Viking 2: Sworn Brother Read online

  ‘No,’ I said ‘It’s just that I don’t understand your question. But I could recognise a gyrfalcon if I saw it hunting.’

  ‘So tell me how.’

  ‘When I watched the wild spear falcons in Greenland, they would fly down from the cliffs and perch on some vantage point on the moors, like a high rock or hill crest. There the bird sat, watching out for its prey. It was looking for its food, another bird we call rjupa, like your partridge. When the spear falcon sees a rjupa, it launches from its perch and flies low at tremendous speed, faster and faster, and then strikes the rjupa, knocking it to the ground, dead.’

  ‘And what does it do at the last moment before it strikes?’ Edgar asked.

  ‘The spear falcon suddenly rises, to gain height, and then come smashing down on its prey.’

  ‘Right,’ announced Edgar, finally persuaded. ‘That’s what the gyr does and that’s why it can be a hawk of the tower and also a hawk of the fist, and very few hunting birds can be both.’

  ‘I still don’t know what you mean,’ I said. ‘What’s a bird of the tower?’

  ‘A bird that towers or waits on, as we say. Hovers in the sky above the master, waiting for the right moment, then drops down on its prey. Peregrine falcons do that naturally and, with patience, gyrfalcons can be taught to hunt that way. A hawk of the fist is one that is carried on the hand or wrist while hunting, and thrown off the hand to chase down the quarry.’

  Thus my knowledge of the habits of the wild gyrfalcon and the art of divination rescued me from the ordeal of those noxious dog kennels, though Edgar confessed some weeks later that he would not have kept me living in the kennels indefinitely because he had recognised that I did not have the makings of a kennelman. ‘Mind you, I can’t understand anyone who doesn’t get along with dogs,’ he added. ‘Seems unnatural.’

  ‘They stink exceedingly,’ I pointed out. ‘It took me days to wash off their stench. Quite why the English love their dogs so much baffles me. They never stop talking about them. Sometimes they seem to prefer them to their own children.’

  ‘Not just the English,’ Edgar said, ‘That pack belongs to Knut, and when he shows up here half his Danish friends bring along their own dogs, which they add to the pack. It’s a cursed nuisance as the dogs start fighting amongst themselves.’

  ‘Precisely,’ I commented. ‘When it comes to dogs, neither Saxon nor Dane seems to have any common sense. In Greenland, in times of famine, we ate them.’

  By the time of that conversation I was being treated as a member of Edgar’s family. I had been allocated a corner of their cottage where I could hang my satchel and find a sleeping place, and Judith, who was as trusting as her husband had been initially wary, was spoiling me as if I was her favourite nephew. She would fish out for me the best bits of meat from the stewpot that simmered constantly over her cooking fire. I have rarely been fed so well. Officially Edgar was the royal huntsman, an important post which made him responsible for arranging the hunts when Knut came to visit. But Edgar also had a neat sideline in poaching. He quietly set nets for small game – hares were a favourite prey – and would come back to the cottage in the first light of dawn, his leggings wet with dew, and a couple of plump hares dangling from his hand.

  As spring turned to summer, I realised that I was very privileged. July is the hungry month before the crops have been harvested, and normal folk must live on the sweepings of their storehouses and grain bins. They eat hard, gritty bread made from bran, old husks and ground-up peas. But in Edgar’s house our stockpot was always well supplied, and with the hunting season approaching Edgar began to take me into the forest to scout for the biggest game of all – red-deer stags. This was Edgar at his best – quiet, confident and willing to teach me. He was like Herfid explaining the skald’s techniques, or the monks in Ireland when they taught me French, Latin and a little Greek, and how to read and write the foreign scripts, or my seidr master Thrand in Iceland as he tutored me in the mysteries of the Elder Faith.

  Edgar took me with him as he quietly followed the deer paths through the forest of oak and beech, and smaller thickets of alder and ash. He showed me how to judge the size of a deer from the size of the hoof prints, and how to tell whether the stag was walking, running or moving at a trot. After he had located a stag large enough to be hunted by the king’s pack, we would return again and again to note the stag’s regular haunts and observe its daily routine. ‘Look closely,’ he would say to me, pulling aside a bush. ‘This is where he slept last night. See how the grass and weeds are flattened down. And here are the marks where his knees pressed the earth as he got to his feet at dawn. He’s a big stag all right, probably twelve points on his antlers, a royal beast . . . and in good condition too,’ he added, poking open one of the stag’s turds. ‘He’s tall, that one, and holds his head well. Here’s where his antlers scraped the tree when passing.’

  Nor was Edgar confused when, as happened, the tracks of two stags crossed in the forest. ‘The one we want is the stag who veered off to the right. He’s the better one,’ he told me quietly. ‘The other one is too thin.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I whispered, for the size of the tracks looked the same to me.

  Edgar made me kneel on the ground and sight along the second line of tracks. ‘See anything different?’ he asked.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Observe the pattern of the slots’ – this was his name for the hoof marks – ‘you can see the difference between the fore and back feet, and how this stag was running. His hind feet strike the ground in front of the marks made by his fore feet, and that means he is thin. A well-fed, fat stag is too big in the body for his legs to over-reach in this way.’

  It was on one of these scouting trips into the forest that Edgar came close to treating me with deference, a far cry from his earlier harassment. He was, as I had noted, someone who believed deeply in signs and portents and the hidden world which underlies our own. I did not find this strange, for I had been trained in these beliefs through my education in the Elder Faith. In some sacred matters Edgar and I had much in common. He respected many of my Gods, though under slightly different names. Odinn, my special God, he knew as Wotan; Tiw was his name for Tyr the War God, as I had noted; and red-bearded Thor he referred to as Thunor. But Edgar had other gods too, and many of them were entirely new to me. There were elves and sprites, Sickness Gods and Name Gods, House Gods and Weather Gods, Water Gods and Tree Gods, and he was forever making little signs or gestures to placate them, sprinkling a few drops of soup on the flames of the fire, or breaking off a supple twig to twist into a wreath and lay on a mossy stone.

  On the day in question we were moving quietly through beech forest on the trail of a promising stag, when his slots led us to a quiet glade among the trees. In the centre of the glade stood a single, great oak tree, very ancient, its trunk half rotten and moss-speckled. At the base of the oak someone had built a low wall of loose stones. Coming closer I saw that the wall protected the mouth of a small well. Edgar had already picked up a small stone and now he took it across to the trunk of the tree and pushed it into a crevice in the bark. I saw other stones tucked away here and there, and guessed that this was a wishing tree.

  ‘Newly married couples come to ask for babies,’ Edgar said. ‘Each stone represents their desire. I thought a stone put there might help to bring my daughter back.’ He gestured to the well itself. ‘Before girls marry they come here too, and drop a straw down into the well, to count the bubbles that rise. Each bubble represents one year before they find their husband.’

  His remark touched a raw spot in my feelings. I broke off a twig and leaned over to drop it into the well. Not far below, I could see the dark reflection of the black water. My wish, of course, was not to know my marriage date, but when I would next see Aelfgifu, for I had been pining for her and did not know why I had not heard from her. On every possible occasion I had taken the chance to go from Edgar’s cottage up to the burh in the hopes of glimpsing her. But alwa
ys I had been disappointed.

  Now, as I leaned forward over the well, and before I dropped the twig, something happened which was totally unforeseen.

  Since I was six or seven, I have known I am one of those few people who are gifted with what others call the second sight. My Irish mother had been famous for it and I must have inherited it from her. From time to time I had experienced strange presentiments, intuitions and out-of-body sensations. I had even seen the spirits of those who were dead or the shadows of those about to die. These experiences were random, unexpected. Sometimes months and even years would pass between one occurrence and the next. A wise woman in Orkney – herself the possessor of the sight – had diagnosed that I only responded to the spirit world when in the company of someone else who already had the power. She said that I was some sort of spirit mirror.

  What happened next proved her wrong.

  As I leaned over to drop the twig, I looked down at the glint of black water and suddenly felt ill. At first I thought it was that sensation which comes when a person looks down from a great height, and feels as if he or she is falling and is overtaken by sudden faintness. But the surface of the inky pool was hardly more than an arm’s length away. My giddiness then changed to a numb paralysis. I felt an icy cold; a terrible pain shot through me, spreading to every part of my body, and I feared I was going to faint. My vision went cloudy and I wanted to retch. But almost as quickly my vision cleared. I saw again the silhouette of my head in the water below, framed by the rim of the well and the sky above it. But this time, as I watched, I saw – quite distinctly – the reflection of someone moving up behind me, holding something up in the air about to strike me, them a metallic flash, and I felt a terrible presentiment of fear.

  At that moment I must have fainted away, because I came back to my senses with Edgar shaking me. I was lying on the ground beside the well. He was looking frightened.

  ‘What happened to you?’he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I had a seizure. I went somewhere else.’

  ‘Woden spoke to you?’ he asked, awe in his voice.

  ‘No. I heard nothing, only saw an attack. It was some sort of warning.’

  Edgar helped me to my feet and guided me to a fallen log where I could sit down.

  ‘Here, rest for a while. Is that the first attack you have had?’

  ‘Like that one, yes.’ I replied. ‘I’ve had visions before, but never in a calm, quiet place like this. Only at times of stress or when I was in the company of a volva or seidrman.’

  ‘What are those?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the Norse way of describing the women and men who communicate with the spirit world.’

  Edgar understood immediately. ‘There’s a person like that over to the west, a good two days’ walk. An old woman. She too lives by a well. Takes a sip or two of the water, and when the mood is on her, goes into a trance. Some people call her a witch and the priests have cursed her. But often her prophecies come true, though no one else would drink the water from this well. It gives you a bad gut if you do, and there’s something mysterious about the well itself. The waters suddenly gush up and overflow as a warning that a dreadful catastrophe will occur. The last time that happened was before Ashington Battle, when the Danes defeated our men.’

  ‘Were you there?’ I asked, still feeling faint.

  ‘Yes,’ Edgar replied, ‘with the Saxon levies and armed with my hunting bow. It was useless. We were betrayed by one of our own leaders and I was lucky to get away with my life. If the waters of the well had been able to warn us about traitors, I would have slit his throat for him, for all that he was an ealdorman.’

  I hardly heard what Edgar was saying because, as my head cleared, I was trying to puzzle out what could have caused my vision.

  Then, in a sudden flash of comprehension, I understood: I was sensitive to the spirit world not only when in the company of someone who also possessed the second sight, but by place. If I found myself where the veil between the real world and the spirit world is thin, then I would respond to the presence of mysterious forces. Like a wisp of grass which bends to the unseen wind, long before a human feels it on his skin, I would pick up the emanations of the otherworld. The realisation made me uneasy because I feared that I had no way of knowing whether I was in such a sacred place before another vision overcame me.

  IT WAS A WEEK after my vision in the forest and Edgar was in high good humour. ‘South wind and a cloudy sky proclaim a hunting morning,’ he announced, prodding me with the toe of his shoe as I lay half-asleep among my blanket in the corner of his cottage. He was very fond of his proverbs.

  ‘Time for your first hunt, Thorgils. I’ve got a feeling that you’ll bring us luck.’

  It was barely light enough to see by, yet he was already dressed in clothes I had never seen before. He was wearing green from head to toe. I struggled out from under my blanket.

  ‘Here, put these on,’ he said, throwing at me in succession a tunic, leggings and a cloak with a soft hood. They were all of green. Mystified, I dressed and followed him out into the cold morning air. Edgar was testing a hunting bow, drawing it back and then releasing it. The bow was painted green too.

  ‘Should I get the dogs?’ I asked.

  ‘No, not today. We take only one.’

  I said nothing, though I wondered what use it was to have a pack, feed them, clean them, exercise them, and then not use them when you went hunting.

  Edgar guessed my thoughts. ‘Hunting with a pack is playtime for kings, an entertainment. Today we hunt for meat, not fun. Besides, what we are doing is much more delicate and skilled. So mark my words and follow my instructions carefully. Ah! Here they are,’ and he looked towards the burh.

  Three green-clad horsemen were riding towards us. One man I did not recognise, though he seemed to be a servant. To my surprise, the other two riders were the huscarls who had accompanied us from London. I still thought of them as One-Hand Tyr and Treeleg. Edgar told me that their true names were Gisli and Kjartan. Both looked in a thoroughly good humour.

  ‘Perfect day for the hunt!’ called out Kjartan cheerfully. He was the one missing a hand. ‘Got everything ready, Edgar?’ They both seemed to be on familiar terms with the royal huntsman.

  ‘Just off to fetch Cabal,’ answered Edgar and hurried to the kennel. He returned, leading a dog I had noticed during my unhappy days as a kennelman because it was different from the rest of the pack. This particular dog did not bite or yap, or run around like a maniac. Larger than the others, it was dark brown with a drooping muzzle and a mournful look. It kept to itself and was a steady, quiet, sensible creature. I had almost liked it.

  ‘Mount up!’ Edgar said to me. I looked puzzled. I could see no spare horse. There were only three, and each already had a rider. ‘Here, lad,’ called out Kjartan, leaning down from his saddle and holding out his one remaining hand for me to grasp. It seemed that we were to ride two-up on the animals. Edgar had already sprung up on the saddle behind the servant. One thing about hunting, I thought to myself as I scrambled up behind the huscarl and grabbed him round the waist to steady myself, it’s a great leveller – it makes huntsman, huscarl, servant and former kennelman all equal.

  ‘Never been hunting like this before?’ Kjartan asked me over his shoulder. He spoke kindly and was obviously looking forward to the day’s events. I wondered how he could go hunting when he lacked a hand. He could not pull a bow, and he was not even carrying a spear. His only weapon was a scramsaxe, the long-bladed knife of all trades.

  ‘No, sir,’ I replied. ‘I’ve done a bit of hunting on foot, small animals mostly, in the forest. But not from horseback.’

  ‘Well, wait and see,’ Kjartan said. ‘This will be part on horse and part on foot. Edgar knows what he is doing, so it should be successful. We only have to do what he says, though luck plays a certain part, as well as skill. The red deer are just getting into their fat time. Good eating.’ He began humming gently to himself.


  We rode into the forest to an area where Edgar and I had recently noted the slots of a red-deer stag and his group of four or five hinds. As we approached the place, the dog, which had been running beside the horses, began to cast back and forth, sniffing the ground and searching. ‘Great dog, Cabal, good fellow,’ said Kjartan. ‘Getting old and a bit stiff in the limbs, but if any dog can find deer, he can. And he never gives up. Great heart.’ Another besotted dog lover, I thought to myself, but I had to admire the serious attention that old Cabal was giving to every bush and thicket, running here and there, sniffing. From time to time he halted and put his great muzzle up into the air, trying to catch the faintest whiff of scent.

  ‘There!’ said Kjartan quietly. He had been watching Cabal and the dog had dropped his muzzle very close to the ground and was moving forward through the forest, clearly tracking a quarry. ‘Silent as he should be,’ grunted Kjartan approvingly. When I failed to appreciate the compliment for the dog, he went on, ‘Most dogs start to bark or whine when they catch the scent of deer, but not old Cabal. Specially trained to stay silent so as not alarm the quarry.’

  We had slowed our horses to the gentlest of walks and I noticed that the riders were taking care to make as little noise as possible. Kjartan glanced across at Edgar, and when Edgar signalled with a nod, our little group stopped immediately. The servant dismounted, took Cabal’s leash and led the dog quietly to where he could fasten the leash to a sapling. Cabal, still silent, lay contentedly down on the grass and lowered his head on his paws. It seemed his job was done.

  The servant returned and we all closed up in a small circle to listen to Edgar. He spoke in a soft whisper.

  ‘I think we’ll find the deer just ahead and we’ve come to them upwind, so that’s good. You, Aelfric,’ here he indicated the servant, ‘mount up with Gisli, Thorgils stays with Kjartan and I’ll walk. We’ll leave the extra horse here.’