B007IIXYQY EBOK

by Gillespie, Donna

  “Help us. That’s all I have to say. The burden’s on you alone. Tell him the Weasel’s shamelessly courting them day and night. Tell him his men are clamoring for a word with him. Must I sell myself into slavery so he’ll summon me?” Sigwulf pulled Witgern closer. The smell of sour mead made Witgern want to retch. “Did you know Geisar betrayed us? That priest can’t hear the gods anymore for the clink of silver. He stripped the furs from our backs.”

  “The god’s gift? Tell me, how much?”

  “A thousand head of cattle, a thousand of sheep, and a thousand rings of beaten gold, all to be dumped into the Rhine. The gold’s for Hertha, I suppose. Never did a mother do her son so ill.”

  “You’re drunk. Watch that impious tongue before someone rips it out.” Witgern half turned, then muttered to himself, “Son of a black dog. Wido could lose all his cattle to sickness and all his kin, and Geisar would require of him one hen, one clay vessel, and a bone pin. We are ruined.”

  “Witgern, I am sorry for your plight, truly,” Sigwulf said then. Though sincerely meant, the words came out as a mocking imitation of frankness—Sigwulf would rather roast on a spit than show gentleness. “I never coveted all the love he gives you, you must know it, and I do not even want his coveted daughter. I promise I’ll refuse her if he offers her to me.”

  With a mighty effort that left him trembling, Witgern restrained himself from delivering a blow to Sigwulf’s face. He said softly, “If you’ve a wise tongue in your head, you’ll shut your mouth about that.”

  They heard a single horn blast from the base of the hill, followed by crashing, arhythmic music rudely reverberating through the dawn hush of the valley. Witgern straightened and looked down at the base of the hill.

  Just beyond the haphazardly spaced tents of the Companions, Wido had mounted a horse and hoisted up a boar standard. Before the eyes of Baldemar’s Companions he was forming up the army. Men pulled down tents, hastily covered firepits over with earth, loaded pack horses with war gear and gathered up spears, all the while shouting out insults to the Hermundures and striking swords against shields, a noxious noise meant to drive off evil spirits sent by the enemy. The men were brilliant with the colors of war in their fittings of burnished bronze, their blood-colored cloaks, their wickerwork shields splashed with raw yellow and blue paint. Witgern looked quickly to the narrow neck of the valley and saw that even Romilda’s wagons were positioned to move.

  He left Sigwulf abruptly, filled with a wild sadness that made him forget his own circumstances. This is no fit end for you, Baldemar! Stop him!

  Witgern hesitated before Baldemar’s tent, discouraged by its brooding bulk. It seemed the spirits of night lingered about it still, defying the sallow light of morning. The cat skull mounted atop the center pole seemed alive. Die, lying coward, its great cat ghost seemed to spit at him. Troubled clouds gathered behind the tent; the tension of coming rain was like withheld tears. The lynx skin that draped the door was ominously dropped in place—always the entrance to this tent was left open, a symbol of Baldemar’s readiness to hold council with any man of his Companions who came forward.

  About the tent nine honor guards were posted, huge fists clutching upright spears, wolfskins draped carelessly over their shoulders so they appeared half man, half beast. Witgern greeted them with a raised hand. He took one more moment to steady his mind, then pulled the lynx skin aside and entered.

  At first he saw only darkness and the light of two smoking torches.

  Then, between them, he discerned the darker form of a man. The twin flames seemed to cringe and grow small before the massive silence of the shadowy figure sitting there.

  A hand rose up from the smoke and motioned him closer.

  He moved forward warily. Baldemar was to him a weathered mountain, stubborn and monumental, a fortress that had crowned his horizon all his life. If that fortress was broken by sorrowing, he was not sure he wanted to see it.

  Gradually Witgern saw the outline of a kingly tangled mane of hair, a chieftain’s cloak draped with casual majesty over the high seat. Then he saw those predatory eyes, steady as stars on a calm night, shining not with malice but with acute sight. At Baldemar’s side could just be seen the firelit gems on the hilt of his sword, a weapon as celebrated as the man. Baldemar was dressed and armed as always for receiving emissaries. Behind him, hanging from a tentpole, gleamed the great rectangular shield of a primus pilus, or First Centurion, the highest-ranking Roman he had taken in battle—it hung there wherever he raised his tent because it amused Baldemar to irritate Roman messengers with the sight of it.

  Witgern’s courage drained away.

  Even if you let me live, the remainder of my life is stillborn. I am a ghost in the flesh, killed by my own foolishness. Break the silence, I beg you, and condemn me…

  But Baldemar examined him unhurriedly, and Witgern felt those bright, acute eyes plucking at him, stripping him naked not only of clothes but of all words that cloaked, and even of bone and skin. His most deeply buried thought, he was certain, wriggled ugly and alive on the ground beneath those scouring eyes.

  Finally Baldemar spoke. “Witgern, my boy, that grim look would take the grin off a skull!” His voice as always was lusty with aggressive humor, a rough, exploring voice that invited challenge.

  Witgern repeated his prepared words, hoping humility would save his life. “Baldemar, I greet you. You see how I am maimed. I cannot live on alms. And I cannot live away from battle. I came too late upon the immolation of your hall. My life-luck is gone. I will die now, if you give me leave.”

  As he spoke, something in Baldemar’s look made the words sound thin and shallow, made him feel another had put them in his mouth. Who? Why? Am I not speaking properly? What is it about Baldemar that makes a man question those things that otherwise he never thinks to question?

  Baldemar laughed as at a good joke at a feast and slapped a knee. “At last—I’ve finally found a failing in Witgern the Good!” Witgern took a step back, disoriented and bewildered.

  “Greed,” Baldemar continued. “He gobbles up all the blame and shame. Save some for your fellows. You will die now, you say? At my order? You insult me. Wido is out there, not in here.”

  “I—I mean no insult. And, happily, you have brought up Wido. I beg you, for the sake of all of us, go and put him in his place. As we speak, he is making off with the army, leading the expedition that is rightfully yours!”

  To Witgern’s surprise this caused not even the barest ripple on the surface of Baldemar’s calm.

  “Is he? Wido is a noisy man of small deeds, and he does not interest me now. You interest me more.” Baldemar leaned forward, squinted, then frowned. He took up one of the torches and brought it closer to Witgern, to better see him.

  “Shadow,” Baldemar said at last, looking perplexed.

  “I…I do not understand.”

  The dark gemstones set in the eagle brooch that fastened Baldemar’s cloak flashed warningly. “Shadow,” he repeated. “That’s his markings, I’d know them anywhere, I never saw a dog similarly marked, brown and white speckles with a black toe.”

  Witgern felt his whole body seize up like a tightened fist. He prayed he would not disgrace himself and faint. That cursed amulet they’d coaxed him to make from the paw of that pestiferous dog…he’d gone along with the sham so his tale would be more credible. He had forgotten he still wore it about his neck.

  “Shadow was my hound, Witgern. And he didn’t bite. Witgern, you killed my dog.”

  Sweat rolled down Witgern’s chest. His throat froze; his now his whole body was becoming numb.

  I killed his pet hound. What next? Did ever any man look more the utter fool?

  “You clever rascal, you weren’t bitten at all, were you?” To Witgern’s immense relief he saw a flicker of humor in Baldemar’s eyes.

  Witgern smiled sheepishly. “Where one man sees but a paw, Baldemar sees the whole dog.”

  “All those noble qualities and wit too! It is f
ortunate for you I care more for men than for dogs. Now tell me what really happened. Out with it, quickly.”

  “Your daughter refuses to marry me. I…thought the dog was wild and tried to make it look as if—”

  “Stop there, I’ve caught your meaning. I know, Witgern. I have messages from Auriane and her mother every day. You should have trusted me to save the honor of your name. Then poor Shadow could have lived to a venerable old age. Think no more on it—this secret shall remain yours and mine.”

  “You mean not to cast me off then?”

  “For the eye? I think not. Your soul still sees with two eyes. Just keep a good grip on the one you have left.”

  “You are most nobly generous.”

  “Witgern, you returned by much the same pathway the raiders used. Did any of your men see traces of revelry and rejoicing—I mean abandoned campsites where they may have lingered and swilled down some of their spoils?”

  The noise outside became so great Witgern was forced to wait before he replied. The chant “Wido, loved of Wodan, of most worth in the world of men!” rose over all other cries.

  Witgern stifled a second plea. Baldemar did not care. This was like watching a man who does not cry out when a torch is held to his face.

  “They left less trace than a fleeing hawk,” Witgern replied.

  Baldemar nodded slowly and sat back, eyes intent, his expression showing this confirmed a thing he suspected.

  “The Hermundures on the scent of booty are like flies around honeycakes,” Baldemar continued. “You can get them all at one swat. Why is it our people felled so few of them?”

  Witgern had no answer.

  “And is it not odd,” Baldemar continued, “that this raid which so conveniently impoverishes me comes at the very time when Wido and the Roman governor are pressing for that odious marriage—which among other things would also restore me to wealth?”

  “She said the same! Thorgild said Auriane spoke similar words when they helped her to the village.”

  “Did she!” Baldemar’s eyes were fired with pride. “That alerts me the question’s a good one.” Witgern started, missing the next few words, for in that instant it almost seemed Auriane looked through Baldemar’s eyes, and he reflected that it often seemed they had one soul—he was its gnarled roots, firmly gripping the earth, and she, the questing green shoots, supple, quick growing.

  “…that Wido’s cattle were not driven off, nor was his hall burned, though it lay more directly in their path. They came for me, Witgern.”

  “It’s impossible that Wido could be in league with the Hermundures. Serpent that he is, still he has Chattian blood in his veins.”

  “Hasty words are as deadly as any blade, Witgern. Be careful, nothing here is as it seems.” He looked away. “They came for me,” he breathed softly, his eyes brilliant and dangerous in the torchlight. But as ever, his broad good cheer returned with startling speed. His grin was a rough embrace. “My boy, do not get settled here! You’re the best man for it, so I mean for you to leave at once at the head of a company of twenty-five men I’ve chosen from the Companions. First they will rebuild my hall—I wish all to think that their true purpose. But afterward you will fetch my daughter from the lodge where Thrusnelda has her hidden and take her to the place of the Midsummer Assembly. The danger is great—if Wido learns the route of her journey, I have no doubt he will lay an ambush for her. Never has he wanted anything so much as he wants her to be bound to one of his sons. Witgern, if you get her to the Assembly healthy and whole for the day she meets her groom, there is no favor I will not grant you.”

  “What?” Blood rushed to his face. “Marriage, for her? But she refuses! Who then will she marry? Sigwulf?”

  “Sigwulf! Ha! Is that what you think! I’d never see her married to a man with such a rabid aversion to water. If a dog shakes itself dry near Sigwulf, he counts it a bath.”

  “Not Sigwulf. Who then? A better man than I?” Witgern felt the helpless anger of a declawed beast.

  “Yes, I would say so. A better man than us all.”

  “I am not good with riddles.”

  “Jealousy certainly dulls your blade. She named him herself—she is to be the bride of Wodan. By Hel, who else would she marry on the night of the Assembly? I am not immortal, my boy. You know she must be pledged to god or man before battle takes me.”

  “So you and she decided a god it should be…I understand, and yet I do not.”

  “Noble Witgern. You’ve too much respect to name the source of your confusion, so I’ll name it. You’ve no doubt heard the gossip that Athelinda will ever be unable to bear more children. How can he willingly deprive the family of further issue, you wonder. It is the greatest sacrifice I can give, is it not? That is indeed my aim. I will give the god a greater thing than what he took from me. He took my son. So I give to him all hope of heirs. That should satisfy heaven and earth, should it not?”

  Now Witgern did see signs of sorrowing in Baldemar’s face. His gaze seemed to look fixedly, imploringly, on the dead, and he sat too solemnly still, as if he were before an altar stone in a sacred grove.

  “And as for her prodigal deed in the Ash Grove—Witgern, it is a sign of battle luck so rare the She-Wolf had not yet suckled Rome when last it happened among us. So you see, the god had cast a lustful eye on her already, before I ever conceived of this divine marriage.”

  Witgern listened in sad, bewildered agreement, thinking, Baldemar commands even the Fates, for they have so neatly worked his will. The old fox. The clever, beneficent fox. Father and daughter are alike. Now they’ll hunt together forever, Romans instead of hares and deer. Always he has wanted her near, daring what he dares, living as he lives. That is the sort of immortality that pleases him, not the fleshly sort. He would see his spirit gallop on, head up in the wind. Yes, there is the same wild horse spirit in them both.

  “Battling Rome is like carrying water in a sieve,” Baldemar went on. “Perhaps she will be the one to arrest the plague. Sometimes I think her spirit is mine, purified. What I do with might, she does with innocence. And she has no notion of it, none whatever, no more than the doe of the field. She might slay a dragon with innocence…”

  The cry of a battle horn rose up like a high wind.

  “Wido!” Witgern whispered, half turning round. “Do you not hear him? Did I not tell you? Baldemar, I beg you listen. They are leaving!”

  “Why yes, I do hear it. Wido is indeed leaving.”

  “I do not understand you! Your Companions are leaving, too. Did you know twenty more deserted you just this morning?”

  “Twenty-three, to be precise,” Baldemar replied. “When a tree’s given a light shake, the rottenest fruit always falls first.”

  “I can abide this no longer! Every moment we delay punishing the Hermundures shames us!” At these words Witgern felt his face redden. It was too close to open criticism. And had he not earlier heard Wido speak nearly the same words?

  But to his surprise Baldemar was not angry; instead he grew reflective. “A more intriguing question is one you did not ask—where is Wido’s wealth coming from? All those new Companions gathered so quickly, all those fresh foreign faces. How does he provide them all with longswords when he scarcely leads a raid?”

  “Curses, I do not know. The hoard, I suppose, that he always claims he found buried…. I beg you, stop him! Why do you not fight for yourself! If you will not, then I will!” Witgern wheeled around and began to stride off, his sword drawn.

  “Halt!” Baldemar’s voice rang out like iron striking iron. Witgern froze in mid-step. “You’re an overeager pup that needs a tight leash,” Baldemar said sharply. “Turn round.”

  Witgern slowly obeyed. “Precisely,” Baldemar continued, his tone casual and expansive once more. “A generations-old hoard, Wido claims. Well, I’ve had some of it brought to me. Those coins have images of Nero on them—Nero, by all the gods! What does Wido take me for? It’s a fool who assumes others are fools.”

  �
�You are too quick for me on these matters, Baldemar, but I know my enemy.”

  “Do you, truly? Witgern, we were not attacked by Hermundures.”

  “Not attacked by—but—with all respect, they were seen. They were seen by many.”

  “And what is even more interesting is that Wido, that scoundrel, knows it.”

  “This is beyond belief.”

  “If Wido goes anywhere, he’s leading his men in the wrong direction. But don’t worry over Wido sneaking off with the army. Romilda won’t follow him. If he goes anywhere, he fights without food. Wido won’t fight without food.”

  “But already she has drawn up her carts. All twenty of them.”

  “Of course. I asked her to do that. Watch what happens if they try to go past her. You must have more faith in our people. There are enough of us left yet who will not be slaves. You may leave me now.”

  Once more out in the thin morning light, Witgern saw a dismaying scene in the valley below: The mass of the army was sluggishly making its way through the high sedgegrass to the valley’s narrow opening, where Romilda waited at the head of her winding train of provisions carts. The tribesmen’s rage at the enemy was a dark, musky scent on the air. Several hundred lagged behind, still not ready to give up on Baldemar; their hoarse cries, “Baldemar! Lead us out!” had taken on the sound of a captive begging for his life.

  Witgern felt joy and hope drain out all at once, like mead from a tipped horn. This, then, was the end.

  Witgern gave Sigwulf a terse account of the meeting with Baldemar. “Either his mind’s going,” Sigwulf said, “or his vision has become as acute as the gods’. Not Hermundures? What were they then, wood sprites?”

  As they watched, Wido’s mount burst into a canter, carrying him to the front of the line. Only Wido, his two sons, and a picked force of five Companions who served as his bodyguards were on horseback; the common warriors, as always, moved and fought on foot. Wido sat rigidly upright on his horse, his hands high on the reins, his narrow chin thrust forward, determined all should see him in his moment of hard-won glory.