She sighed. “I wonder if my message will have reached my father yet, and if my family knows I am safe.”
“I feel certain your father knows by now,” I said. “I was the one who delivered the messages, because I speak your people’s tongue. The Frankish officer who received them was your brother.”
Her face brightened. “Drogo?” she asked. I nodded. “I am relieved my family now knows I am alive and unharmed.” As she finished speaking the smile that had briefly lit her face faded, and she sighed again.
“I am certain they are pleased and will gladly pay a ransom to bring you back safely to them,” I lied. I could not forget her brother’s words when I had suggested he and her father would be glad to receive news of her. “Do not presume to tell me of my own feelings, or those of my father,” he had said. Was there some reason they would not wish for Genevieve’s return?
Genevieve was staring at me intently now. “What is it?” she asked. “There is something you are not telling me. I can see it in your eyes.”
“I was just remembering my meeting with your brother,” I answered. “He told me he hopes to kill me someday. I am growing weary of men saying that.”
She stared at me silently for a moment, her expression inscrutable. Then she spoke. “Those two men Wulf told you of. The ones who were watching the house. What is their quarrel with you?”
“They each have different reasons,” I answered. “One was here looting in Wulf’s house the night Ruda fell. His comrade was the man I killed to save Bertrada’s life. He wishes to avenge his friend’s death.”
“And the other man?” she asked.
“He is one of the warriors who helped kill my brother. I have sworn to kill all the men involved. Their leader—his name is Toke—wishes me dead, for I am the only survivor of the murders he committed, the only person who might reveal his treachery. I am a threat to him and to his good name, as long as I live. This man—the man Wulf saw—is one of Toke’s most trusted warriors. He came here looking for me, to kill me.”
She shuddered. “Your life is so filled with violence and death.”
I did not respond. What she said was true. At Jul of this year, the feast of the midwinter solstice, I had still been a slave. Now it was but late spring. I had been a free man and a warrior for only a few months, but already I had lost count of how many men I had killed. And I felt in danger of losing count of how many now wished me dead.
“You told me your brother gave his life for you,” she said. I looked up. She was still staring at me.
“He did,” I answered.
“What happened?” she asked. I noticed that Wulf and Bertrada were listening to our conversation, looking fascinated.
I did not wish to go back there. I did not wish to revisit that night in my mind. I do not know why I felt compelled to answer Genevieve’s question.
“My brother’s name was Harald,” I began. “He was a great warrior, a great swordsman. Our father, Hrorik, was also a great warrior and a great chieftain among the Danes.”
Genevieve frowned. “I thought you told me you were a slave,” she said.
“You were a slave?” Wulf asked, an astonished expression on his face. He stepped over to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down beside Genevieve, across from me. “Bertrada,” he said, “bring me ale. And refill Halfdan’s cup, also."
I sighed. I had not wished this to become known. I should not have mentioned it to her.
“I was,” I said. “My mother was a slave in my father’s household, although in her own land, in Ireland, she had been the daughter of a king. My father stole her in a raid. She became his concubine.”
“And you were born of their union?” Genevieve asked.
Union? I would not have called it that, when a master comes to a slave’s bed and demands access to her body. Perhaps though, when I was conceived—before my father married Gunhild—there had been a union between them, of heart as well as body.
I nodded.
“You were born a slave?” Wulf asked.
I nodded again. “And a slave I remained, until earlier this year, when on his deathbed my father freed me.”
Wulf took a long swallow of ale and shook his head wonderingly. “This is a tale!” he exclaimed.
“What of your brother?” Genevieve asked.
“After I was freed, after my father died, Harald trained me in the ways of a warrior. Later, we traveled together with a few of Harald’s men to inspect a small estate my father had left me in the north of our people’s lands. Toke, who hated Harald, followed us there and attacked the estate during the night. All who lived there—men, women, and children—were slain. Only I survived. In the final fight, Harald was killed while cutting a passage clear for me to escape. He told me someone must live to avenge all who had died. I have sworn that I will bring vengeance down upon Toke and all of his men for their murder of Harald and the others.” As I said those words, I wondered when, if ever, I would have a chance to fulfill my oath.
“Who is this Toke?” Wulf asked.
“He is Harald’s foster brother,” I answered. “Harald’s, and mine. After Harald’s mother died, my father married a rich widow. Toke was her son by her first husband.”
“Why did Toke wish to kill your brother?” Genevieve asked.
“He is…” I searched for a word in their tongue that would convey the meaning of “berserk.” “It is as if he is possessed by an evil spirit. His heart is filled with darkness and with anger at the world and at all who are in it. But he held a special hatred for Harald. Harald is the only person, besides our father, who has ever bested Toke.”
“So you say this man who was in the street, this Snorre, is one of Toke’s men?” Wulf asked.
I nodded. “He is Toke’s second in command. He discovered Hastein had taken me into the crew of his ship and followed us here.”
“Huh,” Wulf said. “This is a tale indeed. I thought you nothing more than just another wolf among a bloodthirsty pack. There is far more to you than meets the eye. I had wondered why your captain places so much trust in one so young.”
I had not wished to tell Wulf or Genevieve I had been a slave. I feared what Hastein had warned me of—that anyone who learned of my past would look down upon me because of it. The knowledge did seem to change Wulf’s manner toward me, but in an unexpected way. From that evening on, he no longer treated me with distrust or fear. He and Bertrada made me feel welcome in their home.
That night, as we all dined together, Wulf told tales of his own about the trading voyages he had made north to Quentovic and Dorestad, south to Nantes, and on a few occasions across the sea to England. His stories were not remarkable, but Genevieve seemed to find them fascinating, and asked him many questions about the different folk and lands he had seen. Wulf seemed pleased to tell her, and Bertrada beamed with pride that a noble lady like Genevieve should be so interested in the doings of her husband.
As Bertrada reached across the table to collect our empty platters and cups, Wulf placed a hand upon her rump and squeezed it. She glanced back into his face and smiled knowingly.
“I have enjoyed this night greatly,” Wulf said to Genevieve. “But now I think it is time for bed. I will tell you more stories tomorrow night, if you wish. I will tell you about the time I saw a sea monster, a great fish larger than this room.”
Wulf’s words reminded me of something I had forgotten in the shock of hearing about Snorre and Stenkil.
“Genevieve and I will not be eating here tomorrow night,” I told him. “My captain, Hastein, has requested that we dine with him.”
Genevieve looked alarmed. “Why does he wish me to be there?” she asked.
I had wondered the same when Hastein first told me. I had thought—or at least hoped—the issue of Genevieve had been resolved between us. When I’d asked him, he’d looked at me for a while with an unreadable expression, then answered, “She is from Paris, is she not? It is a town I have not seen. I wish to learn more of it.”
She did not look convinced. I didn’t blame her. It did not seem believable to me that Hastein would invite her to dine merely to learn about some distant Frankish town. I felt uneasy, but did not want her to know.
“There is something you should understand about my people,” I told her. “There is nothing we value more highly than our honor. I have sworn to follow Jarl Hastein, to give him my loyalty, to fight for him, and even die for him if necessary. But as my captain, he must also be loyal and act with honor toward me. Men would not wish to follow him if he could not be trusted. Until you are freed, you belong to me. And I have already told Hastein I will not give you up. He would dishonor himself if he tried to take you without my consent.”
I believed in my heart what I told her. I truly did. Hastein was an honorable man. But he was also a jarl and used to being obeyed. My mind, like a disloyal comrade, kept whispering thoughts I tried to ignore. Hastein had already sent me once before on a dangerous mission that I had barely survived. If I were to die, there would be no dishonor in his taking Genevieve for himself.
After Wulf and Bertrada had retired for the night, while Genevieve and I were preparing our pallets for sleep on opposite sides of the front room, I told her, “You should wear one of the gowns Hastein gave you when we go to eat at his quarters tomorrow night. I think it would give offense to him if you rejected his gift.”
“If it is your request, I will.”
“Thank you,” I said. I had much to be grateful for to Hastein, and I valued his good will. If possible, I did not wish Genevieve to cause a rift between us.
“I have a request to make of you,” Genevieve said.
“What is it?”
“I would dearly love to bathe. I have had no opportunity to since you captured me. I have never been this filthy in my life.”
Her request surprised me. The Danes as a people are much given to cleanliness. In the home I grew up in, my father had built a small bathhouse attached to the main hall of his longhouse. Judging from the appearance—not to mention the smell—of Wulf and Bertrada and their children, though, I had come to believe that bathing was not a practice regularly observed among the Franks. But at Genevieve’s words, I recalled that Hastein had apparently found a tub for bathing somewhere in the count’s palace. Perhaps the Frankish nobility were more given to cleanliness than their common folk.
But where could Genevieve bathe? Although Hastein had a bathing tub, given the interest he’d been expressing in her, I certainly did not feel comfortable with the thought of her going to his quarters to bathe.
“I will see if I can borrow two horses in the morning,” I told her. “If I am able to, we will ride downstream from Ruda and find a place where you can bathe in the river.”
“Bathe outdoors?” she asked, as if she had never heard of such a thing.
“It is where most folk in my land bathe,” I told her. “During the warmer months, at least. They bathe or swim in rivers and streams. There are few who can afford to build a bathhouse. If you do not wish to bathe in the river, I do not know where else you can.”
“I cannot swim,” she said. There seemed much she could not do. Almost all Danes can swim, for the seas are our roadways.
“I will find a location where you do not need to,” I told her.
I had no difficulty borrowing two horses, for our army was no longer sending mounted raiding parties out from Ruda. Upstream from the town it had become too dangerous, due to the ever-increasing presence of Frankish patrols. There was no point in sending raiding parties downstream—our army had already scoured the land bare in that direction. The stolen herd of horses that once had provided mounts for our men now was gradually being slaughtered to provide them meat.
It was a glorious day. The sun warmed the air and sparkled on the river, and the stretches of open grassland we traversed along the riverbank were blanketed with tiny blue and white flowers. After the close confines of Wulf’s house, where every breath was flavored with smoke from the fire and the stale aroma of unwashed bodies, each lungful of clean air I drew tasted as sweet as a drink of cold spring water on a hot day. Ivar was right. Men were not meant to live in towns like Ruda.
The fresh air and sunshine seemed to have boosted Genevieve’s spirits, too. The melancholy expression that had so often clouded her features of late vanished.
“Tell me of your mother,” she asked suddenly, turning to face me. “You said that she, like your brother, died for you.”
I was surprised and somewhat taken aback by her request. Some things—especially those memories that are painful to recall—are not meant to be the subject of casual conversation.
“Why do you ask about my mother?” I demanded. “Why did you ask about my brother last night? Why do you wish to know these things about me?”
She looked startled by the tone in my voice. “I did not mean to give offense by my questions,” she explained. “If I have, I ask you to forgive me.”
I shrugged my shoulders and looked away. I wished she would not look at me so. Her demeanor was so serious, and her eyes projected concern as if my feelings actually mattered to her. I did not see how they could.
“There is nothing to forgive,” I said. “I just do not understand your interest.”
“I have never met anyone like you,” she explained. “You are so different from the men of my people—from my father, from my brother, from anyone I have known. You are very fierce—even savage—when you fight. I have seen what you are capable of and it frightens me. Yet there is also a side of you which is very kind. And though you appear young—I suspect that in years we are close to the same age—you have done and seen so much in your life. I have seen so little in mine.”
I shrugged my shoulders again. “I am what my fate has made me,” I said. Yet her words caused me to ponder what she’d said. The only kindness I had known in my own life was the love and care shown me by my mother. If there was any kindness in my nature, surely it came from her. My skill at fighting I owed primarily to my brother, Harald, who had taught me well. And if there was savagery in me, as Genevieve said, what was its origin? The fierce warrior’s blood of my father that flowed in my veins? Or was it born of the anger and hatred that burned in my heart because of Toke? When and if I finally killed him, would my heart become free of anger and feel at peace?
I sighed. “What is it you wish to know?” I asked her. It would be simpler to talk of events past than to ponder such things. And so I told her of my mother—of the home she’d had in Ireland, how my father had stolen her in a raid, how her father and betrothed had tried to rescue her and had been slain. I told her how, over time and against all odds, my mother and father had come to love each other, and how my mother had dreamed of becoming his bride. I told her how my father’s ambition had instead led him to wed Gunhild, dooming my mother to a life of slavery.
And I told her how my mother had died, and with her death, had purchased my freedom. She asked many questions then—questions about my father’s funeral. The answers I gave clearly shocked her. An expression of horror filled her face.
“How can you not hate your brother, Harald? He killed your mother!”
Her words—and the intensity with which she spoke them—surprised me. “Harald was not responsible for my mother’s death,” I told her. “It was her decision, one she made freely. Harald merely made her passing from this world to the next as swift and painless as possible. It was a kindness he showed her, one I am grateful for.”
Mother had been afraid that day, very afraid, and rightly so. She had asked Harald to help her, and he had agreed because of the fondness and respect he’d felt for her. Genevieve was a Frank and a Christian. There was no way she could understand these things.
“If anyone was to blame, it is my father, for asking Mother to accompany him on his death voyage to the next world,” I added.
“Do you hate him for it? Do yo
u hate your father?”
At one time I’d thought I did. Not just because of my mother’s death, but also because of how he’d treated me. I was his son, yet to him I’d been merely property, a slave. But as I turned Genevieve’s question over in my mind and wondered how to answer it, I realized my anger toward Hrorik had faded. I shook my head slowly.
“He was never a father to me. He was my master, and I was one of his slaves. My heart never held any love for him, and the day I learned my mother was to die on his death ship, and for a long time afterward, I could not think of him without feeling anger. Now, though…” I shrugged my shoulders. “It is all in the past. There is no point in regretting what has already happened and cannot be changed. My mother’s death was part of her fate, and mine, and my father’s.”
I wondered if Genevieve regretted asking me about the circumstances of my mother’s death. It was, in truth, a strange and terrible tale. To one not of our people, it must have sounded even worse. I glanced over at her. To my surprise, I saw that tears had wet her cheeks.
“Your mother loved you very much,” Genevieve said, a catch in her voice. “So much that she was willing to face a horrible death.”
Horrible? My mother’s death had been brave and generous beyond measure, for she had given up the rest of her life to buy a better one for me. But it had been a quick and almost painless passing, thanks to Harald. I did not think her death was horrible. And I could not understand why the tale of a stranger’s death, whether she thought it horrible or not, should affect Genevieve so.
Suddenly Genevieve began sobbing. She covered her face with her hand. Was she such a tenderhearted girl to feel so strongly about the death of someone she had not known?
“Why do you weep?” I asked her.
“We are so different,” she said. “In your life, when you were a slave, you had nothing at all—nothing except the love of your mother. In my life, I have had everything. Everything except my parents’ love.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, but she would not answer or even look at me. She merely shook her head, but kept her face covered with her hand, and sobbed quietly to herself. I kicked my horse and moved ahead of her to allow her privacy for her grief.
The Road to Vengeance Page 6