Solig Trilogy

Winter in Danish England

The sound of pounding hooves and baying hounds shattered the still of a fogless morning along the water meadow where the creek trickled gently on its way to the river farther downstream. A hunter’s horn blew somewhere off in the distance beyond the groves of birch that dotted the forests edge. The prey had been spotted and the lord of the estate and his men of noble birth were in pursuit. A game of the privileged. They did not hunt for food, only the sport of it. Scandinavia did not provide such a luxury in peace, let alone in a time of war. Odd people these Anglo-Saxons.

For almost a year and the turning of another, Lars had seen what the ravages of war could do to people yet was amazed by the fortitude they had to continue life oblivious to the carnage around them. He had seen some villages spared the carnage and not a mile down the road whole villages were razed, women and children murdered along with the men, stock left to rot in the field. Where does this God go in the most savage of times?

He recalled a monastery that had been raided and looted of its treasures and rightfully so for to the victors go the spoils. It is the way of war just as much as  the burning of the fields to prevent the enemy from using it was. These things Lars understood. His father Havik had  taught him that should he ever be faced with battles to take what spoils could be had. It was expected in order to pay those who fought along your side. He still felt uneasy that it was a monastery that was laid to waste, but more so by the sight of the monks who stood defiant to their death. Their faith was indeed tested and in some eyes, perhaps they succeeded in reaching heaven for it. If Lars had believed so strongly, maybe he would have done the same had he been a monk, but he doubted it. They should have fled. Any sane man would have and none would have thought them to be cowards. But they stood defiant and unarmed crying out their prayers until they were put to the sword and ax.

“Pick your battles well not only in timing but in location”, Havik would say to Lars when he was younger. Havik was a veteran of many wars. A warrior’s warrior. Forever he was away to do battle in this land of the Anglo-Saxons, returning each winter when he could. Everyone in Scania had heard the tales through his father’s skald Regin, a gifted man of great renown. Once a skald to a Norse king years ago it was rumored.

“Lars’ my son, there is no greater reward than to die in battle against a formidable enemy,” Havik would often say when asked if he feared war. Perhaps then Havik indeed received that well-sought reward with his skald alongside of him. Somewhere in the fens the preceding year Havik and his men perished at the hands of the Anglo-Saxons under Edmund son of Ethelred the King. Now it was Lars’ duty to come and do battle for his king, Harold of Denmark. Unlike his father Havik, Lars was a better merchant than a warrior, but he, like so many others were aware of the duty they were bound to. A few months led to over a year and that now was pushing almost two.

Endless battles came like waves upon the shore, one following yet another. What troubled Lars was this was an invasion, a battle to conquer a country, not defending his land or farmstead back in Scania. A country that for several hundred years Norse and Danes alike came to settle as farmers. There were skirmishes. Always skirmishes even in the northlands, but this was no longer a skirmish. This was war but for what cause and to what means?

A dozen years before the Danes could say it started when the Anglo-Saxon King Ethelred the Unready declared  death to all of Danish blood on their St. Bryce Day. They killed many including Svein’s sister Gunnhild and her husband Jarl Pallig along with his young nephew.

The young boy less than seven winters old  was placed upon the spear tips before the mocking Anglo-Saxon soldiers as his mother and father watched while the weight of his body caused the iron points to take his life. Then they led Jarl Pallig before his wife, made him kneel and took his head with a swift strike of a Saxon ax. What they did to her is left unwritten here for it was so evil none wished to speak of it. Word spread throughout the northern lands of it. No wonder none hesitated to grab up a weapon and come here.

The Anglo-Saxons say it was retaliation for the viking raids upon their land. Justified and sanctioned by the church. Vikings, small bands of those remnants of the sea-kings’ hordes who lived only to pillage and plunder they said. But these were not the Danes who lived in peace among them for two hundred years and more. These were not the people they chose by order of their King to kill on sight! No, but what matter did it make? What sense of it was there? Kill all of them of Danish blood was the order! Innocent and guilty alike.

Lars sat upon the trunk of the fallen tree, a victim to a fierce windstorm and rubbed his tired eyes. Even the mightiest of oak can be toppled, he thought. He pulled his muddied boot off and rubbed his foot, keeping his sword ever close. A raven flew by and landed in the branches of a nearby birch calling out almost mockingly to him. Lars paid it no heed at first then cocked his head and called out arrogantly to the dark bird. “Go to Odin and tell him what you know if you will, death gull. What happens in this land is no longer my concern, for a ship comes on the morrow to set sail for Scania and I shall be at the helm of it. Now go and find some other to feed upon!”

Knut had became king of all of England when word came of the death of Edmund the Ironside who had no more than a passing month before agreed to terms of a joint rule with Knut son of Svein. Now the man was dead. Found slumped over in the privy.  Some say by the deeds of a murderer who had hid in the putrid depths, stabbing the King in the bowels and letting him bleed a slow, cruel and painful death.

Others say it was the deeds of the treacherous Eadric Streona, Ealdorman of Mercia, brother-in-law of Edmund himself. The same man who persuaded King Ethelred to carryout the St. Bryce massacre. The same man who assassinated countless opponents to his king. And indeed the same man who befriended Knut, the new King of England. The man who switched sides in battle with each ebb and flow. A man who held no loyalty to anyone save for those who paid the most gold. Such a man is dangerous even to the highest bidder.

Rested, Lars rose from the trunk and gathered up his sword, sheathing it as the drizzling rain began to fall. A half day’s walk in the best of weather caused his arrival along the River Thames to be just as the sun set where he found his men gathered around the warming fires, telling tales of the day and savoring the boiling meat.

The breaking of a twig underfoot caused Wulfgar to grab up his axe and the others to draw their swords, forming a tight, defensive circle. Lars let out a boisterous laugh as he came through the mist like a spirit of old. “You are growing to easy and to quick to tell tales of victory even before we set sail. I heard Boldvar’s laughter and this ones grumbling an arrow shot away.” He pointed to the jovial Wulfgar.

“We thought you to have been devoured by some beast deep in the forest or killed by some Saxon  or we would have went looking for you. We expected you a two full days ago.” Wulfgar said as he moved to greet his friend with an arm clasp. Bodvar rose adding that he feared Lars led away by some hulda or maybe even lured away by some river horse in the thick fog a couple nights before.

“Where have you been?” Wulfgar added as he motioned for one of the younger men to clear a spot for Lars to sit. Bodvar cut off a portion of meat and handed it to Lars on the end of his knife. “Finest calf one could find Lars. Belonged to a thane down the road.”

“Not to worry as to where I have been, only know this that on the morrow we sail for home.” Lars explained as he took bites of the boiled beef. “Grain fed Bodvar. You chose well. And this thane just gave it to you?”

“He did indeed!”

“The thane offered up his daughter in marriage or a fatten calf when Bodvar told him he was of high birth and could manage to spare his estate from pillage. Bodvar took the calf instead.” Bjorn laughed. “She was a stout woman with a most unpleasant disposition!”

“She would have bore you many children that one.” Hans added as he came up from the river. “A vessel sturdy enough to make the crossing this time of year Lars? December gales are fierce and as much as I hate this endless drizzle I would rather make that journey in the spring.”

“He is right Lars. I miss home as much as the rest of us, but to make that journey this time of year would be foolish.” said Gustav “ Besides, we haven’t but thirty men to man the oars.”

Taking another bite from the meat, Lars looked to his men gathered around the fire. Each of their faces aglow in the light of the flame. Tired and battle worn. Farmers for the most part, some men of war. He looked at the scars upon their faces and the look of concern in their eyes. The crossing would be regarded as foolish, but not impossible. Spring would make it two full years since they arrived in this land. Two very long years that cost him fifteen of his men to sickness, thirty eight to battle and four swallowed up by the countryside around them. He had hoped to find them, just like he had hoped to find his father’s body to bring home to Scania. It was not right to leave them here to the ravens and wild dogs.

“Would you Hans being willing to face my Helga if we do not return by spring? Or you Bodvar? Wulfgar? I, like you, have been upon the seas in December and I agree it is not the most wise of all things to do, but it is not impossible. I have managed to secure us a boat for now. I do not know if we would get the same offer in the spring. I do not know what the rest of you feel, but to me, this land is full of evil. We fought to secure it for Knut. That has been done.”

“Loyalties in this land are as fragile as new ice upon a pond. Many will sell their soul to the highest bidder or to those currently in power. Everyday we are here, I feel a danger of never seeing our homeland again.”

Hans looked around the group of men and then to Lars. His eyes, deeply set and narrow in a slender face. A face that bore the scars of many wars and weathered beyond his years from the sea. “Many of you have family and young ones in Scania. I can understand your need to return home. Many of you are farmers also and spring will bring another season of crops to you. But trust when I say this, none of that will matter to anyone if we break upon the rocks or swallowed up in the storms on open water. None of it will matter!”

Lars let out a sigh of frustration. He knew his friend was right. Such a journey was too risky. Risky enough not to risk his men’s lives for. Three months was nothing compared to the time already spent, yet it seemed an eternity. “Very well. We shall wait out the winter here. I know of a farmstead up the road where some of us can winter but it can not winter us all. On the morrow, the lot of you, make your way to London. Gustav will be in charge, see that you are back here the night of the third full moon’s rising.”

“Any who wish to come with me can find quarters on the farm up the road some two miles. I will explain it to the farmer that we shall not stay beyond our needed time and will work to pay him for his kindness.” Lars looked to the devilish smile on Wulfgar’s round face. “His hospitality does not include his daughter. Understood?” Laughter flourished from the crowd as Wulfgar’s smile vanished from his face. “In five years should we find ourselves back here, I do not want to see hordes of waist high children with the looks of you Wulfgar swarming out to greet us.” Even Wulfgar laughed this time and shook his head.

“Fair enough Lars. Understood.”

At first light, Lars and five others headed out to the north and west along a small narrow trail that cut through the forest as the others headed south and to the east for London along the river. It was a familiar trail for Lars. Having traveled it many times to the River Thames over the past several weeks, he knew almost every bend, every shrub and stone along the way. The forest that the rutted trail meandered through like a serpent  was once known for outlaws and runaway slaves who would lay in ambush for unsuspecting travelers. War had ridden it of such rabble. Now one could travel along the trail and seldom meet any other soul except maybe an occasional ox cart taking goods to the river.
Still it was a wise man who kept his weapon ready , one could never predict when trouble would come. Only a fool would think the Anglo-Saxons would not take a chance to kill a Dane even still. Some people never know when to accept defeat. Even with Knut as king, Lars thought to himself that if this was his homeland, he too probably would fight against a foreign king on the throne.

At the outer edge of the forest, he stood at the lead of his men, slowly scanning the open lands that lay before him. As the rain turned to a drizzle, he watched a lone deer walking along the stream that flowed through the farmstead of  Eldwyn. A humble dwelling rest about mid-slope above the stream and behind it, a crude barn that offered cover to the stock. Two cows grazed outside the home near where a small pen held the hogs for the winter. The top of the slope was hidden in the drizzle, showing itself only briefly on occasion as the clouds drifted along.

“So who is this farmer you trust to quarter us for the winter Lars?” Wulfgar asked with curiosity. “Such a farm to me seems its owner would be tempted to earn coin. The best way for that in this land is selling secrets.”

“He is a man of honor. He can be trusted.” Lars answered quickly then glanced to the heavens. “Damn this never ending drizzle. I shall go to the house first. Await my signal and then come quickly across the open, one at a time.” Each nodded their head in agreement.

Bluish gray smoke rose slightly from the center of the thatched roof through an opening, then lay low to the ground under the mist traveling out along the stream. A small figure appeared from the barn in a hooded cloak making its way carefully through the puddles toward the dwelling, pausing to notice Lars making his way up from the stream. A simple wave in greeting and the figure vanished through the wooden door.

As quickly as the figure disappeared, the door reopened and out came a stout, broad shouldered man who limped down the slope to greet Lars. His grip was like a vise as they exchanged arm clasps and his laugh was infectious. “You have returned so soon warrior?”

Lars smiled slightly looking at the ruddy face of the farmer. “I have. And I bring some of my friends who are in need of a place to winter. It seems their will to return home is dampened by the thoughts of being at sea in December. I was so hoping they thought my way. So my friend, if it is not to trouble you I will bring them in. I promise they will share in the work.”

Eldwyn stood looking past Lars toward the forest, squinting his eyes for a glimpse. “I have not room for a ship’s crew Lars. Nor the food to feed them.”

“I have brought but five with me. The others will winter in London until I can secure another vessel for home. They can lodge in the barn and as far as food, worry not of it when it comes to meat. We will provide for ourselves and you too.”

A slender form emerged from the doorway. Her soft face enveloped by long raven hair that cascaded beyond her shoulders. Two dark eyes lay like coal on a snowfield yet twinkled like stars in the heavens. She smiled. “Will the two of you continue to stand in the rain when not ten feet from you there is a roof to give you shelter? Barclay snared two hares just this morning and as we speak, he is fixing them for stew. I am certain your men at the forest edge would find it appealing to their empty stomachs, if you were inclined to invite them that is.”

Lars smiled and nodded. “You are wise beyond your years Mayda. I shall invite them in. I was merely warning your father of their arrival but I see that young Barclay had spotted us in time to allow you to prepare more for the meal. Eyes of a hawk that one has.” Turning, he signaled his men from the forest edge and one by one they made their way along the same path he had taken until they all arrived at the farmstead.

Mayda looked to her younger brother and sent him along his way to help with the meal and to prepare the trestle for their table. It was their most prized possession other than the livestock. Eldwyn kept it hidden except when special guests came to feast. He had heard the rumor that a certain abbey had been missing such a table, but it was indeed a fine gift despite the apparent connection.

Wulfgar entered first, followed by Bodvar, Hans, Bjorn and  then Ask the Younger. Once inside they huddled together  like a flock of herded sheep. Mayda offered a shy smile to Lars and her father, followed by a simple nod toward the warriors. Young Barclay studied each man carefully as he carried the planks to the trestles, laying each across forming the table top. Lars cleared his throat. “Your weapons men. Leave them at the door. This is Eldwyn the farmer I told you about. And Mayda his daughter and his boy Barclay. We are guests here and we shall act as if we are in our own homeland.” Lars went on to introduce his men as Barclay carried in a bench for the table and Mayda went to ready the stew for serving.

Ask the Younger, a tall, slender lad of eighteen years unbuckled his sword belt and laid it against the daub and wattle wall. As each weapon was handed to him, he stacked them neatly together in a manner that they would be quickly gathered up should the occasion arise. Without a word, he took a seat on the bench farthest from where Lars and Eldwyn had sat, next to Bodvar and across from Bjorn. Each time Barclay passed by Ask tried not to stare at the boy and when he did, Bodvar was quick to elbow him.  “Mind your manners lad,” Bodvar whispered.

Mayda carefully ladled stew into each trencher as Barclay brought them to the table and placed them before each person starting at his father then to Lars and then down the table  to the others. When he finished, he took a small trencher to the far corner of the house and sat alone to eat at the edge of the fire‘s warmth. Ask’s curious glance naturally followed the boy back to where he sat until once again Bodvar’s elbow against his ribs brought his gaze to the source of the aroma before him. Warm vapors of steam rose from the succulent pieces of meat, herbs and cabbage all mingled together in a stew, tantalized his senses.

Lars leaned to one side as Mayda gently poured mead into his goblet of wood, then to the other side as she filled her father’s. When she had finished filling everyone’s goblet, she went about her duties. It was not her place in the house of Eldwyn to sit among the men at meal. A fact she disliked as much as anything but protesting it had brought her nothing but heartache since her mother passed away over nine years ago. She glanced over her shoulder as she carried more wood for the evening fire. A simple glance, quick enough to catch the looks of these Norsemen of Lars eyeing her like some wench. Her glance deflected theirs as each quickly found some other object to focus on.  Honorable, she was certain, but their looks were the looks of men long away from home.

“To Knut, King of England and to Harold, King of Denmark, may they reign long.” Eldwyn hoisted his goblet to those around him. The toast was followed by a blessing to his God which Lars also signed and uttered a few words of praise. His men were mixed in their feelings of praise and to which and to whom it was delivered to. Some were followers of the new God, some followed the old gods and some, like Wulfgar followed no apparent god other than the gods of feast and war. While the praise was being dealt out and blessings issued, Wulfgar could not resist the temptation to make fast work of the stew before him, slurping it quickly from the edge of the trencher, barely time to savor the juices. As the last of the meat portions were devoured, his eyes raised like to reddish suns on a single horizon over the edge of the trencher meeting Lars’ icy blue stare. He belched and slowly lowered his empty trencher to the table. A jovial chuckle came from his shipmates, even Lars let out a hesitant laugh. “Not even a bear would come between you and your food my friend. Eat not so fast and if you must eat as such, at least wait for the blessing as is custom here in Eldwyn’s house.” Even as he apologized, his eyes were scanning the bread piled near the center of the table.

Hans laughed. “In Constantinople this one served for two full years and they won great battles with Wulfgar simply by telling him that there was food in the camps of the enemy. They called him a berserker! Berserker I say and it was only because the man was hungry!” Everyone laughed, even Mayda who quickly added there was more to go around and there was no need to see this berserker side of him. Another round of laughter followed but it quickly ended with the look from Eldwyn.

“Forgive my daughter for being so outspoken. She is not used to having so many men around.” Mayda’s cheeks flushed but she held her tongue even though her thoughts flowed like the River Thames itself. “Outspoken?” she muttered under breath. Lars felt no apology was needed but respectfully accepted it from Eldwyn. Women in Scania were contrastingly different than women in this land. There you would see what outspoken was he thought to himself. Helga never held her words. Perhaps that’s the way of it, passionate bloodlines, quick to temper but as quick and passionate in bed. Two sons proved that. Someday he would have a dozen, maybe more.

His thoughts were broken when Bjorn asked Eldwyn about his missing left hand. “Let’s just say I was slow in moving it from the blow of an ax ten years ago.”

Bodvar eyed the stump and noted how clean it had healed. “ Someone took great care in tending the wound. Was it an Anglo-Saxon or Danish ax?”

“My wife was good at tending wounds. A skilled healer who had lots of practice for there were many wounds back then to heal. It was Anglo-Saxon. Had I not known the thane as I did, it would have been worse I’m certain. Taking the hand was a message to remind me of who I served.”

“Then I would not hide it as a curse, but hold it out clearly as a badge, a banner of your deeds with great honor for a Dane sits upon your throne now.” Bjorn added as he sat his empty trencher down, gently waving off Mayda’s attempt to replenish it. She smiled slightly to Bjorn noting his darker  prominent facial features along with his well groomed beard and hair. She added the extra serving to Ask’s trencher before taking her place near the fire.

“It is a tumultuous time in this land. One should not be so quick to display happiness that Ethelred is dead and so is his son. The forest is filled with many noble born who hide in the day and raid by night hoping for the day to unseat Knut and return the kingship to the Anglo-Saxons. One must be very careful. Eyes and ears everywhere. Trust none for a heavy price is to be paid when you are caught. They bring forth none to their court in the deep woods, simply place them under sword.” Eldwyn’s face flushed with a tinge of anger not at his guests, but at the betrayal and treachery that filled his land. But then again, perhaps he was as guilty to it as others.

“I do not know him as well as his father Svein, but the boy is wise and surrounds himself with good council. He may be here longer than the high-born rebels may hope for. He has the backing now of the church from what I have heard.” Lars added as he too waved off Mayda’s offering of more stew.

“What you say is so Lars. But the caution is in this. Ethelred was king and is dead, Edmund too even Svein has died. Trusting the wrong souls and the same can happen to Knut. Our country sadly is filled with much evil doings.”

“ Father, if you excuse me for talking out of place but men can talk the sun into setting over such politics. Continue as you must, but go over around the fire so I and Barclay can go about our tasks. After all, I am but a girl and such things are beyond my knowledge and to be honest, boorish.”  None hesitated to move away from the table and gather at fire ring in the center of the house. Wulfgar grabbed up the last bread roll as he went to join the others. Mayda donned her cloak and headed outside, pausing then only to re-enter.

“Barclay! Come there are chores to be done. You can sit around the fire telling grand stories and other nonsense when you’re older, for now, there is stock to feed and pen before the day ends!” Barclay followed his older sister out the door without hesitating.
Eldwyn sighed. It was difficult to raise a child in these times, but raising a daughter alone was a task that he wished not on his worst foe. As he went to apologize again for her behavior, Lars silenced his words before they began.

“I don’t wish to bring trouble to your land Eldwyn. If it will be a burden, my men can find shelter in the forest or travel back to London with the others,” Lars said.

“Nonsense  Lars. The girl has just had to grow up faster than she should have. That one has had to deal with many changes and I am afraid I am not the best at raising her or Barclay.” He nervously rubbed the stump of his arm as he continued, “ She was but six when my wife died giving birth to Barclay. I knew the birth would be difficult, she had suffered through two miscarriages and a death of an infant we never had the chance to name. One of her friends knew a woman deep in the forest where the hermit dwells, who can see into the future. She predicted what came to be, that a son be born but I would lose her. Happened just as it was predicted sadly. I had hoped my faith in God would prevent it. It didn’t God rest her soul. She bore him in the birch meadow and I let Mayda name him. She chose Barclay which means ‘from the birch meadow.’ It seemed fitting and it made her happy. Like a mother she has been to him almost refusing to be separated at all. In a way it helped her deal with the loss of her mother.” Eldwyn kicked a piece of firewood into the fire, sending a shower of sparks skyward out through the smoke hole.

“She will make someone a fine wife. She is strong in mind and body that one. Not such bad traits in our land,” Hans added leaning forward to return a burning ember that had popped out of the fire ring by scooping it up quickly in his hand and delivering it to its source. “What caused the boy’s scars on his face like such?”

Eldwyn sighed as he rubbed his eyes blaming the smoke for causing the tears. “Damn this smoke. Five years ago he was playing near the road from the forest. Mayda was herding the sheep back toward the house and thought he was behind her. I was in London marketing a cow. I felt they were safer here, at my land than in London during such times. I was wrong. I laid my faith in my countrymen and my God and both failed me that day.”

The men listened on intently in silence, not wanting the man to go on for it was obvious the pain it brought to him, yet hoping he would continue because he needed to. He wanted to. “Go on,” said Ask the Younger.

“A bishop and his escort had come down the road from Hertfordshire through the forest heading to London when they were ambushed by Norse marauders. Followers of Olaf their King I found out later, allies to King Ethelred but it was blamed on the Danes. All in this land knew I had befriended many Danes just like I have Norse and others. Matilda, my wife, was half Dane herself. I guess when they pursued their attackers, it made sense to come here. Here to my farm where I have lived well among all people in peace.” Eldywn wiped his tears.

“I’m sorry. They rode out from the forest upon their war-horses with great swiftness. Like a vengeance she said.  She heard Barclay scream and when she looked back to find him, they had ridden him down like a calf, roping him and dragging him along worse than one would treat even a thrall. With all her might she ran for the house to get my bow but they caught her before she reached the door. Five men-at-arms under the guidance of the bishop in service to my King, the King of England. Barclay was but five years old and they interrogated and tortured him like a man, demanding where the Danes were. He couldn’t tell them because he had not a clue as to who they were asking him about. And when he couldn’t tell them, the commander of the men-at-arms as the Bishop stood presence, cut his tongue from his mouth. And then they turned their attention to my Mayda. I….”

The sudden opening of the door with a crash made them all jump as Barclay and Mayda walked in from the cold, each with an armload of wood for the fire. “Oh please stay seated. I would hate to interrupt some tale of battles when I can most certainly bring in the wood myself with Barclay’s help.” Dropping the wood along the wall, she paused as Barclay unloaded his armload, then bent to straightened the pieces so they would dry properly.

Wulfgar stood quickly to assist her. He stood almost a foot and half above her and twice as wide causing him to look like an ogre of sort. His face weathered, creased and lightly scarred from years of war was strangely peaceful. She could tell from the crease lines around his eyes and mouth that he had probably shared as much in laughter as he did in war. “My such tales of laughter you all must be sharing, you have tears in your eyes, m’lord.”

“Smoke. It is from smoke in my eyes young one.”