by Suzie Wilde
Thorvald rang his knife against a silver goblet until folk grew quiet and the children were still.
‘It is time for the oath-taking,’ he began. ‘The boy has taken Bera as his mother.’
A lie. Heggi’s face was proof of it: as strained and awful as hers.
‘It is time for the oath of kinship, so that no man shall sever the link with a false word.’ Thorvald turned to her. ‘Bera, do you swear that Heggi will be your eldest child, no matter how many others shall come?’
The smiling faces around her started to frown as she hesitated.
‘I have already sworn,’ she said.
‘Speak up,’ yelled Ottar.
‘Not that Heggi is your own firstborn son.’ Thorvald would not let her cheat.
Heggi was biting his lip, trying desperately not to cry. Her heart softened a little. He wanted his own mother back but that was impossible. She knew how that felt. Perhaps they could try to help one another. She should make the first move and then Dellingr would see that she could be a kind mother, too. Besides, she would never have a baby of her own.
‘I swear that Heggi is my own firstborn son.’
Thorvald put his huge hand on Heggi’s head. ‘And you, Heggi. Do you swear before all your kinsmen that Bera is your mother and you owe allegiance and payment of any blood debt to her and her alone?’
Heggi, stricken, choked and hiccupped his tears. Hefnir raised a hand to slap him.
Ottar caught his arm in a fist like a vice. ‘We’re kin, aren’t we, lad?’ He spoke gently to Heggi. ‘You’re a grandson to me, any rate.’
Bera’s throat ached with sadness, for the long years since her father had spoken to her like that.
Hefnir wrenched his arm away from Ottar. ‘Say it!’
It was soft as a sigh. ‘I swear.’
Ottar swung him in the air. ‘Good lad.’
Folk started to chatter, thinking the oath-taking was over.
Thorvald called them to order. ‘So, I remind you of what you have heard, kinsmen of Seabost. Bera is Heggi’s only mother. The woman who was lost has never been alive. Heggi is the firstborn son of Hefnir and his wife, Bera. Swear it!’
This time there was no quick acceptance. Dellingr seemed about to speak but Asa handed him the baby. There were murmurs. Bera saw why it troubled them so much: Heggi’s mother had been declared a non-person. It was almost worse than being a Drorgher.
The tenant farmer with the blood-lined face stepped forward. ‘What’s it matter? The woman’s dead, isn’t she? Get on with it and we’ll have a drink, boys! We swear... ’ he prompted, folk cheered and then the serious drinking began.
Heggi swayed with shock. It was shattering. Bera felt bludgeoned, too, but it was Heggi that Ottar took away, without a kind word for his daughter. She strode over to where Hefnir was thanking his farmer. He looked at her with such softness and warmth that it stopped her tongue.
‘I’m glad that’s done,’ he said. ‘If any man talks about his birth mother now I can have him killed for oath-breaking.’
‘Does it matter so much?’
‘You are my wife, Bera. I want you to have all its rights.’
Then he was gone with the other men, leaving her wondering why she felt he had not told her the whole truth.
Time passed in a haze of heat and drink. Bera hated the atmosphere, fearing the ceremony might invoke the spirit of Heggi’s mother, come to seek revenge. The oath was a lie. Everyone there knew she had lived – and Heggi was the proof. No one seemed to care. All about her, drink was loosening men’s tongues and women’s clothes. The thought of the Serpent made her feel shameful, filthy and sick. If only she had a real friend.
Sigrid might be some comfort.
Bera found her chivvying a pot girl. She pushed the girl away. ‘Folk need to get some food inside them.’
Sigrid snorted. ‘Go and sit down, Bera. You look awful.’
‘That makes me feel so much better.’
‘I’m only saying.’ Sigrid clanged stewpots into a heap.
Heggi swaggered past with a group of older lads, making sure Bera saw him. They were comparing knives and he seemed quite recovered. Was he playing a part as much as she was playing the hostess? Her scalp was pricking.
‘I’d better go and make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.’
‘Let the boy make some friends.’
There was a burst of raucous laughter.
Hefnir’s crew were rowdy. ‘Let’s have a poem! Where’s your wife, Hefnir? Bera! Bera! Bera! Bera!’
Thorvald came to fetch her. ‘Time to pay for your supper. Tell of battles and blood-wounding.’
‘I can’t.’
Thorvald leaned close. ‘You must praise the deeds of your husband and his men.’
‘I wouldn’t dare say what you do, Thorvald,’ she said.
He shook her. ‘Get over there and do your duty, like we all have to.’
‘I’m going to do my duty all right, like Ottar should have. Watch your back.’
‘If you could reach it.’
Heggi rushed to his father, who hugged him. Bera wanted to make Hefnir as proud of her, so she took her place at the hearth, fearing she could never be a poet like her mother. She held on to her beads, hoping her skern might help. She looked about for him. A yellow flame flickered in the shadows. A black face. But then Hefnir called for her to start.
And from a place deep inside her, the verse sprang.
‘At the sound of the eagle-shriek the rowers made for shore,
the sky like a wound-sea above them, and the cries of women
echoed the eagle as they ran, fearing the skimming skull-cleave.
Some clutched brooches to their breasts,
with brimful arms of sea-bright gold.
Others held children, their precious store of future wealth,
while their men stood straight like reeds before an axe,
scythed by the stern onslaught of skilled sword-wielders.’
Bera could not go on. Those women and children were real to her. Mothers. There was a crushing weight of silence. She could only see a mass of odd shapes and colours in front of her, a sea of strangers, smelling hostile. Murmurs grew into threats. She was still clutching her beads and a droplet fell hot onto her hand. A tear.
Thorvald held high his ale horn. ‘To all of us skilled sword-wielders!’
Everyone cheered and drank deeply. The moment passed.
Cooks shouted that the roasted meat was ready and the feasting began. Folk laughed wide with faces shiny with grease, celebrating the stores that would help see them through winter. Bera went round with ale and mead, checking the hall for a black-faced stranger. Would the Serpent King dare to come back?
Hefnir stopped her. ‘That was a well-crafted poem but odd for the wife of a Northman.’
‘I said you were skilled swordsmen.’
‘You said nothing about our man who died.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘You had better go and thank Thorvald.’
‘Why should I thank him? He should have told me one had been killed.’
‘His toast saved you. There could have been a riot, they are in that mood.’
‘He likely wants me dead.’
‘Not while you are my wife. And Heggi’s mother.’
A chill hung in the air. Bera could not read his expression, or even gauge how much he had drunk.
‘Heggi doesn’t care if I live or die.’ The truth of it hurt.
‘My son is your charge,’ Hefnir said. ‘Where is he now?’
Bera wafted a hand towards the spits. He and Rakki would be close to the food. ‘So who died?’
It was Flat-Nose. He had taunted Bjorn into rushing at his killer, so it was fair. But Bera should have kept Bjorn safe and only killing Thorvald would seal that wound.
‘Keep my son out of danger,’ Hefnir warned and moved on.
Bera made for the roasting spit. Heggi was not there, blast him. Ottar was blustering with
some of the seamen but the boy wasn’t with him, either. Bera grew anxious. If any man had cared that she was not Heggi’s natural mother, he had been reminded of it tonight. Then she saw Rakki. There was no sign of his boy but he was sure to be close, so Bera started after the dog.
Ottar barred her way.
He held up his ale and began a toast. ‘Be your friend’s true friend.’
Others joined in as they recognised it. ‘Return gift for gift. Repay laughter with laughter.’
His mates roared and clapped backs as if this was the funniest thing they had ever heard.
‘I say, repay laughter with laughter again...’ He pushed his face into hers, ‘... but betrayal with treachery.’
Bera sidestepped him. Why question her loyalty?
‘Don’t you dare try and shame me in public!’
‘Then mind you don’t shame your husband.’
Bodies pressed. The scant air was stale with so many breaths and fires and the ringing uproar drained her will to argue. The hall suddenly reeked of approaching danger. Where was Heggi?
Bera pushed through the long jostle for food and saw a man in a black hood slip through the high doors. She was right! She followed him at once but when she got outside he was gone.
And she was alone.
Her scalp crackled with menace. They said there were no Drorghers in Seabost but she knew one was out there, hiding.
‘Show yourself!’
Out of the shadows lumbered a recent corpse. It was not yet distended, though its features were blurred as if seen through frozen eyes. It came as far as the torch light and swayed, uncertain. Drorghers were unknown in Seabost. Was this the first of the red-spot corpses, following the trail to their kinsfolk’s skerns? Or a sign of worsening evil here? Perhaps Hefnir did not have the grip of his folk that he claimed.
It’s Flat-Nose. He’s new to this so act fast before he gets the hang of it.
Bera wished she knew what had once been the creature’s real name. Names were power.
I don’t know it either, but get on with it!
‘Stop distracting me!’
The Drorgher was gaining confidence as it began to sense its power, though it was wary of Bera. It cast about, looking for easier prey. In fact, she was fast losing control. She tried to fan her will-power into flame but being called a superstitious peasant in Seabost had made her lose confidence. Things were different here. How could she fight something no one else believed in? What weapons did she need?
The Drorgher gave a nasty smile when it smelt her panic. It sucked the air and will from Bera’s lungs. An unnatural cold stilled her blood and dulled her brain.
A dog appeared. Rakki stood, hackles raised, too fearful to growl. Heggi would not be far away and Bera found the resolve to take on the Drorgher. She must protect the boy.
She pulled out her necklace and brandished the black bead. The creature moaned and stepped back, cringing.
‘Yes. Feel that, Flat-Nose?’ she cried. ‘I am your deadly foe, a Valla. Beware of me, Drorgher.’
The Drorgher’s dead black eyes were as pitiless as an ice shark’s. You could drown in them.
There was a closer whistle. Heggi! The Drorgher’s head swung, sniffing the air, questing for him.
Bera reacted the fastest. She lunged for the torch and held it high. The Drorgher’s body was revealed as mottled blue and purple; its broad nose part of the blank smudge of its face.
‘You must go and join the band of Drorghers and leave your old home. You belong here no longer.’
She pressed forwards, forcing it to move away from Rakki. Bera hoped it was away from Heggi, too. The Drorgher, confused, tottered backwards.
‘Go to the forest! I am here to protect these folk and you need to fear me.’
Heggi called, ‘Rakki! Here, boy!’
Bera’s need to save Heggi became focused as a flame, which began deep in her womb and scorched upwards until it poured from her mouth in a blaze.
‘Take your Drorgher envy away from my sight!’
It stumbled off towards the trees, defeated.
‘Yes!’ Bera shouted and punched the air for the joy of having total control. ‘I was born for this, and let all Drorghers know it!’
Heggi finally turned up. ‘You’re frightening Rakki,’ he said. He had missed it all.
The injustice and his piping voice enraged Bera and her blood was up. She growled and ran at him. He scampered off with his dog and they reached the doors together. Bera snatched at his tunic.
‘I’ve just saved your scrawny neck, you ungrateful runt.’
‘You’re mad!’
The doors swung open and some men fell out, fighting. Hot air billowed with the swell of uproar. Heggi charged in. The brawlers were swinging punches and Bera had to duck and weave to avoid them. By the time she got inside the skirmish was fierce, with knives.
The women were spurring them on, bright-eyed and raucous. Heggi was already with his father, beyond them. Trust him to cause worry and then be snug. Bera snaked her way through the excited mob to reach them, her face hot and spittled from the barrage of insults spat at the fighters.
‘Hefnir! Stop them!’ she shouted.
Across the hall was a glimpse of a yellow beard.
The Serpent King is here, rabble-rousing. It will be carnage.
It was clear from Hefnir’s expression that he took pleasure from the violence. Blood called to blood. Was the Serpent here to entice Hefnir – or here at his invitation? Either way he had defied her banishment. Humiliated her.
Time to go public, ducky.
Bera stood up on Hefnir’s carved chair, unclasped her necklace and held it high. No one noticed.
The women got stuck in, followed by children, who began to throw pots and bowls at each other. Dogs snarled and bit. Bera caught a glimpse of Sigrid, behind Thorvald, who had his wide-bladed sword raised. She pictured it slicing Bjorn.
A scream came from her heart.
It was a scream that had built up from not telling Sigrid and leaving her son unavenged. It was a scream that the Serpent had ignored her order to stay away. It was a scream that she had just saved the brat from a foe these people did not even recognise.
Her fury pierced like an arrow through their bloodlust and the crowd stilled. They turned to look at her. There was a shout, then silence.
Bera felt changed. But what to say to them?
You’ve just defeated a Drorgher. Be tough.
Her head was ringing. ‘There must be an end to fighting our own folk.’
They were all looking at her, expecting more.
‘I judge disputes so no Seabost blood is spilt by Seabost. We should stand together against outsiders.’
‘Like Crapsby?’ said a deep and lisping voice.
‘Yes, like Crapsby, too,’ she agreed, to maintain the good humour.
Hefnir laughed. ‘Well said, wife. Seabost against Crapsby.’
The drink that had made them hot for the fight made them quick to forget. All they wanted now was more of everything.
Hefnir swung Bera down from his chair and held her. His kiss was long and public and as it should be. She felt proud of her growing powers.
Then Heggi tugged her arm. ‘Did you bring me any meat, Mama?’ He spat the last word, like poison.
‘You should be in bed.’
‘For Rakki?’ he coaxed.
Hefnir smiled at her. Back to the pretence of being honey-sweet, to shift suspicion, later.
‘All right, Heggi, I’ll go and fetch a few slices. You can eat them on the way home. Rakki too.’
Sigrid was stacking some empty stewpots. When she saw Bera she fanned her face with the bottom of her apron.
‘I’m that tired. I’ve been on the go all day. I’ll be off home soon.’
‘Not alone, Sigrid. There was a Drorgher.’
‘They don’t get them here. Besides, I’ll be safe enough with Thorvald.’
How could she think it? ‘Give me some scrapings for t
he dog then we’ll go together. You and I.’
Sigrid tutted but did it. ‘I’ll wait for you here, then, I suppose,’ she said, moodily.
On the way back to Heggi, Bera wondered if she had missed an opportunity to kill Thorvald in the fight. It was chaotic but she would have been seen in the fray, or been injured herself. No, her own plan was better and would give her the chance to savour his fear before he died. And his skern would be present then. She dare not risk him becoming a mighty Drorgher.
Ottar pulled Bera into a corner. She could smell blood and drink heavy on his breath.
‘I’m watching you, girlie,’ he said.
‘Take your hand off me, Father.’
He spat. ‘Crapsby, eh? Betraying your home, now. Who’ll you betray next?’
‘Let go.’
‘You Vallas think you know everything. Your mother thought she knew everything but she didn’t. I know you, like I knew her. Your blood’s hot. I been talking to someone here tonight.’ He tapped his nose. ‘I’m watching you.’
‘The drink’s made you stupid. Get back to the other sots and let me return to my husband.’
‘Your husband!’ He swooped, swayed and closed in. ‘He only took you when he needed my boats. He didn’t want you. I had to beg him.’
‘You’re a liar.’
Ottar belched. ‘Ask him. Mind, he’s as big a liar as you. Ask him about his real wife.’
‘If Hefnir heard this he would have you killed.’
He wagged a finger at her. ‘Just like your mother, looks, everything. You could get a child with another man, or a whole pack of ’em so you won’t know whose bastard it is.’
Bera slapped him so hard that her hand stung. Ottar felt his cheek, laughed, and fell over. She stepped over him and walked away.
Bera and Sigrid took a torch up to the home latrine. There was no sign of the Drorgher. Inside, the hen stench made Bera’s eyes water. Waiting in here would not be pleasant later.