Tim Severin - Sworn Brother

The current was in our favour once we emerged through the disused harbour gates, and as we rowed towards the river mouth it became obvious which of our oarsmen had learned to row on rivers and lakes and which were proper seamen. Those from calmer waters pulled their oars in a long fiat sweep, while the experienced mariners used a shorter, chopping action, and of course the two styles did not match. So there were more oaths and arguments among the rowers, until our drakkars began to pitch and roll on the first waves from the sea, and one of the river rowers sprained his wrist. Luckily there was a brisk east wind to speed us on our way, so we hoisted our brand-new sail, hauled the oars inboard and relaxed, leaving the Jutish captain and his helmsman to steer.

'Thank Svantevit for this wind,' said the Wend beside me, reaching inside his shirt and producing a little wooden image of his God. He found a niche for the talisman beside his seat and put it there, then nodded towards the flat shoreline on our left. 'Anyone know this coast?'

A man three places from us must have been a Sjaellander, for he answered, 'Used to sail past it with my uncle when we were bringing his farm produce to Rugen. Not much to see, but easy enough once you know the channels. Have to watch out for sand and mudbanks, but there are plenty of creeks and bays handy for shelter if the wind blows up.'

'Rich country?' asked another voice hopefully.

'No, just farmlands; nothing of note until you get to Ringsted and that's Knut's domain, so I guess we'll be on our best behaviour if we stop there.'

'We won't be making any stops,' said a heavily bearded Skanian, one of our Danish volunteers. 'Rumour has it that Knut's fleet has left Limfiord and is heading for the sound and we're to rendezvous with him there.'

He spat over the side, and watched the spittle float away in our wake, judging the speed of our vessel. 'She's no racer,' he commented. 'In a wind like this she ought to be half as fast again.'

'Ballast's all wrong,' said a voice from somewhere amidships. 'She's too heavy in the bow.'

'Reckon the mast isn't stepped quite right either,' came a third opinion. 'Should be shifted aft a hand's breadth and the main halyard set up tighter.' As the discussion gathered pace I realised that sailors could spend as much time discussing the rig of their vessels as warriors in barracks spent comparing the merits of weapons.

That evening we landed on a stretch of deserted shore to make a meal and rest. There is no cooking hearth aboard a drakkar, so the crew eat cold food if they do not land. We brought the vessels close inshore, turned stern on, and after setting anchors to haul them off next morning, we backed water with the oars until the sterns touched the sand. That way, if there was an emergency or we needed to depart in a hurry, we could scramble aboard and leave in double-quick time. Not that we expected trouble. Few villages could muster enough men or courage to dispute the landing of two shiploads of armed men. The only glimpse we had of the local inhabitants was the distant figure of a shepherd running away down sand dunes to take a warning to his people. He left his flock behind, so we butchered ten of his sheep and feasted.

Next morning the wind was fluky, changing in strength and direction as we resumed our coastal passage. But the sun shone in a sky flecked with high, fast-moving white clouds. It felt like a holiday as we headed onward under sail, keeping well offshore.

'Wish all campaigning was like this,' commented the Sjaelander, who was proving to be the ship's chatterer.

By now most of the crew had learned how to make best use of the cramped space, stretching out on the lids of the storage chests that held their war gear. Folded sails and padded jerkins were their cushions. Thrand, I noticed, never joined us. As we sailed onward, he took up his position on the little foredeck, standing there watching the forward horizon or, more often, scanning the shoreline as we moved steadily northward.

Shortly before noon I became aware that Thrand's gaze had not shifted for some time. He was looking towards the land, his attention fixed. Something about his posture alerted me to turn around and look back at our captain. He was glancing in the same direction too, and then looking astern at the waves and sky, as if to check the wind speed and direction, and watching the bronze weathervane on our stern post. Everything seemed to be in good order. Our two ships were moving steadily forward, nothing had changed.

The Sjaelander, who had been stretched out on his back enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face, lazily rolled over on his side and raised his head to peer over the side of the drakkar. 'Soon be passing the entrance to the Stege Bight,' he said, and then, 'ah yes, there it is, I can see sails on the far side of that little island. They must be coming out from West Sjaelland.' He rolled back on his side and settled himself comfortably. 'Probably merchantmen on their way out to the sound.'

'If so, they've come to trade with swords not purses. Those are warships,' said the big Dane. He was standing on the oar bench, an arm shielding his eyes from the sun's reflection on the water, as he looked towards the distant sails. There was a sudden stir among our crew. Men sat up and looked around, several got to their feet and squinted in the same direction.

'How do you know they're warships?' asked one of the Wends. He had been one of the river rowers and this was clearly the first time he had been to sea.

'Some of those sails have stripes. Sign of a fighting ship,' answered the Dane.

I looked at our own new sail. It was unmarked. 'Maybe they'll mistake us for merchant ships as well.'

'I doubt it,' said the Dane. 'Merchant ships don't carry low, broad sails like ours. Their sails are taller and not so wide. As soon as they clear the island and get a good view of us, they'll recognise the outline of a drakkar hull and know we're not a pair of harmless trading ships. However, this may be a piece of luck. West Sjaelland is ruled by. Earl Ulf, one of Knut's liegemen, and those ships could be on the way to reinforce Knut's war fleet. We'll be able to sail in company with them and if we run into the king's enemies they'll think twice about attacking such a large force.'

When the strange ships emerged from behind the dunes and into plain view, we saw that the big Dane had been correct, at least in part. Five ships came out from the sound. Three were drakkars like our own and two were trading knorrs, apparently under escort. Their position put them slightly upwind of us, and we watched them set their course to match our track, gradually closing the gap between us, as if to join us.

It is a commonplace to say that everything happens slowly at sea until the last moment, then all is haste and flurry, but it is true. For a while very little happened as all seven vessels carried steadily on their way — the five Danish ships sailing in company while our own helmsmen kept the two Jomsviking vessels close together, no more than fifty paces apart. As the gap between us and the approaching squadron dwindled, we gazed across at the strangers trying to learn more about them, until eventually our own Dane was able to confirm that they were indeed Earl Ulf s men. He knew the earl's livery and even thought he recognised some of the warriors aboard. Their two knorrs were clearly troopships carrying Danish levies, and their slower speed meant that the junction between our squadrons was leisurely.

Finally, in early afternoon, the leading Danish drakkar had pulled slightly ahead of her consorts, and was close enough for our Jutish captain to call out a greeting. 'Well met,' he bellowed, cupping his hands around his mouth so the sound carried over the waves washing along his vessel's side. 'Any news of Knut's fleet? We go to join the king.'