The Viking’s Sacrifice (8 page)

Then Bausi’s men bundled him up and out into the snow.

Wilda hesitated behind Agnar as they entered Sigdir’s house. Bebba had warned her of him too well and she’d seen what he was like with Myldrith on board the ship, felt the sting of his hand herself, knew too much for her to feel anything other than dread.

Sigdir got up from the bench where he was taking his night meal, waited on by three thralls including Myldrith. Agnar spoke swiftly to him, and one of the thralls gave Wilda a quick, furtive glance of alarm before Sigdir barked an order and led the men out, save one armed warrior.

When they were gone, Myldrith hurried over and threw her arms round Wilda. It hadn’t been long, but Myldrith looked like a different girl. Her face was pinched and gaunt, her eyes haunted and her skin pale and blotchy. Wilda hugged her back, glad more than she could say that she was back with someone she knew, some reference to her former life.

The other thralls gathered round, watching Wilda carefully as though afraid, or maybe resentful. Then one smiled a little and handed her a bowl of gruel. Not much, but it was hot and Wilda was famished. She took it gratefully and they all settled on the benches under the half-asleep eye of the remaining warrior laid out on a bench against the far wall.

“He always leaves at least one to guard us,” Myldrith whispered. “These girls say he’s had too many run from him before, and—and—I would run, Wilda, no matter the snow or any of it. Lord help me, I would run to the Devil himself rather than stay.”

The other girls nodded, and in the stronger light by the fire Wilda could see the purple shadows across one’s face, the marks of a hand on Myldrith’s arm. And this devil was her master. The gruel turned to ash in her mouth.

She took Myldrith’s cold hand in hers. “We’ll get away. I promise you, as soon as we can.”

“There’s no getting away in this weather. Not for months, not till spring. Only way in or out is by the fjord, they say, and it’s a long, hard row to anywhere. Besides, once anyone sees your collar, they’d bring you right back.”

The two other thralls nodded. “One girl tried it, last winter,” the younger one said. “They found her body in the thaw. Even in summer, it’s a long way to anywhere else. The pass over the mountains is hard, and Sigdir—he sends his men after them, and when they catch them it’s worse. Some of these other heathens, they aren’t so bad. We talk to the other thralls sometimes, when he lets us, and some of them, well, they get to make money to try to buy themselves out. They aren’t beaten, or anything else, or not so much, so bad. They have to work hard is all. Sigdir isn’t like that, nor that devil Bausi. But running is hard, and just as likely to get you killed, or make things worse.”

Myldrith hugged herself, looking pitifully frail. “I don’t know how he can be worse.”

Wilda had to get away. This would be her soon, she had no doubt. Thin and afraid and hopeless. Maybe she could get Myldrith away too. “I might be able to—”

The door opened with a whirl of frigid air and a flurry of snow. The warrior on the far bench sat up as Sigdir came in and sat next to him. Myldrith ran to help him with his boots.

Sigdir watched Wilda, his eyes darting over her, lingering here and there until Wilda’s flesh began to creep with it, but she didn’t flinch. He spoke, his voice deep and brutal-sounding, with a hint of smugness. The older thrall, Rowena, translated for him in a halting, stumbling voice.

“He—he says that you are a noble lady, the thane’s wife, yes?”

“I was, until he killed my husband.”

Sigdir laughed at that and clapped his hands.

“He says, yes, and he got a fine death. But that this thane, he willed his estate to his wife—oh, my lady.” Rowena’s mouth dropped open.

The sheaves of vellum that one of Sigdir’s men had gathered in the hall, while Bayen lay dead upon the floor. The making sure she was his wife before they killed him…

“He says that your husband warned him of Saxon law, that a widow can’t be made to marry for a year after her husband’s death. That’s why he brought you here, because they’ve no such law.”

“Tell him that’s true, but because he’s taken me, the lands will be given to someone else. A relative of Bayen’s, or my brother perhaps.” God would forgive her the lie, she hoped.

Rowena translated and Sigdir stood up with a snarl. Wilda did flinch this time—her face still stung from his slap, her lip was still swollen. He was a big man, a warrior who’d shown no indication that he was shy of any kind of violence and every indication that it was his first recourse in any situation.

“Then he’ll kill them too, and install you as the rightful heir,” Rowena translated when Sigdir spoke. “And as his wife. He will protect your lands from other raiders, other Norsemen. A deal, a trade to benefit you both.”

Wilda’s hands fluttered by her side and her pulse throbbed in her throat, at both the words and at the look on Sigdir’s face. He reached out with one hand to cup her chin. She jerked away from his touch, but he gripped harder until she had to face him. His smile was hard, lips pulled back against his teeth like a snarling dog.

“You’ve no choice. I intend to have land among the Saxons, good, fertile land, so my men no longer need to raid, to die. I intend it to be yours, where I will have right to it as your new husband. I intend to wed you at Winter Nights, and I will. And you’ll be a good wife, I don’t doubt. You were a good wife to your Saxon thane, you’ll be one to me. There will be little difference. You married him for position, I marry you for the same. I’ll not try you too hard, if I get the lands I want, and a son to rule them after me. I’ll even take your collar off, make you a freed woman. Not so many rights as one of us, born free as Norsemen, and still under my protection and command, but not a thrall. I tell you all this for frankness, for honesty between us as should be between husband and wife. Call it a wedding gift.”

Wilda clenched her hands behind her back and kept her voice as icy as the fjord outside, kept her fear locked away behind it.
Survive. Be practical.
“And yet, no marriage here would be legal there. In a church, it must be. A Christian church, before God. And that would mean you being baptised, embracing God. Or this marriage will mean nothing to the Saxons.”

Sigdir planted his hand on her shoulders and shoved her down to the bench. “Don’t speak. Do not ever speak unless I permit it. I still have men at your estates, remember. It wouldn’t take long to burn it all.” Rowena’s voice was earnest as she added her own words to Sigdir’s. “Please, my lady, you should do as he says. His temper’s a terrible thing to behold, especially when he’s been with Bausi.”

Wilda bit her lip to keep what she wanted to say back, and hated herself for it. She’d spent all her adult life biting her lip, keeping it back, being the lady everyone wanted her to be. Look where it had got her—a slave to a thug, soon to be his wife.
Not now, now isn’t the time. Be practical. Wait.
She stood up and smoothed her dress with demure hands, kept her eyes lowered and said nothing.

“Better, he says. Winter Nights is only days away. You have till then to learn their tongue better, and your place.” Rowena’s face was twisted with fear as she told Sigdir’s words. “Please, my lady. It could be worse. Much worse.”

Sigdir’s next words brought that home. “You will agree, or I will make use of you as I do my other thralls, with far less freedom, and no respect.”

The thought of that brought a shudder to her spine and Wilda nodded her acceptance. There seemed little else to do for now, and at the least she would be free, or freer.

Sigdir’s face lit up, lost its scowl and took on a relaxed smile that showed the tension he’d lost with her answer. The difference quite bewildered her, but Wilda managed a smile in return, keeping her puzzlement to herself.

At Sigdir’s orders, Rowena got them bundled into cloaks and outside, where the other thralls had built a fire. One of the men returned with a sheep, which he presented to Sigdir with some ceremony. Another brought ale in two cups, one each for Wilda and Sigdir. Even the smell of it was enough to make Wilda’s eyes water.

“Ale brewed from three measures,” Rowena said when Wilda asked. “I wouldn’t drink too much, my lady, but at the least it should calm Sigdir some, later.”

“And the sheep?”

Rowena talked with one of the warriors, raised her eyebrows in surprise, and translated, “A ceremony, to induct you into their law, into Sigdir’s house. You’ll not be free as a free-born woman, you’ll still have to do as he says, and behave respectfully, but you won’t be a thrall.”

One of the warriors came and, after much tugging and what sounded like cursing, took off Wilda’s collar. Sigdir placed it round the sheep’s neck, closed it, and held out a scramasax.

“What am I supposed to do now?”

“You take the sheep’s head, my lady.”

“I do
what?
”

Sigdir’s eyes followed them carefully as Rowena explained as best she could. “The sheep has your collar now, it’s you as slave. Now you free it—you—by killing it, and your life as a thrall. Sigdir will call for Odin and Thor, Frigg and Freya to welcome you into his house, under his protection. Once he’s done that, well, you’re one of them and he’ll fight to the death to protect you.” Rowena frowned. “It’s a big thing for him to do. Like—like baptising one of them, saying they can worship in God’s house. He’s saying in front of his gods that you are a person to him, not a thrall, beneath care or notice. That he’s responsible for you.”

Sigdir held the scramasax out to Wilda again and tried a smile. He seemed eager of a sudden, less the Devil’s child than just a man of another people, different to hers, but no better or worse. Yet her face still stung, her lip still swelled. In the end, it seemed she had little choice. At least she would be free—or freer, and there was something about Sigdir’s seriousness about this, the intent look in his eyes that made her believe he meant this for what it seemed. A gesture of trust.

The weight of the scramasax in her hand took her back to the last time she’d held one, when Einar the boy had lain in blood and agony for her. She wished he was here now. Sigdir held the sheep steady in front of her as she shut her eyes and brought the knife down. It took three hard strokes before the head fell away and the men hurried to collect it and the body, to stem the blood and prepare the sheep for roasting. It shouldn’t affect her so—she’d killed sheep before, pigs, rabbits. But not like this, not for a heathen ceremony, an affront to God.

Sigdir spoke some words—she caught the names Odin and Thor in among them—a phrase oft repeated, that made a verse of scripture come to mind.
But when ye pray, use not vain repetitions, as the heathens do.
Yet he seemed so
intent
, as devout as the friars, as believing as she was, only in different gods, different practices. Blasphemous thoughts, which seemed to come with ease of late.

When the words were gone, Sigdir turned to her, solemn as a judge now. He let his gaze roam over the bruise on her face, her split lip, with something that seemed like regret and spoke through Rowena. “A matter of trust, between us. You’re now of my house, and your behaviour reflects on me. I trust that you’ll remember that, and in return know that the law now protects you. You are freed, not thrall. No man will harm you, not even me, or the law will prevail. Yet you have agreed to this marriage, and the law will uphold that too. For I will have my marriage, my land, and a son to take it after me.”

Wilda nodded to show she accepted what he’d said, and he grunted in apparent satisfaction before he jerked his head at Myldrith and made for his bed, Myldrith following meekly. Wilda and Rowena hurried inside, back into warmth and dim light. The warriors, all except one, left for a separate building where they made their beds. The one remaining came inside, stripped down to his breeches and lay down on the bench under a stack of furs. Wilda sank to a bench, her hand over her mouth. Rowena huddled next to her.

“Oh, my lady,” Rowena said. It seemed about all she was able to say for a long while. Wilda didn’t seem able to think past “his wife.” She wouldn’t, couldn’t. There would be no quiet love from this marriage, not to Sigdir. He was no God-fearing man, he wouldn’t be kind as Bayen had sometimes been. Yet she had no choice, none at all.

Finally the warrior began to snore gently and the fire died down.

“Rowena,” Wilda began. “I need to get out, I need to speak with someone. I have to go, no matter how. I can’t be married to him, I can’t. I have to run.”

Rowena sat back in alarm. “You can’t, oh, you can’t. Not even in summer, but now especially. How could you? You have to bear it, that’s all, what all women must bear. As his wife at least he must be respectful to you, at least must treat you as a person. That’s more than any Norseman need give a thrall. You have some hope, my lady.”

“No, no, I don’t, and neither does Myldrith, or you.” Wilda thought on Myldrith, at the changes in her since they’d been captured. Not just thin and frail but hopeless. That would be Wilda herself soon, if she didn’t run. Sigdir would be little different as a husband than he was as a master, she had no doubt of that no matter what he said on the law. No matter that he might be devout, he was heathen, not Christian, no mildness in him, no thought of meekness. She had agreed because she had no choice, but there was time, there was a chance, faint and frail, that she need not marry him. She would never again marry because she must.

Wilda, renn
. The words echoed down the years, from the day her life had changed forever to now. All he’d ever spoken to her, all he’d wanted from her, for her to run as she always loved to run. A man who’d stood before a murderer to save her, who’d stood before Agnar and his knife earlier. He was her only hope. “If I sneak out and back, will you look out, if I’m missed? Can I do it?”

Rowena looked bewildered. “I—I think so. But if he finds out—oh, my lady, if he finds out, our lives won’t be worth living. Why would you want to sneak out? Who would help you?”

“Because I have to. Poor Myldrith in there… If I can help her, help us all, to get away, then I have to try. And I’ll be damned to hell before I let Sigdir have any right to my lands, or me. God helps those who help themselves, isn’t that true?”