The Fighting Man. Adrian Deans
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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