The Lords of the North (18 page)

The shipmaster, my master, was called Sverri Ravnson and had been one of the four men
who greeted me with blows. He was a head shorter than me, ten years older, and twice as
wide. He had a face flat as an oar-blade, a nose that had been broken to a pulp, a black
beard shot through with wiry grey strands, three teeth and no neck. He was one of the strongest
men I ever knew. He did not speak much.

He was a trader and his ship was called Trader. She was a tough craft, well built and
strongly rigged, with benches for sixteen oarsmen, though when I joined Sverri's crew he
only had eleven rowers so he was glad to have me to balance the numbers. The rowers were
all slaves. The five free crew members never touched an oar, but were there to relieve
Sverri on the steering oar, to make certain we worked, to ensure we did not escape and to
throw our bodies overboard if we died. Two, like Sverri, were Norsemen, two were Danes and
the fifth was a Frisian called Hakka and it was Hakka who riveted the slave manacles onto
my ankles. They first stripped me of my fine clothes, leaving only my shirt. They tossed me
a pair of louse-ridden breeches. Hakka, having chained my ankles, tore the shirt open at
the left shoulder and carved a big S

in the flesh of my upper arm with a short knife. The blood poured down to my elbow where
it was diluted by the first few specks of rain gusting from the west. 'I should burn your
skin,' Hakka said, 'but a ship's no place for a fire.' He scooped filth from the bilge and
rubbed it into the newly opened cut. It turned

foul, that wound, and wept pus and gave me a fever, but when it healed I was left with
Sverri's mark on my arm. I have it to this day. The slave mark almost had no time to heal,
for we all came near death that first night. The wind suddenly blew hard, turning the river
into a welter of small, hurrying whitecaps, and Trader jerked at her anchor line, and
the wind rose and the rain was being driven horizontally. The ship was bucking and
shuddering, the tide was ebbing so that wind and current were trying to drive us ashore,
and the anchor, that was probably nothing more than a big stone ring that held the ship by
weight alone, began to drag. 'Oars!' Sverri shouted and I thought he wanted us to row
against the pressure of wind and tide, but instead he slashed through the quivering hide
rope that tied us to the anchor and Trader leaped away. 'Row, you bastards!' Sverri
shouted, 'row!'

'Row!' Hakka echoed and slashed at us with his whip. 'Row!' 'You want to live?' Sverri
bellowed over the wind, 'row!' He took us to sea. If we had stayed in the river we would have
been driven ashore, but we would have been safe because the tide was dropping and the next
high tide would have floated us off, but Sverri had a hold full of cargo and he feared that
if he were stranded he would be pillaged by the sullen folk who lived in Gyruum's hovels.
He reckoned it was better to risk death at sea than to be murdered ashore, and so he took us
into a grey chaos of wind, darkness and water. He wanted to turn north at the river mouth
and take shelter by the coast and that was not such a bad idea, for we might have lain in the
lee of the land and ridden out the storm, but he had not reckoned with the force of the tide
and, row as we might, and despite the lashes put onto our shoulders, we could not haul the
boat back. Instead we were swept to sea and within moments we had to stop rowing, plug the
oar-holes and start bailing the boat. All night we scooped water from the bilge and chucked
it overboard and I remember the weariness of it, the bone-aching tiredness, and the fear
of those vast unseen seas as they lifted us and roared beneath us. Sometimes we turned
broadside onto the waves and I thought we must capsize and I remember clinging to a bench
as the oars clattered across the hull and water churned about my thighs, but somehow Trader
staggered upwards and we hurled water over the side, and why she did not sink I will never
know.

Dawn found us half waterlogged in an angry, but no longer vicious sea. No land was in
sight. My ankles were bloody for the manacles had bitten into the skin during the night,
but I was still bailing. No one else moved. The other slaves, I had not even learned their
names yet, were slumped on the benches and the crew was huddled under the steering
platform where Sverri was clinging to the steering oar and I felt his dark eyes watching
me as I scooped up buckets of water and poured them back to the ocean. I wanted to stop. I
was bleeding, bruised and exhausted, but I would not show weakness. I hurled bucket after
bucket, and my arms were aching and my belly was sour and my eyes stung from the salt and I
was miserable, but I would not stop. There was vomit slopping in the bilge, but it was not
mine.

Sverri stopped me in the end. He came down the boat and struck me across the shoulders
with a short whip and I collapsed onto a bench, and a moment later two of his men brought
us stale bread soaked in seawater and a skin of sour ale. No one spoke. The wind slapped the
leather halliards against the short mast and the waves hissed down the hull and the wind was
bitter and rain pitted the sea. I clutched the hammer amulet. They had left me that, for it
was a poor thing of carved oxbone and had no value. I prayed to all the gods. I prayed to
Njord to let me live in his angry sea, and I prayed to the other gods for revenge. I thought
Sverri and his men must sleep and when they slept I would kill them, but I fell asleep before
they did and we all slept as the wind lost its fury, and some time later we slaves were kicked
awake and we hauled the sail up the mast and ran before the rain towards the grey-edged
east.

Four of the rowers were Saxons, three were Norsemen, three were Danes and the last man
was Irish. He was on the bench across from me and I did not know he was Irish at first for he
rarely spoke. He was wiry, dark-skinned, black-haired and, though only a year

or so older than me, he bore the battle scars of an old warrior. I noted how Sverri's
men watched him, fearing he was trouble and when, later that day, the wind went southerly
and we were ordered to row, the Irishman pulled his oar with an angry expression. That was
when I asked him his name and Hakka came storming down the boat and struck me across the face
with a leather knout. Blood ran from my nostrils. Hakka laughed, then became angry because
I showed no sign of pain and so hit me again. 'You do not speak,' he told me, 'you are
nothing. What are you?' I did not answer, so he hit me again, harder. 'What are you?' he
demanded.

'Nothing.' I grunted.

'You spoke!' he crowded, and hit me again. 'You mustn't speak!' he screamed into my face
and slashed me around the scalp with his knout. He laughed, having tricked me into breaking
the rules, and went back to the prow. So we rowed in silence, and we slept through the dark,
though before we slept they chained our manacles together. They always did that and one
man always had an arrow on a bow in case any of us tried to fight as the man threading the
chain bent in front of us.

Sverri knew how to run a slave ship. In those first days I looked for a chance to fight and
had none. The manacles never came off. When we made port we were ordered into the space
beneath the steering platform and it would be closed up by planks that were nailed into
place. We could talk there and that is how I learned something of the other slaves. The four
Saxons had all been sold into slavery by Kjartan. They had been farmers and they cursed
the Christian god for their predicament. The Norsemen and Danes were thieves, condemned to
slavery by their own people, and all of them were sullen brutes. I learned little of Finan,
the Irishman, for he was tight-lipped, silent and watchful. He was the smallest of us, but
strong, with a sharp face behind his black beard. Like the Saxons he was a Christian, or at
least he had the splintered remnants of a wooden cross hanging on a leather thong, and
sometimes he would kiss the wood and hold it to his lips as he silently prayed. He might not
have spoken much, but he listened intently as the other slaves spoke of women, food and
the lives they had left behind, and I daresay they lied about all three. I kept quiet, just
as Finan kept quiet, though sometimes, if the others were sleeping, he would sing a sad
song in his own language. We would be let out of the dark prison to load cargo that went
into the deep hold in the centre of the ship just aft of the mast. The crew sometimes got
drunk in port, but two of them were always sober and those two guarded us. Sometimes, if we
anchored offshore, Sverri would let us stay on deck, but he chained our manacles together
so none of us could attempt an escape. My first voyage on Trader was from the storm-racked
coast of Northumbria to Frisia where we threaded a strange seascape of low islands,
sandbanks, running tides and glistening mudflats. We called at some miserable harbour
where four other ships were loading cargoes and all four ships were crewed by slaves. We
filled Trader's hold with eelskins, smoked fish and otter-pelts. From Frisia we ran south
to a port in Frankia. I learned it was Frankia because Sverri went ashore and came back in a
black mood. 'If a Frank is your friend,' he snarled to his crew, 'you can be sure he's not your
neighbour.' He saw me looking at him and lashed out with his hand, cutting my forehead with
a silver and amber ring he wore. 'Bastard Franks.' he said, 'bastard Franks!

Tight-moneyed misbegotten bastard Franks.' That evening he cast the runesticks on the
steering platform. Like all sailors, Sverri was a superstitious man and he kept a sheaf
of black runesticks in a leather bag and, locked away beneath the platform, I heard the thin
sticks clatter on the deck above. He must have peered at the pattern the fallen sticks made
and found some hope in their array, for he decided we would stay with the tight-moneyed
misbegotten bastard Franks, and at the end of three days he had bargained successfully
for we loaded a cargo of sword-blades, spear-heads, scythes, mail coats, yew logs and
fleeces. We took that north, far north, into the lands of the Danes and the Svear where he
sold the cargo. Frankish blades were much prized, while the yew logs would be cut into
plough-blades, and with the money he earned Sverri filled the boat with iron-ore that we
carried back south again. Sverri was good at managing slaves and very good at making
money. The coins fairly flowed into the ship, all of them stored in a vast wooden box kept
in the cargo hold. 'You'd like to get your hands on that, wouldn't you?' he sneered at us one
day as we sailed up some nameless coast. 'You sea-turds!'

The thought of us robbing him had made him voluble. 'You think you can cheat me? I'll kill
you first. I'll drown you. I'll push seal shit down your throats till you choke.' We said
nothing as he raved.

Winter was coming by then. I did not know where we were, except we were in the north and
somewhere in the sea that lies about Denmark. After delivering our last cargo we rowed
the unladen ship beside a desolate sandy shore until Sverri finally steered us up a
tidal creek edged with reeds and there he ran Trader ashore on a muddy bank. It was high tide
and the ship was stranded at the beginning of the ebb. There was no village at the creek,
just a long low house thatched with moss-covered reeds. Smoke drifted from the roof hole.
Gulls called. A woman emerged from the house and, as soon as Sverri jumped down from the
ship, she ran to him with cries of joy and he took her in his arms and swept her about in a
circle. Then three children came running and he gave each a handful of silver and tickled
them and threw them in the air and hugged them.

This was evidently where Sverri planned to winter Trader and he made us empty her of
her stone ballast, strip her sail, mast and rigging, and then haul her on log rollers so she
stood clear of the highest tides. She was a heavy boat and Sverri called on a neighbour from
across the marsh to help haul her with a pair of oxen. His eldest child, a son aged about
ten, delighted in pricking us with the ox goad. There was a slave hut behind the house. It
was made of heavy logs, even the roof was of logs, and we slept there in our manacles. By day
we worked, cleaning Trader's hull, scraping away the filth and weeds and barnacles. We
cleaned the muck from her bilge, spread the sail to be washed by rain, and watched hungrily
as Sverri's woman repaired the cloth with a bone needle and catgut. She was a stocky woman
with short legs, heavy thighs and a round face pockmarked by some disease. Her hands and arms
were red and raw. She was anything but beautiful, but we were starved of women and gazed at
her. That amused Sverri. He hauled down her dress once to show us a plump white breast and
then laughed at our wide-eyed stares. I dreamed of Gisela. I tried to summon her face to my
dreams, but it would not come, and dreaming of her was no consolation.

Sverri's men fed us gruel and eel soup and rough bread and fish stew, and when the snow
came they threw us mud-clotted fleeces and we huddled in the slave hut and listened to the
wind and watched the snow through the chinks between the logs. It was cold, so cold, and one
of the Saxons died. He had been feverish and after five days he just died and two of
Sverri's men carried his body to the creek and threw him beyond the ice so that his body
floated away on the next tide. There were woods not far away and every few days we would be
taken to the trees, given axes and told to make firewood. The manacles were
deliberately made too short so that a man could not take a full stride, and when we had
axes they guarded us with bows and with spears, and I knew I would die before I could reach
one of the guards with the axe, but I was tempted to try. One of the Danes tried before I
did, turning and screaming, running clumsily, and an arrow took him in the belly and he
doubled over and Sverri's men killed him slowly. He screamed for every long moment. His
blood stained the snow for yards around and he died so very slowly as a lesson to the rest of
us, and so I just chopped at trees, trimmed the trunks, split the trunks with a maul and
wedges, chopped again and went back to the slave hut.