by Sandi Layne
Chapter 25
It was not quite morning and it was not quite spring. This seemed to be the perfect time.
Charis, swathed in a dun-colored cloak, fur-lined leggings, and heavy outdoor boots, was at the water’s edge, where the boats were. The longships had been brought on land, to prevent their being crushed by the winter’s ice in the fjørd, so they provided a measure of concealment as the healer slipped from land to ice to test it. The Norsemen called it “black ice”. Treacherous, they said it was.
She pushed on it. Hit it with her fist, feeling no pain. The ice was still firm here, close to the shore. She could see the waves further out, melting the ice; she was going to need a fishing boat to cross. There was land just south of here. She knew it. She remembered when the Northmen had landed for a last filling of fresh water and a hot meal before going home. Even then, she had been planning on escaping. She remembered the place.
She was also absolutely terrified of sailing to reach it.
Her fear stretched back to her earliest memories, when she’d been a very young girl of perhaps three summers. The other children of Ragor had gone to the shore with the adults. It was time to learn to fish and to swim.
Charis smiled for a moment on the frozen shore of Balestrand. Devin and Devlin had been among the older children then. Older, already in training to be warriors, they had come with the younger children to the seashore. They had come to watch out for her, told to do so by Healer Achan. When she had stepped into the ocean for the first time, and a wave had splashed up to soak her small shift, Charis had frozen in abject terror. The children had laughed at her, but she hadn’t been able to move. Even her throat had closed, as if to keep her from crying for help.
The water had risen, and no one had noticed her, because Devin and Devlin had started playing in the water and helping with gathering small shellfish for the village. Charis remembered the way her heart had pounded that day.
It was pounding like that now, as she stared over the dead whiteness of the ice that stretched into the fjørd. How would she do this?
I’ll have to sail. But I won’t do it until I’ve gone as far as possible over the ice on foot. I’ll just have to bring a small boat with me. It will slide on the ice . . . Yes, but it would also scrape on the ice, making a quiet escape impossible.
Wind blew up from the south, across the Strait. It curled under her cloak and chilled her. Or was it fear?
“Where is she?” Agnarr rumbled as he drank a cup of hot tea. Eir had left a cup of tea for him. She usually did, unless she was particularly angry with him. Lately, she had seemed—softer, somehow. As if she had finally come to understand her place as his leman as well as her role as healer. She had not fought him when he had brought her to him in the night. She had been yielding and even receptive.
Agnarr’s pleasant remembrances turned hard in the next moment. His medicine woman was not being pleasant to everyone in his home, though. She had been beaten by Elsdottir. Beaten badly. Badly enough that her face and body sustained bruises for days.
“What happened to you?” he had demanded at the first sign of bruising on her jaw.
Eir had just looked at him. That weighty gaze that made him wonder if she was entirely human. “Magda Elsdottir happened to me.”
“She struck you?” Agnarr remembered his muscles tightening at the thought.
Eir had just cocked her head. “No, she used your axe. Yes, she struck me. I disobeyed. It was her right.” The words were proper for a slave, but the tone was flat and unemotional.
To Magda, he had nothing to say. Women’s affairs were women’s affairs. A slave was a slave. It ill-suited him to guard Eir again—rumors were already circulating in the village, and he could not be seen as weak.
Within himself, Agnarr felt less guilty because he was certain that Eir could have prevented the beatings had she chosen to, but then . . . why hadn’t she?
For whatever reason, she had not. Perhaps this poorer treatment by Magda Elsdottir compelled Eir to treat him, her lord, with more consideration. Agnarr had no other reason, nor would he inquire of Eir for one. It was enough that she was coming to accept her life with him.
So the fact of her absence was not cause for alarm this morning. Perhaps she, too, had felt the call of near-spring and had gone looking for new growth that might be pushing its way through the winter’s ground. He remembered her habits from the warmer time of the year, before the cold killed all of what she would call her “tools”.
He tossed back the rest of his mint tea, stood and stretched. He smiled to hear his bones and muscles protest in his body. It was time for him to gather the warriors and work on their skills. Today might be a good day for it.
“Bjørn!”
“I don’t know where she went, brother,” Bjørn said, in answer to his question. “She made your tea, put on her cloak, and said she was checking the ground.”
Agnarr nodded. “I want to get the warriors together today. When the sun is in the sky, we can work on their skills. I think a run might be good, too.”
Bjørn brightened at the prospect of the outdoor work. He set down his bowl. “You know, Agnarr, that the winter’s snow can return at any time.”
“Ja, ja, but I don’t think it will today.”
Els, in the bed next to Agnarr’s own, sat up slowly. “I must get ready to depart, Agnarr. Magda and I have relatives in Tjølling, and we will go to them. The gods have spoken.”
“Father! No! We cannot go there.” Magda turned to Agnarr, who was leaning against the supporting post between his bench and the one on which Els slept. “Tell him, Agnarr. Tell him we can stay here!”
“He is free to make his choices, Magda,” Agnarr said, his voice even. How had he ever consented to marry the girl? She had worn him out with her wants and pouts and her incessant references to their future marriage, when all the village knew he had set that aside, with the blessings of those who mattered in Balestrand.
She jumped from her own bench, which was across the house, nearest to Gerda’s bed. “But what about me?” she whined.
Agnarr had been trying, for weeks, to make her understand. Her slave, though, had seemed to be permanently attached to her elbow, so they had had little time of conversation. That would end.
“Get dressed,” he instructed. “Then come join me outside. Leave him,” he added with a jerk of his hand toward her storyteller. “Come alone,” he added for emphasis, for she was a willful girl.
He tugged her out of doors once she had her cloak and boots on. “I am not marrying you,” he stated without preamble. “You will go with your father and you will obey him, as is your duty.”
“But Agnarr . . .!”
“Enough! He and I have reached an agreement. I will allow him to keep the bride price, to help you in a new home, but Thor has spoken, Magda.”
She turned on him, her eyes narrowed and flashing fire as the sun finally rose into the sky. “You are an oath-breaker, Halvardson!”
He just watched her, leery of hands that were curving into something resembling claws. “Are you finished?” he asked at last.
She tossed her head back so that the hood of her cloak slipped from her glossy hair. “You will be,” she promised, stepping around him. She halted all at once. “There she is,” Magda sneered. “Your leman. Maybe you plan on freeing and marrying her? Freeing slaves seems to be popular with the leaders of our people.”
Ignoring her, Agnarr went to meet Eir, who was coming back from the harbor, it appeared. He heard a derisive sound from Elsdottir as he hailed the pale-haired woman.
“Eir!”
She looked him in the eye. “Agnarr. Is all well?” she inquired with an oblique glance toward Magda.
Agnarr shrugged off her question. “Where were you?”
“The shore. I wondered how long it would be . . . until spring.”
“I had thought you were checking the ground.”
“It is frozen. I can find no herbs in it.”
He nodd
ed while examining her face in the fainter light of morning. “Els has said he will be moving.”
Eir studied his face. “Moving? Out of your house? But his own has not been rebuilt.”
He turned to lead her back to the longhouse. “He is going to live with relatives in another village.” He glanced down at her critically. “You could use a trip to the bathhouse.”
She made a derisive sound. “I know. If you order me to go, I will.”
“I do,” he said, feeling good about that. “Get fresh clothes and whatever else you need. I will be working with the warriors today.”
“Yes, Agnarr.”
Before entering the house, the healer paused, as if studying the door and bench and even the roof. “How long has this house been here, Agnarr?”
He did not understand her reason in asking the question, but he searched his memory for an answer. “I think my grandsire’s sire built it, Eir.”
“Has anyone died in here before?”
He thought about it as he moved past her to open the door. “Well, now, I’m not sure. My father died in battle. Someone likely died here before, but I can’t think of who it was.” He shrugged it off. Death in battle was something to be sought, but other deaths meant little to him. “Why?”
She shook her head and entered the house. “I don’t know. There’s just something about the air here.”
Agnarr laughed, a full laugh such as he hadn’t experienced all winter. “Yes! It stinks!”
Within the house, there were answering chuckles from Bjørn and their mother. “Yes, we do,” Gerda agreed. “I’m to the bathhouse.”
“Me, too,” Magda said immediately.
“Eir goes with you. I have told her to get clean,” Agnarr said, his voice brooking no argument from either his mother or the young woman.
Neither Magda nor Gerda wished to accompany the slave, so Eir gathered her things and went alone. Agnarr suspected she was more pleased than not.
“You halted the work early today, brother,” Bjørn remarked. With a wry gesture at the roof, he asked, “I can only assume that the gods are not quite through with winter.”
Charis sat on her bed bench, mostly in the shadows. This suited her. Tonight was the night of her vengeance, and she could only hope the cold weather lasted. The sharp edge of a frigid wind that swept from the north had surprised everyone in the village that afternoon. Tonight the occupants of Agnarr’s house were huddled around the main hearth, bundled in furs and cloaks while the wind whistled violently, taking the corners of the house with a speed Charis felt she could actually hear. Between the wind and the conversation around the fire, there was enough noise to disguise her occupation.
She was packing. Surreptitiously. Rolling a long dress into the hem of her cloak, she stitched it in. Tucking her remaining herbs into the usual pouches, she secured them to a woven leather belt. Dried food, some she had saved from her own meager meals, was stored, too, and tucked into pockets in her apron. A new knife, a gift from Agnarr at the midvinterblót, had its own sheath. Tinder, a fire-starting kit, for when she crossed the strip of ocean to the south. The Strait, she’d heard it called. It frightened her. She had to cross it anyway. Alone.
Cowan would be leaving on his own journey tomorrow. “Let his god have him,” she muttered to her dried fish and certain vegetables she’d kept dried and tucked among her more plentiful herbs. “If he thinks I’ll still be here when he gets back, he’s a flea-bitten dog. Idjit.”
You’ll often be alone, lass, Achan had told her. Watch the signs of the land and sky to find your way home.
“But, Achan,” she whispered now, eyes suddenly burning, “I don’t know the signs of this land, of these skies. How will I find my way?”
Avoid the sea, little one, but do not disdain it, for it has life for all creatures cradled in its depths. It has power for life as well as death.
The recollection came from the very deepest parts of her. It had stayed hidden until just now. Perhaps remembering her first trip to the beach had awakened the long-suppressed memories. Charis did not know, but Achan’s advice was welcome, however tardy it was in reaching her. She had to be brave about the sea and try to trust its life-giving aspect. If she could. She could only hope that the small fishing boat she saw, mounted on the side of a house nearest to the shore, would be enough to make it across to the other side of the Strait.
Charis shook off her misgivings for the moment. She had to finish her preparations. A spear, could she take one? Dare she?
Her thought was, perhaps, to give Agnarr a cup of tea this evening so she could be well on her way during the night, before anyone in the morning would know what she had done. It was a sound plan. Cowan would certainly be surprised to find her gone in the morning. She smirked and smoothed the fabric of the tunic on her lap before laying it aside.
So, there was the fishing boat. And her own clothes. And one of Agnarr’s spears, lodged there in the rafters. She didn’t even glance at it now. It would not do to give away her intentions on the night of their culmination.
“We’re out of mead,” Agnarr’s brother said, tossing the comment over the fire as if it were a twig. There were murmurs and grunts of acknowledgment from the others.
Charis was not the least bit surprised; the consumption of the fermented beverage had increased drastically from the time Els and his daughter had come to live with them. The greater stores of food were gone, too. Gerda had complained a good deal, but never in front of her sons.
Only Charis had heard her.
But the mead had served to bring the Northmen energy, if nothing else. And now it was gone, and the growing season not started yet.
“Eir,” Agnarr called, turning from the fire and beckoning to her.
She inhaled quickly, pushing out her breath slowly to steady her nerves as she rose and went to him. “Yes, Agnarr?” He turned them both so that their backs were to the fire and covered her back with his cloak. This served to make her feel cared for, warm and safe, which was troublesome for her to deal with since she planned on poisoning the whole house before dawn. Could she do it? I have to. I have to get back home!
“Do you have any of your herbs to help them sleep?” the Northman asked in an undertone that went no farther than her own ears. “It’s been a hard day, and I think they could use some help. Especially my mother, Els, and his daughter.”
Charis noted that he had excluded himself and his brother, but she didn’t mind. He was asking her to do what she had planned on doing, but even earlier. Her heart leapt and she hoped he could not feel it as he pressed her to his side. “Of course. I have something that will help. I will make tea.”
Dead Man’s Thimbles. Normally used to treat paralysis and ulcers, when necessary, as well as helping when there were problems with the way blood traveled in the body. But Achan had told her, when she had been in her eleventh summer, that the attractive pink stalk of flowers could also be deadly when the leaves were prepared in just a certain way.
With Agnarr’s permission, she returned to her herbs and withdrew the dried leaves she had been saving since her abduction. Her hands trembled in anticipation, so she stopped long enough to still them. There would need to be something else, though. Something that would make them think this was really a relaxing drink. Something sweet, perhaps. Like mead. Anise . . . she had some anise still, did she not? Dried? The leaves would be comforting. It was used for sore throats, and she’d gone through quite a bit this winter. She searched, gnawing on her lip, trying to find the small pouch that contained the remnants of her anise leaves.
“Ah!” she said out loud.
Agnarr had come upon her without her knowledge, as she had been so focused on finding this leaf. “Good hunt?” he inquired.
She started. “Yes. I will make the tea now for everyone.”
He nodded shortly. “I don’t want to be too relaxed,” he warned her, a smile in his voice.
She knew what he wanted and gritted her teeth. “I will do my best,” she
said. And she would.
“Good. I will get their cups for the tea.” She was surprised at Agnarr’s gesture, but did not dwell on it. She had to think.
It was routine to melt snow for water, and to heat water for tea. During all of the normal chores, Charis thought hard as to how much of the Dead Man’s Thimbles she should use. How much would be enough to . . . to stop the heart? All their hearts? Or just Agnarr’s?
She was measuring the herb blend into the several cups before her. Agnarr was a big man; he would need more. And Bran! Yes, his tea, too. Everyone’s tea. If she left one hale and whole behind her, they might track her and bring her back. “No,” she whispered harshly over her preparations. “I will die first.”
The water was boiling, the cups were prepared, but Charis hesitated over the portions of the deadly herb in each cup. Pinching some from this one, adding it to that one, she adjusted the preparations.
“There is none here for you?” Agnarr asked, hunkering down and examining her handiwork.
She shrugged. She had already thought of what to say. “I ran out of herbs, and wanted to serve you first.”
He smiled at her, reaching to gently stroke her cheek. “I knew you would come to understand your place,” he murmured to her.
Her place! Charis only bowed her head before rising up to fetch the boiling water, using her own drinking cup to ladle enough water for each cup of tea. She let it steep, rocking on her heels, stirring the cups occasionally to blend the herbs and liquid. When she judged it ready, she nodded. It was time.
They had no suspicion. None. Even Magda took her cup with customary contempt. Bran didn’t even look at Charis as she served him. Charis was relieved; she might have spit upon him.
Last of all, she served Agnarr, who was seated on his bed. His tea would be strong now, and she would have to be strong to serve it to him.
“Here,” she said, trying to be calm and act like the proper trell he evidently thought her to be. “Your tea.” Had she judged rightly, with regard to his portion?