Magnus

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  3

  Spring had been late coming but had lifted the mist with zeal that morning. Savouring the warmth of the sun on her back, Modwen stood at her loom, with Alpia beside her.

  “Like this, remember?” Carefully, Modwen adjusted the heddle to separate the warp threads.

  Alpia took the shuttle in her hand, passing it through to the end of the row.

  “Don’t forget to use the beater.” Modwen brought it down with a gentle tap. “It keeps the weft even and makes the cloth strong and beautiful.”

  Alpia nodded, giving the task her concentration.

  Modwen kissed the top of her daughter’s head. How quickly she was growing up.

  The girl had been frightened by the arrival of the Norsemen, as they all had, but seemed now to be more at ease. Last night, she’d even served ale to the warriors, moving deftly from one to the next without spilling anything from her jug. Modwen hadn’t liked the idea, but no harm had come. The men had been boisterous but had kept the bawdiest of their behaviour for their brides.

  Except Magnus, of course. As soon as their vows had been spoken, and the boar’s throat cut, he’d removed to the forge. The evening hadn’t gone as she’d thought it might. He’d wanted nothing to do with her.

  Little wonder, perhaps. They were strangers, after all.

  But––still––she’d expected him to take what was freely offered. Most men would have. Instead, he’d appeared angry, though she couldn’t think why. He seemed not to understand her, and she knew none of his language, so it couldn’t have been anything she’d said.

  Ridiculous man!

  He’d slept on the forge’s hard floor, she supposed.

  Before dawn, she’d heard the Norsemen setting off to fulfil the first part of their bargain to Achnaryrie.

  ’Twill be a sorry day for the Nechtain, and for Eanfrith’s band of cutthroats! The thought came to her almost gleefully, before Modwen chided herself. A good Christian woman shouldn’t delight in the deaths of her enemies, even though they deserved it.

  A sudden yelp focused her attention.

  Outside Brigid’s hut, Taran was playing with Bram. The two boys were sparring with their wooden swords, inspired, no doubt, by the warriors who walked among them. Though Taran was taller, Bram had caught him under the ribs with the point of his little weapon.

  “Be careful!”

  Taran turned at Modwen’s warning but merely grinned.

  “I’m not hurt, Mother! We’re practising our fighting skills. I want to show Jerrik, Alarik, and Steinn when they return.”

  He wasn’t afraid at least, of these warriors who now held sway. Taran hadn’t mentioned Magnus, though. In truth, they’d hardly met. Modwen sighed. All things would come in time.

  She glanced towards the other end of the village, at the forest.

  Will he come back?

  Of course he would.

  From the other end of the row of huts, Eithne was approaching.

  Her father-in-law near death and her late husband’s sister in shackles, yet how calm she seems. Modwen frowned. It had been Eithne’s idea to make these marriage contracts. No doubt she was pleased. Wasn’t everything just as she’d hoped?

  Some of the Norsemen were to be sent to trade for grain, she’d heard, and there were plans to till the fields above the clifftops, making them ready for sowing. Already, work was underway. When the time came, Taran and Alpia could do their part, picking stones from the turned soil.

  “Such a lovely colour.”

  She jumped at Eithne’s voice. Modwen’s cheeks grew hot, but she inclined her head in recognition of the compliment.

  “Bitter vetch and wild cress for the dye. They give a deep violet, and I use saltwater for the fixing.”

  Modwen was proud of her knowledge. None other in Achnaryrie knew how to bring such vivid colours to wool nor wove their cloth so well. Even through these hard months, she’d been able to trade her weaving for provisions.

  In return for warm blankets and good cloth for a cloak, Ytha had brought rabbit for her pot all through winter. Modwen wondered how the girl was faring with her husband. A hulking brute, like all the rest. She’d looked for Ytha in vain at the feast.

  The girl spent most of her time in the forest and did none any harm, though there was something about her eyes. There were rumours, too, of her being cursed. The year she’d been born, the crops had failed. Modwen had been only a child at the time, yet she remembered something of it. Many in the village were wary of Ytha, but in truth, she was a gentle soul.

  Eithne was stroking the cloth upon the loom. “The shade will suit you. Your husband will think you well in it.”

  Modwen lowered her eyes. It was too shaming to admit that her Norseman found no pleasure in her. She’d worn her finest gown, of golden hue, for their marriage vows, the dye ground from cow weed and bracken roots.

  He’d barely glanced at her.

  As for his surly behaviour later that night, Modwen was humiliated to think on it.

  Meanwhile, it was evident that her friend was well content in her own match. The jarl had made no bones in choosing fair Eithne, and Modwen had noticed them soon slipping away to the privacy of their hut. As fierce as Brandr was, he must know how to please his bride, for Eithne was filled with serene radiance.

  Modwen pressed her lips closed, wishing to say nothing rather than betray her envy.

  It seemed that all Achnaryrie was taking advantage of the fine weather. Others had come to sit outside, bringing their chores into the sunshine, mending clothes and peeling vegetables. Three of the older women squinted at Modwen and Eithne––curious, she supposed. They were different now, wedded as they were to these Norsemen.

  Someone else was watching, too, from an open doorway. Modwen averted her gaze, having no wish to encourage him, but those eyes were not easily deterred.

  With his customary scowl, Fecir was approaching.

  Modwen swallowed and endeavoured to keep her expression neutral, but Eithne must have noticed her discomfort, for she looked fleetingly over her shoulder. Seeing who approached, she gave an apologetic half-smile.

  “I must get on.” Eithne touched Modwen’s arm. “Feidelm will want to see me.”

  No sooner had she departed than Fecir sidled up, his face soured and sneering. She knew his shoulder pained him––a wound sustained shortly after Galan’s death, and which had left him unable to raise his right arm––but he’d worn the same grimace even before.

  As her late husband’s uncle, he’d once spent much time in their home and had provided another pair of hands in the forge. But since her widowhood, Modwen had done her utmost to withdraw. Fecir had always been too familiar, finding ways to touch her that were unwelcome.

  In recent months, he’d made little effort to disguise his lewd suggestions. He’d even gone behind her back, pressing Domnall to agree that a wedding between them would be wise––that the children would benefit from his protection. Thank the heavens, Feidelm had intervened, urging that Modwen needed more time to grieve.

  Fecir brought his face close to Modwen’s, so close that his spittle landed upon her cheek.

  “Found someone good enough, have we?” His fingers clasped her forearm. “Someone you’ll open your legs for?”

  Modwen flinched and glanced at Alpia. “Let’s put aside our weaving for a while.” She forced herself to smile. “Fetch water from the stream and get your brother to help you. When Magnus returns, he’ll want to bathe. I’ve set the largest pot over the fire. Fill it to near the brim.”

  Fecir’s long nails dug through her sleeve. Modwen swallowed a cry of pain, not wanting him to know how much he was hurting her.

  “Was it rough?” His mouth curved in a leer. “I’ve heard they like it rough.”

  “He’s my husband, and it’s no business of yours.” She tried to wrench away, aiming a kick at Fecir’s shin, but his grip only tightened.

  Modwen’s eyes prickled with tears.

  “My forge, though, isn
’t it? Been in my family all these years.” He spat on the ground. “That filth has no right to come here taking what’s mine.”

  “It’s still in your family!” Modwen protested. “Taran needs to learn.”

  In one swift motion, she brought down her heel upon Fecir’s toes. Then, as he loosened his hold, she jabbed her elbow into his face. With a yelp, he raised his hands, cursing her.

  Modwen’s heart raced. Never before had she dared stand up to him. She was glad of it. Exhilarated! She should have done so long ago. But her stomach churned as hatred burned in his eyes. He wiped his wrist beneath his nose, leaving a smear of blood across his cheek.

  He clenched his left hand, and Modwen waited for him to strike her, but he seemed suddenly to think better of it.

  “I won’t forget.” He glanced at the group of older women, staring at them across the way, then hissed his parting words. “Fair is fair, wench, and I’ll have what’s mine.”

  4

  If he lived, it would be for Odin to decide, for the Valkyries would weave crimson slaughter on their loom this day.

  With a cold heart, he’d fight, and his armour would be Aegishjalmr, the Helm of Awe, inked upon his stomach, and Mjölnir—Thor’s own hammer—etched upon his arm. His back needed no chainmail nor reindeer hide for protection, for there was placed Odin’s own spear—Gungnir. These were his cloak, and he had no need for another.

  He took neither helmet nor shield, all the better to wield his weapons dual-handed. Like the dragon, Fafnir, he would wreak havoc on the sons of men, and all who beheld the symbols would cower, knowing the wrath of the true gods before they met the bite of his blade.

  The mighty ones of Valhalla had allowed Solveig to die, but he would honour them yet, showing he feared naught, to earn his place in the golden halls of the gods.

  Before dawn’s breaking, they moved with stealth through the forest’s great oaks, birch, and pine. How hushed it was, their footsteps soft upon velvet moss and long-sodden leaves, as if they were quite alone in the silent dark. Only now and then came the faint rustle of small creatures moving. If wolf or deer abided near, they kept their peace as the Norsemen passed.

  They emerged into mist upon fair meadows which marked the Nechtain tribe’s land, and found no one on watch, the settlement sleeping, unprotected. In a small pen, goats jostled, bleating quietly.

  The warriors of Skalanes drew their swords—Death-maker, Blood-hungry, Viper, and Wolf-fang. Magnus unsheathed Banamaðr—Slayer—from its scabbard. Forged from layers of steel in great heat, it was the equal of any.

  Together they would fight, each keen for the triumph of the kill, yet guarding the backs of those alongside. In this they were united, for no man battled alone, and the victory would serve them all.

  Quickly, they ranged from home to home, preparing for Brandr’s signal to attack, the jarl himself taking the largest dwelling. There, the chieftain must reside. With Olav and Magnus flanking him, Brandr found the door unbarred, though two guards dozed inside. Without hesitation, the Norsemen slit their throats.

  Finding the leader of their enemy snoring beneath a bed of furs, they dispatched him with similar ease, the only sound from his throat a strangled gurgle, the blood rising to his lips, and his eyes frozen in horror. His wife and three daughters they left unharmed to sob over his corpse.

  With Nechtain’s men caught unwary, the warriors’ task was swift. Few had chance to grasp a weapon before they were brought low. Some stood their ground, fighting as they believed they must, to defend those who quailed inside. Even the strongest proved little contest for the superior might of their foe. Their life streamed scarlet, hot to the soil.

  Knowing they were beaten, some threw down their arms. Others fled, leaving their women and children.

  Standing in the midst of that crimson scene, there came to Magnus the image of another time and place. Skalanes, on that fateful day—his own people caught unawares. And Solveig, who should have been safe in the forest…

  With axe drawn, Magnus took aim at a man some fifty paces off, running to save his own hide. He sent his weapon flying, tumbling head over grip to its target, landing with a thud that split the coward’s skull in two.

  The trial was over almost before it had begun, and those men of Nechtain who yet breathed, were brought to kneel upon the ground, to hear their fate.

  “No more will you trespass on those lands beyond the forest, unless it be to trade in peace or to deliver what you owe.”

  Brandr nodded to Olav and Thorolf, sending them to count the livestock penned and assess the stores.

  He looked long and hard at each wretch bent before him, and at the women and elderly who stood to one side, though none had the mettle to raise their gaze to meet his. The children he’d sent to wait in the chieftain’s hall, for ’twas better for them not to see what was to come.

  “There will be mercy for the old and the very young, and for your women,” spoke Brandr. “But the men of Nechtain must answer for the menacing of Achnaryrie, and a forfeit will be taken.”

  Following his jarl’s command, Magnus placed a log before the first, and Ragnar held the man’s right hand steady, his fingers laid vulnerable. The man raised his head, eyes wild with dread, attempting to struggle to his feet.

  Ragnar was obliged to cudgel him above the brow and, with blood dripping down his cheek, the man was stilled.

  Magnus made no delay in delivering the blade of his axe.

  The captive met the severance of his fingers with a ghastly scream and rolled back upon the ground, clutching the stumps to his chest, cut cleanly above the second knuckle.

  At this, the other men pleaded and made attempt to rise, but Garth, Alarik, and Jerrik were fast behind, pushing them back to their knees.

  One to the next, Magnus moved, his axe imparting the same portion, until the deed was done.

  Brandr’s voice was firm. “Of all you have, we expect you to deliver half to Achnaryrie on the morrow, and think us merciful that we leave you what remains.”

  It took some hours to locate Eanfrith’s camp. The sun was low in the sky before smoke rose in the distance and they smelt meat roasting. Just south of the forest, close upon the flow of Dunnock Burn, the company numbered near thirty men.

  Skirting through the shadow of the trees, ten of the warriors formed a line, preparing their spears—each as tall as a man and half yet again. The weapon’s iron point was sharp enough to pierce a man through. They were Magnus’s own handiwork, each arrow and spearhead crafted in his forge.

  The rest of Brandr’s warriors separated off, moving low through the long grass of the meadow to surround the other sides of the bandit camp.

  “Live by the sword, die by the spear,” joked Alarik, surveying the unsuspecting men. “And quickly, I hope, for my stomach’s eager for a leg of whatever cooks over yonder fire.”

  Jerrik and Steinn chuckled their assent, but Brandr hushed them.

  “Swift and sure, men of Skalanes! There will be time enough for feeding afterwards.”

  At the drop of his arm, they let fly their spears, and all but five met their mark, lodging through ribs and shoulders, one splitting a man clean through the neck.

  With fury, the others rose, and the true savagery of the day began.

  Bellowing his war cry, Magnus plunged into the melee, hacking on all sides. With a double thrust of sword and dagger, he slit the belly of one man and skewered another through the throat. A figure of eight with his sword severed a man’s hand from his arm. His fellow Vikings were at his back, but Magnus fought as if he would take on all alone, slashing left and right. If Eanfrith himself were among the slain, Magnus knew not. Each man was the same—a foe to be slaughtered, without pity.

  He roared in triumph, revelling in the power coursing through him, to bring pain and darkness and death. He became each man he killed, wearing their blood on his skin, the divide between life and death shimmering on the edge of his vision, a flickering shadow.

  At last, there w
as none standing to receive the bite of his sword, but one was yet alive, crawling through the long grass, dragging himself, bloodied and broken.

  Raising Slayer, Magnus drove the point of the blade into the base of the man’s skull. A quick end.

  He wiped the sweat from his face and joined the others.

  The roasting meat was a young sow. Magnus carved a slice from the belly and brought it to his lips. Hot and greasy, it was delicious.

  Despite all, the gods had no wish for him in Valhalla.

  Not yet.

  “Good to see you returned to your old self.” Brandr grinned, looking over at Magnus. “Thor’s own furnace has been boiling your blood.”

  Olav slapped Magnus’s back. “Aye! But, he’ll be catching his death from that bare-chest, now the battle’s done.”

  “Not Magnus!” Alarik declared, locking his elbow round Magnus’s neck. “He has a nice warm víf warming the bed. That’s what’s keeping his fire burning.”

  “Aye! And mine!” Steinn grasped the front of his trousers with a lewd gesture. “I’ve a kvenna of my own waiting, making my loins grow hot.”

  There was much laughter at that and a few choice comments on the assets of the new brides of Achnaryrie.

  Magnus shrugged off Alarik’s playful wrestling and held his peace. If they wanted to think him content, he’d say naught to change that. His woes were not those of other men, and there was no reason for them to bear his burden.

  “Salvage as much as you can,” Brandr directed. “Swords, daggers—whatever you can find. We’ll have need of the metal, if not of the weapons themselves. We’ll keep Magnus’s forge busy with these pickings. Be quick about it, for ’twill be easier to find our way back through the forest with some daylight to guide us.”

  Having bent to their task, Brandr came to walk alongside Magnus as they headed across the open field, returning to the forest’s edge. “I know your mind, old friend.”