"Do you believe it was truly the spirit of your wife?" Torvald, who was standing nearby, asked. "Perhaps you just drank too much ale last night."
Hrodgar shook his head at Torvald's suggestion. "It was her," he answered. "She was wearing the same dress, the same brooches and necklace, that we dressed her in before burning her body."
"Then why do you choose to come with us?" Torvald asked. I was wondering the same thing.
"She also told me that I am an old man now, and I shouldn't pretend that I am not. She said I am too old for long sea voyages, and should stay at home, in the village where I belong, and let our daughter care for me in my old age." He snorted. "Although a good wife, she was always a nag. I was not too old to sail with the fleet to Frankia, and blood my spear there."
"But what if she spoke the truth?" I asked. I did not think that messages from the dead should be disregarded lightly.
Hrodgar shrugged. "You are too young to understand. She is right. I am an old man. I feel age-worn and weary. I no longer have the strength in me that I had when I was young, or even five years ago. One way or another, I shall die, for no one lives forever. But I would rather my life end while I still have the strength to hold a sword in my hand, than to finish my days sick and weak in bed from a fever—or even worse, to suffer the slow, wasting rotting that befalls those who do not have the good sense to know when it is time to die. And besides," he added. "Killing Toke is a thing that needs doing, and I wish to be a part of it."
Hrodgar said his wife had told him that many would not return from our pursuit of Toke. I wondered if she'd named to him any of the others who were fated to die. What if she'd named my comrade Einar, or Torvald, or Hastein? What if she'd named me? I almost asked him, but then decided I would rather not know.
* * *
Gudfred and the other men of the household, carls and thralls, had headed out to the fields early that morning. The departures, the exchange of fare-wells among comrades who were parting ways, were not their concern. The hay—the cutting, the spreading, and the drying—was. After the partings were spoken and the ships had sailed, I headed out to the fields to join them. The sooner the hay was harvested, the sooner our pursuit of Toke could begin.
The long rows of hay which had previously been cut, though still a faded green in color, had dried enough to be gathered and hauled to the byre for storage. Thralls using wooden rakes were rolling up each row from either end into two loose stacks at the row's center. As each row was completed, Fasti led a large two-wheeled cart, drawn by a single ox, to the stacked hay, and the thralls heaved it aboard with their rakes.
Beyond, a row of carls was advancing slowly through the unmowed portion of the field, swinging long-handled scythes. The slow, steady rhythm of their movements—swing, step, swing, step—and the chuff, chuff of the long blades slicing through the tall grass called a memory of my brother Harald to my mind.
Harald had never cared for the work of the estate—the growing and harvesting of the crops and beasts necessary to feed the folk who lived here. While Hrorik was alive, he'd had to assist, for Hrorik did not tolerate sloth. Could Harald have had his way, however, he would have devoted his life entirely to fighting and raiding, and in between to training to perfect his fighting skills. I think he had welcomed the need to train me in no small part because it gave him a reason to ignore the labors of farming.
The one exception was scything hay. "There is a skill to using a scythe, Halfdan," he'd told me one day, when trying to explain how my use of a sword was still lacking. "You do not just chop at the hay. You do not just hack it. The edge of the blade should slide across the grass, and slice through it. It is the same with a sword. Draw the blade across what you are striking as you swing through. You should slice, not hack. Your blade will cause a far deeper wound, with less effort, if you learn how to do this."
At the time, I had not found his comparison between scything and sword-work helpful. He'd forgotten that slaves were not allowed to use the big, sharp blades. Carls cut the hay; thralls followed behind with wooden rakes and spread it into neat rows for drying.
When I reached the field I found some extra tools lying in a pile at the edge, waiting for more workers to arrive and use them. I would have liked to have tried my hand with a scythe this day, but there were no scythes among them, only rakes. I took one and headed out into the field.
The scythers were moving across the field in a staggered line, each man far enough behind the one to his right so he could safely swing his long, cutting stroke to overlap the edge of the swath cut by the man ahead. Einar, who had come to assist in the harvest, was the fourth man over. He appeared to be the only worker who was not from the estate. None of Hastein's men had come out to assist.
Thralls trailed behind several of the scythers, pulling the cut hay into neat rows with their rakes. I recognized Ing behind the man cutting to Einar's right, and beside him, Hrut. For now, no one followed Einar. I suppose I will be Einar's thrall this day, I thought, and I began raking the irregular trail of hay he had cut. This was not the homecoming I had dreamed of.
I had been working for some time, raking the scattered, cut hay into a neater row for drying, when the carl mowing to Einar's right happened to glance back and saw me. He laid his scythe down and walked back to where I stood.
"Do you remember me?" he asked. I did remember him, though not his name. He had light brown hair, cut off so it hung just below his shoulders, and a beard which he kept trimmed and shaped to a sharp point. He was not as tall as Harald had been, but had a stockier, more heavily muscled build. He had been one of the carls Harald had recruited to help when he'd trained me to fight in formation, in a shield-wall.
"My name is Floki," he continued, when I gave no answer. "My brother, Baug"—when he spoke the name, he nodded his head back toward the carl scything to the right of where he had been—"and I were close comrades of Harald's."
I remembered that now, after he said it. The two of them, more so than any of the other carls on the estate, had been Harald's drinking companions in the evenings.
"Gudfred has told us, of course, that it was Toke and his men, not bandits, who killed Harald, up on the Limfjord," Floki said. "Had we known, Toke would be dead now. We plan to avenge Harald, and the others—Rolf, Ulf, Odd, and Lodver—too. They were all good men, and our comrades.
"But Baug and I have been talking, and thinking, about this tale you told Gudfred. About Toke's attack. And there is one thing we do not understand. How is it that everyone else—Harald, Rolf and the others, and even all of the folk of the estate up there—was killed, but you survived? Harald was the finest swordsman I have ever known, and Ulf a very skilled and experienced warrior. Yet they were killed, and you escaped unharmed. How did that happen?"
Floki's words took me by surprise. I had not expected them, nor the tone of his voice, or the scorn visible in his eyes. I could feel my face getting hot and flushed, and my feelings swirled in a confused mix of anger and shame, as I realized Floki believed—and was all but accusing me to my face—that I was a coward.
All but. And then, when I said nothing, he did.
"Did you run from the fight?" he asked, sneering. "Did you flee, and leave the others behind to die?"
Had this been Frankia, had this been a member of our army there, and I the warrior Strongbow, I would have killed Floki for his insult, or died trying. But this was my home, or so I had considered it. Here I was just Halfdan, not Strongbow. I had believed this man was one of my people, and I one of his.
Many moments passed in silence, as I struggled to gain control of my emotions while Floki stared at me with a disdainful expression. Finally, I answered, speaking in a low voice.
"Yes, I did run. In the end, we all did—all who were left alive. We beat back their first attack, giving better than we got. But we did not realize, in the confusion and dark, that those who'd surrounded the longhouse were Toke and his men. Harald thought they were the kinfolk of a man he'd killed in a duel, up on t
he Limfjord. In the lull after the first attack, he bargained with the attackers, seeking safe passage for the women, children, and thralls before the fighting resumed. The leader of the attackers—Toke, who was hiding his features and muffling his voice with a cloak—gave Harald his word that they could leave safely. As soon as they were clear of the longhouse and far enough away that they could not make it back to its safety, Toke and his men slaughtered them, in full view as we watched, helpless to intervene. Or so Toke thought. I did manage to hit him with an arrow, though it was only a superficial wound."
Floki's eyebrows rose at that. I suppose it did not fit well with what he'd believed had occurred.
I continued. "After that, Toke and his men set fire to the longhouse, and we were forced to flee into the open. We tried to stay together at first, using some of the beasts from the longhouse byre as shields from the missile fire Toke's men were raining down upon us, but we did not make it far before the beasts were all slain.
"Our only chance of survival was to reach the shelter of the woods. But it was at best the slimmest of hopes, for we were greatly outnumbered and surrounded. So yes, we ran from the fight, in the end. We all ran. Harald told me, as we made that last attempt to escape, that when he gave me the word, I must go, and leave him and the others behind. He died cutting a path clear for me to escape. I will never forget his words that night. ‘Someone must survive to avenge us,' he told me. ‘If you reach the forest, they will never take you. None can match you there. You must do this thing for me. For all of us. Survive and avenge us.' I did survive, and I will avenge Harald."
I said no more. Floki was quiet for a long time, pondering my words. Finally, begrudgingly, he nodded his head. "I can see this," he said. "It is what Harald would have done." He took a deep breath, and blew it out slowly. "But you should know this," he added. "Baug, me, Gudfred, and the others, we go on this voyage for one reason: to kill Toke. We will join with Jarl Hastein, and we will follow him on this voyage, because we must, to avenge Harald and the others. You should understand that we follow the jarl, not you. You may be Harald's half-brother, and Hrorik's son. You may be a warrior to the jarl and his men. But we know who you are. We know what you are. You are not a chieftain—especially not our chieftain, and you never will be. We are not your men."
5
The Omen
We—the men-folk of the estate, and those few of us, like Einar and me, who'd traveled here with Hastein and deigned to help—finished cutting the hay that same day. Two days later, we brought it into the byre. Gudfred and Floki and some of the other carls protested that it was too soon, that the hay was still too green. Hastein countered that if they thought so, those who remained behind could continue turning it in the byre, to ensure it did not grow mold and spoil.
Hastein and Torvald began the training during the days while the hay lay drying out in the fields. It did not go well. The disagreement that had begun over the hay continued during the training, and grew into discord. Hastein and Torvald insisted that the men of the estate and village adopt their ways, their commands, their style of working together in a shield-wall. In truth, the differences between what Hastein demanded and what Hrorik's men were used to were minor. But some of Hastein's crew rolled their eyes and sniggered into their sleeves at the newcomers' initial awkwardness with moves and commands they did not know, and the men-folk of the estate and village seethed at the disrespect they felt was being shown them. In the few practice skirmishes that were fought, blows that should have been pulled were at times struck, and more than once tempers flared.
After three days of training—the last occurring after the practice was interrupted for a full day while the hay in the fields was gathered and hauled to the byre—Hastein declared that he was satisfied. Clearly he was not, but he must have felt that sailing with a crew not yet melded was the better alternative to sailing with one whose members were in a state of open hostility. He told Torvald to supervise the loading of provisions and fresh water aboard the ships, and have them ready to sail in the morn.
I had my own preparations to make. I had won considerable wealth during the campaign in Frankia. I felt it unwise to continue carrying it with me in my sea chest everywhere I traveled. Ships—even those commanded by the best of captains—sometimes sink.
During the days we'd been at the estate, I had continued to use the small enclosed sleeping chamber that formerly had been Hrorik's and Gunhild's as my own. It pleased me that by doing so, Gunhild was forced to continue sleeping in the bed-closet that had once belonged to my mother. I wished for her rest every night to be disturbed by the memory of how Hrorik had given it to my mother. It had infuriated Gunhild at the time. I hoped it angered her still.
After the first night, I had moved my sea chest from the Gull to the sleeping chamber. I opened it now and surveyed its contents. Some of them—my arms and armor, for certain, the blacksmith's tools I'd purchased in Hedeby, my spare clothing, the simple but sturdy pottery cup and bowl and wooden spoon that served as my mess kit, and at least some part of my considerable hoard of Frankish silver coins—I would carry with me on the coming voyage.
But I had won ten whole pounds of silver coins for Genevieve's ransom, paid reluctantly by her father, Count Robert. And added to that already significant sum was my share of the silver paid by the Franks' King Charles to ransom the city of Paris and buy the retreat of our army from his kingdom. Of the seven thousand pounds of silver—most, like Genevieve's ransom, paid in Frankish deniers—the four commanders of the army, Ragnar, Hastein, Ivar, and Bjorn, had each claimed one hundred pounds as their due. The rest had been divided equally among the one hundred and twenty ships of the fleet, to be further divided among each crew according to their felag.
In the Gull's crew, Hastein, as captain, was entitled to five shares under the felag. Given the huge sum he'd won as a commander of the army, he'd graciously relinquished those shares, so a greater amount could be divided among the rest of us. The shares of our fifteen dead had been set aside, to be given to their families. My portion, including my extra half share for serving as the ship's blacksmith, added almost two more pounds of silver coins to the profit I'd won on the campaign.
Many of the Gull's crew—and for that matter, most of the warriors of the army—had won far more wealth in Frankia from looting than from their share of the final ransom. I had not. Other than the fine sword and armor I had stripped from the body of Leonidas, Genevieve's cousin whom I'd slain, and the long spear that had belonged to a Frankish cavalryman I'd killed, I had acquired only a few items of value by theft. All of them—two silver candlesticks and an ornate silver cup, the kind the Christians called a chalice—I had taken from an altar in a small room I'd happened upon in the Abbey of Saint Genevieve, in Paris on the day I had led a party of warriors there to secure it. I had not, of course, told Genevieve, after we'd later become reacquainted, that I had taken these things. I felt certain she would have thought less of me for stealing from her convent, and her God.
The coins paid for Genevieve's ransom had conveniently been transferred to my possession in two sturdy leather sacks. I pulled them now from the sea chest and set them on the bed, then dumped the rest of my silver—loose coins, cup, and candlesticks—out of the chest and onto the bed beside them.
How much to take, and how much to leave behind? What might this voyage bring—what needs that would require silver?
I had acquired the habit of carrying at least ten or so coins in the small pouch I always wore on my belt, in which I kept my flint and steel, a small whetstone, and the comb my mother gave me. That clearly was not enough for a voyage of unknown duration. Searching through my sea chest, I came upon the small leather bag I'd filled with iron arrowheads that I'd found in a storeroom in Count Robert's island fortress in the middle of the Seine River in Paris. I dumped the arrowheads out, rolled them up in a piece of sheepskin I cut from one of the hides that had been used to cover the sleeping chamber's floor, and tucked them back into the chest. I dec
ided that I would take with me as many silver coins as the bag would hold, and would leave the rest behind, in a safe hiding place.
I was filling the leather sack with coins from among the loose coins I'd dumped on the bed, when a shadow darkened the entrance to the chamber. I glanced up and saw Astrid standing there, holding a wooden chest in her arms. Several pieces of folded clothing were on top of it. Her face was still discolored by the bruises from the blows Toke had struck, but over the past few days she had otherwise recovered somewhat from the attack, and no longer seemed in a daze, or cowered whenever someone approached her.
"This is for you," she said, and held out the chest and clothes.
"What is it?" I asked, not understanding how she could have anything for me.
"These were Sigrid's. She saved the feast clothes she made you, for Hrorik's funeral feast. And some of Harald's things are here, too. Sigrid kept them. She did not wish any of Toke's men to end up with them. I am certain she would want you to have them."
I took the chest and clothes from Astrid's hands and set them on the bed, beside the pile of silver. I saw her eyes widen when she saw the mound of coins.
The chest was small—less than a third the size of my sea chest—but of much finer quality. The wood was a dark, lustrous walnut, and the hinges and catch—which included a lock, from which a key protruded—were of bronze, cast in an ornate design that included a serpent coiled around each piece. I opened it and began removing its contents, one by one.
As Astrid had said, among them were the feast clothes Sigrid and my mother had made for me by altering some of Harald's clothing, while he and I had labored to build the death ship in which the bodies of Hrorik and my mother would be burned. The white linen tunic, with embroidery around the sleeves and neck, I folded and added to my sea chest. It would make a comfortable under-tunic to wear beneath a wool one. The green wool trousers I added to my sea chest, too. They were in good condition, and looked much finer now than the brown ones—also made for me by Sigrid—I was currently wearing, which over the past months had acquired a number of stains and showed considerable wear.
The Long Hunt (The Strongbow Saga) Page 5
