Fanglith - Return To Fanglith Part 12

It occurred to me then to turn off the remote in my right ear. Deneen wasn't around to talk to me, and even just turned on, it was a constant tiny drain on the communicator's power cell. When I needed it, later on, I didn't want a rundown power cell

TWENTY.

Arno didn't wake up for half an hour, and when he did, he was confused. We sat on the bottom decking of the open Norse s.h.i.+p, talking quietly, his speech vague and mumbly at first as he gradually remembered what had happened. After a while, the Norse leader came over to us with one of the Greek sailors from the horse s.h.i.+p.

The Norseman said something in Greek, and the Greek repeated it in Norman French. His Norman was good-a lot better than his captain's had been-and obviously the Norseman had brought him aboard to interpret.

"He wants you to stand up," the Greek said, It was me the Norse leader was looking at, so I got up.

The Norseman spoke to me again, the Greek translating. "I am told you are a holy monk." "That's right."

The Norseman eyed the cross that hung from my neck. "Do you follow the church of Miklagard, or that of Rome?"

Somehow the question felt dangerous, so I sidestepped. "India. I am a Christian of India."

"Umh." He thought about that, frowning, then said something more to the Greek and walked away.

"What did he tell you?" I asked.

"He had planned to sell all of us, and the s.h.i.+p and horses, to Saracen merchants in Spain. But he says he cannot sell a Christian holy man, certainly not to the Saracens, so he will have to take you with him to his homeland."

Well, I thought, mark one up to being a holy monk. "He asked if I followed the way of Miklagard," I said. "Where or what is Miklagard?"

"These men are Varangians, Miklagard is their name for Byzantium."

Varangians? "What are Varangians?" I asked.

He shrugged. "They are barbarian mercenaries who come from the North. Some come on s.h.i.+ps like this, across the Mediterranean. But mostly they come, or used to, across the Black Sea from the Rhos land.

They pay no heed to kings, but bond themselves by oaths to whatever leaders they choose. Most of these men have been fighting for the Emperor, and are returning now to their homelands with the gold they have earned."

The Emperor. That would be the Byzantine emperor, I decided.

"And they plan to sell you?" I said. "Does that mean you'll be a slave?"

"Yes. But I am a skilled sailor. I will probably not be chained to a rowing bench or sent to the mines."

He didn't seem all that upset. Resigned was more like it.

Meanwhile Arno had gotten to his feet and stood by, taking it all in. Now he called out in what seemed to be the Norse language! It surprised heck out of me; I hadn't known he knew it. The captain, who was standing about thirty feet away in the bow, turned and stared at him, then said something back in Norse.

Haltingly, Arno answered, and the captain came over with an interested expression. They talked for a couple of minutes, Arno often pausing as if groping for words. The captain reached out, squeezed Arno's arms and shoulders with big hands as if testing his muscles. Then he laughed, nodding, said something more, and drew Arno by an arm to the center of the long s.h.i.+p while calling in Norse to its crew.

Most of them moved toward the middle of the long s.h.i.+p, with Arno in the center, and there seemed to be some sort of brief meeting. Everyone was grinning or even laughing, then serious for a few moments, then cheering. A keg was pa.s.sed around, which must have held five gallons, and they all drank, some from big mugs. Those who drank from the spout held the keg above their faces as if it didn't weigh a thing, but when it got to me, it still must have weighed twenty-five pounds or more.

Our Greek had come over to where I was sitting. He had no more idea what was going on than I did.

After a few minutes, Arno came back. My eyes must have been out on stalks by then.

"What was that all about?" I asked. "What did you say to him? How did you know their language?"

Arno chuckled. With the wind behind us now, no one was rowing, so we moved to adjacent rowing stools. "I never told you the history of my people," he said. "The first Normans were Norse pirates called Vikings. Most were from the kingdom of Denmark, though Hrolf, our first duke, was from Norway.

They had been harrying the coast of France from s.h.i.+ps much like this one, and the Franks were unable to deal with their ferocity. The Vikings would sail up a river to some town or monastery and capture and loot it, putting the people to the sword, then setting the place on fire before they left."

Arno chuckled again. It bothered me that he could laugh about it.

"So Charles the Simple, the Prankish king, offered Hrolf the duchy now called Normandy," Arrio went on, "if he would stop his raiding. Hrolf was a great Viking lord, a sea king with many men sworn to him.

And Hrolf, whom the Franks called Rollo and who later took the Christian name Robert, would be the duke. All the king required, besides the end of his raiding, was that Hrolf allow himself to be baptized, for the Norse were not Christians then. And Hrolf was also to recognize the king as his sovereign, but owing him only one man's military service for forty days a year. Which, the story goes, the king in turn promised not to demand of him, though I doubt that even Charles would promise that.

"Denmark was crowded in those days, and many Danes, as well as certain other Norse, came to Normandy then to take land. The Franks who were there before them became their ville ins Many of the Danes who went there were dr engr-unmarried men-and becoming baptized, took Frankish wives. Also they ceased their seafaring and learned to fight on horseback-like the Franks, but more skillfully. And they still had the bold, fierce, Viking nature, which we Normans keep to this day."

Although I followed all of that easily enough, there was one point of confusion. "But the Greek said that these are Varangians. How does that fit with Vikings? And apparently they not only speak a language of their own, but Greek."

"Varangians are the same people as the Vikings. Varangians are Norse who went to Byzantium to fight for the Emperor, and the language of Byzantium is Greek. Byzantium is wealthy beyond belief, and its Emperor pays richly for warriors of skill and valor. Many Norse go to Byzantium, and return to their homelands wealthy by Northern standards."

"And the Normans can also speak Norse?" I asked.

Arno shook his head. "Almost none do. I'm the only one I know who speaks as much of it as I, although there may be a few others. When I was born, my great-grandsire was an old man-seventy. As a small boy, I was intrigued by him, for he could find his way around the castle as if he still had the eyes which had been taken from him by a sword stroke, fighting river pirates on the Seine.

"In summer, he liked me to sit in the sun with him, when I was small and we would talk. He taught me the Norse language, which as he spoke it then was mixed with more than a little of our good Norman French.

And he told me many stories in Norse, of old days and old ways. I did not fully understand them then, of course, but I remembered; I heard them often enough that sometimes I told them to him,"

Amo smiled, shaking his head. "I loved that old man, although I will tell you that he never entirely forgot the old G.o.ds. Indeed, I believe our priest suspected as much, for he often told my mother I should not be allowed with great-grandsire. He dared not accuse him of paganism though, for he had no evidence. And in name, my great-grandsire was still the baron there, though in his blindness, first my grandsire and then my father bore the responsibility.

"Great-grandsire-his name was Knut-had been born in Denmark, but Harald Bluetooth, who in those days was king there, had become Christian. And demanding that all Danes be baptized, and had begun to burn the shrines of the false G.o.ds, replacing them with churches.

"So my great-grandsire's father, disapproving of Christian ways, took his wife and children and left the country, going up to Norway, which was pagan still. It was there my great-grandsire grew up, wors.h.i.+ping the old G.o.ds, and when he was fifteen, went a-viking. In time, the band he was with took service with Ethelred of England, and fought Sveinn Forkbeard, who'd since become Denmark's king.

"But the band broke up when its leader, Gisli Ketilsson, was baptized and demanded that his followers do the same. Then my great-grandsire went home to Norway, where he found Olaf Tryggvesson king, and the people being baptized left and right. The shrines of the false G.o.ds were being burned, there'd been fighting, and in one fight, my great grandsire father had been sent to his grave.

"So he went with a Viking band to Normandy, where they took service with Duke Richard in quieting rebellious freeholders who were protesting certain changes from old Danish law to feudal law, which they considered a Prankish heresy. And the duke, not aware that great grandsire was pagan, knighted him, his valor and the force and cunning of his sword making up for indifferent horsemans.h.i.+p."

Arno chuckled. "And in Normandy he was baptized at last, having seen, if not the truth of G.o.d, at least the daughter of William of Courmeron, who would not give her in marriage to a heathen. When William died without living sons, great-grandsire received the fief from the duke. From heathen Viking to Christian baron in a ten-year! By then he'd learned to ride with all but the best of them, though he swore he'd been fortunate to survive some of those wild early hunting rides through the forest.

"Then, when I was six, I was sent to serve at the castle of Hugh of Falaise, Roland's father, a man far n.o.bler than his son would ever be. At certain holidays, we pages and squires would go home.

Greatgrandsire had entered his dotage, and somehow could no longer speak French, but only Norse, which, since grandsire's death, no one else there could speak except myself. Even from his Norse the French words all had fled, so that I had trouble understanding him at first. But because I could at least somewhat understand him, I spent much of my time with him when I was home. Until, when I was twelve, I was called to weep beside his bier."

I'd never thought of Arno weeping, even as a kid. He wasn't chuckling now; he wasn't even smiling.

"They said he'd regained both his French and his full wits on his last day, and, calling for the priest, had been absolved of all his sins, which I doubt not were less numerous and fulsome than those of many men who'd been Christian from the womb."

Arno shook his head as if throwing off a sense of loss. "I had not heard the Norse language again until today, and indeed could speak it only with difficulty at first."

"What did you talk about?" I asked.

"The leader's name is Gunnlag Snorrason, and he has accepted my oath. I am now one of his men. He was a Varangian himself once, and had fought against Normans in Apulia. Others of his men had fought Normans in Greece, or fought beside Norman mercenaries against the Patzinaks. The Varangians know the strength of Norman arms, and when they found that I could speak their tongue, albeit haltingly, they were pleased to have me. In fact, it clearly amused them to have a Norman in their ranks. To them I am a sport, like a Saracen bishop in G.o.d's church."

He chuckled, grinning ruefully. "Gunnlag Snorrason is no son of Tancred-no Roger de Hauteville, no Robert Guiscard or William Fer de Bras-and this vessel is all there is of his domain. But it is far far better than the cinnabar mines of Spain, where it is told the slaves live short and sickly lives and there is always a demand for more to replace the dying. And I can like these Varangians, for if they have learned to admire Normans in battle, Normans have learned that Varangian strength and valor is hardly second to our own. Were it not for Varangians, Guiscard might well rule not from Palermo but from Byzantium itself, and not a dukedom but an empire." Later, Arno's cheerful mood turned somber, and that evening before we slept, he let me see what was bothering him.

"Larn," he said.

"Yes?"

"Why didn't your sister drive the Varangians away?

With her mighty weapons, she could have sent them to the bottom."

I lied to him. "I don't know why. She has other things to do than hang around taking care of me. And until today, you've had my speaking amulet. I haven't been able to keep in touch with her."

"Can you call her now?"

"I tried. She didn't answer." I took my communicator off my belt, switched it on, and murmured into it.

"Deneen, this is Larn. Deneen, this is Larn. Come in, please. Over."

As I spoke, I had this feeling that she was going to surprise me and answer, but she didn't. Shrugging, I switched it off and put it back on my belt. "It seems to be working," I told him. "I just don't get an answer. But it only works over a few hundred miles. She's probably farther away than that."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. I wished I was like Bubba and could read thoughts.

TWENTY-ONE.

Late that night I woke up. I'd been dreaming of Jenoor, and in my dream she'd been alive, talking to me. I couldn't remember much about it, except she'd been telling me she was all right. I also remembered that in the dream it seemed as if she'd come to me in dreams before. It had been such a joyous dream; now it was gone. I lay there for a minute, trying to remember more of it, but couldn't.

Even what I did remember was slipping away, and a slow wave of despair washed through me. Getting up, I looked around. To the right of the long s.h.i.+p I could see a low coastline not many miles away beneath a fall moon.

One of the Varangians had wakened at my movement and was watching me. I ignored him and went aft to where the water casks were lashed, for a drink, being careful not to step on anyone. I thought about talking to the steersman, getting into the Norse language the way I had Provencal, by gestures and pointing. I decided that wouldn't work too well with him handling the steering oar, so I went back and lay down again, where I dreamed some more about Jenoor.

But the next time I woke up, the sun was rising behind us, which told me we'd changed direction from south to westerly. The wind had s.h.i.+fted, too, coming out of the northeast. The square sail billowed roundly, and we were moving right along.

The most surprising change was that we were towing the horse s.h.i.+p now! Its own sail was full like ours, but the line was taut; we were adding to her speed, though it slowed us down. I called to the Greek-his name was Michael-and asked if he knew what that was about.

"We are entering waters where Saracen pirates and wars.h.i.+ps are more likely to be met," he said. "Our captain"-he meant the Varangian captain now-"wants to pa.s.s through them as swiftly as possible without separating from the other." He gestured toward the horse s.h.i.+p some hundred feet behind us.

And he really did want to get through fast. First we ate breakfast, which was the same as supper had been the day before: dates, smoked meat, and a hard, flat, crusty thing that the Norse called flatbraud, all washed down with watered wine. As soon as we'd finished, men were a.s.signed to the rowing stools.

Sliding the oars through the oar holes, they began to row in rhythm. It had to be in rhythm, or they'd have been banging oars together. An overweight Varangian with a hand missing set the rhythm of their stroke by striking a drum.

No question about it-we were going faster now.

I began to see a long, hard day ahead. Not all the oars were in use; only about half the Varangians were rowing. It didn't take too much imagination to see what would happen after they'd rowed a while: The rest of us would replace them. I looked at my hands. There wasn't a callus on either of them. Then I looked around for something I could make a sun visor with. I wasn't nearly as tanned as the Varangians, and I didn't want my face to slough off at the end of a day on a rowing stool.

Sure enough, row I did. One s.h.i.+ft would row for an hour-the one-handed bosun had an hourgla.s.s-then the other would take over. At midday we all quit rowing to eat lunch, which was the same as breakfast, followed by a longish rest, during which most of us slept. Then the rowing began again. Before my first s.h.i.+ft I cut cloth pads from my cape to protect my hands, and I'm sure it helped, but even so, before the day was done, my palms were raw and oozing. The only good thing I could say about it, if you could call it good, was that I'd sort of gotten used to the pain. At the end of the first s.h.i.+ft, I leaned over the gunwale and scooped up a bucket of salt water from the sea. After each s.h.i.+ft I soaked my hands in it, though it stung. I wasn't sure the immunoserum would keep my blisters from getting infected, and a salt.w.a.ter soak was the only treatment I could think of.

To start with, I told the captain I'd never rowed before, and asked for some coaching. Instead of a coach, he gave me the rearmost starboard oar, with no one on the next two stools in front of me. I saw why quickly enough. The long s.h.i.+p was rolling more than a little, and for the first couple of minutes I kept missing the water every few strokes, fanning the air. Then I got grooved in and it went pretty decently.

After a while, I was even digging the water about the same each stroke. My hands weren't my only problem. By the end of my first s.h.i.+ft, my legs and back and arms were really tired. I kind of semi-recovered on the off-s.h.i.+fts, but by the end of the day I was more exhausted than I'd ever been before. When Michael gave me the good word that the captain wasn't going to make us row at night, I was too tired to be ecstatic, just awfully grateful.

On our first off-s.h.i.+ft, Arno came over to me. "I've heard what you did to Jon Eriksson," he said.

"Apparently it was you who took my weapons of power."

I resisted the impulse to remind him who "the weapons of power" actually belonged to, "Just the stunner," I said. "And I'm keeping it. The blaster went flying when the ax hit you. It's probably on the other s.h.i.+p with your horses."

He gestured at his belt, with its sword, dagger, and recharge magazine attached, "These were returned to me," he said, "and even my purse of gold. But this"-he indicated the magazine-"is empty. Who would have taken its contents except you? And why would you have taken them if you did not have the blaster?"

"Arno," I told him wearily, "I may have lied to you a time or two, but not this time." With an effort, I got to my feet. "Come on," I said, and headed for the stem. Arno followed, puzzled. I beckoned to Michael to come along too, and went to where Gunnlag stood with the steering oar under one brawny arm.

"Gunnlag," I said, "when you attacked our s.h.i.+p, Amo had a marvelous device from India which I had given him. I saw it fly from his hand when he was struck by the ax, but it did not go into the sea. It was of metal, and about this long"-I showed him with my hands-"with a short handle at one end. Would you find out if any of your men have it? It would have been just lying there, and they could not have known that it was his. I'd like him to have it again if possible."

I said all that in short sentences, Michael interpreting. When I was done, Gunnlag nodded. "I will ask at midday, when we stop rowing to eat."

"And there was something else," I added. "Some small objects that were kept in this." I touched the magazine on Arno's belt. "He thought I had taken them for safekeeping, but I had not. Perhaps someone else has them."

In response, Gunnlag bellowed a name, and one of the Varangians came over. They talked briefly in Norse.

"It was Torkil here who took the strange objects from Arno's purse," Gunnlag said to me through the Greek. "They seemed useless to him, so he threw them aside, but not into the sea, he thinks. Perhaps they are on the other craft."

I thanked him then and returned to the bow. Arno followed, looking at least as unhappy as before. "You have humiliated me," he said grimly when we'd sat down, "How did I do that?"

"By taking up my cause with Gunnlag. It was mine to do."

I stared at him. "Is that how things are done among the Varangians? Or is that a Norman way? Or perhaps only your own feeling about it? Gunnlag didn't seem to think there was anything wrong with what I did."

That stopped him. "Besides," I went on, "you didn't believe me when I told you I didn't have them. I thought if they turned up from someone else, that would settle it. As far as that's concerned, you'd practically accused me of stealing them from you, when actually you'd stolen them from me. Now Gunnlag is your witness that I said I gave them to you. It seems to me you don't have much to complain about."

He sat frowning, not really looking at me. I guess he was thinking. Then he nodded curtly and moved a few feet away where he sat facing aft. I lay back and closed my eyes until our s.h.i.+ft went on again.

He felt a lot better at midday break, when one of the Varangians came up with the blast pistol I was glad it had a so-called "shelf safety' the second safety that Arno hadn't known about. Otherwise the Varangian, poking around in curiosity, might easily have shot a hole in the bottom of the s.h.i.+p, or killed some s.h.i.+pmate. I showed Arno how to disengage it, and advised him to leave it on when he was just wearing it around.

In turn, Arno was halfway friendly toward me again.

During our other off-s.h.i.+fts, with Michael's help, I talked with a few of the Nors.e.m.e.n, including Gunnlag Snorrason. The captain was from a Norse kingdom called Sweden, and at sixteen had gone to the Rhos land, where the warrior band he belonged to took service with a great prince named Jarisleif from time to time. Apparently the Rhos princes fought one another a lot. Jarisleif himself was descended from a Swede, as were most of the princes there.