Bob The Warrior Viking
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A year after the death of his beloved brother, Bjorn was back in Dublin. His return had been planned for months – it took a lot to get him out of that fortress of solitude where he’d lived most of the last five years, but the gods were merciful and they made sure that this time things went much more smoothly than before.
He left by ship as an unannounced passenger aboard a fishing vessel bound from Ireland’s west coast port of Kinsale for the island of Great Britain, then on to Norway. There would be no chance for them to meet, but the thought warmed Bjorn nonetheless.
It was good luck that brought him back here again so soon after his first visit. If he had not found himself at sea on the day he did, there might have been a real risk of meeting his brother in person once more; the memory of Thorvin burned bright inside him still.
And now, one year later, Bjorn stood outside the city gates with four armed guardsmen who were ready to take him wherever he needed to go. A man came forward to greet him when they reached the gate, and Bjorn knew at once who it must be: Lord Bán.
Bán had served as chief steward under Bjorn’s father in Dublin and held great affection for the old king. “Lord Bán,” Bjorn said, bowing respectfully in greeting. He was pleased to see that the steward was still wearing his hair long, although it was trimmed shorter than when Bjorn had seen him last.
“Bjorn! How good it is to see you. I’m very sorry about your brother,” the steward said.
“Yes, well…it was my own fault for leaving him alone.”
“I know, boy. And yet even if he’d been better protected against the plague, it would have taken longer for the illness to reach him. No matter what anyone tells you, no place is safe from the disease,” Bán replied sadly. Bjorn felt bad for having been so callous in his words.
“It has been too long since I’ve visited these shores. But I’ll make sure to come again, and stay awhile.”
“Very good,” Lord Bán replied, smiling warmly. “You’ll want to speak to the king first, though: you are due for payback for stealing his wife.”
That set off another bout of laughter. Bjorn had never forgotten how his father had punished him after hearing the tale of Bjarni’s betrayal. They laughed together until a servant came forward and told Lord Bán that King Conor had requested their presence upstairs. After a few moments spent exchanging pleasantries with the steward, Bjorn nodded to his guardsman and followed him up the stone stairs to the palace’s upper floors.
The steward led him through a corridor lined with portraits of famous Irish kings that were hung above doors leading out into courtyards or halls. They crossed three separate staircases before reaching the top floor, where a small chamber waited ahead of them.
It could only hold three people standing side by side, which meant that it was unlikely to accommodate Bjorn and his guardsmen, let alone all of the other guests and servants who might be waiting. Yet they entered it anyway.
When he closed the door behind them, Bjorn noticed that there were two men in dark cloaks seated on chairs near the far wall. One was clearly young and nervous while the other one sat quietly and appeared to be of middle age.
Both of them wore their hair long, although in different styles—the younger man’s was cut close to his head and fell across his face like a curtain while the older man had it tied loosely back.
As soon as everyone was inside the room, Bjorn recognized Lord Bán as well as two others. These men were dressed in fine suits, and the one whose hair fell over his face bowed to Bjorn with respect. He was the one who spoke.
“King Conor has asked us to bring you here today so that he can thank you properly for your service during our war with England. We also wanted to offer our condolences upon the loss of your brother.”
“Thank you, Lord,” Bjorn answered, his voice flat. The news had come to him just days ago; he did not expect to feel anything at this point but numbness. His family had been killed by his own brother in an effort to take power as king, then they were poisoned by the same enemy. This was not a time for tears and regrets.
“Now,” the elder steward continued, “we are pleased that you’ve decided to continue serving our country. Your father was known as a great warrior; he always spoke highly of your skill. You are welcome to remain here as a guest until we need you again.”
Bjorn shook his head. “No. That would be too great a burden.”
“But…” Lord Bán began, but a look of understanding washed over him instead. “Of course. What will you do? Will you return home to Iceland?”
Bjorn hesitated. He hated to leave Ireland, hated the thought of being away from the woman he loved, and yet the prospect of returning to his native land frightened him as well. It was not so much the threat from his enemies that he feared: he was used to fighting and defeating such threats, even without his brothers’ aid.
No, it was more likely that Bjorn would once again find himself unable to control the feuding families in his lands. He had left those battles behind when he fled from home, and it was best if he remained free of them.
So why, then, was it that every fiber of his body cried out for him to go? To stay with Sigrún and her father. For years his thoughts had drifted back to Iceland, to his homeland. Perhaps, if he stayed in this island kingdom, he could put that exile behind him forever. If he could find a way to do it without becoming part of the constant feuds that plagued his neighbors…
“I think I should return to Reykjavík,” Bjorn finally said, looking directly at Lord Bán. “There is much work to be done there. My people need me.”
“Then we shall miss you,” Lord Bán replied, shaking his hand warmly. “Your presence here has given us hope that Iceland may still be spared. May God grant you many long and prosperous years, Bjorn Sigurdsson.”
When they parted from Lord Bán and the steward, Bjorn looked at his guardsman and asked, “Why have you brought us here?”
His second-in-command, a young man named Gunnar, shrugged. “We’re supposed to wait for you outside the door until someone summons us to the king. There’s no sense in standing around in that cold wind.”
“Good thinking, Gunni,” Bjorn answered. “Lead on.”
***
They stood outside the door for about ten minutes before the younger steward appeared again. He held a small brass bell in his palm and rang it twice, summoning the guard in front of the door. A moment later he pushed it open and waved his arm toward the chamber beyond.
Bjorn stepped through with Gunnar and the young steward trailing behind. Once inside they found Lord Bán, along with two others that Bjorn didn’t recognize, sitting in high-backed chairs on either side of a large fireplace. All three men stood as Bjorn walked into the room.
A woman wearing a simple gown approached them carrying cups of wine. “Lord Bán! Lord Bán!” she called over her shoulder. She turned toward Bjorn and bowed, holding his cup in one hand. “Lord Bjorn, my apologies for keeping you waiting.”
With a smile Bjorn accepted the cup from her hand, saying only, “That is quite all right, Brighid. How are you doing?”
She smiled in reply, though she did not meet his eyes. Her gaze flitted from his feet up to his face, as if afraid to let him see what was on her mind. When he returned his attention to Lord Bán, the old man leaned forward on his seat and motioned for Bjorn to sit across from him.
After handing the steward his cup, Bjorn did so while Gunnar sat behind him, resting a hand on his back for support.
“How is it going, Lord Bán?” Bjorn asked, taking a sip of the rich red wine. It was strong enough to make his mouth burn a little bit but pleasant nonetheless.
“As well as can be expected,” Lord Bán answered, then glanced at his two companions. “The steward told me you’d been here for several days, which means you’ve already seen some of our countries. Tell us, then: is it as beautiful as it seems in this fair kingdom?”
Bjorn nodded and took another sip. His tongue tingled against the roof of his mouth as the liquid filled his belly. He hadn’t tasted wine since he left Iceland many months ago, and it was good to drink such fine spirits once again. “Very,” he answered quietly. “It is far less populated than Ireland, perhaps, but it is still a beautiful place.”
Lord Bán smiled wanly, the lines around his eyes deepening. “You’ll understand soon enough just how important it is to maintain that beauty. Our enemies will try their hardest to destroy it, and they will fail, I promise you. As long as we keep the peace, the land will grow richer and healthier under our stewardship. It is something to take pride in.”
The woman arrived then, bearing food for them both: roasted hare on skewers, a dish of boiled potatoes, and slices of bread sprinkled with honey and herbs. The young steward poured some more of Lord Bán’s wine from a golden goblet that seemed to glow in the firelight.
“This is good stuff,” Bjorn remarked, setting his cup aside and reaching for the platter. The scent of the hare meat mingled with the sweetness of the honey and rosemary.
“Indeed it is,” Lord Bán agreed, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint as he watched Bjorn wolf down half of the meal. “I think you’ll find that the quality of our wine rivals that of any other kingdom.”
“If not surpasses it,” the old man added. “Come now, you must eat if you want to fight this evening.”
Bjorn laughed lightly as he continued to devour his share. Gunnar was watching him with an odd expression, but he couldn’t quite read it. He could feel the tension in the air, though; something had happened between Lord Bán and Lady Brighid. Bjorn decided he would ask about it after he finished eating.
“What’s so funny, Gunni?” Bjorn asked, finally looking up from his plate. “Have you never eaten such a feast before?”
“No,” Gunnar said, shaking his head. “There were none leftovers from that last battle when we raided these shores.”
“Ah,” Bjorn replied. “Well, if there hadn’t been we wouldn’t have had much luck fighting our way out of the North Sea.”
“Not that it matters,” Gunnar muttered under his breath. Bjorn ignored the comment and took another bite of the meat, feeling it slide down his throat as it melted away.
“Now, Lord Gunnar, don’t speak badly of your host or hostess. You’ve already met Lord Bán,” Lord Bán reminded his nephew. “He is one of our finest men. A warrior and a leader. And Lady Brighid? Don’t get me started.”
Gunnar shook his head in response. “Don’t bother,” he muttered.
Lord Bán smiled. “But I’m not done. She was a great queen, and you should know better than to insult her honor, especially after she has welcomed us into her home. Now come and help me with my armor.”
When Gunnar stood and bowed, Lord Bán motioned for him to take his seat. Bjorn looked to Lady Brighid but found no sign of anger on her face. In fact, she looked as serene and composed as ever, though the color in her cheeks betrayed her true feelings. The two exchanged looks, and Bjorn felt his stomach clench as he realized what was going on.
“Are you sure it’s safe for us to be in here?” he whispered, leaning toward Gunnar. “With all those people about?”
“She won’t do anything while she’s alone,” Gunnar assured him.
Bjorn wasn’t convinced but let the matter drop. He finished his meal quickly, eager for a chance to speak with his aunt. The servants had cleared away most of the dishes by that point, leaving only two small ones and a wooden plate of cheese and dried fruit.
The wine cups had also vanished, and Gunnar and Bjorn sipped their ale instead. They sat across from each other, waiting for their hosts to join them.
Lord Bán appeared first. He wore his full plate mail over his shoulders with ease, though Bjorn could tell his arms were aching beneath the weight of the metal. “I’m ready for bed if you are, Lady Brighid,” he told her. “Gunni, help me gather my armor.”
As the two men worked themselves free of their clothing, Lord Bán turned to Lady Brighid and bowed his head. “We will return in the morning, I believe,” he began. “I hope to have time to spend with your horses again if the weather holds clear. We can ride north along the river and see what changes have taken place during our absence.”
Lady Brighid smiled gently as she responded, “It pleases me greatly. If you’d like, perhaps you could visit the stables tomorrow after we leave here.”
“That would please me too,” he said. Then he looked to Bjorn and Gunnar. “You two look as though you’re having an interesting conversation. Let me guess: you’re wondering whether or not your aunt is planning to kill you tonight.”
The words were out of his mouth before Bjorn could stop himself. “I am,” he admitted.
Both Lord Bán and Lady Brighid burst into laughter. Bjorn glared at the man as he continued to laugh. His face bright red, Lord Bán wiped tears from his eyes and nodded in his direction. “Your mother would have loved it,” he mumbled.
“And your sister,” Lady Brighid added. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I need to change into my night clothes.”
After she disappeared upstairs, Lord Bán and Gunnar returned to their own quarters and Bjorn was left alone to his thoughts. He was relieved they had both survived the day without any trouble, but he knew the truth about Lord Bán’s suspicions now. Even if his aunt meant no harm, he was still in danger. It wasn’t fair that Lady Brighid should suffer because of her kinship to her husband.
His mind drifted back to those last days when he and Gunnar had fought against the Danes together. He wondered how much the gods knew about the events which transpired between them. Had they decided on some divine punishment to ensure peace between Denmark and Sweden?
He thought back to their fight in the ruins of Hedeby and shivered. Perhaps they did know all. That must have been why they allowed them to escape.
The sounds of footsteps coming up the stairs announced Lady Brighid’s return. She came down wearing a long robe and carrying a bundle wrapped in oilcloth. Bjorn watched her approach. He wanted so badly to ask her more questions, but he knew she would not want others to know her business.
He forced himself to remain silent as she walked by, careful not to touch her shoulder. As she passed through the kitchen, he caught a glimpse of his aunt’s face as she looked up at him over the rim of her hood. A momentary wave of guilt washed over him, but she did not seem upset. Instead, he saw satisfaction in her eyes. And then she disappeared around the far corner and was gone.
Bjorn leaned back in his chair, trying to ignore the pain in his head which never seemed to go away these days. He closed his eyes and tried to recall the vision he had seen in the church. All he could think about was how he had missed that spear thrust by an inch.
How he would have died if it had struck him directly. And why hadn’t the spear sunk deeper into the man’s chest where he lay motionless behind the stone altar? Why had it been missed?
What did this mean for him and Gunnar? Where would it lead them to? Was the dream telling him to trust in the gods? Or was it a warning that his doom awaited? Bjorn sighed as he thought once again of his sister and brother-in-law. They would surely pay for what he had done.
He opened his eyes again. The sun had begun its descent in the west, painting the sky orange and pink. He sat there watching the light fade while Lady Brighid cleaned the dishes in the kitchen.
The End