Stybbor. We beat them at Gipeswic, and again at Margate. The Danes are finished … or near enough.’
There was a roar of acclamation led by Gram and others of Holgar’s retainers deep in their cups.
‘Nevertheless,’ continued Malgard, ‘all here are in your debt, Holgar. And we pray that you will continue to lead us and keep us safe until young Gram has the years and wisdom to take over.’
There were more shouts of approval, this time from the younger men who had grown up with Gram or joined Holgar’s household more recently and looked to Gram as their natural leader. Holgar frowned with small disapproval as he noted that Brand was shouting with the rest and it seemed to him unfitting that a boy destined for the church should be carousing with warriors. He would say something about it later though, as Malgard was still giving his toast.
‘To Holgar!’ cried Malgard raising his cup. ‘To Gram … and to the continuation of Holgar’s line for many sons … into the years uncountable!’
Malgard drained his cup and all cheered his fine words and drank deeply as the sun began to sink behind the green, western hills, while the serving girls brought platters of sweetmeats to follow the beef, mutton, pork, fish and fowl that had already been consumed in vast quantities with breads, broths and greens, and ever more ale and wine.
Holgar found himself relaxing – understanding that the various arms of his family were falling into their rightful places. Malgard had spoken well and Holgar resolved to reward his younger brother with a stretch of forest and fen to the south that would need draining but would doubtless prove very fertile, and there was game aplenty in the woods. It would require hard work but a man needed work to be happy and the end of the Viking raids would afford him time to grow into his proper place in the family – a lesser place now Gram was grown into his manhood – but an honoured place nonetheless.
Yes, Malgard deserved a reward, he thought, clapping a huge arm about his brother’s shoulder.
∞ ∞ ∞
I was not accustomed to drinking ale. At least, I had never drunk so much of it in my almost fifteen years, but with my life about to change so profoundly, I wanted to know what it was like to be drunk. I matched the warriors cup for cup, hanging on the edge of their conversations and laughing at their jests. It was wonderful and I felt even sadder at the prospect of the monastery. Monks spend little time jesting about raping women and vomiting beer, or so I had thought.
And before long, I had my wish. What started as an ecstatic feeling of power and destiny soon became a thick and heavy sickness. I had been staring at the muddy ground as the men joked, and suddenly my head was whirling, and I was staring up from the mud at the early evening sky, fringed with a ring of laughing faces. And then vomit burst from my guts to cover my face and the fine linen blouse my mother had imported from Bruxels for the wedding.
Then the laughter ceased and the cold voice of my father reached me through the fog of my sickness.
‘Fine behaviour for a man of God,’ he growled. ‘Get up!’
I was raised to my feet by Guthred, the youngest of my father’s retainers and, with his help, made it to the latrines where (naturally) the overwhelming shit stink caused me to start retching. Desperate not to vomit again in front of my father, I lurched past the heavy canvas flap and was quickly bent over the logs above the pit, from which arose the sulphurous breath of Satan. Immediately a great gush of vomit erupted from my very core and it seemed the stench grew even worse, as though the vomit was stirring the piles of turd and gallons of piss to release more of their noxious vapour – all of it funnelled up into my face. And just the thought of that seemed to make me vomit again. Guthred pissed into the pit just next to me, and so my afternoon continued.
It’s possible that I slept but after some time, I became dimly aware of shouting and the clinking of fine, glass goblets, and so I thought that more toasts were being made to the bride and groom. Somehow the clinking of glass became the clash of metal blades and, with my face still full in the blast of stench, I idly wondered whether some entertainment featuring sword play had been arranged.
Then another wave of nausea ripped through me but there was nothing left to spew and I simply lay along the log with my guts clenching and spitting the foul taste of bile and beer into the pit. It occurred to me that this might be a good time to approach my father to ask his permission to join the fyrd instead of the monastery. Clearly my behaviour did not merit the intimate acquaintance of God (even if He did seem to be paying close attention to my thoughts and sending messages). I found myself giggling as I remembered the shitting horse and wondering what Waldo would have to say about God’s arcane responses to my thoughts and desires. Then in the church I had wished to become a warrior and—
Suddenly the shouting and the clash of swords was close and an unfamiliar voice bellowed in a strange language – a hoarse guttural shout full of violence, reality and imminent death and I felt rather than heard heavy footsteps coming to the latrine. Without further thought, I tumbled face first into the pit – too terrified even to notice the thick, stinking slop in which I lay, half submerged.
I heard the canvas snatched back and the sound of swords and screaming was loud. My mind was strangely cleared of its ale fog and I moved not an inch, but the pit was not deep. If they were looking for fugitives I would surely be found.
Suddenly, my world darkened and, to my profound disgust, I realised what was about to happen.
Even warriors in the midst of battle need to shit.
∞ ∞ ∞
Victory was always sweet reflected Ulrik Dragontooth. Even victories won cheaply by sudden ambush over drunken warriors were a matter for celebration and song. It was a victory of cunning and strategy, which although more pleasing to Loki than to Thor, would still be accounted to his credit in Valhalla. He would drink there, perhaps, with Holgar who had been a mighty warrior until the day of his doom when he had been confused at the sudden appearance of Danes among the wedding party, then infuriated, then terrified as he realised that his weaponless men, drunk and helpless were being methodically cut down by the invaders.
Holgar had died badly. Armed only with a ceremonial sword – jewelled, light and useless – he’d stood shoulder to shoulder with Gram and Malgard until Malgard jumped out of the line to pursue the lightly armed and terrified Irish slave prodded into his path. Then Holgar was surrounded by Ulrik’s men and cut down with his son, confronted at the last with Malgard’s silver dagger. But doubtless Holgar would laugh about it with Ulrik when they met in Valhalla.
Ulrik shifted his buttocks on the uncomfortable log. His guts were churning and he suspected the pig meat he’d eaten in the morning had not been properly cooked. The fight had lasted only minutes and already the men were slaking their various thirsts and hungers while he had raced for the nearest latrine. The women, mostly, had survived. The bride, as Malgard had promised, was indeed beautiful in her terror and on the day of her wedding would have some twenty husbands, lucky girl.
Finally the turd erupted from Ulrik’s arse and he grunted with satisfaction, immediately feeling a lot better. He squeezed out another couple of gushers of brown water but failed to notice the muffled exclamation of disgust that came from the pit below him.
‘Ulrik!’
The voice was Malgard’s.
‘Leave me in peace you treacherous Saxon turd!’ he shouted, knowing that Malgard would not understand him, but would recognise his voice. Seconds later, the canvas flap was torn back and Malgard entered with Carl Two-tongues.
‘It is over,’ said Malgard. ‘All the men are dead, save a few scattered townsfolk, whom I will need for rebuilding. I have ordered an end to the killing.’
Ulrik laughed in response to Carl’s simultaneous translation.
‘And my men … they took heed of your order?’
‘Of course,’ said Malgard.
‘I rather doubt it,’ replied Ulrik, straining to squeeze the last of the poisonous turd from his guts. ‘My