Saint-Cyr was not what Halfdan expected, though he had to acknowledge that was probably a good thing. As a meeting place chosen by the duke, he’d presumed it to be some sort of town or important place, but it was actually a hamlet of half a dozen houses scattered around a church, with a small mill, its wheel turning with a half-hearted languidness in the dark, the water burbling gently beneath it. The horizon was largely hidden by small stands of trees, and it was this very obscurity and unimportance that made it useful. With no tracks to follow, the men of the rebel barons would likely make for the nearest place of any importance, not this backwater.
There was a second reason, though, Halfdan realised as they reined in their sweating mounts close to the church, spotting William and his men gathered together. Saint-Cyr had a stables, and in the short time they’d been waiting for Halfdan and his companions, some sort of deal had been struck. A weary-looking man was busy bringing saddles, blankets, bits and bridles from a storehouse, while his wife packaged up bread and cheese in a basket. One of the duke’s men was busy stacking a pile of coins on their windowsill in payment. The locals showed appropriate deference to the lord of their land, eyes lowered or averted whenever speaking to the duke, and then only in reply to his own queries. Otherwise, they spoke only to his men.
As the four of them rode up, William turned, eyes narrowing, looking first past the new arrivals and then at them. ‘No pursuit?’
Halfdan shook his head. ‘There will be, as soon as they locate the trail, and in the meantime, they will send out men along every possible road. We cannot delay.’
‘Yet we will move faster with everyone appropriately equipped.’
This was true, and so Halfdan moved close to the duke while the bareback riders had their mounts saddled and prepared for the journey. In the pause while they worked, Halfdan looked at the young duke. Their whole reason for being there with William, and not back in Pirou helping Ulfr build a ship, came down to an unknown and tenuous connection with Harðráði and their missing ship, and some other nebulous belief of Gunnhild’s, about which she was being cagey. Thus far they’d not had time to bring up the subject, and, in truth, while on the run from a dangerous enemy, hiding in a forest, was probably not the time. But as they’d ridden from Valognes, it had occurred to the jarl that the danger they were all in was great enough for William to die any time, and with him would die any useful information. Halfdan had to try his luck, while there was time.
‘What do you know of Harðráði?’ he said quietly.
William frowned. ‘Harðráði?’
There was a moment of doubt then for Halfdan. The duke seemed to be unfamiliar with the name. Halfdan thought back over what he knew of the man – nuggets of information gleaned from their time in Miklagarðr.
‘His brother was king in Norway, Óláfr Haraldsson. Harðráði was in the south with us, serving the Byzantines, but he came north once more.’
William shrugged. ‘I am not familiar with the man. This Óláfr Haraldsson, though… this is Saint Olaf, yes? His son Magnus sits on the throne in Norway now, and his daughter rules with her husband among the Saxons. I did not know that Saint Olaf had a brother, though I find that remarkably interesting. It is always worth knowing everything about one’s peers, for one never knows what information might end up being useful.’
The jarl felt his spirits sink. Had Gunnhild been mistaken in seeing any connection between this man and the lunatic who had stolen Halfdan’s ship in Miklagarðr? But then she was always vague, and she had said ‘in the days to come’. How far had she seen? He turned to the völva to find her watching him with slitted eyes, deep in thought. He shivered. No. She was always right, and he’d learned to his peril not to discount her advice. Whatever the duke said, whether he knew it or not, there was a connection there. He would have to ask her to go deeper, to seek more, when they had the chance, but in the meantime, it was important to keep this man alive. Besides, he had a dream tale of Loki and Heimdallr to ask her about, too.
He waited with growing impatience as the last horses were saddled, and then, finally, the duke led them from Saint-Cyr.
‘Where now?’ Halfdan asked, as they trotted in double file along a farm track between stands of poplars that rose, stately, into the night sky. The scudding clouds still raced on high, dappling the land with patches of fast-moving shade, yet down at ground level there was little more than a gentle breeze.
William turned to his senior man. ‘Ancel?’
The knight looked across at the two nobles. ‘We must pass carefully around Montburc. Undoubtedly the lord de Cotentin has sent men there to locate us, and may even have already had a garrison there. It is one of his fiefs, after all. From there we have a choice, my lord duke. The most direct, and fastest, route takes us south-east to the Vire’s tidal crossing. Speed is important, not only to outrun our enemies, but also to catch the low tide, or we add a great deal to the journey, and the tide will be coming in already, so that is something of a race. But that road is also the obvious route, and so the one most likely to bring your enemies upon us. Also, there are woodlands that can hide dangers, and we will have to make our way around the Sancte Marie Ecclesia, where there is a village, and very likely a guard post under control of Cotentin’s men. Fast, but dangerous.’
‘And the alternative?’ William asked, drumming fingers on his saddle horn.
‘Moving further inland would only increase the troubles, but it is possible south of Montburc to cut across to the coast, five miles east, and from there ride along the shore. That would add five miles or so to our journey and increase the risk of missing the tide, but it is also much less likely to be patrolled by the enemy, and the settlements there are all just minor villages. It is also open coastland, and visibility will be good, with little chance for ambushes. The choice seems, to me, too close to call. What say you, my lord duke?’
Before William could answer, though, Halfdan leaned across. ‘Follow the coast. Better to be able to see our enemies coming. Five miles will make little difference, and Ran will provide, when we reach this river.’
The duke frowned, perhaps wondering who Ran was, but nodded his agreement. ‘Given our numbers and the distance we have to travel, I think it better that we minimise our risk of trouble. Lead us to the coast, Ancel.’
The man smiled grimly, then trotted back and passed the news to the others before rejoining his lord. As they closed on the main trade road from Valognes, and the small town of Montburc, Ancel rearranged the column, setting himself and the other two of William’s men out front as a vanguard, keeping Halfdan, Bjorn, Ketil and Leif around the duke, they having proven their loyalty in the escape from Valognes. The rest followed as a rearguard, with Thurstan at the back, keeping a watch in their wake.
Emerging from the edge of the woodland, they moved carefully and slowly, Ancel ahead looking for trouble. Montburc was small by comparison with Valognes, yet large enough to cause concern. Halfdan looked up at the sky and tracked around until he found the moon. It was already low. He guessed they had perhaps three hours until the sun began to show. The high clouds chose that moment to pass across the silvery light, and the world went surprisingly dark. They hugged the edge of the woodland, crossing the main road as swiftly as they could, and then staying close to the cover of the trees as they passed the small town, relying on the night, the shadows of the clouds, and simple luck to see them away and into the countryside once more.
Something set the hair on Halfdan’s neck up, and he shivered. In response, he looked about. It took him moments to spot them, and in that moment the clouds shifted once more. Suddenly the jarl was sitting in a patch of silvery light, his chain shirt glimmering like a beacon, just as were the two riders sitting astride their mounts upon a small wooden bridge over a minor stream on the dirt track leading into town.
The two riders saw them at the same moment. It had to be a split-second decision, whether they had time to chase down the men and stop them reporting in, or whether it would be better to run and put time and distance between them. He came down in that single heartbeat on the side of caution, reasoning that by the time those two men found their masters, the riders could have broken into a gallop and be close to the sea. Unfortunately for Halfdan, before he could open his mouth and give the order to ride, Bjorn had turned his mount, given out a whooping sound that would attract attention for half a mile, and put his heels to the horse’s flanks, racing toward the two watchers.
‘Shit,’ Halfdan snapped, the decision having been taken out of his hands. Others were turning, ready to join the big man, who was already pounding across the turf toward the two men. Halfdan waved a hand at the others. ‘No. Take the duke. Get him to the shore. I’ll bring Bjorn.’
And with that, he left the column and urged his horse to speed, racing off in the albino’s wake. Ahead, the two Normans had turned and begun to ride back for the town. Bjorn was racing away, the desperate urge to reach them and perpetrate his particular brand of violence driving him to surprising speed. Similarly, Halfdan managed to push his mount hard, trying to put things right. Now that Bjorn had committed them to this course of action, they had to catch the men, and fast.
The two riders reached the edge of the town itself first, some way ahead of the pursuing Northmen, disappearing into the shadows of a night-time street. Through sheer will and the strength of his mount, Halfdan managed to almost catch up with the big man, whose own steed had to be struggling with carrying such weight and bulk at such a speed.
‘Idiot,’ was all he could think to say as he pulled close.
Ahead, they could see the Norman riders, but more importantly, could hear them clattering along the street. The Wolves pushed hard, increasing their pace, desperate to catch them, though Halfdan was also horribly aware that they were exhausting their mounts at the very beginning of their journey, which was never a good idea.
Ahead, the other riders burst into a town square, the light illuminating them clearly. Then, they stopped, turning. Halfdan had only moments to wonder at their behaviour before he and Bjorn broke out into the open themselves, and all became clear. In truth, it could have been much worse. Had it been a proper trap, this square could have been filled with rebels, and there would have been little chance of the two Wolves leaving the place alive. As it happened, there had been no such plan. The two riders had turned to face them only to buy time. Beyond them, on the far side of the square, Halfdan could see another Norman wheeling his mount, ready to race away. These two would hold them off, while their friend rode for their superiors with news of the fugitives.
‘These two are yours,’ Halfdan barked at the big warrior. ‘When they’re down, ride for the duke.’
Leaving Bjorn with a grin of satisfaction that he had the strongest urge to slap from the man’s face, the jarl forced yet more speed from his galloping mount, veering out to his left. The nearest Norman made to swing at him as he passed, but Halfdan was fast and far enough away that leaning back kept him out of the way of the blade’s passage. In a heartbeat he was past and hurtling across the square. The third man was starting to move. Behind him, Halfdan could hear Bjorn tackling the first two, without a care who heard. If there were other riders in this village, then there was little chance that they would miss anything. Nothing the jarl could do about it, though.
He had his own problem.
The rider ahead pounded along, picking up pace, but he’d been slow starting, and perhaps had underestimated Halfdan’s speed, for the jarl was closing on him as the pair approached the edge of town. Halfdan looked at the man, at his muscular steed, then down at his own tired mount, and trusted to the cunning of Loki and the luck of all true warriors when the gods were with them. He removed his feet from the stirrups and, letting go of the reins, grasped the saddle horn and pulled himself up so that his feet were on the saddle, slipping here and there. He was almost on the other man.
He jumped.
He almost missed, and his heart lurched, cold, as he hit the Norman in the back and bounced, almost falling into the path of his own horse. Then, his scrabbling, desperate fingers found the back of the Norman’s chain collar and gripped tight. The man made an ‘urk’ sound as he was almost choked, and inadvertently yanked the reins. Even as he found stability, Halfdan’s other hand whipped the sax from his belt. This close, no sword, even his short one, was going to be much use. He lifted the sharp, narrow dagger and plunged it down just above his grasping fingers. The blade sank into flesh, then struck rib and vertebra, and grunting with the effort, Halfdan pulled the collar down, risking being thrown from the horse. He changed the blade’s angle, slamming it in between the ribs, the spine and the shoulder blade – a narrow target, but a deadly one.
The Norman cried out, the horse reared, and Halfdan was almost thrown, only his double grip on the man’s neck keeping him on the animal. Then they were back down, and the man was flailing ineffectually. Still gripping the collar, Halfdan let go of the dagger and leaned down, gripping the Norman’s leg at the knee, below the chain hem, and pulling. In a single swift move the man’s foot came free of his stirrup, and before he could recover in any way, the jarl gave him a hefty push, letting go of the collar and reaching down fast to grab the saddle’s cantle. The Norman, already taken by surprise, grievously and painfully wounded, with a sizeable hole in his lung, had little chance of recovery. Unbalanced, he fell from the far side of his mount. At least his foot came free of the other stirrup and he fell away, rather than being dragged along by the horse.
Halfdan looked around, even as he pulled himself forward into the saddle and slid his feet into the stirrups. His own horse had simply come to a halt, exhausted, and breathing heavily at the side of the street. For a moment, he wondered whether he could manage both horses, but quickly changed his mind. This one was fresh, while his own was spent, and thanks to their sudden departure from Valognes, there was nothing of value of his on the animal.
He had to make sure the rider was dead, though, buying them some time. Rather than dismounting and approaching the writhing man to administer a killing blow, for simple expediency he walked his new horse back and forth across the man a few times, until the whimpering and thrashing stopped, and all that remained was a pulverised mess.
Satisfied the man was dead, he took his new horse three dozen paces further along the thoroughfare, keeping to the more shadowed side of the street. As he came to a halt near the edge of town, he could see another pair of riders on the road some way out, in the direction of Valognes. Thank Odin, for they seemed as yet unaware of the trouble in town, despite all the noise. He hoped that the pair would sit there, oblivious, for some time yet, and turned his horse, trotting back into the centre of town. Bjorn was mopping up – quite literally – gripping one of his victims by the ankles while still in the saddle, dragging the man across the cobbles so that his skull bounced against every stone, while it looked to the casual observer as though he were trying to use the man’s hair to clean up the substantial amount of blood.
‘Stop playing,’ the jarl snapped, still angry at Bjorn for his careless and unexpected attack. As he passed, the big man let go of the body and gripped the reins, turning and following Halfdan back out of town.
The jarl had to slow to let Bjorn keep pace with him, for the albino’s horse was shattered.
‘Next time, check with me before you decide to chase someone down.’
Bjorn looked irritated. ‘Thor was in my blood. It had to be done.’
Halfdan sighed. There was something to that. Just as Loki sometimes took a hand in Halfdan’s decisions, so the big man was truly one of Thor’s children, and asking him to avoid a fight would be akin to suggesting he stop breathing for a day or two. Besides, in retrospect, it might have been the right decision; had the two men reached that rider unchecked, the man would have alerted the whole region to their presence. As it was, they would have a head start as long as that other pair stayed at their post and did not ride into Montburc to find their dead friends.
As they reached that little wooden bridge, Halfdan gestured to Bjorn and the pair came to a halt.
‘Swap horses.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because mine is fresh, and yours will collapse under your weight before we even see the sea.’
Bjorn did just that, clambering down from his sweating mount as Halfdan did the same. They swapped horses, and Halfdan realised with some irritation just how exhausted this one was, as it sagged even under the jarl’s weight. He would have to be careful. Damn the big bastard for his unanticipated actions.
‘You need to lose weight. You’ve fucked your horse.’
‘Did I ever tell you about the time I—’
Halfdan winced. ‘Now is not the time,’ he interrupted, heading off what promised to be an eye-wateringly unlikely tale before it could see light.
They rode on in silence, going as fast as Halfdan dare with his exhausted horse, and after perhaps three quarters of an hour, a ribbon of silver came into view ahead. Gradually, as they rode, that ribbon resolved into a line of low, rough-grass dunes, a short beach, and then the glittering waves of the sea. Halfdan was no land-man himself – he was born an islander and was master of his own ship – but until that sight came into view, he’d perhaps never understood the longing that seemed to grip Ulfr throughout all their interminable journeys by cart or by horse. This tantalisingly close to the waves, though, it was impossible to ignore the call. He felt it in his very bones, in his blood, an almost unbearable need to be at sea, feeling the spray of salt water and the buck and roll of the deck, the groan of timbers, the slap of a sail filling, the rhythmic groan and splash of oars.
Ulfr would do whatever it took to put them back out among the waves. Halfdan had to trust his friend, but also he had to get word to him, to warn him of what might be happening among the Hautevilles. He tried not to let selfishness weigh in, but it was impossible to forget the large amounts of gold also at stake.
Shaking his head to free it of such thoughts, he and Bjorn turned and rode south along the coast, at the edge of the dunes, feeling a freedom he’d not experienced in a while, even as they rode for their lives. As they rode, largely in silence, there were times when he fancied he could hear shouts back inland, beyond the trees, though he told himself that was unlikely, and concentrated on plunging ahead.
They passed a farm after a couple of miles, and Halfdan’s eyes played across the livestock in the scattered patches of moonlight. He spotted a horse grazing happily in a field and made the decision. It would not be a warhorse – probably more a farmer’s carthorse – but it would be well rested, and they would never catch up with the others as long as he rode this weary beast. A quarter of an hour later, they left the farm with Halfdan on a fresh horse, having transferred the saddle. He left his own steed as a replacement, not through sympathy – a good Northman kept sympathy for people he cared about – but simply because it would probably not manage another mile anyway. Bjorn had begun to tell a joke as he worked, but the look Halfdan had given him had shut him up better than any command. The big man had already caused enough trouble, and they really didn’t want to wake the farmer.
Soon enough, though, they were pounding across the turf near the dunes once more, and before long they spotted other riders ahead, in a crowd, moving the same way. It felt good to catch up with the others, and the duke greeted them with surprising warmth, asking after their escapade, eyeing their change of horses with interest. Halfdan explained what had happened, and they rode on, the last hour or two of night rapidly diminishing with every mile from Valognes. As they closed on their destination, Duke William set one of his men to ride just out of sight at their rear, looking for fresh pursuit after the debacle at Montburc.
Finally, as the night sky moved from true black to that odd glowing indigo of pre-dawn, the coastline began to curve around in front of them, marking the end of the peninsula. Halfdan looked ahead in the growing light and could see the Vire. He felt a sudden moment of doubt, then. Even now, at a relatively low tide, the crossing was over a mile wide. Still, he kept his worries to himself as the duke’s man led them on, to the river and then along it. It did gradually narrow, but the level of the water was rising at an alarming rate. By the time they reached the width of a normal river, it would be deep enough to drown two horses standing one atop the other.
Ancel clearly knew the area, for he selected their crossing point with purpose and confidence, and they rode down to the riverbank with a growing sense of unease. They would cross maybe thirty paces of sucking muddy sand before they even reached the water, and the surface was rising at a rate Halfdan could only equate with a sudden winter thaw in mountain streams.
Somehow, in this early, purple light, the crossing seemed all the more daunting, the waves continually racing in and then pulling back out to sea, leaving a little more river with each flow. He was actually considering suggesting that they ride upriver for this bridge, when he heard the drumming of hooves behind. He turned in his saddle, but the dunes hid the land beyond. Then William’s man suddenly crested the rise and pounded down into the sand, waving behind him.
‘They’re coming. The rebels.’
‘How many?’ the duke asked.
‘All of them, I think.’
‘Everyone into the water, now,’ Halfdan called, for there was no longer a choice.
Without preamble, the entire group plodded as fast as they dared into the deep mud, the newly arrived rearguard joining them fast. Halfdan was somewhere mid-crowd as he began the trek.
‘What do we do if they have bows?’ Leif asked from his right, throwing fearful glances back.
‘We die, until we’re out of range. So just hope they don’t.’
With that, the jarl pulled his attention to the business at hand. The going was extremely hard work, and this was just muddy sand. His horse was not happy, and he had to issue soothing sounds to it, while urging it on with heels, knees and reins, just to keep the animal going forward. He looked up and felt his pulse quicken. He had ridden the dragon boat’s prow out across the icy northern sea and the Svartahaf of the Greeks, and yet no expanse of water had ever seemed as broad and as unforgiving as the stretch ahead of him. The very idea of crossing it on a horse seemed horrifying.
At the head of the column, Ancel and his man led the duke. Halfdan urged his own mount on, but watched what was to come with no small amount of trepidation. The lead riders were in the water, and it came up terrifyingly swiftly. One moment their horses were knee deep, the next, the riders themselves were submerged to the thigh. Ever since those dreadful days with the Alani fire throwers, it had been the conflagration of liquid fire that had haunted Halfdan’s dreams, but now, he acknowledged with appropriate fear that the prospect of disappearing under that surface was no more pleasant.
His fears were made all the more real and immediate a moment later. Even as the cries of their pursuers became audible back beyond the dunes, the lead rider, one of the last of William’s own guards, suddenly gave a cry of alarm. His horse had missed its footing somehow, and plunged into the water with an equine scream of panic. The animal reappeared moments later, swimming hard, desperate to make it to land, but there was no sign of its rider. His chain shirt, helmet, belted sword and heavy wool clothes had pulled him down into Ran’s dark halls. The man was gone, and in moments, thanks to the next incoming wave, not even ripples marked his grave. Halfdan prayed the man had clutched his sword hilt as he sank, and that the battle maids of either Odin or Freyja would find him. It occurred to him then, oddly, how the Valkyrjur might manage to raise a man already in Ran’s domain. He shook his head, aware that he was just trying to keep his mind from what lay ahead. Such thoughts were for women like Gunnhild, not him.
Fresh noise behind drew his head round, and he saw armoured horsemen cresting the dunes and riding down toward the river. Surely they were even more daunted than he had been? Halfdan was perhaps a third of the way across, the worst still to come, but it would be worse for anyone who followed, for the tide was coming in all the time.
Ahead of him, William and Ancel were forging through the waves, and he had to hand it to the young duke. The lad was truly fearless, for the pair were so deep that only the tops of their saddles and their horses’ heads and necks remained above the surface. Surely they would drop further, and that would mean drowning?
Neel de Cotentin appeared behind them, haranguing his men, demanding the duke’s head, urging them on, into the water. Despite the lord’s power in this land, his men were less than ready to plough into the rising waters in pursuit. Finally, with some threats and more promises, he managed to get three men into the water, and the trio of knights pressed on, incredibly bravely, moving as fast as their horses could manage in the awful conditions.
Not far from Halfdan, a rider hauled on his reins. The jarl turned to the man.
‘What?’
‘I go no further, my jarl,’ the man smiled sadly. He was one of Thurstan’s, a former Hauteville warrior from Apulia. ‘My horse hates the water, but my sword thirsts for blood.’
And with that, he was turning and wading back the way they came.
‘That way lies death,’ Halfdan called after him.
‘Then I will meet God with pride, as one of your Wolves.’
‘May Odin take you for his hall,’ the jarl bellowed back, raising an odd smile from the man.
Halfdan ploughed on into the water. His panic was slightly abated when he looked up and realised that Ancel and William were slowly emerging from the surface, rising as they moved. They had crossed the worst and were almost safe. He looked back. The rider, whose name he didn’t even know, had reached the rear of the column and was waiting for the three Cotentin men. Though it was difficult, Halfdan kept his mount moving forward with the others, making for shallower water and safety, yet kept his gaze on their rearguard. It was with no small regret, as he watched the Apulian fight for his life, that he wished he had learned the man’s name, to honour him for what he’d done. He’d ask Thurstan when he could, and raise a rune stone to the brave man.
The Apulian saw one of his opponents dead and beneath the surface of the rising waters, and another injured and pulling back to safety, before he finally fell, a heavy sword blow smashing his chest and crushing his organs, sending him lolling in the saddle until he fell beneath the waves.
The remaining rebel rider looked out at them across the now deep and wide water, and made no move to follow. The noble and his men were pulling back from the dunes and riding south, racing for the nearest bridge.
They had done it. At a cost, but they had done it.