The Norseman
THE NORSEMAN
Jason Born
COPYRIGHT
THE NORSEMAN
Copyright © 2011 by Jason Born
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
COVER
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROLOGUE
GREENLAND MAPS
PART I – Skraelings!
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
MALDON MAPS
PART II – Raiders!
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
KAUPANGEN MAPS
PART III – Berserker!
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
HISTORICAL REMARKS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
Mom & Dad, April, Nathaniel, Simon, and Miriam
Thank you for love and patience
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Wow! This is my first full-length novel and I have a couple folks I’d like to thank for all their help along the way. While I don’t know Bernard Cornwell personally, it is rather only by his reputation and by his body of work that I know Mr. Cornwell; I must thank him for his inspiration. Since I was a teen I have thought I would write a book, but never took the time to do it – until now. On Mr. Cornwell’s website I read some of his general comments regarding writing as well as how he too was over thirty when he wrote his first novel. His personal story gave me hope that I would be up to the task.
Aija Grindulis served as my underpaid editor. For a twenty dollar gift certificate to Panera, she dealt with my incessant questioning as to what she thought of the book, how many grammatical or syntactical errors she discovered, and my constant driving her to edit just a little faster. Any errors the reader may find are because I sometimes chose to ignore Aija’s capable advice. Thank you Aija!
I struggled mightily to find an artist capable of building the cover I imagined. At last a friend gave me the name of Michael Calandra who turned out to be a complete delight with which to work. Anyone interested in his artwork can find his studio on the web.
PROLOGUE
Fate rarely leaves time for eloquence; unless you are a Christian monk or an old man living longer than you ought. I am no monk, but I may be living longer than I should. I spent my days living out the destiny given to me. Loving, killing, serving, avenging, leading – even loving again. There was no time for eloquence.
I am the only one left of my kind. Everyone I have ever loved or ever hated is dead. I long to tell my tale for it is also a tale of my people. Long ago fate decreed my life would be filled with adventure even though I yearned for a simple, peaceful existence. In my thirtieth year I was taught my letters, Latin and Norse Runes. Later, a love taught me to speak and write in Swedish, Gaelic, French, and Danish. Later still, I learned from the Vinland peoples a language with no form of writing. Now with my ninetieth year long past I shall record my tale.
GREENLAND MAPS
PART I – Skraelings!
986 – 987 A.D.
CHAPTER 1
I blinked at the bitter wind that blew into my face as I made my way down the rocky path to the sea. Rocks - they littered the landscape. No trees. Rocks, ice, wind, and fog; these were the realities of my existence. Today the sun rose on the horizon to the southeast. Day by day it was rising farther to the south as it had been for over two months; a sure sign that another long winter was as good as upon us in this godforsaken land. This was to be our fifth, dark winter in “Greenland.”
I rubbed my eyes and reflected on how I found myself there. If only my father had not befriended that scoundrel, Erik Thorvaldsson, in Rogaland I would have been sitting beside a warm hearth and a plump wife. There would be forests and green valleys. I would have at least two children, with many more to be made. Of course, without Erik, my father would still be dead, but my family, which was now just me, would not have gotten our deserved revenge on his killers. But there I was, running an errand for Erik in a land where no human should live. I owed the man much and truly loved him as a second father. Since Erik meant to stay and subdue this treeless land, I intended to stay. However, my fate was known only by Odin and those three Norns who spin the threads of our lives for us. Odin, of course, can see the doom coming to us all.
A hare darted from behind a moss-covered rock, noticed me, and then froze behind a scruffy tuft of dirt in a timeless maneuver of self-preservation. He would be safe for now as I left my yew hunting bow back at Brattahlid, Erik’s farm. Though late in the season, a trader was leaving Eystribyggo today for Iceland. Erik bade me to retrieve a pack of polar bear furs we had harvested from the icy northern waters. They remained in his longboat at the shoreline where I was headed.
Despite the morning sun, a thick fog was building and would soon engulf the entire fjord. Rocks and fog; constants to this place. Cold too, of course. I let out a yawn and a heavy sigh. So another foggy, inhospitable day was beginning.
Navigating my way around the largest rocks at the shingle of Eriksfjord, I approached the ship and scurried up and over the gunwale. I used my saex, forever at my side, to cut away a section of rope securing several items in the hold. Placing the small sword back into my belt, I hefted the bundle of furs onto my shoulders and back. The size of the pack made it awkward, but the strength of my youth allowed me to carry the load with little effort. At that time I was still a powerful young man with no white mixed into my blonde hair and beard. I balanced the bundle on the edge of the longboat and jumped down onto the stones warn smooth from the water’s constant lapping.
I reached up and took my burden down from the longboat while an albatross alighted on the dragon that adorned the bow. Erik had a master carver in Norway craft the vicious dragon and ornament it with bright, fierce colors. He also had it fashioned so that the dragon could be easily slipped over the stem of the ship and then removed for winter or when Erik preferred not give the impression of a conqueror. Since he had already begun to set himself up as the chief merchant of Greenland, his use of the dragon had largely become ceremonial.
The fog was already encroaching and my view of the fjord was severally restricted. Just a lone iceberg hovered in the inlet. A distinct sound echoing from the mist caused me to pause and tilt my head to focus my ears. Out across the waters I could clearly hear the unmistakable grating and slap of tired oars piercing the morning silence. I stood not unlike one of the dumb stones beneath my feet. Slowly a silhouette formed out of the murk. The grate-slap continued. Gradually the silhouette darkened and began to materialize into a wide knarr. The sail cloth was ragged; most likely frayed from severe weather. Then I could see the bearded, worn faces of men who had been at sea for too long. Their captain stood in the prow leaning heavily on it. His sunken eyes looked uncertain.
That was the first time I set my own eyes on Bjarni Herjolfsson and Thor’s Treasure, the man and his cargo ship that would change my life forever.
“Blown off course,” said Bjarni, speaking for the first time since he and his exhausted crew landed. Bjarni was now sitting in Brattahlid heavily drinking mead from a large wooden mug. Although many of Erik’s men and their women had gathered around the weary arrivals, no one spoke; waiting patiently for Bjarni to continue his tale. Erik was not in the main longhouse at this time so his wife, Thjordhildr, organized provisions for the hungry men. No doubt Erik was calling on Ingridr Alfsdottir whose husband died on the journey from Iceland this past summer. The two were becoming inseparable, though Erik’s wife seemed to tolerate the friendship quite well.
> “We left Norway at the solstice for Iceland, to spend the winter on my father’s farm,” Bjarni went on. “The farm was deserted and neighbors told me my father had thrown his lot in with that villain Erik the Red.” This comment elicited an uncomfortable grumble from the spectators, of which Bjarni was clearly oblivious.
After another large draw from the mug, Bjarni continued speaking; mead curling down his ragged blonde beard. “So we resupplied, got a general bearing for Greenland, and set off. After three days of progress, Iceland dropped below the horizon and a terrible storm blew in; lasting for many days. Arne, our best navigator, was killed when the forestay snapped and tore most of his head free from his body. During the storm we had no idea in which direction we sailed.”
I later learned that those previously familiar with Bjarni guessed what came next. At twenty-five and approaching middle age, he was already a highly successful merchant in Norway. He was not however, known for adventure or any cunning outside of his trading. With the death of Arne, Bjarni assumed navigational control of the knarr.
“Much of our food stores were swept overboard along with what remained of Arne, and so my only goal was to reach Greenland and my father as quickly as possible. We waited half the day so that we could see the sun for me to again set us on our westerly course.” To me this confirmed Bjarni’s lack of course-plotting skill, since he must not have known how to use a sunstone for direction on a sunless day. He also clearly did not know how to determine latitude from the stars using a simple notched pole.
“What next?” came a voice from the assemblage. Bjarni wore an uncomfortable look on his face as his men gave each other knowing, sideways glances.
When it was clear that the awkward pause was going to persist with Bjarni having no intention of continuing, a crewman named Cnute finished the story. “We limped westward for five more days. We rationed our food and drink, but ran out completely by the fourth day.”
“Finally we saw land and thanked Odin for bringing us to safety.” The crewman looked at Bjarni with hate. “But we weren’t permitted to land.”
“What?” the crowd was clearly intent on hearing more details now.
Cnute sighed, “Bjarni told us the land did not match the description he received of Greenland. This place had rolling hills and was covered in trees. It probably also had running creeks and bountiful food and shapely women, but we’ll never know. Since Greenland was to be rocky with no trees, Bjarni insisted we continue on.”
“We skirted the shore of this land and kept it on our portside for two more days. We then found another wooded land, this time devoid of hills. Given the state of our provisions, we pleaded with Bjarni to put ashore. But he again stated his goal to reach Greenland promptly and told us to hoist the sail or face death.” In an effort to justify their lack of mutiny Cnute added, “Bjarni’s crew will always be known as a band of loyal Norsemen! So we followed our captain’s orders and lofted the sail despite the lack of wind. We turned our stern to this second strange land and crept seaward.”
“Our situation got worse. We sailed for three more days before finding a land covered in mountains and ice. Bjarni told us to follow the shoreline, until it was clear this third land was a glacier covered island. We turned our ass to the shore and headed out to sea on the same weak breeze. Fog engulfed us and we heard terrifying sounds coming from the mist. We gave up and lowered our sail when it looked like another storm was blowing in. By now, we were all resolved to meet an inglorious death. My best guess is that we floated idly for three more days. Four men died before we found your fjord and hoisted our ragged sail. Here we are.” The seaman’s tone as he said the last bit betrayed both relief and disbelief.
From behind the curtain that separated the kitchen hearth from the entrance hall, one of Erik’s servant girls brought some warm bread to the hungry travelers. They greedily ate the small loaves with their sullied hands, while the end of the story brought an end to the morning’s excitement for most. The assembled group began to disperse and talk shifted to the tasks of the day as the village prepared for winter. A laugh rose above the collective din as a young man reached under a maid’s cloak and whispered something in her ear.
But one, Leif, who was somewhere between a boy and man with his baby soft red whiskers spread widely on his face, sat still at the edge of Bjarni’s men. Perched on a stool that had been brought all the way from Iceland, he had listened to the tale intently. Now he just stared in wonder at Bjarni. His face spoke of utter confusion and simultaneous contempt.
“How?” Leif asked in a voice that commanded more respect than his age rightly should.
Taken aback, Bjarni grunted a simple, “How what?”
“How could you?” Leif began again. “How could you travel so far, farther than anyone in the whole world has ever travelled? How could you see a land like no man has ever seen before? And then you are not curious enough to explore it simply because it wasn’t rocky? This tale is either the best myth I have ever heard or you are remarkably dense, dense like the fog covering our land. No, you are the thickest, most dim-witted Norseman I have laid eyes upon.”
Despite Bjarni’s starvation-induced weakness, he rose to his full height. He now towered over the slim Leif, who remained on his stool. Drops of mead fell from Bjarni as he shook with rage and spittle hurled at Leif. “I don’t know who you think you are boy, but you’ll surely find yourself a quick grave if you do not change those words right now.”
Leif had always been an indifferent boy; aloof in many ways. Now he sat calmly like a scholar studying a small unfamiliar bird. “I will not,” he said defiantly. “Any man who has the responsibility to lead men and receives the opportunity to explore, owes it to those men and his people to make well-thought decisions. You, in your selfishness, made decisions as a child. You are the most uncurious, imprudent man I have met. I stand by my assessment.” He said this with an eerily stillness.
Bjarni drew his steel blade surprisingly fast. In one motion, he brought it down toward Leif with enough power to easily slice the boy in half. Leif did not move or even look the least bit frightened. I quickly pulled my saex from my belt and halted Bjarni’s blow. Some saexes would have bent or even snapped at the blow, but my saex was unique. It was larger than most with a high quality, heavy blade imported from Frankia, made by a master smith called Warnimont. Our blades stood engaged just above Leif’s left shoulder. “I’d not do that if I were you,” I said with an icy calmness I had just caught from Leif’s lead.
Bjarni looked at me with intense anger. He was about to transfer his fury from Leif to me when he noticed that the gathered crowd around him had changed. A collection of swords held in the hands of able men were now facing Bjarni. His men, by contrast, had not made any attempt to come to their leader’s rescue. They sat unmoving behind Bjarni in the room’s center. I could see the dim-witted voyager calculating his next move. A sinister smile curled in the midst of his wet beard and he slowly put away his sword, slapping it into its wooden scabbard. Looking at me, Bjarni reached his hand out and tussled Leif’s hair, “Boys will be boys.”
With shame and disgust Bjarni sat down and went back to his bread and mead. I looked down at Leif who smiled broadly at me. I gave an uncertain smile back. But I was certain that I now respected and liked Leif Eriksson.
CHAPTER 2
“Halldorr! Halldorr!” called Leif running to catch up along the path leading north away from Eystribyggo. I paused at the top of a rise that overlooked the village and served as a border between the fjord and the more rugged inland areas. I had my yew bow today and looked forward to bringing down a reindeer. Leif had a bow in his hand as well. His help and company would be welcome. If we were fortunate enough to kill a good sized reindeer, extra hands would make the task of transporting the carcass much easier.
“Good morning Leif,” I said warmly when he reached the top of the crest.
“Good morning to you, Halldorr,” said Leif brightly. We had become close comrades quickly in
the weeks since the confrontation with Bjarni. I was five or six years Leif’s senior having lived twenty years, but it seemed he had aged quickly in the past summer. Despite his thin build and sparse whiskers, it was clear that he was fast growing into a leader. His mind was sharp, with the ability to see things before most men.
Lost in our own thoughts, we walked silently for a time. We ascended another hill and skirted a waterfall that cascaded among enormous rocks. There were many such sites in Greenland. No trees. Many rocks. We would follow the small creek inland in the hopes of finding a small herd of reindeer pausing for a drink.
“Why have you not married, Halldorr?” Leif did this often, saying much with a simple inquiry. He was patient as I pondered the question.