The two men nodded then hurried back down the road in the gathering gloom of evening. It was good they were doing that now: there would soon not be enough daylight left for them to see what they were doing.
Amundi took his place on the granite ledge and felt the weariness and the ache wash over him. Alfdis was going from man to man handing out chunks of bread, pretty much all the food they had with them. Amundi took it, gratefully, though he was not sure he had the energy to eat. He held the bread in his hand for a few moments, then lifted it to his mouth. He was just chewing the last of it when Oleif and Kormak returned, carrying two stout ten-foot poles between them.
“Odd,” Amundi said, standing as he did. The daylight was almost gone now, he could barely make Odd out against the rock. “We’re going to make a stretcher, bear you along from here.” He held up his hand as the first protests came from Odd’s lips. “No argument. We didn’t go to this effort just to see you die on the road like a horse run to death.”
Odd began to protest again but this time Signy hushed him and made him sit still as a couple of capes were lashed together to make the sling. Thord had had the good sense to bring some small rope with him and that was lashed to the corners of the capes. They were just starting to tie the sling to the poles when Oleif stood and cocked his ear.
“Riders,” he said. “Close.” Amundi frowned and listened but he could not hear anything. But he could see on the faces of some of the other men that Oleif was not the only one who heard them.
“Where are they coming from?” Amundi asked. “North or south?”
No one answered at first. At last Oleif said, “I can’t tell.”
And then Amundi could hear them as well: horses coming closer. They seemed to be coming at a slow trot, the sound of their hoof beats muffled by the rain and the road’s soft mud. Like the others, he could not tell from what direction they were coming. He stood motionless and listened and he felt suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion, unable to move, unable even to think of what he should do.
Signy was the next to speak. “We should not be on the road,” she said. “Not until we know who this is.”
That made considerable sense, enough to penetrate the fog in Amundi’s mind. “Right,” he said. “Let’s find some place to hide and…”
It was as far as he got. Before he could finish the thought the riders were there, coming down the road from the north. A few of them carried torches against the darkness, with the result that Amundi could see little of them past the bright flames. He had no idea who these men were.
Beside him he heard the scrape of Thord drawing his sword as the other men took in hand the weapons they had salvaged from the boat. A few even had shields. Amundi drew his own sword and held it with the point lowered. He felt himself tense up, ready to move, the presence of danger bringing new energy.
Maybe the gods have given me a second chance to die with a weapon in my hand, he thought. Then the lead horse stopped, ten feet away, as the rider pulled the reins back and held the torch out at arm’s length.
The rider spoke. One word. “Amundi?”
The voice was familiar, but it was not the one he had expected. It was not Skorri’s. The rider nudged his horse forward a few feet and now the torchlight fell on his face, enough that Amundi could see it. A narrow face, a young face, dark beard, well-tended.
“Vifil Helgason?” Amundi said.
“Ha!” Vifil said, his voice sounding of surprise and pleasure and triumph, all at once. He slid down from his horse, torch in hand, smiling wide. He was wearing a mail shirt and had a sword on his waist. There was a shield hanging from his saddle.
“Amundi Thorsteinsson!” he said. He looked around. “And by the gods, Odd Thorgrimson! I thought it was too much to hope that we might find you!”
“Why were you looking for us?” Amundi asked.
“This fellow came by, fellow named Alf. He’d run away from Halfdan’s army. Not sure why, he wouldn’t tell us, really. Anyway, he was tired and hungry and said he’d trade us some news we might want for food and drink. He told us how you had stolen Odd from Halfdan, how you had escaped in a boat. We guessed you would come ashore near here, that you wouldn’t want to stay in a boat any longer than you had to, not in this storm. So we came to look for you. Or at least find your bodies where you washed up on the beach.”
Amundi smiled. He looked past Vifil to the other riders. There were thirty men at least. He could see spears and shields. A well-equipped war band, they had come ready to fight.
“I don’t know if I’ve been more happy to see any man in my life,” Amundi said, and he embraced Vifil. “We must get Odd on a horse, he doesn’t have much strength left.”
“We have horses,” Vifil said. “We brought more horses, in case we were lucky enough to find you.”
It was then that they heard the other riders, more hoof beats, not so far off, loud enough that all conversation stopped as they listened.
“More of your people?” Amundi asked.
“No,” Vifil said. “All the men I brought are here with me. Don’t know who this could be.”
But Amundi did, he had an ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach. It did not seem possible: indeed, Amundi told himself it was not possible. The chances of Skorri making it to shore alive were very small. But even if he had, how would he get horses? How would he know to ride north in search of them? Wouldn’t he go back to Halfdan’s camp?
No, Amundi thought. He would not go back to Halfdan’s camp if he could not bring us in with him. He wouldn’t tell Halfdan he had failed.
“I think I know who this is,” Amundi said, and as he did the horsemen seemed to appear out of the night, coming from the south.
There were around fifteen of them. They carried no torches, but the light from Vifil’s torches fell over the men and horses in the lead, and touched those farther back. It illuminated the first of them, who reined to a stop ten feet away.
“Ah, Amundi,” the man said. “We thought you would be here, scurrying north.”
“Skorri,” Amundi said. “I’d have thought the crabs would be making a meal of you by now. I see not. But there’s still time.”
Skorri’s eyes moved beyond Amundi. “Odd, you look well,” he said. “But we’ll see to that. And you would be Vifil?”
“I would,” Vifil said.
“Well, Vifil, I guess your work here is over. Take your men and go, and I suspect King Halfdan will forget what you’ve done tonight.”
“Hmm,” Vifil said. He folded his arms but did not move beyond that.
“Sorry, did you not hear me?” Skorri asked. “The more you help these criminals the less forgetful King Halfdan is likely to be.”
“Yes, I understand,” Vifil said. “But I’m not sure you have this right.”
As if on some signal Vifil’s men all dismounted, moving as one, the quiet evening filled with the sound of thirty armed men getting down from their horses, drawing weapons and setting shields on arms.
“I seem to have a lot more men than you,” Vifil said. “And they seem to be better armed.” He took a step forward and raised his torch higher, throwing more light on Skorri, and looked him over with a puzzled expression. “You don’t seem to have mail, or a sword, or a shield,” he said. “Or even a seax or a knife. Neither do you or you,” he added, pointing at the men on either side of Skorri. “Are you certain you came here to fight? Are you sure you want to?”
Skorri scowled. It had apparently not occurred to him that he would need to do anything more than simply issue commands. It had apparently not occurred to him he might meet a war band stronger than his.
“You don’t want to do this, Vifil Helgason,” he said. “None of you,” he continued, speaking so all could hear. “You don’t want to bring Halfdan’s wrath down on you.”
A voice called out from somewhere back in the crowd of Vifil’s men. “Halfdan can bring his lips down on my ass!” The men laughed and banged weapons on shields and that seemed to break the
tension. Vifil smiled. Even Amundi found himself smiling.
“I’ll give you one last chance…” Skorri said, loud, over the noise, but Vifil cut him off.
“Here’s your choice, Skorri. You and your men get down and fight, or ride off. That’s it. Choose now or by the gods we’ll pull you down from those horses ourselves.”
It was silent after that, save for the shuffling and snorting of the many horses and the occasional thump of a weapon against something. Skorri and Vifil glared at one another. Skorri spoke next.
“Odd Thorgrimson, you’ll let these others die to protect you?”
“Yes, he will,” Amundi said before Odd could answer. “We’ve given him no choice.” He braced, waiting for Odd to speak, and when he didn’t Amundi wondered if Signy had her hand over his mouth.
“Go, Skorri,” Vifil said. “Go now.”
For a moment more Skorri just stared at Vifil, stared at Amundi and the others. It seemed to hang there, teetering, the whole thing on a cliff edge. Then Skorri jerked the reins of his horse over hard and headed back down the road, the rest of his men following behind.
Vifil, Amundi and the rest remained motionless until the sounds of their horses’ hooves could be heard no more.
“That was not wise, Vifil,” Amundi said.
“No,” Vifil said. “No, it wasn’t.”
Odd stepped up beside them. In the light of the torch they could see the weariness and the pain in his gaunt, lined face. “I wish you had not done that for me,” he said.
“Well, you get your wish,” Vifil said. “Because I didn’t do it for you. Now, let’s get you on a horse and get back to my hall. We have a lot to do, I think, to prepare for a visit from our king.”
Amundi smiled, just a bit of a smile. Vifil spoke the truth. There was a lot to do. And Amundi was glad to do all of it and more, and he knew the others felt the same. To do, rather than to be done unto.
There would be time enough to worry about those things. It would be their reality tomorrow, and the next day and the next, stretching off farther than they could see.
But for now there was the hall at Vifil’s farm. Warmth. Dry clothes. Hot food. A comfortable bed. For the moment that was as far as Amundi’s mind could travel, as far as his imagination could reach.
Chapter Forty
The same year also Æthelwulf went to Rome
with great pomp, and was resident there a twelvemonth.
Then he returned homeward; and Charles, king of the Franks,
gave him his daughter, whose name was Judith,
to be his queen.
Anglo Saxon Chronicle
The witan met in King Æthelwulf’s bedchamber. The king himself was propped up in the big wood-framed bed that occupied a respectable portion of the floor space. He wore a linen shirt, bleached to a brilliant white, against which the dark-brownish splotch of blood from his wound stood out in sharp relief.
Felix frowned a bit.
He knew two things for certain. One was that Æthelwulf had a number of shirts exactly like the one he was wearing, ones that did not have blood stains on them. The king had no need to wear the that one. The other thing that Felix knew was that Æthelwulf’s wound had pretty much healed up. He did not really need to be in bed. But he seemed to be enjoying it, and the drama of the bloodstained shirt as well, and it did no harm, so Felix figured the old man might as well stay as he was, a near-martyr in his battle with the Godless.
Nor was it particularly unusual to conduct business in the royal bedchamber. It was, after all, a nice room. Not cavernous like the great hall so it was possible to keep it somewhat warm in the winter months. It was one of the few rooms in the king’s residence, or anywhere in Winchester, that had windows with glass in them, so the room was often filled with natural light, a wonderful thing. The walls were hung with brightly colored, intricately woven tapestries that made the room seem almost cheery when the sun was streaming in.
But what most pleased Felix just then was the bedchamber’s size, which was not great and so left no room for the minor thegns and lords with small holdings to attend. They were the ones, in Felix’s experience, who often talked the most, hoping to impress the king with their words since they could not with their estates or the taxes they paid. And if a man was speaking just to impress, there was a good chance he had nothing very important to say.
The men who were there were the thegns with the greatest holdings, as well as the ealdormen who ruled over the various shires in Wessex. The men whose opinions mattered.
Four of the king’s five sons were there as well. The oldest, Æthelstan, had died just a few years before, though he had lived long enough to be a king himself, ruler of Kent. The remaining boys were standing dutifully near their father’s bed: Æthelbald, next in line for the crown of Wessex, Æthelberht, who was after him, Æthelred, seven years old, and the youngest, Alfred, who was six and, in Felix’s mind, the most clever of the lot. It seemed a shame to Felix that with four brothers ahead of him in succession Alfred would likely never be king himself.
“The heathens seem to be staying put, licking their wounds,” ealdorman Byrnhorn was saying. The discussion had just commenced: what were the heathens doing, what would they do next, what should the king do about it.
“We hurt them badly, under your highness’s command,” Alhmund added, nodding toward King Æthelwulf, who acknowledged him with a nod as well. “Maybe worse than we thought. Maybe they’re patching themselves up and making ready to leave.”
“Not sure they’re doing that,” said Leofric, who, having stood by Æthelwulf during the battle, had earned a higher status in the king’s reckoning, and thus at court. “If the heathens just meant to leave they would not have taken Nothwulf prisoner and made him lead them right into the king’s residence.”
An uncomfortable silence followed that. The words were humiliating to Nothwulf, who, as ealdorman of Dorsetshire, was part of the bedchamber audience.
“I led them to where they might be captured,” Nothwulf protested. “It’s not as if….”
“I see Leofric’s point,” Byrnhorn interrupted. “Don’t see why the heathens would have sent a scouting party, or whatever in God’s name they were doing, into the city if they just meant to leave.”
“They must have been spies,” ealdorman Egbert chimed in. “Must have come to get a look at the defenses, the number of men-at-arms we have. Trying to figure if it would be a smart business to attack Winchester.”
Heads nodded. Egbert’s was, in fact, the most logical guess. But it was wrong. Thanks to Louis de Roumois, Felix alone knew the real reason the heathens were there. They had come to rescue the Irish girl.
Still, he kept silent. He did not know why she was so important to them, and telling the witan what he knew would only confuse matters. But he meant to find out, about the girl and about many other things, once he had another go at Louis. He intended to pry quite a bit of information from the traitorous bastard before he was done.
And, happily, they would soon after be going to Frankia, to the court of Charles the Bald, where Felix would be able to deliver Louis in person.
“Well, they’ll not be bringing word back to the rest of the heathen camp now,” King Æthelwulf said. “Thanks to the good work of my house guard. The Godless heathens back in Hamtun still know nothing of our strength, and they’re not likely to find out.”
“And what do we know of the heathens’ strength?” asked Hereric, a thegn who had an estate to the north.
“Eleven ships,” Felix said, his first words since the witan began. “Around five or six hundred men.”
That was met with silence. The numbers were not too terribly intimidating — the king’s army was about the same size, maybe even bigger. But the bulk of the king’s men were made up of the fyrd, the folk called up to fight when needed. Soldiering was not their profession, whereas the heathens were all fighting men. They would not have come raiding if they were not. It made them a formidable enemy.
&n
bsp; “Well, we beat the bastards once, like I said,” Alhmund observed. “No reason to think we can’t do it again.”
This, too, was met with silence. There was more to it than that, but none of the men there wanted to say it. They had caught the heathens unprepared the first time, and sprung a trap on them. It was a brilliant move and it had worked brilliantly, but no one thought the heathens would fall for it, or anything like it, a second time.
“I agree that we’re a near match for the heathens,” Felix said. “But I’m not so certain we need to fight them just now.”
This he knew was the most helpful thing he could do: express doubt, suggest caution, which the others could not, or would not, do. Felix was not playing the same game as the lords. He did not have to worry about his reputation, or fear that his words would make him appear timid. It did not matter to him.
“What do you mean by that, Felix?” Æthelwulf asked.
“I mean that you have your pilgrimage to consider, sire,” Felix said. “Your visit to the court of Charles, your pilgrimage to Rome and a meeting with the Holy Father. Sure, we could fight the heathens, and I have no doubt we’d kill the lot of them. But such an effort would set us back weeks at least. More, if we suffered much at their hands. No, I say better to stay behind the walls of Winchester for the time being. I don’t think the heathens will try to breach our walls. They’ll tire of this place and move on.”
“I think Felix makes good sense,” Leofric said. “We hurt the heathens once, no reason to waste our men doing it again.” He looked over at Æthelwulf and added, “No reason to risk your life, sire, when you’ve already been nobly wounded in battle.”
Byrnhorn spoke next. He was one of the most powerful of the ealdormen and that gave him leeway to ask awkward questions. “I’d like to have at ’em, of course, just like we all would, but I can see the sense in this as well. But if the heathens do come to Winchester, we’re sure we can defend the place with the men we have?”
The Midgard Serpent Page 45
