by Peter Fox
Sigvald nodded to the centre stall. ‘I hear you have been complaining about my newest acquisition again.’
Myran clicked his tongue with disapproval. Another annoying habit. ‘My Lord, Tariq is most unsuited to these conditions. Even the braziers do little to warm him. The other beasts are now suffering because it is too hot for them.’
The chieftain raised his eyebrows dangerously. ‘I’ve already told you that he must survive, at any cost.’
‘Even at the expense of all your other horses?’ Myran asked, incredulous.
‘If need be. I can’t afford to let him die now. I’ll be laughed out of the fjords.’
Myran hesitated, then said, ‘Lord, perhaps we should move him. The old byre would be suitable. That way we can give him the attention he needs without harming the other animals.’
Sigvald glared at his stable master. It is a good idea. In fact, why haven’t we thought of it before, curse it? He nodded. ‘Very well. Do it.’
Myran shuffled off to make the necessary arrangements. The chieftain walked down to Tariq’s stall. The big Nisean barely fit into his cramped box; he stood with his head slightly bowed, and his mane grazed the rafters. He had not seemed quite so large next to his compatriots back east, but here in the low-roofed stable, he seemed ready to burst through the walls. Even Sigvald’s tallest workhorse barely stood to his withers. The chieftain sighed. Myran did, alas, have a point. Tariq was wrapped in a thick woollen blanket, and two slaves stood in the stall with him, rubbing him down to keep him warm. Despite all these measures, the stallion still shivered. He looked at Sigvald miserably. The jarl lifted his hand and stroked his muzzle. ‘You really don’t like the cold and damp, do you?’ he said quietly. ‘Was I wrong to bring you here?’ The stallion tossed his head and rubbed his nose into Sigvald’s hand. The Norseman looked into his great, brown eyes and smiled. ‘Don’t worry; I’ve no intention of giving up on you.’ He let out a little laugh. ‘As I said, I can’t afford to.’
‘My Lord?’
Sigvald turned to find Gormond, his chief housecarl, standing a respectful few paces behind him. Now that was how his slaves were meant to look: clean woollen trousers, knee-length brown tunic and a white lambswool jacket. Gormond even went to the trouble to shave and comb his hair each morning. Good man, Gormond.
‘A ship is approaching, Lord.’
Sigvald looked at his slave, surprised. Who would be out in this weather?
‘It appears to be Master Alrik, lord.’
Sigvald shook his head. Only his nephew would be foolhardy enough to risk sailing in these conditions. ‘We’d best go down to meet him.’
A karve was making its way up the fjord under oar. Its distinctive lines were clearly recognisable even in the fading light, and a young man stood up on the prow. He waved to the watchers on the shore.
‘It’s Alrik all right,’ Sigvald said to his steward, ‘which means you’ll probably have to thaw out his slaves. See if you can find them some warm clothes and a brazier or two.’ Gormond nodded and bustled off to organise some hot broth and sheepskins.
Alrik’s coaster ran up onto the shingles, and Sigvald waited while his nephew supervised the stowing of the oars. The young Norseman was, as usual, dressed extravagantly; fine rust coloured breeches, a dark green calf-length tunic with embroidered hems and a heavy woollen cloak fastened with a polished bronze pin, and today he had taken the trouble to braid his normally untidy blond hair. He wore a plain leather belt around his waist but had dispensed with his sword; a dangerous act in a boat laden with twelve angry slaves. But that over-confidence verging on recklessness was typical of Alrik. Helga had said that the Gods had gone silly when they’d made Alrik – born as he was into a wealthy family and bestowed with good looks, a bold, mischievous nature, and a strong, muscular frame – every girl’s dream, apparently; Baldur personified. The problem was, Alrik was so in love with himself that he didn’t have space or time for anyone else. One day you’ll fall flat on that pretty face of yours, Sigvald thought, shaking his head with disapproval, and we’ll all celebrate.
When all was to Alrik’s satisfaction, the seventeen-year-old stepped off his yacht and greeted the jarl. ‘Hello, uncle.’ He looked up at his kinsman’s head, grinning. ‘Have you been stealing Ingrith’s clothes again?’
‘Of course not!’ Sigvald snapped, whipping off the headband nonetheless. ‘You’re an irresponsible lout, Alrik. It’ll be dark soon, and look at your slaves; they’re half-frozen.’
‘So what? Father can always buy more if this lot die.’
‘You’ve far more silver than sense, young man. You’ve twelve slaves here. Do you have any idea how much they’re worth?’
Alrik shrugged, clearly untroubled.
Sigvald shook his head in disdain. ‘What brings you here, anyway?’
‘I’m heading over to Rathulf’s, but I wanted to check on the folly first. How does he fare?’
‘Tariq is fine,’ Sigvald replied defensively, ‘and you’re not going to Rathulf’s. It’s too late and too dangerous.’
The young Viking grinned and raised his eyebrows, ignoring his uncle’s warning. ‘So he hasn’t been incinerated yet?’
‘Tariq? No.’
Alrik laughed. ‘That’s a shame. Father has just bet Jarl Eirik that Tariq will be burnt to death before he freezes.’
‘That Hestkuk! I trust that you’ve not partaken in this insult?’
Alrik flashed an irreverent green-eyed smile which said, yes, of course I have.
Sigvald scowled at the boy. ‘Perhaps you should see to your slaves?’
‘They’ll be fine,’ Alrik said. ‘I want to see this horse that everyone’s been talking about.’
‘Everyone?’ Sigvald protested. ‘It’s supposed to be a secret!’
Alrik smiled and stepped past his uncle and headed for the stables, leaving the jarl to deal with the shivering thralls in the boat. Moments later Ingrith appeared from the house, calling Alrik’s name with delight. She met her handsome cousin mid-way down the boardwalk and threw herself into his arms, laughing.
Sigvald left the slaves to Gormond and followed his nephew up to the stable. Snow still fell heavily, and Sigvald trod carefully on the icy planks of the boardwalk. He had already slipped twice today, but no amount of slave beating would solve that problem. As it was, he had them on duty all day and night, keeping the paths and doorways clear. Just yesterday one of the older buildings had fallen in on itself under the weight of the snow, temporarily burying two of Helga’s servants. The chieftain frowned up at the sky. What’s the matter with you, Skadi? Don’t you think it’s time you let up? Even one day without snow would be nice.
Alrik and Ingrith appeared at the stable door just as Sigvald arrived. The boy’s eyes were as big as moons.
‘That’s a horse?’ he said. ‘He’s huge!’
‘He’s not just any horse,’ Sigvald replied smugly, quite pleased with Alrik’s stunned expression. ‘There are none better, Alrik. He’s a purebred Nisean warhorse.’
‘A Neeser… what? He looks like a Jötunn’s mount to me. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?’
‘Father says he’s the most powerful stallion in all of Norvegr,’ Ingrith said proudly.
Sigvald smiled. ‘You are talking about the future sire of the greatest breed of horses that Norvegr will ever see; the mount of jarls, not trolls.’
Alrik laughed. ‘I doubt it. He must eat his way through your hay like a herd of wild cattle, and he obviously loves the cold. Very practical horse for Norvegr.’ He smirked. ‘Admit it, uncle. He was a mistake.’
‘Mistake?’ Sigvald roared. ‘Get inside before I tan your hide!’
‘Oh stop your fussing, dear,’ Helga scolded from the doorway. ‘Ever since you came back with that ridiculous animal you’ve been a nervous wreck. I still don’t know what possessed you to bring it home in the first place. You had plenty of perfectly good mounts here already; ones that have been bred for this country.’
/> ‘You know why I bought him,’ Sigvald grumbled.
Alrik looked at his uncle expectantly. ‘Why did you buy such a stupid horse?’ he asked.
‘Tariq is Rathulf’s birthday present,’ Ingrith said.
‘Ingrith!’ Sigvald protested. ‘How do you expect me to keep this a surprise with you telling blabbermouths like Alrik?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Helga interrupted. ‘No one is going to ride that thing.’
Alrik looked at his uncle, puzzled. The mention of Rathulf’s birthday in connection with the strange horse set a chain of thoughts in motion that tumbled over each other and flickered across his face as plainly as if he had spoken them aloud. Alrik’s forehead creased into a frown; then his expression changed to astonishment as the realisation dawned. Sigvald had been away a long, long time over the spring and then summer; so much so that people had begun to worry that he and his ship had been lost at sea with all the others. It was clear that even Helga hadn’t guessed what Sigvald had done. Now Alrik understood why his uncle was going to such extreme lengths to keep the stallion alive. He stared at the Jarl, dumbfounded. ‘You didn’t?’ he whispered in awe. ‘He’s not–?’ His mouth worked to say more, but the words just wouldn’t come out.
Sigvald smiled at his nephew, enjoying the moment immensely. ‘I most certainly did, and he most definitely is,’ he said.
✽ ✽ ✽
‘Wake up!’ Rathulf urged, shaking his friend by the shoulders for a second time. He received no response. Leif lay with his eyes shut and his face twisted into a pained frown. His pale skin was blue and icy cold. Rathulf reached down and tried to lift his companion, but Leif’s body was stiff and surprisingly heavy. Rathulf slipped in the snow and fell backwards. He swore. He shook his friend again, this time more violently. Still nothing.
‘Wake up, curse you,’ Rathulf demanded.
‘Rathulf,’ Thorvald said.
The young Norseman ignored his father and hauled at his friend’s tunic. His hands shook as he tried to lift his friend. ‘What’s the matter with you, Leif? Get up!’
‘Rathulf.’
‘Get up!’ Rathulf snapped, pulling at Leif’s inert form. The tunic tore, but Rathulf dragged at it regardless, swearing again. How long have you been out here, you idiot? he wondered.
‘Ra.’ Thorvald spoke gently, placing a strong, reassuring hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘You’re standing on his cloak.’
Rathulf glanced down at his foot and flushed.
‘Let me give you a hand,’ Thorvald offered.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Rathulf answered. He bent down and heaved Leif up over his shoulder and staggered back to the house. Thorvald went on ahead and held the door open for his son. Rathulf set Leif down on the house-bench near the fire, and Thorvald checked the boy for signs of life. Rathulf stood by anxiously. Thorvald saw his son’s expression and smiled encouragingly.
‘He’s alive, although only just. It’s a good thing you stumbled upon him. I wonder how he came to be out there. His home is days away.’
‘I’ll wager I know the answer,’ Rathulf said bitterly, picturing Leif trudging alone through the night. He looked down at his frozen comrade and shook his head in despair.
‘It may not be what you think,’ Thorvald said. ‘I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation for his being here, so let’s get him out of these wet clothes. He’ll need thawing out.’
‘We know the reason,’ Rathulf said, his eyes flashing with anger. ‘Horik. It’s time he was made to pay for it.’
Thorvald’s face hardened. ‘This is a matter between Leif and his father.’
‘No!’ Rathulf spat. ‘Once I take the Leap I’m going to deal with this properly.’
‘You will not!’ Thorvald said, taking his son by the shoulders and hauling him around to face him. ‘As a man, you will be expected to uphold the law, not break it. You can’t go around killing people just because you don’t like them.’
‘Like them?’ Rathulf exploded. ‘Look what Horik has done! I will not hide behind the law like you while my friend is murdered by his father.’
‘And what good will you be to anyone with a sword in your belly?’ Thorvald replied angrily, ‘because that will be your fate if you persist with this foolishness. Just because you own a blade does not mean you know how or when to use it.’
‘I can beat anyone in a fair fight,’ Rathulf responded, incensed at the implication behind his father’s words.
‘Rathulf,’ Thorvald said, speaking less harshly now. ‘You are right to feel the way you do, but killing Horik is not the answer. The best way you can help your friend is to stop being so angry with him.’
‘I’m not angry with Leif. I’m angry at his bastard of a father.’
Thorvald smiled. ‘Just be kind to Leif, Ra. That’s all he wants.’
At that moment Leif coughed and opened his eyes. He frowned at Rathulf, then he looked around, confused. ‘Where am I?’
‘Where do you think?’ Rathulf began, then he caught his father’s eye and managed to stop himself. ‘It’s me, Ra. You’re at my place.’
Leif frowned back, still obviously baffled, then he began to shiver. Rathulf let out a sigh and draped a blanket around his friend then sat down beside him, not really sure what to say. Leif stared into the fire, his teeth chattering noisily and his slim body convulsing as he slowly thawed out. After a while, the convulsions eased to the occasional tremor, and Rathulf handed Leif some spiced mead. Leif clasped the warm mug in both hands, sipping it occasionally, but he refused to lift his eyes from the fire.
‘So, are you going to tell us what you were doing out there?’ Rathulf demanded when still Leif said nothing. ‘You scared us to death.’
‘Ra thought you were a Jötunn after his blood,’ Thorvald explained.
Leif looked up for a moment and managed a thin smile, but then he returned his gaze to the fire. ‘I was…’ He hesitated for a moment, then continued. ‘I was using the toilet pit.’
‘You’ve been here for some while, haven’t you?’ Thorvald asked.
Rathulf glanced at his father, surprised.
‘I was in the byre,’ Leif admitted, his eyes sliding away.
‘The byre?’ Rathulf exclaimed, turning to his friend. ‘What were you doing in there?’
Leif looked at him helplessly, but he seemed unable to find a suitable explanation.
‘How long?’ Rathulf asked, horrified, imagining his friend huddled on the damp straw amid the mud and sheep dung. ‘How long have you been there?’
‘Only five days.’ Leif’s thin fingers clenched and unclenched around the mug.
‘Five days!’ Rathulf said, his voice hoarse. ‘But I’ve been in there every day. I didn’t see you.’
‘I hid under the sheep. I didn’t want to trouble you,’ Leif added quickly, misreading Rathulf’s furious expression.
‘Trouble us?’ Rathulf whispered.
‘It’s not his fault,’ Leif said in a pitiful voice, knowing who Rathulf blamed for this.
‘How can you say that?’ Rathulf spat. ‘What crime did you commit that warranted you being thrown out into the snow?’
Leif flinched at Rathulf’s anger. ‘I let a flock of father’s sheep die. He locked me out to show me what it was like to be stuck in the snow, like his sheep. He’s right. I won’t do it again. I know now.’
Rathulf stared at his friend, lost for words. Do you really believe your punishment is justified? he thought. ‘No one has kept their stock this winter,’ he said finally, ‘and nothing deserves being thrown out of your home, especially in this weather. How can you let him do this to you?’
‘I knew I shouldn’t have come,’ Leif said miserably, his shoulders slumping.
‘No,’ Thorvald said, glancing at his son. ‘Rathulf’s just upset to see you like this. You are always welcome here as you know.’
Leif glanced up at Rathulf wretchedly.
Rathulf looked into his companion’s pale blue eyes, wishing t
hat just for once he could find a way of controlling his temper whenever the subject of Horik came up, but how could he forgive the malicious Viking for the ill-treatment of his friend? That Horik blamed his son for his wife’s death was unjust enough, but to have punished him so cruelly and constantly since then was nothing short of sadism.
‘I’m sorry Leif,’ Rathulf said. ‘It’s just that…’ He paused. ‘Just promise me you’ll come straight in next time, okay?’ He rested an awkward hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I’d rather you were here than with him anyway, even if you do smell like sheep dung and mould.’
Leif managed a chuckle, a smile lighting his plain face, then he grew serious. ‘I’ll be all right, you know. You really shouldn’t worry so much about me.’
Rathulf looked at his friend sceptically. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘From now on, I won’t trouble myself about you anymore.’
‘Thanks,’ Leif said, still smiling. He stretched his hands out in front of him. ‘It’s nice to be sitting in front of a warm fire again.’
‘Well don’t get used to it,’ Thorvald broke in, pointing to the shovel that leant by the door. ‘We need the extra pair of hands. You and Rathulf will have a lot of digging to do at first light tomorrow, and there’s a flock of sheep to move.’
Rathulf threw his father a disparaging look, but Thorvald raised his eyebrows. ‘Still afraid of the monsters are we? There was only one troll out there, and we’ve tamed it, see?’
✽ ✽ ✽
‘Sigvald,’ Helga stood with her hands pressed to her hips, her green eyes glinting dangerously. ‘Why is Alrik staring at you as though you’ve just grown horns?’
Sigvald shrugged. ‘There’s nothing you don’t already know, dear. I bought Tariq for breeding stock, and yes, perhaps I did have him in mind for Rathulf as well. But that’s all there is to it. Alrik’s just jealous.’ He cast a warning glare at his nephew.