The Half-Drowned King, page 24
Farther on, a pretty girl stood up from her hoeing to watch them pass. The sun behind her lit up her long, unbound hair, making her appear crowned in a golden flame. Next to him, Oddi took a deep breath. Longing stirred in Ragnvald’s chest. He wondered what golden-haired Vigdis did at this moment, if she tormented his mother. How did Svanhild fare with Hilda and all her sisters? He raised his hand to wave at the girl. She waved back and then lifted her hand to shade her eyes as the ship slid by.
They sailed past other farms, then through a thick forest, buzzing with insects. Trees overhung the river, making dappled shadows on the water. The ships slowed to a halt. Ragnvald jumped out into the waist-deep water and, with Heming and Oddi, hauled on the ropes until the ship was close enough to the shore for her shallow keel to brush the sandy bottom. They would wait in the forest until twilight, then attack farther upriver. Ronhild had looked at the clouds before advising Hakon, and thrown the rune sticks, and determined that this night, the wind would blow them downriver rather than thwart their escape.
Finally Hakon spoke: “It’s time.”
Hakon had placed Oddi and Ragnvald in a ship of their own for the attack, giving Oddi command. Those who were not waiting in the ships crept toward them from the river’s banks and climbed in. Ragnvald checked himself once, twice, and again for his weapons: sword at his right hip, lying in its scabbard along his thigh, dagger on his left hip, ax hanging from his back.
No wind stirred. Sweat from Ragnvald’s scalp dripped down the back of his neck, wetting the tunic he wore under his leather armor. He felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Heming standing next to him. Ragnvald raised his eyebrows questioningly. Heming smiled slightly and shrugged, tipping his head toward Hakon’s boat, as if to say, perhaps, his father had placed him here.
The most experienced oarsmen rowed tonight, dipping their oars soundlessly into the smooth river and raising them again with little to mark their passing but a smooth ripple flowing back from the bow. They rowed for a hundred breaths, and then a hundred more. The shore slipped by, trees black against the purple sky.
Then they reached Gudbrand’s hall and surrounding fields. Its outbuildings were hardly visible against the dark hill behind them, save for a circle of light. The bow of the ship crunched against the bank. It sounded terribly loud to Ragnvald, as he strained his ears in the silence. Heming leapt out front. Ragnvald followed him, landing softly in the grass, Oddi by his side. Ragnvald held his sword in front of him, tip up, but low so his arm would not give out before he had a chance to drive it into flesh. All around him he could sense the watchful tension of the other men. Heming breathed low and even, as if he did this every day. On the other side of him, Oddi was taut as a new-strung bow. Ragnvald forced himself to loosen his grip. His hand tingled as blood returned to it.
Somewhere in front of him was Harald, leading the raiding party. Ragnvald kept his eyes fixed on Oddi’s leather belt, which had been polished recently enough that it was a spot of gray in the darkness. He did not want to creep up too close behind him.
Hakon and his younger sons went with the main force, over the open slope that led up to Gudbrand’s hall. Ragnvald and Hakon’s older sons would come around through the grove, and attack from the other side. If they could, they meant to barricade the meeting kings inside the hall, and threaten to burn it unless the kings swore allegiance to Harald.
Ragnvald’s party had the longer journey, picking through the darkness at the water’s edge. He heard the shouts of battle, sword upon sword, the crash of shields, and then shouts of victory. Harald’s voice carried above all the others, calling out the numbers of his slain.
In front of him, Oddi’s shoulders slumped with relief. Ragnvald was not sure later what made him turn. Perhaps a branch snapped, and attracted his attention. Ragnvald touched Oddi’s back. When Oddi turned, Ragnvald jerked his head toward where he had heard the noise and laid a finger on his lips. He took a step toward the dark shape of a grove of trees. This would be the sacrificial grove for the hall, rich and well watered with the blood of animals and men. An auspicious place for defenders to wait, so they could deliver more deaths to the gods.
Ragnvald touched the charm at his neck, praying for bravery. If the gods favored him, then they would help him when he fought on their ground.
“Men,” he whispered to his companions, “in the trees.”
Heming nodded, a movement Ragnvald felt more than saw. They could not risk more speech. Their footsteps took them into the shadow of a hollow in the hill, and Ragnvald jerked his head to the right, and followed the darkness of the low ground, hoping that Oddi and Heming stayed close behind him.
A silhouette detached itself from the grove of trees, moving stealthily along its margin. Ragnvald wondered if their plan was to allow Harald’s men freedom of their farm and then kill them during the celebrating. It was what Ragnvald might do, though it would put their property at risk. The grove was small—perhaps they only had a few men. Those that remained hid here, to defend the hall as best they could. Ragnvald circled around behind the enemy. A cloud passed over the moon, plunging the field into darkness. Ragnvald drew his dagger with his other hand. He could kill left-handed if he had to.
Oddi and Heming were still a few steps behind. The bulk of Hakon and Harald’s forces cleared the crest of the hill, their thick-armored forms making dark shapes against the sky. Ragnvald could hear them still: sounds of excitement, of carelessness. They believed they had won.
The twang of loosed arrows filled the night. Men screamed. The sound chilled Ragnvald’s blood. Hakon’s force had brought no bows. Were all of them now caught in a trap? Ragnvald lost the shape of the man he tracked for a moment, until his silhouette blocked the slimmer trees. Ragnvald continued walking forward as if he had not seen the figure that paced him.
The man came closer, slightly behind Ragnvald, so close that Ragnvald could smell the meat of his dinner. He waited until he heard the hitch of breath that preceded the man’s attack, then turned and thrust his dagger up into the man’s throat. He died without a sound, choking on steel. Ragnvald eased him to the ground. He wiped the blood from his hands on the man’s tunic.
Ragnvald glanced up at the hall, through the trees. The clouds had cleared, and now moonlight showed him figures with bows clinging to its thatched roof. How long had they been waiting there? Did Ragnvald’s boy captive have a friend, one who had escaped and told of their coming?
Whatever other men remained in the grove had not yet emerged. Ragnvald guessed they would not until the barrage of arrows stopped. Ragnvald motioned for Oddi and Heming to follow him. A gap between two boulders served as the gateway to the grove—a perfect choke point. Ragnvald pantomimed climbing, and Oddi took his meaning, scrambling up one of the rocks. The sound of fingers prying at dirt seemed loud, even against the yells of men pierced with arrows, but no attack came.
In the grove, a half circle of figures, hardly moving more than stumps of wood, crouched facing the two boulders. Now, hidden in the shadow of the rocks, the advantage of darkness was with Ragnvald’s party. Nearby a bird flapped, surprised from its nest, and made a low call. One of the heads of the waiting men came up, but a harsh hiss told him to stay seated.
A signal. They were waiting for a signal. Ragnvald sheathed dagger and cupped his hand around his mouth, making the sound of an owl. His heart thudded in his chest. He drew his blade again slowly.
“That’s it,” he heard a voice say.
“Floki was supposed to make a raven’s call,” spoke a voice, young and uncertain.
“Floki’s an idiot.” An older man, this one.
“Do you think they got them all?” whispered the young one as they crept toward the shadow where Ragnvald hid.
“No,” said Ragnvald, pitching his voice low and gruff as the older warrior’s had been. The older warrior whirled to face him. Ragnvald saw the glint of bared steel a moment before the sword crashed into the rock where he had stood.
Then all was chaos. Ragnvald could not tell if he struck friend or foe—he lashed out with sword and dagger, finding trees as often as he found flesh. He heard a crash and a howl and hoped that was Heming ambushing one of the men from above. That was not Oddi’s yell, nor Heming’s, so some worthy damage had been done. He tried to keep himself behind the men leaving the grove, so his blade would only harm enemy flesh, but he found himself pulling his swings, hoping he was not wounding kin or friends.
He fought in close with one strong man who got a few shallow cuts in on him before Ragnvald stabbed him through the stomach. He fell moaning, and when his noises stopped, all was quiet. It was the sort of silence Ragnvald had heard before in battle, a moment when all the earth seemed to pause. Ragnvald peered into the darkness. No one stirred except his friends.
“How many did you get, brother?” Heming said to Oddi.
“I’m not sure,” Oddi answered. He sounded winded. “I feared I’d cut one of you.”
“Me too,” said Ragnvald, glad Oddi had said it first.
A few more groans came from the ground around them. The noise of battle resumed up the hill. The sounds of arrows had stopped, and now there was screaming. Oddi took off up the hill, and Ragnvald had started to join him when Heming’s hand on his arm held him back.
“We leave tonight for Tafjord,” said Heming. “That is the land I want—not this. My father spreads himself too thin, in pursuit of this dream of King Harald’s. Maer will be my kingdom. All of my father’s jarls will respect me then.” It took Ragnvald a moment to realize what Heming was saying: that he was planning some different assault even while fighting these men. Ragnvald would not have been able to split his attention so.
“You mean your father will,” Ragnvald said. More yelling sounded from up the hill. He needed to be there, with Hakon, where he was sworn. “Let me go.”
“Only if you come with us,” said Heming. “Otherwise you die here. My sword is always hungry for more blood. You should be my sworn man, not my father’s.”
Ragnvald stayed silent. He could not make his mind move from the battle at hand to think of this, except to know that his dreams had been dealt a blow here. Between Hakon and his son was where Jarl Runolf had died.
Pressing what he must have thought was his advantage, Heming continued, “My father thinks to make himself young by surrounding himself with young men.” He spoke quickly and angrily, words well rehearsed. “You can be one of my jarls when Maer is mine.”
“Must we leave this very moment?” Ragnvald asked. The sounds of fighting from the hall tore at him. His place was there, by Hakon. He had sworn it.
Heming did not seem to hear the sarcasm. “No. Only do not drink overmuch when we celebrate tonight. We leave when all are sleeping.”
“We must help them,” Ragnvald said, pulling out of Heming’s grasp, hoping Heming would not realize that Ragnvald had not agreed.
His legs felt weak as he sprinted up the hill, until he heard Heming’s footsteps behind him, and fear lent him a burst of strength. Heming would not kill him in the open, not when he thought he had Ragnvald’s agreement, but Ragnvald still reached the hall a half dozen paces ahead of him.
Torches lit the area now. Some of the men had dragged women into the shadows and raped them. One still screamed. The others only whimpered. A girl clutching a kitchen knife, her skirt streaked with blood, sat against a tree. She snarled at Ragnvald when he passed by, making Ragnvald think of Svanhild at her fiercest. He walked past her, trying not to see her. He would not hurt her worse.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that the sounds he heard had only been those of pillage, not of the slaughter of Hakon and Harald’s men. Some men had attacked with bows from the roof, but their arrows ran out before Hakon and Harald’s forces did. After their men fell, women fought back when they could—some had armed themselves with daggers and kitchen knives—but they were no match for Hakon’s men.
“Where were you?” Hakon asked when he saw Ragnvald approach. “I thought you were right behind me.”
“There were men in the woods,” said Ragnvald. He smiled, cheeks tight from the deer’s blood earlier and now the drying blood of men. “There aren’t anymore.”
“The men on the roof, the men in the woods. They meant to trap us in between,” said Guthorm. “Did they know of our coming? Did someone betray us?”
Ragnvald shrugged. “Perhaps they had watchers we did not see who glimpsed Guthorm’s scouts.” He hoped it had been that, and not a companion of the boy he had captured. Heming, at least, had not betrayed Guthorm in this, but he was planning a betrayal tonight.
Guthorm clapped Ragnvald on the shoulder. “You are right. I start at shadows in these fractious times.”
“We have taken but few losses,” said Hakon. “Perhaps they hoped to ambush us from the grove and the hall, but we brought too many men for them. It was wise of you and Harald to ally with me. Where is Heming?”
“Heming?” Ragnvald asked. “My lord, I must speak with you about—”
“Later,” said Guthorm. “We have work to do.”
Guthorm’s men had surrounded the hall with great bales of tinder, ready to be put to the torch. Archers on the roof, with now-empty quivers, tried to climb down, only to be prodded back up onto the turf by the warriors who surrounded the hall. Guthorm’s men banged on their shields.
“Kings of Hordaland,” called out Harald, once the noise subsided, “we will burn you in your hall, along with your crows on the roof, if you do not come out and swear to me.”
The great doors to the hall opened a crack.
“I am King Harald of Vestfold,” Harald proclaimed in a mighty voice, low-pitched enough to avoid the boy’s breaking that troubled him in more casual conversation. “I am the conqueror of King Gandalf of Akershus, the prophesied king of all Norway.” He presented himself with authority, at least. Guthorm had chosen his figurehead well. “If you swear allegiance to me, I will make you more powerful than you could ever dream. Your enemies will shake before you, and your sons will inherit great wealth. If you do not, your lives will be forfeit.”
The doors of the hall opened slowly. Two kings walked out, surrounded by a cadre of guards: Hogne and Frode Karusson, the brother kings of two adjoining Hordaland kingdoms. They were short, stout men, the kind of stoutness that gave strength. Both men looked as though they could wrestle a bear and win.
“But . . . you’re just a boy,” said King Hogne. Ragnvald had not heard much of the Karusson kings, except that Hogne was all bluster, and his brother Frode was all rage.
“I am what I am,” said Harald. “I will grow older, and Norway will be mine. You will not grow older than you are now if you do not swear to me.”
They did not swear, for who had heard of such a thing? Ragnvald could hear their thinking as though they shouted it. Harald, or Guthorm who drove him, was a madman or a visionary. Norse kings killed one another, or made alliances of equals. Men raided and sometimes settled, but this talk of conquering was a new language, from another land. They rushed forward, their guard band against Harald’s hundreds.
Harald gave the signal for his men to burn the hall. Hordaland men ran forward to die on the swords of Harald’s army. Ragnvald killed a few, for he was standing near Harald, where the fighting was thickest, but they would have died no matter who held the swords, trapped between fire and blade. The hall burned as the king’s men fell. Skalds later sung that Harald killed seven kings that day.
When this spasm of fighting was over, the hall still blazed. Ragnvald staggered off to find some watered ale to slake his thirst. Oddi stopped him, telling him Hakon wanted to speak with him.
“We’ve taken these prisoners,” said Hakon, gesturing to men bound and gagged, lying on the ground. One curled around a bloody stomach, moaning. “Some of them may know where the other Hordaland kings have gone. I have heard tell that Gudbrand is not here. He must have been here, for this is his own hall.”
Ragnvald’s legs felt tired and shaky, the aftermath of battle. It left some men giddy, ready for drink and a woman. Ragnvald found it more tiring—he wanted sleep, forgetfulness now.
“We did well,” said Hakon to Ragnvald and Oddi. “These kings have seen rich plunder.” Hakon gestured for Oddi to step aside. He reached down and picked up a small casket with metal hinges instead of the usual leather and held it toward Ragnvald. “Open it.”
Ragnvald did, and found it full of hacksilver, and many coins stamped with a slim, bearded profile Ragnvald knew to be the English king Alfred.
“This is part of the Danegeld,” said Ragnvald.
“The great English ransom,” Oddi echoed. “Cowards,” he added, but without much heat. If the English were willing to pay a Danish army to stay away from their shores, it meant more English treasure could come east. And become Hakon’s treasure.
“Are these kings allied with the Danes?” Ragnvald asked.
“Perhaps,” said Hakon, without much interest. He was secure in his power. “I would give you a ring for your service in the woods this night,” he said to Ragnvald. “But since we found this—I will give you a double handful of silver as well.” He smiled at Ragnvald’s frown of concern. “Use one handful to buy your bride. And another to buy thralls to farm your land.”
Ragnvald looked down at the silver, greedy for his handfuls. He took his share, filling the satchel at his belt. Not all the coins bore Alfred’s face. Some of the coins were lettered with the hard angles of Greek; some others had the graceful curls of Arabic writing. They had come, and seen blood, long before this night.
“My men have kept aside a few unspoiled women,” Hakon added. “Take one, get yourself properly drunk. Time enough for speeches and gifts tomorrow.”
“Some men should guard the treasure,” said Ragnvald, feeling uninterested in women or celebration. He did not know if that was because of the girl who had reminded him of Svanhild, or because of Heming’s threats. Well, one of those had a solution. “If you allow me, I will see to it. But first, I must speak with you.” He lowered his voice. Hakon would not want Harald and Guthorm to know of Heming’s plot. “There is treachery near you.”
