Far After Gold

by Jen Black

  She halted on the threshold of the hall and glanced around. Oli, who sat by the fire playing a lonely game of knuckle bones, looked over and caught sight of her. He scooped up the bones and raced toward her. “Come and play knuckle-bones with me!” Oli grasped her arm. “Grendel keeps trying to eat them!” Relaxing at the sight of his merry face, warmed by his obvious delight, she followed him back to the fire with Grendel, plumed tail wagging, prancing beside them.

  Emer laughed. “They smell like food to him, I suppose.” She held out her wet chemise. “I must hang this somewhere to dry.”

  Oli stared dubiously at her feet. “I can see your ankles.”

  “I know. I washed my chemise, and I need to dry it quickly so I can wear it. Then I’ll look normal again. I don’t have anything else to wear.”

  His hazel eyes came up to meet hers. “You’re wearing Flane’s old tunic.”

  “My gown smelt horrible after I fell in the midden, and I had to wash it—”

  He goggled at her. “You fell in the midden pit?”

  Emer nodded. “Strictly speaking, I was pushed. Katla pushed me.”

  A wide grin broke across Oli’s face.

  Emer waggled a stern finger under his nose. “Don’t you dare laugh!” She fixed him with a warning glare, and waited.

  He clapped a hand over his mouth to hide the smile, and somehow held the laughter in.

  “I didn’t have anything else to wear, so Flane gave me this old tunic. I’ll have to wear it until mine is dry.”

  Oli looked dubious.

  “I have to wear something!” If Oli thought wearing Flane’s tunic was wrong, then she could expect comments from the adults of the community. She thought of Katla and groaned silently. If Katla saw her in Flane’s old clothes, she would be furious.

  “I like your ankles, though.” Oli took his hand away from his face and revealed his mischievous grin. “I don’t normally see women’s ankles.” He nodded toward the chemise in her hands. “Put it on the drying rack. There’s a gown there already. It might be yours. I’ll show you.” He dashed off to the sidewall of the hall, climbed on someone’s bed platform and unwound a piece of twine from a hook. Slowly, jerkily, a long horizontal pole descended from the roof space.

  Someone had washed her gown and hung it on the pole to dry. Emer checked for her ring and relaxed when she found it still in place. Since the washer woman could hardly have missed it, she must be honest. The marks had come out of the fabric, but so had a lot more colour. She turned the still damp cloth, spread her chemise beside it and with Oli’s help hauled the pole back into place where it would catch the rising heat from the fire. No doubt it would reek of smoke by the time she could wear it again, but she couldn’t help that. They sat by the hearth to keep an eye on it in case either of her two precious garments fell into the fire. “Oli, have you seen the lady Katla this afternoon?”

  He shook his head and shoved the bones toward her. “You go first.”

  Emer sat down on a three-legged stool. Very conscious that her ankles were on show, she tugged the tunic down as far as she could before she threw the bones up in the air. She caught two thirds of them on the back of her hand and put them to one side with a quick grin at Oli. She hadn’t lost her skill. Oli clutched one knee to his chest and watched as she threw a bone in the air, neatly picked up some of the scattered bones out of the dust of the hall floor and managed to catch the thrown one as well.

  “You’re good at this,” he said.

  “I played a lot when I was younger.”

  “Who did you play with?”

  “My brother,” she said slowly, thinking of Donald. “I played with him until he grew more interested in swords and spears.” She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “It seems a long time ago. I played with other girls in my village and they’re all married now, and gone to live with their husbands.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  It was Oli’s turn to make his play, and he frowned in concentration as he grabbed for the bones.

  “Those girls were older than me,” Emer continued, more to herself than as an explanation for Oli. She hunched over, her forearms across her knees and watched the boy catch bones. “But I would have married this autumn, once the harvest was in.” Resting her chin on the back of her wrist, she wondered if anyone told Angus his future wife was as good as dead. “I never met the man my father suggested as future husband.”

  Oli fumbled a bone, dropped it and scowled. “Did you want to get married?”

  She’d never thought about what she expected of a husband, but she had looked forward to the new rôle it would have given her. Every woman wanted a household of her own. She smiled at Oli. “That’s a strange question from a small boy. Why do you ask?”

  Oli shrugged. He jiggled the bones in the palm of his hand and looked at her from under his heavy fringe. “Sometimes girls want to get married and sometimes they don’t.”

  “Is that so?”

  He considered her carefully, as if unsure he should confide in her. “The lady Katla is keen to marry Flane, but Flane is not so keen to marry her.”

  Surprised, Emer opened her mouth and hastily rephrased her question to suit a small boy. “And how would you know, you wretch?”

  “I listen a lot.” Oli grinned cheerfully. “They take no notice of me, and sometimes they don’t even know I’m there. I’ve heard Flane and Skeggi talking about it, too.” He put his finger to his lips, his eyes on someone nearby.

  Emer looked round. Two slaves carried a heavy black cauldron between them and hooked it onto the chain above the fire. The unmistakable smell of fish drifted on the air and made Emer’s stomach rumble. Oli heard it and giggled. Emer poked him reproachfully in the ribs, and he giggled even more. The slaves swung the cauldron into position over the fire and walked away.

  Emer turned back to Oli. “What else did you hear? How do you know what the lady Katla feels?”

  “I heard her talking with her father, didn’t I?” Oli was offhand about it. “She said she must have Flane, no one else would do. Her father wants to marry her off to Snorri Longnose over in the next bay, but she won’t have it.”

  That was interesting. “You seem to hear an awful lot, Oli.” The slaves set up trestles, placed boards across them and distributed baskets of bread evenly along their length. Emer watched, her thoughts whirling. If Oli’s information was correct, it was proof that Skuli Grey Cloak’s daughter loved Flane Ketilsson. She must have courage to stand up to her father and refuse to marry the man he had selected for her. “How far is it to where this Snorri Longnose lives?”

  Oli shrugged. “A two-day ride, perhaps. I’ve heard folk say it’s easier to sail round the headland.”

  Emer thought quickly. A two-day ride would mean at least a three-day walk, but she could manage that without help. She was used to walking. But how would she know the path? “Do you know the way to Snorri’s camp?”

  Oli looked up. His bottom lip thrust forward as he stared at someone behind Emer. “No.”

  A shadow fell over her. “But I do, Oli. Who wants to know?” Gamel sank to his haunches beside them. The boy’s face turned sullen and a whiff of rank sweat caught Emer’s nose. She coughed, sat up straight and tucked her feet modestly beneath her. “We were talking of Snorri Longnose’s camp. Perhaps you know it?”

  “Of course I know it.” Gamel’s small dark eyes roved her face and body until Emer felt uncomfortable. He hadn’t earned the creases around his mouth by smiling, and she saw none of Flane’s kindness in him. “I understand they are our nearest neighbours. Is it easy to get there?”

  “It’s a long, rough walk around Coigach and Stac Polly. Far too rough a track for the likes of you.”

  Emer hid her disappointment by looking down at her hands.

  “She didn’t say she wanted to go,” Oli muttered.

  Gamel ignored him. He sniffed, and stretched his hand toward Emer. She flinched and tucked her legs even further benea
th her. However hard she pulled at Flane’s old tunic, she couldn’t quite cover her ankles and feet. The heat of embarrassment rose in her face.

  Gamel’s rough hand trapped her ankle, and tugged. “Oh! That hurts!” He slackened his grip but didn’t let go. He was strong, too; for all his stringy appearance, there was unsuspected strength in the man. Emer’s heartbeat tripled at the greedy look in his eyes.

  Oli, still on his knees, shuffled silently backwards, away from her. She swallowed nervously. There had been no one but Oli in the hall when she arrived. The slaves had gone back to the cooking area. Should she scream? Attract attention?

  Oli was on his feet and bolting toward the door.

  “That’s Flane’s old tunic.” Gamel stared at the garment. His tone made his statement an accusation.

  Emer cleared her throat and gestured toward her gown high on the drying rack. “I fell…mine has been washed. I had nothing else to wear.” Warily she glanced over her shoulder. Oli had vanished.

  Gamel leered, and ran his palm up and down the length of her shin bone. “You’re a pretty girl.”

  The unease she always felt near Gamel strengthened into anxiety. She tried to get to her feet, but he kept his grip of her ankle. “Please let go of me!”

  He yanked so hard Emer slid off the stool and thumped to the floor in front of him. His hot dark eyes feasted on the length of calf and thigh thus revealed, and when she tried to wriggle free, he tightened his grip of her ankle. She kicked out, but realised her struggles increased his excitement.

  Already she was much too close to him, and the air she breathed was clouded with his odour. He scented the air like a dog, his eyes flicking from side to side. The man was revolting. What could he smell? A dog would scent food, meat. Her stomach plunged as she remembered. Surely Gamel could not smell the dribble of blood that occurred when she lost her virginity?

  His mouth curled back against his stained teeth. “Someone has bedded you!”

  The words sounded like an accusation, yet Gamel had no rights over her and it was hardly his place to complain if she was no longer a virgin. She saw the rage flickering in his eyes, decided he was not quite right in the head and struggled to be free.

  He merely grinned.

  Dislike, disgust and fear surged together in her. She kicked out, hoping to dislodge his grip. “Get off me!”

  A grimace settled over his face, and she saw how the lines bracketing his mouth had formed. His arm moved with exaggerated slowness, became a blur and the back of his hand exploded against her face. The force of the blow rocked her back on her elbows, and her thoughts jangled and tangled together. She tasted blood in her mouth, and gagged.

  Gamel seized her feet and hauled her toward him. The old green tunic dragged high on her thighs, and Gamel’s gaze settled there. He wrenched her legs apart and knelt between her knees. Emer screamed, kicked out in panic and got the sole of one foot against his belly. Desperately she tried to shove him away, but he slapped her foot aside and lunged forward to grasp her wrists.

  “Help me!” she cried, dodging to one side, hoping someone would rescue her. Panicking, she dug her nails into his face, aimed for his eyes but he slapped her hands aside. The thin leather laces at the neck of her tunic broke under the strain and overlarge tunic fell off one shoulder. Gamel reached out to grab. On flesh still tender from Flane’s loving, Gamel’s rough fingers hurt. She screamed again and again and caught a glimpse of Oli’s white face behind Gamel’s shoulder.

  “Oli, no! You’ll be hurt!”

  Oli took no notice of her. He sank both hands into the sparse, greasy hair at the back of Gamel’s head, and yanked with all his might. Gamel yowled, let go of Emer and launched to his feet in the same movement. Oli, his face blank with fright, backed away, strands of lank hair clenched in his fists.

  “You little runt!” growled Gamel, lunging at the boy. “I’ll tear your head off!”

  Emer struggled to her feet. Dizzy with exertion, hampered by a tunic that slid off her slender frame, she looked for a weapon and stumbled to a stack of wood by the fire. She seized a stout log. He would not get his hands on the boy. Gamel lunged for Oli, who skipped out of reach. Grendel, growling, sprang toward the threatening hand and hung on just as Emer hefted the log, swung and cracked it against the back of Gamel’s skull. Gamel did not fall. He lurched sideways, his face livid.

  “Thor’s balls!” he howled, flung Grendel aside and plunged back toward Emer. Blood dripped from the hand reaching for her. “You little bitch. I’ll give you the hiding of your life!”

  Terrified, Emer stumbled backwards, swung the log, missed him and overbalanced.

  Chapter Eleven

  Emer was deaf and blind to everything but the need to escape. A bellow of anger cut through her panic.

  Gamel heard it and stopped moving. His gaze settled on something behind her.

  She twisted, caught a glimpse of Flane speeding across the hall. Hope and energy surged through her in a hot wave. She clenched her hand and smashed her knuckles across Gamel’s nose.

  Tears sprang to his eyes, his grip loosened, and Emer wriggled free. She staggered, fell and landed on her bottom. Dazed, she looked up. Flane stood in front of her, a solid shield of bone and muscle between her and Gamel. She was safe. All the air left her lungs, and her muscles wobbled like a jellyfish stranded on the beach.

  Stripped to the waist, feet apart, bent slightly forward in a fighter’s crouch, Flane must have come straight from the training yard. He carried no weapons, but Emer looked at the taut muscles and wide shoulders and thought he did not need them.

  Oli scuttled around and knelt by Emer. “Are you all right?”

  “Thanks to you, Oli, I’m fine. Or I will be in a moment or two.” She struggled to her feet, limped over to the stones of the raised hearth and sat down rather more suddenly than she intended.

  “What happened, Oli?” Flane demanded without taking his eyes off Gamel.

  “He attacked her.” Oli’s boyish treble soared across the hall. “He pulled her off the stool and jumped on her!”

  Gamel wiped his hand beneath his nose. He stared at the smear of blood on his fingers and then back at the younger man. “What’s it to you if I bed her? She’s only a slave.”

  “She’s my slave. It matters.”

  “A slave is anybody’s,” Gamel growled. “And I want her. Get out of my way.” Gamel tried to brush Flane aside in order to get at Emer. There was a general intake of breath behind her. Emer looked around and saw the men and women who had rushed into the hall behind Flane.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Flane’s palm flattened against Gamel’s chest and shoved him back. Gamel growled and threw a punch at Flane’s head.

  Out of the crowd came a familiar face. Inga, smiling and shaking her head, put an arm around Emer and held her firm against her bosom.

  Oli squeaked in excitement. “Look at that! Gamel—he’s fighting! Gamel never fights!”

  Emer cringed in Inga’s firm grip. Pulses thundered still in her ears, but she looked up and gasped. Flane Ketilsson was indeed fighting. Her heart swelled on the thought that he fought for her. Tall, lithe and battle-fit, he avoided a swinging chop to his throat. She flinched when Gamel’s knuckles crashed into Flane’s face, but he jerked back, skipped to one side and let fly with a punch of his own.

  Skeggi appeared from nowhere and stood with Oli. He gave Emer a cursory glance. “Need anything?”

  Shaking her head, Emer kept her eyes on the scene before her. “No, I’m all right. But thank you,” she added and spared the young man a grateful glance before she turned back to the fight.

  Gamel looked older than Flane by five or six years, perhaps more, but beneath his flea bitten tunic and baggy trousers his stringy body was as battle tough as the rest of the warrior band. Emer flinched and hid her face against Inga’s ample bosom as Flane took a blow to the belly.

  “It wasn’t as bad as it looked,” Skeggi muttered, his gaze still on the fighters. “Flane rol
led with it, minimised it. He’s faster than Gamel.”

  Reassured, Emer tugged her tunic back into place and saw Flane’s arm drive toward Gamel’s face and land on his nose. Gamel reeled back, feet moving rapidly beneath him to stay upright. Once he got his balance he leered, hatred printed in every line of his mean, sullen face. He bounced forward and jabbed with his right fist. Flane ducked, stepped in and drove a blow deep into Gamel’s belly. Gamel doubled over, and Flane’s hard fist found the side of Gamel’s jaw and snapped his head to one side. Blood flecked the corner of Gamel’s open mouth as he staggered a pace or two. Then he snarled, lowered his head and charged.

  Emer sat bolt upright, one hand at her mouth.

  Flane fell neatly backwards, lifted his legs and caught Gamel on the soles of his boots. His legs flexed and Gamel flew through the air.

  Emer let out a small yelp and clapped her palms together. Her tormentor landed with a crash on the floor.

  Already up on his feet, Flane flicked his long hair out of his eyes and threw himself forward. Gamel was still on his knees when the force of Flane’s dive carried them both to the floor. They rolled over and over and slowly came to a halt with Flane’s forearm wedged against the other man’s throat. Gamel’s face slowly turned crimson.

  “Look out, Flane! He’s got a knife!” Skeggi cried.

  Emer choked back the cry that rose in her throat. The blade flashed in the firelight. Flane’s hand shot out and grasped the other man’s wrist. Flane’s weight came off his opponent’s throat and Gamel sucked in a huge gulp of air.

  Emer watched in horror as Flane, his fair skin flushed, brought both hands to bear on the wrist that held the dagger. He forced the knife hand back against the floor and then knelt on it.

  Gamel’s face contorted, there was a loud crack and Flane wrenched the weapon from the suddenly lax hand. He got to his feet and stood over Gamel. “Touch that girl again, and you’ll have this in your heart.” He looked at the dagger and then held it out to Oli. “Do you want it?”

  A huge grin lit Oli’s face. He took the knife and held it across both palms. Flane, his colour high, strode to Emer, seized her arm and marched her across the hall to his bed space. Once there, he shoved her onto the mattress and stood over her, his chest flaring with each breath. Rush light winked and gleamed on the silver studs of his wrist guards and the small silver Thor’s hammer, usually out of sight below his tunic, now nestled in the hollow of his throat where it lodged during the fight.