Chapter Four
Three years previously…
He hurt. Everywhere. Every muscle, every bone, every fucking inch of him.
He was cold too. Nyle shivered and would have huddled in a ball had even the slightest movement not sent shafts of agony along his limbs, his back, his throbbing head. So, he lay still and waited to die.
Even death was not on his side, it would seem, and she refused to claim him. Fickle bitch. Nyle groaned his protest, but to no avail. His miserable existence continued.
Time passed, though he had no notion of how much. Hours? Days? A lifetime? Inexorable, unending, it dragged on.
The pain subsided, or maybe he merely became accustomed to it. He discovered that his limbs would move if he forced them to. He did force them because he reasoned that the more he hurt, the quicker he would die.
But he was wrong. Still he did not succumb. Still his stubborn heart continued to beat, his lungs to draw breath though the air about him was dank and fetid. Other bodily sensations took over from the pain. Hunger gnawed at him, and he was desperately thirsty. Most pressing of all, his bladder was full and if he did not wish to lie in his own piss he had better do something about that. He had no option but to open his eyes, must make some sort of effort…
He tried to prise his eyelids apart and thought he had, but he was wrong. Despite his exertions, darkness prevailed. He attempted it again, this time conscious of the effort expended in actually moving his eyelids. He was not mistaken. His eyes were open but the darkness surrounding him was absolute. Pitch black, like the grave.
Perhaps God was more merciful than Nyle had given Him credit for and his wrecked body was dead, after all. But if that were so, why did everything still hurt so fucking much? Was there not release in death?
Compelled by his insistent bladder, Nyle reached for the fastenings at the front of his rough breeches and loosened them in order to afford himself the necessary relief.
That pressing task accomplished, he felt more alert, more aware of his surroundings. And dead men do not piss. He was most definitely alive, no matter how galling that fact might be. Nyle refastened his clothing and painfully eased himself into a sitting position.
He leaned back on something solid. A wall? He forced himself to reach out and explore his immediate surroundings with his fingers and encountered only dampness, the chill of bare earth. That explained the dank aroma. He craned his neck to peer upward, and there, some ten feet or so above him, was the proof of his predicament. A thin line of light outlined a trapdoor.
He was in a hole. A well, possibly, or some manner of pit. His outstretched legs would just reach the opposite wall and if he extended both arms he could touch the cold, damp earth on either side. He judged the pit to be perhaps four feet wide, square, and perhaps twelve feet in depth. He no longer believed his legs were broken, but even so, the possibility of standing seemed remote. If he did manage to achieve such a feat, he still would not be able to reach the trapdoor above.
Was this the way these Viking bastards disposed of unwanted and troublesome thralls? Did they hurl them into holes in the ground and leave them to die? Even if that was the case, even if that sliver of light so far above his head was to be the last thing he ever saw, still Nyle could not regret his attack on that vicious bastard with the whip. The Norseman struck Deva. His lovely, fragile Deva. What else was Nyle to do?
What else indeed. Remorse engulfed him as he lay in the dark. What use was he now, to Deva or anyone else? He had abandoned Bowdyn to deal with their predicament alone and left Deva to her fate. He should have curbed his temper. He should have thought first, then acted, taken his time. Did Bowdyn not tell him as much? Had his father not repeated a similar mantra over the years?
And now, because he had not listened, he would end his days here, never knowing the fate of those he loved.
Nyle allowed his eyelids to droop. What was the point in being awake? What was the point in anything at all?
* * *
He woke to the sound of guttural laughter, his eyes dazzled by light. Shielding them as best he might, Nyle peered upward. The features of a bearded Viking were silhouetted in the light, his long, sand-coloured locks unwashed and unkempt and his teeth blackened. He leered down at Nyle, then turned to make some remark to another who must be close by. The two shared their joke and the Viking stepped away. Nyle expected the trapdoor to thud shut, but it didn’t. At least, not immediately. It remained open long enough for the Viking to hurl a lump of stale bread down, followed by a horn filled with water. Much of the precious liquid was lost as Nyle fumbled to catch it, but enough remained to wet his parched lips. He drank it greedily, then had to shift his stiff legs to make room for the bucket that the Viking was lowering on a rope. The moment the pail reached the bottom of the pit, the Viking tossed the rope down after it and slammed the trapdoor shut.
Nyle used his hands to examine the bucket and found it to be about half-full of water. He tasted it with care, found it to be brackish but cool and more or less drinkable. Or, more accurately, the alternative of dying of thirst was less acceptable. He dipped the horn in and drank his fill from it, refilling the vessel several times. Only when his thirst was quenched did he turn his attention to the hard, dry crust of bread that accompanied the water.
He wondered if he might have had worse, during times of famine when a boy. On further reflection he had to conclude that he couldn’t recall ever eating anything less palatable, but it was food and it was all he had. It would have to do.
At least if they were feeding him and providing water, they did not intend him to die. Or maybe they didn’t care either way and would leave it up to fate. If he was to perish, Nyle rather fancied he would have done so before now. However unlikely it had seemed a short while ago, be began to believe he might be destined to survive this pit after all.
Days passed, or so Nyle thought. Periodically the bearded Viking returned. He would lift the trapdoor, peer down at the prisoner, then dump food on him. Nyle would always try to catch the food before it fell onto the filthy floor or into his dwindling water supply. He did not always succeed but was deft enough to usually have something to eat. A piece of stale cheese, bread usually, too. On one occasion he was treated to an apple, only half rotted. The Viking did not attempt to retrieve the bucket to refill it, instead preferring to pour more water from above and hope it landed in the pail. Some did, though a fair amount missed and Nyle spent the majority of time soaking wet since there was no fresh air to dry his clothing.
He assumed the Viking’s visits were daily and had so far counted six. Allowing for the time he spent drifting between life and death, Nyle decided he had been incarcerated in his own private hellhole for about a sennight. Did they mean to keep him here forever? What would be the sense in that?
His question was answered on the day he considered to be the eighth since he had been slung down here. The bearded Viking arrived as usual and threw back the lid of Nyle’s prison. This time, however, no meagre fare rained down upon Nyle, nor was there a torrent of water aimed in the general direction of his bucket. No, on this occasion the Viking unfurled a rope ladder down the side of the pit and beckoned for Nyle to drag himself out.
Nyle commenced the climb by no means convinced he possessed the strength to complete it. The prospect of spending further time wallowing in his own filth down in the pit spurred him to supreme efforts. Grunting in pain, he managed to reach the top of the ladder, and from there rough hands grasped his shredded shirt and hauled him over the rim. He lay gasping on the dirt, surrounded by several pairs of booted feet.
Voices assaulted his ears, which had become unused to more than the muffled sounds of those walking about above, the occasional call or giggle. As the Viking tongue was unknown to him, Nyle had no idea if they were discussing him or the prospect of rain, though he would have wagered on the former.
Sure enough, one man stepped forward and bent to examine him. He grabbed Nyle by the hair and twisted his head back in order to see his face and even grabbed his chin to open his mouth. Seemingly satisfied, he nodded at the bearded man, handed over a few coins, and waited as two more Norsemen dragged Nyle to his feet and secured his wrists before him with a rope, The dangling end was passed to the one who had inspected then purchased him, and Nyle found himself led away like a donkey,
He spent the next three days in a rough shed, which he shared with perhaps a dozen more thralls. All were men, and four of them spoke the Gaelic Nyle was used to. From them he learned that their master was called Arkyn Arkynson, an explorer, merchant, and occasional raider. He owned three longships, all powered by oars and Nyle was now an oar slave. His role in life, like that of the men who shared his accommodations, would be to haul Arkyn Arkynson’s wealth up and down the coast in his longships, and across the North Sea when occasion called for it. The work was hard and hazardous, and the life of an oar slave was not usually long. If they managed to survive disease or utter exhaustion, they were as often as not lost in shipwrecks or battle. Chained to their oars, they had no way of escaping if the longship met a watery end.
But there was good news also. Arkyn valued his thralls. He fed them well and when not at sea they were adequately housed. He was not unduly fond of the whip as so many of his ilk were, preferring not to damage valuable stock whether human or inanimate. Even so, he was a hard taskmaster and demanded obedience.
“Do as you’re told and keep your head down,” was the advice imparted by Donald, a Celt abducted from Orkney some two years previously. “It’s a hard life but not as brutal as some.”
Over the coming months Nyle came to profoundly disagree with his mentor. Life as an oar slave was unrelentingly brutal. If the bitter weather did not kill you, and if you managed not to succumb to exhaustion, then the constant danger of shipwreck or the vessel sinking in battle was ever present. Twice Nyle survived when his master’s longship ran onto rocks, and on one occasion that happy circumstance only came about because the oar to which he was chained was ripped from the carcass of the longship in a storm. A reasonable swimmer, he was able to use the shattered wood as a float until he felt the scrape of land beneath his bare feet again. He was one of just three oar slaves to cheat death on that occasion, soon to be rounded up by his master’s karls who had been following on another of Arkynson’s ships, a sturdier vessel able to weather the storm.
As he lay on the harsh sand, his body battered first by the wind and waves and then tormented by the piercing cold rain that attacked him like freezing needles, Nyle contemplated escape. If he could just drag himself to his feet, make his way inland…
But it was not to be. He was discovered before he could turn his thoughts into action, hurled into the bottom of yet another fucking longship, and the whole nightmare began again. Still, the notion was planted. Nyle began to imagine, to dream. He would seek another opportunity, and then, then he would find freedom. It was just a matter of time.
Months passed, became years. Many of those with whom he had shared his accommodations when first he was purchased by Arkynson had been lost. Donald died when the mast snapped in a storm and he was crushed under the weight of it. Lashed to the oar three seats back, Nyle counted that another lucky escape. He mourned his friend and ground his teeth in impotent fury when the Vikings tossed Donald’s lifeless body over the side with the slop.
More time passed. Nyle counted the new moons, noted the passing of the seasons. The winters were harsh, but less arduous because Arkyn Arkynson valued his ships and his merchandise and would not take unnecessary risks with either. The seas in winter were too hazardous, the days too short, dark too soon. He traded less in the cold season, preferring to use the time for repairs and to forge trading alliances with other Viking settlements.
Nyle and his comrades spent most of the winter months locked in Arkynson’s slave quarters where at least the food was plentiful and their bedding dry. After months of welcome idleness the third such respite was now coming to an end. Nyle observed the lengthening of the days, the balmier temperatures. When he was among those thralls selected to undertake labour at their master’s home or in his fields, Nyle smelled spring in the air and with it the promise of many miserable months being tossed around, helpless on the unforgiving waves.
He decided he did not relish that prospect. Not at all. He would die before going to sea again.
Arkynson’s house thralls brought sustenance to the oar slaves once each day, at noon. Occasionally their food was brought by a large, brawny Saxon called Durwyn. The man was built like an ox and with brains to match. It would be easy enough to outwit him and slip through the unlocked door, especially if the man was drunk. Since this was his usual state the chances were good. The real difficulty lay in surviving from then on. An escaped thrall was considered a fair target by any and all Vikings. They loathed the very notion of thralls throwing off their chains and taking to the open countryside. In part their reaction was one of genuine affront. A thrall was property, owned fair and square by the master. A thrall had no right to assert any level of independence or freedom. To do so was seen as theft and punishable by a harsh flogging, even death.
Worse than the commercial loss should a slave escape, the Vikings feared the consequences of their many, many thralls rising up and seizing freedom. The prospect of hordes of vengeful ex-captives wreaking havoc in the countryside quite frankly terrified them. The merest hint of a revolt would be swiftly and brutally quashed.
Nyle had no intention of inciting others to insurrection. He was interested only in escaping himself, but he was under no illusion about the risks. Still, the alternative was worse. He would die somewhere and already felt himself to be on borrowed time. He might as well meet his end as a free man fighting to hang on to his liberty.
For the best part of a week Nyle hoarded as much food as he could conceal under the straw that made up his pallet. He did not require much, could easily live off the land if he had to. If nothing else, the Norseland was fertile territory and would offer rich enough pickings to a man who knew how to survive. Nyle had trapped rabbits since he was a small boy and he could tickle a trout from the fastest stream. He knew which berries were safe to eat, which leaves and roots to avoid. His mother, Ronat, had been skilled with herbs and had made sure all her children could recognise poisonous shrubs.
No, his problem would be finding adequate shelter, a means to keep warm. Even though the weather was improving, this was still a harsh climate. He would require fire at night, a roof over his head. His threadbare clothing offered no protection from the elements and would mark him at once as an escaped thrall.
He had noted that the female house thralls did the laundry on several days of the week. They would hang the washed clothing out to dry on ropes slung between the buildings of the settlement. If Nyle were to make his escape on such a day he might manage to liberate a cloak from the line, perhaps a pair of stout trousers, a tunic. His hair was perhaps a little darker than that of most Norsemen, but he would wear a hood. He might pass for a Viking and by now he could even speak enough of their tongue to support his impersonation.
It was the best chance he had. He would take it.
Nyle willed himself to sit quietly, to await their noon meal as though this was any other day. He had ventured outside at first light, one of three slaves charged with dumping their slops in the nearby stream. He had seen the women gathering at the edge of the brook, their baskets of soiled clothing beside them. Soon, the damp clothes would flutter in the gentle spring breeze, ready for him to take his pick. He had but to sneak from the barn and help himself.
Durwyn arrived at his usual time, muttering to himself as he fumbled with the bar on the outside of the heavy oak door. Nyle waited within, huddled close to the wall on the opposite side to the hinges. Unless he missed his guess, the other oar slaves would crowd around their dinner, jostling for the choicest pieces of meat, the least stale of the bread. Durwyn would make his usual, futile attempts to assert order but in seconds his burden would be seized and redistributed. Durwyn would shrug, retrieve the empty sack or bucket if he could, and leave again, locking the barn behind him.
This day was no different. Durwyn heaved the massive oak beam back into place to secure the door, then he started back for the main dwelling. He never looked back, never saw the quick, slim silhouette slithering out of the door just before he slammed it shut again. He never spotted the silent figure secreted in the shadows of the barn who waited until the house thrall’s shambling footsteps faded from earshot. Neither Durwyn nor any of the other slaves witnessed the loss of their master’s second best cloak and a pair of warm woollen leggings from among the garments flapping on the line. A decent tunic, too, and even a pair of leather sandals disappeared from the rough fence that enclosed the chickens, having been left there to dry before being brushed clean. No one saw anything, and although Durwyn made some effort to locate the missing shoes it would be days before Arkynson sought to lash another set of slaves to his oars and Nyle was missed.
* * *
He kept to the wild countryside, avoiding settlements and communities where he could. By instinct, Nyle remained close to the coast. Home lay across the sea, he would somehow locate a craft to carry him there. He quashed the instinct to scour the surrounding countryside in search of his brother and Deva. It had been years, he did not even know if they still lived though he imagined he would somehow feel it if his twin were dead. But he had no clue as to Bowdyn’s whereabouts, and nothing to go on. If he were to seek to make enquiries he would soon be identified, recaptured. He could not, would not risk that.
No. He would go home. Once back in England he would find others, Celts like him ready to stand up to the murdering Norsemen. Thus reinforced he would return to demand his brother’s freedom. He would fight for it if he had to, but he would fight with a sword in his hand, not a fucking oar.
His disguise served him well, as did his quick wit and ready grasp of the Norse tongue. He avoided people where he could, but on occasions he encountered others, karls in the main, farmers, and the occasional fisherman. He was able to barter a skinned rabbit for a keg of ale, a trout for half a dozen small loaves. He slept in barns where he could, under the stars if that was all he could find. Arkynson’s cloak was warm, his shoes stout. He was all right, for now, but the sooner he could contrive to leave these inhospitable shores the better.
The buildings of a coastal settlement came into view when he crested a hill. He paused to peruse the scene below and was more than a little gratified to observe fine craft bobbing in the harbour. For the most part they appeared to be knarrs, the type of ocean-going cargo ships owned by Arkynson. That was good. The presence of dragon ships in any number would have suggested a settlement of more warlike Vikings rather than the traders who tended to favour such craft.
A man shambled along the track toward him, dragging a reluctant donkey on a length of rope. He bobbed his head to Nyle as he passed.
“Hold,” Nyle called out to the karl as the man passed him. The Viking paused and glanced back over his shoulder. “What place is that below?” asked Nyle.
“Ravnklif,” came back the answer. “Why? Who is asking?”
“I am Eirik, from Holvik.” Nyle trotted out a name he knew to be common, and the only place in this land he could confidently recall. The harbour where he, his brother, and Deva had first landed would be forever etched on his memory. “I have friends in Ravnklif.”
“Aye, well, good luck to you in finding them. The place is in uproar since the death of Baldvin Ryggiason. He owned most of the knarrs in yonder harbour and his family are scrabbling over what is left.”
“I see. My thanks, friend.”
The man shrugged and resumed his journey, leaving Nyle to gaze down upon the settlement below.
Ravnsklif, eh? And a place in chaos since the death of a powerful, wealthy man. Now, if that did not offer a decent opportunity to steal a ship whilst the warring family fought among themselves, Nyle did not know what would.