by Peter Fox
Everyone laughed at the pun. Slippy was the nickname for the greatest of the Gods’ steeds: Odin’s eight-legged stallion, Sleipnir.
‘Ha, ha,’ Rathulf muttered.
‘Yeah, great idea,’ Gunnar added, arriving moments behind Alrik. ‘Straight down the mountain. Wish I’d tried that.’
‘Fenrir’s fangs, Rathulf! What happened up there?’ golden-haired Sigvald demanded, grabbing Tariq’s halter to help settle the beast.
‘We took a wrong turn,’ Rathulf said.
‘You mean you missed it completely,’ Alrik whooped. ‘You should have seen his face, uncle. They went sideways!’
‘Right off the path!’ One of the other boys, Arnar, added.
Gunnar shook his head at Rathulf. ‘Face it Thorvaldarsson, that stupid horse is a dud. When are you going to realise that? Then again, it kinda suits; a worthless horse for a worthless thrall.’
‘Go choke on Fenrir’s kuk, Gunnar,’ Rathulf growled, placing a protective hand on his horse’s sweat-frothed neck. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Tariq.’
‘Agreed,’ Sigvald said, unimpressed with the derision being laid upon his precious investment.
‘Yeah, right,’ Gunnar countered. ‘He’s scared stiff of ice and snow, eats ten times as much as any other horse, needs a special stable, is too big to fit in anything but the largest knarr, and he hates the cold. A real practical mount for the fjordlands.’
‘You’ll be eating our divots when I ride him over the Leap,’ Rathulf responded.
Gunnar snorted in disbelief; a sentiment shared by Sigvald. ‘Ah, Rathulf,’ he said, trying to sound supportive, ‘I thought we’d agreed that you’d rest Tariq and ride your pony.’
Rathulf glowered at his foster father. Everyone knew that this was the one test that Rathulf would not be undertaking on his stallion. His father had expressly forbidden it. Rathulf himself had not protested overmuch, for, despite his love for his horse, no one was more aware of Tariq’s shortcomings than his rider. Tariq was still too flighty, too headstrong for his master to trust him with his life; this most recent little adventure proved that. But Gunnar’s smug expression was too much for Rathulf to bear.
‘I will ride Tariq.’
‘I forbid it,’ Thorvald said firmly from his chair.
Rathulf’s father had not adjusted well to his new life as a cripple. Still, he had eventually acquiesced to Sigvald’s insistence that he allow himself to be carried around on a portable chair with two slaves standing by to move him. But the humiliation of needing help with even the most basic acts, such as toileting, infuriated the Norseman. Although Thorvald had always been a little on the serious side, Rathulf could not remember when Thorvald had last smiled. As time had passed since the avalanche, so had Thorvald’s bitterness grown.
‘I don’t care one bit about your injured pride,’ Thorvald continued. ‘Tariq is not ready for this responsibility, and I will not allow you to throw your life away on his account. Look at you; you don’t even own a proper saddle.’
Rathulf winced. The saddle, always the ruddy saddle! He threw a glare at the hashed-together affair and inwardly cursed Alrik for letting him down. ‘I will ride him,’ he said defiantly, determined now to do it.
Gunnar laughed scornfully. ‘Well you’d better take a change of pants with you to the Leap, ‘coz you’re gonna need them. In fact, you’d better bring two,’ he added, smirking.
‘Oh, piss off, Gunnar,’ Alrik said. ‘Don’t you have somewhere else to be?’
Gunnar blew Alrik a sarcastic kiss then stalked off to see to his pony.
‘Who invited that drittsekk?’ Alrik said. He turned to his friend. ‘Don’t listen to him, Ra, although he is right about Tariq. Whose idea was it to gallop down the mountain like that? Yours or his?’ He pointed at Tariq. ‘That was incredibly stupid, and it proves you aren’t ready to take the Leap on him.’
‘We’ve plenty of time to prepare,’ Rathulf said.
‘It’s less than four weeks, Ra!’ Alrik reminded him.
Rathulf stared at his friend. What does he mean four weeks? There has to be more time than that! I’m not ready for the Leap, let alone my horse.
‘Exactly,’ Thorvald said, breaking into his son’s thoughts. ‘You will ride your pony, and I won’t hear another word on the matter.’
‘Well, now that’s settled,’ Alrik said, crossing his arms and looking pointedly at his companion, ‘when do I get to ride Tariq?’
‘You’ve already had plenty of goes. It’s Leif’s turn next,’ Rathulf reminded him.
‘There’s no way he’ll be able to control Tariq! And besides, he isn’t here.’
‘He’ll be here tonight for the feast, and then he and you can ride Tariq in the morning. It won’t kill you to wait another day.’
Alrik grunted and cocked an eyebrow which plainly showed he thought little of his faith in their friend. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ he said, then he too went to tend to his pony.
Rathulf glared at his friend’s back, wishing that Alrik would give Leif a chance.
‘Leif will be here,’ came a kindly voice beside him. He turned to his foster-mother. ‘Jarl Eirik made a promise,’ Helga said, ‘and he is not a man to break his word.’
‘Hmm,’ Rathulf murmured, unconvinced.
‘Don’t even think it,’ Sigvald interrupted. ‘Why do you think Alrik came on his father’s drakkar? We aren’t stupid, you know. No longship: no second rescue attempt.’
Tariq whinnied beside Rathulf, and the young Norseman took up the stallion’s reins. Who said I needed a boat to get to Leif’s? he thought. ‘Come on,’ he said to his horse. ‘We’d better get this saddle fixed before tomorrow. Otherwise, someone might decide it’s too dangerous to ride you.’
Sigvald’s equerry, Myran, was waiting by the new, purpose-built stable when Rathulf arrived. The Arab slave looked none too pleased. Rathulf glared at him, still smarting from his upbraiding over Tariq. ‘What’s your problem?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve been scowling at me ever since I got back.’
‘You almost died,’ the slave said reprovingly.
‘Well, I’m sorry I didn’t succeed. I’ll try harder next time, okay?’
‘How? By riding as you did just now?’
‘What’s wrong with my riding?’
‘It’s not how you ride, master Rathulf, but why.’
‘Just do your job,’ Rathulf said unkindly, thrusting the reins at the Arab. He turned away, refusing to allow a slave to rebuke him as well. That know-it-all is always presuming to offer advice where it isn’t needed. What would he know? Just because he used to be a caverlee warrior makes him think he has the right to tell me how to behave? I’ve been riding horses all my life, he thought angrily, and what business is it of his to ask ‘why’ I ride, anyhow? It’s obvious. ‘The whole point of a race is to win it,’ Rathulf muttered.
‘Winning does not always mean passing the finish mark first, master Rathulf.’
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ Rathulf snapped, rounding on the slave, ‘and of course it does!’
Myran smiled his enigmatic smile. ‘You are the master, Lord.’
‘Don’t give me that…’ Rathulf began, but he forced himself to control his temper. This is my day, he thought, and I’m damned if anyone is going to ruin it for me. ‘So what am I meant to do?’ he demanded. ‘Lose?
‘Yes.’
‘You want me to lose?’
‘Master Rathulf, you have no more control over Tariq than you have the weather.’ The stablemaster’s tone was neither insulting nor scornful. He seemed genuinely disappointed.
‘I am trying!’ Rathulf pleaded, despite himself. ‘He keeps tricking me. It’s like he’s testing me all the time!’
‘Of course he is. A good horse must know his rider’s limits, but you must also show him his.’
Rathulf shook his head, frustrated that he kept failing in everyone’s eyes. And now Myran was trying to tell him that even his horse thought him inadequate. �
��Just rub him down and get him ready for tomorrow,’ Rathulf said. He stalked off towards the house, determined not to let this quarrel spoil his celebrations.
‘Remember, master,’ Myran called after him. ‘To win, sometimes you must lose.’
✽ ✽ ✽
A cave in the high shielings above Horiksby, Lustrafjorden, Norvegr
Leif held his breath, his head cocked, and eyes narrowed as he listened intently for any further sound. It had only been the tiniest of rattles; so indistinct that he wasn’t even sure he’d heard anything at all. When nothing more happened, he decided it must have been one of the hill sheep, but he pressed himself further into the dark corner of the cave all the same.
Predictably, Horik had made it plain that his son would not be attending Rathulf’s birthday celebrations, and the bruises on Leif’s cheek and neck were stinging proof of that. Horik had caught his son sneaking about the horse yard just before dawn, and had delighted in watching Leif’s surprise when the boy realised that the ponies were missing.
‘Lost something?’ he had sneered.
Leif had stood there, dumbfounded, his plans in ruin. His father must have led the animals away at some point during the night, but just how he had achieved that remained a mystery. It didn’t matter how he’d done it, because the result was the same. Leif had no means of escape. Instead, he had suffered his father’s derision and inevitable heavy-handed punishment for attempting to sneak away. Horik had then ordered Leif up onto the plateau to round up the sheep, joyfully assuming that he’d ruined his son’s plans by sending him in the opposite direction when in fact he had given Leif a legitimate excuse to go up there. For, ironically, that had always been Leif’s plan; it had never been his intention to attend Rathulf’s party, not that Horik could have known it of course.
Ironically, everything Horik had so far done to prevent his son from attending Rathulf’s birthday had increased Leif’s chances of executing his strategy. It had begun when Horik had sent Sigvald away empty-handed two days ago when the jarl had come with an invitation. For once in his life, Leif had been grateful to his mean-spirited father. Leif had hidden in the shadow of the pigsty, crouched beside the slurry heap as he listened to the ridicule and insults his father had levelled at Sigvald. He had cringed upon hearing Sigvald’s submissive tone, astonished and ashamed that the powerful chieftain would demean himself so much on Leif’s account. Sigvald had eventually left, although not before demanding a search of the steading. His request had been refused of course, again to Leif’s relief, but Sigvald had departed with the promise that he would sail straight to Eirik’s and demand that the jarl bring Leif to Thorvaldsby. Horik had already turned his back on Sigvald, but Leif did not doubt that Sigvald would be true to his word. Time was running out.
So it was that on the morning before Rathulf’s birthday Leif had set off to leave Horik for good, only to be prevented from going, then inadvertently released after all; albeit on foot. Leif laughed to himself, pleased that he had beaten his wicked father at his own game. Soon I’ll be gone from here, and I’ll never look back, he thought, and I’ll feel no remorse or regret. None? Perhaps I shall miss this little haven, but what measure of loss will it be when I sit upon the throne in my new kingdom?
It had been the talk of the western fjordlands during the early summer; Rathulf’s learning of his true heritage after all this time. Such a shame they hadn’t found the chest with its proof, but to Leif’s surprise, Gunnar had said that Rathulf wasn’t all that interested in being the king of Dumnonia anyway. Leif had later checked that claim with Snorri, who confirmed the rumours that Rathulf was, in fact, less than keen to return to his homeland. Gunnar had predictably offered a variety of colourful and snide remarks about Rathulf’s spinelessness, but Leif had barely heard him. Instead, his heart rejoiced, as the few vestiges of guilt he had felt over his impending betrayal evaporated upon hearing this fantastic news.
Leif stretched out his legs, leaned back against the stone and gazed out at the sun-warmed meadow, pleased that the Gods had been kind to him on this momentous day. That in itself was surely a good omen. Down on the valley floor, the sun flashed cheerfully on the rippling waters of the tarn, and beyond it, a single puff of cloud drifted lazily above the heather-clad mountain. Leif loved this view that was his alone, framed by the angled slabs of rock that formed the entrance to his secluded cave. He let out a long sigh, then he turned and reached up behind him. The oak trunk was awkward to manoeuvre in the tight space, but Leif managed to get it down without any trouble. He set the old chest on his lap and felt its weight pressing down on his legs.
A clattering of stones outside caught Leif’s attention, and he held his breath as the sounds of movement neared. Something white flashed by the opening of the cave, and he let out a croak of relief when he realised it was just another sheep. He closed his eyes and deliberately slowed his breathing to settle his pounding heart, scolding himself for being such a fool. His father would never find him here. It remained the one safe place in Leif’s world; a sanctuary known only to him and the resident sheep and goats.
He opened his eyes just in time to see a larger, darker shape appear at the entrance. His heart stopped.
‘Well, well, well. What have we here? A ferret in its lair no less.’
Leif stared in horror as his father stepped back so that the light could better illuminate the little cave. Instinctively he drew up his legs and shrank as far back into the corner as he could. He clutched the trunk, frantically wondering what to do with it. On no account could he let Horik have it.
‘There’s no point hiding in there, boy,’ his father said harshly. ‘Get out and be quick about it.’
Leif paused for a moment, and then he turned around so that his back faced the entrance. He quickly set the trunk as far towards the rear as he could, then, just as he heard his father scrabble at the cave’s mouth, crawled out feet first.
Horik helped Leif on his way, grabbing his son’s ankles and hauling him out so roughly that it was all Leif could do to keep his face from being scraped on the rocks.
‘What’s this then, boy?’ Horik demanded, pulling his son roughly to his feet. ‘A secret hide-away?’
‘It’s just a shepherd’s refuge, father,’ Leif said, forcing himself to sound neutral when inside his heart was crying out in despair for the violation of his sacred refuge. He looked into his father’s cold blue eyes, willing him to believe it.
Horik didn’t buy it for a moment, just as Leif knew in his heart that he wouldn’t. Horik sighed and shook his head with feigned sadness. ‘I think this little ferret is lying. What have you got stashed away in there? A few trinkets, perhaps? A silver coin or two?’ He moved towards the entrance.
‘There’s nothing there,’ Leif said, moving to block his father’s way. ‘Just a bit of food and a blanket for warmth is all. I come up here sometimes. To get away.’ He stopped, realising he had said too much.
Horik raised an eyebrow. ‘Away? Why are you looking so pale all of a sudden? You wouldn’t have something of mine in there, would you?’
Leif shook his head. ‘A couple of strips of salted meat and an old saddle blanket. I’ve told you. Some of it’s not even mine. All the shepherds use this place.’
‘Then I’m sure they won’t mind me having a look, will they?’
There was nothing Leif could do or say. His father had found him out, and in his impotence, Leif could do nothing to prevent his father from going in.
Leif silently watched as Horik crouched down and crawled into the little space. He felt as though someone had just torn out his insides, and a sob sprang from his lips before he could stop it. He suppressed the next one, and the next after that, because he could not–would not–allow his father the satisfaction of seeing his distress. He heard the rattle of a mug being tossed aside, then came the sound he had been dreading: the clunk of wood against stone. His father let out a disbelieving curse.
‘What, in the name of Sköll is this?’ His snarl
rang dull and hollow from the hole. ‘A coin or five hundred! Just wait ‘til I get out there, boy!’
Leif closed his eyes, anger and despair twisting his insides into a painful knot. Why now, was all he could think. Why today? Why could his father not have discovered this place after he had got the trunk safely away? He knew the answer, of course. Once again, the Gods mocked him from their vaulted hall; playing with his life and his heart without a care for his misery. They had brought him all this way only to smash hope to pieces at the last moment. There was a scraping sound, then another curse as Horik banged his elbow on the cave wall. He was coming out.
A wild thought struck Leif as he looked at the narrow entrance. A crack over the head with a decent-sized rock; that’s all it will take. I can stuff the body back into the hole, and nobody will ever know. Rathulf’s trunk will be safe, and so will I. Questions might be asked, but I’ll be long gone by the time they find him; if they ever do. Who, way up here in this little valley will witness the deed? My father followed me up here alone. Had he told anyone his destination? Leif laughed at himself. Who was there to tell? The pigs? The geese?
Several heavy-looking rocks lay near the opening.
One blow, Leif told himself, moving towards the entrance. One blow to end it all.
2. Drittsekk
High shielings above Horiksby, Lustrafjorden, Norvegr
That was how Horik found Leif: standing above the entrance, rock in hand, his jaw set in a determined line. Horik looked at his son with contempt, and then he slapped the boy hard across the face before turning his back on him and taking three steps down to a convenient boulder where he could better inspect his find.
Leif stood immobile as his father turned away, unable to wield his weapon or drop it. More than anything in the world, he wanted to hurt Horik, to return some of the pain and suffering he had wrought upon Leif during his life. Leif so wanted to wipe the sneer from his father’s face, but faced with the reality of the moment he found he couldn’t do it. And so he was left feeling even more pathetic than before; his father’s complete disregard for his safety a crushing affirmation of his son’s impotence.
