Fenrir (23 page)

A raven descended from the tree.

Blood, by blood begot
. Hugin could not tell if the words were in his head or were spoken aloud.

The bird hopped up onto Munin’s shoulder and pecked at her ear, drawing blood.

Hugin heard his sister’s voice in his head, addressing the bird:
You shall find her
.

A second bird dropped onto her other shoulder and drove its beak into her neck.

Fire by fire begot
.

A gout of blood ran down her breast.

You shall mark her
. Munin to the other bird.

Now a third, a black leaf dropping from a branch. It too drew blood on her neck.

Death by death begot
.

The bird sat looking at her, as if waiting for instructions.

And you shall carry the blood of the serpent to where she rests
.

The first raven gave out its cracking cry and flew up into the night, the other two calling after it as they chased it into the dark.

Hugin felt the heaviness in his head shift. He was cold, tired and vulnerable, though he still got to his feet. ‘The birds will do for her?’

The woman said nothing but Hugin nodded anyway. ‘Then I will go to make sure. Grettir’s men will burn the earth to find her.’

‘Take forty men to the farms to the south, and if you cannot find her there, she will no longer be your concern. You have business elsewhere. The girl has been seen. If she can be killed then I will kill her.’

‘And if she can’t?’

‘Then a hard road opens to us. We must find the wolf and contain him.’

‘So where for me?’

‘The road east to the dead lord’s well. The wolf will seek the god’s trail there. We must see him at least, to know how to act.’

‘How shall I summon him? I am a man, not a woman. My magic is a weak thing.’

‘Yes.’

‘So?’

Munin’s head bowed for a second. ‘You know who is in the hills and streams of Aguanum. You know what he wants. Give it to him until he reveals the wolf to you. The waters of the temple are hungry. It is up to you to feed them.’

‘How many?’

‘How many what?’

‘How many deaths?’

‘All of them,’ said Munin.

Hugin breathed out and glanced towards the men in the trees. ‘You will not come with me?’

‘I will stay here and try to kill the girl.’

‘What of the rest of the war band?’

‘They will travel with me to track the girl. If I cannot kill her by magic they can do it by more usual methods.’

The Raven bent down and squeezed his sister’s hand. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘We will survive this.’

‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said.

‘It does to me.’

‘The god must live.’

‘And you too, my sister, and you too.’

The woman said nothing, just felt for a bundle of yellow rags at her side and pushed it into Hrafn’s hands.

He could feel something solid beneath the cloth. He shook it and heard liquid. He touched his tongue to his lips.

‘All of them?’ he said.

‘All of them.’

Hugin kissed his sister on the forehead. He went to the men waiting among the trees and told them they were to split into two groups. The two hundred-odd who were to stay with Munin gave a cheer and tall Grettir himself shouted that they had a powerful witch on their side and that their fortunes were now secure.

‘We will have our boats back!’ he shouted.

Hugin nodded. ‘She will help you get into the camp,’ he said. ‘If you take twenty men you can get your boats. Then head down the Seine and meet your main force there.’

‘When will we be reunited?’ said Grettir. ‘I am lending my men, not throwing them away.’

‘You will be reunited,’ said Hugin, ‘before the year is out. You have my word. My sister can find me through her art.’

Grettir smiled, though Hugin noticed some concern in his eyes as he glanced towards his sister.

‘She is a good woman,’ Hugin said, ‘and you will prosper by her side.’

He raised his arm as a signal to his chosen men to follow him. The forty hurried to shoulder their shields, to be out of the presence of the torn and tattered thing that sat by the fire in the woods relaying messages from their gods. Then they followed Hugin as he walked into the forest night.

The young man had at first thought to kill the bird that dropped from the smoke vent. Boiled raven was barely edible but meat was scarce enough to make anything welcome. But then it had looked so funny, perched on the shoulder of the sleeping lord. The bird then hopped up onto his head, and the young farmer had wondered, half hoped, that it would make its mess on the nobleman’s hair. He bore no ill will to the lord at all, in fact he rather respected him, but his sense of humour was such that birds messing on the hair of sleeping men was extremely amusing to him.

But then there had been a flutter and a tumble of wings, and he felt a sharp sting on his cheek. It was another raven, flapping to the smoke vent. He put a hand to his cheek then his fingers to his lips. Blood. The thing had cut him, pecked him or slashed at him with its feet as it flew past.

He said nothing but just looked down at the blood on his fingers. The bird on the nobleman’s shoulder was looking at the young farmer, its eyes two little gleaming coals. He felt no inclination to move, though the heat of the embers seemed oppressive. The bird kept looking at him. Was it his imagination or did it seem to be standing in a sort of questioning posture, its head cocked as if evaluating him?

His hands went back to his cheek. The wound was painful, not like a normal cut, more like a bee sting. He felt his heart begin to race. Nothing seemed clear to him. It was as if something was writhing in his head, as if he wanted to stand up, sit down, be still and run all at the same time.

The breathing of the young lord seemed abnormally loud, irritatingly loud. The man might have killed the enemy king but did he have to hem and haw so? Had the lord really killed the king? He knew those noblemen were full of lies, despite their airs and graces. The heat was becoming unbearable. He took off his smock and sat bare-chested. He was sweating heavily now. The pain on his cheek was spreading a numbness all the way down his right side.

The bird’s eyes never left him.

The young farmer stretched out his arms. ‘What answer would you have me give?’ he said. He realised he was talking to the raven. The stupidity of that struck him and he fell to giggling. The bird watched him still. The young man had never been so hot nor found anything so funny. He was shivering despite the heat. The giggling subsided and he felt another emotion growing inside him. Anger. He knew, of course, what the noble intended. To rape his sister, take his crops and kill anyone who stood in his way.
They did that sort of thing, those high men; it was well known
.

The nobleman wasn’t really sleeping; he was lying there like a fox, biding his time until everyone dropped off. Then he would get up to begin his foul acts. The nobility took its portion by right, but the people expected defending in return. What had they done, these fine fellows? Allowed the country to be overrun by Norsemen, Neustria pillaged and Paris besieged. If a common man did not pay them his dues what could he expect?

The heat in his head was unbearable. He felt something biting and writhing within him, tearing at his reason, shredding his thoughts. The bird’s eyes were on him, glittering black stones. He stood up. He picked up a knife from the bench at the table. They had had meat as an honour to the lord. The blade was a good one, used for fine boning. He looked down at the fat foreigner who was the nobleman’s servant.
Him first?

The nobleman stirred.

No, better to take the warrior in his sleep and deal with the servant afterwards
.

The raven cawed as the young man stepped forward and plunged the knife into Aelis’s belly.

Jehan wondered why the Norsemen had agreed so quickly to his suggestion that they head for the mountains. There was no return to camp, no leave-taking of companions; in fact, there seemed to be some urgency about their departure. Ofaeti had four men with him, and they hurried north to meet up with six more.

They found each other at the beginning of the wood where the Raven had tried to work his magic on Jehan. Down the hill they could see the Viking camp. There was activity, noted Jehan, men gathering, tiny but visible under the big moon. The six brought four mules with them and one riding horse, though they were lightly provisioned. The animals bore mail hauberks, spears, axes and a couple of bows, bedding and not much else. The men had clearly left in a hurry.

With his restored sight he could not help but stare at them, stare at everything. The night was cloudy but the moon was visible, crisping the edges of the clouds with silver. The air seemed charged, the land to glow.
Did Eden know a light so lovely?
he thought

These men were different from the other Vikings he had seen in the wood. They were blonder, taller and for the most part more strongly built. Ofaeti was a sight to behold, fat but powerful, using a spear for a staff. Svan too was a giant, with a great red beard that seemed to burn like copper in the day’s strange light. He carried a large single-headed axe. Fastarr, the one with the hammer on his shield, was a lean and nimble-looking man who wore a sword at his belt. He had a large and ugly scar on his cheek – clearly he had taken a spear point or sword tip there at some point. Then there was Astarth, the youngest with his wispy beard, and the rough and coarse Egil, whose profanity stood out even in that company of battle-bitten warriors. The rest of the eleven had not yet been addressed by their names and the confessor had no urge to ask them. One was older than the rest. He was grey-haired and two fingers on his right hand were missing. Another carried two swords at his belt, though the rest of his dress was poor.

The men were having a debate as to whether they should put on their war gear. Ofaeti ended it. ‘The sooner we’re out of here the better. No time for all that,’ he said.

‘You know the way?’ said Fastarr to the confessor.

‘I know of it,’ said Jehan, ‘it is south-east by the trading route to Lombardy.’

Ofaeti nodded. ‘Get us there and emerge with our gold and you’ll never hear from us again. On the courage of Tyr, I swear you will come to no harm. Betray us and I will kill a monk for every day of my anger, and my anger does not cool slow,’ he said. ‘I want your word, on your god, that you will treat us as fairly as we treat you. That is to say, well. You’ll have no trouble from us if you give us none. Do you swear?’

Jehan looked at the men. He was in their power and had little choice. He needed to get to Saint-Maurice and these men looked capable of getting him there. How much money would he get for the monk’s bones? None. So his oath would be discharged the moment he told the berserkers they had earned no pay for their booty. Then the monks would be free to kill them. Was that the most satisfactory outcome? It was certainly the one that most churchmen would favour. But surely it would be better to bring these men to Christ. He would try, he thought, he would try.

‘You have my oath,’ he said. ‘I will serve you in this task.’

‘Good,’ said Ofaeti. He went to a mule and took out a pair of sandals.

‘It’s a long walk so you’ll be needing these. Don’t think it a kindness. I don’t want you slowing us with blisters or taking up space on a mule. Where do we go from here?’

‘There is a ford. I think it’s down this hill.’

Jehan strapped on the sandals, his fingers fumbling at the knots. He was unused to tying on shoes, unused to doing anything at all for himself.

‘Hurry it up,’ said Fastarr. ‘Lord Rollo is about to express his gratitude for what Ofaeti did to his son. A ford where?’

Jehan pointed to where the memory of his childhood told him the ford was but the berserkers were staring back down the hill. He turned to see what they were looking at. A group of warriors was assembling. How many? Forty or so, more joining from down in the camp, some on horseback.

Ofaeti shrugged. ‘He was a grown man and it was he who issued the challenge.’

‘After you’d punched him in the face and knocked the teeth out of his head.’

‘After he’d called me unmanly. The law’s plain. I could have killed him for that on the spot. I was willing to leave it at a broken nose. He was the one who wanted to take it further.’

‘They are massing,’ said Holmgeirr.

‘We could stand and fight,’ said Astarth.

Fastarr shook his head. ‘If few are to succeed against many then the many need to flee. They are Rollo’s men and will fight with a grudge. We can’t kill enough to rout them. We’d never run so many.’

‘We could just roll you down the hill to flatten them, you fat bastard,’ said Egil.

‘If you like,’ said Ofaeti. ‘The walk back up will do me good.’