The man stepped forward to where they were, still hidden by the pines. Instinctively she backed away. He had an aura of prehistoric heathen timelessness about him; a mystical animal attraction, mixed with an irresistible air of authority. ‘The infant has blood on its face,’ he said, wiping it away with a corner of the blanket. ‘It is newborn. Are you sure it is not yours?’
Silje felt affronted.
‘I am an honourable girl, my lord!’
His mouth started to smile, but then he turned his eyes towards the scaffold below. The men were not yet ready to begin their evil work – a priest was still trying to persuade this brother to confess his sins.
‘Where did you find the infant?’
‘In the forest, here, left to die.’
He raised his black eyebrows.
‘Was the girl with her?’
‘No, no, I found her in the town, beside the body of her dead mother.’
‘The plague?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
His eyes turned to the children and he said slowly, ‘Truly, you have courage.’
‘I do not fear this plague. It has been my companion for many days. It strikes those around me, but I have not suffered.’
What could have been taken for a smile crossed his face.
‘Neither have I,’ he paused. ‘So will you go down there?’
She hesitated and he said, ‘Having the children with you will keep you safe. They will not dare take a mother with her children. But wait – they must have names.’
‘Oh, I don’t know if the babe is a girl or boy. But I christened it Dag or Liv. I believed it was a myling calling to me.’
‘I understand. What about the girl?’
She paused, thinking, and then said, ‘They are both children of the night. I found them amidst death and darkness. I think I want to call her Sol.’
Those strange eyes, like long shining chinks in his face, fell upon her again, ‘Your young head holds thoughts wiser than most. Will you go down there?’
The compliment made Silje blush and she felt a warm glow inside.
‘I cannot deny that I am afraid, master.’
‘You shall not go without reward.’
Silje shook her head. ‘Money will not help me, but ...’
‘Yes?’ he prompted.
The needs of the children emboldened her. Looking straight at him she said, ‘No one will give shelter to wandering strangers in these times. The children depend on me and I am frozen to the bone. If you could just find us food, lodgings and warmth, I shall risk my life for the young count.’
The light from the tire had died down again, leaving the man’s face in shadow once more. He thought for a moment.
‘I will arrange it,’ he promised.
‘Good, then I shall go. But what about my clothes? No countess would be seen wearing these rags.’
‘I’ve already thought of that,’ he said. ‘Take this.’
From beneath the wolf-skin, he pulled a cloak of deep blue velvet. While it had only covered him to the waist, it reached easily to Silje’s feet. She pushed her hands through the slits.
‘There! It will hide the worst, but keep it tight about you. And take those rags off your shoes.’
Silje did as he said, then asked, ‘What about the way I speak?’
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘that did surprise me. You do not speak like a peasant. Perhaps you will sound like a countess. Just do your best!’
She took a deep breath. ‘Wish me luck, master.’
He gave a grim nod of his head.
Silje closed her eyes for a moment, took a few deep breaths and considered what she was about to do. With a firm grip on the girl’s hand and cradling the infant, she started downwards towards the place where they were now about to bind the young man to the rack.
She could sense the piecing gaze of the wolf-man on her back, almost burning through her clothes.
This is a very strange night, she thought. But this was just the beginning!
Chapter 2
As Silje emerged from the woods, her steps quickened, so that the little girl was barely able keep up with her. From a distance she shouted out, her voice indignant, ‘What in the name of God are you doing?’
She had no need to pretend she was appalled. She truly was, and this strengthened her resolve to risk her young life to save the unfortunate count. To think he was a royal messenger! Well, hadn’t she known he was different somehow?
The men turned and faced her. The executioner grunted, tightening his grip on the axe as if he were reluctant to lose his victim.
‘Have you all lost your senses, you stupid oafs?’ she screamed. ‘How dare you treat my husband in that manner!’
She glanced quickly at the man bound to the rack. His pale face held a look of determination, but in spite of this it seemed inevitable that his spirit would soon break. Never had she seen a person hide his horror so well. Her arrival was as much a surprise to him as the others, but he quickly recovered himself.
‘No!’ he yelled. ‘You should not have come here. Not with the children!’
The guard commander, trying to move her away, sneered and said, ‘If he is your husband, madam, then you have my pity.’
‘Do you not know who he is?’ she demanded defiantly. Despite her fear, she was enjoying playing the wife of this young count.
‘Know who he is? We know only too well!’
‘You say that you know and yet still you dare to treat the King’s Messenger so disgracefully?’
The man on the rack called out angrily, ‘You have no right to divulge my identity.’
Closer now, she turned to him, and was amazed to see how noble he looked. But his eyes could not hide the fear of death within them.
‘No, you would rather die than speak out,’ she interrupted angrily, ‘without thought for your wife and your children. I have no intention of losing you!’ And turning to the guard commander, she continued, ‘Sire, I am Countess Cecilie Stierne and this man is His Majesty’s Messenger, Niels Stierne. Since my husband hails from this part of the country, it is always he who is called upon in matters concerning this province.’
‘Cecilie!’ her new-found husband roared.
‘Be quiet! I sit at home waiting for word of you, only to hear that some fool among the King’s own men has had you arrested and brought to this place. I left home at once! Then to find you like this!’
Stepping closer to the soldier, she whispered, ‘He is here on a secret mission.’
‘You must not believe her! She lies!’ shouted the prisoner.
The soldier was no longer quite so sure of himself. ‘And why then has he said nothing?’ he asked haughtily, hiding his doubt.
‘You of all people must know that a King’s Messenger must never, never reveal his true purpose. He would rather suffer death.’
The foul stifling smell of the fires was everywhere. The soldiers’ helmets reflected the flames and the executioner stood impatiently, his axe making swishing sounds as he swung it to and fro.
Because Silje’s story seemed so believable, the commander was losing confidence.
‘We know well who this man is,’ he said gruffly. ‘His name is Heming, the bailiff-killer, and there is a price on his head.’
On the ground close to Silje lay the thumbscrews and tongs, both covered with unmistakable reddish spots. She fought down a wave of nausea, and moved directly in front of the guard commander. By now she was well into her role, no doubt spurred on by the knowledge that those bestial yellow eyes were watching events from the woods.
‘Does he look like one who would murder a bailiff? Yes, he is dirty and unkempt, but so would any man be after a hard ride through the mountains. Look at his noble features! Look at his children, his daughters! Are these the children of a murderer?’
She had said ‘daughters’ deliberately, knowing that, should they not believe her, they might easily kill the infant. The son of a convicted man could not be allowed to live.
Would they want to examine the infant? If they did, she prayed for it to be a girl, otherwise their suspicions would be aroused.
‘My small daughters, Sol and Liv – are they to lose their father?’ asked Silje after a pause. ‘What do you think King Frederick will have to say when he hears of it?’
‘And what, pray, is this important mission,’ the soldier asked with contempt.
‘Sire, I am at a loss! Do you believe my husband would reveal that, even to me? His oath of loyalty to the King silences his tongue and he would die before showing you the message he carries. Is such loyalty to be your reason for killing him?’
‘What message?’ jeered the soldier. ‘He has no message on his person. How could you know that he carries it now?’
‘Because he has it with him always – I myself have sewn the hidden pocket where it is kept.’
‘But we have searched him.’
‘Not well enough, sire,’ she retorted.
Silje turned quickly to face the rack and, with the scroll hidden in her palm, she pushed her hand in behind the man’s belt and slipped the scroll under his waistband. She fumbled, hindered by the child on her arm, but time was short, so the poor thing would have to suffer being squashed against her side.
The man protested wildly. ‘Cecilie, I will never forgive you for this!’
The soldiers were upon her in an instant, but at that moment she ripped the trouser lining and ‘found’ the message.
The commander tore it from her hand. With one voice the count and Silje cried out, ‘Do not break the royal seal!’
‘I would not dare do such a thing,’ replied the soldier, icily.
He examined the scroll, turning it this way and that, studying the seals and then, with disappointment in his voice, he announced, ‘It is genuine.’ Whereupon he turned to his men, demanding, ‘Who gave this man up as Heming, the bailiff-killer?’
The soldiers pushed one of their number to the fore.
‘I could have sworn ...’ he stuttered.
‘How well did you know the killer?’
‘I saw him once.’
‘From what distance? Did you speak with him?’
‘N-no, Commander. I saw him from above when he rode through a pass in the mountains. I saw the blond hair – and the face, it looked like this man, sir.’
‘Looked like! Is that all you have to go on?’
The soldier seemed to crumble where he stood, unable to answer.
For some time, from the corner of her eye, Silje had been able to make out a large shadow just beyond the reach of the firelight. She looked at it now – and her legs felt weak as she let out a gasp. From a second gibbet hung a body, turning slowly on the end of the rope, and at that moment its face came into full view. Silje stifled a cry and instinctively tried to hide the girl’s face, to stop her from seeing such a sight. The child, however, stared innocently straight up at the grisly figure on the gibbet and chuckled to herself, as though such sights were amusing. Children, Silje thought, see the world very differently.
The commander, clad in full uniform with breastplate and knee-breeches, turned away from the chastened soldier and faced the count once more. ‘We are also the King’s men,’ he said.
‘Then why did you say nothing to us?’ asked the count.
‘Spies and traitors are everywhere,’ was the reply.
‘Making certain this message does not fall into the wrong hands is more important than my life. Now, if you will be so good as to release me.’
‘Of course, My Lord.’
Released from the ropes, the count straightened his aching body and said, ‘Perhaps I may now take my wife and children and continue with my duties?’
The commander drew himself to attention and, bowing his head, he returned the scroll.
‘We beg your forgiveness, My Lord. This whole affair has been a misunderstanding.’
The young man did not even grace him with a look, but turned to Silje, saying, ‘I am very displeased with you! You have revealed my identity and brought dishonour upon me!’
‘My Lord, your wife acted correctly,’ said the commander with some deference. ‘It was the act of a wife of a nobleman. You may be assured that our discretion can be relied on. Such charming children!’ he added, patting the girl’s head, obviously anxious to find favour with the young count.
The man joined his ‘family’ and turned towards the woods.
‘I must leave at once. This delay will have cost our country a great deal,’ he said indignantly, with a hurried glance back over his shoulder.
Silje heard muttering and turned round. The executioner stared at her, his eyes full of hatred, not bothering to conceal his disappointment. She sighed with relief. The soldier had believed her.
It had been her good fortune that the bailiff’s soldiers had known so little of the affairs of state of the Danish Court. Had they known more, they would surely have wondered why the King’s trusted messenger was Norwegian, and one who spoke the local Trondheim dialect. Although King Frederick II was a just ruler, he was not much interested in Norway. He had visited the country in 1548 when he was the crown prince, but never as its king. His administrators, the bailiffs, sometimes known as lord lieutenants, governed the land in his absence. This had been the practice ever since Norway ceded to Danish rule in 1537. At present, the bailiff of Trondheim was one Jacob Huitfeldt and, if he got word of Silje’s bravado and his commander’s actions, his rage would know no bounds. No commander could afford to be so ignorant!
Silje was even less aware of matters of state. She congratulated herself on saving the life of an important courier.
Since the Danes had left the governing of Norway to local bailiffs, it was they who had become the object of the ordinary peoples’ smouldering hatred. The taxes were intolerable and rents were being driven up all the time. Farmers’ produce was weighed on rigged scales and they were forced to sell what goods they had at far below the market price. Administrators demanded ‘gifts’ in great numbers and the profits from all this corruption and extortion went straight to the coffers of the bailiffs.
Quite naturally, such conditions caused the people to rebel, but these revolts were often too localised to be of consequence. In Trondheim County, six years earlier, Rolf Lynge had led the peasants and farmers against the bailiff, Ludwig Munk, when he had pushed them too far. Now, though, Silje believed things had calmed down, but she did not know much about such things. Her heart was beating fast with excitement at having saved such an outstanding young man and she could not help giving him glances of quiet admiration.
As soon as they reached the edge of the woods he led the way quickly into the trees, but they had not gone far before a large shadow stood before them.
‘You blundering idiot!’ hissed the wolf-man as he struck the ‘count’ across the face. At this the young man ran further into the woods.
‘Do you strike your own brother?’ gasped Silje with alarm.
‘He is not my brother.’
‘But you said ...’
The wolf-man interrupted her angrily, ‘What was I supposed to do? Explain everything? There was no time for that.’
‘I do not like being lied to,’ she said in a low voice as she took back the strips of hide from him and began to wrap them round her shoes again after placing the infant on the ground. She could not bring herself to allow the wolf-man to touch it.
‘I had to lie to you.’ His voice was harsh and throaty. ‘That man had to be saved before he informed on all of us. He has no stomach for pain, and besides, we need him.’
Silje wondered for a moment who ‘we’ were and then said, ‘Then you cannot be a count, since you are not brothers.’
‘No more or less than he.’ His smile was grim.
‘What do you mean? I took you at your word. I believed I would be saving a royal courier.’
‘And that was my intention,’ he replied warningly ‘Don’t be so naive, Silje. It could cost you your virtue and your honour – or even y
our life!’
She did not want to hear such troubling words coming from this man, whose aura of sensuality and power continued to demand her attention.
‘I am not afraid of losing my virtue,’ she retorted as she stood up, her shoes now covered once again. ‘I have had to fight to preserve it many times, and I have always won.’
She thought she could hear amusement in his voice when, as she tried to give him back the velvet cloak, he said, ‘No, you have more need of it than I. And the infant’s clothes – take care of them, Silje, they will be of worth to you one day. Now come, we must go.’
Thinking that he meant her to sell the clothes to buy food or lodging, she started to follow his track in the snow. He seemed like a giant, walking before her in the darkness, but it was probably the wolf-skin that made it seem so. She could not understand how he moved so quickly through the darkness of the forest, but she was not surprised. She would expect almost anything from this man, even that he could see in the dark – just like an animal.
‘Please wait, don’t go so fast,’ she called quietly ‘The girl can’t keep up.’
He stopped and waited. Silje could tell he was impatient.
‘I heard you speak to that pack of murderers down there,’ he said as they drew level with him. ‘You spoke like a countess – I was impressed. Now you speak like a peasant once more. Who are you? Indeed, what are you?’
‘I am who I am – just Silje. Better that you judge me by my rags than by my words. That I can speak with class, should I so wish, is a long story, but not one that can be told while fleeing through a forest.’
He slackened his step so that they could keep up. Clearly the little girl was tiring.
Silje began wondering about the young man.
‘How handsome he is,’ she said, captivated by her thoughts, forgetting that he would hear her.
The man sniffed loudly.
‘Yes, girls do find him so. It was because of a woman that he nearly lost his life back there. He forgot to be on his guard.’
She felt dejected. ‘I suppose he has many girls?’
‘It doesn’t matter – he’s not one for you,’ he said, breaking his stride momentarily and then walking on more slowly. ‘All the same, he could need someone like you,’ he said dryly.
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