by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
‘It matters not.’ Abruptly, the lid dropped.
Plunged back into solitude Black Mary answered his unspoken threat. ‘Ye cannot go against the verdict! If I come out of here alive I am innocent. ’Tis the law! I am not a slave!’
There was no answer.
Some time during the murky hours before dawn the lid was lifted again. This time it was Murtagh come to bring her food and hot ale which he lowered on a string. By now her wet skirts compounded the bitter cold. Cupping her trembling hands around the jug she drank and felt the warmth travel to her belly. ‘God bless ye, Murtagh! But away with you now. ’Tis punished ye’ll be if you’re caught.’
Murtagh indicated for her to eat and drink her fill, pushing the jug back down at her when she tried to return it still half-full. All the while she ate, his eyes swivelled and darted like a beast at a watering-hole. Mary wondered how he had managed to get past the guards; probably with a bribe from Sigurd’s wine stock, a ploy used by all his underlings. She blessed her nephew again and urged him to go. ‘Don’t fuss. Christ has protected me from the snakes so far, they will not touch me now.’
Two days later in the presence of witnesses, the lid was lifted from the pit. All stared down at the huddled form. At first glance the occupant appeared to be lifeless, then Mary lifted her pallid face, eyes slitted against the harsh light. Cramped of movement, she displayed her forearms to show the absence of bites.
‘She is innocent,’ announced Ealdorman Gufrith without drama. From his viewpoint at the back of the crowd Murtagh rejoiced at the words, but would the master heed them? A ladder was put down and a stinking Mary helped up it. Her eyes had not yet adjusted themselves but even a blind man could feel Sigurd’s murderous intention. Though her limbs were weak Mary lunged through the crowd, throwing off her cloak to confuse them and fled.
‘Stop the witch!’ Sigurd made to pursue her, but Ealdorman Gufrith held on to his embroidered sleeve. ‘She has been judged! You cannot take the law unto yourself.’
‘A false judgment!’ Sigurd hurled at him. ‘She bewitched the snakes as she bewitched you.’
Gufrith withheld him more forcefully. ‘You would not act thus if the jarl were here!’ Their ruler was away up north.
‘If he were here this murderess would be already dead!’ Shaking off the man’s grasp, Sigurd ran after Mary.
Ealdorman Gufrith shouted to his carls to pursue. A stricken Murtagh joined the chase. Once again Mary headed for the only place that could give her sanctuary but this time she had further to run and her limbs were as jelly. Along Steinngata she fled, cold feet stumbling along the paved Roman road that led to the Minster. Sigurd was gaining fast. She could scarcely breathe from exhaustion and terror. Mind crying out to God for salvation, she dared not turn, conserving every ounce of will into escaping. The Minster was in sight… her last sight. Still running, eyes focused clearly on his target, Sigurd hefted his weapon and with both hands clasped around its hilt hacked downwards through her neck and deep into her back.
Too late, his pursuers thudded up in clouds of white breath. There came the sound of a terrified steer. Murtagh flung himself at the mutilated body, mouth and face contorted with anguish, futile hands trying to staunch the blood that trickled between the gaps in the cobbles.
Ealdorman Gufrith was furious. ‘I shall report this to my lord archbishop! You throw scorn upon my authority!’
The deep-set eyes showed unconcern: their owner flicked his blade and rammed it into its scabbard where the sheepskin lining wiped off Mary’s blood. ‘And I shall tell the archbishop what I told you. ’Twas a false judgment. Go to the archbishop if you must, but be warned – you may find yourself having to pay compensation for your dealings with a sorceress!’ He was about to turn in disdain when he looked down again at the vile body and saw the pure loathing in Murtagh’s twisted eyes. ‘Do not even dare to contemplate it,’ his thin lips warned. And Murtagh, utterly powerless, lowered his gaze as Sigurd walked away.
* * *
On return to his private room, he found Asketil waiting for the result of the ordeal. ‘Is she dead?’
Looking down at the miniature Ulf, Sigurd began to lose the tautness in his shoulders. He nodded and calling for wine, flopped into his carved chair. Asketil sat frog-like on the cushion at his feet and rubbed his own legs in a gesture of satisfaction. ‘Good. I am glad.’
His foster-father did not feel the need to elaborate on Mary’s end. When the servant handed him the cup he took a long drink, wiped his moustache and announced, ‘Never trust a woman, Til.’
Asketil wrinkled his brow. ‘My mother is a woman.’
‘Never trust a woman,’ emphasized Sigurd, ‘not even your mother.’ He looked down at the boy. ‘We shall have no need of them, you and I, in our new life together.’
Asketil clamped his lower lip between his eye-teeth and underwent thoughtful pause. ‘Am I not permitted to see my mother, then?’
The reply was testy. ‘Can your mother teach you how to carve, how to shoot an arrow, how to fight like I do?’
Asketil was thoughtful. ‘Nay… but yours is no breast upon which to lay my head, ’tis too hard.’
Sigurd was ready to bite again, when he considered the innocent words. Yes, his breast was hard, filled with bitterness. Mary’s death had solved nothing, for now he knew that his execution of Una had been unjust. Never would he involve himself with a woman again… but it was unfair to deny Asketil a mother. Sighing, he gave permission. ‘Go to her if you must.’
‘I do not need to go today,’ lisped the boy. ‘You promised to carve me a ship – is it finished yet?’
Duck, said Gytha. Sigurd flinched and shot from his chair. ‘Come! I will show you. Let us forget about women for now.’
* * *
Ealdorman Gufrith had no such intention of forgetting. Whilst Mary’s body was carted away by her stricken nephew, he himself went directly to the archbishop, who ordered the culprit to appear before him.
Sigurd, involved in a mock fight with Asketil, spat contemptuously at the messenger’s feet. ‘I am not at the beck and call of kirkmen.’
‘Then he shall answer to the King!’ rasped Archbishop Aelfric when given this reply, and redirected his messenger to Lunden where Sigurd’s lawless activities were reported to King Edward. The following week Sigurd was ordered to appear at the palace. His ship undergoing repairs, he went there on horseback.
When he entered, the King was listening to a minstrel playing his lyre. Sigurd had had few dealings with Edward, for the King chose not to venture North, but he had heard rumours of his piety. It was said that he could work miracles. Blind men had been cured by rinsing their eyes in the water Edward had washed in. Looking at him, Sigurd saw only the King’s father Ethelred. Edward was a joyless man who divided his time between hunting and the religious observances. Some said that even at the hunt his devotion led him to having mass said before the killing began. It appeared that his character had been shaped by his exile in childhood. He had never forgiven his mother for her rejection of him when she married Cnut, and they were forever at odds with each other. Only a matter of weeks ago he had confiscated all her property. But then his pious side had come to the fore and he had repented and given it all back, even though he held her guilty for his unhappiness. Indeed it was said that he blamed all women, that was why he had not yet married. This was the only point with which Sigurd could identify, otherwise he detested that pious visage.
There was a less holy side to the King and Sigurd, with the arrogant way he paraded himself, was in danger of evoking this. Edward was well familiar with Sigurd’s part in his brother Alfred’s death. He did not care for the way Harthacnut had been bought off, and he himself had hoped to revive the case when he became King. Unfortunately, like that other power-mad villain Godwin, this ealdorman was too strong and too popular in his region to be easily disposed of. If Sigurd remained in the North, Edward could tolerate him, but when his intransigence brought him down here, that was anot
her matter. He cursed the Northmen. Why could not they handle their own affairs instead of littering his court with such offal?
He spoke at last, his accent most foreign to Sigurd’s ears. ‘It has come to my notice that you defied the judgment of Ealdorman Gufrith and carried out a death penalty yourself. Are you not aware that it is against the law to shed blood on the King’s highway?’
Sigurd began tiredly, ‘The woman had been my slave. She…’
‘Had been your slave! But I am led to understand that she had bought her freedom!’ This King would brook no impertinence as friend Cnut had done. ‘You had no rights over her.’
Sigurd had grown used to having his own way. ‘She was a witch! She killed my daughter and blamed another.’
‘So you say! Yet she came through her ordeal.’ The fate of one woman mattered not to Edward, but this display of recalcitrance did.
‘’Tis plain for an idiot to see that if the snakes did not bite her then she is surely a witch.’
This was enough to launch Edward into a rage. ‘You call your King an idiot!’
Too late Sigurd showed respect. ‘Not so, my lord, I simply…’
‘Out! Out!’ Edward’s face took on the hue of claret. ‘You are nithing, a man without honour! Your title is forfeit, your lands are forfeit! I wish you out of my sight, out of my kingdom!’ And he launched into an indecipherable string of French curses that resulted in Sigurd being ejected from the palace.
Venting his anger on the men who had accompanied him to Lunden, Sigurd ordered them to abandon their half-eaten meal and assemble at once for a return to Jorvik – ‘And then let this so-called King try to oust me from there! I will soon show him how important he is in the north!’
His hungry foot-troops in tow, Sigurd was fifteen miles into his journey when the rearguard warned that a group of riders approached at a fast pace from behind. Sigurd reined in and ordered the troops to face the danger, then waited for the cloud of dust to come nearer. On seeing that one of the arrivals carried Edward’s standard, he was even more prepared for a fight, and when the group of horsemen finally thundered up they were met with hostile words. ‘If Edward has sent you to press for my exile you will have a fight on your hands!’ roared Sigurd.
The leader of the party responded with similar heat. ‘King Edward demands your presence at court. You are to come with us now!’
Sigurd replied on a laugh of disbelief. ‘I have just come from there – he told me to get out!’
‘Well, now he wishes to see you again,’ said the other. ‘He was told you had left Lunden and was most concerned that you be brought back. I would advise you strongly to come.’
Sigurd groaned and looked at his men. They were not on the best of terms with him after he had dragged them from their meal and not allowed them to stop for a rest since leaving Lunden. ‘It is not fair to subject my men to a fight after they have marched so far,’ he decided impudently. ‘Otherwise you would not return to give the King my answer.’
Wondering what fate lay in store, he kicked his horse into motion and led his band of grumbling men back to Lunden. Here he was granted no leave to join his weary followers at the table but taken in his dishevelled state before the King.
However, there was no sign of the raving lunatic who had dismissed him hours ago. This King spoke calmly. ‘Come hither and stand before me, Sigurd Einarsson.’
Biting back a groan of frustration, Sigurd marched stiff-legged to the throne, bowed, then stood aloof and erect.
‘I have decided to forgive you,’ announced a po-faced Edward.
Ready for a fight, Sigurd could not have been more surprised and it showed on his face.
‘It was uncharitable of me to forfeit your title and lands when you have lost so much already, namely your only child. I am not yet accustomed to the ways of northern men, forgot that they are by nature bluntly-spoken and took your words as personal affront when you were only voicing your anger at your child’s murderer. Therefore, I will restore you to your former position.’ He laced his hands as if in prayer and awaited Sigurd’s reply. In the hours that had passed since his castigation, Edward had been advised by a wiser person than himself that his actions against the ealdorman might bring repercussions from the North. Knowing that he had not the support to deal with this at the moment he was forced to back down, but had drawn on his saintly reputation to camouflage the true reason – or so he thought.
Too dumbfounded to offer sarcasm, the ealdorman mouthed gratitude. ‘I thank you, my lord.’
Edward inclined his saintly head. ‘You will of course do penance for your blood-letting, and make redress to the family of the woman whom you killed.’
Sigurd nodded but had no intention of obeying, his only intent being to get out of this room before he vomited at the piety.
‘What is the King like?’ pestered Asketil when his foster-father arrived home from Lunden. ‘What did he say?’
‘He is berserk!’ Sigurd jumped down from his horse and threw the reins at Murtagh. ‘He ordered me into exile for killing my daughter’s murderer.’
Murtagh could not help an involuntary glance at the speaker. The little boy, too, looked shocked. ‘When must you go – and where?’
‘I go nowhere!’ Dousing Murtagh’s hopes, Sigurd pushed Asketil at the house where he hollered for food and drink. ‘Within hours he had called me back to inform me that I was forgiven! You have never seen such piety. Forgiven? Addle!’ By now Sigurd had worked out the true reason for Edward’s retreat. ‘He knew he had gone too far, that I am too strong for him. Nithing, he calls me! I tell you the man is not fit to rule. He flies into a rage for no reason at all.’ Anger kept him perched uncomfortably on the edge of his chair.
Asketil sought verification. ‘So you do not have to leave me?’
‘Hah! I had no intention of leaving by that kunta’s yea or nay…’ Sigurd focused upon the worried boy then and patted him. ‘I will never leave you, Til.’
Asketil shuffled closer and leaned against his fostri’s knee, no longer afraid of these bouts of fury for never were they directed at him.
‘Ah, but it is sad to see Cnut’s kingdom fall to such a whelp.’ The man sighed, then issued one last word of contempt before flopping back against his chair. ‘Southerners!’
‘Shall we play tables?’ Asketil went to fetch the gaming board, setting it between the two of them. Sigurd cheered up, giving his kirtle an enthusiastic tug. ‘A good idea! I have not played since… ah well, since many months ago.’ During the game he noticed that the boy kept making wrong moves, and eventually pointed this out to him. ‘I am dismayed that the son of Ulf should play so badly. You could have won there.’
‘I know.’ Asketil was placid. ‘But Mother would never allow me to beat Father or he’d be in a temper for hours.’
‘So you lost to me a-purpose?’ Sigurd roared with laughter, forgetting all about the contretemps with the monarch. ‘Ah, Til, you so amuse me! Would you do this on the battlefield so as not to offend your enemy?’
The little face remained solemn. ‘What is it like to kill a man, fostri?’
‘Oh, you will learn in time.’ Sigurd calmed his bluster, though retained the fond expression.
‘I wonder what it is like to be killed.’ Asketil sucked thoughtfully on the ivory piece in his hand.
Sigurd tapped a positive finger on the board. ‘You shall never know, for I will teach you all that has kept me alive these forty years.’ Waiting for the boy to reset the pieces, he leaned back in his chair.
‘Shall you teach me to read too?’ Asketil shoved the figures around the squares.
‘Have I not already?’
‘Only the runes, not books. I wish to read in English for I am English.’
Sigurd retained his even temper, enjoying their conversation. ‘I am English too but all the years I have lived I have never needed a book. The truth is for my head to hold and my tongue to tell.’
Asketil postponed the new game to rock back and
forth on his buttocks. ‘But if you die with word unspoken, who shall know? I should dearly love to have this skill, fostri.’
His foster-father conceded with a shrug. ‘Then you shall have it, for all the good it will do you. I will speak to the brethren.’
The boy smiled and made his first move. This time he did not allow himself to be defeated so easily. Several games later the pieces were dropped back into their box and Asketil sat cuddling his knees. ‘Tell me a tale.’
Sigurd moistened his tongue with wine, and recounted the sagas handed down to him by his mother, uncle and numerous others. When he had exhausted many of these, he was then asked, ‘How was the world begun?’
Sigurd looked at the water clock; it was past the usual hour at which Asketil went to bed, but he was enjoying himself too much to carp. ‘It was made long, long ago.’ Totally relaxed, he poured another glass of wine from the pitcher. ‘Before it existed there was a great nothingness called Gunningagap. North of this was Niflheim, a place of many rivers that was dark and misty. South was the fiery kingdom of the giant Surt. The rivers of Niflheim froze and from the merging of ice and fire was born the giant Ymir whose left armpit sweated offspring…’
During the lengthy and riveting tale the boy never took his eyes from its narrator, thrilled by this sanguine account of the world’s creation. At the end he made a sound of wonder and enjoyment, then wriggled and yawned. ‘Where did you live whilst all this was going on, fostri?’ He reacted innocently to Sigurd’s look of affront. ‘Well, I know you are very old now but you must only have been a babe then.’
‘Thou little louse!’ Sigurd laughed and cuffed him. ‘To bed with you!’ And he slung the boy over his shoulder to much squealing and jollity, up the staircase to bed.
That night he dreamed of Una, held her tight and told her of his sorrow at killing her. She laid her head upon his breast and whispered her forgiveness. Preparing to make love to her, he felt himself about to wake and took desperate hold so that she would emerge from the dream with him.
