‘Not this one. She fell in love with a stable-boy.’
‘That was rash.’
‘I suppose love falls where it falls.’
Mother Owd raised one brow. ‘Generally one can see it toppling from afar, and make an effort to get out of the way.’
‘Well Gudrun didn’t. Throvenland had three kings in those days, and her grandfather promised her to one of the others. She tried to run away, so he hung her lover from that tower and locked her in the top of it until she learned her duty.’
Mother Owd scratched at the loose bun her hair was gathered into. ‘I’m having trouble seeing where the happy ending will come from.’
‘It won’t. Gudrun flung herself from the battlements and died in the ditch.’
‘Let’s hope we don’t all end up following her example,’ said Raith.
‘Killing ourselves for love?’ asked Skara.
‘Dying in the ditch.’
Raith had seemed grim lately, even for him, and though she hardly needed to look further than the approach of ten thousand armed enemies to explain anyone’s bad mood, Skara wondered if her deal with Gorm could be behind it. She was far from all delight at that herself, but there was nothing to be done. She gave a weary sigh. There were bigger things to worry about than anyone’s feelings, even her own.
The sound of hoofbeats drew her eyes and she saw riders spilling from the gate. Two hundred or more horses in a fast-moving column, earth showering as they thundered past the men still digging the ditch deeper and across the muddied ground where Gorm and Uthil’s camps had been pitched.
Blue Jenner was striding up the gentle rise towards them and Skara called out to him. ‘Whoever doesn’t want to stay for what’s coming?’
‘Thorn Bathu,’ said Jenner, turning to watch the riders pass. ‘But only because Bright Yilling isn’t getting here fast enough for her taste. She’s taking two hundred of Gettland’s bloodiest to hurt him however she can.’
‘That could be quite a lot of hurt,’ murmured Skara, watching the riders stream out of the long shadow of Bail’s Point, through the deserted village and away to the north.
‘We’ve no fodder for the horses in any case, my queen.’ Jenner stopped beside them, hands planted on his hips. ‘There isn’t too much fodder for the men. Bright Yilling burned most of the farms within a hundred miles and picked clean most of the rest. Uthil and Gorm reckon only a thousand men can stay. Those with families to worry over and harvests to bring in will be taking ship north to Thorlby and beyond.’
Skara blinked at that. ‘We’ll be outnumbered ten to one.’
‘The longer the odds the greater the glory,’ muttered Raith. ‘Or so I’ve heard …’
‘It’ll be picked warriors who remain.’ Jenner tried as usual to plot an optimistic course. ‘And plenty to man the walls until Father Yarvi comes back. Four hundred Vanstermen, four hundred Gettlanders, a hundred smiths, cooks, servants. A hundred of ours.’
‘We have that many willing to stay?’
‘There’s five times that many willing to die for you, my queen, and I can pick a hundred who’ll kill a few of the High King’s men doing it.’
‘I’m humbled,’ said Skara, ‘truly. But you shouldn’t be one of them. You’ve already done far more than-’
Blue Jenner snorted. ‘Oh, I’m staying and that deal’s done. I’ve promised my crew a hell of a pay-off when you beat the High King. If I don’t deliver I’ll look quite the fool. You should go, though.’
Her turn to snort. ‘How can I expect others to risk their lives if I won’t?’
‘My queen,’ said Mother Owd, ‘your blood is worth more to Throvenland than-’
‘I am a queen in my own fortress. The only person who can give me orders is the High King, and since I am in open rebellion against him, you are out of luck. I stay, and that is all.’
‘Then I stay too.’ Mother Owd sighed. ‘A healer’s place is among the wounded. A minister’s place is beside her queen.’
Skara felt a rush of gratitude that almost brought tears to her eyes. They were hardly the advisors she would have picked but she would not have traded them for anyone now. ‘The gods may have taken my grandfather.’ Skara put one arm around Mother Owd, and one around Blue Jenner, and hugged them tight. ‘But they sent me two pillars to lean upon.’
Mother Owd frowned down at herself. ‘I am a little squat for a pillar.’
‘You hold me up admirably even so. Now go.’ Skara pushed them off towards the fortress. ‘Pick me the hundred warriors who’ll kick Bright Yilling hardest in his balls.’
‘We’ll pick ’em, my queen,’ said Blue Jenner, grinning back. ‘And find ’em the heaviest boots we can.’
Skara was left standing on the sward with Raith. The birds continued to twitter. The calls of the labourers in the ditch floated towards them. The breeze fumbled across the grass. Skara did not look sideways. But she liked knowing he was there, at her shoulder.
‘You can go,’ she said. ‘If you want to.’
‘I said I’d die for you. I meant it.’
He had some of that old swagger as she looked around, daring and dangerous and making no apologies, and she smiled to see it. ‘No need quite yet. I still need someone to threaten my visitors with.’
‘I can do that too.’ He smiled back. That hard and hungry smile that showed all his teeth. Long enough for it to be no accident. Long enough for that warm nervousness to set her skin tingling.
There was a part of her that would have liked to follow Gudrun’s example. To piss on the proper thing and go rolling in the hay with her stable-boy. At least to know what it felt like.
But there was a much larger part of her that laughed at the notion. She was no romantic. She could not afford to be. She was a queen, and promised to Grom-gil-Gorm, the Breaker of Swords. A nation relied on her. However she had railed at and complained to and rebelled against Mother Kyre, after all, in the end she had always done her duty.
So instead of clutching hold of Raith like a drowning girl to a log and kissing him as if the secret of life was in his mouth, she swallowed, and frowned back at Gudrun’s Tower.
‘It means a lot,’ she said. ‘That you’d fight for me.’
‘Not that much.’ The sun had been covered by cloud for a moment and the jewels in the grass were turned to cold water. ‘Every good killer needs someone to kill for.’
The Thousand
Soryorn was a grand archer and cut a hero’s figure against the bloody sunset, one foot up on the battlements at the top of Gudrun’s tower, back curved as he bent his great bow, the light from the flaming arrow shifting on his hard-set face.
‘Burn it,’ said Gorm.
The eyes of the thousand picked warriors of Throvenland, Vansterland and Gettland followed the streak of fire as the shaft curved through the still evening and thudded into the deck of Bright Yilling’s ship. Blue flame shot from it as the southern oil caught with a gentle whomp. In a moment the whole boat was alight in a blaze Raith could almost feel the heat of, even up here on the wall.
He glanced sideways and saw the warm glow light up Skara’s smile. It had been her idea. A warrior’s ship is his heart and his home, after all.
It had been a bastard of a job hauling it out of the harbour and on rollers up the long ramp to the yard. Raith’s back was aching and his hands raw from his part in it. Queen Skara had given the gilded weathervane to Blue Jenner, King Gorm had torn out the silver fittings to melt down and make cups, King Uthil had taken the red-dyed sail to spare the women of Gettland some weaving. They’d pulled the mast down to fit it through the entrance passage and they’d gouged the fine carvings when it got wedged in the gateway, but they’d got it outside in the end.
Raith hoped Bright Yilling would appreciate the effort they’d made to welcome him to Bail’s Point. But either way the defenders enjoyed the sight of his ship in flames. There was cheering, there was laughter, there were insults spat at Yilling’s scouts, sat calmly on horseback far out of bowshot. The high spirits were shortlived, though.