by Joanna Bell
My dad grunts a grumpy agreement and I know he isn't going to let the topic slide. The temperature drops as the stars come out, but we keep the blanket mostly over Eirik, who is nestled between us.
I wake throughout the night to feed the baby and gaze up at the bright, countless stars over our heads. I haven't discussed with my father what we will do if Eirik is dead. I haven't even really discussed it with myself. Even thinking of it now, even thinking the word 'dead' in the context of the Viking leader, is almost impossibly difficult. I'm operating on faith, I realize that. And faith is dangerous, especially in such a harsh world. I turn away, both physically and psychologically, curling my body around my son – and delaying, once again, the facing of my own doubts.
***
We wake up bleary-eyed, damp with the dew that has fallen in the night, and in need of the kind of good, hot showers we will likely never have again. I feed Eirik as my dad cuts oranges with his pocketknife and puts together a rudimentary breakfast. When he hands me all four orange segments, and half of his own tuna sandwich, I balk.
"Dad, I –"
"Eat it," he insists, nodding down to the baby. "You need to keep strong so you can keep him strong. I've still got this – " he pats his own not-entirely-flat belly – "to keep me going."
So I take my own sandwich and half of my father's and marvel at how quickly and easily I have forgotten just how it feels to be truly hungry. We need to find the Viking camp soon.
And what if it's gone? What if they've sailed home? What if Eirik is dead?
I push the questions out of my mind. Eirik told me the camp was only the first outpost, that they intended to stay in lands of the East Angles, to move further inland and up and down the coasts. It wasn't just an invasion, he told me – it was a settlement. So it has to be there, still. He has to be there.
My father and I walk all day and into the evening. At one point we come to what might be the same place I had to swim, with Willa and her children in tow, around the marshland. At this time of year, though, it's just dry enough to be passable, and we manage to cross it on foot. The next day, as we get going again at dawn, we say little. Our bellies aren't empty exactly, but they're not full either. The worry is beginning to set in – are we ever going to get there? What if we're going the wrong way? Even though I know we're not going the wrong way, what if we can't find the Viking camp? And my dad, who doesn't even have the reassurance of knowing the place is real, is having his own doubts, I can feel it.
"It think it took three days," I tell him as the morning sun rises in the sky and begins to offer the first real warmth of the day. "About three days, anyway, to get back to Caistley from the Viking camp."
I'm trying to offer reassurance – and not just to him.
He nods. We're talking less now, due to fatigue and hunger. Our sentences are shorter, more efficient. A few minutes later he speaks again. "You were going to tell me how you met him. The Viking Jarl."
"Yeah," I reply. "I was. Next time we rest, I'll tell you, OK? I'm warning you though, it's kind of a long story." I can feel my dad staring at me. Eventually I look up to meet his worried eyes. "What? Dad, I promise I will tell –"
"It's not that, Paige," he replies, waving away my protest. "It's – well, look at you. You're out of breath. You've just had a baby! For God's sake, what are we doing here?! We hardly have any food left and –"
I drop to my knees suddenly, dragging my dad down with me. He's still talking. "What? Paige, are you listening to –"
"Dad!" I whisper. "Be quiet!"
There are two men further up the beach, I've just spotted them. They're only about forty feet away, and they're walking in our direction.
After the split second it takes my brain to register this basic information I notice something else – the men aren't dressed in the plain tunics I associate with the East Anglian peasants. No, they're in leathers. One has a sword strapped to his waist and the other carries an axe in one hand. Vikings.
I look at my father. He looks back at me. Are these Vikings with Eirik? Are they from that camp? Are there even any other camps? Their footsteps and chatter get closer and I can see my dad is thinking exactly what I'm thinking – the thing that almost every human being thinks when danger approaches: run.
And just as my rational mind is attempting to remind me that neither of us is in any condition to run – we're hungry, we're tired, and one of us has a baby strapped to her chest – my son chooses that moment to let out a sudden loud cry. Instantly, the men stop.
For a few seconds there is nothing, and then one of them asks the other if it's an animal they've just heard.
"That's no animal," comes the response. "That's a baby."
"Didn't the Jarl say she might have a baby with –"
The Vikings don't finish their conversation, because they've seen us. They're on us almost right away, looking down as my dad and I cower beneath them and I clutch my son tightly to my chest.
"Who's this then?" The larger one asks, and I realize to my dismay that I don't recognize either one of them. "What village are you from?"
The smaller one, the one with the axe, is studying me. "Look at her," he says, as his eyes take in my features. "The Jarl said she had long dark hair like this – and her teeth – girl, open your mouth."
I open my mouth. And then, making some effort to keep the fear out of my voice, I speak.
"I'm Paige," I say, getting to my feet and helping my dad up after me. "And if the Jarl you speak of is Eirik, then I believe I am the one you're looking for."
The moment they understand who I am, when they hear their Jarl's name trip off my tongue, their body language changes completely. They both become respectful, almost bashful, and they step a few paces back so as not to seem so menacing.
"Lady," the one with the sword says, "the Jarl has been searching for you for four moons – every three days he sends fresh men south, to walk the coastline. That's what we're doing now. Tell me, is this the child he speaks of? Is this my Jarl's child?"
Even in the few minutes it takes for the Vikings to begin treating me the respect I had come to get used to during my earlier stay in the encampment, I feel my own esteem returning to me. I am not Paige Renner, undergraduate student, single mom and probable crazy person here. Here, I am Paige, wife-to-be of the Jarl, mother of his son. And the fact that the two Vikings speak of the Jarl in the present tense has not missed me.
Still, I must be sure. "It is," I confirm. "And before you continue with your questions you must tell me of the Jarl himself – when I left he was very sick, I was going to find some healing plants to –"
"The sickness faded," the axe-wielding Viking replies. "Everyone thought it was the end, even the healers said that all they could do was ease his pain. But that night, after you left, the fever lifted."
"Valhalla will wait many years now, for the Jarl to sit at the feast," says his companion.
"So he's alive?" I ask, hardly daring to believe it. "He's – he's fine? What about –"
"His arm is still healing," the Viking. "There is stiffness in it still, but it fades with the herbs the healers apply to it every night. The Jarl is the strongest man in the world – even with one arm tied behind his back he could beat a whole pack of the King's men."
Somehow I doubt that, but I don't say it out loud. And not to spare the Jarl's dignity, either. No – the reason I don't speak is because I can't. He's alive. I stumble in the soft sand, sobbing. Baby Eirik wakes at the sound of his mother's cries and I hand him to my father.
Why am I sobbing? Relief. And underneath the relief, underneath the emotion, something else. Confirmation. I knew he was alive. Did I know he was alive? Or does it just feel like it in this moment, as I am told he is? I can't tell. And I suppose it doesn't matter. All that matters is that Eirik is still here, still flesh and blood and bone. I look up at my father.
Nothing can hurt us now, I want to say. I don't say it, because I still haven't told him the story of Eirik and I want to
do that first, but I know it in my heart. Eirik is alive. And as long as he's alive, we – myself, my son and my father – are safe.
The Vikings tell us their names – the larger of the two if Ivor, and the smaller is Fridleif. They are new to Eirik's personal guard, both of them 19. They offer us food – fermented milk from the water-skin, chunks of cheese, the heavy dark bread whose taste on my tongue makes it so my nose believes itself to be smelling the scent of wood-smoke in the roundhouse.
My dad and I eat. And then we eat some more. And after we eat, we sleep under the dappled light at the edge of the woods, guarded by Ivor and Fridleif, who say we are a few hours walk from the Viking encampment.
Chapter 32
9th Century
My legs feel lighter and quicker as we travel north after that, knowing what awaits me. As the sun begins to sink towards the horizon, Fridleif leaves Ivor to stay with me, my baby and my dad and runs on ahead. A tingle of excited anticipation runs up my spine – we must be getting close.
"So I guess you could say he kidnapped me," I say to my dad a few seconds later, out of the blue. He's going to meet Eirik soon, he deserves to know the truth. "Not just me – everyone his men could get their hands on in Caistley."
My dad has slowed his pace to match mine and he's looking at my face, searching for signs of pain or trauma. In fact I know exactly what he wants to know – what any parent would, in the same situation. His daughter has just told him the father of her child kidnapped her. And so the question arises naturally.
"He didn't rape me," I say plainly. "You need to know that. In fact he saved me from being raped – or worse."
My dad stops walking and puts his arms around me. "Oh thank God, Paige. Thank God. I thought that maybe –"
"I'm not saying the Vikings don't do things that people from 2017 would consider wrong," I say quickly, not wanting to give my father the expectation that he is walking into some kind of cuddles-and-rainbows community. "They do. You'll see it for yourself. But I don't know them to be unnecessarily cruel. They're just – I don't know how to explain and it's as I said – you'll find out for yourself. They're very wedded to their way of doing things, that might be a good way to put it. And it will be good for both of us to remember that."
More questions follow. I do my best to answer them all. How old is Eirik? How did he treat me when I was first captured? Will he be angry that I left, even if it was because I feared for his life and wanted to help? What does he know about where I come from?
On that last question, I am halfway through the answer – underlining to my father that under no circumstances can the Vikings know anything of where we're actually from, and that their being of the opinion that we're from one of the higher social orders of East Anglian society is good enough for now, when Ivor lets out a yell.
My dad and I both look up at him and see immediately that he's waving at someone. My gaze follows Ivor's north and suddenly, there he is. His men follow on either side of him, and trailing behind. But there is no mistaking who I'm seeing, even at a distance. The Jarl. Eirik. My Jarl.
I close my eyes as my nervous subconscious pokes at me: make sure it's him first. Make sure it's not a mistake. Make sure you're not dreaming.
But it's not a mistake and I'm not dreaming and that is Eirik walking towards me, resplendent in his fur mantle, shirtless underneath, sword slapping against his muscular thigh with each step he takes. I don't know whether to laugh for joy, or cry, or scream. I lift my hands to my face, disbelieving, as my heart beats fast in my chest.
"Here," my father says, helping me to extricate myself from the baby wrap. "Let me take him."
I pass my son to my father and run forward, still barely trusting what my eyes are seeing because it seems too good to be true. Even as I race across the sand towards him part of my mind is still in denial – it can't be! It's a trick! You don't get a happy ending, Paige – happy endings were never meant for people like you.
Only when Eirik takes my face in his two strong hands, lifting it up to his, do the voices quiet down.
"Eirik," I whisper. "Eirik."
He says nothing right away. He stands strong and steady, his sapphire-blue eyes locked on mine. In those eyes, I see the uselessness of words. Eirik doesn't need to tell me he missed me, or that he thought we would never see each other again. He doesn't need to tell me that he needs me, either, or that I need him, or that the place where I am meant to be is at his side. He doesn't even need to say that he forgives me.
"Look at you," he finally whispers, a phrase I remember. "Look at you, Paige. You came back to me."
"I did," I reply, burying my face in his chest as he pulls me close, breathing in the familiar scent of him. "You were so sick," I tell him. "And I knew of some healing plants growing in the place where your men first found me – I, I wanted to gather them and bring them back to you but then –"
The Jarl silences me with a shake of his head. "There's no need to explain, girl. I knew you were either dead, or that you would come back to me. You weren't dead, so here you are."
I smile, remembering his habit of making statements like this, of stating simple truths in ways that my over-excited, worry-prone mind would never come up with. "And you," I say, touching the scar on his shoulder. "The healers were so worried, I thought you were going to die. I had to leave, I had to try to find the plants!"
"How could I die?" Eirik smiles down at me, his happiness as bright as sunshine. "Without knowing you were safe? Without –"
My father and Ivor are approaching, and baby Eirik is fussing. The second the sound hits his father's ears I see something inside him – some stoic, male thing – slip.
"Is that – a baby?" He asks hesitantly, and I see that it is no longer me who is doubting my own eyes – or ears.
My father hands me my grumpy son and I turn back to Eirik. "Yes, it's a baby. Your baby. Your son."
"But I thought –" Eirik replies, staring down at the little, noisy bundle in my arms. "I thought – your belly is gone – that the child was lost somehow. I –"
He stops talking, then, because it doesn't take a genius to see the parentage of the baby I'm holding. Everyone is watching the Jarl, their eyes following his finger as he reaches down and runs it over his son's cheek.
"Gods," he whispers. "Gods, Paige. I thought there was no way. Is the babe a boy or a –"
"A son," I say again, handing the baby to his father.
"A son?" Eirik repeats, his voice breaking on the word 'son.' He stares down at his child, examining him, running his fingers down each chubby arm and each chubby leg, counting the fingers and toes, tracing the outline of a tiny nose, a tiny chin.
"His name is Eirik," I say, not just to the Jarl but to the other Viking men who are present, a kind of informal introduction.
When the Jarl is finally able to tear his eyes away he looks up – first at me, and then at my father and his men.
"There will be a feast," he announces, his voice loud and strong again. "The longest feast our people have known in their time. Eight days! Eight days for my son, and for the return of the woman who gave him to me! It is to begin at sundown tomorrow!"
The Vikings – all except Eirik – scatter at the pronouncement, running back to the encampment to announce the news and to begin the preparations for the feast. Soon it is just myself, the Jarl, my father and the baby, and the latter's cries are becoming increasingly demanding.
"He's hungry," I say, taking him back from his father and offering him a breast. The cries cease immediately.
The crisis of a fussy baby dealt with, Eirik turns to my dad, and then back to me.
"Your father," he says, his tone questioning.
"Yes," I confirm. "His name is Daniel Renner – Dan. Eirik, this is Dan, my father. He's going to be living with us now."
Eirik takes the hand my dad is offering, unsure of what to do with it, and then pulls him into one of the chest-out, single-clap-on-the-back hugs the Vikings reserve only for other high-ra
nking men.
"You are welcome, Dan. Paige and I will be married soon, but we're already a family. Which makes you family, too. I'll have a roundhouse built for you by the middle of the feast, at the high point of the camp."
The highest point of the encampment is reserved only for the highest-ranking Vikings. When Eirik leads us back, I hang back and explain to my dad what it means to be offered a roundhouse in that spot. I think he understands, but the look on his face is one of pure astonishment.
"A few days ago, I was writing a Costco shopping list on my phone," my dad says to me, smiling bemusedly as the camp ramparts come into view. "And now I'm being told – by the Viking who is going to marry my daughter – that a roundhouse is being built for me in the Viking village."
I put my arm around his shoulders. "I know, Dad. I had years to get used to this, to being in the past – and even after years, the Vikings were still a shock. But Eirik is showing you respect, and that means everyone else here will show you respect, too. I'll be with you as well, to show you how things work, to help you with whatever you need."
My father's expression is doubtful, but not unhappy. "I don't know, Paige. I'm almost 50, which must be – what? The equivalent of 90 here?"
"No, not 90. There are older people here, some even in their seventies and eighties – it seems to be that if a Viking makes it to 35, they get as old as we do. Almost. They won't think you ancient."
"It doesn't really matter, Paige. You're here. And he," he looks down at my son, "is here. So I'm here. And if it means living in a – what was it? a roundhouse? – then so be it."
He's expecting the living conditions to be unpleasant. I can't blame my father for this, anyone taken from 2017 and transported suddenly into the 9th century would feel the same way. All the same, I think he's going to be pleasantly surprised when he sees what life is like for someone of higher rank. There definitely aren't going to be any more trips to Costco in an old beater car – here, his meals will be brought to him, and they're going to taste a lot better than the processed crap he's been living on since we lost my mother.