Ragnar the Murderer

by Byrne, Lily

  Saehild simply let all her hair fall free about her shoulders. She had washed it that morning, adding vinegar to make it shine. Her blue eyes and clear skin glowed. Aelfwyn couldn’t help being proud of her beautiful sister.

  She didn’t realise that actually Saehild envied her darker hair, a soft light brown instead of the usual blonde with grey green eyes instead of blue. Saehild thought if she had Aelfwyn’s colouring as well as her height and strong figure, she would look perfect, but she couldn’t have everything. Just having Bjarni would suffice.

  Saehild’s blue over dress symbolised virginity. It brought out the blue of her eyes and set off her creamy skin and golden hair perfectly. Her shoulder brooches didn’t match, the gold was from her grandmother, with scallops round the outside and dots surrounding the intertwined leaves. Her father had given her the other, plainer brooch, silver with a man’s face on.

  Aelfwyn wore her green dress, also to bring out the colour of her eyes. Her mother had complained in the past how it was hard to find a colour to complement her darker hair and skin. But Aelfwyn was grateful she’d made the effort and dyed the wool the correct colour. She wore matching silver brooches however, with an open cross in the centre surrounded by interweaved twists.

  The burned tree seemed deserted, but as the girls reached it, Bjarni and Ragnar stepped out from behind. They were not wearing their Huskarl uniforms but for once different colours: Ragnar wore a golden brown tunic edged with a wool pattern of animals, his trousers a rusty red. Bjarni’s tunic was violet, edged with blue silk, his trousers blue. Both wore round wool caps and intricately worked leather belts.

  “Good evening,” said Bjarni, eyeing the giggling Saehild up and down. Aelfwyn felt too shy to look at anyone.

  “At the feast, it is better if you do not talk and laugh too loudly, just keep quiet and do not attract attention,” instructed Ragnar.

  “He’s so bossy,” muttered Saehild to Aelfwyn. “When he’s my lover, he’ll obey me.”

  “Sh!” Aelfwyn blushed at her sister’s audacity. Ragnar’s hearing was as acute as a bat’s, he must have overheard.

  “We intend to enjoy tonight. It’s Aelfwyn’s last night of freedom,” said Saehild melodramatically.

  “How so?” asked Bjarni.

  “She is going to be betrothed to an old man in our village.”

  “Saehild!” Aelfwyn blushed again.

  “Why?” asked Ragnar.

  “Our parents think she is not going to get any other offers.”

  Aelfwyn really wished she hadn’t told her sister. The Danes did not know what to say, perhaps they were embarrassed too.

  “Anyway, we should all enjoy tonight, whatever happens tomorrow.” Aelfwyn tried to be more positive.

  Ragnar laughed. “That is what Danes say. You will fit in well.”

  They set off for the feast, uphill past the wood to Hallfridby.

  *

  The Danish feasting hall was huge, a wooden building with a slightly curved roof. Wooden poles supported a lower porch roof all round the outside with the main door at the short end of the building.

  The sisters entered with their Danish escorts, aware that they were the subject of speculation. Saehild stopped and shook her hair with a flourish, adjusting her dress sleeve and enjoying being observed. Aelfwyn tried to avoid the Danes’ gaze-difficult as she stood in the centre of the room. She heard them all whispering about her too, picking out the odd recognisable word.

  There were benches round the side of the hall with tables set in front of them, leaving room in the middle for the entertainment to take place. Torches were set in the walls, the flames flickered intensely, showing the long wooden pillars supporting the ceiling in a U shape and beams lining the roof. Aelfwyn wondered how the building hadn’t burnt down, but she assumed the wood must be coated with something to prevent it catching fire.

  The Jarl, a ruddy faced, grey haired man of forty, banged on the table with his fist. He sat next to his wife, the lady Yngvild. In her late twenties, the lady had a round, friendly face and pale complexion. A head-rail hid her hair modestly, to the sisters’ surprise, giving her an air of respectability.

  The Danes turned to their lord. He made an announcement, only about half of which the sisters understood.

  Bjarni and Ragnar exchanged glances and led them to two vacant seats. The two men sat down, leaving the sisters standing. They were a distance from the Jarl, as befitted novice Huskarlr.

  “We sit. You serve.” Bjarni said, with regret. Aelfwyn noticed that all the seated guests were men and boys, while women and girls served them food and ale. So, similar to Anglisc feasts but at the same time odd.

  The harp and lyre’s melodious tones began, filling any awkward silence.

  Danish women pushed past Aelfwyn and Saehild, carrying horns of ale. Bjarni and Ragnar took one each and turned away to their friends.

  Aelfwyn set her jaw, and seized another horn of ale from a Danish woman, who was so surprised she didn’t resist. Aelfwyn handed it to another man at the table, who smiled. The Danish woman handed more horns to Aelfwyn and she became part of the serving group, putting on a false smile.

  Saehild, meanwhile, turned her nose up at the work. She stood by Bjarni, looking round the hall and not moving out of the way. She hindered everyone so much that he relented and let her sit down next to him, amidst mutterings and looks of disapproval. She found herself between him and another novice Huskarl with strikingly blond hair, even for a Dane.

  Large chunks of meat were presented to the men on wooden plates.

  “What is that?” asked Saehild.

  “Horse. It was sacrificed.” Bjarni took his knife, cut a small piece and offered it to her.

  She gasped. She had heard tales of horse sacrifice by her ancestors, but did not know the Danes continued with it.

  Aelfwyn came by with cheese and bread, setting it on everyone’s plate.

  “Why are you doing this? You are a guest,” said Saehild. Aelfwyn smiled. Serving allowed her to find out much about the Danes and their customs by serving.

  “Yes, why are you doing this?” said the Dane next to Saehild. His eyelashes, brows and hair were white-blond. “Sit.” He pulled Aelfwyn down next to him. “Greetings, tiny woman.”

  Everyone stared at her.

  “Kjartan.” He tapped his chest.

  “Aelfwyn.”

  “They call me Silverhair, too, can’t think why.”

  She laughed. He offered her some of his meat, cheese and bread and the meal continued. The noise around the hall became louder and louder. Everyone ate and drank with much slapping of the table, laughing, talking, shouting, belching.

  “Where do you live?” asked Kjartan of Aelfwyn.

  “In Byrnstanham. The village by the stream, you know?”

  He nodded, as did the nearby audience of Danes.

  She became aware of Ragnar watching her and Kjartan with a concerned expression.

  The Jarl banged on the head table with his fist again, making her jump. He made another announcement.

  “What’s he saying?” whispered Aelfwyn to Kjartan.

  “He says the entertainment begins.” He leant close, putting his arm round her shoulders.

  The Jarl clapped his hands and horns sounded.

  Musicians hastened to their places in the centre of the hall and began playing recorders, drums and panpipes. The music grew louder and louder, then suddenly all the men at the table raised their drinking horns with a shout. Aelfwyn and Saehild exchanged glances, trying not to laugh. For some reason at a Danish feast, this seemed funny, whereas at their usual village feasts it was simply repetitive.

  The man opposite Kjartan began reciting a poem, Aelfwyn only understood a few words. At the end, the Danes sitting round were chuckling and making suggestive noises. The women were sitting with the men now, most on their laps.

  Kjartan whispered to her. “He says:

  A strange thing hangs by a man’s hip,

  hidden by a
garment. It has a hole

  in its head. It is stiff and strong.

  The man wants the head

  of that hanging thing to find the old hole

  that it, outstretched, has often filled before.”

  Aelfwyn had heard this before.

  “Is it a penis?” she asked innocently, knowing the correct answer was something else.

  The Danes gasped, then burst into gales of laughter. Kjartan clapped her on the shoulder.

  “So small, yet so dirty,” he laughed.

  There were now dancers in the centre of the hall. She suddenly realised they were naked young men leaping about, while the guests threw spears and swords at them. Fortunately, the throws were only half hearted as everyone was laughing and too drunk to aim properly.

  A sword caught an unlucky dancer on the leg. Blood seeped out and the Danes laughed, but a woman led him off to be attended to. Aelfwyn felt sorry for him.

  “Now, the proper dancing,” said Kjartan. He moved very close to Aelfwyn and she felt rather light headed, probably something to do with the ale she had been plied with.

  “Come with me?” he asked.

  “No thank you.” She didn’t want to stand up.

  Two Danish women arrived and cuddled up to him, whispering in his ear and glaring at Aelfwyn. He allowed them to lead him off to the dance area.

  People surged into the middle of the hall. They formed a circle, men on the inside, women on the outside. The couples promenaded, then paused while the men stamped on the spot, ending with a leap to clap over the women’s heads. Then they crossed hands and swung round, followed by another promenade.

  With much laughing and cheering the dance continued, becoming more enthusiastic with louder stamping, the swinging round becoming faster and rougher. The men’s leaps became a competition to see who could leap the highest, almost knocking their partners over. The watching Danes clapped in time, and called out what sounded like obscenities.

  The music and the dance ended very abruptly, and the couples bowed to each other. A few couples were already kissing and caressing each other in the middle of the floor. Another mass of people flowed into the area. Music became louder and more frenetic, and there were so many bodies squashed into the space, it was hard to distinguish people.

  Ragnar hadn’t joined in the dance, so he slid along the bench to Aelfwyn who had just spotted her sister.

  He followed her eyes and saw Saehild between two Danish men, pressing against her, all swaying together. The tall, pretty one, as Bjarni described her. But was she? Ragnar wondered. All the other women he knew were tall, blonde, sturdy, just like her. He looked sideways at Aelfwyn. Small, thin, dark. Different.

  “Not dancing?” he asked. Then thought what a stupid question!

  “No. I feel a bit light headed.” She smiled hazily.

  He realised she was a little drunk. Normally with a Danish woman, that would be his cue to take advantage, but with an Anglisc woman, he wasn’t sure. And she was betrothed, as far as he understood from what Saehild said. He didn’t want to get into trouble with the Jarl for annoying the nearby Anglisc. He’d worked hard to get into Huskarl training and he mustn’t do anything to jeopardise it.

  “My sister is in trouble.” She interrupted his thoughts.

  “What?”

  “Those men. They are bothering her.”

  He considered the situation. The Danes were taking turns to caress her, passing her between them.

  “She’s only fourteen, she is to be married soon.”

  He could see what would happen. The dance would end, the two men would take Saehild off somewhere and have their way with her.

  “You want me to do something?”

  Aelfwyn nodded, her eyes huge with concern, her breasts heaving with unease. He gave a big sigh, stood up and sauntered over to the dancing area. He made his way through the dancers-a very loose description of the swaying, groping, kissing, writhing bodies-until he reached his quarry.

  Taller than both of Saehild’s admirers, he tapped one on the shoulder. Aelfwyn watched, holding her breath.

  The Dane spoke to Ragnar and the exchange quickly became an argument with pushes on the shoulder becoming more and more violent until Ragnar shoved him out of the way and clasped Saehild to him. The Dane fell into a group of people, furious with humiliation.

  While he struggled with various irate dancers, the second Dane took Ragnar on. He pulled at Saehild, who clung to her protector. The Dane began to wrestle with him, which put Ragnar at a disadvantage as he only had one hand free.

  Then, help arrived. Bjarni came wading through the crowd, hauled the Dane off his friend and threw him to the side. Another Dane took exception to this and began fighting the unsteady man and the brawling began.

  Ragnar escorted Saehild away from the scene, Bjarni following. They disappeared from view.

  Aelfwyn surveyed the scene. The ‘dancing floor’ comprised people fighting, couples kissing, some even seemed to be having sex, not caring about anything. The older people still at the food tables were either asleep with their heads down in their food, or arguing with the fervour of the drunk.

  What was it her brother warned her about? Wildness at Danish feasts? She sighed, half with amusement.

  Where had her sister gone? She suddenly realised that she had given Ragnar the perfect opportunity to have his way with her sister. They would have come back by now if he hadn’t. Her heart sank. Her sister had gone from the cauldron to the fire.

  Just then, Ragnar returned. He had a cut lip and obviously bruises on his body somewhere as he walked painfully, but he sat down next to her looking smug.

  “Where’s my sister?” she hissed.

  “With Bjarni. I tell him to look after his woman better.”

  “Thank you,” she faltered. Was he telling the truth?

  “I need a drink now.” He set off to look for a horn of ale.

  Before she could collect her thoughts, Kjartan sat next to her.

  “Look at them.” He indicated the mass of bodies in the centre of the hall. “It stinks in here. Let’s go outside.”

  Aelfwyn agreed and stood up with him. Fresh air would be welcome after the claustrophobia of the hall. He ushered her out with a hand on her back.

  *

  Outside was indeed fresh. The cold early spring air made her breath cloud in front of her. The clear sky, the full moon made it almost like daylight. The village appeared much like Byrnstanham: huts dotted around, but of course the huge feasting hall dominated it. She could see two other halls nearby and wondered about their function.

  As she walked with Kjartan, she noticed someone in the doorway of a nearby hut. Two people, pressed against the wall, moved together, pushing urgently at each other, groaning. The woman’s skirts were hitched up, one leg round the man’s waist.

  “Look at the moon,” said Kjartan, directing her away from the amorous couple. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  She gazed up at it, then he turned her towards him and kissed her on the lips. He pushed her against a hut wall, towering over her, his beard scratching her face. He thrust his tongue into her mouth, to her surprise. She had been kissed by boys before but not as enthusiastically as this. Her mouth stretched open just that bit too much, it felt a little uncomfortable.

  But she had decided to enjoy her last feast before betrothal, so went along with him. She let him kiss her on and on. His hand wandered inside her dress, touching her breast, squeezing it too hard.

  She tried to protest, but he didn’t listen. Holding her tightly, his hand slid down her skirt, hoisting it up as he put his hand under it, moving up her legs too fast. She tried to move away but the hut wall behind her prevented her escape.

  Thrie

  Back in the hall, Ragnar sat down where Aelfwyn had been, looking around for her.

  “Your woman’s left,” said a sleepy man.

  “She’s not my-where’s she gone?”

  “Outside with Kjartan. Into the village.”
<
br />   “What!” He shoved his horn of ale at his informant and strode towards the door.

  *

  Aelfwyn desperately tried to stop Kjartan touching the delicate folds of skin between her legs. His fingers pushed hard upwards but she squeezed her legs together frantically. His other hand squeezed her breast, squashing her against the wall with his weight.

  He made a noise of exasperation and pushed her down on the hard, cold ground, holding her down with one hand and undoing his belt with the other. He pulled down his trousers a little and hitched up her skirts.

  She screamed, but his hand covered the noise.

  “Give in to me, woman!” he snarled.

  He was suddenly wrenched off her and flung aside by a furious Ragnar.

  “What are you doing?” Kjartan scrabbled to stand up on the slippery grass.

  “You don’t touch her! She’s betrothed!” Ragnar wasn’t even sure why he felt so angry.

  “What? You-“

  But he didn’t finish the sentence. Ragnar punched him so hard he fell like a limp doll back onto the grass, unconscious.

  He shook his hand out, glowering, his brows low over his eyes.

  Aelfwyn cringed, not sure if she could trust him.

  “Come on. We’ll get Saehild and go home.” He still frowned, unable to let his anger go quickly.

  She followed, trotting after him as he strode along. He went to another hut where they found a bare chested Bjarni and tousled Saehild cuddled up round a fire.

  He launched an angry burst of Danish at his friend, who put his tunic back on and helped Saehild up. The quartet hurried silently out of the village and set off for Byrnstanham.

  *

  On the way home, Bjarni and Saehild walked arm in arm, dawdling along, despite Ragnar snapping at them to hurry up.

  “Thank you for helping me and Saehild,” ventured Aelfwyn, determined to be polite despite his anger.

  “I don’t want your family to be dishonoured. You are betrothed, he should not spoil you.”