THE STRONGBOW SAGA
** BOOK THREE **
THE ROAD
TO
VENGEANCE
WESTERN FRANKIA
SPRING AND SUMMER
A.D. 845
JUDSON ROBERTS
THE STRONGBOW SAGA, BOOK THREE:
THE ROAD TO VENGEANCE
TEXT COPYRIGHT 2008 BY JUDSON ROBERTS
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
NORTHMAN BOOKS
THE ROAD TO VENGEANCE was originally published in hardcover by HARPERTEEN, a division of HarperCollins Publishers, in 2008.
First Northman Books edition published 2011.
Cover design by Luc Reid
(www.lucreid.com/dbweb)
Background cover photo by Jeremy Rowland
(http://www.jprowland.com/about.html)
* * *
The Library of Congress has catalogued the HarperTeen/HarperCollins hardcover edition as follows:
Roberts, Judson
The Road to Vengeance: Western Frankia Spring and Summer A.D. 845 / Judson Roberts. – 1st ed..
P. CM. – (The Strongbow Saga ; Bk. 3)
Summary: Halfdan’s training as a Viking warrior leads him to fight in bloody battles between nations—and gives him conflicted feelings about his killer instincts.
ISBN 978-0-06-081304-8 (HarperCollins Hardcover Edition)
1. Vikings—Juvenile Fiction. [1. Vikings—Fiction. 2. War—Fiction. 3. France—History—To 987—Fiction. ] I. Title.
PZ7.R54324RO 2008 2007036729
[FIC]—DC22
ISBN 978-0-578-09563-9 First Northman Books Edition (softcover)
For Jeanette,
and our journey.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
List of Characters
Chapter 1: What Is His Plan?
Chapter 2: A Peace Overture
Chapter 3: Preparations
Chapter 4: Old Enemies and New Friends
Chapter 5: A Feast and a Dance
Chapter 6: Count Robert
Chapter 7: Escaping a Trap
Chapter 8: The Field of the Dead
Chapter 9: Grim Fruit
Chapter 10: Paris
Chapter 11: Holding the Prize
Chapter 12: A Season of Peace
Chapter 13: The Gift
Chapter 14: The Road
Map
Glossary
Historical Notes
Acknowledgements
List of Characters
ADELAIDE: The abbess of the convent at the Abbey of St. Genevieve in the Frankish city of Paris where Genevieve, the daughter of Count Robert of Paris, lives.
BERTRADA: The wife of Wulf, a Frankish sea-captain and merchant in the town of Ruda, or Rouen.
BJORN IRONSIDES: A Viking chieftain who is one of the sons of Ragnar Logbrod, and one of the leaders of the Danish army attacking Western Frankia.
CHARLES: King of the Western Kingdom of the Franks, which roughly corresponds in territory to modern France.
CLOTHILDE: A Frankish woman who is the personal servant of Genevieve, the daughter of Count Robert of Paris.
CULLAIN: Jarl Hastein’s personal servant, a former Irish monk captured and enslaved during a Viking raid on Ireland.
DERDRIU: An Irish noblewoman captured by the Danish chieftain Hrorik in a raid on Ireland, who became a slave in Hrorik’s household and, as his concubine, bore him an illegitimate son named Halfdan.
DROGO: A Frankish cavalry officer; a son of Count Robert and the brother of Genevieve.
EINAR: A warrior in the Danish army, who is a skilled woodsman and a friend of Halfdan.
GENEVIEVE: A young Frankish noblewoman; the daughter of Count Robert of Paris.
GUNHILD: The second wife of the Danish chieftain Hrorik, and the mother, by a previous marriage, of Hrorik’s foster son Toke.
GUNTHARD: A retainer of Count Robert assigned to escort Genevieve, Count Robert’s daughter.
HALFDAN: The son of Hrorik, a Danish chieftain, and Derdriu, an Irish-born slave owned by Hrorik.
HARALD: The son of the Danish chieftain Hrorik by his first wife; Halfdan’s half-brother.
HASTEIN: A Danish jarl who befriends Halfdan, and who is one of the leaders of the Viking army attacking Western Frankia.
HORIK: The King of the Danes.
HRORIK: A Danish chieftain, known as Strong-Axe; the father of Halfdan, Harald, and Harald’s twin sister Sigrid, and the foster father of Toke, the son by a previous marriage of Hrorik’s second wife, Gunhild.
IVAR THE BONELESS: A Viking chieftain who is one of the sons of Ragnar Logbrod, and one of the leaders of the Danish army attacking Western Frankia.
LEONIDAS: A young Frankish cavalry officer; the cousin of Genevieve, and a nephew of Count Robert of Paris.
ODD: A crewman on Hastein’s longship, the Gull, and a skilled archer.
RAGNAR: The war leader of the Danish army attacking Western Frankia, known by the nickname Logbrod, or “Hairy-Breeches.”
ROBERT: A high-ranking Frankish nobleman; the count who rules over a number of towns and lands in the Western Kingdom of the Franks, including Paris; Genevieve’s father.
SIGRID: The daughter of the Danish chieftain Hrorik by his first wife Helge; Harald’s twin sister, and Halfdan’s half-sister.
SNORRE: A Danish warrior who is the second in command of the chieftain Toke.
STENKIL: A Danish warrior; the comrade of a man Halfdan killed.
STIG: A follower of Jarl Hastein, and the captain of the ship the Serpent.
SVEIN: A follower of Jarl Hastein, and the captain of the ship the Sea Wolf.
TOKE: A Danish chieftain who is the son, by her first marriage, of Gunhild, the foster son of the Danish chieftain Hrorik, and the murderer of Harald, Halfdan’s half-brother.
TORE: A crewman on Hastein’s longship, the Gull, and the leader of the archers in its crew.
TORVALD: The helmsman on Hastein’s longship, the Gull.
WULF: The captain of a Frankish merchant ship captured by the Danish fleet.
1 : What is his Plan?
An arrow whispered out of the dark and thudded into something solid. The sound startled me awake, and I reached out, frantically searching for my weapons. My hand hit something—I could not tell what—that fell over with a loud clatter.
“Hush!” a voice nearby said. “They cannot see us, but they are shooting at sounds.”
The voice—it was Tore’s—pulled me the rest of the way from my sleep, and I remembered where I was.
The Gull, the longship of Hastein, my captain, and the Bear, Ivar the Boneless’ ship, were anchored, lashed side by side, in the middle of the Seine River. We were deep in the heart of Frankia. Dusk had been falling when they’d plucked me from the riverbank, where Frankish warriors had surrounded me. Deciding it was too dangerous to try to navigate the unfamiliar waters of the Seine in the dark, Hastein and Ivar had decided to wait the night out in the middle of the river, as far as possible from Frankish archers lurking along the shore.
Tore and Odd were crouched nearby, their bows strung with arrows nocked and ready, peering between the shields lashed along the side of the Gull.
“Do you see anything?” Tore whispered.
Odd shook his head. “No,” he answered. “The shoreline is too far, and the shadows from the trees along it hide too much. He is somewhere over there, though,” he added, pointing slightly upstream with his free hand, “judging from the angle of the last arrow that hit the side.”
I was lucky to be alive; lucky to have returned unharmed from the dangerous scouting mission our army’s leaders had sent me on. I could still feel
the fear of knowing that the time of my death was upon me. Yet once more, against all odds, I had survived. Once more, for reasons known only to them, the Norns had chosen not to cut the threads of my life, but instead had kept me alive and a part of the great pattern of fate they were weaving; the fate of all men and of the world itself. I had survived, but my death had felt so near and so certain that I could not shake its grasp from my heart.
Late the following afternoon we reached Ruda, the Frankish town along the river that our army had captured and made its base. I did not want to return to the home of Wulf, the gruff Frankish sea captain, where I had been billeted before being sent out on the scouting mission. If I’d been alone, I would have gone to the palace, where the rest of the Gull’s crew had made their quarters. But I was not alone. I had a prisoner.
When I pushed the door of his house open and stepped inside, Wulf, who was seated at the table in the main room, scrambled to his feet. For a moment he was speechless with surprise. Perhaps he’d thought—or even hoped—that I was dead. Quickly enough, though, he recovered both his wits and his voice, and began protesting loudly.
“I was not expecting you to return here. The town is calm now, and at peace. We no longer need your protection.”
What he said was true. Most of our army was encamped on an island in the river just upstream from Ruda, rather than in the town itself, and Ragnar, the army’s war-king, had forbidden our men from harassing the town’s citizens. Soon enough we might be facing the main Frankish army. Ragnar did not want a hostile populace at our backs to deal with, in addition to a besieging force, if we had to defend ourselves from behind Ruda’s walls.
“Why have you come back here?” Wulf continued. “Why do you not stay with the rest of your captain’s men in the count’s palace?”
Bertrada, Wulf’s wife, was standing behind him, wringing her hands, an anxious expression on her face. I knew she could not understand what he was saying—Wulf was speaking to me in my own tongue, rather than the version of Latin spoken by the Franks. But his anger was obvious from the tone of his voice. No doubt she feared I might take offense. In truth, I was beginning to.
I pointed behind me. “I have come back to your home because of her. She is my prisoner. I need quarters where she will be safe.” Surely Wulf could understand that. A woman—particularly one as young and comely as my captive—could not be housed in a hall filled with hardened warriors.
“You are concerned for her safety?” he exclaimed, and rolled his eyes—an insolent gesture which angered me. “Is this not a woman you stole? If her well-being worries you so, why did you take her? Surely she would have been safe if you’d left her with her own folk!
“I am running low on food,” Wulf continued. “So long as your fleet is on the river and our land is under attack by your army, I am unable to take my ship out—I am unable to trade. I can earn nothing with which to buy food for my own family. I cannot afford to feed two extra mouths. She is your problem. She is not my concern.”
Genevieve, my prisoner, was standing just inside the doorway, slumped back against the wall, staring at us dully. She had stumbled from fatigue several times during the short walk from the river to Wulf’s home, and looked as though she might fall asleep on her feet at any moment.
I felt almost as weary as Genevieve looked. I had been close to exhaustion before Hastein and Ivar had rescued me, and had slept little since. The Franks had been angry at losing Genevieve when they’d believed her rescue was assured. The archers they’d sent creeping to the river’s edge had kept up a steady, if ineffectual, fire at us during the night. No one on board either ship had been hit, but after having been hunted for several days by the Franks, the occasional whistle of an arrow passing overhead, unseen in the dark, or the thud of a low shot striking the side of the ship had been enough to keep my nerves on edge, and had made sound sleep impossible.
“We will discuss the question of food at a later time,” I told Wulf. “For now, I must rest, and so must she. You will provide us both with food and drink, and a place to sleep.” He opened his mouth as if to protest further, but I cut him off. “I am not asking you, Wulf,” I snapped. “Do as you are told.”
I slept the rest of the afternoon and through the entire night. When I awoke early the next morning, I was ravenous. Even the thin barley porridge Bertrada had cooked to break the night’s fast tasted delicious to me. I quickly finished one bowlful and handed the empty dish back to Bertrada to refill. She glanced at Wulf, and when he nodded, she stepped to the hearth, ladled out another serving from the pot hanging over the low fire, and handed it back to me.
Genevieve stepped through the doorway leading to the back room, and stood for a moment, blinking her eyes and looking confused. The night before I had told Wulf and Bertrada to prepare a pallet for her in the back room, where they and their children slept. I thought she would feel safer, and hopefully comforted, being among her own people again. Wulf and Bertrada had looked surprised. I suppose they’d thought I’d taken her captive at least in part to have the pleasure of a woman in my bed.
Wulf noticed me looking toward the back room, and turned and saw Genevieve.
“She is a nun,” he said, turning back to me. Apparently he was still annoyed that I had returned, and was inclined to argue about it. “Did you realize that? Do you know what that means?”
“She told me,” I said.
“She is a holy woman. Why did you take her? What will you do with her?” he demanded.
“I intend to sell her.”
Wulf’s eyes widened, and he turned his head and looked at Genevieve again. “You cannot,” he said in a softer voice. “She is so young. And she has dedicated her life to serving God.”
Which meant more to Wulf, I wondered—her age or that she was a priestess of the White Christ? He’d told me his first wife and their two daughters had been taken by Northmen when Ruda had been sacked several years ago. Did seeing Genevieve call to his mind painful memories of that loss?
“I intend to sell her back to her family,” I explained. “Besides being a priestess, she is of noble blood. She says her father is a count. He will pay well to get her back unharmed.” Or so I hoped.
The light in the room dimmed suddenly. I turned to see Torvald standing just inside the open doorway. He could move quietly for such a large man.
“You are to come,” he told me. “Ragnar is holding a war council with Hastein, Ivar, and Bjorn. They wish to speak with each of the scouts and question them about what they observed.”
As I pushed my seat back and stood, Torvald added, “You are to bring your prisoner, also. And you,” he said, pointing at Wulf, “Jarl Hastein said you are to come, too.”
Ragnar was holding his council in the great hall of the count’s palace. I was glad that for once I’d been summoned to appear there before him for a reason other than to answer for some misdeed. As we entered the hall, Torvald pointed to a bench against one wall near the doorway.
“You and the woman wait here,” he told Wulf.
Ragnar and his sons Ivar the Boneless and Bjorn Ironsides were seated behind a long table. Hastein was pacing in front of it. Four warriors—I recognized them all as scouts from our journey upriver—stood nearby. Einar, my comrade, was among them. Hastein had told me he’d returned safely from the scouting mission, but we’d had no chance to speak, for he’d been retrieved by Ivar’s ship, rather than the Gull. Einar nodded when he saw me, and stared at Genevieve curiously.
Hastein glanced at Torvald and me as we approached, then said, “Ah, here is Halfdan. He is the last of them.”
“Three of the scouts did not return?” Ragnar asked. Eight of us had been sent out on the mission to find the Frankish army.
Hastein nodded. “Two from the south bank and one from the north.”
“And it was a close thing with this one,” Ivar added, pointing at me. “When we found him, he was surrounded by Frankish warriors. He had killed four of them, and was holding the rest at bay when
we reached him. There were close to thirty of them. He is lucky to be alive, for he was much farther upstream than we’d planned to venture. But just when we were preparing to turn and head back to Ruda, we saw smoke rising from up ahead, along the line of the river, and Hastein insisted we investigate on the chance it might be from a signal fire.”
“You lit a signal fire?” Ragnar asked me, a scornful expression on his face. It was a look I’d come to expect when appearing before him. “Did you not think that might draw the Franks to your position? Is that how they discovered you?”
Apparently my past sins had not been forgotten, or forgiven. I could feel my temper rising. It had not been my fault I’d been forced to kill one of our own warriors, and had brawled with another. But Ragnar had thought it was, and he clearly expected me to have behaved foolishly again when out scouting.
“The Franks had already found me, and trapped me against the riverbank,” I answered, through gritted teeth. “There was nothing to lose at that point by lighting a fire.” I saw no reason to volunteer that I actually had not intended the fire to be a signal. My fylgja—my guardian spirit—may have guided my hand when I lit it, but my wits had not. In truth, Ivar was right. I was lucky to be alive.
My resourcefulness—or my luck—had clearly impressed Ivar. Now Bjorn, too, stared at me with a new look of approval on his face. Ragnar looked considerably less impressed. At least he was not talking about hanging me, though.
“Show the scouts what you are making,” Ragnar told Hastein.
Hastein beckoned us to approach the table. A scroll of parchment had been partially unrolled, and a section as long as my forearm had been cut from it. I suspected it had been looted from some church or monastery, for it was covered on one side with Latin writing. Hastein had drawn a crude map on the back side of the piece of parchment. So far there was not much to it—it was little more than a single wavy line running diagonally across the sheet. Nearby on the table was a squat glass bottle with a small brush in it, and a short length of board with a shallow groove, similar in shape to the line painted on the parchment, cut into its surface.
The Road to Vengeance Page 1