Valdis curtsied flamboyantly. ‘I took the liberty of leaving fresh water and a clean tunic for you, young sir,’ she said demurely. ‘We have to ensure that you are looking your most handsome for the warlord’s arrival.’
Brann was torn between the consequences of being late for Einarr and snatching a few extra moments with Valdis. She smiled, and he forgot Einarr. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Are you wanting me to wash you as well?’ she asked wickedly.
Before he could stop himself, Brann said, ‘That would be nice,’ with more hope in his tone than he had meant.
She laughed, and it was the most appealing sound that he had ever heard. ‘I am sure it would, you cheeky boy,’ she admonished him, turning him to face the doorway and propelling him forwards with a gentle slap on the seat of his breeches, ‘but you will just have to manage yourself. And you had better hurry: I do not suppose that Lord Einarr will be too happy to have to wait for you this time.’
The thought snapped Brann from his stupor and he hurried to get ready, as Valdis turned pertly and tripped down the corridor. Her voice echoed behind her, ‘That would be nice!’ She laughed again.
Brann forced himself to concentrate and washed hurriedly. He pulled the tunic, a smart cream-coloured garment, over his head and buckled his belt around him as he ran from the room. Composing himself outside Einarr’s door, he checked his appearance, knocked and entered on the Captain’s summons. Einarr, now fully clothed in his customary black but with every garment freshly laundered, looked up from pulling on his boots. He nodded in approval. ‘Very smart,’ he smiled. ‘I can see that it helps to have influential friends looking after you.’
Brann flushed. Again. He seemed to be doing little else these days. ‘I am sure any other guest would be treated with the same level of hospitality,’ he suggested.
‘Oh, I am sure of that, too,’ Einarr replied, sounding anything but. ‘Right,’ he said decisively, standing up. ‘A-courting we will go – but in the sense of attending the lord’s court, not the way you would interpret it, I hear.’
Brann groaned. He could see that there was going to be no respite over this, wherever he turned. Einarr smiled. ‘Get used to it, boy. Households like this thrive on gossip. And I am sure it is one of the more pleasant things you will have to become accustomed to at this point in your life.’
Brann had to admit that it was a fair point. And he was starting to get used to it. And, if truth be told, he was even beginning to enjoy it. But he still could not prevent himself from blushing again.
Starting from his chambers, Einarr grabbed his swordbelt on the way and strapped it on in an action that was almost identical to Brann’s exit from his own room – except that Brann’s belt had been devoid of weapons, those that he had used on the mission to rescue the captives having disappeared overnight.
‘This is what you will do,’ Einarr said with efficient urgency as Brann trailed behind the fast-striding warrior. ‘Nothing. As before, absolutely nothing. Unless you are spoken to, of course, but then that is obvious.’ His words, though not his movement, paused as a thought struck him. ‘Actually, they may want to talk to you. You and Konall are the only two people to have survived so much contact with these savages. Konall told us as much as he knows this morning,’ (Trust him to be up early as normal, Brann thought to himself) ‘but my father and uncle may want to determine if there is anything additional that you may be able to supply.’ They had reached a stairway at the rear of the building and began to wind their way downward. ‘If you happen to be asked about anything, keep your answers concise, and do not embellish them – these are men who have weighty matters to consider and little time to do so. The lives of many depend on their decisions and they do not suffer fools or time-wasters gladly.’
They had reached a small room. It appeared to be some sort of antechamber, but Einarr was talking so rapidly (and engendering such a state of nervousness in him) that Brann found it hard to examine his surroundings as well as concentrate on the words.
The Captain paused before a closed door that almost contained the rumble of deep voices within the room beyond. ‘Mostly, however,’ Einarr continued, ‘you will stand, unmoving and unspeaking. Pages are, by and large, a decoration. Their function as a page is more to learn than to be of any great use to the noble during their service – the lord will reap the benefit in later years when he has men around him who understand the working and the complexities of ruling the land about him.’ He smiled. ‘Although it is also handy to have someone around to handle some of the tasks considered too menial for those fortunate enough to have been higher-born. But, as I said, you are mainly cosmetic. Remember that: this is a serious business and, over the last week, it has quickly become far more serious than even it was before.’
He opened the door towards him to reveal a heavy crimson curtain. ‘Now,’ he murmured, ‘if I have timed this just right…’
He slipped through a gap in the material and Brann followed him, emerging at the rear of Ragnarr’s hall to one side of the lord’s seat of office – currently occupied by the man in question. Einarr slipped into position to Ragnarr’s left; Konall was already there and was, as the heir to the title, on his father’s right. Brann noticed Hakon standing discreetly behind Konall and moved quickly to the equivalent position behind Einarr – just as the giant doors were slammed open. Einarr had indeed timed it perfectly. Brann was not surprised.
Ulfar burst in, in what was, presumably, the only way he knew how. He began to announce the new arrival but was cut off by a tall man who strode past him with purpose and calm assurance. Even had he not already been expecting him, Brann would have needed no explanation of his identity. If Einarr bore a striking resemblance to his uncle, the similarity to his father was stronger still: the man who entered was Einarr, but an older version, his dark hair and beard flecked with grey and his face lined by passing years and hard decisions. His eyes were different – piercing blue where Einarr’s were dark and unfathomable brown – but otherwise he had the same lean features, broad shoulders and narrow waist, the same fluidity and grace of movement and the same impression of contained and controlled strength: a born and trained warrior or athlete or, more probably, both.
‘Apologies, Ulfar,’ he said, his tone resonant and with an easy undercurrent of authority. ‘I do not mean to be rude, but we have little time and so ceremony is not a luxury we can afford at the moment, especially among family.’ Ulfar bowed his huge head in silent, but eloquent, agreement. ‘Is that not so, little brother?’
Ragnarr stepped forward from his seat, a massive grin gleaming from the midst of his shaggy beard. ‘It is ever so, dark times or not, big brother,’ he boomed, enveloping the warlord in a sweeping embrace. He stood a full head taller and was half again as broad as Sigurr but clearly still looked up to his older brother. When Sigurr was released amid much back-slapping and laughter on both their parts, his gaze turned to Einarr. No words passed between but, as father’s and son’s eyes locked, Brann witnessed a softening, just for a moment, of the authoritative eyes and an almost imperceptible nod from Einarr, and felt the emotion of the moment sweep over him. Then Sigurr’s expression resumed its veneer of control and he barked, ‘We must talk at once. Shall we retire to your quarters, Ragnarr, or have you somewhere else in mind?’
Ragnarr, his arm draped around his brother’s shoulders as if reluctant to let him go, led him from the room, saying, ‘I have already taken the liberty of having a light snack laid out in my chambers, and it would be a travesty to waste such good food – and risk the wrath of Ulfar’s good lady wife – by meeting elsewhere.’
Sigurr laughed. ‘You do not change, do you, brother? And thank the gods for that. It has been far too long since I visited you last: the effects on your family are the parts of the job that they never mention to you when you are growing up.’ He laughed again. ‘And if you still have the same opinion of what constitutes a “light snack”, then we may as well invite the whole town to help with the leftovers.
’
‘Oh, I would not worry about there being any leftovers,’ Ragnarr assured him sincerely.
Einarr and Konall followed them. Brann was unsure whether he was invited also, but an eloquent jerk of Hakon’s head was instruction enough and they fell in at the rear along with Ragnarr’s page, a surly-looking brown-haired boy, shorter (by local standards) and stockier than Hakon, and Sigurr’s page, who appeared around two years younger than the rest of them and who seemed overwhelmed by the whole experience.
They reached Ragnarr’s rooms and Sigurr turned at the door. ‘You pages will remain initially on this side of the door. Do not wander off.’ None of them would have dared contemplate otherwise.
The door closed solidly. ‘Well,’ Hakon said lightly. ‘Serious business, then.’
Ragnarr’s page, his brows seemingly permanently set in a glower, sneered at him. ‘Why, you are a clever boy today,’ he snarled sarcastically.
Hakon pointedly ignored his presence while responding to his comment. ‘Please excuse Olvir,’ he said to the two other boys. ‘Manners and good cheer are not among his strengths.’
Olvir bridled, his colour and voice rising together. ‘Whatever my strengths and weaknesses, at least I would not surrender like a timid puppy to a rag-tag band of savages.’
Hakon turned slowly, his eyes cold and hard. ‘If you had even half a brain,’ he said quietly and slowly, clearly barely keeping his fury in check, ‘you would know better than to pass judgement when you have few, if any, of the facts. You would do well to remember that four fine and respected warriors lost their lives at the hands of that “rag-tag band of savages”. Their memories deserve to be treated with honour, not associated with the ill-judged insults of an ignorant boy.’
Brann felt on edge. The argument had, very quickly, started down a steep track with no room to manoeuvre – neither of the boys could turn back now, and their words were careering ever more out of control.
Olvir flushed, and snorted disdainfully. Brann groaned inwardly. The sound was so replete with derision that he knew that the boy was about to say something that would push Hakon’s already straining self-control beyond its limits. He knew it, but he was powerless to stop it, aware that an interfering foreigner would only make the situation even worse.
‘Honour?’ Olvir spat. ‘They were bested by gutter scum. The only recognition they deserve is to be ridiculed as a lesson to children who would learn their craft properly.’
Brann’s assessment had been accurate. Hakon’s punch lifted Olvir clear off the ground. He landed in an untidy and unconscious heap in the middle of the corridor, just as Konall opened the door behind them.
The pages froze. Without any show of surprise, the young noble took in the scene before him.
‘Guard!’ he called, and a large, heavily armed warrior strode from his post at the end of the passage. Konall nodded at Olvir. ‘Lord Ragnarr’s page would seem to have suffered a nasty fall.’
Impassively, the guard nodded. ‘That was my understanding of the incident, my lord. I am only surprised it took so long for him to suffer it.’
‘Good,’ Konall said, broadly indicating that he had heard enough of the argument to understand the truth of the matter. ‘Take him away and acquaint him with a bucket of water. When he comes to, bring him back here. He will not have time to dry off. And advise him that I would rather he refrained from conversation for the remainder of his time outside this door.’
Without a word, the warrior hoisted Olvir unceremoniously over his shoulder and ambled down the corridor. Konall glanced at Hakon’s swelling knuckles. ‘You seem to have banged your hand trying to break his fall. Ask your sister for some ice and come straight back here. You are less use to me if your right hand stiffens up.’ The incident was now officially closed. He looked at Brann. ‘It is fortunate that you managed not to incur any injuries in the short time you were out here, as you are required by their lords.’
He stepped back into the room and Brann, after shooting a look of surprise towards Hakon – one that was mirrored by the other boy – followed him. The scene that greeted him was similar to the last time he had been in this room; this time, however, he would not be a silent onlooker, but would be involved in the proceedings. Konall stood to one side and Brann faltered as he felt the full force of becoming the focus of the attention of three such powerful men.
‘Come along, boy,’ Ragnarr barked. ‘No need to dawdle: we will not eat you.’ The reassurance did nothing to calm his nerves. If anything, the huge man’s thunderous tones compounded them. Fortunately, he gained a moment’s respite as Ragnarr turned his attention to his son. ‘What took you so long to bring him in? Was there a problem?’
‘Nothing of note, father. Merely an unfortunate slip that requires no more medical attention than some cold water.’
‘Really?’ Sigurr’s measured tone cut in. ‘I could have sworn that I heard the sound of knuckle on bone. And a rather hefty sound at that.’
Konall shrugged again, an eloquent gesture of inconsequence. ‘It is amazing how sometimes things can sound just like a punch.’
Sigurr’s gaze swept round to Brann, filling him with even more nerves, something he had not hitherto thought possible. ‘And what would you say, young foreigner? Is that true?’
Brann felt the world closing in around him and wished he could just vanish from the room. ‘I would say…’ he stammered. What would he say? Konall could maybe get away with lying to the lords because of his position but, if they already knew the truth, how would they view anything but the truth from a page who meant nothing to them, no matter how well-intentioned he may be? He coughed, clearing his throat to buy time. ‘I would say… that it is true.’ He took a deep breath to try to stop the shaking in his voice. ‘It is true that sometimes things can sound just like a punch.’
All three lords around the fire erupted into laughter. Konall shot an approving glance in his direction, and nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Well said, youngster. Well said!’ Ragnarr boomed, guffawing still.
Sigurr, however, had already recovered himself. ‘Very good,’ he agreed. ‘But I am afraid we are not here to test your skills of diplomacy, however amusing the experience may be. We would hear your account of the events of the past few days, from the moment the bandits first struck the hunting party. Konall has already described it to us, but we want you to talk as if yours is the first account we have heard. Leave nothing out.’
Brann cleared his throat once more, and started. As he continued, the attention that the three paid to his words encouraged him, and the nerves began to recede as he found himself falling into the flow of the story. The men listened in silence, Sigurr moving only once to stand at the fire – surprisingly closely – and stare at the flames as he concentrated on Brann’s words.
He came to the end, when Ulfar had saved them from the mercenaries, more suddenly than he had expected and stopped abruptly. His audience were less surprised, however, and immediately started firing questions at him, covering everything from the layout of the settlement to the route they took to get there, and his estimate of the number of mercenaries for whom the village had provided residence, to his assessment of the type of people that the bandits were. They spent considerable time on Loku’s overheard conversation, asking question after question, urging him to try to remember every word precisely.
At one point, Brann looked across to Konall for confirmation. Einarr stopped him. ‘Just answer from your own memories. In fraught situations such as you experienced, it is easy to become confused about the details around you as you concentrate on the matter in hand, which is usually dominated by deciding what you have to do just to survive. Konall has already been asked much the same questions as you. We are looking for as many parts as possible that tally between both accounts: these, we will know, are most probably accurate.’
They continued for over an hour and, by the time Sigurr called a halt to the proceedings, Brann was pale again, but this time from exh
austion rather than nerves.
Without standing on ceremony, Einarr poured some water and brought it to him. ‘I would give you mead, but I am afraid that, in your condition, it may not have the desired effect.’
Brann took two sips, then enjoying it too much – and not wanting to delay his departure from the room any more than necessary – he downed the rest.
As he finished, Sigurr, who had resumed his seat some time ago, raised his chin from the knuckles that had supported it as he had considered each reply that Brann had given.
‘Thank you,’ he said. He had the same considered deliberation behind each word as his son but, where Einarr seemed to lighten up on occasion, or show emotion unexpectedly, the warlord seemed constantly in control and constantly serious. The effect of responsibility in such a land, Brann surmised. And, anyway, why would he be in any way otherwise with a lowly page?
‘You have been extremely helpful.’ Brann thought that he would hardly have dared to be any other way. ‘We will now consider Konall’s page’s impression of his experience, so send him in as you leave. You are free to go now. Be thankful that you are not of the nobility: Konall is not only a source of information here; for him, it is also a part of his training, so he will be here as long as we are. Make the most of your chance to eat and rest.’
Brann smiled a tired smile. ‘I am often thankful I am not a noble, my lord. It seems a far more simple life to take orders than to give them.’
‘That depends on who is giving them to you,’ Sigurr warned him. ‘But, in most ways, you are right. Go now, and take my page with you. We will have no need of him and he has endured a hurried journey.’ Brann started to leave, but the warlord stopped him. ‘One more thing, boy. You skimmed over the finer detail of the incidents of fighting. Konall, however, was more forthcoming. It seems you acquitted yourself well, both before and during these incidents, especially for a foreigner who has no need to care about our affairs here, and an untried miller’s son, inexperienced in combat, at that. That counts for much around here – the attitude even more than the ability. I suspect that we will have to keep an eye on you. And that Einarr should nurture you carefully.’ Brann glanced at Einarr, but the Captain’s expression was a study of neutrality despite the irony of a slave being described in such terms. ‘Well done,’ Sigurr concluded in a tone that left him in no doubt that the conversation was over.
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