“I am.”
“Then I would welcome you,” he said, and looked at me again. I shook my head. “I am sworn to Alfred for the moment. By winter I shall be free of the oath.”
“Then come to us in the winter,” Ragnar said, “and we shall go to Dunholm.”
“Dunholm?”
“It is Kjartan’s fortress now. Ricsig lets him live there.”
I thought of Dunholm’s stronghold on its soaring crag, wrapped by its river, protected by its sheer rock and its high walls and strong garrison. “What if Kjartan marches on Wessex?” I asked. Ragnar shook his head. “He will not, because he does not go where I go, so I must go to him.”
“He fears you then?”
Ragnar smiled, and if Kjartan had seen that smile he would have shivered. “He fears me,” Ragnar said.
“I hear he sent men to kill me in Ireland, but their boat was driven ashore and the skraelings killed the crew. So he lives in fear. He denies my father’s death, but he still fears me.”
“There is one last thing,” I said, and nodded at Brida who brought out the leather bag with its gold, jet, and silver. “It was your father’s,” I said, “and Kjartan never found it, and we did, and we have spent some of it, but what remains is yours.” I pushed the bag toward him and made myself instantly poor. Ragnar pushed it back without a thought, making me rich again. “My father loved you, too,” he said,
“and I am wealthy enough.”
We ate, we drank, we slept, and in the dawn, when a light mist shimmered over the reed beds, the WindViper went. The last thing Ragnar said to me was a question. “Thyra lives?”
“She survived,” I said, “so I think she must still live.”
We embraced, he went, and I was alone.
I wept for Brida. I felt hurt. I was too young to know how to take abandonment. During the night I had tried to persuade her to stay, but she had a will as strong as Ealdwulf’s iron, and she had gone with Ragnar into the dawn mist and left me weeping. I hated the three spinners at that moment, for they wove cruel jests into their vulnerable threads, and then the fisherman came to fetch me and I went back home.
Autumn gales tore at the coast and Alfred’s fleet was laid up for the winter, dragged ashore by horses and oxen, and Leofric and I rode to Wintanceaster, only to discover that Alfred was at his estate at Cippanhamm. We were permitted into the Wintanceaster palace by the doorkeeper, who either recognized me or was terrified of Leofric, and we slept there, but the place was still haunted by monks, despite Alfred’s absence, and so we spent the day in a nearby tavern. “So what will you do, earsling?”
Leofric asked me. “Renew your oath to Alfred?”
“Don’t know.”
“Don’t know,” he repeated sarcastically. “Lost your decision with your girl?”
“I could go back to the Danes,” I said.
“That would give me a chance to kill you,” he said happily.
“Or stay with Alfred.”
“Why not do that?”
“Because I don’t like him,” I said.
“You don’t have to like him. He’s your king.”
“He’s not my king,” I said. “I’m a Northumbrian.”
“So you are, earsling, a Northumbrian ealdorman, eh?”
I nodded, demanded more ale, tore a piece of bread in two, and pushed one piece toward Leofric.
“What I should do,” I said, “is go back to Northumbria. There is a man I have to kill.”
“A feud?”
I nodded again.
“There is one thing I know about blood feuds,” Leofric said, “which is that they last a lifetime. You will have years to make your killing, but only if you live.”
“I’ll live,” I said lightly.
“Not if the Danes take Wessex, you won’t. Or maybe you will live, earsling, but you’ll live under their rule, under their law, and under their swords. If you want to be a free man, then stay here and fight for Wessex.”
“For Alfred?”
Leofric leaned back, stretched, belched, and took a long drink. “I don’t like him either,” he admitted,
“and I didn’t like his brothers when they were kings here, and I didn’t like his father when he was king, but Alfred’s different.”
“Different?”
He tapped his scarred forehead. “The bastard thinks, earsling, which is more than you or I ever do. He knows what has to be done, and don’t underestimate him. He can be ruthless.”
“He’s a king,” I said. “He should be ruthless.”
“Ruthless, generous, pious, boring, that’s Alfred,” Leofric spoke gloomily. “When he was a child his father gave him toy warriors. You know, carved out of wood? Just little things. He used to line them up and there wasn’t one out of place, not one, and not even a speck of dust on any of them!” He seemed to find that appalling, for he scowled. “Then when he was fifteen or so he went wild for a time. Humped every slave girl in the palace, and I’ve no doubt he lined them up, too, and made sure they didn’t have any dust before he rammed them.”
“He had a bastard, too, I hear,” I said.
“Osferth,” Leofric said, surprising me with his knowledge, “hidden away in Winburnan. Poor little bastard must be six, seven years old now? You’re not supposed to know he exists.”
“Nor are you.”
“It was my sister he whelped him on,” Leofric said, then saw my surprise. “I’m not the only goodlooking one in my family, earsling.” He poured more ale. “Eadgyth was a palace servant and Alfred claimed to love her.” He sneered, then shrugged. “But he looks after her now. Gives her money, sends priests to preach to her. His wife knows all about the poor little bastard, but won’t let Alfred go near him.”
“I hate ?lswith,” I said.
“A bitch from hell,” he agreed happily.
“And I like the Danes,” I said
“You do? So why do you kill them?”
“I like them,” I said, ignoring his question, “because they’re not frightened of life.”
“They’re not Christians, you mean.”
“They’re not Christians,” I agreed. “Are you?”
Leofric thought for a few heartbeats. “I suppose so,” he said grudgingly, “but you’re not, are you?” I shook my head, showed him Thor’s hammer, and he laughed. “So what will you do, earsling,” he asked me, “if you go back to the pagans? Other than follow your blood feud?”
That was a good question and I thought about it as much as the ale allowed me. “I’d serve a man called Ragnar,” I said, “as I served his father.”
“So why did you leave his father?”
“Because he was killed.”
Leofric frowned. “So you can stay there so long as your Danish lord lives, is that right? And without a lord you’re nothing?”
“I’m nothing,” I admitted. “But I want to be in Northumbria to take back my father’s fortress.”
“Ragnar will do that for you?”
“He might do it. His father would have done it, I think.”
“And if you get back your fortress,” he asked, “will you be lord of it? Lord of your own land? Or will the Danes rule you?”
“The Danes will rule.”
“So you settle to be a slave, eh? Yes, lord, no, lord, let me hold your prick while you piss all over me, lord?”
“And what happens if I stay here?” I asked sourly.
“You’ll lead men,” he said.
I laughed at that. “Alfred has lords enough to serve him.”
