A Song Of Steel (The Light of the North saga Book 1)

by James Duncan

  Sir Hans thought about this, scratching a small cut on his chin. ‘I think it could be overpowered in a hard parry to a sweeping cut, or at least be forced aside. But if you are fighting in the line, with limited space either side, it would be fast in the strike and very effective against armour, I think. Let’s test it on the maille. Your prerogative, my lord?’

  ‘No, you test it first. I want to judge it by watching a more skilled hand wield it.’

  Sir Hans moved over to face the straw-filled dummy.

  Ordulf watched eagerly as Sir Hans settled into a fighting stance. He did not drop low and flat as the count’s son had done; instead, he put his left arm forward, as if holding an imaginary shield, and drew his right hand back until it was nestled in his hip, blade flat and pointing forward, his weight on his front leg.

  He snapped his arm forward from that position like an arrow leaving the bow. The tip of the sword hit the target on the right side. It burst through the maille with a thump and a rattle, went through the gambeson and buried itself halfway to the hilt with a screech of steel on steel.

  Sir Hans let go his grip and gave a low whistle. He moved around to the far side and found that the sword was holding the back of the maille out from the gambeson like a steel tent. ‘Well that was certainly effective.’

  The count nodded in agreement. ‘Ordulf, excellent work, lad. I am pleased we brought you with us.’ He beckoned at the smiling young smith.

  ‘You have proven a wise investment already. Come, sit with me while I rest. Hans has run me ragged.’

  Ordulf shuffled over, perched on the end of the bench and tried to sit in a dignified way, although he really had no idea what that entailed. The count sat for a moment watching Sir Hans discuss the sword with another knight over by the maille-clad target. The count spoke to Ordulf without looking away. ‘Are you pleased you came on the crusade, Ordulf?’ Ordulf was tongue-tied for a moment, trying to concoct the correct response.

  ‘Yes, m’lord. I am honoured to be coming on this great crusade,’ he replied. The count rolled his eyes at the deadpan reply. ‘Really? Do you even know why we are going on crusade? Speak the truth, boy.’

  Ordulf nodded and thought for a moment before sheepishly replying, ‘If I am honest, I don’t, m’lord. Going to fight the pagans?’

  ‘Well, I think a man going on crusade has a right to know why he is going, so I will explain it to you.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, m’lord,’ Ordulf replied, bowing his head in the sitting position, which made him look utterly ridiculous.

  The count chuckled at the sight. By the Lord, this boy is odd. Skilled, but undoubtedly simple.

  ‘For the last three hundred years, the Norse have been raiding good Christian lands all over northern and western Europe. You know this much, yes? Good. From then until recently, there was really no power in northern Europe that could challenge them in their homeland and thus stop the raids. The place is just too damn far away and inaccessible, the lands between full of pagan Slavic tribes.

  ‘In the year of our Lord 970, a Christian priest was sent to the great Norse king, Harald Bluetooth. His aim was to try to achieve some degree of peace by showing the king the light of Christ. Somehow he deeply offended the Danish king, and Harald killed him and his companions and banned Christians from his lands forever. Every Norse king since then has upheld this rule, which, of course, has earned the ire of the Papacy and every emperor since.’ Ordulf listened intently as the count explained. He had almost no knowledge of history, and 970 seemed impossibly long ago.

  ‘Now, our current emperor is on a mission, supported vociferously by the Holy Father, to cleanse the entire north of the pagan religions and ways. My lord, the Duke of Saxony, and I have been conducting a campaign on and off for fifteen years to clear the northern lands up to the border with the Danes and with the sea that carries them. I hear the pope is suddenly very keenly focused on converting the northern pagans, and I am very willing to help him!’ The count smiled smugly and leaned back to stare at the sky.

  ‘I won’t bore you with politics, lad, but my successful fighting in God’s name has taken me from being the owner of some farmland in Saxony to being the lord of Holstein and Stormarn. It’s given my lord the Duke of Saxony double the lands and wealth and a real shot at being the next emperor. It’s given the emperor the favour of the pope and ended the simmering conflict between Papacy and Crown that was threatening to tear the Empire apart. Shit, it’s even given you a new job.’

  He leaned back with a content smile on his face and, spreading his arms, declared, ‘Everyone is benefitting from this.’

  ‘Well, everyone except the pagans,’ Ordulf said, instantly regretting opening his mouth and trying to be clever.

  The count was unfazed. ‘I don’t have any sympathy for the Norse. They have been raiding our people for three hundred years, raping, murdering, stealing. They have earned this war a hundred times over. You should have no sympathy for them either, lad. War is their life, and they live to die in battle. We merely intend to help them with that.’ He stood suddenly when he noticed Sir Hans walking over towards them and added, ‘So you are wrong, lad. The Norse are benefitting. We will give them the deaths they seek!’ He walked away across the square, chuckling merrily as he went, leaving the young smith on the bench in the sunlight.

  Ordulf was left in deep consternation by the admission of the count that his motives for going on crusade were not due to a belief in the cause. While he was not particularly fervent in his religious practices, he did not like the idea of the crusade being so mercenary in nature. He had wanted to believe that it had a purer intent. But then, Ordulf was still a very naïve young man.

  The next day, news reached the forge that the crusader army was finally leaving to start the campaign six days later. The rest of the week passed in a whirlwind of confusion and activity. Ordulf was commandeered to helped pack the contingent’s baggage train, and the rest of the time he tried to stay out of the way. He had bought, over the months in Hamburg, a number of extra items for the campaign. Better clothes, camping gear, a better pack, better boots and a number of other items to make his life easier. Despite the expense of living in Hamburg for all that time, he still had, secreted around his person and gear, just under one hundred silver pieces, something that would endanger his life if the wrong people found out.

  In the fourth week of the fourth month of the year 1116, the crusade set out for the Norselands in Denmark. The great column was so long that the vanguard containing the Saxon contingent was making camp for the evening fifteen miles to the north-east before the last contingent of Austrians could even cross the bridge to march through the city. The first obstacle for the crusade would be the Danevirke, the line of fortifications across the narrow stretch of land between the Cold Sea and the River Treene. This formidable line of fortifications was over four hundred years old but had been constantly upgraded and repaired over the centuries. It had been built for one purpose and one purpose only: to keep southern enemies out of Denmark. In the centuries it had stood, it had never been breached. Now would come its greatest test.

  Chapter 8

  The Hunters and the Hunted

  Uppsala

  Spring 1116

  The winter snows were receding, brown bare earth appearing from beneath four months’ worth of hard-packed drifts. The roads were passable and the rivers swelling with meltwaters that could accommodate longships. So the great lords of Sweden were gathering in Uppsala for the Thing of all Swedes, and the preceding Dísablót festival. Everyone had heard the rumours of the Christian invasion aimed at Denmark. There was not supposed to be trade or contact with the Christian European nations, but there were so many smugglers that news spread fast of the army gathering and preparing to march north. King Eric Silverfist had called the great assembly of the Thing of all Swedes to decide the campaigns and raids and other matters of state for the year, and all anyone cared about was if they would march south to meet the Chris
tian invasion in battle.

  ‘Ragnvald!’ Ragnvald turned to look over his shoulder and found a beaming Jarl Birkir bearing down on him, arms outstretched. He grinned wholeheartedly as the heavy-set man barrelled into him and nearly knocked him off his feet.

  ‘Birkir, you great sow,’ said Ragnvald as the overexcited embrace ended. ‘I didn’t know you were here, and you are even rounder than last we met.’ Ragnvald playfully tapped Birkir in his considerable paunch as the man let out a grunt of protest and slapped his hand away.

  ‘Hah! A rich and happy man eats well, and I eat very, very well. And I could still best you, old goat. Is the sun too bright, or is your hair even whiter than I remember? No wonder you always wear that fancy helmet.’

  Some of the other men who were gathered around looked on with curiosity or wariness, lest jest lead to insult and drawn swords, but neither man lost his warm smile as Ragnvald patted the shorter man on the shoulder. ‘It is good to see you here in these troubled times, my friend.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t going to miss the chance of a scrap. I haven’t had a proper scrap since that fun we had four summers ago. The odd bandit, some troublesome farmers, but nothing like a proper fight.’

  ‘Well, I think you have come to the right place.’

  ‘So I hear. And what have you heard? Is it true?’

  Ragnvald indicated the loose group who stood around him outside the hall of the king. ‘We were just discussing it. The Christians are raising a great army south of Denmark and intend to bring it north. That much we know. Exactly what they will do, or when, we cannot be sure.’

  ‘Hmm, I have heard the same, everyone has, but nothing more. So what will the king decide? Will we go out to face them, the men of Svealand sailing as one once again?’

  Ragnvald looked uneasily around the group. Birkir’s question had caused eyes to drop to the ground, brows to furrow. Birkir saw the reaction and frowned, his humour instantly retreating. ‘What is the problem?’

  ‘The Danes have requested our aid, but there is disagreement over whether we should give it,’ said Ragnvald wearily.

  ‘What? What disagreement?’ said Birkir incredulously.

  Another of the jarls grunted and spoke up. ‘The Danes have been our enemies. Not seven seasons ago I was fighting them in Scania, after they raided land. We lost a lot of people, a lot of good men. Now they call for our aid?’ The man spat on the ground. ‘Let them fight the Christians. Let our enemies weaken each other.’

  Birkir shook his head. ‘Seven seasons ago? We may have squabbled, but they are our kin. We must stand with them against the Christians whatever our differences, surely?’

  ‘Squabbled?’ The man squared up to face Birkir. ‘They are no kin of mine. My son died defending his home from them. You live in the north – you never faced their raids. It’s simple for you to forgive and call them kin, to sail south to help them. You have no grievance to lay aside, northerner!’ The man pointed at Birkir with a snarl.

  ‘Stay yourselves, brothers. We do not need to go down this path again,’ said Ragnvald. The man huffed and turned to walk away, several others following him.

  Ragnvald gave Birkir an irritated look. ‘We had only just finished that particular argument, for the second time today. The split runs deep here. In any case, we must wait to see what King Eric decides, whether we go to war or not. We will find out soon enough.’

  ‘You have no influence with the king? I thought you were close?’

  ‘There was a time,’ Ragnvald said slowly, bitterness in his voice, ‘before… bah, before a great many things.’

  Birkir nodded thoughtfully and chewed his lip. ‘I see. I will be more careful,’ he conceded. He looked up at the man who remained at Ragnvald’s side. ‘We have not met. I am Jarl Birkir. My hall is at Fljótsode, on the river east of Ulfhafen.’

  ‘I have heard of you, Jarl Birkir of Fljótsode, and of your escapades with my brother-in-law,’ the man said with a wry smile. ‘I am Jarl Frode of Tiderhóll, south of here across the water from Sigtuna.’

  ‘Ah, excellent. A brother of Ragnvald is a brother of mine.’ Birkir extended his arm and gave Frode’s an enthusiastic pump, his humour restored as quickly as the argument had drained it. ‘So, brothers, what are we to do until the Thing begins?’

  ‘Tomorrow the king is taking us on a great hunt. The next day we will feast and the festival will start.’

  ‘Excellent. So I have not missed the feast, but I missed most of the arguing?’ Birkir looked hopeful.

  ‘No, my round friend,’ said Ragnvald darkly. ‘I fear the arguing has only just begun.’

  Ragnvald padded as carefully as he could through the low forest, trying to keep the noise from his soft leather shoes to a minimum in the heavy pine litter, even as he felt overwhelmingly that it was all a pretence. They were far too close to Uppsala for good hunting, and it was too early in the season. The deer would not be moving through this area yet, and most of the moose had moved north with the retreating snow. Perhaps a few boar might be around, as they often stayed close to the city, scavenging scraps and farmers’ crops. But the king had not wanted to travel far, and Ragnvald had found out to his great disgust that a few dozen deer had been captured and would be released and driven into the path of the hunting party.

  It was a mockery of the whole process, just another thing that the king had made a mockery of as his years progressed. Ragnvald was riled by the thought. When Eric had risen to the throne he had been an adequate king, securing the crown through his network of allies, not his prowess as a leader or his fame as a warrior. His rich lands and trading hub of Visby in his native Gotland had allowed him to buy favour with the poorer inland jarls and secure his position when the previous king had died childless. His name Silverfist was both a mark of respect and an insult. A nod to his power but also a jest that he wielded it with a fist of silver, not iron.

  As he had grown old on the throne, his silver had sustained him, but his vigour had fled. Sweden had fought a pitiful campaign against the Danes, a half-hearted attempt designed to appease the southern jarls who suffered at the hands of the Danish raiders and demanded their king support their revenge. A short and desultory war had followed. The Swedish forces burned some villages, sank a few ships and took some captives, but they made no serious attempt to reach the great Danish cities of Lund or Roskilde and risk a real battle. Winter had ended the war and it had never restarted, the raids dying off only when Denmark became involved in another war of conquest in the vast islands of Britain to their west, distracting them from the more dangerous and less lucrative raids against their Norse brethren.

  Ragnvald had watched for over a decade as the Silverfist was content merely to maintain his position, never adding to the kingdom he bought, never risking anything to improve its future. He merely kept the seat warm and ruled over lands of increasing discontent. Now, old and childless, he was going through the motions of kingship, pretending to hunt, pretending to consider a war with the Christians. Ragnvald felt sick of it all. Powerful as he was, he had never had the power or the allies to challenge the Silverfist, and the man simply refused to die of his own accord.

  As Ragnvald was brooding, he heard Frode whistle softly. He froze on the spot and grasped the shaft of his ash spear tightly, shifting his eyes right to where Frode was eyeing the low trees and sparse undergrowth ahead of them. Then he heard it too: a soft crack, something walking. He nodded to Frode, who was carefully nocking a heavy, broad-bladed arrow onto his hunting bow. They had often hunted in a pair like this in their younger years, spear and bow a versatile combination against most prey. A pair of bows would not bring down a boar or a bear easily, making them dangerous at close range, but two spears were useless for deer.

  The soft crunch happened again. It sounded too heavy for a deer, too careful for a boar. It could be an early spring bear. Frode slowly drew his bow, breath misting as he carefully exhaled. The low branches of the trees at their front slowly rustled, and then two forms stepped i
nto the clearing. Frode pointed his bow at the ground and muttered a quiet curse. It was another two of the hunters, somehow ahead of them and crossing their path. A less experienced hunter might have feathered them as the branch moved.

  ‘Apologies, Jarl Ragnvald,’ the lead man whispered as he lowered his own spear. Both men carried them. They were a little short, more war spear than boar spear, but it was not unusual for common men to only own one, and these were no jarls. They were simply dressed in woollen caps and unadorned tunics. They must be huscarls of one of the other lords, probably a southern jarl from their accent, which marked them as Geats, not Svearmen. But this was not the time or place to have a discussion. Ragnvald angrily flicked his eyes back as he signalled the men to get behind the line of the hunt. They nodded and moved to go behind him.

  Ragnvald eyed them with irritation. The leader of the two, the man who had spoken, had an irritatingly easy smile, almost mocking. Words would be had with his jarl after the hunt for his indiscipline and his disrespect.

  ‘There is a boar ahead. We were tracking it,’ the man said with a strange smile and in too loud a voice as he approached. He jerked his head in the direction they had come from, but his impertinent eyes never moved from Ragnvald.

  Ragnvald hissed at the man to quiet him. They were terrible hunters, and he cursed his luck at being so close to them. The man was speaking too loudly, moving too quickly, and his spear was all wrong, held wrong. These were perhaps coastal men, far removed from the forests and the craft of walking and hunting in the deep woods.

  The man stepped sideways and held out his free hand, indicating the way forward, where he said the boar had been seen. Beyond him, the other man moved to follow Frode, who Ragnvald could see was equally annoyed. Then a hair prickled on Ragnvald’s neck as the man shifted even closer and to his side, his disarming smile still pasted on his face. He flicked his eyes up and down the approaching Geat, looking for anything that was out of place, and he found it.