by Sandi Layne
“My father told me about that one,” Cowan interrupted, remembering as he settled against the ropes again. “That was the year my mother died of the lung rot.”
“Isea, that was a hard year,” Charis continued, her voice seeming to become one with the moonlight and lapping waves. “Achan was out on a walk and said that finding my mother was like finding a lucky charm or something. A gift from the very earth.”
“He found your mother?” Had she been cast out?
Charis shifted uncomfortably. “Well, he said she was in a wolf’s den, but she was not a wolf. A lady, he said, by her clothes. He thought,” she went on, her voice slipping to little more than a whisper, “that she might have been of the sidhe.”
Cowan strained once more to see her face. “The sidhe?”
“Do you mock my foster father?” Charis demanded, her voice still oddly quiet.
“No, not at all. My father claims to have seen some of the fair folk, and I know I’ve heard tales of them that I believe.”
“Well, I’m not sure I believe, but I only know that the woman who was my mother died giving birth to me. I never knew her name.”
“I’m sorry,” Cowan offered, when it seemed she had finished her story.
“I was sorrier when Achan died,” Charis said. “But by then, I knew I had to stand for myself, and so I have.” She turned then, surprising him by the direct way she confronted him. “And I will tell you, Cowan, that no god could have done more for me than Achan. He was there for me, he taught me the ways of healing and surgery, and he showed me how to live. I don’t need to hear about your god.”
“He’s not the weak coward you think he is, Charis,” Cowan felt compelled to say. The scriptures reminded him that anyone who was ashamed of Jesu before men would be held in contempt before Christ, or so he had read. “He is strong beyond anything.”
Charis’s lip curled, he saw as she turned her head. “Then why didn’t your god save you from the Northmen?”
To that, Cowan had no answer.
Chapter 9
“Charis.”
Charis avoided Agnarr’s summons as a matter of principle, choosing instead to continue to plait the tangled mess of her hair as the oarsmen angled their ship into the harbor. She had grieved deeply for her husbands; the last nine days on the deck of this ship as they sailed over the wide, wide water had given her nothing but time to grieve. But now, it was time to bury her sorrow. She had a duty to her people.
The crossing had been uneventful; nine days and eight nights of good winds. Charis had been compelled—by her own need to be of use as well as by Agnarr, her captor—to help the ill and wounded.
And now they were approaching land. A warm land, with people already on shore, waving to them, beckoning for them to bring the ship into port and—
And what? Charis didn’t know.
“Charis!” His heavy feet paced the center planks on his way to the small space of decking she’d claimed for the daylight hours. Before he reached her, she pushed herself up to her feet, by now used to the swaying of the deck beneath.
Without a word, she followed him to the bow of the ship, where Lord Tuirgeis was standing, making some motions to the people on shore. The leader turned then and called, “Kingson!”
None of the captives had been bound since the second day on the water, so Cowan was able to join them without delay. “Ja?” he said, in the tongue of the Northmen. Charis didn’t care for the language, but she hadn’t been able to help understanding some of it.
She decided not to listen further, instead focusing on the land in front of her. So far she had been able to avoid thinking about what would happen after the trip. Getting through each day had been trial enough. Perhaps she had become complacent, becoming used to the occasional directives from Agnarr, the casual conversation of the two fellow villagers on the ship, ignoring the monks as much as she was able.
But what would be happening now?
“Charis,” Cowan said, after a conversation with Lord Tuirgeis, “you are to help the women clean up before we are fast at port.”
“Are we at the Northmen’s home?” she asked.
The shore wind blew his hair into his eyes, so that he had to push it aside before enquiring of Lord Tuirgeis.
Charis tried to ignore Agnarr, who was also having trouble with his long blond hair. She patted her own braid with a subdued satisfaction and continued to study those on the shore as the ship drew nearer.
Some were dark of skin, others light. She saw no one with that almost-black skin, though she had seen a monk once with black skin, and had been fascinated by the sight. That monk had come from a land called Alexandria, and he had been taller and more intimidating than any monk Charis had seen before or since.
But the people on the shore did not have such dark skin. They were dressed well, as far as she could tell. Merchants, maybe? Lords? What would they be doing meeting the barbarians? A harbor was ready with secure places for the boats. Small houses and tents were visible on the cliffs. A slope from the cliffs led to the water, and Charis had to guess the ships would be landing there. But why?
Cowan cleared his throat. “Charis, Tuirgeis says that the women will be taken ashore, so they must be cleaned up. He wants you to do this right away.”
For no reason she could personally understand, Charis had no problem obeying Lord Tuirgeis. It was only Agnarr who made her want to take two steps sideways for each one he commanded her to go forward. Her muscles tensed at each command from him, even if it were to eat or drink what he’d provided for her.
Perhaps that was why Tuirgeis was issuing this order. Charis nodded and brushed past Agnarr, deliberately looking him directly in the eye as she went to follow orders. She heard him grunt as she moved beyond him, but she didn’t care to look back to see if he were smiling or frowning.
The women from her village who were going to shore were named Brigid and Aine, after the old goddess and Celtic faerie queen who used to be worshiped among some of her people. Were they still? Charis had never paid much heed, for she had given up on all supernatural beings long ago. The names were fair to hear, though, after days with the Northmen, and that was what mattered to her now.
They were huddled together near the center mast of the ship, looking frightened beyond all reason. “Come now,” she said, donning her role of healer like a tactile cloak. “We’re to be free of this ship, for a time anyway. Let’s be after looking our best, shall we?”
“But Charis,” Aine said, her green eyes wide, “I’m frightened. The people out there frighten me!” She clutched her threadbare léine more tightly to her body and perspiration dotted her forehead, though the air was far from warm.
Charis clucked her tongue at her, in a motherly sort of way. “Na, na,” she insisted, “they’re just different. Won’t it be a relief to get away from these barbarians for a time? I know I’m looking forward to solid ground under my feet.” Brigid eyed one of the Ostmen, a man named Thorvald.
Charis heard herself groan before Brigid spoke a word.
“They’re not ogres, Charis,” Brigid claimed, her eyes downcast. “Not all of them.”
Charis just shook her head. Maybe getting away from the Northman would help young Brigid see things more clearly. “Still,” she said, “I’d just as soon be free of them. Let’s get to looking presentable.”
Using fingers and sea-smelling old cloths, the women did their best to wipe their faces and plait their hair. The sea, sun and wind had given color to their faces. Soon they were ready. Brigid looked shyly at Thorvald as she approached Lord Tuirgeis, who was standing with authority at a ramp, preparing to disembark.
Cowan was at Tuirgeis’s side and Charis asked him, “Will we do? May we leave the ship now?”
The son of King Branieucc scrubbed at his thick red beard with the back of his fingers. “Well, Charis, we will be, but you won’t be.”
Ignoring the smell of spices and herbs that were now reaching her from the shoreline, Charis turned
fully to face Cowan. “What? Why not?”
“Agnarr says you must stay on the ship. He’ll be staying, too.”
Now that, above any and all things on the earth, was what Charis wanted most to avoid: being left alone with the man who had twice widowed her. “No,” she whispered harshly, turning without thought to glare at her blue-eyed captor. “He must want off this ship, too, don’t you think? Why would he not take me with him?” Agnarr had been a constant presence, so she did not think it unreasonable.
“Charis, lass, I think he’s just not wanting to have you out there. I think I’d be thankful, were I you. He’s not mistreated you, has he?”
“No,” she answered honestly. Agnarr had not hurt her exactly, but he had annoyed her considerably.
“Well, then, there you go.”
“Kingson!”
Cowan nodded to Lord Tuirgeis. “I’m off. I’ll be back.” Then, a strange sequence of expressions crossed his features: hope, despair, and a fair hint of cunning. “I think.”
Brigid and Aine were led off the ship, as were all the other captives and their captors. In an effort to avoid Agnarr as long as possible, Charis moved quickly up and down the deck, seeing the other ships that had traveled the sea with them. Perhaps she had a friend on another ship. Another one who, like herself, was remaining behind.
The red-striped sails were furled. She heard the familiar gulls looping overhead, hunting for their food. The sounds of strange voices on the shore blended with the distant sound of some sort of music. Laced through all of this were the welcome scents of spices and herbs.
“I want to go up there,” she wished, wondering if there was any way at all she could manage it. Perhaps Agnarr might choose to rest? Or relieve himself? Or go below to check on stores or bring out more barrels for fresh water? Several were already being rolled on the wooden dock. Just a moment, that was all she needed.
Carefully, she turned again, trying to appear casual and resigned to her fate. Running her fingers idly on the shields that had been left behind—though the barbarians had taken their spears with them—she paced the length of the ship, turning to move away from the ramp that led to the docking area. She felt Agnarr’s gaze following her, but ignored him. She moistened her lips, adjusted her apron—dirty as it was now, it was still her most precious possession—and sighed as if she were not thinking of a thing.
Agnarr soon grew tired of watching, and he grunted in that way he had before drawing his sword from its scabbard and settling down to sharpen its edge.
Whisk. Whisk. The metallic scraping sound of whetstone on metal. Whisk, whisk, whisk. When he established a rhythm, Charis started once more to edge toward the wooden ramp.
The small waves of the harbor lapped against the side of the ship as she reached her goal.
“Charis!” The whetstone stopped its predictable sound. “Né!” He then indicated she should stay on the ship, but she pretended not to understand him and moved another step toward her goal. The fragrance of the grass and smells of food curled under her nose and her steps continued toward the source.
She barely felt him coming, but his hand landed heavily on her shoulder to stop her progress. “Né!” he shouted in her face, ire and frustration flashing from his eyes. He told her in clear motions that she was to stay on the ship with him.
Spinning on her heel, she turned her back on him and tried to walk away. He stopped her merely by slipping that huge hand of his from her shoulder to her arm and tugging her back to him.
Fear prickled her skin as she watched his expression change. He said something, but she couldn’t understand it. She didn’t want to. The sudden tension in his body was both familiar and abhorrent to her as both of his hands clasped her arms before one slipped to her back, keeping her pressed against the hard length of his body.
His eyes spoke for him. You are mine.
She shuddered, violent revulsion making her want to vomit all over him. She didn’t. Her nostrils flared as she quickly reviewed and discarded her options.
It was possible that he was encouraged by her stillness; Charis didn’t know. But she let him lower his head, let him press her even more tightly, and let him try to kiss her.
Then she bit him.
After the initial shock and discomfort, Agnarr put Charis from him, threw back his head, and laughed.
“You have spirit! I will have to be careful, I see.” Picking her up to forestall any further escape attempts, Agnarr carried her to the center mast and unceremoniously dropped her to the deck. “Stay here, woman,” he instructed, sitting himself on an empty crate directly across from her. “I’ll not have you run off or be carried off by one of the Franks. I’m keeping you.”
His kvinn medisin was not looking through him now. No, those pale eyes were not even glaring. She looked worried. Well, she should, he told himself. It was about time she understood her position.
Yet, he didn’t wish her to be afraid of him, Agnarr realized. Respectful, yes. Obedient to him, of course. But not afraid.
He held her gaze as long as she stared at him, bemused by this change in her. Well, he concluded, as long as she didn’t try running away, he was content. There would be time enough for training when they reached Balestrand. Until then, he could chuckle at the bite she had given him and think of things to come.
Aside from a slight change in their positions to eat and drink, they stayed where they were for the remainder of the day. Agnarr did not set up his slave’s canopy this day; he didn’t wish to give any further indicator of the prize he was keeping from the slave traders on the shore.
As the sun moved in its trail across the sky, Agnarr started to look for his shipmates. He wondered if they’d been able to sell all of the slaves for a good profit. The treasure would make the Jarl pleased, he thought. Pleased enough to reward them all well for their efforts. He could take home some of the gold and silver, perhaps. Magda Elsdottir would appreciate that. Perhaps they could wed before winter, in a traditional harvest wedding celebration.
With gestures and words that he suspected the healer could understand even if she didn’t indicate it, Agnarr instructed her to get them something to eat.
She just stared at him, and looked around, as if to ask, “What is there to eat here?” She pointed to the shore, where they could see cook-fires and smell roasting meat.
His belly rumbled mightily and Agnarr conceded her point. Why, indeed, should the two of them eat the meager rations onboard when real food was available a stone’s throw away?
Resigned, he looked around to find his cloak. “Here,” he told his trell. “Put this over your head.”
He half draped it there himself before she took it and made the adjustments that hid her hair and shadowed her face from view. Satisfied that she would be concealed enough to keep prying eyes from lingering, Agnarr took her down to the shore, and they walked up the slope, toward the sounds and smells that beckoned.
Norse jokes and thick laughter reached him from the third fire distant, so he made toward it, keeping the woman next to him by wrapping his arm around her shoulders. The sweet smell of wine met him, as did the crackling sounds of dripping fat over the fire. No female trells were present, so Agnarr concluded they had all been sold. Good. Tuirgeis was not at the fire; neither was Kingson. Perhaps they were making a bargain somewhere else.
The blue of the sky deepened overhead as Agnarr and Charis reached the circle of ravenous Ostmen. The air was still pleasant, the sounds of his homeland blending curiously with the chatter of other peoples, foreign music, and the occasional cry of an animal. Women, draped beguilingly, beckoned to groups of men, but he bypassed them all.
Familiar voices shouted: “Agnarr! Glad you came.”
“So you decided to join us, then?” Thorvald called out, his voice slurred by wine. “Good. Come, eat. This is the best roast we’ve had since we left home!”
Thorvald was not known as a drunkard, so Agnarr was curious as to why he was drinking so heavily now. The big, shaggy-mane
d man had a full wineskin in one hand and had evidently dismissed the notion of a drinking cup.
“How did the sales go?” Agnarr inquired.
Thorvald and Bjørn moved to make room for him and his slave. “Well. We sold them all. Tuirgeis kept his slave, and you kept yours, but the rest of them from our ship have been sold. We still have a couple of the monks, though, in Askel’s ship.”
“Good. Slaves can be of use at home as well.”
“Ja.” Bjørn nudged Agnarr with an elbow, indicating the kvinn medisin with his wooden cup. “So? Have you given her a name yet?”
Agnarr paused. He had not, but that was only because he had thought to wait until he was home. Yet it seemed to him that a perfectly good name was right before his eyes.
“I haven’t decided, but I will have one before we get home.”
“Better give her one now,” advised Thorvald, who had a few slaves of his own, for he rented land from the Jarl. “She’s stubborn, that one. We’ve all seen it.”
Agnarr chuckled. Charis looked up at him. That wariness was back in her pale gray eyes. “Eir. After the goddess of healing.”
“Lofty name for a slave!” Bjørn joked, taking a draught of his wine. “But she’s your leman, so it’s up to you!” Was it common knowledge then? Charis—Eir—would surely hear and eventually understand, Agnarr decided.
Well. For the best then. His wyrd would not be avoided.
After they had eaten and Agnarr had consumed his share of the heady red wine, he rose. “We’re back to the ship for the night. Any of you coming?”
“No, we’ll be finding good company here ashore!” Raucous laughter circled the group of men. It had been weeks for some of them, since they’d been with a woman. The slaves didn’t quite count, since they’d been forced. But a willing woman—even if paid for—was better than a slave.
“As you will,” he said, drawing Eir to him again. “ ’Til the morning tide.”
They had taken perhaps a dozen steps down the slope when Agnarr addressed his leman by her new name. It was time for her to understand her position; no better time, he concluded, than right now.