Éire’s Captive Moon (18 page)

Until his healer rose to her feet and shouted at her countryman before running headlong from the longhouse.

Chapter 13

Smoke wound up through the hole in the roof of the long, wooden house. The rich aroma of roast mutton still curled through the air, reminding Cowan Kingson—as he had been introduced here—of the meal he had just eaten, in company with his master, Tuirgeis, and Olav, his host. Weapons were braced against the far wall, blades and spear tips reflecting the orange of the fire. Furs lined the platforms that were constructed on the far end of the dwelling. Wooden beams gave way to the smoke hole, shields hung on the walls, and the Jarl’s wife, son and daughter were sitting on the edges of other bed platforms, listening to the report on the raid of Cowan’s homeland.

The pain of hearing the recounting of that awful day so many weeks ago was sharper than Cowan had expected, even if he did not understand every word.

They were at the home of Jarl Olav, a personage that Cowan could only describe as the local king. Tuirgeis, though, had told him that
Nordweg
did not have a king, but there were lords. A Jarl was an overlord, with the power to make war if he were strong enough.

Tuirgeis had told him more as well. After they had seen to the Northmen who had gone on the raid, Tuirgeis had gathered the slaves and gold to present to his lord, Jarl Olav. He had already apportioned some out to his most trusted warriors and sold one slave, Bran, from the monastery.

Jarl Olav nodded when the tale had been told. “You’ve done well, Tuirgeis,” he pronounced. With a wave of his hand, the lord indicated a large leather sack, filled with coins and golden jewelry. “For you and your sons. Next year, though, bring back more
trells
. We could use more here to help with the livestock. We are in need of our young men to prepare for war.”

Tuirgeis acknowledged both the gift and the instruction with a nod of his dark head. “So you have had word since I went away. We had suspected it, but you are now sure.” It was not a question, except in a slight inflection toward the end. Cowan pressed his lips together as he translated the words and their significance.

The Jarl slapped his hands on his thighs. “We think that Vigaldr will be raiding here before the winter.”

Cowan listened carefully, thanking God that he had been blessed with a gift for acquiring new languages. Jarl Olav stroked his beard, rising to pace. Olav was a man of middle height but his voice was deeper than the deepest well on Éire, Cowan thought. The overlord wore clothing woven of rich red
wadmal
, a felted wool that allowed the passage of air but also served to keep one warm when needed. His hair was silvered brown, long and thick, braided at the temples. While he took his slow, measured steps in his great hall, the Jarl spoke to Tuirgeis again. “I want you to oversee the warrior training in Balestrand, Tuirgeis.”

Cowan watched as his master rose to his feet, cradling a cup of warm mead in his hand. “I am always happy to be of service, lord, but are you sure I should be the one?”

“
Ja
. You have their respect.” At Tuirgeis’s look of surprised gratification, Olav elaborated. “I do listen to the people, Tuirgeis. The skein of my life has led me to this position, and Odin has made it clear to me whom he wants to have fight. I consulted the village
völva
, and she said that Thor has chosen you and yours to lead in case of battle.”

Cowan did not know what a
völva
was, but he did understand that a battle was forthcoming.

He was not sure what his role would be though. He was a slave, and he had not been allowed to carry more than a knife on his own. Would he be allowed to fight? Would he want to? Is that why God in his Heaven had allowed him to be captured?

It didn’t feel quite fitting to Cowan, son of Branieucc. He decided to bide his time and wait to see what each day brought him. For now, he was to be a translator. That much he knew.

Cowan was allowed to sit in a far corner of the Jarl’s house. He heard the others talk about affairs that had taken place while Tuirgeis was out raiding, but the names washed over Cowan like small, slippery fish. He thought he should remember them, but he could not summon the energy to concentrate anymore. It had been a day full of many tiring impressions, from the morning view of the green land, to the controversy with Agnarr’s bride-to-be, the long hike to Jarl Olav’s home, and now the informational meeting.

This, and Cowan decided his mind was extremely tired from translating all day.
When will this become easier? Will I ever hear my native tongue again?

Thinking of Éire and his people, Cowan instantly imagined Charis. He saw her as he had last seen her, arms heaped high with battle arms and clothing. How was she doing this evening? Did she know what her status meant yet?

Cowan frowned a little as he dwelt on her. The laws she held said she was now wed to her captor, for as long as that man could hold on to her.
But look how far we are from home, Lord God,
Cowan thought, closing his eyes and leaning back against the warm wooden wall behind him. He could smell the herbs in the air, left over from the roasted mutton cooked earlier that night, and the aroma reminded him of Charis. He could see her hair, reflecting the light of the full moon and the way her pale eyes would flash with temper and pool with sorrow.

He knew what she would be doing tonight. Cowan tried ineffectually to shut his imagination to the pictures. But would her face be battered? Would her clothing be torn? Or would she succumb meekly to her new role . . . as he had done himself?

Cowan felt his face crinkle in a smile and silent, derisive exhalation. Charis? Succumb meekly to anything? Not by all the verses of the Blessed Patrick.

He sat up suddenly, feeling over-warm and disconcerted. Why? He came from a lusty, passionate family. There were few secrets in Éire, in a large family, where a lad’s parents frequently enjoyed each other. Cowan had met many men from all over the peopled lands. Franks, Spaniards, Moors, Germans, and Slavs. He had heard them speak with laughter and explicitness about the ways of men and women in their native lands. The men and women of Éire were more naturally open about sex in and out of the marriage relationship than many other peoples, and Cowan had accepted that. It normally did not discomfit him in the least. What was different now?

“Kingson.”

Tuirgeis’s voice jostled Cowan from his reverie, and the islander shook his head and concentrated to focus again on his master. “
Ja
?”

“My bags there. Carry them. We’re going home.”

Charis had no room in her thoughts for anything save the disgusting, horrid, heart-rending “verses” that lying, twisted-tongued monk had “sung” in Agnarr’s hall.

“Oh, that I were a man and could rip out his heart! Would that I could tear him apart and feed him to the boars!”

The monk, Bran, had begun by singing a lay that was attributed to one of his holy men, a man called Colm Cille, who had died far away for disobeying his church. Charis held no anger toward this Colm Cille; he had never harmed her and had, from what she had heard, stood up for the Island’s way of worshiping their god over the ways of the men of Rome. As far as the healer was concerned, this indicated the man was intelligent, even if he had persisted in this Man-God worship.

The lay was short; Charis had heard it before and managed not to roll her eyes. It was traditional and spoke more of the love of Éire than of the monk’s god. But then—oh, then!—Bran had added another verse onto the usual two, calling down the wrath of his god upon “unnatural” relationships such as a plural marriage, as her own had been.

How dared he? How dared that lying, squint-eyed, skin-and-bone excuse for a man speak ill of her men? Unnatural? Men living without a woman was unnatural. Not marrying all one’s life was unnatural. Yes, and so it was.

“Unnatural,” she spat, kicking up a stone that had been lodged in the light earth near the dwelling where Agnarr lived.
Oh, if I only had a spear!

The rock had not hurt her booted foot, but she had kicked it with enough force to hit a wooden post of the nearest structure with a hollow sound. The sound reminded her that she was in a settlement surrounded by strangers. What if she had hit a person instead of a post?

“Well, if it had been Agnarr, that would have been fine with me,” she muttered to herself.

But no, she had a revenge planned out for her captor and the murderer of Devin and Devlin that would be much more appropriate than a quick death by a head injury.

She stood then, pulling her temper back as if it were a wild creature on a tether. Back, back, deep inside herself. Already, here in this northern place, she could feel a bite to the wind. Winter would not be far behind. She was Agnarr’s wife until she could get away, but escape would not be possible before the green time of spring, when she had had a chance to prepare for a long, long journey. She would need food, clothes, weaponry, and she would have to learn the language of the Northmen. It would take all winter.

Until then, Charis said to herself with a nod, she would have to be strong. Strong for the children she had left behind, whom she hoped to see again. Strong for her men.

That decided, she shook herself and took a deep breath. The air was clear. Salt wafted over her, reminding her of home with a pain so deep that it went almost beyond her knowledge. Almost.

She could be strong. She was a slave; that much she understood. Fine. She could do anything, bear anything, for one winter. Surely she could.

Prepared to be shouted at or beaten, Charis ground her teeth together and turned to go back to the longhouse. She was met by her captor, his huge silhouette filling the door’s opening into his home.

“Eir,” he said, sounding surprised.

“
Ja
.”

“You did not leave.” It was a statement, but she felt as if he had questioned her. She just shook her head. He nodded and held out his hand to her. “It is time to sleep. Come in.”

She followed, once again reminded that he was the only person she knew here. He kept her by his side as he bade farewell to his companions, and even to his betrothed, that sly-faced girl. To Bran, the monk, Agnarr said nothing. Charis was unwillingly pleased about that.

When all had left the house save the brothers and mother, Agnarr took her to a long platform covered with furs and skins. A bed, but not filled with straw and rushes as she was accustomed to. Still, it was far superior to the deck of the boat.

“I sleep here?” she asked, trying to be polite. He had not retaliated or punished her when she had likely shamed him before his guests; she had to be grateful.

“
We
sleep here,” Agnarr told her. His voice was firm, but somehow tender. The heat in his hand as it encircled her arm told Charis he expected to do far more than merely sleep.

“No!” She hissed in a breath. “I will not.” The red glow of coals from the banked fire etched his face in an otherworldly manner, but Charis tried not to be overset. “I will not,” she repeated more clearly in his tongue.

He shook her once, with purpose. “You are my
leman
,” he told her, “and so you shall.”

“
Leman
?” There was that word again, that she didn’t truly understand.

“My,”
something
, “Eir.”

“Your
kvinn medisin
?” Was that what it meant? It would make sense. She nodded in agreement. “Of course I am your
leman
. I serve brothers and mother.” Until spring, she added to herself. Only until spring.

Agnarr chuckled, surprising her. “No,” he told her, pushing her easily to the fur-covered platform. She glanced briefly around and saw that the brothers were settling under the furs on other platforms, and that Gerda had disappeared behind a cloth draped in front of yet another one. “You are my
kvinn medisin
, yes,” he said, “but you are also my
leman
and only mine.”

Agnarr did not explain further with words that she did not understand. Instead, he pushed her hair back from her face and began unlacing her cloak. Cold that had nothing to do with the chilling air started to gather in her stomach. He could not mean this, could he? He had not taken her again, after that one time on the boat. Surely his curiosity had been satisfied. His sense of possession, or whatever motivated him, must be accomplished by now.

She remembered when he had taken her on the ship. He’d been rushed, as if it were a duty to be seen to, no more. She had fought, fiercely, but he had overpowered her as if she weighed no more than a child. She knew the change in his male smell. Knew what it portended, and she stiffened, reaching for the apron that he had taken from her. “
Né
!”