Ragnar the Murderer Read online

  Aelfwyn ran to the entrance. “Get out! Or a tree will fall on your roof!” But there was no answer. She looked back to Ragnar, struggling as he and the tree fought for supremacy.

  “Go for help!” he gasped.

  Aelfwyn sprinted off, glad for once to be small and slender. If that tree fell on the hut, a whole family’s livelihood would be ruined. The nearest village was Hallfridby, she must head for that, even though it would be a difficult run up the high ground chosen for its defensive position, and the Danes might be unwelcoming. No time to worry about etiquette however. She accelerated, hoping to be fast enough to cover the distance in time.

  *

  Ragnar braced himself, pushing against the tree. If only the ground was harder he could get some purchase but the recent rains had loosened it into mud. If he could just alter the course of the fall, that would be something but he could hardly even slow it down. He dug his heels in, slipping and sliding in the dirt, pushing with all his strength, but the tree sank slowly towards the hut, whatever he did.

  *

  “Help!” shrieked Aelfwyn as she reached the gate of Hallfridby, panting from running uphill. There were two Huskarlr at the entrance, not on guard duty during daylight, but they still looked forbidding, towering over her. Their uncomprehending looks met hers.

  “Ragnar! Danger! Help!” She pointed in the direction of their kinsman.

  Fortunately, they knew words of Anglisc, and their expressions changed to concern.

  “Ragnar! A tree is falling!” She gasped. “At the hut of Herewulf.”

  One of the Huskarlr patted her down briefly and spoke to the other. She couldn’t be sure but she thought he said she hadn’t any weapons on her.

  They beckoned some other Danes forward, as they could not leave their posts. The others were craftsmen, who left their amber work to investigate the fuss.

  After some brusque discussion, they set off in the direction Aelfwyn had indicated. She tried to walk with them, but her legs were shaking too much, her breathing ragged.

  Suddenly a man knelt in front of her. “On my back. To Ragnar.” She jumped on, he stood and they all strode off together.

  *

  Ragnar’s strength was nearly spent. The tree leaned two feet from the hut roof. It was no good, he was not strong enough. He braced his feet against the weak earth, his boots tearing from the strain. If he let go, the tree would fall on him too, squashing him like a rotten apple.

  Pounding footsteps made his ears prick up.

  “Here, brother, let me take it from you.” Lini the Fleet Foot. He put his arms around the tree as well, pushing back against the sodden soil. “The others are coming, do not worry.” The tree shuddered but continued to fall. Lini’s talent was running, not strength and Ragnar was too weakened to carry on.

  Then the Danish group arrived. Four of them stepped up, taking the tree from him and easing it to the ground amidst shouts of instruction and encouragement.

  Ragnar stepped away, breathing hard. The pain in his shoulders and neck, and most of his body, should not be mentioned to the others. He sat down in the mud, too exhausted to care about spoiling his clothes.

  “You did well, Long Reach.” Viglund the Stalwart patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s hope the Anglisc appreciate it.”

  Ragnar looked up and smiled, a weak version of his normal grin. He became aware of Aelfwyn in the background and Viglund faded.

  She stepped forward and crouched next to him. “You are really brave. You could have been killed.” She touched his shoulder gently and he allowed himself to grimace with pain.

  “I’m not surprised you are hurt. Let me see. I could put something on it to help the pain.” She tried to unpeel the torn threads of his over tunic, but he shook her off, aware his kin were watching.

  “Sorry.” She leapt back as if burnt. She wasn’t sure how much he’d understood of what she’d just said. What had she been thinking, touching his arm in public like that? It seemed well to cuddle him in private, but she didn’t want to embarrass him.

  “You did well today. Herewulf and Mildrith will be grateful you saved their home.” She stood up, nodded formally and backed away.

  Ragnar moved his arm, giving himself pain on purpose. How stupid he’d been to push her away like that. Just because he knew his fellow Danes would mock him for admiring an Anglisc girl. What a fool. He rotated his arm but had to stop due to the discomfort.

  “I think you need rest and ale, my friend.” Bjarni appeared next to him. “You’ve gone very pale.”

  Ragnar grunted in reply, still examining his injuries.

  “Is that due to your exertions, or the attentions of a certain woman?” Bjarni teased. “Now you’re blushing, what should I assume from that?”

  “Enough! I will drink ale. That will solve my problem.”

  Bjarni laughed. “If only that were true.” He helped him up, and they set off towards the village, Ragnar trying not to show how much it hurt to move.

  “What are you doing here anyway? I thought you were on duty?” asked Ragnar, gritting his teeth.

  “Couldn’t let my best friend be crushed by a tree, could I? Not without watching.”

  Ragnar thumped him on the arm, frowning with the pain.

  “You shouldn’t let a woman distract you from your life,” advised Bjarni, walking slowly to keep pace with him. “Women come and go, but enjoyment, companionship and honour are the important things.”

  Ragnar was not so sure. Bjarni the Charmer only had to smile at a woman and she fell into his bed, but it rarely worked for him, being simply tall and not handsome. He must not dwell on it, ale and sleep were what he needed now. He must concentrate on those.

  *

  The next week, Saehild rushed up to her sister.

  “Herewulf is going to congratulate Ragnar for saving his home. He’s going to give him a present, I’m not sure what.”

  “Girls! Stop gossiping and get on with the cooking!” snapped Cwenburg. “There is much to do for lunch.”

  But Aelfwyn sneaked away from her tasks to Herewulf’s hut and hid behind a nearby bush.

  Jarl Thorvald stood there, to her surprise, with his arm round Ragnar, whose right arm was bandaged against his body. The Jarl’s wife stood modestly behind him, eyes lowered, the picture of virtue.

  “I am pleased to hear of this,” said the Jarl. “A Huskarl’s job is to help and protect, and Ragnar has been an admirable example of this.”

  “Oh yes,” said Herewulf, a man of forty, with his younger wife Mildrith. “I am very grateful to your warrior. Please allow me to reward him with a new pair of boots. His own are scuffed and torn, some of which must be the result of struggling with the tree.”

  “How generous,” said the Jarl.

  “Please come this way,” Herewulf ushered Ragnar in to his workplace. Aelfwyn stole away, pleased to have witnessed the ‘ceremony’ of gratitude.

  *

  Herewulf’s workshop filled part of his house. Wooden pillars instead of walls meant the whole floor was open, with only one panel hiding the bedroom area.

  Half made leather shoes were set out neatly on a bench, waiting to be finished for their buyers to pay for. His tools were nearby: a large sewing needle, a sharp knife, lengths of twine for sewing.

  Ragnar sat down on a bench, pleased to be given a free pair of boots. His old ones had been rubbing for weeks.

  Mildrith knelt down, measuring his feet.

  “You have very big feet, almost two spans,” she remarked.

  “I have very big everything.” He chuckled.

  She looked up at him and giggled. She was in her twenties, he reckoned. He didn’t feel the remotest guilt at the thought of fucking a married woman. So why did Aelfwyn being betrothed matter so much to him?

  “How are you getting on?” asked her husband, wondering what they were laughing about.

  “Very well,” said Mildrith. “We can start on his boots immediately.”

  Herewulf beckoned his
wife over and they had a whispered conversation. Ragnar admired her ample bottom as she listened to her husband, hands on hips.

  “My husband has to go and get some more leather for shoes for your Jarl,” she said when he had gone. “He is so impressed with Herewulf’s work, he has ordered some and will be back later for measuring.”

  “So, there is no one else here then?” asked Ragnar innocently.

  “No. Just you and me. He said to make you welcome.”

  “Really?” He pulled her towards him, to see what she would do. She did not resist, but stood willingly between his legs as he sat. She pressed against him, her breasts taunting him with their hard nipples. His cock leaped up, frustrated for so long, and he unwound his bandage to free his right arm.

  “My husband, he’s so-old-“ she whispered. “He’s so often not interested.”

  He looked round for a convenient space. There were so many tools and trappings on every work surface it would have to be the floor. He pushed her down not too roughly and she hitched up her skirt, groaning a little in anticipation. Inside her in a moment, he thrust like a beast, not caring about her, just himself and the thought of Aelfwyn. If only it she lay beneath him. He thrust into this other woman, harder and harder and she gasped, clawing at him, putting her legs round him, matching his groans with hers. Then his seed poured into her, filling her and he closed his eyes for a second in relief.

  “Oh!” she said, breathing hard. “Oh, I needed that.”

  “Me too.” He smiled, also breathing hard.

  “Can we do it again? Sometime, not now.”

  “Maybe.” He moved back from her, pulled up his trousers and sat back on the bench. “When I come for my boots. Maybe.” He didn’t know what he meant, didn’t know what he would do. He suddenly realised his right shoulder throbbed, and groaned again, this time in pain.

  “Let me.” She got up, straightening her skirts, and went to re-bandage his arm.

  “Get off,” he snapped, standing up and moving his shoulders around, trying to ease them. “I have to go.”

  He strode out, his mind a bit clearer, even if his conscience wasn’t.

  Fif

  “I’m not combing your hair for you,” said Bjarni impatiently as Ragnar struggled with his one arm to control the mass of dark red bristles which sprang up every day after sleeping.

  “Can’t you get a woman to do it?” continued his friend. “Hurry up, we’ve got training.” He strode out of the door, looking immaculate.

  Ragnar muttered darkly to himself. The Jarl insisted that the Huskarlr look neat, and Steinar would think up a punishment if he appeared at training with untidy hair. The only alternative was to wear his helmet to subdue the brush. These people with straight hair were lucky, they could keep that neat easily. Or he could wash it, but that would be another problem with his bandaged arm. He wished he’d never seen that wretched tree or tried to save Herewulf’s hut. Or fucked his wife.

  Bjarni returned.

  “It’s alright. Steinar has excused you from training today. Everyone thinks you’re a hero, the gods know why.” He breezed out officiously.

  Ragnar decided to go for a walk instead. Still muttering crossly to himself, he went out of the village to find a quiet place to think. He wandered along the stream and its liquid whispers soothed him, as well as the mid spring sunlight and twittering birds. The sky over the hills threatened a storm, but it wouldn’t come for hours.

  He sat happily on a rock, feeling content. The pain in his shoulders faded if he sat still. He became aware of voices to the north by the cliffs and glanced over. They sounded familiar, a man and a woman.

  Creeping silently towards the sounds, he managed not to trip despite the perilous footing of the loose stones by the stream.

  “We can’t carry on. It is too dangerous,” said the Danish female voice.

  “A bit of danger is good. You need me.”

  “I don’t, I-“

  The talking stopped abruptly. Ragnar crept little by little round the rock face, to see the narrow entrance of a cave. A male figure had his back to the entrance, his white-blond hair giving his identity away, kissing a woman.

  The cave was furnished. There were torches dug into the walls and a mass of bear skins huddled in one corner to make a bed.

  The woman put her hand on the back of Kjartan’s head, caressing him. Her hand wore a very recognisable ring on the middle finger. Ragnar gasped, and the kissing couple stopped and looked round.

  “What the fuck-“ gasped Kjartan. The woman stepped out from behind him. Ragnar had guessed correctly as it was the Jarl’s wife, Yngvild.

  Ragnar’s jaw dropped.

  “What are you-“

  “What are we doing?” said Yngvild. She had ample breasts, a curvaceous figure and very long, soft golden hair. But even so, she was the Jarl’s wife.

  “You are not to tell anyone about this!” snapped Kjartan. “Or I’ll-“

  Yngvild put her hand on his arm and he subsided.

  “I’m sorry to burden you with this secret,” she breathed in her warm, melodious voice. Ragnar felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up with pleasure. “We just fit together.”

  Kjartan blushed and looked at his feet, Ragnar had never seen him like that before.

  “Thorvald is consumed by his job. He takes such pride in it but forgets that a woman needs attention.”

  “So I gave it to her,” interrupted Kjartan, his voice thick with lust.

  “Many times,” she laughed, a bell like sound.

  Ragnar’s heart beat harder with shock, he even felt a bit light headed. He’d thought of the Jarl’s wife as the ideal of womanhood, incorruptible and pure. Normally, she even wore the Anglisc head-rail so her hair would not be seen. She had married the Jarl two winters ago after his last wife, Katla, died. Katla had been Ragnar’s true foster mother, he mourned her still, with Yngvild just her replacement.

  So the Jarl had worked hard for so long, with this as his reward? His wife having sex with one of his soldiers? He wondered if his own career would end the same way, a terrible thought.

  “I’ll-I’ll leave you to it,” he faltered, backing away.

  “Don’t tell anyone, or I’ll-“ said Kjartan.

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t be so dishonourable,” smiled Yngvild.

  Kjartan suddenly had an idea and stepped towards him. “You can use this cave anytime you want, brother. You know what I mean.”

  Ragnar knew exactly what he meant. He made a half bow to Yngvild, and retreated.

  *

  He set off back to the village, his mind whirling with thoughts. Distracted, he walked into someone. Aelfwyn! He smiled broadly.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I’m going to collect hazelnuts. There are some trees by the stream near the old caves.”

  “No! I-er- I know a better place.” He didn’t want her running into Kjartan and being raped or murdered to keep the secret.

  “Where?”

  “Er-“

  “You don’t know another place, do you? Why are you lying?”

  “I’m not. Those caves are haunted.”

  “Are they?”

  “The fire demons live there.” He said the first thought that came into his head.

  “Is that some Danish legend? I’m Anglisc, they won’t affect me.” She walked towards the stream determinedly.

  He had another idea.

  “Can you help me then?”

  She stopped impatiently.

  “With what?”

  “I can’t wash my hair or comb it. I’ve only got one hand.” He explained the situation about being tidy for Huskarl training. “Steinar says that if we can’t keep ourselves under control, how can we protect the Jarl or fight our enemies?”

  “I could wash your hair in the stream.”

  So they went to the stream, but when they arrived, realised it would mean getting into the water and completely wet in the chilly weather.

 
“Oh, I’m so stupid!” laughed Aelfwyn suddenly. “Come with me.” so taken up with her idea, she took his hand and led him along, forgetting to be modest. Past Kjartan’s now silent cave, Ragnar doubted she had noticed the concealed entrance.

  A splashing sound grew louder and louder.

  “There!” she pointed.

  A small waterfall cascaded from the rock.

  “That’s perfect!” He took his bandage off and ran under the downpour, splashing through the puddles, not caring that he would be soaked. He ran his hands through his hair, getting all the dust out, smiling with the clean feeling. Aelfwyn watched with pleasure, then couldn’t resist running in too.

  “You mad woman!” he shouted over the thundering water. She laughed back at him, awed by his beauty. With wet hair slicked back, his profile was highlighted. He had an Eastern look, she had seen slaves from the Orient with the same narrow eyes and straight eyebrows.

  He was thinking much the same about her. She was beautiful. Light brown hair, grey green eyes, he hadn’t seen a woman like her before. He grabbed her to him and before she could protest, kissed her passionately, having to lift her up to his lips. He fell back against the rock face, into the dry space between the torrent and the wall. She put her legs round him to make it easier and they kissed until they couldn’t breathe anymore.

  “I know somewhere we can go, if you want. If you don’t mind being alone with me.”

  “Of course I don’t mind, you fool. Is it far?”

  “No, just round here.” He put her down and led her out of the waterfall, shaking with desire. As was she.

  Hoping Kjartan and Yngvild had gone, he led her to the cave. Luckily they had, but the torches, bearskins and other comforts were there. Even a hearth in the hole cut into the rock, with a natural chimney through the rock faults above.

  “This is so-“ She looked round in awe. “Is this your home?”

  “No, kisa. It’s just somewhere to go when you want peace from other people.”

  She gazed up at him and he bent to kiss her again, gently putting his tongue in her mouth, his wet hair slapping her face. Lifting her up, he sat her on a rock and carried on kissing her.