by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
‘I do not think my mother wouldst appreciate a fart in a box. Eric, look out! Behind you is a skurrahnefalskrim!’ As Eric spun the youth leapt at him and dealt retribution to his ears.
Ulf sighed at their playful tussles. ‘Get thee to a mad-house, I am gone home.’
Remembering Una, Sigurd vaulted onto his horse and begat a gallop along Micklegata that erupted into mayhem as Ulf strove for supremacy. The members of the religious procession on the bridge were forced to jump or be trampled to death, their candles fast extinguished in the Use.
Ulf careered through the gates only seconds before the others, all three horses churning up mud in their whinnying skid. Pink-faced, Sigurd laughed and dismounted, calling breathlessly for aid. In those few moments of handing the reins to another he gazed across at the slaves’ hut barred against the cold, and wondered what was taking place behind that door. The maddening itch returned…
‘Sigurd, where have you been?!’ Ragnhild, hearing the din, had emerged to greet her son, her head and neck heavily veiled against the cold. ‘No word nor sign! Did the King grant favour?’
Sigurd tore his eyes from Una’s hovel to share a rueful glance with Ulf. ‘It might be classed as favour by some.’ He laughed and rubbed his glowing face.
‘Good!’ She tugged off Ulf’s hood and nipped his cheek affectionately. ‘Then come inside and tell me all about it. I have a splendid Yule log burning in the hearth and food to fill your belly – even enough for yours, Bearface.’ Ulf winced, then realized she was talking to Eric with his heavy black growth.
Sigurd laughed to himself and followed the others into the welcoming light of the house where the timber walls were festooned with greenery. The conquest of Una would have to wait until the festivities were past.
Perforce, it had to wait much longer for another reason than wassailing: Una herself. The girl was as intransigent as ever. Any other master would have raped her, but this was too easy an option; he must win her spirit, too. In an attempt to forget about her he paid recourse to the other females at his disposal – what an unresponsive bunch they were! Lying like blocks of wood, pretending not to be impressed… he had quickly lost interest, allowing Ulf and Eric to use them as they wished. Due to their efforts, two of the women had given birth, with Ragnhild as midwife, thus providing Sigurd with more slaves… but he wanted only one. Una must indeed be in possession of magic, for what other girl of eighteen was so expert a manipulator?
Day by day, Sigurd weakened to her ploy. By the time another spring came round he had become totally infatuated. He confided in no one – how could he say to men next to whom he had fought, “I feel as though a thousand elvers swim around my belly.” But everyone knew, from his friends to the lowest thrall, and could see it from the way he behaved towards her.
The other slavewomen began to tease Una. ‘How will you like that old sow Ragnhild for your mother-in-law?’
‘Why, how can ye talk about her so,’ cried Black Mary in false reproach. ‘To be sure, isn’t she the loveliest woman y’ever met. Can’t ye just see those tears in her eyes when she’s forced to ask us to muck out the pigs.’ She mimicked Ragnhild’s accent. ‘It breaks mine poor heart to verk you so hard, jaaa!’
Even Una had to laugh, carving squares of moss for use in the latrine and holding one up for inspection. ‘D’ye think this’ll be big enough for her ladyship’s backside?’
Black Mary eyed it. ‘Mayhap – but is it soft enough?’
Una rubbed a thumb over the dark green filaments. ‘Not quite.’ Full of glee, she ran over to a briar, nipped off a thorn and embedded it in the square of moss to accompanying giggles.
‘Make sure ye put Ragnhild’s name on it,’ warned Black Mary, raking together some fluffy seed-heads of coltsfoot for use in her own mattress. ‘If I get that up my bottom you’ll know about it.’
One of their number had found a supply of peat. Glad to have detoured conversation from Sigurd, Una seized a turf and put it to her face, inhaling deeply. ‘Ooh, God, will ye just smell that! Come, away to the house and burn some and let’s all have a good cry and think of home.’
‘Crying, is it?’ said Black Mary. ‘Sure, you wouldn’t leave here if ye had the chance now. Ye have life too good, what with all the privileges himself gives ye.’
Una shrugged this off. ‘Tis nought so sure as I’ll be back home afore you,’ she told Mary, and flounced away.
Ragnhild had begun to regret her own laxity in not selling Una whilst her son was away down south; his relationship with the thrall was unhealthy. It was imperative that she resurrect her plan to find him a wife, and the sooner the better. This she told him. ‘It will prevent you from making a complete jackass of yourself.’
Sigurd, eating his last mouthful of breakfast, played dumb. ‘Jackass? What do you mean by that?’
‘One of these things!’ Ragnhild formed a donkey’s ears with her hands and brayed. ‘You know very well what I mean! You and that Irish mare, between you you shall breed a mule! Doest believe nobody notices the way you are always sniffing round her with your tongue hanging out? You are the laughing stock.’
Her son turned grim and rose from the table. ‘Show me which man has laughed and I will kill him!’
‘You would need many blades to stop all who laugh – and would you kill your friends over a wench? Tsk! Even the servants talk about you.’
‘They shall soon regret it. I am master here and I will do as I like.’ He bent over and started to run a comb through his long hair towards the ground, yanking at resistant knots.
His mother’s attitude was unaffected. ‘Nobody denied you the right to bed which slave you want, but when you fall in love… that is another matter.’
‘Love?’ Still bending, Sigurd gasped and hoped that his hair would mask his crimson face.
‘You do not fool your mother!’ Ragnhild leaned over and whacked his bottom with her spoon. ‘I have known you too long.’ She became more constructive. ‘Be warned, son, there is something weird about that one. She has bewitched you. You would be wise to sell her.’
Sigurd pulled a ball of hair from his comb and threw it on the fire; it sizzled. ‘Why should I want to get rid of a perfectly good wench?’
‘Huh! Good for some things.’ His mother turned her back on him.
This was Eric’s opinion, too. ‘She must be very good at love.’ He leaned in sly manner towards Ulf when the three were taking a midday break together. ‘Wouldst Sigurd lend her to his old friend for a few days’ entertainment?’
Though annoyed at his teasing, Sigurd was relieved that no one had guessed the truly embarrassing fact of the relationship: its celibate nature. A droll look upon his face, he replied to Eric’s question, ‘Your idea of entertaining a woman would be to organize a farting contest. You have not the vigour to cope with that one there.’
Una sat outside the thralls’ hut grinding flour with a quernstone, knowing from their lascivious grins that the men were discussing her. She looked hard at Sigurd, trying to make him feel uncomfortable and succeeding. He was the first to look away. Damn her! She was an odd one.
‘You speak of vigour – you, too, will need some for this wife your mother promises to bring you,’ opined Eric.
Sigurd grimaced and drained his cup. ‘I wish that she would leave me be. I am not ready for a wife yet.’
Ulf agreed. ‘Nor I. ’Tis wiser to make use of slavewomen, for they do all your bidding and will not answer back.’
‘And if only he could grow a pair of tits himself he would not need them at all,’ mocked Eric.
Whilst the two bandied insults Sigurd had barely taken his eyes off Una, watching those male hands grip the quernstone – what ecstasy to feel them gripped around his own throbbing flesh. He imagined their coolness on him… His buttocks clenched.
‘But if your mother has her mind set on finding you a wife,’ continued Ulf, ‘I would give you good advice: you must dominate her from the start, show her who is master.’
A cr
y from the house caused Sigurd to laugh. ‘The same way that you dominate my mother? Hark! The old she-wolf is calling to her cub.’ He threw back his head and mimicked a wolf’s howl. ‘Oolf! Oolf! You had better run and see what she wants before she sinks her teeth into you.’ Eric’s belly shook as Ulf jumped to his feet with a growl.
‘Your mother is worse than any wife! I am at her beck and call every moment of the day.’
‘You must show her who is master, Ulf,’ teased Sigurd and rubbed at his crotch.
‘I shall!’
‘Ulf – ah, there you are!’ Ragnhild summoned him briskly. ‘Did you not hear me calling? Come, if you have finished quaffing I will cut that hair of yours afore it sends you blind.’ She went back into the house without waiting for response.
‘Coming, Ragnhild!’ Scowling at the others’ laughter, Ulf was forced to obey.
‘Oh, thou spake with real conviction, Ulf!’ Pleased that Ulf’s misfortune had detracted from his own, Sigurd proceeded to torment his friend when they met again an hour later. ‘Well, didst show Ragnhild who is master?’
Ulf replied from beneath a savaged fringe. ‘Ja – that is why I look like a monk!’
A scream of abuse emerged from the direction of the latrine. Both men looked up startled, then went back to their conversation, Ulf resuming his complaint. ‘Those shears of hers are more murderous than any axe! I did not dare to move. Why should you escape?’ He tugged at Sigurd’s abundant mane.
The blond man laughed. ‘She will have to catch me napping.’
Ulf’s cavernous eyes took on a humorous glint. ‘Mayhap that is what she intends to do. She has asked me to take her on a little trip.’
Sigurd’s first reaction was to give Ulf a playful nudge. ‘I think I have mistaken her fondness for you! Might I soon be calling you Father? Where goest the pair of you – on a love tryst?’
Ulf examined the sky. ‘Mm, she would-not tell. It is a secret.’
‘A secret wedding!’ But the joke froze on Sigurd’s lips. ‘Shite… I do believe she is going to find me a wife.’ Rushing to the house, he accosted his mother, but her secrecy could not be pierced. He dithered whilst she, clad in her finest, ordered the thrall to load food onto a wagon – enough for a year, commented her son. ‘And what have you in that bag?’ From the way Ragnhild clutched it to her bosom when he mentioned it, the bag obviously contained valuables.
But he was not to see. ‘Just a few bits and pieces!’ Ragnhild slapped away his hand. ‘Why the look of worry? Do you think I run away with your money?’
‘Nei, nei! Just tell me where Ulf takes you.’ The finery, the loaded wagon, the bag of valuables answered the question for him. ‘You go to barter for a bride!’
Ragnhild looked smug. ‘You shall find out when I return. Oolf! Time to go, my pretty one.’
‘Mother, I told you I do not want…’ Sigurd’s objection was lost as the wagon pulled away.
‘If I were you I would put Ragnhild’s absence to good use.’ Eric had limped up to stand behind him, rubbing his injured bottom. ‘Let us invite some friends around for an ale-drinking contest. If this wife of yours is ought like Ragnhild then we must enjoy ourselves whilst we can.’
Sigurd was thinking once more of Una. ‘I agree, but for me to enjoy myself does not involve the pursuits you have in mind.’ He took Eric’s arm. ‘My friend, I would ask you a favour.’ The other man immediately reached for his purse. ‘Nei, ’tis not money. Whilst my mother is away, get you gone also. Visit your drinking cronies and sup yourself crazy. Go hunting, fishing… do what you will.’
‘So long as I leave you in peace with your little goddess of love.’ The black beard gaped in laughter.
Sigurd laughed too. ‘You will do this for me?’
‘Ja, of course! Am I not your dearest friend?’
‘Nei.’ Sigurd feigned bemusement.
Eric dealt a playful thump and repeated his earlier comment. ‘She must surely be very good. After all this time are you not bored of tupping her? Come, do not be shy, tell me some of the things she does to you.’
Sigurd fielded the question and offered to give Eric two barrels of ale to take with him. The instant his friend limped off he himself went to the bathhouse, which was a stone-floored building where could be taken either steambaths or a warm tub. Today, he chose the latter.
Whilst he sat with the perfumed water lapping round his hips it struck him as ridiculous that he went to this trouble for one who had not bathed in months. In his pursuit of Una he had tried everything – threats, confrontation, he had even tried ignoring her – and now he fell upon his last resort: he would humble himself by taking her a gift. With his hair still dribbling down his back, he marched confidently to the slaves’ hut where he found her alone, boiling up the dried roots of madder plants to obtain a red dye.
Una’s hand paused over the cauldron as he entered. Sigurd watched her anxious eyes flick towards the shadows where he now noticed the sleeping child. For the moment he tolerated the brat’s presence; now that it was past drawing sustenance from that coveted breast, he did not resent it quite so much. ‘Leave that. You will go and take a bath.’
‘A bath!’ Una could not stop the exclamation. The last proper bath she had taken was on her wedding night; did this herald a similar consequence? Panic fluttered in her belly. ‘The Lady Ragnhild, ’tis angry she’ll be if I leave my work.’
‘The lady is not here.’ There was a significant gleam to his eye. ‘Go now. I will return later.’
Leaving Murtagh asleep, Una wandered across to the bathhouse and plunged her body in the lukewarm water that Sigurd had used, having to admit to herself that it did feel good. Not daring to remain as long as she would have liked, she wrung out her hair, and stepped from the tub to dry herself. The master had left his own towel on the floor; it was damp but was still an unaccustomed luxury to Una. Redonning her filthy clothes, she went back to her duties. The master had apparently been waiting for her; she had barely knelt down at the cauldron when he returned, his own long hair still as damp as hers.
‘I bring you this.’ In the centre of his palm was a small crucifix from one of the Irish raids.
It appeared that at last the gods were on his side; her face mellowed and she actually smiled at him. Alas, due to the foibles of his mother, Sigurd found it hard to donate a gift graciously for fear that it would be reduced in value as it had so many times by Ragnhild – ‘It is not as good as your father would have given, but never mind!’ It had become his habit to make the receiver think they were doing him a favour by taking it off his hands. Hence in callow fashion he spoilt his chances now. ‘You may have it, ’tis of no use to me. I was only going to take it to the silversmith to be melted down, but the size of it would hardly make it worth the trouble.’
Una’s smile turned cynical. ‘I don’t need to ask what you expect in return – give me not baths and trinkets but milk for Murtagh!’
The blond Norseman upbraided her in his foreign, undulating speech. ‘Vat is dis you call Murtagh?’
Una returned the fury. ‘He has been here nigh eighteen months and ye don’t even know his name! He is my son!’
With equal vehemence, he grabbed the crucifix, droplets of water from his hair pattering on to her sleeve. ‘You do not want it? That is fine! What does it matter to me?’ And he flung it on the fire and stalked off, leaving her to gaze in regret at the embers.
Simultaneously, Murtagh woke and began to grizzle. Torn two ways, Una chose her child, lifting him from his bed of rags to pacify him. Whilst she delivered her reassuring cuddle, Black Mary entered.
‘Hm, gone at last, has he? Sure, I dursn’t come in lest he’s waving his jiggling bone around.’
Una was cool. ‘Stop all that dirty talk in front of Murtagh.’
‘Oh, so pure now!’ Black Mary gave a bitter laugh. ‘And after what the poor wee fellow has just been forced to watch.’
‘There was nought to see!’
Mary eyed Una’s wet hair i
n disbelief. ‘He gives baths to all his slaves, does he?’ She diverted her amusement to another matter for a moment. ‘Hah! Did ye hear the yell? Fat Eric found your thorn. Sure, I hope it ripped him to pieces.’ Then she gave her attention to the crying child and took him from his mother. ‘My poor wee darling! Come to the one that loves ye best.’ Murtagh went happily to her embrace. ‘Did that lustful wretch come and make ye cry?’ Watching the immediate cessation of tears, Una felt a twinge of spite towards her child and went back to mixing the dye. Black Mary was acting now as if she and the boy were alone, nuzzling and cooing at him. ‘Will my wee one come plant some seeds in the garth with his aunt? Or have ye watched enough seed-planting in here?’
Una scolded again, but Mary had words only for her nephew. ‘Away with me then, Murty-wurty.’ The black-haired child locked puny arms round her neck and the pair went out into the March sun.
The moment she was alone, Una grabbed a stick and raked frantically amongst the embers, but the tiny crucifix was lost. Angry both at this and the usurpation of her child, she collapsed into a defeated squat, head in hands. When she looked up again it was to see that her master had returned.
‘Why are you so like a mule?’ mumbled the youth from the doorway. ‘I feed you well, do I not?’
With his back to the light it was difficult for Una to see his expression, but the mood of self-pity was evident. ‘Well enough.’
‘And I do not beat you.’
Una pretended that the dye needed attention and bobbed down beside the cauldron. ‘It matters not. I am still the thrall and you the master.’
Sigurd bounded in to chastise. ‘No man would think so! You have made me the fool amongst everyone. My mother tells me I should sell you.’ He drew compensation from the look that flickered in her eyes. ‘You would not like that, I think?’
Una proceeded to stir, but glanced up at him. ‘I would not.’
