“But our duke has the agreement in hand,” Dag repeated.
Magnus raked fingers through his hair. “We’ll wait an hour, then if they haven’t returned, we’ll go.”
Clambering over exposed trees roots, dodging wayward branches and sidestepping muddy puddles soon had Judith perspiring, despite the chilly air. Trying to keep up with Vilhelm’s giant strides left her breathless.
She sensed something wasn’t quite right, but her worries disappeared when they came upon Arnulf waiting by the rowboat. The monk she supposed had served as his scribe sat in the boat, arms folded on his lap. The vital treaty was no doubt tucked safely in the wide sleeves of his habit.
At the oars sat the man who had rowed them to the island.
She sidestepped carefully down the grassy bank to stand face to face with her brother. “I wanted to say goodbye,” she said, trying to bring order to her disheveled hair. “Unfortunately, you’ll remember your sister as a wind-blown wreck.”
He laughed, taking her into his embrace. He smelled of wood smoke, and ink. “Ah, Judith, I regret the hurt inflicted on you. What can I say? It’s a man’s world.”
It occurred to her he was being flippant regarding the ordeal of her marriage to Theodoric and the danger she’d been placed in. And why had he readily capitulated to Vilhelm’s demands? As far as she understood he’d given up his claim to Montreuil. She stepped back, deciding to put him to the test. “My betrothed is on the other bank of the river, if you wish to meet him. You are allied with the Normans now. No harm will befall you.”
She doubted Vilhelm heard her words, and he was likely impatient to return to his camp. Arnulf narrowed his eyes, betraying his reluctance to accompany them in any case.
“I wish you happiness, Judith,” he said with a mock bow as he stepped into the boat. “Farewell, Vilhelm,” he shouted with a salute. “Take good care of that impressive sword.”
The duke laughed.
Judith climbed half way up the bank to watch her past sail away as her brother’s boat make its way to the far side of the choppy river. A brighter future lay ahead. She was ready to join Vilhelm, when Arnulf came to his feet, waving his arms and shouting. She clasped her hands to her breast, afraid the rocking boat might tip, but what was he trying to tell them?
She turned to Vilhelm. Her heart stopped. Behind him, in the trees, stood the two Vermandois, bows drawn, arrows nocked.
The duke moved to shield her as he reached for his sword. She screamed as blood sprayed across her gown. Vilhelm fell backwards to breathe his last at her feet, an arrow lodged in his throat, Ulfberht still in its scabbard.
You Have Murdered Me
“Listen,” Magnus instructed his brother. “Do I hear screaming?”
Dag lifted his chin and cocked an ear. “Might be, or mayhap a flock of birds.”
“Something is amiss,” he shouted. “Find boats. Peace treaty be damned. We’re going to the island.”
He hastened to the camp, yelling orders left and right. “Why was no forethought given to providing boats?” he asked no one in particular.
Espying some of his own troops, he dispatched them to the nearby hamlet. “Round up locals who can tell us about the river,” he ordered. “If we can’t find boats, we might have to attempt a crossing on horseback.”
He shuddered, recalling his father’s tale of crossing the Seine long ago with a string of horses. They’d come close to being swept away. Not for the first time he cursed his inability to swim more than a few strokes.
Men scurried here and there, seemingly without purpose, adding to his growing anxiety. At last, a shout came from further up the bank where soldiers were poking through reeds. “Here, my lord!”
He ran, his lungs on fire, his feet mired in dread. They had retrieved an ancient boat from its hiding place. Without stopping to check if it was seaworthy, he clambered aboard and grabbed the oars. Dag jumped in after him. He beckoned the three who’d found the boat. “Get in,” he commanded.
He rowed away from the bank as the last soldier fell into the small craft. “Find anything that floats,” he yelled to those still on the shore.
“There’s treachery afoot,” he said to Dag, pulling heavily on the oars. “I feel it in my bones.”
Screaming at the top of her lungs, Judith collapsed to her knees beside the slain duke. His eyes stared heavenward as if trying to comprehend what had befallen him. Blood gurgled from the ghastly wound. His dead hand gripped the hilt of his sword.
Fear soon constricted her throat and her screams turned to sobs. She trembled, expecting to feel the bite of an arrow, but when she looked up at the assassins, they had lowered their bows and were looking out to the river.
Arnulf was still shouting. She turned her head slowly, unwilling to set eyes on her treacherous brother. The boat had turned and he was leaning forward at the prow. “Put those weapons aside,” he yelled to the Vermandois. “What in the name of the saints have you done?”
He leapt into the shallows and strode through the water to hunker down beside her. “Judith,” he panted, gathering her into his arms. “Are you wounded?”
“You have assassinated the Duke of the Normans,” she rasped in an eerie voice she didn’t recognize.
The monk loomed over the corpse, praying.
“Nay,” Arnulf replied. “I did not order this.”
“You thirst for Montreuil. He wouldn’t let you have it. You killed him,” she said, Thor’s hammer pounding in her head, bile rising in her throat. “I feel sick.”
He hauled her to her feet. “Get in the boat. We must flee.”
She was trapped in a maze. With no way out. “Flee?” she parroted. “I am not responsible for this,” she choked out, wishing she hadn’t looked again at Vilhelm’s startled gaze. “Please close his eyes, Brother,” she begged.
“The Normans will not believe I didn’t order his death,” Arnulf growled, dragging her to the boat. “They will accuse you of abetting this crime. You are covered in his blood.”
“Magnus will never believe such a thing of me,” she screamed. But faces full of hate and false accusations loomed in her mind’s eye. She would be condemned because she was Arnulf’s sister. Her beloved might not be able to save her. “You have murdered me,” she murmured.
He shoved her into the boat. “Hold her,” he yelled at the oarsman, before turning to climb back to where Vilhelm lay. He looked at the body for a moment, then unbuckled the scabbard.
“What are you doing?” she screeched, watching him pry Vilhelm’s hand from the sword’s hilt.
“I intend to leave these two idiots here to answer to the Normans, but I will not abandon this priceless sword.”
He pulled the scabbard to his chest.
The assassins hurried from the trees. “Surely, my lord, you will not leave us to face the Norman army alone. Every powerful Frankish noble wanted this man dead. He’s an upstart who meddled in the affairs of Francia. Our lord Herbert has often repeated it.”
Arnulf drew the famous sword, tossing the scabbard into the boat. “My father-by-marriage and I may have wanted him dead, but not like this. Come any closer and I will lop off a limb or two. Throw your weapons into the river.”
“But my lord—”
“Do it,” he shouted, climbing unsteadily back into the boat, the hilt of the sword gripped in both hands.
Arnulf’s man rowed them away into Hell as she gaped at the assassins tossing their bows into the Somme.
Dag and the other Normans leapt from the boat and shoved it into the bank. Magnus threw down the oars and joined them on shore, pointing to the pathway. “This is where we last saw Judith and the duke,” he explained.
Dag touched his arm. “They’ve located more boats. We’ll soon have a number of men here.”
Magnus started up the path, sword in one hand, dagger in the other. “That’s good but we cannot wait.”
Inside the trees, he halted, crouching down. “I smell wood smoke,” he whispered.
He was a decisive man, a trait inherited from his father, and it rankled that hesitation plagued him. His next actions might endanger a fragile peace, or save his beloved’s life. Better the duke become aware they’d crossed the river instead of rushing headlong into the forest. Vilhelm and Arnulf might be having a productive discussion around a campfire. He stood and shouted, “My Lord Duke. Your loyal subjects have come to escort you.”
The wind rustling the autumn leaves whispered an echo, but no reply came save the lapping of water against the shore and the distant shouts of the other Normans crossing the river.
They crept forward until Magnus sensed movement ahead. He called a halt as a portly monk appeared from the trees, waving his arms.
“My lords,” the man panted, collapsing into Dag who wrinkled his nose as he struggled to hold him up. “My lords.”
The monk’s pattern of speech led Magnus to believe he was from Ponthieu. “Who are you? What’s going on here?”
To his consternation, the malodorous cleric fell at his feet, his forehead on Magnus’s boots. “Forgive me. I did not know. Murder most foul. I did not know. I’m a humble monk from Abbatis, summoned as a scrivener.”
Magnus’s blood turned to ice. “Murder?” he growled, looking down at the soiled and tattered robes of the man groveling at his feet. Surely Arnulf hadn’t killed his own sister, his flesh and blood?
Fearing he might retch if he touched the monk, he signaled two of the men to get him to his feet. “Now,” he said, trying to breathe normally, “explain to me what has gone on here? Where is Judith of Valognes?”
Fidgeting with the frayed tassels of his belt, the cleric’s eyes flitted from the sword to the dagger. “Er—she is gone.”
“Gone where?”
“With the Comte of Flandres.”
His heart sank. Judith had left him. Had this been her plan? The monk refused to look him in the eye. What was he not being told?
“And Duke Vilhelm allowed her to go?”
The monk crossed himself, looking ready to burst into tears. “He had no say in the matter.”
A shiver of apprehension soared up Magnus’s spine. He leaned forward to stand nose to nose with the sweating cleric. A faint odor of wood smoke lingered on the man’s robe. “No say?”
The monk prostrated himself again. “I had nothing to do with it, I swear. I was in the boat. The foreigners—”
Magnus sheathed his sword and dagger, begging the gods for patience. “Tell me now what has happened to our duke.”
The monk took a deep breath. “He is dead, my lord. On the opposite side of the island.”
Vilhelm dead?
Magnus felt like his head had been plunged into icy cold water. He looked at Dag whose face betrayed the same horror coursing through his veins. His first urge was to chop off this liar’s head, but he knew in his heart the terrified man was telling the truth.
It was as if time stood still in that pleasant glade. Their chieftain had been slain. His bastard heir was yet a child. The future of Normandie suddenly looked bleak. And Judith had betrayed him.
“Take me to him,” he rasped.
The monk scrambled to his feet. “Beware, my lord. The assassins are still on the island.”
“Arnulf?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Oh no,” the monk replied. “Arnulf did not kill the duke. I think the assassins were men from Vermandois.”
Arnulf might not have done the deed, but Magnus had no doubt the Comte of Flandres had planned this assassination meticulously. And Judith had helped him. What a fool he’d been to trust her. Now his duke lay dead as a consequence.
“How are they armed?” he asked as they proceeded into the wood.
“Both had bows,” the cleric replied. “But Arnulf ordered the weapons be thrown into the river.”
The Flemish comte had left his assassins to the mercy of the Normans, but there would be no mercy.
Flight
Judith had only a vague memory of the Flemish army’s flight from Picquigny. She had never ridden so hard for so long in her life. She clung to her steed’s mane, fearful of falling to the hard ground at every turn in the rutted road. Her teeth ached from clenching her jaw, and she’d bitten her tongue more than once. She was sure there was no skin left on her raw bottom. The closer they came to the towns and villages of Flandres, the tighter the knot squeezing her heart became.
Adela would not be pleased.
Beatrice! Tears welled at the prospect of never seeing her beloved maid again.
And Magnus.
Life without him loomed like an abyss of nothingness. He might not believe she’d had nothing to do with the duke’s murder, but she had to try to return to him.
His family was her family. She loved his girls, loved him. Montdebryk was where she belonged.
Arnulf had apparently given up trying to convince her he hadn’t planned the assassination. She’d flatly refused to believe him, eventually ignoring his protestations completely. Her mind whirled with a thousand ways to escape.
They had followed the Somme and were approaching Abbatis. If she convinced Arnulf to stop for the night at Theodoric’s house she might have a chance. It wouldn’t be easy. She didn’t want her brother’s blood on her hands and wouldn’t try to interfere with his flight to Bruggen, but she was compelled to retrieve the sword with the unpronounceable name, given to Vilhelm by his father. He had adopted the name Longsword in its honor. It belonged to Magnus’s people. To them it was more than a sword.
The idea of trying to rescue the weapon filled her with misgivings. Arnulf needed two hands to lift it. How to get it safely back to Normandie was beyond her paralyzed wits.
It was a small satisfaction that her brother hadn’t buckled the huge sword on his own hips. He’d probably trip over it if he did, she mused. It was strapped to his back and his rounded shoulders betrayed the strain of the extra weight.
They skirted Abbatis, which convinced her the village must still be in Norman hands. She recognized the lane leading to her house. “I cannot go further,” she called to Arnulf riding ahead of her. “We must stop at Theodoric’s house.”
“There is still daylight left,” he replied. “I plan to stop at Saint-Riquier. There is room in the abbey to billet my officers.”
He must have secured the town en route to Picquigny. She glanced at the rising moon. “I prefer to sleep in a house. You and I will be more comfortable there.”
But he was adamant. “On to Saint Riquier.”
Judith had no love in her heart for Theodoric’s house. She might have been buried alive there. Yet, as they passed, she was filled with an inexplicable wistful fondness. She could have lived there with Magnus and been happy. Happiness lay wherever he was.
She closed her eyes to conjure an image of him. He must be aware by now of the duke’s death and believed she had betrayed him. She imagined fury contorting his handsome face into a mask of loathing. He would seek revenge for his people. She would prefer death to Magnus’s hatred.
Darkness was descending as they rode past a ring of weary looking Flemish soldiers guarding Saint Riquier, but it didn’t conceal the pile of Norman corpses shoved to the side of the road. She covered her nose with her sleeve, praying fervently none of Magnus’s kin lay among the dead.
Arnulf must have needed to protect his flank if he’d taken Saint Riquier. Had he expected to be fleeing in haste from Picquigny? Or was it a precaution?
They rode on to the abbey. To her surprise, Father Septimus stood at the door, protecting villagers who clustered around him fearfully when they caught sight of the Flemish soldiers.
“Looks like they are going into evening Mass,” Arnulf said. He waved to the old priest. “They need have no fear. My men will not harm them.”
A glimmer of hope sparked in her breast. She lacked the physical strength to overwhelm her brother and take the sword. If by some miracle she escaped, Arnulf would pursue her. But if she persuaded him to let her go—
&nbs
p; “It’s a sign from God,” she told him. “We must say our Penance and receive the Eucharist. Only then will our souls be cleansed.”
Protesting he had nothing to confess, he turned in the saddle to look down the road to Abbatis. His second in command followed his gaze.
They sense the Normans can’t be far behind.
Her heart filled with conflicting emotions. She didn’t want Arnulf to be caught. What if he hadn’t plotted the duke’s death? Had the Vermandois acted alone, on Herbert’s orders? Or had the assassins assumed their leader wanted Vilhelm dead?
But someone had to atone for the crime.
To her surprise, Arnulf dismounted. “Send the men on,” he commanded his lieutenant. “I’ve changed my mind. We won’t billet here. Our army will remain in harm’s way until we reach Flandres. I will catch up after Mass.”
It seemed his Second might object to a forced march in darkness, but he apparently thought better of it, saluted and rode off.
Arnulf handed the reins to a peasant and reached up to help her dismount. Her knees buckled when her feet touched the ground forcing her to lean heavily on him. She’d never smelled fear on him before.
“You’re innocent of the crime,” she whispered, the truth of it calming her troubled heart.
Some of the stiffness went out of his spine. The enormous sword shifted. “You must believe me, Judith,” he replied, hitching the strap of the scabbard back onto his shoulder. “I did not plot Vilhelm’s death. I may have in the past, but why now?” He patted the place where she suspected the signed parchment lay beneath his gambeson. “Peace was in our grasp.”
She held his hand as they entered the abbey. They hesitated at the back of the church. Judith looked to the altar, and knew what had to be done. The memory of kneeling beside Magnus in this holy place to receive the Eucharist strengthened her resolve. “You must let me go,” she whispered, tightening her grip on his hand. “There is no life for me in Bruggen. Magnus of Montdebryk is my destiny.”
Viking Betrayed (Viking Roots Book 3) Page 19