‘So you had her and you let her go?’
‘The wolfman got her out, sir. He’s a sorcerer; there was nothing I could do. I broke a good sword hitting him with it and the lads here snapped a few spears on his hide.’
Jehan doubted that. The Norsemen hadn’t mentioned it, and something so remarkable would have been bound to excite comment.
‘And yet the Raven did for him.’
‘Enchanted arrows, sir. They can only be harmed by magic, and the Raven is a well-known magician.’
‘I wonder. So what happened to the girl?’
‘She jumped out of a window on the south bank. Ran up into the woods, and that’s where we lost her.’
Jehan heard someone breathe out and pace the floor.
‘The reason I allow you Horda in my camp at all is that you are supposed to be great heroes. Mighty men! And yet a girl loses you in the dark.’
There was much shuffling of feet.
‘Where would this girl have gone, priest? Is there anywhere on the south bank she would have run to?’
The confessor remained silent.
‘We’re not the only ones looking for her, you know. If I take her then she’ll live. If others get hold of her she’ll need all your god’s help and more.’
He felt breath on his face. The man had bent to address him.
‘Our Raven wants her, and he is not a tender man. She’ll be eaten by him, most likely alive. If you want her to avoid that fate, help us find her.’
For the first time Jehan spoke: ‘Why do you want her?’
‘So he does talk. Answer my question: where is she?’
‘I did not know she had been taken. My knowledge of the back country is poor. As you see by my condition, I am not used to wandering the fields.’
The voice came closer to his ear.
‘You don’t seem scared, monk.’
Jehan said nothing again.
‘You’re a prophet, aren’t you?’ said the king.
Silence.
‘Come on. I know it. Don’t think your Eudes is the only one with spies. We’re not quite as backward as you think, you know. You’re a prophet, I’ve heard it said.’
Jehan could smell something underneath the pine needles, underneath the reeds and the roasting meat. What was it? The same smell he’d experienced in Paris. Dead flesh. Rot. Human putrefaction.
‘Let’s do this the easy way. I want you to work for me. You tell me what you need and I’ll give you what you want. What do you want?’
Jehan knew only one response to such a question. ‘Your soul for God.’
‘No. I am a king and Odin’s man — it is well known. But let me make you comfortable. Would you like wine? Food?’
‘Yes. But I cannot feed myself.’
‘Well, I’m not going to feed you. I draw the line at touching cripples.’
‘Use the boy.’ It was Ofaeti’s voice.
‘Silence, fat bellows,’ said Fastarr.
‘What boy?’
‘A merchant outside has a boy slave, a mute and an idiot. He’s from Miklagard and simple anyway, so it’s not going to matter if he catches anything off the cripple.’
‘Mute I like,’ said Sigfrid. ‘Send him in. You, berserkers, get out of here. And the rest of you. Go. I’ll speak with the monk alone.’
‘Out!’ It was Fastarr’s voice. Jehan heard the men leave.
It was quiet for a moment and the confessor listened to the fire crackling, the sound of the king pacing the reeds. There was that smell again. Death.
The confessor heard footsteps.
‘Feed this monk. Meat and wine.’
Silence.
‘What’s wrong with you, boy? Feed the monk.’
‘He doesn’t speak your language.’
‘Do you speak his language?’
‘Yes.’
‘Speak to him then.’
‘You are to feed me and give me drink. If it is you, lady, then spill a little wine as you do,’ the monk said in Greek, which he knew the lady spoke and was almost certain Sigfrid did not.
Jehan heard a plate lifted, the glug of wine into a cup. When the cup was pressed to his lips, it was too high and the wine spilled down his front.
‘Careful, lad. That stuff’s too hard to come by to waste,’ said Sigfrid.
The confessor was fed bread and meat in quantity. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until he started to eat.
‘Have faith, lady,’ said Jehan. ‘We will prevail here.’
Again, that hand on his shoulder, the cold tingle that shivered through his body.
‘Let me tell you my problem, priest.’ It was Sigfrid’s voice. ‘Your lot on the walls are holding out rather longer than I had anticipated. It’s not easy to keep my army together. Many of them will go home if we don’t break in soon, or even offer themselves to my enemies. There are enough warlords here who are only loyal as long as I keep the plunder rolling in. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now, my people are a superstitious lot. Me, I’d convert to your religion tomorrow and take advantage of all the alliances and marriage possibilities that would bring. Your god talks of peace but he’s mighty in war — we saw in our grandfathers’ time the power of the old King Charles. So I like your god: he makes his kings rich and powerful.’
‘Christ doesn’t want men who come to him for such reasons.’
‘I didn’t ask him what he wanted, did I? It was more me telling him what he was going to have. Anyway, there is a prophecy. Our seers have seen it, the thing that pursued your lady has seen it, half the holy idiots of the north have seen it. Our god, Odin, will come to earth in the form of a man.’
‘That is a lie.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter. The people, the vast majority of the northern men, will follow the one who they believe to be this god on earth. If this god happens to be me, then they will follow me.’
‘So why do you not claim to be him? If you believe it all to be no more than a lie, then why not make it a useful lie?’
‘I do claim to be him. And I didn’t say I thought it a lie. However, the prophecy is widely known and it comes with certain conditions. “How ye shall know him” — you know the form. The person, or the thing, that will identify the king of gods in earthly shape is our friend Hugin, known as Hrafn, he who staged a single-handed assault on your city not five hours ago, obliging a good number of my men to follow him to prevent him performing the darker aspects of his desires. He is of the cult of Odin the hanged, the mad, the wise, deep in magic, lord of poetry, blah blah blah. He himself is said to be the incarnation of one of the mad god’s ravens, his intelligencers, who spy on all the world for the god and return to whisper their news in his ear. So much bunk you may think but no more ludicrous than what you’re peddling. What’s a living saint if not a bit of god on earth, eh? Anyway, he needs to give the nod to Odin made flesh, announce him and proclaim him.’
‘Why don’t you just make him do that for you?’
‘You can’t make that thing do anything. Believe me, if I put him to torture it will be sweet rest compared to what he’s put himself through. I would love to but it isn’t practical. Also, the people wouldn’t stand for it.’
Jehan felt the wine cup raised to his lips again. Aelis, he was sure it was her, was trembling.
‘So I’m left with fulfilling the prophecy. Which is where it gets interesting. Our people believe that, on the
