“The prisoner we took yesterday,” Harald said. “The one I’ve seen before. He’s a man of wealth. Part of the king’s court, maybe. He must know his way around Winchester.”
That was met with nodding heads, Thorgrim’s included. He felt half-formed ideas coming together, spinning into something more solid, definite, with substance enough for him to act.
“Gudrid, Brand, Harald, go back to the farm where we stopped before,” Thorgrim said. “Bring the horses and the prisoner here. Also, all the mail and helmets and such that we took from the dead English. Be quick, now.”
They left, heading out so fast that even Thorgrim could not grow impatient. The rest donned their mail and helmets, settled weapons in place, slung shields over their backs and headed off in the opposite direction, making their way over the country toward the walls of Winchester, easily visible even to Thorgrim’s not so young eyes. They stopped at the crest of a small hill, unseen by any but the cows that milled around, and for some moments looked at the city. No one spoke.
From where they stood they could make out the guards walking along the top of the wall, no more than small glinting points of light from that distance, and not too many of them. They could see traffic on the Roman road: ox carts and travelers on foot and people driving livestock before them and men-at-arms on horseback, a great flow of traffic to and from the city.
“Everyone going about their business, it seems,” Hall observed.
“They must know we have a dozen ships full of warriors, just a day’s march away,” Starri said. He sounded as if he took offense at the Englishmen’s calm, and Thorgrim guessed that he did.
“I reckon they have enough warriors of their own that they’re not too afraid of being sacked,” Thorgrim replied. “I doubt they have the thousand men the prisoner said they did, but they have enough.”
That was met with a few grunts of agreement. None of the men there were likely to forget the beating they had just received in their sea battle with the English.
They remained where they were for a short time more, watching in silence, but it was clear there was not much to learn, so they trudged back to the farm to wait for the others to bring the prisoner and the horses. They ate, sharpened weapons, and soon the sound of drumming hooves alerted them that Harald and the others had returned.
Thorgrim stepped out of the hall and into the bright daylight of the farmyard just as Harald was reining to a stop and sliding down from the saddle. Gudrid and Brand were still mounted, and behind them each was a string of six horses, saddled and bridled. There was one horse tethered to Harald’s mount, and on it sat the prisoner, his fine tunic looking a bit less fine, his face pale and drawn, his hands bound together and tied to the saddle. He looked wary. Maybe even afraid.
Good, Thorgrim thought. He turned to Godi and Hall. “Get the prisoner down, sit him on that barrel over there.”
The two men dragged the prisoner out of his saddle, pushed him over to the barrel Thorgrim indicated and sat him roughly down. Thorgrim let him remain there for a few moments, flanked by the two Northmen. Let the uncertainty and fear build. Finally he gestured for Harald to follow him. He grabbed another barrel and walked it over in front of the prisoner and sat facing him, with no more than three feet between them.
“What’s your name?” Thorgrim asked, his eyes holding the prisoner’s while Harald translated. For a moment the prisoner remained silent, and then he seemed to decide there was no advantage in doing so. He spoke, two words.
“He says his name is Lord Nothwulf,” Harald said.
Thorgrim nodded. “You look to be a man of some importance, Lord Nothwulf,” he said. “We mean to ransom you.”
Harald translated and Nothwulf replied.
“He says he’s no one,” Harald said. “Not worth ransoming.”
“Then I suppose we’ll kill you,” Thorgrim said. “You’re no use to us.”
Harald translated and Nothwulf tried to keep his face free of expression as he realized he might not have played that well. He made no reply, probably afraid he would make things worse.
“However,” Thorgrim continued, “you may buy your own life. You can help us instead. Best I can do.”
Harald translated and Nothwulf made a short reply. “He says he’ll never help us,” Harald said.
Of course he did, Thorgrim thought. He nodded and smiled just a bit. This Nothwulf was so predictable it was as if Thorgrim had told him what to say. He slowly drew his seax from the sheath on his belt, fourteen inches of honed and polished iron.
“Tell him he will help us,” Thorgrim said. “Tell him he most certainly will.”
Evening was coming on when the small band of warriors rode toward the gates of Winchester, Lord Nothwulf, their ostensible commander, at the head of the two columns of six. Behind him rode Thorgrim on his left side and Harald on his right. They each held spears upright like banner staffs, but the weapons could be leveled in an instant and driven into Nothwulf’s back at the first sign of betrayal. Nothwulf was aware of that because Thorgrim had made certain he was. From the set of his shoulders Thorgrim could tell Nothwulf was bracing for a spear in the back at any moment.
We’re not going to kill you until after you’ve helped us, you English blockhead, Thorgrim thought, though he was happy to have the man think his life was in constant peril.
They were all wearing mail, Thorgrim and Harald and the men riding behind them. But it was not their own mail. Rather, it was the mail they had taken from the dead and wounded Englishmen after the fight at the inn. They were wearing English helmets as well, and had the Englishmen’s shields hanging from their saddles or slung over their backs.
Nothwulf, too, wore his mail shirt, his helmet and sword and shield, which had been borrowed from Brand, their new owner. In the soft, late-day light they would be indistinguishable from any small English patrol. Even in full daylight they probably would not have drawn any notice.
They approached the gate at a walk like weary riders returning to their barracks, thinking only of a meal and ale and their beds. There were half a dozen sentries posted outside and they seemed not in the least alarmed at the arrival of the armed band.
Nothwulf held up a hand and reined to a stop and Thorgrim and Harald and the rest behind stopped as well. A sentry stepped up to Nothwulf’s horse and said something and Nothwulf replied, just a few words. Thorgrim studied Harald’s face, but there was no expression there, no sign that Harald sensed Nothwulf was raising an alarm.
It was possible, of course, that Nothwulf was doing so in words Harald could not understand, but if so there was nothing for it. If Nothwulf betrayed them, Thorgrim felt certain there would be time enough to drive a spear into him before he and his men were taken down, and that gave him some comfort.
The sentry stepped aside and made a gesture for Nothwulf to continue. Nothwulf nodded and flicked his reins and headed for the gate, the Northmen behind. Thorgrim tried to keep his eyes ahead, his face devoid of interest, but it was not easy. Winchester was unlike any place he had ever seen.
He had been to the big trading centers at Hedeby and Birka. He had spent months in Dubh-linn, which nearly rivaled those places, but none were like this. The streets of Winchester were lined with houses and workshops, some two stories high, and crowded with people and animals and carts. He could see the great tower of the church rising above the buildings, and the towers of what must be the king’s residence as well. The narrow streets ran like streams between the buildings, and the entire thing was surrounded by a great stone wall.
Incredible…
He looked over at Harald and Harald met his eye and raised his eyebrow, just a bit, and Thorgrim knew his son was thinking just the same thing that he was. This place, Winchester, was a wealthy and formidable place. Very formidable indeed.
And with that thought, Thorgrim felt his first twinge of doubt. Somehow he had thought it would be easy to find where Failend was being held. Or, if not easy, than at least not impossible. He had que
stioned Nothwulf on the point, the tip of his seax hovering near Nothwulf’s eye, and the young lord had been quite forthcoming. If Failend was taken prisoner, Nothwulf told him, then the king and his men would wish to know, and would wish to speak with her, and she would undoubtedly be held somewhere in the king’s great hall.
It all seemed quite straightforward, sitting on the barrel in the farm yard. Now it looked considerably less so, but it was too late for a change of plan. Thorgrim had told Nothwulf to take them to the king’s hall, to wherever the men-at-arms would be expected to go. Once they were there, the foxes among the hens, he would figure what to do next.
The light was fading quickly as they emerged from one of the narrow streets into open ground surrounding what Thorgrim guessed was the king’s compound. There was a separate wall around the place and towers and the roof of a great hall rising above them.
Nothwulf, clearly familiar with the place, did not pause as he headed his horse toward the gates in the wall where torches were already burning, throwing their light on the guards who stood nearby.
Good, good, Thorgrim thought. The dark was good. It was hard to make out faces in the light of torches, particularly faces half-hidden by helmets. They might still get in undetected.
Once again Nothwulf stopped a dozen yards from the gate and one of the sentries approached, but this man did not look as bored as the one at the main gate had. He and Nothwulf exchanged a few words, then the sentry stepped back and shouted up to another man on the top of the wall.
Thorgrim adjusted the grip on his spear to make certain he could bring it down and thrust it forward in an instant. He glanced over at Harald.
“He’s telling the man on the wall that Nothwulf has returned,” Harald said, as loudly as he dared. “Telling him to open the gate.”
Thorgrim nodded and then heard the groaning sound of the big oak doors swinging open. The sentry stepped back and Nothwulf continued on, and the Northmen followed behind. Thorgrim felt a great wave of relief. They were through, they were in the king’s compound. They were drawing closer to Failend with every step of their horses’ feet.
Then Thorgrim realized that men were still yelling: the call from the sentry on the wall had been taken up by others and it seemed to bounce around the courtyard, building in volume.
He leaned toward Harald. “What are they yelling about?” he asked.
“Saying Nothwulf’s back,” Harald said. “It seems to be big news.”
Thorgrim scowled. Of course it would be. They probably had word of the fight, probably thought that Nothwulf and his men were captive or dead. This sort of attention they did not need.
He looked side to side, as much as he dared, as much as he could without seeming overly curious. There was a massive hall in the center of the walled-in area, two stories, with the towers on either end. There were other buildings as well, barracks, Thorgrim guessed, and a kitchen and stables. Whoever this king was, he was not like the petty rulers they had known in Ireland or even the jarls of Norway. This man ruled a kingdom of some genuine significance.
Where would Failend be? Thorgrim wondered. He did not know. Sometimes, in the wolf dreams, he saw things clearly, so clearly he could find them again when he was awake. But the dream he had the night before was not like that. It had told him of Failend’s danger, and nothing else.
There were men coming out of the hall now, and more coming from other directions to meet the new arrivals. Some held torches aloft to light the way for the weary riders. Behind him Thorgrim heard the creak of the big gates closing again.
There were men gathering around Nothwulf now, shouting up to him, asking, no doubt, what had happened. Others were closing in on the mounted Northmen, who they still took to be their fellow English men-at-arms. Thorgrim held the spear tighter. He felt a twitching in his arms and legs that told him he would have to do something, and soon.
He looked down to his left. There was a man there, holding a torch, looking up and smiling. A big man with a big red beard. The warrior from the inn. The one who had been mounted on the white and black horse.
Their eyes met and Thorgrim saw the man’s smile freeze and hang there on his face for just an instant and then turn to a look of confusion. He frowned and his eyebrows came together.
Well, that didn’t work, Thorgrim thought. Now what do we do? But he knew there was no one who could answer that, save for himself, and he was pretty much out of ideas.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I have no host in battle him to prove,
Nor have I strength his forces to undo.
Counsel me then, ye that are wise and true;
Can ye ward off this present death and dule?
The Song of Roland
Louis de Roumois was riding somewhere in the middle of the file of horsemen, Gudrid to his right. He had no idea what was going on, but he still had a bad feeling about it.
It had been that way for some time, really. At least since they had first approached Winchester, riding English horses with the English lord leading the way.
Failend was gone and Thorgrim had sent Harald to get the horses and the prisoner. When they returned Thorgrim spoke to the Englishman, seax in hand, the point often hovering near the prisoner’s face. That made Louis think it was not a particularly friendly conversation.
It was only after that that Louis had his first hint of the plan. Thorgrim gathered the men around him and laid it out. He meant for them to ride into Winchester in the guise of English men-at-arms, the prisoner leading the way. Once inside the walls they would locate Failend, who Thorgrim believed was in danger. That belief was based on one of the absurd wolf dreams that Thorgrim claimed to have and the ignorant pagan Northmen took as gospel. They would free Failend and then the lot of them would make their escape.
This is a very bad plan, Louis had thought. It’s not even a plan at all.
It was, in fact, ridiculous. The chances of getting into Winchester undetected were tiny at best, and even if they made it that far, the chances of then finding Failend were all but nonexistent.
But the Northmen all nodded their agreement with Thorgrim’s intentions. Louis, though certain that the idea was ludicrous, nodded as well.
It never occurred to him not to join with Thorgrim and the rest. He, too, was worried about Failend. Very worried. If the English guessed she had been with the pagans than she was done for. What’s more, Louis’s refusing to go might be construed as cowardice, rather than good sense, and that Louis could not tolerate.
And, as much as he dismissed Thorgrim’s wolf dreams for the heathen superstition they were, he had witnessed their surprising accuracy on occasion. They were no doubt a gift from Satan, and Thorgrim would repay that gift for eternity, but when it came to helping Failend Louis was willing to accept a gift from wherever it came. And Louis could think of nothing better to try.
So when evening came on and the Northmen donned the plundered English helmets and mail and mounted up, Louis did the same. He rode in silence with the rest, and when they reached the gates of Winchester waited as the prisoner jabbered with the guards in the barbaric tongue of the English, as bad as that of the Northmen. Then with the others he rode slowly through the gates and into the city.
Abandon hope, ye who enter here, he thought as they rode deeper into Winchester.
They approached what had to be the king’s great hall, which was walled, like the city itself. Louis guessed that all of this, the crowded streets of the city, the high walls, the stone church looming over them, must seem quite magnificent to the English, and to the pagans it must seem like something out of their fantastical tales, hardly to be believed. But to Louis, who had been raised in the palace at Roumois and had been to Paris many times, it seemed little more than a pathetic attempt at civilization, an effort by a lesser race to imitate the grandeur of Frankia.
At the wall around the royal compound the prisoner once again jabbered with the sentries and once again the gates swung open to welcome them into the next
circle of their fate. They rode through unmolested, and Louis, magnanimous and sensible as he was, was willing to admit that thus far things had worked out just as Thorgrim planned.
As he was admitting as much to himself he heard the gates close behind them, which was not unexpected, but still it was an ominous sound. Men were shouting from various quarters, and soon, as they rode slowly toward the great hall, they were surrounded by Englishmen who turned out to greet them. A few of them carried torches against the failing light, illuminating the prisoner at the head of the column and the others behind.
There was nothing hostile at all about the crowd surrounding them. Louis could tell, even without knowing what was being said, that the English were happy to see the men who had ridden through the gates, men who were ostensibly their brethren.
The exact moment when the English realized the truth was not entirely clear, but it happened fast. One instant the men were crowding around the riders, laughing and calling out, and then suddenly the laughter changed to shouts of alarm. Louis saw a fellow with an impressive red beard take a step back, point up at Thorgrim and shout, and the shout was taken up by others. Louis could not understand the words, of course, but he did not need to.
Oh, merde, he thought.
The English prisoner at the head of the column had spun his horse around and was shouting and pointing back at Thorgrim and the rest. Thorgrim brought his spear level and tried to hurl it at the man but a dozen English hands reached up and pulled him sideways, down off the horse, and the spear fell uselessly to the ground.
Damn these bastards, Louis thought. He pulled his sword from its scabbard and jerked the reins of his horse sideways, making the animal twist in place as he hacked down at the men suddenly coming for him. He had a vague thought that it was pointless, that he could not escape even if he managed to cut his way through the men surrounding him. There were hundreds more English warriors there, and the gates were closed.
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