The Soul Thief

by Cecelia Holland

  “Ah, God,” he said. “What good will that do?”

  She gave him a sharp, angry look. “We have to do something, we are dying! What would you have us do?”

  “Is there a crowd out there?” He went toward the door, to look into the street; there leapt into his mind the memory of Eelmouth, gathering his men, shadowing the crowd, saying, “I always watch them. They hate us.”

  He had the coat in his hands, still; uncertainly he put it on, needing its protection. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go,” and led her out to the street.

  “Turnips and onions!” Eric slammed his fist down on the table. “That’s an insult. Let the churls eat what they grub out of the earth. I have to have meat!”

  “We have to save the meat,” Gunnhild said. “For tonight. For this Englishman, Morcar, so that he will believe us rich. But tomorrow he will be gone.”

  “Then there will be no meat at all. Where’s Eelmouth? He’s the one who’s failed us. He was supposed to bring back beef, and he came in empty-handed.”

  Gunnhild curled up in her corner of the High Seat; her eldest son Gimle stood off to one side, tall and scrawny, and she slid a look at him, hoping he was watching all this. He looked half-asleep, his corn-white hair mussed. She wished her little Harald were older, he was more apt. Down at the far end of the hall a black-robed figure skulked fearfully in the shadows, and she crooked one finger at him. “The priest is here,” she said. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Eric leaned forward, his arms on his knees, staring down the hall. “Gimle!” When the boy startled up, abruptly awake, he said, “Go find me Eelmouth.”

  Gimle went off toward the back door. Gunnhild said, “You should have listened to me when I told you, last winter, that this would happen.”

  “Bah,” Eric said. “You never remind me of all the things you say will happen that don’t.” He slouched in the great carved chair, his beard rumpled on his chest.

  The priest was slinking up the room, his close-set eyes everywhere but on the King. He was terrified of Eric, which Gunnhild thought amusing. Finally he reached the other side of the table from Eric and bowed his head down.

  “My lord—O Great King of Jorvik—”

  Eric lifted one foot and slammed it into the table, which shut the priest up instantly. “Well,” Eric said. “Are you eating?”

  “My lord. I had a little bread for my breakfast—”

  “I am eating turnips and onions!” Eric lurched forward, shouting the last words at him. The priest quivered. Eric had driven out all the other priests but this one, once the archbishop was safely locked up in Jedburh; this one only stayed because he was too afraid to run. Eric thrust his head forward toward him, and the priest cowered.

  “My lord—the people have nothing! They’ve asked me to come here—to ask you—”

  “To ask me for what? Do they think I grub the earth, to feed them? I am King here! They feed me!” Eric slammed his foot against the table again, and slumped back into the chair.

  “My lord—if you would lift the tax—then people might bring in food to—”

  “You mean,” Eric said, straightening again, “that there is food, somewhere, and they’re hiding it from me?”

  “No, my lord, no—it’s only—if the tax were not so high—”

  “Damn them!” Eric lurched up onto his feet. Gimle had come back, with Sweyn Eelmouth a step behind him. The priest slid backward toward the shadows, his face and hands floating against his dingy robe. Sweyn came past him, past Gimle, toward the King.

  “My lord,” Sweyn said, “there’s a pack of people down on the street outside. I think they’re waiting for this priest, here, to come out and talk to them.”

  In the shadows, the priest whispered, “Oh, no, no,” and shook his hands back and forth. Eric curled his fingers in his beard, his lips pouting. A trickle of sweat ran down his temple.

  “What do you mean, a crowd? Get them out of there. That English legate is only over in Arinbjorn’s hall, I don’t want him to see a mob here.”

  “They’re hungry,” Sweyn said.

  “Get those people out of there!” Eric said, his voice rising. “Take all the men and run them off, do you hear me?”

  Eelmouth was already turning to go. Gimle said, “I’ll help.”

  “Good,” Eric said. “Take him, Sweyn.”

  “My lord,” the priest cried. “My lord, please.”

  “Get out,” Eric said. The priest skittered off.

  Gunnhild said, “It’s come to this, you see. Now you are eating roots and nuts, and fighting off the churls and bonders, and now finally you see that you must do something, or you are no more King.”

  His head swung toward her, his shoulders bulled up, his brows bristling, and his lower lip out. “Don’t get on me about this again, woman.”

  She smiled at him. “You must make a bold move, now, and London is the direction of it. Edred is weak and cowardly. Why do you think he sent Morcar here, except to find out if you mean to attack him? Let Morcar go back to Edred in London with some fair words, and they will think you harmless, and then take him by surprise. You could seize the crown of England in a season’s campaign.”

  “I have no men,” Eric said. “I would need a great army to attack England.”

  “You had more men last winter.”

  “I have no men now, when we are talking of it.” He hitched himself around in the chair. Outside, suddenly, there was a great yell, a hundred voices rising, screaming. Gunnhild twitched, her head back; the sound of a crowd always made her jumpy. But Eric crowed.

  “You see, though, I have men enough for this.” He sat back, grinning in his beard. “Sweyn will harry these townspeople. Morcar will see I am master here.”

  Gunnhild shifted in her place, putting her fingers to her hair. “Why not take your axe down off the wall and go out to lead them? That might convince him even more.”

  “Bah,” Eric said. “Sweyn can handle it.” He slumped down in the High Seat as if rooted there, but he was still grinning, obviously now pleased with himself. He reached for his cup with its thin poor beer. Gunnhild turned her face away, biting her lips in rage.

  Euan walked back and forth along the wide street that ran along the edge of the embankment, between the King’s great hall and the town. Some of the older people were still here, standing in little groups, talking, but many had left already—afraid, he knew, of what would happen when the priest talked to Eric.

  He stopped, looking up at the hall there; the lesser buildings on either side of it made it seem even larger. A few of Eric’s men drifted up around the corner of the main building. As he stood watching them, Ralf and Rogn, the miller’s two big sons, edged up to him.

  “Watch out for Eelmouth,” Rogn said. “When he shows up—watch out.”

  Euan wiped his hand over his mouth. With a quick glance he fixed around him several other boys his age, the smith’s boys sauntering along, the apprentices from the shambles in a clump at the mouth of the long street leading over to the Coppergate. None of them were drifting off. They were all idle now, with no work, except the constant work of trying to find something to eat. He watched the apprentices’ heads turn, as if all on strings, to watch a few more of Eric’s men tramp down the embankment path.

  Euan clenched his teeth, watching these men come toward him. He hated Eelmouth and Gorm and the others, always taking whatever they wanted, sneering at the town boys, beating them up when the chance came.

  He knew they still ate well, too. That brought up his hackles worse than the sneers and blows. He was half-dansker; his father had been Danish, not a Viking, but a woodwright who had worked to build the new church. They should not treat him so, as if he were beneath them.

  He nudged Rogn, beside him.

  “There’s the priest.”

  Like a flapping crow, the priest hurried down the brow of the embankment, past the danskers waiting there. His face was white. His white hands flew like doves against the front of his
black robe. His mouth worked. Euan could not hear him at first, but as the priest came running, he saw more of Eric’s men appearing suddenly, from all around the hall, and he saw that they carried weapons. He wheeled and yelled.

  “Run! Get away—”

  A roar went up from Eric’s men, behind him. Over his shoulder, as he bolted toward the cross-street, he saw them flooding down the embankment, and a surge of panic lengthened his strides. Ahead of him, in the narrow way of the street, he saw Arre, her basket on her arm.

  “Euan!” she shouted, and ran to meet him. He caught hold of her hand.

  “This way!” He ran, Arre beside him, and the rest of the crowd rushing along with them, along the narrow street that led across the town to the Coppergate.

  Eric’s men were swooping after them, swords in their hands, and as they charged they howled. Somebody screamed. Euan, in the middle of the rush of running bodies, Arre racing at his side, swung around into a lane between two houses and looked wildly around for a weapon.

  Arre banged into him, out of breath. She said, “They’re coming!” She whirled and looked out of the lane into the street.

  Out there Eric’s men had caught up with the slowest and weakest of the crowd. A wail went up. Casting around the lane, Euan grabbed everything he could lay hands on, some rocks, a rope, a long stick of wood, and rushed back out to the street; Arre was scooping up rocks and stuffing them into her basket.

  In the street two big men were kicking and pounding at somebody on the ground, and Euan reared back and flung a rock. He was bad at throwing and the rock sailed wide but the men dodged anyway, saw him and Arre, and roared. Lifting their swords in their hands they charged.

  Euan screamed, “Run!” He raced behind Arre down the street, the two danskers pounding after them. Suddenly Grod was there, on Arre’s other side.

  “This way,” Grod shouted. “Go to Corban’s house—”

  The street was narrow here, the buildings leaning over from either side, forming a dark space like a long cave around them. As he ran Euan heard doors banging shut, shutters closing, as people locked themselves safe into their houses. The two danskers were right behind them, and now abruptly three of Eric’s men rushed around into the way before them; they were trapped.

  Grod let out a wail. Euan lifted the stick and jabbed with it around him, trying to keep the Vikings back, and Arre dragged Grod after her into a tiny walkway between two houses.

  Euan dodged a wild swinging blow from a sword, and a body crashed into him from the side, knocking him flying. He landed on his back, all the wind swooshing out of him. Somebody grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along the ground. A Viking with a club ran down the lane toward him, his sword drawn back to strike. From the narrow walkway just behind Euan a volley of stones pelted the Viking, who staggered, one hand to his bloody face, and reeled down to one knee. Euan rolled to his feet and dashed into the narrow little path and ran, Arre and Grod ahead of him, bounding over the low walls of a garden, down behind a row of houses.

  As he ran, he thought, We can hurt them. We can get back at them, if we can only stop running away.

  Grod was screaming, “We’re going the wrong way! We’re going the wrong way!” Arre was red-faced, her hair flying; she had her basket slung over one arm, a stone clutched in the other. They burst out of the alley into a wider place where two streets met and ran headlong into three other town boys coming from the other direction.

  They knocked each other down. Euan bounced up; he recognized the other boys, and called them by name. “Edwy! Rogn! Ralf! Come this way—”

  He wheeled around, getting himself straight. His eyes were a blur of buildings and running people but in his mind, clear as the abacus, he saw the town around him, and he knew what they had to do.

  “Come down this way! They’re pushing across to the Coppergate—if we all get behind them—”

  “Here they come,” Arre cried.

  Four of Eric’s men surged around a corner into the street right in front of them. Euan shouted, “Everybody together—hit them—” Arre, beside him, reared her arm back and let fly a fistful of stones.

  “Here!” She thrust her basket at him, full of rocks. He grabbed handfuls of them and threw them blindly into the street, the two boys around him screaming and throwing. With rocks raining down on them Eric’s men flinched back, turned, and ducked into the shelter of a doorway.

  Euan roared. He moved to get a better view of them, shouting, “Come on! Come on!” Then from both sides at once streams of Vikings pounded toward him.

  Something glanced off his shoulder and he went to one knee. Arre’s voice sounded in his ear. She was lifting him up. He was afraid, suddenly, a wild beating terror in his throat, and he flailed out with one arm, trying to catch hold of her. Around him men tramped and groaned, beating each other. He could not see. Grod was screaming, “This way! This way!” Euan got his feet under him and blundered forward, crashing into people. A familiar hand closed on his arm, and he followed Arre down the street and around into Coppergate, and down the hill, slipping and sliding on the garbage littering the way.

  At the bottom of the street, by the oak tree, he stopped; they had outrun the fighting, and he turned, blinking, looking up the street toward the shouting and the thud of blows. A woman was screaming somewhere, as high pitched as a pipe. Beside him, Arre lifted her empty apron to wipe the blood from her face.

  Euan groaned. “Are you all right?” He caught hold of her hand. “Where are you hurt?”

  “My head is cut,” she said. She was white, her lips pale, the blood startlingly red against her cheek, her hair matted with it. “I don’t know how. Come on, Grod is right. We should go to Corban’s house.”

  They turned from Coppergate to the street above the river. Someone shouted, “Down there!” From the far end of the street men were running toward them. Euan gasped for breath; he hurt all over, his knee, his shoulder. He felt sick to his stomach. All his plans dissolved out of his head; he just wanted to get somewhere safe. Grod sprinted off, and with Arre beside him Euan dodged after the old man into a narrow, garbage-clogged lane and down and around the back of the Hedeby house.

  Grod banged on a shuttered window and it sprang open. Grod went through it like a snake into a hole. Arre scrambled in over the sill, and Euan followed her into a room jammed with people, all standing silently in a mass, their arms around each other.

  Euan turned to Arre, standing in the light coming through the window. “Are you all right?”

  Blood was streaming down the side of her face. She said, “I want to sit down,” and sat down, right there on the floor. A moment later, Benna was there beside her.

  “Here. Let me see.”

  Euan turned to the window; Edwy and Ralf had followed them in their flight, and they were climbing in over the sill. They put the shutter up over the opening and the room was suddenly much darker.

  “Where is Corban?” Grod said.

  “Outside,” said Benna. “In the street.” She sat with one arm around Arre, who was holding a sodden rag to her face.

  Euan moved a little away from them. He ran his gaze over the darkened room. There were many men here. If they all fought together, he thought, they could overcome Eric’s men. In his mind, again, the city appeared, like the abacus, a set of lines and beads; put these beads here, and those beads there … .

  He wiped his hand over his face. It was dark in here and he could not see very well and his head was pounding, and Arre whom he loved more than all the world was sitting on the floor bleeding. He slumped down next to her, drained.

  Corban stood in the street outside his house, his arms folded over his chest; he was wearing the red coat, and he knew the danskers would not harm him. From the next street came shouts and screams, and now Sweyn Eelmouth jogged down the lane, a sword in one hand, blood all over him.

  “Hah, Corban! This is like butchering sheep. Have you seen any trouble here?”

  “Nothing much is happening here,” C
orban said. “I think they have all gone up toward the great bar.”

  Eelmouth stopped beside him, the sword loose in his hand. Slobber dripped down his chin and he wiped his beard with his free hand. “We should burn this place down,” he said.

  “Don’t do that,” Corban blurted out. “I have much of value in my house.”

  Sweyn laughed. “Send to me if you have trouble,” he said, and went away up the street. When he got to the next corner, and turned, Corban went inside.

  “I think we’re safe for now.”

  Benna came up to him. “My sister,” she said. “They nearly killed my sister.”

  “I think, if you all stay here—” He looked around at the jammed hall, where now most of the people were sitting down, huddled together, their faces grim. “A little while longer. I think this will pass by.”

  She was watching him with a strange wild look, her eyes wide. “Just now, out there—I saw you—you spoke to him as if he were a friend.”

  Corban said, “Where is Arre?”

  He went by her, into the back of the hall. Arre lay curled up on one of the benches, Euan beside her; the boy had taken off his shirt and laid it over her.

  “Arre,” Corban said, and touched her, but she did not move. The side of her head was swollen and turning dark.

  “She’s asleep,” Benna said. “Just as my father went to sleep—” Her voice quavered.

  “No,” Corban said, and put his arm around her; a sick fear jabbed up into his belly.

  She moved away, out of his embrace. “You talked to him as if he were a friend of yours.” Her voice shook. “Is that what you meant—how confused it all is, whatever you’re doing?”

  “Benna,” he said. “Let me explain.”

  “No. I don’t want you to explain. I want you to help us.”

  “I am!” he cried, and swung his arm around, toward the hall, the people taking refuge.

  She said, “Helping us, or him?” She reached out and flicked at the red coat. “I think this makes you King Eric’s man, Corban.” She turned and sat down again beside her sister; she turned the back of her head to him.