Halfdan of jorvik, p.15
Halfdan of Jorvik, page 15
He touched his chest lightly, expecting a wound, or some remnant of that heavenly fire. But there was only the thudding of his mortal heart – worn, weathered, yet still beating. He had not crossed the boundary to the place from which no man returns, but he had been judged.
He sat up slowly and saw Eowyn – not the naked Eve of his dream, but a slumped, wearied figure in a soiled apron, and, more than ever, the beloved. He whispered her name, and immediately her eyes flicked open.
“O my love!” she cried. “To think that I was asleep when you might have needed me! Here, drink this.”
She gave him watered wine, and, immediately, he felt better.
Their talk woke Hærsige, who gently felt his forehead and pronounced that the fever had passed.
“How long...?” said Cynewulf.
“Five days,” said Eowyn. Then, hugging him – gently, of course – she cried, “Oh, I thought I had lost you.”
“How did I...?”
“She found you, hlaford,” said Mildreth, “on the battlefield.”
“And fought off scavengers like a sh...”
“Shhh!” hissed Eowyn, not wishing to upset her lord.
A dim memory of Eowyn offering him that much-needed draught of water came back to him.
“You saved me again,” he sighed gratefully. “Was there ever a wife like you?”
****
Later, after he had swallowed some thin broth, he told her about his dream, and what it meant.
“I must lay down my arms. I am not worthy to enter the church again, but I can be a scribe – better – a poet. I will work for God with my pen, finish the project I began long ago, to present the Godspel message as a heroic saga.”
Cynewulf’s zeal for his new life was making him restless, and, seeing this Hærsige whispered to Eowyn that he should rest. He gave him a soothing draught, an infusion of poppy, to bring on sleep.
Gradually Cynewulf strengthened, and on the third day after the fever left him, he called for pen and parchment – but Hærsige shook his head.
“Not yet, hlaford. Rest,” he said, giving him another draught of poppy.
But, though he couldn’t write poetry, he could dream it, and when, finally, Hærsige allowed him, he sat up and dictated to a scribe the poem that would begin his new life as a poet, rather than a warrior.
Cynewulf’s Dream Poem
****
Later, Hærsige passed on the news from his master, Bald, that King Æthelwulf had lost his battle for life, despite his master’s unmatched skill.
His friend, Ælfred, was now king.
King of Jorvik
After the victory at Meretun, Guthrum wanted to press on to Wintanceaster, only 30 miles away and finish the Kingdom of Wessex for good, after which, they would be the undisputed masters of the whole of Englaland.
But Halfdan, with his long experience of battle, was wiser.
“If we have any more victories like that, it is us who will be finished,” he pointed out, jabbing a finger in the air like a sword. “We lost so many men, you could almost call it a defeat.”
“But they fled the field.”
“To Wintanceaster, to walls, to a garrison, to reinforcements. No, it’s no good. We need to withdraw, and build up our strength. My men are exhausted. They’ve been in the field for six long years and they have had enough. They see the odds shortening with every battle – like playing lottery with Loki – and, at Meretun, many drew the short straw – too many! Those that survive want what we promised them when we first came here: land and livestock and women, and so far their bounty has been only blood.”
Guthrum gritted his teeth, but he was not like Ivar, prone to sudden anger, and he considered his words, like a wise man should.
“I’ve only just got here and I was beginning to enjoy it – but I understand, because, one day, I will want to do the same.”
“I will be honest with you, Guthrum – and I know you will not call me craven because you have seen me up to my ears in blood in the thick of battle – I am nearly 50, and have had my fill of fighting, and I too want to make a home.”
“Will you back to Danmork?”
“No. My home town, Hord, is a poor place, and – what have I been fighting for all these years? No. It’s Jorvik for me. My woman is waiting there with the kind of welcome that a warrior wants – and I’m minded marry her.”
Guthrum was disdainful. “What! Marry a kitchen maid?”
Halfdan laughed. “Why not? She can be wife number two. Frigg still allows us several wives, does she not?”
Now Guthrum was laughing.
“But you haven’t got a wife number one!”
“No, I’m saving that honour for some Englisc princess.”
“Got any in mind?”
“Æthelred’s daughter, Thyra,” said Halfdan, but he was only joking.
“No chance. I’ve heard her brother is arranging for her to marry Gorm the Old.”
“She should marry me instead – Halfdan the Young.”
“Gorm is a king.”
“I’m king of Jorvik – or I will be when I settle there.”
“That’s nothing compared to a whole country.”
“Well, somebody like that; a princess with power – and big tits would be nice.”
“What about a pretty face?”
“What for? Can you see in the dark?”
They laughed together for a while, then Guthrum, becoming serious again said, “I understand what you are saying. At 36, I’m in my prime, and, as I said, I’ve only just got here, but one day, I will want to do the same. After all, we take the chance of an axe in the skull to get something – land, wealth, women, power – so what’s the point if we never get to enjoy them?”
“Some men revel in the fighting, and so do I, sometimes – when I’m winning.”
“You can’t fight forever. Your body gets old, you slow down, and then you get the axe in the skull. No, Halfdan, I really do understand, and I wish you skal og sejr – good health and success.”
So a deal was decided which Halfdan summed up as follows:
“We will offer a truce to Ælfred. He’ll be glad enough to accept. Then I’ll go north and I’ll rule Northumbria from my capital at Jorvik. Ha! I may have a bit of cleaning up to do first. I hear some of the Jorvikskyr eorls have rebelled, and that puppet king of mine is feebler than a puppet in puppet show.
“You stay here and rest your army, get new recruits from Danmork, and maybe Frisia, and then try again to defeat Ælfred – and next time I see you, you’ll be King of Wessex!”
They shook hands on it, and, once again, Guthrum wished him “Skal og sejr.”
The Rebels of Deira
Halfdan went went back to Jorvik and hurried to the arms of Alfhild, his would-be wife. Ah! How wonderful it is, after long journeyings, to come back to the place where the heart is – home! And for Halfdan it was a high-gabled hall in Goodramgate.
But the hall was as silent as a funeral barrow and his maidservant looked at him sadly. “Lord, you have a son,” she said with a sigh.
“But Alfhild?”
Tears sprang to her eyes and she dabbed at them with her apron. “She’s dead. She died in childbirth.”
Halfdan wept – the mighty warrior who had seen his friends butchered in battle and had mourned them manfully without any tears, sobbed now like a little girl.
“Alfhild never knew that how much I loved her!” he choked.
“My lord,” said the maid, humbly. “It is not for me to say, but from all she told me about you, it was clear that she loved you and knew that you loved her too, so don’t be sad – rejoice in your son.”
He found the baby boy wrapped in one of his old white shirts. “What’s his name?”
“She had no time to name him.”
“Then I’ll call him Hvitserkr, which is the by-name that men sometimes give me.”
The boy grasped his finger with a powerful grip, and Halfdan smiled at him with a proud father’s smile.
“He will be a fine warrior like his father and grandfather – and perhaps, like his father, a king.”
The word “king” made him reflect: a king, I call myself, but it’s only a word. A king makes a country – and so shall I! Sword and shield are my warrant, Jorvik my capital, and Jorvikskyr my country, from the Tees in the North to the Don in the south; the Pennines in the west and the North Sea to the east; and over that sea the old country: Jelling and Hord – but my new home is here. I’ve heard it’s falling apart, so I need to show them, who’s boss!
****
His first challenge was to put down the rebellion led by Bragmund of Nidresdæl. He was an Englisc eorl who wanted to overturn the Viking conquest of Jorvik and Jorvikskyr, and had been joined by several other Englisc nobles, including, Eorl Ealdred of Hripum, and Wulfing, ealdorman of Ferigebrycg.
They had marched against Ecgberht, whom Halfdan had installed as puppet king of Northumbria, to reclaim the southern third of that realm, which was once known as Deira, and Halfdan had renamed The Kingdom of Jorvik, often called Jorvikskyr.
Ecgberht had not ever dared to oppose Bragmund. Indeed, some said he secretly sympathised with this Engliscman fighting for his heritage. So even when Bragmund proclaimed himself King of Deira, he made no move.
His stronghold was Nidreholt, a fortress of timber and stone nestled on a high hill overlooking the valley, and said to be impregnable. His plan was to incite further rebellion and gather enough warriors to drive out the Vikings in Jorvik, restore its Englisc name, Eoforwic, and reign as King of Deira.
Halfdan knew that this rebellion could not be allowed to continue. He must smash the rebel before he had built up a force large enough to constitute a serious challenge.
****
He gathered a contingent of his hardiest warriors – men hardened by years of raiding, battle, and the harsh winters of the north. They rode swiftly through the frost-bitten plains and dense forests, their journey made more difficult by snow-filled winds valleys and bitter winds. The land was unfamiliar to many of them, but Halfdan had a sense of direction born of years spent raiding the rugged coasts of Northumbria.
They attacked anyone remotely connected with the rebellion, and, unfortunately, many who were not. Monks were slaughtered at the foot of their own altars. Women were taken, boys pressed into service or flung onto pyres. What gold could be found was torn from shrines or pillaged from the bodies of the dead.
At Tinanmuðe, they dragged out the abbot, who was said to have preached against heathenism, and set his limbs on the wheel, saying he would spin until he flew to pieces. At Hagustaldesham, an out-of-the-way place where the rebels had once met to hide their treasure, they tore up the altar stone to look for it, but found only old bones – the relics of Saint Wilfrid. At Bebbanburh, where a rebel war-band was said to be hiding in the nunnery, they found only nuns. They tore off their habits, to make sure, then got carried away and raped them. Afterwards, they set fire to their chapel.
The Northumbrians called it “Seo Hergung” – “The Harrying” – though they had no word strong enough for the horror of it. They fled into the hills and dales, seeking shelter among druid trilithons or wolf-haunted caves. Some took to rotting Brigantian hillforts, building hovels of mud and slate against the broken ramparts.
Halfdan did not smile, not even when burning burhs lit the skies like a northern aurora. He didn’t like this work, but he knew it had to be done: these people had to know that he, Halfdan, was their master – their king – and not Bragmund, and that he had the huskarls he needed to enforce his will.
He rode among the fallen with his axe across his lap, staring at what he had wrought. Behind him, a slave carried the bones of Saint Wilfred in a sack. They would be ground down for charms, mixed with boar fat and sold to the superstitious in Jorvic.
Amid the ruin, he saw something that unsettled him. A single stone cross, wind-worn, charred, standing unbroken in a field of corpses. None had dared to touch it. Ravens clung to its arms as if to mock its message. Halfdan rode up to the cross, half expecting to see that fated rune, Algiz. The ravens flapped away as he approached, but whether the rune was there or not was hard to make out on that weathered surface. At one moment, he thought saw it, but when he looked again, it disappeared. Nevertheless, there was no mistaking the message of death in the dead bodies that lay all around, mocking him, with their sightless expressions, and meaningless gestures of outflung arms.
Algiz or not, the next day, Halfdan rode for Nidreholt, where the rebel leader Bragmund had his hideout. They reached the foot of the hills as twilight began to fall, their breath misting in the frigid air. From the valley, the fortifications of Nidreholt loomed ahead, the watchtower rising above the trees, smoke curling from the hearths below. His men, who had faced down the West Saxon shieldwall, thought they were facing an easy prey and were eager for battle. Halfdan, however, knew that patience would serve him better than a direct assault.
He ordered the warriors to set up camp in a concealed position at the edge of the forest, out of sight of the stronghold’s watchmen. As they sat by the fire, Halfdan turned his thoughts to the challenge that lay before them.
By morning, he had devised a strategy. The fortifications of Nidreholt were formidable, but the rebels had one weakness – complacency. Bragmund and his lords had grown comfortable in their isolation. The stronghold was strong, but it was nothing like Jorvik; there were no Roman walls protecting it, just timber palisades, rotting in the damp northern climate.
Nevertheless, Halfdan had decided not to attack directly. Instead, he would use deception to deprive the defenders of the advantage of their fortress.
****
Next morning, Halfdan ordered his men to retreat the way the had come. They made a show of pulling back, leaving behind signs of their departure – smoke rising from a deserted camp, abandoned supplies that made it look as though they had decided to leave the area. They withdrew to a nearby wood, hidden from the watchful eyes of the rebels.
The trap was set. Halfdan’s men had left a trail of half-burnt torches and discarded armour to mislead their enemies. By nightfall, the rebels of Nidreholt, emboldened by their perceived victory, began to move out in pursuit of the retreating Vikings. They followed the false trail into the dense woods and were met by a sudden, deafening clash of weapons. Halfdan's warriors had lain in wait, hiding in the trees and thick underbrush. The rebels, taken completely by surprise, were overwhelmed before they could react.
Halfdan himself led the charge, his axe flashing in the moonlight. The rebels, disorganized and in chaos, had no time to regroup. The battle was over within an hour, the ground stained red with blood. Their leader, Bragmund of Nidreholt, a man whose name had become synonymous with defiance, was taken alive, bound, and dragged to Halfdan.
“I am your king,” he said. “What shall I do with you?”
“You are no king!” spat Bragmund. “You are a raider, bringing blood and suffering to a land that was blessed with peace and plenty. Go back to your own country!”
The words had no effect on Halfdan. Yes, he was a raider – a vikingr in his own language, but that was something to be proud of – and, as for countries, he had the dimmest concept of them. After all, in the Nordic world, boundaries changed all the time. To him, a country was where the strongest army held sway. Just then, he had the strongest army, so Jorvik and the lands around it were his.
Halfdan signalled to his men to make Bragmund kneel and bow his head. Then he raised his axe, and said, quite calmly, as though he was asking a man to decide between beer or mead, “Vow fealty to me, or die.”
“I’ll die, then!” spat Bragmund.
Halfdan hesitated for a moment, admiring the courage and integrity of this would-be king of Deira, but he knew full well, that in the Viking world, if you hesitate, you are lost, and, without further thought, he brought his axe down and watched the blood spurt and the head roll away.
He suffered a brief pang – not for the killing, as such, but for the loss of a man who might have served him well.
“Who’s next?” he said.
But the lesson had been taken to heart. Eorl Ealdred, older and wiser, knew that it was better to live to fight another day, so he, Wulfing and the other lords, vowed fealty and commanded their men to do the same.
Halfdan’s last act in Nidreholt was to order the destruction of the fort so that it could never again be used as a base for rebellion.
****
On his way back to Jorvik, Halfdan noticed many overgrown and neglected farms. The civil war he had found when he first arrived here was the cause of some, and some were the result of depredations by the rebels, but the most recent resulted from the Seo Hergung – The Harrying: the people had suffered, and the land had suffered – so much, that it was almost a wasteland.
He realised then, that it was not enough for a king to conquer his enemies, he had to bring peace and build up the country to produce the plenty that Bragmund had spoken of. It was a change of heart that had been a long time coming.
As a result, he commanded the conquered eorls and ealdormen, and his own jarls, to cultivate the farms – not themselves, of course, those men were the great and the good of the land and such work was beneath them, but by organising the local folk. Those folk were well used to the serfdom imposed by an overlord. Their lords changed from time to time, in a flurry of butchery, but their work was just the same: sowing and ploughing, harvesting and reaping – it had to be, or everybody would starve – including those overlords.
As one of them said, “T’ old eorl used to say, ‘Erie min feld!’, an’ t’ new jarl says ‘Ploga minn akr!’ ’Tis a different langwidge, but it means t’ same – werk, werk, werk!”
Thus the races mingled, Danisc and Englisc, and more than a smattering of the ancient Brigantes, and Halfdan welcomed it. He was beginning to see that verk, verk, verk is better than bloð, bloð, bloð.
