The man purses his lips and scrutinizes me. “The only things on you of value are the tortoiseshell-shaped brooches that hold up your outer shift. And now that I see them up close, I don’t fancy them; they aren’t fine quality. We make better ones of tin and bronze here in town.”
“I have . . . a coin.”
“It would take more than one Heiðabý coin to buy this comb. You’d need a coin plus a bit more silver, and you don’t even have an arm ring to hack silver from.”
“What about two coins?”
“For two coins you could have it, plus”—he takes a pair of copper tweezers off the bench—“these.” He looks at me and blinks. His eyes settle on my pouch.
“I’ll be back.” I quickly walk out and then lean back through the door. “Two coins.” I rush away down a side street. It’s dangerous to open my pouch in front of anyone. But I don’t see a place to be private anywhere. Except an outhouse. I go to the house with the weavers. “Please.” I stand in the open doorway. “Please, may I relieve myself out back?”
A woman comes toward me so quickly, I fear at first that she’ll knock me down. But she stops short and sniffs the air. “You’re not bleeding, are you?”
“No.”
She looks at me hard. “All right, then.”
I go through the narrow passage between the houses and around to the outhouse and slip two coins from my pouch in the dark. I tuck them in the side of one shoe. Then I hang the pouch so it falls inside my shift instead of outside.
I go back to the house. “Thank you.”
They all look at me.
A boy child says, “Why are you still standing there?”
“Might you have some task I could do, in exchange for a bowl of that porridge?”
“Can you weave?” asks one woman.
“Badly.”
“A ship can founder because of a sail that’s badly woven. So, what can you do?”
“Farm. Take care of animals.”
“That’s boys’ work.”
“I could work on a boat—help out.”
They all laugh. The woman who let me use the outhouse fills a bowl with porridge and hands it to me. “At least you have a sense of humor. This is payment for the laugh. Eat and be on your way.”
I eat and give my thanks and return to the fine goods shop. The man stands outside, trying to lure a customer. I walk past them to the inside and dig the coins out of my shoe.
The shopkeeper follows me in. “An uncomfortable place to carry one’s money.” He holds out his hand. I drop in the coins. The shopkeeper stares. He hands me back a coin. “Keep this one. It’s from Heiðabý. This other is Arab. It’s worth much more. I’ll keep the Arab coin. You can have the toilet set for just this one.” He smiles and gives me the set.
“And what else will you give me?” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“The Arab coin should buy more.” The quickness of his smile told that.
“Come.” He walks to the rear of the shop. On a workbench he’s set up a clamp that holds a small bit of antler. It’s carved in the shape of a tiny spoon. He picks up an iron pin and makes punch marks in a curving pattern all up the spoon handle. The work is precise and slow. He unclamps it and hands it to me. “A perfect ear spoon.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Lucky for you that you said that. I’m pleased you appreciate my work. It’s delicate work; it takes skill. So you get a prize.” He puts the string of red glass beads over my head.
Probably the Arab coin paid for the beads, too. But that’s all right. I’m happy. “Thank you. Tell me, why is an Arab coin worth more than a Heiðabý coin?”
“The whole world accepts Arab coins. But only the north countries accept Heiðabý ones. Don’t let that discourage you, though. Heiðabý coins are the only Norse coins, and there’s prestige in that.” He looks at me thoughtfully. “Wouldn’t you want this carnelian pin? I’d give it to you for that Heiðabý coin.” He holds out a reddish-brown stone with a fish carved on it. A coin with a fish, for a stone with a fish. This town likes fish.
“No, thank you.” I make a show of slipping the Heiðabý coin into my shoe. Let him think that’s the only place I carry money. Then I pull out my pouch and slide in the toilet set and put the pouch back inside my shift. I go out into the street again.
As quickly as my happiness came, it disappears. I’ve acted like a child, buying something frivolous. And I have no idea what to do next. In this town the best jobs are taken by boys. I turn around and re-enter the fine goods shop.
The shopkeeper is already positioning an antler in the clamp. He frowns. “You got your money’s worth.”
“Who gathers the antlers for you?”
“What?”
“Who goes around collecting the antlers when the deer shed them?”
“No one in particular. When boys bring them to me, I buy them.”
“What if I supplied you with antlers? Would you give me a place to sleep?”
“Are you an orphan?”
“And food? Would you feed me?”
“If you’re an orphan, where did you get those coins?”
“It was just a question. It meant nothing.” I back fast out the door and race up a street, turn a corner, and keep running and turning corners until I’m sure he hasn’t followed. I stop to let my heart quiet. Everything is wrong. It was a mistake to come here. And I haven’t seen a marketplace yet. But Heiðabý is supposed to have huge marketplaces. Heiðabý has the biggest slave market in the Norse world. That’s why I came.
Across the road is a sprawling building—like the others around it in most ways, but far larger. Larger than the king’s house in Ribe. In the fenced-in area in front, a small child sits digging in the dirt. He’s older than Alof, perhaps even older than Búri, though Búri is taller and more robust. Crawling toward him is a long gray thing; black zigzags cross its skin. It has a wide head and big red eyes with vertical black centers, like a goat. I’ve never seen a live snake before, but I know at once that’s what this is.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I have no food on me. This is bad. Food would be a diversion. But then, I don’t know what a snake eats. I have no stone in hand, no large stick. And I see nothing easy to grab and use to toss the snake away.
The child has still not noticed the snake. This is good at least. Animals can do their worst if a person acts their worst.
I walk through the opening in the gate swiftly and surely. Animals respond to confidence that doesn’t seem aggressive. I am steady, calm. I walk past the child.
A woman screams. But my hand has already closed around the snake below his head. The woman is screaming and screaming, and now the child screams and people shout and run at us, which is all wrong, because this way I have nowhere safe to throw the snake.
I hold firm, but the snake writhes and fights and I can’t believe how strong this short, stout fellow is. I move my other hand to grab him better, and he bites into the web between my thumb and index finger. In shock, I let go. The snake hangs a moment by his fangs, and I’m lifting my hand high by my eyes and watching him as though this hand is not mine.
Then he drops. A sword flashes past and slices the snake in half. Blood spurts.
I stumble backward to get away from the sword, but someone’s says, “She’s falling. Catch her!” A man lifts me, one arm under my legs, one under my back. He carries me into the house. I am aware of everything, every detail, until I realize my hand is on fire. I look at it, amazed there are no flames shooting out. The two puncture wounds are black. My hand changes shape before my eyes; it blows up like an udder that needs to be milked, shiny and hot. I breathe loud. And now it’s hard to breathe. My chest tightens. I try to roll out of this man’s arms, but he holds me fast and there’s nothing I can do; I’m sick all over him.
Then the men are gone and women wash me. When I lived in Eire, servants washed Mel and me. When I arrived all battered at Thora’s door, she washed me. So I’m not
afraid. I just wish I would stop coughing. I wish they would let me be. And finally they do. Finally. I sleep.
* * *
When I wake, I can’t see. But then I realize it’s because my eyes are shut. I can’t open them. My hands move toward my face, but the bit one throbs hard, and I can’t force my eyelids apart with just the other. I think of the god Loki, who writhed in pain when serpent venom dripped on his face. The giantess Skaði did that to punish him for a murder. His eyes must have puffed up too. What if I’m blind forever? A scream escapes me.
“What is it? What do you need?” The voice is breathless.
“I can’t open my eyes.”
“That’s because of the høggorm—the serpent that bit you. It will go away. It was good he bit you and not Hakon.”
I reach toward the woman and find her arm. “Is that the child’s name, Hakon?”
“Yes. The king is named Hók. The sword he slew the serpent with is named Høking.”
“The king?”
“You’re in the king’s home. You’re the honored guest. The queen saw what you did. That serpent only made you sick, but it might have killed Hakon. I don’t think the king could have endured losing another child. Certainly the queen couldn’t have.”
“Another? Did a snake kill another of their children?”
“Don’t be daft. Killer serpents are rare. Their daughter died with the damp of winter rattling in her chest, gurgling phlegm. Hakon’s their only child now. Go back to sleep.”
“I’m not tired. Help me open my eyes.”
“They’ll open when the poison passes. Sleep. You’ll be fine tomorrow.”
I hear her walk away. I’m in a king’s home. I was born in a king’s home. And I was wrong a moment ago; I am sleepy. Very. I drift off.
* * *
I still can’t open my eyes. What if I am blind forever, like the god Hød? Because he couldn’t see, he was tricked into killing his own brother Bald. Hideous fate.
Something rustles. “Who’s there?”
“Hakon’s mother.”
“The queen?”
“In this moment, all I am is Hakon’s mother. I am grateful to you.”
“Will you tell me the truth, then?”
“Of course.”
“Will I really heal?”
She gives a little cry. “Tomorrow you’ll be fine. Or maybe the next day.”
I sigh in relief and feel my body sink deeper into the padding of blankets under me.
“You thought you might die, and yet you picked up the serpent. To save my son.” The queen’s voice breaks. “Thank you.”
“It wasn’t like that. I just did it. I’m good with animals. The bite surprised me.”
“You’re modest or honest or both.” She sits beside me, and whatever I’m lying on swings. How strange! I feel her press against my side. “How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“My daughter would have been ten now if she had lived. Probably your size, though. You’re diminutive, but I knew you were older. You’re not as fair as she would have been. Still, you’re pretty.” I feel her pull on my curls. “I’m glad you’re not coughing anymore. It terrified me. I imagined the world red. Blood can shock, it’s so bright.” She pats my chest.
I am thinking of the red blood of the severed snake, but that’s not what she means, I know. She means a daughter, a dying daughter, coughing up blood. I work to suppress coughs. And tears.
“Do you tame animals?” she asks.
“Sort of. Like I said, I’m good with them.”
“Better than good, I wager. The weavers told me you sought a job with animals. Or farming. Or boats even.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Did you come from Ribe?”
I swallow. “Why would you think that?”
“The way you talk. You sound like them.”
I have no answer.
“I hear you’re an orphan. With money you know nothing about. A mystery.”
“Mysteries are scary. I’m not scary,” I say quickly. “I’m just a girl without a home.” I don’t dare say more. She is Norse, and I know how Norse people feel about foreigners. It’s best she believes I’m an orphan from Ribe—nothing mysterious about me. But she whimpers now. What did I say wrong? “What is your name, queen?”
“Tove. I am Queen Tove. And what is your name?”
“Alfhild.”
The queen gasps. “I knew it. I had that strange sensation the moment your hand reached for the serpent. Then, when the weavers said you sought work on a boat, that confirmed you were special. You were sent to us. It’s what the gods want.”
“I don’t know what the gods want. But I need to find work. Once my eyes open again.”
“Høking, the sea king, he sent you.”
Høking? “The woman in here before, she said the king’s sword is named Høking.”
“Yes. The usual name for a sword that belongs to a Hók. The king’s father named him Hók so he would inherit the characteristics of the sea king Høking. He had aspirations for his infant son. He wanted him to become king of Heiðabý, and a king of Heiðabý must rule sea as well as land.” The queen now touches my injured hand. “Does it hurt horribly?”
I shake my head slowly. Moving my neck hurts more than my hand.
“Would you tell me if it did?”
“I don’t know.”
She gives a quiet laugh. “You are the daughter of Høking, a princess of the sea.”
I am the daughter of a king. But not that king. My throat closes in sadness. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Stop. Please. Listen to me. Alfkona is the name of Høking’s daughter. A tiny girl, elflike. That’s you. But you’ve been away from home so long, you mixed up your own name. Or maybe you changed it on purpose, because you had to fend for yourself, become a warrior. You had to enter hild—battles. So now we will call you Alfhild, because that’s what feels natural to you. Either way, you are Høking’s daughter. This I will tell the king. And you will not contradict me.”
“But why?”
“Because you were sent here to become our daughter.”
I am so sad for her. Oh, how much I need a family. But this queen may need more than I can give—she needs to be loved like a daughter loves a mother. I have no idea if I can love her that way. I have never lived with a woman who filled that role other than my real mother. I reach out for her with my good hand. “I can’t stay.”
Her hands close around mine. She sniffles.
“I must find my sister. I must go searching for her. Not now. But when I’m old enough. I have to.”
“I understand.” She sniffles again, and her hands rub mine. “That’s years away. In the meantime, you’re our daughter.”
“I don’t know if I can do that.”
“I don’t know either. But we can try.”
PART THREE
SEARCHING
(FIFTEEN YEARS OLD)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I have known Ragnhild for more than three years, almost the entire time I’ve lived as Queen Tove’s daughter, so her behavior now is predictable. Still, it’s annoying. I reach for the shoes in her arms.
Ragnhild clutches them tighter. “Our feet are tender after wearing shoes all winter.”
“They’ll toughen up.” I flap my hand insistently. She shrinks away. I put my hands on my hips in exasperation. “They toughened up last summer and the summer before.”
“Not fast.” It’s Thyra speaking now. She picks up her shoes too. “We go through weeks of pain, Princess. The scars on the bottom of your feet keep the skin thick, so you don’t know. Why do all three of us have to go barefoot? It’s only you who wants to.”
I cross my arms at the chest. “The queen’s servants are never this argumentative.”
“The queen’s servants are slaves,” says Thyra.
Ragnhild sits on the floor and ties on her shoes.
This is what I get for hiring them. And it’s more than just arguing; they’ve grown bolder, pushin
g their wants over mine. When I first hired them, they tried to please. Now they act like sisters—belligerent ones! Thyra has taken her shoes off the suspended shelf and sits on my suspended bed. She rocks as she, also, ties on her shoes. I grab the shelf and stop its swinging. I stand behind the bed and stop its swinging too. Thyra doesn’t even look at me. I shuffle in a circle. Then I give up. After all, it’s better to be with people who choose to be with you rather than those who are forced to. “Don’t call me princess outside.”
“We never do.” Ragnhild jumps to her feet. “Are you sure you don’t want shoes?” She twists her mouth and looks me up and down.
“Ragnhild’s right.” Thyra assumes that knowing way she’s adopted of late; it irks me. “If we both wear shoes and you don’t, given how short you are, people will think you’re our slave, despite the fact that you wear a shift and not just a blanket with a waist cord.” She crosses her arms, mimicking me. “You know how men can be with slave women.”
I blink. It’s true. Most slaves stand a head or two shorter than free people, because they come from other lands. I sit on the bed beside Thyra and tie on my shoes. “Later we can go down to the beach and take our shoes off. You don’t need tough skin for sand.”
“I like digging my toes in the sand,” says Thyra. “Good idea.”
Out we troop, into the road, in our simple shifts, looking like poor girls despite our shoes, though Ragnhild and Thyra wear arm rings and I have four bracelets that tinkle against one another. Even poor people have jewelry, after all. Anyone who didn’t know me already would assume all of us were servants in the king’s big home.
We go to the market at the port. Traders have set up tents and arranged their goods for easy perusal. When they leave, others will come, all summer long and deep into autumn. The town stores sell flax combs and wool combs, spinning whorls and looms and weaving battens, wooden bowls and bronze basins, shears and knives, bronze brooches and strings and strings of glass beads—all made by locals. And they sell town specialties, like the wonderful beds that hang from the ceiling. But in this market, they sell everything from everywhere all over the world.
Hidden Page 12
