by James Duncan
‘That’s enough,’ he said with a low growl, turning to face the man, who looked taken aback. Ragnvald was trying to get Frode’s attention, but his friend was still occupied with his irritation at the man following him.
‘What?’ asked the man loudly. Much too loudly. Frode looked around in utter anger, and Ragnvald caught his eye, flicking his to the man following Frode, who tensed and looked back in confusion.
‘Brother,’ said Ragnvald, shifting his grip on his spear as he brought it across his body. ‘Your peace bands are undone.’ The man looked down. His scabbarded sword was at his side, but the leather thongs that should be tied around the hilt, thongs that stopped the sword being drawn quickly and traditionally proved that a man had no hidden hostile intent, were hanging loosely from the scabbard’s throat.
‘Oh, yes. I used the sword to cut through some bushes earlier.’ The lie died in his throat, and his whole posture stiffened as the tableau of four men froze in place in nervous expectation. Frode’s hand slipped unseen from his bowstring down to his seax at his waist. For the timespan of an eagle’s wingbeat – slow, deliberate, unhurried – no one moved.
There is a moment, before violence occurs, when all men used to violence can sense its approach like a shadow passing over the sun. A stillness of the breath, a tensing of muscles and flexing of fingers, a flicking of eyes as they judge distances and evaluate possibilities. All four men in that clearing were men of violence.
The stillness exploded into movement as all of them made their first move. Ragnvald swept his spear sideways, scything at the man who was too close to his front, forcing him to step back and give Ragnvald room, even as his own spear lanced out at Ragnvald’s face. Fuck, he is quick. Ragnvald whipped his head back so late that he felt the tip pass his chin, swishing through his beard. The man had a shorter, lighter spear, and Ragnvald’s heavy boar spear felt leaden by comparison.
Behind the man, Ragnvald saw Frode turn and fling his bow at his opponent’s face, drawing his seax with the other hand, no time to untie and draw his own sword. Seax against spear – a bad matching. Frode did the only thing he could. He slapped the spear shaft aside and charged into his distracted opponent.
Ragnvald’s eyes snapped back to his own enemy. His only advantage over the man was reach. He brought the point of his heavy spear down into line, shuffling back as his opponent danced and weaved with his own spear, tapping it at Ragnvald’s waving tip, trying to find purchase to force it aside. The man darted and half lunged, trying to lure Ragnvald into a counter lunge that would leave him unbalanced. Ragnvald cursed his own sword’s worn leather fittings. His own peace bands were firmly tied, and he would never get the sword out in time. He had not expected a fight. No one brought violence to the sacred Disting or to a king’s hunt.
A false lunge nearly caught him off guard as his opponent ducked and brought his own spear up, held across his body in both hands. He lifted Ragnvald’s up, rushing forward, faster than Ragnvald could back up, and pushed his spear further up into the air where it pointed uselessly at the sky. As the man moved to rotate and thrust his spear, Ragnvald let his shaft move with the pressure and spun the butt upwards, catching his enemy a thumping blow to the ribs that knocked him to the side and spoiled his attack. But it did little damage.
The man grinned and reset, predatory eyes fixed on the jarl as he pushed him backwards again. Off to his side there was a sharp cry, and Ragnvald recognised Frode’s voice cursing. The man facing him laughed. If Frode was down, Ragnvald was a dead man. His heart raced as he tried to work out a plan, but nothing came. He went with his instinct, the only thing he believed you could do when hard pressed and unsure. He attacked.
He switched from a pace back to a leap forward, almost catching the enemy off guard as his heavy spear point lanced forward. The man skipped back with a shout of animalistic delight and snapped back with his own spear, catching Ragnvald’s left arm and leaving a red line in his tunic sleeve, but he barely felt it. The man was taunting him now, circling, as Ragnvald attacked again and again, breathing heavily and gasping with the effort of wielding the heavy spear, desperation born of fear for what was happening behind him to his friend driving him on.
He jabbed once more at his enemy, who slapped the blow aside and mocked him, begging him to attack again. Ragnvald knew what was happening. The man was wearing him out and would then counter one of his attacks and finish him off. It was what he would have done as a younger, fitter man. Sweat was pouring from his brow now, despite the cold, as his arms burned and his spear slowed. He felt his death coming and felt real, primal fear. Then the man cried out and stumbled, his foot turned in some hole or on some stump in the pine litter, and he went down heavily on his arse.
He was not badly hurt, and with alarm in his eyes, he tried to use his free arm to rise, even as he swept his spear in front with the other hand, trying to keep Ragnvald back with his short, poxy and insufficient little war spear. Ragnvald didn’t even have to stretch or dodge as he put the point of his spear through the horrified man’s stomach.
He left his spear embedded in the wailing man and turned back with deep foreboding to see what had become of Frode. He saw Frode on the ground, bleeding from an ugly gash on his forehead as he wrestled with the man who was kneeling on top of him. They were both fighting over Frode’s seax, the bloodied spear discarded.
Ragnvald stumbled into a jog as his fingers worked the straps free from the hilt of Bjóðr, and then he drew it, whispering in the cold air, from its scabbard. The man furiously fighting for control of the seax looked up at the last moment. His jaw fell and his whole body slumped as he saw Ragnvald coming. Ragnvald put the meat of his palm behind the pommel of his sword and shoved it through the chest of the beleaguered man while Frode held on to his hands. The man sighed and collapsed around the blade, barely making a noise as he died.
Ragnvald wiped the sweat from his eyes and reached his hand down to Frode who took it and then pulled it in to give Ragnvald a ferocious hug. ‘Ten more moments and I was dead, brother.’ He pulled away a fraction and pressed his bloodied forehead to Ragnvald’s in unspoken thanks.
Ragnvald nodded. ‘A rabbit saved us both.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll explain later. Let us find out who these men are while one still breathes.’ They walked back over to the man with the spear in his gut, but to his disgust, they found the man had slit his own throat rather than face his fatal wound, or their questions.
‘Fuck!’ shouted Ragnvald, kicking the corpse repeatedly until his toes blazed with pain.
‘Calm. Leave it, brother. It’s done.’ Frode pulled him away from the cooling body.
‘Who sent them? Who dared do this?’
‘Not now. We must leave; there may be more.’
Ragnvald stopped and nodded. ‘I hadn’t considered that.’
He left his spear in one body and retrieved his sword from the other. They started to move west, through the trees towards the centre of the widely spread hunting line, when they found men running through the trees towards them. Their initial alarm was short-lived. It was a local jarl Ragnvald knew well, Bjornsson, and two of his men, looking too confused to be part of the plot.
‘Jarl Ragnvald, we heard cries…’ The man spotted the blood on Ragnvald’s hand and arm. ‘Ah! You have made a kill. Excellent.’
‘Two, in fact,’ said Ragnvald wearily.
‘Two! Superb. Do you need help carrying them? Where are they? What was it, deer?’
‘See for yourself.’ He pointed back past the trees behind them.
Bjornsson jogged through the trees, and there was a cry of surprise. Ragnvald and Frode exchanged looks and turned back again to follow the men. He was sure they could be trusted, and five men would surely repel any further attack.
‘By the gods, what happened? Ragnvald, who are these?’ Bjornsson was gaping at the boar spear standing at a drunken angle from the belly of the dead man.
‘We don’t know. They attacked
us. We killed them.’ Ragnvald shrugged as if it was nothing. He left out the desperation of the short fight.
‘Henson, go. Send word to the others.’ Bjornsson raised his hand to cancel the order. ‘Wait. Ragnvald, is that what you wish? Should we alert the others or…’ He paused uncomfortably. ‘Do you need to leave? We could wait a while.’ Bjornsson was giving them a chance, if they needed it, to slink away.
Ragnvald shook his head. ‘It is fine. We have nothing to fear – we were the aggrieved party. Let as many see this crime as possible while the blood is still fresh. We will stand and explain it as the law demands.’ He turned to Henson. ‘Bring them all.’
Men started trickling into the small clearing with its bloodied bodies. One after another they expressed their shock. One after another Ragnvald carefully assessed their reaction. He had come to the conclusion that the true attacker had to be with the hunting party. He had enemies, like any powerful lord, but nearly all of them would be here. And those who were not could barely arrange such an act while absent. But he saw nothing that gave anyone away. The king was one of the last to arrive. Eric walked into the clearing with his huscarls leading the way and looked with disdain at the bodies.
‘Ragnvald, explain yourself. Why was this hunt sullied with killing and violence?’ he said, without looking Ragnvald in the eye.
‘Lord Eric, we were attacked by these two men, who did not name themselves or their grievance with us but attacked without warning. We were wounded by them, and then we killed them in our own defence.’ He gestured to his arm and Frode’s head. His wording was careful. He was making sure everyone heard it and that it was known his actions were lawful and correct. He would not allow the king to make an issue of them or twist this event for his advantage.
‘And there were no other witnesses to this attack?’
Ragnvald tried to keep himself as calm as the pointed question. ‘There were not. But these are men of no consequence. Jarl Frode and I would not have killed such vermin if they had not given us cause.’
‘Whose men are they?’ the king asked, looking around the circle. No one answered. Come now, everyone on this hunt is here by my invitation. Who recognises these men? Who did they arrive with? The men in the clearing looked around in confusion as still no one spoke. ‘No one knows?’ The king sounded angry now. ‘Did you not question them before you slaughtered them?’ the king asked derisively, pointing at the man with the slit throat.
‘He did that to himself to avoid our questions,’ retorted Ragnvald, trying to keep himself calm.
‘He slit his own throat?’ asked the king incredulously. ‘I find that hard to believe.’ He paused as the gravity of that accusation sank in to the stunned group. ‘But I see no reason not to.’ Ragnvald let go a breath he had been holding in his shock and rage. The king had danced with accusing him of lying about a crime, something that would have led to more blood on the damp forest floor, his and others, most likely. Even a king has limits on what he can say. Coming so close to accusing a man of lying with no evidence… It was a very deliberate provocation.
‘As lord of these lands and king of this nation, I pronounce this killing lawful,’ the king said with a perfunctory, almost bored tone. ‘The matter is closed. Their possessions belong to the victims of their crime. Leave the bodies for the crows.’ He turned and left the clearing as a babble of voices broke out. Ragnvald stood there fuming with anger at the public questioning and humiliation. He looked up as Frode strode over with a worried expression.
‘Calm yourself, brother. You look like a man about to make a mistake.’
Ragnvald’s hooded eyes flicked up to where the king was walking off with some of his kinsmen, and they held nothing but malice. ‘A man is his wyrd and his word. Our fate was not to die in this clearing, but the king questions my honesty in front of everyone?’ He kicked the damp leaf litter and ground his teeth in anger, attracting glances from the few men left in the clearing.
Frode moved to put a hand on his arm. ‘It was a transparent ploy. Everyone knows your reputation, and this will not affect it.’
Ragnvald growled like a wounded animal, and indeed the wound was deep. He would rather have been marked with the spear than be marked with the stain of suspected dishonesty. ‘Even if men do not believe it, my enemies have been given an excuse to say it of me.’
Frode nodded sympathetically. There was nothing he could do to salve that injury. ‘Did you see anything?’ he said, trying to change the focus.
Ragnvald shook his head. ‘Not now, not here.’ Let’s search them and return to the city. We will talk later,’ he said stiffly, unable to meet Frode’s eye in his anger.
The bodies yielded almost nothing but Ragnvald’s spear, finally retrieved. They carried only their weapons and some supplies of food. Ragnvald was disappointed; there was nothing to say who they were. ‘Geats, from their accents,’ said Frode, as they left the scene to walk back home, Jarl Bjornsson and some other men of theirs following them, keeping close enough to watch them and far enough away to stay out of earshot.
Ragnvald nodded his agreement. ‘That may mean nothing.’
‘And they came for you. They knew your name.’
‘One of my enemies. That does not narrow it down much.’
‘And you saw nothing, no reaction that gave anyone away?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Me neither. I saw no one who wasn’t surprised. Except for the king, and he was merely angry.’
‘Angry that it had happened, or angry that it had failed?’ Ragnvald said carefully.
Frode sighed. ‘I had come to the same conclusion. His questions seemed intended not to reveal the truth but to check if it had been revealed. As soon as he was sure we had not questioned the men, he no longer cared at all.’
‘Indeed.’
‘But really, on his own hunt?’
‘Who else would dare?’
‘And why would he?’ added Frode.
‘I am a threat to him, always have been. The older and weaker he gets, the more of a threat I become.’
‘But his men are not Geats.’
‘The Silverfist can have any men he wants. And who knew better the plan for the hunt, how to get two men into the party, where to find us in the woods?’
‘It is troubling,’ agreed Frode. ‘What will you do?’
‘I can do nothing except be careful. We have nothing but our own words and thoughts as evidence. It is possible he merely saw an opportunity to humiliate me and had nothing to do with the planning. I will take my men with me from now on, even when among friends in my own lands. It was stupid not to bring some with us this time.’
Frode shook his head. ‘We could not have known.’
‘No, but we won’t have that excuse next time.’
The men walked in silence for a while before Frode turned to him with a quizzical expression. ‘Can you explain to me how I was saved by a rabbit?’
Ragnvald snorted with mirth. ‘Yes, but promise that you won’t think less of me?’
The feast that ended the assembly of the lords of Sweden in the hall of the king was mediocre. The Silverfist provided the food, so it was thinly spread, and the ale was weak, just enough to prevent outright complaint. Ragnvald infuriated the king by sending to his own home, just fifty paces away, for enough good ale for the entire assembly, who roared their appreciation for him as he presented it to the king as a gift with an effusive toast.
The insult was calculated and deadly, but the men were so happy to have good ale that they either didn’t notice or didn’t care and spent the rest of the feast smacking Ragnvald on the back and toasting their thanks while the king fumed. The gift had emptied Ragnvald’s storeroom, but as he sat there smiling at the king, he realised it was worth every drop.
Frode chided him for his childishness, but he didn’t care. It was easier to know the king was his enemy than to merely suspect it. At the end of the feast, the king stood to give his orders for the season to come. The moment every
one had come here for. Silence fell on the packed hall as the king’s huscarls hammered their spear butts on the wooden floor of the dais.
The king was as sparse with his words as he was with the food. ‘The lords of Denmark report that a huge army of Christians will invade their country, seeking to conquer it, impose their nailed god on their lands and throw their people into slavery.’ He looked around as his words sank in to the ale-fuddled crowd, the assembled lords of Sweden.
‘I have heard of those of you who wish to help them and those who wish to either ignore their plight or even profit from it.’ There were grumbles of discontent, which the king irritably waved away. ‘The Danes are no friends of our people, but their enemy is our enemy, and if the Christians control Jutland, they control the Skagerrak and will cut off our raiding and our trading and suffocate us in our homes.’ There were shouts of agreement and dismay, and the king waited for silence with an irritated expression. ‘There is no reason why we cannot achieve the aims of both parties here tonight. I have made an agreement with the lords of Denmark. If we come to their aid, they will send us a tenth part of their income for ten years, and the town and area surrounding Åhus on the border between our lands.’ The king raised his hands in triumph, a smug grin on his face. ‘Men of Sweden, gather the men of the leidang, caulk your ships, sharpen your steel, shine your maille and sound the horns of battle to gather the Valkyr host around us. We go to war against our enemies, and our enemies will pay us to do it!’
There was a fairly unanimous roar of approval from the crowd. Even Ragnvald had to admit it was a clever manoeuvre. In one stroke, the king had united those who wished to profit from Denmark’s woes, those who wanted to fight and perhaps even some of those who wished to have nothing to do with it. As he looked around the hall, he could see that the matter was settled. Only a few glum faces were visible, and men were now even standing and pumping their fists or horns of ale into the air. Ragnvald looked at Frode and shrugged with a wry smile. It was the outcome he wanted, but he felt a deep sense of foreboding. For the first time in a decade, the men of Sweden were sailing to war.