by Byrne, Lily
Ragnar the Just
by
Lily Byrne
ISBN 1480166162
EAN 978-1480166165
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
‘Ragnar the Just’ is published by Taylor Street Publishing, who can be contacted at: http:
http://www.taylorstreetbooks.com
http://ninwriters.ning.com
‘Ragnar the Just’ is the copyright of the author, Lily Byrne, 2012. All rights are reserved.
All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.
916 A.D. After the horror of the wolf cult last year, life has settled down in Hallby and Byrnham villages.
Or has it?
The trial
“You are accused of murder. What have you to say for yourself?” The prosecutor glared at the defendant, who avoided his eyes.
The trees surrounding the meeting area were displaying their bright colours in the cool air of autumn. The yellows and oranges of the hazels, the caramel brown oak and the red tipped alder leaves gave the scene warmth entirely contrasting with the serious business of the Danes.
The trial was being held at a special assembly of the Thing. The grassy area was dry but green, watered by the heavy dews of the season and the air was cool, making onlookers pull their cloaks around them tightly.
“It was the most cowardly and needless of murders,” continued the prosecutor, addressing the crowd. “The victim was an upstanding member of our community who performed an important job. I am disappointed that the Huskarls have been involved in the harassment and intimidation that has led to this violence.”
He turned back to the defendant. “But don’t think I haven’t noticed your part in this. You provoked much of the violence with your behaviour.”
The crowd watched avidly, sensing conflict - ploughmen taking a well-earned break, women wanting a change from housework, old folk wondering at the violence of youth, children hoping for a battle with blood spilt.
“Have you still nothing to say?”
The defendant exchanged glances with someone watching the proceedings. They both remembered how this situation had come about.
Four months earlier
As the child inside Mildrith grew, it was harder for her to move around, so Kjartan fetched the carrots she needed for their meal. Most men left their pregnant wives to get on with it, but he wanted to help, to show his former violent ways were now in the past.
As he left their house, he paused to look around the village he had so nearly forsaken. The buildings were situated around the central area used as the training ground for the Huskarls and the gathering place for the village to discuss important matters at the Thing. Furthest away from the corner where he lived, on the north side of the village, was the hall of the Jarl, the most impressive building in the village. Next to this were the barracks for the unmarried Huskarls. Along the western side, running from the Huskarls’ barracks to the southern corner, was the alehouse, closest to the Huskarls’ hall so that the villagers were not disturbed by the drunken soldiers on their way to bed, then there was the bakery, the houses of the bone and leather workers and the carpenter’s workshop.
The eastern and southern sides of the village contained the houses for families, married Huskarls, farmers and artisans. A gate was set in the defensive perimeter wall at the centre of the southern side, facing the Jarl’s hall.
Kjartan’s house was where the southern wall joined the western one, not the most popular spot as it was close to the leather worker’s house, which often gave off foul smells. He considered himself lucky, however, to have been given a house, but in truth it was probably more to do with the general sympathy for his wife who had lost her previous husband so horrifically.
The village was bordered on three sides by fields which everyone helped to tend. To the south a thick wood separated Hallby from the English village of Byrnham. A path ran through the wood to a well where people from both villages gathered to get water. Another source of water for Hallby was a stream that ran from the escarpment in the west, where a labyrinth of caves had sheltered the wolf cult the previous year, to a lake where the Danes went to bathe. The woods spread along the edge of the eastern fields and around the lake.
Turning out of Hallby towards the field, Kjartan bumped into two men. Looking up, he recognised Viglund the Stalwart and Lini Fleet Foot. Viglund was the carpenter of the village, Lini the glass and amber smith. He opened his mouth to greet them but they turned away, ignoring him. He was used to being a loner, but for some reason their action hurt and he brooded over it as he dug up the carrots, which were just coming into season. Birds sang nearby, enjoying the summer, but he just wanted them to be quiet.
Last year, he, Ragnar and Bjarni had worked together against the wolf cult who’d terrorised the villages, becoming friends in the face of adversity. But now Ragnar and Bjarni were both busy with their wives and children and in their duties as newly promoted Huskarls. They spoke to him when they could but were often preoccupied with their other responsibilities. And anyway, Bjarni was away at the moment deputising for the Jarl, surveying his most distant lands.
Ragnar and Bjarni were pillars of society, respected and admired. What was he? Where was his place? He was a disgraced Huskarl, a murderer who had only been accepted back to Hallby because he’d helped defeat the wolf cult and then married the widowed Mildrith. He’d had his share of gratitude, now everyone had forgotten him.
He pulled up the small purple carrots, shook the earth off them and returned home.
Mildrith was sitting outside, peeling some onions. “Oh thank you, deorling.” She took the carrots and he hung around, fiddling with his silver-blond plaited hair. “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know, Milly. I just always feel there’s something missing in my life.”
She paused, inspecting the carrots. “You’ll feel better once the baby comes. He will take up our time and we’ll be a proper family.”
He sighed.
*
Later that day, as he went to wash the supper plates in the stream, he bumped into someone else. That would teach him to walk with his head down.
It was Lini Fleet Foot again. He had a slender build – not that of a soldier - so the collision made him stagger.
“Oh! H - Hallo.”
“Not ignoring me this time?”
“No. Sorry about that. Viglund is so worried about honour, he can’t accept the fact that you have been forgiven for disgracing the Huskarls. Sorry.”
Kjartan sighed.
“And you think that too?”
“No – yes - well, it’s in the past now, isn’t it?”
“I kind of wish I was still in the Huskarls. At least I’d have a place there.” Kjartan rubbed the gravy off the first plate. “I’m twenty-one. I should have status by now.”
His companion thought for a moment. “What you need is to learn a trade. That would give you a place.”
Kjartan looked up. “Now that’s an idea. I’m not much good at trades, though.”
“What else are you good at, then?”
“Fighting,” he shrugged, “and fucking.”
“Hm … what about some sort of fight training? Not sure about the fucking.”
They laughed.
An idea dawned and Kjartan’s pale blue eyes lit up. “Fight training for boys before they join the Huskarls! They don’t know their arse from their elbow before they’re fourteen. I could
teach them the basics, couldn’t I?”
“There you are then!” Lini grinned through the slight gap in his front teeth.
“Great. Thanks.” Kjartan slapped him on the back, making him take a step forward. “You could join me, if you like?”
“I could.”
“Go on. I’ll need someone my own size to demonstrate on so the boys can learn. I can’t fight them, it’d be unfair.” His mind was full of ideas now.
“Alright.”
“Thanks, friend.”
He gazed at Lini.
“I better go. I haven’t had supper yet and my wife’ll be foaming at the mouth by now. See you around, yes?”
The amber smith left with a wave.
Kjartan’s spirits lifted. He could set up as soon as he wanted. He could make some weapons out of wood for them to practise with, as real weapons were so precious and scarce.
*
“Do you think Steinar would mind if I trained boys to fight before they joined the Huskarls?” he asked Ragnar, who was second in command to Steinar now.
“Probably not.” The auburn-haired Dane considered. “We need more trained men. We’re running out after the latest fights.”
Kjartan nodded. The Norwegian attack had cost a few lives, and the wolf cult many more.
“It’s a good idea. Best of luck.” Ragnar slapped his friend on the shoulder and hurried off to his duties.
*
Kjartan began by asking the neighbours. Nearly every family had sons between ten and fourteen, so he went round from house to house to find out who would be willing.
“You’re a murderer. Think I’d trust you with my son?” said one father. His wife was folding clothes nearby, her eyes suspicious as she looked at the visitor.
“You were thrown out of the Huskarls. How do you know what they teach now?” said another, his small children playing round his feet.
“It’s hopeless,” said Kjartan to Lini as they sat drinking ale by his house in the warm summer evening. “They don’t want me to teach their sons.”
“Let me talk to them,” offered his friend.
*
“He might not be a Huskarl now, but he was one for four years,” said Lini to one concerned father. “So he knows better than anyone what they want.”
“He was punished for the murder. He has a wife now and a child on the way,” he said to another. “He’s a respectable member of the village. If anything, he’ll set an example to the boys and show them what to avoid.”
Kjartan stood next to him, trying not to smirk as the amber smith’s gentle speech and angelic face charmed the parents into agreeing to send their sons along. As long as it was understood it would just be a trial session, no commitments.
“You’re brilliant,” he said to Lini as they strolled back to his house. “Can you talk Viglund into making us some wooden weapons and help me with the actual lessons?”
“Don’t want much, do you?” Lini sighed, pretending to be annoyed.
*
The fathers they’d spoken to were talking amongst themselves, however.
“I’d kill both of them if harm came to my son,” said one as he sharpened his axe.
The other nodded. “I’m surprised no one’s killed Silverhair already after his past behaviour.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”
*
Kjartan spent hours with Lini planning how to organize the school. They usually talked in Lini’s forge which was halfway between Hallby and Byrnham.
Originally, the forge had belonged to the English but when the Danish invaded, they had taken control of it by force, wanting the glass and amber products so prized by Norse society. They had intended to remove it to Hallby, but other matters had taken priority and now Lini supplied both the Danes and the English with glass and amber. He quite liked the idea of belonging to both societies: the Danes were too violent for his gentle nature but the English were a bit too foreign.
He worked at his forge every day, and as Kjartan was waiting for the hay harvest to start, it was the best place to meet. The hay harvest was the first of the year. It was very important to store enough hay to feed the animals over winter. Later would come the vegetables, the fruit and, most importantly, the cereal grasses: wheat, barley, oats and rye.
“If the number of boys turn up who said they would, we’ll need twenty of each weapon. That means axes, swords, spears, shields, hay bales,” he mused.
“Uh-huh.”
Lini was only half listening as he used a rake to stir the sand and potash mixture in the oven, which was always alight. He had to constantly rake and stir it to allow waste gases to escape. He would then break it up and put it into a crucible, often adding cullet, depending on what colour glass he wanted, then melt it in the kiln. If all went well, glass would form; however it was a difficult process and took great skill as well as luck.
Despite both back and front doors being open, the forge was extremely hot with both the oven and kiln alight, so he’d taken off his tunic. Without it he didn’t look as slim; he had a slight barrel chest from glass blowing. Kjartan had seen musicians with chests like this during his travels; extended playing of pan flutes and horn pipes produced such a shape. Lini also had well-developed arm muscles from chopping the wood needed to keep the oven and kiln going, which he then made into charcoal in a clearing in the woods outside.
“We could train outside the village in daytime. There’s more room,” continued Kjartan. “I’ll just have to think of some way of teaching them stuff in the right order.”
Lini went to the kiln and put the glass blowing rod into it, collecting a blob of molten green glass. He was wearing gloves but there were old burns on his arms above the glove cuff. He blew into the cloth mouthpiece of the iron rod carefully, and Kjartan watched in amazement as the bubble expanded. He spun it round and held a tool to it, shaping it into a symmetrical bowl shape. When it was finished, he put it into the low heated oven so it would cool down extremely slowly and not crack. He repeated the process a few more times.
Kjartan completely forgot what he was talking about and was just gazing, mesmerised.
“It’s totally different to fighting in a battle, yes?” said Lini, smiling and wiping the sweat from his brow with his arm. “Quite calming.”
Kjartan nodded, staring at the sweat running down Lini’s tanned back.
“So, the fighting school? You got as far as saying what you were going to teach them.”
“Oh. Yes. I’ll think of something.” It was far too hot in the forge. It was stopping his mind from working properly.
*
At first Viglund the carpenter had looked at the hopeful pair scornfully when they asked for help to make practice weapons, but after listening to their plans, relented somewhat.
“I never thought I’d be helping a murderer look after children,” he declared as he cut wood into lengths for swords and shields in his village workshop.
“I’m not -” Kjartan began, but Lini nudged him.
“We’re at least doing something useful,” said Lini. “It’ll help the village greatly.”
“Hm.” Viglund threw some more sections of wood into the basket, glaring at Kjartan. “I wouldn’t trust this murderer, even if you are his friend.”
“Oh come on!” Lini glared at him, half-smiling. “You can’t tell me you’ve never killed anyone in anger, surely?”
The carpenter turned his face away. “Yes, but that was when that cowardly rat raped my woman. No man gets away with that.”
“Well, there you are. We all get to the end of our tether sometimes.”
“Yes, we do,” agreed Kjartan, unable to resist joining in.
“Hm. I suppose you’ve done well saving Mildrith and marrying her.” Viglund gazed scornfully at the ex-Huskarl. “Maybe it’ll be the making of you.”
“Yes, I -” Lini began.
“But I don’t think so,” continued Viglund smugly. “Watch your back, Lini.”
“He
doesn’t need to watch his back. My murdering days are over,” Kjartan snapped, picking up the basket and shaking it so the wood was evenly weighted.
“Yes. Thanks, Viglund, we’ve got enough now.” Lini hustled his blond friend out of the door as quickly as he could.
Viglund watched them go, half amused and half concerned.
So in the week before the harvest began, Kjartan made twenty swords and spears out of wood. Although his hands ached and he had to constantly pick splinters out of his skin, he was proud when he’d finished. The boys could use any old bits of wood as shields, but making axes was beyond his skill and time, so he hoped he could get away with not using them.
*
Men worked along the strips of the field, some cutting the hay with scythes, some raking and turning it, then others stacking it against the wall for drying. The weather was balmy, the sun beat down, bees buzzed, grasshoppers chirped. As the hours idled by, the workers took off their tunics, Huskarl and farmer working side-by-side.
Lini approached. He had locked up his forge as he had a task to do. Eyeing the ranks of bare-chested men, he at last picked out Kjartan whose white-blond hair marked him from a good distance away. Approaching, he smiled. “You left this in the forge.”
He held out Kjartan’s seax, a weapon he used every day of his life.
“Oh, thanks. I wondered where that had gone. I can’t live without it.” He grinned. “How’s the glass blowing?”
“It’s fine. Thought I’d take a break.” He hovered, not sure what to say now. The hairs on Kjartan’s chest were palest blond too, but he didn’t want to stare and give him the wrong idea. Then he noticed a movement on his arm.
Seeing his glance, Kjartan peered down to see a ladybird toiling through the hair on his bicep.
“Damn insects!” The warrior lifted his other hand to squash it.
“Don’t!”
Lini carefully picked the little creature off and let it run along his hand. It flew off and he smiled.
“You are soft,” said Kjartan.
“Better to be soft than kill people.”
“S’pose I asked for that.”
They stood staring at each other for a minute, then Kjartan nodded and turned back to the hay. Lini sauntered back through the harvesters, not looking forward to returning to work. The weather was too hot and bright for being indoors; sometimes he wished he hadn’t learnt the glass making trade from his father but had outside work instead.
