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He wondered if perhaps the king knew his father. As yet he hadn’t sensed a right time to approach him. Guthrum had an uncertain temper. Egill wasn’t stupid. He had no intention of angering this man who held the power of life and death over him and Lotti.
Egill brooded. He thought of Orm Ottarsson, who had taken him and Lotti even as they had lain sodden and gasping on the shore of the outjutting point, trying to suck life into their bodies. Egill had seen Lotti facedown in the shallow water and dragged her out, tearing the binding water reeds from her. He’d nearly drowned himself, but he wouldn’t have cared if the little girl had died. He had pounded her chest and her back and finally she’d begun to breathe again, wretching. And then he’d looked up and there was Orm Ottarsson staring down at them, smiling. For a moment Egill thought he would return them to his father. He’d wrapped them up in warm blankets and had taken them away. When Egill had asked Orm what he intended, the man had struck him hard and laughed. He had given them as a bribe to the king. And that was another problem. Surely then the king would believe Orm’s word and not that of a boy who was also a slave. Egill didn’t know what to do.
He missed his father; he saw him in dreams, tall and fierce, his eyes going remote and sad when he looked inward, thinking of his only son. Egill knew his father must believe him dead, for he’d considered all the possibilities, seeing in his mind’s eye how his father and his men would have searched for him, and, not finding him, would conclude that he had died somehow with Lotti or been killed and dragged away by wild animals.
He saw that Lotti had fallen to her knees and was raptly studying the Roman mosaic. She found it fascinating, her small fingers tracing over each of the brightly colored figures. Cecilia, having placed the rose in her hair, was now looking about for something to do. Egill thought her a useless creature. Even Cyra, who had been his father’s mistress, hadn’t been useless, not completely.
“Egill.”
Lotti was excited by one of the tiles. Egill gave her a tolerant smile and walked to her, dropping to his knees beside her.
The tiles showed a very handsome man wearing nothing but a strange white pleated cloth wrapped around his waist and held with a wide leather belt. He wore a golden helmet on his head. He was large, muscular, and looked to be very sure of himself. He was standing at the bow of a boat, men bent over oars behind him, and he had his sword drawn and was looking toward the horizon.
The handsome man looked like his father.
Egill made a sound in his throat and Lotti quickly swiveled around and placed her hand on his arm.
She was smiling and nodding. In the next tile the man was ashore, his sword still pointed at an unseen enemy, and he was ready to strike. In the final tile, there was the enemy, a monster cloaked in thick dark smoke, writhing and hissing. The handsome man severed the monster’s neck with his sword.
“Father will save us,” Egill whispered. “It is a portent.” He heard footsteps and turned quickly. It wasn’t Cecilia; it was King Guthrum, and Egill felt both fear and hope build inside him. The king looked to be in a temperate mood today. Egill looked at the battle-scarred king, his face seamed and leathery from a life spent in the sun, his shoulders bent slightly forward, his thick ebony hair threaded with gray, as was his short beard. His clothing was rich with golden thread.
Lotti was very silent, her eyes on the king. Her hand slipped into Egill’s. They waited, watchful and wary.
King Guthrum nodded to them, not really paying them any heed. He was speaking to another man, one who was garbed like a soldier. Guthrum called out suddenly, “Bring us Rhenish wine, boy.”
Egill didn’t want to leave. He wanted to listen to the men. He turned quickly to Lotti and made signs for her to watch the men and try to understand what they were saying; then he walked quickly away toward the antechamber where he would find one of Cecilia’s house servants.
The king’s soldier, Aslak, was saying in a fierce voice, “I tell you we must cease these silly woman’s taunts, sire. We must gather in force and attack Alfred. The damned Saxons run hither and yon, without direction. The treaty with King Alfred means nothing. You have said so many times.”
The king was stroking his beard. “Aye, ’tis true. What is it you want to do, Aslak?”
“I would lead men to Chippenham itself, to the very gates of the king’s house. We would travel swiftly and stealthily, and that would give us the surprise. We would take all the gold and coin we can carry. Alfred must be shown that a Viking bows to no man, particularly to a Saxon. It is time to strike the death blow.”
Guthrum liked the sound of those arrogant words, for he had himself spoken similar ones many times, but he wasn’t a fool, even though the words did stir his blood. Aye, but his blood was thinner now, much thinner. “Leave me to think about it, Aslak. ’Tis a risk we would take. Alfred isn’t like the other petty little lordlings. Nay, he is a man and a fighter. Let me think about it.”
“Someday, sire, we will hold all of England. Do you not want to be the man to lay the final claim? The man to hold all in the palm of his hand?”
The king laughed as he looked down at his gnarled hands. “Ah, Egill, you bring the wine.”
Aslak said abruptly, “The boy looks familiar. His features touch a chord in my memory.”
Guthrum agreed. “Aye, the boy looks familiar to me as well.” He crooked his finger. “Egill, come here, lad. Have you a father still living?”
Egill didn’t know what to say. The moment had finally come, and he stood stupid and stiff as a rune marker. Did the king hold Orm in high regard? It would seem that he did from what Egill had observed going on between the two men. The king thought he looked familiar. Did he know Magnus Haraldsson? Did he hold him in favor? Would Orm see that he and Lotti were killed if he spoke the truth? Egill looked toward Lotti. By Thor, she was his responsibility, and if she were harmed, he would never forgive himself. He had nearly lost her once. He wouldn’t lose her again, ever. He shook his head even as he said, “Nay, sire, my father is dead.”
King Guthrum had already turned away. Egill’s words had fallen on departed ears. Egill sighed silently, wondering if he were a fool.
Both men drank their wine from finely wrought glass goblets. Guthrum said after a moment, “You take your notion of a surprise attack on Chippenham itself from me, Aslak. Aye, and that pleases me. We did it before and brought them bloody death. Why not again? They’ve had time to replenish all their goods and ready new plunder for us. Let me ponder this.”
“Wait not too long, sire.”
“Nay, I shan’t. Ah, here is Cecilia.”
Aslak grunted even as he stared at her with such ferocious lust that even Egill recognized it for what it was.
Egill looked at Lotti, hopeful that she hadn’t recognized anything. She was smiling at him and he moved toward her. Suddenly, without warning, one of the king’s stewards appeared. Behind him waited a young woman with white-blond hair, a young woman who was Ingunn, his aunt, his father’s sister.
Lotti saw her and made a frightened moan.
