Spellbound

by Margit Sandemo

  She sat down opposite him and asked shyly, ‘May I ask an impertinent question?’

  ‘Ask what you will!’ he replied, looking at her with a twinkle in his eye. ‘But this I tell you at once – that I am not wed, that I love you madly, that I shall keep myself only for you.’

  ‘Please do not toy with me.’ She was desperately embarrassed. ‘I just want to know why they call you the ”bailiff-killer”.’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Because that is what I am. It is an old story and the reason I am outlawed. You understand that a man must fight for what he believes in, and I fight for a free Norway. But you must not think that I lay in ambush and attacked him from behind. No, it was him or me – and I won.’

  Silje nodded. She felt light-headed. ‘Was it not - horrible?’

  ‘Yes, wager your life that it was!’

  ‘And you are now Dyre Alvsson’s right-hand man?’

  There was reverence and admiration in her voice.

  ‘You could say so,’ he answered indifferently, but she could tell that he was proud of the fact. This time he hadn’t denied his leader’s existence either. Silje took this as a good omen. He was beginning to have confidence in her.

  ‘And the royal scroll, the letter, with its seal and everything? How did you come by that?’

  ‘You have asked me that before, Silje dear girl. But as you will – it was my first exploit with the rebels. We needed such a scroll. A courier came riding through ... well, we had our scroll.’

  ‘And the courier?’

  ‘He is no more. But I must tell you that we have had good use from that letter, indeed we have.’

  Silje took a deep breath to stave off the feeling of nausea. Smiling faintly, Heming leaned back with his arm stretched along the backrest of the bench.

  ‘You see, Silje, I am quite important to the rebel movement, for many reasons that I cannot disclose here.’

  ‘No, I understand.’

  He drank the rest of his ale and stood up.

  ‘Do you not wish for something to eat?’ She wanted him to stay. ‘I can fetch some food.’

  ‘No, not now. My time is short. But I will come back soon – very soon.’

  The last words were a whisper and before she realised what was happening, he had kissed her, quickly and gently. Then he was gone.

  Silje stood running her fingers over her lips, dazed. He had kissed her! The most beautiful man in the whole world had kissed her, Silje Arngrimsdotter, a worthless peasant girl! Hadn’t he behaved impeccably! Of course it was not proper for her to take a man into her room, but from Heming she had nothing to fear. He had told her himself that he was a gentleman – and he was!

  Still, for some reason, the episode had left her feeling uneasy. She had not liked what he told her, even less the manner in which he told it – but he was so young that one should try to make allowances. She turned to look out of the window and her leg scraped on the hard edge of something. With a squeal of pain, she bent down to see what it was. The chest? It was carelessly pushed under the bed, so that one corner jutted out – but she knew that she had not touched it herself in a long while.

  She heaved the chest out and opened it. There lay her I apron, her jacket and … her hands shook. Her heart sank. The blanket and clothes in which Dag had been wrapped when she found him – each and every one was gone. Heming’s wide cloak would have concealed them well. So this was why he had seemed concerned, asking her diligently if she had taken care in hiding them securely. She had walked straight into his trap and told him exactly where they lay, safely in the chest under her bed. Interested in the children’s welfare? Not him!

  Sadness and disappointment welled up inside her. No, it couldn’t be true, it couldn’t! She rushed out of the door. She could still see him on his horse, galloping down the road from the farm – he had almost reached the country highway. Silje, in complete despair, lost all self-control and ran blindly after him.

  ‘Wait!’ she cried, but her weak voice was lost across the snow-covered fields and pastures. ‘Wait! Please!’

  She ran the whole way down to the highway, but by then he had long disappeared in the direction of Trondheim. She carried on, not stopping to consider how pointless it was to follow him – consumed with rage and disappointment that Dag had lost the only things he had owned in his short life.

  ‘At least bring back the shawl!’ she shouted at the empty road, sobbing pitifully. ‘It’s so beautiful and it’s his! How could you steal from a child?’

  Some time ago, she and the others on the farm had examined all Dag’s things. The linen, which turned out to be a pillowcase, was daintily embroidered with a swirled pattern. Benedikt was sure that he could make out the letters ‘C.M.’ in the artistically interwoven coils and loops. Above them was woven a crown that Benedikt said was a baronial motif.

  Only when she had reached the end of the open fields and faced the great pine forest did she waken from her pain-filled disappointment over Heming. The highway suddenly fell into the shadow cast by the craggy tops of the dark mountains. They seemed so brooding, almost overpowering, and she found her mind turning to the myths of the Ice People, as the stories came flooding back to her.

  She recalled what Benedikt had told her once about the madman, Tengel, who had kept watch over the people of the valley from these very peaks, using his powers of sorcery and magic to bring misfortune to all those who had driven him from his land and his home. He was only capable of evil deeds but, in return for those services he performed for Satan, he was rewarded with great personal wealth. Benedikt tried to explain, in an obscure way, that even though he may not have become immortal, he had become a sort of wraith-like presence in the spirit world.

  Silje was sure that it was the evil shadow of Tengel that engulfed the highway – and that he was sitting up above her on the mountaintop watching her, with a demonic smile on his lips. With great effort she shook off her fearful imaginings and, although her pace had slowed, she continued resolutely and hopelessly northwards, her breathing heavy and her knees giving way. How could she ever explain this to Dag it, one day, he were to ask what had happened? She had to get all his covers back – or at the very least his wonderful gold-embroidered shawl.

  Very quickly the forest closed in around her. Yet some instinct drove her on and her thoughts continued to whirl in her head. Heming! How could he? Deceiving her like that – and to kiss her as well! ‘I’ll come back soon.’ She wouldn’t wait for that to happen. He certainly would not show his face again – but if he did, well she would kick him out herself. Tears of bitterness and humiliation rolled down her face, the chill almost turning them to ice on her cheeks. No matter how many times she wiped them away, there were always more.

  Dusk had crept up on her, she realised suddenly – the slowly changing daylight had been deceptive. But she still continued her meaningless trek. Then she heard the sound of horses’ hooves in front of her. Looking up, she dried her eyes once again to see more clearly. Had he felt a pang of remorse? A glimmer of hope began to glow inside her.

  But it was not Heming. With a start, she saw it was his leader and master, the one whose existence he had denied, the one whose name had caused him to cross himself, the one everybody feared. It was the man who had helped Silje before – and he had never been far from her thoughts no matter how hard she tried to be rid of them. She had met him only twice and briefly, yet still he pursued her even into the most secret of her dreams.

  He reigned in his horse. Silje ran and grasped the saddle.

  ‘He took it! ’ she sobbed. ‘He took everything!’

  The man sat tense, ‘What has he taken?’

  ‘The only things that Dag truly owns – inherited from his mother. The fine shawl and the other covers that he was found wrapped in. Those you bade me look after. He deceived me, tricked me into leaving the room and stole them. What am I to do? They belong to Dag!’

  Exhausted, she rested her head against his thigh; even t
hrough the thick winter clothes she could feel his warmth. Did she imagine that he had relaxed slightly when she mentioned Dag’s things? What had he been expecting her to say?

  He looked down at her thin neck, saw how her shoulders shook with resigned sobbing, and for one moment he held his hand above her head, as if to stroke her hair then, changing his mind, withdrew it.

  She thought she heard him chuckle and raised her head. He leant over his saddlebag.

  ‘I have them here, Silje. I met Heming on the highway and made him give them to me.’

  He lifted the covers out to show her, all three of them.

  Her face was a study in contradictions, streaming with tears and beaming with delight. ‘You have them! Yes, these are the ones!’

  Then her smile faded, replaced with worry. What if he wanted to keep them?

  He looked at her and shook his head, as if he had read her thoughts.

  ‘They are yours,’ he said. ‘You must look after them for Dag. Just lock them away more securely in future. Now climb up here with me and we’ll ride back to Benedikt’s farm.’

  He helped her up in front of him, seating her side-saddle, as was proper for a young lady.

  ‘Why are you out on such a cold winter’s day and not wearing warm clothes?’ he asked in his deep, throaty voice. ‘Bareheaded, no hood. You are fortunate that it isn’t too cold. There, my wolf-skin cloak covers us both. You can take Dag’s shawl to cover your head.’

  She protested, strangely disturbed by his closeness. ‘I couldn’t do that, it’s much too nice.’

  ‘Not for you, my young friend. I cannot think of anyone more worthy of it.’

  He drew the thinly woven shawl around her head and shoulders properly, and she was surprised at how much it warmed her. She realised her ears had become painfully cold. With a flourish, he swept his cloak around her and she felt cosy and secure, sharing the warmth of his body.

  She asked timidly, ‘May I … er, hold on to you, sire?’

  ‘I really believe you should,’ he grinned, ‘or you will likely fall off.’

  Carefully and anxiously she placed her arm around him and grasped the back of his shirt. She could tell he was well-built and muscular, but she knew that above her hand were those unnaturally powerful, brooding shoulders. At first she tried to keep a distance between them, but it proved impossible and, with a sigh of relief and pleasure, she rested her head on his shoulder. She felt his jaw against her temple and breathed in the warmth of his neck.

  ‘Are things so bad for him that he must steal a sad child’s clothes?’ she asked angrily after a while.

  ‘Dear Silje, have you not yet understood?’ said the man, his voice vibrating against her cheek. ‘Benedikt told me of the crest with the letters ”C.M.” – and the infant was found close by the town gates, so it would not have taken much effort for Heming to discover the name of Dag’s mother. He would almost certainly have blackmailed her, perhaps for many years. I can’t believe he would ever have handed over the garments – which in themselves don’t have a great deal of value.’

  ‘How underhand!’ gasped Silje. ‘To think of taking advantage of that poor woman’s circumstances in such a way! Did he know about the letters ”C.M.”?’

  ‘Not exactly, but he knew that one item had an embroidered motif. I suspect he was going to examine them in private.’

  Silje wriggled herself back into a comfortable position – it was easy to slide off the saddle.

  ‘I know I’ve condemned Dag’s mother many times for abandoning her defenceless child, but should I have judged her so harshly? What do I know of her reasons?’

  The man stayed silent. It was warm and comforting for her beneath the wolf-skin; only the tip of her nose was visible. Then, to her dismay, she became aware of another warmth beginning to glow within her and pulled away from him slightly He didn’t appear to notice – he had been quiet for a long time. She felt the beat of his heart against her shoulder – fast and strong.

  ‘How did you find Heming?’ she asked. ‘I mean, did he tell you that he had taken Dag’s things?’

  ‘That is not important now, Silje. Anyway, tell me how things are with you.’

  Silje was acutely aware that her hand was resting on his chest, of the warmth tormenting her body and the rhythmic movement of the horse, but she managed to answer him, truthfully, that she was very happy living on Benedikt’s farm.

  ‘But you would really like to paint with him again, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Why, yes. How did you know?’

  ‘He told me so himself’

  ‘Oh, so the two of you do meet to talk.’

  ‘Yes, sometimes.’

  Silje let his words sink in. ‘May I ask you one thing? Where do you live, that is when you don’t need to stay hidden?’

  He laughed. ‘When I do need to stay hidden, I live in an abandoned cottage up in the forest.’ He pointed in the general direction.

  She frowned slightly ‘I walked up there not long ago. I must have been quite close.’

  ‘I know. I saw you with the little girl.’

  ‘Aha, then it was you who … you were close by. Were you watching us?’

  ‘Did you sense that?’ he asked. ‘I saw you stop and look about.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Why could you not let me know you were there?’

  ‘Because I did not want to disturb you.’

  ‘It would have made me happy,’ said Silje.

  He drew a sudden deep breath, almost as though he had been in pain. He forced himself to speak with a normal voice.

  ‘You were distressed at that time, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, because of Christmas butchery. I was sorry for the animals.’

  She felt his head move as he nodded silently, seeming to understand. Then softly, he asked, ‘You are not afraid of me, then?’

  ‘No, why should I be?’

  ‘Has nobody told you?’

  Ah, I’ve seen their foolish reactions. They simply do not understand. Why should there be something wrong, just because you have healing powers?’

  He threw back his head impatiently.

  ‘My dear child! Healing powers? Silje, whatever you do, you must never, never tell another soul that you know me. It could mean your death! Believe me, I am a dangerous friend to have – no one, no one at all wants to admit they know me. You yourself have more learning than is usual for someone from a peasant family, and Benedikt has explained to me why this is so. Hide your knowledge, Silje. Only a few years past a woman was burned at the stake as a witch because she had more book learning than most.’

  Her reply was almost a whisper, ‘There is so much evil around us.’

  ‘Yes, and the worst of it is that so much of this ignorant evil comes from those who should show mercy and understanding – the clergy. In their determination to rid the world of Satan and his misdeeds, they have committed insufferable acts, torturing and killing their victims – equal or worse than the deeds of those they seek to destroy.’

  As she listened, Silje realised how much stronger and more mature he was than Heming – and more disquieting!

  Changing the subject, she said, ‘Heming was certainly elegantly dressed today.’

  There was a touch of bitterness in her voice and her companion sniggered, ‘Yes, he would be. One of his lovers had generously donated her husband’s clothes to him!’

  Silje shook her head. ‘How on earth could I have found him attractive? I must have been blind.’

  The man answered calmly, ‘He is attractive. That’s his greatest asset and he uses it without mercy – and you are very young and inexperienced in the ways of the world. I hope he ...,’ he searched for the words, ‘didn’t take advantage of you?’

  ‘No more than I have told you already I would never have allowed anything else.’

  The rider fell silent, but she could feel against her temple once again that he was smiling. Was he amused by her innocence? No, she thought, the sigh that followed was one of relief –
or was he just aching from the ride?

  Then, suddenly, the horse stopped. They had reached the farm without her noticing it. The farmhand came outside, but remained at a respectful distance. Silje was disappointed because there were so many things she had wanted to ask, but not had the time. The man dismounted and stretched out his arms to help her down. She happily allowed herself to be embraced by them and for one moment his face was so close to hers that she could look straight into those shimmering green and yellow eyes. What she saw in them left her dismayed. There was sorrow, a deep and painful sadness so great that she felt uncontrollable tears well up in her own eyes. Angrily, she wiped them away.

  He placed her gently down and handed her Dag’s linens.

  ‘Thank you for your trust,’ he whispered, so quickly and quietly that she almost did not hear him. He bade her farewell, remounted the horse and was gone, Silje’s eyes following him until he was out of sight. But the pulsating, aching warmth in her body would not subside.

  ‘Have you been out?’ asked the farm lad cautiously.

  ‘Yes. Someone stole these and I tried to run after him. Dyre Alvsson helped me.’

  The lad frowned. ‘Dyre Alvsson?’

  At that same moment, Benedikt’s wagon drew into the yard and they had other things to talk about. Then, while they were unhitching the wagon, Silje retold her story.

  ‘Dyre Alvsson?’ repeated Benedikt, when she had finished. ‘But that cannot be! He’s not here now, is he? Was he really here?’

  The farmhand shook his head in warning. Benedikt understood, and turned to Silje. ‘You saw Dyre once in the church. It was he who had been hiding in the tower with Heming. Has he just been here?’

  She stood and looked at them in disbelief ‘Was that Dyre Alvsson?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She considered this for a moment. ‘But I thought … so who is the person that was just here? The man I painted as a devil, who always comes when I need him.’

  ‘I know of whom you speak. I met him on the highway and he was looking downhearted. That is never a good sign.’ Benedikt took a deep breath and exchanged a glance with the lad. ‘How badly do you want to know the truth, Silje?’