by Susan Wright
Porter noticed I was watching the antics of the olfs as they jostled for a spot on the handcart, and we exchanged a secret smile. I’d never seen him without an olf. Daakon didn’t pay any attention to them.
Porter leaned his weight into the crossbar to pull the cart over a sandy path. The village of Ry was situated on top of the bluff at its highest point. The olfs swung from the rails of the cart, bouncing up and down during the bumpy ride.
I had to cling to the rail to keep from falling down in exhaustion. The village wasn’t far, but it exceeded my strength.
Porter gave me an anxious look. "No need to tire yourself out, lass." He urged me onto the cart so I could ride at my ease. It appeared my weight hardly slowed him.
Our path met the main road into the village. We joined others from outlying homesteads and passed through the open gates. The town wall was made of stone, but most of the structures within were of rough-hewn wood. Each house had its own plank fencing around their sheds and barns. These folks must have suffered generations of raids and incursions—first the Noromenn, and more recently the Frankish invaders.
The road forked between the houses. Porter plunged straight ahead, dragging the wood-wheeled cart over the rocks that were embedded in the road.
"It’s like a miniature Londinium," I exclaimed. Structures lined both sides of the road, some split in half with workshops and living quarters side by side. One long building housed a smith who was making bolts and hinges. The glow of the flames reminded me of the glaziers, but their compound was much larger. Likely the village had refused to allow the huge rendering furnace within their walls for fear of the fire spreading.
The talk I overheard mostly concerned the conqueror and the purges he was making among the leading families who had supported the Noroking. There was a new Frankish jarl who had been given a vast tract of land that included the village Ry. Many feared they would be forced to pay another tithe.
Porter pulled the cart into a dirt square next to a small Kristna sanctuary. There were a number of ramshackle booths and other carts selling their wares.
"Do you need to worship?" Daakon asked gruffly. "They’re about to begin."
"You mean Kristna? No, he is not my god."
Daakon shrugged. "I say fire and the birth mother are the only two powers worth praise. They are stronger than any god fashioned in the form of a man."
He turned to help a merchant who was interested in bottles of various shapes and sizes. Porter grinned at me. The split in his upper lip was less noticeable when he was happy. I knew he would not accept the Kristna god inside of him. He could never forsake the olfs.
When his transaction with the merchant was completed, I asked Daakon, "Where might I go to find passage to the port town?"
"Why?" Porter protested. "You’re staying the winter with us."
"No, I’ve recovered much faster than Lexander expected." That was certainly the truth, though not all of it. "I need to get to the Twelve Towns of Lutece."
"Now, there’s no need to be hasty," Daakon cautioned, no doubt thinking of the rich payment Lexander had given him for my winter board.
"I’m leaving," I said simply. "And if you help me find passage to the port town, you can keep all the coins Lexander gave you."
Comprehension dawned as Daakon realized the amount he would save by not having to feed me for several moons.
But Porter was concerned. "You’re very ill, lass. You should still be in bed, not pitched about in a boat."
"I’m well enough," I insisted. "I just need to get to the port town."
"That’s fine by me," Daakon declared, glad to be quit of me with so little bother. "Go find a rowboat you can rent for the day, Porter. You can take her yourself." Under his brother’s stern eye, Porter was forced to agree.
On my last evening in the cot, Porter handed me a bundle. "I got this for you today."
I opened it to find a gorgeous spill of fine felted wool. The cloth was woven of blue and black threads, with flecks of gray. I held it up and found it was a dress with long flared sleeves and a pretty neckline. The girdle was a knotted black cord strung with shell beads.
"It’s beautiful!" I exclaimed.
"I thought you’d rather dress as a woman than a boy."
I remembered how the villagers in the market had stared at my tunic and leggings. Women in Danelaw always wore long skirts.
It was a thoughtful gift, and I couldn’t help but consider my benefactor. Porter was kind and a good provider. He was also quite strong from his hard work. I couldn’t understand why a sturdy man like him didn’t have a wife.
"Why are you unmarried, Porter?"
He shifted uncomfortably on his stool. I felt a pang of regret—likely it involved some sort of heartache. What if his wife had died in childbirth?
"Forgive me," I said hastily.
"No matter. After all, what woman would want me thus?" he muttered, gesturing to his face.
I didn’t understand for a moment, and then I realized he was speaking of his split lip. "Surely the girls here are not so blind."
He turned his head away. "Now you’re teasing me, lass. Besides, what do I have to give a woman? This cot? A wife needs a proper home that she can be mistress of."
I remembered the neat timber and wattle structures in the village. Porter’s brothers each had a house with hearths and lofts for sleeping.
It wasn’t fair. Porter worked ceaselessly for so little. I had seen enough to know how separated he was from everyone else. He watched his young nieces and nephews play with a heart-wrenching expression. And he treated his brothers’ wives with the same delicate respect as the glass bottles that he couldn’t create.
"Surely you’ve had chances, Porter. A dalliance with a girl that didn’t work out?"
"No, I’ve never . . ." he said hesitantly.
"Never what?"
He took a deep breath. "I’ve not kissed a woman."
My eyes widened at the implications of that. "You haven’t?"
His fingers touched his mouth in a self-conscious way. He didn’t have to say it—he thought it was enough reason for women to avoid him.
I went over and stood before him. It made him uneasy to have me so close. I put my hands on his shoulders as he sat on his bed.
"Look at me, Porter," I told him.
It took an effort, but he raised his head. His longing spoke louder than words—he desired me, but he struggled against it. I understood his connection with the olfs like no other, and our growing rapport meant everything to him.
"Listen to the olfs," I told him. "They see more clearly than anyone else, and they adore you."
I leaned down and kissed him. He tried to pull back in surprise, but I held on to his shoulders. I caressed his lips with my own, lightly, tenderly, wanting nothing else but to give him pleasure. He responded, tentatively at first, then more eagerly.
When I had kissed him thoroughly I drew back to smile. His mild eyes were shining.
Olfs were popping inside the cot, responding to our burst of exhilaration. He pulled me down onto the bed so we were sitting together.
"That’s even better than I thought it would be," Porter said with a sigh.
He made no move to kiss me again, but his hands were holding on to mine tightly. Through our touch, his lifetime of longing flooded me. He was always watching, forever alone. Porter was too kind to be served that fate.
I leaned forward to kiss him again, more hungrily this time. I felt his need and responded to him as naturally as I breathed. I wanted him. How could I not? He had courage and strength to spare, and had faced his struggles in the spirit of true acceptance. In that, we were kindred spirits.
My hand caressed his face, and I felt him moan under my mouth. He was breathing fast when I finally pulled away.
I couldn’t help but feel his intent—he wanted more than one night’s pleasure. He was well on his way to falling in love with me. It would be too cruel for me to bed him and leave tomorrow. Too cruel . .
.
Porter abruptly stood up and made his way to the door. "I’m so grateful to you," he said brokenly.
"As I am to you," I reminded him.
He finally looked back, and his shy smile was sad. He did not return to the cot that night.
The next morning I put on the blue dress Porter had given me. When I stepped into the compound in the pearly morning light, his gaze lingered. Now that my eyes were opened, his adoration was clear.
But Porter was not like Lexander. He knew I had to leave; he could feel my resolve through the olfs.
It took him a few moments before he could speak. "I hope you find Lexander."
I wasn’t going to explain my real purpose in going to Montplaire. "If I don’t, then I’ll be back next spring. That’s when Lexander said he would return."
Porter seemed inordinately comforted to hear that. "Come back even if you do find him, Marja."
I silently gave Porter the purse with most of the coins Lexander had left behind. Porter had seen the pretty embroidered bag, but he seemed surprised at how heavy it was.
"Build yourself a house," I told him, pressing the purse into his hands. "Take a wife of your own. Choose the girl you want and go get her. Do you understand, Porter?"
He was bewildered by my insistence. He tried to give the purse back to me, but I left it on the bed. I had enough coins to reach Montplaire, and this small fortune would transform his life. It was what I should have done for the Becksbury slaves. I could almost see Porter tenderly caring for Olvid and giving her a comfortable home in spite of her illness. But I had spoiled that chance.
I tried not to let Porter see how winded I was by our walk down to the beach, even with him carrying my meager bundle of tunic and leggings. They reminded me of the Becksbury slaves, and at the last moment I couldn’t bear to leave them behind.
Porter turned out to be quite competent with the small boat he had rented from a villager, deftly using the oars to maneuver us beyond the breakers. He rowed steadily down the coastline with the olfs drifting along with us. One olf hardly bigger than my hand clung to the oar the entire time, going up and down as Porter rowed.
At times I could see the marshy shore, while at others we were lost in a sea of gray. My rough leather cloak protected me from the clammy cold, but Porter stoically shrugged off the weather as mild.
I trailed my hand in the water, communing with the sea spirits. I held nothing back this time, pouring out everything that had happened in Becksbury, my own failures and my lingering illness. They felt my despair over Lexander’s betrayal. I had forgiven him once before, but how could I ever trust him again?
We finally sighted our destination; a brown smear through the fog. Porter spoke so low that I almost couldn’t hear him. "The olfs will show me what you do, Marja."
The thought of it warmed me. Though Porter would never go farther from Ry, he would be watching over my shoulder.
Porter beached the rowboat on the sandy shore above the town. I would have to walk downriver to reach the docks where the big ships were moored. There were people about, dragging out small fishing boats or lugging crates up to the carts on the road.
"You stay here," I told Porter. "Someone will take the boat if you leave it."
He glanced at the unsavory men who were loitering about. "You shouldn’t go alone."
"I’ll be fine," I assured him. I kept my battered hood up and my cloak closed. The bubble of glass Porter had given me was tucked into one corner of the bundle.
"Your house should be built by spring," I reminded him.
I looked back a few times to give him a wave of reassurance. The olfs stayed near him, bouncing among the boats. Porter stood watching me until I could see him no longer.
The port town was decrepit, the battered docks falling into the water. The houses were mere sheds patched with crate tops and driftwood. I passed three ale shops in a row filled with shipmasters and their crews jostling, drinking, and braying with exuberance at being on land.
By dint of asking everyone along the way, I found a passenger ferry waiting to cross the strait to the Frankish lands. But I wasn’t allowed onboard because it was already overfull. People were sitting and lounging everywhere on deck, having waited for days for the weather to change.
I could find no other ships setting out for the Frankish lands, so I sat on a crate near the bow of the passenger ferry, hoping someone would give up and leave. I was determined to find passage.
When darkness fell, the situation on the ferry remained unchanged. The lantern on the bow burned a sickly yellow. I pulled my hood far over my face and huddled back against a wall where I could see the ship. It drizzled during the night, soaking the waterfront. Under the cloak, I wrapped my arms around my knees to try to keep warm. It was impossible to sleep.
When dawn broke with a muggy, gray light, my vigilance was not rewarded. Soon the ferry greeted the rising wind by pulling up its sails and tossing away the mooring ropes. I ran forward to try to bargain with the shipmaster, calling, "I’ll give you every coin I have!"
But the ferry was overloaded already from the long wait. I was forced to stand there and watch them sail away.
11
On the wharf nearby, an old man with a round, creased face was coiling the mooring rope. He’d seen me haunting the ferry from his post in a large wooden box. There was barely enough room for him to sit inside and wait for ships to arrive. He chuck-led quietly to himself at my dilemma.
"Tell me there’s another ship crossing the strait," I said plaintively.
"No’um. You’ll get to Frank faster by walking to Dorster. It’s two days south on the coast. Most ships ply the strait from there."
I watched the olfs gaily swinging from the mooring ropes and masts, but it didn’t make me feel any better. Certainly I could walk to Dorster, though there would be dangers on the road. The olfs would help me as they had when I had crossed Fjardemano Island to Brianda.
But there might be a faster way.
I had noticed an impressive two-masted ship down the wharf. It had the full-bellied look of a merchant vessel, and the hull was freshly painted. The foremast was nearly as long as the main and raked forward over the bow.
I’d seen the shipmaster going back and forth, speaking Frankish to his men. He was beardless and finely dressed, unlike most people on the waterfront. The short cut of his tunic and broadsword were of the warrior clan, yet there were several jewels set in his buckle and his cloak was lined with dark fur. He wore only black, and his appearance was somber despite his show of wealth.
"What about that ship?" I asked the old man.
The old man got a gleam in his eye as if he could read my mind. "She’s carrying wool cloth. She crosses the strait once she’s loaded with supplies. All the way to the Twelve Towns of Lutece."
The Montplaire pleasure house was in Lutece, far upriver in the heart of the Frankish lands. This fast merchant ship would likely reach the Twelve Towns within a few days. Lexander could hardly reach Montplaire that fast. Surely I would get there in time to make sure the slaves were taken care of.
I thanked the old man and wandered toward the merchant ship. The shipmaster was not in sight. The crew was busy unloading barrels from a cart drawn up on the wharf, then lowering them one by one through a hatch in the middle of the deck.
Olfs played among them, making the barrels swing until they bounced against the sides of the hatch. The crewmen swore and struggled to control their cargo. Then a youth who was already browned and wind-creased despite his tender age appeared with a handful of porridge oats, which he tossed onto the deck. The olfs jumped onto the bait, but the boy acted as if he couldn’t see them. The crew laughed at him, but their loading went smoother after that.
When they were finished, two crewmen climbed down the rope ladder hung over the side. I pushed back my hood as the last one went by. "Pardon me," I said, using the Frankish words the olfs had helped me pick out of the patterns of speech. "Does this ship take passengers?"
Coins alone would apparently not be enough to get me onboard. But I had other things to barter. I started down the wharf to find a place to loosen my hair and clean my face.
But the shipmaster was coming toward me. The crewmen were right behind him. He had a purposeful air as if readying to leave. The shipmaster was asking about the cart of barrels that had just been unloaded.
As they approached, I pushed my cloak over my shoulders, revealing my clinging blue dress. "May I speak to you, Shipmaster?"
The shipmaster paused, but he waved the others on. They climbed the rope ladder with brisk efficiency meant to impress him.
"Yes, what is it?" His shrewd, dark eyes took my measure. We were nearly of a same height; he was powerful yet compact. His short hair stood up stiffly from the salt in the air.
"I must go to the Twelve Towns, and I’m told that’s your port of call—"
"I don’t take passengers," he interrupted, and tried to brush past me.
I stepped into his path. "I won’t presume to offer coins to a man of your stature. But I can give you pleasure as you’ve never known before and my sincerest gratitude for conveying me to Lutece."
"Is this a jest?" he sneered. "Where are your people? You’re not from here, not with that accent. Are you Frankish?"
"No," I said with a laugh, glad that I had confounded him. "I am from very far away, the western maritime lands across the ocean. I will tell you everything if you take me with you."
His eyes narrowed. "What kind of woman sells herself for passage?"
I shrugged slightly, moving my bosom enticingly. "I spent a moon last summer with a merchant prince and his wife, pleasuring them in exchange for transport. Besides," I added more seriously, "from the looks of that ferry, I would probably be raped by the crew or passengers. I would rather choose my partner and make it an agreeable journey for us both."
"I think a pretty maid makes for a nice trap, yes?" He returned to his ship, waving to a man on the forecastle. "Prepare to depart."
