Viking Worlds Book 1

Volume 1

Rainer W. Grimm

• Publisher: Books on Demand
• Year: 2017
• ISBN:
  9783744811576
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Historical Fiction
• Index: Literature

Viking World is a collection of historical occurrences and important events of the Nordic world which are brought to life again through the imagination of the author. It tells the story of how the Norwegian Rollo founded Normandy, or how a proselytizing priest caused trouble in Iceland. It tells of the young Greenlander Leif Eriksson who, following a legend, discovered the continent now known as America five hundred years prior to Columbus. It recounts the life of the pagan Viking King Olaf who became a devout Christian, and attempted to unite his country in the new faith.

1. The Attack of
Lindisfarne

I am called Alcuin the Priest and I was once a devoted missionary! Yes, I was a diligent servant of the Lord Jesus Christ and even a counsel to Charlemagne, the great King of the Franks. But now I have become an old man of seventy three years, and by the light of a candle I hold my quill with a trembling hand to record what happened less than a decade ago.

I know, for I was there! Fate had led me in my old age away from the realm of the Franks and back to my home of Northumberland in beautiful Britain. In the rich abbey of Lindisfarne, located on the island of the same name off the north eastern coast of my native country, I found sanctuary and was welcomed most warmly by the abbot of the monastery. Here in this house beloved by God, here where our Saints Cuthbert and Aidan had lived, did I wish to find peace to prepare myself for the journey to the Kingdom of Heaven of Almighty God. It pleased the Lord, however, to show me once more, man's capacity for cruelty and barbarity. I had already seen the many abominations that the victors of a battle are wont to commit in the retinue of Charlemagne. Even kings and lords such as Carolus Rex (or perhaps they in particular) were inclined to enslave the vanquished, if not outright kill them in their thousands.

There is little of the love that our Lord Jesus Christ preached in their deeds, and only seldom did they show mercy towards the peoples they conquered. But even worse were those who acted out of greed. They killed, raped and ransacked purely out of avarice. Godless barbarians were they!

During the spring, great storms raged over the land of Northumbria. Dragons appeared in the darkened sky spouting fire. These were all portents that something terrible was about to occur. No, it would not be a good year! And so it happened on the 8^th of June anno Domini 793, and never before had anything worse befallen us. The blood of priests stained the walls and floor of the church of St. Cuthbert. Indeed, this was the beginning of all sorrows.

The monastery sat on a hill with a beautiful view of the bay. Rich green meadows upon which bright colorful flowers and only a few gnarled old trees grew reached down to the strand. It was the time of the morning prayer when the angular sails of two longships appeared on the horizon. And the sips of the godless vikings were headed for our bay. A young novice by the name of Ambrose was the first to be struck down by the Northmen's blades. It was said that this Ambrose was at the beach that morning to disport himself with a girl from a nearby village. That may well have been so, for later, the lifeless body of a young woman was found not far from the unfortunate one's own corpse.

The Northmen violated the luckless maid extensively before relieving her of her earthly torment, and there were those monks in the monastery who saw this as the Lord's just punishment. I on the other hand mourn for those poor souls, for I know that many women of that area spread their legs for the brothers for a bit of food or coin. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

Then the heathens stormed up the meadow and towards the abbey enclosed merely by a low wall offering little protection. Fair was the hair flowing beneath the iron helms of the tall men, and long were their beards. With blades held high, swinging axes over their heads, the pagans assaulted the church doors. Only now did the bell sound to warn the brothers of the danger, but it was far too late!

The lock of the great wooden gate was broken and the doors crashed against the walls allowing the heathen barbarians to storm the house of God. They shouted the word “Viking” again and again, and they descended upon the praying and fearfully screaming monks like wild animals. The brothers ran in panic through the church hall, confused and weeping, and many were struck down by the axes of the hellish brood. The abbot who confronted the bloodthirsty savages cross in hand had his skull split to the root of the nose by the sharp and heavy blade of a sword. The monks cried out in shock and fear and attempted to flee but only few were able to escape the church. Most of them, however, shared in the fate of the abbot and stood before the face of our Creator that dreadful day. Then the murderers gathered together everything of value. They took the golden vessels for the blessed Eucharist and the crosses made of silver. The monks' rings and pectorals they tore from their lifeless bodies.

I myself was in my bed in a room inside the main abbey building during all this. I was after all sixty three years of age and no longer in good health. God alone knows why he spared this old monk's life. It was one of the novices who came storming into my chamber under the roof crying out in utmost distress “The vikings are coming! The vikings are coming!”

But what could an old man possibly do? I remained upon my straw filled mattress and folded my hands in prayer to my God that he be merciful to me in death. Then my door was burst open. The vikings had now also taken the main building and were searching every nook and cranny for valuables, killing everyone in their path. Frozen in fear, as I must shamefully confess, I lay there as the door was torn from its hinges and a tall strongly fellow entered the dimly lit chamber. He looked around briefly then approached my bed sword drawn. Now the moment has come, where I will meet my Creator, I thought to myself. But to my surprise the viking's blade did not pierce my body. I dared to tentatively open my eyes which I had firmly shut. The man stood there for a moment, looking down at this old body. Bright, indeed blazing blue eyes stared at me and I looked back at an almost boyish face framed by a closely cropped blonde beard. This man had seen no more than twenty summers, yet heaven alone knew how many people he had brought to death. Should he be the one to end my long life? So I lay there, staring into the blue eyes of this youth, waiting for his blade to fall. But suddenly the viking spoke to me. I did not understand his words, of course, but his voice was calm, almost peaceful. Then he smiled and left my room. Oh Lord, what encounter was this? While my brothers were begging for their lives and being slaughtered, I experienced this miracle of clemency. I, an old man who had already lived his life. Now I slowly rose, for I no longer felt the pains of my ailments. I hesitantly went over to the chamber's small window and saw the Northmen beladen with the treasures of the monastery, with our food and livestock, crossing the meadow back down to the shore. And it was of the greatest ignominy that they sang merrily as they went.

As swiftly as they had come, they were gone again. But the name they had called still echoed in the ears of the survivors long after. With impunity and without losing a single one of theirs, the thieves were on their way. For many long years I stood at the side of Charlemagne, witnessed wars and men dying for their faith. Yet such a blow, swift and without mercy, I had never before seen in my life.

Slowly I descended down the stairs and looked upon the harm these bloodthirsty savages had caused. Many of the brothers were lying in their own blood, and the church of St. Cuthbert was in flames.

The monks and novices who dared come out of hiding tended to the wounded. Others ran like headless fowl with pales of water across the church square, but only after help from the nearby village arrived could the old church be saved from the flames.

What baseness! What a disgrace for Christendom! Never in all the long years that we and our forefathers have settled in this fair land has there been such an attack on Britain as the one by these barbaric pagans we were forced to witness. Who would have thought such an attack from the sea possible?

This, however, was only the prelude to these sorrowful times! For only one year later the Northmen returned to gorge themselves on a our beloved homeland. The abbeys of Monkwearmouth and Jarrow were their ambition and they suffered no lesser cruelties than we at Lindisfarne had one year earlier.

In the year 795 the news was spread across all the realms of the British Isles that the Vikings had sacked the Island of Iona in Scotland. And not long ago the Isle of Man suffered the same fate.

I, Alcuin, who is known as the Frank, old and marked by death, I beseech you, Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on your children. Have mercy, in the face of the doom these vikings, who worship the devil Odin, may yet bring to us!

*

2. Rollo and the Toppled
King

I will tell you the saga of Göngu Hrolf, of Rolf the Vagabond! It was during the time when King Harald Harfagr, whom all called Harald Fairhair, reigned over the land on the North Way. There, in a fjord far in the north of the country, lived a young farmer named Rolf, though all called him Rollo. This man was loved but little among his neighbors, for he was considered unfriendly and very violent. Often, Rollo would quarrel with the other farmers, and many times the local lord would be forced to restore order at the thing¹. And so it came to pass that the belligerent farmer was once more called before the lord of Helgeland, but this time, it did not look good for him. A neighbor's sheep had grazed on Rollo's meadows. This had enraged the short-tempered man to such a degree, he wasted no time and slew his neighbor in anger. Now accused of manslaughter, Rollo was lead again to the lord of Helgeland. But being stubborn and headstrong, Rollo refused to pay a weregild². After all, it was the neighbor's own fault, he thought. But the jarl³ and the elders had enough of his cheek, and without further ado they banished the hot-tempered farmer to the Orkney Isles for four years and forbade him return to his home land on pain of death.

But only two years did the exile stay on the Orkneys, for then he readied his ship to sail the Northern Sea. As time went by, more and more warriors joined and soon he commanded a fully manned snekja⁴ with which he raided the coasts of Norway as a pirate and viking. Thus the farmer who was banished to the Orkney Isles made an evil name for himself in the Nordic Kingdoms. Many sea-kings sought his allegiance, and so it came to pass that Rolf, whom the folk of the north now called the Vagabond, swore fealty to a Danish viking lord. No coast was safe from the viking fleet of this Danish sea-king, and no army could stop their raids. The lands of the Saxons, the great trading ports of the Frisians, the cities on the rivers of the realm of Poland, and the island of the Anglo-Saxons were all ravaged and ransacked. The Dane spared the coasts of the Northlands, however, which vexed Rollo greatly, for he desired to return to Helgeland: for revenge!

But he had to follow his king's orders, for he had sworn an oath; and breaking that oath would not have been wise. With each passing raid, however, the discontent among the vikings grew. They were displeased with the unequal sharing of the spoils. The sea-king paid his followers poorly and kept the larger part of the treasures for himself. And so it was Rollo, who raised his voice and instigated the mutiny against their Danish leader.

When he knew enough of the warriors were on his side, he stood before the viking lord and spoke threateningly.

“For too long now, have you cheated us out of our fair portion, Dane! It is time for a more honest man to take your place!”

“And this man would be you, Rollo?”, the sea-king hissed quietly, and then laughed bitterly.

“I know not, whether I be the man to take your place, But I know I will be the one to ram his iron into your hide!”

The larger part of the warriors began to cheer, but their were some men who were much less enthused, and some even yet loyal to their chief. Rollo drew his sword and the Dane did likewise.

“Now you will pay for your cheek, Rollo!”, the viking chief cried. The Norwegian swung his sword at the sea-king in answer. The blades clashed together loudly, and the men cheered at every blow of one or the other warrior. Rollo was the younger of the combatants, having seen around twenty-seven summers and winters. His Danish opponent on the other hand had already celebrated the midsummer feast more than forty times. But the viking chief was an experienced and skilled warrior and did not go easy on Rollo. And yet, the longer the battle raged on, the more the Norwegian's will to triumph grew, and the Dane's sword arm was growing heavier. Every blow and thrust with the iron weapons wore on the men, and so the younger was soon at an advantage. Still it was Rollo who received the first wound, for a quick slash had struck his face and cut his cheek. Not a deep cut, but painful. And now his ire, for which he had been exiled from Helgeland in the first place, burst forth. With no regard for his own life, he hacked at the Danish sea-king. Stroke for stroke his sword swung down on his opponent, and before long Rolf's iron had found its mark. A blow struck the chief in the shoulder, ripping through his leather jerkin, and the blood gushing forth from the deep wound soon drenched the Dane's woolen shirt. But the man would not give up. With the courage born of desperation, he attacked Rollo once more, but his strength had left him, and now, it was child's play for Rollo the Vagabond. He drove his blade straight through his chest with a sickening crack, as the steel pierced the breastbone.

The Dane succumbed to his terrible injuries shortly after, and the men chose Rollo to be his successor. Thus, an exiled Norwegian farmer became a sea-king with a fleet of five ships and an army comprised mainly of Danish warriors. And so the viking Rollo attacked the coasts of Norway, Sweden and Denmark, as was his wont and to still his thirst for revenge. Revenge for the dishonor of being banished. The sea-king raided many a settlement, and now that he had a fleet at his command, even the larger cities were not safe from him. Soon there was not a king in all of Thule⁵, who would not try to get rid of this scourge.

It was already autumn and heavy storms roared across the northern sea. Few traders and warriors dared to cross the angry waters in their ships.

“Yes, now is the right time come to attack a great city!”, thought Rollo. For during the autumn and approaching winter the people of the North thought themselves secure, and they slacked in their watchfulness. They would have much to plunder, for the coffers of the hersir⁶ and money chests of the rich traders were often well filled after summer. And it was also the time when the tax collectors of the kings traveled through the land to collect the tithe. Ignoring the misgivings of some of his more seasoned warriors, the viking king made ready his ships.

The sky was gray and heavy rain poured down on the men as they rowed out from their hiding place, a small island in a fjord not far from the Shetlands. A strong wind blew from the north and filled the strained sails almost to the point of tearing. The southern coast of Norway would be their target for here were many rich towns that profited from the trade with the merchants of the realms of the Germans, the Franks and the Poles. The jarls and hersi...