by Peter Fox
Just what he’d do once he got back to Horiksby, Leif couldn’t say, but somehow he knew this was his last chance to set things right, to take control, to take the damn thing and run; either to Rathulf or Dumnonia, and if that meant taking on his father, then so be it. He had nothing to lose now.
It was well after nightfall when Leif arrived back at Horiksby. He was so exhausted when he finally entered the inner yard that he barely noticed Horik watching him from the doorway. Nor did Leif pay any attention to his father as he slumped over the water barrel near the byre for a drink. As a result, he had no inkling that Horik had taken up an axe, but perhaps it was just as well, for he was mercifully unaware of the iron blade as it swung towards his head.
✽ ✽ ✽
Rathulf rose quietly from beneath the covers, careful not to disturb Ingrith. She sighed and changed position, so Rathulf hesitated, waiting for her to settle. Take your time, he scolded himself. He thanked the Gods it was only him and his girlfriend in the tent this time, for it would have been impossible to sneak out with Alrik and Astrid present as well. His friend had suggested they all spend one last night together, knowing that Ingrith’s and Astrid’s parents would call a halt to their all-too-public promiscuity at the close of Rathulf’s birthday celebrations. It had been a tough decision for Rathulf, whose body ached for more of the delights he had experienced the previous evening, but he also knew that this would be his only chance to redeem himself over Leif’s abandonment.
Rathulf took a few more breaths to calm down, then he crept out of the tent, carefully easing the flaps closed. The air was heavy with dew, smelling of the sea and heather and field daisies. He glanced up at the sky and saw to his relief that he’d timed his departure well. He’d drifted off to sleep at one point while he’d waited for darkness to finally settle on the fjord. It was one of the disadvantages of the northern summers: there was so little actual darkness between dusk and dawn. But right now, there was nothing but starlight to guide him; perfect for a getaway.
He had hatched his plan soon after hearing of his indiscretion with Eirik. “If at first, you don’t succeed, try again,” was one of Thorvald’s favourite sayings. “Best try something else because you’re obviously inept at it,” was Sigvald’s equally favourite rejoinder. Either way, it was clear that no one was going to help Leif. So Rathulf had been especially careful not to drink overmuch for the remainder of the day – not that his stomach could have taken it anyway – and he was glad of it as he snuck past the tents and their slumbering occupants. It seemed that everyone was asleep after another day of sports, feasting and drinking.
A guy rope twanged as he tripped over it in the darkness and he stifled a curse. He stood dead still, waiting for the shouted challenge, but none came. He heard a dog whine nearby, but it settled back down on seeing who it was. He made his way towards the new stable, still uncertain how he was going to get his clumsy oaf of a horse out – let alone saddle him up – without waking the whole gathering. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do about Myran either, should the slave catch him at it. He’d contemplated using his knife, but he’d no desire to hurt anyone, least of all Myran, who did not deserve such a fate. And let’s face it, what were the chances he would use it anyway? The thought of plunging a knife into anyone sickened Rathulf, not that he’d admit it to anyone. So he’d decided that he’d just have to talk Myran around.
Tariq let out a welcoming whinny when he saw who was entering the stable, but Rathulf quickly shushed him. ‘Quiet now,’ he whispered, gently stroking the stallion’s muzzle. ‘We have to be as silent as mice, my friend.’
He pulled the saddle blanket from its rail and quickly flicked it over Tariq’s high back. Only when Rathulf reached for the bridle did Myran intervene. The Persian’s touch on Rathulf’s wrist made the youth jump out of his skin with fright, but Myran’s firm hand stifled Rathulf’s cry.
‘Pick that up, and it will jangle as loud as the bells of Isfahan, which legend tells were so clamorous they woke the dead.’
Rathulf didn’t move, not sure what to do.
‘You must first wrap the metalwork in cloth, thus,’ Myran continued softly, releasing Rathulf. He took a thin strip of soft wool and carefully wound it around one of the brass rings on the halter. He paused when Rathulf said and did nothing. ‘If you wish to leave tonight then I will need your help, master,’ Myran suggested, nodding at a small pile of pre-prepared rags nearby. Rathulf opened his mouth to ask Myran how he had deduced Rathulf’s intentions, but the slave held his finger to his mouth and shook his head. ‘Quickly now,’ he said. ‘I have prepared your hunting kit.’
For what seemed an interminably long time, both worked to muffle the metal rings and buckles, Rathulf growing increasingly impatient as the stars wheeled across the sky.
‘One careless slip and you’ll be caught,’ Myran warned. ‘You’ve enough time, just, provided we work quickly.’
Rathulf said nothing and continued binding the metalwork on the stirrups. Myran was at last satisfied. ‘A poor job, but given the state of your guests, I believe it will be sufficient.’
‘How do you know to do this?’ Rathulf asked, wondering why no one he knew had thought of something so obvious before.
Myran smiled. ‘I would very much like to bring you to my homeland one day, master Rathulf,’ he said. ‘We have many skills in warcraft that would set you in good stead for your future life as a king. But first, we must get you safely away. You will need a dark cloak,’ he said, producing the appropriate garment from the rail beside the saddle.
‘Myran?’ Rathulf asked. ‘Who were you? Back in your homeland, I mean.’
The slave tilted his head in reflection, then seemed to come to a decision. ‘My name is Myran Rafi ibn Al-Amin, prince of the Abbasid Caliphate.’ He smiled at Rathulf’s reaction. ‘I am but one of twenty-two sons. My father, unwisely it transpires, picked a fight with his half-brother Al-Ma’mun, and we lost. That was many years ago now. I was, like many of us, sold into slavery as my punishment for being on the wrong side…’ He paused, his hand holding a half-wrapped buckle. ‘A tale not so unlike yours, master.’
‘What was your home-fjord like?’ Rathulf asked, fascinated.
Myran smiled. ‘Where I lived is the opposite of here. There are no mountains or fjords. Instead, it is mostly flat and completely dry. Brown, red and yellow are the colours of my land. It is made of sand and dust, whereas Sognefjorden is a place of rain and mist. Here the sky is grey and low, but in my home, the sky is vast and blue and limitless. There are no long dark winters there. Here your leaves are large and soft; in my home, they are small and sharp. The city of my birth, Baghdad, has no equal here or indeed anywhere I have travelled. It is home to more than two hundred and fifty thousand people, who are sheltered by its great circular walls that rise to 80 feet. And even though it sits in the middle of a desert, its water gardens are unrivalled. Its stables hold five thousand horses, its garrisons fifty thousand men. It has the greatest libraries in all the world, and many academies of science, medicine, law and philosophy.’
He smiled, seeing Rathulf’s frown. ‘There are many things you men of the north have not yet…’ he paused, searching for the word, ‘…discovered. In my land, we have writing, through which we record the wisdom of our people so that it can be passed on to future generations. Academies are places of learning, where great men gather from all corners of the caliphate and beyond to discuss matters of humanity… ah, but I fear I am repeating myself.’
Rathulf listened wide-eyed to the Arab, astonished at the extraordinary size and magnificence of the city that Myran was describing. Two hundred and fifty thousand!? Impossible, surely? He could not imagine that number of people. It must be vast! ‘Then it is near Konstantinoupolis?’
Myran smiled at him. ‘No, it is far, far away to the east across mountains, wide rivers and deserts. But it is similar, yes, although larger. Konstantinoupolis is where master Sigvald bought me.’
‘But Sigvald says Konst
antinoupolis is at the edge of the known world.’
Myran considered Rathulf for a moment, his expression showing pity for Sigvald’s ignorance. ‘Then I fear that he may be mistaken. I have travelled much of the world, and I’ve not yet found its edge. There are even those in my city who claim the world to be spherical, like an orange, but I cannot fathom it myself, for would we not fall off the sides if that were the case? But I digress. There is far more to find in the east, further even than Baghdad. I would very much like to take you there one day.’
Rathulf stared at Myran. Further? What lays beyond? Suddenly he felt a deep urge to take a ship and sail as far as he could go. Men had sailed to the west and never returned, presumably eaten by monsters, or even sailed off the edge of the world as Myran feared, but what of the east? Could Myran be right?
‘It is your dream to visit Konstantinoupolis, yes?’
Rathulf nodded, his desire to travel even stronger now.
‘That is a fine dream. Konstantinoupolis is a magnificent city, and it lays on the route to Baghdad.’
‘I will take you,’ Ra said impetuously. ‘You will be my guide!’
Myran smiled again. ‘Your fate lies elsewhere, my prince.’
Rathulf frowned at him. ‘I don’t care about Dumnonia. I promise you we will go.’
Myran shook his head. ‘You must not make promises you cannot keep, Master Rathulf. You have your own kingdom to seek, and this must be your goal.’
‘Perhaps,’ Rathulf said. ‘But what is another year to them? I will go, and you shall accompany me, and not as my slave. We shall all go together – me, Alrik, Leif, Sigvald – and you shall show us everything you’ve talked about. I want to see it all!’
Myran smiled sadly, and said, ‘it is my dream too to return to my homeland, although I know not what fate awaits me there. Most likely, they will feed me to the lions. But I will at least die on my own soil.’
Rathulf spat in his hand and thrust it out to Myran. The Persian smiled and did the same. They clasped hands.
‘I promise we shall go back to your homeland,’ Rathulf said.
Myran smiled back. ‘Then I shall do whatever I can to help you make it so,’ he said. Then added, ‘but this?’ He withdrew his hand, looking at the spit with mild disgust. ‘Don’t do this in my homeland. They’ll cut off your hand. Now, you really must get away.’
Myran helped Rathulf strap on his hunting roll. It occurred to Rathulf that if Myran had figured out Rathulf’s intentions, then who else might have done so? Sensing a trap, he crept to the entrance of the building and peered through the latch hole. He saw no movement at all, other than the thin plumes of smoke rising from the few still-smouldering fires.
‘I have waited every night through summer for you, Master Rathulf,’ Myran explained, taking up Tariq’s reins. ‘If I may say, you are cutting things rather fine.’
‘Eirik told me not to go,’ Rathulf said defensively.
Myran just smiled enigmatically and led Tariq from the stable. He quickly took him around to the other side of the house so that they were shielded from the tents. ‘You must walk him all the way – including up the mountainside. Do not give in to temptation. Walk slowly and consistently. Sudden movements will alert the watchmen. I will go and distract them awhile.’
Rathulf peered eastward up at the steep valley head and saw that the sky was beginning to lighten.
‘They will be looking into the light so will not see you,’ Myran said. ‘Now go.’
Rathulf did as he was instructed, still too stunned by the stable master’s assistance to argue. Despite the growing dawn, he resisted the temptation to hurry, knowing that Myran spoke wisely. It would be many hours before anyone arose, even though the sun would be well up by then. He also didn’t want to risk making a noise and was impressed by the effectiveness of the muffling cloth.
It was only when they had taken the last of the steep switchbacks up the mountainside that Rathulf let out his breath. He and Tariq stood just below the crest of the hillside, and he took one last look down into the valley. All seemed peaceful at Thorvaldsby, and no shouts or cries came from below. Myran had obviously done well in diverting whoever was on duty this night. It was only then that Rathulf realised that in doing what he had, Myran was placing himself – and the unfortunate night watchman – in terrible danger. Myran had aided and abetted Rathulf in his escape, but the Persian was a disposable slave; a perfect thing upon which to vent anger. At that uncomfortable thought, Rathulf quickly led Tariq up over the top, determined more than ever to succeed today where he and others had previously failed.
Once the valley had disappeared from view behind them, Rathulf mounted and set Tariq on his way along the path. He knew they didn’t have much darkness left and he again cursed the short summer’s nights. Still, there was nothing to be done about it, and why was he annoyed? He had done it! And it would be better for Tariq for it to be lighter if they were to travel safely over the uplands to Leif’s. He checked that everything was secure, then he kicked Tariq with his heels, and they were off at a comfortable canter. Rathulf was again impressed by how silently they could travel; only the occasional clink or jangle giving them away when Tariq came upon an uneven patch of ground. Now all he had to do was get to Horiksby before Sigvald and the others realised what he had done and came after him.
✽ ✽ ✽
‘Rise and shine, lazybones!’ Sigvald shouted, flinging aside the tent flap and poking in his head.
His daughter scowled up at him and pulled the covers up over her shoulders.
Sigvald looked to the bed-place beside her, but to his surprise, his foster son was absent. He must have already awoken. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered, then added, ‘remember, all this ends today, and I don’t care how much you love him. You’re not marrying him.’
‘I will marry who I choose,’ Ingrith responded testily.
‘No, you will marry Gunnar. You know how it works. Girls don’t have a say because their fathers know what’s best for them. It will be a happy joining of the two most important families in Sognefjorden.’
‘Mother didn’t marry the man she was betrothed to,’ Ingrith said pointedly. ‘She told grandfather to shove his arrangement up his–’
‘Enough!’ Sigvald snapped. ‘As you well know, your mother is highly unusual, and I’ve no intention of allowing you to follow her example.’
‘She has a better longship than you.’
‘She shouldn’t have one at all! Women bear children and keep house, Ingrith, and that is what you will do for Gunnar. I will hear no more of this.’
He departed to a stream of threats about dead bodies and broken oaths and strode across to Alrik’s tent, shaking his head over his unruly daughter.
Bardi stood chatting with his housecarl, waiting for one of the slaves to rekindle the fire. ‘A fine morning, Sigvald!’ Bardi said with a broad smile. ‘After last winter, who’d have thought the summer would turn out so well? Baldur shines upon us, brother.’
Sigvald glanced up at the bright sun, and then he nodded at Alrik’s tent. ‘Speaking of Baldur, have you seen the boys this morning?’
Bardi’s face twisted into a wry smile. ‘I think they were both a little busy last night with their respective girlfriends. Mine’s still asleep.’
‘Humph. That’s about to end.’
‘I see your plans for Ingrith are going well.’
‘Remind me why I married your sister?’ Sigvald growled.
‘Because she held a sword to your throat?’ Bardi offered, ‘or was it an axe? Whatever it was, I seem to recall you had no choice in the matter.’ He patted his friend on the arm. ‘You know Ingrith isn’t going to pay any heed to your instructions, don’t you? And anyway, I’d have thought you’d be delighted that she and Rathulf have taken to each other. He’s got to be the most eligible young man in all of Sognefjorden, especially because he’s a prince and heir to a kingdom of his own.’
Sigvald sighed. ‘But that’s my point. He is Dumnonia
n, not a Norseman.’
‘So? He will be cementing his bonds with his Norse family.’
‘He already has our loyalty,’ Sigvald countered, ‘whereas he has no ties to his homeland. We’ve no idea what forces are at work there, or what alliances he will need to forge. Best that he remains available for betrothal, yes?’
Bardi didn’t answer straight away. ‘Would it be wrong of me to admit I’ve rejected a couple of excellent offers for Alrik’s hand for the same reason?’
Sigvald looked at his friend, surprised.
Bardi smiled back at him, guilt written in his expression. ‘Alrik is determined to return to Dumnonia as Rathulf’s shield-bearer, so it makes sense that he marries a Briton, no?’
Sigvald’s grin broadened. ‘You old schemer,’ he said.
Bardi shrugged. ‘Like you, I’m thinking ahead. I quite fancy retiring to warmer climes. Speaking of which, we’d best separate these two lovebirds.’
Sigvald plucked one of the guy ropes on Alrik’s tent so that it twanged noisily. ‘Oi, wake up!’
After a few muttered expletives, Alrik emerged from the tent, his hair a mess, pants half on, squinting into the bright light. He looked around, expecting to see Rathulf. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘it’s you. Where’s Ra?’
A twinge of alarm struck Sigvald, but he pushed it aside, chiding himself for immediately jumping to conclusions. ‘He’s not in his tent. I thought he was out causing trouble with you. And what’s with all this swearing? Is that the fashion amongst you youngsters now?’
Alrik rolled his eyes as he pulled on his trousers. ‘That’s rich coming from you, uncle. And no, I’ve no idea where Rathulf is. He said he wanted to be left alone with Ingrith last night.’
Sigvald’s disquiet grew. ‘Did he now?’ he said, leaving Bardi with his son and going in search of Snorri, only to remember that the warrior had left with Eirik and Gunnar the previous day. ‘Skítr,’ he muttered. Surely Snorri wouldn’t have betrayed us? He made his way from camp to camp, flinging open tents to curses and howls of protest. Rathulf was nowhere to be found. His sense of panic rose as each person gave a negative answer.
