Erinsong

by Mia Marlowe

  best thing for her.

  He put her to work.

  From before matins till well after vespers, Brenna scrubbed the stone flooring of the nave, polished the altar, trimmed the candles in the apse behind the chancel and swept the walkways to and from the church door. After she’d made the small house of worship sparkle like a jewel, she tackled the overgrown garden with the vehemence of Samson slaying the Philistines. Only her choice of weapon differed—a hoe instead of the jawbone of an ass.

  The labor was blessedly numbing. Throughout the day, she managed to keep thoughts of Jorand at bay. But at night, until she sank into exhausted sleep, visions of her husband with Solveig danced salaciously before her eyes.

  Her dreams were no comfort either.

  Jorand had come to the church a few times, looking for her. She huddled behind the sturdy oak door, listening at the crack.

  “If ye wish to worship, ye are always welcome in the House of God, my son,” Father Armaugh had told him. “But if ye are after troubling Brenna, then I’ll ask ye kindly to be taking your leave. She has no wish to see ye. The lass is at peace and I’ll not be having ye disturb her.”

  Part of her wanted Jorand to batter down the door and disturb her anyway. But if he intended to take her back to Solveig’s home, it was just as well he left each time without her.

  “Ave amicus!” An unfamiliar voice called out to her over the churchyard fence, interrupting her thoughts. Hail, friend, the voice had said.

  Brenna looked up from her watering to see a fresh-faced Norse woman about her own age with a wreath of coppery curls circling her head like a fiery halo. The woman leaned on the fence separating them and smiled. It was an easy, open expression. Her wide mouth was creased with tiny lines at the corners, lips that were accustomed to smiling. There was no trace of guile in the woman’s face.

  Brenna’s own mouth turned up in response.

  “Hello, friend,” Brenna answered back in the crisp liturgical Latin Father Michael had taught her. “I’m called Brenna of Donegal. Who are you?”

  “Oh, you do know Latin. I’m so glad!” The woman’s smile widened further. “He said you were educated. I was afraid we wouldn’t be able to speak with each other.”

  “Who said I was educated?”

  “Jorand, of course.” The young woman sauntered down to the gate and let herself into the churchyard. “He told me all about you. My name is Rika Magnusdottir.”

  “Rika,” Brenna repeated, the Latin leeching away her usual lilting accent. “He has told me of you as well. You’re his friend Bjorn’s wife, yes?”

  “That’s right.” She took the empty bucket from Brenna’s hand and linked elbows with her. “Jorand has talked so much about you, I feel I know you already.”

  So Jorand still thought of her often enough to warrant a mention to his friends. The small candle of hope kindled in her chest, but she pinched off the wick before it could burst into full flame. Her carefully constructed peace depended upon maintaining no expectation beyond the passing of each day. She couldn’t bear to hope.

  “I thought you and your husband were confined to your fjord,” Brenna said. She immediately regretted her words. The woman might take offense at the reminder of her husband’s brush with Norse justice.

  “So we were,” Rika acknowledged with a nod and no trace of resentment. “But Bjorn’s three years of punishment are ended and he had an itch to travel once more. We came to trade in Dublin and to see Jorand as well. We’d never met his wife, you see, and then to learn once we reached Dublin that he had two.” Rika’s face crumpled into a grimace. “It was a complete shock, given what I know of Jorand. A bit of a surprise for him and Solveig, too, for us to show up suddenly on their threshold. Still in all, Solveig has been a gracious hostess.”

  Brenna had nothing to say.

  “But after Jorand told us of you, I wanted to meet you, too,” Rika rattled on quickly. “In fact, we barely missed you when we arrived earlier in the week. Though I gather it was just as well to let the three of you have a moment to yourselves before house-guests descended.”

  Rika was looking at her intently, as if she willed Brenna to read more into her words. Bjorn and Rika had arrived on the heels of the same rainstorm she escaped into on Father Armaugh’s skinny arm. So Jorand and his first wife weren’t the only residents of the little wattle-and-daub longhouse. She’d been torturing herself with images of her husband and Solveig alone together. Perhaps her imagination wasn’t the truth of what was actually happening. The weight on Brenna’s heart eased a bit.

  “Let’s go have a seat somewhere and get to know each other better, shall we?” Rika suggested. “Does the priest keep any mead on hand?”

  “Mead, no,” Brenna said, her lip curving again impishly. Brother Armaugh had left for the market before Rika arrived. Since he did most of his evangelizing while buying provisions, she knew he’d be gone most of the afternoon. “But I do know where he stores the wine.”

  “In vino Veritas,” Rika quoted. “Shall we see if we can discover a little truth together?”

  Brenna couldn’t have said why she felt so instantly comfortable with Rika. Perhaps it was the other woman’s frank friendliness, so different from the mistrustful glares she’d received from the other women of Dublin, even some of the ones who came to worship in Armaugh’s church. Or maybe it was because Rika’s glorious red hair reminded her of Moira, her dear sister and trusted confidant. But Brenna suspected she felt an instant connection with Rika because they were linked to the same man whom they both cared for in vastly different ways— Jorand.

  She led Rika into the small stone church and was surprised when the Norse woman genuflected and crossed herself.

  “You are Christian?”

  “Ja,” Rika said simply. Brenna noticed for the first time that a silver cross dangled from one of Rika’s two brooches. “Our own Father Dominic drives a hard bargain. I had no choice but to convert. At first, it was just so he would marry Bjorn and me, but now ...” she glanced shyly at Brenna, “now, it’s personal.”

  “Jorand had to take the sign of the cross before me Da would see us wed as well,” Brenna confided. It felt good to talk about Jorand.

  “Did he? Oh, I’m so glad. When we saw him last, Jorand still followed Thor. He was adamant against the Kristr. He must love you well.”

  “Or loved what marrying me gained him.” His freedom to leave Donegal, Brenna reminded herself.

  The two women tiptoed through the nave to the sacristy, a cell off the chancel where the sacred vessels and vestments were stored. Brenna found a bottle of as-yet-unconsecrated wine and two obviously unholy drinking horns, then went back out through the church.

  They settled themselves in a shady alcove in the yard and poured out the wine.

  “What shall we drink to?” Rika asked as the ruby-colored liquid splashed into her horn. “I know. How about men?”

  Brenna shrugged noncommittally and filled her own drinking vessel.

  “To men, then,” Rika went on. “May they never know as much about women as they think they do.”

  For the first time since she learned of Solveig’s existence, a giggle escaped Brenna’s lips. She touched the rim of her horn to Rika’s, then let the wine slide down her throat, cool and smooth. The vintage had a definite bite and an aftertaste of the oak cask it had been aged in.

  “My thanks,” Rika said as she tipped back her horn. “I was that dry.”

  “Weeding is thirsty work as well.”

  “Jorand told us what happened,” Rika said, her expression suddenly serious. “His loss of memory, the way you found him, everything. He told us the harm Kolgrim did as well.”

  Brenna felt a flash of warmth in her cheeks. The shame of her sister’s rape and the story of the lost child weren’t topics she was prepared to discuss with a stranger, even one as pleasant as Rika. How could Jorand spread her secrets like they were so many barley seeds to be broadcast about?

  “Did he?”


  “But don’t worry. Jorand will get the Skellig Michael Codex back for you. I can certainly see why you’d want to return such a treasure to your old abbey.”

  From Rika’s omission, Brenna deduced that Jorand hadn’t told her everything after all. Perhaps she could still trust him on some counts.

  “You said we’d uncover some truth together.” Brenna took another careful sip of her wine. “What truth did you have in mind?”

  Rika’s emerald eyes rolled up and to the right as though she was casting about for the right words. She sighed. “The main truth I want you to know is that Jorand is miserable.”

  ‘Tis a misery of his own making. Brenna wasn’t being fair and she knew it. It was hard to get past her own despair long enough to pity his.

  “What makes you think he’s miserable?” Brenna asked.

  “Bjorn has known him most of his life,” Rika said, picking up the wine jug and refilling her drinking horn. “He’s never seen him like this. He says Jorand’s only half paying attention when he speaks to him. He’s not eating enough and drinking far too much.”

  Brenna studied the horn in her own hands. She recognized the temptation to tumble into a wine bowl and not come out. The thought had crossed her mind on several sleepless nights.

  “He’ll mend,” Brenna said. “He has Solveig after all.”

  “Yes, but he doesn’t love Solveig.”

  Brenna clenched the horn hard enough to turn her knuckles white. “And yet, he’s still sleeping in her house,” she said with bitterness. “Ye may claim what ye wish about how he feels. His actions speak much louder.”

  “No, they don’t. He’s in an untenable position. You may not fully understand the politics of Jorand’s situation. Solveig is Thorkill’s daughter. Jorand is oath-bound to Thorkill. He can’t just cast the man’s daughter aside without reason.”

  “Guess I’m not reason enough.”

  “Among my people, an oath is seldom given, and honor demands it be kept, even at great personal cost. Jorand has two oaths to consider,” Rika explained. “One to Solveig and one to you. He doesn’t know how to honor them both.”

  “I thought having multiple wives was a fairly unremarkable practice among Northmen.”

  “It is,” Rika said with a sigh. “Though it’s becoming less common. When he married Solveig, it was a love match, or he thought it was, at least. Now, Jorand is confused.”

  “Is Solveig changed?”

  “No,” Rika said. “Jorand’s the one who’s changed. He’s said as much to Bjorn.”

  Brenna allowed herself a sad little smile. “Mine was an arranged marriage. Jorand and I were no love match.”

  “Maybe not at first,” Rika conceded. “But it doesn’t take second sight to divine that your marriage bloomed into one, else you and he wouldn’t be in such sorry straits now. You haven’t seen him and Solveig together or you’d not worry over which of you his heart craves.”

  Brenna let the horn slip from her fingers and buried her face in her hands. “I can’t bear to see them together. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  Brenna felt Rika’s hand on her head, stroking her softly as if she were a child needing comfort. “What am I to do?”

  “Well, for a start, I’d suggest a bath,” Rika said, squinting at the smudge on Brenna’s forehead. “Then, you need to dress in your best and come with me to Thorkill’s hall. There’s a feast tonight. You need to be there.”

  “Why?” Brenna swiped her nose on her sleeve.

  Rika stood and held out her hand to Brenna. “Because Kolgrim has returned.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “If this isn’t heaven, don’t tell me different.” Brenna slid under the surface of the warm soapy water. A little liquid surged over the sides and splatted on the plank floor. For weeks, she’d been making do with quick dips in chilly streams or a slapdash wash with a basin and cloth. This round tub of fragrant delight was beyond luxurious. It was even worth the trepidation she felt about being in Solveig’s house again. She emerged with a sputter and a sigh, taking in the fresh scent of the soap. “Sweet St. Brigid! I needed this.”

  “Once I told you Solveig had already left for the jarlhof, I knew the promise of a bath would lure you here. No woman in her right mind can resist a steaming tub.” Smiling, Rika finished hemming the slate blue tunic and tied off the knot. She bit off the thread with her teeth, then shook out the garment, holding it up for Brenna’s approval. “Here you go. Barring the difference in our heights, we’re of a size, I think. This should do nicely.”

  “ ‘Tis very fine.” Brenna ran a bit of the soft woolen tunic through her fingers. “I thank ye, Rika. ‘Tis lovely.”

  Since Brenna’s own clothing was threadbare from travel and filthy from her labors in the garden, Rika had graciously offered her a spare kyrtle and tunic to wear to the feast. Jorand’s friend was kind as well as perceptive. She realized Brenna felt awkward enough in Dublin without looking a pauper to boot. Brenna was sure Jorand would have bought whatever she wanted from the merchants, but she couldn’t bring herself to even talk with him, let alone ask him for anything.

  He wasn’t hers to ask.

  “You’ll be lovely in it, too,” Rika promised as she handed Brenna a thick cloth to dry herself. “I love this shade of blue, but it never really suited me. It’ll be fine on you with those silver-gray eyes of yours.”

  Brenna stood and enjoyed the myriad of tiny rivulets streaming down her body. She ran her hands over herself, swiping off a few clinging trails of soap. Was it her imagination or were her breasts a little swollen? They were certainly tender when her fingers brushed past her nipples. Perhaps it was just the dimness of the longhouse, but the areolas around each stiff peak seemed darker as well. How often had she felt nausea in the last few weeks? An unthinkable thought swirled in her mind, but she pushed it away.

  No. She couldn’t be bearing. If her breasts were sensitive, it was only the joy of a hot bath. As for being sick, they’d been traveling for ages and she was still no sailor. And making the acquaintance of the other woman who also claimed a girl’s husband, well, that was enough to give anyone an uneasy stomach.

  Brenna rubbed herself vigorously with the towel, reveling in the pink glow of cleanliness. Then she pulled the tunic and a dove-gray kyrtle over her head. Rika provided her with a set of matching silver brooches for the tabs to hold the kyrtle at her shoulders. They were cunningly designed, a pair of fanciful horned animals so entwined it was hard for her eye to determine which leg went with which beast.

  “The twists and turns in these brooches put me in mind of the serpentine interlace I used to work on me manuscripts.” Brenna traced the pattern with her finger. “What a conundrum!”

  Rika smiled in agreement. “I imagine that’s how Jorand feels right now. It’s a hard knot he’s in and no mistake.”

  “If he hadn’t felt the need to wed the daughter of every headman he meets, he’d not be finding himself in this snarl,” Brenna snapped. A tickle of guilt washed over her. She knew she shouldn’t blame him. Jorand hadn’t intended for any of this to happen, but he wasn’t stepping lively to extricate himself from the puzzle, either. “Seems to me he has no dilemma. Did he not tell you I released him from his vow to me?”

  “No,” Rika said, “but even if you did, he wouldn’t accept it. His honor binds him to you no matter what. You see, he can’t dismiss his oath, even if you release him from it.”

  “And he’s oath-bound to Solveig as well,” Brenna said.

  “Divorce is not unheard of among our people, especially if both agree to part. It’s more that Jorand is oath-bound to Thorkill. Men frequently put more store in a pledge of fealty to another man since often their life depends upon the faith and the sword arm of the other,” Rika admitted, the line between her brows deepening with the injustice of the double standard of honor. “And Jorand may well be confused by Solveig. He’s a man.” Rika shrugged, the gesture lightly dismissing the braw
nier half of the human race. “And sometimes men are the last to know what they are feeling. But he’s heart-bound to you, I see it plainly. And I suspect you still care more than a little for him.”

  Brenna bit her lip. “Aye, much more than a little.” She dropped the Latin and lapsed into Gaelic, but Rika seemed to understand her intent if not her words.

  “I thought so,” she nodded thoughtfully. “You need to decide if what you and Jorand have together is more real than what he and Solveig had.”

  What passed between her and the big Northman in the months gone by was real enough. It was only her present that seemed a waking phantom.

  “Let’s see what we can do with your hair, shall we?” Rika suggested, picking up a horn comb. Brenna surrendered to the skillful fingers of her new friend as Rika tamed her willful curls into a long plait. As a finishing touch, Rika placed a lace kerchief on her crown.

  “Among my people, married women cover their heads,” she explained. “As a sign of the honor due them by their husband.”

  Brenna started to protest, but Rika led her to Solveig’s polished silver mirror. Dressed in borrowed finery, a stranger peered back at her. Only the gray eyes seemed familiar. She’d always been told she had her father’s eyes, and Brian Ui Niall’s eyes didn’t belong to a Norsewoman.

  “I’ll wear me hair as I always do,” Brenna said, removing the fine lace and undoing the thong corralling her tresses. “I thank you for all you’ve done, but this is not for me.”

  She couldn’t wear a symbol of her husband’s honor when she didn’t feel he’d shown her any of late. She ran a hand through the long braid, leaned forward, and shook her hair out. Even damp, it curled in wayward ringlets over her shoulders and down her back.

  Rika looked at her approvingly. “You should always be who you are. It’s a wise woman who knows that, my friend.”

  ***

  Even though the moon was full, the sky was so overcast with clouds, there was no light beyond the few guttering torches on poles to illuminate Brenna and Rika’s way to Thorkill’s jarlhof. Far larger than any other structure in Dublin, the headman’s domicile was both home and meeting hall in the same fashion as Brian Ui Niall’s keep. But where Brenna’s home was a cylindrical stone tower, Thorkill’s jarlhof was a massive wooden structure with jutting dragonheads on either end of the ridgepole. Fanciful carved beasts leered down at Brenna from points where the support beams of the roof met the outer walls.