Viking 2: Sworn Brother Read online

  ‘You had better explain to Thorgils,’ said Thrand. He had noticed that I was listening. ‘If you want to recruit him to the fellowship, he should know the truth.’

  Arne spat in the dust. ‘Sigvaldi, Thorkel and the others – they and their crews withdrew from the battle line when they saw that our ships were heavily outnumbered by the Norwegians. They broke their solemn vow as Jomsvikings and retreated, leaving the likes of Thrand to face the enemy unsupported. Their bad faith did more damage to the felag than losing the battle. Defeat and death we were prepared for, but against cowardice and dishonour we had no defence.’

  Thrand later told me his comrades were so ashamed when several Jomsviking ships deserted the battle line that they debated whether to challenge their colleagues and fight them in order to obliterate the dishonour. As it was, they hurled spears and stones at their retreating boats and shouted curses in their wake, before turning to face the Norwegian onslaught.

  Arne continued. ‘Sigvaldi was among the first to run away, and the worst thing about it was that he was our leader. In those days we all swore to follow just one man as our absolute commander. He decided everything for the felag, whether it was the division of our booty or the settlement of quarrels between us. And when a leader fails so abjectly, it is difficult afterwards to regain respect for leadership. That is why now we rule ourselves by council – a gathering of the senior men decides what we should do. I’ve little doubt, Thrand, that you will be elected to that council.’

  Thrand was looking across at the barracks where a couple of women were loitering. ‘I see there are other changes too,’ he remarked.

  Arne followed his gaze. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but you know as well as I do that the regulation forbidding women into the fortress was frequently ignored. Women were smuggled into the barracks and Sigvaldi turned a blind eye to the practice. He said that it was better to have the women here than for the men to slip away into the town and stay there without permission.’

  Thrand said nothing, but every line of his face showed his disapproval.

  ‘There’s one rule which you will be glad we have set aside,’ Arne added slyly. ‘We no longer insist that every member of the felag must be between the ages of eighteen and fifty. You and I are getting long in the tooth, and the council has agreed to admit every man who has battle experience, whatever his age, provided he is still fit enough to hold spear and shield in the first or second line. To back them up, we’ve put in place a training programme for all our new recruits.’

  Over the next four weeks I learned what he meant. I was assigned to the training platoon, while Thrand was received back into the ranks of the Jomsvikings and, as Arne had predicted, voted onto their council within days. My fellow recruits were a ragbag assortment of volunteers – Saxons, Wagrians, Polabians, Pomeranians and others. Their reasons for joining the fellowship were as varied as their origins. I found myself learning the rudiments of warfare alongside malcontents and misfits, fugitives escaping justice and opportunists who had come to Jomsburg in the hope of winning plunder. There was also a handful of adventurers and romantics who genuinely hoped to restore the past glory of what had once been the most famous and respected military brotherhood of the northern lands.

  We came under the authority of a crop-headed, irascible instructor who reminded me of one of Edgar’s hunting dogs, the short-legged variety we put down a badger hole to flush out the occupant, which has a habit of suddenly twisting round and giving its handler a nasty bite. Like the little yapping dogs, our instructor had a loud and incessant bark. He was an Abodrite, a member of the tribe on whose territory Jomsburg had been built, and he never lost an opportunity to show up our ignorance. On the very first day of training he took us into the Jomsviking armoury. We looked around in awe. The Jomsviking weapons store had once equipped a battle group of a thousand men and it still held an impressive array of arms. Many were now rusty and blunt, but the best of them were still greased and arranged on their wooden racks by a crippled armourer, who remembered the days when a dozen smiths and their assistants had wrought and repaired hundreds of swords, axes and spearheads to equip the felag.

  ‘Pick out the weapon you would take into battle if you could carry only one weapon and nothing else,’ snapped our instructor, pointing to the largest man in our group, a big shambling Dane, who stood bemused by the choice. After a moment’s hesitation, the Dane reached out and selected a heavy sword. Its blade was as long as my arm, and it had a workmanlike brass handle. It seemed a sensible selection.

  Without a word our instructor took up a shield with a metal rim and told the Dane. ‘Now take a swing at me.’

  The Dane, irritated by the instructor’s cocksure manner, did as he was told. He lashed out at the instructor, who deftly interposed his shield, edge on. The heavy sword blade met the metal rim and promptly snapped, the blade spinning away from the handle. The instructor stepped up close to the Dane, rammed his shield boss into the Dane’s stomach, and the big man fell on the ground in a heap.

  ‘Swords may look good,’ announced the instructor, ‘but unless you know their true quality don’t trust them. They’re treacherous in your hand, and you won’t find the very best blades in an armoury.’

  He caught my eye. ‘Here you, the Icelander, what should he have chosen as his weapon?’

  The answer was obvious. ‘He should have chosen a good spear,’ I said.

  ‘And what would you do with it? Throw it at your enemy?’

  I remembered how Grettir had lost the head of his spear when he threw it at Oxenmight. ‘No, I would use it like a lance, thrusting at my opponent, keeping him at a distance, until I found an opening.’

  ‘Right. So that’s what I’m going to teach you lot. Swords are first-class weapons when they are in skilled hands and under the right circumstances. But for well-trained troops the real killing tool is the humble spear, straight and true, and with a shaft of hardened ash.’

  So for the first ten days he drilled us only with the spear. He taught us to hold the weapon high in our right hands, the shaft projecting behind the shoulder, so that we could thrust downwards and use our body weight behind the thrust. It was tiring work, but nothing as exhausting as when we were issued with round limewood shields. ‘Close up! Close up! Close up tighter!’ he ranted as we shuffled sideways on the parade ground, shoulder to shoulder, holding our shields before us and trying to fill every gap in the line to make a wall. ‘Closer together, you louts!’ he would scream, and then come charging at us and deliver a massive flat-footed kick at the weakest man in the line. When his victim staggered back, leaving a gap, the instructor charged in, wielding a heavy baton and lashing out at the two men on each side who were now exposed. As they rubbed their bruises, he would bellow at the unfortunate man who had wilted, ‘You fall and the comrades on each side of you die! Shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield, that’s your only hope.’

  Gradually we became better at withstanding his frenzied assaults. The line buckled, but did not break, and we learned when it was safe to stand with our shields rim to rim or – in the face of a massed charge – to form up in even closer order, our shields overlapping so that the rim touched the shield boss of the man to our left. Then our shield wall, the burg as our instructor called it, seemed to be nearly impregnable.

  We became so confident in our defensive skills that the big Dane felt bold enough to question our instructor when he told us that we had to repeat all our training, but this time dressed in byrnies, the hot and heavy chain-mail shirts.

  Our instructor smiled grimly. He ordered us to set up a shield on a wooden frame and place behind it a pig’s carcass. He then went to the armoury and fetched a throwing spear. Marking off twenty paces, he took aim and threw the first javelin. The missile struck the shield, the metal head passed clean through and pierced the dead pig a hand’s breadth deep. ‘Now,’ barked our instructor, ‘you can see why in future you will drill wearing Odinn’s web, your byrnies.’

  So it was back to the
armoury to try to find byrnies that would fit us, and then we spent an entire day scouring and oiling their metal rings so they slid more smoothly and restricted our movements to a minimum. I still felt like a crab in its shell after I had tugged the mail shirt over my head and put on the cone-shaped metal helmet that the armourer issued to me. The helmet’s central noseguard made me squint and I tried easing the chin strap and shifting the helmet so that I could see straight. A moment later a blow from behind me sent the helmet spinning to the ground and my instructor was snarling in my face.

  ‘See this scar here?’ he yelled, pointing at a groove that ran across his scalp. ‘Got that from Courlander’s sword when I left my helmet strap too loose.’

  Recalling those sweaty, dusty days of training on the parade ground, I now understand that our instructor knew we were too raw to be any use on the battlefield unless we could be trained to work in unison. So he made us rehearse again and again the basic battlefield manoeuvres – staying in a tightly packed group as we wheeled to left or right, retreating in good order one step at a time, or forming a disciplined front when the first rank dropped on one knee so the spears of the second rank projected over their shoulders in a bristling hedge. Then, on his command, we all sprang to our feet and went charging forward, spears at the ready. Even in close combat, our instructor did not trust us to fight singly, one on one. He made us fight as pairs, one man knocking aside his opponent’s shield, while his comrade stabbed a spear through the gap.

  Only after we were reasonably proficient with the spear did he allow us to handle axes and swords. Then he showed us how to aim our blows rather than chop, hack and thrust indiscriminately. For our graduation class we learned the ‘swine array’, an arrowhead formation, a single man at the point, two men behind him in the second rank, three men in the third rank, four men behind them and so forth. On his command we all lumbered forward and to our amazement, for we were rehearsing against a shield burg of the older men, the weight of our charge broke their line, and our point man, the beefy Dane again, was thrust right through the opposition.

  Each day, after drill and training, the recruits joined the senior members of the felag for the evening meal. I never imagined that so many words could be expended on discussing, for instance, the relative merits of the spear with a broad flange against the narrow-bladed spear, or whether it is better to sling a sword scabbard from the right or the left shoulder, and whether it should hang vertically or horizontally. Usually these discussions were accompanied by practical demonstrations. Some burly warrior would get up from his bench and strike a pose, grasping his spear shaft or sword hilt to show what he considered the proper grip, then making a series of mock passes with the weapon. After much drink had been consumed and arguments arose, it was remarkable that these differences of opinion did not lead to open fights between armed men who were both boastful and belligerent. But the rules of the Jomsviking fellowship held: each man considered the others to be his brothers.

  Thrand, like myself, found many of these discussions tedious, and the two of us would leave the barracks and spend the evening strolling about the town of Jomi. Our initial impression of its prosperity had been correct. The place was thriving. Traders came from as far afield as the Greek lands to purchase the amber carvings for which the place was famous, though the majority of the merchants were from the other major Baltic ports – Hedeby, Bjorko, Sigtuna and Truso. Besides their pottery, furs, leather goods and other wares, they brought news of what was going on in the outside world. Knut, it seemed, had grown so powerful and rich that there was talk he might proclaim himself emperor of the north. Already he held both England and Denmark, and he was claiming sovereignty over Norway as well. The merchants, whose trade depended on continued peace, were divided as to the merits of Knut’s ambition. Some thought it would be beneficial if all the northern lands were united under a single ruler; others feared that Knut’s pretensions would lead to war. The traders who arrived from Sweden were the most sceptical. They were followers of the Old Ways and pointed out that Knut was increasingly under the influence of the followers of the White Christ, and that where Knut ruled the Christians followed. Among the townsfolk of Jomi, the Swedes had a sympathetic hearing, for although Christians were allowed to practise their religion in Jomi, the city council had ruled that their observances must be done discreetly. No church bells were allowed.

  The traders had a finely tuned instinct for politics. One evening Thrand and I had gone to visit the temple of Svantevit, the local four-faced Wendish God. His sacred animal is a white stallion used for divination, and we had seen the priests lead out the horse and coax him between three rows of wooden stakes as they watched anxiously, believing that if the horse steps first with its right foot then their presaging is true. As Thrand and I reentered the Jomsviking citadel, we found a delegation from Knut himself. To my delight the embassy was led by a man I recognised – one-legged Kjartan who had stood beside me when Edgar died in the boar hunt and had assisted my escape from London.

  ‘Thorgils!’ he exclaimed, thumping me on the shoulder with his fist. ‘Who would have thought to find you here! It’s good to see you.’

  ‘How’s Gisli the One Hand?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ Kjartan replied, looking around at the parade ground. ‘You can’t imagine how good it is to be here, away from those canting Christians. I’ve still got those wax coins you gave me. I suppose you know that Archbishop Wulfstan, that wily schemer, died.’

  ‘No, I hadn’t heard.’

  ‘Last year he finally went to meet his maker, as he would have put it, and good riddance. But sadly his departure to join his precious angels has had little effect on the king’s court. There seem to be just as many Christians in positions of power, and they are making life difficult for the Old Believers. Queen Emma encourages them, of course. She goes nowhere unless she is accompanied by a pack of priests.’

  ‘What about Aelfgifu?’ It was a question I could not hold back.

  Kjartan gave me a shrewd glance and I wondered just how much he knew.

  ‘She’s well, though we don’t see much of her now. Either she’s at her father’s place in Northampton or she travels overseas as Knut’s representative.’

  At that point a trumpet sounded. The felag was called to attend to a meeting in the great hall and Kjartan turned to go. ‘I hope we’ll have the chance to remember our days in Northampton and London,’ he said.

  The meeting was packed. Every Jomsviking, whether veteran or recent recruit, had assembled to hear what Kjartan had to say. He was escorted into the hall by two leading members of the felag’s ruling council, who introduced him to his audience. He spoke clearly and firmly, and his soldierly bearing and battle injury made his audience listen respectfully. His message was clear enough: King Knut, ruler of England and Denmark and rightful heir to the throne of Norway, invited the Jomsvikings to join his cause. War was looming. The enemies of the king – Kjartan described them as a league of resentful earls forgetful of their oaths of loyalty, warlords from Norway and Sweden, and a false claimant to the Norwegian throne – were assembling an army to challenge Knut’s authority. King Knut, of course, would crush them, and in victory he would remember and reward those who had helped him. There would be much booty to distribute – here an appreciative murmur rose from the listening warriors – and there was fame to be won.

  Kjartan reminded his listeners of the renown of the Jomsvikings, their illustrious history and their prowess as fighting men. Finally, he proffered the bait that, all along, he knew would most tempt his audience. ‘King Knut holds you in such high regard,’ he announced, ‘that he has authorised me to offer each one of you fifteen marks of silver if you agree to fight on his behalf, half to be paid now, and half to be paid on the conclusion of the campaign.’

  It was a munificent offer and characteristic of Knut’s statecraft: silver coins rather than iron weapons were his tools of preference.

  When Kjartan had finished speaking, a senior me
mber of the Jomsviking council rose to reply. It was a generous proposal, worthy of a generous ruler, he began. He himself would recommend acceptance, but it was the custom of the Jomsviking assembly that any member of the felag could state his views, whether for or against, and he called upon anyone who wished to express an opinion to speak up. One after another, Jomsvikings came forward to address the assembly. All were in favour of accepting Knut’s offer, which was not surprising. The advance payment of fifteen marks for every man was an enticing prospect and it seemed that further discussion was a mere formality. Until Thrand spoke.

  He had been sitting with the other members of the council, and when he rose to give his opinion a hush fell on the gathering. Everyone in the hall also knew that he was a survivor of the original felag.

  ‘Brothers of the felag,’ he began, ‘before you make your decision whether or not to accept the King of England’s offer, I want his emissary to answer one question.’ Turning to Kjartan, he asked, ‘Is it true that in agreeing to join King Knut’s army, we could find ourselves fighting alongside, or even under the command of, Knut’s deputy in military affairs: the leader of the royal huscarls, his earl known as Thorkel the Tall?’

  The man standing beside me abruptly sucked in his breath, as though a raw nerve had been exposed. Behind Thrand several older members of the council looked uncomfortable.

  ‘And am I right in thinking,’ Thrand continued, ‘that this same Thorkel, more than thirty years ago, broke his Jomsviking vow when he, with his crew, turned tail and abandoned his brothers who were left, unaided, to fight the Norwegian Haakon and his fleet?’

  A terrible hush had fallen over the assembly. A few paces from me someone was whispering to his neighbour the story of the disgrace, when the honour of the Jomsvikings was shattered.

  Kjartan rose to give his answer. All could see that he had been shaken. He had not anticipated this. Thrand’s question implied that no Jomsviking should go to the assistance of a man who had betrayed the fellowship. We waited expectantly. The pause lengthened slowly and became an embarrassment. I felt sorry for Kjartan. He was a soldier, not a diplomat, and he could not come up with the fine words to wriggle out of the dilemma.