HAGAN WOKE EARLY the next day. He did not have much choice thanks to the racket going on outside.
Hagan rolled out of bed and went to the window. He swung open the shutters, wincing as the early spring sunshine battered his eyes; he had a great view right across the square to the great feasting hall opposite. It was filled with people already.
The Burgundar War Horde was gathering in preparation to march north. Hundreds of men with shoulder bags, blanket rolls, cloaks and felt hats – the gear of an army going on campaign – mingled and chatted. The noise was considerable.
There were ordinary folk gathering around the square to wave the warriors goodbye.
Hagan knew he needed to get his own gear together and meet the rest if he did not want to be left behind.
As he started to gather his belongings he wondered for the first time since arriving if perhaps being left behind might not be a bad thing. He could slip away before anyone noticed. His old friends were not who they once were. He had no doubt Gunderic was ruthless, and given Hagan now knew a few things that the king would prefer were not widely known, it was a dangerous position for him to be in.
Gunhild was wrapped up in her life with Sigurd and Sigurd hated Hagan. Brynhild’s spirit seemed to have been twisted by what happened to her at Vorbetomagus. Wodnas, Lokke and the other strangers were unnerving. The Burgundar folk themselves he had so long ached to be among were similarly different, like strange reflections of the folk he had grown up among.
Then again, he had no one else. Changed though they were, the company of his old friends was comforting in comparison to those years of aching loneliness he had spent wandering. And there was still much he might learn by staying with the Burgundars.
He thought again about Zerco’s comment that his mother’s amulet was Hunnish. With Gunderic’s war horde he would once again face the Huns. Had it been a Hun who raped his mother? How could that be, though? And would it not mean… Then all was lost as a surge of anger poured into his heart. Revenge on the Huns would be most sweet and he did not want to miss that.
He pulled on his jerkin and breeches then stuffed his few clothes and belongings into his leather travelling bag.
Gunderic had supplied him with new war gear: mail, a helmet and a new shield. His mail shirt hissed into his saddle- bag along with his other gear. Then he donned the new black cloak with the emblem of the bear embroidered on the shoulder, slung his shield over his back, lifted his spear and, struggling under the weight of everything, staggered down the stairs and out into the square beyond.
Gunderic, Sigurd, Gunhild and Lokke were preparing horses outside the great feasting hall. Most of the rest of the king’s council were there too. The previous late and drunken night had resulted in a lot of grey faces and red-rimmed eyes.
‘Never again, eh?’ Hagan said with a weary smile. ‘Is everyone as hungover as I am? This isn’t the best start to the campaign is it?’
His jaded smile faded on his lips. The strained atmosphere showed there was more than hangovers to worry about.
Gunderic looked worse than everyone else. His face was flushed, there was a bruise on his left cheekbone and his nose looked swollen.
‘What’s going on?’ Hagan said, becoming serious.
‘A dreadful thing has happened, Hagan,’ Gunhild said.
‘Last night,’ Gunderic said. ‘I was attacked in my bed.’
Hagan looked around, aware then that Brynhild was not there.
‘The queen,’ Hagan said. ‘Is she—’
‘She is alright now, thanks be to Tiwass,’ Gunderic cut him off. ‘But she was knocked out during the incident. She is also quite shaken by the ordeal so will be travelling by covered wagon, like the other noblewomen.’
Hagan frowned. The thought of Brynhild being upset or even just sitting placid in the back of a wagon instead of leading her warriors into war – however reluctantly – did not seem right.
‘What happened?’ Hagan said.
‘Treachery!’ Gunderic said through clenched teeth. His eyes flashed with anger. ‘My own bodyguard, Geic, tried to kill me and the new queen while we slept last night. He bribed two of my slave girls to let him into the house and attacked us in bed. It was lucky I woke up or he’d have killed us both.’
‘What?’ Hagan said. ‘Why would he do such a thing?’
‘Who can understand the mind of a traitor?’ Gunderic said, anger blazing in his eyes. ‘Perhaps he hated the idea of fighting alongside the Romans. Or he wanted our treasure. Personally I suspect he was perhaps in the pay of the Huns. I woke up and managed to fight him off. Thanks to the Gods, Sigurd happened to be passing by outside and heard the commotion. He ran in and between us we put an end to their little scheme.’
‘Where are they?’ Hagan said.
‘They’re dead,’ Gunderic said. ‘We had no choice. Geic had a sword and refused to surrender.’
‘And the slave girls?’ Hagan said, frowning.
‘They were caught up in the fighting,’ Gunderic said. ‘They were killed too.’
Hagan looked at Sigurd, who smiled.
‘I thank Tiwass that I was able to get to them in time to help,’ the big man said. ‘Otherwise we would have lost both our king and queen.’
‘And you would now be king,’ Hagan said.
Both Sigurd and Gunderic glared at Hagan.
‘What’s that to do with anything?’ Gunderic said.
‘Nothing, lord,’ Hagan said, realising he was playing with fire. ‘I too thank the Gods you survived this.’
‘Right, we’ve dawdled enough,’ Gunderic said. ‘Let’s get underway.’
He walked away to talk to one of his captains before Hagan could ask anything else.
Hagan slung his saddlebags onto his horse and tightened all the straps in preparation for the long journey ahead. They would ride north towards Aurelianum to meet the Romans and the Visigoths, a journey that would take several days.
As they stood around waiting, a farmer leading a donkey cart laden with sacks entered the square. Seeing Hagan the farmer took off his hat.
‘Is the Lord Wodnas here?’ he said.
‘He should be here somewhere,’ Hagan said, looking around but not spotting the one-eyed old man.
‘Well I’ve got what he asked for,’ the farmer said. ‘I’ve travelled all over the realm collecting them from farmsteads. I need to know what he wants me to do with them now.’
‘Well you’d better find him then,’ Hagan said. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘One thing’s for sure: the sheep will be shaggy by the time you get back,’ the farmer said, which puzzled Hagan even more.
The man led his cart off. As it went Hagan heard it jingling and rattling. Whatever was in those sacks, it was metal.
After some time horns blasted and drums were struck, announcing that it was time to leave. The company mounted their horses and as the watching crowds cheered and waved the company moved off. They formed into a long column so as to fit through the streets and the city gates.
Hagan watched the faces they rode past. Military wives were riding with the war horde, but everyone else was left behind. There were boys too young to go to war, their eyes alight with excitement as they waved to the warriors riding by. Behind them stood a very few old men who had survived the massacre at Vorbetomagus who looked both nostalgic that they were now too old to go to fight and at the same time, having seen war for themselves, relieved that they were no longer expected to. Then there were women – mothers and unmarried girls – who were both proud of their menfolk and dreading that this could be the last time they would see them.
The company filed out of the city gates where the rest of the war horde were gathered in the fields beyond. As they rode out of the gates of the city Hagan thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. The gallows beside the gate had three new bodies swinging from it. The first two were the corpses of two young girls. Their eyes bulged and their tongues protruded from their mouths. Their faces had turned purple but not black, which meant they had been hanged only that morning. The third was Geic.
Before them two men, warriors in black cloaks, looked like they were arguing. Forsetti, the old goat-like Law Speaker, stood between them, stroking his goatee beard and listening with interest to the words of the others.
‘What’s going on there?’ Hagan wondered aloud.
‘They’re holding Geic’s trial,’ Gunderic said.
‘But he’s dead!’ Hagan said.
‘True,’ the king said. ‘But I want everyone in the kingdom to know that in my realm everyone is entitled to a fair trial. Even the dead. I don’t want people thinking I’m a tyrant. We hanged his corpse as an example to others, but Geic wasn’t summarily executed.’
Hagan opened his mouth but did not reply. The world was going mad and his old friend seemed to be slipping away with it. Whatever had happened the night before, Hagan doubted that it did involve treachery, at least not on the part of Geic. Being close to the king was becoming a very dangerous position.