North Sea Dawn

by Susan Amund

  “I will stay at the keep with the servants. The prettier girls should be sent to the monastery - we will say they have gone to help the monks prepare for winter. Our guard will not change. Ulrich at the keep with Alvar, and Skald and Abjorn will stay in the village with the others. We will treat our guests as guests, and do our best to keep them calm and believe their plan is working until Eric - until Vandalsson arrives.” She gave a grim smile. “Surely I can play the part of the grateful but shy lady for a few days and endure his courtship.”

  Ulrich and Abjorn made simultaneous sounds of displeasure.

  “Vandalsson won’t like this,” Abjorn said.

  “I don’t like it,” Ulrich said. “That bastard was brazen enough to tell Aelfreic what he planned to do with you. The manners expected of a guest in your house won’t mean anything to him. This is a dangerous game, my Lady.”

  “It is the only option, Ulrich. I won’t go willingly. I can’t sacrifice my people or the stores we need to survive, and I won’t throw my men into a battle where the odds are blatantly against them. And I won’t let that man force me, because then I would have to kill him or myself, and I don’t intend to spend eternity in hell over him!” The sound of Julia’s heavy breathing was loud in the small room. The smell had mostly dissipated with the washing, and Margaret excused herself to get rid of the soiled cloths.

  “You must never be alone, my Lady. Either myself or one of the Norse should always be with you. One of the women should sleep in your room as well.” Julia consented to Ulrich’s conditions with a nod.

  “Vandalsson won’t like this,” Abjorn repeated.

  November 16 th, Aurelius

  Julia drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair and tried not to look frustrated. Dunholm and his men had been on the island for two days, and showed no signs of leaving or letting down their guard. Instead, most of his men had moved up to the keep once they found a surprising lack of pretty girls in the village. All but Dunholm and his second were housed in the barracks alongside Eric’s men. Dunholm discovered his first night that the room prepared for him was on the opposite side of the keep from Julia’s room - it even required use of a separate staircase. He had promptly declared it to be not secure enough for him, and moved his things to the room adjacent to hers. He displaced an elderly retainer in the process, but, at Julia’s urging, nothing was said.

  The next morning, she had been forced to stay in her room until almost noon, pretending to have already left so that she could avoid him where he lingered in the hall. The first day was bearable because of Aelfreic’s funeral. She asked God for forgiveness in silent prayer - sorry that she had ever seen the day where her brother’s burial would be a welcome distraction. After nightfall, Ulrich had escorted her to her room under Dunholm’s suspicious eyes. On the second day, she had her maid rouse her well before dawn and then they snuck down to the kitchens to busy themselves in a group until the rest of the household awoke.

  The entire day had been a battle to not be alone with Dunholm, but not appear as though she was trying not to be alone with him. She kept at least two women with her while she inspected the storehouses and drying sheds, and always they were well within earshot of Ulrich or Alvar. Still the knight appeared at the most inopportune times. As she stepped out of a corridor to make way for several casks to be carried by, Dunholm squeezed in beside her whispering his concerns for her health and compliments to her beauty with his foul breath. He brushed by her whenever he saw her, making certain to be close enough to touch her arm or her hand. On her way back from the village where she had checked on Jens and Mary Ellery, he was suddenly on the road as well. She ended up almost plastered on Skald’s side, trying to keep away from the Englishman. For Skald’s part, he later begged her not to tell Vandalsson that she had been in such contact with him.

  By the time she sat down to dinner, she was exhausted, physically and mentally. She was already uncomfortable sitting in Aelfreic’s chair, but she absolutely would not sit next to Dunholm on what had always been her bench. Then she had to listen to the man’s stories. Tale after tale of his prowess in battle, his political skill, and his admirers at court had kept her in her seat long after she had finished her meal. Some scuffle in the barracks, no doubt initiated by Dunholm’s men, had drawn Ulrich out of the Hall. The other diners, her people, knew she was not to be left alone, so most of them stayed as well. Even Wendell, a merchant known to drink into the wee hours with nobles in Venice and Constantinople, was yawning.

  “Of course I knew he was lying to save his worthless hide - the coward. I drew my weapon and-”

  “Thank you, Sir Dunholm.” Julia finally stood, unable to listen to his bragging any more. “Your tales have been most entertaining, but I am afraid I am not used to the court hours that you keep. I shall retire.” He stood as well, an eager smile on his face.

  “Allow me to-”

  “May I review my letter to our Byzantine contacts with you on your way, my Lady?” Wendell rushed out. “I hoped to send it to the monastery for translation and copying tomorrow, if you agree with the working?”

  “You owe me three pence from our last game of dice, Wen.” Another merchant spoke up, “I’m not letting you out of my sight until you’ve paid up.”

  “Very well, but please be brief. I am quite tired.” For a moment, she thought that the impromptu excuses to keep her from being alone had worked. Then she caught Dunholm’s eye. He had a hard glint in his gaze, and his boastful, confident smile was gone. In its place was a chilling frown.

  “I shall see you tomorrow, my Lady.” His words sounded less like a promise and more like a threat. She nodded stiffly.

  November 16 th, The North Sea

  Eric let out a hard breath and pounded his fist on the bench. The waves were crashing against the ship and the rain would not relent. Sheets of freezing water poured over the bow. In the early morning darkness it would be impossible to tell if the water lashing his face was from the sea or the sky if not for the sting of salt in his eyes. The sail had been pulled in and the oars were almost completely useless. Eric cursed to himself. They had been delayed at Stafangr longer than he would have liked, waiting for a storm to pass. Almost as soon as they had set out, the storm had swung back upon them. For three days they had battled the waves and the wind. The men were exhausted, barely sleeping under the constant onslaught. MØrket was well-used to such treatment and had been built for long travel in nearly any weather. Behind them, Raskdød, a snekkja ship than could be rowed by less than twenty, was less secure.

  It held only twelve benches and could be sailed with less than twenty men. In order to make room for cargo and the few families that would go back to Aurelius, Eric had split his men to use both ships. In the rain and darkness he could make out only the prow and mast of the other ship, following its younger sister MØrket, but falling farther behind.

  Eric made his way to the bow and leaned against the figurehead to stare into the darkness. Three weeks had come and gone since his departure from Aurelius. The day they landed in Stafangr, he had been eager to return. He told himself that Julia was safe with Ulrich and Abjorn, that William would be too busy in England to bother with the island. The feeling of unease had increased to a frustration bordering on anxiety. His arms itched with the desire to pull his weapon. He felt as though he could have swum the rest of the way and still had energy to fight a hundred men.

  He could not afford more time, fighting against the sea and the storm. There had to be an end to it, a clear way across the waters to his destination. Never before had he pushed his will so hard into MØrket; if determination could power a ship they would have landed on the island days earlier. He found his hand on his weapon and had to make a fist to keep from pulling the axe from the scabbard. The night did not have any answers for him. He had sent a prayer to the Christian God to clear their path, to set a straight wind into MØrket’s sails so that he could reach the island and protect it and its Lady, as he had sworn to do. He slammed his fist a
gainst the wood, snarling at the lightning that flashed across the sky. If the new God would not answer him, perhaps the old ones would.

  “AEgir! Thor!” he called out to the sea. His booming voice was almost lost in the storm, but the men nearest him heard his words. “AEgir! Eric - Son of the Vandal, Bringer of Darkness, Harbinger of Swift Death, Defender of Aurelius - has brought MØrket to your kingdom once more! Grant me passage, AEgir, and I will call tribute worthy of your name! Show me the kindest of your daughters, and I will gift each in turn!” His face turned to the sky and he shouted, “Thor! Eric Mortvisbrica calls your name! Give me straight wind to sail on and I shall honor you in my firstborn son!”

  His name was known in every port in Northern Europe, and most of those along the Mediterranean. He was called the Bringer of Darkness by the Norse, for his presence on the battlefield signaled the end to the light in his enemies’ eyes. The Rus named him Harbinger of Swift Death - for it was a great honor to have Vandalsson as your enemy. His strength and skill was a compliment; his sharp blade was a clean end. Romanos Diogenes of Byzantium named him Mortvisbrica for his strategy in battle and his dry wit off of the field. The crew sometimes whispered other names when they spoke of their leader: Sea Calmer and Storm Rider. He had captained the long ship through waves that had sunk others. The Arctic snow and sleet had not defeated him when he led them to St. Petersburg and Novgorod. The fierce gales and drenching waves had not forced him back from Sicily. Where Eric Vandalsson sailed, the world made way for him, and his men had not only survived - but prospered. They held their breath, waiting to see if his call to the old gods would be answered. Eric stayed at the prow, leaning into the storm, for a few minutes. When he turned, it was to shout at the crew,

  “Put out the sail!” The men did not immediately move; unfurling the canvas with such swift-changing gusts and frequent lightning was suicide. “Now!” Eric bellowed. The men whipped into action. They loosened the ropes holding the sail and the wind nearly tugged it away. Eric caught the flapping corner in one hand and wrestled it back to the cross arm to be lashed down. Raskdød had seen the action on Eric’s ship and soon their sail was readied as well. The furious commotion had everyone focused on their tasks to prepare to sail under the onslaught of the storm. The rain grew colder. Freezing pellets stung the men’s faces and exposed hands. The sudden crack of thunder startled everyone, followed too closely by vivid lightning.

  “Vandalsson,” Bjorn spoke softly, “to put out the sail with such lightning...” Eric turned to face the man, studying him for a moment before turning his eyes to the sky. “Eric-” Bjorn would have continued, but a strong breeze picked up from the northeast. The temperature dropped, and the freezing rain shifted to gently falling snow. The waves settled, still lapping furiously at the ship, but no longer flowing over the hull.

  “Take your rest,” Eric commanded. He took up a position at the rudder. “We will row as soon as the wind slows.” The men laid down on the benches and in the keel without questioning their captain. Even the gods heeded his words.

  November 17 Aurelius

  The third morning of their occupation, Julia attempted to leave early again, and, given the late night, she let her servant continue to sleep. It was still dark out and she hoped to be able to slip down the corridor and through the empty Hall without encountering anyone. She closed the door softly behind her and managed five strides before she was pushed into the wall.

  “You are up very early, my dear,” Dunholm whispered. His breath was worse in the morning, and Julia almost gagged. Her shoulder blades were pressed against the wall, her head caged by an arm on either side of her. “If I didn’t know better, I would think that you are avoiding me.”

  “Of course not, Sir.” She tilted her head down and did her best to breathe through her mouth. “I have had difficulty sleeping since I heard of my brother’s death. I thought Cook might warm some milk for me.”

  “Ah, but all day yesterday, I barely saw you.”

  “There is much work to be done this time of year, Sir Dunholm.”

  “You have a steward for that, my dear. And you should have a husband to oversee this business.” He leaned in close to her face, his lips nearly touching her ear. Julia had to force herself to hold still, rather than smacking his face and screaming in disgust. “I have things that need to be said to you.”

  “We have spoken every night sir; I have heard many of your tales.” She tried to slip out from under his arm. “I am very tired now, Sir Dunholm. Perhaps we can talk later? At a more reasonable hour?” He caught her upper arm with his hand and pressed her in place with his body. He leaned into her, touching her from hip to chest. His mouth brushed against her cheek and Julia could feel bile rising in her throat.

  “I need to say very...intimate,” his tongue darted out and touched her earlobe, “things...to you.”

  “Sir Dunholm, I do not think-”

  “Women don’t need to think; that is what men are for.” He leaned in again, this time biting her ear. Julia reacted without thinking. A sharp yelp echoed in the hall as her knee connected and Dunholm slumped over.

  “I- I am so sorry, Sir Dunholm,” she said. She could hear the insincerity in her own voice. She stood still, willing her body not to run away and find scalding water to wash her skin everywhere he had touched. “You startled me!”

  “You-” Dunholm’s eyes were hard and he reached a hand toward her, still incapable of moving his legs. The Hall door slamming open below them stopped whatever he had been about to say.

  “Steward!”

  “You there, get out of the Hall!” The man Dunholm had posted at the main door shouted loud enough to wake everyone in the keep. Julia took the opportunity to slip away and check on the commotion. Sarah was struggling with the guard, trying not to be pushed through the open door. Thomas was right behind her.

  “I must speak with my Lady!”

  “You aren’t coming in here without Dunholm’s say so,” the soldier snarled. He drew his weapon.

  “Halt,” Julia ordered. She started down the steps as Sarah darted around the surprised guard.

  “Julia, you must come to the village. Mary Ellery has started her labor. Brother Simon is on his way from the monastery, but since the midwife was killed by the Normans...”

  “What is this?” Dunholm appeared at the top of the stairs, still pale, but standing straight.

  “I must go to the village to assist with a birth, Sir Dunholm.” Julia paused at the foot of the stairs. She would have to go past him to get her cloak from her room. She decided the brisk air would help wake her. “Sarah, get my satchel from the study.”

  “We rode here,” Sarah called as she followed orders.

  “Thomas, run down to the stables and get my horse. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “You will stay at the keep, Lady Julia,” Dunholm commanded. Julia swallowed. If the plan was going to work, she would stay. She should not antagonize him - especially not after injuring him. Her hand reached absently to rub at her ear. She pulled away quickly. Mary Ellery needed her. If Dunholm was going to try to threaten her or force her, he already had plenty of reason. She wouldn’t allow her friend to suffer as well.

  “I must go.” She took her bag from Sarah and they fled the keep. She outpaced Sarah’s horse, burdened with two and already ridden hard, on the ride to the village. One of the Norse was waiting outside Mary Ellery’s cottage when she arrived and took control of her mount. Abjorn and Simon were waiting inside. A curtain had been drawn across the alcove where the bed was located. Both men stood when she entered.

  “Julia,” Simon began with a grim smile, “it is good to see you well.”

  “Yes, has she had any bleeding?”

  “She didn’t want me to check, she asked for you. Her color is good, but I gather she had been pained for a while now.”

  “Since supper,” Abjorn confirmed. “She had pain in her back and didn’t eat much before she went to bed early.”

  “Julia!
” Mary Ellery’s voice sounded relieved and tired. “I need you.” One of the village women stepped out from behind the curtain.

  “How is she, Eleanor?” Julia asked quietly.

  “She is strong,” Abjorn said in Norse.

  “Tell that idiot to get out of my-ah-hhhh!” Mary Ellery’s yelling ended with a moan. Abjorn’s jaw tensed and Simon looked a little pale. Eleanor rolled her eyes,

  “She’s carryin’ on like she’s never done this before. And that man,” she pointed a finger at Abjorn, “isn’t helping.” Julia shooed the men out behind Eleanor.

  “You’re sure you don’t need assistance, Julia?”

  “No, thank you, Simon. I know you don’t care for childbirth.” She eyed Abjorn, who looked ready to force his way back into the cottage. “Why don’t you stay around with Abjorn in case I need you to fetch any supplies?”

  “Certainly,” Simon looked relieved.

  “You have done this before?” Abjorn didn’t look worried, but his neck flexed when Mary Ellery’s moans carried outside.

  “It will be fine,” she answered, before stepping back into the house. Abjorn turned questioning eyes on Simon.

  “The midwife delivered most of the babies. Julia is a maiden, so she generally left for the actual birthing part.” Simon hastily added, “that part is easy, it is everything before that is hard. She has done this part many times.”