Viking 2: Sworn Brother Read online

  We were returning to our horses when Edgar glanced behind us and saw, high in the sky, a lone heron flying towards his roost. The bird was moving through the air with broad, measured wing beats, his winding course following the line of the stream that would lead him to his home. The arrival of the servant had ruined our sport so Edgar thought perhaps he could retrieve our day’s enjoyment. A heron is the peregrine’s greatest prey. So Edgar loosed his peregrine and the faithful bird began to mount. The peregrine spiralled upwards, not underneath the heron but adjacent to the great bird’s flight so as not to alarm her quarry. When she had reached her height, she turned and came slicing down, hurtling through the air at such a pace that it was difficult to follow the stoop. But the heron was courageous. At the last moment the great bird swerved, and tilted up, showing its fearsome beak and claws. Edgar’s peregrine swerved aside, overshot, and a moment later was climbing back into the sky to gain height for a second onslaught. This was the rare opportunity that Edgar and I had discussed a dozen times: the chance to launch Habrok against a heron.

  ‘Quick, Thorgils. Let Habrok fly!’ Edgar called urgently.

  Both of us knew that a gyrfalcon will only attack a heron if there is an experienced bird to imitate. I fumbled for the leash and reached out to remove the leather hood, but a strange presentiment came over me. I felt as if my hands were shackled.

  ‘Hurry, Thorgils, hurry! There’s not much time. The peregrine’s got one more chance, and then the heron will be among the trees.’

  But I could not go on. I looked across at Edgar. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘There’s something wrong. I must not fly Habrok. I don’t know why.’

  Edgar was getting angry. I could see the scowl developing, the eyes sinking back into his head, his jaw set. Then he looked into my face and it was like the day at the well in the forest. The words died in his throat, and he said, ‘Thorgils, are you feeling all right? You look odd.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I replied. ‘The feeling is over. I don’t know what it was.’

  Edgar took Habruk from me, removed hood and leash, and with a single gesture let loose the falcon. Habrok rose and rose in the air, and for a moment we were sure that the gyrfalcon would join the waiting peregrine and learn its trade. But then, the white and speckled bird seemed to sense some ancient call, and instead of flying up to join the waiting peregrine, Habrok changed direction and with steady sure wingbeats began to fly towards the north. From the ground we watched the falcon disappearing, flying strongly until we could see it no more.

  Edgar could not forgive himself for allowing Habrok to fly. For the next two weeks he kept on saying to me, ‘I should have realised when I saw your face. There was something there that neither of us could know.’ The shocking loss brought all our hawking to a halt. The spirit had gone out of us, we grieved and, of course, I had lost my link with Aelfgifu.

  THE RHYTHM OF the hunting year had to go on. We fed and doctored the remaining birds, even if we did not fly them, and walked the dogs. There was a new kennelman, who was excellent at his job, taking the pack each day to an area of stony ground where the exercise toughened their paws. In the evenings he bathed any cuts and bruises in a mixture of vinegar and soot until they were fit to run on any surface. Edgar wanted the pack ready for the first boar hunt of the year, which takes place at the festival the White Christ devotees call Michael’s Mass. He and I returned to our scouting trips in the forest, looking this time for the tracks of a suitable boar, old and massive enough to be a worthy opponent.

  ‘The boar hunt is very different from the hunting of the stag and much more dangerous,’ Edgar told me. ‘Boar hunting is like training for a battle. You must plan your campaign, deploy your forces, launch your attack and then there is the ultimate test – close combat with a foe who can kill you.’

  ‘Do many lose their lives?’

  ‘The boar, of course,’ he answered. ‘And dogs too. It can be a messy business. A dog gets too close and the boar will slash him. Occasionally a horse slips, or a man loses his footing when the boar charges, and if he falls the wrong way then the files can disembowel him.’

  ‘The files?’

  ‘The tusks. Look closely when the boar is cornered, though not too closely for your own safety, and you will see him gnash his teeth. He is using the upper ones to sharpen his lower tusks, as a reaper employs his whetstone to put a keen edge on his scythe. The boar’s weapons can be deadly.’

  ‘It sounds as if you are less enthusiastic about the boar hunt than pursuing the stag.’

  Edgar shrugged. ‘It’s my duty as huntsman to see that my master and his guests enjoy their sport to the full, that the boar is killed so its fearsome head is brought on a platter into the banquet and paraded before the applauding guests. If the boar escapes, then everyone goes home feeling that their battle honour has been diminished, and the banquet is a dismal affair. But for the hunt itself, I personally don’t find there is much skill to it. The hunted boar travels most often in a straight line. His scent is easy for the dogs to follow, unlike the canny stag who leaps beside his own track to confuse the trail, or doubles back, or runs through water to perplex the scenting pursuit.’

  It still took us three days of searching the forest, and the help of Cabal’s questing nose to find the quarry we were seeking. Edgar calculated from the mighty size of its droppings that the boar was enormous. His opinion was confirmed when we came across the boar’s marking tree. The rub marks extended an arm’s length above the ground and there were white gashes in the bark. ‘See there, Thorgils, that is where he has marked his territory by scratching his back and sides. He’s getting ready for the rutting season when he will fight the other boars. Those white slashes are file marks.’ Then we found the wallow where the creature had rested and Edgar laid his hand on the mud to check how long the creature had been away. He drew his hand back thoughtfully. ‘Still warm,’ he said, ‘the animal is not far off. We’d best leave quietly because I have a feeling that he is close by.’

  ‘Will we scare him off?’ I asked.

  ‘No. This boar is a strange one. Not just big, but arrogant. He must have heard us approaching. A boar sees very poorly, but he hears better than any other creature in the forest. Yet only at the last moment did this one leave his bed. He fears nothing. He may still be lurking nearby, in some thicket, even preparing to rush on us – it has happened in the past, a sudden unprovoked attack – and we have not thought to bring our boar spears.’

  Cautiously we withdrew and the moment we got back to Edgar’s cottage he took down his boar spears from where they hung suspended on cords from the rafters. Their stout shafts were of ash and the metal heads were the shape of slender chestnut leaves, with a wickedly narrow tip. I noticed the heavy crosspiece a little way below the metal head.

  ‘That’s to stop the spear head piercing so deep into the boar that he can reach you with his tusks,’ Edgar said. ‘A charging boar knows no pain. In his fury he will spit himself even to his death, just to get at his enemy, especially if he is already wounded. Here, Thorgils, take this spear and make sure that you put a keen edge on it just in case you have to meet his charge, though that is not our job. Tomorrow, on the day of the hunt, our task is only to find the boar and run him until he is exhausted and turns to fight. Then we stand aside and let our masters make the kill and gain the honour.’

  I hefted the heavy spear in my hand and wondered if I would be brave enough or capable of withstanding the assault.

  ‘Oh, one more thing,’ Edgar said, tossing me a roll of leather. ‘Tomorrow wear these. Even if you are faced with a young boar, he can do some damage with his tusks as he slips by you.’

  I unrolled the leather, and found they were a pair of heavy leggings. At knee level they were cut clean through in several places as though by the sharpest knife.

  By coincidence, Michael’s Mass of the Christians falls near the equinox when, for Old Believers, the barrier which separates the spirit world from our own grows thin. So I was not
surprised when Judith, Edgar’s wife, shyly approached me and asked if I would cast the Saxon wands at sunset. As before, she wanted to know if she would ever see her missing daughter again and what the future held for her sundered family. I took the white cloth that Edgar had used and with a nub of charcoal drew the pattern of nine squares as my mentors in Iceland had taught me before I laid the sheet upon the ground. Also, to please Judith, I carved and marked the eighth wand, the sinuous snake wand, and included it when I made my throw. Three times I threw the wands into the cloth’s central square, and three times the answer came back the same. But I could not fathom it, and feared to explain it to Judith, not only because I was perplexed but because the snake wand was so dominant on each cast. That signalled some sort of death, and certain death because the snake wand lay across the master wand. Yet there was a contradiction too because all three times the wands gave me back, clearly and unambiguously, the signs and symbols for Frey, he who governs rain and the crops and rules prosperity and wealth. Frey is a God of birth, not death. I was baffled, and told Judith something bland, mumbling about Frey and the future. She went away happy, thinking, I suspect, that Frey’s dominance – he is the God shown with the huge phallus – meant that perhaps her daughter would one day present her with grandchildren.

  The morning of the hunt dawned with the dogs barking and baying in excitement, the kennelman yelling to keep them in order, and the boisterous shouts of our masters, who arrived to begin the chase. The hunt marshal was Aelfgifu’s uncle, the earldorman, and it was his glory that was to be burnished that day. Aelfhelm had brought along a dozen friends, almost all of whom had attended the sheave-day feast, and once again I noticed the two huscarls. Even with their disabilities, they were prepared to pursue the boar. There were no women in the group. This was men’s work.

  We sorted out the chaos at the kennels and moved off, the lords mounted on their best horses, Edgar and myself on ponies, and a dozen or so churls and slaves running along beside us. They were to act as horse holders once we found our boar. From that moment forward the hunt would be on foot.

  Edgar had already calculated the line the boar would run once he was moved so, as we rode, we dropped off small groups of dogs with their handlers at strategic spots, where they could be released to intercept and turn the fleeing boar.

  Within an hour the first deep voices of the older dogs announced they had found their quarry. Then a crash of sound from the pack told us that they were onto the boar. Almost at once there was a piercing yelp of agony and I saw Edgar and the ealdorman exchange glances.

  ‘Beware, my lord,’ Edgar said. ‘That’s not a beast that runs. It stands and fights.’

  We slipped from our horses and walked through the forest. But that day’s hunting was a calamity. There was no chase, no hallooing or blasts on the horn, no occasion to use the dogs we had so carefully positioned. Instead we came upon the boar, standing at the foot of a great tree, champing its teeth, flecks of foam in its jaws. But this was not a boar at bay. It was a boar defiant. It was challenging its attackers, and the circling pack of dogs howled and barked in frustration. Not one dog dared to close with it and I could see why. Two dogs lay on the ground, disembowelled and dead. Another was trying to drag itself away, using only its forepaws, because its back was broken. The kennelman ran forward to restrain his other dogs. The boar stood, black and menacing, the ridge of bristle on his back erect, his head held low, looking with murderous short-sighted eyes.

  ‘Watch the ears, my lord, watch the ears,’ Edgar cautioned.

  The ealdorman had courage, there was no doubt about that. He gripped the handle of his spear and walked forward towards the boar, defying it. I saw the beast’s ears go flat against his skull, a sure sign that he was about to charge. The boar’s black body quivered and suddenly exploded into action. The legs and hooves moved so fast that they seemed a single blur.

  The ealdorman knew what he was doing. He stood his ground, the boar spear held at an angle sloping slightly downwards so as to take the charge on its tip. His aim was true. The boar impaled itself on the leaf-shaped tip and gave a mighty squeal of anger. It seemed to be a death strike, but the ealdorman was perhaps too slow. The sheer weight of the boar’s charge knocked him off his feet and he was tossed aside. He fell and those near him heard his arm crack.

  The boar rushed on, the spear projecting from its side. It darted through the circle of dogs and men unopposed. It ran in a frenzy of pain, a dark red stripe of blood oozing from its flank. We followed at the double, led by Edgar, boar spear in his hand, the dogs howling with fear and excitement. The beast did not go far, it was too badly hurt. We could easily follow the crashing sound of its reckless run. Then suddenly the noise stopped. Edgar halted immediately, and gasping for breath, held up his hand. ‘All hold! All hold!’ He walked forward very slowly and cautiously. I followed, but he waved at me to keep a safe distance. We moved between the trees and saw and heard nothing. The boar’s blood trail led to a tangled thicket of briars and brushwood, a woven mass of thorn and branches, impossible to penetrate even for the dogs. We could see the battered and torn leaves and broken twigs which marked the tunnel of its blind, impetuous entry.

  I heard the sudden intake of breath of a man in pain. Looking round, I saw the ealdorman clutching his broken arm, He had stumbled through the wood to find us. With him were three of his high-born guests. They looked drawn and shaken.

  ‘Give me a moment to prepare myself, my lord,’ said Edgar. ‘Then I’ll go in after him.’

  The ealdorman said nothing. He was dizzy with pain and shock. Seeing what Edgar proposed, I made a move to join him, but a single firm hand fell on my shoulder. ‘Stand still, lad,’ said a voice and I glanced round. I was being held back by Kjartan the one-handed huscarl. ‘You’d only get in his way.’

  I looked at Edgar. He was removing his leather leggings so he would be less hampered. He turned towards his lord and saluted him, a short movement of the boar spear held up to the sky, then he faced the thicket, shifted his boar spear to his left hand holding it close to the metal head, dropped to his knees and began to crawl into the tunnel. Straight towards the waiting beast.

  We held our breath, expecting any moment the boar’s suicidal charge, but nothing came.

  ‘Maybe the boar’s already dead in there,’ I whispered to Kjartan.

  ‘I hope so. If not, Edgar’s only chance will be to kneel and take the charge head on, the spear point in the boar’s chest, butt planted in the ground.’

  Still there was no sound except our breathing and the whimper of a nervous dog. We strained to hear any noise from the thicket. None came.

  Then, incredibly, we heard Edgar’s voice in a low, guttural chant, almost a growl. ‘Out! Out! Out!’

  ‘By the belt of Thor!’ muttered Kjartan. ‘I heard that sound when we fought King Ethelred at Ashington, The place I lost my hand. It’s the war call of the Saxons. That is how they taunt their foe. He’s challenging the boar.’

  Suddenly there came a tearing, crashing, rushing sound, an upheaval in the thicket, and the boar came blundering out, unsteady on its feet, weaving and slipping on the ground, its legs losing purchase. It stumbled past us and ran another hundred paces, then slipped one more time and fell on its side. The yelping pack closed upon it now it was helpless. The kennelman ran up with a knife to cut the boar’s throat. I did not see the end, for already I was on my hands and knees crawling through the tunnel to find Edgar. I came across him doubled up in agony, his boar spear tangled in the underbrush, his hands clasped across his belly. ‘Easy now,’ I told him, ‘I have to get you clear.’ Slowly I dragged him, crawling backwards until I felt helping hands reach over me to grab Edgar by his shoulders and pull him free.

  They laid him on the ground and Kjartan reached down to draw Edgar’s hands aside so he could inspect the wound. As Edgar hands came away, I saw that the tusks had gutted him. His entrails lay exposed. He knew he was dying, his eyes shut tight with pain.

  H
e died without saying another word, at the feet of his master, the ealdorman whose honour he had protected.

  Only then did I know the real message in the wands was not about Edgar’s missing daughter. The wands had pointed to the truth, yet I had been too dull to see it. The snake wand had meant death; that much I had understood. But the appearance of Frey stood not for prosperity and fertility, but because the God’s familiar is Gullinborsti, the immortal boar who pulls his chariot.

  FOUR

  LONDON WAS SOGGY and miserable under a rain-shrouded sky when I arrived back there a week after Michael’s Mass. I was still trying to come to terms with Edgar’s death. The festivities in the burh had been dismal, with the ealdorman injured, Edgar dead, and the premature onset of gales and heavy rain showers to remind us that the English countryside is no place to spend a winter. Edgar’s death had hit me hard. The wiry huntsman had been so competent, so sure of himself, that he had seemed indestructible. I told myself that he would have accepted his death as a risk of his profession and that he had died honourably and would have found a place in Valholl, or wherever it was that his own Gods rewarded those who died a worthy death. His wife Judith, however, was left numbed by her loss. First her daughter and now her husband had been taken away from her, and she was distraught. Aelfhelm, the ealdorman, behaved nobly. When we brought Edgar’s body back to the huntsman’s cottage, he had promised Judith that he would remember her husband’s sacrifice. She could continue to live in her home, and Edgar’s son would be employed as assistant to whoever was appointed the new royal huntsman. If the young man proved as capable as his father had been, then there was every reason why he would eventually succeed his father. Yet when I went to say goodbye to Judith on the day Aelfgifu and her entourage set out for London, she could only press my hand in hers and murmur, ‘Thorgils, take care of yourself. Remember your days with us. Remember how Edgar . . .’ but she did not finish what she had to say because she choked and began to weep.