The Viking’s Sacrifice (12 page)

The door gave way and Wilda pushed past the sheaf of hay that had blocked the door. A hay barn, stacked to the rafters with the sweet smell of dried summer. Wilda shielded the rushlight from the draft and made her way further in. A creaking sound, regular as a heartbeat, sent shivers along her spine. She shouldn’t believe in ghosts, or in premonitions. She didn’t, she was a God-fearing Christian who believed all the Bible told her. Still, a prayer couldn’t hurt and it might still her nerves.
Our Father, who art in heaven…

The rushlight spluttered out and Wilda was in the dark with sweet-smelling hay and a creaking that turned her heart. Something brushed her cheek and she leapt back with a cry. A thrashing of wings and a distinctive cawing surrounded her. Damn raven. Claws dug into her shoulder as it settled there. She tried to shoo it off, but it clung tighter and cawed in her ear, almost deafening her. Her heart hammered, her fingers like ice, her head like lead.
Raven, bird of portent
… No. No, she wouldn’t believe in the old ways, in the superstitions.

The creaking stopped and Wilda took a moment to let her heart settle. The raven dug its claws in, and then the hay in front of Wilda seemed to explode. Myldrith’s hand connected solidly, a ringing slap that stunned Wilda.

Myldrith hit out again, this time with a rope that she clung to, and grabbed at Wilda’s dress, pulling and tearing at it like a wild beast. Wilda staggered back, arms up in a futile attempt to protect herself. All the while Myldrith was screaming “Harlot! Whore!” and other things too vile for Wilda to comprehend.

The door flew open and dark figures entered, lamps held high, away from the hay. Sigdir barged past Rowena who stared, openmouthed, and took hold of Myldrith. Wilda was surprised at how gently he held her and at his perplexed frown as he stared at the rope in her hands. When he spoke his tone was soothing, cajoling, and finally she stopped her struggles. Wilda looked up at Sigdir, prepared to hate him for what he’d done to Myldrith, who had made her this way, and saw only confused concern in his hesitant movements, the set of his brow.

Rowena spoke quickly, quietly, and the concern on Sigdir’s brow grew. He cast a few words in return and cocked his head, looking at Myldrith in an odd way, as though he’d never seen her before.

“He says he only brought her for your maid, so that you would have company. He wasn’t hard with her, that he did only what men here do, what even Saxon men do with their wives. Yet she would scream and bite, no matter how he tried not to harm her. She bit his—well—you know. Any man would lose his temper. The White Christ doesn’t give his women red blood, he says.”

Wilda bit her lip against that last and the retort that sprang to mind. At least Myldrith had some fire in her then. Yet what Sigdir said was truth enough. Any woman was slave to her father or guardian and the man she was set to marry. To be bed-slave to a heathen was little different, only that it was out of wedlock, and would God blame a slave for that?

Myldrith glared up at Wilda, her hatred undimmed it seemed, and gasped out a word, one that Wilda didn’t know but that brought a shocked gasp from Rowena.

“Skækja!”

Now Sigdir was the wild man, the Devil’s child, his eyes hard and staring. Like a man possessed, the man rumour made him once again. Wilda shrank back, pulse fluttering in her throat.

“Wilda
skækja,
” Myldrith repeated, her voice a hoarse croak but slick with satisfaction at Sigdir’s reaction. “Toki.”

Sigdir whirled to Wilda, and now she was badly scared. His eyes, always restless, fixed on her unwaveringly and his hand shot out to grasp her wrist, his fingers gripping too tight, squeezing the bones till she gasped. She tried to pull away and he didn’t stop her, but his eyes burned into her, scalding her, shaming her somehow even though she was the Christian and he was the heathen…

He turned abruptly, his lips set in a grim line that Wilda found cut her as deeply as Myldrith’s outrage had. Whatever his beliefs, he was as devout in them as she was in hers. He barked an order at two of his men and they bundled Wilda out of the barn, ignoring her pleas, ignoring Rowena’s attempts to intervene. They took her to the house and thrust her down on the bench, leaving her to her thoughts, her shame, and fears about what Sigdir would do now.

Einar was ready, as ready as he could be. He’d packed what little he had and set it on Horse-Einar. The horse’s soft nose nudged at him for a treat, but he had nothing to spare so Horse-Einar had to make do with a stroke and a pat.

Einar sat by the dying fire, hoping to catch a little sleep before he left. Before dawn he would leave, they both would leave for who knew where. He dozed and strange images danced across his eyelids, of trolls and other beasts he didn’t know the names of, of the darkness beyond the village, beyond the only place he’d ever called home. Of other darkness, sent by Bausi and his seidr magic.

He knew the villages along the fjord, some little more than a cluster of houses, and they knew him. He couldn’t hope to find shelter there—all paid tribute to Bausi. Their only chance lay if he could get them out up the pass, get Wilda to the next fjord where another jarl took tribute, maybe have her find Harald King, where Einar had never been. If only he could get her out of this fjord that was home, and a weight around his heart. He could get her out, even though he must stay.

Horse-Einar stamped and shook his head with a snort, bringing Einar out of his doze. He ground the heels of his hand into his eyes, willing the fog out of his head. Two days he’d said, and tomorrow the second. It was full dark now and yet he must wait still, for the darkest time. Horse-Einar stamped again, this time with more force, his head jerking up and down. At the same time, Einar made out footsteps in the snow outside. More than one person. He went to get up, but too late.

The door banged open and Sigdir filled the space. One of the spae-wife’s threads, but was it the right one to pull?

Sigdir’s face was dark and flushed with rage and he didn’t stop but barged in, grabbed Einar by the arm and yanked him to his feet. He held them there face to face for long moments, his muscles trembling as though he held in a vast rage.

“Is it true?”

Einar almost didn’t know what to think—did Sigdir know what he was planning? How had he found out? But Sigdir’s next words made it clearer.

“Did you dishonour me with my future bride? Did she make a
skækja
of herself, a fool of me?”

Thor help me
. Sigdir shook him, and he reached for the amulet that was no longer there.

“Speak! I know you can.”

Einar couldn’t say the truth, yet to lie…a lie was worse than what Sigdir said about Wilda. A lie was an affront to Odin. But if he didn’t lie, they would both die at Sigdir’s hand. “No. It was me. She—I—it was me, not her. She’s not shamed you.”

“You made her?”

Einar couldn’t look Sigdir in the eye, couldn’t look at the sudden hurt there, something he’d long ago thought had fled his younger brother with his casual cruelties and spite.
It might not be too late for Sigdir,
the spae-wife had said. Einar began to see, to hope that she was right, that he might yet bring his brother back, even if it took a lie to keep Wilda safe in the meantime. Even if it meant that Sigdir would hate him, kill him most like. “Yes.”

Sigdir’s mouth crumpled and he bit on a lip so whatever he felt wouldn’t show. He relaxed his hold, let Einar’s feet set on the floor again and wiped his mouth with the back of his clenched fist.

“You admit it?”

Einar watched him closely, the downward twist of his mouth, the tensing of his shoulders. He knew what would come, but he was left no choice. “Yes.”

The punch wasn’t the worst of it, not the first, nor the rest. Einar took them, hunched his shoulders against them without complaint, because Sigdir was right and he had dishonoured his own brother, had known he was doing it at the time, and had done it anyway. Had he done it just to spite his own brother? To pay back years of taunts? Not just that, but it had been there, in the back of his head all the same.

No, the worst was the look in Sigdir’s eye, the knowledge that the spae-wife was right and Bausi hadn’t completely hardened Sigdir, not yet. But Einar might have, with a betrayal that he’d not known would grieve his brother so.

Wilda couldn’t sleep. She lay shivering under the blankets on the bench, her open eyes blind to the fire in front of her. What had driven Myldrith so far? Wilda knew why. Not because she’d been made to lie in a man’s bed. As a woman, she would have faced the same in any marriage, and she knew it. Maybe because she’d been denied the solace of a wedding and the social standing it would have given her. Even that—Wilda wasn’t sure that would have driven her to it, or even that Sigdir wasn’t a Christian, that she lay with a heathen. No, it was the child that had been the tipping point, Wilda was sure. A soul brought into slavery, not to be baptised, to be left adrift without the comfort of heaven to look to. That, and the bruises on poor Myldrith’s wrists.

It wasn’t just a cold bed Wilda had to look forward to—she was well used to that—but a harsh one too. She’d heard of similar among Saxon women, talked of in whispers. But then, a Saxon wife had her protection under law, could leave her husband and claim half her lands. There was no such protection here, not for thralls, maybe not for wives either. Myldrith had seen no way out, that was the truth, and Wilda was staring at the same fate. That would be her soon enough, beaten, ground down with it, with Sigdir.

Wilda shut her eyes and prayed, a blasphemous prayer.
Please, Lord, in Your mercy, send me Einar. Help me set myself free of these heathens, by a heathen’s hand.
Yet in her heart of hearts she knew. It wasn’t just that she wanted him to help her. She wanted
him,
and that was the blasphemy. There weren’t enough Hail Marys in the world for that, but she said them silently in her head anyway, her hand clasped round her crucifix. Yet the other hand held the amulet Einar had given her, a heathen charm that was warm in her hand.

People came and went, carefully avoiding her corner. Myldrith was too weak to protest much when Rowena led her to Sigdir’s room, but she had the strength to cast a sly, vicious glance at Wilda. Once she had fussed over Myldrith and made sure she slept, Rowena made her way to Wilda. She sat down at the end of the bench but seemed hesitant to say anything.

In the end, Wilda blurted out the question most on her mind. “Is it true, about him not trying her hard?”

“I can’t say for her, but with me, no, he never tried me hard, or not to start. He wasn’t rough, or no more than others have been, just expectant. Only—only sometimes he’s…” Rowena shook her head, looking confused. “Two men he is. One is just a heathen, with odd ways maybe but not a
bad
man. They have their qualities, and one of those is the keeping of their honour as they see it. We’re thralls, yes, but not much worse here than a slave in a Saxon hall. I’ve known both, and there’s not much difference. Yet at other times, Sigdir’s the man that rumour makes him, like he’s possessed by some evil spirit, by the Devil. Those are the days when you keep from his path, whether thrall or karl, man or woman. The days he spends with Bausi, those are the days to watch for, when his temper stretches and his demands become those of the Devil. He will see Bausi on this matter, to be sure.”

“What was it she called me?” Wilda could guess the gist, just from the fact Myldrith had said Toki’s name after, but she needed to know.

Rowena blushed. “A whore, or their word for it. She said you whored yourself to Toki.”

Wilda shut her eyes and said another Hail Mary. “What will Sigdir do?”

“It depends. If you went willing, you’ve dishonoured Sigdir. Oh, if Toki took you by force, then that’s no dishonour for you, or even if he seduced you, that’s one thing of a difference here. But if you went willing…”

She had, oh Lord, she’d been more than willing. “What will Sigdir do?”

“Kill him, most like. A blood price.”

Dawn was a long time coming, and Wilda couldn’t sleep. Finally, as the sky grew pale, she set to work, anything to take her mind from what Sigdir was doing, what she had done. Killed a man with herself, and not just any man.

She went out into the frigid cold of a Norse winter dawn. The sky was pearl-white, the just-broaching sun seeming rimed with frost. Snow crackled under her boots, and her breath puffed out into little clouds that turned to prickly ice-drops in a moment. The well was frozen over, again. She dropped the bucket in to break the skin and when she’d managed it, concentrated on getting it full and pulling it up. The cold bit through the rough wrappings on her hands, and her fingers were long since numb so she fumbled the rope.

A commotion across the yard disturbed the blessed silence. Four horsemen rode in, Sigdir at the head. Something was tied to his saddle, a long line of rope half-dragging in the snow behind him, and what was at the end was dripping blood.

Einar raised his head briefly, his beard tangled with blood from his nose, his cheek misshapen and purple. A yank on the rope that bound his hands and tied him to Sigdir’s horse brought him back to his knees. He looked up again and saw her watching. She began to run, her mouth already open to shout her reproof, to demand that he be let go as though she still had any authority. His fingers, blue-purple with cold, raised to his lips, a brief touch.
Silence
. Then he turned his head away, as though shamed that she should see him so.

Sigdir slid from his horse and strode toward her, his face hard and eyes glittering. He called for Rowena so that Wilda could understand him, and waited impatiently for the house to rouse. “A gift for my betrothed. The one who’s dishonoured you will not go unpunished.”

“I don’t understand.” Wilda couldn’t take her eyes from Einar, from where the warriors manhandled him into the building where the overwintering sows were kept.

“Toki’s confessed that he took you against your will, that he’s dishonoured his brother. Yet it’s no dishonour to you. It’s their way, my lady. You’re a freed woman now. Not a thrall, though you still got to do what Sigdir tells you. But free born and freed women…if a man rapes or seduces
them,
then it ain’t the woman’s fault. It’s the man who’s dishonoured her, and her house. Especially if she’s unwed, that’s a bad crime, to them. You ain’t got no house but Sigdir’s, you’re part of his house now, and he’ll defend your honour to the death if he needs to.”

The warriors came out of the pig barn, laughing crudely at something. Wilda looked up at Sigdir, at the flame-red hair, the harsh face that was softened now by something she couldn’t name.

“What’s he going to do to Ei—Toki?”

Sigdir frowned when Rowena translated the question, as though he wasn’t sure why she should ask it. “My own brother’s dishonoured me for the last time. More, he’s dishonoured you, my betrothed. I must claim for that dishonour, the dishonour to my whole house. A blood price. A killing.”

Einar struggled to get up, but balance was hard to find when one leg didn’t bend properly and your hands were tied in front of you. Finally he managed to get to a sitting position. That would have to do. It wasn’t as though he could go anywhere if he made it to his feet.

The pig barn stank, and it was all over him, their muck stinging where the skin had been taken off his cheek, and his wrists where the rope bit in cruelly, the knots pulled as tight as could be. It would take a knife to get the rope off, a knife he didn’t have. The other end of the tether was up far beyond his reach, tied to a rafter. He got his leg into a more comfortable position and waited. There was nothing else to do.

How Sigdir had known he couldn’t fathom. Surely Wilda wouldn’t have told him. So now all Einar’s choices had fled, leaving him this. Waiting for Sigdir to extract his price. Einar had nothing to give, no money, no real property to buy his pardon. And Sigdir hadn’t looked like a man willing to accept that in any case. No, this would be a blood price.

One of the pigs snuffled at the blood on his face and he shoved it away. The door opened and Sigdir came in, his face screwed up in disgust and anger. He stood over Einar and looked him up and down, making no attempt to hide his sneer.

“So, what did you do? Slip some of the spae-wife’s herbs to her? I can’t think a simpleton cripple such as you could overpower her. She need only run at a trot and you couldn’t catch her. And
why,
brother, why did you? You knew it would shame me, dishonour me. Is that why you did it? Your cowardly way of angering me?”

Einar turned his head away and kept silent. Silence was always best, he should have remembered that at the beginning, when he’d known Wilda for who she was. Silence was safety, silence was life.

Sigdir grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to standing. There was no turning away, not from the eyes that burned like ice and the hurt behind them.

“
Tell me
.”

Einar looked into his face, one so like Arni’s and their father’s except it was warped with hate and anger till all Einar could see was Bausi there. Bausi twisting Sigdir’s heart and mind, and Einar had done nothing to stop it, because he didn’t have any way to thwart his jarl or the curse he’d laid on.

Sigdir threw him down in disgust, and Einar landed with a jolt and a grunt of pain on his bad knee.

“Why was it that Arni died, and not you, eh? If he’d have lived—” Sigdir broke off with a pained look, and Einar remembered how much Sigdir had idolised Arni when they were boys, almost as much as Einar had. He’d seemed like a god to them, like Thor made into flesh, and in their eyes he could do no wrong. Yet a god that could die a meaningless, empty death on the end of his brother’s spear.

Sigdir paced, his hand stroking the hilt of his sword as though he debated using it, but the hatred seemed to have disappeared, fading away into a childlike bewilderment. Finally he stopped and looked down at Einar. “How was it that you could let him die? Not even summon the courage to
try
to help him, but run like a woman, and a milk-blooded woman at that?”

Einar couldn’t answer. Every day he wished Arni had lived. Every day he wondered why Arni had died, and he had not. What fate the Norns had woven for him. Instead of answering, he did what he always did and turned his face away.