by Merry Farmer
I watch him, my hands working on my fish-gutting without the intervention of my eyes. His gaze shifts to mine. The axe held in both hands, its head resting by his feet, he pauses, his expression unreadable. Then taking another chunk of pine, he continues his wood cutting.
Furtively, I continue to watch him.
Stripped to the waist, his trousers tightly belted, Bjorn’s long copper hair is tied back over his shoulders with a leather thong. The blue dragon winds up his spine to settle looking over one shoulder. As he moves and turns, the great serpent watches, its eyes following me.
A fine scatter of hair lies across his chest, red-gold against the paler gold of his gleaming skin, drawing to a line over his abdomen, tracing a path down to his belt.
He moves gracefully. Every part of him is balanced and perfect, his actions flowing and easy. Under smooth skin, muscles ripple and flex; not bulky, but long and strap-like.
He is so beautiful.
Chapter 4
VICTORY
MERCIA
Lady Ísleif wraps warm bread and sliced pork in clean linen, placing the package into a basket. Then, adding a leather bottle, she presses in the stopper before packing everything tightly in with hay.
Topping it off with a linen cover, she passes me the basket. “Take this to Úlfar. You will find him in the lower field, sowing the barley. When you return, there’s flour to grind for the evening’s bread.”
“Yes, Lady.”
The basket is warm to my touch and fragrant steam rises through the cloth, tormenting my nose. If I’m quick, and my mistress is of a mind, I may get to enjoy some of the meat myself, the scraps at least.
Pork, crisp on the outside, succulent inside, dripping with fat…
Bread, dipped in the juices…
My mouth waters and I step out smartly.
Walking briskly in the autumn sunshine, I make my way to the field where, just as my mistress said, I find Lord Úlfar, along with Magni, and Hjalli too.
All have reddened skin under the hot sun and their faces stream with sweat. Úlfar guides the oxen whilst Magni steers the plough. Behind them, Hjalli scatters seed in the furrows.
Gunnar, Úlfar’s small son, streaked with mud across his face, sits to the side on a tree stump. Pout-lipped, the youngster swings his feet, fidgeting.
Leeward of the group is Almund. About my own age, he was taken in the same raid as I was. Right now, he scatters dung over the turned soil. I stand upwind of him.
Hjalli’s eyes follow me as I approach. Stripped to the waist and tanned nut-brown after the long hot summer, he makes a fine sight. Nonetheless, unease stirs inside me.
Úlfar raises brows. “Mercia, what are you doing here?”
I offer up the basket. “The mistress sent meat and bread for you, Master.”
He swipes sweat from his forehead, then takes out his wrapped meal. “Did she instruct you to return immediately?”
“No, Master.”
“In that case, take the basket and head across yonder.” He gestures to the forest edge. “Just beyond the treeline you'll find an apple tree bearing a good crop. And beyond that there are mushrooms. Fill the basket before you return to Ísleif.” He nods across to his son. “You can take Gunnar with you. He's getting bored watching us.”
“Yes, Master.”
He casts a warning eye to the forest edge. “And Mercia… Don't wander out of earshot. There are wild beasts around; wolves, bears, boars… especially with all the Autumn fruit.”
I need no warning. Spitted and roasted, the wild pigs make good eating, but alive, they are deadly. I nod a small bow. “No, Master.”
I wriggle fingers at the boy and, grinning toothily, he slides off his stump, running up to accompany me. I like Gunnar. He reminds me of my own Jeffrey…
So long ago…
Where is he now?
… and Gunnar likes me too. Smiling and chattering he trots happily by my side as we cross the field.
The forest edge is glorious. Sunlight slants in, casting golden fingers over ground crisp with oak leaves and thick with mast. No wonder wild pork is so much on the platter just now…
At least for others…
I find the apple tree easily. It’s hard to miss; loaded with small hard fruit. Bright red, they are only the size of the end of my thumb, but they will sit well with the pork. Branches droop and groan and my basket fills quickly.
And from here, across the field, I can still see Jarl Úlfar and the others.
Naturally, the best fruits are higher up, so I climb a branch or two, a blackbird chiming its hammer-and-anvil alarm, protesting my theft from its tree, only subsiding again as I clamber down, placing my feet carefully so as not to snag my skirt.
My basket is well filled…
More?
Or fill the rest with mushrooms?
I've already spotted a puffball; good eating and plenty of it. Also, some of the brilliantly red and spotted fly-caps. Not so good, although I’ve heard that the seers sometimes use them in their rituals.
I wander, chattering to Gunnar, his small hand in mine. “And this one is Karljohan. You see…” I point out the mushroom… “… with the reddish-brown cap and light colour underneath. They’re very good.” I point out another. “But that one…”
Gunnar’s voice is high and piping. “It looks the same…”
“Yes, it does, but look underneath. It’s dark there. They’re no good. They taste bad.” Then I spot the golden tops of chanterelle, lots of them, and I stoop to collect the shaggy hoard.
Enough to fill the basket and more…
Behind me, there's a sound… Air moving. Some disturbance. Somehow, the world is different.
Bear?
Panic snatches my breath away and I straighten up, whirling around, reaching for Gunnar.
It’s Hjalli, his face set in a smile that isn’t a smile. So much taller than me, he looms close, his eye raking over me. “Lie down, Mercia.”
“Sir?”
“You're mine. You were promised to me long ago. There’s no reason I have to wait any longer…”
My stomach clutches…
“… You'll do now. Lie down and hitch up your skirts.”
I am a slave.
I have to obey this man. Inside me, something screams silently.
But my head rings with the sound of screaming too. And with a sense of unreality, I realise the sound is coming from my mouth.
I should obey him. I know I should.
“No!”
Hjalli lunges, seizing me at arm and shoulder and I can't help myself. Fighting him, screaming all the while, I scrabble at his hands as he tears at my gown, ripping at the laces as he tries to claim his rights of me.
At some level, I’m aware that Gunnar has run away crying, back towards the field and his father, but I don’t have time to think about him. Instead, I’m screeching defiance, fighting back…
Hjalli’s hand swings across my face, a powerful backhand that connects with my cheek in a blow that sets me staggering. Snatching up a stick, I swing it at him. He dodges it easily, grinning, but I follow up, bringing up my knee towards his groin. I miss the full-on strike I hope for, but he dances back, cursing.
Then once more, he advances on me, his lips pressed white, and eyes white too, all around the irises. Seizing my wrist, he yanks me towards him. “Do as you are told slave-girl!”
In this dire moment, what else could penetrate my mind, my ears?
Another sound, a scream.
A child's scream. No, a shriek. A shriek of fear.
Gunnar…
I try to yank free of Hjalli, but he ignores the sound, keeping his grip on me, hauling me in.
Another scream; Gunnar’s wail of fear rasping over my ears.
I let myself go limp, letting Hjalli reel me in close, but now I fasten my teeth to his fingers and bite. And as he yells, fury and outrage spilling, his fingers slacken. Twisting free, I dart off, following Gunnar and his shrieks.
&
nbsp; He’s only a hundred strides away; a quick sprint for me or for a grown man, but his little legs are just too short, because there, charging in on the boy is a wild boar. Perhaps all the noise disturbed the animal, but right now it has Gunnar in its path, murder in its small eye.
It moves so fast. I think of the porkers back at the farmstead, snouts in their mash, grunting contently. This beast is nothing like them. With a roar somewhere between a howl and a squeal and despite its deceptively squat, coarsely-haired body, it moves as fast as a horse.
Jaws gaping, the tusks yellow-white, already it has halved the distance to Gunnar. He stands frozen, faced screwed red in terror at the monster bearing down on him.
Jeffrey… so small… screaming in fear…
Shrieking at the top of my voice, I pelt for the toddler, trying to outpace the boar, desperate to draw its attention. The pig pays me no heed, still charging towards the small boy.
Sprinting, I scan the ground, seeking something… anything that might slow the beast in its headlong attack…
A stick… A stone…
At the run, I stoop, scooping up a handful of prickle-skinned chestnuts, swinging overarm at the boar. Flying in a scattered arc, they needle into the beast’s flank.
It has to sting. Certainly, the pig notices. Veering off its path, it swerves towards me, still at full pelt… Can I reach Gunnar before it reaches me?
And if I do, what then?
But I’ve bought the extra moment or two we need. The blood banging behind my ears, racing across the clearing, I reach Gunnar and without breaking my stride, swing him up into my arms. In the same movement, I keep swinging, all but throwing him up into the forked branches of an old oak. Scrabbling for a hold, he clutches at the branches, but another shove from me on his backside and he’s up and safe.
You can’t outrun it…
There’s a fallen branch. It’s not much of a defence; gnarled, knotted and heavy at one end, sharply forked at the other. Hunters would be armed with proper spears; short, sturdy, iron-tipped. But this is all I have. Snatching it up, I swivel to face the boar, jamming the heel of the branch into the ground, aiming the fork at the beast as though it were a real weapon.
Go down fighting…
I have just time to see the pig ram into the branch, chest-on, and my fragile defence snap under its weight and the force of the impact.
The pig screams fury at me, carried forward by its own momentum and, flexing my knees, hoping for safety up in the tree, I leap…
Pain…
Excruciating, breathless, white pain…
My legs are pulled out from under me and my leap to safety is stillborn as I come crashing to the ground. Winded, my face pressed into mulch and moss, I gulp and gasp, reaching for air that isn’t there.
Something crashes into my ribs and I curl in on myself, clasping hands over my head as the shrieking demon slashes, its tusks ripping into my side.
Dimly, I hear shouts and yells…
But they don’t seem to matter… They’re so far away…
My ears buzz. Black shadows skip at the edges of my vision and…
It hurts.
And it’s dark.
I am lying on some soft and yielding surface; covered with something smooth and warm.
My head bangs and as I stir, pain stabs through my side, slicing into my lungs. With the movement, my stomach rebels and fruitlessly, I retch and heave.
“She’s awake. Go tell Úlfar.”
“Yes, Lady.”
The voices come from nowhere. My darkened world has no place for them.
I try to speak, but my tongue is puffy and dry, my mouth foul-tasting. I try again but the disembodied voice speaks again. “Don’t try to move.”
Something pats at my lips, cool and moist. “You were badly hurt, but you were lucky. It will heal. The men reached you before too much damage was done.”
My addled brain finally puts a name to the voice; my mistress, Ísleif.
I lick at my lips and raising my head a little, try again to speak. This time I succeed. “Lady?”
Fingers fiddle over my eyes and abruptly, I can see, more or less; shapes in semi-darkness.
Ísleif sits beside me, dipping a cloth into a bowl of water, rinsing it through. Squeezing it dry, she folds it, laying it over my forehead, then reaches for a cup. Supporting my head in one palm, she holds the leather to my lips. “Drink this. It will help with the pain.”
The liquid is sweet and fragrant but with a bitter back taste that makes me gag as I swallow. She pulls back the cup as I gulp the brew down, then offers it up once more. “A little more,” she says. “Willow bark tea. I know it’s bitter, but Gunther found some honeycomb to help it down.”
Honey?
Seldom in my life have I tasted honey, and then only when I swiped a used platter with a fingertip, savouring the delicate luxury.
A shadow hovers over me. “How is she?” My master’s voice.
“Still waking. I don’t think she has all her wits yet.”
“Take good care of her. Let me know when she’s ready to speak.”
“Of course.”
With a clunk of boots, the shadow fades away.
My vision is fading too. The sleep I only just escaped is calling again…
What was in that drink?
More than just willow bark…
Chapter 5
MANUMISSION
When I wake again, the world is a clearer place. My head still bangs but the nausea has eased.
Someone has dressed me in a clean linen shift and the bed is piled with furs and woollen blankets. I’m in a chamber; warm and enclosed, with a brazier glowing red in one corner. A curtain drapes over what I think must be the door.
My ribs and side are carefully bandaged in long strips of linen, but under the dressing I am aflame. Breathing is painful, every rise of my chest sending a dagger stabbing in. Every fall of my ribs draws its blade slicing through me.
I find I am perfectly happy to remain still in this dim, comforting place. The world drifts, and I let sleep take me again.
I rouse once more… Who knows when? … to some small sound; the curtain pulling aside from the door.
Lady Ísleif enters. “Ah, you’re awake.” She regards me with an assessing eye. “You’re looking better. How do you feel?” Sitting by me, she tests my forehead with a cool palm. “That’s better. The fever is breaking. Can you sit up?”
Moving carefully, I try. My side is still very sore, but no longer unbearable. “I’m much better, Lady. Your pardon. My work…” I make to move from the bed and the world swings alarmingly around me.
Ísleif places a hand on my chest, pressing me back against the pillow. “No work for you just now. There are others doing your duties. Are you hungry?”
My stomach rolls and she laughs. “That answers that question. Lie quietly, Mercia. I’ll be back in a little while.”
She makes to stand, but I interrupt her. “Lady, how is Gunnar? Was he hurt?”
And she smiles. “No, my son is quite unhurt. He had a fright, but it is one he will learn by.” Her head inclines, her tone growing a little firmer. “Gunnar is old enough to tell us what he saw, even though he may not be old enough to understand all of it. Now, be still. I’ll fetch you food.”
She returns with a platter and a bowl; good bread, made from the finest of the flour, still fragrant from the baking, and soup, steaming a little. Sitting by me, she offers up a spoon. “Eat this. It’s light enough that I don’t think it will disturb your stomach.”
The Lady is spoon-feeding me…
Me.
A slave…
They can't be too angry with me, then…
My head whirls with what this might mean, but not for long. As she touches the spoon to my lips, the broth is rich and savoury, thick with meat and vegetables, fragrant with herbs. Almost by rote my mind works through, identifying the flavours: onions, cabbage, garlic, pork…
It is quite delicious. I ca
n’t remember when I last ate something so good. But as I eat, my mind churns.
Gunnar was in my care…
I endangered their son…
Their only son…
She smiles again. “Good?”
The smile is reassuring, and I nod, then cough as a little goes down the wrong way. Waiting until I stop spluttering, Ísleif offers me another spoonful. “If it helps, you had the last word with the beast.”
“Lady?”
Her eyes drop to the bowl. “One of the biggest we've had this season. Úlfar and Magni finished it off, but it seemed appropriate that you should have some of the benefit.” Then her gaze rises to mine. “You’re still tired, Mercia. After you have eaten, you can sleep some more.”
I mop up the last of the broth myself with the bread, and Ísleif leaves me. The world whirls around me once more and gratefully, I drop my head back to the pillow and close my eyes.
My sleep is troubled; filled with monsters and screaming shadows. I’m running again, from a giant beast. Its breath is hot and foul, enveloping me as I stumble and fall and it overcomes me. Then Úlfar stands over me, raging…
I wake with a jolt, sweat streaming hot over my face, cold down my spine. Blinking open, I pull myself up against the pillow, grunting as my ribs stab a protest. I don’t care about the pain. It’s preferable to sleep taking me again and returning me to my nightmare.
Lady Ísleif is here, sitting beside me on the bed, brow furrowing. She tests my forehead with her palm then nods, apparently in satisfaction. “Mercia, can you walk? Úlfar wants to speak with you.”
My stomach churns and the broth which I so enjoyed sits uneasily. Flavours of garlic and onion rise up my throat, unappetising now, and sour. “Why does he want to see me?”
Her voice is neutral. “That's not for me to say.” She turns, taking something from beyond the end of the bed, then offers it up to me: shackles, thick, solidly forged in iron, and a chain. “Hold out your wrists.”
