It occurred to me during this and the next chapter that there isn't really much actual stuff happening – is there? I do have a couple of action chapters in mind, but the majority of this fic will remain introspective. I suppose if you have made it this far that is working for you. Thankyou for those people taking time to send me a review and for those people following – I hope you continue to enjoy it.
Conversation 4
Ragnar smiled to himself. The night's noises had died down – Horik's warriors were either dead, too injured to fight or under guard. He had triumphed. Now he was King. His sons would be King. And yet was it enough? wondered part of him. No answered another part. If he was honest, nothing would ever be enough because there would always be another direction to sail, another land to discover. And there would always be another enemy. Men – women even – who resented his ambition, who wanted to stay in the world that they had been born in, who thought he should be content to be master of what he could see rather than risk finding something greater.
He felt a squeeze on his leg and smiled at Aslaug, holding Ivar in one arm with Ubbe and Hvitserk standing a little apprehensively on the other side of her. She was a perfect queen; her elegance, her poise, her grace, her beauty – all fitting for the queen of his domain. He would need her knowledge of diplomacy as he negotiated his way through the Earls and their allegiance. And yet his eyes flicked around to his where his ex-wife stood at the front of the crowd of warriors. She could be a fitting queen: she too had elegance, grace and beauty. She was a certain cunningness to her form of diplomacy, able to use words to avoid most battles should she desire – but where words failed she was not then at a loss; she was a warrior – she rejoiced in the battle, the clash of swords and shields, the rush of almost losing one's life and the taking of others. Both women had borne him fine sons – how could he choose between them?
There was a movement in his peripheral vision and he turned to watch the crowd part to let his eldest son come through – without a conscious thought the edges of Ragnar's mouth tipped up. Bjorn was a son a man could be proud of. Not only was he a magnificent specimen of masculinity, he was a fearsome warrior and yet still had gentleness about him, an ability to empathise that gave people confidence in their leader. You will hate him for it, Floki's words came back to him and for a moment his smile dropped. No, he regained his control. He was King and next summer he would have a bigger army to take raiding. He would make the name Ragnar Lothbrok feared throughout all lands and remembered through the centuries. His sons would build upon the foundations of his work, but they would never eclipse it.
He stood, staying just slightly taller than his son due to the height of the dais and reached out his hands. Bjorn dipped his head and extended the King's sword in both hands towards him. Ragnar took it with both hands, admiring its elegant construction, and Bjorn backed away.
"Hail King Ragnar," called Lagertha, extending an arm.
Ragnar pointed the sword to the roof and lifted it high.
"Hail King Ragnar," responded the Norse behind and around her, dropping to their knees, the noise echoing off the roof and walls. "Hail!" Ragnar turned to Aslaug and his boys with a raised brow and she smiled back at him, rocking Ivar gently. Slightly disappointed at the lack of awe she showed towards the occasion, Ragnar turned back to the crowd to drink in the adoration but the sight in front of him made him frown slightly.
Three people stood: Lagertha, well he knew that she would never kneel to a man, especially not him; Bjorn, as his son and heir he wasn't required to kneel (plus he was too much like Lagertha's son); and a third, a small woman in a slave's dress, her head covered with a dirty cloth standing close to Bjorn's elbow. She was looking to the floor but as he glanced in her direction she looked up and he had a glimpse of wide brown eyes before she dropped her gaze again.
Ragnar held up his hand for quiet and turned to his son. "Where are the rest of Horik's slaves?"
"I told them to go," Bjorn lifted his chin slightly.
A muscle in Ragnar's cheek jerked as he clenched his jaw. While he would gladly bury Horik with a bent sword for what he had tried to do he knew that to so out rightly disrespect the man would stir up animosity in people that he hadn't even met. And Gunhilde deserved a warrior's funeral. That called for slaves for sacrifice – something Bjorn should have, must have, known. Bjorn held still, gazing directly and without any apparent fear.
"Why not this one?" Ragnar asked, his eyes taking the measure of his son and approving despite himself.
"I told her to go too," shrugged Bjorn. "She asked me 'where' and I had no answer."
Ragnar frowned and stood up, the King's sword held across his body in two hands as he advanced towards the pair. Bjorn stood firm, but his hand moved slightly to catch at the woman's elbow and she lifted her head, her eyes widening as she saw Ragnar approach and for a moment she seemed to shrink into herself. He smiled slightly and there was a flash in her eyes – she straightened and her chin came forward. Bjorn looked over at her in surprise.
"I know you," murmured Ragnar, walking around behind her and looking her up and down. "You are the little priestess we brought back from Wessex," he changed language for her benefit as he came back to the front of her.
"I am not a priestess," she said sullenly.
"Sister Marion!" announced Ragnar, pleased with himself for remembering her name. He changed his grip on the sword and reached out one hand, tipping her face away from him to take in the fresh marks evident around her eye. He glanced up at his son and received a shake of his head in response. "How did you get these?"
"A philosophical difference regarding the articles of war," she said icily.
"A philosophical difference regarding the articles of war?" he repeated in grand tones, releasing her and taking a step backwards. "What does that mean?"
"It means I did not agree with the murder of children," she said loudly. "Your man hit me."
There was a slight murmur amongst those watching at her defiant tone and Ragnar gave them a quick glance to quell them. Her courage, while maybe only a thin shell, impressed him. He looked her over closer again, noting the bruises from older blows on her face, around her neck and on her arms. "You liked serving Horik?"
"He was a swine," Marion replied contemptuously. "His wife was no better."
"So why would you protect his family?" asked Ragnar, genuinely curious.
"Because those children were innocent," she answered. "They did not deserve to die."
"If I had not killed them – they may have later become my enemies," reasoned Ragnar.
"There may be a certain kind of cold logic to that," she told him coldly. "Except Erlendur is alive."
"As a slave," shrugged Ragnar, amused by her distain. "He has no teeth anymore and his life is forfeit the moment he shows himself to be false to me." He looked at her for a few moments. "Horik was going to have my family killed – my sons, my wife, my brother. He deserved to know that his family was dead before he died. It was Odin's will and he will forgive me."
She snorted but said nothing more although her eyes dripped contempt.
"Would your God forgive me?" Ragnar tipped his head, his eyes piercing at her.
"If there was a crime my Lord would not forgive it would be the murder of innocents," she replied. She was silent for a moment and then continued in a grudging tone. "However if the repentance was genuine….. I am not God though."
Ragnar put his head back and laughed. "I like this one," he said in Norse with a grin. "But what am I to do with her?"
"Sacrifice her for Horik," suggested Floki and there was another murmur among the gathered Norse.
Ragnar turned to face his friend, seeing hatred within his eyes. It had been difficult for Floki to play the betrayer; when Floki gave his loyalty he gave it for life and even fake betrayal had gone against the grain of his being. He felt guilt about things he had said and had done, even if no blame was appointed to him. There had been physical danger as well – he had run the risk of being killed by a suspicious Horik or by Torstein or Rollo or even Bjorn before they had been let into the plan. It had taken a toll on him, although not one that he would admit, and Ragnar knew that this was where the suggestion was born. It had merit though – for everyone outside of this room the sacrifice would be proper, only the people in this room, his people would know that he was in fact giving Horik the greatest insult by sacrificing a Christian.
He turned his gaze to find Athelstan, dressed as a Norseman with blood specks still on his face and saw the wish for mercy within his eyes. He knew what it was like to be torn from his home and thrust into a world which was foreign in every manner and he was smart enough to know that the woman had found a less kind master in Horik than he had in Ragnar. While he may accept the Viking within him, while he would fight, he would kill, at heart he would always keep some of the gentle monk.
Then there was Bjorn. Horik hadn't been kind to the woman after she had treated Rollo and had made a point of ensuring that Bjorn knew about it. Ragnar had heard her screams fade into whimpers and seen each one of them lance through his son like a blade. At one stage Bjorn had actually stood and Ragnar had thought that all of his plans were about to be lost, because he would not have denied his son his right to redress the slight on his honour, but Lagertha had placed her hand on his arm and after a few tense moments he had walked with her towards the ocean where sound didn't register over the crash of the waves. Torstein had the set up a game amongst Lagertha's and Ragnar's warriors and the sounds had first been lost amongst the rowdiness and then stopped all together. As Ragnar looked at his son's face now he saw that Bjorn would accept his decision, but knew that he would lose a part of his son forever should he make the wrong one.
No he decided. "We will give Horik the respect that a King deserves," he said out loud and some of the stiffness went out of Bjorn. Ragnar turned Floki. "The gods will see him for what he is," he said reassuringly and Floki nodded.
He turned back to the woman, considering his choices. She faced him squarely, outwardly defiant but with fear at the back of her eyes. He could marry her off; there would be some who would enjoy breaking a defiant wife, cracking that resolute shell until she was quivering in fear at his feet. And yet he was not inclined to do that – this woman had strength to endure what she had and she deserved more than that. He could release her; Bjorn had already offered her that though and she had rejected it, figuring that with what she wore, in the absence of any knowledge of the language and no other supplies she would soon run afoul of someone or die from exposure – this woman had a calculated intelligence. He could kill her; it may be a blessing to her, a release from all the torment that she had suffered – and yet when he looked in her eyes he saw life and a will to live.
She would remain as a slave he decided. But whose? She could stay here – she had knowledge, she spoke with slightly different intonation than Athelstan, she lived in a different part of the country, she could heal with English plants and sea water – perhaps he could learn more from her. That could be dangerous though, she was known to be Horik's slave and questions would be asked about why she wasn't sacrificed with him. That also ruled out Torstein – who probably wouldn't know more than one thing to do with a slave anyway, his household moved to whichever Norsewoman was offering him her bed. She could go with Lagertha back to Hedeby, Lagertha would treat her well and would perhaps make a shieldmaiden out of her. That might take her knowledge out of reach for him though.
"Floki – you take her."
The carpenter looked across; his startled eyes framed by the bleeding makeup to what would be a comical level if one was not aware of the steel in his bones. "I am not the one who likes her – if you like her so much you keep her."
"I have plenty of servants Floki," Ragnar waved his hand around the hall. "You and Helga have none."
"We do not need one Ragnar," said Floki earnestly with a glance at Marion.
"Floki," broke in Aslaug. "Winter is coming and you have been from home all summer – Helga has your baby to care for. She could use the assistance."
"She tried to kill me," Floki protested.
"The horse tried to kill you," corrected Ragnar with a grin. He wondered if that was his objection or whether it was because the woman was a Christian. Was he afraid of her God?
"You will need her Floki," said Aslaug firmly. The words had a ring to them and Ragnar turned to look at his wife; she blinked and gave him a serene smile and he wondered if it had been her whom had spoken or whether it had been the gods.
"I do not want her Ragnar," Floki shook his head.
"Then I give her to Helga," decided Ragnar and Aslaug gave a small nod. "She has been a loyal wife, tending to your home while you were away, birthing your daughter in your absence. This is my reward to her." He smiled as Floki's pout.
"Do I have a say in my future?"
Ragnar turned back to look down at the nun. She was perceptive this one. "No," he said simply.
She swallowed and her tone changed a little. "May I at least know what it is?"
"You will go with Floki," her face paled somewhat, "and you will assist his wife in her duties."
"Please, no," she said in a broken tone. She closed her eyes, her lips moving soundlessly for a few moments. "Kill me."
Bjorn looked around at her in shock and Ragnar's brows raised. "You are not afraid of death?"
"Death is but a doorway to eternal life with the angels and saints in the company of the Lord God" she replied somewhat dully. "I have no fear of death except that I may not have proven myself worthy of eternity in this life."
"And yet you still want death?" persisted Ragnar.
She snorted in derision. "I don't want death – I want to go home, I want to go back in time before you arrived and live my boring little life until I was old and grey. But I cannot. And death would be preferable to … that."
Bjorn's agonised eyes met Ragnar's and suddenly he realised how his earlier words could have been misconstrued. "Your duties will be to help Floki's wife with the house, with gathering food and firewood, helping care for her daughter," he explained and her head lifted. "That is all."
"No…..?" she couldn't say the words but her face made her point.
Ragnar turned around to glance at Floki, still looking in distaste at the woman he had to take home with him. Even if Helga had not captured Floki's entire being, Ragnar would not have thought that Floki would ever force himself on a woman, and certainly not a Christian one. He turned to face her again. "No," he replied simply.
Tears welled up in her eyes and she blinked them away hurriedly. "Thankyou," she said softly in Norse. Ragnar's brows rose. "Little," she continued in Norse. "The children were teaching me," she switched back to English to explain.
"Helga will teach you more," nodded Ragnar. "And you can teach Floki English."
Floki's eyes narrowed as the nun looked around Ragnar towards him hesitantly. "I will try," she said doubtfully.
Ragnar gave his son a small nod and Bjorn gave her elbow a slight squeeze so that she looked up at him. "Come," he said and turned away.
"Goodbye Lord Ragnar," she said and turned with Bjorn, walking two steps before pausing to look over her shoulder. "God bless."
Ragnar grinned and held aloft the sword. The hall responded with a yell that made her flinch.
He had indeed been blessed – though whether by her God or the Norse gods he wasn't sure.
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