He shook his head in disgust. It was ridiculous to even think such a thing. Of course he was in the right place. He was not that addled in the brain, not yet.
That being the case, was there some arrangement he had failed to remember, or one of which he had not been told? Was Nothwulf to move his army to some other strategic location, some other place from where he was to launch his assault on the Northmen? Some plan that Cynewise had not told him of?
“Of course not,” Oswin said out loud, but soft enough that the men behind him—a guard of half a dozen riders, one bearing Cynewise’s banner—could not hear. Cynewise would not have told Nothwulf to move his army. She wanted him here. That was the idea. She would give him the honor of leading the attack, Nothwulf and her father. And hopefully she would have the honor of seeing their armies decimated by the Northmen while hers remained intact.
No, she would not have told Nothwulf to move.
And therein lay the mystery, because Nothwulf and his army were most certainly not there. Oswin had come to meet with Nothwulf, to organize the movements of his men and Cynewise’s, but now there was no one there to meet.
Oswin nudged his horse forward, riding at a slow walk. The signs of the army that had once encamped there were all over the ground. There were blackened fire pits and beaten paths between where the tents had once stood. There were beef bones strewn around and a trampled place, dotted with piles of horse manure, where the horses had been tethered. He could even see the wide footprint of the pavilion that had been Nothwulf’s home in the field.
Oswin slid down from his horse and walked over to the nearest fire pit, crouched down and held his hand over the charred wood in the center. He felt nothing. He lowered his palm until it was no more than an inch above the wood, and then he could feel the heat emanating from the spent fuel. The fire had been dead for a while, but not too great a while. That morning, perhaps. The tracks in the soft ground were sharp and clearly defined. Recently made.
He stood and looked across the open ground toward the Northmen’s makeshift fort. The heathens were still there, he was sure. It was the first thing he had looked for, even before reaching Nothwulf’s camp. The Northmen were the keystone here, the excuse on which everything relied, the ostensible purpose for the presence of the armies, which were really there to wipe one another off the map. If the Northmen escaped, new excuses would have to be found.
Worse still, if the Northmen left they would take the two hundred prime men-at-arms they held as prisoners and sell them as slaves. Which would be too bad for the men-at-arms, but worse for Cynewise, who would lose their service.
But they had not left. Oswin could see their masts jutting up beyond the fortifications. He could see flagstaffs set into the walls with banners waving in the breeze. He could see smoke rising from the other side of the barricades. They were still there, which meant they still needed to be driven off in some way, so that Cynewise could appear to be the savior of Dorset and then get on with the real business of eliminating Nothwulf.
Oswin heard the sound of a rider approaching, coming at a gallop, and he looked in the direction of the sound. It was Eadwold, one of Cynewise’s hearth-guard, one of the men who had come with Oswin so they might make a proper show riding into camp, mail gleaming, banners flying.
He reined his horse to a stop five feet from Oswin.
“Well?” Oswin said.
“They marched off to the east, to a ford on the River Avon,” Eadwold said, getting the words out between labored breaths. “I saw their tracks go over the ford, but I didn’t follow farther.”
Oswin nodded. Christchurch Priory sat on a point of land at the juncture of the Rivers Avon and Stour, both of which ran inland and vaguely north. Anyone going east or west would have to cross one of those rivers. So Nothwulf had marched his men off to the east, a direction pretty much opposite of the way to his hall in Blandford or his house in Sherborne.
Where the hell are you going, you bastard? Oswin wondered. Eadwold had made the right decision, not going after Nothwulf’s column. It would have taken too long to catch up with them, left Oswin waiting for word longer than he could afford to wait. But still it left unanswered the one, crucial question. Where was Nothwulf going? What was he up to?
Which meant he would not be able to give Cynewise answers to those questions. And that would not go well.
Oswin sighed. None of this was going well, and it was not likely to get better. He climbed back on his horse and turned to the guards milling around behind him. “Doesn’t seem as there’s anything here to amuse us,” he said. “Let’s head back to camp.”
It was near noon when they arrived. Oswin found Cynewise outside her tent, waiting as her groom saddled her horse. She was dressed in her mail shirt, her cape over her shoulders, her helmet in her hand and her sword hanging from her belt. Oswin noticed that the sword was shorter than a typical such weapon. A man’s sword would have made her look ridiculous, but the one she wore was well proportioned to her size. He wondered if she had ordered the blade made specifically for her.
He pushed that thought aside. He knew he was just trying to not think of the unpleasantness soon to come. He slid down from his horse and bowed to Cynewise.
“Lady Cynewise, we’ve come from Nothwulf’s camp, and…ah…in truth, he’s not there. Him or his army.”
Cynewise’s lips went down and her eyebrows came together, but she said nothing. She would have so many questions that demanded answers that Oswin guessed they were fighting to get out of her mouth, like a panicked crowd trying to flee a burning building through a single door.
“Not there…” she said at last. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know, ma’am. They marched off to the east, but they were gone when I got there, and I didn’t think I had time to pursue them. Rather I chose to come back and report this news. To you.”
Cynewise nodded slowly. “The Northmen?”
“Still there, ma’am. Haven’t moved, apparently.” Oswin could actually see the moment in Cynewise’s face when her surprise gave way to the rage he had anticipated. Her frown deepened and with a sudden movement she whirled around and flung her helmet on the ground with an impressive display of force.
“Son of a bitch! Son of a bitch!” she shouted. “You incompetent bastard, how could you have let this happen?”
I didn’t let it happen, you stupid tart, Oswin thought, but he kept his mouth shut, his expression neutral.
“That whore’s son is up to something, and you had better find out what it is!” Cynewise spit. She reminded him of an angry cat, a small bundle of fury, more dangerous than one might expect.
“I’ve already sent…” Oswin began, but before he could go further he was distracted by the sight of Cynewise’s father, Ceorle, approaching. He, too, was wearing mail and a fine silk cape, sword on his belt. He was flanked by two of his warriors who had their arms around his waist, while Ceorle’s arms were around their shoulders. They seemed to be pretty much carrying the old man.
“What is it now?” Ceorle barked, his voice hoarse, though there was still strength in it. “What God-almighty mess have you made now, daughter?”
Cynewise pressed her lips tight together and turned toward her father. “Father, surely you’re not well enough to be up and dressed for battle.”
“Bah!” Ceorle said. “If I stay abed the Northmen will overrun this shire. Kill us all!” He looked Cynewise up and down. “What, dressed in your men-at-arms costume again?” he asked. “You look like you’re part of some damned troupe of players.”
Cynewise turned to Oswin. Oswin could see that her father’s words, his simple presence, had doubled her fury, which she was about to unleash on someone, and that someone was not Ceorle.
“We’re done with the damned Northmen,” she said. “May they all be damned to Hell, we’ll give them the danegeld and be done with them. It’s Nothwulf we need to finish, not them. You get back on your horse and return to the priory and get rid of them as you sh
ould have done days ago.”
Oswin bowed. “Ma’am,” he said, eager to take his leave, but Ceorle stopped him.
“Northmen? Danegeld?” he sputtered. “Are we not done with that? Why are we still concerned about the Northmen? I thought you were buying them off. What have you done with the silver I loaned you?”
“You loaned me nothing, Father,” Cynewise said. “You gave me one hundred pounds of silver to buy the freedom of your men-at-arms.”
“Made prisoner by your incompetence! And I want those men back, do you hear? By God, I see I must step in here, to make certain you don’t make a hash of things.” Ceorle’s words were strong, but his voice was growing noticeably weaker with the strain that his anger was putting on his constitution.
Cynewise looked past her father, snapped her fingers and shouted, “Horsa!” and her servant hurried over.
“My father is ill. Fetch a chair for him to sit,” she snapped and Horsa nodded and hurried off. A moment later he returned with a chair in his hands and Bishop Ealhstan hurrying behind, a worried look on his face. Horsa set the chair down and Ceorle was eased down into it. Ealhstan, chins jiggling, opened his mouth to speak, but before he did he looked from Ceorle to Cynewise and back. He shut his mouth again.
Cynewise watched this all play out, and when Ceorle was seated she led Oswin out of earshot.
“What of Aelfwyn?” she asked. “Did you find that little whore?”
“No, ma’am. I had my men search the camp and the roads in all directions, and we saw no sign of her.”
Cynewise held Oswin’s eyes with her own, which were pale blue and reminded Oswin of pure, untainted ice. Again he marveled that so tiny a creature could in turn become so very menacing. He had taken her for a weak vessel when she first arrived at Sherborne. But the two of them had come to an understanding after her husband’s murder, before actually, and it had been Cynewise who had initiated it. They had worked together. She had listened to him, agreed with much that he had to offer. She had been reasonable, to the extent that a person in her situation could be.
But no more. She had changed since then. Considerably. And Oswin found himself less and less sanguine about that change.
“This is the second time you’ve managed to fail in a single morning, Oswin,” Cynewise said at last. “You’ve been a help to me until now, but now I find myself paying the price of your failures, and I won’t pay it long. Get the danegeld to the Northmen, get my father’s men-at-arms back, with their weapons and armor, do you understand? If we’re to crush Nothwulf we need those men. So you get them back, you find Nothwulf, and then I’ll see to destroying him. Clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Oswin said. How any of this had been the result of failure on his part he did not know, but he did not think it wise to argue. He bowed again, turned, and hurried off toward Cynewise’s tent where the chest of silver, the danegeld, was stored. As he stepped past the seated Ceorle, Bishop Ealhstan hovering around him, he heard Cynewise call out, “Horsa! My father is weak and needs refreshment. Fetch some of the broth, and be quick about it.”
Chapter Eighteen
At the gates of death I wake thee!
if thou rememberest,
that thou thy son badest
to thy grave-mound to come.
The Poetic Edda
It was tiring, standing watch through the night, keyed up for battle, and so by dawn Thorgrim’s men were very tired. All save Starri Deathless, who sat sullenly against the longphort’s makeshift wall, hacking thoughtlessly at a stray chunk of wood with one of his battle axes and muttering about what cowards the English were.
Cowards or not, the English were gone. That much was clear. If it was some sort of trick, Thorgrim could not imagine what it might be. Nor did he care. He was more than ready to abandon that place, and he and his men would leave much wealthier than they were when they arrived.
He set a watch and ordered the rest of his men to sleep. He would give them until noon when the tide was high, and then they would be off, rowing their longships through the channels between sandbanks and out the narrow entrance through which they had come.
Thorgrim felt that he himself should remain awake, but he also felt that he would fall face-first to the ground if he tried. On weary legs he ambled off to his own bed, a pile of furs on the afterdeck of his ship which was pulled up on the beach, the place he felt most comfortable and at home. He took off his sword and mail and lay down, letting the luxury of reclining sweep over him. He was starting to drift off when he heard the soft sound of someone stepping aboard. He opened one eye and in early morning light he saw Failend as she came aft. He opened the other eye and turned his head as she stood next to the pile of furs on which he lay.
“Do you mind if I lie down, too?” she asked. Thorgrim shook his head. Failend nodded. She took off her sword belt and mail shirt and deposited them on the deck. Thorgrim wondered if she would take off any more—not because he felt like having a romp under the furs, which he did not—but because he genuinely did not know what was going on in her mind. She remained fully clothed, however, and lay down beside him, tunic and leggings intact. Not touching him, just next to him. She was facing him but her eyes were closed and she looked relaxed, like she was already near sleep.
I should say something, Thorgrim thought. But he had no idea of what to say. What’s more, Failend looked to be asleep already, and he did not wish to disturb her. Nor did he wish to have the conversation that he knew they would have if he said anything at all. So he closed his eyes again and soon he, too, was asleep.
He woke when he hoped to wake, when the sun was near its high point above. He stood and stretched and Failend opened her eyes and looked up at him.
“Not much of a rest,” she said.
“No,” Thorgrim agreed. “But it’s all we get. Too much to do. The tide’s high and it’s time we were gone from here.”
Failend nodded. For a moment they looked at one another and Thorgrim again had the unhappy thought that he really should say something. But then Failend jumped to her feet and said, “Very well. Let’s be at it.”
Men were already stirring by the time Thorgrim made his way to the great black pile of charred wood where the bonfire had once burned. He called in a loud voice, loud enough to wake those still sleeping, for Harald and Godi and the other captains.
“It’s time to get underway,” Thorgrim said when all were assembled. “We’ve been in this accursed place long enough, and I’m done with it and with the English here. Your ships are fit to sail, right?”
The ships had been made ready to leave days before, and so everything was pretty much loaded aboard and stashed where it needed to be stashed. They had only to load the weapons and the last of the food and they were ready to get underway.
“Blood Hawk still needs loading and fitting out,” Godi said. Blood Hawk had been used as a floating prison and Godi, to whom Thorgrim had given command of the ship, was not pleased. He let his tone reflect that displeasure, to the extent he thought he could do so without provoking Thorgrim. “Other than that she’s ready for sea. As far as I know.”
“Very well,” Thorgrim said. “Let us haul your ship back to the beach. It looks like we’re taking those miserable English with us. We’ll distribute them around the ships. If they don’t know how to row, I’m sure they can learn quick enough.”
The others nodded. But as it turned out, it would not be that simple.
Thorgrim had never thought about his prisoners jumping off Blood Hawk and swimming to freedom because he guessed no more than a handful of them would be able to do so. He was more concerned that they would cut or cast off the cable that held them anchored to the bottom and drift away to the far shore. To avoid that possibility the cable had been affixed to the ship in such a way that it was nearly impossible to reach, and even if it was reached the prisoners had no blades with which they might cut the thick walrus hide rope. And apparently they had not even tried.
But they had been at work sa
botaging the ship. When it was hauled up to the beach Thorgrim and the others found a foot or more of water in the bilge, deep enough that some of the deck boards were floating free. Blood Hawk was sinking.
“Look here,” Harald called from a place on the starboard side near the mast. He was on hands and knees peering down into the bilge. “It looks like they found some means to half pry up one of the planks. Managed to crack it, they pried so hard. Started it leaking bad.”
Godi was standing at Thorgrim’s side up by the bow and he voiced the very thought that was on Thorgrim’s mind. “What by all the gods did they think they would achieve doing that?”
“No idea,” said Gudrid, standing beside him. “It wouldn’t have done them much good for the ship to sink under them. If they wanted to drown themselves, it’d be easier to just jump overboard.”
Thorgrim frowned. He could not imagine what the English were thinking and he did not care at all. His only thought was to get the ship repaired and then get to sea.
They tilted the Blood Hawk over on her port side so they could get at the damaged plank from underneath and the men most skilled at the shipwright’s trade were set to work. Others were set to gathering the food, ale, sea chests, oars and other gear that would be loaded aboard Blood Hawk once she was made seaworthy. Still others were put to the task of dividing up the English prisoners and driving them off to the ships that would take them to the slave markets in Frisia.
Thorgrim looked at the water’s edge. There was a line of dark earth where the retreating tide had left its mark. If the repairs to Blood Hawk were not done fast then the tide would be out by the time they were ready to leave. He remembered the tricky channels and the sandbars hidden just below the surface that he had seen when they first came to that place. The Englishman, Sweartling, who had piloted them in was long gone. Thorgrim did not want to leave when the tide was out.
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