by Kirby Crow
Two days after Haakon had hit him, the wound on Ranulf's thigh had to be cauterized.
Aleyn had been on deck, the gulls calling to one another in the thick mist overhead, the sun a yellow smear behind a blanket of gray, when Oskell approached the jarl. His colorless eyes were grim and he carried a small iron pot full of coals on a long hook. Beside him were Gamelin and a Northman with black hair and a gap-toothed smile. Together, they went into the compartment that Aleyn shared with Ranulf and did what had to be done. In short time they came out, and the gap-toothed man signaled that he should stay out of the compartment for a while. Aleyn shrugged and went back to his work, casting worried looks at the hatchway.
He would have liked to ask if Ranulf was well, but he did not know the dark man's name or if he spoke his tongue. In truth, he kept as far apart from the other Northmen as he could, except for Gamelin, who had proved to be an unlikely ally. The blond boy was taller than him, but they were roughly the same age. He did not have to ask what the knowing looks cast their way meant, not after what Ranulf had told him about Haakon and Gamelin.
Two of a kind, they're thinking, he mused sourly. Two pretty whores with their heads together. His mouth drew up into a pinched and resentful expression. He had never thought of himself as pretty, but Ranulf obviously did.
"My pretty thraell,” Ranulf often said, just before he took him into his mouth or rubbed his prick between his hands while Aleyn hid his face in the covers for shame. Ranulf always dragged the covers away and made him kiss him as he slowly brought him to climax.
His warriors rape our coasts, Aleyn thought in turmoil. They kill my countrymen and sack our monasteries, and his touch makes me believe in heaven. My people should burn me.
Gamelin could speak a little Gaelic. Which does not make him any less an animal, Aleyn thought meanly. He immediately regretted it. Gamelin had been decent to him, showing him how to work, how to row without throwing the other men off their rhythm, and how to do his tasks without getting more in the way than helping. In his spare time, Gamelin showed him how to tie knots and how the sails were rigged.
Oskell often walked by them while they were working, and one time his hand had brushed the back of Gamelin's neck in passing. Gamelin looked up and Aleyn caught the secret look that passed between them. Gamelin saw him staring and grinned.
"You not surprised, Irlander,” he stated in his broken way.
"No. Ranulf told me."
Gamelin nodded. “That is well. You, me ... both we have...” he thought for a moment. “Loyalties,” he finally decided.
Aleyn gaped at him. “You think I have loyalty to Ranulf? Why would I?"
Gamelin shrugged. “How not?"
"He is,” Aleyn waved his arms “he's a Viking!"
"So too, I,” Gamelin pointed out reasonably.
"But he takes from my people!"
Gamelin cocked his head, looking at him, and Aleyn noticed that he had skin like buttermilk and a golden scattering of freckles across his pert nose. “Your people Danes now."
Aleyn shook his head. “No. That's not how it is."
Gamelin shrugged again, clearly not caring if Aleyn could not see what was only plain sense to him. “Your old life,” he pointed to the low, white waves slapping against the distant shoreline. “Like that. Gone endless. Always away, now. A-leyn,” he poked him in the chest with a finger. “A-leyn is a Northman now. Ranulf has said. Thraell and bonded to him."
Aleyn was disturbed. ‘I would claim you', Ranulf had said when he learned that Aleyn was an orphan. Is that what he meant? Why would Ranulf say such a thing to his crewmen when he had promised to let him go at the end of the raiding season? Was he planning to go back on his word and keep him as a slave anyway, no matter how well he was pleased?
He lapsed into silence and Gamelin let the matter go. Later, when he was summoned to Ranulf's side, the Viking jarl was in pain from his cauterized leg and in no mood to tolerate questions. He had Aleyn rub some kind of fragrant, medicinal oil into his wound and lay down in the bunk, and all he required was Aleyn to disrobe and lay beside him, where he caressed Aleyn's body contemplatively, without heat, while slowly getting drunk on honey mead.
Chapter 4
The longship continued to sail south along the coastline, passing the well-defended native forts of Dal Riata, Dal Fiatach, and the thriving Viking trading bases of Annagassan and Dublin. The native forts were inhabited by clans descended from the fierce Belgae and too large for a single raiding party to take on. The longship—Aleyn found out at last that its name was Lymskr, which Ranulf explained meant wily, or cunning—arrived three weeks later at the Viking trading post of Arklow. It would have been one week, but a black storm sent them scurrying from the coast into the open sea for five days, where the sail was damaged. They put to shore when the weather allowed and repaired it, and thus lost several more days.
The crew muttered during this time, casting dark looks Aleyn's way and making the sign with their fingers against evil fortune. Ranulf invariably ordered him into the compartment whenever tensions became high on the ship. Several fights broke out and the jarl suppressed them with his customary mercilessness, knifing one man who would have struck him. Aleyn questioned Gamelin about it, but the youth was close-mouthed and would say nothing except that Aleyn should keep very quiet and do his work.
During the voyage, there had been only two more raids: one in a prosperous and large town in Oirghialla, and another in a smaller steading further south. Both times, Aleyn had railed and cursed at Ranulf, and the Viking had reluctantly had him restrained aboard the longship. However, he was scrupulous to make sure that Haakon was present on the following raids, and never left aboard while Aleyn was alone and defenseless. When Aleyn thought of this at all, he observed bitterly to himself that Ranulf was only jealous of his property, like a dog with a bone. He was certain the Northman felt nothing for him personally, and it was only his pride of ownership that secured Aleyn's continued health among the Viking warriors.
In bed, Ranulf's hands often found the scar on his shoulder. “What is this?” he invariably asked, tracing the thick white line with his finger.
"Nothing,” Aleyn replied, and not all of Ranulf's subtle prodding could get him to tell.
When Arklow was sighted on the horizon, Aleyn counted on his fingers and reckoned then that he had been with Ranulf almost a month. Viking settlements were a hated thing on the island, but Aleyn's people were disorganized and torn by clan raids of their own, unable to band together to repel this ongoing influx of Northmen who came to take and stayed to conquer. It was said that some clan leaders had begun to make pacts with the foreigners and enter into treaties and trade agreements with them, but Aleyn found this too incredible to believe.
The Lymskr rounded the frothy headway and met with five other longships beached ashore. Ranulf ordered his raven banner to be raised. A large encampment of wedge-shaped tents and hide shelters squatted on the hill above the shore, dominated by a huge, circular, blood-red tent that was bordered by a few crude outbuildings and a makeshift barn for horses. Aleyn was on deck as the Vikings on the shore began calling out welcome to them, and he looked up at Ranulf with apprehension.
"Am I to stay on the ship?” Aleyn asked, eyeing the scarlet tent with misgiving.
Ranulf shook his head as he drew on his studded gloves and pulled a splendid black fur cloak over his shoulders, pinning it with a wide silver brooch. The day was gray and misty but not cold. “You will come ashore. There will be a feast tonight to celebrate our crossing, and you will sit beside me."
Aleyn frowned. Like a trophy, he thought.
Ranulf saw his expression. “Yes,” he affirmed, as if Aleyn had spoken. “You are a fine prize."
Aleyn's indignation warred with his common sense. He knew he should curse Ranulf for the insult, for wanting to show him off like a petted slave. And if I displease this Northman, he thought, I will never be anything else. He clamped his lips shut and stared straight ahead, pastin
g an expression of indifference on his face.
Ranulf laughed and clapped his shoulder, making Aleyn stagger. “It will not be as bad as you think,” he chuckled. “You will not be the only pretty prisoner in this camp. No one will notice very much."
Aleyn wondered, but there was not much he could do about it. He resigned himself to an evening of being stared at.
The coarse camp was ill-kempt but not filthy, and Aleyn supposed it was no worse than any encampment full of men used to living rough. There were women also. Aleyn saw dusky-skinned camp followers from far away lands, and dancers with red-painted hands and small bells wound around their ankles that chimed as they walked. Many of them had long hair as black as sheep's wool, or red as burnished copper. None of the women seemed to be Danes, and he wondered if there was some Viking taboo against bringing their own women on raids.
He followed Ranulf and his men through a throng of loud, merry Vikings. Ranulf was greeted many times by men with voices like trumpets, each one laughing as if he had found a long-lost brother. They came at last to a medium-sized gray tent made of beaten wool fibers set near the center of the camp. Ranulf pushed him towards the entrance.
"They say this is to be my tent,” he told him. “Go and sleep or rest or what you will. I will return later.” Then he turned to his countrymen and said something, and they burst out into boisterous laughter again.
A pox on him, Aleyn fumed, certain that the Northman had made some lewd comment about him being a whore or some such thing. He ducked into the tent without argument and heard the sounds of the men retreating.
The interior of the gray tent was dim, the muted light and absence of prying eyes soothing after the jolt of seeing so many Vikings gathered in one place. It was not just the camp that bothered him, but the fact that these Vikings appeared to be building more permanent shelters on the hill above the shore. To him, the whole camp gave off an aura of unwanted guests who had come to stay. The knowledge depressed him.
"A pox on Arklow and a pox on Ranulf,” he pronounced to the walls. A scratching sound behind him made him turn sharply. “Who's there?"
A woman was crouched near the wall of the tent, by the entrance flap. Despite her posture, she gave Aleyn a bold look.
"Who are you?"
"Yasmina,” she answered. She pointed to herself and began to speak in a rapid, throaty language that Aleyn did not comprehend in the slightest. He shook his head.
"Save your breath, girl, I don't know what you're on about."
She seemed to understand that. She pointed to herself again. “For ... for to Ranulf,” she said haltingly. “For him, I. Gift."
Aleyn wondered at the sudden rush of resentment he felt. He told himself it was against Ranulf for taking yet another powerless bedmate who had no choice in the matter. From the looks of her, she was a slave from the Black Sea or the far Eastern lands. “His welcoming gift, I suppose."
She shook her head, her long black hair caressing her waist, and pointed toward a low wooden table covered with an embroidered cloth. There was a jug and some cups set out there, along with bread and cheese and a piece of spiced meat, probably beef or venison, wrapped in linen.
Aleyn sighed and dropped onto the rug nearest the table, absently pouring for himself. The jug proved to contain mead, and he was surprised that he was beginning to like the taste. He held it out to the girl. “Want some?"
She shook her head, covering herself with her shawl, and continued to watch him.
"I'm not the one you need to watch around here,” he muttered, and then pondered if he was being fair. Ranulf was much more interested in seducing his will than raping him. He was sure Ranulf would not harm this girl. Ranulf truly had never harmed him, nor given any indication that he was planning on doing so.
No, he's only threatened to sell me as a slave to the Saxons. How is holding a life of slavery over my head no harm to me?
His head was beginning to hurt, the old, familiar ache starting to pound in his temples. Ignoring the curious girl, he finished the mead and stretched out on the rug, throwing his arm over his eyes to shut out the light, and was soon asleep.
* * * *
Yric the Wolf, they called him. A beefy, yellow-haired, yellow-toothed giant of a man who was at least twenty years Ranulf's senior. He was far past the age when most men would have given up raiding and gone home to his farm and his sons, but Yric had never found a life that suited him more than raiding. He was jarl of the camps and trading posts for this part of Irland, and if he had been one ounce less the warrior he was, some younger and more ambitious man would have taken his place already. Some already called him konge, or king of the camps of Eire, but that was precipitous and meant nothing. King was only a word, unless one had the men and coin to make a country with it, and he despaired of ever making a proper Norse country out of Eire.
Yric received Ranulf magnanimously in his vast red tent, which came from Araby lands and for which he had traded several cows. He accepted the jarl's gifts and set out a feast for his crew: roasted beef, boiled grain with mutton and spices, bread, and mead. He had already loaned Ranulf one of his women, a comely, dark-skinned thraell whose name he had forgotten.
"This is fine wool and linen you have gifted me with,” Yric said expansively, though the wool was only fair and the linen rough. The wool could be oiled and used to make sails for Viking ships, so it was still of use. However, he was puzzled at the lack of silver or slaves. “There is better raiding further south,” he hinted mildly. “Several fat townships cluster on the heel of this island, much bounty and many thraells to be taken and sold."
Before Ranulf could speak, Haakon pounced. “We have taken no slaves, jarl, except one."
Yric raised an eyebrow as Ranulf shot a dark and smoldering look at Haakon. Dissension in the ranks. “Indeed. And where is this slave?"
"In my tent, Yric,” Ranulf said. “Haakon speaks where his voice is not needed. He should learn to hold his tongue until it is proper, lest he be sent out of the tent to sit among the children."
Yric flicked his old eyes from Haakon to Ranulf, noting Ranulf's tense posture, Haakon's barely contained spite. “So, you have found a use for her?” He grinned, displaying the sharp yellow teeth that had earned him his name. “That is good."
"Use for him,” Haakon put in as a last shot.
Yric shrugged. “All the same. A prisoner's body is not his own. If he pleases our worthy jarl and puts such color in his face and such power in his step, then I will send the pretty thing an anklet of gold with my thanks."
"There would be more power in his step from a good raid than from a dozen bed-boys,” Haakon said with venom.
"You have not raided?” he asked Ranulf in surprise,
"We have, jarl, but have found no silver of any mention nor any great treasure to speak of. Yet,” Ranulf added.” The season is young and Haakon is hasty and impatient, like all young men."
Yric sensed that this jarl hoped to enlist his aid with the mention of Haakon's youth, for Yric himself was advanced in years. Raiding was considered a natural occupation for young men, but older men were expected to settle down and raise crops at some point. Yric had never had any interest in farming and expected to be raiding until his dying day.
Yric scratched his graying beard, looking at Haakon narrowly. “I sense some disagreement here,” he said shrewdly.
Before Ranulf could answer, Haakon broke in again. “Only over the slave, who goes by the name of Aleyn. We took him off a doomed ship, and his bad luck follows us. That is why we have found no silver."
Ranulf the jarl would not dignify a mere sokeman with an answer in words. Though from the look of him, he might answer with his sword soon enough, Yric mused. He looked from Haakon to Ranulf and back. “Why do you tell me these things?” he asked Haakon.
"I thought your wisdom might reach his ears where others have failed, my lord."
Yric wrapped his furs around his barrel chest and stood heavily. He strode to stand toe-to-toe with
Haakon, towering over the younger man.
"If you or any have issue with your jarl, be a man and take it up with him. I am not your milk-mother to come bawling to."
With that, he swept past Haakon, leaving him to stare angrily at the departing jarl's back.
* * * *
Haakon glared at Ranulf for a long moment before storming out of the tent. Several of Ranulf's crew got up and followed him, and Ranulf watched them go with a sinking feeling in his heart. Had he lost that much control over his men? At least ten men had followed Haakon.
Oskell moved closer to him. “That will need to be taken care of at some point, jarl,” he remarked to Ranulf.
Ranulf felt like spitting. “Pompous boy. I should pull down his breeches and whip him in front of the crew."
"My jarl,” Oskell began.
"I have heard enough for one day.” He made to leave the tent. Yric would return later, and he himself would be expected to be present at the feast in his honor, which would last well into the night. He should be rested and have his wits about him, for he knew there was trouble ahead.
"Ranulf,” Oskell said, pleading. Ranulf turned. “Please, can you not see that this Irlander is not worth losing your ship over?"
"I will not lose my ship,” he said, though he was no longer sure he spoke the truth. “Haakon has never been superstitious. He curses the gods and fate alike, I have heard him. Aleyn is but an excuse.” He strode from the crimson tent into the camp.
Oskell followed him. “Exactly. An excuse to take you down, like you took his cousin down in the Briton lands."
Ranulf froze in his tracks, remembering the mutiny that had made him a jarl and the foolish leader who sought to spend every life of the crew to prove his own valor in useless, profitless battle. He had killed that leader.
They were just outside the gray tent. “Harald—that Harald—was his cousin?” Ranulf asked. A shiver of superstitious foreboding tickled the back of his neck, and in that moment he was certain he was going to lose his ship. Learning Haakon's identity had the circular feel of prophecy to it.
