by Peter Fox
Tariq just stood looking at him as though to say, ‘calm down,’ then he bent down to bite off another mouthful of grass. ‘Come here,’ Rathulf growled, snatching the bridle and leading him over to a jumble of boulders. Tariq stood obediently on the lower side of the rocks while Rathulf went back to get Leif. Tariq turned his head and wistfully looked back at the tempting pasture. Rathulf dragged Leif over to the boulders, then after a good deal of stumbling and grazing of shins and knees, managed to get Leif’s leaden body up onto the rock which stood beside Tariq.
‘By Thor’s Death!’ Rathulf swore as he cracked his knee for the umpteenth time on the rough stone while he wrestled with his friend’s dead weight. He eventually managed to flop Leif over Tariq’s haunches, and then he set about tying him on. Rathulf had never had to rope a man to a horse before, but he’d lashed a few deer in his time, and when he was done, he eyed his handiwork dubiously.
‘Skítr,’ he swore again, utterly exhausted and at the edge of reason himself. Why, in Odin’s name did I do this on my own? he thought. Of all the times I’ve needed you Alrik, I need you now. He climbed back into the saddle then flicked the reins. Tariq moved off, picking his way cautiously down the rocky slope.
Leif was still unconscious when they reached the floor of the next barren vale, and Rathulf prayed to the Gods that he would remain that way for the rest of the journey. To his relief, he recognised the terrain, but they were still a long way away from home. Even so, provided there were no more interruptions, they should make it back by sunset or soon afterwards. The path forked at a narrow pass, one track plunging into a long, flat-floored valley that ended abruptly at the head of the fjord, while the other path continued east then south over the uplands.
Rathulf paused and gazed down the curving valley towards the wind-riffled waters of Årdalsfjorden, wishing that he could take the short cut home. By land, it was a long, tortuous up-and-down ride across the exposed uplands, where the path speared inland to skirt around the impassable barrier of the fjord. There were settlements down there; steadings where he might in other circumstances ask for help or even a lift home by ship. Today, though, he had no such option for these were the homes of Cnut, a close friend of Horik’s, and, even worse, Ivar.
With a shudder at the memory of his encounter with the slaver, Rathulf turned Tariq to the overland path and took the long way home.
6. Stuffed gosling
Above Årdalsfjorden, Norvegr
Tariq smelt the other horses long before Rathulf became aware of their presence. The Nisean came to a sudden halt, his ears fully extended and neck outstretched as he sniffed the air.
‘What’s the matter?’ Rathulf whispered, looking about anxiously.
Tariq edged towards the lip of the pass, and Rathulf saw them: five men on horseback, halfway up the next valley, heading towards him. Behind them trailed a team of heavily-laden packhorses. Rathulf quickly drew away from the pass and dismounted, then he crawled back up to the top and peered down the valley. He let out a long breath of relief. The men must not have seen him, or at least had paid no heed to him if they had, for they still rode at a leisurely pace beside the stream that cut through the centre of the vale.
Rathulf hurried back to Tariq and walked him a little way down into the valley that eventually led to Cnut’s farm. When he was satisfied they could not be seen from the main path, he dropped the reins and told Tariq to stay put. Then he scrambled back up the hill and hid behind a jumble of boulders. The rocks offered poor cover, but he felt more secure waiting to watch the men pass by. Rathulf was all too aware of the marks on his face and the dubious state of his tunic, which despite its washing, still bore traces of blood and grime. There was also the matter of the unconscious boy draped over the back of his horse. Better to stay out of sight than be required to come up with an explanation.
It seemed to take an eternity for the men to crest the pass and move along the path towards him. A couple of them looked familiar, but from his position, Rathulf dared not move lest they spot him. He pressed himself against the rough, cold rock, crouching as low as he was able and waited for the men to pass by. As they approached, he could hear the sharp panting breaths of their mounts and the jinking of their bridles and tack. The men spoke in low, lazy tones, and Rathulf lifted his head at the sound of one of the voices. His heart froze.
No way, he despaired. The Gods can’t be so cruel! Then he remembered the pack horses. How could I be so stupid? he wondered angrily, astonished that his mind had not made the obvious connection. He risked a glance around the side of the boulder and saw that the riders were not continuing along the main trail, but were instead turning down the narrow path towards him. At the head of the little party rode a large, somewhat overweight man clothed in brightly coloured breeches and tunic. He wore his beard and hair braided as was the fashion with merchants, and his money belt jangled in time with his horse’s slow gait.
No! Rathulf thought. Go the other way! He withdrew behind the shelter of the rock and swore a string of profanities under his breath. Of all the people who might find him, it had to be Cnut.
Cnut and his four heavily armed bodyguards passed by Rathulf without spotting him, and Rathulf watched as they picked their way down the narrow path towards the spot where Tariq stood waiting. He had no hope of getting down to Tariq unseen or in time to escape. He cursed Thor roundly for letting him down.
‘What in the name of Loki?’ Cnut blurted. They had found Tariq.
‘Isn’t that Rathulf’s horse?’ one of the men said.
‘Never mind the bloody horse,’ Cnut responded. ‘That’s Leif he’s got tied to it. What is that boy up to? Thorvaldarsson! Come out from wherever you are hiding this instant!’
Rathulf hesitated. What do I say? he wondered, unable to think of a plausible explanation. It occurred to him that he should have done so long before this had happened. What if I’d met someone else on the track? But his exhaustion had obviously stripped him of all good sense. One of the men moved towards Tariq, but the stallion backed away, his ears dropping flat against his head. Rathulf swore again and got to his feet. ‘Hi, Cnut!’ he called, jumping down onto the path and tugging at his belt as though he had just pulled his pants up. ‘I heard you coming, but I was, um, busy.’
‘Thorvaldarsson,’ the trader replied coldly. ‘Anund here was just wondering where you had got to. We would like to know why you have my foster-son – who I see is unconscious – tied to your horse.’
‘He had a bad fall from his pony,’ Rathulf said quickly, trying to sound his usual self. ‘The idiot thing bolted again; you know what she’s like. I was hoping you would be able to take us across the fjord so I can get Helga to look at him.’
Cnut gave him a disbelieving look. ‘What were you doing at Horiksby? Eirik told you to stay away on pain of death if I remember correctly.’
Rathulf swallowed. What do I say? Then he remembered something Alrik had once said to him: If you want people to believe a lie, then keep it as close to the truth as you can. At the time, Rathulf hadn’t entirely understood what Alrik had meant, but now it made perfect sense. ‘Eirik said he would bring Leif to my birthday gathering,’ Rathulf explained, trying to keep as close to the truth as possible, ‘but he didn’t, so I went to get him.’
One of Cnut’s men was looking at Rathulf’s tunic, and a disquieting frown had formed on his thin face. Rathulf knew that if they asked many more questions, he’d be finished. He had to divert their attention and suspicion.
‘Alright,’ Rathulf said, shrugging. ‘I’ll take him back to his father’s if you think that’s best. Maybe Horik will be back now.’ He stepped towards Tariq and took up the reins. He saw that his hand was shaking and he moved it quickly to the saddle and began checking one of the straps.
‘Perhaps Anund and Bersi should go with you,’ Cnut offered. ‘Leif’s fall seems to have put you out of sorts, and I would hate anything to happen to you on your way back.’
‘No!’ Rathulf said a little
too quickly, looking at the two warriors with alarm. It was well known that Anund could rip a man’s head off his shoulders bare-handed, and although Bersi was a slight man, he was just as well-versed in the art of killing as his companion. ‘There’s no need,’ Rathulf continued. ‘As you say, it’s not that far. We’ll make it back by nightfall easily.’
‘Rathulf?’ Cnut said, seeing Rathulf’s panicked expression. ‘What’s going on?’
Without answering, Rathulf grabbed the saddle and hauled himself up onto Tariq, praying that just for once he’d manage it on the first try. His foot found the stirrup and he launched himself up onto the stallion’s back, then he kicked his heels into Tariq’s flanks and yelled at him to go. They took off at speed, the warhorse covering the short distance back up to the trail in less than ten strides, then Rathulf steered him southeast towards the route home. ‘Fly, Tariq,’ he cried, ‘run as fast as you can because our lives depend upon it!’
He heard shouts behind him and urged Tariq on, aware that his horse carried a double load, but there was nothing they could do but flee. While he was hopeful that no one would catch them overland, by water, it was a shorter distance from Horik’s to Thorvaldsby. Rathulf didn’t bother avoiding the trail now, and he thundered across the upland fells, determined to put as much distance between him and Cnut as possible. As time went on, he allowed Tariq to ease up a little, as there was no sign of pursuit. Most probably Cnut would have gone down to the fjord to take one of his ships to Horik’s. Perhaps he’d also sent someone overland after Rathulf, but there was no way they’d catch him on horseback.
Later that afternoon, Rathulf passed two groups of travellers at speed. One group he didn’t recognise, but the second were familiar. They called to him as he charged by, Tariq’s bit frothing, his coat gleaming with sweat. It was Tariq who made the connection first, and moments before Rathulf too realised who they’d just passed, the big Nisean pulled up. He stopped so quickly that Rathulf toppled forwards over Tariq’s head.
‘Hel’s thighs, Tariq!’ Rathulf cursed, disentangling himself from the reins. Fortunately, the ground had been soft where he had landed. Rathulf got to his feet, scolding the stupid dolt of an animal.
‘Ra!’
Rathulf turned to see Alrik coming to an equally sudden stop on his pony. The boy all but flew off his mount and threw his arms around his friend.
‘Whoa, Alrik. I’m okay,’ Rathulf said, a little taken aback by his friend’s reaction. He swayed on his feet as a dizzy spell hit him.
‘What happened?’ Alrik said, looking across at Leif’s body strung up on the horse.
Rathulf blinked, then with a stab of panic he remembered Cnut and looked around frantically, pushing Alrik off him. ‘We can’t stay here,’ Rathulf said, then he saw Sigvald leading a host of riders towards them.
Alrik followed his gaze. ‘He’s really pissed off with you, and so am I.’ He turned back to his friend. ‘Why’d you go without me? I can’t…’ Alrik stopped when he saw the state of Rathulf’s tunic. ‘What’s that on your shirt?’ he asked, only this time his voice was tinged with fear.
‘Huh?’ Rathulf asked, still confused. He looked down at his tunic and saw the grim state of it.
‘Rathulf?’ Alrik’s insistence intruded on Rathulf’s thoughts. Alrik shook his friend. ‘What have you done?’ he asked again, saying each word slowly, clearly.
Rathulf struggled to gather his thoughts. Exhaustion was rushing in now that he’d stopped, the two sleepless nights taking their toll.
Alrik shook him again, his face showing his alarm.
Suddenly Rathulf knew what to do; how he could help Leif.
‘I killed Horik,’ Rathulf said, hearing the chilling irrevocability in those words.
Alrik released Rathulf and took a step backwards. ‘Oh no,’ he said, his face paling. ‘This is bad, really bad.’ He continued to stare at Rathulf’s bloodied tunic, his eyes wide. ‘Tell me you didn’t. He’s just hurt or something. Rathulf?’
Rathulf shook his head.
‘No!’ Alrik cried, angry and distressed. ‘Why did you go there on your own?’
‘I didn’t want to get you in trouble,’ Rathulf answered, knowing it sounded hopelessly lame.
‘But if I was there, I could have stopped you!’ Alrik said. ‘Why, Rathulf? Why?’
‘I didn’t mean to, okay!’ Rathulf protested. ‘It’s not as though I went there to do it.’ What he actually wanted to say was “it wasn’t me,” but Leif’s life depended on Rathulf standing firm, no matter what the consequences. Alrik had to believe him, that’s what mattered right now.
‘Rathulf Thorvaldarsson!’ Sigvald’s unmistakable booming voice carried across the little swale, and Rathulf flinched.
Rathulf didn’t have to say a word. Sigvald took in the scene, saw the state of his foster-son and Alrik’s stricken expression, and came to the obvious conclusion. He pulled his horse up in front of the two boys but did not dismount.
‘Don’t speak. Do not say anything until we get back to Thorvaldsby. Understand?’ He turned to Alrik. ‘And what were you thinking, riding off ahead like that? You know there’s a price on your head, irresponsible lout.’
Rathulf cringed at Sigvald’s berating of Alrik, which would only make things worse. Rathulf and Alrik both opened their mouths to respond, despite the Viking’s instruction.
‘I said, be silent!’ he roared. ‘Both of you!’ Sigvald rested his gaze on Rathulf for a moment, and Rathulf saw the depth of the jarl’s anger in his blue eyes. Then Sigvald turned away and instructed one of the men to rouse Leif.
‘I assume he’s alive?’ Sigvald asked his foster-son.
For a moment, Rathulf panicked. Truth be told he’d not thought to check, but he saw one of the men nodding in the background. They transferred groggy Leif onto one of the other horses, then Sigvald told Rathulf to get back onto Tariq.
‘Follow me,’ the jarl snarled, and everyone did as instructed. The men formed a tight cordon around Rathulf, and they rode quickly back towards Thorvaldsby.
It was well into the evening when they finally reached the narrow path that led down to Rathulf’s home fjord. They had ridden in silence the whole way, the tension between Alrik and Rathulf palpable, crying out for resolution, but they had little choice than to ride as hard as they could back to safety. For all Rathulf knew, Cnut might already be at Thorvaldsby. He let out a small cry of relief when he saw his farmstead in the distance. There were longships drawn up on the shore, but as far as he could tell, they belonged to his birthday guests. It certainly looked peaceful enough down there. He was struggling to remain awake now, and although he fought to retain control of his eyes, they insisted on closing each time a wave of exhaustion swept over him.
Rathulf didn’t remember the ride down to the valley floor, but soon he was dimly aware of the sound of voices, and there seemed to be a stream of strange, bright orange lights bouncing in the air ahead of him. At some point, night must have fallen. Tariq suddenly stopped and stood dead still, his ears pricked up as he peered into the darkness. Then he tossed his head and whinnied.
‘Rathulf?’ Helga’s shout came from somewhere ahead. ‘Sigvald, is that you too?’
Rathulf was too tired to answer. He didn’t even have the strength to kick his heels into Tariq’s flanks to get him moving again.
Sigvald called to the household that it was him and that he had the boys safely in tow.
‘Rathulf!’ came Ingrith’s cry.
Tariq whinnied again in answer, and Rathulf also called out. It was barely a croak, and he tried again, but all he could manage was a hoarse whisper. The prancing lights surged towards him, and then suddenly he was surrounded by blazing torches. The sounds of panting horses and shuffling hooves filled his ears, and he squinted and looked about him, confused. Helga’s concerned face appeared in the light, and Rathulf let out a short sob of relief. The rest was a blur; a strange half-dream in which he and Tariq seemed to float back to the farmstead, then he was be
ing lifted down from his stallion. Ingrith’s green-eyed smile appeared, then it turned into a frown.
‘Pooh, you smell,’ she said disapprovingly, and then she saw Rathulf’s blood-stained tunic. Her eyes widened and she backed away, just as Alrik had done. Then Sigvald was there, holding Rathulf’s shoulders and saying something urgently to him. It was a question, Rathulf knew, but it made no sense to him.
‘I have to see to Tariq,’ Rathulf muttered and pulled away.
Sigvald took hold of his foster-son again and spoke harshly. Bardi was there too, demanding answers to the same questions. Everywhere Rathulf looked, angry faces were floating in and out of focus, their mouths opening and closing and spewing a stream of incomprehensible words at him. Suddenly Rathulf wanted to cry. He just wanted to be left alone, but they wouldn’t let him be. He looked around in a panic, searching for a way out of this ring of horrid men with their accusing frowns.
Then, as though conjured by an act of magic, a kindly, womanly smile appeared among the scowling faces. Helga’s calm, green eyes found his, and they softened when they saw him. They weren’t like the others. They showed concern and love. Rathulf reached out to her. ‘Mother,’ he said in a barely audible whisper. He took a step towards her, then his knees buckled under him and he sank in a graceful twirl to the ground.
✽ ✽ ✽
Helga took command immediately. ‘Husband, you should be ashamed of yourself. Look at the boy! The last thing he needs is you yelling at him, and that goes for you too, brother. The poor thing probably hasn’t slept since he left here.’ She glared at her husband, who winced.
‘I’m ashamed,’ he muttered, noting the dangerous tilt of her jaw. ‘I was just...’
‘Not now,’ she replied sharply. ‘Get the boys inside.’
‘I thought I’d best see to Tariq,’ Sigvald began, half turning and pointing at Rathulf’s horse.