The Last Berserker

by Angus Donald

  ‘Will we be given any food today, sir?’ asked Bjarki, very humbly.

  ‘Food?’ said Henk. ‘Oh yes, yes, God bless my soul, yes. Humboldt’s cooking up a nice rich pottage down in the kitchens as we speak: cabbage with bacon fat, lovely. You will certainly be given food. Not going to starve you, are they? Not with what you will very soon have to do in the arena.’

  ‘How about ale?’ said Tor, coming over to stand at the bars, facing the shapeless sack of a man on the other side. ‘Got any ale in the kitchens?’

  ‘No, no ale. I don’t think so, no. I could bring you a wine flask, if you like. An honest Aquitainian; sweet and dark. You’d like some wine, yes?’

  ‘Thank you, Henk,’ said Bjarki. ‘You are most kind.’

  The old turnkey blushed. ‘Not at all. It’s a pleasure to have such a pair of distinguished wiz— ah, two such famous beast-war— no, I mean such noble Saxon guests as you, in my charge. A pleasure. Now let me go and see to your supper. Make yourselves comfortable and I’ll be back in a wink.’

  The gaoler shuffled away down the passage, and Tor turned to Bjarki.

  ‘Thank you, Henk?’ she said, her voice full of scorn.

  ‘He was being kind. I don’t see the point in annoying him – or any of them, to be honest. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘They are our mortal enemies, oaf! They are keeping us prisoner in a lion’s cage. Treating us like filthy animals. Have you gone soft in the head?’

  ‘Have you?’ said Bjarki. ‘Do you think they will respect us if you are rude to them? Do you think your discourtesy or your rude behaviour’s going to frighten them into – what – letting us go? They think we’re animals – I really believe they do think that – and snarling at them is what they expect.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you have a cup of honest Aquitainian with the old man, since you like him so much. Why don’t you give him a big wet kiss.’

  ‘That’s what I was thinking, too. Well, not the kissing part. But I would like to know what these people have planned for us. I want to know more of them. Be polite to the old man, Tor, be friendly. What harm can it do?’

  ‘You be friendly to him. I’m going to sleep.’ She plucked a blanket from his hands and went over to the pile of straw in the corner of the cell.

  * * *

  When she awoke several hours later, Bjarki was sitting with his back to the brick wall, a blanket over his knees. She thought it must be a little past midnight. Bjarki had left a cup of wine and bowl of cabbage and bacon stew for her beside her straw pile – it was stone cold by now, of course. But she was stiff, chilly and starving and so ate it with some measure of enjoyment.

  ‘So what did you learn being all lovey-dovey with our friend?’ she said at last, scraping the last of the grease from the bowl with her wooden spoon.

  ‘In three days’ time, when the king returns to Aachen, we must do battle in the ancient amphitheatre above our heads,’ he said. ‘It’s to be a trial by combat according to the old Frankish laws. We have been accused in absentia of murdering the king’s men at the castrum in Thursby. Their god will judge our guilt or innocence by the result of the battle. We’re fighting other captives, warriors from the east, not Franks, they’re Av-somethings.’

  ‘I think they must be Avars,’ said Tor. ‘Valtyr has told me all about them. Fierce people. Horsemen, mostly. Well, that was to be expected. A demonstration of our combat skills. Good. Nothing to worry about, Bjarki. I’m sure we can handle a couple of Avar tribesmen between us. You’re pretty much healed, aren’t you? It is good news, oaf. If we want respect, we’d better show ’em that we’re Fyr Skola folk, and not to be trifled with.’

  ‘It is not good news, Tor,’ said Bjarki. He looked extremely sad rather than frightened. ‘And it’s not just a couple of Avar warriors.’ He looked at Tor. ‘We have to fight forty of them.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  A matter of faith

  Bjarki made the most of his new friendship with Henk, talking to the old gaoler for many hours each day. He was naturally curious about the people who had received them in the council hall on their arrival in Aachen, and their talks took his mind off the coming battle in the amphitheatre.

  ‘Queen Hildegard is the king’s second wife,’ Henk told him. ‘Karolus had a lovely, sweet-tempered Lombard lady before, from north Italy, Desiderata she was called, but, well, the Lombards are really not quite the thing just now. Heretics, they say. Arians. I’m told the king means to go to war with them soon, to sort them out. So he put away sweet Desiderata, had the match annulled by the Holy Father in Rome. And he married Hildegard last year. She’s already given him a son – a baby Karolus – what a good wife she is! And she came with such a dowry. Her father was the Duke of Swabia and had vast lands in Neustria and in Alemannia in the mountains on the borders with Lombardy. A dazzling match – she’s almost as rich as he is!’

  ‘And the young lord – Duke Gerold – he is her relative?’ said Bjarki.

  ‘He’s her older brother – and after his father died, he became the new Duke of Swabia. She’s the regent here when Karolus is on his travels – which is often, he has a lot of territory to oversee, of course, and a lot of local lords to keep in line. But Gerold claims that he should be Karolus’s viceroy in Aachen on account of his wealth and power and, ah, because he’s a successful soldier and the king’s lieutenant in battle, and his sister… isn’t. Many girls would defer to him. But not Hildegard. She knows her value.’

  Henk looked over his shoulder at the empty corridor.

  ‘I shouldn’t gossip like this, Bjarki, but I don’t suppose it matters much. You won’t tell anyone, will you, and in a couple more days, well, you’ll probably be—’ The fat old gaoler stopped and turned beetroot.

  Bjarki felt a twinge in his belly. In two days he and Tor would be dead.

  ‘Who was the angry little fellow with the golden shepherd’s crook?’

  ‘That’s Lord Paulinus, Bishop of Aachen and Karolus’s chaplain and chancellor, his right-hand man. The queen might be the regent – and what she says goes when the king is not here – but our Karolus relies on Lord Paulinus to run his whole kingdom efficiently for him. He keeps the regional vassals, all the dukes, counts, bishops and abbots honest. He’s got spies everywhere and he always knows what’s going on long before anyone else.’

  ‘So Lord Paulinus is Father Livinus’s master then?’

  ‘Yes, and some say his greatest rival. Father Livinus has his own networks of friends and allies; he’s been appointed Count of Westphalia, as well as a priest, and apostle – and his self-proclaimed mission is to bring all of the pagan lands of the North into the light of Our Lord Jesus Christ. I’ve heard that Karolus likes him, trusts him. And he’s supremely ambitious.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about these high and mighty folk, Henk.’

  ‘Been here a long time, Bjarki. And old Malleus, he relies on me – he’s not so well these days; it’s his old heart, he says, and I spend a good deal of my time nursing him, bringing him hot wine. He doesn’t go out much so there are always people coming in and out of his apartments, you see he still has some influence here despite his health. I pick up scraps here and there.’

  ‘Tell me about that huge warrior, Grim-bold or something like that. He looks like a very interesting fellow.’

  The usually loquacious Henk fell strangely silent.

  After a pause he said: ‘Lord Grimoald is his name. He’s the King’s Shield, captain of the Scholares, the royal bodyguard – or the Black Cloaks, some call them because of their… I’ll say nothing out of turn about him.’

  ‘Come on, Henk, as you said, it’s not like I’ll ever see him again.’

  Henk shot a frightened little glance down the corridor. ‘He’s a wicked man. Born a pagan but he’s come to Christ under Karolus’s guidance. They say he’s personally killed more men than the plague. He too has spies…’

  ‘He certainly looks fearsome enough.’

  ‘He is
the knife in the darkness, the slow agonising death on the rack. There are some lightless cells in the eastern part of this very amphitheatre that his Black Cloaks use for their interrogations…’ Henk shuddered. ‘I’ve said too much, lad. Must get on. Can’t chatter here all day like a fishwife.’

  And he turned and hurried away.

  * * *

  While Tor was quietly scornful when Bjarki conversed with the old gaoler, she did at least refrain from antagonising him. Henk was indeed a lonely man and despite his abrupt departure that morning, he enjoyed Bjarki’s company and he returned in a happier mood later that day, bringing food and wine and little comforts of various kinds – a table and two stools, more blankets, hot water, soap and a towel, clean clothes, and a steel mirror and razor so that Bjarki might make himself presentable for the king when he had to stand before his presence in the amphitheatre for the trial by combat.

  ‘In the old days, in the days of the Empire, before the Church put a stop to it, we regularly used to have barbarians and slaves fighting to the death in the amphitheatre. Couple of times a year, at least, according to the old Latin scrolls I’ve read. But the Holy Father in Rome banned it, hundreds of years ago. The Church decreed that it was barbaric – but I always thought, yes, but they are barbarians, so of course it’s barbaric. But never mind that, those days are long gone – as I said we don’t even do the beast-hunts that often. So your trial by combat will be quite the event. Sure to be a good turn out.’

  ‘My death will make you happy?’ said Bjarki.

  ‘Not happy – you seem like a nice lad. And it need not be the end.’

  ‘Death is not the end?’ Bjarki sounded mystified.

  ‘Our Saviour has promised eternal life to all who come to him in faith.’

  ‘I think I’d rather have eternal life by… well, by not dying.’

  ‘No, you miss my point. Those barbarians who fought to the death in the sand before the mayors of the palace – that’s how the royal family were called, of course, before they ascended to the rank of king – they dedicated their souls to God before battle. They received Jesus Christ in their hearts.’

  ‘Even though they were about to die?’ said Bjarki. ‘They forsook their own gods on the eve of battle?’

  ‘Their false gods,’ said Henk. ‘There is only one true Lord of Hosts.’

  Bjarki said nothing. He glanced at Tor who was sitting on a stool at the table, munching bread and cheese. Tor rolled her eyes at him comically.

  ‘And they all did this, did they? They all honoured their enemies’ god before they fought here and died?’ Bjarki found this very difficult to believe.

  ‘It might sound strange. But traditionally the king, or the mayor of the palace, pardons all who fight well, but only if they are believers in Christ.’

  ‘Oh, I see. So if the slaves won their fight, if they survived that is, they would be pardoned by the king and set free, is that what you mean?’

  ‘Only if they accepted baptism and were reborn as true Christians.’

  ‘That makes a lot more sense,’ muttered Tor.

  Later when the gaoler had gone, Tor and Bjarki discussed what they might do to survive the amphitheatre.

  ‘Forty Avars! Forty hardened warriors,’ said Bjarki. ‘We might hope to beat half a dozen, even ten. But forty? We’re dead. Done. Finished.’

  ‘Maybe your gandr will come again. It might do. You’ve been practising your humming, yes? And we’ll both be armed, that’s what Henk said, we won’t be defenceless.’ Tor seemed unworried by the numbers against them.

  ‘I’ve been humming till my throat bleeds. And not a thing happens. Why aren’t you more concerned about this horde of Avars, Tor? Why?’

  ‘What is the point? Worrying won’t change anything. We’re going to fight. We’re probably going to die. But if we can put up a decent fight, die with valour, the Wingèd Ones will come and take us to the Hall of the Slain. That’s our eternal life. In Valhalla. One thing I won’t do is bow down before their stupid Christ god like a craven right before the blood begins to flow.’

  Oddly, Bjarki was rather encouraged by Tor’s nonchalance. They were probably going to die. But they could die well. And maybe, just maybe, they might fight well enough to earn a place in the All-Father’s eternal feasting hall.

  * * *

  They received a visitor on the last day, the evening of the third day. He was an unusually tall man, in his mid-twenties, with short red-gold hair and he looked fit and strong, with large expressive eyes. His defining feature was a long, curved nose, like the beak of an eagle. So quietly did he move that he seemed to suddenly appear at the bars of their cage like a magician, and he stared at them for some while before he spoke.

  Bjarki approached him. ‘You wish to speak with us?’ he said.

  ‘I came to ask if you have everything you require before the trial?’ said the man. Bjarki noticed that he had pale blue eyes. He saw Henk hovering down the corridor, lurking, in truth, and keeping a close watch over them all.

  ‘Everything but our freedom,’ said Bjarki, with a friendly smile.

  The tall man smiled back. ‘That, I am afraid, I cannot grant you. Is the food to your liking? Is it sufficient to nourish you, keep up your strength?’

  Bjarki glanced at Tor, who appeared to be asleep, rolled in a blanket on the straw mound next to a pile of assorted war equipment provided by Henk from the amphitheatre’s comprehensive, if elderly, armoury. He had a good idea who this fellow was – it must be Humboldt the slave in the kitchen who prepared their food each day. He was dressed simply in a grey woollen tunic and cross-gartered trews, with a belt with a golden buckle around his slim middle: a rare treasure for a humble cook, a gift from a rich patron perhaps.

  ‘We have no complaints,’ said Bjarki in a soft voice. He did not want to awaken Tor in case she said something rude or aggressive and angered the man who fed them so lavishly. ‘Indeed, we thank you for your kindness.’

  ‘Kindness?’ said the man. ‘I’ve not been called kind in many years.’

  ‘Your generosity, then. We are truly grateful.’

  Humboldt frowned. ‘Tell me about yourself, if you will,’ he said. ‘You hail from Saxony, I understand? Does your father owe fealty to Theodoric?’

  Bjarki laughed. ‘No, I’m an orphan. I only saw Saxony for the first time this spring. I come from Bago, which is an insignificant island off the Jutland Peninsula. My master is, I guess, Siegfried, King of the Dane-Mark.’

  ‘Indeed? And how came you to be fighting the Franks in Thursby?’

  It seemed an odd question from a cook. Bjarki began to feel unsure.

  ‘You ask about my master. May I ask who yours is?’ said Bjarki.

  ‘My master?’ said the man. ‘I suppose you could say that I serve God and the Kingdom of Francia. My masters are the peoples of these lands.’

  Bjarki nodded: a public slave. He’d heard of these kinds of thralls, owned by the community rather than an individual; now cooking in a prison.

  ‘You were telling me how you came to be at Thursby,’ said Humboldt.

  So Bjarki told the cook his story: how he had killed two boys in a rage over an insult to his girl and been taken to the Groves of Eresburg; how he’d trained there to be a warrior, but only found his gandr in the big fight at the castrum at Thursby. Then he had been wounded, captured and brought here.

  Humboldt did not interrupt once: he seemed fascinated by the long tale. When it was done, he said: ‘And how many fighters are there, like you, at these groves?’ Bjarki felt another prickle of uncertainty. He did not know this man and he had sworn an oath, he remembered belatedly, to protect the Fyr Skola and keep its secrets. He should not be blurting them out to cooks.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘hundreds. About five hundred like me, maybe more. A thousand. Now, if you will excuse me, I must sleep. I bid you a good night.’

  ‘Now, you are lying,’ said the tall man, although he did not seem to be angry. ‘But lying for the first time si
nce we met, I believe. There are not five hundred more like you. Nor yet a thousand. I believe you are rather special, if not actually unique, my friend. I can always smell an outright lie. It is my greatest gift; and my curse, too. But I’d truly like to know why you lied?’

  Bjarki actually blushed. ‘I remembered too late that I swore an oath not to reveal the secrets of… that place. Yet I fear I’ve said too much already.’

  ‘Then you must say no more about the matter. I like a man who is true to his oaths. I shall ask no more impertinent questions. God be with you.’

  The man began to walk away down the passage. After only a few steps he called back. ‘If you need anything before tomorrow, ask the old turnkey. I’ll make sure he supplies you with whatever you need before the combat.’

  ‘You know who that was, don’t you?’ said Tor sleepily from her nest of blankets.

  ‘He was the kitchen slave, Humboldt. The man who cooks our food.’

  Tor laughed. ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘No, but I guessed. He asked about how we enjoyed his food.’

  ‘That was the king, oaf. Didn’t you recognise that great beak – the famous long nose of the Frankish royal family? Never seen it on a coin?’

  ‘I’ve never owned a coin.’

  ‘Well, that was Karolus. That was the man who ordered this trial by combat, who will doubtless relish watching us being slaughtered tomorrow.’

  Bjarki stared down the empty corridor.

  Tor yawned. ‘Do you want to sleep?’ she said. ‘If you don’t, I have an idea how we might make the contest more even tomorrow. Want to hear it?’

  * * *

  They walked out of a dark tunnel and into the brilliant light of the amphitheatre.