He swung his blade at the closest of the Englishmen and kicked his horse hard in the flanks. If he could break free, he thought, if he could drive his horse out of the press of men, then maybe something would come to him, some idea or opportunity. He kicked again and felt hands grabbing at his legs and his mail shirt. He hacked down with his sword and more hands grabbed his arm, too many for him to fight against, and he felt himself dragged from the saddle. There was shouting all around, none of which Louis could decipher, save for the unearthly shrieks that he knew were coming from the throat of Starri Deathless.
“Bastards!” Louis shouted and his foot jerked free of the stirrup and he fell with a painful thump to the ground. He thrashed and kicked and tried to strike out with his sword, but his arm was held tight and he felt the sword pulled from his grip. He tried to get his arms or his legs under him, to push himself up, but it was no use. Every limb was pinned as Louis was pressed face down into the soft ground.
Finally exhaustion and a sense of futility took hold and he stopped struggling. He lay still, gasping for breath, but the hands did not let go, the force pushing him down did not ease.
“Let me up, you stupid English bastards!” he shouted. He was yelling in Frankish, which was pointless, he knew, but he felt that he had to say something. If they understood him or not he did not know, but in either case no one let him up.
His arms were pulled around behind his back, crossed at the wrists, and bound tight with cordage that cut into his flesh. Only then did the men around ease off. More hands grabbed him under the arms and lifted him like a child to his feet. He was shoved forward, the crowd of English warriors parting for him, revealing in their midst Thorgrim and Harald and the rest, all similarly bound, helmets and weapons gone.
Starri was lying on the ground and Louis thought at first he was dead, but then he saw he had been bound hand and foot. Blood covered his face and matted his hair, and still he was kicking and twisting in pointless rage.
The guards formed a circle around the Northmen, their spears leveled, like the teeth of an animal looking for a reason to bite. The crowd of Englishmen was considerably bigger now: hundreds had come running at the sound of the fighting. Most were in tunics, and some just leggings, having been surprised in whatever they had been doing.
Orders were shouted back and forth. The man issuing the bulk of the orders was not wearing a helmet or mail, though he seemed to be in command, calling out, pointing here and there. He was fifty feet away when his and Louis’s eyes met. They held each other’s gaze, just for an instant, then the man looked away and started calling orders again.
Do I know you? Louis thought. The man looked familiar, as wildly unlikely as that would be.
Another pushed through the crowd and Louis recognized him as the prisoner, the English lord they had taken at the inn, the one who had been made to lead them into Winchester. He spoke to Harald, a few sharp words, and then Harald turned to Godi and they exchanged a few words. Then Godi leaned over and grabbed Starri Deathless and hefted him up and over his shoulder as if he was a mattress stuffed with straw.
Starri shouted and kicked but it seemed to make no impression on Godi, who stood stoically by. Starri was not a big man in any event, but draped over Godi Unundarson’s massive shoulder he looked more like a child.
Another word from the Englishman, gestures with the points of spears, and the Northmen and Louis, the prisoners, walked off in the direction indicated, still surrounded by English men-at-arms. Louis wondered if Thorgrim and the others would go peacefully, or try fighting their way free, which would be tantamount to killing themselves. Starri certainly would, if he was able. The Northmen had a terrible fear of dying a dishonorable death, which the English were likely to give them, and soon. But dying with hands bound might not be much better.
No, Thorgrim’s too clever for that, Louis thought. Thorgrim would not throw away his life and the lives of his men, not then, not when there was still a chance for escape or death with a weapon in hand.
They were marched past the king’s great hall, past the barracks farther off and the other, smaller buildings, until they came at last to a small house built right against the wall that surrounded the king’s compound. Like the wall, it was made of stone, with a slate roof, a single, heavy, iron-bound door and a massive lock hanging from a hasp, and Louis guessed it had been purpose built to house prisoners. The door was pulled open ahead of them and one by one they were driven into the lightless space, and when the last of them was inside the door was closed with authority and they heard the click of the lock being shut.
For a long moment there was nothing more to be heard but the sound of men breathing. Then Thorgrim said, “Anyone wounded? Badly wounded?” His words were met with silence and a few grunts. No one spoke.
“Harald, come here,” Thorgrim said next and Harald made a guttural sound and pushed his way through the men toward the sound of his father’s voice. “There’s a knife at my ankle, under my leggings. They didn’t find it. Can you get it out?”
Again Harald grunted and that was followed by a few moments of rustling and shuffling. Louis pictured Harald, in the dark, sitting on the dirt floor, trying to extract a hidden knife from under Thorgrim’s leggings with his hands tied behind his back. The image was comical and Louis smiled despite himself.
And then, to his surprise, he heard Harald say, “I’ve got it.”
This was followed by more rustling and murmured communication and then he heard Thorgrim say, “There. Cut now, hard as you can.” A moment later Thorgrim was pushing his way through the others, cutting their bonds away, accompanied by sighs of relief and the sound of rough hands rubbing raw skin.
“Feel around the walls, high as you can. Along the floor,” Thorgrim said. “See if there’s some possible way out of here.” More shuffling in the dark, but Louis did not move. It was pointless. He knew there was no way out of that stone building and he suspected Thorgrim did as well. Thorgrim just wanted to keep the men busy, to see they didn’t have time to ponder their situation. But he could not keep them occupied forever.
And indeed he did not. Soon each of the men spoke up in the dark and reported that they could find nothing that seemed remotely like a way out. That done, they lapsed into silence, and even Thorgrim did not try to find anything more to distract them.
Louis felt his way to a wall and sat, leaning back against the stone. For some time he remained like that, though how long he had no idea. Long enough for some of the Northmen to fall asleep, their snoring loud and ugly-sounding in so confined a space. Louis wished that he, too, could fall asleep, if for no reason other than to pass the time, but he knew that was not going to happen.
He was still staring out into the dark when he heard the sound of men approaching the prison. Quite a few men, heralded by the clinking of mail and the thump of weapons and the tread of many feet. He tensed and listened as intently as he could.
Yes, they were certainly coming toward the prison.
He opened his mouth to speak but before he could he heard Starri Deathless say in a sharp whisper, “Listen! There are warriors coming!”
This caused a stirring among the men who were still awake and a grumbling from those who were waking up.
“On your feet, on your feet!” Thorgrim said. “Get ready!”
Ready for what? Louis wondered, but he was sure that Thorgrim did not know either. Ready for whatever horror would come next.
The men-at-arms stopped on the other side of the door and someone pounded on the oak planks with some hard object and called out a few words. There was a shuffling movement among the Northmen and Harald, who had worked his way to the door, replied. He and the man on the other side went back and forth a few times, speaking in short bursts, then Harald spoke in his native tongue.
“This bastard says he’s going to open the door. He says we’re to stand against the far wall. There are spearmen there and anyone who goes through the door will be killed.”
This led
to more grumbling. Every man there understood the situation. They might hope to rush the Englishmen, but they could only go through the door one at a time, and they could easily be cut down as they did.
After a moment Thorgrim said, “Very well. All of you, back against the wall.” They all moved back, stumbling into one another, cursing, until at last they were all pressed against the wall that formed the back of the prison and Harald called out to the man at the door.
The lock clicked and the door creaked open and the light from a half a dozen torches spilled in, looking bright as the sun after the absolute blackness of the prison. A man stood framed in the doorway, appearing as no more than a black figure with the flames behind him. He took a step forward and spoke.
“Louis de Roumois? Is Louis de Roumois among you?”
Louis did not reply. He was so stunned to hear his name called out he did not know what to say. He did not even realize at first that the man was speaking Frankish. He was no Frank — the accent was clearly English — but he was speaking Louis’s native tongue.
“I am Louis de Roumois,” Louis replied at last.
“Come with me,” the man said and Louis saw the silhouetted arm waving him over. For a moment he did not move. It was too dream-like for him to act on it.
“Come on,” the man said, more insistent and less patient than before. Louis pushed himself off the wall and walked toward the light, as if he had just been killed and was going to his final reward.
This may be the first step on that road, he thought. He had no sense at all for what might be happening.
He stepped out into the night and stopped. A half a dozen spears were leveled at him. Behind him the man shut the door and locked it once again, then stepped up beside Louis. He was an older man, a warrior, captain of this guard, no doubt. He had probably seen a lot of campaigning, maybe in Frankia, maybe where he learned the language. Louis had a hundred questions to ask, but the old campaigner did not look like a man much ready to answer, so when he gestured for Louis to follow, Louis did so without a word.
The odd little parade crossed back over the ground they had covered on the way to the prison, but then they veered off to the left and made for the great hall. The sentries there opened the door as they approached and Louis and the captain stepped through, followed by two of the guards.
Still the old man said nothing as he led Louis down the length of the massive building. A fire was burning in a wide hearth at one end and the flames illuminated the space up to the carved rafters some fifty feet overhead. There were tapestries on the walls and fine chalices and plates and such set on the long table. Louis looked around as they walked and he found that the king’s great hall met with his approval.
He was not impressed, but he approved.
They crossed to the far side of the hall and Louis could now see there was a door there, wide and tall, that apparently led to yet another wing of the building. The captain led him through it and down a hallway, also hung with tapestries, and with thick rugs covering the stone floor. They stopped at one of the doors which opened onto the hall. The captain knocked and Louis heard a voice from inside call, “Entrez!”
The captain had already opened the door half-way before Louis realized that that order, single word though it was, had been spoken in Frankish. And this time without the adulteration of an English accent.
The door swung open the rest of the way to show a room well-lit with candles standing on tall iron candleholders variously positioned. There was a bed and several trunks and a big table pushed up against one wall with papers scattered over its surface and a man sitting at it, back to the door. He was scratching away with a pen, but he set the pen in an ink well and turned, a slight smile on his face.
“Ah, Louis,” he said.
Louis frowned and squinted and tried to make sense of what he was looking at. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again and said, “Felix?”
Felix smiled wider and stood. “Here I thought you did not recognize me!” he said. “I wasn’t sure I recognized you.” He stepped close and grabbed Louis’s shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks, then released him and took a step back.
“I was directing the heathens be sent off to the jail,” he continued, “and I thought for certain I saw you among them! Couldn’t imagine how, but here you are!”
Louis shook his head, astounded. He did recognize Felix, but just barely. If he had seen the man in the court of King Charles of West Frankia, where he was accustomed to seeing him, then he would have known him instantly. Felix was probably ten years older than Louis, and had served Charles for as long as Louis had been going there in company with his father, which was several times a year at least, for most of his life.
He and Felix had never been more than acquaintances, but amiable ones, companions when Louis was at court. They had shared many meals together in the company of others, and many cups of wine. There had always been a mutual respect between them, Louis felt, even affection.
“Yes,” Louis said. “Yes, of course I recognize you. Or would have. It’s been some years and….I was surprised…to see you here.”
“Of course you were,” Felix said. He nodded to the captain of the guard and the man bowed and exited. He closed the door behind him and Felix gestured for Louis to sit. When he had, Felix handed him a cup of wine.
“Fear not,” Felix said, sitting as well. “It’s Frankish wine I brought with me. Not the effluence that the English call wine.”
Louis took a sip. It was good. Frankish. He hadn’t tasted its like in some time. “So…how…?”
“How do I happen to be here?” Felix asked. “Charles sent me to help out in King Æthelwulf’s court. Thought the English could use someone of sense. And you know, Æthelwulf will be visiting with Charles soon. On his way to Rome. Would have been off by now, but he was wounded fighting the heathens.”
“Wounded?” Louis asked. “Badly?”
“No, no,” Felix said, “It looked bad, and I feared for his life, but he’s recovering well now. But tell me, how do you happen to be here? It’s been years since I’ve seen you. I heard you had gone off to an Irish monastery, after your father’s death.”
“Yes,” Louis said. “Yes, I did. Not through any choice of my own, mind you.” He told Felix the story, starting with his brother’s jealousy of him, his fear that Louis would usurp his position after their father had died, how he had shipped Louis off to Glendalough in hopes he would stay there and rot.
The words kept coming from Louis’s mouth, building momentum, forming a narrative he had never really put together as a whole thing before. He told of how he fought the Northmen to defend Glendalough, how the Irish had turned on him, how he had been taken captive by the Northmen, escaped, been taken captive again. How he had thrown in with the Northmen because it seemed the entire world was his enemy and he wanted nothing but to return to Frankia and avenge himself, and it seemed the Northmen were the most expedient means of doing so.
Through all this Felix just listened, arms folded, head cocked to one side. He asked a few questions here and there and listened closely to each answer. “So now you are in Hamtun with this…Thorgrim?” Felix asked at last. “You fought with the heathens in the battle on the bay?”
“Well, yes,” Louis said. “Heathens, English, none of them are any friends of mine. Or of Frankia.”
Felix nodded. “And how do you happen to be here? I mean here now, in Winchester?”
Louis had not told Felix about Failend. It seemed unnecessary, and the tale he had told was convoluted and strange enough without the addition of a love affair: his, hers, Thorgrim’s. “One of Thorgrim’s people, they came into the city and did not come back. Thorgrim wanted to find them, so I agreed to go with him.”
“I see,” Felix said. “And this person, was it a woman? A young woman? Pretty? Actually an Irish woman, not a Northman?”
Louis was not able to hide his surprise. He knew it showed on his face, making it pointless to lie. �
��Yes, that’s right. An Irish woman. From Glendalough. She and I are…close…”
Felix nodded again and pressed his fingertips together and for a long moment he was silent, just staring at Louis, until Louis began to feel uncomfortable. He was about to speak, but Felix spoke first.
“Tell, me, Louis de Roumois, is there anyone you won’t betray?”
Louis was silent for a moment, not certain he had heard right. “What?” he said at last.
“I’m wondering,” Felix continued, “if there is anyone you won’t betray? First you try to take the place of your brother Eberhard, who is rightful heir to your father’s estate.” He held up his hand to stop the protest on Louis’s lips. “Don’t try to deny it, we’ve had the entire story from him. Then he shows you mercy and allows you to take your place in the church, yet you betray your vows and run off. And not just run off, you join with the heathens, Frankia’s greatest enemies. Enemies of all Christendom.
“You assist them in battle, take up arms against King Æthelwulf, a pious man, a friend of our King Charles. A battle that nearly kills the man I serve. And here you are, sneaking into Winchester like a thief, a thief in service to the Godless butchers. And don’t tell me they forced you to join them. This sort of thing, this sneaking into the city in disguise, is not something a man does unless he does it willingly. Eagerly, even.”
“Are you…?” Louis tried to begin, but there was too much trying to come out. The outrage was all jammed up in his head and would not fit through his mouth. “I never…surely you must be…”
It was as far as he got. Felix picked up a bell that was sitting beside him and rang it, a small musical sound. It sounded out of place in that room.
Louis heard the door open behind him and the old captain came in with the two guards behind him and two more behind them. Louis was still sputtering as they grabbed him by the arms and lifted him from the seat. He twisted and jerked away but they held him tightly with their considerable strength.
The Midgard Serpent Page 40
