by Merry Farmer
My breath shudders and something grows hot behind my eyes.
I’ve been tended so I’m well enough to be made an example of?
“I'm to be punished, then? Gunnar wasn’t hurt, was he? You did say he wasn’t hurt.”
Ísleif’s expression remains bland. “Gunnar is quite well. Now… hold out your hands.” Ignoring my trembling, she clamps the shackles around my wrists, then loops the chain through first one, then the other. The weight of the chain drags down my arms and my spirit.
What are they going to do to me?
I’ve seen how they punish, my masters, when they deem it due. A flogging is probably the best I can hope for.
Gods… have mercy on me…
Ísleif offers out a palm, helps me to stand, then gestures me towards the curtain.
As the door opens, a chill wind blows in. Outside the hut, a warrior stands either side, the pair grim-faced as they escort me, in my shift, barefoot and in chains, to the great hall.
Inside the longhouse, the whole family is gathered. Magni is there. And Bjorn. Heads close, they speak together, quietly, their faces grave. Hjalli paces, his eyes flicking to mine as I enter, his mouth quirking.
There too, are many from the village and some I do not recognise. Crowded in, they fill the hall. As I enter, faces turn, some curious, some stern; others bland. None smile.
The gathered folk part ways, forming flanks to either side of the central aisle and revealing Úlfar, seated on his lord’s seat at the end of the hall. His axe and sword lean up against the seat beside him. To the fore is an anvil, mounted on a thick stump of wood, perhaps an old tree trunk.
Is this a court?
Am I to be judged?
My bladder sends urgent signals and I wish I had thought to make water before I came in. My guards, still one to either side of me, nudge me forward.
Hjalli stands at the edge of the aisle, in clear view as, my fear mounting, I approach my jarl. Hjalli smirks as I pass, hissing low. “And when he’s done with you, you’re mine.”
Úlfar stands as I approach, my head hung low.
“Master… Lord…”
“Mercia, look at me.”
I raise my eyes, expecting to see… rage… condemnation… fury….
But his face is void of expression. “Kneel. Lay your hands on the anvil.”
Oh, gods…
My hands…
He’s going to cut off my hands…
I want to shriek and scream at the injustice of it. I want to cry, to weep a sea of tears at the sheer iniquity of what is going to happen…
But I am a slave, and if I weep at my fate, these people… these people who live for battle and blood and their gods of war… will only despise me the more.
Desolate with terror, I drop to my knees, laying my hands on the anvil.
“Spread your hands to either side.”
Numbly, I obey, my wrists linked by a short length of chain, the rest trailing loose, clinking over metal and stone.
Lord Úlfar raises his axe, holds my eyes for a moment then, astonishingly, he winks. “Don’t flinch.”
And as he winks, he brings the axe down. It swings in a high arc, landing squarely on the chain, cleaving it in two in a single blow. The sundered chain slips from the manacles and rattles loosely to the floor.
Holding up my hands, staring at palms and fingers I no longer expected to have, with a rush, I release air.
Úlfar seizes one of my wrists, holding up my hand for all to see. “Mercia, you are now a free woman. You are no longer a slave and you may take your place in my household as an honoured member.”
Murmurs grow to an excited babbling. Then cheers ring out. Hands slap me on the shoulder. Gunnar runs up, hugging me at the knees. Bjorn steps out, his grin broad. He doesn’t speak, but his eyes rest on me and do not shift away.
Úlfar murmurs, “This is your moment, Mercia. Enjoy it with my thanks. And those of my wife and son.” And smiling, he resumes his seat, watching as one after another come forward, offering me congratulations.
But then, a cry of outrage. “No! She was promised to me. She was mine.”
Úlfar looks out to the source of the protest. “Ah, yes.” He sniffs then looks away. “Hjalli. Come here.”
Hjalli strides forward, red-faced and furious. “This isn’t fair! This slave was supposed to be mine. You promised…”
Petulant…
“… She was promised to me. I only wanted what was my due from her…” His voice wheedles and whines.
Like some spoiled child…
Evidently, Úlfar thinks much the same. He sits in silence, allowing the tirade to run its course. Eventually, Hjalli seems to realise that he is not receiving a sympathetic hearing and falls silent.
Úlfar’s voice is dry. Chin propped on a fist, he regards his nephew. “Hjalli, you have surrendered your rights to my favour.”
Hjalli pales. “But she was mine. I am a man. She was promised to me when…”
Úlfar rises from his seat like some vision of Odin, the storm flashing over his face. “You say you are a man, that you wished only to claim the rights due to you. Those were not rights but only what you might have had by my leave.”
Hjalli steps back, his face slack, but Úlfar is still speaking. “You abandoned your work with me and your father. You interrupted a slave who was going about her duties, carrying out my instructions. And when danger came, you fled, leaving a slave girl to protect my son. Your father and I both saw what happened.”
His voice drops to a hiss. “You abandoned my son. Deserted him. While she…” He aims a finger at me… “… got the child to safety and then tried to stand and fight, against an enemy she was very ill-equipped to face. She saved Gunnar’s life and at considerable cost to herself.”
Hjalli, his mouth hanging open, listens, agog. But Úlfar seems to have said what he wishes. He waves a dismissive hand. “Go. I do not wish to see you for several days at least.”
“But Uncle… Lord… Where do I go?”
“Go pick mushrooms. It appears that’s what you’re good for.”
I’m tired. So very tired. And I hurt. I’d like to crawl back into bed and vanish under the furs. But Úlfar, all smiles, gestures me to sit by him, along with Ísleif and Bjorn.
Úlfar sends a slave to fetch warm boots for me, removes the fur from his shoulders and wraps it around mine. He offers me ale, meat and bread, serving to me… just as though I had not served him on previous occasions.
Then he waves Gunnar over. The small boy comes running, crawling onto my lap to sit, arms around my neck, his cheek resting against my chest.
Bjorn rests a hand on my knee, his eyes warm and full of all the promises of the world. I have no idea what to say to him.
Ísleif leans in close to Úlfar, whispers something, but he is dismissive. “Yes, she can sleep soon. I just want to talk to the girl.” Then he turns to me. “So, Mercia. What would you ask of me? Any favour you wish. If it is within my power, it is yours.”
As he speaks, he is looking at me, measuring me, as though seeing me for the first time. After some moments of this, I grow uncomfortable, shuffling in my seat.
He waits, eyes keen then, “Come, Mercia. What is it? Silver? Land? Some man you have hopes for?” He glances at Bjorn. “You’re not a slave now. You can have these dreams. And when the tale of what you did becomes known, you will have no problem making a good match.”
Bjorn?
He’s there, sitting right next to me, and I think… I think…
What do I think?
What do I want?
Not what I thought I did.
My mouth is dry again and the words I reach for don’t come. I gulp down ale, hoping it will loosen my tongue.
“Mercia, talk to me. You saved the life of my son. I wish to do right by you. What do you want?”
Beside him, Bjorn stirs, but Úlfar holds up his hand, silencing him.
The ale gives me the courage I need. “It’s not a
man I want, Lord.”
Bjorn blinks.
So does Úlfar. “No? What then?”
I drop my eyes, almost muttering the words. “I don’t want to marry, Lord. I never want to marry.” Then I raise my gaze to his. “I want to learn to fight. To be a warrior.”
“A warrior?” Úlfar chews at his lower lip. “You wish to train as a shieldmaiden?”
“I do.” I look down, teasing at a hangnail, picking at it until it comes free. “I know it’s foolish, but you asked me what I want…”
He sits back in his seat, drawing in air. “No, it’s not foolish. It is unusual but it’s not unheard of. If a woman has the heart of a man. The courage of a man...” He stares into space then, “I need to think on this.”
Beside me, I notice, Bjorn shifts in his seat, and when I try to meet his eye, looks away.
Later that evening, joy and freedom have given me wings. My body protests bruises and my ribs jab at me.
I’m light-headed from too much strong ale and I know that I will pay for it tomorrow. But this is my night and, despite the gentle suggestions from my Lady Ísleif, I have no wish to return to my bed.
Oh, gods, let me die now…
Ísleif casts a, not unkind, eye over me. “Stay there for now. After noon, Audhilde has offered to teach you weaving. Have you done any before?”
Have I?
I dredge my memories…
“Only when I was small. I… wasn’t very good at it. My mother would usually pack me off to gather fruit or greens instead. Then she would scold me for coming back dirty.
Ísleif Ahhhs then offers me a cup. “Drink this. It will help with the pain while your injury heals.”
In despair, I work at the hanging, trying to tease it loose from the frame. Yarn which slips smoothly into place under Audhilde’s fingers, snarls and snags under mine.
The thread pulls and tugs at other work already completed and previously beautiful, drawing the pattern out of shape, ruining hours of someone else’s labour. It had been so lovely. Squares and lines and blocks in red and green and brown, now sit on the loom stretched and warped out of shape.
Audhilde looks over my shoulders, letting out air with a barely audible hiss. “Perhaps we’ll try you with something simpler. Tell me Mercia, can you spin?”
Alva looks up at me, wide-eyed with astonishment. “I don’t think it’s meant to look like that.”
Alva’s own thread is fine and silky. With dextrous fingers, in her hands, combings from the fleece become soft and smooth, winding easily onto a skein, ready for dyeing then weaving. My own offering is lumpy in places, thin to breaking point in others. My attempt at spinning is not fit to tie the gate of the goat pens.
Alva spins and twists and twines, turning out foot after foot of beautiful even thread. She grins through the gap in her teeth. “Mother says if I do this well, she’s going to use it to make me a new robe for my birthing day. She says seven is an important birthday and I should have something nice to wear.”
Seven, eh?
After another seven-day, I’m feeling well enough that the indoors hold no appeal for me. Certainly not spinning and weaving. Restless and bored, I’m itching to be out, to do something…
Ísleif raises palms. “Fine. Go! And if your wound splits, it’s your doing, not mine.”
“I’ll be careful, Lady.”
She softens. “You are no longer a slave, Mercia. You may address me simply as Ísleif.”
“Yes, La… Ísleif.”
I escape into thin sunshine and thinner warmth.
What to do?
My old duties have been taken by others. The porkers… those that remain after the culling… grunt happily in their troughs. Fish hangs, drying in the wind. The stables have been cleaned, the muck being barrowed out to the fields as I watch.
Idly, I wander, finding myself by the waterfall and the pool.
Should I bathe?
It’s probably not a good idea yet; my wound only half-healed.
But trout lounge in the water, their speckled silver bodies undulating in the current.
Baked crisp… Hot… Steaming…
Perhaps I am not fit to hunt boar, but a couple of fat fish would be well received at the hall. And then I would have done something useful with my day.
Still moving carefully, I kneel by the water’s edge. One plump specimen hovers in the current less than an arm’s length away. Dipping in wriggling fingers, I edge closer…
Slowly…
Carefully…
As my waving fingers ease around the fish, it remains, quite calm, holding its position until, my palms settled under its silver belly, I lift it from the water.
It lies in my hand. Not reacting. Not panicking or flopping, trying to escape. It simply lies there.
Why do they do this?
To hunt an animal; boar, deer, bear; to do battle with it, seems a fair fight. But this feels like a betrayal. As though somehow, the fish has come to trust me.
And I have betrayed that trust.
The trout lies in my palms, quite calm, its gills pulsing. There’s a good meal here and, as I look out over the current, other fish waiting to be caught, but still I hesitate.
“Mercia?”
I startle. My hands jolt, my fingers slip and the trout slides from my grasp and back into the water.
I turn to the owner of the voice; Bjorn. His palms outheld, “Your pardon. I cost you your catch.”
“There’s plenty more.” I wave a hand over the stream where a good dozen other fish hold their vigils. My own trout unhurriedly flicks his tail, glides back to its former position and resumes its watch of the current.
I try to stand, struggling a little against the tightness in my ribs and Bjorn strides over, offering a hand. He helps me to my feet but then, his hands resting on mine, doesn’t quite release me. “How are you now?”
“A bit stiff,” I admit. “But most of the pain has gone. I just need to be careful for a few more days.”
“Hmmm.” He nods, then releases me, paces in a circle. He looks…
Nervous?
Yes… nervous…
“Mercia…”
“Yes?”
“I… wanted to find you alone. To talk to you…”
“Yes?”
Bjorn stops circling. Straightens up. Stands squarely before me. Then he takes my hands again, holds my eye. “I want you for my wife. Marry me.”
His face is alight. His eyes full of hope and expectation. His lips a little parted, the words echo inside my head. Like ripples in a still pool. Like the brief hoot of an owl on a moonlit night. Like the whisper of the wind through leaves.
Marry me…
In a few short days, my life has turned over. I have been raised from slave to free woman. I am no longer expected to run, fetch, carry. Perhaps I may yet dream of becoming a warrior. The man I feared no longer has power over me…
And now… this man…
This man I saw naked, bathing in these same waters. The man I know I love…
Marry me…
His brow wrinkles. “Did you hear me? I asked you to marry me. To become my wife. It…” He swipes a hand through his hair, looks to the sky, looks back. “It was impossible before. I couldn’t hope for it. It would never have been permitted. But it’s different now. I spoke to Úlfar and to my father. I told them I wanted you. And both agreed.”
Light dawns. “Is that why Úlfar freed me? To give me rank enough to be your wife?”
He rocks a hand back and forth. “Partly, he was looking for the excuse. You saved Gunnar. I think he was happy to welcome you to the household.” He stares at me, his smile fading. “Mercia… Say yes. Say you will be my wife.”
I swing my head, slowly, from side to side. “No. I can’t.”
He swallows hard, looking away for a moment. “Why not? I know you told Úlfar you didn’t want to marry, but Mercia, it’s me. You must know how I feel. I could have taken you long ago. No one would have stopped me. Bu
t I didn’t want to do that. You were always more than just another slave for me. I… I spoke for you. Had Úlfar raise you up.”
Rooted to the spot, frozen, I don’t reply.
His mouth works. He seems to have difficulty finding his words. “Why? Why won’t you marry me?”
It’s a fair question. Why don’t I want to marry him? To be the honoured wife of this fine man?
I love you…
I believe you love me…
Why do I not I want to be your wife?
His voice is deep, urgent; his eyes intense. “Marry me,” he repeats. “Be my wife. I never thought of you as a slave. Now no one does. Marry me.”
“No.”
“But…” He shakes his head, confusion on his face. “Why not? Don't you… like me? I believed you did. I still believe that.” He swipes a hand through his hair. “I'd be good to you. I'd work hard. My father will give us land. I would build you a home. I’d be a good husband and a good father too, when the time came.”
And I have only one answer.
“I don't want to marry anyone. I do not wish to wed. I want to fight. To be a shieldmaiden.”
He shrugs, dismissive. “I know that. The one doesn't exclude the other. Many men would be proud to have a shieldmaiden for a wife. I would. I would encourage you. Help you. Train you.”
Why don’t I want to do it?
And finally, understanding comes to me. Then the words. “But… I’d still be just a wife. Your… your property. I do not wish to be property anymore. I want to be free.”
Bjorn eyes me askance. “I know the customs of your old people. The Christians. I have spoken with folk from there, other slaves. They worship a god of slaves, and that is how they treat their women.” His lip curls. “Among them, wives are property.”
He huffs, turns away. “A wife here can divorce her husband if he displeases her. That cannot be said among the Saxons. If their husband beats them or gives them no children, they can do nothing. They cannot own wealth of their own. Their status is a reflection of their man. If they have a poor husband, it is their misfortune. The Saxon wives are chattels.”
He turns back to me, holds me at the shoulders, his fingers curling into my flesh. “It is not like that with us. Wives have rights. All women need a man. You need a man. Choose me.”