Authors: V. M. Whitworth
‘Now do you see why Heremod wanted us to stay?’ Gunnvor’s voice could have curdled milk.
Ronan shook his head. ‘This is my fault. I should have insisted you boys go to greet Ketil before we left for Lincoln. I know you meant no insult, but he’s so damn touchy.’
It was dark in the courtyard now, except for the flare of torches. More of Ketil’s entourage were coming in, carts and men on foot as well as more horses and mules. The reeve bustled about, shouting orders at all and sundry.
‘Can’t we slip away?’ Ednoth asked. ‘The gates are open. No one will notice, in all this racket.’
‘No,’ Wulfgar said, ‘Father Ronan’s right. We should have spoken to Ketil before. And now he’ll know from Heremod that we’re here with Father Ronan and – and Gunnvor, and they’ve got to go back to Leicester and face him, no matter what we do …’ He swallowed.
Gunnvor raised her eyebrows at Ednoth.
‘Ah, little one, I’m with you,’ she said, ‘but I think we’re too late.’
The shadowy figure in the doorway jerked his head.
‘Is this a dinner invitation,’ Wulfgar asked, ‘or a warrant for our arrest?’
Father Ronan shrugged.
‘There’s only one way to find out.’ He held up a hand, ‘Yes, yes, I’m taking off my sword.’ He began to unbuckle. ‘Do the same, lad. Don’t argue.’
The four of them went out of the bower door.
Wulfgar was aware of men moving in to escort them on either side. The hall door gaped like a mouth, ready to swallow. Inside it was crowded, a great fire blazing on the hearth. Hands gripped his shoulders and he was forced onto his knees. A quick sideways glance showed him that Ednoth was getting the same treatment. He couldn’t see Ronan, or Gunnvor.
Ketil was seated in Heremod’s great carved chair, which had been moved to the side of the hearth. One side of his face and body was illuminated by the jumping orange light, the other half in deep purple shadow. He looked hard at each of them, and nodded. There was a long moment’s silence.
Ketil Scar was well-named. At some point, a long time ago, someone had tried to take his face off, with a sword or maybe an axe. Not the kind of wound many men survive. The tissue had healed shiny in the firelight, puckered and warped, squeezing one eye to a slit, halving his nose and giving his mouth a permanent curl of contempt. His hood was pushed back now, revealing hair close-cropped as if to assert that he disdained to hide his mutilation. His beard grew thickly, but not over the fault-line of the scar. A face with which to frighten small children. It certainly frightened Wulfgar.
Ketil took his time about acknowledging them, long enough for Wulfgar to take in the lustre of bullion at his ears, neck and shoulder, the beautifully cured wolfskin jerkin, even the thread count of his fine wadmal leggings. His knees were only a foot or two away from Wulfgar’s face.
Ketil said something then, in Danish. Fast and guttural, and Wulfgar hadn’t understood a word. And this, too, came as a shock. He had started to think that all Danes could speak perfectly adequate English. And to preen himself, just a little, on having
understood
so much of the Danish that he had heard on this journey.
At last he dared look up at Ketil again, to find the Jarl staring back at him, the firelight sending shadows leaping diabolically across his twisted face. After an eternity, Ketil lifted his head and pointed at somebody standing behind them.
‘
Thu. Prestr
.’
There was a quick, muttered exchange. ‘The Grimssons’ tame priest’, hadn’t Father Ronan once called himself? Before Wulfgar could think too much about this, he found Ketil staring at him again. This time he spoke very slowly, and very loudly, but whether through terror, or Wulfgar’s poor Danish, or the impediment caused by the thick scar tissue around Ketil’s mouth, Wulfgar found himself incapable of responding. He blinked and looked at Ronan in desperation.
‘I was hurt,’ Ronan translated smoothly, ‘to hear that two visitors from the Lord of Mercia’s court had passed through my capital without coming to pay me their respects. I am not a hasty man. I did not get where I am today by being hasty. But I would like an explanation for this breach of protocol. Such secrecy suggests underhand motives. Spies? Assassins? Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t have you executed out of hand.’
Elaborate, formal, courteous language. Wulfgar had understood just enough of what Ketil said to know that Ronan was translating with scrupulous accuracy.
I’ll have to reply in the same mode, he thought. I hope I can.
‘Please – please accept our heartfelt apologies, Jarl of Leicester. We were in a hurry on our way through. We had every intention of calling on you now, on our homeward journey.’ The conventions called for a gift, some rich token. But what?
Ketil answered at length, and then leaned forward, scowling, hands on knees, eyes fixed on Wulfgar. Waiting.
Ronan translated again: ‘So you consider it acceptable to commit acts of trespass, to disdain my hospitality, to arouse my suspicions, to come to me only when cornered like rats in a barn, and
then
to tell me to my face that you were going to come to me of your own free will? Is this kind of effrontery acceptable to the Lord of the Mercians? If so, manners must be cruder among the Mercians than they are with us.’
Wulfgar didn’t dare look up at that face again and he focused on the hands instead. Crooked and battered; swollen flesh around the massive rings.
Wulfgar put his hand to his heart, preparing to grovel and scrape and apologise elaborately for coming to this man’s court uninvited and empty-handed, and, as he did so, he felt the outlines of the Bishop’s ring beneath his tunic.
Perfect.
He started picking at the knot.
How in the name of Heaven was he going to explain this to the Bishop when he got back?
But there was no time to agonise over the propriety of it, or to get worked up about what the Bishop might say.
Survival was the challenge here.
‘As a token of our love,’ he stammered, ‘please accept this ring.’
The knot was proving stubborn, and his nails kept skidding off it.
Ronan translated and fell silent.
Wulfgar tried at last to snap the thong, failed, and had to pick at the hard little knot for another eternity. Ketil didn’t move and Wulfgar found himself sweating under his gaze.
Finally it came undone. He slid the ring off the end and offered it in his cupped hands.
He waited, head bowed, not daring to look up. He was getting pins and needles in his left foot. The men were silent. The fire crackled and spat. Finally he felt Ketil’s horny-skinned fingers scraping in his palm. Wulfgar tried not to sag with relief. Ketil leaned over towards the fire, turned the ring over, and squinted at it with his good eye. And now he spoke in thick but clear English.
‘Nice. Good gold.’ He picked at the setting of the red stone with his thumbnail. ‘Out of Miklagard? Jasper, is it?’
‘Carnelian, I think,’ Wulfgar said, nonplussed.
Ketil still squinted at the ring. He nodded without looking up.
‘
Já
, good enough.’ He tried to force it over a knuckle and failed, but he had a thong of his own round his neck and it was now his turn to fiddle with knots. Wulfgar watched him adding the ring to his jingling collection.
Blessed Mary, ever Virgin, he thought, all the Angels and Saints, forgive me. I don’t know whose relic I’ve given into the keeping of this monstrous man, but you do. Forgive me, he prayed. Use it as a channel into his heart. I’m sorry, Queen of Heaven. I’m so sorry.
The Bishop, on the other hand, would be wanting more than an apology.
Ketil looked up.
‘The priest tells me you have an errand to me.’
Wulfgar gaped.
‘Do I have to say it again?’
Wulfgar turned to look up at Ronan. The priest gazed into the fire. Wulfgar struggled up from his knees.
‘Father Ronan?’
‘Am I wrong?’ Ketil asked.
‘Father Ronan!’ Wulfgar muttered in outrage. ‘I told you that under the seal of the confessional! And—’
the message wasn’t for Ketil, it was for Hakon
. He bit his tongue.
Ronan shook his head.
‘I have not broken the seal,’ he said quietly. He looked hard at Wulfgar. ‘Not yet, at least. Are you going to make me break it, or will you tell the man?’
Wulfgar was giddy with shock. The secrets of the confessional were beyond sacred.
‘I—’ Wulfgar stopped. But he had no choice now, did he? He would have to give Ketil the Atheling’s message. He couldn’t let Ronan throw his own soul away, giving out the secrets of his confession. Treachery, he thought blackly, treachery everywhere. The sin of Judas.
And then he thought: the Atheling’s message – what does it
mean
? Is it,
Do nothing till All Hallows
? That’s what it sounds like.
Because, if so, that gives Mercia six months’ grace. Six months’ warning. Half a year to drill the levies and sharpen the spear-blades. And for the Lady (and the Lord? Please, dear God,
and the Lord
) to come up here, let the borderers renew their vows, remember how much they love them, and how much they owe them. Otherwise, what are we left with?
Ketil poaching the petty thanes along the border. Men like this damned Heremod: I should have seen it coming, when I heard him called the Straddler.
Toli Silkbeard and the Atheling in cahoots, plotting Heaven knows what, and pouncing when we’re looking the other way.
Maybe I did the right thing after all, he thought, with a wild flash of hope, in giving the message to Toli.
And then he wondered, could this be what Ronan is praying for?
Give Mercia time
.
When I get home, I can give the Lady every detail of what’s happened, what I’ve seen and heard, and with whom I’ve talked. Whether the Atheling likes it or not.
He swallowed.
‘My Lord –
Jarl
– of Leicester, Father Ronan is right. I bring you a private message.’
‘Private?’ The Jarl held out his hand.
‘It’s not a written message, my Lord.’
Ketil Scar could
read
?
Ketil gestured for Wulfgar to rise and come a little way towards the dais end of the hall.
‘The message?’ he said softly, after a dozen paces separated them from the nearest of the fascinated bystanders.
Wulfgar bit down hard on his lower lip to stop it trembling.
Ketil cocked his eye at him.
‘Have they told you I’m a monster? Don’t worry, little Englishman. I don’t flay men. Or hack out their lungs. Or hang them on my house-tree. Not for my own pleasure, any road. Now, whisper it in my ear.’ He beckoned with a crooked, swollen finger.
Wulfgar tried to clear his throat.
‘From Athelwald Seiriol, Atheling of Wessex.’
Ketil grunted and nodded at him to continue.
‘We light the fires at All Hallows,’ he muttered.
Ketil seemed to frown then, though with that face it was hard to be sure.
‘You have been to Lincoln.’
Wulfgar nodded. How in the name of Heaven did Ketil Scar know that?
‘This message was also for him?’
‘For Jarl Toli, you mean, my Lord?’
‘
Já. Silkiskegg
.’ He spat into the straw. ‘Toli the child. Why did he get the message first?’
‘He – I – when we came to Leicester before, your brother had just died. We didn’t want to intrude …’
Ketil was silent.
‘Was this message for me, or my brother?’
‘For –’ he swallowed, and lied ‘– for both of you.’
‘I was expecting it,’ Ketil said. ‘My brother hid nothing from me.’ He growled, deep in his throat. ‘Go back to your master. Tell him, I hear what he says. I am honoured. But Leicester does not dance when he pipes.’ He jerked his head at the guards. ‘When I have need of your hungry little Atheling, I will send him a message of my own.’ He gave Wulfgar a long, level look. ‘I understand your visit to
Silkiskegg
now. But I am still puzzled. What do men of Mercia have to do with Eirik of Bardney?’
Wulfgar thought, Queen of Heaven, how does he know that? He knows so much more about us than I’d realised.
‘Pottery trading,’ said a voice at his back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
‘
JÁ
?’ KETIL WAS
turning that dreadful battle-mask in Ednoth’s direction. ‘Go on.’
‘We’d seen examples of the stuff they’re making in Stamford.’ Ednoth’s face was bright and open, his voice cheerful. ‘We’d heard – Wulfgar and I – that Eirik had an interest. We wanted to offer him a deal. We were told we could corner the market south of Watling Street.’
Ketil was already nodding.
Wulfgar was bowled over. Where had all this come from?
‘Who told you this?’
‘Heremod Straddler,’ Ednoth went on, ‘who else? For a share of any profit, of course. But he says the future is in dealing with the Danish states, not fighting them – you, I mean, my Lord.’ He smiled, self-deprecating. ‘Of course, you know all this much better than I do. We didn’t think you’d be interested in a little venture like ours, but we’d be more than happy to have you on board. In fact, we’d be honoured.’