Dragons from the Sea

by Judson Roberts

  “You make looting sound like a noble thing,” Ivar said.

  I was shocked at Hastein’s words. He’d told us, on the shore that night below the king’s longhouse, that we were warring against the Franks to make our homeland safer. Did he not truly believe so? Were we really just attacking the Franks for personal gain?

  “I think you make us sound as though we are no better than the cattle-raiding Irish chieftains who call themselves kings and spin heroic tales about stealing sheep,” Ragnar said. “The Irish do nothing, and console themselves with glorious tales about it. The Romans conquered the world, and their exploits live on in legend and in these monuments of stone. We, too, could win an empire. Man for man, no warriors can match ours. Yet our people will never be great if they do not learn discipline.”

  “And if we did win an empire, I wonder who would rule it?” Ivar asked. “Perhaps the war-king who led the conquering army?”

  “You carry your insolence too far,” Ragnar snapped. “Were you not my son…”

  “Yes,” Ivar said, nodding and leaning forward in his seat. “And were you not my father…”

  “Enough!” Hastein said. “We are the leaders of this army. We must not fight among ourselves. After all, Ragnar,” he added, smirking, “it would be undisciplined to do so, and would set a bad example for the men.”

  Ivar gave a harsh laugh and slouched back in his chair. Hastein ignored him and continued.

  “Do not try to make us what we are not, Ragnar. This day we are the victors. Why are you dissatisfied? What is it that you want?”

  “We have brought a great army deep into the homeland of the Franks,” Ragnar replied. “We have a chance to wound them in their heart. I do not want to plunder a few of their churches and towns, steal a few of their women, and be gone. I want the Franks to long remember this year as an axe-age, a sword-age, as a time of the wolf. I want them to so fear the might of the Danes that they will never again dare to attack our lands. We cannot do this, though, if we waste our strength. We cannot tolerate our warriors killing each other. We must bring discipline to the army now.”

  At least Ragnar had not forgotten why we were here. But his last words worried me.

  “What do you propose?” Hastein asked.

  “We must make an example. We must show our warriors that we will not tolerate them killing each other. We should hang someone. That will put a stop to it.”

  I did not like the turn this argument had taken.

  “Do we know who the killers are?” Ivar asked.

  “Not all of them,” Ragnar answered. “Four of our dead were killed by other Danes, according to their comrades, but the killers fled and were not recognized. We know who one killer is, though. And I think one is enough. If we hang one man as an example, all in the army will know and take heed.”

  “This talk of hanging is premature. You are assuming the killing was murder,” Hastein said. “We do not know that it was.”

  “It was a Dane killing a Dane,” Ragnar answered. “We cannot afford to lose warriors this way.”

  “We cannot just hang someone,” Hastein protested. “A case must be presented and proved.”

  “We do not have the time to waste on that!” Ragnar exclaimed.

  “Perhaps Father is right,” Ivar said. “It is just one man, after all, and we are at war and in a foreign land. Perhaps making an example would be a good thing. Who is the killer, anyway?”

  “It is one of my men,” Hastein replied. “It is Halfdan, who stands here in front of you.”

  Ivar turned and looked at me. “Ah,” he said to Hastein. “Now I understand your sudden respect for the law.”

  Hastein pushed his chair away from the table and rose. “If you would execute one of my men for murder, the case must be heard and judged properly. We chose you to be war-king of our army. That is all. I did not agree to give you the power of life or death over my men. They would not follow me if I did. You must follow the law.”

  By now Ragnar’s face had turned a dark red. The raven on his shoulder squawked nervously and pecked at his ear. He cursed and swatted at it, and it screeched in protest.

  “The Franks do not need to attack us,” he said. “They need only wait, and we will tear our army apart from within. We are little more than a rabble. We do not deserve greatness.”

  “We are free men,” Hastein replied. “We do not give our kings absolute power. Even they must obey our laws. That is our greatness, and we will not surrender it.”

  Hastein and Ragnar stood glaring at each other. I feared that if the argument continued, they might come to blows. I feared our entire campaign against the Franks might collapse right here…and it would be my fault.

  “I did not murder anyone,” I blurted out. “There is no need to argue. Even Ragnar, when he hears the facts, will agree it was not murder.”

  As soon as I spoke those last words, I wished I could take them back. In his current state of rage, I suspected Ragnar would be happy to kill anyone at all, for almost any reason, and hanging me would satisfy that need nicely.

  Ragnar, Ivar, and Hastein all turned and looked at me. It was Ivar who spoke.

  “Well then,” he said. “Let us hear the facts.”

  Ragnar turned to a small group of men standing in one corner of the hall. “Gunulf,” he cried. “You and your man come forward.”

  Gunulf, the gray-bearded chieftain I’d confronted at Wulf’s house this morning, walked forward until he stood beside me in front of the long table. With him was the brown-haired warrior.

  “Tell Jarl Hastein and the rest of the captains here why you have come,” Ragnar said.

  “I have come because this boy,” Gunulf said, pointing at me with his thumb, “murdered Sigvid, one of my men. He claims he is one of your followers,” he added, looking at Hastein.

  Hastein turned his head and looked at me for a moment, then faced Gunulf and spoke.

  “Indeed he is one of my followers,” he said. His voice was soft at first, but grew louder as he continued. “And despite his youthful appearance, he is not a boy. He is a warrior. He was with me when my men and I won the gates of Ruda for our army, and he fought well. Why do you accuse him of murder? I hope you are not wasting the war-king’s time and mine with a baseless accusation.”

  I felt pleased at Hastein’s words, but surprised by the tone with which he’d spoken them. Chieftains tend to be proud men, quick to feel their dignity has been insulted. From the color rising on Gunulf’s face, it was obvious he had taken offense. His anger caused him to press his accusation even more hotly against me.

  “It was murder!” Gunulf retorted. “Cowardly murder. He shot my man down with a bow.”

  “We are waiting to hear the facts,” Ivar said. Gunulf glared at him, took a deep breath, then continued.

  “I and half my crew, including Sigvid, were among the mounted force you led against Ruda last night. By the time we arrived and made our way through the gate…”

  “A gate which I and my warriors, including Halfdan here, captured while you were waiting safely downstream,” Hastein interjected.

  “Let him finish,” Ragnar snapped.

  Gunulf continued. “By the time we entered the town, the battle at the gate was over, and from the sounds there was only scattered fighting continuing about the town. My crew scattered to find plunder.”

  “It sounds like a lack of discipline to me,” Ivar said sardonically. Ragnar glared at him.

  “Did you see Halfdan kill your man Sigvid?” Hastein asked.

  Gunulf shook his head. “I was not with Sigvid last night after the looting began.”

  Ivar rolled his eyes. “You did not witness the killing?” he asked. “Where are your facts to support an accusation of murder?”

  “I did not see it, but this warrior did,” Gunulf said, indicating the brown-haired man standing at his side. “Stenkil here found me this morning and told me Sigvid was dead—killed by another Dane. Stenkil led me to a house in the town and we found Si
gvid’s body there, out in the street. This one”—Gunulf pointed at me—“was there. I asked him if he’d killed Sigvid, and he boasted that he had. As Sigvid’s chieftain, I demand that this warrior be punished, and wergild be paid, that I may take it back to Sigvid’s family.”

  Ragnar turned to Hastein. “You see? Your man admitted it. We need waste no more time on this. Send someone to fetch a rope.”

  “Killing is not always murder,” Hastein said to Ragnar. “I have killed many men, but have murdered none. Nothing Gunulf has told us proves Halfdan murdered Sigvid.”

  Hastein turned a cold stare toward Stenkil. “Your chieftain says you saw the killing. Tell us your tale, that we may judge it.”

  Stenkil told Ragnar what had occurred the night before. To my surprise, his account was more truthful than not—he admitted I’d told him and Sigvid that the house was under Hastein’s protection, and that I’d ordered them to leave.

  “I did leave,” he said, “but Sigvid remained behind.”

  “The words of this youth persuaded you to leave?” Ragnar asked, sounding surprised. Ivar, who seemed quick to see cowardice in other men, was looking at Stenkil with disgust.

  “He was threatening to shoot us with his bow.”

  “If you left, then you did not see the killing, did you?” Hastein demanded. “You do not know how it occurred.”

  “No,” Stenkil admitted. “I did not see the killing. But later that night I passed by the house again and saw Sigvid’s body outside. And this boy admitted to Gunulf this morning that he’d killed him.”

  Hastein looked at Ragnar. “We have heard no evidence of murder,” he said. “Do you still believe we should hang Halfdan?”

  Ragnar glared at Hastein, then turned to face me. “Do you have anything to say?” he demanded.

  “I admit that I killed Sigvid,” I said, “but I did not murder him. Jarl Hastein gave his oath of honor to the Frankish sea captain that if he helped us gain entry into the town, he and his family would be protected. I was only following my captain’s orders.”

  “How did the killing occur?” Ragnar asked.

  “Sigvid told me he would kill Wulf’s wife unless I laid down my bow and fought him hand to hand. He was holding his sword to her throat when he made the threat.”

  “Why didn’t you fight him?” Ivar demanded. “Were you afraid of him?”

  “No. I was not afraid, but I was not certain I could defeat him, either, fighting hand to hand,” I answered. “I knew I had to uphold Jarl Hastein’s oath to Wulf. I did what I had to do to protect the jarl’s honor. Had I chosen to fight Sigvid, I would have been placing my own pride before my duty to the Jarl.”

  Ivar slouched back in his chair, an amused look on his face. “I see,” he said, nodding his head. “You killed Sigvid because it was the surest way to obey an order your captain had given you.” He turned and looked at Ragnar. “This sounds to me like the act of a disciplined warrior. Would you not agree, Father? Surely you do not want to punish such discipline and obedience? Think of the message it would send to our army.”

  For a moment Ragnar looked as if he would retort angrily. Then he let his breath out in a long sigh and nodded his head.

  “You are right,” he said to Hastein. “This was not murder.” He waved his hand at me. “Go,” he said. “You are quick to kill—perhaps too quick—but in this instance you have done no wrong.”

  Gunulf looked indignant. “What of Sigvid’s family?” he demanded.

  “Halfdan did no wrong, but he did kill your man,” Hastein said. “I will pay the wergild, and you will take it to his family.”

  Ragnar waved his hand again. “So be it,” he said.

  “My men will not like this,” Gunulf said. “Sigvid was their comrade.”

  “I do not care if they like it,” Hastein replied. “The matter is settled. Our war-king has agreed, as you have heard. If any of your men break the peace over this now, they risk his wrath, and mine.”

  I turned to leave. Hastein called after me. “Halfdan, do not forget to question the servants.” I looked back at him, confused.

  “The Count of Ruda’s servants,” he explained, and pointed at the bolts of silk on the table in front of him. “Ask them who sewed his clothes. For my tunics.”

  Torvald walked with me back to Wulf’s house. I was silent for a while, mulling over what had happened. Torvald seemed content, for once, to walk in silence, too.

  Finally I spoke. “Why does Ragnar have such a hatred for the Franks?” I asked.

  Torvald looked surprised. “He does not,” he said. “They are our foes. He is our war-king. He wishes our army to win, and theirs to lose.”

  “I thought he seemed filled with anger today,” I said. “Anger at Hastein. Anger at Ivar. And anger at the Franks. It sounded as though he does not merely wish to defeat them; he wishes to destroy them.”

  “Ragnar is always filled with anger,” Torvald said. “It is just his way. He is of royal blood, and all men know he is the greatest war leader among the Danes. It eats at him that Horik is king and he is not, for he does not believe Horik is the better man. But Ragnar is above all else a man of honor, and when Horik was acclaimed our King upon the death of his father, Ragnar swore an oath to accept and honor him. He will not break his word, no matter how great his ambition. Ragnar would rather be a king without a throne than a man without honor.”

  I, too, had once felt a desire that had gnawed at my spirit and poisoned my heart. I had been a slave, and had longed to be free—and a warrior. I finally found my dream though. Or it found me. I wondered if Ragnar would ever find his kingdom.

  10 : Blood or Ale

  Three days after we took Ruda, Torvald came to Wulf’s house again looking for me.

  “Bjorn Ironsides is coming,” he said, “with the rest of our fleet from the Limfjord. One of our raiding parties saw them and sent a rider back to report to Ragnar. He and Hastein are on their way now to the river gate to greet them when they arrive. I am going down to watch. Do you wish to come?”

  I did, but Hastein had ordered me to protect Wulf and his family, and he had never released me from the order. How long would I have to guard them? I’d never been responsible for the safety of others before, and the duty was weighing heavily on me. I’d grown tired of Wulf, tired of his family, and tired of being cooped up in his small, airless house. I had not left it for even a moment since I’d returned from the palace two days earlier. Why wasn’t Tore sharing this duty?

  I watched with regret as Torvald strode off down the street, his long legs quickly carrying him out of sight. Then I turned back from the doorway into the dim interior of Wulf’s house.

  Bertrada, Wulf’s wife, was bending over an iron pot slung over the low fire in the hearth, beginning her preparations for the evening meal. The firelight shone on her face, and as I watched, a strand of her shiny, dark hair slipped out from under her cap and dangled in front of her eyes. She tucked it back under her cap, annoyed. In the three days I’d spent in her home, I had never seen her smile. Her oldest child, a girl of nine named Adela, knelt on the floor near the hearth. She rarely ventured far from her mother’s side, and occasionally I caught her staring at me with a frightened expression in her eyes.

  Wulf was seated at the small table with his youngest child, an infant, in his lap. Like the rest of his family, he had not left the house since the night Ruda had fallen.

  “Ale,” I said to Bertrada. “May I have some ale? I am thirsty.”

  Bertrada stood up straight, looked at me fearfully, then glanced nervously over at Wulf. I cursed, remembering that unlike Wulf, she did not understand the tongue of the northern folk.

  I felt a sudden surge of anger. I had saved her life, and probably her children’s, too, yet they were afraid of me. What sort of gratitude was this? “Ale,” I snapped, this time in Latin. “I want ale.”

  Wulf looked up, hearing the tone of my voice.

  “Bertrada,” he said, speaking over his shoulder to her,
“pour a cup of ale for Halfdan.”

  “You wish me gone, don’t you?” I said to him. “Gone or dead.”

  “You are a Dane,” he replied angrily. “Would you expect sheep to welcome the wolves into their fold?”

  Bertrada set an earthenware cup filled with ale on the edge of the table, then backed away from me. I took a swallow. It was a weak brew that tasted like it had been mixed with water. Was this the best Wulf’s household could offer, or was it special fare they’d prepared for their uninvited guest?

  I could feel anger welling up in me. I tried to quell it, though it was as difficult to force down as Wulf’s bad ale. Perhaps if we got to know each other better, he could come to see me as a man—not just as a Dane.

  “Your wife is much younger than you are,” I said to Wulf, trying to make conversation. “And your children are young, too, for a man whose beard is as grizzled as yours.”

  “She is my second wife,” Wulf answered. “And only the baby is my child. Bertrada’s first husband was killed the last time the Danes took Ruda. He was one of the Count of Ruda’s soldiers. I lost my first wife then, too, and our two daughters. They were both older than Adela.”

  “Your wife and daughters were killed?”

  “I did not say that. I said I lost them. The Danes took them. Had I been here, perhaps I could have ransomed them back. But I was away at Dorestad. By the time I returned, the Danes had left the town.”

  No doubt Wulf’s family had been sold as slaves. It was no wonder the man’s heart was so filled with anger toward Danes. It was not my fault, though.

  “I was not with the fleet that captured Ruda before,” I told him.

  “You are a Dane,” he sneered.