by James Duncan
Otto came in through the door and called over to Ordulf. ‘You are wanted. Come with me.’
Ordulf got up and followed him across the yard towards the bigger longhouse. He hesitated before the carved doorway. Was this a test?
‘It’s fine, you have been ordered in,’ said Otto, waiting impatiently.
Ordulf went through the door and was hit with that same smell of people and cooking, but the room was much larger and taller, the smell of smoke less overpowering. Huge vents at the peak let in the light and let out the bad air. At this end of the building, it was a great hall with groups of tables around a huge and well-built firepit. Towards the middle, a wall divided the building in two, and it had a full second floor from that point onwards. In the middle, before the wall, stood a raised platform with a few large and comfortable-looking chairs and a table to one side with fine metal jugs and cups on it. Torches burned on the posts supporting the ceiling, and men and women talked and ate at the tables. There were rich decorations and fantastical carvings everywhere, and along the walls stood shelves and racks full of looted items.
Ordulf’s eyes bulged. There were crosses and silverware from churches, Christian shields and weapons, suits of chain maille and even a knight’s saddle on a wooden beam. This whole room was a trophy collection. It was intended to impress, and Ordulf had to admit, it was very impressive. He saw that the old warrior from the boat was sitting in one of the big chairs on the dais, chatting to an elegant woman in the seat next to him. Otto gave him a nudge in that direction, and they walked towards the seats.
‘Is that Lord Ragnvald?’ he hissed at Otto.
‘Jarl Ragnvald, yes. Your master.’
Two warriors detached themselves from the walls they had been resting against and stood on either side of the dais, short axes casually dangling in their hands.
The jarl said something to Otto at length, and Otto nodded and then turned to Ordulf.
‘The jarl has some questions for you. You will answer me, and I will tell him. First, are you truly a smith? He has your tools here.’ Otto gestured to a shelf at the side. ‘They do seem to be the tools of a smith. But are they yours?’
Ordulf nodded. The jarl grunted.
‘What do you make?’
‘I am a swordsmith,’ Ordulf said, not able to keep the pride out of his voice.
Otto translated, and the jarl perked up. He rattled off some quick words at Otto.
‘This is a big claim. Can you prove it? What have you made?’
‘Yes, I can prove it. In fact, you might have some of my swords here.’
Otto and the jarl conversed for a while and looked confused. ‘How can some of your swords be here?’ Otto asked.
‘The ones you took from the men at the ford.’ Ordulf paused as the fear and anger of that memory filled him and then continued, ‘I think some of them might have been ones I made.’
The jarl leaned over and said something to one of the guards. He went over to the trophy wall and rummaged around, bringing back an armful of swords.
‘These were among those taken from the soldiers at the ford,’ said Otto, indicating the blades. ‘Did you make any of these?’ Ordulf could easily see that three of them were from the batch made at Minden.
‘The black-scabbarded sword with the cross in the pommel – that is my work or, at least, partly my work.’
Otto explained this to the guard who passed the sword to the jarl who drew it from the scabbard and inspected it and felt its balance. He looked at it thoughtfully for a while and then spoke again.
‘He says this is an acceptable weapon, but he thinks it is not a warrior’s sword. It is too narrow, and… I don’t totally follow his meaning, but it has other deficiencies.’ Ordulf flushed with hurt pride and nearly snapped an angry retort. His temper would get him killed one of these days. The jarl shrugged and looked unimpressed with the sword, which was taken away, then said something to Otto that required quite a bit of back-and-forth conversation.
Finally, Otto turned to Ordulf. ‘You are to go and train with the city’s swordsmith. He is old and very wise and knows everything about swordsmithing the proper Norse way. You will learn from him and help him in whatever way he requires, and if you are useful, the smith might keep you. If he does not, you will be sold to a lesser town smithy, or perhaps to a farm. The jarl thinks you would fetch a good price from a farm. You are young, and you look like you could do the work of two normal slaves.’
The jarl waved his hand in dismissal, and Otto took Ordulf’s arm and guided him out of the door.
‘Bastard,’ said Ordulf, spitting into the dirt, eyes narrowed and fists clenched.
‘What? That was a good meeting. You will be a smith. You have the chance not to become a farm animal – what is the problem?’ said Otto.
‘He said my work was only acceptable,’ Ordulf raged, gesturing wildly with his hands. ‘He doesn’t understand the design and he just… dismisses it like that? Those swords helped cut Denmark in half! I was there – I saw it. What does he know?’
Otto laughed sharply at the pinked pride in the young man. ‘What does he know? Ordulf, he has been fighting with swords since before you were born. He has fought hundreds of men, armed with every weapon you can imagine. If he says the thing, he is right. But if you go back into that room full of experienced men of war and explain that your sword is better than theirs, I am sure they will take you really, really seriously.’ Otto sneered the last few words like a housewife scolding a child.
Ordulf blanched and shut his mouth. He cast his eyes down, feeling stupid for his outburst. There was silence as they walked back across the yard and then, at the doorway, Otto said, ‘Now, you will be collected tomorrow to be taken to the smithy. I suggest you keep your ears open and your mouth shut and try and learn something. Maybe, you never know, you might find that at your age you haven’t reached the peak of human knowledge. Oh, and I am to teach you Norse. Until you can speak the language, you are not much use. So we will spend our evenings learning, which I will enjoy even less than you. Perhaps you will be able to point out to me some of the finer points of language while we are at it?’ Otto’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
With the biting lecture over, Otto turned and walked back to the great hall.
Ordulf lowered his head and trudged into the lower hall, dragging his wounded pride and his desolation with him.
Chapter 14
The Slave and the Swordsmith
The Norse smithy was familiar, yet alien. All the basic tools were there: tongs, hammers, punches, engraving tools, various shaping tools, anvils. But the shapes were odd, the layout just… wrong. The forge itself was totally different. Ordulf was used to a broad, flat forge that they fed with charcoal. They built up, shaped and moved the charcoal around to move hotspots, and they managed the temperature with bellows feeding in below the fire. It was flexible but laborious and consumed charcoal like a cow consumes grass.
The forges here were shaped like open-ended pig troughs with the air from the bellows feeding in from the side. Ordulf was fascinated and confused by this design, although he could see how it would help to make long blades more easily and use less fuel, but it would give much less room to work in.
The Norse master smith was a surprisingly small and surprisingly old man called Dengir. He had wiry arms that were rippled with rope-like muscles. He spoke no words of Low German and mostly just grunted and pointed at things, even when directing the Norse slaves and junior smiths. The wiry little man couldn’t have been more different to his old master in Minden. Ordulf started to doubt the smith was any good. Until he saw him work.
Dengir’s hammer flew. He sang as he worked, and his hammer moved like the beats of a goose’s wings. He seemed tireless. His small, wiry arms didn’t deliver great dramatic strikes, but he had a fine eye, and his rapid, accurate blows massaged the metal into shape with astounding efficiency.
Ordulf found himself at the bottom of the workers at the forge, which he bitterly res
ented. He was given the simplest tasks and did the basic work. It was as if he was just an untrained boy again. It ate at him more than his captivity. He was a smith, a good one! And now he was reduced to the lowest apprentice, fit only to help as they made axes and spears and big knives. They weren’t even making any swords.
In the longhouse one evening, tired and frustrated from a day swinging a hammer with men who did not respect him and whom he could not speak to, he sat brooding over his evening meal. His Norse lessons were too slow for his liking. It was infuriating having to learn a new language from scratch. Everything was infuriating at the moment. He slammed his bowl down and went outside for some air to get away from the cloying and smoky atmosphere in the hall. He paced back and forth in the yard, his mind racing. He felt trapped and useless. He was leaning up against a wall when someone started shouting. Ordulf looked up, confused. He suddenly realised that he was looking at the yard from across the street, and one of the men from his hall was coming towards him with a sword.
Oh God. I’ve left the courtyard.
He raised his arms in supplication as men started boiling out of the hall on the left, some armed, some not. He was quickly surrounded, and a sword was put to his throat. He couldn’t even beg – he desperately tried to recall his brief Norse teaching but came up blank. He was picked up and carried to the yard before being dumped on the floor, flat on his back with a sword point in his throat. He shook and wildly swept his eyes from side to side.
The warrior above him was arguing with another, who was gesturing at the main hall. Otto arrived and stood to the side, looking around nervously.
‘Otto!’ Ordulf gasped. ‘Help me!’
‘What did you do, Ordulf? Why did you run?’
‘I didn’t run, Otto. I was just wandering through the yard and forgot about the line. Please, tell them it was just a mistake!’ Ordulf was terrified; his life hung on a knife’s edge.
Otto exchanged some quick words with the warriors and was clearly rebuffed. One of the warriors pushed him back.
‘Ordulf, it’s out of my hands. I’m sorry. They are waiting for the jarl to decide your fate. Everyone saw you had left; the rule is the rule.’
Ordulf shivered on the ground for what seemed like the whole night until finally the crowd parted and the jarl appeared. He stood over Ordulf. He looked furious. He snapped some words at Otto. Otto replied with his head bowed and voice low.
The jarl listened to Otto and then to the warrior with his sword at Ordulf’s throat. Ordulf looked up and realised it was the warrior from the ford, the one who had charged him and been stopped by another man. This only deepened his panic. This warrior had never looked at him any other way than the way a wolf looks at a lamb.
The conversation abruptly ended when the jarl pointed at the hall.
‘Otto, what is happening?’ Ordulf cried.
‘It’s good news. They aren’t going to kill you right now,’ Otto said from somewhere at his side.
‘Right now?’ What do you mean right now?’ Ordulf cried.
‘I assumed they would kill you right here, but the jarl has decided to hear your case in the great hall. It’s the best result you could have hoped for.’
Ordulf was dragged into the great hall and dumped unceremoniously on the ground in front of the dais. A warrior held him down with the point of a spear and didn’t seem to mind if it drew blood.
The jarl sat above him and fired questions at Otto. Ordulf understood nothing of the rapid exchange, and Otto translated.
‘Why did you run?’ Otto asked.
‘I told you, I didn’t run. I just forgot the rule while I was outside thinking. I was just leaning against a building outside when they saw me,’ Ordulf pleaded.
The jarl heard the explanation and scowled. ‘The others saw you looking angry all evening and then slamming a bowl down before you left the longhouse. They say you were angry and you ran,’ Otto relayed.
‘No!’ shouted Ordulf in Norse. ‘I was only frustrated with the smithing and needed to think about it. The house was too hot and noisy!’
Otto spoke to the jarl back and forth at length, and the jarl nodded. Otto looked relieved. The jarl looked at the warrior from the ford, who was now speaking. The warrior then brought over Ordulf’s old pack, which he dumped at the jarl’s feet, giving Ordulf a sinister and triumphant look as he did. Rummaging through the bag, he brought out a number of small purses and packets. He emptied them out, dumping silver and copper coins all over the floor. He stood back triumphantly and glared at Ordulf. Some in the audience whispered and gestured to each other. The jarl spoke again to Otto.
Otto looked confused and worried. ‘Fenrir says you are a thief and thus cannot be trusted under Norse law. The word of a thief means nothing in his own defence. Ordulf, why did you have so much money in so many different purses?’ Otto pointed at the ground, littered with pouches and silver. ‘Did you steal all this money from your comrades?’ Otto looked confused, hurt even. ‘Ordulf, this looks really bad. No junior smith would have this much money.’
Ordulf was stunned; he could not form words to defend himself.
‘Ordulf, explain yourself or you will die here on this floor!’ Otto hissed at him.
His hesitation was damning him, he could see it. ‘The money was my share of the contract for that batch of swords,’ he said, pointing vaguely at the side wall. ‘I split it up to hide it from thieves and so I couldn’t lose it all in one go!’ He looked pleadingly at Otto and moved his eyes to the jarl who had his hands on the arms of his chair, his face a blank mask.
Otto relayed the explanation to the jarl, who raised his eyebrows and stroked his beard. He thought for a moment and spoke again to Otto. Others in the room muttered in sharp tones or made noises of scorn. The jarl spoke and everyone was silent.
‘The jarl accepts your explanation. You are not a thief. Some of the warriors say a strong man does not hide his wealth, he displays it as a warning of his power. But the jarl said you are not a warrior and would not understand this.’
Ordulf breathed a deep sigh of relief. ‘So what now?’
‘Now they decide if you die for leaving the compound,’ Otto said flatly.
Ordulf’s relief withered on the vine. ‘But I explained!’
‘It does not matter. You broke the law by disobeying your master’s command. People saw you leave. If you are spared, others will be emboldened to break it too and use the same excuse,’ Otto said, a sympathetic look on his face. ‘You will be punished – they only debate what that punishment will be.’
Fenrir was standing in front of the dais, pointing down at Ordulf and gesticulating between himself and Ordulf. Many of those gathered grunted and nodded in agreement with what he was saying. Another warrior that Ordulf recognised, the one whose shield he had crushed with his hammer, appeared and stood next to the circle. He spoke, and the men fell silent. Fenrir turned with hatred and rage on his face. The two men stared at each other, fists clenched, veins throbbing at their temples. The men seemed on the verge of violence. The jarl held up his hand and spoke. The room broke into cheers when he was finished. The spear was removed from Ordulf’s back and he looked around. Suddenly, everyone was ignoring him.
Otto walked over. ‘The jarl said he was inclined to spare you because of your strength and skill and potential usefulness. They debated taking a foot to ensure you could not escape but decided it would hinder you too much.’ Ordulf’s mouth opened to speak, but he drew a blank. ‘Fenrir suggested you fight to prove your worth. To cross swords with him, and if you live, be allowed to return to being a slave. Leif called him a coward for wanting to fight an untrained man. Fenrir called Leif a woman because you beat him down with just your hammer at the ford.’
Ordulf struggled to keep up with the conversation. The room was draining of men as they all headed outside, including the jarl.
‘Both men insulted the other grievously and thus by law they can demand a fight to settle it. Sword and shield, in a square of
their peers. It is called hólmganga, a duel, usually to the death.’ Otto shook his head. ‘They have hated each other for a long time. This is merely their excuse. Anyway, the jarl says the winner gets to decide your fate. Normally, they would hold the duel after five days, but both men insisted it be fought now. If Fenrir wins, you will also fight him to the death in turn. If Leif wins, you will fight him, both of you unarmed, so he can beat you with his fists and prove in public that you are not his superior, which will expunge the insult Fenrir made on him.’
‘So… so, whatever happens I have to fight one of them to the death?’ Ordulf was beyond confusion now.
‘No,’ said Otto with a wry smile. ‘Leif won’t necessarily kill you, just assert his dominance by beating you. So pray he wins this fight.’
‘They are going to fight to the death for the right to fight me, and they want to fight me to retain their honour?’ Ordulf said, losing his wits.
‘Yes.’
‘They are completely mad!’
‘Perhaps to you, but for them, this is normal. Honour is everything. Fenrir was denied the chance to kill you, and he is embarrassed. Leif was humiliated by being beaten by you and called a woman for it by Fenrir. It is the worst of insults here. From the moment that was said, blood was always going to be spilled.’
Ordulf didn’t have time to reply. He was picked up by two warriors and dragged into the yard. A square of men had formed already, torches in hand, shouting and jeering. Inside the firelit space, shields up with the top rims on their shoulders, faces slanted down across their fronts, swords low and forward, the two men faced each other. They were semi-crouched, bobbing slightly on their feet, eyes fixed on each other. Ordulf watched from his place on the floor sprawled between two guards, captivated despite the implications of the result.
Fenrir attacked first; he had been taunting the bigger Leif, provoking him and faking steps forward. Leif was unmoved. Suddenly, Fenrir slid his front foot forward and tried to lever his shield rim under the rim of Leif’s. Leif pushed down and deflected the serpent-like strike aimed at his legs. He countered with a thrust at Fenrir’s head. Fenrir snapped his head back and dodged. The two fighters separated, watching each other warily.