‘Someone like me?’ Her heart was pounding.
‘Yes, a strong courageous woman with her wits about her – and a good heart. Perhaps that would give him the backbone he sadly lacks.’
‘I am not strong – or any of those other things!’
In the darkness he turned abruptly to face her, so close she felt the warmth of his body and the fascination of his forceful personality.
‘You take care of one child that you believe has the plague and then another you thought to be a myling. Without question, you risk your life for a stranger. Then you played the part of a wife as if you had been one for years. You are either strong beyond imagination or too foolish to understand danger. Now I’m beginning to think that it’s the latter.’
He fell silent. They were not heading towards the town, but upward, deeper into the forest. They continued until they came to a road where a wagon stood waiting, its horses snorting in the cold air. A handful of riders also waited quietly nearby.
Here, in the open, the moonlight cast a pale glow and she saw the prisoner’s blond hair shining. He did not have a horse, but stood already beside the wagon. Seeing him once more made her heart beat faster. The thought of never seeing this handsome man again had already begun to worry her.
The half-man, for that was how she had come to think of the man clad in wolf-skin, strode up to the wagoner and spoke to him for some time. Then he mounted a waiting horse and rode off, followed by the other riders.
Silje and the children were helped into the wagon by the wagoner and the young man whose life she had saved. They climbed on board and the wheels began to creak as the wagon set off.
Now, suddenly, Silje’s willpower seemed to desert her. There was nothing left to sustain it. Despite sitting close to this young man, it seemed as if a spell had been lifted and she was once more the exhausted and lonely Silje she had been earlier, racked with cold and desperately hungry. She would never have dared to take on the bailiff’s soldiers feeling the way she did now.
However, she refused to give in to the weakness that was overcoming her. She sat rigidly upright against one side of the wagon, holding the infant close to her, to give it as much warmth as possible – if indeed she had any left to give, although it didn’t feel like it. The little girl had fallen quickly asleep, her head on Silje’s knee, with one sheepskin to lie on and another covering her. Silje had made good use of the beautiful velvet cloak to cover herself and both the children. She had lost all feeling in her arms from carrying and cradling the newborn, but she would not give up now, even though her eyes ached with tiredness and her body felt like a block of ice.
The journey was swift and bumpy. She had to brace her legs against the other side of the wagon to stop from being thrown around. Moonlight shimmered through the trees as they left Trondheim far behind and headed south.
‘Where are we going?’ Silje asked after they had travelled for some time. Her lips were frozen, making her speech slurred.
‘You are going to a farm,’ replied the young man. ‘A farm where the plague has already taken those it wants. I am going somewhere else.’
‘Excuse me for asking,’ she said, now tired and submissive, ‘but there is one thing I don’t understand.’
‘Only one! That’s extraordinary!’
She felt as if he were chiding her, as he would a foolish child, but continued, ‘The scroll carrying the royal seal – they said it was genuine.’
‘And so it is, but it’s very old. We have had good use of it many times.’
‘How did you come to possess it?’
‘You ask too many questions,’ he said, his laugh mocking her. ‘Anyway, I should thank you for your help.’
‘About time!’ she thought, even though she had never expected any gratitude for what she had done. She watched him from the corner of her eye. He sat almost opposite her, with his feet pushed against her side of the wagon. They were in open country now and in the moonlight she saw his handsome young face with round cheeks and an impudent nose. His mouth was curled slightly into a smile, but as she asked her next question, the smile died.
‘Who was he?’
He tensed. ‘Who? The guard commander?’
‘No, no! You know the one I mean. He who helped us.’
He stared at her in the pale light. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The man at the edge of the woods, clad in the wolf-skin. He was almost like an animal himself. He hit you!’
The freed prisoner leaned closer to her.
‘There was nobody there.’ He was agitated. ‘Nobody! Do you understand? Nobody – nobody!’
Silje drew back. ‘But ...’
‘You have had a dream. You have seen nothing tonight. Remember that! Do you think I would allow someone to hit me without revenge? I should knife any man who dared to do so.’
He had spoken in an excited whisper that the wagoner would not overhear. Silje gave up. She could understand him. It was difficult to suffer the dishonour he must feel. Close to execution, then saved by a young girl and finally hit across the face by that wolf-man.
‘I see,’ she answered meekly.
At once, his tone was milder. ‘You must be completely exhausted. Here – let me hold the infant for a while. Is it yours?’
She gave him a dejected look.
‘No, for God’s sake, it isn’t mine! I just took care of them both. There was nobody else.’
She looked down at the infant. She had been concerned for some time, and now she said anxiously, ‘I don’t know if it’s still alive. It has been very quiet since we left ... that place.’
In her mind the smell of funeral pyres came to her once more – that awful stench would remain with her forever.
‘She’s just sleeping,’ he said casually, taking the infant from her outstretched arms.
Oh! How wonderful it felt to be able to move her arms without the weight of the baby. She tucked the sheepskin more closely about the little girl, and then she curled herself up under her skirts, shawl and the velvet cloak and rested her head against the side of the wagon.
The moon was directly above the horses’ heads. This was a good sign she thought, her eyes following their manes as they swayed. She hoped this foretold a bright future, and then, as the wagon took a curve in the road, she looked up and saw a star glittering brightly. This was even better, because, as everyone knew, the stars were holes in the night sky through which one could see into God’s shining heaven. Now God had shown her that He was looking down with extra care upon her and the two foundlings, as well as the refined young man whose life she had been chosen to save.
Silje was somewhat annoyed that, now this wonderful-looking man was sitting right in front of her, she was so tired that she could no longer keep her eyes open. Shaken by the wagon and freezing cold, she sat there, neither asleep nor fully awake, half-aware – and all the while her body ached.
She remembered half-waking briefly, sensing that the wagon had stopped and hearing the sound of voices. Something was placed in her arms, but she had already begun to fall asleep again, seeking release from her worries. The next thing she knew, the wagoner was standing over her, shaking her shoulder.
‘Where are we?’ Silje wondered, mumbling, unable to form the words.
‘We have arrived. I have spoken to Master Benedikt. You may stay in the workers’ cottage.’
People moved in the darkness, taking the children from her. The moon had set, so she knew it would soon be morning. The little girl cried and called for her mother. The wagoner helped Silje from the wagon, supporting her because her legs would not bear her weight.
‘Who’s Benedikt?’
‘He’s a church painter and a bit strange, but he will give you a place to stay.’
‘And the children?’
‘Yes, the children too.’
They stood alone beside the wagon and Silje asked,
‘What became of the young man?’
‘Heming? He left us
about half an hour ago. He took another road.’
Heming! Heming, the bailiff-killer? It was him after all. A sudden feeling of guilt and shame came over her, knowing that she had helped a murderer – but he was so young and good-looking!
‘I suppose there are many good Norwegians who fight for the freedom of our country?’ she said hurriedly.
‘I am sure there are, Mistress Silje.’
‘Perhaps he belongs to such a band here?’
‘You should not be asking such questions.’
That meant that he was, she was sure. She felt calmer. Fighting for his country meant he could be forgiven.
The wagon-driver was very polite when he spoke to her, she thought. Mistress Silje! It was probably because of the line velvet cloak.
‘And the other man. Was he also a fighter?’
‘Which other man would that be?’
‘The one who spoke to you. The one who bade you bring us here to this Benedikt.’
The wagoner bent down, adjusting a strap on the wagon. ‘There were no others, Mistress Silje, only young Heming. I took my orders from him.’
She held her breath, about to argue. Then she remembered Heming’s words to her.
‘No, I’m probably mistaken. I seem to have forgotten much of what happened last night.’
‘It is best so, Mistress.’
A tallow torch burned in the small hut and a farmhand was lighting a tire in the hearth as she entered. She heard friendly voices soothing the children. Two older women were taking care of them, undressing them and feeding the little girl something warm.
‘She is very pretty,’ said one of them, unworried at being wakened in the middle of the night. ‘What’s her name?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Silje. ‘I call her Sol. How is the baby? I’ve been so worried … is it still alive?’
‘Oh yes. There’s nothing wrong with him, even though his umbilical remains.’
‘Him! Oh dear, that could have been a problem. You see I told some bad men that his name was Liv to save him from death. Now he’ll be called Dag instead. He would not eat before and ...’
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter,’ said the woman, ‘he is newborn and he brings nourishment with him into the world. We shall wash him and cut his cord, then wrap him up tightly. No harm will come to him, despite entering this world in such an ungodly fashion. We shall bathe him in blessed water warmed with hot coals and we have placed a piece of steel in his bed. He’ll be blessed with bread, as is proper, and the familysilver will be placed upon his breast.’ She paused, then said, ‘But the little girl looks tired and weary We’ll take her in with us so that she may sleep. Here is some hot broth – it will warm you.’
Silje was beyond caring. The girl Sol lay curled up in one of the beds, her eyelids heavy and almost closed. The delightful warmth of the fire filled the room and Silje could not remember when she had last felt so at ease. She picked up the bowl of soup and drank it down without using the spoon. It was a thin oatmeal broth with small pieces of pork and it tasted wonderful. Soon its warmth began to spread through her body and before the women had left the room she lay back on the bed feeling quite drowsy. She was dimly aware of the women removing her shoes, undressing her and tucking covers around her; but she could not open her eyes. Her body felt as heavy as lead. Then the door closed and Silje fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter 3
Silje had fallen asleep shortly before daybreak and did not wake until the evening. The only light she saw that day was amongst the shadows of dusk, as she lay gazing at a low ceiling and dark rough-hewn timber walls. There was a window – just imagine a proper window with glass! Silje had only ever been used to a window opening, with a wooden shutter. The glass was slightly green and uneven, but it allowed the evening light to fill the room.
‘The children!’ she suddenly thought. She turned her head and saw that the little girl was not lying in the other bed. Listening hard, she could hear the sound of a child’s giggling laughter – playing with someone, perhaps. From further away she heard a baby’s angry unending cries. The crying stopped – was the baby being fed? Probably.
The room was very warm, the fire still burning in the hearth. Someone must have … Silje felt the colour rush to her face as a memory came back to her. She had been awake once. Had woken up and pulled the covers back over her.
‘There, there,’ a voice had said, ‘there is no need to worry my dear. We are old men and the fire of youth left us long since.’
She had opened her eyes in panic to find two old men standing over her. She was relieved to find that she was still wearing her linen shift.
‘This is the parish barber,’ a tall man with a grey goatee beard and long thinning grey hair said to her. He wore clothes of strikingly bright colours. ‘He is well-versed in the practice of healing – and I am called Benedikt the Painter.’
He delivered these last words in a manner that made her feel she should rise and curtsy before him. The barber who, as was common practice at that time, not only shaved beards but cured the sick, was a short tubby man with friendly eyes.
‘How long have you had these feet, young lady?’ he asked.
Benedikt chuckled, saying, ‘Since she was born, I expect.’
Silje had not taken her shoes off for a couple of weeks and, raising her head, she looked down at them anxiously. They were unrecognisable – swollen, bruised and covered with blisters. They were also quite filthy, but that would be easy to remedy The skin was another matter entirely.
‘We shall prepare a healing poultice,’ the barber said calmly ‘I’ll not bleed you just now – you have precious little to take! Your hands are little better than your feet, but I’ve seen worse frostbite. You’ll heal. I come highly recommended of course, with references from those in high places, such as the baron.’
He recited a pretentious list of fine-sounding names in order to impress. Benedikt waved his hand, brushing away the man’s boasts, and sat down on her bed. Hurriedly she pulled the covers back over her.
‘Now tell me,’ he said in a concerned fatherly voice, ’what kind of unusual stranger are you? They tell me that you saved those two children and that wilful Heming. Those deeds alone are reason to care for you. Alas, your clothes tell me that you have known great poverty.’
‘They are not mine,’ she said quietly ‘I gave mine to one whose need was greater, an old woman who had only a thin smock. She remained on the farm.’
‘And these?’ With an expression of distaste, he lifted the edge of one of the rags she had been wearing between finger and thumb and quickly dropped it again.
‘I made them from things that I found in the barn.’
The painter shook his head in despair. ‘I’ve never heard the like! You gave away the clothes off your back for the sake of an old crone! I hear that you are well-spoken, educated perhaps, but what is your background?’
Somewhat embarrassed, she replied, ‘I’m nobody special, just the unruly child of a blacksmith, Silje, daughter of Arngrim. I was driven from the farm when the plague took my family. That I am able to speak well is another matter.’
‘Well I think you are someone special.’ Benedikt’s friendly eyes held a twinkle. ‘You have a good heart, and that’s rare in hard times like these when people look first to their own needs. That you are protected by such good patronage also means a lot.’
All this time the barber had been attending to her feet, mixing an aromatic brew in the pot on the hearth. Silje had wanted to ask what Benedikt meant by ‘good patronage’, but her experience this far told her that it would be pointless. They spoke about young Heming gladly, but of the one who was behind him they would say not a word.
Benedikt continued, ‘You called yourself an unruly child.’ He paused, and then, ‘What was it like on the farm? What chores did you perform?’
She looked away, and with a knowing smile she replied, ‘I’m afraid they used to despair of me sometimes. Of course I did as I was asked, in the fie
lds and in the master’s house, but I was a bit – what shall I say? Absent-minded? I would daydream a lot and spend much of my time making small decorations and ornaments and such things.’
Benedikt’s eyes lit up. ‘Did you hear that, barber? Perhaps we have here someone who will appreciate my work. In truth, there are few that do. Tomorrow, Silje, you must come with me to the church. There you’ll see decorations!’
She gave a broad smile. ‘Thank you, I shall be glad to.’ The barber mumbled to himself, but loud enough for them to hear, something like, ‘Not on these feet you won’t.’
‘May I get up now?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he replied as he placed poultices from the pot on each foot and bandaged them well. They were so hot that they almost burnt her and the room became filled with a bittersweet smell of herbs.
‘No,’ he said again. ‘You must rest with these on your feet for several hours. Besides, do you not need to sleep some more?’
‘Yes, I think I do,’ she agreed. A smile touched her lips. ‘But what of the children?’
‘Don’t worry yourself’ Benedikt said. ‘My dear little ladies are taking good care of them both.’
With that they had left the room, and Silje, with a warm body and a happy heart, had fallen asleep once more.
****
Now Silje could tell from the light through the window that it was evening. She sat up and gently tried to stand. Her feet hurt as she put her weight on them, but the pain was bearable and no worse than she had suffered during the past days of mindless wandering. With God’s help, it would be over. With His blessing, she and the children might stay with these kind people. She suddenly realised that she had not thanked them properly. What on earth would the distinguished church painter think of her?
Her clothes had been taken away. Instead, a blouse in coarse natural-coloured cloth and a dark waisted skirt had been laid out for her. On the floor stood a pair of large felt overshoes, large enough to take her bandaged feet.
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