Jorvik

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

  The little boy, a mouse of a creature, eyed the man who had ruined his enjoyment, then wiped his own hands down his garment – a square of woollen material with a hole cut in for the head and tied with a cord. At the door he turned and looked back into the room. His mother and the man were looking at each other, not at him. Disconsolate, he left.

  Aunt Mary was pleased to see him as always, though she grasped the chance to slander his mother. ‘Got her lord and master there again, has she? Too busy for her own son. Never care, my darling, your aunt loves the skin of ye.’ She drew him into the human circle by the fire and gave him a titbit. ‘You’re more my son than hers. God’ll punish her for neglecting you so.’

  Murtagh was too young to feel such embitterment. He loved his mother, she was the centre of his life, but he was all too aware that every time the Man came to visit he himself was shooed out of the way, and he did not like it. Aunt Mary never banished him, was always sad to see him leave. He allowed himself to be crushed against her breast and listened thumb in mouth as she began one of her tales, one he loved well.

  Aunt Mary told how his father was the son of a chieftain who, if he had not been taken offguard, would have killed every one of his attackers single-handedly, for was he not the son of Tadhg Mor O’Cellaigh who had served with Brian Boroimhe at the Battle of Clontarf and had not the ferocity of his sword helped to shatter the Norse chains from Erin’s neck forever? ‘When you are grown,’ Mary finished, ‘ye’ll be as brave and strong as your father and worthy of the name O’Cellaigh.’

  And Murtagh in childish lisp boasted that he would. If only he were not so very frightened of the Man.

  * * *

  The following afternoon, Sigurd was with Una again when a thrall brought word from the main house. He was to come at once: the Lady Estorhild was ill.

  ‘How did she know I would be here?’ he muttered to his mistress, anticipating the argument that would greet his infidelity.

  ‘Blessed Virgin, ’tis still the innocent y’are where women are concerned! Ye think she does not know every single time ye make love to me, just as I know when ye make love to her?’ The cupid’s bow turned petulant. ‘This sickness is a device.’

  But Sigurd was already dressing. ‘Nei, she complained of feeling unwell this morning. I must go and see.’ Delivering a preoccupied kiss he left. Had the discovery that he had broken his word caused his wife’s illness? She had made no accusation but had been subdued since his return last night. He felt wretched for breaking his promise, but had she not driven him to it with her moaning?

  When he arrived at the big house his mother told him, ‘Estorhild has begun her labour. It is before time and the child is too weak to crawl out. He is wedged across her belly. I am not strong enough to shift him. You must fetch the physician. Take Gytha with you – I need her out of the way.’

  She hurried back to tend the stricken woman. Jiggling Gytha up and down as he ran, Sigurd went to fetch help, ignorant that his son was already dead.

  For the next few days he grieved with his wife, still wondering if his renewed visits to Una were to blame, for nothing had been said. For this reason he remained at Estorhild’s side to comfort her with the promise that their next child would be a son.

  But no one could grieve forever and Estorhild had begun to act very oddly towards him, being nicer to Ulf and Eric than she was to her husband. When he returned from his duties she would still be where he had left her working at her tapestry, yet seemed to have made little progress on it. It was the same this evening. The look on his face when he entered the hall showed that he was losing patience with her. He threw down his gloves and warmed his hands at the fire. ‘Must I get my own ale again?’

  ‘Hush! I will get it for you.’ His mother waddled towards the pitcher, delivering a cuff in passing. ‘Sit you down and stop your grousing.’

  Sigurd’s eyes burned. On the battlefield he was supreme, but in his own house he was full of inadequacies, trapped between a domineering mother and a frigid wife and wondering what he had done to deserve either.

  Lowering her voice, Ragnhild warned, ‘You must not be so impatient with her.’

  ‘How do you expect me to react when every night I come home and I no longer have a wife but a woman of stone?’

  ‘And how do you expect her to react when she has just witnessed her child come from her belly in pieces?’ hissed Ragnhild. The physician had been forced to dismember the babe in the womb or risk losing the mother.

  Sigurd’s face showed nausea at the horrendous image, but retorted, ‘I have lost a child, too! It grieves me deeply, but it is of no benefit to mope when there is an estate to be run. She leaves everything to you.’

  Ragnhild said she could cope.

  ‘That has nought to do with it, Mother! She cannot expect just to sit there, she must earn her keep. Instead of wasting her thoughts on a dead child why does she not lavish her affection on the one she already has?’ He pointed at Gytha who sat on the floor in a pose of neglect and lifted her on to his lap. ‘And some for her husband would not go amiss. Did she not complain loud enough when I once neglected her?’

  ‘Oh, you men, you understand nought! I know what she is going through, remember? It will take more than a few weeks for her to recover – indeed, she will never fully get over it.’

  Sigurd projected horror. ‘You mean Gytha and I will have to put up with this forever?’

  Estorhild sat and listened to them harping at each other, but could not have cared about either, her head full of black clouds.

  Ragnhild gave him a shove. ‘Gowk! She will be well enough if she gets the help she deserves. She has put up with a lot from you – and you know what I am talking about! If you want to vilify anyone for this situation you need look no further than your Irish witch.’

  ‘She is no witch,’ Sigurd’s moustache bristled in derision, but then he noticed that his wife’s eyes had focused on him and was unsettled by her gaze.

  Ragnhild sat down. ‘Nei? Then why am I always receiving complaints from our neighbours about her magicking their bees to her own hive? And milk going sour when it has barely left the udder? If she can do that then she can put a spell on your child.’

  ‘I order you to cease this foolish talk!’

  Gytha lifted an apprehensive face from his chest; rarely had she heard her father raise his voice in anger. For her sake and for the ominous manner in which his wife was looking at him Sigurd controlled his ire. ‘Come, let us eat before we kill each other. Wife, sit by me and tell me of your day.’ He put Gytha from his knee and motioned for the servants to bring the meal forth.

  ‘I am not hungry.’ Estorhild turned her face away.

  Sigurd made clumsy attempts to bridge the gulf between them, but when Estorhild finally looked at him again there was spite in her eyes. ‘What do you here anyway? Should you not be riding your Irish mare?’

  He tried to remain calm. ‘I am here, am I not? With my wife.’

  Estorhild replied bitterly, ‘What use is a wife who cannot bear sons?’

  He tried to comfort. ‘There will be others.’

  ‘I wanted this one!’ She glared at him, then turned away.

  Sigurd could not understand her rejection of him. ‘It is as if you blame me that our son was born dead.’

  ‘And so I do!’ Her eyes swam. ‘Your mother is right; it is that Irish mare of yours working her magic. That Loki-in-a-dress! She is jealous that she does not have your child. She cast her spell on me so that I lost mine!’ Oh, the agony of that loss.

  ‘You are deranged! She did not cast a spell on Gytha, did she?’

  ‘How would you know?’ Estorhild looked quite mad in her tirade, blue eyes distended as if they might burst from their sockets. ‘You are too blinded by lust to see ought! And you swore that you would not go to her! You lied! You lied and now we must suffer, Gytha and I!’

  He grew tired of being harangued. ‘Enough! If anyone would harm our daughter then it is you with your shrewish outbu
rst.’

  Estorhild noticed the effect on her child and immediately burst into tears. Ragnhild threw up her hands in despair. Sigurd was unmoved. ‘I shall take Gytha outside whilst you control your madness. I would wish to see you recovered when we return.’

  ‘Do not bother to return!’ Estorhild screamed after him. ‘For I shall never speak to you again!’

  * * *

  With the city and his wife’s heart encased in ice, Sigurd turned to Una for warmth. This day saw them descend with hordes of other citizens upon the frozen rivers to make merry with skates and sledges. Una had never worn such things on her feet and had difficulty keeping upright on the bone skates. Clumsily, she shuffled alongside Sigurd on the ice, grasping the rod that was to propel her along and shrieking when every few seconds she lost her balance. Teeth gritted, she concentrated on every move.

  ‘You can skate and talk at the same time,’ laughed Sigurd, gliding expertly along. Besides several layers of clothing, fur gloves and boots, he wore a pointed hat with a complete marten skin sewn around its rim, so that the animal’s mask sat between his eyebrows.

  ‘A know-it-all such as you might be able to, I cannot.’ Una hung on to the pole as if it were a lifeline.

  ‘There! Have you not just proved my point?’ Coming back to her, Sigurd took her head in his hands and jerked it so that she was looking into the marten’s sightless eyes. ‘Look up at where you go, not down at your feet.’ He laughed as she tottered again, and helped to right her.

  Eventually, Una grasped the idea. Their poles moved in unison, if a little slowly.

  ‘Now you are matching my rhythm.’ His deeply-set eyes teased seduction.

  She reproved him – ‘Even the ice does not cool your blood!’ – but his words immediately transported her to a warm and passionate bed, sending a wave of pleasure through her body. ‘I always thought that the men of the north were passionless but five years with you has taught me different.’

  He raised a red-gold eyebrow. ‘Is that how long it has been?’

  She nodded with a puff of silvery air. ‘And more.’

  ‘Five years.’ He sounded disbelieving. ‘And you have never tried to run away from me.’

  ‘As I promised at the outset, but ye chose not to believe me then.’

  Sigurd was thoughtful. ‘Do you dream of your old life still?’

  Una slipped, gave a little shriek, then laughed and answered him. ‘Of course. D’ye not think of your life before you came to this country?’

  His response emerged on a sardonic cloud. ‘Ja, I remember how I could not wait to get away from it.’

  ‘What was it like? Ye’ve never told me about it.’

  ‘A few trees, a little water…’ Sigurd shrugged. ‘And neighbours who knew all your business before you knew it yourself.’

  Her blue eyes sparkled. ‘The same as this place, then.’

  Sigurd had to agree. ‘Let us leave them all behind today – come, I race you!’ Using the pole to good effect, he punted away down the solidified river.

  Una struck out, and fell on all fours. Luckily she was well-padded with clothing. Sigurd looked over his back to see where she was, cannoned into someone, twizzled another five yards on his rear and lay flat on the ice laughing until Una skated over to join him.

  At a more careful pace they moved along the frozen river, away from the city where trees and countryside were enveloped in icy calm and there was no one to spy on their kisses. By the time they returned to the Staith Una’s teeth were chattering. ‘Mother of God, these skates are frozen to my feet!’

  Exhilarated by her cheerful presence, Sigurd voiced his remedy. ‘Let us see what the merchants have on their ships to warm you!’ He and Una headed towards the craft that had been left high and dry on icy mudbanks when the river had frozen at ebb-tide. Removing their skates, they vaulted on board. No one accosted them, the merchant being off in some alehouse.

  Sigurd ignored Una’s warnings and yanked a tarpaulin aside. ‘Ah, what have we here?’ He began to examine the bundle of pelts.

  Una sucked in her breath as he uncovered a polar bear hide. ‘Oh, Sigurd!’ She touched a reverent hand to the creamy fur, rippling the upper layer to expose the soft white down beneath. ‘Never have I seen a thing so beautiful.’

  ‘That is only because you have never seen yourself,’ flattered her lover. ‘Here, try it on.’ Hefting the skin, he wrapped it around her.

  A gasp hit the cold air as she hugged her bedizened form. ‘What if someone should see?’

  ‘Let them – let them all see!’ He flung his arms wide. ‘Ho there! Merchant, show yourself!’

  Hurriedly, Una removed the heavy pelt and bundled it up. Sigurd grabbed it. ‘Put it back! It is yours.’

  She gasped again. ‘Ye cannot…’

  ‘Do not tell me that I cannot!’ Sigurd jumped onto the wharf and bawled, ‘Merchant! If you do not come now we shall leave without payment.’

  Una was infected by his exhilaration. ‘Sigurd, you are touched with madness today!’

  ‘Then it must be from living with Estorhild for she is so crazed these days.’ If his wife spoke to him at all it was to issue abuse. ‘Now put it back on! I do not care if folk think me mad. I am tired of looking at mournful women.’

  The merchant finally came, his expression one of panic at seeing his valuable skin being purloined; this soon turned to one of unction when he realized he had a buyer.

  The polar bear skin probably cost as much as all the others sewn together, but Sigurd was feeling reckless today and did not even haggle. Much as her head soared at being clothed in such luxury, Una felt so conspicuous that she wanted to take the fur off before entering the compound. ‘For the love of God, I cannot go in prancing like a queen!’

  Sigurd refused, his ebullience giving way to firm command. ‘Nei, let them look if they wish to.’ He grasped handfuls of the white fur and pulled it right up to her chin, using it to bring her face close to his. ‘You are the only woman who has made me happy, truly happy, and I would have them all know that.’ He clamped his mouth to hers and his kiss was returned most heartily.

  A solitary slave worked in the yard, but that was all it took to distribute the word of Una’s acquisition; by nightfall everyone knew.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ pouted Black Mary when a fellow slave passed on the news.

  ‘Then ask Aldred – he has seen it with his own eyes! A white fur down to her feet, says he!’

  ‘A skin fit for a queen,’ breathed Mary when eventually she caught a glimpse of it. ‘And me with no shoes to my feet.’

  Estorhild confronted Sigurd when he deigned to come home for supper. ‘How dare you humiliate me like this! Parading your wench like an empress!’

  He unpinned his cloak and threw it over a chair. ‘You are upsetting Gytha with your shrieking, woman.’ Looking around for something to distract the child he saw only his helmet and gave her that.

  ‘Damn Gytha!’

  Hearing her name issued like a curse the little girl’s mouth trembled and the blue eyes welled tears. Helmet jammed tight, she stretched her arms to her father. Ragnhild covered her ears, which was as well, for her daughter-in-law had not finished. ‘And do not call me woman – I am your wife!’

  ‘Oh, she has remembered!’ Sigurd jeered at his mother as he picked up the crying child and lifted the helmet from over her eyes. ‘I thought it must have escaped your mind, the way you have been treating me for the last six months.’

  ‘If I have forgotten that I am your wife that is because my husband holds me second to his whore!’

  ‘I will not stand for this!’

  ‘Then be seated!’ parried Estorhild, as Sigurd left the house taking his daughter with him.

  Una was taken aback when he appeared carrying Gytha; never had he done this before. He was obviously in a foul mood and so apart from the initial greeting she said nothing, allowing him to play on the floor with his child until he cooled down. She compared Gytha’s bandy legs w
ith the straight ones of her son and wondered how this could be when she herself had been unable to provide swaddling rags at the time when his limbs had needed them. Black Mary would say this was an illustration of how God took care of His own.

  Murtagh had now learned to leave without being told whenever the master came in. He did so now, resentful at the infant who was permitted to remain and coveting the helmet that she played with; had they been alone he would have taken it from her.

  Gytha had found a stick on the floor and was using it to beat her father’s helmet like a drum. In a fit of boyishness Sigurd put it on his head, allowed her to continue beating it and looked up to laugh at Una, but her mind was elsewhere. ‘What ails you?’

  She blinked and changed her weight to her other hip. ‘I am trying to equate this tender man with the one who brought me from Erin, the one who cut down young boys, children, as if they were blades of grass.’

  Sigurd beheld her as if she were mad. ‘Did you expect me to treat my own child like that?’

  ‘What difference? Those you killed were someone else’s bairns. They bleed just the same.’

  He dismissed her sentimentality, removing the helmet for the blows were beginning to jar. ‘When you kill the father it is wise to kill the son or one day he will come after you.’

  Una was quiet for a time, thinking of her own son. How fortunate that he had not been born earlier, or he too might have perished that day. Her lover did not appear to realize the significance of what he had said. She asked him, ‘Remember when ye brought me back after your wife sold me? Ye said that when ye came to visit me ye didn’t wish Murtagh to be here, and I’ve always respected your desire because I love ye. Yet ye never stop to think how much it hurts for me to see your child, the one I should have borne.’

  Sigurd was thoughtful, watching his daughter using the helmet as a bucket now and the stick to mix the imaginary contents. ‘Do you ask me not to bring her again?’

  Una nodded. ‘Tis a beautiful flower she is, but each time I look at her I’m reminded I can never bear your child myself.’