by Angus Donald
The other girl confirmed her story. And the eye was evidently not fresh.
‘Where is Freki?’ said Tor.
Bjarki looked round the circle of faces. The Bago youth was nowhere to be seen. They searched his sleeping place and found his possessions still there. His blankets and furs rumpled and recently slept in by their look.
Tor, rummaging in the rushes on the floor of the house by Bjarki’s bed, found a sword, a fine one, with a grip made of silver wire and a large piece of polished amber set in the top of the iron pommel.
‘Is it his sword?’ asked Otto. It was. A crony of Freki confirmed it.
They took Freki’s possessions apart, then. Tearing the seams of his clothing, emptying his chest out on the floor of the longhouse. In the toe of an old pair of dirty woollen stockings, they found a small leather bag containing twelve gold coins – a fortune. On one side of the coin was a profile of Karolus, his famous beak of a nose making identification obvious. On the other side the coin was marked with letters and a Christian cross.
They searched every corner of the longhouse, the latrines and the area outside the building. Then ranged over the whole compound.
There was no sign of Freki.
‘I’ll have to report it in the morning, if he hasn’t come back,’ said Otto gloomily as they sat at the table an hour later and passed round the ale jug.
‘Not just because he attacked you, Bjarki – I have full authority to stand in judgement over small disputes in the Auxilla – but because it looks like the fool has broken his solemn oath and deserted. It’s punishable with death. But Lord Grimoald must be informed. I’m sorry, but he must be told. They will hunt him down, they have special cabellarii companies designated just for that purpose, and if they catch him, which they will—’
‘Somebody paid him to kill Bjarki,’ said Tor, pouring out a cup of ale.
‘We don’t know that,’ said Otto.
‘I do. Why else would Freki Olafsson have twelve gold livres?’
Otto declined to reply.
‘Freki may be gone,’ she said. ‘But the person who paid him is still in Aachen.’ Tor’s logic was unassailable. ‘So Bjarki is still at risk.’
* * *
They celebrated the twelve days of the midwinter feast of Jul in the longhouse, bringing in boughs of green stuff, eating roast goose and pork, drinking a strong, specially brewed ale. There were games and songs and old jests, and they did no military training or work of any kind. Even the ceremonial honour guard for the king was suspended during this time of drunken jollity.
The snow fell and covered the world in a thick white blanket and, on more than one occasion, Bjarki wondered where Freki was – was he out there in the snow somewhere, friendless, hunted by squads of Frankish horsemen without food or clothing, or even his sword, trying to make it back to Bago?
He pitied Freki; there, he admitted it. But he did not dare mention these thoughts to Tor, who would, he knew, have been scathing. The fellow had tried to kill him. He was an enemy – a mortal enemy, as Tor would no doubt phrase it. You weren’t supposed to pity your mortal enemies. Let ’em freeze.
The threat of another assassin, Bjarki took seriously. He and Tor never slept at the same time, always one of them would be keeping watch, no matter how much Jul ale had been taken. But they were not attacked again.
Bjarki soon became bored with the endless singing and drinking. And when Karolus summoned him for a private audience in the last days of the festival period, he was actually eager to see the great man once again.
He did not tell Tor where he was going and passed a pleasant and relatively sober afternoon with the King of Francia, during which they discussed many things to do with Bjarki’s homeland, and the customs and beliefs of his people. He seemed particularly interested in the Groves of Eresburg, and the great Irminsul, and the story of Odin’s nine-day ordeal on the One Tree – and the shrine that held the wealth of the Groves. Bjarki was flattered that the king should concern himself with such matters outside his realm, and always answered Karolus’s questions as honestly as he could.
And the passage of information was not all one way.
While Karolus and Bjarki conversed over the next few days and weeks, sometimes for hours, they were regularly interrupted by messengers and courtiers, and by visits from counts and bishops and other high functionaries.
Father Livinus had been away much of the winter on a long trip to the North, overseeing his county of Westphalia, no doubt, and the priest returned one cold February day in triumph. He and the king were closeted together for a time, before Karolus returned to his conversation with Bjarki and it was clear there had been some sort of victory in southwest Saxony.
The picture emerged slowly, Bjarki putting the news together from fragments of conversations that he caught over the next few days and weeks.
Theodoric had been forced to summon his jarls in the depths of winter – an unheard of practice – and with five hundred men he had hurried south to counter a large Frankish incursion into Westphalia led by Father Livinus.
The wild charge of the Saxons had disintegrated on the tightly packed disciplined infantry formations of the Red Cloaks, and the massed assaults of the cabellarii that followed rolled over the shield wall of hersirs and their followers. The Saxons had been broken, routed, and slaughter had ensued.
Duke Theodoric had fled the battle, retreating with his remaining jarls through the cruel snows rather than fighting on and risking death or capture – and this was, perhaps, a wise course. Theodoric was the symbol of the united tribes of Saxony. If he were killed, his realm could be eaten up piece by piece. Most of Westphalia had already been gobbled up by the Franks. Even Karolus admitted that his enemy had made the right choice. But the once-all-mighty Saxon leader was now penned in the northern part of his territory – in the lands of the Nordalbians – while the victorious Franks built churches on what had once been Saxon lands and divided the spoils of war.
When Bjarki passed on the news to the other members of the Auxilla, the response in the longhouse was mixed. Captain Otto insisted they must all drink a loyal toast to the noble king and his glorious victory, but some members of the company, Bjarki noticed, did not taste their ale. And Tor went so far as to spit noisily on to the floor rushes when Otto hoisted his horn.
Bjarki felt undecided about the battle. On the one hand, a people similar to his own folk in the Dane-Mark had been defeated. The bloodshed must have been terrible and he wondered whether any of the Fyr Skola people, any of his friends, had been involved in the fight, and had perhaps even lost their lives.
On the other hand, what did the deaths of a few hundred Saxon hersirs really mean to him? He did not know any of them personally; they were not his kin, nor even his neighbours. Was he not now an oath-sworn soldier of Francia? His side had won a great victory. His lord Karolus had triumphed.
There was other information he gathered that was less troublesome to his conscience. And Bjarki recounted his latest snippet at the supper table in the longhouse one night as an amusing diversion, more than anything else.
‘There is a region called Thuringia, I am told, in the southeast of the king’s domain, east of Swabia,’ he began. ‘And in this remote region there is a village called Eggeldorf, which has been plagued by a dread monster!’
‘Eggeldorf, what a stupid name!’ giggled Brandt, who was drunk. ‘It means Egg Town. Are they famous for their huge eggs? Ha-ha! They should be famous for their poor chickens who have to squeeze out those eggs.’
‘I was in Thuringia once, long ago,’ said Otto. ‘The old King Pepin was doing a tour of his territories. I’d just been recruited to the Auxilla—’
‘Tell us of this dreadful monster,’ said Yoni in her sweet lilting accent.
‘Quiet, everyone! Let the oaf tell us his story,’ yelled Tor, banging her hand down hard on the table and, as had become usual, she was obeyed.
‘The monster is a massive creature from the depths of Hel’s real
m,’ intoned Bjarki, ‘three times the size of a grown man, wilder than ten angry bulls, with eyes that glow with an otherworldly fire, and huge fangs that drip with venom. It is a foul beast straight out of your very worst nightmare.’
‘More, more,’ shrieked Yoni happily. ‘Tell us more about it!’
Bjarki grinned. ‘It has sword-blades for hands, which can cut through even the toughest scale-mail, and its skin is armoured with iron or protected by some magic. An ordinary blade can never penetrate its flesh; warriors’ spears and arrows bounce right off its thick hide. And it eats men – and women – whenever it can catch them. Its favourite meat is newborn baby.’
Bjarki was enjoying himself. He could see by the expressions around the long table that his comrades’ flesh was creeping most satisfactorily.
‘Six folk have already been claimed by this fell demon – all from Eggeldorf and the surrounding forestlands.’ Bjarki paused and looked around the table. ‘All were eaten alive, crunched down and swallowed whole, with nothing left but scraps and bones and a huge pool of blood.
‘Before long the good people of Eggeldorf grew desperate. They knew this monster would destroy them all, one by one, if they did not do something. They hired a champion – a warrior from Aquitaine, a noble cabellarius, the victor of a dozen such dangerous quests – to come and kill the fiend. He travelled to Eggeldorf, and they paid him in silver, in advance, to rid them of this curse. And one dark night the bold hero strapped on his full armour, and went alone into the deep forest in search of this cruel and terrible monster, his long, steel-tipped lance grasped tightly in his hand…’
Bjarki paused then and took a long, slow pull from his ale cup.
‘What happened then?’ Yoni was hanging on Bjarki’s every word. She really is quite pretty, Tor thought. But does she really need to make her eyes so big, so round, and to snuggle up quite so close to the storyteller?
‘The villagers of Eggeldorf heard the noise of a colossal battle taking place in the woods nearby, the clash of steel on claw, the angry roars of the creature, the screams of the brave cabellarius, such terrible screams…’
Bjarki took another unnecessary sip of his ale.
‘And? Don’t stop there!’ Yoni seized Bjarki’s large right bicep and squeezed it. The bitch is utterly shameless, thought Tor, but then my oaf is quite oblivious to her interest in him, so maybe she needs to be that obvious.
‘The Aquitainian was never seen again. All that the villagers found next day were his boots, torn to shreds, drenched in his heart’s blood.’
Bjarki revelled in the total silence that followed his tale. He smiled: ‘And to this day, none in Eggeldorf dare to venture into the forest that surrounds them. And no one who wishes to live goes out of doors at night.’
The silence in the longhouse was absolute.
‘They sound like a cowardly bunch of nithings,’ said Tor. ‘Pathetic.’
She found she was glaring at Yoni. The Hibernian girl saw her fierce look, released Bjarki’s arm and moved away, further down the bench.
‘They’re just ordinary villagers,’ said Bjarki, now feeling deflated. ‘Not everyone is as fearless as you, Tor. And since when have you been a monster-slayer? Sensibly, they sent word to the king begging for his help.’
‘I’d kill that monster soon as look at it,’ she said. ‘Is that where you heard this pack of nonsense? Sitting like a good dog at Karolus’s knee?’
‘It’s all true. I heard a royal messenger read the Eggeldorf petition yesterday.’ Bjarki was becoming irritated with his friend. Why was she being so unpleasant about a piece of after-supper fun – a nice scary tale.
‘Well, if it is true, then let’s do it.’
‘Eh?’
‘I said, if your monster is real, and these Egg-folk need help, let’s do it. You and me, Bjarki; two warriors of Eresburg. We’ll do this together.’
‘What are you talking about, Tor?’
‘Let’s go to Thuringia, just the two of us, and kill us a monster.’
* * *
Bjarki, Tor and Captain Otto stood in a straight line at strict attention in front of the dais at the western end of the massive council hall of Aachen.
It was the first time that Bjarki had used his right as a member of the Auxilla to request an audience with the king since most of their other meetings had been informal, in the palace complex a few hundred paces away, and at Karolus’s invitation. As he looked up at the stern figure on his massive throne, crowned in gold, clad in purple robes, surrounded by the soaring magnificence of the council hall, he wondered if he knew this great man at all. Karolus seemed so different to the homely fellow who had been amused by his rambling stories of Bago, the Dane-Mark and the Fyr Skola.
He had approached Lord Grimoald the morning after his recounting of the tale of the monster of Eggeldorf, visiting the bearded giant in his large brick house at the entrance of the compound. At first, the King’s Shield had flatly refused his request. But Bjarki had insisted, and when Grimoald asked why he wished to see his royal master, Bjarki refused to tell him. It was his right, he repeated, granted to him by the king himself, after the fight in the amphitheatre, when he had first been sworn into the Auxilla.
Reluctantly Lord Grimoald had agreed and here Bjarki was, a day later, with Tor and Otto, standing stiffly before the world’s most powerful man.
Father Livinus announced him formally – as if the king had never set eyes on him before – and there was yet another strangeness that Bjarki found deeply uncomfortable. The priest was no longer wearing the plain, undyed robes that for so long had seemed a part of his personality. He was clad in a series of robes even more gaudy than his war mantle – the bright raiment he had last seen on the Bishop of Aachen. He was even carrying the shepherd’s crook of office, too, a long golden pole with an elaborately curled top piece.
‘Bjarki Bloodhand, Trooper First-Class in His Majesty’s Auxilla, craves a personal audience with you, sire,’ boomed Father Livinus.
‘He has it,’ replied Karolus, in a frosty tone. ‘Speak up, Bjarki, tell me what is in your mind. You’ve not come to tell another fairytale, have you?’
Bjarki was unsure how to begin. Tor and he had discussed the idea of travelling to Thuringia and killing the monster of Eggeldorf long into the night – and, while Bjarki had at first thought the idea fantastical, absurd, Tor had persuaded him that it would be an excellent way of winning renown. If they succeeded, every citizen in Francia and beyond would know their names.
‘You want to be famous,’ Bjarki had asked. ‘Is that all it is?’
‘No, oaf, it’s not just that. Use your thick head, will you?’
Bjarki shook his head: he was still baffled.
The other occupants of the longhouse had all gone to bed, and Tor brought her head in very close to his. ‘We wish to save our homelands, yes?’ she whispered. ‘We hope to overthrow this foul nation of Franks, with its silly religion, and to destroy the person of Karolus and all he stands for?’
Bjarki wasn’t sure what he wanted. But he nodded along anyway.
‘To do that, we must rise. We must rise until we are close to the seat of power. Close to the king himself. And the fame we will earn by killing this monster will ensure that we are folk of great renown and high regard throughout his realm. We will seek a promotion, perhaps even out of this ramshackle gang of incompetent boobies. Perhaps we might make officers in the Scholares. Senior officers. We could even one day perhaps replace old Grimoald as the King’s Shield. As Karolus’s personal bodyguards. Trusted absolutely. Just think what we could achieve if that were the case?’
‘What could we achieve then?’
‘Think!’
‘Why should I? You seem to insist on doing my thinking for me.’
Tor glared at him.
‘All right,’ said Bjarki. ‘We kill the monster of Eggeldorf, we rise through the ranks of the Black Cloaks; we get close to Karolus, and – what? – we cruelly murder him and all his family. Is
that your bloodthirsty plan?’
‘With one death we could cripple the whole of Francia. Almost all power resides in Karolus – you know that. He is the glue that binds it all together. With him dead – and his family – chaos results. We could preserve Saxony, the Dane-Mark, Svearland – our world – for a generation or more!’
Bjarki felt slightly sick at this stark outlining of Tor’s brutal plan. But when Tor described it as saving their world, he felt he could hardly refuse.
‘Your Majesty,’ Bjarki said finally, speaking particularly loudly and clearly for the whole council hall to hear, ‘we have heard tell of a terrible monster that is ravaging your eastern domains, in the vicinity of Eggeldorf, in the province of Thuringia. We come here today, my companions and I, with an offer of service. We would travel to Eggeldorf and destroy the fiend in Your Majesty’s name, for your glory and the relief of your subjects.’
‘You want to go to Thuringia?’ said Karolus.
‘We do, sire – to defeat the dread monster of Eggeldorf.’
‘Have you ever been to Thuringia? Do you even know the way there?’
‘Our brave commander, Captain Otto, here, has been there, sire, with your late father, many years ago. We also hoped you might furnish us with directions or even a map…’
Bjarki glanced at Captain Otto. Their brave commander looked utterly terrified. And Bjarki began to feel uneasy in himself. This was a silly plan.
Lord Grimoald, who had been standing behind the throne glowering at the three petitioners before the dais, stepped forward then. He leaned in and whispered in Karolus’s right ear for what seemed an inordinately long time.
Grimoald will surely block it, thought Bjarki. He must suspect us.
When Lord Grimoald had finished speaking, Karolus beckoned Livinus to his side and another hushed conversation took place.
Finally, the king dismissed the priest.
He looked coldly at Bjarki and said: ‘There is one thing I must insist on. I require an undertaking that you will return here, to Aachen, after you have encountered this creature. Do you now give such an undertaking?’
