-- Bergenhus festning
September 20th, 1115
At six, Are was considered an unusually bright child. He was good with numbers, good with words, wrote very well, and routinely beat older boys at sword practice. Everyone said he took after his father – but truth be told, he had barely known his father until he had unexpectedly returned home from the War a month earlier.
The War was something the grown-ups talked about, and it was so important that it could be used to explain any annoyance, and excuse any failing. Why isn't father here? Because of the war. Why are there so many guards everywhere? Because of the war. Why is the food so bland? Because of the war.
So Are hadn't been all that impressed with his father when he rode in along with his party. In fact, he was a little disappointed that his uncle looked so much more formidable than his father. Over time, however, he had observed how they worked in tandem, and come to appreciate that they were like the two interlocking parts of a clever mechanism that made it work. They both had their set of talents, and working together brought out the best in them both. Are was vaguely aware that Halkjell wasn't his real brother, and so he often wondered if he would ever get a real brother who could help him run the Jarldom. So far he only had a sister, and Cecilia was just two years old.
“Are you awake, boy?”
His grandmother snapper her fingers in front of his face. Are snapped back to the present with a start. “Yes, grandmother!”
“Good. Keep reading and you'll be King one day.”
At 70, Ida Billung was a weathered crone, but that didn't stop her from taking an interest in the upbringing of her grandchildren. Truth be told, she had just about had to bring up Brigida as well, who had been right the strumpet when she arrived from Akershus. She had turned into a fine mother, even if she wasn't giving Harald as many children as Ida would have liked.
They were all in Brigida's chambers – she was rocking her daughter to sleep, while Ida used the occasion to tutor her grandson by the lamplight. It had been a long time since Ida had seen her family together like this – there was always some war, some council, something. And now there was even a civil war. It had amused Ida just how Norwegian she had become – when she had heard of what the Queen had done, she had been almost as outraged as Tor and Harald. Fifty years would do that to a woman. She suspected she wouldn't be around to see Are grow into a man, but if Brigida and Harald both did their part, he would be a fine Jarl.
She was utterly content. That was why, when she heard the commotion starting in the hallway, she laconically thought that of course – something just had to go wrong now. Brigida stood up and hurried over to the door, hissing. “What are they doing? They're going to wake her!”
Are turned and looked toward the door. His mothered opened it, and he expected her to shout at the guards.
“What –“ she said, sounding confused, before being cut off.
Are stood up, alert. Something was clearly wrong. His mother made a strange sound, and then he saw something protruding from the back of her dress. She toppled backwards into the room, and Are saw several men framed by the door, swords drawn. His mind was very clear on what he should do –
run straight at them, dodge them before they knew where he was, and run for help! – but his body wasn't responding. He froze. His grandmother, however, did not. She calmly picked up their reading lamp and flung it at the nearest man. Splashed with oil, the fire caught his beard, and he tumbled to the ground screaming, as Ida slapped her grandson square across the face. “Are you daft?
Run!”
The slap brought Are out of his reverie, and without looking back, he ran. He tumbled over the blazing body on the floor, and barely kept his footing as he flew out the doorway. Suddenly men were shouting in a tongue he didn't know, and he could feel hands grabbing after him – one came close, and would have caught his hair if he didn't keep it cropped short – and then he was out in the hallway. He set his mind to nothing but running as fast as he could, all too aware that several pairs of feet were thundering after him.
Then he hit something and, with a blinding crack, tumbled to the floor.
That's it, he thought for a fleeting moment.
They got me. His ears were ringing, but he thought he could hear swords being unsheathed. He forced his eyes open, expecting to see those same swords pointed at him. Instead he saw several unknown men wearing the guardsman uniforms of Bergenhus, all standing upside down – they had all halted some five yards away from him. He was on the floor. Above him stood a very large man.
“Oh, I see,” he heard his Uncle say. Are touched his nose. It was bleeding – he suspected he had ran into his uncle's knee. He quickly scampered behind Tor. More guardsmen were arriving – real guardsmen, with familiar faces. “I thought there were a few too many of you,” Tor said, and swung at the nearest assassin. Are pulled himself to his feet, and rounded a corner, away from the skirmish, just as the household guard threw themselves into the fray alongside Tor.
Further down the hall he saw his father, flanked by two guardsmen. Are couldn't see their faces. At the sight of Are, Harald broke into a run. “Where have you been? There's a fire, you should – who bloodied your nose?”
The amount of things Harald needed to know straight away was enough that Are wound up simply babbling.
“Slow down, son." Harald put a hand on Are's shoulder. "What was that about the guardsmen?”
“Some of them aren't real guardsmen! They're strangers! They killed mother!”
“They're – what?”
Are could see his father's mind working, and only a slight twitch in his eye gave any indication that he understood, before he grabbed Are by the scruff of his shirt and sent him tumbling across the floor, before immediately drawing his sword and spinning around on the spot. The slash hit air – but only because the nearest guardsman, who had drawn his sword and crept closer while Harald's back was turned, was agile enough to bound backwards and avoid it.
“Who sent you?” Harald barked as he entered a defensive posture. The assassins had dropped any pretense of being actual guardsmen, and were advancing on Harald. Harald feinted, and the nearest assassin took the bait, lunging forward. The riposte opened the assassin's throat, and his comrade began backing away, looking unnerved.
“Throw down your arms, tell us who paid you, and I swear you'll die quickly,” Harald offered. The sellsword grunted in response, and continued backing away.
Are looked down the hall in the other direction, and saw Tor gesturing for half of his guardsmen to double back. Smoke had begun billowing from further down the hall – the lamp must have started a fire. The lamp – what had happened to his grandmother? As the guardsmen filed past Are, he started back down towards his mother's chambers. He could hear his father bellowing – “I want him alive!” – as he ran, trailing after his Uncle.
As he came closer to the chamber, the smoke stung his eyes, and he started coughing. He heard crying – his sister? But that couldn't be, it was getting closer. He didn't have the time to ponder it any further; for what felt like the tenth time that day, someone grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him along.
“Nothing for you to do here, boy,” his uncle growled. Men hauling buckets of water were running past them. The crying continued. With the smoke gone, Are could see Cecilia, resting uneasily on her uncle's vast shoulder.
“But grandmother is in there! And mother!”
“I said there's nothing for you to do.” He let out a long sigh. “If you don't go running back, I'll let you down.”
Are said nothing.
“Suit yourself.”
***
As soon as the castle had been swept and no more unknown guardsmen or servants had been found, everyone not working to put out the fire had gathered in the courtyard. Activity was frantic. Tor and Harald were each talking to men-at-arms, trying to restore some semblance of order.
“Is there anyone not accounted for?”
“We can't find your son –“
“
Are?” Harald's voice nearly cracked. He had been here only moments earlier! He looked around frantically, and right enough – Are stood only a few paces away, still with that blank look. He had been that way ever since knowing that his mother and grandmother were both dead.
“No, the other one, older – the bastard. Halkjell.”
“Where's he gone to? Did he mention he was leaving?”
A tense silence settled in the courtyard.
“He was here before, but he ain't saying nothing about leavin', m'lord,” a rural guardsman piped up from the crowd. And uh – can I speak frankly, Jarl?”
“Of course.”
“
He was the one brought them new men on board, see. Some weeks ago. Said they were his, uh, 'person-al ret-new'. Said right then I wasn't trusting them – talk funny, look funny, only talkin' to one another...”
“Wait. Do you mean that every man killed or captured here today was brought in as Halkjell's retinue in our absence?”
“Yes, Jarl, that is what I'm saying.”
Tor and Harald exchanged a glance.
“The bastard,” Tor remarked. “Told you he was a mistake.”
Harald was grinding his teeth. “I'll gut him myself, when I get my hands on his turncloak hide... “ He trailed off. “Are any of the Finns alive?” he bellowed.
“One, Jarl!”
The second of the assassins who had attacked Harald in the hallway had wisely decided to surrender when faced with ten-odd armed guardsmen.
“Take him to the dungeon.”
“Why don't you go and see to your son?” Tor offered as they walked. “I'll make the Finn talk.”
“It's my responsibility –“
“Your wife was just murdered, Harald. Jarl or no, you should probably talk to your son.”
Harald halted. “If you're sure?”
“I am. Go on now.”
Tor had a certain reputation for being able to elicit answers from the unwilling. Harald thought the work a little distasteful, if necessary, and was perfectly content letting his brother interrogate their prisoner. Tor found his brother in the Jarl's quarters. A maidservant was watching over Cecilia, who was now soundly asleep. Are was twisting and turning in his sheets, much to his father's dismay.
“He told me everything I wanted to know, but I think we could have pieced it together without his help, eventually.”
“Well?”
“They were Finns. He didn't know much about who hired them – their boss went alone to meet with a contact. They were paid in advance, with Swedish coin.”
“Swedish?”
“Yes. I suppose it could be misdirection. Either way, their task – as far as they knew – was to kill as many of the Jarl's family as possible.”
“And Halkjell?”
“He was their inside contact. Brought them in, made them a part of the household Guard in our absence. So they knew the layout of the Castle reasonably well, although they assumed they'd have more time before we arrived.”
Harald shook his head. “I can't believe we let this happen.”
“War narrows your view. You can't keep tabs on everything.”
“This isn't
everything, it's our home – my family.”
“
Our family. That's my nephew they almost they killed.”
“Of course.”
“Back to the assassins. They're not really
assassins. Average sellswords at best. It's no wonder they made a botch of it, although – if Are hadn't gotten away, things could have turned out very differently...”
“I'd rather not think about that. What about the fire?”
“Not their idea at all. Our mother threw a lamp at them.”
Harald smiled. “I'm sure they can fit at least one old woman into Valhall.”
- Västerbotten, The Queen's Warcamp
October, 1115
Halkjell Haraldsson – denied the right to the Åsane name because of his illegitimate birth – had arrived in Västerbotten with only a single ship. The ship was his; the only favour his father had ever done him. He had accepted the Queen's offer with nary a doubt. The woman his father had married hated him as much as he hated her, and that little runt they had bred together would become Jarl. His father had never been unkind, but never truly kind either. He looked on him as precisely what he was – a mistake, made during in the drunken stupor of youth. If they all had to die in order for him to secure some manner of position for himself, so be it.
Of course, the sellswords the Queen had provided hadn't done anything right. Sure, they had killed Brigida – and only her. Not his father, his uncle, or his half-brother. They had killed his grandmother, for some reason. That made him furious – she had been the only one bearing the Åsane name who treated him with any sort of kindness.
In a way, the Queen's rage was completely understandable. But her shouting still made him angry.
“They killed
one of them – the
least important one!”
“Yes, but –“
“But
what? But
what, bastard?”
Why did she have to call him that? “When do I get the Jarldom?”
“The –
what? Are you
daft? You didn't
kill the Jarl, so of course you get
nothing!”
He wished she would stop screaming. “But you swore that –“
“
If the Jarl
and his heir
died!” the Queen screamed, right into his face. “
Then I would name you Jarl! ”
Halkjell shied away from the screaming woman. Suddenly she composed herself, and continued calmly:
“Now, of course, I can't do that. That would implicate me, and that would be terrible for my reputation. As for you... “
Halkjell sensed a glimmer of hope, and clung to it. “Yes?”
“It can't be known that you were here. But I'll reward you for your services – you're a traitor now, a turncloak, and your dear father will surely have figured out that you are missing, and why. So he probably wants you dead.”
Halkjell's eyes widened.
She's going to kill me right here.
“So I propose the following: I have a relative in Sweden, a Jarl – who has an unmarried daughter. She's very charming. Very pretty, maybe not too bright – drools a little. It's been difficult to get her married, and she is past twenty. You'll make a fine husband for her, I think.”
“You want me to – marry an imbecile?”
“Yes. In fact, I don't care who you marry or where you go, as long as you leave my camp and my realm. This is a very generous offer. If you refuse now, there are no second chances.”
“I – yes. I accept.”
“Splendid. A ship will take you there immediately.”
“Can't it wait until tomorrow, at least?”
“No. Go on.”
The Queen walked briskly back into her tent, leaving Halkjell alone to curse his life.
Gyda wanted to break something. The sellswords could have ended the war, removed a dangerous pretender, and – just solved everything. Instead, all they had done was to kill her aunt and an old lady. Admittedly, she was glad that Brigida was dead, but that alone solved none of her problems. And from now on, the Åsanemenn wouldn't let their guards down. None of this was really attributable to Halkjell, and she knew it – but it felt good to lay the blame at someone's feet nonetheless. The Bastard boy had played his limited part perfectly, but the Finnish sellswords had been useless. She had also received word that her Saxons mercenaries had been butchered to a man as they descended Dovre.
There was really no question anymore - she had lost the war. She picked up a goblet and threw it at the tent wall. It didn't break.