The Ninth Lost Tale of Mercia: Runa the Wife
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At first she did not stay by choice. She remained sick. Two well-off peasants of Jom took care of her on Thorkell’s command. With rest, and food, and Thorkell’s kind attentions, she felt well again by the time winter lifted and the morning dew ceased to frost.
By then she was restless, and ready to leave. She longed to return to her forest home, no longer burdened by the energy-sucking weight in her body.
As she walked from the hut one morning, ready to leave and never come back, her knees buckled underneath her. She fell into the wet grass and wept.
Thorkell came to see her that evening. The smell of fish and butter filled the peasants’ lodge as they prepared the night meal. Thorkell and Runa huddled in the corner, far away from the quiet couple who had been caring for her.
“I want to leave,” said Runa. She glanced at her hosts again, and they glared back. They were more than ready for her to leave, as well.
Thorkell nodded. “I know. I have found a place for you.”
She reached out and ran her fingers over the gold and silver rings encircling his wrists and arms, reminding herself of how rich he was. “What sort of place?”
“A home. Where I can visit you.”
Her hand fell away from him. “And if I didn’t want you to?”
His face went so still she could hardly read it at all, only speculate. She had come to see that he could hide his emotions completely, if he wanted. But she knew they were in there somewhere. His ability to do this infuriated her, and she suspected he knew it.
She growled. “Thorkell. I don’t understand what you’re giving me.”
“I think you do.”
She pitied their eavesdroppers on the other side of the room, who no doubt heard the reverberating grumble of his voice, but probably could not understand the conversation. Neither, however, could she. Her eyes searched his desperately for clarification, but she could not find it. “Thorkell!” she cried. “I would not be your bed-slave!”
Without a doubt, their listeners understood her words. Runa hoped she would embarrass them enough to go away. But they were too stubborn to leave their own home.
Thorkell, however, achieved her desire by simply twisting his head and staring at them. The inhabitants seemed to understand immediately; they wiped their hands of fish and walked outside.
“Not a slave,” he said in their absence. “A wife, in the eyes of Frigga.”
She shrank back against the wall. The smell of fish guts seemed to grow too strong very suddenly and nauseate her. This was far too much, far too quickly.
“But … but … I have nothing to offer you. Not even ...” She did not want to admit it. Whether he guessed it or not, she had no idea. But she did not want to give him confirmation of the truth: that she had no family.
Then she understood that despite his great status—or perhaps because of it—this mattered little to him. He had nothing to lose by taking a wife of low status. He could marry again, and again. He could have as many wives as he wanted. She would be nothing more than a possession to him, whether he called her a wife or a concubine. From her perspective, the two seemed very much alike.
Sweat beaded along her brow. Her heart palpitated against her ribs. Her head spun. “No,” she gasped at last. “I won’t do it.”
She got up to go. He caught her arm, and perhaps he tried to be gentle, but his grip lurched her to a halt.
“Live there for a month,” he said. “I’ll leave you alone. Then you decide.”
The simple kindness of his request melted her resolve. Pulling against him, her eyes drawn away as if to her thorny home in the woods, she marveled at the choices in front of her, and cursed herself for nearly making the wrong one. A Jomsviking chief wanted her as his wife. She practically killed his child, and yet he had nursed her back to health. So far he had not requested a single thing from her—only given.
She leaned into his strength, sweeping herself towards him. She wrapped her arms around him, then her legs. He held her against him effortlessly, as if she was a part of his own body. She breathed with him, their breath flowing back and forth long before their lips touched.
He carried her down to the floor, then pinned her there. She could not have escaped if she wanted to—but she did not want to. She laughed, thinking of the poor peasants outside the door, and pulled him closer.