by M. K. Hume
“Our beer hasn’t the quality of the brew that comes from Cologne, of course, but I’d say that quietly around the locals who live here,” the bartender was telling Germanus with the loquaciousness of his breed. “They’re too fond of wine in these parts, although I don’t care much for it myself. Give me a good amber beer and I’m happy!”
“Are rooms available here?” Germanus asked, and then took a large swig of his beer. “Very good indeed! Better than British beer, I can tell you. Theirs is cat’s piss, and it isn’t even worthy of that name.”
With the exception of Gareth, all the listeners laughed cheerfully. Even though he knew that Germanus was playing up to the locals, Gareth still felt thoroughly annoyed.
“Yes, sir! We have rooms, but we’re almost empty since the Wrath of Heaven came to these parts. King Theudebert has forbidden citizens to gather together in large groups, not even to attend church, but as you can see, we’re not prepared to give up everything to save our necks. If the plague should come for us—well, that’s as it may be!”
He smiled across the bench top at his new acquaintances.
“May I ask your names, good sirs? It’s not often that three armed men come to Soissons, or at least men who aren’t signed up to the army or acting as a bodyguard to some useless nob. You’ve the look of a local man, sir, but I’ll be a horse’s arse if your friends aren’t outlanders.”
“True, good barkeeper! I’m called Germanus—a working name, you understand—and I’m seeking a runaway prince of the Burgundians.”
Germanus pressed the side of his nose and winked broadly. “You know what young people are like! He doesn’t want to marry his betrothed. Heaven knows she’s no beauty, but what can you expect with the huge dowry she brings to the boy’s family.”
The barkeeper nodded with a sly grin. “I can’t say I blame the nipper. The rich nobs have more money than us, but they have to marry as they’re told whether they like it or not.”
“Aye, the princess from Dacia is no painting, it’s true. At any road, this priest is called Lorcan. He’s a Hibernian, and he’s really a heathen who also serves my master as the tutor of his children. And the dangerous-looking young cock here is a servant of the son of our master. We’ve been told our boy is heading towards Saxony or old Jutland. He’s been known to speak well of the Dene, and we think he intends to join with them. Do you know of the Dene people?”
The bartender rubbed his whiskered chin with a harsh, rasping noise.
“Well, I’ve heard that the Dene are those bastards who’ve banded with the Geats to pillage our coasts. Trade ships are often captured by these devils and they’ve got no respect for anyone. Our king, Theudebert, is said to have killed the Geat king when he was little more than a boy, decades ago, God bless him. Until then, they’d invade our coasts every year, but things have been quiet since then. But if you’re planning to take your prince back from them, I should warn you that the Dene warriors don’t give back what they consider to be their property.”
“So we’ve heard,” Germanus replied dryly. “Still, we’re not novices with the sword, as you can tell by our grey hairs. In fact, our Gareth is considered something of a genius with a blade.”
“I’ve heard rumors of three men who were seeking a lost Briton, only I believed there were four young outcasts who took off from their homeland. But I could have heard about different runaways, of course.”
Gareth’s heart almost stopped. Who could have known so much of them? Who could have known that Arthur had been taken with three other Britons? Was the tale a part of common gossip? And how did such a state of affairs come to be?
“Who told you about the Britons?” Lorcan asked silkily, with a wide, gap-toothed smile.
The barman felt a frisson of anxiety as he glanced at Gareth’s intense face, but Lorcan soothed everyone’s nerves with his usual pragmatic charm.
“Priscus of Gesoriacum, an innkeeper there, sent word to all the inns in Soissons and Reims that you might be coming in our direction. The barkeeper smiled with a veneer of sorrow. “It was a pity about Priscus, wasn’t it?”
All three visitors looked blankly at their host, but to keep the barkeeper’s attention away from several noisy patrons who were demanding to be served, they drained their beakers, and Lorcan ordered another round of drinks. As he poured out fresh beer, the barkeeper continued to gossip, his large gut moving like jelly as he picked up a filthy cloth to wipe down the bar.
“Priscus caught the disease . . .” The barkeeper crossed himself piously. “He was a terrible gossip, that man, but he was a mighty source of information. He went to the fires several weeks ago. Where have you been that you haven’t heard of what happened down there? The word has spread that one out of every two men, women, and children in Gesoriacum was taken by the disease. May God preserve their souls.”
“So! I wonder what was so intriguing in our movements that caught Priscus’s interest,” Germanus said as he gulped his beer with practiced ease.
“I’ve no idea, friend, but if you wish to take the three rooms, I’ll have one of the girls take you upstairs. However, given the times in which we live, I insist on payment in advance.”
“So you’re the owner of this establishment! Can we know your name, sir? We’ll be needing food before we sleep and hot water as well, for my young friend likes to wash. He’s a little peculiar, you know, like many of his type.”
Conspiratorial looks were exchanged at Gareth’s expense, but he pushed down the desire to kick the innkeeper hard in the balls.
“The name’s Egbert of Wurms! I’ve lived in Soissons since I was twenty, raised children, and had three good wives—and I’m still an outsider! You know how it is in these small towns!”
“I know! Narrow-minded peasants, for the most part,” Germanus agreed, and Gareth decided that the Frank would have told any convenient lie to win Egbert’s confidence or to keep him talking, at least. “Here are three silver coins. Let me know when you need more payment and . . .” Germanus’s voice trailed away, but he winked broadly. “Let me know if anyone comes looking for us, Egbert. Although he’s dead, I trusted Priscus as far as I could throw him. He probably sold us out to someone—although I can’t imagine what use we are to anyone in Soissons. Still, I’ll happily pay you good coin if you pass information to me as soon as you get it. Do you understand?”
“Absolutely, master.” Egbert chuckled until his belly and his jowls jounced and bounced with his mirth. “You can depend on me!”
After following the maid up a narrow, creaking staircase, the three men were offered either one large room that would be shared with two strangers or three small rooms, little larger than alcoves. For security’s sake, and to ensure the safety of their valuables, Germanus decided they would take the one large room.
“We’ll be sleeping in shifts so there’s always one of us awake at all times. Egbert of Wurms is even less trustworthy than Priscus—and that bastard’s dead! Sleep lightly, friends, with one eye open. And keep your weapons close at hand.”
The maid brought more beer in large jugs and bowls of mutton stew, very tasty after the fare they had been forced to eat on the road.
Even Gareth, who cared little what he ate, remembered his last good meal back in Gesoriacum and wondered if that wasn’t an omen of the troubles to come.
Once they were lying down to sleep against the walls closest to the door, and as far as possible from the two snoring drunks who had taken the pallets near the only window, none of the three travelers found sleep easy to catch and master. Too many dangers were emerging around them for comfort. Priscus had announced their approach to the local authorities, the king’s army was in bivouac outside the town, and plague had already struck in some of the outlying parts of Soissons. As Lorcan remarked before he wrapped himself in his cloak, the prospects of a profitable visit to Soissons couldn’t be further away.
“Yes,
they could,” Germanus mumbled sleepily. “Egbert could sell us out to someone who needs seasoned warriors in their service. At least we can be reasonably certain that none of us is likely to catch the plague. I know that I’d have to be very unlucky to catch it twice.”
Gareth cursed and pulled his cloak over his head. “Thanks to you, I won’t sleep at all now. Thank you very much, Germanus!”
Then, within ten minutes or so, the Frank and the Hibernian were amused to hear the young warrior begin to snore.
In the small tent where Hubert slept, and where he kept his clothes’ chest and the small casket that contained his secret cache of coins and jewels, the king’s body-servant accepted a message from a tall man-at-arms that a courier had come from one of Hubert’s informers. Like all good servants, Hubert paid well for information and gossip that might be of use to his king. For the cost of a few coins, Hubert assembled important sources of information that ensured he had his finger on the pulse of whatever was happening in his king’s world, especially information that couldn’t be garnered by informers within the army. In essence, Hubert was a most useful spymaster, and Theudebert paid him well for the intelligence he collected.
Perhaps the coin that had brought the loyalty of Egbert of Wurms might be about to pay a rich dividend. After he had heard the memorized message from an ostler from Egbert’s inn, Hubert smiled quietly to himself. He tossed a small coin to the man to ensure his silence before sending him on his way.
“Sometimes a man doesn’t need to be anything other than lucky,” he muttered. Then he hugged himself with secret glee and executed a little dance around his tent.
Outside, the guards looked at Hubert’s dancing shadow on the tent walls and made the universal gestures that described madness. Then they sighed. Who was really the mad one? Hubert, the king’s body-servant, would soon be sleeping on a soft, cushioned camp bed while they were required to guard the king’s quarters throughout the hours of darkness.
And as he slept Hubert wove large and financially successful dreams that would swell the contents of his secret casket twofold. If either his sleep or his grandiose plans were disturbed, it was only through the melodic sound of harness bells as mounted warriors patrolled the perimeter of Theudebert’s campsite, protecting the king and his servants from harm throughout the long and lonely night.
The Journey to Vagus River
The Siege at Vagus River
Chapter XX
THE SIEGE OF THE HEALFDENE
Veni, vidi, vici. (I came, I saw, I conquered.)
—JULIUS CAESAR, ACCORDING TO SUETONIUS AND PLUTARCH
Sea Wife tugged hard at the rudder, much as a restive horse struggles with the bit to free itself of constraint. With her sail straining against the rigging, she plowed across the narrow sea in company with forty other ships and a force of over a thousand men. Under a black night sky, with summer warming the sea and the ship’s planks, the fleet headed slowly towards Skania. The warriors of the traitorous outlaw, Stormbringer, were going to war against their ancient allies, the Geats of Gothland, so the brief hours of darkness hid the size of the large fleet under the Sae Dene’s command.
Men sang as they honed their weapons to razor-sharpness. Around him, rising like white birds, Arthur could hear stirring tales from the eager crews spiraling upward to greet the night breeze. He caught the sense in fragments of the songs, especially those that told heroic tales of great warriors who fought and died in cataclysmic battles against foreign kings, monsters, or the gods themselves. Arthur felt hot blood rise to his head in response; this day could, indeed, be a good day to die.
Such singing was worthy of Taliesin himself, yet these sturdy men were simple warriors who were unused to the poetry of bards. Their voices were coarse and lacking in any training or musicality, yet their songs almost stopped his heart with their beauty. Without the assistance of musical instruments, their voices wove the tune: some voices were high and almost womanish, while others were strong baritones that intimated a sense of power.
When Arthur thought back, he realized that the Dene sang often—when they were happy or sad, for weddings and funerals, before a battle and after a disaster. To these barbarians, song was an essential part of every aspect of daily life, as vital as breath, water, or food for the belly.
Long ago, when he was still a boy, Arthur had been educated in the battles of the past, so Father Lorcan had related tales of long-distant campaigns such as the doomed battle of Thermopylae in the city-states of ancient Greece. Arthur had never forgotten the tears of sympathy that prickled at the back of his eyes when he heard the tale of that memorable day for the very first time.
According to Lorcan, the last of the Spartan soldiers had oiled and braided each other’s hair during those final hours as they readied themselves for the battle that would take place on the morrow. Even after many days of death and mayhem, each man had decided that he would go to Hades looking his best. In some cases, the Spartans had nothing left to fight with other than their teeth, their fingernails, or the shards of their broken swords. But, in the morning when the Persians massed to kill them off, the defenders fought and killed their enemies and dragged out the inevitable until the last Spartan fell, singing joyfully. All that the Persians received were songs of defiance as their enemies died, contemptuous to the end.
Arthur had mourned for the ancient days of reckless courage, matched with disciplined sacrifice, that were now long gone.
But as the convoy plowed onward, the young Briton could see how wrong his assumptions might have been. These Dene warriors would welcome death if their honor could be left intact and their heart’s blood was needed for a noble cause.
Over the previous months, the fleet had assembled gradually as Stormbringer and his guests rested at The Holding and enjoyed the sweet, hot days of early summer.
Maeve developed a sprinkling of attractive freckles across her nose as she helped Stormbringer’s sister with the mundane details of domestic life on a farm. Blaise wove wool and amazed the other women as she displayed her remarkable skills, while Eamonn exercised his very able tongue to charm and bed any number of willing girls. Arthur smiled indulgently as he practiced his swordsmanship in the warm sunshine.
Eamonn had laughed at Arthur’s single-mindedness. “When will you fall in love, Arthur? Or at least enjoy a mild flirtation? I’ve seen you with several beauties, and you’ve bedded them too, if Maeve is correct. But your heart hasn’t been touched at all. You aren’t natural!”
“I’m unnatural? You’re always dying of love for some girl or another, while I never seem to meet one who would be worth living with for twenty days—least of all twenty years. But the girls fill the hours, I suppose.”
“You’re a devil, Arthur!” Eamonn was a little shocked by his friend’s bluntness. “They say that when men like you fall, they can really tumble into love.”
Arthur laughed with lighthearted humor. Silken thighs existed to be kissed, stroked, or used as a conduit to the softness of every woman’s greatest weakness, her sex. He was a practiced lover, after a somewhat slow start to his education. After he discovered the erogenous zones that governed the gates to every woman’s pleasure, he came to understand that men were hot, quick to arouse and, just as quickly, forget the experience, while women were slow to feel the heat rise in their bellies and genitals but, once the fires were lit, their pleasure grew stronger and stronger, and forced the patient man to be set alight until he drowned in female eroticism. Once a man tasted such fruit, he realized that a casual, quick slaking of lust was never acceptable again. Arthur was a master of this latter form of lovemaking and his respect for women was limitless, but . . .
“Admit it, Arthur. There are too many wonderful women in the world to settle on just one.” As usual, Eamonn was right.
While they waited, the ships began to arrive at the sheltered cove where Sea Wife lay on the beach at the high-tide line. Men came a
s well, tall and grim warriors shamed by their king’s failure to protect their Dene kinfolk. In haste and desperation, Valdar Bjornsen had sent out a call to arms, and all right-spirited men heard his message, although the Sae Dene’s name was never mentioned openly among Hrolf Kraki’s loyalists in Heorot. At the slightest mention of Stormbringer, Hrolf Kraki lost his temper. One unfortunate jarl who invoked the memory of the great Bjorn, Valdar’s father, had been slapped and kicked by the king’s guard until he fell to the ground. He was left to lie in a shivering and shocked huddle of armor and blood until the Crow King’s attention was diverted by other imagined ills.
Those warriors who remained loyal to their memories of the Crow King of long ago still tried to find excuses for his failure to honor his treaties, but more and more of the disaffected Dene came to join Stormbringer’s fledgling army.
Some volunteers were rascals and cheats, and were more suited to signing on as mercenaries than as warriors of honor, but when Stormbringer explained that there would be no payment other than an equal division of the spoils, the worst of the ruffians departed. Most of the volunteers came because they had suffered as victims of Hrolf Kraki’s intemperate rage.
Rufus Olaffsen and Thorketil came, both out of a desire to fulfill their oaths and because they had nowhere else to go where they could wield their swords with honor. The Troll King, as Thorketil had taken to calling himself, had healed as well as he ever would. His right leg was encased in a sleeve of iron and leather so it could bear his weight. With a full staff to redistribute the weight of his massive body, he could walk, although very slowly. But he could row, and easily took the place of two men while, in any fray, he was able to stand upright and surround himself in a ring of swinging metal. Rufus guarded his back, for the two men had become almost friendly as they convalesced and, finally, they had agreed to place the blame for their injuries and their individual humiliations squarely on the head of Hrolf Kraki.
