CHAPTER SEVEN: AN UNBINDING

Three days after the sacking of Trousbjorg.

Hear me as I tell a tale of truth. Handed down from father to son, generation after generation and so documented in both the oral and written traditions of our ancestors. This saga concerned a man who rightly won fame and renown across the lands that comprised Europe. Unlike many others who sailed into legend with some tales exaggerated and others uncorroborated, this was a true telling, also recorded years later by a man of God who had no reason to lie.

So we have two traditions - those that came down from our Norse ancestors and the written chronicles of Otho, a Frankish priest who came to scribe his experiences as a captive of the Viking known as Hrolf Ironborn. In truth, the good father, a young man upon his capture, was slave and prisoner in name only. In reality a bond soon grew between the Christian priest, formerly and latterly of the court of Charles I, known to history as the Mighty Charlemagne, and Hrolf, son of Harald, Jarl of Trousbjorg, the Ironborn.

Otho later relayed tales to his king, and later still an older Hrolf was hosted at the court of Charlemagne a few years before the legendary king of the Franks died. Our sagas, the writings of Otho, and the accounts given to Charlemagne directly from the mouth of Jarl Hrolf, all matched in every detail.

Three days after Trousbjorg was raised to the ground by brutal raiders led by a nobleman who grudged deeply against Hrolf and his father, the dragon headed prows of the Ironborn's vessel were raised and put aside as they headed into native waters. The reason was simple - the dragon's head caught malevolent spirits, and these were directed at enemies, but once home, they must be removed immediately lest ill favour fall upon the returning warriors.

This was done and just in time, for a storm was brewing. Otho notes this in his chronicles and provides an in depth description, detailing the fears of the men, for it had come upon them suddenly while they listed close to shore in the shallows. Such a storm if it grew ferocious could smash a ship against the shore. The 112 men aboard feared this would be their fate.

However the squall dampened after a few hours, and the next day saw the seas becalmed. Hrolf was then able to plot a course that would take him home on the morrow, but he was unprepared for the sight he would behold, coming first upon the body of a warrior and a maiden. History does not record their names but Otho comments that Hrolf held affection in his heart for the girl - a great beauty by all accounts. It was said that perhaps under other circumstances this unknown maiden might have been his bride in the stead of Isgerd, the mother of his brood. In any case the sight of the girl and then the village, drove Hrolf to a rage unparalleled and the events that followed become legend.

Olvir the steersman made his way through the rain and winds across the deck to where Hrolf and Otho stood by the prow. 'Lord!' he shouted above the ravaging winds that buffeted them back and forth across the hugely cresting waves. 'The storm does not abate. Tis as if the very fury of the heavens sends down the wrath of the gods.'

Hrolf turned to Otho. 'My friend, tell me is this the work of Thor, the mighty thunderer or your own singular god, who fathered the Christ?'

Otho struggled to hear him, but finally shouted back in Hrolf's ear. 'You have sacrificed to your Thor and the storm grows ever worse. I will pray to my own father, and if we should perchance survive intact, would you consider this proofs of the divinity of the one true god?'

Hrolf laughed and slapped the priest across his shoulders - had he not been securely tied to the rim of the ship, Otho would have flown away in the wind. 'Hah, even as we face peril, you would still continue our debate and try to convince me!?'

Otho shouted back. 'If your heart were not open to salvation, Lord, you would not allow me to speak thus. Some of your men would have killed me long before now, but I trust the Lord my God acts through you, to protect me.'

'You never give up priest! Friendship protects you, not an old man in the sky with a long white beard!'

'Is not your Odin also an old man in the sky with a white beard?'

Hrolf laughed heartily, provoking a stare of disbelief from his steersman.

The older man gripped his leader's shoulder. 'Lord, I cannot hear this ... priest's words but tis obvious that Thor is displeased by his presence. Throw him overboard I beseech you!'

'Nay Olvir. More likely it is, that the thunderer is at his revels in the shining city. This tiny squall is most like the son of Odin yowling gainst a mighty headache or perhaps he pisses from an alleyway in Asgard and here it manifests on Midgard!'

Hrolf raised his arms upwards, tied securely by his waist and grinned as the waves splashed over them all. 'We are favoured friends, with the divine fluids or the mighty one. Soon Thor shall cease and tie up his britches and his head will grow less bleary and then there will be sunshine and calm!'

Olvir shook his head once again. And yet, the belief Hrolf had ... he had never been wrong before. They would survive this and soon be home. He knew his lord had a destiny and this was why he could laugh at the fury of the gods, knowing that Thor, hearing his words was most like, to laugh merrily with his favoured son. Aye, they would be wet and bruised but Hrolf's story would not end here.

It was three, four hours at most and once the worst was over, they were once more becalmed. Otho talks of how although many of the men suffered minor injuries, Hrolf once again proved he was ironborn. After they conversed and debated once more on who were the true deities ... those of Asgard or the God of the Christians. Next morning saw them land safe.

The storm did not abate and after some eight or nine hours, the valiant crew could fight it no more. The ship was driven against the rocks and smashed into a thousand pieces. Of the 111 warriors and one Frankish priest, who were aboard, just over a dozen survived. Otho later wrote that his salvation was a gift from God; there could be no other explanation. When Charlemagne questioned him about why God would also save some of the heathens including Hrolf Ironborn, he could give no answer.

It wasn't as if Hrolf came onto that beach intact, Otho opined to the king. Perhaps the Lord wished to humble him and show the viking his was a power greater than Odin's. Why else would God let Hrolf live but make him a cripple!

***

Asgard - the Royal Palace.

Odin turned a moment, pausing in his conversation with the grand vizier. He had had a moment's sense that something was amiss.

'Ah my Lord, I was saying ...' the Vizier said gently.

The Allfather turned back. 'My pardon, good vizier. For a moment I thought ... but no matter. Back to the frost giants. You say they are making bold moves along our northern borders ...'

Nornheim - the Caves of the Wyrd Sisters.

Skuld stared in horror at the threads before her. She had thought to patch the bit pulled free by Freya, but now it was unraveling further along!

Asgard - The Inn of the Stag's Horn.

Frey and his sister Freya were well into their cups. The Goddess of Fertility had already drawn her sword on two insistent suitors and Frey had lost his last arm wrestling match to a troll, but was too merry with ale and wine to care, though he had lost seven gold pieces to the beast.

Now they had retired to their favourite booth and Freya was bellowing for more wine. When it came she was already dozing, her head resting on her arms.

Frey tapped her head. 'Sister, wine is here. Drink up or pay the forfeit.'

Freya waved her right hand at him and mumbled. 'Enough with your games, brother. I care not for them.'

'Hah, then the wine is mine!' He reached for the cup, only to find his wrist gripped tight.

'Drink your own wine Fey ... Frey. Hah, I had the right of it the thirst ... first time. Who chose that tunic for you? It makes you look like a light elf.'

'You did,' he chuckled. 'You said I was looking too stern, and must needs dandy myself up in case I met a wench.'

Freya raised her head and struggled to place her elbows on the wooden table. Supporting her chin with both hands she gave him a lop sided grin. 'Aye, so I did, but in truth twas a jest.'

'A jest?'

'Aye, thou hast the fashion sense of a blind ogre. The only action thou wouldst attract this eve, in that ... eyesore, wouldst be of the mincing kind!'

Her brother was feeling too content to get angry. 'Then I shall remove the obstacle and in the doing attract a fair maiden or two.' He pulled off his top, to display a heavily muscled physique. Several maidens did in fact glance over.

'You see!' declared Frey. 'It seems, sister if you too were to remove thy top, thou wouldst also attract men. I'll wager every one in the inn except that fellow with his crone of a wife, who would dare not look lest she chastise him.'

'Fie on you, brother. I have enough trouble from meddlesome wretches without encouraging same.'

'Hah and perhaps a bout of love with a manly suitor would ease thy distemper. You have the countenance of a disgruntled troll.'

Before Freya could retort, Frey noticed a pulsing glow from within his tunic. 'Hold, my sister, mayhap a maiden fair doth desire the company of noble Frey this eve.' He pulled a smooth pale stone as big as his palm, free of the tunic. 'Aha! Tis meet, the image of fair Skuld doth appear. I knew she could not stay wroth forever.'

Frey placed the stone on his left palm and pressed a finger to the top where Skuld's forehead was.

'Frey! Frey, I need you!'

He whispered. 'Sound,' so Freya could hear and then tapped the stone again. 'Aye beauteous one. Of this there was no doubt.'

'Frey, listen to me ...'

'Aye, a thousand times aye, milady. Shall I meet thee in thy chambers?'

'What!? No, I must tell you ...'

'Tell me of thy love, sweet Skuld? Speakest thou fair one and Frey shall hear thee out, and return thy words of ardour.'

'No, we must meet. Something has happened.'

'Tis called passion, dear maiden. I will come at once. Wear the red silken lace and await me pon thy bed.'

There was a pause.

'Milady?'

'GO TO HEL thy vain and strutting bastard cockeral!' the image disappeared.

Freya reached over and took her wine glass, lifting it to her lips. 'What was that about?'

Frey shrugged. 'I know not, my sister. Women!'

Freya drunk deep from her goblet and smiled at him. 'Dear brother, thou art an ass. Still if Skuld had ought of import to impart ...' she giggled at her unintentional play on words, '...she will call back. On the morrow I hope ... and after midday with luck.'

'Aye, well, let us order more wine for this night be still young.'

'If thou hast the coin, mine be a large Rhenish.'

Seeing no serving wench nearby Frey went to get the drinks.

Coming soon ... CHAPTER EIGHT: LONG SHALL YOU LIVE