The words roused him. He seemed to be aware of her for the first time. He stared at her, at her swollen figure, and then remembering the child, drew the woolen covering about her knees and patted it into place. His face was still open, like a young boy’s roused from deep sleep, free of the sternness which he kept upon it.
“I wish you to understand that I had no choice in this matter,” he said abruptly, as one who resumes an interrupted tale. “Once, when I was a youth and could have escaped it, I considered the matter well. But even then I was set to take the oaths and the tests, because I believed with the rest that it was foreordained that I should become one of them, one of the brotherhood of the forest. Now I know there was little choice, for the signs and omens were there from the beginning. Since I was old enough to handle weapons I have never flinched from the cold steel. The sharp edges bring me no agony. I do not fear the sight of bright blood. It is not that I conquer my fear like some men and cover it with my courage. The fear is not in me. It is like an empty place, not existing. For this my men would follow me to death, for they are afraid of me and know that I am invincible. It has always been so. When I took my first arms with the other youths I was a head taller than my childhood friends and much stronger. The old men singled me out for many honors. It was I over all the rest who jumped in heavy battle gear over the high wooden barrier, setting a mark which stood forever after for all to challenge. Yet it was not strength alone which caused me to make such a mighty bound, but a strange exultation within me which made me sure I would surpass those who had gone before and all that would come after. My father was proud then, and did much boasting upon my name. Was I not the chosen of Thor the Hammerer, the Lightning-flinger?”
For a moment she saw his face light exultantly. He paused. Then he put his hands to his eyes and the triumph faded.
“My father,” he repeated.
She thought he had finished, and started to speak. But he interrupted her, beginning his narrative hurriedly.
“Soon after, when we went to hunt whales in the northern waters where the ice floes are, storms turned us back many times from land and the gales brought snow and ice to cover the mast and shroud the ship beams. I remember well how cold and hungry we were and how the men were sure that we would perish, and called upon Thor and Odin to help us. But these gods did not answer. Instead a great thing happened, a rare thing. I was lying in the bow of the ship half-frozen, keeping watch, looking out upon the unending sea, when I saw white bears swimming toward us, where white bears should never be seen, there in the middle of the sea. They came straight toward the bow of the ship where I was and swam round and looked at me with their little, burning eyes. I saw them with wonderment but no fear, and it seemed that I could hear them speaking to me. The storm grew dark, and I fell on the deck unconscious. When I came to my senses my father was holding my head and the bears had gone. Vanished. Like a dream, the men said. Then I spoke to my father and told him the white bjorn had commanded me to take the steering oar and bring the ship to land, for they would lead me. They had said I was one of them, and it was not yet time for me to die. Then my father threw his spear into the deck and called upon all to see how the ancient brotherhood of the forest, old as time, had come to his son and claimed him. And for all to look upon me, the bjorn-warrior given his sign, the one who would be the much feared berserkr.”
“Was this true, that you brought the ship to land again?”
“Yes. Without stars, without landmarks to steer by, only the sound of the waves and the knowledge the bjorn would guide me.”
“And this berserkr…”
“An ancient thing. The wild warriors. The possessed. The man brother of the bears. The white bjorn had seen this thing in me. They knew I was one of them and they called to me.”
He was sweating heavily, something odd and dark in his eyes.
“You are afraid,” she whispered. “And you said you could not feel fear!” “No, no,” he almost shouted. He was excited, grabbing her arms and shaking her. “Do you not see? They came to me now to tell me they wait for the coming of my son, who is one of us!”
She screamed.
Instantly he drew her to him and covered her mouth with his hand. Although shaking with excitement, he tried to stroke her hair, to calm her.
They had awakened the others. Doireann heard the voices thick with sleep, drawling the Norse tongue. Someone laughed. Then there was an exclamation. A pause. A shout of dismay.
The hall began to rouse swiftly. There were more muffled shouts, movements, running. From outside the walls of the house there were other noises and a long-drawn-out howl from the fire in the meadow.
With the crash of the trestle table being overturned, the Jarl released her. He jumped up in the bed and tore the sword and shield from the wall. In another leap he was in the room, carrying part of the alcove curtains with him.
Doireann could see him standing, lit by the fire, brandishing his sword over his head as his men, barefoot and half-naked, thundered about in the gloom looking for their weapons. The bull-like voice of Sweyn called again and again for torches.
It was Thorsten who restored order. He put his finger to his lips and stood without moving, and they quieted, listening.
Olav Forkbeard pointed to the roof beams above them. Tongues of flame were licking through the thatch, and a shower of burning leaves fell inside.
Doireann scrambled out of bed and put on her shoes with trembling hands. It took but a moment to fasten the plaid cloak about her shoulders. Those within the hail could hear the wails of the attackers. The Northmen drew their faces up in ferocious grins. The Jarl was saying something in an undertone to Sweyn, who nodded.
There were soft words of command. Half the men of the longships gathered at the main door, behind the Jarl. Sweyn hurried to Doireann and jerked her roughly by the arm, pushing her to the center of the second group. The tall Irishwoman was there, a triumphant look on her face, and Gunnar Olavson carried the Irish girl slung on his back, his sword arm free.
Olav Forkbeard took Doireann’s hand and placed it on his belt. She clung to it tightly, knowing that he spoke to her, but not able to distinguish his words through her terror.
The enemy was clever. As the group led by the Jarl burst through the door that led to the meadow, the attackers were waiting for them, hugging the ground, their blows aimed at the Northmen’s legs. Those who were brought down were trodden upon by the rest as they fought to get clear. Each Northman went through the door giving voice to his battle cries and the clamor was great. Even in the press Doireann realized they were striving to make as much noise as possible to as to divert the attackers from those who would escape by the rear. It was a futile ruse. There were attackers lurking in the dark there too.
For a moment, surrounded as she was and jostled on every side, Doireann lost her footing in the scramble into the night. Her grip was broken on the Forkbeard’s belt and she fell heavily. Luckily, there was no one behind to stumble over her.
It was pitch-dark. There was no moon, and the fog was a thick blanket over the cove. The shouts and shrieks were muffled about her and she could see nothing. She lay on the ground, listening to men struggling about her, and the sound of iron striking iron. She heard Sweyn calling the crews by name, and heard the scattered answers. Someone cried out in Gaelic and then began to scream horribly. She put her head down on the ground and stuffed her fingers into her ears, grinding her teeth, trying to shut out the noise.
Feet thudded on the grass near her and ran past her, and she heard them slipping on the pebbles of the beach, but she could not tell who the runners were. For a moment her thoughts turned slowly. Where do I go in this night and to whom do I belong? It was a bitter thought.
The hall blazed up with a red light and showered recognition on the scene. The dark shapes outlined against it struggled fiercely in the glare, and then the battlers separated, shrinking from the light. Some ran, pursued by others. She got to her knees and then unsteadily to her feet
. But before she could do anything else she was overcome by a wave of nausea. She tried to think what could make her so sick. She put her hand to her head and swayed.
Someone seized her.
“So who is this?” a voice shouted in her ear.
Rough hands turned her about so that she faced the light of the burning house.
“Where is Calum toiseach?” a second voice asked, and she recognized it for the voice of Seoras, Calum’s servant.
“Man, is that blood upon you?” the first voice cried.
“Some son of a whore as big as two men caught me on the arm,” Seoras ground out. “I think it is broken.”
She swayed and would have fallen, but they caught her.
“Stand still,” she was ordered. The first man was binding up the servant’s arm. Another dark shape joined them.
“Their ships are burning,” he said briefly, “but it is useless to pursue them.” “Were not the smallboats destroyed?” the first man cried.
“How should I know this? I heard Liam macRuadh calling that they were able to knock holes in the boats big enough to sink them, but somehow the Northmen got them into the water. Perhaps they did sink, after a bit.”
“I could not see very well,” Seoras said. He began to groan. “I would be easier in my mind if I could see my arm, and what kind of blow has crushed it.”
“The binding will still the blood,” the first man assured him. The light began to turn a pearly gray about them.
“Here is the dawn,” the first man muttered. “Soon we will be able to make out how well we have fared this night.”
One of the men took Doireann’s arm, and they began to make their way across the meadow in the brightening fog. Her feet were heavy and her knees trembled so that she was fully occupied with the carefulness of her steps in the tall grass. The dawn wind which came across the meadow was bitterly cold.
She was clear-headed enough to see ahead of them the figure of her foster brother in his plaid and tattered bonnet, turning over the bodies of the Northmen lying on the beach, picking the best plunder for himself and tossing the rest to the men around him. Two of the clansmen were piling the war gear of the defeated in a mound, laying the swords in a row on the beach for later division. It seemed there was a multitude of dead men. As the bodies were revealed sprawled on the sand, the picture of the wedding feast rose to plague her, except that now the clansmen stood about, their tartans fluttering in the wind, and the sputtering hull of one of the Viking ships swung at anchor.
The men steered her past the group of Scots who were plunging their spears into the chest of a Northman who lay on his back, feet kicking.
“Doireann!” It was Calum approaching her. He had a horned Viking helmet in his hands and thrust it upon one of the Picts from Coire Cheathaich. “Do not go far with that,” he warned.
“My dear foster sister,” he cried, seizing her hands. “How happy I am that we have rescued you unharmed. You are all right?”
She could not seem to focus her eyes upon his face. “I am going to be sick,” she murmured.
He ignored her. He pointed suddenly to the body of a big man two of the Scots warriors were rolling over on his back. “Well?” he cried.
“A nice knife,” one of the men answered. “But they were lightly clad. I think we shall have to wait until the fire is out before we can look for their real treasure in the ashes.”
“No, no,” Calum cried impatiently. “That is not what I meant.” He grasped the corpse’s hair and turned the head over. The side of the man’s face had been sheared away by a sword blow. Calum squinted at it a moment, his finger on his lower lip, and then shrugged.
“No matter,” he said, and there was disappointment in his tone. He turned solicitously to Doireann and took her arm.
“Come away from these dead men,” he told her. “We have not found the Norse chieftain among them yet, and this is a pity, for I have heard that he was an athach, a giant among even the Northmen. I would like to have seen his body and the bearskin he wore.”
“Calum, I am going to be sick,” she said urgently.
He did not answer her. She walked with him, half-leaning on his arm, back to the fire. Some men approached but he waved them away.
“Four of our men are dead, and one of Donn’s warriors from the dun,” he was saying, “but this is a small number compared to the Northmen who were slain by us. Look at them, and how they decorate our beach! And all this for your welfare, nighean. Such a small number of clansmen as we had! Yet we struck them down as they emptied from the hall. Big men were never meant to fight in the dark and the fog. Oh, there is no doubt that they are fine fighters when they can use their strength and reach, but in the dark, with men who strike from everywhere, from behind the trees, lying in the meadow, this is what defeats them! I shall tell Donn of this, for it is a clever strategy.”
He slowed their pace and looked at her so that his face was turned away from the rest. It was suddenly cunning.
“You are still beautiful, even as you are, with blood upon you and misshapen with the Northman’s bastard. I wish for your sake that it were my child you carried.”
His words cut through her stupor. He was always dangerous, and his lapses from nonchalance were a warning. She drew herself up with what strength she could muster.
A pony was caught up and Calum indicated that she was to mount. He even held his clasped hands for her as a stirrup, and she managed to pull her ungainly body onto the horse’s back.
At once she realized the position was a mistake. She could not straddle the horse in any comfort and it was a long way to the Coire. She turned to ask Calum to send a smallboat for her instead, but he was occupied giving orders to those who were to be left behind.
The man they called Liam macRuadh pulled the pony’s head quickly toward the stretch of beach that rose to the Coire path, and she gladly relinquished the reins. For the first few minutes she was occupied with vain attempts to find a comfortable position in the saddle. She could not get her breath.
A groan was forced from her, and at the sound she set her lips firmly. In a few hours she would be at the Coire where clean clothes awaited her, and a warm, soft bed and food. If she could remember this and perhaps get down and walk when the journey grew too painful, then her forbearance would be rewarded. Another wave of nausea attacked her, but she fought it down. Warm bed. Home. These were the things she must think on.
Because of Calum she had had her revenge on the Vikings, and most particularly the Jarl, if he still lived. Revenge, that is, when she carried his child. The child he would never see, the proof of her pride-breaking, her captivity. Calum would pay for this; her revenge was not complete. Yet even Calum, who had triumphed, was curiously thwarted. His evil had given him no satisfaction.
God sees I am not defeated, she thought suddenly, and if He will help me this once He will make this a girl child I bear; make her even to look like me so that there will be nothing to mark her unlucky beginning.
Doireann turned about in the saddle to catch the last sight of the cove, knowing Calum watched her closely.
I owe nothing to what has occurred here, she vowed, seeing the rising sun strike the gray sea. If the Jarl is not dead it pleases me to think how he will wonder what has become of the child he longed for. As for you who now watch me, rat-faced and cunning, beware my revenge on you also. It is my thought, Calum macDumhnull, that you will never again see me humbled while I live.
The servant led the pony through the hill track, followed by the chieftain and his warrior on foot. As they climbed they left the bare branches of the hardwoods of the lower slopes and came into the forest of pine and fir, softer to look on, and giving more protection from the wind. It was growing colder with each hour the pale sun mounted the sky, and when at last the sun crept into an advancing bank of gray clouds the bite of the wind was sharpened. The sturdy pony picked his way over old trails worn by cattle and washed by rain, the girl on his back sunk deep in her thoughts and unawa
re of the direction.
The spell was broken; all that she had endured was now gone. There would be no more winter nights in the log house listening to the boasting and the outlandish voices slurring in Norse, the sight of the Viking ships eternally swinging on the tide, the sorting of clothing from the wretched Irish village, the narrowness of the wooden bed. It was now like an eerie, violent dream such as the one the Jarl had wakened from in the small hours of the day. He had once asked her how this thing had happened: that his fate had brought her to him, and not the tall blond Norse woman that he would have chosen. Now that it was all ended, she hoped that he would have time to ponder his question, wherever he was.
She had pushed her body as far as she dared. The child was thankfully quiet and did not trouble her with his pushing and kicking, but she felt she was not far from collapse. The pains in her lower back had increased to the point where she could not ignore them, and she roused to a realization of their relentless pace through country now unfamiliar and forbidding. She knew she must dismount.
“Calum, I must rest,” she called. And because she did not hold the reins, “Stop the pony!”
Beside her his face under the ragged bonnet stared straight ahead and he pretended not to hear.
Her heart began to thud slowly and fearfully. “Calum, I know you hear me. Stop the pony!” The two men beside her exchanged glances.
“What is this you are doing to me?” she cried. She attempted to swing her leg over the pony’s bobbing neck and slide off, but she was stiffened and lifeless from the cramped position. She began to kick out as much as she could, and grabbed at the reins at the animal’s mouth, jerking them.
“What are you doing to me?” she shouted. “Where are you taking me?” She succeeded in yanking the reins from the servant and turned the pony from the path into a small clearing of bracken, where it wheeled in bewilderment. Calum’s men ran after her, snatching at the leads.
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