My fever came back of course, and I missed most of Jul. By little I grew aware of a presence in my house, and when I came to myself I saw an old man sitting on the step of my bed, staring at me. He had thick black eyebrows and a sloped forehead below his cropped white hair, and there was no valley between his forehead and his nose. I recognized him as a thrall named Caedwy, a Briton.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, hoarse.
In reply he stood up, pulled down the skin under his right eye so that I could see the crescent of red flesh beneath, and scratched his crotch with vigor.
"You're mad," I said, turning to the wall. My muscles ached.
"No use to deny it, I can tell one of the Brotherhood when I smell him," I heard him say. "How could you do the deeds you've done without you were one of us? Eh?"
I said, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"The men with the long ears. Long, long ears, like rabbits. They hear everything that's said in all the worlds, and if only we'd feed our horses on wool, they'd live to be a hundred. Iron makes a bonny pillow. When they burned men in wicker cages you could hear the screams fifty miles, and the gods were pleased. The great god shone in those days, and it didn't rain all the time like now."
Dear Lord, I thought. They've given me a Druid for a thrall, and mad to boot.
Ragna granted, when she came in to check on me, that the old man was daft, but she said he was too bent for field work and ought to do something for his feed. As we spoke he sat by my fire, picking lice out of a blanket and saying a prayer for each as he flicked it into the flame and heard it pop. I asked why I couldn't have a Christian, and she said it would breed jealousy; the priest's servant would put on airs. "Anyway, you should convert him. That's your job."
When Erling looked in I pulled the blankets over my head and pretended to sleep.
"I'd not have sold you," he said.
At first I couldn't think what he was talking of.
"In Visby," he went on. "At the time I was serious, but when I'd thought it out I knew I'd never sell a Christian priest back to the heathen. If you'd refused I'd have taken you somewhere where there was a church."
I'd known that for some time, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of saying so.
Halla came the next day. "Erling is hurt that you won't speak to him," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed with an easiness that troubled me.
"Good," said I.
"You've been like the wrath of God ever since they hanged that thrall."
I held the crucifix up where she could see it. "He made this," I said. "His name was Enda. He was about your age. He was young and rash, and he tried to better himself by stealing from his enemies. If he were Norse they'd call him a Viking and skoal him in the hall."
"So what would you? Should Erling make a law that thralls may steal?"
"He needn't hang them."
"Most men say he's too kind. They wanted the boy whipped to death."
"I'm sure Enda was most grateful as he strangled."
"Are the laws so much gentler in Ireland?"
I rubbed my eyes. "It's the whole way of things, the waste of lives, using people like cattle. Keeping them down because you know that if they get a fair chance they'll have plenty of their own to get back from you. Look at what happened to that bastard Kark."
"He murdered Haakon. You're not condoning murder, surely?"
"Olaf had sworn an oath. He saw no need to keep it to a thrall."
"The oath wasn't meant for Kark. And it wasn't meant for as craven a deed as Kark did. Kark knew that. He betrayed his lord, who'd given him gifts. Even a free man would be despised for that."
"And is Erling different? He let Haakon's enemy sail out of his hands, just because he thought Haakon was doomed and Olaf might make a better friend."
Halla stood up, her face pale. "Do you believe such a thing of Erling?"
"I don't know what I believe of anyone in this country. I thought Erling worthy of my trust. Now I wonder."
"You think like a thrall," she said, and went out.
"Perhaps I do, perhaps I do," I muttered.
Erling came to see me again soon after. He stood for a while a few feet from my bed while I ignored him.
"You're free to go," he said.
"What do you mean?" I asked, surprised into speech.
"When the spring comes and sailing's good, you're free to take the first passing ship bound for Ireland. You've repaid your price and more since you've been here. I'd thought you'd like to stay and see the thing through, but perhaps it's best you go home. If that's what you want."
Don't be generous!, I screamed inside. I don't want your generosity!
Aloud I said, "I want to see my child born."
Erling went out.
And finally came Steinbjorg, a shape in the darkness, a warmth and weight against me in bed. I could feel our baby kicking at my ribs.
"I think it was wonderful, the way you tried to save the child," she whispered, putting her arms around my neck.
It was good to be praised. I kissed her cheek.
"And afterward, when you said you were frightened for our child," she said, "that made me very happy."
I muttered something.
"And I thought, `If he loves the baby, perhaps he loves the mother, too. . . .' "
I said nothing. We lay unspeaking, with no sound but the wind and the muffled surf. I could have lied to her. I'm not sure why I didn't.
"What did Lord Erling say when you told him of the danger?" she asked finally.
"The danger?"
"To our child. Soti's threat."
"I didn't tell him."
"Why not?"
"Is he the father of the child? Is he God? Do I have to run to my master with my every fear and beg him for protection? Can't I guard my own flesh?"
Steinbjorg turned away from me. "You talk just like the thralls."
Title: | The Year of the Warrior |
Author: | Lars Walker |
ISBN: | 0-671-57861-8 |
Copyright: | © 2000 by Lars Walker |
Publisher: | Baen Books |