His face twisted. “But God will be good to me, as he was to my king Ella. At the end I can die. God send me a free hand before that!”
“I am no traitor,” said Shef. “Not to your king Ella. I did him a favor before he died. I can do you one too. A favor for a favor. But tell me who you are, and where I have seen you.”
The crazy twist of the face again, like a weeping man determined never to shed a tear. “Once I was Cuthred, captain of Ella’s hearth-band, his picked champions. I was the best warrior from Humber to the Tyne. The Ragnarssons’ men pinned me between shields after I had killed half a score of them. Gyved me and sold me for my strength.”
The man laughed silently, throwing his head back like a wolf. “Yet there was something they never knew, that they would have paid gold to know.”
“I know,” said Shef. “You put their father in the worm-pit, to die of adder-bite. I was there. I saw it and that is where I saw you. I know something else too. It was not your doing, but that of Erkenbert the deacon. Ella would have set him free.”
He leaned forward, not quite close enough. “I saw you throw Ragnar’s thumb-nail on the table. I stood behind the chair of Wulfgar my stepfather, whom the Vikings made a heimnar. The man who brought Ragnar to York.”
The mad eyes were wide with surprise and disbelief now. “I believe you are the devil,” Cuthred muttered. “Sent as a last temptation.”
“No. I am your good angel, if you still believe in the White Christ. We are going to set you free. If you promise to do one thing for us.”
“What is that?”
“Fight Vigdjarf the champion tomorrow.”
The head turned back like a wolf’s again, on it a look of savage glee. “Ah, Vigdjarf,” Cuthred husked. “He cut me while they held me. He has never come within my reach again. Yet he thinks he is a bold man. Maybe he will stand up to me. Once. Once is all I need.”
“You must let us come close to get your shackle out. Get your collar off.”
Shef waved Udd forward. The little man, a bundle of tools in his hand, stepped forward like a mouse towards a cat, one pace, two. Within range. And Cuthred had him, one great paw round his face, one gripping his neck, ready for the snap.
“A poor exchange for Vigdjarf,” reminded Shef. Slowly Cuthred released Udd, looking at his own hands as if he did not believe them. Karli lowered the point of his sword. Udd, shaking, stepped forward again, peered near-sightedly at the iron, began to try to work it loose. After a few moments he turned back to Cuthred, stared at the collar.
“Best to file the collar off, lord. It might make a noise. Can’t help hurting him, too.”
“Keep greasing the file. Do you hear, Cuthred? He may hurt you. Don’t lash out. Save it for Vigdjarf.”
The Yorkshireman’s face twisted, he sat immobile while Udd slowly filed and greased and filed again. The lamp burned its oil, began to gutter. Finally Udd stood back. “It’s through, lord. Needs pulling back.”
Shef stepped forward, with caution, Karli standing just out of reach, sword poised again. Cuthred waved him away, grinned, put his hands up, seized the two ends of the thick collar still twisted round his neck. Pulled. Fascinated, Shef saw the muscles standing out like cables on his arms and chest. The stout, cold iron bent into a bow as if it were peeled greenwood. Cuthred stepped free, dropping collar and chains with a crash. He knelt, seized Shef’s hands in both his own, pressed them to his head, pressed his head to Shef’s knees. “I am your man,” he said.
The lamp went out finally. In the darkness the four men cautiously eased the door open, went out into the starlit night. Like shadows they crept back through the village, snaked back to their camp-site, keeping the hobbled horses between them and the Norwegians’ sentry. The fire was still burning, tended by the watchful Edith.