Forged in Blood Read online

  ‘Can you make it twelve hundred? I will pay standard levy per head in silver coin from the treasury. I suppose women and children will have come with their men to watch the hurly.’

  ‘There might be above a hundred or so,’ replies Deasún. ‘There is a harvest of seaweed on the sandbanks washed in by the storms — women are out gathering it between tides.’

  ‘See to it that the women and their youngsters come to stand among the men,’ says Lodin. ‘I will make it worth their while in grain from the stores.’

  Deasún grabs a half-eaten barley-brack off his trencher, stuffs the bread inside his serk. He gathers up boots and jerkin, and leaves the bothy with a spring in his step. We hear a rattle from his belt, as he straps on his iron and buckler in the outer apartments.

  ‘Ingvar,’ says Lodin. ‘Fetch Jötunn from the stables. You and he won’t be returning to Criadain till tomorrow. We are going to let Glun wait for an answer.’

  Chapter 22

  This morning Ingvar and his foster brother rode to deliver Lodin’s welcome to Glun Amlavson. They plan to be at Criadain strand by mid-tide. When Glun receives the message, he will have to wait for the next tide before his fleet can sail upriver. By the time his ships reach Vadrar-fiord, Lodin and Deasún will have assembled — within a day’s notice — a gathering several thousand strong to greet him. And by that time also, Ingvar and Jötunn will have made it back from Criadain to be present, when the long-ships arrive.

  Lodin’s delay in issuing an invitation to the men of Linn-dubh has given Deasún a full day to summon his cousins and their fighting kin from near and far. Since early morning, gangs of Erse-men from the three rivers have been gathering on a field of barley stubble outside the fort. They will be battling against each other in a game of hurly on the scorched stubble, while they wait for Glun’s ships. ‘Nothing like a good hurly hunt to “blood” my kinsmen,’ says Deasún. ‘They will knock the shit out of each other and then, when their blood is up, you will see, they will be a match for all-comers.’

  According to Hakon, few of the Erse will have sword and buckler, or carry spear or axe. Most will come with hurly-sticks, cudgels and staves. When the visitors step off their ships, they will be greeted on the jetties by a formidable rabble — by no means drilled warriors, but their presence will show the firm alliance between Ostmen at Vadrar-fiord and Erse-men along the three rivers. Lodin’s men from the fort will turn out in full gear, dressed in kirtle-mail, each man belted with battle-axe and buckler. The Custodian knows that a show of force from his side will not deter a future raid — if that is Glun’s intent — but Amlav and his son will be served a warning. The men of Linn-dubh will have to raise more than six long-ships, if they have thoughts of taking Vadrar-fiord as a prize.

  *

  Beside the river, on the shore-side of the barley meadows — and near Lodin’s fort on the opposite side of the field — hundreds of Erse-men have gathered on the scorched stubble. At both ends of the field, players dart and dodge in fierce practice runs to warm up their bodies before the game. As they run, hurly-bat in hand, they bounce a sea-pebble for practice on the curved blade at the tip of the bat.

  The round pebbles — or sleetar-balls as they are known — are not carried in the hand, as in knattball, to score a touch-down over the goal-line, but are struck from the bat to pass in the air between poles set at either end as targets. Dozens of pebbles are used in play, not just one sleetar-ball at a time, but many sleetars all at once. Each ball, while it is on the field of play, can be fought for by opponents. The flat hurling-bats — Deasún calls them camáns — are made of ash-wood. The springy ‘give’ in the ash-wood — and its curved blade cut along the grain — adds power and distance to the hurl.

  Men on both sides are restless to go against their sporting foes — ready for the challenge, clan against clan, Erse against Erse. The ‘shore-siders’ have erected a target for their opponents to hurl pebbles at from the opposite end. The ‘goal’ is made of two young pine-trees, felled and trimmed of branches — stems no thicker than a ship’s mast driven into the blackened soil. A cross-spar straddles the pines half-way up, dowelled into them and lashed in position by withies. The contraption is held in place by guy-ropes stretched like a tent from top of the poles to the ground. Seen from a distance, the cross-spars and poles take on an odd shape — like a rune etched on the prow of the Vigtyr — two slash-marks down, one slash-mark across, joined through the middle.

  *

  There is no doubt that Deasún favours the ’shore-siders’. The clan at this end comes from his neck of the country. He points excitedly to the opposite side of the field, where heaps of pebbles have been gathered in readiness for hurling a shot towards the shore-siders’ end. ‘Those boys over there think they will do it this year! Let’s see what the ‘midden-siders’ are made of!’

  Hundreds more men — those boys over there — have congregated on the far side of the field. Behind them is the midden slope under Lodin’s fort, where waste from the compound is dumped over the palings. A moving slurry has washed down the slope after days of heavy rain, and spilled a wave of turgid crud onto the edge of the barley meadows: ashes from cooking-fires, scrapings of roof mud and thatch. Over solid rubbish is slush of all hues and stench: foul floodings from the latrines; watery rust-heaps of smithy slag; sludge from the treasury’s silver kiln; hide-swill from tannery curing-vats.

  Stemming the quagmire, surrounded by oozing mess, stands a solitary birch, long-dead and bare of leaf, lightning-struck years before in a storm. Its dead branches rise into the rain like spiked fingers, pointing from an outstretched hand. Under the slope, directly in front of the ancient birch, the boys over there — the ‘midden-siders’ — have erected their ‘goal’ for the ‘shore-siders’ to hurl at. The target, when it was first put up, had almost the same rune-like shape as the shore-end, but now the framework leans askew — pulling against the guy-ropes, almost ready to topple — because the ground is soggy from rain and watery waste spilling off the midden.

  *

  Excitement builds between two hurling mobs, with loud taunts and foul oaths, obscene gestures and name-calling in gibberish that is lost on me; the name-calling earns savage rebuttals, chants of abuse, shaking of camáns.

  Supporters gather at either end, huddles of women and children. Some have baskets overflowing with seaweed glistening black in the rain; others have laid down their bags of shellfish gathered from the estuary.

  Deasún offers a wager on the outcome of the contest. He is upset when I refuse, and Baldr too. ‘No good for a bet,’ says he in astonishment. ‘I thought you Ostmen would be flush after a season at sea.’

  ‘We haven’t a bean,’ replies Baldr, half under his breath. ‘We have not taken our pay-off.’

  Deasún is distracted by something on the other side of the field. He doesn’t hear Baldr’s reply. He shakes a fist of enjoyment. ‘That will get those boys riled,’ says he. It turns out he was laughing at slanging taunts from the seaweed women aimed at those boys over there.

  What Baldr had told Deasún is true. Pigtail and I haven’t a bean between us. Dantzk and Halp are the only ones to have claimed their ‘divvy’ from Hakon. Apart from their shares, our earnings from the ship’s voyage have been lodged in Lodin’s treasury. Hakon swears it will gain a return; that we will get back more than we put in. He has even suggested it may grow two-fold by next season — providing that Lodin’s trade does well down the coast. Baldr and I have agreed to waive our pay-off. No skin off our noses. We have food and shelter for the winter, no need to spend silver day by day. We reckon our share of the ‘divvy’ will be safe with Lodin, safer in his treasury than in a hidden hoard — for we had planned to bury our loot somewhere in the oak forest at Ekvith.

  Kru was content to follow our lead: hack or coin has little meaning for him. But not so, Fjak! He was suspicious of Hakon and accused him of a swindle. ‘Invest in a market for sheep?’ he said. ‘What shit is that? Who can believe it? How can a ma
n double his loot without lifting a hand — without pouring sweat or shedding blood, or without salt stinging his face?’ Fjak made a big thing of it, shouting his mouth off for days, till we were heartily sick of it. Suddenly, yesterday, he relented, albeit grudgingly, but with no word of explanation. It means that five parts of the Meuris ‘divvy’ — a full three quarters, if we include M’lym’s share — are held in Lodin’s treasury.

  ‘I thought you shipper lubbers were betting men,’ says Deasún. ‘Shit on a shamrock,’ says he ruefully, switching to the Erse tongue. ‘A pity Ingvar and Jötunn aren’t here! They would take me up. Ormsson would sell his mother for a wager — if she weren’t under clover.’

  Baldr looks at Deasún in disgust. ‘You mean that her soul is at rest.’

  Kru pulls at my arm. He wants to know why Baldr is so upset with Deasún.

  Deasún ignores Baldr and turns to me, choking in laughter. ‘I didn’t say the old cow was at rest. Jötunn’s ma may be roasting in hell for all I know! But, rich or poor, wherever she is now, she can be no help to him. She can’t fund his betting losses! Jötunn owes me eighteen ounces of silver and he owes Ingvar twice that — no wonder he can’t wait for his father to ship the pit-ponies to Brythuniog.’

  Again Kru tugs enquiringly at my arm.

  By gesture, by a smack of the hand, and pointing to the hurly-men, I try to explain to Kru — not about Jötunn’s debts or about his dead mother — but that Deasún has been pressing us for a wager. Kru has a strange look, his toothless gums gaping open; spit running from his mouth as if a demon has him by the toe. He has been watching the game, and not me, and I am not sure if he has followed my hurried signs.

  Deasún has wrongly construed my exchanges with Kru. ‘What did he say, Thralson? Does your dumb friend want a bet?’

  A crack of wood on stone. Baldr and Deasún turn — look to where the sound came from — and then look up. Kru won’t have heard the shot, so I give him a nudge, pointing in the air at the sleetar high above our heads.

  A player from the midden side — a red-haired giant of a man — has just hurled a sleetar. At the crack of his pebble on camán, a hundred gasps of delight — a single, whistling gasp of whaa-hoo as if breathed from one mouth, and then a huge cheer, goading, defiant, triumphal from the ‘midden-siders’. Whoops of delight. Shaking of hurly-bats. Their players gaze up into the grey, rainy sky.

  We follow the pebble’s long flight with bated breath, with anticipation, with awe. The strike was meant as a practice shot — but far it flies, a massive hit straight through the poles on shore-siders’ end.

  The red-haired player drops his bat amid the turmoil around him. The sleetar-man is swept along, gloried by his hurly-mates. Giant that he is, he is hauled atop their shoulders, carried in triumph, tossed up in the air, tossed and caught by a dozen pairs of outstretched hands.

  This whirl of excitement sets the field alight. The shot won’t count — the game has yet to start. But no, I am wrong. Practice or not, it is taken as the opening shot. The shore-siders rush forward, while their opponents are distracted. To roars of encouragement from the seaweed women, they mount not one attack but three. On three fronts, three surging runs. Behind three sleetar-men, each with pebble-on-camán, hell-for-leather, three bare-foot gangs chase towards the midden end.

  Deasún repeats breathlessly. ‘Well! Does your friend want a bet or not?’ Lodin’s son-in-law points in astonishment towards Kru. ‘What’s he on about, your friend? He is leaping on hind paws like a hare, sniffing the air. Is he mad? Is he mimicking like that to ask for a bet?’

  ‘Kru is the same as us,’ returns Baldr in annoyance. ‘Our crew-mate has no hack for a wager. But even if he had silver, he knows nothing about this hurly-burly game of yours.’

  ‘I have no idea what he is doing,’ says I; ‘but whatever it is, he’s not asking for a bet!’

  *

  Kru has ended his hare-like limbering. He is back on his feet, and he has his eye on the blackened stubble, where the hurly-men had lifted their hero to the air. The hurly-bat was left abandoned, when his battle-mates carried him off. Kru runs to fetch the midden-sider’s camán.

  ‘By Jesus,’ shouts Deasún. ‘Look at him run, that boy of yours — he runs like a hare!’

  Kru has run onto the hurly field, into the thick of battle. His run over the stubble, hurly-bat in hand, takes him ahead of the shore-siders. Their surge, the foremost of three, attacking the midden-end, has been checked, resisted, pushed out-field by the midden-siders. Their advancing sleetar-man, pebble-on-camán, gang at his heels, escapes wide — right into the path of Kru.

  Kru in a trice, by a twist of his camán, from deftly outstretched hand, steals the pebble off the sleetar-man. A nudge from Kru, a deliberate shove, a sharp elbow, and the runner stumbles to a fall.

  ‘Lost it, you dozer!’ shouts Deasún. ‘Up on your feet, man! Get after him!’

  Kru has pebble-on-camán. With ball well-sighted in front of his eyes, he taps and balances it on the blade of the bat — as neatly as the man he filched it from. He swerves to avoid a ruck at his back — where men have locked together in a mindless brawl. Hurly-men ruck, rave, wrestle and tumble. On the edges of the maul players have spotted Kru making off with the ball. From under the ruck a muddy foot stretches out to trip him; from the top of the scrum a camán swipes in front of his face.

  Kru side-steps the foot, misses the flailing hurly-bat by a whisker.

  The sleetar-man, who lost the ball to Kru, is back to his feet, rage on his face — he and two others have freed themselves from a ruck. Maddened, hobbling, they make chase, bats in the air, Kru in their sights. Kru darts a look behind him, sees three men at his heels, takes off cross-field — but plumb into the second rush of shore-siders. From mid-field they mount an attack on the midden end. For Kru, there is no other way of escape: to his left, lined up and spoiling for a fight, is a waiting horde of midden-siders, grim-faced to resist the shore-siders’ attack.

  Among the defenders, head above the rest, is the red-haired giant of a man who fired the first shot. Unmoved, unmoving, the midden-siders stand three-deep at the core; they brace their bodies, brandish their camáns, stoop low to foil the advance.

  The sleetar-man in the shore-siders’ attack withdraws behind his hurly-mates; he drops back, shelters behind them to protect the ball, and he will wait his chance from the rear to hurl a score against the “midden” target. Ahead of him, his gang advances, bats bristling to fell and flail anyone in their path. They aim to breach the defence, reach softer ground, the quagmire within hurling range of the midden. From there their sleetar-man will be certain of hitting the target.

  Kru swerves to gain space between him and the attacking shore-siders. He widens his stride, runs at full sprint; still balances the stolen sleetar on the blade of his bat. He races towards a gap at the edge of the field between two warring flanks: between advancing hurly-men and waiting defence.

  ‘Go, man, go!’ I yell with my fist in the air. ‘In between them, Kru! Do it! Slip through the gap! You can make it through.’

  ‘They will crush him like a hazelnut,’ shouts Deasún. ‘Daredevil! Brave lad! But hare from hell! Serve him right!’

  ‘Go! Kru! Go!’ cries Baldr. Of course Pigtail knows, like me, that his cries fall on deaf ears. He turns to me with a laugh, ‘Why am I shouting, Thralson? Kru is deaf as a post. He can’t hear us!’

  The red-haired giant of a man breaks ranks from the midden-siders. He bounds forward into the gap with such driving force, swirling his bat with such intent, that it seems he might check Kru’s run or steal the ball from him. But no — he means no harm to Kru. Swift on his feet for a big man, the giant catches up with Kru, and runs a half-stride behind him, keeping his massive frame between Kru and the advancing shore-siders. He defends the lone runner from the blows of their hurly-bats. He runs across the face of them, threatens; swipes his camán; hammers a head or two with his hurly-blade, elbows a chin and a chest; fends off their blows, stal
ls their advance.

  To cheers and jeers — unheard by Kru — from Baldr, from me, from the seaweed women, from more and more hurly-men converging on him from the shore-end, our ship-mate kicks out his legs. The giant shadow runs at his shoulder. Unaware of the shadow, Kru races on, not looking back.

  Pebble-on-camán, he makes it through the gap.

  Chapter 23

  In the early afternoon, the landing-jetties at Vadrar-fiord will usually be milling with sheep, and still noisy with the bartering of wool and tannery leathers. But now, as day darkens to evening drizzle, there is no livestock or wares on the pier, and no merchants. Emptied baskets of stock-fish, stacked outside a locked store-house, are the only residue of the morning’s trade. Wooden platforms along the river are massed with Erse-men, red-faced and muddy from the hurly-field.

  The hurly game lasted till mid-day. At Deasún’s urging, the players came straight from the field of play. They were raving with hunger and had worked up a thirst from the exertions of the game. They came readily on the promise of bread and ale from the brew-house — Deasún’s contribution to the day’s outing. The levy per head agreed by Lodin will be doled from the treasury once the strangers from Linn-dubh have come and gone. The brew-master had watered down his brew and it was in short supply, but the men fought over the pails until the cloudy ale ran out.

  There is nowhere left to stand on the jetties. Young hurly-men, still clutching their camáns, have clambered onto empty kaupships or hopped across wherries moored alongside the pier to find a space on ships’ boards. They push and shove, endlessly nudging their neighbours, they fidget like seabirds jostling on a crag and their disturbances tip the hulls perilously low in the water. Many hurly-men proudly sport bloodied noses or bruised lips and broken knuckles from the fray. According to Deasún, bragging rights, and banter over who can claim honours for the game, will go on between combatants until next year’s challenge.