He had freed his weapon, placed a finger to his lips and dragged her to her feet. She wanted to scream in agony but she dared not. ‘Gudrun, thank Thor and Jesus both that I was coming towards the wagon. What by Freya are you doing here?’ He saw her white, shocked countenance and held her to his breast for a breath or two, comforting her. ‘Never mind, explanation later,’ he whispered. ‘Are you hurt?’
Gudrun shook her head and winced. She lied, ‘Not that much.’
‘Brave lass. Run for the wagon and stay there. When you get there, you must distribute arrows and fresh bows to the men at the back of the shield wall. Tell them to fire when they see us firing down from up there.’ Padar pointed above.
‘But how –’
‘No matter how or why. Run.’
Ignoring her aching shoulder for a second time, Gudrun doubled over low and, half-running, half-hobbling, covered the few lengths it took to reach the wagon. Gulping for air, she worked her way behind the shrinking shield wall. She gabbled out Padar’s strategy as she scuttled along ignoring her pained shoulder. The men nodded, passed the message down their line and locked shields again. An intake of breath and Beowulf had hoisted her back up onto the wagon. She crawled under the cover. The baby wailed.
Edith must wait. Edith is alive, she told herself. ‘Lette, I must give them the spare bows,’ she said as she crawled back along the wagon bed.
Lette was holding Bryn’s head. He was moaning. Lette said, ‘Can’t you stop Edith’s crying, mistress?’
‘No, she can wait.’
Without going to her crying child, Gudrun began searching for the bows and arrows, frantically moving forward and reaching them down. She could hear the banging of shields, the cries, the clash of swords and curses, the shield wall opening and closing. As she worked, she prayed. Please, Lady Mary. Keep him safe.
Her baby was still screaming in the back of the wagon. Lette was using Edith’s swaddling bands to staunch the boy’s blood. The air tasted of death. Gudrun gulped for air as she came out from under the wagon cover. When she crawled back inside again, Lette had finished binding up the youth’s wound and was rocking back on her heels. Just for a moment she rubbed her forehead and eased her back. As the frightened, hobbled mules tried to jerk forward, the wagon rocked and swayed.
‘Let me do that. You must see to Edith,’ Lette said, reaching for a bow. She began moving bows and arrows forwards. Two Danes climbed into the wagon, stood on its platform and used the advantage of their raised position to fire high, tilting their bows upwards so their arrows flew over the shield wall. Lette glanced down at the Welsh boy. ‘If we don’t die here, he could live.’
‘You think so, Lette?’ Gudrun said. She watched the youth’s blood pool as it flowed from the bandage, whispered a prayer over him, pulled a small cross from about her neck and laid it on his breast. She placed an ear to his heart. ‘He is fading, Lette. May the saints protect him.’
She looked into the little barricade of wool packs to where baby Edith was attempting to pull herself from her crib. ‘Thank the angels she has not yet mastered that,’ Lette said, looking down on the baby for a short moment, having seized the last sheaf of arrows.
Gudrun snatched Edith from her crib and rocked her. She gave Edith suck. The baby quietened.
Padar stumbled over someone, and glancing down saw the bodies of two of his boys behind the wagon. Their throats had been cut. He gently closed their eyes. Anger mingled with fear and boiled up inside him. Those boys had come all the way with him from Novgorod. But there was no time now. They had to move quickly. He must use cunning now to save the others. ‘Let’s go,’ he said to his companions, his voice hoarse with emotion. ‘We can do nothing for them.’
Padar and his men took a circuitous route down by the river beyond their horses. Like worms they crawled on their bellies along the river bank until they knew they could race over to the scree and grab five of the ponies guarded by the brigands’ sentries. The guards were armed with vicious, long, curving blades.
‘When I make a crow’s caw, take them down,’ Padar whispered, rising onto his knees. ‘Irony it is indeed, by Odin’s breath.’ He glanced momentarily at the dark crow banner that still flew amongst their assailants. He jabbed each of his men in turn on their shoulders. ‘You, you and you take each of the guards. Stop them shouting out. Move quick as wolves swooping on the sheep pen. All our lives depend on you three. Brian and I will let the ponies loose.’ He pointed up to the rocks above. ‘Ride up behind those rocks and pick off any of those bastards that try to climb after us.’
The men nodded.
At Padar’s caw they ran one by one, keeping low, knowing they had the advantage of surprise as they each marked a guard. Padar and Brian crossed last. A breath later, Padar was sliding amongst the ponies whispering to them, a trick he had known from long ago. ‘Just as religion can stun humans, I can soothe these creatures with poetry,’ he laughed softly to himself. He whispered again into the ponies’ ears, ‘Now really, enough is enough. We don’t want you lovelies too drowsy to climb those hills.’ He loosened four of the animals and glanced through their legs. To his satisfaction, the guards were on the ground with their throats silently slit. Revenge for my boys. His men dragged them into a heap. Padar nodded his approval praying to both Freya and the Virgin that no one would glance down river from the battle and notice those guards gone. ‘I could send the rest of these ponies on their way, liberate the creatures,’ he said to Brian, as he mounted his pony. ‘But that would cause too much unwanted attention. The animals might just thwart me and bolt. Here, take these two.’
The Danes stayed low against the ponies’ backs. Stealthily, they climbed up into the rocks. ‘Here,’ Padar said, once they were above the battle. ‘Come off the beasts. When I say “bows”, set your arrows. And do not shoot our own men. Gudrun will have warned them to get behind the shields.’
From above the battle looked different. No one was running out from behind the shield wall now. He could see the barbarians pushing into it, trying to break it open, to burst it into two halves. It held firm. ‘Bows,’ he whispered and raised his bow, letting loose an arrow.
All at once the others fired down. Each Dane marked a different horn-helmeted man. Five of the attackers fell forward onto the shield wall. The Danes left in the shield wall sliced out at them with their swords and pushed them off with their shields. The surviving barbarians turned towards the hill. They set arrows and fired up but fell short of their mark. They were not the only warriors now shooting up. From behind the first line of their shield wall his men were shooting at the enemy. They were not as accurate as Padar and his four companions. Yet, they confused the barbarians since arrows were flying at them from all directions. For a moment the hissing of arrow fire paused and everything went silent. Padar whistled his crow’s caw. His men set arrows once again and fired. An answering volley flew over the shield wall below. The same happened again and again. They were winning now. Just as it seemed to Padar that it would be easy for the men remaining below in the shield wall to finish off the job below, one of the barbarian leaders pointed up towards him.
‘Get the ponies.’ Padar spat his words. ‘We can draw those bastards off. Once they go for their mounts to follow us they will get a surprise.’
‘Should we have let the rest of their ponies go loose, Padar?’ Brian whispered.
‘Their ponies are as dopey as men in a brothel after a skinful of wine.’ Padar watched the group of bandits run for their mounts. ‘If they try to come up, we’ll pick them off as we lead them along the scree.’ Some of the Danes positioned below set arrows and fired but this time they only took down two of the men racing towards the horses, stragglers, since the others had darted out of reach.
The brigands clambered on their mounts and Padar thought they would head up to where he was positioned, but he had miscalculated. The bandits, some clearly wounded, galloped off down the river path, vanished around a bend and out of sight. Padar said, ‘Wait here.
Keep alert. They may have another way up behind us. Those animals are not as sleepy as I thought. I shall scout.’
He threw himself over a pony. Leaving his men with the others, he rode along the cliff top, scanning the river path for the crow men who had simply vanished. He looked back at the killing ground around the wagon. Survivors had begun to walk amongst the dead. There was no time to bury their own dead. They must get to a fording place before the crow men returned with reinforcements to finish off what they had begun. He tugged his horse’s mane, turned its head and waved his men down the scree slope.
Rocking unsteadily on the stolen ponies, the Danes jogged down from the heights. Padar dismounted. Gudrun tumbled down from the wagon, hobbled to him and threw her arms around him. ‘Oh, my love,’ was all he could say. ‘Leave their dead crows to the crows.’ He glanced up at the sky. A horned moon was rising and darkness was falling. ‘Is Edith safe?’ he asked, anxiety seeping into those three bald words.
Gudrun nodded.
‘We put our wounded on horses. We move on. There is no time to bury our dead, so we take them with us.’ He turned to Gunor. ‘How many are lost?’
‘We have lost a half-dozen. We have a half-dozen wounded who will live.’
‘Where is the guide?’ Padar said looking around.
‘Where, indeed? He ran for cover the moment the fighting started. They took him with them when they fled.’ Gunor spat onto the earth.
‘Good riddance. Someone knew we were coming when those crows attacked. We will find our way out of here without him. Send Beowulf and four others ahead. If we have to, we ride through the night. No matter how tired we are, we move on as quickly as we dare.’ He added bitterly, ‘We still have salt for the Kiev market.’ He laughed a cynical laugh. ‘And poor compensation it is for the loss of our companions!’ He pointed at a tattered bloody pennant that lay on the ground. ‘Take what is left of that. It is proof of their attack. Crows indeed! We out-crowed them. Pass water and bread around. Then move.’ Padar looked up at the wagon, remembering that he had not seen Bryn. ‘Where is the Welsh boy?’
‘We could not save him. He died in Lette’s arms. His father died in the shield wall.’ Gudrun crossed herself. Padar saw tears in her eyes. He took her in his arms, tears smarting his own. He swallowed. ‘Can you ride? And Lette, can she ride too?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I think so, and I can strap Edith across my breast.’
‘Then we shall take their corpses with us in the wagon for burial.’
The scouts returned. The bandit group could have gone through a cave they had discovered some two leagues ahead. They had searched the cave but all they could see was a tunnel into the mountain. The bandits had vanished just as surely as the sun had descended below the earth.
‘We shall follow that path with great caution,’ Padar said to Beowulf and turned to Gunor. ‘The women will ride the ponies. Wounded and dead in the wagon, hurry. You and Beowulf must guard the women.’
‘With my life,’ Gunor said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. ‘Bran, Elf,’ he called. The two hounds slipped out from under the wagon where they had been cowering during the battle. They licked Gunor’s outstretched palm. ‘They survived, Padar.’
‘I would those three boys had survived too, never mind all the others who have died today,’ Padar answered him.
Glad to leave the killing place behind, the remnants of Padar’s cavalcade mounted their ponies and formed into a sad, nervous cortege. With cracking whips and rumbling wheels they moved off under the light of the horned moon and rode east. Before daybreak, the diminished band of travellers splashed across the river where it became wider and shallower. As they rode across the plains on the other side they avoided smoking villages that lay close to the river. As the sun swelled high in a pale sky they entered woods and rode on until, at last, Padar thought it was safe to stop, eat, rest and tend to their wounded. ‘We were not the crow men’s only targets but if we are not far from Kiev,’ he said wryly, thinking of the ruined villages back by the riverbank, ‘we should be safe.’
25
Kiev, May 1072
In April Thea removed from the Convent of St Trinity to Novgorod where she was welcomed by Prince Vsevolod in the terem’s great hall. He told her that she was to travel to Kiev for the translation of the two Russian saints, Boris and Gleb. Shortly after that she would marry Prince Vladimir in the Cathedral of St Sophia. During this meeting with Prince Vsevolod, Thea kept her eyes lowered. She was determined to impress him with her demeanour and her improved Russian. She clearly succeeded, for he smiled upon her and spoke to her in a voice softened with kindness.
A week later Princess Anya, her ladies and guards travelled with Thea and Katya south towards Kiev. A fortnight later they entered the great city fortress through the Lion’s Gate.
Prince Vsevolod’s palace in Kiev surpassed Thea’s expectations. She had never seen such extravagant, brightly coloured hangings and so many glass windows inside a building not a church. The rooms were filled with carved tables, chairs, cushions. On chill April evenings warmth circulated the chambers from corner stoves. Pipes climbed the walls and fed into chimneys.
She stepped through an ornate doorway into Prince Vsevolod’s public room. It was grander, though not larger, than the halls she was used to, and it was, without doubt, more beautiful to behold than the halls belonging to King Sweyn. It was, by far, more impressive than the hall in the Novgorod kremlin. Mosaics covered the floors instead of rushes, and Turkish carpets lay casually around on which to place her slippered feet. They were so thick that she thought she could sit on them.
The prince swept forward to greet her, in his long fur-trimmed robe. He informed her during their short audience that Mother Sophia had confided in him that she was delighted with Thea’s progress. He told her, still grasping her hands, that he was pleased that she could speak in complicated sentences and could also write Rus words on birch tablets. Mother Sophia reported that her knowledge of the Faith was excellent. She said that Thea carried herself proudly but discreetly. The English princess would indeed make a suitable wife for Prince Vladimir. Vsevolod allowed Thea’s hands to drop, clapped his big hands together and announced that he was happy to bring her into the heart of the family.
What went unsaid was that he expected her to produce his son’s heir. She knew that this was even more important here in Russia than anywhere else she had dwelled. According to Katya, women could be divorced if they were barren. She felt the prince studying her, his eyes appraising her, ravishing her flat belly, dwelling momentarily on her shapely hips, and so, remembering Katya’s words, Thea suspected that was what he thought. She felt angry. It felt as if she were a brood mare and not a woman and certainly not as if she was an important English princess. She thought of her grandmother and how independent she had been. Her grandmother would never have been divorced by her grandfather, though he might have had sons by others had Grandmother not given him sons. Grandmother would still have been her grandfather’s beloved wife and head of her household. Thea held her head high and matched Prince Vsevolod’s appraising look with an icy stare. He had the grace to look away, though for a moment she wondered if she had made an enemy of her husband’s father. Then he surprised her. ‘You are a proud princess. That is good.’ She waited and then without smiling slightly inclined her head. They had taught her well and she would match their chilly demeanour with equal frost. Frost for frost. Ice for ice. Pride for pride.
After the interview with Prince Vsevolod, Princess Anya sat companionably beside Thea on a long divan covered with rich cloth and littered with many silk cushions. Princess Anya told her that the family had chosen an auspicious day for her wedding. Mother Sophia had calculated the perfect date in accordance with the phases of the moon and Thea’s menstrual period. The day chosen was to be a Friday which would be the first of the three days for the wedding ceremony. The Friday chosen was three weeks after the Easter canonisation of St Dimitri in the Kiev cathedral. Three was a fort
unate number, one of religious significance. Princess Anya put on her most serious face and said firmly that although the prince and princess would be bedded on the first night, they must not consummate their union until the third.
‘It is so much to remember,’ Thea said feeling overwhelmed. ‘Is all this necessary? I prefer a simpler wedding.’
‘That is not our way, my dear. I must describe the ceremonies to you so that you make no mistakes,’ she said.
Thea sighed. This was not going to be enjoyable. She had waited so long for her betrothal to end. She thought of the joyful weddings she had participated in when she had been younger. There had been flowers and a simple exchange of vows, sometimes with a priest present and sometimes not, and then a great feast with dancing and lots of mead and honeyed wine. She could not bear this. I wish I was back in England with Elditha and grandmother and my sister and brothers. I wish I was marrying a thane and not a prince of a land stuffed full of stupid ceremony. She found her mind drifting back to what seemed to her now sun-filled days with the scent of hay. She hardly heard what Anya was saying.
‘First, is your rushnyk ready as you will kneel upon it there before the Iconostasis in St Sophia?’ Anya, pregnant for the third time, folded her hands below her swelling stomach.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘That is good, Thea. And we have chosen your maidens.’ They have even chosen my bridesmaids. Let them. It can’t get much worse. If only Gudrun were here. Then she remembered …
‘The stories!’ Thea exclaimed excitedly. Her face fell. ‘There is no Padar to judge them.’ She had heard nothing further of Padar and Gudrun, not since her letters.
‘I have chosen for him.’ Princess Anya poured them a cup of kvass each.
She found herself smiling. Her lip curled. She had her own story ready for her prince, safely hidden away in her coffer. She took the cup from Princess Anya and sipped. She liked this Russian drink. In fact, she liked much about Russia, except for the fact that women were overly protected and she could not make her own decisions.
The Betrothed Sister Page 24