Ulf's Tale: Annals of the Anglo-Scandinavian Empire - John Broughton

Historical Viking Fiction Set In 11th Century Scandinavia

Ulf's Tale: Annals of the Anglo-Scandinavian Empire by John Broughton

Book excerpt

Upsal, New Year, 1009 AD

Two years after his return home, father called a gathering of his karls and thralls to make an announcement. Eilaf denied any knowledge of what it might concern and mother, equally unforthcoming, said, “Go to the meeting and you’ll find out.

Father sat in his favourite box chair, the one with battle images carved on its side panels. Placed in the centre of the raised dais, where the high table usually stood, he overlooked the gathering crowd milling around in the body of the hall.

“Eilaf, Ulf, Asbeorn!” he called, “come and sit, here!”

I arrived first of the three and chose the seat at his right hand, which earned me a glare from my elder brother. Why four years seniority in the accident of birth should make him feel more important eluded me. With hesitation and ill-grace, he sat on the other chair that father patted impatiently. Asbeorn took the remaining place to my right, which was the real reason I had chosen to sit this side of my parent: I wanted my friend next to me.

Jarl Thorgils stood and addressed his people. The expectancy of the hush told me they were as curious as Eilaf and me.

“Friends, I called you here because there is an important decision to communicate to you all. But first, I wish to apprise you of concern regarding events overseas. King Sweyn, in Denmark, has a group of informants, and what I am about to tell you he has shared with me. As you know, we returned from a successful raid in England in this Bone Marrow Sucking month, two years ago.” The silence in the hall as he paused, broken by an occasional cough, sniffing or throat clearing, typical of the cold season, indicated his audience were listening with rapt attention. “The English, from these reports, have taken counter-measures,” here he sneered, “in the vain hope of warding off our renewed attacks.” From the back of the hall came a sarcastic laugh in response to father’s disdain and one or two others joined in.

Thorgils raised a hand, “We must not underestimate them, of course. Those who were with me before know a thing or two about the valour of our adversaries. They have revived the ealdormanry of Mercia, once a proud kingdom in its own right, under a formidable leader: Eadric Streoner. This is an attempt to provide for better defence of central England under a single command. I know him as a courageous thegn and respect his prowess, so we must destroy him. Moreover, the English have not wasted time but spent it creating a new fleet of warships. King Sweyn is annoyed. In truth, he has not forgiven the ill-treatment of our settlers,” Father’s voice rose to an angry climax, “culminating in the massacre in Oxford some years ago. Now, he asks me to sail with him in the spring for another expedition...” here, he hesitated, for effect, “...but I refused.”

A general murmur of disapproval coursed around the hall and I stared open-mouthed at my lord and father. Eilaf’s face was no less shocked than mine and Asbeorn, a true Dane, swore under his breath.

“Ay, refused...but only for myself. My decision is to stay in Upsal to attend to the strengthening of our defences. Instead, as you are aware, my son Ulf, Asbeorn here, and other brave men of this town captured two Norwegian long-ships. I intend to make a gift of them to my sons.” An idle gesture of his hand indicated me and Eilaf. “Each will make the short crossing to Heidaby where they will be at the service of King Sweyn.” Asbeorn swore again but this time out loud and in a positive way.

Father heard him and smiled. Aware of his esteem for Asbeorn, I still did not expect what followed. “And to you, Asbeorn, I concede my own ship and its crew. You also will travel with my sons on this expedition. Do you agree?”

Asbeorn leapt to his feet and knelt before father.

“Thank you, Lord, for the honour you bestow on your servant.”

So, amid the general rowdiness of the hall, it was settled. The men, ever eager to set off for plunder and adventure, could not contain their excitement. Some hugged their friends, others argued over their priorities, while it took father a matter of moments to restore order by shouting over the commotion.

“Those wishing to sail to Denmark and thence England, other than my own crew, will have to seek their place with my sons. There will be work to do. Among other things, careening and repainting the Norse ships. The moot is over.”

My father turned to me, “Do not take all comers, select the men with strength and experience of combat.” He spoke so low that neither Asbeorn nor Eilaf heard. I thanked him but as I turned away, I saw my brother staring at us intently. Thus came my first inkling that the expedition would not be as straightforward as it might at first seem.

I stepped down into the hall where the press and clamour of men made my head spin. They all seemed to be trying to out-bellow each other to gain my attention. I raised a hand for silence.

“Those who wish to speak with me about the expedition must come to me at the Sjøhingst.” Thus, I had chosen which of the two ships would be mine without consulting Eilaf. Sjøhingst in the Norse language means ‘Sea Stallion’ and the name pleased me. I can think of no other reason why I behaved so wrongly. Eilaf was soon to be more exasperated by the situation, and not just because of my roughshod avoidance of discussion. Whereas I was overwhelmed by requests for places, he was reduced to five opportunists. In short, I got to pick the best warriors, an experienced steersman and a sail-maker with the full crew complement. Incensed, he scuttled away to moan about me to father, whose reply further infuriated him. Asbeorn caught the exchange and referred back how Thorgils had explained I cut a more manly figure as a warrior and as a consequence, as a leader of men. Asbeorn also warned me, presciently as it turned out, to beware my brother’s festering resentment.

Eilaf lured away my steersman by offering silver acquired in England. When I confronted him with this underhandedness, he launched himself at me, fists flying.

“Am I supposed to let you, the runt of the litter, get the upper hand?” he hissed.

“I’ll show you who’s the runt!”

Trained in combat over time, I was light on my feet where he was lumbering. My reflexes were honed to a sharpness he could only dream about, and this might have made for his humiliation. But it was not what I wanted. I reasoned our expedition would fail if its leaders loathed each other. I refrained from hurting him and, instead, frustrated his blows by dodging them, in the end catching his wrist, spinning him around and pinning him so I could speak in his ear.

“Brother, I did not mean to offend you and have no intention ever to harm you. Keep the steersman. I will learn that trade too.”

With hindsight, I should not have added that final comment because it contained an implicit criticism of his fighting abilities and I sorely underestimated his resentful nature.

“The steersman has chosen to come with me, as will others, you’ll see” he hissed, shaking off my grip. “You’d better be careful not to cross me again, little brother, for differently from you, I cannot promise not to harm you.” His voice, laden with menace, made the hairs on my forearm stand like heckles and I clenched my fists ready to wipe the hatred from his face. At that moment, mother came out carrying a basket. She grinned at us both, “Having a discussion are you?”

“Not at all, mother,” Eilaf smiled at her, sweetness and charm, the aggression replaced with childlike innocence, “we were just arranging our ships’ crews. Ulf has been kind enough to offer me an experienced steersman, is all.”

I gaped at his effrontery but took the chance to calm the turbulent waters by nodding my agreement and forcing a smile.

“That’s kind of you Ulf,” she said, but the shrewdness in her eyes told me we had not convinced the woman who knew us better than any other person.

I walked away, dwelling on Eilaf’s words. Did he mean to entice more of my crew? Did he have sufficient money? Could all the men be bought or would some remain loyal? In reality, he had no need to pay. The rumours of his largesse attracted men enough, who would follow a generous leader on a plundering raid to the ends of the earth if required. The next month was spent in preparations. These, above all, meant me taking the Sjøhingst out of the harbour to familiarise myself with the steer-board and to train my crew at the simple tasks of oarsmanship and sail-raising. We need not set out for Denmark until the earliest days of spring because only then did King Sweyn expect us.

I decided to speak with the sail-maker. I expect my decision to remove the black raven was to a great extent influenced by my quarrel with Eilaf. He was no longer speaking to me, and instead ignoring my greetings and repulsing my reasoned arguments for friendship. I did not want my ship to be associated with his: the raven had to go. On the other hand, I liked the effect of the pale blue background.

“In that case,” said Olaf, my sail-maker, “it makes the job easier and cheaper. I need only replace one black form with another. Leave it to me, my Lord.”

I did, and the result was marvellous. Where the raven had previously billowed, wings outspread, reared a black stallion, its hoofs threatening to pound the enemy into the sea. I loved it. Eilaf hated it to the same degree. I could tell by his sneers and whispers and the sidelong glances of his cronies. Trouble was brewing, sure as my name is Ulf. Mother sensed it and referred it to father. I am sure that was the reason why he summoned us both to him before our departure to lecture us, his eyes as hard as two shards of glass.

“Boys, you are now on the verge of manhood. Real men set aside pettiness and childhood rivalries. They dwell on the greater good – the leadership of men, the setting of an example. You two carry my name and honour into the wider world. I expect you to bear it with nobility and worthiness.” That hard stare bored into my eyes and those of my brother. It was difficult to meet his gaze with my guilt and failings making me irresolute. I am certain Eilaf felt the same and father must have noticed this. With an impatient tone, he said, “Eilaf, Ulf, take each other’s hands. Good, now, swear an oath before Odin,” he reached behind him and brought forth an effigy of the god.

“Swear you will eschew treachery all your lives and sustain one another when in need.”

“I swear it!” We spoke the words together and while I looked straight at Eilaf, he lowered his head and looked at his feet.

“It is done! Avoid the wrath of Odin. Stay true to your oath and now go with your father’s blessing.” Thorgils laid a hand on our heads, first Eilaf’s then mine. When I gazed up at this gigantic man, the sadness and gravity in his face made him seem suddenly aged. A surge of love and gratitude and a desire to bring glory and lustre to the family name accompanied me out of the hall: I was proud to be Ulf Thorgilsson.

I caught up with Eilaf and threw my arm around his shoulder. He glanced at me, surprised.

“Brother, we must honour father and our oath. Let us be friends.”

A moment’s silence as if he had to consider an agonising decision, then, “It rather depends on you, doesn’t it? You have to show respect, for I am the elder.”

“Respect has to be earned, Eilaf,” I failed once more, speaking without thought and not in the true spirit of reconciliation but out of defensiveness.

A crowd was waiting at the harbour to send us on our way to whatever fate lay ahead. I spied Asbeorn disentangling himself from the arms of Lykke, while Gytha stood with mother among the womenfolk. I steered Eilaf toward them and together we bade farewell. The smiles and glances of the young women pleased me and I awakened to the knowledge of my status: a handsome warrior-leader.

With this in mind, I leapt aboard Sjøhingst and ordered the men to the oars. Smug, I saw Eilaf and Asbeorn were still not ready. We would be away first, as I wanted.

“Cast off! Push!”

I took the steer-board and the Sjøhingst responded at once like the sleek thoroughbred she was. The days of practice paid off as we pulled out into deeper water. The voices of Eilaf and Asbeorn rang across the water exhorting their men to greater effort and diligence.

“Raise the sail!” I bellowed. “Oars inboard!”

For a moment, our headway was lost and our ship wallowed as though time stood still. But the sail filled and the familiar exhilarating forward thrust shuddered along the length of the hull as the vessel lifted her bows and sliced through the sea. The spume in my blood! How I yearned to cross the North Sea to gain my first glimpse of the English coast, to lead men in vengeance for the murder of lovely Gunnhild. But first, we had to cross the Baltic, past Gotland Isle and around the tip of our homeland, down to Heidaby.

With a thrill, I thought of meeting the Forkbeard again and putting my sword to his service. And not only of encountering King Sweyn, but also his daughter, my erstwhile playmate, the pretty Estrid. I thought of her often but not as a companion of childhood games. She would be older, a woman now. Would she still like me? These were my thoughts at the steer-board as the wind ruffled my hair and I began to regret my impulsiveness. I wanted to be first out of the harbour at Upsal, but I had never sailed beyond twenty leagues down the coast. Was I steering a true course? I gazed back at the two straining sails in my wake. One a black raven with outspread wings, the other father’s green, writhing dragon on a background of green and yellow stripes. It comforted me to see the two lookouts clinging to their respective figureheads and not gesticulating or indicating ought amiss. For the moment, the pleasing sight of the Swedish coastline sliding past our starboard side confirmed the goodness of my direction. The problem might come when I had to head away from Sweden. Father advised us to at that stage keep a straight course until the isle of Bornholm appeared ahead and then steer due west, that is, straight towards the sun. It was easy enough that far, and afterwards we would be led by Asbeorn in his home waters, which he insisted he knew as well as the contours of Lykke’s face. I chuckled at the memory, “If you know Danish waters that well, we will have no problems Asbeorn,” I had teased. Little did I suspect back then I would outdo him in the wooing of a maid.

Book Details

AUTHOR NAME: John Broughton

BOOK TITLE: Ulf's Tale: Annals of the Anglo-Scandinavian Empire

GENRE: Historical Fiction

SUBGENRE: Historical Medieval Fiction / Viking Fiction

PAGE COUNT: 220