by Anya Seton
The Culdee said yet something else, and the women offered to
Rumon the deer's liver tendered with great ceremony. They knelt before him as they held pieces of the delicacy out on long wooden spits.
Ari, at first too hungry to care, then noticed this special attention with annoyance. "It's true," he said to Rumon, "that your god seems to have saved us so far, but you might tell that old man that 7 am master of the ship."
"As you like," said Rumon, and comphed.
The Culdee gave Ari a long hard stare. "Norsemen?" he asked Rumon, who nodded. "Heathen?" Rumon shrugged assent.
"They captured you?" said the old man.
Rumon said no, that these were not Viking raiders.
"Pah!" said the Culdee and spat in the direction of Ari. "They're all the same. 'Tis from the like of them our grandfathers fled. We were men of peace, and in peace we have lived here, undisturbed. But the memory of our persecutions has been handed down. And Papa Padraic will know how to handle this."
There was definite menace in the Culdee's speech, and no mistaking the tone.
Ari looked up from his meat and frowned.* "VVTiat danger could there be, from an old man and a lot of women? Skraelings, he thought, savages. He had never seen any like these, though the Norsemen called all primitive people "skraelings," and he had seen some on a voyage to Lapland. He looked around at his crew. Their sole weapons consisted of their cutting knives. Though there were a couple of spears and a harpoon aboard. Surely enough to terrorize this bunch, if need be. Yet Ari had no wish to fight. He wanted to repair his ship; provision it; and set sail again for Iceland, his cargo enriched by pelts. And being a reasonable man, he thought, as he always had, of barter. Yet what was there on the ship which would attract this odd lot of folk? Not the carefully cherished timber. Money then. He had a pouch of silver which included Rumon's fare.
"We can pay, you know," said Ari. "Tell the old man that," he commanded Rumon. "Silver. We wish to pay for his hospitality. To stay here some days, — or whenever the wind is with us — to put food and water on board. And we will give him money in return."
Rumon, whom a full stomach was making sleepy, yawned and translated.
The old Culdee listened. He looked with contempt at Ari. "What is money? What use to us? I've never seen any, though my grandfather used to speak of it as the Devil's lure. You are heathen, and shall be dealt with by Papa Padraic."
"He doesn't know what money is," said Rumon to Ari, who frowned again, then started as his eye was caught by a girl skraeling. She walked slowly out of the long bark house and gazed at Thorgerd's crew in amazement. She wore a shell-embroidered buckskin apron around her middle, but her breasts were bare. They were full, uptilted; her small nipples were like wild strawberries. Her skin had the sheen of copper. Her neck was a long, graceful column, her small head delicately poised on top. Her glossy black plaits hung to her small waist so slender that a man's big hands could encircle it. She had no paint on her cheeks, only a round red mark on her forehead which seemed to enhance her luminous dark eyes — very large, like a doe's. There was a hush. They all looked at the girl. The crew stopped eating. The old Culdee stepped forward and made a slight bow. He spoke in rapid Algonquin, obviously explaining this invasion.
The girl — she might have been sixteen — held herself with dignity while she gazed into the faces of the light-haired men. Some of them simpered and others made smacking noises. Her liquid eyes did not rest long on Rumon, they returned to Ari Marson. Ari flushed and felt tingles up his back, such as he had never felt before. Of its own accord, his great calloused hand went out to her. She did not touch it, but she nodded gravely.
"Who is this girl?" Rumon said to the Culdee.
"Norumbega, daughter to Chief Hoksic who is hunting —
but not for long." The old man spoke with sardonic relish. He glanced behind him at the forest. He cocked his head as though listening.
There's danger here, thought Rumon, of what kind he did not know. But hke the crew who lolled on the grassy earth, he was stuffed, logy, and disinclined for action. The everlasting motion of the ship still rocked in his head.
In a moment Jorund came up to Rumon and spoke behind his hand. "I don't like it," he said. "Something's brewing. I've spoken to Ari, but he is bemused. He keeps gaping at that naked girl. We should get back to the ship. I've already sent young Olaf to guard her. Your god has put an enchantment on most of us."
"Perhaps this is Avalon — the Island of the Blessed," said Rumon dreamily. "I've always heard of it, yearned to reach it, though I never thought it would be like this."
"I don't know ivhat this place is," said Jorund tartly, inspired by none of the poetic strain which had made him a skald, "but I see a great many skraelings closing in on us." His intelligent young face tightened.
It was true. From the fringe of great trees surrounding the village, there were scores of red-painted men stepping towards them. They each had bows and arrows ready notched, except two who were twirling dried stag bladders suspended from sticks and filled with something which made a fearsome rattle.
The crew stared around blankly. Ari kept his gaze on Norum-bega who had seated herself on a tree stump where she looked regal.
"Do they mean to kill us?" cried Rumon to the Culdee.
"That depends —" said the old man. "Not you. You're a Christian. But —" His grimy veined hand gestured towards the north. Rumon saw a strange procession filing through the forest. They were light-skinned men, about a dozen of them. They wore long, bleached robes, all had Celtic crosses made of quills on their chests. They were led by a bearded oldster. He carried
a banner with quill embroidery on it. He had an iron knife of an antique pattern in his other hand. He was tonsured across from ear to ear.
"Papa Padraic —" said the first Culdee in a tone of reverence, and made a deprecatory gesture while explaining to his superior that all these men were Viking heathen, but he had not thought it right to refuse the hospitality they asked for. Moreover, there was a Christian aboard the vessel. One who knew the Mass, and had a gold crucifix.
Father Padraic listened. He was ancient, nothing surprised him anymore; yet his wits were still keen, and he remembered his father's tales of the old world — the brutality and treachery of the pagan Norse. "So," he said. "Here they are. No doubt St. Padraic sent them. They shall all be baptized — forcibly if need be." He turned and spoke in Algonquin to the ring of Indian warriors, whose ranks were being gradually increased as others silently came from the forest.
Chief Hoksic went forward to join the Culdees. He was unmistakably the chief since he had eagle feathers in his topknot, and five necklaces of purple wampum, and his breechclout had been dyed red and yellow. Moreover, he gestured to Norum-bega who at once brought a feather mantle from the longhouse. He donned the mantle.
Rumon watched, shghtly dazed, particularly when Father Padraic and the chief each crossed themselves, and grunted, as though a pact had been agreed on.
Ari watched Norumbega.
Jorund and the rest of the crew watched the circle of skrael-ings, their flint-tipped arrows notched and ready in the drawn bows.
"Go on! March!" commanded Father Padraic to the Icelanders. His gesture made the words clear. The crew, already on their feet, muttered uneasily and looked to Ari for guidance. He withrew his gaze from the beautiful brown girl, and said to Rumon, "What is it they want?"
"To make Christians of you," answered Rumon, seized with a hysterical desire to laugh. "That or death, I think."
Ari was puzzled, but he certainly understood the words "Christian" and "death."
He looked at the threatening circle — must be fifty of them now. He looked at the girl who gave him a small beseeching smile, while pointing up the hill behind her.
Ari shrugged and spoke to his men. "We had better do as they wish. We're not warriors, and I see no other plan."
Thus it was that Ari, Jorund, and eighteen of Thorgerd's crew were herded some miles nor
th to a place of upright stones and caves and tiny beehive huts. In the midst of these was a small Y-shaped stone chapel, near a well half filled with shiny crystals and a wooden cross erected by its brink.
In this well, amongst the standing stones and fallen stones, all of Thorgerd's crew were docilely made into Christians by Father Padraic, who poured a jarful of water over each Icelander whUe intoning the Latin words with gusto.
Rumon, the Culdees, and many Indians watched. The latter group had all submitted to this rite, mostly as babies, and the chief had decided that whatever all the water-pouring was, it made good magic for the tribe; nor did Mankou, the great Algonquin god, seem to object. Food was plentiful; no disaster had assailed the Merrimacs during the many years since these bearded men with crosses had come to live near them. Besides, Hoksic respected the Culdees, for they were not afraid of this place of stones, where one could smell ancient blood, and which his tribe always avoided by night.
After the baptism. Father Padraic said Mass in the tiny Y-chapel which could not begin to hold them all, so the others stood or knelt outside near a large grooved stone while a Culdee lay inside the chapel on a stone bench and repeated each phrase through a hole which made his voice resound like a bull's in the quiet air.
It was part of the magic; so were the little pieces of corncake
passed to everyone after Father Padraic had tinlded a bell made of a thin pottery jar hit by the iron knife.
Rumon accepted the "Host" reverently, but while it was still on his tongue, the peculiarity of the situation overcame him and he choked, trying to strangle another surge of wild laughter. Avalon! he thought. These dirty old Culdees, these savages, and now a new-made bunch of Icelandic Christians who hadn't the vaguest idea what Christianity meant. And the whole place stank — there were piles of ordure outside many caves. Some of the rock formations looked like heathen dolmens from the Druid days — such as he had seen in Brittany, and on the trip to Cornwall. And that, he thought, looking at the man-sized stone shaped like a gravy platter with a runnel around the edge, was certainly used once for human sacrifice — even if it wasn't any more. How soon could they get away? Surely now that Thorgerd's crew had been baptized, these extraordinary natives would be helpful.
He soon found out how wrong he was.
After the Mass was over, everyone went to a tree-shaded Council Ring outside the weird cluster of higgledy-piggledy rocks. Chief Hoksic seated himself on a long maple slab with Father Padraic beside him. And they conferred.
Norumbega, her doe eyes glistening, went and stood near Ari Marson who looked, Rumon thought, as besotted and pleased as ever a man could.
Did I look like that when Alfrida wanted me? Rumon thought with repugnance. It seemed so long ago. It had happened to a different man. And now there was Merewyn. Where was Merewyn? And where am I? Amongst the Merrimacs and Culdees in an unknown wilderness across the sea.
He no longer wished to laugh.
Father Padraic addressed his monks and Rumon. There was an hour of laborious, hesitant translations before Rumon really knew what the chief and the priest had decreed.
They were delighted with the huge ship which had been sent
them, by God — called either Manitou or Jesus, it didn't matter. Hoksic had already had her dismasted — nobody understood the sail anyway. But they could row. And such a ship would be the wonder of the Merrimac country. Would do them all great honor. The sailor, Olaf — who had been left on guard by Ari — had defended the ship and had been brained by a tomahawk. Father Padraic regretted this violence but the man was after all only a heathen, not having been summoned to the baptism. Rumon — here Father Padraic bowed slightly towards him — and Thorgerd's crew might found a community not far away; they would be given food until they learned how to get it for themselves. They would also be given Indian women to sleep with and work for them. There were plenty of women in the tribe. All would be agreeable. Hoksic, from past experience and that of his father, had learned that men of different races could live together pleasantly. Moreover, the tribe would be strengthened by the birth of many babies.
Here Norumbega said something shyly to Hoksic, who raised and lowered his hand, then made a perfunctory sign of the cross.
"My daughter wishes that man," he said, pointing to Ari, "and I will give her to him, since he is the chief of these strangers." •
Norumbega moved closer to Ari, who put his arm around her, and chuckled joyfully when she nestled against him.
Rumon gasped. He sprang towards Ari, shouting, "You dolt, you fool! You're mad! Don't you understand what they're doing? They've got your ship, and they mean to keep it. They want us to stay here forever — make babies for their tribe. What about your wife, your home, your sons, your ship? How can you stand there like a grinning idiot?"
Ari waved him away tolerantly. "It's good here," he said. "I'm a lucky man. And now I bow to your god, since he brought us here."
The watchful circle, seeing the way things were going, made
approving noises and looked with amusement at Rumon, whose anger drained out leaving despair.
He wandered away from the Council Ring towards the acres of stones. Nobody stopped him. Nor did they stop Jorund who followed. When Rumon got to the avenue of what looked like menhirs, Jorund came up to him. The young Icelander was flushed, his blue eyes wary. "Careful —" he said. "We must bide our time. I've no more wish to stay here than you. Nor has most of the crew. But we must plan and wait. Do you agree?"
Rumon bowed his head. "How long?" he said in a whisper. "Blessed Lord — how long must we stay here?"
Jorund shrugged. "That depends upon Thor, Odin, or this new god you beHeve in. Take one of the women skraelings to your bed —" Rumon made a gesture of disgust. "Well, nor do I want to, for I love my Katla, yet to sleep with those —" he gestured towards the Indian village, "is nothing, and will please the skraelings, and the old men with crosses. They'll be off guard."
"I don't want any woman but Merewyn," said Rumon. He watched a mosquito land on his arm and bite; when he swatted it he looked doAvn at the drop of blood.
"I think there will be no bloodshed," said Jorund with a mixture of understanding and sarcasm. "I do not like it myself, but —" The young man threw back his head, and began to chant in his "skald" voice a poem to which he was suddenly inspired:
Sometimes should spill. . . the scarlet safeguard. We are tormented thralls ... In this terrain of trolls. Our leader lost in lechery . . . She-skraeling has seduced. We must find freedom . . . Across Aegir's whale-way.
"Yes," said Rumon. "It's a good poem, Jorund."
chapteR ten
On A May afternoon in the year 984, Merewyn sat on a bench outside her homestead at Langarfoss, near the Borgarfjord in western Iceland. She was enjoying the bursts of briUiant sun-hght as she pulled wool from a mass beside her and expertly twirled long threads on a spindle. Her little boy, Orm, crooned to himself as he played some game of digging holes amongst the new scanty grass.
Orm was fifteen months old, yet already manly, she thought, and so like his father — Sigurd. Orm's curls were golden, he had great blue, serious eyes. She loved him dearly, as she had come — in time — to love Sigurd. And her home. Though at first, this country of ice, snow, boiling waters, and never a real tree had frightened her.
For a while everything had frightened her. She had been nearly mad in those early days. Afraid to speak, almost afraid to move. Frozen, she was then, Uke the glacier behind to the west on Snaefellsnes. And always wondering what they would do to her. She had hated Ketil-Redbeard, her father, never allowing herself to admit that he ivas her father. But she knew it now, and he had been kind to her; not even forcing her into immediate
marriage with Sigurd who asked for her. They had all been patient with her daft state which she could barely remember.
She looked up as a flock of purple snipe flew from the south over her head. That was good luck if they passed from the south, and they were soon followed by
four singing swans — MORE good luck! She had learned these things from Sigurd's widowed mother, Asgerd, who had despised Merewyn until the birth of Httle Orm, when her midwifery had saved the baby. Asgerd had quarreled with Sigurd, furious that he should marry a foreign captive, and Ketil's bastard to boot. Matters improved when Ketil adopted Merewyn as his daughter before the local assembly, or Thing, gave her a dowry and proclaimed her his heir, for he had no other hving children. Ketil's wife and two sons had all died together of a spotted lung-rot, while he was out a-viking, some years ago. This sorrowful happening, as Merewyn now knew, had increased his fondness for her. Also she much resembled Ketil's long-dead mother. He often remarked on it.
Merewyn twirled her spindle, and her gaze went as usual towards the beauty of the Hafnarfell Mountains directly in front of her. They loomed up across Borgarfjord, and were all snowcapped, with white snow threads trickling down them Uke a fringe. Vaguely amused for a moment, she remembered how exciting she had thought the littie Mendips in England. But she seldom Hngered on thoughts of England, where she had suffered so much.
The Hafnarf ells were inhabited only by trolls, and the ptarmigan which brave lads sometimes went there to snare. One of the peaks was triangular like a farmhouse gable. She liked to watch it turn rose-violet under the slanting rays of the late-night sun. So did the river Langa turn pink as it meandered down below the mountains to Join the bay called Borgarfjord.
Smiling, she watched Orm make another hole and pack it carefully with stunted bits of grass. The singing swans had gone, but there were many other comfortable noises in the clear
