Empty Triumphs

By R. Hyslop

The Baltic (985-6) Ethelwulf the Wanderer and his company arrive in the court of the aged Harald Bluetooth in Denmark. Along with the giant Thorgrim the Short, Ethelwulf is persuaded to help a Wendish tribe plundered by the mysterious Sons of Hel. There follows the horrors of pagan rites, the treachery of a king and then the enforced recruitment into the forces of Styrbjorn, claimant to the Swedish throne. The attempt is a disaster and Ethelwulf has to somehow slip away without the slur of ‘niddering’.
With extensive factual End-Notes
Part 5 of a nine part series set in the 10th century Viking world. Here the background is a pagan world of the Baltic Sea, with a divided Viking society and savage neighbours.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob Hyslop
• Release date: Nov 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9780993438943

R. Hyslop

I am a retired teacher, absorbed by History since I learned to read. I graduated in History from King's College, London in 1963, specialising in Medieval History. I wrote 'The Wanderer' trilogy at odd times 1992-2008 when I self-published it. The main effort came with the research. For more details see under 'Bob Hyslop'.

Book preview

EMPTY TRIUMPHS

(The Wanderer’ Part 5: The Swedish Sea 985-86)

By R. Hyslop

Published in Great Britain 2008. 2015

(previously as Part 2 of ‘Viking’ the second of ‘The Wanderer’ Trilogy)

by Cuthan Books ( http://www.cuthanbooks.co.uk/)

Copyright R. Hyslop

The right of R. Hyslop to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

ISBN: 9780993438943

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To my family and friends who have encouraged me knowingly or not for so many years.

As elsewhere in ‘The Wanderer’ the introductory passages are mainly drawn from the rich vein of Anglo-Saxon poetry.

Cover illustration: Sea off Norway

Throughout the ‘Swedish Sea’ is used instead the Baltic Sea.

(This novel has extensive endnotes. Before accessing End-Notes PLEASE NOTE YOUR RETURN POINT as you will be taken to SET points in that long section (110 entries). Then scroll down to the relevant End-Note.

For example, in the TEXT click on [62] & you’ll go to a SET point (60) in End-Notes. Scroll down to End-Note 62 & read it.

To RETURN use OR enter [62] in the file’s FIND Process (it may produce several so check you have the right 62), & you’re back where you were in the TEXT.)

Table of Contents

Story so far

CHAPTER 1. Harald Bluetooth’s Feast

CHAPTER 2. The Sons of Hel

CHAPTER 3.Pagan Rites

CHAPTER 4. The Jomsvikings’ Fury

Swedish Sea: Afterword

Map showing places featured in this novel

Family Tree of the House of Arne

About the author

Endnotes for ‘Empty Triumphs

THE STORY SO FAR

In 979 Ethelwulf of Arne (now styled ‘The Wanderer’) fled from England after being forced into outlawry through being wrongfully accused of the murder of King Edward. There was a short stay in Jersey – sufficient to produce enough enemies to force him to flee to Ireland. Here, with his cousins (Edwine and Morkere) and others, he joined in the struggle between the resurgent native Gaels and the intruding Vikings. Two key incidents here were his brief affair with Gormflath, mother of the Viking king of Dublin, and his recruitment of Gunnar, a fearsome axe-man. Again forced abroad he travelled to Iceland where immediately he was sucked into a blood-feud. Despite a legal framework, centred on the Althing, Iceland was plagued by violence which brought about yet another retirement overseas for Ethelwulf and his men – but not before they’d been the victims of a witch’s curse.

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CHAPTER 1. Harald Bluetooth’s Feast

‘Storms smash these rock-strewn slopes,

Sleet & snow bind up the world

Winter howls, then darkness closes in

Night’s shadow enshrouds all and brings

Fierce hailstorms from the north to frighten men.’ (‘The Wanderer’)

From the middle of the great hall of Jelling[1] a well-stocked fire flung out warmth and smoke into the surrounding gloom. Within the fire danced demons, cavorting in a nakedness which mocked the human world, and would have shocked those Christians daring to travel into the lands of the heathen. It wasn’t a friendly fire but one thrusting against the cold as if to challenge Nature itself for one final fall. The effect of the fire was to plunge into even greater blackness those corners untouched by either warmth or light, existing like Ginnungagap [2] in a world of their own. Snuggled up against the long walls, yet spitting out defiance at the enshrouding cold, whale-oil lamps, roughly shaped into the fearsome heads of sea-monsters added more flickering light, thereby shedding yet adding to the grime on to the carvings which adorned the walls of the Lord of the Danes.

In murky isolation above the heavy, oaken seat of honour, as if giving protection to Harald Bluetooth[3] himself, a wolf's head sneered into the smoky hall; its jaws smacking with malicious delight at the manic activity of the forty or so drunken revellers sprawling over the long tables, flanking the crudely carved high seat of the Danish king on the raised area. In fact, this was no ordinary wolf but one that had guided the lord of the Danes many years before when he’d penetrated the land of the Wends in search of a bride.[4] The pagans had retreated ever before him into the strange half-light of the forests but couldn’t escape the Danes, guided by a mysterious wolf leading them with remorseless persistence into the very stronghold of the Wends. There the king willingly handed over his daughter confident he might acquire an ally to defy the power of the German Emperor.[5]

Few among that company bellowing out drunken songs of Ragnar[6] or Hastinges[7] would live to see their sixtieth year. All believed neither the protection of Thor[8] nor the Christ-God could offer escape from what must come. Man's brief time of noise and fury in this world was surrounded by grey shadow patterned on the loom of the Three Fates.[9] No man, not even the all-conquering Lord of the Danes himself, could challenge that fate. Only in the tales and songs of living men could a spirit snatch some lingering existence in this world.

However, the king HAD managed to reach his sixtieth year, albeit not in good health. Like his father before him Harald was sure he’d live long - too long for that brat of his glaring across from the guest- seat opposite. He’d cling on to life, if only to upset the blood-filled schemes of that madman. Yes, cling on would sum up this existence, but it would be enough.

Gorm had also clung on to life and frustrated the ambitions of his son, Harald, for years. Doubtless, Gorm in his youth had equally longed to push aside his father, Hardaknut Svensson, but was forced to wait his turn. In the end it had come and the Swedes were expelled from what they’d ruthlessly seized in the mists of time. Harald remembered how besotted the old man had been with his queen, Tyre,[10] even when, long past her child-bearing age, she’d passed into that time when women had little use. Of course, she’d nursed the old fool, with his quivering limbs and his foul breath and the constant stench of those running sores tormenting him for years; in that she’d served her purpose and been fully repaid by being granted a grave next to his. His father had once been styled Gorm the Builder[11] but time so cruelly cut him down that years instead of months had multiplied upon his head and all that Harald could remember was a miserable, slobbering old man.

The old King began to dribble as he remembered months in exile among the Wends.[12] His worn-out limbs trembled as they recalled those rivers with their cold, clammy mouths, filled with fens and fear. His mind clutched at the nightmare-memory of those murky woods with their unknown terrors. He would not - could not - go there a second time. Though that monster Sven[13] might weave the snares of Loki[14] himself against his father he wouldn’t seek refuge again. It would be that son of his fleeing over the ocean-way. If he’d been still the man who’d seized Norway[15] Sven would have long ago fled over Thor's-Draught[16] for safety. These days though he had to put up with the strutting about of that lout and his upstart friends; perhaps a way remained to re-assert control but, at the moment, it was beyond him.

He looked across at Sven carousing with his drunken companions and the King's eyes narrowed into slits of hate. How dare that wretch question his moving the bones of his own royal father to a new resting-place hallowed by the Christ-god? By what right had that creature questioned those words "and made the Danes Christian" carved in the mighty stone to mark the spot?[17] Why had this son alone of all his children survived? Harald remembered the offspring of other wives who’d perished in infancy or in young manhood. Only this one had clung on to life through everything. Life was so unfair.

Then he remembered the actual transfer of his parents' bones from their triangular pagan plot to a more fitting resting place under the protection of the Christ-God.[18] It had been a noble ceremony; first a priest called upon Hermod[19] to assist him in bringing back the shades of King Gorm and Queen Tyre from the realm of Hel - but to maintain the numbers locked in Helheim two Obotrite slaves were sacrificed, much to the distress of Willibrord who’d inherited the unenviable role of Father Poppo.[20] Then the mound was opened and Harald stepped once more into his father's tomb and looked him in the face; the skin had almost withered away from the bone and the flesh which had so quivered in life had melted away into the surrounding dust. To this we all shall come, thought Harald shutting out the babbling of Willibrord next to him: ...canet enim tuba, et mortui resurgent incorrupti: et nos immutabimur...[21] Then the remains were transferred to a new, smaller grave, under the protection of a cross while Brother Willibrord babbled some more.

A flicker of pleasure in dimming eyes had been nurtured in malice. He remembered how Sven refused to accompany him into the tomb of King Gorm and shunned the whole ceremony as one of sacrilege. When Harald laughed at him how that son of his screamed in impotent fury! The gleam grew into a secret mockery as his memory laid firm grasp on the past and began to gnaw at it, savouring the juices which time made all the sweeter. The stone was set up and the bones themselves moved while that fool scurried off to be seen strutting with his loud-mouthed friends in Jomsburg. Sven wanted the whole world to know he rejected this transfer of allegiance of the dead; to some he even promised to reverse the act once he was King, but Harald didn’t believe his son had the nerve to challenge even the Christ-God's grip on his forefathers. Reluctantly Harald let go of past triumphs and slumped back into the present. Yes, now the King was again the master here and with that a new order in the land of the Danes.

King Harald stifled old doubts and night-time horrors and slithered into what passed for a jovial mood; it was a half-light world tottering on the brink of consciousness but which threatened to slip away into sleep. His slaves welcomed such a pause from the constant round of lashings, cruelties and sudden death which marked thraldom in the house of the Lord of the Danes. For any slave all hope died within one week of existence at Jelling;[22] and often existence itself would flicker out within the year. A diet of gruel, a covering of rags and a daily round of chores punctuated by terror destroyed any hope and with it life itself. After all, a slave's existence wasn’t even his own, either in this world or the next; the flow of replacements, especially from the East, made sure there was never any need to give a second thought to a slave. However, when King Harald was in a 'jovial' mood he’d sometimes smile, wink at a pretty young slave and even have her brought to his bed that night. Naturally, any successful penetration was beyond the King but, fortunately, he’d slip away into unconsciousness with the very strain of the effort and, with luck, the girl might claim the next day everything had gone right and so be rewarded with another smile, or even extra food.

However, the King's 'jovial' moods were increasingly rare now, and usually the dark side of pain took over his whole being. When Bluetooth was in that torment centred on the two gigantic molars (which had earned him that name) everyone suffered; no quarter was given to anyone - jarls, karls or thralls,[23] least of all the latter, whose unfree status made them the obvious target for any royal rage. Should violence result in death no compensation would be due for a thrall, but for a jarl it could be a terrible price to pay for a moment of blind rage. One slave had been castrated there and then in front of all the maids who masked any horror and fear with raucous laughter; another slave, a female dragged from the hills of Ireland, had been scarred by boiling water thrown into her face for trying to apply a salve to the terrible teeth; fortunately, care by Willibrord, using skills learned from Father Poppo himself, and prayers to St Lucy,[24] saved the poor girl's sight; but she was then only worth being sold off to the Wends (who’d take anything).

Not even the little priest, Willibrord, striving to usher the Danish king towards the gates of Paradise through the forgiveness of his Saviour, would be safe when the King was in such torment. On occasion Harald would listen to the words of the Gospel, fitfully, toying with the shivering limbs of some terrified, Wendish slave-girl, enduring stories of the virtues of chastity which seemed unnatural. Occasionally he’d revel in tales of the destruction of the Canaanites or the defeat of the Philistines, waving the thigh bone of a sheep about as if he were Samson.[25] Those times were when King Harald was in one of his 'jovial' moods, free from the torment of his two blue molars and the sight of his hated son.

At other times like his father, Gorm the Old, he made to smash the skull of the irritating priest with one blow of the well-used axe always so ready to hand. Then Willibrord would dash off in despair hoping he could employ the medicines bequeathed to him by Father Poppo who, because of his healing skills, had been able to assert some degree of control over the fearsome king. Perhaps, before the priest could return, King Harald had wreaked some terrible injury on a slave or humiliated some jarl - now threatening all sorts of revenge; strangely, however, the King, even in the most terrible of moods, never raised a sacrilegious hand against the altar of the Christ God. At this Sven would laugh and declare to his entourage, in private where no word would be carried to the King, his father had clearly grown too old to rule the Danes and someone was needed to show the shaven men from the south how a true son of Thor would exercise the royal will.

On those days when King Harald proved incorrigible and there was little hope of worthwhile instruction, and great fear of physical injury, the little priest would scurry off to the small dark corner where he’d dared to set up a personal altar to his Saviour. There he’d pray to the Virgin Mary for aid in bringing the love of God to this miserable pit of paganism; sometimes Satan would whisper to him he should trust in the power of warrior saints like St. George or even St. Michael the Archangel, and the little priest would find it very hard to shut his ears to such unnatural prayers. In that same corner, along with the small chest of salves, ointments, medicines and instruments bequeathed by Father Poppo, Willibrord had hidden away from the constant menace of heathenism his own cross, given to him by the bishop himself when he first travelled north, and a few meagre vessels dedicated to his Saviour.

He remembered the optimism with which he’d left his native Somerset, determined to spread the light of the Gospel among the heathen of the north. He’d been welcomed at Hamburg[26] and hurried north to assist Father Poppo who’d just, through the miraculous intervention of the Almighty,[27] begun to open the eyes of the King of the Danes. Together they’d laboured among the heathen, being ever successful until the King decided to revert to the worship of Frey[28] after the crops had suddenly failed. However, God had again shown his power by bringing an even worse famine upon the land which had turned to Frey, even though one of the victims of the disaster had been Father Poppo himself. Willibrord was spared by the Almighty because, by chance, he’d gone to Oldenburg where a new bishopric was being established to bring the Christian faith to the Danes.[29] There he’d received his cross, had his zeal once again enflamed and had sworn never to leave the land of the Danes until every man there had become a follower of Christ. One day - a brighter day when God had truly brought the Danes to the path of salvation – he’d send for some precious relic from the life of one of God's saints to shed light in this miserable corner of the world. But not yet - not when the king, obsessed with the pain sent by Satan as a foretaste of purgatory, might scream and threaten to slaughter all spurning those empty gods of the north. No, not when the terrible Sven was dreaming of wiping out the hopes of the Light for this northern world.

On the days when the King's temper had driven away all hope of dialogue about Christ, when Willibrord had buried himself out of sight, Harald would turn to the faithful Sigtrygg, servant of Odin,[30] to witness how old age was weakening both his will and strength. Some men might have felt pity for an old man in despair - or one longing for what once had been - but not Sigtrygg. With dead eyes he listened to the ramblings of an old man and pandered to the distorted memories of blood-strewn battlefields of long ago. In many ways such sessions resembled the confessional of the Christian faith; certainly Harald would remember victims of his wrath which, in his more normal consciousness, he’d shut out. Deep from within a grey-streaked beard the pagan priest responded with incantations of the All-powerful,[31] struggling to calm the tremors of his King; yet his heart stayed barred against the slobbering old man. For all the time he was offering comfort to the old King, Sigtrygg was scheming for the future. Like others at the court of Jelling he knew whatever hope survived for his religion was locked up in the succession of the the brutal Sven, the terror of the old fool.

Like a black cloud making way for the sun the gloom of the old King would pass. The pain, tearing at the famous double fangs, would die and with it the urge to smash the world and drive out all the terrors beyond Helgrind[32] awaiting those who died in bed. For Harald lived in terror of such a doom. Just as, shored up by the authority of age, he laughed at the frustrations of his son, so he remembered the last terrible night on earth of his father. Gorm the Old had raved against the shadowy form of Ganglot[33] dragging him towards the world of nothingness. Even at the last moment he tried to slip through the doors of Valhalla by fiercely gripping the limbs of two terrified slaves so that he might die on his feet, as a king should. Of course, the slaves had joined him in that last voyage into the dark; but any slave must welcome that.

Now Old Age had laid its wrinkled hand on Harald. Just like Thor battling Elli[34] the king had been worsted by what all men dreaded. No more would he lead his fleets against the ungrateful shores of Haakon of Norway [35] or the silver-yielding pastures of the English and the Gaels. Yes, once his axe had settled all arguments and no man dared face the King of the Danes. After the death of his brother-in-law, Eric Blood-Axe,[36] Harald felt no rival worthy of his power, unless it be the German Emperor[37]beyond the Danevirke.[38] However, Otto had made the fatal mistake of turning his eyes away from the north in pursuit of ambitions under Italian skies and paid for it. Harald, backed by his dependent, Jarl Haakon of Norway, and his Wendish father-in-law had ravaged the territory beyond the Danevirke in the last great raid of his reign.[39] Even Sven had seemed pleased and, these days, that was a very rare event. All that seemed but yesterday, so why was he abandoned to this worn-out shell of a body? Why hadn’t he been snatched away, in the midst of the glories of youth and the Odin-sent din of battle?

Now, with those years long past, he must endure the arrogance of that miserable offspring of his body, Sven. Could that madman really be a child of his? Not even in such darkest moments could Bluetooth deny that. Sven was so like the Harald of thirty years before - out-telling the Jomsvikings[40] themselves with tales of blood or screaming at the menials skulking among the miry, dim corners of his father's hall. In those far-off days Harald had feared no man, not even his father as he sailed away with his battle fleet to defeat at Brunanburh.[41] Why hadn’t he perished there, along with so many good, glorious fighters? Why had he been forced to eke out his time until his very limbs clamoured for release?

The King glared across at his hateful son. What a popinjay! His beard twisted into ringlets like the hair of a girl! But there was no weakness in the eyes, only a dark malevolence for the world. Harald had to admit Sven was a bold fighter and a lucky leader; in warfare battle-luck was essential; the last three rulers of Norway had been ruined by ill-fortune[42] but Harald was certain that would never happen to his son! [43] Already he’d driven out his father once and Harald had resumed his throne only after humiliating concessions; in the Jomsvikings Sven was cultivating a force to make him invincible in the north.

Sven looked up and locked glares with his father, hate for hate. For a moment they wrestled, just as they had for fifteen years, and then the son looked down. However, not even the King looked upon this act as a triumph for himself; only in not giving way to the snake-eyes of his son was there some sort of victory. Harald couldn’t be sure anyone else had witnessed the mental battle between father and son; if they had then they’d draw the wrong conclusion and that couldn’t be good for the Danes.

As for Sven, he laughed inwardly while lowering his eyes, even though he knew his father hadn’t been deceived. Forkbeard had abandoned the contest because he simply judged now wasn’t yet the time. Let the old fool drink and gorge himself to death; the more ale he guzzled or pork he gulped down the better; what was even more pleasing were the rumours of his father's increasing frustrations with the girls he dragged to his bed. Soon the King's bones would lie cold in the earth - unloved, unfeared, forgotten. For him there’d be no burning boat [44] nor even, fool that he was, the mass sacrifice of slaves. Instead there’d be the whining of some shaven man, the stench of burning weeds brought from the south, and then - nothing. For having deserted Odin, the King would be abandoned by the Aesir and the Vanir,[45] tumbled down to the realm of Hel and then forgotten. Meanwhile, on earth, his son would restore the abandoned groves and those who’d remained true to the old faith would reap their reward. As for the others they’d not be forgotten; Odin would seek out all who’d turned away, to take what was his for fitting sacrifice. Indeed, the son lacked that one redeeming spark of generosity which leavened the crudeness of his father's temper. Sven had been born out of his time, out of place in that dying world[46]where the Christ-god refused to die.

Harald's eyes narrowed viciously as he slowly dragged his head, now covered with matted grey locks, around to glare at all