“Did you fight, at least?” Æthelwulf asked. “Were any of the men killed?”
“Yes, certainly, sire, we fought. Fought hard as we could,” Beadurof said but Felix could hear the false note in his voice and he guessed that the nobles were so taken by surprise that they had no fight in them.
And it was clear that if there had been any fighting it was pretty one-sided. Beadurof’s appearance alone told that tale. His tunic was ripped and coated in mud and he had been stripped of everything but the tunic and his leggings. There was blood on his face, partially wiped away, from a bloody nose, apparently.
“There was a great host of them, sire, as I said,” Beadurof continued in his defensive tone. “But well hidden. The others, the heathen prisoners who escaped from the stakes, they led us right into their arms.”
“Humph,” Æthelwulf said.
“This is a bad business. A bad business,” said Leofric, sitting near the king on a mostly empty bench. Leofric, ealdorman of Dorsetshire, was one of the few of that rank who had opted not to go out on the hunt.
Leofric had not been an ealdorman long. It had been no more than a day, actually, since he had been elevated to that office. Nothwulf, the former ealdorman, had fallen out of Æthelwulf’s favor, thanks in part to his own blunders, but also through Leofric’s subtle manipulation of the king. Felix saw what the old man was up to and could even admire it, since it did not affect him at all.
Nothwulf, already on shaky ground, would have been pretty much done for after making such a mess of his fight with the Northmen, even to the point of leading them into Winchester. But Nothwulf had managed to get himself killed trying to stop the prisoners’ escape, and thus cleared the way for Leofric’s advance.
Better for Nothwulf to die as an ealdorman and a hero than live as a goat, Felix thought. Nothwulf’s wife, Cynewise, was sneaky and powerful in her own right, and Felix had never liked or trusted her, but he was sure Leofric would have no problem sending her packing back to Devonshire from whence she had come.
“Yes, Leofric, yes, it’s a bad business,” said Æthelwulf with no attempt to hide his disgust. Felix did not offer an opinion. He did not feel that he had to. Æthelwulf seemed to understand well enough the gravity of what had happened.
All the ealdormen and thegns, the men of highest rank, had been sitting on the stage near Æthelwulf, invited there by the king himself to watch the heathens die in flames. But the prisoners managed to get free of their stakes, and when they did the nobles plunged into the fight, eager to be seen risking their lives for their king. But despite those efforts, the heathens disappeared in the chaos of the panicked crowd.
At first it was assumed they were still in the city. The noblemen called for their war horses, the better to scour Winchester, and because the horses made them feel more martial, more important.
Then word came that the heathens had made it over the wall. The mounted ealdormen ordered the gates open and charged after them, joined by another twenty of their kind, horns blowing, banners waving. The heathens were barely armed and greatly outnumbered, even after more of them arrived on horseback. It seemed like the whole thing would be a grand lark, an afternoon’s hunt, and a way to show off for the king, all at once.
Felix had watched them go and he had an uneasy feeling in his gut. Here the wealthiest and most important men in Wessex, Ingwald, Alhmund, Egbert, Byrnhorn, all of them, would be riding out on their own, no men-at-arms, no foot soldiers, just them against the heathens. But there would be no dissuading them, he could see that. He had no authority over those men, and Æthelwulf seemed happy to see them ride off in pursuit.
They won’t be gone long… Felix thought. It was the most comforting thing he could come up with. The ealdormen would be gone and back and no harm done. Except that was not how it worked out.
“And where are they now, do you know?” Felix asked, the first words he had spoken.
“Back to Hamtun,” Beadurof said. “That what they told me to tell to the king. Going back to Hamtun.”
Going back to Hamtun with all the witan as hostages, Felix thought.
“And what do the bastards want?” Æthelwulf demanded.
“Ahh…” Beadurof paused, clearly not wishing to say the very thing he had been sent by the heathens to say. “They are demanding a hundred pounds of silver…”
“Ah, those dogs!” Æthelwulf interrupted. “A hundred pounds of silver? Are they mad?”
“Well, sire, that’s actually a hundred pounds of silver for every hostage…” Beadurof said, and that was met with silence.
I guess the heathens know the value of their hostages, Felix thought.
“Well, Felix, what say you?” Æthelwulf asked.
Felix shrugged. “We pay, I suppose. By which I mean, each of the fools that went charging after the heathens will pay his own ransom. I don’t see that we have much choice.”
Æthelwulf nodded. Felix could see he was much relieved by the idea of each ealdormen paying his own ransom.
“The heathens say the silver should be brought down to them in Hamtun in a week’s time,” Beadurof continued. “They say if it’s not they’ll send one man’s head to Winchester every day it’s late.”
“Barbarians. Damned barbarians,” Æthelwulf said.
You were going to burn the heathens alive, Felix thought, but he said, “Was there anything else?”
“Yes,” Beadurof said. “They want the Irish girl, the one they came for.”
“Well, they can damn well have her,” Æthelwulf said. “As if I had any interest in keeping her sort about.”
“That may be a bit of a problem,” Felix said. “We’re not entirely sure where she is.”
“What?” Æthelwulf said, scowling. “What’s become of her?”
“We’re trying to find that out now,” Felix said. “But we’ll find her, never fear.”
He did not, however feel as optimistic as his words and tone suggested. His most trusted men had been searching her out, and thus far had come up with nothing. Felix knew that somehow Louis de Roumois was tied up in all this, which did not make him feel any better. Louis might be an enemy of Charles, his king, but he was no fool. Not at all.
“Also, the heathen that was killed, the big one? They want his body back.”
“Is that a problem too, Felix?” Æthelwulf asked.
“No, sire,” Felix said. He had meant to order the body thrown to the dogs but he had not gotten around to it yet.
“And one last thing…” Beadurof said.
“Yes?” Felix asked.
“Well, when the heathens were taken, lord, they were all of them wearing swords. They say they must have those swords returned.”
* * *
Failend was kneeling on the stone floor. Her coarse woolen robe offered her knees some relief, but not much. That was fine. That was as it should be. Kneeling was not lying in bed. It was not sitting in a fine chair. It was an act of reverence, an act of penitence. It was just the thing for which her soul was shouting out.
The choir was singing, their lovely voices lifting to the upper reaches of the massive church, the ancient Latin words twisting and flowing around each other. Failend took that opportunity to look up, a tiny tilt of the head, no more. She was still surprised by how unencumbered her head felt, the ease of movement that came with the weight of her long hair gone.
Father Conall had cut it off right at the base of her skull. He had done it in his cell in the priests’ dormitory near the church, just as soon as they had made their way out of the king’s estate. With her hair mostly gone she looked passably like a boy, one too young for facial hair. She looked like an acolyte. And she was happy to pass for an acolyte. It was better than trying to pass for a tonsured priest.
As the choir sang Failend moved her eyes along the back of the church, over the altar and the tabernacle and the canopy. They lingered on the crucifix and the bloody agony of the Lord hanging there. They moved on, over the rest of the sanctuary. Nothing. Pri
ests, altar servers, the choir, the acolytes, the nuns half hidden by the grille. That was it. No men-at-arms. None of the king’s men.
They had come often, starting on the day of her escape. They came in mid-morning, after the guards had been discovered locked in the small room at the end of the hall, or so she imagined. But by then Failend was wearing short hair and boy’s leggings and the heavy wool robe that Father Conall had brought her. She had been introduced to the other acolytes as Father Conall’s brother, come from Ireland. But mostly the others did not care who she was, or where she was from, or why she was there.
The king’s men had come several times after, searching the cells and the church and the other buildings. They showed up suddenly and in large numbers, no doubt hoping to catch the escaped prisoner by surprise. Once they even brought the guards whom Failend and Louis had overpowered and they had examined each one of the priests, who were made to stand in a long line. Failend had been there, watching, ready to step in and give herself up if she thought they might identify Father Conall. But the guards had looked at him and passed on by. It had been dark in the hall and Father Conall had been wearing the hood of his robe, and in any case the guards could not really tell one tonsured priest from another.
The king’s men had examined the acolytes as well. One of the guards had been within five feet of her, had looked right at her, his eyes lingering. But then he turned away without a word, and Failend had the impression he was more interested in young boys than he was in finding the escaped prisoner.
The mass ended, the priests and the boys and the nuns all filed out, each back to their various tasks. Failend, hands held in front of her and pressed together like the other acolytes, processed slowly down the nave toward the back of the church.
They moved through the massive doors and into the narthex. Failend felt a hand on her arm and with it a stab of panic, uncertainty. Her first instinct was to lash out, her second to jerk her arm free and run, but she heard Father Conall say softly, “Come, brother.”
She turned and stepped out of the line. Father Conall was already walking away, so she followed. He led her out through a side door of the church, out into the open ground surrounding the imposing building.
Once they were some distance from the church and from any of the many people hurrying by in sundry directions, Father Conall stopped and turned toward her. He opened his mouth to speak but Failend spoke first.
“There was a great commotion a few days ago. In the city. We could hear it but we were not allowed out. Or told what was going on. There were rumors…”
Father Conall nodded. “The heathens, the ones who came to find you, they were sentenced to die. At the stake. But they escaped. There was a search, and fighting.” He spoke in Irish and to Failend the sound of the words was like the angelic singing of the choir.
“They escaped?” Failend asked.
“Yes. Over the city wall, or so I hear. And now there are rumors they took some of the ealdormen as hostages.”
Failend nodded. A smile played on her lips. She could not help herself. She had considered the agony she would feel in her soul if Thorgrim and the others had been burned alive trying to rescue her, after she had willfully abandoned them. But now she would be spared that torment.
“You’re pleased to hear that? That the heathens escaped?” Father Conall asked. There was no rebuke in his tone. He was just asking.
“Yes,” Failend said. “Yes. I won’t lie. I’m happy to hear it. Is that wicked?”
Father Conall frowned. “I don’t know. I’d have to think on that. But see here. I’ve spoken with the bishop. He’s said I can go. Back to Ireland, back to my monastery.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Failend said. “And me?”
Father Conall smiled. “The bishop doesn’t worry himself about acolytes. It’s no concern to him if you come or go. I did not even mention you.”
“Didn’t the bishop wonder why you wanted to return home? Just now? He wasn’t curious?”
“God smiles on you, Failend,” Father Conall said. “I didn’t just today start asking his leave to return home. I’ve been asking for weeks. I’m quite done with Engla-land.”
“But…why, after all that, did the bishop finally give you permission to go?” Failend persisted. It seemed too easy and it made her suspicious.
“Well, here’s the truth of the thing…” Father Conall said, his voice dropping to somewhere between a confession and a whispered secret. “I’m the one who defended you when you first came to the church, heard your confession. He knows I’m…part of all this. I don’t think he wants to know how. But he certainly doesn’t want the king to think any of this was a failure on his part, or any of his people. He’s rather that I…we…just go.”
Failend nodded. That made sense. “When do we go?”
“Now. This morning. I have only a few things to collect up. The abbot will give me some money for travel. It won’t be an easy trip, I’ll warn you. We can’t go to Hamtun, because the heathens are there. We’ll have to go to Lunden, or to the west, and find a ship that can take us to Ireland.”
Failend nodded and smiled again. She was looking at Father Conall’s face but she was not seeing him. She was seeing far beyond him, and beyond the city of Winchester and the light blue sky and the soft clouds over Engla-land.
What she saw was the wild blue ocean over which she had sailed aboard a Northman’s longship. What she saw was the rugged coast of Ireland, the steep cliffs and the green fields and the rolling country that ran inland from there.
What she saw was her life made over again. Once more. What a gift from God this was. How many women had the chance to remake themselves anew, again and again?
What that new life would be she did not know. Taking her vows, perhaps, giving herself to a holy order. Or married again, to a man who was kind, who loved her. She could not return to Glendalough, but perhaps she would live in Kells, where Father Conall was bound, or to the north of that. Maybe even Dubh-linn. She could speak the Northmen’s language fluently, after all, and knew all of their customs.
It did not matter at all, not just then. She would build the life she wanted to live when the proper time came. She knew how to do that now. She had the courage to do it. She was ready to begin.
“Failend?” Father Conall said. “Are you all right?”
His voice brought her back, so she was looking at his face now, his kind face. She nodded. “Yes, Father. I am all right. I am most certainly all right.”
Bergthor and his men and Thorgrim’s men had done a tolerable job of fortifying Hamtun, turning the place into a small but effective longphort in the short time that Thorgrim and the others had been gone. They had torn down the buildings closest to the water, the ones that could hide an enemy. They had used the beams from those buildings to build rudimentary walls around the stretch of shoreline where the ships were pulled up. They had scrounged up a few boats in the village and begun regular patrols of the bay, up and down, because they did not intend to be taken by surprise a second time.
Thorgrim ran his eyes along the wall and over the top of the wall to the roofs of the houses fifty yards beyond, the closest that Bergthor had spared. He was pleased with what had been accomplished. They could defend this place and hold it as long as they needed to. Which he hoped would not be long.
He was sitting on a barrel near where Sea Hammer was pulled up on the mud. His tunic was off and Harald was doing his best to sew up the spear wound in Thorgrim’s side, the one he had received in the sea fight when they first arrived. The one Failend had already stitched up once.
Harald was stitching him now, happy to do the work. He liked stitching wounds for some reason, in part because he considered himself very skilled at the task, which he was not. And despite his sometimes clumsy efforts there was no one who Thorgrim trusted more.
“Hold still, hold still,” Harald admonished and he took a stitch and then washed the blood away, enough so he could see to take another. “We’r
e nearly done.” It was an astoundingly painful process but Thorgrim managed to limit his reaction to a few involuntary twitches.
The storm that had raged between him and Harald had blown through, the sky clear again. Brand’s hushed words about Harald’s behavior in battle, Harald’s failure to make any mention of it, went far in calming that tempest. The English flames that had nearly burned them alive seemed to have scorched the arrogance out of Harald, as had Godi’s selfless death.
That at least was what Thorgrim suspected. The two of them, Harald and he, had never talked about it, and they never would. Things between them were once again as they had been. Thorgrim would give Harald back the command of Dragon and Harald would do as he was told. They both understood that. There was no need for further discussion.
Harald took another stitch and Thorgrim twitched, but only a bit.
“You miss her now, eh?” Louis de Roumois said. “Failend?” He was sitting nearby sharpening a knife which he had apparently liberated from an English guard.
“Miss her? Why?”
“She was a good surgeon. Gentle hands.”
Thorgrim frowned. “Harald does well enough,” he said.
But in truth Thorgrim did miss her, he missed her already, and it was for reasons well beyond her skills with a needle. There seemed to be a gap now, an empty space that Failend had once filled. Like shields mounted on a longship’s side: they are all as one until one is removed, and suddenly its absence becomes sharp and obvious.
But no, that was not it. Failend was not one of many. She was something else entirely. And Thorgrim had never really understood that until she was gone.
“Yes, I miss Failend,” Thorgrim added. “But we’ll get her back. Or else I’ll start removing our hostages’ heads and sending them off to Winchester.”
“Hmm,” Louis said. “I would not be so sure.”
Harald tied off the thread and once again wiped the blood away. He stood and stretched. “There. That should hold. If you’re careful.”
“Thank you,” Thorgrim said. He swiveled around and looked at Louis. “Why do you say that? You think the English want to keep Failend, more than they want their noblemen alive?” Then another thought came to him, and he tried to keep his tone flat as he added, “Or do you think she’s dead already?”
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