Bitter is the wind, p.8
Bitter is the Wind, page 8
She let out a stream of ancient Irish magic through pursed lips and muttered evil. The fear in the woman’s eyes filled her with satisfaction but did not calm her beating heart and longing to hurt her.
Vigdis screamed and struggled to free herself. “Your evil killed my child! You witch!”
Abria would not release her. Visions and emotions of the months she spent here, in fear, dread and misery, consumed her. Screams surrounded her but she could not let go. But a powerful hand covered hers, prying back her fingers and a strong arm wrapped around her and pulled her back. He held her tightly against his muscled chest. And then she heard his deep voice and hot breath against her ear.
“Abria! This is not the way! Hold back!” he ordered.
She swung her head around to look at him. Her hair fell over her face and her eyes were wild. She struggled and kicked and yelled at him in her Irish.
He squeezed her face to stop her tirade. “No, Abria!” he repeated, roughly. “This is not the way. Calm yourself.”
She heard him and his calm seeped into her. Slowly her breathing steadied.
“Are you done?” he asked, quietly.
She glared at him, anger charging through her blood.
“I shall release you and you will stand firm. Do you hear me?” He looked into her eyes, holding her there.
She swallowed hard but said nothing.
“Abria?” He gave her a hard squeeze.
She managed to give a small nod. She would do as he asked. Slowly, he released his hold on her. She felt vulnerable without him wrapped around her. Why did he make her feel this way? He stood away from her, giving her a warning glance, then turned back to Vigdis.
“Are you unharmed?” he asked.
She ignored his question, rubbing her arm. “So, she has bewitched you also. I will not have her here,” she said, sharply. “She is my property. I will rid myself of her and sell her immediately.”
Her words chilled Abria’s heart. She knew what would happen to her if she was sold to someone else as a slave and abused in every way. She would rather die.
Thorstein turned to look at her. Did he see the fear in her heart? His face was grim and revealed nothing. He would be rid of her and could get on with his life. Forget about her as just a tiresome slave. Unburdened and free, whilst she rotted in slavery or death. Worthless and cast aside. He was no protector now that he had returned to his land and home. She was foolish to have believed in him and broken that he would no longer be in her life. For just a few days, she had dared to believe he had become a friend to her foolish self. And whatever she felt, whatever she may say, her words meant nothing. Her life was ending.
CHAPTER 16
“Vigdis, may I explain,” he said, coolly. “On my way here, I took shelter with Gudrun of Dyrgaard and learnt much from her. Thorulf sent this slave girl away from here for her own safety. It shames me to know that any person here is mistreated.”
“She is a witch and full of evil magic,” spat Vigdis. “And he was besotted with her. There are many who would have wished her harm.”
“Including you,” he said, pointedly.
The silence that surrounded them was charged with tension. The big logs in the fire burnt through and crackled into ash, sending dying embers into the air. Thorstein looked about him.
“Where are the logs for the fire?” he demanded.
“Someone will get some,” Vigdis replied, vaguely. “Someone always does. Eventually.”
He sighed. “Vigdis, you should know that logs should be chopped and stacked ready every day and brought in. Stacked by the far wall.” He pointed to where a few small logs lay scattered on the floor.
The door creaked open and there was a shuffling in the doorway. Some servants had gathered, carrying food and drink and waited for orders.
He beckoned them in. “Place the food on the table for your mistress,” he ordered. “Then two of you get on with chopping wood and bring some in immediately. This fire is about to die. Bring kindling and revive it. Make haste!” He signalled to Abria. “Abria, get a broom and start sweeping this floor. Now!”
Quickly, Abria hurried to the door and grabbed a broom. His authority could not be ignored. But she listened hard to what he was saying.
“So, she is called by her name by you, is she?” mocked Vigdis. “The sooner she is sold from here, the better. A princess will bring good money.”
“She is not for sale, Vigdis,” he said, sitting down at the end of the table and pouring mead into a tankard from the leather flagon. “Here, you should eat.” He pushed food towards her.
Abria caught her breath. What was he saying? Was he saving her again? She brushed lightly with the broom so she could hear.
Vigdis looked puzzled. “What do you mean? She is my property and mine to sell.”
He shook his head and raised his tankard. “Let me correct you. My brother, Thorulf gave her to Gudrun for safe keeping and discipline until his return. She was no easier to control there as here, from what I can gather from you. But Gudrun persisted honourably with her commitment to Thorulf. However, on news of his death, she felt she had fulfilled her promise to him. It was then she told me that the girl belonged to Thorulf, not to her.” He paused to drink some mead. “He is never to return, so I offered the girl to Gudrun to sell or use as a slave to thank her for her taking her in, but she had had enough of her difficult ways and insisted I take her with me back here to Heimsgaard. The girl became my property and you no longer have sway over what to do with her.”
Abria held her breath. Her life was held in this moment.
Vigdis stared hard at Thorstein. “You cannot do this!” she hissed. “She is mine. I am widowed and everything that was Thorulf’s is mine. That Irish wench, the farm, the land. It is all mine!”
Once more, he shook his head. “No, Vigdis. I have already seen how run down and unmanaged the homestead is in the brief time I have been here. My father worked hard to establish this place…”
“And gave it to Thorulf!” she insisted. “And so I claim it!”
“It’s not going to happen, Vigdis,” he said, resolutely. “You cannot manage yourself, let alone this large homestead and care for all the people. That is clear.”
“I will not give up my rights to this farm!” she cried. “It is spoken in law that it is my claim as his widow!”
Thorstein watched her and waited for her to calm herself. He looked around the big hall. “Whom did Thorulf leave in charge here, to run the homestead when he left?” he asked.
“He left no one. He was never interested in the farming, the stock, harvesting and all that goes with it. We had bitter words and he left.” She could not hide her contempt.
Thorstein caught his breath. “So who has helped here?”
“My uncle and brothers. As much as they could but they have land of their own to manage.”
“Precisely. You have no support and are about to give birth. So I remain undeterred by your claim to this place or the Irish slave here,” he said adamantly.
“You cannot do this!” she cried. “You have no right!”
“And that is where you are wrong, madam!” He slammed his fist down on the table. “I am the elder brother and, as the eldest male child to Torbein the Bold, this farm is my rightful inheritance.”
“You gave up that right when you begged to go away to sea!” she cried. “You persuaded Torbein to give in and let you go. You broke our tradition! He gave it to Thorulf! You had no wish to farm, anymore than Thorulf did. He resented your father for favouring you. He, also, wanted to sail ships to foreign lands and fight and bring back riches.”
“The die was cast and now all has changed,” said Thorstein, darkly. “And do not think to challenge me further, Vigdis.” He raised his hand and pointed his finger at her. “I’ll not see my father’s hard work buried in the earth. Thorulf is gone. You are not fit to care for this land or it’s people. You must return to your father’s house. Or, go to the father of your unborn child. It is he who should provide for you and succour his child. That child is not of Thorulf’s loins and will not inherit my father’s legacy.”
His voice was thick with power and his eyes were filled with determination. He would not be contested. Abria’s heart was thumping. She brushed the floor half-heartedly. He was sending Vigdis away! Would he send her away as well?
“You cannot do this,” whispered Vigdis.
“Do not doubt that I can,” he said, with warning. “Make arrangements to leave this place and leave soon. I will not have your child that is not Eriksson, born on this land. You cannot ride so I will provide you with a cart and horses.”
She stood up. “You treat me badly, Thorstein Eriksson. But, then, you are his brother. Why would I expect any difference?” she said bitterly.
“I had hoped to manage this differently,” he said. “But seeing you carrying a bastard and the sorry state of the homestead, I am angered. There is much work to do to provide enough to get everyone through this winter. And how did you expect to explain your fullness to Thorulf? Rape? Or honesty that you took a lover?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You have no way of knowing how this child was conceived. And neither would have Thorulf.”
He turned away from her, swearing. “It is almost nightfall. I trust the boathouse on the far side is fit for living? I have no wish to stay in this house whilst you remain. So, make haste to leave.”
She glared at him. “You will pay for this. Your brother has left me with nothing and, if I am to leave, I demand you return my dowry.”
“You have had a good life at Heimsgaard, whatever you may feel, and nothing is owed to you,” he said, carefully. “However, I shall give it my consideration.”
“My child, Thorulf’s child, was born and died here!” she cried. “This land owes me something!”
“You put the child out! You did not want the girl child,” he growled back at her. “Another tradition I will not have practised here.”
She straightened up. “So the mighty Gudrun has spun you more lies. She, too, has been taken in by the witch girl. It is she who left her evil magic here and curses on my child and this farm! She killed my baby!” She swung round and threw her words at Abria, her eyes glistening with tears. “And you befriend her still!”
He sighed. “You gain nothing by behaving in this way, Vigdis. As I said, I shall consider some return, if not all, of your dowry. What I do with the girl slave is not your concern. Now, I shall take leave of you and speak further in the morning. I shall instruct the servants to make good the fire and clean up this place. You may retire and leave them to do so.”
“You will pay, Thorstein Eriksson,” she said bitterly. “One day.”
“Empty threats, Vigdis,” he said, dismissively. “Make ready your preparations. It will soon be dark. Come, Abria. Gather the weapons from the door and follow me.”
He stepped past her without a glance and ducked out of the low door. She hurried behind him, picking up the bow and quiver. She looked once more at Vigdis but could find no compassion in her heart for her plight.
“Get out, wench!” she snapped. “And take your witching ways with you!”
CHAPTER 17
He was halfway across the enclosure and she had to run to catch up, slinging the bow over her head and clutching the quiver full of arrows. He stopped to talk to loitering servants. His voice was stern and soon they were grabbing shovels and brooms and began to clear the yard of the mud and horse muck. She held back, knowing they would recognise her, even in her new clothes. These were not the clothes of a slave and she had become a hunter with weapons slung around her.
He heard her shuffle behind him and looked at her. “Get over here, Abria,” he ordered. “And you others, get on with the work I have given you.”
She could feel their eyes watching her. How had she gained favor with the elder son of Torbein? Had he told them of the death of their overlord, Thorulf? He led the way between the store huts and took the path down to the fjord. Down the path, she could see the old boathouse by the water’s edge.
Leaping up the wooden steps, he released the locking bar, wedged tightly across the door. She stood at the bottom of the steps and waited. The water lapped on the nearby rocks. He flung open the door and beckoned for her to follow him into the dim light of the boathouse.
The air was heavy with the mustiness of old wood. Dust covered benches and cobwebs hung in the corners. The old log boathouse had been changed into a simple lodge. Maybe for fishermen or forest hunters to shelter in. She held back at the door and watched him.
“This is a fine place, Abria,” he said as he walked around. “But we have work to do. Until the long house becomes mine, we shall stay here.”
She held her breath. He meant for her to stay here with him? But why had he not left her with the other slaves, back where she should be? He had said nothing on what he would do with her. All she had was hope in her dreams that he would not destroy her and force her to always be a slave.
“Am I staying here?” she dared to ask.
Turning to look at her, he looked surprised. “Of course. Where else?”
“I am a slave,” she said the hated words quietly. “You should leave me as a slave. That is why I am in your country.”
“This is your country, Abria,” he said, gently. “This has to be your country. You know you cannot return to your homeland.”
His words—the truth of them—broke her heart, one more time. She bowed her head, fighting off the tears.
A moment later, she felt the warmth of his arms around her. It felt strange to be held so closely and to be comforted.
“Hey,” he said, softly, stroking her hair. “Where’s Abria, the strong and powerful?”
Tears caught in her throat. “I don’t know where I fit here or how to fit,” she said. “I will never feel my place here.”
“One day, you will. Just keep trying,” he said.
“Why are you kind to me?” she asked, looking up at him, searching his face. “Why don’t you be rid of me, forget me?
“I told you before. I’ve got used to you being near,” he said, shortly.
She shook her head. “After so few days? It does not make sense. I give you nothing.”
He held her away from him. “You have been my travel companion. Maybe that is it.”
“That’s not enough reason to befriend me as you have and bring me here,” she said.
He sighed. “Too many questions. I have yet to decide what to do with you. I made a promise to keep you safe so, for now, I have to protect you from Vigdis and others who wish you harm.”
She began to speak but he silenced her. “Enough! We have work to do,” he said firmly and stepped aside. “I must chop some wood and get the fire going. Look for some oil lamps in the cupboards. There should be some whale oil stored there. Someone will bring us food and mead. We shall eat once we have a good fire going.” He strode over to the door. “And,” he added, turning to her, “do not let the weapons out of your sight. Store them safely.”
She wanted to press him more, but he was already gone. Looking around, she wondered how long it had been since someone had been here. Everything was gray and dark without the life of a fire burning constantly in the hearth. There were piles of animal skins on the benches and platforms. The hearth was filled with old ash and the big log supports were blackened with old smoke.
The only light there was, was struggling through the blocked smoke hole in the roof but she was growing accustomed to the gloom. Stacking the bow and arrows against the door post, she walked over to the hearth and found some ash paddles and began to scrape out the old ash, spreading it on the floor to draw out the dampness. A few logs remained nearby and she piled them near the hearth, ready to burst into orange life when Thorstein captured the flames.
Stretching up, she moved over to the bed platform and pulled off an armful of skins, dragging them out of the door and throwing them up into the air. They fell with a thud and clouds of dust puffed out. One by one, she picked them up and shook them vigorously, trying not to breathe in the pungent dust. In the distance, she could hear the rhythmic sound of an axe falling on wood.
She looked away to the forest edge and saw Thorstein, his tunic ripped off, raising the axe and pulling it down hard, splitting the logs. Sweat glistened on his torso in the low sunlight, marking every hard muscle as they rippled with swinging the axe. In the ruggedness of the rocky fjord side and the green darkness of the stalwart forest trees, he was a natural vision of strength and unexpected desire. She held her breath for a moment and watched him, savouring the warmth she felt, breaking through her bleakness. He looked part of this country’s beauty. Muscles, with the rock-hardness of the mountains, rippling like the lapping waters of the fjord, his hair blown by the wind like the fronds of the trees.
She heard voices and swung round. High up on the track, servants were coming from the farm, carrying food and pitchers. Hurriedly, she gathered up the skins and scrambled back into the boathouse lodge. Dropping them in a heap on the nearest bed, she hurried to her weapons, clutching them to her and hid low in the gloomy shadows at the back of the lodge.
The voices grew louder and they came in. Abria’s heart was thumping but she stayed still. There were four of them. She tried to catch what they were saying. They were whispering and looking around, leaving the food and drink on the crude wooden table. A rat ran over her foot, squeaking wildly, and she gasped. She must have disturbed its nest. All eyes turned towards her hiding place.
They moved towards her and ducked down, peering behind the big log support.
“Here she is!” one exclaimed, seeing her face in the shadows. “The Irish one and she has weapons! How did you get those, Irish one? Have you bewitched the great Thorstein Eriksson, the Wolf of the Night?”
Abria trembled and her lips began to chant the ancient words of her ancestors to protect herself. She drew back further in the shadows, clutching tightly to her beautiful bow.
