The three of them moved towards the gate, and, as they walked, they spoke in whispers.
“Where is Krok?” Rafn asked.
“I don’t know,” Geirmund said. “Watching from the trees perhaps.”
“This plan fails if he doesn’t die,” Vetr said.
“He will die.” Geirmund resisted the urge to look back at the Danes. “But they die first.”
They reached the gate, which opened before them, and on the other side Geirmund found Steinólfur had already brought a second chest much larger than the first.
“I thought you might need it when Krok didn’t show,” the older warrior said. “It looks heavy, so it will get at least two of you closer to them.”
“Good.” Geirmund glanced over his small war-band. “For now we get Tova free of them, then we deal with what comes after. Be ready.”
They all nodded, and Geirmund picked up one side of the chest while Rafn took up the other. Then they lumbered back through the gate, with Vetr behind them, and made their way towards forkbeard and his warriors. As they passed Torthred and Brother Almund, Geirmund whispered, “Take your sister behind the walls the moment you have her,” and on they walked.
The forkbeard grinned at their approach, but his expression turned to confusion when they walked right by him, towards Tova.
“Halt,” the Dane said.
They ignored him for a few paces more, until he shouted at them.
“Halt, you flea-bitten rats!”
They stopped, the enemy now within reach of their weapons, Rafn the closest to Tova. The blade at her neck kept her body rigid, standing almost on her toes, and she looked at them with panic in her eyes.
The forkbeard stalked up behind them. “Are all priests as empty-headed as you? Put that silver on the ground.”
Geirmund and Rafn lowered the chest and set it down. The forkbeard came around them to stand with his men, and all of them gazed at what they believed to be twenty pounds of silver. Geirmund wondered if they planned to betray Krok and steal it for themselves, and then thought they might have already slain their leader for his failures. That would explain why Krok hadn’t come but did nothing to change the fates of the four Danes who were about to die.
“Open it,” the forkbeard said.
Geirmund looked at Rafn, who nodded his readiness, and then bent towards the chest. He lifted its lid slowly, and, just as he revealed it to be empty, Rafn’s robes flapped with a sudden lunge. The Dane holding Tova made a short choking sound and stood for a moment with his mouth hanging open, the sharp point of a thin Miklagard sword passing just above the girl’s head through his eye. Then Rafn shoved the blade deeper into the man’s head, and he collapsed.
“Run, girl,” Vetr said.
Tova’s shock lasted only a moment, and then she raced off towards her brother, hands still bound behind her back.
Almost as quickly, the forkbeard and his warriors recovered from their surprise and drew their weapons in rage, but Geirmund and his Hel-hides had the edge. Geirmund ran his sword through the forkbeard, and Vetr’s axe cleaved the shoulder of one of the Danes so deeply the man died as he fell, while Rafn’s two swords slashed his enemy’s arms and legs to uselessness. The fight was over quickly, and then Vetr pointed at the trees where several warriors had emerged, looking stunned.
“They come.”
“To the wall,” Geirmund said, and he grabbed the smaller chest of silver as they ran.
When they reached the gate, they found Torthred and Brother Almund had already taken Tova through and loosed her bindings. Steinólfur closed and barred the entry behind them, and they all turned to wait with weapons in hand for Krok’s attack, but none came.
“He had but thirteen before,” Birna said. “Now he has nine.”
“He cannot take this place with only nine,” Steinólfur said.
“He won’t.” Geirmund walked up to the wall and peered through it. The warriors in the forest seemed to have vanished, and he knew that Krok would soon be wondering how a few monks had slain four of his men. “He will be careful now, and I think he will soon go to Tamworth to seek the help of more Danes.”
“We can’t let him do that,” Rafn said. “The fight is finally even.”
“But how do we stop him?” Skjalgi asked.
“If he learns who defeated him,” Geirmund said. “If he learns it was us, I think his pride will force him to forget the monastery and pursue us.” He used the hem of his robe to wipe the forkbeard’s blood from his sword. “We will draw them away,” he said and glanced at Birna. “Then we will kill them all.”
22
The Hel-hides had already packed their things and stood ready to march from the monastery, but before they went Geirmund tried to return the smaller chest full of coins to the abbot. Torthred refused it.
“Consider that silver a token of my gratitude,” he said.
Tova stood next to her brother, and up close to them Geirmund could see the features they shared as siblings, the lively brown colour of their eyes, and the strong line of their chins. The girl reached out and took Geirmund’s hand.
“I remember you from Ancarig,” she said. “I am twice grateful to you for my brother’s sake, and today I am grateful to you for my own.”
Geirmund accepted the silver with a bow of his head, then handed it to Steinólfur to divide and pack away where it would not draw attention. “Do you and your monks still plan to leave?” he asked the abbot.
“We do, yes.”
“Will you be safe on the roads?”
“We will use the ancient trackways and keep off the Roman roads. It is not far to Wessex, and we should be safe once we cross the border into Christian lands.”
“Wait a day or two,” Geirmund said. “Be sure we have baited Krok and his warriors away. But do not tarry here longer than that. Other Danes will find this place, whether sooner or later.”
Torthred nodded. “We have only a few more books to pack.”
At the mention of books, Geirmund decided to ask something he had wondered about for several weeks. “I have one last question before I go.”
“What is it?”
“Why did you teach me to read? I can’t help but suspect you were hoping I would become a Christian.”
Tova turned her attention on her brother, eyebrows up a little, while Torthred glanced elsewhere, his grin a bit sheepish.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose that– yes, to be truthful, that was one of my reasons. I hoped that reading the word of God might soften your pagan heart.” His smiled warmed. “But I can see now that is a hopeless cause.”
“Do not fret,” Geirmund said. “There are times we must all admit defeat.”
Torthred chuckled. “That is both wise and true.”
“But what of your other reasons?” Tova asked.
The abbot turned serious again, his gaze at Geirmund direct. “Should you and your warriors find a library, perhaps now you will not be so quick to destroy the treasure it contains.”
“Perhaps not,” Geirmund said with a nod of respect. “That was cunning of you.”
“Geirmund!” Birna called from atop the wall. “I see movement in the trees.”
“You must go,” Tova said. “We will pray for you.”
“Can I accept your prayers without accepting your god?”
“That depends,” she said. “Can you accept the wheat of the field without accepting the sun and the rain?”
Geirmund chuckled and bade them both farewell, then left with his Hel-hides through the monastery gate. Brother Almund closed it behind them, and Geirmund strode to stand in sight of the forest, the hood of his monk-robe down, but out of arrow’s reach. He said nothing and removed the robe as he stared into the trees so that Krok would know who had defeated his warriors before the wall. Then he turned, and his war-band marched eastward f
rom the clearing at a slow enough pace the Danes could track them and follow.
“Do you think the bastard was watching?” Steinólfur asked.
“If not him, then his warriors.” Geirmund pointed at a hill not far ahead of them. “Let’s make for that high ground.”
They quickened to a trot through a stretch of woodland, without care for the din they raised in snapped branches and kicked leaves, then charged up to the top of the rise. From there they could look west, back the way they’d come, and see the fields and roofs of the monastery among the trees in the distance, and they could also watch the breaks in the forest for any sign of Krok and his warriors coming after them.
“Do we make a stand here?” Rafn asked. “Seems as good a place as any.”
“No,” Geirmund said. “They still have almost twice as many warriors.”
“What does that matter?” Birna already had her axe in hand. “We are twice as deadly.”
“I do not doubt that.” Geirmund glanced north, south, and east, searching the features of the land for good battleground. “But if they surround us, an open fight could prove costly, and I will not lose any of you to that Dane.”
“Then what are we to do?” Birna asked. “Do we–”
“There.” Vetr pointed down the hill with the tip of his spear.
Geirmund looked in that direction, and perhaps half a rest away he caught a glimpse of a few warriors sliding through the trees towards them. He knew that meant Krok’s war-band would be there within moments, and he looked eastward again, where a river ran from south to north perhaps two rests away. He decided they could use that waterway to protect at least one of their flanks, and with luck they would find an embankment or low bluff to guard the other and force Krok into a narrow frontal attack.
He ordered his warriors towards the river, and as they reached the bottom of the hill Geirmund heard the first voices of the hunt behind them. His Hel-hides broke into a run across the land, and after they had covered a rest or so, they entered a dark grove of ancient, mossy oak, where they had to duck under heavy elbowed branches and leap over thick and tangled roots that reached up to trip them. When they finally burst from the forest onto the river’s shore, they found a large ship moored in the water, up against the grass and reeds, its crew gathered on the bank around a fire.
The Hel-hides all halted in wary surprise, while the sudden appearance of Geirmund’s war-band seemed to also startle the ship’s crew, and a few of them called out and drew their weapons in alarm.
Geirmund glanced across their faces, trying to decide if he had rushed his warriors into a trap, but he quickly decided the strangers did not fight for Krok, and some of them even appeared to be Northmen, as well as Danes.
“Geirmund?”
One of the crew stepped out in front of the others, and Geirmund recognized her easily by her golden hair and the scars she bore.
“Eivor?” he said.
“By the gods, Geirmund Hjörrsson, it is you!” She strode towards him, grinning, her arms spread wide in astonishment. “What are you doing here? I’d heard you sailed with Guthrum. I have wondered what became of you.”
“I–” His own startlement at seeing her there faded as shouts rose from the forest, alerting them to the coming of Krok’s war-band. Eivor also heard them, and she looked towards the woods as the Dane and his warriors charged out of the trees onto the riverbank, where the moored ship and its crew seemed to take them aback as it had the Hel-hides.
An uncertain moment passed, and Krok gazed along the shore, searching. When he saw Geirmund, he held up his sword.
“Hel-hide!” he shouted.
“Who is this?” Eivor asked. “Not a friend, it seems.”
“He’s nothing but an errand boy,” Geirmund said.
Krok stalked up the shore towards him, still pointing his sword, his eight warriors marching behind him, while Eivor stepped up beside Geirmund, and her crew joined with his Hel-hides behind them.
“What is your purpose here?” the shield-maiden asked.
Krok scoffed. “Who are you to ask?”
“I am Eivor of Ravensthorpe,” she said.
The Dane halted his advance so abruptly the ring that hung from his nose bounced, and he lowered his sword, making it clear he knew her name.
“My hall sits on this river, north of here,” Eivor said. “What do they call you?”
He stood up a bit taller. “I am Krok Uxiblóð. I am sworn to Halfdan, who has a blood feud with the Hel-hide through Ubba.”
“I know the sons of Ragnar well,” she said. “I was with them at Tamworth not long ago.” Eivor glanced at Geirmund. “What is the price of the wergild?”
“Halfdan would accept no wergild,” he said.
“That is a lie!” Krok raised his sword again. “King Halfdan set the wergild at eighteen pounds!”
“Eighteen pounds?” Eivor clicked her tongue. “Who did you kill? That is a high price.”
Krok glowered. “The dead man was kinsman to Ubba.”
“I swear, this is the first I’ve heard of any wergild.” Geirmund folded his arms, confused that Krok did not seem to be lying about it. “If Halfdan is truly willing to speak of blood-price, then you may go back to him and tell him that I demand silver for the death of my warrior, Aslef.”
“Or I could pay you that.” Krok reached for a pouch at his waist in mockery. “What was he worth? A few pennies?”
Birna laughed. “Aslef was worth more than you and all the warriors foolish enough to follow you.” She ran her thumb across the edge of her axe as if testing its sharpness. “We have taken half our blood-price easily, but only when the last of you is slain will the debt be fully paid.”
Her words unsettled the Danes behind Krok, and he pointed his sword at her. “You are nothing but a cur, and I will–”
“Enough,” Eivor said, rubbing her forehead. “Why are you here, Krok? This is not your blood feud. Where are the sons of Ragnar?”
“They have more important battles to fight.” The Dane smirked. “Halfdan sent me in his stead to kill this coward, this argr boy.”
The word stabbed Geirmund in the gut and stirred a murmur in the warriors behind him, an attack not on his pride but his honour.
Krok went on. “The Hel-hide fled from Lunden like a–”
“Hold your tongue!” Steinólfur bellowed, the cords of his neck tight and red.
“Or let it keep wagging, Dane,” Vetr said, his voice like wind over frozen ground, “for I would gladly cut it out.”
But every warrior who had heard Krok knew that silencing him would do nothing. The insult had already been given. The Dane had named Geirmund argr, and that could not be ignored, nor could anyone but Geirmund make a reply to it.
“I have kept my honour.” He moved towards Krok, ignoring the Dane’s sword, boring into his enemy’s eyes with a fiery glare that Krok managed to hold, even as a few of his warriors took a step back. “I was willing to pay wergild,” Geirmund said. “It is Halfdan who has forsaken his honour by sending a pile of ox shit to fight for him, but fight you I will, until one of us is dead.”
Silence followed.
“I will fight you.” Krok swallowed. “But it is you who will–”
“Steady, both of you.” Eivor marched over to stand between Geirmund and the Dane. “I am jarl here and this holmgang will be done according to law. First, we must choose the day and the place.”
“Here,” Geirmund said. “Now.”
Eivor looked at him as if she were seeing him anew, and he wondered how much he had changed in her eyes from the second son she had met in his father’s hall. “And what say you?” she asked, turning to Krok.
“I will fight here and now,” the Dane said.
“And you wish to fight until death?” She asked that question of them both but looked at Geirmund.
&n
bsp; “Yes,” he said, and so did Krok.
“Choice of weapon?” she said. “Axes? Spears?”
“Sword and shield,” Geirmund said, to which Krok also agreed.
Eivor sighed. “So let it be done.”
The warriors spread out to form the square in which the fight would take place, and Geirmund’s Hel-hides drew close around him. They appeared worried, perhaps thinking of the last time he had fought in single combat with Rek and lost, but Geirmund chose not to take offence at their doubt and kept his mind on what he had to do. Krok was older than him, and possibly stronger, more skilled, and more deadly. Geirmund knew he would need to arm himself with more than his sword, but the laws of holmgang hindered the use of cunning to win.
“Expect a foul fight from this pisspot,” Steinólfur said. “Be ready to fight foul in return. Dogs bite, horses kick, and cats scratch, but if he should deal that way, so must you.”
Geirmund looked across the holmgang square at Krok, who had stripped off his armour and tunic to fight bare-chested. The Dane shook his head wildly and sliced the air with his sword in long, swift arcs to loosen his joints.
Birna watched him also, and then said to Geirmund, “I want you to do something for me.”
“Name it.”
She looked at Krok again. “Rip that ring from his nose.”
Geirmund laughed, and then thought of something Birna had once said about warriors who fight with their pride. He believed Krok to be such a man.
“You will each have three shields,” Eivor called from the middle of the square. “You will fight until a mortal wound is given, and every warrior here will accept the outcome. Should any refuse the outcome or interfere, the same shall forfeit their lives. Do you agree?”
“Agreed.” Geirmund took his first shield from Skjalgi and strode towards Eivor and Krok with his sword in his hand.
Krok shifted his weight back and forth, from one foot to the other. “Agreed.”
Eivor glanced between the two of them, and it seemed she looked a bit longer at Geirmund as she backed away from them. “Then let it begin. Now.”
Geirmund's Saga Page 26