Once Upon a Pirate Anthology

by Merry Farmer

  I whirl, seeking my next opponent…

  … but time has resumed its normal course.

  All around, the ground is dotted with slain Saxons. It looks to me that most of the men of the village lie dead, certainly all the fighters and the very young. The old women too.

  Already, my people are emerging from the small church bearing casks and goblets and golden things. Others are working their way through the living, choosing those who might make good slaves. The younger women and girls sit; weeping, chained and collared; along with a few of the younger men, boys really, who look healthy but have had the fight beaten out of them…

  Cowards…

  … fit for nothing but slaves…

  Erling fetters them at the wrists, hobbles them at the ankles. Running a chain through, he shackles them together, then calls in some of our people to help him march the new slaves to Water Skimmer.

  How much are they worth?

  How much will I see from this?

  Hjalli shouts out, “Make sure we have them all. Don't let any carry word to the next village.”

  A man I take to be the priest sits hunched and bound. He’s wounded, blood seeping through his robe, a red trickle glistening over the rope he uses for a belt. But his eye stalks me.

  As I pass, he spits; a gobbet that lands by my feet. “You are not one of them. You are of our people. I see it in your face.”

  His speech is strange. It is so long since I heard such words and I struggle to take the sense of them. But still, as my ear attunes, meaning coalesces from the stream of sound.

  He’s still speaking, his face contorted with the effort. “How long is it since you betrayed your own folk?” He clutches at his gut, gasping. “Traitor.” His face twists. “You will answer for your crimes.”

  I stoop, meeting him eye-to-eye, hissing my words. “Coward! Priest to a god of slaves. Your god sacrificed himself. So did mine. But Odin gave his eye for knowledge. What did yours gain by it?”

  Hjalli is watching. He strides over, picks the priest up by the scruff and brings his fist across his face, snarling something guttural at him. Another punch and he knocks the man back to the ground, where he lands heavily, gasping.

  Startled at Hjalli’s reaction, I stare at him; the very last man I would have expected to support me.

  He snarls, “We do not accept insults from them. You are one of us, are you not?”

  I blink. “Of course I am.”

  Unsettled, I move away, unsure of what to do. My people are running riot, ransacking anything of value or which takes their fancy.

  Abruptly, fatigue blooms. I want to sit, to go somewhere quiet. To let the bloodlust drain away. I find myself wishing for my river and its little fishes.

  Aimlessly I wander through the village, through the chaos of pillage. And I find myself by the church.

  The door is thrown wide. Blood splashes over the stonework of the floor, pooling at the base. As I step inside, I find the source: another priest, lying arms outspread, his eyes wide as he goes to greet his god.

  The place is dim and dreary. From my childhood, I have vague recollections of a church as being a lovely place, built to face the sun, light spilling in over the altar to sparkle on silver and gold.

  But there is no silver and gold here now. A cloth, which perhaps draped the altar before, lies crumpled red on the flags.

  My mind grey, I wander out.

  Looking down the hill, I see my people making their way to the ships, laughing and celebrating, bragging of their deeds, carrying away boxes and chests, perhaps containing the treasure of the church. The slaves, chained, weeping and stumbling, follow under threat of the lash.

  Yes, they will bring a good price at home.

  And a share of this wealth is mine.

  I am rich.

  I am free.

  I should be happy. Rejoicing even.

  But instead…

  … I have no words.

  On an impulse, I wander around the back of the church, without purpose, and somehow, lost.

  And she’s there; the woman who was in the first hut when Bjorn kicked in the door. She still holds the child she was protecting, pulling her tight against her skirts. Now, in the clear morning light, I see her properly.

  Barely a woman…

  And the child… She is perhaps the age I was when I was taken. Perhaps younger,

  How old was I?

  I can’t remember.

  I still have my sword in my hand, the blade stained red. This girl has no chance against me. She cannot possibly defend herself. Her face sheened white, she blinks her terror, but chin lifted, she stares me down.

  I look back over my shoulder. The battle is over. The slaughter done.

  I gesture her to the shelter of the forest edge. Go… But I do it silently, speaking no words.

  She doesn't move; only frowning.

  I gesture more urgently, glancing back. Go!

  Then, I find the words. Dredged from somewhere deep in my memory; from a place I no longer knew existed… “Go. Now.”

  Her eyes widen and she bolts. Like a deer fleeing the hounds, she scoops up the child and pelts to the forest edge, vanishing into the trees.

  I stand and stare after her, trapped by the knowledge that in a single day I have betrayed both peoples I might have called my own.

  I slice meat from the roast spitted over the fire, heaping two platters, then take it to Bjorn. “What happens next?”

  My husband sits on the edge of the circle around the fire, bathing in its heat. “We sail along the coast to the next village.” He waves an arm over the area. “No-one escaped. So, they won’t know we’re here and we can take the next settlement by surprise too.”

  He nods across to one of the slaves, where he sits hunched on the turf; chained, pale, his eyes shadowed. “That one was a trader. He has some of our language. He says the next village is much larger. Their church building too, and their treasures are much more costly. It will make a fine prize.”

  Bjorn keeps talking, animated and enthusiastic, then twists to talk with Magni who is slapping him on the shoulders, congratulating him on the success of our first day.

  But I’m barely listening…

  No-one escaped. So, they won’t know we’re here…

  They’ll have been warned.

  Should I say something? To Bjorn at least?

  But coward that I am, I hold my silence.

  Chapter 12

  BATTLE

  I take my turn rowing. It is no effort now. I am rested again. My muscles are hard and my oar pulls in a smooth rhythm, sliding through the water then kissing the surface as our ship flies the waves.

  The weather is still fair and bright, but now, what was the sparkle of sunshine on water has become a dazzle to my eyes. My head aches.

  “Gunhildr, is something wrong?” Bjorn regards me, brow creased. “You look more as though your favourite hound had died than that you have just become a seasoned warrior and a rich woman.”

  “Just a headache.”

  He sucks in his cheeks. “Too much ale, eh? Celebrate more carefully next time.”

  I nod and look away, only to see that Hjalli too is watching me. His eyes narrow, then he turns away.

  We approach a long finger of land, similar to our first landing point, draped in greenery; again smoothly turfed and rising to scrub-covered hilltops. Bjorn raises an arm, pointing. “I saw a reflection. Sunlight on metal. Someone’s watching.”

  Úlfar draws air. “They’ll likely be ready for us this time then.” He sniffs, scratching his nose. “No matter.”

  As we round the peninsula, we see them, waiting for us on the shore, ranked three-deep in battle order. Two-score men facing our one, shields loose and low just now. A tall warrior on horseback is with them, standing behind the lined men.

  Warned…

  Waiting…

  But no eyes look my way. No one accuses me.

  “How did they know?” Hjalli snarls. “There were
scouts. They were waiting for us.”

  Bjorn shrugs. “It happens. Perhaps they saw the smoke from the village. Burning thatch raises a cloud. Maybe it was a shepherd or a fisherman. It makes no odds.”

  A pair of ravens wheel above us as we draw closer; the messengers of Odin, their deep-throated croaks a promise of what is to come. Bjorn flings a hand upwards. “You see. The gods are with us. They are watching. We must give them a fine battle. Give them the blood that is their due.”

  Grim-faced, well-armed, the warriors face us. These are fighting men, their mounted leader a noble. In bright mail, his helmet catches the sun.

  They wait on the edge of the waters; the most defensible position for them, the most vulnerable for us. As we draw closer, their leader shouts some command, and abruptly, every man raises a bow. The air fills with arrows, raining down on our ship.

  Close by me, Fafner falls, blood spurting as an arrow pieces his neck. I barely knew him. He was just a friendly face. But I didn’t want to see this happen.

  From along the length of our ship, screams carry over the water.

  Úlfar’s voice rings out. “Shield wall!”

  But his order is unneeded. Already our men are raising their shields against the deadly rain. A second wave of arrows falls, but this time only rattles against timber and iron, bouncing harmlessly into the water or clattering onto the deck.

  The keel scrapes and timbers shudder. As one, my companions leap into the shallows and I am with them, lifting and locking my shield with theirs. Swords at the ready, wading through chill waters, we advance as one.

  Arrows cascade in from above, but now no-one is injured. As we are all but upon them, the sea kissing at our calves, Úlfar shouts the command. “Charge!”

  The impact is brutal, knocking the air from my lungs, and for a brief moment, I’m gasping. But then, the world slows around me and once more, I do not hold my sword. I am my sword.

  The ground under me is uncertain. Rounded pebbles the size of my fist shift and slip, but as we push forward, our opponents retreating under our onslaught, we reach sand, then grass.

  Somewhere inside my head, the blood pounds. My sight darkens at the edges and my opponent is, somehow, very close. Everything else around me echoes from some distant place. The ring of metal. The clang of shields. The screams of the fallen.

  My blade and I are one. The man before me drops at my feet, shrinking to my eye. Another draws closer, looming large, his mouth gaping wide in a battle howl…

  He falls too, splashing red over the grass.

  It feels better this, cleaner somehow, to fight warriors. Another soldier tries for me, his lips curling as he sees my sex, careless as he advances. He twines his sword with mine and finds it sliding to one side. The light is already dying in his eyes as he scrabbles at his belly, then as I withdraw my blade, at the lifeblood spouting through his fingers.

  And I move on to face my next opponent.

  The battle is short. And we are triumphant. For all that these were fighting men, they couldn't match us.

  “Gunhildr! Here.” Úlfar calls me across to where he stands over one of their fallen; a young man, almost a boy. “These are fine weapons and his mail would be a fit for you. You should claim them.”

  “Thank you, jarl. I shall.”

  He claps me on the shoulder. “You fought well, shieldmaiden. Take your dues.”

  Bjorn beams at me. “You see, wife? Being wedded does not prevent you having fame and glory in your own right.”

  But close by, Hjalli scowls.

  Chapter 13

  TRAITOR

  The riches we take are even greater than from the first village and with the new slaves our ship is at capacity. Some of them are already earning their keep making bread so we can break our fast. Slaughtered sheep and pigs roast over fires set up by the shore and a steady trickle of our new riches makes its way to Water Skimmer as our men locate hiding places and caches.

  At one point, a great shout arises from inside the church. It seems that a hidden store of gold and silver coin has been found under the altar.

  The men begin to speak of returning home. We have already done well. Why take more risks? Úlfar and Magni consider this. As one of the most junior members of our party, I hold my peace.

  I should be happy.

  Everything I ever dreamed of has come to pass. What more could I ask for?

  What is wrong with me?

  We sit around one of the great hearths, the men lounging and laughing. One of the new slaves serves Bjorn with bread and ale. Breaking the still steaming loaf in two, he passes half to me, then raises his horn in a toast. “You’re a real warrior now.”

  I smile and return the toast, but as Bjorn watches me, his head inclines and his smile fades. “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m going to stretch my legs.”

  He shoots out a hand, grasping mine, but he speaks quietly. “Don’t dwell on it. It takes all of us that way sometimes. Especially at first.”

  I nod but, to Bjorn’s frown, pull my hand away. Out-of-sorts, I wander.

  Why do I feel like this?

  My mind is cluttered, my breathing tight. The scent of roasting meat makes me a little nauseous, so I head for the shore, searching for a clean breeze. Standing by the ship, I stare out over the sea.

  Under blue sky, the choppy surface breaks between deep green and turquoise, deepening to cobalt at the horizon. Foam flecks the waves; a million bubbles dancing and breaking, and the rush of the surf as it rolls in, the sigh as it retreats, is calming. It is not my river, but it is a good substitute.

  Filling my lungs, I breathe deeply. And again.

  Someone is speaking.

  At first, I don’t recognise it as speech, taking it for the babble of the waters. Then I discern that it is words I’m hearing.

  From the ship beside me, it's her, the girl I released, with the child. Her eyes widen as I turn to her and she flings out her arms, jabbering away at me, her tone pleading.

  The words blur and flicker, then coalesce to sense. “Please. Help us. You are one of us. Why are you with these people?”

  Pebbles crunch behind me. It’s Hjalli.

  He moves close, listening keenly. “What's she saying? Why is she talking to you?”

  What do I say?

  “She's asking me to help her.”

  He stands, arms folded, legs akimbo. “But why is she talking to you?”

  I shrug. “Perhaps because I am a woman.”

  “No.” He bristles. “She's behaving as though she knows you. Does she?”

  And now Bjorn is here too. His voice is mild. “Do you know her, Gunhildr? Perhaps from when you were a child?”

  The words congeal in my mouth.

  But Hjalli isn’t just curious. Suspicion shimmers over his face. “She's not just asking for help.” He jabs a finger at the girl, and she cringes back, holding her child close. “She said you'd helped her before… Didn’t she?”

  Bjorn jolts, his lips parting, as though to protest, but Hjalli rolls on. “Was she at the first village? Did you let her escape? Let her betray us to them?”

  How can I lie?

  I have dishonoured myself. These people, who when they believed I shared their values, made me one of their own…

  I have betrayed them.

  “Yes, I let her escape,” I whisper. My words seem lost in the murmur of the waves, and yet they hear them anyway.

  Hjalli lunges at me, is about to seize me, but Bjorn knocks him away. “I will speak with my wife alone.”

  Hjalli snarls, striding away, towards Úlfar.

  Bjorn speaks quickly. “We have moments only. Why did you do this? Why did you betray us? Are you not one of us?”

  “I… I don’t know. It was an impulse. She was so afraid. The battle was over. I didn’t think it would do any harm.”

  “You didn’t think at all!” he hisses.

  “Gunhildr!” It is Úlfar. “Here. Now!”

  M
iserably, I make my way to my jarl.

  “Is it true?” His tone wavers between rage and disbelief. “You released the Saxon? You betrayed us?”

  I can’t look him in the eye. My view of the grass is no improvement. “Yes.” My throat is tight. “I let her go. But I didn’t intend betrayal. I…”

  Hjalli spits at my feet. “She’s not one of us. Ever since she weaselled her way out of slave-hood, she’s been waiting for her chance. She betrayed us. They were warned. They knew we were coming.” Face contorted, he jabs a finger at me. “Fafner is dead because of her.”

  Some of the men are muttering agreement. Others sound more doubtful.

  Úlfar, his face a mask, looks down on me. “I must think on this. Bjorn, I place your wife in your care. You will see she does no more harm.”

  I’ve disgraced my husband too…

  Bjorn looks on me, hard-eyed. “Come, Gunhildr. You will tell me all.”

  Chapter 14

  AFTERMATH

  In fact, I tell him nothing. Bjorn doesn’t speak to me. He simply marches me to a fallen log beyond the edge of the firelight and the assembled men, then we sit in a taut, hard silence.

  When I try to speak to him, his glance is savage before he looks away.

  He stands briefly and I make to rise with him, but he stabs down with a finger at the log. “Stay there. Don’t move. I will fetch us food.”

  He returns with mutton and bread. My gorge rises at the smell of the meat, but he pushes it on me. “Some of the men didn’t want to allow you this, so eat it and be silent. You may not be permitted more.”

  Later, he lies with his back turned to me. I don’t know if he sleeps. For many hours, I cannot. And for the first time in years, I let myself weep.

  In the morning, I wake with air chilling my spine. When I roll over, the spot next to me is cold, and for a moment, blind panic rules me…

  Has he abandoned me?

  … before common sense reasserts itself. If Bjorn had set me aside, it is for sure I would not be lying peacefully sleeping. My status as his wife is surely all that kept me unmolested the evening before.