The Road to Vengeance

by Judson Roberts

  Why does a hungry wolf wish to know where the sheep are pastured, I thought, but I did not say that to her.

  “His name is Ivar. He is one of the commanders of our army,” I told her. “His father, Ragnar Logbrod, is the war-king who leads our warriors, but Ivar and my captain, Jarl Hastein, also command. We are at war with your people. They must know from which direction threats against us are likely to come.”

  “Paris is no threat to you,” she said. “It is far upriver from here. And it is a peaceful town.”

  “Ask her about the town’s walls,” Hastein told me.

  “I told you, it is a peaceful town,” she answered when I translated Hastein’s question. “There is a garrison of my father’s men who are stationed there in a fortress on an island in the middle of the river. But the town itself does not have walls.”

  Hastein and Ivar looked at each other, incredulous expressions on their faces, when I translated Genevieve’s answer. Then Ivar began to laugh.

  “I did not like that man,” Genevieve said as we made our way back to Wulf’s house. I did not need to ask whom she meant. She’d looked frightened and angered by Ivar’s harsh laughter at her description of Paris’ defenses—or lack of them. After that, she had stubbornly refused to answer any more questions from him or Hastein. “I do not trust them,” she’d said. I thought it a wise judgment on her part.

  I was wishing I had remembered to bring a torch when we’d left the count’s palace. The night sky was shrouded with clouds, and the narrow streets of Ruda were dark.

  My forgetfulness may have saved my life. Had my eyes been dazzled by the light from a torch, they likely would not have caught the slight movement deep within the shadows across the street from Wulf’s house.

  “Stay behind me,” I instructed Genevieve as I drew my sword. “I believe there are men up ahead in the shadows.”

  As I spoke, two men stepped into view in the street and drew their swords. At least they did not have shields or armor. No doubt that would have elicited difficult questions from the guards when they’d passed through the town’s gate.

  It is a tricky thing, fighting with swords but no shields. My brother, Harald, the finest swordsman I have ever known, said he considered it more akin to fighting with knives—though very long knives, to be sure. Few blows are actually struck, as the risk of being exposed to a counterstrike is too great if a blow is swung but misses. And it is dangerous to try and block blade with blade. If they should strike edge to edge, rather than using the flat of the blade to catch and block an opponent’s cut, one or both swords might break. It is a dance mostly of advances, retreats, and feints.

  The two men moved apart as they closed with me, intending to attack from different sides. I backed away, a step at a time, keeping my sword in front of me, ready to thrust or parry. Distance and balance—Harald had drilled them into me, over and over. I must maintain distance and balance. If you are off balance, you will be slow to react, he’d said. And you must maintain the proper distance from your opponent, staying out of reach of his blade until you are ready to strike with your own.

  I could hear Genevieve, her breathing rapid and frightened, behind me. “When I move,” I told her, “run for Wulf’s door.”

  I made a quick, feinting jab to my left with my blade. The attacker on that side leaped back, while the man on my right stepped forward. I turned and advanced toward him, three quick lunging steps, thrusting my sword at his chest. He stumbled back, swatting at my extended blade with the flat of his own as he did, but I had already withdrawn my weapon and was gone, circling to the right, putting him between me and his comrade. As much as possible, I needed to fight only one man at a time.

  Genevieve had reached Wulf’s door. It was latched. She pounded on it, shouting, “Wulf, help me! Let me in!”

  The attacker on the left—the one now to the rear of his comrade—turned and looked back at her. “Leave her,” the other one said. “It is him we want, and we must finish this quickly.” I recognized his voice when he spoke. It was Stenkil.

  The two men moved apart so both faced me again. Behind them, I saw the door to Wulf’s house open, and Genevieve darted inside. At least she was safe. As the two advanced, I retreated and kept moving to the right, trying again to put one of my attackers behind the other. The street was narrow, though, and soon I would run out of room.

  The warrior closest to me—Stenkil—leaped forward in two quick steps and raised his sword for a lunging cut, but I jumped back just as swiftly, staying out of range, and he held back his blow, rather than launching it.

  The door to Wulf’s house opened again and Wulf charged out, one of Bertrada’s iron cook-pans in his hands. I thought perhaps he intended to use it as a club, but he ran up behind the farther of my two attackers and swung the pan at him, flinging a shower of glowing embers onto his back.

  The man’s tunic began to smoke in a dozen places where the hot coals burned holes through the fabric and set the edges alight. He shouted out in alarm and pain, and swung around toward Wulf, raising his sword. As Wulf scurried away, Stenkil glanced back over his shoulder to see what was happening behind him.

  It was a fatal mistake. When he did, I lunged forward and raised my sword, feinting a cut at his head. Startled, he swung his own sword up in a desperate effort to block it. I swept the flat of my blade down under his and flung his weapon aside, then whipped my own down in a quick chop that ended in the side of his neck. There was not much force to the blow, but my sword’s edge was very sharp, and it cut a gash almost as deep as the width of the blade.

  The other man was chasing Wulf back toward the open door, and gaining on him, when suddenly the numerous small fires smoldering on his tunic flared up into an angry blaze that covered his back and set his long hair alight. He staggered to a stop, trying to reach behind him with his free hand to swat at the spreading flames.

  I pulled my sword free of Stenkil’s neck, the blade slicing even deeper as I drew it back toward me. He dropped his own weapon with a clatter and clutched with both hands at the gaping wound, trying to stem the fountain of blood spurting from it. I darted around him to the burning man and rammed my sword into his back. He screamed and tried to turn, but I held him skewered on my blade and pushed again, pushed the point on through until it jutted out of his chest, and held him there, impaled, till he slumped forward onto his knees, finally dead, and slid off my blade onto the ground.

  I wheeled back toward Stenkil, to find he was no longer a threat. He was staggering away down the narrow street, trying to escape, still clutching at his neck with both hands. I caught him at the corner and finished him with a single thrust.

  6 : Count Robert

  Wulf was becoming more and more anxious as the day passed. “You cannot leave those dead men in my storehouse!” he complained. “Soon they will begin to stink. And if your people find them there, I may be blamed for their deaths.”

  He had not protested last night, when I’d suggested that we move the two men’s bodies there. He had even helped me drag them in off the street. It was late morning now, though—nearly noon. I supposed he felt it was time—past time—for me to make other arrangements. It was a reasonable expectation on his part. The problem was that I did not know what to do. I did not want Ragnar to learn I had killed two more warriors from our army.

  As often happens when a person delays making decisions that must be made, the choice of what to do was taken from me. I heard a clatter of horses’ hooves in the street outside, and a moment later a fist hammered on the door.

  “Halfdan,” Torvald’s voice cried. “Are you in there?”

  I opened the door. In the street, behind Torvald, Hastein and Ivar were mounted on horses. Torvald was holding the reins of two additional horses, saddled but riderless.

  “Make haste,” Torvald said. “Arm yourself. Full gear—brynie, helm, shield, and weapons. You are to come with us. Two riders—Franks—are outside the main gate, bearing a flag of truce. We ride to meet with them. H
astein wishes you to translate when we do. We have brought a mount for you.”

  Behind him, Hastein leaned over in the saddle and stared at the ground.

  “Blood has been spilled here,” he said. “Recently. And no small amount, either.”

  He straightened and looked at me. “Halfdan, do you know anything of this?”

  Though I did not wish to volunteer what I had done, I would not lie about it—especially not to Hastein.

  “Yes,” I answered. “It happened last night. When Genevieve and I were returning here from your quarters. Two men attacked us.”

  Ivar looked me up and down. “It does not appear it was your blood that was spilled,” he said.

  “No,” I agreed. “The blood you see is theirs. I killed them both.” Torvald grinned, and Ivar looked impressed. Success at killing seemed to have that effect on him. Hastein, however, did not look pleased.

  “Where are the dead men’s bodies?”

  “We…I…have hidden them in Wulf’s storehouse.”

  “They were Danes?” he asked. I nodded. He stared at me silently for a time, then let out a long sigh. “Were you going to tell me of this?” he demanded.

  I shrugged my shoulders. In truth, I could not say. I had not made my mind up by the time he arrived at Wulf’s door. “It is not you whom I did not wish to learn of these deaths,” I answered.

  “Ah, yes,” Ivar said. “Father will be very displeased. He will take great exception to what you have done.”

  I hoped Ragnar would not wish to express his displeasure with a noose.

  “Do you know who they were?” Hastein asked.

  “One of them was Stenkil,” I said. “The comrade of the man I killed earlier here in Wulf’s house. I did not recognize the other.”

  Genevieve and Wulf appeared behind me in the doorway. “Is your captain angry?” she asked, looking at Hastein’s stern expression. I nodded. “That is not fair. You had no choice. Those men attacked us!” she protested.

  “What is she saying?” Ivar asked. When I told him, Wulf chimed in. “It is true, he said. “I saw it also. They would have killed Halfdan, had he not killed them first.”

  “It is fortunate for you,” Hastein said, “that these two will speak for you. If you were merely defending yourself from attack—if you had no choice but to fight—there is nothing Ragnar can say.”

  “Nevertheless, I am certain he will say something,” Ivar groaned. “He will not miss such an opportunity to complain about how badly our men lack discipline.”

  “There is more,” I said. “Two days ago, Wulf saw Snorre and Stenkil together here in the street in front of his house.”

  Hastein sat silently atop his horse for a moment thinking about what I had just told him. Then he shook his head. “We will have to deal with this matter later,” he said. “For now, we must learn what these Franks at our gate desire of us.”

  The Franks who had approached Ruda under a flag of truce had been sent by Count Robert, Genevieve’s father. It seemed he was near and wished to parley.

  “He wishes to negotiate the ransom for his daughter, the Lady Genevieve,” one of the two riders advised. “He has brought silver to pay it. He wishes to gain her release this day.”

  “So he does not wish to wait for the meeting we proposed when we delivered the written messages?” Hastein murmured to Ivar under his breath. “What should we make of his impatience?”

  “From what Genevieve has told me, I do not believe he is motivated by concern for her,” I volunteered.

  If Genevieve’s ransom was to be negotiated now, I would need Hastein’s assistance. “I do not know what price to ask her father to pay for her,” I told him. “I do not know how much such a prisoner is worth. Will you negotiate for me?”

  Hastein nodded. “I will,” he said, then grinned. “I will enjoy it.”

  Since there were four of us, Hastein told me to tell the Franks that Count Robert could bring three of his warriors to the parley. “We can dispense with the other terms we had demanded earlier—that no one wear armor or bear weapons. I do not believe he is here with treachery planned. He would not have come to Ruda’s gates, and so swiftly, unless he truly wishes to free his daughter.”

  “The count does not wish to meet this close to the walls of Rouen,” one of the Franks answered when I told him Hastein’s terms for a parley. He turned and pointed behind him, across the cleared fields that surrounded the town, toward the distant line of trees. “He will meet you in the open ground behind us, halfway between the town wall and the forest. He does not trust you and does not wish to come so close to the rest of your army.” He gave a grim smile and added, “And you, no doubt, do not wish to come too close to ours.”

  “It is a reasonable request,” Hastein answered when I told him what the Frank had said. Ivar agreed. “In his place, I would not trust us, either,” he said.

  “When shall we return?” I asked the Frank. “When should we expect Count Robert to be here?”

  “Return?” he answered. “You should not leave. The count will meet with you now, as soon as we tell him you are willing. He is watching us from the cover of the trees.”

  When I saw him, I had no doubt that Count Robert was a warrior. His body was encased in iron: a long brynie of mail with sleeves that covered his arms to his wrists and a long skirt that hung to just below his knees, but was split front and back for comfort while riding. His shins were protected by unornamented iron greaves, and a plain helm of conical design adorned his head. All of his armor appeared well-made, but was simple and without decoration. And clearly, from the patina of minor dents and scratches that covered its surface, his armor had seen hard use.

  When he neared the agreed meeting location, he held up one hand. The three riders with him—the two Franks we had spoken with earlier, plus another warrior who, like the count, was older—stopped. One of them was leading a packhorse laden with two sturdy leather saddlebags. Another held the reins of an extra horse which, though saddled, was riderless.

  Count Robert walked his horse forward a few more paces and halted in front of us. He had a tanned, weathered face, framed by a close-cropped beard, and hard, expressionless eyes, the gray color of a winter sky.

  “I am Robert,” he announced, “Count of Angers, Blois, Tours, Autun, Auxerre, Nevers, and Paris. I serve Charles, King of the Western Kingdom of the Franks, and I rule those towns for him, in his name. Who are you, and what lord do you serve?”

  “Tell him,” Hastein said, “that my name is Hastein, and this is Ivar. Tell him we are Danes, and free men, and we serve no man.”

  The count’s eyes flashed when I translated Hastein’s answer. “Are you someone who holds authority among your rabble? Am I speaking with someone who can arrange for my daughter’s release?” he snapped.

  I did not need to consult with Hastein to be able to answer Count Robert’s question. “Lord Hastein”—I chose to call him that, since this Frank would not understand “jarl”—“is one of the leaders of our army,” I told him. “He is here to negotiate the Lady Genevieve’s ransom with you, for he is also the captain who commands the warrior who captured her.”

  For the first time, the count focused his gaze solely upon me. “And that, I suppose, is you. My son told me of you.” I saw his eyes glance briefly down at the sword I wore.

  “Ask him why he has come now,” Hastein directed. “Ask him why he did not wait for the meeting that had been agreed upon. Ask him also if the other messages have been delivered to the high priests they were intended for, and if they intend to meet us when and where we had planned.”

  “The archbishops of Sens and Rheims have both received the message you delivered from the Bishop of Rouen,” Count Robert answered, when I explained what Hastein had asked. “They intend to ask for more time before they meet with you. They will be sending an envoy to you here at Rouen with that request. Men of the church can sometimes be slow to act. I did not wish the end of my daughter’s captivity to be delayed by them
. That is why I have come.

  “I am prepared to settle with you now for the amount of ransom I must pay to secure my daughter’s release,” he continued. “I am prepared to pay you this day whatever amount we agree upon. But I must see my daughter and speak with her before we begin.”

  When I translated his request, Hastein shook his head. “He will see her when her ransom has been negotiated and weighed. Not until then. He will see her when we are ready to make the exchange.”

  “How do I know she is alive? How do I know she is unharmed?” the count protested. I thought it a reasonable concern. But Hastein would not budge.

  “Just days ago you received the written message from her, in her own hand, telling you she was unharmed,” I told him, translating the answer Hastein gave. “And you will see her before you must actually give up your silver to us. She will be able to tell you then that she is still unharmed.”

  Count Robert looked angry. I suspected he was not used to having others refuse him what he wished.

  “Very well,” he said through gritted teeth. “How much do you ask for the ransom of my daughter?”

  “Ten pounds of silver,” Hastein said. I was so astonished I just looked at him, and did not translate his words. It was a huge sum.

  “Do not stare with your mouth open,” Hastein told me. “If the amount we ask for appears to surprise even you, it will weaken our bargaining position. Now tell him what I said.”

  Count Robert’s eyes bulged and his face turned red when I translated Hastein’s terms into his tongue. “Your figure is preposterous,” he sputtered.

  “I disagree,” Hastein replied, smiling broadly at Count Robert’s indignation. Hastein looked as though he was enjoying this greatly. “Tell him it is a fair and well-reasoned amount. Explain to the Count that four years ago, I led a raid up the Seine River that captured the monastery of St. Wandrille, downstream from Ruda. Priests of the Franks’ church paid us six pounds of silver not to burn the monastery’s buildings, and twenty-six additional pounds to free the sixty-eight prisoners we’d captured there. Six pounds of that latter amount were ransom for the abbot alone.”