Category: writing

Eric Haraldsson had failed to kill the man who had executed his son. Hearing that Rollo had gone south, into Francia, King Haraldsson knew Rollo was out of reach. However, he had heard that Rollo had a son of his own. Not satisfied that he had exacted revenge with killing Kettil and Gurim, the king needed more. Until he had the chance to kill Rollo himself, he would kill all of Rollo’s children and his wife.

While Rollo sailed down the Seine River towards Rouen, King Haraldsson sailed down the Somme River. He stopped at Abbéville to speak with the Abbot.

Abbot LeCurt met with the leader of the Viking horde in main hall. He couldn’t tell one Viking from another, but he did know that this man was more dangerous than any other Viking he had ever met. Not too meet with him was an invitation to having Abbéville wiped off the map.

“I am looking for Rollo, the Dane.”

“He passed here a week ago, Lord,” the Abbot replied. “He was heading west.”

“Yes, I know. I should have said I am looking for his family. I have business to conclude with the family.”

The Abbot wondered what kind of business that Vikings had with each other. He was relieved that this Viking wasn’t demanding anything from him. Perhaps he was like Rollo, the Viking he had met a few weeks earlier at the consecration of the new church in Longpré.

With a sigh of relief, the Abbot spoke up. “The family is in a tiny hamlet called Longpré. At least I think that is where they are. The headman, Brest the Pict, could tell you more.”

“Thank you, Abbot. You have spared your abbey and the town. Of course, I do expect recompense for the promise to keep my men from pillaging your town.”

The Abbot blanched. This man was nothing like Rollo. Seeing the hate now evident in the King’s eyes, the Abbot realised that he had just given Rollo’s family a death sentence with the disclosure of their location. Without thinking, he quickly made the sign of the cross, an action which Haraldsson took as a sign of the Abbot’s relief at being spared.

“As you deserve, my Lord. Please wait while I gather coins of gold and silver for you.”

“Have them delivered to me, later this afternoon. I intend on leaving your town once you have done so. Delay and my men will get bored and take it out on your people.”

* * *

“Lord, the word on the street is that Rollo’s wife is in Long, the village before Longpré. She is with her parents and her children there. Brest is in Longpré as the Abbot told you,” explained Cnut Thorvaldsson, Haraldsson’s second in command.

“I will stop at Long with ten longboats. You go on to Longpré with the rest. I want Brest’s head. You can kill all of his family and pillage the town. I will meet you there when I am done here.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Cnut spoke with a fist firmly planted on his chest in salute.

* * *

Most of Tatha’s extended family had disappeared into the forests, long before Haraldsson and his men had arrived at the village of Long. Other than the French inhabitants and a scattering of English and Flemish, as well as a few older Danes, there were only a few Ambiani left. Tatha had foreseen the coming storm. There was no escaping the hate and revenge that was coming. Word had already been sent to the Ambiani in the villages of Longuet and Longpré. Haraldsson didn’t know who was the mother of Rollo’s children. All that Haraldsson knew was that the children were very young. It was unlikely that any young mother with children remaining in the villages would survive. It was Tatha’s responsibility to ensure that these women and children were to die would not be Ambiani.

* * *

“My Lord, it has been done as you have said,” reported Arnst, a veteran of many campaigns. Killing in battle was an honourable act, however this killing of women and children and old people who had no way of defending themselves had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Arnst kept his thoughts to himself as he knew that Haraldsson would swiftly execute him, denying him the chance of going to Valhalla. A warrior needed to die in battle to win Valhalla.

“Are you sure that you have killed them all?”

“Yes, all my Lord. Women, children, and everyone else that was to be found in the village of Longpré.”

“Good. Now, burn the damn place to the ground. This village of Long will suffer the same fate.”

Eric Haraldsson was still seething with rage. The sacrifice of a complete village didn’t bring him any relief. His son was never coming back. At least Rollo’s children would never reach Valhalla either.

* * *

Bran stood beside his wife Gerloc as Tatha wept at the needless slaughter of innocents. The Ambiani had been hunted in the past, suffering untold numbers of deaths. Their tribe did not number very many in comparison to the past days when they were the owners of the river valley. There were too many people, too many who coveted the river valley. The tribe had dwindled. Survival was paramount.

Lifting her head, Tatha continued to let her tears course down her shrunken cheeks. “Derelie, you must take your children deep into the forests. You must never return here, nor should they. You will need a new name. You can no longer be Rollo’s woman. The world will only know that Derelie and her children were massacred by King Haraldsson, a vengeance killing. Already, that message has been sent to Abbéville and Amiens. Haraldsson must believe he has succeeded. Derelie, Apadeva, and Lug are no more.”

Derelie nodded her response. It would be as her grandmother had instructed.

As their longboats approached the settlement of Rouen the next morning, it was obvious that many people were trying to escape the settlement. With so many longboats filling the river on the approach to Rouen, the fear in the city was palpable.

“Look at them flee,” snorted Halfdan in disgust.

“Just remember, before we pillage the city, we first kill the men and then loot the buildings. Remember as well, that the women and children will be our greatest treasure here. Don’t kill any women or children. Raping will be allowed in good time, but only when the battle is won, not until then. Do you understand? I will kill any man who defies my commands.”

~

The men approached the town’s wooden gates, killing those men who had been caught outside of the gates before the gates were closed against the approaching Norsemen. No warrior stopped to engage in senseless slaughter of women and children, or those too old to be a threat. Still, screams of fear soon filled the air. Fear was doing the work of causing those behind the walls to panic. They believed that the same fate would soon befall them. It had been a generation since the last Nordic invaders had terrorized the town.

Blood sprayed as axes and swords carved a path towards the front gates of Rouen. Rollo’s men didn’t slow their march though they were sorely tempted. They followed Rollo’s instructions and strode purposely forward, with the mass of their fourteen hundred warriors arrayed in deep ranks

While Halfdan threatened from the front, Rollo and Thórólfr led a small contingent of men away from the gates, circling to the left, just inside the tree line so that they couldn’t be easily seen. Rollo was certain that all eyes would be directed at the large invading army at the front gates. Rollo knew that the town’s defences would be strongest facing the river. He was equally as certain that the weakest point would be on the opposite wall with the forest just behind it.

Rollo spotted a small gate and knew this would be the best way into the town. Too late, with the first hammer blows shattering the gate, the defenders realised that their enemy would be coming through their back door. The hammers worked to destroy the gate and a sizable portion of the wall. The screams of fear filled the air within the walls as more than a hundred Vikings rushed through the opening.

The defenders were caught in a bind. Should they rush to defend against the smaller force that had broken in through the back gate, the main force before the main gate would then batter down that gate. That indecision was all that it took for Rollo and his smaller band to rush through the dirt lanes towards the main gates, killing as they went.

Less than two hours later, Rollo’s men had killed most of the able-bodied defenders, though a few did escape, including the military commander of the town who had gone to seek help from the military leader of the Breton March, Hugh the Abbot.

“Why’d you let them escape?” asked Halfdan. “We could have caught them.”

“Think, Halfdan. They will bring more men back with them. Then, we’ll kill them too. Well, almost all of them. And then, it’ll be time for me to bargain with whomever is left alive.”

“Why bargain at all?”

“Why for the land itself. I have explained this to you before. We’ begin to carve out our new home right here. It all begins here in Rouen. We will control more land and will be bigger and richer than my father’s Kingdom of the Western Isles.”

* * *

The final battle had been waged and as he had predicted, Rollo stood victorious. Surprisingly, the loss of Norsemen had been far less than expected. And, that fact had been celebrated by his men who now had treasure a-plenty. As with all major battles between the forces of the Norse and the Franks, the victor would claim spoils. Rollo met with Hugh the Abbot in one of the churches, which had been spared.

“The King will pay handsomely for your retreat from Rouen,” Hugh said, as the post-battle negotiations began.

“I know that King Charles is an honourable man. However, I don’t seek to leave this table with thousands of pounds of silver and gold. I have a different kind of reward in mind.”

“Pray tell,” Hugh uttered in surprise. “Not gold and silver?”

“Of course, gold and silver, at least some gold and silver. After all, my men need to be given some spoils of war. I only want enough coinage to satisfy their immediate hunger. Rather than gold and silver for my share, I want land, this land and this city. In return, I will prevent other Norsemen from attacking Francia through the lands the King will cede to me.”

Hugh paled hearing the demands given by Rollo. He knew that King Charles needed these latest incursions into Francia to be stopped. The King didn’t have the forces to compel the Vikings to cease raiding and despoiling his country. Hugh sent a trusted messenger, with a protective company of soldiers, to the King with Rollo’s demands. 

“And now, Lord Rollo, we will wait to hear back from the King. And, as promised, your men will stand down.”

“Of course, Lord Hugh. After all, if things go as they should, we will soon be neighbours.”

Leading his flotilla of eleven longboats along the coast of Frisia, Rollo made sure to stop periodically. His men needed the chance to let loose, to engage in viking adventures. The months spent on land building the new settlement hadn’t been easy. There wasn’t much treasure to be won on their way back to the Western Isles, as most of the settlements they passed had been sacked too often. The coast had suffered too many Danish and Norse invasions over the past fifty years.

For Rollo, though, there wasn’t any expectation of treasure. He saw each of these sorties as opportunities to have his men stay positive and hungry for more as the made their way towards his father’s Kingdom. Rollo was wise enough to know that the men had followed him because they were loyal to his father, Kettil. Rollo’s task was to have them become loyal to him in spite of his youth. It was rare that a sixteen-year-old became a leader of a viking expedition.

Crossing the sea to reach Scotland, Rollo stopped at a river town called Aberdeen. The town had been a frequent and favourite stopping point for travel both too and from his father’s kingdom. As they approached the docks, Halfdan noticed something amiss. The usual bustle of the port town was missing.

“We need to find out what is going on here before we allow the men to leave the boats,” Halfdan suggested. I don’t like what I am seeing here.”

Rollo agreed with Halfdan who had suggested that a very small group of men would have a better chance of mingling in the town to find out what was going on.

“We need to take the fleet upriver a league or two and wait for darkness to fall before we enter the town,” Rollo added. “We will more easily be able to discover what is going on.”

As dusk began to deepen into night, Rollo, Halfdan, and three other men entered the village on foot wearing inconspicuous clothing, including a hooded jacket. They followed along the river road past closed buildings searching for the Inn of the Flying Dragon, an Inn that had been their main meeting place alongside the river in the past. Better inns were to be found further from the river’s edge.

At the Inn, they edged in as unobtrusively as possible while a few drunks wobbled out the door to take a piss on the bank of the river. Rollo’s size was noticed, however that interest soon faded as the call to urinate took precedence. The five men sat at a table at the edge of the serving room, a small table that was tucked into a corner. Halfdan nodded his approval of the location. He ordered mugs of ale by holding up one hand showing his thumb and fingers. There was no need to speak to get service in the noisy tavern.

Rollo gave a start when he spotted Thórólfr sitting at a large table with at least eight others. He nodded to Rollo in recognition. Seeing him, Rollo let his gaze quickly go over the rest of the patrons at the Inn, searching for his father and brother. He was surprised that they weren’t at Thórólfr’s table, and even more surprised not to see them anywhere within the inn. Within moments, Thórólfr approached Rollo’s table dragging a stool with him.

“He’s not here, Rollo.”

“Where is he? I can’t remember the last time I ever saw you without him being at your side,” Rollo said, with concern in his voice.

“Haraldsson has murdered both your father and your brother. Not satisfied, he has declared you as a murderer as punishment for the use of a Blood Eagle execution.”

“How did that happen? When did that happen?” Rollo blurted out in surprise.

“Three weeks ago, in Danmǫrk. Before that, Haraldsson had seized the Western Isles during our absence.”

“What about my father’s men and longboats? Is everything lost?”

“No, not everything. I have scattered our boats and our men along the coast to the south. Haraldsson controls the north and all the islands. He dares not to come south. He fears the Saxons.”

“How did you survive and escape?”

“Fate and the gods are my only guesses,” Hrólfr stated with a shrug. “I have managed to gather about twenty-five longboats and twelve hundred warriors, with everyone waiting for you to replace your father. All of us want revenge.

Three years later, Rollo sat beside his older brother Gurim, pulling on the same oar, while their father Kettil manned the rudder. Both brothers had crossed over to their father’s longboat for the last day of travel to the Western Isles. The long ship had entered the mouth of the river at the end of a long narrow bay. A small fishing village along the north shore of the river was ignored as they moved further west to reach a larger settlement, a Pict settlement.

It was at this settlement that Kettil had his great hall as king. Kettil’s longboat was the first of more than twenty such boats that would make up the bulk of his next viking expedition. Another eleven longboats would be arriving the next day. Kettil had installed a trusted Pict named Brest as the village headman, a necessity with so much of Kettil’s time spent away, either for viking or for travels to Norway and Danmǫrk. Rollo had reverted to his real name, Hrólfr. Only Derelie used his new name. 

Kettil noticed a pair of longboats docked next to five smaller sea vessels that belonged to the Pict settlement. The two boats displayed the banner of Eric Haraldsson.

“When did Haraldsson arrive?” Kettil asked Brest, the man he had assigned as his village headman.

“Haraldsson isn’t here. He sent his son, Aethelred. He arrived with the morning tide, my Lord.”

Kettil nodded and spoke to his youngest son, “Be careful, Hrólfr. Aethelred Ericsson is a jealous young man. He’s as treacherous as his father.”

“Yes, father. I will be careful.”

~

This was the second time Rollo had been able to return to the village in the Western Isles of Scotland since he had brought Derelie there three years earlier. Most of his time was spent in Danmǫrk when they weren’t out viking. Danmǫrk was his mother’s homeland. The last time Rollo had been to see Derelie and his two children, had been the previous autumn. It was then that he had first met his son Lugos, a baby who had his mother’s dark hair. Though he now had a son, Rollo had no attachment to the baby boy. There was no time or room in his life for either a wife or children. The return to the village was only to last for a few days, as Kettil had promised his men a full season of viking along the Frisian and Frankish coast.

Walking beside his father and brother, Rollo already stood taller than them though he had only just turned sixteen. A group of children ran ahead of the three, shrieking with excitement. The older boys were using sticks as swords while pretending they were fighting the Irish and the Saxons. The headman’s stone house was perched on a small hill surrounded by a palisade of wooden logs which had been sharpened at the tops. Inside the palisade, a collection of crofts and sheds were teeming with both human and animal activity. The smell was rank after the clean smell of the sea. As with all such villages, the stench was most noticeable closest to the palisade.

~

The headman, Brest, son of Ferath, was a very minor noble in the Pictish realm of King Domnall, son of Alpín. The village was near the southwestern edge of the Pictish kingdom. The lands of the Angles and Saxons were on the mainland, and the Irish were constant invaders contesting ownership of the islands. Like all Picts, Brest had the dark complexion that was common to the Basques of the Pyrenees. The Picts were an anomaly in the northern countries with their black hair and dark olive complexions. They preferred to be called Keltis rather than Picts. The Romans had called them Picts, a derogatory term which named them as wild, blue-painted savages.

The Kingdom of the Western Isles was predominantly settled by these Picts. Kettil had brought others to the scattered settlements. Norse families of his warriors who had relocated because of constant civil wars in their homelands. Added to their numbers were the women and children who had been taken as bounty during viking raids. The children were adopted into the Norse and Pict families. The women either found new mates or were kept as slaves. Already, Kettil’s kingdom was becoming a melting pot of cultures.

The only exception for his kingdom was the exclusion of Christians. The Celtic and the Nordic religions were able to peacefully co-exist without the need to force beliefs on each other. Kettil was a Norseman who had carved out a kingdom of sorts out of these Western Islands. Kettil and his men stood between the Irish who wanted the islands and the highlands on the mainland of Scotland for themselves. The Kingdom of the Picts which was also being encroached by the Saxons from the south.

~

Several young men stood beside Brest, all but one of them were his sons. Like their father, they wore intricate designs tattooed on their faces and bodies. Though it was early spring, they wore only half skirts. There was no doubt that they were Brest’s sons, like their father. 

Standing off to the side, behind Brest was Rollo’s young bride, Derelie who held the boy Lugos, in her arms while her daughter, Apadeva stood fiercely beside her. Like the Picts, she wore blue tattoos on her arms. She had different designs which reflected her Ambiani parentage and culture. And like Brest’s sons she was a warrior. Few women in the village weren’t warriors. Rollo gave Derelie a smile before turning to listen to Brest and his father.

Standing near the welcoming party, was a young man a few years older than Rollo, named Aethelred Ericsson, the son of Eric Haraldsson. Aethelred was Rollo’s distant cousin. Aethelred Ericsson was a Norseman. Aethelred’s father had stolen Kettil’s sister in a raid just over twenty years earlier. Though Aethelred was kin, there was no familial bond.

“Brest, good to see you again, old friend,” Kettil began. “All is well?”

“As good as can be expected, Kettil” Brest answered with a grin.

“I see that the village is prosperous.”

“I’m not counting on it, Kettil. With your permission, I want to move some of my people across the sea to our ancestral lands along the Somme River. Our cousins, the Ambiani could use our help there. That’s the reason for the five boats at the dock. As well, I’m getting too old for constant warfare here against the Irish and the Saxons. I’ll leave my eldest son as Jarl, with your permission of course,” Brest added with a deferring nod to Kettil.

“Do you think it will be any more peaceful in Picardy?” Kettil asked with a hint of amusement twinkling in his eyes.

“With your help, I have no doubt about it. Together we could build a more peaceful sanctuary for some of our grandchildren. In time, Gurim will become King, and his sons and daughters will stand beside my oldest sons and their offspring, here in the Western Isles. I would take my youngest children, and my wife with me.”

“We’ll talk on this later, Brest. For now, let’s eat and drink. I hope you still have some of that excellent ale your wife makes.”

~

It wasn’t long before most of the company sat at long tables set in front of the main house. Brest and his council of both Pict and Norse elders had Kettil and his sons, along with two other Norsemen arranged themselves around two long tables in the main hall. Kettil sat at the head of the table as King. Brest sat at Kettil’s right and Gurim sat at his left side. Women sat at the table as well, Brest’s wife and daughters, as well as the wives of Brest’s community leaders.

Other tables were set up as well to fit in a good portion of the community. For the rest of the community and for the warriors who had joined Kettil for the season of viking to come, tables were set up in nearby buildings.  Derelie had taken her rightful place beside her husband, Rollo. Aethelred sat on the other side of Derelie, casting a look of defiance at Rollo, which Rollo dismissed.

After more than a few mugs of ale, Rollo pulled his young wife onto his lap. Derelie smiled at him, a real smile. She had plans for later in the evening, plans that would hopefully have Rollo impregnate her once again. A woman’s power increased with motherhood. The more children a woman had, the greater her power over her husband.  Her smile caused him to look more carefully at her. Seeing the glint in her eyes, he grinned in anticipation of pleasure to follow the feast.

Aethelred spoke out just as Rollo prepared to take Derelie to her bedchamber.

“Your father stole this land from my father.”

“What in the name of the gods are you talking about?” roared Rollo as he turned to confront his cousin. “You dare slander my father, the true King of the Western Isles?”

“True king? Seriously? You don’t become a king by declaring yourself a king. The Western Isles still belong to my father.

Aethelred’s words shocked both Brest and Kettil whose attention had been drawn to the clash of words further down the table. Before either of them could say a word, Aethelred stood and challenged Rollo.

“You might be taller, but you are still a child, cousin. You don’t deserve such a fine woman. If she’d only known better, she’d have refused to have you in her bed. She deserves a better man, a real man, like me.”

At those words, Rollo lost his temper. Moments later, Aethelred lay on the dirt, stunned that he had been so easily knocked down. Getting up, still rubbing his jaw, Aethelred swore an oath, “You will pay for that, Hrólfr.” Then turning to face the rest at the table, he added, “You will all pay for this insult,” before he left the table.

Kettil gave Brest and angry look.

“Why is Aethelred here anyway? You know that his father and I are mortal enemies. What are you up to, Brest?”

“I swear, Kettil, I am not up to anything. He arrived here several days ago. He told me that he had a message to give to you from his father. At the time, it sounded to me as if the message was to sue for peace.”

“So, he didn’t tell you the message?”

“No, Kettil, not yet. Perhaps we have both just received that message.”

The next year, Rollo, along with his brother Gurim and their father, Kettil, like other years, had embarked on another season of viking. Once again, they stopped at the village of Long. The village had prospered under the Danes working with the Ambiani. And, to Rollo’s surprise, his teen-aged wife, Derelie had given birth to a girl child named Apadeva.

Their stop in Long had been brief. Kettil had brought thirty-five longboats down river after having met little resistance at Abbéville. Their objective was an assault on the growing city of Amiens. Rollo was given his own longboat to command for the assault. It took less than half a day for them to reach Amiens from Long. Using the element of surprise, the fifteen hundred Norsemen met little resistance. There was plunder enough for all who survived the clash of French forces led by the Count of Amiens.

Once the battle was done and the treasures were loaded onto the longboats, Kettil had Hrólfr, as well as Kettil’s eldest son, Gurim take most of the men and the treasure back to their island kingdom in Scotland. Keeping four longboats, including the longboat that had been commanded by Rollo, he made a second stop in the village of Long.  Rollo road in his father’s longboat as Kettil had things that needed to be said to his son.

As they allowed the current and the sails to move the longboats, Kettil spoke to his son who had boarded Kettil’s longboat.

“Hrólfr, it’s my dream that someday you will build your own kingdom here in Francia. As you know, Gurim will become King of the Western Isles. Francia is getting weak as the Dukes and Counts carve out parts of the kingdom for themselves.”

Rollo already knew what his father’s intentions despite never openly talked about it. Being appointed Jarl of Long and married to Derelei, had told young Rollo this.

“Francia is falling apart while Flanders and Frisia grow stronger. Now is the time for us to claim a piece of Francia for our own. This land along the river would make a better home for our people. This land is richer than the thin soil in the Western Isles, even better than in Danmǫrk, your mother’s homeland.”

Though Rollo had seen very little of Danmǫrk, he had seen enough to know the truth of his father’s words. He would become a king in his own right, with his own kingdom along this river.

They stopped at Long. Tatha and the Ambiani council met with Kettil and his most trusted men, including his son Rollo. The setting for the meeting was in a forest glen with what looked like a sacred stone in the centre. Tatha commanded silence simply by standing up to address Kettil and his son.

“Kettil and Rollo. You must now take Derelie and Apadeva with you to your own kingdom. She is to stay among your people for two years to better learn your customs. Then, in the late spring of the third year, she will be returned to us with her children, Apadeva and a boy who will be named Lugos.”

Kettil stared at the Tatha with surprise. He knew that he had just been told another prophecy, one that would come to pass whether he willed it or not. How that prophecy would unfold was unknown and would not be told this old woman.

And so it came to be that Rollo took Derelie to the Kingdom of the Western Isles.

In the two hundred years since Alba and Gyr journeyed to the sacred stone, fewer and fewer young couples made the journey from scattered villages. The Church wisely folded local folklore into their attempts to convert the pagans who held fast to the old ways. In Inverugie, the village where Alba and Gyr returned and raised a family, had become prosperous enough that it allowed the Church to accumulate a small fortune in treasures. The priest had been joined by a few more monks, including two young men from the village. Word of the church’s riches spread along the coastal region, reaching the Western Isles, a group of islands claimed as a small kingdom by Kettil Bjornsson, the Flatnose.

Kettil’s youngest son, Hrólfr, had just turned thirteen and was already as big as most of his men. His older son, Gurim was old enough to captain his own longboat. The pull of treasures was all that was needed for a season of viking. Hrólfr needed to be blooded if he was to become a captain of his own longboat. Their mother was a Dane from Heiðabýr, Danmǫrk. Hrólfr took after his mother’s family in size and stature while Gurim was obviously Kettil’s son in appearance and temperament.

“You sail with me,” Kettil told Hrólfr.

~

The flotilla of longboats entered the mouth of the River Ugie. Seeing their approach, many of the villagers disappeared into the peat bogs carrying their most prized possessions, their children. It had been years since the last raid which had seen their young women taken as captives.

Hrólfr had shown ferocity as he wielded a long sword. Kettil had his trusted second in command, Thórólfr, and Gurim to fight alongside Hrólfr. Despite his size, Hrólfr was just a youth. As the men rushed to the shore, Hrólfr held back, waiting to see the bigger scene. He saw a villager disappear down a back lane, away from the charge. Hrólfr waited a few moments to see the warriors commit to their targets, then he turned to follow the villager.

He found the villager standing in front of a rough-looking shed, holding a sharpened pitchfork. With him were two other men. They glared at Hrólfr as though daring him to make a stupid move. With a burst of unexpected speed, turning to avoid the pitchfork, Hrólfr struck with his sword. The villager was left holding his stomach as his entrails began to escape the wound inflicted.

Not stopping to finish off the villager, Hrólfr felled the most dangerous of the two remaining men, with a mighty swing which removed the arm holding a staff with a knotted club. The third man took off at a run. It was just then that Thórólfr emerged from behind a wagon. He had watched the scene unfold, ready to save the youth if needed.

“You risked yourself needlessly, Hrólfr,” he said with a seriousness that surprised Hrólfr. “You know full well that we fight together, protecting each other.”

Hrólfr stopped smiling at his easy victory. Thórólfr had spoken truth. There was a code for the warriors. It was his first turn at viking, and he had already broken that code. 

~

Children and elders were left alone, while men were slain defending their homes. Once victory had been claimed with the looting of the church, Kettil’s men took their pleasure with the surviving women. With so many of the village men felled, some of the women were claimed by the Norsemen. Life with a man was hard enough, but not to have a man to protect her and provide for her and her children would have been a fate worse than death. Being claimed by a Norseman was a chance to survive. Few protested. Those that did were slain. Those not claimed were left to live in the village when the warriors left.

Kettil didn’t engage in the celebratory activities nor did Thórólfr who brought Hrólfr to his father. Gurim was with the rest of the men.

“Kettil, your son has something to tell you.”

Kettil had seen Hrólfr leave the group. He had also seen Thórólfr follow the lad into the village. Thórólfr moved silently like a wolf tracking prey. Hrólfr was too intent on his own prey to sense being followed.

“Faðir, I took a needless risk in leaving the other men. I was curious about a villager who appeared to be going to his own small treasures to perhaps hide them.”

“And?”

“He was met by two other men who were armed. When the man I was following turned to attack me, I gutted him. Then as one of the other two moved to strike me with a long-shafted club, I cleaved off his arm. The third man fled.”

“What about the treasure? You said you followed him in search of more treasure.”

“I … I didn’t think of treasure at that point. When Thórólfr appeared, I realised that I had not followed your instructions. I have shamed you and myself.”

~

The next morning, Kettil and his small flotilla left Inverugie behind. Kettil had an unspoken objective somewhere on River Samara. With hard sailing, it was a journey that would take seven days. Kettil was in no rush as he wanted to give his men another opportunity to viking before reaching the river. He planned on pushing for three days to reach a place called Grimr’s village. There they would enjoy Danish hospitality and replenish their water and food supplies.  A night of conviviality with compatriots would do his men good. Kettil used the opportunity to learn more about what had been happening in the wider world. Information was vital.

Another two days took them to Gipeswic, at the mouth of a large bay which split into three rivers.  The coastal village provided an opportunity to gather more treasure and satisfy the hunger of viking. 

The speed and surprise of their attack had the haul of treasure exceed the riches gathered at Inverugie. Kettil wasted no time in pulling away from the coastline following the raid. It was time to cross to reach the River Samara.