Jorvik

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

  Able to bear this no longer she had a heart to heart talk with her daughter-in-law. ‘Estorhild, we are sisters now – each of us has had a child murdered. There is nought you can tell me that I have not felt myself.’

  Estorhild’s needle paused and she looked up. Her eyes were blank. She said nothing. What was there to say? But the thought was there – you compare yourself to me? You who never had a warm thought nor word in your life?

  ‘At least you have the satisfaction of knowing Gytha’s murderer is also dead,’ coaxed Ragnhild.

  Estorhild poked a different colour thread at the eye of the needle. ‘It does not help.’

  Ragnhild agreed with a sad shake of her head, a head that had aged rapidly over these last grief-filled months. ‘Ja, I know. My thoughts were the same when Ethelred died. After wishing him dead for so long I thought…’ she clicked her tongue and stared at her own dreadful memory. ‘The pain will never heal for sure – but you must look to the future now. Unlike me, you still have a husband, you will have more babies.’

  Callous, stupid woman, raged Estorhild inside, but she said calmly, ‘How will that happen when he does not care to even look at me?’

  ‘It is guilt that averts his eye, not revulsion. He blames himself and thinks you blame him too.’

  ‘I do.’ Estorhild’s eye turned hard.

  ‘You must not!’ Ragnhild leaned over and pressed her arm. ‘He loved Gytha as much as you did. He could not help himself against the power of the witch, but now her spell is truly broken…’

  ‘At such bitter price.’ Estorhild’s voice barely altered its monotone.

  ‘If you continue to think like that then the witch will have won! You must try to repair the gap between you – you do still love my son?’

  Estorhild did not answer immediately, yet paused in her sewing to think about it. Had she ever really loved him? She forced herself to remember the good times – their wedding, the evening of Cnut’s visit, the intimate conversations, his beard on her breasts – even whilst they were enjoying all this he had been going with that one. But yes, she could remember the warmth he had produced in her. Ragnhild was right, she should not blame Sigurd for the witch’s sins, but oh, it was difficult not to. She responded to her mother-in-law’s question. ‘Yes… I think so.’

  ‘Then you must make the first move.’

  Estorhild swayed in apathy. ‘Oh, I have not the heart.’

  ‘You must! This rift is killing you both. I shall help you all I can. Tomorrow I will go and visit Ulf and stay for the night. It will give you time to mend things.’

  Estorhild was beginning to yield. With a few more persuasive words from her mother-in-law she agreed to Ragnhild’s plan. No mention was made of this to Sigurd, who went out in the morning, was absent all day as had become usual and came home for supper to find a different wife from the one of the last three months. He faltered under her smile of greeting and looked around the otherwise empty room.

  ‘Your mother has gone to visit Eric and Ulf,’ explained Estorhild.

  ‘Oh.’ He stood there lamely, fondling the dog which had come to greet him. His wife had changed her robe. Her hair was newly plaited and hung like a golden rope between her shoulder-blades. For once there was no hint of frost in her voice.

  ‘Come, sit and eat.’ She led him to the table, stood behind his chair and waited until he sat upon it, then she too sat down.

  ‘It looks good.’ He complimented her on the meal and picked up a spoon to eat the broth.

  Few words were exchanged other than mundanities about the food. Frequently he broke off lumps of bread, using the opportunity to snatch baffled glances at his wife. Estorhild provided him with a goblet of wine. She herself did not, as she usually did, take up her tapestry but remained beside him on the settle. There was a friendly awkwardness between them. They began to converse more easily, though discussed nothing of import. The wine was consumed. Sigurd toyed with the empty goblet. He felt his hand covered by light fingers and looked at Estorhild. She smiled at him. But what a miserable smile! Her lip quivered and tears bulged over her lower lids. She blinked, scattering them onto her cheeks. Sigurd put down his goblet and took her in his arms, envying her ability to weep, his own pain ravaging breast and mind. Neither of them mentioned Gytha, though both were of the same thought.

  ‘I am sorry I have neglected you so long,’ whispered Sigurd into her hair as her body racked with sobs.

  Estorhild gave a huge sniff and wiped away the tears with the flat of her palms. ‘Hush, speak not of the past.’

  Sigurd began to warm towards her. She was still as beautiful as ever, even if that beauty was scarred by tragedy. It was impossible to live with this pain; he must make an effort to escape Una’s clutches. He embraced his wife again. She returned his kiss. There was something frantic about the way they clawed at each other as if trying to recapture that which was buried too deeply. Estorhild broke away and began to undress. Sigurd followed suit. They came together. Sigurd looked deep into her eyes. ‘Give me another child, Sigurd,’ she breathed urgently.

  Then something went wrong. He panicked, tried to enter her, but it proved impossible. Neither of them said a word, he just lay on top of her, masculinity demolished. Estorhild stared up into the smoke-filled roof wondering what had so revolted him. When he hoisted his body from her, she did not look at him for fear of seeing that revulsion in his face.

  Sigurd got up and put on his clothes, then went out into the night. Estorhild had no more tears to give.

  * * *

  He was relieved to wake to his usual erection. On leaving his wife he had carved a huge phallus out of wood, had chanted and prayed over it and made offerings, then, fearing laughter, he had buried it.

  Afterwards, he had slept in his carpentry room, ashamed to return to his wife, afraid to see the scorn in her eyes or even worse – pity. In the event, when he returned to the house there was neither, just a bland greeting and the offer of breakfast. This he ate, then went out hunting for the rest of the day.

  When Ragnhild came home she brought Ulf and Eric back to cheer her son. In private conference with her daughter-in-law she asked how the reconciliation had gone. Out of shame, Estorhild lied and said things were more amicable between her and Sigurd now. She was glad to see Ulf and Eric not only for her own benefit, but in the hope that they might put her husband in a better frame of mind.

  When Sigurd came home and saw four expectant faces turn towards him he reddened in anger. The bitch! Not only had she told his mother of his failure but his friends, too.

  ‘Heill, Sigurd!’ Eric remained in his seat to deliver a cuff of greeting. Ulf held up a hand too.

  Sigurd remained aloof. ‘Why do you come here?’

  Eric became nonplussed and turned to Ragnhild for explanation; none was provided. ‘Why… are your friends no longer welcome?’

  It dawned on Sigurd then that he had been so obsessed with his problem that he was inventing slight where there was none. ‘Forgive me!’ He returned Eric’s slap with false heartiness, unhooked the bow and quiverful of arrows from his shoulder and removed his hat. ‘’Twas not my aim to vent my anger on you. I have just lost the mightiest pair of antlers you ever saw. Such a stag he was! I wounded him but where he went I cannot say. I have been chasing him all afternoon to no avail.’ Unbuckling his sword, he leaned over to kiss his wife which pleased Ragnhild; she did not notice that he never once locked eyes with the woman he kissed. Seated amongst them he asked, ‘And how are my friends?’

  Conversation turned to Eric and Ulf. Both noticed that Sigurd’s contribution was a little forced and tried to keep the tone light. When they all made ready for bed Estorhild was encouraged that Sigurd chose to lie beside her, but alas when she talked to him he pretended to be almost asleep. She rolled over and put her arm round him. ‘Say that you still love me.’

  His answer was faint. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Show me,’ she murmured in a girlish voice. ‘Last night I feared…�
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  ‘Hush! I am tired after galloping about the forest all day.’

  How could she expect to test his virility with his friends lying in the next room? He shrugged away from her and no more was said, but he could not rid his mind of the pathetic little figure behind him. It took a long time for either of them to go to sleep.

  When he woke, there it was straining against the coverlet. See! There is nought wrong with you, he told himself, relieved. All night you have lain here worrying, and for what? Estorhild stirred and rolled against him. After the briefest of decisions he turned over to face her. She came awake, felt his ardour and welcomed him to her.

  It was as if she were poison. No sooner had he touched her than he began to shrivel. Furious, he thumped the pillow at the side of her head, then threw off the covers, thrust his limbs into his clothes and went from the room.

  His friends were yet asleep. He rode out of the enclosure with not a word to anyone. When he returned he was fully composed.

  Ulf and Eric stayed for a week. During that week Sigurd made no further attempt at consummation, passing his time wrestling with the men, drinking, riding, hunting, anything that would tire him physically. On his friends’ last evening the males were seated laughing and talking, sharpening arrows and adjusting bowstrings, Ragnhild was at her knitting, Estorhild ostensibly at her needlepoint. Unexpectedly, her voice broke into the male conversation. ‘Sigurd, I would speak with you.’

  He looked at her somewhat testily, arrow in hand. ‘Speak, then.’

  She inserted her needle into the tapestry and left it there, hands resting on her lap. ‘Mayhap you would not wish your friends to hear what I have to say.’ He looked annoyed and anxious, but rose and indicated for her to follow him into the bed-closet. When the door separated them from the others he demanded, ‘Well, what is it?’

  Estorhild was calm. ‘You know what it is.’

  He did not hide his contempt. ‘Are you a mare in heat that you have to drag me from my friends?’

  She dropped the façade to volley his insult. ‘If I were it would do me no good with a droop-wand like you for a husband!’

  Sigurd was furious that her words might be audible to his friends. ‘There is nought wrong with me! I would defy any man to find passion for a miserable gimmer like you!’

  Estorhild fought for control, kneading her fingers into her brow. ‘I cannot live like this, Sigurd. I am only twenty-one years old yet you make me feel as though I am dead. I do not wish to feel like that any more. I want a husband who will love me and give me more children.’

  His deep-set eyes abrased her. ‘How easily you forget the one we had.’

  She slapped his face, drawing a look of shock. ‘I shall never forget! Nor shall I forget that it was your concubine who killed her!’ A muscle twitched in her cheek as she awaited violent response.

  But instead of retaliating he covered his head with his arms, cringing from his own recognition of the fact. Una, Una! The name reared up to haunt him.

  ‘Even in death your witch weaves her spells – but I shall not let her kill me too!’ Estorhild’s diatribe ended though her breast continued to heave whilst she awaited his retaliation.

  Sigurd’s voice when it came was without emotion. ‘So, you want to marry again? Go then, if you think that another man would look at one so undesirable. Divorce me now, call your witnesses and get it over with. I no longer care.’ He appeared to have shrunk in size, his head bowed, chest concave.

  Estorhild stared, granting him ample time in which to recant his loathing of her. There came no such word. Losing what feeling she had left for him, she opened the door. ‘Let us go before them.’

  Sigurd did not move. His wife took a step into the other room and announced to the three quizzical faces, ‘I ask these good folk to witness that I divorce thee.’

  In her shock, Ragnhild dropped the stitches from her needle. ‘On what grounds do you divorce my son?’

  The young woman shrunk from explanation; how terrible to admit to one’s own inadequacies. No, no! She forced aside self-guilt: it is not your doing, put the fault where it rightly lies. She blurted out the reason. ‘On the grounds of impotence. He is unable to give me children to replace the one murdered by his woman, the one who still bewitches him. Therefore I shall take back my dowry and return to the house of my parents.’

  Whereas Eric and Ulf hung their heads, Ragnhild was prepared to fight. She came out of her chair and took hold of her daughter-in-law’s arm. ‘You have given him no chance! Nor yourself, either. It is barely three months since your daughter was killed. These things take time – come, show your face, Sigurd, and let us talk about this.’

  Her son emerged but was obviously too wounded to look at any of the witnesses. His voice was tired. ‘Mother, let her go, I beg you. I would rather have no wife at all than one who is disloyal.’

  Estorhild turned on him, no longer in awe of his power. ‘You dare accuse me of that? When I have clung to your side even when you stank of your witch? When I served you without complaint in every manner that a wife should, when I welcomed your friends as mine own, raised you in the King’s eyes – yea! ’Twas my hospitality which coaxed him into giving you the reeveship, make no mistake about that.’ The whites of her eyes were red with anger. ‘So do not dare talk to me of loyalty!’

  After the embarrassed silence she recouped her dignity and turned to the other men. ‘Could I prevail upon our former friendship and ask you to accompany me to my parents’ home? I dare not ride alone, there are mean men about.’

  ‘Nei, do not relegate our friendship to the past, lady,’ bemoaned Eric, playing with his tousled black beard. ‘We would be glad to guard your journey, though it shall be with heavy hearts.’

  Estorhild thanked him. ‘I will be but a short time to pack.’

  ‘At least wait until morning,’ begged Ragnhild.

  Her daughter-in-law took hold of her hand and delivered a last affectionate grip. ‘I cannot bear to.’ Serene in her decision, she picked up her little dog who had been whining as if he sensed her pain, then walked away.

  ‘Will you grant him no chance?’ Ragnhild wrung her hands and pleaded. ‘Despite all I know he still cares for you.’

  ‘Let her go, Mother.’ Sigurd turned his back on all of them.

  The old woman resigned herself. ‘Then I must go and help her.’ She followed Estorhild. ‘Call two slaves to assist us.’

  Ulf carried out her request and the thralls came running. Whilst Estorhild and her mother-in-law were gone there was awkwardness between the three men.

  ‘Come, then!’ Sigurd gave bitter cry and marched theatrically before them. ‘Will you not make some jest about my broken tool?’

  Both showed they felt it too delicate a matter to joke about. Eric ran a hand around his black chin and tried to bolster. ‘It will come right in time.’

  ‘It is well enough now!’ Sigurd bent from the waist and tapped Eric’s chest furiously. ‘The only thing amiss is that I have an uncompromising shrew for a wife! She blames me for everything.’

  ‘Nei, that cannot be true,’ ventured Ulf.

  In a trice Sigurd had veered his invective from Eric to Ulf, hissing into the fringed face, ‘Do you say that I lie? Wouldst care to take on Estorhild? For you would be most welcome!’

  ‘I am just sorry for both my friends,’ muttered Ulf, and averted his eyes from the angry pair before him.

  ‘Do not pity me!’ Sigurd charged out. He was not present to see their departure with his wife, but another watched with great satisfaction.

  * * *

  Ecstatic though she might be over the mental destruction of her enemy, Black Mary was as terrified as any of her fellows under the new harsh regime. Sigurd had rarely beaten his thralls but he thrashed them most enthusiastically now, and not even children escaped his malice.

  ‘Get thee to work!’ Sigurd hurled a lump of wood at seven-year-old Murtagh, who had the misfortune to have just sneaked a moment to relax from his end
less labours as the master came out of his carpentry room. ‘I did not spare thy life to have it idled away!’

  Murtagh ducked but the wood hit him on the shoulder. Immediately he shot to his feet and ran, not daring to stop and rub his injury until the master was inside the big house.

  Wearing his permanent frown, Sigurd slammed the door behind him, then paused on seeing the visitor at his hearth. At the look in his eye Ragnhild hurried to explain, ‘It is a messenger from the King. He comes to…’

  ‘The man can speak for himself, can he not?’ Sigurd brushed the wood-dust from his sleeves, took the cup of ale offered by his mother and came to rest by the hearth.

  ‘I come to ask you to summon levies for the King’s fyrd,’ said the quietly-spoken visitor, holding his cup to be renewed with ale by Ragnhild. ‘And to meet with him at the mouth of the Humbre in one week’s time.’

  Sigurd showed not one iota of interest. ‘Very well, I shall send heralds out at once. I myself will set out tomorrow.’

  ‘Do you not wish to know whom we go to fight?’ asked the man.

  Sigurd was blunt. ‘Nei.’

  ‘Well, I should like to know!’ cut in Ragnhild as the messenger, faced with such rudeness, made to leave. ‘He is my only son, I have more need of him here than has the King. Sigurd, he does not require you to go for another week!’