Viking Sword Page 2

  Still, Leofwine watched Olaf intently, wondering what he would do now, other than admire the priceless jewel in his hand, a gift from his sponsor at his recent baptism; a gift which had been given by Leofwine to his king for the very purpose. A man more cynical than Leofwine, would have seen it as a further payment to buy Olaf’s good behaviour.

  Leofwine hoped that Olaf would appreciate its potent symbolism and embrace his new God above the many heathen Gods he’d previously worshipped. Leofwine's eyes narrowed as he watched the other man trace the gilded decoration on the four arms of the cross with his large, sea roughed hands, and then gently stroke the four inlaid rubies with the fingers on his right hand. His war armbands clattered against the glowing cross as his hands moved, the golden hue of the cross flashing briefly across the silver armbands that Olaf proudly displayed, a symbol of his wealth and prowess in battle.

  Before it had come into Olaf's greedy hands, the cross had been the centerpiece of Leofwine's own church; a relic from his now dead father who’d taken his affluence and concentrated it in a cross as a testimony to his unfailing faith and sign of his own conspicuous wealth. Leofwine tried not to think bitter thoughts because he didn’t want to reflect those feelings on his countenance; he knew that there were some on the crew who didn’t trust him and who would look for any sign of discontent to rise against him. He needed to keep neutral and to stay on Olaf's good side to ensure his own safety amongst men he’d like to call his friends, but amongst whom he was a stranger and perhaps worse; the envoy of a weak king manipulated into paying out huge sums of coins and gold.

  Leofwine admired their work ethic while at the same time being wary of the loyalty shown to their Jarl. It appeared as though it could be a fickle friend amongst these men. They were always looking for the next war leader who could lead them to victory and plunder.

  Leofwine found himself rapidly re-evaluating his opinion of the northern warrior as Olaf took the cross and kissed it, reverently. Olaf's eyes closed for some few moments before he spoke and raised the cross above his head as he'd seen Leofwine's holy men do. Then he was talking in his clear, gravelly voice, which carried whether seas were rough or calm.

  "My Lord, I make this pledge to you here and now. Your bounty has been great, and I vow that this cross will adorn a similar church to that which it came from, only in my homeland and similarly raised in your glory to commemorate my kingship.”

  Respectful silence greeted Olaf's words. The man the shipmen followed had led them on their most successful raid ever. While they still thrived on the geld, they'd do anything for their leader, whether they agreed with his newfound faith or not.

  Once he'd finished speaking, the warriors erupted into cheers, not once ever leaving their seats or loosening their hold on their oars. Leofwine was amazed. He had a shared distant ancestry with some of these men, but he'd never appreciated that they might also share his beliefs.

  Perhaps there was more to his journey than he’d at first thought? Perhaps the men who had brokered this peace, his king and his bishops, had understood the needs of Olaf more than Leofwine had, until now. He smiled to himself. It was beginning to look as though his task was greater than just shepherding the wolf out of the flock. His king had been in conferences with his confidantes for days following the initial truce agreement. They’d all dealt with Olaf before, albeit unsuccessfully. The king must have been aware of Olaf's desires. In his long years, raiding and trading, it had probably always been his goal to have his own land, and a sure way to legitimize it as his own was to lay the foundations for the first church there. Then he'd gain the sanction of the Church in Rome, and they’d work with him to protect that land and status quo. With his own kingdom, Olaf could satisfy his own needs and those of his shipmen. Æthelred had just given Olaf not only the means to conquer the land by using the huge geld he'd been gifted with to leave England, but with the conversion to Christianity, Æthelred had also given him ways to justify it. Leofwine finally understood why his own ship was encumbered with five stray missionaries. It was not, as he'd thought, because his own king feared the mission doomed from the word go. He now assumed they had their instructions to stay in Norway and help the new king spread the word of God.

  As the men slowly calmed and silence returned to the ship, save for the sharp slap of the oars on the glassy smooth surface, Leofwine met Olaf's eyes, which seemed to burn with fervour. The look filled him with hope and foreboding. His life was in the hands of this man. How far could he trust him to keep his crew in check and to ensure his own survival? While he was a vigorous and sturdy fighter, his talents had not yet been called into play as his homelands were so far away from the regular raiding grounds of the coast. They were also virtually landlocked meaning that the enemy had to either carry their ships for long distances over difficult terrain to find the rivers which fed his land, or they had to adopt the horses of the people they quelled on their advance and contend with the more demanding feeding regime of the animals.

  Still, Leofwine knew he could fight, and fight well with his sword and war axe, but he didn't want to face the odds of over sixty-to-one, as they currently stood. His own name had been little muttered at Court, and he knew that he was an unknown quality to Olaf. Olaf was not unknown to him. He was aware that Olaf had been paid a huge geld only three years before and that somehow, it had not been enough for him. There was bitterness with that knowledge. His father had died in the famous battle of Maldon, attempting to defeat Olaf and his crew, and it had all been in vain for Olaf had come back, joining forces with another war leader, Swein, and successfully causing massive problems for Æthelred and his councilors.

  The raiders speed and determination to attack in as many areas as possible had made it impossible for the local ealdormen and thegns to offer any effective resistance. Olaf and his men moved as swiftly as ghosts, and their actions were ever unpredictable. With their lightweight ships holding up to eighty men at a time, even one ship was a lethal fighting force that could overcome any of the small coastal villages within mere moments. There was no time to call for help and often all that was left were the smoking ruins of the thatched buildings and the odd old stringy animal, not worth the attention of the raiders. And the dead. Of course, not to forget the poor slain souls, who died fighting for the little they had.

  Looking all around him, anywhere but at his own golden cross still in Olaf's hands, his gaze caught sight of his own longship, a few lengths behind him. She shone a deep golden hue, like shimmering bronze, even in the gloom and Leofwine smiled with pleasure. She was a gift from the king, or rather a gift to the king that had then been bequeathed to him on his promotion to the ealdormanship and to help him fulfill his king's orders of seeing Olaf safely away from the too tempting shores of England.

  The huge sail hung limply in the still day; its red and golden colours still that of Æthelweard, Ealdorman of the Western Provinces, the original owner of the ship. The turnaround time had been too quick and sudden to allow him to have his own sails made. He felt possessive of her now; pleased with his ship, and although he had initially intended to gift the ship back, he now doubted that he’d be able to. He could already envisage the savage beauty crowned by his own ship head of choice, perhaps a mighty dragon taken from the stories he’d been told as a boy; and in his minds eyes, he could see it installed with his own sail.

  He was sure his wife would have some ideas as regarded colour and style. He ignored his common sense which repeatedly asked him what need he had for a ship equipped to carry over eighty men. His home territory was coast-less on all sides. He loved his ship, and he would keep her. He would rename her. Again, he would ask his wife. She was more deeply steeped in the myths and legends of their lands. She would see that he didn’t inadvertently embarrass himself, his family and his king, with his choice.

  For a brief moment, the late autumn sun penetrated the thick, grey clouds and a single ray shone fully on his pride and joy. She was a beautiful golden beast, all polished russet d
own the side where the slightly greyer oars rose and dipped in time to the rhythm mirrored on the ship he travelled in. Her beauty was more pronounced because of the pent up terror she contained, a full force of sixty fighting men, in one innocent looking, innocuous ship. He wondered if that was what the monks of Lindisfarne had thought so long ago when the raiders had first appeared.

  His eye caught that of his closest advisor, Wulfstan, and he raised his hand in salute across the waves. Wulfstan returned the gesture, but his eyes were wary even across the distance. He was a huge wolf of a man, who carried his slowly advancing years around him like a cloak. Leofwine was in awe of him. He dealt so fairly with men and always had alternatives and suggestions to make on all of Leofwine’s actions. Leofwine had come to rely on his judgment in the three years since he'd become his own commended man.

  Wulfstan was uncomfortable now, and although he'd initially ignored the perfectly formed arguments for not accepting his current task, Leofwine was beginning to share in his feeling of uneasiness. There was nothing he could narrow down to being the cause of his emotions. It just hovered there, on the periphery of his consciousness. Was treachery being planned against them?

  Wulfstan stood to the front of the English ship, a resplendent figure in wolf pelts and sealskin cloak, to keep his furs dry from the splashing waves if there had been any. His hair was long and turning to silver, and his beard was turned all white. He looked strangely mystical, and Leofwine's mind wondered as it often did to Wulfstan's past. He knew little about his early days as a warrior and knew only hints from the time they'd first met, him no more than a babe. While Wulfstan had been his father's closest friend and ally, a loyalty transferred to him on his father's untimely death; Leofwine sometimes looked to Wulfstan as a son to father and in those times he appreciated his steady presence and unassuming ways. Wulfstan didn’t exploit his Lord's need of him, seeming to be happy to serve and to never be the master.

  Wulfstan was reticent about his time with Leofwine's father and Leofwine had long ago learnt not to ask. Whatever had happened in the past, it was plainly not his concern. He still wondered, though; what promises his father had extracted from his friend to keep him so close to his son?

  Leofwine again looked at Wulfstan's face. Its mistrustful look had not cleared, and he was now beginning to look a little green. Whatever he could not say about Wulfstan, this trip had taught him one thing; Wulfstan was more than awkward at sea. Good thing the day was so still.

  Leofwine had been travelling on board with Wulfstan for most of their journey. However, Olaf had announced last night when they'd made camp that today would be the day they sailed out of sight of land, and headed across the sea towards the islands known as the Shetlands. There was no landfall to be had between where they'd started the day and the islands of their destination. Instead, they would stay on board, and not camp on dry land for the night. So Leofwine had decided to ask for a place on Olaf's own ship, for two reasons. Firstly, it was to foster links with Olaf and his own shipmen. Only at night had they been able to communicate on the voyage, and Leofwine wanted to watch Olaf at work to see how he commanded his men. And secondly, if he were on-board Olaf's ship they'd not be able to slip away from the English ship at night on the waters that were unknown to any of the men that Leofwine commanded. Wulfstan hadn't been happy about the decision; he'd made that clear. Still, it made good sense. Olaf was as slippery as a Thames caught eel when he wanted to be.

  Of course, the request from Leofwine to Olaf has been couched in far more flattering terms. Olaf had readily accepted the change in plan, and had sent Horic, his own second in command, to be a guest on board the 'English' ship, as Olaf and his men were calling her. Although they’d spoken derisively of her, they all viewed her with acquisitive eyes that could envisage the magnificent ship as their own.

  Leofwine smirked at the memory of his ship's first appearance to the raiders. They'd all been dumbstruck as the huge, menacing monster had been slowly oared into view, Leofwine at the helm and Wulfstan stood to the rear with the ship's captain, a burly westerner by the name of Ælfric. Olaf's shipmen had tried to continue throwing underhand remarks his way, but when his own ship was at least a full half as long as their own ships and fully loaded with eighty shipmen, they'd found little to ridicule. When the well-practiced crew had effortlessly raised the huge mast, Leofwine has been sure he'd heard low gasps of hastily stifled admiration. The finishing touch had been when the mighty colourful sail unfurled. Many had not tried so hard to mask their admiration. Against the better-seasoned ships of the raiders, she'd glowed an almost blinding gold – almost as if she was made from the weighty material instead of from solid oak from the forests of Mercia. All that extra polishing on Æthelweard's orders had been worth the effort. Even Leofwine had given a hand to making the ship appear as magnificent as possible. After all, it represented his king.

  Leofwine didn’t understand the derogatory remarks that most of the Northmen made about the English. After all, they’d long since defeated the many raiders who came looking and even those who’d taken permanent hold, all apart from Olaf, and even he had paid to dissuade him from attacking again. York was once more firmly reintegrated into the kingdom as a whole and while there was a large population of Northmen living within the old kingdoms of Northumbria and East Anglia, they'd all quickly adopted English customs, or at least the vast majority of them. England was a nation to be proud of, not laughed at. Still, he supposed the delusional way the men viewed England could only play into his hands. If they thought her weak and impoverished, they wouldn’t bother to attack again.

  The ship had worked her magic, showing the raiders that although they may have stripped England of her movable wealth, she was still well endowed with ships and fighting men. She was also a threat from his own king to Olaf. Æthelred had power and he’d use it; Olaf needed to remember that and to honour his promise never again to return to England's shores.

  Leofwine smiled in remembered amusement. The raiders had soon reappraised Leofwine's role on their journey to Norway. He was no weakling, to stand alone amongst so many hostile shipmen. He had his ship, and his shipmen and they would fight to the death for him.

  Along with Leofwine's first ship, the king had also assisted in the brokerage of his marriage to a wealthy Mercian noblewoman who brought further credibility to his position, with her own personal contacts within the old Hwiccan nobility. This was the only area of his newly given earldom where any of his lands were, albeit briefly, open to the seacoast and therefore liable to raiders attacks. Perhaps he would position his great ship there, although his men would have to sail all around the southern coast and along the dragon's leg of Cornwall to bring her home. He thought it would be worth it.

  Æthelflaed, his new wife, would love to see the ship. She was a truly beautiful woman with long lustrous auburn hair and sparkling green eyes. She was quick to anger, and when she did, her eyes flashed dangerously. She was quite a woman to bed, and she’d either take some taming to his ways, or he would to hers. It depended on who ultimately won the battle of wills. He had left her, happy and content to be married and bedded and he hoped he’d return to her in the same state. He'd often seen her at royal gatherings but had never thought she would one day be his wife. Now she was, and he hoped that he'd left her with his child growing in her belly. He should like to go home and be a father.

  Around him, the sky was starting to darken, and he realized that the time he'd been dreading was nearly upon him, his first night sleeping on a long ship. He'd thought that some of the shipmen would continue to row throughout the evening but all around him, men were fixing their shields onto the shelf that ran the length of the ship on both sides so that they overlapped. He looked questioningly at the men in front of him and a huge burly man, known as Axe, smiled a huge smile of broken teeth before saying in heavily accented English,

  “This helps to keep us dry at night. It is not a pleasant experience to be woken from your sleep by a giant, wet and
freezing wave splashing on you in the middle of the night!”

  He laughed a deep mocking sound and returned to his nighttime duties, chuckling to himself and passing remarks in Norse to his co-shipmen. He took a lantern from under his war chest and quickly struck tinder to light it before hanging it from the wolf's head of the ship.

  "Don't worry. You'll be able to see, at least," he chuckled again. He then returned to his war chest, pulled his cloak and then his sealskin outer cloak close to his body and, propping his head on his booty, and his body in the bottom of the ship, rolled over and was to all intents and purposes, asleep within mere moments. Up and down the ship, the other men were following suit. Leofwine thought there was a little spare room with the oars now stowed down the center of the ship, but everyone seemed to know their place. He wondered where his was for there was now no room for him at the back of the ship, what with Sigismund and his opposite both already stretched out and asleep.

  At that moment, Olaf called his name and beckoned him to the widest part of the ship, where the mast was currently residing. Leofwine gratefully rose from his cramped position at the back of the ship and suppressing a groan from his locked in place muscles, walked as confidently as he could, between the two rows of sleeping or near sleeping men, as the ship rocked none too gently from side to side, with more movement than there'd been all day. Behind him, he heard a small chuckle but decided it wasn’t worth seeing whom it came from. Like Wulfstan, he was no natural seaman, and he needed to concentrate on his actions to prevent himself falling and earning further ridicule.