“Fresh pulled an hour ago.” She poured some milk and handed me a cup. “Ylva’s taking the goats down to the meadow, so it’s just us.”
I sipped the creamy liquid, still warm, and smiled my thanks.
“You’ve been occupied, I hear.” Astrid took the stool across from me, beside the hearth. She clucked her tongue. “It’s no more than anyone would expect, of course, you sharing the same roof, and Eirik gone these weeks.”
All Svolvaen probably knew; there was little that could be hid. Astrid looked at me pointedly, waiting for me to unburden myself. We hadn’t kept secrets from each other, in the past.
When I didn’t reply, she rose to stir the contents of her pot, suspended over the fire.
“I didn’t intend…” I couldn’t bring myself to explain. Whatever was happening between myself and Gunnolf, I didn’t know how to describe it.
“The other, that Faline, not enough for him; he’s got to have you, too?” Astrid looked pointedly at the discolouration on my neck.
Gunnolf liked to restrain me, or to squeeze my throat when he took me. Only once had I blacked out under the pressure of his thumbs, awakening to the wetness of his cum streaking my thighs and the throb of my cunt well-pounded.
“And both of you feeling the heel of his hand.”
I’d loosened my hair about my shoulders but the marks were difficult to hide. There were more on my wrists.
Astrid lowered her voice. “The Jarl isn’t what he was. Always strict, we knew, but fair with it. Now, the men are afraid. It’s not only you that’s suffering; the blacksmith’s son took a beating off the Jarl, yesterday, and not for anything that a cuff to the ear wouldn’t have sorted. He’s told the men to farm only in the morning. They’re to fell timber the rest of the day, to extend fortifications by the harbour; on pain of flogging if they don’t.”
I frowned to hear it. Gunnolf had mentioned nothing.
Bringing the ladle to her mouth, Astrid sipped the broth. “He needs another wife, of course. Although that won’t stop a man like him…” She lowered her voice. “They’re looking for Eirik’s return. It’s him the men love; he who should be Jarl.”
I shifted uncomfortably. Having tried hard to push away thoughts of Eirik, of the state of my heart and his, I’d convinced myself that I’d stopped waiting for him.
Astrid leaned forward. “There’s something else.” She hesitated, glancing swiftly about, though there was no one to hear — only the baby. “Something not right.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then looked away, busying herself with the poker, stoking the flames beneath her cooking pot.
“What is it Astrid?”
“I’m not sure I believe it. I shouldn’t have said…”
She bustled to the pantry, returning with an armful of vegetables. Taking them to the table to chop, the knife trembled in her hand.
“It’s not more illness?”
“No. Nothing of that sort.” She frowned, keeping her eyes downcast, slicing into the pale flesh of a turnip. “Not any illness that can be cured...”
“What are you saying?”
“There are whispers, but I’ve not seen it myself… It was wrong of me to say.”
I jumped up, rounding the table to stand beside her, reaching to stay her arm. “I must know, Astrid!”
Despite the warmth of the day and the fire lit, a chill fell on me.
“It’s something affecting Gunnolf? Affecting me?”
“Perhaps, yes…”
My heart lurched.
“She was never strong but, still… we didn’t expect it. We were waiting for the baby to be born. Even though she lost the first, we thought it would be alright this time. Asta wasn’t one of us but everyone respected her — loved her, even.”
Astrid’s eyes darted to mine, her words tumbling, urgent. “You did, too, didn’t you, Elswyth? You would never have hurt her…”
“No.” My voice scratched in my throat. “I would never have hurt her.”
Astrid shook her head. “Then it can’t be you. She’s come back, but it’s not for you.”
The room grew smaller in that instant, the walls moving closer.“Come back?”
Astrid let drop the knife. “It’s when there’s something not right; a hurt the person can’t forgive. A betrayal, some wrongdoing…when they can’t let go.”
I grasped the edge of the table, biting upon my lip. I didn’t trust myself to speak.
“That’s what they say. It must be something terrible, don’t you think, to bring her back? For her restless spirit to revive her body and make it walk again?”
I summoned all my strength. I had to know everything. “And someone has seen… her, in Svolvaen?”
“At the top of the hill, near the edge of the forest and…”
“You must tell me, Astrid!”
She flinched at my raised voice.
“Around the Jarl’s longhouse.”
The room swayed. No matter what I told myself, I could not escape. My knees buckled and I fell to the floor, dissolving within the dark tide.
23
Their raised voices roused me, far across the room. I couldn’t make out the words; wasn’t sure that I wanted to. I was warm where I lay, in darkness but not asleep. Somewhere between — not awake either. My fingers found the goatskin beneath my body. I was comfortable. If only they would stop shouting, I could stay here and hide, drowsy and safe.
I remembered now; I’d fallen, in a faint, the floor hard under my cheek. Astrid had been telling me what I could scarce believe, yet which I felt to be true. The sins of the past were not forgotten, and Asta did not lie peacefully in her grave.
Who but I was to blame? I’d failed to save her; hadn’t acted quickly enough, had overlooked something. I’d loved her… but had some dark corner of my being wished her to die? Hadn’t I been envious? I’d wanted to bear Eirik’s children, to be his wife, to claim the status that would bring. Instead, I’d had no choice but to rely on the good favour of others.
As for the Jarl, I was no naïve maiden, my virginity seduced away. I’d known what I was doing. I’d become his willing lover, overtaken by a madness of self-loathing, fed by emotions I could barely fathom. He and I were alike in ways I’d not wished to recognize. We were capable of wild fury, stoked by grieving anger. Whatever excuses I conjured, I couldn’t escape my guilt.
Someone was sobbing; someone shouting, words coming closer, louder.
“…dark forces, in the forest. Just like her grandmother.” It was a voice filled with hate. “…goes out at night, looking for her creatures, picking plants for her spells.”
There was a murmur through the room.
“…bewitched Eirik… made him bring her here… put magic on my father before that… been casting her enchantment on you, Gunnolf… she wants Asta’s place… was chieftain’s wife once and wants to be again.”
“Wake her.” The speaker was gruff, his voice commanding.
Hands raised me up, splashed water in my face. I shied from returning but those hands were insistent. Someone pinched the skin on the inside of my elbow, hissed in my ear. “Wake up, witch!”
Faline was holding something in her palm, raising it to my face, her serpent eyes lit. Her mouth was voluptuous even as she spoke venom.
“I found what you’ve been carrying in your apron pocket! A deadly mushroom, and one piece missing!”
I shook my head in confusion. I hadn’t anything in my pocket. The mushroom had been lost weeks ago, before Ostara night. I couldn’t remember when I’d last seen it.
“What say you?” It was Gunnolf’s voice, full of pain. “Was it your scheme all along? To kill whoever stood in your way? To seduce whichever man could most advantage you? What mischief did you plan?”
What had I done? This looked much like the one I’d picked, so long ago, when I’d walked in the forest with Helka. The red rim beneath the cap was distinctive. I’d brought it with me, across the sea; a symbol of unused vengeance. I could ha
ve killed a host of warriors with this tiny mushroom. Had some part crumbled into Asta’s food; had I poisoned her? I thought back to her symptoms: the stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting bile, and the itch across her skin. Not the pox at all, but the gradual, agonizing failure of her body.
The horror of it jolted me awake, tore at my chest so I could hardly breathe, wrenched my gut like the devil’s own claws. The mushroom was mine.
“The guilt is in her face!” Faline spat the words. “Look! I dare her to deny it!”
“It’s true,” declared Gunnolf. “I see it, now. Only a conscience wracked with shame could look thus.”
“No…” My tongue was thick in my mouth. What could I protest against? Had I not wanted position and power? Had I not envied? Kept secrets? And who but I had tended Asta?
“Murderess!” Faline hissed, as they led me away.
24
Many gathered, watching as the Jarl’s men led me to the harbour, my hands bound. Wrongdoers were beaten, but what of murderers? What of witches?
They secured me to the whipping post, but not in the position for flogging. I faced forward, my back pressed to the old wood.
“If you’re innocent, explain your actions. None but you tended my wife and none but you could have saved her.” I was used to seeing Gunnolf in many moods; now, I saw the cold resignation of his heart. He desired another to take the blame, to ease his sense of guilt. “Was the death of our dear Lady Asta achieved by your devious hand? Was it your hidden wish to take what was hers? Do you deny that you betrayed her trust?”
“You know I’m innocent.” I tried to avert my gaze from the many who looked upon me, to focus only on the Jarl. “I loved our Lady Asta.”
I endeavoured to hold Gunnolf with my eyes, to convince him of my sincerity, but he turned away.
Scouring the crowd, I searched for some sign of support. Had I not tended their children, treated them in their sickness? For that, hadn’t I earned their trust? I hardly recognized them now, their mouths set hard. Women and men alike, ready to turn against me. I could hear their mutterings: ‘… not our kind… thinks herself too clever’.
“I’ve tried only to help; never to harm.” My pleading voice sounded thin. The sun had already dipped low but sweat trickled down my back. My mouth tasted sour. “If I could bring her back, I would…”
I thought I’d escaped those who didn’t understand me, to have found a new life, among new people. I’d deceived myself, for I remained as much a stranger as ever; mistrusted, suspected of ill-doing.
And then I saw Torhilde, pushing through, calling my name, and Astrid followed by Ylva, carrying the little one.
“What are you doing?” Astrid whirled to challenge the crowd. “Elswyth would never hurt anyone! Have you forgotten what she did for us?”
Torhilde’s voice shook as she spoke but she planted her feet firmly beside Astrid’s. “Elswyth showed me compassion when my own neighbours had none. Only Astrid took me in; only Elswyth would dare look upon my affliction.”
“Didn’t she risk her own health to be with you, to treat you?” Astrid implored.
Drawing back the yoke of her gown, Torhilde revealed the dull redness of a still tender sore, part-healing. “How many of you have these on your body? Hasn’t Elswyth tended you?”
A sob rose in my throat. I knew the defilement felt by those who suffered, knew the stain Torhilde carried. How brave she was, and in loyalty to me. Whatever was to happen, it gladdened me to know that I wasn’t alone.
The young woman who next pushed forward wore her hair loose: a cascade of auburn-red.
“Your sores are not yet recovered, Torhilde. Don’t they still disgrace you; don’t you still rely on this woman, hoping she’ll heal them?” The look Bodil gave me was arrogant, her eyes filled with enmity. “Perhaps she has you where she wants: giving her your gratitude.” She spoke with relish, as if she’d waited long to smear my name with the basest of accusations. “How many others are the same; hiding what shames them, dependent on this interloper, waiting for her cure? She has no noble blood or claim to higher status, yet she has you as her thrall.”
“She’s a witch!” sneered Faline. “She probably caused your sores. Don’t let her fool you. She cares only for herself.”
Another took up the cry. “Caused the sores and the pox, too!”
I looked again to Gunnolf. Would he credit such slanders, based on nothing but Faline’s word and the vindictiveness of Eirik’s former lover? There was no softening to his expression but nor was there malignance. His thoughts were impenetrable.
“I trust neither of these foreign women,” said Bodil, “But this dark-haired one knows the other well. If she warns us of this woman’s ill-intent, I believe her.”
Faline cast me a triumphant glance, barely able to conceal her glee. Running forward, she thrust her face close to my ear. “No Eirik to save you now, but don’t worry; I’ll keep him warm for you, when he returns… I’ve passion enough for both brothers.”
It was suddenly clear to me. Another had sat with Asta, on Ostara night. Soon after that, she began the cramps that convulsed her body. The mushroom had been lost not long before. Faline had found it, surely; had recognized its nature, or guessed why I’d kept it.
I’d been blind. If I’d seen what was happening, could I have saved Asta?
“It was you!” I croaked, my lips dry with fear. “It was you!” But the crowd’s growing clamour drowned my words.
“Enough!” Gunnolf raised his hand. “What we cannot know, the gods shall decide. Tie her to the stacks at the end of the pier. If she survives high tide, it will be they that save her.”
“No!” I struggled against the arms that carried me, through the parting crowd. I caught sight of Astrid’s stricken face, her cheeks wet with tears.
The stacks would be covered within a few hours. I’d be left in the dark, gasping for breath as the chill water lapped over my mouth, then my nose. There would be none to save me and I’d have no power to save myself.
25
The sun left the sky and the slim moon rose. My hope sank as I waited beneath the small stars sliding cold through the dark. The water made insidious progress, to my chest, my shoulders.
I’d wondered if someone might be brave enough to follow their conscience, to steal unseen through the village, to untie the cruel rope which wrapped awkwardly about my waist and hooked over the outer stack of the pier.
A few had lingered, to watch me lowered into the fjord’s chill embrace, to call names from the safety of the shore. None wished to come too close. After all, I was a witch, was I not?
Even Gunnolf had kept his distance. Whatever we’d been to one another, whatever we’d shared, it had not been built upon love.
Eirik’s amulet nestled still in the hollow of my throat. If I saw him again, in the next life, I’d swear my love and my regret; anger and resentment had brought bitter pleasure. I’d been fated neither for marriage nor the security of devotion.
The tide was almost fully in, and none had come to deliver me. The waters stretched from this place, across the great waste to the land of my birth, and I was solitary, in the shadow of the grey night.
I prayed to my old God and then to Freya, Frigg and Fjorgyn: the female gods. If they had no ear for my suffering then none would.
Would they punish Faline as I was being punished? We each had our sins. She’d acted from jealousy — from desiring what lay out of reach. Her grudge had long simmered, stored away until her spite could be indulged. Even in her wickedness I pitied her, for she’d find no contentment.
The clouds drifted over the moon, obscuring what little light was to be had. It was quiet, as if Svolvaen had melted far away. I was alone with the lap and splash of waves against the fishing boats, gently rocking in their moorings on either side of the pier. I thought back to what Astrid had told me: that Asta’s restless spirit walked. No one wished to be outside, even to watch the final breaths of a witch, as the water claimed her life.
And then, something swept my leg: the smooth glide of a fish, or a feathering of seaweed. It skimmed silken against my arm, brushing lightly upon my wrists where the rope bound them and passed around my waist. My body slipped beneath the water as the bonds loosened, and I tasted the briny sea. Kicking my legs brought me to the surface, gasping for air, with my heart pounding.
I knew not who, or what, had intervened. Some creature sent by the gods or their own divine hands reaching to save me. I could not think — only rejoice that the chance had been given for me to live!
My skirts were heavy as I swam, my shoulders stiff and my chilled body leaden, but force of will drove me onwards, towards the shore. The push of the waves helped bring me to the shallows until my knees scraped shingle. I dragged myself beyond the movement of the water, glad to feel the hard pebbles beneath me and the brisk nip of the night air.
There was barely a sigh of wind, the world quiet but for the breaking waves and a far owl calling. I was exhausted to my bones yet my heart beat in exhilaration, for I was alive.
I could not remain thus for long. One thing was certain: that I must take action. I might present myself to Gunnolf and all Svolvaen as having escaped the tide’s reach. The gods had saved me, proving my innocence. Yet, I feared the malevolence of Faline and Bodil. They wouldn’t rest until their spite was sated, and they’d have no trouble finding ears. The seeds of doubt had been sown, even among those who’d shared my friendship.
I needed time to plan and a place of safety from which to do so. My first thought was of Astrid; she, I could trust. Alongside Torhilde, she’d spoken for me when so many were ready to believe ill. She’d hide me if I asked, but this I would not do. How could I place her in such a position?
High on the shingle was Helka’s little boat: the one in which she’d taken me sailing through the fjord. How long ago that day seemed, when I’d thrilled to speed with the wind and shared her delight in the success of our fishing. I remembered her showing me the cave; her own special place, where the ledge ran flat and deep.
Viking Wolf: dark and steamy alpha warrior romance (Viking Warriors Book 2) Page 11
