Once Upon a Pirate: Sixteen Swashbuckling Historical Romances

by Merry Farmer

  Surely it must make me more valuable as a slave if I can speak properly?

  Their leader is the navigator, Magni. He spends much of his time at the steering oar. The men who wish to talk sit close by him while he watches the waves and the sky, his hand guiding the ship.

  The redhead, Bjorn, watches me. He doesn’t seem unfriendly or threatening, but I often find his gaze straying to mine. And then he turns away. I’m not sure what to make of it.

  But another also watches me. The one they call Hjalli. When he looks at me, my spine prickles a warning.

  It is not obvious to me why. Hjalli, like his companions, is tall, well-built; handsome in his way. But he walks with an arrogance I don't need to understand their words to see. The other slaves press back from his sight when he appears. Even his own people watch him with half an eye, not exactly deferring to him, but giving him a respect which seems out of keeping with his youth.

  Somewhere within, a warning crawls…

  The day had to come. The Wolves shout and point excitedly at seabirds wheeling overhead, craning forward to the horizon. Only a few hours more and a grey blur appears on the edge of the world, enlarging and drawing nearer.

  Closer still and it resolves into mountains framing an open inlet. The breeze carries us, filling the sail, but the Wolves row too, pulling with a will as they draw near home, into a long narrow waterway; not a river exactly, more like a finger of the sea pointing inland.

  The fear I have tried so hard to resist curdles inside me.

  At the end of the finger lies a settlement, a clutter of buildings, large and small. We pull into a jetty, not much different to what I would see near my home. Any of our fishermen would have recognised it. And beyond that, on the shore, a great crowd mills and cheers. Men and women jostle and push. Some hold toddlers up high to see or be seen, calling out names.

  Some of the men on board don’t even wait for the ship to moor, instead jumping overboard, splashing through shallows, throwing themselves into the arms of some loved one; wife, parent, child…

  They have families too… They’re just people…

  How can they do what they do to us?

  Or are we not people to them?

  Our captors snap orders; reinforcing them with a blow or the crack of a whip if they are not immediately obeyed. Chained together, shackled at wrists and ankles, we shuffle onto the wharf.

  Almost as we touch land, there are men looking us over…

  Slave traders?

  Next to me, Wynflaed sobs softly as two converge on her, then more loudly as one seizes her chin, forcing her to look into his face. He examines her, one side then the other, his hands roaming over her clothes, feeling the outline of her waist and breasts.

  The owner of the hands chatters questions. Magni barks an obvious ‘No’ back at him.

  Others of the men are unloading the ship. Bjorn and Hjalli carry a chest between them, straining with its weight, heading to a great thatched timber building.

  And relentlessly, we chained captives are also herded inside, to be led before two great seats, almost a pair of thrones. Made from some dark wood, both are richly decorated, carved into strange whorls and repeating patterns of dragons and serpents, painted in red and gold. On one sits a lord and beside him, a noblewoman.

  The slaves are paraded before them. Magni displays the strength of the men and boys, the beauty of the women. When he comes to Wynflaed, he tips her face first one way, then another.

  The slave trader steps forwards, speaking in guttural tones, gesticulating at her. But the lord shakes his head, calling some man out from the crowd. He surveys her, nodding happily.

  When it is my turn to be displayed, Magni mainly addresses the woman on the throne, speaking at some length, gesturing to Bjorn and Hjalli, then to me.

  I lift my chin, not looking any in the eye, but not cowering either. As Magni speaks, there is laughter and the man whose foot I stabbed, Erling, turns sullen, but the lord laughs, and the lady nods in apparent agreement.

  The chests are opened and displayed. The precious holy things of our church: the goblet of the mass: the silver plate on which they gave us the body of Christ, still splashed with the dried and spattered blood of the priest. But there is more; the candle holders, the silver cup from the font, gold and silver coin.

  The lord surveys the booty laid before him, not demonstrative, but nonetheless, clearly delighted. Magni presents the warriors from the ship, one man after another, speaking volubly of each in turn, clearly giving some report on that Wolf’s part in their venture.

  At length, the lord stands, issuing commands. He chooses some of the treasures for himself, but the remainder of the golden things are divided. He gives bracelets and rings to some, gripping shoulders, smiling and nodding as he speaks.

  At the end of it all, her new owner leads away the weeping Wynflaed on a leash. My wrists are freed, the heavy iron shackles dropping to the rush-covered floor. The rest of the slaves are handed to the traders and led away.

  Will I ever see them again?

  Bjorn takes me by the arm, leading me out. As I step back into the sunshine, still rubbing at a madness of pins and needles in my hands, he points then strides away, clearly assuming I will follow.

  For a moment I stall, taking in my new surroundings. After a second, he notices my tardiness, turning to bark an order at me and I scuttle to catch up with him.

  He leads me to an area at the edge of the settlement where pigs, penned in, snout through muck and garbage. Then he gestures down to a bucket and a wooden fork on the ground. Timidly, in case I have mistaken his meaning, I stoop to pick them up. He grunts approval then gestures me to the sty and to the dung-heap behind.

  I nod, making my way meekly into the nearest pen, hesitating at the gate in case the sow takes offence at my presence. And there, on the edge of my new life, I look around…

  … at the edge of the village...

  No people.

  Nothing to stop me.

  Bjorn folds his arms, watching me with an assessing eye. Stepping back, he waves extravagantly this way and that, gesturing out into the wild woods. Then he waits, a brow cocked.

  Could I outrun him?

  Perhaps.

  Perhaps not.

  I could run… But where would I go?

  I am a stranger, a slave, in a land of strangers. And my own home is far away across the sea.

  Is there anywhere I could go that would be any better than this?

  ?

  No.

  Chapter 3

  SLAVE

  MERCIA

  You take freedom for granted until you no longer have it. In my old life, although my people were ordinary enough, I had the privilege and position of being the child of one of the village families, accepted and respected by those around me. I had as much freedom as any of my age could have aspired to.

  Here, my lot is an endless round of milking the many goats and the few cattle, grinding grain, drawing water, gutting fish, cleaning the stock pens; all the hardest work that the free folk want no part of.

  Naturally, as a slave, the worst and most unpleasant tasks are mine. A freewoman might spend her time weaving or sewing, making beautiful clothes or hangings.

  Not I…

  Never does there seem any end to the work. I wake in the chill pre-dawn light to tend the hearth and draw the water. I make the porridge which will break the fast for my master and mistress. But I do not yet eat myself.

  As the sun slants over the horizon, I milk the beasts until my fingers are white with chill and my joints ache. Then I grind flour until my spine seems set to lock in my stooped position. Clothes must be washed. That at least, is pleasanter work, the scent of meadowsweet masking the stink of cattle. But the soap is harsh, and my hands grow raw.

  And when finally, I sleep… with the cattle in the darkest part of the hall… I know that it will only be to do again the following day.

  I could run, but where would I go? One girl alone into t
he dark forests of a foreign land… No-one would take me for a native. My tongue would betray me the moment I spoke. And hard as my life now seems, I know that compared to the lot of some of the slaves, I have been lucky. The jarl claimed me as part of his plunder from the voyage to be a servant to his wife, Lady Ísleif.

  Wynflaed is not the only one of my companions fated to the life of a concubine. I learned later that some of the fairer of the grown women were traded away even before we returned to this place. Some of the older girls too; sold to the traders for silver to warm the beds of their new owners… whoever they are… wherever they are…

  What will happen when they know I am a woman?

  On the scale of things, my lot could have been much worse.

  Over time, my mistress teaches me new skills: perhaps only the skills of a slave, but useful; just now, I am learning to prepare and tan hides.

  Squatting outside in the thin sunshine of autumn, I scrape fat and tatters of flesh from a cowhide, surreptitiously watching the boys being instructed in swordplay and other fighting arts.

  Magni, who I have learned is brother to my master, Jarl Úlfar, is the instructor, teaching his own younger sons and some of the neighbouring boys. It is not a game. Although armed with wooden swords and light training shields, toys compared to the weapons of battle, the boys are expected to learn their skills; expected too to take hurt without complaint. When one receives a crack on the hand from his ‘enemy’, the sound smacks out and he yells, sucking at his knuckles. His fingers will be stiff on the morrow. But he is not excused further practice.

  The son of Úlfar and Ísleif, their first and so far, only child, Gunnar, is barely four summers old; far too young to practice with the older boys. His mother has entrusted him to me, and he sits close, watching the fighting; cheering when one of the combatants makes a strike.

  Bjorn and Hjalli are watching too, leaning against a sun-warmed wall. Magni calls across, asking them to demonstrate some of the moves. Both grin. Sword in hand, Hjalli swaggers out. Bjorn strolls, his eyes brushing with mine before he takes his position. Hjalli looks too, but I don’t care for his glance.

  Not that I have any say in it…

  Although they are ‘demonstrating’ to the boys, I’d say the pair are also honing their own skills. Although they were on the raid where I was taken, they were still the youngest of the grown warriors; young men, but boys themselves not so long ago, and I think they still have a sense of being part of the boys’ world.

  Stooped into a fighting stance, they circle each other, each with his sword in one hand, shield in the other.

  Hjalli charges Bjorn, and the two lock shields, almost grappling with them before Bjorn dodges back, spins then stabs forward. But Hjalli swings the sword aside with his own, twists and thrusts…

  It is a dance they do; for all its savage strangeness, a beautiful thing to see. And hypnotised, I watch…

  … Bjorn brings his sword down in a long arc, to be blocked by Hjalli’s shield. Then Hjalli feints, stabbing to the left, but Bjorn parries the blow with the sliding squeal of steel on steel, dodges and then brings his blade right around, sweeping to the back and smacking his opponent on the rear with the flat. Had the fight been for real, Hjalli would surely be gravely wounded.

  As it is, he snarls at the laughter of the boys, stalking away. Passing close, he gives me a black scowl when he sees I am watching.

  A slave seeing him humiliated?

  Dropping my gaze, I pay strict attention to my task, working at a stubborn bit of flesh which refuses to part way with the hide.

  Sullen faced, he stands over me. “Why were you watching? Slaves should pay attention to their work.”

  “I enjoy watching the practice, sir…” Then realising what that might imply. “It doesn’t interfere with my work…” I offer a hand over the hide, now almost scraped clean, soon ready to be tanned. I’ll probably get that task next, working the remainder of the day with the stink of stale urine.

  Hjalli’s scowl fades, to be replaced by… By what? I’m not sure, but I don’t like it.

  He grins. At least, he shows his teeth. They’re clean and bright, like the smile of hunting wolves, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re going to be mine.”

  “What?” I drop my scraper.

  “You’re going to be mine. I asked my uncle and he says that when you’re a woman, I can have you.”

  Something coils in my gut. “Have me?”

  “Until I get a proper wife. You’ll be in my bed. After you’ve finished your day’s work of course.”

  I don’t know what to say. Taking a tight grip on my scraper, I work at a bit of hair that clings to the skin.

  Hjalli looms over me. “When will you be a woman?” His voice scrapes at my fear. “You’re tall. You should be ready now. When will it be?”

  Looking down at my work, I suck at dry lips, trying to work up enough saliva to speak. “How can I know that, sir? It will happen when God wills it.”

  He snorts. “You answer to our gods now.”

  I say nothing, looking down, swallowing hard as I continue with my scraping. After a few moments, he stomps off. As the sound of his footsteps recedes, I risk a side-glance. Hjalli should be attractive. And in some ways, he is; fit, muscular, and with the widening shoulders of the maturing man. But something about him repels me.

  It is not that he is one of my Wolf masters. Most of them are decent enough people, at least while living their farmer’s lives. But I see the way Hjalli watches me, measuring my body, following my movements.

  Perhaps stinking of urine might have some benefits...

  Later, I find a shadowed space, out of sight. And there, away from prying eyes, I adjust the leather banding I use to bind my breasts flat. Then I make a brief prayer that the blood of my monthly passage is not discovered.

  Drawing water is another of my never-ending tasks. The walk from the river, whilst a pleasant stroll for the empty-handed, seems interminable as I struggle with the weight of the yolk over my shoulders. A filled pail hangs from either end. I am expected not to dawdle over the task, or to spill too much of my burden.

  I have made two such journeys so far this morning. Another three should see enough water delivered for the morning’s cooking and washing. But of course, more will be needed in the afternoon. And again, in the evening.

  How many times have I made this journey… over the years?

  Too many…

  On the other hand, I have noticed the buckets do not seem as heavy as they once did. I’m older, stronger than when I first arrived.

  How long has it been?

  I’m not sure. One season stretches into another.

  Squatting down, the buckets to either side of me, I move carefully, trying not to slop as I stand.

  “Mercia, that’s too heavy for you. Let me take it.” Bjorn towers over me. No longer a boy or even close to it, he has filled out, his frame in proportion to his height now. His shoulders are broad, his limbs long, lean and muscled.

  Right now, he speaks to me as a dark shadow, silhouetted by the sun, his brilliant red hair shining like one of the halos I remember from the church paintings in my old home.

  Squinting up, I shade my eyes against the light and he seems suddenly to realise that I’m blinded. He shifts, smiling down at me from a bright blue sky.

  “This is my work, sir. The mistress will be angry if I…”

  He cuts me short by picking up first one bucket, then the other, hefting them easily. “If you finish your task more quickly,” he says, “the mistress will be pleased with you, won’t she.”

  ÚLFAR

  I sit with Toke, enjoying the sun and a horn of ale. Mercia goes about her work, fetching water from the river. But as she returns, this time with Bjorn carrying her buckets, Toke’s eyes follow his son and his mouth draws tight.

  She’s a hard worker, but she’s just a slave, and a Saxon slave at that. Bjorn hasn’t seen us watching as he accompanies her, carrying the w
ater to the longhouse before he relinquishes the buckets to her. After she goes inside, he stands, scuffing at the ground and staring at his feet.

  Toke stands. “Bjorn!”

  He startles, his head jerking up, looking wildly to one side then the other before he spots us and approaches. “Father?”

  Toke’s tone is harsh. “I don’t expect to see my son behaving like that. She’s a slave. You needn’t go wooing her. The likes of her is not for you.” His face sets. “Not like that anyway.”

  Bjorn droops. “I know she’s a slave, but I thought that… well, a man can have more than just a wife, can’t he?”

  I interrupt, “So he can. But Mercia’s promised elsewhere.”

  He blinks. “She is? Who to?”

  “Hjalli’s having her,” I say.

  He swallows and looks away. “Hjalli? Why Hjalli?”

  “Because he asked me and he’s my nephew. And I don’t think he’s interested in sharing her.” Bjorn looks unhappy. “There are plenty of other slave women. You look elsewhere. Find another to suit you.”

  He nods and slumps away.

  MERCIA

  I’m a slave, and miserable it is. But it has its moments.

  My lady Ísleif sends me to the market. “Just the honey, mind. Gunther has combs for sale. And don’t take all day about it.”

  I love the market; a tumble of tents and stalls and awnings, traders bartering silk and spices, wine, jewellery, glass and pottery; grain, wool, wood, iron for the smithies, walrus ivory, furs and leather.

  I can only look at these marvellous things and wonder about where they come from. Someone told me that silk is made by caterpillars in some land so far away it cannot be imagined. Of course, that’s nonsense. It can’t be true. But what kind of sheep or goat produces so fine a thread?

  I make my way to the marketplace, seeking the honey hunter. The morning is bright, a dancing breeze setting the sunshine sparkling on the harbour waters.