Jorvik
Page 20
‘I am glad you are at last considering taking a wife,’ said a prim Ragnhild, leading him and Ulf aside, ‘for you will need one to run this new house of yours.’
The black eyebrows descended. ‘What house?’
‘Ja, what house!’ Ragnhild speared him with a direct gaze. ‘Didst I not warn you that when my son was wed you would have to leave? I see no expedience in your pose.’
‘Er, we had not forgotten.’ Eric spoke for both himself and Ulf. ‘Indeed, we were discussing it only the other day…’
‘Discussion does not build houses!’
‘We begin tomorrow, dear widow. Ulf, who is a confirmed bachelor, shall live with me and my wife, when I find one, and we shall share the work.’
Ragnhild laughed to show her opinion of this arrangement.
Eric sighed. ‘But my quest for a bride has been fruitless so far.’
‘It surprises me not.’ Ragnhild poked the fat belly. ‘Any candidate would first have to be divested of her nose.’
‘So, as I said before…’ Eric made a flourish at Sigurd’s betrothed.
‘I shall find you one,’ vouched Ragnhild. ‘But do not expect miracles.’
‘I realize that you must have had to travel far and wide to find one such as Estorhild,’ granted Eric.
‘In truth, not far at all.’ Ragnhild’s search had not been totally at random. She had made enquiries beforehand as to where eligible maids might be found, and Estorhild came from a township not far from the Jorvik boundary. ‘But I fear I may have to travel many a mile to find a girl willing to partner one so ugly.’
‘Such thoughtfulness is touching,’ muttered Eric.
But Ragnhild had turned her attention to Ulf, encircling the rangy body with a crushing arm. ‘And is my other fine son positive that I cannot do him similar favour?’
Ulf cringed; throughout the hunt for Sigurd’s bride Ragnhild had tried to coerce him into matrimony too. He was half glad that he would be leaving soon; such attention could oft be tiresome. But one could not thump a woman and Ulf had to rely on curtness to make his point. ‘I thank you, Ragnhild, nei.’
‘Oh, he thinks too much of his foster-mother to share his little bag of sweetmeats with another!’ Ragnhild’s hand swooped between his buttocks making him jump on tiptoe, much to the amusement of Eric who doubled over. ‘Methinks I shall miss you too… but hold! There is no need for both of you to go. You, Ulf, could remain with…’
Hands protecting genitals, Ulf cut in hastily, ‘That would be unfair to Estorhild! See the way she beholds my friend, they should be given the chance to be alone together.’
‘But they will not be alone. Shall I myself not still be living here?’ Ragnhild made a final attempt to coax, then gave up and looked at Estorhild. ‘I have to agree that she does find my son acceptable – and who indeed would not?’
Another viewed the introduction with less enthusiasm. Every cell of Una’s body felt dead. Her arms hung loose at her sides as if attached with heavy weights. Her eyelids drooped, but she could not tear her eyes from her rival. Without looking down she bent to the child who tugged at her skirt and sat him astride her hip, still watching. But Sigurd did not look at her, his mind too full of other things – cannot take his eyes away from the white-haired beauty. Why? Why had he pestered and coaxed and begged all those months if now she was to be so easily discarded? Because he has had what he wanted, her mind answered. You gave in to him; you do not excite him any more. Now you will never be free.
Black Mary edged up to gloat. ‘Ah dear, look at him,’ she sighed. ‘Smitten indeed – an’ can ye blame him? There’s not a woman around here to compare with that maid.’ Damage inflicted, she minced away.
Una tightened her jaw and put a hand under Murtagh’s dress to rub the apple-like buttocks, reminding herself of more important bonds. ‘What do we care for him?’ She kissed the child’s dark head and swayed her body, while Murtagh played with the thong at her neck and laughed as if he saw the lie.
The guests stayed overnight and left the following afternoon, by which time an agreement had been sealed: the wedding was planned for November when the harvest would be in and the beasts killed for the winter. Unprompted, Sigurd was glad to offer a hefty bride-price for the privilege of welding his own family to another so rich, and Estorhild in turn would bring with her a substantial dowry.
Putting the last hours of daylight to good use, Una was working in a quiet corner of the garth when Sigurd appeared as if no interval had occurred in his love affair.
There was no sweet greeting from Una who used her hoe to such violence that she dislodged plants as well as weeds. ‘I cannot believe that ye stand here as if nought has happened!’
Sigurd beheld her with confusion as plant after plant fell to her anger. ‘But… nought has happened. I still feel the same way about you as I did yesterday.’
‘You were not with me yesterday! You were with herself!’
‘Estorhild? So I make arrangements for wedlock, what has that to do with us?’
Una’s reply verged on a scream. ‘You could not take your eyes from her!’
He had the audacity to laugh. ‘But naturally! You saw her too, did you not? Such a beauty – hold! Where do you go?’ Una had thrown down her implement and was now tearing across the enclosure. The beanstalk legs ran after her and caught her at the gate.
She turned on him. ‘Fret you not! I make no bid for freedom, I’m off to fetch the kine from the green.’ Still he clung on to her. Una’s blue eyes were hard. ‘Will ye let me go, master?’
Snorting, he dropped her hand and watched her march over the duckboard that bridged the muddy road and on to the grass that formed the nucleus of Peseholme. Equally irate now, he followed her, overtook her and instead of laying himself open to the prying observations of neighbours he dragged her under a group of gnarled oaks. ‘You think that because I have found a wife it means I do not love you?’
Una fought to dismantle his grip. ‘I’d like to know what else it can mean!’
Sigurd pushed her up against the trunk of a tree with his body. ‘Feel! Feel how I want you!’
Assaulted from both behind and in front, she wriggled. ‘Only until your bride comes!’
‘Oh foolish woman!’ His blond hair took off in all directions. ‘You think because she is so fair that I will scorn you? She is a beauty, ja, but I prize her no more than I would one of those horses which the Arabs breed.’
Pinioned by greater strength, Una’s resistance waned into feminine tears. ‘Ye make such a fine couple,’ she replied in a small voice.
‘So do you and I.’ Sigurd took her tears between his lips, attempted to make love to her, but again she wriggled.
‘There is a difference! Estorhild will be the one who sits beside your fire, who sleeps in your bed, who has your children! The one whom you converse with. You are not truly interested in me.’ Sobbing, she glared into his face. ‘Only the games that you can play upon my body.’
‘You malign me!’ Sigurd frowned, but ceased his groping.
‘I speak the truth! Ye never ask me of my life in Corcaig, who my father and mother were, do I have brothers, sisters, uncles, do I like to sing, do I dance – you never talk to me as ye would your wife, as if ye really loved me!’
He backed off, subdued, and looked across the green to where some thatchers worked on a neighbour’s roof. ‘The reason I do not ask you these things is because I do not wish to hear about your life in Ireland…’ Regressing into boyhood, he wound a lock of blond hair round his finger. ‘I fear that you yearn to be back there with those you love better than me.’ He fell quiet, then gave a small laugh. When Una looked angry again he explained, ‘I do not laugh at you: one of the thatchers has just fallen from the roof and is dangling from a beam by his fingernails.’
Una craned a look, but felt unable to smile at the man’s misfortune.
Sigurd unloosed the hair from his finger and returned to her with more kindly approach. ‘You wouldst not w
ant me to speak of Estorhild when I am making love to you, and neither do I wish to hear of other lives. If you would talk then there is much else that we can say to each other. I know enough about you, I do not need to ask.’ He breathed seduction in her ear. ‘Let me love you, Una. I will even give you milk instead of whey for that brat of yours.’
Subservience and longing conspired against her. When he led she followed meekly. Until November he was hers alone.
* * *
The clemency of autumn spelt a glorious wedding feast. Rubicund forest yielded stag and wild boar, the Use teemed with pike and roach and trout, branches hung low neath the weight of apples, plums, blackberries, raspberries, the hives dripped with honey, the stores bulged with wheat, rye, barley and oats, and there was good German wine to be had from the ships. All of these, plus a roast swan as centrepiece, were displayed to great effect in the living-hall where the panpipes trilled merry and the folk of Jorvik danced in bright array.
A few weeks earlier, Sigurd had despatched an invitation to the King, partly to impress his mother. Ulf thought him mad, ‘He will never come! He has too much to concern him at court.’
‘You mean Thorkell?’ News had filtered up from the south that Thorkell the Tall had been outlawed.
‘Ja.’ Ulf’s watery blue eye held a glint of warning. ‘That is what comes of being over-ambitious.’
Sigurd disagreed. ‘A man can never be too ambitious. Look at Godwin.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Ulf nodded. ‘You think that an invitation to your wedding will encourage the King to grant you Thorkell’s old position.’
‘And what is wrong with that?’ asked Sigurd. ‘A man must grasp each chance as it comes – which puts me in mind of something that I meant to ask. Now that I am to take a wife, I shall have less time to run my estate: how wouldst you like to be my reeve?’
‘Nei!’ Ulf backed off as if presented with some horrible task. ‘Nei, ask Eric.’
Sigurd laughed down his nose. ‘Are you mad! He would believe every sad tale that my tenants would try in order not to pay their dues. He is so generous he would probably pay them to live upon my land and have us ruined in a twelvemonth. Nei, you are as my brother and I wish you to accept the honour.’
‘I am unworthy! It is beyond my capabilities.’
Sigurd argued, ‘But you have ridden around with me for four years helping to run the place…’
‘Nei, nei!’ Ulf was adamant. ‘I have the land you gave me and that is enough responsibility. You may crave the stars but I do not.’
Sigurd looked displeased. ‘I would prefer it to go to one I can trust, but if you do not want it…’
Ulf realized he had insulted his friend and put a hand to the taller man’s shoulder. ‘Sig, I am honoured, but it is not for me. I am a simple man.’
The young lord nodded his understanding. ‘Then you will not wish to sit beside the King at my wedding?’ He grinned now.
Ulf looked pessimistic. ‘My friend, I fear that you will be disappointed.’
Sigurd’s confidence was unshaken. ‘The King shall come.’
Looking around the hall now he regretted his over-optimism. The King had deigned neither to attend his wedding nor grant him favour. Godwin had taken over Thorkell’s privileged rank. However, Cnut had sent his regrets plus a valuable gift, allowing Sigurd to keep face with his neighbours, and the reception did not lack its distinguished guests: the presence of Jarl Eirik of Northumbria was enough to illustrate Sigurd’s esteem, and placate his mother over the King’s non-appearance.
Ragnhild was seated on the groom’s left, her mood at odds with the gay occasion. Invariably, she felt nervous at any large gathering, a legacy of the massacre nineteen years ago. Tapping his foot to the music, Sigurd leaned over the arm of his settle to ask if she were happy. ‘This brings back memories, ja, Mother?’
A fraction of her abstract gaze remained. ‘It is a wonderful wedding, my son. Ja, wonderful.’ She appeared to come to her senses then. ‘Of course, it cannot compare with the feasts we had in your father’s day. Oh, they were gigantic!’ Sigurd gave a false laugh and wondered if he would ever live up to his father’s memory. To compensate, he renewed examination of the bride who shared his seat. Her hair had been combed back to display her face and was tied in a knot at the nape from where it hung freely, intermingled with ribbons. The style drew his attention to something he had not spotted on the earlier meeting – her jaw was very square; he hoped it did not spell obstinacy. No matter, her husband would tame her.
Husband! He congratulated himself on the title, admiring Estorhild’s garb – a silken cap, trailing robe edged with golden braid, the ubiquitous shoulder-brooches linked with festoons of silver chains, a long flowing cloak pinned with another golden brooch and flung back over her shoulders.
His overt gaze upon her breasts unnerved her. To look away provided no comfort. If she looked across the hearth at the jarl in his place of honour between the richly-carved pillars that held the roof, she found him staring back. If she looked along the rows of benches, there too she found ogling males. One of them had made an awful stink.
Unable to reach Eric with his foot, Sigurd threw him a rebuking glare – what if Estorhild thought he was responsible? It was all very well for the black one, who had been first of the friends to marry and now lived on his own land with his bride of two months and Ulf; all three were here for the wedding. Ragnhild’s choice was poles apart from today’s beauteous bride, though more handsome than the ugly Eric had a right to expect. She had already, during their short partnership, managed to curtail his over-generosity towards strangers and his shyness of work – if not his foul habits. Sigurd wondered how she could bear to sleep with him, then turned his eyes back to more lovely features.
Estorhild blushed and fluttered a quick glance, her voice and attitude girlish. ‘I beg you, husband, do not stare so!’
Upon realizing what he had been doing, he smiled. ‘I crave my lady wife’s pardon. After the summer’s absence I feared that my memory of your beauty might be false, but on second meeting I find you even more desirable.’
Estorhild’s flush was born not just from his closeness but from empathy with the uttered sentiment. Throughout the summer she too had wondered if he could possibly be as splendid as she had thought at their first meeting. How could one pine so fervently for a man one had met only once? But Estorhild had, and could not have been more avid of the choice of husband had she made it for herself. Though shy, she had been well instructed in social intercourse and now paid graceful thanks to his compliment. ‘If I may make so bold, my lord is in fine fettle himself.’ Sigurd’s apparel was of equal richness to her own, adorned with bells and bangles; he wore pendulous rings in his ears, new shoes of calfskin with the hair left on for warmth, and looked more noble than the jarl.
‘So you will not balk at sharing my bed this eve?’ He covered her hand, uttered an emollient laugh, then in crafty manner lifted his goblet in toast to the priest who had officiated. You pious lick-trencher! I saw your eyes upon my wife whilst you spouted the words of your Lord Almighty. Caught out, the priest gave a lecherous nod and stuffed his mouth full of cake.
Waiting by to serve the rowdy guests, Una damned her lover, challenged him. Look not at her but over here at the one who holds your seed still damp between her legs! But he did not notice her, or did not want to, last night’s passion vanished from his mind.
Black Mary nudged Una from her thoughts. ‘The groom calls out for bridal ale.’ When Una glared at her, she donned surprise. ‘Are ye not always keen to do your master’s bidding?’
Resentment burning in her breast, Una went to serve the couple with the ceremonial ale, a bonding ritual of the Norsefolk that had long preceded Christianity, though Una was unaware of the heathen implications. She stood before the table and leaned across to pour.
Sigurd was forced to look at her then. Their eyes met briefly as he held his cup neath the flow from her pitcher. His face showed not one jot of emotion
. Throughout the junketing and dancing, the oratories from Ulf and Eric and other friends, he did not look at her again.
* * *
It took no supernatural vision to inform Una that she would be the one called upon to prepare the bride for the marriage bed. Whether Black Mary had volunteered her name or whether ’twas a cruel jest by the Lady Ragnhild – who loathed her son’s concubine – it did not really matter. It was as gross a humiliation as could be heaped upon her. Una swore never to forgive Sigurd for allowing it.
Disrobed by the thralls, Estorhild stood in her fine woollen undergarments, totally naive to the identity of the one combing her hair. Black Mary shook the creases from her lady’s marriage gown and folded it away in a chest, enjoying every minute of her sister-in-law’s downfall. Una raked an antler comb through the blonde waves, came to a knot and vented her spleen.
‘Agh! You are too rough.’ Estorhild turned sharply and cuffed the slave. ‘Change places or I shall be bald before I meet my husband.’
Stupid wee girlie, Una raged inside but, passionless of feature, she handed the long-toothed comb to her sister-in-law who caressed the golden tresses so gently that Estorhild shut her eyes and mouthed pleasure. So soothing was Mary’s comb, it induced confidence from the recipient. ‘Oh, that helps to quiet my breast… I feel as if I have a sparrow in there. I know so little of my husband.’
‘Nor I, my lady.’ Black Mary passed a crafty look at Una over her lady’s shoulder. ‘Mayhap Una can tell ye more.’
Unwitting to the look that passed between the slaves, Estorhild was eager for information. ‘You have been with your master a long time?’
‘Two years, my lady.’ Eyes averted, Una lifted a pitcher and filled a bowl with warm water.
‘And he is a kind master to you?’
Una’s nostrils flared. ‘As kind as a master can be.’ Estorhild was ignorant of the double meaning and met the comment with approval. ‘Then if he is kind to slaves he will surely be kind to his wife.’