by Byrne, Lily
*
The first training lesson brought forth eleven boys, aged between ten and fourteen.
“You know who I am,” said Kjartan, standing in front of the group. “This is Lini Fleet Foot, my assistant.”
There was no reaction apart from the stares of curious children.
“We haven’t got enough real weapons so we’ll have to use these.” He held up the wooden spears and swords, and the bits of wood he’d found to use as shields.
“We thought we’d get real weapons, not kids’ toys,” grumbled the tallest boy. “We came here to fight properly.” The others murmured agreement.
“Alright. But you have to start with a warm-up. Shield bind.” He directed the boys to pick up shields and push them against each other to get their muscles working and hearts beating.
When they were out of breath, he threw the wooden swords to them all, which made Lini flinch.
“They’ve got to learn to catch weapons,” Kjartan explained. “Right. This is duckwalk cutting practice.”
He demonstrated the crouching walk while slashing his own sword, Verrdrepa, through the air.
“I know it looks funny but it’s bloody hard work.” He was definitely out of practice, breathing harder already.
The boys started the exercise laughing, but soon began complaining about the effort.
“It’s using muscles you don’t usually use,” he told them firmly.
“When are we going to fight?” protested a couple of them.
“Now. Pair up. The odd man out will have to take turns.”
He walked round the fighting pairs, stopping them at intervals to adjust their posture, stance and weapon angle.
Lini felt at a loose end just watching, but when the boys were all out of breath, red faced and sweating, Kjartan called a halt.
“Now it’s time for a demonstration.” He threw his spare sword with a real blade to Lini, who despite only being a craftsman had learned basic weapon skills.
“Attack me,” he beckoned Lini, who did so, only to find his blows blocked easily.
“Come on, give it to me,” taunted Kjartan, capering about in front of him.
Lini attacked even more strongly, determined to get at least one successful blow in. They moved across the training area, swords clanging, Lini forced to change his tactics to defence. He staggered and fell to the ground, raising his sword to protect himself.
“Mercy, master,” Lini quavered in an old man’s voice. “I never meant to knock over your jars of ale. ‘Twas but a mistake.”
The boys giggled and Kjartan fell forward, stabbing his sword into the ground next to Lini’s thigh.
“Pretend I killed you,” he muttered.
“Argh! You merciless fiend!” Lini hissed, clutching his throat and rolling around in mock agony, making blood curdling strangling noises. “I curse the day you were born, you and your sons and your son’s sons and your son’s son’s sons!” There were more tortured groans and gurgles, until finally he went limp, his tongue hanging to the side.
By then Kjartan was laughing so much he couldn’t speak for a minute, and the boys were much the same.
“So what I was demonstrating there was -” he began at last, but then Lini went into final death throes, thrashing about a few more times until subsiding again, with more macabre groans of pain.
The boys burst into more laughter.
“Er - I was demonstrating not letting an opponent’s taunts wind you up,” Kjartan said, making it up as he went along. “Are you dead now?” he asked Lini, who opened one eye.
“Yes, I’m now ready to haunt you for the rest of your days.”
Kjartan helped him up, chuckling.
After that, the students went home happy, pushing and shoving each other, talking nonstop about the new class.
“That went well,” said Lini.
“Sorry I got you on the floor. I haven’t had a fight for so long, I got carried away.”
“That’ll teach me to fight better, won’t it?”
They grinned at each other.
*
Lini remembered when he’d first noticed Kjartan, about four years ago while pruning apple trees to ensure a better harvest next year. He’d heard the crunch and crack of metal on wood and turned to see a white-blond figure fighting a burnt tree with his sword.
“Who’s that?” he’d asked Brodir, his best friend, working alongside him.
“Kjartan. He’s from Gilltoft. Come to join the Huskarls. They say he fights well and never gives up.”
“Oh yeah?”
“And better looking than the rest of them,” said Brodir, giggling.
“Shush!” Lini looked round. “You’re not meant to say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“We’re meant to like women. We must marry and father children. Behave yourself.”
“Who will you marry then? All the girls love you. It won’t take long for you to find a wife.”
Lini considered his friend. His strawberry-blond hair and freckles brought with them the pale skin which burned easily in the sun, causing him much embarrassment at fifteen. Lini was lucky to have darker skin which never burned, and light brown hair.
“You’ll find a wife, don’t worry. It’s what we have to do.”
“You’re always so good, Lini! You always do as you’re told!”
“Well, it’s easier.”
“Why don’t you ever stand up for yourself - do what you want, not what’s expected?” Brodir was red in the face, fists clenched, glaring at him.
“Why are you so angry?” Lini gazed at him, half-smiling.
“I just - I’m …” Brodir gave a growl of frustration and leapt forward, pushing him into the bushes, landing on him and kissing him clumsily, drool dripping everywhere. Lini made a small noise of surprise - or was it pleasure? - and after a moment of shock, kissed him back.
Pausing to draw breath, they stared at each other until Brodir rolled off him and stalked away, tying his hair back into its binding.
Lini lay there for a while on the dry leafy ground with soil in his hair, feeling as if a spark had been struck in a dark cave, his heart beating faster. Something about his life was lighter now. Something was also harder, pushing against the front of his trousers. He laughed under his breath.
The next day, Brodir avoided him, but the day after, Lini pursued him until he was forced to talk.
“How are you today?” he asked when he’d finally cornered him in the barn.
“Fine.” Brodir wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“I liked what you did to me the other day.” Lini hadn’t known what to say but words came out naturally. “Did you?”
“Of course I fucking did. That’s why I did it.”
“I haven’t told anyone.”
“Neither have I.”
They stared at each other for a moment, then both stepped forward at once and kissed again, Brodir’s wider body squashing Lini’s against the wall. It was the perfect place for a secret meeting as it was getting dark and everyone had gone home for dinner.
Lini and Brodir met every day in a different place, continuing what they’d started. But it only lasted a few weeks. Brodir stole a neighbour’s knife, and his father, losing patience with his stealing, sent him away on a trading boat to teach him better behaviour.
“So that’s it, is it?” Lini demanded the last time they met.
Brodir shrugged.
“You see where misbehaving gets you? I told you so.”
“You’re so smug, Lini. I hope you’re really happy with Halldora.”
“What? Who?”
Brodir stepped up close to him.
“She wants you. She’s always talking about you. I hope you have a great life with your woman. Just forget me. I never liked you anyway.”
He stepped away, but Lini grabbed his arm.
“You’re lying.” He kissed him forcefully, biting at his lips and making him wince and sag against the wall.
“Yes, I was lying. But I have to go now. I leave tomorrow. Goodbye.” He stood up, straightened his clothing and walked away.
Lini never saw Brodir again. He nursed his wounded heart silently, as usual, and refused to let it show. Kjartan’s antics were always a distraction anyway. He was always in trouble, leading to his final act of murdering Eadbald and running away with the Jarl’s wife. It amused Lini to see such behaviour.
When Kjartan returned and fought off the wolf cult with his friends, he changed from a villain to a hero, but Lini kept watching him.
*
At the fighting school, the numbers of pupils slowly grew and even some of the Englishmen sent their sons. Kjartan and Lini got used to fighting each other to demonstrate and had great fun. When Lini ‘killed’ Kjartan, he would ‘die’ quickly, but when Kjartan ‘killed’ him, he repeated the dramatics of the first time, with endless variations, thrashing about until his tunic nearly came off.
The wiry amber smith soon became the usual victim. Kjartan admired him for his lack of concern about looking foolish, playing up to him and always acting the villain, and making dire threats while Lini begged for mercy.
Lini had a range of voices as well - sometimes the old man again, sometimes a woman, sometimes a foreigner - and a range of reasons why Kjartan shouldn’t kill him, but he always did, pretending to cut his throat with a flourish. Then Kjartan would make some point about what the boys should or shouldn’t do when fighting and Lini would scramble up. He’d bow to them, and then to Kjartan, who could never keep a straight face.
It was silly, but at least the boys remembered every lesson. Sometimes everyone was laughing so hard they had to stop fighting. It was so long since Kjartan had laughed as much as that, his stomach often ached for some time afterwards. He was so pleased he’d got to know Lini. He couldn’t have done any of this without him.
*
“I’m happy with our students’ progress,” said Kjartan one evening as they sat together after tidying up. “For a murderer and a craftsman, we’ve done pretty well. They’ll be ready for Huskarl training in good time.” He was too hot from fighting so took his tunic off, struggling to pull it over his hair, which had come undone from its usual plait.
Lini smiled. “We should celebrate.”
“How? Gods, my hair!” He said, trying to get it in order with his fingers.
“I’ll do that, if you like.”
“Thanks. Wish I could cut it all off, but short hair’s for slaves.”
Lini took a comb crafted of bone from his belt.
“You’re well prepared.”
“Always.” The amber smith sat behind him and began combing the pale tresses with some difficulty. “What have you been doing with this? Weaving?”
“Yeah, that’s right, weaving. Not working my arse off stopping the boys killing each other by accident.”
“Keep still! Do you want a plait like before?” His pale hair was even lighter than the hay being harvested in the fields at the moment.
“Please.”
Lini’s slender but strong fingers worked on all the knots, the comb being too delicate. It was soothing and Kjartan relaxed, his eyes closing, his breathing slowing.
Lini carefully teased all the knots out then combed through the hair, starting the plait at the base of his skull. It felt like a ticklish, gentle massage as he worked over the long length of hair down Kjartan’s bare, weapon-scarred back.
The hot, spicy smell of sweat radiated from Kjartan’s skin and Lini breathed it in, wondering what would happen if he just licked him. Common sense told him if he did, his head would be severed from his neck in a moment, so instead he just finished plaiting his hair.
“There. Better, yes?”
Almost disappointed he’d finished, Kjartan examined the braid with approval.
“That’s the neatest I’ve ever had it. Even Mildrith …” He stopped, realising he’d only ever let his wife touch his hair like that before.
He jumped up.
“Better clean the weapons.” He hastened towards the swords and spears, avoiding Lini’s eyes. Taking a cloth, he began wiping the biggest sword, stroking along the wooden blade. It wasn’t really dirty, there was just a bit of earth from where it had been stabbed in the ground and a few splinters from clashes, but he just felt it needed doing.
“I’ll do some, shall I? Then it’ll take less time.” Lini picked up another sword and copied Kjartan’s technique, rubbing the wood up and down. He couldn’t take his eyes off his friend, the way the cleaning action of his arm made his chest muscles move just that little bit to show off their definition. “Anyway, I better go. Halldora will be wondering where I am.” Lini gave up trying not to stare. He tried instead to think of his wife bossing him about, which luckily had the desired effect so he could stand up. “See you tomorrow.” He gave a brief smile, to which Kjartan gave the smallest of reactions.
Lini hurried home, hoping his wife would still be awake, but he was out of luck as she was lying on her back snoring, her mouth hanging open. He wondered if he could sneakily have sex with her while she was asleep but her reaction if she woke up didn’t bear thinking about.
So he got into bed anyway, took hold of the erection he’d had on and off for the last half hour, and satisfied himself.
*
As Kjartan and Mildrith settled down in bed that evening, he suddenly felt if he didn’t have sex he’d explode. She was heavily pregnant now and sex was a rare occurrence.
“Can I fuck you?” he whispered. “I’ll be really gentle. I just feel like it.”
“Go on then,” she replied sleepily. “As long as I don’t have to do anything,”
He arranged himself as she lay on her side; these days her pregnant belly was too large for any other position. How comforting it was being inside her. He felt so much happier than a few weeks ago. He closed his eyes, the rhythm soothing him, the bed creaking in harmony. His warm, soft wife.
Thoughts of Lini suddenly floated into his mind. Lini, with his gap-toothed, easy smile and wiry, lean body. His fingers raking through Kjartan’s hair as he tidied it. What would it be like to kiss his mouth and explore that gap in his teeth with his tongue? What would it be like to fuck him?
“Oh! Don’t be so violent!” scolded Mildrith. “I was nearly asleep then. Why couldn’t you carry on doing it gently?”
“Sorry,” gasped Kjartan, shuddering to a halt. He couldn’t sleep after that. Why the hell had he been thinking of Lini?
*
The next day Kjartan couldn’t concentrate on anything, but luckily harvesting the hay was repetitive work and he could just get on with it mindlessly. Why had he been thinking of Lini just then? It was obscene, unnatural, effeminate. He must forget such thoughts. Lini was married and had two children; he’d be horrified if he knew. Anyway, if he fucked Lini, he’d ruin the amber smith’s reputation. The Danes despised a man who took the female role during sex.
It was acceptable to have sex with beaten enemies, even if they were male, to humiliate and dishonour them, but to think of a friend in that way was not right.
*
Kjartan remembered the desperate months after Yngvild had left him. After all he’d done for her: loving her more than she’d ever experienced; helping her escape the dull marriage to Jarl Thorvald; taking her to the big, lively town of Gippeswick. Then she’d repaid him by running off with another Jarl, a younger one with good looks and money, a man who could keep her in luxury.
Cast aside, Kjartan had lost all restraint; he drank alcohol all the time; he took henbane, mandrake, deadly nightshade, and datura; he made dangerous enemies; he fucked everyone in sight, including that male slave.
At the time, he’d been half-asleep, half-drunk in a brothel, lying on a heap of cushions, rugs and skins. Everyone around him was groaning and laughing, the air filled with the musky and spicy smells of sex and burning incense. But he’d done it all before; he was jaded.
Then he’d seen the slave standing in the doo
rway. Black hair but surprisingly pale skin, strikingly different to his Danish companions’ blond, tanned appearance. As he stared, the slave inclined his head towards the door. Curiosity encouraged by drink, Kjartan picked his way towards him over the writhing bodies and was taken by the hand into a chamber. He couldn’t remember what the slave had said but he’d felt a hand on his cock, which surprisingly responded.
“You should try me,” the slave whispered. “I know you want to.”
The smooth feeling of oil being rubbed up and down Kjartan’s cock made him ready in an instant and he easily slid inside the slave, who lay on his back with his legs up. The tightness had taken him by surprise, so after a bit of hesitation he’d thrust as hard as he could, reaching satisfaction quickly, especially with the slave’s vocal enjoyment and encouragement.
Panting, he drew himself out, staring at the dark-haired figure lying in front of him, grinning.
“What do I owe you?”
“I do not want your money. Get me food. I am hungry.”
Kjartan fastened his trousers and hurried out. Grabbing some bread and meat from an unattended plate, he took them back to the chamber where his accomplice was now sitting up, straightening his clothes.
“Here.” He shoved the food at him.
“Oh, sanks. I sought you would not come back.” He devoured it, smiling.
His foreign accent reassured the Dane. It was alright to do that with a foreign slave because it didn’t mean anything. He should just forget about it. He nodded to the man and retreated, trying to think about what he would do tomorrow.
*
As Kjartan continued cutting the hay, he told himself he mustn’t remember the past like that. It was just something stupid he’d done once. He couldn’t have sex with Lini in that way. Slaves were such low status it didn’t matter what you did with them, but Lini was a respectable Dane, not a slave or a defeated enemy. He pushed his lustful thoughts aside, thinking of easier subjects.
Last year his fortunes had changed when Ragnar turned up in Gippeswick, reminding him to go back to Hallby for the treasure he’d left there. Joining in the fight against the wolf cult had led him to Mildrith, whom he’d married. So why was he thinking about Lini now?