by Hume, M. K.
Arthur knew that Snorri was correct. ‘Aye, you’re right enough, Snorri. It’s Loki’s luck for the Geat warriors, I’m afraid!’ Arthur’s lips twisted. ‘In any dealings with the sea, rules of logic don’t always apply. Some of the Geats were lucky, so the she-dragon spared them because she was busy with dozens of their brothers.’
Snorri, used to the strange poetic streak in his master, refrained from asking who the she-dragon was. As a good Christian, Snorri was scathing about the old superstitions, but he would have to be crazed to admonish Arthur in any way. He knew his master’s mercurial temper, although Arthur had never displayed a cruel or capricious streak.
Snorri kept his eyes fixed on their projected course as the ship negotiated the swells. Arthur was aware that his crew mightn’t be entitled to a share in the surrendered ships, but Sea Wife had been slowed by the extra weight of sixty men and the young man still hoped that Stormbringer would give the crew some trifling share of his plunder for the punishment that Sea Wife had meted out. The Sae Dene knew that the main reason for the surrender of the ten Geat ships was the use of Sea Wife’s deadly ram. Stormbringer would be grateful too for the minimal casualties suffered by the Dene.
Three days later, Stormbringer said as much when they made camp inside a sheltered bay on the tip of Skania, while the Dene force enjoyed the largesse provided by the local population. No sooner had the longboats been beached and the crew and captives unloaded than villagers had arrived at the makeshift camp, laden down with a whole deer, skinned and prepared for a roasting pit, a score or more of chickens, at least as many rabbits, a whole butchered oxen, and basket after basket of fresh fish laid out in bundles of sweet grass. This bounty was further embellished with late apples, berries, nuts and whole heads of cabbages stacked up like little pyramids of skulls. The crews crowed and sang with pleasure at the thought of the gorging to come.
‘I don’t think your idea will catch on, Arthur, because your ram definitely slows Sea Wife through the water and her response to the rudder isn’t quite as flexible when the swells are heavy.’ Stormbringer was devouring the succulent white flesh of a whole fish that had been cooked in a small iron cage lowered over an open fire. His mouth glistened slightly from the butter spread over the fish skin.
‘True enough! But when we are next in home waters, I’ll redesign the rams so they can be fitted quickly and easily as we need them. We saved many lives during these skirmishes off Rugen Island because of the ram. At least, that’s what I tell myself when I think of the Geat sailors who went to the bottom of the sea with their vessels.’
Stormbringer saw no point in repeating himself about yet another decision that Arthur had made in the heat of the moment, so decided to change the subject.
‘With Frodhi’s assistance, the captives will be sold in Skania and, failing that, in Ribe.’ Stormbringer grinned engagingly. ‘Frod will get a big cut out of it as well, so he’ll enjoy the challenge.’
‘What of the Geat jarls? It’d be a bad precedent to sell them into slavery when they can be ransomed by their families for far more than they are worth in any meat market. Personally, I loathe slavery! I know that my people practise it, as well as the Dene and most of the civilised world, but it seems unpalatable to own another person. My foster-father had been enslaved by the Saxons when he was a young man. He was abused and sexually assaulted so frequently that he grew to be little more than a crazed animal. Hatred drove him insane when he eventually broke free and began to take his revenge. For the rest of his life, Bedwyr refused to own any man, woman or child, so he ensured that every servant in the fortress in Arden was paid for their labours, no matter how little, and given free lodgings for their service. The people of Arden would follow my Bedwyr into Hades if he asked it of them.’
‘That’s all very well, Arthur, but slavery is just another form of coinage in countries such as ours. I’ve very few slaves and they’re mainly enemies taken in battle, often warriors whom I’ve been loath to kill. You’ve lived at The Holding. Do my workers seem unhappy to you?’
Arthur could see by his friend’s expression that Stormbringer was troubled, perhaps because slavery repulsed him somewhat too. Arthur relented, because he owed much to the Sae Dene captain.
‘You can’t really consider your workers at The Holding as slaves, Stormbringer, because you treat them as valued servants who are permitted to marry and have children, offspring who are born free. Even the son of a slave can rise to great heights in your society, as long as they have the skill and determination. For myself, I have acquitted you of being a harsh and uncaring master.’
Stormbringer looked much happier as Arthur spoke. While Valdar Bjornsen was a man of extraordinary vision, courage and honour, for all that he had been banished by Hrolf Kraki, he often looked to Arthur for validation. The Briton had a keen sense of justice and a chilling talent for warfare. His cold and rational mind always supplied practical answers to Stormbringer’s questions. Eventually, Stormbringer would have considered ransom, but Arthur’s suggestion ensured that the process would begin far more swiftly.
‘I’m grateful, Arthur. It’ll solve my problems of space and supplies that might be wasted on our . . . guests. I’ll receive silver rings, or gold, for them! By-the-by, are you prepared to accept your ship’s share of the plunder?’
‘It’s your ship, Stormbringer. I’m a Briton, remember? I have no access to any wealth in the land of the Dene.’
Stormbringer frowned with annoyance. ‘For the sake of all the saints in heaven, when will you have done with this talk? I gifted Sea Wife to you after your contribution to our victory at Lake Wener, when your skill and bravery robbed the Geats of their leader. You always say that you didn’t know he was the Healfdene at the time, but it doesn’t matter. We won easily because of your efforts. Did you know that your ship’s crew could have chosen to leave you and offer their allegiance to another jarl? No? How many chose to change vessels? None! They wanted to serve with a courageous Briton. Who’d have believed it?’
Stormbringer’s sarcasm, delivered with an impassive face, forced Arthur to laugh at his own foibles. Put like that, his scruples sounded ridiculous.
‘As any share of the plunder concerns my men, I’ll accept your generosity with thanks, my lord. They’ll sing your praises at the cooking fires for the next week.’
‘So easily bought!’ Stormbringer joked. ‘Incidentally, I have another matter of importance that I must broach with you.’
Arthur selected a crisp golden chicken that had been roasted over hot coals, then used his delicate eating knife to split the bird down the middle. He appeared to give this his full attention, but Stormbringer knew those keen eyes were missing nothing.
‘Speak freely, brother. Whatever you ask is yours for the taking.’
‘Strictly speaking, what I desire requires only your tacit approval. The final decision for what I’m about to ask won’t be yours to make.’
‘Oh?’ Arthur’s brows lowered with suspicion, but his gaze was still open and friendly, so Stormbringer took heart and plunged back into an awkward, obviously prepared speech.
‘As your sister’s oldest male kinsman, I want permission to ask for your sister’s agreement to a contract of marriage. I know there’s a great disparity in our ages – she’s fourteen now, and I’m near enough to thirty years old.’
Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but Stormbringer cut him off.
‘I know any such betrothal means that she is unlikely to return to her home, but she would become the mistress of a large estate at The Holding, and would be free to order her life as she chooses. I know she chafes under the rules that govern the roles of women in your homeland, so I can offer her greater freedom than she would enjoy elsewhere.’
Stormbringer paused for breath and, once again, Arthur tried to interrupt. But Stormbringer was adamant that he had more to say.
‘I
realise that Maeve is of high birth and the wisewoman at World’s End promised her a throne; a prospect I cannot imagine beyond the Sae Dene throne which I already hold. But I would protect her and cherish her as no other man would. I understand her rarity and her courage, so I’m prepared to gift her with forty acres of prime pasture land, twenty rings of silver and ten of gold, fifty sheep and the same in milk cows, chickens, goats and ducks. These gifts are intended to make her independent of any man until her eventual death. Further, she may bequeath her acres in any way and to any person whom she chooses.’
Arthur was surprised at the size of the dowry that Stormbringer was offering. Suddenly, the succulent chicken was tasteless in his mouth as he evaluated the enormity of his sister’s potential wealth. Alone, friendless and without any dowry at all, she was being offered freedom and an economic independence that was the equal of any queen’s. He gaped at the prospect.
‘Brother . . . I can hardly argue with your proposal, and I’m certain that my sister will be honoured by such a generous offer. If she has to marry anyone, I’d be perfectly happy if the lucky man was you, for you understand how difficult she can be. You may approach her, by all means, but Maeve will make this decision for herself.’
‘You’re surprised, Arthur. Is the match so bizarre? Speak honestly, my friend, for I love her dearly.’
‘Your offer isn’t bizarre. I know that Maeve needs an older man who can understand her complexities. She was reared to understand that she would eventually marry to further her family’s interests, such are the practicalities of marriage in our society, so the bonus of love and your offer of independence should prove almost irresistible. For what it’s worth, I would be proud if we became kinsmen.’
Then the two men toasted the future and attacked the meal with a renewed appetite and a sense that something new and special was coming at last.
The courier arrived three days later. Stormbringer was closeted with him for an hour before the man departed, presumably in the direction from which he had come. Stormbringer, for his part, said very little about the courier’s message, an omission which Arthur found vaguely disturbing.
Over three-quarters of the prisoners had been moved to the slave pits, but the ransom negotiations for the jarls had only just begun. Messages must be sent with reliable traders who could move freely between Skania and Gotland.
Arthur was surprised to discover that the man he had forcibly rescued by the beard was a cousin of Heardred and had been given the grandiose name of Beowulf after his maternal grandfather. During his years roaming through the Dene lands Arthur had heard the saga of Beowulf and, with his limited experience of Heorot, had marvelled at what the gifted singers had made of the legends. He had also heard the saga of Hrolf Kraki and found nothing realistic in the hero of this long and courageous tale. Perhaps Beowulf Minor was just as flawed.
Now, talking with the grandson of a legendary hero, Arthur admitted that the situation had all the quality of a surreal dream. The aging warrior with the famed name was good company, and was likely to provide wealth to Arthur and bring him a little closer to his goal of a return to Britain. Besides, he liked Beowulf.
The hide tents where the jarls and Geat aristocrats were housed were far from palatial, but the homely clutter of boots and tunics dropped or draped on every surface reminded Arthur of the tent he had shared with Eamonn and several other British lordlings when they were boys. No matter what age, men almost always created chaos in their living spaces. As one of the rare exceptions to this rule, Arthur understood how freeing it would be to drop his possessions on the floor. He said as much to Beowulf Minor.
‘This place smells like a giant’s armpit, Beowulf. How can you stand it?’ Arthur was nothing if not blunt.
‘What do you mean, Arthur? I can’t smell anything,’ the Geat replied, a little put out at the implication that he might be dirty in his personal habits. ‘I wash regularly and my clothes are scrubbed by Hermann’s woman at least once a week.’
Arthur’s nose wrinkled, but he allowed the subject to drop.
Beowulf was bluff, rather short for his race at a little less than six foot tall, and darker than most of his kin. His nut-brown hair was streaked with white-blond and grey strands and his eyes were a very pale blue. His hands were uncommonly beautiful. Long-fingered, blemish-free and well kept, Beowulf used them to express his feelings, so Arthur watched those fingers to gauge the Geat’s opinions at times when the man would be loath to speak freely.
‘I expect you to be ransomed within the week, Beowulf. Believe me, my crew will be pleased to receive their share of your asking price, but I’ll miss our evening conversations. You’re an interesting man, my friend.’
‘Aye, lad! In some ways I’ll be sorry to leave, for it’ll be hard to return to my king as a failure. He’ll not be happy with me either. I’ve learned much from you, young man. You Britons have absorbed the knowledge of people from many lands and cultures. Rome, Constantinople, Gaul and Spain are wondrous places with much to teach us.’
Beowulf’s longing made Arthur snort.
‘Give you lot a little civilising, and we’d have your fighters knocking at the doors of the south for entry . . . and none too politely either!’
Both men laughed for different reasons, but Arthur continued to watch Beowulf’s hands. ‘The new ways will come though, of that I’m certain,’ Arthur added wistfully. ‘The Dene, Goth and Noroway warriors will migrate to the softer lands of the south for living space and plunder, sooner or later. If I manage to return to Britain, I can only hope that I’m long dead before that day comes. I have no desire to go to war against my friends from the northern climes.’
Then he broke the sombre mood with a grin.
‘I’d hate to kill any of you, and I know it might come to warfare. Even you, Beowulf of the Hairy Feet, could one day become an enemy of my people if they mistakenly considered you to be the same sort of man as your king and some of your kinsmen.’
It was Beowulf’s turn to snort with what sounded like contempt. ‘Heardred is consumed with thoughts of you, Arthur, while he’s got no idea what sort of man you really are. All he hears are terms such as The Last Dragon or The Ruin of Kings and he froths with rage. I’m sorry for the massacre at Lund in the border lands. The whole matter was unnecessary. Heardred didn’t even stick to his word, for Lund isn’t in Blekinge.’
Arthur knew he should try to hide any surprise at this new information, but his face revealed his concern. ‘What or where is Lund?’ he asked bluntly.
‘You’ve not heard of the massacre at Lund then, have you? That damned man! I was sure you would have been informed when the courier came – you being the cause and all! Shite and piss! May that stupid Heardred discover one day just how cold Udgaad will be for him.’
A cold feeling began to form a lump of ice in Arthur’s throat. The situation at Lund must have been very severe for Stormbringer to keep all mention of the subject away from him.
‘Tell me, Beowulf. Put aside any shame at what your kinsman has done and tell me what you know. I won’t blame you because I can tell that you had no part in it.’
Beowulf nodded. ‘I’ll tell you, because you can easily learn the fate of the people of Lund from any of the prisoners in the camp if they dare to speak openly of the events that took place there. Heardred boasts of it as a victory over you and blames you for the separate fates of the Dragon’s Brood. I had no idea what type of man you’d be until you yanked me back to life by my beard.’
Both men laughed, but cautiously. Perhaps their burgeoning friendship could be killed off by King Heardred’s sins.
‘I’ll not blame you for anything that’s occurred, Beowulf, but I need to know if an atrocity has taken place because of me.’
‘Aye!’ Beowulf sighed. ‘There’s no nice way of describing the rape and murder of everyone in the villages and hamlets around Lun
d and the systematic execution of those people who were caught in the town. The ravens grow fat on bodies that were left unburned. Through his enmity, Heardred has sought to humble you and turn your name to a word of dread.’
‘How many were killed?’ Arthur asked, his voice suddenly very hoarse.
‘The estimates vary, but I suppose at least one and a half thousand people of all ages and sexes were killed. I’ve been told that Heardred demanded that the victims shout curses at you in the hope of being left alive. Such promises were lies, of course! I’m sorry, my friend.’
Arthur rose to his feet and poured a mug of beer. When offered, Beowulf refused the ale with a shake of his head.
‘But that’s not everything, is it?’ Arthur demanded. Beowulf’s body language suggested that more had yet to be told – probably the worst part by far.
‘Do you remember the threats that Heardred made against the children of Blekinge aged between five and ten? In that time of their young lives when they are most desirable to certain perverted tastes?’
‘Aye, I remember! But I never supposed that any king would stoop so low as to sell little children into such despicable slavery.’
Beowulf turned away so he wouldn’t have to see the rage and shame in the young Briton’s eyes.
‘My king did what he promised! The children have been sold into the vastness of the East and every loyal Geat is now shamed by the blood that has been poured over our hands. I cannot bear such dishonour, Arthur. So, tell me, what can a man do to atone for these crimes?’
Arthur went very white, his eyes icy slits in his skull. Suddenly, Beowulf saw the face of retribution staring blindly past him, as if Arthur could pierce the many miles between him and Heardred and tear the man’s throat out with his bare hands.