Fenrir (16 page)

A white light split the merchant’s sight and he realised he was sitting on the reeds.

‘Do you think, merchant, that you can separate a god from his destiny?’ said Sigfrid, standing above the little man with the sword point pressing into his belly.

‘My lord, I was in a situation where I had to choose my deaths. I was being loyal to my own king by concealing the girl. If I had given her to you I would have had to break my oath and face Prince Helgi’s wrath. What choice did I have?’

This time Sigfrid drove his boot into Leshii’s chest, knocking him flat.

‘Where is she?’

‘I will show you, my lord.’ Leshii put his hand to his face. His nose was broken, he was sure.

‘You will tell me.’

‘My lord, I am a merchant. This knowledge is all I have to bargain with. Give it up and I am dead.’

‘You’ll die anyway. What’s a day to you?’

‘Before I reveal her whereabouts I would require an oath that you would let me live.’

Another kick, harder. Leshii curled up in a ball on the floor.

‘Impossible. You have concealed her from me, lied to my face. I would rather lose a thousand women than accept such an indignity. I offer you a quick death, no more. Decide now or I’ll give you to the Raven.’ The king raised his foot again.

‘A deal,’ said Leshii through teeth clamped together with pain. ‘Nice doing business with you.’

‘Don’t provoke me, merchant,’ said Sigfrid.

Leshii lay where he was. He had given up on his life and accepted he would die. An attempt to remain cheerful was all that he had.

‘We’ll go now,’ said Sigfrid.

A bodyguard pulled Leshii to his feet. Sigfrid put out his arms. Another bodyguard put the king’s hauberk on him and passed him his shield with its terrifying wolf’s head design.

‘Do we need our byrnies, lord?’ said a warrior. ‘We’re only going to fetch a girl.’

Leshii knew he was referring to the mail coat – the Varangians at Ladoga called them that too.

‘If the Raven finds out where she is, then we’ll need them,’ the king said. ‘That is a mighty man. He’s supposed to be on our side but imagine what might happen if he turns against us.’

The warriors dressed and armed themselves, went outside and mounted horses. There were eight of them, in full byrnies and helmets, their shields across their backs and spears in their hands.
Escape?
thought Leshii.
No chance
. He looked around for a horse.

The king caught his eye. ‘You go on foot.’

‘But won’t that slow you down?’ said Leshii.

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ said the king, ‘you are going to run. Saerda, drive him.’

‘My lord.’ The skinny berserk turned his horse and rode it at the merchant. Leshii tried to dodge but was too slow, and the berserk fetched him a whack about the ear with the flat of his sword, sending him stumbling forward.

It had been in the back of Leshii’s mind to lead the warriors to the trees and then give them the slip when he got the chance. At the pace Saerda was slapping him on he wondered whether he could even make the wood.

They raced up through the camp, Leshii’s boots slipping on the mud, children shouting and trying to trip him. Some even threw shit and stones until some hit the king and they all ran for it like rats down a riverbank. Leshii was a tough old man who’d lived his life walking beside caravans, perched on a mule or a camel, but the pace Sigfrid demanded would have tested someone half his age. He panted and heaved. The king brought the flank of his horse alongside him and barged him to the ground.

‘Get up, merchant. Your meeting with death is pressing and you wouldn’t want to be late.’

Leshii couldn’t reply. It was as if the air was too thick for his lungs, like he was trying to breathe soup. He lay face down and waited for the inevitable – the stamp of Sigfrid’s horse, the stab of a spear.

‘My lord, the merchant will be in no fit state to lead us anywhere if we continue like this.’ It was one of the king’s bodyguard, a hard-looking bald man with the tip of his nose missing.

‘Get him to his feet,’ said Sigfrid. The bodyguard got down off his horse and helped Leshii up. ‘Now cut his throat unless he tells us where the girl is in his next breath.’

Leshii bent over panting, shaking his head. The bodyguard unsheathed his knife and Leshii just sank to his knees, looking up at him.

‘No, no, no,’ said Sigfrid, tapping aside the blade with his spear. ‘Just get him on your horse and bring him on. Is it up here, merchant?’

Leshii nodded and coughed out a ‘Yes.’

The bodyguard mounted then helped the old man onto his horse behind him. They went forward at a slower pace, Leshii’s mount unwilling to go at anything faster than a walk with the extra weight of the merchant on its back.

They climbed the hill under a small, sharp moon, and went into the dark of the wood. Leshii was clinging now to desperate hopes. First he hoped they would encounter the Raven. He had no idea how that would help; he just knew it would be a difficulty for Sigfrid. Leshii had decided that he would lead the king to the lady but he thought she might see them coming and try to run, which might create a diversion. Leshii counted the ‘mights’. Three. He remembered his mother’s saying ‘two “mights” are as good as a “won’t”’. After that, what? Hope the confessor could call on the help of his god.

It was very dark beneath the trees and progress was slow. A scream, not a natural sound at all, more like a long scrape of steel on stone, came from their right.

‘What was that?’ Sigfrid turned to a bodyguard.

‘Could be anything, lord. One of our men with an unwilling woman, I should guess.’

‘I didn’t like the sound of it,’ said Sigfrid. ‘Let’s take a look.’ He turned his horse in the direction of the noise.

Another scream, equally as unnatural but from deeper in the woods, came from behind them. Then another, in front.

‘Is the lady in that direction, merchant?’ Sigfrid pointed straight ahead.

‘Yes, lord.’

All Leshii knew was that there lay a possible delay. Of course the lady was in that direction.

‘Come on. That sound has the mark of the Raven about it. We can’t let him get her,’ said Sigfrid, and spurred his horse off the track into the long grass and brambles.

The light beneath the trees had almost an underwater quality to it, the leaves mottling the moonlight and turning the ground to a shimmering seabed. A dull thump and the first throwing axe hit the horseman to Leshii’s right in the shoulder, bouncing off his byrnie and catching him in the face to smash his teeth. Five more followed. A horse caught one in the side of the neck and went into a crazy, screaming, spinning dance, crashing into the other animals. Leshii saw Saerda fall from his horse, his animal bolting into the trees.

‘Franks! Franks!’ It was Sigfrid’s voice.

The bodyguard sitting in front of Leshii on their shared horse drove the beast forward and his elbows back to rid himself of his passenger. Leshii fell heavily. He saw Sigfrid leap from his horse and go howling into the undergrowth with his sword; three of his men did likewise, ditching their horses to plough into the battle. Another, beset by two attackers, was trying to stab them with his spear. He was unused to fighting on horseback and in the end just threw the weapon and leaped off to fight on foot with his axe.

Something glinted on the ground in the moonlight. It was a throwing axe, a
francisca
, as the enemies of the Franks called them. Leshii picked it up and just ran, not even looking where he was going. He was exhausted but fear drove him on, up the wooded slope away from Paris, over a little brook and into the darkness. He willed himself forward. He knew he didn’t have long. He had glimpsed the Franks and there weren’t many of them. The one he had seen close was lightly armoured and his weapon no more than a big knife. Against Sigfrid’s men, he knew they wouldn’t stand a chance. They’d had their opportunity in the ambush and it had passed them by. So the king would be after him soon.

What to do?
No new plan occurred to him, so his old one would have to suffice. At least if he found the lady he could use her to his advantage.

He felt himself laughing as he pushed through the woods. Hadn’t he taken this mission for the comfort it had promised him? And hadn’t he cheated death, at least so far? He muttered a word of thanks to Perun, the thunder god of his people, and pressed on.

From somewhere behind him, far but not so far, came another terrible scream. The voice before, thought Leshii, had been a woman’s. This was definitely a man’s.

He came to the edge of the woods at the top of the hill and looked down at the Seine, a metal ribbon under the moon. It was a long drop to the flood plain and he would be visible all the way. Still, once he had gone a few hundred paces he would be indistinguishable from any other drunken Norseman or vengeful Frank stalking the dark.
Well, cling to that hope anyway
. He looked up at the moon, for the first time in his life wanting to see cloud.

Then he saw them, down below. There were two figures carrying spears or staffs, another smaller person and, following behind, a bandy-legged mule carrying a large pack. He recognised the animal’s gait. It was his and so there was a good chance that the lady was with it.

There was a noise to his right. Sigfrid had regained his horse and had come out of the trees, the animal shaking and stamping away the underbrush from its coat. Leshii went flat to the ground as the king drove the horse up and down the edge of the wood. Another rider emerged further up the hill but halted, apparently watching Sigfrid, unnoticed by the king. Then Sigfrid gave a whoop and galloped down the hill. Leshii got to his feet, a tree trunk between him and the watching horseman.
Who was it?
Leshii saw the people with the mule turn and look towards Sigfrid. The two larger figures levelled their spears and stood against the king while the third ran with the mule down the hill.

Then he heard the scream again. This time it seemed close.

Aelis heard the clash behind her but didn’t dare to turn to see how the monks were faring against Sigfrid. She knew it would be badly. The Viking king seemed cut from the same cloth as her brother Eudes, a man raised to arms from his earliest years. She knew the two monks were no more than armed scribes, more at home with ink than spears, and would not do well against him.

She hurried down the hill. It was a broad grassy expanse, eaten short by sheep, and there was no hiding anywhere. Her only hope was a collection of little farmsteads below her. The sound of the fighting stopped but still she rushed on, leading the mule. The confessor, she thought, might be dead. He hadn’t moved or made a noise since they had tied him to the mule, and although she had checked him regularly, it had been difficult to tell if he was breathing or not.

Down, down, down the slope towards the group of houses and tiny fields. She heard the horse behind her, coming on at the trot. Sigfrid had no need to exhaust his mount by galloping, she thought; he had seen her and had all the time in the world. She gripped the knife she had taken from the monk. She was determined that Sigfrid wouldn’t take her without a fight but her hand was trembling. The king had just done for two young men, both armed with spears. What chance did she have? Next to none, but not none, she thought.

The sound of the horse came closer but still she didn’t turn, tugging the mule on through the moonlight.

Sigfrid shouted something in his own language and his words were harsh. She guessed he had lost men in the fight. That would have been her brother’s first thought.

‘Stop,’ he said in grating Roman. ‘Stop or die.’ She kept going, holding the knife by her side. The hoofbeats followed right behind and the horse drew alongside, the rider nudging its flank into her.

‘The saint is dead,’ said Sigfrid. ‘Stop and I might persuade my men to spare some of your monks. Come on.’

He leaned down from the saddle and slapped her fingers away from the mule’s reins with the flat of his sword.

‘I said stop.’

For the first time she turned to face him. ‘I am the daughter of Robert the Strong, scourge of the Norsemen and defender of the faith,’ she said. ‘My father was a second Maccabaeus to your heathen hordes. If you want me to stop, then stop me.’

‘You can walk back or I can punch you into unconsciousness and put you over the back of the mule with the saint. Your choice.’

It seemed as if Sigfrid’s physical self was not big enough to contain the strength of his soul. But there was something else too. He seemed to have a force emanating from him, which pushed others down, bullied and belittled them. Here was a man, she thought, who had only ever considered his own needs, his own glory, a man of violence and risk who was prepared to do anything to make the world see him as he saw himself. Aelis was used to such men and was not intimidated by them.

She brought up the knife. ‘I choose the second. It will be difficult to subdue me without taking a little damage yourself, I think.’

Sigfrid snorted and brought the flat of his sword against the back of her knife hand with a stinging rap. The weapon went spinning to the ground.