by Sandi Layne
A heavy hand pressed her down again so that she was almost on all fours. “Khar-iss.”
Up and down she rocked, but the surface under her was solid. “Where am I?” she repeated, brushing her hair out of her eyes and trying to sit up again. “What happened?”
“Charis?” the voice said, sounding amused.
The amusement claimed her attention. Though her heart was pounding and her mind spinning with uncertainty, Charis made herself meet the disconcertingly blue eyes that hovered over her. That voice. Those eyes. That hand.
It was him. Fury rose inside and she pushed herself up, fingers extended to reach his face. “I’ll kill you!” she said. “I won’t wait. I won’t!”
Her captor smiled easily down at her, knelt, and secured both her wrists in one hand. “Né,” he said, shaking his head. Then he growled something else in those incomprehensible words of his. He ended by saying, “ . . . skipniu.”
Determined to do all she could to defy him, she turned her head and sought a friendly face. Where were her people? Where were her friends? Where was . . . anyone? Anyone she knew?
Anyone but him.
He captured her jaw with his free hand and Charis didn’t bother to struggle. She had heard waves lapping against something and finally concluded she was on a ship. That terrified her; she had never sailed before, though her village was next to the shore. She could smell the brine as she had every day of her life, but now it infused the air around her, the cloth above, and the wooden deck below.
“A ship! No!”
Water. The sea. She couldn’t bear to be in the sea. Heart thudding in her chest so she was sure someone would hear it, Charis panted. Though she lived next to the sea, she never even so much as went out on a fishing boat, not since she had been a little girl . . .
Shoving her fists over her eyes, she dove inside, trying to find a way to calm herself. Achan! Devin! Devlin! Help me! She knew they were dead, but there was no one else.
She saw an image of a leaf on a small stream in her mind. A pale leaf in autumn, it floated lazily on the current, not putting up any resistance but not sinking either. It barely took on droplets of water. It stayed afloat as the water passed by large rocks, as fish swam underneath it, as it went around a bend in the land and out of sight.
With a jolt, Charis understood. She just had to be a leaf on the water. She would pretend it wasn’t there as much as she could.
From somewhere out of her view, a strange voice called out something to the man who still held her by the jaw. “Skipniu, ja,” he said, nodding. Then he let her go and got to his feet.
Another invader appeared, and the two of them towered so far over her that Charis rose to her knees, trying to balance herself with her hands as the surface beneath her shifted. Her stomach clenched in nausea and fear. What had happened?
“You’re a slave, Healer,” came a barely familiar voice, low to the ship’s deck. “So am I. Believe me, I did everything I could to make sure it wouldn’t happen.”
A slave? “No,” she whispered, shaking her head in abject denial.
“Yes.” It was the son of Branieucc. She met his eyes, and they were deeply compassionate, sorrowful and resentful. “Yes. The Ostmen have taken us. You have, apparently, been claimed by Agnarr.” Cowan inclined his head towards her captor, the man who’d murdered Devin and Devlin.
“No!” she moaned, dropping her head. “No, it can’t be. We . . .” Then a face flashed before her eyes. Aislinn. Charis’s breath came fast and dry to her throat and she swallowed. “Cowan?” One purpose had her leaning forward to keep her voice as low as possible. “Did they find the children?”
“Children?” Cowan’s eyes darted back and forth and Charis watched only his face, for the future of her people rested with Aislinn and the children. “No, I saw no children,” he whispered, his expression carefully blank.
“Oh . . .” Relief swamped her and she collapsed again on the deck. The children. She had saved some, yes, she had. Her guilt for her husbands’ deaths would never go away perhaps, but she had saved some lives. Yes.
Then this shifting, floating gaol became more real to her. She shut her eyes, but the smells of salted fish, male sweat, rancid leather, iron and old water could not be avoided. She heard the sound of the sea, seagulls, and men speaking that harsh language. Compared to Gaeilge, the tongue of the Northmen was ugly and unimpressive. Charis wouldn’t listen to it. But she heard the sounds of Éire, too, and that made her sit up at last.
“They just burned them all,” a male voice said. Charis shut her eyes against the pain of seeing Devin and Devlin set on fire. Vengeance . . . vengeance would come.
“Had you worked on them?” asked a male voice.
Worked on them? What? Opening her eyes again, Charis saw Cowan first, listening intently to the Gaeilge speakers. It was not one of her village who was speaking; it was one of those horrible monks.
The monks of Bangor Monastery had made life miserable for her and her village for years. It was only in the last few seasons that they had relented in their pursuit of Ragor’s wealth and children. Worshiping a dead god! A weak god, too, who let his son be killed by men.
Her men would never have let that happen, if she had been able to give them a son.
The wave of grief was paralyzing and Charis slumped over herself, her forehead almost touching the salt-crusted deck.
She could not escape her surroundings, though, no matter how much she wished to. Gaeilge and—what had Cowan called them? Ostmen?—their speech would not leave her ears. Footsteps pounded the deck; she could feel them. The soft cries of despair blended with the monotonous chanting of Latin that the monks spoke. She had never bothered to learn that tongue. Ignorant men. Ignorant of the bounties of their home. Ignorant of the wealth of knowledge that was growing just under their feet.
Her people were enough for her. They loved her.
But where were they?
Her curiosity compelled her to move a little, to look around beyond the wooden mast and sheltering cloth.
“Where are they?” she whispered.
“Some are here, others on the other ships,” Cowan said.
He seemed to be permanently attached to the mast, since he was always there. Charis studied him for the first time since she had met him. He was not a monk, she was relieved to see. He had a full head of blond hair and a red beard. He was tied with leather strips to the center mast, his hands bound behind him, wrists red and swollen, crusting with blood and dirt.
“What happened to your head and hands?” she asked him, reaching inside one of her pockets instinctively. “Let me clean you up.”
He winced, but his voice was colored with dark humor. “Is it noticeable? I haven’t been able to deal with it myself.”
Charis was eager to have something—anything—to occupy her, so she scooted closer to the king’s son and probed the bloody lump that protruded through his rough hair. She muttered a soft curse and said, “I wish I had some boiling water, Cowan. I can’t even clean this otherwise.”
He snorted derisively. “Na, na. It’s only a scratch. I’ll be fine.”
“Only a scratch. Isea. Only a scratch that’ll make you lose your senses if you’re not careful,” she admonished, ignoring his grunt of protest as she pushed hair away to see the extent of the damage. “What happened to you? Were you wounded in battle?”
Cowan glanced over his shoulder at her, a twinkle in his eye. “Now, lass, that’s a long story.”
“I need a long story,” Charis murmured, searching for her mint wash in her pockets. The specially treated pouch should be in her right pocket, but it was not there. “Do you know what happened to my medicines?” she asked, not really expecting an answer.
She heard her new patient inhale to answer, but the answer didn’t come. Instead he said, “No time now, Healer.”
She followed the way he nodded his head, only to see a huge barbarian who carried himself like a king. “Who is that? He wasn’t in my village.�
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“That’s Tuirgeis,” Cowan replied, his low voice carrying a warning. “He’s the leader of the raiders.”
Charis grimaced. “Oh, now that’s grand.” The man had long dark hair and wore a mail shirt, leggings, and a bright blue over-tunic that seemed to indicate he came from a wealthy family, for blue was an expensive dye. The color required alum to keep it in the cloth, and that was a costly element. Her own blues faded so quickly without it.
Tuirgeis was a lord, she decided. He caught her studying him and he smiled at her, saying something to her captor, the Northman Agnarr, as Cowan called him.
“What’s he saying then?” she inquired of the red-bearded prince.
He paused before saying, “I’m not sure. I’m still learning their tongue. It scrapes in my mouth.”
“Ha!” she spat. “If only it would scrape in theirs.” The blond man who had slain her men beckoned for her to stand, saying something. His voice was commanding, harsh, and she chose not to understand him, looking back to Cowan’s bumped head.
“Healer,” Cowan rasped, “he wants you to stand!”
“He cannot expect me to understand now, can he?”
The language changed then, and Cowan stiffened. “Tuirgeis, their leader, is speaking in Latin. He wants you to obey Agnarr. I am translating.”
“I don’t speak the priests’ tongue either,” Charis went on, an angry vibration starting in her core. “Besides, I am tending to your wound.”
The leader spoke again, and Cowan turned as far as he was able. “Healer!”
“They may have captured me, but I am not their slave!”
“Leave my head alone. Your defiance could cost us all.”
It was only then that Charis noticed how quiet it had become on the deck of the Northmen’s ship.
“She’s not a moonbeam, Agnarr,” Tuirgeis said as the kvinn medisin gave them her attention. His face was stern though his tone was jesting. “She’s more like Thor’s lightning.”
“Thor, yes,” Agnarr repeated absently. He was perplexed. He did not want his new woman—slave, yes, of course—to shame him in front of Tuirgeis, but it was difficult for him to be harsh with her.
Yet the men were watching. The other slaves were watching. Combined, the pairs of eyes were enough to compel him to act. He frowned in consternation and reached down to pull the young healer to her feet. “She may be lightning, but she is a skilled medicine woman as well.”
“What is her name?”
“Charis.”
“That is not a name of the Islanders,” Tuirgeis commented, looking the pale woman over. Agnarr shrugged. He didn’t care much. What was most gratifying to him was that the slave was not fighting, and that the conversations around the boat had resumed. “I’ve heard it before. It’s Greek.”
“Well, she is a good healer, no matter her name. I’ll give her a new name.” It was customary among his people. Slaves were often given names if they would be staying with a family. It helped them to blend in, to become more accustomed to remaining, to help them understand the permanence of their position. “If it hadn’t been for her, Erik might have died.”
A grunt. “He was foolish,” Tuirgeis said, disgust curling his lip. “I don’t know what you see in that boy.”
Myself, Agnarr thought, keeping his face impassive. Myself.
He shook it off, much like the heavy sail shook off wind and water.
“So, are you keeping her as a leman?” Tuirgeis continued.
Agnarr couldn’t help the inward stiffening when his leader took Charis’s chin in his hand and turned her head from left to right. “I hadn’t considered that.”
Tuirgeis, face still impassive, allowed humor to suffuse his voice. “Well, you should, before someone else offers to buy her from you and keep her themselves. I have given her to you, and so I’ll tell Jarl Olav Magnusson when we return.”
He had expected that, but Agnarr remembered to express his thanks as Tuirgeis released his healer. “A leman,” he went on, thinking about it and smiling. “Yes, I might.”
“But Magda Elsdottir?” Tuirgeis said, smiling now as he turned to cross the deck. His laugh was rich. “I am not sure she’ll approve!”
Agnarr chuckled to himself. Magda, his betrothed, likely wouldn’t care. Elsdottir was not anxious for the match, for she wished to marry someone with more wealth. Though he could now afford her bride price, he reminded himself.
He brought his attention back to his slave, Charis. “I shall have to come up with a name for you.”
The woman looked right through him, not showing any sign of interest. Agnarr felt a pressure building up inside himself, tightening his muscles in the ancient battle-response. “You will listen to me!” he insisted, lashing out at her with his voice, not his hands. Her eyes flickered in response, and he grabbed her roughly by the arm to compel her to pay attention. Finally, those pale eyes were seeing him, not seeing through him. He saw the antagonism in her, felt the hatred in her rigid body.
Agnarr knew she would have to be dealt with, but not here on the ship. There would be time enough for that when they reached his home. Without a word, he pushed her firmly to the deck and turned his back on her. He had his men to see to and they carried more weight with him than the stubbornness of one trell.
The sea. All around him. No land in sight anywhere.
“Oh, God,” Cowan sighed loudly, not caring who heard him. “Why didn’t you get me out of this? Lord, what good can I do here instead of with my people?”
He heard a soft snort near his feet. Turning within the rough ropes that bound him to the heavy, briny mast, Cowan saw Charis propped up on her elbow staring at him. She’d been quiet, alternately crying into her arms or searching the faces on the ship for people she knew.
Until now, she had not chosen to interact with him since he had made her speak to the foreign lords. Cowan didn’t dwell on that; he was more concerned about his own situation, his father’s people, and the guilt he carried for Martin’s death.
Martin had been killed. Tuirgeis had, oddly enough, looked mildly sorry to have done so, but Cowan could only try to remember that Martin had tried to die a martyr’s death.
But had he really? Cowan didn’t know. Was Martin’s death for Christ or for his own need to stand up for something in a new land?
“What are you talking to that god of yours for?” The healer’s derisive tone sufficed to drag Cowan from his heartache and worry over the future, if not quite the guilt of the past.
“Did you not believe in the One True God?” Cowan asked, surprised that the village closest to Bangor Monastery would have harbored anyone who was not of the faith.
He watched Charis hitch herself up slowly, a handspan at a time. The moonlight cast her face in shadow, but it made her hair look almost angelic. The canopy that had shaded her during the day had been removed. No added resistance to the wind was wanted and seeing the stars was essential for night sailing. Charis tossed a tangled section of hair over her shoulder and made another disdainful sound. “One True God? I thought you weren’t a monk.” Her tone was soft but scathing, and Cowan had to wonder what the monks had done to earn such a comment. The way she spoke sounded as if she classed the monks with the barbarians.
“I’m not a monk,” Cowan assured her. “But I do believe in Jesu, the Christ.”
“The monks would have had me killed for not believing in him,” she asserted, tossing a hand in denial. “Because they thought I had to be a witch.”
Are the rumors true, then? Cowan wondered silently.
Was she? He had to ask. “Well, which of the gods do you worship, then?” Many in his father’s lands worshiped the old ones, though the druids had been discredited long since. Monasteries and schools all over Éire taught of the One True God and his Son.
The wind beat at the sail overhead in the silence after his question. Finally, Charis shrugged and moved to lean against the wooden mast. He couldn’t see her as clearly, but perhaps that was her intention.
“I don’t worship anyone or anything. The god you speak of is weak and a coward to have allowed anyone to kill his son. And to have such men as monks as his servants! And the Old Ones are not effective either. No, there’s only a person’s wits to get them through the world.” She laughed—a short, hard and eloquent sound. “How could those stupid monks think I was a witch? I healed one of their own, and he saw that I had no magic or power over him, just my plants and what Achan taught me.”
Her voice was determined, and he could see her hands laced confidently over her knees beside his. He was relieved that she used no magic. “Who’s Achan? Was he your father?”
Another long pause greeted his question, and Cowan thought perhaps Charis had withdrawn again, thinking of her husbands, silent tears sliding down her cheeks. He had seen that often this day. Hers had not been the only tears shed either.
“Achan, well now, he raised me, understand,” she said, her tone now more lyrical, like a bard’s. “But he was not my father.”
“Your father died, then?” It was a long time ago, of course, and he did not anticipate an emotional reaction. His own mother had died when he was a wee lad, barely walking. His father had wed another, in a marriage of the second degree, since he had far more to bring to the marriage than she.
“I don’t know who my father was,” Charis admitted, her voice quiet.
Feeling as if he had made an error in judgment, Cowan tried again. “So was Achan your mother’s husband?” Fathers, under the old Brehon laws, were liable for the support of their children, unless those children had been begat by trickery or if the mother had prostituted herself. Charis would have had a hard time of it without a man’s support, in all likelihood. How had she wed two husbands when she had not had the status of a father?
“Achan was not my mother’s husband. He said—well, he said he found me.”
Startled, Cowan stretched to turn his head as far as he could, so he could see her face for a moment. “What? You were abandoned?”
“I’ll tell you what Achan told me,” Charis said slowly.
“Achan said that it was winter when I was born, about twenty-one winters past. The tail end of the worst season ever.”