by T S Florence
“I don’t give these away for free,” he said, without looking up.
“I wasn’t asking for a free ball,” Rose said, causing the man to look up.
His eyes widened, and his hands stopped moving as he looked at Isla.
“I beg your forgiveness, Duchess, would you like a ball?” He asked.
“No, thank you,” Isla said, smiling, as she looked to Rose.
The man then looked from Jack to Rose, evidently surprised at the quality of clothing that they wore, for they were certainly better off than he was. And if that were the case, then he knew that the other two children must come from a powerful family.
“Would you accept new clothes in exchange for a ball?” Rose asked.
“I can’t take a child’s clothes,” the man said.
“My father would give you the clothes. He’s a wool merchant,” Rose said.
“I see…. Well, if your father is interested in a trade, then I would be more than willing to discuss business,” the man said, standing up with his half-completed ball in his hands.
“I’ll be back,” Rose said, before turning to run back towards the cottage that her mother and father were staying in.
Rose’s mother was lying in the bed, sipping on a chicken broth soup, as Rose entered their cottage.
“Father, there is a man selling balls in the town, they are fantastic balls, the size of a man’s head! He said he would trade a ball for some of our clothes,” Rose said to her father.
“Sweetie, we don’t come to Newcastle to trade our wool and knitted clothes for child’s toys. One shirt would be worth thrice that of a ball,” Elsbeth said, before Rose’s father could reply.
“Hang on, darling,” Rose’s father looked to Elsbeth, catching her eye, before continuing.
“Did you speak to the man?” He asked Rose.
“Yes, he said he doesn’t just give them away for free. But I saw that his boy was wearing dirty clothes with holes in them and so I asked him if he would accept clothes in exchange for one of his balls,” Rose said.
“You may grow into a successful merchant yet,” Rose’s father picked her up into his arms, praising her ability to recognise a man’s need for something and use that to her advantage.
“Now, Elsbeth is right. Our clothes are worth more than a ball, but I think it is a good cause, and this ball will be a symbol of your first commercial dealing. Where is he?” Rose’s father asked.
And so they went and found the man, and Rose’s father gave the man ten times what the ball was worth in return for clothes that Elsbeth had knitted. He now had enough clothes for his boy to last through as many winters as he could count, until they no longer fit.
They spent the rest of that day playing with their ball in Isla’s private court yard, inventing games and making rules and laughing and arguing over who won and who lost.
After a morning of playing, Rose and her father left Newcastle in the afternoon and headed back down towards their township, Kingston, where they would rest for a day, before continuing on with their journey down to Dover. Rose left the ball with Jack and Isla, and she made Isla promise her that she wouldn’t let Jack lose the ball.
Within two days, they made it back to Dover. Unbeknownst to them, Raiding vikings had sailed up the calm peninsula in the middle of the night, guided by the full moon. They had landed their boats on the calm sandy banks and walked silently into the unsuspecting village surrounding the castle. Rose’s estate was one of the first. They crept up to their large house while Rose and her father slept.
Rose was pulled from her bed by gigantic men with long hair that fell down their backs and strange black markings that covered their bodies. She noticed that they spoke in a strange language. Despite just waking, she immediately knew that the barbarians had come from their far away lands, and this time they had sailed further south, where the fields were greener and the soil was softer and richer. Fear filled her heart and wrapped its grip around her throat, preventing her from screaming.
Rose watched as the men dragged her father from the house. He wore a silent look of desperation on his face as he looked to Rose, who was only eleven years old. She knew she would never see him again. She listened to men talk and laugh as she was dragged down to a large boat. She was too stunned to cry or fight. When she got to the boat, other women and children were crying, already tied up and huddled together, some of them only half dressed. Rose was one of the lucky ones, for she already had on her woollen pullover and clutched a large woollen blanket in her hands.
There was no way to escape the boats; they were well lit by fires that stood on large sticks, speared into the ground in between the boats, with many men standing in the boats and on the shore.
“I want mum,” a small boy cried as he sat alone in the boat. Rose crawled over to him, and pulled him tight against her, wrapping them both in the woollen blanket.
“It’s ok, Charley,” Rose said to the small boy, who was taken from a nearby estate. His father sold cows to the surrounding lands, and was as rich as Rose’s father was. The boy’s body shook and he cried loudly, in vain hope that the tears would make the bad men go away. Rose hoped, too. But no more Englishmen came. They were unprepared for the sudden attack that the huge number of viking men had deployed on the surrounding lands and township.
By sunrise, all of the huge, terrifying men had returned to the boats. They sang strange songs as they loaded the boats with more crying women and children and money and other items they had taken.
Some women tried to fight but they were struck down, causing their children to cry louder. The men laughed and went about their business, fixing their boats.
Rose did not move from her spot. She stayed in her spot with the small boy in the large boat, wrapped in the fine woollen blanket. Shortly after sunrise, they were in the open ocean. Rose had never been on such a large boat in such deep water in her whole life. The boat bounced along on the waves and caused her to feel sick, along with many of the women and children. None of the large strange men became sick, Rose noticed.
Eventually, sickness, fear, and panic was replaced by boredom and sadness. Rose knew that no one was coming to save her. The only saving grace that God had given her was the knowledge that her mother Elsbeth and her brother Jack were alive and safe in Newcastle. They would have been with her on this boat if Elsbeth had not fallen sick.
Ragnar
“Wake up young Ragnar, we are going into town today! The raiding ships have returned, their boats are loaded with gold and slaves. We will finally be able to buy our first slave,” Ragnar’s father, Ragnar the Elder said.
“We won’t have to work the fields anymore, father,” Ragnar said to his father, as they walked along the ridge of the great mountain that sat between their lands and the township.
“We won’t be getting a man that could work he fields. Male slaves often end up killing their owners. We will be getting a woman,” His father said.
“What can a girl do to help?” Ragnar said, folding his arms.
“Women can do just as much as men, but she won’t be tending to the fields alone,” Ragnar’s father said.
As they made their way into the town, people in the streets were drinking and singing and celebrating. Women were welcoming home their lovers and husbands, and children were welcoming home their fathers.
Ragnar watched as women and children were pushed onto the beach. Men ran to grab the pretty women, and the more scrutinising vikings plucked up the strong looking boys, who would be valuable help in the fields, or as future warriors.
Ragnar saw a girl holding a small boy’s hand. He knew she was one of the new slaves, for he did not recognise her and she wore strange, brightly coloured woollen clothes. Ragnar knew that she was the girl they must have. She still looked like one of them, a northman. She had blond hair, pale skin and blue eyes that sparkled like the ocean on a bright summer day.
Another man had already approached them and began to pull the young boy away from her, caus
ing her to kick at his shins and yell at him in her strange language. He wanted to help her, but didn’t know how. He ran down to the beach, and yanked the boy back from the man, who looked down at Ragnar incredulously.
“What are you doing, boy?” The old man asked Ragnar.
“The boy is with the girl,” Ragnar pushed the boy back into the girl’s arms, before standing between them.
“You wish to quarrel with me, you aren’t yet a teenager,” the man laughed.
“I’m already twelve,” Ragnar clipped.
“Where’s your dad, boy?” The man poked at Ragnar’s forehead.
“I’m here,” Ragnar’s father grabbed the man by the shoulder, spinning him around.
Ragnar’s father, Ragnar the Elder, was a huge man. He was a head taller than anyone else in the village. He had a chest like a great barrel and arms like the hind legs of a horse.
“Elder Ragnar,” The man said, his eyes widening slightly.
“You’d be wise to leave my boy,” Elder Ragnar said.
“Just having some fun, old friend,” the man walked away, and began to look among the remaining slaves that had not yet been claimed.
“We are taking the girl, father,” Ragnar said.
“You found one so easily, have you?” Ragnar’s father laughed, as he looked at the blonde haired girl.
“Yes,” Ragnar said.
She was the prettiest girl Ragnar had ever seen in his young life. He did not know why he wanted a pretty slave to help his mother and father with their work, but he knew he wanted her, and he would have her.
“Very well. What about the boy? He does not look like her brother,” Ragnar’s father said, uncertainly.
“I don’t know,” Ragnar said, looking at the boy.
“We cannot take him,” his father said.
“Why not? It will make her sad,” Ragnar said, looking at the girl’s face.
Her big blue eyes darted between Ragnar and his father as she squeezed the boy’s hand so hard it looked like he would cry.
“Separate these two slaves,” Ragnar’s father said to one of the vikings.
The viking grumbled as he walked over, but did not argue with Ragnar’s father. Even though he was not a viking, Ragnar’s father commanded great respect within their village, for his great wisdom in town meetings and close relationships with their Earl.
The boy began to scream and cry as the viking pulled them apart, and the girl began to kick at the viking who held the boy out of her reach. Ragnar tried to take the girl’s hand but she swung an open hand, slapping him hard in his face. The surprise sent him reeling backwards, and caused his father to laugh his great booming laugh. Ragnar the Elder picked the girl up under his arm, pinning her arms between his arm and his body, preventing her from scratching and pinching.
“Take this ring from my arm and run it over to Erik,” Ragnar’s father said.
Erik was the man who took charge of the raid, and would therefore accept all profits to present to the Earl. Ragnar ran over to Erik and presented the arm ring.
“This is for the slave girl my father has taken,” Ragnar said.
“Agh, this isn’t worth a slave’s left leg,” he said, looking at Ragnar, and then to his father. “Tell your father I want a good barrel of ale come harvest,” Erik finally said.
“Yes, Erik,” Ragnar said, before running back to his father.
Ragnar turned and ran back to his father, “Erik wants a barrel of ale when we harvest, as well,” he said once he reached his father.
“Is that all? He’s letting me off cheap,” Ragnar’s father laughed.
Most people would stay and drink and be festive to celebrate the return of the vikings, but Ragnar and his father went back to their farm with the new slave girl. When they arrived home, Ragnar’s father put the girl down, and gently guided her into the hut.
“She’s such a pretty young lady! And look at her clothes, they are made of such fine wool,” Ragnar’s mother said, gushing over the slave girl’s appearance. “But she needs a good bath and her clothes must be washed. Leave and give us privacy,” Ragnar’s mother pushed the pair out of the cottage, sending them to work in the field.
That night, as they sat around the fire, they discussed what the slave girl should be called.
“Hilda,” Elder Ragnar said.
“Why Hilda?” His mother asked.
“Because Hilda means fighter, and she’s a fighter. She wanted to protect a boy down by the beach. She gave young Ragnar a good slap. I’d wager my money on her in a fight,” he said laughing as he poked young Ragnar in the ribs.
“I like Hilda,” Ragnar ignored the teasing from his father.
“Very well,” Ragnar’s mother said, “Hilda it is.”
Over time, Ragnar learned English from Hilda, and Hilda learned Norse from Ragnar and his family. Hilda became more a part of the family than she did a slave. There were days when she refused to work in the fields, and neither Elder Ragnar nor Ragnar’s mother would force her to work or punish her for not working. The truth was, they were enchanted by the young girl, who had been taken from her father in the middle of the night and put on a boat to be sold as a slave.
Eight years earlier
Ragnar bartered with a battle-hardened man, trying to trade farming equipment that his father no longer needed, in exchange for an axe. He was fourteen years old and had outgrown the axe he had trained with since a young boy.
“Don’t make that trade” Hilda whispered in Ragnar’s ear.
In the two years that Ragnar had known Hilda, he had learned that she was smart; far smarter than he was. Despite his family owning her, he could not help but listen to her advice and even, at times, take orders from her.
“You would let a slave girl speak to you like that? I would beat her,” The man said.
Hilda’s face went red, as she looked from Ragnar, her eyes averting to the ground.
“She’s right, you intend to trick me into a bad trade. I should beat you instead,” Ragnar said, stepping in front of Hilda and sizing up the fully-grown man.
Ragnar was not yet the size of a man, but he was the biggest boy under the age of eighteen in the village. He, like his father, would grow into a huge man. And everyone could see it. Because of this, he was treated with great respect from all who knew him; especially because he loved to fight.
“This is how you do business, boy,” the man said, looking at Ragnar with his arms folded across his chest.
“I don’t do business. I do fighting,” Ragnar said, looking at the man.
This caused the man to laugh, “Very well young Ragnar. I will give you this axe for the plow and sickle.
Ragnar looked at Hilda, hoping to judge her expression, but she was still red faced and looking away from the two men. He prodded her arm, hoping for guidance, but she ignored him.
“Very well, give me the axe,” Ragnar said, as he threw the two pieces of farming equipment onto the ground, while still holding onto another three pieces of equipment that the man had originally asked for.
The man handed the axe to Ragnar, and the pair did a warrior’s handshake, before parting ways. Hilda followed Ragnar up the path that wound through the mountains and led to his parents’ cottage, nestled amongst the fields, overlooking the town.
Ragnar did not notice Hilda’s bad mood, for he was too interested in admiring the axe that he had gotten in the trade. He ran his fingers along the blunt edge.
“I will need to sharpen this at home,” Ragnar said.
“Of course that’s what you’re thinking of,” Hilda said, stomping ahead of him.
“What? What’s wrong?” Ragnar said, trying to catch up, but the tools he carried fell out of his arms.
Hilda turned around with a roll of her eyes, as she snatched two pieces of equipment from Ragnar’s arms, without saying a word.
“It was a good trade?” Ragnar asked, confused.
“I don’t care your stupid axe,” Hilda said in her broken English.
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“Hilda tell me what’s wrong right now,” Ragnar ordered.
“Why? Because I’m your slave? Or else? You beat me?” Hilda said, her voice rising with each question as, before she turned and stormed ahead of him.
This time, Ragnar managed to keep up, carrying only the axe and one piece of farming equipment. He tried to run ahead and stand in front of her, but she walked around him, huffing at having to gingerly walk through the dense forest that was off the well-worn path.
“Hilda, you know I would never do that,” Ragnar said, following her again.