Traveller Inceptio

The dim grey dawn brought life to the bedraggled camp as Guthorm strode from his simple shelter. He had managed to sleep, despite much of the night before being spent in rallying his brothers against the cowards. The Aenglish were routed yet again in their attempt to attack in the night. Though his brave men hadn’t killed anyone, none of his men had died or been wounded, thanks be to the old Gods.

Guthorm, son of Horskuld, stopped at the communal pot, scooped some of the foul-tasting stew into a bowl, and ate quickly. His chief lieutenant, the giant Ingimund, stopped to join him and they sat on a log together. “By the Gods, this stew is bad,” the big man grumbled, his battered face and broken nose making his scowl even more terrible. The tales had been that he had received the scar in a duel with a shipmate. The seax, looted from an Aenglish warrior, had carved Ingimund’s face before he bashed in the offender’s head with a rock.

Guthorm nodded. Ingimund was a good man to have on your side.

When they had finished, they threw the bowls aside to be cleaned by the young lads. “Let us hope that today is the day,” suggested Ingimund with an ugly smile. Having lost a tooth recently, his smile was even more gruesome. Ingimund had many reasons to smile of late. Wealth in their communal loot sack was one, and the deflowering of many an Aenglish lass another. How many had their last view of their earthly existence as the mighty Ingimund raped and strangled them? Guthorm shrugged, for such matters were not his concern, as long as his men were satisfied.

“Yes. Our time will come.” Guthorm turned to his lieutenant and smiled his lopsided smile. “Today, tomorrow; it will come. We’ll find them and then we’ll wipe them out like rats.”

Ingimund grunted and absent-mindedly pulled at his long, scruffy beard. “Then we join King Tjúguskegg? Or?”

Guthorm screwed up his face. “Well, let’s sort out one thing at a time, my friend. First we sack their hideout and we kill them all: root and branch, man, woman, and child. They dare attack us, so they must learn.”

“There should be good loot,” suggested the scarred man. He leaned forward with a grimace to fart loudly. “We need more meat,” he complained. “The game is almost gone from here and even the fish have been cleaned out. These bastards eat too damned much.” He gestured to the rest of the camp where the men shuffled around. Even now, at daybreak, Guthorm noted with approval that the men were alert. He had lost too many. Having survived the perilous voyage without mishap and then rampaging across the Aenglish countryside without a casualty made the last few days even more galling. He would have to provide for the dead men’s widows and children, as promised.

“Those idiots who got themselves killed,” mused Guthorm. “I think the village may be stronger than we think. There was only one of their dead at the river? Only the skinny monk?”

Ingimund nodded, “Aye, just one. The lads say they travelled with a cart and a horse or two, so most could have been on foot.”

“And our men still can’t find them?” asked Guthorm irritably.

“Oh, they will,” grunted Ingimund. “We found the cart and waited, but two of our lads were killed, as you know.” He took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. “I heard that these Aenglish are of the forest. They vanish into the trees so you can have one or two right next to you and not see them.”

“Yet we finally killed two more of them last night,” smiled Guthorm.

Ingimund shrugged. “Ya, we did. We hoped to make them talk, but they fought and died.” He sniffed in disdain, “Two less. Don’t worry. We’ll find them.”

Guthorm felt another wave of irritation, “Well, we must find them soon. I don’t like the thought of eating shit like this for too long.”

A few of the men ladled the mess into a bowl, sniffed the food and grumbled, before moving off to scoop it into their mouths using their grubby fingers.

Ingimund grunted, farted again, and grumbled, “Bloody stew: makes me fart.”

“More than usual, you mean?” Guthorm smiled.

Ingimund gave another grunt and grinned in reply.

Guthorm frowned again and spoke reflectively, “The Aenglish have been weak. How could we know? They took us by surprise, I’ll grant that. We should have had no losses. I sent the lads ahead to loot the smaller villages. They’re the ones who told me about Giolgrave and the monastery tucked away in the mysterious forest. It must be a rich one.” He looked to his lieutenant. “We’ll find them. Monasteries are always a source of loot, for the Christians give their God silver, precious stones, and costly cloths. Why an all-powerful God would need those things is anyone’s guess.” He looked around at his men, all tough and seasoned fighters, good faithful Karls. “These are good men.”

Ingimund grunted. “Aye. Good enough. Doing this beats doing their farming or working at the smithy. You’ve given them a good chance to get the silver we all need, Jarl Guthorm. We’ll finish off this village and get our loot back and then these shitheads will be rich.”

Guthorm nodded, knotted his hands together, and leaned onto his knees in thought. Yes, today had to be the day. Finally, his birthright was in his grasp. As second cousin to the wife of the king, Sveinn Tjúguskegg, who the Aenglish called Forkbeard, Guthorm was a jarl of noble birth and all he sought, indeed all his life was worth, was to bolster the standing of himself and his family.

Yet for too long his family had languished in obscurity. His father, Horskuld, had been sent to the dining halls of Woden some years previously while on a raid of the Aenglish coast and had left his sons in debt and penniless. Only through blind fury and ambition had Guthorm been able to distinguish himself as a warrior of note, building his reputation until he personally led his Karls on productive raids on southern Aenglish villages, raids that rendered surprising abundance. Here, in this land, if a man was determined enough and hard enough, there was silver and slaves that brought honour and glory, and even better, his ability to purchase his own two sleek, ocean-going ships.

Some ruling jarls might live in fine halls and lead lives filled with hunting, drinking and listening to the great ballads, but that was not the lot of the family of Horskuld. Since he was small, Guthorm had worked as a fisherman and forester, and took every opportunity to learn the ways of the sea. His family came so close to becoming lowly braell—those unable to pay their debts—that Guthorm was convinced they avoided that fate only through the intervention of the Gods themselves. He would have exist at the level of slaves, a miserable, meaningless life where he, his brothers, and his dear mother would have worked for another until the debt was paid, or until they died.

Guthorm growled at the memory. Death would have been better.

One of the old jarls, old Jarl Hakon, had been the change that Guthorm needed. He had noticed the young lad, heard his story, and in return for a few sly fondles, had given him a berth on one of his son’s ships. Finally, Guthorm’s luck turned as the raid to Aengland bore surprisingly rich pickings. He was young, strong, and fierce, and it was only a few more raids before Guthorm not only paid off the family debt, but had also gained a reputation as a ruthless and intelligent man, a good man to have on crew.

It was a few scant years before he led his own raids that earned enough to meet the cost to rent the ship and pay a fair share to the men who accompanied him. He even kept some silver for himself. Soon he became noticed by his cousin, and therefore by the king. Consequently, as the king prepared to increase his realm, Guthorm had been offered, or more correctly put–obliged, to join the fleet to conquer Aengland once and for all. That meant more expenses for the fitting out of his ships, upgrading his shield, and purchasing provisions for the men, a process that required more debt, more commitments, and placed himself and his family at risk yet again.

As Jarl, Guthorm depended upon the goodwill of his supporters, so had to take risks. One day he would rise above the rabble to become rich and gain the all-important prestige, power, and authority he so deserved.

Those in power recognised young Guthorm as a man to watch, though some of the ruling families were unsure how to treat this upstart. Words were whispered and plots laid, but the king was no fool. Sveinn Tjúguskegg knew when plots eddied and swirled around a man, that he was one worth watching for all the right reasons. King Tjúguskegg surrounded himself with fighters, the daring and the adventurous, those who desired wealth and conquering more than the burden of rule.

When King Tjúguskegg made the decision to milk the Aenglish before he conquered their land, the time for Jarl Guthorm, who had tied his lifeline to the sails of the King, had finally come.

The Aenglish had been weak and the resistance minimal. Since their arrival at the small village of Gainsborough, many of the Aenglish Lords and thegns had scurried to the Danish king’s new court, desperate for peace, offering weapons and hostages as a sign of fealty. But all knew there would be no peace, for the Viking commanders were eager to loot the land. Though incensed by the foul murder of the local Danes by the Aenglish years previously, they were more motivated by the promise of loot and building their wealth and influence, for it was no secret that Tjúguskegg had the Aenglish throne in mind. To satisfy his own loans, Tjúguskegg personally promised the more powerful jarls tracts of land on completion of conquest.

Tjúguskegg anointed his young son, Cnut, as the Jarl of Gainsborough to hold their base of operations in the north while he led his army south to capture and kill the Aenglish King Aethelred. The Aenglish king was unpopular, even with his own subjects, as he had been labelled with the demeaning nickname of ‘The Unready’. Given the right pressure, Tjúguskegg knew Aethelred ‘The Unready’ would soon either be killed or flee to exile and family in Normandy.

While the jarls scrambled for the king’s attention and his promises for the plum areas of Aengland, Guthorm made his supplication to venture inland and conquer the villages and towns to the west and southwest. He told the king he wished to subjugate the populace and prevent surprise attacks from that quarter. The unexpected tactic sidestepped many of the intrigues of court, satisfying the more powerful jarls while Guthorm appeared to distance himself from the king’s attention.

Guthorm’s real ambition was to build his personal wealth where there were few competitors. Silver; it was all about Aenglish silver. He had not only ensured the wealth and cooperation of his men, few in number they may be, but also ensured his own prosperity. He was determined to rape this land until he arrived into Lundenburh rich and able to repay debts, purchase ships and weapons, and gain the allegiance of more like him: men eager to make their mark on this new land of hope and opportunity.

Only hard men, tough men, would grow rich here and he was determined to rise above the lesser men around him. The king would recognise his name once again.

The plan had worked. As conqueror of this new kingdom, he would have the right to claim large tracts for himself and his men. Soon, others would flock to his shield for their share of the opportunities.

That was until they had come across this village, where the craven dogs had hidden their wealth with them. The monastery was empty. The only consolation was the fools had brewed up a passable beor, though it did give some of them the shits, as happens.

To make matters worse, the villagers had found their brothers, the fools who had let themselves be killed, and had stolen their most highly valued loot. To add insult to injury, the Saxon dogs attacked their camp, not like men, but as a thief in the night. A few of the men were killed, but worst of all, his nephew had taken an arrow in the face and eventually died. His sister knew the risks, but now Guthorm’s fury had turned cold. Now there would be no mercy, not that there ever would have been. There would be no slaves taken from this village called Giolgrave.

Last night they had finally made progress. They killed two Saxons patrolling the forest. Spotted by accident, there had been an attempt at capture, but they had put up such a fight, they had to be killed—an undeserved clean death by axe. His men made no secret they didn’t like this forest. More used to the pine woodlands of their homes, these forests seemed to brood, and some of the more foolish imagined dark and hostile forces hiding therein.

Deep in thought, Guthorm watched as one of the lads from the scouting patrols ran toward him. With the black mood he was in, the news had better be good.

The lad was so breathless he looked like he had sprinted to Gainsborough and back. A few of the men watched with interest as he rested his hands on his knees in his struggle to gain breath. Guthorm waited with barely concealed impatience.

“I have found them, Jarl Guthorm.” He paused to breathe again. “I have found the village.”

Guthorm’s eyes widened and he barked out a laugh and nodded to Ingimund as he stood and clapped the young lad a hefty gratulatory slap on his shoulder. “Are you certain, lad? Where are they?”

The lad stood and pointed in the general direction. “We saw their tracks and followed them to the hills yonder. There’s a small ravine and they look to have hidden the village there.” He paused to take another breath, “I was scouting with Bram and Eyjolf, my kin, and we saw faint tracks. I followed them and saw an open space and then defensive spikes. They have some men as guards.” He paused again to breathe. “I ran as fast as I could to let you know, my Jarl.”

Guthorm paused a moment to look at the lad in delight. He was plainly exhausted, and good to have run so far. Guthorm’s handsome face split into a grin. He clasped the lad at the back of the neck and kissed his cheek like a brother, then laughed aloud. “Well done, well done! Where are your kin? Are they safe?”

The lad smiled and blushed, “Aye, Lord, the Aenglish didn’t see them. They keep watch.”

“Good, good!” He spun on his heel and called out, “Ingimund, rally the men and send out messengers to call in the patrols. We’ve found the cowards.”