The child in his arms jiggled suddenly, bouncing up and down on his massive forearm, playing with his brooch. The semi-precious stones winked and flashed under the small chubby fingers. Ragnar peered down at the bright tousled hair, the long fair eyelashes, as if noticing the boy for the first time. He couldn’t be beyond his first year.
‘Why did you stay in the tower?’ he asked the woman in English as Gisela tucked an arm beneath the woman’s elbow and helped her to her feet. ‘Why did you not try to escape when the fire started?’
‘I was frightened,’ the woman said. ‘I saw my people come, with the Saxon chief. But they would have killed me, for taking care of this child.’ Her voice shook.
‘Is he not yours?’ Ragnar rapped out. His voice echoed harshly around the empty bailey, contrasting oddly with the baying shouts of the Saxons outside the castle gates.
‘No, I was brought here to look after him by the Norman lord. I had no choice.’
‘Where is his mother? Did the Saxons kill her?’ Gisela asked. The baby was making gurgling noises beside her, a stream of half-formed words, incomprehensible. Suddenly his hand shot out, touching her glistening hair, an escaping strand floating out from her headscarf. Despite everything, she laughed.
The nursemaid tugged her woollen shawl around her shoulders, crossing the frayed ends across her ample bosom. ‘No, his mother left a long time ago. It was a bad business. Once Lord de Pagenal had the boy and he was weaned, he sent the mother away. Sent her back to her people.’
‘Mama,’ burbled the child, happily. ‘Mor...mor...’
Ragnar froze. An icy chill radiated through his spare, rangy frame. Shoving the child abruptly into Gisela’s arms, he brought his face down close to the woman’s, glowering at her, eyes flashing diamond knives. ‘What was her name?’ he asked roughly. ‘What was the mother’s name? Tell me!’ Grabbing the nursemaid’s shoulders, he shook her slightly, as if that would bring the information out more speedily. The woman’s head knocked back with the violent force of the movement.
‘Ragnar! Stop this, what are you doing?’ Gisela cried at him.
Lines of wretchedness scoured his face as he half-turned towards her, his hands dropping from the woman’s shoulders. ‘I know who that child’s mother is,’ he said jerkily, ‘but I want to hear it from this woman’s lips. I want to hear her say it.’
Gisela frowned, shifting the boy’s rounded weight more securely against her chest. ‘But who is it?’
‘The child speaks Danish. He is Gyda’s child.’
‘Gyda,’ the woman nodded. ‘Aye, that was her name. Do you know her?’
‘She is my sister.’ Anguish whitened Ragnar’s face. ‘Odin’s teeth! So that bastard de Pagenal is the father!’ He shook his head violently, drawing his sword. ‘How could I not have known? How did I not guess when that bastard was sitting there, grinning at me from behind the table, last night?’
‘Ragnar...how could you have...?’ Gisela said. But Ragnar was already running towards the gatehouse. ‘Stay here!’ he flung back at her, gold hair flying in the breeze, strands whipping back over his forehead. ‘Stay here until I return!’
* * *
Watching Ragnar’s tall lean figure disappear through the gatehouse, the nursemaid turned to Gisela. ‘So this child is...?’
‘Ragnar’s nephew,’ Gisela explained. ‘He came here to find his sister’s abductor, to find out what had happened to her.’ She chewed her bottom lip, recalling his raw expression, the lines of wretchedness scouring his face before he had vanished into the shadows. The pain of his sister’s plight must be unbearable.
‘So he wants to talk to de Pagenal,’ the nursemaid said.
‘He does,’ Gisela confirmed. Against her neck, the child had begun to fret and grizzle, jerking his chubby legs up and down in a frenetic movement. She hugged him closer, trying to calm him, but he only cried more loudly.
‘Here, my lady, give the little mite to me,’ the nursemaid said. ‘It was a bad business. Gyda was with Lord de Pagenal when he attacked this castle and threw everyone out. And when the baby was born, I became his wet nurse.’ Her voice lowered. ‘I had lost my own child a few days earlier.’
Gisela placed her hand on the nursemaid’s shoulder. ‘I am so sorry.’
The woman shrugged. ‘It happens,’ she replied sadly. ‘But it helped, having young Torven to look after. And Gyda was a lovely young woman, so full of life, despite her situation. De Pagenal kept her a virtual prisoner in that chamber where you found us, unless...’
‘Unless...?’
‘Unless he needed her in his chamber.’ The woman’s mouth formed a despairing line. ‘She didn’t fight him, so she was spared the worst of his anger.’
‘I can’t even begin to imagine what she must have gone through,’ Gisela murmured.
‘It will be hard for her brother to hear what happened to her. I can’t believe how much he looks like his sister. Same hair, same eyes.’
‘The baby is the same, also.’ Gisela smiled down at the gilt-haired boy in the nursemaid’s arms. Green eyes, identical to Ragnar’s, stared back at her.
‘Aye, luckily he takes after his mother and not his pig of a Norman father.’ The woman paused, adjusting the boy’s position so that he lay more firmly against her. She smiled at Gisela. ‘You can call me Bertha, my lady, if you wish.’
‘I do wish it. Thank you, Bertha.’
‘Will you and your husband take the child?’
‘Oh, but he’s not my husband!’ Gisela blurted out in surprise, laughing.
Bertha’s eyes widened. ‘You do surprise me, my lady, for you both behave as such. As if you are married,’ she added.
‘We are travelling together, that is all,’ Gisela replied, lowering her voice, glaring down at her mud-encrusted hem. Had last night changed the way she behaved around Ragnar? Was the evidence of her sin plastered across her face and body, like a brand upon an animal? ‘We scarcely know each other.’
‘If you say so.’ The nursemaid threw her a sly smile. ‘Don’t worry, mistress, your secret’s safe with me.’
‘There’s no secret!’ Gisela protested.
The nursemaid shrugged her shoulders, a gesture of obvious disbelief, then abruptly changed the subject. ‘Do you think he will take the child?’
‘I cannot speak for him.’ Gisela chewed fretfully on a nail. ‘But I think he should. It’s the right thing to do, to take a child back to his real mother.’
‘I agree,’ said Bertha. ‘But I would look after the boy if he does not.’
‘I hope it won’t come to that,’ said Gisela, doubt trickling through her belly. If Ragnar was reluctant, then she would have to persuade him, but how on earth was she going to do that?
* * *
When the noise died down outside, the two women emerged tentatively from the gatehouse, the baby jiggling fretfully in Bertha’s arms. Behind them, the castle smouldered, the fire in the tower having died down of its own accord. On a flattish field to the west, the Saxons were setting up a makeshift camp and the smell of roasting meat rose into the air.
Ragnar stood at the other end of the drawbridge, deep in conversation with Richard. Her heart plummeted at the sight of the tall Dane, his face besmirched with soot, lending him a devilish cast. He looked up at Gisela’s approach, his expression terse, unsmiling, then scowled as he caught sight of the child in Bertha’s arms.
‘I was too late,’ he said. Despair clawed at his voice. ‘The Saxons had already killed de Pagenal before I got to him.’ He wrapped his arms over his broad chest.
Gisela touched his sleeve, a fleeting gesture. ‘I am so sorry, Ragnar. I know this is not how...you would have wanted it.’
He angled his head away, mouth compressed into a stricken line. ‘He’s dead and that’s all that matters, I suppose.’
‘But you have the child, your nephew.
Surely that is some recompense for Gyda’s ordeal?’
His face went white. ‘You think so?’ he croaked. ‘How can that be?’
Shock rattled through her; she ducked her gaze, studying the ground intently, as tears clouded her gaze. So that was how it was going to be, she thought. He would reject the child. The silence lengthened between them, awkward, uncomfortable.
Richard stepped forward, clearing his throat. ‘Gisela, Ragnar has agreed to take you back to our father and Marie. I am needed here, with Waltheof.’
‘Oh!’ She jerked her head up, glad of a distraction from Ragnar’s brooding stare. ‘But I thought you were coming with us! What about giving Waltheof the coin intended for de Pagenal?’
‘No need!’ Richard replied. Excitement threaded his voice. He seized Gisela’s hands. ‘Waltheof has already granted me my freedom, and, more than that, he has given me this castle and the lands as a reward for what I have done for him. Imagine that, Gisela!’
‘So...so you will stay here, then?’ She smiled at the happiness in his voice.
‘Yes,’ he said slowly, laying a hand on Gisela’s shoulder. ‘But I promised to go with Waltheof now, to fight with him, as a freeman. After that, Gisela, you can stay here and live with me. Father and Marie, too.’ He glanced at Ragnar, lowering his voice. ‘You’ll be all right with the Dane, Gisela. You can trust him.’ Planting a kiss on his sister’s cheek, and shaking Ragnar’s hand, Richard bid farewell, walking off towards the Saxons.
Gisela stared after her brother, a muted sadness wrapping her heart, then switched her gaze back to Ragnar’s piercing green eyes, his brooding expression. Aye, I can trust him, Gisela thought. But can I trust myself?
As Gisela watched her brother depart, Bertha stepped forward, the child grizzling in her arms. ‘I need to feed the baby, mistress. There’s hot food and milk for him, at my brother’s house.’ Her speech faltered slightly. ‘You’d be welcome, my lady, and the lord, too, if you don’t mind the state of our cottage. You could eat and take some mead with my family. Stay the night if you wish. You saved my life, both of you, and I thank God for bringing you to me in my hour of need.’
‘It would be good to eat something,’ Gisela said, narrowing her eyes at Ragnar in challenge, knowing that he would disagree.
He glanced up, studying the white puffs of cloud shifting across the clear blue afternoon sky. ‘We’ll eat and then we’ll leave,’ he said. ‘It’s light enough for us to keep riding,’ he said. ‘We can at least start the journey back to Hoesella.’ His green eyes raked over her soot-stained cheeks.
* * *
The cottage was small: a ground-floor chamber, with an open sleeping platform up above, accessed by a makeshift wooden ladder. Straw covered the earth-packed floor, a loose layer. As Ragnar followed Bertha and Gisela inside, stooping beneath the lintel, a cluster of children inside eyed him with curiosity, entranced by the impressive flash of his sword hilt, his muscled shoulders. The silver rivets on his leather surcoat sparkled in the gloom. Hopping nervously from one foot to the other, Bertha introduced her brother and his wife, a petite dark-haired beauty, who wiped her hands down her apron and pushed the children out of the door. ‘Go and feed the animals,’ she ordered. ‘It’s not time for you to eat yet.’
‘You are most welcome.’ The man stepped forward in greeting, clasping Ragnar’s hand. ‘Please, sit and rest a while. Will you take a bowl of stew? Your lady...here.’ He indicated a three-legged stool for Gisela. She sat down, smiling at him, and took the earthenware bowl of steaming meat that was handed to her. Knowing how unwelcome the Normans were, she decided it would be better to keep her mouth shut while she was among the Saxons.
As the baby chewed on a piece of bread in Bertha’s arms, the nursemaid explained in rapid English who Ragnar was and her brother clapped him on the back in sympathy, bowing his head. As Gisela spooned the hot stew into her mouth, she lost the thread of Bertha’s explanation to Ragnar about what had happened to Gyda, but she watched as his face grew pinched with tension, whitening about the edges of his mouth. When Bertha had finished, he handed the bowl back to the brother’s wife, half-eaten, and stood up abruptly. From the leather bag slung over his shoulder, he drew out a bag of coin and handed it to the nursemaid. ‘That is for the baby. I will make sure you receive payment every year for looking after the child. I hope it is enough.’
‘I will look after him as if he were my own, my lord,’ replied Bertha, stealing a glance at Gisela’s strained expression.
‘We’re going now,’ Ragnar barked at Gisela, in English.
She glared at him in frustration, then nodded silently towards the child, chuckling happily in Bertha’s arms. Ragnar glared at her, shaking his head. ‘Come on!’ He held out his hand, waggling his fingers impatiently.
Refusing his help, fists bunched in fury, Gisela rose to her feet. She couldn’t talk to him here, held in a captive silence by her own identity. She had to move him away from these Saxons, so that she could talk to him in her own language, persuade him to take the child. Dipping her head in thanks towards Bertha, her gaze sliding over the bright-haired child, she followed Ragnar out into the sunlight. He had tied the horses up to a wooden fence-post outside.
‘Ragnar...’ She touched his arm, her voice so quiet that he was forced to bend his head towards her. Her soft breath brushed his ear as she whispered in French, ‘I must talk to you.’
‘There’s no point,’ he replied stonily, cupping his hands so she could place her foot within them so he could boost her into the saddle.
She kept her feet firmly on the ground, refusing to do his bidding. ‘There’s every point!’ she hissed fiercely, winding her arms across her breasts, constructing an additional barrier between them.
His eyes narrowed, glinting emeralds that pierced her soul. ‘Climb on the horse, Gisela, before I throw you up there!’ he demanded.
‘You wouldn’t...’ Her mouth clamped shut mid-sentence as Bertha’s brother came out of the cottage, smiling amiably.
‘Do you need anything more for your journey?’ he asked, oblivious to the argument between them. He had wrapped a threadbare woollen cloak around his rangy frame, securing the two sides with a rusty metal pin.
‘No, thank you,’ said Ragnar tersely, unlinking his hands and straightening up. He studied the mutinous line of Gisela’s mouth and knew full well that she would make a scene if he forced her on to the horse. ‘I think we will walk for a while and stretch our legs.’
‘Where are you headed?’
‘South. Towards Hoesella.’
The man nodded. ‘You need to take the track through the forest. Over there.’ He pointed across a shallow stream towards a dense pine forest, trees clustering heavily on the skyline. ‘If you keep a good pace, you should make Skelton Moor, about halfway, by nightfall.’
‘Thank you,’ Ragnar said. ‘And thank you once again for your hospitality.’ Seizing Gisela’s elbow in a pincer-like grip, he propelled her forward, holding the horses’ bridles in his other hand. She had no choice, she would have to stumble along beside him, otherwise he would drag or carry her, of that she was certain. The brute strength in his grip radiated up her arm as he yanked her across the low bridge over the glistening stream, then up the gentle slope towards the edge of the pine forest.
‘Let go of me!’ Shaking off his hold, Gisela sprang away from him, panting slightly from having to keep up with Ragnar’s accelerated pace. Despite the sun, a chill breeze nipped around her ankles as she moved into the shadow of the tall pines. A chaotic cross-hatching of brown pine needles littered the ground, soft and springy beneath her feet. They were far away from the village now, out of earshot. Eyes sparking anger, she braced her legs in combative stance.
‘Go on, then,’ Ragnar said. ‘You may as well say your piece, for I know we’ll go nowhere until you’ve told me what you think of me.’
‘Do you truly mean to
leave that baby there?’ She swept her hand over the village spread below them, the blue wool of her overgown contrasting starkly with the creased brown trunk at her back.
‘Yes.’
‘Ragnar, what’s the matter with you?’ Her voice trembled with emotion. ‘You have to take the child back to your sister!’
He flicked the end of the reins across his hand, slapping his palm in irritation. ‘And have her reminded every single day of what she had to endure in this place? Hell’s teeth, Gisela, did you hear what happened to her? Day after day?’
‘The child will heal her.’ Gisela spoke slowly, trying to control her rapid breathing, trying to subdue the haphazard rush of emotion climbing in her chest. ‘I am certain of it.’
He jabbed his toe deliberately against a raised tree root. ‘Or push her over the edge, Gisela. She is so fragile at the moment...her mind is frail. How do you know what will happen?’ Tension rippled through his velvet tones.
‘Your sister has lost everything, Ragnar,’ Gisela continued, desperation lacing her voice, ‘but she still has this baby. He’s part of her. She gave birth to him, fed him, cuddled him...he will mean something to her when she sees him again.’
Ragnar lifted his eyes up to the sky, as if searching for the answer amidst the skeleton pattern of the branches. Tears glinted in the corner of his eyes. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the repetitive strike of an axe against wood rising from the village. Her heart turned over, a strange twisting sensation, as she read the desolation in his face, but she resisted the urge to reach out and take his hand. To comfort him. Please, she prayed. Please do this thing for your sister. Her fingers knotted tightly against her belly.
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