Varangian

Chapter 5

Norway, 1015

The great wooden gates swung open. Ancient hinges groaned in complaint, and the riders came through into the square, the sheep-rustler stumbling behind, tethered to the lead animal by a coarse rope, secured around his neck, pulled tight. The captors moved at a steady pace astride worn out ponies, nevertheless the man battled to keep upright, his wrists bound before him. He struggled to maintain his footing, wild eyes darting from side to side, aware of the animosity of those pressing in from all sides. People pushed and strained for a better view, edging in ever closer. The hunters raised their horsewhips, forcing the crowd to give way, sending them two or three steps backwards. A guard closed the gates and drew down the bar. Children laughed, old women bayed. The air of expectation grew.

When the men reached the centre of the yard, they reined in their mounts, the lead rider easing himself down from the saddle. He stretched, grimacing as he bent his back, and fired a look at the nearest peasant. “Fetch me wine.”

The youth ran off without another word.

“Sanda!”

The voice boomed through the yard and for a moment, the place became as the grave. Sanda, the King"s personal bryti, or steward, looked towards the great hall and the man who leaned over the first-storey balustrade. A huge, swollen man, unkempt beard hanging in tattered ribbons to his bare chest, and he shook the rail with rage. His brows bristled with barely contained fury. “There were two of them.”

Sanda turned and nodded towards his companions, who swung from their ponies and flanked the captive, seizing him around the biceps.

“They ran like rabbits.” Sanda spat into the dirt, aware of the crowd pressing in, anxious to see justice served. He frowned at the man above him. “We caught them at Blesnoc Ford, where this craven oaf threw up his hands and cried for his mother. The other made a fight of it.” He shrugged. “He died for his efforts.”

“I hope he died badly.”

“I slit open his gizzard and watched him die. He took a long time about it and screamed a good deal.”

This seemed to please the big man. “Fetch the oxen,” he said, whirled away and disappeared into the depths of the great hall, shouting out for wine.

Sanda stood and watched the man"s receding back for a moment before turning to the crowd. He glared at them. “You heard our lord, find oxen and bring them. Now!” He became aware of someone at his shoulder and about to lash out when he recognised the youth he had sent to find wine. Sanda eyed the trembling hand clutching an animal-skin gourd, took it without a word and raised it to his lips. The wine tasted sour and strong and he closed his eyes and took a moment to lose himself in the warmth that spread through him.

All too soon, the clamour of the crowd brought him back to the present. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and fixed the youth with a hard stare. “Ever seen a man die, boy?”

The youth shook his head, his mouth trembling, unable to form any words.

Sanda sighed, pushed the stopper into the gourd and thrust it back into the youth"s hand. “You may need that after it is done.” He strode away, shouldering through the assembled peasants. He had no wish to witness his lord"s retribution.

He positioned himself well to the rear. Despite his view being somewhat obscured, he knew what followed. When the lord appeared from the great hall, the peasants hushed, many bowing, none wishing to catch his look. He ignored them all, marched to the captive, gripped him by the cheeks and squeezed. “Damn you, but you"ll know what it means to steal from me.” He swung around, making a great dramatic sweep of his arms. “As will you all. Learn your lessons this day, and see my justice for what it is.”

Sanda leaned back against the lean-to close by and folded his arms. If the man knew the meaning of justice, then he should feed these rabid dogs, show some leadership, some care. He hawked and spat at his feet. His own homestead barely sustained his family and the winters grew harder each passing promised year, the sun weaker. Turnips meant to feed cows were now used for soup. Traders had grain, declaring they had secured agreements with lands to the east, but nothing ever came of it. The truth of the matter was the realm had no money, the coffers bare. Distant lands were not charities, they demanded hard cash, and when there was none, the grain dwindled away and the people starved. Unrest grew; more and more took to stealing, like the two poor bastards who had run off with the king"s sheep. Three sheep: one butchered and devoured on the way, the others lost, taken by wolves no doubt. And now the remaining rustler about to be torn apart by oxen while the people cheered. For a few pitiful moments, the ache in their guts forgotten, they would look upon the spectacle as great sport and the youngest learn how to harden their hearts. The old might turn away with seasoned indifference, having witnessed such scenes many times before. Times were hard and cruel, but nothing was as cruel as the king"s rule.

Loud shouts of encouragement rose over the constant rumble of the crowd. Sanda didn"t need to look to know the oxen had arrived, that the rustler"s hands were being lashed to halters around the huge animals" necks. Soon would come the sound of the lash, the oxen urged to move, each in an opposite direction, and they would tear the man apart. The crowd would cheer and the king would have his justice.

He waited. And waited.

A stirring began in the crowd, barely audible at first, but growing louder; voices, raised not in amusement, but in anxiety. Sanda pushed himself from the lean-to and forced his way forward.

The king lay in the dirt, on his back, teeth clamped together, eyes screwed up, his entire body rigid with agony. Sanda quickly looked around. The men with the oxen stood aghast, the captive hung limp but unhurt, mouth drooling as he whimpered, barely able to believe what had happened.

And what had happened? Sanda got down next to his king and did not know what to do. The man"s body was in spasm, legs and arms out straight, trembling, sweat sprouting from his brow and upper lip. “He fell.” Sanda turned to the owner of the voice; Sven, one of the men who had helped hunt down the rustler. “One moment he was standing, telling us to ready the beasts, and then he fell.”

Sanda scanned the crowd, searching their faces, looking for a sign. “An assassin?”

“No. Look at him. There is no wound. No arrow, no knife. He fell, and that is the end of it.”

Sanda scratched at his beard. “Falling-down sickness? But, he showed no signs, no …” He shook his head and stood up, hands on hips, at a loss what to do, or even think. This was beyond his knowing. Battlefield wounds were one thing, the spurt of blood, the screams of pain, but this was unlike anything he had ever witnessed.

Silence settled, feet shuffled. And someone moved through the crowd. Sanda lowered his head as the figure drew closer. “My queen,” he said.

Queen Asta of Westfold; a striking woman, taller than most, her limbs long and slender, her face unblemished by the harsh Norwegian winter. Dressed in a long flowing robe of saffron yellow flecked with gold thread, her hair tied back and secured by a band of delicate white flowers, as small as fingernails, she glided to a halt and gazed down at her husband. No concern crossed her features, the merest downturn of her mouth the only sign of emotion. “He complained of pains in the night,” was all she said, her voice even and controlled.

“What shall we do with him?” Sanda studied his king, the still rigid body, as if frozen solid, the pain ingrained around the eyes and mouth, the skin drawn tight.

“Let him die.” Her head came up, eyes holding Sanda"s with cruel indifference. “And when he"s dead, send me word and we will bury him.” She nodded to the rustler, who hung like a rag between the two waiting oxen, their breath steaming in the growing cold. “And see to that base-born thief whilst you"re at it.”

“My lady?”

“Release him.”

Her voice, resolute and strong, carried over the crowd and people responded with gasps, some heartfelt cries, and a few guffaws of disbelief.

“You mean to let him go?” Sanda had to force himself not to raise his voice as the anger developed inside him. “But he stole the king"s sheep, my lady. He has to be punished.” The king"s justice may be cruel, but it was justice. The people deserved nothing less.

He went to speak, to voice his protest, but she held up a hand and stopped him. “Do not presume I know nothing of justice, bryti Sanda.” She smiled and Sanda felt a trickle of ice run through him. “Once my husband is in his burial pit, lay that wretch next to the king … and bury him alive.”