“Gently, gently!” Wilfrid exclaimed. “This is a poor beginning!”
“It was begun badly long before this,” the girl shouted. “Why do you expect better?”
“You need not hold your nose so high,” Sweyn roared, wagging his finger at her. “There are not many here who will hurry to defend your honor. We have been bargaining with the little man who says he is your uncle, and here is a crafty wool merchant in king’s clothing! He ill compares with the great berserkr, the Jarl of the longships. Many far-famed deeds has Thorsten Ljot accomplished, and this is not the least of them, that he beaches his ship with a crew of fifty men before a host of Pictish warriors. Be careful whom you would call a nameless dog, you who have yet to find a man among your people to honor and protect you!”
He paused and wiped his mouth with his hand.
“Now,” he said practically, “the Jarl is anxious to know whether you bore him a proper male child and whether it is well and strong.”
Sweyn looked about him, but the Jarl was the first to see the serving woman holding the child. He sprang to her, jerking the infant from her arms. Elda gave a faint scream and fell back.
The Northman held his son gingerly at arm’s length while he examined him. Ian was still, staring back at him curiously, his fists tightly grasping the man’s fingers.
“Now she has done well!” Sweyn exclaimed at the Jarl’s elbow. “She is a small woman but she has borne a fine, large child! You can see the blood of the Inglinga in him. No need to strip him of his britches, man! It is a boy, a son. Perfect, not a spot, not a blemish!”
They jostled each other in their eagerness and the child, alarmed, cried out. Doireann could not move. She was aghast at their incongruous joy and the way that they fumbled at the child, examining his linen shift, his bare, chubby feet, opening his tight-clutched fists. The Jarl touched the child’s yellow hair again and again with his fingertips as if to impress upon himself the fact that child had his coloring and not hers. Ian began to struggle, bellowing his protests. The Jarl hurriedly put his son to his shoulder, his cheek bending to touch the top of the infant’s head.
Doireann was dismayed to see the likeness in the two faces so close together. Ian’s blue eyes were not her own now, but a reflection of the man’s. Anger and jealousy wrenched her. One could never deny this was the Viking’s child.
Ian’s face turned a warning red and his voice shrieked.
“Odin’s eyeballs!” Sweyn roared. “Do not squeeze him so! They will want all the gold in the longships as their price when they see how the bear loves his cub.”
Doireann sprang forward.
“Give him to me!” she shouted. “You are going to kill him. He hates you!” She snatched at the child and the Jarl let him go. He watched her closely
as she cradled the frantic child in her arms, trying to soothe him. But Ian bounced up, clawing at the neck of her gown. She shifted him to her shoulder and patted him on the back, but he only bellowed more loudly. He was demanding to be nursed and comforted.
“What a voice!” Sweyn said admiringly over the racket. Wilfrid was trying to speak but it was as if no sound came from his moving lips. The men looked at Doireann expectantly.
Seething, she pulled down the neck of her gown and put Ian to the breast. The uproar stopped at once. There was a deep silence as the men watched the child nursing. Ian twisted his eyes about and glared up at them in triumph.
“It is because the child sucks his mother that he is so well and strong,” the Jarl offered suddenly. “She has not given him to a wet nurse. In this she has done well.”
The bishop of Inverness stood back, watching, thoughtfully stroking his jaw.
Sweyn spoke to Doireann in Norse.
“See how the Jarl is well-pleased,” he told her. He paused and nodded to himself. “Yes, you remember the tongue; I see in your eyes that you know what I am saying to you. That is good. Let it remind you that you cannot forget the Norse speech nor the evidence of the past, the child which lies at your breast. It is as the Jarl says: you are his wife whether you like it or not, and the many bonds between you are not broken. On the night when we were set upon the sea with so many wounded and dying from the battle in Cumhainn, there was again the longing in him to die. He thought you were dead. But I assured him that you lived and would yet bear his son. When he was convinced of this, he stood before the crew and urged them to keep the ship from foundering, for he vowed he had much vengeance to take upon the Scots from that night forward, and that his task was to find you and his son. I was not so much concerned with your fate as with ours then, I admit, for I did not think any of us would live to see the storm’s ending. But as I gazed upon him my heart was warm and I knew my words would come true. He is indeed a great man, set apart from other men and feared by them. He is the pride of my life. In spitefulness you call him a nameless dog and I see that you have seized upon this from what you have heard, and think yourself clever. But it is not true. He may take any name and still be far-famed and feared as the berserkr, the invincible. And the sons which you will bear him will be proud in their blood. You will live to see this.”
Sweyn turned to Wilfrid.
“Let us go outside and permit the Jarl to speak a few words to this woman such as men use to address their wives,” he said.
Wilfrid demurred, looking at Doireann. “I cannot agree to this,” he said.
“Go, go!” Doireann cried. “Do you think I am afraid of them?” “You have but to speak and I will stay,” he assured her.
“What does it matter? They do not hurt me with words,” she said proudly. “Well—” Wilfrid hesitated. “I shall stand just outside the entrance with the
other Northman and we will be within earshot if you should call.”
Sweyn held the tent flap up for Wilfrid to pass, and crooked a finger at Elda.
“You also,” he commanded.
She squealed as she ran past him.
Doireann wrinkled her nose. Let the others act like fools. She would not let them frighten her.
It was quiet except for the flapping of the edges of the tent in the wind. The Jarl studied her.
“Sweyn has made the child another ship,” he said, breaking the silence. “It is of whalebone and wood and is like the one destroyed in the firing of our mead hall. As we drifted helpless upon the sea that dawn, Sweyn took his knife and began to work upon this new toy, and in this way he told me that you would yet bear me a son. I have gazed upon it many times with the thought of how the child would take pleasure in it.”
She shifted the heavy child in her arms. There was another silence. When he spoke again his voice was low.
“What Sweyn has told you is true. That is, I have more wealth and fame than when I first took you to me. I have a camp in a north island and there are women there to attend you who speak the language of the Scots. The Irish girl still lives and is heavy with child which my cousin Gunnar Olavson claims is his doing, although there is no way of knowing that this is so. Still, she clings to him as tightly as any noose about his neck and I have allowed it, since the others now have women of their own. I have also suitable gifts for you there which it would not have been proper to bring to this place.”
She was silent.
“I speak of this to convince you that I have power and wealth even as your kinsman, this Pictish king. I am willing to pay a foolish price for you without too much bargaining. I have brought gold which they do not know of and I will not be thwarted in my desire to take you with me. It has ever been so: that I will have what I want despite the price.”
“You waste your time,” she told him. “You could have said this before the others.”
“That is true,” he admitted.
He stretched out his hand to touch the tasseled plaits of her hair.
“This is not so becoming as your hair undone, hanging down. It occurs to me that you are little better than a prisoner in this place for all your fine jewels and silk gowns. I know you well enough to se
e much fear in your eyes.”
“I do not fear you,” she retorted. “The King of the Picts is my uncle.”
“Yes, I have seen him. These Picts are strange men. They are little people, like the Lapps of my country. And they are treacherous.”
His hand slipped to her shoulder.
“I once thought that you would kill the child in your hatred. I did not know then that you would love it and be a good mother to it. I have thought also of the bed where once we lay together and how soft your body was to feel against mine. I have had a great longing for you in this way. And yet, it is a strange thing that often I remembered you as I had last seen you, heavy and misshapen with the child and tired, and I still desired you, but merely to have you with me.”
He put his arm about her awkwardly as she still held the baby, and bent and put his mouth against her cheek. She started. Then his mouth was on hers, his lips eager.
He drew back for an instant, perhaps from surprise that she did not call out or struggle. He put his lips to hers again and there was a tremor in the arm which held her.
He held her close to him for so long a time that it seemed her back would break with the intolerable burden of the child in that position. She twisted away from him slightly and he tightened his embrace. Her feet left the ground, only the toes touching. She was unresisting and it seemed there was not much will in her to oppose him. The child made a barrier between them, but she was still slipping, being pulled to her defeat.
She closed her eyes and after a time opened them to see the tent still billowing above his head.
“You obstinate lump!” she cried. “Why must it be me that you pursue? You can buy what you need with less gold in any village in Britain!”
He dropped her instantly. She staggered with the heavy child and nearly fell, but she was at no loss for words.
“You have wasted your breast-beating and your speeches on me and my kinsmen, and we have laughed behind our hands. You know nothing! I am betrothed to the son of the King of the Picts, and Nechtan has hopes of an heir from this union.”
As she watched, his face slowly drained of its blood and took on an ugly gray hue.
“Betrothed?” he said stupidly. “Close kin are not betrothed to each other.” “They are in this land, or is this not a part of your well-traveled wisdom? Ask
any Pict on the beach. He will tell you what you do not know: that because the Picts reckon their blood lines through the women my blood is more royal than that of Nechtan’s son. If I breed with him the line is assured a place on the throne. My legal children, that is, not nameless bastards by roving seamen.”
The Norseman’s eyes seemed to shrink into his head. “Have you lain with him?”
“Many times. And the Old Cruithne sat in his hall and smiled into his drinking cup counting the fat grandsons he would soon have.”
He made a choking sound. Encouraged, she went on.
“Since you took me by force I little knew how rightly a man could treat a woman’s body and what satisfaction she could find in his arms. But I learned this in the bed of my cousin, the son of Nechtan. His hands have known me as have yours, but with this difference: I gave myself willingly to him and he profited so much more.”
She licked her lips, and a new thought struck her.
“The old king will be happy now and pleased with me. For when I leave this tent I will go to him and tell him what he wishes to know. That even now I carry his grandson under my belt!”
She saw his face then. She stepped back. His look was like death. She put her hand across her face as if to shield it, but he was quick. His hand caught in the string of Flann’s cross about her neck and it twined about his fingers. He lifted her by the cord, and as he rose to his full height the ridgepole collapsed and the tent fell on them. They were tangled in the cloth and the child’s screams were muffled.
Hands were already tearing the fabric away. The Northman lurched from the wreckage, dragging Doireann with him.
Wilfrid recoiled from him, the corner of the tent still in his hand. “Father in heaven!” he cried.
Sweyn rushed to the Jarl, his shield held high to hide him. His sword was drawn and pointed at the figures running toward them from the other tent.
The Northman dragged his captive a few steps and then halted. Doireann’s eyes were glazed but she still clutched the child.
“In God’s name!” Wilfrid implored Sweyn. “You must make him let her go. He will kill her!”
But Sweyn did not hear the Saxon bishop. He was speaking soothingly to the giant. Doireann’s eyes shut and her body fell limp. The child rolled from her arms. Wilfrid sprang under the Northman’s feet and scooped Ian up, brushing sand from his mouth.
The Viking crew on the beach began to run toward the longship, shouting the alarm. But the Jarl was oblivious. His tread was slow and uneven, his eyes unseeing.
“When the time comes they will speak to you,” Sweyn said softly, “but not now.”
The big man shuddered. He threw his burden down on the wet sand and stopped, his hands over his eyes.
Sweyn was close to him in an instant. He did not touch him, but his voice was low for once, and astonishingly gentle.
“Come away,” he said. The other looked dazed and drew a long, ragged breath. “We have other things to attend to. This woman is not all of your life.” “No,” the Jarl said slowly. “I do not want her. She says she is with child by the son of Nechtan the Pict.”
“What is this, now?” Sweyn shouted, whirling on the crowd which followed. “King of the Picts, under the guise of truthful speaking you bring this woman to us and yet do not mention that she has been ill-used in your house and is with child?”
Behind Sweyn the crewmen of the longship were splashing in the surf, putting their shoulders to the hull. Hallfreor ran toward the Jarl who stood with head hanging, water curling about his ankles, and lifted his sword in front of him, ready for attack.
At the sight of the Northmen preparing to cast off, the Picts rose from their lines along the dunes and raced down the slope, screaming eager war cries and brandishing their spears.
“In the name of Christ, in the name of the Holy Church!” Wilfrid was shouting in the uproar. He struggled with the terrified child and was jostled by indifferent Northmen. “Stay, I beg you. There are still the captives’ lives to be considered! We may yet bargain for their release!”
The Picts loosened a shower of arrows into the water. In the scramble Wilfrid was knocked down to his knees.
A swell of the sea lifted the Viking ship from the shoulders of the Northmen. It floated clear, the oars quickly dipping. The crew chief’s voice bellowed out the stroke. Those Northmen in the water caught at the sides and were lifted aboard.
The oars flashed, sending spray into the gray sunlight. A few of the Picts, Brude among them, waded into the surf but the Viking ship was already out of range of their spears.
An enraged Nechtan stamped to the spot where the Saxon bishop stood, wet and dripping.
“Now all my plans are destroyed,” he shouted, “and by a woman who truly has a curse on her!”
“The Viking shouted that the woman was with child by your son,” Wilfrid answered. Unable to get a good grip on the agonized child, he shoved him into the arms of a nearby Pictish warrior. “Go find the serving woman,” he ordered, “and give this child to her.”
He turned back to the King of the Picts.
“Let us have true words spoken now, my lord,” he said. “Reveal to me what treachery and conniving have been played out upon this strand.”
Nechtan glared at him.
“Can a woman bed with a man and know she has conceived in just ten days? Well, this is how it has been with Doireann nighean Muireach. She would not have dared to come to me with such a tale. She used it only to bring mischief. Were you not set over her to watch her and prevent her lies?”
The bishop was pale with distress.
“This is the first time I have heard such a thing.
It was not to serve your purposes nor to spy on this woman that I came to this parley. I was here to see that God’s mercy was used in this dreadful business and also to protect a Christian woman and her child!”
Nechtan snorted. He touched the body of his niece with his foot. “Protection? She needs no protection from God or man. A curse is on her
such as was on the dread women of ancient times. Look, she is stirring, being only stunned, when she should be dead. I renounce her. I would not have her for all the gold in the Seven Counties. The tribes would brand her as a sorceress and kill any children she might bear.”
Wilfrid knelt quickly at the other man’s words and turned the girl’s face to him. Her lips were blue and her eyes closed.
“Yes,” he said somewhat sadly, “she lives.”
He dragged her away from the water and stretched her out on the sand. The silent Picts stood watching.
The Cymry guards and the men of Conor of Connaught came up and stood by the water’s edge, shading their eyes. The Viking ship had raised its mast and put up sail, though the oars still worked rapidly. They could still hear the faint call of the crew chief. They were reminded of the lives of the Viking’s captives now forfeit.
“Merciful heaven,” Wilfrid cried, “what an evil day this has been!” Llewellyn ap Gwilym of the Cymry went to the girl and knelt by her side.
He shook his head, muttering, frowning. He took her hand in his and rubbed it. “Look now upon the sea,” the Welshman told the bishop, “and I think you
will see a sight which will truly give you cause to cry out to God.”
The bishop stood up with the rest, looking seaward. Instead of one square patch of sail there were now two; a speck, a third sail, was growing larger on the horizon.
The Picts began to howl their anger. Brude ran to his father and gestured for him to leave the beach and fall back among the dunes. But the Welshman laid his hand on Wilfrid’s arm.
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