Council, page 16
‘You bastard,’ she muttered. How could one man turn her head so badly? ‘I promised,’ she told him. ‘I have to find the killer, so get out of my head. Just for now,’ she added, almost apologetically, and got immediately angry with herself. ‘Who am I talking to?’ she spat. In the darkness she could hear the calls of ‘Rider! Rider!’ bouncing around the hill. Now everyone else had seen him as well and it would be impossible to get to him.
She ran.
Briefly, she considered the possibility that she might be wrong; it might not be him after all. Maybe it’s someone else? Maybe he fell off his horse and cracked his head? The memory of the campsite by the river popped into her head again and she shook it away, snorting like an angry mare. ‘You’d better have some good news.’ She bit off each word as she picked up speed, running down the hill as fast as she dared. Here and there firelight danced into her path, making her visible for an eye-blink as she went charging past the inviting circles of heat.
She had to know that he was safe. Had to.
*
The way he sat his horse in the middle of the throng was almost contemptuous. He was out of breath, wild-eyed and fierce. Steam rising from both horse and rider was lit by a handful of torches from below. ‘Styrbjorn is coming,’ Freysteinn repeated. Over a rising chorus of questions, he continued, ‘They met him at Vasby and offered to talk, but he will not agree to anything but the blade. King Eirik will set up camp on our side of Fyris Fields. He will meet his cousin in the morning. He says everyone should bank their fires, pack what they need and be ready to run far and run fast at the first sign of trouble.’
‘How will we know?’ an old woman shouted.
Freysteinn looked down on her. ‘The king will send a rider. If you see an army – run.’ He looks like he’s done nothing else in his life. He is a commander. She felt oddly proud of him, like he was her personal achievement. The people of Uppsala didn’t appear to share her view, however; they didn’t have any more questions, just the occasional muttered curse as they pushed past him.
Should I be going too? She turned the question over in her mind, came to a conclusion and stood her ground.
As the people left with their torches, the darkness crept over them. She knew he’d seen her, but he was clearly going to play the role of stand-in chieftain to the end. Only when the last person had gone did he dismount.
‘You’re here,’ he said softly.
‘You came back.’
‘You are worth coming back for.’ He was near her now, all heat and sweat and smell of horse.
Deep breath. Clear your head.
‘But I have to go to the camp.’
‘I’m coming with you.’ The words were spoken before she even knew she’d thought them, but they were right. There was no way they would be separated from now on.
He paused for a moment. She could feel his eyes on her, but with the moon behind him she could not see them clearly, or figure out what he was thinking. Always look at the face, a memory whispered at her. See what’s inside. Look at the face and you’ll know who they are.
Finally, he spoke. ‘I guess you are.’ There was a hint of amusement in his voice. ‘Where is that tempestuous old nag of yours tied up?’
‘You will watch your mouth or I’ll stuff a pine cone in it when you sleep.’
He reached for her and his hand was warm on her shoulder. There was tension in his grip, but he said nothing, only pulled her close and closer still, and for a moment everything else melted away, everything except the smell of burning pitch lingering in the air, mixing with the cold night air and the warmth of him.
Finally, head buried in her hair, he whispered ‘We have to go.’
*
The only sound during their night ride was the thunder of hooves. Eight hooves, she thought, and a memory scratched at her somewhere. She looked up to see the stations of the gods blazing above her: the burning embers from Muspelheim. Somewhere up there, Odin might be looking down on the two of them, racing through the night to get to the king. And what would he think?
The rune-stones around her neck suddenly felt a little heavier.
But Grundle was moving under her like a rhythmic dream and the thud-thud-thud was perfectly echoing her heartbeat and for a moment nothing existed except her and him and the horses and the night.
And the questions.
She bit down hard in frustration. Like a bad smell, the questions crept in and wouldn’t leave her alone. Why did the father and son have to die? What did they know? And who killed them?
‘Helga!’ Freysteinn was pointing at something. She followed the line and saw – yes, there! – a thick line of black, breaking the dark outline of the ground. The king’s camp.
She waved to indicate that she’d seen the target, then leaning forward, she pressed her heels into Grundle’s sides and murmured. ‘Come on, girl. Let’s show him how it’s done, shall we?’
The joyful straining under her filled her heart. This was life, racing horses at midnight. For a moment she thought she could feel the vibrations of his mount, step in step with hers, trailing her, and they were one and the same, two halves of the same whole, thundering through the darkness on Sleipnir himself.
It was only thanks to Freysteinn that she avoided a stomach full of barbed metal.
He somehow managed to squeeze an extra ounce of energy out of his horse, inching ahead of her and holding his hand up while shouting, ‘Whoooa!’
Grundle responded, slowing reluctantly, and only then did Helga see the shadows of the armed men, a lot later than she should have, but they had already recognised Freysteinn’s voice and had lowered the points of their spears.
‘Are you going to stab your friends?’ His command had a tense note of anger – or fear.
‘Go to the king,’ came the reply. She didn’t recognise the men – Northerners? – but they had not been moved in the slightest by Freysteinn. So he doesn’t command everyone just yet, then.
She walked Grundle forward, unable to think of anything to say. As the shadows on the ground transformed into more soldiers Freysteinn looked changed, somehow. Gazing around, she couldn’t blame him: everywhere she saw fear and fury: in the set of the men’s shoulders, the way they carried their weapons. She was suddenly a lot less clear on the chances of King Eirik beating his cousin.
Cutting through the muted sounds of hooves on soft grass, they could hear shouting from a gathered group ahead of them. She urged Grundle to catch Freysteinn, but he wasn’t showing any urgency now.
‘What’s happening?’ she whispered.
‘Don’t know,’ he said, peering around. ‘Sounds like someone is angry.’
That’s not a lie. Someone spoke – no, screamed – and then she recognised a deep rumble, but she couldn’t make out the words. ‘That’s Alfgeir,’ she said.
‘Mm.’
‘So the king must be near.’
‘Probably.’ If anything, he slowed down.
What’s going on?
‘LET ME GO!’ Something was definitely happening in the group up ahead, because men and horses alike had taken a few steps backwards.
‘Is that . . . Ludin?’ Helga asked.
Freysteinn didn’t reply but dismounted and held the reins of his horse in one hand. Helga did the same. Sounds of scuffling and straining could be heard from the group, but there were still too many bodies in the way and it was impossible to see what was happening.
‘We will not.’ The big man’s voice rang out, half communication and half proclamation. ‘Your blood is up.’
‘Too fucking right it is!’ Ludin roared. ‘You will pay for this!’ He continued shouting, but now the words were lost in grunts and fury. Helga watched Freysteinn wordlessly hand the reins of his horse to one of Alfgeir’s boys and start pushing past to get to the centre. She knew he needed to relay news of the town, but it still hurt a little that he’d just left her.
She found herself standing next to a rider she didn’t know. He glanced at her, but if he was surprised to see a woman there, he did not show it.
He’s afraid. ‘What happened?’
‘After Styrbjorn, Ludin’s Drifa was stabbed in the forest somewhere. She was left for dead.’
The night felt a lot colder. The killer must have gone with them. ‘Is she—?’
‘Somehow managed to drag herself onto a horse. She’s a tough one, is Drifa. We only just found her in time – she’s alive still, but only just. Ludin has promised to kill every single man here who has ever held a knife – it took Alfgeir and three big lads to tie him up.’ The rider paused for a moment, then said quietly, ‘Makes you think about the stories they tell of him. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Thank you.’ Helga was moving forward before she had time to think, already squeezing her way into the middle of the group. A woman is hurt and I am needed. The men were warm and heavy around her, like farm animals, but they weren’t trying to stop her and it was easy enough to slip past them. A circle had formed around Alfgeir and Ludin. When she saw the Southern chieftain, Helga almost stepped back into the anonymous safety of the crowd. Even though he was solidly tied up with four rounds of thick rope, there was absolute and unquestioning murder in every bit of him. He was flanked by two of Alfgeir’s bigger boys, one of whom was clearly favouring his right leg. The way someone would if someone else had just planted a booted heel on top of it, hard. The other was bleeding freely from a gash on his forehead. A third strongman stood a few steps away, ready to spring forward if Ludin of Skane made a move. Well, another move. Gunnar of Skar stood by Alfgeir, looking concerned. Here they are, all these big men, and nobody knows what to do.
Alfgeir held his massive hands up for calm. ‘We don’t know—’
‘Like fuck we don’t,’ Ludin snarled.
‘It could have been one of Styrbjorn’s—’
‘You know it wasn’t. It was someone here, some white-bellied little shit’ – he turned to glare at the crowd, and the pure heat of his hatred made even the most seasoned warriors step back – ‘and I will find you, and I will gut you like a fish.’
Helga had only the blink of an eye to figure out what she was doing, but it wasn’t needed because her feet had already taken her into the circle, almost within range of the furious Ludin. She scanned the faces and saw a mixture of surprise and disbelief. Good. ‘Where is she?’ she snapped. For a heartbeat she wanted to whip her head round and find her mother in the crowd, because that voice was Hildigunnur through and through.
Well. If that’s what we’re doing, best do it properly. She sent a lightning-quick thought to the woman who had taught her, turned to Alfgeir and put all the command she could muster into her voice. ‘Take me to her.’ This is the moment. Either it goes, or it really doesn’t. She did not wait for the big man’s response, because she’d learned some things from the man she’d come to think of as her father too. A hunter waited patiently, but when the moment was there, they shot to kill.
She turned to Ludin and looked him straight in the face. The intensity, the fury of him caught her like a blast of heat from a forge and she willed herself to make him see that he had no power to hurt her.
Make them doubt themselves. Make them wonder. Give them not an inch. She put the cold of winter’s shadow in her voice. ‘You’re wasting time.’
Ludin scowled at her. ‘Ask them,’ he spat.
Helga turned and looked at Alfgeir, voicing a silent question.
‘I’ll take you there.’ Ludin’s swordsman had reached her and now he took her by the arm, almost pulling her off her feet in his eagerness to get her out of the circle. The last thing Helga saw was Freysteinn watching her leave, his face immovable in the half-light. For some reason that stung. I thought you’d be impressed. The thought was there, then gone before she could look at it, replaced by the urgency of a badly injured woman lying somewhere in the darkness. You’re not done, girl.
‘Tell me everything,’ she ordered Gunnar of Skar, her words short and sharp.
‘We were going through the forest,’ he started immediately, sounding far more subdued than she’d heard him before. ‘Styrbjorn had his men light a fire behind them so they couldn’t go back, so we had no choice but to retreat. Our groups got mixed up and somehow Drifa must have got separated from us. Not that we worried, because we all know she can look after herself . . .’ His voice trailed away.
Helga focused his attention again. ‘What are her injuries?’
‘She took a knife to the throat. Whoever did it must have come up behind her, and fast – but they botched it.’
Her heart thumping in her chest, trying to sound calm, Helga asked, ‘How?’
‘They went in too shallow and didn’t rip through the windpipe.’
She was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the man dragging her through the darkness, talking about how to take lives as casually as a blacksmith complaining about an apprentice. The life of his friend, at that. ‘So it’s, what? A cut?’
‘It’s a deep one, at that, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d dropped down immediately and made far too much of it. Played dead, you know.’
‘Why—?’
‘Because that’s what I taught her.’ Gunnar’s voice had suddenly gone cold. ‘And when she comes back to us I will have her tell me who did this to her, and I will get to them before Ludin does, and I will cut them.’
Helga was thankful for the dark. He was a named man, deadlier than most, and she could hear the murder in him, but she doubted that he’d want to see what little effect his threats had. She could almost hear Hildigunnur: When men are afraid, they threaten. When you are afraid, get things done. The thing you fear doesn’t care about words.
‘We’re here,’ Gunnar announced.
‘Here’ turned out to be a hastily erected lean-to. Helga crawled in and sat next to the still shape under the blanket. She breathed out, but she couldn’t quite keep away the smell of fresh blood. A deep one indeed. ‘Light?’
‘Wait,’ Gunnar said, vanishing into the gloom.
Touch. Softly – ever so softly – Helga reached out and touched the woman, who was cold. Too cold. Running a quick mental inventory, she felt for the bag at her hip and pulled out the wormwood. First thing to do was to stop the flow. Grabbing just a pinch of leaves, she chewed them to a paste in her mouth, grimacing at the bitter taste. ‘You can’t carry much in a leaky jug,’ she muttered. How many times had she heard Hildigunnur say that? She’d stopped counting after the first ten days, instead training herself just to chew to the right consistency until it became something she did without thinking.
She tested the paste, squeezing it between thumb and forefinger. Almost ready. Willing herself to slow down, not to rush but to go at the right speed for the cure, she thought about the old crone who had patched up the boys who’d been fighting over her. Those bony hands moved fast, but they’d never hurried. Just like Hildigunnur, she did the right things in the right order.
Stop the flow. That was always first.
‘Is she going to survive?’
The sound of Freysteinn’s voice balanced the surprise, but only just. She managed to catch the yelp before it escaped. ‘I don’t know. I just got here.’ Her voice sounded hard. Brittle. ‘You startled me.’
‘Forgive me. I thought you heard me.’
I damn well didn’t. ‘I can tell you in a moment.’
Freysteinn leaned in and touched her arm. ‘If she is in your hands she has the best chance possible. I think—’
‘Well met . . . ?’ Gunnar’s question was at least part challenge. He was close, too. Close enough to strike. He held a small torch in his left hand, hidden behind a buckler. Shadows flickered on his face and hid his right-hand side.
‘Freysteinn. I ride for Alfgeir.’
There was no response.
‘He’s with me,’ Helga added quickly, and now she could sense Gunnar shifting ever so slightly and leaning in, casting light on Drifa’s body. There was a slight twist of the torso – maybe like someone sheathing a long blade hidden behind their back – and then he was kneeling next to her, closer than Freysteinn. The quiet coming from her lover’s direction was almost tangible, but she couldn’t spare it a thought, for she had things to do.
Her skin is like wet ice, which is not good. ‘Shine the light on the wound. What’s this?’
The flame illuminated a rich dark blue scarf of some sort, wrapped around the woman’s neck.
‘My cape.’
She had a fleeting image of Gunnar striding across to her bench in the longhouse, his richly embroidered cape slung over his shoulder.
‘I cut a strip off it – I had to stop the flow.’
That deserved praise. He may have saved her life. ‘You did well.’ And now I have to be very careful indeed. Pushing the paste to one side in her mouth, she wet her fingers and nudged them under the horrifyingly expensive bandage, inching it away to avoid doing more damage. There. The cloth moved under her fingertips as she pushed – and then it gave way and she remembered the cloth she’d cut away from the first dead body she’d ever seen and for a moment the wound was all wounds—
And then the gash was revealed in all its gore.
‘See? Whoever did this was in a hurry. Or sloppy.’
She breathed in deeply again, telling herself firmly, Back to the task. The wound was a gaping mouth below Drifa’s chin, a thumb’s-width and dark with barely clotted blood. ‘Sharp knife,’ she muttered. ‘Thick blade. Some force on it, too.’
‘A killer’s weapon,’ Gunnar said, ‘short, probably, and easy to hide – but whoever wielded it should have done so again, to make sure.’
And then we wouldn’t be here. Helga’s fingers were in her mouth. She could taste the cold from Drifa’s skin and the smell of the blood mixed with the faintest taste on her fingertips. The paste, a thumb-sized ball, was dark green on her fingers. This part of it always felt a little bit . . . disconnected. She watched herself spread the paste smoothly across Drifa’s throat. Hildigunnur had explained how it worked, that it would stick the blood together with the skin and form a barrier so the heat couldn’t escape.
