Council, page 19
And then there was Freysteinn, and her.
‘We’ll need two carts.’ Jorunn’s voice was clipped and commanding. Helga felt her hackles rise and fought down her immediate response. Get them yourself, bitch.
‘I can provide,’ Freysteinn replied.
Jorunn turned to the Northmen. ‘What did your chieftain say about supplies?’
‘Ambers, herbs and furs,’ the short man said. ‘Courtesy of the king.’ His voice was laced with badly concealed contempt.
So I’m not the only one who thinks this is a very, very bad idea. Good.
Freysteinn started down the hill. Helga looked around the group of people she didn’t know and before she’d realised, her feet had decided for her and started after him. ‘Wait,’ she hissed.
He looked over his shoulder at her, smiled and slowed down. ‘Come on then.’ There was a twinkle in his eye. ‘We’ve got things to do.’
She caught up and for a moment couldn’t decide which question to start with – but she couldn’t stop herself blurting out, ‘This is the most half-witted idea I’ve ever heard. Why are we going to Hedeby? Straight into King Harald’s spears?’
Freysteinn’s smile was almost indulgent. ‘Why would he have his spears out? He won’t suspect us of anything at all. We’ll just be traders.’
‘That’s a sack of pig-shit and you know it. Everyone there will know Jorunn—’
‘—as a trader,’ he finished for her. ‘Someone who frequently travels – to Uppsala, to Hedeby, to wherever she likes.’
‘And what will we be on this trip?’
Freysteinn kept walking, moving towards the stables. ‘You’ll be you: a dealer in herbs. Ludin’s Hel-spawn will be our guard. The old-beard will be the grumbling cook every trade cart has, for reasons I’ve never understood, and Nazreen will follow Jorunn around like a creepy shadow and make people want to not ask about whatever he is.’
‘And you?’ For some reason, his smug, ready answers were becoming deeply irritating.
‘I’ll be the handsome driver,’ he replied, grinning as he ducked into the stables.
I’ll tell you where you can stick your reins. She scowled at the doorway he’d disappeared through, wondering why he was altogether too happy about this. For a brief moment she wondered if he’d set his sights on Jorunn, then dismissed that thought out of hand. She’d told him about Jorunn: he knew the woman was a liar and a murderer . . . and now she was being forced to share the same carts, by order of the king.
Helga felt suddenly dizzy with the speed of events. One sunrise ago, Uppsala had stood on the brink of being razed to the ground by a great horde of brutal, bloodthirsty warriors. Now the Jomsvikings had been defeated and their fierce captain was roped up in the King’s Hall, no doubt to be ransomed back to the other side of his family – after a comprehensive beating, of course. And still there was something that was nagging at her, scratching at the back of her mind like a hungry rat.
They’d stopped searching for the murderer. They’d clearly all just decided that it was down to King Harald, but why would Styrbjorn’s man – or men – have been killing people at random? Why would they have stripped the boy of everything that might identify him? Why would they have snuck into the heart of enemy territory, just to murder a cook? Especially before the attack, when being caught might have given the whole game away? None of this made any sense.
So they were wrong – and Freysteinn was happy to be wrong.
Don’t worry. You can just go to the king and explain that you have a vague idea that there was a spy for King Harald in the middle of the council who had nothing to do with Styrbjorn and . . .
She couldn’t even finish the sentence. She felt sick – worse, she was sick and angry at the same time. The king was proudly wrong and Freysteinn was proudly smug and this whole mission was stupid and everything was more than a little sour.
The doors opened and Freysteinn emerged, leading an utterly boring, stolid-looking gelding. That’s the king of all carthorses, she thought, then chided herself. Things might not be going to your liking, but you cannot take it out on a horse. ‘No matter how stupid it looks,’ she muttered, taking care to turn away from Freysteinn as she spoke.
‘Our brave troops will charge at the evil in the west from atop this brave steed,’ Freysteinn said, smiling.
Yes, you’re still pretty, but you’re also very annoying. Everything is. ‘I’ll go and see what I can rustle up to trade,’ she said. As she turned away, she thought she saw a shadow of something on his face, but she didn’t care. I’m not going to stay here and suffer your chirping. A surge of spite gave a spring to her step that she really didn’t feel. She held her head high as she walked away, back down the hill to where she’d tethered Grundle.
It didn’t last long.
Like her own personal raincloud, the strain of the last few days overtook her and with it came the questions, all swirling around and melting into one:
WHY?
‘I – don’t – KNOW!’ She clamped her jaw shut so hard it felt like she’d never speak again and discovered biting down felt good. All she needed was a good, thick bone to bite through. Her blood felt boiling hot, then freezing cold. Fury washed over her in waves and she could feel hot tears pressing at the backs of her eyes.
And then she saw him again, the boy, sodden and bluish from the river, staring at her with accusing eyes just before the last of his life drained out of him. He wasn’t from Uppsala, and neither was his father.
He was different.
Different because . . .
She grasped for the answer. There’d seemed to be almost a look of warning on his face. Helga was only dimly aware that she was barging past people she knew, ignoring hails, almost bowling over a white-hair, and when her hand finally closed on Grundle’s reins, it was trembling. Her head was swimming with details – the crushed throat of the fallen man, the death of Lars – and still nothing made sense. Feeling the warmth of the animal and the familiar smells helped some, but not enough.
I need to get away.
She vaulted onto the horse’s back, feeling a little pang of happiness when Grundle offered one of her ill-tempered and long-suffering snorts. ‘I know,’ she muttered, patting the mare’s neck, ‘but there’s grass at home as well, and it’s sweeter there.’ A toss of the mane suggested that Grundle had definite opinions on this that were not necessarily in her favour, but she obeyed.
‘Wait.’
The voice was dry, harsh with age and used to being heard. Almost against her will, Helga found that her instincts had already stopped her and were suggesting she do as she was told. Looking down, she had to fight to suppress a smile.
Crones. They’ll be the death of me.
‘You look well, Ida.’
The old woman stood defiant, like a stubbornly territorial chicken, and stared up at Helga like their heights were quite reversed. ‘Of course I do,’ she said tersely. ‘I’ve been eating.’
‘Good.’ Have you been overthrowing King Harald? Because that’s what I need to go do now, apparently. But she didn’t voice her thoughts because the old woman’s eyes were still trained on her with intensity. There was more to come.
‘You’re still wondering, aren’t you?’
Grundle snorted under her. Grass here was preferable, it appeared, and grass at home might be acceptable, but this chatter was not. ‘About what?’
‘Whether I am all alone, and whether I’m going to get my head chopped off.’
Whether you are all alone . . . Helga’s spine tingled. ‘. . . yes. Yes, I do wonder.’
‘They think the fox takes the chickens. But I’ll tell you something.’ The old woman grinned, revealing a mouth full of surprisingly sharp teeth. ‘It’s not. Sometimes the chicken takes the chickens. Your worst enemy might be right next to you.’ Snapping her mouth shut, she giggled, turned sharply and surged off.
Helga watched her go, not entirely sure what to think. In a half-daze she reminded herself to visit Hertha with new medicines for the mad old woman. Sometimes the chicken takes the chickens.
Almost as if the very thought had summoned her, the farmwife walked into view, concern on her face. ‘Was she bothering you?’
‘What?’ It took Helga a moment to catch up. ‘Oh, Ida? No, not at all. She was just giving me a lecture on the finer points of chickens.’
Hertha rolled her eyes, What can you do? and Helga added kindly, ‘She looks much better, though.’
‘Oh, yes. She helps around the farm now. She’s still a little too keen on the chickens for Nils’ liking, mind, but you’ve saved her neck, girl.’
Helga smiled. ‘Love and food has saved her neck. That’s all your doing.’
The big woman smiled back, almost a little awkwardly. ‘The kids ask after you.’
‘I’ll be sure to swing by soon.’ If I ever come back from Hedeby, she didn’t add.
‘They get very excited when we get visitors. Well, except for that strange boy who came to ask about the council. They didn’t much take to him.’
Suddenly Helga felt like she could taste cold in her blood. ‘What boy?’ she stammered, failing entirely in her attempt to sound casual. She tried to cover up her halting voice with a hasty smile.
If Hertha noticed anything amiss, she didn’t show it. ‘Reddish hair, pale face. West coast accent.’
‘Oh,’ Helga said. ‘Strange.’ Keep her talking! she hissed at herself. ‘Must have been a . . . um . . . a traveller, I guess. What did he want?’
The big woman screwed up her face in recollection. ‘Darned if I know. It was all a bit odd: he started out perfectly normal, but then he started getting a bit nervous – I’ve no idea why; it wasn’t like he was asking anything secret, after all. He just wanted to know if we would be going to the council, who’d be coming. The more questions he asked, the quicker he spoke. He said “we” once or twice, so I asked about travelling companions, but he made some strange excuse and practically ran away. I hope he found whatever it was he was looking for.’
Helga’s head was buzzing. ‘I’m sure he did.’ Well, he found something, all right, although I doubt that was what he was actually looking for. ‘But I mustn’t keep you – best go and find your big chicken.’ She gave Hertha a beaming smile. ‘I have to get going too.’
The farmwife moved closer and took Helga’s hand in her big, callused hands. ‘Look after yourself, girl. We like you.’ With that, she turned and strode off in search of her mad old auntie.
It took Helga a while to get her senses together enough to realise that her hips were swaying to Grundle’s gentle walk. The horse hadn’t bothered waiting for any order; after all, Helga had already said they were going home. ‘At least one of us has some sense,’ she muttered, and the horse whickered in approval.
Drifa, Alvar, Lars and the boy: they’d all been asking questions – and they’d all found answers, after a fashion.
‘More answers than I can manage,’ Helga said bitterly. She managed a brief smile when Grundle snorted in agreement. As they travelled together towards home, one phrase played on her mind.
Travelling companions.
*
‘She’s . . .’ Breki muttered under his breath.
‘About as pleasant as an axe to the face?’ Big Rolf replied, and when the boy nodded, he laughed. ‘True, but she’s on our side and that’s where you want people like that.’ They were far enough away for Jorunn not to have noticed them as she continued ordering and pushing people about, generally snapping at them to do her bidding. Her men had finished loading up the cart and equipping the two carthorses with plausible, not-too-ornate rugs and saddlebags.
Big Rolf looked at Breki. ‘It’s a shame you can’t go, boy. You wanted adventure. But I don’t think this one would be to your liking.’
‘Mm,’ Breki muttered, ‘there’s no denying that.’
It didn’t take Jorunn long to get the carts loaded and the workers dismissed and soon there were only six of them left. ‘Right,’ she said, her words weighted with the expectation of someone who is usually instantly obeyed. ‘What are we waiting for?’
‘Helga.’ Breki felt the name leave his mouth before he’d had time to think about it.
‘Hm,’ Jorunn replied, ‘yes.’ She turned to the messenger the king had sent. ‘Where is she?’
‘She rode for home to fetch things to trade.’
It was hard to tell what Jorunn was thinking just from looking at her face, Breki found, but her voice was flat when she said, ‘I see.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Breki thought he might have seen Big Rolf hide a smirk.
‘Look, there she is,’ the king’s man said, pointing to the east, and he must have had really good eyes because it was a good few moments before Breki could make out the lone rider approaching. They all watched as the dot became a smudge, then a figure, then the young woman with the long dark hair. She dismounted gracefully and patted her mare fondly on the neck.
‘You took your time,’ Jorunn said flatly.
‘I thought a party of six was a bit too big to account for whatever’s on those carts,’ Helga replied. She unhooked a large sack from her saddle and slung it onto the amber cart. ‘So I brought some more.’
Breki couldn’t help but glance at Big Rolf, who managed in one look to say that yes, he’d seen the exchange and no, he really shouldn’t say anything and yes, they’d talk about it later and yes, he should stop gawping like a moon calf.
If they had been two men, he’d be expecting to break up a fight, but somehow the kindling between the two women didn’t catch fire – not this time, at least. Instead, Helga got back into the saddle and guided her mare to one side. Two serviceable mounts had been provided for the dark-skinned man and the scary one from Ludin’s party, but Big Rolf clambered up onto the cart with an easy joke about being old and bored of horses.
Suddenly it was time. They were ready to ride out.
The cold, sinking feeling in Breki’s stomach was quite at odds with the heat of the summer sun. As the carthorses slowly got going, the group nudged forward, then settled into a steady, relaxed pace. Breki looked up over his shoulder at the god-house, towering over them, impossibly huge, with its golden chains glinting in the sun, then turned back to the carts heading towards the treeline.
He kept watching for a long while after they disappeared.
‘Be safe,’ he muttered, still cold. ‘Be safe, old man.’
*
Not long after the trading party spies had set off for Hedeby, Ingileif’s men started loading up the last of their horses. The North Wind was watching her men readying mounts, checking saddles and distributing supplies in sacks when Eldar approached her.
‘There’s . . . a problem,’ he started bluntly.
She didn’t need to ask. ‘Take me to her.’
They walked together to the covered cart that had been positioned well back from the edge of their camp. Eldar politely leaned in and pulled aside the heavy cloth flap for Ingileif, but stayed outside and turned his back on the cart, almost as if guarding the occupants from disturbance.
The air inside was thick and smelled faintly of burning wood. The woman, who wasn’t much bigger than a child, was sitting in the back corner, like she’d been trying to push herself away from the scattering of bones in the middle. She looked up at the North Wind and croaked, ‘The wolf is still howling. The paw is soft, but the claw is sharp.’
Ingileif looked at her, then the bones. Her smile was tired. ‘Oh, that’s hardly new, Vala.’
‘The wolf – the wolf will kill again. It will kill again.’ She wrapped her bony arms around herself like a protective cage. ‘It will hunt long and kill.’
Ingileif reached in and stroked her fine white hair tenderly. ‘Sleep,’ she murmured. ‘We’ll be moving soon. You’ll see the hills and the trees and then everything will smell right. Would you like that?’
Cloudy eyes blinked at the Chieftain of the North and the crone nodded.
‘Good,’ Ingileif rumbled. She scooped up the bones in the leather patch they were scattered across, tied it up into a pouch and deposited it in the far corner of the cart.
‘The bones are covered. The gate is closed. Rest now, Vala,’ she ordered, but without looking to see if her orders were obeyed, she ducked back out.
Frowning, she stared at the spot in the treeline where she’d last seen the trading caravan.
Chapter 9
Journey
Helga looked at the horses, plodding stolidly on. You don’t care, do you? The two mares had doubtless been pulling carts all their lives; at any rate, they appeared to be utterly unconcerned by the fact that these particular wagons were headed straight for the coast, where they’d somehow manage to find and board a boat to sail for the land of the Danes and from that foreign shore, to make for Hedeby.
Helga was uneasy about the journey herself, and not just because she thought the whole idea of trying to spy on King Harald was crazy. But she had to admit to also being a little intrigued. She’d often heard about Hedeby in travellers’ tales. People she’d met who’d been there generally wore it as a badge pinning a cloak of understatements. Sure there are a lot of people there, but you know, you get used to it. King Harald is a fair ruler, really. He just wants people to do what they’re told. The mercenaries are rough, but they keep to themselves. The smell— They usually cracked when it came to talking about the stench of the place.
And now she was going to find out for herself. She patted Grundle’s neck absentmindedly and the horse snorted in response; she was already bored with the slow pace. There was nothing intoxicating about cart-speed, and there was no hope of using scouting ahead as an excuse to get away, either, not when Jorunn had ordered everyone to stay in a tight line, with her man Nazreen up ahead with her and Haki bringing up the rear. Big Rolf and Freysteinn were driving the carts and Helga had just been told to ‘stay close’. Out of the way of the men, a voice in the back of her head added coldly.
