A Pound of Flesh

by Susan Wright

  The shipmaster started up the rope ladder, and I followed right on his heels. "There’s no harm I could do you. Indeed, I am the one at risk—for I’ll be at your mercy. But I must get to Lutece right away."

  He swung his legs over the railing, and then stood on the deck glaring down at me. I thought he was going to order me off the ladder.

  I clung to the ropes, defying him to shake me off. I sensed this man wanted intensity. My urgent need resonated with something in him, whereas it would have made a milder man too wary.

  The shipmaster stepped aside. He didn’t smile as I climbed up, but I did. I stood against the sterncastle, keeping back as the crew hoisted the foresail to turn their great ship away from the dock.

  They worked together with precision, and the ship was marvelously responsive. I could feel the delight of the sea spirits in the way she moved. I was thrilled to be off to Montplaire with so little effort.

  I was surprised when two olfs stayed with the ship. They made it their home, which certainly boded well for me.

  The crew also seemed quite cheery at their work. They slept in the two neat cabins in the stern that were lined with bunks. The forecastle covered the shipmaster’s cabin. I was taken there by the shipmaster as soon as the main sail was hauled up and we were well on our way across the strait. The shipmaster sent his first mate to the top of the mast to keep watch for raiders.

  I followed him down five steps into a triangular chamber with curved wooden walls and a low ceiling. A table hung from the hull on one side, and the bed on the other. The movement of the ship felt more pronounced under the deck.

  One of the olfs followed us and amused itself by swinging on the unlit lantern. The olf had too many fingers and toes, and when it smiled, it also had too many teeth. I grinned back at it.

  The shipmaster crossed his arms and examined me. "Now tell me why it’s so urgent that you reach the Twelve Towns."

  I could see him through the prism of the olf’s eyes and could hear his need. This man had to be in absolute control. He would reject any attempts to manipulate him.

  So I gave him honesty, as far as I could. "I am going to meet my lover. I had a bad fall and was ill, so I stayed with a friend. I recovered sooner than we thought, so I’m going to Lutece to meet him."

  The shipmaster didn’t believe me; he couldn’t conceive that I would reveal my honest motive so easily. "Curious way of journeying to your lover, by giving yourself to another man."

  "He trained me to please others when he was my master. But then he freed me, so now it is my own choice whom I please."

  "Who is this man?" he demanded.

  I didn’t have to consider it. "A warrior."

  "Whom does he serve? What nation is he from?"

  "He serves no man," I said simply. "And he has not told me the name of his homeland."

  The shipmaster was growing more suspicious, as if I presented a puzzle that he must unravel.

  I could talk until my throat was raw, but nothing I said would convince him. And, in truth, it mattered not. We were on our way across the strait.

  I yawned, having not slept since I left with Porter to journey to the port town. I eyed the bed longingly. "May I lie down? I sat in the rain all night waiting to get onto the ferry."

  The shipmaster frowned, but he saw no reason to object. He nodded to the bed, taking a seat in the wooden chair. It was low to the floor so it wouldn’t tip with the motion of the boat, and he stretched his legs out. The only light came through the small round portal over the table and in the door.

  I removed my cloak and lay down on the bed. Overcome by exhaustion, I fell asleep, unconcerned by the shipmaster’s speculative gaze.

  I dreamed that I was rutting with the shipmaster, his forceful eyes staring into mine as we moved together. My hands were on his shoulders, pushing him away, but my fingertips dug in, wanting to pull him closer. It was pure sensation, without thought or feeling.

  I came awake, but it was happening still. I was gasping as my eyes opened. My hands pushed at his shoulders, with the shipmaster on top of me rubbing his rigid tarse against my groin. My skirt was hiked up around my waist. Instinctively I lifted my hips, feeling him more fully. He was naked.

  With our bodies grinding together, intensified by my dream, I was bathed in a burning heat. His eyes were defiant as he entered me, taking what he wanted, watching me closely. I shuddered over and over, accepting the ecstasy he gave me.

  When he was through, he rolled away quickly. I lay limp on the soft bedding.

  The shipmaster slipped on his black leggings, giving me a good look at him. His chest was lean but wiry, nearly as dark as his tanned face. It was difficult to tell how old he was—his third or fourth decade? He pulled on a white under-blouse, then his black tunic to cover it.

  His expression was serious. "Are you satisfied?"

  "Yes," I answered simply. He had taken me in a sneak attack, but I had enjoyed it too much to be upset. I was no timid bride that needed wooing, and I had made my bargain with him freely.

  He waited as if he expected something more, but I had nothing else to say.

  So he left in a gust of cold wind, carefully latching the door behind him. Outside he called for the crew, his words lost in the flapping of the sails and the relentless creaking of the hull.

  I lay back, content to doze in bed. I had not asked his name, nor he mine.

  It was extremely windy and cold during our passage across the strait. I mostly stayed in the cabin as there was no need for me to do anything. The crew praised the sea spirits and gave abundant sacrifices to the movement of life around them.

  While the olfs kept watch for the shipmaster’s return, I carefully examined the contents of his chests and caskets. In one was a razor, comb, and silver scissors. In a small bag were some coins and a couple of weights for weighing them. I put his possessions back exactly where I found them.

  When we reached the Frankish lands and sailed into the wide river, the frigid wintry blasts were somewhat tempered. I sat on the forecastle, where few of the crew ventured, watching the banks and fields pass by. Even with midwinter fast approaching, the grass and leaves were emerald green. But the dismal rain was cold, eventually driving me back inside again.

  The shipmaster took me whenever he wanted to, always without warning. I think he was trying to catch me off guard, to see if I was vulnerable in some way. I wasn’t sure if he would have pounced on me if I faltered, or never touched me again. Regardless, his demands called out my submissive tendencies, and I was content to please him.

  Indeed, the shipmaster did not understand me, and that fascinated him. He asked me questions at odd moments, very quickly, as if trying to catch me in deception. I kept only the names of Lexander and Vidaris secret and answered everything else without hesitation—from my childhood on the fens to my life as a pleasure slave, as well as the aid I gave Silveta in reclaiming my homeland from Birgir. He seemed to think I was spinning an elaborate fantasy for him, and was even more determined to discover the truth. But I wanted nothing more from him than a safe journey to Lutece.

  When we reached the first of the Twelve Towns situated in the curve of the river, the banks were reinforced by stone walls rising out of the water. The flow widened out to become a lake, and one of the towns perched on an island in the center.

  I expected us to dock to unload the cargo. I had stayed away from the hatches, knowing that any curiosity in that quarter would alarm the shipmaster. But the anchor was lowered and a rowboat was dropped over the side to take the shipmaster to deal with the port officials. There were a number of empty docks waiting.

  The shipmaster had been possessive that morning, stroking my hair as I helped buckle his boots and holding my chin as he gazed at me. I had grown concerned about getting away from him. If he locked me in the cabin, his crew would certainly not interfere. I would have to hope someone heard my cries for help onshore and took pity on me—which was unlikely at best.

  So I prepared myself
and was waiting on the forecastle when the shipmaster returned in the rowboat. As he climbed up the rope ladder onto the deck, the crew readied to put into dock. They pulled up the anchor and lifted the sails, slowly turning toward the bank.

  The shipmaster gestured for me to come down. He was accustomed to my obedience, so when I stayed on the forecastle he called to me, thinking I had misunderstood him. I turned away and went to the railing.

  The shipmaster started up the wooden steps. His forehead was creased and his lips compressed as if he were prepared to face down a storm. I knew he intended to lock me up.

  I unhooked the girdle, letting the shell beads tinkle as they fell to the deck. Then I leaped over the side of the ship.

  The shock of the cold water was like a blow. I was instantly dragged under by my heavy skirts, and was afraid I’d made a terrible mistake.

  I opened my hand, releasing the glass bubble Porter had given me. I silently pleaded with the river spirits to help me.

  The spirits accepted my sacrifice, and with their aid, I slipped the dress over my head. Without the fabric weighing me down, I was free. Around my waist was tied an oilskin bag pilfered from the shipmaster’s cabin that contained my slave tunic and leggings.

  I burst to the surface with an agonized gasp. The ship was moving, but it hadn’t gone far. The crew was rushing about on the deck looking for me. I dived down again. The spirits fair sped me along, and after a few more breaths, I was out of sight.

  I spotted the shore, and struck off. The river spirits were beneath me, holding me up even as my limbs stiffened from the cold water. It was not the ending with the shipmaster that I had hoped for. But it had been worth the sacrifice.

  12

  I came ashore in the first of the Twelve Towns of Lutece. The houses were as compact as the Frankish people. The neat structures flowed up the hillside from the stone buttressing along the riverbanks. I asked a passerby how to reach Montplaire, and was pleased to discover that I had come to the right bank.

  It was a fair walk upriver, through woods and past several mountainous hills until I reached my destination. I kept a watch out for the shipmaster because he knew I was going to Montplaire. But I doubted he would pursue me. My plunge into the river must have shown him I would not be taken easily.

  After a serpentine walk up the hill, I came to a one-lane village lined by cottages, a few shops, and animal pens. Dotting the distant hillsides around us were the imposing stone buildings of manors. Unlike Danelaw, there weren’t many walls here, mostly low stacks of stones strung along the pastures to keep the cattle in.

  It was surpassingly lovely under the brilliant blue sky. Yet I dreaded that I would come upon a site of destruction like Becksbury or Vidaris.

  I asked the way from a goose girl who was following her fat flock, brandishing a staff. She pointed carelessly up the lane, acting very much as if she was accustomed to directing strangers to Montplaire.

  I climbed through another vineyard to some open pasturage. Crossing a slight rise, I saw a massive house. A tiny arched window under the eaves indicated there were three floors, and the sides were so tall that they were buttressed. Imposing trees grew next to it, nearly concealing a few smaller stone structures. The manor had a well-tended air, as if the land had been manicured by hand for generations, with each plant and furrow in place.

  The friendly Frankish olfs were happy to obscure me from sight as I walked around the manor. I circled the great house, examining it from every vantage point. The orchards and fields rolled gently away from the house. Slender evergreens formed spires here and there in the meadows, while trees filled the dales. The fields lay fallow, the dirt rich and crumbling.

  I saw no sign of Lexander. Either he had been delayed on his way here, or I had traveled much faster than he. Or he wasn’t coming to Montplaire, but had decided to go to a different pleasure house.

  Regardless, I would have to place myself among the slaves to find a way for us to escape the house together. I went straight to the great double doors and pulled on the bell cord. When the servant answered, I requested to see her mistress.

  The servant led me into an imposing room. The house was even grander on the inside. I tried not to step on the tapestries woven in red, green, and purple patterns that were laid on the floor. The stone walls were packed with mortar and plastered until the surface was smooth.

  From the luxurious furnishings to the fire crackling in the enormous wall hearth, it was very different from the dark, drafty hall in Becksbury. Several archways led to other parts of the house. The thickness of the walls was apparent in the wide, arched window at one end.

  The tapping of heels sounded down one corridor. The mistress appeared, her fine, blond hair brushed straight back and cut severely at the nape of her neck. She had high cheekbones and full lips, like Lexander, and her eyes were an unusual silvery gray, full of sparkles.

  "Yes?" she asked politely.

  I would have to avoid all mention of Lexander to keep from getting our stories tangled. "My name is Marja, and I was sent by the Becksbury house in Londinium. There’s been great unrest and our manor was set afire." I sounded properly frightened, as any slave would. "The huscarl sent me here to tell you—the master and mistress are dead."

  The mistress’s surprise was evident. One thing was certain: she had not heard of the fate of Becksbury.

  "What happened?" she asked.

  Her question gave me the impression that she was younger than other godlings I’d met.

  "I know nothing but what the huscarl told me," I declared. If my threadbare tale contradicted Lexander’s, I could always claim the huscarl had been mistaken. "He gave me coins so I could journey here." I untied the hem of my tunic and handed her my money. Thanks to the shipmaster, I had not spent a penny.

  The mistress jingled the coins anxiously from one palm to the other. She was likely considering that she would have to notify Stanbulin of my news. Finally, she said, "You’re a loyal slave to come all that way alone. Most would have taken the money and run away. Who were your masters?"

  "Master Ukerald and Mistress Drucelli."

  She grew doubtful again. "I never imagined Ukerald could inspire such devotion."

  I froze. She knew Ukerald. I would have to tread very carefully. "I do as my master says," I declared. I rubbed my thigh slightly where it had been marked by the cane.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  "Very well, I’ll take you upstairs," she agreed. "You may call me Canille."

  The mistress took me down the corridor to another wing of the house and up an impressive wooden staircase. The large room was as fine as the first. The high ceiling was supported by a row of fat wooden beams. There was another wall hearth and the floor was tiled in terra-cotta squares. Several long tables were occupied by young men and women.

  A tall, spare man was talking about the Noromenn and their settlements in a singsong tone. I’d grown fluent in the Frankish tongue under the shipmaster’s constant questioning, and could easily understand.

  Canille announced, "I must speak to you at once, Etien."

  Etien scowled at the interruption, but he did as she requested. Only when he approached did I realize he was the master. His smooth head was hidden under a velvet cap, but his strong-boned face and mesmerizing eyes betrayed him.

  The master and mistress left the room with a muffled thump of the arched door behind them. The pleasure slaves looked at me curiously. The girls wore pretty dresses that were cinched with laced bodices, while the boys had on short tunics and tight Frankish leggings. They each had a mop of dark brown curls falling into their eyes, and the girls wore theirs tied with brightly colored ribbons that dangled down the back.

  Etien returned without Canille and launched back into a discussion of the map fastened to the easel. Without a word, the slaves moved over to give me room on the bench at one table. The master didn’t notice.

  It quickly became apparent that this was a formal training session, but it didn’t involve pos
es or sensual allurements. I understood maps because Lexander had shown me, but he had not taught any of my slave-mates how to read them.

  These slaves were well trained, answering the master’s questions with quick precision. They were focused on the Noromenn lands in the north, and barely discussed the "harsh, cold clime" of Issland and Gronland. My homeland wasn’t even mentioned. It certainly showed me where we ranked in Frankish esteem.

  When the map was at last rolled and stored with others in a large cupboard, the master continued with something he called "logic." It was a way of speaking that made no sense to me, but the others followed along as they compared men of different nations and the numbers of birds flying through the sky. I grew dazed and fidgety on the bench, but I was ignored.

  Indeed, nothing was expected of me. That evening, we dined on a thick stew served in a round loaf of bread. It was the best thing I had eaten since I had left Silveta’s estate. Once full, I followed the others up to the long narrow room under the massive peaked roof, with each beam as thick around as my hips. There was a row of beds, and the others kindly pointed out the one I could share with another girl. A few slaves were missing, busy serving the more formal meal for the master and mistress.

  In the relaxed atmosphere of the slave hall, I found myself sitting cross-legged on my surprisingly soft bed and answering their questions. They were curious about my master and mistress in Danelaw.

  "I’m so glad to be out of there," I told them, with the memory of Ukerald firmly in mind. "I never expected it would be like that . . . I hope your master and mistress are not as harsh."

  The slaves exchanged glances as if they didn’t understand. "They punish us," one of the curly-haired boys agreed. "But I think the lessons are worse."

  It was not at all what I had expected. Even sitting among them and talking so freely was something I had never experienced before. At Vidaris, the slaves had maintained a rigid hierarchy, the older slaves preying on the newer ones.