He could not call the raven. That would attract unwanted attention. Later, he would find Ogyr, affix the note to the raven’s leg then send the bird back to Pressine.
"What are you doing?"
Gwenvael jumped at the sound of Bodvar’s voice. He had not heard the Viking’s stealthy entrance and wondered how long he had been standing there.
"Just unpacking my things," Gwenvael stuttered, wiping sweaty hands on his trews.
"You are not trying to warn your sister with filthy writing, are you?"
"Of course not." May the Christian god forgive his lie.
"Good. Otherwise I would have to kill you."
Gwenvael strained his lips in what he hoped looked like a smile. "That will not be necessary."
Bodvar spit over his shoulder to avert evil. "Writing is strictly forbidden. And spies are not beheaded like warriors, but hung from a pole like thieves, until they rot to pieces, pecked by the birds and weathered by wind and rain."
No wonder the storage house had no guards! Gwenvael shivered. God Almighty, let them not discover the truth. He smiled bravely.
"Is it time to eat? I am starved." But his stomach tied into knots, and his throat felt so tight that he could not swallow a pea.
Bodvar grunted and motioned for Gwenvael to follow him into the large central room. There he asked three slave girls to accompany him to the feasting hall. Then he told Gwenvael.
"Each warrior must have servants to cater to his every need." The Viking motioned to Cliona. "You take her. She is your slave from now on."
Gwenvael realized that he had never owned a slave before and had never needed one. It felt wrong to have total power over a kindred soul who had committed no crime. Besides, Cliona was a princess, and a decade older than him, as well as Njal’s mother.
Cliona smiled in approval though, and stooped out of the longhouse.
Bodvar followed with his women, then Gwenvael joined Cliona outside. Dark clouds obscured the setting sun, forerunners of a storm. Sudden gusts heavy with sea spray whipped their faces. Head down into the wind, they made their way towards the feasting hall.
Cliona seemed pleased. She smiled engagingly every time Gwenvael glanced at her.
When they entered the chieftains’ hall, Bodvar slapped Gwenvael’s back. "You seem to like her. I am glad. I bedded her for many years. You will enjoy her."
Heat burned Gwenvael’s cheeks. So, the gift did imply sex. At his obvious embarrassment, the Viking roared with laughter. Cliona smiled. Evidently, she had known all along and expected that much. Gwenvael now understood her sweet, submissive attitude. It was all part of a slave’s duty.
They sat on the raised platforms surrounding the earthen floor of the chieftains’ hall. At the central fire pit, male slaves finished preparing the food. The slave girls sat behind their masters, within reach. Bodvar took the place of honor against the back wall, Ragnar to his right, and Gwenvael to his left. Loud thunder clapped overhead, silencing the rambunctious crowd.
As if on cue, Bodvar rose. "Thor’s thunder is blessing our expedition. Victory will be ours." Raising his mead horn, he yelled, "Luck in battle!" then drained the horn.
"Luck in battle," a chorus echoed. The assembled generals and bravest warriors drained their horns as well. In the heat of the moment, so did Gwenvael, but he wondered how long he could keep up with this rowdy bunch.
When male slaves brought platters of food, the noise in the hall intensified. It failed, however, to drown the rolling thunder, the wind, or the downpour of the tempest raging outside.
Chapter Nine
With a shiver of disgust, Gwenvael refused the platter of steamed raven. Please, God, make sure Ogyr is safe from these savages. After hours of feasting, Gwenvael’s stomach churned with shark meat, reindeer, bear, horse, lamb, seaweed, pea-flour bread, and puffin eggs. As he made an effort to sit straight, his head lolled like a cork floating in a turbulent sea of mead.
In the chieftains’ hall, the overwhelming stench of smoke, urine, and sour vomit now superseded that of the food. Heavy raindrops, falling through the smoke hole in the roof, hissed and steamed in the central fire. Among the Vikings sprawled on the wooden platforms, the conversations had degenerated to near altercations.
Gwenvael found it difficult to ignore the lewd behavior of the warriors. He needed some fresh air. Attempting to stand on wobbly legs, he fell on his rear. He should not have drunk so much.
"Cliona!" Bodvar bellowed, through a mouthful of lamb. "Help him!"
The slave had already stepped forward to support Gwenvael, who struggled to remain dignified despite his awkward position. As he stood up, with Cliona’s help, something from inside his shirt fell to the floor in front of Bodvar.
The Viking stopped chewing and picked up the folded bit of parchment with greasy fingers. "What is this?"
Cold dread sobered Gwenvael, who stared at the incriminating evidence, the note he had scribbled earlier to warn Pressine of the imminent invasion. The Viking prince unfolded the message, then turned the note different ways. The hall grew quiet as the chieftains stopped eating to watch their leader.
Bodvar squinted. "Written words are bad luck!" He motioned Cliona to come close. "You can read. Is it your language? What does it say?"
The lovely Cliona read the small parchment in silence and gasped. She glanced at Gwenvael who stared back, powerless, then she turned to Bodvar. After the slightest hesitation, she declared, "It is a love note, My Prince."
Relief washed over Gwenvael, glad to have found an ally.
"Really?" Bodvar’s blue eye narrowed in suspicion. "To whom?"
"To me, I think, My Prince." Cliona did an excellent job of looking embarrassed. "There is no name."
"Read it to me!"
After clearing her throat, Cliona enunciated in a clear voice, "Your fiery hair makes my skin burn, and your cool emerald eyes pierce my heart like Aphrodite’s arrows. I long for a kiss. Will you answer my love tonight?"
Still uncertain of his fate, Gwenvael watched the Viking Prince intently. A fly buzzed in the silent hall, landing on Bodvar’s meat, but the Viking paid it no heed.
"This is nonsense," Bodvar scoffed. "A warrior can satisfy his need with any slave, anytime, without asking." The Viking shrugged. "If that is what you do with writing, warriors have no use for it."
"But writing can also be used for tallying," Gwenvael protested, now feeling obligated to defend his culture.
"Our merchants have runes for tallying. Since you are living with us, I forbid you to write. Written words are bad luck. They can be used to cast spells. I do not trust them."
Bodvar took the note from Cliona, threw it into the central fire, then spit over his shoulder. "I am too drunk to punish you this time, but no more writing."
"I promise," Gwenvael said in a trembling voice.
When Bodvar returned to his meal and the ministrations of his slaves, the voices in the hall rose again as the conversations resumed.
Cliona squeezed Gwenvael’s arm. "Shall I help you out, master?"
"Thank you, Cliona, but please do not call me master." He leaned on her for appearance’s sake, although, sobered by fear, he could now stand on his own. "Take me to the longhouse."
Cliona guided him toward the exit, through various human obstacles, some snoring, others copulating in rhythm to the swaying candlelight. Gwenvael enjoyed the contact of her arm, and the movements of her lithe body under the simple clothes.
Outside, the cold downpour washed away the remains of the mead from Gwenvael’s mind. The torches under the eaves had fizzled long ago. Arstinchar lay in utter darkness between angry strikes of lightning.
Once away from the chieftains’ hall, he straightened and turned away from Cliona to relieve himself. Then he walked silently at her side through the rain. As they approached Bodvar's longhouse, Gwenvael slowed his pace.
"Thank you for saving my life. Bodvar could have killed you for it."
"I am glad I could help." Cliona’s smil
e made her eyes sparkle through the dark rain. Drenched strands of hair stuck to her lovely face. "But slaves are too valuable to kill. When they misbehave, they are flogged, then sold in faraway countries."
Stopping in front of the low door, Gwenvael laid a hand on her arm. "Still, I owe you my life. Does any other lass in the house speak Gaelic?"
"No, they come from the eastern continent and speak a harsh Saxon dialect. Only Bodvar understands our language." She ducked under the low lintel.
"Good." Gwenvael followed her inside, glad to be out of the storm, dripping on the hard-packed earthen floor. He sat on the raised platform bench, unlaced his fur boots, unbuckled the sword and started removing the soaked jerkin.
Cliona stoked the central fire.
"You are drenched. Give me those." She spread them on a cross-beam to dry.
Gwenvael smiled his thanks. "You are wet, too."
She shrugged and stepped onto the wooden platform, then led the way to their private room. Gwenvael followed her in his shirt and trews, unsure how to behave. When she lit the tallow candle on the high window sill, the small and cozy room, with its wooden floor covered with a rug, almost felt like home. The sleeping pallet in a corner looked inviting.
She motioned towards it. "Get into the furs."
As Gwenvael hesitated, she smiled warmly. "Don't be shy. Tonight, we must become lovers. Otherwise, Bodvar might suspect something."
Why did Cliona’s words make such wonderful sense? When she gently pulled off his shirt, a shiver rippled through Gwenvael’s chest muscles. Standing in front of her, he felt his manhood stiffen when she dropped a light kiss on his bare shoulder.
"I appreciate your sacrifice, Cliona, but I cannot accept it," he forced himself to say, brushing her cheek.
"Sacrifice? Be careful, Gwenvael, you could hurt my feelings. Do you not like me?"
Her hair smelled like clean rain as she leaned against his chest. Gwenvael caressed her wet hair.
"Yes, I like you. You are the most beautiful woman. I feel invincible when you are with me." He wrenched himself away from her. "But as a slave you are obligated... That would be wrong."
"Believe me, Gwenvael, I would not offer this if I did not want it." The emerald eyes gazed far away, beyond the clay walls. "You remind me very much of my late husband. It was a long time ago, in Ireland."
She turned to look him in the eyes and smiled as she deliberately removed the brooch holding her dress together. Her wet garment fell to the floor, revealing a lean body with generous breasts and flawless ivory skin. She was lovelier than the Madonna herself and Gwenvael prayed God would forgive the sacrilegious thought.
Suddenly, he became conscious of his own inadequacies. "There is something else you should know."
"What?" Cliona stepped closer, slowly, sensuously. "Do not tell me you took a stupid vow of celibacy. I heard it is a new trend among Frankish monks."
"No, not that." Gwenvael chuckled despite his embarrassment, but he had no control over the growing bulge in his trews. "I just never... you know."
Cliona reached for the string at his waist. "You mean, handsome as you are, you never had a woman before?"
Gwenvael’s cheeks burned as his last garment fell. "Never."
Cliona took his hand. "Be unafraid. You will like it." She led him to the pallet piled with sheepskins. "I promise."
She slid into the skins and pulled him close, covering their naked bodies with soft furs. Gwenvael’s fears vanished when her embrace closed around him. He felt safe... and incredibly happy.
* * *
Dumfries castle
"Quick, my lady! There was an accident!" a child yelled running out of the milling shed. It was Mirren, the king’s oldest daughter.
Pressine dropped distaff and spindle and left the group of women spinning under the walnut tree to run toward the shed.
"It's Jared, my baby brother." Frantic, Mirren waited at a distance, panting, blue eyes wide with alarm. "His leg is caught under the quern stone."
Cries of consternation erupted among the other women now catching up with Pressine. The wet nurse made the sign of the cross. Why was the shed wide open when not in use? Pressine would reprimand the castellan.
Upon entering the shed, Pressine took in the child’s predicament. On the flat grindstone, a small boy of about six lay, pale and silent, as if a prince weren’t allowed to cry. A tiny boy with great courage.
Pressine gazed into the big brown eyes locked on hers. Jared seemed to avoid looking down at the leg that disappeared under the heavy quern stone. The wheel-shaped quern, temporary lifted off the flat milling stone for cleaning, had broken its ropes, crushing the boy’s leg under its great weight. Fresh blood oozed and pooled on the gray granite.
Pressine noticed Conan, throwing his frail weight against the heavy stone. "It takes an ox to move the mechanism, Conan. Get one harnessed right away."
Prince Conan nodded then darted toward the cow-byre.
The other women gathered around the milling stone.
"A lame prince is a bad omen for the whole dynasty." The wet nurse crossed herself again. "Could be the devil’s work."
"Third in line, he is." The castellan’s wife shook her head. "As if it is not enough to be landless. He will never catch a good bride."
"May have to amputate..." The plump baroness still carried spindle and distaff, and kept spinning out of habit. "What a shame at such a young age. He will die of putrefaction for sure, like the shoemaker’s wife last summer."
"Do not talk like that, you are scaring him." A young girl about fifteen patted Jared's head. She took the boy’s hand. "Do not worry, Prince Jared. Lady Pressine knows what to do."
"This would have never happened when his mother was alive." The wet nurse sneered. "She gave strict orders to bar the milling shed. She adored her children."
"Enough!" Pressine boomed. Why couldn’t these matrons refrain from making nasty comments? "Make yourself useful or leave."
The women gasped.
Grateful for the silence, Pressine could finally think. "I need boiled water, clean bandages, some clove from the spice cabinet, a fresh cabbage... And get me pieces of wood the size of shutter slats. Take everything to my chambers."
"I shall fetch the clove from the castellan," the compassionate lass offered. Tall and fair with wide blue eyes, she seemed the only one with her wits about her. "And I shall stop by the kitchen garden for cabbage."
Kissing the child’s head, the lass hurried out of the shed.
The other women came out of their daze and went to fetch the things Pressine had requested.
When Conan returned, directing the ox with a stick, he harnessed the beast to the beam jutting from the center of the huge stone wheel. Then he slapped the bovine’s rear, yelling encouragements. Grudgingly, in a grinding moan, the heavy quern rolled off Jared’s leg. The foot looked intact, but from the thigh below the tunic’s hem to the ankle bone, only a bloody mess of slack, sickening flesh remained.
"Great Goddess," Pressine whispered, "help me save his leg."
With great care, Pressine wrapped the leg in a flower sac. The boy whimpered and trembled against her body when she took him gently in her arms. Praying the Goddess all the way, she carried him like a baby, careful not to jar him on the way to her chambers.
Once in her bed chamber, Pressine laid Jared on a servant’s pallet. From one of her chests, she retrieved a small vial and dripped three drops of the strong mushroom extract on the boy’s tongue to dull the pain. The boy relaxed almost instantly and fell asleep.
Soon the women brought bandages and a vat of boiled water, still steaming from the cauldron.
"The water is too hot. Cool it by dumping it in another vat then back and forth." Did Pressine need to explain everything? "I do not want to scald him."
The lass returned, out of breath. "The castellan refused to open his spice cabinet, but when I told him he must save the little prince, he finally gave me five heads of clove." The lass opened one
hand to display her prize. "He said to be careful with it. Spices are more expensive than gold."
"You did well." Pressine half smiled. "What is your name?"
"Ceinwyn, my lady. And here is the cabbage." The lass dropped it on the table. "What should I do now?"
"Take some of that hot water and boil the cloves to make a potion," Pressine explained. "I’ll chop the cabbage’s heart finely to expose the juice, and save the largest leaves for wrapping."
Ceinwyn nodded and set about hanging a small pot of hot water on a hook above the embers in the fireplace. Steam surged and hissed as water spilled on the incandescent coal. Then the lass added the cloves to the pot. "And what will that do?"
With the dagger always tucked in her sash, Pressine sliced the cabbage. "The potion will prevent the blood from going bad, and the cabbage, applied to the open wounds, will keep the flesh from spoiling."
After stoking the fire, Ceinwyn joined her at the table and pulled her own knife to help. "What about the crushed bones?"
Pressine glanced at Jared who lay inert. "We shall set them straight and pray the Goddess that they heal without deformity. The boy is young and his bones are still soft. But he may limp for the rest of his life," Pressine mused aloud. "Unless..."
"Unless what, my lady?" The wide, intelligent eyes gazed into hers.
"Nothing... Just a thought." Pressine concentrated on chopping the cabbage, knocking the blade on the wooden table in a regular staccato. "Since when have you been interested in the healing arts, Ceinwyn?"
The lass glanced up. "It seems since forever. But how did you guess, my lady?"
Pressine smiled. "I can see the eagerness in your face. Would you like to help me with Jared?"
"Yes... I would love to." Ceinwyn beamed. "Would you teach me?"
Kneeling by the pallet, Pressine pushed a vat of tepid water toward Ceinwyn. "Here. Use a clean rag." She demonstrated as she spoke. "Gently wash all the grime, the bits of meal, and the drying blood, so we can see the wounds."
Ceinwyn followed Pressine’s directions as they worked side by side. Once the leg was clean, they applied the shredded cabbage and wrapped it in the leaves. Then they immobilized the leg between two slats of wood and secured it with bandages.
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