Enchantress Mine

by Bertrice Small

  They rested. He and Dagda took turns keeping watch, and every noise in the black night set his nerves on edge. The child slept peacefully. Shortly after dawn they continued on to the seacoast village where they would meet up with Fren’s two assistants and their cargo. As they rode Mairin was again silent, but Fren saw that she noted everything about them even if she said nothing. She was obviously not stupid.

  It gave him personal pleasure, however, to see her eyes widen with just the slightest shock of fear when she first saw his string of prime slaves. He had some fifteen of them. Twelve men of all shapes and sizes, each one wearing a metal-studded leather slave collar, and bound together by a chain that was strung through an iron loop attached to the back of each collar. The three young women also wore collars, but they were bound together only upon the land, and then by the more humane method of a chain about their waists. Once they had set sail for England in the lumbering round boat the slave women were released. Women were considered manageable.

  Fren, his party, and their horses were housed upon the open deck of the ship which carried wine and salted fish in its hold. The vessel skirted the coast of Brittany and Normandy sailing through the Pass de la Deroute with Brittany behind them, Normandy to the right, and a group of islands on their left. Mairin watched the navigator with interest as they passed Cap de la Hague, and she saw him carefully set his course across La Manche for England—the land of the Angles and the Saxons. Almost immediately thereafter it became foggy. So foggy that they could see neither where they had come from, nor where they were going.

  “What are they like?” she asked Dagda. “What are the people in this England like?”

  “They are brave men,” said Dagda. “That I can vouch for having fought against them. Other than that, child, they are very much like people in Brittany, like people everywhere. They struggle to survive. They live. They die.”

  “Do they speak our language?” Mairin spoke a Celtic Breton tongue.

  He shook his head in the negative. “They have their own tongue, but I understand it, and soon you will also.”

  “Are we going to stay in England then, Dagda?”

  “Aye,” he whispered to her softly, “but Fren does not know it. He has other plans for you, my little lady, but they are not plans that either your sainted mother or your noble father would approve. You are my sole responsibility. It is I who must see to your safety.”

  “Can we not go to my mother’s family in Ireland, Dagda?”

  “I had thought of that, my little lady, but it is a long and dangerous journey. Alas, I have no coin to ease our way, and we shall need money for food and for our passage to Ireland. Perhaps in a few years, but not now. First we must depart Fren’s company. It should not be too difficult.” Dagda had considered leaving Fren within the Forest of the Argoat, but on reflection realized that he might use the slaver to help them escape Brittany, which was no longer a safe place for Mairin, and Dagda did not doubt for a moment that had it been possible the lady Blanche would have killed the little girl. At least this way the child was alive, and in Fren’s company half their journey would be completed. Dagda was not certain what he would do once they reached England, but he would think of something.

  The winds were light, the fog thick, and the seas calm as a millpond. It took them almost three days to cross the water separating England from the mainland of Europe. Ashore Dagda was impressed to find that Fren had carts waiting to transport human cargo up the road called Stane Street to the city called London. Dagda would not allow his charge to ride in the cart with the women. Instead he took her up upon his horse with him as he had in Brittany. He did not want Mairin asking those women the questions she had asked him the previous night when she had awakened suddenly to see Fren and his two assistants using the three women who were docilely bent over the railing of the vessel, their skirts hiked over their hips, meekly accepting the obscene pumping of the men.

  She had tugged at Dagda to awaken him, and then asked, “Are they mating?”

  He nodded.

  “Are they married to those women?”

  “Nay, child.”

  “Then why are they mating with them?” she demanded innocently.

  He moved them to another part of the deck, and sitting back down again he said, “What they do is wrong, my little lady. Put it from your mind, and go back to sleep,” and silently cursing the lustful Fren and his two randy assistants, he cradled the child to his broad chest, encouraging her to slip once more into sleep. The sooner he could remove her from Fren’s wicked grasp the better. The child was too young to be faced with such worldliness. He had to find a safe place for her.

  Dagda had been to Dublin once, but nothing had prepared him for this London of the Saxons. To his eyes it was a noisy, smoky, dirty sprawl of a city; its buildings jammed too close together; its population too great. They entered it early in the morning just as the city awoke, and Fren’s assistants had already found them a choice spot in the main market by the river with its great bridge.

  Quickly the market became alive, and little Mairin who had never seen anything like it was goggle-eyed. To the right of their place a butcher had set up shop, putting up a standing rack from which hung newly butchered carcasses of meat. To their left was a man selling live songbirds; his stand hung with many willow cages. Next to the birdman was a fishmonger with his baskets of newly caught fish and eels. Directly across from them was a horse merchant, which was one reason Fren had chosen this particular space. The horses were always a draw, and therefore, his slaves could not be easily overlooked by the crowds.

  Next to the horse seller a leech had set up his practice, and was quickly busy lancing boils and pulling teeth. Some with items for sale had no spaces in the market, but rather moved through it crying their wares. A ruddy farmer sold his milk in this fashion. A pieman with a tray of sweet buns balanced upon his head did a brisk business, as did the fresh-cheeked girls selling their herbs and flowers, and cups of fresh water.

  Within the hour Fren was set up and ready to do business. True to his word he had placed about Mairin’s slender little neck a heavy leather collar, fastening the lock with a click of an iron key that hung from a large ring attached to his girdle. “There!” he said with a smug and satisfied smile as he tested the strength of the collar. “You’ll not be slipping off into the crowd with my merchandise now, giant. This little wench you guard so carefully for me is prime goods. Her youth and innocence paired with her rare coloring will bring me a fortune in Constantinople! She will bring me enough gold to buy me a villa in which to spend my old age.”

  “You would sell her to some vile and depraved pervert, slaver, wouldn’t you? Do you think I am too stupid to know your evil plans? Where is your conscience?” Dagda demanded, but Fren just laughed, and Dagda felt the anger beginning to burn deep within him. It was the kind of anger that had once developed into a blood lust that had made him such a feared warrior in his youth. Fren, however, had turned away, and did not see the Irishman’s blazing eyes.

  The Saxons no longer believed in slavery, but they were still not above buying an occasional slave as cheap labor, and then allowing them to work off their price plus what it cost their buyer to feed, house, and clothe them. The buyer always profited under the arrangements, but slaves brought to England prayed for an Anglo-Saxon master. It was the best chance many of them had for regaining their freedom, as most of them had not been born slaves. It was also an inexpensive way to obtain help, for the price of slaves was set according to the law.

  Fren had not come to England to seriously sell slaves, for the market was basically poor. Rather he came to obtain fair-skinned, fair-haired, and light-eyed Saxon maidens who would bring him a goodly profit in the teeming markets of the Levant. How he obtained such merchandise was a matter better left alone, but it was safe to say he never visited England without obtaining sufficient remuneration to encourage his return.

  Dagda watched with interest, as the slaver plied his trade. Four of the m
en and two of the women were quickly sold off. Now Fren bargained fiercely with an innkeeper for the sale of the third woman, a young and pretty girl with thick dark brown braids.

  “The wench can cook, spin, sew, and,” here he paused for effect, giving the innkeeper a broad wink, “she’s got a plump backside to warm yer bed on a cold, damp night.”

  “I’ve got a young wife,” said the innkeeper. “Believe me when I tell you that she keeps me busy the whole night long.”

  “Don’t tell me a fine fellow like yerself doesn’t like a little something on the side,” said Fren jovially, poking the innkeeper. “Besides, forbidden fruit is always sweetest. This girl can help in the kitchens, serve your customers, and make you a few extra coppers abovestairs, if you get my meaning. She’s not a bad looker, and believe me when I tell you that she’s a hot and juicy fuck.”

  The innkeeper let his eyes slide over the girl, and reaching out he fondled her plump breasts. The girl moved slightly into his hand, and smiled slowly and encouragingly into the man’s eyes. His tongue flicked nervously over his lips as he seriously considered the wisdom of such purchase. “Is she gentle-natured?” he asked Fren. The innkeeper, who had actually had no intention of buying a slave today, was visibly weakening.

  “Like a ruddy lamb,” replied the slave merchant, and he turned to the girl.

  “Aye, master, I be a good girl,” she said with a provocative wiggle of her hips.

  “I’ll not pay more than the posted price,” said the innkeeper, swallowing hard, and fumbling for his purse.

  “I’d ask no more, sir,” said Fren, his voice slightly tinged with hurt, but knowing the sale was made. The bargain was quickly concluded, and the girl went off with her new master, Fren grinning broadly as they went down the street.

  One of the slave merchant’s assistants laughed. “How many times is it that you’ve sold Gytha now? By the rood the wench makes more for you on the block than she does on her back!”

  “She’s good at luring the wenches for me,” said Fren. “With her tales of Byzantium she has ’em practically begging me to enslave ’em. By the time we return to England next year she’ll have a harvest of fair young beauties for us, you can be sure. Look how well she did for us two years ago in York. Tomorrow we’ll head for Winchester. I’m eager to see the crop of girls Alhraed has enticed for us this past year. There’s another fine Judas goat I own who’s more than worth her keep.”

  The first of the morning business completed, Fren and his assistants settled down to wait for other customers. Dagda, newly enlightened of Fren’s ruthlessness and business acumen, began to seriously consider the possibility of simply grabbing Mairin and making a run for it. That meek little man who had been so fearful in the forest was actually quite vicious and dangerous, and a genuine threat to Mairin. Then as she sat within the protective circle of his big lap he suddenly became aware of a tall serious-faced Saxon who stood staring at the child. The man was very well dressed, and obviously of the upper classes. He stood pondering, obviously considering something, but then as he slowly approached Fren two other men rudely pushed by him, and began shouting questions to the merchant about three of the male slaves.

  The tall Saxon hesitated, but then catching Dagda’s curious gaze he walked up to him and asked, “Do you speak English? Is the child for sale?”

  Slowly Dagda nodded, and scanning the depths of his memory, spoke the correct English words. “What would you want with her?” His look was fierce, and extremely protective.

  “My name is Aldwine Athelsbeorn. I am a king’s thegn, and my estate is in Mercia. My little daughter died this past spring, and my wife cannot cease her grieving. This child reminds me of our Edyth.”

  “You would buy her to give her to your wife?” Dagda’s heart pounded. Aldwine Athelsbeorn’s face was one that concealed nothing. It was an honest face marked by life, yet kindly.

  “Is the child your daughter?” the Saxon inquired, curious.

  “Nay, sir,” returned Dagda. Then he began to speak quickly in a low voice, hoping that Fren and his assistants would be kept busy long enough for him to make sense to the Saxon. This, he realized, was their way to escape from Fren! “The child’s parents are dead, and her stepmother sold her off in order that she might steal my lady’s inheritance. The child is of the nobility in Brittany, sir. I was her mother’s servant, but now I am a freedman. It is a very long story. In the name of the good Jesu, sir, I beg you buy the child! I will pledge myself to your service for five years or more to repay you whatever expense you may incur. The slaver would transport my lady to Byzantium, and sell her to a lustful pervert!”

  Aldwine Athelsbeorn did not even question Dagda’s word in the matter. He was an educated man in a time when few were. Although the giant’s words shocked him, he knew enough of the dark side of human nature not to disbelieve him. Suddenly all his previous hesitancy fell away and brushing Fren’s other customers aside he demanded in an authoritative voice, “What price on the child, slaver? I fancy her as a serving maid for my wife.”

  “The child is not for sale, sir,” replied Fren.

  “Not for sale? What trick is this you attempt to play, slaver?” The Saxon’s voice had risen now so that he was beginning to attract a small crowd. “If the child is not for sale, then why is she wearing a slave collar, displayed here for all to see? Is it that you seek to gain an unfair profit, or perhaps use her for immoral purposes? Speak up, man!”

  Fren’s face grew mottled with nervousness, and he sputtered impotently but no intelligible words could be heard.

  “By our Blessed Lady Mary, that is what this rogue intends!” the Saxon shouted. Turning, he appealed to the jostling and interested crowd. “This low fellow would offer this little one, who is practically still a baby, for vile usage! Can we allow such a thing, my friends? Will someone not fetch a priest to try and bring this wicked fellow to repentance? Find me the sheriff! This villain had displayed the child in order to appeal to the evil ones, but I, Aldwine Athelsbeorn, King Edward’s thegn, have found him out!” finished the Saxon dramatically.

  The crowd, seeing little Mairin’s innocent beauty, which Dagda, entering into the spirit of the Saxon’s game, displayed by lifting the child up so she might be viewed by all, began to mutter ominously and shake their fists at Fren. The English loved their children for children were a man’s immortality. Then one fellow, a bit brighter perhaps than the others, called out, “Why do you seek to buy the child, Aldwine Athelsbeorn? Are your motives pure?” The crowd’s interest swung from the slaver to the thegn.

  “This child reminds me of my dead daughter,” said Aldwine Athelsbeorn. “I would bring her home to soothe my grieving wife. There is no crime in that.”

  “How do we know he speaks the truth?” cried another voice from the crowd, and looking toward Fren, Dagda saw one of his two assistants was missing.

  The Saxon proudly drew himself up. “I am Aldwine Athelsbeorn, Kind Edward’s thegn. In Mercia there is none who would doubt either my words, my motives or my courage!”

  “This ain’t Mercia! This be London!”

  The crowd was becoming dangerous. Dagda’s arms wrapped themselves protectively about his charge. For a minute he had thought the clever Saxon could use the crowd to his own advantage, but alas it hadn’t worked. He looked to see whether or not in the ensuing uproar that was sure to transpire he might not make good his escape with Mairin. The collar about her neck did, however, pose a problem for it was too tight for him to cut or even get a grip upon so he might break it open and free her; but he would solve that problem after he brought his lady to safety.

  Then suddenly amid the din he heard cries of, “Make way for Bishop Wulfstan!” and the angry crowd parted to allow the powerful and popular churchman through. “Well, Aldwine?” said the bishop sternly, but Dagda saw a twinkle in his eyes. Reaching the platform where they all stood, he demanded, “What is this all about?”

  “Look at this child, my lord bishop. Does she not remind
you of our little Edyth, may God assoil her innocent soul. I wish to buy this little girl to bring home to my Eada so that perhaps she will cease her lamentations over our daughter and live again. She has mourned without ceasing since the spring. The slave merchant displays the child, but then demurs on selling her to me. I believe he seeks to use the child wrongfully.”

  The bishop glanced at Mairin, but if there was a resemblance between this beautiful little girl and Athelsbeorn’s dead daughter, he could not see it. Oh, Edyth had been about the same age probably, and she had red hair, but it was hardly the glorious color of this child’s hair. Still if his friend could see a resemblance, and if he wished to rescue this pretty creature so that he might ease his wife’s pain and give her a new interest, then it was a good and a Christian thing that he did.

  He glared fiercely at the slaver, and did not like the look of him. “The child is displayed, which under our laws means that she is for sale,” he said. “The price for a child of tender years is set at five copper pennies. You must therefore sell the child to the Thegn of Aelfleah. What is your name, man?”

  “F-F-Fren, your lordship.”

  “Fren?” The bishop’s brow furrowed for a moment. “Fren,” he repeated thoughtfully, and then a knowledgeable look sprang into his eyes. “There was a slaver in York two years ago who was called Fren, and when he departed that city nearly a dozen women including two of good families were missing.” The bishop’s voice was soft, but beneath the softness Fren heard the ominous threat. No one could connect the slave merchant with the disappearance of those young women, Fren knew; but Bishop Wulfstan was a powerful man and he could spoil everything that Fren had worked hard to build.