North Sea Dawn

by Susan Amund

  “It does not sound easy.”

  Inside the cottage, Julia rolled up the sleeves of her overtunic and tied a clean square of cloth over her front to act as an apron. She took her satchel in with her to see Mary Ellery.

  “My Lady!” The woman looked physically exhausted and anxious. Her eyes had bags under them and her hair straggled around her face. Sweat dotted her brow and her mouth was pulled into a tight line.

  “Such fuss, Mary Ellery. If I didn’t know better I would think you were kicking up just to worry Abjorn.” She smiled gently and smoothed Mary Ellery’s hair back, twisting it into a loose braid and securing it with a piece of string.

  “That idiot tried to stay in here last night!” Her color began to return and the tightness eased from her face as she focused on the source of her irritation. “My back was hurting, and he was here trying to get me to put a hot stone against it. He’s the one who woke Eleanor and sent her to the monastery for Simon. I didn’t ask him to do that!”

  “Of course not, he should have waited for you to tell him you were in pain.” Julia smoothed her hand over Mary Ellery’s belly, applying light pressure and gauging how the baby was positioned.

  “Exactly! How did he even know? I didn’t - ohhhhhh,” she moaned. Julia managed not to frown, instead she held her friend’s hand and spoke calmly once the pain had passed.

  “Has it become more frequent?”

  “Yes,” Mary Ellery began to talk and Julia continued to examine her until a sharp cry interrupted them both. She grabbed her belly low and sat up as much as she could. “It hurts,” she panted, “it isn’t right.” Julia ran her hands across her belly again, pressing. “It’s like last time, isn’t it?” Her fearful whisper pulled Julia eyes from her work. She grabbed Mary Ellery’s hands with a tight squeeze.

  “I will do everything I can to save this baby, but you have to help me.” Mary Ellery nodded, still scared, but determined, and Julia continued, “Good. To begin, I need to turn it.”

  Simon sat on the bench outside the cottage, alternately praying for the mother and child and thanking God that he did not have to deliver any babies. Stitches, amputations, he had no problems with those. Something about birth seemed horrifying and mystical to him - not to mention embarrassing. God bless Julia.

  Abjorn paced between the cottage door and the rocky beach, growling at everyone who approached except Eleanor. The majority of the village seemed to ignore him, only rarely casting looks of pity and resigned sadness towards the increasingly loud moans and occasional screams from the chandler’s cottage.

  “She lost two others during birth,” Simon said conversationally the next time Abjorn drew near. The giant man stopped his pacing and stared at the monk.

  “That is not so uncommon,” he said slowly.

  “No, but most women have other children to console them. Mary Ellery lost one before she was ripe, as well as those two. The chandler would not have had her bear another if this one did not go well.”

  “She should not have children?”

  Simon shrugged, “It will be God’s will. But it is sad that she struggles so to have the one thing that has been so difficult for her. I imagine that is why she does not want anyone other than Julia present. What man could understand? And what other woman in the village has had such failure at her most important task?”

  “She is not a failure.” Abjorn looked thunderous.

  “It is very good that you think so.” Simon smiled, before frowning at something in the distance. “But I do not think she needs an audience for this.” Abjorn turned to see Dunholm and two of his men striding towards the cottage. He took up a defensive stance in front of the door.

  “I have come to fetch Lady Julia. I wish her to break her fast with me.” The knight spoke with an arrogance that made Simon set his back teeth.

  “The good Lady is most highly occupied at this time. I will let her know you stopped by.” He smiled.

  “You will let her know now, or I will.” Dunholm spit at Abjorn’s feet and glared at the monk. Abjorn growled.

  “The birthing room is not a place for men, Sir Dunholm.” Simon frowned, “Although, I know your mother was from Normandy. Perhaps they encourage men to weep with their wives and scream their pain to the heavens?”

  “You little nancy!” the knight snarled, “I know you only joined the Church to avoid being sent to train in arms! Just like you are lying now to keep your sister from her duty! Bring that woman out here, or I-” A scream of absolute terror ripped through the cottage. The sound went on for what seemed like minutes. Agonizing pain and fear vibrated in the air. When it finally broke it was followed by sobbing and incomprehensible yelling. The cottage door was flung open and Eleanor shoved past Abjorn. Her dress was covered in blood and the red stuff soaked the cloth bundle in her hands. She threw her burden into an empty trough in the garden and pulled a bucket of fresh water from a barrel.

  Nothing was said as she raced back into the cottage, shutting the door behind her. Simon pulled out his rosary beads and turned an inquiring eye on the English knight. “Would you care to pray with me? Or perhaps you would like to go in and fetch my Lady, now?” Abjorn’s curses were drown out by a hoarse yell and muffled encouragement from inside the house.

  “I’m not done here,” Dunholm threatened. He turned on his heel and his men followed him to the road. Villagers fled out of his path and watched him go.

  “He is today,” Abjorn said with some satisfaction.

  “It is tomorrow that concerns me,” Simon replied.

  Isolation

  It was early morning and dawn was still a few hours away when Julia returned to the keep. Ulrich escorted her from the village.

  “Abjorn said Dunholm was angry when he left the village. Did something happen?” He asked once more before they reached the door to the Hall.

  “He is more frustrated as the days go on, but nothing has happened,” Julia lied. She smoothed the wrinkles on her over tunic. The pale blue material had large dark splotches across the skirt. It was likely ruined after the stains had been dry so long. A ride across the island without her cloak and a day and most of a night spent helping Mary Ellery had left her cold and tired.

  “You are certain you don’t want me to wake Galen?” He said quietly as he opened the door to the study.

  “I haven’t had anything to eat all day, Ulrich. I doubt Dunholm stayed up all night waiting for my return. Besides, it will take only a few moments for you to fetch something from the kitchens.”

  “Very well,” Ulrich frowned. He handed her the torch. “Light the brazier while I am gone. You’ll catch your death of cold in here.” She did as he asked. She would have put the torch away when she caught sight of her dress again.

  “Well, if I’m going to change, this would be the time,” she muttered to herself. Too tired to think clearly, she left the study and went to her room. She retrieved a clean change of clothes and bathing supplies and reached the top of the stairs when a hand wrapped around her upper arm.

  “This hardheaded behavior will stop,” Dunholm muttered in her ear.

  “Sir,” she gasped. She swallowed her fear. He was hurting her arm, but she refused to acknowledge it. “Sir Dunholm, I am quiet tired. If you will excuse me, I must change.” She shifted her weight, as if to pull away, and he reacted violently. He squeezed her arm tighter and shoved her against the wall. One hand caressed her neck.

  “When we are wed, you will obey me,” his eyes bore into hers, lit with determination.

  “Aelfreic refused your hand.” She regretted it even as the words left her mouth. The hand on her neck squeezed and her head thunked painfully against the stone wall behind her.

  “Cruithne is dead, so who will stop me from taking what I want? Ulrich? That mute Dane you’ve hired to watch the village?” A short, cruel laugh bounced around the empty corridor. “Not you,” he said. Then he crushed his mouth to hers.

  Julia clamped her mouth shut, grinding her teeth together to keep hi
s probing tongue out. His foul breath puffed in her face. His lips tried to subjugate her, his wet tongue forcing her lips apart and swirling against her teeth. She struggled against him, and his hold tightened. Her left arm felt numb from his grip; her right hand beat against his chest and shoulder - anywhere she could reach - the cloth and hard block of soap in her hand making muffled sounds where they connected. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, he was holding her neck so tightly. She tried to bring her knee up again, but he pressed their bodies too close together for her to be effective. In response to her actions, he bit her mouth. I am not strong enough, she thought to herself. She relaxed and opened her eyes.

  His eyes were half closed. When he realized she had stopped struggling, a look of satisfaction came over his face. “You can’t stop me from taking what I want - what I deserve,” he purred against her mouth. “You’ll like it soon enough.” His grip loosened and he rubbed his lower body against her belly. Julia didn’t respond, but remained still. His hand left her arm to squeeze her breast and the feeling returned to her fingers with a sharp sting.

  “What you deserve,” she repeated without inflection. He paused to glance at her face. Then she struck. The fine bone comb she had been carrying with her soap and clothes had a long, thin handle. She used all of the strength in her body to stab it through the thin cloth of his leggings and into his thigh.

  He screamed and abruptly let go to wrap his hand around his leg. Julia grabbed her skirts and took off at a dead run. She was halfway down the stairs when his bellow echoed in the Hall. She passed a worried Galen and an angry Ulrich, weapon drawn, as she ran into the study. “No fighting,” she rasped out, “we can’t afford a war.” Then she was in the study, slamming and barring the door behind her.

  She raced through the study and into Aelfreic’s private solar, dropping her soap and clothes on the floor. She ripped open the door to his bedchamber and almost fell exiting the second door and into the room that had been designated for her nephew. The heavy door from that room to the rear corridor was already closed; she heaved the bar up from where it was leaning against the wall and let it drop into place.

  She sagged against the door, just in time to hear raised voices in the Hall. Julia followed her circular route back through Aelfreic’s chambers to the study. There she leaned against the door, panting, and listened.

  “You’ll bring that door down or I’ll do it for you!” Dunholm’s furious roar moved easily through the thick wood.

  “My Lady has requested privacy, she will have it,” growled Ulrich.

  “She will get out here and apologize to me, or I’ll have every man of mine on this island take out repayment for this dishonor!”

  “My Lady has done nothing that requires apology,” Ulrich stated flatly. The Hall was quiet for a moment, and Julia allowed herself to hope that the matter had ended. The clatter of something falling to the floor - she guessed her comb - and Galen’s gasp dashed that hope. “What,” Ulrich ground out, “did you do that she felt the need to defend herself?!”

  Julia knew that tone of voice. Ulrich had a temper, and he was about to lose his control. They couldn’t afford that. It didn’t matter what Dunholm had done, or almost done. If he chose to take offense he had every right to ask that she apologize on his honor, and if Ulrich drew blood then Dunholm could take his honor back violently. Even if he had deserved to be stabbed, it was her word against his and she doubted any English court - especially one dominated by the new Norman invaders and their allies - would take the word of a woman over that of a seasoned knight.

  “Galen,” she called out. Her voice was hoarse and too quiet to carry through the door. “Galen!” she tried again. This time the men heard her. The accusations and harsh words paused.

  “Yes, my Lady?”

  “I am feeling quite ill. I am afraid I fainted in the upper corridor, I don’t remember exactly what happened.” Silence greeted her pronouncement. The lie was obvious, but it was one that allowed Dunholm to avoid admitting his attempted rape and still have hope that she might come out again peacefully, gaining him an opportunity to finish what he had started.

  “Shall I....shall I fetch you something, my Lady?”

  “No, thank you Galen. I think I might lay down in here for a few moments and regain my composure. Please make my apologies to Sir Dunholm when you see him, I don’t remember what I said, I was feeling so faint, but it must have been terribly rude.” Silence pressed against the door and Julia continued, although her sore throat was ready to give out. “Ulrich, please see that I am not disturbed; I need to rest.”

  Ulrich grunted and Julia made a noisy production of moving away from the door. She walked back to the unused bedchamber, her body feeling heavier and every injury beginning to make itself known. She collapsed on the side of the bed and shivers raced up her spine. He would not have stopped. He would have... she couldn’t finish the thought. Instead, she lay back and wrapped herself in the soft, slightly dusty blankets. Her last thought was that perhaps a nunnery wouldn't have been a poor choice.

  November 19 Aurelius

  The smooth grey stones of the harbor glowed in the pale moonlight. Fat flakes of snow drifted from the scattered clouds, dusting the thatched roofs and barren gardens of the village. The wind had been dying down for several hours, the last strong breezes blowing them into the harbor without a need for oars. The men remained quiet on the benches - at Eric’s order so as not to wake the sleeping islanders - but there was a thrum of anticipation among them. They had all been eager to return. Even the women and children that travelled with them seemed to pick up on the quiet excitement, drinking in the first sight of their new home. Their delayed journey to Stagnafr, the wait for a good wind, and then the storms had all combined to make a safe landing on Aurelius feel even sweeter. Torvald and seven others jumped over the side and towed the ships onto the sand bar where they had moored before with minimal noise. Eric left Bjorn to secure the ships and keep the men from rousing the entire island while he made his way to the cottage where Jens was staying.

  He pushed aside the leather flap that had replaced the broken door and was forced to duck to avoid an arrow that embedded itself in the doorpost next to his head.

  “The next won’t miss, English.” Jens’ gravelly voice had a thick accent, but the hatred was unmistakable.

  “I’ve been called a lot of things, old friend, but never have I been cursed to be English.”

  “Eric?” Jens leaned forward and the weak moonlight from the open flap washed across his face. Recognition flooded his features and he sagged back into his bed. “Praise AEgir, another day and the girl would be starved or married,” he returned to his native tongue.

  “Explain,” Eric ordered. Anger, worry, and a trace of confusion narrowed his eyes and drew his mouth in a hard line. Jens related how the English knight, Dunholm, and his men had come to the island bearing Cruthine’s body. Eric’s jaw tensed when the old man described how, against Abjorn’s wishes, the islanders helped the armed men ashore and led them to the fort. He described Dunholm’s ‘gift’ of a rotted corpse and the people’s reaction to it. He then explained Julia’s plan, as Abjorn had related it,

  “I told her it was a damn foolish idea, that any warrior who was that intent on taking a woman would do it - niceties of English custom could go to the devil. She was convinced that if she refused him outright he would try to take the island by force. She didn’t think we could take them.” Jens gripped his borrowed crossbow and spit on the ground. “I would have liked to try, the-”

  “Where is my Lady?” Eric’s voice was calm and cool, but it held a warning note that Jens heeded.

  “Something happened at the keep two days ago. Only Ulrich and Galen saw her before she locked herself in a room up there, and they have been real closed-mouthed about it. That brother of hers, Simon, has been up to see her, but I don’t think she opened the door, even for him. She hasn’t had any food since she went in. She was up the whole night before tending to Mar
y Ellery’s birthing - she is telling everyone that she is ill.”

  “Is she?”

  Jens paused at Eric’s question. Then his mouth turned down, “She seems to talk fine enough through the door. The servants who work up at the keep say her voice is rough, but she keeps warning Ulrich not to ‘take offense’ and she has told the English knight she’ll be out to speak with him as soon as she is feeling better. I don’t know what she has told the monk, the servants haven’t said and he won’t speak to me of it. Eric...” the old warrior hesitated again.

  “Hn.”

  “Before Ulrich found out that the Steward was talking to the Cook about things and shut him up, Cook heard...well, she heard the Steward say that my Lady had blood on her mouth.” Eric saw red. “The English knight is limping too - Galen said he tripped and fell on the pointy end of her ladyship’s comb.” The ridiculousness of that statement was not lost on either man, but they let it pass.

  “Where is he now?” The words were spoken calmly, but Jens smiled. This fury, the calm fury of the sea before the storm, was what he had been waiting for. Finally, no more following Lady Julia’s plan of playing nice and watching the ass, Dunholm, leave a trail of frightened islanders in his wake; no longer would the Lady have to hide in cottages and make excuses to avoid the horny cur. Now they could get rid of the English that came where they weren’t wanted - with the sharp edge of a Viking blade.

  “The English knight is at the keep, he hasn’t left since her ladyship shut herself in. He has fourteen men up there with him, and another four in the village.” Jens told him where they were staying. “Brother Simon has been waiting for you as well, he and Abjorn wanted to speak with you as soon as you returned.”

  “Where is Abjorn?”

  “Here.” The deep, quiet voice sounded outside the cottage and Eric stepped out to greet the man. He stood barefoot and shirtless in the cold night air. Pressed against his chest was a tiny bundle of cloth.