Ragnar & the Slave Girls (Ragnar the Dane)

by Byrne, Lily

  “No, with the Jarl. Of course with Yngvild!” he spat.

  She regarded him. Ragnar had been correct about Kjartan’s appearance. He’d always stood out due to his extremely pale colouring but last year he’d looked so tidy, his beard and hair always clean and trimmed. Now, his hair a tangled mess, he smelled unwashed and damp, like a dog which had been swimming in the river.

  “What happened with Yngvild?” she asked more gently.

  “Oh, once she’d got away from Thorvald we went to Gippeswick. She wanted the excitement of the town. But then she met some good-looking Jarl, with money and other stuff she wanted. She didn’t like all the hiding from people and I wasn’t rich enough for her.”

  He paused, digging his knife into the ground, carving up the damp mud.

  Aelfwyn wanted to say it served him right, but the knife’s presence deterred her. “Why did you come back here then?”

  He shot her a glance from reddened eyes. “None of your business. You’re not to tell Ragnar - or anyone - you’ve seen me. Or I’ll kill you in your sleep.”

  She nodded, clutching at Alvi. “She must have really hurt you, if you loved her,” she soothed.

  He paused, avoiding her glance again. “She did. And my parents-”

  “Your parents what?”

  “Disowned me. But anyway, why am I telling you all this? As long as you don’t tell anyone I’m here, you’ll be safe. Understand?”

  She nodded again and he strode off, cloak swishing around his ankles. Hastily covering her breasts, she scuttled off back home with her chives, glad for her lucky escape.

  *

  As Bjarni came home for lunch after supervising the ploughing in the fields, he passed a group of older boys laughing and jeering. Moving closer, he saw they were mocking a slave woman walking with a heavy bundle of wet clothes, kicking at her to make her trip. So he strode over.

  “Why aren’t you in the fields helping?” he demanded of the boys, who avoided his eyes and shuffled their feet. Most of them held pouches of ale which they swigged carelessly. “This woman is doing her duty, but you aren’t. Get back to your work.”

  He went to help her, then realised it was Ifay. She shied away from him but he picked up the clothes anyway.

  More jeers from the youths as they walked away.

  “Helping a slave.”

  “Turning into a woman.”

  “He’ll be cutting his hair off next.”

  He turned back towards them, lifting his spear and they hurried away, only needing that slight reminder of how much he, a trained Huskarl, could hurt them. So he continued walking with Ifay towards home.

  “Why are you helping me?” she whispered.

  “I don’t want my clothes falling into the mud.”

  They continued in silence, one of his strides equalling two of hers. When they reached the house, he put the clothes on the table.

  “I need to hang them out to dry now,” she mumbled, avoiding his eyes. She picked up some of the clothes and scurried out to the washing line. An exclamation from her made him hurry outside.

  One side of the rope had fallen down and his tunic lay on the ground.

  “I am sorry, master,” she stuttered, picking it up and brushing hopelessly at the stain.

  “It’s not your fault.” He took the end of the rope and tied it to the post, stretching it to the limit.

  “I will go and wash it again, after I have hung these other clothes out.” She did so with a well-practised air and he just watched, unable to tear his gaze away for some reason. Maybe it because she did it so gracefully or maybe he wanted to make sure his clothes didn’t fall in the mud again.

  “What’s it like where you came from?” Bjarni asked.

  “Much warmer than here. It rains little, and the days are the same length all year round. They do not get shorter like they do here. I …” She bit her lip.

  “Go on.”

  “I miss it. I wish I was still there.”

  “Are you too cold here?”

  “Always.”

  He went inside the house to the chest of clothes, digging about in it like a dog. “Here.” He came back with a fur tunic and offered it to her.

  “I cannot wear that. It is your wife’s.”

  “She’s never here. You need to keep warm.” He forced her to put it on, guiding her thin arms through the armholes and pulling it round her. His knuckles brushed her breasts.

  “Do not touch me, you sex-mad man.”

  “I didn’t! It was an accident.”

  They each hid their smile from the other and she continued hanging the washing out.

  “Carry on telling me about your home,” he said.

  “It is dry there. It does not rain for days like it does here. Much of it is desert.”

  “Desert?”

  “An area of sand, like your coast, but dry. No sea and hot.”

  “Dry sand. Hm.”

  “We do not have seasons like here. Every day is the same. We have no summer or winter.”

  “I can’t imagine it.” He smiled and it pleased him when she smiled back.

  *

  Unaware that this cave had a history of secret lovers, it reminded Kjartan of his own past pleasures with Yngvild, meeting her there to hide from her husband. Once warm and light, his woman open and welcoming, the cave had been his refuge. But that was so long ago he turned his thoughts away from those memories.

  Now he must find what he’d come for. His plans depended on it. He remembered hiding it in a crevice in the rock, but which one? Holding the torch up to scour the silent cave - now dark, cold and damp with shadows dancing on the walls - he sighed.

  He poked his spear into the cracks and met resistance in the third one. Holding the torch high, he peered in, wishing he could have searched in daylight, but there had been more people around then. Feeling his way in, his fingers met the straw and feathers of a bird’s nest.

  Sighing, he carried on searching every crevice. At last the spear hit something else so he tried again and found what he wanted, wrapped up in leather to keep it safe and intact from the elements or marauding animals. He smiled for the first time in a long while, and pulled it out of the rock. Tomorrow he’d take it and leave, after a good night’s sleep in the cave.

  *

  “He what?” demanded Ragnar, frowning.

  “He-he made me promise not to tell anyone or he’d kill me.”

  “Where the hell did you see him?”

  She described what had happened.

  “Right. I’ll go and make him tell me.”

  “Be careful. You know what he’s like.”

  “He didn’t try and rape you again, did he?”

  “No. It was just a shock seeing him. He didn’t touch me. Oh, except when he -”

  “What? He touched you?”

  “Listen! When he stopped me and Alvi from falling into the river. He took my hand to help me.”

  “Hm.” Ragnar gathered his weapons.

  “Are you going out now? It’s dark. Please don’t.”

  He considered. “Very well. I’ll go out at first light. If Bjarni comes looking for me, tell him, but not anyone else.”

  *

  The next morning Ragnar set off, without his garish red cloak and his hair tied back out of the way. He headed for the caves at the source of the stream, knowing exactly where his wife meant. Not wanting to announce his presence with crunching footsteps on the stones near the river, he slipped through the trees, glad their leaves were now grown enough to cover him.

  He found the cave where he and Aelfwyn had first made love and cautiously peered into the entrance.

  Animal bones, gnawed clean, lay on the floor by the fire, where the embers still glowed and crackled. Grass and leaves filled the bed area and the bearskin covers had been hung to dry near the fire, but they still stank of damp and mould.

  So someone did live here. It must be Kjartan, but he needed proof. He squeezed out of the cave entrance, then someone knocked
him unconscious.

  *

  When Ragnar awoke on the cave floor, he realised his hands were tied behind him and cursed. Why hadn’t he brought Bjarni with him?

  A hunched figure crouched with its back to him, sharpening a knife. A row of knives lay on the floor next to him, already sharpened. Then he turned round and it was Kjartan, his hair darkened with dirt.

  “Damn you!” he said. “I thought you wouldn’t wake up yet.”

  “I’m tougher than you think. Why are you here?”

  He sneered. “You’ll never know.”

  “So what are you going to do? Leave me here? I can walk with my hands tied, you know.”

  “But by the time you get home I’ll be long gone.”

  “Where’s my spear and sword?”

  “I’m taking them. I need them.”

  “Planning on killing someone?”

  “Maybe. Get up.”

  Ragnar struggled to stand.

  “You’re going to kill me when I can’t fight back?”

  Kjartan regarded him. “No, not you. I’m not having Aelfwyn widowed. Go before I change my mind.”

  A wolf howled outside and Kjartan went to check as it was daylight, an unusual time of day to hear that sort of noise.

  Ragnar took advantage of the distraction and went to the knives. He grabbed one, twisting it to saw through his bonds.

  When Kjartan returned, he pretended to be still tied but the minute he came close, Ragnar pounced.

  He pushed him onto the floor, pressing the knife against his throat. “Want another scar on your face?” he snarled. The scar he’d given Kjartan last year after his trial was now hidden in his beard, but they both knew why it was there.

  Kjartan reached across the rocky floor, his fingers closing on a knife handle. He pushed the blade against Ragnar’s ribs.

  “I’ll kill you if I have to, never mind Aelfwyn,” he hissed. He brought his knee up sharply between Ragnar’s legs but his assailant rolled off him before he could do any damage and moved away.

  They leapt up and faced each other, knives ready. Ragnar slashed at him but he dodged and retaliated, catching his opponent’s sleeve.

  Circling each other, they knew they were evenly matched, but Ragnar sprang forward first and sliced at him. This time Kjartan faltered, stumbling on some loose stones. He fell forward, arms flailing, so Ragnar brought his left fist up, knocking him backwards.

  He lay spread-eagled on the floor for a few minutes and Ragnar peered at him, half hoping he was dead. But his chest was moving up and down, so Ragnar quickly took his sword belt and used it to tie his hands to his feet.

  “As you like it here so much, you can stay here,” he said to the unconscious figure. He fixed a torch in the entrance to fend off wolves in the night, then left.

  Now Kjartan was out of action, he’d have to see if the murders stopped. Had he done the right thing?

  *

  “Well?” demanded Aelfwyn when he returned. “I was getting really worried. What happened?”

  He explained.

  “You left him alone in the secret lovers’ cave - I mean, the cave? He’ll starve to death.”

  “So?”

  “You can’t leave him like that. You don’t even know he’s the murderer. I’ll go and take some food to him tomorrow.”

  Ragnar stared at her impatiently as he combed the dust out of his beard. “I thought you’d be pleased I’d got him.”

  “Yes, but - we need to put him in proper custody of the Jarl.”

  “But if I do he’ll be tried for Eadbald’s murder, not these. I want to know if he’s killing the English now. We must keep him secret until we know.”

  *

  Just as dawn broke the next morning, an Englishman hammered on the gate of Hallby, shouting, begging, pleading so the guards took pity and let him in.

  Ragnar struggled out of bed and went to investigate.

  “What do you want?” demanded a guard.

  “There’s been another murder. We need help. We have no protection.”

  “Why should we help you?”

  “What’s going on?” Ragnar stepped in.

  “Uhtred’s been murdered, his wife and daughters taken,” spluttered the man, a woodworker. “And it looks like it was some kind of monster.”

  “What? Why?”

  “His throat was torn out, as if by a wolf, but he was stabbed with a weapon, as if by a man. It’s unearthly.”

  *

  Ragnar and another Huskarl went to Byrnham to inspect the body of Uhtred the bone worker. Blood had spurted everywhere, all over him and the walls and floor, his body partly ripped apart. His house had been ransacked, but why hadn’t the intruder been disturbed? Uhtred lived on the edge of the village but still within the walls and surrounded by neighbours. The last victim, Baegstan, lived out of Byrnham, an easy target, but the murderer had now become bolder.

  “Help us, please,” begged an Englishman. “We can’t stop the killers, but maybe you can.” He gestured to their weapons and uniform.

  Ragnar and his companion exchanged glances.

  “You’ll have to ask the Jarl,” he said. “He’s in charge. Sorry.”

  The man bit his lip, twisting the edge of his cloak in white knuckled hands.

  Ragnar remembered Kjartan. He must check if he was still in the cave, the secret lovers’ cave as Aelfwyn called it. What silly romantic ideas she had sometimes. He strode to Bjarni’s house and turned his mind to more important matters.

  *

  Ragnar and Bjarni hurried to the cave to find Kjartan in the same position as before: propped up against the wall.

  “You’ve been here all the time?” asked Ragnar.

  “No. I escaped, swam back to the old country, sired fifty children, then swam back and tied myself up again.”

  “What’s he doing here?” said Bjarni, still trying to catch up.

  “So you haven’t been into the village at all?”

  “No! Just give me some water, will you? And I’m dying for a piss.”

  Ragnar fetched some water, freed Kjartan’s hands from his feet and took him outside to relieve himself, while Bjarni stayed close in case of trouble.

  “So you didn’t murder anyone?”

  “Not today. What are you talking about?”

  “We’ll take him back to our house tonight,” said Ragnar to Bjarni as he tied Kjartan back up again.

  “Why can’t you just let me go?”

  “I don’t trust you.”

  Kjartan shrugged as well as he could with his hands bound.

  “We’ll be back.” The two Huskarls strode out, leaving their former colleague shaking his head.

  “I’ll have to put him somewhere where I can keep an eye on him,” said Ragnar as they walked, “but I can’t think of anywhere except my house.”

  “Yeah, but why d’you need to watch him?”

  “I still think he’s got something to do with the murders.”

  “Why?”

  “I just do. He’s a demon.”

  “That’s fair.”

  *

  Aelfwyn hadn’t seen Saehild for so long that she went round to her house. But yet again, she found only Ifay at her sister’s home.

  “Where does she go all the time?” she sighed.

  Ifay shrugged. “I have some ideas but do not dare tell anyone.”

  “Why not?”

  “No one will believe me.”

  “Oh, tell me.” Aelfwyn didn’t want to go home and continue housework. She wondered again if she should buy a slave to help her.

  “When I look at your sister, I see -”

  “What? Go on.”

  “I see darkness about her. Darkness tinged with gold.”

  Aelfwyn laughed. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s just a feeling I get. I’ve always had feelings about people.”

  “I know what you mean. My husband calls it womanly intuition.”

  Ifay nodded. “Men do not
trust it. I do not tell them.”

  Aelfwyn again thought how lucky she was to have an understanding man, unlike the other Danes.

  “Madam, can I ask you a disrespectful question?”

  “Very well.”

  “Did you try the salt as we talked about? For the - you know -”

  “Not yet. But I will. I trust you.”

  Aelfwyn wondered why she did. This slave somehow radiated calm, dependability. How did she do it?

  She stayed at the house for longer than she’d meant to, going home reluctantly in the late afternoon. She didn’t want to be caught out by nightfall with Alvi strapped to her.

  *

  When Bjarni returned home after dark, the women were not there. Saehild must be out revelling again. He avoided thinking about her as he didn’t want his scar to start aching again. But Ifay? After fidgeting around for a while, he went out again to search for her. Where the hell would she be at this time in the evening? Had he scared her off? Had she run away?

  Why did he care what happened to a slave anyway? But as time drew on and Hallby villagers scurried past, following advice and hastening home, he became more and more worried.

  She wouldn’t have gone out of the village, would she? He went up to the gate but the guards stopped him.

  “Why are you going out at this time?” asked one.

  “Someone might be lost out there.”

  “But -”

  “Let me out, please. I’ll take responsibility.”

  He pushed past them, something telling him he’d find her near the wood.

  A crouching figure caught his eye as he approached the trees, their branches swishing and hissing in the wind. It was Ifay, struggling to pick up twigs spread on the floor.

  “You stupid woman! What are you doing out after dark?” he scolded, grabbing handfuls of sticks and shoving them into her bundle.

  “The fire was going out. We needed these.”

  “But it’s dangerous at night.”

  A wolf howled in the distance so he took the bundle and grabbed her arm, hustling her along.

  “What will my punishment be?” she mumbled.

  “Don’t talk, just walk.”

  The wolf howled again, a bit closer and Bjarni speeded up, holding the awkward package of sticks against him.

  They reached the village and the guards dragged them inside, slamming the gate behind them.

  The village lay deserted and silent, then a fox gave an unearthly shriek, making them jump. At last their home loomed, and Bjarni unlatched the door and pushed Ifay through it, so quickly they both tripped. He fell on top of her, wriggling to try and pull the door shut at the same time.