Kings and Pawns

by James L. Nelson

  Odd took great and justifiable pride in what he had accomplished with his farm. And he wondered why it was still not enough, though he kept that question to himself.

  He and Signy passed the farm and continued down the worn trail through a stand of pines that led to another stretch of open ground rolling down to the water’s edge. They could hear the dull sound of axes and adzes slicing into thick beams of wood, and the soft grind of saws. This was Odd’s latest venture, a shipyard where he could build fishing boats for his own use and other boats and small ships that he might sell at considerable profit.

  “I had an idea you were coming here,” Signy said, her tone teasing.

  “Ari is fitting the fourth strake today, and that will give us the shape of her at the turn of the bilge,” Odd said. Ari was the shipwright Odd had hired to oversee the work. As with farming, Odd had learned quite a bit about shipbuilding from his father—it was one of Thorgrim’s great passions—and he could certainly have built the vessel himself. But he had no time, with the myriad other duties that fell to him.

  As he and Signy came through the trees they could see the trampled earth of the shipyard, the piles of timber drying, the small shed where the tools were stored, and, in the middle of it all, the long, half-built hull of the ship that was rising up from the wood shavings.

  Ari saw them coming and he put his hammer and chisel down and stepped over to them, giving Signy a shallow bow and Hallbera’s cheek a soft pinch. Ari was an older man, in his forties at least, his beard and long hair white, his hands and fingers gnarled and strong, his face in a seemingly permanent squint.

  “Odd, well timed,” Ari said. “We’ve fit the new strake on the starboard side and will have the larboard on by sundown, I would think.”

  “Good, good,” Odd said, but his eyes were on the ship. Sixty feet long, her stem and sternpost standing high above the keel, the long sweep of her hull becoming more defined with each strake that was added. When the latest plank was fitted in place the lovely shape of the hull would start to emerge.

  “Well?” Ari said.

  “Lovely. Lovely.” Odd ran his hand along the upper edge of the strake. He could feel the taper cut in the wood to accommodate the next plank to be fit above.

  “She’s very narrow, isn’t she?” Signy asked. “For a fishing boat she is very narrow.” The farm on which Signy was raised, like most farms in that country, was close by the sea, and like all such farms the folk there engaged in nearly as much fishing as they did farming. Signy knew ships as well as most.

  “Narrow…I suppose,” Odd said in a noncommittal way. “She’ll be faster. More time to fish, less time rowing in and out.”

  “Might end up selling her, too,” Ari offered. “Better to make her useful for a lot of different jobs, you know.”

  Signy nodded. She did not reply. But Odd had a good notion of what was playing out in her mind. They had had discussions about this. Sometimes heated discussions. Signy did not entirely trust Odd’s motivation in building this ship. But in truth Odd did not really understand his own motivation.

  Fishing, certainly, but he knew there was something else lurking behind that, barely seen, and he made a real effort to not look too close. He told Signy, when they discussed this, not to be concerned. He had no intention of going anywhere. What he did not tell her was that like all intentions, his could change.

  Odd was about to say something further when a new sound inserted itself, far off but insistent. Horses’ hooves, a common enough sound, but this was a horse moving fast, moving at a full gallop, and that was not so common. The three of them turned their heads toward the sound and Odd found himself tensing. A rider in a great hurry: it could be good news or bad news, but it was certainly one of the two and it was certainly something of importance.

  The sound grew louder, hooves beating on the soft earth path that led from the farmyard to the shipyard. And then the rider appeared and Odd recognized him immediately. Skafti Hrappsson, the man who ran Thorgrim’s farm in Thorgrim’s absence. Odd felt a sick feeling in his gut.

  Skafti pulled the reins in sharp and the horse stopped with a flourish and Odd noticed that Skafti had not taken the time to saddle the animal.

  “Skafti, what…” Odd said, taking a step toward the man.

  “Master Odd, down at the farm…” Skafti said, then paused to gulp air and Odd waited until he could speak again.

  “Down at the farm, there’s men come…a dozen or so, dressed fine, good horses and saddles. They rounded up the slaves and the servants, put the lot of them in the stable. Started going through the house, acted like the rutting masters of the place…”

  “Men?” Odd said. He was trying to make sense of all this. “What men? Who sent them? What was there business?”

  Skafti just shook his head as the questions came. “I don’t rightly know, I’m sorry. I rode off as quick as I could. Don’t know what they wanted, but whatever it is, I can say it ain’t of no benefit to your father. And by all the gods it surely will be of no benefit to you.”

  Chapter Three

  All the ways of this world are as fickle

  and unstable as a sudden storm at sea.

  Venerable Bede

  Cynewise was in a foul mood even before Oswin was ushered in. The affairs of the day, and Bishop Ealhstan in particular, had seen to that.

  She was in the long hall, sitting on the big chair in the center of the dais. Her physical stature was not particularly impressive: five foot four and somewhere around seven stone. A mere eighteen years old. But she was also the ealdorman of Dorsetshire, a powerful office, and she understood that she needed such grand surroundings as the hall and the ealdorman’s high seat to reinforce the idea that Dorsetshire and the fyrd and the thegns and all else were hers to command.

  Bishop Ealhstan was seated beside her, in a less impressive chair, its legs a few inches shorter than her own. He was, physically, as near Cynewise’s opposite as one could be. While she was a young woman, slightly built with long, blond hair, he was an old man, nearly bald, corpulent and red-faced. If not for his brilliant white linen cassock and cope trimmed out with an intricate gold lace, and the equally ornate biretta perched on his head, he might have been mistaken for an aging tavern-keeper.

  It was a deceptive look, one that masked a sharp and strategic mind. He had been a bishop for thirty years, and in that time had expanded his diocese to include the shires of Dorset, Somerset, Devon and Cornwall. He was a good friend of Æthelwulf, king of Wessex and of Cynewise’s father, Ceorle, the powerful ealdorman of Devonshire. Indeed, he was good friends with all of the important men of Wessex, and the less powerful as well. Or those men at least feigned friendship with Ealhstan, knowing how dangerous it could be to oppose him.

  “Now, see, that brutal storm of last month has done great damage to the shire, great damage,” Ealhstan was saying, the third point of bad news he had raised so far, and the morning was young. “Crops are ruined, the folks’ houses torn apart. Many of my parishes have suffered great harm.”

  Cynewise nodded. “The storm would seem an act of God. Surely that would be your business, and not that of the ealdorman,” Cynewise said.

  “The Church is in the business of showing men the light, so that they may not incur the wrath of God,” Ealhstan explained patiently. “The business of putting things to rights when the people’s lack of faith brings on God’s wrath would fall to the ealdorman.”

  Well, a bloody poor job you’ve done of it, Cynewise thought, but she knew better than to say such a thing. A storm had come through the shire weeks before, a freakish display of rain and wind such as none could recall. It had torn up trees, tossed heavy carts around like leaves, taken the roofs off well-made houses and knocked those less well-made flat. Crops had been ruined, just as Ealhstan said, and the people were growing desperate.

  “I am not in the very best circumstance, financially,” Cynewise said. “My late husband was most profligate, you know. What little taxes he brought in
he spent just as quickly.”

  That was only partially true, of course. Merewald, Cynewise’s late husband, had only been ealdorman for a year before his death. He had only been Cynewise’s husband, officially, in the eyes of God and the law, for the better part of a minute before an assassin had cut him down at the altar, leaving his young bride both a grieving widow and ealdorman of the shire.

  He had certainly been profligate, but that was not the real reason that Cynewise’s treasury was nearly empty. Her financial straits had more to do with seeing that her posterior remained firmly in place in the ealdorman’s chair than it did with Merewald’s spending.

  Cynewise had reason to fear that she might not be able to hang on to her office. Merewald had a younger brother named Nothwulf who understandably laid claim to the title. Nothwulf had assumed, on Merewald’s death, that he would step in as ealdorman and send Cynewise packing back to Devon, or perhaps marry her. Nothwulf never had time to make his preference known before Cynewise began to solidify her hold on the ealdormanship.

  Which she had done, mostly. Unfortunately her efforts to remove Nothwulf completely from the field of battle had been less than successful. So far.

  Remaining ealdorman was an expensive business. The thegns, the men who controlled the land and whose collective men-at-arms would make the largest fighting force available in the shire, held great sway over matters of government. Not any one thegn alone, but a majority of them, depending on whom they chose to back, could practically dictate what happened in Sherborne, seat of the ealdorman and of the bishop. Their loyalty came at a great price: land, gifts, banquets.

  Worse, King Æthelwulf had come to visit on his annual tour of Wessex, and with him courtiers, servants, men-at-arms, women, horses. They all had to be fed and housed with varying degrees of opulence. It had nearly drained Cynewise’s coffers.

  “Nonetheless…” Bishop Ealhstan continued when a servant entered from the far end of the hall, stepping with purpose toward the dais.

  Now what? Cynewise thought. Part of her was relieved to have this unpleasant conversation with the bishop interrupted. Another part was deeply concerned about what this interruption could mean.

  The servant bowed. “Shire Reeve Oswin, ma’am, returned and wishes a word.”

  Cynewise stifled a sigh. “Very well, send him in.” She watched the servant turn smartly and head back for the door. Oswin, the shire reeve. The man who made the ealdorman’s orders, wishes, and desires become reality, as far as the administration of the shire went. Now Oswin was returning from dealing with a new problem, one that had seemingly dropped out of the sky. Or more correctly washed up on the beach. Northmen.

  “Has Oswin been to the south? Seeing about these Northmen?” Ealhstan asked. Cynewise wondered how he had heard about them. She had not told him, and their presence was not well known in Sherborne. But of course, little happened in that shire, or anywhere in Wessex, that Ealhstan did not hear of.

  Oswin entered where the servant had gone out and walked with long strides across the hall. He stepped up onto the dais, kissed Ealhstan’s ring and bowed to Cynewise. Up close Cynewise could see that his boots and tunic were splattered with mud and there was a tear in his cape. His face had a weary look.

  “Yes, Oswin?” Cynewise said.

  “The Northmen, ma’am, they’ve taken Christchurch Priory,” he said.

  “Oh, Lord save us,” Ealhstan said and made the sign of the cross and Cynewise and Oswin did likewise.

  “Taken it?” Cynewise asked. “Plundered it?”

  “Plundered it, I would imagine,” Oswin said. “That’s what they do. But I couldn’t inspect it as they’re still there. They didn’t leave.”

  “Still there?” Ealhstan exclaimed. “Defiling that holy place?”

  “Yes, your Grace, I fear so.”

  Cynewise was likewise troubled, though not so much by the notion of the filthy Northmen invading a holy place. Two hundred of her father’s best men-at-arms had been sent by sea to Christchurch, where they were quartered in secret. Cynewise and her father meant to march those men to Sherborne, to cement her place as ealdorman and to crush Nothwulf if need be. It had all been falling into place. Until the damned Northmen had arrived.

  “They have taken Christchurch Priory?” Cynewise asked again. “Taken…all the people there?” Oswin, she was certain, would understand her meaning.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Oswin said. “All the people. The holy people and all else who were there.”

  “How do you know that?” Cynewise asked.

  “I spoke with them, ma’am. I rode to the priory gate and they let me in and I spoke with them.”

  “You were in the priory?” Ealhstan asked. “Was it sacked, was it much damaged?”

  “Not that I could see, your Grace. None of the building burned down, nothing destroyed. But I suppose they wouldn’t do that if they had a mind to stay awhile.”

  “How many of the devils were there?” Ealhstan asked next.

  “I couldn’t say. They weren’t all gathered as one. But a lot, I would imagine. Their leader is a man called Thorgrim. I did count seven ships.”

  “Seven ships,” Ealhstan said. “Could be three, four hundred men.”

  “Seven ships,” Cynewise said. “Nothwulf said he saw seven ships at Swanage. It’s likely the same pack of wolves.”

  “Likely,” Oswin agreed. “So at least we have only one fleet of heathens to deal with, and not two. Peace will come at half the cost.”

  “Cost?” Cynewise asked.

  “Danegeld, ma’am. They’ve demanded danegeld. One hundred and fifty pounds of silver.”

  If Cynewise had had a mouthful of wine she would have spit it all over the dais. “One hundred and fifty pounds?”

  “But there’s another thing to consider,” Oswin continued. “Nothwulf and Leofric and their men are near Christchurch. I had the impression they were going to fight the Northmen, as you instructed them to do. It might be to the shire’s benefit if they do.”

  Cynewise frowned as she studied Oswin. The shire reeve was a clever one. He understood the nuances of what was taking place, and his only concern, Cynewise knew, was to see that he, Oswin, was in league with whoever would come out on top. So far it looked as if that one would be Cynewise. But that could change.

  There were many pieces on the board, and each move was critical. If she paid the danegeld then she would be considerably poorer, and she was already poor enough. But if she let Nothwulf fight the Northmen and he drove them off, then he would be the hero of the shire, and her hold on the ealdormanship would become that much more precarious.

  The best outcome would be for Nothwulf to fight the heathens and lose. He might weaken them enough that Cynewise’s forces could sweep in and stamp the remnants out. But there was no certain way to make that happen. The only thing that she could control for certain was paying the tribute, painful as that might be.

  But it was not a bad option. Paying would mean being rid of the Northmen and freeing her father’s men-at-arms, hopefully before her father ever got word of what had happened. She would rather the old man never know. The coming of the Northmen might have nothing to do with her, but her father would still find some way to fault her for it.

  “Here’s what we shall do,” Cynewise said. “I’ll find the one hundred and fifty pounds of silver, somewhere. I’m sure, your Grace, that the church would be willing to contribute a goodly share, since it’s the church’s priory we mean to liberate.”

  “Hmm,” the bishop said. “We’re not in a good way, you know, with our treasury. The folk have little to tithe, what with the great storm, and we’re spending a considerable sum in helping the poor and the destitute.”

  Helping the poor, my arse, Cynewise thought. Helping yourself to living like a king. But once again she did not voice her real thoughts, but rather said, “It’s my hope, your Grace, that we’ll neither of us have to give over any of the silver to the Northmen. Nothwulf is near Christchurch with his
men and Leofric’s men and a good number of the fyrd. We’ll collect the money, but I hope to see Nothwulf drive the Northmen from Christchurch before we must hand over the danegeld. Then we might get the silver back, and you can distribute it to the poor, to your heart’s content.”

  “A good plan, as far as it goes,” Ealhstan said. “But it seems to me that it might be best to apply to your father for aid in the military line. He has men-at-arms a’ plenty, good men who could help you in driving these vermin out. And Ceorle is certainly no stranger to these things.”

  Cynewise nodded as if considering this, but she did not need to consider it, because she had rejected the idea even as Ealhstan was speaking. The last thing she needed was her father there in Dorset, bowling everyone over like a dray rolling down a steep hill, out of control. Ceorle might have figured that if Cynewise was ealdorman of Dorset it meant that he would be de facto ruler, along with being ealdormen of Devon, but that was not Cynewise’s plan.

  “What you say about my father is correct, Bishop Ealhstan,” Cynewise said. “But he has more than enough on his mind now. Damage from the storm, for instance. Dorsetshire was not the only place to feel the brunt of that. And trouble with the thegns. Honestly, I think it would be a favor to the man if he were to not even hear about our problems with the Northmen.”