As I packed up the food I glanced up and saw Gunthard staring at me.
“You are alone, aren’t you, Northman?” he said. I ignored him, and continued with my work.
“I thought you were with a raiding party. I thought you were taking us to join them,” he continued, “but I was wrong. There are no others. You are alone.” Genevieve turned and looked at me with a surprised expression on her face. “You are doomed,” Gunthard added. “You will never escape on your own.”
He sagged back against Clothilde’s shoulder, panting from the exertion of talking.
Gunthard could not continue. He was far too weak. That much was obvious. For that matter, there was really no reason to bring any of them with me now. I had gained as much advantage as I could by removing them from the scene of the fight, and leaving the Franks who found the abandoned cart to wonder what had become of them. With the coming of daylight, though, hunters would be able to find our trail and begin pursuing us. Now I needed to move more swiftly than the men who would be hunting me. From here on, these prisoners would only slow me down.
I walked the short distance to the peak of the hill. It was flat on top, as though it had been leveled at some time in the distant past. I wondered if a chieftain’s hall had stood here long ago. In the daylight, it was obvious the stone wall had once been a fort. Hundreds of years must have passed since it had been used, though, for a scattering of mature trees grew within the perimeter of the wall now, as the forest slowly but relentlessly worked to reclaim the land men long ago had cleared in its midst.
Looking down into the forest, I saw that we had traveled farther during the night that I’d dared to hope. Through the trees, below the steepest side of the hill, I could see sunlight glinting on water. It had to be the river.
I strode down to where the horses were tethered. I’d been too exhausted, when we’d stopped the night before, to unload them. I unlashed the two bodies now, dragged them onto the ground, and began searching them to see if they bore anything I could use.
The Frank I’d killed with my axe had obviously been a common soldier. His brynie was made of metal scales sewed onto a leather jerkin—effective, but heavier than mail—and his sword was unremarkable.
The gear belonging to Leonidas, the young nobleman, was a different matter. His mail shirt was very fine. It was longer than most worn by warriors of the northern lands—the sleeves reached to just below the elbow, and its bottom edge to mid-thigh. It was very supple, too, for the mail links were smaller than any I’d seen before. His sword was fine, also. The blade was pattern-welded, like Harald’s sword, Biter, had been. The hilt was decorated with inlays of silver wire, and it balanced well.
The dead man looked close to my size. I began stripping the mail shirt and padded jerkin underneath off of him. It was not easy, for during the night his body had taken on the stiffness of death. I thought it worth the trouble, though. I hoped to reach the safety of the Gull before my pursuers could catch up with me. But it was only a hope, and probably a vain one. I had chosen to bring no armor when I’d set out on this mission because I did not plan to fight. But now I was being hunted, and the odds had greatly risen that I would have to. If I did, this dead man’s armor and sword might help keep me alive.
After donning the jerkin and mail shirt, and strapping the sword belt around my waist, I lashed Leonidas’ helm and shield behind my saddle. Then I led the two packhorses to the gap in the wall where the gate to this ancient fortress once had stood, and sent them through with slaps on their rumps. Perhaps whatever trail they laid would confuse my hunters briefly.
I returned to where my three prisoners were seated, watching me nervously.
“Hand me the basket of food,” I said to Clothilde. It was on the ground between her and Genevieve.
“I suppose if we are dead we will not need food. Or horses,” Gunthard said, eyeing me.
“What do you mean?” Clothilde demanded.
“You not intend to take us any farther, do you?” he asked, watching my face closely.
“You are correct. I do not,” I agreed. Genevieve gasped.
“Please do not kill us,” she said. “If you will spare me, my father will pay well for my return. He is a wealthy and powerful man.”
“So your father will pay to ransom you?” I asked in disgust. “What of Gunthard and Clothilde? Are their lives worth nothing? Shall I kill them?”
Clothilde let out a wail, then clutched at Gunthard’s arm, pulling him toward her and burying her face, sobbing, against his shoulder. He winced in pain, but put his uninjured arm around her to offer some comfort.
He was a decent man. I felt ashamed of my cruel jest.
“Do you think I would have wasted food on you if I was going to kill you?” I asked, shaking my head. To Genevieve, I said, “Who is this wealthy and powerful man who is your father?”
“He is a count, one of King Charles’ strongest. He rules many towns, and the lands around them, for the king.”
She was a rich prize. A very rich prize indeed. I had found, since our army had come to Frankia, that I had no stomach for robbing poor folk of their few possessions. Now, though, it seemed the Norns had offered me a different way to profit from this voyage—if I could survive to claim it.
“What are you going to do with us, if you are not going to kill us?” Gunthard asked.
“I am going to leave you here,” I replied. “The daughter of so great a count will surely be missed. Warriors from your army will hunt for her after they discover the abandoned cart. No doubt they already follow our trail. Eventually they will find you here. Or, if you do not wish to wait for them, the river is down there,” I added, pointing down the hill. “If you follow it downstream, it will lead you to a village. Some of your army are there.”
“Thank you for sparing our lives,” Genevieve said. “Thank you for leaving us here.”
“I am only leaving them,” I told her. “You are coming with me.”
14 : Trapped
“I want you to deliver a message for me.”
I was seated on my horse, holding the reins to Genevieve’s mount. She was sobbing quietly now, an improvement over the pleading, arguing, and wailing she had filled the air with earlier. I’d finally had to threaten to gag her and bring her strapped across a horse’s back like one of the bodies we’d hauled the night before to silence her and persuade her to cooperate.
Gunthard was standing below me, leaning on Clothilde for support. She, too, was sobbing.
“Tell her father that she has been taken by the Danes,” I continued. “Tell him I will return her in exchange for a payment of ransom. Assure him she was unharmed when you last saw her, and that I will do my best to keep her that way, so long as she does not try to escape.”
“How much will he have to pay for her release?” Gunthard asked.
I had no idea what she was worth. I had never collected ransom before.
“He will hear from me,” I said, then turned my horse and rode through the gap in the wall, leading Genevieve behind me.
“They will hunt you, Northman,” Gunthard called after me. “You will not escape. Have faith, Lady Genevieve. They will find you.”
We needed to move fast, or Gunthard’s prediction would likely come true. Even if the Frankish army had been unable to begin tracking us until this morning, hours of daylight had passed while I slept. If they had a skilled tracker and were pressing hard, by now the Franks would have greatly reduced the lead I’d gained on them. If we merely ran ahead of our pursuers, I feared they would almost certainly catch up with us. A trail left by two horses would not be difficult for an experienced tracker to follow. I had to find some way to throw them off.
We waded our horses across the river at a shallow bend. I paused mid-stream, studying the channel. Once before when men had hunted me, I’d run my trail through water as frequently as possible, each time costing my pursuers delay while they’d searched for where I’d returned to land. Then I’d been on foot, though, a
nd alone. I did not think that tactic would work here. Traveling up this riverbed would be treacherous footing for the horses. It would slow us too much, and wherever our mounts eventually did leave the river, the spoor they’d leave in the damp soil of the bank as they climbed out would be easy to find. I kicked my heels in my horse’s sides, urging him forward, and we splashed on across the river and up the far bank, heading off through the forest.
I set a course north by west, hoping to stay well within the cover provided by the forest and avoid open ground as long as possible. Eventually we would have to cross the plain in order to reach the Seine River, but I wanted to delay that danger as long as I could.
Genevieve stopped crying not long after we’d left the hilltop fortress behind. She was obviously not an experienced rider, and merely staying on the horse required all of her concentration. In the late afternoon, however, she began whimpering again.
“What is the matter?” I asked her.
“I am exhausted,” she answered. “My back is aching, and my legs feel as though the flesh on them has been worn to shreds. I cannot go on.”
I could well imagine that she felt that way. I was tired and aching, too. Being able to ride, instead of having to walk, was a mixed blessing.
“We will rest,” I said. “But only briefly.” I hoped to continue riding the rest of the day and through the entire night, or at least most of it. I did not tell Genevieve that, though. I did not wish her to despair.
After I helped her off the horse, Genevieve hobbled painfully over to a large oak, lowered herself gingerly to the ground, and leaned back against its broad trunk. She sat there, breathing in and out slowly, her eyes closed. She looked pale and drawn. I was struck again by how young she looked under the dirt and fatigue.
I untied the basket of provisions from my saddle and carried it over to where she sat. Uncorking the jug of wine, I handed it to her.
“Here,” I told her. “Drink some of this. And eat some food. It will give you strength.”
She looked at the fat bottle dubiously—perhaps, being a fine lady, she had never drunk directly from one before—then tipped it cautiously to her lips. After a brief initial taste, she took two longer swallows. When I sliced bread, cheese, and sausages and shared them with her, she ate hungrily.
“Why can you not let me go?” she asked, sighing, after the worst of her hunger had been eased. “You could travel much faster without me. I cannot keep up this pace.”
“You are coming with me,” I told her firmly. “I would be a poorer man at my journey’s end without you. It was you who suggested your father will pay a generous ransom for your return.”
“I was afraid you were going to kill me. That is why I said it.” She glanced up at me, but when her eyes met mine, she would not hold my gaze, looking away quickly. Surely, I thought, she had not lied about the ransom.
“Is your father a count?” I pressed her.
She nodded. “He is.”
“And he will pay a ransom for your return?”
She looked up briefly, then averted her eyes again. Her answer was long in coming—so long, I began to fear I had indeed been wasting precious time by bringing her with me. Was I risking my life for the hope of a ransom that would not be paid?
“He will not wish to,” she finally said, “but I am certain he will pay. It would reflect badly on him if he did not, and my father is very particular about his honor.”
I thought it a strange answer. Why would her father not wish to pay ransom for her return? I asked her.
“I do not wish to speak of this,” she replied. “It is a private matter. It is enough for you to know that he will pay. Though if I am harmed—harmed in any way at all—he will not pay as much. And you should know this, also. I am a holy woman. I have dedicated my life to the service of my God, the Lord Jesus Christ. If you harm me, you will be cursed. Do not…” she paused here for a moment, as if searching for the correct words to say, then continued, her voice quavering and her eyes averted, “Do not try to force yourself on me, or I will call upon my God for vengeance, and He will strike you dead.”
I stared at her, dumbfounded for a moment, then began laughing. She looked up at me then, and tears filled her eyes. By my laughter, it seemed, I had just confirmed her worst fears.
“I am sorry,” I told her. “I do not mean to mock you. You should know this about me. My mother was not a Dane. She was captured by my father in a raid on her people’s land. She told me of the fear she felt, how she was terrified she would be raped. You do not need to fear that from me.”
Genevieve looked skeptical. “I have heard stories,” she said, “about women who were captured by the Northmen.”
I did not doubt that she had. Though my father had not raped my mother, women taken in the same raid by other warriors had not been so fortunate.
“The women you have heard tales of were not captured by me,” I told her. “All I wish from you is the wealth your ransom will bring me.”
She still looked skeptical. “Why did you laugh?” she demanded.
“My mother was a worshiper of the White Christ all her life,” I explained. “Her prayers did not protect her. You were trying to frighten me with empty threats. I have seen no evidence that your God has the power to protect his own, and certainly not to strike men dead.”
Her face flushed scarlet, and she looked down at the ground again. It surprised me that she should feel embarrassed to be caught lying to an enemy. I did not feel there was any dishonor in what she had done.
“How long have you been a priestess?” I asked her.
“I am not a priestess. I am a nun,” she answered.
“What is that?”
“We—nuns,” she said, “Devote our lives to prayer, and to serving God. We are brides of Christ, rather than of men.”
If you are wed to a God, I thought, surely you are a priestess, whether you call it that or not. I wondered how one wed a God, when you could neither see nor touch him.
“What was it like?” I asked her. “The ceremony where you wed your God?”
She hesitated. “There has been no ceremony,” she finally said. “Not yet. I am still preparing to become a nun.”
At least what she’d told me explained the strange, plain clothing she wore. It must be the garb of a priestess. I’d thought it odd that the daughter of a count would not be more finely dressed.
“You said you serve your God. How do you serve him, and where? Do you live in a temple? Is there a particular high priest whom you serve?”
She shook her head vigorously. “You do not understand,” she said. “Christians do not have temples, we have churches. And nuns do not live in our churches. No one—no man nor woman—lives there. A church is the house of God.”
“But where do you live? Where do nuns live?” I asked.
“We live away from the world, in our own communities,” she answered. “We serve our God there by leading lives of devotion and prayer.”
She was correct. I did not understand. What use were priests or priestesses, if they did not live among the people? How else could they intercede for their people with the Gods?
A thought occurred to me—if nuns lived in their own communities away from the world, what had she been doing traveling on the road in the company of soldiers?
“Where is this place, this community where you live?” I asked her.
“At the Abbey of Saint Genevieve, in Paris,” she answered.
“Why were you traveling on the road?”
“My uncle’s wife, my aunt Therese, was ill. She is very dear to me—almost like a second mother. For a time, my uncle feared she would die. He asked me to come, to comfort her and help nurse her. The abbess allowed me to go.”
“Were you on the way to see her when I found you?” I asked. She shook her head, looking surprised by my question.
“No,” she said, “We were on the way back to Paris. That is where that road leads—from the town of Dreux, where my uncle lives, to Par
is. My aunt recovered, and I was returning to the abbey.”
I wondered if that information—where the road led, and where the towns along it were located—would be something Hastein and Ragnar would wish to know. Hopefully not. Surely they would not think of bringing our army so far from the safety of the Seine River and our ships.
Roads and the river—perhaps it was thinking about both at the same time that caused a plan to begin to form in my mind. Using my finger, I drew a line in the dirt on the ground between us.
“This is the road you were on,” I explained. “You say you were traveling from your uncle’s town toward Paris?”
She nodded.
I placed small stones in the dirt at either end of the line I’d drawn.
“This is Paris,” I told her. “And this is the town where your uncle lives.”
She looked down at the stones, then back at me. “If you say so,” she said.
“Is there a road that leads in this direction?” I asked, pointing to the area above the line I’d drawn. “A road that leads north?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I do not know which direction north is,” she said.
I stared at her with disbelief. Did she not see the sun rise in the east in the morning, and set in the west? How could a person travel if they did not know in which direction they were going?
She stared back at me with a blank expression on her face. “What?” she asked. “Why do you look at me like that?”
“Are there any roads leading in any direction out of your uncle’s town, besides the road that leads to Paris?” I asked, in an exasperated voice.
“I do not know,” she replied, also sounding exasperated. “Why should I know? I have spent most of my life in Paris. I have traveled on a few occasions to Dreux, to visit my uncle and his family there, but never beyond.”
There must be some way to find out what I needed to know.
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