by Peter Fox
Sigvald blanched. ‘Equal? Are not six slaves equal to his value?’
She smiled provocatively. ‘You care nothing for your slaves. Your wife, however, or your daughters…’
‘What?’ Sigvald spat, outraged. ‘You would ask me to give the life of one of my own in return for Thorvald’s?’
‘How important is the boy to you, Sigvald?’
‘This is outrageous!’ Sigvald roared. ‘I came here with gold and even men to offer in sacrifice, and you say it is not enough? Baldur is not so greedy or malicious that he would want this of me. You cannot expect me to offer my family in return for Thorvald’s life.’
She considered him thoughtfully, her eyes begging the question. Her intention was frighteningly clear.
‘Me? Are you out of your mind?’ Sigvald stared at her, his blood running cold. ‘You want my life for Thorvald’s?’
‘A fitting exchange,’ she said calmly. ‘Thorvald could live in your place, and so Rathulf would not be subjected to the pain you so wish to protect him from.’
‘What of the pain of my loss?’
The witch smiled.
‘This is absurd,’ Sigvald spat. ‘Rathulf relies on me as much as he does his father. How else will he learn to sail, to fight, to love? Thorvald cannot teach him those things.’
‘Then I can do nothing,’ she said, returning to her weaving.
Sigvald thumped his mug onto the table. ‘This visit was a complete waste of time!’
‘A needless journey, yes.’
Sigvald scooped up his cloak and turned towards the doorway. ‘It will be my luck that Thorvald has died whilst I sat here listening to your useless words.’
She smiled enigmatically. ‘Yes, you should go now. The boys need you.’
Sigvald strode angrily down the passageway towards the entrance. Why did I come here? he wondered bitterly. Of all the vapid, ridiculous things I have done in my life, this must surely rank among the highest. I should have just killed a slave myself. Or better, Alrik. Now that would be a fitting sacrifice; the life of the boy who has thrown away the keys to Rathulf’s future.
‘Do not be too hard on your nephew, chieftain. The boy has done little harm. Rathulf’s future is secure, as is yours; which, I think is the true reason behind your visit.’
Sigvald looked up with a start to find the accursed woman standing in the doorway before him. ‘Rathulf’s future is anything but secure.’ he protested. ‘With the trunk lost, how can he claim his birthright?’
The seer stood aside to let Sigvald pass into the daylight. ‘Why do you think it is his to claim?’
‘Of course it is! Tegen didn’t make it up.’
‘A tree bears many fruit, Sigvald, and its seeds may be blown to places far-distant from its roots.’
‘Fruit?’ Sigvald spat, tired of the woman’s riddles.
‘And seeds.’ Her smile was unenlightening, her arrogance infuriating.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sigvald roared. ‘You’re an obnoxious crone. I don’t know why I wasted my time!’ The chieftain stepped into the Vixen and gave the order to cast off. Confusion and despair welled up inside him as he took his place by the rudder. How could the Gods turn their backs upon Rathulf so callously? Can they not see that the boy has already lost everything? Can they not find it in their hearts to allow him the simple gift of his father’s company?
‘Loss opens a space for new things to come,’ the witch called after him, her voice pacifying. ‘Empty the cup and you may fill it with the drink of your choice.’
When Sigvald looked back over his shoulder, the space before the door was empty. Cup? What cup? He hurried back to his farmstead, cursing the still air for its lack of breeze. He urged the slaves to pull their oars harder, but their passage was frustratingly slow. To add to his woes, he had the damned horse to contend with. Tariq was unimpressed with this little outing and wasn’t at all shy about demonstrating his displeasure. He snorted angrily and shook his head to and fro, and despite Myran’s best efforts to calm him, the stallion still managed to badly graze one of the slaves’ shoulders and split the decking under his restless hooves.
In the end, Sigvald decided to risk a late return to Lærdalsfjorden so that he could drop the horse off along the way. It would be better to leave Tariq somewhere rather than take him back home, as at least that way he could still present the beast to Rathulf on his birthday. The idea brightened the jarl’s mood considerably. Yes, he thought. This should work out well. Indeed, removing Tariq to a new location can be my excuse for this outing.
Much later that day he steered the Vixen into the small bay where Ottar’s brother, Grinir, lived, eking out a living as a leatherworker. Grinir was most pleased to greet his unexpected but welcome visitor and was equally delighted to be of service to Sigvald by looking after the magnificent horse. Myran of course would accompany Tariq, and somewhat to Sigvald’s chagrin, the stable master seemed quite pleased with the arrangement. The slave provided Sigvald with a substantial list of requirements and suggested the jarl might like to send Gormond back with them at his earliest convenience.
‘Don’t push your luck, horse-blood,’ Sigvald rumbled, ‘or the first thing I’ll be sending here is your replacement.’
Myran simply smiled in quiet deference, confident in the knowledge that there was no one else in the western fjords who could tend Tariq as well as him.
The evening passed amiably enough, but Sigvald could find little joy in Grinir’s company. For the entire night he remained troubled by the soothsayer’s indifference to Rathulf’s plight, and for the little use he now thought it, he nevertheless prayed to Odin to keep Thorvald alive long enough for Sigvald to return and thereby be at his foster-son’s side when the dreadful moment finally came.
✽ ✽ ✽
Sigvald left Grinir’s the following morning as soon as courtesy would permit, but it was well into the afternoon by the time he rounded the last turn in the fjord on the final leg home, and although disaster did await him, its source was unexpected.
Alrik’s longship lay beached on the shore, empty of slaves and master.
‘You dumb-witted, numb-brained fool!’ Sigvald shouted, although he knew Alrik could not hear him from this distance. ‘Row, damn you!’ he roared at the slaves instead, cursing himself for his foolishness. As they pulled in beside the jetty, Gormond dashed up to his master and panted out his desperate message. ‘Lord, hurry! Rathulf has gone mad. He holds a sword to master Alrik’s neck, and he has already drawn blood!’
Sigvald sprang from the boat and charged up the duck-boards four at a time, peeling off his heavy cloak as he ran. As he passed the outermost byres, he heard Rathulf’s shouts and Alrik’s desperate, pleading voice. He looked over towards the horse yard and realised that Helga’s pony was still missing. He swore.
Praying to the Gods that he was not too late, Sigvald burst into the hall. He crashed headlong into his youngest daughter. Thora screamed as she fell to the floor, but Sigvald’s attention was focused on his foster-son. Rathulf stood on the opposite side of the room, his face twisted into a frightening scowl. With his left hand, he held Alrik up against the wall, while in his right he had one of Sigvald’s swords, the sharp edge of its blade pressed against Alrik’s throat. Alrik stared back at his friend, his eyes bulging with fear as blood streamed from a nasty wound on his right arm. Alrik’s sword lay on the floor nearby, and Sigvald presumed the boy had tried to defend himself but had come out the worse. One of the serving women stood nearby, her hand half-raised in a plea to the boys to calm down.
Only then did Sigvald see Ingrith, for she was partly obscured by Rathulf. She stood between the two boys, her gaze fixed upon her foster-brother’s face. She was holding a spear, its point held against Rathulf’s torso. Sigvald had no idea how long the three of them had been standing in that alarming tableau, but Ingrith’s hand did not quaver. Her eyes flickered to her father for a brief instant, then they returned to Rathulf.
‘Step away
, Ra,’ she said, her voice firm and her intention clear. ‘Alrik is my blood relative. I will kill you if you hurt him any further.’
Sigvald swallowed, not daring to speak lest he cause a massacre.
Rathulf seemed unaware of the presence of Ingrith and her spear. ‘How could you do it?’ he said to Alrik, his voice hoarse. ‘That was my trunk. How could you throw it overboard?’
‘I didn’t throw it,’ Alrik replied, desperate. ‘Arni fell over, and it slipped out of his hands. You know it was an accident, Ra.’
‘It’s all I had!’ Rathulf shouted. ‘Do you have any idea what you’ve done?’
‘You didn’t even know it existed until now!’ Alrik shouted back. ‘You’d never have known about it if I hadn’t gone to get it.’
‘And a lot of good it did me. Where are my things, Alrik? I want my things!’
‘You know where they are,’ Alrik pleaded. ‘I’m really sorry, Ra. Why won’t you believe me?’
‘Let him go, Ra. This is not the answer,’ Sigvald interjected. He took a step towards his foster-son, but as soon as he moved, Rathulf let go of Alrik and turned towards the jarl, brandishing the sword. Ingrith moved with him, her spear held at the ready.
‘And what is the answer, Sigvald?’ Rathulf demanded. ‘Until he started meddling, I knew who I was and where I fitted in.’
‘That’s not true Ra. Your father, Thorvald, started this on the night of the avalanche. You said so yourself. Alrik has nothing to do with it.’
‘Well, you should know, because you’re just as much at fault as he is. What other secrets have you kept from me? My father said something about a ring, and what about my parents? You still haven’t told me about them have you?’ His eyes blazed with hatred, and Sigvald knew he had to act, and act now.
‘Put down the weapon,’ the jarl said, trying to keep his voice level, whilst in the back of his mind, he grappled with the revelation about the ring. When had Thorvald told his son about that? ‘You’ve been through more than even the hardiest person can take in. It’s not as you think and Alrik is not to blame, nor am I, nor is your father. Let’s just calm down and talk about this like sensible adults over a mead or two, yes?’
Alrik, upon seeing that Rathulf was distracted, grabbed the opportunity to try to disarm his friend.
‘Alrik, NO!’ Sigvald yelled, realising what Alrik intended. Knowing he was already too late, he threw himself at Rathulf.
Rathulf, sensing Alrik’s movement even before he heard Sigvald’s shouted warning, swung around, his sword held up instinctively. Alrik, already in mid-flight, ran straight into it.
Sigvald crashed into Rathulf at full tilt, knocking the young Norseman aside just as the blade made contact with Alrik’s stomach. Alrik sank to his knees with a croak and Rathulf crashed to the earthen floor with Sigvald on top of him. Ingrith too was knocked to the ground as Rathulf and Sigvald bowled into her.
The chieftain wrenched the sword from Rathulf’s grip and pinned down the boy’s wrists, but restraint was unnecessary. Rathulf lay on his back gasping for breath, flattened not only by Sigvald’s blow but by the crippling agony of his injured chest.
Sigvald looked across to Alrik, hoping desperately that he had knocked Rathulf aside in time. Alrik lay slumped against the wall, holding both hands to his belly, his face twisted in pain.
‘By the hammer of Thor!’ Sigvald swore. He moved to go over to his nephew, but Ingrith was there first, pulling the boy’s clenched fists away from his stomach. Sigvald flinched in anticipation. Only the slightest of scratches marked the lad’s body where the tip of the sword had run across his skin as Rathulf had fallen away. The big chieftain dropped his head and let out a long breath of relief. He looked into Alrik’s face, but his nephew stared back at him uncomprehending, his eyes wide with shock.
‘What were you thinking, you numbskull?’ Sigvald said, ‘and what bit of ‘no’ do you not understand? You were explicitly told to keep away!’ When Alrik said nothing, Sigvald turned his ire upon his daughter. ‘And what were you going to do, Ingrith? Skewer Rathulf if he carried out his threat?’
His daughter held his gaze, her eyes flashing defiantly. ‘Yes, father.’
‘But you love him!’
‘I love them both,’ she replied, ‘but Alrik is my blood relation. Rathulf is only foster-kin.’
Sigvald shook his head, not even starting to understand.
‘What in Göll’s name is going on here?’
Sigvald swung around to see his wife framed in the doorway, her hands pressed to her hips. ‘The Gods preserve us,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘that’s all I need.’
‘I leave you alone for two days and look what happens,’ Helga snapped, striding over to Sigvald and casting him a black glare. ‘I’d have thought you capable of keeping the peace, husband. What is the matter with you, allowing these two to fight like this?’
Sigvald looked up at her helplessly, his mind working furiously to fabricate a half-believable lie.
‘You were here, weren’t you?’ Helga asked suspiciously, seeing his face.
Sigvald winced. Why was she always turning up at the least opportune times?
Fortunately for Sigvald, Helga saw the sword, the blood on her nephew’s arm, and Alrik’s expression. ‘Freya protect us,’ she gasped, dropping her things and rushing to Alrik’s side. ‘How badly is he hurt?’ she said to Ingrith. She peered into Alrik’s face.
‘I managed to deflect Rathulf’s sword in time to prevent a serious injury,’ Sigvald began, then stopped, realising what he was saying. He glanced at Helga and saw her dangerous expression. ‘It’s not as you think,’ he said quickly.
‘Indeed?’ Helga responded, looking him squarely in the eye. ‘Sword practice, was it?’
Sigvald said nothing.
Helga’s eyes narrowed. ‘Exactly where were you when all of this was going on?’
Sigvald briefly toyed with the idea of saying he was on the toilet, out chopping wood, pruning the apple tree, anything to escape her wrath, but Helga’s piercing glare told him it was too late for that. He waved a quieting hand. ‘I went out,’ he said, resigned to the fact that this was not something he could wriggle out of, ‘to seek the counsel of your witch. Had I known how pointless it was to be, I’d have stayed at home.’
‘You went to the Mistress of Freya? For what purpose?’
‘I thought I would offer a sacrifice to the Gods in the hope of saving Thorvald,’ he said. ‘It was a waste of time. Even she said as much.’
‘You must tell me later what passed between you,’ Helga instructed. ‘The exact words, mind. All that the oracle Valgerd says is significant.’
‘Incomprehensible you mean,’ the chieftain grumbled.
Helga cocked an eyebrow then she turned her attention to Alrik. ‘That’s a very bad cut,’ she said, looking at his arm. She reached out to inspect the wound. Alrik backed away, clenching his hand firmly around his injured forearm. Blood oozed through his fingers and dripped onto his leg. He looked back at her, still speechless, tears running down his cheeks. Helga turned to Sigvald and shook her head. ‘You fool,’ she said angrily. ‘What if you had been any further delayed? What if Rathulf had managed to do him a greater injury?’
‘Sigvald?’ It was Rathulf, but the jarl ignored him.
‘What are you shouting at me for? I’m not the one who disobeyed everyone’s explicit instructions to come here looking for trouble.’ Sigvald glared at Alrik again, knowing just how close they had all come to disaster. ‘You’ll be–’
‘Sigvald!’ There was a desperateness in Rathulf’s tone that made Sigvald stop mid-sentence. He turned to his foster-son. His heart stopped.
Rathulf was holding his hands up in front of his face, blinking at them in shock. They were covered in blood.
‘Mother of Thor!’ Sigvald cried, all but lifting Rathulf bodily from the floor as he tore off his foster-son’s tunic. It was soaked. Sigvald glanced at Ingrith’s now-abandoned spear and saw streaks of r
ed on its metal blade. He looked down. Rathulf lay in a spreading pool of thick, dark blood.
‘Rathulf!’ the big jarl cried, horrified. ‘What have we done?’
Ingrith screamed.
13. An empty cup
Sigvaldsby, Lærdalsfjorden, Norvegr
‘Where’s the wound?’ Helga said, frantically running her hands over her foster-son’s body. ‘I can’t find it. Help me turn him over, quickly!’ Helga motioned to her husband to roll Rathulf onto his front.
‘Hel’s eyes,’ Sigvald gasped as he took in the state of the young man. He had never seen so much blood.
Ingrith knelt beside Rathulf, tears streaming down her face.
‘Don’t just sit there wailing,’ Sigvald snapped at his daughter. ‘Find something to clean him up. We need water. Now!’ He turned back to his wife. ‘Why can’t you find the hole? He’ll bleed to death at this rate.’ He swore again. ‘Where’s it all coming from? It’s worse than a slaughtered ox.’
‘What did you say?’ Helga said, suddenly sitting upright. She looked to Rathulf’s right, then she closed her eyes and let out a half-laugh, half-sob. ‘Freya be praised,’ she cried.
‘Eh?’ Sigvald said, looking at the same place his wife had just done.
A small barrel lay on its side, knocked over when Rathulf had fallen. Sigvald let out a whoop of joy, then he too started laughing with relief. He reached over and scooped up the little wooden vessel, which still dripped its grisly contents onto the floor. ‘Ox blood,’ he laughed, ‘and we thought it was Rathulf’s.’
Alrik and Rathulf both gazed at the jarl, bewildered.
‘Gormond slaughtered a cow in readiness for our return,’ Sigvald explained. ‘This is its blood. Helga was going to use it to make blood sausages.’ He looked down at his foster-son. ‘You haven’t even a scratch on you.’
Ingrith had returned with a pail of water, which she promptly dropped when she heard that Rathulf was unharmed. She fell to her knees and took her foster-brother in her arms.