Catla and the Vikings (13 page)

“No, but it goes in the right direction, toward your end of the village.”

“We'll take it.” She turned onto it. “Thank Our Lady, we are getting closer. My legs are tired.”

“Well, you've walked a lot in these last two days.”

“Was it farther than to Scarborough or York?” Catla asked. “This year we sold Mother's wool at both fairs.”

“Did you rest on the way to the fairs?”

“Sometimes.”

“Long enough to feel refreshed?”

“Yes. We didn't hurry. And we slept by the road on both journeys. Father said the fairs would wait for us. Buyers like Mother's purple wool. She sells all she makes.”

“Your mother's colors are famous along this coast. Is she teaching you her secrets?”

“Yes.” Catla felt a guilty blush, remembering how she often slipped away from the dye pots. She was proud of her mother's skill and liked what the money her mother earned could buy: seeds, tools, salt and sometimes a piece of soft linen for a shift under her smock.
I will do bette
r, she vowed silently.

“I'm tired too, Catla.” Sven glanced at her. “It's still a long way.” He looked at her more closely. “Are you limping?”

“Only a little.”

“What's the matter?”

She lifted one side of her skirt and showed him the way her leg was bruised from her fall. He gasped and called out softly, “Edith, come and look at this.”

Catla wished she had masked her limp better. Edith moved up and looked at her leg.

“When did you do this, Catla? Last day?”

Catla hesitated.

“You're being too brave. It should have had a poultice on it. Does it hurt?”

“A little, just now.”

“You are a true hero, my girl. You don't like fuss, do you?”

Catla shook her head, and Edith gave her a quick hug. “We can do nothing now, but we could rest here.”

Catla squeezed Edith's hand in gratitude. “No, it's almost dark. Let's go. There's still light. We'll rest later and wait for the moon to rise.”

Hugh walked up to them and said, “We should keep going. Is everything all right?”

“We were looking at the ugly bruise Catla has on her leg,” Edith said.

“I'm fine,” said Catla. “Hugh is right. Let's move. We can talk as we go.”

“Good,” said Hugh. “Ragnar is with Matthew and Hindley. He says there are about the same number of Norsemen in the village as we have already captured. That will be another twenty. The ship was not full. Many of their warriors died at Stamford Bridge. They were counting on slaves at the oars to take it home. We'll have an easier time than we thought if Helgi's ship hasn't arrived. There are only about forty in the whole crew.”

“Forty,” said Catla, and she flashed fingers on both hands as she counted.

Hugh said, “Ragnar told me this crew is made up of men cast off from other crews.”

“Cast off?” Catla hadn't heard that term before.

“Men other crews wanted to get rid of because they weren't good fighters or stirred up trouble with crew members, that sort of thing.”

“But, Hugh,” Catla said, “Ragnar doesn't seem like that.”

“No. He's part of the group because of a family feud between his family and Helgi's. The king promised to name Ragnar the commander of his ships, but his father could not raise as many men for the battle as Helgi's father, so the king gave the command to Helgi. Ragnar thinks Helgi wants to kill him, to rid himself of a rival, especially now that their king is dead. None of Ragnar's people know where he is right now, so if he's dead…”

Hugh shrugged and didn't need to complete the thought.

“Why did Ragnar agree to come with that crew of men if they're so useless?” asked Sven.

“Back in his land, he was knocked senseless by Helgi's men, then carried onto one of his ships,” said Hugh. “When he came to, they were at our shores.”

“His life is in danger, no matter what he does,” Catla said.

“Seems so,” Hugh said. “That's why he spoke up. He'd like a chance for a decent life in one of our villages.”

“Will he help us fight?” Sven asked.

“He's a good fighter, but none of our people will like the idea of giving him a sword.”

“He's canny, isn't he, Hugh?' Catla said.

“Yes, he is. He's also plainspoken and perceptive. I like that. But we'll keep an eye on him, no matter. Are we getting close, Catla?”

“There's a shorter hill before we get to the hill-crest that overlooks the village. We'll stop this side of it,” she said. “We'll be far enough away to whisper while we rest.”

“Anson said he'd scout the heath when we get a little closer,” Hugh said. “He's fast and wary. Catla, can you find the way in the dark?”

“I think so. There weren't that many paths. I haven't been this far on the heath at night, but I know it well by day. Besides, the moon is almost full. When it rises, the light will help.”

“You'll find the way,” Edith said.

“We'll leave the prisoners behind where we stop,” Hugh said. “They're gagged and tied. A couple of folks have said they'll stay as guards.”

“We should slow down now,” Edith said. “The shadows are tricky and the moon rises late.”

Catla thought about Ragnar as she tromped along. His life was far different from anything she knew. She'd met traders who came to their village, but no one had talked to her like he had. He was like a slave to his own people. No wonder he wanted to get away. He was younger than Olav. Would Ragnar come to live in Covehithe? The evening council meetings would be interesting with all the tales he must have. Would he like village life? Or would he be lonesome? Maybe he'd want to marry. Martha had two young sons and had been lonesome since Uhtred died two summers ago. Maybe they'd like each other.

Catla was startled to realize she was thinking about life after the rescue. Her heart quickened and it became easier to put one foot in front of the other. Her mind was lulled by the rhythm of her footsteps, but she kept a good hold on her thoughts and would not let them roam into thinking about her family. She vowed again to be a better daughter, kinder and more willing to do her work without being asked. In this brief time apart she'd realized how much her mother and her whole family meant to her.

“Now the moon is rising. See it over the water?” Edith took Catla's arm and turned her in the direction of the sea. A lopsided oval disc was rising from the horizon, casting a path of shimmering gray light across the dark water. Catla sighed with gratitude. She was back to her land and her sea.

Then she smelled smoke. She plucked at Edith's sleeve and whispered, “Do you smell it?” They stopped and people bumped into each other because their eyes had been following their feet, not looking ahead. Hugh moved beside them, and Catla whispered, “There's smoke.” He nodded.

“We're close enough, even though smoke drifts a long way.” Catla spoke quietly. “The short hill rises just ahead. We'll rest here.”

“Now would be a good time to rub dirt into our faces and hands,” Sven said.

“Right,” Hugh said. “We'll stop until the moon shifts farther west, and then move for the attack just before dawn.” Then he said to Anson, “This is a good time to go. Check for any lookouts. Do you want to rest first?”

“No. I'll be back directly.” He slipped into the dark.

Catla sank to the ground. Heather cushioned her back and she leaned against it, her eyes wide at first. The moon rose higher in the sky. It looked like the Roman coin she had wrapped in a scrap of tanned leather and tucked beneath her sleeping robe in her cottage. Would it still be there? She'd found it on the heath and her parents let her keep it, a dowry for the future. She thought it brought good luck, even though Father John did not approve of placing faith in objects unless they came from a pilgrimage. Only religious icons held power for good, he said. Still, she imagined her golden coin up in the sky, leading and protecting them.

She dozed and then wakened with small starts and dozed again. The moon was taking forever to cross that little space of sky. She had drunk all her ale, and eaten the chunk of bread and hard cheese Edith had put into the leather pouch that hung from her belt.

In the moonlight she saw groups of people standing and moving about. Then her eyes would close and she'd wake feeling anxious that she'd slept too long, only to see people still at rest. Anson had returned some while ago to report he'd seen no guards.

“The moon is right. Time to move, Catla,” Hugh whispered. There were fewer people now. The fishermen had gone. They'd be making their way along the shore and would come into the village after they'd gathered the Covehithe fishing nets on the way. The group that was using Sven's path had gone. Now the remaining people shuffled into a single line behind her, Sven at her back. Fighting partners stood next to each other. They would cross the short hill, then climb the last one with the bracken at the start of the hidden path. Catla's stomach flipped with fear and excitement, the calm displaced. Would she find the right path, the one that led to her family and the Nord-devils?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Wolf's Howl

The moon hovered at the peak of the heavens, before edging toward the western horizon. It was the deepest part of the night, but other concerns pushed worries about goblins aside as Catla moved along the path to Covehithe. She stopped and looked out over the water. Infinite ripples glimmered across waves. The sea. She was home.

The far eastern rim of the ocean melted into the sky with a first gray hint of dawn. Turning back, she faced the bracken, black in the moonlight. Sven eased beside her, and she felt an encouraging arm across her shoulders.

Catla searched for the pathway. How, by the hairy-tailed star, would they all manage to go down without rustling, tripping or falling? What had she been thinking?

Edith whispered against her ear. “You first, then Hugh, then Sven. I'll be last. Go slow.”

Catla nodded but felt a little twitch of nervousness at the edge of her eye. At Edith's nudge, she entered the bracken, stretching out both hands to steady the fronds. Her fears welled again. The Nord-devils would hear her and they'd be waiting at the bottom to take her, because she was first, and put her—she shook her head, impatient with her fancies. She felt her way along, stooping, feet thrust forward. Had she been this slow before? She tried to move silently but the fronds' rattle sounded like an army of tinsmiths. Finally, she was through the bracken and into the alders. Almost halfway down, and on she went. Scudding clouds half hid the stars. The night seemed darker with leaves overhead. In younger days she'd imagined trees had fingers that would reach for her hair as she passed. With a great effort, she pushed that image away.

Twice she stopped to listen. The night stayed still. The rough texture of the boulder that marked the halfway point met her outstretched hands. Mossy patches covered some of the surface. Here the path curved to the left and widened. She moved faster, more confident now. Then she was on flat ground and in the oval glade, bounded by trees and bushes. She'd made it, and she felt a flutter of relief. A layer of ground fog drifted above the earth so it felt like she was wading through a cloud. The sky, brilliant with stars, gave her bits of light among the trees and bushes. On the far side, the bushes thinned, opening to the village.

She crossed and peered out, her heart bumping inside her ribs. There was the peat shed, her family just beyond it. She'd creep out for a look and be back before Hugh arrived. Only two steps later she heard a rustle and jumped back to the bottom of the path.

Hugh emerged. The clearing filled slowly with the dirty-faced villagers from Aigber. When Ragnar arrived, he was gagged and then tied to a tree. Edith came last.

“Now we begin.” Hugh's whisper barely disturbed the air. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called the long low hunting hoot of an owl, hollow and eerie in the stillness. This first alert warned the group on Sven's path and the fishermen in the cove to prepare, to check their weapons and move into position. Everyone would wait for the wolf's howl before they moved closer. Hugh nodded. Catla stepped out of the clearing and glided across the foggy space to the peat shed. One by one, like silent, flitting phantoms, people gathered behind her.

The rank smell of peat caught the back of her nose, and she stifled a sneeze. The shed was more than half full. It hid them well as they crouched behind it. Catla peered around the corner in the predawn light and saw some people sitting up in the pen, but mostly she saw humps on the ground
.
The morning chorus of birdsong filled the air. She took it as an omen of luck.

Three Norsemen stood guard outside the pen. A small fire flickered. She held up three fingers to the rest of the group.

Hugh and the others crowded beside her to look.

Two guards stood with their hands propped on their ax hilts, their heads drooping onto their chests, dozing. One stood, his back to the fire, facing the path into the village. Their heads were bare of helmets and their swords were sheathed. As the firelight flickered on the curved ax blades, she clenched her fists to stop her hands from trembling and held very still.

Three villagers eased past her, catapults dangling from their hands. These herders of Aigber boasted they'd never lost a goat or a lamb to a wolf. Hugh thumped their backs softly as they passed like seawater over brown boulders, so liquid they seemed. They stopped, fitted rocks into the slings and gathered the cords. Round and around the slings whirred and released. The guard who was awake turned and started to shout. His voice was cut off as a rock found its mark. He and his comrades slumped to the ground with scarcely a sigh.

The rescuers rushed forward. Their feet rustled, but all else was quiet. Now, the prisoners who'd been sitting silently roused their sleeping neighbors. Outside the pen, one of the guards pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and then stood, blood running in a dark streak from his forehead. He raised his sword as he righted himself and held it unsteadily in front of him. Hugh's stave knocked the Norseman's arm aside and the sword clattered to the ground.