Viking Hostage

by Warr, Tracey;

  The soldier stared at Thorgils for some time and then nodded. The four big men with Aina and Ulf in the midst of them sidled their way through the slim passage allowed by the Bretar guards, in through the doorway. If there was any trouble inside and they needed Toki’s assistance Thorgils knew they had only to issue a whistling signal and Toki would have all that crowd of soldiery flattened and laid out for him to run over in an instant.

  There was a long, dark staircase ahead of them and Thorgils took the small uneven steps two at a time. The dark hallway and narrow staircase issued into a surprisingly large, light room on the first floor, where a fire crackled, wooden floorboards glistened and sun streamed in through long arched window openings that reached from ceiling to floor. At the far end of the long room, a thick-set grey haired man sat on a carved wooden throne raised up on a dais. A slight fair-haired girl stood behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder, watching them approach with frank interest.

  Thorgils inclined his head briefly and then lifted his gaze to the King.

  ‘Welcome Jarl Thorgils and to the men and lady of your party,’ Maredudd said, speaking in Bretar. Rhodi stepped up to whisper a translation at Thorgils’ shoulder, and to translate the Jarl’s words to the King.

  ‘Greetings King Maredudd,’ Thorgils said cheerfully.

  ‘You come to petition me?’ the King asked.

  ‘No!’ Thorgils smiled. ‘You invited me a few years back, but I’ve been overbusy. Now here I am.’

  The King smiled back at Thorgils’ blithe frankness, responding to the translation. ‘Well, I thank you. I had not looked for it after all this time but your coming now is welcome and timely again.’

  He exchanged a few words over his shoulder with the girl, who stepped down, moving shyly past Thorgils and speaking to a servant waiting at the door. Wine and bread were brought for the King’s visitors and then Maredudd resumed their conversation. ‘As you know when last we had dealings my kingdom was much ravaged by your countryman, Godfrey Haraldsson, late of Mann and now squatting on my land on the Isle of Anglesey. He ravaged my holdings and enslaved many of my people, made Cymry into a sword-land laced with fires and screams.’

  ‘Not my countryman,’ said Thorgils. ‘My country is the sea and its islands.’

  Maredudd inclined his head. ‘Your base is on Kelda Ey, I understand, off the coast near Dinbych-y-psygod?’

  Thorgils nodded.

  ‘I know that not all you Northmen are the same or all in league together, though doubtless you are all inclined one to the other if the wind is fair. I would like to suggest that the wind might be fair with you in my direction instead.’

  Thorgils grinned at the king’s nautical flattery and waited.

  ‘What is it that you want here Jarl Thorgils, in my gwlad, my domains?’

  ‘Land, silver, peace,’ Thorgils said. ‘Here is my wife and child,’ he gestured to Aina and the king inclined his head with great politeness to her. ‘I and my men look to live in peace with enough to sustain us.’

  Maredudd’s expression indicated that he took Thorgils’ meaning. He needed more to sustain them than he already had. ‘You have annexed my island of Kelda Ey,’ he said, ‘and you are welcome to it if you live there in peace, Jarl.’

  Thorgils waited. He did not need this old man to ‘give’ him Kelda Ey or any other island.

  ‘I would strike a bargain with you Jarl, for I know of your strength and wisdom.’

  Aina suppressed the frustration that ached to grimace on her face or issue out in loud sighs. This King was long-winded and Thorgils, she thought, is not in need of your flattery, Maredudd. Feeling a twinge in her back, she hefted Ulf’s bonny weight to her other hip.

  ‘I need good men like you and yours in my army for this summer’s campaigning in Morgannwg,’ Maredudd declared.

  Aina watched Thorgils raise his eyebrows. ‘And why would I sacrifice my peace and leave my land and let my men face down the raven and wolf time again?’ he asked.

  ‘If you will give me your allegiance, swear to aid me and not those other Northmen ravaging my coasts, support me in campaign, I’ll gift to you the tolls and tithes of the market in the hill fort of Dinbych-y-pysgod, and some good parcels of farmland close to the fort.’

  ‘I’ll be needing ten such parcels,’ Thorgils said, with barely a pause for thinking it through. He knew how many of his men were in want of land that could not be found for them on Kelda Ey.

  Maredudd considered him. ‘How many men can you bring me, including yourself Jarl?’

  ‘I’ll be bringing you forty men and each one of them worth three of anything Godfrey Haraldsson can muster.’

  The King’s eyes gleamed and he nodded. ‘We have a bargain, my friend, and you may do homage to me in this case.’

  ‘Homage is not our way, King,’ Thorgils said. ‘Have you not heard the story of how Rollo, the Norse chieftain, received the lands of Normandy from the Frankish King Charles?’

  Maredudd shook his head and Aina shifted Ulf back up higher on her hip, irritated at this doubtless apocryphal story that she had heard tell before to the chagrin of her own countrymen, but perhaps Maredudd would find it amusing.

  ‘When King Charles gave Normandy to Rollo, who was the first Duke of that line, the king’s servants said that Rollo should kiss the king’s foot in thanks which Rollo refused to do but he ordered one of his men to do it. The man stepped forward, lifted the king’s foot, threw him on his back, and kissed it.’ Thorgils’ men and the Bretar standing around laughed loudly at the story, and Maredudd, Aina saw with relief, was grinning broadly. Another man’s misfortune, it seemed, could always be enjoyed.

  ‘I will give you my oath of loyalty instead King Maredudd, that I swear on behalf of my household, all that are living, and also all that are yet unborn,’ said Thorgils, and again Aina felt a concern at his words. After all the yet unborn would be forming in her womb and she had a say over that. She would be sure to remind Thorgils of that salient fact later, in private.

  There was an uneasy truce at the feasting table that night with Maredudd’s men who at first cast suspicious glances at Thorgils’ blond and ruddy giants, but grew more sloppy friendly as the night wore on, the beer flowed and they heard these men would be fighting with them, rather than ranged against them.

  Aina sat alongside Maredudd’s young daughter, Angharad, who was delighted by Ulf and took him from Aina at intervals so that she might eat and drink with more ease. ‘Do you have a brother?’ Aina asked. ‘Does your father have an heir?’

  The girl’s face fell. ‘Not anymore,’ she said and Aina waited for her to regain her composure. ‘My brother, Cadwallon, he died last year, so no.’

  ‘So you are your father’s heir?’

  The girl frowned perplexed at her. ‘No. It’s my cousins, of course: Edwin, Tewdwr and Einon.’

  Now it was Aina’s turn to frown, not understanding. ‘Not you?’

  ‘A girl is not an heir here,’ Angharad said.

  ‘Oh I see,’ said Aina. ‘Where I come from, in the Limousin, she is.’

  ‘In England too,’ said Angharad, ‘but I am glad of it. They would all be fighting over me like dogs with a bone, if I were the heir.’

  Aina grimaced. ‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘So it is.’ She looked up as she heard the notes of Thorgils’ strong and stirring singing voice and then his men joining one at a time and then in harmony. Maredudd wiped a tear from the corner of one eye, and the friendly atmosphere increased several more notches. Maredudd signalled to one of his captains who stood with a group of his men to reciprocate with their own harmonious and moving song. After the singing Maredudd’s bard stepped up and told them tales of the king’s valour and wisdom.

  ‘This place Maredudd gives me,’ Thorgils told Aina the next morning, ‘its name means little fortress of the fishes.’ He grinned. ‘I like that.’

  ‘You should put a man of this country, a Bretar, in charge of your new rights at the hill fort,’ Aina told Thorgils.
‘A man you can trust absolutely but who can talk easy with these people and knows their ways.’

  Thorgils nodded at her sagacity, knowing she drew on a fund of knowledge from her father who had been a very successful merchant and ruler in the great Frank city of Limoges where his sister Sigrid was now Viscountess. It was often trying but also often downright useful to have taken this Frankish woman as his concubine, and always so very delightful, he thought, looking into her grey eyes with their fringing of long black lashes.

  24

  Limoges

  994

  I swallow my anxiety watching the maids filling the tub with hot water and sweet smelling herbs. It is one thing to consummate my marriage with Guy in the dark of our bed, but I am not yet used to him, to being his wife. My husband has returned from hunting and it is my duty to bathe him. I roll up my sleeves and knot the straps of my apron behind me, smoothing it to ensure it covers every inch of my green brocade dress. Perhaps I should have worn something less expensive but I recall that Melisende always wore the same rich clothing when she bathed Ademar, especially in the last days of his declining health. I am startled from my thoughts of how Ademar suffered, by the squeak of the door as Guy comes in wearing a long brown embroidered robe with a cord holding it closed at his waist. His feet are bare and the robe is open on the pale skin of his chest. The maids grin at each other, at me and then scuttle from the room.

  Guy clears his throat. ‘I could do this myself, wife, if you would rather,’ he says.

  I look him in the face. ‘I would rather do it for you, husband,’ I say firmly and reach out a hand to him, leading him to the bath that steams and fills our nostrils with the scent of lavender. Guy clears his throat again and I sense his uncertainty and embarrassment. I step close to him and unloop the cord at his waist so that the robe falls slightly open. My eyes skim over his white belly, the dark bush of pubic hair, the white and red flesh of his penis and testicles. I smile boldly into his face and slip the fabric of the robe across his shoulders, off onto the floor. His skin is very pale and seems to slink around the knobs and bumps of his rangy skeleton with little fat or muscle apparent anywhere. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot to test the water,’ I say, suddenly flustered. It would have been so much easier if I could have helped him step smoothly into the tub now, but instead I have to leave him standing there exposed whilst I fiddle around getting the water temperature right.

  ‘Ah …’ he says.

  I dip my hand swiftly into the water pulling it out with a yelp at the scalding heat. ‘Far too hot!’ My face is burning red as my fingertips. I reach for the heavy jug of cold water.

  ‘Let me,’ he says, taking its weight from me and tipping the water in. He tests the water again. ‘Perfect. You have it perfect Aina,’ he says calmly, laying a hand on my arm. ‘Don’t worry.’ So many times I have had to stop myself looking over my shoulder for her, when he calls me by her name.

  I smile nervously and watch him step into the water and lower himself in. He closes his eyes and grins like a smug cat at the pleasure of the water assuaging his muscles after a day in the saddle. It is a relief to have him at least covered by, if still visible in, the water. The maids have placed a thick cushion at the side of the bath and I lift my skirts and apron and kneel down on it. ‘May I wash you, my lord?’ I say.

  ‘Well, Aina, it’s really not …’

  ‘I will,’ I say interrupting him. The bar of soap is in my hand but I am uncertain where to begin – at his head, his shoulders, his feet? I decide to begin with his feet, for then I do not have to look in his face. Clumsily I touch his calf indicating that he should lift his foot. He does so and I wash first one foot, calf and knee and then the other. I decide that his thighs and genitals should be self-washing, immersed as they are in the water and so I progress to sliding my soapy hands over his shoulders and chest. ‘Lean forward,’ I say and he does so while I soap his back and then I see that his shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter. I push one shoulder back against the padded wood of the tub and ask offended, ‘Why do you laugh at me, Guy?’

  ‘You are handling me like a child,’ he says, laughing openly now and I let go of my anxiety and laugh with him. He places a wet hand on my splendid brocade and pulls me unresisting towards him and kisses me.

  I pull out of his embrace. ‘My dress!’ I say in distress.

  ‘Hmm,’ he says, standing, so that the water pours down from him, vestiges of soap on his chest where I have washed him so badly, ‘best take it off I think.’

  I look over my shoulder to see that the door is latched and reach behind me to the knot of my apron.

  I arrived in Limoges with the threat of war hanging over the city. After Adalmode wed Audebert against the wishes of the Aquitaine family and without their permission, Guy told me, they threatened war. Young Guillaume, the Duke’s son was gathering and training soldiers.

  ‘Could you seek reconciliation?’ I ask him, ‘instead of war. The marriage is done now and time will have soothed his anger and perhaps you can avert conflict with reassurances of your remorse and loyalty? Gifts?’

  ‘Yes, this is good advice, Aina.’

  He went to the Easter Assembly in Poitiers and came back with a pardon from Guillaume for his offence. ‘Audebert has not asked for pardon.’

  ‘Count Audebert and Count Fulk are readying for war and seek it,’ I say, ‘but we should avoid it for the people of Limoges if we can.’

  He nods. ‘Audebert says he has no need of my troops, so I’ll stay out of it, but I’ll not take the field against him and my sister, on behalf of the Duke.’

  Guy schools me on the political situation that he is contending with, so that I might help him in discussing it. The Duchess of Aquitaine, he tells me, who had been estranged from her husband and left him, returned two years ago. He had to make many concessions to get her back, including a hugely increased dowry that has allowed her foundations of the abbeys of Bourgeuil and Maillezais. All say that the reconciliation of the Duke and Duchess is a façade. The collapse of Lady Blanche’s marriage to King Louis and then the end of Charlemagne’s line with his death, should have enabled the Duke to fully reclaim his title to control in Aquitaine, but the Duke had fallen into an enfeebled condition during Emma’s absence so she immediately took charge of affairs, antagonising many of the sycophants at court. She was skilled in reinforcing alliances with the local nobility: Thouars, Châtellerault, Aulnay, Angoulême, Marcillac.

  ‘It’s hard – well impossible – to like her,’ Guy said, ‘but you do have to admire her and as vassals we have to be grateful for her forceful effectiveness.’

  ‘What about her son, Guillaume? Isn’t he of age?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, but they say his mother continues as if he were still a child. She cuts him out of Council meetings and justice hearings. She commands everything and he is not allowed.

  Last year the old Duke of Aquitaine entered the monastery of Saint Cyprien during a serious illness and on the advice of his wife, Emma, was tonsured on what he thought was his deathbed. Emma, now took control of the Duchy as Regent for young Guillaume. However the old Duke rallied and is in health again but finds himself confined as a monk and his wife sitting on his throne and conducting the affairs of Aquitaine in consultation with her brother, the Count of Blois. The times continue uncertain as King Hugh Capet is aging and the lords are unsure of the strength and character of his son Robert who will soon take the crown in his stead.

  The old Duke yet does battle with his wife,’ Guy told me, ‘seeking to influence the affairs of the world despite his monk’s cowl. He subjected her Abbey of Maillezais to the control of Saint Cyprien and ejected the monks that she bought from her homeland in Tours, and now he threatens the same at her Abbey of Bourgeuil. The Regent Duchess is ablaze with anger at these acts and seeks the support of her brother. The old Duke has reneged on his agreement at Charroux – that was made on his behalf by his wife – and has appointed himself the Abbot of Nouaillé. It is said that he i
s in conflict with his own Abbot in Saint Cyprien.’

  That men in monks’ cowls are hypocritical and behave like warring lords does not surprise me, but I keep my opinion to myself.

  Archbishop Gunbaldus of Bordeaux, who called an earlier Peace Council in Charroux whilst I was away a ‘Viking hostage’, has approached Guy and Hilduin asking to organise another Peace Council here in Limoges later this year – in November. ‘In the five years since Charroux,’ he wrote to Guy, ‘there is still much violence abroad.’ Guy of course has accepted this request and now I am busy preparing for the influx of clergy, lords, pilgrims, travelling merchants and visitors who will descend on Limoges for the event.

  I enjoy the challenge of managing the Limoges household and supporting my husband in his work as Viscount. In the autumn nuts and berries were plenteous and we could add those to our feasts: bowls sat on the trestle in the hall filled with walnuts, almonds, hazelnuts, chestnuts, elderberry, blackberry and rose hips. In the winter, after the Christmas feasting, we were uncertain whether the supplies of salted, smoked and fat-stored meat would last beyond March and into the next growing season. I instructed the cook on making a tasty soup with what the stores or the ground could give us in the lean months: parsley, celery, turnips, leeks, garlic, shallots, onions or cabbages. Like dried fish, however, there is a limit to how many bean suppers anyone can happily eat. When we were starting to suffer from the men’s flatulence and an excessive thronging in the privies I knew we had to reduce beans and find more meat for our meals. I sent the kitchen boys scavenging for mushrooms and wild greens but sometimes those also had an unfortunate effect on our bowels. Guy is not enamoured with gruel no matter how hard I try to convince him of its virtues. Now, in the summer, there is an abundance of fruit: pears, apples, quinces, plums and cherries.