‘No! No!’ sobbed Charlotte.
‘But what is the matter? Are you unwell, Mistress Charlotte?’
The answer may have sounded like, ‘No, not at all,’ but it could have been anything.
The maid, who had always kept a dignified respectful distance from her mistress, perched hesitantly and anxiously on the edge of the bed. Charlotte sat up at once and threw her arms around her.
‘Help me! Oh, help me!’
‘What is it?’ the maid asked awkwardly, forcing herself to remain sitting. Such intimacy was not something she approved of.
Charlotte, who had wanted to ask her to go out into the forest and look for the baby, sensed the maid’s unease and the request remained unspoken. The fit of crying continued unabated.
‘Its too late! Much too late! Oh! Dear God, please turn back time, turn it back.’ Her cry echoed round the room.
If only time could be turned back, she thought – if only she could acknowledge the child, hold it, keep it warm and take all the disgrace, the contempt and social banishment that would surely follow.
At that moment the door opened and her parents entered, while many curious faces waited outside.
‘My dear child!’ said her mother. ‘What is going on? Have you had a nightmare?’
‘Oh, how I pray to God that it were a nightmare,’ sobbed Charlotte, catching her breath so that nobody understood what she had said. The mother and the maid changed places, one of them relieved, the other unaccustomed to the situation.
‘What has happened, Elsbeth?’ the mother asked quietly. ‘I don’t know,’ answered the maid. ‘All she will say is that it is too late.’
‘Too late, Charlotte? Too late to find a husband, do you mean? That’s silly, you are only twenty-five!’
‘No! No! I do not want to marry,’ Charlotte yelled.
‘Never! Never! Never!’
Her mother was perplexed. ‘You spend too much time indoors, my dear. Tomorrow we shall take a walk in the woods. That will ...’
These words brought forth a mindless scream of terror from Charlotte. Her arms and legs flailed wildly about as she gasped for air, until finally she fell back, helpless and without hope, onto the beautifully embroidered pillow.
‘Shall we send for the healer to bleed her?’ asked her father. ‘Perhaps her blood needs to be purified from evil spirits.’
‘No,’ gasped Charlotte, exhausted. ‘It is over now. It was merely a nightmare.’
Worried and concerned, the others finally left the room, but Charlotte could hear her mother’s voice in the corridor, ‘It’s nothing but the sort of fit that ladies suffer. It’ll soon be over.’
Charlotte herself, though, knew that nothing would ever be over, except her outburst. She had come to understand that her whole life would be filled with the aching regret she now felt. It would become a festering sore in her heart and these thoughts would continue to gnaw at her, entering her lonely night-time hours with the pitter-patter of a tiny child’s feet.
Chapter 5
In the time that followed, Silje was allowed to work at the church three days each week. Benedikt would have preferred having her there every day, because people had begun to pester him, asking if the work would soon be finished. He raged about the ‘ignorant, uncultured barbarians’ who didn’t understand that ‘an artist cannot work under pressure.’
Silje wanted to spend time with the children as well, so that she did not become distant from them and also because she felt she ought to help the old women in and around the farm. Nonetheless, they had chosen a child each and were only too pleased to see her leave for the church.
‘Poor old maids,’ said Benedikt. ‘This is like a second spring for them.’
‘But still, Sol can be very tiring,’ she replied, concern in her voice. ‘They are not my children, but I am fond of them and well, yes ...’ She was a little sad that she took so little care of Dag. Grete had taken possession of him and, while she was always friendly towards her, Silje noticed how she guarded him jealously and kept a watchful eye on her, if ever she was permitted to tend to him.
‘Leave them to it,’ laughed Benedikt. ‘This church will be finished soon enough anyway.’
‘And what then?’
‘Then you must return to your share of the chores on the farm. I have been engaged to work some distance away and unfortunately you cannot come with me.’
She didn’t reply. A wonderful period in her life would soon be over.
****
‘I cannot find the right colour for this tunic,’ complained Benedikt one day, suspended just below the ceiling, studying his work and looking as if he was about to break his neck. ‘I’ve got myself stuck, fool that I am. Every colour in the rainbow borders this tunic, so what is there left to choose?’
Silje climbed down from where she was working and looked up at his art with a critical eye.
‘Brown,’ she said simply.
‘Brown? Well yes, you’re right. You’re a genius.’
‘Not at all, but I can see it better from down here.’
He grunted his appreciation, swore lightly because his brush was too hard, then apologised for cursing in church. He had been drinking a little too freely the night before and, whenever this happened, he was always a bit tetchy the following morning. Silje knew his mood by looking at his well-worn velvet cap. When it was pulled down over his forehead, he could stand no loud noises or bright sunlight. When it was perched on the back of his head, feather pointing at the sky, he was his usual self – or he had already had a tot or two! Out of respect, he did not drink in the church, but Silje was well aware that he had something hidden in the trap, because he found excuses to go outside to it every so often.
She climbed back up to her workplace and they painted in silence for a while. Then Benedikt giggled.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Silje asked.
‘A couple of old parishioners were here yesterday looking at our work. They saw your devil over in the alcove and became both shocked and excited by it. They stayed in there for a very long time.’
She blushed. She had not wanted to go and look at the wretched thing since she painted it. Reluctantly and after some thought, she said, ‘he – you know who I mean – said he had seen it that time he came here. I didn’t like that.’
Benedikt looked decidedly guilty.
‘No. It was a … an accident. He happened to go in there and then he asked me about it. I had to say that you were the painter. I couldn’t tell a lie, here in the church.’
I’ll wager you’re lying now, you old fox, Silje thought. You probably couldn’t wait to get him here to see it.
Out loud she asked, ‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing. He seemed thoroughly overwhelmed, taken aback. So I said that we would have to get the girl married off sharply, as she paints such lecherous paintings.’
‘Did you really say such a thing?’ she moaned. ‘What did he say to that?’
‘I don’t know. He seemed a bit put out I think, but that was probably because I’d said, ”We old ones should get her married off”, or some such. He did not want to be considered as old as I am. He left a short while later. I believe he was a little hurt that you had painted him as a devil, but what can he expect?’
‘Oh, no – he shouldn’t have seen it.’ Her voice was quiet.
‘It was foolish, I must agree,’ said Benedikt, ‘and I was quite afraid afterwards.’ Then, to get away from the subject he added, ‘But Silje, you have never told me how it is that you are able to speak so well. You are not from a learned background, are you? We all know that roses grow amongst thorns and on mounds of manure, but you are remarkable. Do you read and write?’
‘Just a little. One of the young sons of the manor where I lived spent much of his time with me. He grew attached to me and I became a sort of nursemaid to him, helping to look after him. He wanted me to go everywhere. I was with him when he had tuition as well, and I took the chance to learn all that I could. I was l
ike a wilted plant, Master Benedikt, thirsting for knowledge. I wanted to learn everything! I copied their speech; I borrowed the boy’s books – all because I knew that I had been given an opportunity no other girl had been granted. Of course I missed a lot because I was not there all the time, but I managed to get some things into my dullard’s brain.’
‘Wait! Stop a moment. To embrace learning as you have done requires intelligence. Where did you get that from?’
Silje looked thoughtful. ‘My mother knew many things and her father knew how to write. I mean he was a writer; composed writings for other farmers. He carved beautiful things in wood as well.’
‘There we have your artistic gift! Thank you, Silje, for explaining several of your riddles to me. What was that?’
They both listened again. Heavy footsteps could be heard from the church tower. Silje looked anxiously at Benedikt; he stared back at her.
‘Is this place haunted?’ she whispered, and the whispers echoed round the vaults.
‘Nonsense!’
They climbed down from their working platforms. Silje had no desire to hang defenceless between heaven and earth while all the spirits of the underworld came marching down from the clock-tower. She resisted the urge to run and hide.
‘Who in the world is hiding up there?’ whispered Benedikt. He took a step closer to her; she was not sure whether it was to protect her or to be protected by her. They waited in suspense, Silje clenching her hands tightly. With a great creaking sound, the door to the tower opened and a man, gaunt and unshaven, came towards them.
‘I am awfully hungry, Benedikt. Have you got a crust to spare?’
‘What? So this is where you’re hiding! You’ve scared my apprentice out of her wits.’
‘Aha!’ Silje thought, she was supposed to be the only one who was frightened, was she?
‘Yes, of course we have food, we are always forgetting to eat. Silje, fetch the box!’
She ran to the trap and returned with the box, opening the lid so that the man could help himself. Middle-aged, he was heavily built and wearing typical peasant clothes. His eyes were piercing, though, and it was clear that he was no usual peasant. His tunic was modern and his legs were clad in knitted hose.
‘I need enough for two,’ he said, taking plenty.
‘Is there someone else with you, then?’ asked Benedikt.
‘Oh yes! Heming is up there fretting.’
‘Fretting!’ said Silje, dismayed that a sudden blush would give away her feelings.
The man laughed. ‘Yes! He hasn’t had a woman for three weeks, so he’s in a bad way. Why don’t you go up to him, girl – I mean with food, of course!’
‘No – don’t let Silje anywhere close to that blackguard.’ said Benedikt, quickly. ‘She finds him interesting.’
‘Oh, I’ll be able to take care of myself,’ retorted Silje at once.
She desperately wanted to see her hero again, even though the gossip about the women irritated her. Of course she didn’t really believe all the talk. A young man such as he, so good-looking and clean-cut, could never be other than noble and courteous to women. She hoped the disparaging remarks were caused by no more than the envy of old men, trying to ruin his reputation.
Although she hadn’t seen him since the night she saved him from a fate on the rack, she had not been able to put him out of her mind. Her greatest wish was to see him again, and she had worried a great deal over what had become of him. And now, he was here! Carrying the box, she began to climb up the steep flights of worn steps. Eventually she reached a landing in the tower, where shutters allowed a little daylight to filter in. Above her, she heard sounds of movement, as if someone was trying to hide.
‘It’s me, Silje,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I’ve brought you food.’
‘Silje?’ He seemed to be trying to remember the name. Her expectant smile died. Could he have forgotten her already? ‘Ah yes! The little saviour of men.’ She heard his voice and then a hand appeared to help her up the last step. Silje was filled with expectation at seeing him.
‘Good heavens, what a sight!’ she thought to herself. His clothes were dirty and torn, the blond hair matted, black with dirt and in need of a wash. He was covered in a layer of dust and grime – but his appearance did not seem to bother him at all.
‘Silje my sweet angel. You must have been sent from heaven. Have you appointed yourself as my permanent bodyguard?’
She lowered her face, beaming with joy, although she did not like him making fun of her.
‘Come on now, eat! Help yourself – there’s plenty.’
‘What have you got in here?’ he asked, looking in the box. He wrinkled his nose. ‘Salmon again! Can’t peasants ever find anything other than salmon to eat?’
Nevertheless he took all that was there and ate with a hearty appetite, leaving Silje feeling a little offended. The kind-hearted farmhand would bring salmon from the river every day and was always proud of his catch. Although their diet sometimes lacked variety, they were always grateful for any food they received.
Silje herself had not eaten at all, and watched with dismay as the contents of the box disappeared – but Heming needed the food more than she did.
When he had finished eating, he glanced up and for the first time really looked at her. She saw surprised admiration in his eyes and felt a warm glow within herself. Heming, who was well acquainted with the psychology of women, realised at once that he would get nowhere with bravado and jokes. Here stood a serious-minded innocent girl – a virgin he was sure. He’d be amazed if she were not. He’d soon change that when the time was right, but just now he had more important things to worry about – like staying alive.
Heming gave her another glance. Yes, taking this budding young flower and helping it bloom could prove a rewarding experience. Her appearance was appealing and she smelled quite clean, apart from a hint of paint. She had warm brown hair, violet-blue eyes and fresh white teeth behind tempting rosy lips – and she did seem to have quite a passionate nature.
‘Sit with me a while, Silje,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘I feel so weary and I need to talk to somebody sensible.’
She hesitated, then sat slightly apart from him against the wall, hugging her knees and smoothing her skirt primly down over them. Her instinct told her that this was an awkward situation. She had already saved him from a horrific death, watched him have his face slapped and be called a damned idiot, yet was now coming to his rescue again by bringing food to this sorry-looking bedraggled wretch. Intuitively she realised that she should do something to restore his dignity.
‘You, er, you’re with the rebels, aren’t you?’ she was full of shy admiration.
He swallowed the last of the ale they had brought with them for refreshment each day
‘Well, I’m one of their leaders, I suppose,’ he said, with deliberate nonchalance.
‘Ooh!’ her eyes widened, impressed.
This reaction encouraged Heming. He studied his nails indifferently – they were filthy.
‘You know what it’s like. I get the most dangerous missions. That’s how I was taken prisoner that time, risking my life for the others.’
This was not exactly the story her mysterious benefactor had told her. He had implied that it had more to do with a heedless visit to a woman, but that was not something Silje wanted to remember.
‘Your master is a powerful man, isn’t he?’ she said absently. ‘He came to help me again when the little girl was struck by plague. I do not know what he did, but he cured her and healed my foot of frostbite. His hands were like fire.’
Heming stared at her.
‘Who? Oh, you mean him! You’re wrong,’ he exclaimed belligerently. ‘He is not my master, I don’t know him and I’ve never met him!’
Silje understood now that perhaps she had gone too far.
No one was supposed to speak of Dyre Alvsson, the rebel leader. One slip of the tongue could send him into the arms of the bailiff’s men. Better that he di
d not exist. She had forgotten for a moment and wasn’t surprised that Heming had been angry.
‘Was he alone with you?’ he whispered – a strange question, since he had virtually denied the man.
‘Of course!’
Heming made the sign of the cross, hastily and carelessly.
‘You are mad – mad! Did you have salt and bread with you?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Sprinkle salt; that helps. Salt and bread! And the little girl – you are a heathen! How could you? Did you make the sign of the cross above her? Do you have a silver coin with a cross on?’
Silje’s expression had frozen.
‘Marie, one of the women on the farm, placed such a coin beneath Sol’s bed.’
He relaxed with a sigh.
‘Oh, thank God, then things should be all right. The infant? What about the infant?’
How kind of him to show such interest in the little ones! Silje was still unable to take her eyes off him. He was so attractive, his well-formed features so perfect, that she felt a rush of joy just watching him.
‘Little Dag is well, thank you – almost too well, because Grete spoils him and feeds him too much. I am almost never allowed to see him.’
‘You are taking good care of the blankets he was wrapped in, aren’t you?’
‘Oh yes! He said that ...’
Silje stopped short – she had mentioned Dyre Alvsson again.
‘Are you sure no one can take them from you? They are valuable – you know?’
‘No, no one can take them.’
‘You have hidden them well?’
‘Yes, in the chest under my bed.’
‘I hope they will be safe there. I must leave now, Silje. Many thanks for the food. Will I see you again?’
She blushed. ‘If you want to.’
Heming got up and went to her, putting his hand under her chin. He was very close.
‘You’re very pretty, Silje. You know that, don’t you?’
She averted her eyes and shook her head. Her pulse was racing, the blood pounding in her ears, rushing to her cheeks.
‘Oh, but you are. May I come and call on you?’
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