Failend turned to Louis. “Father Conall has come to get me out…get us out,” she said.
“I have only the one robe,” Father Conall said, holding it up. “I don’t know how…”
“You meant to dress Failend in that?” Louis asked in his accented Irish. “Walk her out of here?”
Father Conall nodded.
“Aren’t there guards down there?” Louis asked, nodding toward the door at the end of the hall.
“Yes. Two,” Father Conall said. He spoke with hesitation, as if he knew the question that would come next.
“How did you mean to get past them?” Louis asked. “You come in here, one man, but two leave?”
Father Conall did not reply. It was clear to Failend that he had no plan for that. That he was relying on divine intervention of some sort. And maybe it had just arrived.
“Two guards,” Failend said, turning to Louis. “Is that a problem?”
Louis shrugged. “A problem for them, maybe.”
It took only a few moments to prepare. The three of them went to the end of the hall, taking care to make no noise. Failend and Louis positioned themselves on either side of the door, backs against the wall. Father Conall then opened the door and called to the guards in English, something urgent-sounding, and he held the door open for them as they hurried past. As they did, Louis grabbed the shoulder of the second man through and spun him around until they were face to face.
The guard held a spear, an unwieldy weapon in those close quarters, and wore a mail shirt and helmet, which meant that most of him was pretty well protected against attack from an unarmed man. Most, but not all. His face was still quite vulnerable, and that was what Louis drove his fist into, connecting with the guard’s left cheek, snapping his head around and sending him reeling against the stone wall.
The sound caught the attention of the first guard, who turned quick, his mouth open to shout in surprise. He was looking at Louis when Failend whirled the iron lamp in her hand around as fast and as high as she could and crashed it into the side of the man’s head.
His helmet absorbed much of the blow, but it still sent him stumbling. He dropped his spear as he tried to keep his feet and Louis snatched the helmet off and drove a fist into the man’s temple in one swift and smoothly executed motion.
The guard made a grunting noise as he dropped and Louis turned to the first man, who was near recovering from the punch in the face. He whipped that man’s helmet off too and dealt out the same punishment, and he, too, dropped with a grunting sound. For a moment there was nothing to hear but Louis’s huffing as he tried to recover his breath.
“They’re…they’re not dead, are they?” Father Conall asked.
“No, no, they’ll be fine,” Louis said but Failend was not sure that was true. They would not die from the blows Louis had given them, but what might happen to them for letting the prisoners escape was another matter.
Louis knelt down over the guard who was closest to him in size and began tugging his mail shirt off, and Failend knelt beside him to help.
“What are you doing?” Father Conall asked. “We should go.”
“You only have one robe,” Failend said. “Louis needs this mail and helmet so he can look like one of the guards.” Father Conall made no reply to that, and soon Louis and Failend had the belt and mail off the guard and Louis slipped it on over his head, strapped on the belt and set the helmet on his head.
There was a knife and a small purse hanging from the guard’s belt, and a purse on the other guard’s belt as well, so Louis pulled his newly acquired knife from its scabbard and cut the other purse free. Failend wondered if Father Conall would object, but if he noticed he said nothing.
“I’ve spent so damned much time in English armor of late,” Louis said, “I’m practically an Englishman now.”
Next Failend pulled the robe Father Conall had brought her over her head and settled it down. It was a good fit, made for a boy, Failend guessed. The three of them dragged the semi-conscious guards into the nearest cell and barred the door, then stepped out into the big room at the entrance to that wing of the hall. There was no one there, happily. Father Conall opened the door out to the yard beyond and they stepped out into the night, and still they could see no one.
Failend breathed deep and looked around. In her cell she had lost any sense for the time of day, but now she could see it was very late at night, or, more likely, very early in the morning. There was no bustle of anyone at work, no indication that anyone in the whole world was awake. She imagined there were guards walking the top of the wall, but she could not see them, and she was sure they could not see her or Father Conall or Louis.
“There is a door, just over there,” Father Conall said to Louis, pointing across the dark ground. “Used mostly by servants and such. There may be a guard there, but I doubt it. You should be able to walk right through.”
Louis nodded. “I know you didn’t come to help me, Father,” he said, “but I’m grateful that you did.”
“Of course,” Father Conall said, though it occurred to Failend that she had not given him much choice in the matter.
Louis turned to her. “Come along, Failend, we need to go,” he said. “They’ll find out about our escape soon enough.”
“Ah…” Failend said, and she felt her heart turn over. She had put considerable thought into what she would do next, and had arrived at some difficult decisions. But she forgot that Louis was not privy to them.
“Umm…I’m not going with you, Louis,” she said.
That was met with a brief silence and then Louis said, “Not going with me?”
“No,” Failend said. “I’m done. This…all this…this life as a warrior. This was what I needed. Back, a long time ago. In Ireland. And then we had no choice, you know. When we met with Thorgrim, and we were his prisoners. And then…well…I wanted one thing and you wanted another, but for our own reasons we stayed with Northmen. But now I have to be done with that. Now I need my life to be different.”
Louis nodded and seemed to be considering those words. Failend wondered if he would protest, try to talk her out of her choice, but he said, “What will you do? Stay here? Go back to Ireland?”
“I don’t know,” Failend said. “I don’t know what I’ll do. Once I get to a safe place, I’ll figure that out. I’ll look to God for guidance.”
“He’s guided your steps so far,” Father Conall said. “And he will again. And now He’s telling me we should go.”
“Of course,” Failend said. She turned to Louis. “You’ll tell Thorgrim? Tell him what I’ve done? Tell him…you can tell him I loved him. That I love him.”
Louis nodded and the two of them fell silent, looking into each other’s eyes. So much to say, so much had passed between them. A week would not be enough to say it all. She stepped toward him and wrapped her arms around him as best she could, pressing herself close, feeling the smooth, cool links of mail against her cheek. She felt his arms tighten around her.
“And I love you, too, Louis de Roumois,” she said. “God speed you.”
“And God speed you, Failend,” he said. He eased his hug and she stepped back. She looked at his face, his lovely face, one last time. And Louis looked at her as well, and gave a hint of a smile, then turned and walked off into the dark.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Such grief he has, for rage he's like to split,
A little more, and he has lost his wit:
Says to that count: “I love you not a bit;
A false judgement you bore me when you chid.”
Song of Roland
It was easier than Louis dared hope it would be. He crossed the open ground between the great hall and the stone wall that enclosed all of the king’s residence, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, after the relative brightness of the lantern light, he could see the door that Father Conall had indicated. It was just visible in the light of a quarter moon, standing out against the darker wall, and the path underfoot l
ed in that direction.
His thoughts were not on where he was going, or how he would manage his escape. He was thinking about Failend, and the choice she had made, and all the strange adventures they had shared. He wondered if he would ever see her again. He imagined not.
With his mind thus occupied Louis didn’t see the guard posted by the door until he had almost reached him, but he managed to hide his surprise. The man was standing quite still and he seemed to meld into the dark. Louis tried to keep his pace casual as he considered the best approach — bluff his way out or fight? — but he had still not decided by the time he reached the guard and the door.
As it turned out, no decision was needed. The guard did not move at all as Louis approached, save to nod in Louis’s direction. Louis was, after all, armed and dressed the same as he was. What’s more, Louis was not trying to get into the royal estate, he was trying to leave, so there was no real cause for alarm or suspicion.
Louis nodded back as he passed, lifted the iron hasp on the door, swung it open and stepped through, and with an overwhelming sense of relief closed it behind him.
Now what? he thought, though he kept walking as he wrestled with that question. For more than three years now he had entertained only one goal, one driving vision: return to Frankia and avenge himself on his brother. That had not changed. It had only become considerably harder.
All this time he had imagined he would return to Roumois and the men-at-arms, his old comrades, would rally to him. The people of Roumois would side with him after they learned what his brother had done in banishing him to Glendalough. Louis was well liked by the people — he and his men had been protecting them from the depredations of the Northmen for years — and he did not doubt they would assist him in taking his vengeance.
He realized now those thoughts were ridiculous, naive, the daydreams of a child. The world was far more complicated than that. It wasn’t just his brother he had to contend with, and it wasn’t just Roumois. Eberhard had ingratiated himself into the court of Charles the Bald, had managed to convince the king that he, Louis, was the traitor, a threat to the peace in Western Frankia. Undoing that would be considerably more difficult.
He crossed over the open area surrounding the king’s residence and into one of the narrow streets that led to the main gate in the city wall, or in that general direction. He had no idea how long it would be before the gate opened at dawn, but he knew he would have to wait until then. There was no talking his way out when he did not know the language, and an English guard who did not speak English would be very suspicious indeed.
Why am I still wearing this mail and helmet? he wondered. There was no longer any advantage in walking around dressed as a man-at-arms. There was too great a chance that one of the other king’s men would try to speak with him. In his regular clothing he would be taken for one of the many foreign merchants who traveled to all of the places of worth in Engla-land.
He paused in the shadows and listened but he could hear nothing beyond the scurrying of some little nocturnal creature. He pulled the helmet off and then the belt and mail shirt. He buckled the belt around his tunic and stuffed the rest down behind a couple of old barrels pushed up against the wall. He listened some more. Still nothing. He stepped out of the shadows and continued on down the deserted road.
Soon the cluster of buildings began to thin out and Louis knew he was approaching the outer wall that formed a ring around all of Winchester, and that was as far as he could go until the sun was up and the main gate opened for the day. A wheel barrow was pushed up against a wattle fence and he sat down in it and made himself as comfortable as he could and waited for the light to come.
He did not think there was much chance of his falling asleep and he was right. He stared off into the dark, his eyes wide open, his mind tumbling along like water running down a mountain stream. His return to Roumois had just become considerably more complicated, and so had his ability to get there. He had remained with Thorgrim all this time simply because Thorgrim was trying to return to Norway, which meant he had to cross over to Frankia at some point, and that would at least get Louis on the right side of the water.
Louis had even toyed with the idea of enlisting Thorgrim to help him in his fight against his brother. That, of all his plans, seemed the most dubious, and he went back and forth. Sometimes he thought it was a brilliant idea, a natural union, the reason God had put him in Thorgrim’s way, and other times he was disgusted that he could even entertain the idea of making a pact with a man who was clearly Satan’s minion on earth.
But none of that mattered now. Thorgrim was locked away in a prison in Winchester, thanks to his own rash ideas and his ridiculous belief in his “wolf dreams”. He would not be going to Norway. After Winchester, Thorgrim’s next port of call would most likely be Hell. He could be no help to Louis anymore.
Louis doubted that the other one, Bergthor, would be going to Norway either, or that he, Louis, would be welcome in that company in any case. Joining with the heathens had taken him that far, but it would take him no farther.
Lunden, maybe? Louis mused, considering his next move. He had heard of this place Lunden, on a big river, apparently just a few days’ ride from Winchester. Quite a number of ships going in and out, he had heard: a good chance he might find passage to Frankia. The purses he had liberated from the guards were hanging from his belt. It was still too dark to see what was in them, but judging by their weight they seemed to hold a respectable number of coins, or perhaps bits of silver.
I could buy a horse, he thought next. He pictured himself making his way across the countryside and the thought of walking held little appeal. He could most likely buy a horse right there in Winchester. He did not need to speak to do that, the silver would do all the talking for him. Buy a horse, ride to Lunden, sell the horse and get passage to Frankia. Figure out what to do in Roumois once he got there.
Yes, yes, that makes sense, Louis thought, and he smiled in the dark. He shuffled up onto the bed of the barrow and leaned against its side. He was not comfortable by any means, but he was close enough.
Sleep was coming on in fits and starts when the light of dawn began to spread over the narrow streets. Louis shook himself awake and slid off the barrow, glad he had not been discovered by its owner, who might not appreciate his using it as a bed. He stretched and scratched and knew there was something pressing down on his thoughts, something that had happened that was coloring his mood.
Failend… he remembered. She had gone off, to do what he had no idea. And neither did she, it appeared. For more than two years now she had been a part of his life, sometimes a friend, sometimes an enemy. Sometimes, way back, a lover. But always there. And now she was gone.
Louis shook his head, surprised at how deeply he felt Failend’s absence. For years now his thoughts had been directed at his return to Roumois and nothing else. He was barely aware of any other considerations floating around in his mind.
I wonder… he thought as he started to walk. I wonder what else is buried in there. But such worries were for poets — skalds as the Northmen called them — or philosophers, and Louis knew he was neither, so he tried to push them aside.
He had a purpose now, a task at hand. A horse. Buy a horse. He walked slowly down one of the streets looking for some place where he might accomplish such a thing. He did not know if it was even possible in Winchester, or if he would have to go back to one of the farms he had passed on the way there.
And then, at the far end of the next street over, he saw what looked very much like a stable. He stopped and took the purses off his belt and poured the contents into his palm. There were a few bits of what looked like an armband cut up into short segments, but the rest were coins, silver coins.
Of the coins, most were stamped with the profile of a man with flowing hair and wearing some sort of robe. Louis guessed he was an English king, maybe the one who had been wounded in the recent fight. There were letters running around the edge of the coin, and though
Louis could read Frankish and Latin and Greek he could not figure out what the letters spelled. He imagined that they spelled the man’s name.
Not all of the coins appeared to be of English minting. One he recognized as Frankish; a few of the others seemed to have come from the Moorish countries. One was so old the markings were worn almost completely away.
Such a lot of wealth for a couple of pitiful guards, Louis thought. I wonder where they got all this. Then he smiled. The guards had plundered it from Thorgrim and the others after they had been taken prisoner, that was the most obvious explanation. Louis knew that his own purse had been taken.
Maybe I’ve stolen back that which was once mine, Louis thought. Mine, after I stole it from someone else.
Wherever the silver came from, it was Louis’s now, and it should be more than enough to buy a horse. He poured the money back into one of the purses and continued on toward the stable. He could hear feet shuffling around, the occasional grunt and soft whinny as he drew closer. Louis looked over the wattle fence that formed the perimeter of the yard in which the stable stood. He could see a large man with a pitchfork tossing hay to a half dozen horses standing in their stalls.
Good, good, Louis thought. He walked through the break in the fence and approached, his eyes moving up and down each horse in turn. One, he could see, was far superior to the rest, a strong-looking chestnut beast, good hindquarters, a decent length of neck.
No, you idiot, you only have to ride to Lunden, Louis chastised himself. His inclination was always to go for the best possible mount, but there was no reason to pay for the best now.
He took a few more steps toward the stable and the man with the pitchfork finally noticed him. He turned, holding the pitchfork level, not a threatening gesture but one that made it clear the tool would make an effective weapon, if needed.
“I would like to buy a horse,” Louis said. He spoke Frankish on the off chance that the man did as well, but he also pointed to the horse he wished to buy — not the worst in the stable but not the fine chestnut he had looked at first — and shook the purse that hung from his belt.
The Midgard Serpent Page 43
