The Sword of the Viking King Read online

  Contents

  Chapter One The Soldier

  Chapter Two Gytha the Grim

  Chapter Three King Alfred

  Chapter Four The Road to Athelney

  Chapter Five The Sword

  Chapter Six The Minstrel

  Chapter Seven The Battle

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  The Soldier

  Wessex, England, 878

  “Call yourself a soldier?” the boy said. He stood in the doorway of a poor cottage made of wood and mud. He crossed his arms and looked at the man who stood outside on the dusty path that led into the woods.

  The man wore armour made of leather and a helmet of iron. His face was a mask of blood and dust. “Well, I’ve fought a dozen battles, so I suppose that makes me a soldier,” he said. “What is your name?”

  “Ethelbert,” the boy said.

  “Ah, I had a brother called Ethelbert,” the soldier sighed. “He died. He was killed at the Battle of Merton.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ethelbert said. “But you’re still not much of a soldier, are you?”

  “I do my best,” the man sighed again.

  “I’m sure you do,” Ethelbert said. “What I’m saying is this … the Vikings keep beating us English. They beat us over in the east and now they’re heading this way.”

  “We did win a few battles,” the soldier offered.

  “You haven’t stopped them though, have you?” Ethelbert said, his small face turning red with rage. “They will take over Wessex and that will be it, my mum says. The Vikings will rule the whole of England. English children like me will be killed or become Viking slaves. And you … you soldiers … you are useless.”

  The soldier leaned wearily against the wall of the cottage. “I know we lost the last battle, but next time…”

  “Next time, King Gudrun the Viking will smash you, and his army will burn down our house. That’s what my mum says,” Ethelbert told the soldier.

  “Your mum says a lot,” the soldier said.

  “They call her Gytha the Grim because she’s so tough. My mum says that King Alfred is as much use as a bucket with a hole in it. Do you know, he paid the Vikings to go away?”

  “Yes…”

  “My mum says she could fight better than King Alfred. And my mum is never wrong. My mum reckons I could fight better than him. If I was a couple of years older, I’d beat King Gudrun with one hand tied behind my back.”

  The soldier blew out his cheeks. Dust from his lips speckled the sunlight that shone through the trees. “Do you think you could let me have a drink … a little ale? A bit of bread and cheese? Our army is scattered. I need to get back to our fort at Athelney.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” Ethelbert said with a sneer. “Better hurry or the Vikings might catch you.”

  “Would your mother be able to give me a little food?” the soldier said.

  Ethelbert sighed loudly, as if it was too much trouble to ask. But he looked through the low doorway and called, “Mum! There’s a man here who wants some food!”

  “We don’t feed beggars,” came the reply from inside. “Anyway, I’m busy baking.”

  The soldier leaned in and said, “I’m a soldier, madam. I’m not a beggar.”

  The woman had a pinched, mean-mouthed face like her son. She looked up from the fire where small, flat loaves were baking on an iron pan.

  “If you want some bread, you can earn it, young man,” she snapped. “You can watch the pan while me and young Bert gather more wood.”

  The soldier lifted his sack of weapons through the door, took off his helmet and sank onto a chair by the fire. “Thank you,” he said with a tired smile. “You will be rewarded.”

  The woman looked at his weapon sack. “A soldier, eh?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “You’re not much good, are you?”

  The man shook his head. “Ethelbert has already told me that.”

  Chapter Two

  Gytha the Grim

  “Now,” Gytha said. “The loaves are toasting nicely, see?” She spoke to the soldier as if he were a child.

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Now, when they are nice and brown, you take a flat knife … see it here on the table? The flat knife?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “And you use the knife to turn the loaves over to let them bake on the other side. But if you don’t turn them over, they will get burned on the bottom, and I will be very cross. Do I make myself clear?”

  “You don’t want to make Gytha the Grim cross,” Ethelbert said with a chuckle. “Dad upset her yesterday and he got a slap with that cooking pot. You should have heard the crack! Oooof!”

  “I’ll be careful,” the soldier promised.

  “There’s ale in that jug on the table. Help yourself. You can have one of the loaves when they’ve finished cooking.”

  Gytha grabbed her son by the arm and dragged him outside. “Come on, Bert. Let’s get some more wood before that fire dies.”

  The soldier opened his sack. He pulled out his sword and looked at the edge in the light of the fire. It was blunt and chipped and stained with Viking blood. He took out a stone and began to rub it along the blade until it was sharp again. Then he took out the arrows he had gathered as he ran from the battlefield. Some needed to have their tips sharpened, too.

  The soldier sat, slumped and unhappy. He wondered if he’d ever have a chance to use those arrows, or if the Vikings would attack before the English army could gather themselves together.

  The smoke from the fire stung his eyes and soon the smell of burning wood was mixed with the smell of burning bread.

  “No-o!” the soldier wailed, as he snatched at the hot pan. It burned his hand as he pulled it away from the fire, and he dropped it in the hearth. The loaves tumbled into the cold ashes.

  The man snatched them up, blew off the ash and tried to use his knife to scrape away the burned crust. He had just replaced the last one when the door opened and the woman marched in.

  Gytha picked up a cooking pot and walked towards the soldier. “You clown. You useless lump of cattle dung. I gave you one simple job. Look after the loaves. Nothing else. But could you do it? Could you?”

  “Hit him, Ma!” Ethelbert giggled. “Hit him with the pot like you did to Dad!”

  “Wait!” the soldier cried, jumping to his feet. “I will pay for the damage. As soon as I get to Athelney, I’ll send money.”

  The woman held the pot, ready to swing it. “You will leave here and I’ll never see you again. I’m not stupid.”

  “I’ll leave something with you then … something valuable,” the man promised.

  “Such as?” the woman asked.

  “Just hit him, Ma!” Ethelbert crowed.

  The soldier plunged a hand into his sack and pulled out a wide band of gold. It glowed in the light of the fire.

  “What is it?” the woman breathed.

  “It’s my crown. The crown of England,” the man said quickly.

  “Your crown?” Ethelbert said. “You mean a crown you stole from the king?”

  “No,” the man said. “I am the king. I am King Alfred and this is my crown.”

  Ethelbert’s mouth went dry. “Better not hit him, Ma.”

  Chapter Three

  King Alfred

  “Your holiness!” the woman croaked. “Your heavenliness! King Alfred himself? Well I never … ooooh … I don’t know what to say.”

  “You could tell him what you think of him,” young Ethelbert said.

  “I think he’s a hero,” the woman said quickly.

  “No, Ma, you said he was as much use as a bucket with a hole in it,” the boy reminded her.

&
nbsp; The woman ground her teeth tight and spoke through them. “No, I didn’t, Bert. I was talking about your father.”

  “You said you could do a better job than King Alfred. You said the village mole catcher could do a better job than King Alfred. You said…”

  “All right, Bert,” the woman hissed. “I know what you think I said. But I didn’t. You are losing your memory. They say you can cure that with a sharp blow to the head … with something like a cooking pot.”

  Ethelbert went pale. “I remember now, Ma. You said King Alfred is a hero.”

  The woman gave a sharp nod, then turned back to the king. “Sorry I shouted at you. If I’d known…”

  “No, Gytha, you were right,” said King Alfred. “I was careless. I have so much in my head at the moment.”

  “You nearly had a cooking pot in your head,” the boy said with a grin.

  His mother glared at him. “I didn’t expect to see a king wandering through a farming village like ours,” Gytha explained. “And all alone.”

  “I had a boy – a squire. He carried my weapons, looked after my horse. The Vikings captured him,” King Alfred said. “Now I need to find my way back to Athelney and meet up with my army. I thought I was on the road to Glastonbury, but I got hopelessly lost.”

  “Lots of people do, your worship,” Gytha said with a sigh. “But my son, Ethelbert, knows the roads around here like a cattle drover. He helps his father take the cows to all the markets. You could show him the way to Athelney, couldn’t you, Bert?”

  “I could take him all the way,” the boy said. “I could even go to the next battle with him.”

  “You’re too young to fight, my little lamb,” the woman gasped.

  “You said I could fight better than King Alfred. If I was a couple of years older, you said I’d beat King Gudrun with one hand tied behind my back.”

  “I never said that,” the woman shouted. “Anyway, you’re not a couple of years older, and you’re not a soldier.”

  “No, but I could carry the king’s weapons, and hold his horse while he goes into battle … be a squire,” Ethelbert said.

  The woman put down the pot on the table and picked up the crown. “What do you think, your grace?”

  “I think I need all the help I can get. I’d be glad to take your son with me,” King Alfred said.

  “That’s settled, then,” Gytha said. “I’ll pack him a few clothes.”

  “And some food for the journey,” King Alfred reminded her.

  The woman nodded. “I have some lovely cheese,” she said. “And the bread is fresh … it’s just a little bit burned. I hope you don’t mind?”

  King Alfred laughed. “Blame the kitchen boy who was left to watch the loaves.”

  Chapter Four

  The Road to Athelney

  Ethelbert led King Alfred along the path through the woods. They reached a larger road, where they met a group of weary English soldiers who were heading for the fort at Athelney.

  The king joined the soldiers and tried to cheer them up. “We were just unlucky,” he said. “Next time we’ll win.”

  “We have no choice,” a soldier told him. “We must fight or the Vikings will crush us like corn in a millstone.”

  Ethelbert asked, “Where will we fight them next, sir?”

  The king shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to sit and wait for them to march on Athelney.”

  “Is that what they’re planning to do?” the boy asked.

  Alfred shrugged. “I don’t know what they’re planning. I wish I did. I want to attack them when they aren’t expecting it.”

  Ethelbert walked on in silence for a while, then he said, “I suppose you could find out their plan.”

  “Walk into their camp? Go up to Gudrun and ask him what he’s going to do next?” the king said with a bitter smile.

  “Something like that,” Ethelbert said. “Dad and I go poaching deer in the woods.”

  “You’re a poacher?”

  Ethelbert shrugged. “I’m a thief. It’s my job. And I never get caught. It’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it.”

  “No, they don’t,” King Alfred argued. “Anyway, I don’t understand what going poaching has to do with slipping into Gudrun’s camp.”

  “Father and I take the skin and the head of a dead deer. We dress ourselves up in it, then we creep up to the herd. We look like a deer, we smell like a deer. And the rest of the deer don’t know we’re there.”

  “Ethelred, you’re brilliant!” said King Alfred.

  “I know. That’s what Mum’s always saying.”

  “I dress up as a Viking and I walk into the Viking camp. I can speak Danish,” the king went on, excited at the idea.

  “Do you have Viking weapons and armour?” the boy asked.

  “No, I don’t,” Alfred admitted.

  “So you can’t enter as a warrior. You’ll have to go in as something else,” Ethelbert said.

  King Alfred clicked his fingers. “The Vikings love hearing poems about their heroes. If I went in as a minstrel, I could get really close to Gudrun.”

  “You’ll need a servant to lead your horse,” Ethelbert said.

  “Who do you think could do that?”

  The boy stopped. “Me, of course. It was my idea, after all.”

  King Alfred frowned and looked down at the boy. “If it goes wrong … if they find out who I really am … they’ll kill me. And they’ll kill you, too, Ethelbert.”

  “Ha! They can try,” the boy said. “If they harm one hair on my head they’ll be sorry. Gytha the Grim will get Gudrun. She’ll use his skull to drink her ale. Don’t you worry about that.”

  King Alfred smiled. “And if they burn her bread, she’ll wipe out the whole Viking army.”

  “She will,” said Ethelbert. “So shall we do it?”

  King Alfred nodded. “We shall.”

  Chapter Five

  The Sword

  King Gudrun of the Vikings was in a good mood. He walked around the camp and talked to his warriors. “One more battle, lads. One more and the English will be finished.”

  “About time,” an old soldier with purple scars and a battered helmet said. “I’m ready to settle down. I want to bring my family here and be a farmer.”

  “You’ll have the best farm in the land, Eric,” his king promised.

  “If we win,” the man grumbled.

  King Gudrun pulled a sword from his belt. “The sword of Freyr,” he said.

  “Freyr is the god of peace,” Eric reminded him.

  “Yes! Peace. That is what we’ll bring to England, even if we have to kill every last Englishman. A country full of dead, Eric, you don’t get much more peaceful than that.”

  The old warrior laughed. “Can I keep a few alive to work as slaves?”

  “You can keep all the ones you capture in the next battle,” Gudrun said.

  “Where will that be?” the soldier asked.

  “There’s a meeting of all the captains in my tent tonight. We’ll decide then. Not that it matters. With the sword of Freyr, we will win. It’s my lucky sword.”

  “It didn’t help us at the Battle of Ashdown,” Eric said.

  “That’s what I’m saying. I wasn’t at the Battle of Ashdown with the sword of Freyr, was I? And the Vikings lost. But I am here now. This time we can’t lose.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” a man said.

  King Gudrun swung round to see who had spoken. A tall man was standing there with a pack on his back. Beside him stood a sharp-eyed boy.

  “Who are you?” the king snapped.

  “A minstrel, sir,” the stranger said. “I travel from camp to camp and tell my stories.”

  “English camps?” the king asked. “Do you go to English camps?”

  “Not any longer,” the minstrel said. “They are too miserable and beaten. They just want to go home and hide.”

  “But they still have a camp, don’t they?”

  “They are camped near Et
handun. If you attack them there, they will melt like butter in the sun.”

  “Ethandun, eh? Then that’s what I’ll tell the captains tonight,” Gudrun said with a tight smile. “King Alfred won’t be expecting that.”

  The minstrel looked at the boy and whispered, “Or maybe King Alfred will be expecting it, eh, Ethelbert?”

  The boy grinned. “I’m sure you will, King Alfred. Ha ha!”

  Chapter Six

  The Minstrel

  That night, the Viking captains feasted on the English cattle and sheep they had stolen. They drank stolen mead and ale and met in King Gudrun’s tent. They were a happy band.

  “My brothers,” the king roared over the noise. He waited till the men went quiet. Today we feast…”

  Cheers.

  “Tomorrow we rest…”

  More cheers.

  “And the next day we march to Ethandun. The English are there. I know they are there. But they don’t know that I know they’re there. Now you know they’re there … but they don’t know that you know that I know they’re there. We will take them by surprise and crush them.”

  Loudest cheers of all.

  Gudrun held up his sword. “By the sword of Freyr herself, I swear we will not lose. This is our lucky charm. With Freyr’s luck and blessing we can conquer the world.”

  Happy laughter.

  “Now, while you eat and drink, we have a minstrel here to tell you a tale of heroes. Viking heroes. One day, minstrels will sing about you and your great victory at Ethandun.” He turned to Alfred. “So, minstrel, what tale do you have for us tonight?”

  Alfred stepped forward. “Why, the tale of Freyr and his sword, of course.”