The Iron Lance Page 10

  Murdo played but a moment or two longer, and then allowed himself to be caught and removed himself from the ring of participants. Then, with the stealth of a hunter, he stalked across the yard to the cookhouse and slipped unseen through the door.

  The interior of the hut was warm and smelled of bread. Ragna was standing at a large table, shaping a great mound of butter with a small wooden paddle. She glanced up as he came to the board, and smiled. “Good Easter to you, Murdo,” she purred lightly, drawing the paddle across the pale yellow mound. He thrilled to the sound of her voice.

  “Good Easter, Ragna,” he said, promptly forgetting all the things he had planned to say to her when they were alone again.

  “Are you enjoying the feast?” she asked, after a moment.

  “Aye,” he replied. “It is a fine feast—passing fine.” He looked at her for a moment, dressed in a new rose-colored mantle, her golden hair brushed until it gleamed, plaited with threads of silver into a thick braid which hung over one slender shoulder. She was a very vision, he thought, of beauty and womanly perfection.

  He took a step towards her and she met him. They stood looking at one another for a long moment, neither speaking, and then Ragna placed the butter paddle on the table, and Murdo, his hand nearby, moved his fingers to meet hers. It was only a fleeting brush, but Murdo felt as if his fingertips had been singed in the flame that was kindled in that touch.

  Ragna gave a little gasp of surprise, but her eyes never left his face. Her wide-eyed stare drank in his features and his heart beat fast to see the love and desire glowing there. He knew he should speak, but could think of nothing to say. “I, ah—I mean, Ragna, I—” he began, badly.

  She raised a slim finger to his lips. “Shh,” she whispered, “say nothing…my love…” The last words were spoken with the lightest exhalation of breath, so faint as to be inaudible, yet Murdo heard them as if she had shouted from the hilltop.

  Transfixed by the moment, they stood without moving, the heat from their bodies burning across the small distance between them. Murdo wanted nothing more than to fold her into his arms and carry her away with him—to a place where they could be together always and for ever. She drew her face nearer; her lips readied for a kiss…

  The door to the cookhouse opened just then, and one of the kitchen maids entered, saw them standing together and said, “Üfda! Oh, it is you, Mistress Ragna, I was—”

  “Here now,” said Ragna, bending quickly to the butter dish, “it is heavy though. Mind you do not drop it.” So saying, she lifted the small mountain of butter and placed the dish in Murdo’s hands. “Hurry! They are waiting for it in the kitchen.”

  Murdo took the dish and carried it to the door, moving past the maid, who turned and held the door open for him. The last thing he heard as he stepped outside was Ragna telling her maid, “Run ahead of him and see the kitchen door is opened so he does not put the dish aside. The blame is yours if it gets so much as one fleck of dust on it. Go now!”

  That was the only time Murdo spoke to Ragna alone for the remainder of their stay. A few days later, he and his mother joined Peder and Hin at the wharf where their boat was waiting for the return voyage home. Lady Ragnhild, her daughter, and a few servants accompanied their departing guests down to the cove to bid them fare well and see them away. There were two other boats in the cove, waiting to make sail, and Peder, anxious to cast off, called Murdo into the boat the moment his feet touched the planking.

  The two women embraced one another and made their farewells. Ragnhild, smiling happily, said, “Truly, it was good to have you here, Nia. I would invite you to join us for midsummer, but our husbands will no doubt have returned by then.”

  “No doubt,” agreed Niamh. “Even so, we can persuade them to observe the festivities together. And this time, you must come to us and allow us to return the hospitality we have so enjoyed.”

  Murdo, preparing to cast off, heard this and looked up to see what Lady Ragnhild’s response would be. Say yes, he thought, his heart quickening at the thought that in just a few months he would see Ragna again.

  “Very well,” agreed Ragnhild, “it is decided.” She and Niamh embraced one another warmly, whereupon Niamh took her place in the boat and Peder gave the nod to Hin and Murdo to cast off. The boat slid away from the wharf and Peder, working the tiller oar, turned the vessel with practiced ease.

  Murdo took up his oar, and looked one last time to where Ragna stood; as the boat swung about, he saw her raise a hand to her lips, and then toward him in farewell—a brief gesture for him alone. He lifted a hand from the oar and returned her farewell, his heart soaring.

  Until midsummer, he thought, feeling the delicious ache of anticipation begin again. He pulled hard on the oar, watching the slender white figure on the wharf until the black shoulder of the headland took her from view. And then, as Hin raised the sail, Murdo shipped his oar and filled his mind with Ragna’s image even as the wind filled the white expanse of cloth.

  NINE

  Murdo stood on the clifftop, gazing down at Hrafnbú in the near distance. The sun was low, and the shadow of the long hill to the west cast most of the yard in darkness. There was no one about. Though all was quiet and, apparently, in order, the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

  His mother, coming up behind him, saw him halt on the path. “Murdo?” she said. “What do you see?”

  When he did not reply, she asked again, and this time he turned to her and said, “Someone is at the house.”

  “How do you know?” gasped Lady Niamh.

  “Jötun is not here to greet us,” he replied. Turning to where Peder and Hin were working with the boat on the beach below, he shouted down to them, “Peder, keep the boat ready! Hin, come with me!”

  Niamh clutched at his sleeve. “Murdo, take care!”

  “I will, Mam,” he promised. “Stay here with Peder until I return.”

  “I will go with you.”

  “Stay here, Mother,” he insisted, removing her hand gently from his arm. “We will just go and see, and then come back.”

  Niamh relented. “Very well, but look you be careful, son.”

  Hin joined them then. “Follow me,” Murdo commanded, and the two of them set off at an easy loping run, skirting the path and coming at the house from across the empty field behind.

  Niamh stood rooted to the clifftop, watching her youngest son as he ran, unarmed, into danger, and wondering when he had grown so tall and strong.

  Peder called up from the beach to know what was happening, and she told him simply to wait, and then whispered to herself, “Holy Michael, Angel of Might, guard my son with your fiery sword. Shield him, guide him, and lead him safely back.” She then made the sign of the cross, and folded her arms over her breast to wait.

  Upon coming within shouting distance of the house, Murdo and Hin crouched down and proceeded slowly towards the first of the farm’s outbuildings, alert to the slightest sign of trouble. They reached the tool hut without incident and, crawling cautiously around the side, entered the yard.

  They halted at the edge of the hut, and waited for a moment, watching and listening. The house was quiet, and there did not seem to be anyone about. “This way,” whispered Murdo and, flitting from the tool hut to the barn, disappeared inside.

  The barn was dark and quiet, and Murdo had no sooner stepped inside than he caught a familiar, sick-sweet scent. Hin, darting in behind him, took a breath and whispered, “Blood.”

  Yet, there did not seem to be anything amiss. They moved silently to the great barn door, which was closed. Putting his face to a gap between door and post, Murdo looked out. The yard was empty still. He pushed through the breach and stood watching the house for any movement while Hin squeezed through behind him.

  “They must be inside,” Murdo said softly. “You stay here. I will go—”

  He saw Hin’s face freeze, and turned to see what had drawn his attention. Hanging on the door behind them was the body of a man. The wretch ha
d been stabbed in the belly and chest, and then nailed to the door and left to bleed to death in agony.

  Murdo moved to the corpse, stretched his hand towards a pale limb. The flesh was cold and hard, not like skin at all. He bent down and looked up into the dead man’s features.

  “It is Fossi,” said Hin, his voice hollow.

  Murdo looked at the face, frozen in its final anguish, mouth open, eyes staring, and confirmed that it was indeed Fossi. The front of his siarc was black, and stiff with dried blood. There were wounds in both arms and legs and where the nails had gone in.

  “He was still alive when they hung him here,” Murdo concluded sadly.

  “What should we do?” asked Hin, his voice growing small and frail. Turning his eyes from the corpse, he glanced quickly around the yard.

  Before Murdo could think what to say, there came the sound of a dog—half-growling, half-whining—as if the animal were being mistreated. “Jötun!” whispered Murdo.

  At that moment, a tall, fair-haired man entered the yard, pulling the resisting hound with a rope. He was dressed in leather breecs, tall boots of soft leather, and a tunic of undyed wool; he carried a stick in his hand, and every time Jötun tried to pull away, he struck the dog sharply on the back.

  “You there!” shouted Murdo stepping away from the door. “Stop that!”

  The man spun towards the sound, took in Murdo at a glance, and said, “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

  “Let the dog loose,” Murdo said.

  In response to this, the man, without moving, raised his voice and shouted at the house. “Björn! Kali! Come here!”

  A moment later, two men emerged from the house. Like the first, they were dressed in leather breecs and tunics; one was fair-haired, and the other dark, but both were tall and armed with swords and knives, the blades of which were thrust through their wide brown belts.

  Hin took one look at the swords and backed towards the barn, ready to flee.

  The two men regarded the newcomers impassively, but before either of them could speak, Murdo demanded, “Who are you, and what is your business here?”

  The dark-haired intruder answered. “Keep a respectful tongue, boy,” he said quietly. “What is your name?”

  “I am Lord Ranulf’s son,” Murdo replied, his voice loud in defiance. “It is his land you are trespassing, and his hound you are beating.” Gesturing behind him at the barn door, he added, “And it is Lord Ranulf’s men you are murdering.”

  “Björn! Do not let him—” the man with the stick began.

  “Quiet, Arn,” the dark-haired man muttered, and stood eyeing Murdo cautiously.

  “These lands belong to Prince Sigurd now,” the intruder told him, taking a slow step forward. “We have taken them in the prince’s name.”

  “Jarl Erlend will hear of this!” Murdo charged. “If you do not leave at once, I will go to the jarl and tell him what you have done. He will send his house carles against you.”

  “No,” the one called Björn said, taking another step closer, “I do not think he will do as you say. Hear now, King Magnus has taken possession of Orkneyjar unto himself and he has given the rule of the islands to his son.”

  “Liar!” cried Murdo, anger rising within him like a tight-balled fist. “Jarl Erlend would raise the war host against anyone who tried to steal these lands.”

  The two fair-haired Norsemen laughed, but their dark-haired comrade gazed solemnly at the boy before him. “I am telling you the truth,” he said. “The jarl gave up without a fight. He and his worthless brother Paul have been taken hostage to the king’s court in Norway. Prince Sigurd rules here now, and he has given the lands hereabouts to our lord.”

  Murdo could not believe what he was hearing. How was it possible such momentous events should take place without his knowing?

  “You are lying,” Murdo declared again. “Who is this lord of yours?”

  “Our lord is Orin Broad-Foot, advisor to Prince Sigurd,” Björn told him, taking another slow step nearer. “He has gone to Kirkjuvágr to establish his claim of possession to Dýrness and its holdings. But he has commanded me to make an offer of peace with any who should come after.”

  “What offer?” demanded Murdo, suspicion making his voice shrill. “The same offer you gave him?” He pointed to poor dead Fossi nailed to the door.

  “Aye, he had his chance, but took it into his head to fight,” the dark-haired intruder replied. “Do not make the same mistake. Swear fealty to King Magnus, and you will live.”

  “And if we should refuse?” sneered Murdo.

  “Then, like the man on yonder door, you will die,” Björn answered indifferently. “Now, it does not have to be that way. Lord Orin needs workers; vassals are no good to him dead.”

  Stung by the cruel injustice of the demand, Murdo could not speak. To become vassals on the land they rightly owned and ruled—the thing was unthinkable.

  “It is the land he wants, not blood, boy,” Björn said. “Just you come with us, and we will see you are treated right.”

  “We mean you no harm,” insisted Arn, holding tight to Jötun’s collar. “Come along peaceful and quiet now. We will go see Lord Orin and you can talk to him about it.”

  “To the devil with you all,” growled Murdo.

  Björn, having narrowed the distance between himself and his prey, leaped forward with an agility that surprised Murdo. But the younger man was the quicker, and Murdo ducked, driving his shoulder into the intruder’s stomach as he lunged. To Murdo’s amazement, the dark-haired man was lifted off his feet and thrown backward. “Get him!” he screamed at his comrades, who stood looking on in flat-footed wonder.

  The one called Kali ran at Murdo and made a clumsy grab, which the young man easily eluded. Murdo dodged aside and made to run between Kali and the fallen warrior, but Björn kicked out as he darted past, sweeping Murdo’s legs from under him. Murdo landed on his side in the dirt, and Kali was on him instantly.

  Hard hands seized him and he was jerked roughly to his feet. Björn rose up before him, drew back his arm and struck Murdo on the face with the back of his hand. Murdo’s teeth rattled with the force of the blow and red-and-black fireballs spun before his eyes. His legs lost strength and he slumped to his knees.

  Björn, cursing the boy’s audacity, raised his arm to strike again. Kali, gripping his arms, hauled him upright, and Murdo braced himself for the blow. The hand started forward, but faltered half-way to the mark as Jötun, seeing his master in trouble, pulled free from his captor’s grasp. Arn darted after him, but the great wolf-hound took two bounds, leapt, and seized the offending arm in his teeth.

  Murdo heard a shriek of pain as Björn was yanked sideways and down. Kali, in his haste to help his companion, abandoned his charge and showed Murdo aside; he drew his sword and ran to where the hound was doing his best to wrest the dark-haired intruder’s arm from his shoulder.

  “Jötun!” shouted Murdo, desperate to draw the dog away before Kali could strike. “Here, Jötun!” But the fair-haired warrior stepped in and the sword, clutched tight in both hands, swung up over his head.

  Then, even as the sword descended, Kali was struck from behind and thrown forward, losing his balance. The blow fell awry, striking the big dog a glancing stroke on the shoulder.

  Murdo sensed a rush of motion towards him. Suddenly Hin was there, lifting him to his feet. “Run, Master Murdo! Run!”

  His ears still ringing from the blow to his face, Murdo shook his head to clear it. “This way!” he said, dashing for the barn. “Jötun, come!”

  The hound obeyed and all three ran for the gap in the door, leaving the three intruders stumbling in momentary confusion. Björn quickly came to his senses, however; clutching his bleeding arm he shouted for Kali and Arn to give chase. Then, turning towards the house, Björn bellowed for help.

  Murdo glanced back over his shoulder as they disappeared into the darkened interior of the barn, and his heart sank to see four more Norsemen emerge from the
house. Without a quiver of hesitation Murdo made for the far wall of the huge barn, dodging around the grain wagons and carefully stacked bundles of straw.

  He reached the back wall and crouched down, searching for a small door—little more than a flap of wood hinged with leather—cut in the back wall of the barn some time in the past to allow pigs to get in out of the rain. It was unused now, but Murdo remembered it, and thought that if they could reach it before the warriors saw them, they might gain a few precious moments to make their escape. He ran along the wall for a few paces, found the door, and pushed it open.

  “This way,” he said, shoving Hin through ahead of him.

  Murdo ducked through next and held the flap for Jötun. Shouts from inside the barn told him their secret would soon be discovered. “Run for the boat,” said Hin, breathless with fear.

  “No,” Murdo warned, “they would see us and follow us to the bay. Even if we outran them, we would never cast off in time.”

  “What, then?” whispered Hin desperately.

  “This way.” Murdo dashed for the corner of the barn, reached it, and slid around to the other side. He then ran along the side of the barn to the yard. As he expected, all the warriors had joined the pursuit and were now inside the barn. He and Hin darted across the yard to the side of the house and disappeared around the corner, Jötun following at their heels.

  “Listen, to me now,” Murdo said. “The old barrow—south of the bay—do you know it?”

  Hin nodded. “I know it, yes. I think so.”

  “Make for it. You can hide there and they will never find you.”

  “Inside the grave mound?”

  “There is nothing to fear,” Murdo told him, thinking of the hunting game he and his brothers had played for years. “I have done it a hundred times.” He slapped Hin on the shoulder to awaken his courage. “Go now. Take Jötun with you and wait for me. I will meet you there.”