by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
‘He is no moonchild, he is perfect.’ Sigurd would never forget the dead babe so long as he lived. His blond hair fell across her breasts as he pressed tender lips to hers. ‘How fares your health now?’
‘I am weak.’ Self-pity brought another bout of tears. ‘My whole body aches and I need medicine for the bleeding.’
There was no hesitation. ‘I will bring a physician.’
After a gap of half an hour he returned with help. Whilst the physician worked on her Sigurd took the body outside and interred it near the boundary fence, his thoughts conflicting with uttered sentiments. Once Una’s treatment was completed he left her to sleep and went back to the marital house, deeply despondent and harbouring the resentful thought that Una had failed him.
The atmosphere at home was very different, the hall ablaze with lamp and candle, meat roasting on a spit over the fire with a thrall constantly turning it, and Estorhild to bring him ale the moment he was through the door. As had become her habit, she pretended that he had been at his lathe, acting her role of wife to the full and never once paying reference to his concubine in word nor deed. Sulking and crying had done not the slightest good, as Ragnhild had been quick to point out. The only way to win him was by being a good wife. Whilst Ragnhild grumbled about the cold making her joints ache, the young beauty watched her husband eating. Instead of sitting beside her he balanced on a stool, his mind elsewhere. There was nothing new in that, but tonight she had the feeling that his thoughts were not happy ones. This was an encouraging sign! If the concubine was making him unhappy then his wife must use the evening to reverse that process.
Ragnhild grew tired of waiting for Sigurd to finish his meal and went off to bed. When his bowl was empty, Sigurd remained hunched over it, face reflective. The thrall slunk around the table, collected the bowls and melted into the background. Estorhild came behind her husband, massaging his temples.
‘Mm, that is good.’ He leaned back against her and closed his eyes, then opened one of them to squint up over the shelf of her bosom. ‘You are very quiet this eve.’ She smiled at the inverted face, but said nothing. Something about the curve of her lips replaced his lazy expression with one of interest. Head still tilted, he pursed his moustached lips inviting her kiss. Her braids dangled over his chest as she leaned forward and touched her mouth to his, still smiling. Intrigued, Sigurd pulled her round onto his lap. She rested a hand on his shoulder, retaining her happy mien and causing his own smile to broaden by the second until he was laughing. Estorhild seemed to have a magic of her own tonight, her beauty amplified by the memory of Una’s gaunt face. He shoved all thoughts of the latter aside. ‘Come! Tell me then – you have a secret.’
His wife’s response was coy. ‘It is no secret. I am to have a child.’ The look on her husband’s face came as reward for all the weeks of hurt. In boyish fashion he crowed his delight to the roof, delighting her further and waking Ragnhild.
Both fell to chuckling as she bawled, ‘Has someone let a cockerel into the house?’ and Sigurd responded, ‘Ja! And a fine lusty cockerel he is too!’
As the laughter petered out, a cloud passed over her face. Sigurd asked immediately what was amiss. ‘It is nought…’
He reared in mock severity. ‘The father of your child insists that you tell him!’
Her eyes were warm as she tweaked his young beard. ‘I am overjoyed to be having your child, if only another did not share that privilege.’
He smarted and looked away, remembering Una white and wretched, that tiny perfect mite. ‘You are the only one. Una has lost her child.’
Despite his change of mood, she wanted to cry her own joy, and with her fervent kisses soon brought the happiness back to his eye. At this moment she felt she could ask anything of him and he would grant it. After one more intense kiss, she did so. ‘My husband, you know I have no wish to anger you especially on a night as wonderful as this, but now that we are to have a babe… could we not spend more time together?’
Will you give up your concubine, that was what she really asked. Sigurd paused to review the contrasting events of the day. A short while ago he had felt like a dead man; now his wife had brought him alive. His wife, not Una. He looked at this child-mother, so beautiful, so willing to please, and began to feel for her the tenderness she deserved. Taking a ring from his finger and slipping it over one of hers, he cupped her face, kissed her, and gave her diplomatic question a straight answer. ‘I will not see her again.’
* * *
It was only a small diversion from the truth. What kind of man would abandon Una without first making sure she was well? When he entered the cabin around midday he was glad to find the objectionable odour had gone, replaced by pine and lavender. He was less pleased to see Murtagh.
Una began to rise from her pallet. ‘I did not expect you at this hour.’
He bade her remain where she was, she looked so drawn. Reclining, she spoke to the boy. ‘Murtagh, find Aunt Mary.’ His aunt had brought him back this morning before she started work. Seeing Una indisposed had apparently not come as any news, but she had been good enough – if goodness was her aim – to ask if Una wanted her to look after the boy until she was well. Una had refused, the loss of her baby making her only child more valuable than ever, but now it looked as if she would have to grovel.
Murtagh came to her for protection from the man whom he had learnt to fear. His mother spoke harshly to him. ‘Away with ye now!’
Sigurd totally ignored the child, who understood what was required of him but was unable to open the door and stood waiting for aid.
‘Could you…?’ Una indicated the problem.
Making it clear that this act was beneath him, Sigurd nevertheless opened the door for the blackhaired child to toddle out, then closed it without bothering to see whether Murtagh went in the right direction. ‘I have brought gifts to aid your recovery.’ He came to lay them on the floor beside her bed, gesturing awkwardly. ‘There is food, some winter shoes, cloth that you can make into a robe when you are better, and this to keep you warm.’ He unrolled the martenskin coverlet and spread it over her.
She did not remark on the luxuriance of the gifts, but murmured, ‘I am sorry that I lost your child.’
He did not appear to hear her. ‘Some leggings.’ He shook these out to display them.
‘I said…’
‘I hear.’ He cut her off, proceeding with his inventory. ‘Some hareskin gloves, and what else?’ He poked amongst the array of gifts. ‘Oh ja, a brooch to fasten your cloak.’ He held it to her gaze. It was of Celtic style adorned with the gaudy jewels she liked so well.
Una gave up all mention of the lost child, knowing that he was deaf by choice.
After a moment he stood. ‘I shall leave you now.’
Her eyes showed regret. ‘So soon? Will ye return tonight, for I must ask Mary to…’
‘Nei, I shall not be here tonight.’ He exhibited unwillingness to look at her when he said it. ‘You must have time to recover your health.’
She was touched by his thoughtfulness. ‘I thank my lord, and hope to be more favourable to his eye when next he comes to visit.’
Sigurd nodded and opened the door. If I do not see her, if I can just keep away then I will stay true to Estorhild. Looking as she did now it was not hard to find Una undesirable. Why then did it hurt so much to leave?
* * *
Though still wobbly of leg and pale of feature, Una was on her feet the next day and waiting outside the church for the priest to emerge from mass. When he came out she knelt on a bed of fallen leaves and kissed the hem of his robe, was in turn given a candle and led to the altar for purification. Now that she was clean in the eyes of both God and Lord Sigurd, she went home and waited for her lover to come to her.
She waited in vain. Yuletide was upon them and still he had not been. He must know that she was fully recovered for he had seen her working in the yard, but he gave no look nor sign that he noticed her. She was to learn the reason from Bla
ck Mary – of course.
‘Did ye not hear?’ The black eyebrows lifted like rook wings. ‘His wife is with child!’ How great the thrill to be had from Una’s expression. ‘Now that you’re out of favour, I wonder if he’ll allow ye to stay in the house?’
Una struck back. ‘Well, if he’s not to visit I’ll have no need o’ your services, will I? Murtagh can spend more time with his mother!’ She stalked away.
With all the work that Christmas inflicted there was no time to dwell on loneliness, but work did not rob her of other emotions: grief, a sense of betrayal and injustice. One day he had sworn to go to the ends of the earth in pursuit of his love, the next he bought her off with tawdry gifts. He had not even loved her enough to be honest.
But then were you honest, she asked herself. Were you not guilty of using him as a means towards freedom? At first, maybe, she argued, but not after he had lain with me. I loved him – love him. I cannot help it.
One ray of hope shone through the heartache: now that she no longer mattered, would he free her? For had the vision not said that freedom would come by his hand? At this moment it lacked importance.
In contrast, Estorhild could not have been happier, directing servants, overseeing the baking of the bread, the brewing, preserving, spinning and weaving. The keys to the storeroom and coffers jingled from the girdle-hangers at her waist. So benevolent was her husband with his gifts of foreign oils and perfumes that she had to have more shelves built to hold them, shelves which Sigurd erected with his practical hands. How she adored him! They talked as they had never talked before, confided to each other their hopes and dreams. Estorhild learnt of her husband’s ambitions and promised to help him all she could in their achievement. As for her own dream, she had that already in her loving husband.
In the months before Estorhild’s gestation became so obvious as to prohibit her from society, Sigurd came to realize just how great an asset she was. The King, here in Jorvik on business, had honoured his thegn with a visit. So attentive a hostess was Estorhild that Cnut had barely taken his eyes off her, obviously ignorant that her radiance stemmed from pregnancy. The host felt quite superfluous, but at the end of the evening was to be compensated: the King announced himself so pleased with the hospitality provided by his thegn’s wife that he felt obliged to offer promotion. Sigurd was now a shire-reeve, responsible for collecting tolls, checking that there was no Sunday trading, keeping an eye on the moneyers and handing out fines.
Yet the old discontent at Godwin’s meteoric rise was there to override his pleasure. ‘What is a reeve compared to a jarl?’ he would grumble to his wife.
And Estorhild was always there to soothe him. ‘One day you too will have such power. I am certain of it.’ And she kissed and nuzzled him back to confidence.
‘You are right.’ He gave a determined nod. ‘I shall let no one stand in my way.’
Not even his wife, thought Estorhild, as she helped her husband prepare for his journey to Lunden on the King’s errand, the second time this month.
‘It is good that the King honours you, but I wish your duties did not take you away so often. ’Twould not be so hard if I could go too.’
‘I go to work, not to play,’ replied Sigurd, packing essentials into the leather bags that hung from his saddle.
‘I am sure the King would find a little space in the palace for me,’ she wheedled.
‘No doubt he would. Much as I trust Cnut with my life I would not trust him with my wife – besides, ’twould have to be more than a little space.’ He patted her belly. ‘Get you back into the house lest you meet ought that would harm the child.’
Her radiance was marred by grumpiness. ‘I cannot go out for fear of harming the bairn, I cannot have visitors for fear that my bulging belly offends them – what is there left for me? I am too ugly. How glad you must be to get away.’
Sigurd gave a carefree laugh and buckled the panniers. ‘You look fine to me.’
Ragnhild had emerged to see him off. ‘Oh, is this one fishing for compliments again?’
‘Who would praise me in this loathsome state?’ Estorhild cast a miserable look over her abdomen.
The day was hot and her husband grew vexed at constantly having to reassure her. ‘For the last time, you are not loathsome! What woman expects her belly to be flat when it holds a child?’ Kissing her, he mounted and rode off to join with Ulf and Eric who were to accompany him to the capital, leaving his wife to mope.
Being cooped up in such hot weather with only her mother-in-law for company was frustrating to one who enjoyed the high life. If he wasn’t on some battlefield with the King’s militia he was off with his friends or talking to strangers, anything to avoid the onerous company of his wife. When Sigurd returned from Lunden her first sentence was a twin to her last. ‘Oh, husband, I wish it were a more pretty sight to greet you.’
Caked in dust, he eased his leg across the horse’s back. ‘All I wish for is a bath and a good meal. Here, my pretty little bedfellow, mayhap this gift will lift your spirits. Is Mother in the house?’
Estorhild nodded and admired the bracelet he had put upon her wrist. ‘Have you bought her one also?’ When he showed her the hair decoration, she approved. ‘Your mother cannot fail to like it.’
Sigurd looked glum. ‘Well, they do say that Easter is a time of miracles.’
Both went into the house.
Out of the sun it was cooler. Sigurd gave Ragnhild her gift and collapsed into a chair. His mother greeted it with the usual mild enthusiasm and asked for news. After he had supplied a few details he rose and went to the door.
Using the chair to lever herself up, Estorhild stood too. ‘Where goest thou?’
He gave an impatient laugh, ‘I go to the latrine, if I have your grace.’
When he came back, Estorhild beheld him with suspicion. ‘You have been a long time there.’
‘Oh, I beg my lady’s pardon. I did not know the relief of my bowels was of such import or I should have taken her with me as witness.’ Sigurd returned to his chair and picked up a goblet. ‘I go for my bath after I have supped this.’ He looked her in the face. ‘I inform you of this so that you can keep a check on my movements.’
‘’Tis only because I miss you.’ She sounded pathetic.
He ceased being flippant and rubbed her hand. ‘I know. I missed you also.’
Ragnhild asked then, ‘How are Ulf and Eric?’
‘Hah! Eric gets fatter than ever. His horse walks bandy-legged.’
Estorhild took this to heart. When Sigurd next looked at her quiet tears trickled down the rosy cheeks. He groaned in exasperation. ‘’Twas not a jibe at you, silly wench!’ With an entreating gesture at his mother he complained, ‘Each and every time I open my mouth I say the wrong thing. What is the matter with this woman?’
‘It is hard for one so vain as Estorhild to accept the loss of her beauty,’ explained his mother.
Estorhild wept fresh tears that neither of them understood her insecurity, did not realize how she worried over Sigurd’s absences for fear that these would harm the marriage she had nurtured so well. Only one thing boosted her spirits about the trips abroad: at least they kept him out of the clutches of the sorceress.
She could not help it. All the time he was in the bathhouse she peeped through the window to check that no one else went in there. His ablutions seemed to take longer than usual. When he came back she lumbered to her chair pretending she had been there all the time, but once he cut into his meal her whines and moans began again.
‘Do you expect me to pay compliment every five minutes?’ Sigurd’s demand fought its way through a mouthful of bread. ‘You are my beautiful wife, you bear my child, I would not have it any other way – now can I finish my meal in peace?’
You might have made it more sincere, thought Estorhild, eyes brimming with tears, but allowed him to eat in silence.
And in that silence he began to think of other things.
* * *
Five m
onths had passed since Una had talked with her lover; she had given up expecting him now. There had been great pain at first, but now that had eased and the separation was not without its delights, for she was able to devote more time to Murtagh who had been badly neglected during the affair. The boy was almost three years old now and a joy to be with, the one light in her dreary existence.
Her master’s work over for the day, Una was attending to her own, perched upon the threshold in the warm evening, stitching clothes for Murtagh out of the cloth which Sigurd had given her before their estrangement. Behind her in the house Murtagh was having a conversation with a doll his mother had made from rags. She laughed at the childish prattle, broke the thread with her teeth and called him over in order to hold the garment against him. ‘Won’t you look the grand man in this?’
Murtagh seemed to agree, galloping around the room like a colt. There was no furniture to obstruct his wild play; Sigurd’s promise to make her some had died with her baby.
She turned back to the yard, imbibing the last few breaths of fresh air before twilight turned to dark. Someone was approaching. Murtagh immediately ran to his mother and pointed a stubby finger. ‘Man!’
Una, still seated, put an arm round him. It was obvious that Sigurd expected the child to be dismissed. Reluctant to do this, but without choice, she kissed the boy who clung to her and pushed him in the direction of the thralls’ hut. ‘Murtagh, go see Aunt Mary.’
The words had become engraved on his brain. Giving the man one last fearful glance, Murtagh ran across the garth.
Una remained as she was, gazing not at him but at the sky, and said eventually, ‘Look at the moon.’
Sigurd raised his eyes. The planet was orange against the deep blue of the sky, but from the look he gave Una, he failed to share her wonder.
‘Ye’ll want to come in.’ She stood by the door waiting for him to pass. Once inside she lit a rush-light.
