Legend of the Mist

by Veronica Bale

  “If she isna down here by the time I finish my bannock, I’m having her dragged from her bed,” Fearchar murmured to his wife who sat next to him.

  “Hush now,” Iseabal chided. “She were up and dressing when last I saw her. I dinna think she’s planning on defying ye now.”

  Iobhar, who had been listening, opened his mouth to add his opinion, but was thwarted when a hush fell over the conversation.

  Standing at the entrance to the hall, was Norah. She gazed over the crowd of anxious faces as if nothing had happened the night before. There was a quiet serenity in her countenance as she made her way to her place on the dais, and she walked with all the grace and poise that a chief’s daughter ought to have.

  Torsten, who sat at one of the lower tables nearest the far-right wall, stared at the vision which crossed the room with a half-chewed piece of herring lodged in his cheek.

  In the light of day the maid was even more beautiful than she had been bathed in moonlight. Her alabaster skin was almost iridescent; its pearly sheen set fire to her long, silky tresses which were, as he had guessed the night before, a deep, blood red. Though she was dressed in a simple tunic of wool overtop a common linen shift she looked ravishing, for the plain design of the clothing accentuated the curve of her hip, and the slender line of her waist.

  Her eyes took in the activity of the room, eyes that seemed to have a life of their own as they picked up the minute changes in light and shadow, reflecting them in the green of her irises. Even from a distance Torsten could see it.

  He could, couldn’t he? Or did he only sense it, imagine it?

  He was so mesmerised by the sight of her that he realized belatedly his mouth was agape. He closed it, and renewed his chewing with vigour to compensate for the momentary lapse.

  When she took her place at the end of the high table, his brother, seated in the middle and next to whom Torsten presumed was the clan’s chief, leaned forward and assessed her with such approval that Torsten surmised his maid was the one promised to Einarr—

  His maid? What on earth had possessed him to think of her as his maid?

  He dropped his eyes to his trencher, angry with himself for having entertained the notion. But when he peered up again, his heart lurched in his chest, for the maid was staring at him from across the room. As if she had divined his thoughts from afar. A quiet confidence emanated from her eyes and from the set of her lovely mouth. A heat blossomed in Torsten’s core from the intimacy of her gaze.

  For the rest of the meal he kept his eyes down as much as he could. He dared not trust his reactions beneath the strange and sudden spell the maid seemed to hold over him. It was only as the hall began to clear out and the trestle tables were being disassembled that Einarr summoned Torsten to meet the members of the high table.

  “Brother,” the Norseman called, his extended arm beckoning Torsten to him.

  Torsten stood, wiping his hands on his braies, and came as bidden. He suddenly regretted that he’d not had the opportunity to scrape the stubble from his chin.

  And suddenly worried that remnants of food lingered on his clothing or in his teeth.

  Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d cleaned his teeth?

  Thor’s thunder, when was the last time he cared so much about his appearance?

  “Chief Feh-ruh-ker, if I may, I would like to introduce my brother to you. This is Torsten Alfradsson. Torsten, the great Feh-ruh-ker, chief of Clan Gallach.”

  “It is my honour, sir,” Torsten said, bowing to the grey haired man before him. He spoke in Gaelic, following Einarr’s example.

  “I am sure the honour is mine,” Fearchar answered. “Ye speak the Gaelic as well?”

  “I do. It is not uncommon given the frequency of trade between our lands and yours. I must say I am glad of it, for I would not otherwise have been able to explain my presence to your warriors this morning.”

  “My brother arrived last night, I am told, and took shelter with your men,” Einarr clarified when the chief seemed confused. “I found him waiting at the harbour for me to arrive at dawn.

  “And this,” he added proudly, “is my bride-to-be. Norah.”

  The maid had been standing behind the group and slightly apart from them when Torsten had approached. But at some point during the initial introductions she had slipped silently in behind him. When Torsten turned to greet Einarr’s bride, he found himself staring into the maid’s face at such a close range that he could see the gold flecks which permeated the living green of her eyes. She held his gaze with the same steady confidence she’d possessed through the entire meal, rendering Torsten speechless.

  “Sir,” she said, dipping into a polite curtsey.

  Of course, she was not the first beautiful young woman Torsten had met, and from his experience with beautiful young women he expected her to offer the typical, inane pleasantries they usually offered: Your brother has told me so much about you; or, I am sure we will get along splendidly. But she offered none, simply waited for him to return her courtesy.

  Which he was powerless to do. He continued to stare, awestruck, at this fascinating creature before him.

  There was an otherworldliness about her. Something which set her apart from any maid he had ever known. And in any other maid, such silence would have been unnerving. But in this maid—in Norah—it was spell-binding.

  “Fifla, why do you not show my brother your village until it is time for the training of the men?” Einarr suggested at length. “He has seen little other than the ... oh, what is it called in your tongue—the warriors’ ... er, heima, their home?”

  “The barracks, sir?” Lady Iseabal offered.

  “The barracks. Yes, that’s it: the barracks. By the by, brother, how is it that you found your way in the dark in this unfamiliar place?”

  “I var heppinn,” Torsten muttered in Norse: I was lucky.

  He shook his head imperceptibly when Norah’s eyes widened. She need not worry; he would not betray her secret.

  “May I ask this of your daughter, Lady Iseabal?” Einarr inquired for formality’s sake.

  “Sir, I am sure ye ken it isna proper for a young lady to be in the company of a gentleman unescorted.”

  “Pah! What has she to lose? Her reputation? I have already agreed to marry her, and she is in the company of my brother. Family—or soon enough will be.”

  With little choice in the matter, the lady nodded demurely. Accepting her task, Norah curtsied to Einarr, and set her gaze on Torsten once more.

  “This way, sir, if ye please.”

  Torsten followed her across the hall and through the wood-beamed archway. He kept a few respectful paces behind her, careful not to let his eyes dip lower than her shoulders.

  Careful not to notice the gentle sway of her loose hair which tumbled to the small of her back.

  Careful not to admire the delicate skin of her wrists or the slender taper of her fingers which she clasped behind her.

  Careful not to lose his head and take her hand, or run his own fingers through her satin hair.

  The members of the high table watched them depart with varying degrees of astonishment.

  “I do not know what the cause, but she seems to accept the idea of marriage better than she did last night, ja?” Einarr observed.

  “Aye,” Fearchar agreed. “I dinna ken the cause either, but we are glad for whatever changed her mind. We would not wish to offend ye, sir.”

  “Whether or not she wants to marry me is not important. The deal has been made and she must abide by it.”

  No one missed the warning in Einarr’s voice.

  “It is a shame Garrett didna come to break his fast this morning,” Lady Iseabal sighed once the Norseman had left to join his men. “It would have done him good to see how she’s come around. When Norah realized he kent of the union last night, it broke his heart to have betrayed her.”

  “Betrayed?” Iobhar barked. “He didna betray anything. Wasna his choice, were it?”

&nb
sp; “Still, ‘tis how he felt.”

  “Ye’re all sentimental fools. If she werena half mad she’d have been married off long ago. Ye’ve coddled her, Fearchar. I’ve always said it.”

  “We’ll no’ talk of it anymore,” Fearchar answered, his voice low but firm. “I ken what she is, and I couldna have raised her any better than I did. I only hope this turn of countenance means she’ll forgive me one day.”

  Outside, Norah led Torsten towards the village. The new day’s heat was already beginning to intensify, causing the mist around them to thin to a translucent haze. Above, the sun struggled to penetrate the silk-like veil, and the distant sound of the waves lapping at the beach met their ears.

  Norah breathed a deep, clean breath and smiled to herself. There were no ghostly voices on those waves this morning, no calls upon her soul to submit to them. They were just waves, just the sound of water rushing in to the island and back out to sea.

  “I thank ye, sir,” she said when they were far enough away from the fortress. “I do appreciate yer silence wi’ my family and wi’ Sir Einarr.”

  “I did not think telling them would come to any good. I wonder, though, about your little ... shall we say, adventure last night. Had it anything to do with your marriage to my brother?”

  Though Torsten knew his suspicion was correct, he waited for her to deny it.

  She did not. Once again she set those changeful eyes of hers on him, steady and confident.

  “It had, aye.”

  A knot rose in his chest at her simple honesty. She was so fragile, like a butterfly’s wing. And yet there was a subtle strength about her, the power of that delicate wing to carry the butterfly high into the air and over great distance. The strangest inkling tickled within him that this maid had seen more, and suffered more, and lived longer than anyone could imagine.

  “You are in love with another and you would rather end your life than marry someone else?” he guessed, more to halt the uneasy direction of his thoughts than that he believed it to be true. But the enigmatic smile which crossed her lips as she lowered her eyes only unnerved him further.

  “Was my silence misguided?” he postulated. “By keeping your secret from Einarr and from your father, have I only purchased you time to try again?”

  “Nay, ye havena.”

  “How do I know? Nothing has changed. You are still betrothed and shall marry Einarr in a few weeks’ time.”

  She chuckled to herself, the melody high like a songbird’s trill. “Things have changed very much.”

  “Since last night?”

  “Aye, since last night.”

  Torsten did not know what she meant by that, and something warned him that he should not ask. The strange energy which he’d felt between them the previous night when he pulled her from the water reasserted itself; her nearness set the side of his body that was closest to her tingling. As if there was a force drawing them closer.

  He watched her from the corner of his eye, studying her profile. Her lips, delicate and heart-shaped, curved slightly upwards and her emerald eyes looked forward, scanning the outlines of the objects which could be seen through the haze.

  Or perhaps not. Perhaps she was seeing something in that fog which none but she could see. Torsten found her fascinating. He was mesmerised. He could not look away.

  Mercifully Norah broke the silence before she noticed that his surreptitious glance had turned into a blatant stare.

  “Let us no’ speak of what happened,” she said. “Today is a new day, and I shall be quite alright, I assure ye.”

  The sound of children’s laughter flitted through the mist, and soon corresponding forms took shape. Four of them, skipping and frolicking about like faeries and wisps.

  “Norah,” shouted one, though Torsten could not make out which.

  She stopped and waited for the children to approach, her hands clasped patiently in front of her.

  “Norah, ye’ll no’ believe it.”

  “If ye say I willna, then I’ll take yer word for it,” Norah teased an out-of-breath Aibhlin as Roisin, Greine and Cinead trailed behind.

  “Roisin ate a moth.”

  “Ye tattle tale,” Roisin accused, shoving Aibhlin and receiving a shove in return. “Ye dared me do it ‘cause ye couldna. And now ye’re jealous that I did.”

  “I am sorry, Norah,” Greine put in. “I couldna stop her before she had it in her mouth.”

  “Ye wee devil,” Norah chided, bending down to eye level with her younger sister. “Doesna Cook feed ye enough as it is?”

  “Aibhlin dared me,” Roisin insisted.

  “Ye daft mare, ye asked me if I’d dare ye,” Aibhlin argued. “I didna come up wi’ it on my own.

  “I just wanted to see what it tasted like.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course ye did, sweet Roisin,” Norah soothed. “Who wouldna wonder such a thing? But remember, that moth had a life. He had a mother and a father, and maybe even wee bubby moths to care for. And by eating him, ye’ve ended his life wi’out needing to. Now he will never see his family again. He’ll never feel the breeze on his wings, nor will he wiggle his tiny wee toes in a dew drop.”

  Torsten watched as the little girl with the dark curls hanging wild about her face considered her sister’s words. The maid, Norah, had a way with the children. A way of explaining things to them so that they’d understand, but without treating them like children. It was a talent not many possessed, a talent he’d seen only once before in—

  ... In whom? He’d been about to say a name; a face had come to mind. But like the shifting mist they evaporated before he’d been able to grasp either.

  “Sir, may I introduce ye to my sister Roisin?” Norah said, standing again. “Roisin, say hello to Sir Einarr’s brother, Torsten Alfradsson.”

  “Hello,” Roisin said, dipping into a curtsey.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Ruh-sheen.”

  The girls giggled at the harsh sound of the Gaelic name rolling from Torsten’s Norse tongue.

  “And Greine and Aibhlin,” Norah added, giving the girls a stern look. “And that, trailing behind, is our Cinead.”

  “Sir,” Torsten said, nodding to the sullen boy who hung noticeably back.

  Cinead eyed the Norseman with hostility. “Ye have the look of him.”

  “My brother? I have heard that before. I take it you are looking after your womenfolk this fine morning?”

  Cinead’s upper lip curled into a sneer at the remark. “Someone must, since yer lot killed the bulk of our menfolk.”

  The bare hate with which the young boy addressed him caught Torsten off guard, and he flushed.

  “Cinead,” Norah reprimanded gently.

  Affected by her gentle voice, the boy’s hardened expression softened somewhat, his regret at having embarrassed her evident. He cast one final glare at Torsten, then turned and stalked off in the direction he’d come.

  “I am sorry about him,” Norah said. “He lost his father when ... in the conflict of three years past. He hasna learned to accept our Norse allies so well.”

  “I do not blame him, and there is no need for you to apologize.”

  “Greine, will ye see if he’s alright? I dinna think he’ll appreciate if ye approach him directly just now, but keep an eye out, make sure he doesna get into his father’s mail and swords, aye?”

  Greine nodded. “Aye, Norah. Come on then, lassies. Let’s all go.” When she turned and led the way, Aibhlin and Roisin followed, peeking over their shoulders one last time at the new Norse face which had appeared on their island.

  Norah and Torsten continued on, and by the time they reached the sparsely populated village the mist had retreated almost to the point of disappearing entirely.

  The village, Torsten saw, was little better than many of the peasant villages he’d seen on his travels. The houses and farmsteads were widely spaced, the primitive dwellings of rock and mud covered with rooves of thatch. The earthy scent of turf fire floated on the breeze. Torsten was accust
omed to wood—both for building and for burning; stone and mud were for those who could not afford to build with anything else. He did not know turf could be burned.

  Whatever the village may have looked like, the people within it certainly were not peasants. They were clean and proud, and greeted their new neighbour with all the courtesy and equanimity Torsten would have expected of nobility. Their clothes were of a decent grade material and in excellent repair, and many of the tools with which they worked had obviously come from the overseas trade of goods. Sheep, a profitable livestock, were in plentiful supply; they roamed the open space at will, grazing peacefully on the low grass. Blissfully unaware were they that their endless chewing was adding extra meat and wool to the summer’s bounty.

  He began to see a picture of life on Fara before the raid, of a chief who did not rile his people into craving a war that was not theirs to fight. It saddened him to know that Einarr’s need of funds had torn through this peaceful world. And it had—the evidence was still visible even three years after. He saw it in the lower number of men in the village. In the wariness with which the people acknowledged him.

  Odd ... he noticed that they also treated Norah with a certain wariness. As if they were afraid of her, too.

  “Why are they so cautious around you?” he inquired.

  A curious smile tugged at the corner of her lip, and she set her eyes on him as if they shared a secret. “Have ye no’ heard? I am mad.”

  “Mad?

  “Oh, aye. Quite.”

  “Wait—mad, like how we say krasa? Your mind has shattered?”

  “Now that, sir, is an excellent way of putting it,” she laughed. Without any further explanation, she continued on, leaving Torsten to traipse after her, utterly astonished.

  * * *

  Long after returning to Rysa Beag for the night with Einarr’s men, Torsten stayed awake. Though the lodgings which his brother had provided were more than comfortable, sleep would not find him. He tossed and turned for what felt like ages, watching the shadows stretch over the wall and the distant moon glide across the sky.

  Eventually he gave up on the idea of slumber. He rose from his bed, pulled his braies on and slipped his bare feet into his boots. His shirt he left draped over the oak chest in the corner of the room. There were none but men in his company tonight, no one for whom he needed to be modest. And besides, the soft, still air felt good on his bare flesh.