Jorvik

by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)

  Black Mary’s comb whispered ever so lightly upon her scalp. ‘With hair as beautiful as yours, my lady, the master cannot fail to love ye.’

  Una poised with the bowl, aching to tip it over her rival. ‘May it please my lady?’

  ‘Yea, but be as gentle as your friend.’ Estorhild allowed Una to sponge her which she did without incurring another blow. The three years between their ages could have been trebled, for Estorhild was as a child beside one who had suffered like Una.

  Mary was bent on persecution. ‘Should ye want to know what your wedding holds for ye, milady, Una is gifted in the runes.’

  Una passed her a murderous look, but their mistress gave haughty reply. ‘I have no use for such heathen practise. It is unwise to know the future.’ But whilst the thrall continued to sponge her body, Estorhild wished that she did know what lay ahead.

  When it was done, the bride looked nervously at the attendants and took a deep breath. ‘You may go tell them I am ready.’

  With Una encumbered by the bowl and towels, her assistant put aside the comb and beat her to the door. ‘I will go, my lady!’ It was not an act of pity: if Una was allowed to leave the room she could slip away and avoid the final ceremony. Black Mary wanted her to sup her poisoned chalice to the dregs.

  There was no need to go far to deliver the message. Hardly was the door closed on Black Mary than it burst open again to admit a noisy host of revellers who hauled a disrobed bryd-guma at their midst, and oh so joyful did he look. Una attempted to creep around the bawdy throng but one of its number almost elbowed the bowl of water from her hands, forcing her to step back. Estorhild, flushed and virginal, was tugged not unwillingly to lie upon the marriage bed, whence a laughing Sigurd, wearing only his dragons, tumbled in beside her.

  Una was compelled to stand amongst her fellow witnesses and watch the body she loved lie upon foreign territory. And he does not even see me.

  But he did. ’Twas Sigurd, not discretion, who bade the merry crowd withdraw before the maidenhead was pierced, turning an ale-happy face upon the watchers and crying, ‘Be gone!’ so that those Irish eyes might be spared. Content at doling out this act of mercy, he turned about and performed different service on his wife, whilst his pathetic little concubine vilified him in her thoughts and told him that he would do greater kindness by poking out her eyes.

  * * *

  The sun rose unseen through autumn mist. Sigurd woke from habit and prepared his body to leave its comfortable bed… his marriage bed. He turned to examine Estorhild’s sleeping face, but the room was too dark and he looked away to pick at his eyelashes.

  Her drowsy voice emerged from beneath the eiderdown. ‘I hope I did not wake you? I have laid here all night unable to sleep.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ Sigurd rolled over and took her in his arms. ‘I am told I make noises like a pig.’

  She kissed his shoulder. ‘’Twas not you but excitement which churns my breast. You made no sound.’

  ‘That is a relief. I always knew that Ulf lied. When we shared a bed together in our fighting days he would complain that I woke him whilst it was still night.’

  ‘You must have been dreaming of your fighting days just now, before waking.’ Estorhild nuzzled him, voice loving. ‘You leapt about as though in battle.’

  ‘Did I speak?’ He tensed, but his young wife was not yet familiar enough to notice.

  ‘Nay.’ She patted him, then smoothed her hand over his chest and pushed her body into his.

  Sigurd threw the eiderdown aside and put one foot to the floor. ‘Well… there is work a-waiting.’

  Estorhild uttered disbelief. ‘Work – when we are just wed?’

  ‘There is still an estate to be run. I shall only be gone until breakfast, then the celebration shall proceed.’ The feasting would probably continue for days.

  The girlish voice invited, half-bashful, half-provocative: ‘If you want me I am willing.’

  She had felt his erection and assumed it was for her. Did he tell her that he woke with this bull’s horn even when he slept alone? Nei. Pulling the covers back over himself, he put it to good use.

  Afterwards, he left her without a backwards glance. Estorhild dressed and opened the window shutters, but did not leave the bed-closet, troubled over what she could have done wrong between last night and this morning – Sigurd had been almost cool towards her. Hence the reason that when Ragnhild came looking for her daughter-in-law it was to find her weeping.

  ‘What is this? You have wedding guests who wait in the great hall to be entertained. Where is your husband?’

  ‘I am afraid I have displeased him!’ sobbed Estorhild.

  ‘Impossible.’ Ragnhild peeped into the hall to check that the thralls were providing for the guests, especially the bride’s family, who had slept on the floor.

  ‘Then why has he bestowed no morgengyfu?’ This crucial morning gift was meant to show that a bride had pleased her husband. ‘Because I am not worthy!’

  Ragnhild was unsympathetic. ‘If you are fishing for compliments you have chosen the wrong ear.’ She pulled the girl to her feet and began to plait the lustrous blonde hair. ‘Come! Stop feeling sorry for yourself and tell me what the problem is.’

  ‘I know not!’ Estorhild dabbed her eyes. ‘But something troubles my husband and he was perfectly all right yesterday.’

  Fingers halfway down the braid, Ragnhild cogitated for a while, then narrowed her eyes. By Thor, if it wasn’t that Irish cow! Had she not warned her son that Una would bewitch him? And now she was proved right, for what else but magic could distract his mind from this virtuous pearl? Ragnhild felt sorry for her daughter-in-law now, and though her words and fingers remained brusque her intention was kinder. ‘Stop snivelling and listen.’ Fumbling in her attempts to tie a ribbon on the plait she threw it over Estorhild’s shoulder. ‘Oh, here, do it yourself! Now, heed: you have not displeased him, it is simply that my son is backwards in these matters. The gift has probably slipped his mind, that is all.’

  Estorhild tied the red ribbon. ‘But he barely spoke to me…’

  ‘If you want conversation you have me! Now, heed. When he asks what you wish for your morning gift, tell him you need a handmaiden.’

  ‘But…’

  Ragnhild ignored the interruption and continued firmly, ‘Not just any handmaiden, but a particular girl. You know the two who prepared you for your wedding eve? ’Tis not the dark one but the other you will ask for.’

  ‘I do not care for her,’ said Estorhild. ‘I would not trust her to use a comb on…’

  ‘Will you stop butting in when I am trying to help you!’ One of Ragnhild’s brooches clattered to the floor. ‘Oh, does nought go right today? Pick that up for me and pin it on, my fingers are more than useless these days.’ She held out deformed knuckles. ‘Look at them! This is probably her doing as well.’

  Estorhild fastened the brooch to the older woman’s left breast. ‘Whose?’

  ‘I would tell you if you would listen! The slave, Una. You said you did not trust her and you would be right, but it is not only your comb which you should keep away from her.’

  Estorhild’s innocence did not extend to stupidity; she remembered now the exchange between Black Mary and Una last night, and guessed that there must be some relationship between her husband and the slave. Her comely brow descended in a frown. ‘You are telling me that…’

  ‘She is Sigurd’s concubine, ja.’

  Estorhild put her hands to her face. Oh, how humiliating to be told this by her mother-in-law! ‘Then how can you do me the disservice to propose that I bring her to my house?’

  Ragnhild’s braids dangled over her impatient bosom. ‘Because I am wiser than you! When she is in your possession then you can do what you like with her – sell her, and her magic will be broken.’ From a length of gauze she fashioned a veil for Estorhild like the one which she herself wore, plucking it this way and that around the distraught face. ‘Now you are decent, art going to act the mistr
ess of the house and serve breakfast to your husband when he comes in from his duties?’

  By no accident Ragnhild was in the mist-dampened yard when at eight o’clock her son returned from delegating the morning’s work on his estate. She caught his bridle, staggered backwards under the lunge of the horse and gave it a clout for its impudence.

  ‘Have care, little mother!’ Sigurd was almost dislodged as his mount answered with a testy display of its own. ‘The nag will have me on my arse.’

  ‘It must wait its turn! Get down, I have words for you, and quickly. What do you mean by insulting your bride and by that same token your mother who chose her?’

  ‘It is too early for riddles.’ Sigurd dismounted, his hair and face jewelled with droplets.

  ‘You left her weeping! She thinks she is a failure as a wife.’

  Her reproofs met only bafflement.

  ‘You gave her no gift, ninny! What was she to think?’

  He cursed his forgetfulness out loud, and was doubly irked that it had to be his mother who reminded him of his obligation.

  ‘Your mind on other things, no doubt.’ Sour-faced, Ragnhild moved aside as a thrall took charge of the horse.

  Sigurd could not refute the accusation. Estorhild had done her duty as a wife, had denied him not one perfect inch of her, but when he lay there afterwards it was not his wife he thought of. He snapped into life. ‘I had best go and make amends, take her a gift of money.’

  Ragnhild hurried after him. ‘Oh, that my son is such a dullard! That will just confirm to her that you have forgotten; had you intended to give her money you could have given it to her without delay.’ Her wrinkled face conspired. ‘I have smoothed the ground for you. Tell her instead that you have been racking your brains for something that would be worthy of such a bride but have as yet failed and so thought it best that she make her own choice of gift. I will wait in the hall with your guests so that you may make your peace with her – and while you are at it, give her a bairn!’

  Ignorant of any collusion between his wife and mother, Sigurd laughed, ‘Twill be my pleasure!’ and went directly to Estorhild in the bower.

  She asked immediately, ‘Where have you been?’ imagining him with the Irishwoman.

  ‘Why, I have been at my duties as I said I would.’ He took off his cloak and laid it over the bed. ‘I truly beg your pardon for leaving you so rudely after you pleased me so well last night.’

  Estorhild watched as the ends of his hair dripped onto his breast, then gave a tentative smile. ‘I did?’

  ‘Ja!’ he nodded warmly. ‘And I have been racking my brains how to reward you. Of course, I should be happy to bestow a gift of money too, but is there ought special you desire, ought at all?’

  Estorhild pretended to think carefully. ‘You are most gracious, but I want for nought. I have all I need in my husband.’ She enveloped him in a charming smile of forgiveness. ‘However… I have no wish to offend by refusing your gift. Perhaps a wench?’

  Sigurd thought this an odd choice. ‘There are many wenches around the place and they are all at your disposal.’

  Estorhild clasped her hands to her perfect breast. ‘They are needed for other chores. I had in mind one who could attend to my personal requirements – a handmaid to make me look attractive for my husband.’

  ‘She would have difficulty improving on what the gods hath bestowed.’ Sigurd considered it remarkable that she could still appear so chaste after the deeds that he had performed upon her.

  Estorhild was used to being pampered at home and getting what she asked for. Her lower lip jutted. ‘You say I may have ought, but that which I ask for you deny me.’

  ‘Nei, if that is all you require you may have a wench with pleasure. I will send one of them over.’

  ‘Oh, may I choose?’ Her response was hasty. ‘I must have a woman with the right temperament to suit my own… and you have still to discover much about that.’

  Sigurd’s mouth curled. ‘I have already discovered one thing about you: that you like to make love in the morning.’ He peeled the veil from around her neck. ‘I can see that I shall get no work done at all.’ And Estorhild yielded to him in the hope that her enthusiasm would prevent him from seeking pleasure elsewhere.

  Before they went in to join their guests, she asked again if, after the celebrations were over, she might go to the slaves’ quarters and choose a woman. Her persistence brought mistrust. Sigurd had the uneasy feeling that he already knew which one she would choose, and that his mother had a hand in all this. He studied his bride carefully, but saw only love in her eyes and duly shrugged his permission. What matter if it was Una? With such a beautiful wife he should not have cared what a slave girl would think… but he did.

  Chapter Ten

  With the guests departed and her husband’s concubine standing before her, Estorhild was indecisive. It was all very well for her mother-in-law to supply the plan but Estorhild was certain that she did not want this woman as her slave, loathed the thought of those fingers plaiting her hair and washing her body. Alas, only by possession of the slave could she sell her. Rumination brought forth choice: would it not be better to put Una to work – hard work – so that she became less attractive to Sigurd? Though what he saw in her now could scarcely be guessed. Estorhild looked her rival up and down, dismissed her hair as nondescript and her nose as piggish. A blush rose as she remembered how she had bared her soul to this woman on her wedding night, this woman who probably knew Sigurd’s body better than she did herself. Her mother-in-law had told of magic and the thought unsettled Estorhild. What if the slave should put a spell on her?

  Una kept her own gaze aptly servile, but deep inside frustration boiled. How she longed to meet Sigurd’s wife on equal ground, to say to her, ‘He loves me best…’ but then she began to puzzle over the close examination being paid to her. The lady said nothing, just stared and stared. Una risked an upwards glance and met a gaze akin to hatred. Why… Estorhild knew! Someone had informed her of Una’s position. Sigurd? No, he wanted the best of both worlds, he would not have told her. It must have been the Lady Ragnhild, but to what purpose Una could not guess, for why would she wish to hurt her daughter-in-law so blatantly? Fear pursued the revelation, fear made worse by the look in Estorhild’s eyes. Her mistress could kill her right now if she so wished; a thrall’s life was worthless.

  Estorhild saw her dread, and was startled that such response could be produced without utterance of threat. Had it been any other girl standing before her she would have immediately put them at their ease, but for Una there was to be no quarter. She held herself erect, boasting her finery and informed Una of her reason for being here. ‘You are to be my new house slave. You shall eat and sleep here, tend the fire, the cooking, cleaning, the washing of clothes and other household duties.’

  Una was startled herself, now – the wife inviting her husband’s concubine into her home! But she reacted dutifully. ‘So be it, my lady, and what of my son?’

  Estorhild froze, hardly daring to ask. ‘Your son? Who is the father?’

  Grasping this one tiny dart, Una aimed it long enough to give her mistress a fright, before admitting, ‘He is dead.’

  Estorhild concealed her relief. ‘Well, the child cannot live here. You must leave him in the care of one of the other women.’

  ‘Shall I not be permitted to see him at all?’

  ‘Not if you persist in your insolence.’ Una dropped her eyes and Estorhild relented. ‘When I have no use for you then I may allow it.’

  And when will she not have use for me, thought Una, bowed beneath the massive load of work inflicted on her throughout the day. ‘Sweep the ashes, wash the clothes, tend the fire, comb my hair – gently, fool! Fetch some logs, heat the stones for the oven, fetch water from the well, the vegetable garth needs attention, make a poultice for the Lady Ragnhild’s shoulder – idiot, that is too hot!’

  If it were not the young mistress dictating orders it was the old one. ‘Go fetch a skee
l of fish from the market,’ said Ragnhild.

  Una found it hard to catch what the woman said. ‘A what, my lady?’

  ‘A skeel, a skeel!’ Ragnhild threw a wooden pail at her. ‘Are you so stupid that you do not know what a skeel is?’

  I must be, thought Una as she made for the fish market. Stupid to think I could win freedom this way.

  ‘Would ye be fillin’ that with the silver fellas.’ She handed her bucket to the fishwife. Whilst awaiting her purchase, she gazed across the Use at Dyflinnstein where the Irish ships berthed, and dreamed of her homeland. It was the only tranquil moment of the day. When she lugged the heavy pail almost a mile back to Peseholme there was an endless round of slap and punch and shove and work and toil until Una was ready to collapse. And Sigurd had allowed it.

  Ragnhild sat by the hearth with her daughter-in-law awaiting Sigurd’s homecoming from the local witan, murmuring of Una, ‘You understand that I am not a vindictive woman, Estorhild, but even I would not blame you if you worked her until she drops after the mischief she has wrought. Her magic is surely weakened now.’

  Estorhild had embarked on a tapestry; it was eight inches deep and would eventually span each wall. She had intended it to be deeper but her mother-in-law said that anything over a foot would be a waste of time, concealed by the pall of smoke that hung over their heads. Estorhild felt she had a lot to learn. Threading new wool, she chanced a peep at Una who was now in the delicate act of transferring hot pebbles from the fire to the stone oven that was built into the wall. These in place, she inserted the fish wrapped in grass, then placed more hot stones on top, burning her hands in the process. Her hair was lank from the heat of her task, her face smudged in ash, her whole demeanour one of bedragglement. Estorhild relaxed in her own superiority and praised Ragnhild. ‘I was right to listen to you, Mother.’

  But when Sigurd came home to find Una waiting on him at table and Estorhild saw the look that passed between them, she knew she had made the wrong decision.