Brann nodded and continued in silence. His temporary apprehension about the local people had left him, allowing his terror to return about the masquerade he was being forced to perform. His stomach churning with nerves, he trotted behind the Captain’s long strides.
They were reaching the town’s centre, and abruptly left the buildings to enter an open area that led to the foot of a huge mound, encircled at its foot by a fence of narrow metal spikes, rather than a solid wall. The Captain gestured to it and was about to explain, but realisation struck Brann and he blurted, ‘It is so they can shoot through it. It will slow attackers down, and it will afford no protection to them from defending archers, who can stay in the safety of the main building.’
The Captain nodded and Ulfar growled over his shoulder, ‘What your page lacks in etiquette, he regains in analysis. You are training him well, Einarr.’
The Captain’s amusement at the irony was safely hidden behind Ulfar’s back, and Brann’s step bore more of a spring for a few paces until his nerves overwhelmed him once more.
The gates in the fence lay open, but Brann noticed that the pair of guards on duty were alert and watchful. Ulfar nodded to the guards and took the Captain and his ‘page’ up steep stone steps set into the smooth-sided mound. They reached the wide, flat, circular top, where a low stone wall, patrolled by more grim-faced guards, rimmed the plateau. The residence of the lord, three storeys of foreboding granite, sat in the centre. No watchtower was necessary: the whole mound served as a lookout post, offering a clear view for miles around.
Ulfar stopped in an area that was paved in the same fashion as the streets below to afford defending soldiers as firm a grip as possible in most conditions. ‘Welcome back to Ragnarr’s Hall,’ he said expansively. ‘I assume it looks familiar.’
The Captain nodded. ‘When you have been away for a while, you expect it to have changed. I don’t know why – it has looked like this for five generations.’ He smiled. ‘Funnily enough, it is good to see it. Considering the fact that I may be about to receive a hot reception inside, I should feel as if I’d prefer to be anywhere but here, but it does, actually, feel good.’
‘Well, enjoy it while you can, because I know exactly the reception that awaits you,’ Ulfar growled ominously. He let the Captain move past him before he turned to Brann and winked outrageously, his face a picture of glee at the discomfort he was trying to instil in Einarr. His expression was so infectious that Brann could not help but grin back.
The massive, wooden, iron-bound outer doors to the hall lay open but, as with the gates below, a pair of sentries flanked the opening. These two men were huge, even by local standards. They wore the full pelt of a bear as a cloak, with the head resting on their own skulls, and were resting before them massive war axes, a single heavy blade on a haft almost as tall as the men who bore them. Brann had no doubt that they could swing the fearsome weapons as if they were swatting flies and, at the sight of them, his stomach churned twice as fast. If he were exposed as a fraud, would those razor-sharp edges be aimed at his neck with more skill than the late, unlamented Boar could muster in several lifetimes? He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the Captain’s back, reminded himself to breathe, concentrated on not tripping and followed the other two through the portal.
A further set of sturdy doors, smaller but no less imposing due to the ornate carvings of hunting scenes and battles of yore, faced them at the other end of a short hallway that was otherwise broken only by arrowslits set high in the wall, ready to rain death upon anyone who breached the outer doors and then found themselves trapped in this confined space.
As they approached, these doors were pulled open by two further warriors, who had presumably been instructed to do so by someone watching unseen by the trio. Brann had expected the doors to move with great creaking and groaning and much effort from those pulling them, but instead they swung effortlessly and silently, as if crafted and maintained with great care and balanced to perfection. They entered an antechamber, with corridors leading off right and left, but Brann’s eyes were drawn by Ulfar’s direct and huge strides towards another set of double doors. These were less solid than those they had just passed through, being designed for privacy rather than defence. Strangely, they were less ornate than the large heavy doors that had just opened for them, and bore merely a representation of a bear’s head carved with simple but clean lines into the dark wood. Without any undue ceremony – in fact, with no ceremony at all – Ulfar slammed the heels of his hands on the double doors and, with his considerable weight behind them, swung the doors wide open.
A man sat in a high-backed, ornately carved, wooden chair. He was turned away from them while he conversed with an elderly man to his right but, as they entered, he turned to face them. Brann caught his breath at the sight. The man before them was an older, broader version of the Captain. His clothing, in hues of brown, was rougher, although of no less quality, than the Captain’s, and his long, grey hair hung loose and was kept in place by a leather band around his brow that bore what appeared to be a circular gold emblem at the front. But the similarity in the features was unmistakable.
‘Ah, Ulfar,’ he said, his tone deep and measured. ‘You should have the guards announce you, lest your subtle entrance goes unnoticed.’
Brann was so nervous, he almost giggled. Ulfar merely dismissed the remark with a grunt, and said, ‘Our guest, Lord Ragnarr: Einarr, master of the Blue Dragon.’
Ragnarr turned his cool gaze to them. ‘Greetings, Captain,’ he said. ‘Yours was one face I had not expected to see in my hall, nor to come sailing so brazenly up my fjord.’ He smiled, a warm sight. ‘But you are welcome nevertheless, nephew, and it will never be otherwise. Our Lady left with you, and she would not have done so with a man with evil in his heart. And you have returned her in safety, although I’d wager the power to bring harm to her lies not on many mortal men. In short, it is good to see you, my boy.’
Einarr inclined his head, with a slight glance towards Ulfar, as if to say that he should never have believed his predictions of a dire welcome. ‘My thanks, Ragnarr. It always did and, I hope, always will, give me great pleasure to come here. But I would bring no ill to you or your people: I will tarry here no longer than a night, if I may, before departing for my father’s hall.’
Ragnarr launched himself to his feet and came to grip Einarr’s shoulders. ‘That you will not, nephew. A traveller in need will always find a place here for as long as he needs and as long as I decide – others outside our borders will never dictate the level of hospitality in my hall. Only one man commands such authority over me, and I do not think my brother would disagree with me on this occasion. My honour, my hospitality and my family count more in this hall than any exile imposed elsewhere.
‘And you cannot travel just now, anyway. There is bandit trouble between here and your father. I have men already helping him to pin them between us, and not enough remain here to give you an adequate escort.’
‘That is not a problem,’ Einarr said. ‘I have good men with me, if I could prevail upon you to keep the slaves while I am gone and provide quarters for Our Lady.’
The lord shook his head. ‘You misunderstand me. I know you would fight your way through, but you would arrive with only half of your men, and I am sure you would be loath to suffer such losses. My escort’s value would not be in combat, but rather in being of such size that it would deter any attack in the first place.’
The Captain nodded, although he was clearly not happy. Ragnarr slapped him heartily on the back. ‘Do not worry, boy. It will only last a few days, a week at the most, until sufficient men return from patrol, and then you can be rid of the uncle you obviously cannot bear to stay with.’
Einarr smiled. ‘Apologies, uncle. I forget myself, and the allure of your famed hospitality. We would be delighted to stay. After all, you always were my favourite uncle.’
Ragnarr guffawed. ‘I am your only uncle, you cheeky brat,’ he roared, enveloping the younger man
in a powerful embrace. Stepping back, he regarded Brann. ‘Your page looks a little off-colour, Einarr. Is he all right?’
The Captain glanced fleetingly at him, as panic stabbed through the boy. ‘He is just nervous, that’s all. He is new, and terrified to step out of line and incur the wrath of a foul-tempered old warrior like yourself.’
Ragnarr’s keen eyes narrowed. He stepped over to Brann, his menacing bulk dwarfing the boy. Without looking directly at him, he leant forward and, in a conspiratorial manner, growled in his ear, ‘I expect you are also cold, tired and very, very hungry.’
Brann was unsure if he was allowed to answer, or even nod. Gambling that he could get away with nodding, he did so. Ragnarr bellowed with laughter, almost rendering the boy deaf.
‘I’ll bet you are,’ he roared. ‘You islanders are all the same – no stamina.’ Brann was feeling more confident that this was what passed for good-natured banter in these parts, and risked a weak smile. ‘That’s the spirit, lad,’ Ragnarr encouraged him. ‘My son will see that you receive food and heat. Sleep, I’m afraid, may be longer in coming.’ He turned to one of the guards. ‘Fetch Konall,’ he ordered.
‘No need, father, I am here,’ said a voice from behind. Brann’s heart sank as the tall, blond boy who had glared at him from the shadows in the town walked through the doors. Trust him to make a poor start with none less than the lord’s son.
If Konall recognised him, he hid it well as he acknowledged his father and led Brann from the room. As soon as they were through the door, however, his demeanour changed. Without turning, his voice dripping with disdain, he snarled, ‘Don’t think you are getting any special treatment, islander. You’ll eat in the kitchen with the servants. Your prying eyes can look all they like there, but there’s nothing there for you to see that you shouldn’t.’
Still racked with nerves, Brann’s voice faltered as he said, ‘I am so hungry, I am just grateful to be getting fed at all.’
‘Of course you are. A sheep from the islands of sheep is grateful for the slightest thing. A sheep can do nothing for itself, but be grateful.’
‘I should be grateful. Your father was kind to think of me.’
‘My father is soft,’ Konall spat. ‘He bothered with you because he is fond of your lord, though why he is bothered with an exile who has lost his honour is beyond me.’
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ Brann mumbled.
Konall wheeled round without warning. ‘You don’t? I suppose you wouldn’t. A sheep knows only how to go where he is herded. And bleat.’ He smiled, coldly, malice in his narrowing eyes. ‘Well, perhaps there are some things you should know about your precious lord. But why would a wolf educate a sheep? The sheep would still be a sheep.’ His lip curled in disgust. ‘A nation of farmers and merchants are not true men. They are the providers for stronger men.’
‘So who grows your food? Do you not have farmers? How do you eat?’
‘Our farmers are warriors first and farmers second. They grow their crops and rear their animals, but they can fight themselves to keep their land. Our women can fight. Your people serve.’
Hot anger surged through Brann. ‘When the raiders came, my village fought. My family fought. If they had run, they might still be alive, but they fought. My family fought.’
Konall looked at him with disdain. ‘Not very well, if they are all dead.’
He turned and stalked down the short corridor. Brann fought now. He fought to push down the desire to batter the haughty prick to the ground and smash his sour face against the stone floor until his arms grew numb. But he couldn’t escape his precarious situation. He had probably already overstepped the mark. Forcing his breathing slower, he pushed down the emotion in a process that was becoming familiar and automatic and eased his clenched fists.
The pair wound down a spiral staircase and emerged into the kitchens, where a thin, harsh-looking woman and two young servants cleaned pots and utensils at a large stone sink.
The three women straightened as Konall entered. He flicked his head at Brann. ‘Give him some food. If you only have scraps, that will do.’ Without waiting for a reply, he turned and swept out.
The older woman looked Brann up and down. ‘We have more than scraps, boy. There is fresh meat, bread and cheese there… but only if you help fetch more water. It has been a long day and the bucket is large. Valdis will show you where.’
One of the girls beckoned to him and led him through a door at the far end of the room, handing him a large wooden bucket as they went.
‘Don’t mind Dagrun,’ she said, her accent lilting. ‘She sounds harsh, but she is fair. And she is skilled with food – which is useful, because she is the castle cook.’ She giggled and walked ahead. Mesmerised by the swing of her skirt, Brann followed, the bucket banging unnoticed against his leg.
They reached a small chamber close to the kitchen with a well in the centre. Brann lowered the well’s own bucket and heaved it up, brimming with ice-cold water, with the aid of a pulley. He filled the kitchen bucket and lifted it off the floor. It was heavy, but he hefted it more easily than he had expected. His time on the rowing bench must have indeed made a difference to his strength.
‘Oh, it is so good to have a big, strong man around the place!’ Valdis exclaimed in mock delight, standing up and blithely ignoring the fact that she was slightly taller than he. ‘Normally we girls only half fill it and make two journeys.’
Brann blushed and stammered something about returning to the kitchen, but the girl was already off. He followed as fast as he could, gripping the handle with both hands. Within half-a-dozen paces, he was revising his assessment on the ease of carrying the bucket.
Back in the kitchen, Valdis told him to put the bucket down beside a cauldron that was hanging over an open fire within a large hearth. Dagrun had drained the water from the sink and was replacing a stone plug. Valdis saw him looking curiously, and said, ‘Never seen a sink before? You must be from a village like my aunt and uncle, where, when we visit, we only ever have basins that we take outside and empty by hand. These sinks, however, lead into sluices that take the water outside – and considering the amount of work that is done within the sinks, we could not manage any other way.’
Brann nodded, but was still confused. ‘But how does the water drain to the surface if we are in the basement, underground?’
Valdis giggled. ‘Oh, so you do have a voice after all.’ Brann blushed. She continued, ‘We are inside a hill, remember, silly boy. The sluices lead out and down to the side of the hill. Channels then lead to the river behind us.’ Brann blushed an even deeper shade at his stupidity and moved closer to the fire, hoping that they would think that it was the heat that was flushing his cheeks.
‘Come on, you two, enough chatter,’ Dagrun snapped. ‘Idle talk does not refill the sink.’
Following Valdis’s lead, Brann filled large bowls with hot water from the cauldron, and poured them into the sink. After several trips back and forth, the sink was full again, and the young maid helped him to tip the bucket’s contents into the cauldron.
The job done, Dagrun was true to her word, and piled steaming venison, large slices of fresh bread and a huge chunk of cheese in front of him, along with a sharp knife. Brann wondered how they would feel if they knew they were handing such a weapon to a slave, rather than to a page, but hunger dismissed the thought as he wolfed into the food while the three servants returned to the dish-washing.
Before long, the water was drained and the gleaming kitchenware was stacked and racked with organised precision. The three kitchen servants had been engrossed in the routine of the operation, and Dagrun had forgotten about their guest. She turned to ask if he needed anything else, but found the boy snoring gently, his head resting on his arms on the tabletop.
‘Will you look at that,’ she said to the girls. ‘A typical man, lying around sleeping while the women are hard at work.’
Valdis bent over him and stroked his hair away from his forehea
d. ‘Oh, leave him be, the poor thing,’ she said softly. ‘He must have been exhausted.’
Dagrun grunted. ‘And hungry, too, looking at the little that is left from the food he was given.’ She scowled. ‘And don’t you be getting sweet on him, my girl. You have enough to do around here, and you know he will be gone soon enough.’
The other maid giggled, but Valdis just smiled gently. ‘I am not getting sweet on anyone. I just think he looks so peaceful. It would be a shame to wake him, that’s all.’
The older woman turned away and took off her apron. ‘You’ve got that right, at least. They seem to be getting younger all the time, these pages. Let him rest while he can, or at least until we need the table.’
She beckoned to the other girl. ‘Come, Eona. Time for us to get some rest. Since Valdis is not getting sweet on the boy, there is no risk of her falling head over heels in love if we leave her with him, so she can wait here in case anyone calls down for food – or for a page.’ She looked pointedly at Valdis. ‘I will be back later to shut up the kitchen for the night. Behave yourself, girl.’
Valdis assumed her most innocent expression as the pair left the room, then pulled a chair into position, facing Brann. Clasping her hands in her lap, she sat back and watched him breathe. Some time later, he grew restless, starting to moan and twitch. She moved around the table, and, stroking his cheek, she whispered soothingly into his ear until he settled again.
She returned to her seat, smiling to herself. ‘Sometimes,’ she said softly, ‘this job is not so bad.’
A little over an hour later, a bell clanged in the corner of the kitchen, its sound harsh in the calm that had enveloped the room. Brann, and Valdis – who had also started to doze – jerked awake as one.
For a moment, Brann’s confusion as to his surroundings and company was evident. Walking past him, the servant girl patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.
Hero Born Page 18