by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
In the way he shook his head, Sigurd displayed that he too could not credit the transformation of his mother. It had been only… six years! He had thought her old before but now… oh, she must be over forty!
After the endearments came the rebukes, his mother using her good arm to deal a hefty cuff to his head. ‘Tut! Look at your hair! It is almost to your knees.’ From the brooch on her right shoulder hung a chain laden with scissors, purse, needles, keys, which tinkled as she smote him. ‘And I still have to punish you for running away like that! Why did you take so long to send for me? You cannot imagine how I suffered under your aunt – still, there was fun to be had when your message came. I certainly told her what to do with her orders. But no thanks to you, unruly boy!’
Sigurd tried to look amused but could not hide his embarrassment at being treated as if he were still ten years old. ‘Mother, that is grand reward for the part I took in destroying my father’s murderer and winning our land back!’
Her round face pouted. ‘Winning it back for what? I arrive to find the thralls lying idle, my son a-viking and the house falling to bits! Look, look at this!’ She kicked at the timber walls and seized the chip of rotten timber that came away. ‘Riddled with worm!’
Sigurd glanced uncomfortably at his friends who were obviously enjoying this.
Ragnhild threw down the piece of wood and wagged a finger. ‘What you need is a wife to keep you in order.’
‘Ah!’ Sigurd managed to interpose at last. ‘See what I bring from my travels!’
Ragnhild appraised the pathetic group of women with mild interest, before grasping his meaning. ‘One of those? Brainless, you cannot marry a slave!’
He countered with a hurt scowl. ‘Nei! They are only slaves because I made them so. The clothes we took from them show they were quite wealthy.’ He reached for Una who clung to her baby and drew her away from the others. ‘What about this one? She is very good-looking, ja?’
‘So is that horse over there but I doubt you would marry that. Talk sense, boy!’ Ragnhild slipped into an air of efficiency. ‘Your mother is here just in time. I shall find you a suitable bride.’ She shooed Una and the other women towards a grass-roofed outhouse then turned her attention to the rest of her son’s booty, missing his look of dismay. ‘Come, let us see what other worthless rubbish you have brought home.’
Eric nudged Ulf with a grin. ‘The mighty warrior returns… to a skelping from his mother!’
Ragnhild bridled at their obvious amusement. ‘And who are these fine fellows?’ By the tone of the remark it was not a compliment. Under her disapproving eye each examined his grubby apparel and proceeded to shrink into it.
Sigurd took refuge in their shared humiliation. ‘These are my loyal friends, Eric and Ulf. We have fought side by side – and often with each other,’ he grinned at them, ‘ever since we came to England.’
‘It certainly smells like it.’ Ragnhild was expert at disparagement. ‘Do their houses not have baths?’
‘They live here,’ explained Sigurd. ‘I thought as there was plenty of room…’
‘Wouldst you turn your father’s house into the biggest pigsty in Jorvik?’ she interrupted. ‘Look at this one!’ Eric gasped under her punch. Ulf prepared himself for a similar blow. Much as he might object that the lack of a beard did not affect his own virility and much as he might try to prove this by his hearty participation in the rapine that often followed battle, Ulf was nevertheless very conscious of his shortcoming when dealing with females on a social basis. There was always the fear that women would laugh at his naked chin, hence the reason he had never tried to find a wife. This shyness was evident in his pose, as if he were trying to hide beneath his fringe. Far from being repelled, Ragnhild was charmed and began to cluck over his torn clothes. ‘Oh well, I suppose you cannot help it with no woman in the house. Do not worry, I shall take you in hand.’ It was obvious which one she preferred; her words for Eric were less matronly. ‘Go and bathe immediately whilst I have private words with my son! If you are clean I may allow you to continue living here, but only until Sigurd is wed, then you will each have to build your own house.’ As they slunk away, she proceeded with her investigation of the booty, holding up a roll of silk interwoven with gold thread. ‘Ah! This is better. At least now I will have something to wear for your wedding – though of course it is not so good as I wore in the old days. You have a long way to go before you equal your father in wealth. Come! Fetch the rest of it inside and spread it out. Then you too will take a bath. Ay, ay, Jorvik is not the place it was; everyone seems to live like oxen.’
Chasing away the house slaves, which left just the two of them in the room, Ragnhild hugged him for the first time. ‘Oh, what a fine son I have!’
‘Apart from my bad odour.’ Sigurd allowed himself to be crushed against her breast.
‘We will let that pass. I am so pleased to see you!’ She held him at arms’ length to marvel again at how he had matured. ‘When I think of the totty boy who left me… and how I rejoice to hear that the pig Ethelred rots in his grave! Tell me, did his sons die also?’
‘One of them. The others are driven from the land.’
‘Ja, ja, that is what the folk round here are telling me but I would hear it from the lips of a man who was there.’
‘’Tis true,’ confirmed Sigurd.
‘Good, good. I am not a vindictive woman but I pray to Freyja to rot their balls so that the devil’s seed is ended.’
Sigurd remembered then. ‘Hark to my good fortune! The King has appointed me his thegn.’
His mother reeled back in admiration. ‘How so?’ She pulled two stools close together, planted her bottom on one of them and tapped the other. ‘Come, come! I must hear every word.’
Sigurd told her of his relationship with the King, and for the first time his mother seemed truly impressed. Then she spoilt the effect by enquiring in dubious tone, ‘And is that all that has happened since you crept away like a thief? Come, I demand to know it all.’
He emitted a boyish groan, pulled off his woven band and gave his head a good scratch. ‘There’s too much to tell at once. First, oh kind little mother, won’t you feed the grumbling trolls in my belly?’
‘Kind little mother!’ scoffed Ragnhild. ‘I thought you had changed but you are still the scheming flatterer who ran away and left me. Before a crumb passes those lips I would at least have news of your uncle. It has been weeks since I arrived and I have seen nor heard nothing of him. I assumed he was with your expedition.’
Sigurd had forgotten all about his uncle and the shock of remembrance was mirrored in his expression. Ragnhild could not fail to decipher it. Instead of asking what was wrong she waited for him to tell her.
Sigurd was blunt. ‘My uncle is dead.’
His mother put both plump hands up to cover her mouth as he disclosed all that had occurred with Thorald, excluding only his own desire to be rid of his uncle. ‘But you will be glad to know that I killed Thorald for his treachery,’ came the hasty addendum.
Still shocked, Ragnhild whispered, ‘And what of poor Olaf now? Is he still in the cesspit?’
Sigurd grasped her hands and shook them, looking into her face. ‘Mother, what do you take me for? As soon as ever I could I gave him a decent burial.’ His mind recalled the gruesome task, then thrust it aside. ‘You will see the stone I have erected to his memory in the kirk across the way.’
‘I will go there, leave my offering for the gods to take care of him. We must send word to his wife. Oh, my poor brother…’
‘This I shall do – but come, let us not dwell on sad affairs, there is nought more we can do for Uncle. Take a proper look at all the riches I bring you.’ He undid one of the bundles, then began to place one ornament after another upon her body – wrists, arms, fingers, neck, hair, all were adorned with jewels until her smile returned and she pealed with laughter. ‘Enough! Before I sink into the earth under the weight of all this.’
‘Now will you admit you ar
e proud of me?’ Sigurd was laughing too.
His mother delivered a push that almost unseated him. ‘Your head is obviously swollen enough without my praise. Away, stinkhorn, and take your bath while I see if there is ought decent to eat in this hovel.’
Black Mary’s words virtually echoed Ragnhild’s: ‘Holy Mother, is there nought fit to eat in this hovel?’ She stared around the bleak walls.
Una rocked and shushed her crying infant, eyes transcribing Mary’s horror. She coughed as, instead of the welcoming smell of peat, woodsmoke filled her lungs. ‘I’ll have to feed Murtagh.’ She squatted where she stood, put the child to her breast, then re-examined her grim surroundings – though there was little to see. The walls were ten feet long at most and at the edges of the room where the roof came down to meet them it was impossible for a person to stand upright. Along two of the walls were earth-filled benches covered in rags where the lucky ones slept; the rest would curl up by the central hearth on the earthen floor. Apart from a few artifacts that hung from nails embedded in the walls there were only shadows cast by the one tiny rushlight anchored to a beam. Una bent her head and wept in desolation.
Black Mary cursed her weakness. ‘For God’s sake is it not bad enough! We’re here, there is nought we can do and must make the best of it.’ At her words the others crowded round the fire. The slave who had been in occupation when they arrived, introduced herself and offered to share the ingredients of her cooking pot. Black Mary sniffed in distaste and enquired what it was.
‘Sheep,’ replied the other. ‘And if you turn your nose up like that you can do without. There’s plenty more of us who’ll be glad of it.’
‘How many?’ Una sniffed and wiped her eyes.
‘Five.’
Una displayed yet more shock. ‘Mercy, that makes eleven all living here!’
‘Oh, she can add up!’ The thrall had a low opinion of the Irish. ‘You might help the master when it comes to granting us rations, lest he thinks he can feed eleven of us with the same that served five. At least the extra bodies will keep us warm through the winter.’
Una and her fellow captives came to vouch for the truth of these words, welcoming anything that offered warmth. One of the English thralls donated the bits of fleece she had collected, to prevent baby Murtagh dying from the cold, but there was not enough to clothe eleven adults, whose only insulation was provided by the dungpile on the outside wall and the rotting matter on the floor. As for food, the master was not so parsimonious as feared and doubled the corn ration, though the meat was restricted to a single sheep between all. When this was almost gone and what was left was rancid, they eked out their rations with plantains, dandelion leaves and hibernating hedgehogs. It was remarkable that only two of their number died.
There was no sympathy from their captors. The Lady Ragnhild addressed them only when she had orders to impart and by now the thralls knew their role well enough for her to leave them to it. At first, she had been a figure of fun when she had called the newcomers before her to impress all her rules and regulations. They had sniggered and mimicked her accent. ‘You must tell me if any of you get viz child, ja? And I shall not hef you sneaking off to gif yourself abortions. Any bairn is the property of mine son. It is also important zat you tell me each month ven you are unclean so that you do not contaminate my food, ja?’
Una had the temerity to ask a question, clutching her new babe. ‘May it please my lady, I have not yet been purified after my deliverance; could I be allowed to see the priest?’
Ragnhild thought on this. There were many things an unpurified slave could not do. She granted leave. ‘So be it – and when your menses return you must inform me.’
This Una was glad to do, for each menstruation saved her from having to work in the big house where the thegn’s eyes ravished her. What should have been a monthly event began to take place every fifteen days, supplemented by a dabble of sheep’s blood on her clothes and granting her five days’ rest from any cooking or association with foodstuffs and worktools that might turn rusty.
Una grinned to herself as she hid in the latrine with a cloth saturated in fresh sheep’s blood and dabbed it onto the back of her dress for the second time this month. Then, with the ‘evidence’ upon her clothes, she went to see Ragnhild, telling her, ‘My lady, I am unclean and unable to dig vegetables today.’
‘Very well, you can…’ Ragnhild frowned and made mental calculation. ‘It seems like only two weeks ago that you were indisposed. There must be some malady…’
‘No, my lady!’ Una was quick to correct her. ‘’Twas not me.’
Ragnhild looked at her. ‘I could have sworn it was. Well, there are plenty of other tasks.’ Giving Una instructions, she watched her walk away.
Una congratulated herself on managing to outsmart her captors yet again and, the next day, went to the latrine to keep up the pretence. Unfortunately, she did not realize that she was being watched. Ragnhild crept as softly as she could up to the wattle fence, peeped around it and caught Una in the act.
‘Why, you sly vixen! You think you can outwit me?’ Ragnhild’s hand shot out and grabbed Una, causing the slave to yell in fright. ‘Like blood, do you? Well, I shall give you plenty!’ And she laid into Una so brutally with a stick that blood oozed from the weals it inflicted. ‘There! Have some more!’ Ragnhild continued to hit the slave until she was too tired to lift her arm, but she had not finished the punishment yet. ‘And for your deception you will work in the fields for the rest of the month!’
In future, when Una claimed unfitness she knew that it meant extra hard labour in the cold, and thus her cycle became more regular.
Throughout the winter nights when they weren’t being worked and beaten by Ragnhild, the survivors told tales around the fire and made themselves candles from rushes and mutton fat. There were sagas in the big house too, but life here was worlds apart, as the more fortunate houseslaves could testify. Instead of stringy bits of rancid ewe there was a whole sheep roasting on the spit and cabbage and fresh bread. Instead of tallow rushlights the room shone with beeswax candles robbed from an Irish monastery. There were skins on the walls and eiderdown quilts on the beds.
Ragnhild, swathed in warm clothing, basked in the glow of a roaring fire, laughing and feasting with Sigurd and his two friends – whom she had begun to treat as her own sons, especially Ulf with his youthful face. Some things had not changed; she remained the obsessive grumbler, but despite her chastisements Sigurd could tell that his mother delighted in her regained status, rejoiced in being mistress of Peseholme. In this he was glad, for it might just cause her to rethink her policy about finding him a wife to whom she would have to relinquish her superiority as queen of the household. This gave him leave to pursue the Irish girl, Una, from whom it was impossible to keep his mind. If he assumed his mother was in ignorance of the latter then he was wrong. Ragnhild had by no means abandoned her aim of finding him a wife, but had merely decided to wait a year whilst he indulged his callow lust. He was, for all his boastful exploits, still a youth. Better that he should tire of the slave of his own accord, for only then would he settle down and be an industrious husband.
Hitherto Sigurd had managed to content himself with fantasizing about Una, deterred from physical contact by the infant slung across her breast. But now the ice had melted, new life burgeoned all around him and his own untested juices sizzled with urgency. When the thralls trouped out to fulfil this morning’s tasks, Una was not amongst them. Impulse propelled Sigurd towards the hut where a cow devoured its grass roof; the beast lumbered away as he neared.
Inside the dark lair Black Mary spun wool with distaff and spindle, humming and twisting the yarn through work-hardened fingers. When her master’s outline robbed her of the only source of light, she looked up but did not stop, humming all the louder when she saw who it was, breaking into merry Irish song: ‘Oh-oh, cross your legs or you’re in for a shock. ’Tis the devil himself with his ugly big tra-la-la-la!’
The y
oung Norseman squinted into the gloom, assailed by the foisty smell. Una was hunkered on the earthen floor, having just fed her babe. She had her face bent over him, talking and smiling in a maternal fashion, kissing his soft cheeks. Her long hair tumbled over one shoulder to form a protective curtain, as if shielding the child from the terrible world into which he had been plunged. Totally involved with Murtagh, she was oblivious to Sigurd’s presence. Sigurd, blind to her dirty state, thought how radiant she looked and wished those eyes would shine upon him so fondly.
Lips still curved, Una tossed her hair away from her face to question Mary about the rude ditty, only now catching sight of him in the doorway. Her expression underwent vast change, the bloom draining from her cheeks. Once again she was the slave he had made her.
On attracting such a display, Sigurd showed pique. ‘Give the child to her!’ He jabbed an abrupt thumb at Black Mary and came right into the hovel beneath the apex of its roof which was the only place he could stand upright. ‘There is something I wish you to do.’
Una glanced at her sister-in-law, and retained her acquisitive crouch over the child, but for once Black Mary jumped to Sigurd’s command, welcoming each and every opportunity to hold her nephew. She might hate its mother but the child himself was of her own kin and she loved him dearly. Unwilling to part with her son, but lacking option, Una rose and handed charge of the babe to Mary.
‘Take it out,’ ordered Sigurd, then stepped back so that Black Mary did not soil his clothes as she passed. Never once did he stop to imagine what it must be like for the people who had to live in this cramped environment.
Una’s anxious eyes followed the woman’s exit, rationale telling her there was no threat to the child whilst her maternal instincts screamed the opposite. She was still craning her neck when his gartered legs took a step towards her. Una herself took a pace back. Sigurd postponed his action for a moment, resting his head to one side to ask a question that had suddenly occurred to him. ‘Tell me, why have I never seen you weep for your dead husband?’
