by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
Her voice emerged from the shadows on that musical lilt he found so captivating in its foreignness. ‘He meant nought to me.’
This appeared to boost the youth’s confidence and he took another step. Again she moved away, taking herself to the limits of the room where she eyed him warily.
The sight of her, pressed so defensively against the gabled wall ignited his rancour. ‘You know that I have the right to take you any time I wish?’
‘Then do it,’ she challenged, trying to appear calm whilst beneath the grimy skirts her knees trembled. ‘But take warning, there’ll be no second time.’
He frowned disbelief. ‘You would take your own life rather than have my pleasure?’
A scornful laugh rent the shadows. ‘Not my life! The last man who took his pleasure on me is dead.’
For the moment he was interested enough to forgive the threat. ‘You speak of your husband, ja?’
‘He was no more husband than you are! A husband is one who takes care of his wife and loves her. O’Cellaigh used me as he would a piece of meat.’ Una turned sly. ‘But he did not know that I can do magic.’
Sigurd crossed his arms over his blue tunic and laughed.
‘He’s dead, is he not?’ retorted Una. ‘Who do ye think is accountable?’
‘My friends and I!’ laughed Sigurd.
Una stood firm, the whites of her eyes glittering through the murk. ‘But you were a stranger. Why did ye come to that particular place on that particular day? Because I asked Jesus to set me free.’
‘But you are not free!’ Highly amused, Sigurd unfolded his arms, raised a hand to one of the roof beams and leaned on it.
‘Not yet… but I shall be.’ It was said with great confidence. Una had never before realized her proclivity for acting.
Enjoying himself, Sigurd indulged her. ‘And the runes told you this?’
She shook her head. ‘The runes are only one of my talents. Besides, I never see my own fate there, only that of others.’
‘Ah, yes!’ mocked Sigurd. ‘I remember you told me, I shall live to be a very old man. So… how are you certain that you shall be freed?’
‘That truth was brought to me by greater magic,’ revealed Una. ‘Magic that rules you also. ’Tis already written that you will give me my freedom.’
The listener spluttered. ‘Oh, will I? Do I go to the trouble of winning slaves just to set them free?’
‘Mayhap it shall not be today, nor tomorrow, but it shall come. I trust the Lord.’ And she added an opinion of her own: ‘When you’re a man ye’ll learn ’tis wrong to own people.’
‘When I am a man?’ Amusement turned to wrath. The youth took a last swaggering step forwards and shoved his face into hers. ‘Doest know how many men I have killed?’
Pressed tight against the rotting wall with only words at her disposal, Una countered bravely, ‘That doesn’t make you a man. A true man wins people with kindness and gentleness, not the edge of his sword.’
He was close enough to kiss her – could have shown her all the kindness and gentleness she craved – but instead he scoffed: ‘No wonder the Christian men are so easily beaten if those are their teachings.’
In return her eyes belittled him. ‘One day ye’ll accept the power of the true God. Jesus’ll make ye set me free. Ye cannot change what is written.’
His hands came up to shake her, only one thought keeping them at bay: what if she really could do magic?
This doubt relayed itself to Una. Using his lack of maturity to aid her bluff, she pressed the dart of superstition home. ‘Remember what I told you on that night ye came: ’twill be a woman who destroys ye.’
He placed his hands on the timber to either side of her face and leaned on them. His whole body trembled to repay such insolence, but her words had conjured such an air of sorcery that it became as effective as a wall between them. He hung there, hypnotized and quite furious. ‘I could kill you at my whim!’
‘Then why don’t ye?’
He spoke through his teeth. ‘Because a slave is worth money and I do not dispose of wealth so freely! Be thankful you have escaped me for today.’
‘I have no wish to escape.’
Sigurd cursed her ambiguity aloud. ‘You say if I touch you you will call upon your magic and have me killed, you say you want your freedom but now you say you have no wish to escape! In the name of Odin what do you want?’ Wrenching free of her mesmerizing gaze, he spun away.
Una remained hugging the wall. ‘If I escape, your men will hunt me down and kill me. The Lord knoweth, I do want my freedom but not at the price of my life. I accept that I must wait for it to come from you.’
‘Then you shall wait forever!’ Sigurd grew tired of her incoherent prating and headed for daylight. ‘Back to work with you!’
Alone, Una sagged, half in relief, half regret. He was overbearing, a young tyrant, too adept at casual violence… but from the moment she had faced him on that Irish heath, she had felt something very odd happening inside her.
Chapter Eight
Frustrated, mocked, rejected, Sigurd became a torment to all those forced to live with him, though none were conversant with the true source of the problem and he was disinclined to enlighten them. What a laughing stock he would be if they knew – his advances rebuffed by one so low!
The air between himself and Una became even more electric. Blighted hopes gave way to drastic intent: I shall take her, he decided, watching her now sowing beans and planting woad. Whatever her tricks she will fend me off no longer. She is mine and I shall have her.
All that day his leaden loins hovered on the verge of explosion. Una felt him watching her every move and played on such overt lust, taunting with her body as she carried pails back and forth from well to house. Oh, and don’t ye hunger for me! But ’tis not time yet, my lord and master. Una had decided to use his appetite as a weapon to gain her own freedom and that of her son. She would give in to him – eventually – but it must be at the right moment. Too soon, and she might lose this valuable hold over him. Make him wait too long, and he would tire of the game.
This strategy was not something she chose to reveal to any of her fellow prisoners, especially Black Mary. Crammed together in the hut she and the latter had been compelled to form a truce. It was impossible to spend twenty-four hours of the day at each other’s throats, but they could never be bosom friends and by force of nature Mary had ensured that Una found no confidante amongst the others, either. Una did not care; the less folk who knew her tactics the better. Soon she would be freed and they would still be thralls… if she could just manage to hold him off until the time was right; his expression today was very dangerous.
Behind Sigurd’s dark look were darker thoughts: Oh ja, you little bitch – his eyes touched the places that his hands could not – I know just what you are at but beware, for tonight I shall pay you another visit.
Little did either of them guess that by evening he would be as far away from Una as ever. That afternoon Ulf came to find him.
‘The Lady Ragnhild shouts for you.’
Sigurd was alert. ‘What does she hold in her hand?’
Ulf allayed the worry. ‘She does not seek to punish you for ought, there is a messenger arrived from the King.’
‘Cnut!’ Sigurd came alive, pulled a comb from his pouch and ran it through his hair. ‘I wonder if he comes – I should dearly love to see him again.’ Long strides carried him to the house where the King’s messenger had already been given refreshment and now with Sigurd’s arrival imparted the news.
‘Hersir, a great council is to be held at Cirenceaster at Eastertide. My lord the King commands your presence.’
Ragnhild clasped her hands in anticipation of more honour for her son and immediately organized provisions for his trip. Eric and Ulf would act as company.
As interesting as the diversion might be, it had not disposed of Sigurd’s baser urges. When he and Una crossed the yard together, he to visit the bathhouse, she to lo
ad his victuals, he caught her elbow and walked alongside her for a few yards, making her heart beat faster. ‘When I come back…’ His eyes finished the threat. Released, Una hurried away.
Later, amidst an air of adventure, the three friends shouted goodbyes to Ragnhild, directing their horses at the gates. Sigurd could not prevent his eyes from looking for Una. His belly flipped over. There she was, plucking a goose. The goose honked its outrage. Fingers ripping, Una stared not at her work but at Sigurd. How much more resplendent he looked than his hooded counterparts. His horse, a heavy-limbed chestnut with feathered legs, glowed as if it had been polished. Every buckle of its harness was ornamented, its bridle adorned with silver studs, its collar harness mounted with bronze and its iron stirrups inlaid with copper. As the horse ambled past, Sigurd turned his head and purposefully locked eyes with her. Each tried to outstare the other till the gate blocked their view, and odd as it might seem for one so markedly afraid of him, Una felt the painful chill of loneliness.
* * *
Cleansed of dust from their journey, the three men entered Court. ‘One day I shall have a room like this,’ promised Sigurd, admiring the decorative weaponry upon the walls – hundreds of swords and axes arranged in burnished symmetry, shields painted with dragons of red, blue and gold, huge drinking horns with silver mounts. He moved with the ease of one who knows his own importance, nodding to the gilded ranks of noblemen assembled there and proceeding to the throne where he bowed to his friend the King. Cnut acknowledged him, but there was a cool edge to his mouth that served to temper Sigurd’s blitheness.
‘Stay!’ Sigurd had been about to retreat from the throne with his friends, but the King’s voice held him there.
‘Come forth, Sigurd Einarsson, so that you do not mishear what I have to say.’ If the King’s original message had incubated hopes of favour then these were fast becoming sterile; the face beneath the crown was not that of an old friend.
‘I called upon your presence,’ announced Cnut, ‘for I have received word that in my absence you instigated a viking raid upon Ireland. What have you to say on this?’
Sigurd, taken offguard, could think of no response. Behind him, Eric and Ulf shuffled with unease.
The King twitched a golden eyebrow. ‘Didst think that far away in Denmark I would not hear of it?’ He lifted his chin. ‘Well, let me tell you that a king has many ears…’
I’ll wager you have one in your arse, too, thought Sigurd, wondering angrily who had informed on him. It could be any one of a dozen northern thegns who were jealous of his relationship with the monarch.
‘…and though I be far away those ears are listening. Your digressions will not be tolerated!’ Cnut’s voice was increasingly harsh. ‘Didst think that the title I bestowed upon you gave leave to further your own greed for wealth?’
‘Nei, my lord.’ Sigurd looked at his feet. Rebuked thus before all the nobles of England he felt like a naughty child, and at this moment hated his former friend. How could the King humiliate him in front of Englishmen? He who had helped Cnut vanquish these people! Feeling himself to be the object of derision, and mistakenly attributing the mockery to Godwin who was seated close to the King, he raised defiant eyes to glare at his audience. Why had this one man, a man not much older than himself, earned such favour and was now adorned with the grand title, Earl of the West Saxons? It seemed that he could do no wrong and Sigurd no right.
But the rebuke was not exclusive to Sigurd. Cnut had turned away to envelop Thorkell the Tall in his ire. Thorkell, in Cnut’s absence, had acted as Regent but had apparently enjoyed the role too much and upset many people who had wasted no time in complaining to the King. ‘There are others here present who are of like mind, motivated by personal gain. That is why I gather you here, that you might bear joint witness to this warning: such errant behaviour will not be suffered. Those who cross me will pay heavy debt. Have I not just had a bellyful of squabbles in Denmark? I do not wish to return and be told that my subjects cause havoc at home!’ Once again his eagle eyes were upon Sigurd. ‘How can I promise my people order and justice when my thegns run wild upon their property? We must have unity or all that we have won shall shrivel to nought.’ Pinching the bridge of his aquiline nose as if to contain exasperation, he paused, then turned back to Sigurd. ‘Pope Benedict entreats me to use my power in the service of peace, and as God is my judge that is what I fully intend to do. I shall start by building a kirk at Assandun for the souls of those who perished there in battle. You, Sigurd Einarsson, and your two good friends shall help to lift the stones, then might you know Christ’s greatness.’
Sigurd was apprehensive. ‘Does my lord ask that I forsake the old gods and follow this Christ?’
‘Thou wouldst be a fool not to.’ Cnut softened. ‘But I shall not force it.’
Sigurd posed a last relevant question. ‘King of kings, if next year a new god is born, one who proves more powerful than your Christ – what then?’
‘Then I should support him, of course,’ replied the monarch with customary shrewdness. ‘But be assured it shall never happen. Now, go in peace and do God’s will.’
During the time spent in the construction of the shrine, Sigurd chewed over these last words and began to see the political expedience of his own baptism; it might help him with Una, too. He wondered what course his life would take now that the King had forbidden him to go viking. Primary malice had been washed away by the sweat of toil and he had come to the decision that the King was right about consolidating one’s gains; it was foolish to waste his efforts for a little fun, better by far to channel that exuberance into securing a wedge of Cnut’s great nation. It might not happen as quickly as he would like, for while some people had things handed to them on a platter, Sigurd had learnt by experience that he was not of Godwin’s ilk; he had always had to work and fight for everything he had achieved, but triumph was all the more acute after a long wait. Excitement spurred his adze. He chipped and sliced and with each sculpted timber made his plans; after his baptism in the new kirk he would go on to make himself an important citizen of Jorvik, make his voice heard at the council, send its echoes down to Lunden and win the King’s respect… but that was all to come. First, there was another conquest.
The separation, almost nine months, had only worked to heighten Sigurd’s feelings for Una. She was the thing most upon his mind as he and his friends rode the last miles to Jorvik that Christmas Eve. That it was Christmas needed no proclamation; even outside the city ramparts in the ploughswain’s street joyous voices could be heard from within. Micklegata rang to the sound of the Waits, candlelit processions chanted their way through the dark and narrow lanes to the religious houses where they would hold their vigils, but such holiness was far from Sigurd’s thoughts. His entire body burnt with such longing…
‘Art gone deaf?’ Ulf’s voice was testy, his inner things chafed from the saddle. ‘I ask my question three times and still you do not answer.’
‘Forgive me, I am ready for my bed.’ Sigurd took a gauntlet from the reins and scratched his back. ‘What did you ask of me?’
‘I ask what gift you bring the Lady Ragnhild from your travels.’
Sigurd gawped. ‘Aiee! She will have my balls, I never gave it a thought. Stop, stop! We must find a merchant or silversmith, a shoemaker! Anything will do! I durst not go home empty-handed. Oh, thanks be to the gods!’ He pointed to a sign, reined in his horse and prepared to go inside the house of the silversmith, hoping that the man would put trade before lawful observance of a holy day.
Ulf and Eric dismounted too, rubbing their posteriors and bending their legs. After a long time Sigurd emerged with a tiny leather pouch and took from it a ring that he brandished in triumph.
Eric sucked his teeth. ‘All that wait for such a paltry thing!’
‘It cost enough!’ Sigurd was hurt.
‘I dare say it did, and I meant no offence. ’Tis proof of your courage that you take her so small a gift but will it not be dwarfed by
mine?’ Eric patted the box strapped to the packhorse. ‘I know how the dame oft berates your offerings.’
Sigurd frowned. It was the first time he had noticed the box. ‘You have a gift for my mother?’
‘Ja – but do not be shamed by its size. It is from both of us, is it not, Ulf? I am sure Ragnhild would understand.’
‘What is it?’
‘I would show you but ’twould only delay your own search…’
‘No matter.’ The size of the box was evidence enough for Sigurd. ‘Wait here! I shall go buy something else to go with this.’
‘Why do you torment him so,’ grumbled Ulf, acquainted with Eric’s joke. ‘’Tis too cold to stand here all night while you play games.’ Eric simply chuckled.
Sigurd returned with a bolt of fine quality wool. Unfortunately Eric’s gift had also increased in size.
‘I too had second thoughts,’ said his ugly friend, patting the huge box that he was trying to load onto the horse. ‘’Twas mean to buy her a gift between two of us. This cost me the earth, but nothing is too good for our dear Ragnhild.’
Sigurd was livid. ‘Swine! You do this a-purpose to shame me before my mother!’ He wagged a threatening finger. ‘I will buy one last gift and do not dare to better me again!’
‘Nei, enough, enough!’ Ulf grabbed a handful of the blond hair and dragged Sigurd back. ‘I shall tarry here no longer and freeze my plums off. Can you not see this wretch has you for a fool – the box is empty, he borrowed it from that house over there.’
‘It is not empty!’ An indignant Eric forestalled Sigurd’s attack. ‘Heed!’ Supporting the box on one knee he lifted a corner of the lid and at the same time broke noisy wind. ‘Oh! That is why I did not want to show you what was in it! My gift to Ragnhild has escaped.’ He looked dolefully at Sigurd who dealt a laughing punch.
