Her eyes prickled.
I can’t find my way out.
He was shuffling closer, feeling ahead with his foot.
Perhaps he couldn’t see her after all.
His toes nudged her knee, and she acted on impulse rather than thought. Flinging herself forward, she encircled his shins, and yanked hard, sideways.
Pull him off his feet…and then what?
She wasn’t sure, only knowing that she must.
He grunted as he fell, toppling over Modwen’s back. His legs rose. There was a thud and a strange groan, then the thump of his body to the floor.
She scrabbled away, heaving great breaths. Never had her heart pounded like this, so violent. Her head spun, and she trembled all over.
I must get out.
She crawled a little more, but all her strength was gone. Her forehead was resting on the floor, and then there were no more thoughts.
She was truly in the dark.
14
Emerging from the forest, the children pointed in the direction of the beach, chattering excitedly. Low tide always brought crabs to the rockpools. To make themselves understood, they wriggled their arms and ran from side to side.
He nodded his permission and waved them away, smiling as they bounded towards the cliff path.
The time had passed pleasantly, both children being keen to please him, darting from tree to tree, looking for an oak suitable to cut from—straight-grained and hard, it was the best choice of wood for a sturdy axe handle.
On the way back, seeing Taran making faces at his sister, Magnus had swept him up, sitting him on the lower branch of a birch and, with his feet dangling, Alpia had jumped up to tickle them.
Magnus had laughed, and the rising chuckle in his chest had surprised him, as if he’d forgotten how to make such a sound.
In the past week, he’d noticed small things changing—not just in Achnaryrie, but in himself. When he woke, it was to the familiar jolt of remembrance and pain, but to another feeling also—that there was work to be done, and that he was needed to do it.
Something else, as well, if he were honest.
Something he could no longer deny.
It lightened his spirit, knowing she was close by. Yesterday, he’d touched her fingers as she’d passed him the bowl of grøt. She’d looked up at him, briefly, before glancing away.
Her eyes!
Though they were dark, where Solveig’s had been blue, there was an intensity to Modwen’s, and his heart trembled.
The world had been a bleak and bitter place, a perpetual winter in which his blood had turned to ice.
The Norns had drawn a hard fate for him, from the Well of Urðr, but it seemed another destiny had now been cast.
He’d been afraid to open his frozen heart, but only a fool would ignore this second chance. Knowing it, he’d be twice the fool to waste any more time.
He was resolved to find Modwen and, by Thor’s thunder, he’d show her that he’d come to his senses. With Odin’s blessing, she would see that his intentions were true—that he would no more fail her.
With the two long branches under his arms, he headed back.
Magnus pushed the door with his foot.
Strange that it’s closed.
Hadn’t he left it open purposefully, to bring in warmth from the morning sun, and fresh air?
There had been a musty smell, now overlaid with something else—fish? He frowned, unable to put his finger on it.
He drew both doors wide so that sunlight filled the darkened space, and deposited the wood. Dust motes whirled, disturbed by the sudden motion.
Nothing seemed amiss, but there was a palpable sense of someone having been here. Mayhap Garth. He’d said he’d call by, wanting his dagger sharpening. No one wielded a whetstone like Magnus.
Garth would have to bide, though, for hadn’t Magnus other matters to attend? A comely wife waited, and the children would be long busy on the shore.
Then, there was a whimper—a pitiful mewling sound, from the far side of the room, near his bed.
She was curled, her head buried upon her knees. In three strides he reached her, raising her from the floor, gathering Modwen secure to his chest.
She was shivering. Like a child woken from a bad dream, her face was ashen, her lips bloodless. As if she were still in that place between waking and sleep, she was unable to distinguish what was about her.
Had she fallen? A bruise was blooming beneath her eye.
“I’m here.” He wrapped her tightly, and she clung to him, resting her forehead against his torso.
He didn’t move, smoothing her hair, waiting for the tremors in her body to subside, giving her his warmth and strength.
“Are you hurt?”
Her eyes welled with tears. She shook her head and tried to speak, but her voice broke. Her gaze was fixed across the room, to where a figure slumped beneath the anvil.
He saw it now—the neck at an unnatural angle, and a dark stain soaking the earthen floor.
Cold dread snaked his spine.
Was it?
Magnus needed to be sure.
Drawing Modwen from his arms, he bent to examine the body.
Fecir’s mouth gaped in silence, and crimson oozed from the back of his skull. Magnus touched his fingers to the matted hair, and the head lolled to one side, the eyes staring dull. A trickle of blood ran from his ear.
Modwen gave a great gulping sob and stumbled away, looking from Magnus to the thing that had once been a man. She held her hand to her mouth, staggering to the door, and there, she retched.
The first time Magnus had killed a man, hadn’t he done the same? The memory was dim, but he was sure it had been so. Euphoria had carried him at first—exhilaration at felling his enemies without sustaining a scratch upon his own skin.
Only later had he been overtaken by nausea.
He placed his hand lightly upon Modwen’s back, offering his presence as she spat the last of her dagmal onto the ground.
He hardly needed to ask for explanation. It was easy to surmise, and if he’d dealt with Fecir properly the first time, this would never have happened.
The blame was his.
A man with drengr showed not only bravery on the battlefield but had the strength to do what was right.
Modwen was capable, but she needed him. The tightness in his chest was anger—that he’d failed, again, to protect the woman in his care.
Magnus couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry for Fecir’s death, but there would be consequences.
Whatever punishment was due, he would take upon himself.
Already, two of the women were approaching, warily, drawn by the sight of Modwen’s distress.
There could be no hiding.
Eithne passed a scrap of cloth from her pocket, which Modwen took gratefully, wiping her mouth.
“You’re unwell,” Ailsa said. “You should sit.”
Modwen nodded, then shook her head, and wished she hadn’t. Her left eye ached, and her cheekbone was tender.
The women were staring at her aghast, casting accusing looks at Magnus.
“’Twas an accident.” How light-headed she felt. As if the ground was rising to meet her. Her legs wobbled, and Magnus’s arms came swiftly to her waist.
“Here,” Eithne directed, pointing to the stool before the door of Modwen’s dwelling. “You need water.”
Ailsa darted into the house, returning with a cup from which Modwen sipped.
“Do you need our help?” Eithne crouched, turning her body so that Magnus might not see her speak.
Modwen sniffed and gave a strange half-laugh, then winced. It seemed her lip had split.
“Our husbands are strict, but to beat you like this!” Eithne’s eyes flashed with disapproval.
Modwen pressed her palm to her forehead. Everything felt so jumbled, but she remembered unbalancing Fecir, and then a terrible crack and thud as he’d fallen.
After that, had she fainted? When she’d come to,
it’d been easier to see, the sun having risen high enough that its beams came through the smoke hole in the roof.
That was when she’d seen him—unmoving, twisted in that horrible way, his eyes fixed upwards but no longer seeing.
Dead.
Murdered.
And the penalty would be her own death.
15
Eithne faced Magnus boldly.
“What happened?” she demanded, speaking in his own tongue. “Isn’t Modwen a willing wife, wishing to please you?”
Magnus knew what he must say, and he hoped the gods would forgive his falsehoods.
“Fetch our jarl, for he must see justice done. An unworthy cur lies dead, and it was his foul advances upon my wife that brought his end. I found him attacking in violent lust and sent him sprawling. I needed no weapon to spill his brains, for Thor guided the wretch to fall heavy on my anvil.”
“Dead?” Eithne’s eyes widened, and she spoke quickly to the other, sending her to fetch Brandr, urging her to run. “Who is dead?”
Magnus’s lip curled. “Fecir was his name. The uncle of my wife’s late husband—more worm than man, and fitting that the worms shall now feast on him.”
Eithne paled. She looked from Magnus to Modwen, and her brow furrowed in remembrance.
“You threw Fecir from the house, shouting that you’d kill him.” She cringed.
“Magnus?” Modwen attempted to stand, but her legs buckled.
“Put her to bed,” Eithne said. “Carry her, quickly. She’s in no condition to remain out here. I’ll ask Myrna to attend to her injuries.”
Modwen was as limp as a doll in his arms as he laid her on the pallet. Despite the sun’s warmth, her skin was cool. He pushed back the hair from her face and offered her more water, but she seemed unable to swallow. He pulled a sheepskin to cover her.
More than ever, his mind was set.
He’d failed Solveig all those years ago, not having been there to defend her. And he’d almost failed again. Who knew what Modwen had endured? Would Fecir have killed her? The cur had little to live for, and revenge was a tempting dish.
Magnus cursed himself.
A fine husband he was! Never where he needed to be!
But he’d do his duty now.
The Pict laws were strange, he’d heard, and their punishments severe. He wouldn’t allow Modwen to suffer further. Any penalty would be his.
Returning outside, Magnus found Brandr waiting for him. A small crowd had gathered, whispering and pointing. Brandr’s expression was grim, while Eithne stood apart, talking in hushed tones with the other women.
“You’ve seen?” Magnus nodded towards the forge.
“Aye.” Brandr narrowed his eyes. He lowered his voice and drew Magnus a little farther off. “You killed him?”
“The weasel was lusting after my wife again. What should I have done? Poured him ale to quench his thirst after the deed was done?”
“And she didn’t encourage him?”
“Nay!” Magnus hissed. “She had no liking for his attentions.”
“But it wasn’t the first time they’d met alone.” Brandr paused. He seemed to consider his next words carefully.
“Eithne tells me there was a prior agreement, of sorts, before we arrived. A man may tear his teeth when his claim upon a woman is forsaken.”
“If there was any arrangement, Modwen wanted none of it, I’m sure.” Magnus thrust out his chest. “Fecir was a boneless snake. Little wonder the cur couldn’t take a single push. That he stumbled and hit his head was the will of the gods. On the anvil, too! If Thor didn’t have a hand in that, then who did?”
“You may be right, but such an answer won’t serve.” Brandr sighed. “The man was ill-loved, as I understand, and Modwen and her children were his only relations, so there’s no family to be reconciled with payment of weregild. But we aren’t in Skalanes, and I must be seen to observe the laws of this place.”
“As you say.” Magnus lowered his head. “And I shall submit to your judgement.”
“Here, an eye must be paid with an eye, but you’re too important to forfeit, Magnus. If you’d called a challenge to holmgang, in answer to your wife’s assault, no man would have questioned it, but for him to die in this manner, in your own forge—” Brandr raised his chin. “No matter my own feeling, and that of your warrior brothers, I must give punishment, for what future can we build without trust between us and those of Achnaryrie? We’re superior in strength, so we must guard our tempers.”
Magnus grunted his assent.
“You will dig the burial place, then offer your back for twenty lashes.” Brandr glanced at those standing not far off, whose eyes were upon them, awaiting their jarl’s command, wishing to hear what justice would be served.
“Had I not this injury,” Brandr touched lightly beneath his ribs, “I would deliver the strokes myself. Instead, Olav shall be my arm, and I shall tell him not to spare you.”
With a single nod, Magnus acknowledged Brandr’s words.
Modwen woke with a heavy head, as if some great weight had come to press on her, and there was no pushing it away. Bringing her hand to her cheek, she sucked in a breath. One eye didn’t wish to open, and her lip felt swollen. She licked it tentatively, testing the size of the cut with the tip of her tongue and tasting the congealment of blood.
Her ribs and leg hurt, too, but she couldn’t remember why.
One of the women had visited her, hadn’t they? Myrna—placing salve on her bruises.
She eased herself upright, lowering her feet to the floor.
To the side was the tunic she’d been sewing for Magnus. Wincing, she walked over, picking it up to rub the cloth between her fingers.
Where were the children? It must be late in the day, for there was hardly any light.
She remembered. Magnus had taken Alpia and Taran into the forest, and she’d intended to see Myrna—goose fat, wasn’t it? On a whim, she’d gone into the forge, wanting to see where Magnus was working, wanting to feel closer to him.
It had been so dark.
Oh God!
She gripped the table’s edge. In a sudden, terrible rush, the memory washed over her—a rough palm over her mouth and her neck forced back. She hadn’t been able to breathe nor push him away. And then, she’d bitten what was in her mouth.
Was that when she’d fallen?
She’d been on the floor, and someone had kicked her.
Another image came rushing in—of a dead face.
Fecir!
Modwen fought down a returning wave of nausea.
He’d hit his head, hadn’t he?
Because of her.
He was dead, by her hand!
Modwen slumped against the wall.
What happened to those who broke God’s word? It was a commandment, wasn’t it? Thou shalt not kill.
Father Godfrey had described Hell—demons and everlasting torture, fire and pain.
Mercy upon her!
What should she do?
Admit her guilt?
But to who? Father Godfrey or to their new jarl? Brandr didn’t believe in their god, so would it count?
She shivered, glancing to the far corners, where the gloom clung thickest.
There were other things to fear besides the monk’s teachings. Beneath what she knew of Christian faith there lingered memories of older belief—of dark forces rising from the shadows to claim those black of heart.
Modwen grasped her throat and screwed tight her eyes.
She didn’t dare look.
Serpents or devils, something fearsome would drag her to the punishment she deserved.
God was merciful, so maybe her people would be, too. Atonement was her only hope.
Perhaps, then, she would be spared.
16
Stripped to the waist, Magnus stood within the livestock pen.
Dusk was upon the headland, turning the lower reaches of the sky violet shades, threaded through with amber. The sea glittered bene
ath like molten steel, hot from Magnus’s own furnace.
They’d erected a makeshift timber pole, about which his wrists were tied.
There was a crowd, though Eithne had insisted the children be kept inside.
Steinn stood close, his usual merriment replaced by an expression of disbelief. Ragnar and Thorolf looked on with eyes of winter ice. They would not approve of this punishment, for was a man not entitled to defend his wife?
Yet, Magnus understood; Brandr could not let the matter pass.
Achnaryrie was under Norse rule, but they needed the respect and trust of its people. Brandr could not simply set aside the laws of this land.
He stood before them, speaking clear and calm. “A man has died this day, and the one before you admits his hand struck the fatal wound. However, knowing Magnus to be a man of honesty, I consider the deed not murder, but mischance—”
A murmur rippled through those gathered. Some shook their heads, while others nodded, stony-faced.
“And wrought under circumstances with which every man can sympathise,” Brandr finished.
Someone said: “The cur was asking for trouble. I’d have done the same.”
Another, to his left, declared: “Killed outright, and in the forge. The Norseman’s guilty!”
Brandr raised himself to full height, that they might know who was in charge. “Norse law dictates payment to the grieving family for their loss, and no other punishment, but I’ve vowed to uphold justice according to Achnaryrie’s customs. I see no wilful intent to take another’s life—only a man protecting his wife’s honour, and who forgot the strength of his arm. Thus, I decree no penalty of death. Twenty lashes will be his price for wrongdoing, as your law allows.”
Amidst muttering, Olav stepped forward, brandishing a length of ship’s rope. Unbraided at the ends, it had been tied into several knots.
“May every man and woman witness my authority”—Brandr scanned the surrounding faces—“and Magnus Thorensson’s acceptance of my judgement.”
Magnus Page 6