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

by James Duncan

  The man in the furs and the old warrior from the ship walked towards each other and clasped hands, elbow to elbow, and talked in loud voices, interspersed with laughing and gesticulating. After their conversation was over, the old warrior started pointing at things and giving instructions, while the man in furs nodded.

  As the old warrior pointed, men started getting up and picking things up. Boxes of loot were put into the little cart along with spare gear, captured equipment, shirts of maille and weapons. The men picked up their own gear and shields, and then they gathered in a loose group by the entrance and waited. Then the old warrior pointed at Ordulf. His heart began racing again. Was this it? What would happen now?

  The man in the furs nodded and snapped his fingers at two of the plainly dressed men. They hurried over to Ordulf, who was sitting on the wall with two watchful Norsemen standing either side of him.

  The first man to arrive asked him a question in what sounded like French, but Ordulf shook his head uncomprehendingly. The first man shrugged and turned away. The second man, a taller, thin man with a shock of curly black hair asked in perfect Low German, ‘Where are you from?’

  Shocked to hear his own language, Ordulf didn’t immediately answer and just sat there with his mouth open. The man was about to turn and leave when he said, ‘Minden.’

  The man turned back, eyebrows raised. ‘Minden, eh? Right then, come with me.’ The man strode away, leaving no opportunity for questions or protest, so Ordulf stood and followed him, Norse guards following him closely. He didn’t understand why this German speaker was here, seemingly free to walk around, wearing good quality – if plain – clothes and giving instructions. Was he a traitor? Was he a Norseman who had learned German? Ordulf didn’t think so; the man seemed to have the dialect of northern Saxony.

  He saw the German speaker talking to the man in furs, who nodded and signalled to the cart to get moving. Ordulf caught up with the German and opened his mouth to ask a string of questions. The man moved his hand to silence him. Ordulf noticed it was missing the little finger, a scarred stump left above the joint.

  ‘Shut up – don’t speak now. Don’t cause trouble or they will whip you. I will explain later.’ And with that, the whole little convoy started down the path towards the town that was now visible just a mile or so away.

  The town they were heading towards was a walled town in the middle of an expanse of wide fields. The warmer weather was only just arriving here, but Ordulf could see the first evidence of crops growing in the otherwise bare fields.

  The river continued alongside the road towards the town; in fact, it went right past the walls, but Ordulf could see it was shallow, and in places banks of stones broke the surface. They arrived at the city wall, a huge and well-maintained palisade with an imposing gatehouse built into it, and passed through.

  The first thing that struck Ordulf was how odd the buildings were. Each stood alone in its own patch of ground, enclosures with a low fence attached to the side of many. The buildings were constructed from thick, wooden planks supported at the corners and along the side at intervals with angled logs. The buildings were long and low and varied in size. The bigger ones seemed to have some partial second storey, but most were a single floor with deeply sloping roofs of thatch or wooden tiles. The roads between the buildings were unpaved and uneven. As they wound their way into the centre of the town, the buildings became larger, better built and more richly decorated. Some were even made of stone, at least the lower walls. A wide central area came into view, a town square, Ordulf reckoned. On the far side was a huge wooden building. Ordulf gaped up at it. A broad flight of stairs led up to a huge set of double doors. The roof was tiled with something dark, and it sloped away on both sides from a pinnacle above the doors. It went as far back as he could see.

  They passed this great building and went into a side street. There was a large horseshoe-shaped building there, formed of two long, steeply roofed buildings, the left one much larger than the right, connected at the back by a semi-open building with a simple, angled roof. The whole compound was maybe a hundred feet deep and just as broad across the prongs of the open end of the shoe, which was facing them. The central courtyard was open and unwalled at the street. The wagon ground to a halt in the yard, and men swarmed over it to unpack. Boxes, gear and people disappeared into different doorways; other men and women appeared from those doorways to loud greetings. Hands were clasped and hugs exchanged between the newcomers and the men from the boats. Ordulf watched as one woman, tall and beautiful and dressed in a flowing kirtle and woollen cloak, looked around the yard searching for someone, an excited look on her face.

  One of the warriors saw her and walked over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder and pressing his forehead against hers. He said some words to her, and her shoulders slumped. She nodded to him and turned to walk away, one fist clenched at her side and the other hand held to her mouth. The warrior watched her go sadly and then returned to his work.

  ‘Frangir’s wife,’ said the German.

  Ordulf started; he had not noticed the man arrive. ‘Who was Frangir?’ he asked.

  ‘A warrior. You probably saw him die. The others said he fell during the ambush on the riverbank, killed by a Christian with a steel face,’ the German explained. ‘Does that make sense to you?’

  ‘Ah, Sir Hans,’ Ordulf said quietly.

  ‘Hmm,’ said the German. ‘Well. Come inside. I have a lot to explain to you and other work to do after.’

  ‘Come inside? Where am I going? You seem so calm – are you a servant here?’

  ‘Inside first, questions after,’ said the man, trying to guide Ordulf towards the low building on the right of the courtyard but failing, like a man trying to push a stubborn cow when it is feeding.

  Ordulf eventually relented and trudged across the courtyard. Again, he saw his possessions being carried by one of the warriors. ‘Hey, that stuff is mine!’ he cried in protest, pointing at the man, who ignored him.

  ‘No it isn’t. That stuff is his. You don’t own anything anymore. You don’t even own yourself,’ said the German gently, perhaps more out of fear of his enormous charge rather than actual patience.

  Ordulf turned to the German with sadness and anger in his eyes. ‘So I am a slave?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the German flatly, meeting the bigger man’s gaze and still trying to gently guide him towards the building.

  ‘Will I be sacrificed?’ Ordulf asked, his voice shaking.

  ‘What? No, don’t be absurd. You are here to work. Anyway, Christian slaves are not sacrificed, not often anyway. We are usually not worthy of it, and they think it would be an insult to their gods. So be grateful for that and come with me. Now!’

  Ordulf wasn’t sure if he believed the German, that he was safe, but he had little choice, so he trudged across the courtyard with him. The building they walked towards was low and long, limewashed walls topped with a steep, thatched roof, all supported by thick trunk pillars along the sides and at the corners. The columns and the doorway were decorated with rough carvings; snakes and wild beasts snarled and wrestled, frozen in the timber surface.

  They ducked through the low doorway, and Ordulf stopped to look around the dimly lit space. The building was open along its entire length, with a partial second floor of wooden boards at both ends. In the centre, opposite the doorway, was a pair of separated firepits with simple benches and tables around them. The whole central area was flat, beaten earth. Some areas with flat, wooden planks for a floor were arranged around the edges of the earthen area and at the ends of the room. Along the walls were all sorts of tables, shelves, piles of clothes and gear, firewood, sleeping rolls and countless other domestic items. It was clear that a number of people lived in this room. On the left, at the end of the room, was a door leading outside. On the right was a larder area with meat hanging from the roof, boxes of winter root vegetables, drying pelts and a number of jugs of water around a large basin. The whole room stank of smoke, burnt f
at and rarely washed people.

  The German let Ordulf take in his new surroundings and then set to work explaining.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Ordulf.’

  ‘Ordulf, I am Otto, a thrall of Jarl Ragnvald, who you also now belong to. This compound is his. The other long building is his hall and the home of his family and some of his huscarls; you are not allowed in there unless ordered inside. This house is for the lesser men, their women and the slaves. You sleep here, you eat here and you will work elsewhere during the day as commanded.’

  ‘I sleep here?’ Ordulf said, surprised.

  ‘Yes, it is the Norse way. They don’t have separate rooms to sleep in, and they sleep around the firepit. In the winter, you will understand. The freemen and women sleep closest to the fires, the slaves further out or up there on the second level. It’s warmer up there, but smokier. You are free to try both and decide which you prefer.

  ‘Let me run you through the rules as simply as possible. These aren’t all of them, and you will learn more, but I beg you to pay attention. The Norse can be easy masters to those who behave well and utterly savage to those who do not. It is up to you to decide which you want. Trust me, you will want to behave well.’ He held up his left hand, showing the little finger that was missing down to the last knuckle, his eyes conveying the meaning of that missing digit. Ordulf was shocked into silence.

  ‘Main rule. You are regarded as a particularly smart animal. You are not seen as a person like them. If you are a good and useful animal, you will be fed, kept warm and not mistreated, perhaps even given a mate. You will be allowed to keep to yourself outside of the work you perform and even allowed to wander the streets once they trust you. Before that time comes, to leave this compound unaccompanied means death. You need to take this seriously. If you walk out of that courtyard without instructions, they will use you for sword practice. I’ve seen it before.’

  Ordulf bridled and turned red with anger. The German was unfazed.

  ‘Second rule. If you strike a Norseman, you will lose the hand you struck them with. Which for you would end your usefulness as a smith, and you will be sent into the fields to pull a cart or a plough until you die. You have no idea how lucky you are to be a slave here, in this hall, with your skills. Most slaves are kept as nothing more than farmhands and worked in the worst jobs until they die. If you try and touch a Norse woman, with her agreement or without it, you will lose something more precious than your hand. You understand me? They don’t allow animals to lie with people, and you are an animal.’

  Ordulf’s red face drained at the dire warning, and he clenched his teeth.

  ‘This hall may seem simple and strange, even disgusting, to you, but this is better than how most Norse families themselves live. You will have a better life here than almost any peasant. Even better than some of the lesser warriors. So you should feel blessed. They don’t much care what the slaves get up to with each other. We can fight, fuck, sing, play, eat and sleep and do whatever else we want as long as we don’t damage each other or fail to complete our duties. So wipe that look off your face. You hurt another slave and much worse will happen to you,’ the German said, with a confidence he clearly didn’t feel.

  ‘Understood? That’s the basics. When everyone is back tonight, you will see what is and isn’t being used in terms of furs and clothes and beds. There is plenty to go round. That door at the back leads to the shit pit. Don’t fall in it; it often takes a while for someone to hear you and come dig you out. Now, I have work to do.’ With that, he turned to leave.

  ‘Wait!’ said Ordulf, looking confused. ‘What do I do? Where do I work?’

  ‘Do? You wait for instructions in here or in the yard. Someone will tell you to do something, and you do it. Between instructions, you do whatever you want as per the rules. Eat, sleep, abuse yourself in the corner. I don’t care.’ He abruptly turned and left through the door.

  Ordulf sank onto one of the benches, alone in the hall, struggling to comprehend his situation. He wasn’t wearing chains, and no one was beating him or telling him what to do. There was food sitting there that he could just eat, and no one would punish him, or that was how he understood it. But if he walked out of that door and crossed an invisible line, he would be brutally killed.

  And that was it, for the rest of his life. The thought was too vast to comprehend. Thinking about food also made him realise he was intensely hungry. He saw that the massive pot hanging over the fireplace in front of him held some still-warm stew, and there was some sort of flatbread on the table at the end of the room. Looking around to check no one was watching – he still believed that he might be stealing or that Otto was playing a trick on him – he grabbed a bowl and a wooden spoon from a table and set about dealing with his hunger.

  Ordulf was dozing on a pile of pelts when the door opened and a gaggle of people arrived in the hall. Most of them stopped to stare at him and a few asked him questions, but he understood none of it and just shook his head blankly. There were three men, two old women and two younger ones, one around his age and one a little older. The men he recognised as the men who had accompanied the wagon at the docks earlier that day. The whole lot of them were wearing simple woollen clothes and homemade tunics. They all scattered throughout the space and got on with various activities. One of the older women and one of the men started pulling logs out of a pile and rebuilt the fire underneath the pot containing the broth.

  Ordulf looked guiltily at the half-empty bowl he had left near the fire and wondered whether it would cause trouble. An older woman picked it up and looked at him, holding it out with questioning eyes and pointing at her mouth. He nodded, and she brought it over with the spoon and gave it to him before wandering off. Ordulf finished the cooled and greasy remains. He had eaten much worse. Even cold the stew was much better than the slop that the tavern by the patch served.

  A short time later, two armed men came through the door, and Ordulf stiffened, heart starting to hammer in his chest. However, the two men simply removed all their gear in a corner next to a stub wall on the far side of the fireplace and hung it up. A group of women and children arrived next, and the children went over to the two men who greeted them with smiles. One of them picked up a small child and lifted them onto his shoulders to squeals of joy.

  Otto was the last to arrive. Some of the other slaves went over to him and asked him questions in their babbling language, looking over at Ordulf as they did. He answered their questions and they drifted away, apparently satisfied.

  Otto got himself a jug of water and came to sit with Ordulf, offering him a drink.

  ‘You speak their language?’ Ordulf asked.

  ‘Yes. I was a sailor. Sometimes we smuggled goods into Denmark; they pay good silver for iron and other things. I worked with some Danish, and I learned their language,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Then my ship was captured leaving Hamburg by raiders led by Jarl Ragnvald four years ago. I have been a slave ever since. Now it’s one of my jobs to turn our words into theirs.’

  ‘How do you accept that?’ said Ordulf, his eyes burning.

  ‘Because there is no alternative. I cannot have any other life, so I accept this one. So now I am Otto the slave. A translator and servant to the jarl. Ordulf, everyone in here who was born free has gone through what you’re thinking and feeling when they first were captured. They either learned to live with it or they didn’t. It doesn’t end well for the ones who don’t. It’s that simple.’ He got up to go over to the firepit and said over his shoulder, ‘Only time will tell whether you can live with it or not, so don’t do anything stupid now.’

  ‘So what if I can’t live with it?’ asked Ordulf, misery colouring his tone.

  Otto sighed. ‘Well, then you have no future here. Anyone who cannot accept this fate is destroyed by the loneliness and frustration of existing between two classes of people. You cannot join the freemen, and if you refuse to join the slaves…’ Otto shrugged.

&nbs
p; Ordulf thought about this for a moment and walked over to the firepit, leaning over to talk quietly and still be heard. ‘Are slaves ever freed?’ he asked.

  Otto stopped his tending to the fire and sighed in frustration. ‘Yes, it does happen. Usually after many years of loyal service. Other Norse captured in war can be freed sometimes. Norse born into slavery, rarely; foreigners captured in battle, never. Where would you go anyway? Non-Norse are banned from living here permanently as freemen, or from owning property.’

  Ordulf was crestfallen. ‘So we are to be slaves forever?’

  Otto didn’t reply. He just shrugged and strode off down the longhouse, leaving a miserable Ordulf in his wake.

  The evening passed rapidly with Ordulf brooding in the corner. The only time anyone interacted with him was when the old lady came and tried to explain with sign gestures and grunts that he was sitting on her bed. He got to his feet and moved to a bench where he had more of the piping-hot reheated stew and enjoyed the heat of the fire.

  When darkness fully fell, the freemen shooed the slaves away from the firepits as if they were shooing away a cat and set their beds down to sleep with their families. The stinking animal-fat candles were put out until only the glow of the dying fire lit the space. Ordulf found a flat area at the back just out of the fire’s glow with a hide bed and some old furs to wrap himself up in and lay down. He didn’t sleep much that night. He was too confused and shocked to even cry. He just stared blankly at the roof.

  The morning came, and someone’s toes nudged him in the ribs. He looked up and saw the old woman. She was offering him a steaming bowl, which he quickly accepted. He looked around and realised that everyone else was up and about. Some had already left the house. There was a freshly cooked stew on the fire, and Ordulf had to admit, it was pretty good. Hearty and with a good amount of something’s meat in it. There was even a lump of fresh, warm bread. He was amazed.