by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
To Murtagh’s disappointment his services were not required the following week for the man’s usual helper had recovered, but then he had suffered many disappointments in his life, and he enjoyed watching the boatbuilding just the same whilst he sat waiting for folk to buy his baskets. Even when he did manage to sell any, the few coins they earned him made little impact on the bond payment. Mildryth and Asketil asked to be kept abreast of the progress he had made towards freedom, and when he showed them the pitiful amount he had earned from his hard work, they decided to help in its accrual by donating any money that Lord Sigurd might have given them. When snowdrops began to peep through the grass Asketil, who safeguarded the money, was able to announce that Murtagh needed only one more day’s work to achieve his target. Both youngsters were delighted for him. Had they been able to read what was in his heart they would surely not have been.
Before the final contribution, Murtagh indicated for Asketil to return the money to him. The youth was quick to grasp his meaning. ‘Yes, I understand that you wish to hand over your bond price in person, but I beg you to take care that it is not stolen at this late hour.’ Watching Murtagh tuck the leather pouch down his shirt, he added, ‘When you go to buy your freedom I would like to be present if I may – we have long been friends. Wait there a moment and let me show you what I have done!’ He ran off to the house and returned a few moments later bearing a parchment. ‘See! Your freedom awaits only Lord Sigurd’s mark. I wrote it out myself.’
Murtagh took great interest in the manuscript, though of course he could not read one word of it.
‘So, you must tell me when you have those last few pence, in order that I may witness the signing of your freedom,’ begged Asketil, rolling up the manuscript.
Mildryth agreed. ‘I too would like to be present.’
Murtagh nodded, but had no intention of complying with her desire, for he wanted neither of the youngsters there when he faced his captor. Later, when they asked if he had earned those last few precious pence, he lied and shook his head. For two days he hung on to it, desperate to be free but waiting for the youngsters to absent themselves. On Friday afternoon his opportunity came at last. Having just helped to serve the midday meal he was dismissed to work outside and some half an hour later saw Asketil and Mildryth leave the burh. Knowing that his master was often alone at this hour having a brief nap after eating, he put down his hoe and bent to grubble amongst the vegetable rows, unearthing an object which he transferred to the folds of his mantle. With the pouch of money in his black fist, he went across to the ealdorman’s house. No one remarked upon the nervous manner in which he frequently patted his body.
There was no one else in the hall apart from the usual assortment of dogs which were too familiar with Murtagh to provide any obstacle. From his relaxed position Sigurd opened one eye to see who disturbed him. With as much dignity as his nervousness would permit, Murtagh emptied his coins on to the table and dropped his hands. Yawning, Sigurd pushed himself from his chair and flicked the silver pence this way and that in half-hearted manner, too dozy to wonder how Murtagh had got the money so quickly. Finding the manuscript that Asketil had drawn up, he dipped his quill into ink and added his mark. ‘So, you are free… though I have no doubt that you will expect me to grant you work and a roof over your head, hmm?’ Handing over the document, he lifted a contemptuous eye to Murtagh’s crooked one – then grunted in surprise as the bondsman punched him in the belly. Only when Murtagh snatched the manuscript, turned tail and fled did Sigurd look down and see the hilt protruding from his tunic. The dogs slept on.
Asketil and Mildryth had not been far and now came back across the bridge over the ditch. The maid, wearing a garland of flowers in her hair, skipped way ahead and waved to Murtagh as he flew from the house, but he did not appear to notice. Asketil, too, shouted cheerily to him but the thrall, consumed with a mixture of revenge and terror, made for the river where he had hidden a small boat, painstakingly restored from a wreck with bits of wood, tar and nails that he had collected whilst watching his boat-builder friend over many months. Just as God had provided the rusty blade from the earth with which to kill the despot, so He had turned the tide in Murtagh’s favour; the river was at an unusually low ebb and the grounded longboats, even with their shallow draughts, would have difficulty in following the smaller craft immediately, lending him a head start. Panting, he dragged it into the water and used his single oar to paddle towards freedom.
After pulling a face at his retreating back, Mildryth had gone on her way and now went inside the house. Sigurd was lying on the floor unconscious, his tunic soaked in blood and a dagger in his hand. Giving urgent cry for Til, she ran to the stricken man, knocked away the inquisitive hound that sniffed at the blood and knelt down beside him. Asketil rushed in. ‘’Twas Murtagh, I know it,’ breathed the girl.
Til acted with remarkable authority, calling the housecarls from their games and sending a party of them after Murtagh whilst ordering the others to carry their lord to a makeshift bed in the anteroom, for it would be too traumatic to lift him up the stairs. Jolted into consciousness, Sigurd groaned then yelled and cursed. Mildryth rushed off to the kitchen where she grabbed an onion, chopped it into pieces and threw it into hot water, mashing and stirring purposefully to make a thin broth – all to the mystification of the servants. When she returned to the house Sigurd was white as snow and moaning.
‘Where is the physician?’ yelled Asketil.
‘How do I know!’ Mildryth hurried up to the bed trying not to spill the bowl of liquid.
‘I thought you had gone to fetch him!’ Asketil packed one of the servants off to do the job.
‘I have no time to fart about with medicine men.’ Mildryth lifted Sigurd’s anguished head and tried to dribble a little of the soup down him. ‘Drink, damn thee!’ Impatient, she tipped the bowl at his lips, dousing his beard but managing to get him to swallow. After forcing another gulp upon him she thrust the bowl at a carl – ‘Take that away!’ – and bent to sniff the abdominal wound. There was no scent of onions. ‘Well, it has not pierced his belly anyway – and if it had struck his heart he would be already dead. I think he shall live.’
‘You are no doctor – what do you know?’ yelled Til. All at once he had lost his air of authority when faced with the thought that his father could die.
But when the physician came hurrying in and his prognosis was exactly the same as Mildryth’s, the youth’s panic began to subside. Whilst the wound was being dressed, he asked one of the houscarls if Murtagh had been found, receiving a negative answer. ‘Then keep searching!’ he roared. The room was quickly vacated except for the two who were closest to Sigurd and the physician. When the latter had gone Asketil turned to the girl. ‘How could he betray us like this, Mildryth?’
There was no look of retribution in her eye. ‘I. expect that I would have done the same, were I him.’
‘But we contributed towards this!’ He threw a hand at Sigurd’s inert body. ‘We helped Murtagh to raise the money. If fostri dies we shall be his murderers.’
‘He shall not die.’ Mildryth dragged a cushion to the paillasse on which Sigurd lay. ‘Sit you on that side of his bed and me on this, and together we will bring him through and make amends for any part we might have played.’
And this was how it was. For the next few days Sigurd meandered in and out of consciousness, too ill to be carried to his own bed. Asketil never left his side at all, except to relieve himself. Mildryth was constant too, mopping his pallid brow and applying more St John’s Wort to his wound. During this intimate time Asketil, with nothing more to occupy his eyes, began to look upon her in a different light, noticing her little breasts and her dark blonde hair. Suddenly he was shocked to find himself no longer at ease with her.
Mildryth finished packing a new batch of ‘Save’ around the wound and looked up to offer encouragement to Asketil. ‘It is healing well. There is no pus around it… what is the matter?’ He had snatched his eyes away
as if caught out.
‘Nought! I am just tired.’ He rubbed his eyes, shifted on the cushion and pressed his hand to the small of his back, looking extremely uncomfortable.
The wound attended to, she eased herself back on to her cushion. ‘You ought to get some rest.’
Asketil remained loyal. ‘Not until my lord wakes.’ For something to do he poked at the nearby fire then coughed at the smoke it produced.
Mildryth eyed him for a while. Something had happened here; his approach towards her was different. She was not looking at a boy but a man.
For some moments he pretended not to notice, looking at the carved walls of the bower, anywhere except at her. In the end, though, he was forced to object. ‘Why do you stare so?’
Unabashed, she replied with the candour of a thirteen year old: ‘I like to look at you. I think you are most handsome.’
‘Nay! Stop this teasing, Mildryth. I am not handsome.’ But his tone sought confirmation.
‘To me you are.’ She had been right; the way he looked at her was not the way a man beholds his sister.
Breast pounding, he gazed into her eyes, then coloured as the invalid stirred. ‘Hark, he wakes!’
Sigurd’s eyelids came open. Two faces peered down at him, but not the face that had haunted him in his nightmares. ‘Did you catch him?’ It was not the voice of a tyrant but the croak of a frog.
Without the need to ask who Sigurd referred to, the boy shook his head. ‘Nay, the carls scoured the town and a good many miles downriver – there were reports that he had made himself a boat, but he was not captured. Maybe he drowned.’ The hopeful statement merged into an apology. ‘I am most ashamed, fostri.’
Sigurd vented his rage and pain on Mildryth. ‘This is all your doing, wench! In persuading me to free the devil you have made him think he is a man and…’ he tried to rise on his elbows but was too weak.
An offended Mildryth rushed from the room. Asketil shot to his feet. ‘That is unfair! How could she be aware of Murtagh’s intention? She has sat here for days nursing you back to health.’
Sigurd was already regretting his impulsiveness and collapsed on his pillow. ‘Call her back,’ was his tired order. ‘And I shall say I am sorry.’
But when Asketil relayed this to her, Mildryth refused to come. ‘The miserable old bear can go rot! I am glad Murtagh escaped!’
‘Then tell that to Lord Sigurd, not to me!’ Asketil dragged her back to the bed where Sigurd made gruff apology.
‘I am most sorry, my daughter. It was anger at myself which made me curse you. I was the one to free him and there is no one else to blame.’ Asketil’s face burned as he thought of the donation he had made to Murtagh’s bond price. Sigurd was too ill and too concerned with Mildryth to notice. ‘Do you forgive me?’
The maid looked stubborn. ‘You are not the first to curse me.’
‘But am I forgiven?’ He made it sound as if it were important to him.
Mildryth played with her necklace of fish teeth for a while, then relented. ‘Yes.’
Sigurd’s anguish melted into contentment, then he gave a painful sigh. ‘Ah… how long have I been lying thus? There are things to be done.’
Asketil assured him that everything was being attended to. ‘Now that you are safe from death I shall go today and collect the tithes from Osboldewic.’
‘Tell him to go the morrow,’ urged Mildryth. ‘See how his eyes droop, he has barely slept a wink during his vigil.’
Sigurd cut off the boy’s objection. ‘The lass is right,’ he croaked. ‘You do look wan. Go and sleep, both of you, until you are fully rested. The dues will wait – but instruct the men to keep searching for Murtagh. If he has drowned the body shall come up some time. I would see it for myself.’
After making him comfortable, the pair of them were about to leave him in peace when Sigurd called them back. ‘Give me your hands.’ When Asketil and Mildryth slipped their fingers into his he tried to squeeze them but found his own grip as weak as a babe’s and had to convey his fondness in his tone. ‘I give thee my most grateful thanks for thy tender mercies.’ Each returned his warmth, but he wondered as he watched them leave if Mildryth knew just how intense were his feelings for her.
* * *
The next day found Sigurd mended enough to be lifted upstairs to the luxury of his own bed. Asketil, having caught up on his sleep, prepared to ride out and collect the dues from Osboldewic. Mildryth insisted on going, too. Though her company unnerved him he could give no good reason why she should not come, and so delayed his journey whilst her pony was saddled. Apart from the party of housecarls, several falcons accompanied them; these were released along the way in the Forest of Galtres.
‘So that they may breed,’ explained the youth, when Mildryth asked the reason, both watching the falcons soar into the tree-tops. ‘We shall return in autumn to collect the young.’
‘And will you train them?’ Mildryth had discovered some hazelnuts left over from the winter store; she cracked one with her teeth like a mouse.
Asketil wanted to impress without appearing boastful. ‘Well, it is mostly the duty of the falconer, but I have learned to handle them quite well.’ Trying to assume modesty, he held out his hand. ‘Spare a nut for me, Mildew.’
She threw one at his head, laughed as he ducked, then leaned over in her saddle to place one on his palm. ‘Art thou capable of everything? You can read and write, you make poetry, carve wood and bone, play music, train falcons…’
Asketil disposed of the nutshell and ate its kernel. Was she teasing him? Perhaps he had sounded a braggart; it was important that she did not think so. ‘I cannot swim and… I do not know if I could kill a man. Apart from that I am perfect.’ He laughed as she pelted him with more nuts.
They rode on from shadowed wood to sunlit dell, to moor and common and back to forest. When they reached Osboldewic Asketil left the officer in charge of the housecarls to collect the dues, for he himself was thirsty. Whilst he drank from the well Mildryth asked to share his cup, staring at him over its rim with those unusual eyes of hers. It must have been the spring sunshine that caused it; Mildryth had one of her impish moods, coaxed and dragged him away across the pasture, back towards the forest with the excited proposition, ‘Let’s go hunt for brocks!’
‘You must not go in there alone, it is dangerous! There might be boar and wolves!’ Asketil’s warning received only a giggle and she tore off. He was compelled to go, too. The woodland was silent but across the pasture could be heard the laughter and chat of housecarls. Asketil wondered if they were laughing at the way he had bounded after her like a puppy.
It did not take long for Mildryth to sniff out a badger sett. Pointing, she turned gleeful face on her companion. ‘Stick your hand down there and see if Master Brock’s at home.’ Then she hoisted her shoulders and laughed, so clearly delighted to be free and alive. ‘What shall we do next?’
Asketil could not take his eyes off her breathless, joyful face and pondered for a moment. ‘Hast ever seen the nadder’s dance?’ When she shook her head he looked pleased at being able to enlighten her and with a gesture of invitation began to comb the scrubland. The object of his search took so long to find that Mildryth grew bored and was ready to head back for the village when Asketil said, ‘Hush!’ and pointed. ‘Be still.’
She flopped onto her belly beside him resting on points of elbows, but could not see at first what had caught his interest. And then she saw it too.
The vipers coiled their bodies around each other in a sensuous dance, not just two or three but a writhing knot of them. Mildryth giggled. Asketil shushed her and both continued to watch as the male adders fought to press each other into submission. Mildryth whispered to her partner, ‘It feels as though they have got inside my belly.’
Asketil nodded, experiencing at first a tickling sensation in the pit of his abdomen and then intense heat. He looked at Mildryth. The pupils of her eyes had almost obscured the violet. An inner voice told him it was a
mistake to have followed her here. Something was happening and he had no power to stop it. She laid her lips on his. He could not help himself, the frenzy of the reptiles drove them to a passion. They danced with the nadders, coiled and writhed and kissed…
No sooner than it was done he leapt up and ran away. Ashamed and angry too, Mildryth clutched her smock to her naked breast and yelled after him, ‘Art frightened old Goatbeard will find out?’ But he ran away and left her.
When Til came pelting red-faced across the meadow alone, and a dishevelled Mildryth followed soon after, the housecarls nudged and whispered amongst themselves. Neither the youth nor the girl spoke a word to each other on the way home.
* * *
Sigurd opened his eyes to see Asketil’s flushed cheeks and gave a throaty laugh. ‘I wager I can guess what you have been up to.’
The lad’s heart leapt. ‘I have only been to fetch the dues, that is all.’
‘Nay, that is not all.’ The wan face turned knowing. ‘I can tell you have argued with our Mildryth again. Look at your cheeks, like apples. What has she said to make you so cross?’ It was a shame that the youngsters he loved could not get along more peaceably.
Asketil said the first thing that came to his lips. ‘She made fun of my beard.’ His colour deepened; he had never lied to Sigurd.
‘I do not know how she could say ought about that.’ Sigurd applied a doddery touch to the fine hair on the youth’s chin. ‘’Tis a grand effort – more than your father ever had. You must take after your mother.’ He laughed, then winced. ‘Aagh! This confounded wound. Where is Mildryth? ’Tis only she who hath the touch to make it better.’ The youth said he did not know. ‘Ah, she is a bold lass.’ Sigurd warmed to his subject. ‘Nought frightens her, not even this tyrant. She treats me like a bairn. Would that I were thirty years younger…’ Wistful of face, he looked at the youth. ‘Til, how old would you say I appear to others?’ When Asketil shrugged, he pressed the point. ‘What I mean is, would you say I was still comely to a woman’s eye?’
