by Desconhecido
Eireann choked back tears. She could be one of those women, or could have been. Eirik caught her eye and winked at her. None of the men looked angry or put out by having to track her sister down. Or the obviously hard fight they’d engaged in.
Fridgeir set his hand on her shoulder. “Starting to make some sense? We hold to our word.” He grinned slyly. “And no one steals from a Northman.”
Giermund pulled off his bloody ring mail, “Not if he wants to live!” The others laughed.
“Fridgeir,” Eireann held out her wrists. “You don’t have to tie me any more. I made a promise to behave. I won’t try to run. Let me help you and them.” She held her bound wrists higher. “Please, you risked your life for me. The least I can do is help clean wounds, serve some food.”
Fridgeir smiled and pulled his seax. He cut her bonds instead of untying her. The bits of rope fell to the ground, a symbol of his trust in her word. He smiled and slammed his knife back in its sheath. Someone tossed her a bag of fresh water and some bandages. She helped Fridgeir out of his tunic and gently cleaned the wound. Steinolf came by with some healing herbs to put in it to prevent infection.
“You could have been killed, protecting me like that,” she said softly as she gently cleaned the blood from his cheek after finishing with his arm.
“My responsibility. I told you before, you’re mine. No one else can have you.” He stroked the side of her face with a blood-covered hand. She looked into his gentle blue eyes. She smiled slightly and went back to work. As soon as she’d finished, she started on Arinbjorn’s bloody ribs. The gash didn’t go deep but had to hurt. Yet Fridgeir’s shield partner took it like a simple scratch.
“How is it?” Arinbjorn asked, looking down at her.
“Not too bad. The knife must have been old and dull though. It tore more than cut and if it’d been sharper might have gone deep enough to really do some damage.” She finished cleaning.
“Think it’s all right to get wet? I could use a wash.” He was looking toward the pool where others already gathered to wash away the blood and the stench of fire.
“Don’t soak it and I can reclean it after,” she replied.
“You've done this before, bandaged someone.” Fridgeir noted from where he watched.
She nodded. “Of course. People get hurt and they always expect the women of the house to patch them up! I must admit though, I am far more familiar with fishing and farming accidents than battle wounds.”
She found the courage to speak in the following silence. “Fridgeir, I didn’t tell you everything. You didn’t ask so I just kept quiet.” Her voice wavered slightly. She worried they’d be mad but she owed them.
Fridgeir looked around. “Eirik, you were right—she was holding out on us.”
She stared at him in total shock. Not only did he know but he didn’t seem angry.
Eirik strode over and stood with a raised brow, waiting.
Eireann drew a deep breath. “The merchants of the area have started banding together against these raiders. You may face more than just that fat pig’s men and he knows it! They’ll wait until he’s been released before attacking.”
Eirik’s eyes narrowed slightly. “How many ships, how many men?”
“I…I don’t know. It depends on who’s around. And…” She swallowed heavily. “The Witch King’s started patrolling these waters as well. Guess he wants to make sure his supplies get through.” She hung her head in shame. “I’m sorry, I should have said sooner.”
Eirik spoke gently. “You’d no reason to trust us or our word. Now you understand and you’ve made the right choice. Keep it up and your sister will find a safe home at Dragon’s Head.” He grinned mischievously. “As will you, in a somewhat different way.”
She chuckled and shot a glance at Fridgeir. “If it’s all right, I can help bandage others.”
Fridgeir gave her an approving squeeze on her shoulder then headed for the stream to wash.
After a few steps he turned and called, “Eireann! When you’re done there, ask the old sea dog to show you my extra clothes. Oh, get some for Eirik and Arinbjorn too.”
* * * *
“Cedric, I want a watch on our new slaves. And some clean clothes for them.” Eirik paused in thought. “Better dunk them in the creek first.”
Cedric chuckled. “With plenty of soap! That sound all right to you, slaves?” Cedric asked with a grin. “A bath and clean clothes?” The four women looked both surprised and uncertain.
Eireann walked past and spoke softly. “You’ll get washed one way or another. Might as well do it yourself. They’ll look, make comments but I’ve yet to see them throw a woman down and take turns.”
The oldest one, the one who’d translated, looked Eireann over with some suspicion but didn’t speak.
Eireann grinned wryly. “These men didn’t beat me. I was captured by raiders. They didn’t like my attitude.” She gestured with her chin toward the six tied to stone posts not so far away.
The same one pointed at her slave collar. “You’re their slave? You and your sister?”
She nodded. “But they’ve left her alone and ah, I belong to that one.” She pointed at Fridgeir. “He won’t let the others have me and is surprisingly considerate. Not at all what I expected from a hairy Northman!” She smiled. “Come on, they don’t bite…well, most of them.”
Cedric smirked at her remark and pointed them toward the stream. He motioned men to stand watch while they bathed. Men came and went, cleaning up as well, but none bothered the painfully thin women. Eireann found herself pretty busy fetching clothes and picking up dirty ones. She set the bloody ones aside to rinse in the stream after the bathing was done. She heard the infant crying and glanced around. A youngish blond man whose name she didn’t know held it with practiced ease, rocking it slightly while her mother bathed. He looked incredibly sad as did the others who stopped by to inspect the infant. It made Eireann wonder not only what was wrong with the baby but why it bothered these Northmen so.
Eireann passed out new dresses for the women from her own stores. Hers were all the women’s clothes they had. Eireann had a fit and trim physique but her clothes still hung like sacks from the women's boney shoulders. The mother’s breasts hardly swelled with any milk. No doubt the source of the infant’s displeasure. The one she’d talked with looked about three or four months along, maybe less as she was so thin any swell would show. The hard use and little food prematurely aged the women but as the dirt came off, she got the impression they were all fairly young. The pregnant one looked oldest and had the honey brown hair and honey gold skin of the western kingdoms well to the south of these untamed forests. Possibly even from near the inner sea. The other three could have come from anywhere in the western midlands—varying shades of brown hair and hazel eyes with light-toned skin. Not nearly as fair as the Northmen, nor ruddy like her own, but lighter than those from farther east or south. Those, she figured they’d kidnapped locally. How the honey-colored woman got here she couldn’t explain.
“I want the mother and the pregnant one fed and left alone,” Eirik spoke loudly enough for most of the camp to hear. “Pass the word.”
One man pointed toward the Fire and the young women still on it. “Can we bathe them too?”
Eirik snorted derisively. “Maybe tomorrow—but if you touch it, you own it!”
Chapter 8
Day 3, night
Done with bathing, the naked warriors set about drying off and dressing. Wool tunics of browns, muted greens and russets went over wool pants. It surprised her that all the men seemed to have linen undergarments. In the Wild Isles, only the wealthiest could afford such a luxury. The long hike and intense fight seemed to have taken most of the playfulness out of their bathing. Eireann and two of the newly cleaned women from the forest served hot stew to the men. The mother and pregnant woman were ushered over near Eirik and told to sit.
She watched how they reacted closely, to judge just how abused they’d been. One thing
was certain. The painted people had done far more than just forget to feed them. The women never looked at anyone and avoided all contact while still efficiently serving. None spoke unless spoken to directly and then in soft almost whispers. She’d seen mindless midland slaves with more spunk.
It caught Eireann by surprise when a man grabbed one of the women around the waist and kissed her. The others sniggered and offered plenty of lewd suggestions. As soon as the man’s hold loosened, the woman dropped to her knees, pulling her skirt up as she went.
The man stopped her from sinking all the way to the ground. “Hold on there. Not now! Gods above, woman, I just kissed you is all.”
Eirik shot a questioning look at the pregnant one. “Care to explain?”
“Not presenting herself fast enough could get a woman beaten.” She spoke nonchalantly and shrugged at the stares that followed.
“Presenting herself? You mean by dropping onto her knees? To be, for want of better words, bedded?”
The woman nodded and Eirik said, “We know little of their customs. Please tell us more.”
The pregnant one shifted slightly and continued in her even tone. “The painted people are much like a pack of wolves. Only the top dog and his chosen men get to breed—and the women say when. The other males have to make do with those not of their people. We had to drop on all fours whenever or wherever they demanded it.”
The group by the beach grew quiet as she spoke.
“They took you right there in front of everyone?” Young Njals asked in horror.
She shrugged. “Yes—the lowest males, mostly. Sometimes the others if they’d just been disciplined by the leader. That’s mostly what we were for, hard work and to take out the frustration they didn’t dare show to those above them.”
A brief silence filled the camp.
“You two, slaves. No dropping to the ground like dogs. Not any more,” Eirik ordered them. “If a man takes you off, well, that's different. You’ll be expected to cooperate—but not like a dog!”
Anger rose to choke Eireann’s throat. After all these poor women had been through, couldn’t these randy Northmen leave them alone!
Fridgeir called out, “Eireann, come over here.” He patted the ground by him. “I think everyone is served.”
Sitting at his side, she couldn’t help staring as the scene repeated itself over and over. Although now the women understood to just stand still instead of dropping to the ground. She wasn’t sure if their extreme passivity angered her more or how the men seemed to enjoy it!
Fridgeir must have sensed her anger. “Easy, wild one. You’re my private slave. They haven’t been claimed. The men are just checking them out.”
“So the first man who beds one gets her?” She shot Eirik an accusing look.
“If he still wants her after.” Cedric said, before Fridgeir could swallow and speak. “He may not and then she’s available for another.”
Eireann snorted hard. “Like midland whores, one randy ass after another.” She let her scorn show.
Eirik shook his head. “In some halls, maybe—but not mine. One man a night and not every night. They have to ask me first since all unclaimed slaves belong to the hall, my hall. And I don’t allow my men to get rough either. I find bruises in the morning and that man goes without until he learns to behave.”
Cedric looked meaningfully at Eireann. “Unless she fights him. Slaves don’t have the right to say no.”
The pregnant one nodded understandingly but the mother looked frightened and held her baby daughter closer.
Eirik turned to her. “No need to fear, Mother. I’ve given orders for you to be left alone. That baby needs all of you right now. Do you have a name?”
His gentle tone surprised Eireann. These northland barbarians went from hard warriors to caring men faster than a snake could strike.
The pregnant one spoke. “Her name is Chloe. She finds it hard to speak. I am Leocadia.” Her name confirmed to Eireann that she came from far south, near the inner sea.
Eirik looked concerned. “Something wrong with her or doesn’t she know trade speak?”
Leocadia glanced at the woman, who stared at her infant rather than look at them. “That filthy mongrel you sacrificed nearly choked her to death. She hasn’t had much voice since.”
The woman’s voice stayed carefully subservient but Eirik detected a hint of anger in her smell.
The man who’d held her baby settled behind Chloe and asked, “What’d she do to piss him off so bad?”
Still sounding very submissive, Leocadia replied. “Didn’t drop to her knees fast enough for him. Wanted to set her baby down before he took his ease.”
“So this was recent?” the man asked, sounding both puzzled and angry.
“No—two years ago. He killed the infant.” She stated in a matter-of-fact, soft voice. She glanced up to see shocked and angry looks all around her.
Eireann gave voice to their anger. “Dog-humping demon spawn! There’s no hell deep enough!”
Leocadia shrugged. “Wouldn’t have mattered. Slave children never survive. At least he didn’t just whither away like most.”
The men’s faces froze in shock. The mother’s eyes filled with tears as she hugged her tiny, too-thin daughter closer.
The young man said angrily, “Gods above! They truly are animals!”
“So if the leader had all the women, what’d he want with Chloe?” Arinbjorn asked, clearly in some confusion.
“Like I said, the women said when and the voice of the forest could counter any order the great tree gave. She liked putting him in his place. So sometimes he took it out on us too,” she replied without emotion.
Eirik reached over and set a hand on the mother’s arm. “That will never happen again! Children are gifts of the gods regardless of how they come to us! You needn’t fear for yourself or your daughter.”
Eireann felt a deep sadness. Here she’d worried about them getting bedded by men they didn’t want. It reminded her there were far worse fates for women in many parts of the world!
Eirik finished his meal then sat onto his heels in front of Chloe. “May I hold her?” he asked gently, holding his arms out. Chloe’s hands trembled but she held the tiny girl out. Eirik gently cradled the restlessly sleeping infant in one strong arm with practiced ease. He pulled open the wrappings around her.
Eireann could see someone had replaced the rotting hide she’d been wrapped in with clean linen. Her little tummy was distended with hunger. Babies should be round and plump but this one seemed wrinkled with age and her breath was labored. Eireann stared closely at Eirik’s eyes, watching a red glow rise in the centers.
Fridgeir leaned close to whisper in her ear, “Sometimes he can share the warmth from his fire, maybe some of it’s strength. Oden’s beard, that baby could use some.” He nibbled along the shell of her ear before sitting back.
Cedric peered over Eirik’s shoulder.
“I sure wish we had another nursing mother handy. Kid could really use some eats.” Cedric stroked her protruding belly gently.
Eireann found their sincere concern almost unnerving, coming from such feared warriors. She managed a glance at the infant as she passed to fetch more wash water and instantly felt cold. Even with good and plentiful food for her mother, she wondered if it was already too late to save the child. She wished she still had her amulet. It just might help!
At that moment Eirik shuddered and looked down at his waist. His fingers closed on his belt pouch. He shifted the girl into the crook of his arm and pulled out Eireann’s amulet. A faint glow came from the mother’s face on the old medallion.
A hush grew as word spread that Eirik had what seemed a magic device.
Eireann froze with the mostly empty bucket in her hands. My amulet! And it seems active.
Fridgeir stood swiftly. “Eireann, you know what that is, don’t you?” He crossed to her in a single stride.
She paled, knowing full well everyone thought all women of the Wild
Isles were witches. And people fear witches! He took the bucket from her nervous grip.
Eirik looked over his shoulder. “Now would be a good time to speak, slave.” His voice held just the hint of a threat.
She swallowed. “Yes, it’s mine. Passed mother to daughter in my family for generations.” She glanced around at the wary looks of the men. “Long before those you call witches lived among us, there were women of power. Priestesses of the triple goddess,” she hurriedly explained before they misunderstood. “My ancestors were such women. After the witches rose to power they hunted out all they could find who would oppose them. Witches steal life for their magics. The goddess grants her power to those she deems worthy, to benefit life, not steal it.” She looked earnestly into Fridgeir’s eyes.
Eirik turned slightly and held the medallion up. “And this? What is it and what can it do?”
At Fridgeir’s urging she moved to kneel in front of Eirik. “Grandmother said it would do what the wearer needed most—give them great strength or aid in healing.” Eirik’s piercing gaze held her to the truth. “I used it to escape the Witch King. It can counter dark magic and curses. Please, I’m not a witch!” A little fear entered her voice.
Several men sniggered.
“Not any more, anyway!” one of them snorted sharply.
“We can thank those hairless raiders for making sure of that!” Another muttered wickedly.
She felt the heat of anger rising in her face. She shot back an answer instantly. “I have never done dark magic! Not all women of the isles are witches! Demon spawn!” Custom held that to ruin a witch’s power all a man had to do was take her virginity. Usually as violently as possible with as many men as possible! Or cut the witch’s throat before she could speak a curse.
Fridgeir set his hand gently on her shoulder. She started to strike it off then remembered better. She dropped her head but her anger still simmered.
Eirik spoke firmly. “This is not witch magic. Of that I am certain. My fire would have warned me if it was. And this woman never has been a witch. I’d have smelled it on her.” He looked around the group holding the gaze of each man until he nodded acceptance.