Читать книгу The Fighting Man - Adrian Deans - Страница 14

Chapter 7

A Profoundly Arousing Pleasure

We could smell Theodford long before we could see it.

There must have been nothing but tanners and butchers because the place smelled like rotting meat, turd and piss – all mixed together with vomit and fermenting into a stench so strong and foul I thought I would never scour it from my nose and throat. And that was from half a mile away!

When it finally came into view, I was amazed not so much by its size as by the concentration of so many dwellings in one place. There had to be hundreds of shacks and hovels all clustered together around a church and a strange-looking conical hill, which looked like a good site for a fort – and sure enough, as we approached, I could see men watching from the summit. Harold raised a great standard – The Fighting Man he called it – with the strangely angular warrior brandishing his sword on a white field with a red and gold border, and the banner was answered by those on the hilltop who dipped their own flag twice in acknowledgment of Harold’s return.

A shallow stream flowed through the town, which we forded – the water rising no higher than our knees and the stench increasing with every step. In area, the town was not much bigger than the village of Stybbor, but Stybbor had only twenty or so small buildings between the church and the monastery, whereas Theodford must have had hundreds all crammed and clustered together with wattle walls, thatch and wooden roofs, and in between them tiny, twisting lanes like the game trails of the forest. And although it hadn’t rained for some days, the lanes were all thick with mud. As we passed, women threw scraps and slops onto the ground outside their doors and grimy children pissed against their own wattle walls. There were butchers hanging joints and carcases which dripped onto the ground and tables of eels and fish next to a vast tannery with its vats of piss and pig shit for the curing of leather. Smoke seemed to pour from every roof and fires burned in forges and open kitchens.

The main street of the town headed more or less straight towards the church. People – hundreds of people – far more than I had ever seen in one place – thronged from their houses and lined the street to catch a glimpse of Harold and his party. Harold was cheered but the serfs were jostled and jeered and pelted with garbage. Slops and buckets were thrown over them and the stink of turd was stronger than ever.

Valla looked terrified and, dressed in similar fashion to the serf women, she was soon mistaken for one of them and attacked by the hags of the town. A woman, snarling with delighted venom, threw a bucket of piss at Valla, splashing me also. But before I could react, Tostig bellowed in anger and clubbed the woman with a mailed fist, so that she collapsed into the mud with blood streaming from her broken nose and mouth.

‘Can’t you protect your own wife, Brand?’ laughed Tostig, as I stared at the woman groaning and bleeding in the filth until she was trampled and obscured by the crowd that followed hard behind us, calling for Harold to resolve arguments or give favours.

As we approached the church, I could see yet another large building standing well away from the cluttered mass of shacks and hovels, raised above the ground on stone foundations but with sturdy wooden walls and a wooden roof. It was surrounded by a six foot fence of thorn and sharpened stakes, with a large courtyard and even a stable. I had seen few horses in my short life.

‘Welcome to my house,’ said Harold. ‘I stay here rarely, but for tonight we will linger.’

The new serfs were led over to the stable where a huge man with a black beard was tending a forge, and the women began to wail.

‘What will become of them Lord?’ asked Valla, and Harold glanced over with little interest.

‘Do you have no bonded servants of your own?’ asked Tostig, strangely amused I thought.

‘We have servants,’ I replied.

‘Then your wife should know that these scum will be marked with Harold’s device so that should they ever stray they can be reclaimed and corrected.’

As he spoke, the first of the men – the snaggle-toothed red head – was branded on the arm where he’d been cut by my sword, thus marking and sealing his wound in one action, causing him to erupt yelping from his stupor, and causing Tostig and the other soldiers to laugh – Tostig almost doubled over with mirth.

The rest of the serfs were pushed into line for marking but Harold was beckoning me up his stairs and shouting for servants.

‘Rooms!’ he shouted to a fat and flustered chamberlain, who glanced at me askance from his deep bowing.

‘I need two extra guest rooms,’ boomed Harold. ‘One fit for a man of God … and one for a thegn and his lady.’

Harold’s house was large and open, and despite our proximity to the stinking town, smelt clean and sweet, not unlike my home in Stybbor. Carl, Valla and I were ushered down a passageway by a couple of servants as Harold cried after us, ‘Come to me in an hour Brand. We have much to talk about.’

∞ ∞ ∞

‘Tostig wonders,’ said Valla, sitting at a low table, brushing the tangles out of her long, black hair.

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘you should act in a way to allay his suspicions.’

Valla was dressed in a pale green samite gown with a black girdle. It had been delivered by one of the servants with the message that Harold wanted to see Valla restored to garb befitting her station. Valla had ordered me to turn my back as she changed out of her skins and rags but I had managed to sneak a glimpse of her and felt heady with desire – to be in a rich bedchamber with my naked ‘wife’ was a profoundly arousing pleasure.

‘He stares at me,’ shuddered Valla.

‘I do not!’

‘Tostig fool … what sort of husband misses the carnal stares of other men?’

‘Maybe if I had the rights of a husband, I’d be more attentive to the duties … ’

‘Your right, husband, is to continue living … in gratitude to she who slew Olaf the Pighammer, and could slay thee in thy turn.’

I laughed, amused by what (I was fairly sure) must be a novel situation in the strange lives of men and women.

‘I’m not going to argue with you on our wedding night,’ I said, and for the first time, Valla seemed to relax a little in my presence. She might even have smiled at my jest.

‘How long do we need to maintain the pretence,’ I asked, enjoying watching her comb. ‘I’m going to Lundene, but now we’re out of the woods and in the company of Harold, I suppose I could release you from your contract to come with me all the way.’

Valla paused in her combing.

‘And you will honour your promise? To give me the forest?’

I gulped, but nodded. The promise so easily given when it had little chance of being fulfilled, now seemed absurdly generous. With the support of Harold, who could choose between Malgard and me as our liege lord, it seemed that my victory was already complete.

‘I have no desire to go to Lundene,’ said Valla, resuming her combing, ‘but we made a contract and I feel honour-bound to fulfil my part of it. I shall continue.’

‘Perhaps that’s just as well,’ I said, greatly pleased that she was staying. ‘It would be difficult to explain your return to Stybbor … where surely you lived as my wife in blissful content, until the Danes came.’

‘The man I truly marry,’ she said, putting her comb down. ‘Must be worthy of me.’

‘Worthy!’ I exclaimed. ‘In case it’s escaped your attention, your husband is thegn of Stybbor. Most people would say that, for a cave-dwelling bog-witch, you’ve rather come up in the world.’

Valla stared at me – her eyes freezing with contempt.

‘Simpleton,’ she hissed. ‘Fool! Is that how you account worth? The peculiar manner of your birth?’

‘It is God’s way,’ I said, remembering Waldo’s teaching. ‘God has appointed his church and the king to make order for other men. But who are you to talk about peculiar births … oh Valla of the two hundred and forty-two years?’

‘If you were truly worthy,’ she said, ignoring my deft revelation of her hypocrisy, ‘ … truly worthy of taking my maidenhead and sending Valla on to a new birth … you would demonstrate that, like Valla, you are above or beyond the petty rules and orderings of other men … thegn or no.’

‘How do I do that?’ I asked, genuinely perplexed.

‘That’s for you to work out … husband.’

∞ ∞ ∞

Carl looked very different.

Gone were his Viking breeches and smock, and Harold’s smiths had removed the iron collar. He now wore a long linen shirt, tied at the waste with a light silver chain, white stockings and a brown cloak and cowl, thrown back off his shoulders. His beard was shaved, his long hair had been cut, as though shaped with a bowl, and a tonsure had been shaved in his crown.

‘It is three years since my capture,’ he said, constantly running his hand around his neck which was heavily scarred from the collar. ‘I have much time to make up … to resume God’s work.’

‘Did you achieve no evangelism among the Danes?’ asked Harold, standing in front of a crackling fire in the largest hearth I had ever seen. Harold also was washed and shaved and dressed in a dark blue tunic, richly made of fine spun wool, and matching blue stockings. Around his shoulders was hung a heavy chain of bronze with a gold pendant like enough to the shape of The Fighting Man.

‘Perhaps,’ said Carl. ‘Conversion to the one true God can happen suddenly in the heart of a man who has spent years in the company of Christians … and didn’t know he was becoming a Christian until the moment it happened.’

‘What about Ulrik?’ asked Harold. ‘Could he ever be Christian?’

Carl shuddered.

‘I will pray for him,’ he said.

‘I will also pray,’ I added, ‘although I freely concede my prayers for Ulrik have little to do with salvation.’

That got a laugh from the warriors listening and more ale was poured into wooden cups. I tried to take it slowly, remembering my last bout with ale at my brother’s wedding, but Tostig kept jogging my arm and encouraging me to drink cup after cup.

‘Drink Brand!’ he cried. ‘We are warriors, you and I. We must take our pleasures as they come for do we not risk all in the service of our lords? It is meet that your lord lavishes now food and drink upon you so waste not the opportunity to gorge!’

I found myself very much liking Tostig, but I was starting to notice the looks he gave Valla. She stood close to me – close enough for a wife, but not close enough for me to take advantage of the situation and hold her with husbandly affection.

Harold had me repeat my story for the benefit of his favoured retainers and for his Minister Olwin.

‘Olwin was Minister to my father Godwin,’ said Harold, ‘and a wiser man never drew breath in all Inglalond.’

Olwin, a tall, elderly and rather dignified looking man with still some black in the edges of his moustache and beard bowed deeply in response to his master’s compliment.

‘If I have any wisdom sire, then it can only have been gotten at the feet of your honoured father.’

‘To Godwin,’ shouted Tostig, raising his cup. ‘The true power behind the throne of Inglalond. His victory is at hand!’

‘To Godwin!’ roared the room, and I raised my cup in turn and drained it as they did.

Somehow, in the last few seconds, the mood had changed. Suddenly, the men all seemed ready to fight and Harold glared at me, and then at Carl.

‘Know ye that we serve the king, Brand?’ he asked.

‘Yes Lord,’ I said, confused by the question and a little befuddled by ale.

‘The office of the king we hold in the highest esteem,’ said Harold, insistently, as though speaking before the witan.

‘The office of the king,’ agreed Olwin, ‘ … but not always the man!’

If I was confused by the question I was frightened by the elaboration and the glares of defiance. Then Valla said, ‘You hold not Edward in esteem Lord?’

Harold considered her for a moment and said, ‘Your wife is political Brand?’

I didn’t know what to say or think. Part of me was confused utterly by the conversation and I was wary of insulting my lord and host through ignorant response. Another part of me was embarrassed that my ‘wife’ was taking part in the speech of men – a part I should have been playing myself.

‘I’m not sure I know what you mean by political,’ I replied, dragging my ale-sodden wits together, ‘but she speaks her mind Lord, and ’tis perilous to stop her.’

It was the right answer. Harold boomed with laughter, and Valla gave me a genuine smile – the first time ever, and I felt a warmth.

‘The Lord protect us from wise women,’ laughed Harold. ‘The Lady Valla reminds me of my own Lady Swanneshals, who will join us at table.’

‘The Lady Valla,’ I whispered, smiling at her, but her own smile faded and she said to Harold, ‘Are you political Lord?’

‘What man is not?’ asked Tostig, answering for his brother. ‘But I know what I would do with a political woman young Brand … give her something else to think about. Some sons perhaps?’

Most of the men laughed, and I found myself saying, ‘Valla hopes for a daughter.’

‘A daughter, Lady Valla?’ asked Harold.

‘Yes Lord,’ she replied, and at that moment, the room temperature changed again as all marked a new presence in the doorway – a woman – tall and comely, with long blond hair and dressed in white samite with a silver bodice.

‘Eadgifu!’ announced Harold. ‘My Lady Swanneshals … come meet our guests and neighbours, from Stybbor.’

And so I first beheld the beautiful Swanneshals – daughter of Danes and married to Harold more danico – a union regarded as honourable among men but unbinding by the church, which is why Carl had suggested it to Valla as useful for her predicament.

‘You were discussing motherhood?’ enquired Swanneshals, gliding towards us but with eyes only for Valla – the only other woman in the room. ‘But surely this wife is yet young to bear children.’

Valla blushed, embarrassed by the attention, as Swanneshals examined her and continued, ‘For a young woman, motherhood is akin to heaven. We all want to get there … but not yet.’

The men all laughed, admiring her wit.

‘As I was just saying, my Lady Swanneshals,’ said Harold, ‘the Lord protect us from wise women.’

‘We are perilous,’ agreed Swanneshals, ‘but more tragic yet it is to go through life without a partner of whom one is worthy.’

There were some tight smiles but also frowns as her words were digested. She seemed to be staring at me, as though her words had special meaning for me personally and I felt an awe, as though she had been an invisible presence during my conversation with Valla on the same subject. The ale seemed to be surging again in my head and I resolved to speak as little as possible in order to retain the dignity I knew I was in danger of losing – although it was hard to seem undignified in the company of Tostig, who threw his arm around my shoulders and shouted to the room, ‘Six men he would take on, when we met him! Six! And two of them Godwinsons! Not yet fifteen but this Brand is already a warrior after my own heart and together we shall slay thousands!’

I was in my element among the warriors (despite never having slain anyone), and held myself tall as my bones and sinews would allow. Despite my youth, I was already taller than some of the retainers and seemed to understand for the first time that I might grow to be a large man. Certainly my dead brother Gram had been tall, and Holgar also had been large and well muscled. I joined eagerly into the drinking and the boisterous conversation but was aware of Swanneshals leading Valla by the hand to an alcove with divans either side of a window made of many glass panels, which flickered red in the light of the hearth. There were rushes on the stone floor and many candles about the room giving a strange but cheerful glow to proceedings. The other men, retainers and warriors for the most part, were already quite drunk and boasting of their various exploits. The petty skirmish of the day was soon forgotten as they passed on to more honourable and close-fought battles against Danes and others of whom I’d never heard.

‘The Danes are few and scattered these days,’ said Harold, ‘which is one of the things that makes Brand’s tale so curious. We are entertained more regularly by the Welsh.’

‘The Welsh?’ I echoed thickly. ‘Who are the Welsh?’

‘Sheepfuckers!’ shouted Tostig. ‘The Welsh are a race of sheepfuckers who live in the west … and Gruffydd ap Llewelyn is their king. King Sheepfucker!’

‘All hail King Sheepfucker!’ roared Hereborn, one of Tostig’s men and somehow it seemed like the funniest thing I’d ever heard. My head whirled with delirious mirth and I felt my lungs and guts would explode trying to get all the laughter out. Tostig also was purple-faced once again, with tears rolling down his cheeks. Only Harold seemed to be unaffected by either ale or laughter, but he smiled at the mood of the men.

‘Fond of sheep they may be,’ he said, ‘but they fight well, and ’tis perilous to go into their marches unprepared. They will not show themselves in numbers but raid camps in the night, ambush stragglers and shoot shafts from thickets to take brave men in the van. So tell me Brand … how do you fight an enemy that will not openly fight?’

‘Make them fight,’ I said, without thinking. ‘Go where they have no choice and burn their homes … as the Danes do.’

Carl glared at me, tight-lipped with disapproval, but most of the men growled their agreement.

‘That must be the final resort,’ agreed Olwin, ‘but if you are to rule these people Lord, I would have them love you … not hate you and swear revenge.’

‘Rule?’ I echoed drunkenly, as a servant refilled my cup, and once again I sensed the hidden violence in the room. ‘Doesn’t the king rule?’

But at that moment a bell rang at the end of the hall, and the fat chamberlain bowed to Harold, announcing that meat was now set on the boards.

∞ ∞ ∞

We were seated at three large tables, and I was honoured to sit with Harold and Tostig, but disappointed that Valla and the Lady Swanneshals were seated separately with Carl.

The food was like a wedding feast – rich and varied – with hot, fragrant loaves, thick cuts of pork and beef, game pies, eels and duck. There was salt, for those who desired it, and herbs steeped in broths of pease, grain and chicken bones. Then there were honey cakes and a sharp, pleasant cheese.

And ale. Ale was poured constantly into the wooden cup by my right hand, although some of the men were now drinking a wine like blood from goblets fashioned of dark metal. It was incredible that I could be so full, accepted and content just days after the slaughter of my family, then the flight and famine and somehow I understood that it was the acceptance more than the ale that was responsible for my happy mood. With Harold’s support, my revenge on Malgard seemed a formality.

But through my drunken haze I was slightly troubled by Olwin’s words. ‘Doesn’t the king rule?’ I had asked, stupidly speaking my thoughts aloud. And Harold had agreed, ‘Yes Brand … the king rules.’

Amid all the laughter and tumult, I found myself staring at him – a tall, strong and handsome man. Kingly he seemed, yet not the king.

‘Lord Harold,’ I asked, aware that I was possibly trespassing on delicate ground, but heedless under the influence of ale. ‘How does one become king when not the son of the king?’

There were some surprised glances about the table, and suddenly the room was silent.

‘One must have the favour of the witan,’ said Olwin. ‘Even the son of a king cannot rule without the witan.’

I dimly knew from listening to my father and brother talking politics that the witan was a council of lords that met twice a year to discuss matters of importance to the realm, but Olwin seemed to accord them power concerning the king.

‘Lord Harold already has such favour,’ claimed Tostig, but Harold shook his head.

‘I have the favour of the witan as Subregulus … no more. Edward may select his successor, and I have little hope it could be a son of Godwin.’

‘The witan will not accept his choice unless it be you Lord,’ insisted Olwin, but Harold seemed to withdraw into silence, and a mood came over the hall. I found myself staring once more at Valla – my ‘wife’ – and admiring her beauty, which seemed so more pronounced with combed hair and dressed in a fine gown.

A skald who had been plucking on a harp for some time now raised his voice to sing sweetly in a strange tongue. The words I knew not but the music seemed to paint pictures in my drunken head of mountains and mist-filled valleys in a far land untouched by men. Valla came from such a land – from the empty marshes on the far edges of my forest – and I pondered her words again: that the man she truly married must be worthy of her. Well, if being a thegn wasn’t worthy of her, what chance did I have? A vague resentment grew in me but also a bubbling lust. Until I’d been promised to the church and encouraged to chastity, the drabs and wenches of my father’s hall had been mine to use as I took the fancy, so why not Valla? And she was my ‘wife’ after all.

The skald’s song had moved on and was now louder and more urgent. He was singing in our normal tongue of Harold and his deeds and the men became loud again – cheering the exploits of their Lord, until Harold – seemingly embarrassed by the praise – bid the skald peace and the conversation returned to its former raucous din.

Not only did I feel taller, the ale made me feel older and wiser amid the councils of the great and I turned to Tostig to ask a man’s question, ‘You mentioned before that your father was the true power behind the throne?’

Tostig eyed me keenly for a moment, then shook his head.

‘Our father, the Earl Godwin, has been dead these seven summers … but his time is at hand.’

‘His time,’ I echoed, feeling drunk and stupid once again.

Tostig glanced quickly over his shoulder to check who was listening to our conversation and spoke in a lower voice, ‘You have sworn your vengeance on Malgard, have you not?’

‘Yes Lord.’

‘I too have sworn revenge … although Harold will not. He prefers peace to his own advancement. But I would have weregeld for our father, our exiled brothers … and our sister. The kingdom.’

‘You’ve sworn vengeance on Edward?’

Tostig stared at me and I felt a tremor of what it would be like to have him as an enemy – almost certainly fatal.

‘Edward banished our father Godwin,’ he snarled, revealing somewhat of the angry passion he normally kept in reserve. ‘ … sent us from Inglalond. But we returned … stronger than ever … and made Edward take back our sister whom he had married but abandoned to a convent.’

Tostig poured more ale, for himself and for me, and continued, getting angrier and louder, ‘Long has he abandoned her. He comes not in her chamber and she is childless … thus is his revenge on the house of Godwin. There is no heir.’

‘But now Edward grows old,’ said Olwin, alerted to the conversation by Tostig’s anger. ‘All Inglalond looks to Harold for the safety of the realm. Edward must name him.’

‘All Inglalond perhaps,’ said Tostig, ‘but there are others beyond this island who have their own designs. The aetheling Edgar for one … Hardrada for another … and even the Bastard of Normandy has been heard to claim that Edward promised him the succession.’

‘The Bastard of Normandy?’ I asked.

‘Duke William,’ said Olwin. ‘He rules the western duchy of the Franks.’

‘But he is far away,’ sneered Tostig, ‘and has no friends here, save the king.’

‘He has another friend,’ said Harold, also joining the conversation. ‘Duke William is a good man … a strong man. I admire him … from an ignoble beginning he has grown wise and strong in war.’

‘Beginnings,’ muttered Tostig. ‘No family begins noble. It is endings that fill the pages of history books.’

‘To happy endings!’ I slurred, raising my cup, and Harold smiled.

‘I trust we will all make good ends and be remembered,’ he said, ‘but speaking of endings, I must leave this feast and bid you all good evening. It was good to meet you Brand … you mean to go to Lundene?’

‘Yes Lord. I must see the king before Malgard learns I yet live, ere he do further evil.’

‘Then travel with us … for to Lundene we go ourselves, in the morning.’

He rose, as yet another drunken wave coursed through me – somehow making me feel strong and invincible. Valla had left some time earlier – affecting the manners of the Lady Swanneshals she had curtseyed to Harold (and to me, to my great amusement) – and now I was filled with the hot burning lust of youth as I drunkenly contemplated my ‘wife’ waiting in my chamber.

We all staggered to our feet as Harold left the room, and I resolved immediately to test Valla’s resistance to my husbandly affection. ‘Give her one from me!’ shouted Tostig as I followed the chamberlain’s candle, my shoulders bouncing off the walls of the corridor behind his rounded shadow. He paused at a door and stepped back to allow me access.

Taking a candle from the chamberlain, I strode into the room feeling ten feet tall and very confident that my wife must do as I bade her – bog-witch or no.

The green gown lay discarded on the floor and my pulse quickened at the sight of it, but as I raised the candle I perceived the bed was empty.

‘Valla,’ I whispered hoarsely, my mind filling with lustful images. ‘Where are you?’

The silence of the room finally convinced me that I was alone, and I moved towards the shuttered windows which were wide open, allowing a cool breeze despite the time of year. Then I noted that a stool had been placed beneath the window. Surely she hadn’t gone outside.

I placed the candle in an embrasure by the bed and peered out the window, the breeze in my face inspiring a fresh wave of drunkenness as I peered into the moonlit courtyard.

‘Valla!’ I called in a loud whisper, but there was no response. The yards were silent except for the noises coming faintly from the town beyond the gate and the night-speech of crickets and other small and nameless creatures.

The lust I had felt so strongly only moments before had completely passed. I was very drunk, very tired and tempted by the large bed, but I was horrified at the prospect of having to explain an absent wife in the morning, so I clambered out the window and resolved to find her.

I dropped to the ground, landing on my slippered feet but toppling forward into dry mud which caked the knees of my fine stockings.

‘Fuck!’ I shout/whispered, brushing at my knees in anger – getting mud on my hands. Looking along the wing of the large house, only my shutters were open, so it would be simple enough to find the room again – but in my drunken state it would be an awkward climb back to the window, about six feet from the ground.

Which way could Valla have gone? To my right was the gate – some thirty yards away – where two sentries stood with their backs to me, facing the town. To my left was darkness – the back of the house and the smaller buildings housing animals and servants.

I went left, stepping carefully in the pale moonlight. The crickets seemed to get louder and two dogs started barking in the distance. The largest of the unattached buildings loomed in front of me – the stable I believed – and immediately stepped in a pile of dung to confirm it. Again I swore in anger and disgust and found the edge of an open door to scrape my soft leather slipper. There was a rich smell of hay and horses coming from the stable and I wondered whether the door was usually left open. Perhaps Valla had come this way?

I stepped into the deeper darkness of the stable and heard the nervous movement of beasts detecting my presence. I remained still, just inside the door – straining my ears for any sound.

A thud – like the sound of iron on wood – did not seem the kind of noise an animal would make, so I turned in that direction and crept through the darkness. Presuming it was Valla, what on earth was she up to? Not stealing a horse, surely! I could think of no other reason for her being here and felt both anger and fear – anger at her ingratitude to our host and fear of my humiliation were she to succeed.

And fear of losing Valla.

If she was stealing a horse then clearly she was leaving, despite her agreement to go all the way to Lundene. I didn’t want to lose her so soon. In fact, I didn’t want to lose her at all, and was amazed at the depth of my feelings in such a short time. Despite her insults – despite her distance and warnings – despite even her occasional threats to geld me I was drawn to her helpless as a silk-bound fly in the web of a spider.

Another thud, and further restive shuffling from the animals.

‘Valla!’ I called, in a louder whisper, and continued moving towards the sounds, stubbing my toes against some heavy object. I groped on the ground and found a long-handled tool – possibly a rake left by a farrier or groom or such – and decided it might be useful. Clutching it like a weapon, I moved forward.

Another thud, and one of the horses snorted irritably. Then a louder clang as something of metal was broken. Then muttering voices in the darkness.

I froze, suddenly perceiving what was happening.

The animals whimpered as I groped my way back towards the door, limned with moonlight, but in my haste I kicked something in the darkness which clattered loudly to the ground.

There was a muffled shriek, and a sibilant curse, and then I heard them moving swiftly towards me – escaping serfs – Rockers skilled at killing in darkness.

I made it to the doorway, holding my weapon before me, when suddenly they came from all sides – rushing past me.

‘Stop!’ I shouted and swung my weapon, connecting only with the side of the barn, but the shout and the whack of my weapon on wood inspired an answering shout from the sentries and I knew help was coming.

Then someone barged into me, throwing me heavily to the ground, but I held onto my weapon and from my knees swung it again in the darkness, this time connecting hard against flesh and bone.

There was a cry, and further scattering of shadows as sentries came running with a flaming torch.

‘Serfs escaping!’ I shouted, as a hand wrapped around my mouth, but I bit hard on a finger and heard a female squeal.

More soldiers came running from the house and more torches shed light on the confusion.

I was on my knees, pissed in the mud, blinking at the men holding torches and shouting angrily. One large fellow – a sergeant in a shirt of rings, like Angdred’s, was barking orders and men ran about the yard and behind the stable searching. Stretched out in front of me was a body – the red haired snaggle-tooth, bleeding from an ugly wound on his right temple.

‘What the fuck is this?’ demanded the sergeant, standing over the body.

‘Escaping serf,’ I slurred stupidly, brandishing my rake.

Yet more torches came, from the house, and Tostig was suddenly striding about in our midst, barking orders and clearly enjoying himself, apparently unaffected by all the ale and wine he’d drunk.

‘Sconed the fucker?’ he asked me, kicking the red-haired snaggle-tooth in the guts, causing him to stir and groan.

‘Where are the rest?’ shouted the sergeant. ‘Find ’em … quickly!’

No more serfs were found but a hole in the thorn fence was discovered, behind the stable. Then another soldier showed Tostig the broken lock from the room where the serfs had been held.

Tostig swore and kicked the snaggle-tooth until he was curled into a ball, vainly warding the blows.

‘Someone helped you!’ he shouted, between kicks. ‘Who the fuck let you out?’

‘Leave him!’

A woman’s voice, cold as wind off snow, cut through the shouting and violence, and all turned to see the Lady Swanneshals, standing on the edge of the torchlight.

‘Put him back in the stable,’ she said. ‘He has suffered enough.’

‘For now,’ agreed Tostig, and allowed the snaggle-tooth to be carried away.

‘Well done Brand,’ said Tostig, fury turning instantly to glee as he remembered my part in the battle. ‘Can’t keep you out of a fight, can we lad?’

The rest of the men crowded about me, praising my vigilance and resourcefulness.

But Swanneshals just stared at me for a moment and returned to the house. Tostig and I followed.

‘Fucking inside help,’ muttered Tostig. ‘Someone has made a hole in the fence and then broken the lock on the serfs’ prison. The rats knew where to run when they got out.’

‘Except one.’

‘Except one,’ he agreed, laughing. ‘That ginger bugger’s had a good day hasn’t he? First he gets cut by your blade last night … then he gets thumped by Hereborn this morning … branded, locked up, clouted by your rake and now he’s getting the shit kicked out of him by the lads. Happy fucking Tuesday!’

I laughed, but inside I was in a turmoil. Valla had clearly been the one to set the serfs free and now she was gone. This would certainly be established in the morning when she was revealed as missing, and maybe even the snaggle-toothed red head would identify her as his temporary liberator. I would be humiliated, and it even occurred to me to go back to his cell and find an excuse to kill him before he could tell that damning truth to his interrogators.

But, warrior though I wished to be, murdering defenceless serfs (however inconvenient) was not the honourable path. It would have been an act worthy of Malgard, no doubt, but not Brand Holgarsson.

As the tumult died down, I found my way back down the passage and re-entered my chamber. It was dark and I muttered angrily about the candle having gone out, but a little light came in the open window.

Enough light to show that someone slept in the bed.

‘Valla?’

‘Be quiet,’ she said, sleepily. ‘You may sleep in the bed, but leave your clothes on and keep your back to me.’

Relief washed over me as I sat on the bed to remove my muddy slippers.

‘Why did you set them free?’ I asked.

But Valla’s breathing had become slow and even.

I just sat for a moment, listening to her breathing and imagining how it would be to have her in my bed forever. Then, I reached under the blanket and felt her feet.

I’d expected to find them muddy but they were quite clean, and she murmured, ‘I’m sorry … sorry … ’ but whether to me or in a dream, I was never to know.

And despite her warning to keep my clothes on, I shrugged them all onto the rushes and slipped into the bed, to lie in chaste nakedness against the sleeping body of the beautiful girl I had married more danico. The girl who had become to me the profound quintessence of womanhood.