On the other side of the river, just beyond the far end of the bridge, more lights shone through the darkness. I crawled forward to the river’s edge to investigate.
A village lay on the far bank of the river. Through gaps between its buildings, I could see a bonfire blazing in an open square in its center.
This village was much larger than the one the raiding party had burned. A number of tents had been pitched in the square, and horses were tethered to a picket line along one side. Many men—some in armor, others not—wandered about. Others were seated around the fire.
Did the trail I'd been following end here, at nothing but a small garrison? This was clearly not the main army. It was not what I’d been sent to find.
The bridge was blocked to me, but there was more than one way to cross a river. After moving far enough upstream that the lights from the village and fort were no longer visible, I stripped off my clothes, wrapped them around my weapons, and—holding the bundle overhead—stepped into the chilly water. At its deepest, the water never rose higher than my chest.
The road that had led across the bridge and into the village continued on the far side of the settlement. When I reached it again, I saw its surface was covered with tracks. Wherever this road went, it appeared to be heavily traveled, so I set my course parallel to it through the woods and forged on.
Fatigue, made worse by the hunger that gnawed at my stomach, prevented me from continuing until dawn. My feet ached and my legs felt stiff and heavy. My thoughts kept wandering to memories of meals I had eaten. More than once I trod clumsily on a fallen branch, announcing my presence with a loud snap of dried wood had anyone been close enough to hear. It was too dangerous to continue in this condition.
A hill, steeper than most I’d passed, rose up through the trees off to my right, overlooking the road. I staggered up it, wormed my way into a dense thicket of underbrush near the summit, and stretched out thankfully on the ground, wrapping myself in my cloak. After a few bites of cheese to stave off the worst of my hunger, I slipped into a deep, exhausted sleep.
A loud boom that seemed to shake the ground under me startled me awake. I sat up suddenly, sticking my head into the midst of a bush. I batted at the branches scratching my face, my mind still fogged with sleep, wondering where I was. Another boom, louder than the first, rattled the trees, and a flash of lightning lit the sky. Rain began falling, a few fat, scattered drops at first, but soon turning into a steady, relentless downpour.
Though I stretched it overhead like a tent, my cloak did not protect me for long. The force of the beating rain was too great. Even the arrows in my quiver took on a forlorn look, the feathers of their fletching limp and bedraggled from their soaking. I sat, miserable and shivering, wondering how much of the day had passed while I slept, for the dark clouds that filled the sky concealed the sun’s location and hid the hour.
Finally the rain slowed, then stopped. I wrapped my cloak tight around me, for its thick wool offered some warmth even though wet, but I could not stop shaking. Recklessly I ate all of my remaining cheese and dried pork. I needed the energy the food could give me now.
A clatter of noise on the roadway roused me from my misery. I crawled to the edge of the thicket and peered out. A small unit of cavalry, ten men at most, was passing on the road below, headed at a fast trot toward the village and bridge I’d seen the night before. Their leader was wearing a brilliant scarlet cloak, cut short so it barely hung below his waist. It flapped and fluttered out behind him as he rode, like a banner hanging from his shoulders.
Suddenly what my eyes had seen broke through the chilled stupor clouding my mind. The Frank’s cloak was flapping behind him. It was dry, not soaked through by the rain like mine. These men—or their captain, at least—had been under shelter during the storm. And their shelter could not be very far away, for only a brief time had passed since the storm had ended.
Perhaps there was another village or military encampment nearby. If so, when night fell I might be able to sneak close enough to steal food there. At the moment, the thought of getting my hands around a fat chicken seemed far more desirable than finding the entire Frankish army. At any rate, movement would at least warm me. If I sat here shivering in the mud, waiting until night cloaked my movements, I feared I would not have strength left to continue on.
I crawled out of the thicket, brushed as much of the mud and wet leaves as I could from my clothing, and headed off down the hillside, following a course through the woods parallel to the road in the direction the cavalry had come from.
I heard the encampment—men shouting, horses whinnying, cattle lowing, and the chunk, chunk of axes hitting wood—long before I got close enough to see it. That alone told me it was probably large.
The narrow road I was following ended at a junction with a much larger and more heavily traveled one. From my concealed vantage, I could see an ox-cart plodding down the road coming from the west, and behind it, a drover herding five head of cattle. Trudging down the road from the east was a double column of Frankish footsoldiers that stretched as far as I could see.
All of the traffic on the road seemed to be headed for the same destination: a vast, fortified encampment that was being built just beyond the crossroads in a great clearing the Franks had carved out of the forest. A deep ditch had been dug around its perimeter, and the trees felled to clear the land were being trimmed to make a palisade atop the earthen wall inside the ditch. It was still far from finished—numerous gaps in the ditch and wall remained—but the sound of countless picks and axes told of the size of the force working to bring it to completion. Seeing the encampment’s size, I knew I’d found what I had been seeking. Concealed within this forest, the army of the Franks was gathering.
The encampment was enormous. The army it was built to house must surely be, too. Had Ragnar and Hastein misjudged our ability to challenge the might of the Franks?
I had seen enough. Now it was time to escape with the information I had gained. I still had five days to make my way back to the river; five days to retrace a distance it had taken me only three nights to travel. I could afford to take time to search for food. I feared, though, that in the forest I would be unlikely to find any, despite my skill at hunting. There were too many men on the move in this area, too much noise and activity. Any game would have moved on or gone to ground.
I thought about the ox-cart I’d seen traveling along the road from the west. It had been heavily laden with goods of some nature—supplies, I suspected, being transported to the vast army that was assembling. If I could not replenish my stores by hunting, perhaps I could do so by theft.
I set off toward the west, following the main road but staying concealed from view just within the trees. I’d been traveling long enough without having encountered anyone at all to have become tired and discouraged, when I noticed the smell.
Someone was cooking sausages. It was a dangerous thing to do, when one as desperately hungry as I was in the vicinity.
I paused to string my bow, drew and readied an arrow, then crept forward through the trees. They grew so thickly here I could see nothing ahead, save more trunks. After a time I heard an indistinct murmur of voices. Trying to gauge how far away the speakers were—and more importantly, the sausages—I stepped to the edge of the roadway and cautiously peered out.
Not more than twenty-five paces ahead, a two-wheeled cart, with a canvas canopy tented over its square wooden body, was stopped at the side of the road. The two horses that were hitched to it were helping themselves to the grass and low shrubs growing along the border of the woods. Two additional horses, saddled for riding, were tied by their reins to one of the cart’s wheels. No one was in sight.
I ducked back into the trees and continued forward, slipping from trunk to trunk. When the voices became clear enough to understand, I lowered myself to my hands and knees and crept toward the sound on all fours.
A man was speaking, in the mangled style of Latin used by the Franks.
&
nbsp; “I hope you do not intend to keep this slow a pace for the entire journey, Genevieve. At this rate, it will take us a week to reach Paris.”
“We will get there when we get there,” a woman answered. “What does it matter how many days the journey takes?”
By now I had crawled forward—the last few feet flat on my stomach, wriggling along the ground like a serpent—to where I could see the speakers. My body was concealed behind the trunk of a thick ash tree. My bow, the single loose arrow, and my quiver lay on the ground beside me. I edged forward just enough to be able to peer around the base of the tree with one eye.
Two women were seated on a cloak that had been spread on the ground in the shade of a large oak. A young man, fully armored in the Frankish cavalry style—mail shirt, helm, and iron greaves strapped to his shins—was pacing back and forth in front of them.
A few feet farther off the road, a second man was squatting beside a small fire. He’d driven two forked, iron rods into the ground on either side of the fire, and spanned them with an iron spit. A string of thick sausages was looped around it. Fat dripping from them was sizzling when it hit the flames. My stomach convulsed at the sound and felt as though it would begin to consume itself if I did not put food into it soon.
“What does it matter?” the young man exclaimed. “You know very well! Father has ordered me to escort you back to Paris. He has told me I may not join the army until I do.”
“A few days will make no difference, Leonidas. I am certain the Northmen will not have fled in that time. Even your father and his men have not joined the army yet.”
The woman who spoke was wearing a simple gown, woven of gray, undyed wool, cut like a long tunic that came to her ankles. A hood and mantle of a lighter, white fabric—possibly linen—covered her head. I could not see her face, for she was seated with her back toward me.
“Father and his men ride to join the army tomorrow,” the young man she’d called Leonidas replied. “Because we are from this part of the country, Father believes his scara will be sent out to hunt for raiding Northmen. I will not be able to go with them because I am stuck with you.”
“Stuck with me? How charming. Since we were children, you have had the manners of a pig,” the woman said. “Age has not improved you at all.”
“Forgive me, cousin, if I offended you,” the young man said, bending forward in a mocking bow. Then he turned and stomped over to the fire. “Are the sausages not ready yet?” he snapped at the man tending them.
The second woman, who was partially reclined with her back against the bole of the oak tree, had not spoken until now. When the young man walked away, she leaned forward and spoke quietly to the first woman.
“It is my fault that Leonidas is angry, my lady Genevieve,” she said. “We should not have stopped.”
“Nonsense, Clothilde,” the woman called Genevieve responded. “You were feeling ill. You looked quite weak and almost green in the face. It is no doubt because of your condition. The best way to treat an uneasy stomach is to put food in it. Have some bread and cheese, while the sausages are cooking.” As she spoke, Genevieve took a loaf of bread from a basket in front of her, broke off a large piece, and offered it to her companion.
I found it difficult to picture the woman Clothilde as looking either weak or green in the face. She was quite robust of build, with fat, round cheeks that were ruddy from exposure to the sun. Her deferential manner suggested she was the smaller woman’s servant. If that was the case, I was surprised at the simplicity of Genevieve’s garb.
Taking her mistress at her word, Clothilde accepted the bread, then reached into the basket and removed a small knife and a cloth-wrapped bundle. She unwrapped the bundle, revealing a flat, round cheese. Slicing a large wedge from it, she began spreading the cheese on the bread. It was soft and creamy, almost the texture of butter. My mouth watered as I watched her.
“Where has Hugh gone?” Leonidas complained. “How long does it take the man to relieve himself?”
As I watched Clothilde tear off a huge bite of the cheese-smeared bread, I wondered who Hugh was. My thoughts were interrupted by the sharp point of a sword pressed into the back of my neck.
“Stand up slowly,” a voice said. “Very slowly, or I will skewer you like the skulking dog you are. And do not touch your bow.”
13 : A Rich Prize
My brother, Harald, had taught me that with a sword, as with most weapons, maintaining proper distance is everything. His lesson saved me now. I raised myself slowly to my hands and knees, looking back cautiously as I did. The man behind me, a Frankish warrior wearing a brynie of scale armor but no helm, was standing close, holding his arm extended straight out. The sword’s tip was now resting lightly between my shoulder blades.
He’d have been wiser to have stepped back and cocked his arm and the sword, prepared to strike.
I closed my right hand into a fist, filling it with loose dirt and resting most of my weight on it, then swung my left arm back and up. The thick leather bracer I wore on my forearm to protect against the slap of the bowstring hit the sword’s blade and knocked it aside. Spinning around, I hurled the handful of dirt into the Frank’s face and scrambled to my feet.
He staggered back, wiping his eyes with his left hand while he belatedly raised his sword with his right. I moved with him, frantically grabbing his sword arm and trapping it above our heads. He seized my shoulder with his free hand, trying to swing me away so he’d have room to strike. I threw myself forward, crashing against him, and butted my forehead against his nose, breaking it with a loud crack.
The Frank cried out in pain and stumbled backward as I hung on to his sword arm desperately with my left hand. Blood was gushing from his nose, and fear was showing now in his eyes. I reached behind me with my free hand, clawing my small-axe from my belt, and punched it forward into his face.
“Help me!” he screamed, as blood spurted from a gash in his forehead. I swung my axe again, this time a full arcing blow, and buried its blade in the top of his skull.
Behind me, both women screamed. “Hugh!” a man’s voice cried. As the dying Frank toppled back, I turned and scrambled back to where my bow and quiver lay on the ground.
The Frank who’d been tending the fire was running toward me, a long knife in his hand. He was wearing no armor. The other Frank, the young warrior named Leonidas, was just disappearing from sight around the back of the cart.
I snatched up my bow and the loose arrow I’d been carrying with it when I’d first approached the campsite. Holding the bow horizontal, I slapped the arrow across it, fitted its nock to the string, and drew and launched toward the charging Frank in one swift motion without aiming. It was a sloppy shot, but the range was short. The arrow hit him in the shoulder. He dropped his knife, staggering backwards as he clutched at the shaft with a surprised look on his face, and sat down hard.
“Gunthard! Gunthard!” the servant woman, Clothilde, screamed, then slumped over in a faint.
Leonidas reappeared, crouched behind a shield. He had drawn his sword and was moving toward me slowly and cautiously. He should have run. He should have charged to the attack. Instead he gave me time to sling my quiver’s strap over my shoulder and fit another arrow to my bow.
“Lay down your sword and I will not kill you!” I shouted. He looked surprised to hear me speak Latin, but his expression quickly changed to a sneer.
I pulled my bow back to full draw and the Frank crouched lower, covering more of his body with his shield. His eyes barely peeked above the top rim. The shield was metal. I did not think my bow would shoot through it, even at this close range.
The Frank continued his slow progress toward me. My arms were beginning to tire from holding my bow at full draw while I searched for an open target. His shins, showing below the shield, were protected with metal greaves, but his feet were covered only in black leather boots. I aimed down at his left foot, the one in front. Seeing the movement of my bow, he dropped lower, into a squat, as I loosed
my arrow. The bottom rim of his shield touched the ground a moment before my arrow would have pierced his foot. Instead, it clanged against the shield and bounced back.
“Be careful, Leonidas!” Genevieve screamed. Again—whether from inexperience or fear—the young Frank moved toward me slowly, when he should have run.
I drew another arrow and readied it on my bow. One of us would have to take a chance, would have to risk his own death to kill the other. I drew my arrow back to full draw and began advancing toward the Frank, a single step at a time, keeping the arrow aimed at the top edge of the shield, and his eyes behind it.
The Frank stopped his own advance, looking surprised. I continued moving slowly toward him, stepping, stopping, stepping, stopping, staring into his eyes and keeping my bow aimed at them. With each step, I lessened the amount of time he would have to react when I shot. But if he blocked my arrow again…
Suddenly I lunged my front leg forward, twitching my shoulders in an exaggerated jerk and shouting as I did. He flinched and ducked, raising his shield to hide his face. When no arrow came, he realized I had tricked him with a feint, and now, huddled behind his shield, he could not see me. Drawing his sword arm back ready to strike, the young Frank leaped toward me, lowering his shield slightly as he did, screaming a wordless battle cry of anger mixed with fear.
My arrow struck him in the mouth. He was dead before he hit the ground.
“Leonidas!” Genevieve screamed. She stood and took a few tentative steps toward where he lay sprawled on his back. Even to her, though, it was obvious he was dead. She turned toward me with a terrified look on her face.
“No,” she said. “Please. Do not kill me.”
I would not kill a woman. What did she think I was?
I needed to calm my thoughts. I had not planned this fight, but the Norns had woven it into my fate. I had survived. But what would happen when someone found the bodies of the men I’d slain? What would happen when these women told them a single warrior had fought with their escort, then had fled into the forest? The entire Frankish army was only a short distance down the road. I would be hunted. The woods would be filled with Frankish warriors searching for my trail.
Dragons from the Sea Page 18