That was something to consider. Winchester was a sizable city. It was ringed with a formidable wall, but a wall was only useful if there were men to defend it, men enough to keep an enemy from scaling it. With the soldiers they had, on a wall so big around, the defenses would be spread pretty thin. It might be difficult to hold off a determined enemy.
“We have more men coming,” Felix said. “Men from Kent who will be here soon.”
“Very well, then,” King Æthelwulf said. “We keep an eye on the heathens, and if they seem as if they plan on going away then we let them. If they plan to make trouble then we’ll give them trouble, two-fold. But what of the prisoners? What’s to be done with them.”
“Kill them,” Felix said. “Kill the lot of them. Make an example.”
“Are they of no use?” Byrnhorn asked. “Ransom, or information, or some such?”
“I think not, lord,” Felix said. “I’ve had experience with these people. They’re not of much use. Even if you can understand their barbarous language, they’ll never tell the truth. And they won’t pay ransom because there’s not the least bit of loyalty or honor among them. But here’s the interesting thing. There was a Frank in their company, a traitor to King Charles. I do believe I can get information from him that will be of use.”
“Good, good,” the king said. “Then on the morrow we’ll see those dogs burned at the stake, the whole lot of them. I know there are some in Wessex who think they can profit from cooperating with the heathens. This should give them pause.”
The witan moved on to other, less pressing business. Felix struggled to pay proper attention but his mind kept going back to Louis de Roumois and the Irish girl. What could possibly have driven Louis and the heathens to do so rash a thing as to ride straight into the lions’ den?
I should find out soon enough, he thought. It occurred to him that he should make Louis watch the heathens go up in flames, let him hear the bastards screaming out the last seconds of their lives. That would no doubt encourage his cooperation.
The door opened, a servant slipped in and moved silently to Felix’s side. “There’s a soldier here would have a word with you, lord,” he whispered.
Felix nodded and stood. He followed the man to the door and stepped into the hall, closing the door to the king’s bedchamber behind him. A sense of dread was already rising in his chest.
There were two men standing there. One was the captain of the guard. The other was one of the captain’s men, whose worried-looking face was marked by a great bruise on one side. He wore no belt and had no weapons on him and even without knowing the specifics Felix knew he would not like whatever he was about to hear.
“The prisoners, lord,” the captain said, “the Frank and the Irish girl? They escaped, lord. Some priest helped them, or someone dressed like a priest, anyway.”
Felix said nothing. He felt sick with this news. But in truth he was not terribly surprised. Louis might be a traitor, but he was smart and bold.
“When?” Felix asked.
“Early, lord,” the man with the great bruise said. “Before dawn.” Felix guessed this man was one of the guards who had allowed them to escape, but he had no time to think about punishment just then.
Before dawn. And now it was nearly noon.
“I want them found,” Felix said. “Shut the gates, search the city. Everywhere. Ask the men at the gates if they saw anyone leave who might have been the prisoners. You understand?”
“Yes, lord,” the captain said. He gave a hint of a bow and the other man did as well. “We’ll find them, lord,” the captain said and then they turned and hurried off.
Felix watched them go. No, you won’t, he thought. Louis, that whore’s son, is too clever to be caught by the likes of you.
Chapter Forty-One
Now that is come to pass
which I have hoped, that thou,
dear youth, again to my halls art come.
The Poetic Edda
It was all but completely black inside the little prison. The only light, the only indication of whether it was day or night, came from the tiny space between the bottom of the door and the stone threshold. Because of that, and that alone, Thorgrim knew more than a full day had passed since they were first shoved inside there, hands bound.
He had seen the space grow bright as dawn came the day after their first night as prisoners. There had been some quiet speculation among the seven men remaining as to what would become of them, some dark humor about their fates at the hands of the English. There had been some talk of when food of some sort and water might come their way.
But none of what they discussed came to pass. They had not been removed from their cell to be paraded in front of the city folk and then killed in some manner. They had not been given food or water. It was as if they had been forgotten entirely.
The light under the door grew dim and finally went out as the last of the day lapsed into night. The men grew quiet, too hungry and thirsty even for morbid jokes. Some slept for want of anything better to do. Others, Thorgrim imagined, stared off into the dark and considered what would happen next. He did not know for certain, because he could not see anyone or anything in the unmitigated dark.
Like most of the others, Thorgrim was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. Starri was on his right side and Hall, he thought, was on his left, but he was not certain. He heard the scuffle of feet on the stone, someone moving in the dark, the grunts of men as they were stepped on, the curses and subsequent apologies.
He guessed that the man who was moving was trying to find his way to the corner that they had designated as the toilet, a necessity that only added to the unpleasant nature of their confinement. But he heard the steps coming closer, and a voice calling in a low whisper, “Lord Thorgrim?”
“Here,” Thorgrim said. He heard more steps. “Here,” he said again and he had the sense of someone approaching. He heard the soft thump of a shoe accidentally kicking someone sitting on the ground.
“Careful, you dumb oaf,” Starri snarled.
“Sorry,” the man said and Thorgrim was pretty sure it was Brand.
“Lord Thorgrim? It’s me, Brand,” the voice said. “Could I have a word with you?”
“Yes,” Thorgrim said, sitting a bit more upright. “What is it?”
“Well, lord,” Brand continued. Thorgrim could tell Brand was kneeling now, and his voice was even lower, more conspiratorial. “Well, lord, I’m not sure this is my business…”
“Go on,” Thorgrim said.
Brand took a deep breath and paused for a moment before starting in. “Like I said, this isn’t my affair, but…who knows what’ll become of us, and I wanted to tell you this.”
He paused again before he continued, still speaking just above a whisper. “Harald and I, we’ve become friends, you know. I think he’s asleep now, so I dared come tell you this. I admire Harald very much. And I know that you two…well, you have had some disagreements, as of late.
“But I want you to know something. Back in the battle, the fight with the English fleet, when Herjolf was in command of Dragon? Well, Herjolf tried to get clear of the fight. I think he thought the English ships were too big for us to tangle with. We were alone, you know, until the rest of you came up with us. But it was Harald… Harald purposely fouled the oars, got them all tangled up, so there’d be no choice but to fight. It was Harald made sure we went into the battle bold as we did. And he led the men in the fight when the English were on us.”
Thorgrim was silent for a moment, considering Brand’s words. Finally Brand said, “Lord…?”
“I never heard any of this,” Thorgrim said at last.
“Not everyone saw what Harald did. And those of us who did see it, Harald made us promise not to tell. And Herjolf, well, he sure wasn’t going to say anything. I think he’s been scared ever since that Harald would tell the tale, but he hasn’t.”
“Thank you, Brand,” Thorgrim said. “Thank you for telling me this. It…
it makes a big difference.”
“Of course, lord,” Brand said. “I thought you should know.”
Thorgrim could hear Brand stand and make his way back toward wherever he had been sitting. Near Harald, no doubt — they had indeed become good friends.
“Well, now,” Starri Deathless said. “Your boy’s a strange one. Makes a fool of himself fighting a whale and he won’t stop bragging about it. Then he does something a man could be proud of and he doesn’t say a word.”
“It seems that way,” Thorgrim said. “Maybe the boy learned a lesson.”
“Maybe,” Starri said, though he didn’t sound terribly convinced.
Maybe… Thorgrim thought. Humility was not a particularly common trait among the Northmen, who entertained one another by telling tales of their exploits in battle. But Thorgrim had never been like that. He had always been of the mind that a man should keep his mouth shut and let his actions speak. Actions did not lie and they did not embellish.
It was a habit that he had hoped Harald would adopt. He hoped that Harald would learn it from his example. Listening to Harald after his fight with the whale, however, seeing him relish the admiration of the others, Thorgrim had felt certain the boy had learned nothing. But maybe he had.
It would be a good time for it. If they were all going to be marched off to their deaths on the morrow, Thorgrim hoped Harald would meet the gods with humility. He did not think the gods cared much for braggarts.
There was nothing more to say and nothing more to do, locked in the cell as they were with no way out, so Thorgrim fell into a quasi-sleep, drifting off to a world of odd, shifting dreams, waking to wonder what had become of Failend, what of Louis. And what would become of all of them, and how could they go down fighting.
He was in the middle of one of his short bouts of sleep when some sound or other stirred him. He opened his eyes and looked down at the crack along the bottom of the door and saw it was daylight, but what hour it might be he could not tell.
“Men-at-arms. Outside,” Starri said.
Thorgrim listened. He could hear the chinking sound of mail, the thump of spear shafts on the ground, a single voice giving orders.
“This better be our breakfast,” Godi said in the dark. “And if the bastards burned my porridge I’ll kill all of them.”
But it was not breakfast. Once the men-at-arms beyond the door had settled, a voice call out in words Thorgrim recognized as English. There was some shuffling around among the men in the prison, he heard someone curse, and Harald’s voice say, “Shut your mouth.”
It was Harald who spoke next, having worked his way over to the door. He called through the thick planks, back at the man on the other side. They went back and forth a few times, then Harald spoke in Thorgrim’s general direction.
“He says they’re going to open the door. At least that’s what I think he said,” Harald reported. “He says we’re to come out, one man at a time.”
Thorgrim got to his feet, his muscles protesting. There was a lot that had been left unsaid, he was sure. The Englishman had not bothered to warn Harald of what would happen if they tried rushing the guards. Thorgrim imagined there was a line of spears waiting for them, and the consequences of trying to escape would be obvious.
“You hear that, Starri?” Thorgrim said. “Just do as you’re told. Nothing stupid. The time for doing stupid things will come soon enough.”
Starri grunted. “As long as you promise I may be stupid later, then I’ll agree.”
The lock on the door clicked, the hasp opened and the door swung back with a creaking sound. The light came spilling in to reveal the seven haggard-looking, filthy, squinting Northmen inside. The captain of the English guard shouted out, just a couple of words.
“He says first man come out,” Harald said.
“I go first,” Thorgrim said. He would not allow any man into danger before him, and he wanted as much time as he could get to see what was going on.
The men crowding near the door stepped aside as Thorgrim passed through, and Thorgrim told them what he had told Starri: they were to do as ordered, nothing stupid. He stepped out of the door and into the early morning sun. Two dozen spearmen in two ranks faced him, weapons leveled, shields on their backs, faces set and determined. They seemed to take it as a given that the wild heathens would attack like mad dogs.
Well, at least we scared them, if nothing else, Thorgrim thought.
The captain of the guard stood in front of the ranks, two men beside him, just common men, with a great pile of chain at their feet. Thorgrim met the captain’s eyes and they held one another’s gaze and Thorgrim could see that that man at least was not in any way afraid. He looked angry, if anything. He pointed to Thorgrim’s hands and barked a few words and Thorgrim guessed he was asking how Thorgrim’s hands came to be untied.
By way of response Thorgrim shrugged, and thought, Pointless to ask me, you dumb bastard. I have no way to answer you even if I cared to.
But dumb bastard or not, the man had a job to do, and it did not seem to matter much to him if Thorgrim’s hands were bound or not. He nodded to one of the men beside him and that man knelt down and placed a shackle around Thorgrim’s ankle, an open iron band with two hinged loops of iron at either end. One loop was passed through the other and the second man passed the bitter end of the chain through that, securing the shackle and preventing it from opening. Slave shackles, meant to bind a line of men to one another.
The two men stood and one of them gave Thorgrim a shove and Thorgrim stumbled forward, barely keeping his feet as the captain barked for the next man to come out. Thorgrim looked behind him. Godi came next, looking as defiant as he could under those circumstances. Thorgrim heard the spearmen shuffle a bit, no doubt surprised and intimidated by the size of the man. Thorgrim braced for Godi to try something, to grab someone’s spear or drive a fist into the captain’s face, but the big man stood silently as he, too, was made fast to the chain, five feet behind Thorgrim.
Again Thorgrim was pushed forward. He heard the chain rattle as Godi was pushed as well and the captain barked for the next to come out. One by one the Northmen were linked together, then finally the captain was back at Thorgrim’s side. He called out an order and the spearmen formed up in two lines with the seven chained men between them. Then the captain gave Thorgrim a shove and led the lot of them off in a grim parade.
They tramped across the open ground, following the same path they had followed going to the prison, as far as Thorgrim could tell: it had been dark then, and he had not been in a good frame of mind for careful observation. But now as they walked he could see more and more of the open ground around the corner of the great hall coming into view, and he was not encouraged by what he saw.
There were people there, a small cluster of people who seemed to be doing nothing more than standing about. And then as the guards and prisoners marched in a broad path around the corner of the hall, more and more people came into sight. A crowd to witness some spectacle, Thorgrim guessed, and he did not doubt that that spectacle would feature him and his men.
Then they were around the corner and Thorgrim could see the long side of the great hall to their left, the main gate off to the right, the whole thing enclosed by the tall gray stone wall. There were ladders leaning against the wall and men-at-arms with spears patrolling the top and others standing at the open gate. More people were coming into the courtyard to join the crowd already assembled.
At the far end stood a platform with a canopy of sorts. It was a couple hundred feet away but Thorgrim could still see bright spots of color and glints of sun off polished metal, and he guessed it was a stage set up so the king and his court could have the best view of the coming entertainment.
And it was clear now what that entertainment would be. Facing the crowd, halfway between them and the great hall, standing in a straight line with ten feet between them, stood seven posts driven into the ground and standing about eight feet high. Around each post was piled a stack
of dried brush and straw, something that would ignite quickly, and under the brush more substantial pieces of wood that would really generate a scorching heat.
“Still waiting for my breakfast, sons of bitches,” Godi called, and Thorgrim heard the thump of someone hitting Godi in the head. He guessed it was done with the butt of a spear. No one would dare get close enough to Godi to use a hand in striking him.
A murmur swept over the watchers, fingers pointed, heads turned, as the Northmen came shuffling into view. Thorgrim suspected that most of these people had never been so close to one of the dreaded heathens. But they had no doubt heard stories, and those stories would only add to the pleasure of what they were about to see.
The men-at-arms escorted their prisoners up to the line of stakes and stopped them there and the onlookers fell silent. The workmen who had put the shackles on began to take them off again, starting at the back end of the line which happened to be Gudrid. They knelt beside him and as they worked Gudrid looked at Thorgrim and his face seemed to ask if he should just do as he was told, just go to the post without a fight. Thorgrim gave him a little nod, and Gudrid nodded back.
Four spearmen surrounded Gudrid as two other men-at-arms grabbed him and half dragged him over to the post. They pushed him up over the pile of brush until his back was to the pole, then bound his hands behind him. Gudrid stared ahead, over the heads of the onlookers, and his face wore no expression.
Brand was next, and soon he was made fast to the next post in line, and then they came for Harald, who was after him. Starri came next. Thorgrim could see he was twitching, his arms making their odd movement, but not so dramatically as when he was right on the edge of lapsing into a frenzy. He looked over at Thorgrim as the shackle was taken off his leg. Thorgrim gave a small shake of his head, ignoring the despondency on Starri’s face. But still Starri allowed himself to be led away and tied to the stake with only a bit of thrashing and jerking against the guards’ grip.
The Midgard Serpent Page 46