No one found the notion particularly alarming, of course. They might be terrified to die the way poor Fostolf had died, twisting in pain inflicted by some malignant spirit, but dying in battle was something else altogether.
Thorgrim, too, ate and drank, though not as excessively as he might have as a young man. Not as excessively as Harald was. His son was standing at the other side of the fire, as conspicuously far from Thorgrim as he could get. Thorgrim was not even certain he was there, not until he stepped off into the dark and circled around the fire until he could see his son standing among his fellows.
Harald was smiling and laughing and had a cup in his hand and Thorgrim was glad to see it. Harald had not spoken to him since he had stripped the boy of his command, and he worried about what was going on in his son’s head. He wanted Harald to learn a lesson, but he did not want the boy’s spirit broken.
And from what Thorgrim could see now, it was not. Indeed, Harald was not just standing with the others, but the others seemed to be gathered around him, as if he was the center of their attention. They were all young men, near Harald’s age, and they seemed to be attentive to anything Harald had to say.
Among them was Herjolf, who Thorgrim had just informed was the new master of Dragon. Herjolf did not seemed overly pleased by the news, but neither did he protest. Now, seeing how he hung on Harald’s words, one would never guess which of them was the master and which was the man at the oar.
They still see Harald as a great hero for that whale nonsense, Thorgrim thought. Harald was a natural leader, Thorgrim had always believed that, and he was happy to see the others looking to him. But there was potential for trouble there as well. It would not be good if those young warriors looked on Harald as some great man, and it would be worse if Harald started to believe it himself. Thorgrim had seen that sort of thing before.
Harald’s too level-headed for that, Thorgrim thought, and he hoped he was right.
He spent some time longer in the company of Bergthor and the others. The mood was jubilant, word of the coming raid having spread through the camp. Thorgrim had wondered if Bergthor’s men would resent the newcomers, be unhappy about sharing any plunder with them, but that did not seem to be the case. They seemed as happy as Thorgrim’s men did. Happier, maybe. They might have just seen their chances of success go up considerably.
Louis will not be so happy, Thorgrim thought. Of all the men on the beach, Louis the Frank was the only one as eager as Thorgrim to get home. And like Thorgrim he would not be happy about the delay that raiding Winchester would involve. But Louis, at least, did not have to agonize over his choice in the matter, as Thorgrim did. If Louis meant to get back to Frankia aboard Thorgrim’s ship, which seemed his only option, then he had no choice at all.
The younger men seemed to be just warming up to their shouting and singing and drinking when Thorgrim decided it was time for bed. He bid good night to Bergthor, to Godi and Asmund and Hardbein and the others seated on the driftwood logs and headed off into the dark.
As he walked over the soft sand he looked up, craning his neck. The stars were arrayed in a great dome overhead, but only the brightest of them were visible through the thin clouds that had filled in. He smelled rain in the air, which would add more difficulty to the hard job ahead of them.
He stopped and turned until he found the North Star, then turned a bit more and looked out over the dark land. Somewhere beyond the land, beyond the water, was East Agder and his farm in Vik. If he was a bird he could fly straight in that direction and be home far faster than any ship could carry him. He could travel alone and not get waylaid by the plans of others. Then he smiled at his own foolishness and continued on to where he had made his bed.
He reached the dark patch on the beach that he knew was his furs and blankets. In the past he would have slept aboard Sea Hammer, even when she was pulled up ashore, but now the lure of the soft sand called to him. He reached down and undid his belt and felt the weight of Iron-tooth come off his hips. His eyes were adjusting to the dark after having been near the bonfire all evening. He thought he saw a lump under the fur that could indicate his bed was already occupied. And just as he noticed that he heard Failend’s voice, soft and melodic.
“Good evening, Thorgrim.”
“Good evening to you,” Thorgrim said. He was never certain anymore if she would be in his bed or not. Sometimes she was, sometimes she wasn’t. She seemed to decide at random, and when she did join him it was only to sleep. They had not made love in a long time. But even without that activity in the offing, Thorgrim was always glad to have her with him, and he was now.
He set Iron-tooth down on a blanket next to the pile of furs, off the sand and close enough for him to lay his hand on instantly. He pulled off his tunic and knelt down and slipped under the fur. He stretched out and luxuriated in the sensation of his taut muscles relaxing, his body pressed between the furs above and the blankets below, laid out on a bed of soft sand.
He felt Failend move beside him and then felt her drape herself across his chest, so light her weight added almost nothing to that of the fur. He felt her warm skin pressed against his and it felt good, good way down deep in him, and he realized that she was naked. He held her gently, just enough for her to know he was pressing her close.
“I’ve missed you,” Failend said.
“I’ve missed you, too,” Thorgrim said. He guessed that would be the right response, though he was not entirely sure what she meant.
She pushed herself a little further on top of him and rested her head on his chest, her long hair falling like silk thread across him. He ran his hands gently up and down her back and over the small of her back and over her rear end. For some time now she had been the only woman in the company of the Northmen. Thorgrim wondered if there had ever been a rear end so often stared at by so many as hers.
Failend made a soft sound, like a dove cooing, then said, “Wait....”
Thorgrim slowly ran his hands back up the her shoulders and rested them there. Failend pushed herself up so she was resting on her elbows and her elbows were resting on Thorgrim’s chest, but her weight was too little for that to cause pain. There was just enough light from the stars and the glow of the fire some ways off that Thorgrim could make out her features, her lovely oval face, the gleam in her bright eyes.
“We’re raiding Winchester?” she said. It was a question, but it sounded more like a statement.
“Yes,” Thorgrim said. “It’s what the others want.”
“Not what you want.”
“No,” Thorgrim said.
“You could just tell them, you know,” Failend said. “You could just tell them that the ships will sail to Norway and they would do as you say.”
“I know,” Thorgrim said. “But I won’t do that.” He hoped she would not ask why he would not, because he did not have an answer for that. Some decisions — many decisions, actually — he made because he felt in his gut they were right. And usually they were. Not always, but usually.
“I know you want to go home,” Failend said. “Louis wants to go home. Sometimes I think of home.”
“Ireland?”
“Ireland’s my home. Was my home. I don’t know,” Failend said.
Thorgrim was quiet for a moment as he thought about that. It hadn’t really occurred to him that Failend might miss her native country the way he missed his. In his mind she had become as much a part of their company as any of the men. She was just there, and always had been since he had first taken her prisoner. He assumed she would wish to go with him to East Agder, though he had not really thought about it very much.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last.
She laid her head on his chest. “Sorry about what?” she asked.
Again he had to think about it. He was not sure. “Sorry about taking you from your home. Sorry about turning you into…a heathen.”
She sat up again and he could see that she was smiling. “I’m only part heathen, you know. And you did not
take me. Well, at first you did. But then I came with you on my own.”
Thorgrim reached out and lifted the two silver ornaments that hung from the leather thong around Failend’s neck, a silver cross and a silver hammer. Thor’s hammer. “Part heathen, part Christian,” he said.
“Like you,” Failend said, touching the cross and hammer that lay on Thorgrim’s chest.
Thorgrim smiled. “Your Christ God would not have me,” he said. They were quiet for a moment, and then Thorgrim spoke again.
“Let me know what you want,” he said. “I’ll see you get it, if I’m able.”
Failend nodded. “I thank you. What I want, I don’t think you can give, but I thank you.” She leaned her head down and kissed him softly on the chest, then shuffled closer and ran her lips up the side of his neck and then kissed him on the mouth. Thorgrim wrapped his arms around her and with little effort hoisted her up so that she was lying on top of him completely. He breathed deep, remembering the pleasure of losing himself in her, feeling that pleasure once again.
Chapter Eighteen
Thou art not a king
of wholesome counsel,
leader of people!
Thou hast let fire
the homes of heroes eat,
who evil deed
had never done thee.
The Poetic Edda
Amundi remained seated on the bench, staring out into the middle distance, waiting for Halfdan and his escort to arrive. How long he remained there he did not know. Time seemed like a strange and amorphous thing. He saw people passing back and forth, carrying cured meat and rolling barrels of something. Ale or mead, he imagined. He saw some of his men appear in mail shirts with swords and spears and he thought it would be nice if they were preparing for battle, and not turning out to do honor to King Halfdan the Black.
Alfdis appeared again. She had changed her clothes and was now wearing her finest white linen shift and over it a wool dress dyed a rich blue. The shoulder straps of the dress were fastened with large, oval-shaped gold brooches, with a half dozen strings of gold, silver and amber beads suspended between them. Grudging as she was to do Halfdan any honor, she knew better than to greet the king in anything less.
Behind her trailed one of the servants and in her arms were Amundi’s finest tunic, a cape and his sword and belt, Alfdis having decided, apparently, that it was easier to carry these things out to her husband than to try to usher her husband back into the bed closet. On her orders Amundi stood and tugged off the tunic he wore and was helped into the finer one. The sword belt was wrapped around his waist and fastened and the sword adjusted to hang right. The cape was draped over his shoulders and fastened with a brooch. He felt like a child, or a decrepit old man, being dressed in that way, but he did not protest.
It was nearly midday, as the rider had predicted, when Halfdan’s party appeared far off down the road, raising a cloud of dust as they marched. Amundi and the others could see the glint of sun off the helmets and mail of the hird, riding at the head of the line, and could make out more men behind, and wagons as well, though it was not clear how many there were. At least a hundred men, Amundi guessed, probably more. He did not think Halfdan would travel with less.
Alfdis and Thord gathered the people together, anyone of any importance, the warriors forming two lines starting at the gate and leading into the yard. They stood in loose order with spears straight up like a series of thin columns. There was no great uniformity in their equipment, but neither was it completely haphazard. Some of it they had provided themselves and some Amundi had provided for them so that the men who formed his own household guard would be able to make a decent appearance. And they did, with most of them fitted out with mail and helmets, and almost half with swords.
They were good fighting men, they had proven themselves in that regard, but Amundi had neither the wealth nor the inclination to fit them out to the standards of Halfdan’s hird. Halfdan’s men were warriors by profession; they had no work other than to protect Halfdan and fight for him. Amundi’s men were farmers and smiths and woodworkers who turned out to fight when needed. And until recently they had not been needed to serve as warriors very often.
All was in readiness, and there was nothing left but to watch and wait as Halfdan’s entourage approached. The man with the banner, the one who had come earlier, led the way. Next to him, on a horse that was several hands taller than the flag bearer’s, rode Halfdan the Black. As they came through the gate, Alfdis leaned over to Amundi and whispered, “You watch your tongue, husband. We don’t know what Halfdan wants, but it won’t take much for him to decide to kill us all.”
Amundi nodded but said nothing.
Halfdan continued to walk his horse closer to Amundi and Alfdis, and behind him his mounted warriors followed in two columns. They were led by Onund Jonsson, captain of Halfdan’s hird, a man Amundi had once counted as a friend.
Amundi’s men stepped back to make room for them as they passed. Behind the columns Amundi could see a few wagons drawn by lumbering oxen, carrying, no doubt, food and drink and tents. Not that Halfdan would need much in the way of provisions. He would expect those he visited to provide for him and his men, and to not skimp in doing so.
Behind the wagons came the foot soldiers, marching in two columns, spears held erect. Two or three hundred of them, at least. Amundi could not help but think of the food and drink in his storehouse that would be wiped out in feeding all these men. And that was not even considering what Halfdan would take with him when he left.
“Amundi, good day,” Halfdan said as he stopped his horse twenty feet away. Amundi and Alfdis made shallow bows, as did the rest of the household.
“Good day, King Halfdan,” Amundi said. “You honor us with your presence today.”
“Indeed,” Halfdan said, the word clipped. When last they had spoken, at Halfdan’s hall, there had been an easy, almost casual quality to Halfdan’s speech, as if he was not really taking any of it that seriously. Whether it was feigned or not Amundi did not know. But either way that quality was gone now. The king had spoken a total of four words and Amundi could already hear the hardness, the utter lack of empathy or consideration in his tone.
Halfdan looked around at the assembled people. “These are all the people of your household?” he asked.
“Yes, lord,” Amundi said.
“All of them?”
“Well, not the slaves, lord, or the field hands or servants in the hall,” Alfdis explained.
Halfdan nodded. “Get them out here. All of them. Children too. Every living body, get them out here.”
Alfdis turned and said in a soft but urgent voice, “Go! Go!” gesturing to the servants behind her. “Go, get everyone, you heard the king.” The servants hurried off and Alfdis hurried after them to be sure they moved with the alacrity she desired.
Amundi turned back and looked at Halfdan. He said nothing. Let Halfdan speak if he wished, but Amundi had nothing to say to him.
And apparently Halfdan had nothing more to say to Amundi. He turned and nodded toward Onund Jonsson and Onund half turned in his saddle and called, “Up here!”
From somewhere toward the back of the column three men came forward. They were not warriors; they looked more like the men who drove the carts and tended the oxen. Each had a shovel over his shoulder.
They walked past Halfdan and stopped half way between where he and Amundi stood, then without a word they arranged themselves in a circle and drove the points of their shovels into the ground. They pulled up heaps of brown dirt, deposited them in a small pile, then drove their shovels in again, enlarging the hole, while Halfdan and the rest looked on wordlessly.
For some moments it remained like that: fifty or more of the people in Amundi’s household, three hundred or more of Halfdan’s men, all standing in silence, the only sound the soft scrape of the shovels digging the earth. Amundi had no idea what Halfdan had in mind, but that ignorance did not stop him from feeling a profound and mounting dread.
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Behind him he heard the soft sound of feet on the ground and Alfdis was at his side again. Halfdan ran his eyes over the assembled people but said nothing. The men with the shovels continued to dig.
Finally the men seemed to judge the hole deep enough. They stepped back and rested the blades of their shovels on the ground and leaned on the handles. When they did, three more men appeared through the press of Halfdan’s men. They carried between them a wooden post, about eight inches thick and ten feet long. They set the end of the post into the fresh-dug hole, and one of them held it steady as the men with the shovels stepped up and filled the dirt back in around it, tamping it down when they were done.
Halfdan ran his eyes over Amundi’s people. “This is it?” he asked. “This is all your household?”
“Yes, lord,” Alfdis said.
“Very well,” Halfdan said, then continued, speaking loudly enough for his voice to reach everyone watching. “You are all of you aware of the great treason that has been committed of late,” he said. “You know who carries the most guilt, and who carries the lesser. But they are all guilty, all who took part in that heinous crime. And you also know how merciful I have been. But do not mistake mercy for weakness. There are limits to my mercy, and those limits have been reached. So I have come here to show you all what becomes of those I deem guilty. Heed this lesson, because next time my wrath will not be limited to one man alone.”
He turned back toward his men and nodded once again. Amundi could see some bustling around the nearest cart, and then down the center of the two lines of mounted warriors came three men, half leading, half carrying another between them. Amundi sucked in his breath despite himself. He heard Alfdis give a muffled cry, and, from the others gathered around, gasps and soft wails.
The Midgard Serpent Page 19
