Byzantium by Michael Ennis Page A

was still uncertain. Hakon could easily be this clever, and a Varangian this treacherous. ‘I’m Haraldr Nordbrikt. If I’m wrong, excuse the indignity. Strip!’
    The handsome man grumbled, but both men complied. There were no byrnnies hidden under their tunics. ‘Put them back on and climb aboard.’
    With his sword Haraldr motioned the two to sit on the deck.
    ‘My name is Halldor Snorrason,’ began the handsome one. In his tunic he seemed even more powerful than he had in his byrnnie, but his features would have made a woman happy; he had a thin, graceful nose and the finest silken hair. ‘This is Ulfr Uspaksson.’ The smaller man nodded. He had a strong, blocky face with big, sensitive eyes. ‘We’re comrades from Iceland. From the same village.’
    Haraldr nodded silently. Let them announce their intentions.
    ‘Where is Jarl Rognvald?’ asked Halldor.
    Haraldr quickly decided that he needed a reaction, a gauge of Halldor’s sincerity. He watched his face carefully. ‘Jarl Rognvald is at the ale benches. In the Valhol.’
    Halldor’s face registered nothing. Then he said, ‘That shames us. I, and the men with me who survived, owe our lives to the Jarl. And you.’ But Halldor’s voice was a dry drone, as if he were idly passing off some clever, ironic remark.
    Haraldr stared coldly, and his grip welded his hand to his sword. Hakon could at least have sent an able performer.
    Ulfr looked nervously at Haraldr and then at Halldor. ‘Halldor,’ he said, ‘I think you had better let me empty our breasts.’ Ulfr’s voice had the low-key resonance of the careful-tongued, sincere sort of skald. Haraldr guessed that he might be a fellow poet.
    Ulfr turned anxiously to Haraldr. ‘Excuse my friend. His voice is like a road in Rus Land. Never up, never down, just straight on for ever. But as I’m sure you know, the melody of a man’s voice has little to do with the music in his breast.’
    Halldor just shrugged at the comments. In spite of himself, Haraldr was charmed by the relationship between the two men. They weren’t lying when they said they were friends. He went off his guard a bit and wished that he had been able to enjoy companions his age these past years. But his only friend was an old man now lying under a canvas shroud.
    ‘What we would like to say,’ Ulfr went on, ‘is that we are all ashamed. Hakon easily could have saved your Jarl. And our own men. The Pecheneg helmet-hail did not pursue Hakon. He spent the afternoon executing prisoners, and with the exception of Halldor and those few who were with you, we Varangians spent the day kicking sand. Hakon never told us that there was any trouble up the beach. He deliberately let those men die. And we are ashamed to be pledged to such a man.’
    ‘Most of you seemed to enjoy your employment in Kiev,’ snapped Haraldr angrily. ‘But now that a few of you have been offered up to the gulls of fray, you come whining to me.’ His tone implied the obvious question. Why?
    ‘We’re not all loudmouths and strand-wanderers,’ answered Ulfr. ‘Why, you won’t find better men. Certainly they scorned you that night in Kiev, but I can assure you they laughed the way the rooster laughs when the axe is over its neck--’
    ‘Well, you did look foolish that night,’ interrupted Halldor. Ulfr shot him an uncomfortable glance. ‘But then’ - he shrugged - ‘the mead horn has cut down more men than the sword.’
    Haraldr cocked his eyebrow. He liked this Halldor’s tart candour. If Hakon had been interested in concealing a treachery behind flattery, he wouldn’t have sent this one.
    ‘What we’re saying--’ began Ulfr.
    ‘What we’re saying is this,’ droned Halldor. ‘There’s not a man among us who enjoys the leadership of Hakon. He disgraced us all today, and believe me, none of us admire his oafish behaviour. We’re not simple bumpkins. But we are pledge-men and we made our oath to him, and that pledge is the single honour we must