Ragnar the Just (Ragnar the Dane #3) (7 page)

Kjartan nodded at them.

“You must be really old. You’ve got white hair!” said one of the latecomers, a heavily-built young man with coarse, sandy-blond hair. He looked a bit older than the others, perhaps eighteen.

Kjartan regarded him for a second,
then
sprang forward, h
is sword at the lad’s throat. The lad
stumbled back, eyes wide in fear.

“Still young enough to kill you, though.”

Ragnar coughed, hiding a laugh.
“Styrkar, you shouldn’t be taken by surprise like that. What did I tell you yesterday?”

“But -
”

Kjartan released him and stepped back.

“Enough talking!
  Get into pairs!” snapped Ragnar.

The young men set on each other eagerly, and soon, shouts and insults rang out. Styrkar fought the most violently, his sword clanging on his opponent’s until he
forced him to slip over on the dry summer grass. Styrkar stood over him, his sword at his throat.

“Oi!”
Kjartan int
ervened. “The idea is to practis
e, not kill him!”

Styrkar snarled with aggression, his face screwed up like a beast.

“You have to keep your head. If you get too angry, you lose.”

“That’s a load of shit! You don’t know anything!”

Kjartan glanced at Ragnar
who indicated for him to go ahead. So he beckoned Styrkar towards him and slashed at his sleeve with the faithful Verrdrepa. Styrkar attacked, stamping forward, but Kjartan moved much too fast, darting about nimbly.

Some of the others laughed as Styrkar struggled,
then
Kjartan took pity on him and stopped.

“You’re no good, Boa
r!”
chuckled
another novice, provoking
Styrkar
to leap
towards him.

“Don’t make fun of me!” he growled, pressing his sword at his tormentor’s throat, until it drew blood.

“Oi!”
Kjartan dragged him off. “What’s the matter with you?”

Styrkar glared at him, eyebrows low with hatred.

“Control yourself!”

Everyone watched nervously. Styrkar shrugged Kjartan off, straightened his clothes, and re-joined the group.

*
 
*
  *

Later, the company took a break. The younger ones sat down, talking and cleaning their weapons.

“That Styrkar’s a bit – er
-
”
Kjartan tried to find the right word.

“Aggressive? Crazy?” suggested Ragnar. “He reminds me of you.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“A few years ago, I mean. You’re a lot calmer these days.”

“Well, marriage does that to you. I’m too exhausted to fight anymore.”

“Yes, I know what you mean.”

They laughed. Kjartan knew there was no way Ragnar would understand if he told him the truth.

*
 
*
  *

The next afternoon, Lini and Kjartan went off into the woods near the bathing lake.

“We could make a shelter, like I said
. Cut some branches and stuff. I
t would be safer here than near the stream.” Kjartan looked appraisingly at the hazel trees,
then
there was a crash and a sudden exclamation.

“Lini?
Where are you?”

“In here. Follow my voice.”

So Kjartan did
so and found himself in an already-
made shelter. It was less than half the size of his home, and the walls and roof were made of wattle hurdles. Dead leaves
were
gathered on the floor and a heap of bearskins lay in one corner as a makeshift bed. Tallow candles, cups stained with dark wine, and cloths which had obviously been used for tying, lay around.

“Have you just made this?” Kjartan laughed.
“Quick work.”

“Yes, that’s right! No, you fool, it was here already.”

“Looks unused now.”
The branches making up the shelter were covered in moss and lichen, and everything was damp.

“Good. We can use it
,
then.” Lini grinned mischievously. “That’ll stop your worries about people finding us.” He pushed some of the crisp leaves on the floor out of the way with his foot. “We can hide out here whenever we want.”

*
 
*
  *

“This is how you’d use your spear against a sword and shield,” said Ragnar, demonstrating with Kjartan at Huskarl practice. He jabbed at the shield, faster and faster, keeping well out of reach of the sword. After a while he hooked the spear over the shield, wrenched it away, pulled the sword away and pretended to stab him.

“Now,
do
that
to me,” he instructed. Kjartan did exactly the same as he’d done, only faster. Just as he hooked the shield away, however, a man of lean build passed by the training area. He’d been watching for a while, unable to tear his eyes away from the blond warrior, but had an appointment with the Jarl so was forced to emerge.

Lini always enjoyed seeing Kjartan fighting; he looked so spirited when
he
took off his tunic, showing his arm and
chest muscles working perfectly. Lini was lucky he got to see them close up nearly every day.

He caught Kjartan’s eye and winked, making him lose his balance and allowing Ragnar to bring his sword over to ‘kill’ him.

“What are you doing?” laughed the auburn-haired Huskarl. “You were supposed to kill me, you fool.”

The novices laughed at Kjartan sprawling on the ground, but he was gazing at Lini, who mouthed ‘sorry’ and hastened past. Styrkar observed this exchange and frowned.

“You have legs of a new-born lamb,” said Ragnar, helping his friend up. “You need practice.”

The others paired up to fight.

*
 
*
  *

“What were you doing yesterday?” Kjartan asked when he met Lini at the shelter.

“I could ask you the same, falling over like that,” Lini teased, cuddling up to him. “The Jarl wants some mo
re drinking glasses
and he wanted to talk to me about them. He wants twenty of them because it’s the first Harvest Blot with
his new wife and he wants to impress her. I’ve never been asked for so many before. It’ll make a change from the bloody beads.
Those endless beads!”

The next week hurried by, h
arvesting the hay, which was coming to an end now, chopping wood for the winter and shearing the sheep took up most of the time, but at last the main harvest was beginning. The cereal grasses had to be cut and tied into sheaves, and the fruit from the orchard and berries from the hedgerows gathered.

Lini took part in all these activities, his glass making work not important enough to exclude him. And Kjartan
,
of course
,
had Huskarl duty and they both still ran the fighting school. Time seemed to be speeding up. The only breathing spaces they enjoyed were visits to their secret hideaway in the woods, where they could forget about their wives and children and their tasks. They spent as much time as they could with each other, and it was as if they were magically protected from discovery or unhappiness as no-one found out.

During that week, the Danes celebrated
Lithasblot
, the first harvest
blot
, or feast. Now everything else was being harvested: sustaining wheat, barley, rye, oats, sweet apples,
pears, plums, cherries, nourishing cabbages, onions, peas, beans, sun ripened strawberries, sloes, rose hips, bilberries,
blackberries
. It was time to enjoy the surplus and celebrate the abundance of the season.

Lini attended the feast with his wife and children, but Kjartan came alone, as the heavily pregnant Mildrith had been excused. He sat away from his lover so they wouldn’t give their secret away, but so many times his glance wandered over to him.

The earthy, tangy smells of cooking meat and vegetables made everyone sit up at the table, talking excitedly with mouths watering in anticipation of full bellies.

When at last the wome
n served the food, silence fell - apart from the odd comment -
as everyone savoured the tender pork and beef, moist with rich meaty juices, and chicken cooked slowly in a sauce so it melted in the mouth. People began talking with their mouths full, belching with appreciation, laughing at each other.

Kjartan sneaked a look at Lini, who was eating a chicken leg and smiling at his daughter, Thora, while pushing his hair out of his eyes impatiently. The warrior’s feelings swirled in his mind, part anxiety at the thought of becoming a father
soon, part lust at the sight of the smooth skin on his lover’s neck that he’d kissed so many times, part frustration that he couldn’t just go over to him and declare his feelings in front of everyone. He took a swig of specially brewed mead, its honey-sweet flavour making his tongue tingle.

The heat of the fire prompted guests to take off their shoes and the cheesy odour of sweat filtered through the feasting hall, mixing with the meat and spicy sauce smells.

Jarl Thorvald banged on the table with his fist.

“We are here to give thanks to Ertha for her bountiful harvest! Drink with me!” He raised his horn of mead, followed by all the men at the table, who shouted with delight.

“Bring forth the second course!” The Jarl smiled at his new wife Rachel, with the black curls and dark eyes, and raised his drink to her.

Kjartan risked another glance at Lini. Had he just winked, or did he have something in his eye? Not wanting to stare, he watched the cooks bearing the specially prepared breads that had been enriched with milk and eggs, and pastries decorated with seasonal flower heads of fennel, radish and
sage. The guests fell on the food as if they hadn’t just eaten a generous meat course.

Lini chewed on a pie crust, its crumbly texture contrasting with the bitter taste of the radish flower garnish. His two children were dozing now, far too young to be up so late, but it was a special evening,
and
important to appease the harvest gods and make sure no villager went hungry. His wife was nattering to her
neighbour,
all gasps and giggles at the secrets they shared about friends and foes.

He looked over to Kjartan, who was cutting into a pastry with his knife. Creamy sauce oozed out from the chicken and vegetable filling, and the blond warrior tasted it with his finger. Lini smiled, thinking of their secret meetings,
then
Kjartan looked up and grinned, making his heart miss a beat.

A panpipe toot interrupted them, luckily, and the musician began to play a lively tune, accompanied by another plucking a lyre. The drunken, sated guests gasped, then laughed and a few threw gnawed bones at the performers.

After people finished eating, they staggered to the dance floor, some falling over, some embracing,
some
actually dancing. No
one started a particular dance,
they just vaguely moved to t
he music, and many couples
took the opportunity
for a kiss, a cuddle and more, lost in the middle of swaying bodies and not caring if they were observed.

Lini caught Kjartan’s eye again and gave a very slight jerk of his head towards the door. Hoping no one had seen this, Kjartan slowly got up and moved among the dancers, gradually picking his way through them, avoiding various groping hands and inebriated friends telling him they loved him.

He slipped out into the night, which was cool and not yet completely dark. The sky was indigo with hints of stars showing in the remains of the sunset.

“Psst!”

His head snapped round to see a tuft of light brown hair peeping round the side of a house. It quickly moved out of sight.

Hastening over there, he jumped behind the house to find Lini, as he’d expected, waiting for him.

Without speaking, he pushed him back against the wall and kissed him. They were in shadow between houses and there was no one about.

The hot taste of Lini was a release and his senses leapt into awareness as he pressed himself against the lean body
of the amber smith. Kissing each other as if they’d never kissed before, it was a while before they could stop for breath, panting.

“We better not spend too long out here,” said Kjartan, and Lini smiled ruefully.

“We’ll have to wait a bit before we go back in.” With a giggle, he indicated the bulges in their trousers.

“How terrible.”
Kjartan kissed him again but eventually they forced themselves to stop, knowing the consequences if anyone caught them. They sneaked back into the hall
separately,
making sure no one saw them together.