The Swan-Daughter (The Daughters of Hastings)

by Carol McGrath

  ‘In a while,’ she said her voice high with the thrill of being on such a magnificent vessel. ‘I want to wait until everyone else is on board. I want to see everything. I was a child the last time I was on a ship, you know, and that was only my father’s dragon-ship that sailed on the River Thames when my Uncle Edward was king.’

  He looked down at her, his mouth curving into a smile. For a moment he hesitated, then said, ‘As you wish, Gunnhild, but once everyone is on board I must make sure the men are ready to hoist the sails. This is a cargo vessel, a sailing ship. We only use oars in narrow channels, sometimes in manoeuvres such we must now make to get us out into the Narrow Sea. Look at the oar-holes.’ He pointed to either side, to the fore and aft, where there were oar-ports and benches. He then waved to the mid-deck area where there was a gaping hole. ‘And below us, there is a great hold for cargo.’

  Gunnhild looked to where Alan had indicated the oar-ports, situated to either side of where they were standing and then to where a ladder went down through the great hole into the heart of the vessel. While they were talking, his men were boarding, clambering up the rope and over the side in the same way as she had. The cacophony of sound would have terrified her had she not been so thrilled by all the movement around her and the knowledge that at last she was free of Christina and Wilton.

  There was shouting, clamouring, clanking, a screeching of seagulls, creaking of ropes, unfamiliar accents, noise, so much of it. By now, many of Alan’s men were stowing their gear and bundles in the hold amid-ship behind them. He put a hand on her arm and called over to the last of his soldiers as they climbed over the ship’s high walls. He picked out two of them to take up spare places on the oar benches to the fore and aft. He tested the ropes that secured the great sail.

  When the men were all on board he left her. Calling for Hubert to accompany him he made his way to the ship’s prow to speak to his sea captain. She wondered where Ann was. Looking around she saw the woman lift up the leather curtain that protected the poop-end wooden shelter and come on to the deck. Mantle flapping, Ann crossed to a great sea chest. She opened it with the help of a seaman and seemed to be inspecting its collection of cooking gear, lifting up a skillet and a few bowls. Replacing these, she took out two wooden cups, nodded to the seaman and vanished back through the curtain again.

  Gunnhild turned her attention to Alan who, along with Hubert and the captain, was watching the fleet of empty boats being rowed back to land by men who were not to accompany them. Her excitement was mounting again because now she knew they were about to sail. At last he returned to his place beside her. The sea captain called, ‘En avant, allez maintenant.’ As the oarsmen began rowing in a rhythm, the ship slowly moved forward. She stumbled and he caught her. ‘The shelter,’ he said. ‘Hold on to me. If it stays calm you can come out later and see for yourself how wonderful it is to be on the sea. The stars at night are magical to behold. Can you swim?’

  She felt an invisible chill wrap her round. She could swim if only she could remember how. She had learned to swim as a child. From the depths of her memory she pulled out a picture of her older brothers, her sister, Thea, and her tiny brother Ulf. Her mother was laughing as she and her maids helped them into the river and taught them to kick and move their arms. She had taught them to stay afloat and swim like a row of moor hens ploughing the stream. ‘I can swim perfectly well, but surely it will not be necessary?’ She felt a frown crease her forehead.

  ‘No indeed.’ He held open the leather curtain to reveal that the shelter was in fact a room with a sleeping couch that was piled high with sheepskins and cushions. There was a table fastened to iron deck rings by leather straps and three folding stools secured to the floor planks, as if they grew out of them. A hook on the wall held a heavy, hooded cape of hard material. She reached out to touch it.

  ‘It is oiled linen, hardened to withstand the worst of the weather. Use it if it gets stormy. It will take us a day to reach the ports on the Cotentin. After that we ride south to Brittany. Rest and sleep. There has been none of that these last twelve hours.’ The boat lurched and she fell against him. She trembled at the contact. He held her close to him. ‘You are so lovely.’ Drawing her even closer, so close she felt crushed by him, the sensation delicious, he said into her hair, ‘Gunnhild, we can make this real now. My men do not need me. No one will disturb us.’

  He let the leather curtain fall behind them and took her in his arms. As she flowed into his embrace, her hair fell around her face and tumbled about her mantle. When he said, ‘How beautiful,’ she felt that she was wanted. When he placed a finger under her chin, the gesture felt intimate and she lifted her face towards his. She was tall, almost as tall as him, so when his mouth claimed hers it was as equals, his face against hers, his lashes flickering close to hers and his body folding around hers. Moments later her cloak slid to the planks by her feet and he was expertly unlacing her gown. It shivered from her into a soft silken pile on the floor. ‘Mermaid,’ he whispered.

  She whispered back, ‘What if anyone hears? I cannot bear for anyone to know …’

  ‘Hush. No one will dare come near us. Do not fear. We are wedded and this is what married people do. They are all busy about their own tasks. My men will stay away. Ann is out on the deck helping the cook. If we had a wedding feast afterwards everyone would crowd into our chamber to see us bedded.’

  ‘Yes, that is true.’ She opened her eyes wide and glanced down, almost surprised that she was standing in her linen undergown. No man had ever seen her so disrobed and few women. He lifted her on to the couch. He knelt by her feet and removed her boots, her leg bindings, then his own boots and leggings. ‘Help me from my tunic,’ he said as he unpinned his cloak and allowed it to drop from his shoulders.

  Timidly she unlaced his tunic and helped him to pull it off. He kissed her fear away, her face and her lips as he laid her out on the bed. She had never seen a naked man before, not in real life. There were tapestry pictures and religious paintings in books depicting a nearly naked Christ on the Cross, Jonah in a whale, St Sebastian’s martyrdom, but she had never seen a real naked man. She opened her eyes wide, tossed her heavy hair away and boldly stared at his risen manhood. What was this? Was this how men penetrated women? Was it the evil some nuns spoke of in hushed tones saying, ‘It is a married woman’s duty to make children.’ They had shaken their heads, not thinking she was listening from her place weeding the marigold beds in the garden. ‘What a shame that Queen Edith failed in her duty. If she had not, the Normans would still be in their own country.’

  She reached out and touched his risen penis. This was probably forbidden by the Church, not part of her married duty, but she did not care. She was curious. She had seen dogs do it but never humans, though she had heard them, and in that moment she remembered her mother’s shooing her off before she saw too much. He responded by moving her hand onto it and then by wrapping his arms around her. The boat rolled and rocked as she became liquid beneath his caresses: his soft kisses on her breasts, his stroking, sucking and touching. In the distance she could hear the sailors’ voices, the plashing of their oars on the water, their shouts and the clanking of a cooking pot. Then he was gently removing her shift and she was as naked as him. ‘Now we are equal,’ he said. ‘Believe me when I say that you are lovely, Gunnhild. I promise I shall try not to hurt you.’ He lifted her hips and gently entered her, not from behind as the hounds in the hall yard did, but facing her and right into that place her monthly courses flowed from. She felt her body rip apart. ‘Hush,’ he said as she cried out. Then she was moving and sliding in rhythm with him. Somewhere distant, out on the water, seagulls were screaming and she felt her own call rise from the depths of her throat. ‘Hush, my love.’ His voice melted into her. She managed to control her cry. He reassured her. ‘No one will listen, nor would they care. You are my wife, Gunnhild.’

  ‘But I care. It is not seemly,’ she whispered tearfully.

  ‘You are my wife. I say it is s
eemly.’

  Afterwards he pulled the sheepskin rug over them both. ‘Next time, it will be in a proper bed with fine linen and I shall give you a morning gift.’

  ‘What would that be, my lord?’

  He caressed her naked breast. ‘Umm, a castle or a manor.’

  She removed his hand and turned to look straight into his eyes. ‘I would prefer new gowns and shoes and mantles, clothing I have never owned. Things I have longed for. I need inks and paper and books, too …’

  He silenced her. ‘All these will be yours as soon as it can be arranged. Now sleep.’

  She dozed in his arms, too tired to pay attention to the aching in her groin, the moisture on her thighs and the hymen blood that streaked them. As she fell towards dreaming she heard him say to her, ‘You are my mermaid of the seas, a sea creature to grace my ship.’ She tried to speak but words seemed trapped in her throat. She could not reply. Somewhere beyond the rocking boat a sea bird screeched, as if to warn her that all would not be as it seemed.

  When she awoke, a thin light penetrated the gap in the curtain. It must be afternoon. She pushed herself up. Alan was not by her side but Ann was sitting on one of the stools with a piece of mending in her lap.

  The woman stood up, leaning against the wall of the vessel to steady herself. ‘My lady, you should eat. I can bring you something.’

  Gunnhild nodded, though she felt queasy. It was possible that the cause of the nausea she felt was hunger. After all she had not eaten anything for hours. Her clothes had been neatly placed on the small table, not the silk overdress but a plain gown from her linen bag. Embarrassed, she clutched the cover about her to protect her modesty and looked with a question at Ann. ‘My gown?’

  Ann said, ‘You will ruin that silk you were wearing on this ship. I put it away.’

  Gunnhild nodded and pulled on everything Ann gave her, the plain hempen gown she had worn leaving Wilton and the serviceable linen cap under which she tucked all her hair, tying it tightly under her chin. Ann ducked out of the opening. Gunnhild was lacing her boots when she returned with a bowl of soup and a hunk of rough bread. ‘It is not much but it will stave off hunger.’ Ann began to fidget. She was frowning. Her eyes darkened. Gunnhild wondered what she had done to cause such anxiety.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked as she reached for the bowl and began to drink the thin gruel.

  Ann’s face paled as she whispered, ‘My lady, the water is very still. The light is strange too. Everyone is gazing into the horizon as if the Beast himself is set to emerge from it. There is fear in their eyes.’

  Gunnhild thrust the bowl back into the woman’s hand and pulled the sea cape from its hook. Dragging it about her shoulders she pushed past Ann and out through the heavy curtain. Out on the deck, Alan was watching the sky and talking anxiously to the captain. His soldiers were gloomily staring out to sea. The oarsmen were resting their heads on their forearms. Their faces reflected the same dark anxiety she had seen on the soldiers’ faces, the same as was on Ann’s. She reached out and touched Alan’s arm.

  He turned round. ‘Gunnhild, go into the shelter, there will be a storm. We cannot outrun it and we must not row closer to the coast lest we are dashed against the rocks before we reach Honfleur. This is the way of it, calm first but the devil comes with his winds. Get back under the shelter and pray; pray we are kept safe.’ His eyes were fearful. ‘Pray for deliverance.’

  ‘How can you tell? The sea is so still.’

  ‘Look into the horizon.’

  Gunnhild followed his eyes. The sea was flat, so flat that it looked like the watery lowlands around Glastonbury Abbey, a place remembered from when as a child they had visited the west, and the ship, like the abbey itself, was becalmed in a silty pool.

  ‘Look again,’ he said.

  Clouds seemed to push the vessel deeper into the sea. It was too still. She glanced up at the sky. The seagulls of earlier had vanished. They were the only living creatures above water, on an exposed ship on a huge sea. ‘St Brigit protect us,’ she said.

  Count Alan grasped her hand. ‘Do not fear.’

  She heard the captain’s roar of ‘Drop the sails.’ The sky blackened and the sea began to stir. The sailors rushed to the mast and struggled desperately with the sail, managing to drag it down just in time, stumbling and falling over each other as they tried to fold it and finally tie it to the ship’s floor. The wind began to push through the sky, causing the boat to shake from side to side, tossing it upwards. Was God punishing her for her sin?

  Alan dropped her hands. A sailor close to her looked up from the great sail and called out, ‘Mermaid’s curse.’ And a streak of yellow lightning crossed the sky.

  ‘Get into the shelter now,’ Count Alan thundered. ‘Do as I say, Gunnhild.’

  She struggled backwards as the prow of the ship rose up again and again. It was as if it were being pushed from beneath by a conspiracy of sea creatures determined to toss them into the turbulent depths below. Suddenly she thought, I can’t swim if we go down. I won’t have time to swim. The sea will snatch us like a giant long-necked goose reaching for its dinner. And we are all going to drown. A feeling of panic gripped her. She clutched the curtain that protected the shelter. As water swilled about her ankles, she looked back towards the sea. It was coming over the boat’s walls. It was coming for them. There was another lurch as the boat rose and fell and she was thrown inside the cabin. Ann grabbed her arm and stopped her crashing into the ash planks of the wall. ‘Hold onto those iron rings,’ she yelled above the storm’s banging. ‘And pray.’

  Tossed onto the soaking plank floor they both clung to the iron rings that lined the wall of the shelter. The ship reeled and reeled over and over, again and again. Water poured from the deck around their knees. She could hear Alan calling to the sailors to scoop it up and bail it out. But still the sea swirled around them, catching at their gowns, drenching them through.

  Gunnhild clung on to the iron ring for her life, fearing all the time that it would rip away from the side. The water kept gushing in. No amount of swimming would save her now. If the ship capsized she would not survive. None of them would. They would be dashed on to the rocks, lost for ever, dropped into the Devil’s cauldron from the middle of the sea. The ship would break up and they would all die.

  ‘Lady Mary, save us,’ she prayed over and over. ‘St Brigit, hear my prayers. Save us.’

  Every time the ship leapt up Ann called out, ‘God spare us.’ Her voice was lost because of the thundering noise outside the cabin.

  The ship continued to heave and rock. Alan yelled above the storm at his men to lash themselves to their posts. There was nothing more after that but the heaving, creaking and shouting and Ann’s mumbling of pater-nosters. Gunnhild clung to the iron ring, trying to think herself somewhere else, in the garden at Wilton, safe in her own chamber in the postulants’ building, in the scriptorium, talking about her dreams to Eleanor, and as a child at Reredfelle before the great battle that had destroyed her father.

  Night began to fall, and as suddenly as the storm had begun the waves started to become quieter, the sea more of a roll. The vessel was still tossing about but the wind was gradually dying down. Eventually the vessel stilled and she felt the sailors begin to row. Ann stood up and told Gunnhild to stay in the shelter. She reached for the hanging and flung herself through it.

  ‘Find my lord,’ Gunnhild cried out after her.

  After a while, when Count Alan came to the cabin, Gunnhild was wringing out her dress. She tried to stand up but he told her to sit. He lifted her damp mantle, placed it around her, and handed her a cup of heated wine. ‘Drink this. It will steady your nerves. We shall be in Honfleur by daybreak. We have the fire up again. When you are ready, come out and get dry. We have a ship to get into port. I want to make sure there is no further danger to us. Such a storm can blow enemies up into our waters.’ His voice was soldierly. He was concise, determined and lacking emotion, a warrior steering them all to safety.
<
br />   With that he was gone. She gulped down the spiced wine feeling it warm her stomach. As she leaned back against the planks too tired to care about anything, a wave of nausea overpowered her. She pulled herself to her feet and stumbled through the curtain into the air away from the fetid shelter. Once outside she leaned over one of the leather buckets used to bail out sea water and retched and retched until she thought there was nothing left to lose from her stomach except her insides. Too ill to warm herself by the charcoal fire, she crawled back into the shelter, collapsed onto the couch and pulled a damp sheepskin over her, thinking that she had survived the storm only to appear cowardly, weak and useless in front of the soldiers. Ann returned with a cup of water and wiped her mouth. There was a dry blanket in a chest. She warmed it by the brazier and wrapped it around Gunnhild.

  ‘You are as white as a shroud, my lady. I hope he is not planning to make you ride when we reach shore.’

  Gunnhild clutched her stomach again and squeezed the words out between her teeth. ‘If my lord insists, then I must.’

  Ann made a clicking sound of disapproval but otherwise kept silent. Gunnhild tried to think of a warm room, a fire and the company of women. She thought of the colourful letters she had illustrated and imagined her unfinished miniature of the Wedding at Canna with its pretty acanthus leaves climbing around a pillar and the handsome Jesus who turned water to wine. The picture distracted her until at last they heard shouts of port and land, the sound of the sail lowering again, sea gulls cawing, the thumping of feet around her and calls of ‘Pull into the jetty’. There was a great rattling and after it a jolt.