“A lot of good you did,” Sigwulf muttered. Witgern ignored him.
Suddenly scattered cries of “What goes? What has happened?” came from the warriors who trailed the march. Witgern realized that those at the front of the march were coming to a clumsy halt. Wido’s horse reared, nearly pitching him off. Those behind crowded into the men ahead of them as though the river of warriors had been dammed. Had some impassable barrier sprung out of the ground? Witgern tore off his cloak and climbed partway up a leaning pine. And then he understood.
“He’s got them!” Witgern shouted out gaily. “Hail Baldemar! He’s got them!”
Romilda barred their way with the provisions carts.
At a signal from Romilda, all thirty carts came together, those in front speedily backing up, the ones behind moving forward until the gaps between them were tightly closed. It was a quick, precise maneuver that must have been foreplanned. Witgern saw the women in them rise up all at once, holding their spears horizontally across their chests in a gesture that meant, “Do not pass.”
The threat was not a physical one—there were but two hundred or so women in the carts, some mere girls, others with infants slung across their backs, and their spears were no more than fire-hardened sticks. What dampened the men’s battle frenzy was the women’s readiness to die where they stood. Each forbidding face promised that should anyone attempt to force a way past, they would have to maim or kill, and this was unthinkable, not only because the blood-price for the murder of a woman was twice that of a man, but because they believed that in women there resided a fearsome holiness, a power over forces dark and light that was a mystery not to be trespassed upon. Nor would they seek a way around this obstruction: The venture would be ill-omened without Romilda’s blessing.
Later, Witgern would hear around the campfires what Wido shouted at the implacable Romilda while she met his eyes fearlessly: “Lovers of the Hermundures! I trust you like their foul embraces as well as your husbands’! What gifts has Baldemar lavished on you in exchange for your honor? Nidings! Hoary hags from the reeking halls of Hel!”
Wido then galloped up the rise to Baldemar’s tent, flanked by his two sons and five Companions. He pulled his mount to a rearing halt and with casual grace unsheathed his sword.
Wido is a sight to terrify the steadiest heart, Witgern thought.
Wido had removed his boar-tusk helmet, and his hair, matted to his skull with bear’s fat, had been loosened by the wind so that it sprang free in coiled clumps, as though serpents wriggled from his head. His eyes were wild and cruel. Sharp, straight teeth showed beneath a scraggly untrimmed mustache. A bloody bandage on his right arm where a sword wound had been dressed was half unwound and flapped free. Wido himself had the look of small vicious rodents active at night: prominent nose, negligible mouth, gleaming black eyes. He was not massive in size but flexible and strong. His colorless skin and sunken eyes gave him a curious, drained appearance that Baldemar’s Companions liked to attribute to the sexual insatiability of his wife, Grimelda, who was heavier than him by half, had many murders to her credit and was never without her axe.
“Baldemar!” Wido cried out. “Thief of glory! Serpent that crawls by night! Crawl out of there and order that Hel-hag to let us through!”
The better part of Wido’s Companions, some of whom had followed at a run, began to collect about him now. Wido’s younger son, Ullrik, sat a horse at Wido’s left. He was a youth of sixteen; in features and size he favored his father. It was said he bayed at the moon and that his first kill had been carefully arranged for him. But for the eminence of his father, he would have lived out his life begging by village wells. He had a vulnerable face, eyes that had learned not to trust, and was visibly unnerved by the hostility of Baldemar’s Companions.
The other son was Odberht, who was nearer twenty, and of him it was said when the Fates formed him they gathered up all that was most brutish in both parents, blended these traits and increased them in fivefold measure. In features and body he favored Grimelda: He had his mother’s bovine bulk, her coarse, dark blond hair, her crude, rounded shoulders that seemed they could take an ox yoke, her thick, square face in which a small, delicate mouth seemed almost lost. The balefire that flickered in Grimelda’s eyes was present in Odberht’s as well—at feasts they liked to drink together from the gilded skull of a wayfarer who’d had the poor judgment to take shelter too close to one of Grimelda’s prized milch cows and so had become one of the many victims of her axe. While Odberht had gotten a good share of Wido’s sensitivity to ridicule, he had received a smaller portion of his father’s cunning, and none of his sense of balance. Nothing about Odberht was fine or small; his hands as he guided the horse moved in brutish sweeps; his stout legs seemed ready to squeeze the breath out of his too-small mount. Two seeresses at different times had told him with confidence, “You shall not die by the sword.” Odberht took this to mean he would not be slain in battle at all, and this had made him recklessly bold: He had taken his first man at fifteen, and had already begun forming a small retinue of his own, leading secret raids across the borders and harassing the weaker tribes with whom the Chattians had treaties of friendship.
Odberht grinned at Witgern to let him know he approved of his loss of an eye. Wido’s older son had perfected a sort of bullying rudeness all his own that threatened to punish you if you took notice of it, while promising to mock you if you did not. Witgern met his gaze with a look that was bold and blank, which irritated Odberht so much he spat loudly on the ground.
Baldemar emerged at once. He stood in solemn silence, regarding Wido; his gaze was a sharp, subtle weapon aimed at a vital place. The sight of him brought relief to his Companions—in the lift of his head, in that proud wariness, there was as ever something of the indomitable wild horse, unaware of its rough beauty while never forgetting its strength. Grief was a fire Baldemar would use to consume his enemies; it would never burn him to ash.
Wido had expected to see a crippled spirit; to cover his unease, he spat noisily on the ground. Witgern smiled, amused, realizing Odberht’s spitting was a habit adopted from his father.
“Friends!” Baldemar said. That voice commanded immediate silence. “Every man of us lost treasures in that raid, and mothers and fathers and daughters and sons. How is it Wido lost nothing and no one?” Baldemar allowed himself an overlong pause, letting the people’s impatience gather; instinctively he knew how to heighten attention. Then he trumpeted: “It is because he removed all to safety on the day before!”
The words fell like an axe blow on the neck of one who sleeps. The silence was vast and full of terror and awe. When the crowd stirred again, murmurs of startlement traveled through the throng, swift as wind-blown ripples over water. Surely collusion with the enemy was too great an act of treachery even for Wido. But it was just as inconceivable to them that Baldemar would level such a charge without cause.
Wido was a master of concealing feeling; he threw back his head and let out a careless, staccato burst of laughter. But the men were quick to notice Odberht’s hands shivered visibly on the reins, and Ullrik looked steadily down, as if he believed that if he met no one’s eye no one would see him.
“Of course he speaks so,” Wido called out with a grand sweep of his hands. “Nothing would gladden his heart more than my destruction.” Witgern reluctantly admired Wido’s calm. “Who will listen to the lies of a wasted old man, envious because his war luck has fled, and jealous of me because even his own Companions are wisely deserting him for my camp? Baldemar, if I were your dam I, too, would have walked into flames—it’s a kinder fate than watching you hobble to your end.”
Wido laughed again, but now his laughter seemed to rattle in silence, a lone pebble in an empty pot. Grim faces searched Wido’s, then looked inquiringly to Baldemar.
Undaunted, Wido continued. “The property he says was moved,” he said, indicating Baldemar, “was moved by him. What of those twelve mares, you rogue? You borrowed them, I suppose, and mean t
o give them back.”
Baldemar’s look said clearly, the charge is too ridiculous to deny.
Then Baldemar continued serenely as if Wido had not spoken. “Wido, before the Holy Ones and the immortal gods, I say that you had foreknowledge of that raid. And that you detained me here by design with a false dispute over spoil—so as to lay my family open to attack.”
A sound like a single great groan passed through the throng. It was the heart-stricken sound of people who did not want to see what they beheld, of one who comes upon a whitened skeleton in a moonlit glade and knows it is the missing kinsman.
For Baldemar left Wido no choice but to challenge him to single battle. If Wido did not, the words would stick to him forever like a poisonous mud, and his spirit would slowly sicken and die.
Wido’s eyes burned hot as a kiln. “Not only is your fate blighted—not only have you become useless as pot scrapings—you’ve gone staring mad, Baldemar.” His voice rose to a modulated shriek. “I beg the gods for a chance to cut that lying throat.”
A strident voice from among Wido’s Companions cried out: “Trial by single battle!” The cry was quickly taken up by all who loved Wido. Many of the men most recently aligned with him had never seen Baldemar in battle and readily assumed trial by combat would favor Wido, the younger man.
The clamor continued until Geisar, First Priest of Wodan, and Sigreda, who was to succeed him, hurried into their midst and raised their staffs for silence. Geisar, when standing beside Sigreda, was often likened to the dying oak overlooking the young tree in first flower. The old priest’s face was the petrified record of some long-spent fit of fury. His body was so warped and wasted by age his neck was thrust forward almost horizontally; wispy white hair fell like a mane. He had milky blue eyes that frightened children; the left eye slewed to the side, as if he strove always to catch a tribal offender unawares. Sigreda was raven-haired and young, with a delicately rounded face polished and smooth as an apple, a mouth that was shapely and cruel, and half-shut eyes that were curtains dropped on mystery. Geisar had great authority because he had lived so long, and Sigreda, because she had once been apprenticed to Ramis—the people chose to forget that after a year Ramis drove her off as unfit. Witgern trusted her no better than Geisar.
Gradually they were obeyed and the crowd grew silent. “What say you to this?” Geisar said in his belligerent whine, looking first at Baldemar.
“If I must fight to prove the truth of my words, I must. I will meet him here, in this place, tomorrow at dawn.”
Witgern cast down his eyes in misery. Baldemar was in fine battle form, but surely he could not hope to equal Wido in stamina. It was difficult to imagine the world without Baldemar in it.
“That is satisfactory,” Wido replied. “I agree to rid the world of you here, tomorrow at dawn. And when you are dead, you may rest easily in your otherworldly abode, knowing your daughter has been taken into my hall. What a pity. Had you given her to me already, we would be kin…and your life would be saved.” Wido grinned and turned to look at his sons. “Odberht, Ullrik, can you decide between you who shall have the maid without coming to blows over it?”
Sigreda gave Wido a sharp look. “Just say whether or not you agree, Wido.” Witgern thought—she is acting a part. She does not want anyone to know how much she, too, wants Wido victorious. But why? What has Wido given them?
“Baldemar!” cried out a man of his own Companions. “Even given your words are true, Wido did not act alone. Why do you not lead us out at once to punish the Hermundures?” This brought a chorus of voices raised in assent.
Baldemar responded by nodding to one of the Companions who stood guard round his tent. The man disappeared within, then emerged bearing six native spears bound together with cord. Baldemar took them and held them aloft. “These spears I had brought from six villages where the raiders struck. Any one of you, come forward and look. On not one of them is a village mark or a name-sign. One imprudent raider might have forgotten to mark his weapon so he could proclaim his kill—but six, at different villages? This is but one of several things they did that Hermundures surely would not.”
Everywhere Witgern saw looks of puzzled alarm. Then he looked quickly at Wido and was certain he saw a start of unease in those small bright eyes. What did he know of this? More than any of them, Witgern was quite certain.
“When I learn who attacked us, I will lead us out. If you would know it at once, ask him,” Baldemar declared, pointing at Wido. “Perhaps he will consent to share his great knowledge of the enemy with his own people.”
Odberht could no longer keep silence. “Serpent tongue! You prepared those spears yourself. You’ll not long outlive this slander.”
Odberht’s small bay stallion nervously tossed its head and Baldemar saw for the first time the man mounted behind him among Wido’s foremost Companions; he seemed remote from the passions expressed all about. His arms were bare of rings; he had neatly combed straw-colored hair, a russet beard, and tantalizingly familiar faded blue eyes. Baldemar frowned, struggling with a memory.
“You there,” Baldemar said. “Come forward. I would have a look at you.”
“Stay there,” Wido ordered the Companion. “Trickster. Get off from us!”
But Baldemar ignored Wido and approached the young man until he stood in his shadow. “Your face is known to me, I would swear by my mother’s ashes,” Baldemar said softly.
“You are mistaken,” the young Companion replied, his voice wavering like some top-heavy object ready to fall. He grabbed it by force of will and held it steady. “I am Branhard, a man of the Bructeres, and I left my own land but two full moons ago. I never have set eyes upon you before this day.” He spoke too forcefully for a man innocently responding to a question, and all stared at him.
“Truly? The Bructeres, you say? Then you are of my wife’s people. You must have recent news of Athelinda’s mother. Tell me, has Gandrida recovered from her illness?”
Wido shot Branhard a look that meant—do not answer him. But the young Companion was too unnerved to notice.
“Yes,” he answered. “Yes, she has, and she fares well.”
“Gandrida died last year.”
The Companion flushed. Sharp shouts erupted among Baldemar’s men. “Who are you? Name your country!” they cried, crowding closer, a pack of hounds barely restrained from seizing their victim’s throat. Had Sigreda and Geisar not ordered them back, they might have murdered the young man right then. Wido’s defenders moved close, spears upraised, and formed a protective ring about him, while those too far off to have heard these words continued their dogged chant—“Trial by single battle!”
Baldemar had chosen his question well. Gandrida had been a celebrated and powerful woman of rank, and her death was known well beyond the borders of her people’s lands. The Companion’s ignorance showed him to be not a man of the tribes at all, but a southerner who must have dwelled all his life in the lands controlled by the Romans.
Odberht whispered something to his father, wildfire in his eyes. Wido shook his head angrily to whatever Odberht had proposed.
“Lay your traps now, Baldemar, while I tolerate it,” Wido shouted over the din. “But beware you’re not caught in one of your own snares, you too-clever man.” Wido smiled an oily smile and turned his head to nod at his three hundred well-armed Companions, a gesture that meant, I’ve thrice the battle companions you have and I will use them now if you try to corner me again in all the people’s sight.
“Speak no more,” Geisar broke in. “One of you spews untruths and is not fit to walk among us. Tomorrow at dawn, let the spirits of the land determine who shall live on and who shall be cast out. Depart now, one and all.”
The crowd began to withdraw. Wido and Branhard turned their horses, and Baldemar strode off toward the lone oak at the crown of the hill to make a sacrifice of a white calf for the welfare of his family. Sigreda, who meant to assist, was a dark spirit moving gracefully at his side. But Witgern noticed with
a start of unease that Odberht did not move; he sat rigidly on his horse, his gaze fastened on Baldemar’s back.
“Baldemar,” Sigreda was saying, watching him with those torpid eyes that concealed swift calculation, “I dreamed I saw your corpse on the ground with a stake driven in, while Wido rode by on a horse caparisoned in silver and gold. It is because you have not sacrificed what we asked. You must give us the appeasement gift now, lest you never get a chance to give it.”
“That is because I have decided mere cattle and sheep and silver are not enough. I plan to give in addition the most valuable thing a man can give, and I mean to deliver the whole of the gift at once.”
“That is your life, Baldemar. The god has not asked for it. We seek not to destroy but to purify. And you cannot give your life twice. What if you die tomorrow?”
“Do the gods preserve the innocent?”
“Of course.”
“Then you’ve little to worry about.”
From behind them came a barked war cry and the hammering of hooves. Sigreda spun round and saw a flare of sunlight on an upraised blade. She screamed and flung herself to safety.
The frayed leadline by which Wido restrained his oldest son had finally snapped. Odberht, sword raised, bore down upon Baldemar.
Wido wheeled his horse about. “Odberht! Damnable idiot! Halt, I command you!”
To strike an enemy from behind was an act so dishonorable that the culprit was often condemned to be drowned beneath hurdles in a lake. Wido’s status probably would save Odberht from such a fate, but still it would open a wound on the living body of his kin that would never fully heal. Wido had no objections to murder by this means if it were carried out in secret, but he was horrified his son had the bad judgment to do it openly, before the army and the priest of the high god.
A half dozen voices cried out a warning to Baldemar. Witgern bolted forward, meaning to push Baldemar to safety, even though Odberht was hopelessly ahead of him.
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