by Oskar Jensen
‘Hush,’ said Weland, at her left.
Knut’s gruff voice rang out. ‘If this is a killing case, it should be held over till the Thing at Ringsted, and come before our uncle Thorlagi, the law-speaker.’
A murmur of assent met his words, though both Gorm and Haralt glared at him.
Thyre’s cold voice chimed in. ‘You forget yourself, my son. The Thing itself agreed years ago that the king at Jelling holds the right to act as law-speaker when the Thing is not in session.’
Several voices rose at this, all arguing at once.
‘What are they talking about?’ hissed Leif.
‘The Thing,’ Astrid murmured, ‘is the great law-meeting of all the free Danes. Every year they gather at Ringsted to settle their arguments. Father’s always wanted to hold it here, with him – or Knut, now – as judge.’
Leif frowned. ‘In Iceland –’
She kicked him just in time. ‘Oh, shut up about Iceland. It works like this. If the two parties can’t agree, they have a choice. They fight, either with weapons or with words –’
‘A flyting,’ put in Leif. ‘I’ve heard of them. A fight with words is known as a flyting.’
‘Of course, you would know about that,’ she whispered. ‘Anyway, the loser – if he lives – has to pay the wergild: the blood-price.’
‘And the outcome of the “fight” is binding?’
‘Oh yes. It’s all done under oath. But there won’t be a fight here – my brothers may be idiots, but even they aren’t that stupid. It would destroy our family. They’ll settle it somehow or other.’
Leif went very quiet. A contest, one on one, to settle a question … yes, that could do the trick …
‘It is decided, then,’ said Gorm at last. ‘I shall judge between you in this affair.’
He tugged an iron ring from his finger, and threw it upon the table.
‘Now,’ he mused, ‘we need the blood of a third party to honour this oath-ring …’
All heads on the dais turned to Folkmar, who blanched white.
Thyre took Folkmar’s thick wrist in her left hand, her knife in her right, and scored a narrow line across his palm. He grunted, and the sweat beaded on his brow, but he bore it well enough.
Thyre pressed the ring to the cut, and returned it to the table. Both Knut and Haralt swore their oaths over it, Knut at a bellow, Haralt in a drawl.
‘I call on my cousin Grey-cloak, to swear and to bear witness,’ said Haralt.
The man came forward, and made his oath. ‘Last night, disturbed by noises in the dark, my companion Harmsorgi would not lie down to sleep with us, his fellows, but declared he would take a stroll down to Hellir.’
Many backs in the hall stiffened at this.
Grey-cloak went on. ‘We counselled him against it, but the ale in his blood spoke the louder, I think. Taking with him his sword, but no other friend, he broke from the hall, and those of us who made to follow could not find him in the dark.’
‘Did he say anything further to his purpose?’ asked Gorm.
‘He said he fancied he would hunt a bear this night, and that with Christ to light his path, he didn’t think there would be too much trouble from thunder and lightning.’
The hall erupted. Men were on their feet everywhere, fists clenched.
‘It’s a good thing no weapons are allowed during trials,’ said Astrid.
Leif nodded. The berserkers near him were hurling insults at Haralt’s men across the hall, whose leader – and his royal cousin – stood, still and silent, at the centre of the word-storm.
‘Silence!’ Gorm hammered weakly on the table. Gradually, the noise died down.
‘Where was he found, and in what state?’ said Gorm.
‘In the woods, a bowshot from Hellir,’ said Haralt. ‘His friends found him at first light, his corpse already cold.’
Images were flooding back to Astrid. Grey trees – a bright shape – a body …
Thyre stood up, ashen-faced. She looked from one son to another, her pain clear for all to see. ‘There were wolves in the forest last night,’ she said. ‘We heard the howls.’
‘No wolf caused his wounds,’ said Haralt.
Thyre tried again. ‘The thralls found henbane missing from the garden. Perhaps this unlucky man poisoned himself with the herbs?’
‘Lady,’ said Grey-cloak, ‘his wounds came from no plant.’
‘Then perhaps, a fall?’ she offered in desperation.
‘Mother,’ cut in Haralt, ‘Harmsorgi was found without his head.’
‘Knut,’ said Gorm, when the fuss had died down, ‘have you, or any of your men, on oath, knowledge of these events?’
‘No, on my honour,’ said Knut. ‘But one of them, Karl Bersi, has not answered the summons, and none has seen him since last night.’
‘Then, brother,’ said Haralt, ‘I demand the blood-price from you, as his liege, and your word that no such thing will happen again. We cannot risk further bloodshed on the part of your men, and you obviously can’t control them.’
‘It’s not true,’ hissed Astrid. ‘It wasn’t this Karl Bersi, it was the beast. We saw it!’
‘I know,’ said Leif, ‘but try telling them that. And then, try explaining how we saw it …’
She closed her mouth, stumped. No one would believe them.
Knut strode forward, leaping lightly from the dais. He loomed over his brother, broad and brown. He raised his mighty arm – only to lay it on Haralt’s shoulder.
‘Since first I heard this news, little brother, I have been thinking of what is right. You shall have your blood-price when next we meet, but it shall be in Irish gold.’
‘But he’ll know it was the beast too,’ whispered Astrid, on the verge of tears. ‘Why doesn’t he say so?’
‘He would have to accuse his brother’s guest,’ said Leif. ‘Knut’s none too sharp, but he won’t start a feud. He’ll take his men away to protect them, but to protect your family as well.’
Knut turned, his words taking in the whole hall. ‘Truly, it is no good thing that grown warriors stay at home and swelter in the summer sun. I am taking twelve ships, and going a-viking. If it is Thor’s will that I return, and that we meet again –' and now, he was looking straight at his father – ‘it shall be with the crown of Dublin to add to our titles.’
And he swept from the hall, all his men streaming in his wake; a surging mass of men, as if already Knut had put to sea.
Astrid, her face stricken, stared after him. He never turned, never gave her so much as a glance. And what if she never saw him again?
Leif meanwhile looked back to the dais, in time to see a smile flicker between Folkmar and Prince Haralt.
NINETEEN
‘So what do we do now?’ Leif asked Astrid.
‘You’re the one who’s destined to make the choices, remember? The one who the stones want to stop Folkmar – the one who gets trolls all excited.’ She was being unfair, and she knew it, but Knut’s departure was an open wound in her chest, and she was in no mood to be kind.
‘I know. And as fate’s champion … I’m asking you.’
She smiled, just a little. ‘I say we track down the beast. There must be a way to kill it, or send it away, or something …’
Leif grinned. ‘I thought you’d say that. So: tonight?’
‘If Mother’s back.’ Thyre had gone to Ribe to see Knut off. Astrid blushed. ‘I … I want her blessing.’
‘You’re scared?’
She nodded.
‘Me too. But we can’t let it keep killing. There is one snag, though.’
‘What?’
‘How do we find it?’
Astrid thought for a bit. ‘Can you really talk to things? To trees … and animals?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then ask Valvigs.’
The glorious white bird mewled its discontent. Nothing Astrid did would convince him to fly.
‘He’s never been like this before,’ she said. ‘It’s as if he’s afraid.’
The bird swivelled round its hunkered head, giving him the full force of its eyes.
Leif bent to the gyrfalcon and whispered in its ear. Valvigs cawed once, spread his beautiful wings, and rose into the air. Leaning back, they saw him circling, wider and wider, his white form black against the sun. His spiral took him north … west … south … east … and on east, lower, over the river gorge – and now he was plummeting down, swooping, wings tucked, racing back to them.
Astrid smoothed his ruffling feathers, petting the panicked bird. ‘We’ve got our answer then,’ she said. ‘The Grejsdal Valley. There are caves there.’ She shivered, remembering her encounter with the fiery, massive beast. ‘Perfect for a dragon.’
‘Look, if it’s a dragon, I’ll eat my hat.’
‘You haven’t got a hat.’
‘Then I’ll eat your hat.’
She thought about this. ‘The beaver-fur, or the marten?’
‘I think we’re straying from the point somewhat …’
‘I’ve got an old felt one somewhere. You could eat that, I suppose.’
A clatter of hoofs drowned out Leif’s reply.
Thyre swept through Jelling like a tempest.
‘The queen’s back from Ribe,’ said Leif. ‘Come on!’
Until she saw her mother stride alone into the hall, Astrid had not really believed that Knut could have gone for good. Surely, it had all been just an act – a dramatic gesture to impress Haralt – he couldn’t really have sailed away, leaving her behind. But now the queen was back, alone, and her brother was setting a course for the west.
For a moment, she imagined it was the salt spray of seawater on her face, and that she too had just taken ship from Ribe, that bustling harbour of spices, silks and foreign faces. Then she wiped away the tears, and she and Leif hurried after Thyre, caught up in her wake.
‘My lady, we have news about the beast,’ said Leif, snatching at the queen’s flowing blue robe, just inside the hall doors.
‘Beast or priest?’ said Thyre. Her face was grim-set, full of purpose – she was clearly only half listening to him.
‘Both!’ said Astrid. She darted her head about – good – no one was in earshot. ‘We saw what killed Harmsorgi. Sort of …’
‘Sort of?’ said Thyre.
‘Our eyes were dazzled by the creature’s light,’ put in Leif. ‘But we were in the woods that night, and saw Folkmar follow, and point, and then the beast flew down and lopped off poor Harmsorgi’s head!’
‘And then,’ added Astrid, ‘the priest pointed towards Hellir, and the beast hurried away. We think it must have killed Karl Bersi too, and disposed of the body somehow. Maybe it ate him.’
‘Can you swear to this?’ asked Thyre, in a low tone.
Leif shook his head. ‘To you, maybe, but not before the court.’
‘Why not?
‘Because,’ said Astrid, eyes on the ground, ‘because we saw another man with Folkmar in the woods. It was Har—’
‘Do not say it!’ said the queen. Her face had paled. ‘I will not have it said, though I suspected as much from the first. I see now why there can be no oath-taking on this matter.’ Now it was Thyre’s turn to glance around, uncertain. It was the first time Leif had seen her looking less than the ruler of all she surveyed.
‘Haralt has stolen a march on us. Knut had to take his men abroad to stave off a bloodbath, that’s clear enough. Yet I wish he’d left someone behind. Weland, Thorbjorn – they’re all gone, and the only warriors here are Haralt’s men.’
She laughed – a laugh that rang hollow in that huge space. ‘Two women and a boy to save a king, and a kingdom. I’ll do my best to stop my husband taking the Cross. But I can do nothing against Folkmar’s beast – nothing to protect my people, and the weird folk they believe in.’
‘About that,’ said Astrid. ‘We’ve decided. Leif and me. We’re going hunting.’
The queen’s eyes flashed. Her nostrils flared.
‘Leif has magic,’ Astrid went on. ‘And I could track it – we know roughly where it is. There’s no one else. We’ll be careful.’
Thyre bit her lip. For a long moment, her face was a mass of fighting thoughts and fears.
‘Let no one see you,’ she said at last. ‘And wait until dark. I have something planned for tonight’s dinner, and it may give you protection against this strange, winged fury. And, Astrid,’ she said, eyes moistening.
‘Yes?’
‘Know that I love you.’
Neither Astrid nor Leif had much of an appetite that evening. Astrid had been forced once more to sit alongside Folkmar, who was leering at her hungrily. She shifted in discomfort. At least, this close to the priest, she was safe from whatever was out there, in the darkness, in the gorge. But did not Folkmar himself present a second sort of danger, almost equally horrible? All things considered, she’d rather take her chances with a dragon …
After the pitiful meal, Thyre rose to speak. ‘Knut, our beloved heir, has now gone west, to add new lustre to our kingdom’s crown. But, ever the gift-giver, he sent back several arm-rings of silver, to remember him in his absence.’
Those who remained on the benches stirred, their interest quickened. Thyre dumped a clinking sack upon the table.
‘Those rings were too few to bestow upon all the loyal liegemen in this hall. So before I returned from Ribe, I visited the silversmith, and had him recast the metal, so that all might share this bounty.’
From the sack, she drew forth tangled handfuls of shining pendants, each set upon a leather thong. ‘It is my wish that each person in this hall who honours Gorm as king, and Knut his son, should receive the mark of it in silver, to bear proudly upon their chests. Let every man, woman and child come up and take their due!’
There was a rush to the table. Leif marvelled at the queen’s cunning. To work on greed, and pride, and shame at once! But his admiration was redoubled as he reached the table, and saw the pendants close up.
Folkmar was peering forward with great interest at the pile of silver. Thyre turned to him with a broad smile. ‘See, Saxon, with what skill our smiths work their metal! It is a new fashion in the towns, I hear, to bear one’s beliefs for all to see – and look here: the smith has poured the silver into the shape of a hundred Thor’s hammers!’
Even those of Haralt’s men who had been baptised were seizing their portion of jewellery – to refuse a gift was unlucky, if not downright dangerous when presented in such terms. Astrid and Leif did likewise, hanging the tiny hammers – symbols of the thunder god – around their necks. Folkmar slumped back in his chair, a sickly smile wobbling his face.
TWENTY
‘I still say we should break into Weland’s armoury in Hellir. It’ll be deserted now, and I’d feel better with a sword,’ said Astrid.
‘You have your knife, and I my tongue,’ said Leif. ‘They’re sharp enough, if things come to a fight. But if we’re seen, I reckon we should run.’
They had made good progress – the moon was full – and it was easy enough to follow the wind of the river, between the walls of rock on either side. Now they were passing the place where first they’d met, and Leif had driven off the wolves. Underfoot, the scrabble of needles, roots and pine cones had given way to a springy bank; the whip of bristling spruces in their faces had thinned to the occasional trail of willow branches, raking through their hair like dead men’s fingers.
Neither spoke, but Leif let his hand hang beside him and, in between the shadow and the silence, Astrid took it in her own.
‘We must be close,’ she whispered. Her right hand sought the hilt of her knife; now she had two things to hold on to.
Leif’s free hand, with nothing to grip, had begun to shake. ‘How can you tell?’ he said.
‘Last time we went out at night, you were jumping out of your skin at the least little noise.’
‘Thanks for reminding me …’
‘Well? It’s been ages since we heard anything.’
It was true. Even the river on their right seemed to be holding its breath, its flat waters, oily in the night, creeping along with the stealth of a snake. They were walking on its high bank, between the water and the rock face, and every step of their leather-shod feet was a drum beat in their ears. Thud. Thud. Thud.
‘Squeak!’
Leif leapt half out of his boots at the unexpected sound. ‘What did you do that for?’ he hissed, for it had been Astrid, squealing almost in his ear. She had a hand clapped over her mouth. With the other, she pointed.
Half in, half out of the water, a mark had been left in the mud. The size of a shield, sunk deep, with four smaller prints on the landward side. And beyond each of these, a long, cruel scratch: Astrid’s knife would have fit in any one of them.
Leif edged left and up. Mutely, he gestured. Another print. And another. They led up out of the river, arcing round to follow its path downstream. They were huge. They were fresh. They were the footprints of a gigantic –
‘I still say it’s a dragon,’ whispered Astrid. ‘Leif, when we find this thing … do we have a plan?’
‘I thought we’d hide until it falls asleep. And then, a spell … or, we could stab its heart …?’
‘What if it doesn’t go to sleep?’
‘I’m sure, if I can just find the right words …’
‘What if you can’t?’
‘We’ll be lucky. We always are. All right?’
It wasn’t much comfort, thought Astrid, whose luck had never seemed especially good.
But I’m braver than him, she told herself. And so she had to go on.
They crept along, following the tracks, past scrub and gorse and overhanging rock. To their left, the cliffs were fissuring into caves – blackly gaping mouths from which anything might emerge – but the prints never led into any of them, and so they were forced to turn their shoulders to those awful holes, and keep their eyes before them.
‘Astrid, I’ve been thinking,’ Leif said at last.