“I feel really cold,” I said, but my forehead proved moist as I wiped my hand over it.
I’d been fine on the way back to Alexandria. Confused about my vision of the snow and the great stones, but otherwise fine. This morning I’d woken up to find I’d a major dose of the runs. I’d degenerated as the morning went on, unable to face food, and water passed straight through me. Aida’s dad had given me a small brown pill he said would help. It had a bit. I hadn’t thrown up since I’d taken it. But I was cutting a groove between my bed and the bathroom with the frequency of my visits.
“You were great doing the limbo last night,” Natasha smiled.
The downside of being so close to the stage meant we’d been chosen to come and follow the professional limbo-dancers. I’d hit the bar with my chin at some unimpressive height. Natasha, fit from her football, and much more supple than me, had been truly impressive.
“I had those chicken wings, remember?”
“Oh. Right. I avoided those,” said Natasha. “Must have been them. You said they were too spicy.”
“Sorry, Nat,” I said, dashing to the toilet, unsure which end to aim at the loo first.
The Danish Captain
Sweden – about 1520
The sled bumped and ground its way along the frozen ruts of the forest lane. Gregor’s breath formed clouds that combined with the hazy fog arising from the flanks of the two horses. He cracked his whip above their ears.
“They don’t like the icy road,” he said to Håkan. “Their shoes slide.”
“They’ve a fair old weight to pull.”
“True enough,” responded Gregor.
Håkan glanced over his shoulder at the piles of neatly chopped firewood and the bundles of broom. Sitting at the back of the sled on a stack of broom-wood, his legs dangling over the end, was Bengt. His thick winter cloak pulled close, he had swaddled his head in a wool cap and old scarves to keep out the bitter wind.
“Why didn’t you go with my father, Gregor?” asked Håkan.
“I dearly wanted to, son, but someone had to stay and help your mother keep the farm working as it should. We were raised together, Matts and me, and our friendship was firm as children. It’s remained so, so it has. It’s my honour to serve your family as it was my father’s before me, may he rest in the Lord’s peace.”
Håkan glanced behind once more at the back of Bengt and the snow-dusted trees surrounding the lane they’d travelled on this last half hour. Gregor leaned close.
“It’s all right, Håkan. He cannot hear what we say. Old Bengt is really deaf you know. I have to shout now to get him to hear.”
Gregor pulled his fur-lined jacket closer, as the wind provided an impromptu snow flurry from the trees above. His weather-beaten face didn’t have the lines and crevices of Old Bengt, but his cheeks sagged slightly and grey hair peaked out from under his woollen hat. His dark eyebrows bushed above his keen blue eyes. He jerked at the reins to avoid a fallen branch at the edge of the lane.
“So why have Lennart and Father gone? Mother won’t really tell me. I know they’re not trading. Or at least that’s not all they are doing.”
Gregor tugged at the curls in his grey beard. He dropped his voice and leant closer to Håkan.
“These are very dangerous times. Sweden knows its destiny has to be grabbed. The King won’t give us our country back because we smile nicely.” He spat to the side of the lane.
“But the King is ordained by God. At least that’s what Father Joseph says at the church.”
“It suits the Catholic Church to say that of a Catholic king, right enough,” said Gregor quietly. “But there are those who doubt the sanctity and true holiness of the king who rules in Rome. There are those who think the whole edifice of Christendom has become corrupt. There are those who would sweep out the spiders who grow fat at the expense of ordinary working folk. We need to take brooms like those Bengt makes and purify this rotting Church. So we do.”
Håkan felt a grin lurking within his face. He’d never heard anyone be so rude about the Catholic Church. The forest on either side remained empty of listening ears, as far as he could tell, although the thick underbrush could hide an army.
“Ho there. Pull over. Pull over, I say!”
Håkan jumped, his heart racing. The voice, thick with a Danish accent and imperious as a Roman Caesar, came from behind.
“Whoa, whoa there,” Gregor shouted to the horses as he pulled back on the reins.
Håkan pivoted round. Right behind the sled was a troop of horse, led by a young man with ash-blond hair, gathered in part in a thin plait flapping on his face. He’d been blessed with the sort of good looks saints are given in the statues in the church. How neither Gregor nor he had heard them he couldn’t fathom, as the men were jeering and the metal fittings on their horses were jangling. They carried the Danish King’s pennant.
“Pull over, you slovenly idiots,” hissed the young man. “We are about the King’s business and will brook no delay. I’ll have your ears if you hold us up further.”
Gregor kept his eyes down and urged the horses off to the frozen edge of the road. Cold leaves slapped against Håkan’s face and the runner of the sled dropped into a deep rut. The stop came so suddenly, Håkan had to grab the wooden backrest behind him to keep from falling.
The troop of horse thundered past, with an explosion of muddy ice crystals from the frozen road and without a word of thanks.
The sled wouldn’t budge.
“We’re lucky the runners didn’t break,” said Bengt.
“True enough, old friend,” said Gregor. “There’s nowt for it. We’ll have to unpack a bit to get the sled movin’ once again.”
Unpacking all the broom and some of the logs proved tiring work but brought a sweat to Håkan’s face. Half an hour later they were under way once more. Gregor glanced at the leaden sky and sighed.
“We may make the monastery before Vespers, I guess,” he said.
“Vespers? That’s evening. It’s only been light two hours hasn’t it?” said Håkan.
Gregor grinned revealing a mouth of crooked teeth with a couple of gaps.
“Here,” he said. He reached into his leather satchel and drew out a dark-green bottle. “You’ve done men’s work – have a man’s drink. Warm you up, young master.”
Håkan removed the stopper and sipped. The cold, thick water met his tongue, ignited, ran like liquid fire down his throat and cascaded a thin stream of warmth that spread miraculously throughout his body. Once he had stopped coughing and Gregor had stopped thumping his back he grinned.
“Aqua Vitae!” said Gregor, as though that would explain everything.
“Better than the warm piddle that passes for beer at the ale house, any day,” said Bengt, when he had taken a draught.
“They are killing people that oppose their Danish king,” resumed Gregor, after a while. “They’re the Pope’s mailed fist.”
Håkan felt a cold space open up in his stomach. The Danish soldiers had been well armed.
“So Father and Lennart are in real danger?”
Gregor sniffed and grimaced.
“They are doing what I would do if your father had not ordered me to remain and protect the family. Sweden will always be under the Danish spurred boot if no one tells them otherwise.”
He flicked the left flank of the left horse.
“Turn, Odin,” he said to the horse, as a narrower lane opened on their left, cutting through the oaks and lime trees that the monks had planted over the years.
“Best we leave our converse there, young master,” said Gregor as they drew near to the walls of the monastery. “I have something to deliver to one of the brothers, and then we will proceed to town.”
No trees grew close to the monastery, and the posts and nets of the vegetable and fruit gardens could be seen under their thin blanket of snow. Somewhere distant a cow lowed and the pungent aroma of dung reminded Håkan that the monks produced tasty cheeses from their smelly cows.
&nbs
p; The gate to the monastery courtyard opened and a monk came out. He had a blanket clasped around his shoulders and a woollen hat on his tonsured head, but otherwise he wore the usual brown cassock of his order, topped with a white surplice. His bare feet, a rosy pink colour, had only thin sandals to protect them from the snow and ice.
“Good morning to you, dear Gregor. You are a welcome sight. As are you, young Master Håkan. And the venerable Bengt, if I’m not mistaken. I would ask you in but we’re about to meet with the Abbot.”
“And we have to get to the town, Brother Niels. Bengt has been working hard, as you can see.”
“Ora et labora,” said Brother Niels. “Prayer and work, Håkan, prayer and work. It’s our motto, and a right blessed one at that.”
Håkan nodded, feeling none the wiser. But he knew Brother Niels worked hard at his healing and visited his mother once in a while to discuss berries and roots, using words like emetics and diuretics.
“It’s all right, my dear Brother,” said Gregor, “what you want I have right here.”
He drew a small parcel wrapped in cloth and tied with twine.
“Ah bless you, and bless Mistress Signy,” said the brother. “Her treatment for chilblains and cold-sores is sent from the Good Lord Himself.” He smiled as he crossed himself, and Håkan found himself smiling too, both at the way Brother Niel’s face lit up and in pride at his mother’s skill.
“Have you met the big German?”
Gregor frowned and shook his head.
“He was here last night. I told him of Mistress Signy but he appeared to know of her already. Mysterious man, with a prodigious love of ale. But he has a wondrous materia medica. Maybe you’ll see him in town. You cannot miss him, his voice carries a full seven leagues.”
Brother Niels threw his head back and laughed, a full-throated celebration of life that had Håkan grinning back.
“We’ll keep our eyes duly peeled,” said Gregor, smiling and clasping Brother Niels’s outstretched hand. “But we should be under way before some ice-maiden comes and takes you to her crystal cave, Brother.”
The Apothecary’s Boy
The chill wind kept most people wisely indoors within the town. Håkan made his way up the main street, glad of his thick gloves and the warm muffler over his mouth. They had left Bengt at the covered market near to the church. Brave souls would be out shopping today and had need for his brooms to sweep both dust and snow. Gregor had taken up his usual position at the far end of the square, and would sell his firewood by weight to those who needed to keep their stoves hot and their houses warm. A friend and neighbour at the market had a charcoal fire going to keep them warm. When all the chopped wood had gone, Gregor would return to the farm.
“Go to Gunnar the blacksmith, Håkan, and collect the runner for the sled. Bring it back here if you choose, or walk back if you’re not minded to wait about here all day,” Gregor had said.
“I’ll walk back, then,” said Håkan. “Weather looks okay. We might even get some sun.”
A pallid disk hinted at where the sun couldn’t quite break through the clouds, although to the west, where their farm lay, a patch of blue sky looked like a snowbound lake. Håkan picked his way with care between icy ruts and frozen puddles.
The blacksmith’s smithy lay a short walk from this street, up a lane too narrow and steep for Gregor’s sled coming from the market end of town. At the corner stood the apothecary’s shop. Valde Löfgren, the apothecary, had made it clear in the past that he disapproved of Signy and her work with herbs. Håkan’s heart sank as he saw Klas, Valde’s son, standing with a few friends outside their shop. Klas might be interested in Inge, but that hadn’t made him any friendlier towards Håkan.
Håkan walked into the road to avoid passing too close to the youths. He slipped on a piece of ice and only just kept his balance.
“Hey!” said one of the boys.
Håkan looked across at Klas and his two friends.
“Where you going?” said Klas
“Good day to you, Klas Löfgren,” said Håkan, nodding at the others whose names he didn’t remember. “I have business with Gunnar.”
“Ooh,” said the taller of the two other boys, “business with Gunnar. What are you now, a blacksmith’s errand boy?”
Håkan ignored this and muttered, “Good day,” once more in the hope that would conclude the chit-chat. He would return by a different way.
“Horrible Håkan a heathen heretic,” said Klas in a voice that carried clearly up the hill.
Håkan turned, a tremor of anger sweeping through his body. He made a sign with his gloved hand that had only one interpretation.
One of the boys was about to chase after him up the hill, but Klas stopped him by grasping his arm. He leant close and whispered something.
“Ha ha, heretic boy,” came the shout from one of Klas’s friends.
Håkan, furious and uneasy all at the same time, ducked into the glowing warmth of the smithy. Gunnar, bare-armed and incredibly muscular, with the furnace white-hot behind him, raised his arm and brought a heavy hammer down on the glowing tip of a piece of iron. With each clang sparks flew and the metal dulled slightly. He plunged the glimmering metal into a tank of water, producing a hiss worthy of some giant python.
“Hey, Håkan! How are you? No Gregor?” Gunnar grinned as he laid down the iron pole, waved at one of his apprentices to keep the bellows going, and wiped his forehead.
“Gregor’s in the market—”
“Of course he is,” said Gunnar, “of course. You’ve come for the runner brace, I expect.”
“Yes, I have,” said Håkan, unsure what he should call a man his father’s age whom everyone called Gunnar.
The big blacksmith reached for something hanging on a hook on the wall at the back of the smithy. He carefully unwrapped the curved metal, with simple but pretty workings.
“I’ve kept the design. It’ll match in with the other three, don’t worry. I expect Gregor knows how to fix it to the sled. He’s done it enough times.”
Håkan nodded. He’d no idea if Gregor knew what to do with the curved metal or not. Gunnar tapped the brace with a smaller hammer. It produced a clean ting-sound, not as deep as a bell, but suggesting there were no cracks anymore.
“This’ll stop you ending up A over T in the snow. It’s a wonder the old one held together at all.”
He wrapped the metal up in sacking and bound it at both ends.
Having thanked the blacksmith, and confirming that Gregor would settle the account the next market day, Håkan returned by the longer upper road that wound round the edge of town and, crucially, avoided the apothecary. The long icicles extended down from the eaves of the wooden houses like luminous and sharpened giant’s teeth. They glinted with dull luminosity in the dreary winter light; although they did not drip, Håkan avoided walking under them. He’d once seen a dog speared by a long dagger of ice and didn’t fancy the experience first-hand.
The Witch’s Brat
Once back on the road towards the family farmstead he breathed more easily. Klas Löfgren had a reputation as a bully. Since the trouble between his mother and Klas’s father, Håkan had kept away from him. Valde Löfgren had even used the word ‘witch’ to refer to Håkan’s mother, Signy. He didn’t get a very sympathetic hearing, even in Catholic Church circles, as most town dwellers had benefited from her skill with herbs at some point in their lives, and the Cistercian Monastery used many of her medicaments. But since his father and older brother had gone on their travels, hostility amongst some in the town had grown. He had overheard Signy and Gregor in discussion about how to deal with Löfgren and their bully of a neighbour, Kaleb Pettersson, on more than one occasion.
“I can always go north,” his mother had said mysteriously, one time, but had not explained how that would help.
The snow and ice crunched under his boots and the metal runner for the sleigh grew heavier to carry with each step. He moved it from his right to his left arm and counted 100
paces before moving it back again. As he passed the turning to the monastery some crows took off from the trees ahead of him, cawing as they flew. He hoped the cause was not a wild boar, or even worse, some wolves. Apart from the crows, nothing stirred and the snowbound woodland held its breath. Except he could hear breathing. Håkan stopped and held his own breath. Nothing. The snow-spattered trees kept their counsel. There it was again. A snigger suppressed.
“Hey! Who’s there?”
His shout disappeared amongst the trees. He shifted the metal runner so it would make a more effective weapon. He’d the strongest sensation of being watched, but peer as he might into the irregular ranks of tree trunks, and the dimly lit bushes that grew in tangled profusion amongst them, he could discern nobody.
He swallowed, took a deep breath to calm his nerves and concluded he was spooking himself unnecessarily. He walked on. The tracks left by the troop of horse that had nearly caused them to lose the sled’s runner, were to his right. Håkan wondered if the soldiers would be staying in town or moving straight on through. He would happily never see them again, especially their leader with his cruel eyes.
“Haw, haw, haw, Håkan!” A voice sounded behind him. He turned to see two boys a couple of years older than him emerging from the trees. A cold, hard clump of snow exploded off the back of his head. Staggering and turning again, Håkan ducked as another ball, more ice than snow, whistled past. Klas Löfgren and another boy from the apothecary stood a few paces in front of him, cutting off any escape route. His only hope would be to run into the forest, but the bushes and frozen shrubs would impede him and anyway the boys would likely catch him.
“Well, snivel-face, what have we here? Something stolen from the smithy no doubt. We should take that back, should we not?” Klas addressed the two boys behind Håkan who cut off his route to the town or monastery. Håkan had no doubt he could outrun any of them, but to do that he would have to get by them, and the stick held in Klas’s hand and the knife stuck in the boot of a boy behind him made that a hazardous enterprise. He backed to the edge of the road and held the metal runner to one side so he could swing it if he had to.
Time Knot Page 14
