that not praise enough?’
‘My mother didn’t raise me,’ said the monk, ‘or anyone, as far as I know.’
36
The riders caught them as they made the river on the third day. Aelis had not even been aware anyone was following her, but as they broke from the woods into an open meadow, they heard the horses behind them. The wolfman’s wound had turned bad and there was no way to outrun them. There were no boats at the river and there was no prospect of escape.
Sindre had been riding with increasing difficulty and eventually Aelis had had to take his mount’s reins. The wound seeped through his tunic, bloodying his fingers where he held his side. Each evening he would search the woods and return with a strip of bark on which he would scratch a symbol. He would sit staring at it until sleep took him and throughout the next day would hold it in his hand as he rode, glancing at it and mumbling into nothing,
‘The meaningful rune that the dead god stained,
That the rune lord of the Gods carved.
Odin for the Aesir,
Dvalin for the dwarves,
Asvith for the giants and the sons of men,
I myself carve here.’
As the river approached, Aelis had seen his skin turn pale. She knew that he was teetering on the edge of death. When the halloo of the riders sounded behind them, Sindre hardly looked up. When he did, he was shaking and his teeth were chattering. He could hardly sit on his horse, let alone fight.
There were twenty of the horsemen, and two levelled spears at them, but Aelis was not scared. The way they rode told her all she needed to know. The riders were confident, holding their spears with ease and poise, their movements as they directed their animals hardly noticeable.
‘Northerners, you’re going to get it, you bastards!’
The rider was speaking Roman and had a Parisian accent, nasal and reedy without the guttural crunches and rolls of the people with whom she’d been raised.
She shouted back to them in the same language, ‘I am Lady Aelis, brother to Count Eudes, harried and pursued by Norsemen and monsters. Get off your horses and bend your knees to me.’
The lead rider lowered his spear and came forward to draw his horse alongside her. He looked at her war gear, the helmet stuck on the cantle of the saddle, the sword at her side. He put his hand to her head and touched it.
‘Where’s your hair?’
‘Take your hands off me. If my brother was here you would be flogged on the spot for that impertinence. I was attacked by the Norsemen and had to disguise myself.’
‘No lady would ever cut her hair,’ said the horseman. ‘What are you, a witch?’
Aelis was so pleased to see Frankish riders that she was willing to indulge the man’s rough ways. ‘I’m the lady who will be kind enough not to mention your behaviour to Sieur de Lanfranc, if it ceases now.’
Aelis had mentioned the name of her brother’s master of horse. As a knight, the horseman would not be subordinate to Lanfranc, but the old cavalry commander — whose grandfather had won his rank under Charlemagne — made life very difficult for those who crossed him. Lanfranc was notoriously sweet on Aelis and not above calling a man out in a duel if he thought it would please her. Few people would relish testing their sword skills against his.
The horseman glanced back to where a second rider, a taller man, was trotting in.
‘A little less rough if you would, Renier. I can’t imagine the count will be happy if his sister reports your manners.’ His accent was stronger — eastern, thought Aelis.
‘I can’t see why she’d cut her hair,’ said the first man. ‘It’s a shame and an indignity.’
‘Next to rape and murder?’ said the taller horseman. ‘You were raised in little Paris, Renier. Had you been brought up in one of the great cities you might be less easily shocked. A spell in Aachen would have done you good. Chevalier de Moselle. Madam, you are our mission, we have been sent to find you.’
‘The siege is lifted then?’
‘No, we broke out. But that means we can break back in again. The Norsemen are not as united as they were and are busy fighting among themselves at present.’
‘You didn’t come just for me?’ Aelis was appalled that men had been taken from the defence of Paris just to look for her.
‘No. We have delivered a message to the emperor. He will now move to help us, I am sure. Our task is over. We have you and all that remains is for us to dispatch these foreign dogs who have taken you prisoner and we will return you to Paris and your brother.’
‘We are not foreign dogs,’ said Leshii; ‘we-’
‘No,’ said Moselle, ‘you are not even that; you are the corpses of foreign dogs.’
He drew his sword but Aelis put up her hand. ‘These men have rescued me.’
Moselle looked at Leshii and the wolfman. ‘That one is a northerner,’ he said, pointing to Sindre.
‘Some of the northerners have worked for us in the past and still work for the emperor. This man has no allegiance to the Paris Danes.’
Moselle made a tight little nod.
‘Tell them to get down from their horses. A merchant and a pagan should not be riding fine animals like that.’
‘Fine animals?’ said Leshii. ‘This is a common pack mule!’
‘Too good for you,’ said Moselle.
Aelis gestured to Sindre. ‘He killed the Viking king.’ She knew no Frankish warrior would accept that a woman had killed Sigfrid. In fact, to suggest it would be to mock them, to say that she had achieved what they could not.
Moselle nodded again. ‘And Sigfrid gave him a blow for his pains, by the look of it.’
‘He took an arrow. It’s still in him. Can you draw it?’
‘Fiebras!’ Moselle turned in his saddle and shouted.
‘He’s a healer?’ said Leshii.
Moselle snorted at him. ‘He’s a warrior. Just happens to be handier with the pliers than the rest of us.’
Leshii got down from his horse and helped the wolfman down. Aelis could see he was not best pleased to meet the Franks.
‘Your ransom gone, merchant?’ she said to him in Latin.
‘I am sure your brother will reward me for my pains.’
‘Let’s hope he doesn’t give you pains for your reward,’ said Aelis, though her tone was light enough and she intended to see the merchant compensated for the loss of his wares at least. She pulled her cloak up to cover her shorn head but Moselle immediately took a silk scarf from around his neck and passed it to her. In a second she had regained her modesty. Then she went to the bushes and took off the big mail shirt. She rejoined the horsemen and gave the sword to Moselle.
‘Give this to my brother from the wild man,’ she said. ‘It belonged to the Viking king.’
Moselle looked impressed. ‘He was a strong man,’ he said.
Sindre was on the ground, scarcely breathing. Fiebras, who had produced a big pair of long-nosed pliers from his saddle bag, knelt beside the wolfman.
‘Not long for him, lady,’ said the Frank. ‘The kindest thing is to leave the arrow and let him die.’
‘Might he live if it’s drawn?’
‘Might is a big word,’ said Fiebras, ‘but yes, he might.’
