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Joining us tonight for a short interview about his upcoming book is somebody who needs no introduction, but for the benefit of any viewer who has been in seclusion the last few years, I give you one anyway.
AUDIENCE: LAUGHTER
I present to you the winner of the 2115 and 2116 MSR awards, of the 2117 MLR award, last man standing on last season of the reality show Real Princes of Asia, author of the bestselling self-help book, “Inbreeding is how you get the best racehorses”, the world famous descendant of prophets, his serenity prince Sigurd af Sigurdr of Isfahan.
AUDIENCE: APPLAUSE
Sigurd – may I call you Sigurd?
Om.
Thanks. Your upcoming book, “Born to Breed: House of the Prophets”, is shrouded in secrecy, but I understand that it is a history of sorts rather than a new book on the marital arts, and it has been strongly hinted by your publisher that you will be drawing on confidential dynasty records to present a scandalous and/or modern take on the traditional authorized telling. Would you care to comment?
Your understanding is wrong. It is not a history, but historical fiction, a collection of educational tales written for the edification of youth, that happens to feature historical people, many but not all of whom are my ancestors, members of my house, or other members of the dynasty.
That certainly puts a different complexion on it. One thing I particularly liked about your last book were the instructional illustrations and the selfies taken by your wives. Dare I ask?
There will be illustrations, but not of that sort.
I guess your fans will just have to wait for a sequel when you are up to it, right?
AUDIENCE: LAUGHTER
But back to your forthcoming book, you said that it was for the edification of youth. Would you care to give an example?
Assuredly so. I take you are familiar with the history of the third prophet Sigurd, praise be, he of the Snake-in-the-Eye?
Candidly speaking, history in my school mostly covered post-enlightenment empire, but that tale was covered and it is not one to forget. “How the young pigs would grunt if they heard how the boar suffered” etc. The northern conquest laying the foundation to empire and so on and so forth. Loved that one, even if I wondered as a child where the king got all those venomous snakes. Hardly something to find lying around in England, let alone in somebody's eye.
Yes, that is the one tale everybody knows, and to answer your childhood fascination, according to surviving records from the Ivaring investigation, the snakes were imported. And the one in Sigurd's eye, praise be, was a sign of his cosmic significance. As you were undoubtedly taught. But there are other tales about him, such as the tale of the Courtship of Sigurd.
Errr. I was probably thinking about snakes when that was covered.
AUDIENCE: SNIGGERS
Relax, this isn't an examination. The official tale of the Courtship of Sigurd, blessed his name, is that first he married the daughter of the king who killed his father Ragnarr, and that upon her death at much too young an age he first grieved bitterly, then he travelled the world and wooed the fairest of maidens in the courts of Europe, even in the heart of Christendom itself, dancing with them at balls, giving them gifts, singing the falalala song beneath their balconies, and then marrying them and taking them back to Denmark so be seated beside him as queens in his great hall in Lejre.
Rousing stuff, no doubt, but not all there is to it, you say?
Well, for one thing while Sigurd, in his mortal role as hand of the one-eyed, was the king who brought women's liberation to the world by freeing the weaker sex from the ancient bonds of concubinage to become true wives, honoured and respected by all, that was something he accomplished near the end of his long life, not as a youth. For another marriage between a non-Christian and a Christian was forbidden by the Christian church.
Fascinating; I am not an expert on dead religions, but that is really interesting. Why would they mix religion and marriage? Strange people, am I right?
For a third, the idea that a northern tribal lord, no matter how powerful, would spend his time travelling Europe attending parties for years on end without being deposed is ridiculous. For the fourth, the idea that he would marry the daughter of the king who killed his father is rather far-fetched for somebody, who didn't stay in England where it might have been useful to consolidate his rule, doesn't it?
A bit.
And as for his concubines being the fairest of maidens in Europe, that's probably poetic license. The family records make clear that he had other priorities.
Would this be the secret records of the Sigurdr dynasty you are talking about?
If you can call a collection of runestones that is in public display but few people apart from historians and priests bother to visit a secret, I guess it is. You do know what a runestone is, I hope?
Sure, it is a stone. With runes. People used to write on them before the printing press.
They stopped a bit earlier than that. Runestone records were mostly phased out in favour of paper during the early 10th century despite spirited arguments at the time that runestones made for more persistent storage, but were still used for royal proclamations. They were left in place until near the end of the reign of king Gormr 'the Blood-Father', who apparently thought they cluttered the landscape and ordered every runestone to be collected and properly filed for the permanent record. Surely you must have learned this in school! Those runestones include the birth certificate of empire!
I may or may not have been paying attention. But I'm definitely going to see them now! Sounds utterly fascinating, a saga writ in stone. Where did king Gormr file them?
He was apparently a literal man, so they were initially filed in Wiltshire, England, next to Stonehenge. When he later moved the capital to Cairo, they were refiled next to the Pyramids in Gizeh, where they still stand to this very day.
How utterly riveting. To get back to your point, do I understand you right that Sigurd left a runestone about his courtship practices and priorities?
More or less. Runestone 327, a majestic three-sided stone raised in his old age, says on its largest side:
King Sigurd ordered this stone made in memory of Yeldem, Gertruda, Iacoba, Irmele, and Skuld. They were his women. That Sigurd who won for himself all of Denmark, Norway, and England and reformed the faith. The second and smaller side is covered by images, and on the third and smallest side it says: Know secret of Odin. Brains before brawn. Brawn before beauty. Plough daily. King Sigurd was born to breed. That's where part of the title of my book comes from, you see.
What do the images show?
Let's just say that some things seem to run in the family.
Thank you, Sigurd. And on that perfect note our time is up, so say it with me.
Are you serene?
AUDIENCE: WE ARE SERENE!
We'll be back after the news. Today's headlines:
King of Hellas claims mantra shortage to blame for forest fires
Hardened criminals in Vinland rob bank without apologizing
Unrest in Cairo as the count's slippers spontaneously catch fire. Is witchcraft afoot?
-------
Crusader Kings 1.3.1 with Northern Lords, slightly modded
Posting will be infrequent and erratic.
My goal is to continue playing until I get bored or there is an update to the game that spoils my adventures
It originated as a thought experiment. I usually have a specific set of overall goals for my AAR games, but beyond that the story follows the gameplay. What if I were to write an AAR where the gameplay flowed from the story rather than, as is usual, the reverse? How would I go about doing that? And would it make for a good or a bad fit?
When I got CK3 this spring I realized I had an excellent platform for the experiment. Write a story outline with prophets and other major characters at key points in the development of a realm, filling in the details of what each character must achieve through his life – and then play the game, with any character theoretically able to meet the next milestone in the story attempting to achieve it. So House of the Prophets goes story outline => gameplay => AAR based on gameplay.
There's plenty of room for reacting to developments in the game - it is a quite broad outline apart from the key achievements of major characters - but it imposes interesting and ever changing constraints on my play depending on which ruler I am playing, which is great fun.
And I did an abandoned CK2 AAR game, Born to Breed: The Estridsen Lectures, which unfortunately had to be abandoned after only nine chapters due to work, so with the Northern DLC dropping.... well, the choice of starting ruler was obvious to this Dane.
I played a short 150 year test game before I began the AAR to get a feeling for the norse DLC gameplay, and then I sat down to write the general outline for House of the Prophets, drawing on lessons learned and introducing new twists. Then I began a new Sigurdr game, and this is the game played out in the AAR.
So when e.g. I introduce Gormr the Blood Father in the introduction, who moved the permanent runestone record to the pyramids after he moved the capital to Cairo, that is because my story outline calls for it, not because the game has already been played, and my task when playing is to ensure that this comes to be. And it will - I'll just need to engineer the election of somebody named Gormr at the appropriate time when the decision can be taken. Hasn't happened yet, but it should be easy.
I try not to play too far ahead of the AAR writing, as that has been known to kill some of my AARs in the past, so most events described in the AAR happening decades later than a given AAR entry covers have not actually been played at the time of writing, but it is my goal to make them come to pass no matter how ridiculous things I have to do to achieve them.
(This spoiler explanation was added during the writing of the Sverker Diaries, which was the first time that the story outline vs. actual gameplay was tested, hard. It will not be the last.)
EDIT: Regarding the warnings in the title. After I got access to the barbershop mod, I got creative. But not that creative. It is mostly healthy clean fun for the whole family. In fact, keeping it in the family is very much a theme of this AAR, as it is of Crusader Kings in general. One would think that would make it even more family friendly when so few strangers are involved each generation. But I digress. Short version: There are a few pictures that might theoretically offend in inhibited societies like South Arabia, Iran, or the United States and the occasional explicit diary entry, but it is rather tame stuff. Sigurd af Sigurd writes in the tradition of ribaldry, not porn.
The Courtship of Sigurd, part one with brief comments on the world of 877
As is told in the tale of the revenge of the Ragnarssons, it came to pass that the brothers decided to conquer England. Ivar the Boneless and Halfdan Hvitserk would lead the invasion, while Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye and Bjørn Ironside divided the patrimony, Denmark to Sigurd and Sweden to Bjørn Ironside.
It might be thought that Sigurd, the youngest brother, would be unhappy to be left behind, but nothing could be further than the truth. Of all the sons of Ragnarr, the living and the hallowed dead, only one was born with a snake in the eye, and that was Sigurd: he was farseeing, and he saw true.
Already at the tender age of three it was his advice that sent his mother Aslaug and his brothers to attack the Swedish king Östen in revenge their dead brothers Erik and Agnar, for though it was widely believed that Östen's possession of the holy cow Sibilja marked him as favoured of the gods, Sigurd knew better, and he was well spoken.
Now in the prime of his life, undisputed lord of the Danes excepting those in Jutland, who followed Bagsecg, son of Eirikr the Stinking, it was time to show the world the true measure of his rulership. There was a time to sow and a time to harvest, a time to raid and a time to conquer, but most of all, there was always a time to breed, for Sigurd had been granted a vision by Odin.
One thing Sigurd saw truly was that the value of Blæja, daughter of king Ælla of Northumbria, whom he had taken as wife on his last visit to England, was dwindling fast. Ivar or Halfdan would be in Northumbria soon and on considerably less friendly terms than last time (which come to think of it hadn't been that friendly either), and once Ælla was gone her usefulness to Sigurd would be at an end.
Apart from personal enjoyment, really, but as Blæja, though brave as a lion and honest to a fault, was a paranoid schemer whose attempts to ferret out which of Sigurd's men were women in disguise had caused more than one embarrassment, and as she just didn't stop chattering even in bed, Sigurd did not mind letting her go. As reward for the three children he had by her he divorced her gently rather than by the sword. A purse of gold, a good horse, and an escort to the border, she was now free to make the most of the rest of her life, and good riddance.
And with that, gentle reader, you must have realized that this story already diverges significantly from what you learned in school, but it is as nothing compared to that which is to come, because this is where one of those historically important people who never got main billing enters the story.
His name was Eigill, and he was a henchman. He'd earned a name for himself raiding as part of Sigurd's crew, and though it wasn't a big name, it was respected. Such men, however, are plentiful.
Much more importantly he had demonstrated a certain moral flexibility, had an ear for languages and a glib tongue, and had shown himself to be quite handy at resolving minor problems without the use of either sword or axe, and such people are valuable. Over the past five years he had helped Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye resolve, or in some cases remove, a few inconvenient problems, and been richly rewarded for his efforts.
His new instructions were rather unique, but one of the most important rules of a henchman is not to question their master unless it is necessary to carry out orders, so Eigill didn't.
Sigurd wanted four (4) unmarried women, preferably young, but definitely of childbearing age, either with great intellects or truly outstanding physiques. If they didn't speak a civilized tongue, so much the better, for he had had enough chatter to last a lifetime. If they were once married, no matter. So long as they weren't married upon delivery Sigurd didn't care, and he trusted Eigill to ensure finality on this issue.
Rather lacking in specifics those instructions, you might think, but chiefs don't sweat the small stuff. That's what henchmen are for, and Eigill could hench with the best.
Meet Yeldem.
The daughter of a minor chief in distant Bulgaria, her father Kormisosh was happy to ship her off to rule beside the prince of the north. Partly because she was a deceitful, stubborn, and cynical brat, who was too smart for a woman, and partly because Eigill was a good drinker and told amazing stories, but mostly because Eigill convinced him that a mutual alliance with the foremost chief of the north would provide security and, he hinted, might even prove helpful were Kormisosh to engage in a bit of local expansionism.
Diplomatically Eigill didn't mention that Sigurd was unlikely to aid Kormisoch once his needs were satisfied and he only needed the daughter for that, and fortunately the chief refused to listen to his daughter when she made that very point, on the grounds that a mere woman didn't understand strategy.
If it cannot be said that Yeldem went fully willingly to become Sigurd's bride, bartered away for an empty promise to a distant realm she knew nothing about and whose language she did not understand, neither can it be said she was unwilling, because this was not an uncommon lot for noble women at the time.
According to Eigill Sigurd was in his prime, had most of his teeth, had killed a lot of enemies, was served by many chiefs, and was a wealthy man. Even if only a fifth of Eigill's boasting held true, a woman could do worse, and there was something to be said for being the wife of a high chief rather than one of the chieftains back home or, worse, ending up as a concubine or unmarried, as was often the case for overly smart women.
Thus Eigill returned in triumph with Yeldem, but in at least one respect was Sigurd to be disappointed: As the intelligent woman she was, Yeldem had used the return trip to learn Danish so she wouldn't be at a loss in the foreign court that was to be her home for the rest of her life. As Sigurd ruefully had to admit, that's the danger of marrying intelligent women.
Sigurd's mother Aslaugh was a wise woman and took Yeldem under her wing, for she had much experience managing Ragnarr and his unruly brood, and she told the most important rule for handling Sigurd: Never chatter. In the due course of time Yeldem grew to become Sigurd's most important supporter, his true helpmeet. She bore him three sons and four daughters, and when she died under mysterious circumstances in 901 at the age of 50, she was sorely missed.
The life of a henchman is not an easy one, and no sooner had he delivered Yeldem than he was off for foreign parts again. He had been making inquiries, and had tracked down another promising prospect closer to home, a courtier in the court of chief Jaromil of Slupsk on the Baltic coast.
Meet Gertruda
Daughter of an assistant to chief Jaromil's steward, Gertruda hung around the court with no ambitions in life beyond attending the next party, discovering who of the other courtiers were not plotting to kill her, and solving diophantine equations. Famously lazy, she ignored all her father's hints that she ought to apply her prodigious intellect to attracting the interest of an important and wealthy man, or failing that, any man at all that wouldn't bring disgrace to the family. Even the lure of the carnal act, which her parents swore was even better than solving equations (whatever THAT was), couldn't convince her to give it a try.
“All good things come to those who wait”, was her philosophy, much to the chagrin of her long-suffering parents.
All of this Eigill knew through impeccable sources, or at least gossip, so he decided that a forthright approach was the best in her case. He approached her parents with a heavy purse of gold and told them that the great chief Sigurd of Denmark was smitten by their lazy daughter, wanted her as his woman, and he would have her one way or another, because Sigurd always got what he wanted. (Which admittedly was stretching the truth a bit, but truthfulness is not a primary requirement in henchmen.)
Gertruda's parents were quick to see his point, and how it was in the geopolitical interest of Slupsk to maintain good relations with Denmark, and anyhow it certainly wasn't something to bother their chieftain about, or their daughter for that matter, so they took the gold and shipped the unflappable Gertruda off to Denmark.
“Thus is my philosophy validated”, she told them, and they had to grant her the point.
Now, it had to be said that Eigill was slightly nervous about Gertruda. She met all the formal requirements, and she was looking forwards to a life in luxury and couldn't get enough of asking questions about Sigurd and Denmark so she wouldn't put her foot wrong. So far so good, but Sigurd had already had to deal with one paranoid woman in his life, the discarded Blæja, so he instructed her carefully on the return trip NOT to start looking for women in disguise amongst Sigurd's men. “Not to worry”, said Gertruda, “so long as they aren't plotting to kill me, I don't care about their sex”.
Thus a potential crisis was averted and when they reached Lejre in later November 868, Sigurd, recently returned from a raid, liked what he saw. Even if Eigill had again brought a foreigner who spoke the language well enough to make herself understood, at least it was evidence of her intelligence.
Fortunately both Sigurd and Gertruda were gregarious, and they hit it off right away when she explained her philosophy, how her parents had tried to get her married off earlier, and how by sticking to her principles she'd earned the grand prize, so to speak. Sigurd said that there was certainly something to be said for it since it had brought her to him, but though it was a wise philosophy to hold for some, it was not for him.
He explained his own philosophy and proposed they examine the empirical implications of the differences. Since concubinage does away with half of the wedding and bedding ritual wives get, and since Sigurd's philosophy was “all good things come to those how know to take advantage, and there's no time like the present”, Sigurd followed words by action.
He claimed Gertruda as his concubine on the spot, dragged her to his bed, answered her desperate request for delay and a manual of instruction so she wouldn't disappoint him by telling her that her body knew and all she had to do was what came natural, and gave her a tumble. Finally they had no need for words at all.
Until afterwards.
“And thus”, said Sigurd when he was spent, “is my theory validated”. He was mightily satisfied with himself, but somewhat puzzled at her complete silence during the act.
He gazed into Gertruda's clear eyes, that gazed lovingly back, to divine the reason. The snake in his eye saw no deceit; it saw neither madness, abject fear, great hatred, nor enduring what must be endured, which would have explained the behaviour. None of those emotions were in her; insofar as the snake could tell she was enjoying herself, just silent, so silent. This was something else, something new. The age-old question had to be asked: “How was it for you?”
“Are you done already? I'm afraid I didn't pay much attention as I was solving diophantine equations, but I guess it was fine? Have another go and I promise I'll pay attention this time.”
Some things you just have to take philosophically, Sigurd told himself as he rose to the occasion, and at least she didn't chatter. In time, through vigorous experiments with her man carefully documented and rated (the originals of which are lost as they didn't enter the permanent runestone record, but see Saxo Grammaticus: Triangular Sex), she came to appreciate the carnal act though she never did agree with her parents that it beat solving equations. Fortunately she could multitask.
An eccentric but much loved addition to Sigurd's court, Gertruda became famous as a poet and reveler. Her lasting regret was that she only bore Sigurd one child, their learned son Arnbjørn. In one way or the other, one suspects mathematics was to blame.
If Eigill was pleased with the ease of acquisition of woman #2, he was to have rather more problems with the third, but that story will be covered in the next episode.
-------
Excerpt from: He was a good king, and that was a good thing
877 marks the true start of national consolidation. Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye, praise be upon him, has consolidated his grip on Denmark and declared himself king after defeating Bagsecg of Jutland, and has furthermore established a foothold on the Baltic in Slupsk, whence came his fair wife, the poet Gertruda.
In the west Ivar the Boneless and Halfdan Hvitserk have recovered from the early wars and are ready for more, while Mercia, Wessex, and Alba await the coming storm.
In the east Bjørn Ironside has tightened his grasp on Sweden and declared himself king; Saddened by the tragic loss of his firstborn son Eirikr, he yet rejoices that the intervention of his brother Sigurd saved his grandson and heir Bjørn, son of Eirikr, and put him in charge of Memelpad.
The younger Bjørn, whom history will come to know as king Bjørn II of Sweden, is currently enjoying the first anniversary of marriage with Sigurd's daughter Alof. Of an age and bethrothed while they were small children, they always got along well at family gatherings and were married at 16 as soon as propriety allowed. If their firstborn son Karl came perhaps a bit early to those who can count, well, it is in the nature of youth to experiment and no harm done. Little do they suspect looking at his sweet baby eyes, one assumes, the dreadful things he will order done as king of Sweden during the Smålander bloodletting.
Karl, of course, is special, as he is considered to be of the house of Sigurd rather than Munsö due to a detail in the marriage contract that neither Bjørn's father or grandfather noticed in time – or perhaps they just didn't care. As Bjørn Ironside is famously said to have remarked when it was brought to his attention, “either way it stays in the family”.
- Chapter the Second: The Courtship of Sigurd, part two - with brief excerpts from the world of 880 and 883
Excerpt from: He was a good king, and that was a good thing
The years following unification king Sigurd raids the lands of the Franks. The pickings in Anglia have grown slim, but the Franks, distracted as they so often are by fighting their greatest enemies, the Franks, look ripe for the plucking.
877-879 he raids the Rhine, to the grief of king Lothaire II of the middle Franks, who can do nothing as he is fighting in the west, but as the Rhineland goes up in flames and targets of opportunity grow sparse and the pressure on Lothaire to “do something” about the wrath of the norsemen grows too high to ignore, Sigurd's fleet returns to winter quarters and Denmark.
He spends winter with the family, eagerly awaiting the spring of 880 where he will set out with more ship crews than ever to raid the western Franks.
-------
Meet Iacoba:
This well-endowed woman was the exemplar of what the Æsir had in mind when they designed the choosers of the slain. A balcony you could do opera from, a supremely healthy physique, a martial upbringing, and better at fighting than most men.
She was also as greedy and on her worst days as paranoid as a drunk badger, which while arguably survival traits is not necessarily what you want in anybody you have to rely on. If, however, you can accept the occasional friendly stab as the cost of excellence, and Odin was not a harsh master in that regard, she would do.
Only one character flaw disqualified her, for she was content with her lot in life serving as spymistress to the chief of Neamt near the Black Sea, a giant of a man named Igor
She came by her job in an unusual fashion. Having decided early in life that she quite liked living and would prefer to keep on doing so, wealthy if possible, she ruled out becoming war maid or otherwise engage in risky adventures due to the risk of risk of death, disfigurement, or dismemberment, and she ruled out marriage due to the risk of death in childbirth, not to mention the expenses of raising children. If everybody would just leave her alone rather than plotting to take advantage of her, as she knew very well they were, life would be good, so she turned down every offer of marriage and told people to mind their own business.
Her tribe, though reluctant to accept such a curious point of view, had come to appreciate its virtues after two of the tribe's more optimistic young warriors, Gavriil and Zhrets, upon catching her alone at the ripe age of 17 picking mushrooms in the forest, had tried to press their suit by wooing her in that classic fashion so beloved by men in a hurry that has nothing but directness and forcefulness to recommend itself.
They were to be found sorely wanting. When they made their intentions clear, she panicked, burst out of the Zhret's grapple, kneed him in the groin so hard his eyes popped out, and Gavriil, trousers around knees and mind oriented more towards offense than defense, was too slow to react as she ripped out his intestines, and strangled Zhret with them. And after that he was too busy screaming.
Iacoba sat down to have a good, hard, think, at this unwanted intrusion in her life. The men had family who might to avenge them, and she might be outlawed to secure the tribe's peace. It was all a bother really, but much depended on how the situation was presented to the tribe's elders.
Coming to a decision, she ripped off the heads that the two optimists no longer needed, fashioned two stakes, and mounted the heads upon them. She collected a few other memorabilia of the encounter, returned to the village, and rammed them into the ground in front of the chief's house, demanding an audience with him. People were leery at approaching her, for bloodsplattered as she was and with her hair and dress an utter mess she appeared fey, so chief Igor was soon found.
She told him about the attempted assault and handed him their wedding tackle, explaining that they no longer needed it, which to be fair Igor already suspected after seeing their heads. Assessing the situation he assigned her the job of spymistress/bodyguard, a comfortable sinecure as he couldn't afford any spies, and told her that so long as she protected him, he'd protect her.
As the years passed Iacoba and Igor lived happily with this arrangement, and it is likely that Iacoba would have lived and died a content spinster in Neamt, were it not for Eigill coming into her life, and it happened like this:
In Iacoba's 26th year of life, a fortune teller came to town.
Not, perhaps, the most original disguise, but one guaranteed to intrigue, and chief Igor sent Iacoba to ascertain whether this was a mere charlatan, a true fortune teller, or perhaps even a magician. Not being born yesterday, she brought two guards.
Little did she expect as the entered the fortune teller's tent, cloudy with incense of some kind, that she was embarking on the adventure of a lifetime.
Iacoba crossed the fortune teller's palm with silver, and told him that it had better be good.
He told her that her destiny lay far away with a tall fair stranger, a mighty chief and ring-giver, who would feed her well and give her many children.
She informed him that she'd never been further than the next village and had no intention to, was not the marrying type, and disliked being played for a fool, so unless he could prove himself to be of some use to chief Igor, she predicted that his life prove eventful, painful, and above all, short.
He asked her if she would bet good gold on that, because he felt really sure of his vision.
She agreed to the bet and called for her guards, but none came as Eigill's throat-slitters had already done their job.
Her paranoia spurring her to action, she tried to jump up, but as the drugged incense was finally getting to her, it was too late.
For safety's sake, she was conveyed in a cage, and as everybody who has travelled through Europe with a cage containing a paranoid valkyrie who wants your guts for garters will know, it makes for a stressful trip. It cost him two goons and a broken rib, and he was lucky to get off that lightly.
They arrived at Lejre in September 870, and presented with the caged woman, Sigurd was decidedly of two minds. While he had to agree with Eigill that Iacoba perfectly matched the stated requirements, and while he had nothing against spirited women, this one looked ready to spit fire or bite her way out of her cage.
Furthermore, this was the second eccentric paranoid woman Eigill had brought and unlike Gertruda, whose eccentricities tended to be of the intellectual variant, this one seemed, to the snake in Sigurd's eye, to be as likely to try to kill him as to kiss.
Which would certainly add spice to the relationship, and at least it wouldn't be diophantine equations all over again, whatever they were (he had never dared to ask), but he rather suspected that unless he were to break her, which would lead to weak children, an indirect approach was needed to gain her cooperation in the world's oldest leisure activity.
Fortunately Sigurd could be patient when he had to; it was one of his defining traits, the ability to plan for and wait for the right moment to take advantage to arise, and then to strike without delay.
Sigurd thus enlisted the help of his wise wife Yeldem, who took Iacoba in hand, had her cleaned and dressed as befit her new station, and acted as Sigurd's intermediary in a subtle seduction over the next five days. As Yeldem had a better understanding of Iacoba's culture and language than Eigill did, due to coming from the same general region, or at least the one a few mountain ranges over, and as Iacoba was smart enough to realize that however she had come to be here, there was no way home for her, she was open to persuasion.
Yeldem showed Iacoba the positives of her new life and urged her to let go of her old, where she was neither liked nor loved by anybody, but merely tolerated. Here, she was given to understand, she would have home, security, wealth, and rank as woman to a strong chief. She might even find friendship, though that would largely be up to her.
Of Sigurd himself she spoke, a great chief who, though given to streaks of zealousness and talking to his gods, and though not by any measure a kind man, was yet good to his women and required nothing from them but the obedience due his rank and the opportunity to sheathe his sword without risking life and limb. Born with a snake in his eye that saw through all deceit to the true nature of people, he was yet vulnerable to flattery so long as the flatterer understood that he knew very well what was going on but chose to tolerate it. Obey his rules and dominion over his household were theirs; Mostly Yeldem's, as his wife, but his other women were not without power of her own, as Gertruda could explain.
Iacoba mulled this a few days and agreed that Yeldem had a point. Certainly the good food and rich clothing she'd been given were a point in his favour, and while killing Sigurd, the architect of her misfortune, might be deeply satisfying, it did not seem conductive to her long term survival. Coming to terms, while terms were being offered rather than imposed, seemed the wiser solution.
And if the price was occasionally sharing his bed – but not too often, as much of the year he was away fighting and when he was home they were several sharing that particular job and he took turns - well, that was perhaps a price worth paying, depending on how you calculated the risk of dying in childbirth.
Not that Iacoba ever studied probability theory, you understand. Her calculations were of the “either you die in childbirth or you don't, so it is 50/50” variant so popular amongst the poorly educated, and this is what scared her off the idea in the first place.
But here, amongst strangers in the north, Gertruda was able to set her straight with a ratio of 1 to 4 out of 100, which sounded a lot better to Iacoba as Gertruda carefully didn't mention that that was per childbirth and the risks added up, because being the only concubine for Yeldem to lord over was a solitary lot when Sigurd was away on business in foreign lands and she wouldn't mind sharing.
Seduction complete, Yeldem and Gertruda high-fived as Iacoba went to Sigurd and told him in her broken Danish that they had a deal. She was his woman and he her man, she would obey him and defend him, and she would bear him strong children. In fact, if he'd come to her quarters they could have a go at the latter as she was quite interested in experiencing his highly praised sword-sheathing technique. She was 26 and not getting any younger, after all. She just had one small request first, one debt to repay to be done with her old life.
Sigurd, who had been lusting after her ever since he first saw her, growled that that there was no time like the present and looked ready to take her there and then, but with his veterans watching and as the lord he was, he asked her what debt that might be?
She explained her bet with Eigill and Sigurd agreed that such must be honoured, so Eigill was soon found and dragged to the hall, where he was presented to the royal couple.
Iacoba handed him a gold ring from her finger, congratulated him on winning their bet, and then, as he was struggling to find a proper answer, punched him in the gut, ripped out his intestines, and strangled him with them. Some habits die hard.
Initially stunned at this development, the hall erupted in laughter when she followed it up by apologizing to Sigurd for the mess, but Eigill had offended her and she always avenged a slight. With that out of the way her slate of grievances was clean (for now), so could they please get on with their business?
Sigurd laughed as loudly as any, for he realized then that Iacoba would fit right in. He carried her off to the cheers of his veterans.
And thus Iacoba came to live in matrimonial bliss, or the next best thing anyway, and she bore Sigurd one son and two daughters and outlived him.
To Sigurd's ever-lasting regret, he never learned her impressive trick of ripping people's guts out without a blade, though not for a lack of trying on his foreign adventures. As Iacoba consoled him, it was all in the wrist action.
But as for the courtship of Sigurd, it was not yet done. Eigill was out of the picture, his task unfinished, but Sigurd's vision yet drove him.
The fourth of his four fair roses was yet to be found, and the finding consumed years. When he finally found Irmele on a business trip late 873 it was in most unusual circumstances.
-------
Excerpt from: He was a good king, and that was a good thing
Jarl Bagsecg, the old enemy, has committed a fatal mistake.
Having served Sigurd ever since Sigurd defeated him and took the greater part of Jutland for his own, leaving Bagsecg only with Slesvig, Sigurd's apparent weakness following the losses of the Norwegian campaign of 881-883 has led to spontaneous acts of armed disagreement, and this leads Jarl Bagsecg into overconfidence.
He offends Sigurd at his very table in the summer of 883, and that is too great an opportunity to pass up on. Sigurd rallies his champions and moves to eliminate the Jutish pest once and for all.
- Chapter the Third: The Courtship of Sigurd, part three - with brief excerpts from the world of 889 and 898
Excerpt from: He was a good king, and that was a good thing
As the Great Year of 889 comes to an end, the fighting in Norway is all but over with only a few holding out against the new order. 49 years old Sigurd is king of Denmark and Norway. Sweden remains in the hands of his brother Bjørn, whose health at 63 remains fine.
It will be another 7 years before the kingship passes to Karl Alofsson af Sigurdr, his great-grandson by his grandson Bjørn and Sigurds daughter Alof, as a result of the unfortunate deaths of Karl's father, grandfather, uncle, and others that might under other circumstances have inherited before him.
In the south, the short-lived glory of Hæsteining rule is over, and the few surviving enclaves of northmen send for help, but none has come.
In the west Ivar's two eldest sons hold an iron grip on the north while Halfdan's sons hold the east. Both the Ivarings and Whiteshirts have expanded in Ireland as well, but for now the tide of Northmen conquests seem stopped by a resurgent Mercia and Wessex, while Alba looks on with concern.
But not all is as it seems.
Alfred of Wessex is caught completely unprepared when Sigurd launches the Christmas invasion, sending an army attack the soft underbelly of Wessex under the leadership of his brilliant son Baldr. To this hardened winter warrior and his veterans fresh from fighting in the coldest reaches of Norway, the English winter will prove little obstacle.
Meet Irmele:
This daughter of Franks was proof positive of the dangers of the lack of female education and the powerful influence of the skjalds. Hailing from the court of Zollern in East Francia, she grew up in a Christian household and her unladylike behaviour would undoubtedly have seen her packed off to a nunnery were it not for divine intervention and the miracle of 870.
For Irmele the Mighty was no dainty flower of Christendom. Brave to a fault and generous to all, she lived for adventure, as she told her confessor, father Filibert, in 867, aged 14, when asked what she wanted in life.
She'd go forth and fight for Christendom against the heathens, defeat bandits, save villages, rescue manly princes and/or stray dogs, be married to one of them, and be feted for it by bards! After a quick clarification that she meant marriage to a rescued prince, not a dog, so father Filibert need not worry on that account, she elucidated on her strengths. She exercised harder than any of the other children, fought better than most, she had her health, her youth, and her strong arm, and was she not righteous? What more could possibly be required?
200 ave marias and soaking her head in a bucket, apparently.
Her abilities were well suited for young men seeking adventure, but God was dead set against women engaging in such acts and in addition it was well known that manly princes were the rescuers, not the rescuees, and how was her embroidery coming along these days?
By 16 she had realized that not only father Filibert but the world itself was set against her dream. She had also realized that the so-called stronger sex might have more than one use, something she had long suspected and was eager to test in practice, and her parents were getting worried for she had a glint in her eye that would have spelled trouble were it not that her poor cooking, awful embroidery, and lack of substantial dowry discouraged formal suitors, while her ability to bench press a knight and kick down a door discouraged suitors of a more informal bent. But it was only a matter of time before she set her mind to running down somebody and having her wicked way with him, they worried, and they began shopping around for a nunnery that would take her.
In her 17th year a miracle occurred. Savage Hæstein, terror of the west, had gone on adventure and killed good king Ludwig III, subjugating East Francia and renaming the realm West Franconia for unknown reasons of his own, and he began appointing new lords.
One such was Ragnarr the Lucky, one of Hæstein's huskarls who'd had the good fortune of being close enough to Ludwig when he lost his head to a well-aimed chop, that he caught Ludwig's head in flight. He was rewarded with a “Good catch!” from Hæstein, granted the county of Zollern, and sent on his way to his new home with men who swore themselves to his cause, and his good friend, the famous godi, skjald, and unrepentant mischief-maker, Knud Sneakpisser, went with him.
The invasion and Hæstein's famous “Purge of the Nunneries” put paid to her parent's plan, and no sooner had Ragnarr arrived in Zollern than Knud put paid to Filibert in theological debate with the ever popular Thorian argument that consists of the direct application of hammer to skull, something father Filibert for all his Latin wisdom was unprepared for. “O tempora! O mores!” he said, and expired.
Standing over the body of his vanquished opponent Knud proclaimed himself their new confessor with very reasonable rates for the abolition of sins. Furthermore he would recount the deeds of greatest of men for entertainment and praise Ragnarr for generosity, being a veritable two for the price of one.
He settled in quickly, and was in his element charming and/or horrifying the crowd when young Irmele first heard him tell the story of the old kings of the north and their exploits in years gone by before men softened, from Ivar Vidfamne though Harald Hildetand to Sigurd Ring, and what Irmele heard was a call to adventure.
So she confessed her old dream to Knud, and in him she found a very different type of confessor. Seizing her up, he liked what he saw: The raw material for a saga in the making, or at the least a good joke to play on Ragnarr, but raw material in need of toughening up.
Rather than ave marias, he demanded arms training, every day, every week, until none could stand against her. As for the lusty dreams she confessed to, well, what else would one expect from a fine woman like her? He suggested gritting her teeth and channelling her frustrated sexual energy into violence – that always worked for him when on campaign, and it beat biting shields and was gentler on the teeth to boot.
And so she trained. By the time of her 19th birthday in 872 Knud thought her worthy of seeking adventure and broached the topic of her adventuring goals. She had originally indicated that she wanted to fight for the weakling Christ, defend pitiful serfs from valiant raiders, and rescue a prince (she'd gotten over dogs by the time she met Knud), and if that was still her goal, who was he to say that her priorities were wrong? But he urged her to consider the ideal of Brynhild and other famous heroines of old.
Princes worth the having were not rescued, they either rescued or had to surmount challenges. As an example Sigurd had had to cut Brynhild out of a suit of armour, but what with technological advances in defensive design that sounded mightily uncomfortable to him, so perhaps that was not the best example. And as for challenging princes to ride through a wall of fire to get to her, walls of fire were few and far between in these lesser days. Perhaps the old “I'll only yield to the man who beats me?” challenge was more to her liking?
Irmele granted that he had a point about Christ, but she was adamant that she'd be the one doing the rescuing and she'd set her own challenge, thank you very much. Knud appreciated her confidence and sent her on her way with his blessing, though he urged her not to get tempted by just any prince, because a good man was hard to find.
By iron and blood she carved her way into the wider world, and it was a wiser and battle-hardened Irmele who greeted her 20th birthday on the road in Orleans.
The Church did not want defending by a woman, the serfs considered her a freak, and the only prince she'd seen had set his hounds upon her and gotten himself, and them, killed as a result.
Her latest adventure, declaring herself the war-maid of Orleans and offering king Charles the Bald her sword to save Francia from the Wrath of the Northmen, had ended in ignominy; Whatever she was, she was certainly no maid of theirs and the king was much too busy to hear such nonsense from a mercenary. Outlawed in nine counties and severely disliked in another three, it would be enough to turn anybody bitter.
Anybody but a true heroine, that is! If the Christians would not have her, perhaps the Northmen would. She set her sight north and began her journey into legend.
And thus, gentle reader, we approach the fateful meeting at the Ditmarsch Ford in the fall of 873, so beloved by the incurably romantic. On the one side of the ford, Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye with seven of his trusted men, wondering what the huge man in an ill-fitting helm and breastplate challenging their right to pass was thinking.
On the other side, Irmele, fresh from waylaying and plundering a band of Christian pilgrims. Having realized over the past year that if she wanted to rescue a northern prince, she'd have to catch one first, she had planned carefully and set this trap for the grand prize of the north.
Contrary to popular tradition, Irmele's shouted challenge, “I challenge you to single combat for the right of passage” was not followed by a romantic poetry contest or single combat between Irmele and Sigurd, but by javelins. She cut the javelins from their flight and mocked Sigurd's men to do better. Intrigued, Sigurd motioned three of them to charge the knight, and she slew them all.
Greatly pleased that Sigurd had passed her challenge of wits by not accepting single combat when he had the numerical advantage, she leaped across the ford, threw Sigurd to the ground with a mighty slam of her shield, and slew the rest of his band.
Sigurd woke in the evening to a disturbing chant and the unexpected feeling of somebody manhandling him. Eyes closed he tried lightly moving his limbs, but found himself well and truly tied up, spread-eagled on his back on the ground with each hand and foot firmly secured by rope.
Then he felt a knife's edge sliding gently down his ribs without cutting, and deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, he carefully sneaked a peek – and saw a gloriously naked young amazonian woman with all the bits in the right places leaning over him with a knife. The source of the noise became clear, as she was chanting “a hard man is good to find” over and over to herself while cutting away at his armour.
He did not recognize her, and felt reasonably sure he would if he had encountered her on his adventures, so she was probably the sister or daughter of one of his victims, or a camp follower of whatever band the knight that assailed his camp belong to. But what a body! Definitely concubine material, if he had not been stripped of his weapons, tied up, and was undoubtedly about to be horribly tortured and/or killed.
Various conversational approaches flittered through his agile mind, but none readily recommended themselves to the situation on hand. “What are you doing?” seemed self-explanatory, “unhand me!” was perhaps too demanding in the circumstances”, and “I'm the king. I need help. I'll reward you”, while at least 2/3rds true, seemed rather needy. He was considering variations of “please be my concubine”, “don't kill me” that would not cause him to be stabbed, when she spoke first, saying: “You can open your eyes now, Sigurd. I know you are awake.” Sigurd's eyes remained firmly closed, and she continued:
“Is that the iron rod of dominion in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”, and gave it a pat.
Thus betrayed by his body, Sigurd sarcastically responded, “definitely the iron rod of dominion.”
“And a mighty one it is. Two points. Now, don't move while I'm rescuing you,” she continued while cutting away at his armour, “this is tricky.”
“Dear lady, might I suggest you cut the ropes if you are planning to rescue me before the bandits return?”
“Doesn't work that way, sorry,” the amazonian beauty responded cheerfully while removing the last of his chest armour and upper clothes, “there aren't any bandits for you to worry about, and you need to lie still while I'm cutting you out of your armour. If I cut the ropes I'll lose all the effort I put into capturing you as you'll either get all excited and run away, or you'll fight me and get yourself killed, spoiling my rescue, so that's not going to happen.”
“So.. you are rescuing me from yourself after killing seven of my men. Are you aware of how insane that is, woman!” Sigurd shouted, his mouth for once running faster than his agile mind.
Her head lowered over his, she gazed into his eyes and spoke softly: “I've been planning on rescuing a prince for years and I've finally chosen you, and I've got a speech, and a candlelit dinner for two, and everything ready for you to have a good time... so, Sigurd, riddle me this. Should you be complaining about every small matter that annoys you to the possibly insane and/or dangerously unstable woman with a knife, who has very definitely killed seven of your men all by her lonesome, or should you shut up and let her rescue you?”
And Sigurd's Snake-in-the-Eye saw her earnestness, and it saw beyond her earnestness into the utterly sane but seriously weird mind of Irmele, and he answered, “A reverse Brynhild with you playing Sigurd, is it? Kinky. Cut away.”
And so she did, cutting away his lower armour and clothes with care, while Sigurd contemplated the irony of the situation.
“Behold!” she cried, “thus I have rescued you, fair prince, and you have passed my tests of wits and of patience!” Getting into the spirit of the thing Irmele declaimed her long-rehearsed lines: “Now skyclad I greet you, and I will marry you and give praise to Freya once you've passed my third and final test!”
“Amazing speech! Truly one of the greats. Praise Freya!” Sigurd cajoled her, “And as for the rescue, very well done indeed. I've never felt as rescued and safe before so I'm all for marrying you, what a splendid idea. Not insane at all. Now, how about you untie me and tell me about the third test while we have that dinner for two?”
“Nu-oh, you aren't going to trick me that easily. No dinner until after R&R and the passing of the third test!”, she responded, a bit crossly. And then smugly, “you'll be too exhausted to run from me then”.
“What third test?” Sigurd wondered, “got a wall of flame handy?”
“Stamina,” she replied, gripping the iron rod of dominion. “You are in for Rescue and Ravishment. To the victor go the spoils, and you are mine.” A dreamy look mugged her face and would not let go, “I've been dreaming about this for five years.”
“Pretty sure that wasn't part of the tale of Sigurd Ring and Brynhild, lady”, Sigurd gasped as she got to work, substituting an abundance of youthful energy for skill.
“Well, if not, it should have been”, Irmele replied, “Pretty sure that princesses are in for both rescue and ravishment when saved by a hero whether they need rescuing or not, or else why would they get married so soon afterwards in the stories?”
“Poetic license, probably. Woman, have mercy! I don't even know your name!”
“I doubt that ever stopped you, so lie back and think of Denmark. You will be graded on performance.”
Resistance finally overcome, she gave him a tumble, or as much of a tumble as could be achieved while he was tied up, anyway, and fettered or not it is impressive how man can rise to the occasion when his life depends on it.
Of what followed nobody knows, but possibly they had a romantic candlelit dinner for two. Irmele and Sigurd returned to court as lovers some days later, Sigurd looking rather the worse for wear, and about their meeting they were reticent.
This story was recorded by the poet Gertruda, Irmele's fellow concubine, and long thought lost. Whether flight of fancy or long lost truth no mortal can know: the truth is lost to history.
Irmele the Mighty bore Sigurd but one child, their daughter Rizika, and while the other concubines stayed at home she accompanied Sigurd on most of his foreign adventures, always first into the fray. She died fighting in England in the 55th year of her life on August 12, 908.
Thus ends the Courtship of Sigurd in late 873, the last and most prickly of his four fair roses plucked. His fifth rose, Skuld, the rose of his old age, was yet a child and it would be many years before she crossed paths with Sigurd.
Pre-Enlightenment Religious Art
The famous painting known as "The Family Picnic", showing a proud Sigurd 'Snake-in-the-Eye'and his four fair roses, which has been reproduced faithfully in religious art since the 10th century, is believed to have been originally painted from life in 874. Temple tradition has it that Sigurd himself is responsible for the annotations.
Excerpt from: He was a good king, and that was a good thing
Long designs find their culmination in the year 898. For nine years the armies under Sigurds' sons have been fighting holy wars in England and West Franconia, and using an admittedly flimsy pretext Sigurd displaced his nephew Styrbjørn, son of Sigfrid, son of Halfdan Whiteshirt in Jorvik.
With Jorvik, Paderborn, and Ranaheim all under his direct rule, and Uppsala held by his grandson Karl, Sigurd at 58 years of age and still going strong organizes the Asatru faith to resist the foreign faiths that surround them. The new and improved Asatru is a harder and more fundamentalist faith with less room for wishy-washy plurality thinking.
Sigurd knows the gods, and they know him, and his views will prevail, for he proclaims himself Fylkir, and the godis proclaim him the saviour of the true faith, consecrating his bloodline. He, his sons, and everybody who follows the true gods will sweep the false religions from the world whereever encountered.
While to most people few things will change, to others the changes are far reaching indeed. The godis are now secular rulers in their own rights rather than theocratic vassals of the ruler, and in time this will change their role in society immensely, but few people care.
What people do care about is the empowering of women. Odin has granted Sigurd a vision, and it is nothing less than a revolution in the relationship between men and women.
No longer will any women be forced into concubinage at the whim of a man with no say in her own destiny, and no longer will any women be discarded from concubinage when she grows old or her man tires of her, for concubinage is outlawed in favour of polygamous marriage. If a man wants a woman he can have her in holy union and accord her her rightful due as wife or not at all (women employed in houses of negotiable affection and those encountered on foreign adventures don't count), and the more holy unions the better. If he tires of her, he will divorce her legally and grant her her rightful share.
Moreover, so long as it is done in holy marriage, aunts are allowed to lie with nephews and uncles with nieces, for love knows few bounds and, frankly, that's how the gods have been living all along.
Fylkir Sigurd, mightiest of his name, has seen far, but divinity is complex and he has not seen all – he has merely seen as much of it as he could possibly comprehend given his background and the times he lived in.
Like all save the first and the last prophet he could neither see what came before nor what came after, but his life was glorious and he is celebrated by the righteous as the third prophet and the protector of women.
Excerpt: The Man and the Myth: Sigurd 'Snake-in-the-Eye'
What shall we say then of Sigurd? That he was an avaricious man in his youth, a warrior full grown? That he was a learned man, dedicating his latter years to scholarship and the search for knowledge that could extend his life? That he was a complex and multifaceted man? All of these are true, but they are not the whole truth.
Drawing upon surviving sources, we have attempted to reconstruct his Klamphugger-Jensen diagram in 901, a decade before his death:
The Autumn Rose
The death of Sigurd's beloved wife Yeldem the Wise in 901 under mysterious circumstances led to a curious power vaccuum amongst his wives. As a quartet they were the well-oiled machine that kept Sigurd happy and motivated and the royal household running smoothly, duties carefully parcelled out between them, and the lack of Yeldem was cruelly felt as she had shouldered most of the household duties all along.
Irmele the Mighty had no interest in governing his household at all beyond training the guards, Gertruda the Poet was too lazy and utterly opposed to extending her household duties beyond arranging parties and teaching children, and Iacoba the Mostly Serene, while possessing many positive qualities, was a bit too eager to put servants to death for potentially plotting against her and it had taken all of Yeldem's wisdom to employ her profitably with an acceptable casualty rate.
What they needed, Gertruda explained to her fellow wives, was a replacement Yeldem, though perhaps one with less of an authoritarian streak. Somebody amenable to suggestions. She proposed that they pick a fourth wife for Sigurd and present him with her as a fait d'accompli; if they stood together he'd never stand a chance.
Somebody old enough and wise enough to be of help, strong enough of spirit to stand up to Sigurd when necessary, yet not so smart or devious as to prove a threat to them or their children or to ignore their suggestions, nor so young as to see Sigurd as anything but her final chance for matrimony and a decent old age. Somebody good looking and already experienced in the matrimonial arts who could charm a snake to life, for the old boar wasn't getting any younger, and, ideally, somebody infertile without children of her own.
Irmele and Iacoba were greatly impressed, but questioned the feasibility of finding on short order a learned infertile widow in her thirties without children, who had a body built for sin and a mind with no deceit amenable to wifely conspiracy and suggestions.
By fortunate coincidence, Gertruda told them, she just happened to have the perfect candidate on hand: Her protégé Skuld, widowed a few years back and without children, who had long served as her good right hand in arranging parties and doing mathematics on the side. Skuld was both diplomatic and learned, excellent at commanding servants and unyielding in the face of opposition, and was of personality ambitious, generous, and just and a true pleasure as a friend. Moreover, she didn't have a deceitful bone in her body and wasn't smart, and, even more importantly, she was aware of her own limitations and knew how to listen to advice. Finally, as for her body, built for sin was perhaps stretching the truth, but it definitely had the right curves and she had cunning hands, red hair, and she knew not to chatter. It should be enough to fire the old boar's blood.
Sitting on his throne Sigurd may have blinked once when confronted with Skuld and orders to marry her from his three wives, but he didn't blink twice, for he saw right through Gertruda's intrigue, as she had no doubt planned for.
He liked her solution to the power vaccum, and if bright Gertruda had chosen Skuld, she would undoubtedly do her job well and faithfully, for Gertruda's love and loyalty had never been in doubt and she was a keen observer of character. And, he admitted to himself, in Skuld he liked what he saw. He might be old, but he had his iron constitution, and with the right ministrations... Aye, there was life in the old fellow still. Calling for a godi, creaky knees and aching back were forgotten as he rose to greet his bride. After all, there was no time like the present, and if life gives you melons, grab them while you can.
- Chapter the Fifth: The Sverker Diaries, part one - with brief excerpts from the world of 901 and 908
A Brief History of Writing: The Danish Alphabet
In the days before men, the Allfather sacrificed himself to himself on the tree and gained the wisdom of runes.
One day while walking the Earth, the grey wanderer came upon the maiden Ylva, fairest of mortal women, and was smitten by her beauty. Taking the shape of a blind young warrior-poet, he tarried with her for a while and she bore him their son Dan, fairest and wisest of the heroes of old.
Departing, the blind guest revealed his identity and gifted her with bright gold and the runes of knowledge, that she and their son might fare well. Thus it came to be, that when in the fullness of time Dan went forth to seize his destiny and founded the Danish people, he brought with him his father's runes. This is how writing came to the mortal world and brought about reckoning of days and the end of prehistory.
But the High One had kept three runes secret even from his son, and this is why no mortal alphabet is perfect.
Dan's runes eventually developed into the Futhark alphabet, and in the North writing was done on hide and carved in stone for posterity. Elsewhere in the world people tried to copy the runes of Odin Rúnatýr and thereby developed their own lesser alphabets, each with its own refinements. The most significant of these was the Latin alphabet of the valiant Roman conquerors, which together with parchment was their great gift to the people of Europe.
Unlike in Germania, the Latin alphabet did not arrive in the North with Christian missionaries. While undoubtedly some literate Christian slaves must have lived in the North during the 9th century, and possibly earlier, there is no evidence that they left behind a literary tradition.
Instead Latin arrived with Sigurd 'Snake-in-the-Eye' and his mighty sons, spoils of their conquests. Most everybody who could write in the wealthy Danish conquests in the west used the Latin rather than the Futhark alphabet, and to a king taxation is the mother of innovation.
Thus during the latter years of Sigurd's reign records in the Danish Jarldoms were kept in Latin written in Latin, Danish written in Latin, Danish written in Futhark, or a mix thereof all according to the whims of the Jarls, and even, in the strange case of Jarl Helgrim Halgrimsen the Arguably Sane, Latin written in Futhark. The burgeoning central administration of the proto-Empire, if that is not too grand a term to be used for an office of 20 trusted men (the “Handy Henchmen”), found this increasingly cumbersome.
Tradition credits Chancellor Jarl Arnbjørn the Wordsmith, Sigurd's son by his second wife Gertruda, with the creation of the Danish alphabet that is used to this day, drawing on the best features of Latin and Futhark.
The oldest extant records written in Danish is the “List of Offices” and the “Lordship of Wessex”, chronicling the rise of the shortlived Meggyesi dynasty of Wessex, both believed to be from the early years of the 900s.
It took many decades for the use of parchment and the new alphabet to come into common use, but already from the early years it was eagerly adopted by some members of the royal house, and none more eagerly than king Sverker I, whose fragmentary surviving autobiographical writings in the “Secret Diary” are a national treasure.
Meet Sverker:
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 7 – and Counting
Testing... Testing... Quill working? Testing
Dear Diary,
I am a genius. Uncle Arnbjørn says writing for grownups is. He is wrong. Is tool of domination. Long I laboured. Stole secret power of writing from his notes. MY tool now. None suspect.
Hoarding scraps of vellum, I WILL CONQUER!
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 7 1/2 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
Today I recite my lineage: The Lineage of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 7 and a half.
In me flows the divine blood of the greatest of kings. Allfather Odin. Dan. Skjold. Ivar Vidfamne. Sigurd Ring. Ragnarr Lodbrog. Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye. And now, me.
My mother is Freya, first wife of Udalrich, daughter of Sigurd the king and his first wife Yeldem. She is a genius, like her mommy, and much more beautiful than father's second wife.
My father is Udalrich, Jarl of Connacht. Mommy says he is built like a bear and as entertaining. His parents were nobodies, nobles in Pomerania.
Grandfather Sigurd is old and scary. When he stares at me I am petrified. I wish I had a snake in the eye too. That would be wicked. When I became a big boy last year I came to court as his ward. He is teaching me diplomacy. He says it will help me when I am grown and have vassals of my own.
I have a big brother, a little brother, a little sister, and frogsis. Until I was six, big brother was always watching, but now I am at court I miss him. I miss them all. Even frogsis.
I am not alone. Grandma Gertruda gave me a puppy named Vassal. He jumps and wags his tail and comes when I call. Grandma says it is good training for both of us. He is a good puppy.
I have six uncles. Most of them I barely know as they rule distant lands, but three years ago when I was nearly five, I saw all of them in Roskilde when grandfather assembled his kin for the Great Invasion of Francia.
My most important competitors for the throne are my uncles Baldr, Jarl of Jylland, and Ormr, Jarl of Guladingslög, both of whom compete for grandfather's favour. Currently he favours Baldr. Possibly uncle Arnbjørn is a competitor as well. He is smart too and important at court. Little do they suspect that I am their greatest threat!
My favourite uncle is Bødvar, who rules Hannover but is normally fighting grandfather's enemies. He sends me souvenirs from the wars. Last week he sent me a painting from his campaign to pacify revolting Franks.
- Chapter the Sixth: The Sverker Diaries, part two - the world of 908 and 909
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 7 3/4 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
Today I saw Grandpa and Jarl of Wessex. Grandpa told me I am betrothed to Viola, the Jarl's daughter. He said she will be my first wife once we are adult. I asked do I have a say in this? He said no.
He told me to go to the side-room to talk to Viola. She is only a child and looks ugly. She likes horses, flowers, and pork. I asked her why she is ugly and she started to cry.
Mommy took me away. She scolded me. Said Viola is Mögyer, so her looks are not her fault. Perhaps she will become beauty in future. I agreed room for improvement. Mommy just sighed.
Later, I asked Mommy how she was betrothed to Father.
Mommy says she was never bethrothed. Grandfather's Handy Henchmen headhunted Daddy. She first saw him on 16th birthday. After feast she went to her rooms. They were stocked with food and drink, but she was not hungry. So she went to bed. Father was chained to her bed as a birthday present. Naked and wrapped in ribbons. I have never seen Father wrapped in ribbons. He must have looked silly. The key to chain's lock was lying on a table just outside his range. Then the Handy Henchmen locked the door to her room. They were left alone for several days. She unwrapped her present and they played games.
Mommy had a goofy grin all over her face as she told story. I think she was joking. Parents are strange.
At dinner I asked Grandpa whether I could have Viola chained to my bed. He looked at me strangely and changed the topic to taxation. Jarl of Wessex choked on food. He is a messy eater.
I will ask Father next time I see him.
Dear Diary,
Jarl of Wessex and Viola left today. Mommy said to apologize to Viola and say goodbye. She gave me a doll to give to Viola. This is what Grandpa calls diplomacy. Everybody says I am charming. So it ought to be easy.
So I gave the doll to Viola, and she was happy. I used diplomacy and said goodbye Viola, it is not your fault you are ugly. I hope you get better. She hit me with the doll and began to cry. I think she hit me because truth hurts. So did the doll. Stupid doll.
Girls do not understand diplomacy.
So I played with Vassal until it was time for lunch.
Important: Uncle “Excuse Me” will soon visit. I must charm him and find his weakness.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 8 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
Father came for my birthday! He gave me a knife, a hammer, and a shield. Let bullys beware! I got many gifts today. Grandpa gave me a pony and Grandma Skuld gave me pony tack and Grandma Gertruda gave me a collar for Vassal with small blunt spikes. He looks really fierce now! Grandma Iacoba taught me a party trick: how to rip the head off a pig. Grandpa laughed at it. I said thank you, Grandma, and tried to wipe the blood off my vest. Grandma Iacoba is a little strange. Mommy gave me a hug and got rid of the head, and then we feasted.
I shall name my pony Slays-by-night.
Later, I asked Father how he was betrothed to Mommy.
Father says that they were never betrothed. He won her fair and square in an epic quest! When Mommy was born, Grandpa Sigurd and Grandma Yeldem gave her a golden box with a magic lock, and told her that the longer it stayed locked, the greater the treasure within. Now, Mommy's wisdom as a child was known far around, and so was her golden box, and many men asked Grandpa for betrothal to Mommy, but Grandpa said no: Only a bear of a man, someone who can arm-wrestle both Grandma Iacoba and Grandma Irmele and win, and who has a key that can open any lock, can have Mommy, and him I will make a Jarl and he shall share her treasures. And all who tried failed and left with hurt arms, for they were only men, and not bears.
The tale of Grandpa's quest spread even to distant Pomerania, where Father was a young man. So for many years while she grew up and became beautiful he ate, and he fought, and he grew big and mighty, and in secret he forged a magic key. Finally, when he was big enough he went to Denmark with two Handy Henchmen he had met. And he went to Grandpa and said he was a bear of a man, and he arm wrestled Grandma Iacoba and Grandma Irmele, and he beat them. And he showed them his magic key, and Grandma Gertruda said, goodness me, is that a battering ram? Grandpa shushed her and said, good, you are in luck. It is her 16th birthday today. Go now to Mommy, and return when you have opened her box, and I shall make you the greatest Jarl of Ireland and Mommy shall be your wife. So he went to Mommy's rooms and said hello, I am a bear, and he taught her some new games to play and when later they tried his magic key in the magic lock, it opened her box and they shared its treasures, and Father became Jarl and a wealthy man.
Father was very serious as he hold this story, but Mommy had to bite a pillow to keep from laughing and at the end she creamed his face with the pillow. POW! Parents are strange.
So I told them that I am not a small child and have done research and I know the games Father talked about was S.E.X. and Mommy said I was a genius, which I know, but it is nice to be recognized. Then Father growled at Mommy like a bear and said it had been too long and Mommy sent me to bed.
I wonder if Viola has a golden box with treasures too. If she does not, will I be poor? The more reason to advance my plans for domination. You cannot rely on girls.
Before I went to bed Uncle Smartypants fulfilled a wish of mine and read aloud from his records. I told him he was awesome. He promised to teach me to read when I become adult.
Little did he suspect that it was a lure: I stole valuable secrets while he was reading and hid them under my shirt!
- Chapter the Seventh: The Sverker Diaries, part three - the world of 909-911
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 9 and Counting
Dear Diary,
Uncle Bødvar sent me a painting of the winter raid on Hispania with the latest ship home. My suggestion that he always bring a painter to immortalize his triumphs is paying off.
The veteran who brought the painting told me he took part in the battle shown. They had been marching to the coast with plunder, when they were surprised by the army of the king of Asturias.
Outnumbered nearly four to one, Bødvar's veterans stood their ground against the horde of Christian levies, and their shield wall was unbreakable. The king had brought light cavalry, but such is of no danger to men who stand their ground. It was a long day of fighting and many a valiant man who had greeted the sun that morning supped in Odin's Hall that evening, for the Choosers of the Slain were busy. In the end we had the victory and buried our dead while the ravens fed well on the enemy.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 9 and Counting
Dear Diary,
Grandpa says that this place is of great religious significance. That I am treading on hallowed ground. That this is the location of one of Tyr's great victories over the Jotuns. I say it is a dump.
Sure, it has standing stones. This is supposed to impress me? They don't even have runes! Sure, they are bigger than most of the runestones from the permanent record, and they are more regular in shape, but... they are stones. This is enough to make Grandpa move his whole court here?
On the positive side, it is closer to home, so I may get to see Mommy and Father more often. On the negative side, everything else.
As an example of the latter, Grandpa told me that I will be seeing Viola more often as she lives practically next door and is a big girl now, just starting her education. Diplomatic, just like me. We'll have lots to talk about, he said. Wouldn't I like to visit her and get to know her better?
I told him I was overjoyed.
Sometimes when Grandpa looks at me, it is as if he sees right through me. It is disconcerting. This was one of those times.
Grandpa changed the topic and told me that to protect the holy site, he is establishing a holy order dedicated to Tyr, to be based in a nearby town. It is to be hoped they will prove more reliable than the jomsvikings.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 10 and Counting
Dear Diary,
I shall never forget this day. It began well. The weather was so nice that I asked Grandpa for permission to skip my morning lesson in favour of a ride to the lake and a swim, and grumbling that boys will be boys, he ruffled my hair and sent me off with his blessings.
So I saddled Slays-by-night and rode off, but hardly had I arrived at the lake before an unkindness of ravens descended upon us from out of the sky and scared Slays-by-night so badly that I decided to return early. So I ended up going for a delayed morning lesson with Grandpa anyhow, but he wasn't there. He'll never be there again.
Grandma Skuld and Grandma Iacoba were crying, and Grandma Gertruda was nursing her mead and solving equations.
I asked Grandma Gertruda if he died fighting, and she said that though she were not there to see it, Grandma Skuld was. So she had it second hand, but it appeared that he did. After I left, Grandpa, invigorated by my display of youthful energy, had decided to impress Grandma Skuld by going armed but unarmoured into a fight. According to Grandma Skuld, though he was decidedly less impressive than in his prime, he yet died as he had lived, and went as he came, the zealous old dear, obeying Odin's will to the last.
I told Grandma Gertruda that he was certainly foolish for going unarmoured, and she just looked at me sadly. So I felt bad. It was an undiplomatic thing to say to her, even if going unarmoured into a fight is the height of stupidity. To cheer her up I told her that I would help her solve equations, and we spent half an hour doing so.
My plans for domination are in tatters. All my work to make Grandpa favour me is for nothing. As Grandpa died before I became adult, I have no chance of being elected at the Thing. They will probably elect uncle “Excuse Me”, who is ambivalent about me.
And I? Once Grandpa is safely put under stone, I will return with Father and Mommy to Connaught – an exile so close, and yet so distant, from the centre of world affairs. At least Vassal will share my exile.
- Chapter the Eighth: The Sverker Diaries, part four - the world of 911-912
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 10 and Counting
Dear Diary,
Today we put Grandpa under stone. All his sons and grandsons – or at least all who made it here in time – helped. The women prepared the grave goods.
The thralls had excavated the burial chamber, digging a deep trench two men deep, 5 men across, and 20 men long. The sides were lined with slabs of stone.
We slew the thralls and threw them into the chamber. Then my uncles carried his favourite longship to the gravesite and we all helped lower it gently into the chamber. On its deck Grandpa Sigurd lay decked out in his armour and surrounded by the customary goods.
One of uncle Bødvar's men, who should have known better, asked the Grandmas whether they wanted to join Sigurd in death as a worthy sacrifice. Grandma Skuld said not on her life. Grandma Iacoba threw an uppercut that sent him flying and he ended up in the grave with a broken neck. And Grandma Gertruda nodded approvingly to Iacoba and said that was a more fitting sacrifice: Sigurd would have approved.
We all laughed at that, uncle Bødvar loudest of all, and then we got to shovelling, filling the grave, adding a layer of stone at the top of the chamber, and raising a mound over it. A lot of work, but with two generations of Grandpa Sigurd's descendants we had a lot of hands, and everybody wanted Grandpa safely under stone. He is with Odin now, of course, but just in case – nobody wants to see him return as a Draugr.
Then we all cheered uncle Excuse Me as king. He'll be doing the rounds in Denmark, Norway, England, Wales, and West Francia, but with the support of the most of the family opposition will be minimal and quickly silenced.
Most of the family. Uncle Bødvar thought he'd make a better king, but his five brothers disagreed emphatically. He's a great war-leader and a terror on the battlefield, but he lacks people skills, tends towards an uncomplicated worldview as befits the son of Iacoba, and only has one child despite his four wives, though the latter is something best left unsaid. But he's my favourite uncle. He listens to me and always brings me stories and presents from his voyages. He might not make a great king, but he's a great uncle.
I asked uncle Excuse Me about the possibility of my becoming his ward now that he was a great king. He looked me straight in the eye, told me that Grandpa had said I was one to watch, and he agreed. Preferably from a distance.
So that's a no.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker in Exile, Aged 10 and Counting
Dear Diary,
Day one of my exile. The voyage to Connacht is complete. All my brothers and sisters greeted me, even Frogsis, but I am no longer the small boy who went away to be groomed for leadership by Grandpa Sigurd.
I am now the wiser, older, boy, who recognize the family estate for the upgraded hovel it is, a far cry from the glorious longhouses in Denmark.
I am also a boy who understands geography and policy. In particular, I understand that Grandpa's “outer regions self-determination” policy, under which he granted one of his drinking buddies, aunt Álfhildr's husband Ögmundr of Munsö, independent rulership of Ireland last year, means that father no longer serves the Danish king, uncle Excuse Me, but the buffoon down in Munster.
Father said that since I was now living in Ireland again, and would live out my life here serving oldbro Tryggvi once he was gone, he would take my education in hand personally, get rid of the fanciful Danish notions, and turn me local. Irish? I asked. No, Father said, you have the makings of a proper Pomeranian. I asked him if it would hurt. He said yes.
Which means that apart from family visits, I have no ways of influencing – or gaining – power in Denmark.
I need a plan.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker in Exile, Aged 11 and Counting
Dear Diary,
Uncle Bødvar came to visit Mommy! Big news from Denmark. No sooner was Uncle Excuse Me hailed on the Things, than he divorced his deficient third wife and married a Russian merchant, Praxida, straight from the lands of the Rus, making her his primary wife. He also had some of the Handy Henchmen snatch Leontia, a young minor Greek noble, zealous in her misguided faith and paranoid to a fault, right out of the palace in Vienna where she was visiting, and will she or nill she, she ended up hitched to uncle Excuse Me too.
Uncle Bødvar said his mother Iacoba told him approvingly that it was just like old times, and their conversion through breeding and luxury a sure thing. After all, it worked on her. Even Bødvar admits that he'd never suspected that side of uncle Excuse Me, who has a hard enough time talking to people due to his shyness.
I am shocked too. This is the man who sent me a runestone saying “sorry I can't attend your birthday” three years in a row rather than having to engage in social pleasantries he could skip, and now he has a zealous Orthodox wife who'll speak her mind, loudly, and is frequently seen attending parties with his four wives?
Grandpa Sigurd was right. Kingship maketh the man!
But there's bigger news. This year uncle Bødvar led the Danish forces to victory in the great Lusatian war, and high chief Wizla was subjugated.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker in Exile, Aged 11 and Counting
Dear Diary,
King Ögmundr is dead, long live cousin Thordr, his son and heir. There is some suspicion that the king did not choke on a herring entirely without aid, but nobody is looking too closely.
King Ögmundr was not a well-liked man and Mommy says that though aunt Álfhildr was his path to power and bore him seven of his nine children, he did not treat her with the respect she was due, so good riddance to bad rubbish.
Mommy sent uncle Excuse Me a gift of five fine Thralls Father took on his last raid, and Father missed the point. It is probably best so. I shall sneak out for a ride on Slays-by-night while she distracts him.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker in Exile, Aged nearly 12 and Counting
Dear Diary,
It is nearly my birthday! If the suggestion I made to uncle Bødvar this winter bears fruit, uncle Smartypants will visit. And if I can convince him, then the sky is the limit, for uncle Excuse Me trusts him implicitly.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker in Exile, Aged 12
Dear Diary,
I scrawl this hastily in the morning. Full report will follow: UNCLE SMARTYPANTS CAME!
He did not come alone. He brought his son Eirikr, chief of Ruppin, uncle Excuse Me's son Gudfridr, Jarl of Skåne, and his successor as court chaplain, the Jarl of Wessex.
- Chapter the Ninth: The Sverker Diaries, part five - the world of 913
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 12
Dear Diary,
I greeted my birthday guests as they rode in, calling them by name and rank and offering compliments.
Upon Mommy's prompting, I greeted Viola especially diplomatically. I complimented her on her horse and praised her riding skill. She told me she loved horses. A lot. Which I already knew, but her limited intellect is not suited for either small talk or debate, so random noises of horse appreciation is about the best one can get out of her, as I found out while living in Salisbury.
She then dismounted, struck a pose, and told me to take a good look as she was now a big girl. Did I still find her ugly?
Well, she'd grown a lot since last year, but it had done nothing for her looks. Diplomacy to the rescue! Ugly? Perish the thought, I told her, and she beamed at me. I continued flattering her, and said that while most girls her age dreamed of growing up to be conventionally beautiful, I recognized that common beauty standards could not possibly do her unique looks justice. Now that I got a good look, I was sure she would grow up to be horse-faced, the perfect combination of her looks and her interests.
At which her face turned an impressive shade of red as she digested my words, and then she threw herself at me, screaming, clawing at my eyes, punching, and kicking. I desperately fended her off, trying not to hurt her, and the adults just laughed at the spectacle. Finally, after Viola managed to land a particular nasty kick to the nether regions, I tried a tactical withdrawal while begging her to stop with tears in my eyes, and only ended up falling on my arse, with Viola landing on top and still pummelling me.
At which point bigbro Tryggvi rolled his eyes, sighed, and said, “ah, young love”, and they all laughed again!
I have never been so humiliated! Or in so much pain and so close to losing my eyes. Finally the Jarl of Wessex pulled her off me.
It is almost impossible to understand. While I did hold back so as not to harm her, I am built like a bear, trained in fighting, and three years older than Viola, who is a small girl like sis and frogsis. Yet I was defeated by this nine year old weakling coming at me with murder in her eyes. The most obvious explanation is also the most disturbing one, and one that the timid and weak of mind would shrink from even considering: Seidr! I must have been bespelled. Viola is a witch.
I later asked Father whether I was still betrothed to Viola, and he said yes. I asked him why, and he said because he said so, which is not much of an argument. Prodded further, he said that he was a man of his word. And that even if he was not, it would not do to offend an important man like the Jarl of Wessex.
I explained to him that according to Grandpa's lectures, the purpose of bethrothal and marriage was political alliance, and that now that I was a Pomeranian living in a proudly independent Ireland, a marriage alliance with the ugly daughter of a Jarl in Denmark surely was not worth all that much to either party. Indeed, it could be argued that the current arrangement was detrimental to the Jarl, so it would be better for everybody involved if the betrothal was called off.
Father hemmed and hawed and said that this betrothal was not really his idea in the first place, and it was rightly for Mommy to say. So I asked her, and she said, wait and see.
So we celebrated with a feast.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 12 and a day
Dear Diary,
After breakfast, Mommy took me aside for a chat with uncle Smartypants and Jarl of Wessex.
Jarl of Wessex called me a good boy with a strong sense of justice, but no matter how cynical about the matter and no matter how manipulative I might be, I was not getting out of the bethrothal. It was Mommy's idea, and once she had told Grandpa he made it fit Odin's plans, and he and the Jarl had worked hard for it with uncle Arnbjørn's support.
The Jarl was doing his part raising Viola right and Mommy was doing her part, and uncle Arnbjørn was laying the groundwork with uncle Baldr the King, who had not been too keen on Grandpa's plan. Even Viola was doing her part and not complaining.
So I would jolly well marry Viola and like it. Or else.
Else what? I asked.
Shut up, he said.
Uncle Smartypants said he was doing his part because Granpa's plan was good and Mommy was his favourite sister, but my antics were embarrassing to them all and counter-productive. He called me a cracked egg and told me to stop trying to manipulate Bødvar. He said I was not nearly as smart as I thought I was and almost painfully bad at intrigue. Did I really think everybody else was an idiot and nobody could see through my act? Did I truly not understand that under Sigurd's rule, and now Baldr's, competency was what mattered for advancement? Well, competency and a decent body count.
I made sure to look contrite, as I promised to do better. But would somebody please tell me what the plan was?
Mommy said no. The plan was adult business and I would be told when I reached my majority. But they had agreed to this meeting to tell me what I had to do the next few years, to stop my attempts at subverting it out of ignorance.
Become very good at diplomacy
Do nothing to piss off uncle Baldr the King
Marry Viola and have many children
Profit
I told her that the third part qualified as adult business, surely, so why not just let me hear the rest of the plan rather than waiting? Jarl of Wessex chuckled at that and told me Sigurd the King had said that in his family, they tried harder. And earlier.
So I said that I would do as they said and concentrate on becoming good at diplomacy and making Viola happy.
Which made them happy and ended the discussion. Grown ups are so predictable.
Little did they suspect that everything that had transpired had done so according to my design.
With a lighter heart I went forth to greet the day. Escaping family, guests, and responsibility, I rode Slays-by-night on a tour of the countryside, with Vassal by my side, and we hunted small game and enjoyed the spring.
- Chapter the Tenth: The Sverker Diaries, part six - the world of 913-914
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 12 and a week
Dear Diary,
I am speechless.
We bid goodbye to our guests today. As they left I told Mommy that I would miss Viola. Mommy looked at me fondly and said she was pleased to hear that I had had a change of heart, if perhaps a bit sceptical about my motivation. Had I finally noticed Viola's compassionate nature and loyal heart?
She is so predictable.
I told that it was a matter of practicality. Since I would wed her, I should get to know her better. There was no reason to hurry, as absence makes the heart grow fonder and the wedding was seven years away, but even so I would like to meet her two or three times before then if it could be arranged. Perhaps already for my next birthday?
...The better to find evidence to reveal her as a witch and cancel the bethrothal; I would have to plan carefully and act with the utmost caution lest Viola catch on to my knowledge of her secret or her intentions. But I did not tell Mommy that. Accusing somebody of practising Seidr maliciously is serious business and requires absolute proof when the daughter of a Jarl is involved.
Mommy said that she was glad to hear it. She thought it was a great idea for us to see each other more often and get to know each other better, and so did the Jarl of Wessex, but there was no reason to wait a year.
Indeed, they agreed yesterday after I left that until the wedding I and Viola would alternate visiting each other for a month at the turn of each season. I would visit Wessex the first month of summer and of winter, Viola would visit Connacht the first month of spring and of autumn.
And since today was April 23rd, I'd be leaving in about a month.
I am speechless.
Excerpt: The Man and the Myth: Baldr the Great
At 43 years of age Baldr was a man in his prime, or perhaps a few year past that, when he ascended to the kingships of Denmark, Norway, England, West Francia, Wales, and Pomerania. An ambitious man who had diligently served his famous father all his life, he nevertheless was mainly known to his contemporaries for his incredible shyness.
Kingship changed him, and for the better by the standards of the time. Letting his ambition burn bright, he took up the mantle of a warrior king and his 22 year long reign of conquest and terror transformed Europe forever.
Drawing upon surviving sources, we have attempted to reconstruct his Klamphugger-Jensen diagram in 913, two years into his reign.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 12 and a half – and Counting
Dear Diary,
We made it through the snow and arrived at Wessex' castle. This hare-brained scheme of Mommy's makes no excuse for weather. I was greeted warmly and given the same quarters as this summer.
I spent some time with the Jarl this evening at supper, and asked him how he came to be part of this plan of Mommy's.
Good plan, except he was mugged while on his way down memory lane and ended up talking about all his wives and only incidentally answering my question. Still, I did learn vital information about Viola, so I guess it was worth it. I'll record all of it in case I missed any clues, for it was tedious.
He got a distant look in his eyes, and said that rightly it started when Sigurd the King, who always had an eye for talent, invited him up north from his home in Hungary to marry one of his lovely daughters, Sif, Mommy's long lost twin, and be put in charge of Wessex.
Being new to the North, he and Father hit it off, as their wives so obviously desired. Though where the Jarl had been recruited for his brains, Father had other qualities. They were men in their prime, newly married to younger and eager wives, and with a world to conquer. It was a time to live.
But his luck with women was bad.
Sif bore him two bright boys and then died in childbirth three months after my own birth in 901.
For his second wife he chose a sturdy farmgirl, Christina, who caught his eye with her sensuous and witchy ways. With her body, he thought she'd make an ideal broodmare. Alas, he had reckoned without religion. She was a militant Christian and chaste. Guarding her virtue, as she put it, undoubtedly in the hopes of converting him. She was amenable to persuasion, and when her defenses were lowered she had the old magic and put him through his paces, all right, but in twelve years of marriage she born him only three children, and all girls at that. Then, last year she too died in childbirth, attempting to the last to save their new son, bless her loyal heart, but they both passed away. It broke the hearts of his daughters, but she had brought them up well: they overcame their grief in time.
Long-winded, but he was deep in his ale, and I knew better than to interrupt.
As for his third wife, a concubine turned wife once Sigurd the King got religion, she was a good woman, but, alas, also chaste. And alas less amenable to persuasion. But she kept the children in line, even Viola, whose compassionate nature was only surpassed by her inquisitiveness into knowledge best left to the ancients. And his fourth, picked up in an alliance with house Hammer after Christina's death, was a delightful being, but he feared she might be barren.
His luck with women was definitely bad.
But notwithstanding the difficulties, he had eight living children to his name, and by the way, what were we talking about? I gently led him back to talking about the plan.
He explained that through the years of misery he kept up the connection with Mommy and Father, so once Mommy realized that both I and Viola showed signs of being uncommonly bright children and brought her plan to Sigurd the King, she and Sigurd had an easy time convincing him to join.
Viola uncommonly bright? Mommy must have been in her cups or, more likely, have been flattering him. I told him diplomatically that Viola definitely showed signs of wisdom, though she could do with anger management lessons. He brushed that off saying that she got that from her mother like so many of her skills, and it was a weak man who complained about a broodmare showing a bit of spirit.
I swear that family has a horse fixation.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 13 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
Uncle Bødvar sent me a painting from this summer's campaign in Aquitaine. By the looks of it king Baldr will soon find himself in possession of yet another kingdom.
The Secret Ledger of Evidence of Viola's Witchcraft
Visit 1: Wessex, summer 913
June 2nd: I have arrived at Wessex castle. Rather than housing me in the main wing, the Jarl has opened a guest wing just for me, Viola, some cooks, and some miscellaneous servants. He says we won't be distracted by official business that way. I find this suspicious.
June 12th. When I took Vassal for a run in the wood, Viola warned me that it would rain. And it did. Granted, this is England, so rain is never out of the question, but possible use of the sight?
June 16th. Played chess with Viola. For an unintelligent girl, she is surprisingly good at the game. Idiot savant or something more sinister? Does she see more than three moves ahead?
Visit 2: Connacht, autumn 913
September 3rd. Viola arrived. Vassal loves her. Suspicious, that.
September 5th. I overheard Viola asking sis and frogsis questions about me. When I walked up to them, they stopped talking. When I left, they continued. What is going on?
September 6th. Sis says they were just discussing my size. A likely story.
September 8th. I played chess with Viola. Deliberately Lost. Congratulated her.
September 10th. I played chess with Viola. Deliberately Lost. Asked for a rematch and beat her handily. She congratulated me.
September 14th. Bigbro Tryggvi teased me over the time I've been spending with Viola. I brushed it off. Little does he suspect that it is all part of my plan of luring her into a false sense of security so she will lower her guard, and THEN... I'll find proof.
September 18th. I played with Viola again and, surprisingly, had a good time. For a stupid girl she is pretty good at playing games, and good company too, when I forget her wicked nature. Is she trying to lull me into a false sense of security too?
Visit 3: Wessex, winter 913
December 9th. My arrival was delayed by snow. Jarl said, it happens. I've opened your wing again. Go have fun. When I reached my room, Viola was waiting there with a mug of hot beer for me – just what I needed. Perfect timing. Too perfect. How did she know when I'd arrive, when I hadn't known it myself?
December 13th. We played Raid and Capture. She definitely has a homefield advantage, being almost impossible to capture when I play raider. Thrice I nearly captured her, just for her to disappear around a corner and reappear shortly afterwards behind me. When she played the raider, she found and captured me quickly, running me down with her short legs and trapping me in cul-de-sacs. How does she do this.
December 14th. I joined the castle's children in the mother of all snowball fights! Snowballs flying everywhere, snow fortresses blown apart by gravel-packed snowballs (my speciality), a wild melee with no fixed sides and no permanent alliances. Viola proved bad at throwing, but showed no fear of anybody, charging even those twice her size to topple them and bury them in snow. As she pranced triumphantly on top of her older brother Bragi, I proved by empirical application of a well-aimed snowball to her face that whatever other powers she has, immunity to thrown missiles is not one of them. It was completely worth the toppling I subsequently suffered. No hard feelings. We relaxed that night playing hnefatafl. I am reminded of Mother's proverb: cold hands, warm heart.
December 18th. I caught Viola feeding Slays-by-night. She claimed she was just doing her daily round of the stables, and he looked hungry. Plausible story. Is she, perhaps, trying to erode my control? Surely she's not poisoning him!
- Chapter the Eleventh: The Sverker Diaries, part seven - the world of 914-915
The Secret Ledger of Evidence of Viola's Witchcraft
Visit 4: Connacht, spring 914
March 6th.. Even a moronic face looks better when plastered with a smile, but why did she smile when I greeted her coming? I was just being diplomatic.
March 9th. We played Raid and Capture. My home, my advantage. She was too slow to catch me when playing raider and I swiftly caught her when I did. My running exercises have paid off!
March 19th. Viola has been exceptionally well behaved the entire visit. I now know why. She has been busy charming my sisters, turning them into her informants.
Visit 5: Wessex, summer 914
June 25th. This was a perfect summer. Exercise, weapons training, and play during the day. Chess and hnefatafl in the evening. No witchy observations at all. She is clearly playing the long game.
Visit 6: Connacht, autumn 914
September 9th. Went to see the new carp pond. Viola got too close and was attacked. She fought back bravely. Carp for dinner. Played a good game of hnefatafl afterwards.
September 10th. While eating lunch, Viola asked me if I would like to conquer the world. A strange question to be asked out of nowhere, but I of course answered in the affirmative. She looked pleased, as if she was checking a point on a mental checklist, and asked whether, in that case, I had prepared some famous last words? I said no, what a ridiculous suggestion. So she suggested “To the strongest!” and refused to explain why! She drives me mad sometimes. What is she up to?
September 11th. We played Raid and Capture. When I finally captured her, I held her fast and said that she must pay a forfeit to be released. She looked at me coyly and agreed, but grew sullen when the forfeit I demanded was that she explain those “last words”. Her moods ever changing, she perked up and told me that she was planning on having a dozen sons with me, probably some of them being twins, it being a more economical use of the time. Then, when I inevitably died young while conquering the world, I could tell the sons “To the strongest!” and she'd get to see the world burn as they fought for supremacy, the best of her brood defeating the rest. I released her and stalked away, her parting laughter loud in my ears.
September 14th. I asked Viola whether she really wanted me to die young, and she said no, not really, but dying young trying to conquer the world seemed a decent second best and not to be disdained. I did not inquire closer about the whole “watching the world burn” issue – Viola is flaky enough as it is without encouragement to pyromania. And perhaps she meant what she said. Even a witch should know better than leaguing with the Jotuns, and Surtur most of all, but she is clearly not mentally stable.
Visit 7: Wessex, winter 914
December 3rd. Viola greeted me upon arrival. She asked me if I noticed anything different about her, and I can't say I did. So I told her. She left in a huff. She was very cold at dinner. She refused a game of chess in the evening because she was tired. Such a moody girl.
December 4th. I fell ill today with a violent headache and my stomach on fire. The court physician said it must be something I had eaten and recommended amputation. Of the head. I think he was joking, but he had a dangerous gleam in his eye, so I told him I felt much better and made my escape.
December 5th. Viola came to find me, as I had not shown up for our daily game, and found me racked with pain. She prodded me here and there to find out where it hurt, then, like the court physician, she concluded it must be something I had eaten.
I asked her, only a bit sarcastically, if she had any medical training, and she told me seriously that since her father had the best stables in all of England, all of his children learned how do treat ill horses so she knew how to brew several medicines.
Later, she brought me a vile-smelling remedy made from a secret recipe of her mother's, and I was so delirious that I drank it without thought for my safety. Should I expire tonight, let all know that Viola is to blame!
December 6th. I am feeling better. I guess Viola did not poison me. Or – I hesitate to even put this into writing – perhaps it wasn't something I ate. Perhaps she did poison me and conveniently had the antidote ready. But why would she do that? Has she uncovered my witch hunt? And if so, why heal me?
December 10th. Viola has been nursing me back to health with a bit of help from the cooks. When she forgets being a brat, she is good company. Yet I cannot forget my suspicions... Is this outpouring of compassion her true nature or is she perhaps contrite, regretting attempted murder carried out in a state of wrath?
Visit 8: Connacht, spring 915
March 4th. As winter turns to spring, Viola is here. What a surprise. She brought a gift for Mother. That is either very considerate or very calculating or both.
March 7th. Viola has spent a suspicious amount of time closeted with Mother the last two days. What are they discussing?
March 11th. I casually asked bigbro Tryggvi and lilbro Njáll whether they had noticed if Viola was up to something. As expected Tryggvi had noticed nothing, for paying attention is not his strongest suit: He found it natural that she was spending time with Mother now that she was finally developing in the chest region (he exaggerates), so he expected they were talking about women's things, and what's strange about that? But Njáll, the little sneak, had noticed how she was always around watching me when I was training in the courtyard.
Which was hardly news to me, as her encouraging cries of “kick him in the unmentionables”, “hit him while he's down”, and “smite him like the hammer of Thor” could hardly be missed. Mostly addressed to me, but she was an even-opportunity encourager on the rare occasions when I was beaten.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 13 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
After Viola left, bigbro Tryggvi took me aside. He told me that my infatuation with Viola was obvious, but I ought to be up front with her rather than sneak around spying on her every move. Frankly, it came across as creepy and possibly sinister, and she undoubtedly found it rather uncomfortable. Not that there was anything wrong with liking what I saw, he assured me, but he was sure she would appreciate my telling her so to her face.
He thinks he's so smart just because he is older and officially an adult now, but as so often he completely missed the point.
Sure, there were five years until our marriage, he said, as if I did not know of that looming deadline, but we would be better off learning how to get along. Find shared interests apart from chess, hnefatafl, and horses. Make life goals. Plan married life.
Take Huld, his bethrothed, he said. Some men might be put off by her looks, and others might fear being crushed in a tender moment out of sheer absentmindedness, but having known her since childhood he knew her for a generous soul and honest to a fault, with a beautiful mind, a strong right arm, and the wit to rule and maintain his household when he went viking.
A strong right arm, I grant him, but wits to run a household? Huld's idea of stewardship is to pay and pay until problems go away!
Tryggvi explained, that while at first they did not seem to have many interests in common, years of getting to know each other had shown they had more in common than not. As reasonable people they had laid their plans both for the short and the long term. There'd be no other woman for him once they married next spring and went on honeymoon, spelunking in virginal mountains.
And blah, blah, blah. His love for his Ivaring giantess has hardly been a secret to the family, though their shared interest in mountain climbing and cave exploration came as news to me. I asked if they were going down to Munster to try the tallest mountains in Ireland, but Tryggvi demurred and said they'd start closer to home.
I told him that while I was happy for them, and while I was built like a bear and could climb mountains just fine and would undoubtedly be great at spelunking, Viola was a tiny thing and unlikely to be interested in that.
He told me that I might be surprised. It is sad to see how love has clouded his critical faculties.
The Secret Ledger of Evidence of Viola's Witchcraft
Visit 9: Wessex, summer 915
June 9th: I left Viola busy with her needlework and rode Slays-by-night to the village. While I was looking for a ribbon to buy for frogsis, I saw Viola shopping for cabbage. Most peculiar. I quietly left without being noticed, and rode back to the castle. There I found Viola still doing needlework. Most peculiar indeed. But perhaps a case of mistaken identity? I did leave as soon as I saw her, and did not pause to ascertain that it was truly Viola. Perhaps it was just some girl that in the wrong light looked uglier than she deserved. And even if it was Viola, perhaps she had been gripped by a sudden hunger for cabbage, and had used superior knowledge of her home terrain to ride to the village and back faster than I did? Say that to her credit, she's a very good rider.
June 16th: I visited the village again this morning and, what should happen but that I saw Viola shopping for cabbage again? I walked up to her and greeted her by name, and she just ignored me. I called her out for being rude, and she turned to me and in that frustrating voice of hers said I had gotten the wrong person. I begged forgiveness for my mistake and left. I returned to the castle and, surprise, Viola was there already.
She claimed she had been studying new stitches for her needlework from the pretty pictures in a book all morning and had just returned it to her father. Apparently, as I discovered by furtive examination, she had been studying while having neither needles nor thread with her, but of this I said nothing. She thanked me for my interest in her studies and asked if I would like to play? Naturally, I agreed to divert attention from my investigation. There is definitely something going on.
June 17th. It rained all day so we stayed indoors and played games and quizzes. Through cunning inquiry I managed to discover that Viola does not like cabbage.
June 23rd. I gave Viola a bright red ribbon for her hair this morning, and she smiled all over her ugly little face as I carefully braided it into her hair. I regretfully told her that I could not play that morning as I was going riding in the forest, and wished her good luck with her needlework. Then I left for the forest and, once out of sight of the castle, I masked myself and rode quickly to the village, a veritable master of disguise.
Who would I see there but Viola, red ribbon in hair, purchasing a cabbage. I immediately left and rode hell for leather back to the castle, where, to my complete lack of surprise, I found Viola doing needlework, not a hair out of place, not a speck of dirt or dust on her dress. Could she, possibly, have ridden home even faster than I and changed her costume? It didn't seem possible, but if she had she would definitely still be affected from the ride, though hiding it. That gave me an idea.
I greeted her, saying that I had forgotten something urgent before leaving, and I sincerely apologized. She asked, what?
So I knelt before her, grabbed her by the wrist, and laid my head on her tiny chest. Her breath was even, her pulse was normal. She had definitely not been riding quickly.
But as I knelt there in repose, testing, her pulse sped up and her breath became irregular, and she asked me, slightly flustered, just what I thought I was doing.
I told her it was a medical examination, part of my studies, and left.
There was no way known to man that Viola could have made her way to the village and back again this morning without being out of breath or having a racing pulse. Given that it is hard to be in two places at the same time, especially if there is a great distance between them, I now had conclusive evidence of witchcraft.
But what is the cabbage for?
June 24th. Viola was unusually quiet during our evening chess game.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 14 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
Father is dead. Hunting accident. He was brought in badly wounded and barely lived long enough to say goodbye. When I got my turn, I manly held in my tears and asked him if he had any last words for me, expecting a “be good to Mother”, “help Tryggvi see your sisters well married”, “serve Tryggvi loyally”, “live well”, or possibly “don't go boar hunting at 56, especially not after drinking in the morning”.
He just grimaced with pain, and through gritted teeth he spoke, “UNITE THE SLAVS!”
I gaped like a fish, and said, “What?” and he grinned, though it clearly hurt, and said that he was proud of me, his beloved brilliant cub. He felt sure that I would surpass him in deeds as much as I surpassed him in brains, but I had played enough jokes on him during my 14 years of life that surely I would not begrudge him having the last laugh. While I was trying to puzzle that out, he called for Njáll.
Mother is inconsolable.
This August 30, 915, I become a chief, as does bigbro Tryggvi and lilbro Njáll. Bigbro Tryggi is the new Jarl of Connacht holding the core lands. I get Leinster and Ailech. Lilbro Njáll get Atholone and Ennis. Just my luck, Leinster has recently been overrun, sacked, and occupied by uncle Arnbjørn's oldest sons on their way to topple cousin Thordr.
Thinking of the responsibility... I am not ready for this. My bear of a Father is gone. I already miss him.
But every cloud has a silver lining! We will obviously have to cancel the autumn visit to Wessex in favour of the funeral, and perhaps the future visits as well? If I have anything to say about it, I am regretfully going to be much too busy a man and have too many responsibilities to my holdings to follow that old schedule.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 14 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
I am speechless.
Two weeks to the day after Father's funeral, one of king Baldr's Handy Henchmen showed up with a party of fifty and asked for lodging. He brought Mother condolences from uncle Baldr the King and uncle Arnbjørn, and orders for me to present myself in Salisbury as ward of king Baldr.
Nobody pointed out that I was in principle a chief in my own right owing allegiance only to bigbro Tryggvi, who owed allegiance to the king of Ireland, whomever that might be at the moment, cousin Thordr being about to lose his crown to one of uncle Arnbjørn's sons. This was a matter of blood, an internal Sigurdr matter, and uncle Baldr was the undisputed head of the dynasty. He also had the largest army.
As for me, I was overjoyed. A return to the seat of power? Had my luck finally changed after these years of misery? Had I escaped the deranged plans of dear departed Grandpa despite all Mother and the Jarl of Wessex could do? It seemed too good to be true.
And it was.
The Handy Henchman assured me I wouldn't feel lonely, for uncle Baldr the king had taken thought for my comfort and acted with his customary decisiveness.
- Chapter the Twelth: The Sverker Diaries, part eight - the world of 915-917
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 14 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
I am a genius! I will revolutionize writing forever... If I choose to let the world in on my secret innovation, the quotation mark. This single symbol allows ANY text to clearly distinguish between what is said and what is done.
I came up with the idea while considering how to write an observation from the journey. It was this: I saw my guard fuck the horse, he said.
This is subject to misinterpretation. Does this deal with a fillyfiddler or am I writing about my guard cursing his horse? I know what I saw, but how would the reader? With my new invention there can be no doubt:
I saw my guard “fuck the horse”, he said, makes it clear that the cursing is intended, it being a quotation.
I saw my guard fuck the horse, he said, makes it clear that unnatural congress with the filly was observed, due to the lack of quotation marks. Also, I have this idea for a symbol to denote end of sentences to increase clarity. Termination marks? Full stops? End-of-line? I need to develop this idea further.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 14 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
I arrived at court! And nobody was here to greet me. They had all gone to uncle Baldr the king's artillery range, I was told, there to watch the newest innovation. As my escort had been bidden to bring me to the king, there perforce went I as well.
The new innovation turned out to be a sling connected to a stick, mounted on a wooden frame. It threw rocks. Rope was involved too, it was all very, very, technical, and everybody looked pleased with it, especially when on the third shot after I arrived the rock decapitated a cow, though looking at the men firing the sling I got the idea it was more by accident than design, and said so.
Sudden silence. The ranks of onlookers parted and who did I see but the king. I cursed myself for letting my mouth run, but fortunately he looked pleased.
Unfortunately, it was not for the reason I thought it was.
“Load the boy in the sling!” uncle Baldr said to my horror, “and you men, wind it tight! Let's see how far the little joker can fly!”
Straightforward my escort grabbed me and dragged me to the infernal device, muffling my cries, and it would have been a sad end to my life's story, splattered across the landscape due to an unfortunately timed comment, had not a small voice piped up, a voice I knew well:
“He is mine, oh mighty king, and if you hurt my stallion, I will smite you!”
It was Viola. For once I was happy to see her ugly face, as she ran up and tried to stare down the king, a man thrice her size.
The silence became deafening.
Uncle Baldr stepped around her to get a closer look at me, and said, “Why, so it is, little songbird. He's grown in stature if not in wisdom, but even so he looks more like a scared bear cub than a stallion to me.”
And then he laughed loudly at his own wit, and so did everybody else for they knew a cue when they heard one, and the good mood was restored. As I was to learn over the coming days, the coping mechanism uncle “Excuse Me” had found to deal with his incredible shyness was to fake a loud and boisterous nature, which was in many ways worse than the real thing affecting terminal bores.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 14 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
This is intolerable. The king insists that there'll be no teaching at all unless both I and Viola attend together. And that we eat every meal together. And don't visit the town unless we go together.
Together, together, together! We are expected to do nearly everything together! But I am not going to complain. If I did, who knows what he'd think of next.
It would be bad enough if we were equally inconvenienced, but as I know very well such restrictions will not hold Viola back, as she can be attending lessons at court while visiting the town at the same time, should she so please. It is most unfair.
I tried explaining this to uncle Baldr in simple terms even he should be able to understand, but he got this strange look in his eyes and told me not to make a fuss.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 14 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
Being at court is a bad influence on Viola. After having tried it out a few times in the past weeks, she now consistently calls me “her stallion”, refusing to call me by name. She claims it is a loving nickname, but I know better. Seeing my reaction to it has uncle Baldr in stitches, and she is clearly intent on charming him for her own nefarious purposes.
It is most vexing.
But today I found a way to have my revenge and shine a light on her unnatural habits in a way she cannot easily decry: I started calling her “my little witch”, claiming it was a loving nickname, and dared her to reject it!
She looked dismayed for a moment, but then put up a brave face and thanked me for it, undoubtedly gnashing her teeth in secret.
GOT HER!
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 14 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
Throughout the last week, Viola has been proving herself to be unexpectedly good at the diplomatic exercises that are part of uncle's teaching. I wonder if being able to be in two places at the same time makes her able to study twice as fast? Or perhaps she is communicating in secret somewhere else with some hidden diplomatic genius while she is attending lessons? Whatever is the case, I am having to work hard to keep her from getting the upper hand.
Many of the lessons end up with us squabbling, but uncle Baldr never stops us. He seems to derive amusement from seeing us argue. So it is good for something other than frustration, I guess.
Today was especially aggravating. The king was telling tales from his adventures, part of a lecture on modern diplomacy, or, how to tax people without an axe, and as I was dozing off halfway through, movement at the door caught my attention. Who should I spy at the opening but Viola, giving a wave to herself where she sat next to me? As I blinked my eyes, Viola waved back and Viola left! All right under uncle Baldr's nose.
I tried subtly bringing it to uncle Baldr's attention, asking him whether he'd seen what my little witch was doing (because I'll be damned if I call Viola by name in public so long as she calls me her stallion! I can keep this up at least as long as she does) but he would hear nothing of it.
He told me that an important part of non-axe diplomacy was the ability to focus on the important issues at hand rather than every little distracting thing, even if she was my little witch, and began telling a convoluted tale of extorting every last coin owed from the delinquent Jarl of Skåne using nothing but his wits, a black cat, a wheelbarrow, and a small group of Handy Henchmen carrying torches.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 14 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
Uncle Bødvar sent a picture from the early spring raiding in Hispania. He had sent out the call for those interested in a good raiding season to assemble in the southern Danish outpost, Barcelona, from which he would harry the kingdoms of Hispania with fire and sword. I wish I was there.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 15
Dear Diary,
April 16. My birthday! This was a great day. Not only is it only one year to my majority, and not only did I get several presents, the best present was the one I gave myself when I threw Viola into the pond.
It happened like this.
I had left Viola after lunch and was wandering the grounds with Vassal, when whom would I come across but Viola gazing into the pond, lost in rapt adoration of herself? I could not even bring myself to be surprised at seeing her so obviously in two places at once, it being such a common occurrence these days, but I could, and did, seize the opportunity that presented itself.
I told Vassal to lie low, and silent as Loki's shadow I sneaked up behind her.
Her witchy senses must have warned her, for when I was nearly upon her she started turning towards me, but too late! I rushed in and scooped her up in my arms. Her scared face softened as I gazed into her eyes, then turned to shocked surprise as I swung her around and with a mighty heave sent her flying through the air to land with a mighty splash in the pond.
Sputtering curses, she rose like a tiny sea-elf from its depths, her drenched clothes flattering her underdeveloped curves and tiny bosom in a way they never could dry. She was quite impressive at cursing, I must admit, and I could not hold back howls of laughter as she threatened to skin me alive for a new bag. Vassal found the scene as funny as I and ran up to bark at her, which did nothing to improve her mood.
I left her standing there and to her last cries of “you will suffer, Sverker!” I returned much invigorated to my quarters, determined not to show my face until dinner-time as, upon consideration, prudence seemed in order. Giving her some time to cool down would reduce the odds of her trying to claw my eyes out in a public setting.
It was with some trepidation that I attended dinner, which was to be a small family affair of eighty people or so hosted by the king. When I arrived I found Viola, sensibly clad in a new dress, talking to her father, the Jarl of Wessex, uncle Arnbjørn and uncle Baldr the king and I took thought to quietly taking my seat before I was noticed, but to no avail. The king saw me slinking past and cried out, “Ha! Your stallion arrives in glory, little songbird”, and everybody's eyes turned to me.
Viola was radiant, a pint-sized Chooser of the Slain visiting Midgård, and as she turned to me and started walking, a determined look in her eyes and her face radiating divine wrath, my certainty that she would not act inappropriately in public drained away.
I took control of the situation and said, “I can explain, little witch..” but got no further before she broke into a run and launched herself at me.
I steeled myself for impact and torn between guarding my eyes and nether regions, I had time for neither before she hit me full force, and evading my flailing arms with ease she embraced me and gave me a big hug.
Stunned by the impact, I could only stand in stupefaction as she rose on her toes, gave me a peck on the cheek, and said “thank you, my stallion”, which did nothing to alleviate the confusion, before letting go and returning giggling to her father.
There is something seriously wrong with her face. How can such a small face play host to such a big smile?
Throughout dinner I kept trying to bring up the pond incident to explain to Viola, but whenever I began she started giggling and I had to stop.
It was all very confusing.
When I returned to my room late at night, I found two cabbages with scary carved faces lying on my bed. I disposed of them forthwith.
I do not understand women.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 15 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
Viola has been acting kind, considerate, and unfailingly polite to me ever since my birthday. Admittedly, that is how she normally behaves. I know this. It is normal behaviour. But how come I never truly noticed before?
I am seriously considering taking oldbro Tryggvi's advice and talking to her about our future. Perhaps there are worse fates.
I must be mad.
Or enchanted.
But would having a witch on my side, if I could trust or control her, really be that bad? Could it not be considered a strategic advantage?
When I close my eyes, I see her smile.
What has she done to me?
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 15 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
I love these long summer nights. Tonight I beat my little witch two games to one in Hnefatafl for the first time in weeks and we continued our discussion from yesterday. She really is much easier dealing with now that I have finally begun speaking to her about our future, and she leaped on my suggestion that we combine our daily evening game with frank discussion rather than playful sniping and joking.
So perhaps oldbro Tryggvi really did know what he was talking about.
Not that we can resist from sniping and joking, and if perhaps the games last longer to complete these nights or we continue talking after we finish playing, delaying our parting, I am not complaining. She is wise beyond her years.
I have not raised the witchcraft issue. Some things are better left unsaid.
Tonight after playing she claimed fatigue and asked if she could sit on her big bear of a chair, since her own chair was so hard. I saw through the transparent ploy, but she is such a tiny thing and truth to tell, I have found it curiously enjoyable to allow her small victories without a fight, so I gravely accepted and settled her in my lap and she snuggled up. It was comfortable.
She claimed to have loved me since the end of our first meeting when I gave her a doll. Given that she slammed me with it while crying her eyes out at the time, I found that unlikely but diplomatically did not contest the claim.
She next claimed to love my rumbling voice, my big hands, the way I looked at her when I thought she was not noticing, my sense of justice, the way I smote my enemies during training, my stamina, my quick wits, my jokes... and at that last I drew the line and asked her if she was not overdoing her flattery a bit, and she giggled into my chest and agreed.
For myself, I admitted to her, I could not say that I loved her, but I liked her company and found her fascinating and surely that was something we could build on? She readily agreed to that, saying that she expected nothing more from me, and strangely I felt a momentary pang of sadness at that.
For she, my little witch proclaimed, was a mare with a heart of gold, and I was a cynical stallion, and a fickle one at that. Building love, like trust, would take time. We would be the better served had we common cause as well as common interests. Games, jokes, manipulating people, and intelligent conversation would only take us so far.
To that I could only agree, and added that, time permitting, I would quite like to be chosen king of the Danes with her as queen, and asked if perhaps she thought that a worthy goal to work towards?
She answered that, time permitting, becoming queen of the Danes with me as her king seemed a worthy goal, if perhaps lacking in ambition. Surely it would be better to aim for becoming the first emperor and empress of the Danes, like Caesar Augustus and Livia in the days of old!
I had never heard of those people, but I was not about to proclaim my ignorance so I agreed that becoming emperor of Miklagård like Caesar Augustus was a worthy long term goal, though I did not think Danes would take well to the foreign title. Overking, perhaps. Great king. Or how about, I sniggered, bear king?
She thumped my chest and said I was silly, and she was right, but it was no sillier than her next suggestion, king of kings. Now, that's a real mouthful! Who could respect a ruler who styled himself like that?
The discussion degenerated into a tickling contest at that point.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 15 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
News arrived from Aquitaine, that the peasants were revolting.
“So what else is new”, said uncle Baldr the king, and ordered his champions to arm themselves for a manhunt.
It is almost enough to make me feel sorry for the peasants. If these were good Danes they'd rise up against their overlords, defeat the king's forces, and dare him to do something about it, but spineless weaklings that they are they will be crushed without mercy.
Whenever somebody deep in his cups praises the feudal system as the future, I cannot help but think of its deep injustices and the hollow mockeries of men its class system makes of the freedmen, who, no longer free to speak their minds or lift weapons against those that oppress them, live a life scarcely better than that of thralls.
And yet almost half of king Baldr's realm is now affected by this malignancy, and as the western and southern conquests continue, it is ever spreading, good Danes taking up rulership at the top of the feudal realms and finding the servility to their liking.
King Baldr, to his credit, holds to the old ways. He is first amongst equals and his wealth and luck makes it clear he is beloved by the gods, but he treats everybody as his fellow man, whether he greets with extended hand or sword. Except for the women, obviously. That would be silly.
Will nobody speak for the man in the street with a sword before it is too late?
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 15 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
Mighty Odin show mercy, and Freyja too. On second thought, forget that. They probably approve.
13 years old.
My little witch is only 13, but her plans are ambitious. Her father was the greatest horse-breeder in Hungary until he was brought to the cold north, where he became the greatest horse-breeder, first in Danish Wessex, then throughout the Danish realm.
She would love to continue that tradition, which is scant surprise. But her dream, as she revealed to me tonight, goes far beyond that and I feature rather prominently in it.
I should have sensed the coming storm, but the night started calm and quiet. We had been playing a game of dice, for a change, and afterwards my little witch wanted to sit in her favourite bearchair, and I do not remember how the topic arose but somehow we ended up discussing my 12th birthday and how we ended up fighting in front of all the guests because I found her ugly and horse-faced. (She is never going to let me forget that comment, I fear.)
We were competing in boasting about the fight, and how we each had been on the verge of winning when her father stopped us fighting, when my little witch asked me exceedingly casually, in the way she does when the answer is really important to her and she does not want to show it, what I thought of her looks now.
I said that she looked beautiful to me, and if that was stretching the truth a bit, what of it? Her beaming smile made it all worthwhile.
And what of her size? Did I still think of her as a small child?
I told her as it is, that's she's just the right size for my little witch, and what sort of question was that? It was clear she was becoming a woman, said I, giving her bosom a light squeeze.
Which is when she dropped the hammer on me. Her father, she explained, had often told her that Sigurd the king had told him that in his family, they tried harder, and younger, and as she had had her first blood a year ago, why wait any longer? The earlier we got started, the more sons she could bear, and my lordship was only two months away.
I asked if she was still thinking of those dozen of sons fighting as I died young (it had made an impression on me, sure enough), but she said she was beyond such childish fancies.
She merely wanted to become known as the greatest human-breeder of all times, and she had a plan. With herself as boss mare, me as herd stallion, and a dozen other mares selected according to her criteria from the cream of young Sigurdr womanhood as a starting point, perhaps a few exceptional sturdy peasant girls for variety, she would crossbreed and inbreed and create a lineage to last a thousand years. It would be, she said, GLORIOUS!
I was briefly lost for words, thinking about her father, seldom a forgiving man. My uncle the king, prone to rash action when his pride was pricked. My life expectancy in certain hypothetical situations, were I to act on her invitation. In fact I did my best to think of anything other than the deranged little witch joyfully bouncing up and down in my lap, seriously threatening to get a rise out of me and most definitely upsetting my mental stability as my blood rushed downwards to my secondary brain to accomplish exactly that, when I hit upon an ingenious solution.
I lifted her and set her on her feet in front of me. Staring her straight in the eye, and stretching the truth to the bursting point, I told her that while I was in general built like a bear, in at least one respect she was right and stallion was the better description, since I was hung like a horse.
As she was not yet fully grown, her proposal, as delightful as it might otherwise be to fulfill, would include an unacceptably high risk of damage to the boss mare, and apart from the dangers this posed to her otherwise excellent plan, unnecessary risk-taking with the life of my little witch was something I would never, ever, countenance.
She deflated on the spot, but she is seldom lost to despair and tonight was no different. She thanked me for my concern, admitted she had not thought of that aspect, and suggested we play a kissing game instead before parting for the night. So we did.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 16
Dear Diary,
Today I reached my majority and set off for exile in Leinster. His majesty the king having gone hunting, it was left to a flunky to bid me farewell on his behalf.
At least I was not told “good riddance”, though it must be said that the words the flunky brought me, “'till we meet in battle, boy”, was not cause for much optimism either.
The only person to bid me farewell was my little witch, who came up to me, unshed tears in her eyes, handed me a note, then ran away before I could say anything.
This is what it said:
Dear Stallion,
Happy birthday! I have no gift for you, but as your future wife I have advice. Get used to it.
Don't even think of taking another wife or a lover without my acceptance. Which you'll definitely not get until we are married and I rule the household with an iron fist! The omens indicate that you'll suffer terribly if you do, and that's nothing compared to what'll happen to the hypothetical doxy. So don't.
That said, as any horse-breeder knows, stallions have needs and get cranky when they are not met. Where your trouser titan goes when I am not around is not my problem.
To be precise, it had better not be. Poxed stallions are culled.
You really should learn Greek or Latin; Your lack of formal education is showing.
Get some experience raiding and pick up souvenirs for me; Every real Dane is a raider, even those who are Pomeranians.
While I love the figure you cut in a fight, you need to be more ruthless. Crush your enemies! See them driven before you! Hear the lamentation of their women. Regarding treatment of latter, keep in mind 1-3.
I will continue working on charming king Baldr on your behalf as I have the past year and a half. Please do not do anything to upset him.
It is 2 years, 8 months, and 3 days until my 16th birthday. I expect our wedding to take place at the latest a week after that. Please see to it.
Please do not get hurt too badly.
Remember me.
Your little Witch,
Viola
PS: Ad 2) Don't be shy. It would be helpful if at least one of us had practical experience on our wedding night, and as the mare I must be protected. So that means you. I asked my brothers for advice, and they recommend to you a regimen of healthy farm girls and Christian nuns, if you can catch them.
My little witch can write? She is a font of surprises.
It was with heavy heart I set off for a home I barely knew, leaving everything of value behind.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 16 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
I knew uncle Baldr was unhappy about the matter of Britain, but how ever did it come to this!?
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Musings on the length of the Genius King Sverker I's life and the length of diary entries
These diary entries are so long, takes such a long time to write, and advance the game so slowly.
I have now played through Sverker's life, and even with an accelerated schedule after marriage I don't see a way to write Sverker's life as a diary in less than another 7-8 entries or so, and that might be generous as he lived a long life.
I'll have to find some way to shorten them or it'll take me two months to get to the end of his reign, which would put me seriously out of touch with the current game state upon his death.
So I hope anybody still reading is up for that, since changing writing style for Sverker at this point would feel wrong. I kept hoping Viola would die in childbirth, get herself murdered, drink herself to death, or otherwise done away with, as her death would be a good reason for Sverker to stop his diary and lose his will to live, but she just kept on living and affecting gameplay with her "grand plan".
EDIT: 23/01/2022 - this proved wildly optimistic. By the end of January Sverker is still in his early 30s. But what a ride it has been!
- Chapter the Thirteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part Nine - the world of 917-919
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 16 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
Mother is visiting, down from Njall's court. She is much aged, her face lined with sorrow rather than its customary joy. She asked me about court and I brought her the family news and told her all about my little witch, excepting only her witchcraft and her ambitious Grand Plan.
Mother was overjoyed at the news, and ribbed me that she had despaired of my ever opening my eyes to Viola's many qualities, but I scoffed at that. I was never blind to her qualities, be they her otherwordly beauty, her intelligence, her splendid wit, her righteous wrath, her compassionate nature, or her superb compact body – it was simply a matter of putting them in the right perspective, I said, counterfeiting an innocent look.
She looked at me long and hard, and I looked back, face unchanging, but eventually one of us broke and it might have been me and we both descended into howls of laughter. It was great to hear mother laugh again.
When we recovered, she asked me whether I wanted to hear the details of Grandpa Sigurd the King's plan for Viola and me, now that I had reached my majority, and it was my greatest pleasure to refuse her.
Plans were for the living, not the dead, I said forcefully, and Viola and I would make our own plans.
Mother seemed content with that. I guess I really am the lord and master of my own destiny now, and one of my plans is learning Latin to please my little witch.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 16 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
It is a day of good and bad news.
The Danish host terrorizing my countryside of Leinster is not here to kill me, but they are here to deprive me of Leinster. Their commander, my uncle Bødvar, was apologetic about it but orders are orders.
It turns out my little witch had been prevailing on uncle Baldr the king to retrieve me from exile, and the simplest solution he could find was to conquer my land as part of his greater campaign of “aesthetical borders for a better tomorrow, tomorrow”. I pointed out to Bødvar that I was lord of both Leinster in the south and Ailech in the north, so conquering my Leinster would not retrieve me, but he cut me short and said that Baldr had never sweated the small details and wasn't going to do so now.
Seeing my dejected looks, he promised to cheer me up by teaching me the half-Bødvar move, so beloved by the raider in a hurry, and with the enthusiastic help of two farm girls whom he gave good gold for their efforts, he did just that and a merry time was had by all. By the end of the day I was exhausted, but could pull off the move four times out of five. I promised Bødvar to keep up practice, and he clapped me on the shoulder and went on his way.
So tomorrow I'm off for Ailech, a place even more dismal than Leinster. But I should be able to find willing participants for further practice, for what else is there to do in Ailech? Ideally women of different sizes, weight, and build, since the secret is in the shoulder action, and judging weight, angle, and momentum properly for the lift, heave, push, and thrust. Practice makes perfect, and there'll be no embarrassing failures for me once I go raiding.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 17 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
I've been too exhausted to write this last week, but now that we are on the road home I feel reinvigorated. What a raid we've had, but this last stop took the prize. Raiding religious communities is definitely an acquired taste. On the one hand, high reward for low risk. On the other, dealing with the rampant hypocrisy is aggravating.
The adventure unfolded like this: Following directions provided by a native of an entrepreneurial bent, my merry men and I managed to take a convent of nuns unawares last week. Arriving in the late afternoon, we stealthily approached the convent and overran it in one fell swoop, gathering the women in the central hall on my orders.
Once they were rounded up and safely corralled in a circle of my men, I called upon them in Latin for peace and quiet. We were weary travellers looking for hospitality and wealth, and we could handle this the easy way or the hard way.
They looked dumbfounded to be addressed in Latin, and their leader, a hatchet-faced woman in her early thirties who spoke passable Latin and was called mother superior, answered that they were a) armoured in faith, b) celibate, and c) willing to die for their Lord before yielding to the infidel, so she suspected there was little difference between the two where they were concerned, but just in case, what was the easy way?
A feast!
I had them prepare a feast for us under the directions of their mother superior, and I set her beside me in the high seat as befit her role as leader of the community – and the only one of the nuns I could converse with. I found her a captive audience, and she had some fascinating notions.
While the mother superior claimed the women were all the brides of Christ and hence inviolate, events proved her wrong as inhibitions slipped during the evening and couples began peeling off from the main feast to find their entertainment elsewhere, the armour of faith proving little defence against the spears of the Danes.
As this was going on, a few harridans tried to hold the amorous couples back, complaining that their younger sisters were having all the fun and that it was their turn, or so I surmise from their ghastly gobbling in their unintelligible native language. They were evicted from the feast for disturbing the festive spirit.
The mother superior, sister Iyana, seemed mildly perturbed by the treatment of the harridans, but agreed not to make a fuzz when I pointed out that doing so risked disturbing the genial mood, driving the men into a frenzy of killing and raping. If they really wanted a turn, I pointed out, undoubtedly some of the men would soon be drunk enough and go looking for them despite their age and looks, since the stock of inviolate sisters was dwindling rapidly and the remaining revellers would soon have to share.
Sister Iyana stared disbelievingly at me and suggested that, perhaps, just perhaps, they had not been waiting for a turn but had other concerns, and I asked her to explain herself but she had some problems getting her point across the language divide.
She intrigued me, this curious and opinionated woman. An educated iron-willed Spanish noblewoman who had committed a minor indiscretion, about which she was loath to speak, she had been packed off to oversee this community far from civilized society, and she was bitter about it and short on sisterly love. She was versed in politics and theology, so we soon forgot the feast and dived into spirited debate, discussing our gods.
I was in the midst of delivering a devastating argument on how Freyja beat her Lord Christ hands down for practical everyday business, when I realized that sister Iyana wasn't eating, had stopped listening, and was transfixed by something happening on the floor.
So I looked to see what had caught her attention, and what did I see but a small sister enthusiastically teaching a wide-eyed Thorbjørn Skullsplitter every sin and heresy in the book and making him blush. They were in a state of nature, and from the looks of it she was going about her enterprise in alphabetical order, clearly having passed through Adamantism and Bestiality some time ago and now eagerly working on the d's.
My secondary brain broke the horrified fascination with a proposal, and I was reminded of priorities. I suggested to Iyana that since she seemed to be done eating and had no taste for the party games, how about we absent ourselves from the proceedings and continue our conversation about fertility goddesses in a more intimate setting with some horizontal refreshment? She sighed, thanked me for letting her keep at least a shred of dignity in the face of the inevitable unlike so many of her sisters, and led me to her quarters. Once there, she stripped and asked me defiantly how I wanted to proceed. She was much woman.
So I told Iyana that my bethrothed had instructed me to hunt Catholic nuns, and as the senior nun I expected her to be the most experienced and I would thus be much obliged were she to teach me their tricks, for in the biblical sense I had mainly known uneducated farm girls and the occasional lonely shepherdess. Her quarters seemed rather small for a hunt, but perhaps she was up for a game of Raid and Capture with a rather stiffer penalty than usual?
The look on her face was indescribable, a mix of fear, anger, curiosity, surprise, desire, hate, bafflement and several other conflicting emotions, and when she finally got control of it, she told me that her convent was not a house of sexual education, the sexual prowess of nuns having perhaps been exaggerated in the telling in the north, since most nuns had little or no experience. Prior to a visit by the scourge of the north, anyhow. The devotion to spiritual rather than wordly pursuits was rather the point of their monastic life.
I could as well go screw any virgin off the street if I could find one, for all I would learn from it. If I wanted experience, then why in God's name didn't I raid a brothel rather than a convent? Practice makes perfect! She suspected that whomever had told my bethrothed to “hunt for nuns” had been pulling her leg, and she felt rather ill done by and asked bitterly if such a joke was the cause of her community's misery and ravaging.
Knowing my little witch's older brothers, that seemed horribly plausible to me, but I reassured the mother superior that we were here primarily for Christ's treasures and that the ravaging of the sisterhood was just a welcome bonus, part of the cultural exchange we extended to any group of unprotected women we came across when raiding or waging war. Strangely this did little to comfort her.
As for raiding brothels, that was right out. My bethrothed had told me that if I got poxed, I got culled, and that would be a real shame for her and her future fellow wives, not to mention deeply unpleasant to me, so I had to get my training elsewhere.
For a long moment the mother superior looked lost for words. Slow-witted, like most people. Not that my own primary brain was working at optimum, the secondary brain diverting increasing flows of blood and straining to escape its confines. I started growling like a bear. That's a bad sign; or a good one depending on the viewpoint. Mother and Father always left the hall swiftly when he did it, and she never complained. We bear cubs soon learned what it meant: there'd be another cub in the making.
The growling shook her out of her stupor, and getting a grip of herself Iyana said that perhaps I was in luck anyway. For she might not have any special knowledge as a nun, but she had been rather skilled at the oldest game before she was sent into exile to rot, and while it had been a long time she did not think she had lost her touch. If I was gentle with her, she would consent to teaching me.
I tried to answer, but words failed me and I could only growl louder. Sister Iyana looked at me with sick fascination as IT escaped its confines and arose in glory and said that, “goodness gracious me”, perhaps she was the one who was in luck and we could learn from each other. As she was the more experienced, she suggested that I demonstrate what I already knew so she'd know what she had to work with. Show, don't tell, she told me.
That sounded reasonable to what little intellect remained to me, so I let out a roar, bear-rushed her, grabbed her tit and buttock as I had been taught, and her eyes had only just started to widen in surprise when with a half-Bødvar I flipped her onto her back on the table, her legs flying into the air, spread them leaning in, and nailed her on the very first thrust. All those hours of practice back in Ailech paid off! Briefly stunned by my roar, out of breath from the landing, and her thoughts scrambled as much as mine by the impalement, she was soon invoking her Lord with every thrust, a fitting accompaniment to the divine act from so holy a woman. When I was spent she praised my vigour and said the approach had a certain rough charm to it, but I had much to learn – not least giving pleasure to the woman as well as taking it.
So I told her to teach me, and she did. So much for chastity.
It was an eye-opening experience. I declared Iyana off-limits to the men, and we spent a delightful week together at the convent while I recovered from the hardships of the raid. I sampled two or three of the other sisters a day for variety, but none were anywhere near as accomplished as Iyana, proving her claims about the general lack of knowledge by empirical experimentation, so I kept returning to her for further lessons. But all good things must come to an end and as supplies were running low, the men were getting restless, and it was late in the raiding season, I ordered the men to sack the convent, gather what food they could carry and get ready to march.
And that's when the trouble started.
Many of the women raised their voices in lamentation, for they had convinced themselves or, knowing my men, possibly been told sweet lies using the language that needs few words, that they'd be brought back to Denmark as wives. That was out of the question, of course. With the loot we had gained they would never had fit in our longships and bringing just a few of them was guaranteed to cause bad feelings.
To my surprise the mother superior was one of them, somehow reasoning to herself that I was her way out of dull banishment to the convent. She told me, bold as can be, that she would come north as my second wife and teach both me and Viola, upon whom I had perhaps dwelled a bit in my conversations with Iyana, tricks unknown to the north.
She said that she would fit right into the “Grand Plan” (how she had giggled when I first explained it), since she was young enough to bear several children – and God knows, if she wasn't pregnant by now, it certainly wasn't for lack of trying on our part.
And finally, she pointed out, since I was of divine and royal blood and she the holiest sister of the noblest Asturian blood, obviously we were fated to be together.
Now, there were obvious problems with her ridiculous notion, starting with my little witch's stern injunction about found fillies and permanent companionship. Great Odin, now even I was thinking in horse metaphors!
So I let Iyana down diplomatically, for am I not of the blood of Odin Glapsviðr? I told her that while I was grateful for her teaching, and while she was undoubtedly of good blood for an Asturian, she came nowhere near measuring up to Viola's standards and her body was of dubious value for crossbreeding.
And finally, I pointed out, sister Iyana was a bride of Christ and as an honourable man I could never marry another man's bride while he lived. Even were I willing to give up my honour for her sake, marrying her would dishonour her in the eyes of men and gods, and I respected her too much as a woman to ever do that.
For a moment it looked as if she would spontaneously combust, but she collected herself and was about to muster a counter-argument about the life and death of her Lord, when I asked her, “or are you saying that your god is dead? I mean dead-dead, gone to Hel?”
Religious people are such hypocrites.
As we left, Iyana came to the front gate to see me off, eager to get the last word with a sharp cutting argument. She threw a small knife at my face, and it flew straight and true, but the spawn of the Raven god are not so easily slain and my swift right hand caught it in flight.
The knife had “Iyana” inscribed on one side of the hilt, and she must not have been lying about her noble origins, for the knife was perfectly balanced for throwing, its blade extremely sharp, and unless I was very much mistaken its water pattern meant that the blade was Damascene steel, making the knife an almost invaluable treasure so far from its distant homeland in the East.
It was with a light heart that my crew made its way to the ship and regaled those who had stayed behind with tales of our adventure. They grumbled at having missed out – such is ever the fate of those chosen to protect the ships – but they were happy enough to get their fair share of the loot, so it was in a merry mood we set sail for Ireland.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 17 – and Counting
Dear Diary,
A messenger arrived from my little witch. She has somehow managed to wheedle uncle Baldr into sending me one of his new “world maps”. I appreciate the gesture, though it has little practical use to somebody stuck in exile without influence.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 17 – my little witch's birthday!
Dear Diary,
I made it! My little witch is so pleased I made it to attend her 15th birthday and she loved her present. That necklace cost me more than I can easily afford, and the setting for its pendant even more, but it was worth it.
She thought it a beautiful but curious pendant, a bejewelled stallion's head gripping the blade of small knife in its teeth, the knife dangling like a traditional Thor's hammer. So I showed her how with a twist she could detach the small knife from its setting, giving her a weapon of last resort to protect her even when I was away. She hefted it in her hand and if fit her perfectly.
That, of course, is when she noticed the inscription on the hilt and asked about it, as I had hung it from the pendant with the inscription inwards. Just the opening I had been waiting for.
The knife, I said, was the legendary named blade, Iyana, which I had taken from a defeated foe in Asturias, and the taking thereof was a tale of derring-do with many secret lessons for the wise. Would she like to hear it? She looked doubtfully at me, suspecting a joke, and said I could tell it at the feast for entertainment, but I refused, for the secrets of Iyana were only for me and my little witch to know.
If she wanted, I could tell it now if she couldn't think of anything better to do, but if she relished the mystery it could wait and I'd tell her after we were married.
So she sat in her favourite bearchair and we played kissing, touching, and feeling games until we were interrupted and hurriedly pretended that we had been doing nothing of the sort, fooling nobody.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 18 – my Wedding Day
Dear Diary,
As I furtively write these notes, my little witch charmingly snoring in our bed, I reflect on a day and a night that brought many surprises.
It began like this.
Freyr sped my feet, and I arrived early for my little witch's birthday celebration and our wedding, her father having agreed to making the occasion a double feature, a combination of giving in to Viola's pressure for the earliest wedding possible and the economics of the situation, I suspect.
Mother was here, and my sisters, and my brother Njall, but unfortunately Tryggvi had been prevented due to war. Most of the Danish court came as well for uncle Baldr the King had brought everybody along to celebrate his latest ward's graduation and marriage at somebody else's expense.
My little witch's smile lit the room as I arrived, but alas the afternoon was spent apart as the women prepared her for the wedding, while we men got an early start on the drinking and boasting. Just weak beer, the good stuff being reserved for the feast, and it was all very tiresome, really. There were the usual good-hearted jokes about the bride and my physical prowess, which lesser men confuse for wit, and one of uncle Baldr's courtiers who made an amusing but poorly chosen comparison between Viola and his favourite horse ended up suffering a friendly stab, as the Jarl of Wessex ran him through by accident while showing me his newest sword, but that was it. No fights, no feuds – it was a blessedly dull affair.
The eternal afternoon came to an end and Viola and I were presented to the assembled guests. She was radiant and clad in clothes worthy of a queen, while I wore the best Ireland could provide, and if I came off the poorer by comparison, so much the better. This was her day of glory.
We were seated together at the high table and feted by the assembled guests, but had no chance to talk by ourselves as every wanted to talk to us. I was telling the Jarl of Wessex tall tales about my great raid on Hispania the previous year, while thinking of her, and she must have been thinking of me as well, for suddenly I noticed her sitting at the next table waving to me! My little witch's wicked sense of humour had escaped her control, and this could have dangerous consequences. I glanced at Viola by my side who pretended not to notice, and hoping she would tire of the game I determinedly did not look at her at the other table either.
Finally it was time and we were ushered to the floor in front of everybody to begin the wedding ceremony. There are many variations, but our parents had chosen a traditional one as suited a man of the lineage of kings, so I was wearing my good sword, polished to perfection, and Viola was wearing one of her father's swords, practical and deadly like mine.
In front of the family we faced off against each other, and I handed Viola my sword, saying that my bloodline was now in her keeping, and she thanked me for the precious gift.
Then she handed me her sword, saying that her protection was now in my keeping, and I thanked her for the precious gift.
Next I affixed her wedding band to the point of her sword, and she did likewise with my band on mine, and then we raised the swords and crossed them, each taking our wedding band from the tip of our own sword and putting them on, and though my sword is heavy and my little witch tiny, she held my sword steady and true.
Lowering the swords, we turned to our parents, and I spoke the ritual words to her father and told him that I owned Viola now and would tend her and bring her joy and fill her with children.
Then she spoke them to my mother and said that she owned me now and would tend me and bring me joy and bear me many children.
Then as one we turned to face the guests, lifted the swords, and pronounced ourselves a wedded couple and the Fylkir, uncle Baldr the king himself, stepped forth and shouted that he blessed this marriage in the name of the High One and Frigg the beloved, and ordered us with a big grin to depart immediately for the bridal chamber to complete our vows and the guests shouted their approval.
We bowed to him, handed him our swords, and I took my little witch in my arms and carried her off to the cheers of our family and assorted hangers-on, but once we reached the bridal chamber and were all alone things got awkward for ceremony was at an end.
The chamber had a table set for two with some mugs of strong beer and graced with flowers, a lavish bed, a large mirror, and washing facilities, but most of all it had my little witch and me, standing within arms reach of each other, waiting for the other to act.
We both started speaking several times, but now that the time had come we did not know what to say or how to proceed. She was my wife, my one and only little witch, not merely a woman met on my travels, and though she had long awaited this day, and her longing practically dripped from her eyes when she looked at me, she also looked scared. Hesitant. Unprepared. This was not, I realized, a time for the half-Bødvar.
So I told her that it had been a long day and sat down at the table, inviting her to take a seat in her bearchair so we could discuss the day as we had so many times back in the days when we were both uncle Baldr's wards. We had time, I cajoled her, no need to engage in the main act until we felt like it. I saw relief in her eyes and she happily complied.
From the sound of it, the female rituals had been every bit as dull as the male ones, though with less stabbing, so sooner rather than later we arrived at discussing the feast and I realized that there was one thing I could not in good faith hold secret from my wife and it was better out in the open, so I told her not to grow angry, but I knew she was a witch and I did not mind at all. She said that of course she was my little witch, but I did not let her evasion pass that easily.
“I have proof”, I said.
“Tell me”, she said.
So I let it all out. The shopping trips to the village, the ruse with the ribbon, the scary cabbages, her ever more frequent duplicate appearances, including this very night, to which, I might add, her otherwordly beauty, her unnatural ability to charm uncle Baldr, and the way she had stolen my cold cynical heart and brought it to life.
She twisted in my lap and stared disbelieving at me as it all rushed out.
But it was when I asked whether I'd have to entertain her in duplicate tonight that she buried her head in my chest and broke into an uncontrolled burst of giggling. Once she regained control, she looked me straight in the eye and guaranteed that this was not going to happen, for on this night of all nights Gizella was sure to stay away.
“Gizella?” I asked.
“My identical twin”, she answered.
I am not going to write down for posterity, not even for my own entertainment years hence, the subsequent discussion regarding my amazing ability to overlook the simple fact that Viola had a twin for more than a decade, though it entertained her greatly. Suffice to say that it was mortifying, and in my defence her father had done the best he could to keep them separated so as to not confuse the men they were bethrothed to, but surely somebody ought to have mentioned this to me.
The strangeness of the day had dispelled most of our unease, so while continued snuggling certainly had its attraction, and we had somehow ended up playing a kissing game during our discussion through force of habit, as we progressed naturally from that to the touching game new options suggested themselves to me. I gazed into my beloved's eyes and saw my curiosity reflected, so I knew we were of one mind and answered her unspoken question by lifting her gently to her feet and getting out of my chair, and first slowly, then with growing haste, we helped each other shed the fancy wedding clothes so we could continue our exploration unhindered.
Her body was oh, so soft, and so welcoming, and I could have explored it forever, but there was only so much exploration of my own body by my little witch's deft fingers I could take before my secondary brain took over, so sooner rather than later IT arose in solitary majesty to her rapt, almost feverish, fascination, and I couldn't help but consider her small wonderfully compact body and my heart sank...
“I think I might be too big for you”, I began, but I made it no further before she scornfully cut me short, telling me in no uncertain terms that, though impressive, it surely was no larger than a baby's head and that she was ready. More than ready. So would I for the love of Freyja stop talking and take her!
I panicked. I started babbling and asked her how she wanted it, and whether she wanted to do it standing here, or on the floor, or on the bed, or perhaps on the table, and whether she wanted to engage in this thing called foreplay I learned in Hispania, and she got this murderous glint in her eye and cried “STOP TALKING AND STALLIONIZE ME!”, and in the absence of higher command my secondary brain seized control and carried out her order on the spot.
Afterwards we repaired to the bed to continued experimentation, and bouts of silly small talk, and after we tried a position she found particularly impressive, she wanted to know how I had learned it. It was all to her credit, I explained, and told her about how I had studied Latin at her suggestion and put it to good practical use on my adventures abroad, and thus she finally learned the origin of her knife Iyana. When I was done talking I had revived, and we put Iyana's lessons to good use. In the final equation, while her brothers were scoundrels for recommending nuns as teachers, there was no arguing with results.
The night was young and so were we, but eventually even my little witch had to succumb to exhaustion and sleep and now that I have finished writing, so shall I.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 18 – my Wedding Day +1
Dear Diary,
I awoke to the pleasant sensation of delicate fingers tracing patterns on my chest and unbound hair caressing my face, and I knew without looking that my wife, her short warm body nestled at my side, was leaning over me, her small perfect breasts within easy reach. I knew then that it would be a good day and I slowly opened my eyes and I saw, that it was so.
The sun was in her golden hair, and I had slept long past dawn, and so, by her looks, had she, and soon somebody would come to check on us, but all my half-awake mind could focus on as I saw this tiny goddess looking down on me, promise in her eyes, was that in bed we were the same height and I could drown in her azure eyes for hours without either of us straining the neck, which seemed like a good idea at the time.
My little witch had other plans.
“Rise and shine, my stallion,” she said, “you can't stay in bed all day. Not lazing around, anyway.”
“As you command, little witch”, I mumbled in answer, and began the slow process of dragging myself from sleep by focusing on her breasts which were, indeed, within easy reach.
She asked me teasingly, but possibly also with a touch of real concern, whether she was still my little witch, even if she was not, in fact, a witch, and I was not too sleepy to know how to answer that properly, so I assured her that of course she was, since she had thoroughly enchanted me. Her fingers started moving down my body, which did wonders for my awakening, and she got a wicked glint in her eye and asked me teasingly how she could believe that.
“I have proof”, I said.
“Show me”, she said.
And I did.
But I got my own back – or thought I did - when I asked her whether she had considered her twin Gizella for my second wife in the Grand Plan. Keeping it in the family, as it were. She obviously had a perfect body since Viola did, and wouldn't it be nice always to have her sister around rather than missing her once we returned to Ailech?
Thou shalt not mock the Grand Plan.
My little witch sternly instructed me that Gizella, while perfect of body, was much too stupid for inclusion in the Grand Plan. As well as being bethrothed to a local noble easily as stupid as herself. And she certainly did not want Gizella around. Both sisters were eagerly anticipating being separated by a great distance so people would stop mistaking them for one another, she said, throwing me an amused glance at which I could do nothing but cringe in apology. Meeting each other for family gatherings would surely be often enough.
And finally, she said, twisting her verbal knife in my self-inflicted wound as her face broke into an evil grin of epic proportions, it would never work as Gizella had hated me ever since I threw her into the pond.
So I surrendered in ignominy and promised not to joke about the Grand Plan ever again and begged for mercy, but having made her point my little witch tired of her game, and asked me if I would growl for her, as I had done for Iyana. I told her that this was not something I could do on demand – I had only experienced it once, and only recognized it because of how my father growled at my mother. Her eyes grew steely.
I realized my mistake almost immediately, but fortunately she chose to view it as a challenge. She suggested a game of Raid and Capture with a half-Bødvar penalty, having clearly taken notes from my raid story last night, and I agreed immediately.
How my little witch can run!
For though the bridal chamber was small, she is swift and she evaded capture for the longest time, all the while the bear was rising within me, and soon I was growling with every breath and devoid of higher brain functions and I STILL could not catch her, the little tease.
But finally, whether by design or mistake on her part, she was just a moment too slow after turning her head to throw me an inviting glance, and I was unstoppable as I bear-rushed her, and though the half-Bødvar was successful and my lance struck true, in my might and her eagerness we soon broke the table asunder and crashed to continue on the floor, midst splinters, flowers, and spilled beer – and that's how our parents found us, coming to call us to lunch. (A time-honoured ruse, allowing the bridal chamber to be inspected for proof of consummation by busybodies from both families).
I did not pay them any attention, being preoccupied doing Freyr proud and having eyes only for the little witch beneath me, but my wife showed herself the greater diplomat, waving welcome to them with a foot and, after spitting out a flower that had somehow gotten wedged in her teeth, stifled her moans, peeked around me to greet them calmly, and told them that we'd be right along for lunch once we were done here, for she did not think any earthly force could stop me now. I spoke up in support of this, but all that came out was a deep rumbling full-body growl that caused Viola to forget our parents and return to more pressing matters. Gripping my back like a vice she urged me on, her moans a paean to Freyja.
The Jarl silently took in the scene, but my mother thanked Viola and then quietly herded the Jarl out the door, saying that surely this counted as proof of consummation. As she closed the door behind them, I heard her reminding him of how my father was in his youth and saying that if she judged the timbre of my growls right, we'd miss lunch and emerge famished in the early afternoon, so they had better leave us to it rather than interfering with our fun.
- Chapter the Fourteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part ten - the world of 921-924
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 20
Dear Diary,
Our second wedding anniversary has come and gone, the festivities muted, and my little witch remains inconsolable. She tried so hard, and worried so long when she didn't get pregnant no matter the effort, that she put all her heart into it when we were finally blessed this autumn. To have it all end in a miscarriage three days before her birth- and wedding-day... The gods are too cruel.
I tried interesting her with news from the south, where her brothers joined king Baldr's Great Raid, but she did not listen. All she wanted was to sit in her bearchair and cry and forget the world, so I held her tight and told her that I loved her and that this pain too shall pass. What else could I do?
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 20
Dear Diary,
Reinforcements have arrived! Mother is here and will be staying for a few weeks. Mother knows what to do. Starting with scolding me, naturally.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 20
Dear Diary,
My little witch is recovering! At breakfast today she was in higher spirits, and when I carefully asked her plans for the day, she told me to stop moping around. She said that I ought to know that even the very best brood mares had an occasional miscarriage, and she was not as frail as all that. So I should stop acting the hanged dog around her. I was really depressing when I was gloomy, not her bold stallion at all, and I was neglecting my duties.
If there is one thing being a married man has taught me, it is that strict adherence to my own view of events is the greatest sin, so I readily agreed with hers, excused my behaviour, and promised to do better. And I did.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 20
Dear Diary,
My little witch never fails to surprise me.
I returned late in the day from my visit to Tryggvi, and I was currying my horse when my little witch found me in the stables, practically bursting with excitement. My birthday had come a month early while I was gone, she said. She had worked hard and in secret acquiring my birthday present - and now it was here!
I was understandable intrigued and said I looked forwards to it, but it could surely wait until its appointed time as after two weeks abroad, I had more urgent matters to attend to. Stepping up to me, she did a provocative strut and asked teasingly what I could possibly mean by that, so I gave her a mock growl, and she clasped her hands to her bosom in feigned shock and modesty, eyes sparkling with promise. I dropped the currying tools and leaned down in an embrace and we held each other unmoving in a perfect moment in time, and the world was whole again.
But time moves on. While I could have stood there forever embracing my little witch, she had other plans, and with a naughty chuckle her hands left my back and started wandering. Pretty soon things were looking up for me, and one thing in particular, so they might have taken their natural course right there and then in the hay to the great surprise of the horses, had it not been for the pitter-patter of tiny feet. I looked up saw to my surprise a finely dressed girlchild with blonde hair standing in the doorway, her face screwed up in thought, looking at us intently, and holding up her right hand as if seeking my attention.
When she saw I had noticed her, the girl lowered her hand and asked me curiously what we were doing. Flummoxed, I released my little witch, who gracefully swiveled to face the unwelcome interloper, hands clasped behind her back.
Unsure what to do with my big clumsy bear hands that had so recently held the world's bounty, I rested them on Viola's shoulders and affected a casual look. But where I was flummoxed, Viola was all business, if perhaps slightly flushed.
She introduced me to my cousin Kráka, king Baldr's daughter by queen Praxida, and now, at eight years of age, Viola's ward. Well, my ward, technically, but Viola was in charge of children. She had arrived last week, and, my little witch said, grinning a secret grin to Kráka speaking of shared experiences, she was a real treasure.
What a coup! I knew that Kráka was the apple of her father's eye, but no wonder I had not recognized her. I had seen her when we were uncle Baldr's wards, and she must have been all of two or three years old at the time. An adorable child, to be sure, but one that only hinted at the beauty she now possessed. She was going to be a stunner when she grew to womanhood, no doubt about it.
Now, my little witch had wormed her way into uncle Baldr's heart during her time as a ward and remained one of his few friends afterwards, and their regular contact by messenger after our marriage had been the best source of fresh news in Ailech, but even so, prevailing on him to send to Kráka to the darkest Ireland as a ward, far from his court? It must have been the work of months.
So I bid cousin Kráka welcome and told her sternly to obey Viola's orders in all things, for she was wise and the epitome of the female principle. Kráka nodded sagely, and answered that in that case she would address her question to her Guardian. She looked to Viola, and repeated her question, insistently asking her what we were doing.
My little witch was for some reason slow in answering and Kráka's focus kept drifting to Viola's right as if there was something of compulsive interest there, so I looked down to see what engaged her so and discovered my hand gently fondling a witchy breast. How it had ended up there I really do not know. Forces of habit can be hard to shake, I guess. I very casually removed both my hands and clasped them behind my back, while Viola testily told Kráka that we had been grooming the horse after my ride and would like to finish it. Alone.
Kráka thanked her, apologized for interfering, and said she'd go watch the ducklings by the pond, and after she left we completed our unfinished business.
At dinner Kraka quizzed Viola about the details of horse-grooming, and my little witch was more than happy to oblige, horses being one of her favourite topics. I zoned out from the conversation to focus on the food. After days on the trail and an exhilarating afternoon, it really hit the spot.
And so I ate while the womenfolk droned on and all was good in the world, when a sudden shout of ”GOT YOU!” from the little girl broke my food-enduced reverie. I looked up and saw to my surprise little Kráka standing victoriously on her chair, pointing an accusing finger at my little witch, who was trying to hold back laughter.
Bemusedly, I asked her what was going on, and she told Kráka to explain, which the girl was more than happy to do. All the evidence stacked up, she said, counting it out on her little fingers.
First, none of her Guardian's horse-grooming instructions, and there were many, were improved by being performed by two people in as close proximity as we had exhibited.
Second, the currying tools were scattered all over the floor as if they had been dropped in haste, not in hand as they would have been were they in use. This was circumstantial evidence, but she asked me to keep it in mind.
It was a fascinating performance, the little girl doing her oratorical best, so I gravely promised to keep it in mind and waved her on.
Third, both her Guardian and the Lord of Ailech were curiously distracted, heavy of breath, and slow in answering during her introduction.
Fourth, the heaviness of breath and slowness in answering could not be due to stupidity, as her father had asserted we were both smart and he made few errors in such matters, and as we had clearly not been exercising heavily, that couldn't be it either.
Fifth, by inference this meant we were concentrating on something of great and more immediate importance to us than her introduction, and, she said more hesitantly, some of her assurance wilting under my fascinated glare as I wondered where she was going with this, by prior evidence this wasn't grooming the horse.
I granted that we were both pretty smart people and that her reasoning seemed sound, and bade her continue.
Sixth, the way I had been fondling her Guardian and her Guardian's subconscious physical reactions to it indicated that this something was of a sexual nature, and our heaviness of breath further supported this hypothesis, and seventh, and most importantly, she said, making a good stab at a dramatic oratorical pause and waiting for a cue.
Viola was holding her breath to hold in laughter now, eyes sparkling with laughter, so I was happy to oblige and urged Kráka to finish quickly.
SEVENTH, she said, the way the two of us had completed the introduction and seen her on the way to the ducklings without either of us appearing to notice that her Guardian's left hand had been steadily sneaking its way inside my coat and then down my trousers until it got hold of my rod of lordly might, as well as my subconscious physical reaction plastered all over my face once that goal was achieved, proved to her conclusively that we had NOT been currying my horse, but that his grace the Lord of Ailech had been about to stallionize her Guardian when Kráka interrupted.
And finally EIGHTH, she concluded triumphantly, from our satisfied faces at dinner she deduced that we had provided the Quod Erat Demonstrandum to that after she left.
Viola burst out in howls of laughter, and I must had looked like a stunned fish for a moment or two before I joined her, for it was true. I had not noticed at the time, being too preoccupied trying to focus on the introduction against the inclinations of my body, and after Kráka deserted us in favour of ducklings there had been few moments of rational thought.
So what could I do but congratulate the beaming child on her quick wits and magnificent victory?
Later, after Kráka had been sent to bed, I congratulated my little witch on her magnificent victory. Uncle Baldr was known to favour me as a successor, when he was not drunk, bored, or annoyed with me at any rate, and I had my little witch to thank for that, but realistically I did not have a power base of my own outside Ailech and was not considered much of a contender by those who considered me at all.
The wardship of Kráka would undoubtedly speed my return to court and then, THEN, would our rise to power begin, and if she had preferred to keep it secret until it was certain and she could present a done deal rather than discussing it with her lord, master, and husband, as she really ought to, well, that's my little witch to you. Ex Viola semper aliquid novi, as the old Romans she loved to read about would have said.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 20
Dear Diary,
Cousin Kráka has been underfoot for a day, and she is a delightful child indeed. This gave me an opening to discuss a dangerous topic with my little witch: her fixation with bearing me boys. She does so want children and so, I guess, do I, though frankly I see more attraction in the begetting thereof than the result, but what if she were to bear only girls? Would it break her heart? Kráka gave me the opening I needed.
At the end of the day after I had regaled my wife with the tale of my visit to Tryggivi, and after she had entertained me with the tale of Kráka's first week and her lively adventures, and as we were considering moving from bearchair to bed, I just so happened to mention to Viola that Kráka seemed a bright spark in a dull world, and that though I knew Viola wanted boys, were she to bear girls like Kráka instead I would be well satisfied.
She made an inquisitive noise, so I explained that there was enough darkness in the world and it was immediately obvious to me why uncle Baldr so loved her, and could we do any less were we to have such a girl? My little witch looked at me compassionately and said that was good to know, and having had the pleasure of longer observation, she agreed with my assessment of Kráka's character.
The problem with girls, she reminded me, was that girls ended up bartered away and had to make do with what they were given, at least if they were girls without property, while unsatisfied boys could take up sword and take what they needed, and few girls were as lucky with their husbands as she had been.
Take the bright Kráka as an example. Assume a loving environment bringing out the best in her as she grew to womanhood and became a healthy, beautiful, spirited, learned, and loving woman, she might still end up traded to a miser, a bore, a sadist, or a toothless ancient, or what was worse a wife-beater, wife-killer, or poxed bastard, or perhaps more likely she'd be married off to somebody decent but slow-witted, unable to appreciate her qualities and unworthy of her love.
I granted her the argument in general, but pointed out that with regards to this specific Kráka as opposed to the hypothetical one, I was sure that uncle Baldr and queen Praxida would do their best to bethrothe her well, just as we would in their situation had we such a girl, and she granted me the point.
In fact, they had already done so, she told me, and she approved of their choice. Kráka was to marry one of Sigurd's grandsons, a man in the prime of his life.
In other words a cousin marriage. Not exactly the done thing, but not that unusual either in our family. I wondered which of my cousins it could be, but there are so many and I never paid much attention to the family tree. A worthless stray thought, easier to ask.
So she told me that he was a great warrior and leader, a paragon of the manly virtues, who was not only ”tall, strong, wise, and vigorous” but was also ”built like a bear”. She gazed lovingly into my eyes, as I slowly awoke to the horrified realization:
That my second wife was to be my eight year old cousin who had celebrated her eighth birthday the day before yesterday together with my first wife, and would be living with us the next eight years in that wife's loving care.
I looked at my little witch in shock and opened my mouth to speak, but she spoke first and told me that it was already agreed with my uncle Baldr the king, and surely I was not thinking of disappointing him by refusing his favourite daughter?
”Are you”, was all I managed to say before she smothered me with a passionate kiss that sucked all breath out of me, and when I came up for breath I was uncertain whether I had been about to continue with ”serious”, ”out of your mind”, or possibly, ”telling me you want me to roger my eight year old cousin”, and she used the opportunity to ruthlessly play the child card.
In her most pitious voice she reminded me that she so longed for children, and the Grand Plan wasn't going anywhere without them, and the thought of having to find a fertile second wife for me before she had given me a child herself was tearing her apart, and Kráka fit the profile she was looking for perfectly, and this way she might yet get it all: The joy of raising a child until she had one of her own, and an extra pair of hands to help raise it afterwards, and in time a second wife raised to love me as she did to help carry out the Grand Plan – it was the greatest gift she could give me and her heart's desire. And then she started to sob gently.
What she did not say, was that it would be another tie to the king to help us achieve our escape from Irish exile, and that marriage to one of the king's daughters, should uncle Baldr live long enough to see us married, would significantly strengthen my claim to the kingdoms on succession as I could leverage the marriage for support from Baldr's branch of the family. I knew my beloved wife well enough by now to know that it must have formed some part of her design, because at heart this must have been her design, not the king's.
And she was right, dammit, and even were she not, could I rationally oppose it just because the thought of stallionizing my eight year old cousin was instinctively abhorrent to me? And I realized just where Kráka had learned that particular term. Had Viola already started talking to her about such matters? Surely not. I discarded the thought as unhelpful, and decided to think it through.
Realistically, I would be doing nothing of the sort. It would be 28 year old me teaching my 16 year old cousin how to polish my sword and undoubtedly having trouble keeping up with her youthful energy. As for her age, many a happy marriage had been made across larger age gaps. Why, my own mother had been 15 years younger than my father, and she had never complained that I had heard of.
Then there was the issue of watching her grow to adulthood while waiting to deflower her, which instinctively felt wrong, but was that really so different from my bethrothal to Viola? And if it was, so what? I was hardly going to waste my time being a father figure to her or caring for her, what a waste of time that would be. No sentimental objections to stop me once it was time to engage in a bit of how's your father, as I'd be her distant lord and master until it was time to close the gap. So to speak. And as for her being my cousin, well, that was practically divine.
And finally, finally... regardless of the validity of what even to me smacked of hasty rationalization, it was what my little witch desired – a way of fooling herself that she was staying faithful to the ”Grand Plan”, while years went by without her having any competition and without me functioning as stud to her dozen ”mares”, something so exhausting it didn't even bear thinking of. Why would I want anybody but my little witch in my life?
So I kissed away her tears and said it was the best of plans. My little witch perked up right away, her grief skin-deep as I expected, and I told her slyly that I intended to do everything in my power to prevent Kráka from bearing my first child, and we had eight years to accomplish that...
Eight years less two days, she replied, and led me to bed.
The old Romans have nothing on my little witch.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 21
Dear Diary,
Uncle Baldr is at it again and has declared a new round of “aesthetical borders for a better tomorrow, tomorrow”. This time I ensured my little witch helpfully provided him a map of necessary Irish conquests.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 22
Dear Diary,
Why did uncle Baldr the king declare war on Ireland if he wasn't intending to invade? Why, oh, why? Well, now I know. The trusted messenger Viola sent to uncle Bødvar for an explanation returned with the answer: ”Scheduling conflict”. Apparently killing random Christians in Francia and taking their lands is more important to uncle Baldr than liberating me from Ireland by conquering my lands. It really puts my worth to him in perspective, does it not?
I wish I could just turn my coat and join him rather than this farce of waiting to be conquered. It would be quick, it would save lives, and it would be altogether more pleasant for everybody involved. But brother Tryggvi might not understand, and many of the knucklehead Jarls would consider this treacherous rather than resourceful, which would seriously hurt my chances as a candidate to succeed uncle Baldr.
Enough negative thinking!
This is the 9th day in a row my wife is glowing, and I bask in her shine; pregnancy suits her. The Godi taught her a new and improved prayer to Frigg today, and nothing would do but she had to try it out. To show willing, I promised Frigg an Ox and a barrel of good beer once our winter child is born and if my prayers concern the mother's safety in childbed rather than the child's, that's between me and the goddess.
It is probably all in the hands of the Norns anyway, Frigg being much too busy with important work to care about individual human births, and especially those descended from her husband's by-blows, but, well, it can't hurt.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 22
Dear Diary,
My son is born! He's got fingers, and toes, and a neat little dagger, and everything, so he'll be fine. I congratulated my little witch on a job well done, but she just looked exhausted from the ordeal.
If she'd just hurried up rather than taking her sweet time about it, I am sure she would be less exhausted, but I chose diplomatically not to mention it. She probably learned her lesson and will do better next time even without my prompting, and she can be testy when I point out the errors of her ways.
To honour my father, I shall name my son Wincenty after my father's father.
I told her it was a good Slavic name, and she explained to me that my ancestors had obviously stolen it from the Latin Vincent. Which seems very likely, based on the few stories my father told me from the old country. Apparently my slavic ancestors stole everything that wasn't nailed down, and the nails too when they could get away with it. Not unlike my Danish ancestors. Waste not, want not.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Prince Sverker, Aged 23
Dear Diary,
OH, GLORIOUS DAY! Never has defeat been so sweet. Last and possibly least of this year's conquests, but not forgotten. Uncle Baldr himself led the Danish army that overran my brave Irish defenders. Their sacrifice shall not be in vain.
I surrendered my lands into his keeping and hailed him my lord and king, and in return he granted me the Jarldom of Jutland and Irish Ennis to me. So I guess I am not entirely done with Ireland. Tryggvi still rules in Connacht, paying lip service to yet another weak king, my cousin Einar.
King Baldr congratulated me on little Wincenty and on Viola's new pregnancy, and asked whether my illness would prevent me from taking up the task of handling non-axe diplomacy for him for the time being, but I hastened to assure him that I was merely recovering from a flesh wound and was ready and raring to go.
Little Kráka was on her best behaviour for her father, and an enjoyable time was had by all. Apart from, possibly, some of my erstwhile Ailech subjects dealing with the aftermath of conquest. Minor issues always crop up during violent transfers of power, but you cannot please everybody and anyhow they were Baldr's subjects now and none of my concern.
So tomorrow I will pack up my little household for Denmark and join the ranks of the handy henchmen as Chancellor of Denmark. I had better stick around in court at Salisbury for some time.
- Chapter the Fifteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part eleven - the world of 924-929
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 23
Dear Diary,
Being chancellor isn't all it is made out to be.
Work is SO FRUSTRATING. I get to deal with those who offend uncle Baldr, and am called to maintain his peace and handle their small disputes. Convincing them that paying weregild beats feuding, that burning your neighbour's hall with everybody inside and killing those who flee is so last century, and that all else being equal, the king prefers them to raid his enemies rather than their neighbours. This should be so easy for a genius like me, were they reasonable people.
BUT NO.
Most of the people I have to deal with are shit-for-brains whose first response to problems is all too often their last, going for their weapons rather than listening to the words of reason.
Were I not bigger than most of the complainers, considerably stronger, and actively working on building a reputation as significantly meaner, I'd have been dead within a fortnight. As it is I can talk most of them down, and as for the rest I have had no repeat complaints though some of the inheritors have grumbled.
There has got to be a better way of handling a kingdom than this.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 23
Dear Diary,
It is great to have my little witch with me in Salisbury rather than moping around in Aalborg, but she is big with child, so we have to be careful. As I am tied up at court, alternatives that are not politically dangerous or potentially poxed are few and far between. Frustrating.
The benefits of having several wives are starting to stack up according to my secondary brain, though my primary insists it might be underestimating the disadvantages. On the other hand most of my fellow Jarls seem to deal with it with few problems, so how hard can it be? Or perhaps they are faking it? Is that the source of the aggression that makes my work so miserable? Can that be why so many spend their time raiding, to get away from their wives?
Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, as Iyana used to say when I woke her in the morning. I wonder how she is now. Why am I even thinking of her? To Hel with that! I certainly cannot take a second wife while I am betrothed to uncle Baldr's daughter without risking offending him, for she is still his favourite and a demotion to third wife might not sit well with him.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 23
Dear Diary,
I may have carried my experiments in channelling both my frustrated intellect and sexual frustration into work-related violence too far.
King Baldr came to me today, and told me that while he was impressed with my ingenious resolution to the French feud that threatened the stability of the western realm, I might have gone a bit too far. Youthful excitement, no doubt, but some people might see it as an overreaction... His voice trailed off, and he seemed for a moment at a loss for words before continuing.
Everybody gets aggressive when they are cooped up during winter. It is known. And sometimes it is necessary to kill a few people suddenly, violently, and all over the place if they have it coming. No reasonable man could fault me for that. But if you tear all the leading members of both feuding parties limb from limb, you cannot expect their family to like it. And by the way, would I care to explain how I had done that? Not even his best berserkers could match that feat.
So I lied to him, saying that their repeated refusals to see sense at the reconciliation meeting, and their insistence on handling things the old way rather than according to the king's laws, had awoken the bear within. If they were so set on oldschool resolution by attrition, I could provide a shortcut. Cut down the leading idiots in a shocking display of evenhanded justice and the rest would fall in line. So as the bear woke and my skin hardened against iron, I drew my sword and started cutting them up. They resisted, of course, for all the good it did them, but unfortunately I lost control to the bear while killing the first half dozen, who truly deserved it. Being hardened against iron only protects me from having my skin pierced – it does nothing to reduce the force of battering, and the bear hates being battered. So the other half had to go as well before the bear withdrew, and it disdained tools and preferred tearing them apart limb from limb with my paws.
He looked amused for a moment, then thanked me for the explanation. He had occasionally wondered what “built like a bear” was really about. He'd heard it first from his sister, my mother, when she fawned upon her husband, but she refused to go into any details when he asked. And as for me, well, he hadn't listened to me when I rambled about it in childhood because I was a cracked egg.
This explained it perfectly. Nothing to be ashamed of, and it might work out well in the end if it became more widely known that his chancellor for non-axe diplomacy was a skinshifter, hardened against iron, something that only a few berserkers mastered in these civilized times. Not like when he was a child and berserkers were mad, bad, and dangerous to know. Truly, the old skills were all dying out.
Not to worry, he said, he'd make sure the facts were known.
There's nothing quite like lying to a man who knows he's being lied to in a good cause and approves of it. He's probably got a rough idea of what happened, but he doesn't know, and he might be wrong. If he really wants to know he'll have the truth from my little witch soon enough, but he probably won't. This way he can truthfully say that he had the tale from me and it fits all the evidence, and, after all, I might have told mostly the truth and only lied about small details of motivation. There might be a moral in there somewhere, I guess, but I doubt it.
HOWEVER, uncle Baldr pointed out, it might be a good idea to absent myself from court while he propagated the true story, the bodies cooled and the last pieces were collected. They were missing an arm and a leg, apparently, from two different people. I wonder where my henchmen lost them, but there's no asking them now after their accident. I guess it will have to remain a mystery.
Since I seemed to be making enemies faster than I make friends as chancellor, which was most definitely not the idea, and since my brilliant solution, though effective in stopping the feud and quite therapeutic to me, had led many of the survivors to unify against me, I quite saw his point.
So I told him that I had been considering a spring raid. Get some healthy fresh air. Work out my frustrations on foreigners. Perhaps a return to Asturias or even further south, visiting the muslims in Seville or fabled Cordoba? See what was left after the Great Raid?
He said “Good man!” and clapped me on the shoulder.
I'll start gathering a crew right away.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 24
Dear Diary,
Eight days to the day after my birthday, and my second son is born. I shall name him Udalrich after my father. My little witch was exhausted (again), but thankfully she had little Kráka to catch Wincenty, whenever he made a run for it, squealing with glee. My firstborn is shaping up to be a master of escape, now that he has mastered running. My beloved says I must stop rewarding him with laughter when he seizes the moment and starts running on those short legs of his, but how can I comply? It is funny.
At the dinner table I entertained them tales of my spring raid, at least such parts as are suited for small ears, and they were much amused. After dinner my little witch asked for the unexpurgated version and I told her the tale of the Seven Veils.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 24
Dear Diary,
As I returned to work today, the Handy Henchman on duty informed me that Jarl Gormr had been waiting for days to see the Iron Chancellor. Since he's the king's third son and my elder, I of course saw him immediately, but despite his well deserved reputation for being a pain in the arse, he treated me almost civilly. I love my new reputation – he's hardly the first to call me the iron chancellor or to take the tale seriously, but he is the most important and every one who does it reinforces my reputation as a man dangerous to cross and makes it more likely that the next troublemaker will believe it.
Only one downside. He asked me if he could try stabbing me to try my skin's hardening, for it would be a wondrous thing to see, but I just gave him a glare and asked him whether he wanted to provoke the bear. This quelled him, but as the tale spreads I may have to look out for idiots and opportunists looking for fun, and thinking that stabbing, chopping, shooting arrows, or throwing javelins at me would make a harmless joke. I know these people. Even our idiot Gods do it, as witness fair Baldr's death to a shaft of mistletoe.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 25
Dear Diary,
Today was every bit as unpleasant as I expected, and then some.
Acting on the information my little witch had uncovered, king Baldr hung back in the hunt. He did not want to believe it, and I had warned him that her information was not certain as her maid-informers were not fully reliable, but he is not one to shy from confrontation. Master huntsman that he is, he followed queen Praxida's trail with few problems. When he joined the main hunt later he was his jolly self and it appeared that nothing had occurred.
It had. The king came straight to our chambers after the hunt feast, to relax in our company. Well, mainly to vent in my little witch's company, but as her husband and his chancellor I was included as her plus one. And he was miserable. He had found his queen, right enough, enjoying a tryst with one of his younger Jarls - much as we had feared.
To make matters worse, he interrupted them while the Jarl was giving the queen a green gown, much to the enjoyment of both parties. Naturally, the king rushed in with sword drawn to slay the nithing, but at the last moment the queen noticed his approach and screamed for him to stay his hand.
Now, nobody has ever accused uncle Baldr of an excess of compassion, so he was not minded to heed her words, but it distracted him for the fraction of a moment necessary for the terrified Jarl to turn his head to face the king. Uncle Baldr was stunned: the adulterer was none other than Prince Grettir, his own son by queen Mateja. He confronted them, and whatever words passed between them were too painful for him to confess to Viola, and then he left them.
I doubt he will punish either in public as it would hurt his reputation. Tonight he looked a broken man, uncertain of how to handle the situation. Hopefully it will pass.
Perhaps telling him was a mistake. Grettir is queen Mateja's get, so no actual blood violation took place. But even so, they violated the law and a man has got a right to know. It is only just.
And, as Viola pointed out after he was gone, that is Grettir out of the competition for good, as king Baldr can be counted on to sabotage his bid to succeed him with every means possible short of revealing the truth. Every cloud has a silver lining.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 25
Dear Diary,
THIS IS IT!
I have sent out the word! I'll show them all that the Iron Chancellor is not just a not just a Handy Henchman trusted with non-axe diplomacy, who is uncommonly well suited for the job, but a man to be reckoned with.
I wonder how many will show. Between my Jutes, the chiefs who joined me in raiding Hispania, and the handful of minor rulers who owe me for favourable verdicts as chancellor, I should be able to muster in excess of two thousand men... if everybody turns up.
Which they probably won't, many getting lost on the way or getting drunk or deciding it is a splendid opportunity to raid their neighbours while the bulk of the Danish might is engaged in Lotharingia.
While my army may be small compared to the gathering host, it is large enough to be of significance and this war will make my name. It had better. Uncle Baldr is not growing any younger, and he has lost his appetite and sometimes seem to be deliberately starving himself, despite the best his wives can do and my little witch's frequent messages encouraging him to eat. He needs to live! At least long enough for me to marry Kráka and use her to sway her brothers to my cause.
Read my promise, Asa-gods, writ for eternity! Let Tyr grant my battle wisdom, Thor strengthen my arm, Odin grant me victory, and Freyr protect my loins! I shall sacrifice in your name, and to encourage you to make a good effort I shall make a small sacrifice tomorrow to give you a taste of my bountry, and a grand sacrifice once I am victorious. Rest assured that it will be no cheap sacrifice. This time.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 26
Dear Diary,
Word reached me that the laggard emperor has shown up to aid his ally, but he is too late. King Baldr has ordered us to avoid fighting the might of empire in favour of crushing the Germans for now; The emperor's host is mighty indeed and will undoubtedly recapture many of the fortified positions now in our hands, but it is operating far from its supply lines and given time it will either need to plunder the locals for food and then them against the emperor, or it will split up for survival, or it will starve. And then we will fall upon them like wolves in the fold. Either suits the king's purpose.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 26
Dear Diary,
Victory is ours! The pride of Lotharingia has fallen and the king despairs of the emperor's forces coming to his succour. The more fool he, with his capital near liberated, but his spirit is broken.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 27
Dear Diary,
The king's health worries me. It was bad enough when he was morose and not eating enough, now he alternates starving and forcefeeding himself, which has left him in an even worse mood, and an unstable one. To think that all this started because of his unfaithful wife and despicable son.
Today I encouraged him to eat better, but he snarled in response, looked at me with a wild look, and said I just wanted him to live in misery till I could fuck his darling Kráka, get rid of him, and take the throne.
Which, granted, shows that he's still in command of his faculties though it is more claiming her political value as bride than her maidenhood that excites me, but is still an undiplomatic thing to say to somebody who wishes you well, much less your future son-in-law.
I told him I wanted no such thing, I merely wished for his health - and then he asked me what was wrong with his darling Kráka that I didn't want to fuck her.
So I told him there was nothing wrong with her, and I'd love nothing better than to roger her rigid in the due course of time - and he erupted in anger at me for wanting to despoil his innocent child and cursed me for a cradle-snatcher.
I am never going to mention the king's health or eating habits to him again. It is too volatile a subject.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 27
Dear Diary,
Damnation to these Yule celebrations. Disaster was only narrowly avoided, but fortunately this morning Kráka seems none the worse for wear. Shamefaced about drinking too much and having to be carried to bed, naturally, and unamused to be dealing with her first hangover, but that was about it. I expected more of a hangover considering how much she drank, but children are resilient and she bounced right back.
Which definitely gave her the advantage over me and my little witch.
At least it means she won't go crying to her father. Not that he'd necessarily disapprove, but uncle Baldr's mood is less than tranquil these days, as he prepares the great eastern conquest.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 28
Dear Diary,
My third son is born a summer-child. I shall name him Blazej, because I am drunk – at least according to my little witch.
It was touch and go – she wanted to name him Bezprzym, after somebody from Mogyër mythology who, if I understood her ramblings right, was born with a long dagger and put it to good use. Well, I'd no objections to that except that the name was unpronouncable. So I suggested Blazej instead, which was the name of my father's favourite dog. She countered that this was ridiculous.
So I countered that Blazej was undoubtedly stolen from the Latin Blasius, just like the Francian name Blaise, and thus had a noble derivation, whereas Bezprzym sounded like a full-body sneeze, so Blazej it would be.
She retorted that I was drunk.
Which, admittedly, I was, but that's got nothing to do with it. I shall name him Blazej.
- Chapter the Sixteenth: The Sverker Diaries, part twelve - the world of 930
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 28 – my Wedding Day
Dear Diary,
The day had arrived.
And what a day!
After breakfast, my little witch and I escorted Kráka to her father to officially return her to her family to mark the end of her time as my ward, and he thanked us for the good work and we exchanged gifts. Then we bid them farewell, and returned home to the longhouse that served my small household while at court, the grandly named chancellor's office, and that's when the fun began.
At the door we found one of the Handy Henchmen with a message from the king. I wondered briefly if it was his old shyness returning, but given that we had just left him in a genial mood in the royal hall, that seemed unlikely. It wasn't. He was having fun with me.
The Henchman told me that King Baldr had decided that the chancellor's office was too mean a home for one of his daughters. While in theory it was merely my ”home away from home”, in practice work kept me so busy that I hardly ever visited my Jarldom of Jutland and relied perhaps overmuch on my steward Thorfinn keeping affairs in order.
Be that as it may, since I lived at court most of the time when not raiding or fighting Baldr's wars, this was my home, and Kráka deserved better than living in an office. So uncle Baldr had ordered a huge longhouse raised nearby and declared it the chancellor's official residence, so in future I'd no longer be entertaining official business at home but next door. It seemed overly bureaucratic to me, but that's kings for you – or at least uncle Baldr.
I let him lead us to our new home. It measured an impressive 80 foot long and 30 foot wide and was built in the new style. Whatever could we possibly do with all that space, I asked my little witch, dumbfounded. It turned out she had some ideas about that. Which she had shared with uncle Baldr before construction, as it turned out.
Two-thirds of the house was devoted to bed-chambers. And not for visiting guests. One end was reserved for the family, and they were properly named stalls, not bed-chambers, she informed me triumphantly as she showed me to the largest bed-chamber. Above the door hang a sign showing a stallion and a mare side by side (and not just any mare, the boss mare, my little witch said), and that was ours. To the right, left, and across from it were were three stalls with signs showing a single mare, all looking eagerly in the direction of the stallion's room. Which ominously suggested that the Grand Plan was back in business and that I'd been lulled into a false sense of security by the Kráka-enforced delay. There were a number of stalls for children as well, though our oldest, Wincenty, is only 6. It pays to be prepared, she told me, and she had plans for communal rearing of children. In enclosed stalls/bed-chambers.
I do not understand modern education.
Our servants and thralls got to live in communal lodgings in the other end of the longhouse, she showed me, and the high seat and central fireplace was closest to the family wing. I already foresaw great difficulty keeping the longhouse heated during winter time.
But my little witch beamed at me proudly, so what could I say but that she'd done a great job? We discussed when we could move in, but the decision really made itself: Later in the week, after the wedding was over and the guests had left. Too much chaos otherwise. And in struck me that we were all alone in this big house and the evening was a long way off, so I suggested to my little witch that we take advantage of this... and she refused, telling me to save myself for Kráka!
So we returned to our old home in the chancellor's office and she agreed to sit in the bearchair while we finalized our strategy for the evening's political dimension, for with so many prominent members of the family present the hunt for support was on. A bit tasteless to do it right under uncle Baldr's nose, I guess, but not unusual in our family. Larger family gatherings are the best venue for talking shop and trading favours. Alas, my little witch viciously enforced a rule of no kissing or fondling during today's plotting, as she claimed she knew me too well to believe I'd stop there despite my assurances to the contrary.
Curses, foiled again.
Afterwards we dressed up for the wedding and walked to the king's hall where it was to take place. I wore my richest clothes and Viola swore I was the most handsome man at court, but she is biased.
It was a great family reunion.
My mother was here, and Tryggvi had made the trip from Ireland to attend. My little sister Unnr was here with her husband, cousin Gormr, Baldr's son. Frogsis and her husband, cousin Thordr, of the Irish Munsö Sigurdr's, had come from Chalons. Njáll, Regelinda, and Dorota were prevented from coming for various reasions, and finally my youngest sister Hólmfridr had come with Mother and Tryggvi. Can't say I ever saw much of her as she was born after I went to court, but she's turned into a fine woman – even if she can't stop speaking about her bethrothed when he isn't present, and lustily eating him up with her eyes when he is.
She's 16, like my bride, and her betrothed is Egill, king Baldr's valiant son. They are set to marry next year when he reaches maturity and king Baldr grants him a Jarldom or two somewhere. They'll probably be good ones too, for Egill is a great lad. Brave, wrathful, and humble, and with looks even the Asa-gods might envy, he is likely to become one of the leading young contenders to succeed king Baldr despite being a bit stupid. He bears watching, that's for sure.
Many other of Krákas numerous siblings were present as well. Baldr had spawned a score children, and they were out in force. All the younger ones born of the wives he took after becoming king, of course, but also several from his first two weddings. Baldr's firstborn, Gudfridr, came, far from his home in the Lower Lorraine. As talkative as ever, his genial personality in full display, he cut a splendid figure. Definitely my favourite cousin amongst Baldr's sons, but also the greatest threat to my ambitions. He's a political animal and has many strong supporters. Though not quite as many as he thinks. There are benefits to my office.
Also present was Emundr, ”the Butcher of Poland”, as vicious a sword-Dane as ever went raiding. Unflappable in the face of danger and proof positive of the dangers of over-education, he is a conceited man. He thinks himself a second Sigurdr, but mistakes unshakable conviction for vision and a high bodycount for accomplishment, and he never quits boasting about it. A throwback to the days of old, in other words, where enemies slain and buckets of blood spilled was the measure of a man. He has quite a following amongst the young and terminally dim, but of the two Gudfridr is the one to watch.
Looking around I saw that cousin Freyr, the “Fucker of Flanders”, son of my aunt Thora, had turned up like a bad coin, which meant that all the main contenders for the throne were in town. Probably in case uncle Baldr should expire from the feast. Such things have been known to happen.
Of the survivors of the older generation, both uncle Bødvar and uncle Arnbjørn attended, though whether as a favour to me or to spend time with the family I could not discern. Probably the latter. At present they were both securely in my corner, but with Egill an incarnation of the older virtues celebrating brawn over brain, I could see uncle Bødvar switching his support in the future.
The wedding feast and ceremony went well. King Baldr may be a shadow of the man he used to be, as age and lack of appetite ravages his body, but for the occasion of the wedding of his favourite daughter he did his utmost and he can still dominate the room.
Kráka was radiant – I guess all brides are – and she wore something undoubtedly expensive that complemented her curves. I can't say I paid much attention as my mind was on politics, but my secondary brain did, and when we finally sat down to feast it demanded I pay attention to the morsel by my side. Strange thing; it never had before, and she didn't look that different from yesterday to me. From this morning, for that matter, but something had changed.
I found myself sneaking glances at her, trying to discover what it was, to IT's great pleasure. Soon it was hinting strongly that bending her over the table and stallionizing her right there and then would be a jolly good way to get over the boring part of the evening, and would enliven the toasts and drunken speeches as well.
This is why it is not in charge.
Eventually the words were said, the gods invoked, and Fylkir Baldr ordered us to go complete our vows. I swept Kráka into my arms and she broke into a big grin – as did I when I noticed that my little witch was cheering Kráka on from the sidelines, giving her a thumbs up, and mimicking a kiss. Kráka gave me a tentative peck on the mouth, accidentally ramming me with her nose, and withdrew mortified, but I made up for it by giving her a kiss that must have curdled her toes, her first adult kiss, and bore her off to the cheers of our families.
The bridal chamber was... much like my last one, really. I guess when you've seen one, you've seen them all. Not that everything was the same. While Kráka was a callow youth, I was not.
So I set her on her feet and took stock. She looked eager with anticipation as well as nervous. Insecure. Trembling a bit, but trying to get a hold of herself. I considered ways of easing the situation like I had done with my little witch at our wedding in years past, but none readily came to mind. We'd been comfortable in each others presence and well acquainted with each other's touch, so relaxing with our old games had been a pleasant way to overcome anxiety, whereas Kráka?
She'd been underfoot and (technically) my ward for eight years, even if Viola had done all the work. Her bright personality and quick wits had always pleased me, when I noticed her at any rate, and my little witch said Kráka had been a good ward, eager to please and learn. I also knew she liked playing with her little sisters and... that was it? I realized that for all of that, I did not know her well enough to name her interests apart from horses (my little witch's indoctrination, no doubt), had no idea about her desires, did not know how to talk to her except by giving orders as the master of the household, and most definitely had no idea know how to calm her down as she stood trembling before me.
...and frankly, I did not care, either. If I had not cared about her the last eight years, it would be hypocritical to pretend I did now. I was overthinking it, and not for the first time. We both knew what we were here for, and I, for one, knew what I wanted. Why complicate matters?
I ordered her to strip, and ripped off my tunic and cast it aside, but she was slow, fumbling at her dress and getting nowhere, clearly enraptured by my manly chest. So I gave her a helping hand or two and if she instinctively flinched from my touch, her body's maidenly innocence overruling her mind's desire, it was no great inconvenience. I knew well from my travels how to handle that with shock and awe tactics, so with only minor tearing of the cloth we soon had her dress off and it joined my tunic on the floor, leaving her stripped down to her særk.
I cheered her on, saying, ”Rejoice, wife, for the best is yet to come!”, and pulled down my trousers.
”I've been waiting half my life for this,” she gushed, and truer words were never spoken, but as she got her first sight of IT rising to tower before her, she shrank from me with a wild look in her eyes (not an uncommon reaction in my experience), and said desperately, ”but merciful Frigg protect me, surely it can wait a little longer. Let's settle down to a drink first. How can I face THAT sober? That's a giant throbbing maypole!”, before finishing in a more pensive tone of voice, “and now it has begun vibrating as well? Is it supposed to do that?”
A maypole? Silly goose. She wasn't supposed to dance around it, but that gave me an idea.
”It is heat-seeking, and the vibration means it has acquired a target,” I explained, ”but if you cannot face it sober, please give me a moment and I'll slip into something more comfortable.” And she'd just asked me whether I meant a særk, when I seized the moment and whipped hers clean off, right over her head, revealing her in all her glory.
“Nice rack,” I complimented her, and she blushed and gave a little squeak as her hands flew to cover it. An instinctive reaction, but a tactical mistake as it left them out of position, and I've never in my life seen anybody as surprised as Kráka when I lifted her up bodily and popped her on the maypole.
Then I marched around the room performing the stallion's dance, as my little witch has named it when our conjoined bodies move to its rhythm, while singing my riding song: ”This is the way the ladies ride, trit-trot, trit-trot, trit-trot”.
But Kráka was no Viola. For one, she was heavier. For another, inexperienced. Her arms clung in a death-grip around my neck but her legs didn't get the message and flailed every which way when I thrust, and if I hadn't had a firm grip of her buttocks and immense strength she'd have fallen off. She made no attempt to do her part in the dance at all and alternated blubbering, moaning with pleasure, and begging me to stop, swinging from one mood extreme to another as her mind was blasted with a host of new sensations by her body awakening to womanhood.
It was a real test of my strength to carry her weight mostly with my arms while sliding her up and down and walking around the room. But am I not built like a bear? I persevered through the fair maid's and farm girl's verses (with repetitions!) doing all the work, and finally her body tired of her mind's dithering and mild obstructionism and locked her athletic legs tight around my waist, fixing her firmly in position. What a difference that made!
As a result the emir's daughter's verse was much more pleasant for both of us, and I had just started on the ”oh-my-lord, oh-my-lord” of the nun's verse, when with a cry of ”Freyja wills it!” Kráka joined in earnest. She contributed to the stallion's dance with more enthusiasm than skill, and two verses later, to my great pleasure and her evident surprise, I erupted and she jerked violently in my arms at the unfamiliar experience.
And if she had not been rather more top-heavy than my usual rider and inexperienced at keeping her balance, I probably would not have tripped and left us sprawling on the floor, with me out of breath and Kráka lying pleasingly on top, laughing hysterically to herself, wide-eyed, desperate, and eager to please.
I recognized her mood as it is a common enough response to my shock and awe tactics in stage one of the breaking, though they have seldom worked so quickly before. That's probably because Kráka is of good blood, a Sigurdr, born to breed and raised in the true faith, and not some weak blooded Christian or Moorish filly, and that meant she was ready for stage two, seduction.
So I slid out and caressed her, telling her that I didn't blame her for the fall as accidents happened and it all added spice to life. I praised her boldness in joining the dance despite her inexperience, and said we'd have a lifetime to perfect it together. That we were meant to be.
That I had seen how good she was at handling the children, and how lovingly she did so, and wouldn't it be something if we made one of our very own, and just think of how proud her father would be when she presented him with her firstborn.
I told her that I had longed for this day for the longest time, and apologized for using her roughly rather than giving her the time she needed, for I had been overcome with lust at the sight of her naked body, desiring nothing more than to possess it forever, and that she had pleased me greatly. I begged her to forgive me, and I continued with such sweet nothings until she calmed down and her body began responding to my touch and she began tentatively exploring mine in turn.
And sooner rather than later she found what she'd been seeking, and asked me whether my rod of lordly might was only good for one shot as it seemed rather diminished. To which I responded that if it didn't scare her any longer, there was a sure-fire way to load it with her help, should she be interested in learning the men's verses of the riding song. Very much so, she assured me, and as IT had already started stirring at her touch, with her gentle ministration it soon revived.
So I rolled her on her back and mounted her, singing, ”This is the way the vikings ride, gallop-a-trot, gallop-a-trot”, and she quickly caught on to her duties this time. During the third verse she experienced her first arching, and it wasn't the only one that night, as I rode her until she fainted from an excess of bliss, and you can't do better by a woman than that.
While waiting for her to come to for another bout, I gave her the old once over, and I must admit that her long athletic legs, broad hips, perfect waist, flat stomach, firm breasts, slender but muscular arms (that death-grip had impressed me), and stunning face all belonged to the class of features that never went out of fashion. Encase it all in flawless skin, her body practically glistening with youth (and sweat), and crown it with long golden hair, throwing in pair of large green eyes for good measure - that was Kráka.
She didn't come close to measuring up to Viola's divine body, but then, what woman would? If I had to make do with a second-rate wife, I could do worse. Once I completed her training I might give her a tumble every few weeks for the sake of variety and to keep her happy, and having a spare mount when my little witch was ill or big with child would be something to look forwards to. Yes, this would work out very well indeed.
So I went to the table and downed a mug of good beer, and when Kráka came to I brought her one to strengthen her before we continued. For the night was young and she was ripe for stage three, loyalty reinforcement.
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 28 – my Wedding Day +1
Dear Diary,
I awoke alone in bed to the sound women talking and slid open one eye, and what did I behold but my wives, both fully clothed, alas, sitting at the table in the bridal chamber and having a chat. They both sounded agitated.
That was not how I had hoped for the day after to begin.
”Rise and shine, my stallion”, called my little witch, demonstrating that uncanny ability to detect changes in my sleep state I have come to take for granted, though I cannot fathom how she does it. She says she's just paying attention, but surely there's more to it than that.
She wore a most stern look, so I heeded her words with alacrity and let her chivvy me into dressing, while Kráka watched in silence.
No sooner was I dressed, than Viola herded us off to our new home! What about proof of consummation? I asked, but apparently that was already taken care of. The residence was much as I had left it yesterday, except that now the Mare #1 stall boasted a sign saying Kráka.
My little witch sent Kráka to her stall and me to ours, and told me to occupy myself while she spoke to her. So I asked her why she couldn't tell me first, and she gave an exasperated sigh and slammed the door.
I inspected my new master bedchamber to while away the time, but as we hadn't moved our belongings it was rather bare. Uncle Baldr had helpfully provided a large bed, table, two chairs, and a writing desk – or more likely the Henchmen had done it on my little witch's orders – and I saw that the desk was already supplied with quill, ink, and parchment. My brilliant mind suggested that rather than worry about whatever had Viola agitated, this was the ideal time to update my diary with the tale of my glorious conquest, and I did so, and I was just about to put my finishing touches to it – my memory was rather hazy about the details after the third bout as it had become increasingly strenuous to keep up with Kráka and my body diverted vital essences to where they were needed the most, and my critical faculties were not amongst them - when Viola returned. Given the happy tale recently recollected, I was in a fine fettle and suggested that since the usual morning after was apparently cancelled, how about we test the sturdiness of our new bed? Better make sure of it before we moved in, right?
She gave me such a look as I've rarely seen! I think last time was when I gifted Wincenty a sword at his fourth birthday, and had to listen to the speech about age-appropriate toys. It scared me now as it did then, for Viola in her wrathful aspect is a terror to behold, and I realized that horizontal refreshment was off the table (so to speak).
It struck me that something very serious indeed must have happened. What had caused her to interfere in the morning after? Why had she wanted to talk to Kráka alone first? It could be no little thing. Had something happened to uncle Baldr? Was it to be a day of politics and, possibly, blood-letting? It was too soon! But if I had to make my move, would I be better off taking advantage of the situation with a pre-emptive strike or gathering my supporters close and trying to strike a peace between the family factions when somebody else struck first? With everybody of importance in town for the wedding, it was practically guaranteed that somebody would try to trim the family tree.
It was definitely the wrong day to stay in bed.
But I had misjudged the situation.
“Sverker, my stallion,” my little witch said, “I love you and I cannot live without you. How you have treated other women has hitherho not been a matter of concern to me since stallions have needs, and what's that to me so long as you don't bring trouble home? But Kráka is not just any woman. She's your wife and, more importantly, as your broodmare she is part of the Grand Plan. We need to talk.”
- Chapter the Seventeenth: The Sverker Diaries, part thirteen - the world of 930
The Secret Diary of the Genius Jarl Sverker of Jutland, Aged 28 – my Wedding Day +1
“We need to talk,” my little witch said.
Whatever did she mean by that?
First, my little witch said as she sat in her bearchair, she wanted my recollections of last night.
So I told her all about it, and how after Kráka's initial upset at my rapid assault breaching her gate, I had settled her worries by drawing on my experience and reading her mood, such that by the end of the night the seduction was complete and she was begging for more, utterly enthralled with me, until finally I exhausted her and she went to sleep utterly satiated. And if I was feeling mighty chuffed about it, who could blame me, for I had proven myself a man to her many times over and that is always a special feeling.
She asked me if that was all, and I affirmed that it was, the previous night clear in my mind after recently writing my diary, except possibly for a few irrelevant details.
”I learned it abroad. Catch them young, treat them rough, roger them hard, and then show compassion and a bit of tenderness once they cease struggling and join in the fun. As sure as sin, they fall for me and can't get enough. Sverker's three-step program for breaking hesitant fillies: 1) Shock and Awe, 2) Seduction, 3) Loyalty Reinforcement. It works every time.” I told her.
Viola looked at me hard, sighed, and then she said it: ”You know that dismissive thing you do whenever I do something that baffles you, my stallion? The long-suffering look followed by 'I don't understand women'? You are absolutely right.”
Of course I'm right. Even the best of women do baffling things and men don't understand why, because there is no good reason to their randomness. It is just how women are and we love them for it and learn to ignore it. We have to. It is either that or go crazy.
She continued: ”I know what you are thinking now, but pay attention and listen very carefully, I shall say this only once. You really don't understand women. Those hesitant fillies you break in on your business trips? Their desire is survival and they do whatever it takes. They don't desire you and they don't fall for you, though the more stupid of them may convince themselves otherwise, and the smarter ones will pretend it.
Your failure to understand your foreign conquests is perhaps understandable, and anyway it is all harmless fun except for the women involved, and who cares about them? A stallion has needs, fornicating foreigners keeps you happy and in trim, and your stories are moderately entertaining, so I have not made a point of it previously. I cannot, however, allow your failings to undermine the Grand Plan.”
She wasn't making any sense at all! But she seemed to be working herself up to a good rant, and continued: ”You have completely failed to understand Kráka, and granted that your understanding isn't essential to fulfilling her role in Grand Plan as a bearer of your children, we will be a much happier family if the two of you have a healthy marriage not based on misunderstandings. In addition I'll be less frustrated, and that's no minor consideration.”
I felt that was rather harsh under the circumstances, and pointed out that my approach worked! This caused yet another despairing sigh, and my little witch changed track, probably realizing the weakness of her argument.
I should know better. Unlike other women, my little witch is smart.
She asked me if I recalled what Kráka's favourite activity during childhood had been, but of course I didn't. Waste of time.
”Games,” my little witch said, ”Kráka loves playing games. If she asked you once, she asked you a hundred times to play games with her. It is her favourite activity. And on the rare occasion when you agreed to participate in a game of chess or hnefatavl or playing ball, it was the highlight of the week for her. She will always play games, and yesterday night? She did.”
I was not following her.
”Could you truly believe that Kráka would be modest and fear your trouser titan after living with us for years, seeing you for the devoted husband you are, and being properly brought up to desire you and longing to join the stable?” she asked.
Well, yes. A bit of modesty in a woman was never amiss, and I knew well that few women seeing IT for the first time were unaffected by its majesty. Kráka's reaction was hardly unusual. Perfectly reasonable behaviour from an innocent maiden, I pointed out to Viola.
My little witch ignored me, having much too fun ranting irregardless of fact: ”Not that she needed much encouraging on my part, as you are clearly the best of men and her father's choice. As for innocence, I've been telling her your preferences for years, and if she hasn't spied upon us in congress whenever she could get away with it and taking notes, I'll be greatly surprised. She certainly managed to interrupt us 'by accident' more than a few times over the years. This was definitely not the first time she saw 'IT' in all its glory.”
I objected, as I did not remember any incidents and surely I would have, but my little witch interrupted me, ”of course you didn't notice; firstly, as a general rule you don't pay attention to women other than me, and secondly, my stallion, when you do pay proper attention to a woman, you are remarkably single-minded in your pursuit of pleasure and ignore anything non-essential to the act.”
That was more like it. I swelled up a bit at the compliment! Which made what came next easier to swallow. But not by a lot.
“So you see, my stallion, you would not have noticed and, as a matter of fact, you did not. Even if you had, would you have understood what you saw? Do I need to remind you of the incident Yule before last?”
How could I forget it? It still made me shudder to recall. If not for my quick wits, I could have lost everything.
Little Kráka had drunk too much of the good ale at the Yule-feast and mistakenly entered our room, and she was so tired she fell asleep while undressing. So when I left the feast briefly to fetch the large jewel I got in Córdoba to show off to some of uncle Baldr's children, and in the darkness of the room saw the outline of someone lying invitingly on the bed, dress pulled up over her head, I realized that my little witch had snuck from the feast to greet me with a quickie. She's considerate like that.
Well, I could surely oblige, and if I had gone for the main course rather than choosing to slip a hand up the dress to tease her breasts first, Kráka would have had a night to remember because once my secondary brain is in control I tend not to sweat the small stuff. And how king Baldr would have reacted to her violation... it didn't bear thinking of. But fortunately my beloved's breasts are well known to my hands, and these were not hers, so I stopped in shock and disaster was averted with Kráka none the wiser. I carried the sleeping child to her bed, and I never told anybody but my little witch about the incident.
So, ”YES!” I responded, I remembered the episode very well, and thanks to my knowing my wife well and a bit of luck, I didn't ruin Kráka's childhood and didn't lose my head, and I could lawfully and in good conscience ride her now till the cows came home, the sweet little thing, and I said as much.
”You just proved my point”, my little witch said. ”Not only don't you understand women, their desires, wishes, and actions being a mystery to you and your attempts to figure them out often being far off the mark, you don't pay attention to them either except as needed to mount them. That's a blind spot but nothing to be ashamed of, it is just how stallions are.”
If she wanted to confuse me, she was doing well.
“But you need to know this, Sverker my love. Yule before last? She was neither drunk nor asleep. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she was disappointed by the outcome. She took the scolding I gave her next day like a champion, and I must admit that secretly I admired her pluck. Wish I had thought of it at her age, but well, times were different. As for last night? While you certainly took her by surprise and shocked her by the way you breached her gate, in one move lifting her up bodily and slamming her down on the maypole, impaling her so hard it tickled her tonsils from the inside (I suspect she exaggerates; also, I want to try that), you didn't 'overcome her resistance' with your 'rapid assault' and then 'seduce her', and she didn't 'faint with bliss' – she put up a show to manipulate your responses, she let you see what she wanted you to see, and you acted predictably on her cues as she had her fun with you while you 'conquered' her. Hah, if anybody was doing any conquering, it was she, taking full advantage of her education. You were played.”
That was a lot to take in.
“But she overplayed her hand and got rather more than she had aimed for with the lettuce incident, and that's why we are talking now. What were you thinking! If not for my intervention, it could have been a disaster!” my little witch demanded. What lettuce incident, I wondered? Had there been lettuce? I must have looked puzzled, for she continued, “Yes, lettuce. Have you already forgotten?”
Dimly I recalled that Kráka had at one point asked for some lettuce with her beer and that she had got it, but the details eluded me.
“She did, and you were happy to oblige her. I shall fill in the details. It was late last night and the wedding feast was slowly petering out. Many of the guests and most of the children had already left or been drunk under the table. Baldr, the old dear, was stabbing at his salad, possibly wondering whether he should go wild and indulge himself with an extra leaf, and I was having a slightly strained conversation with Queen Praxida, who felt sorry for her daughter, since you had been treating her as a slab of meat at the wedding and shown no interest in her as a lover. Coupled with your sedentary lifestyle as chancellor and already having a wife you clearly loved and no doubt honoured several times a day, she feared poor Kráka would have her expectations dashed as the ship of marriage came to rest in a single roll on/roll off docking. (Her origins as a merchant as ever betraying her speech when she was excited. And the worse for drink.)
I assured Praxida that if you didn't publicly show interest in Kráka, well, that was because of your private nature. As she probably remembered from years past when we were wards in their household, you had a hard time expressing love in public and would have to get used to Kráka's new position in the household before it would show, but you had secretly lusted after Kráka for years and the queen could rest assured that you'd do your best to honour her daughter. Neither office work nor tiredness wouldn't slow you down, and even if you did honour me several times a day, you'd have more than enough left to roger her daughter several score times this night and were undoubtedly so engaged at present unless you had already exhausted Kráka in your eagerness.” my little witch said, and if the part about my having lusted after Kráka was an outright fabrication, it was a well-chosen lie in the circumstances.
As for honouring Kráka several score times in a night? Commendable loyalty, but hardly likely – where would I find the time? And where was this strange tale going? I found out soon enough.
”And that's when the doors burst open and you entered! I must give you this, if nothing else, my stallion: Your timing was perfect. Naked as the day you were born and with Kráka firmly mounted in front, her legs and arms wrapped around you in ecstacy, you marched growling to the high seat while she sang 'This is how the ladies ride, trit-trot, trit-trot, trit-trot.'”
I groaned. This was political poison. And it got worse.
For apparently cousin Freyr, showing more lust than sense, had reached for Kráka and I kicked him in the fruits so hard his eyes popped, which would normally have been a great hoot, but everybody were too aghast to do more than watch in stunned disbelief as I gently laid Kráka down before her parents and had her in the king's salad while she looked up at them, singing, 'This is how your daughter rides, in-your-greens, in-your-greens,” the singing slightly muffled by her munching on some of the king's lettuce she had opportunistically snatched.
My little witch said I could count myself lucky that drunk as Kráka was, she didn't choose 'in-your-face', which had apparently been her initial inspiration.
My mother was howling with laughter as were several others of the older generation, and after an initial bout of outrage the queen was cheering Kráka on, but the king was appalled and growing angrier by the stanza and several of Kráka's brothers were running for the entrance where the weapons were stored, and were it not for my little witch the night might have ended in tragedy.
For she sprang up on the table and shouted for everybody to freeze: Kráka had clearly driven me too far and let the bear within seize control, but it was in a good mood, and who wouldn't be in its place? So long as we all stayed calm and made no quick movements or loud noises, it would leave soon enough and no harm done, whereas if it was offered violence odds were that none but the fastest would survive, for it was hardened against iron! Kráka, happily munching on her greens but no less quick-witted, chimed in by saying that the rod was already hard as iron, and she clawed my back viciously, making me erupt in a roar that shook the rafters.
So the laughter diminished and Kráka's brothers froze in their tracks, and Kráka having gotten what she wanted, I left as soon as I came, and king Baldr addressed the guests saying that this never happened.
And that is why there was no need of proof of consummation this morning and why my little witch had seen fit to interrupt us so early and hustle us away.
”I understand from Kráka that she had wanted to experience your growling, of which I had talked many times, but got mischievous and lost control when you solved her request for a late night snack of lettuce in a straightforward manner she never could have anticipated. She just wanted to exert her dominance by making you order somebody to fetch it, but that was too complicated for your secondary brain. She's learned her lesson about the dangers of baiting the bear within too far, I think.” she said in contemplation.
“Now, I interrupted your bride's morning after, and remembering our own memorable morning after, that was a hard thing to do to her, but you had to be told due to the political repercussions. Well, you've been told now, and there's no harm done in playing games so long as you know what is going on and appreciate her for what she is – a smart confident woman who looks up to you, desires you, and even loves you in her own way, but will take advantage of you if you let her or show weakness. So go to her now and show her your appreciation, my stallion, and if she can still walk straight by nightfall I shall be greatly disappointed in you.” she ordered.
That's what my wife, my very own wife, said to me!
”What if I don't want to? What if I am in shock at all this 'doesn't understand women, never pays attention, was hoodwinked by a 14 year old, played for a fool by a 16 year old, and made the laughingstock of the family? You know my family. My carefully managed profile as the Iron Chancellor will be turned against me. It won't be depraved cousin Freyr, the Fucker of Flanders, who'll be the butt of family jokes now, I guarantee you. It'll be weirdo cousin Sverker, the Man with the Iron Rod!” I shouted.
My little witch tried to shush me, but to no avail. “And after that, you want me to go roger her rigid. I don't think I can do it. I really don't think I am in the mood today!” I retorted pointedly and perhaps a bit peevishly, because I really don't like being made a fool of, and what better way to punish the little minx than to withhold what she had so recently acquired a taste for? Leave her deprived for a few days, wishing she'd treated me better. As for being in the mood, my little witch was all I needed to satisfy my desires. Perhaps require Kráka to watch to see what she was missing. Hah!
”I've never known you not to be in the mood, my stallion, and I saw how you looked at her this morning, so I doubt that. I seriously doubt that. If it is your pride that has been pricked and you dislike being played, well, two can play that game, and surely you are both more experienced and smarter than Kráka. Show her who's the master and make her dance to your tune. You'll both be the happier for it.” she replied.
My little witch had a point. Not about pride, of course, this had nothing to do with my pride. But however you looked at it, I needed Kráka happy and helping me project the image of a healthy loving family, to do damage control after last night. Moreover, regardless of how she had made a fool of me, in all justice I had not been entirely blameless in the affair. Finally, she had a certain right to my attentions on her bridal day and I didn't want her to go running to her father or complain to her mother or sisters, for who knew how far that might spread or what further damage it would cause? Or would she even think of doing that? Clearly, I needed to understand her better so I could anticipate her reactions, at least for as so long uncle Baldr lived, which meant talking to her.
Granted that talking to women is not my favourite activity, my little witch being the solitary exception, if I made Kráka play games my way, pleasuring myself screwing her brains out till she couldn't take more and begged me to stop, for surely she couldn't match my endurance, well, there'd be time enough to talk while the rod of lordly might recharged, and she could hardly run to her father and complain that I was serving her too much horizontal refreshment. This could work out very well indeed. The perfect revenge for her duplicity.
My little witch definitely had a point.
But I had something that needed saying too, and so I did: ”There is something to be said for that, little witch, and perhaps you are right that I neither understand nor pay attention to women. You were certainly right to bring the lettuce incident to my attention due to the political dangers. But in at least one respect you do not understand men. For while it is right and good that I be told how Kráka played me, since no imminent danger arose from my misunderstanding, you should have left me in ignorance about that for a few days rather than poisoning the memory of my wedding night so soon.”
My voice broke, and the more I spoke, the less control I had. ”Had you waited a few days, perhaps I would have realized her tricks on my own, or perhaps she would have told me, secure in our new intimacy, and we could have laughed it off, or perhaps I would have been left in ignorance and you would have to break the news days later when I was sated from enjoying her body and no longer enthralled by the riddle of my new wife, for as you've said more than once, I am a fickle stallion. In all cases I would be better off than I am now, as I whipsaw from one emotional high to another!”
She twisted to hug me, and she apologized, and her tears mixed with mine, and since she was sitting in her bearchair, well, truth be told it is hard to feel sadness when things are looking up, and once she felt IT stirring beneath her, her tears dried up too and she jumped off just as things were getting interesting, but not to hitch up her dress, alas.
To tell me that I seemed to have recovered the mood, and Kráka was waiting.
But I'd be damned if I let her get the last word like that,
So I said to her, “I will shortly do as you say, and you know why? Because while I may not understand or pay attention to women in general, I understand and pay attention to you, and what else matters?”
”You do? Quickly now, my stallion”, she retorted teasingly, “What's my favourite colour? What's my favourite food? Who's my favourite rider?”
”Red, pork, and me!” I replied immediately. That was easy.
Perhaps not as easy as that, as she replied, ”You only got one out of three right, my stallion, and aren't you wondering now which of them it is, smart guy?”
But two can play that game, so I answered her earnestly: ”Not at all, little witch, for while I may not know every little detail about you, I know everything important, and I know that you are this stallion's boss mare, whose heart of gold is constant and true.”
I seldom get the last word with my little witch, but this time I did.
So I left her pleasantly contemplating my words with a smile on her lips, and went to the second stall to complete her directive – and get my revenge. Kráka was waiting, to all appearances demure and dejected, yet anxious to please her husband, but I was forewarned this time.
I smiled at her, ruffled her hair, and began speaking.
“I guess you got a stern talking-to from my little witch, just like I did.” I said, and she nodded carefully. “Well, we deserved it. We really were naughty last night, weren't we? I hope you liked your lettuce, for there's more where it came from and I'll be happy to provide the dressing – though preferably in private.” I said, and she blushed. She actually blushed and wrung her hands, looking incredibly guilty and ashamed! Could my little witch be wrong? It hardly seemed possible. Time to show Kráka who the master game player was!
“I'm thinking of staying in all day rather than working, so as to avoid your father, and I suggest you do the same. How do you feel about playing games this fine morning? We could use the opportunity to talk a bit and get better acquainted, for I have sadly neglected you these many years.” I asked.
“I'd love to,” she replied, “will Viola be joining us?”
“I'm afraid not. She's otherwise occupied, so I have in mind we start out by playing a fun two-player game to help us get acquainted. Now, as a new player I'm afraid your only winning move is not to play, but even so, would you like to play a game?” I teased.
“There is always a winning move!” she scoffed, “Don't think you can scare me off that easily.”
”Great”, I said, ”let's play 'Raid and Capture'!”
“Oh, I know that one. Can I be the raider?” she asked innocently.
“Not today, Kráka,” I responded with an lascivious grin, “today I'll be the raider, and we will be playing with a rather stiffer penalty than you are used to.”
Innocence fled as her face broke into a wicked grin dwarfing mine, and she exclaimed excitedly, “Hurrah! I've practised running for years in anticipation of this, and I am much faster than Viola. You really are the best, Sverker! But are you fast enough?”
As I stood stupefied, she concluded, “We have this huge and nearly empty longhouse as our field of play, at least for today, and it would be a real shame not to take advantage of the situation; Catch me if you can!”, and started running.
We spent the day getting to know each other, and my little witch arranged a huge and hearty lunch and supper for us, and at the end of day not only couldn't Kráka walk straight, I couldn't either, and my little witch put us both to bed.
