Council, p.27
Council, page 27
Far behind them, a shout went out from the market square.
‘I reckon they’ll have found our friend,’ Big Rolf said.
‘We will get caught.’ A cold, bitter feeling was spreading in Breki’s stomach – fear, but it wasn’t like any he’d ever known.
‘Unless . . .’ Big Rolf’s voice trailed off. He started fiddling with his belt. ‘They’re looking for two people, not one, so we need to split up. Take this. In a couple of days you’ll be a lot wiser.’ The purse was airborne. Breki caught it reflexively – and saw the back of Big Rolf, ducking into the warren of huts and almost immediately disappearing. His mouth opened to speak, but it had all happened too fast: Rolf was gone and Breki was on his own: a great flapping fish on foreign shores.
The slow clip-clop of horses coming from the tunnel through the wall dragged him to his senses again. Should he flee? Hide? At the last moment he turned and started walking back towards the market – they surely wouldn’t expect him to be coming back into the city, he told himself, really hoping he was right. Rolf’s advice rang in his ears – act as if you belong – so he didn’t look back at the riders coming up behind him. He also tried to avoid looking at the riders on some very familiar horses thundering down the road from the market at speed. Five of them, there were, and all fired up for a scrap.
‘Where are you headed?’ The voice was gruff, coming from behind and above.
Breki turned. ‘Me?’
‘Don’t see anyone else here,’ the rider said. He was somewhere north of twenty winters, but already looked hardened enough for thirty. A shock of black hair gave him a furious appearance, not helped by a rough black beard and piercing blue eyes. Another horse trailed placidly after him.
‘Towards the boats.’ Sound bored and they’ll believe you.
‘Looking for work?’
‘Possibly.’
‘I need hands on oars. One of my oarsmen had a . . . listening accident.’
Breki looked at the riderless horse and the absolute lack of remorse in the young man’s eyes. ‘Unfortunate,’ he replied.
The rider grinned. ‘Indeed. He wasn’t listening when we talked about the shares and how you shouldn’t take other people’s. Are you good at listening, boy?’
‘One of my strengths. However, I am one-handed at the moment.’ He raised his left hand. ‘Should heal soon enough.’
‘You look like you’d equal most men with one hand. What happened?’
‘Snapped it while wrestling.’
The rider looked him up and down, critically. ‘Who?’
‘Ludin of Skane.’
‘Hah! And you’re alive? You’re either a liar, a bastard or a beast. Either way, you’re on my boat. Get on the horse.’
Breki did as he was told, soothing the animal as it protested under his weight. The wooden pendant weighed heavy on his chest.
Moments later, riders pulled up in front of them. ‘Well met, Ormar,’ the first one said, a mixture of deference and dislike in his voice.
‘Well met, Thrainn. Why are you stopping me?’
‘We’re looking for two men – the king wants ’em. Breki and Rolf, they’re called. Northerners.’
The guards stared intently at him, but Breki set his face to stone and held on to the reins with both hands.
‘And?’ Ormar looked utterly unconcerned by the threatening glares as beside him, Breki fought to continue looking bored. ‘This is my crewmate, Bjorn.’ Looking away from the guards, the black-beard winked at him.
For a moment the man in front of the five looked like he might be thinking about challenging the man called Ormar, then he clearly thought better of it. ‘They must have got out. Go!’ He put his heels to his horse and charged on, the other four following him out of the gate.
Once they were out of sight, Ormar looked Breki up and down again, apparently mulling something over. ‘I think it’s time to see what the whale-road offers today,’ he said at last. ‘I’ve had as much of this place as I can be bothered with. I think maybe we’ll sail off while the king is distracted.’
Breki swallowed. ‘Not going to disagree there.’
Ormar studied him again, then at last he smiled. ‘And wise, too. You’ll do, Bjorn.’ Then he turned his horse towards the sea and urged the beast into a fast walk. A moment later, Breki’s horse followed.
*
As Helga’s eyes adjusted to the dark of the longhouse, she thought back on what she’d seen since they came into town and found she couldn’t remember much of it. The cart had rattled on through the gates and into Hedeby and there had simply been too much to look at and listen to. Too much to smell, too; Nazreen hadn’t been wrong about that. So many people huddled together stank far worse than anything she’d come across at the farm, or even in Uppsala.
Now she was standing on her own, waiting in the middle of the floor, uncomfortably aware of the men who had come to stand by the door when they’d entered. They looked very much like they would fit right in with Ludin’s raiding party. About twenty paces away was a grand dais with an elaborately carved high seat. Jorunn was talking to someone off to their left, a tall man who reminded Helga of a miserable stork. Jorunn looked furious – just a moment earlier she had been berating the man, whom she’d called Frode, for losing something or someone and now she was demanding to see someone else.
She and Jorunn hadn’t discussed their plan much further. It had felt so natural, so fluid, as if Hildigunnur had been with them. Last night’s discovery had been almost too big to comprehend, but in the swirl of violent emotions it had still taken all her courage to tell Jorunn of her suspicion. She had been impressed by how calm Jorunn had been and how she had made her mind up about what to do in an instant.
And you took that to mean that the two of you could therefore walk into the hall of the most feared king in all the Viking lands and simply – what? She wanted to argue with the voice in her head, to shout at it, but the truth of the matter was that she hadn’t thought through the options and now she felt foolish for that. Jorunn had motioned for her to stay and be patient and of course that was the right thing, but Helga was aching to do something. She was about to stride over and invent some reason for both of them to make their excuses, leave and regroup when a wave of deference swept the hall and simultaneously, a booming voice announced the arrival of King Harald. All around her, burly warriors and serving thralls alike averted their gaze. Do it, her mother’s voice whispered in her ear and Helga instantly obeyed. The hard-packed floor looked like it had seen its share of spilled mead. And here I am, doing what I’m told. Anger flared and when she heard footsteps, Helga glanced up at the dais.
It took her a moment to add up everything she was seeing. She searched for the right word to describe the man on the throne. Disappointing. She had expected a younger version of her father, or someone like Alfgeir Bjorne: a giant leader to strike fear into anyone who looked upon him. But the King of the Danes looked a little . . . well, soft. The kind of man who turned old before his time.
Then Helga noticed Jorunn was striding across the floor to stand next to her and the tall man she had been arguing with had gone straight to the king’s side and was whispering in his ear, although whatever it was he had to say didn’t seem to be interesting the king.
Then Harald Bluetooth caught her looking at him and Helga felt like she had been nailed to the spot.
This must be what the mouse feels when it meets the cat.
Almost lazily, the king raised his hand and silenced the man, Frode. He took another long look at Helga and smiled. She lowered her gaze immediately, cheeks burning and heart thumping.
‘Jorunn,’ the king said. His voice was warm and inviting, but Helga didn’t dare look up to see what was happening.
‘My Lord.’ Jorunn, on the other hand, was meek and apologetic.
‘You have returned.’
‘I have.’ There was a brief hint of hesitation in her voice, then, ‘Is Sigmar not here?’
For an eye-blink all Helga could hear was the rush of blood in her ears. You have returned. She tried desperately to catch hold of her own thoughts and make sense of those words.
‘You are late,’ the king said. ‘Your husband has been sent to attend to . . . other matters.’
If the silence was an invitation to ask questions, Jorunn was wise enough not to take it. Her voice rang out, breaking Helga’s heart. ‘I can tell you everything about King Eirik’s defences, his strength in men and how the town will fare against attacks from the west and south.’
A dull ache started throbbing in Helga’s teeth and she realised her jaws had slammed shut.
I can tell you everything.
She started arguing with herself, feverishly. This is a ploy. Jorunn is stringing him along, like you do with a big fish.
‘Mm.’ The king sounded less than impressed. ‘And?’
‘And I found this rat here, who nearly ruined everything we had prepared for.’ Jorunn looked over her shoulder and to her horror Helga became aware of Nazreen, standing by the door, with Freysteinn, still bound.
No – that is not the plan. Nazreen should be outside. We should be negotiating. This is not—
But as her senses returned, so did the realisation that she had lost.
She was overflowing with shame and fury: she had been fooled.
Jorunn is one of them.
She felt like a fox in a den of hounds, condemned to stand still and make no sound, draw no attention.
‘Everything you had prepared for.’
‘Yes, my Lord – of course. I grabbed him and brought him back to you for you to do with as you wish. He says he wants to see you. His name is Freysteinn.’
There was a brief silence as Nazreen pushed Freysteinn forward. Out of the corner of her eye Helga saw him kneel with annoying grace despite having his hands tied behind his back.
There was a touch of amusement in the king’s voice. ‘I know who he is. Second son of a farmer two days’ ride to the north. No one of note.’ There was a pause. No one rushed to fill it. ‘Tell me what he did.’
Helga could sense the shift in Jorunn’s voice, the edge and the accusation. ‘He had already been there for a few months when we got there. He killed three people and wounded another.’
‘Hm.’ There was a brief pause and a scuffing of feet as Harald Bluetooth rose. ‘Is this true, Freysteinn?’
‘My king.’ Freysteinn sounded both deferential and defiant. ‘I wished to earn my name by unsettling the council in your favour and breaking the alliance. I was heading towards the market-field when I happened to hear Frode say that King Eirik was a nuisance, and after the Jomsvikings came to stay I figured you might use them to get at the Svear. I went there to do what I could.’
The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Helga wished that she could look up, read the people, but from the feel of tension in the room she guessed that the king was looking at Freysteinn, waiting for him to say more. She didn’t need her mother to whisper, People will fill a silence.
‘He killed a boy in the forest,’ Jorunn put in. ‘That’s what started it.’
‘He followed me from here,’ Freysteinn added hastily. ‘He wanted to steal my glory. I told him to stay out of sight, but then he started going to the farms around Uppsala, asking questions – and I thought he would be of more use dead.’
‘Then he crushed the throat of a man named Alvar Dal – just outside King Eirik’s house, after a feast. He was my cook.’
And you sound angrier about the loss of a meal than a life, Helga thought savagely.
‘He was asking questions,’ Freysteinn put in. ‘And if I’d known Jorunn had been sent by you, I would still have done it.’
‘Why?’ The king sounded interested, dangerously so, and despite everything Freysteinn had done, to her and to others – and with no idea why – Helga found herself fearing for him.
The young man clearly did not share her concerns. ‘Because she was being too slow to act,’ he replied, and just at the edge of hearing, Helga heard Jorunn hiss with contempt. ‘Then I wounded Ludin’s advisor because I knew that would drive the old dog furious – which it did – and then I mixed a whole heap of wolfsbane in a thick-skulled brawler’s drink on the eve of Styrbjorn’s attack.’
‘You’ve braved danger to seek your name and acted to bring honour to Jutland, and to me.’ The king’s voice was studiously neutral, but Helga could hear him moving.
‘All I had to do was to lie well enough to get these two to bring me here to you, so I could tell you of my deeds and get what I deserve. I wanted to get the Svear to fear their own shadows, to ready them for the planned invasion.’
‘Get what you deserve.’ The king sounded calm, and closer.
If she shifted her head a tiny bit, just so, Helga could see his feet.
‘And what made you think you knew my plans?’
‘I – uh—’ And for the first time, Freysteinn faltered. Helga wondered if he knew that a note of fear had crept into his voice. ‘Defeating the Svear – taking their lands . . . I—’
‘You thought you were allowed to make your own decision.’ The king’s voice was cold.
There was a thud, a wet cough, a sucking pull. Something thumped to the ground.
Then there was silence.
‘And so you get what you deserve. It is important to follow orders,’ King Harald said shortly. ‘And I have no time for self-made shadow-walkers. Throw the body to the pigs.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘And Frode? A handful of silver to his father. I’m sure he’ll understand.’
Unseen feet moved swiftly and the sound of heels being dragged on the ground followed shortly. Unable to stop herself, Helga twisted her head slightly to the side and saw Freysteinn’s body hanging slack. A rose of blood was blooming on his chest. She had a moment to register that seeing his eyes wide open and lifeless was hurting her like nothing had before – just a moment – and then the king, sheathing a cleaned and well-used knife, asked, ‘Now tell me, who is the girl?’
Pushing all feelings away and keeping her stare to the ground, Helga tried to draw herself into her own body, become invisible – but it was no good. Every eye in the hall was trained on her.
‘The girl,’ Jorunn said, purring, ‘is from my past. She lived with my parents, but she was a cuckoo in the nest. Then she lied’ – the sudden burst of fury in her voice was subdued just as swiftly – ‘she lied to my father and cast my name in the mud. With your permission, my lord, I wish to add her to the pen.’
Helga felt numb. She was going to follow in Freysteinn’s footsteps after all. She’d heard tales of fat pigs eating anything thrown in with them. They are going to slit my throat and throw me to the swine.
Her mind replayed the conversations with Jorunn: the smiles; her words, the sideways looks. Compliment them. Show strength, but not too much. A little weakness goes a long way.
Helga had been too blinded by love in the beginning, but she had at last realised what Freysteinn had been doing to her – but she had never even noticed Jorunn doing exactly the same thing. The daughter of Hildigunnur had baited her and hooked her and reeled her in like a fish.
‘Hm.’ King Harald looked her over once again. ‘She looks familiar. I reckon I may have met her father once.’ He smiled to himself. ‘If that is your wish, I will not deny you.’ He gestured to two of the hard men. ‘Put her in the pen.’
Rough hands seized her by the arms and before she could think of a word to say, she was being half-pushed, half-dragged out of the King’s Hall. The last thing she saw was Jorunn, leaning in conspiratorially towards the king, no doubt starting on an exquisitely crafted joke.
*
The journey was weird, like a bad dream, but one that was oddly calm. She felt nothing, understood nothing and wanted nothing. She was barely conscious of the rough wood of the door hitting her heels, despite the dull pain. She thought the guardsman who was cursing at her in the language of the Danes should probably chew some burdock if he wanted to keep the rest of his teeth. The smell of Hedeby – rotting fish, people stench and offal – slapped her in the face but she didn’t recoil because it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She was about to die.
And then here they were: the pen.
It wasn’t so much a pen as a small barn, some thirty paces long by twenty wide, with a door at one end. She could neither see nor smell pigs, and even in her dazed state that came as something of a relief. When the guard opened the door and pushed her in she found the floor had been dug down by an arm’s-length and stones that looked like they’d be heavier than three grown men, each with a number of iron loops driven into them, had been placed at intervals on the ground. The loops were clearly for tethering people; Helga didn’t need to look at the handful of beaten-down, miserable creatures tied up there to know that. None of them gave her more than a cursory look when she was dragged in.
‘What is this?’ she muttered, despite herself, not expecting anyone to answer.
The guardsman surprised her. ‘It’s the thrall pen,’ he told her, licking his lips. ‘You’re to be sold tomorrow.’ He looked her up and down. ‘You’ll make them a bloody fortune, too, lucky buggers. Oh, and you can rid your pretty little head of any thoughts of rescue. No one escapes King Harald’s pen. You’ll be bound for Rus, lovey, where you’ll be chained under some filthy bear’s furs for the rest of your life. And if you think to run away, well, you’ll die in the woods – cold, starvation, or et by savage beasts. Have fun!’ He twisted her arm roughly, pinning it in the nook of his elbow, and she felt the rope biting into her wrist.
Moments later she was just another thrall, roped to a rock.
As she watched the door close behind the departing guard, a growl started somewhere deep in her throat and built up into an ear-splitting shriek, shocking her as much as anyone else in the barn.
