Jorvik

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

  ‘To be sure, there was no jest,’ answered Mary. ‘’Twas only laughing I was because I felt merry.’

  The other gave her a sour look. ‘You are always laughing.’ It grieved her to be kept in the dark as to Mary’s amusement, made her feel that perhaps she was the butt of Mary’s joke. ‘What has a slave to laugh about?’

  ‘I’m no slave.’ Black Mary’s face darkened. ‘I stay here through choice.’

  The other acquiesced. ‘Still, you have little reason for humour I would have thought.’ Faced with hostility, she withdrew, leaving the door ajar on purpose to let in the cold.

  ‘Ah, if only she knew!’ whispered Mary to her nephew, then laughed again. ‘One by one they die, these sons of Satan. Christ is with us, Murtagh. I hope He can grant as painful a death to Lord Sigurd as He did to his friend, Ulf. I love to think o’ the blood seeping out of him, killing him inch by inch.’ She sobered and rubbed her arms to ward off the draught. ‘But this child he’s brought here to replace his dead brat… we cannot wait for Christ to act, I must snuff him out quickly as I did Gytha. What fun to watch that pain all over ag…’ She broke off as Murtagh shook his head urgently, and turned to see Asketil.

  The little boy did not know what to do. He had returned for his knife but hearing the cruel words about his father had made him forget about it. He started to back away. Black Mary took a step forward and he ran. Murtagh caught his aunt’s arm as she made to follow and shook his head again more vigorously. She laid an anxious hand over his, staring into the crooked eyes. ‘D’ye think he heard?’

  Murtagh looked afraid and nodded.

  ‘Oh, Sweet Jesus…’ Black Mary hugged him fiercely. Murtagh would have continued to cling in desperation but she prized herself free. ‘Murtagh, let go, let go! Your aunt must find sanctuary.’ She made for the door, her nephew after her. ‘Don’t worry, ’tis safe I’ll be in the church.’ With these parting words she ran from the shippen across the enclosure then gathering her wits she slowed and forced herself to appear less guilty so as to get through the gates without attracting attention. Avoiding the main exit where there were more guards, she hurried for the one which opened onto the Great North Road. Every eye was upon her, or so she felt, as she clutched her cloak around her trembling body. It was well dark now, torches were lit. She looked straight ahead at the gate, praying that it would not be locked before she reached it. Five steps. Five miles. The two guards looked at her as she drew level with them. Her breath came in quick clouds. Her whole body pulsated, awaiting the order to stop. But why would they question a free woman whose comings and goings they were well accustomed to?

  She was through the gate and into the road.

  ‘Hey!’ She froze and only just withheld a scream. Half-turning, she waited for the accusation. ‘Be not long, we bar the gates soon.’

  Her reply was tremulous, almost a laugh. ‘Then I must run.’ Given the excuse she fled towards the porta principalis dextra, that led into the city and salvation.

  * * *

  Since overhearing Black Mary’s words, Asketil had been wavering outside the great timber door, watching and waiting for her to come after him. The look on her face had brought fear to his heart, but who would he tell when the man indoors frightened him too? He must go in some time, it was too dark and cold out here. Spotting Mary’s exit he panicked and, applying both small hands to the iron handle, he twisted it this way and that before someone opened the door from the other side. He leapt past the servant into the grand hall full of men. They were quieter this eve in respect for Ulf’s death, but their brutish appearance worried him, as much if not more than his foster-father, and he moved on quickly through the pall of wood smoke to Sigurd’s private room.

  The warrior was in his chair by the fire. Still brooding over his friend’s death he did not look up but continued to mope over all the things that were going wrong in his life, from the monarchy down. Asketil chose not to sit with him, instead he wandered about the room, as ever intrigued by the carved panels. There was much bare wood still to be worked. Finding another knife he began to chip away at his own design.

  The noise of grating permeated Sigurd’s dejection. He looked up, witnessed the act of vandalism and with the silent swoop of an owl pounced on Asketil, knocking the blade from his hand. His foster-son cowered, expecting to be thrashed.

  ‘Thou demon!’ Sigurd pointed at the damaged panel. ‘Is this how you repay your father’s friend?’

  ‘I thought the wall unfinished,’ whimpered the boy. ‘I tried only to help.’

  Sigurd glared down into the wide blue eyes. The child was obviously terrified. Remembering only now that he was dealing with a five year old, his temper began to abate and he examined the panel more closely. What he had thought to be mere vandalism was in fact the crude beginnings of a snake.

  ‘Well… I think you need a little more practice first.’ Sigurd picked up the bone-handled knife, handed it back to the boy and in doing so rebuked himself. Look at the child, the son of your friend entrusted to you and your first act is to frighten him half to death! He struggled to make amends. ‘Tomorrow I will teach you how to carve properly. Come by the fire, you are shivering.’

  Even more wary now, Asketil took refuge in his heavy fringe, crouched beside Sigurd’s chair. At home his inquisitive nature had always been given free rein and he would chatter all night if allowed but he was too unsure of himself here to ask questions of Sigurd. There were plenty he wanted to ask, but instead he gazed at the fire, darting the occasional furtive look at the man from beneath his fringe. Sigurd was not sure what to say, either. It was so long since he had enjoyed the company of a child. Regretting his harshness, he wanted to put Asketil at ease but could not remember how. Gytha had liked to hear the sagas; though too young to understand, she had been charmed by the sound of her father’s voice.

  ‘Once, there was a man called…’ Sigurd noted the look of alarm on the boy’s face at the unexpected intrusion, and offered an apologetic smile. ‘I did not mean to frighten thee.’

  Asketil cuddled his knees to his chest to ward off the shiver of apprehension and lied. ‘I am not afraid. ’Twas only that you startled me. I was thinking of my father.’

  Sigurd recognized the boy’s misery and offered rough comfort. ‘I, too, have been thinking of him. I knew Ulf for almost thirty years. ’Tis strange that he is no longer here. There will be many who mourn him.’

  ‘But not everyone,’ Asketil muttered into his kneecap. Sigurd asked what he meant. ‘I overheard that woman, Murtagh’s mother…’

  ‘Oh, you mean Black Mary,’ nodded Sigurd. ‘What of her?’

  ‘She was laughing because my father died.’ The child’s voice held disbelief. To ward off tears he fixed his eyes to the smoke which spiralled to the roof.

  Sigurd growled, ‘She is a madwoman. I know not why I give her shelter. Tomorrow I will get rid of her then you shall not have to listen to her spiteful ramblings.’

  Encouraged that his fostri would do this for him, Asketil shed one of the layers of dread. ‘What does it mean to snuff a person out?’

  ‘It is as you do to a candle-flame.’ Sigurd performed a nipping motion. ‘If it is said of a man, it means you kill him.’

  ‘Who was Gytha?’

  The man stiffened, his fingers curling round the arms of the chair. ‘We do not speak of her.’

  Curiosity overcame nervousness. ‘Because she is dead?’

  Sigurd nodded, feeling choked, and pretended that it was the fire which made him cough.

  Quick to assess the mood, Asketil became bolder, staring up at the man who tried to avert his face. ‘Who was she?’

  After a long pause Sigurd gave brusque reply. ‘She was my daughter.’ He snatched up a goblet and drank.

  Acquainted with the ealdorman’s fierce reputation, Asketil looked perplexed. ‘Fostri, why does the woman who killed your daughter still live?’

  ‘One does not live without a head.’ Sigurd gulped down the wine, trying
to wash away the dreadful last vision of Una.

  ‘But she has her head.’

  Sigurd frowned at him over the rim of the goblet, then lowered it. ‘What is this you say?’

  ‘The woman, Black Mary, she…’

  Sigurd dropped the goblet, shot upwards and lifted the boy off his feet. ‘What has been said?!’

  Plunged back into terror, Asketil stammered, ‘She has just told Murtagh she killed Gytha!’

  Sigurd dropped him most rudely and kicked at the hound that came to lap at the spilt wine. Asketil pelted off to cringe with the chastized dog. Buckling on his sword, Sigurd charged from the room, through the hall and raked the dark and peaceful courtyard with his eyes before yelling at the top of his voice. ‘Mary!’ Heads went up in alarm, but no one came running. He seized a flare from its sheath and holding it before him ran to every dark corner. A woman came out of the darkness; Sigurd grabbed her. ‘Where lurks Black Mary?’

  ‘Mary? My lord, I have not seen her!’

  Casting her aside he ran to the slaves’ hut and burst in. The occupants reared back at the threat of fire from Sigurd’s torch. Murtagh tried to hide behind fellow thralls. Sigurd threw the brand outside, hauled him to his feet and demanded to know where his aunt was. Murtagh offered only choking sounds as the man’s grip tightened on his throat. He lifted his arm towards the main gate. Through the terror there was a hint of defiance. Sigurd pushed the wretch at the shivering knot of thralls, downing them like skittles and ran in the direction of the pointed finger. Clutching his throat, Murtagh jumped up and ran after him. There was no sign of the murderess.

  Sigurd ran on to the main gates, where he accosted the guards. ‘Has Black Mary passed this way?’

  ‘Nay, my lord, she…’ The guard broke off as Sigurd ran back towards the Conyngstrete exit. He hared through the gates and was about to continue down the King’s Street when something made his head turn to the left. The Minster! Changing course he fought his way between the houses until he came to the open ground before the cathedral, its grandeur illuminated by flares – and there was Mary’s fleeing figure almost at the great doors! Sigurd injected every ounce of effort into catching her before her fingers touched the handle, rage lending him speed. Black Mary flung a worried look over her shoulder, saw him and made the last few bounds for her life. He was within three yards of her. Frantic hands twisted and rived at the handle, the door came open, she flung herself inside and screamed at the top of her voice, ‘Sanctuary!’

  Her pursuer burst into the Minster, weapon in hand, but it was too late. The sweet echoes of nocturne lingered on the air as a group of brethren foiled his attack. He teetered on the verge of murder, chest rising and falling with pent-up rage, sword upheld… but much as he reviled the Christian doctrine he dared not break the laws of sanctuary.

  ‘Sheath your weapon!’ One of the brethren stepped forth whilst the others closed ranks around a sobbing Mary. ‘You are in the house of God.’

  ‘That woman killed my daughter!’ Enraged, Sigurd pointed his blade at them, trembling to be at her. Behind the protective curtain of robes Mary flinched and crossed herself.

  ‘Then she must stand trial,’ replied the brethren’s spokesman, not a tremor in his voice. ‘But you alone must not be her judge. She shall remain in God’s protection for three days until she can appear at the wapentake. Now take your violent ways from this House!’

  Thwarted, Sigurd glared at the canon for what felt like an age to Mary. Then still volatile, he rammed his blade into its sheath and barged out. Murtagh pressed himself into the dark corner waiting for his master to pass. Content that his aunt would be safe in the cathedral, he returned to Earlsburh before the gates were locked for the night.

  When Sigurd bullied his way through the hall of curious soldiers and returned to his room it was empty of all but the dogs. Simmering with frustration, he flopped into his chair and threw one of his boots at the hound which snored unconscious of the drama.

  He buried his head in his hands, killing Mary over and over again, until a sound made him lift his sharp gaze. Asketil stood holding his foster-father’s boot. The man’s chest heaved, he looked ready to collapse. ‘I thought you were gone.’

  ‘I was over there.’ Asketil pointed in the direction in which the boot had been aimed. Despite the man’s terrifying exit, there was something in his pose now that encouraged approach.

  Sigurd just looked at him. ‘Did I hit you?’

  Asketil shook his head, was silent for a while, then asked, ‘May I try your big boot on?’ Given permission he donned it and admired the effect. ‘Look, I can get both feet in.’

  ‘You could get four feet in there if you had them,’ replied Sigurd, at which Asketil pushed his hands inside the boot too, tried to hop around on all fours and fell over.

  Sigurd raised half a smile, though inside his heart throbbed.

  Asketil displayed his gums and held up the boot. ‘’Tis as big as a ship.’ He began to collect various objects off the table and put them into the ‘ship’ to represent men, using spoons for oars.

  Sigurd watched him, his fury gradually abating. ‘I will carve you a real ship tomorr…’ He broke off, hearing Gytha say of the one he had made for her: Duck. Duck. Duck. He rubbed his face and head vigorously, itching to be at his daughter’s true murderer and begging poor Una to forgive him. When he looked up again Asketil was craning his neck. ‘What is it you look for?’

  ‘I look to see if you have blood on your hands,’ whispered the child.

  Sigurd’s nostrils flared. ‘Not on mine, but there is much on Black Mary’s.’

  ‘Shall you kill her?’

  ‘Yes,’ was the blunt reply.

  * * *

  As ealdorman, it was Sigurd’s duty to preside over legal assemblies, but because he was an interested party on this occasion his role was given to another, Ealdorman Gufrith. Sigurd felt no ire; the consequences would be the same whomsoever presided.

  At the wapentake each party delivered their version of events before the twelve thegns. Asketil too was brought forward to recount what he had overheard. Black Mary, protected from Sigurd’s wrath by a bishop, though not from his wrathful gaze, yelled out in her defence, ‘The boy lies! Everyone knows my nephew is a mute – why would I speak to him when he cannot answer?’

  Asketil’s voice was almost inaudible but the thegns listened. ‘I speak to him. It matters not that he cannot reply.’

  ‘Mayhap that is the very reason why she confides in Murtagh!’ Sigurd gesticulated at Mary. ‘Because he cannot give away her murderous secrets!’

  Black Mary fell to her knees and appealed to the listeners. ‘My lords, doesn’t everyone know the boy is a mischief-maker! He seeks revenge because he heard me speak of his own father. I spake only the truth but he did not wish to hear it.’ She gabbled and supplicated. ‘’Tis a poor woman I am. What is my word against that of a lord? Yet I speak the truth. Ye cannot try me for the child Gytha’s death, for her murderer lies dead already – by his hand!’ She swivelled on her knees and pointed at Sigurd.

  He remained steadfast. ‘I confess that I killed the wrong person! The true murderer is there! Asketil is the son of an honourable man, I believe what he says.’

  The ealdorman, thegns and bishop put their heads together, whilst Mary wrung her hands and prayed urgently for help from the Almighty.

  Finally, Ealdorman Gufrith announced, ‘The woman shall be tried by ordeal. She shall be put into the snakepit…’ Mary let out a scream and tried to run but was arrested by guards and made to wait for the rest of the sentence. ‘…for two days and two nights. If she should come out alive then she shall be adjudged innocent.’

  Asketil looked up at his foster-father as Black Mary was dragged spitting and kicking from the room. Ordering another to take the child home Sigurd followed the prisoner to the snakepit and watched her being lowered in. Verging on hibernation, the creatures barely reacted, but the mere sight of them had Mary paralyzed with fear. Her torme
ntor was like a snake himself, watching the event calmly with that cold dead eye of his. The brethren intoned for Almighty God to be her judge, whilst Mary huddled into a corner trying to keep away from the reptilian coils and darting one last beseeching glance at the circle of faces before the wattle lid cut out the light. With the lid made tight by boulders, the spectators turned and went home, Sigurd too. He wondered if the next two days would be as long for Black Mary as they would for him.

  * * *

  Mary could only guess that it was evening by the falling temperature and the sounds from above. Smells assailed her, cooking smells that made her belly ache, smells of animal dung and the smell of her own terror. Gradually the roll of wagonwheels diminished, curfew knelled. All day in the darkness she had been waiting for one of the snakes to inject its venom into her, unable to see or hear them, imagining those points entering her flesh, first here, then there. The waiting was almost as bad as the eventuality – she was now contemplating suicide by clasping a reptile to her breast. Her mind carried her fingers to those smooth coils: just one bite and her torment would be ended…

  There came the sound of a rolling boulder. The lid was lifted and the outline of a man appeared against the midnight blue of the sky. Shivering from the cold, Mary tilted her eager face upwards, straining to see who it was. The outline made no noise. For a brief moment of joy she thought it was her nephew come to rescue her and she whispered urgently, ‘Murtagh?’

  Still there was no response. Then, ‘You shall not escape,’ murmured Ealdorman Sigurd, causing her to shrink against the mud wall. For hours she had held onto the contents of her bladder, unwilling to make her prison more foul; now terror robbed her of control. Like a wee child! She damned herself as the warmth flooded her bare feet. Sigurd poked a rod into the dark corners where the snakes lurked, hoping to provoke them to anger. There was barely a hiss.

  Mary’s voice quavered but her words were brave. ‘They’ve not touched me yet!’