Sven Ole Svensen was born in Bergen, Norway, the third son of Sven Haraldsen, Lord Lillenskiold. Sven's father, “Sven Kjetil Haraldsen,” was the first Norwegian to own a house (warehouse) within the Hanseatic League. (Note: Bergen was the only Non-German office ever.) Being the third son of noble birth, Sven would not have seen a title or position only the privilege of birth. Sven trained to be a soldier from the time he was old enough to pick up a sword. Years of apprenticeship past, he reaped the rewards of his training and developed a liking for the rugged life of a soldier. He was even appointed an officer in the Norwegian Royal Guard!

His fortunate familial ties had assured him a commission and the rank of Kaptain. The Norwegians at this time we not warring with anyone. (For once! ~webmistress) Garrison duty was tedious. After a period of social events and parades with regret he resigned his commission and went out in the world looking for an army to actually fight for.

The world of the 1500’s was a place of learning, discovery and burgeoning science; it was also a place to find war! Sven saw many things that would haunt him in the ensuing years. There were times he could see he was on the wrong side of the conflict as well as times when he was with those in the right! By conducting himself with honor first and foremost he survived and gave a good accounting of himself earning his pay may times over.

After many camps and many employers, he received a letter from his eldest brother, Eric. It told him of his mother’s failing health. He had not been home for several years and the fastest passage back to Norway took several months. To his misfortune he arrived too late! He paid his respects, mourning for a period as was proper for the time. Then he decided to stay in Bergen for a while.

Sven had done well as a soldier and had acquired a modest wealth. The idle time in Bergen should have brought him more since he invested a good sum with his father. And a sum it did bring. Sven’s growing horde was enough wealth to draw the jealous attentions of Eric his oldest brother. Eric was a vain and prideful man could not abide by Sven’s business acumen. After all, Eric spent his life knowing that as heir to the family lands and name he should be the one acquiring wealth. Blinded by jealousy, Eric set his sights on disposing of both Sven and his money.

Sven went to his second brother, Roald, for help! Roald was, as tradition warranted, a priest. The good father had his own troubles, however. He was secretly to leave for a monastery with a fellow priest. There had been rumors floating about for some time regarding Roald and the priest. These rumors appeared to have drawn Eric’s interest as well. Roald and Sven being much closer to each other either was to Eric drew up a plan. Roald explained the rumors were true but the only one that had known for certain had been Eric! Eric had betrayed his younger brother. Both of his younger brothers, evidently; for Eric had been controlling all of their father’s investments both in and out of the league. Eric intended to keep it all for himself, a plan that would only work if both Sven and Roald were gone, disgraced or dead. Eric had advised Sven that a caravan to England might make a goodly profit. Eric would send Sven as Hansgraf with one of his trusted advisors to assist. The advisor was a doctor. Sven knew the he would soon have a serious illness if the doctor was about. If he was not careful, he would most likely find himself dead from a fever somewhere in England, leaving his brother to control the family wealth.

Sven decided the best way to handle this was to take a side trip to Ireland. Upon arrival in the old Viking colony of Dublin he went to a pub described to him by a comrade at arms. He made some discrete inquiries then left the pub for his ship. Walking past a marketplace, he spotted a local mead seller in a corner and thought to fetch himself a bottle. He might even find a wench or two to share with. He walked, bottle in hand, past an alley. There on the ground he spotted a gold shilling.

After retrieving it and sending a prayer of thanks to God and then one to the old Norse gods just to be safe, he felt an arm slip around his neck and the point of a dirk press behind his ear. He froze! Perhaps he should have thanked the old Norse gods first. A decidedly feminine voice spoke into his ear with a sweet Irish lilt. "Hello Kaptain Svensen; I heard ya might be havin a wee problem."

Sven replied, “Well, if I did not before I believe I might have one now!” As she began to chuckle Sven dropped spun and drew steel. He stopped short realizing he was dealing with a beautiful woman. The tall woman ignored Sven's drawn blade and promptly sheathed her dirk. “Since I really doont have an acquaintance who can attest to me skill I thought this would be the best way to show you.” Her lips curled into a mischievous smile. “I am Brona MacCarthy, at your service.”

"The hell you are,” Sven replied, still a bit shocked. “I have seen you likeness posted in the Port! You lass, are none other than Tempest Fianna, the Pirate!”

She looked amused and said, “Well does that mean I do or doont get the job?”

“Why would you want to hire out for a small problem like mine and what is it you'll be wanting from me?”

“Ya see there is the crux of it,” she said, her head tilting to one side as if assessing him. ”I’ve spent many a year harassin’ the English and they have no great love for me and mine. A recent encounter’s shown me that it’s time I retire from the rebellion. I have a couple of wee ones who have already lost their da. The only force powerful enough to shield me from the crown’s justice is the League. Not to mention that wee bounty the League may have on Tempest’s head.”

***

Sven’s kogge, The Johanna, set sail from London two-weeks prior. She was docking in Barcelona having passed through the straits of Gibraltar a few days earlier. The cargo was stockfish and some English wool. Several new merchants had joined the caravan though Sven unfortunately had lost the advisor so kindly sent by his brother. It seems the good doctor had a misfortune with his food while dining privately with Mistress Brona. The caravan would need to find another doctor in Spain.

The food on the trip had been better than expected. Sven had acquiesced to a request from the merchants for a new cook: Mistress O'Beyme. She and her scullery wenches could work miracles with a cook fire! Sven decided he would have to keep them on all the way to England.

Master Sean of Amorica joined the merchants from one of the League’s older kontors. The salt merchant wished to go on to Bergen when the caravan finished in England. The purchases in Barcelona were going well, however the wine was becoming problematic. Despite being raised in a noble household, Sven had only acquired a taste for mead and cider, not fine wines. Strange things happen in ports, though. Sven entered a tavern frequented by sailors and dockworkers when he heard an obviously German voice yelling at the barkeep.

"You call this svill vine? By all the gots, man, this is not fit for human consumption! I vould not even feed this to the svine aboard our ship."

Sven approached the man. “You’re right. This is bloody horrible! You, my friend, saved me some coin by warning of the bad wine. What say you we go find an establishment for a more refined taste? I may have an offer for you.” The pair made for the exit as Sven continued, “By the way, what, sir, is your name?”

The man replied "Andreas Fuchs. Lately a navigator and formerly a spirit and wine founder." Sven just nodded and smiled.

Holdyn, one of Mistress O'Beyme’s helpers, and a regular jack was leading a ram aboard the Johanna. It was a large wooly beast. The new doctor, a young Don Neber, was yelling something to the crewman. Sven chuckled as he realized the young crewman Holdyn was still learning English. No one aboard knew where Holdyn was from and the young man was having a tough time learning. Sven could see why. The confusion stemmed from the doctor’s heavy accent.

Don Neber looked to be a fine addition to the caravan. He was unfortunately burdened by his hag of a mother, Donna Azu and her daughter whom the pair were trying to marry off. Azu had strange ideas about whom she should marry her daughter to; she spoke with every old sick noble she could find. Spaniards! They are all crazy Sven thought to himself. Why they don’t even speak a civilized tongue.

Sven was looking forward to catching up with Olav who was already marshalling the beasts together for the Caravan he should have some interesting new people with him!

Sven Ole Svensen
Jan 3rd 1593