I swallowed the first few bites without even chewing them, but once the fiercest pangs of hunger were quelled, I leaned back on one elbow and chewed each bite slowly, with my eyes closed, savoring the flavors of the meat. Being able to eat my fill of beef still felt strange to me. I could not forget my years as a thrall, when I could only watch others gorge themselves on the rare occasions when a cow or bull was slaughtered, while I hoped at best for scraps.
Torvald, sitting cross-legged beside me, was obviously enjoying the meal, too. He grunted whenever he ripped a new bite from the great slab he clutched, chewed with loud smacking of his lips, and sighed in pleasure each time he washed down a mouthful with a long swallow of ale. His beard was stained with grease from the meat, as was his sleeve, which he periodically wiped across his chin to keep the meat juices from running down his neck.
Tore and Odd, who had earlier spread their cloaks on the ground near us, approached carrying pieces of beef and freshly filled cups of ale. I’d learned during our journey from Hedeby that Tore and Odd were close comrades, who could usually be found in each other’s company. In appearance, they were a strangely matched pair. Tore, the younger of the two, was short and bowlegged, with a chest as round and large as a barrel, and massive, heavily muscled arms. His looks made me wonder if there was a dwarf somewhere in his lineage. Odd, the oldest member of the Gull’s crew, was tall and gangly. Where Tore had thick black hair, Odd’s was thin and stringy, light brown streaked with gray, and so sparse on top he usually wore a fur-rimmed cap to cover his head. Tore had a black beard so long and dense it hid what little neck he had—his head was very closely attached to his shoulders. Odd wore a long, drooping mustache, but every few days he painstakingly scraped his chin clean of beard with a small knife.
To my relief, Tore had not pestered me with questions during the afternoon while we’d tarried on the shore, waiting for our dinner to cook. Perhaps the abundant supply of ale had temporarily mellowed his mood.
“Did you see, Torvald?” Odd asked, as he settled himself on his cloak. “One of the other ships here is the Raven. Ragnar’s ship.”
Torvald nodded. Tore did too.
“Aye,” Tore said. “If Ragnar is here, for certain it is war the council is discussing. It takes the scent of blood to lure Ragnar to a council.”
“Hastein confides in you, Torvald,” Odd said. “Does the king want to lead the Danes to war against the Franks? Was that why Hastein took us scouting down the coast of Frankia?”
Torvald did not answer right away. He tilted his head back, as though examining the stars that glittered above us through scattered rents in the cloud cover, then jutted his chin out while stretching his neck. Only after his efforts were rewarded with a loud belch did he respond to Odd’s question.
“Sometimes Jarl Hastein confides in me, and sometimes he chooses to keep his own counsel. He is my jarl, though, and I trust him and have pledged to follow him. As have you, Odd, and all the rest of his housecarls. He will tell us what we need to know, when we need to know it.”
“Men say Ragnar killed a dragon once,” Tore said, changing the subject. “A great serpent that spit fire and boiling poison from its mouth.”
Now I remembered what I had heard long ago about Ragnar. It was a tale old Ubbe, the foreman on my father’s estate, would tell sometimes, when my father and his men gathered round the warmth of the main hearth, drinking and sharing stories to pass the long winter nights.
“Aye,” Odd said. “I have heard the dragon’s breath charred Ragnar’s shield when he closed in to attack.”
“Yes,” Tore added. “And Ragnar wore special breeches he’d made of bearskin with the fur still on, that he’d boiled in pitch then rolled in sand to protect his legs from the fire and poison. That is why he is called Logbrod.”
Torvald snorted and rolled his eyes. He glanced at me, as if expecting me to agree with his opinion. I was surprised. What Tore had said matched the tale I’d heard.
“You scoff?” Tore asked. “It was a clever plan, and a bold deed, worthy of a great hero. I do not believe you could defeat a dragon.”
“It would be hard to do,” Torvald agreed. “First I would have to find one. I have never seen a dragon, though I have traveled much of the world and have seen some strange things in my time. I do not believe they exist.”
“Dragons are rare creatures,” Odd suggested. “Few men have had the fortune—or misfortune—to see one. That does not mean they do not exist. There are too many tales. There must be some truth behind them.”
“You have never seen the Gods, either, have you?” Tore challenged. “Does that mean they do not exist?”
“I have felt the power of the Gods,” Torvald answered. “I do not need to see them. And besides, I know the truth of how Ragnar got his name. There was no dragon, though there were breeches made of bearskin.”
Now it was Tore’s turn to look dubious.
“So you, Torvald Starki, know the ‘true’ tale of Ragnar Logbrod, and how he got his name? Did the great man himself confide this tale to you?”
“No,” Torvald said. “I heard his son, Bjorn Ironsides, tell the tale to Hastein. According to Bjorn, it is also how he won his own name, and how his brother Ivar came to be called the Boneless.”
Odd grinned. “I have long wondered how Ivar won that name. Tell us the tale.”
Torvald shook his head. “I cannot tell it,” he said.
“Why not?” Tore demanded. I wondered if Torvald had been sworn to secrecy.
Torvald looked at his cup and sighed. “Because the tale is long, my throat is dry, and my cup is empty. I could never finish the telling. My voice would surely give out…unless you fetch me more to drink.”
Odd started to rise. “I’ll refill your cup for you,” he offered.
Tore pushed him back down, scowling. “You will not,” he said. “It is beneath your dignity to wait on Torvald. You are his equal. I am his equal. Yet he always tries to get me, or you, or some other member of our crew to do his work for him. We will not play his game. We are not his servants. He can fetch his own ale.”
“But I want to hear his tale,” Odd complained.
Torvald lay back on his cloak, with one arm behind his head to pillow it, and began rooting in his mouth with the forefinger of his other hand, searching among his teeth for trapped shreds of beef. He seemed content, in the face of Tore’s outburst, to endure his thirst.
I, too, wanted to hear Torvald’s tale about Ragnar. It would not offend my dignity to wait on Torvald in exchange for his story. I had been a thrall, and was used to serving others. I drained the dregs in my cup and stood up.
“My cup is empty,” I said. “I am going to refill it. Can I fill your cup while I am up, Torvald?”
When I returned, Torvald began his tale.
“Ragnar has fathered many sons, by two wives and several concubines. Four of those sons still live and are famed warriors in their own right: Ubbe the Frisian, born of Ragnar’s first wife, Thora, Ivar the Boneless and Bjorn Ironsides, born of his second wife, Kraka, and Sigurd Snake-Eye, born of a woman Ragnar captured in a raid on the Wends.
“When his sons were young, Ivar was always a favorite because of his quick mind. Like his father, he was born to lead men in battle. It is said that by the time Ivar was only eight years of age, there was no one in Ragnar’s household, save Ragnar himself, who could best the boy at the game of hnefatafl, and as a grown man, he, like Ragnar, can plot the moves of ships and companies of warriors more easily than most men move game pieces on a board.
“In the winter when Ivar was ten years of age, he and Bjorn, who was but eight at the time, accompanied Ragnar into the forest to check a deadfall trap he had set, hoping to catch a wolf that had been hunting dangerously close to their homestead.
“When they reached the trap, they found it had done its work well. The great wolf lay dead inside, its back broken by the falling log.
“While Ragnar skinned the carcass, the two boys roamed t
hrough the surrounding forest. On the side of a low, rocky hill, they found a hole leading into the ground. Bjorn told Hastein that he and Ivar thought it might be a troll’s lair. Emboldened by the knowledge that their father was near, they decided to explore the cave, hoping to find the troll’s treasure. Since he was the oldest, Ivar crept into the cave, while Bjorn waited outside, guarding against the troll’s return.”
Torvald paused and looked at his cup. “It is empty again,” he said, and looked at Tore, smiling expectantly.
“Mine is still full,” I said, and passed it to him before Tore could renew their argument.
“Was it a troll’s cave?” Odd asked. I was wondering, too.
“No,” Torvald replied. “It was the cave a great she-bear had chosen for her winter’s rest, while a cub grew in her womb.
“The bear was asleep, partially covered by a drift of leaves at the back of the cave. In the dim light, Ivar could see only a great mound. Not realizing what it was, he foolishly tried to find out by prodding it with his spear.
“No doubt you have heard that it is unwise to awaken a sleeping bear. Ivar quickly learned the truth of that saying. Enraged by Ivar’s rude behavior, the she-bear awoke with a roar. Ivar fled out of the cave with her close on his heels. When he reached open ground, the deep snow slowed him and the bear brought him down with a swipe of her paw.
“Ragnar ran toward the sound of the growls and young Ivar’s screams. Just as he reached them and saw the she-bear standing over Ivar, mauling him with her claws, Bjorn ran up to the beast and thrust his small spear into her side, trying to draw her away from his brother. The great bear turned and swatted Bjorn aside with one blow, sending him flying through the air.
“Bjorn told Hastein that the blow temporarily knocked the life from him. By the time he returned to the world of the living, his father was kneeling over him. Beyond, the bear lay dead in the snow beside the bloody, broken body of Ivar.
“Ragnar carried both boys back to the safety of their longhouse. Although Bjorn was badly bruised and in great pain, the bear’s attack had broken no bones. Ragnar said his ribs must be made of iron to have withstood such a blow, and the name stuck—he has been known as Bjorn Ironsides ever since.
“Ivar, however, was badly injured. His scalp, face, and back were torn by the bear’s claws, and the force of her blows had shattered both of his arms, a leg, and many other bones besides. He soon caught a fever, and was not expected to live. But the boy’s will was strong, and he refused to give up his life.
“The fever burned Ivar’s body for ten days. When it finally broke, the household rejoiced, believing the worst had passed. However, try though they might Ragnar and Kraka could not wake Ivar. Bjorn said it was as though his brother’s body still lived, but his spirit had gone.
“A witch-woman lived in the forest, a half day’s ride from Ragnar’s estate. She was believed by the folk of the district to be a shape-shifter, and was widely feared. But when the fourth day dawned after the breaking of Ivar’s fever and he still had not awakened, Ragnar sent for her.”
A shape-shifter! I marveled that Ragnar would dare to deal with such a one, even to save his son.
Torvald continued. “Bjorn said that Ivar’s flesh had no more color to it than ice, and his body had grown so thin the outlines of every bone, including those that had been broken, could be seen through the skin. The witch stood over him, chanting in a strange tongue, and carved a spell in runes on Ivar’s chest with a knife made of bone. She licked the blood that flowed from the cuts, and put her mouth over Ivar’s to breathe his breath. Then she told Ragnar what she had learned.
“The witch said the she-bear had been a shaman among its kind, and it was angered over the death of its unborn cub. Its ghost had stolen Ivar’s spirit, and was claiming his life in payment. She told Ragnar the only hope for Ivar was to persuade the spirit of the bear to accept another life in exchange for his son’s.
“From among the animal skins covering his bed, Ragnar took the pelt of a bear and fashioned from it rough trousers, a cloak with slits cut for his arms, and a hood to cover his face. Wearing these shaggy clothes, he went into the forest, accompanied only by the witch-woman and a slave, a boy close in age to Ivar.
“Later that night, when Ragnar and the witch returned, they bore with them the bloody skull of the she-bear, a token of the covenant Ragnar had made. The rough fur breeches he’d worn were stained red with blood. The slave boy was never seen again.”
What, I wondered, had Ragnar done? What sort of evil pact had he entered into? Had he, too, become a shape-shifter, part man and part beast?
“Ivar awoke the very next morning. It took many months, though, for his shattered bones to grow whole again. It was long before he could even feed himself. Summer came before he regained enough strength to leave his bed and walk. The two servant girls who cared for Ivar during that time called him the boneless boy. Now he is a man and fully recovered but for a slight limp, but he is still known as Ivar the Boneless—though few today know the true reason why.”
“If this story is true, why is the story about Ragnar and the dragon told?” Odd asked.
“It is the way of skalds,” Torvald replied. “They gain their fame and win rewards from kings and other great men by composing fine tales about bold deeds. Slaying a dragon that breathes fire and spits poison is the kind of story men like to hear. Entering into a dark pact with a shape-changing witch does not make so fine a tale.”
I felt disturbed by Torvald’s tale. What sort of man was Ragnar? And what of the poor slave boy who had died? What of his family? It was not something that would concern men like Torvald, Tore, or Odd. But I had been a slave. And I had seen my own mother die as a sacrifice, offered because she was merely a slave. I did not think Ragnar was a leader I would wish to follow.
My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Hastein striding into the ring of light around the fire, followed by Svein and Stig. The jarl turned his head this way and that, searching the faces of the men sitting in the firelight and the shadows beyond. Stig touched his arm and pointed in our direction.
Hastein walked over to us and spoke to Torvald.
“We leave tomorrow morning at first light. Be sure the crew and ship are ready.”
Torvald, whose mouth was full once more with a large portion of beef, merely nodded his head and raised his cup in acknowledgment. Hastein stared at him for a moment, then shook his head.
“I am glad to see you did not go hungry this night, while I was in council atop the hill in the king’s longhouse,” he said. “In his feast-hall we dined well also, though when dining in the presence of the king, it’s considered unseemly to wear your food upon your face and clothing.”
Hastein turned and walked to where the Gull’s prow rested on the sand at the water’s edge. He climbed the gangplank to the bow, then stepped up onto the edge of the top strake and balanced there, one hand on the neck of the gilded dragon’s head.
“Warriors!” he cried in a loud voice. “My brothers of the sword. I have just returned from the king’s longhouse. I have come to tell you what was decided in the council of the King of the Danes.” The men seated around the fires ceased talking and turned their attention to Hastein.
“As is known to you all, the lands to the south of our kingdom are ruled by the Franks. Their holdings are vast and rich, yet these men are greedy, and are constantly seeking more.
“Once, the lands that border the south of Jutland were the home of Saxon tribes, a folk who worshiped the same Gods as we. But in the time of our fathers’ fathers, the Frankish King Charles, he whom the Franks call ‘the Great,’ developed a lust for the lands of the Saxons. For many years he warred against them. The Saxons resisted bravely, but the might of the Franks was too great. The Frankish king burned the Saxons’ villages and slaughtered their people by the thousands. After the final battle, when the strength of the Saxons was finally broken, ten thousand of their folk were sold into slavery, and the slave markets
from Hedeby to the Araby kingdoms were glutted with their women and children. Those few not killed or sold were driven from their lands and scattered in the wild regions far to the east. It is important that those deeds not be forgotten, for they show the nature of our enemy.
“Then the Frankish King Charles turned his eyes upon our lands. But we Danes are free men, and will always remain so. Godfred, who ruled in those days as king, was not cowed by the might of the Franks. At his call, the people responded and built up the Danevirke, that defends the southern boundary of our homeland. And when King Charles marched north against us with a great army, King Godfred sailed south in a mighty fleet and fell upon Frisia, carrying death and destruction behind the flank of the Frankish force.”
At Hastein’s words, I remembered hearing tales of King Godfred and how he had summoned the Danish folk to fight off the invading Franks and build the Danevirke, the great earthen wall running across the base of the Jutland peninsula. Godfred had been a real hero. No false stories needed to be made up about him. The truth of his deeds made fine tales.
“King Charles of the Franks and King Godfred signed a treaty, bringing peace between our peoples,” Hastein continued. “But the Franks did not long honor the agreement. During the reign of Louis, the son of Charles, the Franks again attacked across the Danevirke. Again, though, they found the courage and might of the Danes too great, and they were driven from our lands.
“For many years since that time, peace has existed between the Danes and the Franks. But as wolves can smell blood from a great distance, so we Danes can sense weakness in a foe. King Louis was not the man his father was. Now Louis is dead, and his three sons are weaker still, and fight among themselves. The Frankish Empire has broken into three kingdoms, each at war with the others.
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