The Witches’ Kitchen

by Cecelia Holland

  Conn’s head rose. His face was like a stone, hard and angular. He said, “Yes, but we got away. And we’re the ones who are going to matter.” His voice grated. “Bluetooth is going to wish he had left everything alone.”

  Sweyn stopped, looking around; Raef saw he wanted to be out of hearing of everybody else on the beach. He said, “There are enough ships here for an army. I’ve been trying to get these men to come in with us, but nobody is interested. Of course I can’t offer them much.” He reached into his shirt and took out a thin little pouch. “One of the captains gave me some money. Said to remember him if I win.” He laughed. “I’m going to pay the crew who got us here. When I do that, we may lose even them.”

  Conn said, “If they leave they’re worthless anyway. Most of that lot is. We’re with you, and we have the ship. My aunt fed us, and she would feed you, too, if you went with us.” He gave Raef a bitter look.

  Sweyn said, “Yes, we have the ship. And a lot of people don’t like Bluetooth. They’re all asking what wergild Hakon will have to pay for Gold-Harald, seeing as he was Bluetooth’s nephew, but then he had fostered Harald Grayfur at his knee.” He said, under his breath, “That’s not King’s work.”

  They went on along the river bar, toward where their crew was camped. Raef hoped these men did leave. He liked Jorvik already and did not want to go. This city seemed friendlier than Hedeby. The streets ran up and down hill here, which made it prettier, and great trees grew in among the houses, spreading their branches out over the yards. The markets were smaller, but the food was as good, and Arre’s house was as fine as Palnatoki’s hall in Hedeby.

  He thought of Benna and his heart shrank. He felt them all, the whole family, now scattered around the world, to be broken, one by one.

  As they walked into the seamen’s camps, some cheers sounded. Here plainly Sweyn was better thought of than among the captains. All around the broad bench of gravel above the beached ships, men called greetings to him, and he waved back, trying to look as if it didn’t matter to him much that all these people were glad to see him. Raef thought he had the beginnings of an army already. Conn was sunk in his dull mood, turned away from everybody else, turned inside, shut up around his grief.

  Raef was thinking, though, that he had known, somehow, about Benna. He was afraid to say anything of this to Conn. He knew Conn thought he cared too little for his mother’s death. But it was only that he didn’t really believe it. Looking away from the men around them, down toward the river, he thought about Benna, trying to be sorry, although he couldn’t really believe she was dead, and then he saw what was before his eyes and yelled.

  “Conn! It’s our ship! Look!”

  Conn was ahead of him. Conn was already running down the sandy shore, screaming, “Pap!”

  For an instant Raef’s heart soared. Out there on the river, among the great ships, a little dragon was gliding toward them. A single set of oars rose and fell behind the high graceful curve of its prow, a curve he knew as well as the shape of the moon. It was Corban’s ship.

  “Pap!” Conn shrieked, again, and bounded forward, toward the shore at the very edge, where the gravel bar of the river met the high-thrusting bank, and the little dragon was touching bottom in the shallows.

  He stopped. Raef had never started. Standing there on the shore near Sweyn, he watched the man called Eelmouth climb out of the ship and haul her up onto the shore. On board was only one other, and that was a woman. Corban had not come.

  Conn stood in the shallows, his arms at his sides. He shot a furious glance at Eelmouth and turned to the woman. “Where is my father? How do you come to have his ship?”

  Eelmouth ignored him. He went back to the gunwale of the beached ship and there with awkward ceremony helped the woman climb onto the shore. It seemed to Raef she could have done as easily without him. He took a step back from her, shy of her, although he was long yards away. Conn came back to his side, silenced. The woman looked calmly around her. She was old, wrapped in a salt-encrusted cloak, and barefoot; the hair that hung down about her shoulders was rough and gray as a wolf’s pelt, but in the shine of her eyes, the flare of her cheekbone, and the jut of her chin she gave off a sheen of power. Every man on the river bar was silent, staring at her.

  Through this rapt attention she walked up the gravel bar toward Jorvik, toward Sweyn, with Eelmouth trailing behind her. She passed Conn and Raef as they stood there and stopped. Her look was like a shove in the chest, a bolt through the eye. But then her gaze sharpened, intent on Raef.

  Her face stiffened with a shock like recognition. He stood fast, mute, feeling her attention like a blast of oven heat against him. For a long moment she stared at him, but she said nothing to him, and finally she went on to meet Sweyn.

  “Sweyn Haraldsson,” she said, standing there with her hair matted from the sea wind and her bare feet spread on Jorvik’s stony shore, “the time has come to take Denmark away from these people, and I am here to help you.”

  “Gunnhild Kingsmother,” Sweyn said, “you are as welcome as thirty ships.” He gestured to Eelmouth. “Bring Queen Gunnhild’s goods. She will have the place of honor with us.”

  Eelmouth did not move. Gunnhild said, “I have no goods, Sweyn. I came out with nothing but what I have on, and Eelmouth here. Are those the sons of Corban Loosestrife?” She glanced at Conn and Raef again. Raef twitched in the heat of her look passing over him.

  “They are.”

  “Then I have evil news for them. Their father gave himself up for my sake. He is Hakon’s prisoner now.”

  “Alive?” Conn cried.

  “I did not see death in his face,” Gunnhild said. Her voice was steady and fierce. She gave him another look, and then faced Sweyn again. “I come empty-handed, but I am not poor, Sweyn Haraldsson. I have some friends of memory in this city; I shall be with them. Call me to your council, soon, that we may plan Bluetooth’s fall in detail.” She walked on past him, up the road toward Jorvik.

  Sweyn wheeled to watch her go. In a stride he reached Conn. “That’s worth something,” he said, low, “but the word about your father is sore, I know.”

  Conn said, “You don’t know. I have heard today also m mother is dead. But I am your sworn man, always, and Raef, too.”

  Sweyn said, “Let’s talk about this. There may be something we can do together.” He draped his arm over Conn’s shoulder. “Your father saved my life. I promise you, I will not forget him.” He had a gift for promises. Raef followed them up the bank toward the campfire, glum.

  C H A P T E R S I X T E E N

  In the morning at Mass, with the child Aelfu beside her and Miru in her arms, Arre listened to Archbishop Oswald give his long rolling voice over to condemning the pagans and those who harbored them. Saying this he aimed his feverish gaze at her, standing on the women’s side of the congregation. She stood calmly. She knew better; God could not want her to abandon her poor orphaned nephews, or these little girls. She thought. Oswald was mostly seeking his own advantage, as usual, and she prayed for him, along with her nephews and the girls and all the rest of her family.

  As she prayed, she looked up before her, and saw the image of the Mother of Jesus painted on the wall behind the altar. She had always fretted at this picture; Benna would have done much better than these smears of brown and yellow, two lines for eyes. Today it seemed better, somehow. She thought of how the Mother of God had endured so much, and thought she could withstand Oswald, who was not evil, just wrong-headed.

  When the time came to receive the Body of Christ she gave Miru to Aelfu to hold, and went to the altar, and knelt down with all the rest. The heavy incense hurt her nose. She heard the swish of the priest’s robes as he approached her, and lifted her face to receive the Body of God.

  He gave her nothing. He went on by her. He left her perched open-mouthed on her knees, begging for the sacrament, and passed her by.

  A hot shame washed over her; she lowered her head, feeling all the others watching her, their scorn
and contempt like hot coals poured over her. She teetered. For a moment she thought what Oswald thought, what they must all think, that she was wrong.

  She was still kneeling stiffly at the altar. Around her people were drawing away, murmuring. Their looks raked over her, knife-tipped. She got up and went back to the congregation, her face blazing, unable to look into anyone’s face. The air seemed harsh as salt against her skin, as if she had been flayed. She wept in beside Aelfu and knelt down and put her face in her hands.

  Was she wrong? Was this a sin? She knew that all disobedience to God was a sin. She knew also she was often heedless, headstrong, too sure of her own goodness. Certainly she was disobeying Oswald, who was God’s man, who spoke for God here

  Around her the others spoke the prayers, knelt and rose again; but she stayed as she was, on her knees. Her mind seemed clogged. It was too confusing. She would do as they wished and be done with it. But then she saw in her mind her poor orphaned nephews, and Aelfu and little Miru; was she to turn them out, too?

  She turned and looked down at Aelfu, beside her, her arms wrapped around the sleeping baby, and watching Arre steadily with her wide gray eyes.

  Arre bent and took Miru, who would wake soon, and want food. Still on her knees, she put her arm around Aelfu and drew her close into her skirts. She could not abandon these children; God could not want that of her, as he had not really wanted it of Abraham. Maybe Oswald was wrong.

  When she thought that, she felt suddenly stronger, as if she had the ground under her again. Against these children, what did Oswald have? A scaffolding of words, mostly empty air, that the Archbishop built and rebuilt, as if that were the real church. It was his own power he built, not the real church. Words, not goodness.

  “Mama—”

  She straightened; startled, looking around, she saw the church empty around her, even the priests gone from behind the altar, and the whole congregation gone away, except for her sons, Edward and little Dan, who had been standing on the men’s side. Edward fidgeted now in front of her, had just spoken to her.

  “Yes,” she said. “We shall go home now.”

  “Mama—” Edward cast a quick look away, and Arre, seeing, knew if she followed it that thread of attention would lead to his grandmother, Euan’s mother, somewhere watching. Her skin tightened with alarm. The boy turned his pale face at her. “Maybe we should go back and stay with Grandmother again. Until— later.” He flushed, his eyes shining.

  She clutched Aelfu’s hand, feeling somehow rebuked. She said, raggedly, “Oh—go, then—if you want.”

  “Mama,” he said. “It’s better.” He moved, drawing away from her, his little brother by the hand.

  She looked up at the altar, her heart galloping. God had meant it, after all, the sacrifice of Isaac. She saw no good way out of this. She lost her sons, or she lost these little girls, who needed her. Now she hated Oswald, who had brought this on her.

  Aelfu’s fingers worked in hers, and she realized she was gripping the child painfully hard. She turned and looked down, and saw the little face, heart-shaped like her mother’s, looking up, the wide solemn frightened eyes. “I want to go home now,” the child said. “Can we still go home?”

  “Yes,” Arre said. “Let’s go.” And walked stiffly out of the church.

  The way seemed very long to her house. She imagined everyone was looking at her; she thought someone might be following her. She heard someone scream, once, from a window, and knew it was at her. Her mind faltered again, and before she reached her own door she was drooping, thinking Oswald right, she was a wicked woman, no one should have to do with her at all, no righteous man or woman.

  She sent the children off for some breakfast and went around her hall, rubbing her hands together. The impossibility of it opened out before her. Her own maids and cook would shrink from her. The whole city of Jorvik. How would she get bread, if everyone shunned her—if when she went into the street all turned their backs and shut their doors on her? She should leave, go off and let her family at least get on without her.

  Her maidservant Erthia came up to her. “Ma’am, now, there’s someone at the garden gate.”

  The words brought Arre back with a jolt. She looked sharply at Erthia, searching for the disgust in her face, her eyes turned aside, the curl of her lip. The maid’s round freckled face was bland as milk. She said, “Ma’am, where’s young Edward?”

  “Went back to his grandmother,” Arre said.

  At that, the girl frowned, her lips twisting. “Ach. That one With a flap of her hand, she went off toward the hearth, and put wood on the fire.

  She was taking her side, Arre saw, startled. But of course Erthia needed her—ate her bread, slept by her fire. She wondered who could be at the garden gate, and went out through the back door.

  It was the bakerwoman, Gerda, with a basket of fresh loaves. “I thought you might not come to market today,” she said, and handed her the basket over the gate.

  “Ah,” Arre said, pleased. She took hold of the basket, but she was more interested in the other woman’s gossip. “What are they saying, out there? About me?”

  “Well,” Gerda said, “you shouldn’t come out, not for a while. There are men who would willingly beat you in the street.”

  “Ah,” Arre said, unnerved; she wasn’t safe, after all. Always the men. Gerda, watching her, flipped back one tail of her coif.

  “Why don’t you just go and apologize, Arre? It would make things so much easier.”

  “I’ll never apologize,” Arre said, not thinking, and knew at once that it was true. The idea of men ganging up on her in the street with sticks and shovels faded into the background. She reached out and took hold of the bakerwoman’s hand. “Pray for me, Gerda, will you?”

  “I will,” Gerda said. “I’ll send someone over from the brewery.” She patted Arre’s arm. “But I can’t give you the bread, you know, dear; you must pay me for it.”

  “Of course,” Arre said. “Wait here.”

  She went quickly up to the hall again, feeling better. She would get through this somehow. She found money for Gerda—more than usual, knowing Gerda would spread word of her generosity—and paid her, and when she came back yet again to the hall, she found her husband, Euan, standing there, new returned from London.

  She had been glad he was gone, but now she was happy to see him back. She wondered how to greet him—how he would greet her, when he knew. He walked smiling from the hearth to meet her, and she lifted her face and slid her arms around him, and they kissed. The kissing part of their marriage had always gone well. In his arms, her body flooded with desire, the kiss deepened, and she felt herself melting into him.

  She stepped back, prying herself from his arms. “You must hear the bad news—before you are a moment longer in the house. The Archbishop refused me the sacrament this morning. I’m in disgrace.”

  “What?” he said, and his long-jawed face hardened. He looked shabby, dusty from travel, his eyes pouched, his cheeks stubbled. His hands closed on her arms, and his voice took a whining edge. “What have you done now?”

  “I took in my sister’s orphaned children,” she said, and braced herself, ready to fight him “If that is sin, I am deep in it, Euan.”

  He turned on his heel and tramped away, and came back again, frowning. “I don’t believe it. Oswald wouldn’t kick up trouble over anything so small. I’ll talk to him, but this is your fault, for letting it happen. Where are the boys?”

  “At your mother’s.”

  He grunted at that. “Meddling old sow,” he said, under his breath. “Well, Arre, as usual as soon as I leave you get yourself into the middle of a mess, but I doubt it’ll be too difficult to mend. I’ll go talk to Oswald tomorrow, and see what I can do. Right now I’m to bed, be it noon or no, I’m that tired. I only waited to see you home.”

  Perversely now she hoped he had no way with Oswald at all. Rough as a badger, she stood watching him go on down the hall, until he turned and said, “Well?”<
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  She went after him toward the cupboard bed, built into the wall at the end of the room. He put his arm around her, and when she stiffened, he jostled her against him. “What, I misspoke? You’re not in a horrible mess as soon as I leave?” He kissed her forehead.

  She reined in her temper. This was the price of having him at all. She said, “How is the King? Is he getting better?” She let him pull her against him again, and kiss her mouth again.

  “No.” He drew back, turning toward the bed, tugging off his coat. “He’s going to die. We’re on our own up here, for now. The Jarl will not leave London; they’re all playing chess down there, using people for their pawns. To them Jorvik is only an annoyance.”

  “Did you see Gifu?”

  “Richard Longsword meddles in it all; yes, Gifu is there. She looks very well. She’s very beautiful. They’re all very beautiful, the whole court, beautiful and proud, and they know nothing.”

  The doors of the bed cupboard stood open, to air. He sat down on the mattress, and she helped him take his boots off. His feet stank. His hose seemed to have grown onto his skin. She stepped back, watching him shed his shirt.

  She asked, “Who will be King if Edgar dies? Those little boys?” The King had two young sons, younger than hers. She gripped one puffed sleeve and held it while he wormed out of it.

  “Whoever manages those little boys.”

  “What about us?” Her mind flew to the sermon that morning. “What about this Danish prince, now, who’s escaped from Bluetooth and gotten himself here, you heard of this, with our nephews in tow? He’s not been idle, you know. He’s trying to gather an army, to go back and fight Bluetooth.”

  “They’ve sent someone to deal with this Sweyn,” Euan said. In his shirt, his hose still glued to his legs, he lay back on the bed. She hauled the nicked covers out from under his feet.

  “Who?” she said, drawing them up over him.