HAGAN DROPPED HIS shield and spear then jogged away towards the path that led to the forest. He did not dare look around lest he caught the stares of the other warriors. Despite this he could sense their eyes were on him. He knew they would be wondering why he was leaving the battle lines. No doubt they suspected Godegisil had used his position of privilege to send his son out of harm’s way. All Hagan wanted to do now was find the king as fast as he could then get back to take his place in the battle line.
Once he found the king, though, he faced a dilemma. Godegisil was intimidating, but the king was terrifying. Gundahar had eyes that could bore through you like a hot poker pushed through wood. He was not a tyrant but he was a hard ruler. He was lethal to his enemies, ruthless to any rivals and stern and unforgiving to the folk he led. If Hagan found the king, what would he say to him? How could a boy ask Gundahar what he was doing without suggesting he was shirking his responsibilities? How would the king react if he even suspected Hagan was in any way suggesting cowardice?
Beyond the meadow on the banks of the Rhine where the army was lining up, Hagan entered the deep forest that surrounded the city. By the time he was on the track that led through the trees, he was sweating and uncomfortable. The padded jerkin was heavy and his old Roman helmet was too big. He had tied the straps as tight as he could but it still moved around on his crown. Several times it slid forward, half blocking his vision so he had to shove it back.
His anxiety at missing out was heightened by the mounting turmoil of the gathering armies he could hear behind him. Adding to the tramp of marching feet, the blaring of horns and the shouted orders, the cries of the watching Burgundar women and children rose like a shrill crescendo. In sharp contrast, the forest around Hagan was quiet, the heavy carpet of pine needles and brown leaves deadened all noise except the dull thumping of his own footsteps.
Here and there to his left he glimpsed snatches of sunlight on water through the tree trunks, which told him he was still travelling parallel to the river. Despite the dense thickness of the trees, as he followed the twisting, turning path he knew where he was going. He had played in these woods since he was a small boy and knew every nook and cranny of them, at least the parts of the forest nearest to the city. Beyond that – the deep, dark endless heart of the forest – was somewhere no one went. It was the haunt of outlaws, demons and elves. Most folk who wandered in there never came back.
Then he burst into a clearing and stumbled to a halt.
Hagan realised then that somewhere along the winding path he had missed a fork he should have taken. By mistake he must have gone down one of the many offshoot paths that led to the riverbank instead of along it. He cursed himself for not concentrating on the task in hand.
He had emerged onto a small bay in the riverbank. It was filled with the long, narrow boat of the Swan Maidens. This was grounded amid the reeds and the maidens were filing down a gangplank onto the riverbank. They were pulling off their swan feather cloaks and hoods, talking in excited tones about the upcoming battle. He could see from their smiles and wide eyes they shared none of Hagan’s misgivings about the outcome of the conflict.
Now close to them, Hagan saw that many of them were girls he knew from the court of the king. They were the daughters of noblemen and champions like his father.
He gasped, finding it hard to believe what his eyes told him. Even though everyone over the age of perhaps eight knew the maidens were not supernatural, their identities were a closely guarded secret. They were picked by hand by unknown women elders and trained in their songs and rituals in strict privacy. This was not a sight ordinary folk – especially menfolk – were supposed to see.
The girls saw him and stopped chattering. They looked as shocked as he was. Then the silence was broken by the irate howl of an old woman who rose from a bench on the boat.
‘How dare you come here!’ she cried, pointing a bony finger at Hagan. ‘Where the Swan Maidens come and go is not for the eyes of mere men.’
Hagan felt a shock run through his chest as she drew a long knife from a sheath at her belt. Other women on the rowing benches also stood up. He recognised some of them too: noblewomen and cousins of the king and queen. They all now glared at him with eyes as hard as iron. Several of them drew knives as well. They all came hurrying down the gangplank onto the riverbank. There they came straight for Hagan.
He remembered the spear and shield he had left at the edge of the battlefield. He felt paralysed, indecision rooting him to the spot. Did they really mean to do him harm? Their identities and true nature was a tradition sacred to the folk but surely they would not kill to protect it? And if they tried to, could he actually fight the Swan Maidens?
‘Stop.’
One of the maidens spoke. Her voice was loud and commanding. She strode in front of Hagan and held up a hand towards her fellows. The women stopped, frowns on their faces.
Hagan recognised her voice, and her identity was confirmed when she pulled off her swan feather headdress. It was Gunhild, daughter of King Gundahar. His friend.
Relief flooded his chest.
Despite the situation, he felt a rush of excitement at the sight of Gunhild’s blonde hair as it tumbled around her shoulders. They had been friends since childhood, playing together with the other noble children in and around the king’s great feasting hall and the woods around the city. As they grew older, Hagan found he felt a longing that went beyond the feelings for a good friend. Gunhild was beautiful. Not just pretty but captivating, the sort of beauty men killed each other over. Hagan knew he would never be one of those men. His father may have been a champion of the folk and a nobleman but the daughter of a king would marry the son of a king, not one of a landowner, no matter what his prowess in battle.
‘He should not have seen us without our robes,’ the old woman said, pointing her knife at Hagan. ‘Now he knows who we all are.’
‘This is Hagan, son of Godegisil our greatest hero,’ Gunhild said. ‘He will not betray our secret. Will you?’
She looked around at Hagan, one eyebrow raised.
Hagan shook his head quickly.
‘Never,’ he said. ‘I swear on my life.’
‘It might come to that,’ the old woman said. ‘Though his father has risked his life for the folk many times. For the sake of Godegisil I would prefer not to harm him. Can we trust him?’
‘I will vouch for him,’ Gunhild said. ‘He will never speak of this again.’
‘I will vouch for him too,’ another of the Swan Maidens said. She was looking at Hagan with an amused smile on her lips. Unlike Gunhild this girl’s hair was black as a crow’s wing. It was his other friend, Brynhild.
Hagan looked around. Angry eyes surrounded him. The women appeared sceptical but then he saw several of them nodding. Those with knives lowered their blades.
‘Very well,’ the old woman said. ‘But if he tells our secrets to anyone then you will share in his blame, sisters. And the punishment that it will bring with it.’
‘I accept that,’ Gunhild said.
‘So do I,’ Brynhild said.
Gunhild grabbed Hagan by the sleeve and steered him away from the cove, propelling him like a man sleepwalking away from the clearing and the maidens gathered within it.
‘Thanks,’ Hagan said after they had gone a little way on down the path through the trees and had lost sight of the others.
‘Don’t thank me,’ Gunhild said. ‘Just never tell anyone what or who you saw back there. If you do I get the blame as well. By rights they could have killed you. You know that? I think old Gutrune was actually going to.’
‘I’ll never speak of it again,’ Hagan said. ‘But I can’t believe you’re a Swan Maiden! You never said anything.’
‘It’s supposed to be a secret,’ Gunhild said with a sigh.
‘But how did you manage it?’ Hagan said. His eyes were wide with excitement. ‘How do you all sneak away to meet without anyone noticing? You…’
He hesitated.
‘You look like an angel…’ he managed to croak.
‘Never mind that now,’ Gunhild said. Her tone was scolding. ‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the others on the battlefield?’
She stopped. He turned around to see her shoulders were slumped, her jaw dropped a little. There was deep concern in her expression.
‘Oh, Hagan!’ she said. ‘You’re not running away are you? You’re the son of one of our mightiest heroes!’
Hagan frowned, his cheeks reddening.
‘Of course I’m not,’ he said. ‘Why would you even think that?’
She smiled. The expression made Hagan think his heart was melting.
‘You do look very grand in your war gear,’ she said, a wistful expression crossing her face as she pulled lightly at one of the studs of metal on the jerkin protecting Hagan’s chest. ‘My old friend, little Hagan. Now he’s all grown up. A man in his war gear. A warrior.’
Hagan’s face flushed a deeper crimson and he looked at the ground.
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘This old gear isn’t very grand. Someday I’ll have better armour. You’ll see. Maybe even after today, if I perform great deeds. And I will if I get the chance.’
‘Well you won’t do that skulking around in the forest,’ she said. ‘What are you up to anyway?’
‘Your father is not at the battlefield,’ Hagan said. ‘My father is worried. He saw him heading towards the river.’
Gunhild’s face fell once again.
‘It’s that cursed treasure, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Treasure?’ Hagan said. ‘My father mentioned gold as well. What does this mean?’
Gunhild shook her head.
‘Come with me,’ she said. ‘I think I know where he is.’