Captive of the Viking
Autore
Juliet Landon
Letto da
15,2K
Capitoli
11
Chapter One
The year 993—Jorvik, now known as York
Even at that early hour of the day, a dense pall of smoke lay over the thatched rooftops of Jorvik like a grey blanket filtering upwards into the haze of dawn. The furnace was already roaring from the blacksmith’s workshop, from the glassmakers and potters, the bakers and the moneyer, whose task was no less exacting than the swordsmith’s. The Lady Fearn and her young maid, Haesel, kept to the path on the outer edge of the city and soon came to the river from where, for safety, the merchants’ ships had been moored upriver well away from the main wharves and the warehouses. They rocked gently on the brown water as the ferryman pulled his boat into the bank just as the two women reached it.
‘Morning, lady,’ he called. ‘You not taking the bridge, then?’
The bridge over the River Ouse was close by the wharves, now deserted in readiness for a fleet of Viking longships that had been reported entering the Humber Estuary two days ago. The merchant ships would be an obvious target. Fearn chose not to answer him. ‘Can you take us across, Gaut?’ she said. ‘We’re bound for Clementhorpe.’
Last evening, she and Haesel had put the last few stitches into a pile of linen smocks for the invalids at the little nunnery where frail and elderly townsfolk were nursed through their illnesses by twelve devoted Benedictine nuns. As the foster daughter of Earl Thored of Northumbria, Fearn did not intend an imminent Viking raid to prevent her acts of charity.
* * *
The nunnery at Clementhorpe was little more than a cluster of thatched huts, animal sheds, a larger infirmary and a church with a shingled roof situated on the very edge of Jorvik. The dense woodland sheltered pigs beyond the plots where two cows and their calves grazed, where an orchard, herb garden and neat rows of vegetables were tended by soft-spoken women in serviceable long kirtles of undyed wool. Their noble birth counted for very little here, all of them being known as ‘sister’ except Mother Bridget, the founder of the nunnery.
‘Welcome, my dears,’ she said, taking the bundles from them. ‘This is so kind of you. I hope, my lady, the Earl doesn’t mind your coming here so often.’ Her voice held an Irish lilt that set all her words to music.
Fearn smiled at her concern. Earl Thored had been baptised as a Christian, but found it difficult to shake off the advantages offered by his former paganism, believing that to call on the services of several well-tried-and-tested gods was of great help in times of emergency. The priest had done what he could to explain the meaning of sin, but so far without an unqualified success. ‘He doesn’t mind at all, Mother,’ Fearn said, following the nun into the warm interior of one of the larger houses. A fire glowed in a central hearth and two nuns stood over by one wall, working at a large upright loom taut with white woollen threads, their hands working in unison, lifting, beating, passing the shuttle. ‘He has other things on his mind,’ she added. ‘Messengers are reporting to him day and night since the Danes were sighted.’
‘He’s sure they’re Danes, then? Not Norse?’ She indicated cushioned stools and went to a bench from where she poured buttermilk into three earthenware beakers. Handing one to Fearn, she could not help but look directly at Fearn’s beautiful features: the thick black curls escaping from the white veil and gold circlet, at the black eyelashes and brows that framed her most unusual feature, her eyes, one of which was a deep mossy green, the other as blue as a bluebell. She would have been uncommonly lovely even without this strangeness, but with it, her beauty was like a magnet that held the gaze of anyone who looked on her.
Mother Bridget had hoped she would come this morning, having spent the night in prayer for her safety. One look at the woman would put her in mortal danger, for the Vikings, Danes and Norse, were renowned for their unbridled ferocity towards women. Fearn and Haesel would stand no chance against them.
‘Sure to be Danish,’ Fearn said after a sip of the cool liquid. ‘Swein Forkbeard’s men. Coming for another pay-off. He’ll not damage Jorvik again when more than half the city is made up of his own people, will he? I doubt they’ll be doing much raiding this time, Mother.’
The Reverend Mother put her beaker to one side, only her years of discipline preventing her from showing her fear. She had, after all, lived close to fear for most of her life. ‘Fearn,’ she said, as emphatically as her musical voice would allow. ‘Listen to me.’
‘I always do, Mother.’
‘Yes, but this is especially important, my dear. Whatever these men are coming for, we women are in some danger and you more than any of us. You must know what I mean. It’s taken our little community years to recover after the last time, but I refuse to run away, for then what would happen to those we care for? But if you’re right about them coming only for payment to cease their raiding, then I still believe the safest place for you and Haesel would be out there in the woods, hiding until they’ve gone. Once you show your faces in the Earl’s hall, they will want you as well as money. Stay here out of the way, I beg you.’
It was difficult for Fearn not to be moved by Mother Bridget’s concern. Such fear for her welfare was rarely shown these days, particularly not by Fearn’s husband, Barda, one of her foster father’s chosen warriors. A boastful, swaggering bully of a man, he had adopted the new Christian religion only in order to marry her, not for any other reason. Yet Fearn used his name now in the hope of persuading her blessed hostess of a better protection, knowing how he would put up a fight to protect anything that was his. Even his horse. ‘I am grateful to you, Mother. Truly I am. But I will not hide like a fugitive when there are so many of the Earl’s men to protect me. And Barda. He would not allow them to take me. Whatever else he is capable of, he would prefer not to lose me. Please stop worrying.’
Even as she said his name, all three women’s minds turned to what else he was capable of. Violence towards his wife, for one thing. Mother Bridget had seen the weals on Fearn’s body when she’d come here for treatment. Love was not something Fearn had ever felt for a man and Barda did not know the meaning of the word.
A reluctant sigh left Mother Bridget’s wrinkled lips along with a shake of her head. ‘Well,’ she said, softly, ‘I didn’t really expect you to agree, my dear. Is there nothing I could say that might persuade you?’
‘I could leave Haesel with you, being so young.’
‘Thank you, but, no!’ Haesel said, suffering two surprised stares. ‘I’m sorry, mistress, but I shall not leave you. The Reverend Mother must know that.’
‘Of course I do, child. Lady Fearn knows it, too. Let’s just hope her possessive husband is as loyal as you are. Does he know you’ve come here? Last time, you were in some trouble, I remember.’
Fearn smiled, ruefully. ‘The Earl sent him off with two others to find out what they could. They’ll be following the river up towards the coast. They may even have returned by now with some news.’
‘In which case, love, you had better drink up and head back to the hall. And think again about what I’ve said. You’ll get no better advice.’ Especially, she thought, from that obnoxious pair, Fearn’s mother-in-law and her foster mother, neither of whom had displayed any motherly traits towards Fearn, whose entry into their lives was a constant source of jealousy. ‘I’ll come with you as far as the river,’ she said, taking their empty beakers.
* * *
The River Ouse flowed deep and wide past the end of the nunnery’s orchard on its way to the Humber Estuary and the North Sea. Usually so clamorous with men’s shouts, dogs barking, the clang of hammers and children’s squealing, the river path opposite the workshops seemed eerily quiet as if the city were holding its breath. Haesel had stopped on the track and was facing in the wrong direction, towards the sun, now well risen but hazy, her body rigid with apprehension. ‘What is it?’ Fearn called. ‘You see something?’
‘Smell,’ Haesel said without turning round. ‘Can you smell it?’
Fearn and Mother Bridget lifted their heads to sniff. ‘Smoke,’ they whispered. ‘That’s not Jorvik smoke.’ Their eyes strained into the distance where lay several small villages along the banks of the river where plumes of white and dark grey smoke rose almost vertically into the sky pierced by sharp spears of flame. ‘It’s them!’ Fearn said. ‘Oh, may God have mercy on us. They are raiding. They’ll be here in no time at all. We must run. Warn Earl Thored. Quick! Run! Mother Bridget...go back! Go!’
The elderly nun balked, fearful not for herself but for the two lovely women who now seemed closer than ever to her worst predictions. ‘Fearn, please come back with me...don’t go...be one of us...hide in the woods...it’s safer...’ The two, old and young, clung together, parted and clung again.
‘No, Mother. They’ll not ravage the city again. Now, go quickly. I’ll send a message when they’ve gone. Hurry!’ she called, already running with Haesel towards the ferry. ‘May God protect you.’
But Mother Bridget did not run and, as Fearn looked back to see, she was standing on the path with both hands holding her head. The masts of the boats would soon be seen rounding the bend of the river—that was certain.
Expecting Gaut to be manning the ferry, as before, they were horrified to see that he had deserted it, though fortunately the boat was on their side of the river. They took an oar each, fumbling and rattling them in the rowlocks to bring them into some kind of unison which, in more normal circumstances, would have made them double up with helpless laughter. But not this time, for the current was strong enough to push the boat further down the bank than the jetty, making it impossible for them to clamber out without wading up to their knees in muddy water. Their walk along the path up to that corner of the city known as Earlsbrough, where the great Hall of the Earls was situated, was by no means as dignified as their exit had been one hour earlier. And to make matters worse, their arrival through a small opening in the enclosure was seen and intercepted by her two most critical relatives, horrified to see the two muddy young women with wet gowns clinging to their legs. Catla, her mother-in-law, and Hilda, her foster mother, wife of Earl Thored.
Having been advised more than once by the priest that a little subservience in her manner towards these two would not come amiss, on occasion, Fearn decided that now was not the time, with a Viking raid imminent. ‘Yes...yes, I know,’ she said to Catla, ‘but never mind the mess. Where is Earl Thored? There are raiders coming up the river and they’re not far away. Is he in the hall?’
‘If you mean the Danes,’ Catla said, icily, ‘your foster father has already been informed, so there was no need for you to act the heroine and be the first to tell him so. The situation is well under control.’ Her lined face registered a cold dislike of her daughter-in-law.
‘He knows?’ Fearn said. ‘Then Barda has returned?’
‘No, he has not, yet. But when he does, he’d better not see you looking like that, had he? Now I suggest you go inside and get that maid of yours to earn her keep and tend you, instead of playing silly water games. I have a mind to have her whipped.’
‘You’ll do no such thing, Catla. She probably saved me from drowning.’
With looks of deep disapproval, Catla and Hilda turned away, but not before making sure that Fearn heard Catla’s parting shot. ‘Pity,’ she muttered.
Fearn had never been under any illusions about the woman’s hostility towards her, but this undisguised malice stung, especially when women were expected to support and comfort each other in times of crisis. All the same, she could hardly subdue a leap of guilty relief at the news of Barda’s continued absence. The longer he took to do his scouting, the easier she would feel, but she refused to imagine what might be the reason, for that was a dangerous path to tread.
Waiting until the two older women were out of sight, Fearn went directly to the great hall where Earl Thored would give her the latest news. Her skirts still clung to her legs and her bootees squelched on the wooden floor as she approached, though her efforts not to attract attention to herself were rarely successful. For one thing, few women were allowed to take part in any discussion unless they had a role to play and, for another thing, so many of the Earl’s men desired her that it was asking too much of them not to be affected by her presence, dripping wet or not.
The great hall was by far the largest hall in Jorvik, even larger than the wooden church of St. Peter nearby. Massive wooden pillars held up the roof beams carved with grotesque faces and interlace patterns, the walls almost entirely covered with colourful embroidered hangings, with weapons, shields and polished helmets, decorative but functional, too. Earl Thored half-sat on the edge of a trestle table surrounded by some of his personal thegns, men of property, influence and loyalty, well dressed and well-armed. Their deep voices overlapped, but Thored’s was the one they listened to, authoritative and compelling. ‘I tell you,’ he was saying as Fearn approached, ‘they’ll not raid Jorvik this time. It’s wealth they’re after, not our land or property.’
‘But, my lord,’ one of the men protested, ‘they’re burning already. Why would they do that to the villages and not here?’
‘To show us what we’ll get if we don’t pay them off,’ Thored said as if he’d already made that point. ‘Scaring tactics. They’ll be looking for provisions, too. But I shall not bargain with them like a common merchant on the wharf. They must come up here if they want payment. They can carry it down to the ships themselves. Is Arlen the Moneyer here?’
‘Here, my lord,’ said Arlen from the back of the group.
‘Good. Start filling sacks with coin, then have it brought here.’
‘How many...how much?’
‘In Thor’s name, man!’ Thored shouted. ‘How do I know? Just prepare for the worst. These devils won’t go away without fleecing us for every last penny—that much I do know. Get that young lad of yours to help. He’ll have to learn the new way of fighting, though I’m ashamed to see them off in this fashion. I’d rather do it with a sword in my hand, but we don’t have their numbers and that son-in-law of mine hasn’t yet made up his mind how to deal with the problem.’ There were murmurs of agreement and dissatisfaction, too, but no open criticism of King Ethelred’s wavering policies, apart from that of his father-in-law. Then Thored caught sight of Fearn standing beside one of the oak pillars. ‘Ah, Lady Fearn, you’ll be wanting to hear news of your man. I’m as puzzled as you are. It doesn’t usually take three men two days to glean some news of the enemy. Well, we don’t need them now when we can see for ourselves where they are and what they’re doing. He’ll be back. Don’t worry.’
‘Thank you, my lord. I shall stay well out of sight until then,’ she said, turning to go.
‘No, I want you here. You can add some colour to the discussions, eh? Ye gods, woman! Where have you been?’ he bellowed, catching sight of her lower half as the group parted.
‘The ferry, my lord. Gaut was not there to row us. My maid and I—’ She got no further with her explanation before her voice was drowned by politely sympathetic laughter tinged with a masculine superiority in matters of river craft.
Pushing a fist beneath his moustache to stifle his laughter, Thored’s blue eyes creased into the weathered wrinkles of his skin. ‘Then you’d better go and change into something more worthy of a noblewoman, my lady. The Danes will not have anything as good to show us, I’ll swear. Go by the kitchens and tell them to prepare mead, beor and ale for us and our guests. The least we can do is to drink them legless.’ Unconsciously, his large hand stole upwards to grasp the solid-silver Thor’s-hammer pendant that hung from a leather thong around his neck. ‘Now, I need three of you to go down to the wharf and wait, then escort their leaders up here. And where’s the harpist? And the scribe? Let’s show the ruffians some culture while we’re about it.’
* * *
Passing the kitchen building, Fearn relayed the Earl’s orders, knowing that on her next entry into the hall, an army of servants would have attended to every detail, relying on his word that the Danes would be there to bargain, not to wreck. Inside the confines of her own thatched dwelling, she found that Haesel had anticipated her needs, laying out an indigo-dyed woollen kirtle to be worn over a fine linen shift that showed at the neckline, wrists and hem. Fearn had worked gold thread embroidery along all the edges that glittered discreetly as she moved, picking up the deeper solid gold and amethyst of the circular pin that held the neckline together. Her circlet of patterned gold and garnets was one of several she owned, but when she asked Haesel to pass her jewel casket, she discovered that it had been packed, along with extra clothes and shoes in a lined leather bag, the kind used for travelling. ‘What’s this about?’ she asked her maid.
Haesel sat down on the fur-covered bed and looked pensively at her mistress, obviously finding it difficult to give a convincing explanation.
‘Haesel? Have you been seeing things again?’ Fearn said. ‘Tell me.’
‘It’s not easy to know what I see and what I think I see, lady. I don’t know what it means, but we were travelling, and there was a strong wind...blowing...you needed your cloak, but you were wearing the one you made for your husband. So I packed...well...everything I thought you’d need...and...’
‘Wait a moment! You say I’m wearing Barda’s new cloak? But he’s taken it with him.’
‘Yes, lady. That’s what I don’t understand. Unless he allows you to wear it.’
Fearn looked at her maid in silence. As a mere sixteen-year-old, she had served Fearn for the last four years when her family’s house caught fire. Her father had been a potter on Coppergate, but the kiln had exploded and Haesel had been the only one to survive, albeit with severe burns to one arm and the side of her throat. Her mass of fair curls had now grown back and the sweet prettiness of her features more than compensated for the wrinkled red skin that she usually managed to hide under the white veil swathed around her neck. Fearn had soon discovered that Haesel possessed a strange talent for seeing into the future, though it was often rather difficult to make out how the information related to events, as it did now when Barda’s cloak was not in Fearn’s possession. By now, however, Fearn had learnt to take the predictions seriously, although they were both enigmatic and quite rare. ‘So what have you packed, and where shall we be going?’ she said.
‘Your jewels, clothes, shoes, your recipe book of cures. I couldn’t get your harp in. I know nothing about where we’ll be going, lady. Just the wind blowing.’
‘Then we shall just have to see what happens. Was my husband there?’
Haesel shook her head. ‘No, lady. He was not with you.’ It happened occasionally that she withheld information she thought either too unreliable or not in her mistress’s best interests to know in advance. There had been many men there in her sighting, but Barda had not been amongst them.
* * *
The Dane known as Aric the Ruthless had hardly expected that the four longships in his command would be able to slip into Jorvik unseen, even so early in the morning with the sun obscured by clouds of smoke rising up from the riverside villages. His men had needed to take provisions on board after rowing against the current all the way from the river estuary, and since it took too long to ask politely for foodstuffs, they had taken it without asking. Coming to the last navigable bend of the Ouse, Aric noticed that the trading wharves and jetties were devoid of merchant ships and the stacks of produce that usually littered the area. The only sign of life was a small group of armed men waiting, grim-faced, to meet them. So, the Earl of Northumbria had come with his elite corps to conduct him, personally, to the place known as Earlsbrough.
Their greeting was civil, though hardly warm. One warrior drew his sword from his scabbard, catching the light on its menacing blade. But as Aric stepped off the gangplank, he called to him to put it away. ‘We have come here to talk,’ he called. ‘Which of you is the Earl?’
‘The Earl of Northumbria awaits you in his hall,’ the leader said. ‘He prefers not to trade with you for Jorvik’s safety here on the wharf like a merchant. Be pleased to come with us.’
‘What, and be surrounded by Englishmen?’ Aric said.
‘Bring as many men as you wish, Jarl.’
* * *
The walk took a little time, though they soon discovered that their Danish words so much resembled the Anglo-Danish spoken in Jorvik that there were very few misunderstandings. Adjusting the beaver-skin cloak on his broad shoulders, Aric walked with his hosts and a group of his own chosen men through the deserted dirty streets of Jorvik to the mournful cry of seagulls and the yapping of dogs chasing an escaped pig. The air was tense with uncertainty, for the rank odour of smoke still clung to the invaders’ clothes. None of them were under any illusions that the show of politeness would last, for at the nod of a head or the click of a finger, they could all slaughter one another without a qualm.
Earl Thored stood waiting outside the stout wooden doors of the great hall, unmistakable to Jarl Aric by his imposing figure, tall, broad-shouldered, with a shock of thick white hair echoed in the luxurious drooping moustache, an exceptionally handsome man of some fifty years, and experienced. He greeted Aric with a brief nod, noting the Dane’s appreciative look at the fine carvings on the doors and crossed gables. ‘Not so different in Denmark, I don’t suppose,’ he said, leading them into the hall.
‘The same in most respects, my Lord Thored. Our requirements are the same as yours.’
‘Our requirements, Jarl, are for peace above anything.’
‘Then we have that in common,’ said Aric, determined not to be wrong-footed by the older statesman. ‘I see no reason why we cannot agree on that. Eventually.’
Thored’s look held an element of scepticism for the Dane who had just led a series of raiding parties along the East Anglian coast. The ‘eventually’ was something that would demand hard bargaining, with no guarantee that the Danes would not return for more next year, as soon as the days lengthened. But his look was also laced with an unwilling admiration, not only for this man’s youth compared with his own, but for his undeniable good looks, which Thored was sure would have the women enthralled. More used to looking down upon his men, Thored found that their heads were level and that the Dane’s keen grey eyes had already swept the hall in one observant stare, as if to assess the wealth contained there.
In the yellowish light from lamps and candles, Aric’s hair shone sleek and pale, pulled tightly back from his face and gathered at the back into a short plait. A narrow gold band was set over his forehead, his sun-bleached brows and short neat beard emphasising the square jaw and determined set of his mouth, which Thored took as an indication that he would be no pushover. A chill crept along Thored’s arms and neck. Thirty years ago, he, too, had had this man’s arrogant stance, legs like tree trunks encased in leather breeches and a slender waist belted low down on slim hips. He, too, had made women blush like girls.
Aric’s thoughts on Earl Thored ran along similar lines with admiration for his elegant deep red tunic and the massive gold buckle at his belt, a sign of authority. Negotiations with this old fox, he thought, would have to proceed with care, for although the Danes’ demands would have to be met, one way or another, he had heard that Earl Thored was a man with more than one strategy up his sleeve. Other things he had heard about the Earl were less complimentary, things which would have to be addressed today while there was a chance. His king, Swein Forkbeard, had given him the task of taking four of the ninety-four longships up the coast to Jorvik to treat with Earl Thored on his behalf. Swein was also aware of Aric’s other mission which, although secondary to the business of Danegeld, was of great importance to his family’s honour. Aric himself might have only twenty-seven winters under his belt, but he was one of King Swein’s most trusted jarls, a military leader of numerous missions across the North Sea. He would make sure his name was remembered as a man who got what he came for.
Tipping his head towards his hovering wife, Thored beckoned her forward to begin her duties, showing the guests to their seats in order of precedence with no more to go on than their clothing and the number and size of gold armbands, pendants and cloak pins. Standing further back down the hall, Fearn held a flagon of red wine, waiting for the signal to begin pouring it. But her attention was instantly kindled as the Danish leader moved into the direct light of a lamp hanging from a low beam, casting its glow over the smooth back of his flaxen hair with its stubby plait resting on the beaver fur of his cloak. Clutching the flagon close to her body, she strained her eyes to search for the darker streak on the fur she knew so well, then for the band of red and green tablet-weaving in a zigzag pattern that bordered the hem. As he turned in her direction, she saw how the bands continued up the two front edges, and she knew without a shadow of doubt that he was wearing the beaver-fur cloak she had gifted to her husband only weeks ago on his feast day. Casually, he threw one side of the cloak over his shoulder to reveal the brown woollen lining that she had spun from the native sheep and woven on her loom after weeks of work. Barda had worn it, to her dismay, to go on this latest scouting expedition for the Earl only because the nights could still be cold this early in the year and because the beaver fur was brown, easily hidden in the woodland, waterproof and hard-wearing. Fearn knew that neither Catla nor Hilda would notice, but the revelation buffeted her like an icy blast of the north wind, rippling the surface of the wine in the flagon. Her body shook and she was unable to tear her eyes away from the evidence that must surely mean Barda had been taken or killed, for no man would willingly give his cloak to the enemy.
Yet even as she stared, frozen with shock, the powerful Dane stared back at her as if she were the only woman in the hall. The distance was too great for details; only the compelling force of his dynamism released in her direction from two unpitying eyes seemed instinctively to understand the reason for her wide-eyed expression of outrage that he was daring to wear the garment she had made for another man.
Screams, accusations and frenzied shows of anguish would have been most women’s reaction, at that point, forcing some kind of explanation ahead of the Earl’s diplomacy. Yet it was not the Dane’s arrogant stare that kept Fearn silent, but the certain knowledge that it would not serve Earl Thored’s purpose to embarrass either their Danish guests or him, and certainly not to have Barda’s mother screaming and wailing and, naturally, Hilda, too, at such a critical moment in the proceedings. She must keep her secret knowledge quiet. She must. Against all her impulses to challenge the man, she must wait until the right moment. Or perhaps not at all. Perhaps the knowledge would emerge in some other way, when the Danes had gone.
Aware of a discomfort against her ribs, she realised she was pressing the flagon tightly against herself, almost to the breaking point, and that of all the emotions chasing through her numbed mind just then, incredulity and relief were the only ones she recognised. The Dane was still staring at her while Earl Thored told him who she was. Trembling, Fearn turned away, thankful that it would not be her to pour his mead, but Hilda.
* * *
The rest of that momentous discussion passed like a strange dream in which the information she held struggled in her grasp, waiting for the moment of release that did not come as she moved like a shadow through the hall. Usually, she was aware of men’s eyes upon her but, this time, she was aware of only one man’s, though she tried to evade them. But by the time she was obliged to respond to his request for wine instead of mead, he had shed the cloak to reveal a fine tunic of honey-coloured wool, which she knew would have been dyed with onion skins, its braided edging round the neck and sleeves glistening with gold thread, the delicate circular pin at his neck surely of Irish origin. For the first time, she came close enough for him to see into her eyes when, in spite of herself, she saw how his own narrowed eyes widened fractionally as if responding to a trick of the light. She saw the tiny crease between his brows come and go as he spoke in the mixture of English and Danish everyone in Jorvik understood. ‘Lady Fearn,’ he said, holding out his drinking horn to her, ‘I understand you are the daughter of the previous Earl.’
Earl Thored, seated opposite, interrupted. ‘The exiled previous Earl.’
Aric continued, ignoring the correction. ‘Do you miss him still?’
The rich red liquid wobbled as it poured, though Fearn tried to keep her voice from doing the same. There was hardly a day when she did not think of her parents. ‘I miss all those who are taken from me suddenly,’ she replied, purposely filling the horn up to the brim so that it would spill when he moved it away. Movement and speech were suspended as the drinking horn was held motionless, as two pairs of eyes locked in combat, hers challenging him to an admission of murder, his countering her challenge with his own brand of indifference. By this time, several men had noticed what was happening, laying silent wagers on the outcome. Aric the Ruthless would not be beaten by a woman, especially not by Thored’s foster daughter, though Fearn’s only aim was for him to tremble and spill the blood-red wine on the table as a sign of his guilt. He would surely understand her message.
Slowly, and without a tremor, the drinking horn was taken smoothly to Aric’s lips and tipped, not a drop escaping, its curved point encased in a silver cone pointing upwards. A ripple of applause accompanied the laughter, but with a look of contempt, Fearn turned away, sure that the Earl would have something to say about her behaviour towards his guest at a serious meeting. But for her, the meeting was an ordeal from which she was not allowed to excuse herself, even though she was now sure of the reason for her husband’s disappearance. This she was obliged to keep to herself for the time being, though Catla had expressed concern. ‘I don’t know where he is,’ Fearn told her, truthfully. She, too, would have liked to know whether he lay dead in the woodland or tied up in one of the longships.
Distancing herself from Catla and Hilda, Fearn went over to sit with Arlen the Moneyer and his wife Kamma. Obeying instructions, Arlen had filled sacks with coins and some hack silver—chopped-up disused pieces to be melted down for newer coinage—helped in the task by his young son, Kean, a good-looking lad of some ten years. He smiled as she sat beside him, clearly honoured by her presence.
‘Do you understand what’s happening, Kean?’ she whispered.
‘Oh, yes, my lady. The Danes are demanding a great deal of my lord Earl.’
‘You think there’ll be enough there?’ she said, nodding towards the sacks.
‘Hope so. Those sacks are heavy.’
The bargaining seemed to go on for ever, going through all the motions of trading peace for wealth, as if in their minds it had not already been settled down to the last silver penny. Roars of outrage, thumping on the tables, accusing fingers and sometimes the quieter voices of compromise and concession rose and fell as, for two or more hours, Thored faced down the enemy and tried to fob them off with less, even as he knew the price of peace was rising. To some extent, it was a performance that only prolonged the moment when agreement, if one could call it that, was reached in time to give the Danes a period of daylight to carry away the heavy sacks of treasure and depart.
Setting her heart against the arrogant Dane and his absurd demand for ten thousand pounds’ worth of silver, Fearn had no option but to watch the Danish warriors enter, wearing swords and shining round helmets with nose guards half-hiding their satisfied smiles, pick up the heavy sacks between them and carry them out across to the gates of the enclosure. No words accompanied this disgraceful looting, only a heavy silence, glowering faces and the almost unnoticed gathering of armed Danes around their leader.
The Danish demands appeared to have been met, but Aric’s demands were not yet over. Turning, he pointed towards Kean, the young Moneyer’s son, beckoning him to his side. Thinking that the Dane had some words of wisdom for him, Kean went to him willingly, not flinching as the man’s hand rested on his shoulder. Thored’s hand went to his sword hilt while, next to Fearn, Arlen and Kamma leapt to their feet with yelps of protest.
‘No!’ Thored bellowed. ‘Oh, no, not the lad!’
Kamma’s hands flew to her mouth to stifle the wail, though it leaked through her fingers. ‘Tell me,’ said Aric to Kamma, ‘how old the lad is.’
She ran towards him, her face contorted with fright. ‘He is ten years, my lord. He’s too young to be taken as a slave...please...he’s our only child.’
‘Your child, is he?’ Aric said. ‘Did you bear him? You? Yourself?’
Earl Thored knew where this was leading. Angrily, he kicked over the table before him with one mighty shove of his foot, sending drinking horns and beakers flying and bouncing across the floor. He strode over the edge of it towards Kean who now looked anxiously from one adult to another, wondering what this was all about. But as Thored moved towards Aric, the helmeted Danes closed in around their leader and the boy in a semi-circular defence. ‘So this is why you wanted them here,’ Thored growled. ‘So that you could insult the parents and steal their child. And is this how you repay my hospitality, Dane? Is this the price of peace, after all?’
‘We have bargained for peace, Earl,’ Aric said, with an icy calm, ‘but this is not a part of that and I believe you know it. Cast your mind back twelve years to that time when several young Danish couples sailed into Jorvik asking to settle here. You had been Earl five years then. Remember?’
Impatiently, Thored shrugged. ‘Vaguely,’ he said.
‘Not so vaguely, I think, my lord Earl. You will recall one of the young couples, newly joined, very comely they were. Especially the woman.’
There was a muffled cry of distress from Hilda to whom this situation was all too familiar. Thored took no notice of her. ‘So?’ he said. ‘What are you implying, Jarl? Let’s hear it. You’re probably quite mistaken.’
‘No, I think not. There are enough Danes here in Jorvik to tell their relatives in Denmark what happens here, especially to young husbands who stand in the way of their Earl’s needs.’
‘Relatives? Which relatives, exactly?’
‘Me. Brother to the young woman who sought a life here with her goldsmith husband of one year. Prey to your lust, Thored.’
Lady Hilda’s sobbing could now be heard by everyone in the hall, yet Thored would not glance in her direction. ‘Your...sister?’ he whispered, frowning in disbelief. ‘You lie. She never mentioned...’
‘She wouldn’t, would she? I was a mere lad of fifteen then, not a king’s jarl. But I was not too young to swear revenge on the man who arranged my brother-in-law’s death and then took my sister for himself and fathered a child on her. Yes, this lad here. My nephew. Your son!’
Furiously, Kean shook himself free of Aric’s hand, whirling round to face him. ‘No!’ he yelled, pointing at his parents. ‘No! There is my mother and there is my father. I have never known any others, I swear it.’
‘Well said, lad,’ Aric said. ‘But the truth is, like it or not, that your mother was my sister Tove and your father is a man as weak as water when it comes to women. I took an oath on Odin’s name to return you to your own family and my chance has come, as I knew it would.’
Hilda, with her head on Catla’s shoulder, was racked with sobbing and of no help at all to her husband, whose unfaithfulness was nothing new to her. She had borne him no live children and had now stopped trying, though the pain of Thored’s easily found comfort was like a wound that was not allowed to heal. He had foisted the five-year-old Fearn on her, not as an act of kindness, but because it suited him for her banished parents to know that he had their child’s life in his hands. The appearance of the young Danish woman called Tove in their household had lasted only a year. Fearn remembered Tove as a beautiful young woman whose child had been born a year after her husband’s violent death in a street fight and had always understood that both Tove and her child had died, although she could recall no burial rites from that time. Now, it appeared that young Kean was Thored’s own son and Tove’s.
Kamma, the woman Kean had been calling mother for ten years, fell in a heap at Aric’s feet, begging to keep her son. ‘Lord...my lord...do not do this. We are innocent of any crime. We have cared for him...loved him...please,’ she wailed.
‘Yes, lady. I know that, too. Your husband was made a moneyer to the Earl for his compliance. Not a bad reward for your silence. But the facts are there for all to see. Look at his colouring, for one thing. Can you doubt he is of my family?’
It was hard not to see the similarity, Kean’s flaxen hair against the foster parents’ darkness, his ice-blue eyes like Thored’s. ‘His home is here, lord,’ said Arlen, catching Thored’s nod of permission to speak. ‘We have nothing if you take him from us. He is our only son. He will be a moneyer, too.’
Thored found his voice again after the shaming revelation that he had taken the life of the husband who stood in his way. ‘Revenge,’ he said, loudly. ‘A blood feud, no less. You intend to tear up the lad’s roots and ruin the lives of these two good people, for what? For your gratification? And will he fill the void your sister made, when she left your family of her own free will? She gave herself to me willingly. I did not force her.’
‘You took the life of her husband, Earl,’ Aric yelled at him. ‘Deny it!’
‘I do deny it. Tove’s man was killed in a street fight. I took her in and cared for her, and—’
‘And made her pregnant and killed her in the process.’
‘It happens like that, sometimes. The mother is forfeit. Or the babe.’
‘As you well know, Thored,’ said Aric, making clear his meaning while the Earl’s wife howled in anguish. It had happened like that to her too many times and the losses were still as raw as they had been at the time. ‘But this child lived, didn’t he?’ Aric continued. ‘And he was a son. The only son you’ve ever had. A bastard, but a son, nevertheless. My sister’s son. My nephew. And my family demands his return in exchange for my sister’s life.’
‘Your sister had already left Denmark, Jarl,’ Thored bellowed. ‘And the lad belongs here in England with his foster parents and all that he’s known since birth. It makes no sense to uproot him from that. He’ll be a fine moneyer, like Arlen here. Accept your losses. You’ve taken enough from us already this day. Tell your family the lad is happy here. Well cared for. Will be wealthy, too. Tell them that and let their revenge lie with the gods. Let them deal with it.’
Within the tight cage of her ribs, Fearn’s heart beat like a war drum at the sight of these two men facing each other like bulls stopping just short of physical violence, Thored red-faced, angry and discredited by his own lechery, Aric standing proud and fearless on the moral high ground. She could not see Thored ever yielding to the Dane over this, Kean being to him more valuable than she had understood, though now she saw how Hilda must have suffered as much as she herself did at her husband’s constant unfaithfulness. To pagans, this was an accepted part of a husband’s behaviour, but not to Christians. Thored wanted it both ways: the lax morals of the old religion with the respectability of the new.
Beside her, the boy’s foster father was trembling with emotion, unable to interfere in this terrible dilemma, sick at heart at the threat of losing Kean, the lad he loved like a natural son. For ten years, he and Kamma had kept their secret, having every reason to be grateful to Earl Thored for supplying them with a child they could not produce themselves and for the reward that attended the lucrative position of Moneyer, coin-maker to the King. Fearn felt the man’s longing to speak breaking through his reluctance to join in the argument without permission. Finally, he could contain himself no longer. Stepping forward, he spoke the first and most obvious words on his mind with little regard for their implications. ‘Better still,’ he said, looking from the Dane to Earl Thored and back again, ‘take an alternative. Is there not someone of more years you could choose, who would be of more use to you?’ Flinching under the Earl’s furious glare, Arlen stepped back again, too late to undo the damage.
Aric’s approval overlapped Thored’s blustering protest. ‘He speaks well, your Moneyer,’ Aric said. Taking everyone by surprise, he swung round to point a finger, like a spear, at Fearn. ‘There! That one! The woman. Your foster daughter for their foster son. How will that do, Earl? I’d call that a fair enough bargain, eh? I’ll take her for one year, then return her to you and take the boy. He’ll have another winter under his belt by that time and she might well have something interesting under her belt. Now that’s what I call an alternative. See, Thored? I’ve backed down for you.’
The collective gasp of shock was audible to everyone in the hall. Even Thored was taken aback by the insulting audacity of the Dane’s suggestion. Fearn was the first to find her tongue, released by the outrageous innuendo. ‘Then back down further, Dane,’ she shouted, taking a step forward until only the upturned table was between them. ‘This business is between you and Earl Thored. Count me out of it and don’t play word games with my virtue, for I’ll have none of it.’
Facing each other like alley cats, glaring eyes locked together, they made the air between them vibrate with open hostility, causing the company to catch its breath at the ferocity of Fearn’s defiance. Any woman would have had the same feelings of shock, but few would dare to say so in such terms, especially to an enemy in the hall of one’s guardian. Aric’s eyes narrowed in admiration. ‘You have no say in the matter, woman. Neither you nor your foster parents are in a position to argue.’
Indeed, the Lady Hilda had stopped moaning and was far from arguing against the Dane’s latest demand. But Fearn would not be silenced so easily. ‘Wrong, Dane. Both the Earl and myself are in a position to argue. I’ve listened to your pathetic story of your sister, but now you should admit to the killing of the Earl’s brave warrior, my husband, the man whose cloak you’ve had the audacity to wear around your shoulders. Here, in the hall of his lord. You deny that, if you can.’
‘What?’ Earl Thored roared. ‘Barda’s cloak? Are you sure, Fearn?’
‘It’s the one I gave him on his last feast day, my lord. Of course I’m sure.’
Aric stood motionless, neither denying nor admitting the murder, though his eyes did not leave Fearn’s face, not even when Earl Thored addressed him directly. ‘Well, Dane? Does my foster daughter speak the truth? Where did you find that cloak?’
Speaking to Fearn rather than Thored, Aric replied. ‘It was handed to me by my men,’ he said. ‘Searching the woodland along the river’s edge, they found the Earl’s three men. There was a skirmish. The wolves will have found them by now.’ His last words were drowned by a scream from Catla, who would have flown at Aric if the wall of the table-top had not prevented it. Tempers flared as both men and the four women hurled abuse at the Danish group who stood firm and resolute against the insults, being prevented from drawing their swords by their leader’s forbidding hand. Cries of ‘Murderers!’ mingled with hoots of derision until Thored’s thundering voice reminded them that the Danish leader and his men were still guests in his hall, though no one was impressed by that. The Danes still had the advantage and, even now, were in a position to demand more Danegeld.
Catla’s howls were immediately taken up by others, mingling cries of ‘My son...my own beloved son...’ with calls for the wrath of the gods to come down on their cowardly heads and for Barda to be found and buried with honour.
‘Cease your howling!’ Thored yelled at them. ‘What’s done is done. Those men died protecting their city. They knew the risks. We are proud of them. But this puts a different light on things, Dane,’ he said, turning to Aric. ‘You came here on a peace-seeking mission and killed three of my best men. You cannot now claim my son Kean and you certainly cannot take my foster daughter from me, now you have made a widow of her. Besides which, she is already hostage against her parents’ good behaviour. It would be best for you to go now and take what you’ve got.’
Having accepted the possibility that she was already widowed, it still came as a thunderbolt to strike Fearn with the reality of her situation, knowing intuitively that she would never be allowed this short-lived freedom from a husband. She had disliked Barda more with each passing day, his disloyalty to her, his crass insensitivity and his disturbing contempt for the new religion he had flippantly agreed to adopt at Thored’s insistence, in order to marry her. Now she was sure that Thored would not allow her to keep her freedom. In spite of a Christian woman’s entitlement to choose her own husband, Thored would insist on his choice of another of his personal warriors in order to direct her life, as he had directed the lives of the Dane’s sister and her husband, his young son and the couple who had reared him. That revelation had come as a shock to her, although she had suspected for some time that that could have been one of the reasons behind Hilda’s deep unhappiness.
Possible escapes from the impending danger whirled through her mind as the leaders’ arguments continued, as Thored tried every loophole to get out of his predicament. The escape that appealed to her most had already begun to take shape in her mind while her future was discussed as if she were so much merchandise, all her attempts to assert herself ignored and talked over. Kean was, apparently, far too valuable to lose because he was a boy, Thored’s natural son, and useful, whereas Fearn’s role was as peace-weaver between two factions, the traditional function she had thought would never apply to her.
‘I came for my nephew,’ Aric said, yet again. ‘My family demands it.’
‘And my family demands that he stays here in Jorvik, with his own kin.’
‘Then I’ll take the woman. Since it was her man we killed, it is her duty to weave peace between us and she can best do that in Denmark.’
‘I’ll be damned if I will, Dane,’ Fearn said, making heads turn in her direction at last. ‘You had no need to kill my brave man for he was no threat to you. It is you who have played Earl Thored false in this and he who has done the same to you.’
‘Brave man?’ Aric scoffed, turning on her with a coldness that made her quail. ‘It always surprises me to hear a newly made widow sing the praises of her lost husband when she knows them to be lies. You are no exception, it seems.’
‘Say what you mean, Dane, but don’t dare malign my man when he’s not here to give you the thrashing you deserve. He was a brave warrior. Ask any of his brothers.’
‘Very touching,’ said Aric. ‘So perhaps you and his brothers should know how my men came across him and his two companions. Not being overly brave, you’ll agree.’
Fearn felt the thud of her heart betraying her loyalty. ‘What?’ she whispered.
‘Do you really want to know how they were raping a woman in the woodland where she was hiding? Yes, one of the villagers. An English woman. One of your own.’
‘You lie!’ Thored roared.
‘No, Earl. I do not lie. Your man had thrown his cloak and sword aside. Two men held the woman while he...’
‘No...no! My Barda would not...’ It was Catla who screamed while Fearn covered her mouth with both hands, feeling the familiar churning of her stomach.
‘I speak the truth,’ Aric shouted above the din. ‘Why would I lie? My men dragged them off her and killed your three brave men. Go and find them for yourselves. Give them the honours they deserve, what’s left of them, but don’t whine to me, woman—’ he glared at Fearn ‘—about what you’ve lost. What makes a healthy man act like an animal when he does not have the bloodlust upon him, with a wife like you at home?’ His voice dropped so that she saw rather than heard his words. ‘Perhaps I should find out.’
But Fearn’s mind had been fed more information than it could deal with in one day and now she stared at the Dane’s pitiless expression over her hands while an icy coldness stole like a frost along her arms.
