Erik the Red

by Tilman Roehrig

  The words Hawk Valley made both friends turn their attention back to the stone. “. . . for treacherous manslaughter, he was banished from my court district for three years, of which only one has elapsed.” Murmurs rose in the crowd. Ulf Einarsson did nothing to quiet them. “Four murders! A stranger comes to Iceland and brings death to four men.”

  “Justice!” Thorbjörn stepped forward with quick steps. Raising his fist, he shouted, “I demand to be heard! The esteemed Ulf wrongly brings up the complaint from Hawk Valley. It has long been atoned for, he imposed the punishment—”

  “Quiet!” the chief judge interrupted him. “I’ll call you when your time comes.” Then he turned his attention to the prosecutor. “The first conviction does not belong in front of this Thing!”

  The gode looked annoyed. “Then I ask the assembly to forget what I said about the shameful murders in Hawk Valley.”

  Thorbjörn returned to his friends, pale with anger. “That fox,” he whispered to himself. “All the jurors know about it now.”

  On the rock, the accuser raised his voice again. “I demand that Erik the Red become an outlawed, peaceless man because of this suit. A man whom no one may feed, clothe, or protect. I declare him stripped of his goods and possessions. Half of his property is to go to Thorgest. The other half, to the jurors, who are to confiscate the goods and chattel according to the law. This I make known to all who will hear me.”

  Applause and calls of the audience rang out, rattles were enthusiastically shaken. The complaint had been well presented and, above all, was understandable for everyone. A stranger had dared to disturb the peace. There was no place in the community for a convicted murderer. Erik and the small group of his followers were met with glares and looks of contempt.

  In the meantime, Ulf Einarsson had left the rock. He took his position next to the chief justice in front of the sacrificial stone. The Breida farmer approached at his signal. He grinned maliciously and coughed but was careful not to spit out the slime. His witnesses were called. One after the next, they entered the sacred area. Each declared his name and origin and then had to place his hand on the iron ring next to the blood bowl and swear that the complaint was correct.

  Behind Thorbjörn, his friends, and the two landowners, the newly recruited six men nudged each other stealthily. Without words, everyone knew what their neighbor was asking himself. Was it wise to continue to stand by the defendant in the face of this parade of witnesses? What harm could they, could their family suffer?

  The big farmer in the blue cape nodded to the group. They had not yet publicly taken sides. He hooked his thumbs into his belt and stepped up to Thorbjörn. “The situation is this . . .” He explained his doubts—the incident at Sharpcliff now appeared in a different light, and he could no longer, in all honesty, stand up for the innocence of the Red. “I ask you, on behalf of the rest of the group, to release us as witnesses.”

  Before Thorbjörn could answer, Erik grabbed the cloth of the cape, pulled the finely dressed man closer, then immediately shoved him away. “A mutton belongs to his flock. Go! All of you. I release you of your word of honor. You don’t need to be afraid of me.”

  “I’m not against you, you have to believe me. Only, in this trial, you will—”

  “Go!” growled Erik. “Before I really do commit murder.”

  The six men backed away from the court barrier, relieved when they could disappear into the crowd.

  Tyrkir pressed his hand on his scar. The blood pounded there painfully. “What now?”

  Sweat beads ran from Thorbjörn’s forehead. “I will object to the complaint. That hasn’t changed.”

  Erik smiled bitterly. “It’s hard to believe, but your skull is almost harder than mine. We both know how this game ends. Well, get this over with.” He grabbed Thorbjörn by the shoulder. “But our Know-It-All is to take precautions. For later.”

  Erik’s plan met with no opposition either from Tyrkir or from the two remaining faithful. After a short deliberation, Thorbjörn also agreed. “I still hope that you will get your due here on the Thing. Nevertheless, we should plan for your security in any case.”

  The swearing-in of the witnesses at the sacrificial stone was completed. The chief judge raised his voice: “Whoever wants to raise an objection against the complaint in this dispute may speak now or forever remain silent.”

  Thorbjörn walked straight-spined to the Law Rock.

  Like the six renegades just a few moments ago, Tyrkir withdrew step by step. He was greeted by the spectators with applause and murmur. “You’re smart. No honest Icelander should stick by this red stranger.”

  He felt the well-meaning pats on his back like fist blows and pushed himself through the smell of seal fat, only breathing a sigh of relief when he’d left the assembly behind.

  Thorbjörn’s Sea Bird lay half-beached, squeezed between fourteen other ships in the harbor about an hour’s walk back on the headland. While their masters visited the Thing for a week, the crews had settled ashore. They sat in groups around a large fire, drank beer, laughed, chatted, and roasted pieces of meat on long, pointed sticks.

  Tyrkir tried to attract the attention of his people by whistling, but his lips failed. I must practice that again, he thought angrily.

  He approached the fire, trying to go unnoticed, and found a slave who belonged to the Sea Bird. Tapping him on the shoulder, he murmured, “Thorbjörn’s orders. Come to the ship immediately. The others, too. But no fuss. Time is pressing.”

  “Why?” The slave choked down a bite. “Is there an argument? Has the oath of peace—?”

  “Don’t ask, lad.” Tyrkir jerked his head around to reveal his scar. “Do as I say!”

  The sight frightened the servant. “I’ll pass the message on quietly. I’ve got it.” He pulled himself up. With the rest of the roast still on the stick, he shuffled through the camped groups.

  Tyrkir watched as the boy nudged a comrade with his foot, then bent down and whispered something to him. Both were chuckling—it must have seemed to the people gathered around them as if they were swapping dirty stories.

  Tyrkir nodded appreciatively. The servant went on, finding the next man. Little by little, the slaves rose up. Some reached between their legs and walked toward the beach as if to release their bladders. Two supported each other, swaying as if drunk. Without arousing suspicion, all ten of the goden’s slaves had soon left the feast.

  “My friend’s case does not go well.” Tyrkir looked sharply into the surrounding faces. “Make sure you get the fog out of your skulls. You may soon have to prove how much faster the men from Warm Spring Slope are than those drunkards there by the fire.”

  It had always been easy for him to give clear orders, but since his injury, he struggled with every word. Finally, the ten men had understood what was expected of them. “Your lord, my friend, and me, too, we count on you.”

  Uncertainty lengthens every path. Finally, Tyrkir returned to the Thing. The rock of the law stood empty—Thorbjörn had finished his defense. The spectators had again stepped forward to the barrier and were engaged in quiet conversations with their neighbors. The verdict was clearly still pending.

  Tyrkir squeezed through the crowd. Only reluctantly was he given room. A muscle-bound landowner growled, “Slowly, little one. Otherwise, I’ll rip your head off. You missed the best part.” He stretched out his arm like a crossbeam. “Who are you, anyway? Hey, your face? Didn’t I see you with Erik earlier?”

  Without answering, Tyrkir ducked under the muscled barrier. In front of the rope, the crowd was tightly packed. He searched until he got a clear view of the sacred place.

  The twelve jurors had left their benches and were consulting with the chief justice. To the right of the altar, the Breida farmer’s witnesses stood around his advocate. They exchanged stealthy pats on the backs, fat grins on their faces.

  On the other side, Erik waited with Thorbjörn and the two landowners. The friend had put his fists to his hips. His bearded ch
in raised high, he stared boldly at the gawkers. That’s how strong you are, my Viking, Tyrkir thought. But what use is pride and respectability against such numbers? We couldn’t even buy a handful of testimonies.

  The jurors returned to their benches, and the supreme judge stood before the sacrificial stone. With his eyes closed, he remained there, waiting, until silence fell over the Thing place.

  Slowly, he opened his eyes. “By the power of my office, I will now pronounce the verdict. The complaint and defense have been adequately presented to the assembly by honorable speakers. According to our sacred laws, I pronounce Erik Thorvaldsson, also called the Red, guilty of cowardly manslaughter of Toke and Odd, the sons of Thorgest of Breida Farm.”

  No murmurs rose outside the court barrier; no emotion crossed Erik’s face; nobody on the plaintiff’s side moved. This judgment had been expected by all. After a pause, the wise man raised his voice again. “As punishment and atonement for his deed, the murderer is to pay a double man-price to the aggrieved farmer.”

  The Breida farmer laid his hand on the shoulder of Ulf Einarsson. Two man-prices, the prospect of two hundred marks in silver, satisfied him.

  For a moment, Tyrkir felt a quiet hope rise. Would that be the only punishment? He watched as Thorbjörn nudged his protégé. Erik did not move.

  “However, since the guilty man’s timber and household effects are still held unjustly in the Breida farmer’s barn, the twofold man-price will be accounted against these. It is thereby deemed paid in full.”

  A shout of anger burst out of Thorgest, and the judge from Hawk Valley had to silence him with a hard grip.

  Oh, great Tyr, will you show mercy to my Viking? Hope grew in Tyrkir. Next to the sacrificial stone, Erik moved for the first time, scratching his right cheek.

  The chief judge looked from one party to the other, then turned to the assembly. “Although the murders in Hawk Valley have been atoned for, the new homicides further taint the reputation of this man. The rot must be cut out. Otherwise, it will poison all the flesh. In the interest of our safety, and to give comfort to the father who lost two sons, Erik the Red shall be stripped of all rights and honor for three years. He can leave the country or live here in Iceland like an animal, with the animals in the wilderness. In three days, counted from this hour on, anyone may pursue and kill him without consequence. Whoever accommodates him, nourishes him, or clothes him, however, is himself subject to the law. After the punishment has been served, Erik Thorvaldsson shall be cleansed again. He may then return to our community as an honorable freeman.”

  The supreme judge turned to the Red. “Will you obey the verdict?”

  Like a tree caught by a squall, the giant back bent abruptly. With the crook of his arm, he shielded his eyes.

  The spectators held their breath. The sentenced man had to agree to the punishment and carry it out himself because, except for the plaintiff, there was nobody who could enforce it. That was the law. If the condemned man did not comply, his deed would have to be declared unforgivable. His spine would be broken right here on the sacrificial stone, like that of an unworthy criminal who had raped women and girls or had killed a defenseless cripple.

  “I repeat my question!” The chief justice’s tone grew more severe. “Do you obey the verdict?”

  Erik dropped his arm. His face was wet with tears, but there was a fire in his yellow-brown eyes. “Because I have to, I, Erik Thorvaldsson, will submit to the verdict of the Thing. For three years, I will bury my revenge in me. But forget—” He looked over his shoulder up to the rock of the law, then more for himself, he added, “Injustice was suffered by me, not my opponent.”

  Before the judge could respond, Thorbjörn whispered, “Quiet! The verdict stands. Do not say another word until we’ve left the holy place!”

  The chief justice nodded approvingly and did not punish the condemned man’s last remark. “That concludes the matter,” he shouted to the freemen. “We haven’t discussed everything yet. But first, eat your fill. Do not drink too much!”

  The gode of Warm Spring Slope walked ahead with his head raised high. Erik followed him, and the two landowners brought up the rear. The Breida farmer sputtered with anger. He was trying to motion to his people with hand signals, but he was still not allowed to leave the sacrificial stone.

  The group slipped unhindered under the rope, and the spectators cleared a wide passage. Tyrkir used the opportunity to break away from the crowd and join his friend. Erik glanced at him. “Yes?”

  The answer was just a nod.

  “That’s good.” They moved faster.

  As the custom dictated, the crowd closed back together behind them. The banished man should have enough of a lead to hide from his hunter. The five heard the outraged shouting of Thorgest until it was lost in the laughter and noise of the crowd.

  There was no time to go back to the tent town to collect the few belongings they’d brought with them. Thorbjörn sent only the two landowners to his goden hut. “You stay there! I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

  He hurried on with Erik and Tyrkir. It wouldn’t be long before Thorgest was on their heels. Even though the grace period lasted three days, the hunter had to keep an eye on his quarry. It would take too much time and effort to find his trail. Anyone who killed a banished man could claim all his possessions; that alone made the hunt worthwhile.

  Finally, the harbor came into sight. The three men slowed their pace. The servants who were camped there should only realize what was going on as late as possible. Before they turned from the road down to the bay, Tyrkir looked around once more. “Time is running short.”

  From the tent city, riders were dashing over the headland at a fast tölt, dragging dust plumes behind them.

  “Let’s go. Don’t worry about them,” Erik growled. With long strides, they hurried through the middle of the feast, past the fire, and approached the pier.

  Thorbjörn uttered a suppressed curse. His Sea Bird still lay half-beached amid the other knarrs. “By all the gods! My ship should have been out in the open water long ago.”

  Erik grabbed his steward by the neck. “What’s going on? Only the dinghy was supposed to be waiting for us. And where are our people? Damn, it’s going to be close now.”

  With a jerk forward, Tyrkir freed himself from Erik’s grip. “I came up with another plan. Trust me.” He pulled himself up the side of the ship and sat astride the gunwale. The servants were huddled in the hold. “Have you prepared everything?” Their smiling faces were enough for him. “Then let’s go now!”

  The slaves all rose simultaneously. They scurried to the bow and jumped ashore to the right and left of the dragon’s head. Tyrkir shouted to the two gawking men, “What are you waiting for? Or are you planning to have a chat with the Breida farmer?” His words were barely audible, but his look toward the camp underlined their meaning: the pursuers were already rushing down the slope.

  Hastily, Thorbjörn and Erik swung themselves over the gunwale. The servants pushed the ship off the beach. As soon as there was enough water under the hull, they used the rudder ports as stirrups to jump aboard. They stretched out their arms to their companions, and soon the last man was lifted over the railing.

  The knarr detached itself from the row of ships and slid into the open water. Now the fugitives had been discovered, and the shouting around the fire grew. The servants stumbled to and fro; Thorgest and his friends punched their drunken minions, gradually gathering a boat crew and kicking them to the harbor.

  In the stern of the Sea Bird, Thorbjörn pushed the tiller forward. The knarr turned slowly. The slaves had taken their seats on the benches and pushed the long oars out through the ports. Light strokes on the port side of the ship supported the turning maneuver.

  Erik stood next to Tyrkir and watched as the knarr of the Breida farmer was pushed into the water. “I intended to disappear in time.” He clenched his fists, then opened them again. “I didn’t want a race. Oh, Know-It-All, you gave away our adva
ntage!”

  “Wait and see!” Tyrkir pulled the good half of his mouth into a grin. “We’re already safe now.”

  “What? Did they also cut away your mind at Sharpcliff?”

  The oars plunged evenly, pulled through, slid forward again close over the curling waves, plunged in again, and the Sea Bird picked up speed.

  The two friends walked past the mast to the aft. On the steering deck, Thorbjörn received them with little confidence. “We might be able to escape if we reach the island belt with a small lead. Something has to work out for us on this miserable day.”

  Erik stared past the stern to the harbor. “I don’t understand.”

  The ship of the pursuers was still bobbing back in the bay. Thorbjörn turned his head. “Why . . . ? But they should have turned long ago!”

  Tyrkir crossed his hands behind his back. “Yes, should be child’s play . . . if you have a rudder blade,” he said lightly. “Even just using the oars, it would take a little longer. A knarr should at least have one of those.” He fell silent, enjoying his friends’ puzzled expressions.

  “Stop it,” Erik barked.

  “It’s simple. That barge is drifting because the rudder and oars are neatly stacked behind a pile of stones at the end of the mooring.” Tyrkir shrugged. Because he didn’t know which knarr belonged to the Breida farmer, he’d let the servants “lighten” all fourteen ships. “As I said, we are already safe.”

  “Sly boy.” Erik wiped his forehead. “Know-It-All, you’re good for something after all!”

  Where to? Farther northwest? There was nothing more there than impassable, bare mountains, and nowhere on Iceland was the winter more severe than there.

  Where to? Deeper into the south? Too many people had settled there. A banished man could only survive in the wilderness, and only then if luck was on his side.

  Yes, there was the desert of the banished: fields of solidified lava as far as the eye could see, a little green around ponds hidden in crevices here and there. No man voluntarily went there, so the outcasts dwelt at the few oases and fought and tore each other apart over a stray sheep or a few bird eggs.