The Bearsarkr's Ride

Well, towards the end of their travels in europe, Bear and Rauda went seperate ways. Rauda settled back in Sherwood Forest, whilst Bear moved to Scotland, a little village just south of the Ochils. but try as they might, the peaceful life wasn't for them. And this is the tale of they sorted that...
Intellectual property of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz
Warnings Violence, reference to Death, Alcohol. You know, the common ones in the Accidental Viking saga...

(Note. Recent Events are leading to Retconning most of the Accidental Vikingr tales set AFTER Outremer. This falls amongst those. Furthermore, to move more into keeping with the setting, certain character names are being changed. Sir Jared shall be referred to as Jehan, and Sir Javier [Where he appears] as Iuliano. Sorry...)



Not far outside the second village south of Dunmaetea lived an old man. He had only lived there for a few years, and none knew who he had been before he had arrived. Some said he had been a monk... He kept fish like monks did, he could read and write as monks did, and he never missed a Mass. Still others claimed he had been a sailor... occasionally he would ship out with the fisherman, and none could match him at the oars or with the sail. There were even those who said he had been a warrior or a knight. He always spoke with courtesy, and acted with honour, and was comfortable and more than comfortable with hilt or haft in his hand. The rumours abounded, and some were even close to the truth. Perhaps if they had seen him when the Bards came through, when the tale was told of the Redjay and the Bear, they might have guessed. For a little smile would appear on his face, and he would lean slightly closer to the storysteller.
Whilst he was rarely in the village except for Mass or the occasional peddlers visit, he never missed a Bard, or Minstrel, or Troubadour, or Skald. It was just sheer luck that the courier came into the village at the same as a young minstrel. As the village gathered in the square, the courier took aside the headman for a brief, whispered conversation. Just as the minstrel stepped into the middle of the circle of villagers, the Headman and the Courier walked in to join them. Facing the assembled people, the Headman spoke. 'The Courier here has a request to make of us.' With those words he stepped aside and gestured to the short, curly-haired Courier, who in turn strode forward, and addressed those present. 'I seek the man who calls himself Bernard Weftwork. Do you know where he can be found?' As mutters passed around the circle he paused. When no response was forthcoming, He proffered money, holding up a small sack of coins.
At this the old man responded. 'Still your tongue' he called, carefully sliding a sgian dubh, the short bladed stabbing knife of the scots, out of his right boot, backhanding it and turning his wrist to hide it behind his arm. 'And keep your money.' he continued, slipping a dirk from its scabbard in the lower leg of his trews, and concealing it in his grip as well. 'These people don't know who you be talking about' He said as he rose slowly and uncertainly to his feet. 'And you do?' came the swift rejoinder. As the old man stepped forward, dirk under his cloak and blade of the sgian dubh hidden in his sleeve he responded. 'Mayhaps. Depends whose asking and why.' 'I bear him a message. Thats what couriers do.' Was the curly-haired youths answer. To this, the old man laughed. 'You've found him then... What be the message?' he asked, sliding the dirk into his belt, and extending his left hand.
The courier reached under his own cloak to pull a oilskin tube of his back. About 3 feet long, it was very narrow, and when he recieved it he flipped the sgian dubh round in his wrist and lopped off the top. He tipped the tube upside down and caught the message as it fell out. It was an arrow. A Clothyard shaft, the sort of thing loosed from a longbow, the fletching was died a bright red, and the business end was a heavy steel broadhead. Wrapped around the middle of the shaft was a scrap of parchment, but the old man was paying no attention to it. His eyes had taken on a far away look, and there was even a tear at the corner of his eye. The sgian dubh went into his belt, and he then stroked the arrowhead 'Not seen one of these in years.' he said, his voice cracking. 'Broadhead, Mankiller' his hand left the arrows head and ran through the fletching, before he unwrapped the note. He read it quickly, and when his head lifted, there was no tear in his eye, and the years seemed to fall off him. 'Get your horse, boy.' he ordered the courier. 'We leave the second hour before dawn. Theres a faire at Stirling starting the morrow, and if I be to answer this, I'll be needing horseflesh under me. You can bed down at mine, but I'll no be sleeping the night.'
Twas not more than half an hours trek to the old mans croft, and the villagers had followed him, curious about who the old man actually was. The courier, suspecting he had a long ride come morning, had bedded down in the village, curled up under his cloak on the chapel floor. The old man's croft was small, a single room with a hearth, dirt floor, a bedroll in one corner, and two flat-topped chests in the center, seated on a set of rough-hewn timbers, and clearly used as a table. As soon as he was in the door, he began to strip, caring not for his large audience. As his undertunic came off he slipped a pair of iron keys out of a pocket on the inside. The villagers could see the scars covering his naked back, and the narrow chain hasped around his neck. There was a collective gasp as he dropped his trews, for it was unheard of for a christian man to do so in public. Such a thing was a sin, and a crime, but worse was yet to come. As he walked around the chests and turned to get at the one furthest from the door, the pendant hanging from his chain could be seen. It was a hammer, an emblem of the heathen gods of the Norsemen.
The chest opened, and from it he drew a pair of colourful silken trousers, which he promptly donned. Over these went an undertunic of cotton, and a Gambeson. He then took a mailled hauberk from the chest, and layed it on his bedroll. On top of that was placed a linen arming cap, a maille coif, and a spectacled helm in the old norse style. A surcoat of silk, lined with linen was placed folded next to the armour, but the light of the fire was not enough to tell the colours. Maille Chausses, leg-guards, and a sheet of pale linen followed, the Chausse with the armour and the cloth with the surcoat. Lastly he drew forth a pair of maille-backed gauntlets and dropped them beside the helm. He then closed the chest and dragged it off the timbers, leaving it at the side of the room. From the other chest he drew a set of saddlebags, lashed together with rawhide thongs and strapped like a ruck. They were already packed and looked heavy, in fact, they were the only things in that chest. As soon as the ruck was placed next to his armour, both chest were sitting together, and the timbers were clear.
This was a good thing, as the old man proceeded to heave them out of the way, propping them against the wall of the hut. Under them had been dug a small pit, from which he drew a covered shield, The heavy Kite shield favoured by the Normans, and a selection of weapons. There was a sword, with the Norman style crossguard, but a Trilobed pommel in the norse style. There was a cross-hilted dagger, 18 inches of razored killing steel, the wavy patterns visible on its surface marking it as eastern forged, and highest quality. There were two axes, One a hand axe, a norse Skeggox, and the other a Varangian crescent axe, a huge two handed brute, with both blades filigreed in silver. Lastly was a winged spear, the head of frankish make, and the haft of finest ash. Following them were scabbards and rings and quivers and holders for all them. Once the last of them had been removed, the door closed, and he spent the night sitting in silence, with only the pale light of his dying fire, honeing and polishing his steel.
Two hours before dawn, the courier was woken by a pole butting into his ribs. 'Get Up. We March to Stirling. We'll be there for dawn.' The courier could not recognize the man facing him for a minute. His boots were heavy leather, the sgian dubh tucked into his right, his body covered in maille. His surcoat of green and white was tied round the waist with pale linen, pulled wide in the front to show the black raven embroidered on it. his helm was dented but serviceable, and the flap of his coif hung open revealing a long red beard peppered with silver. At his belt hung Axe, Sword and Dagger. On his back hung his Kite shield, and the great crescent axe. His left hand was empty, the large ruck lying on the ground beside him, and in his right he held a spear, the butt of which he had just finished prodding the poor courier with.
As the courier wearily stood, the old man reached into his bag and pulled something out. He lobbed it to the courier, who caught it and looked at it without understanding 'Whats this?' 'Well... when I walked past your horse, I couldn't see blade. And you don't seem to have one at your belt, so you may well need it. Hang it from your belt.' At that the courier unwrapped the linen package to find himself holding the old man's dirk. 'I'm Jehan by the way, once, long ago, a knight. You?' The old man asked. The courier, securing the blade to his belt looked up. 'I'm Robert. What makes you think I'm going with you?' 'The Note. Lady Rauda payed you to fetch me and bring me back. Come on, lets go.' And so they set off. Stirling was about two hours on foot, and once there, Jehan found himself a decent horse at the faire. As soon as they had that and some supplies, they set off south to meet Jehan's old Companion.
It made a change to his travel techniques. Not a single bar-room brawl ended in more blood than that which comes from a broken nose or two. Nobody in his path wound up dead, or even heavily maimed, and it seemed to be almost no time before the pair of travellers wound up near Nottingham, in the great forest of Sherwood. 'Now what?' asked young Robert. 'Now, we ride, we look conspicuous, not something I've ever had a problem with mind you, and we wait for Raidho to find us.' 'Raidho?' At this point a redfletched arrow thudded into a tree beside Jehan's head 'THE REDJAY' came a bellow from the woods... a fairly feminine bellow. Robert cringed, for tales of the Redjay had had decades to spread. She and a man called only the Bearsark had cut a swathe of death through Scotland, England, and Wales, and when the reward on their heads hit the point that it wasn't safe for them to stay on the island, they put to sea, first with a merchant ship, before sailing with the Vikingr, even reaching as far east as Constantinople before returning and heading their seperate ways.
All was silence for a few minutes before the call came from a different part of the woods. 'Who trespasses on MY forest.' in the same voice as the first bellow. As Robert tried to think of a reply that would not end with him taking a red-fletched broadhead through the chest, his companion turned his head to face where the voice had came from, threw it back, and roared into the sky. 'Bearsark?' queried the voice, and then the woman threw herself out of the forest. Her hair was long, dark and curly, and her face was tatooed with woad. At her belt was strung a sword, clearly well-used, and a quiver of redfletched arrows. A longbow was held in her hand. She wore a short tunic of unbleached linen, covered with a heavy red waistcoat. 'It is you!' 'Well Of course it's me.' Came Jehan's casual response, which was immediately followed by him sitting up straight, staring her straight in the eyes, and him making a very formal speech. 'By My Oath You Summoned Me, And By My Oath I Have Come. Let The Gallows God, The Lord Of Thunders And The One-Handed One Witness This, And Hold Me Faithful.' At this, Robert blanched, and the Redjay laughed. 'You and your Oaths. Yes, I called you. Where have you been hiding?'
'Scotland, Up by the Forth. For far too long. Is it time for us to ride again? Sympathy is thirsty...' 'We ride. And this time we ride with cause.' 'We always had cause... Wasn't always good cause...' Robert could see the memories drifting across their faces... The first fights where they were foes, The battle which shifted them to allies. It had been a pub fight, like any other, until the bounty hunter after the outlaw said something the guard who had her in custody didn't like... From there one thing proceeded to another proceeded to a dead bounty hunter, a guardsman being outlawed and an outlaw gaining an ally. From there it had been a trail of pubs, brawls, and killings until the money on their heads caused them to seek other shores... They shipped out on a trading cog, but when it was taken by Vikingr raiders, they wound up sailing with them. The end of the raiding season, they followed some of their newfound comrades east, first to the lands of the Rus, and then south to Constantinople, called Miklagaard. They fought with the Varangian Guard until word came that things had quitened down back home, and then they returned. Now the chance had come for the two of them to ride together again, and they were ready to relish the affray.