Kings and Pawns

by James L. Nelson

  Soon they were all settled on benches and stools, their men and horses in the care of Odd’s servants, and they told their tales of standing with Amundi and joining him in leaving Halfdan’s company.

  “I’m not keen to defy Halfdan,” Ragi Oleifsson said. “He’s king, after all, and that has to mean something. But it doesn’t mean he has the right to take whatever man’s farm he pleases. He must respect the free men under his rule. If we let him get away with this once, well, who knows where he’ll stop?”

  There was muttered agreement with that notion. Ulfkel spoke next.

  “What we’re doing here, we’re making it so Halfdan has to talk with us, right? I mean, he might crush Odd like a bug, or any one of us, but he can’t crush us all. Who would be left for him to rule?”

  There was muttered agreement to that as well, but it was growing less certain.

  “Fevik is not the only place Halfdan rules,” Amundi said, injecting some largely unwelcome truth into the discussion. “He holds sway over quite a bit of the country to the south of Grømstad. You all know that well. His kingdom grows bigger and he grows richer. And as he grows richer he grows more powerful.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Ragi said, “All the more reason to stand up to the man now. Let him see how it is. If you’re going to train a dog, you don’t wait until the cur is too big to mind you.”

  “Halfdan meant to lead you men against me,” Odd said. “He wants to divide us. But you refused to help, and you left him without an army. That gives us time to try to talk with him one more time.”

  “How do you figure that?” Thorgeir asked.

  “He has no warriors now,” Odd said. “So there’s no danger of him raiding my farm any time soon. Even if he’s still set on doing it, he’ll have to ride back to Grømstad and raise more men, then ride back here. We can go to him.”

  “Really?” Amundi said. “Talk? You still think we should talk with him?”

  “Yes,” Odd said, but in truth the words cut across every instinct he had. He wanted to fight. He wanted to drive Blood-letter through Einar’s heart and Halfdan’s heart. The thought of letting the blade sing in his hand excited him.

  He thought of the trap in the road, or the fight when they had returned from the shielding. Those things had thrilled him in a way he had never been thrilled before. And that realization worried him. And that worry made him want to choose diplomacy once again.

  “I was ready to talk with Halfdan before,” Odd said. “Before his cowardly attack on those poor bastards at the shielding. I’m ready still.” He glanced around to see if Signy was near, but she was off instructing the servants regarding the banquet they would have later. “I was ready to go alone and I’m still ready to go alone. I wouldn’t ask any of you to ride back into the wolf’s lair.”

  “You’re a very reasonable man, Odd Thorgrimson,” Amundi said. “Too reasonable, maybe. Or maybe I should say too hopeful that Halfdan will see reason.”

  Odd nodded. He did not think himself particularly reasonable. But this newfound bloodlust had put him off balance, and an excess of reason seemed the only way to set himself right again.

  “Reasonable or foolish,” Odd said. “We’ll know which pretty soon, I think.”

  The day was getting on and the danger seemed to have passed, at least for the time being. Halfdan could not pose much of a threat when nearly all the warriors he had called to his side had left him and were gathered at the home of the man he intended to attack. Signy called for their guests to join her and Odd and their men in the hall. A feast would be laid out, and places for sleeping provided. It was not an offer that was easy to decline, and no one did.

  They saw to their horses and sent riders off to their farms to tell wives and overseers what was going on. They filed into the long hall, the fires already blazing in the hearth that ran down the center of the building. They shed mail and set helmets and shields aside, unbelted swords and set them aside as well, until none of the guests were armed with more than their knives and a few with seaxes hung horizontally from their belts—practically naked by the standards of the Northmen.

  Odd was glad to see it. It was a sign that he was trusted, and that was a good thing. Son of Thorgrim Night Wolf, grandson of Ornolf the Restless and Ulf of the Battle Song. The man who wielded Blood-letter. He thought of what Signy had said: Halfdan knows who you are, and what you come from, and what you are capable of. You frighten him. He had dismissed those words then, and he still dismissed them. But he had not stopped turning them over in his mind.

  Lambs and pigs turned on spits over the hearth fire. The smoke lifted up toward the high roofline and the noise in the hall rose as the contents of the barrels of ale and mead were drained away. Servants moved deftly through the men, the boisterous men, under the command of Signy who kept them at it like a captain on a field of battle. Odd had no musicians in a formal sense, but a few of the men who worked the farm had talent in that way, and he set them to playing in a space beyond the long tables.

  It was a good banquet, better than the last few gatherings there, weighed down as they had been by consideration of the ugly goings-on. Now there seemed a sense of optimism, as if heavy covers had been lifted off and they could breathe fresh air again.

  None of them thought the trouble with Halfdan was done—they were not so foolish as that—but they knew the trouble had been set aside for the time being, and that and the ale and mead and companionship made for a buoyant mood.

  As the effects of the drink reached their high water mark and began to ebb Odd called for his skald, who, like the musicians, was not really a skald. He was one of the butchers with whom Odd had been working at the smokehouse, but he was also a poet of some ability. The hall settled, the men sprawled on the benches, and the skald began.

  He told ancient stories of the gods, familiar stories but comforting in their familiarity. He told stories of men long gone, ancestors of Odd Thorgrimson and of many of the other men who sat in the hall, men whose families had tended the soil around there for generations, and who had put off from those shores to go raiding in far off countries or fought wars on their home soil. Who brought wealth back to Fevik, and with it fame for themselves and their families.

  Odd’s mind drifted back to the great hall in which he had grown up. His father, Thorgrim, was also a talented skald who wrote and told stories of gods and men. It was not always easy to get him to recite his tales, but when he could be prevailed upon he could hold his listeners in a spell. It was not a talent one would expect from a man like his father, and it surprised people when they first heard Thorgrim perform.

  Father…Father… Odd thought. Where are you? Do you live still, or are you in Odin’s corpse hall? The thought of his father, the thought of the great hall on Thorgrim’s farm, his home for far longer than his own farm had been, gave rise to a strange feeling surging up in him. He spoke out loud, but softly so only he could hear.

  “You’ll not have my father’s farm. Bastard. You won’t have it.”

  It was quiet: only the crackle of the fire in the hearth and the slow, melodic voice of the skald, telling his tales. It was so soothing that some of the men had already fallen asleep, heads down on the table, and they were thumped soundly when their snoring threatened to drown out the poet.

  Odd looked into the flames and let the skald’s words flow through his head like water through a net. His thoughts were a jumble and he didn’t even try to bring them into any sort of alignment, just let them toss around, heaping one upon the other.

  Then he looked up quickly, staring off into the dark, not even sure why he did that. The farm, the hall, often felt like part of him, like part of his own body. And just as he could sense when something was wrong with his person, now he could sense there was something wrong with the hall.

  He frowned and knitted his brow. His eyes moved along the roof above. He could smell smoke. The hall of course was full of smoke, with only a bit able to escape from the smoke holes at either
end of the peak of the roof. He had been smelling smoke all night. But this was different. It was something burning that had not been burning before.

  His eyes continued to sweep the thatch above, though it was only just visible in the fading light of the dying hearth fire. He shifted a bit and then he stopped. A bright point of light, off at the far end of the hall. The big room was lost in darkness there, but Odd knew that the light was a flame and it was just at the point where the thatch roof met the heavy timber walls. And he knew that the roof of the hall was on fire.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  And so for each man

  the praise of the living,

  of those who mention him after life ends,

  remains the best epitaph

  The Seafarer

  Ninth Century English Poem

  There was good news. And there was bad news. And there was bad news that was, in truth, good news. And it was all so amorphous and confusing that it made Cynewise profoundly annoyed.

  Confusion was not a thing she wrestled with much. She had always been a person of clarity, clarity, as unadulterated as her pure blue eyes. She had always been one to fix on what she wanted and to pursue it with singular focus until it was hers. She had done that all the way to ealdormanship of Dorset. But now things were clouding up.

  It was people, that was the problem. As long as she had only herself to rely on then there were no concerns, because she was always utterly reliable. It was only when she had to call on others—her father, Oswin, the thegns—that things became confused, because there were few who were as competent as she was. None, in truth.

  She was seated in her not coincidentally throne-like chair in the relative luxury of her spacious tent. Oswin, who had just returned to camp, was standing in front of her now. His news was the good news, which was lucky for him after all the ill news he had brought her as of late. Nothwulf’s marching away to parts unknown was one thing, but worse, much worse, was the Northmen, despite the payment of danegeld, sailing off with her father’s men-at-arms and leaving only a promise to drop them on the far side of the bay. Oswin had managed to lose the danegeld, the men-at-arms and the Northmen, all in one stroke. Quite a feat.

  “Yes, Lady Cynewise, we found Nothwulf and his army,” he was saying. “They’re on the west bank of the channel that runs from the harbor to the sea. They’ve built fortifications there.”

  Cynewise squinted. “Fortifications? Why?”

  “Well, ma’am, it seems they mean to stop the Northmen from leaving,” Oswin said. “In truth, they’ve already fought them. Yesterday. The Northmen tried to leave and Nothwulf and Leofric and the thegns who stand with them prevented it. I hear they sunk ships in the channel. Blocked it.”

  Cynewise was quiet for a moment. “Why, for the love of God?”

  “I don’t know for certain, ma’am. But I think they didn’t want you to get credit for ridding the shire of the heathens. They wanted to defeat them in battle. To boost Nothwulf’s claim to the ealdorman’s seat, and to get their hands on the danegeld and the plunder.”

  “And did they defeat them in battle?”

  “Not entirely. They kept them from getting to sea, but they did not beat them. The Northmen returned to the harbor. They’re encamped on a sandbar now, where no one can get to them. What they’ll do next is anyone’s guess.”

  Cynewise shook her head. Nothwulf, you are a blundering idiot, she thought. You’ve got these wolves caught in a trap and you have no way to get them out. Right there is proof enough I should be ealdorman.

  “But here’s the good thing, ma’am,” Oswin continued. “Nothwulf and his men are still there, waiting for the Northmen to try again to leave. But only half of his army is on the west side. Leofric and his men and some of the other thegns are on the east side. That was their plan, to catch the Northmen between both armies and burn their ships with flaming arrows. It nearly worked, so they’re ready to try it again.”

  Cynewise considered the situation that Oswin had just described. Nothwulf was encamped with his back to the water and only half his army with him. And not even with his back to the water. Facing the water, his back exposed to an attack from the land.

  “Surely they have boats to move from one side to the other?” she asked.

  “Not that I know of. We took some prisoners, questioned them. They all said the same. They used the ships to move Leofric’s men before they sunk them. Now they have only a handful of boats, and small ones at that. If Leofric wants to join his men up with Nothwulf’s they’d have to march clear around through Christchurch. It would take them a day at least.”

  Now Cynewise was growing excited. She could see the possibilities here. They could strike at Nothwulf at first light—he was no more than a day’s march away—and wipe his army out. Leofric would have to join with her then, and the Northmen could do whatever they pleased as long as it involved getting their filthy selves out of Dorsetshire.

  She was about to call for Eadwold, captain of her hearth-guard, and tell him to get the men ready to march within the hour. Before she could, Horsa, her servant, appeared through the door, bowing, nodding, and clearly not wanting to say what he had to say.

  “Lady Cynewise, it’s Bishop Ealhstan,” he said. “He’s been wishing to speak with you, like I said before, and I don’t think I can put him off much longer.”

  Cynewise sighed. This might have all been easily handled, Nothwulf cut down while he had so stupidly exposed himself, but that was not to be. Here were complications on complications.

  She looked at Oswin who was making no effort to hide his curiosity. “The bishop will want to speak to me about my father,” she said. “Why this is so urgent I don’t know. He’s dead and there’s not much to be done about it.”

  “Dead…ma’am?”

  “Yes, he died this morning,” Cynewise said. She knew that grief was in order, some display of mourning for the old man’s passing, but she was having a hard time summoning it. In front of Oswin it didn’t really matter, but she’d have to put on a better show for Bishop Ealhstan. She’d have to appear as if her father’s death meant more to her than just another problem with which to deal.

  People, she thought. It’s people who make it so damned difficult to make a thing happen. Even when they’re dead, it seems, they’re still a great nuisance.

  She turned to Horsa. “Very well, see the bishop in.”

  Horsa disappeared and Cynewise forced the irritation out of her expression and replaced it with a look of resolve mixed with grief. Horsa reappeared with Bishop Ealhstan following behind, and behind him a man named Sigeric who was captain of her father’s men-at-arms.

  “Oh, Bishop Ealhstan, thank God above you’ve come!” Cynewise said, happy to hear the genuine-sounding note of sorrow in her voice. “We must arrange for mass to be said for my beloved father, who even now rests in the arms of our Lord.”

  “Yes, ma’am, of course. Arrangements are being made,” Ealhstan said. Cynewise tried to gauge how real the bishop thought her grief to be, but Ealhstan was a hard one to read. He came off as a fat, doddering fool, but Cynewise knew it was a mistake to think him so.

  “We’ll do what we can, here in the field, in our rude camp,” Cynewise went on. “And when his earthly remains are returned to his beloved Devon, then we’ll see to a proper funeral. But now I fear there are military matters that must take precedence.”

  “Of course, Lady Cynewise, of course,” the bishop said. “But see here, Sigeric would speak with you, ma’am. We’ve been in talks all morning, and he would speak with you now.”

  ‘Been in talks all morning,’ Cynewise thought. That does not sound good.

  “Of course,” Cynewise said. She turned to Sigeric. “I had meant to send for you this morning, Sigeric,” she said. “But the shock of my father’s passing has much affected me. Still, we must be strong. It’s what Ceorle would have wished.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sigeric said, and before he could say more she launched in again.
>
  “Oswin brings news that Nothwulf is nearby and he’s vulnerable. If we move quickly we can catch him with but half his army, and his back to the water. We can finish him off, be done with all this.” She knew she was talking now just to keep anyone else from talking for fear they might say something she did not want to hear. But she also knew that she couldn’t keep doing that.

  Sigeric cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, “but I must tell you…we cannot join you in this.”

  “We…?”

  “The men under my command, ma’am. Your father’s men. We’re Devon men, and what goes on in Dorset isn’t our business.”

  “You’re here in Dorsetshire under orders from my father,” Cynewise reminded him. “Your business is what he says is your business.” Then, seeing immediately the flaw in this argument, she added, “And now that he’s gone your business is what I say it is.”

  “No, Lady Cynewise, I’m afraid it’s not,” Sigeric said and there was no subservience in his voice, no suggestion that he was at all intimidated by her. “You are ealdorman of Dorsetshire, but not Devonshire.”

  “I am the eldest of my father’s house!” Cynewise reminded him. “It has yet to be seen if I am not ealdorman of Devonshire as well.”

  “Ah, Lady Cynewise,” Bishop Ealhstan piped up. “Such a heavy burden to carry! Too much to ask of a young, frail woman such as yourself. Certainly it would be best, and proper, for your brother to assume the ealdormanship of Devon.”

  “My brother is fourteen years old,” Cynewise said and stopped. She stopped because she understood at last what was happening here. Ealhstan would see to it that her brother was ealdorman while he, Ealhstan, was there to guide him in matters spiritual and political. And financial, no doubt, the treasury of Devonshire an irresistible temptation. And Sigeric and his men-at-arms there to see the bishop’s will be done.