by Jorvik- A thrilling tale of Viking Britain (retail) (epub)
She twirled decisively. ‘I shall confront the old goat!’
‘Nay! Please say nought for if he knows that I love you he will sacrifice his ambition to wed you, and if I were responsible for that I would die. After what he has suffered in the past he deserves a little happiness.’
Temper was brewing in her immature breast. ‘You call it a little happiness when he would use me like…’
‘Not use you! Love you. Now, cease this talk forever.’ Til feigned an airiness of manner. ‘If you utter one word to Lord Sigurd it will do you no good, for if you hurt him I will never talk to you again.’ He stalked away.
Mildryth gritted her teeth, wanting to throw something at his retreating back, but not daring to call his bluff, for unwelcome though his words might be they were better than no words at all.
‘Doest argue again?’
The girl spun, her face red from the duologue. Sigurd, frustrated at being the invalid – and wanting to be near Mildryth – had limped from his bed to imbibe fresh air, luckily too late to catch any word of the argument but able to tell even from a distance that it had been a hot exchange. ‘What was the cause this time?’
Mildryth, fighting tears of anger, wanted to shout – ’twas about thee as usual, old tup! Instead, she pretended to be wrenching weeds from a clump of herbs and mumbled, ‘’Twas nought to bother a sick man, just Til and his boyish ways.’
Sigurd leaned on his staff, incapable of bringing himself upright due to the abdominal wound, in this pose even more aware of the difference in their ages. Lately he had noted an alteration in her attitude towards him. She was not so light-hearted. Maybe it was because she had attained womanhood and thought she had to act the part, but he could not help feeling that she was still cross with him over his accusation that she was responsible for Murtagh’s treachery. He was desperate to kiss the frown from her brow and tell her of his passion, but how could he, bent over like a cripple? Heal, damn thee, heal!
Time was of the essence to one who had become acutely conscious that the years were slipping away. The fact that he had lived to a ripe age made him one of an exclusive clan but he denied membership, for inside he felt like a youth again whenever he looked at her. One difference: the young Sigurd had never feared death – apart from all those years ago when Ulf’s sword had pricked his throat; now he feared it, terrified it would claim him before he had the chance to make Mildryth his wife.
However, death was to claim another first. Before Sigurd was back on his feet, a messenger brought word from the south which Asketil in turn relayed to his foster-father. ‘Earl Godwin is dead!’
Sigurd, bored from his inactivity, was interested only enough to ask, ‘Who is King now?’
Asketil frowned, thinking the injury had affected Sigurd’s brain. ‘It is not the King who is dead, but Earl Godwin.’
‘I heard you the first time.’ Sigurd looked wry. ‘And I ask who rules now – you do not think Edward is King of England, do you? Godwin has been monarch for years in all but the crown.’
Asketil nodded his understanding, then digressed for a moment. ‘Does the King have sons?’
‘Nay! He is too holy to get children.’ It was a public joke that Edward’s marriage was unconsummated. ‘Besides, he would not even know where to put it – so, tell me, who rules now?’
Asketil returned to the pertinent topic. ‘Naturally, Earl Godwin has bequeathed his title to his eldest son Harold.’
‘Eldest or no, I am surprised that Edward did not arrange for Tostig to have the title. He has always been the King’s favourite and Edward could do with a friend in that earldom. Harold is too much like his father to suit the King.’ The old man looked sour. ‘So… Godwin is dead at last. Would that it were news of Murtagh’s death that you bring me. Has nought been heard of him?’
Asketil looked blank. ‘Not one sighting, my lord. The search goes on but I think he must surely have drowned.’
‘If he is ever brought to justice,’ growled Sigurd, ‘he will find that drowning is too merciful a death.’
* * *
Murtagh had known that he was going to drown for some time now. His little boat and paddle had been adequate for the Use but once into the wide yawn of the Humbre the current had taken control and it was all he could do to hang on, let alone steer the boat where he wanted to go. Now in the North Sea waves it was tossed about like a nutshell and it would not be long before it was swamped altogether. He had known all along, of course, that this would happen; it had been a futile hope that he could reach Ireland in his botched craft. But he had been forced to make the attempt or die in Jorvik for his murder of Lord Sigurd.
His oar gone, he clung to the sides of the boat, reliving that wonderful moment when he had plunged the knife in, his flight from Jorvik, the following days when he had not eaten nor slept nor even set foot on dry land for fear of being arrested. Even now he could scarcely believe that he had come this far. Well, his boat might be sinking but his mind could sail on. From listening to conversations he knew the route to Ireland like the back of his hand; he went there now.
Another wave swamped the boat. Murtagh had only a pair of desperate hands to scoop it back into the writhing sea. His actions became frantic as more and more water poured into the boat. His hands could not cope with it. This was the moment he had dreaded; the water was coming in faster than he could bale, the boat was tilting… ‘Do not be afraid to die!’ he heard his aunt and mother say. ‘The tyrant is dead, you have avenged us; that is all that matters.’ But Murtagh was afraid to die. In previous imagination the moment of death had always been a noble thing but now, as his boat sank under him and he was up to his neck in water, he discovered that it was not noble at all, it was terrifying and cold and inglorious. He did not want to be noble, he wanted to live.
Ice-cold waves lashed his face and swamped his mouth with brine. He spat and began to tread water, moving in a circle, looking frantically for the shoreline. He had planned to row close to the land on his journey up the east coast but the tide had thought otherwise. It was a long way to swim, but he had no choice and struck out for the land. I will not die! You will, said another more confident voice. No, no, no! He swam for all he was worth but the land got further away. He was being carried out to sea! Panic rose in his breast. God, help me! came his mental cry. His arms began to thrash without effect until he was utterly exhausted and had to give up. Wave after wave washed over his head, diluting his strength, implanting futility. All at once he became light-headed. The fear had left him. He watched the document that vouched his freedom drift out of the neck of his shirt and away on the swell, and he did not care. He was no longer afraid to die, welcomed the waves that closed over his head…
‘Got him!’
Half-conscious, Murtagh barely felt himself plucked from death and the sea pummelled from his lungs. He came round on a bout of violent retching, heaved on to the slippery planking of a ship’s deck, then turned on his back to look up at his rescuers… or may be they were his executioners. Eyes wary, he studied the circle of faces. Did they know who he was? Would they take him back to Jorvik?
‘Ach!’ One of them had seen his crooked eye. ‘Look what bad luck we have brought on board. Let us throw him back, master!’
‘Do not be so superstitious, Emain.’ The man who had dragged Murtagh from the waves laughed and pulled him to his feet. ‘Now, my friend, it is an odd place to choose for a swim! The current is treacherous round this point. How come we find you here?’
A thrill of recognition stung Murtagh’s breast. The man addressed him not in Norse but in the language spoken by his Aunt Mary and his mother! The agony of his retching stomach was forgotten. Excitedly, he pointed at his mouth and shook his head to indicate that he was mute.
‘Ah, you cannot speak.’ The Irish merchant nodded, whilst his crew remained suspicious. ‘But you hear what I say, I think?’
Murtagh nodded back, excited yet still nervous.
‘There is little use in asking you wh
at happened,’ said the man, as one of his shipmates brought a cloak to wrap around the dripping Murtagh. ‘We came around the point to see you floundering in the waves. You must have fallen from a boat?’
A grateful Murtagh pulled the cloak around him and nodded.
‘So you are a local fisherman, then?’
Murtagh shook his head.
The man grew tired. ‘Look, I have no time to stand here guessing. My name is Diarmaid. I and my men are on our way back to Erin, but we could take you into the shore if…’
Murtagh shook his wet head more positively.
‘You wish to come with us?’ At the affirmative nod the man laughed. ‘Oh, would that I were privy to your reasons!’ A troubled look came to his eye and he voiced it. ‘Hey, you are not an escaped slave, are you?’
Murtagh shook his head and was about to reach into his shirt when he remembered with a lurch that the manuscript had gone. At the other’s mercy, he could only try to meet Diarmaid’s eye, shake his head and hope that he looked convincing.
‘As if you would tell me if you were,’ responded the man, looking at Murtagh more closely. Murtagh shook his head again and crossed his heart.
‘Then I can think of only one other reason why you would not wish to return to your home.’ His inquisitor was grim. Murtagh’s sore belly tensed again.
‘You have an ugly wife!’ Diarmaid uttered a high-pitched giggle and slapped Murtagh on the back. ‘Come! We must delay no more. If you are to sail with us you must pull your weight.’
And Murtagh hurried to assist in any way he could, still unable to believe his luck whilst the rest of the crew grumbled over their bad fortune; the ship was bound to sink, they would never reach Ireland.
But, a few weeks later, reach it they did and, as if setting foot on that blessed soil was not enough, there was more luck in store for Murtagh.
‘What will you do now?’ asked the merchant as his crew unloaded the goods they had bartered in Jorvik, Murtagh assisting. When Murtagh shrugged and looked vague, Diarmaid added, ‘However you choose to make your living you should do well. I am much impressed by your industry.’ Murtagh nodded thanks, not only for the compliment but for his life. He could not convey this but the man seemed to understand the look in his eyes and extended his hand in friendship. ‘No, I really mean it. I have never seen a man work so hard. Would you care to work for me?’ Murtagh’s crooked eyes lit up. He gasped his disbelief then nodded rapidly.
‘Do not be so grateful,’ joked another member of the crew who had, during their weeks at sea, come to like Murtagh. ‘He does not pay very well.’
Grinning at the jest Diarmaid cuffed him. ‘I pay well to those who earn it! There is one thing certain, I would never have to worry about him wasting my time chattering like someone else I could mention.’ He turned back to Murtagh. ‘You can start right now and can rest your head at my home until you are able to build a house of your own.’
A house of his own! It seemed like only yesterday that Murtagh had been thankful to escape with his life, now there were all sorts of opportunities opening up for him. At the age of thirty-four when life for some was over, life for Murtagh O’ Cellaigh had just begun.
* * *
By the following summer, Sigurd had to accept that Murtagh would never be brought to justice and that he was most probably dead. Mind preoccupied with Mildryth, the ealdorman’s thirst for vengeance began to dwindle and in the event of the latest news he forgot about the slave altogether. Earl Siward’s eldest son was killed in battle with Macbeth. The other son was too young to rule if his father died and at long last Sigurd was given the hope that he was close to achieving the earldom for which he had hungered so long. With this in mind he enthused to Asketil, ‘The time is nigh to ask Mildryth to be my wife! She would surely not refuse the chance to wed an earl. Where is the lovely lass? I can wait no more.’
Asketil felt a sudden attack of nausea. The moment he had been dreading had arrived but he had never truly envisaged just how dreadful he would feel on having to watch Mildryth betrothed to another. All through the winter he had suffered a kind of purgatory, being shut up in the house with her, praying for the spring when the weather would allow him to get out more and so avoid her… yet when spring had come and he was able to escape he felt such an intense emptiness that he did not know which was worse. So well did he hide this that no one knew of it except himself. Just how long he could continue was impossible to tell, for inside he grew sicker and sicker with the wanting of her. A voice broke into his thoughts and he jumped. ‘What did you say, fostri?’
Sigurd clicked his tongue. ‘I do not know what ails you these days! You walk about as if in a dream. I asked after Mildryth’s whereabouts.’
Faced with her name, Asketil’s reply was tart. ‘How would I know? I have been listening to you for the last hour.’
Sigurd’s hackles rose. ‘Is it such a chore, then?’
‘Nay, I did not mean that!’ Til was often short with his mentor nowadays, angry both at Sigurd for robbing him of Mildryth and at himself for being so weak in not speaking out. ‘Do you wish me to go fetch her?’
‘It is obvious from your tone that it will be an irksome task!’ retorted Sigurd.
‘For the sake of Our Lord do you want her or not!’ Asketil closed his eyes, prayed for patience then shook his head. ‘Nay… I beg pardon, fostri.’
‘Til,’ Sigurd dropped the hostility and looked worried. ‘What ails thee, lad? You have been showing these bouts of temper for months now.’ Receiving no explanation he tried to work it out for himself. ‘Doest think that I am wrong in asking to wed Mildryth because she is not yet fifteen and I am more than fifty? Or is it that you imagine she is placed more highly than yourself in my affections?’ If so, then strike that from your mind.’
‘It is not that,’ cut in Til.
‘You like her, do you not? I know you quarrel but all brothers and sisters do that and you seem to look warmly upon… upon her.’ Oh you dolt! He cursed himself. You blind fool! In that moment of panic, he completely forgot where he was and what he had been talking of. On recovery, his heart gave urgent warning – say nought! If it is not said it cannot be true.
Asketil noted the stumble and looked at his foster-father. There was an expression in those eyes that he could not fathom, but as quickly as it appeared it was gone and Sigurd was covering his tracks.
‘I think I know what worries thee. You fear that if Mildryth and I have sons they will come before you.’ He gripped Asketil’s shoulders, conveying sincerity into the youngster’s eyes. ‘It shall never happen. None shall come before my beloved Til who shall be my heir. I promise you here and now, it shall be written down for all to see.’
Til searched that expression, imagined those whiskery old lips kissing Mildryth, was on the verge of telling him… but how could he throw such a gesture of commitment back in Sigurd’s face? The opportunity to confess had gone. He nodded his gratitude for the honour bestowed. ‘I will try to rule as well as you have done, fostri.’
Sigurd heaved a private sigh of relief. ‘I have every faith in you, my son – now come help me look for my bride.’
With Mildryth nowhere in sight they divided, the easier to find her. Asketil felt as if his head was about to burst open. You must confess! Nay, I cannot bring such hurt upon him. The pain will go away, it will. Never, said his heart. Never, never.
Sigurd found her, treading clothes in a tub, and was reproachful. ‘Have I not said before, you ought not to be wasting yourself on menial tasks such as this!’
Mildryth disregarded his opinion and continued to slosh up and down in the tub. ‘I like to earn my keep.’ She was cool but not unpleasant.
‘A lady hath no need to earn her keep.’
‘I am not a lady.’
‘Would you like to be?’ Sigurd’s heartbeat increased.
She held him with a bland expression as if she had no idea of his meaning. ‘Fine chance there will be of that.’
‘Ther
e could be.’ His pulse raced even quicker. Now that the moment had come there was the fear of being rejected. Feeling like a youth beneath that violet stare he changed his mind – what a coward! ‘Instead of treading clothes those pretty limbs should be more suitably employed…’
Like being wrapped around you, thought Mildryth. Did he think she was stupid that she could not guess the reason behind all the gifts? The oaken chest, the fine woollen clothes, the jewels.
‘Come cheer me with a dance,’ he coaxed.
‘There is no music,’ the girl pointed out, though she stopped marching up and down.
‘That can soon be remedied. Til!’ Sigurd looked around, called again and spotted the youth. ‘Fetch your pipes – Mildryth is to dance for us.’
Leaving neither with any option, Sigurd planted himself in the sunshine and waited to be entertained. A trail of wet footprints marked Mildryth’s path to the dance area. Legs still bare, she poised waiting for Til to begin his tune, but when the music flowed she did not do it justice. Instead, she limped about in a most ungainly fashion, pretending that one leg was shorter than the other, then she mimicked the antics of a monkey, danced knock-kneed, bow-legged, jutted her neck like a chicken… Sigurd broke into laughter. The more she cavorted the louder he chuckled. Asketil tried not to show amusement – it was a gross insult upon his music – but he failed and was soon unable to blow into his pipes for laughing.
A teary-eyed Sigurd rebuked the girl. ‘Yea, you spoke truly when you said there was fine chance of you being a lady, Mildryth! Enough of your teasing. Give us a proper dance.’
The haunting pipes gave voice again. This time Mildryth’s interpretation of the music was more fitting. Enraptured by the graceful twirl of her limbs, Asketil closed his mind to his surroundings, forgetting Sigurd, forgetting everything except that lovely girl. Unable to consummate his passion in the flesh he made love to her through his music and she perceived it, returning his caresses in her dance.
