by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
He showed unfamiliar sensitivity, reaching over the infant to touch Una’s cheek. ‘There is time yet.’ She shook her head. ‘Why are you so sure? Did the runes tell you so?’ A smile played about his lips.
‘You should not tease me.’ She hung her head.
‘And you should not believe a handful of stones.’
‘I do not need the runes to tell me. Besides, I’ve told ye I never see my own fate there. If there was going to be another child there would have been one by now.’ She looked at him from under her lashes. ‘D’ye mind very much?’
Sigurd looked distant, then as Gytha twisted in his lap to look up at him, he smiled again. ‘How could I mind with this precious jewel to give me all the love I need.’ He pretended to bite a chunk from his daughter’s neck. She squeaked and dropped the helmet which rolled across the wooden floor.
Jealous of Gytha’s role in his life, Una added, ‘I didn’t tell ye before for fear that I would lose you altogether. ’Tis bad enough having to share ye.’
Sigurd rested his chin on Gytha’s head whilst she squirmed to get away. ‘You have not had to share me for some time. My wife… I think she is frozen with the river.’
No, but I have still to share you with that one, thought Una, envying the child in his embrace. Then she patted him. ‘Have cheer, ’tis with me y’are now. Let me fetch my master some refreshment.’ Along with ale she gave him and his daughter a piece of flat cake made from honey and crammed with dried fruits.
The memory of its taste must have lingered on the child’s tongue, for when spring came and the doors were thrown open to the light Gytha returned to Una’s house, toddling in on her own.
‘What’re you doing here?’ Una bent over, hands on knees. ‘Your mother’ll be angry with ye for coming.’
‘I come for cake,’ said Gytha expectantly, and made grasping motions with her fingers.
Una clicked her tongue and shooed out a butterfly whom the sun had lured from hibernation. ‘Tis lucky y’are that I happen to have just made one.’ She gave the child a wedge of the cake she had so enjoyed. Feeling a surge of possessiveness, Murtagh came to hug his mother’s hips and demanded the same.
‘Don’t worry, son, she’ll not be stopping today.’ Una smiled fondly at the boy, broke off a piece of cake for him and steered Gytha to the door. ‘Away now and run along home.’ She had just taken the little girl outside when Estorhild burst upon them, saw Gytha about to bite into the cake and slapped it from her hand.
‘You took my husband’s love and now you try to lure my child away too!’ She attacked Una, slapping and screaming. ‘Bitch! Harlot!’
Gytha, already stung to tears by her mother’s blow, now wailed louder. Murtagh cried too, afraid of the woman who was hitting his mother.
Trying to escape the blows, Una gave an impulsive yell. ‘Sure, I don’t want your brat!’
Black Mary, working the soil, watched and sniggered along with other thralls as Estorhild hoisted her daughter and left Una battered and shaken. But when the laughter died an idea was born; the most vicious and cunning idea that would destroy each of her enemies with one blow, and later Black Mary was to wander past Una’s house, eyes to the ground. Gytha’s cake still lay where it had fallen, as yet unseen by dog or bird. Performing a hasty dip, Mary picked it up and walked on.
* * *
Sigurd was not to hear of the incident from either party: Estorhild did not speak to him at all when he came home for supper and Una had no wish to spoil a pleasant evening when he came to see her later. The evening was not to remain pleasant. Sigurd had made love to her and had gone home, and Una was about to close her eyes when out of the blue she was visited by the dreadful power she had thought to have escaped, so long had it been since her last vision. The things she saw were so horrible that she cried out, bringing Murtagh running. Transfixed, she was not even conscious of his presence as he shook her in fear. When the vision cleared the terror remained in her eyes. At long last she was imbued with the truth of how her freedom was to come.
She saw her distressed child then and clutched him to her. Her instincts were to run, but there was no use running. Neither was there ought to be gained from warning the other participants. She knew of old that there was nothing she could do to avert the terrible consequences.
She did not sleep that night but lay cuddling her son’s thin body. At first light she went to the church of St Cuthbert where she prayed for courage. Afterwards she went home and waited for Murtagh to awake, never once letting him out of her sight. The day was long.
Black Mary could not have guessed that her aim would be achieved so easily. The child wandered voluntarily to her own destruction. Sigurd had as usual risen early and had gone to attend his duties before breakfast. Ragnhild was yet a-bed. Estorhild, still bereaved over the loss of her unborn son, was weaving, her mind far away; to all intents and purposes, Gytha was playing by the doorway.
With no one to check her adventurous spirit, the child wandered around the enclosure. Most of the slaves were occupied indoors cooking breakfast or away in the fields. Black Mary, feeding the hens, was the only one about when Gytha came up, pointed at the fowl and said, ‘I will do that.’
Without a word, Mary gave the child the pot of grain and supervised her clumsy attempts to feed the hens. Still no one came. Mary’s heart began to thump. She crossed herself. Oh, Lord grant me the courage to do it! Any moment now the tranquil garth could be transformed into a marketplace. What if someone were to see her leading Gytha away? But who would suspect – everyone loved the golden-haired child, did they not? What onlooker, if onlooker there be, would imagine that Mary could be intent on harm?
She bent low over the golden head, keeping her eyes peeled for danger. ‘I have a cake for ye. Will ye come with me to have it?’
Immediately, the child dropped the bowl, grasped the woman’s hand and allowed herself to be led away. Still no one came.
* * *
‘Gytha! Gytha!’ The child’s mother toured the enclosure, calling. When Estorhild had last looked up, Gytha had been playing by the doorway; on her next examination, the jambs framed emptiness. ‘Gytha!’ The call grew more urgent. If the child had wandered out of the enclosure she was in danger from all manner of things. Ragnhild, looking like a sackful of piglets, shuffled from her bed yawning and scratching her wobbly rump. One of her plaits had come undone in the night and dangled in a tousled matt over her breast. ‘What is the din?’ When informed of the problem she began to call too.
Estorhild ran from house to shippen to pigsty. No one had seen Gytha. She burst into the slave hut. ‘Have you seen my daughter?’
Skirts tied around hips, the women stood in a washtub, treading clothes. They peered at her through the shroud of steam, hair plastered to cheeks, thighs pink and gleaming. Black Mary tilted her head as if in thought. ‘I have not, my lady… not for some time. The last I saw of her she was with Una.’
Estorhild almost collapsed, wasted no time in pelting off to Una’s house and lurched inside screaming, ‘Where is she?’
Both Una and her son jumped at the hysterical demand. ‘Who?’
Estorhild came over and shook her forcefully. ‘You know, you witch! My daughter!’
‘I’ve not seen…’
‘Liar!’ Estorhild slapped her. Murtagh cowered. ‘Where is she, where?’
Una rubbed her cheek and held out her hand to the boy who seized it. ‘My lady, ye can see for yourself she is not here!’
It was quite obvious that there was nowhere the child could be hidden. Estorhild stormed out and careered around the back of the house. Her search yielded a tiny shoe. With a moan she pounced on it. ‘Oh, my bairn! My bairn!’
Stunned, Una watched her tear away. Fear swirled around her body. There was nowhere to run. Instead, she clung to her own child. ‘Oh, Murtagh! I love ye, son! I love ye!’
Ragnhild grabbed and shook her daughter-in-law who was by now thoroughly distraught and incoherent. ‘What have you discovered
?’
For answer, Estorhild gulped in lungfuls of air and held up the shoe.
The older woman moaned in distress. ‘Oh, nei! Where didst you find it?’
Unable to speak, Estorhild sobbed and gulped and gasped, flinging her arm towards Una’s house.
Her mother-in-law shook her again. ‘Is that all you found?’
Estorhild nodded and sagged.
‘Then we must search again.’ Ragnhild called for help. Everyone hurried to assist including Black Mary. The search widened to neighbouring properties but turned up nothing. Mary was frustrated; only she knew the spot where Gytha lay but she could not lead them there lest she should incriminate herself.
When Sigurd returned to break his fast there was pandemonium. Immediately, he ordered everyone to search again.
‘We do not need to search!’ His enraged mother grabbed handfuls of his tunic. ‘Your Irish mare knows where she is! Look!’ She brandished the shoe. ‘Look what your wife found outside her house – and look what your bewitchment has done to us all!’
Whilst Sigurd fell dumb, his wife found her voice. ‘I told you she was jealous, warned you that she might harm Gytha out of venom, but you would not listen! Yesterday I found her trying to lure Gytha with cake! She has taken her, I know she has!’
Sigurd came to life and charged over to Una’s house, concern for his child overriding all bonds. He read the terror on her face as guilt. ‘Where is she, Una?’
She pushed Murtagh into the background and came towards the man, hands appeasing. ‘Sigurd, ye must listen to me. I swear…’
‘Where!’
She shrank back. ‘’Twas not me!’
‘Where?’
Tears streaming down her face, Una surrendered to the inevitable. ‘I swear, I swear by the Holy Virgin that I would never harm her.’
‘For the last time – where?!’
‘Ye’ll find her body near an oak tree.’ Oh dear God, what had made her say that!
Equally aghast, Sigurd backed away then tore off to instigate another hunt.
Eventually he found Gytha, hidden in the foul and rotting matter of a refuse pile. Nearby was an oak tree. At first it looked as if she was just asleep but when Sigurd grasped her she did not wake. Her fingers were curled around something; a lump of cake. Sigurd gave a roar of anguish, seized his child and shook her. But Estorhild’s eyes were glued to the damning evidence. ‘Your Irish mare.’ The words could hardly get past the lump in her throat. ‘That is the cake I knocked from Gytha’s hand but the witch’s magic was too strong…’ She fell in a faint.
Sigurd’s eyes were red with emotion and fury. Very gently, he laid the child down, then, crazed by grief, raced back to Una’s house. She saw him coming, pressed a fervent kiss to Murtagh’s cheek. ‘Quick! Before he comes, run to Aunt Mary!’
But Murtagh had no time to leave before Sigurd came upon them in a fury, knocking the child out of the way. Murtagh scrambled to his feet and ran outside. His mother faced Sigurd who glared back at her, breathing heavily. She saw the hatred in his eyes. ‘That first night,’ he panted. ‘You told me… you said a woman would bring about my death. You have tried to destroy me by killing my child and all because I wouldst not free you.’
‘Beloved, you are wrong!’ she moaned, pleading, whilst all the time knowing that the plea was useless.
He turned away, giving her a second’s reprieve. She heard a sob. The sob became a roar. He wheeled around and in that same movement drew his blade and sliced clean through her neck, freeing her from this life of drudgery. Her head fell to the floor.
Heaving, Sigurd watched the blood spurt, then charged outside, ran blindly, leapt onto the nearest horse and rode at full gallop out of the enclosure, he knew not where.
Murtagh watched the man ride away and decided it was safe to go home. Concerned over his mother’s welfare, he had disobeyed her order to go to Aunt Mary’s and hidden nearby, but what he saw inside the house now sent him fleeing to his aunt. He tried to tell her but could not speak. Carrying the terror-stricken child, Black Mary went to see for herself, covering her mouth in revulsion at the discovery, whilst at the same instant triumph filled her heart. She had destroyed both the boar and his sow. Now she had Murtagh all to herself. Pressing his face into her breast, she went home.
Sigurd drove the horse and himself to exhaustion before hauling viciously on the reins and throwing his body at the ground. He lay there fists clenched, pummelling the earth, his mind crammed with unassuaged violence, and wanting to turn that violence upon himself. Amid the suicidal rage that seared his brain came echoes from the past: she had prophesied on that first night that a woman would be responsible for his death. Much as he hated to give credence to her magic he had to recognize it now for he was as near to death as he had ever been.
In that hour of torment the voice of logic tried to argue against despair; she also told you that you will live to be a very old man. You will not die from this pain, Sigurd Einarsson. And then he would slip back. No! That was just to pacify me until she had the chance to carry out her revenge for my enslavement of her – and what terrible revenge she had chosen! She knew that a woman would be the one to destroy me because she was that woman.
Well, she had come very close to achieving her aim, but he had destroyed her first. Had she always hated him, he wondered? Whilst her hands caressed his flesh did they seek out his veins? He thought of his little girl, cringed into his grief and banged his fist again and again at the ground, sending up dust. He felt so close to ending his life, but if he did then Una would have won, her prophesy would have come true. He was going to live, and for as long as he did live he was never going to trust any woman other than his mother. Yes, he would live, but he would never be the same inside.
Chapter Thirteen
Sigurd did not return until nightfall. He delayed his entry to the house not wishing to face Estorhild; she would scourge him with abuse… but then it could be no worse than he laid upon himself. He had thought her crazed when she accused Una, but he was the one deranged to have been so blind. Oh, that so sweet a breast could harbour such venom!
Crushed by shock, Estorhild did not turn to look at him, even when he unbuckled his sword and dropped it, clattering, onto the floor. The thrall who was pressing pleats – such a normal occupation amid this carnage – mishandled her flattened ball of glass in alarm and leapt to retrieve it.
‘Begone!’ Ragnhild dismissed her and came to put a hand on Sigurd’s arm, the mark of tears on her ashen face. ‘You dealt with her, then.’ It was not a question. Ragnhild had seen the result of his wrath. Sigurd looked down at her. So bitter, so dangerous was his face, that his mother dropped her hold on him and retreated. ‘Well, you know me, son, I am not a vindictive person but I praise your action. I would have done the same myself.’ Her mouth crumpled and she turned away to dab at her eyes. ‘Oh, my poor grandbairn!’
A noise emerged from Estorhild, a small whimpering animal sound. Sigurd noticed then the little dress on her lap. As he watched, she folded the arms of the garment neatly across its breast, then hugged it as if the child were still inside. Something inside his breast felt ready to explode. He turned, went outside, grabbed a flaming torch and marched purposefully to Una’s house. Torch aloft, he stared for a moment through the open doorway at the black form of her decapitated body which lay just as he had left it, then flung the burning brand inside, watched whilst it took hold and soon the whole place was ablaze.
Sparks began to dance against the night sky, coming dangerously close to neighbouring thatches. Plants and saplings blackened, writhed like he himself writhed. Alerted by the smoke that wafted into their houses, folk dashed out, saw the madman doing nothing and ran to douse the fire themselves. He roared at them not to meddle in his affairs and the tone of his voice brooked no opposition. Their only recourse was to toss bucketfuls of water upon their own thatches and pray that they did not ignite.
By morning there was only a pile of smouldering ashes to rem
ind him. Slaves were ordered to dig these into the ground and in time when cabbages began to sprout it was impossible to tell there had ever been a house here.
There was one living reminder of Una, but so terrified was he of the master that Sigurd was rarely forced to look upon him. Nor did he have to listen to his voice, for Murtagh had never spoken since that dreadful day. To add to this misfortune, his left eye had turned inwards, raising much superstition amongst the inhabitants of Peseholme.
‘You should have killed that child when you killed its mother!’ Ragnhild would quote at her son. ‘She has left the mark of the witch upon him. When he looks at you with that skellied eye… by the gods, it makes me shiver! Mark my words, you will live to regret sparing him.’
‘You think I showed mercy in not killing him?’ demanded Sigurd. ‘Nei, that would have been too easy a death. I will never kill him, for that would be to free him. Murtagh shall be a slave for the rest of his life. I would see her child suffer, as she made mine to suffer.’
And so, Murtagh lived amongst the other captives with his Aunt Mary who smothered him with the maternal love that slavery had denied her. Without the facilities bestowed on his mother the child was now more poorly dressed, though his aunt sacrificed her own meagre comforts to clothe him as best she could. She would remind him over and over again what a famous clan he was descended from, how his father had been the son of a great warrior. This was all Murtagh O’Cellaigh had to cling to as he performed his base chores – battering rats and mice with a lump of wood, picking weevils out of the grain – for he knew in his heart that he would never have the bravery to stand up to the man who had murdered his mother.
After the anger came melancholy. If Sigurd ever had any youth then it was vanished now. His beard concealed the lines of bitterness and misery around his mouth but these emotions still showed in his eyes. The red tunic that had once hung so well on him, now became the portent used by other wild creatures, warning lesser breeds to keep away. Whilst Estorhild passed her long days at a shrine praying to be healed, her husband spent even more time travelling about his various estates which he ruled with merciless precision. Neither Sigurd nor Estorhild spoke of the child buried in St Cuthbert’s churchyard, rarely spoke at all to each other. Throughout the spring and early summer this continued. Whenever they happened to be at home together Estorhild would devote her attention to tapestries and vestments, he to the repair of weapons. Ragnhild placed herself between them as a buffer, speaking first to the one on her right, then to the one on her left; but right never spoke to left, nor left to right.
