Cathryn laughed, covering her mouth with her hand lest she project bread into the conversation. “And armed,” she said, patting the dagger at her waist that Poppa had given her. “She’d be scandalized, as your Abbot would be if he knew you were plying the oars of a longboat down the River Eure.”
Javune sobered. “He’ll know soon enough.”
Cathryn watched Torstein out of the corner of her eye, suspecting he understood more of their conversation than they assumed. “You can never return, you know.”
The runaway monk gazed around at the sluggish river then popped another piece of bread into his mouth. “Of that I am glad. If I die during this adventure, at least I’ll have tasted a little bit of freedom.”
Torstein snorted, then turned away.
~~~
She and Poppa were surrounded by hundreds of men, but Cathryn didn’t feel threatened. She was confident that none of the thralls would dare lay a finger on Poppa. If they managed to overpower Padraig they’d still have to face Hrolf’s wrath when he found out. In addition she knew Torstein lurked nearby, always vigilant. It was strange that he seemed to have adopted her.
“Can I ask a question about Torstein?” she said to Poppa as they bedded down for the night under a canvas shelter. Men’s voices drifted on the still air. Nightjars called to each other in the distance. Crickets chirped. Frogs croaked.
“What do you wish to know?”
“His parents. Are they dead?”
Poppa shrugged. “His mother was sold off in the market at Ribe on the journey here.”
Cathryn’s heart broke for the youth. “I was a foundling, but to be torn apart from one’s mother, never to see her again must be worse. Did they get the chance to say goodbye?”
Poppa stared at her as if she’d spoken in Greek. “He’s a slave. Why do you care?”
Cathryn’s first reaction was to think that twenty years with Vikings had changed Poppa, but then it dawned on her the haughty Bayeux countess had probably never cared much about the feelings of ordinary people. “What about his father?” she asked, regretting she’d embarked on the conversation.
“Swept away in a storm surge last autumn,” she said with a yawn. “His name was Gunnar Gardbruker.”
A chill crept slowly up Cathryn’s spine, despite the fetid summer air. Surely it must be a common name. “Was he related to Bryk?”
“His brother,” came the sleepy reply.
CAPTURED
Poppa called a halt just before a bend in the river. At her command the thralls steered the boats to the bank.
Cathryn jumped over the side of her longboat into the shallows, enjoying the freedom male attire provided, and hurried along the bank to where Poppa stood at the prow. Torstein shadowed her. “Why have we stopped?” she asked breathlessly.
“Listen.”
She strained to hear what Poppa had evidently heard. “Nothing. Only birds.”
“Exactly. It’s too quiet. We must be nearing Chartres, yet there is no sound, just a cloud of dust to the southwest.”
Cathryn peered into the distance. “Mayhap it’s smoke from Viking campfires, or from cooking fires in the town.”
Poppa shook her head. “It’s dust. Vikings don’t make dust. Horses do. We must be careful not to sail headlong into any relief force that may be on its way to Chartres.”
Cathryn looked around nervously. Who knew what lurked in the tall reeds? “A relief army? Who would march to relieve Chartres?”
“I suspect not King Charles,” Poppa sneered. “But Hrolf feared Richard, Duke of Burgundy and perhaps Robert, Margrave of Neustria might respond to any plea for help from Bishop Joseaume of Chartres. Our hope is that only one may have decided to join the fray and that they haven’t united their forces.”
Cathryn’s heart plummeted. Bryk faced enormous dangers. She’d known that, but in Rouen it had all seemed unreal. Now that she was so close to him, her fear intensified.
Poppa raised a foot to the rail of her boat. Padraig heaved himself over the side to assist her onto shore. As he set her back on dry land, he grunted and slumped to the ground. Cathryn screamed when she saw the arrow embedded in his back, but Torstein’s surprisingly strong arm encircled her, pulling her away.
Helmeted men in chain mail emerged from the trees. Frankish soldiers! “Let her go,” one of them shouted.
She stumbled backwards into Torstein, unable to keep up with his frantic pace. They fell in a heap. The boy struggled to escape from beneath her, but didn’t utter a word. She opened her eyes to see the point of a sword poised above her head.
“Thank God,” Poppa screamed in the Frankish tongue. “These barbarians captured us.”
The soldier who’d been intent on killing Torstein took his eye off the thrall for a split second, but it was time enough for the slave to slip away into the forest. The soldier put away his weapon and raked his eyes over her, then took her hand. He pulled her up so forcefully she had no choice but to fall into his arms. He misunderstood her sob. “You’re safe now. We’re Franks.”
Poppa was holding forth, arms flailing, shrieking about being noblewomen from Rouen captured by Vikings.
Many thralls had fled into the forest. Some of the soldiers had gone off in pursuit, but others armed with swords and spears herded the remaining thralls out of the boats. She couldn’t catch sight of Javune among them. She prayed fervently their lives would be spared and that Torstein would evade capture. The Frankish soldiers seemed to have no idea they’d stumbled upon a horde of slaves. Perhaps to them one barbarian was much like another.
~~~
Cathryn and Poppa were forced to walk the dusty mile or so to the Frankish camp with the more than a hundred other captives, but weren’t bound. Poppa continued to demand respect, protesting loudly that she was a highborn member of the Frankish nobility. Since it was the truth and she spoke the language, she carried it off well, but it was evident the soldiers were suspicious.
The size of the enemy camp astounded Cathryn. There were hundreds of tents and pavilions with soldiers milling around everywhere. The air was filled with fine grit that coated her dry lips and burned her eyes.
They were allowed a few sips of water from a skin, then ushered into a small canvas shelter and left alone.
Poppa peeked out. “The Franks are corralling the thralls into a roped off area out in the full sun. They’re packed together like ling cod teeming in the net.”
Cathryn wiped her cracked lips with the back of her hand, still thirsty despite the water. Fear lodged like an apple in her throat. “What should we do?”
Poppa paced. “Those recently enslaved may betray us. The ones born into slavery will not. We must continue to play the part of innocent captives if we want to escape and aid our men.”
Cathryn thought of Torstein. Would he return to help them if he still lived? Or would he take advantage of a chance for freedom and disappear into the valley of the Seine? He was resourceful enough to possibly survive and begin a new life.
The camp remained unnervingly quiet for what seemed like hours. Cathryn dozed fitfully, sweltering in the stuffy tent. Poppa kept watch through the edge of the door flap. Suddenly she hissed at Cathryn. “The Franks are beginning their interrogation of the thralls.”
Rubbing grit from her eyes, she scurried over to Poppa’s side and peered out. In a dusty, grassless clearing about fifteen yards away two men in armor sat on elaborately carved wooden chairs that seemed ridiculously out of place in the middle of nowhere. It was evident from their bearing these were noblemen. “Who are they?” she asked.
Poppa inhaled deeply. “My guess is Richard of Burgundy and Robert of Neustria.”
It was like a punch in the belly. “They’ve joined forces?”
Poppa offered no reply, and Cathryn sensed she too struggled with this new development. Poppa of Bayeux had the advantage of noble birth. Cathryn was a foundling who doubted she’d even be able to utter a coherent thought when questioned.
“They are
bringing out the first of the thralls,” Poppa said. “Your monk is among them.”
Cathryn looked back once more at the horrific scene unfolding. Javune had been stripped to the waist, his hands bound. A soldier was dragging him like a dog on a leash towards the seated noblemen. Her heart stopped beating. She couldn’t take her eyes off his bared back. At the base of his spine was a large birthmark that looked alarmingly like the strawberry on her own derrière that Bryk loved so much.
~~~
“Let’s begin with the lad who purports to be one of us,” the taller nobleman said, so softly Cathryn had to strain to hear, her thoughts full of her recent discovery. The mark on Javune’s back meant nothing. Many people had birthmarks they kept hidden. Some considered them the mark of the devil.
Javune was dragged forward and made to kneel. Cathryn’s thoughts went to Kaia. Impossible as their love seemed, she prayed the young monk might be spared punishment for her friend’s sake.
“What is your name?”
Javune didn’t raise his head. “I am Brother Javune Crochette, from the Abbey at Jumièges.”
The nobleman leaned forward to grasp Javune’s chin, tilting his face to his view. “If you are who you say, you should know enough to address your betters in the proper manner. I am Robert of Burgundy.”
“Oui, milord,” Javune rasped.
The Duke studied his face. “How do you come to be in a Viking longboat on the River Eure?” he asked.
“I was forced. My abbot sent me to Rouen to assist the Archbishop with his library. The Vikings control the town. They pressed unwilling citizens into service.”
Burgundy scanned the imprisoned Vikings. “Yet you are the only Frank among them.”
Cathryn held her breath. “Why didn’t he say he was taken with us?” she hissed between gritted teeth.
“The mind doesn’t always work quickly when one is afraid,” Poppa replied with a shrug.
The other nobleman, presumably Robert of Neustria, leaned closer to Burgundy, but it was impossible to hear what he said.
“What of the women who claim to be nuns from Rouen?” Burgundy asked.
“They are from the Abbey Convent of Saint Catherine,” Javune replied.
Neustria raised an eyebrow as he came to his feet. He drew his sword and touched it to Javune’s throat. “One woman as pale as driven snow, and the other who looks to have lived life in the open air? And how do they come to be dressed as men?”
Cathryn had to turn away, too terrified to watch the interrogation. She feared Javune would falter, or die trying to protect her and Poppa. She dreaded to think how she would fare when they turned their attentions to them.
“They are from Rouen,” Javune repeated.
“He’s lying.”
Cathryn’s belly clenched. She had heard the voice before, and knew instantly who had spoken.
Sprig!
She looked back to the clearing. A monk in black robes stood next to Burgundy’s chair. He was hooded, but she knew him all the same.
“Both women are concubines of Viking invaders. Javune here used to be a monk, but he has forsaken his calling and thrown in his lot with barbarians. They are traitors to their religion.”
Poppa gasped, her face a mask of fury. “In all my years with Hrolf, I’ve held fast to my religion.”
Her words jolted Cathryn. An image of her patron saint, defiant in the face of the spiked breaking wheel appeared behind her eyes. Her fear drained away as she came to her feet and took Poppa’s hand. “Come, my lady. Let us face the fate that awaits us, but with the truth as our ally.”
RECONNAISSANCE
The mood in the Viking camp on the Eure was somber. The gates of Chartres had easily withstood the first assault with the battering ram.
It had taken three exhausting days to find, fell and bring back to camp the huge log. Bryk’s design called for a canopy to be built over the ram. Covered with wet hides from the cows they’d slaughtered and eaten, a canopy would have protected the men carrying the ram and prevented it catching fire.
The walls of Chartres rose steeply almost directly from the riverbank, making it difficult for the attackers to gain momentum as they thrust the ram. Bryk wanted to suspend the huge log from the canopy frame so men didn’t have to labor uphill to carry it forward. Ropes would provide the power to lever it back and forth.
Covering the end of the ram with metal, if they’d had enough to feed the forge, would have increased its efficiency.
However, Hrolf was impatient to test it out before these embellishments were complete. All it took was a few sacks of sawdust, followed by burning hot sand dropped on the winded warriors to force a retreat just as the first crack splintered the massive door.
“The Franks didn’t even need the grappling hooks they whirled overhead,” Hrolf yelled in frustration before secluding himself inside his tent where he’d remained for several hours.
Bryk was tired. He hunkered down, his eyes drifting to the partially finished catapult. He wondered about the wisdom of spending more time and effort on it when distant dust clouds indicated troops massing. They should be conserving their strength, planning to defend against a relief army. It was unlikely Hrolf’s wish to be inside the stubborn walls would come to fruition before they were attacked. A Viking’s strength lay in raiding unfortified coastal towns and villages; there was much to be learned about penetrating impenetrable walls.
“We need to know the enemy’s strength.”
Bryk looked up from studying the ground. It was tempting to laugh out loud at the vision that confronted him, but he thought better of it. Hrolf had emerged from his tent, face so red and hair so tangled he looked like a snow capped beetroot.
He’d expected to be harangued about the shortcomings of the siege engine, but his chieftain launched into a proposal for scouting parties to spy on the enemy.
Stealthily roving through perilous open countryside suddenly seemed more appealing than spending another day sweating over the cursed catapult. He stood. “I’ll go. Give me Alfred, and Sven Yngre.”
Hrolf thrust out his bearded chin, closed one eye and scratched his head, as if contemplating the suggestion. “Agreed. The sooner the better.”
Within a half hour, the resourceful Sven had separated three horses from the pack rounded up during Hrolf’s raids. Despite his first terrifying experience on horseback, the lad had become an accomplished rider. Alfred too had long experience with horses.
“We’ll follow the river to begin with, then venture towards what looks to be a camp,” he told them.
They nodded in agreement. It occurred to him that Alfred never questioned what he did. He hoped he wasn’t leading his brother to his death, though he’d noticed a transformation of sorts, a growth in Alfred’s confidence. He supposed exposure to constant danger would make a warrior of any farmer.
They rode slowly along the bank for an hour, always with a weather eye to the place they judged the enemy camp to be located. Bryk called a halt when he spied something odd on the opposite bank of the river. It looked familiar, and yet—
“Longboats,” Sven rasped. “Two I’d say. Hacked to bits.”
Dread washed over Bryk as they dismounted and crept stealthily closer to the pile of debris. Though the destruction was complete, there was no doubt in his mind these were Viking boats, from Møre.
“What are they doing here?” Alfred wondered out loud.
Bryk scanned the riverbank. “ I don’t know. Judging by the trampled ground, they were destroyed by Frankish soldiers, and their crews taken prisoner.”
“But who was manning them?”
A snake curled itself around Bryk’s bowels. “There’s one person I can think of who would know we needed reinforcements and who had the courage to lead them here.”
“Poppa,” Alfred acknowledged. “But only thralls were left in Rouen, apart from the garrison. She wouldn’t leave the town unprotected.”
The certainty that Poppa of Bayeux was in enemy hands, or
dead, made his heart bleed for Hrolf. If it was Cathryn—
They waded through thigh deep water to reach the ruined boats, gradually aware of a familiar odor. The flies led them to a body that could only be Padraig. He’d a hole in his back the size of a fist.
“They tore the arrow out,” Alfred rasped.
Sven shrugged. “Can’t waste arrows on a thrall.”
“But do they know they’ve captured thralls?” Bryk mused aloud.
His fear for Poppa grew.
Then he caught sight of a small chest floating in the water, its lid torn off. He’d given it to Torstein years ago. His suspicion that Hrolf’s concubine had led a band of thralls was probably well founded. Was the lad now in enemy hands? The prospect saddened him. He’d sworn to protect the thrall after his brother’s death. It was a pity Torstein had been born into slavery. In different circumstances Bryk, and he suspected Alfred, would have been proud to call the boy nephew.
As if his thoughts conjured him, Torstein sauntered out of the forest, accompanied by about a dozen men.
Bryk’s spirits lifted as he slapped him on the back. “I was thinking what a resourceful fellow you are, and now you’ve proven it. What has gone on here? Have they taken Poppa?”
Torstein avoided his gaze. “Ja. And my mistress.” He fell to his knees, head bowed. “I tried to protect her, but they were too many. I thought it best to flee to fight another day. We followed them to their camp, but I returned here. I knew you would come.”
Bryk hardly heard a word he said. His heart was drumming too loudly in his ears.
IN ENEMY HANDS
“It’s a large force with many horses,” Torstein informed his master as they scrambled on their bellies up a slight rise, having left the horses with the remaining thralls near the river. “More than five score slaves have been herded together in the sun for hours with no food or water.
“There are few sentries. I think the Franks believe they have taken care of the problem of reinforcements and are preparing to attack our main army.”
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