“Not Constantinople?” Leif said.
“Her too. But Chersonese was small, and fine, and we had won her in that bad war, and for a while… I thought we could keep her. That was where I realized I didn’t want to be somebody else’s axeman anymore. But the hawk hadn’t caught up with me yet.”
The words spiraled away through Knut’s mind, making no sense. He said blankly, “The hawk?”
Leif said, “His godmother was a hawk. She’s dead now.” He was still talking to Raef. “You had that Hun woman then. She was ugly as a horse’s ass.”
Raef said, “Merike. She was a good woman. Don’t tell Laissa I said that. Laissa is certainly a lot prettier.” He pulled the edge of his cloak up over his shoulders. “I’m going to sleep. You can tell him more of your fables.” He rolled himself into the cloak and lay down to sleep.
“Come on,” Leif said. “I need to drain anyway.”
Knut got up. He would not easily escape with Leif awake. The old Icelander’s stories gripped him like a glimpse into another world. He had heard hundreds of them over the years, but Leif could find new ones every night. They stood by the river-bank and made water.
“What happened to Conn Corbansson?” he asked.
Leif got a vague look on his face. He said, “There’s some that will tell you he’s dead now, buried in the belly of a mountain. Some say he went on to the East and fights for the desert chieftains there, leads a thousand men, and has a great palace, all of gold, with sixty wives.”
Knut liked the second story better. “Why did you leave Iceland?” He straightened his clothes. In the black dome of the night the cloudy torrent of the high road flowed from horizon to horizon. The stars danced.
“Well, hell, boy, why does anybody leave Iceland? The question is, Why does anybody stay in Iceland?” Leif smoothed the tendrils of his moustache back with his thumb. “My father used to whip me every night. One night I turned around and whipped him. Then I left. And never gone back, ever.” His eyes strayed toward the camp. “I’ve done well enough, being Raef’s axeman.”
Knut didn’t see he had much to do. “His godmother was a hawk?”
Leif’s eyebrows jacked up and down. “You think this is a common man you’re dealing with? His father was a sea wolf. His mother was an Irish shee.” An owl hooted, away in the wood, and he tossed his head that way, his gaze never leaving Knut. “That could be her now. They say she can take any form. They say she still watches over him.”
Knut snorted. With Leif “they say” usually meant “It sounds good to me.” The fat Icelander loved Raef, so he made him great. But the one about how he had escaped his own father rang true. That was the way out, Knut saw, suddenly. He started off to walk around the camp. Leif let him go and went back to the fire, groaning about his old bones, but Knut thought best when he was walking.
* * *
Gemma went to the church with her mother, and Laissa taught her some more prayers. Miru came in with some candles, and they went to put the candles on the shelf.
Gemma kneeled down at the altar. “Mama,” she said, “why does Papa not come to church?”
Miru, overhearing, gave a hoot of a laugh. “That I’d like to see.”
Laissa said, quickly, “Hush, you two.” She gave Gemma a sharp look and explained no further. So Gemma knew it was something bad.
But when they came back, she ran out to meet him, glad to see him. He swung her around him in a sort of dance, as he often did, and kissed her forehead, his eyes already searching behind her. “Where’s your mother?” He turned away. But there before her, in his place, Knut was coming up, and he smiled at her, and her heart lifted.
* * *
That night Raef lay down on his bench, his wife and his daughter beside him, and when he knew they were asleep, he left his body and floated up and through the light field.
This was home to him, more and more. He sang with the music and streamed with the light, all the gentle motion trembled in every tiny piece of him. He felt his thoughts go broad and deep; he no longer tried to understand or control what was happening; he was coming more and more to see that understanding was itself a delusion.
The holes were real.
They startled him, whenever he came on one. The light ripped apart and empty, ragged at the edges. Around it the fluid stream continued, but the farther south he flowed the more he swirled and twisted to avoid the gaps. He knew this was the Lady’s doing. She had taken the souls that belonged there. The whole light field warped and ripped.
As if they sensed this, everybody in England was afraid. The King feared the ghost, many men feared the King, and everybody else feared whatever was going to happen next. Men heard of Aethelstan’s death and shook their heads and crossed themselves. The ordinary folk died of plague, famine, misery, and hopelessness. Thorkel the Jomsviking was supposed to be the King’s warlord and had brought his men into the country the summer before, but Thorkel did nothing but pillage the east of the country and feed his men on the King’s purse. Nobody expected this to go on much longer.
Raef tried to mend one of the holes in the light field, pulling at the edges to close it. The holes frightened him. She had made more than he could count of them. There was no music in them and no color. They rippled with a terrible cold.
He could not cover it up. It was forever.
He imagined the holes growing, more and more, until all England plunged down into the abyss, dragging the rest of the light field after.
He could do nothing. When he left the hole behind, it was the same as when he found it, fraying slightly around its edges. Daylight was coming. He slipped away through the blue predawn – past and through the trees alive with murmuring birds; the deer bedding down in the thickets; the villages and farms; the people stirring in their blankets, their sheep shaking the dew off their fleece – back to Jorvik.
For a moment he hovered above the hall. They all still slept. He could see down through the gap he had left in the manifest thatch so that the sky spread over him, down on Laissa, with Gemma next to her, their hair entwined. Across the hall Leif, now married to Edith, snored away like a bagpiper. Nearby lay the king they were nurturing, although this was proving harder than Raef had expected. He imagined them all, everyone he loved, swooped into a hole in the light field and sucked down into nothing, and the pain of thinking it was so bright he went blind a moment. Gratefully he sank down into his body, into the glistening, stinking, beautiful, loud, and impossible transient world.
Chapter Seventeen
After Aethelstan was buried, Edmund went looking for Morcar at his stronghold of Lark Hill, near Derby. The thegn was in the middle of a feast to celebrate his brother’s marriage, his hall and yard crowded with guests. In the hall the girl sat in her flowery throne, younger than Edmund, with wide, frightened black eyes, and she was shaking so that the dew flew off the blossoms in her hands.
Morcar was out meeting his guests, his long face merry from laughing. When he saw Edmund, the thegn’s face fell sad again. He turned his head, looking around at the celebrating people around him, and said, “Come, there are better places to talk.”
They walked down from the hall, through the courtyard, and through a gate that led into the garden. The hall stood above a river, and the outer wall ended at its bank. Behind them someone called to Morcar, and he lifted his hand. They went down past the rows of cabbages and onions to the corner of the garden wall, where the rushing of the river just beyond was louder than their talk.
Morcar said, “You wear a warrior’s coat to a wedding.”
Edmund had forgotten he was wearing the mail coat. He said, “I have good reason.”
Morcar said, “I understand. This was ill news about your brother. Aethelstan was a great man; I loved him dearly. I shall miss him dearly.”
He turned toward the water. He folded his hands before him like a priest; he rocked back and forth on his heels.
Edmund said, “He should have been a greater man. I am taking up the sword
he should have drawn years ago.”
Morcar swung back to him. His eyes widened, and his lips parted. Swiftly he looked in all directions and then turned back to Edmund.
“Ah. Well, of course I am with you.” Yet he sounded more startled than glad. His voice smoothed out as he mastered himself. “God, God, I have lived years despairing of hearing that.” He thrust out his hand, and Edmund shook it. Then Morcar drilled him with a look, frowning.
Edmund shifted, embarrassed, knowing Morcar compared him with Aethelstan. The thegn said, ruminatively, “But it will be hard. Ethelred has murdered everyone who could stand against him. He has Thorkel the Tall now, with two thousand men, and the most I and my brother can raise is five hundred or so, and those are fyrdmen.”
He cleared his throat. Alarmed, Edmund saw he was looking for excuses not to act. The oak had turned into a reed, as the proverb went.
“Hiring Thorkel to keep us down is all the more reason to oppose him,” Edmund said. “I am seeking others to join us. I am going up to Thurbrand of Lindsey.”
Morcar gathered his breath and then sighed it out again. “Thurbrand,” he said. “You fish for allies in a cesspool.” His voice changed. “It’s said the King has taken Aethelstan’s death very hard.”
“For God’s sake,” Edmund said, and shut his eyes. He still dreamed of Aethelstan on the bed, bleeding to death from a thousand sores.
“They say – I have heard this – Ethelred will call a great council to make peace with everybody.”
Edmund snorted. “And you believe this?”
Morcar pinched his nose. He was getting old, Edmund realized, his hair greying, his skin wrinkled. He said, “Peace here has made me rich.” His dark eyes shifted toward Edmund. “You will not get much from Thurbrand, the treacherous little dog.” His face brightened. “My brother has married Bramley and Tighe, now. Thurbrand will have much less room now to be treacherous in.”
Edmund thought, He has grown too long in the tooth for this. The time is past when I could rely on him. He said, “I thought he married a woman.” He remembered the girl in the midst of the flowers, the big, dark, terrified eyes, her sleeves all wet with dew.
“Well. The towns are her dowry.” Morcar turned, smiling. “And now we shall have justice in England and a good King.” He shook Edmund’s hand again. “Try Uhtred in Bamburgh and Aelfric in East Anglia. There are a batch of sons too, whose fathers Ethelred killed. Godwine of Wessex is a good one, although he’s very young, only fourteen or so. If you get enough support, the King may simply yield.”
Edmund doubted that. Morcar wanted anything but to fight. Edmund dreamed that night that Aethelstan’s corpse lay before him, and all the sores were little red eyes that watched him.
* * *
The King did call a council to talk of peace, which was to meet at Oxford in the spring, when the weather made traveling easier. He gave his sworn word for the safety of everybody who came. Morcar and his brother Sigeferth went to it, along with a score of other thegns and lords; Sigeferth brought his new wife, Ealdgyth. When they reached Oxford, the first person they saw of any import was Eadric Streona, lord of Mercia.
Streona was smiling all over his face. “This is a great day,” he said, “when we who have been enemies will sit down together at peace. The King awaits you even now. He is a different man since the prince died. He wants to greet you himself. Come with me, let me lead you there, rejoicing in our peace.”
Morcar glanced at his brother, who was frowning. He said, low, “He gave his word.” Their men were following after, and he dropped back to send most of them off with Sigeferth’s wife, to Morcar’s own house in Oxford, and then went back up behind Streona.
Streona took them to a hall near the middle of the old town, a small, dim place. They went in. There seemed nobody else there, the long table bare, the hangings on the walls rustling in the drafts. Streona came in after them, smiling still.
Morcar said, “Where is the King?”
Streona said, “Where he belongs. Now!”
Out from behind the hangings a dozen men leaped. Morcar shouted, angry, and then something struck him on the shoulder and knocked him down. He struggled to rise, and another blow felled him. He heard Sigeferth cry out. He pushed himself to all fours again, dazed.
In his ear came Streona’s voice. “The King wanted Thorkel for this, but I said I would do it myself.” He gripped Morcar by the beard. Something in his hand flashed, and a searing heat went across Morcar’s throat.
* * *
The city of Gainsburgh lay on the river Trent, which ran through the middle of the kingdom up to the Humber. Edmund rode there with his company, left them outside the city, and went in alone, as the agreement was.
At the gate, as he paid the toll, he saw a young man in rich clothes just inside, watching him. When he rode in, the boy came forward, taking off his hat and bowing his head. Beardless, he had long, fair hair, and he was slight as a girl.
“Sir,” he said, “I am Godwine of Wessex, and I have dire news for you.”
Edmund rode over to a quiet place on the street by a wall and dismounted. “What is it?”
The boy had followed him. He was pale, his eyes sunken; he looked exhausted. “My lord Morcar and his brother Sigeferth are dead, God save them.”
“Dead. God have mercy on their souls.” Edmund signed himself. His horse sidestepped away, picking up his unease. “What happened?” He looked around him, his senses jangled. The bright ordinariness of the day seemed eerie. “Dead,” he said, amazed. Morcar’s long face swam in the air before him.
“The King swore them a safe conduct to the council at Oxford, only a few days ago,” the boy said. Edmund realized that he must have been at the same council. Godwine was of a great old Wessex family, descended from a brother of Alfred; he was the only one left of that line. Ethelred had killed all the others. The royal blood thinned to this slender sprig. “Then Streona murdered them. And all their guards. Morcar had told me before that you were coming here. So I came.”
Edmund blinked at him, his mind stalled. He turned abruptly away to hide the grief and shame on his face. “Evil, evil,” he muttered. The boy was watching him but said no more, and Edmund crossed himself, said again, “God save them. Thank you. I have to go.” He rode on into the city. A cold despair came over him.
This was his father who did this; this evil streak ran in him, this taint.
He had come to Gainsburgh because Thurbrand had finally agreed to meet him here, but he could not clear his mind of what he had been told, the sworn word crossed, the blood shed, above all that Morcar’s long struggle for justice had ended like this. He thought of the frightened girl he had seen at the wedding. When he reached the inn, he barely paid heed to the place and settled himself only when he was climbing the stairs.
He went into the top room, which was empty, and walked around it. He wore the mail coat, and he ran his hand over the iron links. Out there somewhere another knife waited for him. He had known the council at Oxford was a sham. He had not warned them enough. Morcar was too eager for a way out.
Ethelred would kill everybody. He wondered why the King hadn’t tried to kill him yet. He realized he probably had. He sat on a bench, wondering if there were any good at all in the world. What it meant to be good in such a world.
Thurbrand came in, alone, crooked and sneaky, peering all around. He squinted at Edmund, and the prince rose, and they greeted each other, shaking hands.
Then Thurbrand said, “You have heard that Morcar and his brother are dead.”
Edmund straightened, hit in the new wound. “Betrayed, murdered, the King’s own safe conduct broken.”
The redheaded half Dane opposite him grinned with his whole mouthful of teeth. “Yes, how unfortunate for you, though, since they made up most of your support.”
Edmund said nothing. They had given him no support but words. Yet he saw how it looked to Thurbrand. To anyone else. In fact, he had no support. Thurbrand was smirking at him
. He had crooked hands. He twitched his gaze here and there. He said, “So, you see, how important I could be to you.”
Edmund faced him, angry. He understood why everybody hated Thurbrand. The lord of Lindsey fixed him with his glittering pale eyes. He said, “I have five hundred men. Not fyrdmen, real Vikings. I’ll bring them, if you promise me that when there’s a good time, you’ll give me Uhtred of Bamburgh and let me kill him.”
For a long while Edmund did not move. In his mind he saw Uhtred; and behind him, Morcar and Sigeferth; and behind them, other men, a line into the distance, an endless chain of murders. He stood up and said, “Get out.”
Thurbrand looked shocked. “This is my room.” He had paid the innkeeper for the whole room.
“Get out anyway,” Edmund said.
Alone in the big room, he waited to be sure Thurbrand was gone and to settle his mind. The stinks from downstairs came up to him, the muted uproar. He had not eaten, but he was not hungry. There seemed nothing in the world save murder and treachery; wasn’t it only sensible to use murder and treachery in return?
He thought, So we are a pack of snarling dogs, and the wolves come in and eat us up.
Finally, he flung his cloak over his shoulders and went down again to his horse and rode toward the gate. Gainsburgh was only one main street along the river, and with the dark coming the gate was jammed with people trying to get home. He waited awhile for the chance to go through, while people with hoes and rakes and bundles on their backs pushed in past him, and, while he sat there on his horse, Godwine of Wessex came up beside him, on foot, leading his horse by the reins.
“My lord.”
The boy had taken off his hat to speak to Edmund; he seemed no more than a child. He stood by Edmund’s stirrup and said, “My lord, I want to join you.”
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