“You’re not my papa and I won’t have you as one.”
“Aye, you will. I will tell you something else, Kiri. If your papa doesn’t arrive after the storm ends, then you and I are both going with the men to York. Since I’m your second papa, I will speak to Uncle Rorik. Since I’m your second papa, he will say yes, but only—”
“Only what?”
“Only if you do as I tell you.”
“Papa never orders me around.”
“Of course he does. You just don’t notice it. Perhaps it’s time you had a second papa to do all those things your first papa doesn’t do.”
“Do I have to?”
“Aye. Now, lie here beside me again. I’ll tell you a story about a little girl who had to grow up with a stepmother who was as nasty as she was beautiful. The stepmother’s name was Sira and I was the little girl.”
“Papa’s not soft like you are. You don’t look like a papa, not even a second papa.”
“That’s just because you’re not yet used to the idea.”
12
WAVES SPLASHED AGAINSTthe sides of the warship. The night was black as Chessa’s hair, Rorik told her, which was good because there was no one to alert the Danes. The air was heavy with rain, the clouds overhead dark and thick.
Hafter said, “There’s not even a gull about to announce us. I pray the rain will hold off until we’re done with this business.”
Gunleik had steered the warship through the huge York harbor, ringed with its massive wooden palisade to keep out the enemy. Such was his skill that the guards hadn’t seen Merrik’s ship.
Everyone prayed the Malverne men had been taken alive. But as warriors, they knew in their bellies that it was unlikely. A warrior would fight until he was too weak to raise his sword. Then he would use his knife until he was too weak. Then he would curse until his tongue was dead in his mouth. None said it, but few believed their friends were still alive. And Merrik and Cleve? Rorik said nothing, merely went about his tasks, his head down, calm and still.
Gunleik steered the ship slowly out of the harbor, northward. There were at least three dozen trading ships and warships tied to the dock, their masts like ghosts in the night, tall, wrapped closely in their leather sails, many of them white, swaying slightly with the movement of the ships. They pulled the ship ashore a half mile above the harbor onto a narrow beach covered with driftwood and rocks. There were no lights, no small settlements. They would hug the beach as they made their way back to the town.
They covered the warship with thick-leafed branches from the oak and maple trees just inland from the beach. When it was hidden as best they could, Rorik said quietly, “Kiri, you will stay close to your second papa. I want to leave you here, but it’s too dangerous. By the gods, everything is dangerous.” He smote his forehead, but knew there was nothing he could do about it. Chessa was skilled with a knife and she carried two of them beneath her wool cloak in a leather belt around her waist.
The child allowed Chessa to take her hand.
Rorik fell into step beside Hafter. “We are Vikings and warriors and now we go to York to find our friends and we take a woman and a little girl with us.”
Hafter just shrugged. “Sing not that song again, Rorik. It will gain you nothing more than it gained you the day we left Hawkfell, which was nothing. The child would be dead if she weren’t with us.”
“So Chessa said,” Rorik said under his breath, wondering if this were indeed the case. Kiri had eaten enough on the three-day journey to York from Hawkfell Island. She’d also eaten before they’d left. “It is because she knows she will soon see Cleve,” Chessa had said, meeting his look squarely. “If she were back on Hawkfell Island, she would soon be dead. At least with us she has a better chance to survive.”
Rorik was impressed by a woman who could lie with such ease and efficiency. But still he couldn’t be sure. There were twenty-two warriors, Chessa, and Kiri. All the men were armed with swords, knives, and axes. They held their shields at their sides and wore helmets on their heads. They all knew how to terrify when they appeared suddenly out of the blackness of the night or out of the fog, swords raised, screaming, their Viking helmets covering their faces.
But now they practiced stealth. Gunleik knew York. He’d spent ten years of his life guarding King Guntrum, brother to the current king, Olric. He knew where prisoners were kept and prayed things were as they had been so many years before. It was four hours before dawn. Plenty of time to find Merrik and all the Malverne men, plenty of time to escape. Plenty of time to see if they were dead and seek revenge.
They walked single file, some distance between each of them, so that if anyone saw them, they wouldn’t be alarmed, at least not until Rorik or one of his men could silence them. They didn’t enter the town, widely skirting the close-set streets with their malodorous alleys, dangerous with thieves. The king’s palace stood on the high ground behind the harbor and town, the guards’ barracks behind the palace as well as the prisoners’ hut. Remaining unnoticed there would prove more difficult.
Gunleik told them where the guards would be and prayed that it was still true. They made their way around to the back of the high ground, scuttling from tree to tree for protection. They killed four guards, quietly and cleanly. At last they were running stealthily toward the low wooden barracks where the soldiers lived. At the end of the barracks was another wooden building, this one cruder, filth all around it. They prayed to Thor that their comrades were inside it, all of them alive. But they all wondered if such a prayer had a chance. None spoke of it aloud.
They saw no more than twenty guards, leaning against the gates that led to the palace, leaning against the walls of the barracks, none of them really paying attention, none of them patrolling, just standing there, perhaps even sleeping on their feet.
When they reached the barracks, still unseen, each of the Hawkfell men picked a guard. Within moments, the men were lying dead on the ground.
Gunleik waved for the men to follow him. There were half a dozen men lolling about outside the prisoner’s barrack, speaking quietly. They were all awake.
One man had time to call out the alarm before Hafter cut his throat. They all froze to the spot, waiting for soldiers to pour from the barracks, but nothing happened.
Rorik gently shoved on the door. It was bolted. Sculla, whose arms were the size of a thick oak branch, split the old timber within moments with his axe.
