Sworn Brother (11 page)

The morning of the hunt dawned with the dogs barking and baying in excitement, the kennelman yelling to keep them in order, and the boisterous shouts of our masters, who arrived to begin the chase. The hunt marshal was Aelfgifu’s uncle, the earldorman, and it was his glory that was to be burnished that day. Aelfhelm had brought along a dozen friends, almost all of whom had attended the sheave-day feast, and once again
I
noticed the two huscarls. Even with their disabilities, they were prepared to pursue the boar. There were no women in the group. This was men’s work.

We sorted out the chaos at the kennels and moved off, the lords mounted on their best horses, Edgar and myself on ponies, and a dozen or so churls and slaves running along beside us. They were to act as horse holders once we found our boar. From that moment forward the hunt would be on foot.

Edgar had already calculated the line the boar would run once he was moved so, as we rode, we dropped off small groups of dogs with their handlers at strategic spots, where they could be released to intercept and turn the fleeing boar.

Within an hour the first deep voices of the older dogs announced they had found their quarry. Then a crash of sound from the pack told us that they were onto the boar. Almost at once there was a piercing yelp of agony and
I
saw Edgar and the ealdorman exchange glances.

‘Beware, my lord,’ Edgar said. ‘That’s not a beast that runs. It stands and fights.’

We slipped from our horses and walked through the forest. But that day’s hunting was a calamity. There was no chase, no hallooing or blasts on the horn, no occasion to use the dogs we had so carefully positioned. Instead we came upon the boar, standing at the foot of a great tree, champing its teeth, flecks of foam in its jaws. But this was not a boar at bay. It was a boar defiant. It was challenging its attackers, and the circling pack of dogs howled and barked in frustration. Not one dog dared to close with it and I could see why. Two dogs lay on the ground, disembowelled and dead. Another was trying to drag itself away, using only its forepaws, because its back was broken. The kennelman ran forward to restrain his other dogs. The boar stood, black and menacing, the ridge of bristle on his back erect, his head held low, looking with murderous short-sighted eyes.

‘Watch the ears, my lord, watch the ears,’ Edgar cautioned.

The ealdorman had courage, there was no doubt about that. He gripped the handle of his spear and walked forward towards the boar, defying it. I saw the beast’s ears go flat against his skull, a sure sign that he was about to charge. The boar’s black body quivered and suddenly exploded into action. The legs and hooves moved so fast that they seemed a single blur.

The ealdorman knew what he was doing. He stood his ground, the boar spear held at an angle sloping slightly downwards so as to take the charge on its tip. His aim was true. The boar impaled itself on the leaf-shaped tip and gave a mighty squeal of anger. It seemed to be a death strike, but the ealdorman was perhaps too slow. The sheer weight of the boar’s charge knocked him off his feet and he was tossed aside. He fell and those near him heard his arm crack.

The boar rushed on, the spear projecting from its side. It darted through the circle of dogs and men unopposed. It ran in a frenzy of pain, a dark red stripe of blood oozing from its flank. We followed at the double, led by Edgar, boar spear in his hand, the dogs howling with fear and excitement. The beast did not go far, it was too badly hurt. We could easily follow the crashing sound of its reckless run. Then suddenly the noise stopped. Edgar halted immediately, and gasping for breath, held up his hand. ‘All hold! All hold!’ He walked forward very slowly and cautiously. I followed, but he waved at me to keep a safe distance. We moved between the trees and saw and heard nothing. The boar’s blood trail led to a tangled thicket of briars and brushwood, a woven mass of thorn and branches, impossible to penetrate even for the dogs. We could see the battered and torn leaves and broken twigs which marked the tunnel of its blind, impetuous entry.

I heard the sudden intake of breath of a man in pain. Looking round, I saw the ealdorman clutching his broken arm, He had stumbled through the wood to find us. With him were three of his high-born guests. They looked drawn and shaken.

‘Give me a moment to prepare myself, my lord,’ said Edgar. ‘Then I’ll go in after him.’

The ealdorman said nothing. He was dizzy with pain and shock. Seeing what Edgar proposed, I made a move to join him, but a single firm hand fell on my shoulder. ‘Stand still, lad,’ said a voice and I glanced round. I was being held back by Kjartan the one-handed huscarl. ‘You’d only get in his way.’

I looked at Edgar. He was removing his leather leggings so he would be less hampered. He turned towards his lord and saluted him, a short movement of the boar spear held up to the sky, then he faced the thicket, shifted his boar spear to his left hand holding it close to the metal head, dropped to his knees and began to crawl into the tunnel. Straight towards the waiting beast.

We held our breath, expecting any moment the boar’s suicidal charge, but nothing came.

‘Maybe the boar’s already dead in there,’ I whispered to Kjartan.

‘I hope so. If not, Edgar’s only chance will be to kneel and take the charge head on, the spear point in the boar’s chest, butt planted in the ground.’

Still there was no sound except our breathing and the whimper of a nervous dog. We strained to hear any noise from the thicket. None came.

Then, incredibly, we heard Edgar’s voice in a low, guttural chant, almost a growl. ‘Out! Out! Out!’

‘By the belt of Thor!’ muttered Kjartan. ‘I heard that sound when we fought King Ethelred at Ashington, The place I lost my hand. It’s the war call of the Saxons. That is how they taunt their foe. He’s challenging the boar.’

Suddenly there came a tearing, crashing, rushing sound, an upheaval in the thicket, and the boar came blundering out, unsteady on its feet, weaving and slipping on the ground, its legs losing purchase. It stumbled past us and ran another hundred paces, then slipped one more time and fell on its side. The yelping pack closed upon it now it was helpless. The kennelman ran up with a knife to cut the boar’s throat. I did not see the end, for already I was on my hands and knees crawling through the tunnel to find Edgar. I came across him doubled up in agony, his boar spear tangled in the underbrush, his hands clasped across his belly. ‘Easy now,’ I told him, ‘I have to get you clear.’ Slowly I dragged him, crawling backwards until I felt helping hands reach over me to grab Edgar by his shoulders and pull him free.

They laid him on the ground and Kjartan reached down to draw Edgar’s hands aside so he could inspect the wound. As Edgar hands came away, I saw that the tusks had gutted him. His entrails lay exposed. He knew he was dying, his eyes shut tight with pain.

He died without saying another word, at the feet of his master, the ealdorman whose honour he had protected.

Only then did I know the real message in the wands was not about Edgar’s missing daughter. The wands had pointed to the truth, yet I had been too dull to see it. The snake wand had meant death; that much I had understood. But the appearance of Frey stood not for prosperity and fertility, but because the God’s familiar is Gullinborsti, the immortal boar who pulls his chariot.

FOUR

L
ondon
was
soggy
and miserable under a rain-shrouded sky when I arrived back there a week after Michael’s Mass. I was still trying to come to terms with Edgar’s death. The festivities in the burh had been dismal, with the ealdorman injured, Edgar dead, and the premature onset of gales and heavy rain showers to remind us that the English countryside is no place to spend a winter. Edgar’s death had hit me hard. The wiry huntsman had been so competent, so sure of himself, that he had seemed indestructible. I told myself that he would have accepted his death as a risk of his profession and that he had died honourably and would have found a place in Valholl, or wherever it was that his own Gods rewarded those who died a worthy death. His wife Judith, however, was left numbed by her loss. First her daughter and now her husband had been taken away from her, and she was distraught. Aelfhelm, the ealdorman, behaved nobly. When we brought Edgar’s body back to the huntsman’s cottage, he had promised Judith that he would remember her husband’s sacrifice. She could continue to live in her home, and Edgar’s son would be employed as assistant to whoever was appointed the new royal huntsman. If the young man proved as capable as his father had been, then there was every reason why he would eventually succeed his father. Yet when I went to say goodbye to Judith on

the day Aelfgifu and her entourage set out for London, she could only press my hand in hers and murmur, ‘Thorgils, take care of yourself. Remember your days with us. Remember how Edgar…’ but she did not finish what she had to say because she choked and began to weep.

It had rained for most of our journey south-east as our glum little procession travelled the same road that had taken us to Northampton in the spring. And I had another worry. ‘Far from court, far from care,’ had been one of Edgar’s many proverbs and, as the capital drew nearer, I began for the first time to appreciate the danger of my affair with Aelfgifu. I was still very much in love with her and I longed to see her and hold her. Yet I knew that the risks of discovery in London would be far greater than in our secluded rural world. There was a rumour that Knut was shortly to return from Denmark to England now that the summer campaigning season was over. Naturally Aelfgifu as his queen, or rather as one of his queens, should be on hand to greet him. She had chosen to come to London because Emma, the other wife, was installed in Winchester, which Knut regarded as his English capital. Naturally there was gossipy speculation as to which city, and which wife, he would return to if he did come. As events turned out, he did not return to England that winter, but continued to leave the affairs of the kingdom under the joint control of Earl Thorkel the Tall and Archbishop Wulfstan.

While the staff were unloading the carts at the palace, I approached Aelfgifu’s chamberlain and asked if he had any orders for me, only to be told that he had no instructions. I was not on the official list of the queen’s retinue. He suggested I should return to my original lodgings at the skalds’ house, where he would send for me if I was wanted.

Feeling rejected, I walked through the sodden streets, skirting around the murky puddles in the unpaved roadway and ducking to avoid the dripping run-off from the thatched roofs. When I reached the lodging house, the place was shuttered and locked. I hammered on the door until a neighbour called out to say that the housekeeper was away visiting her family, and expected back that evening. I was soaked by the time she finally returned and let me in. She told me that all the skalds who had regular employment with Knut were still in Denmark. Those, like my absent-minded mentor Herfid who had no official appointment at court, had packed up and drifted away. I asked if I could stay in the lodgings for a few days until my future was clear.

It was a week before Aelfgifu sent a messenger to fetch me and I went with high hopes, remembering my last visit to her rooms in the palace. This time I was shown to an audience room, not to her private chamber. Aelfgifu was seated at a table, sorting through a box of jewellery.