Once Upon a Pirate Anthology

by Merry Farmer

  I jut my chin. “I need no man. I wish to be a shieldmaiden. I am born to fight.”

  He releases me, straightening up, but still holding my eye. “I too, am born to fight. But I still need a wife. And you need a man as much as any other woman.”

  He shakes his head slowly, sucking in his cheeks. “How do you intend to support yourself? So, you’re no longer a slave. You are a free woman and you can make your own choices, but you don't own land. You have no home which is yours, no wealth. How will you support yourself?”

  And I have no answer.

  Chapter 6

  DAUGHTER

  The hall is crowded, everyone gathered, eating and drinking, enjoying the evening after the day’s labour.

  On a bench by the hearth, Magni sits by Úlfar, their heads close as they speak together. Their eyes occasionally drift to me, then flick away.

  Slaves serve me bread and pork and ale. Still unused to my abrupt rise in station, I accept the food and drink awkwardly.

  I sit beside Ísleif with a horn of ale. Since my night of over-indulgence, I have treated it with more respect, and I sip slowly at the strong drink. Plucking up courage, I lean closer to Ísleif, nodding across to the two men. “What are they talking about?”

  She glances sidelong. “You. And Hjalli.”

  “Hjalli?” I look around, but I don’t see him. And now that I think on it, I’ve not seen him since Úlfar’s dismissal. And that was more than two seven-nights since. “What will happen to him? To Hjalli?”

  Her voice is hard-edged. “He endangered our son when he should have been his defender. He’ll be lucky if Úlfar doesn’t exile him. As it is, Magni has given him a whipping. He didn’t rise from his bed for several days and when he did, he was set to minding the pigs for a few seven-days.”

  Unease stirs within me. Undoubtedly, Hjalli’s punishment is deserved, but will he blame me for it?

  Almost certainly…

  Magni and Úlfar are laughing and joking. Their eyes flicker to me again and both grin. Magni flashes his brows at me.

  Heat rises up my neck. “They’re laughing at me?”

  Ísleif gives me a dry look. “I did mention to my husband that, freewoman you might be, but you’re no use for the spinning and weaving, not with the spider’s mess you make of the task. If he’s of a mind to make a shieldmaiden of you, I’m of a mind to advise him to do it. You have the courage. You’ve already proved that.”

  Then, of a sudden, she looks away, as though she’s let slip something she shouldn’t.

  He’s agreeing?

  They’ll train me?

  Úlfar is watching. Abruptly, he stands, jerks his chin at me, then to his jarl’s seat at the head of the hall. “Mercia.” He strides across, takes his seat.

  Unsure what is expected of me, I glance to Ísleif, but she simply prods me in my now-healed ribs, pushing me forward.

  Obediently, I stand before my jarl. “Lord Úlfar?”

  He rises once more, stands over me. His voice stern, “Mercia, do you vow fealty to me as your lord?”

  Startled, I blink up. “Yes, of course. Always, Lord.”

  He holds out a hand, fingers wriggling at mine. Uncertain, I offer up my arm. He seizes my wrist and with his other hand, fits something around: a bracelet.

  Made of gold, it is utterly beautiful. Twin serpents coil and twine about my wrist in intricately woven threads, in and out and through, until each holds in its jaws the tail of the other.

  I gape at the lovely thing, then stammer, “Lord Úlfar, my thanks. It is…”

  But he cuts me short. “You came to us as a Saxon slave. You have proved by your actions that you are no true slave. I give you a new name. You are no longer ‘Mercia’. That is a slave’s name, under a slave’s god. You are now Gunhildr Úlfarsdóttir. And from today, you are my daughter and an honoured member of my family. And tomorrow, you will begin your training as a shieldmaiden.”

  Chapter 7

  TRAINING

  How will I learn to fight with no weapon?

  Bjorn is right. I may be a free woman now, but still, I have nothing of my own, no goods that have not been gifted to me by goodwill. And I do not feel comfortable asking Úlfar for too much. Even the most basic of swords is a costly thing.

  But people are kind. Or perhaps simply still grateful to me.

  Magni offers me a blade. It looks old and much used, in need of care. “It was mine when I was a boy, still learning. It's good enough while you learn not to cut your own foot off. Clean it up, hone back the edge. You can use it while you train.”

  In the practice area, a small clearing off the village, I set up with the boys. Some mutter to each other, sniggering, but the old tutor, Ivar, silences them with a cuff around the ear. Sometime in his long career, he lost an eye, but the one that remains can scorch skin with a single look.

  The sword is not so heavy as I expected, but much more difficult to use. I have seen the men, even the older boys, wield them seemingly without effort. But the first time I try to swing at the target, a stuffed leather sack swinging from a branch, it comes to me how hard is this thing I wish to do, what a skill it is to wield a sword.

  I hold a bar of steel, an arm’s length long, weighted for balance at the pommel, double-edged, tapered to the end. And while my blade might have been only a boy's training weapon, the surface ripples with the sheen of the woven metal, displaying the skill of the smith that forged it, as he braided lengths of metal then hammered in the fire and spirit.

  To use the sword once is nothing. To use it twice, little more so. But when I have been swinging and thrusting and parrying from first light until the sun has risen high in the sky, my shoulders ache and my wrists are afire.

  Ivar excuses me. “You’ve done enough for this day, girl.” The boys titter but he silences them once more with a scowl.

  After the practice, I return to Magni, offering back the sword. He looks at me askance. “What would I do with it, Gunhildr? And if you return it to me, how will you practice?”

  His head tilts. “You think you will learn what is needed simply by training with the boys? You have heart, but you have come to the training late. You must practice all the time, in every spare moment.”

  No more the rags and humiliations of a slave for me. I am the daughter of a jarl. And, if not yet a shieldmaiden, I am training to be one.

  In woollen trousers and tunic, well-made and warm, I wear my sword at my belt and learn my skills with the boys.

  My Lady Ísleif protests. “You can't wear trews all the time; even as a shieldmaiden and even if they do suit you, all leg that you are. You should have something to wear for show. How else will you capture the husband you want?”

  “And if I do not want a husband?”

  But the women watch me, they think, with knowing eyes. Then they retire to whisper and titter behind their hands.

  But to please Ísleif, I wear a fine gown in heavy wool. Warm and thick and intricately woven, it sways heavy at my feet. At my waist, a bodice stitched from good leather, threaded through in red and blue and gold, supports my breasts. A cloak swings from my shoulders, fastened with a silver brooch fashioned as a coiled dragon.

  As I stroll through the hall, helping myself to a horn of ale, male eyes trail my path. But not now with the knowledge of possession; of the right to take. Instead, they gleam with the desire to ask.

  And now I am not afraid.

  Bjorn… He is so handsome. His grey eyes that turn blue in the sunshine. His red-gold hair, which seems to carry the sunlight with it… And he was always kind to me.

  He watches me, his eyes following me through the hall, settling on me as I sit.

  In the afternoons I re-join the women at the looms. It is not a success. Ísleif regards my cats-mess of yarn with something like despair. “How can you get it so badly wrong?”

  My stitch-work is not much better. Ísleif shakes her head, muttering about the waste of good thread.

  So, making myself scarce,
I fetch my sword and practice my skills on the leather sack once more.

  The endless practice makes its mark on me, building muscle and strength where I didn't have it before. I toughen and harden. Wearing the tightly laced leather vest I use for practice, even in the poor mirror of the waters, I see the flesh and sinew of my arms growing defined and strap-like.

  Bjorn watches me, his gaze assessing, admiring even. “It suits you.”

  “What does?”

  “The way your body is changing… responding to the training.”

  He circles me, making no secret of measuring me, assessing me. “Men grow muscular with the training, more… angled…” He pats at his own shoulder muscle, then at mine. “Women who do this grow…” He rocks his hand, as though searching for the words….” Longer, but rounder… firmer.” And now his gaze is nothing but admiring. “Yes, it becomes you.”

  Ivar is unimpressed. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

  My sword cast to one side, I attack the leather sack with my shield, charging the thing, my full weight and speed behind it.

  He sniffs. “You’re never going to have the size or the heft of a man, so you have to make up for it in speed and skill…”

  And if Ivar thinks we have not tried hard enough, the punishments are harsh.

  Is it punishment, or training?

  “Gunhildr, hold the sword in your left hand, outstretched, horizontal. Your right foot off the ground. You too, Kåre.”

  I obey. The sword is no burden now. My body is fit and limber. It responds well.

  At first, it is easy, no effort at all.

  Then… the bite, the ache… the burn…

  His face red and blotchy, Kåre hurls his blade to the mud. “I don't have to do this. My father is a noble. I don't have to take your punishments.”

  “No…” Ivar’s voice is mild. “No, you don't. Not if you insist on your rank. But then neither do I have to explain to your father why I will give you no more instruction if you refuse to accept my discipline.” He cocks his head. “You understand me?”

  Sullen, his lower lip protruding, Kåre mutters, “Yes.”

  “So, if you wish to return tomorrow, you will pick up your sword now, wipe it clean and start again.”

  “I'd already started...”

  Ivar raises brows. “And now you will start again.” He turns to me. “Gunhildr, change to your right hand and left leg.”

  Later, Magni seeks me out. “The sword is yours. I wasn't going to give it to you until I was sure you were serious. That would be an insult to the blade. But I see a warrior's heart in you and the determination to see it through. Keep the sword.”

  My own sword…

  “Can I name it?”

  His lips quirk. “If you want. It is yours now. Do as you wish.”

  Ivar’s voice is muffled. “Very good, Gunhildr. You're doing well.”

  I shift from one foot to the other. “You're not angry at me?”

  He nurses his eye, already swelling and darkening. “I would only be angry if I thought you weren't doing your best. I've known a few girls who fancied the glamour of being a shieldmaiden, but when the going got hard, usually the first time they were caught in the face with the edge of a shield, they gave up on the idea and went back to their weaving.”

  I droop. “I'm no good at weaving.”

  He chuckles. “Yes, I've seen your efforts. Ísleif has declared she will waste no more thread on you.” He inhales deeply, his blue eyes twinkling. “I never thought I'd find the true calling in a Saxon girl.”

  Something inside me stirs uneasily. “I'm not a Saxon girl. This is my home now. I am Norse.”

  He sucks in his cheeks. Purses his lips. “Alright, a girl who was once a Saxon.” His face softens. “Here, you're limping. Let's help each other home.”

  Chapter 8

  FREEDOM?

  People crowd to the jetties, cheering and calling as they welcome the ship. Even from a distance, the smiles of the men on board are broad, some standing and waving from the deck, others balanced by the prow, as the wind skims them home.

  The ship draws into the shallows and some of the men jump out, laughing and shouting, arms outheld as their women run out to them, calling their children, embracing them, holding them close. Others wait until Sea Skimmer is moored to the jetty then, more sedate, begin unloading.

  Captives, shackled in iron…

  As I was once…

  I brush away the thought…

  Bound at wrist and neck by heavy collars, linked by chain; hobbled at the ankles, miserably, they stumble to the shore. The raiders slap each other on the shoulders, bragging loudly about the wealth that this fresh batch of slaves will bring them.

  A girl runs up, flinging her arms around the neck of one.

  “Now, will you marry me?” he says. “I am a wealthy man now. I can support all the children you could wish for.”

  And she answers him with a bright white smile.

  Chests are unloaded; caskets and trunks and sacks. All filled with lovely things. Treasure. Bright. Gleaming in the sunlight. Beautiful things, finely made. Jewels, cups, a cross. And coins. Coins in silver and gold that run through the fingers and make music as they tumble back into the chest to gleam among their fellows.

  The men who went on this raid are rich; wealthier than they could ever have been had they simply stayed at home to till the soil and raise the pigs.

  I could do this…

  I could join the next raid…

  If I join the raids, then I can claim my share and when I am rich, I can buy land, livestock, be a farmer with slaves of my own.

  This is how I become truly free…

  Will they let me do it?

  I sit by the river, staring into the water. Bjorn sits beside me; silent, pleasant company in the thin warmth of the afternoon.

  Amidst weed that trails green fingers with the current, fish, no longer than my hand, glint like raindrops, starting this way then, before the eye can blink, that. The sun catches them, the light reflecting from the myriad small silver bodies in a thousand broken fragments.

  How do they do that?

  But my mind isn’t really on fish.

  Bjorn laces his fingers with mine. “You’re very quiet.”

  “Just thinking.”

  He raises eyes to the sky. “Alright, you’re very thoughtful then.”

  I simply nod, not knowing how to approach this. “When the next raid sets off in the Spring…”

  He interrupts me, his face alight with enthusiasm. “Yes, I’ve already said I’ll be going…”

  I cut him short. “I want to go too.”

  His brow furrows. “You?”

  “Yes, me.”

  “You want to raid?”

  “Yes.”

  “What for? My share will be enough for both of us…” He shifts, looking away…

  Both of us?

  I haven’t accepted you…

  But he continues, “Gunhildr… It is your own people over there. You want to…?”

  Heat rises up my neck. “They are not my people. I barely even remember them. I am not Mercia the Saxon slave. I am Gunhildr the shieldmaiden.”

  Bjorn heaves a breath, then another. He stands, looking down at me. “I do not believe this is a good idea. Whatever you say, they were your people… Even if your memory is dim, it is the land of your birth.”

  My heart pumps. “I do not believe it is your choice to make. I shall ask permission of Úlfar.”

  Bjorn’s lips press white. His face twists. “Why won't you marry me? When I return from the raids, whatever I have, it would all be yours.”

  I stare down into the water. The little fish, so many of them, move first one way, then in a flash, they turn as one, and the splintered light moves with them. “How do they do that?”

  “What?” Bjorn shakes his head, brow creasing.

  “The fish. How do they all turn together like that? There's a score of scores of them at least, but they
all turn together. If men or horses could do that, no one could out-manoeuvre them...”

  He blinks, then shrugs. “Who knows? Perhaps the gods. Not I. Are you going to answer my question?”

  “Question?”

  “Why won't you marry me? It was impossible while you were a slave, but you’re free now. I want you as my wife. You have no one else. We’re a good match. Everyone approves the idea. Even my father.”

  I have no answer. Or none that I want to say to him.

  He seizes my shoulder, turning me to face him. “Perhaps you are simply afraid?”

  “I am a shieldmaiden. I am afraid of nothing.”

  He releases me, brows rising and half a smile playing over his lips. “Is that so, shieldmaiden? You are a maiden. I'm sure of it.”

  The heat blooms again, now kissing my cheeks. “Yes, I am. What of it?”

  “You’re a grown woman now. To keep your maidenhead this way, it is disrespectful to the gods, to Freya.”

  I look away but he reaches out, traces my lips with a fingertip. “You don’t have to be afraid. I know perhaps you might have been, when you were a slave and any man could… take you… But it is not like that now. I’d be gentle with you. Make it good for you… The….” He stutters to a stop and then… “The other women I have lain with, they tell me they enjoy it with me. They enjoy me.”

  “Your other women?” I allow a smile to flirt over my face. “Your varied and numerous other women?”

  He laughs. “Too numerous to count.” He holds up palms to the heavens. “Every one of them says I am a god in the furs, a veritable Freyr.” His smile fades. “Is that it, Gunhildr?”