“I’m not my father, nor my grandfather,” Odd said and his voice sounded small to him.
“No,” Signy said. “No, you’re not. You’re your own man, as smart and brave as any whose blood runs through you.”
They were kind words, and Odd appreciated them. But he did not necessarily believe them, so they only served to make him more ill at ease. “That may be true or not,” Odd said, “but I don’t think the memory of men now dead would be enough to frighten Halfdan.”
“It’s you that frightens him,” Signy said. “Because he knows who you are, and what you come from, and what you are capable of. He knows that the people here have always looked on your family as leaders. Your grandfather was the most loved of jarls, your father stood out like a stone tower. Halfdan knows that you could just as easily become a leader to these people. More so if you had all the wealth that’s due you, and he fears it. You could be jarl if you wished it. You are a shieldwall in the way of his ambition.”
Odd grunted and fell silent, thinking about those words. Finally he said, “Do you think I should push my claim the be jarl of Vik and Fevik?”
“No,” Signy said without hesitation. “You’ve made Halfdan mad, and if you and the others go see him, it will make him madder still. The gods have given you luck, but only they know when it will be taken away.”
“I must go see Halfdan,” Odd said. “I must ride at the head of these men who’ve agreed to come. I would shame myself and my family if I didn’t, and give Halfdan leave to feel he can take whatever he wants.”
“I know, my beloved one, I know,” Signy said with a resigned tone and laid her head down on his chest again. “Just promise me you’ll take care. Genuinely take care.”
Signy was his most trusted advisor, but she was not a disinterested one. She was his wife, mother of his children. Anything that happened to Odd would have an enormous effect on their lives, and not for the better. Odd knew her advice was colored by those considerations.
“I will,” Odd said, but already he was moving the pieces on the board, thinking of what he would say in the presence of Halfdan the Black, and what Halfdan might do in response.
Chapter Nine
If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are limitless.
Deor's Lament
Early Anglo-Saxon Poem
For three days, from Sherborne to just north of Christchurch Priory, Cynewise and her father, Ceorle, had ridden side by side. The bishop, Ealhstan, rode just behind them, and behind him was a gaggle of thegns of varying importance. Behind them all marched an army, a rather impressive army, five hundred men strong.
The bulk of the men, about three hundred of them, were Ceorle’s men-at-arms, his house guard and some of his more trusted warriors. They had marched with him from Devonshire to Dorset, arriving the day after Ealhstan had told Cynewise they may be coming.
The rest were Cynewise’s men, or men-at-arms supplied by the thegns, or part of the fyrd who had not been dispatched to aid Nothwulf in his attempt to drive the heathens out. What she imagined was his ill-fated attempt to drive the heathens out. She had not had word of Nothwulf in a week or more.
The communication between Cynewise and her father during the ride had been varied and largely volatile, ranging from tense silences to outright verbal conflict, which always started in sharp but hushed voices, so that the others would not hear, but soon escalated to outright shouting.
They were in a period of silence as they covered the last mile to the place where the army would bed down for the night, just a few miles from Christchurch Priory. They had not spoken in an hour at least.
Ceorle was the first to break the silence. “You look ridiculous,” he said. “Absurd. You’ll impress no one.”
Cynewise clenched her teeth. She had to do great emotional violence to herself to keep from speaking, but she knew it would be better that way, so she remained silent.
They had carried this fight from Sherborne. Cynewise was wearing mail, tailored for her slight form, and a red cloak over that. She wore a sword on her belt and had a shield hanging from her saddle. She knew that she looked like a child with toy weapons and costume armor. She only weighed about seven stone, how could she look otherwise?
At the same time, she knew she had to be seen as a leader, a leader in every way: politically, militarily, legally. If Nothwulf had been ealdorman then he would certainly have led the army to battle with the heathens, and so must she. It was the only way she could cement her hold on that office. The last thing she wanted was for her father, Ceorle, to ride to Dorset’s aide and assume that mantle for himself.
The notion of her marrying Merewald and becoming ealdorman of Dorsetshire if some tragedy were to befall her husband had not been hers alone, of course. She and her father had discussed it at length, speculated about the power that the two shires might wield in Wessex if the ealdormen’s houses were joined by blood. It seemed such a good idea that Cynewise had internalized any misgivings she had. But they would not stay internalized forever.
It was back in Sherborne, just a few hours after her father’s arrival, riding at the head of his army, that those misgivings burst like a bloated corpse.
There had been the usual joyful reunion, father and daughter embracing, tears and enquiries. Ceorle had not seen his daughter since she left Devon, had not been at the wedding, sending word of an illness that prevented his travel. They dined together. It was only when the dishes and the servants and the sundry guests had been cleared away that things began to fall apart.
“Tell me of my army,” Ceorle said, sitting alone with Cynewise in the empty great hall. “My other army. The one I sent to Christchurch Priory, that it might help you solidify your position here.”
Cynewise frowned, but kept the expression as subtle as she could. “You already know, do you not? Surely the good Bishop Ealhstan, that holy man of God, has kept you informed?”
“I hear things,” Ceorle said. “From many people, because I have many friends. Now I wish to hear it from you.”
“The men-at-arms…”
“My men-at-arms,” Ceorle corrected.
“The men-at-arms were at Christchurch,” Cynewise continued. “I had all things in readiness. Food, horses, wagons. It was a great secret, no one knew. But then the Northmen came, the way Northmen come, out of the sea, no warning. It was something I could not predict.”
“Taken by surprise,” Ceorle said. “I guess all was not in readiness.”
“I presumed your men would be able to defend themselves, that they would have the mettle to stand up to the Northmen. Apparently not.”
It was Cynewise’s best thrust, but it failed to strike any vulnerable spot her father might have. He was like a massive stone wall around a city: no matter how hard she flung herself against it, no matter what her approach, she always bounced off. Cynewise could manipulate any man—fool him, seduce him, frighten him—but she could not reach her father.
“So what do you intend? How will you correct this blunder and have my men set free?” Ceorle asked, and Cynewise knew the old man did not know himself what to do in this situation. If he did, then he would never have asked, he would have just issued instructions. Instead he was letting her make the decision so that she would take any blame that might come along. Meanwhile, he would criticize every step she took.
“The Northmen are not our concern,” Cynewise said. “They’re a distraction when we need to solidify my place as ealdorman. We’ll pay them off so that they go away, and then we can attend to business.”
“We will pay them off?” Ceorle sounded incredulous. “What amount of danegeld did you offer these swine?”
“Two hundred pounds of silver,” Cynewise said.
“Two hundred pounds…are you mad?” Ceorle sputtered. “Just to make a handful of heathens go away?”
“That, and to keep two hundred of your in
competent men-at-arms from the slave markets of Frisia,” Cynewise said. “My treasury is in poor shape. My late husband was a spendthrift and Æthelwulf’s visit cost me dearly. If I’m to buy the freedom of your men, then I need some of your silver to do it.”
“Not likely,” Ceorle said. “Not likely I’ll pay for your incompetence and poor judgment. You collect up the men you have, whatever excuses for soldiers you can find, and I’ll lead my own men—good warriors, all—and we’ll march to Christchurch and we’ll see about these heathen whore’s sons.”
There was a note of finality in his voice, and Cynewise had long ago learned that it was pointless to continue arguing when her father adopted that tone. She stood and said, “I have much to attend to, so I must be off. It’s a pleasure, as always, to see you, my dear father.” She gave him the most meaningless of kisses on the cheek and then swept out of the hall, leaving her father sitting at table alone.
Cynewise climbed the steep stairs to her bed chamber. Guards with spears flanked the door and on seeing her approach one of them turned and opened the door and held it open for her. She stepped through without acknowledging either man’s existence and the guard shut the door softly behind her.
The bed chamber had a comforting look, lit by candles on tall stands scattered around the room and a low fire burning in the fireplace, but there was little that was going to comfort Cynewise now, not after an interview with her father. A heavy silver cross on a chain hung around her neck and she ripped it off and flung it against the wall.
Aelfwyn, Cynewise’s lady’s maid, stepped out from the small room off to the left, which held a bathtub and a table and chair for dressing Cynewise’s hair. She gave a quick bow and said, “M’lady. Will you be retiring?”
But Cynewise was in too great a rage to consider retiring. She looked at Aelfwyn. The girl was younger than she was by a year or so, very pretty with thick wavy brown hair. Aelfwyn was pretty in a robust way, not in the frail and delicate way that Cynewise was pretty. It was another thing that irritated Cynewise to distraction.
She had made use of Aelfwyn’s looks on a few occasions by whoring her out to men from whom she needed something, information, mostly. The last was Nothwulf, and Aelfwyn had garnered some important intelligence before Nothwulf had sussed her out and taken her captive to his country manor. Aelfwyn had escaped—how, Cynewise did not ask—and the bruising she had suffered in that adventure had mostly healed now.
Cynewise took her eyes off her lady’s maid and looked around the room, looked at her bed. “Where is my mail? My sword?” she asked.
“Still with the armorer, m’lady,” Aelfwyn said. Cynewise could hear the edge of fear in the girl’s voice. Aelfwyn knew how her mistress could get.
“The armorer?” Cynewise snapped. “I told you to have it here. Now.” She had a good idea of how her father was going to react to her donning mail and a sword, and any mention of those items further inflamed her.
“Yes, ma’am, but the armorer said…”
Aelfwyn got no further. In two steps Cynewise was across the room. She swung her open hand as she moved and hit Aelfwyn on the side of the head. Aelfwyn was knocked to the floor, falling sideways, her clothes like a heap of linen and silk, and Cynewise kicked her.
“Damn the armorer, you stupid whore! You do as I say, not the bloody armorer!” Cynewise shouted and then kicked her again, but not so hard that time.
This was the true worth of servants, Cynewise knew. She could arrange her own hair or get herself dressed; she didn’t need a lady’s maid for that. But she was no monk; she did not care for self-flagellation, not when she had a pretty thing like Aelfwyn to beat.
Cynewise breathed deep. She looked down at Aelfwyn, whose mass of thick hair obscured her face as she lay on the floor, half propped up on one elbow, unsure if she should stand or remain as she was. Cynewise felt some of the tension drain away.
“I’ll retire now,” she said. “Once you’ve helped me to bed, then rouse the armorer and get my mail and sword or there’ll be more of that.”
The thegns and the men-at-arms and the fyrd were gathered at dawn the next day for the march to Christchurch Priory. Cynewise appeared in her mail, her sword at her side, a red cloak pinned to her shoulders. She carried a leather bag with her, in which she had packed various things that she felt she might need, items to deal with a variety of contingencies. Her father reacted to the mail and sword just as she knew he would, and their muted antagonism just blossomed from there.
When they reached the open ground where the army was to camp, after three long days of travel from Sherborne, they could see the thin columns of smoke rising up from Christchurch Priory a few miles off. Cynewise and Ceorle rode their horses to the top of the hill that commanded the fields around. From that place they could see the top of the church tower in the distance, indiscernible unless one knew what to look for.
“That’s not the smoke of a city that’s been sacked,” observed one of the thegns, a man wealthy and powerful enough that he felt justified in riding to the hilltop with the two ealdormen. There were only a handful who enjoyed that status.
“Not sacked,” Ceorle agreed. “Damned heathens have settled in, made themselves at home. They’re not going to burn the damned place.”
They watched for a few moments more until it was clear there was nothing to be learned from that distance. Cynewise turned to the thegns, her mouth open, ready to tell them to get their men set up in camp, when Ceorle said, “You lot, get your men to set up their camp. Men-at-arms there” he pointed to a place to the left—“and the men of the fyrd there”—he pointed to a place on the right. “Get camp set up quickly and we’ll drill the fyrd with spears until suppertime.”
The thegns bowed in their saddles and rode back down the hill. Cynewise considered telling her father that she would give the orders, that he made her look weak by preempting her, that nearly half of the men in their army were her men, not his, the thegns hers to command. But she kept her mouth shut. She would appear pathetic if she protested in that way, and her father would just ignore her in any event.
“You’ll sup with me, Father, once you’re done with your drills?” she asked instead.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Ceorle said, his eyes still on the distant church tower. “You go have your servants set up your tent and whatever fancy things you’ve brought with you in the field, and I’ll be by once I’ve seen that the men get their supper.”
Dining with her father was as pleasant as Cynewise might have hoped. When Ceorle spoke she bit her tongue and held her temper like a mad dog on a leash, and nodded and smiled, and that kept things calm and civil. They discussed what they might do next, and to Cynewise’s astonishment, they agreed on how they would proceed, genuinely agreed.
“We’ll send Oswin with a guard to the priory, to speak with the heathens,” Cynewise said. “We’ll send the silver with him and he can pay them off and we’ll get our captive men back. Once we have them, we’ll have an army large enough to crush the heathens and Nothwulf as well.” She waited for her father to raise some objection, make some argument, but he did not, so she continued.
“Not that we wish to bother ourselves with the Northmen. They’re not our chief worry. They may plunder a few more churches, but they’ll do no worse than that,” Cynewise said. She waited for Ceorle to comment on that, and when he did not she continued. “Nothwulf is our greatest concern, as long as he pretends to a claim on the ealdormanship. If he’s in the neighborhood then I suppose we should speak with him. Assure him we’re here to fight the Northmen, not him. See what sort of army he has, and if it is not so great as ours, which I would think it is not, then we turn on him once the Northmen are gone. Father, are you well?”
Ceorle was looking a bit glassy-eyed. He shook his head and for a moment said nothing, then muttered, “I’m fine, fine, just worn out from the travel, I should think.”
Cynewise turned to Aelfwyn, who was standing off to the side, ready to do her lady’s bi
dding. “Aelfwyn, don’t just stand there like some gaping fool! Go get my father’s manservant, his Lordship obviously needs to take to his bed.”
It was a few moments, no more, before Ceorle’s manservant arrived and escorted Ceorle from Cynewise’s tent, supporting his master under one arm while one of the guards supported him under the other. Cynewise made a great show of fussing over her father, and once they were gone she called for Oswin. The shire reeve had been waiting for a summons, and so he stepped into Cynewise’s tent before she could even begin to grow impatient.
“You must go to the heathens again and bring them the danegeld. My father has generously agreed to aide us in paying this, so you will have the full one hundred and fifty pounds of silver.”
Oswin nodded and Cynewise signaled for two of her servants to fetch the chest of silver that was stashed in a corner of the tent. Ceorle had indeed come around, after considerable prodding, and added one hundred pounds of silver to the danegeld, which meant that Cynewise could secret away fifty of it, which she already had, and Oswin could deliver the one hundred and fifty pounds the Northmen demanded.
“You go speak to the Northmen, this Thorgrim, if that’s his name…I hardly recall such things…and you deliver this,” Cynewise continued. “And you return with two hundred of my father’s men-at-arms. Men, swords, shields, mail, all of it. These bastards demand a high price, but for that we’ll get what’s rightfully ours. Do you understand?”
“Yes, lady,” Oswin said with a short bow.
“We have scouts searching out Nothwulf and Leofric, that traitorous bastard,” Cynewise continued, but before she could say more a servant—she recognized him as one of her father’s men—came tentatively into the tent, hat in hand.
“Beg pardon. Lady, but Aelfgar…your father’s manservant, lady…”
“I know who he is,” Cynewise snapped.
“Yes, lady. He commanded me tell you your father’s illness grows worse, and he….”
Kings and Pawns Page 9
