Purple (The Dragon of Unison Book 1)

by M J Porter

  The mistress had happily kept to Rankil’s bed throughout the last Long Day and now found herself bloated with his child. She was extremely proud of herself because she knew that Rankil had no other children, and thought she would be greatly rewarded for her pains, even though he had since taken his own wife. Little did she guess the truth. Rankil had made her think that she was benefiting from her association with him, but ultimately she would end up like all the others who had gone before. Sereh wondered to herself what would happen when his young bride, Aras, was in the same predicament. She assumed that Rankil would feel more kindly to his own legitimate heir, especially as the baby would prove beyond doubt that Rankil’s and the old Jarl’s blood was now incontrovertibly linked. Maybe then she would not have to carry out her unpleasant task again.

  Sereh wondered what magic Rankil had brought to bear on his young wife for her to tolerate his soon to be discarded mistress and to even consent to being his wife in the first place. Admittedly it had been a little uncomfortable when she had first arrived and Dabbie had made such a point of announcing her own presence and condition. The young girl had kept her wits about her remarkably well, being pleasant to the mistress, and not begrudging her new husband any time he wished to spend with his mistress. Sereh wondered if Aras was really as committed to being his wife as Rankil thought. No one else commented on it, but Sereh was sure that Aras was secretly pleased that Rankil was so often distracted by the charms of Dabbie.

  She pushed her way through the curtain into the room where Dabbie was labouring and was instantly assailed by an unimaginable heat. Dabbie didn’t like to be cold. She had ordered that a huge fire be kept burning whilst she strained and now the heat was almost stifling – far too warm for Sereh. Dabbie was looking pained and extremely flushed on the birthing stool. However with a cry of triumph, Sereh realised that the baby’s head had appeared and that the herb woman was helping Dabbie deliver the rest of the baby. As soon as the child was safely delivered and wailing in the herb woman’s arms, Dabbie turned to Sereh and demanded,

  “Where do you think you have you been? I hope you were not slacking in your duties just because Rankil has been a little kind to you of late? I can soon see to it that his ‘favours’ stop. Now go and get him, I want him to see his first born son”.

  Sereh would normally have felt a little stung by both Dabbie’s tone and her remarks. Today she let it pass over her like water through a stream. Today she was on much safer ground than Dabbie who had just presented Rankil with a problem that he would have to deal with. She did feel a little sorry for Dabbie. She had only been in the steading for one rotation and did not understand Rankil anywhere near as well as she should and she certainly did not understand that now that the child had actually been born Rankil would be packing her off back to her family. Yes, there might be some gifts for the family, for letting Rankil borrow their daughter, but there would be little else, not even the child to show for her efforts. She would not be able to contest his wishes now that he was officially married and Rankil had discharged his duties to both her and her child.

  With a small sigh, Sereh put down her cauldron of warm water and turned to fetch Rankil. She had no illusions that Rankil would be overjoyed to hear his ‘first’ son had been born. Pity that Dabbie didn’t realise just how many ‘first’ sons and daughters he had already fathered and disposed off.

  Rankil was already striding towards the curtained off area when she stepped out. He had a small smirk on his face and had more than likely been alerted to the birth of his child by the cessation of screams and grunts that had been on-going throughout most of the night. Sereh fervently hoped that it would not now be long until the sun started its slow descent back into the sky and the days and nights started to differentiate themselves, in more ways than just candle lengths. She knew from her reading that the Long Night this rotation had been longer than normal and she just wished that it would end. The steading stank of too many unwashed bodies and there was no way to get the smell out until the huge doors could again be thrown wide open. It would involve hard back breaking work for her and the other servants but anything had to be better than the feisty smell which permeated everything. She longed to clean out the stinking latrines. She put off going in there as often as she could.

  Rankil was a tall, lean man with greying black hair, and a short beard that was more silver than black. He had piercing eyes that matched his hair and holes where some of his teeth should have been. He was not an attractive man as he advanced into his middle rotations. He stopped when he drew level with her and looked down at her to remark,

  “For the love of the Gods, this one could raise the roof in ensuring everyone knows how much agony she’s in. I imagine she has no comprehension of just how much agony we have all been in listening to her screams and cries. Just hope it was worth all the effort for her.” His tone was heavily dipped in sarcasm, a tone he adopted most of the time, as if life was just one long joke to him. Sereh did not answer him because she knew she was not expected to. He liked to have the last word on every issue and today it would be no different. She really did pity Dabbie now. Rankil would play all nicely, nicely and she would not know what was happening until it was all too late. Rankil was a devious man, although predictable to Sereh in his intentions. The entire steading would welcome the downfall of his mistress now that she had given birth and everyone who had endured her snubs and rude remarks would walk around with a little smile on their faces for a few days. No one liked Rankil. No one in the steading had any reason to because he was a hard task-master, yet that didn’t mean that they couldn’t appreciate his deceitfulness – as long as it was not directed at them.

  Rankil brushed the curtain aside and strode into the room, and Sereh followed far less dramatically. The scene before her had changed beyond imagination in the few moments she had been gone. Dabbie was no longer imperiously yelling demands to all and sundry, instead she lay on her bed, pale faced and barely conscious as a crimson stream of blood surged from between her legs. The herb woman looked up at Rankil and simply shook her head.

  “I’m afraid my Jarl, that there is nothing I can do. The baby was big and strong and has torn her as he was coming out”. Her tone was business like. She knew her Jarl well enough to appreciate that the news would be most welcoming to him. Rankil took all this in his stride and did not falter as he walked coolly to Dabbie’s side. She had a faint smile on her face and no matter what her current predicament, she was obviously feeling proud of herself as she cuddled her small bundle.

  “There you go my Jarl”, she managed to croak out, her voice thin and reedy in stark contract to her normal loud tone, “your first son”.

  Rankil looked at her with something like pity and put his lips to her ear. Sereh was close enough to hear his whisper,

  “Thank you my love for your gift. But how little you know. Do not worry your little son will follow you shortly”.

  It was not what Dabbie had been expecting to hear and with her last breaths she struggled to protect her son from the implication in his words,

  “No my Jarl, you must protect him, there is a woman in your steading who can feed him and he will be strong and handsome like you” she desperately whispered.

  “No need for that my love, I don’t take on extra mouths to feed. Food and resources are too stretched as it is. I thought you knew that my dear”.

  The last term of endearment was said with enough sarcasm to ensure that even Dabbie knew, with her last moments that Rankil had never cared for her in the slightest. Dabbie glanced frantically past Rankil and caught sight of her. Sereh was not sure what Dabbie saw in her face, but whatever it was, her face crumpled with agony and she breathed out her last breath.

  Rankil waited barely a heartbeat before turning to his servants present in the room,

  “Now isn’t that helpful of her. Now we do not even have to lie, as normal, about where the child has gone. It can simply be put about that they both died in childbirth. Excellent. Now c
lear this mess up and get her out of here”.

  With that he picked up the small bundle that Dabbie had been trying to protect and shoved it in Sereh’s hands. She grabbed at it as he snatched his own hands away, without even looking at the baby.

  “I know the timing is not very good, but you will need to get rid of ‘this’. I don’t care if you keep it until the sun rises or if you just leave it with its’ mother but I want no more noise today. I have quite a headache.”

  He burst through the curtains and out into the common room. The servants were left slightly off balance by the tragic turn off events, yet in only moments they were busy bustling around and the steward had stuck his head through the curtain to announce that,

  “It was bloody inconvenient to die at this time of the rotation. We might have to bury her instead of cremate her, there’s not much wood left, although that will be nigh on impossible as well with the depth of the snow and the frozen ground. For now put the body in the storage shed. We can’t do anything with her for the time being. And make sure you get the blood off everything.”

  The herb woman undid the bloody sheets from around the bed and wrapped them around Dabbie so that no one would have to look at her anguished face any longer and one of the other servants picked up the cauldron of warm water which Sereh had bought into the room earlier and sloshed it all over the bloody mess on the floor. She then got down on her hands and knees and started scrubbing at the blood in the hope that it would not stain the wooden floorboards.

  Sereh stood there clutching the now sleeping baby not really knowing what to do. Everyone knew that it was her responsibility to dispose of the unwanted baby but previous babies had never been born during the Long Night and Sereh did not know what to do with it. She could not leave it outside now as she would not be able to walk far from the steading without fear of getting lost in the permanent pitch dark. What should she do with it? As Sereh was weighing up her options, Rankil stuck his head back through the curtains, making her jump,

  “Hurry up Sereh, I want you to come and read for me.”

  Noticing the baby still in her arms he added,

  “Get rid of that thing will you”.

  Sereh made her mind up. She would ask Mult to feed the baby until the Long Day returned. She would not mind, and then Sereh could dispose of the baby in the usual place. It surely could not be much longer now. By her reckoning, the sun should rise within the next few days. She could not wait.

  * * *

  The wind drove at him, unrelenting in its intensity and bone numbing chill. He could not understand it. The wind had been silent for more than two days now. If it hadn’t been, he would never have risked venturing outside. Now that he had, it had sprung up, as if from nowhere, and was a ferocious, hungry beast, draining his body heat and leaving him rooted to the spot, too cold to even shiver. His breath was frigid as it attacked his lungs and he crouched, back pressed to his steading wall, hand clutched to the guide ropes, unable to move.

  He wanted to cry in frustration. He was so close to home, and yet he could not reach it. His muscles were refusing to obey the half-hearted summons from his mind. It was an effort to breathe; an effort to keep his eyes open. Any moment now he knew he would be suffused with the warmth that came before death. He almost relished it, and clung to the hope of it. At least he would be warm. Perhaps he could convince himself that it did not presage his death and enjoy it for what it was.

  With a guilty sob he recalled himself. He could not die here. He had a family who needed him and who would perish without him. He needed to fight the stupor that afflicted him.

  He thought of his mother, dozing quietly by the fire unaware of his plight, and his brother, waiting patiently for his return and reading the family archive whilst he whiled away the time. Surely they would have heard the wind and wonder if he was all right? Surely they would come looking for him? No. They would not. His mother was old and ill and his brother too young and too trusting in his older brother’s invincibility. They would be most surprised to find his frozen body when the Long Day began. If they survived without him until then.

  Frustration welled inside him. He could not let this happen. His family had already lost too much. He sorted through his muddled mind to find the most pertinent God to pray too. He had not sought comfort from the Old Gods since before his father’s exile and it was an effort to recall who he should direct his prayers to. Finally he settled on Thor as the strongest. He bargained with the God as he muttered soft words. If he lived he would venerate him afresh. If he lived he would offer a sacrifice of his one and only bull. But it was all to no avail. His legs were locked in place; his breath coming in smaller and smaller gulps so that he felt light-headed as well as frozen. He could feel snowflakes landing on his closed eyelids and he had not the power to either bat them away or open his eyes. A slow warmth was creeping up his body and he knew his remaining time was short. He could not make himself care.

  It was all so hopeless and such a waste.

  He felt something on his sleeve. He assumed it was the wind attacking him from a new direction and paid no attention to it. Then he felt a warm breath in his ear that set his ear tingling uncomfortably even from such a small touch of heat.

  “Come on Erann. This is not meant to be your ending. You must get up and walk with me. You must come with me and I will get you back.”

  He could not believe what he was hearing. Bracing himself he turned his head into the wind, and as his breath was stolen from his mouth, he saw a figure standing there in a white wolf fur cloak and he saw the man smile at him.

  “Come on Erann. I will help you into the steading. The wind will not beat you. I will not let it and nor should you. I know it is hard but you must come with me. Do not leave your mother and brother. They have need of you. You must get up and walk with me”. The voice sounded so strong and warm and inviting; a comfort at a time of no comfort.

  Erann got up, automatically obeying the words. His muscles screamed at him because he had been crouched in the same position for so long. With shaking legs and a deep breath, Erann turned again to look at the figure of his father and realised that with his help he could make it home. This man who had been such a strong and dominating character in his childhood would help him to get indoors. Everything he had ever done had been for his family and he would not fail Erann now. He could feel his father’s hand on his arm and one on his back, practically pushing him into the wind and towards the door that would be his salvation. Erann did not have time to think about how his father could stand the wind which tore at them both with such spite and malice. He concentrated solely on shuffling his feet slowly forward through the dense snow.

  The wind screeched and attempted to force Erann back against the wall. Yet with the help of his father, who every so often turned his face towards him and offered further words of encouragement, he kept on moving. His mother and brother would be so pleased to see his father. They would be overjoyed to know that he was here and alive and that he had survived his seven rotations in exile. Erann knew that the questions he had for his father would tumble out of him, one after another.

  Somehow he managed to keep moving and slowly the door came into view. Even though it was pitch black outside and the door was solidly closed against the windy assault some light leached through the odd crack in the door and its frame. With a mighty effort he managed to get to the tunnel that led to the inner door and banged on it, the signal for his brother to come and open it.

  As he snatched breath into his starving lungs he became aware that the pressure on his arm and back had ceased with the lessoning of the wind now that he was sheltered in the side tunnel. With confusion he stumbled inside the steading and looked around for his father. Hisbrother was looking at him with some concern. Erann was unable to speak. He simply slumped in through the door and watched with dismay as his brother shoved the door back roughly against the gaping hole. He tried to wave his arms to get his brother’s attention but Hakon was too busy wedging t
he door shut to notice. Hakon bent to seal the crack at the bottom of the door with an old fur. It did not move and kept the draft from seeping in. Erann was rationally considering all this as he sank slowly to the floor and lost all awareness.

  * * *

  Once more, he had slept at his desk. He had not intended to, but then, he never did. He wondered if he spent more nights in his small, hard bed, or more, head curled uncomfortably on the crowded, but orderly, desk that was his life’s work. It was an unworthy thought. He knew he cared more for his work than his bed.

  He raised his head, his neck and back stiff and used his right hand to massage his neck. He could tell by the length of the candles remaining that it was still early and no one would yet be stirring from their warm beds in their rooms above his head. He enjoyed the solitude most of the time, but right now, he was more than a little hungry and the cook would not yet be about her duties. He must have forgotten to eat his supper, again, last night!

  With a heavy sign, he picked up his discarded quill, relieved to note that it had fallen away from his working sheet and that he would not need to restart the page. It was nearly filled with his crabbed, neat handwriting, and when he thought back, he realised that he had been trying to make himself finish the page before he slept. However, exhaustion must have overwhelmed him. He wondered why? He did little but sit and copy, or shuffle his way around his logical library like an old man. That was surely not enough to tire him so much each day, or to make him quite as hungry as he now felt.

  He reached for the script he was copying absent-mindedly and as he did, his hand touched something hard, unexpectedly. He glanced up in shock as he recognised it for what it was – a plate of bread and cheese that the cook must have left out for him. He smiled in genuine pleasure and tore hungrily into the soft crusty bread, breaking off a handful of hard cheese in his other hand. He also noticed the goblet and jug of mead, and greedily gulped a full goblet before turning to return to his task. As he did, he was assaulted with a myriad of images of snow and winds and howling gales. He remembered then that he was more than he seemed, and that he had done more last night than simply fall asleep at his desk from exhaustion. He must remember who he was. He must remember that he was not who he appeared to be.