by Peter Fox
‘He will?’ Rathulf said, faint with relief. ‘How do you know?’
‘I have seen many men fall before the charge,’ Myran said. ‘He survived.’
Tariq let out a snort and nudged the stablemaster. ‘You should remove the bit now, Master Rathulf, and henceforth you should put it on whenever you decide to ride him. Do not leave this important task to others, including me. You are his master, and you must remind him of that.’
‘But he’s already so much work! I barely have time for anything else. Even Ingrith is complaining about how much time I spend with him. It’s your job, not mine.’
‘Then perhaps you are not yet ready for Tariq.’
‘At least I’m free,’ Rathulf said spitefully, hurt by Myran’s rebuke. He immediately felt guilty, which only made him more annoyed, since Myran was only a slave.
‘We are all thralls in one way or another, Master Rathulf: Master Alrik to his looks, Lord Sigvald his pride and reputation, Lord Bardi his wealth, and you to your need to prove yourself to the men of the fjordlands; yet feeling you are always falling short. Who is setting the standard, Master Rathulf? Them, or you?’
‘I’m no thrall,’ Rathulf said, incensed.
‘Freedom comes from within, Master Rathulf,’ Myran said, ignoring Rathulf’s outburst and placing his hand over his heart.
‘What’s that got to do with Tariq and me?’ Rathulf asked.
‘Hey, Rathulf! Hurry up, will you?’ Alrik shouted from the fire.
Myran smiled. ‘You’ll learn in time. Go and take your refreshment. You’ve deserved it.’ He nodded at Rathulf’s waist and thigh. ‘You should have those abrasions seen to, or you’ll regret it come morning. Your body may be strong, Master Rathulf, but all men have their limits.’
Rathulf left, feeling surprisingly reluctant to go. It seemed there was more to be said between them, but Rathulf’s disquiet won the day, and he walked past the house to join his friends. He reached the fire pit, then paused to look up the valley beyond. One of the men had slung Gunnar over his shoulder and was walking back towards their camp. Eirik’s wife was beside him, an expression of black fury marring her normally beautiful face.
‘My advice is to let it lie,’ came a voice from beside Rathulf.
To his surprise, Rathulf saw that it was Eirik’s shield-bearer, Snorri Egilsson, one of the jarl’s most feared warriors. Rathulf knew that Snorri had been present all those years ago in Dumnonia when he had been rescued. ‘And don’t let anyone see your remorse,’ Snorri continued. ‘It is a good trait in a man, certainly, but too much will make him spineless. There are many here who have been waiting for something like this to happen to Gunnar, not least his father. Some won’t be best pleased it was you, mind, but I’m happy for your sake. That was a fine ride.’
He stood aside for Rathulf, who looked back at him, stunned. ‘We did not have this conversation,’ Snorri said, pushing Rathulf towards his friends and turning away.
Rathulf found Alrik standing near the fire with the other young Viking hopefuls, all trying to warm their still-naked bodies. None dared get dressed before Rathulf himself did so, conscious they would be labelled a weakling if they did so. Alrik shoved a mug at his friend. ‘You look pretty messed up. Are you sure you’re okay?’ There was genuine concern in Alrik’s voice and eyes.
Rathulf forced a smile, aware of all the onlookers. In truth, his battered body hurt like the furies, but he couldn’t let anyone see that. Fortunately, Ingrith arrived at that moment with fresh clothes and a warmed, scented cloth to clean his wounds. Rathulf couldn’t help but wince as she carefully dabbed away the blood and dirt from his numerous cuts and grazes. He noticed a number of the young men eye him enviously as Ingrith kissed him lightly on the shoulder where he’d scratched himself particularly badly. Astrid, Ottar’s very agreeable elder daughter, appeared shortly afterwards to check on Alrik and give him his clothes. The boy threw Rathulf a grin.
‘I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling better already.’
Rathulf grinned back at his friend then he bent down and pulled on his trousers, noting that Alrik didn’t seem in any hurry to get into his. Show-off. The other boys were eagerly pulling on their pants and tunics, relieved that their ordeal was at last over.
‘I was just telling them about the fight at Horik’s’ Alrik said, then turned back to the others to continue his tale.
‘Oh?’ Rathulf said suspiciously. If it were anything like any of Alrik’s other stories, it would have reached heroic proportions by now. And Rathulf wasn’t sure it was a good idea to gloat so openly about his fight with Horik and Eirik’s intervention during their disastrous attempt to rescue Leif earlier in the year.
‘Did Eirik really take a sword to his brother on your behalf?’ Hakon asked, wide-eyed.
Rathulf smiled. The story had grown out of hand. ‘Um, in a manner of speaking–’
‘Of course he did,’ Alrik broke in. ‘Rathulf’s just embarrassed that Sognefjord’s most powerful jarl has pledged allegiance to him.’
‘Did you hold Neck-biter?’ one of the younger boys asked, awed.
Rathulf’s smile broadened. Only Alrik could turn a calamity into a tale of epic heroism. ‘Yes,’ he said, acceding to the story, ‘and a fine blade it is too; I could barely lift it! Only a great warrior could wield that sword.’ They were eating out of his hands, and Alrik threw him an approving grin.
As the evening wore on, there was much revelry, singing and dancing in the home field surrounding the house. The food flowed from the great fire-pit set up in the yard, and Rathulf’s mug was never wanting for either ale or mead. Even Thorvald was in good spirits, having received a great deal of praise from the menfolk for raising such an outstanding young man. Better still, Gunnar had survived his fall, although he was very much the worse for wear. His pony, however, had not; the mare’s neck had snapped in her tumbling fall under Tariq. Gunnar had been carried to his family’s encampment, and everyone heard his screams echoing across the fjord when Helga reset his dislocated shoulder. Astonishingly, the Goddess Eir had smiled upon Gunnar and had protected his bones from breaking. Alrik winced at Rathulf, knowing there would be no stopping Gunnar now. The aggravating snot would be after Rathulf’s blood for sure.
‘You know we’re going to regret that Tariq didn’t kill him,’ Alrik offered unhelpfully.
‘Thanks,’ Rathulf said, although he had been thinking the very same thing. Never mind whatever compensation Eirik might seek; Gunnar would undoubtedly plunge to new lows to get even with his enemy. Despite Rathulf’s misgivings, however, the men and womenfolk all openly congratulated Rathulf on an excellent and entertaining contest, and, like Snorri, more than one quietly offered their voice of approval for the routing of Eirik’s disagreeable son. It did much to restore Rathulf’s confidence, although Eirik himself had yet to pass judgement, and he would surely be arriving anytime soon to deliver Leif.
In the meantime, the evening’s entertainment consisted of another Norse favourite: wrestling, a sport at which both Alrik and Rathulf excelled. Even so, both were secretly pleased that Gunnar had been put out of action, for Eirik’s burly son was widely acknowledged to be the best of them all. As it was, Alrik defeated Rathulf in their bout of five rounds. Rathulf, who was now quite drunk, blamed it on the ale and his wounds and demanded a rematch. Alrik won again. As Rathulf lay on his back panting in the cool grass after the bout, his opponent pranced about the roped-off ring, showing off his muscles to the girls, his sweat gleaming in the late evening sun. The girls of course shrieked and giggled with delight, and Rathulf rolled his eyes as Alrik permitted them to stroke his chest and test his arms for strength. Thankfully the boy had kept his trousers on, so he was at least partially decent.
Despite himself, Rathulf could not help feeling jealous of his friend with his fabulous body and supreme self-confidence. Rathulf had worked hard to restore his own strength following his long recovery after the avalanche, but despite building himself back up to what he c
onsidered to be a decent physical condition, Alrik still surpassed him. He felt a strange pang inside, and he heard Myran’s words again. Why am I jealous? he wondered. My body is just as good as his. He glanced down at the breadth of his chest and flatness of his stomach. So why do I think he is better than me? He let out a sigh. He will always be better, he realised, because he is a free-born Norseman, and I am not.
‘Hey, what are you looking so glum about?’ Alrik said, appearing in front of Rathulf and holding out his hand to help his friend to his feet.
Without a thought, Rathulf grabbed Alrik’s wrist and threw him to the ground, determined to win at least one match today. It had been too high a price losing the one race he should have won, and be damned if Alrik was going to have the better hand in everything. They fought to the bitter end this time, with no referee to intervene, and no rules to interfere with the natural course of the contest. Rathulf barely heard the yells and cheers of the crowd of onlookers; his attention was focused solely on Alrik. It was a match of raw strength and determination, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, Rathulf ripped himself from Alrik’s grasp and threw his opponent down on his back and sat on his lap, pinning Alrik’s arms down on the grass. Alrik blinked up at his friend in surprise. The huge roar that erupted from the crowd told Rathulf he had won, and he rolled off his friend and lay on the ground, his chest heaving painfully as he drew in long, ragged breaths. The left side of his body bled in many places where his exertion had undone Ingrith’s earlier good work.
Both boys dripped with sweat, and Alrik lay beside Rathulf, panting just as heavily. He turned his head and grinned at his adversary. ‘What did I say?’
The only person not cheering was Sigvald, who testily handed Bardi a pile of silver coins, muttering expletives under his breath. ‘You backed him?’ Rathulf cried in disgust, pointing at Alrik.
‘And you bet on Rathulf?’ Alrik scowled at his father, who was happily pocketing his winnings. Bardi smiled back unashamedly, looking very pleased with himself.
‘You stink,’ Rathulf said to Alrik, wrinkling his nose. Truth be told, both boys smelt rank after a whole day of physical exertion under a bright, warm sun.
‘Well there’s an easy way to solve that,’ Alrik said. ‘Race you. The last one in’s a maggot!’ With that, he sprang up and ran down to the beach, Rathulf close on his heels. The two boys splashed into the frigid fjord to yelps and hoots of laughter, splashing each other with fountains of water. Alrik grabbed Rathulf and dragged him under, and they wrestled for a while under the surface. Then both burst up for air at the same time and ran back out to the shore. Alrik shook his head like a dog, then held his face up to the setting sun. ‘By the Balls of Fenrir, that’s just too cold! Let’s get changed out of these pants before I lose anything precious.’
‘Too late for me,’ Rathulf said ruefully. ‘Mine were mashed to a pulp by Tariq’s spine.’
Alrik winced. ‘Yeah, that wasn’t one of your better ideas, Ra.’
‘I’ll help dry you off,’ said Ingrith cheekily, bounding up to Rathulf with a towel of soft linen. She stood far too close to him and carefully wiped the cloth over his chest and arms, then moved down to his stomach and hips, taking special care with his many scrapes and cuts. ‘Whoa,’ Rathulf said, remembering what had happened last time she’d tried to dry him off. She smiled at him and asked why that would be a problem. Should she not help him out of his wet pants?
‘I’m all for that,’ Alrik agreed, himself being attended to by Astrid.
‘Well, I’m afraid it’ll have to wait,’ came Sigvald’s voice. ‘We have visitors.’ He nodded back up the fjord, and sure enough, a longship was making its way towards them under oar. Leif! Rathulf thought. At last. From this distance, he could see very little, especially as he was looking straight into the westering sun. There was barely a breath of wind, and Rathulf felt sorry for the rowers on this warm evening. Despite this, Eirik had raised the red and black striped sail, and its raven standard boldly flew across its centre. A few moments later Snorri arrived with a hornful of ale for Rathulf. ‘A drink for the winner,’ he said, clapping Rathulf on the back. He gave Rathulf a telling look, then marched off toward Eirik’s family encampment. Rathulf took a long draught, wondering what Snorri meant by that glance.
Rathulf knew that Leif wasn’t on board well before the ship had drawn up to the shore. ‘You promised you’d bring him,’ Rathulf said to Eirik when the jarl strode up to offer his apologies.
Eirik drew breath, visibly making an effort to keep his voice level as he spoke. ‘Leif wasn’t there, nor was his father.’
‘Again?’ Rathulf asked sceptically.
‘Yes,’ Eirik replied. ‘Just like last time, and before you ask,’ he said, cutting Rathulf off, ‘like you, I don’t think it a coincidence. I agree that Horik has done this intentionally. You may rest assured that my brother will answer for this. He has caused me to go back on my word, and I don’t break my promises.’
‘What? Is that it?’ Ra demanded, incensed. ‘For all we know, Horik could be beating Leif to death right now!’
‘Ah, Ra, I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink,’ Sigvald said, aware of the many witnesses to this exchange. ‘Let’s not ruin a good day.’ He took the drinking horn from Rathulf’s hand, intent on leading him away.
‘It’s already ruined,’ Rathulf said. He looked to Eirik. ‘You promised you would bring him.’
‘And I am very sorry to say that I have failed,’ Eirik said tersely. ‘My men and I turned the place upside down and inside out. That’s why we’re late. The place was empty. No one was there.’
‘Then you didn’t try hard enough.’
‘Rathulf!’ Sigvald snapped. ‘You’re exceptionally rude. It was enough that jarl Eirik went on your behalf. Go back to the fire!’
‘No!’ Rathulf shouted. ‘Leif should be here, and the only reason I didn’t go and get him myself is that he promised to bring him.’ He thrust his finger at Eirik. ‘But I knew he couldn’t be trusted.’ He turned to the jarl. ‘Did you even go to Horiksby?’
A heavy silence fell upon Rathulf’s accusation.
Sigvald instantly began to apologise, but Eirik lifted his hand for quiet. He took a step closer to Rathulf, who glowered back at him, his fists clenched. Rathulf wavered on his feet slightly; his breaths still laboured from his exertions with Alrik. His head felt odd, and the ground seemed to be moving under his feet.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that, Rathulf,’ Eirik said calmly.
Rathulf looked into the chieftain’s piercing blue eyes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice shouted at him to run. But he wasn’t quite sure why, because he couldn’t quite remember what he had just said. It must have been terrible because everyone was looking at him as though he was about to die. ‘Um, I–’ He stopped, wondering if it would be sensible to say anything. He spotted Alrik staring at him in horror. ‘What did I just say?’
Suddenly Eirik laughed, and he shook his head, genuinely amused. Around them, people breathed sighs of relief, and Rathulf noticed hands moving away from the hilts of swords and daggers.
‘Who won?’ Eirik said, nodding at Alrik. ‘You or him?’
Rathulf blinked. Curse this mead. How had he managed to get so drunk all of a sudden? He wasn’t aware of it until now. ‘I did,’ he said, but suddenly he wasn’t sure. ‘At least I think so.’ But Alrik had definitely beaten him at some point too.
Eirik’s grin broadened. ‘Good for you, boy!’ he smiled, slapping Rathulf on the shoulder. ‘Alrik will want a rematch no doubt…’ his voice trailed off as his attention was drawn to a group of people making their way towards them.
‘What in Hel’s name?’ Eirik muttered. His good humour vanished, and his expression darkened when he saw his son being led towards them by two of the menfolk. The young man was limping, his arm and shoulder wrapped tight, his face blotchy, eyes puffy and red. A large, dark bruise had begun to spread across the left side of his face where Tariq’s hoo
f had connected with the boy’s skull, and his hair glistened with blood where one of his many cuts seeped. To his credit, he was not crying at this particular moment, although he clearly had been, and he made his way falteringly to his father, who stared back at him, his displeasure clear.
‘What happened to you?’ Eirik asked, his voice carrying no sympathy at all.
‘Him.’ That single word carried the full weight of Gunnar’s hatred for Rathulf, and he would have pointed to the culprit had it not been for the fact that his torso was fully bound and his arm slung tight to his chest. He wavered on his feet, and Rathulf realised Gunnar was hopelessly drunk; a good thing probably, given the pain he must be suffering.
Eirik gave Rathulf a chilling stare, then turned back to his son. Rathulf noticed that one of the men who had accompanied Gunnar was Snorri.
‘Tell me,’ Eirik said to his son.
Gunnar immediately launched into an expletive-laced account of the events, starting with the brazen attack on him in the swimming contest, followed by the deliberate running down of him and his mount in the horse race. The tale was full of exaggeration of flat out lies, as Rathulf expected, made worse by Gunnar’s vitriolic delivery. At one point Rathulf opened his mouth to object, but then he stopped himself, seeing Snorri’s face and remembering Myran’s earlier words. No, Rathulf told himself, I don’t need to justify my actions. It was a fair contest. I did nothing wrong. So he said nothing and instead allowed Gunnar to stumble through his increasingly outrageous story. To Rathulf’s satisfaction, Gunnar grew more and more furious as Rathulf refused to be drawn.
Sigvald, Bardi and others among the menfolk did protest, however, coming to Rathulf’s defence as witnesses to the true events, but Eirik ordered them to be silent.
‘Have you finished?’ he asked his son when Gunnar eventually ceased his mead-slurred tirade. Gunnar nodded then glared with hatred at Rathulf, his mouth curled into a sneer.
