Council, page 5
How did I miss him? Breki shook his head to clear it and was about to move along when the old man noticed him.
‘Well met, stranger,’ he said.
‘Well . . . met,’ said Breki, wondering when the old man had come in. ‘The name is Breki, and I am—’
‘—one of Ingileif’s men, aren’t you?’ the old man replied.
Breki found himself blushing. ‘I – I Suppose I am.’
‘Suppose?’ the old man said, smiling. ‘That’s not what heroes do, is it? They rarely suppose. A proper young hero knows. So . . . ?’
‘I am a Karl of the North Wind’s court, come here to stand by her at the King’s Council.’ The words were out before he could stop them, leaving Breki mortified. He didn’t have any sort of right to call himself a karl. He was just the oldest of Berg’s sons; he had been allowed to sit in the longhouse twice because he was good at wrestling. If Big Rolf had been there he’d have cuffed him round the head, and he’d been right to. If his father had been well enough to travel and heard him say that . . .
He winced.
But the old man was nodding to himself. ‘Go then, Breki Bergsson, Karl of the North Wind. Do your work and go and stand by that fine figure of a woman. I have no doubt she’ll need your strength and wisdom.’
Breki walked off in a daze, leading the mare. His mind didn’t focus for a long time, but luckily his hands knew what to do and so he unharnessed the beast and stacked the tack in the corner, rubbed her down and moved onto the brushes. Karl of the North Wind. Why had he said that out loud? He had no hoard. He had no name. He was just a stupid boy, no more than thirteen summers of age, with a big mouth that was going to land him in trouble. The horse whinnied, protesting at the unaccustomed roughness, and Breki, coming to himself, mumbled an apology, his ears burning. There were names back home for men who took their moods out on animals, none of them pretty.
Pushing all other thoughts aside, he concentrated on the mare, softening the strokes and enjoying the warmth of the hide and the play of muscles under skin as the mare flexed, nudging his arm with her great head, approving the improved treatment. After he finished up he walked the length of the stables, but he was definitely alone. Somewhere at the back of his mind a memory of an old man teased him, but there was no one there. The more he looked, the less he was certain of what he was looking for. Had he imagined something?
In the end he just left, shaking his head.
Uppsala was a strange place and no mistake.
*
‘What do we know?’ King Eirik leaned against the back wall of the longhouse and looked to the south, lazily scanning the plains.
‘Not much,’ Alfgeir Bjorne rumbled. ‘Ingileif is here. Her horses are being stabled. Her men are quiet and keep to themselves. An old woman travels with them, in a cart.’
The king smiled. ‘I’d expect nothing less of them. If the Northmen have brought a Finn-witch with them, they want us to know they mean business.’
‘I don’t like it,’ the big man said.
‘You don’t like anything. That’s your job.’
‘Yes – but I really don’t like this. There’s something in my bones.’
‘Old age,’ the king said, grinning. ‘You never thought you’d get through half of your fights.’
‘True enough. But Ingileif is wily: she usually knows what she can get out of a situation before she starts.’
‘Always has – but she doesn’t burn her crops. We have dealt with her before and we’ll deal with her again, if need be.’
‘How?’
King Eirik smiled. ‘Every chieftain wants one of three things: gold in their hand, grass of their own or glory to their name.’
The big man snorted. ‘I hope you’re right. Some of them, however, are harder to buy than others.’
‘And Ludin of Skane will be here soon enough to prove you right.’
‘I’d hoped he’d mellow with age.’
‘Not likely,’ the king said. ‘Last I heard, he was running raids on the Rus just for fun. Apparently he only needs half a boat’s worth of blades these days – his reputation sails before him and does the rest. The stories had him burning villages and putting children to the stake.’
‘Sounds about right. I’ll tell the boys to keep one eye on them and save the other one for the Dalefolk.’
‘I’d worry more about Ludin and Ingileif. Grim is coming, isn’t he? He’s reasonable.’
‘He’s not.’ Alfgeir’s voice had a hard note to it. ‘I just heard. They’ve hired a negotiator.’
‘Hired a negotiator?’ King Eirik frowned. ‘You mean old Grim of the Dales will no longer hand-shake his own bargains? Must be bad then. Who’s coming in his stead?’
‘I’ll tell you after.’ He glanced down towards the foot of the hill. ‘Heads up: North Wind’s blowing.’ Below them was a group of large figures in heavy furs, heading up the winding path towards the temple and the King’s Hall.
‘We’d best get to our oars, then,’ King Eirik said. ‘Lead them through the front, will you? I’ll be inside.’ With that, the king ducked through a small door in the back wall and disappeared from sight.
Alfgeir Bjorne looked down on his town. The sun was shining and one by one, the villagers were drifting towards the gathering square, where the traders had set out their carts. ‘I don’t like this,’ the big man muttered as he moved towards the corner of the longhouse, ready to greet their guests from the North. ‘I don’t like this at all.’
*
Helga, seeing the big man come around the corner, called out, ‘Alfgeir!’
He stopped like a bear catching a new scent. ‘Helga,’ he said after a moment, walking towards her.
‘I have information for the king.’
He looked down at her and frowned. ‘Now is not the time for talk. We have the Northmen coming in.’
‘I just need a moment with him.’ She saw his eyes glide up her and above her head; he was scouting down the path. ‘He needs to hear this. A boy has been slain.’
Ah, that caught your attention, you big oaf.
She felt a small twinge in her stomach when he looked back down at her. Alfgeir might not be quite as big as Unnthor or Bjorn, but there was a strength to him and an economy of movement that always made her a little uneasy. A man his size could crush her if he wanted to – but now he just said, ‘Be quick!’ and set off towards the front of the hall, moving so quickly that she was hard pressed to keep up with his powerful stride. Within moments he was flinging open the doors of the longhouse. ‘He’s in his seat.’
The doors slammed behind her and she felt like she’d fallen off a cart. Without blazing fires in the pits and people filling the place, feasting and singing, the longhouse looked like the inside of some great sleeping animal. In the distance, on the other side of the hard-packed floor, King Eirik sat on his dais. The throne was simply made, carved out of one great oak tree and decorated only with the eagle, his chosen animal. The noise of the doors slamming had alerted him, because he was leaning forward and peering at her.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Helga, daughter of Unnthor.’
‘Come into the light.’ There was a warmth in the king’s voice; the longhouse suddenly felt impossibly big around her and mixed with a remembrance of another place far away. No time for this, she told herself as echoes of carousing and fighting rang somewhere in the back of her head. Biting down on the memories, she forced the dizziness away and walked with haste to the dais. The king struck a lonely figure on his throne, but he was regarding her with curiosity. ‘Well met, Helga.’ She bowed her head. ‘What do you need?’
What do I need? The question surprised her and she found herself faltering. ‘It’s not about what I need. A boy has been killed.’
This caught King Eirik’s attention. ‘Killed? Where?’
‘In the forest, near old Olver’s farm.’
‘. . . hm. That’s out east.’ He sounded like he was talking to himself. ‘Mm.’ He frowned, then asked her, ‘Who was he?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said.
‘And you are sure he was killed?’
‘He’d been in the river. He died in Olver’s arms.’
And there it was. The twist of the king’s mouth, from serious thought to wry smile, gave Helga a sinking feeling. Stupid woman, his face said, fearing the shadows. ‘The Fates will have cut his strings for a reason. If you can’t tell me who he was or who attacked him, I am afraid we will have to leave him to them. Now I must ask you to leave me, as I am expecting a delegation of Northmen led by a tough old boot of a woman.’ He smiled at her and glanced towards a smaller door on one side.
‘Thank you,’ Helga muttered, chastened. As she turned her back on the king, the pale, sickly face of the boy came back. She had more than a suspicion that it would stay there until she figured out who killed him.
*
Two days’ ride south of Uppsala, a hard-faced man with short hair and a close-cropped grey-white beard looked at the sky, watching the afternoon turn into evening in the west. In the east, darkness had crept up, higher and higher.
‘Camp,’ he snapped.
Behind him, seven men cut from the same cloth moved as one, dismounting from their horses. Nods and other gestures, with the occasional two-word questions, bounced back and forth. Three men disappeared into the forest. Another two went to the back of their line, grabbed reins and led the heavily laden cart into the centre of the encampment.
‘Food,’ the greybeard said, and within moments, a large pot had been suspended on trestles over the speedily constructed fire. One of the three men returned bearing a dead hare, legs still twitching, which he skinned, gutted and jointed with confident flicks of his short, sharp blade. The meat was thrown into the pot, snarking and spitting on the hot metal. Water-skins appeared, but a portly man with auburn flecks in his beard who had taken up position by the fire raised a meaty hand and grunted, ‘No. Roots first.’ Another bag was emptied and the contents chopped. There was more snarking from the pot. The cook leaned over and sniffed deeply, waited for a moment, then, ‘Water. One skin.’ The water went in, hissing and steaming as it hit the sides. He produced two small leather bags, one of salt, carefully hoarded, the other of dried herbs of some sort, and added a few pinches of each, then pulled out the long wooden spoon tucked into his belt and stirred, intently breathing in the aroma all the while. Some moments later he gestured for another water-skin, stopping the pourer halfway through with a gesture and one word. ‘Enough.’
While the cook went back to stirring and sniffing and finally tasting, some of the men brushed down and fed the horses while others erected tents.
With a gesture, another skin of water was added.
Still nobody spoke.
Finally, after a last monumental sniff, the cook glanced at the greybeard. ‘It’s ready.’
‘Any slower and I’d’ve taken a bite out of you, Alvar,’ said a thick-necked man with a broken brawler’s nose, moving towards the pot.
No one else had shifted a muscle.
‘Oh, come on,’ he said, looking around. ‘Surely we’re not waiting for her – she’s way up ahead by now. We’ve not had any food since sun-up, but you’re going t—’
The cook cleared his throat, looking pointedly over the brawler’s shoulder.
The ninth man, who had not moved from his horse nor taken any part in setting up the camp, dismounted in one fluid motion. His dark green robes, very different from the others’ utilitarian travellers’ clothes, fluttered about him for a moment before settling. Black eyes sparkled out of dark brown skin above a hooked nose and thin lips, currently pursed in displeasure.
The brawler curled his own lip in disgust and took a step forward. ‘Do you know what I think?’ he said, conversationally, flexing broad shoulders and cricking his neck. ‘I think your horse got spooked. She’ll never know. Whatever colour, skulls break just the same.’ He took another step towards the man in green, glaring down at his slight frame.
‘Lars,’ the greybeard snapped, ‘stop right now.’
But the man in green raised a hand and glancing at the greybeard, shook his head gently. Then he turned his eyes upon the advancing brawler and smiled.
‘What?’ Lars growled. ‘Fucking say something! You ain’t said a word since you joined at Hedeby. Do you even understand me, you fucking little shit?’
The dark-skinned man’s smile widened.
‘I’ll wipe that off your shitty f—’
Lars Larkwood had pretty much punched, kicked and bit his way through life to this point and as a result, he had a fighter’s quick reflexes.
They were nowhere near quick enough.
Coughing and choking and clawing at his neck, Lars fell to his knees, his face turning purple as he tried desperately to draw a breath.
Opposite him, the dark-skinned man had settled back into his relaxed stance, his right hand drifting softly back down to his side. No one else had moved.
The sound of thundering hooves fell neatly into rhythm with the coughing man and as one, the men straightened up. The cook made sure to rest the long spoon across the pot.
The man in green took two steps backwards and bowed his head.
The horse pulled to a halt, snorting and pawing at the air. The woman astride it asked, ‘What happened?’
Greybeard answered, ‘Lars stepped out of line.’
She sighed and looked at the man in green. ‘Nazreen. Will he live?’
The man in green considered the question. The woman on the horse barked something at him in a harsh, guttural language and this time the man with the odd-sounding name shrugged, then smiled and nodded. He walked back to the shaking, red-faced Lars, kicked him unceremoniously to the ground, grabbed his shoulders as he fell and twisted him down onto his back. Ignoring the flailing arms, Nazreen put a hand on the back of Lars’ neck and tilted his head backwards.
The wheeze in his lungs as he dragged in air sounded like winter wind through a holey wall. Lars coughed violently and gulped again, and again. ‘You bastard . . .’ he rasped hoarsely. ‘Fucking near killed—’
Then something must have connected in his head, for he tilted his head up and saw the woman on the horse.
‘Lars . . . ?’ she said sweetly, dismounting. She walked towards him and the bruiser stared at her, his eyes wide open. The woman knelt by his head, speaking calmly. ‘If I ever have a reason to so much as glance at you for the rest of this trip, I will open you up myself. Do you understand me?’
He nodded, still gasping.
Moving infinitely slowly, she held the index finger of her right hand up in front of his eyes, then placed it gently on his sternum. ‘From here’ – she traced a line down his large frame, across a soft belly, down towards the hips, over the damp patch in his trousers until it rested between his balls – ‘to here. Do you understand me?’
She pressed down, none too gently, and the bruiser winced and shuddered before nodding for the third time. He blinked furiously, as if to hide incipient tears.
‘Good,’ she said, smiling and rising. ‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’ When he inclined his head again, she told him, with not a trace of sympathy in her voice, ‘So shut up for a while. You’re still breathing, which means Nazreen didn’t crush your throat. That’s because he is a good man.’
The dark-skinned man next to her smiled and bowed his head, black eyes sparkling in the dusk.
Now the woman turned to the man with the grey beard. ‘Aegir. Explain.’
‘I gave the command,’ Aegir said, scratching his chin. ‘I would have stepped in and disciplined him, but your man told me not to.’
‘He told you?’
‘Well, not so much. He . . . well . . . gestured.’ Aegir winced.
The woman looked over at Nazreen and barked a question at him. He looked at her and she shook her head. ‘Men,’ she said. ‘Violence is always the solution with you lot.’ She examined the assembled faces. ‘Could I please ask you not to kill each other? At least not until we’re back from Uppsala. We have things to do.’
The men watched her impassively.
‘I’ll take that as a promise,’ she said. ‘Now, hand me a bowl. I’m starving.’
Chapter 3
Gathering
‘That’s not good enough.’
King Eirik leaned back and sighed. ‘Come now, Ingileif. You cannot ask me for forty men in the harvest season, thirty sacks of feed and a new bridge.’
The grizzled chieftain leaned back, mirroring the young man’s movements. ‘That’s odd.’ A thoughtful pause. ‘Because I am quite sure I just did. And after a visitor has asked, it is polite of the host to answer.’
The king smiled. ‘Indeed. And as you know I will, I offer you half of that.’
‘And I refuse.’
‘But knock off one of this and five of that for your next offer.’
Ingileif smiled. ‘Of course.’
Eirik glanced over at Alfgeir, a hulking study in silence. ‘And that’s only the first verse.’
‘What can I say? I like the song.’
Breki craned his neck and tried his very best to follow the finest points of the conversation. He had been told to go stand by the wall – a position befitting his importance, Big Rolf had said as he’d told him yet again to shut up and listen, and yet again tasked him with remembering the exchanges word for word. Every word, the little man had said. Every single bloody word. And exactly the word, and don’t make anything up. And remember how it was said as well.
Breki had promised, and had tried to look suitably chastened, even after Rolf had repeated himself for the third time, and then added, And especially if that bastard Thorgnyr pipes up. The man in question, Thorgnyr the Lawspeaker, had until now done nothing Breki could see to merit the venom in Big Rolf’s voice; he’d just sat there next to Alfgeir Bjorne, looking faintly bored. There was no threat in him, Breki decided. Apparently he’d come from Iceland, which was, at least the way Big Rolf described it, a strange island far to the northwest full of crude men and criminals, but Breki reckoned he must’ve been kicked out for being a little runt. Next to Alfgeir, the law-man looked like a child who’d been kept indoors for too long: his skin was pallid and his left eye twitched as if it had a mind of its own.
