The vikings were gathered in a half-ring, garbed in the best they could bring forth after all their faring and fighting. Above them the sky lofted wan blue, deeper in the east, greenish in the west where the sun had dropped below a murk of mainland trees. The river glimmered, a few gulls hovered creaking.
As he walked forward, it rushed through Halldor: O Lord of Storm, take what I will give, and give me back my son! A part of him snickered at himself: Why, you’re praying just like a Christian. Bargain with the Mighty Ones; what else can a man do? At that, it may well be foredoomed that they cannot help. But meanwhile he begged: Thor of the Weather, we’ve always been friendly, you and I, not so? Now listen. I’m not too old to beget more sons, whether or not Unn can bear them. But I am old enough to be aware of how soon and easily I may die. How then shall my house abide? Help Ranulf live!
He reached the altar stone and raised his arms. A stillness fell, broken by naught save river-flow and gulls.
Here there could be no great feast such as was held when folk flocked to a halidom in Norway. He only led the men in saying what was right to the high gods. He stunned the horse with the hammer, then cut its throat. Egil and Sigurd caught the blood in the bowl. Halldor dipped the wands there and sprinkled altar and gathering. The carcass was butchered; ale went around as flesh cooked in the kettle. Merriment lifted, and boastful vows were made over the horns. Stars came forth, torches and lesser fires were kindled. When the meal was ready, Halldor signed it. Meat and broth went to everybody’s trenchers and thus to their gullets. Bones cast on the coals sent up a rich smoke that bade the gods come share in this feast.
Hard drinking followed. The ships had borne casks of beer; the monks had had more, as well as a few jugs of wine. Sprawled about on the ground, men chattered, or told stories of old which were thought to be lucky, or listened to staves from those among them who had some skaldcraft. Halldor did not stint himself. He needed a time of ease.
Fires were guttering low, Thor’s Wain stood canted among the stars, chill had seeped through clothes, when he said goodnight and made his way through gloom to the chapel.
IV
THE STENCH OF HORSEFLESH TURNED Brigit’s stomach: a pagan feast on forbidden meat. From the chapel door she’d viewed the sacrifice, flinched as Halldor cut the poor beast’s throat—though he’d stunned it first, she must admit. She’d watched the Lochlannach feed until night thickened around their fires. Now laughter and drunken song strove against the stars. On the very island Saint Senan claimed for Christ! Brigit wished, briefly, that the ancient monster might return to scatter these vile revellers, but if it had been banished by holy Senan it must be a creature of darkness.
As to sacrilege, she, a woman, should not be here. The founding saint had never allowed women, not even nuns, on his island, and for centuries the monks had kept his rule. But she had not come by choice.
Ranulf yet lay on the altar: more sacrilege, a pagan bedded on the Mass-table. But there his father had put him. Mostly he slept. When dreams troubled him only his left side thrashed. His right half was dead.
Beside him lay his sword, where the men had set it. Well might it be that he’d never lift it again. He woke from time to time and watched Brigit with haunted eyes. He was at the mercy of his former captive, and could neither speak nor defend himself. Doubtless he expected the same treatment he’d given earlier.
Brigit need fear him no longer. She treated him as she was bid to aid any helpless creature.
The air in the earth-floored chapel was cool and damp. It hinted of mold, and the ghost of incense lingered. Such smells did not mask sickroom odors. If indeed her person was safe she might venture forth tomorrow for supplies, might gather herbs, do a laundry. Perhaps God had heeded her pleas.
More guffaws rose around the fires, and she heard shouted comments in Norse. She flinched. She did not speak this language, and for days all save Halldor had treated her as a dumb beast.
Someone fumbled at the chapel door. It gaped to the night, and Halldor stepped inside, swaying. Flecks of dried horse’s blood sprinkled his face and clothing. He strode forward. and grasped her wrist. Wood-smoke, beer, leather, and man-sweat choked her. She could not free herself. She was no weakling, she was tall for a woman, but her head barely reached his chin. She refused to meet his gaze, and stared instead at his gold mantle-brooch. It resembled one her father’s uncle had worn. Halldor must have stolen it.
Halldor’s breathing quickened. “My son sleeps?” Wordless, Brigit nodded. He put an arm about her waist. She stood rigid. “Well have you wrought, caring for him. Fear no more wanton misuse. I have told the crews that you are mine alone.”
Brigit turned her face toward the altar. She’d thought herself delivered, the more fool she. A taste of vomit stung her gullet. “I am no man’s woman,” she choked forth, “but a promised bride of Christ.” Halldor might kill her for that. She hoped so.
Instead he laughed. She heard, she smelled how drunk he was. “Your Christ is a poor bridegroom, if he will not defend you. A woman such as you wants a strong man.” He released her waist and grasped both wrists in one huge hand. With the other hand he turned her head toward him.
She shut her eyes; she’d no wish to see that expression.
“Look at me, woman.” His fingers on her jaw bruised afresh the marks Ranulf and his men had left. There was no help for her. She would be overpowered. She regarded him, holding her face motionless.
The lines around Halldor’s blue eyes told of years spent searching the distance. What strange lands and seas had they surveyed? He did not look cruel, only drink-fuddled and surprised. Womenfolk must not often resist him. Despite his broken nose he was handsome, in his rough way, blond and tanned and weathered. But he had Ranulf’s coloring and jawline. She shuddered, recalling beatings, pain, and coarse laughter. A remnant of angry pride made her stand straight.
“You are too sightly for a nun’s narrow bed.” Halldor smiled. “I’ll not hurt you. There’s no joy in that. Take off your clothes.” He released her wrists.
Brigit stood still. If I flee, the night is full of sottish robbers and murderers. And if I resist, he is stronger by far than I, and may withdraw his protection. Dear Lord God, surely You understand.
Astonishingly steadily, she untied her cincture, kissed it, and set it down.
Her outer garment, torn and muddy, followed it, as did her linen underdress. Convent-trained in neatness, she folded everything with care.
At last she stood naked and shivering. Her body gleamed pale in the lamplight: small high breasts, a flat stomach, slender limbs marred now by scrapes and dark bruises. Would that God had made her ugly! She clenched fists at sides.
Halldor’s gaze held admiration. He nodded.
“Sightly indeed.” With one rough finger he traced the marks on her thighs. “You’ve been ill-used; no wonder you fear me. Young men have much to learn.”
Brigit remained still while Halldor flung off his clothes. Sturdy he stood, well-muscled, his chest, belly, and loins dusted with golden hair. Where not seared by sun and salt, his skin shone fair. He was not ashamed to be naked.
Brigit had seen unclad men before, as patients, and in the past few days had known far too much of Ranulf and his friends. But Halldor was no invalid or stripling. She shuddered and hugged her arms across her breasts.
“You must be chilled,” Halldor said. “My bedroll is warmer than the dead monks’ robes.” He laid a palm on the small of her back and urged her to where his blankets were arranged. She suffered herself to be led.
Dear God, waken Ranulf, send a distraction, anything, please. She might have shouted down the wind. There was no answer. She sank onto the rough wool.
Halldor lowered himself beside her. His hands scraped her skin. “Fair you are indeed.” She spoke no word, and willed her mind elsewhere. Much practice she’d had, since her capture, in ignoring pain of every kind. But Halldor’s touch distracted her, tugged her from half-aroused childhood memories back to the pres
ent. Why will he not use me and be finished?
What more does he want? Sore she was, painfully so, after days of abuse.
When Halldor entered her she bit her lip lest she cry out from the hurt.
Ranulf and his friends had mocked her distress. In a few moments he will be done. I am strong enough to bear anything for a brief time. Then, practically: At least there are not six others waiting their turn.
She held onto the pain, but it faded, and yet the man thrust into her.
Nohow could she ignore the slow and deliberate ravishment. Pain had at least helped occupy her mind.
Forever lingered, but at last he stopped plunging and cried aloud. His fingers bit into her shoulders as his body shook. He was quiet a while, then rolled off and lay facing her. She kept her gaze fixed on the roof. He’d been heavy; good it was to breathe again.
Halldor sighed. Brigit felt him rise on an elbow and reach out a hand.
He did not touch her. He stayed that way a time before he turned over and pulled the blankets to his shoulders.
Only after he began to snore did Brigit permit herself to cry. Tears, the first since her capture, coursed down her face. I’ve no escape at all. He’ll neither kill me nor leave me in peace. God Himself has forsaken me, no, God forgive me my sin of despair.
Shivering, she crept from bed and donned her underdress, lest Halldor wake and find her naked. She stared at the altar where Ranulf slept beneath the crucifix. The martyred Christ was strange and far away. Yet after she sought her pallet, darkness quickly claimed her.
V
THE VIKINGS WERE OFF BEFORE dawn. They left none behind save the badly wounded, Ranulf and two others. The island was safe; no Irish troop could be close enough to reach it suddenly. Nonetheless, it wrenched at Halldor to leave his son helpless, under care of a woman who had been bitterly wronged. But what was to be, would be, and idleness hurt worse.
Rowing back and forth across the river, the Norsemen sacked several farmsteads. Their gain was not great, mostly food and livestock. They met nobody; everyone had fled, and the woods brooded almost scarily quiet around the fields, beneath looming white clouds. “They’ve gone upriver, I think,” Halldor remarked to one of Ranulf’s young friends, who grumbled at the poor pickings. “There’s an abbey that way—that’s a steading of Papas akin to what we’ve overrun, but bigger—which serves as a stronghold. Also, a chieftain’s hall isn’t far off from it.”
“Why don’t we strike yonder at once, before they can gather strength?”
the youth asked.
“Because the folk will bring all their best goods in hope of shelter, if we give them time. As for fighting men, the chief hereabouts can raise fewer than you might think. He’s at odds with a strong neighbor and so must keep watch on his eastern march. Remember, I spied my way through these parts, this past winter.” Halldor drew breath. “Oh, yes, belike the Irish host will outnumber us when we meet them, and man for man they’re as good. But very few wear mail, and none have yet learned how to fight in a well-knit array. We can scatter them. Then abbey and hall are ours, with everything therein, and we can freely scour the countryside.”
“How long till this happens?”
Halldor shrugged. “A week or two, maybe. We’ll see how it goes.
Meanwhile we’ll pick these nearby shores clean.”
“Well enough for you,” the other said sulkily. “You’ve grabbed the one woman on the holm for yourself alone.”
Halldor gave him such a scowl, half raising a hand, that he dropped his gaze and slouched off.
Having taken whatever was in easy reach, the vikings returned toward evening. Halldor made haste to the chapel. His heart knocked and a fullness held his throat. Beyond the door, night already lay in wait, barely held at bay by a pair of lamps. Brigit rose from crouching near the altar and backed away. Halldor sought his boy. “Ranulf—” he breathed.
Half hidden by swaddlings that had lately been changed, stiffened on the right side, the face at least lived. Eyes gave back yellow flamelets. The tongue was thick, the speech hard to understand. “Father… I don’t think…
now… I’ll walk hell-road.”
Halldor wondered if Ranulf would ever walk again at all. “How do you feel?”
“Less bad. Less pain. She… tends me well…”
Halldor peered through the gloom toward Brigit. In her drab gown she was a shadow among shadows. “Come here,” he said. Step by step she neared until she halted—behind the altar, to keep it between them. She leaned forward, bracing herself.
“How goes it with him?” Halldor asked. “Tell me truth. Have no fear.”
She straightened, then: “Oh, I have no fear of death, if that is what you mean.” Her tone flattened. “His fate is in God’s hands. However, I think you may hope. He’s strong, and mends faster than I’d have expected.”
“What else does he need?”
“God’s mercy. Beyond that—” She sought words for a bit, before saying in a rush: “Well, this building is unsuited for a sickroom. He could too easily take a chill. Move him to a monk’s cell, where a small fire may keep him warm. And the sanctuary would no longer be profaned.” She reached to touch the crucifix. “I’ll ask Him Above to take that kindly.”
Halldor felt his lips crease upward. “You do right well by us, your foes, Brigit.”
“Christ commands forgiveness of wrongs,” she said harshly.
He regarded her a while before he murmured, “Can anything else be done for Ranulf?”
“Yes.” Her answer came at once; she must have been thinking about this. “It may happen or not that he never again uses his right-side limbs.
But in either case, it would help to flex and rub them often. Tomorrow I mean to begin that, if you wish. Yours is to tell him why, first, and say he must endure the pain and himself try to move.”
“Good!” burst from Halldor, almost gladly. “If aught can be done—Let’s see to shifting him at once.” He stood unspeaking for a time. “You, though, lass, you’re near to breaking.”
She made no answer.
When his new bed had been readied, a fire lit on the tiny open hearth, and he borne there, Ranulf fell into a heavy, snoring slumber. One of his comrades sat by, at Halldor’s bidding, to let his nurse get a rest. “Well, I see, skipper,” the young man said. “She’s no good to him if she keels over, is she? Or to anyone else.” He cast her a lickerish glance. Halldor knew she understood no word, but her cheeks went whiter still. She knotted her fists and turned her back.
“Come.” He took her elbow. She flinched, but they walked forth together.
Wood-smoke and a racket of men filled the air, mingled with lowing and grunting, bleating and cackling of creatures brought hither. A number of the Norse were building pens and coops out of wood lopped from the grove at the west end of the island. Brigit watched this and breathed, as if to herself: “Now the sea winds will blow cold across the graves of the old monks, and the unhallowed pit where those lie that you killed. May God give warmth to their souls.” Her gray eyes stared into distance.
Somehow uneasy, Halldor said, “Since we’ve been on the move throughout this day, we’ll eat our big meal now—rather, when it’s ready. I hope you’re not starved.”
She turned her face toward him, cheekbones sharp beneath the skin.
“I’ll be eating none of your food, I’ve decided.”
Shocked, he remembered the custom they had in this land, of fasting against an oppressor. If she wasted away, who would care for his son? At once, as if of itself, the unshakability of a trader came over him, and he merely shrugged. “Would you like some fresh air, anyhow? You’ve seen nothing but sickroom.”
With hope, he heard that a half sob answered. He beckoned slightly and paced south. She hung back, then followed. Side by side, an arm’s length between, they went that way which led farthest from camp.
Westward the sun had sunk behind mainland trees. Above their darkling wall, clouds glowed gold. Elsewhere bluenes
s lingered, and the river sheened. A breeze brought faint chill and smells of springtime growth. Rooks cawed in flight. The sod, green with new grass, studded with wildflowers, felt soft underfoot, as if helpless. Though the island was flat and small, walking soon made the man-racket dwindle till it was well-nigh lost.
That stillness weighed on Halldor. He must speak: “Brigit, who are you?”
“What?” she asked, startled out of wherever she had gone.
He brought his eyes toward her. Fair she was, he saw. Take off the haggardness, make her smile, and no man could wish for a handsomer woman. But he doubted she would ever smile at him. “I owe you thanks,”
he said awkwardly. “You see, Ranulf is my last son alive.”
Staring straight ahead, she mocked in a dull voice, “I’d think you could beget more. Have you no wife at home?”
“Yes, but Unn seems to have grown barren, and besides—” He snapped his teeth together. Why should he bare himself to a thrall?
She was not a thrall. Enough whipping and hunger might turn her into one. He’d seen that happen, and did not want it for her.
He swallowed and began anew. “I owe you thanks. I pay my debts.
What would you have of me?”
She halted. Slowly, starting to tremble, she confronted him, who had stopped likewise. Her whisper blazed: “My freedom.”
He nodded. “If Ranulf lives, you’ll go free. If he is no cripple, you’ll have reward as well.”
“That, that lies… with God… not me,” she stammered.
“Call on your God, then.” In quick slyness, Halldor added, “Of course, it’ll be no use if you let yourself die of hunger.” He saw her will about that melt away. In all else, however, she must still be withstanding him. He rubbed fingers across beard, thinking aloud. “Will it help if we leave him alone in his kirk? I’d sooner raise my tent anyhow, now that my boy is elsewhere. It can hold a knockdown bedstead and it’s well-oiled, to shed your Irish rain.”
She stiffened afresh. He walked on. She fell in beside him. “You will understand, I have to make sure you’ll do your best for Ranulf,” he said. “If you fail and he dies, well, you’ll not find me an unkindly owner. But otherwise—let’s be honest. Even if a…a miracle, do you call it?… even if he were healed overnight, it’d be no boon to set you loose. You’d be prey. If you happened on a countryman of yours, he might help you home, or he might not; either way, your convent is no more. There’ll be scant peace in this land after we’re gone. No, instead will be outlaws, men driven wild by woe, attacks from those of your own folk who’re at loggerheads with your lord.
Demon of Scattery Page 3