Raven: Blood Eye (34 page)

We had not long left the village when riders approached us across a wide meadow of milkwort and marsh marigolds, their shields slung casually across their backs and their spears resting across their saddles. When they were a hundred paces off, one of the riders raised his hand and the band formed a crescent which could easily close to make a ring of death if the leader gave the word.

'Lady Cynethryth?' one of them exclaimed, reining in his stallion, which tossed its black head bad-temperedly. 'Is that you?' She had washed her face, but her long tunic was ragged, a Norseman had taken her fine brooch and a Welshman had taken her cloak. Though an old woman had combed the knots from her hair, it was still a filthy yellow rather than bright gold.

'Of course it's me, Burgred!' Cynethryth replied sternly, rubbing his mount's nose and calming the beast. 'Are you going to sit up there staring like a beady-eyed chicken? Give me your horse, man. My shoes are full of holes.'

'Of course, my lady,' Burgred said gruffly, seemingly irritated that his stallion was nuzzling Cynethryth's cupped hand. He gestured for one of the other men to give up his mount.

'And is my companion to walk, by Christ?' Cynethryth asked, pointing at me. 'He's weary from killing Welshmen.' The Wessexmen looked at me suspiciously, at my blood-eye and the raven's wing in my hair, then one of them grudgingly slipped from his mount and handed me the reins. So I rode back to the place where Norsemen had died, where I had fought with Sigurd's Wolfpack, and where our futures had been struck like silver coins: Ealdorman Ealdred's hall. And I rode with his daughter Cynethryth and the holy gospel book of Saint Jerome.

When Lord Ealdred saw me with Cynethryth his face darkened and his mouth twitched beneath his long sandcoloured moustache. He looked towards the fortress gate, no doubt wondering where the other Norsemen were, then threw his cloak over his shoulder and took Cynethryth in his arms, watching me suspiciously over her head.

Cynethryth tugged her father's moustache affectionately, but Ealdred pulled away and eyed me for a while, and there was distrust in those eyes.

'Come, daughter,' he said, then nodded to me and turned towards his hall, leaving his slaves and retainers hurrying about the place, organizing an impromptu feast to celebrate Cynethryth's safe return.

After telling of what had befallen the Wolfpack, Cynethryth told her father about Weohstan, and tears fell amongst the rushes as she spoke. Ealdred's face seemed to melt like tallow, though his jaw remained clenched so that the muscle in his cheek twitched like an insect trapped beneath the skin. He turned from Cynethryth and bellowed in fury, frightening the slaves, who cowered and hurried out of the hall to find other jobs to do.

'If not for Raven I would be dead too, Father,' Cynethryth said, taking Ealdred's hands in her own. Ealdred suddenly glared at me and his eyes were cold and hard like river stones.

'You fought alongside my son?' he asked, his hand pulling away from Cynethryth to rest on his sword's pommel.

'Yes, my lord,' I replied. 'Weohstan fought like Beowulf himself. Killed more of the whoresons than I did. We would both be dead if not for him.'

Ealdred's eyes flickered with pride, then he stood silently, staring at me as though he did not know whether to embrace me or cut my throat. Eventually, he nodded.

'I owe you a great debt, Norseman,' he said with a scowl, twisting his moustache round his finger. 'My daughter is very precious to me.' He turned and gave Cynethryth a smile that held both grief and love. 'Very precious,' he repeated. Then his face darkened again. 'But I had an agreement with your Jarl Sigurd and he has failed to honour it.' Slowly, as though he bore a great weight across his shoulders, he sat on one of the long mead benches beside the great hearth.

'No, lord,' I said, stepping forward to place the sack containing the holy book on the oak table. I glanced about the hall for signs of the bitter fight, but saw none other than the new door of pale oak which stood out against the dark stained wood of the rest of the hall. The White Christ hangings still swayed in the breeze and there might have been a dark bloodstain above the god's thorn-crowned head.

Ealdred's eyes flicked from me to Cynethryth, and then to the sack, which he stared at for some time. Eventually, his shaking hands touched the drawstring and his fingers began to work feverishly on the knot. 'It cannot be . . .' he mumbled, his long moustache quivering, 'it is not possible . . .' But it was possible, and Lord Ealdred of Wessex roared for someone to bring him a torch to illuminate one of the greatest treasures in Christendom. He held the book at arm's length as though fearful of it, then with a finger stroked the inlaid cross of fine gold within the book's silver cover, lingering on the precious red and green stones set in each corner. 'Beautiful,' he whispered, shaking his head in awe. 'So beautiful.'

Cynethryth stood behind her father, looking over his shoulder, and I dared step closer to the holy book, though I admit I was afraid of it. The cover alone would fetch a fortune, but that was not the source of its power. Just to witness its hold over Lord Ealdred was enough to remind me never to touch the thing again. I was no Christian. I told myself that whatever magic lay within its vellum leaves had no hold over me. And yet Father Egfrith, Ealdred, Weohstan, Cynethryth, King Coenwulf of Mercia, and even King Egbert of Wessex all coveted the book. I had learned always to be wary of that which inspires men. Even fools who pray to a god of peace will fight with their last breath for the mysteries scratched in ink on a dried calf's skin. They will kill with a war god's fury for words.

Ealdred turned the stiff pages, his eyes hungry for every swirling pattern, every elaborate knot of green, purple, blue, and gold adorning them. Some of the patterns formed writhing beasts like those carved on to the prows of Sigurd's longships, and I did not know if they had words inside them too, or whether it was only the small black shapes that spoke to those who knew their magic. 'Cynethryth, go and let the women tend to you,' Ealdred said, tearing his gaze from the book. 'Your mother would roll in her grave to see you in such a state.'

'Don't be silly, Father,' she replied, beginning to plait her dirty hair. 'I'll wash later. I want to stay with you and Raven. Besides, you always adored Mother's hair when it was wild and untamed.'

Ealdred did not take his eyes from the gospel book. 'You are not your mother, Cynethryth,' he said, dragging his lip over his bottom teeth and flicking his hand in a gesture for a retainer to escort the girl from the hall. Cynethryth stormed through the door and I watched her go.

'Do you read, Raven?' Ealdred asked when we were alone.

I shook my head. 'Never had reason to, lord. At least, not in the time I remember and I doubt I had reason before that.' He looked confused then. 'My mind is dark,' I said with a shrug. 'I have no memories of my life before two winters ago.'

He still looked confused, but waved it away. 'Of course you don't read,' he said, returning to the intricate designs. 'There is no reason why you should.' He smiled, running a finger over the image of a woman holding a small man. At her shoulders were men with wings and long pointing fingers, but why they had not flown away I do not know, for the woman was ugly as a stoat. 'The wolf has no love for the shepherd's fire and so he will never know warmth,' Ealdred said.

'The wolf's teeth are sharp, my lord, and his eyes see well in the dark,' I said. 'He has no need for the shepherd or his fire. It would only make him soft.'

Ealdred carefully closed the book and looked up at me. 'I can use a wolf,' he said. 'It seems you have a talent for death, Raven.' His eyebrows arched as he tenderly placed the book back into the sack and stood. 'More important perhaps, you have a talent for staying alive. I thought Mauger had that talent, but it seems even he was mortal. I can give you a good life,' he said, 'if you give me your oath. Swear to be my man, you and your sword mine. I can be generous to those who serve me well.'

'I have a lord and I am bound to him,' I said, instinctively touching the silver ring on my arm.

'Sigurd is dead,' Ealdred countered, his lips parting to show his teeth. 'You owe him nothing now. Or do Norsemen serve ghosts?'

'We don't know that they are dead,' I said. 'Coenwulf's men might have ridden past Sigurd's camp. Even if they found them . . .' I shook my head, 'I do not believe they could have beaten the Wolfpack.' Of course it was possible. Sigurd's men had been asleep and their enemies no doubt outnumbered them greatly. But I had witnessed Ealdred's cunning that night on the beach before
Serpent
and
Fjord-Elk
. I did not trust him, and I wanted the ealdorman to believe that Sigurd would be back for his longships.

'Then where in God's name are they?' Ealdred asked, putting a hand on my shoulder. 'Do you think I can have a heathen war band wandering King Egbert's land? My people won't tolerate it, Raven!' He leant in close to me, so that I could smell the sweet mead on his breath. 'My God won't tolerate it,' he growled.

'What of the silver you owe Sigurd?' I asked. 'And his longships?'

Ealdred twisted his moustache round a ringed finger. 'You brought me the book, Raven. Not Sigurd. The silver is yours. The boats too.' He hesitated. 'If you want them.'

I nodded. 'There is something else, lord,' I said, and he frowned because he thought I would ask for more when he had already offered me enough. 'There is a chance that your son is alive. I said nothing before because I did not want to stir hope in Cynethryth, but Weohstan was breathing when the Welsh got to him.'

'Then they would have gutted him, you fool,' Ealdred said with a grimace, angry that I had steered his mind back to his son's fate. 'We show those bastards no mercy and they show none to us.'

'My lord, the Welsh lost many men. Too many. They paid a heavy price for one night's hunting.'

Ealdred raised an eyebrow. 'Even more reason why they would want to spill his blood. Anyway, the whoresons breed like hares.'

'They would have seen that Weohstan was high born.' I smiled. 'Your son
is
a killer, but he looks like a nobleman.' The ealdorman was still frowning, but now he nodded slowly and I knew that his heart had grasped the slender thread of hope. 'The black-shields must have known he was worth more to them alive than dead.' Ealdred's eyes closed and he turned his face to the smoke-blackened beams above. 'Give me forty men,' I said flatly. 'Not levy men, but proper fighting men. I will cross King Offa's wall and find your son. If he is dead I will slaughter his killers and bring you his body so that you might bury him as you would, with honour.'

Ealdred might have laughed at my arrogance. He might have pointed at my one warrior ring and asked how a man with his first beard would lead Wessexmen, warriors who had fought many battles for their lord and king, against the Welsh. He might have asked if I was drunk, or shouted for his warriors to run me through for my vanity and for stirring false hope. But Ealdred did none of these things. He looked at me as a man looks at a wild animal that has no understanding of its own mortality. To Ealdred I was a strange, godless creature with no fear of this life or the next, and I believe I intrigued him.

'Why would you do this?' he asked, staring at the raven's wing in my hair. 'You've already said you will not swear fealty to me.'

'My jarl is somewhere out there,' I said, picking dried blood from the rings of my brynja's shoulder and crumbling it between thumb and forefinger. 'After I have found Weohstan, I will find Sigurd.' I smiled at Ealdred then. 'I will find him before your god does.' And although that is what I told Ealdred, there was another reason why I would wet my sword with Welsh blood. I would bring Weohstan back to Wessex for Cynethryth.

That night Ealdred gave his people a great feast to celebrate his daughter's return and because, he said, she had escaped the bed of a Mercian sheep-lover before blooding his linen. He did not mention the holy gospel book of Saint Jerome, but that did not surprise me. You did not shout about owning such a treasure unless you wanted jealous men to covert it for themselves.

New rushes were laid, fires were set, and come evening the ealdorman's mead hall thronged with his people. Warriors, craftsmen, traders and merchants paid their compliments to Ealdred's family, made friends with his friends and gorged on swan and beef, pork and trout, wine and good sweet mead. Ealdred even managed to look mournful as he read a passage from a simple leather-bound book in memory of Father Egfrith, 'so cruelly slain by the heathens'. Then he had other priests say prayers before we were made to listen to one of his young nephews play the reed pipe. Thór's balls the boy was bad. The sound reminded me of a newborn's squawking and even Ealdred seemed relieved when the boy's mother led him ashamedly from the hall.