Sidroc the Dane

by Octavia Randolph

  He heard Ingirith say something to the man, and saw her wave him out of her sight. Sidroc followed Oddi out of the yard.

  Oddi did not stop walking until they passed the cattle shed. It was the hut Sidroc had been born in, and was now returned to its use for cows. Once out of its shadow Oddi turned to the boy at his side.

  It took a while for Oddi to say anything. Sidroc, looking up at him, noticed for the first time how lined Oddi’s face was.

  “Master,” he said to Sidroc. “I am sorry.”

  Oddi had always called Sidroc by his name, and did not like that he called him by the title he used for his father. It was another change, one that made him feel cold.

  He could not tell Oddi what he felt, that Ingirith had lied. His father was alive. He knew this. He went out on the boat to fish and to think. He would never leave him like this; he had just told him they would go swimming soon. His father lived.

  He said the only words his lips could form, the same Oddi had told him.

  “He is a good boatman.”

  Oddi nodded once, then looked away.

  Ingirith had turned and walked back into the house. She went to the closed curtains of her sleeping alcove and pulled the heavy woollen wadmal panels open. She thrust her hand beneath the box bed, reaching until her fingers touched a firm scrap of fabric. She pulled it out. There in her hand was the gaily patterned ribband her mother had bound her wrist to Hrald’s with on the day of their hand-fast. It was crumpled from having been slept on, but the red and blue and green threads of the tablet weaving were as bright as the day her mother had made it. She went to the shears hanging on the wall by her loom. She pulled the ribband over one sharp edge and cut it in two. She went out to the cooking ring and flung the severed thing into the coals smouldering there.

  A few days afterwards she crossed the kitchen yard after they had supped, and saw Sidroc standing alone at the corner near the grain-house, his face turned to the sky. The boy had begun to do this, as if looking or listening at something by her unseen or unheard. It irked her.

  “You fool,” she called to him, pulling her shawl closer about her. “Why do you look up. Do you think your father sees you? He no more sees you than the Gods see me. Or you.”

  He recalled all the times this woman would say something in the same sharp tone to his father, and how his father rarely answered. Sidroc said nothing.

  The next day he walked to the lake, alone. He stripped off his tunic and leggings and waded in. The water was not quite as warm as it had been the first time, but the lake bottom under his bare feet was as soft. He would practice his swimming, just as his father had promised. He was not there to hold him up, but he remembered his father’s movements, and words, instructing him to always keep reaching. He thrashed about in the shallow water, swallowing some of it. Then his actions began to smooth, and he stayed up more than he sank. Afterwards he sat where they sat together, and remembered his father telling him about their fylgja, their guardian spirit. Sidroc no longer knew if his father was alive or dead, but he knew what his father had told him was true.

  One morning Ingirith left, taking the oxcart and thrall to Haithabu. Sidroc did not know where that was, only that it was a great trading post on the other side of Jutland. She came back days later without the thrall. But she was not alone. Following the oxcart was a horse-drawn waggon. On the waggon board sat a man and woman, the latter with a babe in arms. Sidroc already knew enough to understand these were prosperous folk; only those with silver to spare had horses.

  Sidroc and his sisters watched Ingirith take them all about the place, and watched too as Oddi now set off on foot. The man and the woman were still at the farm the next day at sunset when Oddi returned.

  Oddi did not have to call the boy to him. With Oddi gone Sidroc had felt a stranger in his own home, and had run to the man when he appeared, footsore and thirsty, from across the sheep pasture.

  Sidroc learned more after Oddi had gone into the house to speak to Ingirith. He came out and walked to the well, drew up water from the wooden bucket and dipped some out. His throat was still dry from his walk, but what he must say needed more than water to ease it.

  “You are going to live with Yrling, your uncle, and his older sister and her husband,” Oddi told him.

  Sidroc blinked. It was part of what his father had told him, that he and Yrling would be together. He had been to his aunt’s farm two or three times, and he did not like Ful. But his uncle Yrling was twice his age and could ride and hunt, and his cousin Toki was always laughing and scamping. He said the first thing he thought of.

  “Are you coming?”

  Oddi nodded. “Já. It was your grand-sire freed me. I owe allegiance to his blood for three generations. You are the third.”

  He smiled down at the boy then. If this child before him were not also the grand-son of the man who had bought him as a boy, he would have patted his shoulder. But Oddi could not bridge that gulf, though he need not fear the child taking offence in his doing so. Likewise he could not mention that he had kinship directly to Sidroc himself. He did not want the boy to know this. He would walk the path Hrald had wrought, and let no taint fall upon the boy.

  Oddi had never wed. Even thralls could do so, and their masters encouraged it. It led to more labour for the farm, though in hard times the babes of thralls were the first to be left in a scrub barren, or atop a pile of rock. Oddi had been torn from his family at twelve years of age and sold across the length of Jutland. That a good man, Hroft, had bought him did not soften Oddi’s objection to bearing a son or daughter of his own who he might be forced to see sold away from him.

  For a brief span of hours Oddi had thought he and the boy would remain at the farm with the boy’s father, and the Mistress be going. Instead the sea had swallowed Hrald, and that was not to be. But there was comfort now in knowing he would be leaving with his niece’s son, and need no longer be subject to the Mistress’ scolding.

  The man and woman with the babe left. Sidroc did not know they had bought the farm until Oddi told him. Ingirith was busy packing up that which she wanted to take with her into her new life.

  Yrling came the next afternoon, come to take Sidroc to live with him at Signe and Ful’s farm. The boy heard the hoof-beats of a cantering horse and ran to lift the hoop on the wooden gate. Sidroc had not seen Yrling for two Summers and found himself looking up at a young man. The rider had in fact no more than fifteen years, but his bearing and stance was that of a youth sure of himself. He jumped down to where his nephew stood. Yrling’s hair was light brown and resting on his shoulders. More than a wisp of dark down showed on his chin and cheeks. His brow line was heavy, above eyes that made Sidroc think of a hawk, so hard and piercing were they. His leggings and tunic were no better than that Sidroc’s father had worn, but Yrling had at his belt a long knife with a bright hilt, hanging in a tooled leathern sheath. He was already broad-shouldered, and though Sidroc was aware Yrling was not tall for a man, he looked big nonetheless.

  “This is my horse,” he told his nephew, after their first greeting. “Bought with my own silver.” The saddle and bridle were worn, the brown leather cracked, but the horse itself was glossy and frisking.

  Ingirith came out then, shielding her eyes against the slanting Sun. She saw who it was and turned back to the house, coming out once more with a small leathern pack.

  She did not greet Yrling other than with a nod. “Here are your things,” she told Sidroc, dropping the pack at his feet.

  Ulfhildr and the other girls had come around from the kitchen yard; the elder girl had her spindle in her hand.

  Yrling had dropped down on one knee and thrust his hand into the pack that was Sidroc’s.

  “Where is his silver?” he asked Ingirith, withdrawing his hand. His fingers had met nothing hard within that small pack.

  “His father did not leave much,” she claimed. “He was not the good husbandman he made others think he was.”

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p; Yrling, young as he was, thought she answered too readily. He narrowed his eyes at her as he stood. “This is his son,” he told her, lifting his hand to Sidroc. “And Hrald would have left me silver,” he challenged.

  Hrald had never recited a will to three witnesses who could later attest to his wishes. Yrling knew this, or at least had been told this. But by law Hrald’s son was a chief heir, and Yrling reminded his brother’s widow of this now.

  Ingirith considered he who stood before her, more man than boy. She did not know if Yrling could with success press his suit against her at the annual law-gathering, but she did not want to risk being summoned before the Thing next year to be publicly judged.

  “Wait here,” she answered.

  When she came out she passed a purse of leather into Yrling’s hand. He weighed it in his palm, then pulled open the oiled cord which served as drawstring. The glint of small coins and hack-silver winked back at him. He thought it close to thirty aurar, almost four marks of silver; perhaps a fair, if not generous settlement. He would make sure Ful took no part of it; it was the boy’s, and his, to share.

  “Oddi is coming with me,” Sidroc thought to say to Yrling. “And Hlaupari, my hound.”

  It was Ingirith who answered this. “Take your cur, and good riddance. I need Oddi right now. He will follow when I am through with him.”

  Sidroc put his fingers to his mouth and whistled the dog to his side. He came, head up, sniffing the air, swishing his great tail so that the horse danced a little away from him.

  Yrling was fastening the boy’s kit to the saddle; he wanted to be off now so to make it back by owl-light. He was about to boost Sidroc up onto the saddle when the boy stopped to look at his sisters. Ingirith was still there, and the children hesitant to make a move before her.

  “Fare you well, Sidroc,” Ulfhildr managed. Sidroc could see her mouth quivering as she said this. The younger girls were sniffling, and Ingirith looked at them and pressed her lips together.

  Sidroc lifted his hand to the girls, waving his farewell. Then Yrling’s thick arm closed around his waist, and he was for the first time seated high above the others, looking down from over the neck of a horse. Yrling chirruped to the beast, and they moved off, Hlaupari already trotting before them. Sidroc tried to turn his head back, but Yrling’s body blocked his view.

  When they arrived at the farm of Signe and Ful that evening Ful questioned Yrling about any legacy the child had brought with him. They were all at table as he did so. Sidroc was sitting next to his cousin Toki, and Ful’s eyes went from the lowered brown head of Sidroc to the yellow hair of his own son. Both boys were silently spooning their browis into their mouths.

  Yrling had already hid the silver Ingirith had handed over to him, and told Ful so. “It was my brother’s, for his son, and for me,” he told Ful. The youth had a way of being direct, just skirting defiance.

  Yrling’s own eyes turned to Sidroc. “And he will earn his keep,” he assured Ful.

  There was not much Ful could say to this. Yrling worked hard himself, and had innate cunning. Ful knew it would not be long before he left to make his own way, and if Ful could profit by Yrling’s ambition, he would do so.

  Ingirith moved to the trading town of Haithabu. Oddi drove the oxcart piled high with all her goods, then sold ox and cart for her in the livestock yards before taking his leave. Ingirith gave no parting silver to Oddi. A more honest woman would have, for the sake of Hrald; Oddi knew this.

  She rented one of the small plots on a side road, paying tribute to the King for the privilege of living there, even though she had nothing to sell. But there were both artisans and merchants in Haithabu, far more than in Ribe. Some of them must be unwed. She would establish herself there as what she was, a respectable widow. She repeated this title in her mind. She deserved to be thought as such, after what she had been through. For now she would keep the girls with her in her new life. Later she could send them to her mother if they got in the way, or if her new husband did not want them.

  Chapter the Ninth: Yrling

  The Year 858

  THREE years had passed since Yrling had brought Sidroc to live at his older sister’s farm.

  Sidroc and his cousin Toki both knew ten Summers, one of the few likenesses they shared. Hrald’s son continued as dark and lean as he had ever been, gangly as a colt. If his arms and legs did not seem always under his control, they served him well when he ran, for with his long stride he was fast. He also became a sure swimmer, and shared his capacity in this craft with Toki at the several ponds hard by the farm. Toki was more sturdily built, with a fine head sporting thick yellow hair, and eyes of a blue bright enough to make young girls who saw him at Summer or Jultide gatherings watch him.

  Sidroc had been the only boy on his father’s farm. His little sisters had been meek and fearful, kept constantly occupied by their mother. To be free now from her scolding was one thing Sidroc felt grateful for. He had plenty of chores at his aunt’s farm, but now he had Toki to play and roughhouse with. He missed his father with acute longing, at times so great that he rubbed tears from his eyes. But his uncle Yrling was here, almost like an older brother.

  On frosty mornings Yrling took the cousins hunting after red deer, which they downed with bows and arrows he had made. Ful hammered out the arrowheads, and the boys themselves fashioned the bow-ends, from the tips of sheep’s horns, and took pride in doing so. Hlaupari was left up at the farm on such outings, so as not to alert the deer to their presence, but when they set traps for martins and weasels he proved his worth, sniffing out the snagged animals and leading them first to those traps which had proven fruitful.

  These small furs were the first things of value both boys had earned. They skinned off the pelts with care, covered the flesh side with wood chips, and dried them in the barn. Ful and Yrling went to Ribe often enough in Summer that the boys need not wait long to trade them for a jingling handful of hack-silver. There were broken and bent bits of silver jewellery in what had been weighed out for them, as well as tiny coins in whole and half pieces. Toki plucked a squashed finger ring of twisted silver from this, and had one of Ribe’s silver-workers open it for him on his mandrel of iron, while Sidroc claimed a whole coin, larger than the rest, bearing the profile of a man.

  “Ha!” said Yrling when he had shown it to him. “That is of Angle-land, and I wager, Danish booty.” He squinted at the marks encircling the stamped picture, so unlike the runes to Sidroc’s eyes. “That is likely Æthelwulf, King of Wessex,” his uncle went on. He turned the coin in his hand, then grinned at Sidroc. “There are many more where this one came from.”

  Oddi had stayed on with Sidroc out of loyalty to Hrald. He was in fact free to go, and he knew that if he asked Sidroc if he might, the boy would tell him to do so. Still, he stayed. It was true Oddi owed allegiance onto the boy, for he was the third generation, but those bonds were slight. Staying on the farm with Sidroc gave constancy to his days. He was now bald of head and bowed of back, and could no longer work as he once had, but none understood farm work as well as he. One day he would be too old to work, and then he would seek the shelter of his sister’s home. Until then, Ful must pay him, as a freedman, workman’s wages. This was given him most often in surplus grain which he bartered or sold on his own account.

  Ful worked both boys hard, but to his credit did not favour his son over Sidroc. If anything he was harsher with his own boy, and Toki’s spirit was such that no amount of birching would keep him from pulling pranks or attempting to escape any labour which, to Toki, seemed needless. “There is always an easy way,” Toki was often telling Sidroc. Yrling, as uncle to both boys, took their part more than once before Ful.

  “They are my blood, as well,” he would remind Ful, as he shielded them from some wrathful action. The two did not forget his defence, and in fact due to Yrling there were more hands at the farm than ever before, which served to silence Ful’s complaints. The prior Summer their young uncle had
taken ship and gone off to Angle-land with a small group of other Danes. Ful had lent him silver to do so, and his youthful brother-in-law made good on the investment. Yrling had returned a few weeks later with his belt filled with silver, and no fewer than four thralls, two men and two women. They were like the slaves Sidroc remembered seeing Ful leading when he stopped at his father’s farm, light-eyed and fair-haired. Best of all they were all young; Yrling had boasted to Ful that none could have more than five and twenty years, and so had many years of labour left to them. He kept them, all four, and as Ful still owned one of the five he had helped capture, there were now five thralls as well as Oddi for the heavy work about the place.

  The farm had need of these hands, those of women particularly, for Signe was no longer robust. A dizzying sickness afflicted her at times, making her walking unsteady. At times she fainted, and became wary of going near the well for fear of falling in unknowing. Her two daughters were now grown and wed, and the farm now a household of men and boys and slaves.

  In her younger years Signe had often countered Ful’s severe ways, but her indulging her last child allowed Toki, willful by nature, to trade on her protection. She was mild and welcoming to Sidroc, who seemed to her almost like Hrald himself, for her younger brother had been no older than Sidroc when she had left her parents’ farm to wed Ful. When he first arrived she clucked over the shabby clothing the boy had brought with him, and stitched up a new set for him, a blue linen tunic and brown woollen leggings. Toki, seeing this, demanded new clothes of his own, and the hapless woman was thus bent over her needle twice as long.

  Hers was the first gentle touch from a woman’s hand Sidroc could remember, and the first woman to show respect for his person. She let him comb his own hair, instead of yanking it through herself as Ingirith had done, and even praised him for the comb he had made.