The Road to Vengeance

by Judson Roberts

  Genevieve and I crossed the bridge and began climbing the long, straight road that led up to the hill’s summit. Normally we would have been talking eagerly to each other, planning what sights we would visit as Genevieve made her circuitous return to the abbey. But this day, we were both lost in the silence of our own thoughts.

  Finally Genevieve turned to me. “I am sorry, Halfdan,” she said. “But I wish to return to the abbey now. My heart is troubling me. There are things I wish to think about alone, and to pray over.”

  I did not protest. Today everything seemed changed. I found that being with her brought me more pain than pleasure.

  “I will be myself again tomorrow,” she promised. I did not know if I could be. I had remembered my oath. I had remembered that I was a killer. It was my fate. I should never have forgotten it.

  I was deep in thought, and paying little attention to my surroundings, as I made my way back to the island fort. But when I walked out onto the bridge leading from the town to the fortress gate, my attention was jerked back to the present. Snorre and another warrior stepped into view from the shadowed opening of the gate ahead. They began walking down the bridge toward me.

  Snorre and his man were both wearing mail brynies, and swords hung at their belts. Though I, too, was wearing my sword, and my dagger was also stuck in my belt, I wore no armor. I stopped, then took a step back, and another. There are times when flight is the better choice.

  I realized that the man beside Snorre was looking at something beyond me with an evil grin on his face. I glanced over my shoulder and saw two more warriors, armed and armored as Snorre was, approaching along the bridge from the shore side. They must have been hiding in the gate tower when I’d passed through it. I had nowhere to go. It was either fight or leap into the river. As Snorre and his men drew closer, I stepped toward the edge of the bridge and glanced down at the water flowing beneath it.

  “I know you are quite a runner,” Snorre said, leering. “You were the only one swift enough to escape the night we killed your brother. But how well can you swim?”

  I could not believe Snorre would be so bold as to attack me here on the bridge in plain sight. I looked beyond him at the gate. Where were the guards?

  “There is no one there to help you,” Snorre said. “My men are guarding the gate this afternoon. I volunteered them for the duty. I thought it the least we could do, since we were not able to help with the battle or the capture of Paris.”

  They were close now and had spread out, boxing me in. I could not afford to wait longer to see what Snorre would do. His intentions seemed obvious. With my back to the bridge’s edge and the water below, I drew my sword and dagger from their scabbards and extended the sword in front of me, prepared to thrust or parry, with my dagger ready in my left hand.

  “He drew on us,” Snorre said to his men. “You all saw it. You are witnesses now. I merely sought to speak with this boy, but he has drawn his sword and threatens me with it. I have a right to defend myself. We all do.”

  Snorre and his men grabbed their sword hilts, but before their blades could clear their scabbards, an arrow flashed between Snorre’s legs and thudded into the planks of the bridge just in front of him. Had it been shot a hand’s span higher, it would have unmanned him.

  “Do not draw your blade, One-Eye,” a voice called out. “You nor any of your men, or I swear to you my next arrow will kill you.”

  It was Einar. He was standing above the gate on the rampart of the fort’s wall. As I watched, he fitted another arrow to the bow he was holding.

  Snorre spun around to look up at the rampart, his hand still on his sword hilt, but neither he nor any of his men finished drawing their weapons. It was a very short shot from the rampart down to the bridge, one any skilled archer could make with ease.

  “You!” Snorre exclaimed, when he saw Einar. “I have always thought it suspicious that Toke’s men were slain when they hunted this boy, but you returned to your village unharmed. Now I know the truth of it—the hound was in league with the fox. You will pay for your treachery then, and your interference this day. I will see your blood on my sword.”

  “Do not count your enemies slain until you have killed them, One-Eye,” Einar said. “And you, of all people, should not accuse others of treachery. You serve a man who murdered his own brother. Halfdan, come this way. Give them a wide berth, so I have a clear shot at this snarling dog.”

  I edged around Snorre and the warrior beside him, keeping my weapons up and at the ready. As I passed him, Snorre jeered, “Once again, you run away, boy. You cannot do so forever. Be a man, for once in your life. Let us take two horses, just you and me, and ride out into the countryside. Away from the town, away from your comrades and mine, and we will settle the differences between us as men do.”

  “What is between us will be settled,” I told him. “You can be certain of it.” But I intended to do it my own way.

  Einar told me he had been watching Snorre ever since his ship had arrived from Ruda. “Remember, it is not you alone who has a blood-debt to pay. Toke and this one-eyed dog are responsible for the death of Ulf, my sister’s son. By following Snorre, I thought to learn of his habits and identify his comrades. When plotting a man’s death, it is always better to know more about him than less. But when I saw him and his men take over the guarding of the gate, I suspected he was up to no good and fetched my bow. It is a good thing I did.”

  I agreed. Together we went to see Hastein. We found him in his quarters, playing a game of hnefatafl with Ivar.

  “I need to speak with you,” I told him.

  Hastein looked irritated at the interruption. From the positions of the pieces on the board, he appeared to be losing.

  “I am busy, in case you cannot tell,” he snapped.

  “It is a matter of some importance,” I said.

  He glared up at me. “Speak, then. Speak or be gone.”

  I would have preferred not to raise the matter in front of Ivar. When I’d seen that he was there, I should have waited. I should have left and come back later. But I hadn’t, and now Hastein was impatiently waiting for me to declare what was so important. I had to continue.

  “It is Snorre,” I said. “I can wait no longer. It is time. I need to kill him.”

  “I am beginning to like this man of yours,” Ivar said. “Things are never boring for long when he is around.”

  The following day, shortly after noon, Gunthard appeared at the entrance of the room where the Gull’s crew was quartered in the palace. I was standing near the hearth, watching Cullain begin his preparations for the evening’s meal and talking with Torvald and Tore about the news Hastein and Ragnar had just learned. A messenger had arrived from King Charles. Wagons loaded with the tribute were en route to Paris.

  “I have a message for you from Lady Genevieve,” Gunthard said, handing me a folded piece of parchment. When I opened it, I found a brief note written in Genevieve’s hand. Silently thanking my mother for forcing me, much against my will, to learn to read and write Latin as well as speak it, with some difficulty I deciphered her message.

  “My dearest friend,” it said. “There is one more thing I wish to share with you here in Paris, before you must leave. And there is a boon, a gift, I wish to ask of you. I cannot come to the fort. Please follow Gunthard. He will bring you to me.”

  I was tempted not to go. I needed to speak with Hastein again. Yesterday evening, we had begun forming a plan to deal with Snorre. It was far from finished, though. But this might be the last chance I would have to see Genevieve.

  I folded the parchment, stuck it in the pouch on my belt, and retrieved my sword from my sea chest.

  “You have been summoned by this Frank again?” Torvald said, watching.

  I nodded. “If Hastein wishes to see me, tell him I will be back before dusk.”

  “Do I need to come with you, to protect you?” Torvald asked. I glanced sharply at him. He was grinning. “Like the last time?” he added.

&n
bsp; “Is Halfdan in danger?” Tore asked.

  “Very much so,” Torvald told him. “He goes to meet the Frankish girl who was his prisoner.” I blushed as they both erupted in laughter. It was useless trying to explain to them. They would not understand. Genevieve was just a friend. She could never be more. It was not my fate.

  Gunthard led me to a part of town I had not previously explored with Genevieve. I wondered what she planned. There were none of the town’s large buildings here, only houses. Some of the bigger ones appeared as though they might date back to Roman times, but others looked to be of more recent and more ramshackle construction.

  We stopped at the doorway of one of the latter, a narrow house crowded between two others. “Why have we come here?” I asked Gunthard.

  “Lady Genevieve is waiting for you inside,” he answered.

  I did not understand. “What is this place?” I said.

  “It is the house I grew up in,” he told me. “It was my parents’ home, but they have been dead for many years. It belongs to my brother and his wife now. They are not in Paris, though. They are in Dreux, with her family. They were afraid to return until your army leaves the town.”

  He knocked once on the door and it immediately swung open. Genevieve was standing inside. “I will leave you now,” he said.

  Genevieve looked pale and had an anxious expression on her face. Her hands were clasped in front of her. She was wringing them nervously. “Please come inside,” she said. “Do not stand in the street.”

  “Why…” I began as I stepped through the doorway, intending to ask her the reason we were here, but she put her fingertips against my mouth to silence me.

  “Please,” she said. “Let me speak. I have thought much about what I wish to say to you, but if you interrupt me, I fear the words will fly from my mind and I will forget them.

  “You have told me of your belief in fate. My own fate—to live a life of faith and devotion to my God—was pressed upon me. Yet I have sworn to accept it. I have pledged myself to serve God for the rest of my days. I will not—I cannot—dishonor such an oath once I have given it. I know that you, who are the most honorable of men, can understand that. I will give my life to my God.

  “But once you asked me if I had ever wished to have a living husband, rather than be a bride of Christ. I told you there was a time when I had dreamed of such. I did not tell you all, though. That dream I once held, which I know is now lost to me forever, has become so much more painful since I have known you. I cannot keep myself from wondering how different, how sweet, my life might have been, could I have spent it with someone like you.”

  I could not believe the words my ears were hearing. I could not believe what Genevieve was now revealing lay within her heart.

  “I cannot bear,” Genevieve continued, her voice catching, “to spend the rest of my life wondering what might have been. I will spend the rest of my days serving my God, because I have sworn to. But I must have something to help me through the thousands of lonely nights that lie ahead. I must have more than just a lost dream. I must have one sweet memory to cling to.”

  Her lip was quivering and her eyes looked wet, although she shed no tears. She pulled her mantle up over her head, dropped it on the floor, and shook her long hair loose.

  “What I am about to do is a terrible sin,” she whispered and stepped toward me. “But I do not care. Help me, Halfdan. Help me make this day a memory to treasure, one that will comfort me through the long and lonely years that lie ahead.”

  14 : The Road

  I had eaten sparingly and drunk only water. I would have to be light on my feet and have my wits about me this night.

  It was our army’s final day in Paris. The Franks’ tribute had been weighed, counted, and divided among our men. All of the ships were loaded and ready to sail. Tomorrow we would head downriver toward the sea and begin our long journey home. Tonight, a final great feast was being given by Ragnar for all of our warriors before the army disbanded.

  “Father will wish to make certain every man fully appreciates the glory and treasure their mighty war-king has won for them,” Ivar explained.

  A suitable location was needed—one where all could gather together and Ragnar could address the entire army and be heard. I’d suggested, through Hastein, the old Roman arena. Ragnar was pleased with the site. He thought it would serve his needs well. It suited my plans—mine and Hastein’s—also. After all, the arena had been built for the purpose of watching men fight to the death.

  A broad, raised platform ran across one side of the arena. Genevieve had called it a stage. She had told me that during Roman times, stories were sometimes acted out there for the townspeople. It was a thing I had difficulty understanding. Tales were for telling. It was the sound of the tale-teller’s voice, his words, and the skill of the skald at crafting images that each listener could picture in his own mind that gave stories their power. It would seem undignified and weak to have men stand in front of you, posing and pretending, instead.

  The platform proved convenient, though, for Ragnar’s feast. Long tables had been set up across it, and all of the chieftains of the army, every ship’s captain, was seated there. Torches blazed around them so they could be visible to all. Snorre was among them, toward the left end of the stage. Stig and Svein, the two captains who followed Hastein, were seated nearby.

  The rest of the army clustered around fires scattered across the arena’s floor. We of the Gull’s crew and the warriors from Hastein’s other two ships had a place just in front of the center of the platform. Torvald had claimed it early, at Hastein’s direction.

  Ragnar’s final address to the men had been droning on for some time now. Before him, other, lesser chieftains had also spoken. I’d stopped listening long ago. I was remembering my last hours with Genevieve. As I thought of her and of what we had shared, I held in my hand a small cross of gold, mounted on a slender chain of the same metal. She’d given it to me when we had parted.

  “I wish you to have this token,” she’d said, taking it from around her neck and pressing it into my hand. “It is the symbol of my God. The God I serve, and devote my life to. I will pray that he protects you. And I will hope that occasionally, in the years to come, it will cause you to remember me.”

  I would not need anything to help me remember Genevieve. I would never forget her.

  I had given her a gift, too, though it looked poor and shabby by comparison to hers. To replace the one she’d given me, I gave her the small, worn, simple cross of silver I wore around my own neck on a leather thong. Before handing it to her, I used the point of my dagger to carve the symbol

  in the back of the cross. As I did, I remembered the last time I had used my knife to make this rune. I had cut it on the face of a man I had killed, as a sign.

  “This symbol,” I told her, “is the first letter of my name in the writing of my people. When you see it, remember me. Remember this day especially, but also all of the days we have shared.” A memory was what she’d said she wanted from me. A memory was all that I could give her.

  She took the cross and asked, “How do you come to wear this? It is symbol of my God, of his son, Jesus Christ. He is not your god.”

  “My mother gave this cross to me, on the day she died,” I told her. “It is from Ireland, where she was born. She told me that wearing it might cause her God—your God—to watch over and protect me. I give it to you now, and hope that he will watch over you.” Now that I no longer can, I thought.

  “I cannot take this,” Genevieve protested. “You should keep it to remember your mother by. And she hoped it would protect you.”

  I do not believe your God will wish to protect me, I thought. My fate is in the hands of my gods, and the Norns. And if your God would, your cross will bind him to me. “My memories of my mother live in my heart,” I told her, “where my memories of you will also live. I wish you to have this, to remind you of me.”

  Ragnar finally finished talking. I put the chai
n around my neck and tucked Genevieve’s cross inside my tunic. It was time now to think of other things. It was time for a debt to be paid.

  When Ragnar returned to his seat at the center table, Hastein walked to the front of the platform. While the army had sat idle in Paris waiting for the tribute to be delivered, he had occupied his time searching out the finest cloth, the richest leathers, and the best garment makers the Frankish town had to offer. He was wearing some of his new finery now, and looked resplendent. He’d even had a new belt and scabbard, decorated with intricate silver fittings, crafted for his favorite sword.

  One article Hastein was wearing was not new. Around his sword arm he wore a thick band made of solid gold—the oath-ring of a godi.

  I thought he looked more like a king than the Franks’ King Charles had, and certainly more regal than Ragnar. He looked like a man who had been born to command; one whom others would naturally trust and wish to follow. This night, he would try to lead the hearts and the minds of the army.

  “This is an opportunity the like of which we will not have again,” he had explained to me. “Remember, you are not after just Snorre. Toke is the one you must ultimately destroy, and he is a very dangerous man, for he is a powerful chieftain whom many respect. This night, we will try to slay Toke’s reputation. When the army disbands, its warriors will spread across the lands of the Danes, and beyond. We want them all to know of Toke’s treachery and to carry the tale with them. If we are successful, wherever warriors from this army venture, Toke will find he has few friends. Men of courage and honor cannot abide the company of a Nithing. He will be known for what he is, and it will be much harder for him to find allies.”

  Standing now at the front edge of the platform, looking out across the floor of the arena and the faces of the warriors seated there, Hastein held up his hands for silence. “My name is Hastein,” he began, “I am jarl over the lands around the Limfjord. Most of you know my name, if not my face.