The Soul Thief

by Cecelia Holland

  God’s will be done, and Eric was their King, by God’s will.

  She wondered where her sisters were. Even old Grod was gone, she was alone. She stared away through the golden sunlight of the late afternoon, her head aching in dull waves of pain.

  She walked up and down the top of the wall all the afternoon. In the late part of the day, she began to see something moving on the road. Someone was coming.

  She straightened and shaded her eyes. Her heart leapt. Horses coming, fast. She went back to the steps down from the wall and ran swiftly down, and went to the edge of the opening of the bar, where she could listen.

  She pressed her hand against a wild fluttering under her ribs. Leaning against the wall she strained her ears.

  The horses pounded into the bar, their hoofbeats suddenly louder, hollow, echoing. She heard the blast of their breath. One of the porters called, “Sweyn! What is it? Where’s the King?”

  The riders made no answer. One gigged his sweated foaming horse on through the gate, past Arre, and turned into the street across the town. She caught a glimpse of his face, the gaping toothless maw: Sweyn Eelmouth, the King’s captain.

  He was going to the King’s Hall, she saw, excited, and he was going in a great haste. She turned back toward the bar, where the other horseman had dismounted.

  His voice rose, keen with aggravation. “I’ll never do that again! My arse is—”

  “Where’s the King?” one porter cried, shrill, rushing up to him, and the other joined him. “Where is the King?”

  “The King is dead. We ran straight into some huge army coming down from the north.”

  Arre gave a yell, and as the men all swung around toward her she turned and ran. The pain in her head was gone. Her feet skimmed the wooden pathway of the street; she let out another yell of triumph, and skipped into the air.

  What Eelmouth was going to tell the Queen, everybody in Jorvik should know. She knew one way to tell them. She ran down the wide empty street toward the church, bunching up her skirts in her hands.

  Gunnhild jerked up out of a half-sleep; she was in the High Seat, with the painted image on her lap. She struggled to remember what had wakened her. Some deep dread coiled in her belly like a worm, and she looked down at the image and thought, suddenly, that she had been tricked, and stood up.

  Eric, she thought, and the worm turned and turned in her belly. She went down the empty hall. As she reached the door, she heard the church bell begin to toll.

  The hair on her head all stood on end, and her belly heaved. The ringing of the bell lashed her nerves into a rising quiver of panic. Something bad had happened.

  “Gimle!” She strode back up the hall, shouting. “Guthorm—Harald—”

  The door behind her slammed open, and she whirled, her hand on the knife in her belt. But it was Sweyn Eelmouth who stumbled in the door, his face streaked with old dried blood.

  “Lady, don’t you hear the bell?” he shouted. “Eric is dead. The mob is gathering in the city. They will come here, and there’s no one to stop them. You have to run, lady—”

  “My sons!” She flung her hands up to her head, and stabbed him with a hard look. “Eelmouth, are you with me?”

  He straightened; she saw he was tired, and hurt too, but his eyes gleamed. He said, “I will follow you, lady.”

  “Get my jewels,” she said. “The casket—there—” She strode back toward the High Seat. Gimle had come in the back door, Guthorm behind him.

  “Mother, what is it? Why is that bell ringing? Is something wrong?”

  She gripped him by the arm. “Yes. Get your brothers, we have to get out of here.” She stooped and picked his little brother up in her arms. “Eelmouth will attend us—Sweyn! Is there a ship?”

  Gimle cried, “Father—is it my father?” The strokes of the bell rang relentlessly on.

  Eelmouth came up the hall, the jewel casket in his arms. “Three ships,” he said. “We’ll have to raise oarsmen from the loafers down by the river. We have to be quick, though.”

  “Go ready the ships. I’ll bring the others. Hurry.” She plunged around toward the back door again, and the rest of her boys came running in.

  “Mama!” Harald rushed toward her, his arms out. “Mama, there are people coming—they’re shouting that Father is dead—”

  “Hurry,” she said. Little Sigurd was crying, and she picked him up and shook him. “Stop crying, you brat. You’re a king’s son.” She reached for Erling’s hand. As they went by the High Seat, she stopped, and letting go of her little son for a moment, took up the painted image of her, and cast it into the hearth, among the banked coals; it took fire at once.

  She stood a moment, watching her own face melt in the flames. She said, under her breath, “You think you have ruined me, but you have only set me free upon my course. I shall not falter, and I shall have my revenge.” Then, with Gimle and Guthorm leading the two middle boys, she strode out of the King’s Hall of Jorvik.

  Dark was falling; Arre, out of breath, wound her way through the mass of people loitering in the street, her gaze on the Hall of the King on its embankment above them. Someone behind her called, “What happened? What happened?”

  “The King is dead!”

  A roar went up from them all, and the crowd surged a little closer to the embankment. Arre started forward, eager. Then the baker woman was at her elbow.

  “It wasn’t Euan, you know,” she shouted. “It was some army of Scots come out of the north—”

  “Look!” Arre thrust her arm out, pointing.

  From the crowd another huge gust of a cry went up. Out the door of the hall, into the last light of the day, came a stream of people. Leading them was tall Gunnhild, the Queen, the witch, her yellow hair streaming out behind her. She paid no heed to the mob rushing and roiling in the street, but hurried away down the hill toward the river.

  Arre shouted, “Now! They’re going—” She rushed forward, driving herself straight up the steep embankment, toward the hall.

  She knew, not caring much, that most of the others followed her, knowing better than to chase Gunnhild. She had no interest any more in Gunnhild. It was the King’s Hall that drew her, the place of power, the High Seat. She scrambled up the hill, her breath sawing in and out of her throat. Pounding feet followed her, shouting voices; she stretched to go faster, to be the first through the yawning door into the gloomy darkness.

  The hall echoed with her footsteps. A single torch burned, up near the High Seat. She ran to it. In through the door behind her the townspeople flooded, and fell on what was nearest: the rugs and furs on the benches, the pots and kettles, whatever they could lay hands on. Arre stood on her toes and reached up and dragged the heavy smoky torch out of its bracket on the wall.

  In the dark around her people were breaking open chests and fighting over their loot, their voices a babble. She turned to the great High Seat, all carved with beasts and crowns, and empty now. She said, “This to your power,” and cast the torch into the High Seat, and stepped back to watch it burn.

  Corban and the others did not reach Jorvik again until after dark. Gifu led them across the valley, through a bog, along the riverbank, sometimes in the river. Well before they reached the city they could hear the church bell ringing, and see the red glow in the sky, and when they rode up to the wall the noise of the celebration going on inside echoed out over it. They rounded the wall to the open, empty gate. Just inside, Euan dismounted stiffly from his horse.

  “I’m going home to see my mother,” he said, and walked away, leaving the horse standing heavy-headed and exhausted behind him.

  Grod was slumped over his horse’s neck, groaning. Gifu reached out and took Euan’s dangling reins; she had taken to riding as if she had done it forever. She said, “We can keep them, can’t we? The horses?”

  Corban said, “If nobody recognizes them. They could be more trouble than they’re worth.” He rode beside her through the gate. Over the rooftops he could see Eric’s hall blazing like
a torch on the embankment. The steady clanging of the church bell grated on his ears. He wondered what had happened to Gunnhild and her children.

  They rode down the wide street into the middle of the city. In the open square at the top of the Coppergate, two rings of boys and girls were dancing by the light of torches. In the dark alleys on either side, boys and girls were doing other kinds of dances. Red-faced and laughing, men and women thronged up and down the streets, shouting and passing jugs out to one another from hand to hand. There were no danskers anywhere. All the houses were open, with people spilling in and out of the doors, and clapping their hands and whooping.

  Down by the oak at the low end of Coppergate, some people were cooking a pig over a great fire. They had been hoarding food, all along, he realized. He wondered if Eric would have starved before they did.

  He turned into the street where his house was; he slid down from the saddle of his horse and tossed the reins to Gifu. His legs throbbed from the long riding, and he felt as if he walked hoop-legged. Grod hurried past him across the threshold; Corban knew he was going for the jug.

  Corban thought, I have to get out of here. He went cautiously over the threshold. But the place looked solid and good, everything straight and square, the fire blazing on the hearth. He looked around for Arre and Benna, but they were gone. Then up from the hearth end of the room came Ulf, yawning.

  “There you are. Where have you been? Did you hear? Eric’s been killed.”

  “What?” Corban said. “When did you get here?”

  “Around noon. A little after I’d hauled in, Eelmouth came charging through and collected Gunnhild and the brats into a ship and made off downriver.” Ulf looked him up and down, frowning. “You’re a mess. Where have you been?”

  “Looking for trade,” Corban said.

  Ulf reached out and plucked at his sleeves, which were stiff with dried blood. “Hard trade, I guess.”

  “What are people saying about Eric?”

  “Oh, he’s dead for sure. Gunnhild wouldn’t have taken off like that. She’s witchwise, but that won’t help you when a mob comes up the hill with torches. What I’ve heard, he was going up north to raid, and ran into a great army of Scots.”

  “That’s good enough,” Corban said. He pulled his cloak off; he was tired to his bones. “I have to leave right away,” he said to Ulf. “Make the ship ready, will you?”

  Ulf shrugged. “As you wish. I don’t think we ought to be here if the Scots decide to keep coming, anyway.”

  Corban laughed; he had not considered that. Grod appeared, carrying the jug and an empty cup, looking very downcast. Ulf went by him, going out, and the old man came sadly up to Corban.

  “Nobody will believe me,” he said. “I’m a hero, I killed Eric Bloodaxe, and all anybody talks about is about some army of Scots.” He lifted the jug to fill his cup.

  The thick foaming ale ran steadily into the cup, an amber ribbon, and then, abruptly, the ribbon folded down into the cup and was gone. Grod gave a devastated cry. Lifting the jug, he peered into it. “It’s empty!”

  Corban’s back tingled. He said, “She knows.” He paced down the hall, working off the abrupt jolt of fear. “I have to go get my sister from her. And we should get out of this house. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  Corban got him by the arm and towed him toward the door; he looked up into the dark rafters of the hall, expecting them to crack and sag. The fire was dying on the hearth. The place was utterly quiet, and cold. He hauled Grod out the door.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Benna’s,” Corban said.

  Mav bit down on her fingers, trying not to scream. Her body twisted up like a knot around the hot stone of the baby, butting his way out through the narrow places of her body; she clawed at her face, whimpering. The pain subsided, and she slumped down in her soaking bedclothes, gasping for breath.

  It was the dead of night. The Lady would be asleep now. If she could bear the baby without anyone knowing, then maybe she would be strong enough, when they did find him, to keep the Lady from taking him away. The next great backbreaking spasm came on her, and she buried her face in the stinking covers and sobbed.

  Through the night she labored. As every mounting pain began, her heart clenched in dread, and then she bit her lips and wept while it wrung her like an old rag that must be squeezed of every drop, and then slowly relented, so that she could fill up again, and be wrung once more.

  She had helped deliver babies, at her old home. She knew what to expect. In the darkness before the dawn, she squatted on her bed, grunting and snorting like a sow, and reached down between her legs and drew him out, wet and slick. She laid him down on the blankets and felt for the great twisted cord that tied them together.

  In the darkness she could not see him. He gave a little whimper, and she could feel him struggling, arms and legs milling. She brought the cord up to her mouth and bit through it, the blood spurting over her lips. She ripped cloth from the hem of her dress and tied his end of the cord fast, and picked him up.

  He gave one frightened wail. No, no, she thought, make no sound, they must not hear. Then through her body another rippling pain squeezed out the great flopping afterbirth.

  She kicked that away, and lay down in the filthy sodden blankets and brought the baby to her breast. He was warm, heavier than she had expected, and he nuzzled at her and caught hold of her nipple and began clumsily to suck. With her fingers she traced the contour of his little cheek; she felt the pulse beating in the top of his skull. A surge of mother-love welled through her so strong it made her shake. Deep in her body, her empty womb clenched painfully again. Still in utter darkness, unable to see him, she gathered the blanket around him, and he nestled into the curve of her arm.

  She floated on a warm glow of happiness. She had brought him forth by herself. The horror that had started him was only a long ago moment that didn’t matter anymore; Eric was dead now, and this child was hers alone, who had made him from nothing. Later she would name him, guide him, urge him, all hers, all the rest of their lives.

  He was suckling strongly now, unseen in the dark, warm in her arms, her son. She cupped her hand over his head, feeling the soft crinkle of his hair against her palm. Her sense of triumph was fading. Their lives might not last very long, when the Lady found him—when Corban came. And Corban would come, but she saw nothing he could do. She curled herself around her child, afraid.

  In her own cupboard, the Lady lay awake, hot rage bubbling in her mind.

  She hated them. Mav had defied her, and foolishly thought now she could hide the baby from her; the brother had betrayed her. She would look like a fool to Bluetooth, her whole plan destroyed with him.

  But she knew Corban. She knew he would come for his sister, and when he did, the Lady would have her revenge.

  Her anger made her tremble. She felt the edges of her mind loosen and fray, the whispering of those captive voices, whispering she was making a mistake—that was the danger in this, that her grip on them might crack.

  She would endure the risk. She would not lose Mav, with her thrilling gift of foresight. With such a power she could make her way anywhere she chose. When the brother was in her grip again, she would barter with the girl—her brother’s life for her acquiesence, her surrender. She knew Mav would accept. Once she had entrapped her, then she would blast the brother, and she would cast the wretched baby into the sea.

  She calmed herself. Bluetooth and Eric had failed her; that was a woman’s lot, of course, to trust in mere weakling men. She herself went on. This would be another victory. She fought down the rebellious, doubting spirits within her, and waited for Corban to come back to Hedeby.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Benna said, “I’m going with you.”

  He held her hands, looking into her face. “I may not come back.”

  “That’s why I’m going with you.”

  By the fire, Gifu and Arre were watching them; Gifu had one arm draped
around Arre. The firelight made a wiry gold nest of her hair. Arre said, “Benna, what about us?”

  Benna was looking steadily at him, her eyes wide. “Can they go?”

  “I’m not going,” Gifu said. “And Euan, Arre—Euan won’t go.”

  Grod said, “I’m not going.”

  Corban gripped Benna’s hands. “You have to leave them. But you will never be alone. If you go, it must be as my wife.”

  Arre said, “Benna. You’ll leave us?”

  “I will,” Benna said to him. “I will.”

  He bent his head and kissed her hands. “Thank you.”

  She turned, and went to her sisters, and they put their arms around each other. Corban got up, to leave them alone together, and went out to the dark. The wind was sweeping up from the moors, smelling deeply of dry heather; across the river he could still see Eric’s house, crowning the embankment with a dull red heap of embers.

  His guts roiled. The Lady knew what he had done. Yet he had to go back there. He imagined Mav like the bait in a trap, waiting for him.

  He could not turn aside; that was the straight way.

  Grod came out of the hut behind him. “You’ll have to get along without me, I guess,” he said. He jerked his thumb toward the hut. “They need me more than you do.”

  Corban said, “You are a good friend, Grod.”

  “And you.” Grod cleared his throat. “And you.” His hand fell on Corban’s arm. “I wish I could come with you.” His voice thickened; Corban saw that he was about to cry.

  Corban said, “I thought you were going to go home.”

  “Home,” Grod said. “What’s that but where you’re known and loved?”

  “What you know and love,” Corban said.

  “That’s what I said,” Grod answered.

  Benna came out of the hut, carrying a cloak and a bundle. Corban reached out one hand to her, and she took it, and came to stand beside him.