Edin's embrace (21 page)

Sweyn was there, too, his big blue eyes blazing in his wan face.

Even the thralls had dropped their work to see the
Blood Wing
off. Men and women, elders and children, vanquishers and vanquished, masters and slaves —all were gathered.

Those Vikings going with the jarl made a fine appearance in their polished and shining helmets and war shirts. From this distance Edin couldn't see that they were rather sullen: The night before had been drawn out with reminiscence; several barrels had been tapped to celebrate past vices. As they boarded the ship, the dragon bent her wooden, champing head. Studded weaponry gleamed everywhere—swords and axes, their wide slicing edges opulently etched. Even though this was not a plundering party, no Viking would ever set off without all the weapons he could carry. That would be a thing of shame. Consequently, the party looked formidable. It was necessary, mayhap, for as Edin understood it, a single longship heading for market made a vulnerable target, and the southwest coast of Norway swarmed with pirates. It seemed Vikings, given the chance, even attacked one another. Brute violence backed with arms lorded everywhere in this land. They had a saying: "Seek not to know your fate —but don't travel without your sword, either."

The jarl wore a fitted tunic of rich purple over his black trousers, which were cross-gartered to the knee. His cloak was black, lined with more purple. Truly Edin had never seen a more handsome man, none taller, blonder, more bronzed. Just to look at him caused a strand of delight to thread its way down her thighs.

He touched his mother's shoulder as she said something more, and this time he smiled and nodded gently. He answered her. Was it something prosaic as
Make sure Snorri gets the firewood stacked in cords;
or was it something more laden with affection? Inga's obvious pleasure gave witness to the latter; she seemed to light up like a burning lampwick.

Edin felt betrayed. While she stood drinking her fill of him with her eyes, he seemed to have all but forgotten his lowly bed-thrall, until suddenly —what was it? The gust of chill breeze that caused her cloak to billow and show her new royal blue dress? Or mayhap the sun catching on the wide silver torque around her throat, and the two new silver bands on her wrists? Whatever it was, suddenly something seemed to catch his eye; he seemed to wake up to her presence, like a hunting dog who suddenly smells a deer on the wind.

He lifted his head, and not for a single instant did his eyes sweep around the mountain summits which everywhere peered down; no, they came straight to her —and her heart stood still with an extravagant anguish the likes of which she'd never known before.

He didn't wave or shake an axe above his shoulder or by any other sign speak to her. He only looked his fill. Mayhap he was remembering her request again —or mayhap the last thing she'd said to him this morning. Either could be the cause of those thunderclouds on his forehead.

There was something else in his gaze, however. His grey eyes seemed to plunge deep into her very . heart. It was a gaze that held her enthralled, held her immobile in the sparkling air, sustained.

Last night this barbarian had wrung everything he'd wanted from her. Yes, even after all he'd said, and the resolves she'd secretly made in response, she'd still given him whatever he wanted. And once more this morning she'd been awakened and brought to that transcendent moment when everything inside her turned to light, when time and thralldom didn't exist.

Afterward, he'd been amused when she forced herself to be a blank. "He rises early who wants to win another's wealth," he murmured with a wolfs smile.

"You ravish me and then make a joke of it."

"You like me to ravish you. It lets you pretend that you're not willing and yet still have what you want."

Was it true? Was there a paradox of freedom in slavery?

He'd then given her the new dress and the wrist bracelets and asked her if she had no word of farewell for him. That was when she'd said, "Only that you must not be surprised if I'm not here when you return."

He hadn't grown angry, but only answered, as if to a fretful child, "You'll be here till Odin decides to crush the world in his two strong hands."

Now for a moment more he stood like a salt pillar looking up at where she stood in the blue morning sky, mayhap waiting for her to give in and bid him the farewell he wanted. She braced herself not to do it, to withhold at least that much from him.

The men had noticed. Jamsgar's eyes glowed with a strange glare. His gold arm bracelet caught a fragment of sun and sent it flashing into Edin's face. Ottar Magnusson said something with dramatically mimed impatience:
Are you ready, Jarl? Will you keep the day waiting forever?
And so at last he turned and walked toward the
Blood Wing.

She'd done it! Shed been strong enough to deny him. A bitter triumph unfurled like a flag in her heart.

He took his place high on the foredeck, where all the men could see him. He seemed unaware of the effect of his strong presence. He was still carrying his helmet; his tawny hair flew in the sharpening breeze. Big as he was, there was a grace and dignity about him.

Rolf stood just below him in a grey woollen tunic. He shouted so that even Edin could hear him loud and clear. "Loose the mooring lines!" Then, "Oars!"

For a moment, Edin hugged herself. They were going; they were actually going. The lean, low-hulled dragonship, manned by Vikings of reckless courage and invincible savagery, pulled away from the strand.

He was going, taking his desire, his fascination, with him. The movement of the ship disturbed a flock of sea birds that nested beneath the bluff. They fluttered up. Edin's heart raced. The birds repeated their cries over and over; the air around her seemed swollen with sound. And at the very last moment she lifted her hand.

She saw the slow, reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Her triumph faded, to be replaced by something less proud.

They shoved off, a brilliant band venturing out from their hearths as Vikings always had, always in search of the unknown beyond the horizon. How far they were going, Edin could only try to guess. Distances seemed to be nothing to them. Aboard ship, they would be uncomfortable, wet, and close, with only the sea to look at and little to amuse them. But they were Vikings, to whom inconveniences were all part of a man's work, to whom being wet and cold were not worth mentioning. And as far as danger went —they enjoyed danger.

Edin swallowed back an aching lump in her throat as the oarsmen heaved strongly, slowly, pulling on the water, pushing the ship around the jetty, out into the fjord. The sail was hoisted. The
Blood Wing
was not a longship to wait about when she felt the breeze in her rigging. She began to skim the blue water as if blood pulsed in her tarry timbers, as if she meant to go on and on over the sea until she stabled under the golden walls of some distant, magic land. She sped past the waterfalls toward the mouth of the fjord, farther and farther, until Edin couldn't make out the jarl's face anymore. Soon the red-striped sail also blurred and then disappeared beyond the outer headlands.

And it was then, while the
Blood Wing
turned east into the
skjaegard
— the thousands upon thousands of islands that formed a sort of fence between the rocky, terraced strandflat and the sea —that Edin's love first struck her. Then, when the jarl had disappeared from her horizon and she faced the immediate future without him. Then, at that moment, she finally understood.

She looked about her, and all she saw were gorges and plateaux and a fjord and clouds scudding across a sky speckled with sea birds. She seemed to hear the voice of the great mountains, the immense forests. Nothing she wanted mattered in this foreign world, and that was the way things would stay. But even worse, now she was alone here. More alone than she'd ever been. There was nothing anyone would do for her now except what she could do for herself. She hadn't realized how dependent upon the jarl's protection she'd become, or how deeply she'd fallen under the spell of his rough care.

She hadn't realized. She hadn't realized.

Tears spilled down her cheeks. She was at last out of the forced courage that had kept her dry-eyed. Now she wept, beyond the reach, beyond the power of her Viking's soothing iron hands. "Oh, God!" A pure bolt of love shot through her for that man who deserved much less.

Edin made her face a mask so that no one would know what she was feeling as she trudged down to the longhouse. She suspected that without the jarl's protection there would be changes in her station; yet even she was surprised at how immediately these came, for no sooner did she step inside than Inga confronted her. The hall was dark after the brilliance of the sunrise, but there was enough light for Edin to judge her mistress's mood. Hate hung about her like smoke from a fire.

Oozing bitter satisfaction, she said, "Take off that ridiculous finery and put on clothing suitable for thrall work. And do something about that hair, or I swear to the gods I'll cut it to within an inch of your scalp. Where are you going?"

"To change."

"You will
not
go into my son's chamber again! You'll sleep out here, as befits you, and hope that I don't decide to put you out in the byre-loft with the thrall-men!"

Edin wisely kept her eyes down. The jarl had hinted that he'd left words with his mother to protect her in his absence. But as she'd feared, Inga would do as she pleased. Two Vikings had been left behind to watch over the steading, Fafnir Danrsson and Eric No-breeches. They looked at one another but did not interfere from where they sat at the tables. Neither man came to her aid. The message was clear that as far as they were concerned, the jarl had left his mother in charge.

From Olga and Juliana, Edin sensed a feeling against her, evident in whiffs and traces. Olga went on tending the fire for them, and Dessa, though she gave Edin a sympathetic look, went on pouring milk.

Something about Inga had always raised the fine hairs on Edin's arms. The woman seemed to have an edge in her mind, an edge that she stood back from most of the time, but occasionally she seemed to totter at the brink of . . .
what
Edin didn't know, and didn't want to know.

She said in a careful voice, "But my clothing is all in the jarl's chamber. If you will let me go in there but once more, just to leave this gown and jewelry and to change. . . ."

Her reasonableness did nothing to improve Inga's temper. Nevertheless, she was allowed to enter the Viking's chamber one last time. Not trusting Inga's patience, she didn't idle, but changed immediately. She folded the blue gown and put it in his clothes chest, and donned a much plainer dress he'd given her for work. She found his ornate comb on the washstand and wielded it quickly, then braided her hair like a man's into two long plaits that hung heavily over her shoulders to her waist. She went to the door, then paused, and looked back at the bed.

Impulsively, she crossed to it, lifted the Viking's pillow and buried her face in it, inhaling his scent. Inga burst in at that instant and found her in that purely personal attitude. She gave Edin a look that made her feel corrupt. "You . . . Saxon!" she hissed. "You're a lowly race, cunning and treacherous by nature!" She grabbed the pillow away. "You should be whipped, just to show you your place once and for all."

Edin stood very still, her neck prickling. Inga shoved her toward the door.

She put Edin to work immediately, not at cooking or cleaning or weaving, but outside the longhouse, in the fields, where Edin had never worked before in her life. Inga left her in Blackhair's care with the warning, "He has my permission to whale you black and blue if he ever once catches you sluffing."

Blackhair stood contemplating Edin long after Inga left them alone. She told herself that at least by working outside she wouldn’t be under Inga's constant, disapproving eye, nor subject to her jabbing wooden spoon.

But before the day was over, she knew that Blackhair was as determined to make her suffer as Inga was.

The hay in a steep pasture had grown tall, and she was taken up to help cut it. She was introduced to the boss of the job, Yngvarr, a broad-shouldered man with a low hairline. There was snickering among the other thralls. Edin stared straight ahead, solemn and withdrawn. Blackhair handed her a scythe. She hardly knew how to hold it. There was more laughter as she started to work. She felt awkward and knew she was creating amusement for the others. But by watching the men, she slowly taught herself how to swing the heavy tool.

It seemed she was a special case: No other woman was expected to cut hay. Their job was to gather it and drape it on racks to dry. Edin's hands soon blistered, and then the blisters broke. And her back screamed. And screamed.

During rest periods she was a target for thrall wit. She took a drink from the common skin, then she went off by herself, not wanting her weeping hands, which were so painful, to be discovered and laughed over. The men exchanged glances and nudged one another where they rested; the women tittered. She heard scraps of their wit, as she was meant to do:

"Looks like 'my lady' is a bit weary."

"Some women are more used to lying on their backs then standing on their own two feet."

"Aw now, be fair. I bet she can handle a man on her feet almost as well as on her back"

"I know what's making her tired. It's them heavy braids. Mistress ought to've lopped them ugly things off"

The hours seemed endless, and nearly were. She came down through the gloaming light with the other unmarried thralls who ate in the longhouse. She sat stooped over her meal, uninterested in eating it. The hall seemed unnaturally quiet with only two Vikings, and Sweyn the Cripple, in attendance. Fire flicker danced upon the posts, while deep shadows lay in the nooks and corners. The jarl's chair with its carved arms and back stood empty. Arneld tried to talk to Edin, but she answered him in monosyllables, and finally he went away. No one else spoke to her, and when she became aware that the other thralls had risen, she made a belated attempt to eat. She was having some trouble with the spoon, struggling not to show her hands, and had managed only one mouthful when Inga came to take her wooden bowl away.

A look of loathing passed across the woman's face. "Do you expect to be fed —in bed mayhap? My son isn't here now. You'd best learn to handle a spoon on your own." Edin said nothing. She wasn't particularly hungry, but she drank down her bowl of creamy milk before Inga could take that, too. She knew she was going to need her strength.

The next morning she showed up in the high field before dawn with her hands wrapped with rags Dessa had given her. The sun rose swiftly, hitting her eyes like a stab. The day was going to be hotter than usual.

By afternoon the rags wrapping her hands had become bloodied. She forgot to hide the fact, forgot everything but the rhythm of her swinging scythe. She didn't even notice that sometime during that day the field thralls had stopped taunting her.

The third day she arrived with hands so swollen she could hardly grasp the scythe handle. None of the thralls spoke, not to her, not to one another. The silence in the field felt thunderous. She worked as best she could, considering her back would hardly bend. She'd never been able to keep up with the men cutters, but now they got far, far ahead of her. At last, Yngvarr threw his scythe down and strode back to where she was swinging the shard of bright light that was the scythe's blade in short, awkward jerks, hardly cutting anything, yet maintaining a sort of awful, silent rhythm. He took hold of the tool. In a daze, she tried to keep it; he had to wrest it from her. She stood stooped, her head hanging, looking at his worn boots. Her sluggish mind asked,
What now?

"Ingunn!" he called. His wife, a flaxon-haired young woman, hurried over. At a gesture from him, she unwrapped the stained rags around Edin's hands. The other thralls wordlessly gathered. For a long moment no one spoke. Then one of the men said, "I'll get that Blackhair up here."

Ingunn and the other women led Edin to the grassy place where they sat during their rest periods. Blackhair arrived, and there was an argument. Edin belatedly tried to follow it, and heard Yngvarr say, "The mistress won't always be in charge!" He had his low forehead ducked like a knuckled fighter about to give a punch. "Don't be a fool, you! When the master returns and finds her hands ruined, do you think it'll be the mistress who takes the blame?"

Blackhair glared down at her. Her palms lay open in her lap, a testament to his mismanagement. Even she was a little appalled by the sight of them. His tongue slid out from between his lips and in again with reptilian swiftness. "Put her to work gathering, then!" he said at last. "But work she will! No sluffing!" He waggled his finger and stomped off down the hill.

Ingunn produced a salve and clean rags from her cot, which was close by. The others went back to work. "Thank you," Edin murmured.

Ingunn said grudgingly, "Well, if you'd griped, we none of us would've cared how bad off you got. But I'd as soon see a weakling child put out to die as watch you try to swing that scythe another minute."

They joined the women in gathering. It was relatively easy on her hands to simply scoop the cut hay up into her arms, but it was hard on her back.

After a few days in the sun, the dried hay was loaded into wagons. The work was arduous and hot; even the strong thrall-men became exhausted, but everyone went on working. Edin never stopped a minute unless everyone stopped. There were no more taunts, but there was no friendly camaraderie, either. She was out of place there, and no one seemed able to forget it. Or forgive it.

When the last cartload of hay was sent down to the byre-loft, Yngvarr said, "Blackhair doesn't need to know we're done, not for an hour or so, anyway." He brought out a set of boxwood panpipes. Ingunn brought her little child up to the field. As her father piped, the child danced. Edin smiled. The little one toddled from person to person as they lay sprawled this way and that the grass, taking their ease and staring up at the bright, wind swept, blue sky.

When she came to Edin, she tottered, then fell. Her tiny face puckered to cry. Edin quickly caught her up and bounced her on her knee, and began to sing with Yngvarr's piping. The child grinned hugely, then plopped her fingers into her mouth and lay in Edin's arms, rapt.

Ingunn herself drew near, but didn't take the child away from her. "She's beautiful," Edin said, gazing down at the innocent face.

"She can be a handful."

U I wanted children," Edin said, in a moment of weary self-pity.

"You'll have them. The jarl . . " Ingunn was clearly embarrassed. "Well."

"He says my children will be Vikings."

"Then, they'll be masters."

"They'll be marauders, savages. I couldn't bear that."

"But what can you do about it?"

Edin looked up at the mountains.

"No. They would kill you for sure."

"Vred and Amma made it."

Ingunn grew intense. "Listen, you, don't even think it. There's others besides yourself would suffer."

***

It began to seem to Edin that all her life before had not been so long as each day was now. Only a sennight had passed since the jarl had gone, yet it seemed a year. As if the changes in her circumstances and Inga's hatred and Blackhair's malice weren't enough for her to cope with, now Sweyn had begun to openly single her out with his dis-focused gaze and his harping criticisms. He'd become a constantly drunk, ever-complaining presence in the hall, and nothing she did was beyond his vitriol, right down to the way she walked and sat and looked.

This morning, outside the longhouse, the field thralls hung close together while Blackhair issued them their orders. As each was told what to do, he or she turned without comment and went to do it. The group got smaller and smaller, until only Edin was left. She felt a little queasy this morning and was hoping that her next task would be less arduous than the hay cutting. Just then, Sweyn came out. He leaned his good arm on a four-wheeled cart that was standing without its horse near the byre. Blackhair said to Edin, "This is bath day. You can fill the tubs, and keep them filled."

Smug, he went off to supervise the herring harvest. As Edin started for the bathhouse, Sweyn stepped away from the cart and blocked her path.

He'd lost weight, yet his body was still big-boned and imposing when it was leaning over someone much smaller. He stared down at Edin ominously. His battle-axe hung from his belt —on his right side where his useless arm was bound to his waist.

As he continued to stare down at her, irritation welled up in Edin. At last she tried to go around him. He stopped her with a rough blow with the butt of his left hand to her shoulder, which made her throw up her arms and reel backward.

He said, "How do you like being moved down the bench?" He smiled heartily; his yellow teeth showed in his beard.

Lately she'd been doing her best to make herself small, to become unnoticed, and all it had gotten her was abuse heaped atop abuse. She'd suddenly had enough of subservience. In a flash, she decided what her attitude must be in the future. She drew herself up and said, "I like it no more than you, Cripple"

He struck her face so quickly that she had no time to catch herself. She stumbled back, lost her balance, and fell to the ground. His eyes were grim as a snake's. But even then, sprawled on her back looking up at him, a sense of calm and control increased in her. She was so angry she felt as if she could walk into spears. She pushed her temerity as far as it would go. "I do wish we bench-enders got more meat and less fish and cabbage. I never cared much for fish. Do you, Cripple?"

As soon as she had the words out, she saw the foam at the corners of his mouth and a new whiteness in his face. His lips spread in a mad grin. She rolled away and got to her knees, a movement that flooded her with nausea.

He loomed over her, and she realized he was murmuring. "What a spring it was," he said, "the byres burning and the churches flaring . . . folk running! The women trying to conceal the craving between their thighs! Aye, what a season —until a Saxon witch fell at my feet. . . ."

He straightened, became cunning, and even waggled his eyebrows. "So you're to carry water to the bathhouse today. I hope the work won't be too hard for you."

She started to get to her feet and, by dint of extraordinary effort, succeeded. She tried not to give any sign of the nausea she felt, and got away from him as quickly as she could, before she gave herself away and was further humiliated. But as soon as she was out of his sight, she dropped to her knees and wretched.

The work was too hard for her. Each Saturday was set aside for everyone on the steading to bathe. In a small hut was the bathhouse. The Vikings were a clean breed. They took care to wash before meals and to change their clothes often. Once a sennight a fire was built in the bathhouse, cauldrons of water were heated, and everybody, in order of rank, scrubbed from top to bottom. The tubs had to be filled and kept up to level all day.

Each bucket of water Edin drew was a trial. Her hands were hardly healed, and her back was still sore from the hay cutting. Bearing a heavy yoke with a full bucket swinging from either end did her no good.

The sun never shone that day, and at the spring where she drew her water, the gnats were out, those extremely small black gnats whose bite was so much larger than their bodies. By afternoon she welcomed a spitting rain that made them take cover. It didn't matter to her if she got wetter. Her skirts were already heavy with sloshed water from the buckets, and her feet were soaked. And her head ached from the blow Sweyn had delivered to her cheek.

She complained to no one, however, not even when Fafnir Danrsson stepped between her and the bathhouse door, directed his long nose and fixed his stare down at her face. She'd never been quite so close to him before, and now saw that his eyes were a grey-sapphire, or a sapphire-grey —an indefinite, ambiguous color, like the shade of distant mountains. He blinked them slowly and said, "What happened to you?"

The pride that had reared up in her earlier, and the anger, had not diminished. Somewhere during that day the love she'd been feeling so helplessly had become rage. She asked,
Was no word or sign at all left to protect me from being cast down into this position of drudge? I gave that Viking everything —and this is my return!

"Nothing happened to me," she said to Fafnir. The rain kept up a slow-running tapping on the thatched roof of the bathhouse. The pale silky beard covering Fafnir's chest looked as soft as duck fluff. A few drops of rain jeweled it. Beneath it, his jaws chewed indecisively, until Edin went past him with her burden. She felt his grey-sapphire glance, but got the distinct feeling that he didn't really want to know the answer to his question.

All day she carried that wooden yoke from which hung those two big buckets, moving from stream to bathhouse in a ceaseless round. She closed herself up, shut herself against the world. Arneld was one of the last bathers. Though most of the thralls had seen the bruise on her face, only Arneld asked about it: "Who did that, my lady?"

She tried to center her gaze on him, and make it catch, but she was so exhausted her eyes couldn't seem to hold steady. She said in a monotone, "You mustn't call me that anymore. I'm just Edin now."

"There's white all around your mouth, and you winced when you set the buckets down."

Once more she tried to catch him with her gaze, and once more, curiously, she couldn't. "I'm weary."

"You aren't strong enough for that job"

His concern touched her. She dredged up a little smile and tugged his sleeve. "We must each do what we're told."

"Who hit you?"