Kings and Pawns

by James L. Nelson

  He walked over to where Godi and the others were working on the sprung plank. He peered over the shoulders of the crouching men. He said nothing. They were doing just what he would have done, and doing it as quickly as he would have done, but he did not know if it would be quick enough.

  “Lord Thorgrim?”

  Thorgrim turned. One of Jorund’s men was there, a man named Bjorn.

  “Lord, Harald sent me to say there’s a man outside the wall. An Englishman, lord, with a dozen men-at-arms with him. Harald says it’s the same who come to see us at the monastery, when we first took that place.”

  Thorgrim nodded and frowned. English? he thought. I thought those whore’s sons marched off.

  “Very well, tell Harald I’ll be there directly,” Thorgrim said.

  A few minutes later Thorgrim climbed the ladder on that section of wall where he saw Harald standing. He stepped up beside his son and looked down at the ground below. There were thirteen horses and riders at the edge of the line of branches and debris and other obstacles that the Northmen had thrown out in front of the walls. The riders were well armed and wearing mail. One held a staff and banner which Thorgrim recognized, just as he recognized the man at the head of the small contingent.

  “This is the one who came to see us before,” Thorgrim said. “Isn’t it? The one who offered us danegeld?”

  “I think so,” Harald said. “I wonder what he wants now.”

  “I guess we had better ask him. You’re able to translate his words?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Harald said, sounding more confident than the words would suggest, then he called out in English to the man below.

  The man on the horse swung himself down to the ground and began to pick his way through the obstacles toward to the wall. “I told him to come closer,” Harald said and Thorgrim nodded.

  The man stopped at the base of the wall and spoke. Harald turned to Thorgrim. “He says he has brought the danegeld,” Harald said.

  “Danegeld?” Thorgrim said. “Why would they bring danegeld? I thought they all marched away this morning.” He did not actually intend for Harald to relay this to the Englishman, but in his enthusiasm Harald did anyway. The man below replied.

  “He says the other army was not his men, not friends of his. He says the prisoners we have, they are his men and he wants them back. That’s why he brought the danegeld. That, and so we would leave.”

  “I see,” Thorgrim said. “It seems we’ve wandered into some sort of civil war. Don’t say that to this bastard,” he added and Harald nodded.

  “Anyway, we want no part of this,” Thorgrim continued. “But we do want their silver. Tell him to fetch it and we’ll put a ladder down for him. Tell him he won’t be harmed.”

  Thorgrim expected to see fear, or at least reluctance on the part of the Englishman, being asked into the wolf’s den, but he showed no sign of either, and Thorgrim was impressed. Instead, the Englishman returned to the others and gave an order and four of his men climbed down from their horses and retrieved sacks that had been tied to their saddles. Then the five of them walked back toward the wall as two of Thorgrim’s men lowered a ladder down.

  The one in charge climbed halfway up the ladder, moving awkwardly as he carried with him the sack, which was apparently quite heavy. Thorgrim was pleased to see that. He expected there was at least twenty-five pounds of silver in the sack, and in the other three as well.

  The gods are doing us a great kindness, Thorgrim thought. Or at least the English are. If Blood Hawk had not been damaged then they would have sailed away before the danegeld arrived. The English would have lost the prisoners but would have rid themselves of the Northmen for free.

  Harald reached down and took the bag from the man, and the other three were passed up as well. As the fourth bag came up, the man on the ladder did so too, bringing the bag with him. He pulled the top open so that Thorgrim could see the dull gleam of the silver inside, then set the bag down with the others. He stood and looked Thorgrim in the eye.

  Yes, I remember you…Thorgrim thought. And he did. He remembered the calm and expressionless face, the assuredness, bordering on arrogance. The Englishman spoke, and even though he knew by now that Harald was the one who understood, he held Thorgrim’s eyes.

  “He says the silver is there. One hundred pounds, as agreed,” Harald said. “He says he would like his men-at-arms back.”

  “And the priests?” Thorgrim asked. “I thought he was paying for the priests as well.”

  Harald translated. “Yes, he says the priests as well,” Harald said, though it was clear that the men of God were an afterthought.

  “Tell him he’ll get his men when we sail, which should be soon,” Thorgrim said. He waited as the words passed back and forth.

  “He says he’ll expect the men to be healthy and assembled with their armor and weapons,” Harald said and Thorgrim laughed. He could not help himself.

  “Ask him, does he really expect me to give the men back fully armed and set them right here where they can join in an attack against us?”

  Harald translated the words and Thorgrim saw the flicker of doubt cross the Englishman’s face. “He says you made a promise to return the men,” Harald said.

  “Yes, I did,” said Thorgrim. “The men. Not the armor or weapons. Nor did I say where I would leave them. Tell him we’ll sail…” He glanced out at the tide line. Already lower than he would like, and the men were still working on Blood Hawk.

  “Tell him we’ll sail tomorrow. We’ll take his men and we’ll leave them on the south side of the big harbor east of here. We’ll leave them with the clothes they wear, nothing more. And if this fellow continues to annoy me we won’t leave them with even that much.”

  Harald translated and once again Thorgrim saw the concern on the man’s face. He hid it well, it was just a shadow of worry, but Thorgrim could see it. And he knew that if the Englishman showed that much concern on his face, then he was holding quite a bit more in his heart.

  Thorgrim folded his arms. He waited for a reply, for a counter-offer. But he guessed the Englishman was no fool and would understand that he had nothing with which to bargain. There was no argument that he could make, so his reply consisted of just two words.

  “He says, ‘tomorrow, then,’” Harald translated.

  Chapter Nineteen

  That which I will ask thee,

  and I desire to know:

  who here holds sway,

  and has power over these lands

  and costly halls?

  The Poetic Edda

  The meeting was much like the previous one, and much different. The same ten men seated in the same hall, Odd’s long hall, and seated at the same table. Even seated at the same places. The food and ale were the same, the same servants scurrying back and forth.

  But it was not the same mood. Before, it had been serious, but friendly as well. Neighborly. Now the anger was palpable. It hung like the smoke from the hearth fire. It hung in the silence, the stunned silence, as the men tried to understand what Odd had said, and all it implied.

  “You had this all thought out beforehand?” Ulfkel Ospaksson said, the first to speak. “You knew Halfdan would send men, and you had your men dig this…hidden ditch? A trap?”

  “Yes, I did,” Odd said. He could hear in his voice a mixture of guilt and defiance, anger and contrition. Those were the same emotions that had been roiling his thoughts since he had pulled off that ambush, and since he had realized that this meeting could not be avoided. He had no choice but to inform the hauldar of what he had done. He could not let them find out in some other way and think that he was trying to hide from his actions. He could not let them think he was avoiding their wrath.

  “This was in no way a good idea,” Amundi Thorsteinsson began, and the others fell silent. As the oldest and wealthiest among them, Amundi commanded their respect. “I understand why you did it, Odd. And maybe it would have had the effect you hoped for. Sent a message to Halfdan. If yo
u had not shed blood. That was your mistake. That’s something Halfdan cannot ignore.”

  Odd pressed his lips together and he looked at Amundi and considered his reply. He had anticipated this point, struggled to form an answer long before his actions would be questioned. But he had come up with nothing. Nothing but the truth, which he did not particularly wish to speak.

  “It was a fight,” Odd said at last. “A hard fight. Halfdan’s men were in no mood to yield, and they did not. Sometimes blood is spilled in battle.”

  He looked from man to man. They all knew it was the truth, but not one of them was mollified by that explanation.

  Ulfkel Ospaksson took a drink, shook his head, took another drink. “This won’t go well, I reckon. Halfdan won’t just let this go. He can’t.”

  Vifil spoke next. “He ignored us once. When we went to speak to him. What a great show of friendship he made, but it was just his way of putting us off so he might continue to do as he wished. But he won’t ignore this.”

  “He’s a clever one. He’ll try to divide us,” Amundi said.

  “Divide us?” Ulfkel said with sudden vehemence. “Divide us? He has no need to divide us. Odd did that himself, dividing us. Did a fine job of it, killing Halfdan’s men without a thought of telling us that he planned to do it.”

  “Maybe Odd was wrong in that,” Vifil broke in, “but still we cannot…”

  Odd held up his hands. “Please!” he said, loudly, and the others stopped talking.

  “Please, my friends, let’s not have this argument, at least not until I’ve said what I need to say. And then I hope there’ll be no more call for argument.”

  No one objected. They sat quiet, regarding him with looks of frustration, anger, curiosity, any of the many things they were feeling at the moment.

  “When I asked you all to come here the first time, I only wanted to tell you what Halfdan was trying to do. Trying to grab up my father’s farm. Honestly, that was all I wished, just to tell you that, and to hear what you had to say about it. The idea of us going to Halfdan, voicing our concerns, that just came into my head. That was not my intention.”

  “But it was not a bad thought,” Amundi said. “Something had to be done, and even Halfdan couldn’t find fault in talking.”

  “Yes, talking’s fine,” Ulfkel said. “But now Odd is talking with his sword, and Halfdan can certainly can find fault with that.”

  “I don’t regret the talking,” Odd said. “I agree it had to be done. Words must always be tried first, before blood is shed. But I’m sorry now I made you all part of this. It was my fight.”

  “You said that Halfdan wouldn’t stop at taking Thorgrim’s farm,” said Ragi Oleifsson. “That he was greedier than that. I thought that was true when you said it, and I think it’s doubly true now.” As the least influential of the lot, Ragi’s lands were the most vulnerable to Halfdan’s efforts to expand his holdings.

  “We don’t know…” Ulfkel started, but again Odd held up his hands.

  “Please!” He waited until it was quiet once more. “Come morning, I will ride to Grømstad. I’ll give myself up to Halfdan, explain how the ambush and the bloodletting were my responsibility alone—not any of yours—and I’ll take what punishment he sees fit to give.”

  Once again there was silence at the long table, brought on by yet another surprise from Odd. No one had any illusions as to where Odd’s actions would lead. At best Odd could hope to lose Thorgrim’s farm and his own as well. Somewhat worse, he would lose his life. Worst of all, he would die an ignoble death after seeing his family taken and sold as slaves.

  If there was something even more terrible than that, Odd did not care to think about it.

  He waited to hear if there were any objections. In some dark corner of his mind he hoped there might be. He hoped the others might talk him out of it. And he chastised himself for a coward for even thinking such a thing, no matter how half-formed the thought might be.

  The irony, of course, was that even if one of the others tried to talk him out of this decision, Odd would never allow himself to be swayed. It was pointless to hope that any of them might try. And indeed, no one did. They all knew it was the right thing to do. The only thing.

  “Very well, then it’s decided,” Odd said in a brighter tone. “And I’m glad we don’t have to think on that anymore, because I intend to get very drunk tonight.”

  He clapped his hands and more ale and mead and wine appeared. There was food on the table already, but soon that was replaced by what would more rightly be called a feast, with servants carrying out platters piled with meat and vegetables and bread and butter and cheese. Business done, Odd’s family joined them, as did Vermund Jurundsson and Ari and the captains of the guards that some of the other landholders had brought with them.

  Despite his words, Odd did not get drunk. That was not what a good host did, and Odd knew well the advice given by the gods:

  Less good than they say for the sons of men

  is the drinking oft of ale:

  for the more they drink, the less can they think

  and keep a watch o'er their wits.

  Odd’s guests, however, did not adhere so closely to that advice and they downed ale and mead in varying quantities and grew more boisterous and loud. But that was expected of guests in a hall and no one, least of all Odd, took any offense.

  The evening turned into night and the singing and laughing and storytelling went on, cresting like a wave and then losing force, until one by one the guests began to drift off, to collapse where they had staked out a place to sleep on the long platforms that lined either side of the hall.

  Odd remained awake, sitting on one of the few chairs the hall boasted, feet thrust out near the hearth fire. He was as sober as he could be, and, indeed, he doubted that any amount of drink could quell the turmoil in his mind.

  Of the guests, Amundi Thorsteinsson was the only one still awake. He sat near Odd, facing the fire as well, while the servants cleared away the last of the extraordinary mess spread over the table, benches and floor. Amundi seemed as sober as Odd, and Odd guessed he was. Amundi was not a young man and he was not the sort to give himself over to drink.

  “It’s a brave thing you’re doing, going to Halfdan, admitting what you did,” Amundi said, breaking the long silence.

  “Hmm,” Odd said. “It’s not so brave when you have no choice.”

  “You have a choice. You could choose to save your life.”

  “I could save my life and lose my honor. As I said, it’s not really a choice.”

  They were silent again for some time, and then Amundi said, “When you thought of this idea, of setting a trap for Einar and his men, you did not intend to wound anyone, or kill them, did you?”

  “No,” Odd said. “Even I could see that it would be foolish to start the killing. That sort of thing does not end well.”

  “And I’ll wager that your men did as you said. They did not draw blood.”

  Odd looked up from the fire, over at Amundi. “I don’t think they did. No. I know they didn’t. They obeyed my command.”

  Amundi nodded. “So it was you, wasn’t it? In the heat of it, you drew blood. Cut Einar’s men down. You weren’t even thinking. You just let the madness take you.”

  Odd did not reply. He tried to see what Amundi meant by saying such a thing. Was there accusation in his voice? Criticism? Odd could not hear it.

  “That’s right,” Odd said at last. “It was me. I’m ashamed to admit it. And ashamed I didn’t admit it to the others, earlier. But it was me. I went mad.”

  Amundi looked up and met Odd’s eyes. “I thought so. You are so very much like your father,” he said.

  Those words came as a great surprise to Odd. It was not something that he had ever considered, not once. “My brother, Harald, he’s the one who’s like our father,” Odd said. “Not me.”

  Amundi shook his head.

  “Harald is the one who went a’viking,” Odd continued his argument.
“Like our father did. And you. I stayed home and tended my farm.”

  “Did you want to stay home?” Amundi asked. “Or did your father talk you into it? Talk you into staying with your family?”

  Odd said nothing. Amundi knew the truth. Odd thought of the harsh words he and his father had exchanged, the anger and disappointment and resentment he had felt. Resentment toward Thorgrim and Harald and Signy. To be left behind in such a way. It was like a bitter taste in his mouth. A taste he had forgotten, but now was tasting again.

  “I’ve known Thorgrim and Hallbera since we were all young,” Amundi continued. “And I’ve known you children all your lives. Your brother, Harald, he is very much the mix of your parents. He has a lot of Hallbera in him. And Ornolf the Restless. But you, you are very much the image of Thorgrim Ulfsson.”

  Odd frowned, but he did not know how to reply, so he looked back into the flames.

  “That’s how I knew what happened when you fought with Einar,” Amundi said. “As you said, your father and I went a’viking when we were about your age. I’ve seen how battle could bring the madness on him. Sweep him away.”

  “I…I don’t have…the wolf dreams,” Odd said.

  “Good,” Amundi said. “I don’t think your father looked on them as a gift. But Thorgrim is much more than just the wolf dreams. As are you.”

  They were quiet again for a long time. Then Odd said, “I wish I was like my father, but I’m not. My father built great wealth. Fame. A place of honor. And now I’m going to lose it all, everything he built and I built, because of my own stupidity.”

  “And yet…I don’t think there’s anything you’ve done that your father would not have done.”

  “No…save for ruining everything, and bringing harm to the people he was sworn to protect.”

  “Your father risked everything, many times,” Amundi said. “But the gods favored him, because he was worthy of their favor. Now you, too, have chosen to take the bold path, to shun the coward’s way. And I think the gods will look with favor on you as well.”