Immortal Warrior

by Lisa Hendrix

  “I have bread and a skin of wine,” Ivar said.

  “Good wine?”

  “The king’s. I stole it myself.”

  “Good enough, then. We will make a feast.”

  Brand led the way down into the ravine, pausing to rinse his hands in the brook that trickled along the bottom while Ivar hobbled his horses and carried the wine and loaf to the fire. They settled in before a half-crumbled hut, and Brand prodded the squirrels with the tip of his scramasax. “Not done yet.”

  “This is a good place,” said Ivar, looking around. “I couldn’t see your fire until I was nearly on top of you.”

  “Sometimes I come here when the weather is cold. The walls cut the wind, and there are dens nearby where the bear can sleep.”

  Ivar snorted. “You get a den, while I freeze my balls off in the top of some tree.”

  “The fylgjur choose who they choose,” said Brand. “But tonight you should be warm enough, at least. Pass the wine.”

  They drank a little, and ate, and then drank a little more, and finally Brand leaned back. “Why have you come?”

  “You know I have been working for the Norman kings.”

  Brand nodded. “The current one is not much loved by the few men I speak with. Especially the monks.”

  “He’s not much loved by anyone, but he pays well.”

  “A man can forgive much for enough gold.”

  Ivo took another drink from the wineskin and passed it to Brand. “This time he did not give me gold. He gave me land. A manor in the north called Alnwick.”

  Brand’s eyes widened with surprise. “And you took it?”

  “Worse. I asked for it. Then I found out he wants me to build him a castle.” He heard the mice scuttling through the leaves over Brand’s silence. “I know. ’Tis madness.”

  “No. But it is foolish. You know it will end badly.”

  “It always ends badly, no matter what we do or how we try to hide ourselves. How many times have you been chased out of a forest? I want to sit in my own hall once more, even if only for a while.”

  “Then you should do so,” said Brand. “You may even make this last a little. You move among them more easily than the rest of us.”

  “Not well enough to do this alone. Come with me,” said Ivar. “Your French is surely good enough now. You had lessons from that hermit.”

  “It is passable, but I cannot go. I have not yet found her.”

  Ivar shook his head. “It’s time to stop hunting, my friend. Cwen is long dead.”

  “No. She used her magic on herself when she finished with us. Ari saw it. She lives.”

  “Ari saw wrong. She is dead,” said Ivar more firmly. “I need you both to help me hold Alnwick. The former lord stood against William. I cannot walk into his hall with no one at my back. And I need Ari to be my voice during the day.”

  The silence again. Brand’s face grew taut in the firelight, and Ivar knew that his friend, too, longed for the old days and the noisy halls of Vass.

  “Come with me,” Ivar urged again. “Fight with me, if need be. And when it goes badly, as it must, and we have to vanish into the woods again, I will come hunt Cwen with you. In the meantime there will be warm fires and good food and the company of men.”

  The raven chortled softly as Brand groaned. “It has been a long time. You tempt me.”

  “If you will not stay, then at the least come stand with me at my wedding,” said Ivar. “William gave me a wife as well.”

  “Gave her?” Brand’s brow lifted. “Is she thir?”

  “No, no slave. She is noble born.”

  “Yet this king gives her as though she were chattel?”

  “Under Norman law, she is. William took her grandfather’s lands by forfeit, and now he gives me the maid to confirm my hold on them.”

  “What if she doesn’t want to marry you?”

  “She has no choice. Neither do I. The king has decreed it.”

  Brand muttered something dark and unpleasant about the parentage of men who would treat their own women so. Slaves and captives were one matter, but free women quite another. By both law and custom, Norse women were not forced to wed against their will.

  “No wonder you want us there,” said Brand. “If the old lord’s men do not stick a knife in your back, your wife surely will. What is this maid’s name?”

  “Alaida.”

  It was the first time Ivo had spoken her name aloud, and as he did, his body tightened with desire. A woman of his own, for more than a quick tup.

  “Is she pretty?” asked Brand.

  “I don’t know.” It didn’t matter. She was his. He could spend the long winter nights coming to know her scent and her laughter, and drawing out her cries of pleasure. “Any woman’s pretty enough when she’s under you.

  “So will you ride with me?” he asked Brand once again, suddenly more anxious to get to Alnwick.

  “I will. We will. But you’d better have good ale and plenty of it.”

  “That I promise you. By the by, the Normans know me as Ivo de Vassy. You’ll both have to call me that, so long as we’re there.”

  “Ivo de Vassy,” said Brand, testing the sound of it. “I suppose we’ll have to ‘m’lord’ you now and again, too.”

  “You are my war-leader and my captain. I would not ask that of you.”

  “I released you from those vows long ago. Besides, in this, you are the leader. We will do what we must to help you.” Brand looked up at the patch of sky overhead, reading the time in the stars. “We won’t get far before dawn, Lord Ivo de Vassy.”

  “Then we’ll start tomorrow, as soon as we’re men again.”

  By Odin. A castle and a wife and good friends, Ivar thought as he tore off another chunk of bread.

  For now, he would simply think of that, and not of what would happen when Alaida of Alnwick discovered she was married to a man who became an eagle with the break of every day.

  CHAPTER 2

  January 1096

  THE CANDLES IN the solar flickered in the bitter wind that seeped past the shutter and tapestries. Alaida shivered and continued to squint at her embroidery frame. The cloth on it was intended as an altar cover for the chapel, but the figures of pilgrims looked too stark on the plain ground of the cloth.

  “Perhaps a chevron of the blue wool,” she mused aloud.

  “That would be lovely, my lady,” said the old nurse, Bôte, as she lifted the lid to a nearby chest. “Or the green would do as well.”

  Alaida held up a hank of each, but could not choose. She would have to look at it again in the morning light.

  It was late, and around her the maidservants busied themselves dragging the bedding from the chests and cupboards. They would all sleep in the solar, curling up on cots and straw pallets around the great bed where Alaida and her nurse slept, their presence an impenetrable layer of femininity that would protect Alaida and her reputation from the siege of bachelors below.

  No sooner had news of her grandfather’s capture worked its way around Northumberland than landless knights and lesser lordlings had started turning up, each hoping to win her hand and the lands she held as his heiress. Even after rumor spread that William had confiscated Alnwick for the Crown, some had stayed on, ever hopeful that the king would gift the lands to whoever won Gilbert Tyson’s granddaughter—although why they thought she’d have one of them now when she had never wanted one before was a mystery. Most had gone on their way, but three of the most determined still lingered below, making free with the wine.

  She despised them to a man. Vultures they were, picking over her grandfather’s carcass before he was dead. Any day now, William would forgive her grandfather, along with de Mowbray and the others, just as he had eight years ago when Northumberland had rebelled in support of Robert Curthose for king. Then Grand-père would be back to take his rightful place at the head of the table, and he would toss these jackdaws out on their ears.

  Preparations for the night were nearly complete when a
quiet knock came at the door. Bôte opened it a crack, whispered briefly with the guard who stood on the stairs, then opened the door a wedge more to let one of the stableboys slip in.

  “What is it, Tom?”

  “Oswald sent me to say there’s two men at the gate asking for you, m’lady. He said to be quiet about it, so as not to cause a stir in the hall.”

  “What sort of men?”

  “Knights, I think, m’lady,” said Tom. “One of them rides a very handsome horse.”

  “’Tis only more of them, my lady,” said her maid. “Let them freeze. We can serve them to the others and save butchering a hog.”

  “Hadwisa!” Alaida had to bite her lip to keep from laughing with the others. “Tom, tell Oswald I will come. I wish to see these men for myself before we decide whether to let them in.”

  “Lady, you should not,” said Bôte.

  Alaida ignored her. “Go, Tom. But quietly.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” He cracked the door and slipped out as silently as he’d come in.

  Alaida reached for the gown she’d just laid aside. “Help me. Quickly.”

  Bôte obeyed, muttering all the while. “Any man who would come so late can be up to no good. Let them find shelter in the village. You’ ll catch a chill, you will.”

  “I am mistress of Alnwick in my grandfather’s absence. It is my place to welcome travelers—or to send them on their way,” said Alaida as she slipped into her shoes. She pulled her cloak around herself while Bôte did the same. “The rest of you stay here and bar the door behind us.”

  The wine had done its work. Men sprawled all over the darkened hall, some on benches, some on pallets wrapped in blankets or furs, a few simply curled up in their own cloaks on a mound of rushes. She passed through them, touching the shoulders of a half-dozen of the Alnwick men as she went. They roused, saw her with a warning finger to her lips, and came quickly but quietly to their feet.

  Outside, Oswald, her grandfather’s aging marshal, had already gathered a few men from the guardhouse and stables. With those she’d brought and the men already on duty, they had enough to deal with anything short of outright invasion. Several of the servants grabbed up torches and lit them while the others armed themselves. Those without swords or spears took up what was at hand—a club or pitchfork here, an axe or scythe there—as Alaida peeked through a gap between the timbers.

  Their visitors were indeed knights, and one of the horses was indeed handsome, with a striking white mane against a dark coat that matched its rider’s pale hair and dark clothes. She could see little of the second man in the moonlight, except that he was huge and carried a large bird on his shoulder.

  “Who are they?” she asked Oswald, keeping her voice low.

  “They will say only that they come from the king and would speak to you. The one does talk like a nobleman.”

  “Is there any sign of trickery?”

  “No, my lady. I have Edric watching the verges. He sees nothing.”

  If Edric saw nothing, there was nothing to be seen—the man had the vision of an owl. “Let them in, then,” said Alaida. “But on our terms. The postern gate.”

  The men arrayed themselves around the side gate, their arms at the ready. Alaida drew her own knife from the sheath at her waist and gripped it low, nearly out of sight under the edge of her cloak. Oswald nodded, and the men at the gate drew the bar and swung the gate open.

  The postern gate was made to pass a horse without a rider, so the strangers had to dismount and lead their animals through single file. The leader, the man with the pale hair, stepped into the circle of torchlight and stopped, glancing around at the blades pointed toward him until his eyes fell upon Alaida.

  “Your caution is wise, Lady Alaida.”

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “And by what right do you demand to see me at this unholy hour?”

  “I am called Ivo de Vassy, and I take my right from the king, as the new baron of Alnwick.” He glanced down at the knife in her fist, then back up to meet her eyes. One brow went up, and she had the unnerving sense that he was holding back a laugh.

  The second man didn’t bother to hold it back, snorting mightily when he saw her blade. “I told you,” he said to the first, then turned to Alaida’s men. “Why are you still on your feet? Kneel to your new lord.”

  The guards and servants dropped immediately, save Bôte, who stood firmly at her mistress’s heel. Oswald also held his position, his short sword gripped tightly in his hand.

  “I said kneel,” growled the second knight, putting a hand to the hilt of his sword. As though sensing trouble, his bird—a large raven—flew off to sit on the wall.

  “A man can claim to be anything,” said Oswald with a calm he surely must not feel. “I have seen no royal writ, and until I do, Gilbert Tyson is lord of Alnwick, and I serve him and Lady Alaida.”

  “Fair enough.” The pale knight reached into a pouch hanging from his saddle and produced a folded parchment. “Do you read Latin, my lady?”

  “Well enough for this.” She returned her knife to its sheath, took the document, and with de Vassy following, carried it to one of the large standing torches. The scribe’s hand was clear, and even in the flickering light, she could make out the important words: Ivo de Vesci. Barô. Dominus. Alnwick. And that was the king’s great seal imprinted in the wax; she recognized it from letters held by her grandfather. The sense of dread she had held at bay through these last months flooded over her. Her voice was barely a whisper as she asked, “Is my grandfather dead, then, monseigneur ?”

  “No. Imprisoned at Windsor with de Mowbray, but alive and well at last word.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She collected herself, turned, and lifted her chin to announce to the others, “This is from the king. Bid welcome to your new lord.”

  “Saints save us.” Bôte crossed herself and did a quick courtesy.

  Oswald sheathed his sword, and with an apologetic glance toward Alaida, knelt to his new master. “Forgive me, my lord. I sought only to protect my lady.”

  Lord Ivo brushed away his apology with a flick of his gloved hand. “I expect no less diligence in the future. What is your name?”

  “Oswald, my lord. I serve as marshal of Alnwick.”

  “On your feet, then, Oswald Marshal, and the rest of you, as well. Someone see to our horses.”

  Young Tom dashed forward to grab the reins of his handsome horse, while one of the grooms took the other animals and led them off. Lord Ivo walked to the center of the yard, then turned a slow circle, taking in every stone and timber, surveying, measuring. Finally, his eyes came to rest on Alaida with the same assessing look.

  Damn William. He’d given her to this usurper; she knew it as surely as she knew her own name. Well, this new-made lord would find she was not a willing bride—if he could find her at all. She had just enough silver of her own to buy sanctuary at some nunnery, and she could petition for her grandfather’s release from there. She would be away at first light.

  Except this Ivo’s eyes said he knew precisely what she was thinking. He tugged off one glove and put out his hand. “Come, my lady. Show me my new hall.”

  Show him his new hall, as though it were as simple as that, when it meant the very earth had shifted beneath her feet. Look at the way he stood there with his hand out, expecting her to come to him. She clenched her fists at her side and glared her defiance back at him. Let him whip her. She was not his dog.

  His eyes narrowed. In three strides he was before her, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. But instead of striking her, he leaned closer, his lips nearly against her ear.

  “Do not let things begin so between us, my lady.”

  His voice was low and full of warning, but a note of something else underlying that warning—kindness? hopefulness?—so disarmed her that when he stepped back a pace and put his hand out again, she found herself laying her hand in his palm. His fingers closed over hers, claiming her. It suddenly became very hard to breathe,
and she vowed to herself that this surrender was only temporary, a way to put him off his guard so she could escape more easily come morning.

  “Will I find resistance within?” he asked as he led her toward the door. His companion, Oswald, and the rest of the Alnwick men fell in behind them.

  She ignored his double meaning. “Not from our men—I mean your men—once they see Oswald at your side. But there are several knights bachelor inside who have been loitering about, hoping Alnwick would be theirs.”

  “Only Alnwick?”

  “No.” Her cheeks flamed as she heard herself add, “Now they are disappointed in both regards.”

  “Brand. Did you hear?”

  He stepped up to take his place at Ivo’s right. “I did. Shall I just gut them now, or do you want to be civilized?”

  “I would be pleased to help to do the gutting, my lord,” volunteered Oswald. Behind him, several of the others muttered their agreement.

  So it was like that, thought Ivo. He’d suspected it as soon as he’d heard the disgust in Alaida’s voice when she said knights bachelor. “How many are there?”

  “Three,” said Oswald. “And eight men between them.”

  “Do I owe any regard to their fathers or grandfathers?”

  “No, m’lord.”

  “Then let us be rid of them,” said Ivo. “But leave their guts intact unless they’re too foolish to keep them. No use starting any unnecessary wars.”

  They reached the door and Ivo shoved it open hard, so it hit the wall with a crack. The dogs began barking, and Oswald whistled to silence them. A few men stirred and pulled their covers tighter in the chill draft. One lifted his head groggily. “Shut the door, ye pig’s ass.”

  Before his head hit his arm again, Ivo had hauled the offender to his feet. “Mind your tongue, oaf, or I will have it tanned for a purse. Now light the torches. All of them.” He shoved the man on his way. “Everyone, awake.”

  The man had the sense to obey. The hall stirred to life as the torches flared. My hall, Ivo thought with a sense of satisfaction deeper than he’d had in years. “On your feet!”