“There’s no doubt that he went down fighting,” Amundi said. “The Choosers of the Slain will look well on our friend.” Odd reached down and closed Ulfkel’s eyes, which seemed to be looking up in surprise. Once the needs of the living had been attended to, Ulfkel would get the send-off to Valhalla that a man such as he deserved.
The wounded were moved off to a place where they could be cared for and a messenger was sent to fetch the women and the thralls that they might return and lend a hand. The dead were moved to another place and laid out in a row. The prisoners were stripped of weapons and armor, hands bound, and set in a third place under guard. Sentries were posted. The rest of the exhausted men were allowed to sleep.
But sleep would not come for Odd. He knew it would not and he did not even try. Instead he sat with his back to an old barrel, close enough to his burning hall to feel the heat from the flames, far enough that they did not scorch him. Signy found him there and admonished him, as he knew she would, for ignoring the wound that Halfdan’s sword had made in his shoulder. She tended to it, starting the blood flowing again as she peeled the stiff, rent cloth of his tunic away and then applying bandages wrapped tight around him.
When she was done she sat down on his left side and leaned against him. She did not speak, and Odd was grateful for that, because he did not know what he would say to her. Soon he could hear her breathing soft and steady and he let her sleep propped up against him while he stared out into the dark.
Morning came and there was much to do. Signy and the servants sifted through the great, scorched pile of ash and charred wood that had once been the long hall. The fires had burned themselves out, though many spots were still too hot to approach. In any event there was nothing much of value left there. Odd had ordered most of it removed days before, and the flames had taken the rest.
Because the food had been moved to one of the storehouses and thus saved, there was enough on hand to feed the warriors and the prisoners alike. Odd and Amundi and Ragi and Vifil and Vigdis ate together and discussed what they would do next.
“We can kill them,” Ragi said. The talk was now of the prisoners. “Or we can sell them or put them to work for us.”
“First they’ll work for us,” Odd said. “They’ll do what we need them to do. And then we’ll see what their fate will be.” He was giving orders, not asking, but no one seemed to question his right to do so. Even he, the most critical of all of them where his own status was concerned, did not question himself.
The prisoners were set to work digging graves. They were set to work clearing away the rubble of the hall once it was cool enough to touch. They were put to the task of building a funeral pyre worthy of Ulfkel Ospaksson, which was touched off at day’s end, sending Ulfkel to Odin’s hall of the slain in a manner befitting the man.
For three days the prisoners from Halfdan’s army were made to work, and then on the morning of the fourth day they were summoned before Odd and the other free men. Einar, who had survived the fight, stood at the head of the band, but Odd did not feel the need to address him as if he was any sort of leader.
“You men fought well, and you did good work for us,” he said, speaking loud enough to be heard by the forty or so men standing before him. “You’ve been in the service of Halfdan the Black. If you would serve me instead, I would welcome you.”
He waited as the men looked at one another and a low muttering spread over the crowd. Finally one man pushed his way through and stepped up behind Odd. Then another and another until twelve in all had left Halfdan’s service and joined with Odd. Which was, Odd was willing to admit, twelve more than he had expected.
“Good,” Odd said. “The rest of you are free to go.”
This was met with more silence and looks of raw suspicion.
“Go?” Einar asked.
“Go,” Odd said. “All of you. Go. Back to Halfdan, off to Niflheim, wherever you please. Just get off my land and stay off.”
There was more silence, more confusion. No one moved. Then one man, toward the back, turned and walked off down the beaten track that ran south. The others watched, as if to see what terrible fate would befall him, what trick was being played. And when they saw he was just walking away, unmolested, they turned and followed him.
Einar remained where he was, his eyes fixed on Odd’s. He scowled and his moustache twitched. His eyes narrowed. Odd could see on Einar’s face all of the things boiling inside him: rage, humiliation, suspicion, relief. It was not a healthful mix. Einar half opened his mouth as if to speak, held it that way for a moment, then closed it again. He turned and walked away and Odd could see he was trying to do so with as much dignity as he could. Which was not much.
Amundi was standing at Odd’s side. “Mercy?” he asked. “You think those men deserved your mercy?”
“No mercy,” Odd said. “Killing them would have been a mercy. Now they’re wanderers. They’ve seen Halfdan’s cowardly flight. They won’t be welcomed by him, not with the tales they could tell. They might sell their service elsewhere, I don’t care. But Einar, he’s the one who’ll suffer. He wouldn’t dare return to Halfdan, not after the hash he’s made of things. Everyone in this whole country knows him and hates him. He has nothing now, and nowhere to go.”
Amundi nodded. “I see,” he said. “You have no authority to make him an outlaw, but you did it anyway.”
The others were there and they stood in a circle and for a long moment no one spoke. “Well,” said Vifil at last, “we’ve beaten Halfdan the Black!” The words came out flat. Vifil and all the rest knew how untrue that was.
“We beat him in battle,” Odd said. “But I fear there’s a war now.”
Heads nodded. “What will Halfdan do, do you suppose?” Ragi said. “What should we do?”
There was silence again and Odd hoped someone would give an answer, but he realized that they were all waiting for him to give an answer. So he did, the only answer he could truthfully offer.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what Halfdan will do, or what we will do. Before this all started I knew many things, but now I know nothing. But I’ll learn. We’ll all learn, soon enough.”
Even through the heavy red carpet Nothwulf could feel the granite against his knees. It was becoming uncomfortable, soon to be painful, and he wondered how much longer he would have to kneel like this. It was like penance. It was all like penance. Though if he was going to be honest with himself—and he had made a vow to be honest with himself—penance was no more than he deserved.
Bishop Ealhstan was speaking, and had been for a while, but Nothwulf had stopped listening some time ago. He knew what the old man was saying, in any event. He had heard it all many times. It was, incredibly, just a few months since he had last heard those words spoken. It seemed much longer than that. A lifetime. More.
He shifted his knees a bit. Along with Ealhstan’s voice he could hear the soft, cumulative sound of dozens of onlookers attempting to be quiet. He heard the occasional muted cough, the rustle of fabric, the shuffle of feet. Occasionally a sharp noise from outside made its way through the thick walls and made Nothwulf start, just a bit.
He was not comfortable with this, and his increasingly aching knees were the least of it. It was a fool thing to do and he knew it. Foolish and dangerous. Physically, morally, spiritually dangerous. But he could think of no other way out of this situation
There were no weapons in the cathedral, he was certain. Fairly certain. Explicit instructions had been given—no swords, no knives, not even the fancy, decorative sort, worn to show off their bejeweled hilts and not intended to ever cut anything. Bryning had made certain that those instructions were carried out, to the extent he was able, carefully observing each person as they entered. That was the best he could do. The people gathered in the spacious knave were the most important men and women in Dorsetshire, and Bryning was not about to inspect their persons more closely.
Nothwulf shifted a little, turned his head just a bit, tryi
ng to look over his shoulder without appearing to do so. He could not see what he wished to see, so he craned his neck a bit more.
“Will you stop that, for the love of God?” Cynewise whispered, her tone more disgust and exasperation than anger. She was kneeling beside him, their heads not two feet apart.
“What?” Nothwulf whispered back.
“No one is going to stab you, you bloody fool.”
Nothwulf turned his head and looked straight forward. You should know, you little tart, he thought. Murdering men at their weddings seems to be your business.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God…” Ealhstan continued.
Yes, sight of God. You hear that, Cynewise? He’s watching you, you viper, Nothwulf thought. He knew the moment of danger was coming. Not now, but once the vows were said. That had been the end for his brother. But for all his concern Nothwulf did not really think Cynewise would have him murdered, right there, every man of note in the shire looking on. You could get away with that sort of thing once, but the second time was bound to raise suspicions.
So, if there was a moment of danger, it would likely come later.
He glanced over at Cynewise who had her head lowered and was doing a very good imitation of a pious and obedient woman. She was not unattractive. Quite the opposite. When Nothwulf was able to view her with disinterested eyes he had to admit she stirred something in him. He intended to explore that further when the wedding feast was done, when they had headed off to their bed chamber. Regardless of what she might want, she would be his wife, and that office came with certain obligations. The thought excited Nothwulf and it frightened him as well.
A wave of doubt came over him, just as it had many times since this whole thing started. Their courtship had really been a negotiation, about as romantic as haggling over the boundaries of a piece of land or the price of a cow. It had begun just as Nothwulf stopped his ignominious flight from the Northmen on the bank of the channel, when he had stopped running and the men behind him had stopped running. He was gasping for breath, wondering how he would ever recover from such a shameful thing, when he had seen her, alone, approaching on horseback.
She rode up, unhurried, as Nothwulf’s breathing was returning to normal.
“Nothwulf, we must talk,” she said. “As Christians, it’s only right that we talk.” She looked around at the men behind him. “Have you just been routed by some foe?”
Nothwulf looked behind him. He had thoroughly anticipated seeing the heathens racing around the wall, howling and waving their weapons, but he saw nothing. Leofric’s men had moved off, half a mile to the south. Now, other than the wall, there was nothing to see.
“We fought the Northmen,” Nothwulf said. “The Northmen you so shamefully paid to go away. We drove them back to their ships. We would not let such enemies go so easy.”
“Hmm,” Cynewise said. “Well, it was bravely done, I’m sure. Which makes one wonder why you felt the need to run.” She looked off to where Leofric’s men were clustered. “I see you have only half the men you did before. Those over there, have they left you?”
“Left? No. They’re standing ready to fight again. You, the heathens, we’ve beaten you all today, and we’ll do so again.”
“Hmm,” Cynewise said again. “I’m not so sure about that. My father has sent more men. We’re greatly reinforced. But, as a Christian, I thought it my duty to speak with you before more blood is shed.”
And so they spoke. Argued. Nothwulf began to suspect that Cynewise was much weaker than she let on, all but deserted by the men who had supported her. But then, the same was true of Nothwulf. Two claimants to the seat of ealdorman and neither with any force to back up their claims.
And so, marriage. Joining their houses. It had been Cynewise’s idea, in truth. Nothwulf pointed out the obvious—if they were married, he would be ealdorman. There could be no debate about that. Not between the two of them, not among the thegns of Dorsetshire, or the bishop or the king.
Cynewise agreed, but Nothwulf did not take much comfort from her easy cooperation.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” Bishop Ealhstan said. Nothwulf and Cynewise stood and the bishop made a discreet gesture to indicate they should kiss. Nothwulf turned to his bride, lifted the veil from her face. She was indeed beautiful, though the look she was giving him was not particularly inviting.
Shun me if you will, I can manage, Nothwulf thought. He had brought Cynewise’s former lady’s maid, Aelfwyn, into his household, to serve in some capacity. What her official duties would be he was not certain. Her unofficial duties included keeping Nothwulf company in his bed when Cynewise would not, and driving Cynewise mad by her mere presence.
He leaned forward and touched Cynewise’s lips with his own and received a flicker of a response in return. He felt himself tense, felt every muscle in his body crying to straighten and spin around and defend against the dagger that must surely be coming for his back.
He pulled his lips away and straightened, slowly and in a dignified way. He sensed a general easing of tension in the cathedral, as if all the guests had been holding their breath and were now letting it go, and he realized he was not the only one braced for the possibility of bloody murder. Again.
Leofric, standing in the front rank, began to clap and the others joined in until the space was filled with the sound of their clapping, a loud and enthusiastic sound, happiness mixed with relief: relief that no one had been killed, that this marriage had gone off as had been planned, that the wounds that had so injured Dorsetshire might finally be let to heal.
Nothwulf smiled. The deed was done. Now, if he could find a way to rid himself of his wife before she found a way to murder him then their marriage would be a happy one indeed.
Of the eight ships in Thorgrim’s fleet which had been blown clear of the Irish coast, six remained, and they were not in terribly good shape. Battered and repaired, battered and repaired, neither ships nor men could take such treatment for long. The throbbing in Thorgrim’s left thigh reminded him of that.
Leofric’s words, his willingness to let Thorgrim cleave him in two on the shore, had drained the rage out of him like the tide pouring out of the harbor. He just nodded his head—he felt as if he did not have the energy to do more—then turned and led his men back to the ships, leaving Harald to explain to them what happened.
The tide fell and rose again during the dark hours, and it was on its way out once more when Thorgrim and the others awoke. In the early light Thorgrim could see Leofric’s men, a few hundred at least, gathered on the beach. They huddled around small cooking fires and the smell of wood smoke and food filled the air. A man came splashing out to Sea Hammer’s side and said, through Harald’s translation, that Leofric asked that they join his men in breakfast.
The Northmen piled ashore, dropping into water that was just ankle deep now and still falling. They walked ashore, both hungry and wary. But soon they were given porridge and meat and ale and the wariness faded like the darkness of night.
The tide ran out and Thorgrim finally had a clear look at the ships that had stymied his attempts to get to sea. Three of them, sorry wrecks of old trading vessels. He guessed it had been no great task to sink them since they must have been in a sinking condition to begin with. He could see there was a single spot where they might have broken through the wrecks if they had hit it just right, but they could not have known that when they were hidden by the water.
Tearing three ships apart, even just down to the waterline, was no easy task, but having four hundred determined men to do it removed much of the burden. Once breakfast was over they went at the sodden wrecks with axes and hammers and whatever else they could use to mete out destruction.
They started on the ship nearest the shore and as the tide continued to fall they waded farther and farther into the channel. They climbed aboard the ship sunk midstream and standing on the half submerged deck continued to reduce it to its individual timbers, letting the broke
n wood drift off with the ebbing tide.
By late morning the tide turned and the sea water began to pour back into the harbor, but before it rose too high the last of the obstructions were broken up. Thorgrim, exhausted, weak, wracked with pain, pulled himself aboard Sea Hammer which, like the other ships, had been anchored once it floated free from the bottom. He ordered the men to ship oars, and the captains of the other ships followed suit.
He turned and looked toward the shore to the west, the crude wall, the black spots where the cook fires had burned, the English men-at-arms standing there in a scraggly line. Leofric was near the center of the line, a few yards closer to the water than the rest. He and Thorgrim looked at one another. Thorgrim gave a nod of his head and Leofric did the same.
Turned out to be a man of honor after all, Thorgrim thought, then he called for the rowers to make way.
They were fighting the current this time, making for the open water against the flood tide, but they did not have far to go. They worked their way through the curving channel and soon Thorgrim could see that the water was getting deeper below them, the ocean spreading out on the starboard side.
“A little farther, Night Wolf, and then deep water all around!” Starri called from his perch on the masthead. “Well, all around to starboard. That’s how you should turn. To starboard.”
Thorgrim smiled a thin smile. The shoreline lay to larboard, not a hundred yards away. He was not likely to turn in that direction.
He looked to the west, the low, scrubby hills, the long white beach, and on the other side the wide harbor in which they had been trapped. No, no chance I’ll be turning that way, Thorgrim thought again.
The sun was out, the breeze was light and from the northwest, and that was all good. Crucial, in fact, because all of the ships had suffered some sort of damage. The least hurt was Dragon, which only had a few of her oars broken. The most hurt was Blood Hawk, her larboard side stove in by Black Wing, which had also suffered mightily in that encounter. Now Blood Hawk had a piece of heavily tarred canvas stretched over the gaping hole in her side, which would keep the water out, mostly, unless the seas got up too high.
Kings and Pawns Page 39
