Two Ravens (9 page)

THE CITY OF YORK was by a river that emptied into the sea, and seafaring ships were anchored there, moored up in rows between the banks where sheep grazed. There were no ships from Iceland. Bjarni spoke to such of the sailors as he could find to understand him, and they told him that a Danish ship could take him home. Most of the ships were Frisian, come to load English wool. He did not find a Danish ship.

He walked back along the riverbank to the city. A great stone wall surrounded it, but the city itself had shrunk down to a few crooked streets in the middle, with a stone tower standing over them. Elsewhere were older houses, deserted and burned, and streets overgrown with brambles.

Gifu said, “The Normans came here. That’s why the tower is there. To keep order. They burned everything. There were rebels and they hanged them.”

She and Bjarni were walking along a cobbled street slimy with the excrement of dogs and goats. The buildings on either side were built out over the street, penning the air under them until it was too foul to breathe. Other people crowded by. He stretched his legs toward the place where the street widened.

Her horse was grazing where they had left it, on a hillside near the wall. Bjarni sat down on the grass. The ruins of a house covered the flat ground below him. Lifting his head, he could see another on the slope above him. There were more ruins here than living houses. The wall was old and crumbling. This had been a great place once. He sat thinking of the Normans who had destroyed it.

Gifu was rubbing down the horse with a handful of grass. She talked to it and sang to it. Bjarni rose and went over to her and said, “The sailors here tell me that I will find a ship in London to take me home.”

Busily she scrubbed dried mud from the horse’s foreleg. “Where is London?”

“At the other end of the Great Road.” He scratched the horse under the jaw and it groaned and pushed its head out, enjoying the caress. The girl crouched almost at Bjarni’s feet. He said, “You’ve come far enough, now, Gifu. You must go back to Fenby.”

She shook her head. “I am never going home. I have told you that.”

“I don’t know how far London is—I don’t know what I might find there. I can’t care for you. Go home. Take the horse.”

“My father will switch me.”

“He will only beat you once.”

She was working over the horse’s leg. The back of her neck was grey with dirt. Lice crawled in her fuzzy red hair. She said, “He will switch me every day. When he finds out I am with child, he will whip me to death.”

“By the nine howes,” he said.

She turned on him like an animal, hooking her fingers into his clothes. “Take me with you. I can’t go home. I have no place to go except with you.”

He recoiled. She smelled strongly of sweat and female humors. He pulled her hands out of his clothes and she caught hold of him again, and two dirty tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Please,” she cried.

“Gifu, I cannot take you with me.”

She wept, clutching him, and when he backed away from her she let him drag her after. He stood still, afraid of stepping on her. She wept and rubbed her face against his thigh.

“Gifu,” he said. “Stop.”

She wailed. He relented; bending down into the ripe field of her smells he lifted her and put her on the horse. He took the horse by the bridle and led it down through York toward the Great Road. She snuffled, making a great display of wiping her eyes, but he caught a glimpse of her when she thought he could not see, and she was smiling. He wondered if she had gulled him. Uncertain, he led her on down the road toward London.

* * *

THEY LEFT THE FLAT MOORS behind and traveled through a forest that seemed endless. The sky was hemmed down to a narrow strip over his head, and when the wind blew the trees rubbed their branches together, squeaking and banging, with all the leaves rustling, in a racket that unsettled him. The day after they left York, they came on a river.

Bjarni went along it away from the road. The river curved. A tree had fallen into the water just above the bend, and in its lee was a deep quiet pool. He took off his clothes and dove into the water.

Gifu sat on the bank in the sun and watched him. He scrubbed himself with handfuls of river sand. His skin tingled and glowed red under the scrubbing; light-hearted, he sang:

Bless the giant’s daughter
 

That spills you onto the ground

Gifu sat frowning at him from the riverbank. “Why do you do that—go naked in the water?”

“To get clean,” he said.

“I would never do that.”

“You will,” he said, “now.” He started toward her, pushing through water up to his waist.

She leapt up and ran toward the horse, hitched to a tree downstream. Bjarni chased her. He thought at first that she was making a game of it, but when he caught her she scratched him and tried to kick him between the legs. She bit him. She was frightened. He held her still, with one knee on her waist pinning her to the ground, and peeled off her clothes. She fought, her breath seething through her clenched teeth. Her body was still adolescent. Under her filthy white skin lay ribs delicate as a child’s. He dragged her into the water and washed her hair, picking out the vermin clustered around her nape and crown, and scrubbed her skin clean.

He let her go on the bank. Before she was dry she scrambled back into her rags of shift and dress and hose. Bjarni sat down on the grass to let the wind dry him.

“You bastard,” she shouted. “You whore’s son. I hope a snake eats you. Let the Great Snake eat you! I hope you drown. I hope you hang.”

“If you are coming with me, Gifu, stay clean.”

She called him more names and gave him more wishes for his death. Running out of wind, she stood staring at him. Her skin was like milk; her drying hair gleamed. Under her gaze he put his clothes on.

“You are not going to do anything,” she said.

He started back along the stream toward the road. She ran ahead of him to the horse and climbed into the saddle. He watched the river; among the mossy stones something gleamed at him, faded and gleamed again, a fish. Gifu’s horse crashed through the high grass after him.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were going to. You know.”

“What?”

“You know.”

The brambles tore at his clothes, his bare forearms. They reached the road, higher than the land around it.

“Why don’t you want me?” she said. “Am I too ugly?”

“I love someone else,” he said.

The horse clopped along beside him, its head lowered. She held the reins in her fists. Bjarni put one hand on the thick mane of the horse.

“The road is good here. I’ll run until I get tired, and you can ride along.”

“Who is she? Is she of Fenby?”

He broke into a run. The horse loped heavily along beside him. They went at his best pace along the road, through the shade of the trees.

THEY CAME TO A TOWN on a height of land above a little river. The plain below the town was busy with swarms of people. Booths of stone and turf stood here and there on the meadow, and people were unloading wagons and talking and making games.

Curious, Bjarni went around the field, stopping before each of the booths to look over what was happening there. He kept his hand on his wallet. In crowds there were always thieves. A boy passed him, trailing a stink of goat. The meadow grass turned swampy under Bjarni’s feet, and he veered back toward higher ground.

The stone and turf walls of the booths reminded him of the booths at Thingvellir in Iceland, where the Althing was held; but here the booths had been spread with goods for sale and show. There were stacks of cloth, and pots, iron, cheese, trays of fragrant bread, jewelry and hides and bunches of herbs, and an ale-shop. After the quiet of the road he enjoyed the noise and the jostling crowds, and here at least he understood the speech. He passed a man and a woman on horseback talking in a language he did not know, maybe Norman French. Beside an empty wagon, three young men lounged in the grass, tootling on pipes, patting a little drum. Bjarni paused to listen. A girl rushed by him, laughing, flowers wound in her dark hair.

Other young people joined them. Bjarni moved out of their way. They danced, the boys in a ring facing in, their hands joined, and the girls in a ring in the middle facing out. The dance was simple, three steps, a few kicks, and a turn; then they stopped and everyone kissed. Bjarni laughed. He went off toward the ale-shop.

Gifu reappeared beside him on her horse. He walked slowly around the field, his hand on his wallet. She followed him, her reins slack.

“See what I found.” She held out a length of green ribbon.

“Found or stole?”

She shrugged, admiring the ribbon in her hand. “I will put my hair in it. Here. Help me.” She gave him the ribbon and slid down from her saddle. Gathering her hair in her hand, she turned her back to him.

While he was fastening the ribbon around her hair, three or four horsemen rode by, shouting in French. They wore their hair long as women’s, and ribbons fluttered on their hats and full sleeves.

“Normans,” Gifu said. She patted her hair down. “They say the Jarl of Lincoln is here. Maybe the king, even.”

Bjarni was looking back at the ale-shop. The tankard he had drunk there was making him thirsty. He said, “Don’t steal anymore. You will get yourself in trouble.” He went back toward the booth, swarming with people.

Gifu led her horse after him, and he bought her a tankard as well, and two loaves. They sat on the grass watching the crowd. Normans studded it, riding, their gaudy clothes and the harness of their horses chiming with bells.

In the afternoon a sudden storm turned the plain to a mire. The last daylight dried off enough of the ground to let a dust cloud rise. Hoarding his money, Bjarni stopped drinking, fell sober, and got a headache. Night came. The people lit bonfires and danced around them. They made noisy love in the grass. Gifu left her horse with Bjarni, making him promise to watch over it, and went to join in the dancing, the drinking, the laughing. Bjarni tethered the horse to a tree and fell asleep beside it.

He woke in the deep night. Girls were singing nearby him. He sat up. A line of boys and girls was snaking around the field, holding torches and singing; the boys answered the girls. They danced off into the wood. Bjarni sat watching until they returned a few moments later. The two girls leading the parade bore a birch tree over their heads. All the branches had been cut off save a few at the top. They carried the tree all over the field and at last put it on end in the ground and fixed it fast with stones.

Bjarni slept again. When he woke, Gifu was sitting beside him, yawning. She smelled of flowers.

“Look there,” she said.

Arm in arm, a dozen young men and girls were crossing the plain toward them. They sang at the top of their lungs. After them came a creature made of leaves, strutting from side to side. Green boughs covered it from its pointed head to the ground. It wore a red cloak and a wooden crown, and as it went along it waved its leafy arms solemnly from side to side.

“The King of the Green,” Gifu cried. “Let’s go get his blessing.”

She towed Bjarni by the hand in the wake of the procession. The King of the Green circled the field behind his singing court. They passed two Normans on tall horses, who trotted forward to block the leaf-king’s way. They were laughing. The King of the Green bowed so deeply that his wickerwork frame tipped and Bjarni, behind him, saw his muddy stockings. One of the Norman knights swept off his belled hat in answer. His shining hair slid down over his shoulders. Laughing, he turned his horse and cantered away. The King of the Green did not move; he looked uncertain, sapped of his royalty. Gifu swung around, her hand on her stomach.

“I am hungry.” She glanced at Bjarni, sly, over her shoulder.

Bjarni’s stomach was empty. He touched his wallet, reluctant to spend more money. He turned the back of his head to her, saying nothing. She skipped away. The King of the Green moved off again, heralded by singers.

Gifu returned. Her sleeves bulged.

“Do you know who that was? Who met the May-King? It was the real king! It was Red William.”

Bjarni scanned the crowd. The long-haired Norman was far across the plain. He had heard odd talk of him, even away in Iceland. Gifu poked a long cake into his hand.
 

“Eat.”

He let her feed him. They walked past a woman selling milk from a bucket. Gifu’s cheeks bulged with sweet cakes.

“He went up to the May-King for a blessing, neat as a monk selling pardons.” She shook her head. “As if he deserved it. Such as him. By rights not a seed should sprout in England while he is king.”

It was true, then, what he had heard of Red William. Ahead were several shouting boys. Bjarni swerved his course to look beyond them. In the midst of boisterous people were two men sitting on a bench with their feet and hands and heads in stocks. The little mob around them pelted them with dirt and stones. He took Gifu by the arm and pulled her away.

“Where are you going?” she asked.