King's Man (30 page)

'You are a devotee of Odinn?' the farmer asked in a deep, quiet voice. He was probing, wanting to know more about me and to establish some sort of common ground between us. I liked him.

'From childhood. I have followed Odinn since I was a boy. And you?'

'Here we worship Frey. We are farmers, not warriors or sailors. We need Frey's generosity.' I knew what he spoke of. Frey is the God of fertility. He multiplies the seed that is planted in the soil, brings the rain and warmth which ripens crops, and makes good harvests. With Frey's help the cattle thrive, lambs and calves are plentiful, sows farrow generously. Even the milk we were drinking we owed ultimately to Frey's bounty.

'Last evening you invoked Odinn Vegtamr,' the farmer continued. 'Do you travel far?'

'Only as far as the Danish lands, if the rain holds off for another week or so. I don't like squelching through mud.'

'Many berries on the bushes this year,' the man said. 'And the swallows left early. Snow will come sooner than rain, I'd say. Not that it means much to us in these parts. We don't travel except to the great Hof, and it's a three-day walk to reach anywhere worth visiting.'

'Yet I saw a memorial back along the road to a man who died in Serkland. That's a great distance.'

There was a sudden tension in the room. The farmer looked uneasy.

'Have you been to Serkland?' he enquired.

'I have, or at least close to it,' I said. 'I served with the emperor's guard in Miklagard, and he sent me to their Holy Land. That's close by. It's the place where the White Christ God lived.'

'Don't know about this Holy Land. We're too remote to see the White Christ priests. One of them did visit a few years back, but found us too set in our ways. He left and never came back.'

'Perhaps you were fortunate,' I commented.

The farmer seemed to reach a decision. 'It was I who cut that memorial stone,' he acknowledged. 'Did my best, though the work is rough. Should have picked a better rock. A corner broke off in the winter frost two years later. We wanted to have something to remember him by. He was married to my wife's sister.'

He glanced across the room towards the woman who had been cleaning up the hearth. She was standing still, staring at me, hanging on every word.

'News reached us, third or fourth hand, that he had died in Serkland. But there were no details. He had set out from here to make his fortune, and never came back. Vanished. We don't know anything of the place where he met his end, or how it happened. His name was Thorald.'

'I didn't know anyone by that name when I was in Miklagard,' I said, 'but if it will repay your hospitality, perhaps I could tell you what I know of Serkland.'

The farmer nodded to his sister-in-law, and she stepped closer. Her eyes were still fixed on me as I began to describe my time in the Hetaira, my visit to the Holy Land, and how I had met Saracens both as friends and enemies. It was a lengthy tale, and I tried to tell it briefly. But the farmer soon detected that I was leaving much unsaid, and he interrupted.

'There is so much we want to know. Would you not stay with us a few days and tell us your tale more fully? It would help Runa here.'

I hesitated. The family lived in such straitened circumstances
that I was reluctant to impose myself on their kindness. But then the farmer, whose name was Folkmar, insisted, and I agreed to stay one more day.

It was among the best decisions of my life. That one day became a week, and by the end of it I knew that Folkmar's home was my haven. Nothing could have been a greater contrast to the sophistication and luxury of Constantinople with its broad avenues, well-stocked markets, and teeming crowds. There I had enjoyed the comforts of fine food, public bathhouses, and lavish entertainment on a scale unimaginable to my hosts in the harsh barrens of Vaster Gotland, where much of each day was spent in routine labour to achieve the basics of everyday life, whether drawing water, mending farm tools or grinding grain. Yet Folk-mar and his wife were content to place their trust in the Gods, and in consequence there was nothing fearful in their lives. They were deeply fond of one another and their children; they lived simply and frugally, and they were sure of where they stood in relation to the land and the seasons of the year. Every time I accompanied Folkmar to his work in one of his small fields or to gather firewood in the forest, I saw how he respected the unseen spirits around him. He laid small tokens, even if they were no more than a broken twig or a leaf, on the isolated boulders which we passed, and if the children were with us he would insist they hushed their voices, and he forbade them to play games close by the sacred rocks. To him the deep forest was home to skogsra, female woodland deities who, if respected, would return a cow or calf that wandered from the meadow. If insulted, they would feed the stray to the wolves.

Folkmar's devotion to his main Gods, Frey and his sister Freyja, was uncomplicated. He kept their statuettes in his home, Frey with his enormous phallus, and Freyja voluptuous and sensual, but he knew little of their lore other than the popular tales.

'Cats,' he said. 'Freyja's chariot is drawn by cats. Just like a woman to be able to harness cats. That would be something to see. Hereabouts in mid-summer a man and woman dress up as

Frey and his sister and travel from farm to farm in a cart to collect offerings, but they are drawn along by a working nag.' He paused before saying, 'I'll be bringing those offerings to the Great Hof next week. Care to come with me? It means delaying your trip to Denmark, but Odinn has his own place in the Hof as well. It would be a chance for you to honour him.' 'How far is it to the Hof?' I asked.

'About ten days. Lots of people will be going. The king himself could be there.'

This time I did not hesitate. My trip to Denmark could wait. I had heard about the Great Hof from the Swedish Varangians I had met in Miklagard, who had told me about the festivals held near a place they called Uppsala where, since time out of mind, there had been a temple to the Old Gods. Here, in spring and just before the onset of winter, appeared great gatherings of Old Believers, who came in multitudes to make their sacrifices and pray for all the blessings that the Old Gods can bestow: health, prosperity, victory, a good life. The Swedish king himself often attended, because his ancestors traced their line back to Frey himself. I decided that after many years of living among the followers of the White Christ, now, at last, I could immerse myself again in the celebration of the Old Ways.

Folkmar was delighted when I agreed to accompany him, and our journey proved to be what the Christians would have called a pilgrimage. We were like a master and disciple as we trudged along and I answered his questions about the Gods, for he was keen to learn more and I was slowly coming to realise that my knowledge of the Old Ways was more profound than most possessed. I told him how Frey and Freyja belonged to the Vanir, the primal Gods who had at first resisted the Aesir under Odinn and fought against them. When peace was agreed, they had gone to join the Aesir as hostages and had been with them ever since.

'Pity the Norwegians and the Danes can't do the same. Make peace with one another, I mean,' Folkmar observed. 'It would put an end to this constant warring between them which does no one any good. I often think how fortunate it is that my people live so far out of the way. The quarrels of the outer world usually pass us by.'

'Perhaps that is why Frey and his sister chose not to live under Odinn's roof in Valhol. They have a space to themselves,' I answered. 'Frey has his own hall in Alfheim where the light elves live. And he and his sister have their special privileges. Frey is near equal to Odinn, and his sister in some ways is superior. After battle she takes half of those who have died honourably and brings them back to her hall, Sessrumnir, leaving Odinn and the Valkyries to select the rest. Freyja gets to make the first choice among the dead.'

'You would need to be a God to share power like that, never quarrelling over precedence,' observed Folkmar.

'I saw it done back in the Great City,' I said. 'Two empresses sharing the same throne. But I admit, it was unusual.'

'It's against nature. Sooner or later, there must be a contest for power,' said Folkmar. With his native shrewdness he had forecast what was to follow.

T
he
G
reat
T
emple
at Uppsala was worth our ten-day walk. It was the largest hof I had ever seen, an enormous hall of timber built close beside three large barrow graves which contained the bodies of the early kings. In front of the hof grew a huge tree, the very symbol of Yggdrasil, the world tree where the Aesir meet. This giant was even more remarkable because its leaves never faded, but remained green throughout even the hardest winter. To one side, clustering like attendants, smaller trees formed a sacred grove. These trees too were very ancient, and each was hallowed. On them were displayed the sacrifices made to the Gods whose images were within the Hof itself. Folkmar told me that at the great spring festival, the temple priests celebrated nine successive days of ritual, nine being their sacred number. Each day they emerged from the Hof and hung on the branches of the sacred trees the heads of the nine animals they had sacrificed to the Gods as proof of their devotion. Ritual demanded that each animal was a male, and that there was one from each type of living creature.

'Does that include human sacrifice as well?' I asked.

'In earlier times, that was so,' explained Folkmar, 'But no longer.'

He led me inside the Hof. Even though the autumn festival was of less importance than the spring celebration, the dark interior of the temple was crowded with worshippers bringing gifts. The builders of the temple had left openings in the high roof so that the daylight fell in shafts, illuminating the statues of the Gods. And today, despite the fact that it was cloudy, the three Gods seemed to loom over the congregation. Thor was in the centre — powerful, bearded, and holding his hammer aloft. To his right stood my own God, Odinn. Carved from a single enormous block of wood, and black with the smoke of centuries of sacrifices, Odinn squinted down with his single eye. To Thor's left stood Frey's image. This statue too was of wood, but brightly painted with the colours of the bountiful earth — ochre, red, brown, gold and green. Frey was seated cross-legged, a conical helmet on his head, one hand clutching his pointed beard, which jutted forward, the other hand on his knee. His eyes bulged. He was stark naked, and from his loins rose the gigantic phallus that was the symbol of the fertility he controlled, and also of physical joy.

Folkmar approached one of the Frey priests and handed over the package he had carried on his back all the way during our walk. I had no idea what the package contained, but knowing the poverty of Folkmar and his neighbours I doubted it was anything more than a few items of farmer's produce, yet the priest took the package as if it was of great value and thanked the farmer graciously. He beckoned to an assistant, and a moment later a small pig was dragged out from the shadows, and with a quick movement the priest cut its throat. The assistant already had a bowl in place, and as the blood drained into it, the priest took a whisk of twigs and, dipping it into the blood, nicked the drops towards the image of the God, then over Folkmar, who stood with bowed head.

I had expected the priest to set the pig's carcass aside, but instead he handed it to Folkmar and said, 'Feast well tonight.'

His duty done, Folkmar turned and began to leave when he remembered that
I
had not yet honoured Odinn. 'I am sorry, Thorgils, I did not think to keep something back that you could offer to your God.'

'Your people collected for Frey's honour,' I said as we moved through the crowd towards the soot-black image of the father of the Gods. 'It would not have been right to divert the slightest morsel of it elsewhere.'

We had reached the foot of Odinn's statue. It towered above us, twice the height of a man. The image was so old that the timber from which it had been carved was split and dry, and I wondered how many centuries it had stood there. Apart from the closed eye, the details of the God's face were blurred with age. I reached inside my shirt where my money pouch hung on a leather thong around my neck, then laid my offering at the God's feet. Folkmar's eyes opened wide in surprise. I had set down a solid gold coin, an imperial nomisma, worth more than all the farmer's worldly possessions. To me, it was a small token of my gratitude to Odinn for having brought me to Folkmar and his home.

'You
say
that
you follow Harald Sigurdsson and are sworn to serve him,' said Folkmar to me that evening as we roasted the sacrificial pig, 'but it is too late in the season for Harald to arrive. The earliest he can be expected is in the spring. Why don't you spend the winter with us. I know that would please my wife and her sister.'

'First I must visit Svein Estrithson in Denmark so that later I can tell Harald what the man is like,' I answered cautiously, though Folkmar's invitation had forced me to acknowledge that