Again, that shape came into her head, the one that steamed and whickered. She thought of it and the animal moved, finding its feet easily in the dark.
They went through the wood, the mule more confident than she was. To her, every shadow was the Raven, every tree at the limit of her vision a Dane. Aelis thought she heard something and stopped. There was something coming after her. She could hear its tread behind her, fast and light, moving quickly where she was forced to plod. She knew that any further movement would give her away, so she drew the mule into the shadow of a big tree. She could not make it be quiet, so she tied it to a branch and hauled the confessor fifty paces to a brook and lay flat against its bank.
Aelis was quiet for some time. She heard nothing but the breeze in the trees. She returned to the mule and untied it. Then they were on her, two of them, taking her to the ground at the leap. She saw their knives gleam and heard words.
‘Where is he?’ It was her own Roman tongue. ‘Where is the confessor?’
‘I am Lady Aelis of the line of Robert the Strong,’ she gasped out the words as quickly as she could speak.
‘Lady?’ A man was squinting at her through the dark. He was wearing a stiff leather jerkin. She didn’t recognise him. His companion was more lightly dressed, though he had two small axes in his belt. There were noises from her left. She looked around. Other faces were looking at her from the trees. Her mind took a few moments to adjust. The men were warrior-monks, she realised, their hair cut short and shaved on the crown. There were ten of them. The two nearest her were clearly puzzled, so Aelis spoke quickly to explain herself, to tell them what had happened.
‘We are from Saint-Germain,’ said the monk who had attacked her. ‘We’re trying to capture a Dane and find out what has happened to the confessor.’
Aelis bowed her head. ‘He’s here,’ she said, and led them, along with the mule, back to the little brook. There was a gasp as the monks looked down at the saint.
‘What have they done to him?’
‘A foul abuse,’ said Aelis.
‘Lady, we need to get him around the back of the hill and across the ford to the monastery.’
‘Then secure him on the mule.’
The monks worked quickly. They had rope with them, brought for the purposes of tying a captive. Now they used it for the confessor. He was in a bad way, his skin cold, his breath no more than a flutter. Aelis prayed for him and the monks led the mule across the brook.
‘We will stay inside the trees as far as we can,’ said the monk, ‘then we drop down to the river and away from our goal to the crossing. From there, the way is easier and less fraught with danger as we double back to the monastery. There are northerners everywhere, lady; we must be careful.’
There was more noise through the trees. Horses. One of the monks crouched. The others went for their weapons. There was a skittering movement to Aelis’s left. What was that? She had assumed it was the monks when she had heard it before. No. Now it seemed to be to her right.
Then it was as if the air fell apart. A scream cut through the shadows. She saw her, the terrible woman in the bloody robes, fifty paces away, her white shift almost glowing in the moonlight, her hands down by her sides, her body rigid but her ruined face emotionless. Aelis realised that the scream was not one of pain, or of anguish, but one of summoning.
There was a stutter of hooves from deep in the trees. Then there was quiet. Whoever had heard the scream was listening to see if it was repeated. It was, so loud it was almost unbearable to hear. From much further off came an answering call splitting the night. The hooves turned towards Aelis, the horses moving slowly through the trees.
‘We need to go before they see us,’ said Aelis. ‘Kill her.’
‘I will not strike down an unarmed woman,’ said the monk.
‘Then give me that,’ said Aelis, pulling a knife from his belt.
She ran towards the woman but it was as if a shadow had gone over the moon. The witch, and Aelis was sure she was a witch, was nowhere. She peered through the columns of trees, looking for her. She saw something glint. A sword. Every Frankish sword was in Paris, defending the city. It was the Norsemen, she knew.
Aelis ran back to the monks. ‘We need to go, now, before we’re found.’
‘No.’ The monk shook his head and spoke in a low whisper. ‘Our movements must either be quick or quiet, and either way we will be discovered. Brother Abram, Brother Marellus, take the lady and the confessor back to the monastery. We still might surprise whoever is here if we act now. Brothers, we are Christ’s men, we are pagan- killers; let’s take the fight to them.’
The monks nodded and crept away through the trees, crouching low and saying nothing. One of the remaining monks took her by the arm while the other led the mule.
‘Lady, the river crossing. We must be quick,’ he said.
They moved away up the hill and she followed them through the dark of the trees.
17
Leshii had never spoken faster: ‘I have sent her away with the monk. You kill me and you will never find out where she has gone.’
The king didn’t pause in his advance but didn’t raise his sword; he just smacked a brutal headbutt into Leshii’s nose.
A white light split the merchant’s sight and he realised he was sitting on the reeds.
‘Do you think, merchant, that you can separate a god from his destiny?’ said Sigfrid, standing above the little man with the sword point pressing into his belly.
‘My lord, I was in a situation where I had to choose my deaths. I was being loyal to my own king by concealing the girl. If I had given her to you I would have had to break my oath and face Prince Helgi’s wrath. What choice did I have?’
This time Sigfrid drove his boot into Leshii’s chest, knocking him flat.
‘Where is she?’
‘I will show you, my lord.’ Leshii put his hand to his face. His nose was broken, he was sure.
‘You will tell me.’
‘My lord, I am a merchant. This knowledge is all I have to bargain with. Give it up and I am dead.’
‘You’ll die anyway. What’s a day to you?’
‘Before I reveal her whereabouts I would require an oath that you would let me live.’
Another kick, harder. Leshii curled up in a ball on the floor.
‘Impossible. You have concealed her from me, lied to my face. I would rather lose a thousand women than accept such an indignity. I offer you a quick death, no more. Decide now or I’ll give you to the Raven.’ The king raised his foot again.
‘A deal,’ said Leshii through teeth clamped together with pain. ‘Nice doing business with you.’
‘Don’t provoke me, merchant,’ said Sigfrid.
Leshii lay where he was. He had given up on his life and accepted he would die. An attempt to remain cheerful was all that he had.
‘We’ll go now,’ said Sigfrid.
A bodyguard pulled Leshii to his feet. Sigfrid put out his arms. Another bodyguard put the king’s hauberk on him and passed him his shield with its terrifying wolf’s head design.
‘Do we need our byrnies, lord?’ said a warrior. ‘We’re only going to fetch a girl.’
Leshii knew he was referring to the mail coat — the Varangians at Ladoga called them that too.
‘If the Raven finds out where she is, then we’ll need them,’ the king said. ‘That is a mighty man. He’s supposed to be on our side but imagine what might happen if he turns against us.’
