Fenrir

28

The young man had at first thought to kill the bird that dropped from the smoke vent. Boiled raven was barely edible but meat was scarce enough to make anything welcome. But then it had looked so funny, perched on the shoulder of the sleeping lord. The bird then hopped up onto his head, and the young farmer had wondered, half hoped, that it would make its mess on the nobleman’s hair. He bore no ill will to the lord at all, in fact he rather respected him, but his sense of humour was such that birds messing on the hair of sleeping men was extremely amusing to him.

But then there had been a flutter and a tumble of wings, and he felt a sharp sting on his cheek. It was another raven, flapping to the smoke vent. He put a hand to his cheek then his fingers to his lips. Blood. The thing had cut him, pecked him or slashed at him with its feet as it flew past.

He said nothing but just looked down at the blood on his fingers. The bird on the nobleman’s shoulder was looking at the young farmer, its eyes two little gleaming coals. He felt no inclination to move, though the heat of the embers seemed oppressive. The bird kept looking at him. Was it his imagination or did it seem to be standing in a sort of questioning posture, its head cocked as if evaluating him?

His hands went back to his cheek. The wound was painful, not like a normal cut, more like a bee sting. He felt his heart begin to race. Nothing seemed clear to him. It was as if something was writhing in his head, as if he wanted to stand up, sit down, be still and run all at the same time.

The breathing of the young lord seemed abnormally loud, irritatingly loud. The man might have killed the enemy king but did he have to hem and haw so? Had the lord really killed the king? He knew those noblemen were full of lies, despite their airs and graces. The heat was becoming unbearable. He took off his smock and sat bare-chested. He was sweating heavily now. The pain on his cheek was spreading a numbness all the way down his right side.

The bird’s eyes never left him.

The young farmer stretched out his arms. ‘What answer would you have me give?’ he said. He realised he was talking to the raven. The stupidity of that struck him and he fell to giggling. The bird watched him still. The young man had never been so hot nor found anything so funny. He was shivering despite the heat. The giggling subsided and he felt another emotion growing inside him. Anger. He knew, of course, what the noble intended. To rape his sister, take his crops and kill anyone who stood in his way. They did that sort of thing, those high men; it was well known.

The nobleman wasn’t really sleeping; he was lying there like a fox, biding his time until everyone dropped off. Then he would get up to begin his foul acts. The nobility took its portion by right, but the people expected defending in return. What had they done, these fine fellows? Allowed the country to be overrun by Norsemen, Neustria pillaged and Paris besieged. If a common man did not pay them his dues what could he expect?

The heat in his head was unbearable. He felt something biting and writhing within him, tearing at his reason, shredding his thoughts. The bird’s eyes were on him, glittering black stones. He stood up. He picked up a knife from the bench at the table. They had had meat as an honour to the lord. The blade was a good one, used for fine boning. He looked down at the fat foreigner who was the nobleman’s servant. Him first?

The nobleman stirred.

No, better to take the warrior in his sleep and deal with the servant afterwards.

The raven cawed as the young man stepped forward and plunged the knife into Aelis’s belly.