But without the stout halls of Vass to comfort them, the warriors were not prepared for such a winter—and even less prepared were the folk of England. The cold settled over the land like death, week after bitter week. Snow blanketed the hills. Rivers and wells turned to ice. Birds died by the thousands, frozen where they perched.
And then came the wind, sweeping the roofs clean, blasting the branches off frozen trees, knocking over crofts and barns, and piling the snow into head-high drifts that blocked the roads and made it impossible to travel. In the villages, beleaguered peasants built their fires as high as they could afford and brought their most precious animals—the cows in calf, the best breeding sows and ewes, the hens, and the herding dogs—inside, where they could share the warmth. In the forests and on the moors, the wild things had no such protectors. Those creatures that could burrowed into their dens to sleep away the worst of the weather. Those that could not struggled and often died.
The beast warriors could neither sleep away the winter nor, because of Cwen’s curse, find peace in death. They built rough shelters or took refuge in abandoned huts, but the cold went on and on, week after frozen week, and eventually even those dwellings proved too meager.
One who found himself freezing as the winter spun down harder and harder was Gunnar, son of
Hrólfr
, called Gunnar the Red, who spent his days as a great bull, suffering in the cold, and his nights as a man, trying to get warm . . .
—from the
Dyrrekkr Saga of Ari Sturlusson
(E. L. Branson, trans.)
CHAPTER 1
Richmond Castle, North Yorkshire, January 1408
“YOU SIT VERY
close to the fire,
monsire
.”
The soft voice lifted Gunnar’s thoughts out of the flames. He glanced up to find a slip of a maid standing at his shield-side elbow, regarding him with wide, gray eyes that sparkled with curiosity. He’d noticed her before, here and there about the hall, but they’d never spoken.
He’d prefer it stayed that way. He picked up the flagon of ale that sat by his foot and took a healthy draught before answering curtly, “I like to be warm.”
“Her Grace says sitting too close to the hearth leads to illness. It dries the lungs, she says.” Hands folded at her waist, she stood there rocking up and down on her toes, waiting for him to comment on the duchess’s notions of health.
Instead, Gunnar turned back to the fire and stretched his legs out, putting his feet even closer to the flames. Then to make it clearer that he had no intention of answering, he took another draught of ale and noisily swished it around in his mouth.
It wasn’t that he wanted to be rude. He just wanted to be left alone.
He’d managed to pass five good, warm nights here at Richmond Castle without anyone noticing him, and he hoped to pass many more before he had to move on. But the ability to stay here before the fire each night depended on no one taking notice of him—or of Jafri during the daylight hours. It was difficult enough to disguise their odd comings and goings when no one paid them any attention. If someone grew too curious, they’d have to head back out into the woods.
And back into that devil’s wind.
It was the wind that had forced them in toward Richmond to begin with. Roaring down out of the north like a snowslide down a mountain, it had blown in the roof of the old forester’s hut they’d been sharing, burying Gunnar and the fire under a ton of frozen thatch and leaving him to spend the remainder of that already miserable night freezing his balls off in the dark as he dug out the gear and tried to get the fire restarted. The next morning, thank the gods, Jafri had looped a rope around the neck of the bull and led him toward the castle.
It was a risk, coming in so close. Someone might spot the wolf, the form Jafri took each night, lurking at the edge of the forest, and with so few wolves left in this part of England, the sight of one so close to the village would draw hunters, even in a winter like this one. But Jafri needed shelter as much as Gunnar, for the days were as frigid as the nights, and so he had apparently judged the risk to be worth taking. When Gunnar had shifted from bull back to man at sunset that night, he’d found himself within sight of Richmond and its welcoming hall. They’d been trading places each dawn and dusk ever since, waiting for the weather to ease. Until that happened, it was vital that their odd comings and goings remaining unnoticed.
“I would fear for the toes of my slippers, with my feet so close to the coals,” she said. “Have you never burned your feet?”
It was one thing to ignore a statement, another to refuse to answer a direct question—people would notice that, of a certs, even if the question came from an annoying maid. Gunnar gave the ale one last swish and swallowed. “No.” And then, because out of the corner of his eye he saw her frown at his abruptness, “My boots are sturdier than your slippers.”
She stopped rocking long enough to lift the front edge of her emerald gown and held out one foot, showing off the toe of a plain slipper about half the size of his boot. “I suppose they are. Still, I should worry.”
“And yet you stand here beside me, every bit as close as I,” Gunnar pointed out.
“Not as close as your feet,
monsire
.” She gestured toward his boots with her toe. “Not by a yard. You are quite tall, though I think the varlet who lights the candles is taller.”
He turned toward the dais as though he’d heard something. “I think they call for the women to retire.”
She cocked her head and listened. “No, not yet.” She waited again until he gave in.
“So. Did you come only to talk about my height and whether I will burn my boots?”
“No,
monsire
. I was curious about you. I have seen you these past nights, but not before. Where do you hail from?”
“The north.” He would leave it at that, but she arched an eyebrow expectantly and he added, “Near Alnwick.”
“I have never yet been to Alnwick, but I have met Henry Percy. The younger one, I mean, not the old earl.
He
is a traitor.”
“He is that,” said Gunnar. “And he is no longer earl.”
“True. You are not loyal to him, then?”
“If I were, I would be in Scotland.”
“I suppose you would.” The corners of her eyes crinkled in mischief. “Unless, of course, you are a rebel and a spy.”
Three knights nearby looked up, frowning suspiciously, and Gunnar glared at her. “I am neither. You should be careful what you say, maid. That tongue could get a man killed.”
She saw the knights staring and flushed. “Your pardon,
monsire
.” She raised her voice so it would carry well. “I meant it only as a jest, but I grant ’twas a poor one. Please forgive me.”
The men stared a moment longer, then relaxed back into their conversation, and Gunnar nodded a grudging acceptance of her apology, as little good as it would do him.
Curse it.
Now not only the girl had noted him, but those three had, and they would be keeping a close eye on him from now on. He either needed to find another place to sleep or give them some reason to stop worrying about him.
As he was considering how he might accomplish that, a clatter rose at the front of the hall, and the maid sighed. “Now that is the call to retire. Your pardon,
monsire
, I must go.” She did him courtesy. “Do be careful of the fire. God keep you.”
“And you.” He didn’t bother to watch her go, instead eyeing the suspicious knights. One of them had pulled out cup and dice and laid out a house of fortune on a bench, and the other two started scraping aside the floor rushes to make a space to roll. Gunnar grinned, seeing a possible solution to his problem in two small cubes of bone. He pulled a farthing out of his purse and tossed it on the seven-square to join the game, and by the time they all settled in for the night, he’d become just another traveler stranded by the weather, his place by the fire secure for as many nights as he could afford to continue to lose.
FIRE.
Even in his sleep, the word possessed Gunnar, drew at him.
Fire. Heat.
He stirred and, still mostly asleep, cracked one eye open just enough to see dim glow of the banked fire. By the gods, he loved the fine, big hearths the English built. His gaze shifted higher to take in the hour candle on the mantle.
Not yet half gone. Good. That meant more time to wallow in Richmond Castle’s warmth. He stretched his feet toward the hearth, drew his cloak more tightly around his shoulders, closed his eyes, and drifted back down toward sleep.
Fire.
The door slammed open, the sudden sound jerking Gunnar bolt upright. He was on his feet, knife in hand, before he came fully awake.
“Fire!” cried the watchman. “Fire in the bower! The duke! The women!”
The women.
The sour taste of fear flooded Gunnar’s mouth. As the hall erupted in chaos, he shoved his knife back into its sheath and leapt toward the door, plowing aside confused and sleepy men as he went. Outside, the air boiled with smoke and shouting and the screams of horses, and the red flicker of flames rose along the eastern wall of the two-story bower. He ran toward the building, pushing past frightened women who streamed out the door. As he entered, Edward of Norwich, Duke of York, appeared on the landing above wearing nothing but his braies. He started pulling women out through the door behind him, shoving them down the stairs one after another. As they stumbled down, Gunnar grabbed them at the bottom and pushed them toward the outer door. “Run!”
He lost track at a dozen, but still they came, women and girls and young boys, noble and servant alike, all fleeing for their lives. The smoke grew thicker, clotting in Gunnar’s throat, and his eyes streamed with tears.
“Get out of there, man!” came a call from outside.
Gunnar squinted up to where the duke stood with smoke and sparks roiling around him. “Your Grace. Come.”
Coughing, the duke peered back into the chamber. “I am not certain . . .”
Smoke already wisped up from the wooden treads, and Gunnar shook his head. “Now, Your Grace, while you can. There is no more you can do.”
The duke took a final glance into the smoke-filled chamber, hesitated barely an instant, and then pounded down the stairs, swearing as his bare foot landed on an ember. Gunnar caught him as he stumbled, and together they ducked and ran as more embers rained down. They had just reached the door when Gunnar heard a scream behind him. A cold hand gripped his heart.
Kolla . . .
He and the duke both turned at once. On the landing, nearly hidden by smoke, two girls wrestled. One was screaming, scrabbling back toward the bedchamber. The other clung to her, dragging her forward. “No. We cannot go back.”
“Lady Eleanor.” The duke started back.
Gunnar shook off the old dread and grabbed him. “Go, Your Grace. I will get them.”
He shoved the duke outside, where a pair of his relieved men pulled him away, then Gunnar turned back. In that brief moment, the stair treads had started to burn in thin flames. There was no way the girls could come down. Ignoring the falling sparks, Gunnar hurried to a spot below the landing and held his arms out. “Jump. I will catch you.”
His voice was enough to quiet the screaming girl, but she took one look down and backed away. “I cannot.”
Coughing, the other girl shoved her toward the edge. “You can. Go on.”
The screamer froze. “I cannot.”
“Move!”
Gunnar’s bellowed order shook the air, and both girls yelped as larger embers showered down from the burning roof. When the screamer still didn’t move, the other girl put her shoulder down and shoved. The girl seemed to float for a heartbeat before she tumbled into Gunnar’s arms.
He started to set her down, but newly fallen embers spangled the floor and the girl screamed again as her bare feet hit the ground. She crawled up Gunnar as though he were a tree. With a growl, he dashed toward the door with the screaming wench, heaved her outside like a sack of grain, and turned back. By now, the smoke was so thick that he couldn’t see the landing at all until he stood right below it.
He coughed and gagged, trying to muster a voice. “Jump, girl!”
No answer.
“Jump!”
No answer. A rock formed in the center of his chest.
He’d failed her.
Again.
No. This wasn’t Kolla. He could save this one. Choking on smoke and memory, he pulled the front of his shirt up over his nose and started forward. But as the flaming stairs towered before him, he hesitated. He’d seen the bodies of men who’d died by fire, fingers and toes and manhood burned away. What if he burned and the curse kept him alive, unmanned and crippled?
What if he failed again and was unmanned anyway, in spirit if not in body? He pounded up the stairs, bellowing in pain as the heat scorched his shins.
The girl lay on the landing, crumpled right where she’d been standing. The foul, heated air strained Gunnar’s lungs, and he knew that if not for the perverse protection of the curse, he would likely fall beside her. As it was, he barely had the breath to bend over her. A tongue of flame flickered on her sleeve where an ember had landed and caught. He smothered the fire with his hand and scooped her up. As more embers showered down, he curled over the girl to protect her and turned to retreat back down the stairs. He’d barely taken a step when there was a loud crack and a section of roof crashed down just in front of him. The landing shook, then teetered wildly as the burning stairs came away from the wall.