Thrand glanced at Brocard, but his vision was captured by the riches surrounding him. His eyes widened as he realized the candle holders were gold, and plates of silver sat on tables covered in finely embroidered cloth. The riches of Paris were true after all, just beyond his reach. Humbert laughed at Thrand's gawking.
"You must learn my proper name: Anscharic. Knowing it might save your life one day." He stepped closer to Thrand, though he leaned away and waved the air before his nose. "By God, I didn't think it possible for your kind to smell worse."
"You left me to die in a pit. What should I smell like?"
Humbert's explosive laughter passed to the men-at-arms. "Your defiance remains intact, typical of men whose last possession is pride. Let me correct that misplaced confidence. The ignorant barbarians that took you to Paris have been trying to get around two towers for the last three months. Even with their numbers and war machines, they've failed. Yesterday they tried to burn down the Little Bridge by setting three ships aflame and ramming it. Do you know what happened?"
Thrand shook his head.
"The ships burned so fast that they sank before the Little Bridge caught a spark. Your people can't even manage to start a fire without a mistake." Anscharic laughed again, puncturing it with bits of Frankish to bring his men into the joke. The room vibrated with their laughter.
Thrand's mind raced over the news. Nothing had gone right since coming to Paris. If the Franks would be victorious, he wanted to be in their good graces.
"Oh, Anscharic! I am sorry!" He crashed to his knees, the suddenness of it drawing Brocard's spear to his neck. "Ulfrik told me to mistreat you. He wanted your secrets and thought I could pry them from you with violence. He wanted me to push you closer to him, so you would confide the truth. I swear it."
Fleshy bags obscured Anscharic's eyes as he smiled. "You're a creative liar, Thrand. Remain on your knees and hear what I say. This rendezvous has already cost me more time than I wanted. You have a choice. The first is the easiest to answer. Do you want to return to the donjon, the pit as you called it?"
"Never!" He threw himself flat, shuddering as tears began to flow. "The pit is haunted. Please, I will do anything you ask if it means I can stay free of that place."
Anscharic nodded, stepping around Thrand, who remained prostrate. "Then you will take my second choice: freedom."
Thrand grew still, unsure of what he had heard. He remained facedown, waiting for Anscharic to elaborate. He heard feet shuffle a few more steps before stopping. He raised his head slowly, bumping the spear aimed at the back of his neck. He turned to the side, looking at Anscharic's clean boots. "Did you offer me freedom?"
"Freedom with a duty, but freedom nonetheless." He muttered a few Frankish words and Brocard's spear lifted. "Stand up. In return for your freedom, you will lead a party of men through the surrounding enemy. Six men, including you, will dress as Danes and leave the city during the night. My people travel on important business, which does not concern you. Your only duty, which will secure your freedom, is to be the face of your group when meeting others of your kind. You speak to them, give them names to soothe suspicions, ensure the details of your barbaric traditions are observed. You go where the group leads, and once arrived at that place you are free."
Thrand put his hand to his heart, feeling it thunder. A smile cracked his face, an expression he had nearly forgotten. Anscharic's eyes drew to slits as he regarded him, and he continued.
"If you think of running off or alerting the Danes to the truth of your disguises, you will die. I suppose you might sacrifice yourself to help your former friends, but I don't see you doing so. That's one reason I selected you for this task. Know that all the men with you understand Norse and speak it, though not fluently enough to pass as a true barbarian. But if you alert anyone, your five companions' first priority will be to kill you. That is my will, and they are loyal men. The swords I will provide you are rusted in their sheaths, and have blunted cutting edges. Don't count on them in a fight. Can I trust this to you?"
"Humb ... Anscharic, I will be as loyal as any of your men! Your mercy, it's unexpected. You are a true lord."
"Dear God, Thrand, you are a worm. Then it is settled. You will be fed well, and then released tonight."
Thrand burned to smash Anscharic's smug expression; his hands tensed with the urge. The gold of his cross sparked in the light from above, and Thrand wanted to rip it from his chest. Despite all of his fury, his voice was servile. "I will do as you say, and will ever be grateful for your help. But what do I do after my freedom?"
"A good question, one that I'm glad you mentioned." Anscharic snapped orders to Brocard, who argued with him before being silenced with an up-turned hand. Brocard and his men moved to leave the room, but he pushed his face into Thrand's before exiting.
"We go outside. Be good, or die."
"He will be one of your group," Anscharic said. Thrand watched in shock as the three men left and closed the door. "He's worried that you will do something foolish, like grab the dagger in my belt. Would you do that?"
He had not noticed the dagger with jewels in its sheath and pommel until Anscharic patted it. Hands trembling again, he forced a smile. "I would be a fool. You are a much better fighter than you seem."
Seemingly pleased, he clasped his hands behind his back and began to circle Thrand. "My family has fought your kind for generations. We kept your people as slaves. I learned my Norse from them, so I would never be ignorant of what my sworn enemies planned. My father, who has gone to God's kingdom, taught me my Latin and my swordsmanship."
"What has this to do with my freedom, lord?" He added the title, if only to soften the words.
Rather than snap at him, Anscharic paused and touched his cross. "It has everything to do with it. My father died fighting your kind, dragged into the mud by a berserker's ax. His men could not recover his body, but carried away but one possession of my father's."
"His robe."
"Yes, you remember." His eyes shimmered with tears and his mouth quivered as he held Thrand's gaze. "That robe is all that is left of my father. Yes, lands and possessions passed to me and my brother. But that cloak, he wore it to battle and died in it. It is more important to me than any of his inheritance, a mere rag to others but a treasure to me. Surely, as a warrior, you understand this. It was his battle cloak, a talisman."
"You lost it the night we fled here."
Anscharic closed his eyes, and a tear streaked from beneath his lid. "Yes. Ulfrik snatched it from me, and I could not turn back for it. Once you are freed, if you can find my father's cloak and deliver it to me, I will pay you the fortune you expected to find here."
Heart pounding again, he stammered his reply. "Of course, lord! Yes, I will get it for you."
"You can tell Ulfrik you escaped, then steal the cloak. Before you leave I will show you how to signal my men, and you will be let in. Not only would you have a fortune, but my gratitude and forgiveness. Would you be willing to accept baptism, you may even serve me. Do not fear the defeat of this city, for God will not let these walls crumble to your heathen kind."
"Of course I will accept baspism ... bapim, er, yes! A fortune and forgiveness and a place in your city." He only wanted the treasure, and the other promises were suspect at best. However, he was eager to make Anscharic happy enough to let him out of the city and perhaps trade that rag for gold. Then he remembered, and his face fell.
"What is it? Do you think I make empty promises?"
"No, Hum ... lord. Ulfrik will not take me back. He knows I planned to kill him once."
Anscharic stared at Thrand as if he no longer recognized him. His jaw twitched and he began to pace again. "I did not know this, but if you tried to kill Ulfrik, why are you alive?"
"I shifted blame to Kolbyr, then killed him. Ulfrik knows the truth now."
Anscharic gave a vague laugh. "Ruthless cunning, I had not seen that in you. Still, my offer stands. You are sly enough to come up with your own
methods. My father's cloak is easy to find. I have learned that he flies it from his banner pole, so that I will know he comes for me."
"What if I can't recover it?"
Shrugging, Anscharic sighed. "Then it is not God's will for me to have it, or another may return it to me. In any case, do not return to me without it. I will know if you have it, for you will tie it to the highest branch of a tree I will show you. When my men see it, they will alert me and you will deliver it."
Thrand nodded, his pulse finally subsiding. Anscharic offered him freedom and a chance at wealth.
All he needed to do was to finish what he started with Ulfrik, and a new life awaited.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
February 6, 886 CE
The ruins of the Christian abbey offered fortunate men shelter from the unremitting rain. Ulfrik lay buried beneath piles of blankets and furs by the hearth, listening to the rain lash the roof and leaks spatter onto the stone floor. His eyes throbbed with fever and his body ached as if he had been twisted like a wet cloth. Voices murmured and restless footfalls sent echoes playing off the fire-scorched stone walls. He pulled a wool blanket over his head.
"It seems the gods want to drown us one way or the other." Snorri's rough voice grumbled close by. He too stretched out, suffering with fever that had spread among the crowded Danish army.
"Don't remind me." Ulfrik rolled onto his side. Though he had changed clothes since his failure on the Seine, his nose still filled with the mucky scent of river water.
Snorri's quip returned the horrid memory of scrambling for something to hold beneath the water. Every instinct had told him to breathe, but he had clamped his mouth shut. The cold water had sapped his strength, and the current shunted him toward the river bottom. Yet he opened his eyes and saw a length of ship rigging waving like a slow writhing snake in the murk. He had seized it, and knew he would live. Hauling himself up to the burning wreck, he exploded from a world of cold and muted sound to a screaming blaze of crumbling debris. The rope snapped from his weight, but he latched onto a floating plank. Snorri and the others then picked him from the water and escaped to the shore. The Franks conserved their arrows against their small party, and thus spared their lives.
Toki's burns were not serious, quickly doused when he had fallen into the river. Mord had dove for safety and rescued Toki. They all made it to shore and watched the ships burn so fast that they sank without catching a spark to the bridge. Less charitable men derided the failure, though both Hrolf and Sigfrid admitted the bridge had been damaged. No gold bands covered Ulfrik's arms, and he and his men crawled back to the abbey to recover.
Then illness settled upon them, and they had slept for days.
"Bera will bring us hot venison stew," Toki said. He also sat with them, though the illness had not attacked him like others.
"Good, I'm tired of river eels," Snorri said.
Ulfrik folded the blanket from his face, cool air splashing it like water. "Are you still laying with that woman? All right a roll or two, but she's becoming more like a wife."
Toki smiled and shrugged. "She is a skilled cook and knows medicine. Should I send her away?"
Ulfrik struggled to sit up, his head heavy with snot. He blew his nose onto the floor, and studied the slime he ejected. It was mostly clear, which he knew to be a good sign. "I guess if we are going to set ourselves on fire and drown in the river, we better keep a healer at hand."
A sudden stir of excited voices came from the front of the room. The double doors hung open, a gray square of light where men gestured wildly, pointing to the north. Two figures broke from the group, heading straight for Ulfrik. They were Einar and Mord, and each one rushed to deliver the same news.
"Hold on!" Ulfrik struggled to his feet as their words collided. "You may as well be speaking Frankish. Only one of you talk."
Mord cut off Einar, physically stepping in front of the stouter man. "The Seine is rising and the bridge is sagging. They think it's going to collapse!"
All fatigue and fever lifted in that instant, and Ulfrik was already bounding for the exit before anyone could react. He stumbled into the shrieking rain, the ground dancing with fat drops that pounded the grass to mud. He paused only long enough to sight the tower, and then slogged toward it through the mud. Men streamed along with him like run-off down the slopes. Horns sounded and shouts filled the air. The mud grew thicker as he came to the river and it sucked at his feet. He did not need to go farther. His position showed him all he needed to see.
His attack on the bridge had weakened it. It bowed out at the precise spot of impact. The river had risen almost to the bridge itself, which was purposefully low to the water from the start. Ulfrik's damage coupled with the mass of debris clogged between the pilings was more stress than it could take. The first of the lattice-work braces snapped. Men cheered as more cracked and broke, snapping off and plunging into the brown water.
A seal-skin cloak slapped to his shoulders from behind, but he was so absorbed in the progressing collapse that he did nothing more than tighten it and pull up the hood. Rain now sounded loud and deep in his hood, and Toki's voice fought over the song of rain, cheers, and the groaning of the bridge. "You should keep dry while you're sick. By the gods, look at that! We did it, didn't we? It's coming down!"
Franks lined the walls. Ulfrik make out a Christian cross held toward the bridge. Though he could not see the face, it must be their holy man, Joscelin. He set his god's power against Thor's, the lord of storms. His god failed.
With a plaintive screech, the bridge shattered and all of it collapsed into shattered wood. What has stood so solid and impassible now washed down the bloated river. Boards and beams plopped into the water. Spans of bridge remained intact like small rafts. Franks who tried to cross the bridge to the tower had backed up into their gateway. A wail went up from the walls of Paris, and Ulfrik watched Joscelin's arm waver and then withdraw.
In that moment, the rain slowed, and then reduced to a drizzle. The bridge was no more than pilings poking above water like the fingers of a drowning giant.
Ulfrik recognized the sign.
"Thor has won! It is a sign of his favor. The gods love us! Destroy the tower now!"
His exhortations caught and men began to chant for blood, surging toward the tower. Franks appeared atop the tower and began to fire at the converging Danes. Though they had not come prepared with war gear, Sigfrid had gathered a prepared force of men. They crashed through the raging crowd, Sigfrid at the fore with a massive shield raised against the tower. He soon took over the rabble, and organized a team to pound the front gates with a log.
Only a dozen men remained in the tower, and they rained arrows down with imprecise fury. Several men fell, but most of the Frankish attack went wide or were blocked by the many shields sheltering the ram team.
Initially caught up with all the others, Ulfrik cooled as the arrows sailed toward unarmored targets. He was not prepared to help, and could only watch. Toki and his other men stood with him, silently observing the outcome stemming from their attack on the bridge.
"Sigfrid will claim the victory today." The smooth voice beside Ulfrik broke his concentration. He pulled back his hood, rainwater pouring down his back, and found Hrolf beside him.
"But it was my attack on the bridge that weakened it. This couldn't have happened without it."
"Agreed, but that is not something every man will see."
"Do you see it?"
Hrolf nodded, but his eyes never left the tower. The Franks had stopped firing, apparently their arrows spent. A man yelled in Frankish to the defenders in the tower.
"He's asking them to surrender." Hrolf stroked his beard and chuckled. "They're better jumping to their deaths."
Sigfrid had stopped ramming and now shouted orders, his face red and his eyes wild. The ram had split on the gates, achieving nothing. What he planned was unclear, but made no difference.
The gates fell inward and the Franks rushed out screaming, swor
ds flashing white.
In the same moment, a cheer roared from the walls of Paris and the throng of Danes convulsed toward the enemy. Ulfrik admired their fighting spirit. "They die as warriors. I hope their god welcomes them as such."
Hrolf shook his head. "They go to the clouds and sing to their god until the end of days. A warrior has no place there."
"No wonder we crush these Christians in battle." Ulfrik's remark was countered by the deed of one heroic Frank. His sword wove and slashed, carving his enemy's flesh and pouring blood into the mud. He fended off three Danes, wounding one and killing another. The third faltered and paid for his hesitation with the loss of a hand. At last Sigfrid and another warrior bracketed the Frank, and only a stab in the back halted his relentless attack.
"Don't underestimate the Franks," Hrolf chided as the Danes cheered the death of the final defender. "We will tear down this foul tower and piss into the hole that remains. Then we go up the Seine. You will come with me, and taste the riches of Chartes and LeMans. Finally, we will have some action. What do you say to that?"
Ulfrik watched as Sigfrid and his men hacked up the bodies and flung bloody hunks into the river. On the walls of Paris, Franks melted away in silence until a small group remained. The holy man lingered, his white hair clear even at this distance. Another white-haired man stood with him, and Ulfrik's gut burned.
Is that you, Humbert? By Odin's one eye, I will have justice from you. Yet Hrolf had commanded him to leave Paris and go deeper into Frankia, spoiling the chance fulfill his oath.
Worse still, he doubted a return home by summer, and Thorod and Skard, enemies of Nye Grenner both, would swoop down on his family during raiding season. All he had achieved in Frankia would have to be abandoned to reach them in time, and breaking with Hrolf would make him an outlaw.
He sighed and met Hrolf's inquiring gaze. "Yes, action would be good."
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