by MD. Lachlan
The voices were light and the men laughed as they spoke. The confessor recognised it for what it was – warrior bravado, but if it was an act, he had to admit it was a convincing one.
‘Let’s face it,’ said the voice belonging to the one who had been called Holmgeirr. ‘The one to blame is that Odin-blind crow-man we followed in here. Where is he now?’
‘He followed the wolfman and the girl.’
‘Oh, terrific. Kiss goodbye to the reward then. Helgi’ll be as likely to nail us up by our nuts as give us anything now.’
‘We might still be in luck. Fastarr and the others went after him.’
‘Let’s hope they skin the bastard if they find him.’
‘Let’s hope he doesn’t skin them.’
The confessor had not heard the next voice before. It was quieter and more serious.
‘It’s too late. The Raven will have her. He said he would.’
‘Don’t say that, Astarth. That girl’s worth seventy pounds of silver to us alive. What’s he want her for? Sacrifice?’
‘Nothing so fancy; he just wants her dead.’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean, why? When did the servants of Odin ever need a why to want someone dead? Perhaps he’s hungry.’
‘Oh, don’t. No, don’t.’
‘Fair point, though, isn’t it?’
‘I can’t give Sigfrid a pile of gnawed bones, can I?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well. It could be anyone, couldn’t it?’
‘Now there’s a plan,’ said Ofaeti.
The men seemed to find this truly hilarious.
Jehan heard the church door creak open, a shout and then the door was slammed again.
‘Try it, you Frankish bastard, just try it,’ shouted a Norse voice. ‘Come on, see what you get!’
The voice he had heard called Holmgeirr said, ‘Look, it’s as black as Garm’s arse in here. Get a light, will you?’
The confessor continued to pray for the life of the Norsemen’s souls and the death of their bodies.
‘Never mind that. What are we going to do about this lot outside? I tell you, they’ll burn us out. We’ll have light enough then.’
‘They’ll never burn their own holy place, that’s our job. Relax. It’s built like a mountain anyway, I doubt you could burn it. The worst that can happen is that you’ll die by the sword.’
‘Looked on like that, what am I worried about?’
‘Actually, the worst that can happen is we get caught.’
‘I ain’t getting caught.’ It was a fourth voice, low and rough.
He heard the sound of a flint being struck, some blowing and puffing and then: ‘Hang on a minute, who’s this?’
A sword was drawn.
‘A beggar.’
‘No, look at his hair – he’s a monk. I’ll tell you who this is, boys: it’s our passage out of here. It’s their crippled god. It’s the god Jehan they’re always on about.’
‘Not God,’ said Jehan in deliberately bad Norse. He decided that the less the Norsemen thought he understood of their tongue, the better for him. However, the suggestion that he was a god had forced him to deny it.
‘He’s a healer, they reckon.’
‘Doesn’t seem to have done a very good job on himself, does he?’
‘Here, god, do my arm. Your boys gave it one hell of a whack.’ The confessor guessed the arm must be broken. The Norsemen liked to make light of their wounds whenever possible. The man wouldn’t have asked unless he was in dire pain.
‘Need to set it,’ said the confessor.
‘Can you do that? Do you have the skill?’
‘My hands bad but can tell you,’ said the confessor, ‘if you come to Christ.’
He felt his heart pumping and scolded himself for it. These northerners were not afraid to die, whatever lies they believed. Why should he be so?
‘I’ll come to any god who’ll fix this bastard arm,’ said the Dane. ‘What do I have to do?’
‘Baptism, water.’
‘Careful, Holmgeirr,’ said one of them. ‘They eat human flesh that lot, it’s well known.’
‘Don’t the Ravens do that too, and they follow our gods?’
‘Odin ain’t my god. A god of the living beats one of the dead.’
‘I’ve made plenty of corpses following Lord Thor, but I’ve never eaten one, nor has the god ever asked me to.’
‘Odin doesn’t demand that; it’s the Ravens who offer it.’
Confessor Jehan felt a jab in his side. ‘You, Christ God, I’ll suffer a broken arm for a year rather than eat anyone.’
‘Never mind that,’ said another voice. ‘Open that door and tell them we want a chat. Tell them we’ve got their god in here and if they want to ever see him alive again they better let us out.’
‘You go out and tell them. They’ll stick an arrow in whoever opens that door.’
‘I’ll do it,’ said the one who Jehan had heard called Ofaeti. ‘Ask for Tyr’s protection in this one. Stick close behind me.’
‘Not you, you fat bastard. If they’ve got bowmen out there they’ll never miss someone of your size.’
‘You want to do it?’
‘Second thoughts, you’re the ideal man for the job. Keep your shield low, mate. After you.’
Jehan felt a strong arm around him and he was lifted into the air. Someone had picked him up as if he was a child. He felt the man draw out a knife and knew what was going to happen.
The door was opened and he heard Eudes shout, ‘Hold!’
The Norseman screamed at the top of his voice, so loud it made the confessor wince, ‘We’re taking your god out of here. Stay your hand if you want him to live.’ Then he spoke to Jehan: ‘You, tell them to give us free passage back to our camp if you want to live.’
The confessor’s voice was calm. He spoke in the high language of Francique so people would know his words were intended for the Frankish leaders. The time for praying for his enemies’ souls was over. They had refused to convert and set themselves outside God’s mercy.
‘These men are enemies of God and I have hope of heaven. Strike, and if I die, know that it was with the Lord’s name on my lips.’
Jehan heard the Franks step forward. A knife pricked the skin at his neck, but then Eudes was shouting, ‘No, no, stand back. Stand back, put down your weapons.’
Jehan heard a voice, close at his ear. ‘Thanks for that, god. I guessed what you said and you can be sure you’ll pay for it when we get you back.’
‘Give them passage,’ shouted Eudes. ‘Set your ransom and we’ll want him back intact, northerners. Come on, let these men past.’
‘Cut them down!’ shouted the confessor. He couldn’t work out why Eudes wouldn’t attack. He would have thought the count would have been glad to get rid of a troublesome churchman, particularly one who was not amenable to bribes or threats.
‘My name is Ofaeti. Bargain with none but me!’ shouted the Norseman and carried him out into the night.
As Jehan was carried towards the bridge, he realised that the count was a more subtle politician than he had given him credit for. The king and the dukes of the Carolingian empire might refuse to come to the aid of little provincial Paris, but could they refuse to come to the aid of a saint?
6 Captives
Leshii had almost hated to cut the girl’s hair. She was very beautiful and her hair was an almost white blonde. However, there were two advantages to slicing it off. The first was that it would help disguise her from the Danes who were looking for her, enabling him to claim a good ransom from the wolfman – or rather via the wolfman from the rather richer Prince Helgi. The second was that he could sell the hair to a wig maker. A crop like that was a rare capture; it was even clean. How much? he wondered. Ten dinars? Two good swords’ worth at least.
She had understood what he wanted to do but instinctively objected. ‘The Bible says it is a disgrace for a woman to cut her hair.’
‘
And for a woman to be raped and murdered by Norsemen? Surely your god would prefer a lesser evil.’
Aelis saw his reason and held still while he worked. The cutting was notable for speed rather than finesse, and her remaining hair was reduced to clumps. The merchant had the severed tresses inside his pack in an instant – along with the lady’s rings – and, just as quickly, produced some wide trousers, gathered at the knee, and a long kaftan.
From down the slope they heard a dog barking and the calls of the men following it.
Aelis kicked off her soaking dress and stuffed it into a bush. Down to her hose and undershirt, she went to put the kaftan on but the merchant stopped her and passed her a rough shirt, no more than a tube with holes in.
‘Better not to wear the wet one,’ he said, ‘it might provoke questions.’
Aelis was deeply reluctant to undress in front of this man, so she went a few paces into the woods. She stripped off her hose and tunic and put on the new clothes. They stank of horse and, worse, of man. Suddenly his hands were on her.
‘I will die before you take me.’
‘You have a taste for drama,’ said the merchant. ‘You are to be a boy; best cover the things that announce you, very much, as a woman.’ His eyes bulged as he said this in a self-mocking acknowledgement of his sauciness. ‘I know you Franks and Neustrians have no conception of real buttons.’
One by one, he pushed the twelve buttons at the front of the kaftan through their loops. Aelis was glad he did, as she would have had no idea how to put on such a strange garment herself. Then he put a rough cap on her head and smeared dirt all over her face. She looked like she was meant to, a young male slave, his hair cut short as a sign of his subjugation.
‘You are a mute,’ he said, ‘and my servant. Your breasts are flat enough in that but it might be well to keep your arms crossed when in company. It’s a good job you’re a skinny thing – if you had big tits we’d have no chance.’
Aelis was unused to having commoners talk to her like that. Had he spoken that way at court he would have found himself doing very hard penance indeed. However, she realised she was in no position to argue.
‘And one more thing. Stay here; pretend to be sleeping. Let me handle this.’
‘Can you persuade them?’
He looked at her. He knew Helgi coveted this woman above all others, that prophecy had told him their destinies were linked. However, Helgi’s was a new realm and the Franks held him in contempt. He would not be allowed to marry their lady. Hence, he had decided to take her. The reward for bringing her to the prince, thought Leshii, would allow him to retire into idleness and safety for the rest of his life.
‘I’ve spent my life persuading people,’ he said. ‘Now lie down and wait.’
Aelis did as she was bid while Leshii went back to his fire. He heard the men approaching up the hill, calling to each other and to her.
‘Come on, darling. Best we get you than the Ravens, believe me.’
‘You’re worth too much for us to harm you. Come on, you can be in front of a fire in short order if you show yourself.’
The dog was barking with the hollow bay of the hunt. It came first, bounding into the camp and quartering the ground with its eager nose.
Leshii breathed out. He was used to making audacious deals, used to taking his life in his hands as he crossed the vast plains of the east, out to Serkland, where the desert people sold him silks and swords, west to the great markets of Denmark and Sweden and even south to Byzantium, the empress of cities. This, though, was going to be difficult. Six men at least, all fevered with the hunt and the day’s battle; him with only his knife to protect all his wares and the most precious commodity of all – the lady who was going to make him a rich man. He got hold of his nerves and spoke in the Norse tongue, high and clear, allowing his accent to colour it more than was strictly necessary in order to sound exotic.
‘Greetings to the sons of my good friend Ongendus, who is also called Angantyr. How fares the noble king of the Danes?’
‘You’re a bit late, foreigner – he’s been dead these twenty years.’ The men were all soaking wet, gleaming in the moonlight – as were the points of their spears. The dog, a large, smooth-haired beast, was briefly taken with the remains of Leshii’s meal and was gnawing on a mutton bone. Leshii thought of his mother. She’d have taken it from the dog and boiled it for soup, small as it was. He preferred to discard such things, not because he was rich but because he had aspirations to be rich. Act wealthy and you will be wealthy, an Arab had once told him. It seemed good advice, but up to that point it had met with only limited success. Perhaps the saying had less truth than he had supposed. It wasn’t the acting that had let him down, for sure – Leshii was good at that
‘Then tell me his noble son Sigfrid has grown to rule you Danes. He was always the strongest and most noble lad. I played with him when he was a child. Does he still speak of me? Say that he does.’
‘Our lord is Sigfrid, true. Are you a friend of his?’
‘I was like a second father to the boy when he was young. I am Leshii, merchant of Ladoga known to you as Aldeigjuborg, ambassador of Prince Helgi the Dane, called Rus, ruler of the Eastern Lake, the lands of Novgorod and Kiev. Come and share my fire. We are kinsmen. I have wine here if you would like it.’
‘My name is Fastarr, son of Hringr. No time for wine, brother,’ said one of the men. ‘We are hunting a girl who has been on this shore. Have you seen her?’
The merchant swallowed. He liked the sound of ‘brother’.
‘No one but me,’ said Leshii. He watched as the two men at the front whispered to each other, one shooting him a sidelong glance.
‘Can’t we stop for a bit of wine, boss?’ The one who asked was small and thin but had a cold impassive killer’s face.
‘We could be all night and not find her. Let’s give it a bit longer with the dog and if he doesn’t turn anything up, call it quits and drink this merchant’s stash,’ said another.
Leshii glanced nervously towards the packs with his bottles in them. It was good stuff, meant for trading, not quaffing by a bunch of hairy-arsed warriors.
‘Plenty of time tomorrow, then,’ said Leshii. ‘My brother is coming with enough to drown us all. I will ensure you are the first to sample it. How Sigfrid will rejoice to have us both by his side again.’
‘You have no bodyguard, merchant.’ Fastarr spoke.
‘I travel with a magician, a shapeshifter. He looks over me whenever I am in need. Incredible. A man only needs to raise his sword against me and it is as if the shadows themselves strike at him. Splat! He is dead.’
The men murmured to each other again. Leshii caught a word. Hrafn – raven.
‘You arrived today?’
‘Indeed.’
‘We saw your welcome at the camp.’
Leshii realised his whole story was about to fall to bits. He had said he had known Sigfrid but not realised he had been made king of the Danes. Now the men thought he had been into the camp, so why hadn’t he made himself known to the king? But he knew very well that the present has a way of shaping the past and thought that he might get away with it, once enough wine had gone into the Norsemen’s mouths. So he did what he always did when he thought he was winning in a transaction. He said nothing, smiled and shrugged.
‘Where is the Raven now?’ asked the one with the hammer on his shield, who had been called Fastarr.
Again, Leshii smiled and shrugged.
‘He can’t have made it over that quickly, can he? Didn’t he go back over the bridge?’ said one of the younger men, looking about him. ‘That Odin lot give me the creeps. Especially the woman. She’s not here, is she?’
‘That witch isn’t bothered about the likes of you,’ said Fastarr. He addressed Leshii: ‘We’re looking for a Frankish woman – a noblewoman – we saw her jumping from a house above the walls. She’ll fetch a good ransom.’
Leshii didn’t blink.
‘I have no one,’
said Leshii. ‘I brought the Raven here and he was grateful and promised always to guard me. I have no idea what else he wanted.’ He wondered who this Raven was. He had come with a man he was convinced was a shapeshifter but he had been a wolf. Still, if the Varangians were scared of ravens, he was quite willing to make Chakhlyk a raven.
‘Why didn’t you take the Ravens to the king?’
So there were more than one.
‘I was waiting to gauge the reception they got,’ he said.
‘Good move. I’d have cut them into slices as soon as they got there if I’d been Sigfrid, starting with the woman.’ The one who spoke was thin and wiry and had most of the fingers on his left hand missing.
The dog finished its bone, sat up and coughed.
‘A fine animal, brothers. How much would you want for it?’
Leshii knelt down and gestured for the dog to come to him, but it just looked at him and moved away. He stopped himself from sighing. He’d wanted to hold it so that it couldn’t go into the woods and discover the lady.
‘A good hunting dog like that would cost twenty deniers,’ said the Dane.
‘Bring him here and let me examine him,’ said Leshii.
‘Saurr, get here,’ said the little one with the spiteful face. Leshii winced at the name. It meant ‘Shit’. ‘Saurr, do I have to beat your arse? Get here right now.’ But the dog was gone, snuffling around in the trees. Leshii remained calm and concentrated on how he would explain if Aelis was discovered. The dog gave a bark and then there was the sound of it tugging at something, and of something else tearing. It barked again and again in a regular, high note. The noise meant one thing to the Norsemen. It had found something.
They went diving into the trees, spears held high as if to stab a boar.
‘Honoured Danes,’ said Leshii, ‘your dog has simply discovered my servant.’
The Danes came out of the wood, pulling Aelis with them. In the dark, with her cap and short hair, she really did look like a boy.
‘I thought you said you had no one else with you.’
‘No man. This is not a man, it is a slave.’
‘You lied to us.’
