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

by James Duncan

I commend you for your successful command of the northern clearances. My last task for you this year is to return home and ensure my family and lands are secure and well managed. I will not return this winter, nor, if I have to plan the preparations for the next crusade, will I return in the spring. Look to my son; he will need to continue his training. Tell him to be diligent and look after his mother. For my wife, ensure she has a good steward to manage the estates in my absence. I enclose a private letter to her. Ensure she alone reads it.

  I regret that I will not see you again until next year. I will send instructions for the preparations of next year’s campaign as soon as it is clear what form it will take. You will need to raise and bring the men of Lower Saxony next year. I am sure that after your accomplishments during this great crusade they will flock to your side in my absence with no less vigour when called.

  Count Adolf

  Ragnvald was nervous. They were all nervous. Dark times were abroad for them to be discussing what they were discussing in the place they were discussing it. The sun was setting as he strode up the steps to the great hall in the centre of Uppsala and went through the vast and open doors, which were left locked open behind him. A king’s hall, but standing empty without a king, the doors were never closed, and never would be until a king was once more inside. A Symbol that the hall would give no comfort, no warmth, no home to any man who was not the king. So the doors would remain open until a new king was chosen, the very matter they were here to discuss, a gathering of the most powerful lords of Sweden.

  The hall of the king in Uppsala was the grandest structure in all of Sweden, besides the temple just a mile to the north. But there was no longer a king of all the Swedes and no sons to claim his place if they could. The new king would be decided at the Dísablót in the spring of the new year when the jarls gathered for the great spring festival, a king who would decide the course and fate of the Swedes against the crusader threat.

  Jarl Ragnvald was determined that the new king of Sweden would be King Sigurd of Norway. King Eric had died shortly after returning from Denmark, but not before he had told others of his desire for Øystein to be offered the crown after he and Magnus died. And Magnus had died, somewhere in the ruin of Aarhus, but Øystein’s kingship had been short-lived, he had been trapped at Fyrkat and slaughtered, leaving Magnus’ second son, Sigurd, newly on the throne in Oslo.

  And the Swedish jarls had been split. Some contended that Eric’s instructions specifically meant Øystein, not Sigurd, and others that the command of a dead king meant nothing. The remainder believed it did not matter which king sat on the Norwegian throne and that the old king’s wishes that the thrones should be joined should be respected. Ragnvald had called the lords of Sweden to this hall to decide the matter.

  A Norwegian jarl, Jarl Steinar, had come to Uppsala at his invitation, quietly seeking support for King Sigurd and testing the strength of his claim. Jarl Steinar had waited for two weeks for the most powerful Swedish lords to arrive to discuss the proposed union. He had met privately with Ragnvald who, in the king’s absence, ruled Uppsala. Ragnvald had found the man to be quiet and careful, quite unlike many of the Swedish warlords. That care had belied a fierce intelligence and blazing conviction in what he did. Steinar was not a great warrior, but Ragnvald could see why Sigurd had sent him; the man was cunning and ruthless. Ragnvald found him impossible to like but impossible not to respect.

  ‘Is this all who would come?’ asked Jarl Frode, who was standing impatiently by the empty dais and who looked around at Ragnvald entering the room. With no king to occupy it and the household disbanded, the hall was empty, eerie, the light from a small fire in the central hearth barely touching the corners of the vast space that so often contained so much life.

  Ragnvald cast his gaze around the roughly two dozen men in the room and nodded sadly. ‘It appears so. We have received lies, excuses and refusals from everyone else of note.’ Frode scowled and kicked over a dusty bench.

  ‘Our enemies gather even as we speak, and half the great lords of Sweden won’t gather to even discuss this?’ Frode asked bitterly.

  ‘No,’ replied Ragnvald flatly, disappointment edging into his voice.

  ‘It should not be a surprise. What we have gathered to discuss is treason,’ grumbled Jarl Erling, a stout, wild, bearded man from the north of Svealand.

  ‘No!’ shouted Ragnvald, slamming his fist onto the thick table. ‘We discuss the last command of our king, his dying wish and the key to our people’s future. Do not darken this hall by suggesting we plot treason. No. We are not gathered here to betray our country. We are gathered in this noble place to save it.’

  Erling shuffled and looked at his feet, discomfort written clear on his face. ‘Well, it would seem the rest disagree, so what do we do without them?’

  ‘Keep calm heads, brothers,’ a new voice spoke. ‘We have, what, half the power of Sweden gathered here? None would come to hear this matter if they did not at least consider this Norwegian king’s claim. So let us lay out the options and decide on a course.’

  Ragnvald nodded, fixing his eyes on the speaker. Jarl Gustav was old, the oldest man in the room, he had rich lands on the coast south of Uppsala where the people called him jarl and he was widely respected for both his wisdom and his broad network of alliances. A long, steel-grey beard, tightly braided, lay over crossed arms that bore a network of scars white against knurled brown skin. Jarl Gustav, known as the Raven’s Claw, was so named because his left hand was missing the forefinger, and his thumb was bent back towards his wrist, broken and scarred. He had taken the injury decades before, in a raid in the Baltics. Despite his injury, which left him unable to properly wield a shield, he had killed a man who challenged him for his lands and stayed in power for all the passing years. Only a fool would not listen while Jarl Gustav spoke, and there were not many fools in that gathering.

  ‘Firstly, who among our people would have a claim to the crown? By power or by right?’ Gustav asked the gathering, his clawed left hand sweeping around the group as he spoke. He answered his question before anyone else could. ‘There is Jarl Harnsted, the cousin of Eric. Who else?’ Gustav unfolded his arms and gestured around the assembled lords. ‘Has anyone heard of another gathering support?’

  Jarl Frode spoke up. ‘Aye, there is another. One of Jarl Alf’s men approached me, asking if I would support a claim.’

  Ragnvald raised an eyebrow. Jarl Alf was a powerful lord from the border with Norway. He had not considered the man would seek the throne. Harnsted, on the other hand, had spent his entire life desperate for the power of the chair they gathered around, the hall they gathered in. Rumours suggested he had arranged a curse to be put on Eric to leave him childless. Widely despised outside his northern lands, he was nonetheless powerful and wealthy from the fur trade he controlled.

  ‘Alf would try his hand? That might help; it would split the support with Harnsted,’ said Gustav. Ragnvald stared at the table in deep thought.

  ‘What is your position, Ragnvald? Many would have thought you would contest for this hall. You can spit on it from your lands, it is close to your home and you have a famous name and a powerful force at your call. Many lords here would support you.’ Gustav was fixing him with a questioning gaze.

  ‘I came here expecting you to declare yourself for the kingship. You would have my support over Harnsted,’ called out one jarl, and several men murmured their assent.

  Gustav nodded around the room. ‘You could probably take the throne right here and now, cite the threat of the crusade. No one would be able to stop you. Why would you so readily give up the chance for a foreign king?’

  A tense silence fell over the room as men waited to see Ragnvald’s reaction. Ragnvald walked up to the dais and stared at the empty throne with its carved sides and magnificent headboard. The power that flowed from that wooden seat was almost tangible. He could feel the lure of it, its history and the presence of those who came before. He gently toyed with his neatly braided
beard, deep in thought. He remembered the words of a dying king.

  ‘There was a time,’ he began finally, ‘when Eric was ruling and disappointing so many of us that I considered challenging him for his cowardice and taking the throne for myself.’ He paused, tapping his fingernail on the battered wood of that ancient seat before turning away and stepping back down into the circle. ‘But that time is gone. We all saw the chaos of a divided army with many weak kings. The answer to the problem is not many new kings but one single, strong one. I hear Sigurd is a leader, a killer of men, a man to follow, worthy of the title Nordking.’ He turned and fixed his gaze on Steinar. ‘You know him. You have seen his worth. Should we entrust the future of our people to your king?’

  Jarl Steinar smiled. ‘I would say he was worthy in any case – he is my oath-sworn lord – but the task is made easier because it is nothing but the truth. King Sigurd is the best leader of men and the best warrior I know. He is young and impetuous and headstrong, but he takes advice when worthy men give it. He is no proud or greedy tyrant, and his men would follow him anywhere. He did not wish to be king – he did not expect to be king – but the moment it was his duty he never gave it a second thought. He cares about one thing and one thing only: saving his people from the fate of his father and brother. He would be a good king to Sweden, and a terrible one to our foes.’ Steinar gazed around the room in silence as his words sunk in.

  ‘We have no wish to be used on an expedition of revenge by a foreign king,’ said Erling, eyes narrow with suspicion.

  Steinar shrugged. ‘It is not his intent. He wants to prevent more loss, not rage over that which is done. I cannot prove it but it is the truth.’

  ‘To bring a foreign king to rule us, to sit in this hall our fathers built, in the country we fought to keep our own for so long? To give it away? The thought sickens me. I will vote against it,’ said Erling with barely concealed disgust.

  Steinar was unmoved. ‘King Sigurd will not come here and be humiliated at the Dísablót by being rejected. I need to know he has support for this unification before I leave. If you choose one of your own to be king, Sigurd will not come to contest it and risk a pointless war between our nations. There will be no war between Norsemen. Not now. You must welcome him willingly. It is that simple.’

  Gustav stepped forward into the centre of the loose circle. ‘There was a time, when Eric was yet a boy, when men spoke of me as a challenger to the previous king. Truth be told, I wanted it! I wanted it more than women or battle glory or gold. I wanted to be the king of the Swedes.’ He chuckled mirthfully and gazed around at his audience, his claw hand resting hooked into his sword belt. ‘The foolishness of youth. Perhaps I would have been a better king, but I doubt it. I had no plans beyond the claiming of it, no great notion of duty. It was the ultimate prize for a vain young man.’ Then he took his hand off his belt and turned it over, looking at it ruefully. ‘Then I received a sharp lesson about unchecked ambition. Now, I see the kingship for what it is: a burden to be borne by a man who is driven by duty, not pride.’

  He turned to face Steinar. ‘I don’t know if you speak the truth, but I have heard a thousand liars in my life, and you don’t smell like one. Your king has my support.’ He stepped back out of the circle, and men around nodded in agreement. Gradually, all gazes turned to Ragnvald, and the room fell to silence. Ragnvald looked around, seeing the decision on a knife point. The kingship was still there if he chose to seize it. A lifetime’s ambition, the pinnacle of his worldly desire. If he but reached out for it, his name would live forever in the rune stones and the skald songs. His eyes caught Gustav’s and the man raised an eyebrow at him, staring at him pointedly. Ragnvald understood. The older jarl’s little speech had been for an audience of one. A warning and a message. He made his decision. It was an easy one, and he had sealed it with his promise to a dying man.

  ‘And mine,’ Ragnvald said simply. With those two words, he dropped his close-held ambition to the floor, and the tension in the room evaporated. Other men voiced their agreement, and the chorus of assent rolled around the small group. Truly, most of them had only come to hear Ragnvald’s decision and to follow it. ‘But it is not enough. We must end the claims of the other contenders,’ Ragnvald said bitterly. He knew that he would receive little support from the jarls who had refused to come. They would all have other candidates they preferred or would simply join the strongest candidate when his victory was assured.

  ‘I will speak to Alf. He is a good man and was a close friend of my son before his death,’ Gustav said sadly, biting back more words left unsaid.

  Ragnvald arched an eyebrow. ‘You are sure? You can talk a man out of the chance to be king? We must be certain, or we must find another way.’

  ‘What else do you suggest?’ said Erling, bristling.

  ‘You know what I suggest,’ replied Ragnvald softly. ‘You all know the alternative.’

  Jarl Erling blustered in protest through his beard. ‘You would countenance murder to deny a candidate for the kingship at Dísablót by treachery? By the gods, you go too far, Ragnvald. You condemn yourself with your words. First you vote to give our land to a foreign king, and now you wish to murder those who oppose him? There is nothing but dishonour in this.’ The heavily bearded man was shaking with anger, stabbing his finger at Ragnvald.

  The insult cut Ragnvald deeply, and he knitted his brows together and lowered his voice. ‘What else is there, Erling? I know you live close to Harnsted’s lands. I know you have sympathy for his claim. But we must unite, and we cannot afford a fight among ourselves. The Dísablót is too late to decide who will be king. Plans must already be set, forces already in motion, or it will be too late.’ His voice was low, placating. ‘It might already be too late,’ he added then, with a smile just for himself. ‘We must do whatever it takes.’

  Jarl Erling looked around the room, seeking support. There was none to be had in the hard-set faces around him.

  ‘You know Harnsted better than any of us. Would he ever relinquish his claim?’ Ragnvald asked.

  Erling started to protest, but he deflated and shook his head. ‘He would never give in. He is already gathering supporters, taking oaths as if he were already king. He asked me for my word, and I delayed a reply. I wanted to hear you first. His lands border mine, and he is much more powerful than I am, but he would be a terrible king. He is nothing but ambition and petty spite.’

  Ragnvald nodded. ‘So we all know what must be done.’ He looked around the gathering. There were grim faces and narrowed eyes but no disagreement. ‘Who has already sworn to him? Who would back his claim if it came to the force of spear and sword?’

  ‘Jarl Birkir is the strongest, and Jarl Halvar is also his ally,’ said Frode, stroking his beard in thought.

  ‘Jarl Birkir is my friend – he is a good and honourable man!’ Erling said.

  ‘Too honourable to betray his oath to Harnsted?’ asked Gustav, voice full of ice.

  Erling gaped, appalled. Then he forced his mouth shut and nodded. ‘Aye, I suppose he is.’ He shook his head vehemently. ‘Has it really come to this, brothers? We stand in the hall of our kings and plan the deaths of our own people to allow a foreign lord to rule us?’

  ‘No, Erling. We plan the survival of our people by whatever means necessary.’ Ragnvald put his hand on his sword. ‘I need the oath of every man present that he will keep this discussion secret, on pain of death.’ He looked around, questioning. All but Erling put their hands on their hilts, faces resolute. Erling took one last look around the room and reluctantly joined them.

  The oath was sworn, and a cold breeze from the open doors made the small fire flicker, causing men to shiver and touch their hammers at the omen. The air was black with the night and with the shame of the men inside.

  ‘So, we are committed. Gustav, you will deal with Jarl Alf. Convince him one way or another. He must make known that he renounces his claim, or he must disappear.’

  Gustav nodded grimly at Ragnvald.
‘It will be done.’

  ‘Jarl Frode, you will deal with Halvar and his key supporters; he is nearest to your lands. Twenty nights from tonight, we will strike together, and it will be over before anyone can react. I will deal with Birkir and Harnsted. Birkir’s hall is on the river that leads to Harnsted’s lands, so we will have to take them both together. Kill as few as possible. If men can be convinced, do so. If not, be ruthless. We must avoid a cycle of blood feud.’ He turned to look at the silent Steinar. ‘You will come with me. You will see with your own eyes what we do to bring your king here, and you will tell him of our commitment. You will stain your hands with the blood of this deed and be bound to us in it.’

  Steinar walked slowly over to Ragnvald and clasped his arm at the elbow. ‘I will, and may our paths never be separated again.’

  ‘Everyone else, go out and speak in support of Sigurd. Spread word of his worthiness, convince doubters, give favours and quell doubts. At Dísablót, we must speak with one voice to support him or we risk catastrophe.’ No one contested Ragnvald’s orders. The men exchanged grim looks and went out into the night, leaving Ragnvald alone in the chilled hall with his fears and the ghost of a dead king at his shoulder.

  ‘So where are we going, my lord?’ Leif was standing with Ragnvald in the stern of the longship, working its way out of the river outside Uppsala.

  ‘I told you, we are going hunting,’ replied Ragnvald gruffly.

  ‘And I accepted that lie while we were in the hall and men were listening, but we have never been hunting at sea before. I do not believe there are many deer in the cold waves. We are too many to hunt and too few to raid.’ Leif returned the fixed stare of his lord unflinchingly.

  ‘I did not say what we hunted,’ Ragnvald replied, no hint of a smile on his face. And then he turned back to look down the river, signalling that the conversation was over.

  The longship carried twenty of Ragnvald’s warriors, unarmoured, with no shields. Swords, spears and bows were their only weapons. The ship was filled with supplies of food and ale, tents and camping gear. Ragnvald had left his precious helm behind and only carried his father’s old sword, Bjóðr. Just a jarl going out with a large hunting party in autumn, or so he hoped people would think. A boat laden and slow, with too few men to man all the oars, no war vessel, for sure.