“Did he do this?” he demanded.
“No, sir, he did not,” the maid answered, her lips quivering. “The one outside this door did. He said that I could bargain for my life with ... w-with my charms, and then he struck me and said that if I did not then I would have more of the same to look forward to before I died.”
“You offered yourself in exchange for your life,” Torsten repeated, turning to glare at his brother.
“Don’t look at me like that, I did not know,” Einarr protested, surprisingly genuine. “I was led to this room and here she was.”
“You did not notice that she was terrified and injured?”
“Well ... ja, perhaps. But who am I to turn away a gift when offered?”
Torsten clenched his fists and cursed himself for not skewering Bjurr when he’d had the chance.
“You are safe,” he assured the maid. “He would not see you killed.”
“But he would see me sold,” she argued, her voice barely above a whisper.
Torsten did not answer. He could not, for she was right. Instead he stood and approached Einarr, who was now sitting up and leaning comfortably against the headboard of the bed.
“I’m finished with this,” he said solemnly. “I will do this no more.”
Einarr regarded his brother, judging the sincerity in his face and his voice. “Something tells me it was not this bit with the wench that has caused this.”
“No,” Torsten said. “It is because you promised me that no women or children would be harmed. But I have see proof that your words went unheeded by the men. A young woman and her child lie dead on the shore this day.”
“That is regrettable,” Einarr agreed, “but is it just the one woman and one child? That is really not so bad when you consider how many women and children are normally killed in raids.”
“It is not good enough for me.”
Einarr’s brows drew together and he huffed sharply. “Truly, brother, I do not understand where this soft streak in you comes from. Raiding is a part of what we do, of who we are. Why can you not see that? All your life you have been this way: a warrior with no heart for war. You shy away from death in a way I’ve never seen before from any other man. Why?”
It was a question his brother had asked him more than once over the years and still Torsten could not answer it.
It was true, he had been raised a warrior, was good with a sword and gifted with tactic. It was as if the gods had intended him for battle. As they had Einarr, and their father before them. Why, then, had he never been able to reconcile himself with his divine destiny?
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I do know that I shall have no part in it anymore. From this moment on.”
Einarr nodded. “Well then, brother, you will be missed amongst my ranks. I wish you well in all you do. You will be home to visit, will you not? You will not simply disappear on us?”
“Of course not. I mean to become a trader, though of what yet I do not know. I will be home as often as possible.”
“Good luck to you then,” Einarr said.
Torsten nodded. He did not rush forward to embrace his brother, nor did he attempt to shake his hand. They understood one another in this, but in little else. They had nothing more to say to one another.
Striding towards the door he inclined his head for the maid, who was still hunched in the corner, to leave with him. She stood uncertainly, holding together the scraps of her bodice, and followed him from the room.
Outside, Bjurr’s wench had joined him, and the pair stood laughing and leaning against one another.
“Finally,” Bjurr huffed when Torsten and the maid appeared. “I was starting to think I’d have to take my whore out here against the wall.”
The wench laughed, a shrill, false sound. “Whatever tickles your fancy, love.”
Rage at the man’s cruelty boiled Torsten’s blood, and before he had time to think of his actions he drove his fist between Bjurr’s legs. Bjurr doubled over with a groan, his face turning purple.
“I don’t think you’ll be taking any wenches this night,” Torsten spat.
“Hey,” the whore protested. “What about my coin? You just took away my coin, you argr!”
Before she had finished her tirade, Torsten reached into his pocket, and with little bother to hide his disdain for the woman, tossed a handful of coins at her.
“For your troubles,” he mocked. Then he led the frightened maid down the stairs. The sound of Bjurr’s cursing followed them.
A fine, misting rain had begun to drift to the earth as they made their way back to the forlorn little root cellar where the captives were being held. Torsten walked slightly behind the girl, who kept her arms wrapped around herself to hold her dress in place. The slope of her neck shimmered with the moisture that landed there, and he noticed there were long, deep scratch marks that extended from her earlobe to below the neckline of her garment. He muttered a curse beneath his breath. A hoofing in the balls was too good for that bastard Bjurr.
“Thank you, sir,” she sniffled once they were farther away from the tavern. “I beg you understand that I am not a ... I am not fallen. I thought—”
“No,” Torsten silenced her gently. “There is no need of an explanation.”
They walked along in the darkness with no further words, and when they reached the raised piece of grass-covered earth under which the cellar was dug, the girl stopped. With a silent, indrawn breath she closed her eyes, preparing to be thrown back into the darkness below with the others. As she stepped onto the first stone stair that would take her below, Torsten put a hand on her shoulder.
“This wench has bartered herself in exchange for her freedom, and for the freedom of the other captives,” he announced to the guard who leaned casually against the door. “Einarr has accepted the bargain, and I am here to ensure that his decree is enforced.”
The girl stiffened at his side, but said nothing. Torsten did not turn to see whether her face betrayed the lie, and kept his eyes on the guard with confidence. The guard peered at him dubiously, but the tattered state of the maid’s gown lent credence to the claim. He shrugged and unlocked the gate without question.
Inside, the captured villagers were crowded together in the far corner of the small, dank hole. They cowered as the guard’s massive shape filled the entrance, barring their way to freedom. The man lumbered down the few short steps and grabbed the arm of the nearest woman. She yelped in fear as he pulled her roughly to her feet.
“You’re free,” the guard grumbled and yanked her in the direction of the door. She landed in a sprawl on the steps, her palms scraping against the stone. “Leave before we change our minds.”
In a line, and holding onto one another, the captives scurried from the cellar, congregating at the top only long enough to get their bearings. Then, without further hesitation, they darted as a group for the shelter of the far off trees.
The young woman with her tattered gown glanced back at Torsten once, her eyes wide with gratitude and awe. And then she was gone. Torsten watched until he could no longer see their forms in the distance.
“You had better be speaking true,” the guard snapped, still suspicious of what he’d been told. “If I’m called to account for this, I’m pointing the finger of blame squarely at you.”
“I beg you do,” Torsten responded dryly. “By the by, here is something for your troubles.” He flipped a coin at the man who bit it to ensure its authenticity. Then with a grunt of satisfaction, the guard departed for the tavern. He’d been prevented the company of a willing wench long enough.
Alone, Torsten leaned against the grass bank of the cellar and looked out over the ruined town of Bjarmaland, now silent as the dead who still littered the streets and the burned out buildings. He felt defeated. Drained. He could not do this anymore. If this was the Viking way then perhaps he was not a true Viking, for each time he took part in a raid it killed a piece of his soul. Perhaps the others had no souls, perhaps that was wh
y they could raid and kill and pillage without a thought.
Whatever the case, it did not matter. No more would Torsten be a part of it. His decision resolute, he headed for the docks where the Bjarmalanders’ ships were still tethered. They would not mind if he took a small craft which he could man himself. The dead would not need them now.
* * *
Fara had seen this same vision before: a fleet of Viking longships approaching its shore. Great, sleek hulls advanced through the waves, slicing the rolling surface; a legion of fierce Norse warriors rowed long, pale oars in unison. Their thickly muscled arms were, like before, wrapped in bands of gold, and their frighteningly large bodies were once again garbed in leather and fur.
In appearance they were just as terrifying now as they had been the first time they’d landed on the island. But this time, watching them come from her vantage on the cliff above, Norah was not terrified like she had been then. Instead, she was strangely dull inside, and stared down at the sea with passive disinterest.
True to his promise, the Viking leader, Einarr Alfradsson, was returning to Fara with his men after a summer of raiding. He would spend the autumn and winter months between the island and his new settlement on Rysa Beag where he would farm his land and teach the men of Clan Gallach to fight in the Viking way.
It was a curious thing that his hands were not stained with the blood of the many he’d killed that summer. She wondered if the season had been a successful one, if his plunder had been bountiful. If the body count had been satisfactory.
In contrast, the clan had spent its summer grieving for its dead. So many were gone from their numbers, and so many of the survivors would find themselves in an endless cycle of forgetting and remembering. Forgetting for a moment that a father, a brother, a grandfather was no longer there, and then the cruel, sharp pain of remembering that a joke could not be shared, an inconsequential message could not be passed on. It was the remembering that was the worst part. Norah herself had forgotten on more than one occasion and had felt the painful twist of remembering again.
But of all those the clan had lost, it was Garrett she missed the most. He was not there for her to talk to, not there to shelter her from the wary glances of the islanders towards the chief’s mad daughter when they thought she wasn’t looking.
Norah sensed a guilt in her father over Garrett’s decision to leave. As if he were somehow to blame for whatever discord had developed between father and son. But why that was so she did not understand.
“They are here then?” said Cinead, coming to her side. His footsteps were soft upon the dewed grass, and his small arm grazed hers when he stopped.
“I suppose they are,” she answered, draping her arm over his shoulder. “D’ye suppose ye’ll be joining the men in learning to fight like the Norse?”
Cinead’s brows drew sharply together. “I shall never let them teach me anything. I hate them!”
“I dinna blame ye, lad,” Norah said. Her throat tightened at the pain in Cinead’s voice which his show of anger did little to disguise.
Together they observed as the first longship reached the beach. Its hull slid gracefully up over the sand and rocks, cleaving a cradle for itself in which to nest. The Viking at the helm of the ship jumped to the shore, his boots splashing in the shallow water. With a wide grin, Einarr extended his hand to Fearchar, who was waiting on the sand for his guests.
Cinead snorted in disgust at the Viking leader’s greeting, as if he and the Gallach chief were old friends. Fearchar accepted Einarr’s hand hesitantly and offered words of welcome, though what he said could not be heard from where Norah and Cinead stood.
Below, Einarr surveyed the island proudly as his men disembarked from his crafts. This piece of land would be his someday. Glancing up, he noticed a movement on the cliff above. There stood a young woman with a boy at her side. Einarr grinned with pleasure at the sight of her. This, he was certain, was his bride.
Fearchar had not lied: she was indeed breathtaking. Long, plentiful hair a deep, vibrant shade of red drifted in the cold, autumn breeze. Her eyes, as green as the waves over which he’d travelled, were set against a fresh, pale face with cheeks and lips flushed pink. Her simple woollen gown, draped over a body which already promising great things in its womanhood, rippled down her legs, disappearing into the unnaturally thick mist which swirled at her ankles.
He’d promised Fearchar he would not tell the girl of their arrangement, and he intended to be true to his word, but only because he was struck by the strength of the father’s love for his daughter. Though the way she was looking down at him tightened his groin something fierce.
She was unafraid; unmoved by the happenings on the beach. She’d been broken by the raid on her people that spring; it was visible in her face and her stance. But beneath, Einarr sensed a spirit in her which was still very much intact, and which he suspected he’d thoroughly enjoy breaking.
Perhaps he might come to love her, respect her even. Just perhaps.
Six
Three years later ...
“Norah, hold still, will ye? Ye’re squirming like a wee bairn.”
“I wouldna squirm, Mama, if ye’d no’ pull my hair so.” Norah yanked her head defiantly in the opposite direction of Iseabal’s pull as the lady weaved her daughter’s tresses into an intricate plait.
“And I wouldna be pulling if ye werena squirming so,” Iseabal sniped back.
Norah huffed and crossed her arms over her chest as if she were a child, not a lady of her nineteen years. She was not usually this insolent, but the wave of still, hot air which hovered over the island served to aggravate her to no end.
It was an unusual autumn, the islanders agreed. Never was the air so still with the constant influence of the sea breezes, and such heat at this time of year was surely an omen of something. But whether that omen was good or bad, they could not decide amongst themselves.
Norah cursed the omen, whichever it was, as she sweated within the folds of her silken tunic and fine linen shift. A shift with full sleeves at that, for Iseabal admired their delicate embroidery at the wrists.
“And why must I wear silk?” she added. “When have we ever worn silk for those brute Vikings?”
“Well why should ye no'?” Iseabal answered. “Ye’re a lady now, and ye must look the part.”
“Ye were a lady last year, and the year before that, and ye’ve never worn anything but wool.” Norah examined her mother through narrowed eyes. The lady certainly was acting strange this day. She’d been acting strangely for several days, come to think of it. Part of Iseabal’s behaviour might be explained by the fact that the clan’s Norse allies were returning this night to the island for another season. Yet another winter would the Norsemen spend on Fara, gorging themselves on its ale and mead, and depleting its stores of food as if they were entitled to all that its people had worked so hard to harvest.
That fact did not, however, explain everything. Like why her mother insisted on this silk nonsense when she never had before.
The Norse invaders had been a part of life on Fara for three years this past spring, in one form or another. In all that time Norah had not managed to adjust herself to their presence. She was not alone. Few of the islanders had grown accustomed to them, for none could forget the reason why they had become allies to begin with. The islanders tolerated their Norse neighbours with wary acceptance, a forced respect only because of the power they might weald if displeased. Their alliance was no more than a matter of self-preservation, and none on Fara ever forgot it.
Not even the lady of the clan. Which made her behaviour even more strange.
“Mother, what are ye hiding?” Norah said slowly.
Lady Iseabal declined to answer. Instead, she pulled more insistently on Norah’s plait, winding the strands at the end to complete her work.
“There,” she exclaimed when she had finished. “Doesna my daughter look beautiful!” She stepped back to admire the results of her labour, her hands clapped
together and pressed to her mouth overtop a proud smile.
Norah stood from the stool on which she’d been perched miserably and crossed the room to the simple, unadorned table in the corner. Bending at the waist, she peered into the small mirror of polished tin on top and gazed with disinterest at her reflection. She must admit, her mother had done a fine job. Norah’s long, scarlet tresses crossed and looped over each other with precision, highlighting shimmering strands of gold that wove their way through the design. She grunted with distaste. She looked like a bloody princess.
“Ye havena answered me, mother,” she pressed. “What are ye hiding?”
“Why should I be hiding anything, cheeky lass?” Lady Iseabal insisted, but her voice wavered at the lie. She turned so her face would not betray her, and busied her hands by smoothing out invisible wrinkles on the quilts over the bed.
What she was hiding was that Einarr Alfradsson had not come last autumn to marry Norah when he was expected to. With the passing of the Norseman’s father two winters ago, he had stayed at his family’s holdings in Hvaleyrr to oversee the estate for the summer season and into the following winter. It had drawn the agreed-upon length of time for the marriage from two years to three. If Einarr had come last summer, her daughter would have been married by now, perhaps with a wee bairn to show for it.
Norah, poor, naive Norah, did not realize that her freedom was enjoyed on borrowed time. She did not realize that Einarr was coming tonight, and that her betrothal would be announced whether she was prepared or not. Iseabal had fretted about it for days. For years, if truth be told.
“Ye’ll be wearing a hole in the covers if ye smooth them out any more,” Norah chided.
Iseabal’s hands stilled over the quilt, and her mouth opened to speak. Mercifully, though, she was spared by the scamper of feet up the wooden steps of the keep.
“Mother, mother,” cawed Roisin, bounding into the room with her friend Aibhlin close on her heels, “Friseal’s made a horrible mess of the kitchens and Cook’s about had it wi’ him.”
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