by Sandi Layne
“Does she speak our tongue?” Gerda asked, eyeing Charis carefully. “Did you bring her home for your use or to sell?”
“She is mine.” It was a statement, and something about his voice made his mother stare at him in some surprise. Gerda darted a glance back and forth between Agnarr and Magda, and Charis decided then that Gerda did not approve of Magda and that the older woman supported her son. That was as it should be.
If I had had children, I would have done the same.
The thought made her heart hurt with longing and missing her men, though, so Charis swiftly banished it.
“Magda, it was good to see you,” Gerda said, her words slow enough that Charis could follow without difficulty. “I know your father will be waiting for you. You must share a meal with us this night, to welcome Agnarr home.”
The dark-eyed woman left with a bow for her future husband’s mother, and Charis was ushered toward the long, wooden house without further delay.
“My home,” Agnarr told her, waving at the steep-roofed house. It was a sturdy-looking dwelling, much larger than Charis had ever seen before in her life. It was not as large as the monastery, but it was long, much longer than a garden field at home. The planks were upright, and appeared to be sunken into the earth itself. Gerda went indoors first, followed by her son and Charis came in last.
The only light in the long house came through smoke-holes in the roof. There were three hearths that Charis could see as she waited to let her eyes adjust to the darker environment. Along the walls were narrow platforms heaped with furs. No straw mattresses, so Charis wondered where the family would sleep. On that ship, she had slept on a smelly wooden deck. Would she be sleeping on the floor here?
Gerda was obviously the woman of the home, for she moved as if she were mistress of this place. Her steps were sure as she reached the middle hearth. “Here, Agnarr. Come have tea or ale. It is good to have you home. Your brothers will be back soon.”
Charis heard about the additional members of the family with some trepidation. Would her servitude extend to them? Fear made her shrink back into the shadows, but Agnarr brought her forward to join him at the middle hearth. He took his shield and cloak from her and Magda’s wrap, which was still counted among the things Agnarr had asked her to hold. The other assorted items, including a comb made from some kind of deer bone, were in a pouch that he directed her to put on one of the platforms.
While she did so, Charis heard the patient voice of Agnarr’s mother as the older woman bustled to see to the comforts of her son. “Ale for you, Agnarr. And now, tell me, how did you fare?”
Charis kept back until she was beckoned forward again. In the midst of the new place, Agnarr was the most familiar thing and she clung to his presence with a strength that surprised her.
Agnarr’s voice rumbled amidst his beard, and she could distinguish the word “leman” again between his mouth and his cup of ale. From where she stood, just to his right, she could smell the fermented beverage. So far, Charis understood clearly, even if the role of leman was beyond her total grasp, frustrating her, but every time she had asked what it meant, she had not received a straight answer. She couldn’t bring herself to ask Agnarr outright.
Gerda nodded stiffly at Charis, and the healer tried to find something in the older woman’s face that was favorable. Nothing, really, just a blank space, like a willow’s smooth bark. Agnarr jostled her just a little and Charis thought perhaps she was required to say something.
In her best Norse, she said, “Good day.”
“You speak our language?” Gerda asked, leaning close enough for Charis to see her face better in the light of the fire.
Charis bowed her head once. “I try to learn,” she said, wanting to sound respectful. After all, Gerda had not killed her men. Gerda had not taken her from her home. The round-faced woman had not taken her on the deck of a ship and tied her to a mast. Toward Gerda, Charis felt no animosity, just a concern about not offending, because if she were a kindly face, then perhaps . . . perhaps Charis could learn enough to leave.
To leave . . . to end the ninth-degree marriage that bound her. “Only as long as the man can hold her,” was the law of the Brehon. Her law. The law she would follow as long as there was breath in her body.
As soon as she exacted revenge on Agnarr. It would pain this woman, his mother. But Gerda would understand. And if she did not, Charis had no intention of remaining behind to find out.
“Who is that?”
Agnarr greeted his betrothed, taking her by the hands and drawing her into his home. He looked behind her to the thin-faced man. A slave. From the monastery back in Eir’s land.
Magda had fifteen winters to her credit, and she had used every one of them to perfect haughty looks and a superior attitude. Her father was a major landowner; she could afford to cultivate such an aspect. She slanted Agnarr a gleaming glance. “That? That’s my trell, Agnarr. His name, he said, is Bran.”
The thin man came in at a proper pace behind his owners, and Agnarr couldn’t help but compare his demeanor to Eir’s. Hearing his name, the dark-haired man stopped and bowed in respect.
Agnarr retained his grasp on Magda, but kept his eyes on Bran. He was too smooth, too accepting. Maybe, though, his medicine woman was just too rebellious?
“Why did you choose him?” Agnarr asked Magda, escorting her to the long table that had been set up for their evening meal. “When did you have time?”
“Els bought him for me. I thought, you have a new trell; I wanted one, too.”
Agnarr just stared at her, remembering to close his mouth before turning again to study the monk. The monk had taken up a position near the cook-fire, near Agnarr’s own leman. As Agnarr watched, Eir turned her back on the newcomer and bent to stir the stew.
“Why him?” Agnarr asked again.
Magda eyed her new acquisition. “Oh, he’s very educated, my father said. He tells wonderful stories. Do you know, that even though he was captured when your—your kvinn medisin was, he is learning our language very well already. I got him so he could tell me stories. That will be very enjoyable, you know, during the winter.”
Agnarr nodded absently. Something about this bothered him, an itch at the back of his neck. It was reminiscent of the prebattle tension that enveloped him. But there was no danger here; this was his home.
Magda’s father, Els, claimed his notice next. “Welcome home. Good trading?”
Agnarr gripped the other man’s forearm in gesture of respect. “Yes. Very good. We brought much gold back for the Jarl. And information.”
Els lost the sparkle that had been evident in his light brown eyes. Tugging at his drooping, white-streaked mustache, he pulled Agnarr aside, nearer to the bed platforms that lined the wall. “Information. Yes. We, too, have had information since you left us. Tuirgeis is being summoned to the Jarl this night, as a matter of fact, and I’m sure that Olav will have something to say to him about it.”
Impatient, Agnarr tried to contain his voice, darting a glance around to see if anyone was paying them heed. He saw only his healer’s eyes on him, but her expression was unreadable. He focused again on Els, wishing the man didn’t have that annoying tendency to stretch out information. Yet, Els was the father of his future wife, and he needed to stay on good terms with the man if he wanted to marry Magda.
“What is the information?” he asked with what he felt was admirable control.
“Vigaldr, of Jolster, has been moving.”
“Ah,” was all Agnarr allowed himself to say in reaction. Then he nodded gravely and attempted to move away. Mead, yes. The sweetness of fermented honey would be perfect right now to help him think.
He beckoned to his healer. With a toss of her head, she came to him. Agnarr caught the glare Magda sent her way, and he felt Els stiffen.
“Did you have to bring a woman home?” the older man rasped.
“She’s a skilled surgeon,” Agnarr replied. “I have never seen one better. After a battle, she wi
ll be invaluable.”
Els grunted. His voice was a tad bitter when he persisted. “My daughter told me that your slave was your leman.”
Eir reached them, her pale face stony. With the barest lift of her brow, she managed to tell Agnarr that she was only there because being near Magda’s storyteller was worse, and that she would obey only until she had managed to enact her revenge. Agnarr felt all of this in the power of pale gray eyes, though she spoke not a word.
“Mead,” he commanded. “For my guest and myself.”
“Mead?” she repeated, the barest crease of a frown on her pale forehead.
“Does she not speak our tongue?” Els inquired. His tone grew superior. “Our new slave is almost fluent. He must be more intelligent than yours.”
Agnarr chose not to argue the issue in front of the woman. “This is Eir,” he told Els. “And she has not chosen to learn our tongue. I will convince her to be more obedient.” To his recalcitrant slave, he repeated himself, indicating where the beverage was and showing her he wanted two cups. “Immediately,” he added.
Sparing a blank glance for Els, Eir turned and did as she had been bidden.
“Your daughter will be my wife, Els, and she will have all the status of a woman of Halvard’s family. She will not starve, and she will have two servants, apparently, at her calling. It will be well.” Agnarr locked gazes with the older farmer, daring Els to contradict him in his own home.
With graceful defiance, the healer returned, bearing two cups of the fragrant mead. Agnarr nodded his approval and indicated with the flicker of a finger that she should remain close to him. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t entirely trust the monk. When he wed Elsdottir, he would have to keep an eye on the two of them until he understood that . . . relationship.
Els tapped him with the rim of his mead cup. “I have heard,” he said, going back to his earlier concern, “that Vigaldr wants our port and farms. He might try to take them by force.”
Agnarr shook his head. “He’ll be overrun before he gets here. He can’t think to match us and still stand up against Olav.” The Jarl could command a formidable force of arms. It was rumored that there were even berserkers among his ceorls—his personal guards.
“The elders think that you and Tuirgeis should see to training the young men, in case they are needed while the raiders are off trading.”
“I am home for the season. There is much to do in preparation for wedding your daughter, and I have to help my brothers with the farms and herd.” Els nodded his approval and they moved to join the others at the table. As they did so, Eir moved away again. That was proper, so Agnarr did not comment.
His brother Bjørn grinned hugely. “Hail, Agnarr! Mighty warrior! But where is your helmet? I haven’t seen it among your belongings.” He grinned and winked good-naturedly. “I have, though, seen your biggest prize from the journey!”
The brothers laughed, but the women remained unresponsive. Gerda instructed the new slaves how to serve, and the monk joined Eir in setting wooden platters of roast and stew on the long boards of the table.
Arknell, his other brother, grinned likewise. “Hail, Agnarr! With gold enough to buy his bride!”
Cups were lifted in honor of Magda Elsdottir, and Agnarr noted his healer was filling them neatly. Good.
The meal progressed smoothly. After they ate, Magda made an announcement.
“My servant, Bran, will share with us a story from his homeland!”
Agnarr smiled at her enthusiasm. She had always been a pretty girl, the more so when her eyes were flashing and her temper was good. His job would be to make it so as often as possible.
The monk came forward, hands folded in front of his stomach, as the storytellers of old had always done. “This is story of my people,” he announced, his Norse heavily accented, but clear. “I do not know it all in your language, so ask to sing it in my own.”
Magda gracefully waved him on to do so.
He began, his voice strong and melodious as he sang a liquid-sounding song with rhyme and meter. An intricate poem. Agnarr enjoyed it, even knowing nothing of the subject matter.
Until his healer rose to her feet and shouted at her countryman before running headlong from the longhouse.
Chapter 13
Smoke wound up through the hole in the roof of the long, wooden house. The rich aroma of roast mutton still curled through the air, reminding Cowan Kingson—as he had been introduced here—of the meal he had just eaten, in company with his master, Tuirgeis, and Olav, his host. Weapons were braced against the far wall, blades and spear tips reflecting the orange of the fire. Furs lined the platforms that were constructed on the far end of the dwelling. Wooden beams gave way to the smoke hole, shields hung on the walls, and the Jarl’s wife, son and daughter were sitting on the edges of other bed platforms, listening to the report on the raid of Cowan’s homeland.
The pain of hearing the recounting of that awful day so many weeks ago was sharper than Cowan had expected, even if he did not understand every word.
They were at the home of Jarl Olav, a personage that Cowan could only describe as the local king. Tuirgeis, though, had told him that Nordweg did not have a king, but there were lords. A Jarl was an overlord, with the power to make war if he were strong enough.
Tuirgeis had told him more as well. After they had seen to the Northmen who had gone on the raid, Tuirgeis had gathered the slaves and gold to present to his lord, Jarl Olav. He had already apportioned some out to his most trusted warriors and sold one slave, Bran, from the monastery.
Jarl Olav nodded when the tale had been told. “You’ve done well, Tuirgeis,” he pronounced. With a wave of his hand, the lord indicated a large leather sack, filled with coins and golden jewelry. “For you and your sons. Next year, though, bring back more trells. We could use more here to help with the livestock. We are in need of our young men to prepare for war.”
Tuirgeis acknowledged both the gift and the instruction with a nod of his dark head. “So you have had word since I went away. We had suspected it, but you are now sure.” It was not a question, except in a slight inflection toward the end. Cowan pressed his lips together as he translated the words and their significance.
The Jarl slapped his hands on his thighs. “We think that Vigaldr will be raiding here before the winter.”
Cowan listened carefully, thanking God that he had been blessed with a gift for acquiring new languages. Jarl Olav stroked his beard, rising to pace. Olav was a man of middle height but his voice was deeper than the deepest well on Éire, Cowan thought. The overlord wore clothing woven of rich red wadmal, a felted wool that allowed the passage of air but also served to keep one warm when needed. His hair was silvered brown, long and thick, braided at the temples. While he took his slow, measured steps in his great hall, the Jarl spoke to Tuirgeis again. “I want you to oversee the warrior training in Balestrand, Tuirgeis.”
Cowan watched as his master rose to his feet, cradling a cup of warm mead in his hand. “I am always happy to be of service, lord, but are you sure I should be the one?”
“Ja. You have their respect.” At Tuirgeis’s look of surprised gratification, Olav elaborated. “I do listen to the people, Tuirgeis. The skein of my life has led me to this position, and Odin has made it clear to me whom he wants to have fight. I consulted the village völva, and she said that Thor has chosen you and yours to lead in case of battle.”
Cowan did not know what a völva was, but he did understand that a battle was forthcoming.
He was not sure what his role would be though. He was a slave, and he had not been allowed to carry more than a knife on his own. Would he be allowed to fight? Would he want to? Is that why God in his Heaven had allowed him to be captured?
It didn’t feel quite fitting to Cowan, son of Branieucc. He decided to bide his time and wait to see what each day brought him. For now, he was to be a translator. That much he knew.
Cowan was allowed to sit in a far corner of the Jarl’s house. He
heard the others talk about affairs that had taken place while Tuirgeis was out raiding, but the names washed over Cowan like small, slippery fish. He thought he should remember them, but he could not summon the energy to concentrate anymore. It had been a day full of many tiring impressions, from the morning view of the green land, to the controversy with Agnarr’s bride-to-be, the long hike to Jarl Olav’s home, and now the informational meeting.
This, and Cowan decided his mind was extremely tired from translating all day. When will this become easier? Will I ever hear my native tongue again?
Thinking of Éire and his people, Cowan instantly imagined Charis. He saw her as he had last seen her, arms heaped high with battle arms and clothing. How was she doing this evening? Did she know what her status meant yet?
Cowan frowned a little as he dwelt on her. The laws she held said she was now wed to her captor, for as long as that man could hold on to her. But look how far we are from home, Lord God, Cowan thought, closing his eyes and leaning back against the warm wooden wall behind him. He could smell the herbs in the air, left over from the roasted mutton cooked earlier that night, and the aroma reminded him of Charis. He could see her hair, reflecting the light of the full moon and the way her pale eyes would flash with temper and pool with sorrow.
He knew what she would be doing tonight. Cowan tried ineffectually to shut his imagination to the pictures. But would her face be battered? Would her clothing be torn? Or would she succumb meekly to her new role . . . as he had done himself?
Cowan felt his face crinkle in a smile and silent, derisive exhalation. Charis? Succumb meekly to anything? Not by all the verses of the Blessed Patrick.
He sat up suddenly, feeling over-warm and disconcerted. Why? He came from a lusty, passionate family. There were few secrets in Éire, in a large family, where a lad’s parents frequently enjoyed each other. Cowan had met many men from all over the peopled lands. Franks, Spaniards, Moors, Germans, and Slavs. He had heard them speak with laughter and explicitness about the ways of men and women in their native lands. The men and women of Éire were more naturally open about sex in and out of the marriage relationship than many other peoples, and Cowan had accepted that. It normally did not discomfit him in the least. What was different now?