“Rorik! Skuli! A truce for speech with you!”
The Vikings halted. They had nothing to lose by accepting, a little longer life to gain. The leaders briefly brought their helmets together, and then Skuli’s voice, higher and clearer than Rorik’s blare, answered. “Agreed. Will you come up?”
“Bid your men stand, and come down to us!”
They conferred again, and then started down the slope, weary men moving slowly and heavily. Rorik, limping grievously, supported himself with a spear; Skuli, his right arm in a rough sling, still wore his sword on his left hip, where it was useless to him. As they came nearer Niall saw that he moved like a sleep-walker, and his dangerous bony face was grey and blank as if he went bound to his death. His eyes went past Niall to the shining bay where the Firedrake had gone down, and in that moment Niall knew a great sympathy for him, whose life she had been.
There was no such stricken grief in Rorik’s face; he was incarnate fury. His bearded lips writhed soundlessly as he stared at Niall, but for the moment he was beyond speech. Flecks of spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth as Eymund came to stand at Niall’s left side, so close that his sleeve brushed Niall's bare arm, and Niall could hear his hard breathing. Rorik’s bloodshot eyes shifted to glare at him. He swallowed. “You too?” he croaked. “My own sister’s son—my kin?”
“I am Naill’s,” Eymund answered quietly, and put his hand on Niall’s arm. It was cold, and trembled a little.
“What use is speech?” Skuli asked wearily. “We are all dead men.”
“You need not die.”
“You offer us our lives?” Rorik demanded, his voice a throttled gasp. “You dare?”
“If you will—”
The spear lifted and leaped at him in a silver streak, and he threw himself aside knowing even as he fell that he was too late, that the point would be in his vitals before he struck the ground. He heard it thud into flesh and bone, and as the rough tussocks swung up and struck his right side he wondered whether he were already dead that he did not feel it. A heavy weight sprawled over him, pinning him down. He twisted under it, and saw Rorik standing with empty hands held out, his face frozen into a mask of appalled, incredulous anguish. The heavy weight shuddered a little and slipped against his breast, and a yellow head tumbled from his shoulder to the grass. As realization held him rigid a screech rang in his ears, a javelin streaked over his head and thwacked into Rorik’s broad chest, and he sprawled backwards and was gone.
Niall sat up under Eymund’s entangling weight, set his arms about him and eased him up to lie across his knees. Vaguely he was aware of running feet and angry, anxious voices; of Skuli shouting to his men to stand where they were, but all his mind and heart were set on Eymund. His bright head stirred a little in the crook of his arm, and he opened his eyes and grinned faintly up at Niall.
“Botched it—for him,” he murmured in satisfaction.
“Eymund!” Niall whispered, struggling against breakdown.
“Why do we not kill every one of the treacherous wolves?” cried Edric, menacing the silent Skuli. Then he stooped over Niall and laid a hand on his shaking shoulder.
“No more killing,” Eymund said firmly, and set his lips tightly.
The King was on one knee at his other side. He looked at the spear between his ribs, quivering a little to his faint breathing, and then up at Odda beside him, shaking his head. They both looked down at the agonized frown contorting his grey face, and Odda put out a hand to the ash shaft without actually touching it. “Shall I draw out the blade?” he asked in harsh mercy.
“Wait. My soul goes with it. Niall!”
Niall bent his head. “What is it, kinsman?”
“Give me—Christian baptism.”
“Myself? But—” He stopped, and drew breath sharply.
There was no time to find a priest. There was very little time at all.
“At your hands, Niall.”
“It is permitted,” the King said hoarsely, and Niall grasped self-control, swallowed the choking sensation in his throat, and nodded. Odda was already plunging away with his helmet in his hand. It was the last and greatest service he could do Eymund, who died for his sake. He took his limp brown hand, that tried to close on his. A grey-blue shadow was creeping over his face, the frown easing.
“Hold fast a little longer, Eymund,” he said, as Odda came back up the slope with his dripping helmet between his hands. Judith was kneeling beside him, and as Niall relinquished his hand she took it between her own.
“I thank you,” she said gently.
“I stand sponsor for him,” the King declared, “and name him Edmund.”
All hushed, and Niall dipped water and spoke the sacramental words clearly and firmly for dulling ears.
Eymund blinked as the water ran over his face, and a little grin of triumph tugged at his relaxing mouth. Niall kissed him. The seawater was bitter as tears. “Rest safe in God’s keeping, Eymund.”
The little grin widened, and laughter gleamed in his blue eyes. “No time left—to backslide,” he whispered with failing breath. “My good—luck—Niall—”
The last word ended in a rattling gasp. His eyes shut and then opened. Odda put forth his hand to the spear-shaft, but he was gone before he touched it, the grin of his final jest slackening to a faintly-surprised smile. Niall crouched numbly over him, shivering and wordless, until someone eased his kinsman’s body from his arms and laid it on the rough grass. Hands tugged imperatively at his; Judith’s voice spoke his name, and he stumbled to his feet and into the grasp of her arms. For a moment they clung to each other, his face buried in her hair. She was life and love and warmth, his hope and his future and his reality. He gripped her fast, and his senses functioned again. He lifted his head, looked into her steady eyes, and then gently put her aside. He owed Eymund one last duty.
Skuli had not budged from where he had stood when Rorik cast the spear, his pale eyes watchful and his bony face unmoved. His sword hung at his side, and his sound hand was empty. Ferocious faces menaced him, and the warriors of Odda’s household were beginning to inch forward, weapons lifting. He did not flinch or stir. Niall raised a hand to halt the advance.
“Lord King, Skuli did not break truce.”
“Then for him it still holds.”
For a heartbeat Skuli stared in astonished curiosity at the King of Wessex, and then turned a grimly measuring eye on Niall. “If I had a sword-arm,” he said slowly, “you and I would go to holmgang, and only one come from it alive.”
“I did what was given me to do,” Niall told him soberly. “Yours was a noble ship, and died greatly.” There was no triumph in his voice or bearing, only regret and fellow-feeling.
A light kindled in Skuli’s bleak face. “By all the gods, her master matched her! She was never more bravely handled. Aye, she died greatly. And now there is nothing for us but to die as well.”
“Are you captain alone, Skuli?”
“Aye. Aslak is dead, and many more. We will take the price of their blood from you before you slay us.”
“This is the price of blood!” Niall declared bitterly, gesturing to Eymund’s body that lay almost at his feet, composed and straightened by English hands. “Look well on it!”
“I have done.”
“I offer you wergild instead.”
“What price have you to offer us?” Skuli demanded scornfully.
“Your lives.”
“We are warriors, not slaves! We will die, every man, before we live dishonoured!” But hope flickered in his quick glance up the slope at his waiting Danes, and back to Niall's stern face.
“Lord King, if Wessex can be rid of these foes without shedding blood, is it your will?”
“There has been blood shed enough,” Alfred declared. “Have your way.”
Niall turned back to Skuli. “Choose vengeance, and you die like trapped wolves. There are more men of Wessex behind you in the woods.” He saw understanding of their hopeless state in Skuli’
s face, and pointed to the crippled longship out beyond the headland, creeping down-channel against the flood. “Swear to go for ever from this land, and my friends will take you out in a boat to hail her, and she may take you all off.”
Skuli gazed at the ship on the sunny bay for what seemed a long time, his face unreadable. The Englishmen murmured and shuffled a little.
“Well? Will you accept your lives from us?” Niall asked sharply.
“Unlucky was the day when I sailed for Wessex. And if ever we meet again one of us must kill the other, which would be a pity. I accept.” He cast a challenging look round the cheated Englishmen, moved closer to look down on Eymund’s dead face, nodded coolly to the King and started up the slope to his men.
“We could have made an end,” Odda growled longingly, fondling his sword-hilt.
“Let them go in peace,” said Alfred quietly. “Mercy is more acceptable to God.”
“No more killing. It was Eymund’s desire,” Niall said in deep thankfulness. “Lord King, I am your man now and for ever.” They all watched Skuli striding over the rough ground, until the Danes broke ranks and surrounded him. Judith pressed close to Niall’s side and he slid his arm round her waist. His kinsmen of the new life stood together at his other hand.
THE END
The Price of Blood Page 23