The priest said, 'What a man. Sees a problem, solves it, moves on. Well, Orm Egilsson, you'll have a story to tell when you get drunk tonight.'
Godgifu scraped the mud that clung to Orm's mail. 'Anything broken?'
'Only my pride.' He looked down at her as her gloved hands brushed across his chest. Their eyes met, her bright boyish gaze playful yet with hints of depth. The way she stroked his chest felt almost tender, despite the layers of cloth and metal that separated his flesh from hers.
He asked, 'Who was that?' But he thought he knew the answer before the priest replied.
Sihtric said, 'Harold, son of Godwine, Earl of Wessex. Quite a man, don't you think? And now you owe him your life, Orm Egilsson.'
It was midsummer, 1064.
II
Orm didn't see Godgifu again until the raiding party returned to Normandy.
Orm was actually paid off at the Breton border. He didn't make much of a profit, given the cost of the horse and the weapons he lost in the mud, and he would have been glad to see the back of the Norman raiders, who had mocked him mercilessly since his fall. But, paying his own way, he stayed with William's party all the way to the small town of Bayeux, where Duke William's half-brother Odo was bishop. There a feast was to be held, and a service of thanksgiving given by Odo in his richly appointed church.
Orm, twenty-two years old, was an adventurer. As a second son it was up to him to find his own wealth and land. In the patchwork of warring dukedoms that was northern Frankia there were plenty of opportunities to fight – and there were few better paymasters than William the Bastard, who had been winning battles since he had fought his way out of his own brutal childhood.
Some day, when he was rich or feeble or both, Orm would go back home to find a wife, buy some land, and build a farm of his own. Or perhaps he would go to England, where Danes, it was said, were still welcome, even if he might have to become a Christian and abandon the faith of his forefathers. But in the meantime he was an opportunist. And in his chance encounter with the English girl Godgifu, in those moments when she had touched his muddy mail and looked into his eyes, he thought he had glimpsed an opportunity, a new track. And so he followed William home to see where this new chance might lead.
In the end he found her in Bayeux, one bright midday.
Bayeux was dominated by churches, and the manor houses of the lords. Today the little town was crowded with William's men, and the vendors, chancers and whores that clustered around any successful army. By noon the roasting pits had been burning for a day and a night already, full of butchered pigs, sheep and cattle plundered from Breton farms, and the wine was flowing freely. The warriors strutted through the town like the sons of gods, eating, drinking, rutting, fighting, sleeping where they fell. They wore their helmets so that the whores would know who they were, though Orm was surprised their cocks weren't already worn to nubs from their endless obsessive rapine.
The ordinary people of the town just had to put up with all this. They lived in long houses, like halls, families crammed in together, sharing their space with their animals in the winter. Desperately poor, they had to spend most of their time working not for themselves but on their lords' lands. They made Orm uncomfortable. Unlike Danes, unlike English, they were fundamentally unfree in a sense that offended Orm's independent spirit.
The English party that had travelled with Harold was still here. The English wore their hair long; few had beards, but many had long moustaches that needed a lot of grooming. The Normans, who dressed so soberly they looked like priests, called the Englishmen women. This led to fewer deaths than Orm might have expected, as the English thegns kept control of their men, for they were few and a long way from home.
Orm glimpsed Harold himself, and his brother Gyrth. Their red hair long and moustaches luxuriant, they were tall, imposing figures who easily dominated the gaggle of housecarls and servants who followed them. The brothers were half Danish in blood, and they looked it. In fact the keeping of housecarls, professional soldiers and sworn companions, was a custom introduced by Cnut, a Danish king of England.
The Godwines were the most powerful family in England, it was said, more powerful and rich even than King Edward, who was descended from the famous Alfred. These handsome brothers shone, their glamour bright, even on this foreign soil.
William was less often spotted. The Duke did not rape or whore. It was said he had been faithful to his wife Mathilda for decades, and, always austere, the Bastard preferred to spend his time praying with his brother the bishop, or hunting, a sport to which he devoted hour after obsessive hour.
William's sons, though, were not as disciplined as their father. With their companions, none of them older than thirteen or fourteen, they crowed their way through Bayeux, arrogant, money-laden half-men with heavy swords and swollen pricks. Orm thought they were like a mockery of the Godwine brothers. Perhaps the world would be better off, he mused, without these packs of glamorous warrior-cubs.
It was with William's sons that Orm, calmly searching the town, came upon Godgifu.
They had caught her, evidently alone, and backed her against the stone wall of a church. She seemed unafraid, even contemptuous, but they were many, and they looked hungry.
Robert, the eldest son, stepped closer. 'English bitch,' he said in his guttural Frankish.
She looked down at him. 'What do you want, little boy?'
'I want you, you leathery old English bag.'
'If you want a whore go and find one, if you can raise your little pink worm for her.'
Robert's friends laughed at him, and he coloured. 'I've had all the whores in this pig-sty. You will kneel to me.'
She grinned. 'Why? So you can reach?'
'I am Robert, heir of Duke William!' he shouted. 'Kneel!' And he drew his sword, raising it towards her throat.
Suddenly she had a knife in her hand, a stubby blade of the type the English called a seax. She turned aside Robert's sword, grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and held her knife at his neck. 'Call me a bitch again,' she hissed. 'Go ahead, Robert heir of William.'
Robert struggled, enraged, but did not speak. The others stayed frozen for a heartbeat. Then they started reaching for their swords.
Orm strode into the circle. The boys, startled, backed off. 'Lord Robert. Your father is asking for you.'
'My father-'
'You know me. You need not doubt my summons. Go now.' Orm nodded to Godgifu. Cautiously she released the boy.
Robert glared at Orm. But he sheathed his sword and walked away from Godgifu.
Orm's heart was pounding. If his bluff had failed the consequences for him could have been lethal.
Godgifu didn't even seem to be breathing hard. She put away her knife calmly; Orm couldn't see where she hid it. She glanced up at Orm. 'Thank you.'
Sihtric came bustling up. He was wearing a black cassock, with a wooden crucifix at his neck. 'Well done, well done,' he said to Orm, puffing out his cheeks. 'I saw it all. You gave Robert a way to back out of the situation without losing face. Come. Let me buy you some wine – the least I can do…'
III
Sihtric led Orm and his sister to a tavern, where he bought them cups of wine, and meat sliced from a plundered Breton pig served on wood-hard chunks of bread. But Sihtric had to borrow money from his sister to do it. Her coins were English silver pennies, which everybody knew were the most solid currency in Europe and accepted everywhere.
Sihtric took a deep draught of his wine. 'Ah. Spiced the way William himself is supposed to prefer it. Filthy
