by Sandi Layne
Not liking the inky shadow of suspicion that had crept into his mind, Agnarr shoved the monk roughly from him. “Be gone!”
Agnarr strode quickly to the pile of wooden weapons—no steel, today—and greeted the would-be warriors.
“Bruised today?”
“Ja!”
It took an effort, but Agnarr pushed his suspicions about his healer from the upper surfaces of his mind. A true warrior worthy of Thor’s hammer—as Agnarr believed himself to be, and the iron hammer charm he wore proclaimed him to be for others—would not let himself be distracted by a woman.
The healer had been the downfall of her husbands, Agnarr reminded himself before he pushed her face away. He made a vow to the All-Father: I will not let her be so to me!
The weeks passed. Charis watched the sun take longer to appear over the mountains to the east and saw it set earlier and earlier in the west. The winds blew more harshly over land and water, and Charis wove and embroidered a heavy cloak such as the Northmen wore. Cold rains fell and she scavenged the local fields, trying to find as many of her herbs as she could that were still growing. Clover, dandelions, chamomile. These and others would provide tonics to keep people from becoming ill when fresh foods were not available. The winters, Gerda had told her many times, were harsh.
Agnarr continued to train the young men in their weapons. Wood had been replaced with iron, bruises with open wounds on occasion. Such wounds were what Charis had been raised treating. Achan had taught her surgery on such injuries. She well understood how to stitch skin and poultice raw muscle.
But there was something wrong of late in the village. The men were not coming to her for their wounds to be treated. They had at first, a moon ago or so. She had set wide cabbage leaves on the bruises and staunched the bleeding when one of the men, Snorri, had a tooth knocked from his head.
Charis wondered at the new reluctance to be treated at her hands. Though she hated being in this land, she was content to heal the wounded and treat the sick as she counted the days to spring.
This day, the sun was a weak presence in the sky. Charis sat in front of Agnarr’s family home and pounded dried flower petals into powder for teas. She hummed to herself, a song that Achan’s wife, Nuala, had sung to her before the older woman had died. It was a plaintive melody, telling of the cycle of life and death, of winter and spring, of sickness and healing. It was a good song, making Charis feel as if her life served a purpose, even as far off from her people as she was.
The wooden bench she sat on was smooth from years and years of use. Carvings told a story of Odin the All Father. Even the gods of the Northmen made no sense to her. She smiled in satisfaction at her herbs. “Yes, you make sense,” she whispered above the crushed petals.
She portioned out the herbs into separate piles and slid them into the prepared linen pouches. Embroidery helped her identify the different types of medicines, since crushed herbs often looked similar to one another.
A shadow fell across her lap and she looked up, an ominous tingle up the back of her neck that made her stiffen. It was Bran. Again.
He spoke to her in quiet, rapid Gaeilge. “Your magic shows you for what you are, Charis, daughter of none. I have heard of your birth, and I know who and what you are!”
“You’re an adder, Bran,” she spat. “And I see your poison drip from your lying tongue!”
His eyes narrowed, but he shut his mouth with a snap. She glared at him before sitting again, tucking her herbs away. The peace of the afternoon was stolen from her.
“Bhaen sidhe,” he hissed, very much like the adder she had called him. “Your words and magic bring death. You breathe it like the fae of the old legends. I can see it. My God says that we cannot allow a witch to live and neither can we the bhaen sidhe!”
With a cry that rose from her gut, Charis lunged to her feet again. “How dare you? I am not one of the evil ones! I never have been! You, who believe in your dead god, can dare to call down the wrath of the sidhe?”
She bent to retrieve her herbs, holding the thyme that had spilled out of its pouch, and would have gone indoors, but his hard hand stopped her. “Don’t walk from me,” he insisted. “I want to see you saved, don’t you see? Saved from the evil of your birth. If you would just give your life to Jesu the Christ—”
“Silence!” she roared, infuriated. “I healed you, monk. I did. Not your god or his son. Me! And I will hear nothing more of him!”
“Do not tempt the wrath of God,” he growled, with none of the feigned peace he usually wore like a mantle.
When his hand moved to slap her, she stood tall before him. He thought she was of the bhaen sidhe? So be it. In a high, powerful voice, she shouted: “You will die here, Bran, cousin of Colum.” She flung him back from her, open handed, forgetting about the loose herb she carried. It flew in his face. “You will die alone and unlamented in a land far from your fathers and no one will mourn you save the grass over your head!”
The coward crossed himself and tried to spit on her before rubbing at his face and turning to run from her. She heard him shouting to anyone who would listen that “an evil one” had been set loose in their midst.
Chapter 16
“Eir!”
The healer sighed, but felt her gut clench in tension. She was just a slave here. But then, so was Bran. She did not understand the laws, but she did understand that a trell had no standing in their society, save what their master bestowed upon them.
She gathered her herb packets and put them in her assorted pockets. Then she brushed her hands free of any lingering traces of her plants; she did not want to cause one of these warriors any unlucky reactions. She met the warriors on her feet, but she was a little afraid, for she was unsure about what would happen.
Besides, Agnarr was not among the warriors, and she was his. If nothing else, she knew he would not hurt her; he valued her highly.
She knew the leader of this group of men, for he was Agnarr’s brother, Arknell. He made her nervous; she had seen his eye on her in the longhouse and knew he had already offered to buy her from Agnarr when the marriage to Magda Elsdottir was solemnized. The notion made the healer shudder even to think of. Agnarr was bad enough, but he had always treated her well, in accordance with his ways. Yes, he had killed her men, but she had come to a place where she could make it through a day without grieving over that.
To do otherwise could have driven her mad.
Arknell stood in front of her, though he was not standing close. Behind him was Magda’s father, Els. Bran was nowhere to be seen. He was likely trying to flush the thyme from his eyes, which would be the best thing he could do.
Agnarr’s brother spoke. “Eir. Els, here says you cursed the slave of his daughter. I have seen evidence that you have caused him damage to his eyes, and he claims you have called down power from dark gods to smite him.”
In spite of the seriousness of the charge, and in spite of the array of warriors staring at her in a blend of fear, loathing, and a strange fascination, Charis had to smile at Arknell. “I honor no gods, dark or not, lord,” she said, trying not to smile more broadly. Really, these men were so ready to believe a Christian storyteller. “And I am sure there is no permanent damage to Bran’s eyes. He and I did not agree earlier, but I never touched him except to keep him from striking me.”
“But his eyes!” Els asserted, stepping forward and thrusting his chest out in his most imposing manner. “I’ve seen them. They look to have been attacked by evil spirits!”
The men all made signs against evil, crossing fingers or spitting over their shoulders. Charis sniffed in disgust. In doing so, she was made more aware of the odor of fear among the men. They believed her to have hurt someone.
Such a hurt was punishable by fines or by like treatment here.
But I am only a slave here. Bran is only a slave. Surely they won’t bring us before the lovsigemann.
“Lord Els,” Charis said, her voice respectful because to be otherwise might be dangerous
right now. “I say again that I did not cause him permanent damage. I had an herb in my hands when he tried to strike me and the herb caused him the damage as it flew from my fingers.”
“There! You see! She did have something to do with it. She did hurt him! She’s put out his eyes!” The cries rose from various men in the group. “Find out what it was and do the same to her!”
Charis raised her hands and, strangely, all the men were silenced, save Arknell. “You have heard the men, Eir,” he began to say.
“It was only an herb!” she protested. “Thyme! He has an unlucky reaction to it, but truly, my lords, it was just thyme.”
The men took up cries again, some saying that she should still have thyme in her own eyes, and others saying that Bran should be held to account for concerning warriors in a personal matter. Still other opinions varied from dropping the business to waiting a week to see if Bran truly had been permanently damaged. This would mean that his owner would be recompensed for his value.
“We’ll take her to Agnarr,” Arknell decided, hauling her against him and turning to face the rest of the men. “He will decide.”
The wind picked up and clouds pushed across the sky as they left the village in search of Agnarr. As trainer of the young men, he had them out running to build up their endurance. The cold day would mean nothing with bodies hot from running, Charis had heard him say to his mother and brothers only that morning. So the group, Arknell and Charis at their head, went out in search of the young men.
As they passed through the village, Charis could feel the stares of the adults and the frank curiosity of the children. Arknell was not dragging her, precisely, but he had instructed her to keep her hands away from her herbs and not to talk as they went in search of Agnarr, and such a large procession had to garner some attention.
The word “witch” was being passed around as she was herded along. Charis sighed, but she was also a little worried. Out here, no one understood her people. Her only “husband” was a man who had killed her men, and there was no one else to speak for her.
They kept moving, out the wooden gates, to a dried-mud path. It was cracked in places, smooth along the edges, where heavy feet had not yet trampled. Little grew here at this time. It was becoming too cold and the plants were all asleep under the earth, to wait for spring’s breath to waken them.
Arknell stopped as the path gave way to worn earth and dying grasses. The green and brown expanse was flattened in a rough way to the right, toward the hills. “They went this way,” Arknell decided, and the group of men traveled, following the trail of the running warriors-in-training. The trail led them over the nearest two hills, past the shepherd slaves trying to give the sheep as much a chance to feed here on the earth as possible before they were brought down to wait out the winter. Sunlight fell in ever-shrinking patches on the ground as they followed the trail until they saw the young warriors and their leader, apparently catching their breath.
“Agnarr!” Els called, impatient.
Arknell hushed him with a gesture of his free hand. Charis remained silent.
Agnarr beckoned them all down to where he waited with his warriors. Charis stumbled down the slope, but Arknell didn’t seem to care. His whole attention was focused on his brother, who was standing, legs apart, arms crossed in front of his massive chest, and scowling up at the approaching band of men.
Charis waited for Agnarr to start yelling. It did not happen. Instead, he waited for the entire group to reach the small valley at the foot of the hill. He watched her face all the while, an inscrutable expression on his own.
“Well?” he asked. Her, not Arknell. “What have you done?”
Charis opened her mouth, but Arknell clapped his free hand over it. If she had not been surrounded by so many angry and fearful men, Charis would have bitten him.
Agnarr transferred his attention to his brother. “Well?” An abrupt gesture indicated Charis herself, but his clear blue eyes were no longer chilling her.
Arknell brought her forward, pushing her toward Agnarr. “She cursed Elsdottir’s slave, brother. She shouted at him in their tongue and made his eyes swell and water, and it is feared he has permanently lost the use of his eyes.”
Charis was expecting Agnarr to put their fears to rest. Did he himself not sleep with her, night after night, to no ill effect? Had she not cooked for him? Had she ever hurt him?
She had more cause to kill the Northman who had killed her men than she had cause to curse Bran, even if she believed in such things as curses.
“That slave has come to me with such tales,” Agnarr finally said. “I did not heed him then.”
Els stepped up, righteous indignation bristling from his mustache. “She is your slave, Agnarr. What will you do? My daughter—your future wife—demands recompense.”
Agnarr crossed his arms again. His warriors-in-training made a half-circle behind him, watching the proceedings with unveiled interest. Charis saw that, but her primary focus was Agnarr. He held her life in his hands here, she thought. Or at least her physical well-being. What if their confusing laws forced him to give her, Charis, to his betrothed?
Charis would run, though the snow would be blowing by nightfall. She could taste it in the air. But nothing would make her stay with Magda Elsdottir unless she was also with Agnarr, who had—thus far—protected her.
Cowan was trudging along just behind Lord Tuirgeis. A chill wind was blowing from the north and he bundled his cloak more tightly about himself. That and the walking were warming him.
Tuirgeis was keeping a keen eye on the countryside. “Do you see it, Kingson?” he asked, pointing to the northeast. “There. That dark shadow on the land?”
Cowan stopped and followed the vikingr’s hand. “Ja, I see it.” He squinted. “An army on the move?” A mass of darkness, with the scarce light from heaven glinting off weapons and helms, moved for Cowan’s attention. Dirt was moving, too, in a cloud low to the ground. A sure indicator of an army on the march.
Tuirgeis stroked his dark beard. “Ja. We need to hurry back to Balestrand.”
“I’m doing my best, lord.”
They continued to move toward the fjørd-size village, but now, Tuirgeis motioned him to walk alongside. Cowan complied.
“Tell me, Kingson. Why did you not run when we were on Orkney, near the Green Isle?”
Cowan felt a shiver in his guts that had nothing to do with the cold air. “I believe, lord, that my God wants me to stay with you for the present.”
“For the present?” Tuirgeis’s voice contained a smile, and Cowan felt safe to continue.
“Yes.”
“This god of yours, does he talk to you then?”
Surprised and a bit unprepared, Cowan stumbled over an answer. “I talk to him, lord.”
“Does he have a name, this god?”
Cowan wondered if Tuirgeis were mocking him, but decided he had to say something. The vikingr could never say that the information had been slung at him without permission. “In our holy writings, he is called Jehovah Jirah, the Great I Am, or simply God.”
“All these names for one god? Our Odin is the All-Father, the One-Eyed.” Tuirgeis seemed to be thinking on it as they walked for a few more paces. “So does this Jirah god speak to you to tell you not to run from the one who owns you? Why has he not rescued you?”
That very same question had bothered Cowan considerably, but he tried to answer. “Well, lord, my God had one son, and his name was Jesu. Jesu came to Earth as a baby to be a servant to God’s people. I thought that maybe he wanted me to be a servant, too.” At least for now, he reminded himself. “So I am here.”
Tuirgeis eyed him as they continued to walk and then, suddenly, he stopped. “We are apparently closer to Agnarr Halvardson than I had thought. There he is. Good. He is training the warriors.”
Cowan blinked at the sudden change of subject matter and also at the surprise he got from seeing Charis there among the warriors. She was at the very center of what seemed to
be a parted circle of men. For him, she all but glowed in the muted overcast light of the afternoon.
“Hail, Agnarr!” Tuirgeis called, spreading his hands.
Cowan resumed his usual spot behind his lord, shifting the pack on his back as he went downhill. He tried to catch Charis’s eye, but she was preoccupied by the blond-braided man who seemed to be standing in judgment upon her.
By the saints, what has she done now? Cowan wondered, shaking his head when he reached the flat ground once more. Agnarr and Tuirgeis had greeted one another formally, though, and were talking. Cowan opted to pay attention to them and talk to Charis later. Perhaps he could walk with her on the way home. Tuirgeis would allow it, certainly.
The blond leader motioned to the warriors to be silent. “What brings you overland, Tuirgeis? You know you have port in Balestrand when you need it.”
Tuirgeis nodded. “I thank you, yes. My cousin told me that last winter, and I plan on staying on again this winter.” He looked back over where Cowan could see a long track from where the warriors had run to this location. “Snow is coming. And so is Vigaldr.”
“But what about the witch?” demanded an old man. Cowan didn’t remember his name. “Magda wants restitution for her storyteller!”
Cowan finally caught Charis’s eye. They were calling her a witch again? Cowan’s muscles tensed instinctively, though he didn’t know why. “What did she do?” he heard himself asking.
Tuirgeis cut him a swift glance, but nodded. “Yes, what did your Moonbeam Healer do?” he asked with a wry smile.
Agnarr flickered a look to Charis and shook his head abruptly. “She is said to have cursed another slave and permanently damaged his eyes.”
“I did not!” the healer shouted. “It was thyme!”
Cowan started a bit, but only because she had used the Gaelic word for the herb, and it made him shudder involuntarily. He was extremely unlucky with thyme. That gave him an idea. “Lord Tuirgeis? May I say something?”