“They are pagans, my Lady,” Cullain responded. “They do not understand. My master admires this cup only for the beauty of its crafting, and the fact that it is made of solid silver. He wished to honor you by serving your wine in such a fine cup.”
Cullain’s words disturbed me. I wondered why Hastein wished to honor Genevieve. It seemed a strange thing. For that matter, why had he invited her to dine with us? He did not usually treat prisoners so.
“Your prisoner was a rich catch,” Torvald said to me. “I heard her father is a count. If true, you should get much silver for her. And she appears to be a pretty thing, too, though she hides her looks under that drab hood and gown. If her father is rich, why does she dress so plainly?”
“She is a priestess,” I told him. “It is what they wear.”
“She is a nun,” Hastein said, correcting me.
“Yes,” I agreed. “That is what she called herself.”
“They are like the monks in the monasteries we have looted, here and in Ireland,” Hastein explained to Torvald. “Only they are women.
“What is your prisoner’s name?” Hastein asked.
“Genevieve,” I told him. She looked up at the sound of her name, realizing we were speaking about her.
“And is she truly the daughter of a count? Are you certain of that?”
“Yes,” I answered. “And from what she has said, I believe he is a powerful one. He rules more than one town.”
Hastein looked at Genevieve appraisingly. Being the center of attention seemed to frighten Genevieve, and she lowered her gaze.
“Ask her which towns her father rules.”
“My father is the Count of Angers, and Tours, and Blois, and Nevers, and Autun, and Auxerre, and Paris,” she said, when I translated Hastein’s question for her. I was surprised by her answer. I had not realized her father ruled over so many towns. Hastein looked surprised, too.
“Ask her her father’s name,” he said.
“Robert,” she responded when I asked her. “And he is called Robert the Strong, for he is one of King Charles’ greatest warriors, and a leader of his armies. He fears no man. He will not fear you—he will try to kill you, and all of your men,” she added defiantly.
Torvald grinned at her answer. He, too, was called the Strong, although his name was due to his great personal strength.
“She is quite a rich prize,” Hastein said. “You should do very well by this. Very well indeed. Tell her she will need to write a message to be delivered to her father. Can she write?” he added.
I asked her. Genevieve nodded. “Of course,” she said.
“I will tell you what she should write,” Hastein continued. “You will explain it to her. We want her to assure her father she is safe, and…unharmed.” He paused and looked at me. “Is she unharmed?”
I blushed and nodded my head. I was not expecting such a question. Torvald laughed at my reaction.
“A wise choice, when dealing with women of their nobility. It will bring you a richer ransom,” Hastein said. “She will tell her father she is unharmed, but if he does not pay a ransom promptly, she fears her captors will take their pleasure of her. That will encourage him to pay a high price, and pay it swiftly.”
“What is he saying?” Genevieve asked, looking from Hastein to me.
“He wishes you to write a message that we will have delivered to your father,” I told her. “So we can arrange for your ransom to be paid.”
“What shall I tell him?” she asked. She looked hopeful and eager at the news.
I did not wish to repeat Hastein’s words to her. “We will discuss it later,” I told her.
When we’d returned to Hastein’s quarters from Ragnar’s council, he had brought with him the map he’d drawn, as well as the scroll, small brush, and bottle of ink. Hastein unrolled the scroll now, and with his knife sliced another length of parchment from it. Genevieve gasped. He handed the piece of parchment to me, with the brush and bottle.
“You write Latin as well as speak it, do you not?” he asked. I nodded. “Help her write the message and bring it back to me when it is finished. I also plan to have the bishop we captured here in Ruda write one to send to the other high priests of the Christians in these lands. I plan to have him list all of the priests and monks we now hold as prisoners, and to say that we shall sell them all into slavery if they are not ransomed. And we will burn all of the monasteries and churches between here and the sea, unless the Franks pay us to spare them.”
Hastein grinned. “I enjoy this part of it,” he said. “I enjoy squeezing the silver out of them.”
The sun was dropping toward the horizon by the time Genevieve and I made our way back to Wulf’s house from the palace. I was carrying a large sack of root vegetables, a smaller one of barley, and a fresh ham from a recently slaughtered pig, wrapped in cloth. I’d been given them by Cullain, after telling Hastein of Wulf’s protest that he was running low on food.
“I have never known a merchant who did not keep a store of silver secreted somewhere,” Hastein had replied. “And most have several hoards hidden in different places. It is how they protect themselves against unexpected troubles. I suspect Wulf could buy more food if he was truly desperate. He just does not wish to reveal that he has wealth hidden away which we do not know about. But we can share some of our stores with him. You should not suffer meager rations due to Wulf’s stinginess, nor should your prisoner.”
As we walked, I felt puzzled again that Hastein had invited Genevieve to eat with us. Several times during the meal, he had remarked how pleasing he found her looks, and once had even asked me to translate his words to her. I felt very awkward doing so. She, on the other hand, had blushed, but had not looked displeased.
“I spoke with Wulf while he and I were waiting at the palace,” Genevieve said, interrupting my thoughts. “I asked him why you were living in his home.”
I suspected that question had made Wulf uncomfortable. He would not want any Frank, much less a count’s daughter, to know he had helped our army gain entrance to Ruda.
“He told me he and his ship were captured by Northmen who used it in a ruse to get their warriors close to the city and in through the river gate. He said your captain was the pirate leader who had captured him, and he ordered you to protect Wulf and his family, because the folk of Ruda might have mistakenly believed he had actually helped the Northmen win the city.”
It was a cleverer lie than I would have expected from Wulf. Perhaps Hastein was right. Maybe he did have a hidden hoard of silver.
“That was a kindness I would not have expected from your people,” she said. I supposed not. Genevieve had told me more than once that she considered us murderers and pirates.
“Wulf told me you saved his wife’s life, the night that Ruda fell. You killed one of your own warriors to save her,” she said. I was surprised Wulf had volunteered that information.
She was quiet for a long time, then finally continued. “I wish you to know that I am grateful for how you have treated me. For what…for what you have not done. I was very afraid, but you have acted with honor toward me.”
I did not answer. I did not want her gratitude. I wanted only the silver that she would bring—and to be rid of her.
The next morning, I left Wulf’s house early, as soon as I awoke, before the rest of the household began stirring. I was tired of being in the cramped, stuffy structure, but more than that, I did not wish to see Genevieve. Besides, Ragnar had said at the council that all archers should use this time to replenish their stock of arrows, and my own supply was by now woefully low.
I broke my night’s fast in the Count of Ruda’s palace, with the Gull’s crew. Tore, as captain of the archers on Hastein’s ship, had already begun acting on Ragnar’s command.
“I found a room here in the palace where the count’s warriors stored extra weapons and gear,” he told me. “There are many bundles of arrows there. I’ll show you where it is. Odd and I and the rest of the men in our
crew with bows have already filled our quivers from them.”
The room Tore led me to was much more than the simple storeroom I’d expected from his words. It was true that many extra weapons, including bundles of arrows, were stored there. But the large, open chamber also contained everything needed to make or repair weapons and armor, too. There was a forge, an anvil, and smithing tools.
“The arrows are over here,” Tore said, walking over to the corner of the room where tied bundles of arrows were stacked.
“What do you think of them?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders.
“I have seen better, but I have seen worse, too. They will do.”
I picked up a bundle and examined the arrows in it. They were not as long as I made arrows for myself—that would affect how far they could be drawn, and the force with which they would shoot. And their shafts were thinner than I liked, too. They would be much more likely to break on impact when shot from a heavy bow like mine, if they hit something hard.
“Have you shot any?” I asked. Tore shot a longbow, as I did, and it was a strong one. Our bows were too strong for the other archers on the ship to draw easily.
“Aye,” he answered. “They are a bit light. They whip coming off my bow. They no doubt will do the same off yours. But it will be better to have these than to run out in the midst of a battle.”
“Do you think there will be a battle? Another one?” I was hoping we’d do as Ivar wished and leave Frankia before that occurred.
“Ragnar is the army’s war-king,” Tore replied, as if that answered my question. It did not.
I untied the cord securing two of the bundles and began stuffing arrows into one of my quivers. As I did, I noticed, beyond the stacked bundles of arrows, lengths of drying timber that had not yet been split and cut into shafts. I walked over and picked one up.
“There is a big sack filled with goose feathers for fletching here, too, and many unmounted arrowheads,” Tore volunteered.
This was better. I used the Franks’ arrows to fill one quiver—the spare one I’d taken from a dead man. But I would make enough new arrows, matched in length and weight to my draw and the power of my bow, to fill my main quiver—the one that contained my remaining supply of the arrows I’d brought with me on this voyage. I had more confidence in arrows that I made myself, more certainty that they would shoot where I aimed.
The work took almost four days of long and tedious toil. I spent one entire day, and part of another, splitting the lengths of lumber, shaping the splits into shafts that I straightened over the heat of a low fire, then cutting nocks in one end of each shaft and tapering the other to take the socket of an iron head. It took another full day to split feathers into pieces for fletching, and attach them to my new shafts with pitch and bindings of fine thread. Last of all, I used more pitch to mount the metal points, then sharpened them.
I finished on the evening of the fourth day, and celebrated with Tore, Odd, and the other members of the Gull’s crew, by sharing more than a few rounds of rich, heady ale from a cask Tore said had been looted from a monastery. The priests of the White Christ did not scrimp when it came to brewing ale.
While I’d been working on my new arrows, I’d stayed each night at the palace with the crew. The night after we’d returned from Ragnar’s council, I’d explained to Wulf that I would not be staying every night in his home. After all, he was right—the town was secure now. I did not think Genevieve would dare leave his house, given that Ruda was occupied by our army. But I told Wulf that whenever I was away I would be holding him responsible for ensuring she did not wander away or come to any harm.
After being gone for four full days and nights, though, I thought it prudent to check in on my prisoner. It was late and the sky had long been dark by the time I made my way somewhat unsteadily back to Wulf’s house, carrying my two quivers that were now chock-full with arrows.
By the time I reached Wulf’s home and entered as quietly as I could, the fire had been banked for the night in the hearth and all had taken themselves off to bed. From behind the closed door to the back room, Wulf’s snores resounded like the unsteady roar of distant thunder. I stirred the embers until they flared enough to give me a dim light to see by, and leaned my well-stuffed quivers against the wall beside my sea chest.
My body felt sticky and dirty. Longingly I remembered the bathhouse in my father’s longhouse. I recalled the day, after a successful hunting trip, when Harald and I had sat soaking in the big wooden tub, up to our necks in hot water, while our sister Sigrid had served us hot mulled mead. That had been a happy time. It seemed so long ago.
On impulse, I stripped off my tunic and trousers and stepped outside to the wooden barrel beside the door where Wulf stored the water he and Bertrada carried from the common well down the street. Scooping handfuls of cold water, I rinsed my face and body as best I could, then hurried back inside to escape the chill of the night air. As I was searching in the dim light for my cloak to dry myself with, a shiver shook me and I sneezed.
“What? Who is there?” a sleepy voice mumbled from the far side of the room.
Startled, I turned to see who had spoken. Genevieve was lying on a makeshift pallet in a corner, and had raised herself up on one elbow, looking bleary-eyed in my direction.
She gasped. “Where are your clothes?” she asked, now fully awake.
I snatched up my cloak and wrapped it around me.
“What are you doing out here?” I demanded.
“I cannot sleep in the back room any longer,” she said. “There is too much noise. I have been sleeping out here the past two nights.”
“Wulf’s snoring disturbs you?” It was, in truth, very loud.
“That, and…there are other noises, also,” she said, then cleared her throat while she brushed one hand distractedly through her hair.
It took me a moment to realize what she was speaking of. Wulf and Bertrada acted reserved around each other during the day, but the affection they shared in the dark was loud and enthusiastic. Having grown up in a longhouse, where many people live close together with little privacy, I had learned to ignore such sounds. Apparently, within the palaces of Frankish nobility, conditions were not the same.
“Ah,” I said. And after a moment, added, “So you plan to sleep out here now?”
“If you do not object,” she answered.
“I do not care. It does not matter to me what you do,” I told her. She sighed.
“You are still angry at me. You have been angry at me ever since that day, by the river. I can see it in your face whenever you look at me, and hear it in your voice whenever you speak.”
I did not say anything in reply. She was right.
“I am sorry for what I did,” she said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.
“You are sorry you tried to escape?” I asked. I did not believe her and did not try to conceal it.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not for trying to escape, but for what my actions caused. I am sorry for the men whose lives I cost. I am sorry for their families. I feel responsible for their deaths. Had I not called out, they would be alive today. I caused their deaths, just as surely as you did.” Then she covered her face with her hands and began weeping.
So she was sorry for those men’s deaths. I was glad to hear it. I had come to think that she thought of no one but herself.
In truth, I was sorry for the Frankish warriors’ deaths, too. They’d been brave men. They had been trying to rescue Genevieve and help their wounded comrade. There had been nothing personal between us. If not for the war between our two peoples, we would not have been enemies at all, and they would not have died.
“It does no good for you to blame yourself,” I told Genevieve. “What happened was fate. Those warriors’ fates, your fate, and mine. The Norns chose to weave the threads of all of our lives together. I do not know why. No mortal can understand why they weave the patterns they do. But it was our fate that those warriors and I should me
et as enemies, and it was thanks to my good fortune that I prevailed.” That, and my bow.
“I do not understand,” she said, shaking her head. “Do you believe your Gods cause all things to happen?”
“The Norns are not Gods,” I explained. “They are the weavers of fate—of all that happens in the world, of the paths that all men’s lives follow. Even the Gods are ruled by fate.”
“It is a strange belief,” she said, shaking her head and frowning.
I thought it stranger that one would not believe in fate. How could a man face life if he did not trust that things happened for a reason—that the path his life was following was being woven by the Norns? Without that, would he not always look back, as Genevieve did now, and wonder if everything that had happened around him, everything that lay behind him on his path, might somehow have been changed had he acted differently?
“It is not a belief,” I told her. “It is the way of things.”
I laid down on my pallet, wrapped my cloak tightly around me, and soon was asleep.
In the morning, when I awoke, I found my anger toward Genevieve had passed.
3 : Preparations
The following day I stayed at Wulf’s home, using the time to polish and oil my mail brynie and sharpen the edges of the sword and spear I’d acquired on my scouting mission. I was surprised to discover that in the few days I’d been away, working to replenish my supply of arrows, Genevieve had become an accepted member of the household. She even helped Bertrada prepare the meals, although she obviously had little experience at cooking. Bertrada had to guide her through the simplest tasks. Between meals, she busied herself playing with the baby, Alise, and trying to teach the two older children the rudiments of their letters.
“You should not waste your time, my Lady,” Wulf told her. Despite her insistence that they address her merely as “Genevieve,” neither Bertrada nor Wulf were able to keep from showing deference to her rank. “God willing, Carloman will take over my ship and my trade some day, and Adela will be taken as wife by a decent man.”
The Road to Vengeance Page 3
