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

by James Duncan

  ‘Good man, and we will help you.’

  ‘Is that the best course?’ asked Eric, breaking Magnus’ stride.

  ‘What?’ The Norwegian king looked concerned.

  ‘Is fighting here, tomorrow, the day after we arrived and in this defenceless town, the best use of our forces? Perhaps we should move north and gather more men, have time to plan and decide a course of action,’ he said evenly.

  ‘A course of action? We cannot run from this battle, leaving Aarhus to the enemy, just to have time to talk. Who would follow us? What men would we gather? We make our stand here. We have the walls at our front and our brothers at our side. This is where we can fight. No knight can charge a ten-foot wall of wood and earth,’ Magnus replied.

  ‘Then we would be trapped here, under siege, while the enemy cuts us off from the rest of Jutland. And what would we have gained? Saved a city and lost a country. How long would we hold? A week, a month? We have the ships for only half the men here, and half the army would die in this city.’

  Magnus bristled. ‘You speak as if we have already lost! What is this madness? The enemy won just one battle, and everyone speaks of nothing but giving up! Where are the men of the Northlands, the men who will face any foe? Are we afraid? Have we no honour? I said I would come here and fight with the Danes, and I will fight with them. Here is their king, and here I stand with him!’

  ‘Then you may stand alone,’ said Eric sadly. ‘We march north together, or we part ways here. I did not come to be the victim of a siege. I am not a young man with vain dreams of glory, and neither are you. We must be smart, not rash.’

  ‘This is outrageous!’ shouted Magnus, the tension in the room between the old king of Norway and the even older king of Sweden rising like the tide on a full moon.

  ‘My lord!’ shouted a new voice from the back of the hall, as the owner of the voice shoved his way through the packed room. ‘My lord king!’ The man got to the front and came to a halt in front of Magnus. ‘They are here.’

  ‘Who are here?’

  ‘The Christians. They are marching just beyond the hill to the south, four miles, no more.’

  ‘What? But they were a day away! You must be mistaken. Perhaps it is just a scouting force.’

  ‘No, a column of men, as far as the eye can see, thousands upon thousands. I saw it myself. They must have marched through the night.’ The man shook his head sorrowfully.

  ‘That settles it. Magnus, I implore you, take your men north. We can meet at Aalborg, and we can fight again or retreat from Jutland to defend the islands or our homes. Do not throw your men away here. We cannot organise a defence in the time we have. We must leave now or remain here till the death.’

  Magnus shook his head in anger. ‘Never! I have never run from an enemy or left a friend behind, and I will not start now. I will not be hunted up the northern road or run into the ground like a wounded sow. No, leave if you must, and consider us never to be brothers again if you do, in this life or the next.’ Magnus turned away with a last bitter look and gathered his men in one corner of the hall, near enough for Ragnvald to hear him speak to them in urgent tones. ‘My son, Øystein, take the bulk of the army and march north for Aalborg. Take your brother Sigurd and continue the fight. If all is lost, take the ships home.

  ‘Nonsense. We will stay here with you.’

  ‘You will do as I command! The future of our country lies with you, and you will make a fine king. Do not fuss over an old man. We will hold them here and win you time to get away. There is no time to argue. Go now.’ The king pulled his son into a tight embrace, so raw that Ragnvald felt awkward watching despite there being another fifty men also watching the scene.

  ‘Ragnvald, we are leaving. Now!’ Ragnvald turned to see King Eric walking to the door and Frode urgently signalling to him. With one last look at the legendary Magnus Barefoot, he turned and hurried from the hall in shame. Leaving was the right thing to do, but it tore at his soul. He hurried past Frode on the way down the street to the docks and caught up with the king, who was struggling and wheezing. As he drew level, the king was racked with a cough, and bright blood speckled his hand, which he immediately tried to hide. He turned and saw Ragnvald looking at it, and he snarled. ‘Walk with me, Ragnvald.’

  Ragnvald looked nervously around at the men of the king’s huscarls who walked with them. He suddenly felt surrounded by his enemies, and he was defenceless against them. They reached the dock very quickly, where men were piling into their ships, leaving the dock so others could be swung in to receive their own. Ragnvald signalled at Fenrir and Ulf, his shipmaster, to get their ships loaded and ready, and the men nodded and ran off.

  ‘We have little time, and what I say is important.’

  ‘How long have you been coughing blood, King Eric?’

  ‘Long enough to know what is coming for me,’ the king said gruffly.

  ‘I see. What is it you wish to say?’

  ‘We have never been like-minded, you and I, but I always respected your honour, your judgement. Now I must ask you something that you will not agree with.’

  Ragnvald looked at the man suspiciously and saw with shock how sunken his eyes were, how stretched his skin. He had not been this close to the man for years. The shock suppressed his anger. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I have always been a practical man, you a man of the code, the old ways. You may not believe it, but I have always acted in the best interests of our people. I know you would too. We just disagree on the method.’

  ‘I don’t think you are famous for acting in the interests of others, King Eric.’

  The king laughed and coughed again, painful racks that sounded awful. ‘Fortunately, my interests and the people’s are often the same. When I avoided battle with the Danes, did we not secure an end to their raids? Did the people not all return home alive and with plunder? We did not engage in some vainglorious battle, but the people returned home to their families. Has the nation not grown stronger and more secure under my rule?’

  Ragnvald grunted begrudgingly. What the man said was broadly true. ‘But your lack of action made you hated.’

  ‘Are you a child? A good king is always hated. It is his task to rule the people, not befriend them.’

  Ragnvald tensed his fist and took a half step away. ‘Is that all you wish to say to me? I have a ship to return to.’

  ‘Stay, Ragnvald. Curb your pride. This is why we must speak. Always your pride leads you and your honour. That is not what the people need now. They need a pragmatic leader, one who is not afraid to do the wrong thing for the right outcome, not afraid to be unpopular. Not afraid of the hard choices. They don’t need another Magnus, a beloved champion of skald song. That would lead them to ruin. We have never faced a threat like this before.’ Eric grabbed Ragnvald with surprisingly strong fingers and pulled their faces together, sunken eyes imploring him. ‘When I die, there can be no squabble for the throne, no squabble with the Norwegian king. The people must be united. I hoped to arrange it myself… but the Norns have other plans.’ The king looked desperate, destitute.

  ‘You have always believed you would be a better king, and you will seek the throne after I am gone, will you not?’

  Ragnvald felt embarrassed. ‘I had not considered it.’

  ‘Liar,’ the king croaked with a suppressed laugh. ‘Ragnvald, you cannot be king. No Swede can be king. We can only weather this storm as one people. I am leaving instructions to offer the crown to Øystein, to unify our countries under the son of Magnus.’ He let go of Ragnvald’s collar with a sad whimper.

  Ragnvald was shocked into silence. ‘You mean to give our nation away? To a Norwegian king?’

  ‘I mean our nation to survive me! And I will do anything to achieve it. I knew you would oppose it. I need you to swear to me. Swear to me, Ragnvald. I know you will never break your damn word, you proud fool. This is my command as your king. Swear to me you will complete it!’

  Ragnvald’s stomach churned as the words sunk
in. ‘You would do anything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The forest, the men on the hunting party…’ Ragnvald’s voice was slow, deathly.

  The king dropped his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said, sadly.

  Ragnvald breathed in deeply and felt his anger flowing through his body, the buzz of potential violence in his fingers.

  ‘You tried to kill me to stop me from letting you commit treason by giving our nation away to a foreign king, and now you want me to help you do it.’ He grated the words out, one by one, like ripping stitches from an old wound.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you wonder why we never agreed,’ Ragnvald said with a bitter laugh.

  ‘Swear it!’ the king implored, nothing in his eyes but desperation. ‘They will all look to you when I am gone. Swear that you will think of nothing but the survival of our people. Forget me; forget my commands. Tell me that you will leave your vanity and pride, your belief in a code that cannot be broken. Tell me you will put it aside and do…’ The king wheezed and stopped to catch his breath. ‘Tell me you will do what is needed.’

  Ragnvald felt the anger flow out of him as the sick old man, the man who had been his enemy for so many pointless years, begged him on the dockside. ‘My lord!’ shouted one of Eric’s huscarls. ‘We must leave.’ The king waved him away with irritation.

  Ragnvald gazed down into the dying eyes and felt the foolishness of his ambition, of his petty hatred of the man who had led them to this place. ‘I swear it.’

  A look of pure relief swept over the king, and he half crumpled. ‘Thank you, Lord Ragnvald. Thank you.’ The old man clasped his hand and smiled wanly before letting go and turning to leave.

  ‘There is one thing, my king, that would help.’

  ‘What is it?’ said the king, turning with a concerned look on his face.

  ‘You say you will do anything to help? Leave your silver to the next king. He will need it to fight the war. Your famous riches don’t need to go into the ground with you.’

  The king smiled sadly. ‘You want my riches?’ He peeled a gold arm ring from his wrist and unhooked the fabulous gold necklace from around his head, passing them to Ragnvald. ‘There. You have my riches.’ Ragnvald looked at the intricate gold jewellery with a perplexed frown.

  ‘What of the rest?’

  ‘It doesn’t exist except in words, Lord Ragnvald. I am not stingy at feasts because it pleases me but because I have no more silver.’

  ‘But… But the tithes from Visby. You bought your way on to the throne. Where is the money?’

  The king laughed wryly. ‘I spent every coin and bit of hacksilver I owned convincing everyone I was rich, buying the throne and then maintaining that image. Visby is not the port it once was – the trade has been dying for many years. I have been selling my old swords, digging up my father’s grave goods, scraping every bit of silver I can find to stay in control.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Ragnvald. As I said, whatever it takes.’ He nodded to himself and walked away, leaving the stunned Ragnvald standing there with the fabulous heavy gold chain, and the even heavier legacy of the truth of King Eric’s rule.

  Ragnvald stood in the stern of his ship as they left the dock, mind awash with his muddled thoughts and revelations.

  ‘We really going home without a fight?’ asked Fenrir from behind him. Ragnvald turned to find the man also gazing back at the receding shape of Aarhus. He shook his head.

  ‘No, I don’t believe we will. I need to see these Christians for myself, get a taste of how they fight. We will go north, see if we can help the Norwegians if possible. There is a man I would like to meet.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hard to explain that, hard to explain,’ said Ragnvald, who had only ever seen Øystein once in the hall at Aarhus that day as he was sent away by his father.

  Fenrir shrugged. ‘If it gets us into a fight, I’m happy, and I’m sure the rest will be too.’

  Ragnvald nodded and called to the shipmaster. ‘Ulf, turn us north. We are leaving the fleet. We have a little work of our own to do before we return home. Signal to Leif – his ship needs to come with us too.’

  ‘North? Right you are, my lord,’ said Ulf, leaning into the steering oar and shouting at men to adjust the sail and set it square across the boat to catch the wind that still flowed steadily from the south on that fine spring day. Leif’s ship didn’t need signalling; it turned to follow them like a loyal hound. And how like hounds they were, Ragnvald mused to himself, and the hunt was where they were headed.

  Ordulf sat with the rest of the wagon train on the hill overlooking Aarhus and watched the battle for the city unfold. The crusader army was deployed to cut the road, too late to stop a large column of armed men and refugees that spewed from the gates as the army formed up. Then they advanced, ladders carried with them, towards the old city with its short, wooden palisade. The crusader formations reached the wall and set their ladders, swarming up the walls and fighting their way inside the city. The defenders held out for perhaps an hour, then the gate was opened from the inside, and the cheering crusaders flooded through, swarming into the wooden city in a delighted rush.

  Soldiers like nothing more than sacking a city after a siege, explained Henry, watching the scene with him. Every sin you ever wanted to commit, every transgression, was possible during a sack, and there was rarely a consequence. It was a reward, he opined, for the terror and danger of scaling an enemy-held wall. A man could rape and kill and steal and drink and burn and gorge himself on whatever pleasure of the flesh he wanted. Every dark corner of desire could be explored.

  Ordulf felt ill as Henry gleefully described what would be happening in the city. He felt nauseous as he watched its capture and then watched it burn. The crusade had changed him. He was sick of the idea of adventure and war. He longed for the simple life of home, or even the bustle of Hamburg. He longed for his forge most of all. Watching the great city of Aarhus burn in the name of Christ, in an unstoppable orgy of killing and destruction, robbed him of the last vestiges of his dedication to the cause. As Henry and the other wagoners chuckled and bantered about their jealousy of being left out of the sack, Ordulf dreamed of returning south, of finding the Bavarian master smith, of escaping the war forever.

  Chapter 12

  The Fall at the Ford

  The day after the fall of Aarhus, Sir Hans was waiting with a few other knights outside the command tent for the meeting inside to finish, in the fields outside the smoking ruin of the Danish city. The crusade commander, the Duke of Saxony, had called a meeting of the contingent leaders to discuss the next steps of the campaign, and Hans was waiting to hear from Count Adolf what his orders would be. He was wearing his battle-marked armour. His squire was injured, and he had not had the time or energy to clean his maille himself the night before.

  This bothered him. Sir Hans had particularly magnificent maille armour, something he was very fastidious about. He had visited half a dozen armourers before the crusade and talked to a number of veterans of previous campaigns to try and decide on the best equipment. His hauberk was long – it hung down nearly to the knees – and was split in the middle to allow riding with maille chausses and sturdy leather shoes. The maille chausses were only just becoming common among the richer knights, but Hans regarded them as essential for a mounted man. They were suspended from his hips by a belt and tied under the soles of his shoes, extending his protection from thigh to ankle. His hauberk had a built-in maille head covering, which right now was unlaced and hanging down behind his head. It was too hot and heavy to wear all the time. He had left the tight linen cap that usually sat under his maille on. Thus his armour covered him from the tip of his head to both wrist and ankle. Hans had experimented with gloves, but they were cumbersome and impeded his use of the sword, so he went barehanded in combat.

  He was wearing a green surcoat over his armour. This was a new fashion, brought back to Europe by the knights of the First Crusade, who had started wearing them
to protect their armour from the blazing heat of the sun, but it also offered extra protection and made the wearer more visible and distinguishable. The most unique part of his armour was his helm. It was a single beaten dome, common to most knights, but it had a curved faceplate riveted to it with two eye slits. A few breathing holes were the only features.

  There was a sudden bustle of voices and swishing chain maille that preceded a stream of lords emerging from the entrance to the tent. Many of the great men of northern and western Europe were in that little gaggle, perhaps the most significant gathering of power anywhere in the world at that moment. Count Adolf detached himself from the group and came over to Sir Hans. He did not look happy, red in the face and eyes narrowed. Hans wondered what the cause could be so soon after the defeat of the Northmen. It didn’t take long to find out.

  ‘Walk with me,’ snapped the count, without breaking his stride as he walked past Sir Hans towards the Lower Saxon camp. Sir Hans knew better than to ask questions when the count was in this mood, so he followed his lord at a fast walk, almost jogging to keep up with the taller man.

  ‘They fucking declared victory. They ended the crusade! Can you imagine?’ The count did not look round as he spoke, pounding his hand into the pommel of his sword. Sir Hans was perplexed. Victory didn’t seem like such a bad thing, but he was wiser than to say so.

  ‘The enemy is on the run – we have them by the neck – and the commander has declared the crusade successful and that it is a great victory. The damn Norsemen will have time to escape and regroup. It’s fucking madness.’ The count was fuming, voice rising in volume as they left earshot of the other lords.

  ‘When you clear a barn of mice, do you stop after you find the first nest? No, you damn well search every corner until the last one is dead. We have barely scratched the surface of the Norselands. We merely taught them how we fight and how big a threat we are. Now, with their kings dead and their army in disarray and retreat, we decide to stop?’ Count Adolf slammed to a stop and turned on his heel, Sir Hans almost crashing into him. The enraged count raised his hands to the sky as if beseeching God for intervention.