The Midgard Serpent

by James L. Nelson

  “Ask him how many men the king has under arms,” Thorgrim said and Harald translated.

  “He says a thousand men,” Harald said.

  Thorgrim smiled. “A child could lie better than him,” he said.

  “There’s something familiar about this one,” Harald said. “I have to say. I’ve seen him before, I could swear it.”

  “Where?” Thorgrim asked.

  “I don’t recall,” Harald said. “It was not so long ago.” But there was no time for further speculation. Thorgrim had Harald ask a few more questions, about the defenses, about the church and the wealth stored in the king’s hall. He received no answers that were very satisfying or credible, but that did not matter much, at least not for the moment, so he let the prisoner rest, and his own men as well.

  The sun was well into the west when Thorgrim stood and ordered the men back to their feet. “We’ll walk to Winchester, near as we can get. We’ll attract less notice than if we ride. Find some place we can hide ourselves, see what we can see. Maybe we’ll enter the city in the night, if that seems the best plan.”

  They headed off across the open country, leaving the prisoner behind with four of the others to guard him and the horses. They no longer had to guess if they were going in the right direction because Winchester was in sight now, standing proud from the rolling hills like the clearest of landmarks.

  The road, the one the Romans built, was off to their right, running straight and true to the city gate. There was considerable traffic on it: riders and men and women on foot and carters driving their teams of oxen in front of awkward, lumbering wagons, heavily loaded with the great wealth of goods and food needed to keep both a royal household and what must be one of the biggest towns in Engla-land supplied.

  Soon they could see the wall that surrounded the city, a stone affair, fifteen feet high or so. Not an impassable barrier, but one to slow an army down. One that could create a killing field at its base.

  “There,” Thorgrim said, pointing to a farm about a quarter of a mile away, halfway between themselves and the walls of the city. “We’ll go there, keep a watch from there. See what we can see.”

  The others nodded. They were tired of walking. It had been a long day. They were ready to sit. So they trudged the rest of the way and once again they came upon a hall, not quite as large as the last, peopled with women and servants who were quickly made to understand the benefits of cooperating with the Northmen, and to understand as well that they did not really have much choice.

  This time Thorgrim insisted on entering the hall and they were met with only muted, grudging protest. They stepped into the dim interior and shed their helmets and mail and leaned their shields against the wall.

  Failend’s mail shirt was still well coated with the dried blood of the spearman she had killed, and as she tried to pull it off she felt her tunic coming with it. She ran her hand under the mail, separating the iron links from the cloth, then pulled the mail off over her head.

  She looked down at her tunic. The blood made an odd pattern on the cloth where it had come through the chain mail. She stared at it for a moment, thinking she wanted to wash it away, and also thinking that doing so would wash away her last connection to the young man with the blue eyes.

  The others sat at the big table and drank ale and Failend joined them there. Then Thorgrim and a handful of men went outside to keep an eye on the city and the country around, alert for any sign that they had been found out, that men were being sent to hunt them down.

  Failend stayed with her fellow warriors at the table and sipped at a cup of ale and looked down at the table top, worn smooth by generations of elbows and trenchers and pots. But she was not thinking about that. Her mind was still sorting out the myriad thoughts that had sprung from the one moment when she found herself looking into that dying man’s eyes.

  What have I been doing? she thought. It had all seemed so natural, running away with Louis, joining in with the Northmen, becoming a warrior, becoming a raider, becoming Thorgrim’s lover. She had never even questioned it, really. She had killed her husband, stolen his hoard of silver and thought little of it. She had just flowed from one thing to another, like the waters of a brook running into a stream then running into a river then into the sea.

  And now she could not even recall what she had been thinking, and she wondered if she had been thinking at all.

  She stood up from the table and stepped outside. Thorgrim was sitting on a bench by the stable a few dozen yards away, looking out over the city, and she sat beside him. The roofs of the houses and the towers and spires were lit up orange by the setting sun. They looked like embers glowing in the bed of a fire. The two of them were silent for a moment, watching the amazing play of light, and then Failend spoke.

  “What do you think? Of Winchester? Is it a place you will go? Is it a city to raid?”

  “I think perhaps it is,” Thorgrim said. “I think it’s what the Briton said it was. Tomorrow we’ll get closer, look at the walls, what buildings we can see. See if we might take it without too great a loss. The woman spoke of a king’s hall. Probably where those square towers are. And you see that very tall building? Do you think that’s a church?”

  “No,” Failend said. “Yes…I mean, it’s a cathedral. More important than a church. Bigger.”

  Thorgrim made a grunting sound of acknowledgement and Failend was suddenly sorry she had said that. Sorry she had given Thorgrim more reason to raid Winchester.

  Why am I sorry? she wondered. Because I think Thorgrim and the others might be killed if they try? Maybe. But not entirely.

  No, that’s not it. Not at all.

  She really did not know, except that she was too tired of fighting to think about it anymore. Tired of raiding. She did not want to do it and she did not want anyone else to do it.

  They remained like that for some time, Failend leaning against Thorgrim’s shoulder, the two of them watching as the light faded from the earth and Winchester and the countryside were slowly swallowed up by the dark. Finally Failend stood and stretched.

  “Let me fetch you some ale,” she said and Thorgrim looked up, and in the failing light she could see him smile.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Failend left him there and stepped into the barn. There was just light enough still to see the stalls where a few animals stood, the wooden posts that held up the thatched roof, a big pile of fresh hay to be fed to the hungry livestock. From there she made her way into the hall where the rest of the men were still at the table or sleeping on a raised platform against the wall. She found a cup and filled it with ale.

  “Godi,” she said. Godi was one of the few still awake.

  “Yes?”

  “Will you take the watch outside? Thorgrim is near dead with exhaustion but he will not admit it. If you’re there I might be able to convince him to rest.”

  “Certainly,” Godi said, lifting his massive frame off the bench. “Brand, come with me,” he called and Brand leaped to his feet. “We’ll take the watch and then have some others relieve us later.”

  “Thank you,” Failend said. “Thorgrim’s out by the stable but you might as well take your place just outside the hall here. I’ll tell Thorgrim you’re here and see if I can get him to sleep a bit.”

  Godi and Brand headed for the door. Louis was sitting at the table a little apart from the others as was his wont. She sat down next to him.

  “You weren’t hurt today?” she asked. She spoke in Irish, one of the two languages they shared. Failend sometimes wondered if Louis even remembered how to speak Frankish.

  “No. The English…they are not fighters, no matter how they dress themselves.” He turned and looked at her. “You? I saw you and that spearman go down off the horse.”

  Failend gave a little smile. “No,” she said. “A little bruised, but that’s it.”

  “Good,” Louis said.

  For a moment they just looked at one another and did not speak. Failend searched Louis
’s face. He was still as handsome as he had been when she first welcomed him into her bed, though he looked older. More worn. She had slept with him first out of boredom and a need to defy her husband. But it had become more than that. And then they had been taken by the Northmen and…it was more than Failend could fathom.

  “Do you miss the mass?” she asked and Louis squinted as if he had not heard her correctly.

  “The mass?” she said again. “You remember. The prayers, the chanting? The incense? The sacrament of reconciliation?”

  “That’s an odd question,” Louis said.

  “No,” Failend said. “We’ve been a long time among the heathens. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve become a heathen myself.”

  “I’m not sure either of us would get the abbot’s blessing for what we’ve been about these past years,” Louis said. “The mass? I wasn’t the best Christian back in Frankia, I’ll admit. In Glendalough, at the monastery, they were pretty insistent I change my ways. You know better than most how well that worked out. No, I can’t say I miss the mass.”

  They were silent for a moment more. “Do you?” Louis asked.

  Failend shrugged, and she did so with a sense of irony, since that was Louis’s preferred gesture. Then she gave a little smile and stood, picked up a candle and walked to the far end of the hall. The women and servants were nowhere to be seen and she guessed they were hiding in one of the chambers off the large central room. But she had seen a chest against the wall and now she found it in the light of the flame. She lifted the lid and looked inside.

  There were wool blankets and what seemed to be a cloak, and on top of those a white linen shift and a wool gown to go over it, and a cloth to use as a head covering the way she had seen the English women wear. She guessed that these were the clothes that one of the women saved for special occasions, high feasts and the like. They were nowhere near as fine as the clothes Failend had worn as the daughter and then wife of wealthy men back in Ireland, but they were good enough. She grabbed up the clothes and one of the blankets, shut the lid and hurried out of the hall.

  Thorgrim was still on the bench. Failend could see his outline in the fading light. She stuffed the clothing she was carrying behind a barrel that was against the wall of the stable and slipped up beside him, handing him the cup of ale.

  “Still awake?” she asked.

  “I think so,” Thorgrim said, taking the cup. “But I thought you must have fallen asleep.”

  “I’m sorry I was so long with the ale. The others were in a talkative mood.”

  Thorgrim tilted the cup back and drained it. “Are you tired? You’ve had a hard day.”

  “I think I’m just waking up,” Failend said. “I saw Godi and he insisted that he and Brand take the watch. They can’t bear for you to not get any rest. They’re down by the hall now, keeping lookout.”

  “That’s good of them,” Thorgrim said. “But they should have spoken with me.”

  “I think they were afraid to,” Failend said. “But they know what needs doing, what to look for. And you need rest. Here, come with me.” She took his hand and tugged and Thorgrim stood as if she had pulled him to his feet. With another tug she led him along to the door of the stable, barely discernible in the dark. Inside they could hardly see at all, but Failend knew where the pile of fresh hay was and she led Thorgrim there.

  “Here…here’s clean hay,” she said. “If it’s good enough for the cows to eat it should be good enough for a heathen to lie in. Pray, take off your weapons and lie down here.”

  She thought she could see Thorgrim nod and she could just make out the movement of his arms as he unbuckled his sword belt and set Iron-tooth down on the hay. Failend’s eyes were getting accustomed to the light in the barn, and now she saw him kneel down and feel the hay, then turn and lie back. She heard the crunching of the hay under him and heard him give a deep sigh.

  “Ah, that’s good, thank you,” he said.

  “You’re welcome,” she said. She undid her own belt with the seax hanging at her side and laid belt and weapon down, then pulled her tunic, stiff with dried blood, up over her head. With a quick, practiced motion she shed her leggings and shoes. She stood there for a moment. The cool night air raised tiny bumps on her bare skin and the sensation made her shudder. She looked down at Thorgrim but she could not see him against the hay. She wondered if he could see her. If he was still awake.

  Her hand found Thorgrim’s tunic as she knelt and she guided herself down until she was lying nearly on top of him. She felt his rough hands on her shoulders, sliding down her back, brushing her long, black hair aside.

  She heard him make a little grunt of surprise. Apparently he had not seen her disrobe. She scooted up a bit until her face was near his and she kissed him. She felt his hands come up so that they were pressed against either side of her face and he held her that way and kissed her back, a gentle but demanding kiss.

  She reached down and grabbed the hem of his tunic and pulled it up a bit, more a suggestion than a real attempt to get it off. And Thorgrim took the suggestion, sitting up a bit and pulling it up over his head and tossing it aside.

  He lay down again and Failend ran her hands over his strong, muscled chest and kissed him on the neck and the shoulders. She could feel the cloth wrapped around his middle, holding a bandage over his latest wound, courtesy of an English spear. She could feel the irregular scars that crisscrossed his skin, some from wounds she had seen, some from wounds delivered before their paths had crossed.

  Thorgrim was not a big man, not like Godi, but he seemed to exude power and strength and she always felt very vulnerable and small when she was on top of him that way. With another man that might have been an uncomfortable feeling, but with Thorgrim, after all this time and all these miles together, it felt safe.

  She continued to kiss him, softly, careful not to put pressure on his wound. She moved down his chest and down his stomach and her hands found the ties of his leggings and her fingers deftly untied them. Thorgrim needed no further suggestion to pull them down and kick them away. Failend climbed up on top of him, straddling him, still careful to avoid his wound. Her mouth found his again and they kissed again, but with the passion building between them, their breathing growing heavier through mouths pressed together.

  Soon Failend could stand no more and she sat up and eased herself down. Thorgrim twisted a bit and suddenly he was inside her. She made a sound deep in her throat as they moved together and the sensation overwhelmed her.

  They remained like that for a while, indulging in one another, relishing the steady rhythm, then Thorgrim grabbed her around the waist and rolled over as if she weighed nothing at all. She felt the hay making tiny sharp pinpricks in her back as Thorgrim’s weight pressed her down. She bit her finger to keep from screaming, which she knew would bring Thorgrim’s men running. She felt that familiar pressure building, building inside, and then the sudden, jarring, lightning bolt of release. She gasped for breath, her eyes wide and staring up into the dark, and a moment later Thorgrim followed in her wake.

  For some time they lay like that, letting their breathing settle. Failend was sweating despite the cool night. Like a horse that’s been ridden hard, she thought, and she almost giggled.

  Finally with a groan Thorgrim rolled over and Failend rolled on her side and pressed herself against him. They lay there, silent, motionless, and Failend knew if she wanted to speak she had to do so soon. Thorgrim would quickly fall into a deep sleep, as he always did, which is what she wanted him to do, but not just then.

  “Thorgrim?” she said in a whisper.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  That was met by silence for some time. “Thank you for what?”

  Failend sighed. She wasn’t sure. Thank you for being the man she needed when she needed him? Thank you for the protection and the weapons and the training and the chance to run wild like an animal for as long and as far as she wished?

  “Thank you for being kind,”
she said, and even as she said it she was struck by the irony. How many Irish had ever said those words to a Northman? Not many, she would guess.

  “You’re welcome,” Thorgrim said and she could hear the sleep in his voice. “But I don’t think I’ve been kind. Not at all the way I should have been. And I’m sorry.”

  Failend pressed herself closer and did not respond. There was nothing more she had to say, and nothing more she wished to hear from Thorgrim Ulfsson. Thorgrim Night Wolf.

  It was not long after that Thorgrim’s breathing became rough and even and she knew he was asleep, and she knew from experience it was a deep sleep. She slowly pulled away, peeling herself off of him. She stood with care so as not to make a crunching sound in the hay, grabbing her clothes, shoes and seax as she did.

  She remained still and listened. Thorgrim’s breathing had not changed, and even after she was certain he was still asleep she remained, listening to the sound of his breath. Then she turned and moved carefully to the door of the stable and out into the night.

  Again she stood motionless, feeling the cool air on her sweat-damp skin and shivering a bit. She looked around to see if anyone was coming, but she could see little in the dark, and that meant no one would see her. Her ears caught nothing but the insects in the field and the muted snoring of the men in the hall.

  She found the clothes she had stashed behind the barrel and pulled them out, then hid her old clothes in the same place. She held her seax for a moment, enjoying the familiar feel of the grip, the weight in her hand. She debated bringing it, then leaned over and tucked it out of sight along with her tunic and leggings. With some difficulty she managed to get the shift and gown correctly oriented and pulled them over her head, then secured the shoes on her feet. She wrapped the head cloth around her neck, leaving her head uncovered for the time being.

  The rest of Thorgrim’s men were in the hall or keeping watch just outside of it, so Failend headed off in the other direction, picking her way carefully through the dark yard. At last she came to the wattle fence that encircled the place. She paused there and looked back, though she could see nothing save for one tiny prick of light, a candle seen through a window of the hall.