Chapter Twenty
A strange, wild faith was kindling
inside Cai at last. It was nothing like Leof’s, nothing even Theo
could have taught him. Its fires had first touched him during the
storm, when he had been shipwrecked and Fen had pulled him from the
waves. He had been nothing but a heartbeat in a skeleton, nothing
but breathing flesh, and so it was now. His purpose was only to
meet the next rush of sunlit wind against his face, and the next,
as the horse bore him onwards.
Fen was near. Cai knew it, as
certainly as if he were back in the sea with that strong arm
reaching down for him. Perhaps he was already at Fara, dishing out
orders and chivvying the brethren into action. The very air was
sweeter in Cai’s lungs for his closeness. The perfection of the
moment wrapped him round.
He could hear voices now. He could
make out separate figures through the glimmering light. At the head
of the Viking force, a vast charioteer was tearing across the
plain. His hair flew out behind him, thick as a sheepskin. When he
raised his arm and roared, a noisy chorus roared back at
him.
Sigurd! Sigurd!
Sigurd!
Sigurd, Fen’s warlord. The leader of
the Torleik clan, deposed by Fen’s brother and cast out. How had
Gunnar ever managed to defeat such a bear of a man? Well, he had
risen from his ashes. His warriors were yelling his name like a
battle cry, like the song of a war god. His two-horse chariot was
flying full pelt towards Broc’s front line, so fast that he was
opening a gap between himself and his own men.
Only one horseman was able to keep up
with him. The beautiful horse he was riding kept perfect pace with
the chariot. The contrast between him and Sigurd could not have
been greater—the one a solid wall of muscle, flesh and fur, the
other a lean, graceful shape whose flag of copper hair seemed to
take light from the sun.
Cai saw and understood. The burgeoning
faith in his heart snapped out, a candle snuffed in brutal fingers.
Clover sensed the change in him and lost momentum, and he let her
falter to a halt right in the middle of the plain.
“Caius! Damn you, boy—get
the hell out of my way.”
Cai didn’t move. He couldn’t turn his
head—not even for his father. He had let Fen go. The sorrow of that
had eaten him alive. But nothing in his loneliness had taught him
what it would be to see him return as his enemy. Despair seized
him, colder than death.
And Fen had seen him too. He peeled
away from Sigurd’s side, his magnificent russet-red cloak floating
out behind him. Briefly the sight of him wiped Cai’s mind clean of
anything but his beauty. Cai had fallen in love with a Viking, a
warrior. The warrior had taken on a cassock and gone about his
duties at Fara as a monk, but he was a Viking still, and now for
the first time Cai saw him restored. His throat went dry as dust.
Fen was heading straight for him. So be it. Cai wouldn’t so much as
draw his sword. Even now, a voice of unbreakable trust told him Fen
would strike neatly, end his life fast and cleanly.
“Gleipnir! Bring back
Gleipnir!”
That wasn’t Broc’s voice or Fen’s. It
wasn’t in Cai’s own tongue, but the words of the Dane Lands were
part of his heart’s language now. Sigurd’s troops were slowing up,
all of them gazing after Fen. And Fen was holding at arm’s length a
thin banner, a streamer flying behind him on the wind.
“Fenrisulfr!” Sigurd was
hauling his chariot to a stop. His mouth was open, his face a blank
of outrage and dismay. “Fenrir, you devil—bring Gleipnir
back.”
“No!” Fen rode Eldra full tilt to
Cai’s side. He didn’t stop there, but reined her in hard so that
she made a circle round him, one then another, as if seeking to
shield him not only from Sigurd but from someone behind him. At
last Cai broke his paralysis and saw Broccus pounding down on him,
howling with rage at the sight of his son in league with an enemy
soldier. “No!” Fen yelled again, brandishing the ribbon.
“Haetta! All of you stop!” And then, in full view of his warlord and
his Viking comrades, he held out the ribbon to Cai.
“Take it,” he said quietly.
“Take it now, beloved. Can you translate to the Celts for
me?”
If I can speak at all.
Cai took the
fluttering strip of leather in a numbed-out grasp. “I will
try.”
“Hold that up. Let them see
I’ve given Gleipnir to you. Sigurd!”
A roar like an avalanche came back.
Cai could barely pick out words from it, but Sigurd’s livid face
gave him the gist. Still, not one of the Viking men moved. Cai
didn’t understand. He and Fen were an easy target out here. If
Sigurd wanted Gleipnir, he could come and get it, unless… He lifted
the ribbon as Fen had told him. He gestured with it, letting the
wind make it fly.
The Viking men fell back.
“Fen. What’s going
on?”
“Tell the others what I
say. Sigurd, stop this fight! There won’t be a battle here
today.”
Strong, simple words. Lost in
disbelief, Cai turned to his father and the mismatched group of
chieftains and farmers hauling up to a disorganised halt all around
him. He could translate easily. “Stop,” he cried, the beginnings of
a grin tugging at his mouth. “Stop the battle. Nobody fights
today.”
“Sigurd, I couldn’t stop
you from coming here. But no Torleik warrior will lay hands on the
man who saved my life. Who became to me more than a brother. Nor
will they harm his tribe, or his…” Fen looked quickly from Broc to
Cai, making the connection, “…or his family.”
These words were harder to convey, but
Cai did his best, blushing with pleasure at the sound of them.
“Fenrir forbids the Torleik to harm me. I am his… More than his
brother. So they won’t harm my tribe either. Not even you, old
man.”
“Caius, you whelp. Is that
Viking on my bloody horse?”
“No. On mine, since you
gave her to me. She’s called Eldra now.” Cai stopped, distracted by
a rumble of hooves and wheels. Sigurd had finally broken rank.
“Fen, is he frightened of Gleipnir? Take it back.”
“No. I have to make him
frightened of me—it’s long past time.” Fen waited. He manoeuvred
Eldra so that she stood fearlessly between Sigurd’s oncoming
chariot and Cai, and as Sigurd tried to rush past him, seized his
rein. A sound of disbelief rose from the vikingr troops, and Cai understood that this was
Fen’s challenge—a head-on contest for leadership, one warlord to
another. “Sigurd, I have given Gleipnir to this man, to do with as
he wishes. He is worthy.”
“Worthy? You have given our
power to him, you traitor.”
“This poor strip of
leather? You believe that?”
Sigurd’s face suffused with
rage. He tried to jerk the rein free, but Fen held fast. “Of course
not. But they all do, and so I can command them.”
“Not anymore. I give my
allegiance to the Britons, and they aren’t easy prey, not now.
There will be resistance…” Fen paused, glancing in amusement at
Broc’s army. Some looked like fierce Roman soldiers. Others were
brandishing pitchforks. “As you’ll find out, if you start a fight.
Go back and tell them that. Now.”
Cai braced. Sigurd’s brow
lowered until he looked ready to spit thunderbolts. Fen was going
to lose this standoff, surely. Cai would live with the results. He
wrapped Gleipnir round his wrist and reached for his sword. It
wouldn’t be a bad end, to vanish fighting underneath a wave
of vikingr wrath. To drown there with Fen by his side.
“Traitor,” Sigurd repeated,
but his voice rasped on it. He shook his rein again, and this time
Fen let him go. Cai watched in disbelief as he pulled his horses
round and began to retreat.
Fen brought Eldra snorting and
prancing to Clover’s side. “Holy gods almighty,” he declared,
swallowing audibly. “I never thought that would work.”
“You never did…”
“Oh, Cai. Listen to me, please.”
He laid a hand on Cai’s arm, and Cai put his own hand on top, heat
rushing through him at the touch. “When I left you… I promise you,
beloved, I thought I could help my people. I thought I
had
to. For nothing less
would I have…”
He faltered. Cai squeezed his fingers.
“I know.”
“But when I got there,
Sigurd wasn’t in exile. He’d come back, and he was rousing an
invasion force to come here and ravage this country for everything
we need at home. I tried to stop him. I told him the only way to
mend things was to mend our land. But winter is coming. The Torleik
are starving.”
“And he wouldn’t listen to
you.”
“No. When he knew I had
Gleipnir, he put all his faith in it and set out here. So all I
could do was ride with him, then take my chance once I got here.
I’ve backed him down in front of his men now, and given you
Gleipnir.”
“What happens
now?”
“He’ll obey me. And you, if
you’re strong enough.”
“What do you want me to
do?”
“Speak to them—my men and
yours.”
Cai nodded. Fen was so close that he
could catch his longed-for scent in the air. He would have done
anything. “I will. What else?”
“What else?”
“Something more you want to
ask me, love. I can see it in your eyes.”
Fen shivered. “Breath wasn’t worth
drawing for me once I’d left you behind. I want your forgiveness.
To stand once again at your side.”
“Yes. Always. Go back to
Sigurd now, though.”
“Oh, gods. Why?”
Cai raised the hand he held. He
pressed its knuckles to his lips, in full view of Broc’s warrior’s
and Sigurd’s. “Because if I’m going to speak to him, you’ll have to
translate for me.”
Caius held the sacred relic
high. It was like a powerful wave, he thought, rushing up a wide,
lonely shore. The vikingr warriors shifted like kelp in the currents, leaning towards
it yearningly, shrinking back when the wind made it swing round
towards them. Only Fen sat proud and still. He had taken up a place
by Sigurd’s chariot. The warlord was waiting. He looked tired, as
if some vital essence had passed out of him. Off to Cai’s left,
Broc was waiting too. It was time.
Cai rode Clover slowly into the
middle of the sun-blown turf. When he moved, he felt invisible