The Long Hunt (The Strongbow Saga) by Judson Roberts Page A
Authors: Judson Roberts
wind and wave."
As he finished speaking, Hastein reached down and with a single swift motion, pulled his knife's blade from left to right across the ram's neck, just below its jaw. Blood spurted from the gaping wound out into the water. The ram gave several sharp, convulsive jerks, but Torvald and Stig held it secure.
"The sea drinks our blood-offering," Hastein cried, and the folk gathered along the shore nodded their heads and murmured in approval.
Hastein turned and gestured to Tore, who was standing at the water's edge, holding a shallow copper basin and a short branch freshly cut from a spruce tree. Tore hurried forward, holding them out to Hastein, who swished his knife's blade in the sea, wiped it dry on his trouser leg, and sheathed it. As Hastein extended his hands to take the bowl and branch, Tore's foot slipped on a slick rock in the shallow water, and he went down on one knee. He would have fallen face-forward into the water had he not dropped the branch and put his arm down to catch himself and stop his fall.
The crowd on the shore gasped. Tore looked up at Hastein, a frightened expression on his face, and said, "I am sorry, my Jarl."
Hastein took the copper bowl in one hand, and with his other seized Tore by the upper arm and hoisted him to his feet. Then he bent down, retrieved the spruce branch, and shook the water from it. "It is of no consequence," he said, but I thought his face looked grave.
The ram was beginning to sag in Torvald's and Stig's grasp, as the flow of blood from the wound in its neck slowed to a steady draining instead of pumping out in spurts. Hastein held the basin under its neck and let it fill. Carrying it out onto the narrow pier, he used the spruce branch to paint the prows of the Gull and Serpent , below their carved, brightly painted dragon's heads, with the sacrificial blood as he chanted, "Let breakers spare thee, and waves not harm thee. Turn aside from rocks that lurk beneath the surface, and fly before the wind like a bird."
I was not among those in the two crews who pushed forward, after Hastein returned to the shore, seeking to be anointed with the blood. I did not believe that a few drops of blood from a slain sheep held any power to protect me from death or harm. I could not help but recall a similar scene, up on the Limfjord at Hastein's estate, when a blood-sacrifice had been made before our fleet had sailed for Frankia. Many who had sought the protection of the blood then, at that sacrifice, had not returned from that campaign. The threads of all our lives were in the hands of the Norns, the weavers of fate. When the three sisters decided to cut those threads, nothing could turn the blades of their scissors aside.
Torvald had carried the carcass of the now-dead ram onto the Gull . At least this night our ration of barley and vegetable stew would be flavored with mutton, instead of salted pork. The rest of the members of the two crews were filing down the narrow dock and boarding the two ships. We would be leaving soon.
I had one last thing to do. I searched the faces of the folk of the estate, still standing along the shore waiting to watch us depart, until I saw Gunhild. Pushing through the crowd, I made my way to where she was standing.
"It is my hope," I told her, "that you will not be here when I return. Your father is a jarl. There will be room for you in his household."
"Hrorik was my husband," she replied, in a haughty voice. "As his wife, I am entitled to live on these lands. More so than you are. You are a bastard, and not entitled to inherit."
"Hrorik acknowledged me before witnesses," I snapped. "You were there. And he gave me one inheritance—the farm up on the Limfjord. I am an heir. The only one, unless Sigrid returns, with any claim to this estate."
Gunhild said nothing, but glared angrily at me. Had I been a thrall, I had no doubt she would have struck me.
"You filled my mother's life with misery," I told her, glaring back. "Do you not think I
As he finished speaking, Hastein reached down and with a single swift motion, pulled his knife's blade from left to right across the ram's neck, just below its jaw. Blood spurted from the gaping wound out into the water. The ram gave several sharp, convulsive jerks, but Torvald and Stig held it secure.
"The sea drinks our blood-offering," Hastein cried, and the folk gathered along the shore nodded their heads and murmured in approval.
Hastein turned and gestured to Tore, who was standing at the water's edge, holding a shallow copper basin and a short branch freshly cut from a spruce tree. Tore hurried forward, holding them out to Hastein, who swished his knife's blade in the sea, wiped it dry on his trouser leg, and sheathed it. As Hastein extended his hands to take the bowl and branch, Tore's foot slipped on a slick rock in the shallow water, and he went down on one knee. He would have fallen face-forward into the water had he not dropped the branch and put his arm down to catch himself and stop his fall.
The crowd on the shore gasped. Tore looked up at Hastein, a frightened expression on his face, and said, "I am sorry, my Jarl."
Hastein took the copper bowl in one hand, and with his other seized Tore by the upper arm and hoisted him to his feet. Then he bent down, retrieved the spruce branch, and shook the water from it. "It is of no consequence," he said, but I thought his face looked grave.
The ram was beginning to sag in Torvald's and Stig's grasp, as the flow of blood from the wound in its neck slowed to a steady draining instead of pumping out in spurts. Hastein held the basin under its neck and let it fill. Carrying it out onto the narrow pier, he used the spruce branch to paint the prows of the Gull and Serpent , below their carved, brightly painted dragon's heads, with the sacrificial blood as he chanted, "Let breakers spare thee, and waves not harm thee. Turn aside from rocks that lurk beneath the surface, and fly before the wind like a bird."
I was not among those in the two crews who pushed forward, after Hastein returned to the shore, seeking to be anointed with the blood. I did not believe that a few drops of blood from a slain sheep held any power to protect me from death or harm. I could not help but recall a similar scene, up on the Limfjord at Hastein's estate, when a blood-sacrifice had been made before our fleet had sailed for Frankia. Many who had sought the protection of the blood then, at that sacrifice, had not returned from that campaign. The threads of all our lives were in the hands of the Norns, the weavers of fate. When the three sisters decided to cut those threads, nothing could turn the blades of their scissors aside.
Torvald had carried the carcass of the now-dead ram onto the Gull . At least this night our ration of barley and vegetable stew would be flavored with mutton, instead of salted pork. The rest of the members of the two crews were filing down the narrow dock and boarding the two ships. We would be leaving soon.
I had one last thing to do. I searched the faces of the folk of the estate, still standing along the shore waiting to watch us depart, until I saw Gunhild. Pushing through the crowd, I made my way to where she was standing.
"It is my hope," I told her, "that you will not be here when I return. Your father is a jarl. There will be room for you in his household."
"Hrorik was my husband," she replied, in a haughty voice. "As his wife, I am entitled to live on these lands. More so than you are. You are a bastard, and not entitled to inherit."
"Hrorik acknowledged me before witnesses," I snapped. "You were there. And he gave me one inheritance—the farm up on the Limfjord. I am an heir. The only one, unless Sigrid returns, with any claim to this estate."
Gunhild said nothing, but glared angrily at me. Had I been a thrall, I had no doubt she would have struck me.
"You filled my mother's life with misery," I told her, glaring back. "Do you not think I