Eirik: A Time Travel Romance (Mists of Albion Book 1)

by Joanna Bell

  ***

  I don't spend my first night back with the Jarl. Gudry and Anja, neither of whom are able to contain their shrieks of happiness when they see me again, explain in the bathing hut that when a Viking woman gives birth, she is kept from her husband's bed for a moon – two if the healers deem it necessary. Instead of keeping her man warm she spends her nights in a separate roundhouse, resting on a bed of furs and drinking specially-prepared teas, eating a specific diet to help her heal and keep her milk supply abundant. Most of the woman will share the 'Mother's House' with others, but I am to have my own.

  The two of them question me as they bathe me, saying that the answers will determine what I am fed and given to drink during my time in the Mother's House. Am I still bleeding? A little. Is my milk abundant? It seems to be. Does the baby fuss after he eats? Does he draw his knees to his stomach? Does he fall asleep at the breast? Do I dream of wild animals? Of forests, or rivers? On the night the child came into the world, was the moon waxing or waning?

  Eventually, I drift off to sleep in the hot bath water, with baby Eirik sleeping on a pile of furs beside me and Anja and Gudry attending to the important matters – like how clean my fingernails are and which floral essence to scent my hair with.

  Later that night, as I sip a bitter tea that Anja insists I must finish before I'm allowed anything to eat, and as my son suckles noisily at my breast, Hildy comes barging in.

  She takes one look at me and nods knowingly. "Ah, so it's true. You've given the Jarl a son, girl. And you've brought him back to us, I see! How kind of you!"

  Hildy's being mildly sarcastic, a sort of 'thanks for blessing us with your presence' thing, but I let it slide because Hildy is going to Hildy, and I'm not going to be able to change that. She softens, though, when I show no signs of talking back, and edges onto the furs where I'm lying, so she can get a look at baby Eirik.

  "Beautiful," she says. "A beautiful child, he looks just like the Jarl! And strong – they can probably hear him eating all the way from the beach!"

  Soon enough, Hildy reveals the reason for her evening visit – and it isn't what I expected. She's not here to harangue me, or try to involve me in one of her power games. No, she's here to ask me about my father. What was it he did all day, before he came to the Viking camp with me? Does he enjoy hunting? Where is his wife?

  I try to answer the questions as best I can, but the truth is my father dropped most of his interests when my mom died, and spent the next decade and a half surfing the internet and living off the money my mother left him.

  "Hildy," I say at one point, when she refuses to stop badgering me for information. "I'm not trying to be difficult right now. My mother died five summers after my birth, and since then my father – well, he doesn't do very much. He doesn't have a lot of interests. I think mainly what he's interested in is me being happy – and now, my baby being happy, too."

  Gudry, who has been listening quietly, pipes up. "My mother's sister is the same. Her husband died of a fever eight summers ago. Eight? Maybe nine? But she's taken to her bed ever since, and she grows as thin as a skeleton even as my mother brings her buttered bread every day. All of what used to make her happy – growing flowers for the healers, playing with the children – only seems to make her tired now. We have to drag her to the garden, and then she complains that it's cold and her back aches and she wants to go back to bed."

  Hildy, who I expect is about to smack Gudry upside the head for talking out of turn, instead looks at me. "Is this the way with your father, girl?"

  "Yes," I reply, mildly irritated. "That's what I've been trying to tell you."

  Hildy is thinking. "It's not always possible that people who get lost like that, halfway between life and death, can be brought out of it. But sometimes they can. Usually it's love that does it – family, friends. He has a new grandson now, that's something. We'll have to find him some companions, too. I'll see to it, girl. Now – Gudry, Anja – is she ready for the feast tomorrow night? The Jarl wants her there, and the baby, too. Jarl Magnar and his people will be in attendance. Everything must be perfect."

  Anja bows her head respectfully. "We'll have her ready, Hildy. The baby, too."

  I wonder, briefly, if they're going to clean the baby's fingernails as well as mine, and scent him with rosewater.

  ***

  Eirik does not come to see me before I fall asleep for the night. I'm not really expecting him, because there is a level of activity in the camp that I don't remember seeing before – he's busy, and we're not allowed to share a bed, anyway. Still, I long for him. To see him on the beach, to see the look in his eyes and feel his hands on my body, and then to be kept from him, is something like a sweet kind of torture.

  He doesn't come the next day. Neither does my dad. When I ask Hildy, as she rushes in to deliver a bundle of dried herbs to Anja, where he is, she shakes her head at me impatiently. "The feast is tonight, girl! And it is not just any feast! Your father is fine, he's been assigned four men – four! – so there's no need for you to worry. You'll see him tonight – him and the Jarl."

  'Assigned' four men? I want to ask Hildy what that means but she's already gone.

  As the afternoon progresses, the tempo in the camp – and in the Mother's House – rises by the minute. Gudry and Anja are almost frantic as the light starts to fade, anointing me and the baby with various oils, braiding and pinning my hair, deciding it isn't quite right, unpinning it, pulling the braids apart and then starting again. When my hair is done Gudry slides a silver cuff up my right arm, until it rests around the upper portion.

  "Only a mother can wear a silver cuff like this," she tells me, "around her upper arm. Maids aren't permitted to wear any silver bangles, and wives only on their wrists until they've borne at least one child. When you marry the Jarl, you'll have a silver circlet on your head, the sign of a wife."

  When the two women are satisfied with my hair and adornment, and baby Eirik has been pressed to my breast one more time (they want his belly as full as possible for the feast, so he doesn't fuss), they dress me. Another silk gown, this one open at the back. When I protest, they remind me that I'm still bleeding slightly from the birth, and show me the cloth pillow, stuffed with soft grasses and herbs, that I'm to sit on. Over the dress goes a light wool overcoat, sleeveless and split up the back, again to allow me to sit on the pillow with no clothing in between. Gudry shows me how to use the ties to tie it closed if I need to get up, and how to open them and pull the garments out of the way when I sit down at the feast.

  "It's almost time!" She whispers excitedly, after poking her head outside the roundhouse to check how close we are to sunset. "An eight day feast, Paige! The Jarl must love you more than any man has ever loved a woman before – I never heard of an eight day feast before!"

  Chapter 33

  9th Century

  The feasting longhouse has doubled in size since I last saw it. Instead of a single row of tables running down the center, there are now two rows, and a series of narrower tables in the middle, all laden with the familiar massive pots of stewed pork, loaves of bread, plates of the little rosewater-flavored cakes that the Viking women seem to be partial to, fruits, roasted vegetables and more casks of ale than I can count. At one end of the room the Jarl's table sits on the higher platform.

  Gudry and Anja seat me at this table and stand to the side, signaling to Hildy, who waits by the main entrance. Next, my father is led inside by two younger Viking men, and seated at the same table as me. I am pleased to see that he looks better than I've seen him in years – more alert, somehow, more present. His eyes seem brighter, his cheeks less pale.

  "Dad," I say, reaching for his hand. "How are you?"

  "How am I?" He whispers in reply. "They're treating me like a damned king, Paige! There are four of them – four! – whose only job, it seems, is to make sure I have everything I need at every second. Do you know that they cleaned my ears this afternoon? My ears, Paige – what a disgusting task! It's like th
ey think I'm a total idiot – but in a good way."

  I laugh. "Yes, they're very serious about cleanliness here – for some people, anyway. They don't think you're an idiot – they know you can clean your own ears. It's just part of being the Jarl's father-in-law. Father-in-law-to-be, anyway."

  My dad is about to keep going, and I myself am also dying to talk to him, to hear how everything has gone for him, what he thinks of his first day with the Vikings, but more guests are being brought in. I don't recognize many of them but I can tell from their dress, and the deference the servants are showing to them, that they're important people.

  It takes over an hour for the longhouse to fill with people. Eventually, there is only a single empty seat left – the one next to me. And I know Eirik has entered the longhouse before I hear or see him, because a hush falls over the people and it can only be a reaction to his presence.

  "Friends!" He begins, walking up to the table where I am sitting and laying one of his enormous hands on my shoulder. "Welcome!"

  An introduction follows – Jarl Magnar, his men, Eirik's men, the women in attendance. And after each and every person's name has been spoken aloud by the Jarl, a ritual that confers Eirik's respect – and therefore his people's respect – on the visitors and on his own clan, he lifts his sleeping son from my arms. I look up, knowing it would be inappropriate to swoon at the spectacle of a hardened Viking warrior cuddling a tiny baby against his muscular chest, and only just managing to stop myself.

  "We welcome Jarl Magnar and his kin," Eirik intones, not taking his eyes off the baby. "But this is the first feast of eight days – I think even our old people don't remember the last eight day feast – and I have a more personal welcome to announce. My son, named for his father – Eirik."

  He holds the baby aloft and the room breaks into loud cheers, shouts of 'Eirik!' and the sound of cups being slammed back onto the table after long swigs of ale. Of course, the din wakes the sleeping child, and Eirik smiles at the sound of his cries. "Listen to that," he says proudly. "You can already hear the strength in his cries – Veigar, Fridleif, you two better be careful or my son will be claiming more East Angle's grain than the two of you combined!"

  Eirik hands the baby back to me, and I soothe him into contentment, whispering that there's nothing to worry about, nothing to be afraid of, because his father is the most powerful warrior in the land. Baby Eirik stares up at me, almost seeming to understand my words.

  "It's not just my son," the Jarl continues, his tone becoming more serious. The longhouse grows quiet. "The woman you see beside me, captured twelve moons ago in one of the southern villages of the Kingdom, has returned. Most of you know her – she's not easy to miss!" Chuckles ring out, and although I'm not certain what Eirik means, I'm pretty sure it has something to do with what the Vikings see as my inability to know my place. "The moon is full on the final feast day, and we'll marry at dawn. If she'll have me."

  I'm watching the baby as I listen to Eirik. It takes a few seconds to register that an even deeper silence has fallen over the hall. I look up. A question. He asked a question. Did he? Am I meant to answer? The Jarl leans down and whispers in my ear:

  "You must speak your answer aloud, girl, so the people can hear it."

  "Uh –" I start, and Gudry suddenly appears at my side, helping me to my feet. "Yes."

  I look at Eirik. Have I said the right thing? He grins. "Louder, woman. So everyone can hear it."

  "Yes!"

  "Louder!"

  "YES!"

  Another eruption of cheering, drinking, shouted congratulations. Eirik and I gaze at each other, smiling. At each end of the longhouse, a small crowd of servants waits to serve the food. But Eirik isn't finished yet. When the merriment finally dies down slightly, he holds up one hand.

  "There is one more thing," he says, his loud voice booming easily down to the people sitting at the far end of the hall. "My wife to be, and the mother of my son, brings another with her. Dan, her father. Rise, Dan."

  My father stands, and I can see from the look on his face that he's worried there's something he's supposed to do, or say, and that he doesn't know what it is. But Eirik flattens his hand over his own chest, and then reaches out, repeating the move on my father's much smaller chest. "Dan is one of us now," he tells the crowd. "As much one of us as any of you. A member of my family. He's to be treated with no less than the respect you afford to myself – and that includes you, Hildy."

  Everyone laughs at the line about Hildy. My father sits back down, after a short bout of listening to his own name being shouted out loud by a large group of half-drunk Vikings, and Eirik signals the servants. "Right," he shouts. "Eight days. Any man I catch sober or hungry on the eighth day, I'll remove his head myself. Eat!"

  The servants pour into the space between the rows of tables, but this is a Viking feast not a formal affair, and they're only there to facilitate the doling out of food that cannot be reached from where people sit. What can be reached – bowls of yellow butter and pyramids of dried, candied fruit – are attacked immediately. Eirik stands for a few minutes, overseeing his people, making sure all are eating, and then he finally takes his place next to me.

  "You seem a vision," he says to me, unembarrassed, not bothering to keep his voice low so no one else at the table can hear. "It's as if Freja herself dines with me tonight."

  He reaches out and traces one finger down one of my cheeks, dropping his eyes to the baby at my breast. "You've never been so beautiful, Paige."

  My cheeks tingle with happiness as much as self-consciousness – I am not used to be spoken to that way in front of other people – especially my dad.

  The Jarl sees to it that my dad, myself and all the people at the high table are taken care of, that our bowls are never empty of stewed pork and our cups never empty of ale - or of bitter herbal tea in my case. It's too loud in the hall to really have a conversation with anyone, and I want to talk to my Jarl and my father, but in the end I'm happy to float along on the current of celebratory joy that fills the longhouse and stretches on into the evening.

  Speeches break out throughout the evening – the visiting Jarl speaks for a good twenty-five minutes on the joys of marriage and the beauty of Eirik's new son and wife-to-be. Some of his men make speeches, too. There are children at this feast, and none of them stay in one place for long – at one point I catch one of them under the table, scrabbling about for a nut one of his companions has rolled between the feet of the seated adults.

  By the time my eyelids are heavy, things don't seem to be dying down at all. Eirik sees that I – and my father – are tired, though, and signals Gudry and Anja.

  "Take her back to the Mother's House – and take her father to the temporary roundhouse. They're tired still, from their journey. Bring them warm milk and let them sleep."

  Chapter 34

  9th Century

  The feast days continue, but after that first night, I am gently encouraged to retreat to the Mother's House by Gudry, Anja and Hildy. At first this rankles me, because I still have my 21st century mindset and I see it as an exclusion rather than what it actually is – a luxury that many new mothers in the modern world would kill for.

  The Mother's House is an oasis of purely female space, of gentle touches, soft voices and the gauzy, milky haze that is mothering a newborn. Baby Eirik fusses less when his mother has nothing to do but attend to him. And I worry less when I have my every need attended to by the two women I have come to trust completely. The rhythms of adult life blur into each other, the baby is brought to me when he's hungry and then held and rocked by my attendants when I need to sleep.

  Men aren't allowed into the Mother's House, so don't see my husband-to-be or my father for seven days after the feast night, although Hildy assures me they are both fine and enjoying the festivities. Not that she doesn't manage to get a little dig in about how my father has no idea how to handle a bow – which I allow, because my father does, indeed, have no idea how to handle a bow.r />
  "What did he do before?" Hildy muses on the eighth day, after Gudry has been to summon me to the bathing house after my days of rest. "What kind of man doesn't know how to use a bow, Paige? Did he have hundreds of slaves – and warriors to defend his land?"

  I laugh at that, half wishing I could just straight up tell Hildy how far off she is, and she asks me what's so funny.

  I shrug. "If only I could tell you, Hildy. Slaves? Warriors? It was nothing like that."

  Hildy stares at me pointedly, then, and for long enough to catch my notice. "What?" I ask, impatient for Gudry to come back and take me to begin the preparations for the wedding ceremony that is to take place at the break of dawn the next day.

  "I believe you," Hildy replies, and her tone is one of a person disclosing a fairly weighty secret. "Maybe the Jarl believes you, too."

  "What does that mean?" I ask. It isn't like Hildy to be cryptic.

  "That night," she says, "the night you left with your friend – we thought the Jarl would be in the halls of Valhalla before the sun came up. He was taken with fever, seeing things that weren't really there, speaking of things no one knew. We told him, even though we doubted he would understand, that you were gone. And in his sickness he said his men wouldn't catch you, even if they set out on horseback, or with dogs. He said you weren't from a place where we could go. When we tried to make sense of it, of what he meant, when we asked where you were from if not from the this world," Hildy gestures with one arm, to our surroundings, "he said that he didn't know where it was. Only that he knew it wasn't here."

  I'm listening to Hildy intently. Too intently. I don't want her to think that I'm taking anything she's saying seriously. But it's too late and she's too smart. "And seeing your face right now," she says, as she gathers loose linens that will need to be washed in the stream, "I think maybe our Jarl was right. When I was alone with him that morning he asked me if you were a dream, he wanted to know if we saw you as he did, as real as any one of us."