They could hear voices, men coming closer. They sat in silence and Failend hoped they would not be noticed. She did not expect trouble of any kind; she just did not wish to speak to anyone. Anyone besides Louis. It felt good to talk to Louis.
The men staggered past, five of them framed against the firelight. They were laughing and talking loud and walking on none too steady legs. They lined up against the longphort wall, invisible in the dark, and Failend could hear the sound of them urinating against the logs.
She and Louis sat still for what seemed a long time, but Failend imagined that the Northmen were quite full of ale and had a lot to expel. At last the liquid sounds came to an end and the men came stumbling back toward the fire.
And then they stopped. “Who’s there?” one of them called and he seemed to be looking in their direction, though it was not entirely clear. “Are you folk who won’t come drink with us?”
“Are they buggering each other?” another voice called out, the words smeared together. “Let them be!”
“No, we’ll see who’s buggering who,” the first voice called and Failend saw the men stumbling toward them.
They appeared out of the dark, and in the light of the fire falling on their faces Failend saw that they were men she did not know. Not well, anyway. They had been part of Jorund’s crew, joined with Thorgrim’s army back at Loch Garman. They had all come together as one army, and Jorund had pledged his loyalty to Thorgrim, but still Jorund’s men remained Jorund’s, and Thorgrim’s men Thorgrim’s.
Failend recognized these men. She had spoken with a few of them on occasion. She might have known their names once, but she could not recall any of them. She felt herself tense.
“Oh, see here, it’s the pretty little one,” one said.
“And the pretty Frankish one!” another cried.
Louis stood and Failend did as well, though at just around five feet in height her standing had no great dramatic effect. In truth she guessed it made her seem more vulnerable.
“Which of you will have the girl,” the first asked, “and which the Frank?”
When Failend had first been taken prisoner by Thorgrim and his men she had all but assumed they would rape her. But they did not, and soon she realized that they would not, and after that she never felt afraid in the company of any of Thorgrim’s men.
Until that moment. There was something ugly and brutish about these men, drunk with mead and triumph, feeling invulnerable and ready to take what they wanted. It was something she had not encountered before, at least not directed at herself.
But she would not let that fear show. “Even sober you would not be man enough, Gaut,” Failend said, the man’s name suddenly flashing in her mind. “You certainly are not man enough now.”
That brought howls from the others, but Gaut looked less amused. He took a step toward her and she rested her hand on the hilt of her seax, hanging like a sword at her side.
“Thorgrim might not be enough for you, but I can show you what it’s like to lay with a real man,” he said.
Louis stepped up, not between them, but close. “No need of this,” he said, and though his Norse speech was rough his voice was smooth. “Like you said, she’s with Thorgrim Night Wolf, and you do not want to cross him.”
For all Louis’s good intentions, Failend still felt herself flush with anger. If this pig Gaut did not rape her it would be because she herself stuck a blade in him, not because he feared Thorgrim Night Wolf. She drew her seax and lifted her chin, and said, “A real man, you say? I’ll make a real gelding of you.”
The others laughed even harder, but still Gaut did not laugh at all. His expression was a mix of anger and lust and humiliation, an ugly brew. Louis took another step, imposing himself between them. Failend swung her seax and struck Louis in the stomach with the flat of the blade, hard enough to stop him and make him bend at the waist, and as he did she stepped forward, past him.
The fury was really bubbling now, steaming and roiling. The whoreson Gaut was only a part of it, and not even the biggest part, but he would be the one to pay.
Gaut stepped back, surprised to have Failend advancing on him. He drew his sword, which was half again as long as Failend’s seax, and held it loosely at his side. “I can hump you or I can kill you, your choice, you little whore,” Gaut said.
He might have expected a verbal retort, but he did not get one. Failend darted forward and before Gaut could even lift his sword to the horizontal she drove the point of the seax into his gut. He was wearing only his tunic and leggings and the blade passed though the linen cloth without hesitation. She felt the point drive into flesh and then hit the thicker muscle and she pulled her arm back. She was happy to deliver a painful wound, but even in her fury she could not drive her blade clean into so pathetic a creature as this.
Gaut howled and leapt back and showed none of the restraint that Failend had. He swung his sword in a great sideways arc and would have taken Failend’s head clean off if she had not ducked down and let the blade pass with a humming sound over her head.
She pushed herself back to her feet, stumbling as she did. Gaut was holding his sword high, over his left shoulder, ready to swing again. Failend stabbed him once more, delivering another shallow but painful cut, this time to his shoulder. She expected him to stagger back, drop his sword, but he did not. The drink in his gut and the fury in his brain blinded him to the pain.
Gaut swung his sword again, a backhand stroke with terrific force behind it, and in that instant Failend knew that she could not get her seax up in time to block it, and even if she could it would do nothing to counter Gaut’s blow. She had time enough to think she was about to die, not time enough to think about what that meant, and then there was a flash on her right hand side and Louis’s blade was up in front of her.
Gaut’s blade hit Louis’s with a loud ringing sound, but Louis’s parry was not enough to overcome the momentum behind Gaut’s sword. His blade continued on in its path and hit Failend’s shoulder, but it had slowed enough by then that it just knocked her sideways and made her stagger.
Failend heard the sound of swords scraping from scabbards, a sound she now knew well, and she knew the fight was far from over.
This is ridiculous, she thought, she and Louis in a desperate fight with their ostensible friends. But her mind and her body were separate spirits now, and her body knew only to eliminate the nearest threat, then go for the next.
She recovered from the stumble, which had put her between Gaut and Louis. She felt Louis’s hand on her shoulder, trying to push her aside, but she twisted free of it as she turned and thrust her seax at Gaut. Gaut was just raising his sword again when the point caught him once more in the gut—it was hard for Failend to reach much higher—and this time she did not pull back. The point pierced flesh and slowed as it hit muscle and then continued on, sinking deep. Gaut shrieked as if the seax had released some demon buried inside him.
Failend jerked the point free and thought, You’re done, bastard.
And indeed he was, at least as far as that fight was concerned. But the four men with him were not, and they had weapons in hand. One had a sword and he and Louis were locked into it now, trading blow for blow. Another had an ax and he pushed the staggering Gaut aside and came at Failend and it seemed any thoughts of rape he might have had had turned to thoughts of murder.
“Come on, you worthless pile of shit!” she shouted, crouching low, seax held just in front of her.
The one with the ax was as drunk as the rest, and probably not very graceful even when sober. He took an ungainly swing at Failend, roaring as he did. But Failend had recovered from her blind rage and her mind was working again. She leaned back and let the ax whip by her face, close enough that she could feel the breeze.
The man was still shouting as the ax sailed past and he stumbled, having put everything behind that stroke. He was open to her—throat, heart, stomach, balls—she could have driven her seax into any one of them. But instead she took h
alf a step forward and drove her foot into his crotch.
The man’s scream changed abruptly, rising in pitch, and the ax fell from his hand. Failend knew he was done, too, and she turned fast to see where the next man was. Behind her. He had circled around in hope of snatching her from behind, and he seemed surprised to suddenly be confronting her face to face. Failend lunged and he jumped back and took an awkward swing with his own seax.
And then Failend saw something else. Movement beyond this man, this Northman she was fighting. It barely registered out in the dark, at the very edges of the light from the bonfire, just shadows and flickers as the light caught it. But somehow she knew what it was. Instantly, from just the merest hints, she knew what she was seeing.
“The English!” she shouted at the top of her none too impressive voice. “The English! They’re coming over the wall!”
Chapter Eleven
Evil is his eye's
as the raging snake;
his teeth he shows,
when the sword he sees.
The Poetic Edda
The distance from Odd’s farm to Halfdan the Black’s hall in Grømstad was usually a day’s ride, but it took Odd and his neighbors two days to make the journey. There were sixty-six riders all told, as Odd and each of the ten others had brought five of their men with them. The men were ostensibly there as added protection on the road, though such a force was hardly necessary. There was little danger to be found in Fevik or Vik. In truth they were there for show, there to make the small party seem more formidable and substantial. Because they were going to meet with the king.
And they did indeed look formidable. Neither Odd nor any of the others brought their shepherds or blacksmiths with them. They brought grown sons and men-at-arms and prosperous tenants, many of whom had gone a’viking and knew the use of their weapons. They wore mail and helmets and swords, and carried bright-colored shields on their saddles. Their horses were tall and powerful and well fitted out.
It was not the numbers that slowed them down. Even that many men could have covered the distance in a single day, riding on the good, summer-dry road. It was the cart that held them back. Odd knew better than to arrive at Halfdan’s hall expecting hospitality with nothing in the way of tribute to offer. Halfdan or any other king might call on one of his subjects, offering nothing but the honor of the royal presence, and expect to be well fed and well housed, he and his entire retinue. But it did not work like that in the reciprocal.
The cart was heavy loaded. It carried casks of honey from Odd’s own hives and mead made from that honey, cured hams and bacon, baskets of carrots and rutabagas and radishes and legs of lamb. A cargo worthy of a king’s hall. The cart groaned and creaked and rattled along and Odd spent most of the trip worrying that he had piled more on it than the axels could endure.
But endure they did, and the entire parade—men, horses, oxen and cart—arrived at Halfdan’s homestead in Grømstad with a showy presence that did them credit, and gifts of which no one would be ashamed.
Odd had been to Halfdan’s hall several times, but it had been many years now, not since well before Ornolf and Thorgrim had sailed for Ireland. The royal compound never failed to impress, but now it seemed more impressive still. Because it was.
When last Odd had been there, the great hall and other buildings were surrounded by an earthen wall topped with a palisade fence. The wall had been nearly circular and perhaps two hundred feet in diameter, the roofs and upper part of the building’s walls clearly visible over the top, but it was not like that any longer.
There was an earthen wall still, but Odd knew it was higher than it had been since now he could see only the top of the great hall’s roof. The wall was no longer round but rather oval in shape, and the long side ran a good three hundred feet before curving away on the rounded ends. The palisade that topped the wall stood ten feet high and was made of new-cut trees, straight and sturdy looking, with ends shaped to uniform points.
The road they were on ran right up to the two tall oak doors set in the earthen wall. Odd reined his horse to a stop fifty feet from the doors and waited for some acknowledgement from within, and he heard the rest come to a stop behind him. Amundi Thorsteinsson walked his horse up beside Odd’s.
Odd nodded his head in the direction of the wall. “Impressive,” he said.
“It’s meant to be,” Amundi said. “Every time Halfdan takes control of a new part of the country he adds another building or another foot of height to the wall.”
Odd smiled. “I guess he does it because he can.”
“And because he must,” Amundi said. “Each new conquest brings new enemies as well.”
There had apparently been some discussion among the guards on the wall, perhaps someone of higher rank summoned, because it took some time before a man called out, “Who’s there?”
“Odd Thorgrimson,” Odd replied, “And Amundi Thorsteinsson. And others. We’ve come to speak with Lord Halfdan.”
There was more discussion on the wall, but not much, and then the big oak doors creaked open and Odd led his little parade through. The improvements to the wall had impressed him, but they paled in comparison to what was being done on the grounds within. The great hall bore little resemblance to the building Odd remembered. It was a third again as long as it had been. The formerly straight roofline was now a long, gentle arch lengthwise, and the walls bowed out near the center of the building, so the entire thing resembled a massive ship turned keel-up. Smoke came trickling out of several smoke holes under the roof, which was shingled, not sod or thatch-covered, and the walls were built of vertical wooden planks carefully smoothed.
There were more buildings on the grounds than he recalled from earlier visits. Some were clearly new, the wood not much weathered at all. A barn and larger blacksmith shop and another building Odd took for a storehouse. Off to the left yet another building stood half-built, the carpenters actively setting up the posts that would support the roof.
Odd and Amundi looked at one another as they rode. Amundi raised an eyebrow at the show of wealth. Odd nodded his understanding. They rode on, heading for the hall at the center of the grounds, where stable boys waited to take their mounts.
But not just stable boys. Odd could see several guards, Halfdan’s hirdmen, warriors who had sworn an oath of allegiance to the king. And standing at their head was a man whom Odd was fairly certain was Einar Sigurdsson, the king’s sœlumadr, enforcer of Halfdan’s will.
Odd and the rest stopped when they reached that knot of men and boys and he and Amundi and the rest slid down from their horses. Odd was just beginning to stretch his sore muscles—he was rarely in the saddle for so long a time—when Einar approached. He looked neither pleased nor displeased to see Odd and his band, but he did not offer a hand in greeting.
“Odd Thorgrimson, so good to see you again so soon after our last meeting,” he said, and his voice was as neutral as his face. “And Amundi Thorsteinsson, and the rest of you distinguished gentlemen. What brings you to this place?”
“We would speak with King Halfdan,” Odd said. “We’ve brought gifts for his table.” He nodded toward the wagon rolling up. Einar gave the wagon a casual glance and showed no more reaction to that than he had to their arrival.
“On what subject would you speak to the king?” Einar asked.
“On business of mine,” Odd said. “And the other hauldar who ride with me.”
Einar nodded. “The king, as you no doubt know, is a very busy man. Better that you should have sent word first. I’m not certain he’s even in residence, but I’ll see, and see if he has time for an audience with you.” He gave a hint of a bow, then turned and headed for the hall as the stable boys led the horses away.
“Not certain that the king’s in residence,” Amundi said in a disgusted tone. The other men, the nine other landowners who had ridden with them, gathered around, having stretched their own weary muscles.
“What does Einar say?” Ulfkel Ospaksson asked.
Ulfkel spit on the ground. “Whore’s son, of course the king is in residence. Does that little puke have no better way to show off his authority?”
“Probably not,” Amundi said. “But if the king tells him to say he’s away, then we’ll know where we stand in his royal eyes.”
They waited a few moments more until Einar returned through the big doors. He stopped a few feet from the waiting men and his eyes flickered down to Odd’s waist. He looked Odd in the eyes.
“The sword you wear, is it Blood-letter, the sword of Ulf of the Battle Song?” he asked.
“It is,” Odd said, and he felt a slow rise of anger. “My grandfather’s sword.”
Einar nodded and gave Odd a knowing look. “A beautiful blade, I know it well,” Einar said. There was nothing in his words at which Odd might take offense, and that made the whole thing even more humiliating. Because Odd knew what Einar had left unsaid. Too beautiful for a farmer like you.
“Well?” Ulfkel said in a voice that was loud and unpleasant. “Is Halfdan in residence?”
“Gentlemen,” Einar said, finally addressing them all. “You are in luck.”
And for the next few hours it did appear that they were in luck. The cart was led away and the servants were sent to escort the warriors who had accompanied the eleven hauldar off to a barracks where they would be housed, where they would find food and drink. Odd and his fellows were led into the great hall and there shown where they might find places to sleep. House servants offered them food and drink, better quality no doubt than that offered to their men.
Odd and his fellows spent the bulk of the afternoon in final discussion of what they would say to Halfdan when they were given an audience. Politeness, humility were in order, on that they agreed. But a humble man was not necessarily a lick-spittle, and a lick-spittle was not a man who would get what he wanted from a king. They would make it clear that Thorgrim’s farm was not to be simply taken at Halfdan’s whim. If taxes were owed then the farm would pay for them. But the farm would remain in Odd’s care.
Kings and Pawns Page 11
