by Paul Freeman
Crawulf leapt across a yawning gap between ship and dock and landed firmly on both feet. A cheer erupted from the assembled crowd at his show of bravado. They were rewarded with a grin from their jarl. He spotted Rosinnio and headed straight for her. Her nerves were set on edge. She had quickly become used to life without him the weeks he had been away raiding. Now she would have to grow accustomed to being a married woman once again.
“My lady,” he greeted her with a grin. She dipped her head demurely. “I have a gift,” he said and held out a necklace towards her.
She took the gold chain, a large emerald wrapped in gold wire hung from the end. It was a pretty thing—she’d worn far more valuable baubles in her life as a princess of the Sunsai Empire—yet this gift touched something in her heart. “It is beautiful, my lord,” she said.
Crawulf smiled, clearly pleased she liked his gift. He looked almost boyish, she thought, with his impish grin. She smiled then, surprising herself to discover she was, in some ways, actually pleased to see her husband. His was a familiar face in a land of strangers.
“Jarl Crawulf,” Brandlor interrupted the meeting between husband and wife. “Welcome home, my jarl. I trust the raid was rewarding and eventful and you will have many tales of heroism and mighty deeds to enthral us with later.”
“Oh aye,” he answered with a grin. “And how have you looked after my wife and home?”
“There are some matters I would like to address with you,” the counsellor answered, his expression stern. “There has been some trouble with wolves in the northern pastures of Halock’s Feld, and the castle roof has sprung another leak…” And so the returning hero was barraged with all of the mundane problems a jarl is duty-bound to face. Rosinnio could only shake her head as Crawulf was ushered off the quayside by Brandlor, with the older man listing the many problems the jarl would now have to deal with.
“It is good that they have returned safely, my lady,” Rosinnio’s handmaiden said.
“Yes, Marta, it is,” she answered, turning towards her servant. The other woman’s attention was elsewhere however. Rosinnio followed her line of sight and her gaze fell on a tall warrior walking up the quay, a heavy chest over one shoulder a battleaxe in his other hand. He was glancing their way with a grin on his face. “Marta!”
Marta’s cheeks reddened and she turned her head to hide her embarrassment. “Yes, my lady?” she answered with as much decorum as she could muster.
“He’s handsome… for a Nortman.” Both women tried and failed to suppress giggles. “Come, there will be a feast tonight. I’m sure you wish to look your best.” Marta’s eyes opened wide and her face turned crimson once again.
Back in her chambers Rosinnio prepared herself for the night’s festivities. As she sat at a small table, allowing Marta to drag a silver comb through her wet hair, the door suddenly burst open. Both women jumped with fright at the sudden intrusion. Crawulf stood in the opening, hands on hips.
“Leave us,” he instructed Marta. The handmaiden quickly stood up, bowed and hurried past him. He waited impassively for her to leave before turning his hungry gaze on Rosinnio. “It has been too long.” He closed the door to the outside world then and paced across the room.
Rosinnio let out a squeal as he pulled her up and began planting lust-filled kisses on her neck while pulling at the simple shift she wore. She tried to squirm out of his grasp but he was far too strong for her, the leather byrnie he wore over his tunic felt hard and rough against her simple silk garment.
“Stop!” she suddenly let out a roar, catching Crawulf off guard. A quizzical look formed across his face. “Please,” she said then, more gently. She pointed towards the corner of the room where a curved copper trough sat, steam drifting up from its contents.
“What’s this?” he asked, more curious than angry.
“A bath, lord. It is quite soothing,” she said, taking his hand and walking towards the tub. “It will ease any aches and hurts you have suffered on your long trip.” Crawulf allowed himself to be led. His nose wrinkled at the scent of roses and sweet perfume.
Rosinnio began unlacing his leather cuirass while he stood there regarding her. Next she pulled his tunic over his raised arms, marvelling at the hardness of his sculpted body, imagining the raw power contained in those muscles. She traced her finger along a jagged white line across his chest. “You have many scars.”
“Marks of a warrior,” he answered, still not moving, but for his eyes. She dropped to her knees and began pulling off his hard leather boots, he lifted his legs just enough for her to do so. Her hands moved, nervously to his breeches, as if she were trying to coax some wild animal to eat a berry from her hand. He moved then, covering hers with his own, much larger hands. “I can do it,” he said.
Stripped naked he stood before her, still watching her with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. Then he stepped into the copper tub and sat down in the steaming water.
“How does it feel?” she asked.
“As you said, soothing,” he answered and lay back, closing his eyes.
Rosinnio took a cloth and began washing his battle-hardened and scarred body. He allowed her to scour out weeks of dried mud, blood and worse. She washed his hair and beard before combing scented oil through both. All the while Crawulf remained still, at first curious then contented. Once she’d finished to her satisfaction, and the once clean and sweet smelling water had turned dark and oily, she stood back while he watched her. With a deft movement she reached behind her and tugged at the lace on her shift, it fell to the floor in a puddle of silk, leaving her naked. Crawulf did not have to be asked twice to get out of the bath.
The feasting hall of Wind Isle Castle was stuffed to bursting point, a sight not lost on Rosinnio. While her husband had been away raiding the Duchies she was left to dine with none but the servants and her husband’s hounds. Those men who had not gone on the voyage had chosen to dine by themselves and drink their own ale rather than their jarl’s while he was away. Now he had returned. A great feast had been prepared, the large wooden tables were piled high with roast mutton, fish, and fowl, and bowls of steaming vegetables: turnips, leaks and a few other Rosinnio did not recognise. Servants squeezed past warriors, filling their cups with wine and ale. Those women with a comely face and shapely walk fought off the straying hands and admiring glances of warriors who had been away from home for too long.
Crawulf, every inch of him a lord of the north, handed out rewards to both those men who had fought bravely—an arm ring or a prized weapon—and gifts to others who remained behind to stand guard while the vast bulk of the fighting men were abroad. To the giant warrior Rothgar he presented an ornately decorated shield that had come from the pile of treasure Duke Elsward had paid him to leave his shores. “For the man who stood as defender to my wife and home, forsaking his chance at fame and wealth, in order to do so.”
As the night wore on the feast became more and more boisterous as men who had become used to sleeping under the stars with one eye open, waiting for an attack from an enemy, who had spent weeks in hostile lands where every person from peasant to lord was a foe, one who hated them, were now once again home. Even Rothgar had relaxed his stiffness and sat with his lord, eating and drinking his fill. Rosinnio, however, was wary of strong alcohol and sipped in moderation from a single goblet of wine. She had given her handmaiden, Marta, permission to have the night to herself. She had spotted her earlier in the evening sitting at a long bench with the young warrior she had seen on the quayside. Both had long since disappeared though, and Rosinnio frowned in consternation. “I hope that fool girl knows what she is doing.”
“What’s that, my love?” Crawulf slurred his speech as he turned towards her. She had not even realised she had spoken aloud.
“Nothing, my lord. The celebration is going well,” she answered.
“Aye, that it is.” He suddenly reached for her and pulled her towards him, planting a wet kiss on her face. He smelled of ale, and of the sea, and of ro
se-scented water, she noted with satisfaction. “It is good to be home,” he said with a grin.
Rosinnio’s stomach lurched. She was not used to such shows of affection, even between man and wife, and it made her feel uncomfortable. She remembered the words of the old seer in the cave by the sea, and wondered how long it would be before Crawulf began to question her childless state. Thinking of Maolach sent a shiver down her spine, making her jumpy, so much so that she thought she spotted a shadow flittering between the bodies of the warriors. Don’t be a fool. You are acting like a frightened child, she chastised herself. Even so she craned her neck in an effort to see beyond the revellers.
She soon realised her imagination was not playing tricks on her, when a stooped figure slowly walked towards the head table. Warriors and servants alike stumbled over each other to get out of the way and a path quickly formed. Rosinnio recognised the bird-feather cloak. The musicians trailed off the tune they were playing and the raucous din of the feast fell silent. Crawulf tensed beside her, before standing tall. Even when she stood beside him he made her feel small, being seated while he stood made him feel like a giant from the stories of her childhood.
“Welcome, Maolach. It is long since you honoured us with your presence.”
Rosinnio noticed an edge to his words, and when she looked up into his eyes she saw something there she had never seen in him before: Fear.
“Aye, tis long since your father passed into the halls of the gods,” Maolach said in the low, rasping voice Rosinnio remembered.
“You do us great honour. Come sit at my table and feast with us. The gods have granted us a great victory. There is much to celebrate.” Crawulf waved at a servant to clear a place for the seer.
“You were ever the great warrior, Crawulf,” Maolach answered with a sneer. “Destined to become king someday.”
“With the help of the All Wise,” Crawulf answered.
“Oh no, not with the help of Alweise, Crawulf, in spite of him!” Maolach sprayed those closest to him with a spray of spittle.
Rosinnio could sense Crawulf’s unease. She was confused herself. Had Maolach just said that Crawulf was not favoured by the gods? She knew little of the ways of her new people, but one thing she did know was that a jarl without the god’s favour was likely to have little luck.
The big Nortman smiled—it did not reach his eyes—and pounded on the table. “Some food for noble Maolach,” he shouted out.
“I will not dine at your table this night, perhaps another.” He edged closer until he stood directly in front of Crawulf and Rosinnio.
“Have you come seeking a boon? Whatever it is, if it’s in my power I shall grant it.” Crawulf fidgeted with his eating knife. Rosinnio had never felt such nervous energy from him before. The mysteries of the gods turn men into children the world over.
“Remember you spoke those words, Crawulf.” Maolach regarded all those around him before turning his glare on Crawulf. “I had a dream. I dreamt that Feergor was caught by Irgard and devoured by his mate.” Murmurs rippled through the feasting hall at Maolach’s words. Rosinnio was doing her utmost to learn the ways of the Nortlanders and their gods. Only recently, Brandlor, the jarl’s counsellor had spoken to her of the fire dragon who brings light to the sky each morning and the silver dragon whose icy breath quenches his flames each night. The two mighty beasts engaged in a constant struggle, eternally chasing one another’s tail through the sky, giving the world day and night. Clearly Maolach’s dream was seen as an ill omen. “Without Feergor there can be no sunrise. Ice and darkness will creep over the land, and all men and beasts will die.” Rosinnio swallowed hard as Maolach’s dream was met with silence.
“What can we do about this, Maolach? We have made offerings to the gods, should we make more?”
“No!” the seer snapped. “The gods do not want your offerings.”
“Then what?”
“You have brought a shadow under your roof. All of the land will be shrouded in darkness because of your actions. You must journey to the land of the Frost People. You are the mighty warrior Crawulf, famed throughout Nortland for bravery and the knowledge of war. One day you will be king, but a king who rules the dead is no king at all.”
“You’re speaking in riddles, Maolach,” Crawulf said.
“Ask her!” The seer flung up his hand and pointed a long, bony finger at Rosinnio. “She has seen it. The dead will walk and Feergor will not rise again!”
Rosinnio felt the eyes of the hall turn towards her. She looked up into the questioning glare of Crawulf. “I too had a dream,” she began, “when I went to see Maolach in his cave. I dreamt of you. You were fighting men who were once dead and had risen again.”
“Where?” Maolach interrupted with a roar, making Rosinnio jump.
“By a tree…”
“The Tree of Souls! You saw the Tree of Souls.”
“I don’t know.” Rosinnio shrugged. The intense scrutiny of the entire hall was unsettling she could feel tears welling inside her.
“Find the Tree of Souls, Crawulf. It is in the land of the Frost People. She will guide you.” He pointed a dirt-encrusted finger at Rosinnio once again. She wanted to shake her head, to deny any knowledge of the so called Tree of Souls, but no words would form. Instead she could picture in her mind a clear image of a dark, withered tree, its naked, spindly branches reaching skyward towards the heavens. She did not understand why or how, but she knew she would find a path through the ice to the tree.
“I cannot take my wife on such a hazardous voyage north. There must be another way, Maolach.” Crawulf’s eyes reluctantly left those of Rosinnio’s and searched out the seer. “And what do we do once we’ve found the tree?”
“Take the Horn of Galen.”
“Galen, who stands sentinel at the gates of Eiru, home of the gods?”
Maolach nodded vigorously. “She will know the way.” Once again, Rosinnio felt the full weight of the seer’s glare.
Duke Normand: Rothberry Castle
Duke Normand sat at a long, heavy oak table, along with the thirty-one other dukes who made up the most senior nobility of the Duchies. As the ruler of one of the smallest duchies he was seated farthest but one from the king, the duke with the dubious honour of sitting in that position was Duke Elsward, whose lands had recently been ransacked by the invaders from Nortland. That he had been so far removed from the king spoke loudly of his monarch’s displeasure with him. The grey-haired duke sat with his head bowed, his shame clearly evident in his bearing. Normand sat restlessly beside him, eager to be as far removed from the dishonoured duke as possible.
Behind the king in a large open hearth, a blazing fire burned high against ancient scorch marks blackening the stone. Weapons adorned the walls of the high-ceilinged chamber, and at one end a large banner depicting the royal coat of arms hung over the fireplace. A large shield bearing the king’s family crest was positioned just below the banner. The king was a powerfully built man, with a neatly trimmed grey beard and dark hair streaked with silver, tied back with a leather chord. His very presence dominated the room as cold, grey eyes regarded each of the nobles in turn, finally falling scornfully on Elsward. Normand felt the king’s gaze wash over him briefly.
“Duke Elsward,” the king began, immediately silencing the din of chatter in the room, all eyes turned on the hapless duke. “You have a tale to tell, do you not?”
“Aye, Highness. A tale and a warning,” Elsward began nervously, ignoring the looks of scorn and whispered insults. “For generations we have suffered raids along the coast from the Pirate Isles. They appear out of the mist, run their longboats up our beaches and strike fast, carrying off loot, women and children, who are sold into slavery. We have always done what we can to protect our folk from these wolves of the sea. Usually by the time any force of men arrive they have gone.”
“Not this time,” the king interrupted.
“No, Highness, not this time. I am told the king of Nortland is weak and dying. He has no
direct heir. His jarls are jostling for position, trying to outdo one another and prove that they are the strongest challenger to take up the throne. The one who led the attack on my lands was one such jarl. His name is Crawulf and he is nephew to the king. He landed on my shores with an army of battle-hardened pirates. It was no raid, it was an invasion force. He began by sacking the town of Seacliffe…”
Normand’s concentration lapsed as Elsward began the whole litany of every farmstead burned, every rape and murder committed by the Nortmen. His gaze wandered around the walls, focusing on the many weapons: spears, maces, axes and swords hanging from the walls, and to the king’s banner hanging high over the fireplace. He noticed a small balcony half concealed by the banner, and a figure standing there watching the council. A woman. He recognised her, memories of her bringing a smile to his lips: Lady Isabetha; as ever the king’s spy.
“And how do you, my lords, think we should defend our land against these… pirates?” The king spat out the last word as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.
“We should build a fleet and invade the Pirate Isles and put the devils to the sword for once and for all,” Duke Boromond said, a large man with a bald head. Normand knew that his lands and Elsward’s bordered each other, and that the two were close allies, a friendship cemented with a union of marriage between his daughter and Elsward’s son.