by Paul Finch
Far and wide did Hrothgar seek bands of men with which to build his new ancestral home …
The squat fellow with the red moustaches looked up.
Rapidly it rose from the earth, this great long-house, until it stood there, the noblest of all kingly halls. He named it Heorot, a name that would be heard with awe in many foreign lands. Remembering those promises he made, Hrothgar gave out gifts of rings at his celebration feast. But the memories of wars and feuds were still fresh, and now, horror of horrors, a new kind of hatred awoke …”
Briefly, Hodr wetted his lips at his ale-cup.
Close by, a dark fiend endured abject misery in his underground lair. When he listened to the revels of the Danes, with all their singing and music, he went mad with rage and jealousy. Especially when he heard those songs of Man’s earliest days, and how Almighty God fashioned the fair fields of the Earth and the flow of the seas, and how he set the Sun and Moon to brighten the land for his creatures, making life and provender for all.
So lived the Danes, in joy and happiness, until the evil came upon them. Grendel was his name, this grim and hate-filled monster, and a marsh-reiver he was, a cruel stalker of the woods and fens, living now in exile for the crime of his kinsman, Cain, who had slain God’s true son, Abel …”
“Enough!” howled the fellow with the moustaches. He slammed his horn down with such force that it stuck upright in the table. Trembling, he rose to his feet. “This is a Christian tale, spread by those wretched dogs, the English!”
Hodr halted, surprised and suddenly fearful. But the eyes of the audience were not fixed on him. The man who’d interrupted glanced from one person to another. He leaned forward on his hands, the crimson flush running from his face until he was ash-pale.
Ljot, who had been pleased to hear the song, which he knew simply as Beowulf, and which would have been the first that evening to extol Christian virtues, responded. “Christian or not, it tells of supreme courage.”
The fellow, who was clearly very drunk, looked dumbly round at him.
“Which you apparently lack,” Radnar added.
Slowly, the fuddled thegn realised that he had been insulted. Then, in a whirlwind of action, he grabbed up his meat-knife and made to lunge across the table.
“That will do!” Sigfurth roared, leaping to his feet and showing for the first time since his nephews had arrived some of his legendary Viking spirit. “No weapons are drawn in this house unless on my say-so! Turgi … enough! I command it!”
The man called Turgi held his ground, but made furious, crazed gestures at the two guests. “They call me a coward! I demand holmgang!”
“Not in my house! Not at this time … when I need every man and boy!”
Turgi hung his head, his body quivering – either with rage or sorrow, it was difficult to tell. “Forgive me, lord,” he finally said. “But this is rank foolishness! We sit here, fattening ourselves like hogs, just waiting for the demon to strike again!”
Radnar turned to his uncle. “That at least is something friend Turgi and I agree on.”
“You know nothing of what we face here, Radnar,” Sigfurth said.
“With all respect, uncle, neither do you.” Radnar addressed the rest of the household. “Neither do any of you. Turgi has only given voice to a nameless fear that you all share.”
“Nevertheless,” Assbjorn put in, “Turgi has more to fear than most.”
Turgi slumped back onto his bench, dropping his knife on the table-top.
Assbjorn explained. “Even though this is Morketiden, if we are to survive this winter, our flock must be herded to the high pastures for daytime grazing. There is little if any grass left at Bjarkalstead. Everyone drew lots as to who should take the first turn as winter-shepherd. It fell to Turgi … and so, on the morrow, he must go up there alone. And as such, he faces certain death.”
Radnar and Ljot glanced at Turgi. The doomed fellow was swilling ale from his horn so thirstily that it dribbled down his moustaches.
“It ill-becomes a man to show fear to his comrades,” Sigfurth said, regarding Turgi with contempt. “In normal times, I would break his limbs and have him cast into the snow. But my house is depleted enough. In any case, as my son says, this time tomorrow he’ll be dead.”
“He needn’t be,” Radnar replied. “Send me instead.”
There was an astounded silence. Turgi looked up at the new man as though he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.
Radnar shrugged. “I’ll take your sheep to the high pastures. I’m not afraid.”
Ljot laid his cup down. “Neither am I. I’ll go too.”
“No,” Radnar said. “If this devil comes here to the stead, as it already has on several occasions, you’ll be needed more by our uncle.”
Ljot pondered this, and nodded.
“Do this thing, Radnar, and you’ll die,” Sigfurth said.
The certainty with which he uttered these words was chilling, but Radnar shrugged again. He drank more ale. “We’re all going to die, uncle.”
Sigfurth turned to the rest of his drengir. “So this is the way of it ... it takes a Christian. Ivar the Boneless sought to exterminate them, to slaughter them wherever he found them, because he feared that their simpering, skulking ways would take the iron from our bellies. And now, where none of my carls will set his foot, one of these same Christians goes willingly forth.”
“Don’t mistake me for someone I’m not, uncle,” Radnar said. “If this killer approaches me, he’ll drink the same metal that you, Assbjorn or any other of your heathen horde would give to him. This I promise.”
Sigfurth’s mouth twisted into a half-smile. He raised his horn. “Hodr! Another song. Something to celebrate the lesson in courage my nephew has just given us.”
Hodr, relieved that he hadn’t been taken to task more for his former choice of poem, recommenced with a tale about Thor and his journey to the lands of the frost-giants.
The hubbub of conversation renewed. Fists thumped table-tops, there were shouts for ale. In the midst of it all, Ljot turned to his brother. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I think so.”
“Why won’t you take me with you?”
“You’re more use here.” Radnar lowered his voice. “Put yourself around. Ask questions.”
“Why?”
“It’s no ordinary foe we face. A demon perhaps, but not of the common sort. These attacks are not mindless … there is method to this madness. See if you can discover it. And don’t fret about me.”
“Radnar, if something does happen to you, you haven’t been shriven since before Stiklestad.”
“I haven’t raped since then, I haven’t stolen.”
“You’ve slain.”
“Aye, in battle.”
“Our Lord may still disapprove.”
Radnar chuckled. “If Olaf can get to Heaven, surely I can.”
There was much truth in this. King Olaf might have stood for Christ, but he’d sought to impose Christ’s ways in brutal fashion, burning the halls around rebel chieftains’ heads, driving their animals into the wild, massacring their war-bands.
Ljot still gripped his brother’s brawny arm. “Radnar, don’t take this thing lightly. I know you struggle with your faith. I know it’s hard. I remember the call of Valhalla too, but a man must be certain of his beliefs when his time comes.”
Radnar grinned broadly. “You haven’t thought this through, Ljot. It pays to hedge one’s bets. My way, I’ll either be sleeping in the arms of Jesus, or drinking and wenching with the Aesir. Either way I have much to look forward to.”
Ljot sat back. He’d come to his new faith early in life, and that had helped him adjust to it. Others, however – like Radnar, had first needed to shake off years of brawling and carousing and savage piracy, all in the name of deities who were more like infernal spirits. Little wonder they struggled with it. Olaf had sought to force them to Christianity, and even Olaf – awe-inspiring Olaf – had failed dismally
.
4
Even at noon, the Morketiden sun was only a seam of light on the horizon.
Radnar made his way up to the high fells, droving the sheep before him, steering them through the deeper snow-drifts with his spear. He stopped once and glanced back. From this lofty perch, the farm-midden of his uncle was a cluster of lights far below. The rest of the world was shrouded in blackness. There wasn’t even a moon to reflect on the snow or on the ice floes down in the fjord.
He plodded on, studiously following the uphill track, which was no more than a winding furrow. It was so cold that his breath formed tangible phantoms in the air. Thankfully he was bundled in fur and fleece. Underneath this, he wore his coat of rings. His broadsword was belted at his waist.
He didn’t know whether this being – this creature or spirit or demon – would come against him, or whether it would simply watch and wait. Not knowing the nature of his enemy, it was difficult to judge. But applying the logic of the military campaign, he expected that it might hold off. A lone skirmisher, beyond the reach of help, presented an obvious target. Perhaps too obvious when the predator’s main aim, it seemed, was to coral its prey in their own bastion, picking them off one by one, creating confusion and terror. If it struck now and killed him – away from all the others, what would it stand to gain? Sigfurth’s people confidently expected Radnar to die, so if he did die it would mean nothing to them.
Of course, this was an optimistic view. This was assuming their enemy actually had a plan. Like Grendel, the evil force in the English poem, it might be nothing more than some mindless, marauding brute – though that was difficult to imagine given the varied, complex circumstances surrounding many of the deaths. The binding and burning of Ubbi Anlafsson must have taken the might and guile of half a dozen men, and even then had required knowledge of Ubbi’s past. Thus far, it was an unfathomable mystery.
When he reached the open plateau, the pasture was identifiable by fences set up to delineate boundaries. Within these, Radnar allowed the animals to wander. As was their way, they spread out and nosed down through the snow to get to the turf. Wrapped in dense wool, they were content to spend the day grazing, even in this bitter chill. It was more difficult for Radnar. He strode back and forth among them, beating his mailed hands together and listening, though all he heard, aside from the muffled bleats of the flock, was the distant sighing of wind on the glaciers.
Until he also heard the voice.
The breathy, male voice.
“Radnar?” it said. “Radnar?”
It sounded in his ear, as though the speaker was right beside him. Radnar spun around, grabbing for the hilt of his broadsword. An old trick he’d learned in the deepest winter was to grease his blade with pig-fat, so that it wouldn’t stick in its scabbard. Now that greased blade was out, starlight glinting on its lethal edges.
But there was no-one to wield it against.
Radnar turned a full-circle.
The sheep were dammed up around him, but no-one else was present.
“Who is that?” he finally called. “Show yourself!”
There was no response. Bewildered rather than frightened, he stumbled back and forth amid the flock, shouting and shooing at them, kicking the stubborn ones aside. But nobody was concealed there. Before long he’d searched the entire pastured. It was clear that he was quite alone.
5
Radnar had already gone, but it was still early when Ljot stirred from his sleep.
He had chosen a spot close to the hearth. The fire was a heap of glowing embers, but one of the slave-girls, the voluptuous redhead, now clad in orange fox-furs, was stoking it and laying on fresh chunks of peat. Around Ljot, the majority of the hearth-troop were also waking, groaning and cursing at the chill. Other house-thralls busied themselves. Rush-lamps were lit, and tables and benches lifted down from their hooks on the walls. The smell and the sizzle of frying fish came from the kitchens.
The fair-haired slave-girl made her way from man to man, wrapped in a heavy woolen shawl; she offered each member of the house a bowl of fresh-drawn water. When she reached Ljot, he sat up, unconsciously putting weight on his damaged ribs. He gasped.
“Are you ill, lord?” she asked.
He shook his head. “It’s an old wound.”
“I can look, if you wish. I’ve treated many hurts.”
“No need. It’s healing. My thanks all the same. What is your name?”
She shook her head, embarrassed. “I’m no-one, a slave.”
She tried to rise, but he grabbed the fish pendant. “A Christian slave,” he said.
She watched him nervously.
“What is your name?” he asked again.
“Theora.”
He released the pendant. “I recognised the fish-symbol, Theora. None of my uncle’s followers would have – they look for the crucifix or the crossed Greek letters. But I know the history of our people. I say our people, because I share your belief.”
“I had heard that, master,” she replied.
“Where were you captured?”
“Annagassan … in Ireland. When I was very young.”
“The other lass?” Ljot nodded at the girl working on the fire. “The redhead … she looks more Irish than you do.”
“That is Marta. She was taken at the same time. I have Norwegian blood, but she is fully Gael.”
“And is she a Christian too?”
“She was … now she makes offerings to Freya.”
“Easier to do that than remain true to Christ’s word and at the same time be consort to the house-men, eh?”
Theora hung her beautiful head. “It’s part of our duty here.”
She got to her feet, clearly feeling she had spent too much time attending this handsome but inquisitive newcomer.
“You’ve nothing to fear, Theora,” Ljot said. “My brother and I will protect you from the evil that threatens this place.”
She looked puzzled. “And who will protect you from it?”
“We have our tricks.”
“So does the thing that haunts us. Be advised, lord … it will attack you where you least expect.” And she hurried away, taking a rush-lamp and moving to the hall’s entrance.
Ljot climbed from under his cloak. He’d slept only in his linen shirt and leather breeks, so to follow her outdoors would be unpleasant, but as Radnar had said, he must find out more. He wrapped the cloak around him and pulled on his boots.
Outside, the snow was almost knee-deep. He saw Theora by the light of her lamp. She was heading towards the low-roofed byre that served as the winter cow-shed.
“Wait!” he said, hurrying after her, stumbling inside just as she closed the gate.
She looked shocked. “You’ll freeze to death, lord.”
“Never mind that. This enemy … do you know something about it?”
Visibly discomforted by the question, Theora crouched and grabbed her milking-pail.
“Girl, you can speak to me. I follow Christ. I see no difference between slave and master. Nothing you say will go any further.”
“I have … dreams,” she finally replied. “Just dreams.”
Ljot huddled more deeply into his cloak. The cowshed was wattle-and-daub, the chill seeping through its numerous chinks. Warm, manure-scented steam rose from the stalled animals, but it offered little in the way of comfort.
“Tell me about these dreams,” he urged her.
“They are unclear.” Studiously, she worked the first cow’s udders. “Their message is confused. But the portents are bad. In Britain this would now be the middle of November, a time of waking evil. The English call it ‘the Blood Month’.”
“They call it that because this is the time when they slaughter livestock, to prepare for Yuletide. There’s nothing to be frightened of in that name.”
“I wonder if here … in this place, things aren’t the other way around?”
“You aren’t making sense, girl.”
“If you think about it,
lord … aren’t we beyond the edge of Midgaard? Isn’t that the Poison Sea out there?” She looked terribly afraid. “We aren’t meant to be here. This place was supposed to be beyond our reach.”
“God made Man the steward of the whole Earth.”
“Not the whole Earth. Not Paradise. Man was driven out of Paradise for the sin of desecration.”
Ljot beckoned to her. “Come here.”
Warily, she stood and advanced. When she reached him, he took her in his arms, embracing her the way a father would. At first she was tense, still fearful. Then she relaxed a little, accepting that he was a Christian like her, and a man of sincere intentions.
Her sensual shape was close against him; it set a fire in Ljot’s loins, but the lass was shivering – not just with fear, with the cold. He drew his cloak around them both, before running fingers through her golden tresses. What she’d said made a modicum of sense. Eric the Red named this country ‘Greenland’ because of the welcome it gave after an arduous trek across the northern ocean. In the midst of peril, its sandy beaches, sheltered glens and wooded hills offered memories of home. And in many ways it did seem like Paradise, even now in the dead of winter – the hunting and fishing was good, there was more free land than any man had a right to expect. But their presence here was not desecration; Ljot was confident of that. Not in the way Adam and Eve had desecrated God’s gift of innocence; and certainly not in the way Theora’s rough slave-collar desecrated the flesh of her milk-white throat.
“I want you to be mine,” he said.
“In here, lord? It’s so cold, I …”
“No. I don’t intend to debauch you, lass. I want you for my wife.”
She looked astonished. “But I’m enthralled to …”
