him. The earl stretched out his legs to warm his toes and Helgi had the honour of serving him a cup of mulled wine. Sigurd thanked him and ruffled Helgi’s hair affectionately. Helgi had expected him to crack a joke or tease him as usual, but the earl’s expression was uncharacteristically serious. He merely remarked on how tall Helgi had grown in a year, and then turned to Halfdan and asked him what he thought of the new king.
Halfdan, who had pulled up a chair beside him and sat down, leant forward, with his elbows resting on his knees, and considered his answer. ‘Ah, the new king—Harald Greycloak. People say his mother Gunnhild has as much say in the running of things as he does. I’ve never met the man … but if he takes after his father Eric Bloodaxe, then it’s bad news for us. I knew Gunnhild, of course, years ago … She gave me permission to take over the Finn trade when my father died. That was just before she and Eric were forced into exile. I thought they’d end their days in England—I never dreamt she’d come back!’
‘The people of York got sick of them. Killed Eric and expelled Gunnhild,’ growled Sigurd. ‘Clearly Eric learned nothing from his exile and behaved in a manner that made him just as unpopular over there as he had been here. All those taxes he imposed on us—I’ve never met anyone so greedy for gold in my life! There are dark times ahead, now that his son’s returned. Norway lost a fine king when Hakon the Good fell in battle.’
‘You were a good friend to the old king, Hakon the Good, weren’t you, Sigurd? We were all shocked and saddened to hear about his death.’
‘Yes, indeed … I miss him greatly. Hakon was my dearest friend—present company excepted, of course,’ he added, smiling warmly at Halfdan and Helgi. ‘He was at least prepared to be guided by me. Whenever he had a dispute with the landowners and temple priests in Trondheim, he’d come to me for advice. And I’d tell him that being greedy—treating noble families no better than tenant farmers, confiscating their property, and taxing them to the hilt—wasn’t going to win him many friends.’
‘It’s a good thing you were there to explain how things stood,’ said Halfdan.
‘Well, he listened to me, I’ll say that much for him. He was a decent chap, our late king. Even if he was a Christian.’
Halfdan raised his eyebrows in amazement. ‘Was he? I never knew that!’
‘He kept it pretty quiet so as not to upset people.’
‘But he was buried according to custom, wasn’t he?’
‘Oh yes. One might say it was a cover-up!’ Sigurd forgot his cares for a moment and laughed uproariously. Halfdan chuckled too. When the earl had recovered, he wiped the tears from his eyes and held out his empty cup to Helgi, who quickly refilled it.
‘Of course, the old king wasn’t always so diplomatic. There was that time when he refused to attend a midwinter sacrifice,’ said Sigurd, settling comfortably back in his chair. ‘Caused an almighty row with the farmers, so in the end he had to turn up. Then, would you believe it, he flatly refused to toast the gods and we almost had a riot on our hands! Luckily, I talked him round in the end. I told him how important it was to respect the traditions we’ve always upheld in Trondheim. I always say a “good” king is one who understands the limits of his power. And to my way of thinking, Hakon deserved his nickname.’
‘Well, Sigurd, let’s hope you can bring your good influence to bear on the new king too.’
Sigurd looked gloomy. ‘Harald Greycloak says he wants to be reconciled with me. He keeps sending me tokens of friendship—little presents and nicely worded messages.’
‘I’d watch out, Sigurd,’ Halfdan warned him. ‘Queen Gunnhild is a crafty woman. Who knows what kind of nasty surprise her son might be hiding under that handsome fur cloak of his?’
‘Well, I told his messengers that if he’s prepared to let me govern Trondheim just as I did under the old king, then we might be able to settle our differences peacefully.’
‘You don’t sound too hopeful.’
‘Their messages may be cloaked in friendship, but I believe Harald and Gunnhild only wish to dominate us. If we cooperate with them, they may leave us in peace for a while—but that would mean turning a blind eye to their crimes. I’ve heard rumours that Harald and his brothers have been robbing temples. I can’t condone that! It’s sacrilege! But if I try to stop them, there’s bound to be trouble.’
‘These are changing times, Sigurd,’ said Halfdan. ‘People say Gunnhild and her sons were baptised as Christians while they were in England.’
Sigurd grunted. ‘Maybe they were, or maybe Harald’s so greedy for wealth that he doesn’t care about desecrating the shrines. It matters little what his reasons are. The point is, the king has committed a grave offence against the gods. They won’t look kindly on him now—and nor will anyone else for that matter. He’s asking for trouble in my opinion. Still, I doubt whether Harald will listen to anything I have to say …’
Out on the water in his little boat, Helgi began to shiver. He’d have to start rowing again to keep warm. He racked his brains but couldn’t recall anything else Sigurd had said about the king, and not all of what he remembered made sense to him.
A breeze had sprung up and was pushing the boat too far into the inlet. Helgi had to give an occasional pull on the oars to maintain his position. He was glad because this gave him something to do. He kept his eyes on the water. All their lives depended on his maintaining a sharp lookout.
With a sharp intake of breath, he ducked down low between the oars as something entered his field of vision. A small boat, manned by two rowers, was crossing the water. Helgi got down on the bottom of the boat and lay almost flat, hoping that they had not seen him. The boat passed close by the cleft in the rock where he was hiding but he was so well concealed that neither of the men spotted him. Helgi peered over the gunwale, trying to make out who was on board. He could not see their faces clearly but he was sure they must be enemy scouts. The boat was drawing nearer to the boathouses now; he was surprised that they dared approach so brazenly. One of the men leapt onto the jetty with a rope in his hand. To Helgi’s relief and slight disappointment, he saw it was Gerda’s brother Karl. He decided to row back and ask them for news.
Karl hailed him as the boat approached the jetty. He was a stocky man in his fifties, with fiery-red hair, sown with grey. With him was his son, Jorund, who, at the age of twenty-three, was the younger image of his father, except that his left cheek was disfigured by a long scar, from a wound he had acquired while fighting alongside Halfdan in the east. Both father and son were loyal supporters of Halfdan. They lived in the barracks on the estate and helped with the fishing. People who knew them found it amusing that two people so closely related could be so different in temperament, for whereas Karl was even-tempered, his son Jorund had a reputation as a firebrand. He was known to his friends as Jorund the Red. Most people wore coloured clothes only on special occasions but Jorund dressed flamboyantly all the time because he liked to stand out. He always wore red in battle so as to dominate the enemy. The effect of wearing red, he claimed, was strong enough to tip the balance in an otherwise even contest. Today he was sporting a scarlet jersey and wore a large sheath knife strapped to his boot. Helgi knew Jorund quite well, for he had been teaching him how to duel since he turned twelve the previous summer.
Karl helped Helgi tie up the boat while Jorund stood by and watched.
‘Keeping a lookout, Helgi?’ asked Karl cheerfully.
‘Yes! For enemy spies.’
‘Same here,’ said Karl. ‘But we’ve been relieved now, so we’re going back inside to warm up a bit.’
The sun was rising over the wall of islands that protected the inner waters, suffusing the round blue peaks with a pinkish glow.
‘Are you coming with us?’ asked Jorund.
‘No, I’d rather not.’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’d rather scout around a bit.’ Helgi didn’t like to ask, but he wanted to know. ‘Is it true there’s going to be a war?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘The servants were talking about it. Back at the house,’ replied Helgi.
‘Even if we were against the wall, with a sword hanging over us, it would do us no good to flap around like chickens,’ said Karl comfortingly. ‘Don’t listen to servants’ talk. The earl has a son. He’ll want to avenge his father, and he’s the best person to take on the king. Not us.’ He patted Helgi on the shoulder and set off back up the footpath, in conversation with his son. Helgi decided to go with them after all; he was interested to hear more about the earl’s son. He trotted after Karl and asked, ‘What’s the earl’s son called and how old is he?’
‘Hakon. Sigurd named him after the old king, I think,’ said Karl. ‘Let’s see now—he must be about twenty-five.’
‘The rumour is that he’s abroad at the moment,’ said Jorund.
‘From what I heard, he’s at home in Trondheim, gathering a large army and keeping an eye on the king’s forces. We’ll just have to sit tight and wait till he gets an opportunity to deal with Grjotgard.’
‘What makes you think we can avoid trouble till then?’ asked Jorund.
‘There’s no reason why Grjotgard should pick a fight with us,’ replied Karl. ‘I can guess why he killed his brother Sigurd. It’s well known that he always envied him for having the title of earl. But it’s not in his interests to quarrel with the chieftains.’
‘Well, I can’t see how he can avoid quarrelling with Halfdan. Grjotgard will declare himself earl and he’ll want all the chieftains to submit to him. And Halfdan certainly won’t agree to do that!’ said Jorund.
‘He might have to. He doesn’t have the power to oppose Grjotgard, if Grjotgard has the backing of the king. We know that the king was involved in the burning. That didn’t surprise me either—Harald Greycloak and his mother Gunnhild have never been friends with the earl. What did surprise me was that Sigurd was caught off-guard.’
‘Halfdan told me that Earl Sigurd had signed a peace agreement with Gunnhild and wasn’t expecting any trouble. It was a dirty trick to play!’ said Jorund bitterly.
‘Why were the king and Earl Sigurd enemies?’ Helgi asked.
Jorund smiled a proud, fierce smile. ‘The kings have never been able to subjugate us northerners. We’ve risen in arms more than once against a king who imagined he had a right to govern us. We men of Halogaland have always been led by our own nobility. Earl Sigurd’s family ruled in Halogaland for generations before they were given the earldom in Trondheim. And King Harald is just as bad as his father was! He’s ruthless and greedy for wealth and doesn’t respect our laws and traditions …’
‘Let me explain,’ Karl interrupted. ‘Harald Greycloak came to power last year when he fought the old king, Hakon the Good, in a battle way down south in Hordaland, and killed him. Hakon, the old king, was Harald Greycloak’s uncle …’
‘But that made no difference to Harald!’ Jorund flared up angrily. ‘He wanted the throne so badly that if it meant treacherously killing his uncle he was prepared to do it!’
‘Don’t butt in,’ said Karl, frowning at his son. ‘Now, Earl Sigurd was a great friend and supporter of the old king, so when Harald caused King Hakon’s death it was only natural for Sigurd to become his bitter enemy. And the king didn’t trust Sigurd either.’
‘So do Grjotgard and the king see my father as their enemy, just because he was a friend of Earl Sigurd?’ asked Helgi.
‘Not necessarily. It depends on what your father does next.’
‘Halfdan was devastated when he heard about the burning,’ Jorund said with a look of excitement in his eyes. ‘Remember how the earl used to come to stay here every autumn? Halfdan always provided the best entertainment he could for his friend. I can’t see him biting his tongue and sitting tight. He’s gone straight off to round up his allies. He wants a fight, and he doesn’t care if it means defying the king as well as Grjotgard. Personally, I’m all for it!’
‘I daresay Halfdan’s doing it only as a precaution,’ said Karl. ‘It’s important to put up a show of strength, but we mustn’t do anything hasty. It wouldn’t be wise to antagonize the king.’
For the next three days, the waiting continued. Every morning and afternoon Helgi kept up his lonely vigil in the little rowing boat. It was boring sitting there with nothing to do, so on the fourth morning he took his fishing rod with him. He had just cast his line, when his eye caught a flicker of white: a sail had rounded the headland and was entering the channel beyond the bay. Helgi stood up in the boat. A dragon ship came surging into sight, her oarblades flashing in the sun. A smaller warship followed in her wake, her fifteen oars a side beating a steady rhythm. Helgi recognized the graceful curves of the dragon at once: it was his father’s longship, the Midgard Serpent. Halfdan had returned at last, bringing reinforcements. With a rush of relief, Helgi stowed away his rod and rowed straight back to shore. He dragged the rowing boat up onto the small beach and sped back to the house, so as to be the first to break the news of his father’s homecoming.
Halfdan had enlisted the support of Sturla of Hof, the chieftain who ruled the island of Gimisto, which lay eleven miles north-east of Borg. The smaller warship belonged to him, and he had brought with him thirty-five men. He led his company off the ship and marched up the landing stage on his short legs. He was a corpulent little man with a short sword by his side, fat pendulous cheeks, and fair bristly hair. As Sturla’s crew disembarked, Helgi saw that they were bristling with weaponry. Most of them were fishermen who carried the axes, spears, and harpoons they used in their daily work. The time they had spent plundering the stormy seas in their frail fishing craft had given them a rough and battle-hardened appearance, though Helgi doubted whether they were as experienced in warfare as his father’s followers. A dozen men had been mustered from the neighbouring farmsteads in Halfdan’s chiefdom, the usual contingent he took on his expeditions to the east. Most of them wore swords and helmets of foreign make, looted from the eastern tribes they had fought. Halfdan rewarded their loyalty by letting them keep the prizes they had won, which were sometimes very valuable indeed.
The household suddenly had to cope with fifty unexpected guests. Some were put up in the barracks and extra benches were brought in so that each warrior had a place to sit in the hall. The workshop and half of the barn were converted into sleeping quarters. Gerda scurried about dispensing orders to the other servants and fretting about whether there would be enough food in the storeroom to feed everyone. Restless and fired up with a manic energy, Halfdan strode about talking to the men who thronged the hall, issuing orders, discussing strategy, checking that they had all they needed, reminiscing, and cracking jokes. His presence seemed to dominate the already overcrowded room.
‘Yesterday, Sturla and I paid a call on Ragnar, the chieftain of Buksnes,’ he told the company. Ragnar lived eight miles from Borg and governed the southern part of the island. ‘We asked him very nicely to lend us his support. And what do you think he said? He said, “I can’t spare any men because the fishing season is upon us and I need all the fish I can get because unlike some people I don’t get any income from the Finns.” A poor excuse! Ragnar’s simply afraid to oppose a more powerful ruler—everyone knows that. He’d rather sit indoors and toast his feet by the fire.’
There was a low muttering at this bad news, but everyone cheered up when the servants rolled out a barrel of ale and served drinks to the company. Halfdan stood on a bench to speak and silence quickly settled in the room as the men awaited his words. His fists were clenched and his teeth set as he glared fiercely at the audience of wild, earnest-looking men around him.
‘Friends and neighbours!’ he cried, ‘We have gathered here because our independence is at stake! Earl Sigurd has been treacherously done to death, with the support and connivance of the king. We cannot allow this heinous act to go unpunished. The killing of the earl is the first stage in a campaign of violence against the northern chieftains, by the king and his mother. All our livelihoods will be threatened if the king extends his rule over our lands and takes away our right to trade and raid in the east. We will never consent to this. I know that every one of you is intent on bringing to justice those responsible for Earl Sigurd’s death. Let us drink to the memory of the rightful earl of Hladir, and swear an oath of vengeance on his enemies!’ There was a roar of approval from the men.
Helgi found himself carried along by the heady excitement and mood of rebellion, and quite forgot the uneasiness of the previous four days. He kept his spear close by him at all times, and found himself a place on one of the benches between Jorund and an old warrior with a weatherbeaten face and long grey whiskers.
The grey-whiskered veteran eyed the spear Helgi was holding and asked, ‘How old are you now, lad?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Old enough to be a man. Can you handle a sword?’
Helgi shook his head. ‘Only a wooden training sword. Not a real one. Jorund’s teaching me to duel.’
He smiled shyly at Jorund, who said, ‘We ought to practise every day from now on, Helgi. Can’t have men going into battle unprepared.’ He chuckled and winked at his neighbour over Helgi’s head.
The greybearded man said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve fought in a battle before, have you, son?’ Helgi shook his head again and felt slightly sick inside. Turning to Jorund, he asked, ‘Do you think it’ll come to that?’
‘No doubt about it,’ said Jorund, with a cheerful grin. ‘Your father isn’t going to give in without a fight.’
‘The question is, can he count on Sturla’s support now that the other chieftain, Ragnar, has let him down?’ said the older man.
‘I hope so. They’ve promised to help one another.’
The other man looked doubtful. ‘Opposing Grjotgard is risky enough but defying the king as well? You’ve got to admire his nerve.’
‘Halfdan certainly isn’t afraid to take risks. He gets crazier every year!’ Jorund chuckled. ‘He doesn’t value his own life much.’
The old veteran nodded knowingly. ‘He’ll try anything in battle. Still, he cares for the men under his command. He’s put us in some tight spots, but so far he’s got us out of them. Most of us, at any rate.’
The two men seemed to have forgotten that Helgi was there. They started reminiscing about a raid they had made on an encampment of Kvens the previous year. Helgi listened avidly because his father never talked much about what he got up to while he was away.
‘I wasn’t expecting to get out of that one alive!’ Jorund grinned.
The older man agreed. ‘I was badly wounded in the leg and couldn’t run to save my life. But Halfdan went back to get me—even though he was under arrow-fire! I told him to go on without me but somehow he dragged me out of there and got me to safety.’
Jorund shook his head in admiration. ‘That’s the kind of man he is. He once said to me, “Jorund, I’d never leave a man behind,” and it’s true. I’d follow Halfdan anywhere.’
The grey-whiskered man took out a pipe and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. ‘I’ll never forget moving through the forest and it was deadly quiet, the huts in the village completely deserted. Creepy. Just silence and the terrible feeling of being watched. It was better when the fighting started. It’s the waiting that’s the worst thing.’
Helgi felt sure that this was true. Over the next few days as the waiting began to drag out, everyone grew tense and irritable—apart from Halfdan, who was in an elevated mood. It was difficult to sleep at night because the living room was so full of people. Gerda was exhausted from having to prepare the vast quantities of food that Halfdan’s army expected. ‘Constant demands!’ she complained. ‘I never get a minute’s peace. All they do is eat, eat, eat. Not one of them offers to lend a hand with the washing-up or even chop the firewood. Mess everywhere—all they do is doss around all day and leave their dirty washing on the floor and expect someone else to tidy up after them.’
Halfdan seemed excited by the role he had assumed as leader of the northern resistance, and strolled about the estate with Sturla, speculating about the enemy’s plans and discussing defensive strategies. He decided to put the men to work. He hoped to keep the fighting well away from the house by engaging Grjotgard in a sea battle, but he ordered the men to dig a ditch with an earth bank around the building, as a barrier against an attacking force, and to lay in supplies in case it should come to a siege. The plan was to fortify the earthwork with a timber palisade.
Gerda kept Helgi busy running errands for her much of the time, but Jorund did not forget his promise to give him an intensive course in duelling. They trained almost every day, using wooden swords or long sticks. They began each lesson by assuming a fighting stance, waiting to see who would make the first move, their sticks gripped in both hands. Then Jorund, who was incapable of taking a mock-battle with a twelve-year-old altogether seriously, would utter some vaunting challenge, such as, ‘Come on, you little beggar, defend yourself, if you have a man’s heart, rather than a mare’s—it’s time you did some work for a change!’, which Helgi was expected to answer. He usually prepared some defiant riposte in advance, such as, ‘Do your worst, if you think you have the guts to face me, but first drink another bucketful of ale, just to be sure!’ or ‘Draw near if you dare, base slave, and receive a fitting punishment for your insolence!’ Jorund would charge at Helgi with a roar, swinging the stick, and Helgi had to block the attack and throw him off. Jorund was so much bigger and stronger than him that no matter how hard he tried, Helgi could never hold him off for long, but that did not stop him from trying to win.
Once Helgi had conceded defeat, they would stop and Jorund would show him how to parry and deal different kinds of blows with force and accuracy, forehand, backhand, and overhead. They practised the motions slowly, then rehearsed them again in battle, Jorund instructing him as they fought, and finally Jorund would test him with a short, sharp bout which forced Helgi to move fast and use all tricks he had learned. He would launch himself at Helgi again, yelling a fierce war-cry, and slash at him with a speed and strength Helgi would not have believed possible. Helgi always fought to the limit of his abilities, but Jorund blocked all of his strokes with ease and he invariably came away with rapped knuckles and bruises on his arms.
It would have been easier to be matched with someone his own size, but Helgi was grateful to be coached by an expert and glad in a way that Jorund didn’t go too easy on him. If there was a battle, he would be fighting grown men who wouldn’t show him any mercy. Now, at least, he knew what to expect.
Jorund lent him a lightweight scramasax, single-edged and not much larger than a dagger, and showed him how to use it. ‘You can borrow it until you’re strong enough to wield a sword of your own,’ he said, ‘A scramasax and a spear should be all you need to defend yourself.’
It was late March now; the nights were growing shorter and Helgi began to look forward to the summer months when the sun would not set at all.
Aslak the herder, who always spent the winter on the mainland where he would take the reindeer for their winter pasture, now returned to the island with the herd for the summer grazing. The animals were ferried across the water in a number of small boats, manned by Aslak and his family and friends.
Everyone was delighted to see Aslak and his wife and the reindeer again but Halfdan was worried about what would happen to the valuable herd if Grjotgard attacked the estate. He told them to take the animals away.
‘But we’ve only just arrived!’ Aslak protested. ‘Where am I going to take them?’
He was reluctant to remove the herd from the island because the pastures on the mainland had been heavily grazed over the winter. The lichen had already been used up and the pregnant females needed fattening up before they dropped their calves in the summer. The reindeer wouldn’t be happy to leave either, he said, because it went against their instinct which was to migrate in the spring to fresh grounds by the sea, where there would be plenty to eat and they would not be pestered by mosquitoes. Halfdan listened to all his complaints but said he had no choice. The reindeer could not stay. But he offered to lend them his cargo ship, the Swan, to move the livestock back to the relative safety of the mainland.
Halfdan told his men that once the reindeer had been delivered back to the mainland, they must conceal the Swan in a channel between two steep cliffs some distance from the island. Stores would be placed on board and men stationed there to guard her. This would enable them to make a quick escape if their enemies attacked and things went badly.
Helgi went with Aslak to help with the evacuation. He had been roping reindeer since the age of six.
They stood in the corral in the snowy pasture while the nervous reindeer milled in a confused group all around them, jostling and grunting, their hooves clicking. Aslak singled out the largest, meanest bull reindeer in the herd and asked Helgi whether he wanted to try roping him for a challenge. Helgi regarded the beast, who stood quietly on the other side of the corral, with apprehension and respect, just as a wrestler might regard a heavier opponent in the ring before taking the plunge. ‘All right,’ he said. He gathered the weighted end of the lasso into a bunch of small coils and tossed the loops at the massive antlers like a stone. The bull shied away, but the rope entangled itself around one of the sharp points and held fast. Helgi dug in his heels and hung on to the other end of the rope with his entire weight. Aslak nodded approvingly.
‘Well done. Now haul him in!’
Feeling a little daunted by the beast’s immense size and strength, Helgi gave the rope a sharp tug. The reindeer yanked his powerful head the other way, reared up and struggled furiously. He plunged across the corral, dragging Helgi in his wake, heading straight for the main mass of the herd who were circling frantically now, this way and that, as they always did when trapped. Helgi clung on to the end of the rope, his legs paralysed by sheer terror, his heels ploughing through the snow. ‘Use your legs, you fool!’ shouted Aslak, almost crying with laughter. ‘Work your hands up the rope!’ Helgi stumbled, forcing his legs to work, and took one, then two, huge strides towards the reindeer, grappling with his hands and gathering in the rope. As the length of rope got shorter, it tightened, so the reindeer had to stop; it danced on the spot, tossing its head; then it bucked, lurched, and kicked out with its back legs. A desperate tug of war ensued, the beast frisking and straining to get away and Helgi staggering about, determined not to let it escape. Using all his weight, he brought the rope down to the ground, forcing the bull to kneel and lower his head. Helgi edged close enough to grab the end of one of the massive branches and Aslak gave a whoop of delight.
‘You did it! He’s a brute, that one—it usually takes two men to catch him. But once the strongest is on board, the rest of the herd usually follow.’
Helgi stroked the reindeer’s back and talked to him gently until he calmed down. Then he played out a length of rope and led the head reindeer down to the beach where a holding pen awaited them. Instinctively, the others followed, moving in a slow procession behind their leader. Aslak brought up the rear, driving forward the animals who strayed.
The reindeer were led up the gangplank one at a time and once on board the ship, they were tethered in narrow, makeshift stalls in the hold and forward of the mast. Aslak thought it might be possible to relocate the herd to grazing grounds further south along the coast as a temporary home. The whole household turned out to wave them off and Halfdan gave Aslak some valuable gifts by way of apology: a fine cloak and a thick gold armring. Luomi was the last reindeer to go aboard; he stood on the beach, licking salt off the rocks, while the goodbyes were being said. When the time came for them to part, Helgi clung to his neck and sobbed as if his heart would break. The threat hanging over their heads made it seem like a permanent parting.
‘I’m sorry this is making things so awkward for you, Aslak,’ said Gerda, who was doing her best to comfort Helgi. ‘Our lives have been turned upside-down. Everything is crazy and disordered.’
‘The boy would make an excellent herder,’ Aslak remarked. ‘It’s a pity he can’t come with us—I could do with the help.’
‘Helgi must stay here for now. But he’ll miss Luomi very much—he’s always doted on him,’ Gerda said as she gave the old herder a farewell hug. ‘It’s bad for all of us that Luomi has to leave. I feel as if our good luck is departing with you.’
Aslak’s eyes twinkled at her out of the sharp creases of his ancient, leathery face. ‘There is a close connection between those two, but that’s hardly surprising. The circumstances that brought Helgi and Luomi to this island were remarkably similar,’ he said softly.
As Gerda took in his words, the colour drained out of her cheeks and for a few seconds she stared at Aslak, unable to say anything. ‘What do you mean by that?’ she whispered fearfully, at last.
The wrinkles around Aslak’s eyes deepened as he smiled an inscrutable smile. Then he turned silently away. Gerda watched him and his wife lead Luomi aboard the ship; then the gangplank was removed, the anchor drawn up, and the ship loosed from its mooring.
‘Aslak knows something! Perhaps Halfdan does have a guilty secret,’ Gerda murmured to herself, as the oars began to move.
Aslak’s mysterious remark seemed to confirm a suspicion which she had kept to herself for a number of years.
She had always been intensely curious to find out anything she could about Helgi’s birth-mother. At first, she had tried dropping heavy hints within Halfdan’s earshot. Whenever the small boy learned to speak a new word or surprised them with a new accomplishment—jumping, climbing, swimming—she would sigh, ‘His mother would be so proud if she could see him now. The poor boy, growing up with no idea at all of who she was or what became of her. Such a pity.’ More often than not, Halfdan ignored her, though sometimes he would scowl furiously, or look at her with such loathing that she shrank away, terrified. But at all times he remained tight-lipped. Nothing would induce him to talk about Helgi’s mother.
When Helgi had discovered, not long before his third birthday, that Gerda was not his mother, and had wanted to know who his real mother was and what she was like, Gerda had fretted over what to tell him. In the end, she adapted a story she knew about the ski-huntress Skadi, a fiercely beautiful and brave giantess, who lived in the frozen lands of the north. Skadi had married Njord, the god of sailing and commerce, and many rulers in the north of Norway claimed to be descended from her. But she and her husband could not live together because she longed for her mountain home and he could not bear to leave his dwelling by the sea. Gerda told Helgi that his mother travelled on snowshoes and shot wild animals with a bow, just like Skadi. In fact, his mother was—like Skadi—a supernatural being who did not belong in the human world. She could not stay with them for very long, and when she was summoned back to the other world, she had no choice but to obey, even though she did not want to leave him.
Helgi liked the story. It made him feel special and it explained his mother’s absence in a way that he could understand. When he was older and realized it was just a fairytale that Gerda had invented to comfort him, he did not look beyond it because he was frightened of the truth. Gerda had begged him not torment his father with questions, because it made him sad and angry to be reminded of the woman he had lost.
Gerda could not understand why the subject was still so unbearably painful to Halfdan after all this time. She dared not confront him about the matter directly and she had grown too afraid of him to drop hints. Privately she suspected that Halfdan was suffering from a guilty conscience, and she had even begun to fear that he had good reason to blame himself for the woman’s death. Consideration for Halfdan’s feelings was, in fact, the least part of Gerda’s worries. She was far more afraid of the damage that might be done if Halfdan’s dark secret ever came out into the open.
But Gerda was too busy to brood for long on what Aslak had said; and the exodus of the reindeer was almost forgotten a few days later when the event they had all been waiting for finally came to pass.
The Adventures of Helgi the Viking 