The Templar’s Bowl
by
Peter “Lou” D’Alessio
Copyright © 2011
Chapter 13: The Grandson of Freydis Egillsdottir
There are certain advantages of being small in stature. I could crawl through minute tunnels under the Temple of Solomon, survive longer on less food or water than a larger man, and in general snake my way into the tiniest of openings as required of an action. As de Flor was taking his own sweet time deciding to try and save me or not, I decided to try and slip my right hand under the wrist that held the knife at my throat and slide quickly out from underneath the blade. And I did so, pushing up and off the seat, I sat upon and drove the back of my head into the mouth of my assailant. It stunned him for an instant and I broke free, drew my own dagger and turned to face him. I felt a hand grab my collar and pick me quickly off the ground and yank me to my back across the table. The hand shifted to the center of my chest and held me down. I looked up. De Flor was leaning his body over mine and pulling from under his jacket not his weapon but his purse, which he dropped with a thud to the table. I looked in a panic to my attacker.
Standing between my legs and looking down at me in an examining fashion was, by the conical helmet and animal skin jacket he wore, a Viking. He wore no chain mail or armor, and outside of a small axe on his belt and the knife in his hand he carried no weapon. Unlike what I had been told, he was unusually clean and neat. His helmet had a wide nasal guard that, in the low light of tavern, gave him a certain kind of unearthly evil look. I saw his eyes roll up to look at de Flor. In a gruff voice he said to the Captain, “The little bastard does have some fight, Roger. I think I like him!”
De Flor chuckled. “Paisan,” he said, “this is our new master, Askold Guthrumsson.” He lifted his restraining paw and I rose up. I could see clearly the blonde man in front of me was well over six feet tall and solidly built. As I slid off the table I remembered Theo’s advice to fear no man. As my feet touched the floor, I leapt as fast and as high as I could and with both fists, slammed the Viking as hard as I might right below the nasal guard in the same spot my head had contacted. He flew backwards and bounced off the wall and back in my direction. I came up with both elbows and caught him with all the force I could muster right in the chest. His feet went out from under him and he dropped like a stone to the floor. Before de Flor could move, I leaned over the fallen behemoth.
“I don’t care if you’re Christ’s second cousin on His mother’s side. If you ever put a knife to my throat again, I promise you, Viking, one of us will die!”
Askold Guthrumsson pushed himself up off the floor. As he rose, his hand slowly moved to the axe on his belt. I thought we were going to go at it again, but he griped it by the head and held the handle towards me. “Yer’re right, boy. I should have known better. A poor joke.” I could see his body relax as he flexed his jaw. “ ’Ere! Take it! A blood gift from the chieftain of the Varangian.” He pushed the axe towards me and looked at de Flor, pushing his jaw back and forth into place. “Dammit, Roger. Little bastard hits like you. Now I know I like him. Can ’e sail?”
De Flor looked at me. “Like a Viking, Askold, like a Viking! Now tell me about the new ship I just purchased.”
The first thing Askold did after receiving de Flor’s heavy purse was to buy another round. He was an education all by himself. Guthrumsson was a chieftain of the Varangian, the tribe of Norse that had settlements in Istanbul and Baghdad. But while his tribe had traded all through Serkland—the Muslim world—he himself (as was his tribe) was a secret friend of Templars and Christians. The wink of de Flor’s eye led me to believe he might be slightly more of a Christian than the Emir of Palestine!
These wild Norse were, in truth, becoming Christianized, and it was slowly destroying a great warrior culture. Saint Óláfr was systematically lopping off hands, feet, and heads or plucking out the eyes of non-believers. For this reason, the European, Roman, and Byzantine Christians saw them as dangerous savages. Nobody wanted to recall that Charlemagne took 4,500 pagan heads in one day. Never the less, the Danes and Swedish Christians had participated in the Baltic Crusades as true Christian warriors.
But as far as I could gather through my newly acquired vice of wine, Askold was definitely still very proud of his pagan heritage. His ancestors, Danish pirates, had sailed through the Gibraltar, raided the state of Nakur and held the King’s harem for ransom until the Emir of Cordoba paid a huge sum. He boasted of his grandmother, Freydis Egillsdottir, fighting off and killing three pirates with a broad axe, her belly hanging out with a child near-ready for birth. He himself had been all through Serkland and even sailed to the settlements of Kiev in Rus. He was a leader who gave much gold and silver to his warriors, all of who would stand loyal to him until death! And while he possessed land and wealth in great quantity in Serkland, Rus, and the homelands of the Danes, what he valued most was his ship, his mail and armor, a broad axe fit for a god, and a great sword of steel he had bought with ten male slaves and eighty head of oxen. He now sailed as captain and commander of Dragonships—Viking warships, literally fit for a king—in the service of the Temple of Solomon. He was proud of all the wealth he had liberated for their causes (and himself). I had learned on the Saint Anne that de Flor was king of the tall sea tale. As that was the case, then Askold was truly the Emperor. As he talked, I turned the short axe he had given me over and over in my hands, an act that didn’t go unnoticed.
“You like the small axe, don’t you boy!” The Viking slapped a palm hard down on the table, causing the bar maid bringing us another round to jump. As she leaned forward, Askold very craftily peered into her open neckline. Looking up with a big grin, he continued. “A man doesn’t have to be of large stature to be a great warrior, lad. On a ship, it works for you better’n even a good sword. It don’t take’r lot a room or muscle to drive that blade through a helmet. You be movin’ it like a sword, lad. Don’t!”
De Flor, who had chosen to sit quietly and observe how the Viking and the young Saxon would mix, spoke at last. “The blade trumpets out wide, paisan, with the weight of the head behind it, so drive it straight down and let it do your work! Not like driving nails with a hammer. Here!” The Captain slapped my shoulder. “From here! Throw your whole body weight into it.”
The Viking nodded. “Aye, boy. Do that on a helmet, yer’ll split a man’s head in two. Now! Hold the knife in yer other hand!”
It became obvious to my two companions, or so they say, that I had been trained to handle weapons, but I swore (quite profusely—a gift from my new vice) that I had not. As they adjusted my footwork for the tenth time, two men appeared in the doorway. “Come on,” De Flor said quietly. “We’re leaving.”
We rose and moved for the doorway. The men waiting for us were Dane Viking no doubt, but both had a queer familiarity. The taller of the two looked very much like de Flor, and while the shorter of the two also looked familiar, I couldn’t quite place him. They moved apart to allow us to walk between them and when we did, the man on my left quietly began to walk closely to the tavern’s front and disappeared down the ally way next to it. Askold and the other man turned away in the other direction. When I looked at de Flor, he smiled broadly for all the world to see and said quietly, “Don’t say a word, just keep walking.” He threw his arm around my shoulder and guided me up a walkway past the shops, leading us to a dead end far off the street. All three Vikings were there waiting for us already. As we walked towards them, the Captain began removing his outer jacket and tunic. “Take your shirt off, lad,” he said. To my amazement, the two strange new Vikings were also stripping their shirts off. It was then that I realized what was happening—we were switching places with these men. The Captain looked at me to see if I understood. “Didn’t you wonder why I rarely talked with the Pilgrims and only came on deck at night?”
Askold pointed to his two comrades. “The big one is Swen Naddoddr, the little ugly one is Hramur.” I looked at my double. He was older than I, but was the same overall size and color. “What Hramur has forgotten about horses, lad, is more than you’ll ever know about them.” When I thought about it, it made sense. The horses were below deck. People could see me working but couldn’t see me—or at least, not my face. Just the back of my head.
Another myth about Vikings was dying. I had always been led to believe that the Norse were mere savages, mindless killers who hunted you for the slave trade. These mindless savages had in moments found a double that not only knew horses and looked like me, but also came wearing pants that matched the color of the pants I was wearing. They had done all this without a living soul seeing them and in an astonishingly short time.
When we were done and night was beginning to fall, hands were shaken, palms greased, and we went our separate ways—they to the Saint Anne, we and Askold to a freshly made Dragonship hidden eight miles down the coast in a very secreted cove. By the way, Vikings can ride like the wind when they want to.
She was a true beauty, a work of art that merely pressed its lips to the sea and flew with the greatest ease over the water like it had been greased. This was the ship I had dreamed of in another place and time. So many would have you believe all Viking ships had the dragon’s head, but not so. A Dragonship was a warship. It could hold two hundred armed warriors and, as I was to learn, was usually captained by a Chief or King. It could carry food, water, horses... and booty. As soon as we hit deck, the Chief of the Varangian walked me astern, put the rudder in my hand, and told me not to save any Norseman who was stupid enough to get washed overboard. If he found me with one hand on the rudder and the other on a collar, he’d cut both hands off—and I believed him! I was ordered to pick Polaris out of the night sky and head west towards the Aegean. Like a great hawk of the sea, we flew from port silently and slipped away unnoticed. Four Karves that seemed to appear from the sea met us and our fleet headed out to open water.
As I was to learn, the ship was “rented” permanently by the Temple of Solomon, and Roger de Flor would be the captain as soon as we reached a Templar port and crew. Although it was never said so, I was not so much a first-time seaman as an understudy to two remarkable (if not some what shady) Captains. Both were quite willing to work me until I dropped. I stood my turn at the rudder, then one or the other would grab me to do a job few sailors would be given. It began to bother the fabled Viking pride. Grumbling was becoming commonplace and it was starting to bother me, but I held silent to the Captains rather than whine of the complaints. And, as I was already used to giving orders to sailors and being obeyed, I had rubbed a few Vikings roughly to get things done. A slightly portly sailor named Egil had the gall to ignore my order to secure a line and shoved past me. I gave him ten feet and, with one hand on a rudder again, tossed my short axe at his head. By luck or design, it caught him with the blunt end and he toppled like a felled tree. That ended the problem of getting no respect. From thence on, it was accepted that I was one to be in command and was taken into the circle of warriors who sailed for Askold Guthrumsson, and it raised me to equal status of the Captains. I ate with the crew, slept with the crew, worked and played with them. Even Egil came over. In time I came to learn that the crew had drawn lots to test this new Captain, to see what he was made of. Egil lost.
I had never been on a ship like this. It was an aging design, but could still out-sail the best of the European fleets. It was off the waters of Cyprus that, after several months of sailing in what seemed to me to be an aimless voyage, we pulled off of the fleet. Where they were bound for I knew not, but as soon as they were out of sight, the flag of Sidon was raised on the mast. There was a strange feeling on the deck, a tenseness or restlessness that seemed to overtake the crew... and me. The sail pushed us along but the oars were at the ready. Two days went by. As I ended my turn at the rudder and prepared for a meal and some needed sleep, a great commotion rose. I did not know what was being said in their strange tongue, but they all pointed to something on the eastern horizon. Where the sky met the blue water, three sails appeared on the horizon. I could not tell if they were square or triangular. Before they could grow to a size to know, I was seized by my arm and taken forcefully back to the rudder. De Flor chased the helmsman there up forward and literally tossed me at the tiller. “Pick the biggest and ram it. Head on, if you have to!” I was going to respond but the Captain continued. “Don’t worry about this ship, it’s a hell of a lot sturdier than those Arab lake bobbers.” And then he was gone. I drew a deep gulp of air and tried to stay above the chaos as men ran about and ships drew nearer.
Out of nowhere a wooden Viking shield flew at me and landed at my feet. I did not mind, as having a shield might be good idea—helmsmen made great targets for archers. As I picked it up, I could see Egil, sword drawn and shield high, was running towards me and in three bounds was standing next to my shield. With a great ferocity he shouted at me, “Me, hew! Me, hew!” all the while banging his shield with his sword, and I knew his meaning. Holding the rudder in place tightly in one hand I started banging my shield against it. In seconds it spread to all the warriors, and as our lone ship charged our prey it must have sounded as if we were a great angry bull, snorting and roaring.
I hit at the Arab bow on the tiller side. Men were screaming as pots of fire were hurled and the sound of oars cracking split the air. Arrows flew in all directions and I was thankful to God for my brother Egil and his shield and sword. I had found my target, and she was foundering badly. I turned the great Dragon about and ran at the second ship.
I felt a jolt as if we had struck a rock. But something was very, very wrong. This was neither a Templar vessel, nor a Viking dragonship. It was a ship of my Father’s fleet. I had seen it, knew the crew. I heard the screams of dying men and the ship being blown asunder. I saw my father shouting orders to his crew. I could not observe the ocean clearly. Were we past our attacker? Was he in front of us?
