Winter Serpent (5 page)

He rose to go. He prodded her with his finger.

“Be careful what you do.” There was a warning in his voice. She stared after him, speechless.

The man on the bed began to grope about his neck and shoulders as if searching for something; he put his hand down on the floor and brushed it. He seemed puzzled. He looked directly at Doireann with his strange light eyes and cleared his throat. He addressed her in what sounded like the language of the Northmen. She could only stare without understanding.

He tried another language which sounded similar to the first, yet still unknown. He paused, thought for a moment, and then spoke something in which she thought she caught a few familiar words. He repeated them slowly. “No, I do not understand,” she told him. “Only a few words. What tongue
is this, a little like Gaelic?”

“Ja, Gallic,” he emphasized. “Brettish, Armorican.” She heard him say the name of Carlus Magnus, Charlemagne. Yes, there were Breton and Armorican tribes which spoke a language similar to that of the Celts, but the words were changed and difficult. He had asked her something, but she could not tell what it was.

He made no sign, when she bent over him to remove the cold poultice, that it caused him pain, but the inflamed, raised skin about the open wound must surely be an agony to the slightest pressure.

When she came back from the fire with a fresh cloth she saw that he had found the bearskin and had drawn it comfortingly up over his chest. No doubt this was what he had wanted. His arms were placed outside the bearhide, palms upward, and she saw with unease the powerful muscles in the shoulders and forearms. It would be simple enough for him to reach out and seize her. She did not like the look of this man with his inhuman eyes, mortally sick though he was. The palms on the bear fur were large and covered with a sailor’s calluses.

He took no notice of her. He had turned his face to one side, the cheek resting on the edge of the fur, his eyes shut and his face brooding.

She stood by him, waiting for him to command her, and as she waited she thought she heard a small sound. An infinitely small sound. She bent slightly toward him, doubtful of the poultice. There seemed nothing wrong with the cloth or the wound. Her eyes searched his face and then she saw a clear drop roll out from under his eyelid, cross the bridge of his nose, and drop off to the leather hides which covered the bed beneath him. The small noise, and then another.

He’s weeping, she thought. The Northman is weeping!

At last Sweyn brought her some food. He brought a wooden bowl of stew, dark and oily-looking, seal flesh probably, and a blackened lump of bread baked in the fire. She tried the bread and it was hard as a rock; the stew tasted like spoiled fish. She could not eat any of it and yet her stomach was so empty that it ached.

The light from the smoke hole waned, and some of the Northmen came in to relight the pit fire. The sap was still running in the newly cut wood and it burned slowly and badly, giving off choking clouds of smoke. They began to make their beds about on the floor. When the room had become thick with the dark and the smoke, she lay down also close to the bed where the Norse chieftain slept, and drew herself into a small knot. There was not much room. It was a small house, crowded to overflowing with the big men.

Soon she could no longer see clearly the shapes rolled in their cloaks and skins about her; the only sounds were the crackle of the fire, the thundering snores, and the crash of the lord Thorsten as he heaved his body restlessly about on the oak bed.

She napped fitfully. The earth floor was uneven, bent in the wrong places for her body, and she dared not stir about too much. Her ears strained for the sound of footsteps or other menacing noises, but only the scratching of rats sounded in the walls. She counted the hours of the night with desperation and relived in her mind the events which had brought her to this place.

Sometime in the late hours before dawn the man on the bed gave a loud groan, loud enough to wake her from her dozing. She tried to ignore it, to burrow under the plaid, but the racket continued. With a sigh she scrambled up, the joints in her legs aching and complaining, and went to him.

He had writhed about during the night; once more his legs dangled from the bed, feet touching the ground. She tugged at one of them, but it was like trying to uproot a small tree. Also, he had pulled off most of his clothes. The leather vest hung from one arm. She slipped it all the way off and under her hands his skin felt dry and burning. He started, mumbled something, but he was not awake.

She was very afraid. He was quite sick, probably dying. And it was to be hoped that nothing she had done had brought this about, for if he died she was sure the others would kill her.

Sweyn was somewhere about among the sleepers on the floor. She tried to remember where she had last seen him. He could not help her, but at least she did not want to be alone with the man on the bed when he died.

She searched her mind to think of the things which she had seen done for the sick. When children were very ill one could sometimes break the fever by bathing them in cold water. This was all she could remember. The water bucket was hung on the wall at the other end of the house; it was best to make a start somewhere.

She picked her way across the floor, stepping with her bare feet onto metal objects and fur, and once into an open palm. The owner woke, and raised himself silently on his elbow to watch her.

Through the open door she could see the guard fire in the meadow and the two shadows of the Northmen before it. The bucket was on the wall by the door where she remembered it. It was half full.

She went to her task with misgivings. She took the poultice cloth, dipped it into the bucket of cold water, and began to bathe the man’s face and arms and chest. She could not feel any cooling change; instead, the cloth became warm with the fevered heat of his body. She dipped it again, wrung it out. She did this many times until her arms became tired from reaching over him. She blew aside a strand of hair which had fallen down into her face. It was too dark to see what she was doing. She used her free hand as a guide, groping about the man’s body.

She groaned and put her hand to her back. Many dark nights had she lain awake in her lifetime, but this was the darkest and the longest. She changed her seat, pulling the Viking’s head and shoulder into her lap. She dribbled some of the water onto his chest and stirred it about with the cloth. She despaired of seeing him live. He was too hot, too burning with fever to survive. Her own clothes were soaked with water.

He was clean, at least. There was no rank body smell brought to life by the water, only the odor of some buttery substance, some oil, that he had rubbed into his skin. She finished the last of the water and, with her free arm, threw off the repulsive bearskin and pulled her own woolen plaid over them both.

The light was graying with dawn. The old women had a saying: babies are born in the middle of the night, fevers break at morning meal, and men die at dawn. She could only wait.

She stroked his forehead with her fingertips. This time he did not feel so fevered to the touch. His face was becoming clearer in the morning light, and
she examined the gash on his head carefully. It had a puckered, boiled look about it, but it was much cleaner. If he lived he would have an ugly scar.

One of the guards from the meadow came in and shouted to wake the sleepers. The snores continued. He began to go about kicking at their heads and their rumps, and they rewarded him by shouts and thrown objects. In the midst of the noise Sweyn sat up, bare to the waist, his beard flowing out majestically. He saw the girl at once and got up and scratched himself all over and drew on his ring-mail shirt.

“How does he do?” he bellowed.

When he had come close to them the girl told him of the fever in the night. “I thought he would die,” she said anxiously.

“And now?”

She shook her head doubtfully.

The head on her lap said something, not opening its eyes.

“Ha so, he is not dead!” Sweyn shouted. He smacked her on the back with his open palm. “This was a good job.”

She had sense enough to put her hand on the man’s head. It was covered with beads of sweat.

The man on the bed said something to her in the Breton tongue. “Yes, the fever is broken,” she agreed.

Sweyn was watching her sharply.

“So you understand this Armorican? Can you speak to him?” “Some. A few words.”

“This is good.”

The men talked rapidly in their own tongue.

“So you see,” Sweyn said, turning back to her, “I did not lie. You are skilled in these things. All women are healers. Mend him quickly. He must not lie about too long.”

He went off, and the others began to follow him. One or two of the Northmen who looked as though they had some authority or rank above the others came and stood by the bed. She understood nothing of what they said to their chieftain, but they were brief, and they pointedly did not look at her, out of respect, no doubt, to the big man.

After this her patient dozed. She sat on the floor with her head in her hand and waited for him to waken. When he seemed to rouse a little, she fetched a clean cloth for the new poultice, and as she was placing it on his head he seized her hand and flung the cloth away. He did not release her. Instead, he used her hand to pull himself into a sitting position. He swung his legs to the floor and sat there, shaking his head to clear it. His eyes were glazed with the effort and he was greenish about the mouth.

He flapped his arm at her unsteadily, as if to beckon her closer.

“I will get up,” he said, thickly. She backed away from him.

“Ah no, I cannot hold you up,” she protested, “and it is true you may yet die.” But he was already standing, wavering about. She could not help wincing;

she expected his fall at any moment.

He began to mutter in his own language, moving his hand about his throat and chest to indicate something.

“Bring me, bring me…” he attempted in Armorican, but gave it up. “You are going to fall,” she told him.

He ignored her, his mind fixed on the effort to keep himself upright. “Bring me…” he tried again. He stopped and stood with his head hanging. She tried to think of what he could want. It must be the bearskin. She

dragged it from under the bed and thrust it quickly at him.

To her amazement he half held out his hand, then squinted at the hide. A puzzling, stifled sound broke from him and he made a movement as if to push it away. He lost his balance, sank back onto the bed.

She looked at the heavy bearskin in her hand. It was dirty and stank like a dead animal, but she could not see that it had changed since the morning. He had wanted it then and now could not stand the sight of it. She dropped it, kicked it back under the bed. She did not like to touch it. It had another life, another meaning, to the Northmen, part of some terrible magic, and she was glad he desired to be rid of it.

She picked up the leather vest. He must mean his clothing. She was right. She gingerly helped guide his arm into the armhole. He managed the rest of it himself. Then he pointed to his head. She started to fetch the poultice cloth but he took her skirt and pulled her back. He pointed again. His hair. It was obvious the Gaulish tongue had failed him and he had run out of words. So now she must arrange his hair. He pulled at the leather tie that held the braid and it came loose, the hair falling over his shoulder with a color like that of grain bleached by a July sun. It was outlandishly long and maidenlike.

She took her own comb and loosened the snarls. Then she untied the other side and combed until the long hair flowed down from the top of his head like a yellow sheath. She took time to stare at the sight of the hulking giant beneath the long golden hair. She began to bind it up as before. He wore long embossed medallions in his ears. The ears were not pierced; the medallions were hung on loops of leather over each ear, secured by a strand of hair drawn from behind. It took her some time to put them back as they had been.

When she was finished he staggered to his feet again. He shuffled a few feet while she stood back from him, fearful and impatient at his stupidity, yet
impressed with the tremendous strength, the will which showed in his wooden face, the cords standing in his neck.

He had arranged himself for some display and now that he was on his feet he would go through with it. He stumbled to the far end of the hall and out through the door.

The Northmen were gathered in the meadow to eat the morning meal. The sunshine was the brilliant, pale yellow of spring and it seemed to put the northlanders in a rowdy good humor—that, and the appearance of their chief who stumbled to a seat on a large rock and allowed food to be brought to him.

The Vikings had set up a shield in the sand and some of the youngest warriors were running about casting spears at this target. A great whooping and howling greeted a center hit. To Doireann’s eyes there was something dreadful in their massive bodies galloping by, the quick grace of the spears as they sliced through the air. The men had a singularly oafish look to her: the small eyes set back over ruddy cheekbones, long straight noses, and big jaws. When they were laughing, as now, they all showed big white teeth. Like horses, she thought fearfully. Or great thundering cattle. She heard Sweyn’s irritated rumble rise above their noise.