by Anya Seton
sharp air. A bird said "Tiki, tiki" in a pert way; the lambs bleated as they frolicked on the new pasturage, while the shaggy little horses in the shed snickered occasionally.
Our sheep, our horses, she thought, and the sow about to farrow, and the cow whose milk Orm drank, since her own milk was lessening.
Sigurd has done quite well, she thought tenderly, as a bondi — a farmer. He leased this homestead from Thorstein Egilson, the great chief of Borg. Sigurd was even now in Borg, unless he had had to sail his fishing boat as far as Reykjavik to find the best price for their fleeces. Surely he was happy. He had soon consented to her pleas that he go no more a-viking. Her father had also, but not willingly. Ketil had said with gloom that he was getting a bit old for fighting and raiding and that skilled crews were hard to find. Moreover, he had suffered bad dreams which might be a portent. In the dreams all the foreigners he had killed stood on high rocks jabbering and throwing blood clots at him. One must not disregard dreams.
On the other hand, said Ketil, he was not pleased to be sitting home all summer, carving on bits of wood, or counting sheep. That he did not know what the Noms had yet in store for him, but he hoped it was more interesting than now.
Ketil lived with Sigurd and Merewyn in the homestead. And as she thought about him he wandered outside towards her.
Ketil was over fifty now, a straight-backed powerful man. There were streaks of gray in his hair and beard; the old cheek scar had pulled his right lower eyelid down a bit, and a leg wound made him limp at times; but otherwise he had few signs of age.
He said "Dottir" politely to Merewyn, then picked up his grandson, whom he bounced up and down quite roughly, but they both enjoyed it. Orm squealed with excitement.
"I wonder has Sigurd got a good price for the fleeces," said Ketil, dandhng the child. "But it's getting harder. Too hard. Winter of iron we had this year. The miserable sheep can scarce
yet find anything to browse. And there'll be snow again soon," he added peevishly. "Baula is frowning."
Merewyn glanced towards Baula, a conical mountain to the north now half hidden by misty clouds. She sighed patiently, and twirled her spindle. "Father —" she said. "I was sitting here in the sun, thinking how content we all are, that soon perhaps Sigurd may buy this homestead for us, and that next month we will travel to the Althing. It'll be pleasant to see so many people from all over Iceland. They say it's very gay with music and dancing and the skalds making a special poem at the door to each booth."
Ketil grunted and put Orm down. He looked at Merewyn with tolerant aifection. "Women," he said. "They think of gossip, gaiety, handsome young skalds. We men have graver matters on our minds at the Althing. But you're a good wench, and have earned a little change."
He remembered how unhappy she had been during her first months here. And that because of her pregnancy and then last year Orm's birth she had never been included in the annual journey to Thingvellir where the Icelanders met in Council and decided matters relating to the country. It was a time for the Law-speaker to assert his mind, though the humblest bondi, or yeoman, could speak up if he chose. It was also a time for family outings, for meeting folk from Reykjavik, from the northern fjords, the eastern, the southern, and even the little Vestmann Islands.
"You've become a true Icelander, dottir," he said. He never called her "Merewyn." It seemed to him outlandish, and a reminder of an unconsidered moment of which he was not ashamed, precisely. But there was a faint discomfort about the circumstances which had given her birth, and a stronger one from that moment in St. Petroc's churchyard when he had wanted to rape her. Whole thing best forgotten. She was his daughter and publicly recognized. She was happily married to a good man. She had a fine son. And that was that.
Ketil picked up a pine slab which leaned in readiness against the turf wall, and continued the carving of interlaced vines which he had started on some days ago. The slab when finished would back the High Seat in the Hall which he shared with Sigurd. It would have runes on it to enhance its meaningful beauty. It would be finer than the elaborate doorposts brought from Norway, as fine as anything Thorstein Egilson owned, thought Ketil and made a "Tcha!" sound through his teeth.
He did not like Thorstein, from whom Sigurd leased this homestead. Thorstein was chief of all the Borg district. He officiated as "godi" or priest in the Temple to Thor he had near his house. He was called Thorstein the White because his hair was so flaxen, and he was generally thought to be handsome, though no equal in distinction to his famous father, Egil Skal-lagrimson. Ketil considered Thorstein a high-stomached and mincing fellow, like his cold-eyed wife, Jofrid.
Thorstein had never been a-viking. What did he know of real danger, of the sea's thrill, of the berserker excitement of raids! All Thorstein could do was squabble with his neighbors, and assert his authority. And how did Thorstein get all this authority and lands? Entirely because his old father Egil had moved south and given them over.
Ketil made an angry sound and threw down the half-carved slab. "Dottir," he said, "I'm going to walk to the naust — see how my ship is."
Merewyn smiled, and said, "No doubt, since you do almost every day." As he started off down the road towards Borg, she realized again how discontented her father was especially when May came around, the time he used to go off raiding. The "nausts" were literally nests, or shedded cradles, where ships were kept safe for the winter. But Ketil's great longship — the dragon ship which had carried her to Iceland — had not been out for three years. It lay idle.
Sigurd on his short coastal trips used a small fishing boat with a clumsy woolen sail. If, she thought. Father would only sell
his great ship! — Thorstein had even asked him to — then we could buy our homestead. No longer be tenants. She sighed. Ketil would not sell. He would rather let the Bylgja rot there in the naust, than have her broken up for timber as Thorstein certainly would do.
The sky changed, as it constantly did. Vivid silver-rimmed clouds scudded closer together, patches of blue between grew fainter and Baula, which could be at times, a golden pyramid, was now cloaked in gray. She listened a moment for the sound of Langarfoss — the cataract up the river, and could plainly hear its purring roar as the north wind began to blow.
Merewyn put down her spindle and gathered up Orm. "Come, little heart," she said to the baby. "It grows cold, and is time for something to warm you."
She carried Orm into the homestead, her housewife's keys jingling from her girdle. Keys to the storerooms, and lofts, and the special one for the bed-closet where she and Sigurd slept in privacy. She felt a glow, thinking of all the nights in the box bed with Sigurd. The strength of his arms around her, the feel of his golden beard on her mouth, on her breasts. The feel of that other thing — the pleasure maker, the life-giver — on her thighs — and later, when she and he were one —J the power and excitement and the bliss, up to the moment when he went limp against her, and lay quiet, his big head on her shoulder, sleeping so soon, but contented, she knew, while she murmured the love words he had taught her — "Elsknan min, elsknan min," which in English meant "my beloved." Ah, would he but come back this night, she thought, and was immediately brought to the present by the untidy state of the Hall and the exasperated discovery that the central fire was nearly out and there was nothing cooking in the cauldron.
Most family activities took place in the "stofa" or Hall, which had a long central hearth, and was raftered and lined with wood, though the outer walls were of turf. There was a smoke hole in the ceiling, and four square windows gave sufficient light in
summer, and kept out the winds, for they were filled with hardened, almost transparent membrane made from the afterbirth of cows. Along the walls ran benches and trestle tables. In the center nearest the hearth was the dual High Seat. Above that hung Ketil's great sword, which he called "Bloodletter" and had inherited from his grandfather, as he also had inherited the posts which guarded the door and were carved with vines, swastikas, and little figures representi
ng the gods. The doorposts and the sword had been brought from Norway. Ketil's and Sigurd's battle-axes also hung on the wall, but nobody except Ketil ever looked at them. And when he did he sighed heavily.
Merewyn was proud of her Hall, which was unusually large since the homestead had been built for one of the mighty Egilson family. Now she saw only the clutter of unwashed wooden plates and the dying state of the fire. She looked around for Brigid, the thrall they had brought with them from Ireland, and found the young woman crouched on a stool, idly flicking maggots off a hunk of putrescent lamb.
"Brigid!" cried Merewyn, and added in Celtic, "That meat stinks. It was not well smoked. I told you to give it to the pig! And why are you not preparing our meal?"
Brigid looked around. Her dull, flat face became as lively as it ever did. She had scarcely learned a word of Norse, and was thankful that her mistress's speech was always intelligible.
"I didn't think," said Brigid. "I've a bellyache."
Merewyn put Orm down on the hearth, safely away from the embers. She looked at her handmaiden, who was dressed in the rough gray vadmal all slaves wore. Beneath the stupid face, the thick neck, the pendulous breasts, there was a swelling which she had not noticed before.
"You're with child?" said Merewyn. "Or have you the bloat?"
"I dunno," said Brigid after a moment, and flicked off another maggot. Her stringy black hair fell forward on her shoulders, and she grabbed her middle with both hands. She moaned.
"You must know," said Merewyn sharply, "if you have lain in the grass with some man, or —" She added, remembering that if this was pregnancy, it must have happened during winter, "Have you lain in the straw?"
"Och — aye, mistress," said Brigid, astonished by the question. "Often wi' all of 'em — Cormac, Einer, Grim, and that thrall — can't say his name — one of Thorstein Egilson's shepherds."
"Blessed St. Mary!" cried Merewyn. All their menser^ants plus one of Thorstein's. And she felt shame for having been so caught up in her own happiness that she had not better regulated her household. She had a sudden memory of her Aunt Mer-winna, and the strict, vigilant rule she kept over many women. While here at Langarfoss homestead in Iceland, there was but one stupid woman for her to rule.
Brigid, seeing her mistress frown, gave another moan, while a ghnt appeared in her eyes. "You was a thrall yourself, mistress —" she said. "You was captured hke I was. But you got luck. You got wed to a bondi. I've a bellyache," she added.
Merewyn's annoyance was silenced by justice. It was true that she had also been a thrall, and had been lucky thereafter. Cormac! she thought — we could handfast her to Cormac, who was also an Irish captive. No doubt Brigid wguld prefer him picked as legal father to her child.
In the meantime, though Merewyn had scant knowledge of midwifery, something must be done. Brigid's moans seemed genuine.
"How many months," she asked, "since you've had your courses?"
Brigid looked up dumbly. This feat of memory was beyond her. "I dunno," she said. "Och, aye — mebbe 'twas at Yuletide, for I had a bloodstain on m' kirtle before the feast."
Probably five months gone then, Merewyn thought, feeling helpless. "Well," she said, "you must lie down. I'm sure of that. Into the straw with you!"
She helped Brigid up the ladder which led to the loft above
the loom room where the woman slept, and she took Orm with her since he must at this age be kept an eye on.
Brigid subsided at once, her moans lessened. She went to sleep.
Merewyn returned to the Hall, poked up the fire, filled the cauldron with good smoked lamb and water, then sat down to nurse Orm. While he tugged at her breasts, she had anxious thoughts, and she said a prayer for Brigid, the first prayer she had said in ages. She had not lost her faith exactly; it was there underneath, but it was hard to remember private observances when there was no church to go to, and both Sigurd and Ketil thought Christianity negligible, fit only for silly women — not worth talking about.
But she was concerned for Brigid. She knew that a baby bom before its time meant danger, and she wished very much that there were someone to send for Asgerd, her mother-in-law, who lived ten miles away on the White River with her sister.
She went up to look at Brigid, who was sweating and groaning now, though still half asleep, and there was blood on the straw. "Holy Blessed Virgin," Merewyn whispered. "From thy great mercy, help this poor woman. Or tell me, Lady, how to help her."
When she came down again, Ketil was back, and cross at first because the lamb was not ready. She explained, and he shrugged.
"If the babe comes Hving, it must be exposed, of course, for it will be no good to us. On the other hand, it'd be a pity to lose even so stupid a thrall as I have given you."
Brigid had been part of Merewyn's dowry from her father.
"Exposed," repeated Merewyn faintly. This custom of leaving unwanted babies on a hillside until nature dispatched them was one she had heard of with a trembling revulsion.
"However," said Ketil, munching on a slab of dried codfish, "Asgerd's skill might save the mother, and I shall take two horses and fetch her."
"Thank you. Father," said Merewyn gravely.
Ketdl returned with Asgerd when the May night sun had lowered behind the Hafnarfell mountains, but there was still light. By this time Merewyn was frantic. She had locked Orm into the bed-closet; told him to behave himself and go to sleep. She had raced up and down to the loft, bringing their precious mead for Brigid to drink, bringing hot cloths to put on the convulsed belly, turning under the fouled bedstraw.
She was so much reUeved to see her mother-in-law that she kissed her on the cheek. Asgerd looked amused. "Well, well —" she said. "What a to-do about a lewd thrall! You should have always locked her bed loft every night and kept the key. However, I suppose I must see how matters are going." She calmly ate some boiled smoked lamb, which was now cooked, drank mead, and hoisted herself up to the loft, grunting a bit, for she was portly.
Merewyn followed with a whale-oil lamp, and watched as her mother-in-law examined Brigid first on the belly and then inside.
Soon Brigid gave a screech, followed by a long sigh.
"Hold the hght closer," said Asgerd to Merewyn. "Ah, there it is, and you'll not have to expose it for it's already dead. Only a girl, anyway. Now I shall try to save your thrall. She has lost much blood."
"She might die?" Merewyn whispered. When Asgerd nodded, Merewyn tried desperately to think of Christian prayers for the dying. Those that the priest and Bishop Ethelwold had used for Merwinna. She made the sign of the cross and did her best. Brigid seemed not to listen. Certainly Asgerd did not. She watched her patient carefully, and when the tiny afterbirth slithered out, she grabbed for Brigid's now flaccid belly, and squeezed hard on the womb beneath the flesh.
An hour passed. Asgerd gave Merewyn various orders — a stool to raise the woman's hips — hot water to cleanse her — more mead to strengthen her. Get rid of that unfinished infant. Bury it in the midden pile. All those orders Merewyn obeyed, and said a prayer for the scarce-formed little creature she buried.
It would go into limbo, had it been a Christian, wouldn't it? Yet it had never breathed, nor been baptized. Where then would it go? She did not know, but when Asgerd finally came down into the Hall, saying "I think she'll do now, but that woman is not rightly made to bear children, and I think her —" she darted a cold look at Ketil, who was sipping from his drinking horn and waiting to be fed, "a very poor thrall to be the chief part of a dowry."
Whereupon Merewyn burst into tears.
Both Ketil and Asgerd stared at her. "Thunders of Thor!" cried Ketil waving his knife with a hunk of smoked lamb on it. "What ails you, dottir? The wench is saved, and though I think Asgerd's remark discourteous, we must remember that she has put herself out considerably to be of help — and we thank her."
"I know," said Merewyn, wiping her eyes on her cloak. " 'Tis not that. At least..." She trailed off, unable to explain how the man
y differences between this home and England had suddenly overwhelmed her. And that if Brigid had died — she knew no sure means of easing, either physically or spiritually, the passing of the poor thing. "I wish Sigurd was here," she said very low.
Asgerd gave a reluctant chuckle, and winked at Ketil. The two were for once united in a common thought. Unreason; tears; longings for a husband who was only on a few days' trip; young wives acted this way when they were breeding. At least daft, half-foreign and base-bom wives might, thought Asgerd with sudden anger, which she did not see as jealousy. She had accepted Merewyn, she could even admit that the girl had a certain comeliness — if one liked dark red hair and freckles and those greenish eyes — but she would never understand why Sigurd had turned down many a handsome, well-dowered maiden in the district for this one.
"I expect," said Asgerd pursing her mouth, "that you have some place prepared where I may sleep the rest of the night?"
"Oh, to be sure," said Merewyn flushing. Hospitality was the
first law, but she had forgotten everything in the turmoil of Brigid's phght. "I must warm the eiderdowns." She ran to the other bed-closet — the one for guests. It, like her own, like Ketil's, opened off the Hall. The guest closet was dank and chill. The piled eiderdown quilts gave out a musty smell, for Brigid had not aired them in weeks, / should have seen to this, Merewyn thought, conscious of her mother-in-law's disdainful sniff.
While Merewyn hauled the eiderdowns near the fire and spread them on benches, she heard the sound of voices outside, and amongst them unmistakeably Sigurd's.
"Oh, thank you, Blessed Lord," she whispered, and ran to the door. She saw her husband, and their three menservants behind him. Under the silvery midnight sky, Sigurd caught her up in his arms and kissed her many times. "Still not abed, elsknan min?" he asked without surprise. In winter everyone slept a lot — not much in summer. "Have you food for hungry men?"