by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
Estorhild winced. ‘I cannot face another such ordeal just yet.’
‘Oh, a few months and it will soon be forgotten,’ Ragnhild assured her. ‘And the next one will be easier.’
Estorhild was unconvinced. ‘It will be a long time before I endure such pain again – if ever. I have just won Sigurd from his concubine and I refuse to drive him back to her by growing fat and ugly again!’ Besides, there were other factors which she chose not to divulge to Ragnhild: if she were big with child that would mean an end to the social life that she had come to expect, travelling around England, being entertained by those under Sigurd’s rule, the trips to Lunden when Sigurd was asked to serve on the witan. Much as Estorhild loved Gytha she had no wish to sacrifice all that for motherhood. ‘That is why I seek your help, my lady.’ She became wheedling. ‘Surely one so skilled in midwifery can offer me advice on how I might prevent it happening.’
‘You would deny your husband his sons?’
‘Not deny!’ Estorhild was beseeching. ‘Just postpone until I can be sure that he has finished with Una. You know what happened the last time.’
Ragnhild was thoughtful. ‘Yes… perhaps you are right. He is very fickle.’ She looked at her daughter-in-law who showed apprehension. ‘There are ways I can help you…’
‘Oh, please, anything!’ cried Estorhild.
‘But only until Sigurd asks why you do not conceive!’ Ragnhild was firm. ‘Then you must do your duty.’
One year passed. Sigurd was far too happy in his present role to think it odd that his wife had not yet conceived again. He had a beautiful daughter and a wife who was committed to helping him achieve his aims. What more could a man ask for? There were also plenty of outside influences to keep him occupied: Cnut, plagued by news of Thorkell the Tail’s mischief in Scandinavia, decided that the outlaw was better to have as a friend than an enemy and so went to Denmark where a reconciliation took place. As a safeguard they exchanged sons and Thorkell now governed Denmark in Cnut’s name. Sigurd had been asked to join the fleet as a precaution, but his warrior’s skills had not been needed this time and he was eager to return home to Jorvik, not just to his family but for another reason. Jarl Eirik had died and a new incumbent had been appointed. Unlike Cnut, Jarl Siward was not a statesman but a ferocious warrior with primitive methods of controlling his subjects. He and Sigurd were old brothers-in-arms, understood each other and the people of the North. Here, then, was the ideal chance for Sigurd to further his ambitions. All of these things, plus his dear daughter, helped to relegate Una to memory. Only occasionally did her magic pierce his contentment and lure him back to her. Estorhild knew of this and however much she might hate to compromise she had to be grateful that the visits were very rare.
Another summer passed and still Gytha was Sigurd’s only child. As happy as Estorhild was with the situation she knew that it could not go on forever; he was bound to question his wife’s infertility some time.
Ragnhild, too, was beginning to question, saying that it was high time for an addition to the family, ‘It is two years since you gave birth to Gytha! I said I would help you but this is ridiculous.’
But whenever the subject was mooted Estorhild managed to give some excuse or another. She became increasingly nervous that her mother-in-law would draw Sigurd’s attention to her barren state. Paradoxically, it was this nervousness rather than any interference from Ragnhild which brought about the question she had been dreading. ‘I cannot help but wonder,’ Sigurd told his wife one winter’s eve as they sat beside the fire after Ragnhild and Gytha had gone to bed, ‘if all is well with your health.’
Her flesh prickled. ‘I am perfectly well, husband. Do I not look it?’
‘Indeed you do,’ he replied with a smile. ‘But you are worried about something. I think I know what that might be. Is it not a little odd that you have not yet produced a brother or sister for our dear girl? I have wondered myself…’
‘It is not so unusual,’ said his wife hurriedly. ‘Her birth was a difficult one. It takes time for the body to recover.’
He gave a suggestive laugh and reached for her. ‘There does not appear to be anything wrong with your body that I can see.’
Desperate to change the subject, she allowed him to take liberties with her, interspersing her words with kisses. ‘It is not for want of trying that I fail to conceive, oh dear one.’
He laughed again and spoke kindly. ‘If you are worried on my behalf then do not be. I can wait for my son. It will happen some time – mayhap tonight.’ And he led her to bed.
Sigurd might laugh but underneath he was concerned about his wife, so much so that he consulted with his mother. Ragnhild did not think there was much of a problem. ‘Let me treat Estorhild,’ she told her son. ‘And before a six-month is out you will be a father again.’
Ignorant that he had been duped, Sigurd was happy to leave such matters to the women. Immediately she had spoken to him Ragnhild went to her daughter-in-law and told her there would be no more preventative measures.
‘Oh, but…’
‘I told you I would help only until your husband began to question,’ cut in Ragnhild. ‘Now he thinks there is something wrong with you. I have told him you will get with child within six months and by the gods you will!’
For most of that prophesied six-month, luck kept pregnancy at bay. But when the summer came it brought with it news that the Lady Estorhild was with child. Sigurd was in turns enraptured and puzzled when Estorhild, who had just divulged her secret, broke down in tears. ‘My dear wife, what is wrong?’ He ran his eyes over her body then back to her face as if looking for signs of illness.
Estorhild continued to sob for a while, then blew her nose and gave an unconvincing laugh. ‘Oh, I am just too silly!’
‘Nay, what is it, tell me?’
‘I am afraid!’
He tried to comfort her in his rough way. ‘I would be afraid too if I had to bear a child, but you have done it before so surely it will not be so bad?’
‘Nay, it is not that.’ She eyed him then looked away. He begged her again to tell him and eventually she blurted it out. ‘I would be happy to carry your child but I am afraid that when I am fat you will go to her again!’
‘Una?’ He saw that even the name made her cringe. ‘Why, I have not been there for a long time.’
‘It is two months – nay, I do not keep a check on you!’ She saw the hard edge come to his mouth and tried to repair the damage. ‘Because I love you I have accepted that she is part of your life and you must see her from time to time… but oh, Sigurd, I am so afraid that when I am no longer attractive to you then you will go more often and then it will become a habit again and I will lose you and…’
‘Stop, stop!’ He shook his head and hugged her. ‘You are distraught. There is no danger of that happening, you are far too valuable to me.’
Too valuable! Not too beloved or too dear, but too valuable, too useful. Estorhild burst into a fresh bout of tears but this time did not bother to explain them. Fear was displaced by resentment.
‘I promise you here and now,’ vowed Sigurd. ‘Come look at me!’ He tilted her brine-streaked face. ‘Upon my oath, while you carry my child you will be as beautiful to me as ever you were and I will pay court to no other.’
Liar! thought Estorhild, but dared not voice it. You can say that now when my belly is still flat, but I know. Time will be my witness.
* * *
But the time which Estorhild feared did not arrive. Her belly swelled to huge proportions and still her husband kept his word and did not visit Una once. That the knowledge was based on intuition rather than fact did not matter, Estorhild had had plenty of experience of Sigurd’s dalliances to know when he was lying or not and she was sure of his fidelity. With this feeling of security, the child inside her ceased to be a threat and she came to love and want it.
Black Mary should have been pleased that Una had been virtually deserted, and so she was, but it was a perverse k
ind of satisfaction. The fact that the master rarely paid his visits meant that there was no need for Murtagh to be shoved off to his aunt’s; Mary did not see half so much of him as she would have liked. Perhaps the worst thing of all was to see the man who had effectively destroyed her life so happy in his own, the nucleus of that happiness being the child, Gytha. Three years after her birth the squalling redfaced piglet had evolved into a cherub: blonde, blue-eyed and indulged by master and slave alike – even the dour Ulf bent to her whims. Forced to pretend liking or invite suspicion, Black Mary could not afford the latter – life was hard enough – and so she acted with the crowd.
This autumn eve, she watched the master ride through the gates carrying Gytha on the front of his saddle, a common sight but one which never failed to arouse resentment. Where was her child, the one whom she could sit upon her saddle and teach her way of life, the one she had never been allowed to have, for all prospects of marriage to one of her own class had died on that fateful day in Erin.
A heavily-pregnant Estorhild came a short way out of the house with a neighbour of similar age and condition. As her friend took her leave, Estorhild reached up maternal arms and lifted Gytha down from the horse, ignoring Sigurd with whom she was peeved. He had only yesterday returned from the King’s palace and was clearly bent on spending as much time as he could with his daughter.
But when he unloosed his boots from the stirrups, jumped down and gave her a hearty kiss, her frostiness melted and she relented to ask, ‘How went your visit?’ He had been to see Jarl Siward.
‘Good, good! I told you ’twould be a clever ploy to take Gytha along. She had the Jarl in the palm of her hand.’
‘And so would your wife if you had chosen to take her,’ came the petty reply. ‘There was a time when I won you favours, but now that I am ugly you do not need me any more.’
Sigurd issued a mental sigh. Even in motherhood Estorhild could be childish. What did she want of him? He could understand her being jealous of Una – though he had kept his promise to stay away, even though it had been damned hard – but it was as if she were jealous of her own daughter. She was beginning to annoy him again, but he fought the tendency and lowered his head to kiss and reassure her.
Black Mary watched him stoop to whisper in his wife’s ear, bringing all three golden heads together, a tableau of intimacy. She pictured those three heads split assunder by an axe. So consuming was her hatred of them that it frightened her. She forced herself to concentrate on her work until the mood receded, fearing that one day this hate would destroy her, but, she hoped not before it had destroyed him.
Gytha voiced complaint that her parents were ignoring her. Sigurd responded with cajolery. ‘I have a gift for you in my workroom. If you are good and eat up all your supper I will let you have it.’ The three went into the house to join Ragnhild. All sat down to the meal, which Gytha did not fully consume but received her gift anyway.
‘The child does as she likes with you,’ chivvied Ragnhild as Sigurd brought in the miniature longship he had carved so painstakingly.
‘Oh, that is most humorous coming from your lips,’ laughed Sigurd.
‘What can you mean?’ Ragnhild manufactured innocence.
‘You think I do not know why you got rid of the nurse? Have I not witnessed all the sly cuddling and petting and feeding her with plums?’
‘Nei! That is just to fatten her up. She is such a skinny little chick.’
‘Blatherer!’ Sigurd turned to his wife. ‘I should be most envious of the treatment she gives my daughter. If ever I received a pat from Mother as a child ’twas usually with a shovel.’ When Ragnhild swiped at him he laughed again – ‘Doest see?’ – and held up the ship for his daughter’s approval. ‘What think you to this, my pretty one?’
A smile lit up the angelic face. ‘Duck.’
‘Duck!’ Ego deflated, Sigurd appraised the ship for only seconds before consigning it to the fire.
‘Goose!’ With a kind laugh, Estorhild leaned over her belly to touch his arm. Despite her sometimes childish outpourings, motherhood had brought a maturity to her face that added to her beauty. ‘She does not know the word for ship, that is all. To destroy your work so wantonly…’
‘Nei, she is right.’ His reply was terse. ‘It was like a duck – I shall go and carve another!’
‘Sigurd, you have been out all day! Can you not grant your faithful wife a little of your time? You could spend all week carving a ship fit for a king and she still would call it a duck because she is three years old.’ Her husband was such a perfectionist in his work. ‘Come, sit with us, do. You promised to tell us your news from the south and still we have not heard it.’
Sigurd reseated himself beside his wife, telling her and Ragnhild of his conversations with his friend the King and of the honours heaped upon Godwin his rival since last they had met. ‘Sometimes I think Cnut forgets about his friends in the North.’
His mother unconsciously rubbed salt in the wound. ‘Hmm. So the King did not think you worthy of promotion this time? You are still just a shire-reeve.’
‘Ja, just a shire-reeve, Mother. I am sorry to disappoint you.’ Sigurd grimaced at Estorhild, and a period of silence followed. During the lull he stared into the fire, remembering all the occasions when he had brought his mother gifts or made announcements and none had been good enough for her. He remembered each and every one, and as he mentally listed them he came to the time when he had returned triumphant from Ireland and received not congratulations for winning back his father’s land, but chastisement. From there his mind went off at a tangent, remembering Una as she had been then and how she was now. In his mind he made love to her. It had been difficult to stay away so long, but she had been understanding. Una, like Estorhild, had learnt to compromise. He looked at his wife who looked back at him. He smiled, but felt no more than fondness and soon went back to thoughts of Una. Ragnhild had dropped her knitting needle and was groping under her seat. Gytha toddled over, picked it up and began to run around waving it. ‘Nei! Do not run with that needle in your hand!’ called her grandmother. ‘I once knew a little girl who did that – she fell over and the needle went right through her eye.’
Sigurd came out of his dream. ‘Gytha, fetch it here!’ But the child defied even her father, bending over and peeping at him through her legs. With a roar Sigurd leapt on her, flung her upside down and vibrated his lips with a trumpeting sound on her bottom. It tickled and made her drop the needle. Giggling, she was hurled up and down in her father’s arms.
‘Do not treat her as if she were a sack of grain!’ With great difficulty, Estorhild retrieved the tool. ‘Throwing her about like that after she has just eaten, you shall make her sick.’
‘You will be sorry when the other one comes,’ promised Ragnhild, taking the bone needle from her daughter-in-law. ‘She will not like to share all this attention with a brother or sister.’
‘Your mother is right.’ Estorhild tried to be stern. ‘Come, let me calm her or she will be too excited for bed. I have this potion to put on. She has been scratch, scratch, scratch all week.’
‘Oh, they are wicked women, tearing us apart!’ Sigurd gave his child one last tickle then passed her to his wife and once again relaxed with his thoughts.
Estorhild lowered herself back onto the settle and tried to make Gytha stand before her, but the child kept hopping about and falling over. ‘Be still or I will not allow you to go riding with your father again. Tell her, Sigurd – Sigurd!’
‘Mm?’ Sigurd wrenched himself away from Una. ‘Oh, ja, do as your mother tells you, child.’
Estorhild showed pique. ‘Why should she listen to me when her father does not!’
‘I do listen to you!’
With one ear, thought Estorhild. While your mouth speaks your mind thinks of the slave. She voiced her objection. ‘No one listens to Estorhild now that she is just a fat lump!’
‘Oh, not that again!’ cried Ragnhild and Sigurd in unison, then laughed.<
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Subdued, Estorhild took a comb from a case attached to her brooch and chased lice from Gytha’s fine blonde hair, then commanded the thrall to fetch the potion – hemlock and wormwood boiled in butter.
‘Oh, look who is come!’ Ragnhild beamed as Ulf entered, closely followed by Eric. ‘What do you here, night-hawks?’
‘A nice welcome!’ Eric picked up Gytha who had run to him and tossed her over his shoulder. ‘So we need an invitation to come see our lady-love?’
‘Not if you are gentle!’ A more cheery Estorhild abandoned the lousing and came to pour the guests wine. ‘You are as bad as this one, throwing her about. What manner of woman will she grow up to be? No man will want her she will be so rough.’
‘This man will take her!’ Eric sat the child on his lap, their heads contrasting.
Ulf sat nearby and offered the ribbon he had brought. ‘She is already promised to me, are you not, Gytha?’
‘Oh well, I shall have to have the next one,’ sighed Eric, and handed the girl to Ulf. ‘Estorhild, you look more lovely than ever.’
The host rolled his eyes. ‘I cannot remain here and listen to these two seducing my womenfolk. Have your lechery over when I return.’ He pulled at his drooping breeches. ‘I shall not be long but I must go and carve another ship for this ungrateful little wench – and if you call this one duck,’ he warned Gytha playfully, ‘I shall throw you upon the fire.’
Estorhild glanced at her mother-in-law then at the menfolk as the door closed on Sigurd. Without a word being said, all knew he was not going to his lathe.
Una, having eaten her evening meal, was now making cheese for herself, six-year-old Murtagh assisting. Whilst scraping the curds from the whey she told him a folk-tale that was to be pruned by Sigurd’s arrival. It had been months since his last visit and she had not been expecting him, but her face shone a welcome. She wiped her hands on a rag. ‘Murtagh, run and see Aunt Mary.’
