“What happened?” Thorgrim asked.
“We were ambushed,” Geirmund said. “One of them stuck Aslef with his knife.”
“Where?” Birna searched across Aslef’s chest and belly. “How deep?”
“Deep.” Aslef pointed to his wound with a grimace. “In my side.”
Thorgrim gave Geirmund a worried glance, and then called for leeks and onions, out of which he boiled a broth as Geirmund and Birna pulled off Aslef’s tunic. The wound was as small, narrow, and thin as the knife that had made it, and it poured out black blood in a slow and steady stream. When Thorgrim had made the broth, he gave it to Aslef to drink, and then they all waited as Birna kept pressure on the wound to slow its leaking.
King Guthrum came then, having heard word of the attack, and he pulled Geirmund aside to speak where none could hear.
“The attack was on you, I assume?” the king said.
“It was.”
“Who?”
“He called himself Krok. One of Halfdan’s warriors, but I don’t know him.”
“I know him.” Guthrum’s eyes turned dark as open barrows. “Halfdan will answer for this.” He glanced again at Aslef, and then he stalked away from the courtyard.
A short while later, Thorgrim knelt at Aslef’s side and smelled the blood coming from his wound for the odour of onions.
“Well?” Aslef asked. “Am I dead?”
Thorgrim looked up at Geirmund and Birna. “The blade cut into your gut,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, Aslef.”
The injured Dane went quiet. Then he sighed. “I thought it would end this way. Thought I could hide from it here in Lunden. But it found me.” He looked up at Geirmund. “My father died of a gut wound. I don’t want to linger that way for days and weeks, stinking of death.”
“Quiet.” Thorgrim laid a hand on his chest. “The gods may yet pull you through this. For now let us move you somewhere more comfortable.”
They found a quiet room off the Hel-hide courtyard, where they made a bed of straw and furs. The sight of Aslef lying upon it reminded Geirmund of his brother lying on a similar bed back in their father’s hall, and as with Hámund Geirmund felt responsible for what had happened to his warrior. It was Geirmund who had killed Fasti, and it wasn’t right that Aslef should pay with his life for something his commander had done.
He stood over Aslef in shame, until Birna took hold of his arm and pulled him from the room, out into the courtyard. Rafn and Vetr had returned, along with Steinólfur and Skjalgi, and they all stood with Birna, afire with vengeance.
“Where can we find these Danes?” she asked in quiet rage. “I will gut them cock to throat.”
“Guthrum went to speak with Halfdan,” Geirmund said. “When he returns, we will know more. Until then, keep your blades sharp.”
Many in Geirmund’s company took turns staying with Aslef, talking to him, or telling stories, or simply sitting by his side when he slept, sweating and groaning. That evening a fever came upon him that rattled his teeth together, and then Guthrum finally returned, and again he pulled Geirmund aside.
The king looked tired, eyes downcast as he said, “Tell me if it’s true.”
Geirmund did not need to ask what he meant. “It is true. But if I had not killed Fasti, it would have meant my death instead. That is the truth, and that is what I’ll say to the Althing–”
“Althing?” Guthrum shook his head, almost laughing. “Where do you think you are, Hel-hide? This is Lunden, and we are at war. There is no Althing here.”
“But the truth–”
“The truth does not matter. What matters is that Tryggr is a friend to Ubba. What matters is that word reached Tryggr of an ugly Northman named Geirmund who killed one of Ubba’s kinsmen, and then that same Northman appeared in Lunden with Halfdan, who also knows of it now. This is a blood feud.”
“I can pay wergild–”
“That will not satisfy them,” Guthrum said.
“Then let Aslef’s death satisfy the blood-price,” Geirmund said, growing angry, “for he will not live much longer, and I would–”
“You are the Hel-hide.” Guthrum growled in frustration. “Halfdan has not forgotten you. Do you not see? This is the price of reputation, and it will not be the last time someone else pays it for you.”
“Then let me fight Tryggr and Halfdan. A duel for–”
“That will not happen,” Guthrum said. “They do not believe you worthy of that honour.”
“Then what am I to do?”
“Leave Lunden.”
“What?”
“They will not rest until you are dead.”
Geirmund stammered in disbelief. “You–you would let them turn me into an outlaw? A beast of the forest?”
“Me?” Guthrum’s cheeks and chest puffed in anger as he pointed at Geirmund’s chest. “You did this to yourself! I did not kill that boy, and I will not make war with Ubba and Halfdan over you!” He inhaled and paused. “Do you know he demanded that I turn you over to him tonight? I put him off until tomorrow, but that is all I can do to protect you.”
“I won’t leave Aslef injured and dying. It is because of me that he–”
“And how many others from your company would you see dead? If you stay in Lunden, you will die, and it is almost certain you will take more of your warriors with you. Or you can leave, alone, and spare them the need to fight for you.”
It felt to Geirmund as though the cracked and ancient walls of that city now threatened to collapse on him, for it seemed he had to choose between his honour and the lives of his friends and warriors, and faced with that choice he would take the path Guthrum offered him. “Where am I to go?”
“Seek your kind and kin,” Guthrum said. “You can’t rely on finding safe shelter among Danes, so go north. And here, take this.” He gave Geirmund a small pouch of silver. “I will not always march with Halfdan. When you hear that our armies have divided, seek me out, and I will welcome you back. Together, we will take Wessex.”
Geirmund bowed his head. “I thank you. I will gather my things.”
“Be quick about it. You should be well away from this place before morning.” Guthrum reached out and took Geirmund’s arm in a firm grip. “Always be on your guard. Krok has sworn to take your life for Halfdan and Ubba, and I would see you come back to me in one piece.”
Geirmund bowed his head again, and then Guthrum released his arm.
“Go,” the king said. “Before it gets much darker.”
Geirmund bade Guthrum farewell and went to the room where he slept and stored his things. He tried to avoid drawing attention, but almost as soon as he had pulled on his ringmail shirt, Steinólfur stood in the doorway scowling, Skjalgi and Birna behind him.
“Some might think you’re going somewhere,” the older warrior said. “But not me. I know you left us behind once before, and you’d never be fool enough to make that mistake a second time.” He then spoke over his shoulder. “Isn’t that what I said?”
Birna nodded. “That’s what you said, but it looks to me like you were wrong.”
Steinólfur stepped into the room and folded his arms, glaring at Geirmund. “Well? Are you going to make a liar out of me?”
Geirmund sighed and shook his head. “I am leaving,” he said, and as the older warrior’s face reddened with disbelief and anger, he added, “I must go. There is a blood feud between me and Ubba, and Halfdan.”
“A blood feud?” Birna asked. “Over what?”
“After I washed ashore, before Ashdown, I killed one of Ubba’s kinsmen. If I hadn’t, it would have been my death instead. But there were no witnesses, and there is no Althing to give judgement on the matter.”
“But why are you leaving?” Skjalgi asked next to her, appearing more confused than angry.
Though the boy had asked the question, Geirmund took
a step towards Steinólfur and looked the older warrior straight in the eye. “Because Aslef has already paid the price for my choice, and I will not see that happen to another of my warriors. Halfdan will come for me tomorrow, and if I am here, there will be a fight. I will have no one else die for me.”
Birna laughed. “I thought we swore to do just that?”
“I slew that man before your oaths,” Geirmund said. “You are not bound by them in this matter.”
“Then we will go with you,” Steinólfur said. His voice had softened, he seemed to now understand the choice Geirmund faced. “The boy and me. We were sworn to you before.”
“No, I can’t allow that,” Geirmund said. “Halfdan’s warrior has sworn to kill me. If you travel with me, the blood feud will touch you–”
“I know that.” Steinólfur unfolded his arms. “Of course I know that. You think I’m a fool?”
Geirmund smiled. “Only for asking to travel with me.”
The older warrior snorted. “You’re a fool if you leave me behind. And I’ll follow you regardless.”
“As will I,” Birna said.
Geirmund and Steinólfur both turned towards her, and Geirmund at least felt somewhat surprised by her loyalty. “Why do you wish to come?”
“Because I swore to you,” she said. “And also because I want vengeance for Aslef, and the shortest way to that will be at your side, if his murderer hunts you. And I’ve had my fill of Lunden besides.”
Geirmund weighed his choices and realized he had few. Steinólfur would do as he threatened and follow him with Skjalgi, as would Birna, so it made little sense to try to leave them behind. “Very well,” he said. “But what of Aslef? He is not yet–”
“Aslef would understand,” Birna said. “You know this. And I know Thorgrim will wish to stay with him until the end. Thorgrim would also lead the Hel-hides until our return if asked.”
Geirmund moved towards the door. “Then I will ask him–”
“Let me,” Birna said. “This must be done quickly and quietly. And with Thorgrim… I have my own farewell to make.”
“What of Rafn and Vetr?” Steinólfur asked, and then he and the other two looked to Geirmund.
“Offer them the choice,” he said. “But tell no one else.”
Birna nodded and left them, and then Skjalgi came fully into the room.
Geirmund resumed packing. “You should go and gather your things,” he said, but after some moments neither the older warrior nor the boy had moved, so he looked up at them. “You have more to say?”
“You would have left.” Steinólfur shook his head, and Geirmund knew the older warrior would not soon let go of his anger over it. “Not the others, us.” He glanced at Skjalgi. “You would have left us.”
“I had no choice–”
“Yes, you did.” The older warrior pointed at Geirmund’s chest. “This is the second time you have turned your back on us. If there is a third, I will surely know how little my oath means to you, and I will no longer be bound by it. Do you understand me?”
Geirmund paused to give Steinólfur’s question the respect it deserved, for it was no small thing for a man of his honour to speak of breaking oaths. “I do, and I will not turn my back on you again.”
“Good.” The older warrior nodded. “We’ll go and gather our things.”
“I’ll wait here,” Geirmund said, and a few moments later Birna returned with Rafn and Vetr, who had decided to join their small war-band. “Thorgrim?” he asked the shield-maiden.
“He will make sure the Hel-hides keep their spears sharpened,” she said. “Aslef sleeps for now, but if he awakens, Thorgrim will explain all.”
“Then it is time to leave,” Geirmund said.
And so, after Steinólfur and Skjalgi returned, they did.
19
Geirmund knew there would be many Danes on Earninga Street because he had seen them for himself when travelling with John, and that road lay too near the western border of East Anglia, which Ubba ruled. So, instead of taking a familiar way, he and his small war-band of five Hel-hides followed another Roman road north of west out of Lunden called Wæcelinga, towards the centre of Mercia, hoping to encounter fewer enemies.
The slender moon offered some light, enough to see the pale street of crushed rock that lay ahead of them, but not enough to be sure whether threats lurked in the shadows under the trees to either side of the road. For several rests they travelled through farmland that fed the towns on the River Thames, the lights and woodsmoke of the halls and houses there far distant from the road. Stretches of woodland soon broke apart those fields and pastures, until they came into a country of deep forest. Geirmund did not fear robbers at that mark of night, for it seemed doubtful that any would expect travellers to waylay, and would likely not attempt an attack against a group so heavily armed, but nevertheless he marched with his eyes open wide and his ears pricked.
At around midnight they entered a low-lying land of heath and marsh, with forests of oak and birch and thickets of hazel and hornbeam. Under the leaves of the trees the road finally sank into a darkness too deep to travel safely, and since they had put Lunden and Halfdan some fifteen rests or so behind them, Geirmund decided to order a stop for the night.
They stepped off the street some distance and headed for a gathering of three large oaks, each wider across than an arm span, and on the opposite sides of the tree trunks from the road they all settled down between twisted roots to sleep, taking turns at watch. They couldn’t see the road from where they lay, but that meant anyone on the road could also not see them. Despite feeling hidden, Geirmund woke in alarm and discomfort several times before dawn, startled by noises in the blue early-morning light. He shivered, and his bones creaked like the branches overhead as his war-band set off again before the light had turned golden.
Before long, the land opened out of the heath and wood, and the sluggish sun finally rose over the ruin of another Roman city through which the road then carried them. Though large and impressive, its broken walls and buildings no longer struck Geirmund as such places once did, for he no longer imagined them to be inhabited by the dead, but they seemed to unsettle at least one warrior in his party.
Skjalgi’s wide eyes never rested as they strode down the silent streets, past temples and a coliseum, and across an open square fifty fathoms wide. “At least the dead are quiet,” the boy whispered.
“The Romans are not undead,” Geirmund said. “They are gone. You have no need to fear them, Skjalgi. They came to England, they conquered it, and then they lost it. Now the Saxons possess these lands, but they will soon lose England to us.”
That seemed to reassure the boy a little.
They soon left the ruin behind, and at midday they came upon a Saxon town. They passed its fields and farms, then a few houses that stood at its edge. Up ahead, Geirmund saw a crossroads at the heart of the village where several buildings stood close together, including what looked like a cold bakehouse and an alehouse, along with many empty market stalls. He saw few Saxons about, as if the people of that place had all gone into hiding, but then a man stepped into their path and held up his hand to halt them.
“There is a peace in Mercia,” the Saxon said. He wore leather armour and a sword, and he looked past Geirmund at his companions. “What brings you here?”
“We are travelling north.” Geirmund noticed three more men standing nearby, all carrying weapons, one of them with a bow and quiver at his side. “We have no plan to stay here, or to break the peace. We wish only to pass through.”
“And where do you come from? Lunden?”
Behind Geirmund, Steinólfur chuckled. “This Saxon swine is bold.”
“What does that matter to you?” Geirmund asked.
The Saxon shrugged. “It’s my duty to know who comes and goes, where they come from and where they’re going. Travellers often
bring trouble.”
The man’s eyes narrowed as he spoke those last few words, and Geirmund noticed he had new bruises just starting to blush about his neck, and a bit of dried blood in the crevices of skin at his mouth, as if he had been involved in a recent fight.
“We are not the first Danes you’ve seen today,” Geirmund said.
“What?” The man swallowed and frowned. “I don’t–”
“Do not look,” Geirmund said as the Saxon made to turn and glance back. “Keep your eyes on me, as though we speak about your crops. Betray me and I swear you will die on this spot, no matter what happens next.”
“God’s teeth.” The man closed his eyes and let out a long breath through tight lips. “A curse upon all you pagan devils.”
“Does their leader have a ring in his nose?” Geirmund asked. “A man called Krok?”
“I didn’t ask his name,” the Saxon said. “But yes, he has a ring in his nose, like an ox.”
Geirmund’s warriors murmured behind him, but they knew better than to draw weapons or react in a way that would warn Krok and his Danes, who undoubtedly watched and waited ahead to ambush them.
“How many?” Geirmund asked.
“Eighteen, perhaps twenty warriors.” The Saxon looked at his boots. “They arrived at dawn, wanting to know if we’d seen Danes from Lunden.”
“They must have marched past us as we slept,” Rafn said. “When they discovered it, they decided to lay a trap for us.”
Then Birna spoke. “Do not look, Saxon, but tell us, are we within reach of their arrows here?”
“Almost,” the Saxon said. “A few more paces.”
“Where are they?” Steinólfur asked.
“Some are in the alehouse.” Sweat covered the man’s forehead, despite the cool morning. “Some hide across the street from it. The rest are scattered with their bows.”
Geirmund glanced along the empty street ahead, searching for weaknesses and opportunities, but saw none. “Why did you stop us? Why not let us walk into the trap?”
Geirmund's Saga Page 22
