by Peter Fox
Thorvald lifted his hand to ask Eirik to stop, but he caught Sigvald’s warning glare so dropped his arm and remained silent.
The woman stared out into the mist behind them, sobbing and holding her free hand out towards the boy they had left behind. At one point she turned to Thorvald, and he saw the fullness of the hatred in her eyes. She uttered something, and although he did not understand the words, Thorvald knew that she had cursed him.
The Sea Dragon drew swiftly away under the power of its twenty oars, and within moments the boy was lost to the mist. Although they could no longer see him, they all heard the boy’s desperate cries wash in and out of earshot, sometimes clear, sometimes muffled by the fog, but gradually fading as they drew further away.
‘Poor child,’ Thorvald muttered.
‘In the name of Odin!’ Sigvald hissed, ‘what’s the matter with you?’
Thorvald ignored his friend, holding his gaze on the water behind them, watching as one by one the mist swallowed the last pieces of wreckage.
‘The boy’s fate lies in the hands of the Gods now,’ Eirik said. ‘You have done enough in saving the bairn.’
Thorvald looked down at the two golden wolves on the swaddle. ‘I have a terrible feeling you’re wrong,’ he replied.
2. Taken by the Devil
Lannaled, Monastery of Sanctus Germanus, Dumnonia
Camus ap Truran, uncle to Aneurin and brother-in-law to Cadwyr, frowned up at the grey sky, trying to recall how he had come to be lying on his back amid the pungent-smelling shrubs of Sanctus Germanus’ herb garden. Just how long he had been unconscious, he could not be sure, but the searing heat thrown by the kitchen’s blazing thatch had eased. His face still felt hot, however, as did his right shoulder and arm, and he dared not lift them to look. He knew he had been burned, for he had fallen too near the building to escape the effects of the fire. He blinked, his swollen eyes stinging as smoke swirled around the walled garden. Mist still hung in the air, mingling with the darker shades of the smoke. There was a cough from somewhere to his left, and nearer to hand another man was sobbing.
It had all happened so quickly. Who were the attackers, and where had they gone? Camus shivered as he remembered the brutality of the assault. He had heard the sounds of the battle long before he had arrived at the monastery gates, and he knew what the ominous orange glow in the fog signified. He had rushed into the main enclosure to find the buildings alight, and then he had found the first of the monks, lying slain in the dirt. A second cleric lay beside him; his left arm hacked off at the shoulder. The severed limb was some distance away, its hand still clutching a wooden cross. Reeling in shock, Camus had stumbled towards the sound of screaming boys coming from the kitchen. He was too late to help; they were trapped inside the burning building.
He hadn’t even seen his assailant. The blow to his side had been so powerful it had knocked him off his feet. He had crashed backwards into the herb bed, his spine cracking on a line of stonework. He lay completely exposed, unable to rise or defend himself. He had lost his sword when he had fallen, but more alarmingly still, could not feel his left leg. Helpless, he had awaited the death stroke. It never came. He must have fallen unconscious soon afterwards, for he remembered nothing thereafter.
Now, having woken again, he found he still had no feeling down his left side below his hip, but he had not bled to death, which meant his mail tunic had at least protected him from the axe blade. He turned his head and looked through the curtain of rosemary to the courtyard beyond. No one moved. He watched and waited, but aside from the occasional drift of smoke-smudged fog, all remained still.
Who were they? he wondered. Surely not Mael’s men, for if so, why have they left me alive? Instinctively the Briton lifted his left hand to his chest, but his fingers confirmed that the standard on his tunic was plain to see. A Saxon raiding party perhaps? But surely they would not dare break the unwritten tenet of a monastery’s sanctity?
His thoughts turned to Aneurin and the lad’s young brother, and he quickly offered a prayer for their safe passage. He knew he could rely on Berec. The young man had a good head on his shoulders and had spectacularly proven his loyalty and courage these past few days. He would have heard the attack and fled, just as Camus had instructed him to do. ‘Do not pause; do not hesitate for even a heartbeat,’ Camus had told him. ‘I’ll make my way to you in due course.’
God let it be so, he prayed. Let them be far away from here. Once safe in Dun Tagyl the family will be able to regroup and plan the counter-attack. Whether or not I play a role in it, Camus thought defiantly, this treachery will not go unavenged. He smiled. And what will you do, Mael, when you realise you have failed? How can you claim the throne without the ring and sword of kingship? He nodded to himself. Whilst the boys live, so shall hope.
He must have slipped back into unconsciousness because he woke with a start to find someone standing over him. Automatically he threw up his right hand to protect himself, but the pain brought by the action was so intense that his breath caught in his throat, and he dropped his arm, gasping. Then he saw it was not Mael’s cold, brown eyes; rather the tonsured head of a monk.
‘Lord Camus,’ the brother said, concerned. ‘Can you hear me?’
Camus frowned, realising that he no longer lay amid the crushed herbs of the Abbot’s garden. He also realised that he knew this man, but his addled mind could not place him. All he could ascertain was that he was inside a building of some kind, that it was dark, and that now his left arm seemed to be missing as well as his leg.
‘My Lord,’ the cleric continued, speaking urgently. ‘Where are the boys? Do you know what has become of them?’
‘They’re safe,’ Camus replied slowly, at first reassured that the monk had no knowledge of their whereabouts. If Mael had found them, he would surely have heard something. ‘Young Berec and Tegen had them aboard the skiff,’ he continued. ‘They will be far away from here by now.’
The monk’s eyes widened, and he swallowed.
Camus’ stomach wrenched. ‘They have escaped,’ he said, ardently willing it to be so, but the monk’s distressed expression told him otherwise. ‘Tell me they got away!’ he insisted.
The monk shook his head, barely able to speak. ‘Bishop Mewan was found washed ashore,’ he said.
‘Lord in Heaven,’ Camus croaked. ‘How did Mael find them?’
The cleric’s face paled. ‘Mael?’ he said. ‘My Lord, this was not the work of the Traitor.’
Camus stared at him. But what of the destruction, the fires, the slaughter? ‘Then who?’ he asked. ‘Who would do this thing?’
Another person appeared beside the monk, a tall, imposing man dressed in a black robe tied at the waist by a white silken cord. This man Camus did know: Hendra, the Abbot of St Germanus. How in the name of God had he survived?
‘I was returning from the Synod of St Petroc,’ Hendra explained, seeing the question on Camus’ face. ‘We found you in the garden. You and but three others survived. Thirty-eight more, the youngest of whom was seven, were slain.’
‘What happened?’ Camus demanded, trying to rise.
Hendra touched Camus’ arm. ‘You must not exert yourself, my Lord. There is little you can do. Little any of us can do.’ There was a deeply unsettling note of resignation in his voice.
‘But the boys!’ Camus cried. ‘The trunk. The ring. If Mael has them, we must go after him at once.’
The Abbot knelt down beside the bed and shook his head. ‘The boys are gone, Lord Camus, taken not by their kinsman, but the servants of the Devil Himself.’
Camus stared at the cleric, horrified. ‘Heathens?’
‘Friar Trevellec, one of the survivors, said there were three ships. He was away tending the fishing baskets when the attack began. He was, unwisely it must be said, making all haste to the monastery to investigate the commotion when he observed the Heathens pulling away from the shore.’
It cannot be true, Camus told himself. God would not be so callo
us as to strike such a blow after all they had endured. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Berec would have set sail at the first sign of trouble. He was very clear in his orders.’
‘Berec and Tegen are missing. One of the other men was found on the mudflats along with the wreckage of the boat.’
‘No!’ Camus cried, still refusing to believe that further disaster could have befallen them.
Hendra shook his head. ‘There was an axe embedded in his back. The weapon bore the heathen marks, Lord Camus. Another like it was found in the abbey.’
‘It cannot be,’ Camus said.
Hendra raised his left hand. In it, he held Aneurin’s still-damp wolven tunic. ‘This too was found washed ashore.’
Camus stared incredulously at the little shirt. ‘But they are our only hope. They must be alive. We must find them.’
‘And where shall we seek?’ Hendra said, his voice harsh with despair. ‘If the boys are alive and have been taken by Northmen, which I fervently hope is not so, then they will already be suffering the most hideous of torments in Hell, far not only from our reach but from the hand of the Almighty also. It would be better that they had drowned.’ He made the sign of the cross then bowed his head.
Camus stared at the Abbot for a long time, his heart shrivelling to a cold, hard ball in his chest. ‘Then we are finished,’ he said finally. ‘Dumnonia is lost.’
✽ ✽ ✽
Sigvaldsby, Lærdalsfjorden, Norvegr
‘Mother of Thor,’ Sigvald said, his face paling. ‘How did that get here?’
Thorvald and the others stared at the shore, equally amazed. It had been a long and uncomfortable voyage home, although happily one free of further incident. They had arrived safely back at the barren clutch of islands that had been their staging post south, where, in return for a share of the spoils, they had enlisted the help of an extra pair of longships to take them home. Eirik had also parted company there, choosing to sail eastwards to the Norse market port of Kaupang to sell his booty. As a result, Thorvald and Sigvald had found themselves once more sharing Bardi’s company upon the Osprey.
It was an inauspicious journey. For the seemingly endless days it took to sail back to Sognefjorden, both Thorvald and Sigvald suffered ceaseless gibes over the loss of their respective ships, and Thorvald came in for particularly cruel jokes about his precious cargo. Yet it was for Sigvald that the greatest humiliation was reserved.
They rounded the final sweeping bend in Sigvald’s home fjord to come upon an astonishing sight: the Vixen lay on her pine-log slips on the beach with a host of slaves busily cleaning her hull. The men gazed with wide-eyed awe at Helga Troll-tamer’s drakkar, for this was undoubtedly the most spectacular act of sorcery they had yet witnessed from the great woman.
Helga stood on the shore; her hands pressed hard to her hips. Although a steady breeze riffled the water, the hem of her crisp white linen chemise remained motionless. Her fine silken overskirt glistened emerald green in the sun, clasped at the shoulders by matching gold brooches. Her household keys hung from a golden chain attached to another brooch on her breast. Her long blond hair was bound in a single, tight braid, and she fixed her piercing green eyes on Sigvald as Bardi’s ship drew towards the beach.
‘I’m going to die,’ Sigvald whispered.
Bardi’s thin face broke into a grin. ‘Yes, I should think that’s a definite possibility. Do you mind if we stay to watch?’
They pulled into the shallows and threw lines to the waiting slaves, but no one went ashore. They all waited to see what Helga would do next.
Sigvald’s wife stepped down to the gravelled beach and looked up at the captain. ‘Good day to you brother. I see you have my husband in tow.’
‘Ah yes sister,’ Bardi replied politely. ‘He has proven an excellent member of my crew.’
‘How extraordinary,’ Helga responded. ‘I was told my husband had sailed south with a full complement in his own ship.’
‘Did he?’ Bardi replied innocently.
‘Indeed there are Gudrod and Hallkel,’ Helga continued, looking beyond Bardi. She turned to her husband. ‘But where is your ship, my dear?’
Sigvald glanced across at the boathouse and saw to his alarm that his own drakkar was missing. What had Helga done with it? ‘I, that is, I thought it was…’ He stopped, knowing he would only dig himself an even deeper hole if he went on.
‘Surely you must know what happened to it?’ Helga said. ‘You don’t just mislay something like a longship, dear.’
The men sniggered behind Sigvald, and the big man flinched. ‘You have bought some more slaves,’ he said lightly, trying to deflect attention from himself.
‘No dear. I found them on my longship. You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I don’t know where it is,’ Sigvald finally admitted through clenched teeth. More suppressed mirth came from the men behind him. ‘It’s obvious you’ve hidden it somewhere to make a fool of me, so why don’t you stop this pretence and tell me what you’ve done with it?’
Helga smiled demurely. ‘Me? I’m not the one who keeps misplacing his ships, dear. You really must be more careful in future. We can’t afford to go about losing longships willy-nilly.’ She turned to Bardi. ‘You must all be terribly exhausted after your long journey. I have refreshments prepared in the hall. Could I interest you in spiced mead and freshly roasted venison?’
The men’s eyes lit up. Venison and mead? Few households offered better hospitality than Helga’s, and upon hearing her welcome invitation, the tired and hungry sailors immediately abandoned their oars and threw down the gangways to disembark.
Later, as they walked up the wide path that led to the hall, Thorvald asked the question that was on everyone’s lips. ‘How did you bring it back?’
Helga raised her eyebrows. ‘The Vixen? Oh, a word or two, and a pinch of this, a pinch of that.’ She gave a casual flick of her hand to indicate some magical incantation.
‘So you did bring it back by sorcery?’ one of the young men asked, vastly impressed.
‘Of course,’ Helga replied, as though it were perfectly obvious.
The young Viking looked upon her with renewed reverence then hurried on up to the hall, excitedly telling the others what he had just heard.
‘What really happened?’ Thorvald asked when young Ragnar was out of earshot.
‘I’ve just told you,’ she said, the hint of a smile playing on her lips.
‘Even I know you didn’t conjure your ship out of thin air, Helga.’
Helga frowned at Thorvald. ‘You can be a terrible bore sometimes. If you must know, when I returned to find my ship gone, I took my husband’s drakkar and sailed after you.’
‘My longship?’ Sigvald burst out. ‘But it was unseaworthy. That’s why I took yours. You could have drowned!’
‘I very nearly did,’ she said crisply. ‘It sank on the way back.’
‘You let my ship sink?’ Sigvald exploded. He began to bluster a stream of profanities, but Helga held a finger to his lips.
‘There’s no need to shout, dear. You can always build yourself another one.’
‘Another?’ Sigvald fumed, his moustache quivering with rage. ‘That ship took Ottar and me years and a good deal of money to construct. I can’t just build another one!’
‘Precisely. I could say much the same about mine,’ Helga said icily. ‘Take it again without my permission, and you’ll lose more than your ship.’ With that, she turned on her heel and strode on towards the hall.
‘Don’t you dare say a word,’ Sigvald snapped, scowling dangerously at Thorvald, who was finding it extremely difficult not to laugh.
Helga suddenly stopped and turned around, frowning. ‘Speaking of missing ships, Thorvald, where is yours? Have you already called in at Aurlandsfjorden?’
Thorvald’s smile vanished. He had been wondering how long it would take Helga to realise that hers was not the only ship that had disappeared. ‘It sank too,’ he said, embarrassed. ‘We ran into some
one.’
Helga looked at him, more than a little surprised. ‘My goodness. Perhaps you and Sigvald should rethink your ambitions. Perchance you should stick to farming? It sounds considerably less hazardous to me.’
And much less humiliating, Thorvald thought. He was trying to devise a suitable response when there was a scream from the shore behind them. They all turned to see Threlkel’s mother staring in horror at her dead son. She sank slowly to her knees and took the stripling in her arms and began to wail.
Thorvald turned away, feeling suddenly sick. He felt Helga’s light touch on his arm.
‘Do not blame yourself, Thorvald,’ she said. ‘True, all mothers fear this moment, but Threlkel died boldly, and he will join others like him in Valhalla. It is the best death a man can wish for.’
‘He was killed in the collision, sitting at his oar,’ Thorvald replied angrily. ‘He didn’t even see what hit him. Where’s the glory in that?’
Helga had no answer to that, but she was saved further embarrassment by a second womanly shriek. The British woman was backing away from one of the men on the Osprey.
‘Leave her be, Kettil!’ Thorvald shouted, ‘and that goes for all you men. She’s not for the taking.’ He turned back to Helga, who was regarding him darkly.
‘She was in the boat we hit,’ he began to explain.
‘She has a babe,’ Helga interrupted, appalled. ‘Have you no shame? What were you thinking?’
Thorvald shrank under the force of Helga’s withering glare, but Sigvald came to his aid.
‘You’re barking up the wrong tree, my dear. Thorvald saved her because he felt guilty and didn’t want her to drown.’ He shot his friend a disgusted glance. ‘And he calls himself a Viking.’
‘They were innocent parties in an accident,’ Thorvald protested.
‘So?’ Sigvald said, exasperated.
‘The true measure of a man is to be found not only in the strength of his sword arm,’ Helga offered. She beamed at Thorvald, evidently now approving of his actions.
Sigvald rolled his eyes.
‘What’s that for?’ Thorvald said. ‘You said the wolves were a good omen. Geri and Freki, remember?’