4Chapter 1: The Cornerstones; Part 1
June 3, 793AD
"Take your stance, attack!"
Ansgar swung his sword at both horizontal cardinal directions, striking against that of his opponent, Admiral Ida. He grunted as they both lashed at each other, with swords battling for ascendance. A couple of mild clashes sent the weapon in the admiral's grip, flying across the opposite end of the ring, giving him the victoriously triumphing edge as he raised his sword to his throat, ecstatic at his opponent's defeat.
Astrid scoffed, unimpressed by her brother's unearned victory. "Ida gave him the win because Father is in the ring."
"Don't wound his pride, victory is all he lives for." She hadn't noticed Arick, the youngest of her three older brothers, join her at the ring as the uninvited audience of Ansgar's training. The usual goblet of ale in his arm, to which he'd labelled, 'The breakfast of champions.'
"Father is in the ring, he would not be pleased about this"
"His sole interest is his favourite son. Ansgar's first win should keep his focus away."
"Father has no favourites. It is expected to take an interest in the only child content to bend to his inflicting expectations." Astrid's gaze was now on the goblet, watching him gulp more of the ale. "Why do you refuse father's wishes?"
"Do you not do the same? I can tell how desperate my sister wants to be in my brother's place, fighting with all her might, not giving Ida the chance to give her an undeserved victory with pity on father's presence."
Astrid was startled by her brother's cognizance of her desire to be a warrior for the Northumbrian kingdom, the best that had ever been engendered from Bamburgh. A desire that was often suppressed by the norms and rigorous restrictions placed, not just on her gender, but her position as royalty.
The kingdom of Northumbria, after the raids on the Romans in the early fifth century, and wars weighed by King Aurthur, had settled in the lands given to them by the Britons, in Northeast England. Bamburgh, being amongst the three royal palaces that included Yeavering and Mælmin was the most prominent in the dynasty of Bernicia.
Holding so much power from the Anglo-Saxon warlords to King Oswald and the Exordium of Christianity and monasteries, Bamburgh had the most vigorous line of valiant kings, all in a non-monarchical thread that led to her father, King Athelred. Her father ruled the northern sea and kingdom of Northumbria alongside her mother, Queen Amora. Astrid was the youngest and the only female child, amongst her brothers, Ansgar, Annar and Arick, gaining the crowning denomination as the princess of Bamburgh.
The village of Bamburgh and its palace reposed at the mouth of the sea, along with the minuscule tidal island of Lindisfarne, just a few miles away. Although the presence of the monasteries and the spread of Christianity had ceased violence and battles between warlords, the vulnerability of Bamburgh required training and defence systems as a necessity against possible attacks. This was the area that seemed to get Astrid's attention the most, right from her fascination with wooden axes and swords her brothers often got as gifts from childhood.
On the other hand, she'd gotten wooden dolls, dollhouses, and long hours at the mirror due to her mother's love for grooming her hair. The queen, being the image of beauty itself, felt the need to enhance that of her daughter's in an effort to make her germane in society. Astrid had no use for comeliness and lived her life in envy of her brothers, specifically the oldest, Ansgar. Ansgar was the chosen one, the one to commence an incipient threat of monarchy, as her father intended to keep their family in the line of royalty. He'd been training with Ida from the age of twelve, with Astrid not missing the chance to watch him in the shadows. She studied his movements, Ida's instructions, his errors and the only win he'd gotten against Ida for eight years of his training.
Ida caught her in the shadows at twelve, discovering her passion, but unlike her father, he took initiative and offered to train her in the sidelines, jeopardizing the penalization of contravening the laws of the king, putting his life at risk. She'd been training with him for just three years, but somehow had more progress than all her brothers at fifteen. Ansgar was twenty, yet to be inducted as a plenarily trained fyrd, to stand among the royal huscarls from all Northumbrian kingdoms during battles. She wanted to be a fyrd, to one day stand at the frontline, leading triumphs and return home with her name in the chants of men.
It was forbidden for women to go to war. Her mother said they served a different purpose, a purpose she did not want for herself. She was a princess, the fairest in both dynasties. Her beauty magnetized kings and princes, even before she turned thirteen. King Aethelred would often order for her presence whenever they came, her mother brushed her long golden hair, the crown of her beauty. She despised the brushes, the corsets, the dresses. She despised the kings and princes. Most of all, she despised the fear that her mother had for her father, the fear she would forever fight to shield herself against.
"For how long have you known?"
"Three years?"
"You never told father."
"Would that make me a better fighter?"
The wisdom of Arick was not far beneath the surface as her father always claimed. He was just like their mother, whose wisdom and opinions were wasted on her father's arrogance and insolence. It was so facile to underrate his knowledge due to his drinking habit, but it was his greatest advantage over those who undermined his role as a prince of Bamburgh, including their father.
"So why did you not tell father? Do you respect my interest now?"
Arik set the goblet on a stone, his eyes, red from the impact of the drink. "You are not the only one born different, sister. I should be the most understanding of your ardency."
Astrid suddenly found herself intrigued with his validation on her progress training with Ida, with the goal to be a better warrior than Ansgar. "You have visually examined me train, do you think there is a remote chance that father would consider that I become a fyrd?"
"Father has a mind of his own, so I have no answer to your question."
She sighed in exasperation, frustrated by the weight of her condition and position. "Why, brother? Why do I seek this when the possibilities are vain?"
"You have no use for father's validation and consent, sister. I have watched you fight. You are a natural-born warrior. You are worth far more than the gold and alliance promised by kings for your hand in marriage. It is not about your strength, It is your courage, a virtue that I wish mother possessed."
"Courage like Hadassah's?"
"Just like Hadassah."
"Mother is afraid. Father would have her exiled for treachery."
"And Ida? Father would have him executed if he discovered you're training with him. Ida chose courage, I hope mother can do the same, for you."
"Whenever you arrive from the monastery, It is all scrolls and wise words from you."
"You must join me on my next visit."
Astrid smiled, giving him a gentle nudge. "Ic þancie þē"
"Wēlcumen"
June 4, 793AD
"And Laban had two daughters: the name of the elder was Leah, and the name of the younger was Rachel. Leah was tender eyed, but Rachel was beautiful and well favoured. And Jacob loved Rachel; and said, 'I will serve thee seven years for Rachel, thy younger daughter.'"
"Seven years? Even a thrall would never go through such humiliation for a woman."
"This is the reason why I am curious. They are so different. They verbalize so highly of this love, but my Father claims it's an act to gain sympathy."
"Their monasteries are the wealthiest without labour or trade. They deceive the feeble minds of people with all these scrolls and stories to feed their wealth. There is no subsistence of love." Freystein examined the scrolls, none of which was able to capture his notion in the practice of the Saxons and Anglo-Saxons, the Britons and Yorkers, the religion they had termed as Christianity.
Herrick gave a cold glare towards his friend over his previous utterances. "We know nothing about their practices, scrolls are not enough to understand the reason behind the impact of the religion. My mother believed in it, even when she had nothing to offer to the monasteries."
"Your mother was not a Viking Herrick, but you are. You are Norse and Jarl. Óðinn is the king of the Æsir, the ruler of Asgard, and the All-Father. We live in stoutheartedness and potency, seeking aeonian rest within the gates of Valhalla. These scrolls should not raise doubt about our deities, and neither should Helga."
Freystein finally succeeded in pulling his attention from the scroll he kept reading to himself in silence. "Do not involve Helga in this. She has no part in my interest in this, so do not make her the next target of treason."
"Do you not think it's a little too late for that?"
Herrick felt a wave of fear grip him, understanding fully well of the consequences of treason and the fact that he'd been a victim his whole life. "What do you mean? Helga is being incriminated of treason?! Her voyage due south was for the purport of trade, she is additionally a Viking, like the rest of us."
"Helga is a Saxon. Your father attested this after the dent in the first raid. Apparently, she was the spy that tipped off information about our orchestrations. My father kept talking about her execution when he returned from the council meeting."
Freystein got slammed hard to the wall as Herrick prehended the hem of his tunic, his eyes fierce, and seeking for answers. "Why did you not tell me of this?!"
"I was told to keep it away from you. Helga would be executed on your father's coronation." He struggled with his speech, loss of breath from the pressure on his throat. "You are my friend, Herrick. I found out about this last night when my father came home drunk. I had intended to tell you from the start."
Herrick was a descendant of the Volsung clan, residing in Berk, a remote island in Kvenland, along the eastern coast of the Baltic sea. Berk was an island of Norse and Estonian men who shared kindred cultures and way of life, with his family bloodline in power for preceding generations. His Father, Jarl Surtr Haddock the next in line to the throne had his grand coronation on the way, alongside his first led official raid, specifically targeted towards Lindisfarne monastery in Northumberland. He was to go on the raid mission to prove his position as the next Chief of Berk and would be crowned only if the raid was prosperous. If otherwise, his coronation would be suspended, but with a second chance to be proven worthy.
Preparations for the war had been set for months, from the carving of ships to smithing of weaponry, Herrick had contributed his services as an apprentice to Gobber, the blacksmith of Berk, creating weapons towards the prosperity of his father's raid.
Vikings were an illogical breed of humans, the kind Herrick queried daily without answers. They were violent, raised for war, and gloried in war. The prosperity and strength of a Viking were sorely predicated on vigour and valiancy, the kind of bravery used to describe fools.
'Bravery is not about starting raids and wars for a self-imposed triumph, it is about standing for what is right in the midst of opposition.' Helga always told him. Bravery seemed a lot better reading about David and the giant of their enemies, or Gideon, a judge who fought for the liberation of his people. These were stories from the scrolls Helga often brought back from her voyages, stories from the same religion the Vikings detested and condemned so much. The religion his mother was expatriated for opting to believe in.
Helga was a mother to him, in the absence of his mother. She nurtured him as a child and was the only ray of sunshine growing up as the bastard son of his father, the result of the forbidden affair between a Jarl and a temple maiden. He'd always felt left out in the sidelines, abused and maltreated by his father's wife and her son, his half brother Sigmund. Helga was there to dry his tears, to help build his confidence whenever he felt worthless. She did not condemn him for being different, instead, she accoladed his competency to think differently, and to question the virtues of his people.
She had told him about the negative impact of the raids, and how it led to the death of many innocent people. He'd promised to be brave, to stop the raids, but he knew he had no power over that, not until he ascended the throne as the Chief of Berk, a position he had to battle with his half brother to obtain. Helga was the person closest to his heart, the one person he was afraid of losing.
He released his grip on Freystein, rushing to the scrolls in panic, and placing them in the wooden box that kept them out of the sight of his father or any other Viking.
"Helga would not be executed, not while I'm still alive."
"What is your plan to stop the execution? It the council's verdict, not just your father's."
"I do not care whose verdict it belongs to! They took my mother away from me, not again! This time, I can actually do something to stop it."
Herrick ambulated through the village square, passing a group of armed warriors marching to the ring, ships at the docks being loaded with weapons and flags set up for sail, all in preparation for the raid of Lindisfarne. He hadn't seen such effort put in a raid before, it revealed his father's desperation for victory and the crown. He walked past the customary stares of disdain and abnegation from both Karls and thralls, those who perpetually tinted their sights with the situation surrounding his birth. Seventeen years of living the life of an outcast caused him to harden up, especially when his grandfather hadn't injunctively authorized that he receive better treatment and reverence as royalty from the people of Berk, and neither had his father.
Dashing straight towards the great hall, he was determined, summing up the courage to speak to his father, overlooking the presence of any other member of the council. He had to face his father, as much as he despised being in his presence. It was for the life of Helga, the life of the one most precious to him. He valued her life more than that of his father, and could not fathom life without her.
Fortuity graced his side and the hall was vacuous, much to his surprise. The raid kept everyone diligent outside, leaving his father seated alone at a corner. He looked around for any trace of his grandfather, the last person he wanted to be involved in their conversation. With his nagging wife out of sight, Jarl Surtr was unusually silent, thoroughly engrossed in the centre of his attention, not even noticing Herrick's presence in the hall. Herrick moved in slow and light steps towards his father and noticed the item that kept him solemn, and to his uttermost shock.
It was his mother's shawl, her shawl as a temple maiden that other Vikings claimed she had utilized to lure him to bed.
For some grave reason, his father was still in possession of it, prehending it like it mirrored the presence of his mother. Herrick stood watching him in silence, wanting to feel pity at his desperate yearning for his mother, but it just sparked up the rage he had piled up for years upon the knowledge of the events that led to his birth and his mother's disappearance. The fact that his father claimed to be the bravest and most valiant Jarl, starting raids to prove his strength and bravery, but remained the biggest coward to Herrick for not standing up and defending the woman that he truly loved. He deserved the pain inflicted on him from her absence. Even after seventeen years, it felt good to know that his mother still had the potency over his noetic conceptions and emotions, the price of his cowardly actions towards the family he really wanted for himself.
"Father?"
The reflex response was to immediately hide the shawl within his fur cloak, but it was too late to conceal any secrets. He was fully aware that his father was deeply in love with his mother, and could deceive Jarl Magnus, his grandfather, and the rest of berk, but not his bastard son.
"Herrick! Shouldn't you be at the forge with Gobber? We require as many weapons as we can load to the ships, the lives of many Vikings are at stake."
"And the lives of the victims of the raid? It is a surprise assailment on a monastery. You do not require weapons for an opponent who has no interest in fighting back."
"Why are you here? It has been over three years since you came to me on your accord. Have you put your anger towards me aside?"
"Why father? Do you not deserve my anger?"
"Speak Herrick, or leave my presence at once!"
"I heard of Helga's execution. I know she is a Saxon, and that she was a spy against the precedent raid, but father…"
"Silence." Jarl Surtr shot in rage, but voice wavering. "You come up to me with such insolence for the first time in three whole years and for what? For an apostate and spy that has been sentenced by the council?!"
"I come before you in intercession for Helga's life, and I mean no arrogance Sire. You know how much she means to me, so I beseech of you, abate the weight of her tribulation. She can be exiled, but please, Father, spare her life. You did the same for mother and you…"
"How dare you, Herrick?! How dare you compare the life of your mother to that of that thrall? She is not worth the life of your mother!"
"What makes her different Father?! She has been a mother to me! She gave me the love and attention that you failed to give to me! Being the product of your past mistake and a dent in the royalty line meant nothing to me because of her presence!"
"You are a Viking, Herrick! Your strength should not rely on a woman! You should learn that now, or you would make the same mistake that I did!"
"Like the way you relied on that temple maiden? The way you have relied on her for seventeen years!"
Jarl Surtr stood up in an inclined rage, jaw clenched, and hands fisted, but with pain in his eyes. "I have let that Saxon feed you with lies, stories and hate towards me. I have watched you place her on higher importance than your people. I was silent because you saw your mother in her, but she didn't wrong me this time, but the whole of Berk. Your grandfather was ridiculed on the failure of the previous raid. The lives of many Vikings were lost and she has to pay with her life."
"Father.."
"Helga would be executed at my coronation, and you would be there to watch. You need to understand that Vikings stand together, and do not value the life of pagans over that of your people."
There was hope before. Just a tiny flicker against the wind. With the open eyes of a child with humility, Herrick reached out for avail, fingers extended. At that moment his father had a choice of kindness or cruelty, but it took no time at all for him to decide. How was his thinking so different from Herrick's? so alien? How is it that he saw Herrick's suffering and chose to make it all the worse?
Hate and enmity welled up in his heart, fury itself burning him up. "You are a coward, Father. You have always been a coward and a thousand triumphant raids would never be enough to veil your calibre of cowardice!"
Jarl Surtr lashed out with an intention to knock him cold to the ground, but stopped, his veined knuckles a few inches away from Herrick's face. "If you plot her escape on my return, you would have to face the wrath of the chief. You would lose your position as heir, as well as your identity in Berk. Do not let anyone know of your plea!"
"I do not have an Identity or position in Berk, so your words and threats mean nothing to me!"
Author's Note
Welcome to the latest story from my wild imagination! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it.
I wanted to write a historical fanfiction story based on real-life events of Vikings to I had to research A LOT. Historical correctness is very important to me as a writer, so I paid for an online course on Viking history and Norse Mythology. I do not claim affirmative correctness of this story so feel free to correct me if I am wrong. Please leave a review, so I can be sure of the reception, as it would be a big source of encouragement. Hopefully, I would keep up the story if you like it.
Part 2 of the prologue would be out soon.
~Favour.