Rescued by the Viking
Autore
Meriel Fuller
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Capitoli
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Chapter One
Sunshine quivered across the water. A skin of limpid light sealing in the deep blue-green depths, bright sparkles forcing Gisela to narrow her eyes as she paused in her work. Touching the brooch at her throat, making sure the long pin secured the wrap of linen around her head and neck, she stared bleakly across the water at the longships entering the mouth of the estuary. Her heart plummeted. Oh no, not them. Not the Danes.
Her hands released the bucket handles and she straightened up, rubbing her chafed hands, raw from rope burn. Blisters had formed on the undersides of her fingers: white, water-filled sacs that would soon start to hurt. The ships were coming closer, their round red shields, gold bosses gleaming, lining along the side of each vessel. The sails had been lowered, rolled up into great bundles of canvas and rope, and the men had taken to the oars to steer the narrow, lightweight crafts up the river. Strings of jewelled liquid trailed through the dusky air as the paddles lifted, then dipped again. A guttural chanting, rhythmic, echoed across the water. The sharp jabs of sound coupled oddly with the dainty twitterings of the wading birds who picked their way through the vast salt marshes that led down to the river, powerful current brown and churning. Like a burn of flesh, panic seared her veins and she chewed fretfully on her bottom lip, forcing herself to control her breathing. They would be all right, the three of them. She would make sure of it.
A cheer went up beside her. Then another. One by one the men and women who worked beside her spotted the ships, then put down their pails, the thick salty water slopping over the sides. Thrusting their fists into the air with jubilation, they turned to each other, smiling, clasping at hands and shoulders. Someone snared her sleeve. ‘We are saved!’ the woman cried, her bony fingers digging into Gisela’s forearm. ‘The Danes will help us! The Danes will send those Normans home with their tails between their legs!’
Gisela pinned a wide smile to her face, hoping to mirror the woman’s excitement. These people could not guess who she truly was! She had to be so careful. Look at their joyous reaction to the Danes’ arrival! They couldn’t wait to be rid of the Normans. What would they do if they knew one was standing in their midst, carrying the salt pails alongside them? They would surely kill her! Her head swam suddenly and she wriggled her toes in her rough leather boots, searching for stability.
The woman said something else to her, nudging her conspiratorially. Failing to understand the quick words, Gisela’s mind washed blank. Even now, even after being in England for all this time, her brain struggled to decipher the outlandish Saxon vowels. She spoke little, her voice clipped and low, hoping not to give away an accent, or any clue to her true identity. Her sister, Marie, was the same, comprehending little of what was said around her, but their father was more adept, having learned the barbaric language as a child.
‘Eh?’ the woman cackled, shoving her, jolting her sideways. Drying salt streaked the other woman’s lined forehead. ‘Don’t you agree, my girl? There’ll be some fun between the bed-sheets tonight, you mark my words!’
The woman referred to the Danes, of course. Their reputation for womanising was renowned, notorious, but not all of it was by mutual consent. She’d heard the tales of Saxon women being dragged to the longships by their braids, or flung across fur-covered shoulders, kicking and screaming all the way, to be taken back to the Norse countries, claimed as Viking brides. She shuddered. England was a heathen country, but the land where these Danes came from? That was infinitely worse.
‘Pick up those pails and move along!’ an older man, beard grey and straggling, bellowed at the workers. ‘And don’t think you’re finishing any time early! We’ll keep going as long as that sun is in the sky!’ His gaze alighted on Gisela, mouth tightening in disapproval. She could tell he thought there was something odd about his latest worker, this slim young woman who had asked him for work a couple of days ago. Gisela spoke quietly, keeping her head lowered, but every time she glanced at him, she knew her brilliant blue eyes held a challenging look. She hoped he wouldn’t consider that she might be a noble, someone of higher rank, and not just a poor peasant desperate for coin. She knew her slowness to respond when he talked to her and the way she fingered the scarf at her neck constantly, like a talisman, might give her away, but she couldn’t help herself. Ultimately, she was a hard worker and so felt confident he wasn’t about to turn her away.
‘Hey, you there!’ He jabbed his fist towards Gisela. ‘Go out on to the flats and help the children bring the brine in from the lower pans! They must be emptied before the tide comes in.’
Turning her head, she stared over the thick oozing mudflats that sloped gently down towards the narrow, fast-flowing channel in the middle of the river. Trepidation flickered in her belly. The tidal flow was sluggish now, almost on the turn, having drained out of the estuary and into the vast North Sea beyond, exposing the slick-topped expanses of mud. Studded with clumps of bristly sedge, the wet bluish-brown surface shone in the evening light. She watched the children head out to the water’s edge, to the rectangular pools filled with the precious salty brine. Why was he sending her out there? The children were half her weight, able to scamper across the wooden planks laid end to end across the mud without disappearing into the treacherous, stinking ooze.
‘But...surely I will sink...?’ Gisela’s voice faltered. A long wisp of pale sable hair had escaped the confines of her headscarf; dancing in the air. She shoved it impatiently back beneath the cloth.
The bearded Saxon narrowed his eyes. He was big and burly, clearly used to having his orders followed. ‘Are you refusing to go out there, girl?’ He folded his arms, wrinkling the supple leather of his jerkin. ‘Because you’ll receive no coin from me if you don’t!’
Some of the other workers slowed their movements, glancing over at Gisela. Colour rose in her cheeks. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to herself. ‘No, no, I’ll do it!’ she said, grabbing the rope handles of her buckets. Up until now this job had been physically hard, hefting the pails of brine to the sheds where it was boiled down to form the precious salt. The work was arduous, boring, but there had been no danger. But now? Now, in order to quash her rising fear at the thought of going out on the mudflats, she had to remember her real purpose for doing this job. To earn enough money to pay for the ferry across to the north. And to find Richard.
With a practised eye, Ragnar Svendson ran his gaze along the undulating shore of the river, searching for a safe spot where the boats could draw up. Jumping down from the prow, bracing his long legs against the gentle pitch and roll of the ship, he strode along the middle of the ship, through the men working the oars, towards his friend leaning against the gunwale.
‘What do you think?’ Eirik asked, glancing up as Ragnar joined him.
Ragnar turned his lean, tanned face to glance across the jumbled roofs of Bertune. ‘I think it will do for tonight,’ he replied. ‘The men are tired; they need to rest.’ He flexed his fingers over the smooth wood of the gunwale, rolling his shoulders forward. The journey had been easy and quick from Ribe, the North Sea mercifully flat for once, with light breezes speeding them across the waves to the north-east coast of England.
‘’Tis a pity that we cannot land on the north side, but the tide is too low.’ Eirik smiled. ‘Do you think this small town is ready for us?’
Ragnar stuck one hand through his hair; the vigorous strands fired to white-gold in the light of the setting sun. He laughed. ‘Who knows? We’ve come to help them after all; they should welcome us with open arms.’ He glanced back into the belly of the longship, at the coxswain beating time on a small drum to the forty men on the oars. Each man sat on a chest: wooden boxes that contained their scant possessions for the journey to England. And behind this ship, three more identical vessels followed them up the narrow channel.
‘We can cross on the morrow.’ Eirik smoothed his palm along the polished prow. The curved wood rose up into a figurehead: a dragon’s head with prominent eyes, a tongue of wooden fire. ‘My brother won’t arrive with his fleet for another day or two.’
‘And then you can march together to meet with Edgar Aethling in Jorvik. The city is directly north from here, across the water.’ Ragnar glanced at the far side of the vast, wide river where stiff, dull-yellow reeds bisected oozing, creaking domes of mud. Seabirds wheeled in the limpid sky above, mewling and squawking: lonesome, plaintive sounds cutting the air.
Eirik nodded. As the eldest son of Sweyn, the Danish king, he had been sent to help the deposed Anglo-Saxon king in his fight against the Norman invasion. ‘In that case, this place is perfect,’ he said, clapping a large hand on Ragnar’s shoulder, ‘and you and I and the rest of the men can have some fun! I’ve heard these Saxon maidens can be very comely!’
Ragnar shook his head: a swift, brutal movement. ‘Nay, Eirik, I’ve not come here for that.’ His eyes pinched to emerald slits; a muscle twitched in his jaw.
‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ Eirik’s face fell. ‘But you’ll be with us until tomorrow, will you not? It will soon be too dark to travel. Why not have some fun this night, while you can, eh?’ He pushed his knuckles against Ragnar’s jaw, a teasing punch. ‘Besides, what fair maiden could resist that clean-shaven face?’
‘The weather’s too hot for a beard,’ Ragnar said. ‘It’s much better this way.’
‘If you say so,’ replied Eirik, ‘but I swear your mother had something to do with it. Is she trying to turn you into a Norman?’
Ragnar grinned, his teeth white and even in his tanned face. ‘Thor’s hammer, Eirik, what do you take me for? Of course she’s not!’
‘If you say so.’ Eirik chuckled, raising his black eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Well, I still think you should take advantage of this town’s hospitality.’
‘I might.’ Ragnar threw his friend a non-committal smile, reluctance slicing through him. As the shallow-drafted longships approached the shoreline, he gazed across the jumble of thatched, earth-walled huts that made up the town of Bertune. Trickles of woodsmoke rose vertically, hazing the air; figures moved on the shoreline, people stopping and pointing as they watched the vessels approach. He had no idea how long his journey north would take. All he knew was that he had to find the man who had wrecked his sister’s life. Who had turned the happy, confident figure of his sister into a listless, silent wraith. She had not spoken a word since she had been carried off the ship at Ribe.
‘How will you find him anyway?’
Ragnar shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘All I know is that he’s a Norman lord, given lands to the north of Jorvik by the Conqueror. That’s all I have at the moment.’
‘How will you get close to him? These Normans guard themselves well, especially in this hostile part of the country.’
‘I have no idea, Eirik. But once I do, I will find out what happened to Gyda after she was abducted.’ Guilt jabbed through him. ‘We’ve tried everything else.’
He had been the one to encourage her in the first place, told her to travel to England with the man she loved. He narrowed his eyes. For helvede, he had even lifted her on board the ship! He remembered his sister’s delighted laugh as he swung her up and over the gunwale, up to the grinning boy who wished to marry her. Now her betrothed was a dead man and Gyda, when she eventually returned, had changed beyond all recognition.
Eirik peered at him, sensing his friend’s distraction. ‘Are you set on this idea, Ragnar? I hope you deal with him quickly, for I will miss you at my side if there’s any fighting to be done.’ He grinned, a wolfish glint in his eyes.
‘Eirik, if you’re involved, then there will be fighting.’ Ragnar laughed, shaking off the pall of remorse that cloaked his shoulders. Now was not the time for self-recrimination or brooding. That time was done. It was time for action. He owed it to his sister to track down the man who had wrenched her from her lover’s side. To find out what had happened to her.
‘It’s the only thing I live for,’ Eirik replied, turning down the corners of his mouth in mocking sadness.
‘As well as Bodil and the children,’ Ragnar added. ‘Don’t forget them.’ His firm lips quirked with humour. Although Eirik was a warrior, he was also a devoted husband and father who liked nothing better than cradling his latest son against his chest and crooning out the old Norse songs into the poor baby’s ear. Ragnar often stayed with Eirik as he and his family lived nearer to the port at Ribe and so he had witnessed his friend’s softer side on several occasions.
‘And Bodil and the children, too.’ Eirik agreed enthusiastically. ‘That goes without saying.’ He peered over into the water as the ship slowly altered its course towards the shore. ‘Ah, good, it’s not muddy here,’ he said. ‘I can see the bottom. We can haul the ships straight up and keep our boots clean.’
At his words, the wooden hulls scraped gently against the stones and sand; oars were drawn in through the holes cut into the wooden sides, secured for the night. Men leapt out, lithe and long-legged, bracing their cloaked shoulders against the prows, lifting the flaxen ropes to pull the boats further up the shore. Jewelled hilts, from short swords stuck in leather belts, shone out in the dying light as the men shouted, called out instructions to each other. And then the townsfolk ran down to help them, laughing and patting them on the back like old friends, happy that these tall, handsome Danish men had come to help them throw off the punishing yoke of the Norman infidels.
The narrow wooden planks wobbled beneath Gisela’s feet, tipping one way, then the other, brownish water bubbling up from the mud and washing over the flimsy boards, staining her leather boots. Stepping cautiously, she made her way out to the gaggle of children dipping their buckets. Sea birds wheeled about her head, spreading huge white wings, cackling and screeching; fear snaked through her diaphragm. A child squeezed alongside her with a full, slopping bucket, then another, almost pushing her off the plank in their haste to reach the boiling house on the shore.
These salt pans were more basic than the ones nearer the town: shallow pools dug out above the low-water mark, edges shored up with lumps of stone to stop the unstable mud sides caving in. She knelt down on the stone lip, swinging her bucket into the dense salty water, setting it beside her while she repeated the action with the other bucket.
The light was dimming fast now, the sun dipping below the horizon in a riot of pink and orange hues. The Danish longships pulling up to the shore turned to dark silhouettes, the masts a cluster of black poles against the shimmering sky. Although it was only September, the evening air was chill, heralding autumn; Gisela shivered in her thin gown. Her sleeves were wet, splashed with sea water, and she pushed the coarsely woven wool up to her elbows to stop them becoming even more soaked.
For their journey north, her father had insisted that both she and her sister Marie change their fine noble garments to more lowly outfits for travelling, so they would not attract attention. The servants in their castle on the south coast, their new English home given to her father for his loyalty to William the Conqueror, had been happy to supply both girls with serviceable gowns. An underdress of fawn undyed wool, an overdress of darker brown, crudely patched at the hem. The only things Gisela retained from her previous life were her fine woollen stockings, her leather boots and her mother’s silver brooch that held her scarf in place.
‘Come on, mistress!’ a little girl called to her from the end of the plank. ‘The tide is coming in! We must go back now!’ Looking around, Gisela realised that all the children had gone and were walking back to the shore. She glanced at the river; the brown water slopped and churned, the foaming tide beginning to fill the deep crevasses that scored the mudflats. The blood in her toes prickled; she had been kneeling for too long. Scrambling to her feet, pausing a moment to gain her balance on the rickety wooden plank, she reached down to heave up the buckets. Her arms ached, as if they had been stretched to twice their length already.
Not far ahead, some of children had stopped, their gaunt, undernourished frames clustering around each other. She heard a wail, then another, and increased her pace towards them, carrying the heavy pails. A child, the small girl who had called out to her, had fallen into the mud, and was now up to her knees in the thick, gelatinous ooze.
‘How did she get there?’ Gisela asked sternly, looking down at the wan, grime-streaked faces.
The children appeared puzzled for a moment, as if they hadn’t quite understood her. She was used to this, for as much as she tried to disguise her foreign accent, sometimes the Saxon vowels evaded her. She repeated her question, more slowly this time, and a boy eventually spoke. ‘It was him, mistress.’ He poked another boy in the arm. ‘He pushed her in, she was teasing him, you see...’
‘I understand...’ Gisela said sharply, seeing the girl’s face whiten with fear as she struggled in the mud, slapping down futilely with her palms. Placing her buckets carefully on the board, Gisela took two long strides out from the plank on to the mudflat, intending to pull the child out.
‘Oh, mistress, no...!’ the boy shouted out in warning, as her feet encountered the mud. She sank, promptly, her feet disappearing, swiftly followed by her calves and knees, her body lurching forward in shock. ‘Oh, God...no!’ Gisela cried out in horror as she realised her mistake. The hem of her gown rose up around her and the thick cold mud hugged her knees, her thighs.
‘Oh, mistress, you shouldn’t have done that!’ another child said. ‘That mud is dangerous, it’ll suck you down. That’s why we use the planks. To stop us disappearing...’
Gisela let out a long, shaky breath. In her effort to reach the girl, she had forgotten. Sweat gathered beneath her linen scarf, along her neckline. She longed to rip it off and feel the cool air against her skin. Do not panic, she told herself sternly, fear bubbling treacherously in her belly. Do not. Beside her the little girl wept openly, her pinched face marred by tears and grime.
‘I will get you out of here,’ Gisela said confidently. Putting her hands beneath the child’s bony arms, she pulled and lifted, ignoring the fact that she sunk lower in the process, until she heard a satisfying sucking noise. The mud released its grip on the child’s legs; Gisela fell sideways, the child in her arms. Relief coursed through her.
‘Crawl flat on your belly over to the plank,’ she told the girl.
The child frowned at her, her sweet face doubtful. ‘But what about you, mistress?’
‘Tell someone to come for me, when you reach the shore,’ Gisela told her. ‘Find someone to help me!’ she called to the rest of the children, watching the girl slither across the mud to join them. They nodded in unison, pointing at her, then nodded again, the bedraggled group chattering in subdued voices as they made their way back along the planks.
As the wind whipped away their high-pitched voices, a gust of vulnerability, insidious and threatening, enveloped her. In this windswept barren landscape, she was completely alone, up to her thighs in mud, unable to move. Her buckets of brine sat on the wooden plank, mocking her. How long would it take for the children to send someone out? Would they even come? The salt-pan master had no care for her, he knew there was something peculiar about her, despite her rattling out the same story that her and her father and sister had all told on this journey. They were Anglo-Saxons heading north to live with relatives as the Normans had dispossessed them of all they had owned in the south. Maybe her mangled use of the English language had finally given her away.
She tried to bend forward, lying down flat on the mud, scrabbling with her hands to try to reach a clump of reeds, to try to pull herself out. The mud seeped through her gown, cold and wet against her stomach and breasts. She tugged on the grass, slowly, gradually, hoping for the smallest movement around her feet and legs, a sign that the mud was giving up its hold on her. Nothing.
To her right, the river slopped and gurgled, an ominous sound; the water spilled over the lower walls of the salt pans, starting to fill the shallow ponds. The tide was coming in quickly now. With a sickening dread, Gisela eyed the water gushing towards her. Sinking in the mud was not her only worry. Now, drowning seemed like a more likely option. Screwing her eyes up, she sought and found the figures on the shore, pale ghosts in the twilight. The children had surely reached the adults by now and were telling them to come and fetch her. Aye, that was it. As she straightened up, the thought comforted her and she kept her eyes pinned on the bleached lines of the planks, heading back to shore, squinting in the half-light for any sign of help, watching for someone, anyone, to come out to rescue her.
But then, to her utter dismay, the cluster of people by the boiling houses walked away. Not one face turned towards her! Nay, they were heading towards the Danes, newly arrived on the shore. Arms raised in welcome towards the visitors, the shouts and calls of greeting echoed out across the mudflats. Distracted by the Danes’ arrival, they had forgotten, or had not even been told about her, stuck yards out from shore in the mud. No one was coming. Panic swirled in her chest, a great flood of terror that she would die out here, her breath choked off by the incoming tide, until the air in her lungs expelled in a scream of sheer desperation. She screamed and screamed, her voice shrill and clear, waving her arms violently towards the shore, for her life depended upon it.
