Sweyn drew his arm away, not smiling anymore; he cast a quick look over his shoulder. “I didn’t do anything,” he said. “And I can’t do it again. Come on.” They went back to their horses, and rode on.
They rode up through meadows of blowing grass, and down again through stands of oaks, their great crowns heavy with dusty green leaves. The road wound along the shoulder of a hill, and then turned steeply down a slanting cut in a bank, close grown with willows and brambles, which led onto the fording of a river. The water spread out four inches deep and one hundred feet wide across a gravel bar, and the road ran straight across it and up the far bank, higher than this side, with masses of tree boughs hanging over.
Corban was thinking that if they stopped for the night, he dared not sleep; Eric would fall on him like a wolf.
They went out across the ford, the horses crowding together out of the deep water, and Sweyn Eelmouth suddenly raised his head. “Do you smell smoke?” Corban sniffed, and caught a whiff of smoke. Then, Eelmouth screamed, “Helmets! Helmets—” and the bushy trees on the far bank exploded in volleys of stones.
Corban shrank down over his horse’s neck; stones struck him in the head and the shoulder and the back. A rock the size of a cabbage struck the man in front of him on the head and he sank down sideways out of his saddle. Sweyn Eelmouth roared an oath. More stones rained down on them. Ducking down out of the way, Corban rolled off his horse, holding onto the mane and the reins, and the horse reared up and its hoofs battered the air over him. He let go of the rein, and the horse in front of him shied up against Corban’s and knocked it stumbling and splashing to the ground.
Rocks pelted down around him. All he could see was the massive thrusting hindquarters of the horse directly in front of him, whose rider slumped down, blood spurting from his hair. Relentlessly stones showered around him. He held his hands over his head, and shrank away to one side, trying to see through the milling horses. A rock bounced painfully off his hand. He floundered into water up to his hips.
Over there, at the river’s edge, something blocked the path up the bank—brush, a tree trunk—Eelmouth was up there, trying to fight his way through. No one was helping him. Half the men in the ford were out of their saddles, struggling to get out of the way of the floundering animals; the other half were trying to rein in horses that leapt and bucked and reared and screamed. Corban’s horse, down in the middle of the ford, was lashing out wildly with its hoofs, and now another horse went to its knees, throwing its rider. Two of the Vikings jumped to help the thrown man, but before they could reach him a panicked horse galloped straight over him, knocking the other men flat.
Another barrage of stones thundered into the tangled mass of men and horses. Corban stood to his waist in the river, downstream of the ford, out of the fall of the stones. He looked for Eric; if he could find Eric, maybe he could kill him, now, no matter what happened. A man staggered past him, blood streaming from his head, and blundered into the water and lost his balance and fell. In twos and threes, the horses were bolting away, up out of the ford, back the way they had come.
Behind them Eelmouth was shouting orders, pulling men up onto their feet, waving them up out of the shallows where they were crouching. “Come on—there aren’t very many of them—Take them on! Let’s go! Come on—run!” He charged the high undercut bank, with its veils of willows, from which another volley of stones pelted down.
Corban stooped down in the sweeping water, rocks pelting the river around him. Up on the far bank, above the heavy brush, he thought he saw a mass of wild curly fair hair. The brush rustled furiously and more stones rattled down. But the Vikings were answering Eelmouth, who was waving his sword and shrieking, and they rushed headlong at the bank and started scrambling up the sheer clay face, grabbing hold of roots to pull themselves along.
Corban saw no sign of Eric; he stayed where he was in the river, watching Eelmouth’s charge.
On the top of the far bank now, smoke was rising. He could see people running up there, back and forth, as the Vikings surged up the bank. Flames licked through the brush, and black smoke rolled out under the trees. At the head of his charge, Sweyn Eelmouth clambered hand over hand up the bank and into a crackling sheet of fire.
He shrank back, and the men behind him slid back down and fell into the river. Eelmouth jumped down into the water again and wheeled. His eyes blazed; slobber erupted through the great hole in his teeth, and he roared, “Come on! This way!” He jammed his sword back into its scabbard, swung the scabbard back over his shoulder, and leapt downstream into the river.
The other men followed, throwing off their armor and their helmets. Corban pushed off from the bank to join them. The current took him. Eelmouth led them, swimming strongly along, his head cutting through the water like a dragon ship. Corban, swimming behind him, looked around him at the other danskers, watching for Eric. On the top of the river bank he caught glimpses of people running through the brush, and now clods of earth and burning branches showered down on them.
Corban slowed. He let the other men pass him, swimming after Eelmouth down the long cavern of the river, under the looming banks and the crowding branches of the trees; none of these men was Eric. When they were all past him, he paddled over to the near bank, where the water was only waist deep, and stood up.
He walked back toward the ford, striding against the solid push of the river, his feet sliding on the rocky bottom. He knew he had not seen Eric, in the men following Eelmouth. A body floated past him, face down. Clinging to a branch in the busy current, a man bleeding badly from one eye called out to him for help, and Corban got him by the arm and hauled him to the bank and left him there, sprawled on the mud vomiting.
He waded on up to the ford. The broad sun-dappled gravelly shallows were littered with dead and wounded men. The flames had died on the bank, but smoke still rolled down into the gorge of the river and the air stank. The horses had run back up the path; he could see them stirring restlessly back and forth under the trees. From down the river suddenly there rose a shrill scream, and the roar of several voices.
A curved shadow sailed across him. He looked up; in the narrow space of sky between the dense canopy of the trees, a stream of black birds circled. At the foot of the far bank a man with one arm dangling pried himself suddenly up out of the gravel, took two staggering steps, and fell face first into the river and began to float away. The birds were settling down into the overhanging branches, onto the high bank, with noisy flaps of their wings. In the shallows of the ford, blood pooled red among the stones. Next to a bloody trampled body lay a sword, the blade half buried in the water.
Corban stood in the middle of the ford, and now he saw King Eric Bloodaxe, crawling out from under the lee of the bank.
Corban went cold, all over; he straightened, his hands at his sides. The King saw him and stood upright.
“Get me that horse.” Eric pointed to the nearest horse, standing where the path went up the riverbank behind him.
Corban said, “You killed my father.”
Eric blinked at him. He had a bruise on his forehead, and one of his hands was bloody. In the great greying mat of his beard his mouth worked, red as a wound; he looked toward the horse again, and said, again, “Bring me that horse.”
Corban’s voice rose. “You killed my mother, my baby sister. My brother. You killed them all.”
Eric’s lips pulled back in a snarl. “Now I’m going to kill you.”
He hauled his axe out of his belt and charged across the shallow water. Corban dodged him, jumping to one side, his own hands empty. Eric rushed at him and he flinched back and the axe whistled past him and struck the ground with a clang.
Eric stumbled to one knee. His breath whistled through his teeth. He wore a leather breastplate, studded with iron; he would be hard to kill. A sword. Corban knew where a sword was. He lunged past the King, found the sword in the river, gripped it with both hands, and wheeled to strike. His first blow swung wildly in the air, and the w
eight of the sword nearly carried it out of his grasp. He heaved it awkwardly around again, and the blade caught fast on Eric’s upraised axe.
With a coiling heave of his shoulders the King tore the sword from Corban’s grasp; it hurtled through the air and splashed into the river.
Eric snarled, baring his teeth. His face was red. He prowled toward Corban, swaying from side to side, chopping the axe up and down in front of him. Corban backed away, his eyes on the moon-shaped blade of the axe. The water rose to his knees, the current tugging at him. Eric came at him in a sudden burst, slashing down, and Corban staggered back. Losing his footing, he saw himself going down helpless at Eric’s feet, and flung himself backwards, into the deep water of the river.
He swung around in the water, scraping his knees on the bottom, got his feet under him. Eric thrashed out into the water after him, the axe lifted over his head, and Corban barreled up out of the river, up under the King’s raised arms, and crashed headlong into him.
Eric went down hard on his back in the shallows. Corban slammed down on top of him. With one hand he grabbed the wrist that held the axe and pinned it down under the water, against the stony ground. The King heaved up under him, roaring, scrabbling at him with his free hand, and Corban butted him in the mouth. Blood spurted across him. Still clinging tight to Eric’s arm he swung himself up, knelt on the King’s chest, and planted one foot on the King’s free arm.
Eric cried, “Ransom—I’ll ransom—”
“No, you won’t,” Corban shouted, and now, suddenly, he saw the knife in Eric’s belt.
He howled. “This is for my father—” He wrenched the knife out of its scabbard, put the tip of it between two of the iron studs on Eric’s leather armor, and drove it to the hilt into Eric’s chest.
The King shrieked, his body arching upwards. Corban swung the knife up again and stabbed it down into Eric’s body.
“This for my mother—” He jerked the knife free and hacked it down again, over and over, the straining body under him shuddering, and then softening, falling back inert on the gravel, mere meat now. “This is for my sister—this is for me—for me—for me—”
He ran out of breath. For a moment he hung, dazed, above what he had done, and shut his eyes. Some terrible weight he had been carrying around with him since his family’s fall now seemed to lift and float away. He stood, leaving the knife buried in Eric, and a sound above him brought him abruptly around, looking up at the overhanging bank.
Up there in the trampled brush, Euan and Gifu and Grod were standing, watching him. Corban wiped his hand across his chest; he realized he was covered with blood.
“Where are the rest of you?” he asked.
“Scattered,” Euan said. “Going home. Eric’s men are chasing them. We have to get out of here. They’ll be circling back through here soon.”
“All right,” Corban said, and staggered up the path toward the horses.
Grod’s hands were bloody. He had carried stones, all the while; they had not let him fight, but he had to carry baskets of stones to them. He had run back and forth, lugging stones, and his fingers were pulped and aching from the effort. Now he clung to the saddle of the dansker horse and longed for the jug, as they jittered along the dusty road home.
This was all Corban’s doing, he thought, and groaned.
But he thought of Corban, stabbing old Eric to death, and a reluctant little laugh worked its way out of him. Corban was a hero, he supposed. He glanced at Corban, riding along beside him, his red and blue cloak wrapped around him, and felt a sudden leap of pride. His Corban.
It didn’t last long. He was hungry and thirsty. He clung to the saddle; he hated horses, he wanted to get down and find his nice jug and lie down and sleep. Corban rode right in front of him as they trotted along. They were coming to a copse of trees, a shady place. He opened his mouth to call to Corban, to make him stop for a while and let him rest.
Before he spoke, Corban was straightening in his saddle, twisting around to look over his shoulder. He jerked his horse to a halt; Grod’s horse ran up alongside, its head across the neck of Corban’s, and Corban grabbed his reins from him.
“Somebody’s coming. Quick! Euan! Somebody’s coming.” Corban wrenched his horse around, dragging Grod behind him, and veered off the road into the viny brush alongside it. Euan and Gifu crashed in after them, pushing through a dense thicket, deep into the shadows under a straggly tree.
Grod slumped down in the saddle, panting. His chest hurt suddenly. The Vikings would catch them. He bit his lips together. The Vikings would catch them yet. The air was full of dust. He strained his gaze back toward the road, visible through the masking branches of the trees around them. For a long moment there was nothing. He glanced at the others; Euan was blinking toward the road, Gifu was picking a splinter out of her hand. Then out on the road came a drumming of hooves, and through the gap in the branches Grod saw streaks of brown flash by, several horses, at the gallop.
The pounding hoofs faded away. Corban said, “Eelmouth. Gone to tell Gunnhild.”
Grod groaned in relief. Euan said, “We have to get off the road.” He turned to Gifu. “Is there another way?”
“Longer,” she said. She was taut, strung like a bow, her eyes dark. All through the fight she had been at the front of it, heaving rocks and branches down, shouting to the others, leaping like a mad thing when she hit her targets. Now she led them up out of the thicket, and they started off down the slope into the valley.
Maybe they were all heroes, Grod thought, with a start.
He longed for the jug. His hands were sore and he bounced on the saddle, bruising his old bones. But the Vikings had not caught them. He was beginning to feel better. Now he saw that he was definitely a hero, just like Corban and Gifu, and Euan, who had figured it all out, told them what to do. He clutched the front of the saddle and followed Corban down onto the floor of the valley, going back to Jorvik.
Mav shrieked with delight. She could not keep this in; her voice rose in scream after scream, triumphant.
The Lady came and stared at her, but Mav only laughed. She flung her head back against the cushions of her cupboard bed and laughed, and screamed, and sang of Eric Bloodaxe’s death at the top of her lungs.
The Lady stood staring at her coldly. She said, “You may gloat now, girl. But you will not keep me from doing as I wish.” All her layered faces shivered like grass in the wind. “Your brother will come for you, and when he does, then you will both suffer, you and he.” She swung the cupboard door closed, and Mav heard the bolt being thrown.
She lay back, her eyes shut, her teeth gritted together. She had to be alone now anyhow. She was already suffering, which she had been striving hard to keep the Lady from realizing. Her body twisted, her womb tightening around the baby, forcing him down, forcing him out. She bit her lips to keep from screaming again, her hands on her great belly, hard as stone now under her palms. She had to do this alone, and in silence. She shut her eyes, and steadied herself for the work.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“And now all the young men gone. It’s an evil wind,” the baker woman said. “No good will come of it.”
“Amen,” the other women murmured.
“At least they’re trying to do something,” Arre said.
The baker woman sneered at her. “What can they do? That fool Euan! He will only draw the King down on us.”
From the other women there rose a sigh and a wail. Arre folded her arms over her chest, uncertain, and full of dread. They were standing under the big oak tree, several women, having nothing else to do. Her head hurt. Euan had been gone all day, Euan and the others. She glanced across the street at the corner; even Benna had disappeared.
“That boy Euan is a bad one,” the baker woman said, behind her. “Mind me, this is all his doing, and when the King is cutting our throats we can blame Euan for it.”
Arre set her teeth together. She could not argue with them, and turning her back on them she walked swiftly u
p the Coppergate. Maybe the priest was right; it was God’s will, and they were striving against the very will of God, who had set Eric over them.
Her head began to pound again, a relentless throbbing ache, as if some iron garland tightened on her skull.
She remembered running from the King’s men, the fear acid in her mouth. Now out there somewhere Euan faced them again, Euan and those other boys, their fists against swords and axes. She quailed from the sudden blinding vision of a blade slicing down on bare hands. Her stomach lurched. Without God’s help they couldn’t hope to stand against Eric.
She walked up through the shambles, empty and silent, its gutters stained with dried blood, and came to the church. The priest was standing outside, his hands folded in front of him. She stood a moment, staring at him, morose, knowing what he would tell her.
He turned toward her, and caught her eye, and when she was slow to dip herself to him, he frowned. She went on past him, feeling torn in half.
She went on up to the great bar, where the road pierced the city wall. Two or three men lounged around in the deep shade of the gate: old hangers-on of the King. All the danskers who could carry a sword had gone with Eric.
She fought off that vision again, that sword descending. Going up the wall a little way, she came to the steps cut into the earthworks and climbed up onto the top of it, wide and flat, where a narrow dirt path was worn through the green grass. God favored kings, she thought, in a sudden rush of anger. That was ungood of God. She crossed herself, afraid.
She turned her gaze away from the city, looking north and west, along the Westmoreland road. Out there in the baking afternoon nothing moved.
If God was good then surely Euan would win. Her breath shuddered in her throat, she saw the abyss that thinking opened up before her. She had to submit herself to God, whatever happened. Her head was aching so she could scarcely think. She tried to pray, to beg God for some sign that Euan and the others were right and the priest and the baker woman were wrong.
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