Copyright © 2022 by James Simonds (pen name J. C. Duncan)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: jcduncanbooks@gmail.com.

First edition November 2022

Cover design by Damonza.com

Photography by Studio Zahora

Illustration by James Nathaniel

Maps by Red geographics

ISBN 978-1-8383522-4-0 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-8383522-5-7 (ebook)

www.jcduncan.co.uk

Glossary

Adolf, Count of Schauenburg and Lord of Holstein and Stormarn: A Saxon lord of Duke Lothair’s patronage, a senior commander of the First and Second Northern Crusades

Aeske: Brunhild’s son

Alda: Old slave woman of Jarl Ragnvald’s

Arvid Lendilsson: Leader of Jönköping’s people

Aurick: Father of Ingrid, discoverer of the sword Ljós a Norðan

Baldwin VII, Count of Flanders: Son of the famous Robert II, ‘The Crusader’. Commander of the Second Crusade

Baron Hugues: Brother of Folmar, Count of Metz

Bertrand Lang: The deputy assistant minister of culture for antiquities and ancient monuments

Bjorn Lendirsson: Swedish huskarl

Brunhild: A Norse slave girl in the service of Jarl Ragnvald

Conrad: The Count of Blankenburg. Elder brother of Bishop Reinhard, one of three initial leaders of the Third Crusade

Dengir: The Norse master smith at Uppsala

Eric of Sweden: King of Sweden from 1105 to 1116

Elof: Norse smith at Jönköping

Felix Meyer: The assistant to Bertrand Lang

Frederick II, Duke of Swabia: Prince of the empire, ally of the emperor

Gjaldir: Legendary Norse warrior

Gunnar: Huskarl of King Sigurd

Professor Hallsson: Head of the history and archaeology department at the university of Lundjen. An expert on the Northern Crusades and medieval Scandinavia

Halfar Asleson: The curator of the Røros Museum of Norse History and Culture

Halla: Wife of Ragnvald

Harald Hardrada: The King of Norway from 1040s to 1070s. His grandson and great-grandsons were the rulers of Norway during the time of the Crusades

Hartung: Son of Count Adolf, squire on the Second Crusade

Henry V: Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire during the Crusades

Henry the Black: Younger brother of Duke Welfard of Bavaria

Herman: Master smith of the Minden forge

Ingrid: Eleven-year-old girl who likes history and hates fishing. Discoverer of the sword Ljós a Norðan

Jarl Alf: Swedish jarl, a one-time contender for the throne after Eric’s death

Jarl Birgir: Ally of Jarl Harnsted

Jarl Einar: Brother and successor to Jarl Harnsted

Jarl Erling: Swedish jarl

Jarl Frode: Swedish jarl, ally of Ragnvald

Jarl Gustav: Swedish jarl, known as the Raven’s Claw

Jarl Halvar: Swedish jarl, ally of Harnsted

Jarl Harnsted: Swedish jarl, cousin of King Eric and one of the contenders for the throne

Jarl Kjartan: Norwegian jarl, close friend of King Sigurd

Jarl Ragnvald Ivarsson: Important jarl of the Kingdom of Sweden

Jarl Oddvar: Norwegian jarl

Jarl Steinar: Norwegian jarl, close associate of King Sigurd

Leif Leifson: Huskarl of Jarl Ragnvald

Lothair, Duke of Saxony: Contender to be the next Holy Roman Emperor, First Crusade leader

Orbert: Saxon campmaster and lover of lists

Ordulf: German smith from Minden in Lower Saxony

Otto: Slave of Ragnvald

Otto, Count of Ballenstedt: One of three leaders of the Third Crusade

Roland, Sieur de Blanchant: Acclaimed French knight of the Third Crusade

Rudolf: Margrave of Nordmark and Count of Stade

Sigurd Magnusson: King of all the Norse. Son of Magnus, the King of Norway

Simon I, Duke of Lorraine: Feudal lord of Baron Hugues

Sir Sighard: A commander in the service of the Order

Sir Dietmar of Eresburg: A leading knight of Bavaria

Sir Hans Metel of Oldenburg: A leading knight of the Saxon contingent.

Tormund Five-Bones: Seer and adviser to King Sigurd

Vidar Junge: Swedish warrior

Welfard (Welf the Fat), Duke of Bavaria: Leader of the German contingent of the Second Crusade

Preface

The previous book in this alternate history series, The Fire of the Fallen, told of the start of the fictional Second Northern Crusade. The Crusaders, led by Counts Adolf and Baldwin, captured the islands of Denmark and then moved into Scania in what is now southern Sweden but was then part of Denmark. The Norse, finally fairly united against this threat under the leadership of the newly crowned ‘Northking’, Sigurd Magnusson, fiercely resisted the implacable advances of the Christians, but were constantly forced back in a conventional campaign of pitched battles and sieges, before finally resorting to a more successful strategy of raiding and harassment instead.

Ordulf, the Christian smith turned Norse slave, struggled greatly with his place in Norse society, and in coming to terms with his enslavement. A chance encounter with a group of warriors trying to avenge a blood debt on Jarl Ragnvald led to him saving his master’s life, securing his position as a slave of worth and note. With his newfound respect and status, Ordulf finally found a sliver of hope by accepting his fate with the people who shared his status and his life, like the recalcitrant Saxon Otto, and the fierce and mercurial Norse thrall Brunhild.

In the flight from the Christian army, Ordulf faced a momentous choice, to run from his new life and once again start from nothing, or to embrace his fate in the North. He chose to stay with the Norse but, shunned by the resolutely independent woman he loved perhaps a little too eagerly, and dismissed by the Norse lord he was loyal to perhaps a little too unquestioningly, it was a decision he may yet regret.

Finally caught and defeated in their main raiding camp, the small Norse army under King Sigurd, having lost most of its supplies and basic equipment, heavily outnumbered, and with many wounded, was forced to flee. The army fled into the deep forests of the interior of Småland, headed for the safety of the walled town of Jönköping. After an arduous journey, the exhausted survivors reached the town, only to be besieged there by the pursuing forces of the Crusade.

All was not well in the Christian camp, despite the relentless military successes. Internal rivalry, particularly between Count Adolf and Count Baldwin, and the scheming of Bishop Reinhard and Baron Hugues, put the success of the Crusade at risk as each man fought to secure his position at the forefront of the victory.

Now two armies, one defeated and united, and one victorious and fragmented, are locked together in the looming winter in the depths of the deepwood, with Ordulf miserable, isolated, and trapped inside the walls, loyalties and instincts divided between the two sides.

Now the time has come for the fate the Norns have woven to be revealed. Two armies marched into the great forest, locked in a bitter fight to the death in the harsh winter landscape the locals call the Frostforge.

The major named towns and locations of the Second and Third Crusades

Prologue

Chapter One of the Saga of Ljós a Norðan

by Sverre Knarlsson

Written circa AD 1170, Iceland

In the time before the fall of the old world, before the great sorrow that consumed our people, there lived in the lands of the king of the Northmen a mighty warrior named Gjaldir. Gjaldir was taller and stronger than any other of the king’s warriors, and men said the blood of the dwarves flowed in him. When the followers of the Christ god came to the lands of the North, the king and his warriors marched out to give battle, and many times they fought, brave and steadfast, but the invaders could not be defeated.

Upon the eve of the final battle, Gjaldir, frustrated with the weak weapons of men, forged himself a sword worthy of the Aesir. The sword was broad and long, forged not from the iron of men but from the burning heart of a fallen star. Odin took notice of this great work, the dwarven skill wound into it, and he subtly poured a little of his own craft into the blade. The other gods saw his favour for this mortal and saw his potential, the strength of his wyrd. Such was the suffering of their people during this calamitous time that they were driven to intervene, but Odin stayed their hands, and, looking into the future, he started laying his own plans.

The time of the final battle arrived. The king led his brave warriors to fight the enemy host, vast as it was and covering the plains before them, more enemies than a single man could count in a lifetime. Gjaldir marched at the army’s head, his mighty sword at his hip. He had called it the Light of the North. The bright core of the fallen star shone whenever the blade was drawn, and it was a fearful sight to behold. The king had decreed that Gjaldir was his champion, and it was said that while Ljós a Norðan was carried by such a man, a Norseman true and brave, his people could never be defeated.

And his army took heart from the sword, and they followed Gjaldir out onto the plains of their fate with clashing shield and howling steel. When battle was joined, Gjaldir led the men of the North into the enemy army, and none could stand against him. The enemy cowered from the bright blade, and all who were touched by its edge perished. The slaughter was great, and Ljós a Norðan took many souls into its steel. But the fell magic of the dwarves that lay in it was twisted, and as it claimed souls, the edge of the blade began to darken, the life of the fallen star sapped and consumed by the shades of the dead who swirled restlessly around in its clouded iron.

As the light of the sword began to dim, Gjaldir tired. His enemies took heart and pressed their attack. Brave men fell, and more men fell atop them, until Gjaldir was left in a small circle of his friends, the greatest warriors of the Northmen. Finally, the champion of the enemy appeared, wearing a face of steel and wielding a sword to rival Ljós a Norðan itself. Two giants clashed, and the skies parted from the fury of their combat. Men of both sides shrank away in fear. The gods watched, rapt and horrified at the peril of their people, and urged the Allfather to intervene before all was lost. But yet still Odin did not act to aid his chosen warrior.

Loki, however, ever seeking an opportunity, and seeing how much his brothers and sisters loved the great warrior and hoped for him to prevail, schemed against him.

Casting about with his strange and terrible power, he drew a great cloud over the sun, plunging the two men into darkness. Ljós a Norðan shone still weakly in the darkness, and the light revealed Gjaldir while his enemy lingered in the shadows. Gjaldir roared and bore down on his enemy, but his eyes – and Loki’s witchcraft – deceived him, and his enemy slipped around his shield and struck him down with a mighty blow.

The gods and men watching gasped in astonishment and fear as the great warrior fell, Ljós a Norðan still gripped in his hand. The enemy army, victorious, swept over his body and attacked the remaining men of the North who had rallied around their king. But all hope was lost, and seeing Gjaldir fall, the heart was ripped from the king, and with his death of sorrow, the remains of his people fled the scene of their defeat and the loss of their hope.

Odin shed a single tear from his single eye for the mighty Gjaldir, seeing him lying on the field, his dimmed sword still grasped in his hand. He cloaked himself in the visage of an old man and went down to him. Around him, the Valkyr were retrieving the souls of the brave men who had fallen on the field defending their lands. But the Valkyr could not claim Gjaldir’s soul for Valhalla. Odin walked over to the fallen warrior, parting the soul-searchers and putting his hand to the man’s wound, and he felt the faint beating of the great man’s heart, the life force still clinging to his mighty body.

Odin let a little of his power flow into the warrior, healing his riven flesh, restoring and increasing his life force and binding the two together for all eternity, god and champion. Weakened, the old man faded into the night’s darkness from which he had come, leaving the mighty warrior lying on the field to awake alone in the darkness, in a circle of his cooling friends.

Part 1

Chapter 1

The Brotherhood

Lundjen, October 2015

Halfar looked around the little room at the front of his museum with quiet satisfaction. It had been a busy week since he returned to Røros. He had become quite the local celebrity, and his usual trickle of visitors had become a minor flood as soon as it was heard that he had returned and the museum was open once more.

Of course, most people only wanted to know about the sword, and he willingly took them through his displays on Norse mythology, including the story of the sword Ljós a Norðan, the Light of the North, and the legendary smith Gjaldir who had supposedly wielded it.

The twists and turns of events since that day the sword had been brought into his museum were remarkable. It brought to mind the old myth of the Norns, the three wise old women who wove the fates of men as a Norse housewife might weave a blanket. As Halfar was about to close up for the night, he was interrupted by another visitor opening the door to the museum – a youngish man with crewcut hair and an odd look about him. The man gave him a disconcerting smile.

‘Good afternoon, I’m afraid I was just closing the museum, can you come back tomorrow?’ Halfar smiled at the man, but something about him was off, and he couldn’t work out what. He felt distinctly uncomfortable.

‘No, I know you are closing, I just came to ask you something.’ The man stepped up to the counter. Halfar found his closeness and presence intimidating. The man placed his hands on the countertop and continued to look at Halfar with that odd smile. His eyes never strayed to the displays in the room, or the life-size photographs of the sword standing prominently behind the counter. Everyone looked at that when they came in, everyone.

‘Uh, okay, if it is quick. What is it?’

The man did not immediately reply, and finally looked around the front room, slowly and deliberately, before returning his unsettling gaze to Halfar. ‘Why do you do this?’

‘Do what?’ Halfar was distinctly nervous now.

‘Collect and promote all this stuff, all this dead history.’

‘Dead? All ancient history is dead, but it is important to preserve and understand.’

‘But why? All it does it divide and upset people, all this nonsense and fairy tales about barbarians and their swords. Why not just leave the past where it belongs? In the ground?’

‘Excuse me, barbarians? Who is upset? No, you know what, I’m closing now and I must ask you to leave.’ Halfar stepped round the counter to try to gently usher the strange man out. But the man also stepped around the counter to come face to face with Halfar, or face to chin.

‘Why are you stirring up all this trouble? What good does it do the country? All this fuss about an old sword, it’s causing problems. The history of Nordland, the country you live in, that pays for your life, whose soldiers died in countless wars for your freedom, that history started after the Crusades. What happened before that is not relevant. You should stop digging it up.’ The man’s tone remained flat, calm, almost polite. But the threats and intimidation were chilling Halfar’s blood.

‘All of history matters, not just the bits you approve of. There are still people of Norse descent in this country and the country deserves to know why, how they are here, what happened. Only by examining the mistakes of the past can you learn from them as a society.’ Halfar was scared, but he couldn’t help but defend this attack on his work.

‘Mistake? What mistake, the mistake of allowing this old nonsense to survive? Magical gods and swords? It’s all blasphemy, don’t you see that? It’s thousand-year-old barbarian rubbish. Why can’t you people forget it and accept the true god and our nation’s true history?’

Halfar went cold inside. A religious fanatic. He started wondering if he could reach the phone, no, he would never dial a number in time. Perhaps he could shout for help? But this late, who would hear? The streets were deserted and the walls insulated and thick. He backed away into his desk area.

‘Please leave now, before I call the police,’ he said tersely.

‘The police? Why? I am not dangerous, I am not threatening you, not physically, anyway, only your ideas. Why is it you people cannot stand having your behaviour questioned?’ The man’s voice stayed level, but he did not take a step back.

‘Why are you here, then? What do you want, why come here and say these things?’

‘Because what you are doing is dangerous, divisive. I’m a patriot, I want what is best for my country and this isn’t it. What you are doing will only cause trouble. You people need to get in line.’

‘You people!’ growled Halfar, as angry now as he was afraid. ‘You keep saying that, what do you mean by that exactly?’

‘Those of you who pretend to be Norse. You aren’t Norse, you haven’t been for a thousand years. That barbarism has been bred out of you. Do you think you would be able to function in modern society if it hadn’t?’

Halfar gaped at the sheer wrongness of that argument. ‘Get out, now, you fool. Don’t bring your hateful propaganda back here. I won’t change what I am doing for some hateful idiot like you.’ Halfar was trembling now with rage.

The man finally backed up, hands raised in a mocking fashion. ‘Okay, I will leave. But you should consider my request carefully.’

‘Why on earth would I do that?’

The man didn’t answer, but gazed out into the street. ‘Nice girl, isn’t she, Ingrid? Did she enjoy her visit to the university with you? It’s a shame that a good German girl like her is involved in this, but the young are easy to brainwash.’

A cold hand of ice gripped Halfar’s heart. ‘What… how… how do you know who she is?’ was all he could stammer out.

‘We know many things. It would be a shame if something was to happen to her, don’t you think? If she got hurt because of your blasphemy and lies, why, accidents happen all the time. People drown in lakes, get lost on hikes in the mountains. Terrible, wouldn’t it be? I think it’s best for everyone if you stop what you are doing. Let all this nonsense quietly die out. Better for her, for sure.’ The man was still wearing his even smile. Halfar was too shocked to reply, and the man simply turned and walked out, making a parting comment as he crossed the threshold. ‘We’ll be watching.’

Halfar dived for the phone and frantically dialled. He called Aurick’s phone. It rang and rang and just as Halfar began to panic, it was answered. ‘Hello?’

‘Aurick, is Ingrid there?’

‘What? Who is this?’

‘Halfar. Tell me, is Ingrid there?’

‘She is with her mother, I saw her an hour ago. Halfar, what is wrong?’ Halfar let out a sob of relief and lowered the phone, biting his lip and wondering what to tell the man.

‘I’m sorry, I have to go, don’t worry.’ He hung up, and, after a moment’s thought, he dialled the number for the police.

The police sergeant in charge of the tiny local force sat with Halfar, taking his statement, as his colleagues went to search the museum and the surrounding streets. They found nothing of interest and the sergeant wrapped up his questions, making notes on his pad. The sergeant was reassuring, and told Halfar they would keep an eye out for the man, but that it was probably nothing to worry about. He also suggested Halfar have cameras installed.

A week passed, and then another, and the investigation didn’t turn up anything, nothing they deemed fit to tell Halfar, anyway. After a few days to rest and recover his wits, Halfar reopened the museum, but not until he had security cameras and better locks on the front door installed. Just having to take those precautions infuriated him and turned his usual good humour into a foul mood that made doing the tours and dealing with visitors difficult. He carried on only because he didn’t want the man who had threatened him to have the satisfaction of stopping him.

Before, he had often left the museum unlocked when he went out for lunch or to run an errand. It wasn’t uncommon to find people he knew from the town sitting in the front room with a cup of coffee, waiting for him when he returned to have a chat about this or that. Now, he had cameras, unheard of in that remote town, and three locks on the door. Every time he had to lock them at lunchtime for his walk, it made him angry and depressed.

One day, the sergeant came to visit and update him. Halfar wearily showed him to a seat and made them both a coffee. ‘Any news?’

‘Nothing much, I’m afraid. The man who threatened you, we don’t know who he was, how he got there or where he went. We don’t know what group he belonged to, or if he was lying when he referred to having others with him. There are no cameras on the roads in this street, so we didn’t see his vehicle to trace, and he didn’t touch anything except the door and the counter, which are both a mess of fingerprints that are impossible to decipher. I’m sorry, Halfar, we are at a dead end.’ The policeman looked apologetic.

‘On the positive side, you have seen no evidence of being followed or threatened again?’

Halfar nodded, frustrated and disappointed. ‘Nothing? Really nothing to go on?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘So what now?’

‘Well, we will stay in touch. Let us know if anything else suspicious happens, if you see anyone following you. Stuff like that.’

‘That’s it, you can’t do anything else?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

Halfar frowned and stared at his coffee. ‘So now I have to live in fear, and they are free to do whatever they want. To threaten children and smile.’ He was bitter, angry, helpless. The sergeant did not appear to take any offence.

‘Yes, I’m afraid these sort of crimes are very insidious and very effective. They make threats, and then, even if they never have any intention of following up on them, they know it can be very intimidating. The best thing to do is not ignore them, but to carry on with your normal life with suitable precautions. That’s the only way to stop them winning. We will, of course, keep monitoring and waiting to see if they make more threats and leave any evidence, they may well make a mistake.’ The sergeant gave Halfar a sympathetic smile and stood up, setting his half-drunk coffee aside. When Halfar didn’t rise to show him out, the sergeant made his excuses and left.

A week later, Halfar made a trip to Lundjen to see Hallsson and do a few interviews with some historical publications about the discovery of the sword. It was after one of these interviews that he returned to his car and frowned when he saw a folded note under his windscreen wiper. He plucked it up and opened it.

Halfar, I thought we understood each other? But you have police visiting you and your museum tour remains the same. One of us took the tour and listened to your propaganda, your lies. We are very disappointed. Now you are visiting the university to continue the project. Perhaps you think we weren’t serious? It’s time we changed that. You should check your security cameras, we left you a… token of our sincerity.

The Brothers

Within an hour, a pair of detectives were investigating the surroundings and looking for witnesses while a man in civilian clothes checked his car. While they took photographs, checked for prints and recovered hours of security camera footage, Halfar sat dumbly in a borrowed office with a cup of cooling coffee and stared at a wall.

How had it come to this? His quiet life, the life he had loved, overturned first by the exciting but exhausting discovery of the sword, then by the terrifying attention of these mindless lunatics. He shuddered and clenched his hands around the untouched coffee that no longer warmed his quivering hands. Why? Perhaps it would be better to just leave all this behind, go home, go back to my quiet life.

He stood up and angrily thrust the thought aside, the cowardice and shame of that impulse spurring him into a hot temper. Never, I will never give up my course. No, no anonymous group of fanatical dropouts would prevent him from telling the truth and spreading the knowledge he had spent a lifetime carefully gaining.

His feverish thoughts were interrupted by a quiet knock on the open door. ‘Hmm? Oh, come in.’ Halfar looked around the unfamiliar office and vaguely waved the man towards the room’s only other chair. ‘Do you want to sit down?’

The man standing politely by the door was dressed in a neat police uniform, clearly a senior officer by the shiny nonsense on his shoulder. Halfar disliked marks of rank, they were ostentatious and unnecessary. He had thought before of how ridiculous it would be if academics used them. Two silver book symbols for a tenured professor, three for a head of department? He sighed inwardly as the police officer nodded brusquely and walked over to take a seat.

Halfar eyed him as he sat down, effortlessly confident and calm, quite the contrast to the shaken curator. He was perhaps in his mid-forties, perfectly arranged black hair that was greying above his ears, sharp nose and heavily lined forehead. An air of intense professionalism, no trace of humour or shyness in his face. Exactly the sort of person Halfar wasn’t.

‘Mr Asleson, my name is Senior Inspector Schulz. I understand that yours was the car on which the note was found, and you were previously threatened by these unknown persons?’

‘Oh, how suitable,’ snorted Halfar.

‘What? I don’t understand.’

‘Your name, it comes from the old word for bailiff. An officer of the law, or near enough.’

‘Ah, yes, indeed, I had heard that before.’ The inspector was unamused.

‘Sorry, it’s one of my interests, names. Carry on.’

The inspector pulled a crisp notepad out of his breast pocket and flipped to a marked page. ‘Would you mind if I take your statement? Best to start from the beginning, back to the events in your museum.’

‘There is already a report with the police there.’

‘Yes, of course, and I have requested a copy be sent over, but it is always better to hear directly rather than read second hand. If you don’t mind.’ The man still hadn’t smiled or frowned, which bothered Halfar intensely. He almost felt like refusing just to see if it drew an emotional response, but he swept that childish thought aside and cast his mind back to the man who came to so politely threaten him at home.

‘And that is everything you can think of?’ asked the inspector, when Halfar had finished recounting the events.

‘Yes, there is nothing else to it.’

‘Very well.’ The inspector flipped his notepad shut and pulled a card from his other pocket to hand to Halfar. ‘Here are my contact details if you need something or remember something else.’ Halfar took the card wordlessly and slipped it into his battered leather wallet.

‘And now you tell me there is nothing to go on and you will just wait for the next event to happen?’

A flicker of annoyance crossed the inspector’s stony face. Oh, a crack in the visage. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘It’s what the sergeant said last time. Nothing to go on, no evidence, no names, so just do nothing until another attack happens.’

‘Well, I understand that approach for what you described, but in this case, a repeated threat, on a government campus, evidence of a group of conspirators and surveillance and stalking of a public figure… no, this will be taken with all due seriousness, I assure you.’

‘Indeed,’ said Halfar, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

The inspector’s brows furrowed ever so slightly.

‘I understand your frustration and I am sure you are angry and afraid.’ Halfar bristled at the description, despite the obvious truth of it. ‘But we are taking this extremely seriously. How often do you think a senior inspector is out at a crime scene taking witness statements?’

Halfar paused at this and thought it through. Okay, it does seem like that would be unusual.

‘Precisely,’ the inspector said into the awkward silence, no trace of annoyance, just the same monotone. ‘This is regarded as a matter of particular sensitivity. Believe me, this will receive the full attention it deserves.’

Halfar mulled over the potential ambiguity of that response but felt suitably chastened and nodded. Schultz stood up crisply and carefully replaced his notebook. ‘Your car has been checked thoroughly and is untouched and undamaged. They only left the note.’

‘What about me? The threat was specifically against me.’

‘Yes, I have assigned a pair of officers to escort you for the rest of your visit in the city, they will take shifts to be with you sixteen hours a day. I suggest that during the night, you remain in your hotel room.’

‘And when I return home?’

‘That is more difficult. We cannot assign protection to you permanently, nor will the local force have the resources to do so. How is your home security?’

‘Well, I had it upgraded after the last incident.’

‘In what way?’

‘Uh, a camera, deadlocks on the doors and windows.’

‘Hmm, your car?’

‘What about it?’

‘Is it secured when you aren’t using it?’

‘Well, it’s parked on the street and the camera can see it.’

‘That’s not ideal. Unless you review the footage every time before you use it, that won’t keep it safe.’

‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘It needs to be in a locked and alarmed garage. And you should have a personal panic alarm with you in and around your house, linked to the local police.’

Halfar grimaced. ‘Oh, I see.’

The inspector nodded to himself. ‘Yes, that should be appropriate for now.’

‘Well, what about them telling me to check my security footage? What does that mean?

‘That is more mysterious. I have asked the local police to go and check. Do you know how to access your security cameras remotely? Can you look at them from here?’

‘Yes, I have a password and a link on my phone.’

‘Excellent, please let me have those if you will, and we will check the footage. I’ll let you know what they find tomorrow. Anyway, if there is anything else you need to know, you have my card.’

‘Super,’ said Halfar, with all the enthusiasm he felt, which was none. Just super.

Chapter 2

A Hint of Winter

Imperial Dispatch

Duke Welfard, co-commander of the forces of the Crusade

14th September 1117

My lord, Duke Welfard,

The rains have arrived with a vengeance, and we are bogged down at Jönköping with little hope of success. My high hopes after the agreement I reached with Count Baldwin, and our reaching of the road to Jönköping the next day, have slowly withered and died. We reached the town without incident but it is well defended and well fortified. We sent word back for siege engines, but the rains arrived and I’m certain you have been told of the disastrous attempt to bring them through the mud. Attempts to make more here have likewise failed.

At first we won a few skirmishes with the defenders and all seemed well as we encircled the town with our own workings and settled in for a siege. However, they can supply the town freely from the lake, despite our best efforts to stop this with rafts, archery, fire and trickery. The forest around us teems with the enemy who resist our every attempt to clear them, our mounted screening forces useless in this forest valley.

I have pleaded and then begged Baldwin to break the siege and fall back on our base at Helsingborg while we still can before deep winter, to resume the campaign next year. He steadfastly refuses, and the disagreement has caused me once again to fall from favour. The count is increasingly withdrawn and volatile, he lashes out at anyone who opposes his whims and issues increasingly impossible orders.

I have focused my every effort on taking the town by force or by trickery, for I think only in doing so can the army be saved. The snows will surely soon be upon us. If you have any way to do so, I beg of you to alleviate this situation, for I fear disaster. When winter comes, we will surely be forced to withdraw and the withdrawal will be appalling.

Your obedient servant,

Count Adolf

Bishop Reinhard waited politely as the rotund Duke Welfard rolled up the scroll and looked at the governors of the Order of the Brotherhood of Christ’s Light in distaste.

‘I’m not sure what we are supposed to do about it,’ said Reinhard evenly. Not really my problem, you are the Crusade commander, in name, anyway.

Baron Hugues interjected. ‘We must do something. If the army fails, the enemy will be back in these lands next spring, and we will have to deal with the consequences. Our brotherhood is strong already, we have many soldiers willing to defend our new parishes from marauders and raids, but we are not an army.’

A lack of imagination is the problem. ‘But we cannot affect what happens at Jönköping, can we?’ Neither man disagreed. ‘So, we cannot whine about that which we cannot change, and must prepare for that which we can avoid.’

‘Elaborate,’ said Duke Welfard.

‘Well, if we assume the army will fail, and be driven back by winter, we should do what we can to raise more forces to arrive next spring.’

‘Raise more forces? From where? There are no people in these lands who would fight for us, not reliably,’ said Hugues.

‘From our homelands, we must appeal to those friends we have to come to our aid.’

‘You are talking of another Crusade!’

‘It may not come to that, perhaps we can merely ask for reinforcements. But yes, perhaps I can petition the pope for a new Crusade next year if this one fails, once my stock with him is secure.’

‘If you petition him next year, the Crusade will not happen until the year after, maybe two, so it is not of much use to us,’ replied Welfard with a sneer.

‘We will have to think of something to cover that gap. Do you have any more men at home? Or perhaps allies who do?’ the bishop asked innocently.

‘I’m not going to empty my lands into this fool’s venture. I have committed much already.’

‘What of Duke Lothair? Count Adolf is his man, would he not send help?’ Hugues interjected, trying to head off the brewing squabble. His position as the governor militare of the brotherhood put him as an awkward go-between in this meeting, trying to match the military needs of the Crusade with the objectives of the brotherhood.

Reinhard gave Hugues a piercing stare but received nothing but an apologetic shrug in reply. Damn you, I told you not to suggest that.

Duke Welfard waved to an aide, who re-filled the duke’s cup with the thin red wine he had been drinking. ‘Yes, I suppose, although Duke Lothair has also expended much. But I suspect he relies more on the success of the Crusade than I do.’ Welfard sank half his cup in one draught and abandoned the rest on the table, picking up the scroll before he stood up to leave. ‘I will see what forces I can gather to defend us. Meanwhile, see if you can strengthen your protections and prepare for a tough spring.’

‘The brothers will ensure the safety of the parishes, I assure you.’ Reinhard gave his thin, rapacious smile.

‘Your task is to defend more than just your congregations, governor, you are supposed to be responsible for all the conquered towns except the fortresses and the key harbours.’

‘Of course.’ I’ll defend the things that matter. ‘Will that be all?’

Once the duke had waddled out of the door, Reinhard turned on Hugues. ‘We agreed not to go to Lothair. Our whole partnership rests on mutual agreement, and you broke it.’

‘Yes, but I heard no other options. The King of France will send no more. My brother will send no more, Welf will send no more. That leaves no one else already involved who has potentially men to spare. We wouldn’t get any English or Italians or lords from the east of the empire on short notice.’ Hugues looked curiously at Reinhard. ‘Duke Lothair’s lands are closest, and he is one of the most powerful men in the empire. It’s the logical choice.’

‘Do you know who my lord Duke Lothair is likely to send?’ Reinhard asked icily. ‘No, of course not. But I do. He will likely send two men, both powerful lords, with large feudal holdings. Otto Wanderburg, the Count of Ballenstedt, whose lands border Count Adolf’s, and Conrad, the Count of Blakenburg, from the south of Saxony.’

‘What is the problem with that?’

I’ve chosen an idiot as a partner. How can you not think more than two steps ahead? ‘Count Otto is a friend of Adolf, who, as we just heard, is once again in disgrace. His arrival will be seen by Baldwin as a direct threat, and cause even more discord, perhaps even violence.’

Sir Hugues looked chastened and swore to himself. ‘Damn, I didn’t know that they were close.’

Reinhard ignored him and continued. ‘And Conrad is my brother.’ And the curse of my life, my personal penance, my cross to bear.

Hugues creased his brow at that. ‘Your brother is the Count of Blakenburg?’

Do I have to repeat myself now, has someone switched you with a simpleton? Did you really not make inquiries into my background? I can name your family to second cousins for three generations. ‘Yes, as I said, my brother.’ Reinhard gave the struggling baron a withering glare.

‘Why is that a problem?’

Reinhard felt a pulsing headache forming behind his eyes. He had clearly misjudged Sir Hugues as a partner, and that was a serious mistake. And above all things, he hated making mistakes. He prized himself on good judgement, because good judgement was dear to the Lord. Reinhard took a moment to relax and try to let the pain wash away. After an awkwardly long pause, he spoke. ‘Have you ever wondered why I became a priest?’

‘I did ponder on it.’

Not totally incurious, then. ‘I was the third son of the old count. My first brother was the heir, my second was the spare, and I was sent to the clergy. You know how it works, you are the spare, are you not?’

Hugues glared at Reinhard. ‘I am no such thing. My brother and I work on the family fortune as partners together.’

‘How lovely for you, that your brother, the count, and you, the baron, are equals. So that you come here on the Crusade, and he sits at home and governs your lands. Very equitable.’

‘Get to your point.’ Hugues was agitated now, stung. Good, now we are both angry, now you know how it feels.

‘Well, my second brother died on some stupid campaign in Italy and I was already in the clergy. I was given nothing by my father except my name, which I shed. My surviving brother, by then the count, was instrumental in denying me any say in the family affairs or any proceeds from the family lands when my father died. He considered me a threat, quite rightly, and blocked me at every turn, poisoning my father against me while I languished in a priory and then using the full power of his title once he inherited it.’

‘So, you don’t like your brother. So what?’

‘So? So I made my own way in the world. I fought my way up the ladder of the church, quite the most viciously political group of people you could ever meet, and at every turn, I found obstacles in my path. Doors closed to me for no reason, shoulders turned to me, positions and honours refused. And I investigated, and I asked questions, and behind every slight and rejection, I found the hand of my brother.’ Reinhard paused, face contorted, his studious control wavering.

‘Even when I forged my own success, he spited me, he tried to hold me back, he tried to make me nothing. And yet, despite it, and with half my life spent, I was finally ordained a bishop. Too old, too late, too out of favour to ever rise above that station.’ Reinhard’s hand was shaking with rage now and Hugues was shrinking back from the uncharacteristic onslaught. ‘So now, I came on this Crusade, to make my name outside of his reach, to open more doors in my future in the church, and yet you have blown the trumpet that might summon him here, where he can once again try to thwart me.’

Reinhard leant forward, his eyes blazing and muscles working in his cheeks as his narrow eyes bore down on the baron. ‘So now do you understand why it might be a problem?’

Count Adolf sat, as he often did recently, looking at the mile-distant town. He sat in a makeshift watchtower on the camp’s perimeter and tried to think his way into Jönköping. He had tried barges of men at night attacking the lake shore – they were tangled on stakes and nets left for that exact purpose in the shallows and never made it to shore. He tried an escalade in the dim light of the morning, but they were foiled by hidden pits full of sharp spikes that skewered a man and raised the alarm with his screams of agony. The French contingent had tried a full assault against the walls three times, all repulsed. At the end of every engagement, the wounded Norse were evacuated by boat, and fresh defenders brought in.

He could not starve them, he could not break the walls, it was too wet to fire the town with burning arrows, he could not wear them down with attrition, he could not tunnel in the soft, muddy earth under the walls. He could not build powerful engines from the scraggly trees that surrounded the camp. For the fifth time that week, he left the tower in frustration, no closer to an answer than he had been before.

The Crusade camp was arranged in the fields and the forest edge on the south side of the small plain of Jönköping, straddling the road to Helsingborg, down which their supplies were brought. Ambushes on that road were increasingly common and more and more of the army was dedicated to patrolling it.

Adolf walked back down the camp’s mud-clogged thoroughfare towards his contingent’s area, which was in the treeline on the bottom of the slope. He had sited his men slightly into the forest because the ground was sloped and covered in a thick layer of pine needles and debris, which drained the water from rain faster and kept it less muddy. He had tried to get the whole army to camp like that, but Baldwin had refused; a camp in the fields was easier to keep organised apparently. A laughable concept now that it was all a mudbath.

As he arrived back at his tent, he saw that a messenger was waiting for him. This would not be good news. It was never good news. ‘What is it?’

‘My lord Count Adolf,’ said the man with a bow. All the French messengers were much more formal now, since one had spent three days incapable of sitting after offending him. ‘Count Baldwin requests that you urgently take a force into the forest to the west. Four scouts that he sent into the woods to find the enemy camps have not returned. He fears they have been captured, he wants you to find and recover them.’

Adolf stared blankly at the man. ‘He sent four men into those enemy-infested woods and wonders what has become of them? They are dead. Return and tell Count Baldwin that they are dead, and that there is no need for me to go out and confirm that, especially not with one hundred men, which is the minimum I would go into that forest with.’

The man opened his hands apologetically. ‘My lord Baldwin foresaw that you might object, but he insists that these are his orders, I am not to leave until you have accepted them.’

Adolf stared at the young man with his best approximation of a withering gaze, but to no effect. ‘Fine, I will take my men into the woods and attempt to find the bodies. If I do not return, please reassure the count that I died happy, knowing that I would not have to live in this camp anymore.’

‘Perhaps I will only relay your assent?’ the messenger asked politely.

‘Fine, whatever makes you happy.’

‘Wonderful, my lord. I beg your leave.’

They did not find a living soul, Norse or Christian. But they did find the bodies of the lost scouts, stripped naked and hung from the lowest branches of a large tree. One of them had been eviscerated, and his guts strung around the necks of his fellows, stiff and glistening with moisture in the cold evening light in the horrible tableau. It was a ghastly sight that had exactly the effect on his men that Adolf was sure it was intended to have. They were afraid. True, they were also angry, cold and resentful. But mostly, they were afraid. The Crusade owned just the muddy patch that was the camp, and the small perimeter around it and sometimes the road back to the coast. The rest of their world was owned by the Norse, and the Northmen never let them forget it.

As he angrily slumped into his rough bed on his return, tired, cold and muddy, Adolf stared out of the open tent flap at the muddy slit of world visible to him. As he pondered once again the intractable problem of the siege and the situation, his eyes were drawn to a flicker of movement, subtle at first, and then more and more frequent.

Snowflakes. The first snow had arrived. Adolf’s eyes narrowed and his internal pit of misery collapsed into an open maw of despair.

Jarl Ragnvald gripped the rough top of the rampart with one hand as he held the other outstretched and let the little flakes settle. They melted and spotted the second they touched the Swedish warlord’s skin, too small to even feel. But he felt the elation of their landing like the sight of the first spring deer. Those tiny flakes would land and melt, go down into the mud with the untold multitudes of their kin. But soon, perhaps in a few days, perhaps in a few weeks, they would start surviving their long rest on the ground. And they would lie there, buried by their fellows until they reached a man’s knees and perhaps even his stones.

He grinned and looked up and out over the wide Crusader ramparts in front of him and howled in delight. A startled sentry on the wall next to him looked up in surprise and confusion.

‘What?’ he blurted out.

‘Don’t you see!’ Ragnvald said, as he swept his hand through the air.

‘No?’

‘Snow, boy, snow!’

The man looked at him as if he had quite lost his mind. ‘So what? It’s snow, what does that mean?’

Ragnvald grinned and ambled over to the man, putting both his hands on the sides of the man’s face. ‘Victory.’

‘Gunnar! There you are. When did you last see the king?’

Ragnvald was striding through the main square, such as it was, towards the open door of the great hall of Jönköping. Gunnar was sitting by the door, talking with a few other men, all fully armed, part of that day’s guard force, ready to run to the walls at a moment’s notice. He had refused to stay on the royal island of Visingsö with the king full time while Sigurd recuperated from his wounds, insisting all fit men would share the hardship and danger of the siege.

The king’s champion, and leader of his huskarls, stood up lithely despite his age and recent illness and nodded his head in greeting. ‘Greetings, Jarl Ragnvald, I was with the king two days ago, why?’ His brows drew into a frown. ‘Is there something wrong?’

Ragnvald waved his concerns aside. ‘No, nothing like that, I merely wish to know how he is doing. Is he well, well enough to travel here?’

Gunnar thought about this for a moment. ‘He is recovering, but his wounds were grievous and his ribs are not yet healed. He is still…’ Gunnar frowned, trying to find words that would not insult his king. ‘He is still not back to his full strength. Perhaps it would be best not to travel, nor to be seen, in that condition.’ Ragnvald’s disappointment at this showed. ‘But why would he travel here?’

‘Because I wish to hold a feast.’

‘What feast?’

‘A feast for Vetrablot, and also of celebration. I would like the king to be here to host it.’

‘Vetrablot?’ Gunnar looked confused. The festival of the long winter nights, in some of the Norse lands traditionally celebrated at the start of winter to encourage a good year ahead, was not a major festival, and not often even held publicly anymore. ‘But why? We have little enough food as it is for a feast or an offering, and the situation…’ Gunnar eyed the besieged town around them. ‘It’s not exactly appropriate for a festival. What are we celebrating?’

‘But that is where you are wrong, Gunnar! For Vetrablot is about the future, not the past. It is about hoping for a good year ahead. What could be more appropriate in our position than encouraging a good year ahead? And we are celebrating the onset of winter that falls even now with this first snow, snow which will destroy the Crusaders before our walls, or drive them back out of the forest. What could be more worthy of celebration?’ Gunnar’s eyes flicked up, as if noticing the still gently falling snow for the first time in the darkening light, and a small smile slowly crossed his face.

‘Aye, you are right, Lord Ragnvald. That is certainly worthy of celebration. Perhaps the king could be convinced to come for it.’ Ragnvald thumped the huskarl on the shoulder and grinned again.

‘That’s what I wanted to hear.’

‘It doesn’t solve the problem of what we feast on and sacrifice. We cannot offend the gods with poor sacrifices and expect a good winter. We struggle to feed the town as it is.’

Ragnvald waved the concern away. ‘Don’t worry, we will have what food and mead we can afford for the feast, I am already taking steps. The sacrifice will just have to be of a different kind. Food and animals are not the only thing the gods cherish.’

A single eyebrow rose on Gunnar’s face. ‘True, so what did you have in mind?’

‘The clashing of sword and shield, and the spilling of blood onto the cold ground!’

Gunnar looked alarmed. ‘What, whose blood?’

‘Ours!’

Gunnar stared into the jarl’s eyes as if he had lost his mind and shuffled nervously. ‘What do you mean by that, Jarl Ragnvald?’

Ragnvald stepped closer and laughed down at the smaller man. ‘We are going to have a tournament!’

‘We are going to what?’

‘A tournament! I think it’s appropriate, we will hold a great contest of fighting with axe and sword, it will last all day, and then there will be a feast. It is something the Christians do, and I wish to steal the idea and improve it.’

‘But why do you talk of blood being spilled? Sword displays use blunted swords.’

‘Not this one. No, the competitions will be done with real weapons.’

‘Are you mad? We are at war, we can’t be killing each other for fun!’

‘No, there will not be deaths, or not many. I will explain it all later. But first, we need to clear this square and put down wooden benches around the edges. We will start the work tomorrow.’ He clapped his hands together and strode away, rubbing them with glee, leaving the small crown of warriors looking around at each other in confusion.

The warrior standing next to Gunnar turned to him with his hands on his hips. ‘What the fuck is he talking about? What is a tournament?’

‘A tournament?’

‘Yes. Apparently Ragnvald wants to hold a great competition, fighting with real weapons, part of a feast day for celebrating Vetrablot. I think it is madness. A feast with food we can’t spare, and fighting with men we can’t afford to lose?’

King Sigurd waved weakly to silence Gunnar as the man started to get unusually worked up. Sigurd was sitting with thick furs over his lap in a padded chair on the platform of the small fortified hall that stood on the island of Visingsö. His people pleaded with him to stay inside where it was warm as he recovered, but he insisted on being helped up onto the platform above the single gate, so that he could enjoy the crisp morning air and look out over the lake. It brought him peace, and although it still hurt his ribs to sit there rather than lying in his bed, he preferred it to that smoky, dank room in the measly hall. A king’s island it might be, a king’s hall it certainly was not.

‘Ragnvald wants to celebrate our winter’s eve festival with a feast and a tournament? I can’t say it sounds like a terrible idea. It will lift the men’s spirits. I am sure he will be sensible with both food and the lives of our people. He is not a fool.’

Gunnar huffed and looked away, out over the parapet towards the besieged town. He hated being on the island. It was his duty to be with the king, but he was safe here from everything except the sickness of his flesh, and the demons of his spirit, neither of which Gunnar could protect him from. He hated seeing the bear of a man he knew so reduced, so sallow and frail. The king still had some of his former size, but weeks of rich food and no exercise had put fat where muscle had wasted away in the dark forest, and during his convalescence.

‘Either way, Ragnvald does not need my permission to hold the festival, nor would I prevent him. So the discussion has no consequence. But do you think I should go?’ Sigurd asked blankly.

Gunnar tensed. He had not worked out a good answer to this question.

‘Ah, you think not.’ Sigurd sighed.

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘You said nothing, it was enough. If you thought I should go, you would have answered immediately.’ The king’s body was wrecked, but his mind was still there.

‘I don’t mean to offend you, Lord Sigurd.’

‘Then don’t,’ the king growled.

‘He is afraid the men will lose spirit, seeing you so reduced after all this time. And he is right.’ The voice came from behind them. Gunnar turned around, nervous of the unseen visitor even in the safe confines of the island. It was just Tormund Five-Bones, though, the king’s seer. Gunnar took his hand off his sword hilt, not remembering putting it there.

‘Don’t worry, Gunnar, he does that all the time.’

‘What, the sneaking around, or the insults?’

‘Both.’

Gunnar scowled at the seer and turned back. Tormund was newly arrived from Jönköping. Sigurd had summoned him when he had recovered enough to care about the outside world again. Sigurd claimed it was for guidance and advice, but Gunnar knew it was because Sigurd sought to know the will of the gods. ‘He speaks the truth. The men don’t need to see you like this at a celebration.’

‘You don’t think it would be worse, not knowing if I am even capable of going? Wondering if I am even alive?’

Gunnar chewed his lip for a while as he thought. ‘No, they will be drinking and entertained.’

Sigurd shifted painfully in his chair. ‘They will be so easily distracted from my absence?’

‘No, that’s not what I meant.’

‘Yes, it was,’ Tormund interjected, unhelpfully.

Gunnar scowled at the seer. ‘I only mean they will not worry about you because they know you will recover, they know you aren’t that easy to beat,’ he finished lamely.

‘It doesn’t matter, I’m going anyway,’ said the king with a scowl. ‘The morale of the men matters, but mine does too. I’m sick of this island and I want to get off it. If there is drinking and eating and fighting to be done, I want to be there.’

‘You can’t fight!’ said Gunnar, aghast.

‘I’m not an idiot, of course I can’t fight,’ he snapped at Gunnar. ‘But I can damn well watch. You got anything to say against me going, Five-Bones? Any sly remark?’

‘No, Sigurd, I quite want to go there myself.’

This stumped Sigurd. ‘Why?’

‘I am drawn there, so I must go back. I was never supposed to be on this island.’

Gunnar ground his teeth and ignored the man. ‘You should not go, Lord Sigurd.’

‘Gunnar, do you remember the time where you convinced me not to do that stupid thing?’

Gunnar stilled his mouth and thought for a second. ‘No… I…’

‘Exactly,’ said Sigurd, cutting him short. ‘Your job is to get me out of trouble, not keep me from it. We are going.’ He started struggling to rise, with Gunnar rushing to help until he was finally on his feet, one hand bracing himself against a post. ‘Five-Bones, do something useful and go and arrange for my things to be packed. We leave today,’ he said, unsteady on his feet and grimacing with the pain from his protesting injuries.

‘I already have.’

Gunnar and Sigurd both turned and looked at the odd little man, who stood there with a blank expression under their gaze. ‘We can leave now if you want?’

Sigurd turned to Gunnar and shook his head. ‘He does that too. That’s why I keep him around. It’s your job to get me out of trouble, it’s his to see when I’m about to get into it.’

Ordulf was hungry. He was often hungry. This was his first siege, and so far, he was bored and tired and cold, but mostly he was hungry. There were two thousand Norse warriors in the town, as well as most of the original inhabitants, so there wasn’t much food to go around, even with the best efforts of the men bringing it by boat. Food for that many was hard to come by in the local area, and they were stockpiling most of it for the winter when they expected to be cut off.

So Ordulf was hungry. His hunger did distract him from his boredom. All they were doing in the smithy he was working in was repairs and making arrowheads. Thousands of arrowheads. And he still wasn’t half as fast at making them as the local smith. It was incredibly tedious but very skilful work.

One day, as the first swirling snowfalls started, adding to his misery, he was walking back to the small longhouse that he now shared with twenty other slaves and low peasants in squalid conditions. His route took him past the central square and the great hall, and then down towards the lakeside and the fishing docks, where the smallest houses were. The shore was where the stink of drying fish and rotting fish guts was strongest in the summer, so it was where the lowest made their homes.

As he moved to cross the street that led down to the docks, there was a commotion and he saw a small crowd was forming, warriors and townsfolk mixed, all facing the other way, chattering excitedly. Ordulf arrived at the back of the crowd and could see over the heads of most of those in front, but not past a building blocking his view of the street and the small docks at the bottom.

‘What is happening?’ he asked the woman in front of him. She didn’t turn, but shook her head and ignored him after that. A few moments later, an excited voice at the front of the small crowd exclaimed, ‘King Sigurd!’ and a murmur went through the three or so ranks of people along the edge of the street. Then two huskarls appeared, spears held upright, ushering the people to the sides of the street out of the way. Ordulf stood to one side, his back to a low building, as the people were shuffled back, leaving him at the front of the group, and able to see when Sigurd came around the corner.

Sigurd appeared, with Ordulf’s master Jarl Ragnvald following him. Ordulf was shocked to see the king, who was walking stiffly and with significant help from one of his huskarls. He looked a shadow of his former self – smaller, paler, ten years older. Clearly others saw it too, for there was an awkward silence in the warriors as the king stumbled past.

Ordulf was staring at the king as Ragnvald passed his Christian slave, and behind the jarl walked a slim man in a rough woollen cloak and a fur vest of some sort. The man had a leather pouch strung on a thong around his neck that bounced on the fur vest as he walked. He looked nothing like any Norseman Ordulf had seen before, and he stared at the man curiously.

Suddenly the man started, half missing a step, and his eyes snapped to meet Ordulf’s, staring at him with such intensity that Ordulf almost took a step back. He suddenly recognised the man from the beach at Ulf’s funeral; the man had stared at him in the same manner then, and he had not thought much about it. But now, a second time, it chilled him to the bone.

The man stopped for a moment at arm’s length from Ordulf, and Ragnvald, confused, stopped to see why. The jarl saw the seer staring and then noticed Ordulf for the first time and gave him a nod, before gently putting his hand on the shoulder of the strange man, who made no indication he noticed. It seemed others could feel it too, a sort of tension in the air around them, and people quietened and turned to look. Even the king shuffled to a stop and turned to look behind him, feeling the people at his back had stopped.

But the strange man with the strange green eyes paid no attention. He just stared at Ordulf until Ordulf broke his gaze and took half a step back in discomfort. Then, the gaze snapped and the strange man turned to walk up the hill, muttering to himself, his head still turned to look at Ordulf as he walked. Ordulf was left feeling thoroughly unsettled.

After the procession had passed, Ordulf made his way the last few dozen paces to where his cold, cramped sleeping quarters were and, feeling the misery he felt every day he had to return there, opened the door to go inside.

Chapter 3

Victors and Visions

Ragnvald swept his gaze around the rough square of two-tiered benches that had been erected and gruffy nodded his assent to the carpenter who had supervised it. It would do. The benches were not for sitting, but for standing so that more men could pack into the small square and see the spectacle. The benches ringed three sides of the central square of earth. On the fourth side, the old great hall loomed on its foundations, the steps and slope leading to its door giving another area for men to stand.

He strode up the stairs to the great hall and opened the door, which had been closed against the bitter wind. The king was sitting stiffly in the great chair, which wasn’t particularly great, like the rest of the old hall. The inland towns never cease to disappoint. Around the king a small gaggle of men talked, jarls, huskarls and others from the king’s small retinue.

‘Jarl Ragnvald.’ Ragnvald turned to see who addressed him. It was the king’s seer, standing alone against a pillar in the shadows, seemingly lost in thought, not even looking at Ragnvald as he called out to him. He stepped over to join the man, who still did not stir to acknowledge him. Ragnvald started to wonder if he had heard the man speaking at all. But the man dispelled that notion by speaking again.

‘Your slave, I have seen him again in my dreams, but the meaning is veiled. Tell me about him.’

Ragnvald bridled at the man speaking to him as if giving instructions, but seers were always odd men, and this man had the ear of the king, so he swallowed his pride and answered.

‘What do you want to know? He is my slave and he is a smith. In Uppsala and with the army he makes and repairs weapons. He…’

The seer shook his head irritably and wagged a thin finger in the air. ‘No, no, no. Not such trivialities, such I have seen already. I mean, who is he? What significance do you see in him? For me to have been shown him in my dreams so many times, he must be someone. Not just a tinkerer of swords.’

Ragnvald pursed his lips and thought. ‘He is skilled, uncommonly skilled, so says the master smith Dengir, who is reputed to be one of the best.’ Tormund nodded in agreement.

‘Better. More.’

Ragnvald huffed and scratched the bristles under his chin where his beard met his neck as he thought about it and the obvious fact came to him. ‘He saved my life once. He killed a skilled warrior, and took another down, with nothing but his hammer and his quick wits.’

Tormund looked confused. ‘I thought you saved him?’

Ragnvald was taken aback. ‘Who did you speak to about it? Leif?’

‘I spoke to no one. I was spoken to, you could say.’

Ragnvald was starting to tire of the tone and the questions. ‘Tell me why it matters, why must I describe this slave to you while you fail to answer me?’

Tormund took a moment to compose himself and answered, softly and urgently. ‘Because I feel the touch of the gods on this boy. They have interfered in his life. I must understand why. It is the key to my dreams.’

Touched by the gods? It is more likely that this man was touched by the moon. ‘There is nothing else of note,’ he said tetchily. ‘I found him in Denmark, I kept him to make swords, he saved my life in Uppsala and I spared him of his crimes in return.’

‘You spared him in return? No, that is not what I have seen.’

‘Well, then, what you have seen is wrong, maybe drink less.’ Ragnvald turned to walk away with a snort.

‘You saved him first, Ragnvald, did you not? I have seen it. Spraying blood and spraying water. A man with a face of steel and sword of light. You spared the boy and no one else. Why?’

Ragnvald stopped at the mention of the steel face. He cannot know. He slowly turned to face the seer with a face of thunder. ‘Who told you that?’

‘I saw it.’

‘You were not there, so who told you? What trickery is this?’

‘No trickery. I am granted visions, they are sometimes of the past and sometimes of things that have yet to be the past, but always true or meant to be true. Rarely can I understand them as they arrive, I spend my life seeking their meaning and now I seek it from you, and from your slave, who Odin watches so closely.’

‘Bullshit.’

Tormund looked annoyed for the first time. ‘Be careful, Lord Ragnvald, Odin has only one eye, but many ears.’

Ragnvald stepped over to face the little man, who did not flinch in the slightest. Of course Ragnvald had heard stories of men who had the Odinsight, but he didn’t believe them any more than he believed most of the nonsense the skalds sung of. Seers were just tricksters and beggars.

But… But this seer knew of the Christian knight with the metal faceplate on his helm who had cut his way through his men to escape across the river at the fight at the fjord in Denmark where he had captured Ordulf, the only enemy he had spared to be taken into slavery. Who could have told him of that? He must have heard from one of Sigurd’s men, who had heard from one of Ragnvald’s. Such was the way of seers, to learn information they should not know, and then use it to convince the weak-minded of their ‘powers’.

‘I spared the boy because he held a hammer, not a weapon, and that marked him out as valuable.’

Tormund smiled and nodded, as if it all suddenly made sense. ‘A dropped knife, I have seen it. So simple, yet so clever.’ He let out a little chuckle to himself.

‘If you care so much about what happened, talk to the boy himself. I’m done.’

‘You would allow that?’ Tormund’s eyes lit up with excitement. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ The man clasped his hands together in appreciation.

‘Don’t thank me, I just want you babbling to someone else. I saved the boy so he could serve me, and he can serve me now by listening to your nonsense instead of me.’

‘No, Lord Ragnvald.’

‘What?’ Ragnvald half-shouted at the man, his raised voice drawing the attention of the king and the men around him. Ragnvald’s temple throbbed with anger at the way this man, this nithing, this man of no land talked to him. He clasped a hand on the seer’s shoulder and lowered his snarling face to stare into those strange green eyes. The man didn’t flinch.

‘You didn’t save him so he could serve you. You were both saved so you could serve him.’

Ragnvald was so taken aback by the gall of it so that he couldn’t respond for a moment. ‘I will fucking what? Me? Serve that slave boy? You have truly lost your mind.’

‘Ragnvald!’ Sigurd’s voice boomed across the hall. ‘Enough. My seer has a habit of riling people up, pay him no heed… Tormund!’

‘Yes, lord?’ the seer asked, talking over Ragnvald’s firmly clamped hand.

‘Go be somewhere else, and stop aggravating everyone with your visions.’

‘As you command.’ Tormund slithered out of Ragnvald’s grasp and made a nonchalant exit. Ragnvald glowered at his retreating back and then walked over to the waiting king. What did he mean, we were both saved so I could serve my own slave? The ravings of a drunk.

‘I apologise for him, Ragnvald, he upsets everyone he meets, but I find him useful.’

‘How is that useful?’

‘Hmmm? No, not the upsetting everyone, his visions. He sees things others do not.’

‘Give any man a barrel of mead and he will see things others do not!’ joked Ragnvald.

‘Do not mock it, Ragnvald, the man knows things he cannot know.’

Ragnvald felt a chill at the words. How did he know about the knight with the steel-faced helm? But he brushed it aside.

‘Do you use him to ask the gods advice? To decide strategy?’

‘No, do not mock me either,’ Sigurd chided him. ‘I do not rely on a seer for matters of strategy. That isn’t how it works, anyway. I don’t get to ask questions of the gods, but sometimes I believe they choose to reveal things to him, and I benefit from it. Don’t look at me like that! I’m not mad, I make my own decisions, his voice is just one of many. I listen to you more often than to him, but on different matters. That is the end of it.’ Sigurd gave Ragnvald a stern look. ‘Now, enough of that, tell me of your plans for this festival.’

Ragnvald put the annoying seer from his mind and released the tension that had built up in his shoulders. ‘There is not much to tell. We will hold a day of competition. Men fighting with spear, axe and sword. Then there will be a feast.’ He nodded to the king, as if he thought that was enough. It was not.

‘Tell me of your plan to fight with real weapons, and spill blood? We can sorely afford to lose good warriors to injury or death.’

‘True, but we can also not afford to have our warriors out of practice and forgetting their skill.’

‘So we make or find blunt practice weapons, as is the normal way.’

‘No, that will not work.’

‘Why the hell not?’ asked the king, irritated to be contradicted in front of the others so bluntly.

‘Because men fighting with blunted weapons fight very differently. There is less fear, the weapons act differently, they do not catch in the shield or grip each other when they strike. It is poor practice for real war, especially when the war is so close around us. No, I believe they must use real weapons, so that they can feel the fear, face it down, fight like men in battle. They will all watch each other fight, and learn from it.’

Sigurd stared at Ragnvald for a moment as he digested this. ‘But what use is it training half the men by killing the other half? How will you avoid deaths?’

‘Well, we will not be able to entirely avoid them, at least, probably not. But the rules of the competition will be simple. First to draw blood or put their opponent on the ground wins, anyone who kills their opponent or grievously wounds them forfeits their fight, and will be banned from the rest of the fights and the feast, and sent home tomorrow in disgrace. I think it will encourage some care not to land serious blows.’

Gunnar had been listening with interest and spoke up. ‘That will probably work. But only for the skilled warriors. This cannot be open to everyone. It takes great skill to tell the difference between a blow that will cut lightly and a blow that will kill.’

Ragnvald nodded. ‘I agree, and it is from watching those skilled warriors that the rest will learn the most.’

Sigurd scratched absentmindedly at one of his healing wounds and nodded. ‘Fine. Ragnvald, Gunnar will help organise the fights and select the fighters, that is my concession.’

‘Of course, Lord Sigurd. I hope that doesn’t mean he won’t fight? I want to see his reputation tested.’ Ragnvald had a fierce twinkle in his eye as he looked at the impassive huskarl.

‘Of course he will fight. But you won’t. Nor will any lord.’

Ragnvald moved to protest, but then he recognised Sigurd’s pointed comment. Sigurd would not be shamed by being the only lord who did not fight. So he nodded brusquely. ‘That is sensible, Lord Sigurd, we need all our jarls healthy and uninjured.’

‘Good, then we are done. I look forward to seeing it tomorrow.’

Leif spread his back foot out more, lowering his stance, keeping the spear level and his arm cocked half back. He started circling slowly again to his right, keeping his shield up and angled with his left hand, looking for a gap, an advantage. His opponent was good, three times they had lunged and countered, traded strikes. Three times they had managed to cover the blows and deflected with shield or spear shaft.

He held his spear overarm, first finger pointed back along the underside of the shaft, his opponent mirroring his stance. The crowd was noisy, egging the fighters on. Several hundred warriors were packed along the benches around the square and more sitting on the roofs of the adjoining buildings. The sun was shining on a cloudless day as the men traded attacks in the small square.

Leif made a fast step in and made as if to strike overhand towards the face of his opponent. The man’s shield came up in response; Leif pulled the blow and, twisting his hand around and letting the shaft fall a fraction, switched his grip to underhand by grabbing it out of the air again. His opponent, having seen the feint, counterlunged from a high position, point spearing down towards Leif’s left leg. Pulling the exposed leg back, Leif swept his spearpoint from low to high, knocking the incoming shaft heavily to his side, then, bracing the back of the shaft against his side for leverage, swept his spearpoint back to the right.

His enemy, overbalanced from his foiled thrust, could not pull his leading leg back in time, nor get his shield down, and was caught halfway to doing both. Leif’s long thrusting spearhead bounced off the side of his opponent’s lower leg, leaving a long bright gash in the side of his calf, and the man jumped back with a yelp of surprise.

Leif stood back and raised his spearpoint, grinning as men shouted or cheered the display. He turned and walked away from his limping and furious opponent. Bjorn and the others of Ragnvald’s fighters greeted him with a roar and he was thumped heartily on the back as he returned to them and put his weapons to the side.

Bjorn cuffed him on the side of the head and poked a finger in his chest. ‘Switching your grip like that? You practically dropped your spear. You should have a hole in your chest! The balls on you, Leif.’

Leif laughed and shrugged. ‘It worked! Might never do it again, though.’ Leif went to sit down and watch. He would fight again, after a rest and some ale.

Up on the steps to the hall, Sigurd and many of the other jarls watched as the fights progressed. So far, only one man had died; a fairly innocuous sword blow had glanced off his axe head and up into his neck, cutting just deep enough to spill his lifeblood into the damp earth. He was dead before they could even get him off the square. A few had nasty wounds, but, in general, Sigurd admitted to himself, it was going very well. The men were animated and happy, the risk of death giving the competition an unusual air of seriousness. And damn if he wasn’t enjoying watching it.

He leant forward in his chair as Gunnar was called into the square. Gunnar had won two easy fights already, his fast sword scoring a line on the arm of a spearman who extended too far, and nicking the ear of a big axeman who tried to get in close and grapple at the first contact, leaving the big man ruefully holding his ear and grinning at Gunnar as he was jeered from the square.

His opponent this time was a small warrior from Gotland, who had brought a sword and shield. He stood impassively as Gunnar strode into the square, and Sigurd perked up. Either the man didn’t know who Gunnar was, or he was putting on a very brave face.

Gunnar dropped into his fighting stance, ready to receive an attack. Yet still the man did nothing. For a moment, Gunnar eyed him up, trying to discern his motive. The crowd was quiet, someone jeered at the still little warrior, yet he remained still, sword and shield by his side.

Gunnar seemed unsure what to make of it, but he advanced and made his first attack, a half-hearted blow at the man’s sword arm. The man simply leaned back and let the sword pass, before whipping his shield round and slamming the rim into Gunnar’s shoulder, a solid thump that was heard around the square. Gunnar cursed and jumped back.

‘Who is that man?’ Sigurd asked Ragnvald, who sat beside him, watching as the now very animated fighter circled with the rattled Gunnar.

‘He is from Gotland, I don’t know which jarl. Olvirsson, perhaps?’

‘That was very cunning,’ said Sigurd, a hint of nervousness in his voice.

‘It was downright strange! He should have been skewered.’

‘Yes, but he knew Gunnar couldn’t do that, so Gunnar was drawn into the predictable move of trying to nick him, and the man was ready.’

Ragnvald grunted. ‘Yes, I suppose so. But it didn’t work.’

‘Really? That hurt Gunnar, look how low his sword is, he is mostly using his shield, his arm must be numb from the shoulder down. That little man has the advantage from the first pass. He thought of a way to use your rules to his advantage. A most dangerous opponent, one who can think as well as fight. Don’t you agree?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. But I expect Gunnar won’t be happy to have the rules used like that.’

‘Nonsense, Gunnar always says nothing matters in a fight except winning it. He always teaches to use every advantage, fair or unfair. He will love that move later, when it’s not hurting him so much.’ Sigurd let out a nervous laugh.

Gunnar was struggling. His smaller opponent’s sword was everywhere, flashing and probing around the edges of Gunnar’s shield, more than once narrowly missing a shin or a forearm as Gunnar desperately defended himself.

For a moment, the fighters separated, the smaller man breathing hard and Gunnar rolling his shoulder, trying to force the feeling back into his sword arm. The small man caught his breath and made to attack again. Gunnar raised his shield as if to ready it for another block but then surprised everyone by throwing it towards his opponent’s face from about two steps away. His opponent was caught mid-stride and ducked behind his own shield to ward the flying rim from his face, the shield clattering off his own. While he fended off the unusual missile, Gunnar dodged to the side and swung his sword back as the men passed each other.

The swing was ugly in his numbed fingers, but his opponent was entirely turned around, and the edge raked along his thick woollen tunic, probably harder than Gunnar had intended with his numbed arm. A trickle of blood immediately showed through the wool over the man’s back.

Gunnar strode off the square without a look back, his face a mask of anger, as his opponent theatrically shrugged to the laughing crowd and strode off to his comrades. Gunnar swept past Sigurd and dumped his sword against the wooden wall, speaking to no one. His comrades gave him a wide berth and smiled to themselves like children.

‘I told you he would be angry with the man,’ said Ragnvald smugly.

Sigurd grinned back. ‘He’s not angry with his opponent, he is angry with himself. He knows he was losing. That was a desperate move, throwing the shield, and if it wasn’t for the blood rule, it would have meant nothing.’

‘Never seen a man throw a shield in a fight.’

‘That’s because it’s a damn stupid thing to do!’

‘True. But, as you said, all that matters is winning. And he did. Might be a while before he takes another challenge, though.’ Ragnvald and Sigurd smiled to each other as the red-faced Gunnar sat behind them, nursing his bruised shoulder.

The fights carried on as the sun started to set, the shadows growing long in the square until just the corner of the hall was lit. Bjorn won two more fights with his axe and shield, until a tall blond warrior from Norway hooked his ankle with his long axe and re-broke Bjorn’s nose with the haft as he stumbled. Leif was undefeated in two more fights, and eventually the crowd called for him to face Gunnar, who had shaken off his near loss and laid his blade on two more opponents, and put a third on his back in the dirt, without being touched in return. He made good warriors look like half-trained thugs.

Gunnar stepped once more down the steps from the hall and Leif, grinning perhaps a little less vigorously than usual, picked up his own sword and shield to face the king’s champion. The square was now packed with every warrior not on guard, townsfolk filling in the gaps where they could. Even Ordulf was watching, using his unusual height to see over the crowd from the far corner. The crowd was raucous. Although the warriors were not being allowed much mead, the climax of the day’s fighting had them cheering and jeering in equal measure, wagers and boasts being exchanged and favourites loudly proclaimed.

Leif made an exaggerated bow to Gunnar, who was unmoved, shield to one side and sword swept back. He interrupted the movement to slice the sword forwards and leap towards Gunnar with a lightning thrust, trying to take the other man by surprise. Gunnar deflected deftly with his shield and sidestepped, countercutting at Leif’s exposed back. But Leif’s lunge had taken him just out of range and the tip sliced past the back of his tunic. The crowd laughed and whistled and Leif made an apologetic shrug. Gunnar came forwards again, steady and undramatically as he always did. One step at a time, shield and sword steady and covering himself.

Leif started circling, but not to his right, the normal way for a right-handed warrior, but to his left, which was awkward and harder to do. Gunnar matched him, adjusting his stance, opening up more to give his sword arm room to move in the new cramped angle. The men only took three or four steps before Leif sprang into the attack. His sword flashed in and Gunnar parried high with his shield, counterattacking with his own sword and then shoving the rim of his shield into Leif’s. Both men wrestled to control the touching shields – whoever forced his opponent’s to the outside would have the advantage.

The two swords flicked and danced around the edges of the locked shields for a few moments, seeking some opening, chasing each other at blinding speed like two snakes fighting. Leif tapped Gunnar’s probing sword tip away from his shield arm and the move cost him just a touch of balance. Gunnar lunged, not with his sword but with his shield, and pushed the rim of Leif’s shield across and back, rotating it like a door. The two locked shields fouled Leif’s sword arm, blocking any counter, and left his shield arm exposed to Gunnar for a simple slice.

But Gunnar did not strike. He pulled his sword back and re-took his stance. Leif recovered control of his shield and smiled at Gunnar, nodding to acknowledge the skill of the strike. The crowd stamped their feet and called out to encourage them to carry on. Leif attacked again, and again their outstretched shield rims slammed together. Again, they wrestled for position, swords probing each other. There were no big swings, no wild hacks. Both would leave the attacker open, this was a battle of fine skill and precision, quite different to most of the ones that had passed before. Ragnvald and Sigurd watched in rapt attention at the display, the tiny cues and movements the two fighters were observing to predict and defend against each successive strike.

Finally, Gunnar made a lunge with his shield, the same move, to try to flip Leif’s shield into his own sword arm, but his position wasn’t as strong, and Leif seized the opportunity to rise and shove his own shield over the top and poise for a strike at Gunnar’s exposed shoulder, trapping the smaller man’s sword beneath their two shields, a winning position. But he suddenly stopped his strike in mid-air with a yelp of surprise. Gunnar had only been feigning the out-of-position attack, and he had slid his sword under their locked shields, leaving his shoulder open, but leaving the tip of his sword gently nestling between Leif’s thighs.

There was a shocked silence as the two men stood motionless, Gunnar’s face expressionless, and Leif’s a mask of horror. Gunnar broke the silence. ‘Do you require me to draw blood?’ he asked casually, wriggling the tip a little in Leif’s crotch for emphasis.

‘No, no! That won’t be necessary, I submit!’ exclaimed Leif with a strained laugh. Finally, Gunnar’s expression washed over with a broad grin, and he carefully withdrew his sword. Leif let out a huge exhalation and dropped his own weapon, immediately making a show of shoving his hand down his trousers and rummaging around to check everything was unharmed. The crowd bayed with laughter and cheers for both men for the display. Gunnar raised his sword and shield triumphantly and slowly turned on the spot to acknowledge the whole crowd.

Sigurd slammed his meaty hand on the arm of his chair and launched himself to his feet. Only those sitting closest could see the pain it caused him, and the way his face went white with the pain and effort, hidden from the rest of the crowd by the dim evening shadows.

‘Gunnar Regirsson, champion of my hall!’ he shouted as he pointed his clenched fist at the smiling huskarl. The crowd roared its approval. ‘Does anyone dare say he is not the greatest warrior in all the north? If so, come and fight him and prove your words, or see him declared the champion of Jönköping too.’ He swept his gaze around the assembled men and no such challenge appeared. ‘Hah! I thought not, well…’ There was a commotion and a man was shoved into the square by some of his comrades, joking and protesting half-heartedly.

‘You? Do you challenge him?’ shouted Sigurd, a tinge of irritation in his voice.

The man shrugged and grinned. ‘I did not put myself forward entirely by choice,’ he said, looking ruefully back at his laughing friends. ‘But I will not dishonour myself by refusing. I will challenge Gunnar, champion of the king!’ The crowd laughed and roared their derision at the challenge, and Sigurd considered refusing it, not wanting to blemish the day after such a good last fight. But the crowd was in a fine mood that he did not wish to darken by humiliating the man and refusing him. So, despite the quickly deepening shadows, he begrudgingly waved his assent. ‘Then you may. Gunnar!’ The huskarl turned to his king. ‘Be quick, I have eating to do!’ Sigurd sat down heavily and let out a sharp breath as the jolt went through his healing ribs, but none dared assist him in public. Ragnvald eyed the newcomer with interest. He remembered the man had already fought once or twice, and won, but little else about the fight.

Gunnar waited in the centre and the man retrieved his shield and someone passed him his axe. He shrugged his shoulders apologetically at Gunnar. ‘Sorry, I don’t have a sword.’ Gunnar grimaced and stepped away towards the hall, gesturing at one of his comrades, who ran down and swapped Gunnar’s sword for an axe. Gunnar hefted the new weapon and twirled it, gauging its weight and reach, before beckoning to his opponent impatiently.

The man, a medium-sized man with an uncommonly good-looking, almost womanish face, and long, untied black hair hanging down all around him, more like a horse’s mane than a warrior’s hair, stepped awkwardly forwards, looking very out of place and unsure of what to do. Ragnvald groaned inwardly; this last fight would be a joke, and ruin the good mood the crowd was in. Some of them sensed it too, and the first jeers were breaking out.

Gunnar snorted with anger and launched himself forwards, shield in the guard position, axe ready, and the long-haired man brought his own weapons up. Ragnvald expected a quick fight and an easy victory. He was right.

Gunnar made a strong blow at the black-haired man’s shield and the man darted a half step back and to the side. His own axe flashed out and the haft knocked Gunnar’s aside with ease, diverting the overly powerful blow and leaving Gunnar unbalanced. The handsome warrior’s axe twirled and flashed back, a blow that almost creased the bridge of Gunnar’s nose, the shocked huskarl only just managing to duck back in time.

Gunnar desperately backed up to regain balance and position, but the long-haired man was on him in a flash, axe and shield whirling and probing, hard to see in the dim light, harder still to stop. Gunnar’s great skill let him ward off three or more strikes, but each time he was later, more unbalanced, more out of position. He desperately threw a counterthrust with the tip of his axe blade to buy himself space, and the stranger swung into it with his own axe, hooked Gunnar’s axe head inside the beard of his own, and wrenched it away in a moment, throwing it into the mud, leaving Gunnar stretched out and disarmed.

The axe head flashed back and skimmed Gunnar’s forearm, and the stranger stood back and relaxed, a broad smile on his face.

The crowd, and the king himself, whom Ragnvald had not even noticed rise, stood in stunned near silence as they craned their necks and tried to see if the blow had landed. Gunnar turned his forearm and stared at it, then stared back at the man in shock and nodded his head. He raised his arm in the air. A thin red line crossed it, a small flap of skin opened up, and a trickle of blood ran down into the crook of his elbow for all to see.

The crowd erupted into roars and cheers. A dozen men ran out of the crowd where the stranger had stood and mobbed him, lifting the man onto their shoulders as he laughed and clasped hands with his mates. Sigurd swore under his breath and looked unsure what to do. Ragnvald still hadn’t closed his mouth. He worried the king might poison the moment by reacting badly to the public defeat of his champion.

Gunnar walked up the steps towards the men, shaking his head ruefully.

‘He tricked you!’ muttered Sigurd to his huskarl in outrage.

‘Yes, he did. And it was beautiful.’

‘It was what? It doesn’t matter. He only won one fight, you won half a dozen.’

Gunnar smiled and put his hand on the arm of the king. ‘It doesn’t matter how many fights you have won, lord king, only that you won your last. He is a worthy champion, it was the most perfect fight I have ever seen a man fight.’

Sigurd grumbled in protest and looked as if he might turn to follow Gunnar into the hall. But he collected himself and raised his hand for silence, eventually the signal being noticed by the gaggle of celebrating men still carrying their man around the square.

‘You, warrior, who are you? Come here and be recognised!’ he shouted. The crowd, those supporters of Gunnar still grumbling, and those celebrating, stilled and turned to watch as the man was put back on the ground and strode over to meet the king. He climbed the second step and answered.

‘I am Vidar Junge, Lord Sigurd.’

‘Welcome, Vidar. Where are you from, whose man are you?’

‘I am from Lund, my lord, and I am a karl sworn to no man.’

‘You have no jarl?’

‘No, lord, he died in battle and our land is gone, so we are but a band of free men in your army, me and my crewmates.’

Sigurd’s irritated expression softened. And he nodded at the man warmly. ‘You have stayed with my army, all this time?’

‘Yes, lord, we were at Lund, and then at Åhus, and then on the march through the black woods.’ His smile had evaporated as he listed the places. With a sinking heart, Ragnvald looked over Vidar’s band of crewmates, and saw that there were barely ten of them. Their crew must have started with more than three times that number. Lost to the Christians and the deep forest.

Sigurd noticed it too and he shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Well, Vidar, we will eat and drink to your brave fellows tonight. You will join me at my table.’ The man smiled and slammed his fist against his chest.

‘Thank you, Lord Sigurd.’

‘Vidar Junge,’ Sigurd boomed, raising his voice to every corner of the square. ‘I declare you to be the champion of this feast day at the hall of Jönköping.’ He paused while some of the crowd cheered and continued. ‘As your prize, you may name anything it is in my power to give you, and it shall be yours.’

The crowd stirred. It was an outrageously generous offer. To name a favour or a gift from the king? The man could have expected a fine armring, perhaps, or a weapon, but now he had the power of the king in his hand for one moment, one decision.

Vidar opened his eyes in surprise and thought for a moment, turning to look back at his crewmates as the king and the crowd waited. He smiled at them and turned back.

‘King Sigurd, I request that my crew be sworn into your service until the end of this war, to serve you, and be welcomed in your hall.’

Sigurd smiled broadly and nodded. ‘If you wish to give me your oath, then I am pleased to accept it and do not count it a gift, for with men like your crew beside me, we will all surely see our homes again.’ Sigurd smiled warmly down at the man and beckoned to him, and Vidar went up the stairs, to kneel on the last one in front of the king, his fellows following at his back, all kneeling behind in rough ranks, each with his arm on the back of the man in front.

Sigurd drew his beautiful sword, and offered the hilt to Vidar, hands holding the blade, tip pointing at his own unarmoured chest. The ultimate display of trust from a king to a warrior. Vidar reached up and gripped the hilt of the sword and locked eyes with Sigurd.

‘King Sigurd Olafsson. We are the last of the warriors of Jarl Hendricksson, faithful men of Denmark, who fought and died in a dozen battles in service to the North. We sailed across cold seas, cut our way across bloody fields and marched through the dark forest at your back. We swear to fight now at your side, with you and your hird, until in victory you return us our land, or in death we return to the ground.’

The men kneeling behind Vidar voiced their assent. Ragnvald flicked his gaze back to Sigurd, and saw the man fighting to control his emotions, the old sparkle perhaps back in his eyes. The whole crowd was silent. Everyone could feel the power of the words and the moment, even after a horn or two of mead.

‘Rise, men of Scania, and greet me as men of my hird,’ Sigurd boomed. The crowd roared and stamped their feet in the gathering darkness and the firelit shadows, and Vidar started to stand. But before he could take his hand off the king’s sword, Sigurd let go of the blade and Vidar was left standing holding it. He proffered it back to the king, but Sigurd shook his head. ‘No, it is your prize, for I have many swords, and you have none. Carry it for me at my side, and use it to help me return you home.’ Then Sigurd stepped down a step and embraced the startled man in a giant bear hug, and then each of his new men in turn.

‘And now, we feast!’ shouted Ragnvald merrily, and men cheered and made for the steps to the door, led in by Vidar and the king.

Gunnar clasped hands with Vidar as he arrived at the king’s table. Perhaps two hundred warriors were packed into the hall, sitting at tables or lining the walls in groups, laughing and eating. The rest gathered around fires outside and had food brought to them by the thralls that still remained in Jönköping.

‘I am sorry for deceiving you, Gunnar,’ said Vidar with a broad smile.

‘Why?’ Gunnar asked as they sat down, surrounded by jarls and senior men of the king’s hird.

‘Because you are the better warrior, and I beat you by trickery.’

‘That makes you the better warrior today. It is that simple,’ Gunnar said without emotion. ‘It was a beautiful lesson, and I am glad to have received it. But,’ he said, looking left and right as if checking that no one was listening, ‘maybe next time you could do it in private?’ The men around roared with laughter and visibly relaxed; they had all worried Gunnar would be in a foul mood.

‘Surely he is not better, for having beaten you only once, and by trickery?’ one of Gunnar’s comrades said. ‘If you fought again, you would undoubtedly win.’

‘But how can we fight again? For I am dead, and he is alive.’ Gunnar was gesturing to Vidar with a horn of watered mead. The man rolled his eyes and shook his head.

‘No, you are not dead, he was only able to trick you because it was a competition. In a real fight, it would have been different.’ The man spoke with obnoxious surety.

Gunnar shook his head. ‘Not necessarily. Stop thinking everything is a contest of skill with weapons. The best weapon is here,’ Gunnar said, poking his head with his thumb. ‘But that is a blade you have yet to find, Stepnir, let alone hone.’

The man threw a chicken bone at the laughing Gunnar and accepted the jests of his mates.

‘How did he trick you then, Gunnar? And why did it work?’ Ragnvald interjected.

‘A good question, Lord Ragnvald. I would like to hear this too,’ boomed the king, from three seats away.

Gunnar nodded and held up a hand. ‘Well, I count four ways he deceived and gained advantage over me. First, he feigned a lack of confidence and willingness to fight, which made me underestimate him.’ He closed a finger. ‘Second, he made me angry with his lack of respect and fooling about. He had seen from a previous fight that I rush my attacks when I am angry.’ Vidar cringed at that point and shrunk in his seat as a huskarl boxed his ear in jest. ‘Third, he made sure I knew nothing about him because he barely fought, so I did not know what to expect, while he saw me fight and knew me well. And fourth, he challenged me only late, when I was tired from fighting and it was dark, giving his fresh arms and speed a greater advantage.’ Gunnar looked at Vidar intently. ‘Am I wrong?’

‘No… well, yes.’ He looked very embarrassed now, and the others looked on in confusion. ‘No, you are not wrong about any of those four things, but I gained advantage over you in five ways.’

Gunnar’s brows furrowed. ‘What was the fifth?’

Vidar winced, and turned to look at the king. ‘I do own a sword, I just lied because I’m better with an axe and wanted to fight with that. I’m sorry, Lord Sigurd.’ There was a stunned silence and the king gaped at the man in outrage as the others winced and shook their heads.

‘You already have a sword!’ spluttered the king.

‘Yes, lord, I’m afraid so.’

‘So you just tricked me out of my favourite sword?’ blustered Sigurd, spraying bits of bread all over the table.

‘Not intentionally! And I would happily return it!’ Vidar looked around for support and found none in the horrified faces of the king’s men. Only Gunnar was suppressing a hysterical laugh.

‘And shame me by returning a gift? Never.’ The king shook his head and then the tension was broken by Gunnar bursting out laughing.

‘By the gods, Vidar, you are the trickiest man, and the best fighter, I have ever met.’ He thumped the table and Sigurd pointed a gnawed bone in mock seriousness at Gunnar.

‘It’s all well you laughing, you cost me a sword!’

‘Shall I kill him and win it back for you?’

Sigurd pretended to consider that for a moment, staring at the embarrassed Vidar, but then shook his head. ‘No, there has been enough fighting. And anyway, I would hate to see him beat you again.’ Gunnar’s face flushed red and the table roared with laughter, bits of food were thrown at the huskarl as he covered his face, and Ragnvald slapped Vidar on the back.

‘That was a brave thing to admit, Vidar. Brave indeed.’

Gunnar wiped the crumbs of bread off his beard and shirt and raised his horn of mead. ‘For Vidar the Cunning, the slimiest bastard to ever be a champion of the king!’

The men drummed the tables and roared their appreciation as they drank, and the sparks from the hearthfire wound their way up to the roof holes and the smoke trailed out into the cold night sky.

‘What are they doing?’ said Sir Hans, standing on the parapet with his lord Count Adolf as they looked over at the besieged town. A sentry had come to them with a report of strange noises and shouting, and they had come to investigate in the evening light. The sounds had faded, but still sometimes they could be heard on the still night air.

‘They are celebrating,’ said Adolf as he rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet.

‘Celebrating what?’

‘That they aren’t as cold as us? I don’t know,’ Adolf muttered back.

‘Should we attack while they are doing it?’

Adolf sighed and shook his head. ‘No, I have considered it, but they still have men on the walls, and we couldn’t prepare an attack and get there on this quiet moonlit night in secret. They would have time to finish whatever they are doing before we attacked. And we would have to convince the commander, who is probably asleep.’ Adolf looked forlornly out over the defences separating the two armies and shook his head ruefully.

‘Perhaps we could tell the men the enemy are feasting. I bet they would storm that town in moments to get the leftovers.’

Adolf barked a single short laugh in response, before turning to return to his tent. ‘Yes, I believe they would.’

Chapter 4

Feast and Famine

In the early days of November, the Crusader army started eating the horses. It was only the sick and injured ones at first, those who could no longer be cared for until recovery. But Adolf knew they would start on the healthy ones soon, with permission or not. Not that it mattered – the fodder for the horses was running out as surely as the food for the men.

The command meeting that day was sullen. Even the Count of Flanders did not lash out in his normal way. He was withdrawn and bitter. The snows were now permanent, covering the ground and the trees and the tents and needing clearing every morning. There was one blessing. The mud had all frozen, and it was suddenly easier to move around, and this included the road back to the coast. Now that the road was passable again, the army had to decide what to do. Soon, the weather would be so bad the army simply could not travel. They had to leave or be stuck here for the winter, something Adolf was not sure they could survive.

A Bavarian commander broached the obvious question first, after the usual round of strained pleasantries. ‘So, lord commander, what of the way home?’

Baldwin’s eyes snapped up. ‘What of it?’

The man shuffled with discomfort, looking around for support, and seeing plenty of it. ‘The road has hardened, but the weather is still fair enough during the day to march. Perhaps we should go to the coast for wintering, and then return in the spring to take the town.’

Baldwin snarled. ‘You are speaking of defeat, sir, and I will hear none of it. No, we will not retreat from a little cold. We have wood, as much as we need, and we have supplies, and the enemy in their surrounded town will be suffering twice as badly as us. No, no retreat, we will be strong, we will be brave, we will hold on here until victory!’

Adolf’s heart sank. But he did not protest, there was no point in him arguing with Baldwin these days. The pleasure of making a fool of the man was gone, and there was nothing to be gained from it.

‘Perhaps, then, we should send a portion of the army home. To help secure the supplies we need for the winter, and to escort them back to us? We do not have enough to last until spring.’

Baldwin considered this. ‘So, we would dispatch them only to help secure victory? Send them on a mission, not retreating?’ he asked, desperation in his voice.

‘Yes! Yes, my lord,’ said the Bavarian brightly, jumping on the opportunity.

‘What do you think, Count Adolf? Hmm? You have always liked the idea of retreating.’ Adolf, shocked to be consulted, snapped out of his fugue and ignored the barb.

‘What do I think about retreating, or about sending some men home to secure supplies?’

‘Yes, supplies! Keep up, man, or has your mind frozen?’ Baldwin spat.

‘I think we should retreat to the coast and return in the spring, as my lord suggests. But, if we cannot, yes, it would be wise to send half of the army back, to reduce the number of mouths to feed, and to secure the supplies we need.’ And to save at least part of the army from disaster.

‘Half of the army? No, don’t be insane. If we send half of the army home, the enemy will come and wipe us out. No, we send at most one in ten.’ Baldwin nodded to himself. ‘Yes, that will do.’

‘My lord, with respect, if we send one in ten, they will be alone on the road with no fortified camp, and will be even easier to destroy than us here in these fortifications,’ Adolf lied. He knew there were not many Northmen in the woods, but after months of harassment and raids, Baldwin was in a paranoid cycle of constantly imagining greater and greater hordes of them.

‘Hmmm, yes, that wouldn’t do, a defeat like that. No. So what do you suggest, what part of the army to return?’

Adolf considered this. True, they would need men to maintain the siege and patrol, but also the more they had, the harder it would be to survive the weather. ‘I would suggest no less than one in four return, Lord Baldwin. Any less than that, and they will be in great peril. And send most of the horses with them. They have no use here now and we cannot feed them. Keep the worst horses here for food, it’s the only fresh meat we will see.’ He was playing a dangerous game; if he asked for too many to leave, Baldwin might fear he did not have enough to defend himself here and he would call off the whole plan. Adolf feigned calm and waited for a response.

‘Yes. Hmmm. I think that would be fine. You will stay here, of course, Count Adolf?’

‘Of course, my lord, I wouldn’t dream of leaving.’ I would rather lie naked in the snow outside the city than stay here another day with you.

‘Good, good. One quarter of the army will return to the coast, fight their way through whatever enemy they encounter on the road, and organise supplies to be sent to us as soon as possible, enough to survive the winter.’

Baldwin stood and nodded to the men as he looked around the group. ‘Make the arrangements.’ He waved his hand, it wasn’t clear exactly who at, and then left.

‘Do you think they will stay for the winter?’ said Ragnvald as they looked out over the ramparts at the distant mass of the tail end of the retreating Crusader force. They had been called to the ramparts by an excited warrior, who had announced that the enemy army was retreating. But it had become apparent as they watched that it was only part of the army, and that a sizeable force remained. Too sizeable to entrap or assault in their fortifications, which were now almost as significant as Jönköping’s.

‘What do they expect to happen?’ asked Sigurd. His health was much improved. The feast day the week before had put fire into him that had never left.

The Norse had expected the Crusaders to retreat from the oncoming winter but had prepared for them to maintain the siege. The enemy would suffer horribly, despite their well-built camp. Even in Jönköping it would be a harsh winter. Food would be short, and the way to the next town closed for two months. No supplies would come across the lake in December or January. They had enough stores laid in but had been quietly reducing the garrison in preparation, dozens of men leaving each day in the boats that came and went.

The Crusaders had outnumbered them maybe ten to one. If they had known that, they would have attacked before part of the army left. And they still might with those that remained. Ragnvald had townsfolk, even children, wearing helmets and carrying spears and shields, walking the town’s walls during the day, to boost the numbers that the Crusaders would see.

‘It’s going to be a harsh winter,’ Ragnvald replied with resignation in his voice.

‘True, but worse for them than us, I think.’

‘We’d better hope so.’

Ordulf had only seen a few of the fights at the feast night, and of course he had not been invited to the feast itself. He had eaten warm barleymash with the rest of the slaves in the barn. It was less cramped now. Many townsfolk who agreed to leave had been sent away with their families and thralls, to spend the winter in the next town to the north. So there were fewer mouths to feed, but it also meant there was more work to be done by fewer slaves.

The result of the festival for Ordulf was a lot of weapons to be repaired and sharpened, a brutal activity in the cold air of the forge room, numb fingers rubbing the blades on stones that had to be constantly wetted, leaving Ordulf with red and sore fingers that would blaze with pain all night after he managed to dry and warm them.

One night, after he had had his evening meal, a slave from the great hall ducked into the low room and beckoned to him. Ordulf let out a tired sigh and stood to go over and find out what task he had been assigned. It was sure to be a bad one, they all were.

‘What is it?’ he said in a resigned tone.

‘You are summoned to the hall.’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m coming.’ Ordulf went to pick up his tools. There was probably another door hinge bent or torch fitting coming off the wall. The hall was old and a mess. Better times would have seen it re-built.

‘No, you won’t need those.’

‘What? You said you didn’t know what it was for?’

The thrall rolled his eyes. ‘Someone wants to speak to you, I don’t know who or why, but you won’t need tools.’

Ordulf carefully put the tools back in the corner and followed the man out of the door and down the bitterly cold street towards the square. He had no proper winter clothes, so he avoided going outside at night when he could, but the biting wind now was truly awful in his ragged outfit.

They came to the hall and quickly squeezed through the doorway, getting a gruff shout of annoyance as the icy draught swirled in around them and reached the nearest table, where a dozen warriors sat drinking watered mead and talking in low voices. Ordulf looked around in the gloom, trying to see who was there.

A small fire was burning in the hearth, and by its light he saw warriors crammed into the hall. The room was always full as men took advantage of the warmth of the fire, for firewood was scarce and unoccupied buildings were being stripped of everything except the walls and roofs for fuel. Ordulf knew it was a matter of time before those went too.

The thrall beckoned him over to a small table in the corner where a single figure sat, the other warriors giving him what passed for a wide berth in that crowded hall. Ordulf recognised the strange black wool and the features of the man who had stopped in the street to stare at him. He hesitated but the slave impatiently motioned him to sit, and then strode off. The other slaves were always impatient, Ordulf had noticed in his time in the North. Always in a hurry to go off and be a slave somewhere else. He wondered idly if it was just to avoid being around him.

Ordulf shuffled over to the small table and folded his large frame down onto the rough low bench opposite the strange man, who appeared not to notice him, his eyes staring down at his hands. In fact, he did not move at all. He didn’t even have food or drink with him. He was just sitting motionless at the table, alone in the corner of the hall. Everything about him was odd.

Ordulf coughed impatiently, and still there was no response. Just when he was sure the man was either sleeping or drunk, his mouth opened and he spoke. ‘I don’t know what to make of you, child.’

‘Start by not calling me a child,’ said Ordulf with annoyance in his voice.

‘Why, does it offend you? In the eyes of the gods, we are all children.’ The man finally looked up, and locked Ordulf with that fixating green stare. Even in the gloom of the hall, it had captivating power. The man did not appear to blink, or did he? Ordulf couldn’t remember him blinking.

‘What do you want?’ Ordulf asked.

‘To see what you are, to understand.’

‘I can tell you who I am, what do you want to know?’

The man laughed the suggestion off. ‘No, you can only tell me of your past, I need to know of your future.’

‘What? Who are you? A witch?’

‘Witches? Me, no. I am no peddler of tricks and potions. I am a seer.’

‘A seer? I don’t know that word.’

‘I see. I am a beholder of things that others are not allowed to see. Things offered to me by the gods, visions and dreams and small fragments of futures yet unresolved or of the past where it matters, I see them.’

Oh, good, he is a madman. Great. Ordulf sat back and crossed his arms on his chest, looking distinctly unimpressed.

‘You do not believe me?’ asked the man, his expression unchanged.

‘No.’

‘Tell me, child, do you believe in the gods?’

Ordulf caught his snappy answer before he could express it, dangerous here. He had almost defaulted to saying there was only one god, but then he had never really believed in that one either.

‘Ah, so you do not. It doesn’t matter, you are not required to believe in order to be of interest to them.’ Ordulf said nothing, but glowered at the man. ‘So, let me tell you who I am.’

‘What if I don’t care?’ asked Ordulf.

‘Then you are a thrall, and your opinion does not matter.’ The man said it with no smugness, but Ordulf still twisted his lip in displeasure. ‘Ah, that cuts you deep. You are a thrall, but you are free inside, aren’t you? Yes. That is important, you will need that.’

The man leant forward and stared at Ordulf’s midriff, something that discomfited him almost more than when the man stared into his eyes. The strange man continued to speak, but now as if addressing his stomach.

‘I will tell you three things tonight, three things I have seen, or that I have been granted to see. The first is that some men are free in life, and slaves inside their own heads. Other men are slaves in the world but free inside their hearts. The second man is much greater than the first. Do not be afraid or ashamed of it, but conceal it from those who would fear it. It will be the key to your life.’

There was silence. Ordulf’s interest was piqued. He shuffled on the uncomfortable bench and waited. ‘What are the other two things?’

‘We are not ready for the other two.’

‘Why?’

‘You are not ready to hear them, and I am not ready to speak them.’

‘Fine, who are you then?’

‘Now you want to know? Excellent.’ Ordulf bridled at this, but again the man did not seem to be mocking him. ‘I am Tormund, called Five-Bones. Why, you wonder?’ He raised a hand to the leather pouch around his neck and lifted it over his head. He opened the bag and emptied the contents on the table. Five knuckle bones, each engraved with runes on each side. They were simultaneously beautiful and creepy, clearly human.

‘What are those? Are they magical?’

‘No, they are just trinkets, an amusement that I use to part drunkards from food or silver. Men think I can read them to tell the future.’ The man said it with a sly smile.

‘What?’ exclaimed Ordulf in surprise. ‘You admit that?’

‘To no one. Not even the king,’ replied Tormund without emotion.

‘Then why tell it to me?’

‘For two reasons: firstly, because you will not tell anyone, and if you did, they would believe me over you. Secondly, because I want to know secrets about you, so I trade secrets about me. It is the way of the world.’

Ordulf found he couldn’t disagree. ‘Fine, what secrets do you want to know about me?’

Tormund leant forwards, and the fierce gaze pinned Ordulf again. ‘I want to know if, in your heart, you want the Christians to win.’

Ordulf swallowed and recoiled. ‘I am loyal to Jarl Ragnvald,’ he replied, almost immediately.

‘An appropriate answer, if given to anyone else. But your loyalty to Ragnvald, however sincere, does not affect your feelings on this great struggle. If the Christians win, you might well be free, but the whole Norse people will be destroyed. If the Norse win, you might forever be a slave. So, who do you want to win?’

‘I… I don’t know,’ Ordulf stammered out. The green eyes searched his for the truth of the matter for a moment, then faded and the man leant back.

‘An honest answer. And I thank you for it. It helps me understand what I saw.’

‘What did you see?’ Ordulf now leant forward, elbows on the table, enthralled.

‘The second thing. I saw you, kneeling in the sand of a riverbank. Over you was hanging a blazing sword, and beside you lay a shining hammer.’ A chill went down Ordulf’s spine.

‘That was the day I was captured. The hammer was mine, I had used it to defend myself from the man holding the sword. A man of Ragnvald’s.’

Tormund looked up and muttered to himself for a moment. ‘Yes. This vision has plagued me for so long, because it seems backwards with what followed.’

‘What followed?’

‘That is the third thing.’

‘And we are not ready?’ asked Ordulf impatiently.

‘We are not ready,’ replied Tormund with a satisfied nod.

‘So, what about that vision helps?’

‘The burning sword looks like a burning cross, it is the symbol of the Crusaders. The shining hammer is like Thor’s Mjollnir, a symbol of the Norse. But, in this case, the sword was Norse, and the hammer Christian. I believe the gods are showing me the conflict within you, within your past. A Christian who wields a hammer, the symbol of my people, to defend himself against a Norse sword, shaped like the symbol of your people.’

‘So, what is the point? Why does it matter?’

‘It matters because I have been shown it, and thus it must matter.’

Ordulf slammed a fist into the table, loud enough to make men look around at them. ‘Horseshit! What if one of Ragnvald’s men told you about my capture? They are here. What if Ragnvald told you to do this just to try and control me?’

‘But they did not, you see how these men refuse to sit near me?’ Ordulf looked around again, and had to acknowledge that yes, the others were avoiding Tormund’s presence.

‘Why do they avoid you?’

‘Because they fear me. Or they fear my contact with the gods, that I might put a curse on them or interfere with the thread of their life story.’

‘Can you do that?’ asked Ordulf, in a quiet voice.

‘No! Of course not,’ said Tormund with a hearty laugh. ‘But it helps me if they believe it, so I don’t correct them. No, I have no influence with the gods, it is they who influence me.’

Ordulf felt foolish and sat back in a sulk.

Tormund stopped laughing and continued. ‘Anyway, Ragnvald wouldn’t help me either, he dislikes me greatly for the truth I told him.’

‘What was that?’

‘I can’t tell you, his truth was for him, and yours for you.’

‘Oh, really, and so you manipulate us.’

‘Of course!’ exclaimed Tormund. ‘But I manipulate you the way the gods direct me, it is my only purpose in life.’

‘Which gods?’

‘Sometimes it is not clear, mostly I believe it is Odin – sometimes I am shown it is, other times, it is only hinted.’

‘How are you shown?’

‘Odin’s messengers are ravens. When the vision is accompanied by them, their shadow, their sound, the beat of their wings, then I know it is a message from his mouth.’ Ordulf’s face made it clear he was unconvinced.

‘And now I have told you a second secret,’ said Tormund, wagging a finger at Ordulf, still grinning.

‘And what if I don’t want to tell you another? Wait. I am a thrall and I have no choice?’

Tormund’s face softened. ‘No. No man can be forced to tell the truth, he can only be forced to speak a lie.’

‘Then what?’

‘It is a trade, if you do not answer another question and tell me another secret, I will not tell you the third truth.’

Ordulf thought about this. He was curious. ‘Fine.’

‘In my visions, you must choose the sword or the hammer. Whichever you choose will put you in great danger, you will have to fight, and you will have to face death. Tell me, Ordulf. Are you prepared to fight with your friends? Would you die for the ones you love, as so many before you have done?’

Ordulf felt the chill again in his guts. ‘But I am a slave, who do I love? Christian or Norse? One side abandoned me, the other enslaved me.’

‘That is of no consequence, this decision is not to be made now, and love someone you will, all people do, even slaves. But when it is time to decide, what will you do? Will you stand for your chosen side, or will you forsake them?’

Ordulf squirmed. ‘I don’t know,’ he said sadly.

‘Good. An honest answer. No man will fight for something until he knows what it is he fights for.’ Tormund smiled at him once more as Ordulf frowned.

‘Are you ready for the third truth?’ Tormund asked.

‘Aren’t you supposed to tell me if I am ready?’

‘Some things are so momentous that a person can only decide for themselves,’ Tormund said gently. ‘The last truth is always by far the hardest.’

Ordulf hunched over with his arms clutched to his chest and regarded the strange little man, with his knuckle bones and his visions. ‘Yes, I am ready.’

‘Whichever you choose, the hammer or the sword, you will save it, but the other will destroy you.’ Tormund looked at him with sorrow in his eyes.

Ordulf’s mouth hung open. ‘So it doesn’t matter which I choose?’

‘It matters for the one that survives, sword or hammer. All things matter, all decisions, even if the outcome is the same.’

‘Is there a third choice?

‘In the third vision, you run, you crawl away in the sand and ignore the fight.’

‘And then?’

Tormund stood and shrugged. ‘And then nothing, I did not see what happens to you after that. The hammer and sword consume each other and darkness falls on you. That is all, I am sorry. The last truth is always the hardest.’ Tormund stood and walked away, leaving Ordulf sitting in a swirl of confusion and doubt.

Ragnvald watched the two men speak from the other end of the hall and fretted. He wondered what poison the seer was dripping in his slave’s ear. What trouble it would cause. He had considered going to sit with them, but it would have been pointless, they would merely have spoken another time.

His thoughts were interrupted by Gunnar arriving and sitting across from him, next to the king. ‘How goes it, Gunnar?’ the king growled. He was in a foul mood, because the king was always in a foul mood unless he had something to do. And the only thing they all had recently was nothing to do.

‘The walls are fine, the guards are all alert, the enemy still shivers and cowers in their camp.’

‘Don’t we cower in our town too?’ asked Ragnvald dryly.

‘Yes, but we are not shivering,’ replied Gunnar with a wink.

‘Don’t be difficult, Ragnvald,’ chided Sigurd. ‘So, that is all? Nothing, same as yesterday?

‘Yes, but nothing is good. It means we are still winning,’ replied Gunnar.

‘Ugh, perhaps we should lose, it would be more interesting,’ said the king, gulping down half a horn of the poor and watered mead they all drank, supplies of which were ever dwindling and of great concern to all. The prospect of spending weeks in the hall with no mead, even this poor mead, was horrifying to the men.

‘I do have one thing of interest, Lord Sigurd,’ said Gunnar after a short period of reflection.

The king perked up. ‘Oh yes, what?’

‘The men, they have been talking.’

‘About what?’ There was a note of concern in Sigurd’s voice

‘They have named you.’ Gunnar looked up at the king. ‘Well, they have chosen a name, but they have not yet told others.’

Sigurd put his horn down and listened intently. A man earning a name was a momentous occasion, and would lead to fame or mockery, depending on the name chosen. All men feared earning a bad name, even Sigurd.

‘And?

‘They have called you Barechest,’ Gunnar said.

‘Barechest?’ Sigurd looked taken aback, unsure what to think.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of the fight at Åhus, when you charged into the battle wearing nothing but an axe. And as a tribute to your father.’

‘Ah!’ said the king, with a broad smile forming on his face. ‘Ah, yes. Well, a fine name. Excellent!’ He raised his horn at Gunnar.

‘Other names were discussed, of course,’ said Gunnar with a wry smile. ‘Inspired by the same fight, but some of them were too… impolite.’

‘Go on, tell me!’ said Sigurd with a grin.

‘Sigurd hairy balls, Sigurd bare bollocks, Sigurd white arse, Sigurd the shrivelled…’ Gunnar trailed off with a suppressed giggle and Ragnvald choked on his ale. Sigurd roared his booming laugh and the whole hall turned to see what was happening. ‘Sigurd bare bollocks! Ha! I might not have minded that either! Ah, the songs the skalds would have sung about the deeds of Sigurd bare bollocks and his big hairy balls.’ Sigurd laughed heartily, his black mood forgotten.

Ragnvald leaned over to whisper in Gunnar’s ear as Sigurd laughed with the men on the other side of him about his new name and the alternatives. ‘This is news to me. I have heard others use Sigurd the starving, Sigurd the slow, and others less acceptable. When was this name decided?’

Gunnar leaned in and turned his eyes to meet Ragnvald’s. ‘It was decided just now, when I decided he needed a good name. I, too, have heard many others. It’s time he had one while we can make sure it’s a good one.’

‘Ah, I thought so. Good idea, perhaps I should have done this already.’

‘It wasn’t your place, lord,’ said the huskarl in a firm tone.

‘Understandable. Well, you better make sure everyone knows about it, then. Before any of the others gain popularity.’ Gunnar looked unsure for the moment, but Ragnvald gestured him to get up and he nodded in understanding.

Gunnar grabbed his horn of ale and climbed up onto the table and turned to address the crowd. He hammered one foot on the boards and barked for silence in his best battlefield voice.

‘When you lazy worms finally leave this hall to pretend to be on guard, or to find one of the three pretty thralls left in this frigid town…’ There was a wave of groans and jeering at this. ‘I want you to remember, and tell everyone you came across, that tonight you drank with Sigurd Barechest Magnusson, the King of all the Norse!’ He raised his horn and ragged cheers broke out around the hall, men stood and raised their horns and mugs and drank from them as the beaming Sigurd accepted their salutes and nodded in appreciation.

Gunnar climbed down from the table and sat down heavily next to Ragnvald. ‘That wasn’t bad,’ said the jarl. ‘It wasn’t great, either, a skald would have done a proper job, but it was sufficient for a blunt old warrior like you.’

‘I didn’t exactly have a long time to think about it!’ protested Gunnar, but he smiled nonetheless and finished his horn of watery mead with an unpleasant face. ‘We must be reaching the end of this barrel. I think there was mud at the bottom of that.’

Ragnvald downed his own horn mug and licked his lips contentedly. ‘Stop complaining, Gunnar. When the mead is this weak, mud is flavour.’

‘Count Adolf!’ Adolf was stirred from his thoughts by a shout from outside. He raised his eyes from the fire that he sat beside in the dim afternoon light and looked up to find the source of the noise. Past the white, sparkling snow-covered tents, a figure wrapped in a rough cloak was trudging through the muddy slush that coated every path through the forlorn camp.

‘Here,’ he grumbled at the figure, who stopped and walked towards him, just another wrapped figure sitting beside a firepit, anonymous in the dispersed groups of shivering men.

‘Sir, there is a convoy approaching, on the road!’ the man said excitedly.

‘There is a what?’ Hope blossomed in the pit of despair at the centre of Adolf’s chest. It was December, and the half of the army that remained was sitting, snowbound and freezing, in their sprawling camp, focused now on nothing but surviving. Many of the men were sick, he wasn’t even sure with what. Men were lost to the cold or the sickness every day. The last horses were starving in their makeshift stables. Food was becoming scarce as the army’s reserves, pitiful as they were, were continually stretched and thinned and hoarded. And there were three more months of winter to go. Nothing had come down the road since part of the army left for the coast. He had no idea if they had even made it there, or if the weather and the Norsemen had claimed them on the journey, to lie frozen in death along the road, buried in the remorseless blanket of white.

He stood and wrapped his cloak around him, gesturing to the man to follow, and strode off towards the road. When he arrived, he saw a cluster of men around the gate that now barred the road to Jönköping. The excited gaggle of men had clearly heard the news, and were waiting to catch a glimpse of the arrivals. No one was allowed to leave the camp, not that anyone wanted to, except for the few desperate men who deserted their posts at night and took their chances with the forest and the Norsemen. Poor mad fools that they were.

Adolf climbed the rugged log-built gate tower and looked out. Sure enough, he could see horsemen, perhaps half a mile away, and a column of men and wagons that stretched as far as they could see down the road until it curved into the trees. He waited impatiently as they approached, and signals and horn blows were exchanged between the guards on the wall and the convoy.

The gate was swung open and the riders came through into a large open space on that side of the camp. Behind them rumbled the wagons, drawn by stout horses and, in some cases, pushed by weary-looking footsoldiers. The convoy was large, at least five hundred mounted men and a hundred wagons. He gazed in disbelief at the boxes and sacks and barrels piled high on each one. As he stood there gawping at the bounty as if it was landed directly from heaven itself, a horseman dismounted to approach him, and he recognised Sir Dietmar. Ignoring any formalities, Adolf stepped forward and embraced the man with a cry of happiness, not caring that so many watched him.

‘You have returned! The army made it to the coast? You managed to push the Norsemen aside and return?’

Sir Dietmar smiled. ‘What Norsemen? We didn’t see a single one on the way there, or the way back. Nothing.’

Adolf was stunned. ‘Not a single one? And the road was open?’

‘Yes, the road is hard and clear, some frozen ruts and areas that needed repair or boards to cross, but nothing difficult. We organised all the supplies and wagons we could find and came back as soon as we could. I fear the garrisons on the coast will go hungry, but they deserved it. They had given up on the army.’

That troubled Adolf. ‘Duke Welf would not just give up on us.’

‘Duke Welf is not in control. Not really.’

‘Then who is?’

‘The Order, the Brotherhood of Christ’s Light. They have taken over administration of most of the province and its functions other than the garrisons. They had diverted a lot of supplies to their various outposts. The churches and chapter houses are hoarding food for the winter, using it as a tool to control the locals. Apparently, they think this is more important than sending it to a lost army.’

‘That is… concerning. How did you manage to reverse that and secure the supplies?’

‘We had more men, and we weren’t asking permission.’ Dietmar smiled wolfishly.

Adolf’s bright mood faded just a little. He had enough problems here without more to his rear. But he pushed it from his mind as something he could not control for now.

‘I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you return. Orbert will check the supplies you have brought, but how much is it? How long will this last?’

Sir Dietmar pursed his lips. ‘I don’t know exactly. Two months at full rations? We were in a hurry and I don’t have an exact account of it. There is also some fodder for horses, but precious little. There is a shortage even at the coast. And we need to take some for the journey home.’

Adolf nodded. ‘That doesn’t matter, we have precious few horses left. And none will survive the winter. But nor will we with two months’ rations. We may be here for another three. Can you return with another convoy?’ Adolf looked at Dietmar beseechingly.

Dietmar’s face went grim and he shook his head softly. ‘The way the weather is closing? I doubt it. We lost precious draft animals on the journey here. We will have to leave some wagons behind and camping at night was hellish. It will take us ten days to return to the coast, at least. And then it will be much harder to gather supplies, wagons and horses a second time. Even if we come again, it will be with much less. And if there are heavy snows, the road will be closed.’

Adolf nodded grimly. ‘Well, we have two weeks of supplies left here. You have brought another two months. If we keep some of the worst horses and mules, and leave you just what you need to return, then perhaps we will survive it.’ He didn’t sound convinced, and he felt even less so.

Dietmar edged closer to Adolf. ‘Let us take some men home. Fewer mouths to feed means the supplies will last longer. We can take some of the sick or weak back in the wagons.’

Adolf thought about this for a moment. ‘Most of them won’t survive ten days through the forest in open wagons. But you know that, don’t you?’

Dietmar nodded grimly. ‘But will they survive here?’

Adolf shrugged. ‘Maybe not. I will see what I can do.’ He paused and looked glumly at the parked wagons. Orbert had arrived, still miraculously as rotund as ever, and was shouting and pointing and trying to organise the unloading into their near-empty store sheds. ‘We will find you room to stay for the night, shelter is the one thing we have plenty of.’

The next day, Adolf was called to the tent of the commander. Baldwin was ill. Sunken, yellowed eyes glared at him from inside the pile of fine furs he was encased in. A doctor fussed with some strange-smelling concoction he was making for the count to drink.

‘I hear your man returned with supplies?’ croaked Baldwin.

‘Yes.’

‘I hear it was not enough for the winter. Have you punished him for his incompetence? Send him back for more, I expect another convoy within two weeks.’

‘It was everything they could find.’

‘As I expected from a man trained by you, excuses, not results.’ Adolf ignored the insult.

‘It is not possible to return in two weeks. It will be double that.’

‘Then it will not return before the road is closed by the snows?’

‘Probably not.’

‘So, your incompetence has finally doomed us all,’ the French count said with a sneer.

‘We are not doomed. We have enough supplies to last the winter if we ration them correctly, my camp master is drawing up a plan.’

‘My own man has assessed the supplies and said they are sufficient for six weeks.’

‘Six weeks? How much does he think we feed each man per day? That is full marching rations, not what is required to keep a man alive in a camp for winter.’

‘And I intend to be READY to fight in spring, not with an army of skeletons, so the men must EAT!’ shouted Baldwin from within his fur carapace. He burst into coughs and the doctor gave Adolf a chiding look and handed the steaming broth to the count, who drank from it feebly. I pray to God that kills him.

‘So, we must secure more supplies. There is only one solution. We must capture the town and take theirs.’

Adolf was stunned. Attack now, with the army in this state? ‘Count Baldwin, half the army is sick, we could not capture the town during the autumn with a full force. How can we do so now?’

‘Stop lecturing me with your past failures. Prepare an attack. Use the half of the men that aren’t sick. Do I have to do everything? Or can you perform this one simple task?’ he snarled at Adolf over his broth.

‘We will probably fail, and we will lose a lot of the few healthy men we have left.’

‘Then we will have fewer mouths to feed. Either way, the problem is solved,’ the count said in a voice of stone. ‘Now, do I need to remove you from command, or will you do this one thing correctly?’

Adolf ground his teeth. If he let one of Baldwin’s incompetent lackeys organise the attack, then it would be an even bigger disaster. Maybe it can succeed? They cannot expect an attack now. ‘I will organise it.’

‘Excellent. I want the attack in two days. You may leave.’ Adolf nodded curtly and left the tent, his feeling of despair only deepening when he saw that snow had started falling again.

Chapter 5

Red Blood in White Snow

Ragnvald’s eyes shot up at the sound, someone outside was shouting. Ragnvald was in the hall, talking with a group of other bored warriors. Many of them also pricked up their ears. Suddenly the doors burst open and a fully armed warrior ran in. ‘ATTACK! The Christians are coming to attack the walls!’

Ragnvald cursed and jumped to his feet. ‘Which walls?’

The man turned to face him, eyes wide under his woollen hat. ‘All of them!’

Fuck.

‘WEAPONS!’ roared Ragnvald. ‘GATHER YOUR CREWS, GET TO THE WALLS, MOVE!’

The Christians are attacking now? They have done nothing for nearly two months but now they attack? And we are so few.

He sent Leif to gather the men of Uppsala and then rushed to find the king. There was chaos in the streets. Men were rushing to and fro, some armed, heading to the walls, some unarmed, heading to their longhouses to get their gear. Some men were running to the walls only with weapons, leaving their armour behind.

Ragnvald turned the corner, running towards the houses holding two hundred or so warriors of the king’s household, the largest and best of the crews left in Jönköping, and nearly ran headlong into Sigurd himself, who was striding down the road at the head of two dozen or so of his men.

‘Ragnvald! What is happening?’

‘The Christians are attacking.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know yet, but the sentry said the whole wall.’

‘Fuck, the whole wall? We can’t defend the whole wall. How can they attack it everywhere?’

‘I don’t know, perhaps it is a trick, perhaps it is a mistake. I have sent all the other crews to the wall anyway. They can’t attack the shore, the ice isn’t thick enough yet to walk men across.’

‘Then I will take my men to the east wall,’ Sigurd snarled.

‘Lord Sigurd, please, you have the best contingent – hold it in reserve until we find where the true attack falls, then take your men there.’

Sigurd frowned. ‘Stay out of the fight?’

‘Yes, please.’

The king shifted uncomfortably, his great axe bouncing as he wrestled with the idea.

‘And what if they are truly attacking the whole wall, not just one place?’

‘Then I will see you in Valhalla.’

Sigurds eyes set and he nodded, grasping Ragnvald’s arm. ‘Go well, brother. And if this is the end, let it be glorious.’ The king turned to his men. ‘Get everyone, full armour and weapons, meet in the square. GO!’

Ragnvald turned and ran, headed towards his own longhouse, to get his armour and Drekitunga, his serpent-bladed sword.

He burst through the door. Men were scattered everywhere, some were still arming, others were heading out with Leif even as he arrived. ‘Lord Ragnvald, where shall we go?’

‘The south, the gate. We will hold the gate. Take those that are ready and go!’ Leif nodded and left with a dozen men who were ready. Ragnvald went to his small room at the back of the house and, with the help of a terrified thrall, slipped on his chainmail and buckled on his sword belt and helmet. Armed and ready, he stormed back into the longhouse and saw that only a few men remained. They followed him out into the street and the group ran towards the wall.

The streets were nearly empty now, only a few men still ran back and forth, but he could hear shouting and sounds of confusion everywhere. And now, he could hear the sound of fighting. It was coming from his right. To the west. They reached the wall and Ragnvald sprinted up the wooden stairs, leaping two at a time until he gained the top. Finally, he could see what was happening. And it chilled him to the core.

Hundreds of Christians were crossing the open ground towards the gate, which thirty of his men held. Thousands more were on either side, ringing the entire town walls as far as he could see, all advancing slowly to the walls or standing ready in their own lines, ready to attack. On the right, at the west walls, ladders had been thrown up and he could see the flashing of weapons as the enemy tried to gain the top. So far, it didn’t look like they were succeeding.

Just as he was about to shout for a man to run to Sigurd and send him to the west, Ragnvald heard a series of thuds and the sounds of combat to his left, towards the east wall. He turned and could not see, but he knew what it meant. For a moment, he was frozen in indecision. When the waiting masses of enemy attacked, the west wall would be overwhelmed. He did not know what was happening at the east, but it couldn’t be worse.

He turned to the boy who had followed him to the wall. ‘Go to Sigurd, ask him to send his men to the west wall. Go!’

The king’s men would be able to hold the wall against those ladders, he was sure. And he was sure he could hold the gatehouse against these enemy advancing on his position. Only a few hundred were headed towards the gate with ladders and axes. The gate had been completely blocked and sealed from the inside since the last attack on it in the autumn, when Ulf had died securing it. The defenders in the east would just have to manage until he and Sigurd had driven their opponents back.

He returned his attention to his own coming fight. The enemy made their final run towards the gate and those defenders with bows and light spears fired arrows and threw spears and a few attackers fell. Then they ran headlong into the ditches and spikes, hidden in the snow, and the attack screeched to a halt as both ladders were dropped and tangled in falling men, only to be quickly recovered.

Ragnvald readied himself, Bjorn and Leif at his side, the rest of his men strung along the wall around him, as the Christians finally reached the wall beneath.

Gunnar ran towards the wall with a hundred blue-cloaked warriors behind him, half of Sigurd’s men. Sigurd had stayed in the square with the others, waiting to see where they were most needed. Gunnar pounded up the slope to the base of the wall, just as a warrior fell from the top, screaming, a sword embedded in his stomach. The man hit the ground with a horrible crunch and was silent, sprawled on the bank, his bright red blood splashed out into the crisp white snow.

Gunnar looked up. Christians were pushing onto the wall. Many of the defenders, like the man who had fallen to the ground, were not fully armoured, and were fighting with just shields and swords or axes. The wall was falling into enemy hands, soon they would be pouring over the top.

Gunnar assessed the situation for a second and turned to his right. Vidar was there with his crew. ‘Take your men, and another twenty, go right, find the next stairs and close in from that side.’ Vidar nodded, and his men loped off at a run. ‘The rest of you, come with me.’

Gunnar set off and ran up the first rough wooden steps leading to the top. Half a dozen Norse warriors were nervously backing up as the tide of Christians arrived at the top. The retreat had to stop before the stop of the stairs, or the wall would be lost.

‘HOLD! HOLD, men of the North!’ he roared, and the outnumbered men, glancing over their shoulders to see reinforcements arriving, fully armed and armoured for war, planted their feet and regained some of their heart, even as the front one took a spear in the thigh and stumbled, to be kicked off the wall by his opponent and falling to break his leg on the bank below.

Gunnar pushed his men into the fight on the parapet and looked north, along the line of the wall. Warriors were spaced out along the top, leaving none of it unguarded, and some with bows were shooting at the distant figures of the Christians. Gunnar looked out with horror as he saw the enemy for the first time. There were thousands of them out there waiting – this attack was just a small one, maybe even a feint. If he pulled all his men to defend this, then those waiting masses would swarm over the undefended sections.

Then, as he was watching the waiting enemy, arrayed on the ground just in front of their own camp wall, he noticed something odd. He wasn’t sure what, but it didn’t look right. He frowned in his helmet, and then looked back at the fight on the wall. His men had succeeded in halting the Christian push, and now the two sides were locked in a deadly shoving match. The long axes of his few axemen were being passed to the front of the crush, and started being used to deadly effect on the packed ranks of the enemy, who had no equivalent to answer with. The axe blades started rising and falling, and more red blood was sprayed out, to fall on the virgin snow beneath.

Ragnvald twisted the dragon blade and yanked, freeing it from the guts of the screaming Christian soldier, and kicked him backwards. The man fell off the parapet and landed on the next man coming up the ladder. They both fell into the ice water in the ditch below and the scream was cut short with a splash. The ditch was sown with spikes. Those two armoured men would not resurface.

He looked to his left. The other ladder was also being held, any who climbed it being killed. The attack was faltering. Dozens of enemies already lay crumpled at the base of the wall, or were lost to the ditch below. Ragnvald was confused and annoyed. This attack was desultory. It must be a distraction. The enemy finally broke and ran, the axemen who had been futilely attacking the gate gave up under the hail of stones being thrown from above and fled, an arrow between the shoulders taking down one as he went, to leave him crying and crawling along the frozen road after his fellows.

Ragnvald looked out and saw that the massed ranks of the main attack were still motionless. He wondered when they would attack. Soon it would be dark. What were they up to? He looked east and west again. To the west, he could see blue cloaks in the defenders on the wall, and he could see they were pushing the Christians who had made the top back over the wall, closing over their bodies and chasing them back down the ladders. To the east, he could still hear fighting but could not see anything, his view blocked by buildings.

He was just about to send men to investigate when a new wave of attackers charged back towards the gate, more this time, and he shouted to his men to hold their positions, and the hail of arrows and stones began again.

Gunnar wrestled with the top of the ladder, trying to twist it sideways to topple it. An arrow thudded into the wall next to his elbow, but he and another man, using his axe, managed to twist the heavy ladder to the side and it tumbled, away and down, falling into the ditch with a heavy splash, crushing a wounded Christian. The defenders let out a hearty cheer at the retreating Christians and exhausted men rested their weapons on the wall and breathed hard, or tried to steady shaking hands. Gunnar looked about, and saw that the rest of the wall as far as he could see was still in Norse hands.

He stared at the waiting ranks of enemy, perplexed as to why they did not attack. Then, in one of the groups of waiting enemy, a man in the front rank collapsed, falling face first to the ground. His fellows stooped down to pick him up, but one of them also stumbled and fell, the figures mingling in an almost comical mess of limbs in the snow. Then he noticed what was so odd about the enemy waiting in their dishevelled ranks. They were silent, unmoving, almost huddling together. There were no orders being shouted, no flags waved, no commanders steeling their men for an attack. They just stood there.

They are sick. The realisation slapped Gunnar in the face. Those men could barely stand in ranks, let alone do an attack. He looked down at the groups moving towards the wall with their single ladders. Even as he watched, one of the enemy stumbled and fell. No one stopped to pick him up. Those men were just putting on a show.

As he watched the pathetic men trying to raise their ladder, he heard a horn from behind him, from the other side of town. He listened to the sound and his blood chilled. The horn was sounding the retreat. The east wall was falling. That must be the real attack. And his king was there.

‘MEN OF NORWAY! TO ME!’ he shouted and turned to run down the steps. Some of the defenders stayed to fend off the pathetic second wave of attacks on the west wall, but all of his men and some other groups followed him. Together, the several hundred or so men from the west wall poured down and into the town and started running, already tired legs finding another wave of strength as they hared across the town, towards the sound of the fighting.

Gunnar rounded a building three streets down from the square and there, ten paces in front of him, a line of warriors was fighting a desperate battle with a knot of Crusaders. The enemy was already in the town.

He shoved a dozen men to go into the fight and shouted at others to go left and right, to find other streets and push, push back towards the wall. He took the rest and went in search of Sigurd.

They ran down the street that ran vaguely parallel to the wall, which he could see just thirty paces away on his right. In every street, there was fighting. On the wall behind he could see Christians and Norsemen locked in desperate combat, as the enemy tried to push the defenders along the wall, to secure more of the parapet. Finally, he heard a man roaring and swearing, and recognised the king’s voice.

He charged down between two buildings towards the sound and found the king and twenty or so of his men in a shieldwall, their left pressed hard against the town wall, their right against the back of a building. They were holding off a rush of enemy who were trying to break the line. Above them, more blue-cloaked warriors were holding the top of the parapet.

‘Sigurd!’ he shouted, seeing his king in the second rank, laying into the enemy with his great axe like a man who had not just taken wounds that would kill a normal man three months before. The king looked round and saw Gunnar and his eyes were wild, his face strained. Gunnar pushed his way over to his king. ‘What do you want us to do?’

Sigurd’s wild eyes looked around. ‘We have to force them back, we must get to the stairs up to the wall and stop more of them coming into the town or it is lost.’ Gunnar looked over the heads of the fighting men, he could see the single set of stairs that the Crusaders had captured, and were using to get down into the town. Even now, men were running down them. A flood.

Gunnar nodded wordlessly and the king went back to hacking at the enemy line with his blood-soaked axe. The battle held on a knife edge, Gunnar could see how precarious the position was. If another few hundred enemy got down those stairs, they would overwhelm the defenders and run rampant through the town. There was no retreat. Neither boats nor men could cross the thin ice on the lake.

He looked at the building on their right and wondered for a moment, remembering the fight in København the year before ‘Axes!’ he called, and pointed at the rear wall of the building. ‘We go through there! We go hard, we go for the steps to the wall and we hold them. Cut them down if we can. If we fail, the town is lost. Understood?’ Men growled and some ran to the wall, laying into it with their axes and even swords. The tough thick wood and earth wall resisted, but the number of attackers and their desperation finally overcame it. They made holes and then men were ripping at the boards and frozen turf with their hands, pulling out sections until they could fit a man through. His men poured through the holes; he had about fifty with him, including the grim-faced men of Vidar’s crew. He nodded at the lanky champion appreciatively and followed him through the ruined wall.

They burst through the door at the front of the house and into the small space in the centre of the Christian lines, bypassing the groups of men fighting in the streets around, totally surprising the enemy. His men roared and charged towards the stairs, cutting down or shoving aside anyone that stood in their path. No one organised to stop them in time, and the party reached the steps and hacked down the last two men coming down them, the rest stopping and recoiling, retreating back up the stairs.

Gunnar pointed at a group of men. ‘Hold the stairs!’ Then he turned outwards. ‘SHIELDWALL!’ The rest of his group formed into a rough semicircle, two ranks deep, surrounding the base of the stairs and facing back into the town.

Gunnar looked around. There were well over a hundred enemy visible inside the town from where he stood, fighting in the streets against the desperate defenders, or milling about in the open space in confusion in reaction to this new attack. No one was attacking his group yet. Two of his men started hacking at the supports of the steps that led to the parapet, but he could see it was hopeless, they were strongly built and embedded into the wall. He would have to hold for long enough for the king to reach him.

He looked up, at the enemy at the top of the wall, and saw a man standing here, shouting and giving orders, just twelve feet above him. The man wore full armour and a fine helm. A commander, for sure. For a moment, the man looked down, and their eyes met. Gunnar was sure he could see the man give him a smile and a slight nod.

Then the enemy picked up a discarded spear from the parapet and threw it down at the circle of Norse warriors. It bounced harmlessly off someone’s shoulder but caused the man to recoil in surprise. Then suddenly there was a rain of weapons, shields, rocks, and even a couple of bodies – anything that the enemy above could find to drop down on them. Amid that painful hail, the enemy finally organised to counterattack the base of the stairs from within the town.

A small mass of Christians screamed and charged towards Gunnar’s men, who gritted their teeth and braced their shields. The two lines crashed together, and the shieldwall buckled and warped, only two ranks deep, it was not strong enough to resist such a charge intact. A moment later, and the Norsemen were fighting for their lives. Gunnar slashed at an unprotected forearm even as he defended himself from a spear thrust with his shield. A huskarl next to him shoved his sword in the spearman’s face and then received a spear in his leg in return and went down.

Gunnar hacked and slashed and dodged and covered. His men shouted and fought, with sword and axe and shield and then with fists and teeth and helmets. Suddenly, as Gunnar thought they were being overwhelmed, the pressure eased and the enemy broke and pulled back, the survivors looking nervously over their shoulders. Gunnar watched a big enemy, a brute with a sword and shield, hack down one of his men, roaring and cursing at the Christians who were retreating, exhorting them to attack again.

Gunnar looked around. His men were still holding the stairs from those trying to come down them, although under immense pressure. He could see that a little over twenty were left in the circle facing outwards, not enough to reform the wall. But the Christian position was not much better. Without the flow of reinforcements, the attack into the town had stalled, and in some places was failing, enemy retreating towards the wall as Norse defenders snarled and hacked at them. There would be one more furious fight at the stairs, and the last men left standing would own the town.

Gunnar looked at the big man, who was gathering more enemy to him, and pointed his bloody sword at the soldier, shouldering his way out into the open, the message clear. Come and fight me.

The big man roared and charged, twenty or so enemy at his back, and Gunnar ducked a swing that would have cut him in half and hacked at the man’s ankles on the way up. With surprising grace, the big man blocked the hack and countered, hitting Gunnar on the helmet with a blow that stunned him and left him seeing stars. He stepped back and covered with his shield as a huge blow shook it, the shield splintering at the top where the sword hit it. He thrust at the enemy’s face and the man recoiled, but again deftly slipped aside and countered with a blow Gunnar had to take on his sword, a blow that sent fire down the bones of his arm and chipped the edge of his blade.

Around them, the Norse were getting the upper hand. The wild melee at the base of the stairs was turning into a massacre. Blue-cloaked huskarls were cutting down Crusader soldiers and the men on the wall above had run out of things to throw down. The man facing Gunnar roared and shouted at his men, trying to get one last effort out of them, but they had nothing left to give. Soon he was alone in a circle of death, facing Gunnar, red-faced and furious, steam rising off him like an ox pulling a plough.

Gunnar saw over the ox’s shoulder as Sigurd’s men finally broke through the enemy in front of them and the last few Christians turned to run or were cut down. The same happened in other streets, and finally, the enemy started throwing down their weapons and begging for mercy. Most received it in steel, a few were shoved to the ground and kept alive, cringing and moaning. Still the big man glared his defiance and held his sword, a circle of warriors surrounding him, joking to each other and watching the big man and Gunnar with an air of expectation.

Above them, on the wall, the enemy commander watched, impassive, and then finally shouted some orders and went to climb down the ladder as his men on the wall turned to follow, the last of them being cut down from the flanks and by the Norsemen surging up the steps. After a few moments of frantic bloodshed, the ox of a man was the last Christian still armed in the town.

Gunnar smiled at the man, and beckoned with his sword. Let’s finish this. But as he stepped forward to attack, Sigurd stepped in behind the man and swung the back of his axe, the flat hammer side, into the back of the ox’s helmet, and the big man grunted and went down like a sack of oats.

Gunnar dropped his weapons to his sides and looked at his king reproachfully.

‘I want this one as a prisoner, maybe we will make him fight the others.’ Men around him laughed. But the laughter was half-hearted. They had won the battle, but all around them, dozens of Norsemen lay dead, including many wearing the blue cloak of the king’s hird.

There was a commotion and a dozen men arrived in the space at a run, exhausted and blood-smeared. It was Ragnvald and some of his warriors. Their relief at the sight of the victory was obvious and they stopped and bent over, breathing hard, or just slumped against the nearest wall. Sigurd went over to clasp arms with Ragnvald. ‘Wasn’t sure I would see you again, brother,’ he said to the older man.

‘You nearly didn’t. They made the top of the wall near the gate, it was hard fighting, but we drove them back.’

‘The rest of the town is clear?’

‘Yes, the enemy has retreated.’

Sigurd smiled and hugged the Swedish jarl in pure joy. The men, dazed and exhausted, began the grim task of recovering the bodies of their friends and comrades, and of stripping the dead enemies of their weapons.

Adolf trudged forlornly back into the camp with his men. They had been so close. He had thought the battle was won, standing on the parapet while his men pushed the enemy back. The distractions and the attacks on the far walls and the thousand or so sick men who were just well enough to stand in ranks and look threatening had worked, and his real attack had gained the top and, for a while, poured into the town. But then, those blue-cloaked devils had appeared from nowhere, and his plan had come crumbling down. Three hundred men, or thereabouts, had been lost in the town. Another hundred around the walls. And they were the fittest, the best, the least starving. The cream of the army was gone. There would not be another attack this winter.

The ranks of the sick had stumbled or been carried back into the camp. Men had died just standing there, or frozen in the snow after the retreat, calling out to their fellows who were too cold and ill to carry them. The camp that night was full of the deepest, darkest despair, and Adolf felt it as strongly as any of the others. He could not face Baldwin. Despite the stupidity of the decision to attack, and the near success against his expectations, it was yet another failure. He withdrew to his tent, leaving Sir Hans, who had fortunately not been in the town when the attack was cut off, to take account of the missing.

Adolf found himself uncomfortably agreeing with Baldwin on one topic. They now had hundreds of mouths fewer to feed, and the small joy this brought him made him hate himself yet further.

Chapter 6

A Crossing of Fates

Ordulf had been cowering in the longhouse with the rest of the thralls during the battle, but once news of victory came, he spent the rest of the evening stacking the cooling bodies of the Crusader dead on carts, hauling them out of the reopened south gate, and dumping them in grisly piles in the no man’s land between the two lines of fortifications. The king had wanted to return the enemy dead to the sight of their comrades, so they would have to spend the rest of the winter staring at their frozen bodies, a constant and grim reminder of their failure.

The task continued the next morning, although the bodies were now frozen solid, half-naked and horrific. The task clawed at the edge of Ordulf’s sanity and he was numb by the time it was over. As he went back into town to find what other task he might be assigned, he walked around by the wall, and came across one of the pens where livestock used to be kept, except now there were a few warriors gathered around it, laughing and joking and throwing clods of frozen mud at some filthy figures tied up inside.

As he walked towards the pen, he saw one of the king’s huskarls arrive. He recognised the man as Gunnar, the king’s champion. Gunnar waved the other men away. ‘Easy now, we don’t want to hurt them. Not yet, wait for tomorrow!’ The men laughed and jeered at the pen and then Gunnar and a few of the others walked off, leaving two men guarding the pen, in full armour and holding their weapons.

Ordulf walked over and one of the guards eyed him up. ‘Who are you?’ the guard asked.

‘I am a smith, with Jarl Ragnvald.’

‘Ah, the Christian slave smith,’ the guard replied. Ordulf bit back a retort. ‘These are some of yours, even filthier and smellier than you!’ The guard laughed and the other chuckled with him.

In surprise and curiosity, he walked over to the wooden fence and looked in. In the frozen mud and straw, huddled against the back wall, were about a dozen Crusader prisoners with bound hands and feet. Two of them were very clearly dead. Stiff and pale, lying on the ice old ground. The rest were poorly clothed and shivering, filthy and forlorn. Ordulf saw one man, bigger than the rest, raise his head and look at Ordulf. ‘Leuter!’ Ordulf let out a strangled gasp and called the man’s name. Leuter looked up, and surprise and recognition blazed across his face.

‘Ordulf? Is that you? How, we heard you were dead?’ Leuter’s hair on the left side of his head was caked with blood and mud, and he looked unsteady and unfocused.

One of the guards furrowed his brows at the slave talking to the prisoners in their foreign tongue and he snapped his fingers at Ordulf and motioned him to leave.

Ordulf’s mind churned. For the first time, he had come face to face with part of his past. A gush of memories, of the fight with Leuter on the patch, the conversation after the battle at Blood River Ridge. He remembered the cheery, irrepressible farm hand. What he saw here was a nervous, beaten mess. It made him feel physically sick. ‘I… I was captured. Last year. They kept me as a smith.’

‘They kept you alive? To work?’

‘Yes!’ Ordulf exclaimed.

‘Oi!’ said the guard, his anger showing. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I want to hear about my home. He comes from there,’ Ordulf replied, trying to sound casual.

‘Well, hurry up and fuck off.’ The guard turned back to chatting with his fellow warrior.

‘Ordulf.’ Leuter crawled a pace towards Ordulf and fixed him with a pleading stare. ‘Ordulf, you seen my pa?’ Ordulf shrugged.

‘I never met your pa, Leuter,’ he replied apologetically.

‘Oh, can you look for him? In the other prisoners? He was with me, in the town. He must be somewhere.’ Leuter’s eyes were wide, pleading. Ordulf’s heart sank. He hadn’t seen any other prisoners.

‘Yeah, sure, I’ll look out for him.’

Leuter looked relieved and nodded rapidly. ‘Thanks, he will be worried. Tell him I’m alive.’ He sat back on his haunches and rocked back and forth a little as Ordulf looked on, unable to decide what to say. Suddenly, Leuter perked up. ‘They kept you to work, did they? What about us? I’m good with horses, and a plough, so’s my pa. Maybe you can tell them, Ordulf? You can tell them we can work a plough, then they might keep us to work? Don’t know how much longer we will last out here is all,’ he said, looking blankly at the two frozen prisoners.

Ordulf felt tears welling in his eyes, remembering Gunnar’s words. He knew these men would not be kept to work; although he did not know what would happen to them, it would not be good. The Norse did not need more slaves in this starving town, especially ones that could fight or escape.

‘Sure, Leuter, yeah, I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them how useful you are.’ His voice cracked a bit as he spoke, the falseness of his words weighing heavily on him.

‘Oi, enough, fuck off,’ the warrior said from behind him. Ordulf nodded, and not turning to face the man, walked off so that he would not see the tears welling up in his eyes. Tears he brushed away angrily.

Ordulf sat in the longhouse, deep in thought. He did not know what was planned for the prisoners, but he knew it was tomorrow and he was sure it would end in their deaths. He sat and he wrestled with it. He thought of the predictions of Tormund, of having to choose to protect the ones he loved, and that it might cost him his life. Did he love Leuter? No, he had only met the man a few times, but considered him a friend. Would he sit back and let the man die? Or would he risk his life to try to help them? And if so, how?

People came and went, and the town settled into darkness. Ordulf ate his thin evening meal and churned. He could not ask anyone he knew about the prisoners or their fate. That would raise suspicion on him. There was no one who would help him. No, he would have to make this decision alone. Once already he had made the choice to stay with Ragnvald, on that hill overlooking the battle in the Norse camp at Åhus, but then he had believed that Ragnvald had sent Leif to save him, and felt honour bound not to betray him.

It was only afterwards he had found out that Ragnvald only cared to save his sword, and Ordulf had cursed his own stupidity for not leaving to go home when he had the chance. Ordulf was truly a slave, he could never be one of these people, so how could he fight for them? But did the Norse not deserve to live? What business did the Crusaders have coming to this place? He knew the answer to that. Count Adolf had made it clear. It was nothing but greed. Men like him and Leuter were enslaved and killed to make some rich lord richer. How could he fight for that?

He made up his mind. He waited until the other occupants of the longhouse were asleep, deep into the night, and then quietly walked out, as if to go to the pits, his hammer hidden inside his furs. Climbing over the back wall, he dropped himself clumsily to the street and snuck nervously through the town until he could see the area where the prisoners were being held. There was no rule against him being outside at night, but he felt sure that if someone spotted him, they would instantly know his guilt. He expected to find warriors around every corner, but of course none were stupid enough to be out in the cold at night.

There were still two guards by the pen, sitting around a roaring fire chatting. The prisoners were crowding against the fence in a miserable huddle, trying to get as close to the fire’s warmth as possible, the guards mostly ignoring them, only occasionally turning to check on their captives. Ordulf cursed to himself and crouched back down behind the wall he was peering over. He could not think of any way to get rid of the two guards. He couldn’t fight them. One he might surprise, by getting close, but the other?

He sat on his haunches, racking his brains, when he heard one of the guards speak and the gentle rattle of his shield being moved up. He looked over the wall, and one of the guards had stood up and was stamping his feet. Ordulf heard the standing guard say he was heading for the pits and the other waved him away, gesturing at the bound and huddled prisoners and saying it would be fine.

Ordulf’s heart raced. It felt like his chest would burst. He knew this was his only opportunity, there was no turning back. If he did this, if he freed the prisoners and escaped with them, the decision would be made forever. And he still had to somehow deal with the one remaining guard. He rapidly thought through what he might say, and summoning what courage he could, stepped out from behind the wall and strode casually towards the warrior.

The guard heard him and stood up, eyeing him with a confused look. Ordulf didn’t recognise the man, he was relieved it wasn’t one of Ragnvald’s hird. ‘What are you doing out here, thrall?’ asked the guard, making no move for his weapons, more curious than concerned.

Ordulf spread his hands out apologetically. ‘Jarl Ragnvald wanted me to ask them some questions, about the Crusader army.’

‘Now? In the middle of the sodding night?’

Ordulf shrugged in resignation. ‘I wasn’t happy either, but I guess he thinks they won’t be so talkative tomorrow.’ Ordulf did his best at a sly wink.

The guard laughed. ‘No, I suppose not. Fine, ask away.’ The guard turned and sat down again facing the fire, his back to Ordulf. Ordulf gulped. He knew what he had to do, but he was frozen. The warrior was just a man defending his home. He would have a family, he even talked to Ordulf with easy respect, not dismissal. He wished the man had been brusque and rude like so many others.

Ordulf looked at the man warming his hands, and then he looked over at the prisoners, and saw Leuter staring back, eyes wide and pleading.

Ordulf felt the sickening crunch as the hammer sank into the back of the guard’s skull. The woollen hat did nothing to stop the blow, but it did reduce the sound to a wet thud. The man folded over and collapsed into the fire, senseless as the flames started eating at his face. Ordulf nearly vomited, but he managed to keep his wits as he took the guard’s knife and went over to the pen, reaching out to Leuter and helping the man cut his own bonds and then those of his fellows. The rest of them, shocked and unsure what was happening, were hushed by Leuter.

‘Quiet, lads, we are going to get out of here. Get the axe!’ One of the men stumbled awkwardly over the fence, rubbing the feeling back into his numb hands, and grabbed the dead and roasting warrior’s axe to pass to Leuter.

‘You can take us to the gate?’ asked Leuter.

Ordulf nodded. ‘Yes, the south gate is this way, it was unblocked yesterday.’ He pointed back down the side street.

‘Okay.’ Leuter beckoned the men to climb over the fence. One man simply couldn’t do it, and with a sad look, Leuter waved to leave him behind. They couldn’t carry him as they escaped. Just before they started to leave, Leuter turned to Ordulf and grabbed his shoulder with a meaty hand. ‘And my pa?’

Ordulf swallowed and shook his head. Leuter’s hopeful eyes sank and he looked down at the ground and nodded. The group started off down the street that would lead them around the edge of the town to the gate, just five streets away. Leuter muscled his way to the front and led them, with Ordulf giving directions.

Just as they got to the last street before the gate, a door opened in the building next to them, and a fully armed warrior stepped out and stopped in shock. He gaped at Ordulf and the prisoners for a second, and then shouted and drew his seax.

‘GO!’ shouted Leuter, all need for silence gone, and waved the prisoners towards the gate as he charged the warrior. Ordulf hesitated, not wanting to run out to the gate, wanting to help Leuter, in his indecision doing neither.

Leuter parried a seax thrust with his axe and swung at the man’s head. The warrior blocked the blow with his forearm, emitting a yelp of pain at the impact with the axe haft, and slashed wildly at Leuter, opening a long gash on his chest. Leuter ignored the wound and simply rushed the man, grabbing hold of the seax and hacking with his axe again and again at the mewling and then gasping man who couldn’t defend himself from the sheer strength of Leuter’s grip on his weapon hand.

When the warrior was dead, Leuter dragged himself up and grabbed Ordulf by the wrist. ‘Come!’ The two of them ran for the corner of the building, where the gate came into view. The prisoners were trying to open it. But at some point during the evening, the gate had been nailed shut, barred, braced and a wagon full of timbers pushed against it. Ordulf had not been aware of this, and despair crept into his heart as he saw this gate could not be opened. Worse, with the alarm raised, sentries were running down the walls towards the gate, armed and alert. Other men could be heard coming down the street from the town.

Leuter took all of this in in a moment and turned to Ordulf. ‘Run! Go back to your masters before you are discovered!’ His eyes pleaded with Ordulf, who choked back wordless grief.

‘NOW!’ Leuter shoved Ordulf back the way they came, but Ordulf was too slow, and too torn, and he just stood there facing Leuter, his bloodied hammer still in his hand, when running footsteps sounded from behind them. Leuter’s face screwed up in anger and he shoved Ordulf again, taking a wild swipe with the axe into the space that he had pushed Ordulf out of. ‘Fight me!’ he hissed, winding his arm back for another huge and clumsy swipe that Ordulf managed to lumber out of the way of, despite his confusion.

A few Norse warriors were pounding into the street now, and they shouted and ran to the gate, trapping the mostly unarmed prisoners, who turned in horror as they realised they were trapped. One of the Norse ran towards Leuter and Ordulf, shield up and sword out.

As Ordulf watched, mind collapsing as he gave up hope, Leuter shouted at him again. ‘Fight me or you will die here.’ As Ordulf finally comprehended what his friend was saying, the Norse warrior arrived, looking between Ordulf and Leuter in wary indecision, before Leuter turned and pounced on the man, attacking repeatedly with his axe as the warrior covered and deflected with his shield.

Leuter forced the man back and turned again on Ordulf, aiming another swing, this time with more intent, that Ordulf had to rush to duck, before Leuter barrelled into him in a shoulder charge, knocking Ordulf hard against a wall, pain blossoming in his side from the impact, anger building in his chest. His instincts from his days on the fighting patch kicked in, and he put a defensive elbow into the side of the giant lad’s head, a blow that would have stunned a horse, but Leuter just snapped his head back, kicked Ordulf in the thigh, and swung his axe back viciously at the warrior who was moving to attack his other side.

The axe, and the surprise, caught the man off guard and the beard hooked behind the rim of his shield and pulled it aside. Leuter followed up by punching the head of the axe towards the Norseman’s face, the tip scoring down the man’s cheek, eliciting a howl of pain and rage, even as the warrior’s sword struck home in Leuter’s leg, a solid blow that tore open the muscle, but the raging man did not appear to notice.

The Norseman backed away, his shield gone, his empty hand clutched to his face, shocked but not mortally wounded. Then Leuter turned on Ordulf again and attacked with a snarl. The attack was so vicious, and came with such intent, that Ordulf had no time to think about anything but surviving it, and jerked to the side to narrowly avoid the axe head. As Leuter stepped forwards to make another blow, he put his weight on his injured leg and it half buckled, spoiling his lunge. Ordulf got inside the line and blocked Leuter’s axe haft with his arm, getting a painful gash on his shoulder from the corner of the axe blade, and a thump of wood on bone that shook his joints from wrist to spine.

Leuter headbutted him, a vicious blow that landed over his right eye and blinded Ordulf for a moment with a shower of sparks in his vision and a nauseating pain in his head. Leuter pulled the axe back and turned again on the wounded warrior, who was trying to ignore his ripped cheek to come after the big Christian again.

Ordulf opened his eyes to find he could barely see out of his right; blood and tears were running and it was swelling shut. He watched with his left as the Christian and Norseman exchanged blows, the Norseman putting a slice across Leuter’s upraised left arm, deep and ragged, and as Leuter’s stolen axe was buried in the Norseman’s chest in return.

Ordulf opened his mouth and tried to shake the blurriness and ringing in his ears away, and he faced Leuter in the street as he heard more shouting behind him. Leuter roared and charged. Even with no weapon and a wounded arm, he pummelled Ordulf with his fists, and Ordulf felt his anger build as he covered and ducked. ‘Fight me, you fucking idiot,’ snarled Leuter in his ear, as Ordulf was shoved against the wall again and kneed in the hip.

‘Coward,’ grunted the man as they wrestled over Ordulf’s hammer. ‘Is this how they captured you, too afraid to fight back?’

Ordulf roared in anger and shoved Leuter back, punching him in the face with the head of the hammer, a thumping blow that even Leuter visibly felt. Leuter snarled and pushed back in, fists and knees flying. Ordulf lashed out with his hammer and caught Leuter across his injured arm, and the big man yowled in pain and staggered back.

As Ordulf stepped forward, fury overcoming him, hammer held back for a strike, a group of warriors ran over from the gate, and another from inside the town. A few looked confused to find the two bleeding foreign men fighting in the street. ‘Take them both,’ someone shouted in Norse, and men rushed the two Christians. Ordulf was taken to the ground with a grunt of protest before he could decide if he should fight. He heard Leuter’s furious roar as he fought his assailants, then he felt a cold blade pressed to his neck and he gasped, ‘I’m a slave, Jarl Ragnvald’s slave,’ he half-shouted, and the warrior with the blade at his throat stopped, examining him in confusion, looking at the other who was with him.

‘Hold him, until the jarl comes,’ said the other, and the first man nodded.

‘Try and move and I’ll kill you anyway,’ said the man, and Ordulf nodded his understanding. He was dragged to his feet by the suspicious warrior and pressed against the wall at the tip of his sword.

It was all he could do not to cry out when a trio of warriors dragged the beaten Leuter to his feet and Ordulf saw the man was still alive. Leuter’s eyes were wide, he was moaning and blood ran from a gash on his face, and half a dozen on the rest of his body. There was a commotion as Gunnar pushed his way through the crowd and took in the scene. He scowled when he saw the dying Norse warrior, and the wounded Leuter, and he looked at Ordulf in confusion.

Gunnar went to the dying man’s side and knelt as the man tried to speak, lifting a hand and pointing a shaking finger at Leuter, mumbling to the king’s huskarl. Gunnar nodded and clasped the man’s hand, before standing and looking around with a grim face.

‘You,’ he said, drawing his sword and pointing at Leuter. The men holding Leuter held his arms back, pinning him and exposing his chest. Leuter snorted in derision and pain and looked around defiantly. The big man caught Ordulf’s eye. For a moment, they held that contact, that sliver of comfort reaching out between two friends. Then Gunnar angrily thrust his sword into the big farm hand’s chest and Leuter’s head dropped down as he was dumped onto the ground.

Ordulf held back a gasp at the sight and struggled to even stay standing as Gunnar advanced on him, bloodied sword in hand. The huskarl stopped and asked the man holding him at swordpoint, ‘Who is this?’ as he peered at Ordulf closely in the low, flickering light.

‘He claims he is Jarl Ragnvald’s slave. When we arrived, he was fighting that man.’

Gunnar nodded in recognition. ‘Yes, Jarl Ragnvald’s smith, I have seen him before. Let him go.’ The sword was removed a moment later and Ordulf sank to his haunches, the pain of his wounds, the shock of Leuter’s death and the relief of his deliverance washing over him and stripping him of his strength as he shook like a newborn lamb.

‘What were you doing here?’ said Gunnar, looking down at him. Ordulf scrambled in his mind, trying to reason what could have led him to the street, and fell upon an answer. He looked up to meet the huskarl’s eye.

‘I was in the pits,’ he said, pointing at the shack near the street. ‘Another man was in there, he left before I did, these men killed him in front of me, so…’ He stopped, trying to think why that would have led to the fight.

‘And you tried to stop them?’ asked Gunnar quizzically.

Ordulf thought for a second and shook his head. ‘No, I tried to run past them, and that big one caught me, tried to kill me, but that warrior saved me.’ Gunnar grunted, but the answer satisfied him and he nodded.

‘Go and find your master, you should not be out at night, thrall, someone will mistake you for an enemy and next time, you won’t be so lucky.’

Ordulf struggled to his feet and nodded weakly. ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’ He stumbled away from the scene, trying to hold his emotions in check as he caught a last glimpse of Leuter’s sprawled body bleeding into the mud.

The Norse dead from the previous day’s battle were burned in the morning. A pair of large boats were laid up on the shore and precious wood was stacked in them. The bodies were laid in the firewood. There were so many they had to be stacked three deep. Spare or ruined arms and armour were stacked around them, small offerings of dried meat and fish placed in their hands. It was a stunning use of invaluable wood, boats, weapons and food in the besieged town, a sacrifice and gesture designed to honour the dead, and gain the attention of the gods.

Ordulf watched as the king and Ragnvald lit the pyres. He watched as the smoke started curling out into the lake, and as the frozen ground and the ice on the shore melted from the ferocity of the fires. The mood was sombre, made more so by the morning’s events. He had now found out, at last, what fate had been planned for the prisoners. They were to have been sacrificed during the funeral, an offering to the gods. Not being able to do that was a dark omen that had plunged the men into an even darker mood.

As he was standing there, a voice spoke to his side. ‘A pity.’ Ordulf looked around and saw it was Tormund. Ordulf mumbled a reply. Yes, it was sad so many had died.

‘No. That is not what I spoke of. It is a pity the sacrifice could not have been completed.’

Ordulf shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘It’s also a pity the choice you made. It was not the one I hoped for.’

Ice flowed in Ordulf’s veins, and he stiffened.

‘Don’t worry, child. I have not told anyone,’ the man whispered near his ear. Words lost to anyone around them in the noise of the fire.

‘Told them what?’ Ordulf hissed back, his heart racing again.

‘That you let the prisoners escape.’

‘I did not!’ he replied, trying to keep his voice calm, and failing miserably. ‘I tried to stop them.’

‘So they say. But it is interesting that the warrior who guarded them appears to have been killed with a hammer.’

‘You cannot prove that,’ Ordulf replied, trying to sound calm.

‘No, but in any case, I saw it all,’ said the seer with a grimace. Ordulf held his breath and did not reply, knowing that his time had come to an end once the seer told Sigurd what he had seen.

‘If I wanted to tell them, I would have,’ said the seer, as if listening to his thoughts. ‘Come, walk with me.’ Ordulf had no choice, he let the held breath out and turned brusquely to follow Tormund, away from the crowd and prying ears.

‘Why haven’t you told them?’ Ordulf asked, fear giving his voice an edge.

‘Because the choices lie before you, not before me.’

‘But did I not already make my decision?’

Tormund laughed. ‘No, child, of course not, the fate of worlds was not decided by the location where a handful of prisoners died. No. Perhaps this was a test for you, perhaps this was nothing, I don’t see everything, only that which I need to see. And I saw red blood on white snow, and I saw you carrying a hammer against your foes to save your friends, so it was as I foresaw.’

‘Then, why am I not destroyed? You said it would destroy me!’ Ordulf snapped at the seer in frustration.

‘No, child. I said if you succeeded, it would destroy you.’ Tormund fixed him with those green eyes. ‘And you did not succeed. But you should be glad, now you know the answer to my second question. Yes, you are willing to fight for your friends.’

Ordulf clenched his hands and for a moment considered crushing the little man’s face with his fist, pounding his smug features flat against the wall. But Tormund showed no fear and Ordulf just grunted in anger and slammed his fist into the wood.

‘Why do you believe, even after this, that I will choose your side? WHY?’ he half-shouted in the smaller man’s face.

Tormund met his furious gaze levelly. ‘I do not believe anything other than that the gods will give you the choice, and my purpose is only to guide you to it.’ He abruptly turned on his heel and walked off, leaving Ordulf burning with rage and frustration.

Chapter 7

Fit For a King

The assault on the town had pushed the Norse defenders to the point of breaking. But, like good tempered steel, they had bent and not shattered, rebounding back damaged, but intact. The damage done to the Crusader army was harder to determine. They had lost several hundred men on the walls and in the chaotic fight in the streets, and they had revealed with their ruse the extent of the sickness in their camp, but they still outnumbered the Norse more than five to one, and an uneasy stalemate ensued. The Norse built up their defences, and received supplies, wood, weapons, and precious reinforcements from the last few boats able to reach the town before winter closed the roads and permanently froze the lake.

The prospect of a winter under siege weighed heavily on the garrison, many of whom were survivors of the march through the deepwoods, and who had not seen their homes for more than half a year of campaign, battle and deprivations. The men took their turns shivering on the walls around paltry fires, and festering in the longhouses, warm but bored and restless, hunger always present, gnawing at the back of their minds. It was going to be a long winter.

Ordulf spent his time making arrowheads and repairing weapons. Everyone in the town who wanted a sword had them, courtesy of the failed attack and the several hundred bodies that had been left to them, with all their arms and equipment. But no stockpile of arrowheads could ever be enough in a siege, so he slowly perfected the art under the Norse smith’s harsh gaze, eventually earning the man’s acceptance.

On one such December day, a fine and clear and bitingly cold morning, with the whole town and surroundings under a blanket of fresh snow, Gunnar came into the forge with a heavy bundle slung over his back, finding Ordulf and the Norse smith Elof warming themselves at the forge as they brought the fire up to working temperature, a pair of scrawny lads working the bellows.

Ordulf was instantly nervous. He had not seen the king’s huskarl since the fight with Leuter, and despite the passage of time, he still feared his true role in the event would be discovered. Gunnar looked at the two smiths and dropped the bundle down on the floor with a clatter of metal.

Elof looked at it with a raised eyebrow. ‘Weapons for repair?’ he asked.

‘No,’ said Gunnar.

‘Then what?’ said the gruff smith.

‘Do you make axes?’

‘Of course I make axes,’ snorted the smith as if it was a stupid question.

‘I mean a long axe, a war axe, a fine weapon.’

Elof turned from the forge, annoyed by the question but his curiosity overtaking him. ‘Why do you need a fine new long axe? Here, now, of all places. Surely you have all you need.’

Gunnar eyed up the Christian slave and the two forge boys. ‘It is a gift, it must be the finest weapon you have ever made,’ he said.

‘Aaah,’ Elof said with a slow nod and a smile. ‘I see, yes, I can do that,’ he said with some pride. ‘Who is it for? I should take their measure, to balance it for their height, reach and strength.’

Gunnar’s expression did not change. ‘No. It must remain a secret. I will also want it engraved, inlaid with gold and silver. I will have the runes drawn for you on stone, to copy. The axe must be made with the best steel you can make, and make it for a man his height, but stronger, bigger,’ he said, pointing at Ordulf.

The smith looked at Ordulf and nodded in understanding. ‘We will make him a fine axe, a worthy weapon.’

Gunnar pointed at the bundle on the floor. ‘Damaged weapons from fallen warriors, or taken from dead Christians. Maybe you will find good steel you can use among them, or just take it in payment with this.’ He pulled a silver and a gold ring from his arm and handed them over. ‘Use them for the inlay, and keep what remains.’

The smith weighed the two rings in his hands and nodded appreciatively. ‘That will be fine.’

‘How long do you need?’ asked Gunnar.

The smith rubbed his distended nose and thought for a moment. ‘Fifteen days, more if the runes take a long time, so keep the writing short.’

‘The runes will say what they need to say,’ said Gunnar impassively, stepping back. ‘But we can wait, no one is going anywhere.’

Elof turned to Ordulf as the huskarl left, still weighing the armrings in his hand, before setting them down on a stone shelf. ‘So, swordsmith, I assume you have not made axes before,’ he said contemptuously.

‘I have.’

Elof’s eye flicked up to meet his. ‘What kind of axes? Our kind?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hmm, small ones, or long axes?’

Ordulf hesitated. ‘Small ones,’ he admitted.

‘Then you have not made a war axe.’

‘No.’

‘You would have saved me time by simply saying that, or did you not understand his request?’ he said with a scowl. ‘You have at least seen a war axe?’

‘Yes.’ Ordulf nodded.

‘Well, the technique is very different, how I do it, anyway. A long axe must be large but light, broad bladed but slim. A one-handed axe is a weapon of brute force, with a heavy head to batter shields and split logs and men alike with weight.’

He picked up an old, cracked long axe head from a corner of the forge as he spoke. ‘A war axe is a weapon of elegance and speed. It does not cut with brute weight – no man can wield a heavy axe on a haft the height of a man for more than a few moments. No, it cuts with speed and a very fine edge.’ He brought the old axe head into the light of the winter morning outside the forge, pointing at the blade. ‘You see the blade is thicker, curved like the virgin moon. The bulk behind it is thin, thin as fine woven wool.’

Ordulf had never looked closely at one of the long axes before. Dengir had not made them while he was there; the Svear were more fond of sword and spear, the long axe was a weapon more favoured by the Danes and Norwegians. He noted the socket for the haft was much thinner, it lacked the heavy sides and bulk of a hand axe. It was surprisingly light. He peered at the blade. ‘The blade is separate from the body,’ he said, noting the change in colour in the metal, subtle under the years of tarnish.

‘Yes, the body is iron, the blade is a crescent of steel forged into its edge,’ said the smith approvingly.

‘Like the edge of a sword.’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you make the eye so thin? I do not see where it has been forged together.’

‘Ah,’ said the smith with a smug smile. ‘It is not forged together at the haft, it is forged together from a single flat piece, wrapped around to join at the blade.’

Ordulf whistled, suddenly understanding. ‘You forge it with two wings, then bend the wings around onto themselves, sealing the tips around the crescent steel blade.’

‘Exactly! You could never make it this thin or light if you had to make it like a hand axe, or split the end to fit the blade in.’

Ordulf was stunned. ‘I have never seen a fireweld that big, with metal that thin. How is it possible?’

‘A lifetime of experience, boy, and many helping hands,’ said the smith with unchecked pride. ‘Now, I will do the iron wings, you do not have the knowledge.’ Ordulf did not even look annoyed by this statement, there was no doubt it was true.

‘But,’ said the smith with a rare smile, ‘a swordsmith should be able to make the blade, if I mark the required shape out for you.’

Ordulf grinned ear to ear. ‘Yes, I can make the blade.’

‘No ordinary steel for this, something special, this needs to be a weapon fit for a king.’ Ordulf stopped as he finally understood who the axe was for, and looked at the smith incredulously, then nodded.

‘A patterned blade, then,’ he said, looking at the old axe head and imagining the structure in his mind.

‘Good, you are familiar with our ways of doing that? What patterns do you know?’

Ordulf thought about all the patterns Dengir had taught him. ‘Serpents, woven, river water, wolf’s tooth…’

‘Yes, that will do,’ said the smith. ‘A wolf’s tooth blade.’ He nodded at the leather thong that still hung around Ordulf’s neck, and the wolf’s tooth that hung on it, under his tunic. ‘Appropriate, I think.’

Ordulf gulped nervously. Wolf’s tooth was one of the hardest patterns to do, and he had only done it a couple of times under Dengir’s instruction.

‘And something more, the steel of the wolf’s teeth should be patterned, and the blade edge.’ The smith smiled in almost evil glee. ‘You said you were a great swordsmith, it is time to show me if you speak a Christian’s lies, or a Norseman’s truth.’

Ordulf could only try to look confident and nod, barely succeeding at either.

‘Let me tell you something you may not know. A Norseman’s weapon can tell his story. The steel can be made to show what it is, who forged it, who it is for. A blade can sing a tale if you let it.’ Ordulf looked at the gnarled smith and then back at the axe blade. ‘Not that simple thing, the only story that tells is of a man who did not have enough silver for a good weapon, and sings of nothing but his poverty. But this will be a king’s weapon – we will inlay his words into the iron, but you must forge his soul into the steel. Make anyone who sees it know who he is.’

The smith laughed at Ordulf’s confusion. ‘You Christians, you are such simple people. We have little raw steel left, and no ore, so you will have to use the steel the warrior brought. Making new weapons from old steel is harder but try it, show me some craft, and if you can’t, I will do it for you. There are still many arrowheads left for you to form.’ With that simple threat hanging over him, Elof left Ordulf staring at the old axe head, and the wrapped pile of damaged weapons.

Ordulf sorted through the pile of weapons carefully, testing them with a stone. Most of them he discarded as they were poor-quality metal. He selected a pile of five knives and seaxes made of good hard steel, setting aside one that was too damaged to re-use, and set to work.

Stripping the weapons of their handles and bronze fittings, he spent half a day forging their sides perfectly flat and smooth, so that he could stack all five together, one upon the other. He had three that he judged to be hard steel, and two that he judged to be softer, and layered them.

He bound the stack with scrap iron wire from a dismantled hilt and carefully placed it in the forge, settling in to watch it intently, pumping the bellows slowly and rhythmically. When the stack was glowing like the early morning sun, he pulled it out with tongs and delivered a quick series of strikes with his hammer, not too strong, not too light, setting the five blazing metal bars together firmly, then put them back in the forge.

Three more times he repeated this, each time hammering harder, forging the five bars more and more tightly into one. When he was satisfied, he set it aside.

With the short winter day already ending, he left his work for the night and returned to his longhouse. Since the attack, word had spread with Ragnvald’s men that he had tried to stop the prisoners’ escape. He had found the way he was treated had changed drastically. He was allowed to eat and sleep with the warriors who lived in the longhouse, he was given proper furs and clothes from dead warriors, so that he was dressed as a Norseman, and in every way, it looked from the outside as if he was one of them.

Over the weeks in that close isolation, the high wall of separation between him and the warriors was falling, as they simply became men suffering from cold, boredom and hunger together in the smoky room. On that evening, they were passing around the precious horns of ale that the warriors were given every third day, each man taking his turn to have a mouthful or two, and the warrior next to Ordulf had passed him the horn without a second thought.

Ordulf paused, unsure what to do, and the warrior next to him elbowed him and gestured to have a drink and pass it on.

Ordulf took a gulp and smiled, passing it on to the next man, before screwing his face up in bemusement. It was some of the worst ale he had ever drunk, thin and weak, but he grinned broadly and savoured every drop. Not since the day he had saved Ragnvald’s life in the yard had he been allowed to drink with the freemen, and the slaves were not given much ale or mead, although some did brew a foul concoction with leftover fruit in the autumn that made Ordulf’s stomach turn but the other slaves seemed to enjoy.

He went to his furs as the warriors sat around the fire, repeating the same old stories, telling the same old jokes, laughing and jeering to pass the time. All Ordulf could think about was fire and steel, and the edge of a king’s weapon.

The next day, in the forge, Ordulf started on the next stage of making the wolf’s tooth steel. He took the blades of three different damaged swords that he judged to be good quality steel and heated them one by one in the forge, using a hammer and thick cutting blade to separate a small section of each when they were glowing hot. He stacked the three sections into a bar and joined them in the forge as he had with the other bar.

Then he cut the bar and folded it, again and again, so that three layers became more than twenty, and then finally hammered the finished bar into a thick round rod. With the help of one of Elof’s sons, he heated and twisted the rod until it looked like ship’s rope and then flattened the twisted rod into a bar again.

‘That bar is far too big for what you need,’ said Elof disparagingly. ‘Waste of time and steel, I warned you about wasting either.’

‘I have an idea, let me show you,’ replied Ordulf, studying the blade.

Elof watched with curiosity now as Ordulf did something he had not seen before. Ordulf heated the squat bar once more and, using a chisel, cut off each side, along the whole length, then he turned the bar, heated it again, and cut it in half along the length.

‘What are you up to, lad?’ said Elof, but this time with no anger, his eyes alight as he watched the Christian smith work.

‘I’m trying to make fire,’ said Ordulf, swinging one half of the cut bar around in the air in his tongs to cool it rapidly.

‘A flame pattern?’ asked Elof. ‘Hmm, I’ve seen that done, but not like this. Are you sure?’

‘No,’ replied Ordulf, matter-of-factly. ‘And if it does not work, I have spare steel, and the result might be interesting anyway.’

Elof shrugged. ‘Perhaps, show me when it is done. I am finished for the day, I expect you to put out the forge correctly before you leave,’ the grizzled smith said, taking his apron off and hanging it from a rafter. Ordulf just grunted his acknowledgement.

Ordulf hammered this new half bar into a shape matching the first bar he had made the previous day, and then he too had to stop as the light faded and the dark winter evening set in. What he had to do next was too difficult to do in forgelight.

The next morning, he started on the part that was the most time-consuming and exacting. He took the bar of five layers from the first day and marked lines across it, each at an interval of one finger width. Then he heated the bar in the forge and with a blunt-ended chisel he hammered into each of the lines, leaving a series of fifteen mountains and flat-bottomed valleys along the bar.

He then heated the twisted bar he had made on the second day and, with the help of another smith, hammered it into the cold bar with the mountains and valleys, again and again heating it, and cooling the other, until they fitted together perfectly, each a reverse image of the other. Then he heated them both together in the coals and forged them together tightly, hammering the sides and top to end up with a single joined bar which he curved and formed it to match the outline Elof had drawn for him, the finished blank for the axe’s blade.

Over the next day, it was his turn to watch as Elof completed the iron body of the axe. Taking a large bar of folded iron, he forged it into a sheet, the shape of a bat with one stubby wing. A central body with a pointed tail and a blocky head, thin joints for the wings, and then one full wing and one greatly shortened.

When Elof was satisfied with the shape, he and his sons carefully folded the wing joints inwards around an iron stake the size of an axe haft until the base of the wings came around to touch each other. The iron sheets met around the stake and were forged together, leaving a near perfect haft hole, and the full wing forming the main body of the axe blade. Ordulf was entranced, he had never seen anything like this before. The axe was nearly fully formed now, apart from the edge.

The final step was the hardest. Ordulf’s steel blade blank was heated and carefully split down the back halfway through, until the split was big enough to allow the wing of the iron axe body to sit inside it. Finally, once Elof was satisfied, the two parts were heated until they glowed like the sun and forged together, the split edge section being hammered closed around the end of the iron axe blade.

It was rough, but it was now recognisably a long axe blade.

For two more days, Elof finessed the shape of the axe, making sure the profile was perfectly straight, adjusting the curved edge that had been warped by its forging to the body, and trimming the curves of the axe and the joint with files until he was satisfied.

‘And now we heat the edge and let it cool?’ asked Ordulf.

The smith nodded. ‘Three times, it needs to be tough like old leather.’

Ordulf treated the blade with fire under Elof’s watchful gaze. Three times they heated the edge in the coals and let it cool, watching the metal fade and bloom with red heat, chasing the shadows from the steel. Then they heated it one last time, hotter than before, and plunged it into the water, Elof muttering a prayer to Thor that it would remain intact, Ordulf merely holding his breath and listening for the click that would reveal a failure.

None came, the axe emerged from the water in one piece, and Elof smiled, slapping Ordulf on the back. ‘Well done, boy. It’s a fine blade. Now, scour the scale off the edge with stones, and polish it until it shines. Sharpen it too, while you are at it. Then I’ll engrave the runes.’ Elof was grinning as he made a three-day job sound trivial.

But Ordulf just nodded and set about the work. It would be hard and laborious, but it was the weapon of a king, the work that smiths across Europe would give their hammer hand to forge.

Sigurd sat in his chair in the hall and swirled the thin mead in his horn disinterestedly. Every week, he held a feast with his jarls, and any of their men they wished to reward by inviting. The purpose had been to keep morale high, to honour those who deserved it by letting them sit and drink with their king.

But as the winter stretched on, and the ale ran dry, and the food supplies became more and more limited and dull, the feasts lost their glamour, and the only reason Sigurd still held them was because he did not wish to let the men down, and he did not have anything better to do. No one did. Life in the besieged town was a litany of duty on the walls in the snow, huddling around small fires for warmth, having the same muttered conversations with the same warriors, grumbling about the privations of the siege, and developing an ever greater resentment of the Crusaders that held them there.

As Sigurd contemplated the tasteless mead and his meagre meal of winter vegetables and a piece of fish, the doors to the hall opened, and a vicious wind whipped in, causing the men gathered around the tables to look up and curse the visitor for not shutting it promptly. Eventually the door was closed, but the raucous chatter that normally filled the hall did not resume. Sigurd looked up in confusion.

A dozen figures in the blue cloak of his huskarls were standing motionless in the doorway, facing the dais, and in the leader’s hands was held a huge war axe, taller than him by two heads, with a broad blade in a leather sheath.

Sigurd did not feel alarmed, the leather sheath showed the weapon was not a threat, but it was still bizarre for a party of his huskarls to behave in this way. ‘Who brings a weapon into my hall like this?’ he boomed, squinting at the figure in the half-darkness as the axe bearer started walking into the pools of light cast by the firepits. ‘Gunnar?’ he said, as his champion’s face became clear. ‘What are you doing?’

The whole hall was watching in silence now. Nothing really happened in that dull winter, and this was clearly an event.

‘King Sigurd Magnusson,’ Gunnar announced, stepping into the firelight and flourishing the sheathed axe. ‘You are a giver of silver, and a leader of men. We wish to show our appreciation, and we bring you a gift.’ He untied the leather thong holding the axe sheath in place, and pulled the cover away, passing it to the man behind him.

Fire played over the huge war axe, lighting up the polished edge, and making the golden runes blaze in the darkness. Gunnar held the axe in both hands and walked around the fire pit towards the dais, passing the rows of tables, making sure the men seated got a good look.

‘This is Jafnaðr – Justice,’ he said, as he slowly strode through the room, turning the axe so everyone got a look at the firelight playing over the blade, eliciting mutters of amazement in the packed benches. ‘You lost your axe to the Crusaders at Åhus, and it is only justice that they should replace it. The edge is forged from the blades of your defeated enemies, made by the hand of a captured Christian smith.’

Sigurd leaned forwards as the axe approached, his eyes lighting up like the golden runes as Gunnar spoke.

‘A blade for you to wield, forged by their hand, with their steel, a small justice against those who have wronged us. A blade for you to carry as you lead us against them in recovering our lands, our people, from their Odin-cursed rule.’ Gunnar reached the dais, and held out the magnificent axe on both hands, palms up, and Sigurd reached out and took it reverently.

The king brought the axe head close to inspect it, reading the runes out loud. ‘I am Jafnaðr, the word of Sigurd Norðrikonungr,’ he called, eyes playing over the fine golden runes engraved into the iron of the blade body, nesting in a dragon of silver lines that encircled the whole area.

‘A king gives justice through his words, and your word is iron,’ said Gunnar, with a smile.

Sigurd huffed a great breath through his beard and nodded. ‘My word is iron.’ His eyes moved from the golden runes to the edge. On the raised, curved steel of the edge, there was a pattern in the metal. A row of teeth lined the back of the blade, and between those teeth a pattern like fire sprouted and spread, tendrils flowing towards the edge, where they disappeared into the polished cutting edge of the blade. He was spellbound.

‘Thank you, Gunnar. This is the most magnificent gift I have ever received, and my father gave me a kingdom.’

‘Not deliberately, he didn’t!’ shouted Jarl Kjartan, and the room burst into shocked laughter, which Sigurd joined in, jumping onto the table and brandishing the axe at his old friend with mock anger. ‘You would be the first to taste its edge, Kjartan?’ he shouted at the jarl, who raised his hands and backed into the man behind him on the bench as the bearded king towered over him with the axe held out like a spear.

‘I wish to reconsider my comment,’ said Kjartan. And the room rippled with laughter again.

‘Smart man, that’s why I’ve never killed you,’ said the king, smiling viciously and turning back to Gunnar, thumping the butt of the axe onto the tabletop and looking down at his huskarl.

‘How do I repay you, Gunnar, champion of my hall?’

‘There is no need, my king, it was us who repaid you.’

‘Nonsense, there is enough gold in this blade to buy a ship! How can I leave my men so sorely impoverished?’

‘It is not a problem, lord. It is your gold, we took it from you while you were sleeping.’ The king bellowed in mock outrage at the obvious lie as the audience burst into laughter again. He could see the largest of Gunnar’s gold armrings was missing from his bicep. Gunnar had worn it every time he donned armour for the twenty years since Sigurd’s father Magnus had given it to the young huskarl for leading a wallbreaking charge in a close battle with Danish raiders. It had been Gunnar’s pride and prized possession, and Sigurd knew exactly where it had gone.

He jumped down to the floor and looked at the axe again with bleary eyes, turning it this way and that, and playing the firelight over its patterned steel and blazing runes. He held it in one hand and pulled Gunnar into a heartfelt embrace, before walking down into the tables, smacking shoulders, slapping heads, and showing everyone the details of his new fire-toothed axe.

Ragnvald watched from the top table as the king made his way around the hall, his whole being rejuvenated as he showed off his new prized possession. Gunnar came and sat down next to the jarl, with a satisfied grin on his face.

‘That was well done,’ Ragnvald said, raising his horn in admiration. ‘You take good care of your lord, in battle and in life.’

‘It’s my purpose,’ said Gunnar simply.

‘I begin to realise it’s perhaps a bigger task outside battle than in it.’

Gunnar pursed his lips and shrugged with a knowing smile. ‘I couldn’t say. Thank you for the use of your smith, it made it a good story.’

‘I didn’t know you were using my smith.’

‘No, but you have my thanks anyway,’ said Gunnar, snaffling the king’s abandoned drinking horn and emptying it in a single draught.

Ragnvald raised his eyebrows at the act, but his thoughts were drawn to Ordulf, and the prophetic ramblings of the king’s seer Tormund. The seer had said he reeked of destiny, was convinced the boy was marked by fate, that the eye of the gods was upon him. Ragnvald had dismissed it as nonsense, but he couldn’t deny the boy seemed to pop up at a great many significant moments in a way no slave had a right to do. The day he had saved Ragnvald’s life from a blood feud in his own courtyard, fighting a dead jarl’s warriors and killing one himself. Killing a wolf in single combat, helping stop the escaping prisoners after the siege…

And now forging the axe of the king. He ran the list of events around in his head, ruminating over it. For a thrall, it was hard to deny his wyrd was full of achievement beyond his reach. He shrugged to himself and pushed the unknowable aside. Peering into the will of the gods was for wisps of men like Tormund; he had more pressing concerns, foremost of which was securing more mead, because this feast was clearly going to last longer than most.

Part 2

Chapter 8

In Search of Salvation

Lund, February 1118

Duke Welfard sat and fretted. He had come on this Crusade because the emperor had forced him to do so, in exchange for being able to live the rest of his life in peace, protected from the spite and ambition of his younger brother, Henry. He had expected it to be easy. Now, as winter was drawing to a close, he and what passed for the other leadership of the new northern provinces were trying to decide what to do about Baldwin’s lost army, from which there had been no news since the supply convoy under Sir Dietmar had trudged, weary and frostbitten, out of the northern forest in the last days of December. That convoy had barely made it back, and lost many of the horses and some of their men to the cold. It had been quickly agreed that no further convoy would be sent. The road was closed by the snows and a particularly bitter northern winter.

Now, as February drew to a close, the first signs of spring were in the air. And Baldwin’s army, if it still existed at all, would be starving, weak, and desperate for supplies and reinforcements. Welfard sat in the snug hall where he had spent the winter, and around the table with him sat the leaders of the brotherhood, and Sir Dietmar. This was it, the great council of the Crusade, stripped of its campaigning leader, Baldwin, and of the most experienced war leader, Count Adolf, who, dead or alive, remained in the snows of the north.

Welfard had viewed the Order of the Brotherhood of Christ’s Light as useful at first, taking work off his back that he didn’t want to do anyway. Tasks he saw as irrelevant such as building and guarding churches, escorting travellers, organising food and supply to every corner of the province. But then, with those tasks, the brotherhood had accumulated power all winter, the way a squirrel hoards nuts. Slowly but steadily, with their control of the supply system, they curried favours and encouraged debts to those outposts who wanted preferential treatment. They secured the cooperation of the local towns, presenting themselves as a peaceful alternative to the Crusaders. ‘Repent! And you shall be fed and clothed, so says the Lord.’ That was their refrain. They didn’t tell the uncomprehending locals what Welf knew to be true, that many of the ‘Crusaders’ who so menaced them were members of the brothers’ armed wing. The brothers militare.

They had grown from a help, to an irritation, to a significant concern. They recruited freely from the army, and received a steady stream of the faithful come in arms from the mainland, individually and in groups. The Pope had proclaimed the Order had his blessing, given it a written charter, and allowed any who joined it to protect the new provinces to be cleansed of their sins. So, the faithful and the sinners all, they flocked to the new white and gold banner. The ranks of clergy, workmen and men at arms swelled, almost to rival the Crusader garrisons themselves, even swollen as they were by the part of the army that had returned to the coast.

And what was the thin-lipped governor of the Order, Bishop Reinhard, doing with this power? Using it to acquire more. Constantly testing the bounds of his authority. Constantly stretching the limits of his charter. Little by little, so that none would feel they could resist, until it was too late. And now, Reinhard and his lickspittle Baron Hugues were suggesting the unthinkable, and Welfard did not know if he could resist them.

‘I cannot accept this!’ he protested, brow sweating and hand drumming on the table.

Reinhard feigned sorrow as he nodded. ‘Truly, it is a bitter draught to swallow, but I have prayed on it long and hard, and with the advice of Grandsteward Hugues, we have decided that this is the best path, or at least, the least bad.’ Hugues nodded sanguinely as the newly styled Grandmaster spoke.

‘It is, I am afraid, the only option,’ Hugues added.

‘Abandon the leader of the Crusade, and his army? You say this is the only option? Sir Dietmar?’ Welfard turned to the senior knight, who was sitting opposite in barely controlled rage.

‘An outrage, unthinkable, dishonourable. Such a thought stains the lips of any who utter it,’ growled the knight. ‘I gave my word to return on the first day of spring with every supply and spare man I could find. And I will, even if I go alone.’

‘There is no need for such extremes, Sir Dietmar,’ cooed Reinhard softly. ‘Perhaps we should send a small scouting party, to determine if the army is even there? Then, if they are alive, we can organise a supply train to send to them.’ Reinhard smiled disarmingly and nodded to himself.

‘That would delay the supplies by a month! Which would be the difference between life and death! No, I cannot countenance it.’ The knight’s knuckles glowed white from how hard his fist was clenched on the table.

‘Well, it does seem as if your mind is made up,’ said Reinhard sadly. ‘I do wish you well, but I am afraid the resources of the Order will not support this venture.’

‘What?’ asked Welf in shock. ‘What exactly do you mean? I am the commander of the Crusade here!’ he said, his voice rising in tone, exuding exactly no confidence that he was, indeed, in charge.

‘True, but the Order is not part of the Crusade in that way, and not chartered for offensive actions. Our charter is to preserve, defend and grow the province and bring the light of Christ to the people of this wretched land.’ The bishop clasped his hands and crossed himself as he spoke, as if in rapture at the holy mission. ‘Hence the Order’s name,’ he added helpfully. ‘We are not to undertake regular campaigning. It is not our purpose. No. Our men and supplies will remain here, to do God’s work in this new land.’

Welfard went still. ‘A thousand of my men have joined your Order!’ he protested.

‘Sinners and brothers all, and their contribution to the cause was most welcome.’

‘And your supplies? What do you mean, your supplies? They are the Crusade’s supplies. I determine what happens to them.’ He mopped the sweat off his brow and his chin scrunched up as he looked nervously at the bishop.

‘No, I beg your pardon, Lord Welfard, but the supplies were handed over to our care.’

‘To distribute them!’ protested Welfard. ‘Not to decide how they are used. Those supplies belong to the army, and the army needs them.’

‘I can see why you might think that, but I’m afraid I disagree. Perhaps we can ask the Pope to resolve this debate?’

‘And waste another three months!’ cried Sir Dietmar. ‘While you hold our supplies hostage! Have you no shred of decency?’

Reinhard looked taken aback for the first time in the meeting. ‘Please do not suggest consulting with our Holy Father is a waste. No, sir, that is blasphemy. We are all here on his divine mandate. Perhaps I have overstepped, but I would need his untainted advice on the matter. As I see it, the supplies were entrusted to me by Count Baldwin in order to distribute them to the garrisons and the people. If I surrender them to be lost on an expedition to the north, what will the people eat until autumn?’ He clenched his hands together and closed his eyes in despair, as if thinking of the poor people of the province starving greatly affected him. It was, Welfard had to admit, a masterful performance.

‘So you will give the army no supplies? Is it not your job to supply us too? Tell me how you justify refusing to give us food.’

Reinhard thought for a moment with his finger pressed to his lips and then nodded. ‘You are right, of course, Duke Welfard. I am not suggesting that I will give the garrisons no supplies, and if you choose to take them with you on this mistaken adventure, then that is your decision.’ Welfard sat back with a frown of distaste at the idea.

‘But I think it would be no more than one month’s worth. You may, of course, claim the next month’s supply from us in due course,’ Reinhard said magnanimously, as if he had come to a grand compromise.

Welfard swore, uncharacteristically, and Reinhard frowned in distaste. As he had told the duke several times, there was nothing he disliked so much as vulgarity.

Welfard rolled his eyes at Reinhard’s glare. ‘You really chide me for my language, while you refuse to help me retrieve my army from the forest?’

‘The Lord is always with us, Duke Welfard, no matter the situation.’ The man pressed his lips into a thin line and sat, patiently awaiting Welfard’s decision.

Welfard glared at the man and saw nothing left he could do. Last time they had taken the supplies without asking permission, but now they were heavily guarded, and that would be impossible without Christian blood being spilt and would take too long anyway. He snorted in disgust and levered his unhealthy body to its feet, sweating profusely in the thick fine firs.

‘So you will give us one month’s supplies, for the whole army? And that is all?’

‘No, you mistake me. I will give one month’s supplies for the garrisons here. I will not release any supplies for the army that I do not have any evidence even exists.’

Welfard’s temple throbbed with rage, but he turned and waddled from the room in fury without retort. He could see it would be pointless.

As soon as they were out of the hall, he turned to Sir Dietmar. ‘Can we reach the army with one month’s supplies and have enough for them?’

‘Reach them? Yes. Have enough to continue the campaign? No. To get back? Maybe, maybe not.’ Dietmar’s tone was clipped, curt. He was furious but in control of his emotions as he tried to work out the options.

‘Then what other supplies do we have at hand, and what more can we find? When are the next ships coming with food?’

‘The next ships aren’t due for weeks. We have some of our own stores, of course, and we could squeeze more out of areas the brotherhood does not control, but there are precious few of those. I think, if we gathered everything we can and left in ten days’ time, we could march with six thousand men and enough supplies to keep the combined army alive for about six weeks.’

‘Six thousand men? Don’t we have twice that?’ squeaked Welf in surprise.

‘No, not after the men we must leave in garrisons, or who died, left to go home or join the brotherhood. We have about nine thousand total, and we cannot take them all. Also, the fewer we take, the less food we will use, and the longer it will last,’ Dietmar said glumly. ‘So, I think we can take six thousand.’

Welfard shook his head in despair. ‘We started the winter with fifteen thousand men in the province. And now we march with six?’

‘Yes, I am afraid war eats men.’

‘We cannot beat the Norse with six thousand men and the remains of Baldwin’s army.’

‘No, likely not, not quickly enough, not before we run out of supplies. Our only course will be to rescue them and retreat to the coast. Once we return, with the commander here, he may be able to force the brotherhood into line.’ Dietmar added, politely, ‘With your encouragement.’

‘With my shoe up his arse is what you mean.’

‘Yes.’

‘Fine. We must do what we can, if there is no other way?’ Dietmar shook his head. ‘Well, then. See to it. Gather the army and what supplies we can find. You march for the north in ten days.’

Sir Dietmar half-stumbled. ‘You are not coming?’

‘No, of course not.’

Dietmar looked confused. Welf frowned and stared at the knight. ‘Are you surprised? I am not made for a hard campaign in winter, and I must remain and try to retain some vestige of control here. If we all leave, the brotherhood will rule unchecked.’

Sir Dietmar looked uncomfortable. ‘But without you, how can we expect the army to return? Who will convince Baldwin to retreat? He has refused once already.’

‘You must rely on the message I will send with you, and Count Adolf.’

‘Count Adolf is out of favour.’

‘Perhaps, but he often is, and yet the army usually does what he wants.’ Welf dismissed the man’s concern with a shake of his substantial jowls. ‘There is no discussion to be had, I am not coming, and you will be glad of it. I am no campaign commander, and you know it.’ Dietmar nodded curtly and his face wore his unease, but he nonetheless turned and left. Welf sighed deeply. The thought of marching into the deepwoods in winter had made him sick to his stomach. It had revealed the broad stripe of physical cowardice he was always terrified his fellows would notice.

Baron Hugues stepped into the back room of the great hall that Bishop Reinhard still used as his home and church. ‘What have you done?’ he demanded, coming to a halt in front of the simple table Reinhard used as a desk. The bishop did not look up; he was carefully writing on a parchment with a quill of pure white. He insisted on swan feathers because he said they were the best, but Hugues suspected it was purely vanity.

‘One moment please, Brother Hugues,’ he said as he lifted the quill carefully from the page, cleaning it and then returning it to his inkwell. He studiously blotted the page, taking elaborate care, and then rolled the parchment, before finally looking up at the irate baron.

‘What have I done?’

‘Don’t play the fool with me, you tried to prevent the expedition from rescuing the army from the siege of Jönköping.’

‘No, I did not.’

‘You refused to give them supplies!’

Reinhard looked taken aback, and leant back, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. ‘Now, those are two entirely different things. It is true, I refused to give over supplies that we may well need to a foolish and ill-advised venture, but I did not try to prevent them from going.’

‘It is one and the same thing!’

‘It most certainly is not.’

‘Ah, don’t bandy clever words with me. You have prevented the army from marching north with proper supplies to complete the siege.’

‘Ah, now that I agree with,’ said the bishop amicably. It was Hugues’s turn to be taken aback. While he fumed, the bishop opened a small wooden box and carefully withdrew, in turn, a small bronze tripod, a stubby candle, a small ladle and a thin strip of parchment.

‘For what reason? What are you trying to achieve? I thought we were in agreement that we are trying to make this Crusade a success!’

‘That is a lot of questions,’ said Reinhard in a calm voice, while arranging the items neatly on his desk. ‘Let me address them in reverse order, if you don’t mind. Firstly, we are indeed in agreement that we wish the conquest of the heathen North to succeed, and that is not, in my opinion, best achieved by enabling the useless Welfard to march north with all the men and all the food, into land controlled by the heathens, to rescue an army that may or may not still exist, to then conduct a siege which seems utterly pointless in the first place and seems likely to fail. The entire expedition I regard as doomed, and anything committed to it a waste.’

‘But…’

Reinhard held up a finger. ‘Let me finish.’ Hugues spluttered to a stop. ‘What I was trying to achieve, and apparently I succeeded in achieving, was in getting them to send as few men as possible, with as limited ambition as possible. Either they will be swallowed by the forest, in which case we have lost less than we might have, or they will find the army, and be forced to withdraw with it for lack of supplies, which will return the army expeditiously to these lands, and thus we will have saved as much as possible.’ Reinhard carefully positioned the candle in a carved base and the bronze tripod over it. ‘So, I believe I have maximised the number of men likely to return from the debacle in the north, while minimising the risk in achieving that. Does this answer your question?’ he asked pleasantly.

Baron Hugues huffed as he thought it through, it made perverse sense but he hated the methods. ‘It is not our business to be interfering with the operations of the army.’

‘I could not disagree more. It is our business to ensure the cause succeeds, and if the army or any other factor is acting against that, it is our very duty to influence them otherwise.’

‘And who are you to decide that?’

‘A simple man, guided by God. Like any other.’ The bishop paused. ‘Like you, for example. You at first attempted to use Count Adolf to influence the course of the army. When that failed, you then attempted to use me, a much more successful venture thus far.’

Hugues was silenced by that. The truth of it was unavoidable. The bishop smiled thinly in triumph.

‘Well then, what do we do if the army does not return? What if the men going north are lost?’

‘I have planned for that. We have enough men in the army garrisons and your forces to hold out, I have already’ – he indicated the parchment in front of him – ‘made arrangements for reinforcements, alongside the ones you prompted Duke Welf to arrange.’

‘You are so certain that we can still succeed, after such a loss?’

‘Nothing is certain, Sir Hugues, but it is our best chance, in my estimation. If Welf and his men perish alongside Baldwin, would the cause mourn their loss so very keenly? Dear Count Baldwin is truly a terrible commander, I do not need to be a military man to know that with him in charge, we are very unlikely to succeed. Those who will come and replace him are far, far more suitable.’

‘And what of Count Adolf? He is a good man and a fine military leader.’

‘So he is, but our Lord often demands the sacrifice of our best in his cause, it has always been his way,’ Reinhard said sadly, briefly crossing himself. ‘And in any case, a fine military man Adolf may be, but a politician he is not, and nor is he powerful or popular enough with the other lords to command overall. He is not the man to lead this Crusade to its conclusion.’

‘No, I suppose you are right,’ agreed Hugues reluctantly. ‘But there is one problem with your plan, Duke Welf isn’t going. So either way, he will still be here,’ said Hugues bluntly.

That made Reinhard look up in surprise and irritation. ‘He is not going?’

‘No.’

‘The commander of the army is not going with the army, in order to rescue the other part of his army?’

‘No.’

‘Hmm. How… odd that seems,’ said Reinhard with displeasure. ‘That does change my contingency somewhat.’ The bishop sighed and unrolled the parchment letter, reading its contents, before drawing a fresh sheet from a stack on the desk and drawing his quill from the inkwell. ‘Well, I will adjust the plan accordingly.’

Hugues peered over, trying to read the letter across the broad table, and failing as Reinhard tilted it away. ‘And what is the contingency?’

‘It is best I do not tell you exactly, for now. But before I was anointed as the Bishop of Halberstadt, I was appointed to the court of a young man who found me very… useful, and who I came to know quite well. He is now a very powerful and ambitious lord, and I believe his ambitions and ours can be made to align – very closely, in fact. I have been in contact with him over the winter, and I believe he is the answer to our problems.’ Reinhard looked very pleased with himself as he set about adding another page to the letter.

‘And what if Baldwin does return?’

‘Then we can assume he has either retreated or been defeated. Either outcome is probably manageable, as he will be in disgrace. Will that be all, Hugues?’ he asked, cleaning the nib of his quill as he bent over the new page.

Hugues knew he had been dismissed. Disgruntled, but with slightly more faith in the bishop’s machinations, he silently left the room.

The column wound its way north along the forest road, and did not come across a single living soul. The winter snows were still deep in places, and the going was hard. They lost men to accidents and horses in the coldest nights, but twelve days later they arrived at the start of the valley leading to the camp and Dietmar sent forwards his scouts, to see if there was anything left of the army to rescue.

His army drew up in full battle gear and waited in the crisp, clear morning, four miles of road separating them from the site of the army’s encampment. Horses snorted clouds of steam and men shuffled and stamped their feet, hands buried in clothing as they waited. About midday, just as Dietmar was wondering if he should send forwards a larger force, half a dozen scouts returned at a canter down the road towards them, some holding weapons, one slumped in the saddle, horses blowing and lathered with sweat. Dietmar frowned and his skin prickled with dread. He had sent twenty men.

Dietmar shouted to the contingent behind as the scouts approached, directing them to move into the woods either side of the road, to guard their flanks and ward off an ambush. The grumbling men tramped off into the snowy trees and the returning scouts arrived and pulled up in front of Dietmar. The leading man had blood all down one side, the stump of an arrow shaft protruding from his shoulder.

The commander of the scouts was with them. As the injured men moved down the column to get help, he pulled up next to Dietmar, who impatiently waited for an explanation.

‘Report, man, what happened? You were unable to get to the camp?’

‘No, we reached the camp, but the enemy are all around it, and along the road.’

Dietmar’s heart sank. ‘So the camp has fallen? The army is gone?’

The man shook his head rapidly. ‘No, sir, the flag still flies over the gate and we saw men on the gate tower, we shouted at them and they shouted back, but then we were attacked and had to withdraw. The retreat was… difficult.’ The wretched man looked around at the tattered remains of his command.

Dietmar ignored his anguish and his eyes lit up with delight. ‘So the army is there?’

The scout leader shrugged. ‘I don’t know anything other than they still hold the camp, but they are surrounded. And there are enemy in the woods who tried to stop us returning along the road. And nearly succeeded.’

‘They were lying in ambush on the road?’

‘No, I think they were as surprised to see us as we were to see them. Otherwise they would have blocked the path.’

Dietmar nodded. His mind was made up. ‘Then we must act now before they have time to prepare. Thank you, go to the rear with your men.’

Dietmar turned to the men behind him, other knights and commanders of the makeshift army. ‘Cavalry to stay to the rear, we cannot charge down this road. I want a hundred men on each side of the road scouring the woods and a thousand going down the road in a column. We will punch through whatever is between us and the camp and we won’t stop until we get there. Understood?’ No one spoke against the simple plan.

‘Excellent, we move immediately.’ The gathering broke up as men rode off to give the orders. The vanguard of Saxon footsoldiers, already armed and clothed for battle, formed into a column and set off down the road at a slow march. In the trees on each side, Dietmar could see men pushing their way through the dense branches and deep snow, struggling to keep pace.

Nothing happened until they were within sight of the camp, the exhausted men shoving their way through the woods on either side struggling to keep up with the main column. Suddenly there were shouts and cries from the woods on the left, and then a roar as several hundred Norsemen appeared from the trees to their front and formed a deep shieldwall, blocking the road. The new arrivals shouted and banged their shields and hurled insults at the oncoming Crusaders. Dietmar shouted at a man to go back along the column and send more men into the woods on the flank, where unseen men could be heard fighting, and then he gave the column the order to move to attack the wall to their front.

The Saxons marched forwards in their dense block, spreading out until they were fifteen files wide and their flanks were brushing up against the trees, and stamped their way towards the Norse line with their shields up and weapons in hand. They passed by the fighting on the flanks and then they hit the Norse shieldwall with a roar, and a thunder of wood and steel. As the two sides engaged and the column stopped, its forward motion impeded, dozens of spears and arrows and even a couple of axes flew from the trees either side and slashed into the side of the block of men.

There were screams of agony and confusion as the missiles struck home, and the column immediately stopped pushing forwards, turning to guard themselves from the hail with their shields. The men did what men always do when attacked from multiple sides, they started edging backwards. The Norsemen in the wall, sensing the drop off in pressure, shouted and started shoving forwards, pushing the front of the column into the nervous men behind.

Even as Dietmar watched, the cohesion of the whole vanguard threatened to dissolve in the trap, despite very few men actually being down. He spurred his horse down the line, ignoring the missiles directed his way. ‘Two ranks, into the woods, clear them out. GO!’ he shouted at the faltering men, pointing at the shadows and half-seen enemy. Some men took up the call, and the column started to peel, unevenly and messily at first, but then in greater numbers, as the outer ranks of the column pushed out of the open space and forced their way into the trees.

With the rain of missiles stopped, the column stopped retreating and the fight at the front stabilised. There was a horn blast from behind the enemy lines, and, as quickly as the sounds of combat in the trees had started, they died down as the enemy turned and ran, melting away into the woods. The enemy shieldwall followed suit, retreating in step and then turning to run, followed only by the jeers of the Crusaders who did not attempt to pursue until it was too late.

‘The camp! Get to the camp!’ roared Dietmar from his horse. The army shook itself and marched on, the bodies of those who had died or were injured shoved to the side of the road.

It did not take long to reach the gate. It was opened for them and the vanguard of the army split and set up on the flanks, weapons still drawn, eyes still searching for danger as the Norse could be seen shadowing them in the treelines around.

Dietmar rode his horse through the gate and was horrified when he saw the men who had been guarding it. Sunken eyes watched him from above ragged beards and hollow cheeks. The men were wrapped in rags and blankets and whatever else they had been able to find over their clothes. He was riding past the beggars who had been guarding the camp when a small voice called to him.

‘Better late than never, Sir Dietmar.’

The knight looked down and recognised the man speaking to him, one of the only men he could see who had kept his hair and beard neat. ‘Count Adolf!’ He hurriedly dismounted and bowed to the man. ‘I have never been happier to see anyone. We thought you were lost.’

‘And I thought you were never coming,’ Adolf replied dryly.

Dietmar flushed with shame. ‘I am sorry, a second convoy in the winter was impossible.’

Adolf nodded and put his hand on the ashamed knight’s shoulder. ‘I know, but tell me you brought food, we were going to run out any day now, even on half rations.’ His searching eyes bored into Dietmar’s.

‘Yes, of course. We will distribute it immediately. Where is Orbert?’ he said, looking around the rapidly filling area. ‘We don’t have a list, but I will help him organise the unloading.’

‘Dead,’ replied Adolf sadly. Dietmar stopped looking around and sagged.

‘Oh.’

‘And he is not alone. He died of some foul illness. We lost a thousand men to sickness in the winter. And a thousand more will never recover.’

Dietmar looked stunned. ‘It was that bad?’

‘It was worse.’ Adolf’s eyes were misting and he stared past Dietmar out into the woods. ‘We lost men to the cold every night. The horses all died or we ate them, even mine. We lost men to injury and fights over food.’ He paused. ‘Some men simply gave up and walked out into the snow.’

His eyes returned to meet Dietmar’s. ‘We have three thousand men left here who can fight. I thought about marching home, but I knew we wouldn’t last a single night out there on the road.’ A tear rolled down his cheek and he angrily cuffed it away. ‘And then, as the winter broke, the Norse arrived and surrounded us. They mock us from the woods. I have to send a hundred men out at a time just to get firewood. We own nothing beyond this camp, while they freely come and go from the city.’ He shook his head bitterly. ‘The siege is broken and it was all for nothing.’

‘Then surely we must withdraw?’

Adolf snapped his eyes back to Dietmar. ‘How many men did you bring? Where is Duke Welfard?’

‘Just over six thousand.’

Adolf opened his mouth. ‘Six thousand? Where is the rest of the army? With the duke?’

‘This is the army,’ Dietmar said wearily.

‘I don’t understand. Did you have some great battle?’

‘No, the Order took most of them, or desertion, or illness, and we received very few new men.’

‘What?’ Adolf’s voice grew angrier.

‘The Order of the Brotherhood of Christ’s Light. They have been recruiting, they have a papal charter and orders from Baldwin to administer and protect the conquered lands. They are taking that mission to the furthest extreme.’

Adolf was visibly furious. ‘And they aren’t here with you to help?’

‘Not part of their charter.’

Adolf snorted in disdain. ‘I will deal with them when we return. But yes, with so few men, and so many sick, we must return to the coast. We are in no condition to restart a siege.’

‘Good.’ Dietmar was relieved. ‘Because we only have food for twenty days, or thereabouts.’

Adolf rounded on the man. ‘You marched out here with only food for twenty days?’ he shouted, and men turned in surprise to look.

‘It’s all we could get, the Order owns the rest.’

Adolf searched his face in fury and confusion. ‘The Order stole the army’s food? As well as its men?’

Dietmar’s face tightened. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘And Duke Welfard, he did nothing to stop it?’

Dietmar looked down uncomfortably. ‘He did try to stop them, but… he was unsuccessful.’

Adolf put his hand to his face and turned away in disgust. ‘Twenty days is barely enough to get this army back to the coast. We have hundreds of men, perhaps a thousand or more, who cannot march. Some who could not walk a mile without collapsing.’

‘We anticipated this, we brought a lot of carts,’ said Dietmar defensively. He paused as Adolf grumbled to himself, watching as those very same carts, most half-empty, started arriving at the gate. ‘What of the commander? What of Count Baldwin?’

‘Are you hoping he is amongst the dead?’

Dietmar blanched. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, I was,’ said Adolf bluntly. ‘But no, he was sick and he recovered. He is alive and well and still fucking everything up. Just yesterday, he ordered an assault on the city.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I did what I always do now; I ignored him. It’s the only reason we have survived. The man has lost his mind, what little he ever had. The cold and the pressure have driven him to the edge of madness. Even his own men come to me for orders now.’

‘That is a good thing?’ Dietmar said haltingly

‘No,’ said Adolf, turning to face Dietmar again. ‘It’s an excellent thing. It means I can order the army to withdraw, and I won’t have to argue with him again this time.’

‘What if he refuses?’ asked Dietmar.

‘I’ll kill him,’ said Adolf. ‘And no one here will stop me. And then we will go home.’

Dietmar could tell the count was serious about both things. ‘Home? We abandon the Crusade?’

‘Of course. Thousands of men died in this godforsaken camp, and for what? For nothing. There is nothing here we want. Just a thousand miles of freezing forest and muddy lakes. No, the coast is all we needed, and we have it. The rest is just the vanity of idiots like Baldwin. No, Dietmar, I will not take another step north, nor lose another Saxon man, for this stupidity. We go home.’

As Adolf fumed, the mounted column started to arrive, and Adolf soon perked up as he spotted one of the riders. ‘Hartung!’ he exclaimed, half-running over to greet the young man, who regarded him coolly and bowed his head.

‘Father.’

Adolf reached his side and tried to restrain his emotions as his son dismounted and the rest of the contingent moved past. ‘I did not know you were coming,’ Adolf said awkwardly.

‘Why? I am Sir Dietmar’s squire. Or did you think I would be left behind, as usual?’ the boy replied, staring emotionlessly at the count as he did so. Dietmar stirred angrily; the boy might be the count’s son, but he was Dietmar’s squire, and his behaviour reflected on the knight.

But Adolf appeared too relieved to be offended, smiling awkwardly at his stiff-backed son, before waving him off. ‘You must have duties to attend to, we will talk later.’

‘Of course, my lord, if I am required after my other duties are complete, I will attend on you.’ The boy bowed curtly and led his horse away.

Adolf and Dietmar exchanged a glance. ‘I’m sorry, my lord, he is really an excellent squire, but he lives in his father’s shadow and he resents it,’ said Dietmar apologetically.

‘And so he resents me,’ Adolf said with a sigh. ‘I have lost that bright young boy I left at home. I have lost him and much else.’

Dietmar didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing.

‘You know, I barely remember what his mother looks like,’ said the count wistfully, as he watched his son disappear into the crowds of milling soldiers.

‘You will see her again soon,’ said Dietmar.

‘Yes, I suppose so. But enough of this, I have an army to command, my family can wait. Let us go and find Sir Hans and make preparations for the retreat. I suspect it will take us days, men need to eat before they can march. Orbert would know, but… well.’

Dietmar nodded sympathetically. ‘He was a fine man.’

‘He was an irritating man, but the best campmaster in Christendom,’ Adolf corrected him. ‘We have lost so many of our best here, too many.’

Ragnvald listened to the man’s report and nodded, thanking him and waving him away. ‘Well, that is a sodding shame,’ he said, turning to Jarl Frode, who had just arrived from the north with his men. Thousands of Norse warriors had arrived over the last few days, swelling the ranks of the army, and adding to the encirclement of the fortified Christian camp.

‘It is.’

‘Seven thousand fresh men. And we were on the verge of taking that camp and putting them all to the sword.’

‘We were.’ The jarl was stroking his beard. ‘Do we have the men to capture it now?’ he said with more hope than expectation.

Ragnvald shook his head. ‘No, an assault now would be futile. Even if all our forces had arrived yet, we would only have equal numbers. No, there is nothing we can do to them in that fortified camp except hope they remain in it.’

‘So what do we do? Do you think they will try to resume the siege, drive us back into the town? Or will they run?’

Ragnvald thought about it. ‘I expected them to run before winter, they did not, so now I do not know what they will do.’

‘How many men do we have?’ Frode asked.

‘Around six thousand from Svealand and Gotaland and some Danes. More men from Norway and other places are coming.’

‘So few? Last year we had twice as many!’ said Frode in surprise.

‘Yes, but last year the campaign started later, and we had not tasted defeat, nor lost the coast. The people are nervous, scattered. There has been no Disting and no great gathering to give them heart.’ Ragnvald shrugged. ‘We will make do with whatever we have. There is nothing else.’

The king arrived on the wall, summoned by Ragnvald’s messenger. He was bursting with frustrated energy. He had taken most of the winter to recover from his wound, but Ragnvald could see from the way he moved and his new healthy bulk and colour that he had recovered much of his old form.

Ragnvald told the king what he had told Frode, and the king snorted in glee and derision. ‘They brought more men to die? Excellent.’

‘There are a lot of them,’ cautioned Ragnvald.

‘Good,’ the king replied.

‘So, what will we do? There are so many now. We cannot assault their camp.’

‘Yes, but we have more coming, and ours are fresh and used to this cold. Theirs are sick and weary.’ Sigurd slapped the Swedish jarl on the back with a reassuring laugh. ‘We make their life impossible in that camp until they die, they come out to fight, or they run.’

‘And if they run?’

‘We follow them. We hound them through the woods and destroy them. Like a wolf bringing down a bull elk, we will nip at them, chase them, wear them out and worry them. Then,’ said Ragnvald, grinning at the jarls, ‘then we will finish them.’

Chapter 9

A Time to Stand

The steel edge scraped along Sir Hans’s sword as he blocked the axe swing with a sideways stroke. He didn’t have time to appreciate his luck, the axe head had swung so fast, and he had aimed to block the haft, but he caught the blade. If he had caught it a few fingers’ widths further out, the axe would have skipped off his sword and broken his arm in half through his maille.

But he was lucky, and he did deflect the blow past his arm, and the axeman, fully committed to the strike and with no time to withdraw for another strike or a defence, could do nothing but roar his anger when Sir Hans whipped his sword back and struck him across the side of the head with the backedge blow. The nasal of the Norseman’s looted Christian helmet saved his life, but not his eye. He whirled round, axe dropped, and staggered out of the line with his hand clamped to his face.

Sir Hans had no time to savour his victory. Another Norseman stepped into the gap and he was now facing a spear, having to adjust his defence and attacks to deal with the new weapon. The rest of the fight passed in a blur of steel and sweat and the blood of other men. He did not see how it ended, merely noted that at one moment he was facing an enemy, and the next he was not, the backs of fleeing Northmen fading away in his blurred vision.

He staggered back, not knowing if he was injured or merely exhausted, and leant against a tree. This was his fourth fight that day, the third day of the retreat from the siege camp. Eight days since the relief army had arrived to save the beleaguered besiegers.

For most of the week, they had prepared the retreat, tried to hide their preparations to leave from the enemy, but the attempt was laughable. The enemy was everywhere around them, no amount of patrols could push them back far enough in those frigid woods, and when they were finally ready to leave camp in the early night under cover of darkness, fake sentries manning the camp perimeter with torches lit and helmets on stuffed straw heads, the enemy had been waiting. A shower of arrows and mocking jeers had harried them, chastened, from the gate.

The enemy had harried them ever since. Three long days on the road, the army slowed to the pace of the wagons that carried the wounded. Wagons that had to pick up as many new casualties, as existing ones finally lost their grip on life. Sir Hans looked around him. Bodies of his men and the Norse lay everywhere, intertwined in death. In these woods, ragged and exhausted, the Crusaders had lost all the advantages they had held in the summer. Here it was a wild scrap, every man hacking and crying and trying to stay alive, and for all that they still reaped their share of the enemy, their own ranks thinned like blown leaves at autumn’s end.

Sir Hans looked around him at the dead. Their turn as the rearguard today had cost him perhaps one in six of the men under his command. Evening was drawing close, the core of the army would be making their makeshift fortified camp. All he had to do was reach it, and then try to grab what fitful sleep he could while the enemy howled and banged steel on steel outside the perimeter, trying to deny the Crusaders the one comfort they still possessed: sleep.

Weary to the point of not caring, he waved his sword at the men of the rearguard who still stood, and the men started the trudge back through the woods to the road, leaving those who had died with those wounded who soon would.

Count Adolf nodded irritably at the man as he finished his report of the day’s march. Each day had been slow and painful progress, as the mostly unseen Norse army hounded their every step towards the coast. But today had been so much worse. It was not Frenchmen or Lorrainians or Bavarians who had bled in the rearguard for every step of ground they marched towards safety, but his own Saxons. All the responsibility pressed down on his hunched shoulders like a coat of maille, upon the real one he had not removed for days. Like everyone else, he slept in his clothes and armour, the links crackling with frost in the morning when he rose, reluctant and relieved to have to face another day, not being one of those who never rose from their slumber.

Command of the army was his now, and no one disputed it. Baldwin had retreated into himself much faster than the army had retreated into the forest. Adolf had expected a fight with the Count of Flanders, expected the man to resist the request to withdraw the army. But the winter had sapped all the pride and fight from Baldwin like blood from a dying man. When the relief force had come, Adolf went to the commander’s tent to beg him to retreat, only to find no resistance to the idea. Tired, hollow eyes had brightened at the idea of leaving the forsaken camp, at the excuse to leave without ordering it. ‘You believe we should withdraw to the coast?’ the man had said.

‘It is our only chance of saving the army,’ Adolf replied. Baldwin had visibly sagged in relief at the idea.

‘It is your opinion, as an expert in siege warfare, that in our current position we have no hope of capturing the city?’ Adolf sighed. Baldwin knew it as well as he, but the man would still try to avoid putting his name to the decision.

‘Yes, Lord Baldwin, we must retreat and regather our strength.’

‘Then, as the commander of this Crusade, I give you, the commander of this army, permission to retreat, if you believe victory is beyond your grasp,’ Baldwin said, with as much decorum as he could manage beneath the shifting veil of shame he showed. The young French count could not even meet Adolf’s eye as twenty men watched him dump the failure they all knew was his at the feet of his worn-out elder, his superior in all ways but in rank. ‘I am content to allow you to command the withdrawal, until we reach the coast and re-form the Crusade, at which point I will resume command.’ Baldwin trailed off, whatever other weasel words he intended dying on his lips.

Adolf didn’t reply, he simply turned and walked from the tent. The men had not spoken since, there was no need. Now, with the undisputed responsibility for the survival of every man in the army, he sat and considered his options for the next day, as he had every morning. As with every morning, his options were scant. They would break camp in the morning, leaving those who had died behind, those who could not walk in the wagons. As the vanguard left the camp, they would be harried through the rough ground and woodland by the fog of skirmishers who lay between him and the road home. That screen was not strong enough to stop his retreat, but too strong to be ignored. Patrols and sweeps would go out to force them back and clear space. Most would return, some would not.

Then the wagon train would leave with its escort, making its slow way down the road while the main body blocked the road and the land on either side, and then the rearguard would follow. And the Norse would follow as if they never tired, never slept, never grew cold or weak. The Norse would fall upon the rearguard again and again, attempting to outflank them, cut them off, harry them and weaken them. Men would fall, a toll for every mile they marched to safety through this cursed land. Adolf fell asleep in his worry, head slumped on his chest. In the morning, everything was as he expected, as it was every day. The wagons rolled, the army marched, and men died for every mile.

On the fifth day, Adolf made his decision. They would find somewhere to make their stand, while they still had the strength to do so. They were at best one third of the way to the coastal plains, and had lost a fifth of their strength to the constant attrition of the enemy and the land. Adolf knew they would not make it to the end of the woods; at a certain point, they would lack the numbers to protect the flanks of the march, and the faster Norse would simply go around them and block their way, dooming them all to the frostbitten soil.

He rode alongside Sir Hans near the head of the vanguard with most of the remaining mounted knights, scouting the path to find the right place to make their stand. Around midday, they crested a small rise and found the road crossed the corner of a narrow plain between two forests. On their right, the plain stretched out for a mile or more, extending out from the road, four or five hundred yards wide in places. On the left of the road, the ground gave way to a marsh and a small lake. Adolf stood there for a while, surveying the ground, while Sir Hans stood silently by him and the vanguard continued the march, winding out into the narrow gap of the plain.

‘I think this is the place.’

‘It is not where I would choose, the far flank looks open,’ replied Sir Hans.

‘Yes, but it is furthest from the road, and it is the best ground we have found since we left the camp.’

Sir Hans nodded slowly. ‘Do you wish to give the order?’

Adolf swept his gaze over the ground again, taking in the firm dry plain, the woodline at the far side, the way the road snaked out of sight with the lake on one side. ‘Yes, we will make our stand here,’ he said, the set of his jaw showing his determination. ‘We will not have much time, we will form up in the order contingents arrive. The mounted men will go into reserve there.’ He pointed across at the far treeline. ‘Then the vanguard on foot, the French and Italians, to move down the plain and take up what will be the left flank. Ask them to seed the woods on their left with men, to slow any flanking manoeuvre. They will be the key – if the left holds, we hold this field.’

Sir Hans looked across at him dubiously. ‘We trust the key position to the French?’

‘Do not question them so, Hans,’ Adolf snapped. ‘The French do not lack determination or valour, they will do their duty and we can be sure of it.’

Sir Hans mumbled an apology but Adolf continued. ‘The next division – the Bavarians, the men of Lorraine and Austria and the others with them, they will form the centre.’ He pointed at the spot in the field. ‘I will command the army from there.’ Sir Hans nodded. Around him, a dozen other senior commanders and messengers paid close attention to the count’s words.

‘Finally, the men of Saxony and Swabia and all the other German contingents, the largest division, shall block the road, forming our right flank, right up to the lake.’ He nodded to himself and turned to the assembled men. ‘Our aim is simple. The wagon train will continue with a few hundred men as escort. We will hold here until we defeat the enemy army, or until nightfall, whichever comes first. Then, we will withdraw, much faster without the train to foul us, and stay ahead of any remaining enemy pursuit. Any questions?’ He swept his gaze around the men.

‘And when we catch up with the wagon train, what then? Surely this will gain us only a couple of days,’ a young French baron asked.

Adolf fixed the man with a steely glare. ‘A couple of days without having to fight, being able to rest properly, will be invaluable to this army. If the enemy does catch up with us, then we fight again as soon as the ground favours us. And we continue to do so, until the enemy is defeated or gives up the pursuit.’

No other men spoke, but Adolf could see some new resolve in many of them, having a plan, having a hope of success, had straightened some weary backs.

‘Very well then, sirs, we shall not meet again until after the day is done. Go to your men, prepare for battle and hold the ground you have been set upon as if it is your own lands, for if we fail, we will surely never see them again.’ His horse shuffled and tossed its head in the cold air with impatience, but Adolf did not break his gaze with the men. ‘Go, and God be with you. Deus le vult!’ he intoned, crossing himself as he spoke.

‘Deus le vult!’ the men replied with a shout, and horses were turned and spurred as the gathering dissolved, each man headed to his contingent or his commander.

‘Sir Hans, with me,’ Adolf said, as the knight started to move his own horse away, back towards the Saxons at the rear of the column.

Adolf turned his horse and gently started walking it out onto the plain. Hans reined his horse in to follow and pulled up alongside. Adolf didn’t speak for a while, he was staring at the ground around them as they walked across it, testing it with his eyes and his horse’s hooves. It was firm, high enough above the level of the half-frozen marsh to their left. Good ground for horses. Sir Hans looked at it approvingly.

‘You will command the reserves,’ Adolf said suddenly.

‘Not our own men?’

‘No, I want you to have the whole mounted force with you, ready for the decisive moment. This ground should suit it well.’

Sir Hans nodded in agreement. ‘As you wish, Lord Adolf.’

‘Sir Dietmar is still mounted?’ Adolf asked with a hint of nerves.

‘Yes, he rides with the vanguard,’ Hans replied. ‘And his squire too,’ he added after a pause, getting to the heart of Adolf’s unspoken question.

‘Good,’ Adolf said, and spoke no more of the matter. The two men reached the woodline. The trees were sparse and the ground between them fairly even and firm. The reserves would be able to move through the trees here on horseback, before the thicker stands of trees and older growth started to block their way. Adolf saw the remains of a rotting, burned stump and a half-built wall just inside the perimeter of the forest. That explained the unnaturally flat and treeless clearing by the road, then. Someone had cleared this land by the lake for a settlement and farming, but for some reason been forced from it. By the moss growing on the low wall and rotting wood, some time ago.

He put the thought from his mind. If some unnamed Norsemen had given them this gift of open ground decades ago, it was only fitting to use it. The first division was making its way across the old field now, headed for what would be the left flank. The mounted reserve was filtering through the trees behind them. Sir Hans headed off with a curt bow to see to their positions and orders. Adolf watched the convoy of wagons winding its way over the narrow clear section of road and then disappear into the trees beyond with its precious cargo of supplies, and a thousand sick and wounded men. Not a very religious man, he nonetheless uttered a quiet prayer for their deliverance, then as they went out of view he stood there on his horse and waited for the army to arrange itself around him as his aides gathered, messengers picketed the few spare horses, and the battle lines of the Crusade formed in front of him.

‘Lord Ragnvald!’ someone shouted, his voice growing nearer to where Ragnvald marched at the head of his men near the back of the Norse army.

‘Here!’ he bellowed in return. A man shoved his way through the crowd of marching warriors ahead of them on the road, scattered curses being sown in his wake. The source of the shouting pulled up and fell into step beside him, breathing hard. ‘What is it?’ Ragnvald asked, excitement and impatience edging his voice.

‘King Sigurd sends for you. The Christians, they have drawn up across the road to fight.’

Ragnvald squinted at the man in confusion. ‘So, let the men at the front fight their rearguard if it blocks us, we are at the rear of the army and it was our turn yesterday.’ Ragnvald’s exhausted men had spent most of the previous day laying a determined and mobile siege to the rear of the Christian army. And although they had walked over the bodies of many injured and dying enemies, they had not managed to break them, and they had taken many casualties in return. Ragnvald was still bitter and sore from the experience.

The Norse army had been pushed hard, even relentlessly, by Sigurd. The rejuvenated king had been at the head of the army the whole way, driving them after the retreating Crusaders. Day and night, he had directed attacks against them, trying to break their spirit, their ability to fight, whichever came first. Twice they had nearly encircled and trapped the rearguard, twice it had broken free. The Norse army was growing ragged, the ranks thinning with those lost to injury or the harsh weather and land they traversed. Ragnvald had started once more to doubt victory as the Crusaders relentlessly moved on, unstoppable and resolute.

‘No, Lord Ragnvald, you misunderstand, it is their entire army, they have drawn up across the road and stand ready for battle.’

Ragnvald felt a jolt of fear and excitement. Forcing their weakened enemy to stand and fight had been their aim, but he was beset by the fear that they had never yet beaten the Christians in open battle, and he was not sure which army had weakened more in the last few days. Could they truly win?

‘How do we know it is their entire army? In this ground, it could just be a ruse.’

The man shook his head. ‘I saw it myself, there is a clearing, their whole army is drawn up, thousands of them.’ The man was practically buzzing with excitement. ‘Please, Lord Ragnvald, go to the king as fast as you can, he needs to give out the plans for the battle.’

Ragnvald nodded curtly, there was no other response to make. The king had finally driven his quarry to ground, and he would have his battle. Ragnvald suppressed a shiver at the thought and, after telling Leif to keep bringing the men up the road towards the front, he set off at a jog, weaving his way through the army stretched out on the road before him.

When he finally reached the king, there were over a dozen great jarls there standing with Sigurd. He saw Steinar and Kjartan there with the Norwegians and nodded at the men, and then clasped arms with a beaming Frode and some of the other Swedish jarls as they waited for their king to speak.

Sigurd was surveying the field from their vantage point on a small rise by the road. In front of them, through some thin trees, Ragnvald could see a thick shieldwall in the forest’s edge. More Norsemen were pouring through the trees behind him, headed out to the right. He now saw what the king was watching. Across an open field to their front, two good bowshots away, the enemy army stood in a solid battleline as far as he could see to the right, and up until the road and the edge of a lake on the left. Ragnvald whistled to himself.

‘So, it is true. They have turned to face us.’

‘Yes.’ Sigurd turned in towards the group and Ragnvald finally saw his face. It was the face of a hungry dog about to be fed steaming meat straight from the pot. It chilled Ragnvald’s soul. He saw fire and lust and hunger. He saw death. ‘Our foe has stopped running, and chosen the place of his end,’ Sigurd said with a triumphant snarl. The assembled jarls grunted and nodded their agreement. All except Ragnvald.

Sigurd’s eyes locked onto him. His brow furrowed. ‘You disagree, Ragnvald?’

Ragnvald’s tongue stumbled and he put his hand up in defence. ‘I do not know, my king, I have not even seen the full enemy force yet, but I do see they are many, and I see open flat ground. We all know what this enemy can do on such ground.’ Some men, men who had seen the battle on the beach outside København, and the power of the Christian mounted knights, men like Jarl Kjartan, frowned and nodded their heads.

‘Perhaps it will not be easy, Ragnvald,’ the king said in his stone rumbling voice. ‘But how many horses can they really have left? A few hundred? And there is not much ground for them to move, they are penned in by water and forest and their own army.’ He smiled at Ragnvald, but his eyes held no mirth. ‘Now, hear my plan and then I will hear your concerns.’

‘Yes, Lord Sigurd.’

‘The enemy is drawn up between the lake on their right, and the forest on their left. Their wagons have left, and continued down the road. You know what that tells me?’ he asked, not expecting an answer, and none was given. ‘It tells me they do not expect to beat us, they merely try to delay us. To gnash their teeth and try and scare us away.’ He looked pointedly at Ragnvald. ‘We shall not be dissuaded, we set out to hunt them down and now here they are, wounded and afraid, backed into a corner.’

Ragnvald kept his mouth shut as he fumed in the circle of men. He felt Sigurd’s gaze on him once more. ‘I know what some of you will say, that a cornered, wounded boar is the most dangerous. And you are right!’ Sigurd gestured to the enemy army as he spoke. ‘But they are also the easiest to kill, stuck to their ground, allowing the hunters to surround them and finish them.’ He stopped again and grinned wolfishly. ‘And that is what we shall do.’

He picked up his magnificent new broad axe from where it rested against a tree and pointed with the tip at the line of men filing off the right. ‘Half the men of Norway will go to our right flank, with Jarl Kjartan commanding. When we attack, they will split their forces and push around their flank, holding the enemy in place while we surround them. When their left flank falters, we will move in, and attack the flank and rear of their centre.’ He swept his axe to the centre. ‘The men of Sweden and my own men will attack there, Jarl Ragnvald will command.’

Ragnvald looked up, but the king did not pause or turn to look at him. ‘The rest of the army will attack on the left, and try to push them back, stop them retreating down the road until our right and centre arrive to crush them.’ He held his axe out, pointing at the left flank where the road cut through both armies. His arm didn’t even shake as he held the great axe out for all that time, a deliberate and impressive show of strength. ‘Jarl Oddvar will command the left.’ A grizzled Danish jarl, one of the last Danish lords with the army, looked up in surprise. But the symbolism was clear to everyone. The three divisions of the army would be commanded by one Norwegian, one Swede, and one Dane.

Finally, Sigurd casually returned the axe to his side and looked around the group. ‘Does anyone wish to challenge my plan?’ The words and his tone allowed no argument, and the men stayed silent. ‘Then take your men to their positions, we attack on the triple horn, archers behind the shieldwall.’ The king stepped into the half-circle that the waiting jarls had formed and thumped the haft of his axe into the ground.

‘Friends, we have suffered through much. Our people have fought and lost and fought again, through Denmark, and Skjaeland, and Scania, and now into Svealand. We have bled for every step, good men gone to the ground for every town and farm and fort. But we were never broken, we kept our shields to the front and we held at Jönköping and we stopped them, even when they pierced into the very heart of our defences. We stopped them there and they have not taken a step forwards since. Now, brothers! Now is the time that we take our spear to the enemy and show him how it feels to be defeated.’ The group was silent, so quiet in those trees that Sigurd did not have to shout and roar, he spoke firmly, softly even, and the effect of his words was all the more stirring for it.

‘I swore an oath that I would stand in Sjælland again at the head of this army, and this is the day I start to uphold that oath. We will crush the ragged survivors of their army in this place of no name. We will bury them here in the deepwoods, we will drive the survivors to the coast and then into the sea. We will rejoin our brothers trapped in the towns and villages under their foreign yoke and then, then we will look across the sea, to take back what is ours.’

He held his clenched fist in front of his face, knuckles white with exertion. ‘This is the day, brothers. This is the day. Go now, and prepare your men, for today we will strike the blow that will win back the North.’ He pounded his fist into his chest and stepped up to the nearest jarl, embracing him and pressing his forehead against theirs. Round the circle he went, to each man saying words of encouragement or jest. He reached Ragnvald and Ragnvald felt the crushing embrace, Sigurd’s hot brow against his own. Sigurd clapped him on the back and moved on with a warm smile.

The king finished with the circle and strode off towards the battlefield without looking back. The three commanders gathered the men who led contingents in their divisions, dividing up the ground into where each would form their walls. Ragnvald jogged off with Frode and the other Swedish jarls and Jarl Steinar, whose crews would be under his command too, towards the treeline where they would form their battle line.

It was a while before the whole army was ready. The enemy stood in silent ranks and watched as the shieldwalls were formed, as crews shuffled and moved into position so that they formed an unbroken wall, four ranks deep and over a mile long, over eight thousand men, with reserves and archers supporting them. Sigurd had come to join Ragnvald. His huskarls were with him and the rest of his men behind in a block, a reserve, to be thrown into battle at the key point. Sigurd’s blue cloak was discarded for the fight to free arms glistening with rings as he stood there with his axe and stared at the enemy, a Norse lord of battle, ready to fall upon his foe.

Finally, the helmeted king turned to Ragnvald and nodded, grinning his wolfish grin under the decorated steel. ‘Let them hear us.’

Ragnvald grinned back, he couldn’t help it. Sigurd looked like a god, and his confidence and power radiated out like a warm breeze, and it lifted Ragnvald like wind fills a sail. He turned to the front, and called for Sebbi. His gnarled huskarl nodded, and raised his spear, looking to his right and left as men waited in silence.

‘Odin spearmaster, see us! Thor, lord of lightning, hear our thunder roar!’

He slammed his shield with his spear.

‘We stand and die to honour you! Let the sound of steel be our song!’

The men of Uppsala, arrayed in the front ranks, raised their weapons as one, and brought them crashing down on their shields, shouting as they raised them again. Crash. Roar! The whole line joined in, up and down the field, from a line so long that Ragnvald heard it not as one noise, but as a rolling wave of thunder.

Ragnvald turned to his king with a hardset smile and drew Drekitunga. The sound and the sight of so many proud Norse warriors had driven away his doubts. He felt the gravity and glory of the moment flow through him. This was the moment men dreamed of, skalds sang of; leading an army of their kin against the invader, in the sight of their gods. The shield song was reaching a crescendo. He dipped his dragon-crested helmet to his king. ‘We are ready to attack when you signal it. I will go with my men.’

Sigurd nodded and Ragnvald turned and slipped into the rear of his warband, who shuffled to let him in, and he pushed his way into the third rank, standing between Leif and Bjorn, those few of his remaining huskarls in front of him. So many men of his crews had died in the dark woods and the siege and the chase of the retreating Crusaders that he had not replaced all of his huskarls who had fallen, and now only five stood with him in the battle line. But those that remained were the toughest, the most experienced, the best men he had ever gone into battle with, and his chest swelled with pride as his men roared their battle song around him.

Behind them, the archers stood ready. And then, finally, the three horn blasts sounded. The Norse army shook and moved as one, the line rippling as the front rank started advancing, and then shifting back into a flat line as the men matched their pace with those beside them. Halfway across the field, the shields came up in a wave of colour and noise as the shieldwall was formed, and the archers on both sides started firing.

Chapter 10

The Blood Tithe

The squire stopped his horse in a shower of horse sweat and clods of earth. ‘Lord Adolf! Sieur de François reports the enemy are pushing hard on his flank in the woods, he cannot hold them for long. He requests reinforcements.’

Adolf looked down the line of the battlefield, towards where the fight in the trees would be, but saw nothing of it. ‘Tell Sieur de François that we cannot commit the reserve yet, and to give ground steadily if he needs to. We are sure of the stout hearts of his men.’ The squire looked crestfallen, but he nodded curtly and turned his horse, spurring it away back down the line in a shower of earth.

Adolf watched grimly. The enemy had not conducted a subtle attack, most of their army had advanced in a single line and attacked along every portion of his outnumbered force. He had moved all but a small contingent of the foot reserves into the fight already, and only his cavalry remained. For the fourth or fifth time since the battle started, he considered deploying them, but he was sure the decisive moment had not arrived. Not yet. The line was holding. On the right, perhaps the weakest part of the enemy attack, his forces had even gained ground, pushing the enemy shieldwall back and breaking it in several places, breaks that the enemy had given ground to re-fill.

Beside him, Sir Hans fidgeted on his horse, his faceless helm betraying nothing, but his restless hands showing his urge to get into the fight. But there was no possibility of getting his knights around the flank or rear of the enemy, no open field to conduct repeated attacks. The cavalry would have to be used once, in one single, decisive hammer blow, when the moment presented itself. And the moment had not come.

As he was watching the right flank steady itself, a new rush of noise started from his front. In the centre, the fighting was fierce, but the Crusader line had managed to hold fast under the enormous pressure. But now he saw the enemy committing a new force, roaring their battle cries as they advanced. A few hundred fresh men were marching towards the line in a block, fifty men wide and six men deep. Many of them wore rich blue cloaks, and at their head was an enormous warrior carrying a great axe that, even at this distance, shone in the sun with lines of fire. Adolf frowned, and nervously looked at his own line where the enemy was approaching. Could they hold?

‘THIS IS OUR TIME!’ roared Sigurd. He was striding forwards, his axe, Jafnaðr, held across his body, the wicked broad blade beside his head, held flat so that his enemy would see it coming. His hird marched with him and other men of Norway behind, the ranks of iron and steel and blue cloaks moving in a single, purposeful wave, bearing down on the rear of the Norse line, now one hundred paces distant.

‘Men of Norway, SHOW YOUR STEEL!’ he shouted, braided beard flecked with white spittle as clouds of steam poured from his mouth with every breath. The whole block pumped their weapons into the air and sounded a great cry of battle lust, like three hundred wolves baying at the kill. The weapons slammed back down into three hundred shields. Sigurd looked to his right, where Gunnar strode beside him, and Vidar, the new champion of Jönköping, beyond that, the king’s sword he had won burning bright in his hand in the late winter sunshine.

‘Boar’s snout,’ he said to Gunnar. Gunnar looked at him, questioning, but he left it unspoken. Now was not the time for questions. He turned to his right and roared the command, and then to his left. The whole formation shook itself out into a spiked wall resembling the snout and tusks of a boar, with three prongs. A large central wedge, centred on the king with three men at the front, five in the rank behind and so on. To the left and right, two smaller wedges, a single man at the front, two behind, formed the tusks.

This was a wall breaker. A formation designed to smash through an enemy line, cutting two small sections out, which the base of the snout and tusks would devour as the tips broke through and surrounded them. It was a risky formation, harder to make work than a simple line-breaking wedge, but against a tired or disorganised enemy, it would open a hole in the shieldwall so large it could not be closed. A throw of the dice, but one that could win a battle.

Two men with large shields moved in either side of the king as he formed the tip of the snout, Gunnar right behind him. Each tusk was tipped with spearmen. The formation finished aligning and Sigurd pumped his axe into the air and roared. The boar’s snout moved into a jog, gaps between the men opening up as they sped up, and then evening out and closing in. The back of the Norse line was fifty yards away now, mere moments away. The formation would not work if it had to go through a friendly line. But the men ahead of him were the men of Uppsala, and they knew how this tactic worked. As the distance closed, Sigurd prepared to shout at them.

Ragnvald was working hard, harder than he could remember working in a shieldwall in his life. The enemy was disciplined and resolute, well-armoured and well-armed. The two lines of shields were grinding together, men trading jabs and hacks over and under the wall of clashing wood and leather. The pressure was enormous; anyone who fell, even if they merely tripped uninjured, would not rise again, the lucky ones to shelter under their shields or the bodies of the dead as the fight passed over them, the unlucky ones to be crushed or trampled or stabbed to death. Most were unlucky.

A spear spat out from the enemy second rank like a serpent and Ragnvald yanked his head back, a fraction too late, as the spearhead passed in between the maille curtain that hung from his helmet and his face. The blade slashed his cheek and ear, and he felt the sudden pain, and then the blood flowing. The spear ripped back again, cutting him even further, and he impotently swiped at the hands of the wielder, but just knocked splinters from the spear shaft as it was withdrawn. He gritted his teeth against the anger and angled his head down, trying to catch the next blow on his helmet, the dragon crest roaring its defiance across the front ranks.

The enemy wall gave another step, and he stepped forwards into that space, putting his shoulder into the back of the front ranker ahead of him as the man put his axe into the neck of the enemy opposite. Another pace opened up. Another step forwards. He parried another spear thrust, and thrust his own sword, leaning over the front rank to lance the tip of the serpent blade at the eyes of the nearest enemy, but the man pulled out of reach. Ragnvald bellowed his frustration, his arm so tired he could barely make the thrust, let alone fast enough to kill.

Someone grabbed his shoulder firmly and shouted in his ear. ‘CHANGE!’ He twisted to the side and the man pulled roughly past him, not letting the wall sag as they swapped. It was Sebbi, with a long spear, and the old huskarl immediately put it to use, stabbing over the front rank at the heads and shoulders of the enemy.

Ragnvald was utterly relieved to be out of the fight. He pushed his way to the back, dry heaving and trying to calm his shaking legs. Other men were out of the back of the line, injured or taking their turn to rest amongst the bodies of those the battle had passed over and spat out in its wake like a grim harvest. As he stood there panting, he heard the shout, and saw the king’s hird coming. As he watched, he saw it shaking out into the boar’s snout. He knew what to do.

‘Prepare doors of Valhalla! Men of Uppsala! Doors of Valhalla on my shout!’ he shouted at the line with all the breath he had left. Men in the rear ranks heard him, and passed the message along. Two men, looking back and seeing where the blow would fall, split the wall into two halves, shouting at the men on their right and left respectively.

Ragnvald kept watching the oncoming king, trusting his men to organise the wall correctly, needing to time the moment exactly. He watched the king’s force move into a jog, saw the big man leading the snout, his axe leaning into the run. Sigurd, it would have to be you on the snout, you great fool. The men of the snout died more often than not, especially ones without shields. But the king was never one to miss an opportunity to create fodder for a skald’s song.

The king’s men were closing now, thirty paces out, the time was now. ‘OPEN THE DOORS!’ He turned, roaring at the line. Men were ready and watching in the rear ranks. The whole shieldwall split at the middle, and retreated, swinging open in two halves, rotating and clearing a space where moments ago there had been fighting men. Normally, a sudden break in the line like that would be a catastrophe, but the Christians were taken completely by surprise, having no idea what was coming or how the tactic worked. Some cheered, thinking they had broken the line, and surged forwards, others saw the king’s men coming, and paused or turned to look around. In moments, the organised Crusader line had turned into a mass of confused men, with no semblance of order. Ragnvald grinned from good ear to ruined ear. It had worked perfectly.

Sigurd screamed his battle cry and put his great axe back over his shoulder, ready for a massive downwards swing. Ten yards from the broken enemy line, he burst into a run and the rest of his men followed, the two horns racing down the edges of the gauntlet formed by the open doors of Ragnvald’s wall, the snout charging up the centre. An enemy commander was desperately shouting at his confused men, trying to get them back into line, but it was too late. Sigurd saw the excitement of a broken wall turn to pure terror in the face of the closest enemy as he closed with him, and the man tried to back up, bringing his shield up in a pitiful attempt at resistance.

Sigurd didn’t bother swinging his axe at the man, he simply brought his knee up and turned, smashing the man to the ground with knee and shoulder and leaping over him as he tumbled to the ground. As he landed, Sigurd brought the axe over his shoulder in a vicious arc, the broad blade smashing into the shoulder of an enemy spearman, even as the spear glanced off Sigurd’s thigh. His axe crunched through the man’s collarbone, splitting maille with the force, and driving the broken links deep into the man’s chest as he collapsed under the force of the blow with a silent scream of shock.

Sigurd let go the axe, stuck as it was in his dying victim, and cross drew his sword, sweeping it up in a rising cut straight from the scabbard, a move done without thought, learned from years of practice, and the blade caught the next man under the chin, splitting his jaw and spraying broken teeth into the air. Sigurd moved like a demon through the shattered ranks of the enemy, his men struggling to keep up, even as some of them fell to desperate Christian blades. But no steel laid its cold touch upon the shieldless monster of the king as he raged through the enemy, who were more concerned with avoiding him than trying to fight. The king cut deep into the Crusaders, and the rush of blue cloaks followed.

And then, the king was through. Nothing in front of him but open field and a shocked line of archers a dozen paces away. That should have been the end of the saga of the King of the Norse. Shieldless and alone, facing a line of archers, but the Norns had not yet cut his thread, and the archers either had no shafts left, or were unwilling to fire into a mass of their own men. Either way, shields appeared at the king’s side, and then more, and then fifty paces of Christian line shattered and collapsed as the blue-cloaked warriors flowed through them.

In that moment, Sigurd believed the battle won. He roared and punched the shoulder of the warrior next to him, carried away by the magnificence of the attack they had conducted. But the cheer died in his throat. Even as the whole line bucked and bulged in, and his men turned to hammer at the ragged edges of the wound in the Christian line, Sigurd saw a block of fresh men running down the slope in close ranks, angling towards the gap, perhaps four hundred Crusaders, headed straight for them. Even in the heat of their victory, the king’s men were not slow to react to the new threat. In the front rank, standing beside his king, Gunnar roared, ‘SHIELDWALL!’

Adolf breathed an enormous sigh of relief as he saw the reserves, the last foot reserves he had, smash into the newly forming line that had moments ago been threatening to split his army in two. The line still bulged out towards him alarmingly, but now at least was solid again, for the moment, at least. But although the bleeding from that wound was stopped, another would prove fatal. He had no more men to send to the next.

‘Captain of archers!’ he shouted. A man in the gaggle arrayed around him hurriedly stepped in front so he could be seen.

‘Count Adolf!’

‘Your men have expended their shafts?’

‘Yes, there are spares, but they were with the wagon train, we had no time to retrieve them,’ he finished, embarrassment in his voice.

Adolf clenched his eyes closed and cursed at the oversight. But it was truly not the captain’s fault, he had received his orders after the supply wagons were already gone. It was Adolf’s fault, for not thinking the army would need certain supplies to remain. Never mind, it was done. ‘No matter. Gather your men into a reserve force here, drop your bows, and arm them with whatever weapons they have or can be found.’

The captain looked horrified. ‘But my lord, most of the men have nothing but daggers, some a hatchet, they cannot fight in the line.’

‘Does it look like I have another choice?’ Adolf snapped at the man. ‘Scrounge weapons off the injured that have been brought back, the dead if you have to. Arm your men the best you can and be ready to fight.’ The captain slammed his mouth shut, and turned to run down to his men. He didn’t even have a horse.

Sir Hans shuffled nervously. ‘You still have us,’ he said, the first words he had spoken since the battle started.

‘I know, Hans, but the greatest blow must be saved to the last. I will not waste your strength in preventing a defeat, but hope to use it to secure a victory.’ Sir Hans did not reply. Both men looked up and down the ongoing battle, neither seeing how an opportunity for victory might present itself. On the right, by the lake, the Crusader forces had stopped gaining ground against the enemy, and looked even like they might be giving ground again, perhaps exhausted or having lost too many men. The centre, with its sagging line and exhausted men, was under severe pressure, but holding for now with the fresh reserves. He was unsure if they could win out.

As he considered the left, a knight galloped over from that side. His shield was gone, his left arm trailed blood, his helmet was skewed. ‘Lord Adolf! The flank in the woods has collapsed, we beg for reinforcements or the whole left division is lost!’

Adolf stood in his stirrups and looked over that way, he could see running men fleeing the woods, and more pouring out after them. In moments, they would fall on the back of the French and Italian contingent, which was itself already being pushed back, bowing inwards towards the rest of the army. He could see the collapse was imminent. Damn. ‘Where is Sieur de François?’ he barked at the man.

‘He is dead, lord, he led the counterattack into the forest himself, and all the commanders but me were slain. He sent me back with this message, it was his last order.’ The man looked across at Adolf with sheer desperation on his face. ‘Lord Adolf, I beg you, send help, or we are lost!’

Adolf considered the problem grimly. A group of toadies to Count Baldwin the French knights may have been, but when they had been tested, they had not lacked personal courage. Adolf found himself sad and impressed to know they had fallen trying to save their men from ruin. But now he had little to save the situation, and the creeping sickness of inevitability enveloped him.

Adolf pushed back the rising tide of bile that was creeping into his throat. Sir Hans pulled his horse up beside him and spoke in an urging voice. ‘The time is now, send us.’

Adolf shook his head. ‘No, no, I cannot.’

Sir Hans pulled his horse even closer and stared at Adolf through the eye slits in his helm. His voice was a harsh whisper. ‘Why? Lord Adolf, if the left falls, we all fall!’

Adolf turned to him and spoke sadly. ‘The left is lost, if it falls while you are there, or the centre falls while you are there, you will be cut off, and the entire mounted force will be trapped. I cannot allow it. It gains nothing. The left may fall, but it will gain us time, time to find the crucial blow to strike! We can still win this, Hans. If I send you to the left, we have already lost.’

Sir Hans looked from his commander to the horrified French knight and to the left flank of the army, and then back again, shaking his head. ‘Send a hundred. Please, at least that, send me with something to slow the enemy and give the left a chance. Please!’

Adolf bit his lip and stared at the collapsing flank, his mind frozen as the army failed around him, the impossible taking shape in slow horror as his exhausted army wilted before his eyes.

He stared at Sir Hans for a moment longer as men muttered around him and the French knight whimpered. Finally, he nodded and turned. ‘We will do it. Take one hundred mounted men, go and clear the rear and flank of the French, no further, and only for as long as you can. I expect you to return. Understood?’

Sir Hans nodded and turned his horse, already shouting orders. Within moments, dozens of knights and mounted soldiers were peeling off the reserve and charging across the field, towards the rampaging enemy flank.

Jarl Kjartan was jubilant. His men had smashed through the enemy that tried to hold in the woods on the Crusader flank. As always, the Norse had the advantage in the woods, where no solid formation could move, their weapons and experience more suited to the fluid battle in the rough ground. The going had been slow, they had much further to march, and were slowed by the forest, the ground and the enemy, but eventually they had broken through into the treeline behind the enemy flank. As he had gathered his men to launch an attack to crush the enemy flank, a group had detached itself from the rear of the enemy left, all the men that had been held at the back, watching the battle and waiting, and the enemy had gamely charged into the woodline, on foot, in one brave attempt to stop him.

The fighting had been vicious. Against fresh enemy, and in more open terrain, many of his men had fallen, but his numbers were too great, and that attack had faltered and died.

More men had pulled out of the enemy flank to face him, but this left their line so thin and weak, it was giving ground with each moment. He could smell the victory, he could imagine the flank collapsing, one group at a time, as his victorious men rolled up the enemy army. He could see the adulation and thanks of the army to him and his men, the battle trophies and riches, the songs that would be written of Kjartan, the hero of the Norse.

And then he could see the cavalry coming.

His heart stopped. He had been at the fight on the beach, he had suffered the final charge of the Christian knights, he understood what was about to happen. He looked around him, left and right. He had five hundred men still with him, but they were spread over two hundred yards of ground, chasing fleeing enemies, fighting, even looting. In his daydream about victory, he had lost control over the discipline of his men. He started shouting to reform the line, but he knew it was too late.

Sir Hans leant forwards and lowered his spear. Alongside him, the single rank of mounted men, fifty wide in a loose line with another fifty horses following ten paces behind, did the same. Spear points went down into an undulating, shivering, surging wall of death. They had no horn to blow, they had no second wave to support them, they needed neither. The ground was blissful and firm, it flowed beneath the hooves of his horse, and the chaos of the running fight ahead of him came closer with exhilarating speed. All knights prayed for two things in battle, a disorganised enemy and good firm ground. Sir Hans smiled in pure joy and let out a piercing battle cry beneath his steel faceplate as he spurred his horse into the final gallop.

The enemy were forming into clumps, or trying to. Nothing resembling a solid line, but spiked clumps of ten or twenty or even forty men. But many had been too slow and were out in the open alone or in small running groups. Hans angled his horse towards one of those groups, and, still yelling his battle cry, he put his spear between the shoulder blades of a running enemy, dropping it as the man went down with the point lodged deep inside his spine. He drew his sword and hacked it down, splitting the skull of a second enemy, and then he was in a melee.

His horse danced and kicked as he circled, laying out blows with his sword onto enemy weapons, shields and flesh. His squire fought beside him as he was trained to do, covering his off side. Other knights and horsemen were milling about, chasing fugitives, hammering at the smaller groups of cowering enemies. Hans saw a horse go down in his peripheral, saw the rider trapped against its back as he tried to wriggle free, fending off a spearman who was jabbing at his maille.

Hans spurred his mount across and jumped the downed horse, knocking the enemy spearman flat, and then sawed at his reins, turning his horse and coming back to help the trapped knight. But he saw the man was motionless, bleeding from his neck, the spearman’s final thrust having been true.

Hans scowled and looked for his next target. Those enemies not in one of the groups were dead, his men milling around ineffectually, some leaning out of their saddles to try to stab at enemies in the clusters of survivors. He saw that it was useless, and shouted out, pointing his sword back up the slope. His men slowly got the message and turned to trot back up the gentle slope towards the centre of the field. Perhaps half a dozen were left behind on the ground, with several hundred enemy dead. The first flanking force had been crushed.

He rallied his force a couple of hundred yards away and re-formed the two lines. Most men no longer had their spears, but they were ready for another attack, horses not yet blown. They looked at him eagerly for his next order, the flush of the easy victory still hot upon them. Looking back towards the left flank, Hans saw that all they had done was slow the inevitable. More enemy were pouring around the shrinking line, and the line itself was buckling and thinning all along the front, the French and Italians were bravely fighting to hold on, but inexorably giving into the much superior enemy force. He signalled for the advance again, but he knew this attack would not be so easy.

Adolf saw Hans’s charge scatter the flanking enemy, saw his men withdraw, and then saw them go in once again, this time into the back of the main line, which was collapsing into rout. The wave of horsemen merged into the breaking line and stopped it, at least for a moment, but then Adolf’s attention was drawn away.

He saw, to his despair, that the bulge in the centre in front of him was giving way. Men were peeling off the back of the line, which, as it bulged, got ever thinner. Commanders were shouting at their men, exhorting them, but it was clear nothing could stop the Norse tide now, their line was twice as thick, and they were crumbling the Crusaders under their axes and shields.

As he watched, a man in the command group cried out, and pointed off to the right. A break had appeared in the Crusader line that had until now been solid on that side, and as he watched, the ragged gap widened and grew. His hands fell to his side, the helplessness of the situation crushing him. Sir Dietmar stood motionless at his side, slumped in his saddle. ‘We are lost,’ the knight said softly.

Adolf bridled at the suggestion, but he could see that it was true. Horses snickered behind him, reminding him they were yet to be committed, but where now that the battle was lost? For a long, painful moment, he considered the options, he tried to find some way out. He found no victory here, but a flash of inspiration hit him as to how he could save at least something from this disaster. Inspiration from what he had seen the enemy do in front of him earlier in the battle.

‘Dietmar,’ he said, turning to the knight. ‘Now is the time.’

Sir Dietmar looked around, confused. ‘Now? What can we do?’

‘We can save part of the army. Look, the line on the right has broken, but either side they hold firm for a moment. Take the reserve, charge into that gap, the same way the enemy did here. Break through there, and, once you are clear in the rear of their army, turn and crush them between your knights and our line.’ Dietmar sat up, looking where Adolf was pointing. He nodded and fire suddenly flowed in his movement again. ‘Yes! I see it.’

‘Dietmar.’ Adolf reached out to grab the man’s arm, force his attention. ‘It will not be enough to win the day.’ The knight faltered again, eyes pleading through his visor.

‘It might be.’

‘It will not,’ Adolf said, his voice almost breaking.

‘Then why?’

‘You must save as much of the army as you can. When you clear the right division, have them withdraw along the road while your men cover them. The left is lost, I will hold the centre here, commit the archers, buy as much time as I can and then withdraw to you with whoever is left while you hold the road. We will withdraw down the road together.’ He fixed the knight with a stern look. ‘There is no time, go now, and save as many as you can.’

‘What about the French, and Hans?’ asked Dietmar in an empty voice.

‘They are in God’s hands now, their sacrifice will give us time to get away.’

Dietmar nodded, and, with one final look, turned away and galloped to the last of the mounted reserves, just a hundred yards behind. Within moments, the whole formation was moving, streaming towards the right. Adolf watched them go with a heavy heart, then turned to the captain of the archers. ‘Now is the time.’ He dismounted, his horse would be useless now. He spoke to the few men in the command group who were left with him, squires, pages, messengers, even Count Baldwin and his small retinue. ‘We will take the archers and move to reinforce the centre while the reserves carry the right. When the right is clear, we will withdraw. Understood?’ Men looked back at him numbly, they could all see how few they were, how many the enemy were in front of them.

Adolf’s eyes met with Baldwin’s, red-rimmed in a pale face. But the French count did not argue or turn to leave. He gave a small nod and drew his sword, motioning to his men to do the same.

Adolf gave the Frenchman a brief nod and started off down the slope. Ahead of him, the archers, some five hundred, had gathered as many weapons as they could find, and were standing in rough ranks, holding their unfamiliar weapons awkwardly, looking scared and unsure. Adolf felt the same. He tried to smile as he marched through them, but his lips were lead. The captain of the archers, God bless him, shouted the advance in a thunderous voice, and together, the whole mass broke into a jog down the slope, into the maelstrom.

The archers were no match for the armoured warriors of the Norsemen. Adolf had known it, known the desperation of it, but as he saw another beside him wildly swinging his borrowed sword at a Norse warrior, only for the warrior to calmly block the blow with his shield, and punch his own sword neatly through the archer’s unarmoured chest, he almost quailed. He batted away an axe that was aimed at him, and threw a neat counter that scored the forearm of his attacker, who yelped and pulled back. The left flank of the centre had started to fail and been pushed in as the French contingent died or routed, so the centre division was being rolled up into a rough crescent, constricting all the time as the left side was steadily consumed and gave ground trying to defend itself.

He couldn’t see the right flank of the army from where he was, he couldn’t see if it was time to retreat. But it didn’t matter, they simply could not withdraw from where they were, an exhausted, injured and shrinking crescent of men from a dozen contingents, wilting under the unrelenting assault of the Norse.

A spear dug into his maille over his ribs, and he jerked back from it, the pain lancing through his side. He didn’t know how bad the injury was, but the stab of pain faded into the background of a half dozen others, and he took a step back and threw another cut at an anonymous enemy face. Then someone grabbed him and pulled him back, even as the man to his right died on a spear.

‘Count Adolf!’ He turned, bleary-eyed, surprised anyone knew who he was in that crush of desperate me. ‘Count Adolf!’ He recognised Sir Hans, blood-streaked and haggard, his youthful features twisted under the grime and fear.

‘What?’ he asked, the exhaustion addling his thoughts.

‘Lord Adolf, the French have routed. The left is gone and the enemy moves behind it, you will be surrounded in moments. We must leave!’

Adolf bowed his head. ‘And what of the right? Are they clear?’

‘No, there is still fighting there.’ Adolf’s heart physically hurt, he felt the pain and loss and shame of the defeat and he almost stumbled.

‘I sent Sir Dietmar, I sent Sir Dietmar to save them, with the reserve!’

Hans nodded his head in understanding. ‘Yes, the reserve broke their line, but they are not clear yet.’

‘So there is hope for them?’

‘Yes, but we must go to them. Now!’

Adolf straightened his back and shook his head. ‘No.’

‘We must!’

‘NO!’ he shouted, loudly enough that men looked at him. ‘No, if they see their commander run, the centre will fail. We need to hold them, Hans.’ He grabbed the back of the other man’s neck. ‘We need to hold long enough for the right to escape, for Sir Dietmar to lead them to safety. He must save enough of the army to fight on. Our people are there, the men of Lower Saxony. They must be saved.’ Adolf’s voice was resolute once more.

Hans nodded grimly. ‘I will stand with you here, and we will hold.’

Adolf smiled grimly and shook his head once more. ‘No, my friend, you must go and help Dietmar, save as many as you can.’ Hans hesitated for a moment, a look of shame crossing his face.

‘You order me to leave you?’ he choked.

‘I do, there is no time to argue. Go now, please.’

Hans nodded reluctantly, still hesitating, even as the fighting raged ever closer to where they stood. Finally, he tore his eyes away and turned up the slope to where the survivors of his force waited on their horses.

As the knight took a few steps, Adolf cried out to him, his voice wavering. ‘Hans!’ Sir Hans looked back over his shoulder. ‘Find my son!’ Adolf pleaded, all self-control gone. ‘Take him home, get him back to my lands. He is everything I have left.’ Adolf’s voice wavered as he spoke, unmanned with the shame of begging for the life of his son, on the field where ten thousand sons lay dead or dying.

Hans clenched his fist and slammed it to his chest. ‘I swear it.’ And then he turned to run up the hill towards his men. I’m sorry, Hartung, I failed you, I failed us all.

Adolf heard shouts and cries behind him getting closer, and as the horsemen spurred their horses away, towards the unseen right flank, he turned, and saw the resistance of his men fading. Archers falling everywhere, those armoured soldiers still fighting in line were reeling under the pressure and the weight of a long battle. Injured men were pushing past him, eyes wild and hands clutched to wounds. One archer ran past carrying his own severed arm, wailing madly. The chaos of an army on the verge of destruction and rout. Adolf tightened his grip on his sword, the magnificent blade that the lost swordsmith Ordulf had made him what seemed a lifetime ago, and turned to face the oncoming tide of death with a tear in his eye, and a lump in his throat.

Ragnvald had taken two more turns out of the line, resting and recovering, but still he was exhausted within moments, everyone was. With the exhaustion, men were making more and more mistakes, and too many had died. He had gone across that field on a carpet of bodies, enemy, Norse, and men he recognised. He stepped over the body of one of his huskarls, looking down and recognising Sebbi, and he let out an anguished wail. Sebbi, a man who he had known since he was a child, the last of his father’s huskarls, who had fought with him in two dozen shieldwalls in two dozen years, dead on the ground with a ragged wound in his neck.

But now was not the time to mourn the dead, he pushed forwards to rejoin those who were still living. The fight was now a massacre, the organised lines long gone, and it was merely a test of which side gave up first. He was determined it would not be his. He slashed an unarmoured, unshielded man across the face with his serpent blade, too tired to wonder why they were now fighting so many unarmoured men. Beside him, Leif, still alive although bleeding from several wounds, ducked a wild swing and hacked off the leg of a man wielding a stolen great axe, and wielding it very poorly.

Suddenly the enemy line wilted. He felt it first as a reduction in noise, then men who had been stepping back were turning to flee, and then hundreds of Christians were streaming away from the collapsing line in one uncontrollable wave of terrified humanity. He was too tired to chase, but as he stepped forwards, one enemy was still facing him, too proud, too injured or too stubborn to flee, an older man with a beautiful sword and a green surcoat over head-to-toe maille, a fine helm on his head. The man looked over his shoulder at his fleeing comrades and cursed them, then turned and glared at Ragnvald in defiance, his sword coming off his shoulder and into a downwards cut.

Ragnvald parried the blow wearily to the side and punched his shield into the man’s side, knocking him back. Norse were all around them now, but none interfered, they were finishing off Christian wounded, chasing the survivors, or just sitting down, exhausted, on the ground. The Christian attacked again, a series of ringing cuts at Ragnvald’s shield and face, but the man had no shield, so he could not fully commit, not use a shield as a weapon, as Ragnvald did now, punching the rim into the other man’s forearm, the stinging blow almost making him drop his sword. His opponent flexed his numb fingers and growled at him again, spitting some foreign curse.

‘Finish him, Ragnvald!’ shouted one of his men. The truth was, Ragnvald was not toying with the man, he was simply exhausted, and could see that his enemy was both skilled and well-armoured. Ragnvald had no wish to die at the end of the battle, making a mistake because he was tired. He stepped forwards, forcing his enemy back with a shield punch and a sword thrust, both arms screaming from the effort. The man blocked both blows but then stumbled, his ankle turning on a body behind him, and his knee buckled. Instinctively the Christian put his left hand out to stop himself falling, and Ragnvald had all the time in the world to step forwards, and lunge with his right leg and sword together, putting his shield inside the enemy sword, giving him no opportunity for reply.

His sword slipped into the gap under the enemy’s chin with almost no resistance. Cutting muscle and sinew and severing his windpipe, lodging deep into the man’s spine, his death coming mercifully quickly at the end, wide eyes giving Ragnvald one just look of horror before they faded and the Crusader slumped to the ground.

Ragnvald felt no joy in the kill. He was too tired. He pulled his sword from the body and looked around. He could see the battle was over. At least in the centre where they stood, the field was theirs, the fleeing enemy disappearing into the treeline to his front. He dropped his shield and swayed on his feet, the rush of tiredness and emotion hitting him like a wave. As he stood there in the tableau of death, a voice he recognised reached out to him from behind. ‘A fine kill, Ragnvald.’ His bleary eyes forced themselves open and he looked up. Sigurd, ragged, covered in blood and mud, but alive. The king was pale and drawn, and clutching his left hand to his side. Blood tricked down his leg under his armour and the big man half-fell into an embrace with Ragnvald, leaning on him heavily for support.

The king let go his embrace and looked down at the dead Christian. ‘I saw you fight him, but I didn’t want to get involved and steal your glory.’

Ragnvald let out a single sigh. ‘You would have been welcome to interfere, I don’t think I could swing my sword another time.’

‘He was a commander,’ said Gunnar, appearing on Sigurd’s right, and examining the body.

Ragnvald squinted at it, but could see no evidence. ‘How do you know?’

‘I saw him commanding,’ said Gunnar, shrugging as if it was obvious. ‘And look at the quality of his gear. You have killed a lord of the Christians, and with a fine strike, Jarl Ragnvald, a worthy end.’

Ragnvald stared at the dead man, puzzled, but then tore his gaze away. ‘Leif, find someone to guard his body, I claim everything he wears.’ Leif nodded. In the chaos after the battle, few would be able to claim the possessions of those they had killed, as was the normal tradition, but he would make sure this one was an exception.

‘What of the rest of the army?’ asked Ragnvald, too tired to walk out of the slight low ground they were in and look out over the battlefield.

‘The right flank was cleared, we wiped them away, the survivors ran into the woods,’ said the king.

‘Jarl Kjartan did well, then,’ said Ragnvald.

‘We don’t know where he is,’ said Sigurd with a frown.

Ragnvald sighed and tried to clean his sword on his trousers, but they were so filthy that it made no difference, so he stuck it through his belt in disgust. He could not ruin his scabbard by filling it with blood and dirt. ‘So many fell.’ He shook his head. ‘Too many. But at least we destroyed the enemy army.’ Ragnvald could not even bring himself to celebrate that victory. It felt utterly hollow in that field of death.

Sigurd tensed. ‘We did not destroy their whole army.’

Ragnvald looked up. ‘What? The left? They still fight?’ He looked up but could not hear fighting.

‘No,’ said the king, his voice low. ‘Come with me, we shall see it.’

Ragnvald quailed at the thought of having to move his legs, but he nodded, and walked with the king up the shallow slope, up to where the enemy had held their reserve, horse droppings and abandoned equipment littering the ground. The detritus of war. But he didn’t notice that, what he saw was the carnage on the field to their left.

A vast jumble of bodies lay across the road and in the field beside it. Not in a neat line, or waves, but just in a huge mass. Horses, men, Norse and Christian alike. Many warriors were moving amongst the dead, finding wounded, killing the remaining enemy, or just sitting or lying nursing injuries. But they seemed dwarfed by the numbers of their dead. Ragnvald looked on, aghast. ‘What happened?’

‘Their mounted men broke our left, in the moment of our victory, and then retreated with a part of their army,’ said Sigurd. ‘Jarl Oddvar is dead, most of his crews are shattered.’

‘Oh, gods,’ cried Ragnvald. ‘The men of Denmark, of Scania.’ They had been so few, even before the battle.

Sigurd gazed over the field, silent in acknowledgement. ‘We lost more than I hoped. But victory is still ours, and what survives of our army is much greater than what survives of theirs,’ he said.

‘How many of them escaped?’

‘Maybe two thousand. No more.’

Ragnvald looked around at the wide panorama of the field of dead and dying men. ‘But at what cost?’

‘Perhaps half of ours, dead or injured.’

Ragnvald’s exhausted heart sank. This had been the greatest battle the Norse had ever won, and yet a vast tithe of a generation of their warriors lay dead on the field and on the fields before this one. A tithe of blood so great that they would not recover, not in his lifetime. ‘So what do we do now?’ he asked the king in a quiet voice.

Sigurd looked at him, confused. ‘You know the plan, we march for the coast, we clear them from Scania and drive them into the sea.’

Ragnvald gaped at him. ‘March to the coast? With who?’ He pointed his arm at the spread of bodies.

Sigurd growled with anger. ‘With whoever can still march and hold a weapon. You think we should give up? We would make all the deaths of these brave men in vain!’ he half-shouted at the older man. ‘We have destroyed the Crusade, and we have paid a terrible price. What we have bought with that loss is the return of our land, we must now go and claim it.’

Ragnvald looked around for support, but saw none in the stony silence of the king’s battered but defiant men. He wished the other jarls were there to give their council, but he wasn’t sure who had even survived, such was the scale of the loss. It was just him alone on that hill with the king in his blood rage.

‘Lord Sigurd,’ he pleaded. ‘We cannot take the coastlands with so few men. The Christians, they have fortresses, garrisons, the remains of their army. We must gather more warriors, or the men of the Leidang!’

‘And give them time to do the same? No!’ Sigurd spat on the ground. ‘No, Jarl Ragnvald, we are done speaking of it. You will bring your men with me, or you will march home and hope I never find you again. I have valued you as a friend and a counsellor, but I will not hear another word of cowardice or retreat. We will fight to recover our lands until we win, or the last sword falls from a dead warrior’s hand.’

‘And what if there are no warriors left to hold the land we recapture?’

Sigurd turned his furious glare on the jarl and stepped forwards. ‘Then the children will fight, and the old, and the dogs and the rats. I would rather our people died in their lands than were forced from them alive to live as beggars.’ Sigurd glared at him for a moment longer and then turned on his heel, limping away with his men following, leaving Ragnvald standing on that field of their greatest victory, and feeling nothing but defeat.

Chapter 11

The Light of Christ

‘Your excellency, messages,’ Bertrand announced in his usual docile tone, waiting with the rolled parchments in his hand, head slightly bowed, with no trace of impatience or frustration as the bishop, as was his way, ignored him for a few moments.

Reinhard finally looked up from his poring over a ledger of the Order’s burgeoning parishes and garrisons. ‘Who from?’

‘The first is sealed with the seal I do not recognise, the one with the falcon that…’

‘The one I have told you not to ask questions about,’ said Reinhard, clicking his fingers and holding out his open hand for the letters with some measure of excitement.

‘Exactly, your excellency.’

Reinhard did not open the sealed letter, he never did until he was alone. ‘And the other?’ he asked impatiently.

‘A message from the army.’ Bertrand handed over a shoddy-looking sheet of parchment, folded and unsealed,

‘From the army! Sent by who?’ Reinhard dropped the sealed letter to one side and snatched the proffered sheet, unfolding it and starting to read, even as he spoke.

‘The messenger did not say, and it bears no seal. He is waiting outside, in case you wish to question him.’

Reinhard appeared not to hear, he was engrossed in the letter. He pursed his lips and let out a low hiss. ‘The army has been defeated, the survivors are retreating on the road back to Helsingborg, four days’ march. They are not being pursued but they request help, especially wagons and horses for the wounded.’

Bertrand was unmoved by this news, and stood in silence as the bishop stood up and read the letter again.

‘Shall I call the messenger in?’

‘Yes… wait, no. A moment.’ Reinhard dropped the letter to the table and picked up the sealed one, ripping the falcon-crested seal from it and unrolling it. Bertrand averted his eyes and studiously examined a floorboard while the bishop read the secret letter.

The bishop spent some time reading, going over the three-page letter twice, before folding it up, and carefully dropping it onto the table. Bertrand looked up, waiting for instruction. He noted the bishop’s mood had considerably brightened. ‘The timing of these events is fortuitous, Brother Bertrand. Fortuitous indeed.’

Bertrand nodded gently and smiled. He didn’t care for fortuitous events, such things did not concern him, but the bishop being in a good mood was always a benefit to his day.

‘We have lost a battle and maybe an army to the heathens, but we have been blessed with another hope in our struggle. Duke Lothair sends more forces here, to be under the command of the Duke of Bavaria.’

‘I will give a prayer of thanks for the men sent to Duke Welf,’ said Bertrand, with a solemn nod.

‘Hmm? Ah, yes, Duke Welfard. Of course,’ Reinhard said with a wry smile.

‘Shall I send in the messenger now?’

‘Is Baron Hugues in the city? He will need to be here for the report.’

‘I believe he is.’

‘Then send for him first, we should share this news together.’

Baron Hugues arrived later in the afternoon, sweeping into the church with a furious messenger in tow. ‘Ah, Baron Hugues, thank you for coming.’

Hugues looked perplexed. ‘This man says he has a message from the army and you refused to see him!’

Reinhard gave the baron a hard glare. ‘I have his message, and I waited for you to speak to him with me, lest you feel insulted. But let us not argue in front of others, it would not be fitting.’

Hugues stiffened at the rebuke but nodded. ‘Very well. What was the message?’

Reinhard picked up the grubby parchment from the table and handed it to Hugues, who squinted at the scribbled writing in the low light, before bending down to place it under a candle to examine. He finished the short letter quickly and let out an exclamation of distaste. ‘So the army is defeated.’

‘Yes,’ said Reinhard simply, keeping his voice grave and nodding sadly. ‘We will pray for their souls, but now we must organise the defence of the province, which is why I asked for you.’

Hugues nodded, biting his lip and looking at the bedraggled messenger. ‘So, what survives of the army?’

‘Just over two thousand, my lord. With one in four wounded.’

‘Two thousand, by the lord,’ Hugues exclaimed. ‘That is worse than I feared. Who commands? Count Baldwin? Count Adolf?’

The man shook his head. ‘Neither have retreated with the army, and are presumed dead or captured. There is no commander now, a group of surviving knights are organising the retreat.’

‘Both commanders are lost, you are sure?’ asked Reinhard.

The man shrugged. ‘I do not know any who saw them fall, but the command party was in the thickest part of the fighting, and none from it escaped with the army.’

Reinhard nodded solemnly. ‘A great loss indeed.’

‘I will organise relief, with Duke Welfard. The letter says the enemy do not pursue. Are you sure?’ Hugues looked at the man.

‘We had not sighted them again when I left the army after the battle, but that was two days ago. It is possible they have since caught up. There was much disarray, and the wounded slow the retreat significantly,’ the man said apologetically.

‘Thank you, you should report to Duke Welfard. He will want to know,’ said Hugues.

The man shook his head. ‘Another messenger went to the duke.’

Hugues felt Reinhard stiffen, and he exchanged a hurried glance with the bishop. ‘The duke already knows then?’

‘Yes, the messenger must have reached his camp by now.’

‘Good, good,’ said Hugues. ‘Very well, I expect you wish to go and join them,’ he said, by way of dismissal. The man nodded and turned to leave, shutting the door behind him, leaving the two governors of the Order alone.

‘I will have to go to the duke, coordinate a force to recover the survivors of the army and defend against any force that follows them. We may not have enough forces available to stop them, if they choose to march on Helsingborg, or Lund,’ Hugues said, with deep concern lining his brows.

‘I leave that up to you to work out, but this may help.’ Reinhard picked up the other letter, and passed it over.

Hugues looked at it quizzically and started reading.

‘The counts of Blakenburg and Eastphalia, as you expected. And others.’

‘A large force, larger than I had hoped for.’

‘And all under the command of Duke Welfard.’

‘Not quite,’ said Reinhard.

‘What? It says it here. Duke Lothair has committed the forces to the duke’s campaign.’

‘Yes, to the Duke of Bavaria.’

‘Who is Welfard!’ said Hugues in consternation.

‘Yes, as you say,’ said Reinhard passively.

Hugues shook his head and looked back to the letter which he peered at further. ‘Who sent this? I don’t recognise the seal, and it has no name.’

‘A friend, someone who shares our cause.’

‘I wish you would speak more plainly. I am the Grandsteward militare of the Order, you should not be keeping me aside like this.’ Hugues was irritated now.

‘I tell you everything that is important for the governing of the military order, and do not trouble you with things that are not. I do not need to share private correspondence with you, as, I am sure, you do not share all of yours with me?’ Reinhard asked innocently.

Hugues grunted in frustration but conceded the point. ‘So we must hold out for two weeks, three at most, and then we will be replenished,’ he said, waving irritably at the anonymous letter.

‘So it seems. Is that possible?’ asked Reinhard.

Hugues scratched his chin and thought about it. ‘They will arrive at Helsingborg, so we must hold that port until they reach it. We will have to take the bulk of our men, I will lead them myself. I will go and speak to Duke Welfard, I will need whatever men he can spare.’

‘I will be coming also.’

‘You will?’

‘Yes, I feel this is the critical moment, and my presence is important.’ Reinhard pressed a finger to his thin lips as he thought about it. ‘It is important you persuade the duke to remain here, his instinct will be to do so anyway, but encourage that.’

‘Why?’

‘It will be better if we have the sole command of the defence at Helsingborg. His presence will only confuse the matter.’

Hugues nodded slowly. ‘As you say, I will go and see him now.’

‘Good… Bertrand!’ Reinhard raised his voice and shouted at the door, which almost instantly opened to reveal the ever-present priest.

‘Your excellency?’

‘Prepare for travel tomorrow to Helsingborg, with everything we will need for the journey, and expect us to remain there for three weeks.’

‘It will be done.’ Bertrand bowed and closed the door again.

Sigurd stood on the road the morning after the battle and burned with frustration and the pain from the freshly opened wound in his side. He could not remember exactly when he had received it, but it was in the same place as the wound he had taken last year at Åhus, and it hurt like fire, sapping his mood and resolve.

The army had not yet set off in pursuit of the enemy and he was beginning to see it might not happen that day at all. All his focus was on catching the survivors of the Crusaders’ army, finishing them, and then liberating the coastal plain, avenging the defeats he had been dealt there.

But even in his anger, he knew the army was in no state to march. Not only had the losses been staggering, but the wounded were beyond counting. There had been so many, and the battle lasted until so late in the day, that many had been left out overnight on the field, their cries and moans haunting the rest of the army while they lit fires and huddled to sleep where they lay.

As he stood there, staring down the road, still littered with the detritus of battle and the retreat of the enemy, he heard several sets of footsteps approach. ‘King Sigurd.’ He recognised the voice as Ragnvald’s and sighed. The man’s words would not please him.

‘What?’

‘We must discuss the plans for marching.’

‘Why do I fear you want to discuss the plans for not marching?’ growled the king.

There was a pause as the Swedish jarl considered his words. ‘Because you have also seen this army in the light of day, and you know it is not possible to leave today.’

Sigurd turned around and scowled at Ragnvald, seeing that Jarl Frode was with him, as was Steinar. They had come in a pack for mutual support. ‘Do not attempt to convince me to abandon the pursuit, I warned you about this,’ he growled menacingly.

Steinar shook his head. ‘We do not, we know you have set your course.’

‘Then what is it?’

Steinar looked uncomfortably at the Swedish jarls. ‘We ask that we wait for another day or two.’

Sigurd bristled. ‘Our enemy will get away.’

‘We cannot stop them. We have five thousand men who can march, but only if we leave our wounded to die. There are too many. We must leave others to care for them, Lord Sigurd. These are men we cannot replace.’

‘We could leave five hundred men here and march, chase the Christians down.’

‘And if more Christians come from the coast? We will be too few. Many of their horsemen escaped, they will already be riding for the coast, carrying a warning that we come.’

Sigurd nodded curtly. ‘Much must be risked, to defeat this enemy.’

‘More men are coming down the road from Jönköping, fresh crews. The whole army is gathering there. If we wait a few weeks, we could march with double the force. Crews are coming from all over your kingdoms, let us not throw away our chance of victory to chase that ragged band who escaped us.’

‘Now you want to wait weeks?’ snapped Sigurd indignantly. ‘The Christians also will be gathering men. We know what they had here was not everything.’

‘No, I know that you will not wait weeks. But I ask you to consider carefully the advantages that just a few days will bring.’ Ragnvald stayed resolute under the king’s harsh stare.

Sigurd looked at Steinar, who shrugged apologetically, and to Frode, who remained silent. ‘Where is Kjartan?’

Steinar looked dejected. ‘We do not know. He has not come in, and no one has found his body. He may still be lying wounded on the field, with so many of our brothers.’

Sigurd’s resolve cracked at that, thinking of his friend, lying out on the field. ‘Some still survive?’

‘Yes, we are bringing in more now, searching for the last that can be saved.’

Sigurd looked out over the part of the battlefield that could be seen. Deep in thought, his hostility mellowed. ‘Today we will search for the living, build a camp, tend to the wounded, clear the field and recover equipment. Tomorrow we will rest, and wait for whoever comes to join us. On the third morning, we will march, leaving a few hundred behind to tend the wounded and direct any that follow to come and join us,’ Sigurd finally said, before turning away to look once again down the road. ‘We will not change this plan again. In two days, we march.’

‘Yes, Lord Sigurd,’ said Kjartan behind him, and Sigurd heard the three men turn and walk away.

He rested his hands on the top of his great axe, the butt on the ground between his feet, and stared off into the distance down the road again for a while, before sighing and walking back onto the field, Gunnar shadowing him with ten of his men. He had a task to do. He went to find his childhood friend.

Walking the battlefield again, the day after the fight, sobered Sigurd in a way that nothing else ever had. He picked his way through the wreckage of the centre, where his warriors had shattered the heart of the Crusader line. The ground was sodden, churned and pooled with darkening blood. He and his men searched through the bodies, finding those who still clung to life, ignoring the Christians and helping their own kin, carrying them back to the top of the rise where the army was starting to make a proper camp.

However many they carried back, more were found. Some of his own men, some of Sweden, warriors from all over his kingdoms. He came across a Norse woman in bloodied armour, sitting so still that he thought she was dead, but he was drawn to the body by the way she sat holding her sword. He almost started in fright when a bleary eye cracked open at his approach, and she turned her head slowly to look at him.

Sigurd looked around, but he was alone, his men all busy with other wounded, or searching the piles of the dead. He put a knee into the mud next to the woman and offered her his hand to help her up. But she shook her head resolutely. He looked down at her, trying to see where she was wounded. He saw her free hand was held to her stomach, and between her filth-encrusted fingers, a broken spear shaft was showing. The head would be deep in her body. A wound no one survived.

He looked back at her face, and met her eyes. She was older than him, a broken nose and a lined, sun-burnished face betraying a life of work and toil, come here to end in this field. He felt ashamed suddenly, and found that he could not speak to her. Her eyes were still sharp, though, even though her breathing was short and scrappy.

‘You’re bigger up close, King Sigurd,’ the woman whispered in a cracked voice, with a hint of a smile. Sigurd snorted an awkward laugh and nodded.

‘You recognise me.’

The women snorted weakly. ‘Of course. I was with you in Sjælland, and in Scania, and at the camp at Åhus where these fucks put us to flight. I marched through the black woods with you, I defended Jönköping with you, I was there for the fight at the stairs, at the end.’ She wheezed as she finished the list.

Sigurd slumped to the ground, despite the mire, and hung his head in embarrassment. ‘And yet I do not know you. I am shamed.’

‘Nonsense, you have many warriors, I have only one king. And now that you have met me, Sigurd Barechest, I was Thora, of Aslofjord.’ She rasped the last words through cracked lips and Sigurd swore at himself and pulled out his boiled leather canteen, opening the top and holding it up for Thora, who gratefully accepted a trickle of the warm, stale water, rubbing it around her lips and sighing contentedly. ‘It will only come out of my spear hole, but thank you.’

Sigurd put the water back on his belt and looked at the dying warrior with a furrowed brow. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘For what?’

‘That you have died here, for me.’

Thora laughed, and instantly cringed in pain, the laugh turning into a moan as she closed her eyes against the nausea. She took a few long breaths before speaking. ‘Don’t do that again,’ she chided him. ‘I didn’t fight for you, Norðrikonungr, I fought with you, so that you and whoever follows you would be my children’s king, not some foreign Christian lord. Don’t make this about you, don’t take this upon yourself. We all have our duty, and yours is to lead us well.’

Sigurd nodded, ashamed once more. ‘And have I?’

Thora made a subtle shrug. ‘Better than most.’ Footsteps approached, and Sigurd looked up to see it was Gunnar, who appraised the warrior, and her wound, and gave Sigurd a pained and confused look.

‘I’m sorry to find you here, Thora,’ he said stiffly.

‘You know each other?’ asked Sigurd. Gunnar furrowed his brows and looked between the two before replying. ‘Yes, I thought… it doesn’t matter.’

‘Stop gossiping like old women, and go and help those who can be helped,’ moaned Thora quietly. ‘Leave me in peace, in the sun.’ She leant her head back and closed her eyes, before opening them again and inclining her head to the left. ‘There was a man, Hemming, lying over there. We talked for some of the night. I have not heard from him for a while. You should check.’ She leaned back again and sighed, her chest rising and falling weakly.

Gunnar stood and went over to where she had indicated, checking wrists, but every body he checked was cold. He looked at Sigurd and shook his head.

‘We will look after him, Thora. And we will come back for you.’

‘Good. Now, leave me in peace. Look after him, Gunnar.’ Gunnar looked down at her and nodded, pausing but finding nothing to say in return. Sigurd stood and reluctantly walked away with Gunnar, towards the next sombre scatter of corpses, working their way down to the chaos of the right flank.

Gunnar looked back, once, but Thora had not moved. He broke the silence with Sigurd. ‘When I saw you with her, I assumed you knew.’

Sigurd looked at his usually stone-faced huskarl, whose eyes were lined with grief, and suddenly understood. ‘She was with you?’

Gunnar nodded, then shrugged. ‘Not really, but yes, during the siege.’

Sigurd sighed. ‘It was a long, hard winter.’

‘Don’t make excuses for me, Lord Sigurd. I have a wife at home, and no man is perfect, but I own my actions. Let us not speak of it again. She was not my woman, she was a warrior of Norway. I will return for her, and make sure her body is well cared for, as is owed to all those who lie here.’ He looked over at Sigurd. ‘I don’t mean any disrespect.’

‘None is given, your affairs are your own.’

The two men walked in silence across the field. Others were also around them, checking bodies and carrying some away. Occasionally there was a shout and men would converge on a warrior who had been found alive. One body suddenly sat up near them, dried blood caking the side of his head, and the dazed man looked around in confusion before another man rushed over and helped him to his feet. Other than the head wound, he seemed completely unmarked.

‘Maybe he will recover his wits,’ mused Sigurd.

‘Perhaps.’

The two men reached the ruin of the right wing, where the victorious Norse had shattered the Christian line and chased it across the field. Most of the bodies here were Christians, and they ignored them as they reached the top of the rise, where the rampant Norsemen had been met with the Crusader countercharge.

The bodies lay singly and in clumps, dead horses were scattered randomly through the carnage, a dead Norse warrior balanced on his knees like a horrific statue, a spear transfixing him through the chest and into the ground behind him, as if a giant had struck him down. Sigurd bent down and looked at a few of the bodies. ‘These are ours, men of Norway,’ he said sadly.

‘Yes,’ said Gunnar simply. ‘I know a few of them, this man, he is Kjartan’s man. A huskarl. Kjartan will be close.’

Sigurd drew in a deep breath and pursed his lips, trying to retain control of his emotions as he scanned the chaos. Then, a weak noise called out to them, and both men started, and jogged over towards it, searching for the source. A Norseman was calling to them weakly, his legs trapped under a fallen horse. A nasty wound had sheeted blood down his face.

‘Thank the gods, please, brothers, help me.’

Sigurd stuck the haft of a discarded spear under the horse, and with Gunnar pulling as gently as he could on the wounded man’s maille vest, levered the horse up enough to free him.

The man moaned as he was dragged across the earth, and looked down at his legs. ‘I can’t, I can’t feel them,’ he said in a terrified voice.

Gunnar looked at Sigurd and they shared a look. The man would likely live, but be a cripple. It was a fate they all feared.

Gunnar turned and whistled to another of the searchers, and the two of them lifted the crippled man and started carrying him back towards the camp, leaving Sigurd alone again.

Sigurd grimaced and started the search again, picking through the wreckage of his army.

They found few survivors on that rise. The wounds that had been inflicted by the horsemen were usually catastrophic. Sigurd started to feel nauseous and empty as he picked through the torn and crushed bodies of his countrymen. He stared at a fallen Christian knight, lying with a broken neck where he had been thrown from his horse onto a pile of Norse bodies, clustered together where they had made their last stand. Hatred for this enemy, who had caused such slaughter even as they lost the battle, overcame him, and he kicked the armoured corpse and shouted at it, ignoring the pain in his foot as he thumped it again and again, the body mocking his efforts with its long-dead eyes. As he kicked again, the body rolled, and Sigurd cried in anguish and fell to his knees as the face of the Norseman underneath it was revealed.

Sigurd carried Jarl Kjartan back to camp alone, cradled like a child in his huge arms. He refused all offers of help, and as he reached the scraggle of tents and cooking fires in the half-built camp, men stopped their work and stood, watching him, as he came off the field with half a hundred other men following him in silence.

Gunnar appeared with a few others of Sigurd’s men and a small cart, and they stopped the cart and Gunnar gently guided the stricken king over to it, where he reluctantly and tenderly laid the body of his lifelong friend.

Sigurd stood back from the cart, tears flowing freely down his filthy cheeks and into his matted beard, and everyone stood in silence as he mourned. Finally, the red-eyed king looked at Gunnar. ‘How long will it take, to cut wood and prepare proper fires, for Kjartan, and Thora, and all those who came to this place, never to leave?’

Gunnar stood and thought about it for a few moments. ‘About another three days, to collect the wood, and the dead, and prepare them properly.’

Sigurd nodded without hesitation. ‘Then we will do that. We will see them properly looked after.’

Gunnar nodded, a hint of relief on his face. ‘And what of the Christians?’

‘They will wait, we will follow them when we are done here.’

‘I’m sorry, I mean the Christian dead.’

Sigurds eyes narrowed, and his jaw clenched. ‘I see. Strip them of their equipment. I want every warrior in this army in good maille, with a spear and axe or sword. Then pile the bodies in the field and leave them for the ravens, and as a message to any who come here.’

‘As you wish. It will take more time.’

‘Take whatever time it needs. We will march on the coast in full strength, carrying their own steel against them. We will end this.’

Sigurd turned and walked away out into the field again. He had more of his people to find.

Chapter 12

A New Order

The defeated army of Count Baldwin marched into Helsingborg ten days later to find a town overrun with refugees, soldiers and panic. Riders had already reported the news that the victorious Norse were coming and many of the newly arrived Christian settlers and civilians had fled south to Lund and its vague promise of safety.

Sir Hans left his subordinates to find somewhere to set up camp and get medical care for the wounded who had survived the return journey. He himself went to find whoever was in command.

He was led to the largest hall in the town by two tight-lipped and fully armoured guards wearing the white surcoats with a golden cross that so many of the soldiers and knights in the town and adjoining fortress were wearing.

Three men were in the main room. At the table sat a high-ranking clergyman in fine robes and Baron Hugues, whom Sir Hans recognised from his earlier meetings with Count Adolf. Standing next to them, taking dictated notes on a parchment, was a plain-robed priest.

‘Grandmaster, Grandsteward; I present Sir Hans Mettel, of Oldenburg, who has arrived with the retreating army.’

The two seated men looked up sharply and Hans bowed, feeling confused about the titles. He knew of the existence of the Brotherhood of Christ’s Light, but had never encountered its ecclesiastical leader before, or its liveried soldiers.

‘Sir Hans, good to see you return,’ said Baron Hugues with a genuine smile, gesturing for him to approach. ‘We have received reports that the army was defeated, and that Counts Baldwin and Adolf were lost. Is that true?’

Hans grimaced and his eyes sank to the floor. ‘It is, my lord.’

Hugues shook his head sadly. ‘That is a great loss to our cause, I am sorry to hear of the death of your lord.’

The clergyman was apparently unaffected by any of this. He fixed Hans with a searching stare for a few moments longer and then turned back to the table where he had been reading a pile of parchments. ‘So, there are no significant commanders left with the army other than you?’ the man asked, emphasising the word ‘significant’ distinctly.

Hans stiffened but shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Bishop Reinhard, I’m sure Sir Hans has carried out his responsibilities devoutly and correctly in bringing what remains of the army back to us,’ said Hugues in a mollifying tone.

The Grandmaster nodded solemnly and played with the silver cross that hung from his neck. ‘We are thankful for good men like you, Sir Hans, and we prayed for your relief and return to us, but the army needs commanders who can unite them and have the status to do so. If there are none left to do so, Baron Hugues will have to take temporary command of the army, and join them with ours, until a suitable lord of the Crusade arrives.’

Hans felt a rush of anger at the summary dismissal. ‘There is one,’ he replied, regretting saying it the moment he spoke the words.

‘Who?’ said Reinhard, turning again to look at him, this time with a puzzled expression and a curled lip.

‘The Lord of Schauenburg.’

‘But you said Adolf was dead!’ said Hugues in consternation.

‘But his son survives,’ said Sir Hans, ‘and he will now be the count.’

That silenced the meeting for a short time as they all digested the implications. ‘Why did he not command the army on the return?’ asked Reinhard. ‘If he is alive, and he was with you, why were you in command?’

‘Because he is only sixteen, he was not ready to command an army and had just lost his father,’ said Hans, cursing himself for bringing Hartung up, but unable to back out now.

‘How is a child who was not ready to command helpful to us?’ asked Hugues with annoyance.

‘He can be made ready to command, and he can be carefully helped.’

‘A figurehead, you mean,’ said Reinhard with a spreading smile.

‘That is not what I said, your excellency.’

‘Ah, but I think it is. I think you mean you would command, but through him,’ said Reinhard with a wagging finger and a sly smile. ‘Perhaps I was mistaken to think you were not the right man for this army, Sir Hans. Because with your military skill and reputation, and your young lord’s title, we could have the field command that is needed to solidify the army around.’

Fuck. Sir Hans was fuming to himself now, but he could do nothing but nod his agreement, it had essentially been his idea. His desire to follow his lord’s last order and take his son and his men home was hanging in the balance.

‘Excellent,’ said Reinhard, looking back to Hugues. ‘Now, about the defence of the town.’

‘The defence of this town?’ asked Hans, with worry etched into his features.

‘Yes.’

‘Grandmaster, I don’t know if you are fully aware, but a very significant army of the enemy is coming here, and from what I have seen of this town, it cannot be resisted.’

‘We have the fortress outside.’

‘Yes, but few of those within this town would fit inside it, and all it can do is hold out. My army… the remains of the Crusade cannot be garrisoned there.’

‘No, most will have to defend the town,’ said Reinhard.

‘Until what?’

‘Until we are saved,’ said Reinhard with a firm smile.

‘Saved by what? This is most of the army that remains.’

‘Trust in the lord, this is his venture, and he will not let it fail while we have faith,’ said Reinhard solemnly. ‘As long as we hold this town and its port, the lord will provide. Now,’ he said, standing gracefully, ‘I will let you and Grandmaster Hugues make the arrangements for the defence, and the integration of your forces into ours, and I will return to my church, I have a service to take. It is more important than ever in these times to minister to our flock.’ He turned and swept out of the hall without a glance back, the silent priest scurrying after him, leaving Hans and Hugues behind.

Outside, Brother Bertrand fell into step with Reinhard as they crossed the square. ‘I need you to find the son of Count Adolf that Sir Hans mentioned immediately, before Hans is done with Grandsteward Hugues. Invite him to my chambers, ask him to come at once if he will. Give him my condolences, say I have prayed for him and wish to discuss his future with the Crusade and how the church can help him.’

Bertrand nodded and bowed, then hurried off across the square towards the church as Reinhard smiled to himself. And another piece enters the game.

Reinhard was praying when Hartung arrived. Forgoing his normal practice of making his visitors wait, Reinhard sprung to his feet, gave the boy a look of sincere sadness and raised a hand to invite him over.

‘My dear boy, how glad I am to see you return. My prayers have been with you and your father all this long winter, I am beyond consoling at the news of his death.’

Hartung looked lost and confused, but nodded in gratitude. ‘Thank you, your excellency, but… did you know my father?’

Reinhard nodded with a wistful smile. ‘I did, I had the honour of being his minister for a short time in Lund, and talked with him a little of you, and his hopes for your future together, so cruelly curtailed.’

‘My father spoke of my future?’ Hartung snorted in derision. ‘He tried to stop me coming on Crusade. He never expressed any care for what I would do,’ he added, the bitterness souring his voice.

Reinhard reached out a hand and beckoned the boy to sit with him. ‘Being a father and a great lord is very difficult, but your father cared for you very deeply. That was very clear. He was only protecting you by stopping you from coming on Crusade,’ Reinhard guessed, but it seemed a safe guess, and the stakes were high.

Hartung’s expression softened and he nodded, looking away with the seed of a tear in his eye. ‘That’s what my mother told me. But still, I must do my duty.’

Reinhard smiled in sympathy. ‘And what do you feel is your duty, Hartung?’

The boy looked uncertain for a moment. ‘To honour my family, and my liege lord,’ he said, as if recounting some past conversation.

Reinhard nodded proudly. ‘How happy your father would be to hear you say that. And now you will take over his titles, so you will be able to achieve that, if your intentions are good and you have a good Christian heart.’

Hartung shrugged. ‘I don’t know if Duke Lothair will let me take all my father’s titles. He may just give some of them to someone else. I have no allies, no friends to argue my case, I am just a squire here. I don’t even command my father’s men, Sir Hans does,’ he said bitterly, looking down at his knees.

Reinhard frowned and took the boy’s hand in a firm grip. ‘Listen to me, Hartung, you have a chance here to make a name for yourself, prove who you are, show that you are worthy of those titles. With success in this army, you can have all that you desire, as long as you are true and have faith. Tell me, Hartung, are you faithful to the Lord?’ Reinhard fixed the boy with his most piercing and soul-searching look, boring into each brown eye with his own. Hartung quailed slightly under the stare.

‘Yes, I am,’ he said in a whisper.

‘Wonderful, I knew you would be. You see, Hartung, if you are faithful to the Lord, and do his work, you have all the friends you need. You are here on this great Crusade, fighting in his name. If you are true to his work here, you will be rewarded.’

The boy looked up at him with new hope in his eye. ‘But how?’

‘Well,’ said the bishop conspiratorially. ‘I believe the first step has already happened. I have arranged for you to take command of your father’s men.’

‘What? How!’ said Hartung, excitement lighting him up.

Reinhard laughed quietly. ‘You see, Hartung, you already have friends. Your father asked me to look out for you, if anything happened, and I am. He loved you, Hartung, and I will honour his memory, his faith, and his dedication to the Lord’s cause here by helping you continue in his path.’

Hartung smiled broadly and nodded, giving the bishop a look of pure excitement and joy. ‘Thank you… your excell…’

‘Please, call me Father Reinhard. I will be your minister, as I was for your father, if you will accept me? And a minister is just father to his flock.’

‘Of course!’ said the boy, nodding enthusiastically. ‘But how can I repay your kindness?’ he asked.

‘Oh, my boy, you don’t need to do anything other than continue doing the Lord’s work. That is all I seek for anyone. And then all you wish for will be yours. When your good deeds are established, I will tell Duke Lothair of your worth, and he will hear it from others too, and he will be glad to grant you your birthright.’ He beamed at the boy, and the boy beamed back at him.

‘Now, one last thing. Your power and position will make others jealous. You must be wary of them, or they may seek to undermine you,’ he said, fading his smile in exchange for a serious look.

‘Who?’ asked the boy, totally fixated on everything the bishop said.

‘Well, I do not know who exactly. But you must beware of those who stand to lose from your success.’

Hartung thought for a while and then looked up with an idea. ‘Sir Hans!’ he said. ‘Sir Hans commands my father’s men, he will not like me taking them from him!’

Bishop Reinhard shrugged with just the right amount of thought. ‘I know a little of Sir Hans, he seems to be a good man, but…’ He paused.

‘But what?’

‘Well, you never can know. Just be careful, that is all I am saying. The more someone seeks to control you, the more suspicious you should be of their motives. But that does not mean Sir Hans is one of them, maybe he will be a loyal servant to you, as he was to your father.’ The bishop finished with a sage expression.

But Hartung was deep in thought, and Reinhard could almost see the seeds of doubt brewing, but did not want them to take root too fast, too early. ‘Now, shall we pray?’

Sir Hans glanced over at Hartung as they stood on the fortress wall, looking north over the empty fields, waiting for any sign the Norse army was coming. It was three days since Hugues had placed Hartung in command of the remains of the army, seconded to the overall command of the Order.

This had effectively stripped Hans of his position, one he had never sought in the first place, but Hans had grudgingly agreed that the army needed someone to rally behind, and the son of Count Adolf, who had been widely well regarded and even idolised both for his leadership in the campaign, his opposition to the disgraced coward Baldwin, and his courageous death in battle, was the ideal person to rally behind and inject new hope into the army.

Unfortunately, Hartung had not been as receptive to Hans’s suggestions and advice as he had hoped. The boy was surly and snappy and tried to argue every point Hans made, even when in contradiction to himself. Hans put it down to mourning the loss of his father, and the pressure of being put in command at his age.

Nevertheless, Baron Hugues had quietly instructed the boy to take Hans’s direction and learn from him, and Hartung obeyed, even if as reluctantly as possible.

‘Do you think we should go out and strike them when they arrive?’ asked Hartung.

‘Sadly, I do not, my lord. It is what they will hope we do,’ said Sir Hans.

Hartung muttered to himself, ‘So we just stand here and do nothing while they besiege us?’

They had been over this half a dozen times, but inaction chafed at the boy, who wanted to be proactive, but did not know in what way.

‘Yes, I am afraid we must.’

‘It will make me look like a coward,’ complained Hartung.

‘No, it makes you look wise,’ replied Sir Hans.

‘Everyone knows you make the decisions, Hans. So it makes you look wise, and me a coward for allowing it,’ said the boy bitterly.

Hans clenched his fist in frustration, and took a breath to calm himself. ‘I do not believe that is true, my lord. The whole army looks up to you, as a paragon, the continuation of your father’s legacy.’

‘You mean as a shadow of him.’

‘No, Hartung…’

‘My lord,’ snapped the boy. ‘You will respect my position, even if you do not respect me.’

‘My apologies, my lord, I meant no disrespect. It is just an old habit.’ He paused to let the tension cool. He had not found a way to get through to the boy, but he remembered how Adolf had struggled also, and committed himself to patience.

‘Your father built up his reputation over many years, not in a few weeks, and you will do the same. Have no concern for it. It is like sword practice, mastery of command does not come immediately, but with practice and time and teaching. As you master the sword, so you will master becoming your father’s equal in leadership.’

That did appear to mollify the boy slightly, and he grunted and leaned out over the rail. ‘You are right, I am sure,’ he said curtly. ‘But I do not have years available, I must lead this army now, and you must be seen to respect that.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ said Hans, and the exchange ended. ‘Shall I see to the men’s dispositions?’ he asked after a while, looking for an excuse to leave the situation.

‘Yes, check they are as we ordered, and manning the walls correctly,’ the boy said.

There were no Norse within fifty miles, and no need for the excessive guard Hartung had placed, which only served to make the men grumble and resent him, but Sir Hans did not think it was the time for another lesson, so he walked off down the wall to pointlessly check the positions again.

On his circuit, he found Sir Dietmar. He greeted the older knight warmly and Dietmar fell into step beside him on his walk.

‘I am worried about Hartung,’ said Hans, when they were out of earshot of anyone, pausing at the wall as they looked outwards.

Dietmar shifted uncomfortably and gazed out over the fields. ‘As am I, and always have been.’ The boy was no longer Dietmar’s squire, officially, which would not be proper for the supposed commander of the army. But Dietmar still served behind the scenes as his educator in the skills and knowledge he would require. An awkward relationship, at best.

‘Really? Why?’

‘I am uncomfortable discussing your lord in this way,’ Sir Dietmar, ever the proper gentleman, replied.

‘But yet you are,’ said Hans.

‘Yet I am.’ There was a pause and Dietmar relented. ‘He was always a surly and distant lad, a good squire in battle, a terrible squire out of it.’

‘Did he listen to you?’ asked Hans.

‘In matters of war? Yes. He would hang on my every word in swordfighting or horsemanship or tactics. It was in other ways, of behaviour, of character, of knowing his place that he was always belligerent. He was always frustrated and insecure, always with so much to prove.’

‘Well, then, not much has changed, except perhaps to make it worse. Power does not become him; whatever he has he fears for, and wants more,’ mused Hans.

‘Is that not the same of all powerful men?’

Hans ran his hand through his unwashed hair. ‘There is truth to that, but it is worse on him, less ambition and more jealousy and spite. I don’t know where it comes from, not from his father, who wore the mantle of power so easily.’

‘Perhaps that is why – growing up in that shadow must have been difficult for a boy like him.’

‘It’s more than that, but I cannot work out what.’

The two men stood in silence for a while.

‘Tell me, Hans, how long do you think we can hold when the Norse arrive? What is our objective here? What is the end?’

Hans looked at the knight and frowned. ‘You are already feeling defeated?’

‘No, we are far from defeated, but this town is not built for a siege. The walls are pathetic and long, too long to fully defend. There is no ditch, we have had little time to prepare anything else. The food stores are large, and the wells are rich. But I do not believe they will try to starve us out. Only this fortress will hold, and with barely one in five of our men contained within it. Everyone outside will be helpless, and the town will fall within days.’

‘I fear you are right. But we may be relieved, we have sent messengers asking for reinforcements.’

‘That will take months, it may be too late.’

‘True, or it may not. The Norse army is not so much larger than ours. We stripped the land of food, and they will be hard pressed to bring all they need from elsewhere.’

‘They will manage, this is their land.’

Sir Hans sighed. ‘Bishop Reinhard and his brotherhood are preaching that God will deliver us.’

Dietmar chortled. ‘Of course, that is the way of priests. He seems confident, he is gaining a lot of followers, even among the Norse population who remain here. He has been baptising them by the hundred.’

Sir Hans nodded nervously. He had noted the influence the bishop and his brotherhood were building with increasing unease. They not only had their own men, but their own massive food stores, all food Hans suspected had been diverted from the Crusade stores, but he was handing it out to the people in return for their attention and favour, and preaching that if they had faith, God would send deliverance to them and rid them of the Norse army.

‘Could you not take your men and return home, as Count Adolf ordered?’ Dietmar asked warily.

‘Technically, I could argue that order still stands. But Hartung has been given command, and sees no reason to return home, not now, in the moment he has been given the chance for glory. And I never received that order in writing.’

‘I would attest to it.’

‘And it would be our word against Hartung if he argued. That would be ugly, very ugly.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Nor do I feel right in abandoning the rest of the army. It would not sit well with me.’ Hans gripped the edge of the wooden parapet tightly. ‘No, I do not think I can do that. In any case, I must stay and protect Hartung, and cannot easily compel him to leave.’

Dietmar put his hand on Hans’s shoulder, causing the younger man to turn and look at him. ‘He is still my squire. Even if you must leave, I promise I will stay at his side until he is safely home.’

Hans gripped Dietmar’s wrist in his own hand and nodded gratefully. ‘I thank you for it, friend. It may yet come to that.’

Chapter 13

The End of the Road

Bishop Reinhard was in his chambers when the messenger arrived. The soldier of the Order was mud-spattered and tired. He bowed and waited for Reinhard’s slight nod to speak.

‘Grandmaster, we have sighted the Norse army. It is on the road, two days’ march north, and headed this way.’

Reinhard inhaled deeply and leaned back. ‘I see, and how many are they?’

‘Many thousands, perhaps eight.’

Reinhard’s eyes widened slightly at the number and he nodded. ‘A great many of the heathens. Thank you, my son, you may go and find rest and respite from your labours.’

The man saluted and received Reinhard’s gestured blessing before departing, and it wasn’t long before Hugues stepped into the room to replace him. The baron looked glum and drawn.

‘Eight thousand,’ he said simply.

‘Yes, more than we expected.’

‘More than we can resist.’

‘Be calm, Grandsteward, you know the plan.’

‘But we have only two days. Will it be enough? How can you be sure they will arrive in time?’

Reinhard nodded and an honest expression of doubt crossed his face. ‘I cannot, but I have faith.’

‘It is not too late to evacuate, to retreat south to Lund. It is more defensible.’

‘But its port is not.’

Hugues shook his head. ‘No, it is not.’ The port near Lund was a few miles from the walled city, and, once besieged, they would be cut off from the sea. Here in Helsingborg, the port was within the protection of the town’s walls, such as they were.

‘I have ordered the messengers to my quarters, to isolate them and prevent news of the Norse army spreading through the town and garrison. We must prevent a panic.’

Reinhard leant back and thought about this for a moment. ‘No, let them out. In fact, we will announce the news ourselves, let the people know how dire the situation is.’

‘What? Why?’

‘Because the salvation will be all the greater, if the threat is so clearly understood. These people, these converts and our own people come to this land to live on and work it, they need to know the power of the Lord, and how he rewards the faithful. And let those who have no faith reveal themselves with their panic, it is all to our advantage.’

Hugues squirmed in discomfort. ‘And if our help does not arrive in time?’

Reinhard looked at Hugues with a blank expression that cracked, just slightly, around the edges. ‘Then we will all be martyrs in the ultimate cause.’

The two men looked at each other in the weight of that silence, Hugues looking distinctly glummer than Reinhard, when there was a commotion outside the door, and they heard the voice of Sir Hans requesting entry.

Reinhard snapped Hugues a swift look. ‘I urge you, solidarity in all things. Have faith, Brother Hugues.’

The baron barely had time to make a nervous nod before the door opened and Hans strode in, the young lord Hartung at his side.

‘You have heard?’ said Hans, short of breath and pale-faced, skipping any formalities.

Reinhard nodded calmly. ‘We have received the news.’

‘Then it is clear, we must evacuate to Lund.’

Reinhard shook his head. ‘We must not.’

‘What?’ Hans looked between the two men in horror. ‘Your excellency, they come with nearly ten thousand men, we can hold the fortress against that for weeks, but the town… a few days, at most? We must leave or be defeated here.’

‘We have chosen to stay, God will protect us.’

Hans bit back a retort, he was beside himself with frustration but could not forget the rank of the men he was talking to. ‘My lords, I beg you to reconsider, to take my advice, based on experience hard won from over a year of fighting. We cannot win this, we cannot survive here. We should save our forces and retreat to Lund, perhaps we can gather enough men there to hold them off while we wait for relief. It may take months, but I believe it can be done.’ He spoke calmly and well, which annoyed Reinhard, who had hoped for more rudeness and panic.

Pretending to contemplate this, Reinhard put his hand on his crucifix and looked at the ground, as if weighing the words. ‘Good sir knight, I believe the Lord our father will deliver us, and that to abandon this place would be to abandon him. I appreciate your advice, truly, but we must, in fact, remain here, and not give up the land good Christian men died to liberate.’

Hans looked at Hugues. ‘My lord, you share this belief?’

Hugues flicked his eyes between the bishop and the knight, his doubt showing for far longer than Reinhard would have wished, but he knew the stakes they were playing for, and that if he left, he would be leaving the gaming board with nothing, to go home in disgrace, so he steeled his chin and nodded. ‘I do.’

Hans put his head in his hand and half-turned on the spot, muttering to himself before shaking it and relying in a defeated tone. ‘Then I am sorry, my lords, but we will be leaving with the army. It tears my heart to leave you and your Order behind, but you have the fortress to defend, and perhaps you would be safe within it until we return. We will march to Lund, and gather whatever forces can be gathered. Perhaps, by some miracle, we will gather enough, and quickly enough, to march here and relieve you.’

Reinhard looked at Hugues with feigned embarrassment, and then back at Hans. ‘I am sorry, Sir Hans, but I do not believe that you can.’

Hans looked up in confusion. ‘Can what? We have plenty of time, the road south is clear. We will march in the morning.’

Hugues interjected. ‘Sir Hans, do you have any written order putting you in command of the army?’

Hans’s face flushed and he straightened. ‘You know that I do not.’

‘Then it, I’m afraid, is not your decision,’ Hughes said, almost apologetically.

‘No, of course Lord Hartung would give the order, we have discussed it, and that is my advice.’ He gestured to the boy behind him without even looking, and not seeing the anger on the boy’s face at being so openly controlled. Reinhard’s heart jumped for joy at the brusque knight’s careless handling of the situation, it would make his next gamble so much more sure to play out as he required.

‘Lord Hartung, are you sure this is what you wish? If you march away with the army, I fear how that will be seen as your first act in command, to leave in the face of the enemy,’ Reinhard said with a worried frown. ‘If we are defeated, men will say you abandoned us, and if we are victorious, they will say… Well, it doesn’t bear consideration what men will say if you abandon the Pope’s ordained holy brotherhood here, only for us to be victorious nonetheless. I expect you would be disgraced. I cannot wish such a thing on you as a new lord of the empire trying to inherit your father’s fine legacy.’ Reinhard twisted the invisible chain with a sympathetic flick of his wrist, and he saw the young man stiffen and recoil at the implications as the links snapped tight.

Sir Hans looked on in horror as he saw the depth of the trap he had made for himself, and he looked at Hartung, who would not even meet his eye. ‘My lord, Hartung, your reputation will mean nothing if you are lost here. Your father ordered me to take you and his men home, it was his last command. I merely seek to obey and be loyal, as I will be to you.’

Reinhard tutted and shook his head, speaking again to the boy.

‘It is different, you see, for Sir Hans. He has established his reputation as a great warrior of the Crusade, he could perhaps be forgiven a single mistake. But I think for you, you must yet make your mark, make your name known. If the odds are truly as terrible as Sir Hans says, imagine the glory of taking on those odds with God at your side and triumphing! Your name would be emblazoned forever on the fabric of this Crusade. Your father may indeed have wished for you to return, but sadly, he is not here to give that command.’

Hartung was breathing quickly, looking at Reinhard, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side, and Reinhard worried for a moment he had been too overt in his threat to the boy’s future.

‘Sir Hans. I wonder if my father would truly have given such a command, to take the men home.’

Hans recoiled at the question, and even Hugues winced as the honourable man was accused of lying and cowardice by the words. He was too hurt to even form a reply.

‘My father was not known for retreating, or fear, or lack of resolve. He was known for bravery, and fearlessness, and he refused to retreat from great odds, preferring instead to fight and die with his army to prove his honour. Yet we are to flee? Are those truly his words?’ Hartung turned his contemptuous glare on Sir Hans, whose mouth hung open and whose white-knuckled hand clung to his pommel in shock.

‘My lord, I swear it, on the graves of my family and in the presence of these holy men I swear it, may my soul be damned if I lie.’ Hans dropped swiftly to one knee in front of Hartung and reached for the boy’s unwilling hand, holding it prisoner as he beseeched him. ‘He did not wish you to be a coward, he wished you to live long enough to gain the chance to make a name, to win your own glory. You need to build your experience, and secure your position at home. Please, my lord, honour his wishes, they were spurred by nothing but his love for you.’

It was, Reinhard admitted to himself, a very impressive response. Hans had shown great control, not responding in anger, not giving in to furiously denying the terrible slight on his honour, instead submitting himself to the boy and speaking well. Reinhard valued control and self-discipline above all other things, for control was dear to the Lord.

It almost made him regret that it had not worked, as he saw Hartung finally pull his hand away angrily and turn away from his liegeman. Almost.

‘Even beyond the grave, my father seeks to limit and control me, but I will not have it. He never believed in me, and I shall prove him wrong. The army will remain here with me, that is my command.’

Sir Hans deflated and bowed his head, but the boy was not finished. ‘Sir Hans, you served my father well, but you are still his man, loyal to his interests, not mine. It is unacceptable. You are dismissed from my service and my forces. You may return home.’

Hugues gasped a little as Hans looked up at the boy, distraught at the unspeakable humiliation, his chin working but no words being formed. Reinhard felt a brief flash of sorrow for him, but it passed like summer lighting, and the glow of his victory was all that remained.

‘I… my lord, I am so sorry… I will go.’ Hans stumbled to his feet in a daze and Hartung ignored him, his eyes fixed steadfastly on Reinhard, who fought to keep his face neutral. The Saxon knight bowed haltingly and turned, walking through the door like a mid-morning drunk.

Hugues stood in silence as Reinhard stepped over to take Hartung’s hand. ‘A true leader knows when to make the hard decisions, and to stand when others would bow. I am proud of you, my lord, and your father would be too.’

Hartung nodded and puffed his chest out slightly and Reinhard smiled once more. ‘Now, as to the arrangement for the defences.’

Jarl Ragnvald went down the column at a jog, his knees protesting and his lungs burning. The long, idle and hungry winter siege seemed to have aged him by a half dozen years, and his already silver-dashed hair was now more white than brown. But Sigurd had called for him, and he would answer.

The army had left the great forests of the inland area and was marching out into the flat farmlands and marshes that dominated the coastal strip. A little more than ten miles ahead, less than a day’s march for this army on this good road, lay their destination; the town and fortress of Helsingborg. The plan was to take it quickly, and then, with that base secure at their backs, march to Lund. With those two major towns captured, the Norse would be able to clear the rest of Scania in safety.

He finally reached Sigurd, who was standing in a small crowd of jarls by the side of the road, deep in conference. Ragnvald noted with some sadness how few of the old familiar faces were present in the war council, but greeted Jarl Frode warmly. His brother-in-law had taken a nasty-looking but superficial wound to the side of the face and the shoulder from a sword swing, and the angry pink scar twisted his smile as the two men embraced.

‘Ah, Ragnvald! I’m glad you are here.’ The king beckoned at an unarmoured warrior who was standing with a horse, clearly fresh back from riding, the sweat still shining on the mare’s flanks. ‘Tell him, quickly.’

‘We have scouted Helsingborg, the remains of the enemy army are there.’

‘In the fortress?’ said Ragnvald in confusion. It was a small fortress; if the entire remains of the enemy were garrisoned within it, there must have been fewer survivors than he had expected.

‘No, in the town!’ Sigurd said with glee. ‘They are defending the town!’

‘But the town is indefensible. That is why the fortress exists, so that the people can move into it if there is a threat.’

‘I know! But either they don’t, or they simply had too many wounded or were too hungry and tired to retreat further. I don’t know, but we have them. We have them trapped!’ He clapped his hands together in delight.

Ragnvald smiled but he did not share the king’s ebullient mood. The Crusaders were many things, but they were not stupid. If they were defending that weak town, they must have a good reason for it.

But it was not the time to voice such concerns, and the king was in full swing. ‘We will besiege them here, and once we have captured the town, we will send parts of the army out to all the nearby settlements. I want the entire area secure. Prioritise the coastal villages and towns, anywhere we might find ships. We will need to find every ship we can for our return to Sjælland and Fyn later this year.’

‘What about Lund?’

The king nodded. ‘We will need that also, but whatever men they have remaining there cannot threaten us if we have destroyed their army here. We will first secure the north of Scania, and then strike south after.’ Sigurd was in full flow now, his confidence and joy washing off him and into the assembled jarls, many of whom had only just joined the army, drawn by the call for aid sent by the king during the winter, but arriving too late to fight in the great battle on the road. They were full of the joy of being with a victorious army, and with the desire to prove themselves and make up for missing the previous fight.

‘Now come, before the army leaves us behind. We will plan the liberation of the local towns in detail tonight in our siege camp at Helsingborg! Hah!’ Sigurd shouted, barely able to contain his excitement.

The gaggle of men set off after the king, with the few dozen survivors of his blue-cloaked huskarls following. Ragnvald stayed back from the king, too exhausted to banter with the man, who seemed to have the breath to loudly joke and march at the same time while Ragnvald struggled to persuade his legs to continue.

Frode fell in beside him and the two men walked in companionable silence for a few miles. The land they moved through appeared deserted at first, but as they progressed, more and more people appeared from the various villages and clusters of farm buildings along the road. Some watched warily from field boundaries, some came out cheering and blessing the Norsemen. One old woman stopped the king’s party, tears in her eyes, so that she could stoop and kiss Sigurd’s feet.

The mood in the men was triumphant, and Ragnvald felt himself carried along with it as they marched through lands they had lost barely six months before, the first time they had taken back anything the Crusade had stolen from them.

As they neared Helsingborg, they came across the low ridge from where they had the previous year watched the fall of the fortress outside Helsingborg, visible in the distance, smoke rising from within its walls. Before them, down the gentle slope, were the fields and marshes where the newly arrived Crusader army had successfully resisted them in a chaotic and muddled battle.

It was too late to march to the town, so the army went to pitch its tents below the ridge as Sigurd stood there with Ragnvald and sent the other lords back to their men.

The king was silent for a long time, taking in the scene in the evening light, and Ragnvald started to wonder what he wanted, and then lost himself in his own thoughts. ‘I swore that I would return, did I not, Ragnvald?’

Ragnvald started, disturbed from memories about another time, and he nodded. ‘You did, Lord Sigurd.’

‘I did not imagine it would take so long. Or that so few of the men who stood with me to witness that oath would be there to see me fulfil it.’ The king’s voice was tired, the excitement of the day gone.

‘They see you, Sigurd.’

Sigurd smiled and turned to Ragnvald. ‘I hope they do.’ He put his foot on a stump and looked down at it. ‘The very place we held our war council, when last we were here. I sat on this stump.’

Ragnvald looked down at it and snorted. ‘You recognise this stump? It is like a great many stumps. There are many woodcutters here, and few trees remaining.’

‘I do. I remember everything about it. This was the scene of our worst defeat. We assembled the greatest army the North had ever seen, and we were utterly helpless. I branded every detail of that defeat and that day onto my soul, so that I would learn from it.’

‘True. You told me we would scatter the army, harass and weaken them, lead them into the woods and destroy them. I was not sure, at the time, that it was correct.’

‘But here we are.’

‘Here we are indeed, Lord Sigurd.’

‘With half the army we had before, and yet on the very verge of victory, a victory that has already been paid for in blood.’

Ragnvald had nothing to say to the sombre king as he surveyed the fields as the light started to fade.

‘Well, tomorrow we will make the attack that will end this Crusade, and then we will sail across the narrow sea.’ He pointed at the dark strip of water that lay beyond the land to their front. In the distance beyond, a darker smear marked the edge of Sjælland. Within sight, and soon within grasp. ‘I will uphold my oath to once again stand in København, to regain that lost land.’ The king nodded to himself slowly. ‘We have been through so much, and I did not always believe. But, finally, we are here.’

‘We would not have done it without your leadership.’

‘Bah, do not flatter me like some wet boy,’ Sigurd rebuked him.

‘I do not,’ replied Ragnvald calmly. ‘I merely speak the truth, as I also do when I think you are being a fool.’ Sigurd barked a single short laugh and Ragnvald grinned.

‘That you do, more often than I would like.’

‘It is required more often than I would like, but on a great many things you were right, and here we are, on the verge of your victory.’

Sigurd turned to him and looked at him thoughtfully. ‘And yet you still sound unsure.’

Ragnvald shrugged. ‘I will always be unsure, until the last one of them has fled in their ships or had their corpse pecked clean by the ravens. You have enough certainty for all of us. It is my place to find the doubt hidden in dark corners, and bring it to light.’

‘And tell me, what do you see here? What chance do they have of defeating us?’

Ragnvald sighed and stared at the town. Eventually, he shrugged. ‘Our scouts have ridden to Lund and back and there is no enemy force in the field. What they have in this town cannot resist us, and I see no trick or strategy they could use to defeat us.’

‘So, what is the problem?’

Ragnvald frowned as he tried to put his finger on the source of his concern. ‘They surely know that as well as we do.’ He looked back at the king. ‘So why are they still here?’

Sigurd grunted and looked again at the enemy-held town, as if searching for the answer, but then he just shook his head and thumped Ragnvald on the shoulder. ‘Well, get some sleep, tomorrow we will find out.’

The dawn was cool and foggy. A morning mist clung to the low ground and the wisps of it curled around trees and smothered fields as the army awoke and broke camp. It was a short march to Helsingborg. The army followed the road past the woodland and marsh that sat inland of the city, passing the very field and drystone wall where Ragnvald had launched his failed attack on the Crusader lines the previous year, the field once again unmarked by the passage of war, ploughed in neat rows and seeded with spring crops.

The army marched in close company, wary of ambushes or tricks, but none came. Before the sun was fully up, and while the last vestiges of the mist were burning from the land, they approached the walls of the town and saw them lined with soldiers, white and gold banners hanging limply in the still morning air. The fortress stood alone above the town on their right, the steep banked earthen mound topped with stout palisade walls, repaired and reinforced since its fall.

On their left, the land fell away gently towards the coast, the port hidden by that slope, more and more of the sea being revealed as the army marched towards it.

Sigurd was shouting orders as he walked, joyous and purposeful. Men were sent to start building the siege camp, others to scout the whole perimeter of the fortress and town and prevent anyone from leaving or arriving. ‘Jarl Steinar!’ the king shouted, looking around him. The Norwegian warlord pushed through the throng that followed Sigurd.

‘Yes, King Sigurd.’

‘We will need trees felling, for ladders. This wall is weak and low, we will storm it with ladders. Make a ram also, like the one we captured at the Christian camp at Jönköping. It was a clever design, and we should show them we have learned from them!’ Sigurd laughed and Steinar nodded and turned back towards his own men, hurrying to carry out the orders.

‘Ragnvald, Frode, Halfdan; bring your men, we will go to the shore and see if the town can be stormed along the beach. Maybe the wall is still weakest where it meets the sea. Maybe we could even storm it today!’

The king set off at an angle, splitting from the vanguard of the army, which took up positions covering the main gate of the town to ward off any attempt to sally. With his own men and the Swedes following, he set off towards the slope that led down to the sea, sharing jokes with his companions and reeling off more orders and instructions.

Ragnvald half jogged to keep up with the king as they walked towards a small copse of trees around an abandoned farm building. Beyond the copse would be the last of the downhill slope, and then the beach and the sea.

Sigurd set off through the copse and Ragnvald followed the king through the bushes and the two men pounded up a small, grass-covered dune beyond. The king reached the top two steps before Ragnvald and stopped. Ragnvald stopped beside him and raised his eyes to the horizon.

‘No,’ the king whispered as the breath leaked out of him. Ragnvald felt his knees weaken and he almost stumbled in the soft sand.

In the channel in front of them, sailing across the narrow channel between Helsingborg and Sjælland, was a huge fleet of ships. Christians ships. All headed towards Helsingborg’s broad harbour.

‘No!’ the king shouted, spittle flying from his beard as he roared at the oncoming ships. ‘It’s not possible. We defeated them!’ Sigurd raged, the veins standing out on his neck.

‘Reinforcements,’ said Ragnvald.

‘How can they be here so soon? How can they have another army so soon?’ asked Frode in despair.

‘They must have been sent for at the start of winter,’ said Ragnvald.

‘We BEAT them!’ howled Sigurd, unable to tear his eyes from the oncoming fleet.

‘My king, we must go. I’m sorry.’ Ragnvald could hardly bear to speak the words, but he knew there was no choice. The fleet before them was huge, the soldiers within it would outnumber them heavily.

‘NO! No, we have come so far, we can take the town. Storm it now before they get here, burn the docks, hold them on the beach.’ The king looked at his jarls in despairing hope, and few could meet his eye.

‘It is not possible, the town is full of troops, we cannot capture it in time. The enemy will be landing by noon. My king, please, we must leave before we are cut off,’ Ragnvald said, reaching a hand towards the king.

‘We did not come so far just to retreat again,’ cried Sigurd, pounding the haft of his axe into the soft sand.

‘My king, he speaks the truth, we must go. I’m so sorry,’ Steinar added, stepping up to the king and putting a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘We can beat them again, but not here, not today.’

The king let out a strangled cry of rage and anguish. More hands were put on him, more of his men begged and pleaded, and he stood unmoved. Finally, Steinar stretched up to whisper in Sigurd’s ear, and the king’s head bowed, just a fraction, and he let himself be turned and guided back half a step, and with a final howl of anger, he trudged down the slope, leaving the sails of the Crusader fleet behind him.

Chapter 14

Salvation From the Sea

The masters of the Order and Hartung with his entourage went down to the docks to greet the first ships as they arrived. Even as they were unloading, the Norse army turned and marched away and men on the walls and in the town behind shouted and celebrated and banged their weapons on their shields in an outpouring of celebration.

The first ship to arrive was the largest, and when it was secured, a broad walkway was tied in place between the ship and the low Norse dock, allowing the men on board to disembark. Twenty knights in full armour led the way, followed by a number of finely dressed attendants and nobles.

Reinhard waited patiently as the little procession made its way off the docks, and two of the men he had taken to be knights walked forwards to greet him.

‘I am Otto, Count of Ballenstedt, and this is Rudolf, Margrave of Nordmark and Count of Stade.’ The man paused, giving the greeting party an unsure stare, his eyes moving between the boy Hartung and the two knights who flanked him, and Baron Huges, unsure who he was addressing. He ignored Reinhard completely.

‘Welcome, my lords. I am Baron Hugues, Grandsteward of the Order of the Brotherhood of Christ’s Light.’ Hugues bowed lavishly, and Otto returned it politely with a nod.

‘I am Hartung, Lord of Schauenburg,’ replied the young noble with a bow.

Otto’s face drew tight. ‘You are now Lord of Schauenburg? Your father was Count Adolf? Yes, I remember you, last we met you were just a small boy.’ Hartung tensed at the patronising tone, but nodded. Otto’s lands were adjacent to Adolf’s and the two men had campaigned together against the northern tribes of the Wends, although they were not friends, being too interested in the same power. Lords of equal standing and ambition like Adolf and Otto could not truly be friends, especially when Adolf had accumulated far more power and glory.

‘What happened to your father, he was defeated?’ asked Rudolf, like Otto, ignoring Reinhard, who was content to be maligned for now.

Hartung fought to keep his face neutral. ‘My father was in the army of Count Baldwin, which was defeated in battle, but his actions allowed part of it to escape, the part that has held this city until your arrival.’

‘I see. He was a fine military man, I meant no offence. I am distraught to hear of his death,’ said Otto, with a tone that conveyed no distress at the news whatsoever, but managed to avoid outright glee at finding his rival gone.

The two counts conferred briefly and looked unsure of what to do. ‘Who commands the army? Duke Welfard has died also? Our orders are to join the duke.’

‘The duke remains in command of the Crusade and is in Lund, a city two days’ march to the south,’ replied Hugues.

‘Ah, I see. So, what is your position here? If Duke Welfard is incapacitated, who commands this army?’ He looked beyond the three of them as if expecting to see someone else.

‘I command the forces of the Order, and Lord Hartung the survivors of the army.’

‘Really? That is… unusual,’ said Rudolf with a slight sneer. Hartung bridled and shifted his feet as he fought to control himself at the insult. But these were two great lords of Northern Germany, and he was in every way their junior. The strictures of behaviour tied him down even as his youthful pride screamed. ‘Well, it seems we will take over from you, now that we have arrived. I thank you for your services. We will set up camp outside the city, and I request a full report this evening, of all supplies, men and dispositions, as well as all information you can provide on the enemy. Good day, sirs.’ Otto and Rudolf left the three of them and returned to their men by the dock. Hartung was speechless with anger, and shook off Hugues’s attempt to calm him, before turning to walk back into the town.

Standing to one side, ignored by both parties, Reinhard scratched an itch on his chin and smiled to himself. It had been a wonderful start to the day.

Hartung had declined to be present for the report later that day, so Hugues and Reinhard went alone.

They ducked into the large tent that had been rapidly assembled in the field outside the city gates and found the two leaders standing at a table, poring over reports and papers. They looked up and Otto looked confused.

‘Who are you?’

‘I am Reinhard, Grandmaster of the Order,’ he said casually, and did not show a hint of annoyance. Otto straightened and nodded brusquely, embarrassed to have written the man off before. The first mistake. Margrave Rudolf cleared a pile of reports to the side and snapped his fingers at an aide, who brought a tray with two goblets of wine, one of which Hugues accepted gratefully.

‘So, to your report,’ Rudolf said, jumping straight to the business of the evening, skipping the normal social niceties a man of higher station would have been afforded.

Hugues placed his goblet down and pulled a map out of his leather case and unrolled it on the table. It was a rough map, drawn by his scouts, but it showed most of the region of Scania, and of the parts of Denmark they had conquered. He weighted its corners down with goblets and a dagger and put his finger on Helsingborg. The two counts leaned in to look.

‘We have four thousand men here at Helsingborg – half the army, half brothers of the Order. The men of the army are very weakened, and probably unfit to go into the field again for some weeks.’ He drew his finger south to the tip of Scania. ‘The army has around three thousand more in various garrisons to the south and at Lund, and the Order another two. All well supplied.’

‘Only nine thousand remain? My God, man, you landed with what, twenty-five?’ said Rudolf.

‘Yes, the rest lost to sickness, battle or have returned home.’

‘Hmm. And the enemy?’

‘We think about ten thousand. They have retreated back up the road that leads towards the forest, where Count Baldwin’s army was defeated.’

The two commanders nodded and looked at the map. ‘The situation is good,’ said Otto.

‘What, may I ask, are your forces?’ Hugues asked.

‘We have eleven thousand here, with a thousand horse. Another eight will arrive separately, under the command of Conrad, the Count of Blakenburg.’

Hughes felt Reinhard stiffen but ignored it and smiled. ‘That is excellent. Thank you, my lords, for coming so swiftly and with so many.’

Otto straightened from the map and fished through a pile of paper until he found the one he was looking for. ‘Now we will unite the Crusade once more under appropriate leadership, and finish what Count Baldwin and Adolf began. We will not repeat the mistakes of the past year.’

‘What, may I ask, is your intention?’ asked Hugues. ‘I may have some useful insight, having been here for the duration of the campaign.’ The two counts looked at each other for a moment and Otto nodded.

‘We intend to march north. We will offer the enemy battle, and if they refuse, allow them to withdraw. We will not repeat the mistake of following them inland.’ He drew his finger along the coast east and then north. ‘We will proceed along the coast, capturing every settlement as we go, until we reach Uppsala, which I understand is the most important of their cities?’ He looked to Hugues for confirmation.

‘Your information is correct, although there are significant towns inland, and north of there also as I understand.’ He paused for a moment. ‘My concern, my lords, is if you ignore the enemy army and move along the coast, how will you stop them from recapturing the ports here?’

‘We will garrison the area strongly, add to the men of the Order you have here.’

‘I see, and what of the other half of the army?’

‘Count Conrad will sail north.’ He drew his finger towards the edge of the map. ‘And move to capture the main settlements of southern Norway.’

Huges was alarmed. ‘You will split your forces so much?’

‘No,’ said Otto irritably. ‘We will split theirs. Conrad will not stay in Norway for long, but we believe that when news of his occupation reaches the enemy, their army will split, and the Norwegians will go home to defend their lands. While they march overland, which will take a month, Conrad will sail back, which will take three days, and our united forces will march on Uppsala, too strong for the Swedish alone to face.’ Otto stabbed his finger on the map for emphasis. ‘By the time the Norwegians decide to come back, if they do, it will be too late.’

Hugues was taken aback. It was a clever plan, but he did not know if the enemy could be split so easily. The commanders, however, were not interested in debate. Otto rolled the map up and put it to one side, holding out a hand. ‘Your other reports and lists?’ Hugues pulled what he had brought from his case and handed them over.

The count did not read them, instead setting them with the map. ‘Thank you, Grandsteward Hugues.’ And with that, the two men once more started poring over the reports, leaving the Order’s leaders dismissed. Hugues looked at Reinhard with discomfort, but Reinhard just smiled and indicated they should leave.

On the way back to town, as soon as they were out of earshot of anyone in the rapidly assembling camp, Hugues turned to Reinhard. ‘I’ve never seen you say so little. They don’t respect us, they don’t know who you are.’

Reinhard chucked. ‘They don’t need to.’

‘But we spent so long building influence and power, and now we are treated like they command us, and you allow it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because there was no need or point to imposing ourselves now. They needed to feel in command, and now they do. Fighting it would merely have made us look weak. We have no leverage over them.’

‘Then what do we do about that? We are not theirs to command.’

‘No, we are not, but do not worry, it is all in hand. Their opinion of us will soon be irrelevant.’

‘Do not speak again in riddles!’ said Hugues, frustrated. ‘Tell me, what is our plan?’

Reinhard stopped and looked at the infuriated count in annoyance. ‘Fine, on this occasion I will. Events are already in motion. Come, we will go somewhere I can be certain we are in private.’

A ship arrived at Lund on the same day the relief force arrived at Helsingborg. The ship had come from Saxony, leaving the day after the Crusader fleet. The ship carried some supplies, letters, settlers and a group of a dozen or so soldiers and assorted recruits for the brotherhood – whoever would pay for passage to the new provinces.

On the deck, a man in a plain but high-quality cloak stood at the rail, waiting patiently to disembark. He was of middling height, unassuming and with short, curly black hair. His nose and cheekbones were prominent, but beyond that he was unremarkable, other than in his air of confidence, which marked him out. As he stood there, he tapped his finger on the rail, his falcon-crested signet ring clacking on the wood. He watched the group of soldiers disembark with keen interest and waited until they were ashore before following.

He beckoned to the two plainly dressed men who accompanied him with a practised air of authority, and they collected a small cache of belongings and headed down off the ship, politely thanking the shipmaster, who he had barely spoken to since he bought passage the previous week.

The man with the falcon ring walked down off the docks and looked around as he went, scanning the crowd until he saw what he was looking for, a white-surcoated man of the Order beside one of the newly built warehouses that stored the Crusade’s supplies as they were landed.

He calmly made his way to the man, weaving through the busy docks and street behind, and made eye contact with the soldier. The soldier bowed his head slightly, and raised an eyebrow inquisitively. The man sighed and showed the soldier his ring.

‘Welcome, my lord. Please, come this way. It is a short distance to the city. I have arranged horses.’

The three men rode into Lund, being stopped briefly by a bored gate guard who made a perfunctory inspection of their scant belongings and waved them through. They gave the horses to a groom with a single silver coin and followed him down a back alley.

The man with the falcon ring couldn’t help but stare at the town and the buildings, it was quite unlike anything he had seen before. They went down paths between buildings and animal pens until the soldier turned to stop them. ‘The building you seek is two behind this one. It is larger and better built, and you will know it by the coat of arms painted above the door. There is another door at the back, I suggest you use that one.’

The man nodded and the soldier disappeared down a side street without another word. The three men walked down the indicated alley and found the large longhouse across a broad street that bustled with people. The coat of arms of the Duke of Bavaria was painted on a wooden sign above the door. The men walked past the hall, down the side and to the rear, where they found a smaller door behind some disused animal stalls.

The man with the ring tried the door carefully and found it was barred from within. He sighed and thought about it, then knocked. After a short time, the door opened and an armed man appeared. ‘What?’

‘I’m here to see the duke.’

‘He is not accepting visitors,’ said the man curtly.

‘This is a most urgent matter.’

‘Don’t care, no visitors unless summoned.’ The guard started to shut the door but the dark-haired man showed a gold florin that he had been concealing in his palm.

‘It really is most urgent.’

The man stared at the gold for a moment and sighed. ‘What is the message?’

‘I must deliver it myself.’

The man looked unimpressed but relented and took the coin. ‘Fine, come with me. But I’m not promising he’ll see you, and those two stay outside.’ He gestured to the man’s companions.

‘Accepted.’

The guard led the dark-haired man through the dank room at the back of the hall and to another door within. He knocked and a voice the man recognised well sounded from within. ‘What is it?’

‘Visitor, sir, urgent message.’

‘I’m not prepared to receive guests!’ said the voice with a hint of panic.

‘Right, sorry, sir. I’ll…’

The guard’s reply was cut off with a grunt of protest as the dark-haired man shoved his way though and opened the door, entering the chamber beyond.

The room was large but dimly lit and untidy. An unmade bed was against one wall, while at the other, a fine table of German making stood on the boarded floor. There was a makeshift desk covered in stacks of parchments, and at the table sat the very surprised, and half-dressed, Duke of Bavaria. He was eating a meal of dark red meat, and a goblet of wine sat next to it.

‘Henry?’ he stuttered.

Henry looked at him with sad distaste, his nose wrinkling against the smell of the room. Duke Welf looked down at himself in shame, and dropped his eating knife, pushing the plate away as if it was evidence of a crime.

Henry was Welf’s younger brother, his antithesis in so many ways. Where Welf had been sociable and gregarious, Henry had been quiet and cold. Where Welf had been greedy and lazy, Henry had been driven and barely indulged. Henry had lived his whole life in the shadow of Duke Welfard, his burning ambition checked by his misfortune at having been born second.

Now the younger brother came and stood by Welf the fat and gazed at him in sadness and silence, his narrowed eyes, pinched nose and thin lips betraying no fraternal affection, not that they ever had.

‘I… I didn’t know you were coming on Crusade,’ said Welfard, struggling to rearrange his clothes to look more dignified.

‘Look at you, brother. Look at what you have become,’ said Henry in a quiet voice.

‘Why… why are you here?’ stuttered Welfard.

‘I heard of your defeat, and I came here to restore the family honour. To purge the stain of your shame. But it is worse than I imagined.’

‘You… you can’t speak to me like that!’ wailed Welfard, with no strength in his words.

Henry moved to stand behind his brother, and put his hands on the bigger man’s shoulders, almost caringly. ‘What a shame you were sent here, so far from your comforts, so far from your abilities,’ he said, leaning down to whisper in Welf’s ear.

Welfard coughed and tried to stand, but that was difficult enough even without hands pushing down on his shoulders.

‘What are you doing?’ he whimpered.

‘It is a shame you didn’t have the decency to die with your army. It would have been more honourable for the family.’ He leaned down and whispered in the bigger man’s ear. ‘But nonetheless, I was most grieved to hear of your passing.’

Welf froze, and then turned his head to look up at his brother in horror, his face draining white, his eyes wide.

‘You, you wouldn’t!’

‘I must.’

Henry moved his left arm like a coiled snake, wrapping it around Welf’s throat and pulling on it with his right, choking the duke’s fat neck as his guard looked on frozen in horror. The man fumbled to draw his sword as Welfard struggled and wheezed, his thick neck making Henry strain and struggle as he tried to cut off the air that Welfard was trying to draw in in rasping, gurgling gasps.

Henry flicked his predatory eyes to the man, who stood there in panicked indecision as the two brothers struggled. ‘Don’t interfere, cur, or you will join him,’ hissed Henry, against the effort of his struggle. Behind him, his two men had entered the building, and shoved the panicked guard deeper into the room, closing the door behind them.

Henry redoubled his efforts, for holding his large brother in place was an enormous task, even though Henry was strong and in fine shape. He managed to work his forearm deeper into Welf’s throat, and the gasps became choked wheezes, and then were cut off entirely. The duke’s face went bright red and he soiled himself and his legs started shaking, his arms pawing ever more ineffectually at the iron grip across his neck.

Then his spasms died down, and his limbs relaxed, legs still twitching, until the only sound that remained was of his urine dripping onto the floor. Henry drew in deep breaths and stood, unravelling his exhausted arms from his dead brother’s neck, letting the body slump forward, face slapping into the unfinished plate of food.

The aide looked on in horror, and then started backing towards the door, bumping into one of the unyielding men who had followed. ‘Don’t move another step,’ snapped Henry, pointing at the man.

The man stopped, and looked behind him, then back at the count. ‘You… you killed him.’

‘Did I? I don’t believe so.’ Henry wiped his hands on the back of his brother’s tunic, looking in mild distaste at the drool and food detritus that had slathered on his forearm. ‘My brother was unwell and of poor health, the travails of the Crusade bore down heavily on him, and there was the sickness too.’ He took a languid step towards the man, ignoring the still drawn sword. ‘He was overcome by it, and died of failing health. Wouldn’t you say?’ he finished, the last words said with a smile and false charm, like a snake fixing its eyes on a rabbit before the strike.

‘I… I…’

‘You can serve the new Duke of Bavaria, or die with the old one. What would you rather do?’ Henry asked in a voice of ice-wrapped steel.

The man looked from the dead duke to the new one, and finally nodded. ‘He choked on his food… he was unwell,’ he finally rasped out, nodding to the killer. ‘I found him like this.’

‘Good man. Stick to that story or meet a much worse fate. I was not here. When I do arrive, I will be distraught to find that my brother has died.’

‘Help him get Welf onto the bed,’ he said to his men, and it took all three of them to manoeuvre the dead duke onto the broad mattress.

With that, Henry walked quietly from the room with his two men, and shut the door behind him, heading for the back entrance. With a quick look around, the trio headed for the street, and the southern gate beyond.

Chapter 15

The Duke is Dead, Long Live the Duke

The leaders of the Crusade and the brotherhood arrived in Lund five days after the arrival of the relief army, summoned by a letter reporting the death of Duke Welfard. The Norse army had been allowed to escape, all the men seeing it was more important to secure their position than to chase the retreating Northerners away.

Henry was waiting for them when Otto and Rudolf were ushered into his late brother’s hall. He had kept a low profile since his official arrival to the city, the day after his brother’s death, and had not mentioned his presence in the letter he had anonymously sent with the news. This ensured the count and margrave would only have learned of his presence on entering the city, if at all.

When they saw him, it was clear the latter was true. Rudolf, who had never met him, looked confused. Otto, who had, just stared at him in a mixture of anger and suspicion. ‘Who are you?’ asked Rudolf.

‘Margrave Rudolf, I presume? I am Henry, younger brother of Welfard, late Duke of Bavaria.’

‘Duke Welf is truly dead?’ asked Count Otto.

‘Yes. He has already been buried, you understand. But there are numerous witnesses to his… status.’

‘My condolences, I am sorry for the loss your family has suffered,’ said Rudolf drily.

Henry ignored the barbed words. ‘Please, let us sit. It is my belief, gentlemen, that the situation is clear. I have succeeded my unfortunate brother as duke,’ Henry said simply.

The tension between the three men was palpable. There was no board, and no pieces, but this was the game of power, and the stakes were high.

The two nobles nodded slowly. It was not a point that could be easily contested.

‘You were sent here to join the command of the Duke of Bavaria,’ Henry added.

Both commanders made to object strongly, but Henry held up his hands. ‘Please, I know you will take that to mean Welfard, let’s not argue over the meaning of the text of the letter. I believe we can come to a better arrangement, one that suits us all.’

‘I’m listening,’ said Otto, leaning forwards.

‘I am not a military man, I have been on one campaign in Italy, and I can hold a sword, but we all know you are the more experienced in war, and the leading of men. Correct?’

Both nobles nodded, not without a hint of pride.

‘I believe the arrangement my brother had with his commanders, and that you surely expected him to have with you, was that he acted as overall governor of the Crusade, and the province, and let his commanders lead the army in the field. Why don’t we avoid a messy stalemate while we send letters asking for clarification on my status, your orders, and the hierarchy of the Crusade, which could take a month or more to be answered, a month we would lose to the enemy in frozen indecision, and resurrect that arrangement?’

Otto and Rudolf looked at each other, pondering the offer. They seemed open to it.

‘Why would you agree to this, what is in it for you?’ asked Otto. ‘Why would you give up your chance to command?’

‘Because I am not. I will still be the commander, still be recognised as such, still also be lauded with the success of the Crusade as you will be.’

‘Or marked with its failure,’ said Rudolf pointedly.

‘Exactly,’ replied Henry, clasping his hands as he leant over the table. ‘We shall all be invested in the success of the Crusade, which is why I will leave to you the command of the army in the field, and I will govern the whole effort, organise the province, protect the captured areas along with the brotherhood, and ensure good supply to your campaigns.’

Otto stared at Henry carefully, assessing the offer. ‘Why don’t you return home, do you not need to secure your position?’

‘No. Who would move against the leader of the Crusade while he is away? That man would be damned both by the emperor and the Pope.’

Rudolf nodded. ‘As long as you are recognised as such, and unless it is the emperor himself who moves.’

Henry tilted his head in acknowledgement. ‘That is a risk I am willing to take. The emperor is weak, he already submitted to the Pope and my brother was one of his only allies, I doubt he would make such an attempt. He will hope that instead I am his friend.’

‘And what of Duke Lothair?’ said Rudolf.

‘Leave me to worry about Duke Lothair.’

‘That man cannot be trusted. He always seeks to take what is not his,’ said Otto bitterly.

Henry nodded at the count. ‘You were hoping to be named Duke of Saxony, after your father-in-law Magnus, the previous duke, were you not?’

Otto nodded, his eyes blazing. ‘Indeed. Lothair was never loyal to the emperor, they came within moments of open conflict six years ago, yet Lothair managed to worm his way out of the emperor’s bad graces after he backed down, and retained the duchy. It should have been mine.’

Henry switched his gaze to Rudolf. ‘You are both Lothair’s vassals. You allied yourself with Lothair against the emperor in that year, did you not?’

Count Otto squirmed uncomfortably. ‘It is true, the emperor is a vicious and weak tyrant, and I believed Lothair would be better. But what did I get in return?’ he said, looking between the two men. ‘Nothing. Lothair gave the county of Holstein to Adolf, his pet, instead of me. Lothair is a snake. He helped the emperor overthrow his own father, then, a few years later, turned on him. He turned on me and others who helped him. He cannot be trusted, he is not worthy of our service.’

Henry nodded. ‘So, ask me again why I would rather stay here with you, and agree to a mutually beneficial alliance, building our strength and reputation, rather than going home and facing Duke Lothair alone?’

Otto nodded and his lip curled in a smile. ‘Better to be here, with his enemies, and make them your friends.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Lothair has set his sights on the empire, you know. It’s the only step up he can make now,’ said Rudolf. ‘He told me as much, years ago.’

Henry nodded. ‘Yet he is older than the emperor, so the only way he can achieve that is through war. It will take a strong alliance to stop him, one the emperor is not capable of building.’

‘But maybe we are,’ said Otto.

‘Maybe we are,’ agreed Henry.

‘So, we have an understanding,’ stated Rudolf with a smile.

The three men looked at each other wordlessly. Their pact was sealed with silence.

Reinhard and Hugues, not part of the Crusade, had not been invited to meet with the new Duke of Bavaria, and neither had Hartung, who had rather impolitely been told to wait outside. In the days since the new army had arrived, they had completely stripped him of his authority in the army, outmanoeuvring and sidelining him, even taking his own men into their forces, leaving him with nothing but what remained of his father’s household knights and personal retinue. Men he had swiftly found loathed him for what he had done to Sir Hans.

Bishop Reinhard let the miserable boy into his quarters and sat him down with a cup of wine. The boy had never looked so fragile or childlike, and the bishop could not help but feel sympathetic. Still, the boy was still useful, and he could not let that go at this crucial time.

‘Perhaps you should return home. I’m sure your mother will be glad of your return,’ he said in a friendly voice, knowing that sentiment would only rankle the young man.

Hartung sneered. ‘I have only just escaped her. Here I was in command of an army. At home, I will once again be her boy.’

‘You will be a count now, and will take over your father’s position. Your mother will respect that, I am sure.’

Hartung shook his head. ‘You have not met my mother. She will take over my father’s duties, she already has, and I will be nothing.’

‘Oh, well, I am sure it will work out,’ said Reinhard, with as little conviction as possible. That just made Hartung brood even more, staring into his wine cup. ‘You could remain with the Crusade, it is your choice.’

‘How would I stay here, without my men? What would I do?’

‘Yes, that is a difficult question,’ mused the bishop, putting a finger to his lips and looking up as if in deep thought. He then brightened and looked back at the boy, who waited eagerly for his pronouncement.

This is just far too easy. ‘Well, you need men to have credibility, and to earn repute. The Order is in need of leaders, men of standing in our ranks. We have many soldiers, but few leaders. Someone of your…’ Reinhard waved his hand in a circular motion, ‘… stature would enhance our position greatly.’

Hartung’s eyes darted from side to side as he thought about it, finger drumming on the side of the cup. ‘Would that be possible?’

‘What?’

‘Me joining the Order? I will not surrender my title, or my holdings,’ Hartung said, sternly.

‘Of course not, no, no, my boy, I would never suggest it. No, while many of our brothers do take a vow of poverty, and give up their positions in society to dedicate themselves to the Lord’s work, it is not an absolute requirement, especially for the senior members. After all,’ he added, ‘Baron Hugues has not given up his titles, nor, in fact, have I.’ He opened his hands with a smile and a flourish.

Hartung still looked excited, but unsure, so Reinhard fattened the deal slightly. ‘A man like you could command our forces in the field, if required, or perhaps govern a city or even a new province. There is great possibility of making a name, a reputation, in service to our Holy Father. And when you return home, it will not be as a vassal called to heel, but as a successful commander, returning in triumph, with the thanks of the Christian world. I am sure that would secure your position, and improve your case with Duke Lothair in the case of your father’s holdings.’

Hartung’s mouth curled into a smile, and he nodded slowly. ‘That does make sense, Bishop. I am grateful for the offer. But,’ he added, eyebrows furrowed once more, ‘would I be under the command of lesser men? I must ensure I am not shamed, as I was with previous arrangements.’ Reinhard knew at once who the boy referred to.

‘Of course not,’ he said, shaking his head as if the idea was laughable. ‘You would be directly under the command of the Grandsteward. Hugues is a good man, and a noble one, and there would be no shame in serving the Lord under him, would there?’ he said.

It was a slight risk. Hartung was going to be a count, if his lord confirmed it, and Hugues was merely the brother of one, although in practice, he was probably richer and more powerful than Hartung, who was still of uncertain inheritance. Reinhard wasn’t going to point out to the lad that he might be best served to hurry home and secure his patrimony, it wasn’t his concern. He was relying on the boy’s desperation to prove himself to overcome this distinction.

‘Yes, that would be acceptable,’ said Hartung finally, despite a hint of displeasure.

‘Wonderful, we shall make the arrangements,’ said Reinhard, standing and offering his ring for Hartung to kiss. For a moment, the boy was taken aback, but then his breeding took over and he dipped to one knee in front of his new master, and kissed the bishop’s polished red gemstone ring. Reinhard felt the familiar tingle of delight run up his spine at the touch. Subsuming men to his will was a thrill he never, ever grew tired of.

Duke Henry left the headquarters and walked across the square to the makeshift church. He had one more conversation to have, one last piece to fall into place.

A dour-looking priest greeted him at the door, and bowed stiffly. Henry noted two armed members of the brotherhood watching him carefully. ‘Can I help you, m’lord?’ the priest asked.

‘Yes, I am here to pray, and to see the bishop.’

‘The bishop is busy, who may I say called?’

‘Duke Henry,’ scowled the duke, using the still unfamiliar title. The priest, if he was impressed by it, did not give any indication. ‘And he will wish to see me now. Inform him immediately.’

The priest appeared to weigh this demand emotionlessly for a moment, and then nodded and went through the door. It was not long before he re-emerged. ‘His excellency will receive you now,’ said the stone-faced priest.

Henry glared at the man, who was still unmoved, and then walked through the open door, finding the main hall of the church, a nave lined with rough benches, and an altar on a platform at the end. The room was empty, and he scowled.

Then the bishop appeared through a door behind the altar, and smiled, walking over and stretching his arms out in welcome. ‘My dear duke, I am so pleased to see you again, and so sorry about your loss. I will pray for your good brother’s soul,’ he said with exaggerated loudness, while indicating with his head that the duke should follow him into the back room.

Henry raised an eyebrow at the performance but followed the bishop into the room behind the altar, finding it was a bedroom and study, filled with papers and lit by a fire, candles and a single hole in the ceiling. It was dim and smoky.

‘I apologise for the accommodation,’ said the bishop, ‘but I find unwanted ears can pierce the hall of the church, despite Bertrand’s best efforts.’

‘Ah, the stubborn priest,’ said Henry.

‘Yes, I’m sorry if he offended you,’ said Reinhard with a worried expression.

‘He was not afraid of me.’

Reinhard chuckled at that. ‘No, Bertrand is a very strange man, and fears nothing. Nor, in fact, do I think he feels anything much at all, something I find extremely useful. No, please, take a seat. It has been a long day.’

‘Murdering your brother does fatigue you, I have found,’ said Henry.

Reinhard winced and paused as he sat down opposite the duke. ‘I’d rather you didn’t say such things, even in here, my lord.’

‘It helps me to say it, I found pretending to be upset all this time to be very draining.’

‘Well. Now that it is said, perhaps we can leave that behind us,’ said Reinhard with discomfort.

‘Are you having second thoughts, Reinhard? Most of this was your idea,’ the count said, as a fine goblet of wine was poured and passed to him.

‘Ah,’ said Reinhard, wagging a finger. ‘I did not suggest that, I suggested replacing Welf, I said nothing of the method,’ he said with particular care.

‘You can interpret that however you like,’ said Henry with an amused grin. ‘Your letters were very clear in their intent.’

The bishop refused to concede, just pressing his lips into a thin line and moving on. ‘Did the rest of your preparations go well?’

‘Better than expected, in fact. The counts are with me, and my rule over the Crusade will be undisputed. How fares your Order? Everyone speaks of it. It seems larger and more powerful than I dared believe.’

Reinhard showed a rare smile of pride. ‘It has grown beyond my hopes. Baldwin was more incompetent and easily led than could have been foreseen, and the other leaders like Adolf were too busy dealing with his mess to pay much attention to me.’

‘Well, my old friend. It appears our gamble has paid off,’ said the duke, relaxing back into his chair.

‘Yes.’

‘We have taken over an entire Crusade.’

‘Some sacrifices were made,’ said Reinhard vaguely.

‘It is always the way.’

‘And some problems remain unsolved,’ said Reinhard.

‘Ah, I assume you mean your brother.’

‘Yes. I came here to escape his reach, much as you came to purge the shadow of yours. Yet fate has conspired to send him here too,’ Reinhard said with regret.

‘Well, the same solution can be applied,’ said Henry coldly.

‘NO!’ snapped Reinhard with surprising force. ‘Sorry, I need that to be clear. No harm is to be done to my brother.’

Henry was taken aback by the outburst, putting his goblet down. ‘Well, that is a surprise. All the years you were with me at court after I fished you out of that godforsaken priory, and you never ceased speaking of your hatred for your brother.’

Reinhard looked furious, but controlled himself quickly. Henry noted the man did not touch the goblet of wine he had poured for himself. Still doesn’t drink? ‘My hatred for my brother aside, he is the only chance of my family line enduring. In him is entrusted the future of our name, and as it happens, I am very fond of his son, Poppo. I hope for a bright future for him, and that cannot happen if he loses his father so young.’ It clearly pained the bishop to admit to something so personal, and he was amused at the normally inscrutable man’s discomfort with the emotion. ‘So let me be clear, no harm is to come to my brother. We will defeat that threat in other ways.’

‘Why are you so sure it is still a threat?’ asked Henry.

Reinhard traced a circle on the table in front of him, considering the question. ‘My brother will never let me exceed him or succeed in any way, he is relentless.’

‘Hmm, well, we will work out a way, I am sure. He will be my subordinate, and I will keep the two of you apart, send him on some boring but distant task, somewhere safe,’ Henry said, almost as a question.

Reinhard tapped the imaginary circle he had drawn on the table. ‘Yes, that would be best.’

‘I think your brother is a weakness you don’t need, but I will respect your wishes,’ said Henry, eliciting a stern look from the bishop. ‘Now, I must leave, I have a dozen matters that will demand my attention.’

Chapter 16

A Taint of Treason

Jönköping, May 1118

The Norse army marched back into Jönköping six weeks after they had thrown off the shackles of the siege there, undefeated in battle, but yet undeniably in defeat.

At Jönköping the army rested, and gathered supplies and men. The army had recovered its previous strength from before the battle on the road, although many of those men were untested men, no replacement for the seasoned warriors who had fallen in their victory a month before.

Sigurd sat in the hall day by day and listened to his jarls and the reports of his scouts, but the army grew restless with inaction and the king himself had bouts of his black moods that made any organisation difficult.

‘I had hoped the Christians would follow us,’ complained the king to Ragnvald, as they shared a meal in the great hall one evening during one of his calmer spells. ‘I wanted to face them here in the woods again. But now I think we must march south, yet again, and face them in the coastlands in our full strength.’

‘They have learned,’ said Ragnvald, chewing some gristly boar meat off the bone. ‘But I do not believe we can march to the coast and face them. This army cannot face theirs in the open field, and we cannot besiege their fortresses while their army still exists.’

‘What do you suggest instead?’

‘Stay with your plan, wait for their army to move inland, become isolated. Then cut them off, wear them down. Make them fight on our terms. Do not give them all the advantages by marching into the south. This is not the same army we had last year. Half of them have never seen a battle, have nothing but a spear and shield and the wool they wear.’

‘I do not know how much longer we can wait here, before men start to question why they should stay with an army that does nothing. Half of them will go home for the harvest season. Time is not our ally, we cannot just sit here.’ The king threw his finished bone onto the wooden platter in anger, startling a dog who had been sleeping at his feet.

Ragnvald was not sure where the dog had come from, but Sigurd had grown fond of the rough-haired beast, he found it comforting, and he reached down to give it the bone, ruffling its ears as it started chewing contentedly on the last scraps of meat.

‘Lord Sigurd,’ a voice called from the far end of the half-empty hall, and all of those scattered around it eating and drinking fell silent to look at who had called out in the urgent tone.

Sigurd waved at the man. ‘Come.’ The king beckoned to the table where he sat. The man half-ran down the hall and reached the king’s table. He was a Norwegian, and Sigurd clearly recognised him. ‘Welcome to my hall, I was not expecting you. Why are you here, Jarl Halvard? I thought you were staying in Lödöse.’

The man shook his head. He looked at Ragnvald nervously. In fact, his entire demeanour was nervous.

‘Say what you came to say, don’t mind Jarl Ragnvald,’ said the king, catching on to the man’s odd behaviour and looking at him intently.

‘The Crusader fleet has arrived at Konungahella – they drove our ships from the town and burned it. Our ships have sailed north, to Anslo,’ he said.

Sigurd cursed. ‘They have cut us off from home.’

‘We can still march overland,’ said the Norwegian jarl.

‘It will take three weeks. The enemy will be there long before, and whatever will happen will already have happened,’ said the king softly, trying to keep the conversation quiet. ‘We knew they might do this.’

‘My lord, you cannot do nothing.’

‘You are wrong, there is nothing we can do.’

‘March, march home, defend our lands or take them back.’

‘And lose everything else.’

‘Norway is your home!’ pleaded Halvard. Men were looking now, drawn by the raised voices.

‘I KNOW WHERE MY HOME IS!’ roared the king, standing and slamming his fists on the table, knocking over his drinking horn, ignoring the mead that splashed over his legs. ‘And I know where my duty is. It is to ALL my people. I am the king of all the Norse, not just Anslo, not just Norway. I swore an oath to that at the Thing of all the Norse and you would have me break it?’ The outrage in the king’s voice stunned the occupants of the hall into silence as the king paused and glared at the jarl.

Sigurd drew a deep breath to calm himself, blazing eyes never leaving the man but his voice tempering. ‘I cannot run home and abandon the rest of the people, for surely that is the point of this raid. They wish to draw us into Norway, isolate us, and then conquer the Swedes while we are gone.’ The king looked around the silent hall. ‘I will not allow myself to be led around by the nose like that.’

‘You will leave our people to die, to save the Swedes?’ said Halvard in barely contained despair.

‘The Swedes are my people, I swore it, and I meant it,’ said the king with finality, sweeping his hand around the hall. ‘The Christians have no benefit from taking Norway now, other than to goad us.’

‘So, Norway will be sacrificed,’ said the jarl, with contempt that made men look at him nervously and back away. A line was being crossed.

‘Maybe. But you underestimate our people. The Asfold fjord is long and narrow, the Christians will struggle to enter it opposed by our people in their longships. They will have to land and march through the mountain paths, the hard road. There are no great plains for their horses, and many of our people can still carry a spear or sword. If they take Anslo from us, can they follow our people into the mountains?’

Sigurd swept his hand across in a cutting motion. ‘No! One small army of the Christians cannot take Norway. They expect us to run and fight them there, that is their mistake. It leaves them vulnerable elsewhere.’

Halvard was furious, clenching his hands on the tabletop, and for a moment it seemed he might do something, but he breathed out and stood up. ‘That is the message you wish me to take back to our people, that you will not help them, that you will stay here with the Swedes.’

‘The message that I would have you take back to our people is that they fight, like all of us are doing, and that they find a way to survive, as all of us must,’ growled the king.

‘And what of those who wish to return home?’ said Halvard.

‘That is easy, they pledged themselves to this army, and I have not released them. Which men do you speak of anyway?’ The king leaned in threateningly, and two of his huskarls stepped forwards, hands on their weapons at the threat of violence that hung in the air. ‘Have you told anyone else, before me? Have you conspired with others to persuade them to leave, before seeing me? Have you betrayed me and your oath by sowing discontent in my army?’

Halvard stepped back as if he was hit, then sneered at the king. ‘I have done nothing disloyal. I have spoken to no one, I simply know that not everyone will leave their families to die to serve a foreign king, if that is what you say you are.’ Then the jarl turned his back in contempt, and strode from the hall.

Sigurd watched him leave, breathing hard, then he looked around the hall, and saw some of his jarls’ reactions. He could see they were mixed; some nodded to him, others would not meet his gaze. He sat down again, heavily, and stared at his hand, white marks showing where his nails had dug into his palms.

Ragnvald let the king have his silence, it was not his business to comment on. Finally, the king broke the quiet. ‘I will have to let them go,’ he said, disappointment clear in his voice.

Ragnvald looked up in surprise. ‘You will split the army?’

Sigurd looked up, with pain in his eyes. ‘I cannot force men to stay and fight in a foreign land, while their homes burn. It will not end well, one way or another. Besides, if some go home, maybe they can save a great many of the people, or help drive the Christians out.’

‘What of the Danes, and the sacrifices we asked of them? Lord Sigurd, you killed a Danish jarl for speaking to you like that, rightly so.’

‘Don’t do that, Ragnvald,’ said the king in a guttural voice. ‘You know this is different. I am your king, and I will stay here, but I cannot blind myself to the threat to my home, and I cannot force my people to do so either.’ The king stood up and walked to another table, where a group of Norwegian jarls and other men were talking in low tones. The king stopped to talk to them and Ragnvald watched in concern.

Nearly a thousand men left the army the next day, one in four of the Norwegians. Ragnvald reflected that it could have been much worse, he had feared most of them would leave, but Sigurd had talked to each and every leader, reminded them of their task, and implored them to stay true to their goal, but ultimately released those who could not be persuaded, to avoid bloodshed or rebellion.

Jarl Halvard was spared the fate most had expected, to be executed for treason. No man came forward to claim the jarl had encouraged them to leave the army, to break their oaths. The argument in the hall did not amount to treason, as it was between the jarl and the king, and all oathmen have the right to dispute with their lord directly. So Halvard marched west with his men and the rest of the thousand, released from their oaths.

A week later, and with no sign of the Crusaders moving inland towards the town, Sigurd marched the army north-east, along the shore of the lake, past the royal island of Visingsö, and then to Linkoping and finally to Norrkoping. The mood in the army at this retreat, for a retreat it surely was, was bitter.

It meant abandoning Jönköping, the town they had spilled so much blood over the last year to defend. It also meant abandoning the main road that led south, to Scania, and thus any hope of recovering those lost lands that year. If the Christians did move north and capture Jönköping, Norway and Sweden would be nearly separated, the last easy route between them lost. Sigurd had been paralysed by this decision. Abandoning the town meant abandoning any hope his departed jarls would return from the west again or that they could retake Scania that year. Staying meant leaving the rich coastal areas of Gotland and Svealand undefended and open to invasion.

Eventually, the king had become convinced it was better to do something than do nothing. So the army marched.

Norrkoping was where most of the remaining Swedish ships were docked, safe in the river at the head of the long narrow sea inlet that extended for miles like a spear wound in the side of Götaland, the inlet marking the old border between the Geats to the south and the Svear to the north.

The army made camp, and, learning from the lesson of Åhus the previous year, fortified the camp and the harbour containing their ships, building an outpost at the mouth of the short river to ensure they could not be taken unawares by ships moving upriver under the cover of darkness.

It was an unseasonably cold evening, perhaps a portent of things to come, when Sigurd finally called his jarls and leaders together to lay out his plans. Having access to the sea again, and a small fleet of ships, helped re-ignite the king’s fire. He had rebounded from the pain of abandoning his plans to re-conquer Scania, as he always managed to recover from disappointment and defeat, a trait Ragnvald much admired, and set about creating a new plan for the summer campaign, which still had months to run.

They all gathered together in a large stable, the only building that could take them all. Sigurd stood on a barrel at the end of the barn, torches lighting the crowd, and his huskarls thumped axe hafts on the wall for silence.

Sigurd waited until all eyes were on him and the last voices had died out. He stroked back his ever-wild hair and looked around the low, dank, cold building at the leaders of his army. ‘I know you will all want me to keep this short, although this is not the worst place we have met. Jarl Loke, it even smells better than your hall,’ he said, grinning at one of his Norwegian jarls as others laughed and agreed loudly.

‘Well, I know you all have places you would rather be, and beds full of warm women you would rather be in, so let us do this quickly before their husbands return from the fields, eh?’ The king laughed to himself and Ragnvald rolled his eyes at the foolery. ‘We believe the Christians are moving north, along the coast past Åhus, which will take them to Kalmar. So, our plan is simple. We will sail south to meet them.’

‘We will face them in battle again?’ called out a voice from the gathering.

‘If we get an opportunity that suits us, yes. But we will avoid their full strength, we will harry them, we will pick off their patrols, we will raid their harbours and burn their ships. We will continue what we started last year, before the battle at Åhus.’

The mention of that disaster caused a rumble of disquiet in the crowd. ‘We will not repeat the mistakes of that season. We will guard our own camps well and move frequently. We will be like the sea eagle, fast and lethal, each strike deadly but too swift to hit in return. As they besiege Kalmar, we will surround them and cut off their supplies. When they march, we will plague them with ambushes. When their supply ships sail, we will swarm them with our own. This is how we will win, not with another great battle, for that is their way to victory, not ours.’

Men nodded and voiced their assent, but Ragnvald felt unease. They did not have enough ships to move the whole army at once, and half of them were untrained men or boys on their first campaign. But he saw no better course, nor would he contradict the king if he did, so he shouted his support with the others, and the meeting broke up in high spirits.

Two days later, and the army was still preparing to sail. Supplies were being organised and laid into hulls, ships of all sizes being brought in from anywhere they could be found, bought, or Ragnvald suspected, coerced from the local villages. The people of Ostergotland were proud and independent. They accepted the yoke of the rule of the kings of Sweden only with great resentment, accepting they had no choice, but always offering the least fealty they could. Their numbers in the army had always been small, and their contributions lacklustre.

Ragnvald’s only comfort in the recalcitrance of the Geats was that however much they resisted their Svear rulers, they were no cowards, and would resist the Christians heartily if they ever came to conquer them.

As he stood on the broad shore at the harbour, another ship came in and he paid it no heed, for it was one of many that day. But he raised an eyebrow as he saw what a rush the crew were in, bumping into another ship and earning themselves a string of foul curses from a man who had been knocked over and spilled the sacks he was carrying into the bottom of his ship.

The crew who had arrived in such haste ignored the angry shouts and two men leapt from the bow into knee-deep water and ran up the stony shore. ‘Where is the king?’ the first man shouted.

‘Over there,’ a man shouted in reply, waving his hand towards the town.

Curious, Ragnvald set off at a jog after the men as they headed into town. They soon found the king, talking with the town’s lawgiver in front of the large house he had commandeered. There had been some drunkenness by some of the new arrivals, and a local woman had been assaulted. The king was trying to calm the prickly local leaders.

The two men elbowed through the small crowd with Ragnvald following, and their abrupt arrival and interruption stopped the king mid-sentence, and he looked at the men with irritation and then recognition and his look turned to concern. ‘What is it?’

‘We come from Kalmar, the Christians arrived and laid siege to it,’ the first man said.

The king nodded. ‘Sooner than we expected. Well, we will leave tomorrow, we should be there in three days. How many were there?’

The second man shook his head and looked around, unsure if he should relay his news in front of the crowd, but saw it was too late to avoid it. ‘A large army.’

‘Did they come by ship, or by land?’

‘Both, an army arrived along the coast, and a fleet of ships is moored in the shelter of the bay to the south.’

‘Well,’ the king said, thinking on the news. ‘It is not unexpected. We should be able to reach the city in time.’

The second man looked nervous. ‘Lord, I must tell you, it has been ten days since we saw this.’ He looked ashamed.

‘Ten days!’ The king looked horrified. ‘Why? How can it be that you took ten days to get this message to me?’

The men looked unnerved, and Ragnvald noticed it was more than that. They were frightened. ‘We were chased by two of their ships as we tried to leave, the passage to Oland was blocked, we had to sail south a day to escape, and then go around Oland against the wind and waves for three days more, before starting our journey here. The wind was in our nose all the way, and the passage was hard.’

Sigurd looked confused. ‘How did those Christian ships chase you? They can be avoided with ease.’

‘They were sailing longships, lord. A fistful of longships are with the Christian fleet, hunting down any of ours that appear.’

That got the attention of everyone who was there, and Ragnvald felt his heart flutter. ‘They were crewed by Norsemen, lord. They knew how to handle the ships well, they nearly ran us down.’

‘Norse? Sailing for the Christians?’ The king’s anger boiled over immediately. ‘What madness – who, whose ships?’

‘We do not know, we did not recognise them and they bore no marks.’

The king looked around the crowd, seeing the outrage and shock mirrored in the others present. ‘Traitors?’ he said in shock and disbelief. ‘Traitors working with the Christians? What foul disgrace could make men turn themselves into dogs for the Christians?’ No one answered him. ‘A gold armring for every crew that kills one of these traitor ships, two if they capture their leader alive,’ he growled.

The king looked around and noticed Ragnvald in the crowd for the first time, and the jarl saw the anger and hurt in the king’s eyes. Too many had betrayed him already, and Ragnvald saw it wounded him more deeply than he could possibly let everyone see. He met the king’s eye and nodded, and the furious gaze moved on.

The news of the siege, and of the traitor crews, spread fast through the army, spurring them on to be ready to leave at the first hint of dawn the next day. As the evening came and the sun was sinking towards the hills behind the town, another ship sailed into the harbour, and this time, the king was on the docks with Ragnvald, giving men his last orders for the morning.

This ship did not rush into the crowded beach, and the man who jumped out of the bow made no haste as the crew of the small ship rested on their oars, exhausted. Sigurd and the men around Ragnvald all fell silent as they all felt the same unease. The man walked up the beach, looking around and settling his gaze on the group around the king.

He walked over, looking ashen, and addressed no one in particular. ‘I bring a message,’ he said.

‘From who?’ asked Sigurd.

The man paused and shook his head slightly, before looking back to the king. ‘From the leader of the Christians.’

There was a burble of anger around the group and several warriors shouted at the man in outrage. Ragnvald wondered if this was one of the traitor crews. ‘SILENCE!’ roared Sigurd, and the crowd fell silent, moving to surround the beleaguered man. In the background, unbidden, others went to the newly arrived ship and boarded it, receiving no resistance.

‘Explain yourself, before I cut you down like the dog you are,’ rumbled Sigurd, his beard twitching as he tried to control himself.

The man stiffened his back and raised his voice, trying to put on a brave front. ‘The Christian lords make an offer to all the people of the Norselands: the cross or the sword. They want to tell you that any city, any town, any village that resists them will be burned to the ground, all its people put to the sword. Any town that wishes to avoid this has merely to lay down its weapons and accept the cross, and agree to follow the Christian god and live peacefully under their rule.’

‘Empty threats,’ muttered Sigurd loudly. ‘What madness made you agree to spread them?’

‘Not empty, Lord Sigurd. I live in a village outside Kalmar. They tied us and made us watch it burn, made us listen until the last screams died out. They killed every living thing within the walls and burned every house to the ground.’

The king looked as if he had been struck. He stood motionless for a moment and then shook his head slowly. ‘We heard just today that Kalmar was taken under siege. It is not possible you could bring news of its fall. This is trickery to stop us sailing to its aid.’

The man looked confused. ‘The city was besieged ten days ago, it fell after five. And then we were sent here.’

‘Five days!’ gasped Sigurd. He turned and took a few steps away, stopping to turn back, anger fresh on him once more. ‘And you agreed to bring us this warning? You agreed to be their dog, even after what you saw?’

‘They have my family,’ said the man, his voice cracking. ‘I’m sorry, Lord Sigurd. I am no warrior, I am a fisherman. They said if we did not deliver this message, we would join our brethren in the ash of Kalmar.’ He shook his head miserably. ‘I didn’t have a choice.’

‘Every man has a choice,’ said Sigurd in a guttural tone. ‘Every man has sacrificed something to be here, to fight, and you help them by spreading their threats? You will not leave this place to carry them elsewhere.’ He nodded to a man behind the terrified messenger, and his arms were pinned behind his back. He squirmed and started to sob. ‘Please, if I do not return having delivered the message, they will kill my family.’

‘I will not allow you to spread this poison further, to infect the minds of more of our people,’ said Sigurd, drawing his seax from the sheath at his belly.

‘What? No, it doesn’t matter,’ said the man, shaking his head in panic. ‘They sent a boat to every town on the coast. Köpingsvik, Visby, Söderköping, here, Uppsala, Birka… everywhere. They have a dozen fishing boats like this, with crews of captured men.’

Sigurd was rocked back by this. ‘A dozen.’ He blinked and screwed his mouth in disgust. ‘They have found a dozen crews of cowards? I would never have believed so many of our kin could betray us. I refuse to. You lie!’ he shouted the last words, but his voice held anger, not conviction.

‘What would you not do to save your family?’ asked the sobbing man. Sigurd stepped over to the pinned man and lifted his chin with his left hand.

‘I would not dishonour myself,’ he said, and plunged his seax into the man’s stomach. The man gasped and screamed, his legs buckled and the men who had been holding him dumped him to the ground in contempt. He wailed and balled up around the wound, bleating pitifully. Sigurd ignored the dying man and walked around him, waving to the men who had boarded the dying man’s ship. ‘Take them,’ he shouted.

There were cries of anger and protest but the men on the ship were not armed, and after a brief struggle, the dozen men were bundled out of the boat and forced to their knees on the sand. Some looked angry, some resigned, some lost in their own personal horror, staring blankly into the distance.

Ragnvald walked over to Sigurd’s side and leaned in to speak to him quietly. ‘My lord, perhaps we should question them, they may know something of use.’

Sigurd paused and thought about it, before nodding. ‘Agreed.’ He walked over to the line of captives and looked at them, choosing one who gazed at him defiantly. ‘I have questions for the rest of you,’ he said, looking at the defiant captive.

‘You have killed our families,’ the man said, before opening his mouth to spit on the king. The king’s bloodied seax rammed into his throat before he could complete the gesture and he fell back, gurgling and choking, onto the sand.

The king appeared completely unmoved, and simply walked to stand in front of the next man, barely looking at him as he spoke. ‘I know that you are cowards, for you have already sold yourselves once. So none of you can leave this place. I will not allow you to return to your new masters, to let their threats pull from you details of our fleet, our men, our location.’ He looked up and down the line in disgust. ‘To those of you who answer me fully, I will allow you to be taken into slavery, taken inland where your cowardice cannot damage our people further.’ Several men dropped their heads in defeat at these words, and one started crying.

‘For those who don’t answer, I offer only steel.’

All of the men answered Sigurd’s questions when asked, and Ragnvald was disappointed by how little they knew. None had been inside the Christian camp. None had seen their fleet close up, none had overheard their plans beyond what they were told to relay. Ragnvald understood that whoever had sent these men had kept them to one side very carefully, presumably anticipating this outcome.

Sigurd eventually gave up when they had nothing new to tell him, looking angry and tired. He stepped away, to face Ragnvald. ‘Do you have any questions?’ the king asked.

Ragnvald thought about it but then shook his head. Sigurd nodded and turned back to the knot of kneeling captives, surrounded by several dozen watchful warriors. ‘Kill them,’ he said gruffly.

Several of the captives tried to protest, one tried to run, but eager blades fell on them with no hesitation, and within moments, they were just bodies on the shore. Ragnvald curled his lip in disgust at the whole thing. ‘You disapprove?’ asked Sigurd, watching him.

‘Not of what you did, just of the whole thing. The weakness in some of our people, it makes we wonder if we have the will to win. Those men probably knew they would die here, and yet they chose cowardice anyway. They should have died honourably, with their people, and weapons in their hands.’

Sigurd drew close to the jarl and fixed the Svear jarl’s bright blue eyes with his own thunderous look. ‘Then we will continue to excise that weakness wherever we find it. We will find those with the will to survive, and cast off those who do not.’

‘And if there are not enough of the first?’

Sigurd’s look darkened and Ragnvald immediately regretted his question. ‘Then we will die knowing we lived as the best amongst men.’ The king slapped him on the back and strode away towards the town.

Chapter 17

The Cross or the Sword

Reinhard looked at Hugues with annoyance, and then sat back to consider what he had heard, finally taking his turn to speak. ‘It will be difficult to minister to a town with no people in it,’ he observed. They were sitting in the cabin of a ship in the bay outside Kalmar, having arrived with a party of priests and a large number of Order soldiers to set up a church. They had been surprised to find no town left to set such a church up in. Hugues had gone ashore to investigate and returned after a meeting with Duke Henry.

Hugues nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Was there not another way?’

‘Of course, but this is what Duke Henry believes was best,’ said Hugues with thick distaste.

‘If he burns every town and kills every heathen, our purpose here will hardly be worthwhile, but I suppose it’s possible the rest of the towns might surrender rather than share the same fate.’

‘That is the intent.’

‘It’s… interesting. I wonder if it would have been better if we had done this from the start,’ mused Reinhard. ‘Every town in this whole region fought, the army conducted a dozen sieges, and the people who survived are the ones we now rule over. The women, children and the cowards, I wonder if it would have been simpler if we had killed all who lived in one town, and spared the loss to both sides of capturing the rest by force.’ Reinhard tapped his lip with a forefinger.

Hugues shrugged. ‘Welfard and Adolf would never have done it.’

‘Yes, they would have said their honour prevented them. But what is truly more honourable, the death of one town, or the death of many?’ mused Reinhard, still not looking at Hugues as he thought it over. ‘Perhaps it is the right thing to do.’

Hugues looked at the bishop in surprise. ‘I would not have thought a man of God would support such a course?’ he chided.

Reinhard snapped his eyes across to meet Hugues’s for the first time. ‘Hmm, well… there are precedents in the scripture for such things when dealing with unrepentant heathens.’

Hugues’s eyebrows raised and he tilted his head and nodded. ‘I suppose there are. Anyway, regardless of what we think of it, it worked. The main town on the large island behind us, Something… vik, I forget precisely, has surrendered, the rest of the island is expected to follow suit. Tomorrow, some ships are sailing to another large island to the north, where the great Norse town of Visby lies, and they hope that they will surrender too. Soon we will have this entire region pacified, with barely a drop of Christian blood spilled.’ Hugues looked satisfied. ‘So, perhaps we should go and set up our people on this island across the strait instead.’

Reinhard nodded carefully. ‘Yes. If they have agreed to take the cross rather than the sword, it is our duty to provide that,’ he said noncommittally, still deep in thought. Hugues waited for the result of whatever the bishop was pondering but the man paid him no attention, so eventually he stood up to leave.

‘I rather like it,’ said the bishop behind him as he made to duck out of the cabin.

Hugues turned around in puzzlement. ‘Rather like what?’

‘The choice Duke Henry offered. The cross or the sword. I find it… simple.’

Hugues screwed up his eyes. ‘Simple?’

‘Yes,’ said the bishop with a bright smile. ‘I like the symbol of it, the simplicity of the choice, and the image. They can accept the cross, or have it forced upon them in the form of a sword.’

Hugues didn’t know what to say and shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s easy to translate.’

‘Yes. All this time, we have been trying to convince the people to convert from their pagan beliefs, with mixed success, I might add, and making arguments for accepting our Lord and saviour into their hearts. It has been very difficult, very slow.’ Reinhard smiled brightly. ‘I was trying to be too clever, talking to the heathens as if they were like our own people. But I think Henry has it quite correct. The argument is much simpler, the cross or the sword. A stark choice, easy for these base people to understand. Judgement or forgiveness, acceptance or rejection… peace or violence.’ Reinhard actually chuckled to himself, which Hugues found somehow chilling.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he said. But once again, Reinhard did not appear to be paying him attention.

‘We must go to this place, this island across the water, and sample the fruits of Henry’s plan.’

‘What?’ Hugues looked confused. ‘The biggest town is half the size Kalmar was, it is not worthy of our personal attention.’

‘Ah, but it is an island, is it not? Without a firm grip, it will slip from our power, and they have not felt the yoke of conquest as the other lands have done, only bowed down without conflict. This will be very different, a new challenge to our authority, and we must meet it. Yes, it will be a useful test of this system of submission without conquest, and leave behind an established presence that we can rely on.’ Reinhard got to his feet and rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘Yes, I am certain, we must do this ourselves.’

Hugues sighed, seeing that the bishop would not be dissuaded. ‘I have other matters to attend to, but I will send one of my senior captains with you with his men, if that will prove sufficient?’

Reinhard smiled broadly. Perhaps it is best I do this alone. ‘Yes, that will be splendid.’

The next day, four ships unloaded the men, supplies and equipment of the Order at Köpingsvik, the main town on the island of Oland. They had one hundred of the Order’s soldiers, and ten of the priests and monks of the brothers. The captain Hugues had left behind was a stoic Bavarian knight called Sir Sighard, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a constant expression of displeasure and the obvious respect of his men. He had been gruff and respectful to the bishop in their past encounters, never saying a word more than was required. Reinhard liked the man immediately.

The town was built around a curved sandy beach at the meeting point of two long rocky coastlines, like the crook of an elbow. It was lined with fish racks and slipways, with houses behind that. There was no wall or harbour, and the dozen or so small fishing vessels were drawn up on the beach on the wooden slips. The entire place stank of fish, which made Reinhard immediately reach for his herb-filled bag and set his mood immediately to irritation, something that was never hard to achieve.

But he was not dissuaded from the task by the poverty and state of the town. He had to prove that these people could be converted, controlled, and overseen by his order, or the system would fail. And failure was unacceptable.

As soldiers and labourers moved the supplies and equipment up the beach, Reinhard set off up an empty slipway with Sighard, a dozen armed men, a captive translator, Bertrand, and several monks following him. Townsfolk watched the armed party nervously from doorways and behind fences, but no one approached them until they reached the second row of houses, where an old man walked out to greet them. He was flanked by two younger men who were unarmed, but looked like warriors, nervously eyeing up the imposing figure of Sighard.

Reinhard let them stand there for a moment, allowing them to witness the overwhelming force of his presence. Then the old man spoke, and Reinhard scowled when he realised it was Sir Sighard who was being addressed.

He snapped his fingers at the translator and stepped forwards a pace, giving the old man a burning glower. The captive Norseman rambled a long string of their heathen tongue to the old man, who looked confused, and then nodded and looked at Reinhard, before speaking again.

‘This is the village lawgiver, he asks why you are here, his people have already submitted.’

‘We are here because they have submitted,’ said Reinhard, and the two Norsemen continued their back and forth chattering. Reinhard sighed and turned to Bertrand. ‘How is your understanding of their language progressing?’ he asked.

Bertrand had been listening to the two men carefully. ‘Well, your excellency. This lawgiver has a very difficult inflection to his words, not what I am used to at all, but I understand much of what is being said.’

‘Excellent,’ said Reinhard, and left the man to listen.

‘The lawgiver says they will remain peaceful, he does not know why you have so many warriors here. They are not required. What do you want, silver?’

‘He submitted to the cross, his people must convert to our faith from their pagan ways, did he not understand this arrangement?’

The translator nodded. ‘He did. They are happy to accept the Christ god.’

Reinhard winced and shook his head. ‘It is not a matter of acceptance. They must renounce their old false gods, be baptised, and be ministered to by our brothers.’

The translator looked confused but nodded and started another long conversation with the lawgiver while Reinhard waited impatiently.

‘He is happy for people to be baptised, but why must they renounce their gods? He is happy to recognise the power of all of them. And why do his people need priests here? They do not need help to respect the gods, they never have.’

Reinhard pinched his nose and breathed out, calming himself as he felt his anger rise like a heat haze. ‘There is only one god, they cannot worship him and also continue to worship their false idols.’

The interpreter did not speak to the man again, and just shook his head. ‘They do not understand that. There are many gods, they are happy to hear of yours, and to learn about him.’

‘I know they don’t understand that, which is why my brothers are here to teach them, to rid them of their mistakes and pagan ways,’ said Reinhard curtly.

The translator nodded and spoke to the lawmaker again, who bristled and shook his head. ‘The law…’

‘I know, he refused, I understood that part perfectly,’ snapped Reinhard. ‘He chose the cross, the other option was the sword. Remind him of this, maybe then he will understand why I have so many soldiers here with us and ask him again, does he accept the Lord our saviour freely, or will he have that imposed upon him and his people?’

The translator was taken aback and paled, but relayed the message. One of the two men with the lawmaker reacted with anger to the words, talking to the old man and jabbing his finger at the soldiers and then motioning around the buildings. The lawmaker shook his head violently and tried to motion the man back.

Brother Bertrand leaned in towards the bishop and spoke in a low tone, pausing frequently to listen to the ongoing angry debate. ‘Your excellency, he is saying they should simply kill us all rather than accept this.’

Reinhard stiffened and nodded subtly. He half-turned to Sighard. ‘Are your men prepared for trouble?’

‘Yes. And there are thirty more behind this building, awaiting my signal,’ he replied quietly.

‘Good,’ said Reinhard, watching the ongoing argument between the locals. Finally, the angry warrior threw his hands up in the air in revulsion and stormed off, while the lawgiver shook his head.

‘What did they say?’ Reinhard asked the translator innocently.

The translator looked nervous and waved noncommittally. ‘That man was upset about renouncing the old gods, but he agreed.’

Reinhard looked at the man, fixing him with his stare. ‘If you lie to me again, I will have Sir Sighard whip you until you are dead. Do you understand?’ he said in a conversational tone.

The interpreter paled and nodded.

‘What did they really say?’

‘The angry man refuses to renounce their gods, and said it would be better to fight and die, than to be slaves of the Christ god.’

‘Better. Now, tell the lawgiver he is to have that man brought back here, and summon the rest of the people of his town. They clearly did not understand the choice, and we will educate them.’

The townspeople gathered nervously in the dusty space between the buildings, and when they were all there, Reinhard nodded to Sighard, who waved a command to his men. The soldiers spread out around the crowd, taking position in every gap between the buildings and facing in, weapons sheathed, but the threat obvious.

The townspeople shuffled away from the armed men and looked around nervously. A woman wailed and held her children close. The lawgiver stepped forwards and held up his hand, pleading to the interpreter.

‘He says please do not hurt them, they will do as you command.’

‘Where is the man who left, the one who I demanded be returned?’

‘They cannot find him, he has left the town.’

‘Where would he go?’

The interpreter asked the lawgiver. ‘He has family in a village along the coast, he probably went there.’

Reinhard pursed his lips and nodded. ‘Fine, we will deal with the outer villages later. For now, explain to the people what I told you, what they must accept, and what I expect from them.’

The interpreter nodded and started speaking to the crowd. The crowd listened, at first in confusion, and then in subdued silence. They were to hand over all their weapons, all icons of the false gods, and start paying tithes to the brotherhood to pay for a church to be constructed, for which purpose they would give over a large house in the centre of the town. They would help send word to the outer villages and farms, to submit or face the consequences.

The lawgiver looked shaken, and some of the crowd pleaded with him, but Reinhard could see few who were angry or defiant in the six hundred or so gathered there.

Finally, the translator finished answering questions from the crowd and nodded to Reinhard. ‘The lawgiver accepts. They will do as you have said. But he needs you to know, this is a poor town, and they have few valuables for this tax.’

‘Everyone always pleads poverty, but I see silver on the arms of a few men here, we will start with that, and weapons, we will accept them as valuables. Spears, swords, and axes, and armour.’

The interpreter looked concerned. ‘They need the axes, for gathering wood, and the spears for hunting. But they will give you what swords and maille they have, which is very few, they are a poor…’

‘Yes, I heard you, they are a poor village. But an axe that can split wood can be used to split a skull. A spear that can skewer a boar can skewer a man. Until I know that they will not resist, that there are not more who would rather fight than submit, they will hand over their weapons, they can earn some back with dedication to my commands.’

The translator argued with the lawgiver for a while, but eventually the lawgiver hung his head in defeat, despite the angry protests of some of his people.

‘It will be as you say,’ said the translator earnestly.

‘Good, show us to the building that will be replaced with a church, we will start building immediately.’

Two days passed and the time allotted for handing over weapons was over. Reinhard went to the building that had been given over as a church, the house of the lawgiver himself, and Reinhard inspected the small pile of weapons with distaste. ‘This is all they have given up?’ he asked Sighard.

‘Yes. Thirteen swords, twenty hauberks, thirty-two spears and seventy axes.’

‘In a town of over six hundred people?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you believe they own so few?’

‘No.’

‘So, they have defied us, and now we must decide what to do.’ Reinhard looked around the low building with the herb bag pressed to his nose. ‘And we must build the church anew, this building will not do. We must punish the people for their refusal to cooperate, and the first thing will be to seize the building next to this, that will give us space for a proper church.’

Sir Sighard nodded. ‘And about the weapons?’

Reinhard wrinkled his nose against the dust and smell of the house. ‘For that, I have a different idea. Find five young men, men who look like warriors, and bring them here.’

‘As you will,’ said Sighard, ducking out of the low door and out into the street.

Reinhard was left in the building with Bertrand. He looked at the placid monk. ‘Tell me, Bertrand, what do you think is allowable, when enforcing the will of God? These people refuse the reasonable commands of our order, blessed in its purpose by the Holy Father himself, the voice of our Lord in earthly matters. What are we permitted to do to rectify that?’

Bertrand looked surprised by the question, but then considered it. ‘The bible teaches us the importance of honesty, and of justice.’

‘Yes, but we have no proof of dishonesty, only suspicion. Without proof, how can we do justice?’

Bertrand thought again. ‘We must seek that proof.’

‘Indeed, and how will we find it, for surely it exists only in the tongues of the very people who have been dishonest?’

Bertrand nodded and fiddled with his rope belt. ‘It is a difficult question – to reveal the dishonestly, we must get the truth from dishonest people. Threats could be applied,’ he mused.

‘The dishonesty has been given under the threat of the sword. What more threat can we apply?’ asked Reinhard.

Bertrand looked uncomfortable at this but gave no answer. Finally, the bishop spoke.

‘We accept violence in punishment of sin, we accept violence to tame the heathen armies and bring their people into the fold, to defend ourselves and our people. Perhaps we need to accept a little violence to discover the truth, so that future threats can be avoided.’ He gave Bertrand a studious look.

Bertrand met his gaze with a quizzical expression. ‘We provide absolution and guidance, confession and a path to forgiveness. We defend our people from the heathens. We do not commit violence ourselves to those who have not done it to us first.’

Reinhard smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, you are right, thus far. But perhaps it is acceptable to avoid future problems, to protect our people now from future violence.’

‘Why do you ask me, your excellency? For surely my opinion does not matter.’

‘Oh, it does, Bertrand. For our brothers in the Order militare may be my tools of violence, but you are my tool of the tongue. I need you to put the questions to these heathens, I cannot trust captured men to do it. And I need you to believe in what you are doing, and that it is required.’

Bertrand nodded slowly. ‘I understand.’ He paced slowly back and forth in the small space, fiddling with the knot in his belt. ‘I am reminded constantly in our work here of the letters of St Paul, and how he entreated to the heathens, how he converted and persuaded them and, at times, threatened them.’

Reinhard’s brows raised and he nodded. ‘Yes, as am I. There is much to be learned from his teachings, which have so many answers to our problems. Which in particular are you thinking of in this case?’

‘His thirteenth letter to the Romans, concerning the submission to the earthly power of our Lord’s representatives.’

Reinhard smiled. ‘Yes, I have had that in mind also. Blessed St Paul wrote that the authorities that exist have been established by him, thus whoever rebels against them rebels against him.’

‘Indeed,’ said Bertrand with a firm nod. ‘But particularly, what he writes about those like yourself who are in authority.’

Reinhard smiled. ‘Yes, verse four, is it not? “For the one in authority is God’s servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for rulers do not bear the sword for no reason. They are the Lord’s servants, agents of wrath to bring punishment on the wrongdoer.”’

‘Precisely. It would seem, as I see it, that we are in God’s authority, and bear the sword, and perhaps it is for this very reason. The cross or the sword, that was their choice. In refusing your orders, they have chosen the latter, and so from that lesson, we may apply it to them.’

Reinhard crossed himself and a hint of a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. ‘Good. I am beginning to believe, since we came to this land, that you are not as simple as you pretend to be, and that you may be useful in more ways than I had anticipated.’ Reinhard then looked at his assistant hawkishly and Bertrand met his gaze, returning to his usual blank expression, but with a hint of a smile in his eyes.

‘I am here but to serve, your excellency.’

Reinhard watched as the last of five indignant men, hands bound behind them and rags tied in their mouths, were dragged into the house and sat down on the bench along one wall. The lawgiver was there also, nervous and fretting.

‘Bertrand, explain to them what the problem is.’ Bertrand nodded and spoke to the lawgiver in halting Norse. The man was so shocked that initially he did not reply. Finally, he spoke, but he was clearly shocked and afraid.

‘He says he told your translator, they are poor and have few weapons.’

‘And tell him that we believe they have more than this.’

‘He says they do not.’

‘Then tell him he is about to see how we give the law, and how we give judgement. And then tell him to be quiet or he too will be bound and gagged.’

Bertrand relayed the message, and the man quailed.

Reinhard had had a rough table set up in the centre of the room in front of the captives, and a wooden box placed on their side of it. He nodded at Sighard’s men, who picked up the first bound man and dumped him on the box, sitting in front of the table. Sighard stood next to him on their side of the table, and the two men of the Order looked at the scared and angry man on the box as his eyes flicked between them.

‘Bertrand, tell him he can choose now between my cross, and Sir Sighard’s sword. He will confess to me where the weapons are hidden, or he will face the sword.’

Bertrand spoke to the man, who shook his head and looked to his fellows for support, being roughly shoved back around to face Reinhard. ‘Remove his gag, let us hear what his choice is.’

The man spoke to Bertrand in anger, and shook his head again. Bertrand did not bother translating, but merely shrugged.

‘Sir Sighard,’ said Reinhard. The knight stepped to the side of the table, the captive man backing away, and in one motion drew his sword and brought it flashing back down. The dead man’s head bounced off the table and his body slumped off the box to the ground. Reinhard recoiled a fraction as the blood splashed towards him, but quickly regained his composure.

The other four bound men sat still in shocked silence as the body of their fellow twitched on the ground at their feet, and the lawmaker bellowed in terrified outrage.

‘Gag him, please,’ said Reinhard calmly, before gesturing to the soldiers. ‘The next man, if you would be so kind.’

Reinhard found himself impressed as the second man sat in defiant silence on the box and accepted his fate. The third man chose the cross, words spilling from him so fast Bertrand had to make him stop and repeat himself, before finally turning to the bishop.

‘There is a buried cache outside the town where they left some weapons, but also many people hide their own. He does not know where, but often people hide their weapons or valuables in the roof, or wrap them in oiled sheepskin and bury them in the floor or even in the walls. This has been done for generations to hide wealth from raiders.’

Reinhard nodded, and thought for a while before turning to Sir Sighard. ‘Well, send men immediately to the cache, and then we will go from house to house. Any rich house that does not reveal any hidden weapons or valuables, we might burn it to the ground and claim them from the remains.’

Even Sir Sighard was taken aback by this. ‘Will that not punish those families who have already handed over their weapons? If we punish the honest, none will be honest.’

Reinhard tutted to himself at the oversight. ‘You are correct, exempt those who have handed over the weapons we have collected here, as long as we can find out who they are.’

Sir Sighard nodded and snapped out orders to his men.

They released the remaining three men, and the lawgiver, and only had to burn two houses. When the people had heard of the executions, and seen two houses burn, the concealed weapons and valuables came thick and fast as soldiers went from house to house.

By the end of the day, two hundred weapons and small piles of silver and other trade goods lay on canvas sails on the beach where they were being collected under guard. Reinhard looked with satisfaction at the haul. He was sure some weapons were still concealed, and that hidden valuables remained, but he was confident the majority of the threat was removed and, more importantly, that his authority was now unquestioned.

He looked at Bertrand, who was standing with the crestfallen lawgiver. ‘Tell him he may have thirty axes, ten bows and ten spears from the pile, to distribute as he sees fit, for gathering wood and hunting. The first time one is used in violence, we will confiscate every metal object in the entire town, and leave them all to live with tools of bone and wood.’

Bertrand relayed the ruling to the man, who looked somewhat relieved, even grateful, and called down several of his people, selecting the armfuls of weapons and sending them up the beach in a hurry, as if worried the rule would change.

‘He thanks you for your wisdom,’ said Bertrand with a hint of amusement.

Reinhard stifled a laugh. ‘Tell him he is responsible for the behaviour of his people. As long as they obey our rules, and help build the church and attend our sermons as directed, they will be otherwise free to live their lives.’

Bertrand told the man and he nodded, going before Reinhard and kneeling in the sand, saying something to Bertrand. ‘He wishes to take an oath of loyalty to you.’

‘No, that is not our way, his loyalty is to God and the governor. If he wishes, tell him he may express his respect to me by kissing my ring.’ Reinhard held out his hand, showing the red jewel on its gold band.

The man listened as it was explained, and then nodded, shuffling forwards in the sand and hesitantly reaching up for Reinhard’s hand, meeting his eyes before kissing the red jewel and looking to Bertrand for approval. The monk motioned to the man and he got awkwardly to his knees and left, leaving Reinhard alone with Sighard and Bertrand.

Reinhard looked at the town, and then across the sea towards the mainland. ‘I think my work here is done, for now. It appears Duke Henry’s system of submission without conquest has one flaw: that the people do not witness our resolve, or our justice. They do not truly fear us or understand how completely they must submit.’

Sir Sighard nodded. ‘But we were able to teach them.’

‘Yes, we will use this as the model. In each surrendered town, we will send a delegation of brothers, of the Order militare and the Order spiritual, make them truly face the cross and the sword, to repeat what was done here, make an example of a crime against us, and attain their full submission.’

‘And if there is no crime?’ asked Sir Sighard.

‘There will always be a crime to punish, it is only a question of finding it,’ said Reinhard dismissively. ‘Now, I will leave you here to pacify the rest of the island. I must go to Lund and teach more of our brothers how our rule will be built and enforced.’ He turned to Sir Sighard and offered his hand. ‘Thank you for your service, Sir Sighard. I will watch your work in the Order with great interest, I believe you will be a wonderful asset to the brotherhood. Please go next to Visby, take Bertrand. It is a large town and important, make sure they understand what is required of them under our rule.’

Sir Sighard bent down and kissed the red jewel without hesitation. ‘I will go. I am pleased to have served well. May the Lord bless our work.’

‘Indeed, I believe he shall.’ Reinhard muttered a quick prayer of thanks as the three men bowed their heads, and then he sent for the captain of one of the anchored ships.

Chapter 18

Loss and Loyalty

Ragnvald walked down the beach eight days after news of the fall of Kalmar reached the army, and after the move south had been cancelled, and found a lone figure standing watching over the dock: Gunnar.

‘You are not with the king?’ he asked, stopping by the huskarl.

‘The king has ordered that he is to be left alone.’

‘So I heard when I tried to see him myself, seeking orders, but I did not expect that to extend to you.’ Ragnvald looked out over the water with the man. ‘You know it cannot continue this way. The army needs its leader, and we have had no orders since news of Kalmar arrived.’

‘The king’s duties are not my concern,’ said Gunnar harshly. But he relaxed and flashed Ragnvald a look of sympathy. ‘But I understand your point.’

‘Does he give any indication of what he plans to do?’

Gunnar shifted uncomfortably. ‘It is not for me to speak his words for him.’

‘Of course, you are right. I apologise.’

‘However, I know he has received word from Visby. They intend to submit, they have asked the king not to intervene or to defend them, lest it bring about their destruction.’

Ragnvald swore. Visby was the major town on the island of Gotland, for generations a stronghold of the Svear, and the territory of the last king of the Swedes, his old rival Eric the Silverfist.

It was one of the last major towns outside Svealand in Norse hands, a crushing blow for it to surrender without a fight. He sympathised with the king’s retreat from the problems he faced, it would seem like another betrayal, another unhealable wound to the man who had given away everything to lead his people.

‘When the king does receive us again, it would be best if you could present him with a plan. He will need something to focus on, something that can be done.’ Gunnar turned to the jarl and looked at him intently. ‘He values your support, and your advice. That I know. So be ready with something to offer him when he is ready to see you.’ The huskarl looked away stiffly. ‘I have already said too much, it is not my place.’ He resumed his silent watch over the bay and Ragnvald nodded and continued his walk.

When he returned to the town, he found a group of townsmen gathered outside the king’s borrowed house, talking amongst themselves in nervous and agitated tones. ‘What is this?’ Ragnvald asked.

One man stepped reluctantly from the group. ‘We are here to see the king.’

‘He is not receiving anyone.’

‘So we hear, but it is urgent. Perhaps you have authority instead,’ said the man.

‘What is it? I will pass your concerns to the king when he is available,’ said Ragnvald uneasily. The men were more nervous-looking than they had any right to be.

‘Us local men, the karls of this town and of Söderköping and the lands around. We held a Thing last night, and we voted.’

Ragnvald was taken aback. ‘Voted on what?’

‘We want you to leave,’ the man said, with as much courage as he could muster.

Ragnvald was taken aback. ‘You want what?’ he asked, his anger building. He flexed his hand on the pommel of Drekitunga, but none of the men facing him were armed, nor showed any hostility. If anything, they looked apologetic.

‘We need you to leave this place with your army.’

The truth of the request dawned on Ragnvald. ‘You mean to submit, even with the army here to defend you? Even in the presence of your king?’

‘You won’t defend us, Svearman. You cannot. This town has no walls, this bay is long and narrow and if the Christians come, you will be trapped in it. You will stay just long enough to give the Christians an excuse to burn us out, and then abandon us. Tell me that’s not true.’

Ragnvald bristled at the accusation, but then he thought over the truth in the words. They could easily be trapped in the bay, something that could not be allowed to happen. And the route overland to the town, although difficult, was not impassable from the south. He realised the truth of it, the Christians would come here, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. But oaths had been taken, and this was rife with betrayal.

‘You have an oath to your king,’ he growled, his fingers white on the hilt of Drekitunga.

‘He is not our king,’ sneered the man. ‘We did not vote for him, he never walked Erik’s road and asked for our blessing. We have been your subjects for a hundred years, but he followed none of the traditions, disregarded our standing. He is a false king.’

Drekitunga was out of the scabbard as if of its own volition. The blade sliced across the sneering karl, the blood flowed in the sand, and the man dropped at his feet before Ragnvald even thought through the movements.

The crowd of Gotamen shuffled back a step and protests and curses flowed, but they did not scatter nor attack. Ragnvald squared up to them, his face a rictus of anger, his sword pointing at the ground, blood dripping from the tip of the serpent steel.

‘Geats, never to be trusted to their oaths,’ he said in disgust. ‘You were our subjects for a hundred years because you lacked the strength to resist us, and now you lack the courage to resist the Christians, but you have sorely mistaken the way of things if you think it is worse to betray them than to betray us.’ He took a pace forwards and stared down the crowd, looking for who would attack first. Even without swords, there were too many of them, and many had seaxes at their belts. He might die on that sand under a heaving pile of traitors, but he would take souls with him with the reach and the speed of his blade.

But the crowd of men hesitated, and he heard a couple of warriors who had witnessed the confrontation run to him, heard blades whisper from scabbards, and felt their presence at his side. He felt Gunnar run up to stand alongside him, blade drawn. So maybe he would not die this day after all. He snarled at the men and took a fighting stance, ready to advance.

‘Enough!’ boomed a voice, and the door to the house opened and the king stepped out, axe in hand, two huskarls following behind him. All the scant fight in the group of local karls fell from them and Ragnvald looked up in surprise.

‘Lord Sigurd…’ Ragnvald began.

‘I know, I heard it all, the walls are thin, and your anger is loud,’ the king said, nodding to Ragnvald.

‘I’m sorry if I acted in haste.’ He pointed at the dead traitor.

‘You acted with honour, as you always do. Your willingness to do so in any situation, at any odds, is a constant comfort to me. Especially when so many others fail so sorely,’ the king said. Then he put Jafnaðr on his shoulder and looked at the crowd of Geats. More warriors had been drawn by the commotion, and now the group was surrounded. Ragnvald could see men understanding what was about to happen, and saw men’s shoulders slump and some touch their amulets.

The two sides looked at each other for a moment in tense silence. Finally, the king spoke. ‘Enough of our people have killed each other. You may all leave.’ Ragnvald was dumbstruck, but he bit his tongue.

‘Leave?’ asked one of the men, bolder than the others. ‘We don’t want to leave, we want you to leave.’

‘I don’t give two shits what you want, you cowards, your traitors to your blood. I am not leaving a town this useful behind for the Christians just because you want to give it to them. They are not the only ones who can play with fire. Go, take what you can carry, go inland, go south, run for your worthless lives. I will burn this town to the ground in your wake and leave with my army. Stay, and I will burn your bodies in it. That is my final word.’

‘You can’t do this!’ shouted the man. Sigurd hefted his axe and advanced on the man, sending him flying with a boot to the chest, sprawling in the sandy ground.

‘You believe that you, a coward and traitor of no name, can tell me, Sigurd Norðrikonungr, what I can and cannot do?’ Jafnaðr hovered over the man’s head, ready to fall.

‘These are our lands!’ spat the horrified man.

‘And Jarl Ragnvald is right, you are not strong enough to keep them. You are not worthy of them, or of the justice of my axe. Go, and live the rest of your life a terrified fugitive, forever marked by the stain of this day. And tell others of your kin that my anger is no less terrible than the fires of the Christians.’

Two of the men dragged their furious compatriot to his feet, backing away from the contempt of the king, who turned to the gathered men of his army who were witnesses there. ‘They have made their choice, and I have made my ruling. They have as long as it takes us to empty our equipment and stores out of the town’s buildings, and then we burn everything to the ground. Gather the army in the camp outside town, today we sail north, to lands where the people still have the will to fight, and the honour not to betray us.’

The square exploded into activity as men ran off to spread the orders, and the horrified locals splintered, running back to their homes to salvage what they could of their lives. The dead man lay forgotten on the ground.

‘Ragnvald, with me.’ The king beckoned to him.

Ragnvald went into the house with Sigurd and the big man threw his axe against the wall and ran his hands through his hair. Ragnvald could see his hands were shaking. ‘I was so close, so close to ordering their massacre.’

‘It was what I expected,’ said Ragnvald.

‘It is what you would have done?’ asked the king.

‘Would? No question, it was what I was about to do myself, alone if I had to.’

Sigurd burst out a great bawl of laughter. ‘I believe you would have done it too. By the Norns, if I had a hundred men like you, we could conquer every servant of Christ.’

‘You have thousands of men like me, don’t forget that. We have lost towns and battles, but the lands of the Geats were never important, never loyal. Let them be a problem for the Christians instead of us. We lost the lands of the Danes, but they were always our enemy, and foolhardy, stubborn.’

‘Yes… Oh, how our confederation of the Norse has collapsed so quickly. Without us even being defeated in battle, we have lost the unity of the North. Perhaps my dream was too large; a united Norse kingdom. We are nothing but a gathering of squabbling enemies, with a thousand years of blood debts and unsettled scores. And now the Christians come for our lands and each petty kingdom seeks its own safety. The lack of determination in our kin almost breaks my heart.’

‘The Svear are still loyal to you,’ said Ragnvald.

‘Yes, and you have my eternal gratitude. But the Christians have sailed against Norway, and now they will come for Svealand.’

‘Then they will find true enemies, and a land that does not welcome them. And how well will they do in the mountains and fjords of your home in Norway?’ he asked.

‘I do not expect they will do well,’ said the king in agreement. ‘My people are a hard people, used to war and to the harsh land. Nothing like these soft southlands.’

‘Exactly. And Svealand is a fortress, no enemy has ever conquered it in a thousand years. There is a reason the Geats were our subjects, and not the other way around.’

The king looked thoughtful. ‘Tell me why, why is it so strong?’

Ragnvald nodded, looking around and clearing a patch of the floor, picking up the king’s axe and using the haft to draw in the dirt. ‘Svealand is surrounded on all four sides by tremendous obstacles.’ He drew a rough line in the dirt. ‘Here, just to our north, lies the old boundary between Gotaland and Svealand. The broken hills of rock and forest called the Kolmården.’ He extended the line across. ‘This range goes west, joining with the tops of the two great lakes, forming the barriers of Tylöskog and Tiveden. All these places are very difficult to cross, and, for an army in the face of defenders, almost impossible. For a dozen lifetimes of men, no army has crossed the Kolmården going north and been victorious. Even for us Svear, we conquered the Geats not by going through it, but by going around it.’

He drew another jagged line from the Kolmården’s eastern edge. ‘The eastern flank is our coast. It is not flat and sandy like Scania’s, nor is it full of fjords and sheltered bays like Norway’s, it is a confusing mess of islands, rocky shores, false inlets, hidden reefs, and inland marshes. There are maybe three or four good places to land more than a handful of ships – other than that, it is an inhospitable coastline for an invader that no one without local knowledge can navigate even when undefended. When prowled by our ships, it is an impossible barrier.’

He looked up at the king, who was watching intently. ‘If it is so impassable, how do your people manage?’

‘We do not live on the coast as most of the Danes and Geats do, all our cities are inland, on the Lǫgrinn. Birka, Uppsala, Sigtuna, Västerås, and others all surround the lake, all our trade and wealth and people pass through that lake, and there are only two entrances. Both can be defended, neither can be sailed by those fat Christian ships, only by longboats under oars. The southern one is so narrow it can be closed by laying trees across it, the northern one is larger, but much harder to get to, only someone who knows where it is can find it. Any enemy that wishes to reach our lands around the lake must either sail along one of those two long channels, a whole day rowing in the teeth of our people, or must land on the coast and march for days across marsh and river and forest, an almost impossible route for an outsider.’

Ragnvald looked triumphant. ‘It has never been done. We can hold those two channels until Ragnarok against any enemy.’

‘And to the west lies the hinterland, and the mountains of Norway,’ said the king.

‘Yes. Two hundred rôst of broken, almost uninhabited land of lakes, hills and forests. No foreign army can cross it. It would make the march to Jönköping appear easy by comparison.’

‘And to the north, along the coast, is it not good land?’

‘Yes,’ Ragnvald admitted, ‘it is passable. But the local tribes are vicious and relentless, and even we have not tamed them fully. Anyway, to reach the north, they have to sail past our coast, and be subject to our raids and privations. We would cut off their supplies and strand them there, and the winter would kill them. In a single season, they would not have time to land, make camp, and march south to us before winter came, not while being supplied and facing the wrath of the locals.’

Sigurd considered the drawing. ‘It does seem a formidable fortress, as you say.’

‘No one has ever conquered the Svear, not even in our legends. It is the land of the gods, and no man walks there without our say,’ Ragnvald said proudly.

Sigurd played with his beard. ‘That may be true, Ragnvald. But to me, it looks like a prison. Our aim was not to hide ourselves away in an impenetrable lair. If we can block their way in, they can block our way out. If they cut the overland route to Anslo, we will be completely separated from Norway.’

Ragnvald sighed. ‘You speak the truth. It is not the end I had hoped for, but perhaps we can outlast the Christians in this fastness, perhaps we can retake our lands when they weaken or leave. Also, I said a foreign army cannot cross to the west, but we probably can. It is possible to travel across the hinterland, difficult, but possible. There are old paths and trading routes that can be followed by those that know them. I don’t think a Christian army could block that.’ He stepped back in silence, leaning on the king’s axe. ‘It is all I can offer you. A fastness we can defend, a place from which maybe we, or even our children, can regain what we have lost.’

Sigurd nodded thoughtfully. ‘It is, if I am honest, better than I had hoped, and we have no other plan. So, we shall do it. Sail the fleet to Lǫgrinn and the rest can march through the Kolmården, and set up defences there to make it impassable to any that follow.’

Ragnvald nodded and handed back Sigurd’s axe. ‘It is the best we can do,’ he said sadly.

The king took his axe and knocked the dirt from its butt against his shoe. ‘Now we must burn this town. It is too good a harbour to leave it standing for our enemy.’

Chapter 19

A Son of the Svear

Ordulf was helping butcher half a dozen pigs when he first saw the smoke. The gruff warrior he had been roped in to assist snapped at him to ignore it and get on with the work. Ordulf, without a smithy to work in, had been reduced from the smith who forged the axe of the king to someone who sharpened and repaired weapons. With no fighting for weeks, even that was not in high demand.

So Ordulf had reverted to doing whatever he was asked to do when one of Ragnvald’s men found him looking idle, something he attempted to avoid at all times. But today he had been woken straight from his sleep by a man who needed his help butchering pigs, so Ordulf the butcher he was, for that morning.

As he worked to clean and halve the third carcass, using an axe to split the ribs along the spine, someone called out in alarm from nearby, and he turned to look. The smoke from the town downhill towards the shoreline had grown now, a twisting series of pillars that wound up into the morning sky. More shouts rang out and Ordulf felt the shrinking grip of fear in his belly. Another Crusader raid, they are burning the fleet again.

But it could not be, the camp overlooked the approach to the town, nestled as it was at the head of the great sea inlet. No enemy fleet could have slipped in unseen. He looked at the warrior again, and saw the man was also watching the smoke, also looking alarmed.

‘What do you think has happened?’ asked Ordulf.

‘I don’t know, stay here, I’m going to find out.’ The warrior grabbed his bloodied axe and jogged off across the camp to where he would be able to see into the town. Within a few moments, he was jogging back, and Ordulf looked at him questioningly.

‘Fuck if I know what’s going on. It’s not an attack, our people are all rushing about carrying things or coming up to the camp, but there is no fighting. Looks like we burnt the town ourselves.’

‘Why would we burn our own town?’ asked Ordulf in bewilderment.

‘No sodding idea, now, get on with it. We need to finish this and get the meat hung ready for the evening.’

As Ordulf picked up the axe and carried on separating the carcass in two, he heard footsteps behind them and a voice called out to the warrior. ‘We are breaking camp, now. Pack up everything.’

‘What? What about the pigs?’

‘Leave them, we are sailing out, fresh pig is no use to us in the ships and we can’t salt or dry it.’

The warrior sighed and looked around at the temporary slaughterhouse. ‘What an arseing waste,’ he grumbled, wiping his axe on a patch of grass and smearing the blood around more than cleaning it off. He thought better of it and tossed the axe to Ordulf. ‘Go and clean them, and the knives, I want them all back. Be quick about it.’

Ordulf knew better than to argue but he satisfied himself by muttering under his breath as the warrior strode off and left him with the mess. He went to the little stream that ran behind the camp and cleaned the knives and axes, and his own hands. He considered washing his clothes, but if they were leaving, he did not like the idea of leaving in sodden clothes on that cold morning, so he did his best to scrape and rub the worst patches of blood off his tunic with a little water, and then jogged back to the camp.

The camp was being dismantled at a dizzying pace. Men were running everywhere. Tents were already coming down, bags and woven baskets stuffed with supplies and equipment, and Ordulf went through the hive of activity to where the jarl’s men were packing. He found the warrior and handed him back his clean weapons, for which he received a grunt of thanks, and then went to his own meagre belongings.

Gathering everything he owned into a bundle, he saw Ragnvald and Leif arrive and whistle for the attention of the bustling hird. The men stopped what they were doing and turned to listen to their jarl.

‘The Geats have declared that they will surrender to the Christians. We are leaving, that is why we burned the town.’ There was a babble of shocked and angry responses from the men and Ragnvald waved them down. ‘We are going home, to fight for our own lands. We will leave the Geats and the Christians to kill each other, they deserve it. We Northerners will sail north with half the army and the king, to defend the coast, the rest will march across the Kolmården and then defend it.’

‘We will sail north, with what ships?’ asked Bjorn. Ragnvald’s ship Sedemnor and most of their others had been lost at Åhus the year before, although some of the new men had arrived in more.

‘We are taking every ship in the harbour or on the shore, the locals were kind enough to leave them behind when they ran,’ said Ragnvald with a grin, to a patter of laughter. ‘Now, I want to make good progress today, so pack quickly, we leave before noon. Burn anything that is left behind.’

The weather was fair and the wind behind them as the fleet sailed away from the still smoking ruins of Norrkoping. They made good progress and covered the fifty miles to the winding southern entrance to Lǫgrinn before sunset, as Ragnvald had hoped. They anchored in a sheltered inlet and half the men slept on the beach, the other half taking watches in the boats, or sleeping where they could against the bulwarks.

As dawn first rose, they started the long row back to Uppsala on a windless day. When they reached the narrowest part of the southern channel, wide enough only for one ship to pass at a time past the overhanging banks, Ordulf heard orders being shouted from the king’s ship to their front, and half a dozen ships landed on the northern side of the constriction, with instructions to fell trees across it to block it, foul the channel with rocks and spiked stakes, and to build a fortification on both banks. That entrance would be closed for good; from now on, the Norse would rely on the northern channel, a further two days’ sail north up the coast.

It was nearly evening when they finally returned again to the docks at Uppsala, just Ragnvald and the local jarls and the king’s men still remaining with them. The others had all been sent to defend or patrol different parts of the coast and a thousand men to fortify the northern passage into the lake. Ragnvald’s men, and crews from the other local jarls, would act as the reserve, ready with their longships on the lake to react to any attack.

For Ordulf, the campaign was over. Nearly a year after he had been sent away to war again, Leif told him to return to Dengir and walked away to attend to other tasks, leaving Ordulf on the road back to Uppsala alone.

As he walked back to the city with his meagre bundle of clothes and tools, he felt the weight of the passage of time. He remembered the soft boy who had left Uppsala the previous summer as if he was a stranger he had once met. In the year since then, he had survived the disaster at Åhus, then been saved by Leif and given the choice to return to his old life and chosen to remain with the Norse.

He had endured the long walk into the deepwoods, starved and sickened, with the army, and then the privations of the long winter siege, freezing and forgotten, an unwanted slave in an army of Norse warriors. In the lowest moment of his life, his body and mind under siege and alone, he had been faced with a memory of his old life when he found Leuter a captive, had tried and failed to save the man and ended up watching him die, spared sharing that fate only by Leuter’s quick thinking, and the odd detachment of Tormund, who had seen his betrayal but chosen to keep it a secret.

Throughout his early enslavement, he had been denied the power of choice, denied trust and respect. Then he had been given it, by Leuter, by Leif, by Tormund. Now he walked alone in the fields of Uppsala, no one to stop him, whatever he chose to do. He had received the respect and trust, deserved or not, of warriors and lords and the cantankerous smith Elof. He had forged the axe of the king, and now men knew his name, and spoke of it with respect.

A confused boy had left for war, a boy who had stumbled from one emotional decision to another, each leading him to places deeper and darker than the one before. A hardened man returned. Cheeks pinched with the mark of one who has endured starvation, a mark that would remain even after a season of good eating. Eyes under deeper brows, the last vestiges of boyish bewilderment no longer apparent in their gaze.

The feet that had blistered and ached on the walk out were striding uncertainly on the way back to their destination. Home. It was the home he had chosen, and he felt a sudden rush of relief to see it again, to hear the babble of the old women in the longhouse, to work the forge with the singing Dengir, to return to a life where his place was clear.

And, of course, he thought of Brunhild. He had thought of her when he chose to stay with Leif at Åhus. He had thought of her during the long winter, and thoughts of her had never left his mind, although he had pushed them into a corner through the siege, when all hope and joy had been crushed from him, and any reminder of a past life was too painful to bear. But now he realised he was moments away from returning to her, and suddenly it was a terrible rush.

The city loomed ahead, its wooden wall poking above the fields, the smoke from a hundred fires misting the air. He had suppressed his longing for her so well that when it all arrived at once, it was nearly crushing. He had believed so clearly that he would never return that the reality of his return was bewildering. He stopped outside the gate and stared at it dumbly. He had no idea what he would say, or what he would do. In a moment of confoundment, he realised she might not even be there anymore. She was a slave, she could have been traded or sold or moved to a farm.

As soon as that idea took hold, Ordulf started walking again, going through the open gate and explaining who he was to the warriors guarding it with suspicious stares and ready weapons.

He went down the long-forgotten but familiar streets and found himself, once again, standing outside Ragnvald’s hall. He was taken aback by how little had changed. It looked the same as it had in the summer he had left. The same slaves were weaving wool in the yard, the same goat was munching summer straw in the corner. He felt a whole lifetime of suffering and despair had passed, but the world here had frozen in time.

He trudged his leaden feet into the yard and looked around dumbly, afraid to go into the longhouse, unsure what to say. How could he tell them? They would ask what had happened, but how could he explain? How could he speak of the march and the siege, of the battles and suffering, to people who had never left the city and would never understand?

As he stood there in indecision, a figure from his past life came out of the doorway.

Ordulf tried to speak when he saw her face, but he paused in confusion, looking at the bundle she was carrying across her chest. A bundle that moved and showed a single little pink hand, holding onto Brunhild’s tunic.

Brunhild was looking down at the child with a soft smile and she didn’t notice Ordulf at first, then she looked up and stopped dead in shock, squinting at him and then opening her mouth at the skinny and bedraggled figure clutching his bundle, looking at her with a bewildered expression.

Her mouth smiled but her eyes twisted in confusion.

Ordulf couldn’t process what he was seeing and feeling, it was all too much, all at once. He considered turning and leaving, but he finally took his eyes off the living bundle clutched to her chest and looked up at her.

‘Ordulf?’ said one of the weavers, looking up. ‘My word, boy, what happened to you?’ The other women looked up and there were exclamations of surprise and they all left their work to rush over. One gave him a heartfelt hug while another grabbed his arms, looking him up and down and tutting disapprovingly as others arrived.

He was suddenly aware of the state he was in. He looked down at his bloodstained tunic, ragged and patched a dozen times. His once huge but boyish figure had trimmed down to muscle and bone. His strength was still apparent, but the veins stood out starkly on his arms and hands, his beard was scraggly and unkept, his hair long and poorly washed. He looked awful.

One of the women immediately sent another for a spare tunic, and started fussing over him, checking under the bloodstains for wounds, but finding none. ‘Not my blood, a pig,’ he mumbled through his bewilderment.

She gave him a scolding look for leaving his clothes so filthy, and unceremoniously bundled him into the house, which he had not the will or desire to resist. His foul tunic was stripped from him by one woman while another held one up against him to check the size. He was glad at that moment he had taken the chance to wash in the river that morning, and he did not smell anything like as bad as he looked.

Brunhild had followed the gaggle into the hall and gave Ordulf a comforting smile, one that was mixed with concern when she saw how much his muscles stood out on his ribs, how his stomach was hollowed and lined.

A tunic that fitted him was found and he gratefully accepted it, thankful they had not stripped off his trousers, simply handing him a new pair to change himself. He looked up and saw Otto was there and the wiry-haired slave gave him an odd look and then left the hall again. Ordulf looked away, too overwhelmed to care.

Finally, all the fussing and welcome was over, a cold bowl of meat and fruit was pressed into his hand by one of the slaves and they all left him there with Brunhild. One of them took the child off her and cradled it, motioning towards Ordulf and giving her a friendly look as she walked away with the baby.

Brunhild and Ordulf looked at each other awkwardly. Still not a word had passed between them. Finally, she walked over and gave him an encompassing hug and he crumbled as he buried his nose in Brunhild’s hair and felt her warmth against him, the first warmth he had felt for as long as he could remember.

All the fatigue and misery and loss poured out of him at once in a string of unintelligible noises, his legs buckled and Brunhild squeaked in surprise and helped him down onto a bench seat, a look of outright concern on her face. ‘Ordulf, what… what happened to you?’ She sat down on the bench next to him and pulled his unresponsive hand into hers.

Ordulf just shook his head. ‘I don’t know how to tell you.’ Brunhild bit her lip and looked at the floor in discomfort. ‘Do you remember when you told me I would never understand your troubles?’ he asked, without looking at her.

Brunhild looked at him in puzzlement. ‘About what?’

‘About what had happened to you, about why I hurt you so much, that I shouldn’t pretend to understand because I would never understand it, I hadn’t lived it.’

Brunhild nodded slowly. ‘Yes.’

‘Well, it’s the same. I could tell you, tell you about starving and wandering in the woods, passing hundreds of men who simply lost the will and strength to live. I could tell you about the siege, about the rejection, and loneliness, about the battles and the cold and the men frozen to the wall in the morning and the piles of bodies stacked like firewood. About the betrayal and the man I killed and the friends that died for me or because of me…’ He looked at Brunhild numbly as she recoiled in horror. ‘But I could never make you understand.’

‘All that, in less than a year?’

‘Most of it in half.’

Brunhild shook her head. ‘I came back one day to find you had gone, they said you were taken to be a smith, not… any of that. We heard about the defeat, we heard about the losses. There are hundreds of widows in Uppsala this spring. But all we heard about you was from a warrior who came back with one arm. When we asked him, he said you were still with Ragnvald. But nothing… nothing to say what had happened to you.’

‘So you cared?’ asked Ordulf hopefully.

‘Ordulf! Of course I cared, we all cared. You great lump, you are one of us.’

Ordulf coughed and smiled for the first time. ‘I had given up hope that anyone cared about me, anyone at all. Some found me useful – there is a mad seer who thinks I’m important, some respect my skill, but I don’t think there is a single one of them who cared about me. The only one who did died, he died helping me and I couldn’t help him.’

He let out a great painful sigh and looked at his knees. Brunhild put her arms around him and put her head on his shoulder as he sat slouched on the bench and Ordulf took comfort from it, even as he wrestled with the other thing.

‘The child,’ he said softly, and he felt Brunhild instantly tense up.

‘Aeske, my son,’ she said quietly.

Ordulf looked at her, eyes searching for the answer he sought. ‘How old is he?’ he asked.

‘Two months,’ she said gently, meeting his gaze with an earnest look.

Ordulf thought for a moment, confused, and then nodded, his features conflicted. ‘I had never thought about how it would feel to have a child. I don’t know how to think of it, I’m sorry. Everything is happening at once.’

‘Ordulf, no, don’t worry, it’s not your concern…’

‘Ordulf?’ The two of them looked up and saw Halla, Ragnvald’s wife, standing in the doorway. Brunhild let go of him and he stood.

‘Yes.’

‘You have returned alone, where is my husband?’

‘He has gone with the king, I don’t know where. I am sure he will return soon.’

‘But he is here, he has come to Uppsala?’

‘Yes.’

She pursed her lips but looked thoughtful. ‘Come, you must tell me everything, he never tells me the whole truth when it’s bad, and you look like you have been through Niflheim itself.’

Ordulf opened his mouth to protest but Brunhild nudged him to go, and he stood and followed Halla as she took him to the great hall, where she extracted the entire story of the campaign with the skill and ruthlessness with which a looter might extract gold teeth on a battlefield.

By the time she was through, evening was falling and Ordulf was feeling the weight of exhaustion. Halla dismissed him with thanks and a smile, and he made his way back to the longhouse, not even remembering where he had left his things.

When he went in, he found another half dozen slaves who had been out working the fields during the day were there and the greetings began again until everyone had had their turn. A bowl of hot food was passed his way and he looked around the hall for his meagre possessions, finding someone had left them on a set of furs that had been laid out for him. With a burst of joy, he saw that Brunhild was sitting on furs nearby, nursing Aeske.

Ordulf went and sat down and shared an awkward smile with Brunhild, emotions roiling inside him. Despite how close they had been before he left, she still felt like a stranger to him, and seeing her nursing his son was still a shock to him.

When the child had finished feeding, one of the women took him so that Brunhild could go and wash and get her own food, and the old woman rocked the baby gently and let it hold her finger as it slowly fell asleep. Ordulf watched, transfixed, the whole time, his food going cold, forgotten by his side. He smiled when the baby woke and wriggled in the wrapped blanket, and laughed with the old woman when it announced it had finished with its previous meal with a thunderous noise and a wave of foul smell.

Brunhild rolled her eyes and took the noisome bundle back and took it outside to change its swaddling, leaving her meal half finished. The old woman laughed at Ordulf and he felt a burst of joy in his chest, pushing out a little of the pain he had harboured, filling a little of the hollow that existed there.

‘He is a strong boy, he grows fast. I had three sons, none of them were as good as him,’ the woman said with a smile and a wink, and Ordulf felt the warm glow of unearned pride and just grinned in return.

Brunhild returned with the baby in fresh linen and resumed her meal, balancing her bowl in the crook of a knee while she ate with one hand. The old woman was away by the fire, scraping scraps out of the cooking pot.

‘I could hold him,’ said Ordulf eagerly, stretching out his hands with a nervous smile. Brunhild looked up at him for a moment and then nodded, putting her spoon down and carefully moving the wrapped bundle over to Ordulf’s outstretched hands.

‘Do you know what to do?’ she asked with a hint of humour.

Ordulf shook his head gleefully. ‘No, but I want to learn.’ He nestled the boy into the crook of his elbow, the baby dwarfed by his arms, and Aeske looked up at him from inside the swaddling, his dark eyes fixing on Ordulf’s for a moment, a little squeak escaping his chubby mouth as a tiny pink hand groped around in the air, Ordulf pitting his finger there and letting the boy grip on, surprising him with how tightly it was held.

He beamed broadly as he stared down at the boy, who gradually stopped wriggling and then closed his eyes, until the only movement Ordulf could see was the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

‘He must like you,’ said Brunhild with a tired smile. ‘Often at this time he is trying to wake the dead with his wailing.’

Ordulf slowly looked up at her, staying statue still as if the slightest movement would provoke the tempest. ‘Good, a boy should like his father,’ he said, and Brunhild nodded curtly.

‘I need to take him now, he doesn’t sleep here on the floor. Someone might stumble on him in the night.’ She reached out her hands with an earnest expression.

‘I feel I could just hold him all night,’ said Ordulf, gazing at the boy.

‘Ordulf, please?’ Brunhild said, with a slightly pained expression.

‘Sorry, yes.’ Ordulf carefully passed the boy back with a chastened look. Brunhild took Aeske and went with him to a back corner of the room, where she had made a simple cradle on one of the broad benches that lined the wall, and she laid him in it, before settling herself in a pile of furs at its base.

Ordulf felt a hollow pang at the separation, and considered going over to join them, but decided against it. He lay down in his furs as the house settled around them and just thought about it all, saying to himself over and over, I have a son.

Chapter 20

A Bargain with the Black

Duke Henry was finishing checking the last of a pile of written orders when he heard a knock at the door. He waved his hand at the guard, who opened the door and let the visitor in.

Baron Hugues walked into the room, alone, and the door was shut behind him. Henry set the letters down, carefully turning them face down so that their contents were not visible. ‘Grandmaster Hugues, thank you for taking the time to visit, please, come and join me.’

Hugues bowed his head and walked over to the chair that was placed across from the duke. It was fine German work, brought from the duke’s home, as was the table, the shelves behind the table and many of the furnishings. The new duke had considerably upgraded the building from his brother’s rather squalid quarters.

‘I wanted to see you before Count Conrad arrives. Time is short, so I will get straight to the point,’ said Henry coolly, looking at Hugues. ‘Why are you here?’

Hugues attempted to remain nonchalant. ‘My lord, I confess I do not know why you summoned me.’

‘No, I mean why did you remain here, as Grandmaster of the Order, after your Crusade was ended and most of your contingent returned home?’

Hugues’s lip tensed just fractionally, and he dipped his head a touch. ‘A difficult question.’

‘I do not ask easy questions. Dispense with the pretence it is a sense of duty that keeps you here, no one owes duty to this place. You, like all of us, are here because you seek something. What do you seek? Bishop Reinhard is here because he seeks to prove to his brother that he can succeed on his own and to secure his own future. Count Otto and Count Conrad and Margrave Rudolf are here because their lord, Duke Lothair, commands them to be, and because they hope to win riches and glory through it. I am here to restore the respect and credibility of the Duchy of Bavaria after decades of humiliation and mismanagement.’ Henry sat back in the chair. ‘But what I want to know is: why are you here?’

Hugues raised his eyebrows. ‘That is an… interesting appraisal.’

‘But do you find any of it untrue?’

Hugues considered it for a moment. ‘No, I had the same conclusions on all fronts, perhaps with the exception of Bishop Reinhard – his reasons are more complex, harder to fathom.’

‘Perhaps,’ mused Henry. ‘But you are avoiding the question, unsurprising, as you are a good player of politicking by all accounts.’ That got a tiny smile from Hugues. ‘However, I do not appreciate the coyness with me. We are not playing this game at the same level. So let us be direct, and see if we can be of assistance to one another. As I said, time is short.’

Hugues’s smile vanished at the slight, but he nodded his head subtly in response. ‘Very well. I am used to playing the game over months or years, but I have found everyone here is in… such a hurry.’

Henry gave him an impatient look. ‘You are understandably reluctant to give away your position, so let me guess. You came on Crusade to try and earn favour with the emperor, probably to secure your brother’s position in the Duchy of Upper Lorraine.’ Hugues remained blank.

‘No, too small, and no reason to remain now.’ He started again. ‘You were trying to improve your brother’s position, by improving the position of your lord.’ Henry tapped his fingers together. ‘Perhaps to secure the emperor’s support to gain power over the mess in Lower Lorraine.’ Hugues eyes twitched just slightly, and he swallowed to conceal the movement.

‘As you say,’ he replied.

Henry laughed. ‘No, the emperor would never support that, it might bring him into conflict with France, and he is afraid and cautious. Nor would you admit to it if it was true. Nor would staying on as the Grandmaster of this Order help your cause.’ He chuckled dryly. ‘Perhaps you intended to curry favour with the King of France? By using your position to remove the troublesome Count Baldwin?’ Henry rubbed his lip as Hugues squirmed and tried to remain unmoved.

‘No, not that either, too convoluted, too unpredictable that it would have been possible. What else, what else did you gain?’ Henry leaned forwards, and saw the nervousness in Hugues. ‘You’re not just being coy, you are afraid of me knowing, which leaves only one answer. You are working in the interests of my enemies.’ The word dropped like a stone on the table, and Hugues paled a shade, even in the heat of the firelit room and his formal clothes.

‘I…’

Henry leaned back in triumph. ‘Lothair, you intended to secure favour with Duke Lothair, so that if, if he ever had the power to help you, if he succeeded in his ambition of unseating the emperor, he would rule in your favour in the disputes over Lower Lorraine.’ Hugues kept still as a stone, but saw that it was pointless, and nodded slightly.

‘So, who was your conduit, Count Adolf? Yes… he was the only one.’ Hugues’s face was pained now, as two years of scheming were dissected in front of him so cleanly, and he looked away, unable to meet the duke’s eye.

‘I could leave, if you require it. Renounce my position, pass it on to another of your choice,’ Hugues said stiffly.

Henry paused and looked bemused. ‘No, why would I want that? I told you, we are not playing the same game and I am not threatened by you. No, you are far more useful to me here, as long as you are not too wedded to where your favour comes from?’

Hugues’s brows furrowed and he looked back at the duke. ‘You would make the pact with me instead? Do you mean to be emperor?’ he asked, deducing the point and stunned by it. ‘You have been a duke for less than a month, you have no past campaigns, no alliances, no network. Duke Lothair has strong allies, a reputation as a leader, he has fought the emperor twice and is so powerful the emperor had to forgive him both times. How can you mean to achieve this? How can I believe you could ever be in a position to support me?’

‘And now it is you who is direct,’ said Henry with a wicked smile. ‘It is true, I am not a contender – yet. But I am wealthy, have large lands and forces far less touched by the disasters of this Crusade. Duke Lothair has made more enemies than friends, the emperor hates him even more than he fears him, and he has lost his foremost commander of men along with many of his trained soldiers. He is weaker than he appears.’

Hugues looked down at the table and thought it through. ‘Perhaps, perhaps you can prevent him unseating the emperor, but how would that put you in line? You are what… ten years older than Emperor Henry? How would you ever end up in Charlemagne’s seat? You surely do not have the power to face him directly.’

‘Ah, now that, I cannot tell you,’ smiled the duke. ‘Not until I know where you stand. Tell me, what are your other alternatives?’ Hugues looked tense again. ‘I expect you intended to renew your support with Lothair through the newly arrived counts?’ He laughed softly. ‘My ascension must have rather unbalanced that arrangement. Any help you render them is now de facto help for me. Lothair will show little favour for someone who helped me make a success of this Crusade, a success that will go some way to giving me the power and reputation and standing that you so rightly point out I am missing. So, now your only choice would be to sabotage the Crusade, and hope the defeat is not blamed on Lothair’s vassals.’ Henry grinned wolfishly. ‘But you cannot do that, can you?’

Hugues shook his head slowly. ‘It would be most unwise in my position.’

‘Indeed, you could not do it without your partner the good bishop discovering it, and you would make enemies of him and me. Tell me, my dear Hugues, does Reinhard seem like a man to betray?’

Hugues shook his head, a hint of fear in his eyes. ‘No.’

Henry chuckled. ‘He has exceeded my expectations, he took to his role like a wolf introduced to a field of lambs. You must know, and be clear on this, that his interests are my interests.’ Henry leaned in even further. ‘And would you make an enemy of me by impeding them?’

Hugues tensed his jaw and shook his head again. ‘No.’ He shuffled his feet under the table and straightened his collar as he tried to regain his composure. ‘I hear you made a point of participating in the burning of Kalmar. That your clothes were darkened by the soot, your face, your hands… until you and your men looked like creatures of the night.’

Henry shrugged. ‘I was making a point to more than the Norse.’

‘Yes, that everyone would know your resolve. Do you know what the men call you now, after the burning, after they saw you like that?’

Henry’s eyes glittered. ‘Of course I do. I rather like it.’ He pushed his chair back, stood up and faced Hugues with his hands spread wide as if offering an embrace. ‘I assume we have an understanding?’

Hugues stood too and bowed his head with precise care. ‘Yes, we do.’

I am now an ally of Duke Henry the Black.

‘Excellent. Now, if you don’t mind, I have more to prepare before the count arrives. Please await his arrival and return with him, I need to coordinate his forces with yours.’

Count Conrad of Blakenburg arrived in Lund and was shown to the headquarters of the duke as Hugues watched with an appraising eye. The count was tall and still handsome, despite his features being sharpened by age. He strode into the square with complete confidence, and his retinue of knights followed him in a disciplined column of identically dressed men, not the preening gaggle Hugues had seen other, younger, great lords of the previous Crusade possess.

The count was being guided by a herald, who pointed over at the doorway behind Hugues and bowed. The count strode towards the door without looking back, his retinue splitting up under orders of their captain, some going further into town, two moving with their lord as escort.

The count arrived at the door and did no more than flick a gaze at Hugues, who was wearing the white and gold of his order, but was not in armour, nor wearing any obvious badge of rank beyond his fine belt.

‘My lord Conrad,’ Hugues said with an impeccable bow.

Conrad finally appeared to notice him and he stopped, returning a courteous bow. ‘And you are, sir?’

‘Baron Hugues, brother of Count Folmar of Metz, Grandsteward of the Order of the Brotherhood of Christ’s Light. I am pleased to meet you, my lord.’

Conrad’s gaze flickered at the introduction, and he did not immediately reply. Finally, he spoke. ‘So, you are the one he chose,’ he said bluntly.

Hugues felt stung by the dismissive tone, but he smiled valiantly and decided to ignore it. ‘Duke Henry awaits us inside, my lord.’

‘Yes, so I hear, much has changed while I was in the North.’

‘Do not worry, my lord, much remains the same.’ The count gave Hugues a last suspicious look and went through the door, the Grandsteward following in his wake.

Taken through into the main room once more, Duke Henry welcomed the two men and Hugues saw that an additional chair had been carefully laid out, to one side of the table. The count sat in the chair that Hugues had occupied earlier, and he took the chair to the side, a carefully ordained hierarchy. In this meeting, his secondary importance was clearly going to be emphasised.

‘Count Conrad, I hope you will not be offended, but we will defer the usual pleasantries. I eagerly await your report, and the status of your forces. There is much to discuss.’

Conrad nodded without a hint of annoyance, his gruff tone from his encounter with Hugues dissipated, or carefully hidden. ‘Certainly. The attack on southern Norway was more difficult than anticipated.’

Henry looked concerned. ‘You were not successful?’

‘Yes, we achieved all of what I intended and more, but it took longer than expected, and involved more losses.’

‘I see, and what was achieved?’

‘We took every major harbour on the coast from Helsingborg to Anslo. We found a fleet of their ships at anchor and scattered them. The ships were barely manned, the main bulk of their crews was elsewhere. We tried to reach Anslo by sea but were forced by the enemy and the shore to disembark halfway down the inlet and move overland.’

‘And you captured Anslo.’

‘We did, although we were soon forced to abandon it. We could not maintain our supply lines in that rough terrain. The resistance was…’ Conrad paused for a moment and considered. ‘Fanatical,’ he said finally. ‘We did not have the forces to pursue the enemy or clear them out, so we fought our way back to the ships and returned here, burning everything along the way.’

Henry clacked his fingertips on the table and frowned. ‘That sounds very much like a retreat and a defeat,’ he said with displeasure. ‘I do not know how to present this as a victory.’

Conrad remained blank. ‘We never intended to remain there. We captured and burned their capital, dispersed their fleet, killed many of their warriors and other people, and returned with eight in ten men that we left with. Is that not enough?’

Henry nodded cautiously. ‘Yes, if we emphasise that part. So your force is still in good order.’

‘It is. But more than that, I have received an offer from the remains of the Norwegian forces.’

Henry raised an eyebrow. ‘What sort of offer?’

‘Of peace. Specifically, of subjugation. They will not surrender to our occupation, they make that clear, but if we refrain from entering their land by force again, they will cease all actions to hinder us in Sweden, and renounce their traitor king Sigurd, who has gone to the Swedes.’

Henry smiled and pursed his lips in thought. ‘How interesting, and unexpected. You must truly have hurt them, Count Conrad.’

‘We did.’

‘But they believe they can simply make peace with us, and not submit to our conquest?’

‘They do, but they offer concessions.’

‘And those are?’

‘They will allow our priests to walk and preach unhindered in their lands, and they will swear allegiance to the emperor, to be a faithful client state, but independent in their own land.’

Henry nodded thoughtfully. ‘And do you believe they are capable of resisting us? Or did you break them?’

Conrad shook his head. ‘Subjugating them by force would be difficult, time consuming, and expensive in the lives of our men, if even possible with what we have available. I think this is an offer worthy of consideration. It would allow us to focus all our force on Sweden.’

‘And later, we could deal with the Norwegians alone.’

Conrad looked uncomfortable, but nodded. ‘Indeed, we could break the agreement later at our leisure, if we could stomach the dishonour.’

‘We would find a good cause, I am sure. Did you give them any answer?’

‘No, I came to bring the message to Duke Welfard,’ Conrad said pointedly.

‘Which is convenient, because that is now me, in body and blood.’

‘As you say,’ said Conrad with a stiff nod.

‘Excellent. You have done very well, Count Conrad. Now, I have another task for you, this is why Baron Hugues is here. Count Otto and Margrave Rudolf have moved up the east coast successfully so far, capturing or destroying each town; however, they have reached a range of hills that they so far cannot penetrate, and they have suffered several setbacks in their attempts to move further along the coast by ship.’

‘What setbacks?’

‘A small fleet scouting for a landing was surprised and burned at anchor, the crews lost almost to a man. Two other ships were lost on a reef.’

‘Not insurmountable losses,’ said Conrad casually.

‘No, but they are also experiencing significant trouble securing the areas inland of the coast, and their forces are spread out too thinly to complete all these tasks.’

‘I see, so you wish me to rejoin the army and assist them.’

‘In a way. Their fleet is degraded and exhausted. I want you to take over the coastal thrust, and leave them to focus on the inland route and the pacification.’

‘I see. And what part do Baron Hugues and his Order play in this?’

‘They hold and maintain order in the captured settlements, and provide support to the forces in the field. You will need to coordinate with Grandmaster Hugues and his men in that regard.’ Henry stopped to emphasise his next point. ‘I need to know that this will not be a problem.’

‘You mean with my brother.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would it be a problem? I doubt he plays any part in the logistics,’ said Conrad dismissively. ‘If I stay out of his churches, I presume I will not even come across him.’

‘Reinhard is considerably more active than that,’ replied Henry, leaning in over the table. ‘I have heard that you have something of a rivalry, that it might lead you to undermine him. That cannot happen here.’

Conrad laughed bitterly. ‘That is what he told you, is it? Yes, I have heard this story a dozen times, that I sabotaged his career out of rivalry, or spite. It is nonsense.’

The duke looked uncertain for the first time. ‘I have known your brother for many years. As you know, he was once in my service. This is not some offhand tale he spun. I have seen the evidence of your hand at work, of you stymieing him several times, limiting his advancement. I do not care for the reason why, I am not one to comment on the struggle between brothers.’ He paused and raised a finger in the air for emphasis. ‘I simply insist that it does not continue here.’

Conrad shook his head in sadness. ‘I do not deny that I have limited his career at every turn, something you have unwisely chosen to help him avoid.’

Henry scowled. ‘Be careful, Conrad.’

The count continued heedless. ‘But I didn’t do it out of jealousy or spite. I did it to protect him, and our family name.’

That got Henry’s interest, and he relaxed a little. ‘Protect him? From what?’

‘From himself.’

‘Explain, he is a very capable man.’

‘Oh, yes, far too capable. It is what he is capable of that is the problem.’ Conrad leaned forwards and lowered his voice.

‘When we were children, it became apparent that he was not like other boys. He was angry and prone to violent outbursts, he took every childish joke as a mortal insult. He had no friends and never sought to make any. He took no notice of girls or women. He had strange interests that varied year to year but became ever darker and more disturbing. Perhaps he told you that he was sent to the clergy because he was the third son. It could not be further from the truth. My father wanted him to be a soldier, a leader, but he had no interest.’

Henry waved his hand in annoyance to cut the count off. ‘I do not need a history of his childhood.’

‘Oh, but you do, if you are to understand him,’ said Conrad in a flash of anger that stalled Henry’s protest. ‘You two think you can control him, but he accepts no permanent form of control, no limit on his desires. It is he who uses you to achieve his ends, and I shudder to know what those ends will be once he has the power to unleash them, and who will be the subject of his desires.’

Hugues tried to remain aloof, but he found the count’s demeanour chilling. The man was not angry, he was afraid.

‘The first time we found a bird with one wing in the yard, we assumed a fox had caught it. But then we found one in his room. He said he wanted to know if they could still fly with one of them removed.’

Henry was silent now, statue still.

‘When he was punished and scolded, he simply learned to hide his activities better, and my parents relented. But then one day, I returned to find him satisfying his curiosity on a laundrymaid.’ Conrad looked between them. ‘No, I do not mean in the way that many boys satisfy their curiosity on maids. I wish that was all. He had decided he wanted to know how women were different inside, so he decided to knock her over the head and dig around in her stomach with a knife and find out.’

Hugues gulped and found his breath was catching in his throat.

‘He told me he didn’t kill her until she awoke and her scrabbling and crying became too inconvenient for him, and that if she had stayed unconscious, he would have let her live.’ Conrad was quieter now. ‘He never expressed remorse, he never even understood that it was wrong. He cares nothing for any other living being, only in how they may be useful to him, or help satisfy his interests. My father sent him away to the family monastery the next day, hoping they would be able to control him, to teach him better. But all they did was push his darkness down further inside his soul, teach him to hide his actions better, and open up for him an entirely new power structure to climb, exploit, and control, one already so full of wretched and crooked men, so shrouded in secrecy and lies, that it could not have suited him more perfectly. And he thrived.

‘He wants to know how people work, so that he can control them. He moved quickly from their internal structures to their minds, and found he understood that far better, and found it far more useful.’ Conrad stood and spoke softly. ‘That, sirs, is why I have done everything I can to limit him from positions of power where he might once again unleash himself. And now I fear it is too late, that he may be beyond the control of either of you.’

Henry finally moved and spoke again, much more quietly. ‘Thank you, Count Conrad, you may return to your men, written orders will follow.’ Conrad gave one more look of disapproval, and then nodded curtly and left the room.

Henry sat deep in thought for a few moments after Conrad left and then turned to Hugues. ‘This changes nothing. A man is not the child he once was. But keep a close eye on Reinhard, and help me ensure his energies are directed towards the heathens, and our goal of pacifying and converting the Norse.’

Hugues nodded warily. ‘As you say, Duke Henry.’

‘Even if all of what Conrad fears is true, as long as his objectives align with ours, I don’t need to control him, only direct him, and you merely need to not get in his way. I fear the count sees this too personally, perhaps he is an idealist. This is a war, we are surrounded by men who take joy in killing, rape and destruction. I will not act pre-emptively against a man who has been so instrumental in the success that has been achieved so far, or who is so important to its future. Understood?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good, I will keep an eye on Conrad, and try to keep him separate from his brother. As long as Bishop Reinhard continues to act in the interests of the Crusade, I don’t want to hear any more about this.’

‘I will manage it,’ said Hugues, with a nervous nod.

Part 3

Chapter 21

Fortress Svealand

Autumn 1118

Three times the Christians tried to force the narrow, ragged passes through the Kolmården. Three times the Norse ambushed them, stopped them, and forced them back. A Crusader force spent a month slogging through the forests, rivers, lakes and hostile villages to the west until they were stalled under the deluge of attacks, impassable terrain, and finally autumn rains. Christian ships probed the coast for landing sites, and were hunted, dashed on hidden reefs, chased away or burned at their anchors by raiders in the night.

It was as Ragnvald had said it would be. Svealand was a fortress, and it held fast until late autumn, when the rains and storms and then winter snows sealed its four gates for the year. King Sigurd remained in Svealand with many of the Norwegian crews. It was simply too dangerous for many to brave the long sail home with the threat of the Christians, who blockaded the straits past København with their traitor crews, and with the winter storms, which could boil up at any moment and force the ships onto hostile shores, sometimes for days, to be picked off by Christian patrols.

In the waning days of autumn, Ragnvald was watching Sigurd and several of his jarls and huskarls wrestling, which Sigurd liked to do from time to time, both to help him recover strength after his injuries, and to give the restless man something to do.

Sigurd was making a fine show of it, and he had certainly recovered a lot of his strength, but Ragnvald was worried to note that his left side was still weak and painful and he was careful to protect it. The king, who was so famous for going half-naked that ‘Barechest’ was his given name, was now never without his tunic or some form of covering for his torso. Ragnvald could only wonder how bad the king’s wound had been.

Weakened or not, Ragnvald smiled as Sigurd put another burly huskarl on his back with a thud on the wooden boards, to the cheers and jeers of other men. The huskarls didn’t go easy on him, he didn’t tolerate that, and that man had lost in a fair fight, pulling himself to his feet with a groan and clutching a freshly given blow to the kidney.

‘Well fought, Bjornstan, well fought… for an unkissed whelp.’ The king gave the defeated man an overly enthusiastic shove out of the centre of the makeshift arena and looked around for the next challenger. ‘Who is next? Come now, I am tiring, who will chance their strength?’

Ragnvald heard the door open and looked at the entrance to the great hall. A warrior entered, leaving his sword hurriedly by the door, and made his way over towards the king. ‘King Sigurd!’ he said as he arrived.

‘You? Good man, let’s measure your quality then.’ The king dropped into his stance with a broad grin, and the man looked confused.

‘I have a message.’

‘Wrestling first, message later,’ said the king, and the messenger looked around at the others, finding no support there.

‘Is it news of the enemy, have they attacked?’ said Ragnvald from the sidelines.

‘No, lord… It is…’

‘Then it can wait… attend to your king.’

The messenger, clearly a warrior of note, a Norwegian from his accent and dress, slowly nodded and shed his belt and cloak, dropping them and the seax he still carried on the belt to the ground. He stripped his tunic too, revealing a fine physique, as the gathered men jeered and whistled.

The messenger still looked unsure at the situation, but Sigurd didn’t give him time to think about it, advancing suddenly, lowering himself and putting his arms in front, spreading his stance with his legs. The warrior tried to grapple with the king’s arms as the bigger man reached him, but this was always Sigurd’s opponent’s last mistake, as the man had unnatural strength and length in his arms, and was never beaten that way. Sigurd got control of one arm and locked it, rotating the struggling messenger around his hip and throwing him to the ground with a thump.

The crowd cheered and laughed, and the red-faced warrior got to his feet, rubbing his shoulder where he had hit the ground. Ragnvald saw with amusement that the man was angry. This was Sigurd’s second trick, he always made his opponent angry, and angry men make mistakes. The only way to beat the king was patience and precise attacks. Angry men would normally achieve neither.

Sure enough, the man made a rushed grab for the king’s legs, trying to go underneath the powerful arms and get hold of an ankle so he could tip the ruler onto his back. But Sigurd was ready, and leaned into the attack, pushing his legs back, grabbing the man’s torso from behind, and driving him to the ground face first.

With two wins, Sigurd only had to achieve one more, and he smiled and let the man get to his feet again, slapping his hands together to free them of the dust and dirt from the floor. The messenger circled this time, trying to stay out of reach of the bearish arms, a smart strategy. But Sigurd kept his position, forcing the man into a corner and going for a simple clench that he would use to lift the smaller man from his feet and then drop him on his arse.

But the warrior twisted his upper body like a snake and stuck one leg out between the king’s, locking his back knee. He reached up under the grasping arm and grabbed the king behind his back and rolled him, using Sigurd’s movement against him, and the king fell forwards as his trapped leg was not able to balance him.

Most men would have twisted and rolled out of it, coming to their feet, but the king hissed and crumpled to the floor, a momentary flash of agony crossing his face, and Gunnar shot to his feet, before the king held up a hand to stay them, struggling to regain control of his features. The king lay there, half propped up on an elbow, breathing heavily, before struggling to his feet, refusing assistance from the concerned-looking messenger.

‘I apologise, my king, I did not mean…’

‘Yes, you did, but do not worry, it was well done.’ The king smiled through a grimace and waved at the man vaguely. ‘You have proved yourself, and now you may name yourself and deliver your message.’ The king moved gingerly to his chair and sat, trying and failing to keep the pain from his features.

‘As you wish. I am Olaf Haraldsson, I am, or I was, a jarl of the Boknjafjord.’

‘You are a jarl of my lands, but I have never met you. I believe I knew your father well? Harald the Seasnake? A fine warrior, had the best crew in the fjordlands. But why are you now jarl, what befell my friend?’

‘He died in the winter, my lord, of sickness.’

‘Ah. A shame, he was a good man.’

‘Thank you, Lord Sigurd. I will attempt to bear his name well.’

‘I am sure you shall. So, what brings you here, Olaf, son of the Seasnake?’

‘My king, I have been sent from Västerås to tell you that an army of our countrymen is coming, they will be here within days.’

Sigurd sat up straighter and smiled broadly. ‘You should have told me sooner, I might have spared you the thrashing for bringing me such good news.’

The messenger shook his head. ‘It is not good news, my lord. A usurper has claimed the kingship of Norway and made peace with the Christians. This army is all of those who refused to follow him.’

The shock that went through Sigurd was visible only as a twitching of his hand, a tensing and flexing that did not stop. He stared at the man in silence as the Norwegians in the hall were shocked into quiet consternation and grief.

Sigurd sat there, thinking, and Ragnvald tried to marshal his own thoughts. He had thought Norway too far and too wild for the Crusaders to subdue it. The concept of someone usurping Sigurd in favour of the Christians had not occurred to him, such was the depth of the dishonour of that act. He felt his heart racing as he ran through everything that this meant. The loss of their last ally, the impact it would have on the morale of the Norwegians, now exiles from their homes. But worse, by far, it meant the Crusade would be able to focus exclusively on Svealand, now the last free nation of the Norse. They were now alone.

Whatever thoughts had been grinding through Sigurd’s mind in those moments, he finally decided what he needed most to know, and spoke in a low voice. ‘Who has taken my hall, which traitor sits in my father’s chair?’

‘Jarl Halvard, my lord.’

‘Halvard!’ Sigurd said, choking on the word, veins pulsing on his forehead and neck. ‘That nithling who walked away with a thousand of my warriors?’

The man looked confused. He clearly did not know what had happened when Halvard had begged Sigurd to return and defend Norway. The king waved the question away angrily before the man could think of an answer.

‘Tell me, how did enough of our people choose to follow him that this could happen?’

‘King Halvard…’ The room tensed and the warrior stammered to a stop as he realised his mistake and the king scowled. ‘My apologies – Jarl Halvard – led the defence against the Crusaders. He fought them in battle several times, and won much support amongst the people he defended.’

‘Yet Anslo burned, he failed.’

‘Yes, Lord Sigurd, but he was never defeated, and it gained him a lot of respect among the people.’

‘You sound like you agree with them.’

‘My king, I am here.’

‘Yes, I suppose you are.’

‘But I understand why many have chosen to support him. The war was short but terrible, and he proved himself as a leader, and offered a way to end it… And he and his people spread lies about you.’

‘What lies?’ said the king in renewed anger.

‘That you had abandoned them.’

‘Did they not understand that the fight here was to defend us all? How can they…’ Sigurd stopped himself and shook his head, reasserting control. ‘Never mind, it does not matter now. Tell me, Jarl Olaf, how an army loyal to me came to be here, while another man sits in my hall. One side or the other should be in the ground, with the victor alone left to decide the fate of Norway.’ There was hurt in his voice, and threat.

‘We did consider it, fighting him for your throne, but our forces were well matched, the fighting would have destroyed our country and whatever the result, nothing would have been left to come and aid you here. We decided it was best to come to you now, and help defeat the Crusaders. When that is done, we can return with you to reclaim your rights. I swear to march alongside you to win back what is yours, every man with me will swear alike.’

Sigurd shuffled in his chair and jutted his chin out defiantly at the show of loyalty. ‘Yes, you were right, it is better that I face him myself, when we are victorious here. You have done well, Jarl Olaf, and I shall not forget your loyalty. Stay, eat and rest, and await the arrival of your people.’

Olaf inclined his head. ‘I will return to them now, with your permission.’

‘Good man, I would too.’

Olaf turned and left the hall again and Sigurd slumped in his chair like a deflated bladder. ‘Not now, Lord Ragnvald,’ he growled, so quietly that Ragnvald was not sure he had heard him. He looked at the king in confusion. ‘I know, I hear your thoughts. This is my doing, I had mercy on a traitor, gave him an army, and sent him home to claim my throne. I am the worst king Norway has ever had. I was there for only a month before I gave it away.’

‘The treason of others is not your fault,’ said Ragnvald, moving to the king’s side. But Sigurd did not even look at him.

‘Yes, it is. It is true, it is all true, I abandoned my country for the vanity of leading the whole of a people who have never been united, not in their entire history. There is good reason for that. We were never one country, and were never meant to be.’

Ragnvald recoiled. He had seen the king in many black moods, but every time he had been angry, burning with passion and fire. Now he mumbled like a drunk, muttering a life’s regrets to himself as he stared at his own knees.

‘Go now, Ragnvald, perhaps you too should steal your crown back from me. You deserve it more. What am I if not an imposter here, a man who cannot keep his own people, let alone yours?’

‘King Sigurd…’

‘I said GO!’ snarled Sigurd, pushing himself up on one arm with a pained expression on his face. Ragnvald stood back as if he had been struck, and saw huskarls rise to their feet, hands on weapons. He looked around, and suddenly found he was not in the company of friends. These men who had shared half a dozen battlefields with him would cut him down in an instant, if their king merely whispered the command.

Fighting back his own despair, he nodded curtly and stumbled from the hall.

The army of Norwegian exiles arrived in the city two days later, swelling it further with thousands of warriors. Sigurd had not called for Ragnvald again, and he had not sought to return to the king’s hall. Instead, he had thrown himself into organising the rest of their forces in the defence of Svealand as the campaigning season loomed.

As the men of Sweden went about defending their lands, the Norwegians camped around the city, and their king brooded in the seclusion of his countrymen. Having dozens of bored, frustrated Norwegian jarls, and thousands of their warriors, cooped up in Uppsala and the surrounding towns was a boon to Dengir and Ordulf. Many jarls wanted a sword made by the man who had forged the axe of the king, the man who forged blades to defeat Christian armour. Regardless of the truth of those stories, Ordulf found himself suddenly famous and sought after, something that helped distract him from the turmoil in his heart and in the hall.

Dengir had to turn famous warlords away, such was the demand. And Ordulf worked every hour of light that the day brought, and more besides, forging by torchlight and the hot glow of the constantly burning coals. He wanted to spend time with Brunhild, and his son, but every hour he was not working, he was sleeping or doing chores, and Brunhild was distant and occupied solely with the care of the boy, something she politely but firmly refused his help with.

Alda, the old slave woman, shooed him away one evening as he fussed around Brunhild and the infant Aeske. She took him aside with a firm hand and a sympathetic look. ‘Do not become a burden on her, let those of us who know how take care of the boy. You will have all the time in the world, when he has grown a little.’

Ordulf was miserable, but he nodded and distracted himself with food that he did not taste, and sleep that did not quell his restless soul. Every time the boy cried in the night, he had to stop himself going to him, and every rare time Brunhild let him hold the boy, or fetch her something, or sit with them, he felt that a pair of yoked oxen would be needed to drag him away.

The boy grew fast, he was healthy and strong. Within weeks, he had swelled from a pudgy pink blob into a wailing ball of fury. Ordulf was thrilled with the strength in his tiny hands, and the loudness of his lungs. He was sure that it boded well for his future; even if Aeske’s bawls and fuss annoyed others in the house, it didn’t bother Ordulf in the slightest.

He was oblivious to the disturbance, to his tiredness, to his discomfort and the events of the war outside those walls. His whole world was in that longhouse, and every day, he wanted nothing but to return to it. He was also oblivious to the increasing tension in Brunhild, how she withdrew from his offers of help, how she more and more often tried to avoid him within the confines of the house.

When Aeske was perhaps five months old, the building tension burst over as Ordulf came to sit next to Brunhild while she was trying to rock the child to sleep. He was bawling and kicking in his wrapped sheets, and Brunhild was pleading with him in low tones to quiet, while Alda tried to quiet the boy with her gentle hands and cooing voice.

Ordulf crouched down beside the women. ‘Perhaps if I hold him, he is often quiet with me. You did say he must like me.’

‘No! Ordulf, just leave us alone,’ Brunhild snapped at him.

Ordulf was taken aback. ‘I’m just trying to help.’

‘I don’t need your help, I don’t want your help. I don’t need anything from you at all!’ said Brunhild, shoving him away.

Ordulf backed away, aghast, anger and hurt swirling in confusion in his heart. ‘But I have a responsibility, he is my son!’

‘He is not your son!’ blurted Brunhild with a clenched scream and a sob.

Ordulf swayed and stammered as if he had been hit by an axe. ‘Why would you… why would you say that?’ he stammered. ‘Why would you say such a lie?’

Ordulf looked over at the crib, aghast, furrowing his brows and opening his mouth to protest but not finding the words. ‘You said…’

‘I never said he was your son,’ said the red-faced Brunhild, struggling to control her voice as Alda tried to quiet the boy.

Ordulf looked back at her, thinking it over. Then the anger swelled in his chest, and he felt the rage that he had felt few times before. ‘Eleven months!’ he said, pointing a finger. ‘I may be a stupid Christian, but I can count! Eleven months I was away, and he was two months old when I returned. Why are you lying to me? How… how can… he belong to another? How long was I gone before you forgot about me and spread yourself for another man? A week, a day, an hour?’

Brunhild shook with her own suppressed anger and stood to face him. ‘You were taken from here, perhaps never to return! I came back and you were gone, some said forever. I told you, I told you that would happen. That we are slaves, and cannot be together because we do not control our own lives. So yes, I lay with another, not because I had forgotten you but because I WANTED to forget you. And now you have been brought back, who knows for how long? Tomorrow you might be taken away again, or I, and there is nothing we can do about it. Yet you treat me again like I am yours? Have you forgotten everything we ever spoke of? I told you, I told you I wouldn’t lie with you whenever you wanted because I knew you would think you owned me. I knew that you would treat me as yours, and you SWORE to me that you would not. But now, you not only claim me, but my son too? You were gone for a year, dead to us, lost! Did you expect me to stop living until your return? You are still the foolish boy.’ She pointed at his face and turned away, back to her screaming child, the boy who was not his son.

Ordulf was too hurt to be ashamed, too angry to be recalcitrant. But he was older and wise enough to know, even through the fog of pain, that there was nothing to be gained from continuing to argue, and he allowed a sympathetic arm to lead him away into the yard, where he slumped in a corner and put his head on his knees, dazed and too hollowed out by the horrors and loss of the last months to even weep for the son he had thought he had, and lost already.

Ordulf lost himself in the forge again, as he always had in times of strife. After a month of straining at the leash to leave every evening, he spent so long working there that Dengir had to snap at him to stop and leave most nights, as the old smith and he were the last ones left.

Ordulf didn’t tell the Norse master what had happened, and the man didn’t ask. He just sent Ordulf away with a grunt and a muttering and Ordulf would trudge the lonely path home.

A few days after the confrontation, he found Brunhild standing alone in the yard, obviously waiting for him, and Ordulf sighed and stopped on the far side of the street, staring at her as he considered what, if anything, he wanted to say. Finally, she raised and dropped her arms in a gesture of annoyance and turned to go back into the hall.

Several times she tried to talk to him, meeting him outside the hall when he returned, and each time he rebuffed her. It was too raw, he was too angry. As his anger faded and the days passed, he finally stopped next to her as he arrived back at the hall, not speaking, not looking at her, just standing there, looking at the ground in silence.

‘I’m sorry, Ordulf, I didn’t want you to find out like that.’

Ordulf nodded slowly. ‘Why did you ever let me believe that he was my son?’

‘When you came back, you were so…’ Brunhild shrugged, ‘so broken. And when you thought you had a son, I saw it bring you back to life. I didn’t know you would care so much, few men do. This isn’t your world, Ordulf, but most children born to slaves are raised by the women of the house, most men avoid them. The child does not take their name, it belongs to the master of the slave who bore it. Some slaves are allowed to wed, to live together and be kept together… but children who just spring up from the ground unexpected? Ordulf, they do not belong to the father, and the father normally ignores them. I just… I was expecting that to be how you behaved, that it was a confusion that would not hurt you.’

Ordulf looked at her in confusion. ‘You thought I would not care?’

Brunhild looked at the ground and shook her head. ‘I knew you would, but I hoped you would not.’

‘Why did my love for the child offend you so much? To hurt me the way you did?’

‘You know the answer, Ordulf. And if you don’t, you never knew me at all.’

‘Because you wish to be alone? Because you are afraid of what will happen if you allow us to be a family?’

Brunhild looked up and met his eye with a defensive scowl. ‘I do not wish to be alone, I am a slave and have no choice. I am not afraid of us being together, I am afraid of the next time we are torn apart. I have to be alone on that day, so I have to be alone every day before that, so that I am ready, so that I will survive it.’

Ordulf shook his head in disappointment. ‘That is the same for all men. How many widows are there in this city, whose free men will never return?’

‘They had a choice, they were not taken in the night from their families, if their husbands do not return, they can find another, and have lands and whatever wealth remains to sustain them. I have nothing!’

‘You had me,’ Ordulf said bitterly.

‘No, I had a man who believed he was a father, and would have left the moment he learned he was not.’ She folded her arms and looked away.

‘Then it is you who knows me so little,’ Ordulf said through gritted teeth, taking half a step away in disgust. ‘If you had told me gently, corrected my mistake, I would have helped you raise him as if he was my own. If you were not too scared and too proud.’

Brunhild looked at him and shook her head. ‘Why? Why would you have helped me raise another’s child?’

Ordulf turned towards the entrance to the hall. ‘If you have to ask that question, it proves I was wrong to think you were capable of understanding the answer.’ He walked away, towards the door, headed for his bed, and a meal that would not fill the hollow in his stomach.

Chapter 22

The Shadow of an Emperor

Spring 1119

Duke Henry arrived at the imperial palace at Aachen, city of emperors for three hundred years, as the full glory of spring was spreading through the land. He and the other four great dukes of the empire had been summoned to council. Trouble was brewing once more in the endlessly rebellious lands of northern Italy, supposedly a part of the empire, but more often than not a power to themselves, frequently spurred to dissent by the papacy.

The emperor was afraid. The emperor was always afraid. He had probably gathered the dukes to convince himself they were not part of the rebellion as much as to seek their advice and support.

Duke Henry went to the imperial palace and presented himself to the imperial courtiers, who directed him to the chapel. ‘The chapel?’ he asked, surprised.

‘Yes, my lord, please await his highness, who will greet you after nones.’ The courtier bowed and said nothing more.

Henry left the entrance hall of the palace and followed the colonnade down towards the chapel at the other end of the courtyard. The Palatine Chapel had been built by Charlemagne himself, and changed hands between successor kingdoms until finally it had been adopted by the new empire. Every king of the Germans was crowned there before going to Rome to receive, coerce, bribe or steal the blessing of the Pope.

Henry left his retinue at the door as requested, momentarily hesitating, fearing it was a trap, but deciding it was unlikely he went through into the atrium. He had been to the chapel several times, but the effect of entering it, especially alone, was humbling. Beautiful ornate bronze lions decorated the doors, and life-size statues of a roaring bronze bear and lion stood on opposing sides, challenging everyone who entered.

He walked through the marbled hall and into the beautifully cloistered chapel with its ring of pillars supporting the enormous dome. He had never visited Rome, but they said it was the only city other than Constantinople with a structure so grand and finely decorated.

But the decoration was not what drew his attention this time. A single figure stood near the altar, and once again, Henry feared a trap, looking quickly to his sides and peering for hidden men in the shadows of the great pillars. But he saw nothing.

He gathered himself and walked into the open space under the dome and the sound of his heels on the mosaic floor alerted the figure, who turned to see who approached.

It was Duke Lothair, and the man was clearly as surprised to see him as he himself was. The two men stared at each other in unease for a moment, before Lothair made a perfunctory nod of his head. ‘Duke Henry, I did not know you were coming, I thought I had a private audience with the emperor,’ he said with displeasure.

‘As did I,’ said Henry, walking slowly forwards to join the other duke, his thoughts whirring as he judged the permutations of the situation. ‘It appears someone wanted us to meet alone, and I take it it was not you.’

‘It would not have been my choice,’ said Lothair, eyeing Henry with annoyance.

Henry seized on the man’s annoyance with amusement, crossing the final distance to join him, as if they were friends. ‘I can understand your distaste. You must have been surprised to hear I was now the commander of your Crusade.’

Lothair feigned indifference. ‘It is of no matter to me which lesser man the task of managing the Crusade is left to. I am surprised the emperor saw fit to call you here, you have only recently gained that title of duke you for so long have desired.’

‘The title that was due to me,’ corrected Henry, smiling through the joust of words.

‘Yes, you did believe that wedding a dying man’s sickly daughter gave you the right to his dukedom, it was a shame for you that it was proven so incorrect.’ Henry found his calm cracked by the insult to his wife, who in truth he cherished dearly, but he showed no sign of discomfort.

His wife, Wulfhilde, was the daughter of Magnus, Duke of Saxony, who had sired no heir. Henry had married Wulfhilde, hoping to be given that title when Magnus died, and had positioned himself carefully in good favour with Henry IV, the current emperor’s father and ruler at the time.

But Lothair had been instrumental in helping the emperor Henry V seize power from his father and just months later, when Magnus finally died, the Duchy of Saxony had been Lothair’s reward. Not that it had secured Lothair’s loyalty, the perfidious man knew no limits on his ambition and had betrayed Henry V as soon as it suited him.

‘Yes, the emperor did well to entrust his faith in you instead,’ he said, convivially. ‘Remind me, how long afterwards was your first failed rebellion against him?’

Lothair laughed. ‘Failed? I gained total power over my lands, forced a settlement and emerged more powerful than before. I know you are new to this game, but you should learn to recognise power if you hope to succeed at it.’

‘Recognise power? Yes, indeed. I was sorry to hear of the death of your dear friend Count Adolf, from whom so much of your power flowed. Such a shame, to have the stain of failure be his epitaph, written so close to your name.’ He nodded sadly. ‘Never mind, once I have succeeded where he failed, I am sure that stain will pass from memory, eventually.’

Lothair gritted his teeth and turned to look down at the shorter man. ‘Those who matter will know how to judge your worth, a man who has to rely on the accomplishments of others to build his name, who inherits a house of shame and scorn, a name laughed about behind cupped hands, a man whose greatest accomplishment so far has been not shitting himself to death like his brother. I earned my power through my own actions. You try to gain yours by just waiting for sickly men to die, and picking up their scraps.’

It was Henry’s turn to feel his blood run hot, but he controlled himself. ‘I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t there,’ he said, with a serpentine emphasis. Lothair’s eyes flickered just a touch at the strange inflection, and his confident expression faltered a little.

Henry laughed suddenly, shattering the tension, and he shook his head ruefully. ‘The emperor is smarter than I thought.’

‘What?’

‘Look around you.’ He gestured around the room. ‘Here we are, in the seat of power, under the very throne itself.’ He gestured up to the simple marble seat that was on its pedestal on the upper gallery, positioned to look down over the altar and all who knelt before it. Even empty, it dominated the space.

‘This place, this meeting, us being lured here together alone is no accident. He is not trying to garner our support, he is just reminding us that we all hate each other too much to plot against him.’ He chuckled as Lothair looked around him and then cursed.

‘You are right. I wonder if he will come at all.’ Lothair looked up at the throne. ‘And if he does, I wonder if he will make us crawl underneath it.’ The throne was built on stone pillars, the gap underneath just large enough for a man to crawl through, something men did as a gesture of fealty to the emperor, or were forced to do in submission.

‘No, that will remind us again that we resent him more than we hate each other. He will be the very paragon of humility and good manners. He may be a coward, but he is not a fool.’

‘Then I wonder where our fellow dukes are,’ said Lothair, looking at Henry with distaste. ‘I would prefer their company.’

‘I’m sure you would, men who fear and respect you, but maybe hate you even more than I. For all your power and influence, you couldn’t keep even one of us on your side?’ Henry said in a mocking tone.

Lothair sneered. ‘I don’t need to keep my rivals as allies, I keep them below me. I have a dozen great lords at my side, and I would have them over a weak and scheming upstart duke on any day.’

‘Maybe, but if Duke Conrad of Franconia, Duke Fredrich of Swabia, and Duke Simon of Lorraine and I were all united against you, and if the emperor knew that, don’t you think we would be the equal of your pack of borderland hounds, or even your superiors?’ Henry smiled at Lothair slyly. ‘Something to think about. You always knew you were safe with my brother. And Duke Simon needed your support, but you have little of that to offer him now. Suddenly it must feel like the wolves are closing in on you, must it not? Perhaps that is why we are all here, perhaps we are being gathered to finally see the end of you.’

Lothair grunted in contempt. ‘Wolves? Sheep gathering together out of fear do not worry me.’ But the first crack in his confidence showed, and Henry saw that his blows had landed home. The duke’s eyes flitted around in concern once, just once, but enough that he saw it.

They were interrupted by the sound of a door opening in the gallery above them, and two heralds appeared to announce the emperor, who walked into the gallery with his retinue, before taking his place on the simple marble throne.

Henry gestured politely to the stairs at the side of the chapel that would take them up into the imperial presence. ‘After you?’

Both dukes bowed deeply as they were presented before the throne, and then raised their heads to meet the emperor’s gaze. The emperor was a slight man, he had a long nose and pinched cheeks and a permanently quizzical expression because of it. Duke Henry noted with curiosity that his namesake, despite being younger than him, had aged poorly. He looked drawn and exhausted.

‘Duke Lothair, Duke Henry, welcome to Aachen,’ the emperor said in a crisp voice, a voice that carried strength his body and demeanour did not. ‘I have summoned you here to discuss the Crusade against the heathens of the North, for I fear that it is not proceeding as well as we require.’ He looked between the two men. ‘The first Crusade was a success and the Pope was pleased. His holiness expected the same result from the second, it cannot be seen for the armies that march under his blessing, under the banner of our Lord God, to be defeated.’

The dukes remained humble and silent, letting their ruler express his rambling displeasure.

‘Now, after the failure of the Second Crusade, His Holiness has seen fit to call a third, and after much negotiation, it has been decided that Duke Henry shall command it once more.’

Duke Lothair raised an eyebrow and coughed politely, waiting for the emperor to signal him to speak. ‘Your highness, the Crusade faced some defeats, yes – but all of the remaining lands of Denmark, and much of Sweden, have been captured. It is not a failure.’

‘The Crusade was intended to capture all of the northern lands, and has not, thus it has failed. Even with the reinforcements you sent, they failed to reach the heathen capital last year. Perhaps now Duke Henry will succeed where those before him have not,’ he said, looking pointedly at Lothair.

Lothair went red in the face and struggled to contain his outrage. ‘The Crusade I commanded was a complete victory. It was only after I left that others did not live up to the example I set.’

‘Your men were still the majority of the Crusader forces, I believe?’ said Duke Henry with feigned uncertainty. ‘It was a shame that I did not arrive in time to remedy their failings.’

‘The entire campaign was commanded by you and your brother,’ snapped Lothair in fury, ignoring the outraged muttering of the king’s retinue at the raised voice in that holy place.

‘Yet all the defeats were suffered by your men. Count Adolf, lost with his army. Count Conrad, repulsed from Norway, Count Otto, mired in the woods without even reaching the enemy, Margrave Rudolf, unable to pierce a small ridgeline held by a few savages. All liegemen of yours.’ Duke Henry nodded to himself sadly. ‘Oh, and Count Conrad again defeated, unable to land his army on the coast, for reasons that still elude me.’ He shook his head and tutted.

Lothair turned on the smaller man and jabbed a finger at him but the emperor shouted down from his chair in anger. ‘Control yourself, Duke Lothair!’ he snapped. Lothair turned back to his liege with a bright red face and fury in his eye, but then he looked around, and saw the disgust on the faces of the men around, the courtiers and minor nobles, and saw that he had been outmanoeuvred and that contesting it was pointless. He bowed his head stiffly.

‘I apologise, your highness,’ he managed to say, even as he fantasised about drawing his absent sword and cutting the man down where he sat.

‘That is well, for I have decided to give Duke Henry the chance to redeem these men’s failures, and return the honour of their names and families.’

Lothair looked up with narrowed eyes, but did not trust himself to speak. He could almost feel Duke Henry suppressing a laugh beside him.

‘Your men will remain with Duke Henry, and he will lead them in the Third Crusade, alongside additional forces from Duke Simon and King Louis.’

Lothair spoke again, without waiting for an invitation. ‘The King of France sends men again?’ he asked with surprise.

‘His highness, King Louis, has indeed been kind enough to support this final effort.’

Lothair turned to Duke Henry with a smirk. ‘I’m sure you will be delighted to have their aid once again.’

Henry nodded. ‘They are fine soldiers and devout Christians, with the right leadership, I am sure they will do a great service to our cause.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed the emperor from his throne.

Lothair turned to the emperor again, finally getting his temper under control. ‘And what of the trouble in the Italian lands?’

‘I will be leading an army myself to attend to that matter, along with the men of Franconia and Swabia.’

Lothair nodded, understanding the totality of the situation. Duke Henry was being given an overwhelming force to complete the Crusade and receive all the glory, while all the past failures were being blamed on Lothair himself. Meanwhile, the rest of the Princes of Germany would conduct an easy campaign in Italy, helping to unite them behind the emperor in victory, all the while leaving Lothair alone, isolated and shamed, stripped of his reputation and many of his potential allies, with most of his men away on Crusade to prevent him taking any action against the emperor.

He looked at the emperor bitterly and bowed stiffly, determined only to get away from this place as quickly as he could.

To his relief, Lothair was quickly dismissed, and presenting as much of a calm front as he could, he retreated from the church in a cold fury. He snapped at his retinue to prepare to take to the road again, not caring that they had not even finished setting up his quarters for the expected stay at the palace that night. He would rather sleep on the road than suffer a long evening in the shame of the presence of the two Henrys.

It took his flustered men too long to re-pack, even under the lash of his cajoling, and as he was just mounting his horse, Duke Henry returned from the chapel. Lothair cursed under his breath as the man approached, bracing himself for the bite of the man’s celebration.

‘Duke Lothair, you are leaving already?’ asked Henry.

‘I have pressing business at home,’ replied Lothair curtly.

‘I am sure you have a great deal to attend to,’ said Henry cordially, before stepping over to stand beside his horse. Lothair again imagined drawing his sword and striking the man down, his hand even twitching, but he cast the madness from his mind and satisfied himself with merely glaring down at his counterpart, telling himself that one day he would look down at him at the end of a sword, and be rid of him. He promised himself at that moment that it would happen one day.

Henry moved close enough that they could not be overheard, and stroked the stallion’s mane as it pawed impatiently at the cobbles. Lothair looked up and fixed his eyes on the road as he spoke. ‘I believed you were many things, and when you told me you were surprised to see me there, I believed you. Now I know you are a liar and a lapdog. Beneath contempt for that farce.’

Henry laughed. ‘No, I really had no idea. You know, I actually felt sorry for you in there. That was a cruel ambush, and I was just a fortunate spectator. Well, I say it was fortune, but really it was not. You have made enemies of everyone you think is weaker than you, but you believe everyone is weaker than you, so are forever in a circle of your enemies. Wherever I go, I will be blessed with friends because of you and thus always lucky, and I thank you for it.’ He smiled coldly at Lothair’s anger.

‘One day, you will not have your circle of weaklings to stand by you,’ said Lothair, pressing his heels to the stallion as the men in front of him finally got moving along the road leading out of the city.

Henry took a step back to avoid being shoved by the horse and spoke to Lothair’s back. ‘Perhaps not, Duke Lothair, but maybe I will still have your army!’

Chapter 23

Choices and Consequences

Reinhard was finishing conducting a matins service for the Order’s leading knights when he saw the door open and Brother Bertrand come in. The priest raised his hand and signalled the bishop, who grimaced in displeasure and ignored the man. Bertrand wasn’t a simpleton, if he was interrupting this service, it must be a matter of import.

Reinhard did his best not to make the rest of his blessing of a line of newly sworn brother knights seem rushed. The men had knelt in vigil all through the dark hours, praying and committing their souls and arms to the Order, and he had to show them the respect they believed that deserved.

As the Order grew, and its ranks swelled with knights and common soldiers, his duties increasingly involved the ceremonial functions and the presiding over worship with both the brothers ecclesiastical and militare. He had limited this as far as possible by making it a rare and clear honour to take part in a service he ministered to, but still it was a significant burden on his time.

Finishing his prayer and oath of service with the last knight in the row, he closed the service with a rote reading of the traditional matins psalms, and made his way back to his private chambers, where Bertrand was waiting for him. ‘What is it?’ he snapped. ‘I have three priests to meet with to appoint to new parishes, the supply reports to review with the Grandmaster militare, and this had better be essential.’

‘It is, your excellency. I…’

‘I will judge if it is or not, out with it,’ he snapped.

Bertrand was unmoved by the angry interruption, but sped up his talking by a margin. ‘Duke Henry has returned, and requests your immediate attendance on an urgent matter,’ he said.

‘Hmm,’ Reinhard muttered, then saw Bertrand waiting expectantly. ‘Yes, that is important,’ he said with a dismissive wave. Bertrand bowed and managed to not smile at the small victory.

‘Do you require me any further?’ he asked.

‘No… wait, yes. Please go to Grandmaster Hugues and inform him I may be delayed by the duke, give appropriately minor apologies.’

‘Minor?’

‘Yes, minor, nothing too grovelling.’

‘As you say, your excellency.’

Reinhard arrived at the Crusade headquarters and was immediately ushered in. One of the benefits of his station, and the fact that anyone who was anyone on the Crusade knew who he was, was that he was ushered in anywhere, even if he was not expected or welcome. No door was barred to the bishop, no one dared.

He stepped into the duke’s quarters and Henry waved him to a chair, finishing writing an order that an attendant carefully folded and proffered for sealing. ‘Good morning, my dear bishop,’ Henry said with a generous smile.

‘Your trip went well?’ asked the bishop with a thin smile.

‘Yes and no.’

‘How so?’

‘Duke Lothair was humiliated by the emperor, who bestowed clear favour on me by naming me commander of a new Crusade.’

‘A new Crusade?’ said Reinhard uncertainly.

‘An administrative change, nothing more. We simply continue the campaign, and will receive some additional men and support.’

Reinhard thought this over for a moment. ‘That all seems to be excellent, but you are worried that it will lead to a dangerous reaction from Duke Lothair.’

‘Precisely. He is humiliated, alone at home, while all the other great lords are with the emperor or here with me, as are more than half of Lothair’s forces. Now the emperor may be fool enough to believe that he has neutered Lothair by this manoeuvre, but I believe he has only made him angry. It is a mistake to leave an angry opponent to your rear, especially one as powerful as Lothair.’

Reinhard nodded. ‘Then what must we do?’

‘We must conclude this campaign as quickly as possible, so that I can return to the empire with a new reputation and support, before Lothair gatherers the strength to do anything dangerous.’

‘That makes sense. However, concluding the campaign has been challenging, the enemy’s position seems very strong. All attempts to pierce it have failed.’

‘That is all true, and I have been thinking on it over the winter, and believe I know what we should do. The western route into their kingdom is impassable – even if an army forces its way through all the forest and marshland, it will take months and supply will be near impossible. The southern way is a natural fortress, I do not believe we will force our way through there; although it is possible with enough men it might be done, it cannot be relied upon. It is pointless to consider going from the north, and finding a place to land and establish ourselves on the coast in the east, or break into the great lake they say lies within, has proved impossible.’

Reinhard nodded in agreement at the summary. ‘So what shall we do differently, if every approach is blocked to us?

‘The same things,’ said Henry. That surprised Reinhard, who looked uncertain, but knowing Henry was not a fool, he was afraid to question it and reveal his ignorance, so he waited for the duke to continue. ‘You are wondering, if we do the same attacks, why would I expect a different result?’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Exactly what I want the Norse to think. I want them to be scattered, defending successfully in many places, dividing their forces, and feeling safe, while we prepare the real attack.’

‘And what will that be?’

‘The coast, the coast and the hidden lake are the key, I am sure of it.’

‘But…’ Reinhard stopped, realising he was being led by the nose and simply wanting to hear the end of it. He was growing impatient at the duke’s slow reveal of his strategy, but he tried to push it down and be patient, for patience was dear to the Lord.

‘This is why I have called for you,’ continued the duke, as if Reinhard had asked the question he had not asked. ‘I believe the answer is local knowledge. We cannot penetrate that coast because we don’t know it, and learning it in the face of the enemy would take years. We had similar problems before, and we answered it by coercing locals into helping us. I want you and your order to do that again, on a much larger scale. We cannot simply take a single guide on our ships, because our ships are totally unsuited to those waters, and would not navigate the narrow inlets and rivers, especially not with the enemy resisting us. But raise me a fleet of the Northmen, large enough to force their way into this lake, and I will lead the army of Christ that follows.’ He looked at Reinhard with a lopsided smile.

Reinhard whistled through his teeth. ‘How many would you need? True, we forced half a dozen ships of local men to help us here and there, but a whole fleet, to go to Sweden and make war? That is quite a challenge, a very different proposition altogether.’

‘You have a month, then we sail.’

‘A month?’ gasped Reinhard, genuinely shocked.

‘Yes, any longer and we risk not completing this matter by winter. That month will give time for our reinforcements to arrive, and we will have enough force to attack on all sides, concealing our main thrust for the coast headed by your tamed heathens. So, focus the entire effort of your order on this task. Convert them, coerce them, force them, threaten them, bribe them… whatever it takes, but get me those men.’

Reinhard sat back, eyes wide. ‘I may have to take some… extraordinary measures. It may meet with resistance, not only from the heathens, but also from our own people.’

‘You have my permission to do whatever is required.’

‘I understand, but what if I am blocked by men of the Crusade? Some of the population is already indentured to the army or settlers for various tasks, I may have to take them.’

‘You have my permission to do whatever is required,’ repeated Henry coldly.

Reinhard swallowed and nodded. ‘Can I have that in writing?’

‘Of course not,’ snorted Henry in amusement. ‘But you have had no problems exerting yourself so far, I am sure you will manage in this.’ Henry smiled dryly and stood. ‘Would you mind saying a short prayer before you leave?’

Reinhard set his jaw and nodded, fingers reaching automatically for his cross pendant.

‘Baron Hugues, I am sorry for keeping you waiting.’

Hugues did not look amused, but he did not make an issue of it, he was used to Reinhard’s games of petty power. ‘I was busy anyway,’ he lied. ‘Now, shall we go over the reports?’

‘That will have to wait.’

‘What?’

‘There is something else we must discuss first, my meeting with the duke. He has given us a new task.’

Hugues’s eyes narrowed; the bishop was displaying an emotion Hugues had never seen on him before. He was nervous.

After Reinhard had finished explaining the task they had been given, Hugues was looking nervous too, although his reasons were probably different. ‘We have to raise a small army, from the population we just conquered, in less than a month, to sail north and help us defeat their kin?’

‘We have turned them on each other before,’ said the bishop.

‘Yes, in small numbers, when we first arrived, and had our blades at the throats of their towns. Now, a year later, we have spent this time preaching to them, promising peace and a prosperous and safe life if they convert and follow our rules. Now we expect them to go to war for us?’

‘It is merely a new rule for them to follow, is it not?’

‘It is not just a new rule.’

‘No, I know it is not. But that is what is required of us, and thus it is what is required of them. Failing in this task is not acceptable, our future as an Order may depend on it, our ambitions and goals may depend on it, the future of your family might depend on it.’

Hugues stiffened and nodded. ‘So, what do you suggest we do?’

‘We need to go to coastal towns, ones that were captured mostly intact, and begin our recruitment.’

‘Well, should we start here in Lund?’

Reinhard thought about it. ‘No, not here, not in our base, but the rest of Scania, the islands, and Jutland. The rest of the lands that were once Denmark. As I understand, they were recently enemies of the Swedish, so that is where I believe we will have the most success.’

Reinhard and Baron Hugues arrived in Helsingborg with a hundred Order soldiers in their white and gold, fully armed, and met with the garrison commander and the town elders on the docks. The nervous-looking garrison man flicked his eyes over the unexpected force, as some of his men and townsfolk looked on.

‘You need what?’

Reinhard sighed and grimaced as Hugues repeated himself. ‘We need one hundred men, armed and in ships, to come with us to fight.’

‘To fight for us?’ said the confused man.

‘Of course.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that is what…’

‘The why is none of your concern,’ said Reinhard from behind Hugues.

‘We disarmed the people, how could they even provide such a force?’

‘And we collected those weapons and armour and stored them. We will give them back.’

‘Arm the people again? No, it is against my orders. I’ll have to write to my commander, I can’t permit this.’

‘I’m not giving you that choice, we have the authority to acquire whatever we require to fulfil God’s holy task and what is needed now is one hundred local men, in ships, armed and ready to come to war.’

The two elders talked to each other in their heathen language, concern clear in their tone. ‘They want to know if we are here for taxes, bribes. They worry that they are too poor to pay,’ said Reinhard’s translator.

‘Well, they should be relieved that we do not require anything they do not have,’ said Reinhard. ‘Now explain what we need, that if they accept God they must also serve him, and this is the service he requires. One hundred men, in ships, to fight in his name.’

The translator and the elders talked for a while, the tone becoming more and more agitated. Eventually the reply was returned. Reinhard did not wait for the translator, he saw the shake of heads. ‘As we expected. Hugues, we will have to apply some persuasion.’

‘What persuasion?’ said the garrison commander.

‘Sir Sighard, search the town, bring me twenty women and children,’ ordered Hugues, waving at a detachment of the Order’s troops. The German knight nodded impassively, and barked a string of orders to the men lined up behind him.

‘What are you doing?’ said the garrison commander in shock. ‘What will you do with the women and children?’

‘Hopefully nothing,’ said Hugues with a grimace.

The streets behind the docks erupted in noise and shouting as the soldiers roughly barged their way into houses and dragged the occupants out at random. Sighard’s men soon returned with a gaggle of scared and protesting captives, herded together in a group in the open space with a ring of soldiers surrounding them.

The scene became chaos as the men of the families followed their loved ones out, shouting and gesticulating in protest and fear. The town elders were shouting at each other and the garrison commander, the commander was trying to placate them and pleading with Hugues, and all the while Reinhard looked on impassively as his soldiers formed a line between the captives and the crowd.

‘Please, Grandmaster, you must stop this madness!’ shouted the garrison commander.

‘Only one thing will stop this, the compliance of this town.’

‘They will not comply!’

‘Then you must decide which side of this you are on,’ said Reinhard scathingly.

The man stepped back as if he had been struck. ‘I am a loyal man of the Crusade,’ he protested. ‘But I have spent a year building up this town to be a loyal settlement, useful to us, trusting us, you are destroying that in moments!’

‘If they were loyal, there would not be a problem. It sounds to me as if you have been too soft on this town, perhaps a firmer hand is needed to remind them of their place in the world, of their duty to the lord.’

‘They are proud people, my lord, we cannot expect them to do this, to fight for us so soon.’

‘We can, and I do,’ said Reinhard impassively. The crowd was growing and becoming more agitated now. A man tried to push through the line of soldiers and reach his family, and an Order man knocked him down with a strike with the pommel of his sword.

‘Count Hartung, if you please, deploy your men and push this rabble back,’ shouted Hugues over the commotion, and the young count, standing with the other half of the Order soldiers, stepped forwards.

‘Weapons!’ he commanded, and his line of men drew their weapons and set themselves in a line behind their shields. The line marched forwards, parting to pass Reinhard and his group, and advanced on the crowd, driving them back with the threat of their steel before stopping on the far side of the circle of prisoners.

The elders were talking to each other in angry, feverish tones. Then one of them talked to the translator. ‘He offers twenty men, one for each of the captives. Twenty men to fight for you.’

‘No,’ said Reinhard, and he turned to signal to Sir Sighard. The knight dragged a woman out of the captives, and shoved her to the ground, holding her by the hair and holding a sword to her throat. A man in the crowd went wild with fury, clawing at the line of soldiers, throwing himself against their shields, until a soldier slashed at him, cutting across his arm, and several of his fellows held him back.

The elders were talking again. ‘Fifty, they offer fifty. They cannot promise more, there are few men left in the town who can fight, and they cannot send more, or they will not be able to get the crops in the ground.’

Reinhard thought about it. He looked at the crowd, felt the tension about to reach boiling point. He breathed deeply and looked at Hugues, chin raised and eyes blank. ‘We are not here to bargain, we are here to be obeyed.’

Hugues grimaced, and nodded to Sir Sighard, and then the screams began.

Chapter 24

The Sword in the Stream

Birka, June 1119

The Crusaders had begun their attacks with vigour as spring had passed into the early days of summer. Their ships had sailed up and down the coast, hunting for landing spots or ways inland, and they had been rebuffed in a constant running battle with the longships of the Swedish jarls and warbands patrolling the coast. More Christians had tried to force their way through the southern passes, with limited success, but their campaign had fallen apart in the broken lands of the Kolmården and, under constant harrying attacks from the Norse, they had been forced to withdraw or be cut off.

Now Ragnvald had received word that a new force had been spotted coming up the coast from the south, and this time they had longships with them. This was deeply concerning; longships meant the Christians would be able to navigate the narrow, shallow northern entrance to the Lǫgrinn, and perhaps they had Norse shipmasters who knew how to find it. He had tried to speak to the king, to convince him to react, but he had been rebuffed. The exiled king and his army did little, camped along the north shore of the lake in stagnation and indecision. Ragnvald had come to believe that the loss of Norway had finally broken the young king Sigurd.

But he and his people did not need Sigurd’s permission to defend their own lands, so he and the other lords of the Svear continued without him, ignoring the Norwegian exiles and continuing with the business of defending their homes. Ragnvald had assembled a small fleet, and set out down the lake to go and investigate the rumours of this new threat, and confront it himself. They passed Birka and headed towards the northern entrance to the lake, where a local jarl had fortified the river.

Ragnvald and his ships reached the narrows by the Island of Stadsholmen, known as Agne’s Meadow, where the sagas told the great king Agne had met his end, murdered by his own wife to avenge her kidnapping and forced marriage. The island was typically uninhabited, just a small, muddy, partly forested patch of land astride the channel that separated the lake from the widening sound that led away to the sea.

Over the last months, the island had been cleared, and a stout fort of the felled logs built upon it. As the midday sun blazed down, the fleet approached the channel north of the island. They rounded the corner in the river, and the palisades of the walls came into view. Ragnvald waved to the men on the walls, and they waved back. He nearly looked away, but the men kept on waving, and he could hear them shouting. He squinted at the distant figures, and saw them pointing down the channel, hidden from view behind the fortifications around the next bend in the flow.

Ragnvald’s heart raced. He paused to make sure of himself, but it was clear what was being signalled. ‘TO ARMS!’ he roared at his surprised crew, who were confused for a moment before they rushed to comply, half the oarsmen shipping their oars to grab their weapons and equipment, before swapping with the other half.

Ragnvald shouted at the rest of the ships in the small fleet around him, warning them to do the same. He regretted in that moment that only a few of the ships were his men, most were the men of local jarls, simply whoever had been available with a ship and a crew when the call for help arrived.

He saw men arming themselves on the benches of the other ships, and he focused again on the way ahead, calling to the helmsman to keep them on the right of the channel, where they would stay hidden for as long as possible.

As they passed between the fortifications, a man leaned down and shouted at him from the wall. ‘Our fleet is in battle in the channel, it’s Danes, be quick!’

Ragnvald looked up at the man in shock. ‘Danes?’ he roared.

But they were past, and he couldn’t hear the answer.

He turned back to his front, mind whirling, and the scene was revealed to him as the ship rounded the bend. A chaotic battle was taking place in the river. The waters were full of longships, some rowing hard for the gap, some clinging to each other as the men fought vicious battles across their decks and bulwarks. He tried to understand the melee, but he struggled to tell friend from foe. Soon, he realised that some of the ships did not have a figurehead mounted, and had a cross nailed in its place. The ships with the crosses outnumbered the ships without them significantly.

He ground his teeth in frustration – they were nearly upon the battle now, and he had few options, even stopping to turn his small fleet around in that narrow channel would cause confusion, and take more time than they had.

‘Put me alongside that lead boat!’ he shouted to the helmsman. ‘Leif, tell the other ships, we save what we can and retreat behind the gap, we close it and defend it if they come.’

Leif shouted his acknowledgement and relayed the order to the ship behind, who shouted it again to the one behind them.

There was barely any time now to organise or make a plan, they were moments from a head-on collision with an enemy ship bearing down on them and this would be decided with steel alone. Ragnvald got his shield on his shoulder. ‘WEAPONS!’ he roared, and the crew shipped their oars and stood, grabbing their weapons and shields, the helmsman using the momentum of the boat to steer them into the enemy.

Ragnvald looked in anger and confusion at the enemy boat approaching. He had expected to see Christians manning it, but a snarling wall of Norsemen greeted him, hurling insults at him across the gap.

He screamed wildly back at them, promising them every death a traitor could suffer, and then the two ships collided.

Ragnvald braced himself against the prow with his shield, covering himself with it as the enemy in the other ship swung at him with a long axe. He thrust back with Drekitunga, warding off a flurry of blows as he tried to find a gap in his opponent’s defences. As the two boats bumped past each other, his opponent changed, again and again, each time he failed to land a blow, his enemies’ blows falling as ineffectually on his shield as his were on theirs.

More of his men down the side of his ship were fighting now, the two ships almost side by side. Neither crew was able to board the other, solid walls of bulwark and shields and bouncing and jostling of the ships preventing anyone from forcing their way across.

A long axe hooked over the rim of one of his men’s shields, snagging on his tunic, and the enemy pulled viciously, tipping the warrior into the gap between the two ships, where he shouted in anger and fear as the two ships crushed him between them, before an enemy axe split his skull.

The axe came back again to try the same attack, and Leif grabbed the axe by the head and yanked, the enemy forced to let go of his weapon or share the fate of the man who had died between the ships. Shouting in triumph, Leif turned the axe on the enemy line, hacking at helmets and shields.

The boats turned in the gentle current, and the prow, where Ragnvald stood, drifted in closer to the enemy boat, so that he was having to defend himself from multiple enemies. Using the raised prow to protect his flank, he brought his shield up high and tried to cover himself as the blows rained down, feeling himself being forced back into his ship. If he was forced back much further, the enemy would have space to board them. Shouting in fury, he swung back at the unseen enemy, and shoved forwards into the attacks.

A hard blow hit his sword, right next to the hilt. The shock instantly knocked the grip from his hand and Drekitunga spun away, bouncing off the edge of the ship and splashing point-first into the river, disappearing with just a few bubbles to mark its passing.

Ragnvald howled in pain and distress as his sword was claimed by the waters, backing up, fumbling for his seax with numb fingers. Hands grabbed him and he fought to throw them off, but Bjorn shouted in his ear, ‘Stand back, I’m taking your place.’

He nodded, furious with himself for the loss of his sword, and Bjorn stepped into the bow with an axe, another huskarl covering him with a shield while he used the reach and power of his weapon to force the enemy back, to cower from his frenzied attacks.

Ragnvald was panting heavily, and he took a moment to look around. The battle was going poorly. The enemy had cleared several Swedish ships, and more of them were coming down the channel, shoving past the floating battles and heading for Ragnvald’s fleet, who were still struggling to turn in the channel, while the leading ships fought with the leading ships of the Danes.

Ragnvald saw that the drift and turn of their fight with the Danish ship had nearly brought them around to face back the way they had come from, and he realised it might be their only chance. ‘Push off, get ten men on the oars, we make for the gap!’ he shouted at his men, dragging a few out of the line and pushing them down onto the oar benches. He saw the second ship in his fleet was being swarmed by an enemy ship on each side, and that mess was slowing the pursuers. He ordered more men to the benches, and others shoved off from the enemy ship with oars, the jeers and shouts of their enemy following them as they started pulling on the oars and making for the gap.

As they pulled clear, Ragnvald saw that all the ships that would manage to escape were already moving, those still left behind were lost. He made to sheathe his sword and cursed himself when he found it was his seax in his hand and remembered what had happened.

Within a few dozen oar strokes, they were through the gap, and when the last surviving Swedish ship was through, the defenders pulled a thick rope across the channel, dragging a tree trunk behind it until it spanned the gap and was put into a notch on each bank, sealing it completely. Any ship that wanted to pass would have to shift the fallen trunk, which would mean doing so under the bows and spears of the palisade walls on each bank.

The defenders of the gap, with Ragnvald’s men and other crews disembarked and helping, fought off two attacks that tried to force the channel. The attacks were half-hearted, the enemy knew the position was too strong, but they made a show of a threat until finally, as the sun started to set, they turned and rowed away back down the channel.

Ragnvald left most of the fleet to guard the narrows, supplementing the locals who had built the palisade, and sailed away with his men. The arrival of a large force of Danes was another crushing blow. The Swedes could hold the narrow gap against them, but equally the Danes could stop any of their ships leaving the lake by that river. The Christians would be free to range up and down the coast, unopposed, and the Norse were now trapped in the lake.

Before Ragnvald called together a meeting of the jarls, he tried, once more, to go and see the king. He had not seen Sigurd since the king dismissed him from his presence after news of the usurper had arrived. He went to the hall and found the great doors closed. He brushed aside the bored-looking guards who stood there attempting to deny him entry, but found the doors barred from within.

Stymied, he took his seax from his belt and hammered the hilt on the door, loud and slow. He stopped and waited for a response, and then when none came, he hammered again. Again no response came, and again he hammered. Again and again he was ignored, for as long as it takes a man to sharpen a dull axe he stood there, and more and more people stopped by to watch the silent, angry jarl hammer on the door of the king’s hall.

Finally, as he was about to shout through the stubborn wood, a voice called to him from his right, and he turned to see Gunnar had come from the side of the hall to find who knocked, and saw that half a dozen of the king’s blue-cloaked huskarls came with him, armed and attired for war.

‘Jarl Ragnvald, the hall is sealed by the king’s order,’ Gunnar said, loud and insistent, so that all around would hear.

‘And yet here you come, from within it,’ Ragnvald said back with a broad gesture at the men who had appeared from the side alley.

Gunnar scowled, and strode over to the steps, climbing them with his men at his back until he was only a few steps below the Swedish jarl. ‘Lord Ragnvald, please, stop this spectacle now, the door will not open, and the people do not need to see this discord.’

‘You are right, they need, more than anything, to see us united. So open this door, and let them see it.’

Gunnar looked out at the square, at the dozens watching them, and his shoulders tensed. ‘I cannot.’

‘You mean you will not.’

‘I mean I follow the king’s orders, and so are you sworn to do.’ The words were barbed, but Ragnvald was too tired and angry to care.

‘I swore my fealty to the king, but I have a right to see him, to know he still even lives. If the king wishes to give me orders, he can do it himself, not send his dogs to bark at me outside his home, like I am some vagrant in the night.’ He took a step down towards the champion, chin jutting, eyes narrowed, lowering his words to barely a whisper. ‘I am the fucking lord of these lands, of this city, of this earth and mud and water and the people who live here. I welcomed the king here to lead us, and lead us he fucking isn’t. I am not the one failing to do my duty here, Norwegian.’

The words skirted so close to death. So close to an insult that could only be answered with steel and blood. Gunnar tensed, and a man behind him moved to draw his sword, but the champion stilled him with a raised hand.

‘Jarl Ragnvald, I am the deliverer of the king’s will, the weapon in his hand. I do not make a decision, I do what I am commanded. You may as well argue with the wind, or shout at the tide not to come in, as attempt to move me from the orders I have been given. So if you have finished posturing, will you leave?’ Gunnar’s eyes were narrow and cold, but his voice softened for his final words. ‘I will relay your concerns to the king.’

Ragnvald choked down his anger, but saw that Gunnar, proud and loyal as he was, and in front of his men, had given all the ground he was able to, and saw that anything further was pointless. ‘You tell the king his people expect him to lead them. Tell him I expect him to lead them. Or someone else will.’

With the idea of that treason given the faintest breath, and feeling Gunnar’s whole body ripple at the threat, Ragnvald barged past and headed for his hall, hand twitching on his belt, fingers longing to find the hilt of his lost sword and cut his way into the hall like a berserk of old.

The response from the king did not take long. That night, as Ragnvald sat in his hall, almost alone, a single man was ushered into the low-lit room, wearing a bland brown cloak with a hood. Ragnvald looked at the visitor in confusion, until the man took off his hood and he saw that it was Gunnar.

Ragnvald scowled, but motioned the Norwegian to come over to him, and noted the man was not wearing his sword. Nevertheless, he saw Leif casually place his own weapon within easy reach as he sat on the bench nearest his jarl, watching the visitor like a hawk.

Gunnar reached the dais and bowed briefly to Ragnvald, who ignored the usual courtesies. ‘What message does the king send?’

‘He does not.’

That was a surprise. ‘He sends no message, then what purpose brings you here?’ Ragnvald, suddenly sensing the threat, made to reach for his seax, but Gunnar held up empty hands and shook his head. ‘He sends no violence either, Lord Ragnvald.’

Ragnvald grunted, and relaxed just a touch.

‘You can sheath your sword, young huskarl,’ Gunnar said without looking round. Ragnvald looked to his left and saw Leif had his sword in hand, the point a mere handspan from Gunnar’s side. Ragnvald hadn’t even heard him draw and stand. He nodded to his huskarl and the man lowered his blade and stood back, but did not sheath it.

‘So, if Sigurd sends neither words nor violence, why are you here?’

Gunnar motioned to the stool near Ragnvald, silently asking permission to sit with him. Ragnvald shook his head curtly.

The Norwegian sighed and bent down to be able to speak to Ragnvald quietly, and the jarl revelled childishly at the discomfort and embarrassment it must have caused him.

‘I am here of my own accord.’ The words were dragged from him like a tree stump from cloying mud. The admission made him physically shrivel.

Ragnvald allowed a slow smile to cross his face. ‘You are here without his knowledge?’

‘Yes.’

‘Gunnar, the resolute champion of the king, famously loyal, the man who will never break a command, is here behind his king’s back?’

Gunnar’s eyes narrowed and he stood up fractionally. ‘I was never ordered not to speak to you, only not to let anyone into his hall.’

Ragnvald laughed gutturally at the narrow distinction, and gestured to the stool. ‘Then come, free man of the North, and speak to me in your own voice for once.’

Gunnar took the offered seat and drew in close to the jarl. He tried to speak but was clearly struggling to choose the right words. ‘I must take great care with what I say,’ he finally said. ‘I am a warrior, not a lord, and have no practice in this.’ Ragnvald could have laughed at how the fearless champion was struggling, at his discomfort, but the situation was not very funny. For the steadfastly loyal man to come here, unbidden by his king, to talk to Ragnvald, things must indeed be dire.

‘Speak plainly, I find it is best. Begin with how Sigurd reacted to my message.’

Gunnar shook his head. ‘Never, the words the king speaks to me in private will go no further unless he orders it.’

Ragnvald sighed and closed his eyes. ‘Then give me an indication of what he intends to do about it.’

‘The king’s intent is his own business, and not mine to guess.’

Ragnvald waved a hand, already exasperated. ‘Then what the fuck are you here to say?’

Gunnar bristled. ‘I am here to advise you,’ he practically choked as he said it, ‘how best to approach another attempt to talk to him.’

That got Ragnvald’s attention. ‘You are here to advise me how best to talk to your lord, who has told me not to talk to him?’ Gunnar paused, but nodded. ‘That feels like disobeying his order, doesn’t it?’

‘No, it is not. He has ordered you not to talk to him, but I know you will anyway, so I am merely trying to help…’ Gunnar stumbled over trying to parse why this was acceptable, which he clearly himself doubted. Finally, he clenched his fist and looked up to meet Ragnvald’s eyes angrily. ‘I am trying to prevent a war between our nations, so stop fucking provoking me, and listen.’

Ragnvald’s smile faded. ‘You think it would come to that?’

Gunnar blanched. ‘I have said too much.’

‘But that is what you believe?’

‘What do you expect? You hammer on his door with a drawn weapon in public, you refuse to follow his orders, you let your people see you confronting me and questioning if someone should usurp him as king? What do you expect, Ragnvald?’

‘So the king has said this?’

‘No, I will not tell you of what the king has said. I only know where this path will lead, and wish to prevent you treading it!’ Gunnar sat back and dug his fingers into his thigh, looking away.

Ragnvald was the one now thinking carefully on his words. Finally, he decided. ‘If the king fails to lead us, we are lost one way or another, so I don’t see what about this is helpful. If the king would rather fight us than the Christians, that is on his honour, not mine.’

Gunnar shook his head. ‘You know him, you will not persuade him with threats or intimidation or bluster. You will not convince him of your argument by forcing him.’

‘So what the fuck do you suggest I do?’ Ragnvald said with a raised voice.

Gunnar looked up at the furious jarl. ‘Bring him hope!’ Gunnar pointed at the wall, towards where the king’s hall stood a mere fifty paces away. ‘He has lost his family, his campaigns, his friends, his men in battle and to desertion… and now his home and his nation. His will is iron, but iron can bend, iron can crack, and he is so close, Lord Ragnvald, closer than I should ever admit. You will achieve nothing by beating on him more, by threatening him and cornering him.’ Gunnar stood suddenly and looked away in shame. ‘I have broken his trust by saying so much to you, but these are dark times. I must go now.’ He turned half a step and stopped. ‘If you want to save him from this, if you want him to save your people, bent and cracked iron can be re-forged. All you need is to find the fire.’ Gunnar strode from the room without another word, leaving Ragnvald deep in thought.

Chapter 25

Finding the Fire

The conversation with Gunnar lifted Ragnvald briefly, before plunging him deeper into despair. The truth he found himself facing was that there was no hope, nothing he could convey to the king to inspire him. They held onto Svealand, but with the passage to the lake lost, they would be doomed to defeat, with time being the only uncertainty. As a people, they lived and died on the whim and bounty of the sea. Without it, they were finished.

Ragnvald might have lost the hope in his heart, but he did not allow himself to stop fighting. He had seen what that did to the king, and would not allow himself to fall into that fate of bitterness and defeat. He redoubled his efforts to organise the forces of Svealand, increasing the patrols and strengthening the defences of the lake’s entrance, ordering a broad road to be cut to the fort there so that reinforcements could quickly be sent.

He met with any jarl or warband leader who would meet with him, drawing every possible armed band, however ragged, into the forces of the Norse.

As the peak of summer came and went, and the days were hottest and longest, he decided to leave the stifling, cloying, depressing airs of Uppsala and travel north, to ride the extent of his own lands and recruit more of his people into his own neglected warband. Taking Leif and Bjorn and the handful of his huskarls that remained, he set out through the farmlands and villages of his domain that he had not travelled for years.

As they rode through his lands, in every village and small town, the result was the same. There were few recruits to be had. Most of the trained warriors were already in Uppsala, or in the ground. Exhausted women and old folk were taking in the harvest that normally the young men would reap, and Ragnvald’s mood soured and darkened as he saw the number of widows left behind, as he saw empty houses and unkept fields left fallow. Touring his lands was like visiting a dying relative, someone much loved, but racked by disease.

He found some relief that the anger and sadness of his people was not directed much towards him, although some he met turned away or refused to meet his eye. Every village elder or important karl he spoke to all asked him the same thing. Would the Christians reach them? To each of them, he gave the same hollow answer: Not while they stood with him to fight.

After four days on the road, and having sent perhaps fifty new warriors, some just untrained boys, on the road back to Uppsala, he and his men were camping beside a small lake in the cooling evening air, stretched out on the dry earth and drinking good ale that the previous village had gifted him in tribute.

‘Perhaps we should return home now?’ Ragnvald asked the group.

Leif shifted uncomfortably and shook his head, staring into his cup of ale. ‘I do not believe we should.’

‘We got four new warriors from the last village, maybe we will get more from the next,’ said Bjorn.

‘Four scraggly farm boys, who have never held a sword in their life.’

‘I was a scraggly farm boy who couldn’t fight once,’ said Bjorn with a wry smile.

‘And you still are,’ replied Leif, prompting a chuckle from the men around them and a shaken head from Bjorn.

Ragnvald allowed himself a smile also, leaning back and staring up at the starry sky. ‘Is this what it has come to for the great Jarl Ragnvald, maker of kings? To collect children from farms, four at a time?’ As he said it, he heard the faint cry of a crow, and felt the passing of beating wings. He looked up to find the bird, hopeless in the dark, but his eye was drawn to a flash of light in the sky above him, a streak from the west that burst into life and plunged across the darkness of the night and disappeared behind the trees to the north.

‘Did you see that?’ he asked, looking around at his men.

‘What?’ asked Leif, looking up.

‘I did, lord,’ replied Bjorn. ‘A falling star.’ He looked at his lord in confusion. Falling stars were not uncommon to see, if you spent much time outside at night, staring at a clear sky, as any who travelled the seas often did.

‘It seemed much brighter than normal,’ Ragnvald said, with a shrug, trying to brush off the feeling that had come before the light. ‘Some men would see something in such things.’

Bjorn nodded. ‘Perhaps a seer would say it was the work of the gods, casting a star down to answer your question.’

‘And do you believe that?’

Bjorn looked into his cup again. ‘I think things are often just what they are.’

Ragnvald laughed at that, deep and heartily. ‘Well said. Yet… it went north, the way we intended, so I am inclined to continue. If we find nothing of note along the way, perhaps we will turn around tomorrow and return home.’

‘As you say, lord,’ said Leif with a nod.

Ragnvald drained the last of his ale. ‘I go to my furs, we leave at dawn, to find more brave farm boys to join Bjorn.’

The next settlement to the north was larger, and after a rousing meeting with its inhabitants, Ragnvald was pleased with the band of eight men, including two seasoned warriors he knew well from past campaigns, who collected their gear and set off south to join his forces. He nudged Bjorn in the ribs as they set off again northwards. ‘Maybe sometimes things are more than they seem.’

‘Perhaps; those were fine men, if a little older than I would like.’

‘There is nothing wrong with carrying a little age,’ protested the jarl, who had ten years on the oldest of the band they had just recruited.

‘Of course not, lord,’ said Bjorn with a humourless smile.

The forest was getting thicker, and the land more rugged, as they moved north during the heat of the middle of the day. They stopped briefly to bathe and wash in a fast-flowing stream, revelling in the cool water coming down from the hills, and then pressed on through the shade of the trees that sheltered the trader’s road they travelled.

The next village was barely worth the name. A half dozen longhouses clinging to the side of a large lake. The fields were small, but the shore was lined with fish drying racks. Ragnvald was not expecting much; farming settlements bred stronger sons than lakeside fishing communities, in his experience, with none of the benefits of experience sailing the sea.

The two elders of the community came out to meet him, a touch nervous at the band of armed men who could raze this small settlement to the ground if they felt like it. That nervousness was quickly calmed when they saw who he was, and he was pleased to find both men eager to kneel to him, and renew oaths they had once spoken to him years ago.

‘So, I am riding my lands to look for brave young warriors to join my warband in the war against the Christians, to defend our homes.’ He looked at the two men with a reassuring smile, which faded as the two men looked at each other nervously.

‘We have few enough young people here, Lord Ragnvald.’

‘Well, I see it is a small village, but surely there are a couple who would fulfil their duty to their lord and their land?’

‘There were, lord, but they have already gone south last year. It’s mostly the women who work the nets now, and men too old to fight again.’

Ragnvald sighed. ‘Well, see if any wish to gain the honour of coming with their lord, that much is owed to me.’

‘I will, my lord, perhaps there are one or two.’ The men bowed and scuttled off, leaving Ragnvald sitting outside the largest longhouse, being served a hot fish stew by a young woman who did not introduce herself.

After a time, the two elders came back, looking nervous. One was carrying a small cloth-wrapped package. They stopped in front of their jarl and Ragnvald knew what they would say before they said it. ‘None will come?’

‘No, my lord. My deepest apologies. There is one man, my cousin’s son, who would, but he broke his arm last week, and cannot hold a spear.’

Ragnvald grunted in displeasure and stood. ‘I am disappointed, even for a small village like this, that you would leave others to fight for your freedom without you.’

The man who had spoken quailed.

‘I’ll come, I’ll serve with you,’ said a voice from behind Ragnvald.

The elder looked up in horror and mumbled a protest. ‘Rikka, no.’

Ragnvald turned around and saw the young woman who had served them fish stew, leaning against the doorpost to the house. Ragnvald raised an eyebrow and appraised her. She was perhaps in her late twenties and well-built. She looked healthy and met his gaze with unflinching eyes.

‘Can you fight with a spear?’

‘I can learn, and I can hunt with a bow.’

‘Excellent, I accept your service.’

‘My lord, please,’ the voice behind him warbled again.

Ragnvald turned to the distraught elder. ‘Is she a free woman?’

‘Yes, but she is my granddaughter, her father died many years ago, in your father’s service. She is all I have left.’

Ragnvald nodded. ‘I thank you for your family’s sacrifice, but it is her choice. She will stand with me for your village’s sake, and when we triumph, return with her share of the honour and spoils, if she proves herself worthy.’

‘There is nothing for me here, grandfather, but a life of fish and mud,’ Rikka said.

The old man slumped a bit, defeated, and nodded his head. The other elder gave him a sympathetic look as he stood there with the small wrapped bundle.

‘Good, it is decided. Now, what is that?’ asked Ragnvald, pointing at the bundle.

The man looked at it as if he had forgotten and nodded, bringing it closer and unwrapping the rag. He revealed a gnarled, lumpen, blackened mass, about the size of a child’s fist, which Ragnvald peered at in confusion. ‘It is a gift,’ said the man.

‘It’s a starstone,’ said Rikka from behind the jarl. ‘It fell in one of the fields last night. We dug it out of a hole the depth of a man.’

The old man smiled nervously. ‘We offer it to you in tribute, I’m sorry it is such a poor gift, but this is a poor village.’ Ragnvald picked the iron lump out of the cloth, mud still clinging to its crevices and hollows, eyes wide. True, as iron it was worth a small chunk of silver, but that was not what caught his interest.

‘You said this fell last night?’

‘Yes.’

‘You saw it fall?’

‘No, but we heard it, woke the whole village. Sprayed dirt over half the field,’ Rikka said, curious as to the jarl’s excitement.

‘We saw it fall too. We were camped to the south, and I saw it cross the sky.’

Rikka’s brows rose as Ragnvald turned to her, but she said nothing. Ragnvald exchanged a look of glee with Bjorn and Leif, who did not know what to say. ‘Sometimes things are more than they seem, then?’

‘An omen, perhaps, but of what?’ said Bjorn with an uncertain tone.

‘A wonderful gift. Thank you.’ Ragnvald smiled at the elder and handed the iron to Bjorn to carry. ‘Now, we will continue north, and find more to join us. Perhaps tomorrow we will turn for home.’

Rikka snorted and shook her head. ‘Don’t bother, Lord Ragnvald. There is no one north of here who would interest you.’

‘You are so sure of that?’

She curled a lip in a crooked smile. ‘You are not the first one who has looked for strong young men in the lands around here, although my reasons were a little different. And as you can see, I am still unmarried and live with my grandfather.’

Ragnvald chuckled his deep belly laugh and smacked Rikka on the shoulder. ‘Then I will take your advice. Come, let’s return to Uppsala, there will be many a young warrior who would want to woo a spirited young woman like you.’

‘I’m not coming south for a man. I’m getting old anyway, I intend to fight.’ She looked at her newly met jarl with no fear in her eyes.

‘As you say, Rikka. I will honour your intent. But I can’t promise men won’t try.’

‘Then I will get more practice defending myself.’

Ragnvald grinned. ‘You will make a fine warrior, Rikka. I look forward to seeing you in the skjaldborg.’ He turned to his men. ‘Come, let us go east, and return by a different road. We will see who we can pick up along the way.’

The pickings on the return journey, along a less travelled road, were slimmer, but not inconsequential. Ragnvald arrived back in Uppsala with two more women to join Rikka, and a collection of young men, salted with a few older warriors who had stood in battle before.

Ragnvald sent Leif off with the new recruits. The whole journey had netted just over seventy to replenish his ranks.

As he walked home, he cursed at the belt of his sword, a captured Christian blade that he had selected to replace his lost Drekitunga. The design of the belt was different, and he hated it, it had chafed at him for the entire trip. Or perhaps he just hated that it reminded him of the loss of his treasured sword, and the stinging defeat and betrayal that had caused it.

As he fought with the obstinate buckle, he determined to have a new sword made. If he was to die in battle, it wouldn’t be with that accursed Christian sword in his hand. No, that wouldn’t do. He had a slave swordsmith, one who was now famous throughout the land, so he might as well get some benefit from that.

He dumped the offending item against the wall inside his hall with a rattle that startled a couple of his men, who knew better than to react, and was about to leave to visit Dengir’s forge when he remembered the starstone they had brought back from the north. He went to the pile of camping gear they had returned with to collect it, eyeing the cleaned, dusk-black metal lump thoughtfully, grabbed the empty scabbard that had housed his lost blade, and then set off to find his pet swordsmith and give him his final task.

‘Ordulf!’

Ordulf looked up from the workbench where he was examining a newly carved pommel at the sound of Dengir’s voice. The old smith barely ever bothered to call his name, usually just grunting in his direction, a system he had become well accustomed to interpreting.

He stood and went out into the yard, and found the master smith standing with Jarl Ragnvald. The jarl was holding an empty scabbard in one hand, and Dengir was examining a large lump of dark rock, which he handed back to the jarl without a word.

‘My lord?’ Ordulf said nervously. He had not spoken to Ragnvald for months, and instantly assumed the worst. He wasn’t sure what the worst was, but he had a range of ideas.

‘My famous Christian!’ said Ragnvald with a sarcastic smirk. ‘Perhaps I should be calling you lord, the way people speak of your work.’

Ordulf blushed and mumbled, but Ragnvald cut him off. ‘I have misplaced my sword in an argument with some old friends, and I need a new one. You will make it for me.’

Ordulf nodded automatically, but was still confused. ‘Of course, whatever you need.’

He held out the lump of rock, which Ordulf could now see was not, in fact, a lump of rock. ‘Have you seen one of these before?’

Ordulf shook his head in confusion. The blackened lump was too soft-edged and too shiny to be stone. It looked like an iron bloom, but was too solid and clean. It showed no sign of hammer marks, nor was it rusty. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s a starstone, a fallen star. I saw it come down when I was out in the north a few days ago, and my people dug it up for me.’

Ordulf was captivated. ‘This fell from the sky?’

‘Yes. Our people believe starstones are gifts from the gods. We have been using their iron for generations. I want you to forge me a sword using this.’

Ordulf took the iron and turned it over in his hand. ‘It is not enough.’

Ragnvald waved his hand dismissively. ‘Combine it with other metal, it can be just one part, but I want people to know I carry a sword that contains star-iron that fell on my land, that I saw falling. It will be seen as a powerful omen.’

Ordulf furrowed his brow and looked at Dengir. ‘Can it be done?’

The smith rubbed his chin and nodded. ‘It is difficult, the metal is soft, may crumble under the hammer, and will not hold an edge, but we can use it for the core, if we carefully fold it with others.’

‘Good. Then it is decided. A sword with a core of star-iron.’ Ragnvald’s eyes burned with excitement. ‘A sword worthy of a song.’ He looked at Dengir, his face hardened, and his voice lowered. ‘A sword fit to take to Valhalla, to tell its own tale.’

Dengir nodded once. ‘I understand.’

‘Good, explain to the boy what is needed, and let him forge the blade. I will send silver.’

‘No,’ Dengir said with a shake of his head. ‘You will not pay for this one, the boy will make you this one as a gift, for the life and honour you have given him.’

Ragnvald smiled, his blue eyes flicking to Ordulf. ‘Thank you, Ordulf, for this gift.’ He paused and nodded contentedly to himself. ‘I am glad I spared you, that day on the riverbank. You have proved worthy, do not disappoint me with this. I expect your masterwork.’

Ordulf stood a little straighter. ‘I will not let you down.’

‘One last thing; can you re-use this scabbard? I am very fond of it, and of the sigil.’ He passed over the dragon scabbard with its glaring one-eyed serpent guarding the throat. The brown leather was a little ragged, but the scabbard was still beautiful.

Dengir made an unhappy noise and shook his head. ‘A scabbard must be made for a sword, not the sword for the scabbard, but we can re-use the sigil and the fittings.’

‘Good! That will do fine. I will leave you to it.’ Ragnvald turned and left the yard, and Ordulf looked down at the star-iron, and then quizzically at Dengir. ‘So how do I work this?’ Dengir sighed, and beckoned him to follow him into the forge.

Chapter 26

A Sword to Live For

Dengir walked into the forge and over to their dwindling supplies of steel and hummed to himself in consternation. Ordulf knew the problem he was considering, they were extremely short of good steel. Months of making swords for powerful lords with expensive tastes had worn away at their stocks like water on sand, and very little remained.

‘The starstone must be folded with iron, many times, or it will be brittle and useless.’ Dengir pulled out some bloom iron lumps from a pile and shoved them at Ordulf, who gathered them in his hands.

‘Why would we use it then, if it is so useless?’

Dengir shook his head at the young smith’s ignorance, as he had so many times over the seasons they had spent working together. ‘A starstone is a gift, straight from the gods. Yes, it is a hard gift, like the land we live in, but once you tame it, it is tough, it does not tarnish easily, it resists the iron rot and bends without breaking. It shines brightly compared to earthly iron once forged into the blade. Above all, it is the sign of a great smith, to use it well, as well as a sign of singular luck, to have one fall on your land.’

Ordulf just nodded, looking at the lump again. Dengir coughed and continued.

‘So, mixed with other iron, it can be the core, but then…’ Dengir looked over the metal they had left. ‘There is not much to choose from for the edge.’ He shrugged and turned away. ‘You will find something.’

Ordulf gaped at him as Dengir simply left him with the unfamiliar metal. ‘You will not tell me more about working this iron? You say only a great smith can use it, what must I know?’

‘You are a famous smith, you will work it out,’ Dengir said as he left, with a low chuckle.

Ordulf cursed and set the soft iron bloom and star-iron to one side and looked at the piles of metal. There were various old, low-quality blades and tools waiting to have their metal re-used, but none of those interested him. There were some discarded chunks of steel bloom, but all were discarded precisely because they had not been good enough for previous blades, and certainly would not be good enough for his demanding and expectant master. Then there was a flawed bar of high-quality folded steel that Ordulf had worked before and discarded. The steel was excellent, but a forging mistake had split the weld and nearly parted the bar in two, and he had discarded it in favour of a new bar. It was hardly material fit for a great sword.

There were a few finished bars of high-quality steel, but they were sized for an axe blade edge or seax, and not large enough to make the outer layers of a sword.

Nor were they likely to be able to find new iron ore for a new smelting. Every smith in the region had been working flat out, and the trade routes were closed. Nothing was coming into the smithy except old weapons, and the occasional bog iron lumps.

Ordulf kicked an errant piece of coal in frustration. His master wanted a great sword, and he had nothing but scraps and rejected metal to make it from.

Eventually, lacking a choice that satisfied him, he decided to start with the core of star-iron, and when that was finished, re-examine the problem of the outer layers. He took the bloomery iron and the star-iron and went to the forge, which an apprentice wordlessly fired up for him.

Once the flames were high and bright, and the coals glowing like the sun, he put the star-iron into the centre of the flames and watched it carefully. The lump took a long time to heat, unusually solid and thick as it was, and eventually Ordulf pulled it from the fire with his tongs and set it on the anvil, bringing his hammer down hard to start flattening it.

‘Fuck!’ he shouted, as the solid, seamless lump crumbled into two and fell off the anvil. He had thought it was solid and pure, and that he could work it hot and hard, like a lump of pure worked iron, but it behaved more like a fresh bloom, delicate and brittle. He picked up both scalding hot pieces with tongs before they could set anything aflame and set them on the side of the forge to think about the problem.

As he stood there in contemplation, Dengir appeared in the forge and snorted. ‘Hit them too hard?’

Ordulf scowled. ‘You could have warned me.’

‘I could have.’

‘So how do I work them?’

‘With great care.’ With that drop of tardy wisdom bequeathed, the old smith disappeared again, leaving Ordulf nervously putting the smaller of the two lumps into the fire again.

The second time he withdrew the metal from the fire, he hammered it much more carefully, like he would hammer a fresh bloom. The metal still crumbled around the edges, and cracks formed, and Ordulf feared the metal would be wasted entirely, but the more he heated and hammered it, the more the metal coalesced into a single rough bar.

Finally, after a long time of intense concentration and effort, he had a rectangular flat bar of the material, rough cracked at the edges, but solid in the centre. He picked up the larger piece to repeat the process, but a voice interrupted him. ‘No.’

He turned to see Dengir had been watching him. ‘No what?’

‘The edges, cut them off.’

‘The cracked parts?’

Dengir nodded.

Ordulf put the bar in the flame again, and, getting the apprentice to help, cut the crumbling edges off the bar while it was red hot using a chisel and hammer, as the heat from it sizzled his flesh and singed the hairs on his face.

Again he looked around to see if Dengir approved, and again found the smith had gone.

He repeated the process again with the bloom iron and the bigger piece of star-iron, and ended up with four bars of the soft metals.

Finally, calling two of the other smiths to help him, he forged the four bars together in the roaring fire while two apprentices worked the bellows to the point of exhaustion, and folded them again and again onto themselves, heating and hammering, until he was left with a single solid bar the size of a good long seax. Finally, the exhausted smiths were finished, and Ordulf spent a long time examining the bar, flexing it, chiselling little marks into it to gauge its quality until finally he was satisfied it was good.

The next day forced Ordulf to face his bigger problem. Now he had to surround the soft star-iron core with a layer of steel, and no good piece was available. He finally, and reluctantly, took the discarded pieces of steel bloom and forged them into a bar.

It took all day, and on the third day, he heated the bar and plunged its end into water, to check if it would be good enough for a sword’s edge. He struck the end of the bar with a chisel and a big shiny cut appeared, the metal still being soft and yielding. Cursing at the wasted day, he threw the poor-quality steel to one side and stalked back to the metal store, clenching his fist on his lower jaw and chewing on his finger pensively.

Next he recovered the best of the old weapons and tools, the ones with the hardest steel, and heated and hammered them out in the forge, working them together into a single bar, as he had done with the bar that had become the king’s axe, but the bar cracked and refused to weld well. Old hidden flaws in the blades and deeply pitted surfaces led to constant failures and cracking that he could not prevent.

Perhaps if he had taken more time, ground away all the outer surfaces on each piece, and more carefully discarded the damaged steel, he would have succeeded. But impatience, anger, and a sense of urgency had overrode him. Not that most of the steel was hard enough to be a sword anyway, nor would it have shown a beautiful pattern, only a dusky grey.

Ordulf left the forge early that day in a foul mood, hoping not to run into his demanding master, and risk revealing that he did not know how to complete the sword.

On the fourth day, with a night of contemplation and little sleep behind him, Ordulf sat staring at the remaining pieces of steel in the store, the half-broken billet and the smaller, seax-sized bars, and admitted to himself that he was defeated. The partly broken bar was good steel, but already folded many times, twisted badly in one section, and partially broken one third of the way from one end. It was also too small a bar on its own. If he broke it into three equal pieces and forged them all together and then repeatedly folded them to make a solid bar again, the pattern would be lost, faded into a near uniform grey, a dull, uninspiring mess. And yet still too small to be a sword. Simply repairing the break would leave an ugly scar in the metal, ruining the pattern.

As he sat there, disconsolate, Dengir came in and Ordulf sighed and waited for his sarcastic lash, but the older man said nothing as he too contemplated the problem.

‘What are you trying to achieve with the steel?’ he eventually asked.

Ordulf looked puzzled. ‘A good edge, and a beautiful pattern.’

‘And what do you think is a beautiful pattern?’

‘Well, something bright and… well, perfect, constant through the sword.’

‘You could simply forge that broken bar back together.’

Ordulf shook his head. ‘You would see the repair in the pattern, a large imperfection. No, it would not do, not for Jarl Ragnvald’s sword. He wanted my best work.’

‘Not quite,’ mused Dengir. ‘He asked for a sword worthy of taking to Valhalla.’

‘What did he mean by that, do you think?’ asked Ordulf.

Dengir paused for a moment and looked at him. ‘You really don’t know?’

‘I have heard about Valhalla, but how can a sword be worthy of it?’

‘He expects to die with this sword in his hand. Probably soon.’

Ordulf looked down at the floor, filled with mixed emotions at the idea. ‘I don’t know what that means for the sword.’

‘Sometimes a sword is just there to look beautiful, and sometimes it is there to tell a tale. A sword that sings of its master’s death could be very different to a sword meant to impress a visiting lord in a mead hall.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Dengir smiled. ‘That sword needs to tell the story of its time. You are trying to take imperfect materials and make something beautiful and perfect. But that is a lie, the time we live in is not beautiful and perfect. You are worried about making something with steel that is dark and twisted, but the time we live in is dark and twisted.’

Dengir held up the partly broken bar, and turned it over in his hands, thinking. ‘You are the most talented smith I’ve ever taught, but your talent is your curse here. Stop trying to force the metal to be what it is not.’ He handed the metal back to Ordulf. ‘Listen to it, look at it. Let the steel show you what it wants to be.’

Ordulf looked at it for a while and pursed his lips. ‘It will be ugly.’

‘It will be true. And the truth can be beautiful.’

‘It will be too small.’

‘Then make a bar from those small pieces, and add to it until it is whole.’

Ordulf looked at the remaining bars, and slowly nodded his head. ‘I can try.’

‘Let the steel guide you, boy. That is the true mastery of smithing.’ Dengir walked off again, leaving the Christian smith to his thoughts and his steel.

Ordulf sat contemplating the problem with new eyes, beginning to form an idea and thinking about the old Norse master’s words. He smiled to himself as he realised that was, in two years, the most words Dengir had ever spoken to him at once, and perhaps the most revealing.

Chapter 27

A Taste of Freedom

Three weeks after Ragnvald had walked into Dengir’s forge with a starstone and his old scabbard, Ordulf carried a carefully wrapped bundle back to the jarl’s hall. He had expected Ragnvald to come to the forge to collect his sword, or for Dengir to want to present it. But the old smith had just smiled and shaken his head. ‘It is your work, your gift, go and give it to your master.’

So Ordulf walked home in the evening sunshine, carrying a bundled, covered sword through the streets of Uppsala. An act that, in another situation, could have led to his immediate execution.

He finally arrived at the hall, nervous and suddenly panicking about what to say. Should he kneel to present it and remain silent, as he would have in Minden to Lord Adolf? Should he simply give it to a warrior to give to Ragnvald? No, that would not do, he needed to explain it, he needed to see that Ragnvald was happy.

Before he had answered any of his own questions, he had arrived at the hall and it was too late. He stopped at the door, remembering that he was not allowed to enter uninvited, and looked around in consternation. There was no one in the yard. Eventually, he summoned the courage to knock on the door, and it was soon opened to reveal Leif, who looked at the big slave quizzically.

‘Ordulf? What do you want?’ Leif eyed the wrapped bundle. ‘What is that?’

‘I… it is the jarl’s new sword.’

‘He has a new sword?’

‘Uh, yes. He asked me to make it.’

‘Hmm, he never mentioned it. Here, give it to me, when he returns, I will give it to him.’

Ordulf backed away half a pace when Leif reached for the bundle and he stammered. ‘Can… can…’

‘You want to give it to him directly?’ asked Leif with a smile.

‘Yes, if I can.’

Leif stood aside. ‘Come, I will find a corner for you to sit in until he returns.’

Ordulf ducked through the doorway after the jarl’s champion and followed him to the corner of the room near the dais, clutching his bundle to his chest. Leif pointed at a bench against the wall and Ordulf sat down.

Leif went back to his seat with some of the other warriors and Ordulf looked around in silence. The last time he had been in this building was the night when he had fought the men who tried to kill Halla. He had fought in this room, killed in it, and yet only two other living souls knew the truth of what had happened that night.

As he pondered this in deep thought, one of those two souls opened the door to his right and came out. Halla looked at him and stopped in shock, the jarl’s wife clearly being reminded in that instant of the same night, the same events of the year before, before she regained her composure and walked over to him.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, curtly and quietly.

‘I am here to deliver the jarl’s new sword.’

Halla looked around the room. ‘Give it to me,’ she clicked her fingers and pointed at the bundle, ‘and I will give it to him.’

Ordulf’s face fell. ‘But…’ His voice was silenced by the sharp glare she gave him the moment he protested. She still had the commanding presence, the look that would bear no argument. Ordulf had watched this woman, battered and covered in blood, tear the guts from a warrior twice her size, and then take her revenge on the warrior’s master, Jarl Birkir’s wife, with a seax to the spine. All the fight flowed out of him under that gaze, and he stood to hand the bundle over, eyes downcast.

‘Ordulf?’ He paused in mid-motion as Ragnvald’s voice called out from the entrance to the hall. Ordulf, flustered and unsure, pulled his arms back and looked at his jarl, bowing his whole upper body in the Christian habit that the Norse so mocked.

‘Is that…?’ said Ragnvald, pointing at the bundle.

‘Yes, lord.’

Halla feigned disinterest and moved to greet her husband with a smile and a kiss, all sign of her earlier unease banished. ‘I was just going to take it for you, but now that you are here, you can deal with it.’ She smiled and kissed her husband on the cheek, before going over to sit in her chair on the dais.

Ragnvald strode over to his slave, and Ordulf, flustered and unsure, could not work out what to say. He held out the bundle lamely as the jarl passed, but Ragnvald refused it. ‘Wait, I will return in a moment and you can show me.’ Ragnvald went to his chamber at the back of the room, and called to one of his men to bring him an ale. Moments later, he returned in a fresh green tunic, finely embroidered and hemmed in blue and gold. Straightening it on his shoulders, he sat heavily on his chair beside his waiting wife, reaching out a hand to accept the ale a warrior brought him and drinking it in one great draught.

‘Ah, gods, that is better. It has been a long day.’ He dropped the cup to the floor by his side without another thought and gestured to Ordulf. ‘Come, let us see what you have made for me.’

Ordulf took the steps to the dais, trying to be steady and control his breathing. He was nervous beyond his own understanding. He felt the weight of the sword, the moment, the place and the expectations dragging on him like a coat of maille.

He reached the foot of the dais and faced his jarl. With one hand, he reached into the bundle to grasp the scabbard, and with the other, he pulled away the fine cloth that covered it.

He revealed a blood-red scabbard, dark and lustrous. The carved antler serpent was laid along it, mouth open and snarling at the throat, teeth bracketing the opening where the hilt of the sword rested.

Ragnvald leaned forwards in his chair, staring at the hilt, drinking in its details. The crossguard of the sword was bronze, thick and curved, covered in a line of carved runes. The grip was dark red leather, the colour of the last glow of a cloudy sunset, and the broad bronze pommel sat atop the hilt like a throne. On the pommel, carved in bronze, a set of wide carved doors stood open at the top of stone steps, and a warrior stood, sword and shield in hand, eyes of red gemstone staring out at the world in timeless judgement.

The jarl’s mouth moved in silent speech as he read the runes on the crossguard, and his eyes flicked up to meet Ordulf’s. ‘Do you know what this says?’

Ordulf nodded. ‘Garmr howls loud before Gnipahellir.’

‘The fetters will burst, and the wolf will run free,’ continued Ragnvald, his voice reverent. He looked up at Ordulf with the full weight of his piercing stare. ‘Who carved these runes?’

‘Dengir, my lord.’

‘I see. But you know their meaning? Do you know of the song they come from?’

‘I do. It speaks of Garmr, the great hound, howling before the cave that leads to the realm of Hel.’ Ordulf met his lord’s gaze with a newfound steadiness. ‘It signals the coming of Ragnarok, and the end of the world of gods and men.’

‘So you know our prophecies, interesting. Who taught you?’

‘Dengir… and Otto.’

‘And you dared to give me a sword that wrote of the end of the world?’

Ordulf blanched, suddenly confronting his fear that he had made a deep error. ‘I… I’m sorry, lord, Dengir thought, I thought, with Valhalla and…’

‘It’s perfect,’ Ragnvald exclaimed with a savage grin, silencing the flustered slave. ‘And the doors on the pommel?’

‘The doors of Valhalla.’

‘A warrior stands there, waiting, what is his meaning?’

Ordulf swallowed hard. This had been a design that Ordulf himself had carved, with Dengir’s guidance, and Ordulf had worried it perhaps went too far. ‘It is a reminder of your duty to the gods.’

‘What duty?’

‘To die with this sword in your hand, if you hope to join them.’

Ragnvald leaned forwards with blazing eyes, staring at the silent figure on the pommel, and at Ordulf, who was sweating uncontrollably. For a moment, Ordulf thought the jarl would strike him down, and certainly he could see his words had hit hard.

‘You are instructing me to die, slave,’ Ragnvald said, in deathly quiet between them. Then he leaned back and roared with laughter, slapping his hands on his thigh. ‘How does a man walk with such balls between his legs!’

He gestured to the watching warriors in the room. ‘This slave makes me a sword, and tells me I have to die with it in my hand! The gods must love you, boy, for at any other time, I would have killed you for the cheek.’ He looked down at the hunched swordsmith. ‘Not the first time you have been on the verge of execution in this room.’

‘No, lord.’ Ordulf shook his head with a nervous smile.

‘But no man should be punished for telling the truth, and you tell the truth. It is indeed my duty, and my intent, to die with this blade in my hand. Come now, draw it, show me the steel.’

Ordulf looked up, eyes flicking around nervously once more. ‘Lord?’

‘Show me.’

Ordulf looked down again, conflicted. ‘I cannot.’

‘Why?’

‘A slave cannot wield a weapon,’ Ordulf half-mumbled, eyes downcast.

‘How far you have come, my boy,’ Ragnvald said with a satisfied grin. ‘But I order it, and thus you can obey.’

‘Yes, lord,’ Ordulf said. He turned the sword sideways in his left hand, and placed his hand carefully on the blood-red grip. His fingers felt the smooth leather surface, the ridges of the cord wrapping underneath it that would give the soft leather grip and purchase in the hand. He closed his fingers around it, broad hand fitting snugly between the cold curves of the guard and pommel. He raised his eyes to his jarl once more in question, and Ragnvald gave him an encouraging, and excited, nod of approval.

Ordulf drew the blade from the snug scabbard, the oiled wool within releasing it with only the faintest of whispers. Ragnvald leaned forwards, eyes flicking along its length greedily. ‘Bring it close. Come, my eyes aren’t what they once were, show me.’

Ordulf placed the end of the sword over his left forearm, careful not to touch the steel with his hands, and leaned forwards as he raised both arms, holding the sword up for the jarl. The diffuse rays of the sun still streaming through the roof holes played and danced on the pristine, newly finished metal.

The core of the sword where the fuller ran blazed brightly even in that weak light. Within its shine it was lined, striped like tightly bundled yarn. Around the bright core was a narrow band of twisted, jagged lines of dark and light steel. Around that, the bulk of the blade was darker with chaotic, swirling patterns writhing across its surface like ripples on a river. Ragnvald’s eyes squinted and he tapped his hand on the arm of his chair as he examined the blade, and Ordulf held his breath in worry at the lack of excitement.

Finally, the jarl broke the tension. ‘It is not what I expected.’ Ordulf’s heart fell, and he tried to stammer an apology, but the jarl stopped him with a gesture of his hand. ‘I am not complaining, I find myself intrigued by it. It is beautiful and foreboding, like a sea storm. Tell me about it.’

Ordulf swallowed, arms beginning to tire from the strain of holding the blade up and out for inspection. ‘The core is made of the starstone, mixed with fresh iron. Around that, I have made a pattern of fire, running around the edges of the star-iron. And outside of that…’

‘Smoke,’ said Ragnvald, as a smile spread across his face.

‘Yes, lord.’

‘You have remade the starstone into an image of its birth, a streak of bright light, surrounded by fire, leaving a trail of swirling smoke around it.’

Ordulf smiled, finally, a feeling of pure relief spreading through him. ‘Exactly, my lord.’

Ragnvald fixed his eyes on his slave and shook his head slowly, a broad grin causing the corners of his eyes to pinch and upturn. ‘I knew I was right to save you, all those long months ago. I felt something in you that day, something worth preserving. By the gods was I right.’ He leapt to his feet, with such vigour and speed that Ordulf recoiled slightly, and Ragnvald reached out his hand towards the starstone blade.

Ordulf placed the hilt of the sword in his jarl’s hand and let his aching arms fall away as the warlord of the Svear raised the blade up and felt its weight and balance, before twirling it in his hand, stepping off to one side and cutting and slashing at the air, before whooping with joy like a child. ‘Gods, this sword feels alive!’ he said with glee, turning on the spot and delivering a precise, unwavering thrust to an imaginary foe. ‘It feels like a part of my arm, delicate and deadly.’ He stopped with his playing and put the steel across his own forearm, looking at Ordulf once more, before returning to his chair and sitting down. ‘It is a wonderful sword, and a wonderful gift.’

Ordulf grinned like the child he had so recently been and felt a rush of pure happiness, so long a feeling he had thought never to feel again. ‘It is not a gift, my lord, it was only my duty to my lord.’

‘Nonsense, don’t sully it. The care you have taken with this, the soul forged into it, is more than a slave can ever do out of duty.’ Ordulf felt a prickle of resentment at the words, but he nodded faithfully. ‘A gift such as this requires something in return, honour demands it. Now, what could I give the great smith Ordulf?’

Halla, sitting at Ragnvald’s side still, leaned in and whispered something in his ear. Ragnvald’s face strained a touch as he listened, and then he looked at his wife thoughtfully and nodded, before returning his gaze to his slave.

‘It is a magnificent gift, born of a skill beyond your years. In the time since you have come into my hall, you have proved yourself as a man. You have saved my life with your courage, killed a man in my defence, fought wolves while defending a companion, and made a name for yourself with the great lords of the North as a smith. And now, you have forged me the very key to the doors of Valhalla itself.’ Ragnvald nodded to himself. ‘You have earned yourself more than I can give a mere thrall. Ordulf, in exchange for your service, and this magnificent sword, I offer you your freedom, to leave my service and make your own way in the world, as you choose.’

Ordulf choked, suddenly weak legs glad that he was already kneeling. Freedom? For so many months he had lusted for it, prayed for it, yearned for it. And then those feelings had faded, withered or been pushed down into the recesses of his soul, only to be brought rushing back to the surface with the uttering of that single word.

Ordulf looked up and realised Ragnvald was still talking. ‘In any case, I brought you here to make new swords, and the time for that is done. We have more swords than we have men, and the time of the final battles is upon us. So your task is complete. We could not let you leave to return to the Christians now, of course. You know too much, you have seen too much.’ Ragnvald smiled kindly. ‘But I give you my word, once the war is over, I will allow you to return to them as you please.’

Ordulf stared at him dumbly, and Ragnvald’s smile faded a little. ‘Do you not wish for this?’

‘Yes!’ Ordulf said, a little too enthusiastically, his eyes flicking to Halla, who nodded subtly. Thank you, he whispered back with his eyes. A debt repaid, a promise kept.

‘Good! Then we are settled, in the eyes of the gods and of men. You knelt in front of me as a slave, but now you may stand, Ordulf, a free man of the North, and be welcome in my hall.’

And Ordulf stood, and Ragnvald clasped his hand, and then he sat, and ate, and drank, and went outside into the night and cried like a newborn child.

Ordulf woke the next morning with a sore head, and a hand gently rocking his shoulder. He looked up to find Otto looking down at him. ‘Whaaa?’

‘I’m sorry, we need to move everything aside,’ said Otto in a strangely forced voice.

Ordulf looked around him, head bleary and throbbing, and saw that everyone else was up and having their morning meal, or trying to, but for him being in the way, squarely in the middle of the room. ‘Oh, sorry… yes, of course.’

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, groaning as the full weight of the night’s drinking tumbled down on him. It had been months since he had drunk more than a few mouthfuls of weak ale, and the horns he had shared with his new…

Ordulf suddenly opened his eyes as he remembered why he had been drinking, running over the events in his head to make sure he hadn’t been dreaming. The shock hit him all over again, and suddenly he was hit with a wave of anxiety and delight in equal measure. He dragged himself unsteadily to his feet, and found that everyone was quiet, moving around and getting on with their morning, dressing, washing and preparing food, but the mood was different. Many were looking at him, but none were meeting his eye.

Ordulf pulled himself away from their oddly unfriendly glances and changed his noisome clothes. Before he could finish, Otto pushed a bundle into his arms. ‘Here, a parting gift from the jarl. He says a Norseman should not dress in a slave’s clothes,’ Otto said, without a hint of happiness in his voice, before walking off again.

Ordulf sighed, beyond caring about the ever-changing moods of Otto, and unrolled the bundle. He found it was a dark green tunic, with neatly stitched hems and a decorated neckline. Wrapped inside that was a linen shirt and a fine pair of brown trousers, with woven loops and a narrow leather belt. He felt the fabric of the shirt appreciatively, smiling at its fineness and softness, something he had not realised until that moment he had missed so badly.

Putting on the fine linen shirt and the woollen trousers, and leaving the thicker woollen tunic aside, he went to the cooking area and set about trying to help. Alda, the old slave woman, politely blocked him, and shook her head. ‘It is slaves’ work.’ She made a shooing motion, sending him away. ‘I will bring you food, with the other men.’

Ordulf tried to protest, but she shook her head and waved him away with a hand, so he went and sat near the firepit, waiting awkwardly. There were two warriors there, sitting and waiting also, one was repairing the leather strap from his shield as they talked. Both men regarded him with curiosity, and one gave him a nod, but other than that, they ignored him.

Finally, the meal was cooked and served, and Ordulf was surprised to be given his food right after the warriors, before even their wives. He mumbled his thanks, and ate the wooden bowl of freshly cooked hare and onions with relish. He marvelled at the tenderness and flavour of the fine cuts of the meat, finishing before the slaves shared the leftovers, working what meat they could from the neck and bones and ribs, as he would once have done. He looked around, suddenly feeling guilty, but no one came to sit with him or talk to him.

Finally, as everyone was clearing the room to go about their day’s work, Ordulf realised he did not know what to do; he almost took his tools and went to the forge, out of habit, but he did not know if he even should. He went into the yard, the low morning sun causing the pain behind his eyes to flare and recede again, eliciting a groan of discomfort and a hand to shield his face.

As he was standing there, confused and unsure, he heard someone approach and found it was Brunhild. She had been out of the house when he woke, attending to some chore in the main hall, and it was the first time he had seen her since he had been freed. ‘Brunhild,’ he said with a nervous smile.

She gave him a conflicted look, eyes flicking down to the ground and fiddling with the hair over her shoulder. ‘I heard,’ was all she could say.

‘Uh, yeah… I don’t know… I wasn’t expecting it.’

‘I’m pleased for you,’ she said, before crossing her arms across her chest.

‘Thank you. What is wrong, you don’t… I’m sure Halla has not forgotten you. She did this, she told Ragnvald to free me. She kept her word, Brunhild,’ Ordulf said with a reassuring smile, stepping forwards to put his hands on her shoulders, leaning down and trying to force eye contact as she looked at the ground. ‘She will find a time, a reason to do the same for you.’

‘And then what?’

Ordulf was taken aback. ‘Then nothing, I don’t mean anything, I just mean that you will also be free. And I will still be here, all the problems we had will go away.’

Brunhild slumped a bit and looked up. ‘Oh, Ordulf, nothing has changed. In fact, it is worse. You are a free man, and I am the slave of another. We will be separated now, as I said could happen, and it is the whim of the fates that will ever lead to us even seeing each other again.’

‘What?’

‘Maybe Halla will free me, maybe she won’t, maybe it will take a dozen years, or two dozen. My life is still not my own, and you are free but have no power over me.’

‘But I will still be here, why does anything change?’

Brunhild looked up, sudden concern in her eyes. ‘Oh, Ordulf, you don’t know?’

‘Know what?’

‘You can’t stay here. You will be allowed to remain for a day or two, as a guest, until you find somewhere else, but this is no longer your house.’

Ordulf recoiled. ‘What?’

‘You are a free man, and not a member of Ragnvald’s household, you do not live here anymore, Ordulf.’

‘What…’ Ordulf felt physically sick. ‘Then what do I do?’

Brunhild shrugged exasperatedly. ‘I don’t know, you should have thought about that before you accepted your freedom.’

Ordulf shook his head, face fallen and stomach churning. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘You never know,’ said Brunhild with a sigh. ‘Go home, Ordulf, go home to your own people.’

Ordulf died a little inside. ‘I cannot.’

‘Why, you fool? Not for me. Go home!’

Ordulf shook his head. ‘I am not allowed to return to the Christians. I have seen too much.’

Brunhild put her head in her hands and groaned, before gently grabbing the hem of his new fine shirt and pulling his forehead down to meet hers. ‘This is why, Ordulf. This is why. I told you, I told you we were not the masters of our own fate, that we could never be together. I’m sorry.’

She kissed him furtively on the cheek, a tender touch that lit a fire in Ordulf’s drowning soul, and let go of his clothes, moving to step past him and return to the house.

Ordulf had a sudden idea, and grabbed her arm, a little too roughly, and stopped her. ‘Wait!’

She looked back at him with a frown, and shook her arm loose.

‘I could buy you.’

She screwed up her face in anger and shrugged. ‘With what? Do you have any idea how much a young, breeding slave woman costs?’

Ordulf sagged. ‘No.’

‘Do you have any money?’

‘No…’ Ordulf slumped again. ‘Maybe…’

‘No, Ordulf. Ragnvald might have given you a tunic, but he won’t give you me, however nicely you ask.’

Ordulf tried to argue again, each idea in his head more desperate than the last.

‘And what if you did buy me? Have you forgotten what I said? Do you think I would be your slave, and live happily with you? Do you know what the other men would think of a man who bought a slave to behave like his family?’

‘I would free you immediately!’ said Ordulf, defensively.

‘And what if I chose to leave? What if I chose to leave, that very moment, and was not beholden to your charity?’

Ordulf raised his chin and met her eye. ‘That would be fine, it would be your choice, I just want to see you out of slavery.’

Brunhild shook her head again, but the fury had drained out of her, she just looked sad. ‘And how would I live, on my own, with a child and no money? How would I earn money to eat?’

Ordulf shrugged awkwardly.

‘You know how, you know exactly how a young woman like me would earn. On my back, or by marrying some low farmer who only wanted me for my womb or my working hands. I would be a freed slave, the lowest of the low, no decent man would have me, not for more than a few moments behind a barn.’

‘I would have you, and treat you well,’ said Ordulf, but the fight was out of him, and his voice was barely a whisper.

‘And thus, once again, I would have no choice. My freedom would mean merely being beholden to you, at the whims of your mercy, never able to change my mind or risk angering you or that you might die of some sickness and leave me a destitute widow. Tell me, Ordulf, what kind of freedom is that?’

Ordulf looked at her, met her eyes, and nodded his acceptance. ‘I understand. Goodbye, Brunhild. I wish you…’ He stumbled, even in that moment, he had no idea what to wish for her.

She, for once, did not punish him for it. ‘You too, Ordulf, my big, stupid Christian. Go and live in freedom. And, when this war is over… go home to your life, with your own people.’ She gave him a parting smile of kindness, and turned to disappear into the house.

Ordulf went to say goodbye to the jarl, to thank him, but Ragnvald was already gone for the day. So, gathering everything that he owned, he set out from the yard, taking his first few unsteady steps into the uncertainty of his newfound freedom.

His steps, as they inevitably would, took him to the forge. He walked in and Dengir nodded to him, then stopped and looked again, eyeing the fine new clothes, and then a single eyebrow raised as he understood. ‘Ragnvald liked your work, then?’

‘Our work,’ said Ordulf with a suppressed grin. ‘But yes, he did.’

‘So, what you doin’ here?’

Ordulf looked around, awkwardly. ‘I want a job, if you’re looking for a journeyman smith.’

‘And you’ve nowhere else to go,’ Dengir said, pointing a wagging finger at him.

Ordulf laughed and nodded. ‘That too.’

‘I was just saying to the lads that I needed another useless twat to pay, and now you’ve arrived, so I guess I’ll take you on.’ He reached out a hand with a sly smile. ‘One finger of silver a month.’

Ordulf tilted his head to the side and thought for a moment before shaking it. ‘For the smith who made the king’s axe? Two!’

‘One and a half.’

‘I accept,’ said Ordulf with a grin, grasping the old smith’s hand.

‘You probably think, now you’re a free man, I’ll not still be calling you boy?’ he said with a wicked smile. ‘But I will.’ He turned to head back into the forge, pointing Ordulf towards the door. ‘Now I’m paying you, and yer late, so get in there and work. And get those fancy new clothes off, no sense ruining them so soon.’

Ordulf smiled half-heartedly and went to change back into his old slave’s tunic and leather apron. His heart ached for the loss of Brunhild, but at least here, in the forge with Dengir, he had somewhere to feel at home.

Chapter 28

The Word of the King

Commissioning a new sword had been a pleasing diversion for Ragnvald, but it was quickly pushed from his mind as the days pressed ever onwards towards the end of summer. Ragnvald had been sure that they would be able to hold the Christians back until winter, a winter that would halt them in their tracks, cut them off from their supply, and force their fleet to retreat back to safe harbours.

The lords of the North had shared this opinion, certain that they could hold the Crusaders back for long enough to achieve it. He had hoped they would make some rash attack, overextend, expose their supply lines or offer a winnable battle.

But instead, the machine of the Crusade ground forwards like a shieldwall, its every move calm and calculated, unassailable. On every front, they exerted constant pressure, not enough to risk being weakened and unable to continue, but enough to pin down the local forces and prevent the Norse from gathering in one place for a counter.

After gaining control of the route to the sea, they did not rush to force their way into the lake, allowing a single victory by the swift Norse ships that still remained to cripple them; instead they consolidated their gains, fortified their own positions on the narrow channel, and hemmed the Norse in.

Within a week of the channel being lost, the land south of it was overrun. The Christians landed a force almost unopposed from the coast and moved to secure the rough, forested, isolated territory. The local warbands could do nothing but harry, raid and delay as the Christian forces ground inexorably onwards. Nor could the entire remaining Norse army be deployed to that land, with the only access by their few remaining ships, or risk disaster if forced to retreat.

And so, with the relentlessness of a root working its way between stones, the impenetrable wall of the Svear homeland was cracked and forced apart, until Christian scouts stood on the very shores of Lǫgrinn itself.

And there they stopped. With no ships able to pass the filled-in southern entrance, or the blockaded and fortified northern entrance, the Crusaders and Norse settled in to face each other from their opposing banks, the Norse with nothing left to do but raid, harass, and wait to see what the Crusaders would do next.

Ragnvald was visiting the burgeoning fortifications on the island in the northern channel when the answer came. It was not in the form of a great attack, or an escalade in the night as he feared, but a single longship rowing towards their blockade and the hundreds of warriors who manned the defences at Agne’s Meadow, whose serene grass and waterside rushes had disappeared beneath tents, palisades and mud churned by thousands of feet.

Ragnvald stared from the wall in confusion as the ship drew near, and men rushed to the walls, bows, spears and axes in hand, but none fired or threw their weapons as the ship approached. It was barely manned, by armed but unarmoured men, and a warrior stood in the bow holding a leafy branch aloft. They came to talk, not fight.

Ragnvald drummed his fingers on the palisade as he thought, and, still fearing a trick or trap, ordered more men to the southern side of the island, where they faced the Christians across a shallow, unnavigable, muddy stream that was more ditch than river.

He left the newcomers’ ship there waiting for a while, their hails unanswered, until he was satisfied no attack or threat existed, and finally went to see them.

‘Who are you, what do you want here?’

‘I am Olaf Kendlesson, a karl of Helsingborg. I have come with a message for King Sigurd, from Duke Henry.’

‘A Dane? Come to deliver Christian words? What message have you to give, traitor to your kin? Give it before I have you killed,’ Ragnvald shouted down from the ramparts, his bile rising at the treachery of these Danes.

‘I am to give my words only to Sigurd, please, let us through.’

Ragnvald thought for a moment, considering simply having the man killed on the spot, archers were ready to do it, but he dismissed it as a sign of rebellion. All had heard the man say he bore a message for the king, and if Ragnvald killed him, Sigurd might see it as treason of its own. Worse than that, he thought with bitterness, he was not even sure Sigurd would let Ragnvald in to present the man, not that he could allow any sign of there being schism within the loyal Norse ranks show.

‘The king may not want to receive you, blood betrayer, I will not stain his presence with your cowardice. Tell me your message, and I will take it to him and let you live.’

The man shook his head. ‘My words are only for the king.’

Ragnvald snorted in frustration and looked around, coming to his conclusion. ‘We are not removing our defences to let your ship through, so that your Christian masters can follow their dog. We will lower a rope over the wall, you will tie a rag around your eyes and the rope around your waist. You will gain nothing from being here.’

The man shouted a number of protests, but Ragnvald didn’t listen to their words, merely waving them away while he called for a rope.

‘You come up blindfolded, unarmed and on a rope, or you fuck off back to the hole you were dredged out of. The choice is yours.’

Eventually the man gave in and agreed, one of his fellows tying a rag about his head and securing him to the rope, to be hauled up with the dignity of a sack of grain, something which calmed Ragnvald’s mood a little to see.

When the angry and embarrassed warrior was on the wallwalk, Ragnvald finally got the chance to examine him closely with an expression of pure disgust, and saw that the man was indeed a warrior. He had left his sword and seax behind, but wore the scabbards and his armrings, to mark clearly who he was. Ragnvald’s eyes widened in surprise, and then narrowed in hatred as he saw the man had a cross pendant around his neck, where many would wear a likeness of Mjollnir.

He reached forwards and snatched it off with a wordless exclamation of anger, breaking the leather thong and crushing his fingers around the cold metal as he held it up to the sightless Dane. ‘You will not carry this evil through my land.’ He flung the token sideways over the wall and into the river without a glance, and the man had the bare decency to look a little ashamed and nod in acceptance beneath his blindfold.

Ragnvald took a calming breath and ran his hand back across his hair as the man stood in silence. ‘I will take you to the king, then.’

The Dane nodded once again, and Ragnvald sent him to their ships with Leif and Bjorn to guard him, mostly to stop anyone from killing him on the way.

As the Dane was being unkindly escorted from sight with an axe haft, Ragnvald turned to the jarl who commanded the small force stationed on that island fortress. ‘Take extra care, this may still be some trick.’

‘We won’t let anything take us by surprise, Ragnvald,’ the jarl said back with a nod of determination.

Calm summer air and having to row most of the way meant it was not until the next evening that Ragnvald’s ship made it to the docks in Uppsala, and he and his men unloaded their still silent cargo. The Dane had remained compliant and mute for the entire trip, which both troubled and impressed Ragnvald. The man had an air of calm and dignity to him, even with his hands tied and the blindfold on, both things which Ragnvald had done mostly out of spite, but later just made him feel petty.

Finally, they ushered their charge into the square where the king’s hall stood, and, not wishing to repeat the tense scene of his last visit, he sent Leif around to the side entrance to quietly ask for permission to let the messenger in.

Ragnvald removed the man’s blindfold, and the rope that bound his wrists, and he blinked and looked around, alternating between rubbing his wrists and his eyes as he looked around.

‘Uppsala hasn’t changed.’

‘You have been here before?’ said Ragnvald with a grunt.

‘Yes, when I was a child.’

Ragnvald did not reply, and they waited there in awkward silence for a while as Ragnvald tried to look unconcerned.

‘Will the king even receive you?’

‘Of course,’ said Ragnvald, a little too defensively.

‘I thought perhaps he was still refusing to see anyone from outside his own forces.’

Ragnvald cursed internally that the man knew of their divisions. Some traitor or gossiper must have given away that widely known secret to the enemy. Having the Christians know that they were divided was a terrible blow.

‘Perhaps he will let me in, and not you,’ mused the Dane, needling him.

‘Perhaps I will kill you if you speak again,’ replied Ragnvald, and neither man was sure it was a lie.

Ragnvald was now worried that the messenger was hoping he would be admitted alone, intending to exploit the division. Perhaps the Christians were offering Sigurd something, perhaps they were trying to set him against the rest of the Norse. His blood suddenly ran cold. They could be offering him his kingdom back to betray us.

He stiffened, and suddenly considered his threat. If he struck this man down in the street, Sigurd might indeed be furious, but that was better than letting him hear bribery or blackmail that he might be too lost to refuse. Ragnvald’s left hand sat on the hilt of the fine new sword that sat at his waist, and he flicked a look at the Dane as he tried to decide what to do.

The king is broken, I saw it last time we met. He would accept anything to get his home back, even this. With a barely disguised snarl of anger, he crossed his right hand over to draw and was shifting his foot to turn and face the traitor when the doors to the hall opened, and he froze in place, the Dane’s attention drawn to the hall, oblivious to the threat to his side.

Ragnvald flicked his eyes to the door, where Gunnar was revealed, and back to the captive. His mind roiled. If the Dane was called in alone, would he strike him down with Gunnar to witness it?

‘Lord Ragnvald, the king wishes to greet you, and your companions.’

Ragnvald looked up again at the huskarl, and knew that it was too late to act. He took his hand away from his sword and shoved the messenger towards the door, earning a backwards glare of annoyance that he ignored.

They climbed the steps and Gunnar thoroughly searched the Dane’s clothes. He indicated the man to stand to one side, polite and firm, and then gave Ragnvald an apologetic look. ‘Leave your sword here, please, Lord Ragnvald.’

Ragnvald’s eyes widened in surprise. It was normal, in a king’s or lord’s hall, that guests would leave their weapons by the door, to avoid any semblance of threat, or drunken misunderstandings. But this did not normally apply to trusted allies, and Ragnvald had never been disarmed in Sigurd’s hall before, his carrying his sword always having been a symbol of the king’s trust.

He bristled, showing genuine hurt, and Gunnar gave a little shrug that was as close to an apology as he could go. ‘The king’s orders.’

Ragnvald wanted to turn around and leave at the insult, given in front of their enemy, but feared too much to let the Dane go in alone. So he handed over his new sword without a word of protest, and drew his seax from his belt and handed it to the huskarl, before finally being allowed in with his charge, who gave him the tiniest smirk of victory, which Ragnvald refused to rise to.

He entered the hall with the Dane at his back in the custody of Gunnar and Bjorn, and stopped to let his eyes adjust to the light from the twin roaring fires and a dozen oil lamps that illuminated the vast hall.

He saw Sigurd sitting on the throne on the dais, and a host of Norwegian jarls and warriors filling the benches and standing along the walls. He saw faces that he recognised, men that he had fought and drunk and feasted and joked with, but not a friendly look was given his way. He saw Leif standing by the wall, also disarmed and looking glum, and his huskarl gave him a helpless shrug.

The door closed behind him and Ragnvald felt like he was alone amongst enemies, and wondered if it was true.

Refusing to show fear or doubt, he strode slowly down the central aisle, eyes fixed on the king, knowing his charge would be shepherded along in his wake, until he reached the bottom of the dais where he did not stop, but went up a single step, causing the king to stiffen slightly in surprise. He came to a stop just the length of a man from where Sigurd sat, indignant that his guest had broken tradition by starting to climb the dais before being welcomed.

Sigurd returned the blatant slight by forgoing the welcome and nodded his chin at the Dane.

‘Who have you brought to us today, Ragnvald?’

‘This is…’ Ragnvald turned and realised that he had forgotten the man’s name. The Dane’s voice cut in as he stumbled

‘Olaf Kendlesson, King Sigurd, a karl of…’ The man’s words were cut off by the back of Ragnvald’s meaty fist as he turned and smacked it across the messenger’s face. The hall fell silent as the surprised man put his hand to his face and then took it away, trying to appear unhurt.

‘Nobody invited you to speak,’ hissed Ragnvald.

‘This is my hall, Jarl Ragnvald, I will decide who speaks and who does not,’ rumbled Sigurd in annoyance.

‘And I have silenced him, until you make that decision.’

Sigurd nodded at the angry jarl and turned his eyes to the Dane. ‘Tell me, Olaf of the Danes. Why are you in my hall?’

‘I have a message for you, King Sigurd. It comes direct from Duke Henry, lord commander of the Crusade. He says…’

‘SILENCE!’ shouted Sigurd, leaning forwards in his chair. ‘I asked you why you were here, not to repeat whatever words you have been given to bring to me. I will find out why you are here first, and then decide if you can speak.’

Olaf looked confused. ‘That is why I am here, to deliver the message.’

‘But why are you delivering the message? Why are you, a Dane, here in my hall, in the presence of your king, bringing me the words of my enemies? I have killed men for this before.’

Olaf straightened. Sigurd was never proclaimed the king of the Danes, the Danish nation no longer existed to make such a decision, but the man did not dare argue it.

‘Duke Henry believed no Christian man would survive to deliver this message.’

Sigurd was silent for a moment as he leaned forwards and then laughed, a hacking, predatory laugh. ‘That is the truth.’ Then he shook his head. ‘But that is why you were sent, I want to know why you are here.’

Olaf looked around uncomfortably, but there was no solace to be found in the stares of his Norse kin. The question was clear, and the implication of cowardice and treachery.

‘I was compelled.’

Sigurd raised his eyebrows a fraction. ‘Compelled?’ The man looked down at his feet, finally ashamed. ‘Well then, that makes the answer clear – cowardice. Come then, deliver your message.’

Olaf collected himself, and raised his voice so that all present would hear. ‘King Sigurd, Duke Henry wishes to point out that your position is hopeless. You are surrounded, your forces are divided, you are cut off from the sea. He wishes to avoid the spilling of further good Christian blood in your inevitable defeat, and offers you the chance to surrender these lands and leave.’

Sigurd’s hands tightened on the arms of the throne but he said nothing, and the Dane continued.

‘If you do, he will allow you to return to your kingdom and regain your throne, as long as you swear vassalship to the emperor, and to never take up arms against the Crusades again.’

Sigurd stared at the man, muscles in his jaw working and pulsing, and Ragnvald stood rooted to the spot, watching his king wrestle with the offer. It was as he feared. The king is being offered the chance to betray us all.

‘He allows me to retake my kingdom, does he?’ Sigurd finally said.

‘Yes, King Sigurd.’

‘And all I have to do is swear fealty?’

‘Yes,’ the man nodded, starting to look more confident, then he stopped. ‘And convert to Christianity, of course.’

‘Of course!’ said Sigurd with a wave of his hand, as if it was a small thing, the abandoning of his gods. ‘And tell me, Dane, what if I refuse? What does Duke Henry say if I refuse?’

The Dane nodded and looked around, raising his voice. ‘As you know, any town that resists will share the fate of Kalmar. That is the only future of anyone who resists further.’

‘We have already received that threat, and ignored it,’ said the king dismissively.

‘True. Duke Henry says that in addition, if you refuse, Anslo and all the towns your men call home will also suffer this fate.’

There was a rumbling of low angry voices around the hall as Sigurd stared at the man, mouth working and rocking slightly in his chair. Ragnvald’s heart sank and he felt his knees go weak. Sigurd was being offered the rule of his home, or its utter destruction.

‘I see, Olaf. Thank you for bringing me this message.’

Olaf bowed his head and gave a nervous smile.

‘There is just one more thing.’

‘Yes, Lord Sigurd?’

‘Why did you bow to these threats?’

‘I… I don’t.’

‘This is how they got you to deliver this message, is it not? Threats to your town, your people, your family?’ Sigurd leaned forwards, his eyes suddenly full of intent, his stature growing in his chair as he straightened. ‘Tell me, before I give you my reply.’

Olaf’s face sallowed as the wave of anger and contempt rolled off the king.

‘My family,’ Olaf finally admitted.

‘Your family? Ah, yes. Tell me, Olaf, do you know what happened to my family? They are dead, the Christians killed them.’ Sigurd stood slowly, hands pushing down on the arms of the throne as he drew himself stiffly to his full height. ‘I learned of this last year, and yet I did not surrender. They died fighting, yet I still fight. I have lost my home, my kingdom, my family, my friends, half of my men… yet I still fight.’

He took a step forwards and stared down at the Dane. ‘Why are you different? Why do you not fight? Are you able?’

Olaf’s face flushed to anger and he cast aside his diplomacy. ‘I fought with you at the Trelleborgen! I was there at København, fighting on the wall as the city burned, not more than a spear’s length from you!’ He pointed at the king in open fury. ‘I left that burning city with you and fought again at Helsingborg, outside my own town, and I watched you ABANDON us!’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘We fought for you for months, bled and died for you, and you sent us home, refused to defend our towns, and left the Danes of Scania alone. What did you expect us to do, Lord Sigurd? We did not betray you, you betrayed us!’

‘I expected you to have honour,’ said Sigurd, although he was clearly shaken.

‘Honour? When ten thousand soldiers of the Crusade marched into Helsingborg, and we had but three hundred men with weapons, how would honour protect our families? When the Christians told us that if we fought, everyone we loved would watch us die, and then die themselves, what could we do?’ He shook his head at the king.

‘Fight, or leave and fight again another day,’ rumbled the king, his own anger stirring again. ‘As we all did.’

‘Fight where? You abandoned Jutland, you abandoned Fyn, you abandoned Sjælland and Scania, and Smalland and Gotland. How could we continue to run? Where would it end?’

‘Here, by my side! Not standing as traitors with our enemy, helping them into our lands!’ snarled Sigurd. ‘Enough! I will hear no more of your cowardice. I have my reply for you. When you do not return, your masters will understand it.’ The king snapped his fingers off to the right, pointing at the wall, and a huskarl came over with Jafnaðr, his axe.

Ragnvald watched in barely concealed delight as the man who had once been Sigurd returned, bathed in the glow of the firelight, eyes blazing no less hot, beard shaking with his anger. Olaf saw the same visage, and saw his death, and to his credit, he did not quail.

‘Then give me a weapon, and I will die like a warrior, not the coward you so wrongly claim me to be.’

‘Now you wish to fight?’ The king took his great axe, the runes sparkling gold across its surface.

‘Yes!’ the Dane shouted back defiantly.

‘Then you should have while you had the chance! Seize his arms!’ Sigurd shouted, and four huskarls grabbed the shocked man’s arms and pulled them apart, leaving him struggling, standing and exposed, and he finally lost his poise as he realised what was about to happen.

‘Where is your honour, this is not our way!’

‘OUR way!’ spat the king, advancing on his pinned and shaking prey like a wolf, axe held casually across his body. ‘You lost the right to claim the traditions of our people when you turned against them. No, I will not sully my blade by crossing it with a traitor’s, giving him the honour of that death.’

Sigurd strode menacingly into striking range and set his feet.

‘No! You cannot!’ Olaf shrieked, his control finally gone.

Sigurd ignored him and raised his voice to fill the room. ‘Olaf Kendlesson, you were sent here by your enemies to offer your king bribes and threats, to convince me to betray my kin as you have, and to test my will. And here is your answer – I am Sigurd Barechest Magnusson, king of all the free Norse. My will is to live and fight and die as a free man – and my will is IRON!’ Olaf wailed and struggled in the unyielding grip as the king roared, raising the glittering axe high above his head, and then brought it arcing down.

The fine steel edge bit into Olaf’s shoulder just beside his neck, and cut through his collarbone and through his ribs like so many dry sticks, carving through his chest and scraping along the side of his spine until it left his body through his groin.

Olaf’s scream turned into a momentary wet squeak as he was cut in half, and the two halves of his body fell to the sides, propelled by the men still pulling on his arms. His ruined organs spilled from his chest and fell to the floor in the wake of the axe, the whole collapsing, squelching mess connected only by a flap of flesh at the bottom of his spine.

Sigurd roared at the lifeless mess of bone and gore as his blood-spattered men dropped the limp arms in awe, every eye in the room wide and captivated by the display of raw strength and violence. He pulled the axe from the blood-soaked earth and they all turned to the king in silence as he glared around the room. ‘Let no man ever speak of betrayal in my presence again lest he suffer the same fate. Let any who speak of it outside my hearing be struck down by whichever loyal hand is nearest. Am I understood?’

‘Yes, King Sigurd!’ rippled around the room. The king nodded, and thrust the dripping axe towards the nearest of his huskarls, who took it reverently and hurried off to clean it, lest the traitor’s blood permanently stain its bright blade.

‘Now go, all of you, to your men. Tell them what happened here, and prepare yourselves. The Christians will be coming, and their traitor dogs with them, and we will meet them with steel and death until none stand alive in our lands. Go!’

The hall roused into movement as men shouted their approval and stood from their benches and made for the doors. Ragnvald was still rooted to the spot in delight and surprise as he saw the king’s eyes pivot round and meet his. ‘Ragnvald, you may remain,’ said the king.

Ragnvald nodded and walked over to the dais, turning his head to the side to look at the abandoned, scattered ruin of the man who had so recently been Olaf the Dane.

‘King Sigurd, it’s good to see you again,’ said Ragnvald with a lopsided smile. As the last man left the hall, leaving just the king and the ever-present Gunnar behind, Sigurd’s face washed over with pain, and he groaned and sagged, grasping for the arm of his throne as he fell.

Chapter 29

The Will is Strong

Ragnvald looked on in unbridled concern as Gunnar came over and helped Sigurd sit down.

‘King Sigurd?’ Ragnvald cried in alarm, but Gunnar looked unconcerned, almost motherly.

Sigurd weakly waved Ragnvald’s concern away. ‘I am fine,’ he said, despite being clearly anything but fine. ‘Show him,’ he said to Gunnar, sweat now shining on his entire face, eyes half closed, breath wheezing.

Gunnar hesitated, flicking his eyes to Ragnvald, but then nodded and carefully started to help Sigurd out of his tunic. It was a painstaking process, and Gunnar avoided having the king raise his left arm at all. When the tunic was removed, Ragnvald hissed through his teeth at the mess that was revealed.

The king had been wounded twice under his left arm, the classic axeman’s wound, taken when the axe was raised to strike and his side undefended by a shield. Once had been at Åhus during the great disaster there, while he was naked. That blow had nearly killed him. Then the wound had been reopened at the battle on the road, his life only saved on that occasion by his maille armour. Now there was a jagged, angry red scar across the side of his ribs. But it was not pink and puckered and closed, it was patchy, inflamed, and in some places weeping clear fluid.

‘It never properly healed, despite the læknir’s endless efforts. She says it may never close. There are some bits of rib or something left deep inside. She wanted to cut them out, but said it would probably kill me.’

‘She also said it would have killed any other man anyway,’ tutted Gunnar.

‘Yes, that was hardly comforting.’

‘And he isn’t supposed to raise his arms above his head, or strain his left side, each time it makes it worse, each time might lead to wound rot.’

‘Gunnar is worried it will kill me after all,’ Sigurd said with a weak smile.

‘Gunnar is right to worry!’ said Ragnvald in horror at the king’s dark humour.

‘If the gods wished that blow to have killed me, it would have done so,’ said Sigurd with a tired smile. ‘But perhaps I should use a sword instead of an axe, nothing wrong with my right arm. But gods, I love that axe, and what it can do.’ He raised his head and gestured to the mess at the bottom of the dais. ‘First time I’ve done that with it though.’

‘And the last, if you ever want this wound to close. I’ll tie your arm to your side if I have to,’ scolded Gunnar.

Ragnvald was overwhelmed. The pain the wound must have been giving Sigurd, the uncertainty. A wound like that could kill in days, at any time. Once the wound rot set in, it might take him in the night, or just leave him weak, cold and sweating after a few days of burning up from inside. He could not believe how Sigurd had managed to hide the pain while he used the axe on the traitorous Dane.

Ragnvald looked up at the king suddenly. ‘The last time we spoke, that jarl who wrestled you… He hit your left side, this was why you…’

‘I was in bed for two weeks after that.’

‘He nearly died, again,’ said Gunnar in the same angry tone. ‘He is still as reckless as the day he took that wound, naked and shouting like some drunken berserk.’

‘And you are still as much of a bore. Come, stop fussing over it.’ Sigurd waved the huskarl-turned-nursemaid away as he tried to clean the weeping injury.

Ragnvald shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Lord Sigurd. If I had known…’ He dropped his eyes, feeling foolish.

‘No,’ said Sigurd forcefully. ‘It is not an excuse.’ He grimaced and sat up straight, looking at Ragnvald with shame in his eyes. ‘He was right.’

‘What?’

‘Olaf. I did betray him, and his people, and you, and so many others. I abandoned you all.’

‘Nonsense,’ spat Ragnvald, shaking his head. ‘We had to retreat, or lose everything there on that coast. You were right.’

‘Yes, but we abandoned him, and his people, men who fought with us, bled with us. And I nearly did the same to you.’

Ragnvald eyed the king sternly. ‘But you did not.’ It was almost as much of a question as a statement.

‘I thought about it, that is shame enough.’

Ragnvald recoiled inside at the truth he had feared, but he knew the king needed support, not chastisement. ‘We all have moments of weak thoughts, it is a man’s actions that matter.’ He pointed at the destroyed corpse of the Dane. ‘And yours are clear.’

‘He didn’t deserve that,’ said Sigurd sadly.

‘No, he did not. But it needed to happen.’

‘He just wanted to save his family.’

‘And you want to save the whole of our people. Sacrifices must be made, and not all will like them, or survive them.’

Sigurd looked up from the body, and Ragnvald saw that determination again in the terribly sunken eyes. ‘Yes, I know,’ the king grunted and a new wave of pain washed over his face as he beckoned to Ragnvald to come close. ‘If I could, I would kneel before you and ask your forgiveness, and beg that you follow me, one more time.’

Ragnvald took the king’s hand, clenching the huge, clammy paw between his. ‘You do not need to apologise. You have given more than any other man. I will follow you to Hel’s gate, and beyond.’

‘Thank you.’ The king clenched his hand in Ragnvald’s grip, and then let go. ‘Now, I need to rest. Come and see me in the morning.’

Gunnar looked up and gave Ragnvald a look that brooked no argument. ‘The day after, please.’

Ragnvald grinned at the stalwart king’s champion. ‘As you say, King Gunnar.’

It was three days before Sigurd summoned the remaining lords of the North to his hall, and Ragnvald saw that he was weakened and in pain. Although he tried to hide it with smiles and greetings, he barely moved his left arm, which rested on the hilt of his sword, and there were none of his usual bear-like embraces.

Finally, the greetings and formalities were done, and the meeting began. There was a long period of merely telling the king of dispositions of warbands and ships, and of relating decisions that had already been made. The king listened impatiently, and Ragnvald knew the king would want the meet to be as brief as it could be. Gunnar had told him in advance Sigurd would not be hearing legal disputes, or any of the other duties required of a king in peacetime. This was a council of war.

‘Thank you all, you have done well while I recovered from my injuries,’ the king rumbled when the last commander had spoken. It was a weak platitude, the atmosphere in the hall was sour with defeatism as the commanders had described how they were failing on all fronts, and of the loss of the eastern passages. Nor was the king’s weakness a well-kept secret from their eyes, now that they were finally allowed to see him.

‘The summer is drawing to an end, the Christians have but a month or two to complete this campaign, or delay it for another year. Over the autumn and winter, while they must retreat and put their ships in harbour, we will retake everything that we have lost.’ Heads nodded around the hall, it was what had already been discussed many times.

‘So, what remains to us is to survive these two months without allowing any significant defeat, and the key to that is the waters of Lǫgrinn. At some point, the Christians will attempt to capture the fortress that has been built at the entrance to the lake. Ragnvald, you agree?’

Ragnvald stepped forwards. ‘That is the clear route for them. They will not pass an army to Uppsala overland from the south or west, not in that terrain, not in such a short time, not with our people still defending there.’

‘And the North?’

Ragnvald paused to think, it was his greatest uncertainty. ‘I still think it is impossible that the northern peoples will allow it, and the way is no less hard for foreign ships or men.’

Sigurd nodded. ‘Can we defend the entrance to the lake for two months?’

Ragnvald shook his head glumly. ‘It is unlikely. We have strengthened it as much as we can, blocked the channel with sunken ships, felled trees across the gap, but all can be undone, with enough men and time.’

Sigurd nodded. ‘So, when they break those gates, what then?’

‘They can sail their ships into the Lǫgrinn.’

‘Can Christian ships navigate its waters?’

‘Not the largest, but they can build barges, and use smaller ships.’

‘And they have the Danish traitors, longships of unknown numbers,’ growled Jarl Gustav, the Raven’s Claw, who had returned for the meeting for the first time in months, as his men still held the southern passes of Kolmården.

‘That is the greatest threat,’ agreed Ragnvald.

‘So when they break through, it will be down to our ships to oppose them, or they will have free rein over the lake, and be able to strike anywhere within the kingdom, which would be impossible to defend against.’

No one answered that, it was what they all feared. Every major town in Svealand sat within arm’s reach of the lakeshore, and if the lake came under the control of the Christians, defeat and destruction was a certainty.

‘What ships have we left, to defend it?’

This question made Ragnvald particularly glum. ‘Good longships? Maybe twenty, thirty if repairs on old hulls and work on new ones are completed in time.’

‘Twenty!’ Sigurd looked aghast. ‘We took a hundred ships to Sjælland, more.’

Ragnvald nodded sadly. The loss of the fleet at Åhus the previous year had halved their numbers, the losses defending the coast and the passages to the sea yet more. More ships were trapped outside the lake, and had fled or been hidden, beached, or burned. It took time to make a new fleet of longships, and time they had not had.

‘We have more of the smaller ships; knorrs, fishing boats and others, dozens of them. We are putting every hull that can float onto the water. But most are fit only for twenty men at most, they are not warships.’

‘So, when they come into the lake, we must stop them at once, every ship, every man. We must stop them there, no matter the cost.’

‘Yes.’

‘The Christians will know this, they will bring everything they have.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then we will continue as you have been doing, prepare every ship we have, hold the fortresses, and wait for the Christians to make their attack. Then it will be for the fates to decide.’

Ragnvald felt cold in the pit of his stomach. He knew the likelihood their denuded fleet could hold was a shout in the storm. And everyone in the room knew the same.

‘Are the trebuchets ready?’ Duke Henry was poring over scouting and supply reports, in full armour, in his tent in a valley just south of the eastern fortress guarding the passage into the inland lake.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And the assault forces?’

‘I wanted to talk to you about that,’ Count Conrad said. The German lord was in full armour, as they all were. The threat of raids had reduced greatly, but they took no chances. They were deep in enemy land.

Henry looked up with an eyebrow raised in question. ‘Talk about what?’

‘I don’t think we should send the Danes in the first wave.’

‘Why not? I thought you said we would take high casualties in the first attack.’

‘We will, the enemy fortifications are strong.’

‘So why not expend these Danes on them? Let them kill each other. Saves us problems later to have fewer trained warriors left in our lands.’

‘Yes, but it is essential this attack succeeds, and succeeds quickly. We will only achieve surprise once, if at all.’ Henry looked up, thinking the matter over. The trebuchets had been partially built, hidden from view of the fortress. At the last moment, under the cover of darkness, they would be moved forwards and assembled. They would not fire until the first wave of attackers forced their way across the muddy stream on the south side of the fortress, under the cover of bowmen and the dim light of dawn.

At the same time, three purpose-built barges would be rowed down the channel from the hidden inlet where they had been constructed, and rammed into the walls and the barrage in the narrows. Each one carried ladders, grapples and two hundred men. Further forces would land on the far bank and attack the Norse holding the northern side, to cut off reinforcements from the north. Each attack on its own was desperate, and against well-prepared enemies in strong positions. But together, with overwhelming force, they might succeed.

The Norse would be expecting a proper siege, with bombardment and encirclement, and would hope to prolong their defence. Henry instead aimed to take the fortress in a single day, with a massive, overwhelming attack. The downside of that plan was that the fortress and its garrison would be completely intact, and casualties would be extreme as the first wave crossed the muddy river and put ladders against the walls.

But opening the passage fast was critical, and he was willing to expend lives to achieve it, especially Danish lives.

‘You believe they will refuse? You underestimate the hold we have on them. They will not dare refuse, they know what will happen to their families and their towns if they do.’

Conrad shook his head. ‘It is not that I believe they will refuse outright, but the soldiers of the first wave must be resolute and determined in their attack. I worry the Danes, faced with that assault into their brethren, will waver, and the attack will fail. If it does, it may cost us days, maybe weeks. There is even the possibility, however remote, that they betray us and change sides during the attack.’

Henry thought about it for a while longer. ‘So, we would need to replace them with two thousand men, two thousand good Christian soldiers, many of whom would die. A great sacrifice. Who?’

‘I suggest the new French forces, their commander is particularly fanatical.’

Henry rubbed his chin and then shook his head. ‘They are inexperienced, and have not fought the Norse in open battle yet.’

‘Then who?’

‘The Saxons,’ said Henry. ‘They are our most experienced troops.’

‘Expend the men of Saxony? Is that to weaken Duke Lothair?’

Henry scowled. Although it was true there was advantage in that, at the moment, it was more important that he won. ‘That is not the reason.’

‘We will need them, we should not waste our best forces in a frontal assault on a wall.’

‘Then what is your suggestion, Count Conrad?’ Henry snapped, staring at the junior commander.

‘The Danes should man the barges, they are the most experienced with fighting from ships, and handling them. The French should assault the wall from the land, they have the bravery and fanaticism we need. The Saxons should land and confront the Norse forces in the north, they have the most experience fighting them in the open, and will hold there until we can secure the fortress behind them and send more to their aid. Count Otto can lead his forces in that attack.’

Henry tapped his forefinger on the table and ran over it in his mind, the logistics, the different commanders, the political considerations. ‘Agreed.’

Conrad relaxed slightly and nodded. ‘Thank you, Duke Henry. I will see to it.’

‘Good. We attack in two days.’

‘Two days? Have we heard back from the man we sent offering terms? There is a week until the deadline he was told to give.’

‘No, we have not heard, and I do not care if we do. It was just meant to try and sow more division, and make them think we would give them more time. We attack regardless of the answer we receive, and if we receive it at all.’

‘And if word arrives that they agree to our terms, after we attack?’

‘If we have been successful, it won’t matter.’

‘And if we aren’t?’

Henry looked at the count coldly. ‘Make sure that we are.’

Count Conrad went forwards with a small bodyguard of his men in the dim dawn air. The muffled noises of hammers to his front could not be concealed as the small trebuchets were hurriedly assembled. Even as he arrived at the edge of the treeline overlooking the southern bank of the channel, shouts and cries of alarm could be heard from the fortress, now visible in the faint light of the eastern sky.

Files of lightly armoured men carrying shields and axes, hatchets or swords moved past him at a jog. There were no horns to announce the attack, no shouts nor orders. The men knew their task and they knew the battle had started. Long, thick planks were thrown down over the worst of the wide mudflat that extended to the shallow stream, and men started running along them, splashing into the water and then ploughing through to get to the bank of the fortress island beyond.

The first arrows plunged down from those walls as the men reached the middle. Men pushing through knee-deep mud struggled to keep their shields up and make progress. More planks were thrown down, but they became congested and men fell or slipped into the mud. Conrad swore as what had been a quick and precise assault as far as the stream in the centre devolved into a deathly slow slog as order dissolved and men started dying.

But this had been planned for. This first attack across the unprepared mudflats was doomed to fail. Conrad watched as a ladder was dropped into the stream, and started floating away as men grabbed at it, fouling the way of dozens more trying to get past. Even as that chaos unfolded, and drew the attention of the garrison, the second wave of men arrived. These were carrying more planks, and bales of stone-weighted straw, and they ran across the first row of planks and dumped their burdens, quickly starting to build several rough paths over the twenty paces of mud that separated them from the walls.

Conrad became aware of huge shapes forming in the morning gloom to his right, and saw the barges, propelled by muffled oars, creeping down the river towards the fortress’s eastern defences. Within moments, they had collided with the walls, which extended into the shallows to deny even a strip of earth to the attackers, and wood crunched and squealed under the impact.

Ladders sprung up from the barges, and arrows, spears and flaming oily bundles rained down from the walls as the defenders reacted promptly to the new threat. Conrad knew that on the far side of the barges, their fleet of longships would be delivering Otto and his men of Saxony onto the far bank, to storm the defences there, and cut off the fortress from any reinforcement.

As he watched the French dying in droves in the mud of the river, and the inexorable progress of the multiple paths of bales being thumped into the mud, a great thrum sounded from behind him as the third wave of men arrived, the archers. Limited by the forest and the narrow bank, only two hundred or so could fire at once, far short of the number he had planned, but those two hundred archers filled the sky with their arrows, which started to hail down on the fortress, a blizzard of iron-tipped death.

The first of the French survivors had made it to the base of the wall now, and some fell into disguised, spiked pits, and their wails and shrieks were heard even over the din of battle. Not a single ladder from the first wave had made it to the wall, and Conrad grimaced and gave the order for the follow-up troops to file through the archers and attack. They, at least, would have the benefit of the rough paths that now reached almost across the mud and the stream.

A great whooshing sound announced the final part of the plan was coming to fruition as baskets of head-sized stones were flung overhead by the trebuchets, angled to rain into the interior of the fortress and wreak havoc on the defenders. Some fell short, and Conrad saw a French soldier smashed against the wall by an errant stone, but most fell inside the walls, and the stones, and the constant rain of arrows, had slackened the defenders’ fire considerably.

On his right, the crews of one of the barges lost their ladder, which tumbled sideways into the shallows with a dozen Danes still on it, and another was dragged up and raised in its place. With everything proceeding as he had planned, Conrad had nothing left to do but watch as his soldiers bled their lives away in the mud. Not a single one had yet made it into the fortress, but behind him, waiting in the forest, another two thousand men waited for their turn at the walls.

Ragnvald watched dispassionately as Leif and Bjorn and his remaining huskarls trained the new recruits in the techniques of fighting in a shieldwall. His hird was back up to nearly two hundred warriors, but half of them had either never seen a battle, or not seen once since Ragnvald was a young man.

The experienced men were showing the new recruits how the wall formed, how it moved, and how the different ranks fought. The early afternoon was full of the clashing of wood on wood as his men fought each other with stick and shield. Leif’s wall was winning consistently, and Bjorn was currently castigating a young man who kept leaving the wall to try to jump on top of the opponent’s one to push through it, leaving his own vulnerable.

Ragnvald shook his head in despair. Young men seeking glory were so often such fools. As he watched, the two sides close again, and the storm of sticks and shield clattered again across the unsown field that they used for their practice, Ragnvald heard the sound of a horn blown, and turned his ears, looking around and hearing that it came from the north.

He watched the horizon with curiosity. It was not a warning horn, they had a wide network of scouts on horseback watching the eastern coastlands, and any Christian incursion would be reported long before it arrived, so he was not unduly worried.

As his men rested again, this time after Bjorn’s wall managed to pierce the centre of Leif’s and split it into two disorganised chunks, Ragnvald saw a faint sheen of dust mar the horizon where the road to the north disappeared across a low ridge beyond the temple. It could only be a body of men marching. Soon afterwards, the head of a column came into view. Now more wary, he called down to his men. ‘Leif! To arms, everyone, form up on the road. You, run to the city, warn Gustav and Frode that men are marching in from the north, probably friendly, but I am not aware we are expecting anyone. It could be a Danish trick.’

His tired men dumped their sticks and ran to the field margins where everyone had left their real weapons. They quickly shook themselves out into four ranks across the road and the field beside it, and waited for the marching men to come into shouting distance.

As Ragnvald watched, the column of men kept pouring over the ridge, hundreds, and then a thousand or more, and he knew that if they were hostile, his small wall was hopelessly outmatched, and he would have to make a run for the city. But the approaching men carried Norse shields, and he recognised a Norse banner carried at their head, and although he could not make out the sigil, it was no Christian flag.

The column came into long bowshot, but did not deploy for battle, nor show any hostile intent, and Ragnvald saw three men walking at its head who must be leaders, so he looked at Frode. ‘Return to the city if this goes poorly.’ He pushed through the ranks of the wall and felt his huskarls form behind him, walking out to meet these strangers.

He walked down the dusty road until he was thirty paces in front of his own line, and the leading man of the column called it to halt. The three men left their entourage behind and walked forwards to meet him, arms outstretched to show they held no weapons. They were Norse certainly, from their dress and equipment.

As the two groups of men met, Ragnvald searched their faces, but did not recognise any of them, which made him nervous anew. He thought he knew every leader of a body of men this large. The leader was considerably shorter than him, and had a curiously round face with a beard that barely clung to his chin, thin and wispy on his cheeks. He had a broken nose and drawn back, well-groomed hair. He stood with an air of nonchalance and confidence, and Ragnvald took an instant dislike to him.

‘I am Ragnvald Ivarsson, Jarl of Uppsala, whose lands you march through. Who are you? You are welcome if you come in peace.’

The man in the front looked at Ragnvald intently, and nodded slowly. ‘You are Ragnvald.’

Ragnvald immediately recognised the man’s home from his dialect, he was from Hälsingland, North of Svealand, well beyond Ragnvald’s lands. He knew whose lands this man must come from, the only men of Sweden who had not answered the call to come south to fight the Christians, and Ragnvald’s stomach knotted. ‘Name yourself,’ he said in a curt tone, as the stranger looked him up and down with studied disrespect.

‘I am Jarl Einar, of Stokkrshalla.’

‘Have we met?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am sorry, I do not remember it.’

‘Yes, you do. The last time we met, I saw you getting into a ship as Sune here threw a spear at you, and one of your men caught it.’ He pointed at the man beside him with his thumb. The man’s face was expressionless. ‘That was the day you killed my brother, Jarl Harnstead.’ Ragnvald heard Leif stir beside him, and Ragnvald raised a hand to still him.

He returned Einar’s stare without betraying any reaction. ‘And why are you here, Jarl Einar? For if you are here for revenge, you have chosen the time poorly.’

‘You do not apologise for the murder of my brother?’

‘I do not,’ said Ragnvald coolly. ‘I have done many unpleasant things to protect our people, and I apologise for none of them.’

Einar took a step closer to Ragnvald, who forced himself to remain motionless. ‘I am not here to deal with our unresolved blood debt, Jarl Ragnvald. Although there may be a time when we will. No, I will show you why we are here.’ He turned and snapped his fingers, and a man ran forwards with a bag, from which he pulled a grisly, decomposing head.

Ragnvald took a step back in disgust, and fought back the desire to bury his nose in his elbow. ‘What, by the gods, is that?’

‘This was a Dane. It came to our lands and threatened us, told us that we must join them to attack you, that the Christians demanded this or they would destroy us. We cut its head off.’ The man grinned slyly, his blank demeanour finally cracking.

Ragnvald put his hands on his hips. ‘I see, we received a similar messenger.’ He smiled. ‘Our response was different. We cut ours in half.’

Einar raised his eyebrows and chuckled. ‘Then we have some common ground after all, Jarl Ragnvald. Before this thing came to our lands, it would not have been possible to come south to fight with you, to march under the king who had my brother murdered, and stole his chance at the throne.’

Ragnvald’s smile faded to a threatening frown, but Einar held up a hand placatingly. ‘It is the truth, I do not apologise for saying it. Honestly, myself, I was not too upset to see my brother dead. He was a shit. But honour, and my people, demanded we could never go to aid his killers.’

‘So why has it changed?’

‘Well, we were told if we did not fight against you, they would come for us next, and burn our lands and kill our people. We will not cower before threats, and they made us their enemy by insulting us with the attempt. So me and my men, and many of the jarls and crews from the lands surrounding mine, have come to stand with you in the skjaldborg against these Christians. For although we may have our quarrels, you are no cowards, and you are our kin.’

Ragnvald nodded in unconcealable relief. ‘You and your warriors are sent by the gods, we will need every loyal Norseman who can wield a sword or spear.’

‘Good. Then for now, let us be brothers.’ The man reached out his arm, and Ragnvald clasped it enthusiastically. As they drew into an embrace, Einar whispered in Ragnvald’s ear. ‘I think, once we have won this war, I can persuade my people to forget the past. My brother’s death made me a very wealthy and powerful man.’ Ragnvald recoiled at the words, his dislike of the man only growing, but as the two men separated, Ragnvald smiled at him, and at the men who came with him, and turned and waved at his own men to stand down.

His huskarls warily greeted the small group who had come forwards with Einar, and then they were mingling freely, swapping names and welcomes.

‘It was you who threw the spear?’ he heard Leif say to the man named Sune.

‘It was you that caught it?’ Sune laughed and slapped Leif on the back. ‘You are a lucky bastard.’

‘You should have thrown it harder!’ And the two men walked off into the growing crowd of wary warriors, laughing and joking about the day they had tried to kill each other. He envied them in that moment, men who were loyal to their lords, but not involved in the feuds themselves. If they were ordered to kill one another, they would do so or die trying. But having been told they were no longer enemies, the two men were chatting like long-lost friends.

Ragnvald cast a last look and forced smile at the slimy Einar and turned away to head back to the city.

As he did, he saw a man on a small horse approaching at a gallop, and saw that it was his brother-in-law, Frode. Jarl Frode reined his horse in and dropped from the saddle. He was armed for war and looked fraught.

‘Calm, brother. They are Norsemen, come to fight with us. There is no threat.’

‘Ragnvald, the fortress at Stadsholmen has fallen, the Christians have captured the eastern passage.’

Ragnvald screwed his eyes shut and put a hand to his head in despair. Fuck.

Chapter 30

The Light of the North

Ragnvald reached the steps of the king’s hall and hastily dismounted his borrowed horse, with Frode and Einar behind him. The door to the hall was open and Ragnvald saw Gunnar standing there. He cursed to himself and fumbled to undo his swordbelt, taking it off and gathering the belt and the scabbarded sword in one hand to thrust at Gunnar.

Gunnar shook his head and gestured inside. ‘You may keep it, Lord Ragnvald.’

Ragnvald nodded and strode into the hall, which he saw was already half full of jarls and warlords, all talking in animated groups. The king was standing at the dais, talking to Jarl Gustav, and he saw Ragnvald and nodded solemnly as the Swedish lord approached.

‘Ragnvald, foul news. We are about to begin the…’ He stopped as he noticed Einar. ‘Who is this?’

‘King Sigurd, this is Jarl Einar of Hälsingland, brother of Jarl Harnsted. He has come to stand with us, and brought two thousand good warriors.’

Sigurd’s tired eyes looked Einar up and down, and Ragnvald saw a flash in them as the king processed who this man was, and what it meant for him to be here.

‘You are welcome, Jarl Einar. I am glad to have you and your men here to stand beside us. Two thousand real warriors? That is a great gift on this dark day.’

Sigurd looked at Ragnvald with a subtle question in his eye, and Ragnvald gave the slightest nod of reassurance. Ragnvald was still clinging to his sword and belt and rather than put it back on, he laid it on the table next to the king and turned back to the ruler.

‘What news is there from Stadsholmen, has it really been lost so quickly?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’ asked Ragnvald in amazement. ‘It was so strong, and we had a thousand men ready to march to reinforce it.’

‘I am told it was a massive dawn attack, it came from three sides with barges, engines, archers and thousands of men. Our kin put up a stout fight, and the river ran red with the blood of the enemy, but they had landed on our side of the river, and prevented our reinforcements from arriving until it was already over. The Christians hold the fortress now, and we have had to retreat from the riverbank.’

Ragnvald cursed fluently. All their plans had relied on holding that fortress for longer. Without it, defending the lake until winter was a hopeless task.

Sigurd looked deflated. There were twenty jarls and lords there, waiting for his orders, and he clearly had none to give. Ragnvald felt the weight of it too, there was nothing they could do to stop the Christians now, their fleet would be out into the lake within a week, maybe less, and nothing they did after that would matter. Within a month, give or take, the last Norse ships would be chased from the waters, hunted down in the islands and inlets, and the Christians would be able to move and strike with impunity.

The chatter in the room was dying down as every huddle of chattering leaders came to the same conclusion. As the room fell to an awkward silence, waiting for the king to say something, a man ran through the door, and made straight for the king.

‘King Sigurd.’

‘What is it?’

‘I have come from Stadsholmen.’

‘We know, it has fallen.’ The king waved him away.

The man shook his head. ‘That was two mornings ago, I was sent here to tell you the Christians are not clearing the blockage in the channel. Yesterday morning, they were disassembling the walls of the fortress and using its logs to build a bridge across it. We have sailed and rowed all day and all night to bring you this news, by now the bridge may nearly be complete.’

‘What?’ Sigurd stepped towards the man. ‘They are building a bridge? They are blocking the channel with a bridge? What nonsense is this?’

‘Oh, dear gods.’ Ragnvald’s eyes widened, and he put a hand to his chin as the full truth was revealed to him.

‘How does a bridge help them?’ asked the king, still confused. ‘You said they cannot land on the north side of the channel and march here, that the land is too rough for an army big enough to defeat us to cross it, that they cannot be supplied across that terrain from the banks with no harbour and our forces to defend.’

‘Unless they had a bridge and a road,’ mumbled Ragnvald in despair. He looked up at the king. ‘We gave them both.’

‘What?’

‘We cleared a path to the north side of the fortress, to allow our reinforcements to reach it quickly. It seemed like a good idea.’ He looked up at the king and shook his head in despair. ‘I’m so sorry, I gave them a road.’

There was silence as everyone stared at him. ‘And with ready cut timbers for a bridge, and time to prepare on the south bank, they have a road straight from the land to the south of the channel to…’ Jarl Gustav put the pieces together out loud.

‘To the doors of this hall,’ said Ragnvald in despair.

‘Oh, gods,’ said the king, the colour draining from his face, he turned to stumble to his throne. ‘They could have their entire army on that land to the south of the channel, ready to march, and we would never have known. They don’t intend to spend a month capturing the lake.’

Ragnvald shook his head slowly. ‘They might be here in five days, maybe six.’

‘And our forces are scattered over all of Svealand.’

‘Can we slow them?’ asked Frode.

Ragnvald shrugged helplessly. ‘Perhaps a little. A day? Two? We have no time to prepare, there are no rivers across their path. The old trade road runs south from here to Fornsigtuna, all easy land, open, with many villages. And from there, it is only thirty miles to Stadsholmen.’

‘We must gather everyone we can, and go to block them,’ said Gustav uncertainly.

‘It will be too few,’ replied Ragnvald with a sad shake of his head.

‘We should evacuate the city, move west,’ said Frode.

‘Unthinkable! To where?’

‘We can’t just stay here!’

‘We can’t retreat again!’

‘My men are on the other side of the lake, what about them?’

The jarls descended into a desperate melee of arguments as Sigurd sat back and put his head in his hands. Ragnvald, feeling the crushing weight of his failures, and the shame of it, turned away from Frode and Gustav, and staggered over towards the king.

‘Whose sword is this?’ a confused voice called from his right, but was ignored.

‘Whose sword is this?’ The voice was shrill, and grew in volume to match the bickering jarls. Ragnvald barely noticed, but he was staring at Sigurd, who lifted his eyes from the floor and twisted around.

‘WHOSE SWORD IS THIS?’ The piercing pitch of the shouted question stilled some of the men nearest, and Ragnvald turned to look in annoyance, and found the seer Tormund standing at the back of the king’s throne, clinging to it with his right hand as if his legs had failed him, pointing a shaking finger of his left hand at Ragnvald’s new sword, which was lying where Ragnvald had discarded it, on the table next to the throne.

‘What? The sword? It doesn’t matter. Don’t you understand what is happening here?’

Tormund’s eyes slowly moved to meet his, as if the effort of that alone was terrible, and he stared at him, nodding slowly. ‘Yours, of course.’

‘Be silent, man, we have no need of your…’

‘Ragnvald, let him speak,’ Sigurd rumbled, twisting painfully in his throne.

‘This is not the time for his rantings!’ said Ragnvald in exasperation.

‘Be quiet!’ snapped Sigurd, leaning in to the seer, who was utterly ignoring Ragnvald’s protests anyway and recovering from his shock to step reverently to the table. He brushed his fingertips carefully across the hilt and traced a rune, muttering under his breath. Then he clasped the sword and drew it, clumsily spilling the empty scabbard to the floor.

‘How dare you!’ spluttered Ragnvald indignantly.

Tormund ran his eyes over the blade and his eyes lit up, oblivious to the furious jarl whose protests did not appear to reach his ears.

‘Oh, I have seen this in my visions. So many times it has come to me, so many times Odin has shown it to me.’ He turned to the king, babbling excitedly. ‘Do you remember, I spoke of my vision, of fire that would come from the mouth of a dragon, of a great light in the north, a fire that would be made steel, and steel that would be made into a great weapon, a gift from Odin in our fight, a light to guide us in the darkness?’

Sigurd’s eyes narrowed. ‘You talk of a great many visions.’

‘But this one many times!’

‘Yes… I do remember.’ The king was listening intently now, and Ragnvald found himself restrained by the seer’s words.

Tormund spun on his heel and fixed Ragnvald again with a stare so intense it felt physical. ‘Your Christian slave made this? I told you, Ragnvald, I told you he reeked of destiny. Tell me of this sword, tell me everything.’

Ragnvald bridled at the seer’s tone, but Sigurd turned his gaze on the jarl and looked at him expectantly, so Ragnvald sighed and humoured him. ‘It is forged from a starstone that fell in my lands a month or so ago.’

Tormund almost squealed in excitement. ‘Fire from the sky, a gift from the gods. Go on, go on!’

Ragnvald took a deep breath to calm himself, but could see the fastest way to end this nonsense was to finish it. ‘That is it. He forged it to resemble the starstone’s fall. A bright core, with flames and smoke surrounding it. That is it.’

‘That is not all. Odin stands on the pommel, watching.’ Tormund rubbed the bronze carving reverently.

‘That is not Odin, it is a warrior.’

‘But he has only one eye.’

‘What? No, he has two, he is just a warrior. The smith told me.’

‘You are wrong, Ragnvald,’ said Tormund, lifting the blade up for Ragnvald to see. Ragnvald boiled at the seer’s impertinent tone, and his refusal to ever call him lord or jarl, but he leaned in and stopped when he saw that the figure had, indeed, lost one of its two red garnet eyes, the empty socket staring back at him.

‘It had two eyes before.’

‘So did Odin once,’ replied the seer with a triumphant smile. He turned again to Sigurd, holding the sword out reverently. ‘Odin has shown me many things, but this more often than all others, that this sword is the light that will guide us to victory. This is Odin’s gift to us. The star was his light, and it has been captured and fixed in the heart of this blade.’ Tormund traced the fire-patterned steel around the edge of the core as the king watched in rapt attention. ‘Look at it, the darkness that surrounds us is captured in this blade. Fire eats away at the core. This is the evil of the Crusade, surrounding us and burning our lands. This light is ours, it will be our weapon against the darkness.’

‘It is just a representation of the falling star, my smith said none of this babble about Crusaders,’ said Ragnvald with a shake of his head.

‘The smith is just an ignorant Christian, a vessel for Odin’s will. He does not have to understand it to be used by it,’ Tormund chided the jarl, before turning back to his king, bending down to hold the blade right up to the king’s face, to speak almost to his ear.

‘I give you this prophecy, King Sigurd, that I see more clearly than any I have ever seen. As long as this sword is wielded by a Norseman steadfast and true, our people will never be defeated.’ Tormund finally fell silent, and Ragnvald shook his head as he saw that the seer was gently weeping as he held the sword up for Sigurd.

Ragnvald looked around, expecting to see incredulity amongst the other lords, who were here to talk about a plan of action, but was shocked to find most of them too were in rapt attention. Desperate eyes fixed on the sword. Irritated as he was, Ragnvald noted how it had transfixed them, and that perhaps it was not a bad thing.

Finally, the king spoke. ‘Ragnvald, this is the smith who made my axe?’

‘Yes.’

Sigurd nodded gravely. ‘I have felt the touch of his magic before in his steel, it helped heal my soul when my body would not. Maybe this sword can do the same for our people.’ The king looked at Ragnvald with desperation and hope in his eyes, almost begging for agreement.

Ragnvald capitulated, feeling the mood of the king and the room, and an insidious thought in his own mind that, perhaps, the seer was right. Ordulf had always had the luck of the gods, and Tormund had indeed said he was marked by fate, all those long months ago during the siege of Jönköping. How could he have known about the starstone?

‘Perhaps… perhaps it is as he says.’

Sigurd smiled and nodded in relief. ‘Yes, I feel it. In the hour of our need, brothers from the North have returned to us, and this sword given to us. Yes. This is the time. We will gather the warriors of our people here and the final battle will be fought. And you, Ragnvald, can anyone doubt that you are the Norseman loyal and true that Odin speaks of?’

Sigurd stood and moved towards Ragnvald, who swallowed nervously and was fixed to the spot. ‘It has always been you, Jarl Ragnvald. Loyal to the Norse above all else, even above yourself. You have never abandoned me, even when I gave you cause. No man has been more resolute or more constant, or fought harder or for longer.’ He snapped his fingers at Tormund, who had replaced the sword in its scabbard and came over, holding it out for Sigurd to take.

The king ran his fingers over the dragon, and then passed the sword to Ragnvald. ‘Take your sword, Jarl Ragnvald, champion of the North. And in your hand, it will fulfil its destiny. You will lead us against the Christians, and we will drive them from our land with its light.’ The king grabbed Ragnvald by the shoulder.

‘You give me a weight I cannot bear, Lord Sigurd.’

‘I give you a weight that only you can bear. It was made for you.’ He let go of the sword, leaving it in Ragnvald’s hands. ‘What is its name?’

Ragnvald paused, then stared at the sword thoughtfully. ‘I had not given it one.’

Sigurd nodded. ‘Ljós a Norðan. Have it carved into the blade. I want everyone to hear of it, and see it when they can. I want that light in their hearts.’

‘I will have it done,’ Ragnvald replied with a bow of his head. The Light of the North. It is a good name.

Sigurd turned to the enraptured hall. ‘Cast all doubts aside, the time for them is over. There is nowhere else to retreat. This is the home of our gods. These Christians cannot prevail here. The great battle is upon us, and we will meet it with the courage and determination that all of you have shown so many times. Your orders are simple. Call every warrior and man or woman who can wield a spear within four days’ march or sail to come to the city. We will gather the host of the people as one, and nothing can stand against us.’

Sigurd twisted and gestured at Ragnvald with a clenched fist. ‘And spread the word of what happened here today. I want every man, woman and child to hear that Odin himself has sent us this weapon, that the Light of the North has been brought down from the sky to guide us, and that as long as it is wielded by a Norseman steadfast and true, we can never be defeated.’

‘Come forwards, all of you, and renew your oaths on the hilt of this sword. Not to me, or to Ragnvald, but to our people.’

Ragnvald could barely meet the eyes of his fellow jarls as they all turned to him, but he could not miss the look of faint hope that those eyes bore, and he nodded curtly, and strapped the sword again around his waist, and stepped to stand next to the king, pulling the sword halfway from its scabbard, and offering it to the first lord who stepped up to kneel and touch the pommel.

When the solemn ceremony was complete, and the jarls had all left to gather their men, Gunnar helped the exhausted Sigurd back to his chamber and Ragnvald was left confused and uncertain, standing alone in the hall.

Tormund appeared from the shadows at the hall’s side and walked over to Ragnvald with his normal vacant smile replaced with a grin of much greater knowing. He reached out a closed fist, facing downwards, and waited expectantly. Ragnvald cocked an eyebrow but placed his open hand underneath.

Tormund opened his hand and a single small red garnet fell from his grasp into Ragnvald’s palm – the warrior’s missing eye. Ragnvald’s throat constricted with anger and he fixed his eyes on the seer, baring his teeth as the deception was revealed. Tormund appeared utterly unconcerned as he faced down the incredulous jarl. ‘We all do what we must for the victory of our cause, Jarl Ragnvald. Sometimes it involves dishonesty, dishonour… murder.’ He emphasised the last word. ‘Be the man they need you to be, and do not let them see our doubts.’ Tormund gave him a sad smile, bowed fractionally, and then turned and walked back into the shadows, leaving Ragnvald alone with Odin’s beady red eye, and a tempest of his doubts and fears.

Ordulf was sharpening a sword blade in the forge’s yard when he looked up, startled, to see Ragnvald striding in. The jarl gave him an odd look and continued into the buildings, calling for Dengir.

Overcome with curiosity, Ordulf abandoned the blade and went to follow his erstwhile lord inside. He found Ragnvald drawing the sword and laying it on a table, already talking to the old master.

‘How quickly can you do it?’ Ragnvald said to Dengir in the forge, with Ljós a Norðan laid on the table between them. Dengir looked at him.

‘To do it well?’

‘To do it well enough.’

‘I can do it in a day, but it will be rough.’

‘That will have to suffice.’

‘And the name?’

‘Ljós a Norðan.’

‘It will be done.’

‘I will return tomorrow. Thank you.’

‘Is there a problem with it?’ asked Ordulf nervously, peering at the blade.

Ragnvald turned to him and hesitated. ‘No, I just need its name inlaid.’

‘In gold,’ said Dengir with an amused look.

‘Oh, I see. Why?’

Ragnvald pursed his lips and then gave a brief shake of his head. ‘You’ll find out. I need to go, there is much to do, and little time left in the day.’ The jarl left without a backwards glance and Ordulf looked at Dengir expectantly.

‘I’ll do this one, lad, if you don’t mind. It needs to be quick, and I don’t think you’ve done inlay like this before. It’s mighty tricky to do on a finished blade.’

Ordulf felt deflated.

‘But you can help.’ He picked up a small gold armring that Ragnvald had left behind. ‘First, let’s make this into wire.’

Ordulf watched for the rest of the afternoon and evening, and then deep into the night by lamplight, as Dengir carefully chiselled out the runes with a thin, wedge-ended tool he treated with reverence. Ordulf barely ever saw this tool even being removed from its oil-soaked pouch, and Dengir said it was the finest, hardest steel he had. Frequently sharpened on a whetstone, the slim chisel delicately carved the runes into the soft bright core, and then Dengir used its corner to dig undercuts into every channel.

The painstaking work took until deep in the night, and Ordulf and Dengir snatched a few hours of sleep in the forge before rising at the first wisp of dawn to continue. Dengir firmly hammered the thick gold wire they had drawn from the armring into the grooves with a soft, round-ended iron rod, squashing and smearing the gold, driving it into every recess of the channels and their undercuts, and then carefully cutting away the excess.

They did not have time to re-stone and re-colour the blade, so the faint damage and scratches from the chisel around the runes remained, but the fresh-cut golden runes shone like beams of sunlight. Dengir frowned as he inspected it. ‘It’s rough work.’

‘I think it is perfect,’ said Ordulf. ‘A hurried and rough job, for a hurried and rough time.’ He smiled as Dengir gave him a side-eyed glance.

‘You’re learning.’

‘I think so.’

‘Go and clean it up, boy, before you get above yourself.’ Dengir carefully passed him the sword, and Ordulf took it to the work bench and set to smoothing the gold lettering with the point of a fine stone.

It wasn’t long after he was done that Jarl Ragnvald arrived in the yard. He was fully dressed for war, and his expression was tired and dark. He looked like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Ordulf held out the sword for him to inspect, and Ragnvald took it and ran his eyes and his thumb over the golden runes, almost fearfully. ‘Have you heard?’ the jarl asked him, without looking up.

‘Heard what?’

‘Then you have not.’

‘Do I need to know?’

Ragnvald paused, and then looked at Ordulf thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps you should.’ He slipped the sword back into his scabbard. ‘It is hard to explain to a Christian, but Tormund the seer has declared a prophecy that this sword is a gift from Odin himself, the Light of the North to guide us safely through the darkness of the Crusade. The king has decreed that message be carried to every free man in these lands. You were famous before, now you are the smith of Odin himself. If we survive this war, you will be the most famous smith in all the North.’

Ordulf didn’t know what to say to that. He furrowed his brows. ‘Do you expect we will win this war?’

Ragnvald looked around, and saw that they were alone. ‘No,’ he said bluntly. ‘Your people are too strong, too well organised, too relentless, too many. We may win the coming battle, perhaps even the next. But one day soon, we will lose one, or win too many, and it will all be over.’

Ordulf could not suppress his own internal despair at that pronouncement. ‘I’m… I’m sorry,’ he said lamely.

‘Sorry?’

‘That my people… that we did this. Came here and did this. It was wrong.’

Ragnvald frowned. ‘It was not right or wrong, it simply is. Power flows through the tip of spear and sword and strong arms willing to wield them, and your people have many.’

‘They shouldn’t be here, burning and killing. It all sounded so glorious before it started but now…’ Ordulf looked away, embarrassed.

‘War always sounds glorious to those who have not fought in one. Regardless, you must be ready. When this city falls, or we leave it, you must take your chance to go to the Christians. Perhaps they will let you live. You have done a great service to us with your work, more than you know, and I thank you for it. But perhaps you should keep that part to yourself if you make it back alive. I’m sorry your fame and success will come to nothing, either here or there. But you will find your way again, I have seen that in you.’

‘I’m not going back,’ Ordulf blurted out, before he was even sure he was going to say it; he felt that the decision was made.

Ragnvald looked up sharply. ‘What?’

‘I’m not going back. I have nothing there with the Christians. No family, no friends. All I have seen is their destruction and conquests, and I want no part of it. You made me a free man of the Norse, and I intend to stay. This is my home now.’

Ragnvald looked at him in silence, playing with his beard. ‘And if this city falls, what will you do?’

Ordulf shrugged. ‘I don’t know, what will everyone else do?’

‘Fight, die, or run to the hills.’

‘Then I will do that. As you said, I will find my way.’

Ragnvald smiled thinly. ‘You are, as always, very brave or very stupid.’ He took a step forward and put his meaty hand on Ordulf’s shoulder, one of the few men who could meet the tall smith eye to eye. ‘You are a man of honour, and the Norse will be pleased to have you among us. If the city falls, my people will leave and go west, into the hills and forests. We have some land there, villages and fields that can support us. You may go with them, I will tell Halla to expect you. But I warn you, there will be no place for a great smith in those hills. You will be nothing, starting with nothing, all those who value your skills will be dead or gone. You will be with the old, the young, the womenfolk.’

Ordulf bridled and thought it over. His whole life, he had been powerless, subject to the whims of fate and other men. Being a smith had always been a life in invisible chains, just a tool of others. He saw Ragnvald, standing there in all his war gear and his choices, a man who could make his own decisions, and he nodded. ‘You are right – that is not what I wish to be, a man who runs while others fight.’ He sank to one knee and looked up at Ragnvald, trying to remember the words Bjorn had spoken in Ragnvald’s hall, when he had sworn himself to the jarl’s service.

‘Jarl Ragnvald, you know me, I have fought with you before. I have killed a man and a wolf in single combat. I would pledge myself to you, to fight alongside you in your service. Any sword that comes for you would…’

Ragnvald looked surprised and then withdrew his sword hand. ‘No.’

‘… have to come through me, I would…’

‘No!’ Ragnvald said more firmly, and Ordulf faltered.

‘What?’

‘No, I cannot accept you into my service.’

‘Why?’ Ordulf looked crestfallen and hurt, one knee on the hard soil of the yard.

‘You are not a warrior, and have no time to learn. We leave for battle today. Only those with knowledge of weapons can stand in my warband.’

‘But I have fought and killed before! I am strong and brave!’

Ragnvald held out a hand placatingly, and Ordulf reluctantly accepted it and was pulled to his feet. ‘It is true, you are strong and young and brave, and would make a fine warrior. But not tomorrow. It is true you have killed a man, but you have never stood in a shieldwall, or held a spear. You have no understanding of how battles are fought, and would be a weakness in the wall, a danger to the men beside you. I’m sorry, Ordulf, but my answer is no.’

Ordulf looked at his feet, humiliated. ‘So I am to flee with the women, with no future as a smith.’

Ragnvald shook his head sadly. ‘This is why I said you should return to your people.’

‘They are not my people. They never cared for me, I am nothing there. They may kill me when first they see me.’

The two men stood in awkward silence for a moment, Ordulf staring at the horizon, Ragnvald at the dirt. ‘Maybe the gods are not finished with you yet, lad,’ he said with a shrug. ‘But I must go. If my people are evacuated, go with them. My wife would do well with a man like you to help her.’

Ordulf looked away sullenly and did not respond.

‘If you are truly to stay here, to become one of the people, you must have a name.’

‘I have a name,’ Ordulf mumbled.

‘I mean a proper name, not your slave name.’

Ordulf shrugged, displaying that he did not care, but turning to meet eyes with the jarl once more, nonetheless.

‘It is my final gift to you.’ Ragnvald rubbed the hilt of his new sword thoughtfully. ‘You have given us a great weapon, and we are grateful.’ He pursed his lips and looked intently at the smith, before finally nodding softly. ‘Gjaldir. Yes, that will do well. I give you the name Gjaldir, may your journey with the people be long and prosperous.’

Gjaldir. Ordulf thought about it for a moment and understood. The Norse word Gjalda meant repayment, something given in compensation. Gjaldir was a new name, a new life, given in exchange for the sword, compensation for his time as a slave. He snorted and looked away from the jarl, unable to control his petulance, but he liked the feel of the name, the way it sounded in his mind’s voice.

Ragnvald sighed and half-turned. ‘I am sorry I have refused you, Gjaldir. I will say this. If this coming battle is won, and I return to my hall, I will let you come before me as a free man, and let you kneel and speak your words on the hilt of this fine sword you have made me. Then you will train and become a warrior. Do you accept my gift, and my promise?’

Ordulf felt a rush of happiness and couldn’t contain the smile that burst across his face. ‘Yes. Yes, Lord Ragnvald, I do.’

‘Good. Then, once again, we have done right by each other in the eyes of the gods and men, and we may part with no debt. Thank you, Gjaldir, and I hope to welcome you into my hall again soon.’

The warlord gave Ordulf a hearty thump on the shoulder and turned, sweeping out of the yard with his hand on his sword and his maille rustling with his steps.

Ordulf turned to go into the forge, and found Dengir leaning against a wallpost. He flushed and wondered how much the man had seen. The amusement in his eyes told him it was everything.

Ordulf put an impassive face on and walked over to pass the old smith, who grinned at him as he drew level. ‘I’m still just going to call you boy.’

Ordulf sighed and went back to the grinding stone.

Chapter 31

The March of the Oathsworn

The years have passed beyond my time

I’ve seen my sons grow tall

They stood beside me in the line

Until they heard the Valkyr’s call

I brought them home and buried them

And mourned and wept forlorn

But I have not forgotten

The oaths that I have sworn

My scarred old hands still know the feel

Of sweat-soaked wood and mud

My ears still know the clash of steel

Of pain and fire and blood

So these old bones will rise again

As clouds draw ever near

I’ll take my sword down from the wall

And I will feel the fear

We gather now, the white of beard

And form our fate-marked ranks

The storm of steel can now be heard

And, into its dark maw, we march

Death poem of a Viking

Ragnvald walked back to his hall. Outside, his entire warband and all the other fighting people of the area, the largest force he had ever raised, was assembling in the street, armed and armoured for war. Nine hundred warriors, give or take a handful. Every man or woman left in the lands around Uppsala fit and willing to stand in the line. This was not the tightknit, young and experienced warband of several hundred he used to take to war. This was an army of last resort.

They had with them a few dozen mules and small ponies carrying food, weapons and other equipment. They all looked up at him expectantly as he arrived, and fell to silence.

He looked along their ranks, and saw so few faces he knew. He saw men like him, old enough to have grown sons, and men too young to grow a proper beard. He saw women like Rikka the fisherwoman, ordinary people who would never have gone on a raid, intent on defending their homes, and he saw seasoned veterans who had stood by his side in a dozen fights.

Remembering Tormund’s words, he walked to the back of the long column, and half drew his sword, runes facing up and catching the sun, and held its pommel out within touching distance of the closest men. An old man carrying a spear and battered shield reached out a hand nervously and looked up at him, seeing Ragnvald nod his permission. The man reverently touched the hilt and muttered an invocation to Odin to watch over him.

Ragnvald walked slowly down the column as dozens of hands reached out to brush their fingers over the hilt, some muttering a quick prayer, or announcing their support or loyalty to Ragnvald. He reached the front of the column, where his huskarls stood. There were ten again, he had raised four veterans to fill the empty spots in his inner circle of warriors, and he greeted each man by name and shared words of encouragement with them.

The final huskarl was Leif, his champion, and Leif barely muttered a word, and Ragnvald clasped hands with the man and recoiled. Leif’s hand was sweaty and slick. He looked up in confusion, and saw Leif’s eyes were red and his skin pale and clammy.

‘Dear gods, Leif, what is wrong?’

‘Nothing, I am fine.’

‘You are not fine.’ He could see now that Leif was swaying, barely able to stand upright and tense with the effort.

‘I’m fine,’ Leif said, shaking his head unsteadily.

Ragnvald grimaced and firmly led the unsteady huskarl to one side. ‘You are too sick to march.’

‘It is nothing, a stomach sickness. I will be fine.’

‘You are weak as a kitten. You will stay here with my wife until you recover. Come and join us when you are fit to fight.’

Leif looked at him with fear and shame in his bloodshot eyes. ‘No, my lord, don’t do this to me. I must be at your side for this battle.’

‘You cannot protect me if you cannot hold a sword. It is done, you are staying, do not shame me by arguing in front of the men.’

‘Do not shame me by sending me away,’ Leif pleaded.

‘No one here will think less of you, you have proved yourself a dozen times.’ Ragnvald cut off further attempt to protest, waving at two slaves standing in the yard, who came over and, on his instruction, helped the muttering Leif walk away, headed towards the main hall. As he watched Leif walk away, his eyes met those of his wife, standing by the door to the hall, and he tensed.

This was not the time to affirm his love, or to bid a fond farewell. All that had been done last night. She was well used to seeing him head off to fight, but never so close to home. Never with such an enemy. He gave her a brief nod, and tapped his chest over his heart, rattling his maille. She bowed her head in reply, and then Leif reached her, and she looked away, fussing over the distraught man as she helped him inside.

Ragnvald tore his eyes from the receding form of his wife, and turned to his men, who stood in their silent column. He ran his eyes over them and nodded, showing a certainty he did not feel.

‘Men of Svealand. For all your lives, you have lived in the lands of Uppsala, in war and peace, in good harvests and hard years. Now we go to war for our homes – for our kin and our gods, for our people and our land, we march.’

Three days later, Ragnvald stood on the low hill beside the road to Uppsala, thirty miles south of the city, and watched. He watched as, in the distance, a column of men marched towards them in full retreat. Norsemen.

They were the force sent to block and delay the Crusaders at the last defensible points on the road to the south, and their retreat meant only one thing, that the army of the Crusaders was almost upon them.

The position he stood on was at the crest of a long, gentle slope over rough, unsown fields and low boundary fences and walls. Behind him, a wood of tall pine trees ran along the crest of the ridge and down the slope behind him. On his right, the road passed along the near shore of a broad marshy lake, impassable to man or beast. On his left, the ridge faded away into open fields and thin scrub forest that stretched away to the next ridge beyond.

It was the site they had chosen to make their stand, a good position in this flat country. The gentle ridge was a strong position, unassailable to Christian cavalry. Their right was protected by the marshy lake, but the left was open, and the Norse had spent a day sowing it with spikes, holes and ditches, to stop any charge of horsemen, or slow any column of footsoldiers.

He and the other commanders stood and watched the battered column of Norsemen, mostly the new northern men who had come with Jarl Einar, march along the road. Two men on horses detached themselves from the column and rode up the slope, picking their way across the fields and through gates and gaps in the field boundaries. Next to him, King Sigurd leant on his magnificent axe and wheezed softly.

Finally, the two men made it to the group and dismounted, Jarl Einar and a companion. Einar had a minor wound on the side of his face, from above his ear to halfway across his cheek. Dried blood stained his beard and neck.

‘King Sigurd.’

‘Jarl Einar, you look like you have had a hard fight.’

The jarl nodded grimly. ‘We have, we held them as long as we could, but they outflanked us, and we had to retreat or be lost.’

‘You and your people have done well.’

‘Thank you. I am pleased you gave us this opportunity to prove ourselves.’

‘You earned it, by coming to our aid. Now, tell us of the enemy army.’

Einar looked at the lords gathered glumly. ‘They are in vast numbers, many more than we expected.’

Sigurd’s eyes narrowed. ‘How many?’

‘We never fought their full force, only their vanguard, but it was at least nine thousand strong. Behind them, the road was full for as far as any scout could see.’

There were mutters of consternation and anger in the ranks of the commanders.

‘We have had similar reports from the ships watching Stadsholmen. It took the enemy three days just to pass the bridge, two days for the soldiers and another for the horses, equipment and baggage. All day, fifty men at a time. As many as fifteen thousand in a day,’ Ragnvald said, looking at the king, trying to keep his tone even.

The king straightened. ‘It is of no matter, we have assembled the greatest army of the Norse that has ever fought under one banner. We have this good ground, and the homes of our people at our backs.’

The king looked around at his commanders, a strained smile beneath his thick beard. ‘We have the gods on our side. If we were to fail here, the enemy would reach Sigtuna, the very place where the Aesir arrived in these lands, and then Uppsala and the temple that is their home in Midgard. No.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘The gods will not allow it. Everything we have done has led us to this place, to this gathering of all our heroes. Here we will stand against the tide of the Hel-cursed foe and stop them. No matter how many they bring, we will wet our fields with their blood and their defeat will be so hard they will be forced from these lands forever.’

Sigurd looked around the gathering as he spoke, hammering the butt of his axe into the hard earth. His eyes were alight, and his voice loud and strong. But it lacked some of the power and conviction of old, that easy, invincible confidence the king used to portray. He saw that some men did not look convinced, or indeed could not even meet his eye, and he huffed and turned away, angry. ‘With Ljós a Norðan in our ranks, we cannot be defeated. Banish your fears and doubts, they are unworthy.’

The king scowled at the muted response, and turned to look at the oncoming force of Northmen to conceal his anger. Ragnvald stepped forwards into the space, and into the sight of his comrades, turning to face them. He saw many of the eyes flick to the sword that sat on his hip, and he ignored the glances.

‘We have fought the Christians many times, and often we have been outnumbered. It is nothing new to us and we have prevailed before. They rely heavily on their knights, their heavy horsemen. If we neutralise them, as we did in the battle in the deepwoods, we can beat them. Their knights are fine warriors, but most of the men in their shieldwall are farmhands and townsmen who never before fought a day in their life. They don’t have our traditions, our experience, our belief or our heart. We are defending our homes!’ He pointed behind the men, towards the city that lay to the north beyond the horizon. ‘Our people will fight twice as hard, knowing the heart of our people is behind them.’

‘They cannot charge us across this mess.’ He gestured at the fields behind him. ‘Nor can they march through the marsh, or easily get around our flank.’ He pointed at the ground. ‘They have to come here, up this hill, in the face of our arrows and warcries and shield song. They have to climb this hill and see eighteen thousand men of the North, fierce warriors all, standing in a great shieldwall at the crest. How would you feel, Jarl Frode, to climb this hill and face us?’

Frode smiled sheepishly. ‘I would rather not, I admit.’

‘Then think how bad it will be for them to face us here, in this place! So their army has greater numbers? So be it, half will never get to the top of this hill, and the ones that do will have to face our fury and push through it.’ He shook his head. ‘It cannot be done.’ He drew Ljós a Norðan and pointed its tip at them, sweeping it around the rough half-circle like a challenge. ‘I will stand upon this hill, and I swear upon this sword that Odin has given us, that as long as I live, this hill will be ours, and as long as this hill is ours, we cannot be defeated. Who will dare retreat while I stand?’

Men shook their heads in anger at the very thought, and Ragnvald nodded with them. ‘And as long as we stand, brave men of the Northlands, as long as we stand shoulder to shoulder on this hill and fight, what enemy can defeat us?’

‘None!’ shouted a Norwegian jarl.

Ragnvald thrust Ljós a Norðan tip-down into the earth, releasing it and letting it quiver in the soil. ‘No Christian who passes this point shall be allowed to live. This is where we make our stand, brothers, and those of us who die here will die in the full sight and glory of the gods, and we shall enter the halls of Valhalla as a mighty host, unrivalled in our glory, and we shall fill it to the rafters with our songs of pride, and the deeds of our arms, and every soul there will burn with jealousy at our splendour.’ Ragnvald spread his arms and encompassed the group, feeling for a moment a great sadness at how many were missing, already gone, and he gave a silent thought to their shades.

‘We do not stand here because we are forced to, or because we hope to become rich or powerful. We stand here because we have hope, hope that we can save our people and our ways, and that if we must die, it will be in the sight of the gods, and the glory of our cause will be boundless. A hundred generations from today, men will still sing of the warriors who stood on this hill and fought for their people.’ He dropped his hands to his sword and pulled it from the earth. ‘It is the honour of my life to stand here with all of you, and to write that song.’

There were no cheers. It was not the time for it. There were no shouts or wild laughs. It was not the place for it. The jarls of the North nodded their agreement and one by one, they embraced Ragnvald and each other, renewed their bonds of friendship and their commitment to stand together on that lonely ridge. Finally, Sigurd came to stand next to Ragnvald and he beamed at the jarl, and at the rest of the men.

‘This, my brothers, is why he was chosen. This is why he is the champion of the North, and why he carries the symbol of our hope. It was not given to him with that blade, it was always here.’ The king poked Ragnvald in his breast hard enough to hurt through the maille. ‘Now is just when the gods chose to recognise it.’ He embraced Ragnvald, lingering a moment longer in the clasp than normal, and then released him, waving at the assembled men. ‘Tomorrow, we fight on this ridge. Now we must decide the positions, and organise the army into camp, so that we are ready to fight with the rising of the sun. Ragnvald, you will make your stand here, right where you buried your sword in the earth and made your oath. You will hold the centre, and the largest part of the army, the warriors of Sweden and your allies with you.’

Ragnvald bowed at the honour. ‘I will not fail you.’

‘Einar, you have proved yourself, you will stand on the left, with all your men, and more warbands beside you, and will hold the Christians in the open. If you are hard pressed, you will retreat, slowly, and swing around inwards to join Ragnvald, not allowing a gap to be forced between you.’

Einar nodded.

‘The men of Norway will hold the right side of the woods, and the road, and stop any from passing along it. My men and I will be a reserve, and go wherever we are needed, and where the fighting is fiercest. Jarl Frode, will you and your western jarls join me? I would be honoured to have your brave men by my side.’

Frode smiled and thumped his hand on his shield. ‘It would be my pleasure.’

‘Good, then it is decided. Now, to the arrangements of the lines.’

The day of battle dawned fine and bright. No mist obscured the battlefield, other than the gentle mist of smoke from ten thousand dying campfires on both sides of the farmland. Behind the hill, the Norse army was stirring from its camp, a strong force already armed and in formation in the woods in case of some surprise, but none came.

Across the low farmland, the light of day revealed the full scale of the Christian army, itself already breaking camp and arraying into battle formation, slowly, carefully, ponderously. Horns sounded and horses ran back and forth as the vast tide of the Crusade slowly marched forth from the deep encampment, and arrayed itself in the fields and scrubland, five hundred paces separated from the Norse, who were forming their great line on the low ridge.

For a long time, what seemed like half the day, nothing happened as the armies stood and faced each other. It was a terrible wait for the men standing ready, alone with their thoughts and fears. Men had time to think again and again what would happen, and grow frustrated at the lack of movement. Sigurd came from the reserves, who stood a hundred paces behind the hill in dense ranks, and joined Ragnvald on the crest.

‘Why are they waiting? They are fully deployed?’

‘It seems so,’ replied Ragnvald, fiddling with the hilt of his sword.

They stood in silence and watched for a while, before they heard shouts behind them. ‘King Sigurd! Where is the king?’

Sigurd turned and bellowed. ‘Here!’

An unarmoured man pushed his way through the heavy ranks, cursing and shouting, and stopped in front of the king. ‘Lord Sigurd, the enemy moves on the right, beyond the lake.’

Sigurd cursed and looked towards the lake, which they could see at the bottom of the hill. ‘Where? I don’t see them. How many?’

The scout shook his head. ‘They are beyond sight from here, beyond those trees. Four thousand, perhaps five. They are marching through the woodland, and will soon appear behind the army.’

‘That is why they do nothing here, they wait for us to be trapped,’ said Ragnvald.

‘We did not think they would be able to turn our flank. Curse them, why don’t they just attack!’

‘Normally, if they split their force, we could fight half of it, defeat it, and turn on the other. But they have the numbers and they must know that. The army before us is too big to attack and defeat quickly, and the flanking force would arrive behind us and force us to stop our attack and be trapped,’ Ragnvald said, his voice low.

‘And if we simply stay here, the army before us and the force behind will enclose us, and we will be crushed.’

‘Your reserve may be able to hold them.’

‘Men won’t fight well with an enemy at their backs, surrounded. What if they have archers? They could destroy our line from behind.’ Sigurd put his hand to his beard, thinking it through. ‘There is only one choice, we must march quickly to destroy them, and then return to face this bigger force with all our strength.’

‘You would split our army?’ Ragnvald said nervously.

‘It is the only way. I will hit them while they are still in that forest, we will have the advantage, I will break them and then return.’

‘How many men will you take? The reserve is only two thousand. It is not enough.’

‘I will have to take more men from the right, they are closest.’

‘That will weaken our line, Sigurd…’

‘Enough.’ Sigurd’s eyes blazed, and he clamped a hand behind Ragnvald’s helmeted head, drawing their foreheads closer together. ‘This is my command, it will be done.’

Ragnvald relented and nodded.

‘Spread your line to the right, bring in your left when you have to, if they surround you, they weaken themselves to my return and we will crush them. Hold them here, Ragnvald. Hold this ridge and I will return to join you, I swear it.’

‘Yes, my king.’

Sigurd let go of him and snapped a string of orders to his entourage, who started running off down the line, towards the right wing. Sigurd jammed his magnificent helmet on his head and turned to lock eyes with Ragnvald again. ‘Hold this ground, Lord Ragnvald, come Hel or all the beasts within it, hold this ground until I return.’

Ragnvald could only nod as Sigurd set off at a jog with his huskarls, and he turned to look at his own men to give his own orders.

Count Conrad watched from his horse as part of the Norse right wing peeled away and disappeared, and then saw the whole of the rest of the army reorganise itself to once again fill the entire ridge, from the road to the fields on its left.

Beside him, Duke Henry’s horse snorted as if in discontent, and the duke shrugged. ‘They have discovered our plan.’

Conrad nodded. ‘And they move to counter it.’

‘No matter, it weakens their line, and we will attack now instead of waiting. If the flanking force is victorious, they will attack from behind late, but it will still be decisive.’

‘And if they are defeated?’

‘Then we must end this quickly, and break them on that ridge before their force returns. Sound the advance!’ The duke turned to the line of trumpeters behind him, who raised their instruments to make the signal. ‘Count Conrad.’ Duke Henry paused to let the noise of the horns blow and reach out across their lines. ‘Go to your division, the central thrust will be key to our victory. God go with you and your men, I know you will not let us down.’

Conrad bowed his head in the saddle, and kicked his horse into a gallop from standing, his retinue riding over to join and follow him.

He rode down towards the ranks of Saxons and Bavarians and French who made the main, central division. Eight thousand men at arms and archers. On their right was the division of Count Otto of Ballenstead and his German and Italian men. On the left were the contingents of Duke Simon of Lorraine, and the forces of the Order, all commanded by Baron Hugues. In the far woods on the left, on the encircling march that had begun before dawn, Margrave Rudolf and his men from the north-west of Germany, with some Austrians, Bohemians and French for good measure, were making their way to the rear of the Norse army.

Conrad arrived at the rear of his forces as the first lines were being given the order to advance, and he looked around to check the movement was correct, sending a man to chivvy the leftmost block of infantry, which was slow setting off, before ordering the second line to follow, with him and his mounted knights in their wake.

The first line of infantry marched into the fields in proud, dazzling ranks, but were soon disarrayed by the ditch and stone wall that some encountered and others did not. The line became ragged as captains and sergeants shouted and shoved and tried to re-dress the footsoldiers who were advancing nervously up the hill. Conrad, in the third line with the heavy men at arms and knights, could see the Norsemen on the ridge clearly now, and hear their jeers and battlecries. As the Crusader footmen slogged up the soft, uneven fields, the whole Norse line began a frightful song, beating their shields and singing pagan gibberish at the advancing Christians.

The wall of noise from weapons banging on wood and metal bosses was a physical impact that Conrad felt in his bones, and he shouted an order simply to steady his nerves and focus on something else as they climbed the slope towards that imposing battleline.

The infantry climbed the hill relentlessly, but the line was now hopelessly broken up by the terrain, a disorganisation only added to as they encountered traps, pits, ditches and then the first volleys of arrows from the Norse on the hill above. The rattle of arrowheads on shields and the thunk of them entering flesh mingled with cries of pain and alarm, yet still the line pushed forwards.

Conrad’s own archers made it into range and stopped to loose, and they sent wave after wave of arrows up the slope, to rattle seemingly ineffectually on the broad shields of the defenders above.

Finally, with their dead and wounded and delayed still littering the fields, the first line of the Crusaders reached the top of the slope, and the Norse line stepped into them with a great shout and a thunderous clashing of weapons.

‘Cowards,’ muttered Conrad’s commander of horse, as the remains of the first wave of troops broke and fled back down the hill. They had endured the Norse attack for as long as it takes a priest to read a psalm and then, isolated in groups and disorganised, cut down in droves by the enemy, they lost heart and fled.

‘It does not matter, they have achieved their purpose. The main attack has arrived untouched, and the enemy is tired and their line is misformed,’ said Conrad. His own second line, a solid block of experienced and well-equipped troops, were up the fields and in good order, now shoving their way past the fleeing, lighter-armoured men, and were marching up to engage the Norse, who were hurriedly re-forming their line.

Conrad looked around at the third and final line of his men; the French knights, his own household troops and the massed ranks of German chivalry, who stood dismounted in their thousands around him in a solid block two hundred men wide and ten men deep. These were the elite troops of the Crusade forces, given to him to crack the centre of the enemy position and gain the hill. The battle would not be decided until these men battered their way to the summit.

He longed to give the order, to send in this final attack and gloriously wipe the Norse from their positions. But it was not yet the time, the enemy was still strong, and the preceding waves and archers would tire and winnow their ranks first.

Then, only then, would he lead the final attack.

Chapter 32

The Gods of Battle

Sigurd’s men arrived at the edge of the woods west of the lake just as the first Christians, formations broken by their passage through miles of wood, appeared in the trees.

Sigurd howled with glee as the shocked enemy stopped dead in their tracks, and clumped together instinctively at the sight of the solid column of thousands of Norse warriors. ‘Frode!’ Sigurd bellowed, waving down the line towards where the Svear lord marched with his men.

‘Yes, my king!’ a voice shouted back.

‘Go to the right, sweep through the woods and drive them onto my blades!’

Frode pumped his sword in the air in acknowledgement, and broke off a thousand men of Svealand, setting off at an angle into the woods at a jog, passing the transfixed Christians, who were appearing in ever greater numbers, but who were wavering between advancing, forming a line, and retreating to their fellows in the woods behind.

Sigurd wasn’t about to give them the chance to decide on a course of action. ‘Forwards, men of the North, forwards!’ He raised Jafnaðr high in the air, the steel and runes shining in the air, and the whole line surged forwards, men howling and weapons hammering on shields as they marched forwards after the king’s shining axe.

Sigurd let them get to within twenty paces of the enemy before he let his Norwegians off the leash. The enemy was still scattered in malformed blobs as each marching line of men stopped and solidified, and trying to manoeuvre his own shieldwall through those trees and ragged clumps of enemy would be slow and unwieldy.

As he got close enough to see the fear in the eyes of the nearest men, and the way they tried to back up and melt into the greater mass of their comrades behind, Sigurd leaned back his head and howled like a spring wolf, and lumbered into a run, axe across his body, his huskarls surging to keep pace and guard his flanks.

The whole line of the Norse, centred on their king, broke into a run as their warcries filled the air and they surged into the woods.

The first Crusader Sigurd reached gamely tried to defend himself with his shield, but Jafnaðr crashed over the top and split his skull like an egg. The man’s fellows died under a flurry of the blades of the king’s huskarls as the enemy tried to back away and some turned to flee, stymied by the mass of their comrades behind, and the rough terrain of the woods.

Sigurd’s battle soon shrunk into the space around him and the few men he could see, the rest of the fighting lost in the trees and noise, where no order could be shouted, no signal seen. He did not care, lost in the battle rage. Jafnaðr flowed through the enemy like an eagle through a flock of gulls, and all who faced him and his hardened killers died.

He kicked another gurgling, dying body from the head of his axe and a terrified boy thrust a spear at him. Shouting in rage, with no shield to defend himself and his axe out of position, Sigurd tensed for the impact of the spear on his maille, but Gunnar swatted the spear to one side, and expertly cut across the face of its wielder, sending him sprawling to the floor with his hands to his eyes, even as Gunnar’s blade stabbed down to finish him.

Gunnar gave Sigurd a single reproachful look, and Sigurd nodded back with a wild grin, blood that was not his dripping from his great beard.

For a moment, there were no enemy to be seen, and Gunnar shouted to the left and right, gathering what men were near them into formation as they advanced deeper into the woods. The men were laughing and panting, hot from the thrill and effort of the easy fight. Few of them had fallen in the rout, and their blades had claimed hundreds of souls.

The formation marched on, hearing the sounds of battle to their front and sides, and more Norsemen appeared out of the trees and joined onto the ends of their line, until there were hundreds of them marching quickly through the woods.

Sigurd pushed past some low branches and climbed a small berm half the height of a man. He found himself looking out over a clearing and he stopped, a joke dying, half-formed, on his lips.

On the far side of the clearing, a Christian lord on horseback was organising a thick line of men into order, arrayed as far left and right as the eye could see. As Sigurd’s men poured from the woods and stopped in surprise, the enemy leader turned and saw them, and he raised his sword into the air, and the enemy cheered and raised their shields, forming their wall. These were no frightened rabble, these were real soldiers.

Gunnar gave Sigurd a sideways look, a slight downturn of the corner of his mouth, that said what he did not need words to say. This enemy would be a hard fight.

Sigurd snorted the worry away, this was his day, he was Sigurd Norðrikonungr, and these men would not be allowed to live in his lands. ‘SKJALDBORG!’ he roared, and men shouted their reply and the great round shields shuffled into line around him. ‘FORWARDS!’ he shouted, and the Norse line started the slow shuffle forwards, step by step, moving to meet the patient swords of their enemy.

‘Lord Ragnvald, the left is retreating, our men are falling back into the woods. The enemy is too many.’

Ragnvald nodded curtly. He was disappointed that the left, even weakened as it was, had given ground. It meant they would inevitably be surrounded. The man ran off to rejoin his kin, and Ragnvald scowled and surveyed the field in front of him.

The first Christian attack had collapsed, driven from the ridge by the blades and bows of the Norse army. The men had jeered and howled their derision and laughed and raised their voices to the gods in triumph.

No man was jeering triumphantly now. The second attack was a solid block of well-armoured men with big shields, advancing with spears and swords and determination, who fought with a violence and skill befitting their equipment. This was a hard fight, and already Ragnvald’s sacred blade dripped with blood, and its edge showed the nicks and damage of hard fighting. The enemy had broken a small gap in his line more than once, and he and his men had rushed in to plug it.

The two lines were solidly engaged now, the Norse lashing out with spear and sword and axe, slowly pushing their line forwards, one step at a time, but at great cost. It was essential that your line be the one that advanced. Men who fell wounded on the side being pushed back would be trampled and stabbed to death. Men falling out of the advancing line could be helped or dragged back behind the fighting. The line retreating always took the greater casualties.

But each step of ground gained was sown with the bodies of the dead. Men of his own hird were in reserve, the only reserve the centre had. So their losses so far were light, but already one of his ten huskarls had fallen with an arrow in the eye, and another had limped out of the battle with a thigh torn asunder by a spear.

Bjorn stood next to him, eyeing the battle grimly. ‘We are winning,’ he said, trying to sound confident.

Ragnvald nodded, it was true, but the cost was eyewatering, and he remembered the battle in the deepwoods all too well. An army could lose by winning like this, its ranks thinned until none remained.

Suddenly there was a great clamour to their right, and a knot of enemy forced their way through the Norse line, warriors reeling out of position under a flurry of blows and shoving shields. ‘Follow me!’ Ragnvald shouted, pointing his sword overhead at the enemy, and set off at a run, hearing his men pounding along behind him.

As they ran to the break, it grew and spread, the broken ends of the Norse line folding in on themselves as each man in turn lost the protection of his flank. As the line risked collapsing completely, Ragnvald and his hird crashed into the rear of the fight, Ljós a Norðan stabbing into the side of a mailled Christian, crunching through the iron links and sinking into his innards as the shocked man exhaled and slumped, dragging himself off the blade as he batted at it with feeble hands.

Ragnvald covered himself with his shield while he recovered his stance, feeling a solid blow on the upper rim twist it, and hearing Bjorn shouting curses at a man as he duelled with him over their shields to his right.

He set himself again, peering over the top of the shield, trusting his dragon-crested helm to save him from any overhead blows in that moment of danger, and then looked into the wide, battle-crazed eyes of his next enemy, his next victim. He stamped forwards, closing the gap in the wall one step at a time, and thrust his sword under his shield, feeling it bounce off maille and withdrew it again, ready for another strike.

As Ragnvald started to despair that the Norse line might waver, even break, the pressure of the enemy to their front suddenly abated, and then disappeared. Where there had been fierce fighting, now there was nothing but retreating enemy, and panting, wheezing Norsemen. No one pursed the enemy, they were too tired, too hurt, too few.

Ragnvald unceremoniously shoved his way to the front of the line and stared out over the field, seeing if the battle was done. His heart froze in his chest as he saw solid blocks of un-engaged enemy standing patiently, waiting as the retreating troops moved past them and re-formed on their flanks and rear. The enemy had not routed, merely retreated at some unheard signal.

As he watched, the block on the right moved forward with a cheer, and he looked in horror as the ragged right wing of the Norse army on the road retreated in the face of the overwhelming attack, shrinking their line inwards towards the ridge and the woods, leaving the road open.

On his left, the enemy was already pushing around their open flank, driving back the last of the resistance in the ditches and fencelines as they curled round behind the Norse position. As he stood there, uncertainly, the great body of the enemy to his front cheered. A horn sounded and they started moving forwards, led by a group of men on horseback who dismounted to march at their head.

Ragnvald looked around at his own tired, denuded line, and saw that it was too thin, too weak to hold here on the face of the ridge. He needed to retreat into the woods, to join with his folding flanks, and make their stand in the woods together. There they would fight and die until the king returned.

‘Back, into the woods, reform behind the ridge!’ he shouted, waving with his sword to the left and right.

The Norse trudged backwards, retreating over their own fallen and the enemy dead, ceding a generation of the Norse to the inexorable advance of the enemy. ‘Back, into the woods, reform!’ came repeated shouts up and down the line as the surviving warriors of the North, still many thousands of them, slunk back out of sight into the woods.

Ragnvald grabbed at Bjorn as the man turned to leave. ‘Bjorn, I have a command for you.’

His bloodied huskarl stopped and nodded. ‘Yes, lord.’

Ragnvald stopped, the words catching in his throat. ‘We are about to be surrounded, and the road to the city will be lost. We must send word to our people to evacuate.’

Bjorn’s eyes flicked backwards and forwards as he digested this, the admission that they might well be defeated, and then he realised the purpose of his lord’s words. ‘No!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Not me, don’t do this to me.’

‘It must be you.’

‘I must stand here and fight at your side! It is my oath.’

‘I know, I know you as a man of honour. Bjorn the faithful, whose word cannot be doubted. This is why I command you and no other, you are the only one who will not refuse me.’

‘You cannot make me abandon my lord, and flee before the battle is done. Send another!’ Bjorn was furious now, fists clenched, eyes narrowed.

Ragnvald shook his head sadly. ‘I need someone to look after my wife, my family, my people if I fall here. Who other than Bjorn, who fought for his last lord after his death, who was willing to die for his honour?’ He drew the unwilling man into a firm embrace. ‘I am sorry for this, and for every way I have not deserved a man such as you, but this is my final command. Go, give word to the city, evacuate. If we fall here, the Christians will be there tomorrow and they will burn the city to the ground, and kill all they find within.’

Bjorn’s shoulders slumped in defeat as Ragnvald held him, and he released his grip and pressed his blood-slicked forearm into his huskarl’s. Bjorn looked at him with sadness and shame, and nodded once.

‘Take a horse, there are many in the camp, and Odin see you safely to my hall. Go, Bjorn Faithful, and save my people from this ruin.’

Sigurd gasped and wheezed as the enemy soldier tried to push a knee under himself to rise. He could barely lift the great axe, the pain that his battle fugue had banished had now returned, worse than ever, something crackled and ground in his wounded side, and his breath hissed in his lungs. He could taste blood on his breath.

This enemy was tough, determined, brave. None more so than this wounded knight who, despite a horrific wound to his arm, was trying to rise and continue to fight, his teeth bared beneath his helm, his fist tight on the grip of his sword.

Gunnar finished Sigurd’s opponent without thought or mercy, kicking the wounded man to the ground and pinning him through the chest with a stolen spear, taken to replace his broken sword.

As Sigurd wheezed and leant against a tree, he looked around at his victorious men, and whimpered at how few remained. The clearing, and the woods behind it, were littered with the blue cloaks of his huskarls, and the bodies of his royal warband and other Norwegians.

They had crushed through the enemy with sheer violence and ferocity and blade skill, but more enemy had come, and their numbers told, and his men had died as they slaughtered, the fight evenly balanced until Jarl Frode had arrived in the enemy rear, driving the last of their forces into a pocket where the Norse had killed them almost to a man.

The enemy attack on this flank was destroyed, the few survivors scattered into the woods, and all around, Norse horns summoned the scattered warbands of his force back to their king, to re-assemble so that they could march back to the battle, back to Ragnvald on his ridge.

Gunnar came over, blood tricking on his arm from a deep slash, eyes full of concern for his king. He tried to reach for Sigurd’s side, where wetness showed through the maille and clothes beneath, but Sigurd swatted him away. ‘Not now, we must go, we must take those who remain and march for Ragnvald.’

‘You are injured, my king, you must stop.’

‘No, I must go. If I fall along the way, follow Frode to fight through to his brother-in-law. I do not matter anymore.’

‘You are the king, you must not fall, or your men will lose their spirit.’

‘Don’t insult their strength, I am just one man.’ Sigurd coughed, putting his hand to his mouth and then holding it up to silence any further argument that he did not have the breath to give voice to.

‘We move, now,’ he spluttered, and his men shouted the orders into the loose formations around them, the whole gathering together and setting off back out of the woods, headed towards the ridge that they had left such a short time ago, leaving their dead and the massacred ranks of the enemy behind.

Ragnvald felt nothing but emptiness and despair as he looked at the shrinking lines around him. He had seen too many of his men, his friends and people, die in those woods that day. The remains of the centre of the army fought in a rough oval around him, surrounded on all sides. The walls of the men of Svealand pushing ever inwards as the relentless enemy cut them down and advanced.

The army had retreated into one broad, curved line, a line that had shattered and crumpled under the ferocity of the attack of the fresh enemy troops. Over somewhere to his left, another large clump of Norsemen fought under Jarl Einar, back-to-back in the tide of Christians. Over to his right, the other part of the army, the remains of the right wing, stood in their own ragged line, not yet fully surrounded, and Ragnvald could hear their shouts and battle song over the clamour of his own fight.

But they were a world away, unreachable in the death and misery of those woods, where the last army of the Norse fought and died, cursing and clawing, taking Christian blood for every step lost, for every body fallen to the cold earth. For although the enemy were many, and fresh, his people fought like cornered animals, all the tradition and sword skill of their kin unleashed on their foe, only numbers preventing their victory.

Ragnvald staggered across the inside of the circle to where he sensed a weakness in the line, intent on rousing the flagging men. His denuded band of warriors followed him, the last six of his huskarls at his back. Arne, who had been in his warband for a dozen years. Halfdan, a young warrior who had proved his bravery at Jönköping. Hvatr, Sebbi’s son, risen to the rank only five days before. The brothers Sigsteinn and Sigvaldi, who had fought together in his hird in every battle since the Crusades began, and Haki, a distant cousin.

He pushed down his exhaustion once more and pointed Ljós a Norðan at the weakening line. He didn’t shout an order, his throat was dry and his voice gone from the shouting that had come before. But his men knew what it meant.

They jogged over to the weak point in the line and as Ragnvald reached it, one of the rear rankers flopped backwards with a spear in his eye, dropping to the ground like a felled tree. Ragnvald stepped unhesitatingly into the gap, setting his tired legs into a wide stance and getting his shield into the back of the man in front.

There were only two Norse heads between him and the shining helmets of the enemy ranks, ranks that were so deep he could not see the back of them. As he assessed the situation, one of the Norse heads, unhelmeted other than for a felt hat, dropped out of sight, its owner felled by some blow to the legs or stomach.

Ragnvald hacked at a spear and swore at his enemy, who were now close enough to reach out and touch, and reach out he did, the tip of his sword licking out at their faces over the shoulder of the man in front of him. The Norseman to his front had his shield up and was furiously stabbing underneath it, his elbow hammering back into Ragnvald’s own shield between each strike. Thunk thunk thunk.

A Christian howled in pain and staggered as the front ranker found his mark, and the Norse took a shuffled pace forwards. But another armoured man stepped over his wounded comrade and hammered at the upraised shield, the Norseman stabbing away under it. Thunk thunk thunk.

Ragnvald jabbed the tip of his sword at a young man’s face, grim and taut under his helm, and it dinged off the nasal and merely scratched his cheek. Thunk thunk thunk.

He could hear his own men around him, feel the press of their shields and see their weapons flashing to his left and right. The man in front of him howled in outrage and wriggled, trying to get his blade into another attacker while Ragnvald fenced over his head with the young Christian knight with the bleeding cheek.

Suddenly he realised the front man’s elbow wasn’t hitting his shield anymore, and then the man simply slumped to the ground, collapsing vertically, and leaving Ragnvald at the fore. The dead man landed heavily against Ragnvald’s shins, just as the Christians gave up half a step. Ragnvald had half a moment to realise there was nothing he could do to stop it before he fell forwards, tripping over the body and landing on his knees in a heap.

Utter panic filled his entire body as someone shouted his name in alarm. Men who fell in the wall rarely got the chance to rise. His left leg was tangled in the body, and his back was to the enemy. He wriggled and twisted, dragging his leg out and getting his shield around to cover himself.

‘Lord Ragnvald is down! To me!’ shouted one of his huskarls above him. ‘Push them back!’ A sword hammered into his shield repeatedly, and a spear jabbed at his shoulder as the Christians tried to finish him, and there was nothing he could do except ball up under his shield and hope his side won the shoving match now taking place over his body.

There was a chorus of shouting and cursing as his men fought to reclaim him, and a Christian’s foot was so close to his face that he could have reached out to bite it, if it wasn’t for the spear being blindly jabbed at his head.

A hand grabbed at the back of his maille and tried to drag him back to his men, but he was a big man, and the body behind him made it impossible. There was a shouted curse and then howls of rage and anger as one of his huskarls hacked his way forwards, getting his legs astride Ragnvald, and temporarily ending the attempts by the unseen enemy to kill him where he lay.

The huskarl traded a handful of blows from two enemies and then another Norseman shoved forwards to join him. The two huskarls stood over him, protecting him, but still preventing him from rising. One of them pushed forwards again and got his back leg past, but then those legs buckled and the man fell with a gaping hole in the front of his neck, dying eyes focusing briefly on Ragnvald’s as he slumped down just a handspan away. Arne.

More hands grabbed him, and he roared in anguish at the sight of Arne’s dying stare and kicked and shoved at the body behind him and struggled to his feet. Halfdan stood alone between him and the enemy as the brothers Sigsteinn and Sigvaldi dragged Ragnvald up, but Halfdan was surrounded and cut down as Ragnvald finally got his shield and sword in front of him, and suddenly he was at the front of the line again.

Ragnvald screamed at one of Halfdan’s killers and skewered him with Ljós a Norðan, pulled the bloodied sword out and hacked at another in a wild rage.

‘Come back, Lord Ragnvald!’ shouted Sigsteinn in his ear, but Ragnvald was too busy trying to kill a man who was already wounded.

‘The line is retreating! Pull back!’ shouted his huskarl and Ragnvald finally looked around and saw that the Christians were pushing forwards on his right. He stepped backwards, blocking a hacking blow at his chest with his shield, and as he retreated, the Christians came roaring with him, falling on him and the men around him with new vigour.

Suddenly he was fighting for his life again, and the man on his left was a Christian. The lines were so compressed, and they were facing opposite ways, that they could do little but snarl at each other, but Ragnvald was a hair’s breadth from being cut off.

A sword skipped off his helmet, and a blade slashed one of his calves as he tried to bring his own sword to bear, and felt the moment of his death arriving as the Christian line surged around him.

Then the Christian to his left had his head snapped back by an axe blow to the forehead that crushed an eye socket and knocked him senseless on his feet, and Ragnvald saw Sigsteinn and Sigvaldi shoving the man back while Haki grabbed Ragnvald and bodily dragged him backwards as the Christians swarmed in.

Then Hvtar was alongside him and Ragnvald just had time to parry a sword strike as he saw Sigvaldi cut down. Sigsteinn howled in anger and launched himself at his brother’s assailants, but he had a spear stuck through his stomach as he tried. Sigsteinn dropped his blade in shock and stood there, impaled on the spear, as a sword cut across his face and he fell onto the body of his brother.

Ragnvald reeled in shock as Haki dragged him back, felt his knees weaken as Hvtar fell with a spearhead in his chest. He stumbled on deadened legs as the line retreated and compressed, as the bodies of his huskarls disappeared under the feet of the Christians, Sigsteinn still draped protectively over his brother’s corpse, Hvtar gasping and writhing as mailled legs trampled over him.

Ragnvald finally stumbled back far enough that he was out of the line, and turned around to find Haki but could not see him. His feet bumped into something and he looked down, seeing Haki’s panicked face, watching the young man’s hands scrabble at the arrow in his mouth as he drowned in his own blood on the ground.

The dead feeling spread through his body, his mind too overwhelmed to feel more than a distant tug of loss as he stood there alone by his dying kinsman. He twisted his head to both sides, looking down the curving line of fighting men through the eyeholes in his dragon helm. He was horrified to see how much the circle had shrunk even since he and his huskarls had forced their way into the line.

There was no single weak point now. His warriors were struggling on all sides, the shrinking circle filled with wounded and dying men. The fresh Crusaders assaulting the Norse line were chewing through his exhausted warriors everywhere, and there was no one left to help.

He saw Rikka, fine, brave Rikka, so full of fire and courage, reel back from the line with her throat ripped by a blade, sinking to her knees and reaching for Ragnvald in shock and confusion, scrabbling at the ruin of her throat for a breath that would not come. And Ragnvald let out a cry of pain and horror and nearly lost his hold on his sword.

For the tenth time during the battle, Ragnvald looked down the slope to the north-west, the direction the king would be coming from, hidden by the trees.

Where are you, Sigurd, we need you! His thoughts were interrupted by a renewed clash of combat to his left. Ragnvald dragged his head around to look. The Norse line was being breached. A knot of heavily armoured Christian knights was forcing their way through the wavering ranks of Swedish warriors. Big men, mailled from head to toe, wielding their swords with lethal speed and power. Even as he watched, the last of the once resolute defenders was being cut down, others peeling away, shouting in alarm and panic.

Ragnvald was the only man left standing between the rush of Crusaders and the open centre of the circle. Not a single man of his household warriors remained to stand at his side. There was only one thing to do, only one thing a lord of war like Ragnvald could do in that moment. He cast his exhaustion and despair aside and brought up his battered shield, Ljós a Norðan clenched in his bloodied right hand. And setting his face into a snarl, he charged.

Two knights were in front of him, big men with stout shields and red blades. The one on the left was trading blows with a Svear warrior, and winning. Blood flowed down the Norseman’s leg, but he would last another handful of heartbeats. The knight on the right had his sword in the chest of another warrior, who was screaming and collapsing to the ground, trapping and taking the blade with him.

Ragnvald planted his left foot as he arrived at a run, praying for a landing on firm ground, not the guts of a dead countryman. His foot hit the dry turf of the forest floor and held. He put his shoulder into his shield and shoulder-charged the leftmost knight, using the impact to knock his enemy back and stop his own forward movement. He heard the enemy grunt as he was shoved aside.

Ragnvald used the planted left foot and the shock of the impact to stop on the spot and pivot, right arm coming around in a thrust against the enemy on his right. Ljós a Norðan lanced out, as true and straight a thrust as a champion could hope for. The knight never even saw the blade coming, he was still dragging his sword from the corpse of his previous foe.

The point of Ljós a Norðan, spear shaped and strong as it was, punched into the Crusader’s side below his outstretched arm, and ripped through the heavy maille hauberk. On it went, slicing through the padded arming shirt, and slid between two ribs.

Ragnvald’s strike stopped at the full stretch of his arm, the point of his sword tearing into the great vessels around the enemy’s heart. He roared his wild battle cry, all of the anger and loss behind it, and pulled back on the sword, ripping it free of the dying Crusader before the man could fall and trap Ljós a Norðan with his body.

Ragnvald took a step back with his left foot, simultaneously retreating half a pace, and realigning himself with the enemy he had shoulder-charged.

He was fast. But he was a moment too late.

Roland, Sieur de Blanchant, twisted to avoid the shield but it hit him hard nonetheless. Off-balance, he half jumped and turned, reaching his right leg back for a secure footing and turning to face the new threat. He knew Guiscard, his younger brother, was on his left. Guiscard would surely deal with this threat to Roland’s flank. Roland brought up his shield and sword as he landed, so that a mere heartbeat after he was almost knocked from his feet, he was facing the new threat, ready to strike or defend, a superb feat of athletic skill.

He saw to his horror that the attack was not coming. His enemy, having stopped in his charge and pivoted, thrust his sword into Guiscard’s undefended right side, his brother’s sword being still in the body of an enemy he had just slain. Roland sprang forward, incoherently screaming, as his younger brother, the apple of his mother’s eye, the most beautiful and perfect knight in Christendom, slumped and coughed a fountain of blood past the nosepiece of his helm.

Roland knew his brother was dead, even as the sword that killed him was withdrawn from his dying body in a bright spray of blood. Roland launched himself at the enemy warrior, unrestrainable rage fuelling his body. He pointed his kite shield forward at the tall Norseman who had slain Guiscard and lunged, even as the man turned to face him and took half a step back.

The extra distance meant, instead of his shield knocking the enemy from his feet with his attack, it merely hit the top of his round shield and twisted it up and to the side, his enemy not prepared for the impact. As the Norseman staggered, shield twisted up and unsighting him, Roland threw his own sword forwards in a fearsome thrust under the entangled shields, all the power of his arm and speed of his rush behind it.

Ragnvald felt the impact as a blossom of dullness. The fire that bloomed in his stomach a moment after that robbed him of his strength, took the fight out of his arms and the resolution out of his legs. He staggered back a single step, trying to bring his fading right arm around in a counterblow, one that fell weakly at his own feet as his arm failed to respond.

The pain of the blow was nothing compared to the agony when the snarling knight ripped his blade from Ragnvald’s stomach. Ragnvald let out what would have been an uncontrollable scream, but his lungs were robbed of breath and instead he gasped and fell to his knees. Ragnvald desperately tried to draw breath into his burning chest but could not. Gasping and sucking for air, his body started to shake and his vision faded as he knelt before his rampant enemy. He dragged his head up, eyes meeting with the Crusader’s as the man stepped forward and raised his blade above his head, a scream of pure fury coming from his bloodied face.

Ragnvald used the last of his strength to grip the hilt of Ljós a Norðan, too weak to raise it in his own defence.

Allfather, spear master, hear me!

Look after my people…

And his vision blurred.

And the sword fell.

And his world was filled with silence.

Roland brought his sword down with all his strength. The blade slammed into the decorated helm of his dying enemy and creased it so deeply that the warrior was knocked senseless and collapsed. He brought the sword back up and hammered it down again on his fallen foe, his brother’s killer. Again and again, he hacked down, men around him, friend and enemy, shrinking back instinctively from his fury.

His blade snapped at the hilt on the final blow. Hands slumping to his sides, he stood over the ruined body of his enemy and screamed at the ravaged face. Around him, other men moved past and fell into the gap in the enemy line that he and his savage assault had created. There was a chaos of shouts and screams in half a dozen languages as the last defenders were broken up and overrun by the Christians.

Roland ignored all of it, he didn’t see the last Northmen throw down their weapons and beg for mercy, he didn’t hear the wild cheers and celebrations of his fellows, he just stared into the dead face of the tall Norse warrior. The one piercing blue eye that stared sightlessly back out at him through the front of the magnificent ruined helm held him with a ghostly intensity that drew his focus, and blunted his anger, until he shuddered and looked away.

He dropped the hilt of his ruined weapon, and, without thinking, picked up the sword of the fallen Northman to replace it, dreading what he must do next.

Mercifully, as he reached his brother, he saw that the younger man’s suffering was already over. He was still and peaceful, his face slack and unmarked as he lay on the bloodied ground at the site of their last victory together. Roland knelt beside Guiscard and, the rage and fury flowing out of him, he gently reached down and closed his brother’s sightless eyes.

‘Onwards, quickly! We are nearly there!’ Sigurd heard Jarl Frode shouting, he felt Gunnar’s arm helping him along, but his whole world was focused merely on drawing each breath, on pushing back down on the firestorm of pain that was spreading out from his wounded side. Only one thing kept him going, kept his vanishing strength from failing, he had made an oath to a friend, and he would not break it.

As he was being dragged along, Sigurd felt the pace of the march slow, and then grind to a halt amid cries of consternation and despair. ‘What? Why have we stopped, advance!’ he wheezed angrily, but he dragged his eyes up to see what lay ahead, and saw the reason for the halt. In front of him, just two hundred paces away, the woods on the back of Ragnvald’s ridge were arrayed along his front. Beneath them, facing him over a line of advancing men, was a banner of a golden cross emblazoned on white. On his right, a ragged stream of routing Norsemen were fleeing from the collapsing right flank, headed towards the apparent safety of Sigurd’s men.

‘No… it cannot be,’ whispered Sigurd.

‘My king, we must go, the battle is lost,’ said Gunnar urgently.

‘They may still be up there, fighting,’ begged Sigurd.

‘They are not, there is no sound of battle left.’

As Gunnar tried to persuade his king, a column of horsemen, knights on big warhorses, appeared along the empty road to their right behind the fleeing right flank, and, seeing the field of routing Norsemen, and Sigurd’s force of several thousand beyond, started dressing out into line to attack.

Frode ran over, shouting for the king, who ignored him, his fading eyes fixed on the hill, muttering to himself.

‘Sigurd, we must retreat. It is lost.’ Frode’s face was drawn, his eyes bloodshot.

‘It’s not possible, how is it possible… The prophecy…’

Frode looked at Gunnar and the huskarl grimaced and shook his head.

‘We MUST go now, before we are destroyed. We cannot stand against them in the open.’

Sigurd shook his head and tried to take a step forwards, pushing himself along on his axe. ‘We will go to him, I swore that I would.’

‘My king!’ shouted Gunnar in anger, letting go of Sigurd’s arm.

The great man made it a half dozen paces, and then his grip on the axe failed, and he sank to his knees with a soft cry.

‘To the king!’ shouted Gunnar. ‘Carry him to the rear. Retreat to the woods!’

‘We must make for Sigtuna, maybe we can stay ahead of them,’ said Frode hurriedly. Gunnar, lacking a better plan, nodded, and he shouted and shoved as his remaining men carried away the king, who no longer even protested, simply stared at the sky with eyes that filled with tears.

Behind them, a horn blew, and the army of the Crusade started marching out of the woods as the line of knights lowered their spears for a charge.

Chapter 33

A New Journey

Gjaldir sat in the forge, staring into the cold coals. Four days ago, the army had left. Four days ago, he had been given his new name. It still sounded strange in his mind, the unfamiliar word felt wrong on his tongue. But the meaning of it, the gift of freedom, still reverberated in his heart.

The forge was quiet. With the army gone, there was no work, and Gjaldir came every day simply because he had nowhere else to go, nothing else to do. For all the freedom in the world, he had lost his purpose.

Dengir was in the building somewhere, tinkering with some project, but Gjaldir did not have the heart to seek him out and join in.

As he sat there alone with his thoughts, there was a great commotion outside in the street, and the sound of raised voices spread throughout the city. Confused, he jumped up and ran out of the building into the yard, and into the street beyond. What he saw rocked his soul. People were dragging carts and baskets into the street, filling them with possessions, shouting for their families. People were running back and forth along the street in various displays of fear or anguish.

‘What has happened?’ he shouted at one woman who was staggering past under a bundled load with her children in tow.

‘The battle is lost, the Christians are coming, we must leave the city and move west.’ The woman carried on before Gjaldir could think of another thing to ask, rooted to the spot in shock. He turned and stumbled back into the yard, one hand to his forehead, repeating the news to himself. The army has lost.

Dengir was standing in the forgeroom when Ordulf went back in. ‘The battle has been lost, the city is being abandoned.’

‘I know, boy.’

‘What, how?’

‘I knew when I heard the shouting, you did too.’ The old smith shook his head sadly and rubbed grease from his fingers with a rag.

Gjaldir could only slump his arms and nod. He had known, in his heart, the second he had heard the commotion. He had just refused to believe it.

‘What will you do?’ Dengir asked.

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You can still go to them, the Christians.’

Gjaldir shook his head angrily. ‘No.’

‘Then you can go with the people, take your hammer, be a smith. There will always be a need for a smith. Maybe not a maker of fine swords, but there is honest work for a man with a fire and a hammer and the skill to wield both. Always.’

Gjaldir shook his head again. ‘Being a swordsmith has brought me nothing but pain and loss. I make weapons for men to kill each other with. Gods, what am I? I used to think it was glorious, but all I do is fuel this misery, I am simply used by whoever has access to me.’ He picked up his hammer from the anvil where it lay and cast it into the cold coals of the forge, kicking up a storm of black dust. ‘I will never make another weapon as long as I live, I swear it.’

Dengir looked at the discarded hammer thoughtfully, and then nodded in easy acceptance. ‘Then what?’

Gjaldir thought for a moment and then nodded to himself. ‘I will do what Ragnvald refused me. I will take up arms and fight.’

Dengir cocked an eyebrow. ‘You will add to the misery you hate?’

‘No! I will fight for my friends, my family. Not for conquest or glory, I will defend the weak from the greedy!’ Gjaldir was ranting now, mouth a pressed line and eyes creased, waggling his finger at the walls and at Dengir, who watched impassively as the boy worked through his anger.

‘A life of war is rarely happy, if happiness is what you seek.’

Gjaldir shook his head. ‘No, I am not so stupid. I just seek to be in control of my own fate, to do something with meaning, to help my friends to survive.’

Dengir nodded thoughtfully. ‘It is an honourable course, but it may not deliver the control you seek.’

‘Bah, what do you know?’ shouted Gjaldir, turning on the old man. ‘You make weapons for men to kill each other, unmoved by the outside world!’

Dengir ignored the big smith’s anger and tutted. ‘Boy, do you think I was always a smith?’

Gjaldir stilled his lashing tongue. ‘You… you were a warrior?’

‘For many years of my youth, I went Viking, until age and battle tired me of killing and plunder, and the death of my friends.’

Gjaldir was taken aback, he had never known anything of Dengir’s youth. The man barely talked about anything, let alone his past.

‘Come, I have something to show you.’ Dengir turned and hobbled off into a side storeroom, with the curious Gjaldir in tow.

Gjaldir helped Dengir move stacks of timber and sacks of charcoal, and revealed behind, covered in cobwebs and years of dust, was a shield on the wall, and beneath it, an iron-bound chest.

Gjaldir stared at the shield in wonder, a green dragon snarled from its white face, the paint flaking and faded, but the image clear and true.

‘The mark of Ragnvald’s father. I was a huskarl of his hall.’

‘I always wondered why you and Jarl Ragnvald seemed close… but I never thought.’ Ordulf shook his head in wonder.

‘We fought together, when he was a boy like you. Strong and wild and full of pride and a sense of how things should be.’ Dengir fiddled with the rusted clasps and opened the chest with a squeal of protesting hinges, and gestured to Gjaldir to look inside. He stepped forwards and peered into the box, and saw a rusted iron helmet sitting on a coat of brown flecked maille, a sheathed seax, and a pair of fine Norse axes.

‘The maille and helmet will do you no good, you are too large, but the axe, knife and shield are yours. Take them, go with our people.’

‘What? What about you?’

Dengir laughed and sat down on a sack of charcoal with a tired sigh, leaning his head back against the wall. ‘I am too old and tired to start a new journey in this world.’

‘But the Christians are coming, they will burn the city and kill all within it,’ protested Gjaldir, as if the old man was mad.

Dengir snorted with derision and reached into the box, taking the smaller axe and weighing its feel in his fingers. ‘I am a smith, boy. I do not fear fire. Nor do I fear the Christians. In my youth, we were the terror of their shores. They are only here because it is they who fear us, and it was men like me that taught them to.’

Gjaldir’s eyes narrowed. ‘Then you and your fellows brought this disaster down upon yourselves.’

‘Yes, perhaps that is true, or perhaps it would have happened anyway. Only the gods know. It is simply the way of things, not to be questioned,’ replied the old man, not showing any offence. He reached into the box again and cast aside the rusted maille and reached beneath it, bringing up two heavy sacks that clinked and rattled, passing one to Gjaldir.

He took it, confused by its weight and feel. He opened the string-tied neck and gasped at the contents. Gold and time-tarnished silver glinted back at him. Armrings and hacksilver, coins and plate.

‘What is this?’

‘My plunder, from my days as a young man raiding. What I didn’t spend starting this forge, I kept for my funeral, to take with me to the other side.’ He laughed sadly. ‘But I am only a small man, and this one bag will suffice and prove my worth to the gods. Take the other, it is my last gift to you, payment for all your days of slavery here in my home.’

Gjaldir suppressed an angry retort, remembering that Master Herman from the Minden forge had also paid him off with a bag of silver when he was done with him, silver that had done him no good, and in fact nearly got him killed.

He dropped the bag back into the box and shook his head. ‘I will take the weapons with thanks, but I have no need for riches where I am going, and no desire for others to see me with them. Misery follows silver like a shadow.’

Dengir nodded approvingly. ‘You are a smart lad, and have learned much while you were here.’ He rummaged in his sack and came out with a single silver coin. He held it up and pressed it into Gjaldir’s hand. It was small and unfamiliar to him, but he saw that it was inscribed in Latin, the language of the priests at home, one that he could not read. In the centre of one side was a face in profile, and on the other a strange creature, like a fat-legged ox, but with huge ears and a thick tail for a nose.

‘What is this?’

‘It is a coin of the ancients, taken from a rich house in Alba. It will bring you luck. Growing old is lucky, and surviving to be as old as that coin is a blessing of the gods themselves.’

‘I… Thank you. Do you not need it?’

Dengir chuckled and smiled smugly. ‘I have many of these coins. I am very lucky, and it was a very rich house.’ Dengir levered himself to his feet as Gjaldir tucked the strange coin into his belt pouch and gathered the axe and scabbarded seax from the chest while Dengir took the shield down from the wall and brushed the filth from it. ‘It is old and dry, like many of us are, but it will work,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘But those blades will need cleaning and sharpening, and the leather oiling and softening. Let’s do that before you go.’

The two men sat down together to quickly service the two weapons, Gjaldir taking a simple comfort from the familiar task and the calm presence of the man he now knew to be an old warrior. When they were done, Dengir lit the coals in the forge, where Gjaldir’s hammer still lay.

‘What are you doing?’

Dengir did not look up at him, and a strange look of sadness and haunting was on his face as he stared at the rising flames.

‘I won’t waste good steel. You should go now, boy. The people will be leaving, and I will not allow the Christians to loot and despoil this forge. This place was built by my hand, and by my hands it will fall.’ The friendly tone was gone, and Dengir was fixated on the fire. Gjaldir tried to think of something to say, but his life had been filled with farewells, too many of them painful, and he just nodded and picked up the unfamiliar axe and shield, the seax already belted around his waist.

As he watched the shaft of his hammer burst into rich flames, and the dark metal begin to flake and spark in the coals, he left the old warrior-smith alone with the darkness of his thoughts, and the brightness of the fire.

Gjaldir walked northwards through the familiar streets to Ragnvald’s hall, as a stream of people filed down each street towards the west, weighed down with possessions, shouting at children, and pushing or pulling carts and even sleds of every kind.

He ignored them all, ignored the strange looks and muttered words of those who saw his weapons and jumped to conclusions about him. He arrived at Ragnvald’s hall and found slaves and free women milling about in the street, loading food and furs and clothes into carts and the panniers of a trio of small horses.

As he stood there, he saw Halla and Bjorn talking. The warrior was streaked in dried blood and mud, and looked exhausted. Halla saw him standing there before Bjorn, and narrowed her eyes in confusion before waving him over. Her face was taut and lined, she had aged years in the days since he had last seen her.

‘My husband said you might be coming… but I didn’t understand it was as a warrior.’

Gjaldir bowed his head. ‘I will come as one, if you will accept me.’

Halla sighed and nodded her head. ‘It does not matter what I think, but you are welcome to come with us, Gjaldir, as my husband promised you. Bjorn will tell you what is needed. At the moment, it is your hands, not your weapons, that are useful.’ Halla turned away to give instructions to a slave girl who was carrying a pile of furs, showing her where to stow it.

Bjorn looked at Gjaldir with a gaze of contempt, and pointed at a wagon. ‘Put your weapons there, and come and help in the hall.’ Gjaldir nodded, putting his shield and axe carefully in the side of the wagon, and felt Bjorn’s firm grip on his arm. He turned to find the man’s eyes boring into his. ‘Who decided you were to be a warrior?’

‘I did,’ said Gjaldir, unflinching in his return stare.

‘Hmm.’ Bjorn relaxed his grip. ‘We shall see. Holding weapons does not make a man into a warrior, Christian.’

‘I am not a Christian,’ said Gjaldir defiantly.

‘Then what are you?’

‘I am Gjaldir, a free man of the Norse.’

‘Why? Why are you coming with us, when your people come here to take this place?’

Gjaldir looked around the gathering, seeing the slaves he had lived with, cooked with, laughed with. He saw Leif, looking frail and shaken, a man who he had shared combat and mead and stories with. His eyes turned to Halla, whose darkest secret he kept, whose life he had saved, and who had given him his freedom in return. He saw her cuff away her tears when she thought no one was looking, and felt a deep pain for the loss of the jarl. His jarl.

And he saw, with a flutter in his chest he could not deny, Brunhild, who he had loved and adored, clutching her child. He smiled and turned to Bjorn, happy with himself and the choice he had made.

‘You are mistaken, Bjorn. These are my people.’

Bjorn saw the confidence in Gjaldir’s smile and nodded slowly. ‘So be it, Gjaldir. My lord gave his blessing to it, and thus I will not contest it. Now, free man, come and help carry things.’

The sad convoy made its way out of the city later that day. Some of the people wept, children huddled confused with their families, and the few men with the group refused to look back at the city for the shame of it.

On the hill behind Uppsala, the great temple burned. The high priestess had locked herself in the huge building with her assistants and now towering flames burst from the ancient wooden structure, the surface of its great golden chain melting and flaking away to reveal the dry liar’s wood underneath.

Gjaldir was one of the few who looked back as the last of the people left, and his eyes searched the south of the city and saw the first curls of smoke rising from the direction of Dengir’s forge. He put a hand on the handle of the old warrior’s belted seax and smiled sadly. ‘Peace be upon you, brother, may the flames carry you safely away.’

Finally, when he was the last one standing on the road, and smoke was spreading through the city, he turned and started jogging down the western road, the start of a journey whose course he did not know, whose destination was wreathed in the smoke and chaos of war. But for the first time in his life, it was the road he himself had chosen to walk, and he started down it without the old feeling of fear or helplessness.

Gjaldir was finally a man pulling at the strings of fate himself, and the gods themselves would feel the strain.

Epilogue

Halfar was in his dreary Lundjen hotel when the phone rang. It had been two days since the threatening note was left under his windscreen wiper, and he had barely left the building. He told himself it was because he did not want to trouble the officer who waited in the lobby to escort him to anywhere he wanted to go, but the truth was he was simply afraid.

He looked at the phone and saw a number he did not recognise. After pondering it for a moment, he answered. ‘Hello?’

‘Mr Asleson? Inspector Schultz.’

‘Ah, inspector.’ Halfar sat up with renewed interest. ‘Do you have news?’

‘Yes, can I see you?’

‘Uh, yes, well… Do I need to come to you, can we do this over the phone?’

‘There is no need, I am downstairs.’ Halfar cringed at the idea the man would know he had been hiding in his room. ‘You can come and see me here, if you are available?’

‘Certainly, inspector. I will come right down.’ Halfar fussed around with his clothes, wondering if he should wear a jacket, then throwing his hands up and just going down in what he had been wearing, regardless of the fact that he had been wearing it for two days.

He took the stairs down and found Schultz, this time in civilian clothes, sitting in the bar area at a table. He went over to the man and nodded nervously, sitting down in the chair the inspector proffered.

‘How are you, Halfar?’

‘I am well, all things considered.’

‘It is normal, in this situation, to be afraid, to feel isolated. We could do this at the station, but I thought you would prefer to do it here, and avoid public exposure.’

‘I’m fine, I could go to the station. What if they are watching you here?’

‘We have taken suitable precautions,’ Shultz reassured him.

‘Then what have you found?’

‘We checked your museum security camera footage. During your meeting at the university, a man gained entry via a back window.’

‘Someone broke into my museum?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he do? Did he steal anything, destroy anything?’

‘No. All he did was place a small package on the counter.’

‘What?’

‘Officers gained entry into your museum and checked the package. I’m afraid, due to the threat, they caused some damage during this process.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m sorry, but precautions were necessary. In any case, the contents of the package were not dangerous.’ Shultz took a printed A4 photograph from his folder and passed it across the table.

‘Do you recognise this?’

The image was of a necklace, a silver chain with stars. Halfar looked at it intently. ‘I have seen this before. But…’ He realised where and dropped the photograph in horror. ‘It is Ingrid’s, she wore it for the visit to the university, to see the sword.’

Schultz nodded. ‘That is what we discovered.’

‘But Ingrid, is she…’

‘She is fine. We discovered that her house was also broken into, and this item taken from her room while the family were out.’

‘Dear God.’ Halfar put his face in his hands. ‘Who are these people?’

‘The brotherhood? We don’t know much yet, and it is limited what I can tell you in an ongoing investigation, but they appear to be an extremist Germanic nationalist group that has a very limited online profile.’

‘What can you do about them?’

‘We have escalated this to the national extremism taskforce. The threat against a child, of a terrorist nature, has made this a very high priority, and I promise we will be leaving no stone unturned as we search for the perpetrators, but I can tell you nothing about that investigation’s progress.’

‘I understand. What do I do now?’

‘We suggest you do not return home, your museum is not secure, and the nearest police are often too far away. I have arranged with the university for you to be accommodated in their residences, and the campus will have a permanent police presence and added security checks until this is over. You may also request an escort at any time when you travel away from the university. Call the number I gave you before.’

Halfar sagged. Abandon his museum? The thought appalled him. But so did the idea of being isolated there with these maniacs able to get to him.

Halfar nodded his acceptance.

‘Good. Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Asleson. The officer will wait here for you to gather your things, and drive you to the university. We will arrange for any possessions you require from your home to be brought to you, if you wish. We will need a key for that.’

Halfar nodded, and fished around in his pocket before coming out empty-handed. ‘I left it upstairs.’

‘It is no problem, give it to the officer later. Do you have any questions for me?’

Halfar shook his head dumbly.

‘Then thank you for your time, I will go and continue my inquiries.’

‘Thank you.’

Halfar sat in silence as the inspector stood up and left, until he was alone with his thoughts.

Two weeks later and Halfar was in his borrowed office in the university. He was bored, and poring over details of the conservation of the finds that had been dug up with the sword Ljós a Norðan. He was examining the details of all the artefacts, trying to see if there was any detail they had missed, anything that would tell them more about the legendary wielder, Gjaldir, or give some evidence who the man was, or if he even existed.

He moved the image of the gold torque around on the screen. On the outside of the torque, the runic engraving was incised deep into the metal: Born under the cross, live under the hammer. The names of the four great companions of Gjaldir were inscribed clearly on the underside. Bjorn – Vidar – Leif – Gunnar, but there was nothing else, no markings, nothing that seemed to have been removed. The only link to the man was that those names also appeared in the original saga.

As he was poring over the next image, there was a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ he said, looking up from the screen.

Professor Hallsson opened the door, and Halfar saw that there were two men behind him. Hallsson looked excited. The two men had not been on good terms since Halfar quit the project and refused to engage further with the government minders, but no trace of that quarrel was evidenced on Hallsson’s face as he ushered the two men in.

‘These two gentlemen have brought something in, something you will want to see.’

Halfar squinted at the men, two youngish men with rough beards and outdoorsy clothes, country folk clearly. The leading one held a cloth-wrapped bundle, which he nervously brought over to Halfar and placed on the desk next to him with a solid thud.

Curious, Halfar held his questions about who the men were, and reached over to unwrap the bundle, which contained a large, heavy metal object. He pulled the last fold of cloth away and gasped in delight. It was a large Nordic broad axe, but an exceptional one. The condition was remarkable, the surface was darkened and pitted, and much of the edge worn away, but the outstanding aspect was that the surface of the blade was heavily engraved and inlaid with gold and silver, much of which was still in place.

Halfar was instantly reminded of the Mammen axe, but this one was larger by far, and in place of the serpents and geometric shapes, a single runic message was carved between curved lines. Halfar leaned over to try to read it. Some of the inlay was missing or damaged, and some of the channels widened and obscured by corrosion, but he could still make out most of the figures. As he deciphered the runes, he became more and more animated.

Finally, with a cry of delight, he looked up at Hallsson. ‘No, it can’t be.’

‘How do you make out the runes?’ asked Hallsson excitedly.

‘“I am the voice…” Hmm, no better as “I am Justice, the word of Sigurd Northking”.’

‘Yes, that is how I read it too!’

‘My word. Has this been checked? Is it genuine? Dear lord, we must get it into conservation immediately.’

‘There is no rush, it is quite dry and clean. It has been out of the ground for decades according to these men. And they have looked after it well.’

‘How? Why? You must tell me everything.’ He looked at the two men with unrestrained glee. ‘Tell me, how did you find an axe that says it belongs to the king of all the Norse? We are not even sure he is a real historical figure, the records are so conflicting and limited.’

The two men looked at each other nervously. ‘The axe was found by our grandfather before we were born, on our farm when he was clearing and draining some marshland for a new field. It has been in the family ever since.’

‘Your grandfather?’ Halfar narrowed his eyes. ‘And he never reported it? Nor did you?’

The first man shook his head apologetically. ‘He made our father promise not to, said he didn’t trust the government with our history. He was a deep believer in the old Norse ways, you see. He thought of that axe as sacred, our birthright.’

Halfar chortled and smiled. ‘I understand, my feelings about government care of Norse history are very similar.’

‘We know, that is why we have decided it is time for this to finally be handed in. With the sword, you know, the Light of the North - with that being discovered, we decided it was time this should be known too. I hope we did the right thing.’

‘I believe you have. It is a remarkable find, very exciting for the history of this country, and now is a great time to tell its story. Tell me, did your grandfather find anything else with the axe, did he leave anything else to you? Or is this it?’

The two men exchanged glances and the second nodded encouragingly to the first, who looked back at Halfar in a hushed voice and continued.

‘Mr Asleson. We don’t just have King Sigurd’s axe. We know where he is buried.’

Afterword and Historical Note

I hope you had half as much fun reading this as I did writing it. As I reach the end of my third book, I have nothing but delight for the whole process of writing and publishing it. Much of it is hard, much of it is painful and longwinded, but all of it is in pursuit of a clear goal: telling a story.

As part of telling that story, especially an alternate history like this, I take some liberties with what happened, what is likely, and what is possible, while maintaining as much historical and cultural accuracy as I can without getting in the way of the narrative.

I have spoken before about how I researched bladesmithing by doing it myself and won’t labour the point, but in research, reading is great and ‘doing’ is better. I wish that I had visited all these locations I am writing about. I have been to Stadsholmen, which is now an island in central Stockholm, built over and unrecognisable from its Norse days, but still the vital gateway into the lake now known as the Malaren, in Norse times known as Lǫgrinn.

I wish I had visited Uppsala myself before I so callously burned it to the ground in these pages. The old burial mounds of the Swedish kings are still there, although the mysterious temple itself is gone without a trace, its foundations possibly buried beneath a church that now stands there on one of the mounds. But all these trips and more were planned and then cancelled in an age of the virus that shall not be named, curses be upon its family for all time.

As always, many of the new characters are historical figures and relationships between them are somewhat based on reality. Duke Henry the Black was indeed the younger brother of Duke Welf of Bavaria, but did not murder him (at least, there is no reason to believe he did). He inherited Welf’s power and titles when Welf died. There is no record of why he was called ‘the black’, although the name is fairly contemporary, so it amused me to give it a genesis that fitted with the story.

Henry the Black truly was a rival of Duke Lothair, they often backed opposing sides in the empire’s internal conflicts. He was likely to become the Duke of Saxony until Lothair managed to secure that title by ‘backing the right horse’ in one of the empire’s many internal conflicts of power. So it seemed completely logical to have these two men continue their rivalry in the way portrayed in this book.

When Henry the Black finally got what he wanted, a duchy, he only ruled for six years as duke before he too died, but during that time created a legacy that had an enormous impact on European history, something that persists in subtle ways right into the modern era. In 1125, he brokered a deal, the details of which are secret to this day, with his old rival Lothair, a deal that would see Lothair made emperor. As part of this deal their children married – his son and Lothair’s daughter – securing Henry’s family future as pre-eminent in the Holy Roman Empire for generations.

However, by making one ally, he made a bitter enemy. In this case, the other candidate for emperor, the Duke of Swabia, whom he had previously supported and thus betrayed by striking a deal with Lothair. This betrayal created a permanent and bitter conflict between the two houses; the House of Welf led by Henry, and the House of Hohenstaufen led by Frederick of Swabia. That bitter conflict would dominate German and Italian politics for the next four hundred years, forming two rival camps, the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, who would fight countless wars on opposing sides, and whose influence helped mould the patchwork coalition of northern Italian states, and steer the course of the Papacy.

Those conflicts led to results that decided the course of much of Italian and papal history, which would be enormously different if Henry had not betrayed Frederick for Lothair, his arch-enemy, for reasons we will never learn.

When I read that history, I found it utterly fascinating. It could easily fill a book of its own (and maybe one day I will do that), but I just had to weave their rivalry and ruthless quest for power into this book.

Likewise, Count Conrad was real, and was the brother of Reinhard, although we know nothing about their relationship other than that Reinhard was a very active political figure, even a war leader (as senior clergy often were in the early and high middle ages), so I’ve filled in the gaps from there how I saw fit.

Margrave Rudolf, Count Otto, Duke Simon of Swabia and so on are all real men whose history I have borrowed and re-written.

In contrast, none of the Norse lords I have introduced are real other than King Sigurd himself, who was, not without huge irony, actually a Christian monarch and famed Crusader. We simply don’t have records of Norse nobility in the same way, and we don’t even know who most of the kings of Sweden were in that era, let alone the jarls. Which is a great shame, but does give me a blank canvas to play with.

For all the times I tried to stay as close to reality as possible, there are other times I have to bend the truth for the good of the story. Southern Sweden isn’t nearly as cold or snowy in the winter as I made it out to be in the first part of this book. Not only that, but the events of this novel took place in the mediaeval warm period, where the climate in north-eastern America, Greenland, Iceland, Britain and Scandinavia and some other parts of Europe was much more hospitable than average for the last few thousand years, akin to today’s conditions. The truth is that the Crusaders besieging Jönköping would have been a bit soggy and chilly, and would have experienced intermittent but not such permanent or heavy snow. The lake there doesn’t even always freeze in winter, and when it does, not usually until January and only very thinly other than in exceptional years.

But there is little drama to be had in the opposing forces ‘being a little chilly’, and I didn’t want the book to be titled A Forge of Damp, so I lowered the temperature by five or more degrees and made it snow a lot more. Maybe it was just a particularly bad year! It’s one of a few major deviations from reality that you might notice if you know the subject matter well enough, or live in the area, and you’ll just have to forgive me the liberties I took!

The sword Ljós a Norðan being made from meteorite iron, and having special meaning for it, is both realistic and historical. Meteorite iron can be quite hard to work (due to different alloying metals within it), and requires extra experience, but ancient smiths used it when it was available and there are famous blades of meteorite iron that have survived to this day. Pharaoh Tutankhamun was buried with a dagger of meteorite iron, considered valuable enough to be placed on his body with the wondrous gold objects he was surrounded with.

I also, as some of you will know, actually had the sword made. The sword on the cover is Ljós a Norðan itself, and it really was hand-forged and has a core of layered meteorite and smelted bloomery iron that the smith, Owen Bush, smelted himself using some (not all) period-accurate methods. It’s on the wall behind me now as I write. And yes, it is exactly as cool as you’d think it would feel to be able to say that. The sword is decorated as described in the book and all that stunning bronzework ‘dressing’ the blade, and the beautiful scabbard complete with carved bone dragon, was done by Petr Florianek. It’s a masterpiece of swordsmithing. It’s a hardened, folded, battle-ready steel blade and wouldn’t disgrace the belt of any Norse lord of the period. Owning something like this gives you a real insight into how precious swords would have been to their owners, both in financial worth, and sentimental value.

I must, I feel, address something which may be regarded as controversial, but shouldn’t be: the increasing inclusion of female warriors in this book and series. They were not notable in the first volume of my book, which was a time of dedicated, semi-professional Norse warbands. I believe, and the limited evidence suggests, that female warriors were unlikely to have been common in Viking warbands who raided and warred overseas, gone from their homes for seasons or years. There are many societal and logical reasons for this at the time. However, as the war comes home, and many of the experienced warriors have died, I find it equally logical that more and more Norse women would have taken up arms to defend their lands, and there are four primary reasons.

They can. There is no well-informed argument that women cannot fight with period weapons. If you don’t believe me, go to your local HEMA (Historical European Martial Arts) club and find out for yourself!

Populations were low in the Norse kingdoms compared to much of Western Europe, and as with the armies in this book, suitable recruits would have been hard to find. If an army was defending its home, why wouldn’t they make use of willing and able young women? It would have been madness not to.

The Norse culture (in my alternative history, anyway) was not Christian, it did not have mediaeval Christianity’s very male-dominated worldview and societal structure. Female warriors are common in Norse mythology, many of the goddesses are noted for their connection to war.

There are confirmed burials of Norse warrior burials with female skeletons, buried with all the accoutrements of war. There are also multiple intersecting contemporary accounts from non-Norse sources that speak of female warriors with Norse forces as far apart as Byzantium and Northumberland. They simply would have had no reason to tell the same lie.

We need to take a neutral lens when we examine these things. Accepting the clear evidence that women likely took a limited but relevant part in Norse warfare is simply the logical conclusion, and that is important to me. This isn’t politics, it’s history.

My last word on the subject is that these female warriors in my books are not ‘shieldmaidens’, which even at the time was a romanticised term, and more referring to mythological figures like the legendary princess Brunhild, a staple of Germanic and Norse storytelling, than real people. These were just warriors and citizens defending their homes.

If you have made it this far, I thank and congratulate you. As a debut self-published author writing in my spare time in the age of Amazon and social media, my publishing career will live and die on reviews, tweets, Facebook recommendations, Goodreads write-ups and ‘likes’. So if this tale entertained you and you wish to see more, go to the nearest internet portal and let the world know. Each review makes it more likely I will be able to continue to write. Thank you all so much.

Anyway, enough of all that. The saga of Ljós a Norðan will continue. The great army of the Norse has been defeated in the decisive battle and many of their heroes lie slain. But the people live on, and in a time of great upheaval and mourning, they will have to persevere, and continue the fight for the right to a future. The path to that future has only just begun. From chaos comes order, and from darkness will come the Light of the North.

Book Four, The Weeping Winter, will be out in winter 2022/2023 and the fifth and final book, A Burning Blade (yes, this is not an open-ended series!) will hopefully be available in summer 2023.

James C. Duncan

March 2022

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About the author

Hi there! I’m James Duncan. As an author I am fascinated with history and fantasy. I write historical fantasy/fiction based on our world, but in an alternate timeline, past, present, or future. Each book or series asks and tries to answer a question of ‘What if?’ My debut series, the Light of the North saga, asks the question ‘What if the Norse didn’t convert to Christianity, and instead the Viking raids continued?’ And posits the answer, which you will have to read the rest of the series to find out! I do not create new worlds, I mess with the history and future of ours, grounded in our own past and the laws of our universe, but tweaked in events and often adding a soft sprinkling of the divine or fantastical, resulting in relatable historical and future fantasy.

Outside of authoring, I am a professional engineer, and split my spare time writing, reading, and being an amateur bladesmith. My bladesmithing work, and more information about my life and authoring, and the ability to contact me and talk to me directly, are available on my website. Thank you so much for reading until the last word of this book.