North Sea Dawn

by Susan Amund

  “Of course not,” she pushed his ineffectual hands away and began working the buckles loose. “I cannot repent, though, if I am not truly sorry.”

  “So it is your soul you are concerned for then?” He sucked in an involuntary breath as the armor fell away. He was suddenly aware of a sharp stabbing sensation under his arm, what he had thought to be muscle fatigue from fighting, rowing, and fighting again. Soft, gentle fingers pulled at the sweat-soaked fabric of his shirt, circulating cool air over his skin. Her hair made a curtain around her face while she worked on the last buckle.

  “No…well, yes. Is that not the responsibility of every person? To live their lives in the grace of God?”

  “Perhaps it is good enough that you have used the skills God has given you to protect the innocent: these villagers.” She glanced up at the tightness of his voice. His face was drawn and his breath shallow, although he gave no other sign of pain.

  “Oh!” He was surprised at the anger in her voice, it belied the careful way she removed the rest of his armor. She bent close to study his chest with her eyes and gentle fingers.

  Eric was beyond tired, bloody, sweaty, and had at least two serious cuts that should have been sewn. But he could not ignore a tingle of interest as the woman drew closer to him. She was attractive, strong, and unusual enough to pique his curiosity. His study of her was interrupted as all of his injuries screamed for his attention when she pushed on his chest.

  He snapped her hands up and crushed them together, but allowed no sound to escape him. “Hrrump!” she said, exasperated. “How do you expect me to treat this if I can’t examine you?”

  “I do not think I want your kind of assistance…Lady,” he growled.

  “And I had been so impressed with your stoicism,” she mocked wearily. “Toughen up and take it, or I’ll ask your men to pin you down like the old man.” He squinted, trying to gauge the determination in her stare. Eric believed she would call his own men to hold him while she tended his injuries. And for some reason, he also believed that she could inspire their obedience, even if it resulted in ignoring their oaths to him. He released her hands and lay carefully on the rocky beach.

  “His name is Jens. His son and I trained together.” She continued prodding, but more gently this time.

  “Take as deep a breath as you can,” she said, pressing against his breastbone. “And which one is Jens’ son?”

  Eric thought his chest might implode. “Fiery hell woman,” he whispered.

  “You have at least two broken ribs, maybe three. I’ll make a cold compress to keep your muscles from swelling too much, and I can wrap it during the day to help with the pain.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” he gritted his teeth.

  “Right,” she snorted, “I’ll just go get that compress.” He watched her walk away, and was forced to sit for a moment alone on the beach while he worked to slow his breathing and control the pain. When the blazing agony had subsided to a bearable level, Eric walked back to his ship and dropped off his armor. His bag was under his bench where he had left it and he slung it over his shoulder to rest against uninjured ribs while he waded back to the shore.

  “Did you want to bathe before I put the compress on? Or were you more interested in sleeping?” Her voice carried softly in the night air.

  “I had thought to wash in the bay, I am too tired to sleep.” He did not say that he doubted he would be able to close his eyes with the pain every deep breath brought.

  “Follow me,” she turned smartly, and led him away from the bay and through the pallets of his sleeping men. They had gone all the way through the village and were nearly at the creek before he spoke up.

  “Must I bathe on the other side of the island?”

  She looked at him over her shoulder, and smiled, the first real smile he had seen. Her teeth were even and sharply white against the red of her lips. Her eyes sparkled. “You and the men you command have saved my island. I wish to show the same hospitality.” For another few yards Eric couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering over her backside and legs which were caressed by tight trousers. He was more than thirty years old, a bastard, landless – certainly not eligible to be company for an English noblewoman - and couldn’t take a deep breath without wanting to punch something in pain, but somewhere in the back of his mind a voice was telling him that any hospitality she was willing to give him would be worth it.

  A low building suddenly loomed before them. It was built into a hill, and the creek flowed around and over it. Pale fingers and that quick smile beckoned him from the dark doorway. Curiosity won out, and he ducked to enter the building. Light outlined a doorway to his left and through it he found the strangest room he had ever seen. A long, low pool stretched the length of the room, nearly twenty feet. A single torch burned low on the wall across from him, although he could dimly make out more torches lining the room. A voice called from somewhere in the shadows ahead,

  “Go ahead and get clean in the wash room before you enter the cold plunge, there are soaps and washing cloths to the right of the doorway. I am just starting the fire.” Eric had never seen anything like it, a private stone pool, filled with clean fresh water. He stripped slowly, puzzling over the construction of the place. The water clearly came from the creek outside, but he could see no troughs or holes in the walls to let it in. He rinsed off with a pitcher of water before submerging in the pool, wondering what fire she was starting. When he came up for air she was standing on the far edge of the water, a brazier outlined her with a soft glow.

  “What is this place?” He glanced around again, noting the comfortable temperature of the water and the generous supply of soaps and cloths.

  “A bathhouse,” she replied with a smile. “The Romans, my ancestors, built it, and the keep on the North of the island, hundreds of years ago. When their army left, my family stayed on the island. There is another bathhouse at the keep in the fort as well.” She set a rough cloth and a chunk of soap at the edge of the pool. When he reached for it, her eyes followed the line of his arm to his shoulder; the rest of his body concealed by the water. Her gaze finally met his and she blushed, turning away.

  “You use this place whenever you wish?” He began gently scrubbing at the dirt on his arms and neck. He hadn’t realized how dirty he was until the cloth came away dark. She dropped a clean one at the edge.

  “Not really, I live at the fort and usually use that bath. This one is for the villagers, and the monks.” She stood in the doorway, her back to him. The stars glowed sharply against the black of the sky. The pale light of the moon gave her skin a luminescence - where it wasn’t streaked with dirt or blood. He ducked his head to rinse his hair. The soap smelled of something crisp, like green apples. The island was a curious place, he decided, as was the Lady.

  “That monk called you Julia. Is that your given name?”

  “Yes, Julia Cruithne, and you?”

  “Eric Vandalsson.”

  “Are you Norse, then?” Her voice was not anxious, but interested. Although he had no intention of discussing his heritage with her, he took note that she was comfortable, or at least not uncomfortable, with the idea of Vikings on the island.

  He ignored her question. “The knight-”

  “Ulrich.”

  “-he takes orders from you. Are these lands yours?”

  “They belong to my half-brother, Aelfreic. He was with King Harold in the North.” He could feel her sudden tension, see it in the iron column of her spine and the stiff way she held her arms. “I will leave you your privacy. When you are done here go through that door,” she gestured to the far end of the room without looking at him. “The hot bath will help relax the muscles of your chest and make it easier to breathe. There are cloths for drying on the bench. Mary Ellery, the chandler’s wife, will give you the compress and find you a place to sleep.”

  She moved to leave. He stopped her with his words, “Hardrada and Tostig’s forces far outnumbered the English at York and Stamford, but we were
caught by surprise by Harold’s army. Many of our men had not even brought their armor. The weather was hot, and Tostig convinced Hardrada not to expect battle, but rather a surrender of the city.” Her fingers gripped the door frame. He wasn’t certain why he felt the need to reassure her. He justified it by telling himself he owned her for not demanding he leave the island. “There is a very good chance your brother survived; I pulled my men back before we could be slaughtered, but most were not so lucky.” A thick silence fell over them both. It grew heavier as it stretched longer.

  “You are welcome here, Eric Vandalsson, for as long as your men need to recover,” she glanced over her shoulder at him, “But if you, or any of your men, make a move to harm any on my island…” Her eyes narrowed and something cold and hard blanketed her face, “I will kill you.” She disappeared into the night leaving Eric alone in the cool water.

  His men were being cared for, and most would live. Only twelve had died on the journey,

  and two more since morning. He was glad Jens had survived; the man had trained him in arms. His son, Snorri, had been like a brother. More importantly now, he needed Jens’ council. In a fortnight they should be well enough to travel, and he did not know where they would go. Norway held nothing for them, nothing but a struggle to support someone to take Hardrada's place and continued service in exchange for empty promises of land. Most of his men had small fortunes tucked away. They had been fighting with him for many years, and Eric was good at overcoming an enemy and negotiating a wage. He could not speak for the others he had picked up, but his men wanted land, farms, and fishing boats of their own. They yearned for place, for a wife and room for children, for a home. He readily admitted to himself that he wanted those same things, and that they would not be found in Norway or Denmark. He had a few weeks to decide, but it still weighed heavily on his mind as he left the cold plunge and headed for the hot pool.

  Julia’s long strides ate up the miles between the village bathhouse and the keep. Her horse had been taken back to the stable hours ago, and she was grateful for the exercise to burn off her restless energy. She should have been tired, she had been up since before dawn and had fought hard for her island. She had lost four good people, and had killed as many. But she did not feel weary. Her mind raced over the possibilities, particularly the fine line she would need to walk in the coming weeks. Vandalsson had confirmed that he had fought Harold’s forces, as Aelfreic had said in his letter. The English had won, so there was a good chance that her brother had survived. She turned at a corner in the path and headed up the steep hill to the fortress. If he had survived, he would face the hard trip back to the southern coast to meet the Normans. Paul had given them as much information as he could, but Julia was anxious to question the Norman leader with the broken leg. So much of her plans for the future would depend on the strength of their forces and on Aelfreic.

  She paused with her hand on the door. Something deep in her chest clenched at the thought of her brother lying dead on a battlefield. Aelfreic was more than twenty years older than her. His mother had died in childbirth - a second son that was stillborn. By the time their father remarried, Aelfreic was a man and the Lord of Aurelius was old, too old for a young wife and twin babies. Julia had been born first, followed minutes later by Simon. They were six when their mother died, Aelfreic was nearly thirty. Alfred Cruithne died the next winter, and Aelfreic became the lord. His wife and young son secured the line, and so Simon took vows at the monastery. Aelfreic’s family died in a fever shortly thereafter. Julia remembered little of either of her parents, but she had many memories of her older brother. He had insisted that she learn to read along with Simon from the Abbot. He had brought her that first bow, and instructed Ulrich to teach her. When his son had been born, she was allowed to be the first to hold him after the child’s own parents. She stood beside him when they buried the child and its mother. He had whipped her until her back was raw when he found out she tried to stowaway with a Danish trader, eager to see foreign lands.

  Julia took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy door. She walked silently across the rush strewn floor, so as not to wake the elderly servant who had fallen asleep at his guard post. She climbed the stairs to her chamber and stood at the window, pacing and rereading Aelfreic’s letters in the weak light of the fire until dawn broke over the sea. She lay down, still dressed, and sobbed into the fine linens until she fell asleep.

  Interrogations

  The next few days passed quickly. Only three more Norse men died, the rest were recovering to the satisfaction of the monks. Lady Julia had been seen every day in the village. She tended to wounds and directed repairs – constantly in conversation with someone. Eric had finally given in and allowed Brother Simon to wrap a tight bandage around his chest at night. He was forced to admit, at least to himself, that it made sleeping much easier. One of the Normans, in addition to their leader, had survived. He had taken a severe blow to the head and had not yet woken up. The knight who commanded him did not seem to be able to spare a thought or a prayer for him however; he was too busy cursing the monks who had set his broken leg and tended to his other wounds. He wasn’t given too long, however, to adjust to his confinement in one of the cottages.

  Eric was working on the ship, rinsing the blood and dirt off the boards with buckets of seawater, when he saw them bring out the prisoner. The man they called Ulrich was clearly visible on the rocky shore, his bald head gleaming in the late morning sunshine. He and the one other soldier Eric had seen from the island carried the man out of the cottage where he had been secured and dropped him onto the shore. His struggles were hampered by one leg splinted stiffly from hip to ankle. Several of Eric’s men were still on temporary pallets under trees in the open, those that were awake waited to observe what was obviously going to be an interrogation.

  He was too far away to hear their words, but he could see the expression on the Norman’s face and he didn’t look like he was willing to share any information. The first blow snapped his head back and brought a line of blood to his mouth. Eric grabbed the last bundles of supplies, and waded to shore in time to see a woman heavy with child leading a boy away from the attraction.

  “Go fetch her now, Thomas,” she said, holding tight to his hand while he squirmed.

  “But I want to watch!” he whined, “Ulrich is going to kill that nasty Norman, and I’ll miss it! I missed all the killing!” The woman looked away and blinked back tears.

  “Thomas,” she said, with a patience that Eric admired, “Your Lady should know that Ulrich is ready to speak to the Norman.” The sound of flesh hitting flesh was loud, and Eric turned just in time to see the man in question spit out a tooth. “It is your duty to escort her here.” The idea of playing the noble squire cut through the boy’s blood lust.

  “I’ll bring her right away, Mary Ellery!” He was off like a shot and she stood with her hand pressed against her back while Eric approached. The men put a hold on the beating while questions were asked of the knight.

  “I take it Lady Julia did not commission this?” he inquired.

  “Not bloody likely,” she snorted before catching herself. “That is to say,” she hesitated and cast a wary glance at the large number of Vikings now standing or sitting on the beach, “Ulrich is in charge of defending the island, but I am sure that my Lady will want to hear any information that the Norman gives up.”

  He smiled slightly, “Well said, Mary Ellery.” She was unsuccessful in suppressing her own smile as she stooped to pick up the heavy basket of bandages and supplies she had been carrying. He scanned his men, and found Abjorn turned away from the scene on the beach and watching his exchange with the pregnant woman. Abjorn’s own wife had born three children in Finland in close succession. All four had died in a famine while he was at sea. Eric motioned him over. “Please allow my man to assist you in whatever duties you must attend today.” Mary Ellery glanced with horror at the huge man who was advancing on them with a quick step. His nose was squashed
flat at the end, most likely from battle, and his dark hair and beard were braided together and hung far past his shoulders.

  “Uh, that won’t be necessary. He should be resting from his injuries,” she got out quickly, before the giant arrived. Eric quickly gave him orders in Norse.

  “His wounds were minor, and Abjorn needs work to keep him busy,” he hesitated. “I will tell you this, because I believe that you are a kind, strong woman.” Mary Ellery straightened and narrowed her eyes at Eric. “Abjorn is missing his wife and young children very much, and I think he would like to assist you.” He paused again to gauge her reaction, “It will make him feel that perhaps his own wife is being cared for.” It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a lie, but Eric still felt a tiny twinge of guilt. Mary Ellery’s face softened and she looked over her shoulder at the warrior.

  “Carry.” She pushed the basket against Abjorn’s flat stomach and marched off to the nearest group of injured. Abjorn gave Eric a frown,

  “Am I to be a pack animal to this English woman?” he asked.

  “This English woman and her neighbors are all that stood between our men and a fate of rotting in the keel of the ship. We owe them whatever we can give.” Abjorn gave a long sigh but hefted the full basket as though it weighed nothing.

  “For how long would you have me follow her about?”

  “Until she no longer needs assistance – until she tells you such,” Eric amended. “I would suggest you learn English, Abjorn. I understand she is a chandler, was that not your father’s occupation?” Abjorn pursed his lips with a thunderous expression, but stepped quickly to catch up with Mary Ellery. Eric checked on Jens, who was still sleeping quietly, and exited the cottage just in time to see Julia fly down the path on her horse.