A Mankind Witch (19 page)

An unfamiliar smile cracked Brother Uriel's stern visage. "The Lord moves in mysterious ways. We were warned against public displays of our faith, but my abbot asked that we should try to open the way for missionary work here. Now, at their insistence, we shall have to show them. Knock and it shall be opened unto you."

Erik fell in quietly behind Manfred and beckoned to the birdlike little nun. "Sister Mary. You're Irish," he said quietly.

She nodded. "In a manner of speaking. My father was a Frankish master miner recruited to oversee lead and silver mines by the Irish. My mother was born in the Bóinne valley. I lived in Dublin until I was a woman grown." She sighed, reminiscently. "Many years ago of course. But the church knows no nationalities."

"Neither do temples, by the looks of it. The hearthstone in there—it was carved with spirals in the Irish manner. You see them in Brittany, too."

The wrinkled face wrinkled into more wrinkles as she smiled. "And farther afield across Europe. Old temples. Some of them rededicated to new gods . . . Tell me about the temple. Especially the area where the stone lay."

"It was just across a fissure in the rock. With a big single log smoldering inside it."

To his surprise the old woman ducked her head and hid her face in her hand.

"You do see the symbolism, Ritter Hakkonsen." There was some amusement in her voice. "And some of the other mythos attached to the arm-ring might make more sense now. It was supposed to be born of rock of the temple."

Erik frowned. "But it is gold . . . oh, I see."

"Partially, perhaps. You do know that metals are often deposited in fissures, and that gold does occur with silver, sometimes? And Norway produces silver?"

"Er. No. You obviously know more than I do about this, being a master-miner's daughter. But you mean the gold for the arm-ring came from the fissure that's . . . well, their hearth."

"Yes. You can see what pagans would make of the symbolism of such an item. I must confer with Sister Mercy about this. The arm-ring, too, may predate the present pagans. It may have a bearing on this."

As far as Erik could see, "bearing" was just a bad choice of words.

Signy had to admit that her curiosity had been stirred by the outlanders. It was not that foreigners were that rare at the court. But, of course, not priests. Or these knights in their spiky armor. She found their strangeness . . . tempting, rather than threatening. They hinted at the existence of a world that was wider than a Norse maid's duty. Most of Vortenbras's hearthmen didn't seem to share her opinion. They plainly found the presence of the knights intimidating. A couple of the more obnoxious Danes had quietly melted away rather than meet them. That was pleasant, too. And the outlanders were well mannered enough. She'd met several of the knights at the stables. They'd been polite—even flattering about her darlings. "It is good to see that the old horses are so cherished,
ja
," said the broad brown-haired proctor, patting a muzzle. He'd instantly moved from "outlander" to "good man" in Signy's estimation.

The only one of them she found alarming was the lean, powerful man who followed the prince everywhere. His eyes were never still. He probably didn't even realize that he walked like a cat. Signy was used to assessing warriors. This one was dangerous. But this morning Vortenbras had escorted them across to the Odinshof. By tomorrow they'd be leaving, successful in finding the arm-ring or no. So Signy was back in the stables. She only had a few more months with the horses, before she was sent to Hjorda to die. She'd make the time as good for her horses as she could.

A thrall came panting in, his eyes bright with excitement. "Princess. The king wants you to come up to the feasting hall. The outlanders are going to try to divine where the arm-ring of Odin is with their Christian magic!"

And here she was in her old riding habit again! And no time to change. She hastened out of the stables. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that Cair was also walking nonchalantly to the kitchen. She had to smile. The thrall was as curious as she was, no doubt. She had to admit to having wondered how anyone had even dared to try to steal the arm-ring—it was so wreathed in stories of power. It could only be an outlander who would commit such a crime. Maybe one of Vortenbras's foreign hangers-on? Kingshall folk believed that the ring had been here since the beginning of time. It was simply unthinkable for them to dare steal it.

By the time she got into the feasting hall it was crowded, and in the center of the room the foreign priests had already begun their outlandish preparations. She slipped into a corner. But Vortenbras beckoned her across to the royal dais. She'd be able to see better from there. The Christian priests and priestesses had not come to last night's meal. They did look rather like crows in those black and white clothes.

Cair was a worried man. He'd started to smell treachery when he saw King Vortenbras greet Prince Manfred. Cair, of course, shouldn't have been anywhere near the hall when the knights presented their credentials to the king. But servants are so unnoticed.

Cair had captained a ship, and later commanded a fleet of corsairs. Treachery was commonplace among these men. You learned to detect traces of it, in the way men walked and acted. Vortenbras would cheerfully have slipped a knife into Manfred of Brittany, for all that he had been unusually polite. Cair had thought about all this very carefully and reached two decisions. Firstly, the Emperor's reputation was such that if some ill befell his second in line to the throne, someone was going to get badly hurt. Secondly, he'd heard it said that wars were hell on women and horses. He'd bet you could add thralls to that list, too.

Magical rituals were no novelty to Cair. He'd watched his share of fakers in Algiers and Carthage and elsewhere. He'd borrowed freely enough from their patter and occult mysticism to fool these Norsemen, too. This appeared to be more of the same. There was a trick to it. Smoke and mirrors, even if you couldn't see how it was done. Well, perhaps they would succeed. He had always been sure that the piece of chunky gold had been stolen, not by some monster, but by one of the nobles or priests or one of Vortenbras's hangers-on. The whole thing had merely been set up to look like that to fool the superstitious locals. You could rely on them to cloak the whole lot in mumbo jumbo and exaggeration. He was sure that it was an inside job. Maybe the monks and nuns from the Servants of the Holy Trinity could frighten the locals.

Still, watching from a favored place—for a thrall—he had to admit that these Servants of the Holy Trinity were slick. The trick with raising the wards was one worth learning. The chanting had a compulsive, hypnotic effect on the Norse audience—the very air of the place felt prickly with fearful anticipation. With so many people sweating, it was no wonder he was left with a tin taste in his mouth.

Then they were still. And the audience scarcely dared breathe in the sudden silence. The leader of the monks took up a piece of folded white cloth and traced certain symbols on it, first with a few drops of water, and then with a burned splinter from a small chest. He shook the cloth over a large golden chalice of wine. That was a neat bit of loot. Worth more than the stolen arm-ring, in Cair's estimation.

The monks and nuns began chanting anew—with their leader peering into the chalice. Very convenient that. He could claim to see anything. Having steam rise from the chalice was a neat trick, too. Cair could think of at least two ways that that particular "manifestation" could be arranged.

"I see an anvil. A great anvil dripping with blood. The ring is very close to it."

"Tell us more," demanded the queen mother, revealing that she, too, spoke perfect Frankish. "That could be anywhere, priest."

The chalice in his hands began to rock as the queen spoke, and the ward-candles flared. Cair noticed that Princess Signy, standing in front of King Vortenbras, looked ready to faint. She was really being taken in by all of this. Well. Vortenbras was standing right there. He should be able to catch her, that is if the lummox had the intelligence to realize she was fainting.

Wine sloshed, steaming, onto the floor as the priest sought—at least to all appearances—to hold the chalice. "Let that which cannot abide the name of Christ, begone!" He traced a cross in the air, dropping the white cloth in the process, and then seized the chalice with both hands.

It was stilled, but by the look on the monk's face, it was too late.

"There are witches, several workers of magic, in our midst. Doubters and enemies," said one of the little old nuns severely, looking at the Norse crowd from under lowered brows.

How very unusual, thought Cair. Isn't it odd how the charlatans always claim that it is some unbeliever in the audience who is interfering with their trickery. He'd thought that the Servants of the Holy Trinity would come up with something more original.

But he had to admit that the little nun's next actions were that. She picked up a short, unornamented wooden staff and pointed it at the cardinal points of the circle. Touched it to the cloth on floor. And then, saying certain words he did not catch, she twirled it between her fingers and threw it upward. It hung in the air and spun lazily. A low moan of terror went up from the crowd.

Cair would have been terrified, too—if he hadn't achieved the same effect with a twig and a strand of horsehair from the tail of the queen mother's fat gray. There were plenty of beams up there, and he was sure that that paunchy monk had the other end of the thread.

"Seraphim and spirits of the air, point us to the thief. Show us the last person to touch the arm-ring," she commanded.

The staff turned. Stopped. Juddered.

Like a lance it flew.

And fell as if it had struck something.

It lay on the dais.

. . . Pointing at Princess Signy.

There was a collective hiss of horror.

And Signy, her face as white as new snow, fell forward in a dead faint.

Vortenbras stepped hastily away from his half-sister. "Her!" he said pointing at the crumpled figure. "You always said that she was a
seid
-witch, Mother!"

The idiot thrall next to him clung to Cair with terror-born hysterical strength, as Cair tried to struggle forward.

* * *j

Erik hadn't watched the ritual. Instead he'd watched the crowd. If—and it seemed quiet likely—the thief was here, they might betray themselves.

He scanned the rapt faces, and picked out one in the mob of thralls at the kitchen entrance. That Mediterranean-skinned fellow with the black curly hair . . . and a disdainful half-smile on his face while all around him were in awe. Suspicious. Anyone could pretend to be a thrall, after all. But surely if he were actually guilty he'd be a little more careful about letting his face betray him?

Erik marked him down. Checked the entrances . . . and exits. The guards on the main doors were as absorbed in the ritual as the rest of the audience. Then there was also the arch that led to the kitchens. And a small portal off the dais where the royal family came and went. One guard there. At least he looked alert. Erik prodded Manfred with an elbow. "Exits." Manfred nodded, and Erik felt a small glow of pride. Once upon a time he'd have had to explain. The knights began slowly threading their way to a point between the kitchen and the main doors.

They'd just gotten there, and were behind a solid press of people when Sister Mercy did her divining.

They couldn't have been much farther from the dais.

"Seize her," roared Vortenbras, backing off despite the fact that he was closest to his fallen half-sister.

The slight princess began to sit up . . .

And then chaos broke loose.

It was dim in the hall. It was winter outside, and heavily overcast. Tapers burned in all the sconces. Some light came in from the wide-open double doors and the huge open fireplace.

The tapers flickered in unison. And died.

The double doors swung shut of their own volition.

The fire—several small trees burning—died back to embers.

Several shaggy bear pelts hung around the walls, dropped down. And somehow transformed themselves into huge, real, live, angry bears. Roaring bears, cuffing and flinging anything in their way. They all bore down on the half-crumpled figure on the dais.

In the dim light of the ward-candles—all that still burned in the feasting hall—they seemed gigantic. Monstrous.

As they seized the woman, Manfred bellowed, "Dia Coir!" He held his sword aloft, and it shone like some beacon. "To me, Ritters."

Thrusting their way by sheer weight of steel against the panicking Norse, they pushed forward as the pack of bears squeezed themselves through the small portal that led into the royal quarters.

Erik knew that the light was bad, and the throw was risky, but the press of people all trying to go the other way was slowing them down. The Algonquin war hatchet arced over and over and hit the last of the bears, just as the beast brought both its paws down on the man who had belatedly tried to stop them.

The creature pawed air, and fell.

The knights pressed forward.

Behind them someone had either the intelligence or the desperation to force open the great double doors. Light spilled in. And with this, the fire in the hearth surged into crackling flames.

The knights reached the dais, and Manfred, despite his armor, vaulted up onto it. Erik settled for the stairs—three at a time. The only live people still up there appeared to be King Vortenbras and the dowager queen. The King of Telemark stood defending her, a naked and bloody blade in his hand.

In the doorway lay a bear pelt, and a warrior, who revealed that he wasn't quite dead yet by groaning. The door guard, whom Erik had thought looked alert, was now very plainly dead. Taking a quick glance behind them Erik saw that the monks and nuns were calmly relighting tapers in the wall sconces.

Manfred kicked the bearskin. "There is something in there, Erik."

"Back off, Manfred," ordered Erik, in a tone that even the Prince of Brittany knew better than to argue with. "Brother Uriel!"