The Prisoner of War (Pilot): Part I of the Serial Novel, Page 2

  Chapter Two

  THE PRISONER

  Within minutes the ship had drawn close enough that the crowd on the shore could recognize the red dragon prow and the faces of the crew at the bulwarks. Beside Audgunn, Ragne sighed and turned away. The ship belonged to Ketilbjorn, Orm Raven Eye's eldest son, and Erik would not be on it. Audgunn squeezed Ragne's hand again. It was a disappointment for her too – none of her close kindred were likely to be aboard, and it meant more long days – perhaps weeks – of waiting.

  A shout went up as the ship drew up to land. The crowd surged forward, and soon the ship was surrounded by people shouting and whistling and waving as they spotted fathers, brothers, and sons among the crew.

  The unloading began immediately. One by one the crew filed across the beach and up the hill toward the clearing outside Agnar's house, where the cargo would be divided. They were forty in all, thirty-five crew and five slaves that had been acquired during the voyage. Each man carried a load of some sort, and as they passed, the crowd edged close, cheering and shouting and reaching out to clap them on the back and offer congratulations. The last to step off the ship were two men Audgunn did not recognize. They carried a stretcher between them, and on the stretcher lay the motionless figure of a man.

  Audgunn would later say that it had been love at first sight, though this was not strictly true. In those first moments, as she watched the two unknown men carry him past, all she could think was how different he looked from any other man she had seen before.

  He was dark, not so dark as Ragne, but still unmistakably from one of the southern lands, with black hair that fell in curling ringlets around his face, and only the faint scruff of a beard. He was tall – taller even, Audgunn guessed, than Aud Long Legs, the tallest man in Gruntal – with a chest as broad as a shield and shoulders so taut with muscle they seemed almost to have been cut from stone.

  But it was his face that sent whispers rippling among the crowd – or at least among the women gathered there. It was the sort of face one encounters only a few times in a lifetime – beautiful as a woman's, yet with a set to the jaw as firm as the hardest warrior's. The fine, unblemished skin, the long lashes, and squared jaw combined in a symmetry so perfect that even hardened, well-traveled warriors turned for a second glance. He looked like a man who would be at once the most fearless of leaders and the most tender of lovers, a man other men would rally around, and over whom women would swoon. A few already were.

  Then, almost in unison, the crowd gasped. One of the stretcher-bearers had stumbled on a rock, jostling the unknown man's head to one side and revealing an ugly gash that stretched from above his temple across his cheek and down to the jaw. The wound was still fresh, and around it the entire lower right side of his face was bruised and swollen. Audgunn shuddered. Who knew what other atrocious wounds lay concealed under the blanket that covered him? He lay so still that she feared he must be close to death.

  The stretcher-bearers made their way up the hill toward the clearing outside her father's house, where public ceremonies were carried out. It was an impressive building: built of oak and stone, with a sod roof that burst into a bloom of wildflowers in the spring. It was called Green Helm because of the way it appeared to rise from the slope of the valley like a great green helmet when viewed from afar, and it was universally acknowledged to be the grandest house for twenty miles in any direction. Everyone in Gruntal and the surrounding districts knew of the spaciousness of its four large rooms, the beauty of the tapestries in its main hall, and the grandeur of the oak front doors that had been carved by Audgunn's great-grandfather to depict heroic scenes from their family's past.

  The crowd settled into a semicircle around the clearing and the crew laid their cargo out on the grass for all to see. But no one paid much notice to the piles of golden relics, the bags of silver coins, the furs, fine fabrics, and delicately crafted household items. All attention was focused on the crew: there were tearful embraces, flurried inquiries, hugs and kisses, playful punches and claps on the back. Children were hoisted onto their fathers' shoulders, young boys were swung round until they were dizzy, wives and daughters were kissed and squeezed and told they had been brought “something special from across the seas.”

  Audgunn and Ragne stood apart from the crowd in the shadow of the longhouse’s great oak doors. They knew most of the men of course – Gruntal was small enough that everyone knew everyone, both in the valley itself and in the settlements nearby – but none of the men who had returned were among their nearest and dearest.

  “He must be badly injured,” whispered Audgunn to Ragne. They were both watching the man on the stretcher, who had been deposited on the grass along with the rest of the cargo. Since he had been brought off the ship not a muscle had twitched nor an eyelid fluttered.

  “The voyage must have been very hard for someone in his condition,” replied Ragne. “He looks near death.”

  “And certainly it is better so!” came the brusque voice of Kolgrimma, Agnar's widowed half-sister who managed his house. She had emerged from the shadowy interior of the longhouse and come to stand beside the two girls. “Men with such looks only bring vexation.” She grimaced and shook her grey head knowingly. “Mark my words: if he lives, he will sow jealousy and trouble among us.” She made a tsking sound and turned a resentful eye on Ketilbjorn, who stood talking with his brother. “What was he thinking? This is his father's doing, no doubt. Orm and his tricks. Just think what a nuisance someone will have nursing that man. And where will they put him? Certainly not in our sick house! Though you wait and see – I'd bet my good name Orm doesn't intend to shoulder the burden himself. Not he!” She made another tsking sound, snorted to show her disapproval of the whole business, and then turned abruptly and disappeared into darkness of the house before either girl could reply.

  Audgunn and Ragne stood for a moment in silence watching the motionless figure on the stretcher. “He's beautiful, isn't he?” whispered Ragne. “I don't think it will be too much of a nuisance taking care of him, do you?”

  Audgunn shook her head but did not reply. The connection between her brain and tongue seemed to have grown sluggish, and she felt an uncomfortable tickling at the bottom of her stomach, almost as though she were hungry, although she had eaten a heaping bowl of stew not an hour before. The girls lapsed back into silence, watching the barely visible movement of the man's chest rising and falling below the perfect, deathlike face.

  At last Audgunn's father, Agnar called Horse Tamer, chieftain of Gruntal and the surrounding districts, emerged from the longhouse and came to stand in the center of the clearing. The crowd fell silent as he went to each member of the crew, embraced him, and congratulated him on his safe return. When he had greeted each man, Agnar turned to Ketilbjorn, whom he also embraced warmly. The two men stood aside for a minute, while Ketilbjorn informed his chieftain on the main points of the voyage. Finally, just as the crowd was beginning to grow restless, the two men returned to the center of the clearing, and Agnar signaled that the stock taking would begin.

  They started with the slaves. There were three women and two men, all of whom looked to be between the ages of twenty and thirty-five. They were dressed in dirty, roughly-sewn tunics – their original clothing had been taken from them and added to the pile of goods heaped at the center of the clearing. Agnar and Ketilbjorn passed from one figure to the next, stopping at each while Ketilbjorn whispered their provenance to Agnar, who looked them over with an appraising eye. Finally they reached the stretcher, which was lying in the grass a few paces removed from the rest of the ship's cargo.

  “This prisoner is a gift from my father, Orm called Raven Eye,” Ketilbjorn declaimed in a voice pitched so that the entire gathering could hear. “He was the fiercest warrior we met on our voyage, the leader of the black-haired Seladuk whom we battled two days south of Bokuld. Seeing his skill in battle and the bravery of the men he led, my father recognized that he must be a prince and took him captive instead of
leaving him to his comrades on the battlefield.” Ketilbjorn turned to face the crowd and continued, his voice gathering strength. “It took six men to subdue him. His ransom will be worth a small fortune.”

  Ketilbjorn turned back to Agnar and bowed deeply. “Please accept this gift as a sign of my father's respect and allegiance.”

  A murmur of approval ran through the crowd. Ketilbjorn had managed to deliver his speech as if the prisoner were healthy and uninjured, a brilliant specimen of a man who would either fetch a large ransom or make an invaluable slave. He spoke so well that everyone forgot the gash along the prisoner's face and the obvious fact that he was severely wounded. But the chieftain of Gruntal was not fooled. Agnar's frown had grown deeper with each word that Ketilbjorn spoke.

  “And where is your father?” he asked, stroking his beard meditatively. “Why did he not deliver this 'gift' to me himself?”

  If Ketilbjorn noted the faint ironic emphasis on the word “gift,” he did not show it. He replied, still in the same declamatory voice, “My father stopped over at Olusund and is following three days behind.”

  “And left you all the honor of bestowing his present.”

  Ketilbjorn said nothing.

  “And if this 'gift', this prisoner, should die before he can be ransomed?” Agnar asked dryly. “What then?”

  Ketilbjorn admitted reluctantly that Agnar would be the loser. “But,” he added, his voice again slipping into declamation, “He has already survived the journey. Having lived so long, he will certainly live longer.”

  Another approving murmur circled through the crowd. One or two people clapped.

  “Certainly, eh?” Agnar's tone was, if possible, drier still, hovering dangerously close to sarcasm.

  The crowd fell silent. Refusing a gift was a grave insult. Even to question a giver, as Agnar was doing, was a taboo.

  Agnar's relationship with Ketilbjorn's father, Orm Raven Eye, had always been complex. The two men had spent most of their lives together – they had grown up in the same tiny village on the Atra, had fought together side by side under Thorvald Iron Fist, had raided together for many summers, and had been neighbors for the last twenty-five years. Yet despite their long history, there had always been a subtle undercurrent of antagonism in their association. Perhaps they had once quarreled over the affections of a girl, or been rivals in their boyhood sporting competitions, or slighted each other in some minor dealing now long forgotten, which nonetheless still lingered faintly in the air between them.

  Or perhaps the whiff of friction in their relationship came simply from the fact that, although fate had ordained that their lives follow the same course, the two men could not have been more different. Agnar was tall and fair, with a physique still athletic despite his advancing age. He had an open face – now wrinkled from many summers at the oars– lit with twinkling blue eyes full of goodwill. He was generous and just, and almost, his critics said, softhearted. He prized honor and compassion above all, and there was always laughter in his house and a crowd of friends around his fire. Orm was dark eyed and dark haired, with a slim, sinewy build that often fooled enemies into underestimating its power. He had a hard, watchful face, with a clever mouth and a glinting black eye for which he got his sobriquet – the left eye he had lost in battle fifteen years before. Orm was tough and cunning and did not laugh often, though he enjoyed a joke as much as any other man, and one could often see his lips curl upward in dry amusement. He raised his sons to be courageous, iron-willed and indefatigable, and never to turn from a fight or let an insult go unpunished. He treated his dependents fairly, but his house was not overfilled with laughter, and, although he was just, slaves, children and anyone else who failed in their duties could expect a sound beating.

  Yet despite their differences, the two men and their families were close. Orm had fostered one of Agnar's sons, the two men cooperated regularly in business, and there were plans that Audgunn might join Orm's daughter Svanhild on a visit to her cousin at the court of Sulke the Stout-hearted, the king of Rogaland. Both men had met their wives at the same time, and both were now wifeless – Orm had lost his to illness, while Agnar's wife, the mother of his seven legitimate children, had abdicated all but the most ceremonial marital duties and gone to live by herself on a peak half a mile from the valley. It was an eccentric arrangement, and one that had at first shocked the residents of Gruntal, but that story will be related later in the narrative. In any event, for nearly three decades the two families had lived side by side in something close to harmony, and because of their combined efforts Gruntal was one of the most prosperous territories in the region.

  Still, it came as no surprise to Agnar that Orm was saddling him with this dubious gift in a manner he could not politely refuse. It was a joke, a little trick Orm was playing on him; it was not the first, nor would it be the last. Perhaps, Agnar reflected philosophically, it was the price of Orm's loyalty. Orm was a well-known warrior with many kinsman and loyal followers, and his farm was profitable enough to rival even Agnar's. He could easily have been a chieftain himself, and yet he remained under the command of a man whose character was so unlike his own. In a way, Agnar thought, he should be grateful for such jokes – they were a sort of proof that Orm had no serious designs to undermine his leadership.

  Agnar took another long look at the prisoner lying on the stretcher and sighed. “Very well,” he said, waving a hand in acquiescence. “We'll find a place for him.” He inclined his head and added grumpily, “Tell your father he has my gratitude.”

  A murmur went through the crowd as the tension eased, and all eyes turned to the prisoner, who had not even twitched as his fate was being decided. Agnar raised a hand and motioned for silence, and he and Ketilbjorn moved on.

  Ketilbjorn began to present the gold and silver that had been won, but Agnar's mind remained on the prisoner. He was calculating what it would cost to feed and nurse such a man, how much resistance he could expect from Kolgrimma – who would be irritable for days when she discovered that a useless mouth had been added to their household – and what it would cost to send a messenger to the southern lands to demand ransom. On the other hand, the prisoner was undeniably an impressive figure and might really fetch a high price from his kinsmen. Then yet again, there was something about his looks that made Agnar uneasy, something in the facial features – the blend of too hard and too soft – that was almost hypnotizing. Some farmer's wife was bound to fall in love with him and cause a scandal that would make trouble for the whole valley.

  And yet as Agnar moved through the rest of the stock taking, he couldn't help smiling to himself. Perhaps the man would turn out to be a prince after all, the eldest son of some rich eastern sultan or even a sultan himself. Only last year, the chieftain of a neighboring territory had made a similar capture and ransomed him for more than the rest of his season's profits combined. That would certainly get Orm's goat, Agnar reflected wryly. Perhaps he would have the last laugh after all.