"No more than what you deserved, and probably less than that." Humbert stood, and the two armed men beside him straightened as he did. "For a long time I planned to let the rats take you. I still may, but it depends on what you say and what Brocard thinks." He pointed at the gap-toothed Frank, who smiled at the mention of his name.
Thrand glanced at Brocard, but his vision was captured by the riches surrounding him. His eyes widened as he realized the candle holders were gold, and plates of silver sat on tables covered in finely embroidered cloth. The riches of Paris were true after all, just beyond his reach. Humbert laughed at Thrand's gawking.
"You must learn my proper name: Anscharic. Knowing it might save your life one day." He stepped closer to Thrand, though he leaned away and waved the air before his nose. "By God, I didn't think it possible for your kind to smell worse."
"You left me to die in a pit. What should I smell like?"
Humbert's explosive laughter passed to the men-at-arms. "Your defiance remains intact, typical of men whose last possession is pride. Let me correct that misplaced confidence. The ignorant barbarians that took you to Paris have been trying to get around two towers for the last three months. Even with their numbers and war machines, they've failed. Yesterday they tried to burn down the Little Bridge by setting three ships aflame and ramming it. Do you know what happened?"
Thrand shook his head.
"The ships burned so fast that they sank before the Little Bridge caught a spark. Your people can't even manage to start a fire without a mistake." Anscharic laughed again, puncturing it with bits of Frankish to bring his men into the joke. The room vibrated with their laughter.
Thrand's mind raced over the news. Nothing had gone right since coming to Paris. If the Franks would be victorious, he wanted to be in their good graces.
"Oh, Anscharic! I am sorry!" He crashed to his knees, the suddenness of it drawing Brocard's spear to his neck. "Ulfrik told me to mistreat you. He wanted your secrets and thought I could pry them from you with violence. He wanted me to push you closer to him, so you would confide the truth. I swear it."
Fleshy bags obscured Anscharic's eyes as he smiled. "You're a creative liar, Thrand. Remain on your knees and hear what I say. This rendezvous has already cost me more time than I wanted. You have a choice. The first is the easiest to answer. Do you want to return to the donjon, the pit as you called it?"
"Never!" He threw himself flat, shuddering as tears began to flow. "The pit is haunted. Please, I will do anything you ask if it means I can stay free of that place."
Anscharic nodded, stepping around Thrand, who remained prostrate. "Then you will take my second choice: freedom."
Thrand grew still, unsure of what he had heard. He remained facedown, waiting for Anscharic to elaborate. He heard feet shuffle a few more steps before stopping. He raised his head slowly, bumping the spear aimed at the back of his neck. He turned to the side, looking at Anscharic's clean boots. "Did you offer me freedom?"
"Freedom with a duty, but freedom nonetheless." He muttered a few Frankish words and Brocard's spear lifted. "Stand up. In return for your freedom, you will lead a party of men through the surrounding enemy. Six men, including you, will dress as Danes and leave the city during the night. My people travel on important business, which does not concern you. Your only duty, which will secure your freedom, is to be the face of your group when meeting others of your kind. You speak to them, give them names to soothe suspicions, ensure the details of your barbaric traditions are observed. You go where the group leads, and once arrived at that place you are free."
Thrand put his hand to his heart, feeling it thunder. A smile cracked his face, an expression he had nearly forgotten. Anscharic's eyes drew to slits as he regarded him, and he continued.
"If you think of running off or alerting the Danes to the truth of your disguises, you will die. I suppose you might sacrifice yourself to help your former friends, but I don't see you doing so. That's one reason I selected you for this task. Know that all the men with you understand Norse and speak it, though not fluently enough to pass as a true barbarian. But if you alert anyone, your five companions' first priority will be to kill you. That is my will, and they are loyal men. The swords I will provide you are rusted in their sheaths, and have blunted cutting edges. Don't count on them in a fight. Can I trust this to you?"
"Humb … Anscharic, I will be as loyal as any of your men! Your mercy, it's unexpected. You are a true lord."
"Dear God, Thrand, you are a worm. Then it is settled. You will be fed well, and then released tonight."
Thrand burned to smash Anscharic's smug expression; his hands tensed with the urge. The gold of his cross sparked in the light from above, and Thrand wanted to rip it from his chest. Despite all of his fury, his voice was servile. "I will do as you say, and will ever be grateful for your help. But what do I do after my freedom?"
"A good question, one that I'm glad you mentioned." Anscharic snapped orders to Brocard, who argued with him before being silenced with an up-turned hand. Brocard and his men moved to leave the room, but he pushed his face into Thrand's before exiting.
"We go outside. Be good, or die."
"He will be one of your group," Anscharic said. Thrand watched in shock as the three men left and closed the door. "He's worried that you will do something foolish, like grab the dagger in my belt. Would you do that?"
He had not noticed the dagger with jewels in its sheath and pommel until Anscharic patted it. Hands trembling again, he forced a smile. "I would be a fool. You are a much better fighter than you seem."
Seemingly pleased, he clasped his hands behind his back and began to circle Thrand. "My family has fought your kind for generations. We kept your people as slaves. I learned my Norse from them, so I would never be ignorant of what my sworn enemies planned. My father, who has gone to God's kingdom, taught me my Latin and my swordsmanship."
"What has this to do with my freedom, lord?" He added the title, if only to soften the words.
Rather than snap at him, Anscharic paused and touched his cross. "It has everything to do with it. My father died fighting your kind, dragged into the mud by a berserker's ax. His men could not recover his body, but carried away but one possession of my father's."
"His robe."
"Yes, you remember." His eyes shimmered with tears and his mouth quivered as he held Thrand's gaze. "That robe is all that is left of my father. Yes, lands and possessions passed to me and my brother. But that cloak, he wore it to battle and died in it. It is more important to me than any of his inheritance, a mere rag to others but a treasure to me. Surely, as a warrior, you understand this. It was his battle cloak, a talisman."
"You lost it the night we fled here."
Anscharic closed his eyes, and a tear streaked from beneath his lid. "Yes. Ulfrik snatched it from me, and I could not turn back for it. Once you are freed, if you can find my father's cloak and deliver it to me, I will pay you the fortune you expected to find here."
Heart pounding again, he stammered his reply. "Of course, lord! Yes, I will get it for you."
"You can tell Ulfrik you escaped, then steal the cloak. Before you leave I will show you how to signal my men, and you will be let in. Not only would you have a fortune, but my gratitude and forgiveness. Would you be willing to accept baptism, you may even serve me. Do not fear the defeat of this city, for God will not let these walls crumble to your heathen kind."
"Of course I will accept baspism … bapim, er, yes! A fortune and forgiveness and a place in your city." He only wanted the treasure, and the other promises were suspect at best. However, he was eager to make Anscharic happy enough to let him out of the city and perhaps trade that rag for gold. Then he remembered, and his face fell.