That night Skarga was naked in the bed. Grimr had ordered her to undress, and she had obeyed. The wound Grimr had cut across her body, had closed to a thin raggy scar, faint brown like a trickle of meat gravy.
“Come here,” he said. “Much closer.”
His shirt was open to the waist. The thin linen was fine bleached and tucked with tiny threads, pleated like a rich woman’s shift. His body beneath it was very smooth with a pale scattering of hair, tinged russet, like the hair of his head and face. Skarga was frightened. She was accustomed to his scrutiny, his control and to warming his bed. But he had never demanded her closeness before. She stayed where she was.
“Very well,” he said, and leaned over, grasped her wrist, and wrenched her to him. He flung one leg over hers, pinning her tight. Then he began, very precisely, to pick off the scab from her breast with his finger nails, in tiny pieces, leaving the line soft pink again and weeping as if ready to bleed. “Good,” he said. “I prefer it this way.”
The wound had healed. Now it hurt again. “You’re quite mad,” whispered Skarga.
“Do you have the temerity to judge me?” He did not pause, concentrating on the careful business of his fingers, but he lifted one lazy golden eyebrow as he worked. “I doubt you have the intelligence for that, but in any case I would hardly be interested in your opinion. I think you know by now that it is only my opinion that matters.”
She pulled away but he gripped his fingers around the back of her neck and wrenched her forwards. “Do I hurt you? I can hurt you so much more, if you tempt me. But I have no desire to be angry tonight. I’m pleased with you. Look.”
He slipped his other hand behind the pillows and drew out something shining. The thing gleamed through the hazy dark. It was a woman’s silver armlet, heavy carved with writhing serpents, knot work and an edging of scrolls. Grimr slipped it around her upper arm and pressed it tight. “You see?” he said. “It’s a reward.”
Skarga had never seen one so magnificent or so highly polished and thought it beautiful. It felt cold and heavy and she was angry at her own pleasure. “Reward? I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re plump and round, the way I want you,” he smiled. “Your hips are curved and your breasts are larger without becoming pendulous. Your belly’s soft and your ribs have smoothed out. I no longer see your bones like steps up the mountain. So this is a gift, because I’m pleased.”
Skarga shivered. Her voice faded into the cold shadows. “I don’t want your presents.”
Grimr smiled wider and his eyes glinted. “Of course you don’t. What does that matter? What you want is of no account whatsoever. You should have learned that by now.” He paused and the smile glittered like ice. “Don’t take it off.”
He let her go then and lay back. Nothing ever kept him awake once he had decided to sleep. Within two breaths, he was sleeping. His breathing slowed so quickly that he appeared half dead, with neither flicker of his eyelids nor rhythm of heartbeat. Skarga was used to it and desperately welcomed his abrupt disengagement into whatever vile and wayward dreams such a man might dream.
She waited a little, then quickly dressed. She struggled with her tunic but nothing seemed to disturb him. She paused again, summoned courage, leaned over and listened to the steady exhalation of his breath. Then she bent to the belt lying loose and part unbuckled around his waist. She had seen the shaft of his knife. Very carefully, fingers as light as the blink of the rainbow across the midden heap, she took the hilt and began to draw it out.
His fingers closed so fast around hers that she flinched as if struck. In the same moment he twisted to face her and forced her back, his other hand around her throat. She gulped, choking. “If you are sick on my bed,” he hissed, “I will make you eat it.”
She dropped the knife and his closed fist aimed sharp to the underside of her jaw. With the collision of knuckles to bone, her head thrown back against the wall with a crash that vibrated and shook the bed. She gasped with pain, stifling the scream which would certainly have pleased him.
“Now you have made me bruise you,” he said, as if faintly disappointed, “and you will have a headache in the morning which will interfere with what I’d intended. Now go to sleep and don’t irritate me again.” And he turned away from her once more, pushed the hilt of his knife firmly back into the strap of his belt, but did not remove it. Then he turned and went back to sleep.
When Grimr left the bed the next morning he turned to her briefly and said, “A slave will come to you with different clothes. You will put them on and come outside. I shall be at the door. Don’t keep me waiting.”
He had been right for the headache was severe, but she was interested. When the slave brought the clothes, she was even more interested. They were boy’s clothes. She had never in her life worn male attire and at first she was confused, not knowing how to dress herself. The britches had a band of ties and opened to the crotch. She pulled them around her waist, put the tunic over the shirt and kept it all as tight as she could with her own wide belt. Then she strapped the trouser legs to the stockings, stood up and stamped to see if everything fell down. She was pleased when it did not. It seemed she had succeeded adequately if not correctly. There were new boots too, neat enough to fit her and heavy soled to keep out mud and stone. There was no cape. She had never claimed back the cloak from Asved.
There were slaves in the hall as usual, cleaning, brushing down the dogs, chasing the geese. Skarga felt conspicuous but being ignored as usual, walked slowly to the great doors. She heard pattering footsteps and looked over her shoulder. The wolfhound which had threatened her before was at her heels. It sniffed, snout against the folds of her tunic. The short hair along its back stood tight but it did not stop her. The doors swung back with a burst of cold air and daylight.
Grimr stood outside, one boot up on the slanted post support, watching both woman and dog. Bram panted hopefully with an uncertain wave of its tail. Grimr pointed and spoke softly. The dog’s tail slunk between its back legs, dejected and rejected. Skarga stood alone in the doorway, suddenly shy in her strange clothes. She thought, as she had not thought before, that the britches, although loose, emphasised the outline of her legs and below the knees where the cloth was bound tight to her stockings, she could almost be naked. But then, he had seen her naked already.
Grimr had spoken to his dog but he did not speak to her. He walked off into the hazy sunlight and Skarga followed him, as the dog might, trailing behind. Grimr stopped on the long slopes where a fallow field banked the stockade. The grass had recently been cropped by cattle but now any signs of their passing had been watered into the earth by autumn rains and only a sweet green remained, beaded with daisies and scatterings of aconite’s little blue bells.
At the far end stood a rough-cut board, painted and mounted on wooden legs. Resembling a despondent stag, knock-kneed and lacklustre, it was blind in one eye. It had lost both ears but the antlers were grand and wide and much exaggerated.
Grimr had stopped and Skarga stood beside him, staring at the distant target. Grimr said, “It is for shooting practise.”
Skarga laughed. She could not remember the last time she had laughed. Never since Egil had been taken. “Poor thing. I believe it has a stomach ache. And see how it squints.”
Grimr looked down at her and smiled slowly. “Good,” he said. “You are learning something after all. Now I am going to teach you archery.” His smile remained. “Your target likely suffers from the headache since it has been shot there many times. The squint is presumably due to the unexpected sunshine.”
“Archery?”
“Your new found jollity seems to have affected your ears,” frowned Grimr. “Must you repeat everything I say? It will certainly slow down the lessons if you do.” She stared up at him. She wondered if it was a trick, and how she would react if it was. “Now,” Grimr continued, “I have a child’s bow for your first practise. It is loose strung and the arrows are butt shafts, bare fletched and little more th
an a boy’s toy. But it will do to begin with.”
Skarga took the small bow he handed her, and fingered it. A curved wych-hazel stave was strung with flax line. “When I was little,” she said, not adding that all her training had stopped when her father had started to hate her, “I had a bow like this. I used to practise shooting against the wall of the goat shed. I remember how to hold it. Why are you teaching me this now?”
“The stave is singular, but not true, and does not pull evenly,” said Grimr. “Its length is not well adapted to the weight of the arrows, nor I doubt, to your own strength, or lack of it. When I am convinced you are worth it, I will give you some better equipment. Now, if you remember your old lessons, take up the correct stance and fit the nock to the string. Aim, but do not loose the arrow yet.”
Skarga did as she was told. The string was slack against the arrow as she aimed, but she drew her left elbow back as straight as she could. It seemed suddenly important to prove her skill, but she found she had none. She had forgotten too much. Closing one eye, her head down against the shaft of the arrow, she said, “Why are you teaching me this?”
He moved directly behind her, making her flinch. His body was hard against her back but he only reached around her, carefully positioning her fingers, lifting her chin abruptly, straightening the line of her face. “Your upper arms are absurdly weak,” he said. “Have you always been worthless? Have you done so little work in your life? “
She nodded without rancour. “I suppose so. I wasn’t trusted.”
He stepped back. “Your arrow will not reach the target,” he said, “but you can try.”
She loosed the arrow and it fell with a faint twang on the ground at her feet. The plucked string sprang back, slapped against the inside of her right arm and bit her finger tips. She felt ridiculously shamed.
Grimr smiled. “This is likely to be a long day,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The boy stood in the direct line of the wind blowing from the mountain through the valley. His pale hair, thick at the back across his collar but still with a child’s fluff around the ears, was lashed back from his face. He measured a careful twenty strides from the target and turned, squeezing his eyes into the ice blowing against him. His preparation was slow and precise, choosing and fitting the arrow, left leg back and wide, straightening the left arm, flexing the angle of the right elbow for windage, fingers below the right eye and anchored against his chin, slowly closing his left eye, and finally, smiling. The child took time as though time was a necessary part of the pleasure. Then he loosed the arrow and suddenly there was no time at all. Its head was deeply imbedded in the target’s blind eye. The child turned, concerned neither with the success of his aim nor the interest of his audience, and wandered off, his bow quickly slung across his shoulder. “That is the method,” Grimr informed Skarga, “which you will attempt to emulate.”
The boy now stood at some distance, his back to them. “She cannot,” he said. “Her bow is distorted. The torque is in the top half, just above centre. And the cord is slack.” His words were muffled by the wind. Skarga stared at the taut back of him, but he did not turn to face her.
Grimr remained looking at Skarga. “You will, however, ignore remarks or instructions from anyone else at this point,” he addressed her. “You will obey only myself and follow only my instructions.”
Skarga squinted into the wind. She looked again at the child’s rigid figure, and then to Grimr. “I’ll try,” she said. “But you know I can’t.”
Grimr opened his mouth to speak but the boy interrupted. “She thinks you’re trying to make a fool of her,” he said. His voice reflected a smile.
Grimr snapped, “I know exactly what she is thinking. Having now given us the inestimable example of both your skills and your opinion, Knut, you may return to the hall. I shall speak to you later.” The boy shrugged, and wandered off in the general direction of the longhouse. Grimr turned back to Skarga. “No one can make you look a fool, except yourself,” he said. “Now, you will take up your bow, and try again.”
It became interminable but it was no longer the dreadful imprisonment within the airless hall, the misery of predictable boredom and the hatred of the fearful, unpredictable nights.
The boy was not again required to demonstrate either his talent or his presence, though two evenings later Skarga saw him in the hall. The usual tired huddle of tenants sat around the hearth, the days now shorter and colder, the back breaking preparation of the soil in respite. The boy spoke to no one. It occurred to Skarga that she had never yet seen him speak to anyone except Grimr. He was sitting quite alone, balanced on the end of a bench, his cheek resting against the underlip of the eastern window. Still in her boy’s clothes, ignored by everyone, she went towards the child. He did not look up nor open his eyes but turned his face further away into the shadows of the wall. Skarga felt sure he knew of her approach. Self conscious, she spoke softly, murmuring beneath the hearty roar of the fire and the chatter of the crowd. “You shoot so well,” she said. “I’ve rarely seen a full grown man shoot as well.”
With utmost reluctance, the boy lifted his face and opened his eyes. His eyes, palest blue like a new born lamb’s, looked moist in the lamplight. His voice was tentative and husky. He said, “Thank you,” and firmly shut his eyes again.
Skarga shifted slightly, embarrassed, moving her weight from one foot to the other. Persisting, she said, “Is he your father then? Lord Grimr?”
The boy opened his eyes once more. The damp vulnerability was replaced by a fierce fury. “No,” he said. Skarga retreated at once, and did not approach the boy again.
Day after day after day, Skarga learned. Grimr gave her a better bow, a woman’s weapon adapted to her height and strength, the weight accurate for drawing the arrow to its head. Now the arrows were true shafted, fletched with three fine wild partridge feathers, the nock perfectly fitted to the string. They were not, however, metal pointed and instead the wood itself was sharpened at the end, then scorched hard and black. “I’ll never be expert with these child’s arrows,” Skarga complained as her aim improved. “And if you don’t trust me with anything that might conceivably be dangerous, why are you teaching me to shoot?”
“I distrust you entirely,” Grimr told her. “And that, for what it is worth, is a compliment.”
Grimr’s compliments, which invariably disgusted her, usually concerned only the gradual widening of her hips, the softening of her belly and enlarging of her breasts, and more recently the strengthening of her arm muscles. “Alright,” she said carefully, “obviously if I had a metal arrow head, I could just turn around and shoot you in the eye at close quarters. So I don’t get proper arrows. So why bother teaching me archery?”
“I think,” said Grimr, “you have learned sufficient. Any greater proficiency would take too long and I do not require you to be expert. Tomorrow I shall begin to teach you self defence and how to use a knife.” Skarga stared at him, became aware that her mouth was open in shock and snapped it shut. Grimr continued, “But you must start eating more, both at break-fast and in the evening. We will soon be facing winter rations but I will not risk you becoming thin again. I will order bacon boiled with the stew tonight, and you will take a full bowl. Fighting is energetic exercise and food is the fuel.”
“A knife?” said Skarga faintly.
“I see we have started again with the word repetitions,” said Grimr. “How tedious.”
“A wooden knife?” Skarga whispered. Well sharpened, even a child’s toy could cut.
“Don’t be absurd,” Grimr said. “If I teach you to attack with any force, a wooden blade would snap, unless it is carved and fired, in which case it is almost as dangerous as iron.”
“You’re going to actually give me a real knife?” Skarga persisted. “A metal knife?”
Grimr sighed. “Do you expect me to answer this foolishness? Tomorrow I shall teach you to fight. You will be armed with a hunting knife, and so shall I. You will
have very little opportunity to do me any harm, but if you manage to do so, then I shall compliment you for it. I may even reward you. However, you must really try to stop being such a dreary companion. Your conversation is utterly lacking in originality.”
Skarga giggled and put her hand to her mouth. “I’m not interested in rewards,” she said.
“As I have told you before, I am completely uninterested in your wishes,” Grimr said. “You now become more boring by the day. If you don’t strive to improve, I may simply decide to kill you quickly after all. Be warned.”
That night in bed, positively stuffed with boiled bacon, Skarga prepared to sleep. She had worn boy’s clothes for many days now and since the teaching had begun, Grimr had not ordered her to undress. The wound in her breast was healed, the scratches on her face and body had faded in the fresh air and she felt honed, sleek and smooth. Rounded perhaps, but not plump. She even suspected that she felt a form of happiness.
Then Grimr said, “You wear these clothes badly. Take them off.”
The happiness dissolved. “Why?”
“If you do not obey me without question,” said Grimr, very soft, “I shall break your fingers, one by one, until you do. And that will seriously delay your lessons. Which will annoy me further. Now, remove your clothes.”
She believed him and obeyed. The ties of the britches were a struggle. She had wound them tightly around her waist under the tunic to keep the open crotch more firmly closed. At the knees, the bindings were also double knotted against the risk of unravelling. It took her some time to undress. Grimr leaned back against his pillows, watching her with evident patience, but when she wore nothing except the short woollen stockings which rolled quickly loose to her ankles, he said, “That’s enough.” He continued to look at her for some time as she sat still, legs curled tight, looking back. Finally he nodded. “Very well, there is some improvement, especially around the hips. The arm muscles,” he reached out, cupping the small swell of her biceps, “are also slightly developed. Good. Now, lift one leg and give me your foot.”
Stars and a Wind- The Complete Trilogy Page 18