Ragnar & the Slave Girls (Ragnar the Dane)

by Byrne, Lily

  “Who?”

  “Kjartan.”

  “Kjartan? What’s he doing there? Is that where he and Yngvild went?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t think he’s with Yngvild anymore. He looked like shit.”

  *

  That night, the newly leaved trees swished in the cool wind, and the half-moon lit three figures slinking through the woods towards their destination. They passed the guards easily with the help of the words taught to them by their mother. Again, death, blood, pain and grief were the outcomes of their work - another family torn apart.

  The next morning, women talked at the well.

  “They say Ordulf had bite marks on him, as if from an animal.”

  “They took his poor little girl too, his only child, as well as his wife.”

  “It seems like a beast is doing the killing, but why would an animal take people and goods with it?”

  Men talked in the village and while clearing up the bloodied scene in Ordulf’s house.

  “How did the murderers get in? No one heard anything, yet Ordulf lives within the walls.”

  “They must have been waiting for him at home. I don’t understand. He looks like a dog or wolf has attacked him, yet they stabbed him to death with a blade.”

  “We’ll need a new baker. We can’t do without our bread.”

  *

  The last murder made up Ragnar’s mind. He needed to find out about Kjartan so another visit to Gippeswick would be the only way. His stomach churned as he remembered how Kjartan so nearly caused his execution after framing him for the murder of Eadbald.

  When he arrived in town again, he glanced around, wondering where to begin searching. The streets looked different; more people hung about and more trading stalls had been set up, making the most of the warming weather. Then it struck him: the alehouse. So he headed towards it, hoping he could find it again in the winding, busy streets of Gippeswick, so different to the familiar Hallby. His sense of direction fortunately did not let him down and it loomed ahead of him within a few minutes. As he approached he heard a commotion coming from inside.

  Kjartan sat with his back to the door, a mug in his hand, with a lad of about fourteen holding a sword at his neck.

  “You dishonoured my sister!” he shouted.

  “So? What are you going to do about it?” Kjartan wiped the ale foam from his beard with the back of his hand.

  “Stand up and fight like a man!”

  “I could kill you with my little finger. Don’t tempt me.”

  The boy shook with rage and frustration, so Ragnar approached.

  “Allow me,” he said, taking the sword and pushing him away in one quick action. The other drinkers in the alehouse gasped.

  Kjartan leapt up, spilling the ale and knocking over the table, reaching for his own sword.

  “Please!” shrieked a voice. “Fight outside!” The alewife trembled nearby.

  “Come on, then.” Ragnar jerked his head towards the door, forcing Kjartan to walk to it by pressing the sword harder to his throat.

  The street cleared in an instant as they went outside.

  “I said I’d kill you if I saw you again,” said Ragnar. “Looks like it’s now.”

  “You’d kill an unarmed man?” Kjartan held up his empty hands, so Ragnar moved the sword away.

  The white-blond Dane grabbed his own sword at once and threatened his attacker. Metal clanged on metal as they fought, boots slipping on the greasy stones of the ancient street, making onlookers scurry out of the way, cheer, or heckle.

  “Why are you here?”

  Kjartan didn’t answer but renewed the attack, forcing Ragnar back towards the crowd, but the Huskarl gritted his teeth and defended, bringing the unfamiliar sword up hard, unsure how it would perform. He managed to reach the hilt of his own sword, easing it out little by little until, at last, it came free.

  He attacked with both swords, having practised this type of fighting with Bjarni a few times for fun. On those occasions, it ended up with them both laughing. This time it would not; this would be to the death.

  But Kjartan, full of bitterness, grabbed the nearest bystander.

  “Get me another sword,” he growled, and a friend of his victim hastily produced one. Kjartan stepped towards Ragnar, whirling his two blades.

  Metal struck metal again, and the fight grew so wild the onlookers began to disperse.

  “Call the Jarl,” they whispered to each other.

  Kjartan turned at this and Ragnar landed a blow on his arm, but this just seemed to renew his strength and he slashed at the auburn-haired Dane’s chest, forcing him into the crowd.

  “Come on, sir,” muttered the men who caught him. “It’s time the fiend learned a lesson.”

  Revitalised, the Huskarl struck out, cutting and slashing faster and faster while Kjartan, out of practice and out of breath, retreated, Ragnar’s sword at his throat.

  “You’re going to murder me now? In front of these people?” he taunted, and Ragnar paused.

  “I might.”

  The bystanders gasped.

  “The Jarl’s coming with his company of Huskarls!” called a distant voice.

  Kjartan took the opportunity and hurried off, slashing at the onlookers, who leapt out of his way.

  “In here, sir.” A local man ushered Ragnar into the alehouse and drew him into a group of drinkers. Someone sheathed his own sword and whisked the other one away.

  “What’s going on?” demanded an imperious voice outside.

  The alewife spoke up.

  “There was a fight, my lord, but the men ran when you arrived.”

  “Quite right.” The Jarl sounded younger than Ragnar’s father, but he didn’t dare look outside.

  “Stay here, sir, and keep your head down,” advised the man next to him. “It’ll all blow over. We’re so grateful to you for frightening the white fiend away. Can you come back again?”

  Ragnar laughed. “Maybe.”

  He spent the rest of the afternoon drinking, everything paid for, and listening to tales about Kjartan.

  “Some say he beat his woman to death.”

  “Some say she left him due to his unnatural desires.”

  “Some say the Jarl had to rescue her from him.”

  “Why is he still hanging round here, then?” interrupted Ragnar.

  “He wanted her back. He challenged the Jarl to a fight but the Jarl just punished him, so he turned to drinking, fighting, all sorts of depraved acts.”

  Ragnar made a face. Kjartan had always been such a good fighter, and he almost felt sad to see him a shadow of his former self. But he’d molested Aelfwyn too often, and this hardened her husband’s heart. He took another drink.

  Before long, his troubles were forgotten, washed away by the ever flowing ale bought for him by his grateful new friends. So by the time he set off home at dusk in the early evening, he felt distinctly merry and lightheaded.

  *

  “So, what happened?” demanded Aelfwyn when he staggered through the front door.

  “I’ll tell you in the morning.”

  “It’s only supper time. You can’t go to sleep yet!”

  “I love you so much, woman. Come here and …”

  But by the time she’d put Alvi in his cot and stirred the stew, her husband lay snoring in his bed, his beard drenched with the large amount of ale he’d downed earlier.

  She laughed and tutted. Men were all the same, but she loved this one.

  *

  In another house in Hallby, Ifay ate dinner in her usual corner, quietly and with modesty, taking small mouthfuls even though she was hungry.

  Saehild sat with Bjarni by the fire, holding a large piece of bread in one hand, spooning stew into her mouth with the other.

  “What did you do today?” she asked through her food. “Spear training? Water carrying? When are you going to become a proper Huskarl?”

  Bjarni wasn’t listening properly. She never listened to him, so why should he li
sten to her? She didn’t even know he’d completed his training.

  “Husband! Pay attention when I speak.” Saehild smiled, shaking her blonde hair away from her face. She rarely wore a head-rail, except when acting as his dutiful wife on official occasions.

  “Sorry. What did you say?”

  Ifay’s short, black hair grew in tiny curls, her dark brown skin the colour of mud. No, not mud. Polished dark wood, like the Jarl’s ornate chair and the table used during formal dinners.

  “Bjarni! You are dreaming today. Wake up.” Saehild, used to being centre of attention, grabbed his hand and placed it on her breast. “I might let you fuck me tonight if you compliment me.”

  He glanced at her and paused. “I’m busy tonight. I’ve been summoned to see the Jarl,” he lied. He didn’t care what she thought anymore. Tired of her blowing hot and cold all the time, he just wanted peace and the Huskarls’ hall provided it. He hadn’t felt well for so long now. The scar on his arm seemed to be healing one day, worsening the next. It took so much attention; it seemed to be draining him.

  *

  Aelfwyn walked towards Saehild’s hut. She could only spare a few minutes, having left Alvi and his father asleep at home, and she didn’t want to stay out too late because of the murders. To her satisfaction, Bjarni strode out of the door just as she reached it.

  “Hallo, sister.” He smiled.

  “I hear you’ve been mistreating your slave. If you don’t want her, we’ll buy her from you. I need some help and I’d never treat her as badly as you do. What did you do to her to make her cry today? I know slaves are the lowest rank but you must treat them well or they’ll run away, believe me. That’s what my mother taught me.” She ran out of breath.

  “What?” Bjarni struggled to take all the information in. “I – she - what did she say?”

  “Nothing. She didn’t need to say anything. I could see. Bear what I said in mind.” Aelfwyn turned on her heel and hurried off into the darkness.

  Bjarni stared after her, thoughtfully pulling stray hairs out of his beard. If the slave left, Saehild would be furious. But did he care what she thought anymore?

  *

  Later that night, the first warm one of the year, Saehild took Ljotr’s hand as they strode towards the hills, but he shook her off.

  “Oh! You’re so …” She made a noise of frustration and hit him on the arm.

  “Don’t. You’ll only excite me.” He bared his teeth at her and snarled like a beast.

  “Where are we going, anyway?”

  “Not much further.”

  She didn’t really care. Anywhere would be better than the dull life of drudgery at Hallby. At last, an adventure!

  They finally reached the hills. Ljotr led her into a cavity in a cliff face and along a rocky tunnel.

  “Is this your lair?”

  “Might be.”

  The corridor opened out into a huge empty cavern with a flat floor in the centre and cliffs of different levels along the walls. Water ran down, making a gentle burbling sound punctuated by drips. Torches were set into the walls, lighting the whole area, so someone must live here.

  “What’s -” Saehild began.

  Ljotr put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Figures above seemed to melt out of the rock and slink down the sides of the cavern, picking their way.

  When they reached the ground, there were at least thirty young men between the ages of fourteen and twenty. All short-haired, beardless, dressed in worn-out clothes, with muscles developed by manual labour: they must have been slaves.

  “This is my woman,” announced Ljotr. “You must do as she says.”

  Murmurs of agreement.

  “Tell them to do something,” he whispered to her.

  “Sit down!” she commanded, and they did, crossing their legs and sitting at her feet.

  “I would like something to drink,” she continued.

  More murmurs of agreement.

  Two of them stood up and fetched a large, gently steaming vessel. The arm muscles of the dark-haired one in the sleeveless tunic bulged.

  The pair dipped cups into the bowl, and the one she admired brought her the first cup. He bowed, his black hair thick and wavy, and she inclined her head regally. This was so different to her normal life where she had to serve drinks to everyone else.

  Ljotr sat next to her.

  “What is this place?” she asked, sipping her wine.

  “It’s where I live. These are all my brothers.”

  “All of them?”

  “Well, not blood brothers. We have the same beliefs.”

  “Like what?”

  “We hate the rules of the Danes and English. We believe there are too many laws and they stop us from being as free as we should. Christianity is a bad influence and we should go back to Old Norse ways.”

  “What?”

  “We don’t like the rules of the Danelaw. We like our freedom now.”

  She glanced round to see some of the young men playing a drinking game, while others were wrestling. Movement caught her eye above two writhing figures on one of the ledges, man on top of woman. She smiled indulgently at their fun.

  “Yes, we do what we like living here,” said Ljotr, following her glance. “No marriage or loyalty to relatives, just loyalty to our friends.” He raised his glass to her.

  She drained her cup.

  “More wine!” she shouted, and immediately a man brought her some.

  *

  Aelfwyn smiled to see the entrance to the cave in which she and Ragnar had first made love. The ‘secret lovers’ cave’, she called it privately. Maybe Alvi’s life started there. He slept now, against her breast, the walking motion along the river lulling him into dreams. Could it be only a year since she and Ragnar went there to hide from tattling tongues in the villages? How much her life had changed since she was a young girl who never imagined marriage in her future, let alone a child. Would Alvi really be her only one? Feelings struggled within her: happiness, regret, curiosity.

  Although the late spring weather was sunny, sudden gusts of cold wind still blew. Tired of getting wet all winter, she hoped for a dry spring and summer, but on the other hand, they needed rain for the crops.

  Musing on this as she searched for the herbs she needed, the crack of a branch made her jump.

  “Hallo, tiny woman.”

  She froze, unable to take another step, her heart leaping into frantic pounding. Only one person ever called her that. She stared round, jerking her head like a bird hearing danger.

  “I’m up here.”

  She gazed up to see a figure with white blond hair sitting on the slope above the caves. Kjartan.

  “Long time, no see.” He stared at her, then began scrambling down the rocky ground, his scuffed boots dislodging small stones and grass, his cloak catching on twigs.

  Aelfwyn found her legs could move again, and she struggled to walk across the uneven ground, the weight of the sleeping Alvi hampering her. The loose stones near the river forced her to step carefully even though every muscle screamed at her to run as fast as she could from the man who’d tried to rape her and framed her husband for murder.

  The ground gave way before her feet and she staggered, clutching at thin air to save herself and her child. Alvi woke and screamed as she flailed.

  But Kjartan always moved fast. Having already slid down the slope, he leapt across the ground, grabbed her arm and pulled her against him, almost squashing the bawling Alvi between them. She put her free arm around her baby and glared up into the familiar ice-blue eyes.

  “I wondered what you were carrying.” He released her. “I don’t need to ask whose child it is.” He indicated the copper hair on Alvi’s head.

  She hesitated. “What are you doing here?”

  “Aren’t you going to thank me?”

  “Thanks.”

  Alvi carried on bawling and she realised he needed feeding, so in a haze of motherly concern, she sat down on a rock and pulled her top up,
latching him on to her breast.

  Kjartan watched but she didn’t care. Alvi needed her attention. She didn’t worry about people seeing her body anymore. Her previously small breasts were now full and rounded, and she had curves where formerly she had none, but they were for the sake of her child, not lustful onlookers. She didn’t even care if Kjartan raped her afterwards, as long as Alvi was content.

  But Kjartan stood up after a minute and walked away, so she sat gazing at the tiny new leaves on the trees and bushes, the birds fluttering about collecting nest materials.

  He returned with a pouch and put it next to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “Water. Thought you might need it.”

  “I’m not drinking that. It could be drugged. You could put me to sleep then, then have your wicked way with me.” She didn’t want to corrupt Alvi’s ears with rude words.

  “Fuck you, you mean?” He chuckled. “No, I’ve done enough fucking lately to last me a lifetime. You’re quite safe.”

  She still didn’t intend to drink it though, and kicked it away.

  “Please yourself.” He picked it up and drank it.

  “Ragnar told me about your behaviour. Is that what drove Yngvild away?”

  He scoffed. “No. She drove herself away. Nothing I could do.”

  “I thought you two were in love. That’s why you took her from her husband.” She’d never forgive him for almost getting her own husband executed.

  “In love? I never love anyone!” He sneered, standing up.

  “So why did you run off with her? You ruined the Jarl’s life.”

  “No, she ruined his life. She’s good at that. She ruined mine, too.”

  Aelfwyn frowned. “How could she ruin your life? She saved it by running off with you; otherwise you’d have been executed. If I tell anyone you’re here, they’ll -” She bit her lip.

  “But you won’t, will you?” He stepped towards her, knife in hand. “Or I’ll …”

  Alvi stopped feeding and made a contented baby noise, snuggling into his mother, and Aelfwyn hugged him against her.

  “I’ll die before you hurt him,” she snarled, like a she wolf.

  Kjartan paused. “I wouldn’t hurt a baby.” He sighed, turning away. “I thought I might have one of my own.”

  “With Yngvild?”