Sidroc the Dane

by Octavia Randolph

  “You would wear your sword,” Sidroc asked, thinking of Yrling standing before such a captain.

  “Já, there I would. And tell him of Lindisse.”

  Yrling had been there three times, and had some knowledge of the coast, and its river inlets leading into likely settlements to raid.

  “If he liked the looks of us, he would ask for silver.”

  Lading a ship for a raiding trip was costly business, and each man must pay a share. Sidroc knew that proven men paid less than those new to the captain they sailed under.

  “Which you will one day do,” Sidroc prompted, thinking ahead to when Yrling was master of his own ship.

  It made a grin break upon his uncle’s face. “Já. But you need not earn more; your share is already safe with me, that which is buried with my own silver.”

  They spent some time at a sail-maker’s, where a bank of women stood at wall looms, beating up a tight weave of creamy-hued fabric from twinned woollen and linen thread. Some of the narrow lengths that grew under their shuttles and weaving swords they would dye in shades of madder red, woad blue, or weld-flower yellow. At the long tables on the other side of the shed more women worked, leathern thimbles on their fingers, stitching. The lengths they bent over were sewn and sometimes inter-woven into a broad square many ells long, a strong sail to billow and drive the ship that bore it through the watery furrows of a foaming sea.

  All who worked within the sail-maker’s shop were women, including the owner herself, one of middle-age who took care to answer Yrling’s questions, and show him the two sails upon which she and her weavers and seamstresses worked. Next to the ship itself, the sail was the most costly part of outfitting any craft, and one which must not fail.

  They left the workshop. Yrling lifted his face to the sky; the Sun was now past its highest point.

  “Now for the other females we came to see,” he told Sidroc. They headed further down the banks of the fjord, to where the curving palisade wall enclosing Haithabu ended at the water’s edge. There was a gate there, a smaller one, for it led to no true road. Yet, as at the other portals in the palisade, there was an inner pen, at which one might surrender beasts or goods, and walk unencumbered within or without the walls of the trading town.

  “We will leave the horses here,” Yrling announced. They were nearing several well-armed guards who kept watch over both gate and the goods left in their keeping.

  Sidroc was quick with his question. “Why?” His uncle had told him the women they sought lived on the other side of the wall. That being so, they would make a stronger impression, appearing before them on horses.

  Yrling cast a look at his nephew’s crestfallen face and answered.

  “We will go on foot. If we ride, the price may be higher.”

  All Sidroc could do was nod. He saw the wisdom in that, but was no happier about the loss of show.

  They gave their horses into the care of the guards stationed there.

  “When do you return,” they were asked.

  Yrling looked through the opening and down a long row of fishing huts strung along the river bank. At some men worked, spreading nets on racks to dry, tarring boats or line, or flaying new caught fish. At the far end of the rank of huts a streamlet ran, with a small footbridge spanning it, and a cluster of further huts. It was these Yrling looked to.

  “We are going fishing,” he answered. “But we will not be long.”

  The guard looked down the line of huts and grinned back. “Fish of all sorts to be had,” he agreed.

  They passed out of the gate, spears in hand, their shields on their backs, but leaving the rest. They walked past the row of working fishing huts, and came to the streamlet and its bridge. It marked entry to another world, for the rank of huts that lay on the other side were all occupied by women.

  There was a line of ten or twelve small huts, all of weathered brown wood, much like those of the fishing men they had passed. But by these no nets were strung to dry, and no small boats hauled up.

  A little way deeper up the banks there was a fire ring, just as there would be in a kitchen yard, and standing over it was an iron cooking frame, with a cauldron. There were tables and benches ranged about this. Closing the distance, they saw the brightly-clad figures of a number of women, both sitting on the benches, and walking about. The hue of their gowns caught the eye at once, woollens which had been double-dyed in shades of blue, green, yellow, or red, worn with shawls equally bright in contrasting colours. As they neared, those who wore them looked so many brilliantly plumed birds.

  Sidroc had been aware of whores in Ribe, for a few women walked alone there, or lingered, half-drunk, at certain brew-houses. Men had passed knowing looks when they came into view. But the women before him were much the prettier, and some of them looked young enough to be maids.

  Being early in the day, Yrling and Sidroc were alone as customers. They saw no other men, save for one. On a stool at a discreet distance sat a burly fellow with a long curling yellow beard, his feet up upon a small cask. A spear lay on the ground by his right, and a shield was propped up against the left side of his stool. A guard, of course; these women had silver, and should any man visiting get out of hand he was there to ensure their safety.

  They were now close enough to truly see the women, and see also the eldest of them, seated at a trestle table covered with a long cloth of deep red linen. She rose in greeting, pushing herself up from a plush cushion shrouding the rough bench she sat upon.

  “I am Odindis,” she told them, “and we welcome you.” She was at middle age, and herself still comely. She was much more quietly dressed than the women who surrounded her, in a woollen gown of pale grey, set off with dark bands of tablet-weaving. What was striking was the string of small and lustrous pearls strung between the silver brooches at her shoulders. She almost looked a great lady, a King’s wife, or consort to some war-lord of renown. Like some of the women they had seen here in the trading roads, the depth of her eyes was enhanced by the sooty stuff rimming them. Yrling, regarding her, was struck by the fact that she dressed thus for her own pleasure, and not for that of any man.

  Uncle and nephew nodded at her, not unaware of her eye gauging their own clothing, weaponry, and demeanour.

  She smiled now, and with head inclined to the women who flanked her. She let the two glance about the benches, and the faces that smiled up in welcome at them.

  At one end of her table a metal bar was fixed, suspended above the ground, and from it hung a balance scale with its two dishes, lest any forget this was a place of business. She stooped and brought from beneath the cloth-covered table a single lead weight, and laid it upon one of the dishes. She had determined what to ask.

  “Balance this weight with silver, and you may each take your pick.”

  These words were quietly spoken, but thrilling none the less.

  Both men looked around at the women before them. Most of them were fair of hair, in every shade of yellow, from tow to deep amber. One had a ruddy tint to her locks, and two, fawn-brown. It was a third, with the darkest hair, who caught Sidroc’s eye.

  Yrling had stepped closer to the table and its waiting dish. He pulled his leathern purse from his belt. The pieces that dropped from his hand were mostly bits of broken silver jewellery, easy to see if they had been plated or not. Only with a short length of plain silver coil did she take a nail and scratch it, to ascertain it was true metal. He kept adding until the two dishes balanced in the air.

  Odindis then lifted both silver-bearing dish and weight, and they vanished beneath the table covering, where she must keep a strongbox. She opened her hands, in gesture that they make their selection.

  Yrling scanned the circle and did not hesitate moving towards one of the first his eye had fallen upon, a comfortable-looking woman with abundant yellow hair. Her plump cheeks dimpled as she smiled. She rose.

  Sidroc’s eye had returned to the dark-haired one. She was clad in a gown of blue,
with a red shawl pinned over her slight shoulders. Her skin was white, her hair so dark as to be near black; dark enough to make him wonder if her folk had not been from some other clime. She smiled up at him.

  She was paid to smile, he knew that. But her eyes of gentle blue held his a moment longer than was needed.

  He nodded at her, and smiled back.

  Yrling and his choice were already vanishing within the hut she had led him to. Now the dark-haired one crossed to another door, Sidroc just behind her.

  There was almost nothing within but a broad and low bed, made soft with feather cushions. In the gable end of the peaked roof the shutter of a high window was open to the sky, giving light. A small table held a basin and jug, nothing more. No bench or stool on which to sit; clearly sitting was not expected. A row of wooden pegs pounded into the wall awaited what clothing did not find its way to the floor boards.

  She closed the door behind them, and he set his spear in the corner by the door frame, and his shield on the floor next it. Almost as soon as she had shut the door she began undressing, unpinning and dropping her red shawl. With the toes of one foot she pushed off the first of her charcoal-coloured shoes. Sidroc saw now they were not of leather, but soft felted night-shoes of boiled wool, such as those worn indoors to protect the feet from Winter’s cold. They came off easily, and she stood in her naked feet, for she also wore no stockings. She was grasping her gown by its skirts to pull that off when he stopped her with a question.

  “What is your name,” he wanted to know.

  She let the gathered fabric fall back to her bare ankles.

  “Alvild.”

  “I am Sidroc.”

  This surprised her; few men gave their names, and few asked hers. Despite the scar on his face, it was not hard to summon another smile for him.

  She pulled off her gown and shift in one action and stood before him naked. She let both pool on the floor by her bare feet, an act that in its freedom and wantonness excited him the more. Some deep laughter wished to break from his lips; it was so wonderful. Her breasts were small but round, the nipples small too, and pink, that same pink of her lips. Her arms and legs were slender and shapely. His eyes fell to the shock of dark hair where her thighs met, aware he held his breath as he looked. Her body had true loveliness, and to have her stand before him, utterly unclothed, and smiling, was nothing he had expected.

  She turned slowly before him, so that he might admire the firm and decided curve of her hips and rump.

  He began pulling off his own clothing, scarcely feeling his fingers at his belt, the toggle of his boots, unwrapping his knife on his left ankle. His hands were upon her now, the softness of her skin yielding under the tips of his fingers. In a deft move she fell, gently, upon her back on the cushions of the bed. The covering was of linen, smooth to the skin, almost as soft and smooth as the flesh she offered to him.

  He felt fear of hurting her, crushing her; there was a delicacy about her, despite the firm animal strength in the arms she cast about his back. She seemed to sense this, for she murmured, “You will not hurt me.”

  All whores knew tricks allowing them to shorten their time with the men who had bought their services. With Sidroc she used none of them. He took such pleasure in her, without swagger or pretence, that she had no wish to. She would give him full value, and more.

  When they lay quietly he found himself just looking at her. It was warm in the small hut, and a bead of moisture had formed between her breasts. His finger went to it. Every part of her rewarded his touch. He spoke to her now, his voice just above a whisper.

  “Why do you do this?” he asked.

  Her answer was low, but forthright. “I am of thrall stock. The woman Odindis bought me, made me a freedwoman. I work for her now, but I am free to leave.”

  “Will you, always?”

  “Nej. When I am too old for men to choose me, I will wed, if I wish. I have a share in all the silver she collects on my behalf, and that will be mine. I will have enough so that I will still look good to many men.” She gave a light laugh at her words. “Or perhaps I will open some stall and trade goods, and not my body. I may even do as she does; buy young girls and profit from them.”

  He found himself nodding at this, admiring her clear-headedness. It prompted her to speak again.

  “As a thrall I had to work hard in fields and house each day, and then lie with my master wherever he wished, and with no silver to reward me. Here I need do nothing, but be nice.” She smiled. “It is much the better life for me.”

  He was sitting up now in the bed, his back against a few of the feather cushions piled against the wooden planks of the wall. She was curled, almost kneeling, next to him, so that they faced each other.

  Alvild asked a question of her own. “Why do you wish to know these things? My name – and my story?” Her brow creased a moment, as if she truly considered this.

  “And you have told me nothing of yourself,” she went on. “Only your name, but that is more than I usually learn.”

  He was aware he had no answer for her; he wished to know simply because of who she was, and what they had shared. This was perhaps not reason enough, and instead he gave a shrug.

  “Who do you worship?” he asked now. “Who is your fulltrúi, who you have given yourself to?”

  No man had ever asked her that, and she found herself blinking her surprise.

  “Ah…Frigg.”

  He took this in. He thought it might be Freyja, who gave her love so freely, but it was Odin’s wife, the Queen of Heaven, the patron of marriage and childbirth, whom she prayed to. Still, like her wild sister Freyja, she was protector of women; that would be enough.

  “And she listens to you?”

  Alvild laughed gently. “I have two pretty gowns, and growing silver. No man beats me, no woman chides me. Odindis is strict with us, but she is just. I think Frigg hears me.”

  He nodded at her answer, which seemed a good one. She was making her way, knew what she wanted, and why.

  A cloud passed in the sky, dulling the light streaming in from the high window, making him think of what lay outside the confines of these four small walls. They had been here a good while, he was aware; Yrling must be outside, awaiting him. He had no desire to leave, to quit this place or her company. He drew breath, slowly and deeply, allowing the impress of this new sensation to flood his mind, letting the warm air fill his lungs. The small house held their scent, the gamey musk of man and woman together, a scent he now knew he liked. Just to look at her naked body was enough to make him wish to stay.

  He forced himself up.

  He swung his legs off the bed, rose, began to put his clothing on. She watched him as he strapped the knife against his left ankle, pulled on leggings and boots. He took his belt from a peg on the wall, and she watched too as he reached into it.

  He had paid his silver, but some men gave her a little extra, if they were well pleased.

  “This is for you,” he said, holding forth a scrap of cloth. It was folded over and tied with a twist of straw.

  She plucked at this, and opened what he gave, stuck into the piece of wool.

  Three bronze needles. It was no cheap trinket; if other men brought her gifts it was showy trash. This was something useful, something that looked beyond the means of her livelihood. He saw that she was a woman, in her way like any other; and need sew and mend her clothing.

  Of a sudden a tear welled in one of her eyes. She blinked it away. “Já. I sew, like other women. I thank you.”

  She set the folded cloth on the little table. Her gown was a pile of blue wool on the floor. She had done her work, and could pull it on now. Instead she faced him, another smile on her lips.

  “Lie down,” she invited, calling him back to the bed.

  When they finally emerged, Yrling was indeed waiting, sitting, cup in hand, at the table with Odindis. It was the rule that the woman left the hut first, so that Odindis might see that all
was well with her, but Alvild and Sidroc walked out together. Alvild was smiling, and went straight to another hut which served as kitchen shed, returning with a cup of ale for Sidroc.

  Odindis, looking on, ended by telling both men, “You are welcome back, any time.”

  Yrling and Sidroc reclaimed their horses and joined those walking Haithabu’s trading roads. They were both hungered, and their noses led them to the side road where cooking sheds and brew-houses abounded. Entire meals could be had at the latter, but they were dear. After having spent such silver they were content to go from stall to stall, finding loaves at one, a slab of roast pig at another, and plums and early pears at a third.

  They stood with others at a baker’s, whose domed ovens, set back on the earthen plot, belched forth steam each time the small round-topped doors were pulled open. On tables before them were laid round loaves of rye and oaten bread, plain and seeded with walnuts or hickory nuts. Meat pies also were there, still steaming, and giving off a savour which drew folk closer. Many were at work at this baker’s, men and women at back tables kneading and cutting dough, others pulling forth iron pans from the two ovens, and youths carrying ever more wood for the never ending fires. Three women stood in front, just behind the tables on which rested the finished, cooling wares, ready to take a sliver of silver and hand over a loaf in return.

  One of these women neared them across the narrow trestle, ready to hand them what they wanted. Sidroc raised his eyes from the loaves he looked at to see Ingirith.

  Yrling saw her too, and jerked his head back. His lip twisted in a way that once more made fresh his dislike of the woman. Ingirith saw this, and her eyes dropped to the table, then back to where Yrling’s nephew stood.

  Ten years had passed. It was clear by her face that she was startled by the sight of him. He wondered later if he looked like his father, come back to life. And for Sidroc too it took a moment to truly believe it was her. She seemed so small – shrunken, really. He remembered when she had stood above him, pulling his arm, whacking him with the stinging beater she favoured for cleansing bedding and punishing young ones.