Sidroc the Dane

by Octavia Randolph

  This was perhaps the most meaningful part of being wed, Hrald thought. There was the pleasure of her body, and her willingness to give it. It would be a lie to say it had not been a large part of what kept him there with her, when there was so much more of the island to explore. But it was the rhythm of their life together that was even more lulling. He was not alone, and he was not lonely. She cared for his clothing, and his body, and wanted to be near him, had invited him to come. She made him feel a man, and worthy of such care.

  There was never any question in his mind of his returning to Dane-mark; his mother was there, and their farm, both of which needed him. And he was promised to a maid his father had always wanted him to wed. His parents had worked thriftily and hard and he felt bound to the soil they had tilled. But as he walked across the gangplank to the ship which would begin to carry him back to this he felt a pang of regret, and one of loss.

  By the time he wed Ingirith it would be a full year since he had lain with a woman. Ingirith was pretty, far prettier than Stenhild had been. He should be glad to know that she would be at his side. But he felt no gladness thinking on her, and imagining her body and her touch did not thrill him as it had before he had left for Gotland. It was her manner to him, he knew. She was not a shy and overly-retiring maid, or one fearful of men; he had seen her talk and jest with strange young men around night fires at the Thing until her mother called her to their tent. It felt to Hrald that Ingirith was not welcoming to him.

  His parents had found joy in the other, but any man who was wed could take a second wife, and even a third or more. He must be able to afford to keep them all, and equally; and so only prosperous farmers could have more than one wife, though chieftains sometimes had five or more. His father had never taken a second wife, though Hrald knew of several men who did. He recalled his father laughing and saying that one was sometimes more than enough, and his mother saucing back at him.

  Even when Hroft had died, Ashild had not seemed lonely. She had wept, openly and often, at his death, but had told Hrald in the months and years that followed that she felt his presence still.

  Now with mother and father gone, Hrald felt himself lonely. He had much on his plate, but he knew other young men had more; he must make of it what he could. Losing his stock and thralls was a blow unlooked-for, but it must be met. He had silver; that gave some comfort. And he knew he could work hard. He only wished he could place more trust in she who was to be his wife.

  The next day Hrald was washing his face and hands at a basin of warm water Gillaug had poured out for him on a work table in the kitchen yard. He freed his wet hair from his face with a shake of his head, then straightened up. Across the rye field he saw Jorild. She stood at the base of the mound under which his mother Ashild lay.

  She was not there long; her Aunt Gillaug was busy with the evening meal. After they had eaten their browis of boiled barley, peas, and pot herbs the women busied themselves with cleaning up. Hrald walked out to the edge of the rye field.

  Neither of his parent’s mounds were big, and those of his father’s dead kin were lower, worn with age, some showing sunken spots with the passing of time. The grass over all grew thick and green, and on his mother’s it was the brighter, the new roots free and untangled. There on that freshest mound were laid a few stalks of yellow and blue wildflowers.

  It was Jorild set them there, he knew. His mother was a good woman, and even in her last illness that goodness must have been apparent. Gillaug said Jorild had nursed her as a daughter would. Ashild must have returned that affection.

  His head dropped, thinking on this. The Sun was lowering in the paling sky, and now passed behind a cloud, casting a deep shadow from kitchen yard to where he stood. He turned back and saw Jorild, standing over a wash tub, looking at him.

  She had already told him of his mother’s last days; it had been painful to hear. And he had thanked her for her care. Yet he wished there were more; more to say, more to hear.

  Earlier that day he had watched Jorild wash his clothes in the same tub, saw her wring the water from them and hang them to dry in the warming Sun. It had occurred to him then that she herself had but one shift and over-gown; she had worn the same day after day. Arising early he had seen these garments hanging some mornings by the fire. She must have wrapped herself in a blanket to make her way back to her alcove the night before.

  He gestured to her now, and she left the tub and followed him inside the house and to the alcove in which his parents had slept. His mother had gowns, and shifts too, lying folded and rolled where she had left them in the low wooden chest beneath the box bed. He pulled that chest out.

  “Take what you will, and for your aunt as well,” he told Jorild.

  He thought Ingirith would want none of this; the clothes were worn but decent, well-sewn by his mother, but not the bright colours Ingirith favoured.

  Jorild’s pale lips parted. He gestured her to the chest. “Take these things,” he offered.

  She thought she would take one each only, for herself and for her aunt. Her hand lifted, then paused over the folded gowns.

  Hrald’s own hand reached out and touched hers, poised in the air. Jorild let out a breath.

  He lifted his hand from where it lay, gently resting on her own, and again used it to gesture to the fabric. She drew out two gowns and two shifts, and bowed her head in thanks.

  Sleep did not come to Hrald that night. He lay in his alcove, thinking on Jorild. At last, scarce knowing what he was doing but feeling compelled to do so, he pulled on his leggings and stepped out. He walked in the gloom of the quiet house to her curtain.

  He stood there a moment, the heavy wool looking black in the little light.

  “Jorild,” he finally breathed out.

  She parted the curtain. She too was awake, and wearing one of the shifts he had just given. Enough light fell on her face that he could read her expression – mild, and neither expectant nor surprised. She put her feet on the wooden planking of the floor and followed him back to his own alcove.

  Jorild was not a maid. There had been a son of her former master who had had her first; then after, a boy, also freed, whom she had liked. There had been no pleasure for her in her first few couplings, with her master’s son. But the boy she had cared for, and she had thought he wanted her as well.

  This night she said nothing through it all, and Hrald too was silent. There was meaning enough in her touch. During the caresses he gave her, only one thing did he utter, and twice: her name. He liked the name, and breathed out, as he spoke it, was close to sounding like his own.

  By the time Oddi arrived with the sheep nine days had passed, the nights of which Jorild had spent in Hrald’s sleeping alcove. Each night Hrald had appeared at her curtain to lead her back to his own. He did not think Gillaug knew this; Jorild was careful to return to her own bed before dawn, save one morning when they heard her aunt up and stirring. Jorild then waited until they heard the door to the kitchen yard open and shut before venturing out from Hrald’s alcove to her own, to dress.

  The day Oddi came all this changed. Oddi had eight ewes and a ram with him, enough to begin to build a flock. He had also a young hound pup, a handsome little fellow with wiry brown and grey fur, which he had picked up at a farm he had stopped at on his way; it was unwanted from the litter and about to be drowned. Oddi thus entered the farm in a swirl of bleating activity, the hound pup yipping and jumping on all who neared it, its tail whipping in happy frenzy against their legs. For the first time since his return the farm began to sound normal to Hrald’s ears.

  He was glad to see Oddi, and Oddi was unabashed in his pleasure at being back at the place he had spent nearly all of his life; he had been bought by Hroft as a boy of twelve or so. But his coming marked the end of Hrald’s bringing Jorild to his bed.

  He did not say anything to her throughout that day, but after they had all supped they were alone a moment. Their eyes met, and she could read in them that the in
terlude was at an end. She held his eyes a moment, and slowly nodded.

  Hrald could not lie with Jorild now that her uncle was back. It was true that until his freeing Oddi had been a thrall, and true as well that Jorild had been born a thrall. They were both freed now. It placed them in a status below that of even the humblest freeman; one that would continue throughout their lives. If a freed woman bore the child of a thrall she would be tipped back into thralldom again. No one would look askance at a farmer lying with his serving woman, freed or thrall. He might have his wife’s displeasure to contend with, no more; and children born from such couplings were seen as useful increase to the farm.

  But Jorild was different. She had come, a stranger to Hrald and his people, and served his dying mother well. She had stayed on at his request. In all she did she was more than able, a tireless worker. And she was kind.

  And Oddi too was different. He had always been part of Hrald’s life, and Hrald trusted and needed him. His father had taught Hrald a lot, but Oddi knew how to do many things. Hrald liked Oddi. And Jorild was his niece. Somehow Hrald now saw that to use her in this way was to abuse them both.

  He had not even known Oddi had folk of his own, and his lack of knowledge about the man’s life struck him, thinking over this when he and Jorild had walked together to Kol’s farm. Thralls did not talk about themselves, not to their masters anyway.

  For now he must set his mind on the farm. Signe had insisted that the sheep Oddi had brought be sent unshorn, so her brother would have the wool of them, so they began with shearing. They had no oxen to furrow the soil with, but it was not the first time that men had harnessed themselves with straps of leather to an ard and pulled it along the rows. It was Jorild who steadied the ard handle, keeping it set in as straight a furrow as she could as the two men strained before her, pulling the blade through the damp and waiting ground. It took all her strength to do so, and her arms trembled at the end of every day so spent.

  Meanwhile Gillaug cleaned the shorn fleece, cutting out the soiled parts near the tail, picking out sticks and leaves from the underbelly of the long strands. She washed the oily masses of wool in hot water, plucking out the lumps of valued wool-wax with a wooden paddle as they rose to the cooling surface. The good soapstone pot used for cooking held heat better, but the bigger iron cauldron was the right size for this task, and she had a hot fire going beneath it. The kitchen yard stank of the waxy stuff, but there was little better for soothing chapped skin. And too, wool-wax pounded with the yellow buds of the broom plant was the best remedy to staunch a flow of blood on a sheep if the shears slipped and cut the skin. Gillaug was careful to skim every gobbet she could.

  Once cleansed and laid out in the Sun to dry, the wool looked like the treasured stuff it was. She and Jorild together combed and teased it into fluffy masses of roving, ready to be spun by their hand spindles. The ewes were of cream, grey, and black, and the ram white, so they would have wool to dye, as well as that naturally dark.

  The rye, oats, and barley got planted. The rain was kind and fell gently, and just enough. The sprouting beans showed green stalks and bright leaves and then pale flowers. Bees came, crowding their way in, to ensure those flowers would herald beans. Onions and cabbages and carrots too found footing in the vegetable rows. All demanded weeding, and all worked at it. Hrald went back to Haithabu and brought back a milk cow. Everything they ate was better with the sweet butter Gillaug and Jorild rolled from the churn, and Hrald turned the foaming milk into soft cheese to set in the spring house. Chicks now surrounded the clucking hens, and they had as well eggs. Oddi and Gillaug brewed ale, the savour of which was often pleasing. The pup, who Hrald had named Hlaupari – Runner, for he loved to run – was already showing signs of growing into a good watch dog. They had lost no fowl or gosling to a fox since he had come to the farm.

  Summer reached its peak. Hrald fell exhausted into his alcove every night. And harvest-tide began to near, when he must go and wed his bride.

  Hrald had no choice but to walk to Oke’s farm. He went the shortest way he could, and overland at times, to arrive there next morning after spending the night in a birch wood. He trusted that Ingirith’s father would realise he would have to lend the couple an ox-cart to take his daughter and her household goods to her new home. Oxen could be bought all Summer long at Haithabu, but would be cheapest just before the trading season closed, at the end of harvest-tide, and Hrald needed to watch every piece of silver, having spent so much already.

  With his parents dead, Hrald went to his wedding feast alone; Oddi could not be spared to join him, though Hrald would have been glad for his company. But when he arrived at Oke’s farm he was told his sister Signe had sent word she would come for the feast on the morrow. The distance was slight enough for that.

  The wedding ale would not be a large one; Hrald had so little family, but the farm was still abuzz with preparation, for the bride’s parents had kin throughout the area who would make the journey. Ingirith looked happy; there would be a party, and one in her honour.

  That first night Hrald sat alone with her parents after they had eaten. He must present his bride-price, and they their daughter’s dowry. The price agreed long ago by both fathers had been ten ewes and five bushels of oats. Oke had made it known to Hrald on his earlier visit that he realised Hrald could not provide such goods from a greatly diminished store. Silver to an equal amount would do, though Oke regretted the loss of Hroft’s good sheep nearly as much as Hrald did.

  For their part, Ingirith would come to her new home with her loom and weaving tools, a large chest full of linen, new bedding and pillows, and a sum of silver. Given the state of Hrald’s flocks, she would also carry two sacks of new wool with her, ready for carding. The linens and bedding were those the maid had been working on for years, with her mother’s help, and formed an important part of the valuables she came to her husband with. In Ingirith’s case they amounted to three linen bed sheets, spun, woven and sewn by she herself; six linen towels, three great and three small; four woollen blankets of cream and charcoal-grey; and four sets of thick woollen alcove curtains, boldly woven in varying stripes of cream, red, yellow, and blue.

  Ingirith’s mother and father detailed all this to Hrald, her mother numbering all on her fingers. He had been told much the same a few months ago, but nodded gravely when it seemed warranted. He had the silver ready for them in a little pottery jar, the better to sink it under their floorboards for safekeeping. It was an added touch he imagined his mother suggesting he do.

  That night he climbed into the alcove he had been given and shut his eyes, hard. Across the cold fire-pit area he heard Ingirith’s sisters, chattering away in their excitement for the coming day, but he could not discern her voice amongst theirs. Perhaps she lay silent in her alcove, as he did. He thought of his father and mother and that they were not here to witness that which they had planned so long to happen.

  The day of his hand-fasting was a jumble of noise, strange faces, and lifted cups. He dressed himself that morning in his new clothes, leggings of dark brown wool, and a linen tunic of green. This was fabric woven by his mother and their former serving women, and laid by for future use. He pulled them on, aware that Jorild had cut and sewn them for him, and for this day, and that she had with Gillaug dyed the tunic with the bark from crab-apple trees.

  Ingirith wore a gown of rosy hue. It surprised him as he knew she favoured blue, but she looked pretty indeed to his eyes. What Hrald did not know was how she had rejected her mother’s suggestion that she wear her deep blue gown for her wedding day. That Ingirith would not do, but she did not share the reason with her mother. Her mother had forced her to wear it at table the day Hrald first showed up. The blue gown was that she had been wearing on the trip to Ribe, when she had seen the man she wanted. She thought of it as part and parcel of that day alone. She would not sully it and her memory by wearing it to wed another.

  The day was dry and fair and made for good travelling fo
r the guests. They poured in, on foot, in waggons drawn by ox teams, and for those who were rich enough, wains drawn by horses. Signe and Ful and their daughters were amongst them. When Yrling ran to his older brother, Hrald scooped him up in his arms and lifted him in the air.

  There was a fine old birch, with black-flecked bark of pure white, that stood not far from the burying ground of Oke’s ancestors. This had been deemed a good place for the hand-fast; the birch lent beauty, and the dead would be honoured by the nearness of the festivities. A few benches had been brought near. A white he-goat with curling horns was tethered nearby, which Hrald would Offer to the God Freyr to ensure the fecundity of the union; Freyr and his sister Freyja were Lord and Lady of all increase in man and beasts.

  The folk had gathered there, in a circle about the tree, Hrald and Ingirith standing almost opposite each other across its breadth. It was, like all the few weddings Hrald had seen, the work of a few moments, but there was a simple magnitude in those moments. He stood in that circle next Signe and Yrling, glad to have at least some kin to support him, looking across at Ingirith in her rose-hued gown, standing between her father and mother. At a nod from her parents Hrald and his bride stepped into the centre and stood before the birch tree. Hrald held in his hand an emblem of his life’s work, that by which he now vowed to support his wife. It was a small hand-sickle Hrald grasped, for he would make his way by farming, as had his people before him. Most brides would hold spindle or shuttle, emblem of the daily task of spinning and weaving, as token of their willingness to clothe and care for their husband and coming children. Hrald saw that Ingirith had chosen neither of these tools, but instead held a dull-edged iron weaving sword, used to beat the wool woof up against the warp. A sword, Hrald thought a moment.

  Now he must speak his promises to her, and in a voice loud enough for all to hear. He tried to smile at her, but feared he was only making a face. She too was unsmiling, and must feel, as he did, all eyes upon them both as they stood there.