He had no choice. Just walk by them. Hope that Godive had the eyes to see him and the wit to say nothing.
He could hear voices, ahead, women calling out and laughing, men’s voices among them. Shef stepped round a bank of hawthorn and saw Godive in front of him. Their eyes met.
At the same moment he saw a blaze of saffron plaids all round her. He looked convulsively to either side, and there was Muirtach, not five yards away, striding towards him, a cry of triumph on his lips. Before he could move, hard hands had him by each arm. The rest were crowding up behind their leader, their female charges for the moment forgotten.
“The little cock-sparrow,” gloated Muirtach, thumbs in belt. “The one who showed his hilt to me. Come out for a look at the womenfolk, is it? And an expensive look it’s bound to be. Here, boys, take him aside a few paces.” He unsheathed his longsword with a chilling wheep. “We don’t want the ladies to be dashed by the sight of blood.”
“I’ll fight you,” said Shef.
“That you won’t. Am I a chieftain of the Gaddgedlar and to be matched with a runaway with the collar hardly off his neck?”
“There’s never been collar on my neck,” snarled Shef. He could feel a heat rising within him from somewhere, driving out the chill of fear and panic. There was only one small chance here. If he could draw them into treating him as an equal he might live. Otherwise he would be a headless corpse in a bush within a minute. “My birth is as good as yours. And I speak the Danish tongue a deal better!”
“That is true,” said a chilly voice from somewhere behind the plaids. “Muirtach, your men are all watching you. They should be watching the womenfolk. Or does it need all of you to deal with this lad?”
The crowd in front of Shef melted away, and he found himself staring into the eyes of the speaker. Almost white eyes. They were as pale, Shef thought, as pale as ice in a dish—a dish of the thinnest maplewood, carved so thin it was almost transparent. They did not blink, and they waited for Shef’s eyes to drop. Shef tore his own eyes away with an effort. Felt fear that instant, knew death was very close.
“You have a grudge, Muirtach?”
“Yes, lord.” The Irishman’s eyes too were dropped.
“Then fight him.”
“Och, now, I said before—”
“Then if you won’t—let one of your men fight him. Pick the youngest. Let a boy fight a boy. If your man wins I’ll give him this.” Ivar plucked a silver ring from his arm, threw it in the air, replaced it. “Step back and give them room. Let the women watch as well. No rules, no surrender,” he added, teeth flashing in a chill and humorless smile. “To the death.”
Seconds later Shef found himself staring once more into Godive’s eyes, round now with terror. She stood at the front of a ring, two-deep, women’s clothes intermixed with bright saffron plaids, and scattered through them also the scarlet cloaks and gold armrings of jarls and champions, the aristocracy of the Viking army. In the midst of them Shef caught sight of a familiar figure, the giant frame of Killer-Brand. On impulse Shef stepped over to him as the others prepared his opponent for battle on the far side of the ring.
“Sir. Lend me your amulet. I will return it—if I can.”
Impassively the champion pulled it over his head and handed it over. “Kick your shoes off, lad. Ground’s slippery.”
Shef took the advice. He was beginning, consciously, to breathe hard. He had been in many wrestling matches and had learned that it would prevent that momentary stillness, the unreadiness to fight that looked like fear. He peeled his shirt off too, donned the hammer amulet, drew his sword and threw the sheath and belt aside. It was a big ring, he thought. Speed would have to do it.
His enemy was coming out of his corner, plaid also thrown aside, stripped like Shef to his breeches. In one hand he held the longsword of the Gaddgedlar, thinner than the usual broadsword but a foot longer. In the other hand he had the same spiked targe as his fellows. A helmet was pulled down over his braided hair. He did not look much older than Shef, and in a wrestle Shef would not have feared him. But he had the longsword, the shield, a weapon in each hand. He was a warrior who had seen battle, fought in a dozen skirmishes.