Chapter Twelve
The rocky shoreline receded from view. Already it was no longer possible to discern the figures of Merewyn, Mathios, and Rowena waving from the harbour. The trio had accompanied them to the jetty and bade them farewell as Bowdyn, Nyle, and Kristin readied the knarr for the first stage of their expedition, the rough crossing over the North Sea to England.
Bowdyn stood at the helm and shaded his eyes, struck by the majestic, rugged beauty of this land. The first time he viewed it from the sea he had loathed the Norseland with a passion so deep it actually hurt. Now, his emotions were much more mixed on leaving these shores.
Nyle came to stand at his right side, and Kristin took her place on the other. Together they watched the narrow smudge on the horizon blur into the haze.
“That is a sight I so often longed for,” Bowdyn murmured, to no one in particular. “To know that I would be leaving this place, though back then I hoped never to return.”
“But you will return.” Kristin looked up at him, her lovely features troubled. “Merewyn would be heartbroken were you to never come back.”
He wrapped his arm about her shoulders. “Aye, we shall be back, and not just for Merewyn though I confess I would miss her too. And that Viking of hers.”
“We will see you safe home, if that is what you fear,” added Nyle.
“You had better,” she snapped. “You are my crew and I do not expect you to abandon your responsibilities on my vessel on a whim.”
“Your crew,” growled Bowdyn, dropping his hand to rub her bottom through the thick clothing she wore against the squalls and drizzle of the inhospitable North Sea. “I believe we may need to discuss that in greater detail.”
“Let me be,” she hissed. “This is my ship, and—”
“Our ship,” corrected Nyle, “though our Viking does have a point, brother.”
“I know. I was teasing her.” Bowdyn lifted his arm to encircle her shoulders again, conscious that out of the longhouse, and most particularly out of the cocoon of their shared bed, Kristin was as much master here as either of the Celts who accompanied her. “We are partners by day, lovers by night. Yes?”
Kristin let out a sound somewhere between a snort and a cough, which Bowdyn now recognised as a uniquely Viking vocalisation roughly equivalent to ‘yes, perhaps, but do not test me further on this.’
At the stern of the knarr their only other companions on board, a gnarled and very experienced sailor called Starkad and his nephew, Geir, toiled to raise the sail that would hasten their passage. They had foregone oars in favour of sail, partly to free up more cargo space, partly because none of them really had much appetite for rowing. They were therefore dependent on the fickle wind, but Mathios had assured them that Starkad was adept at catching even the slightest whiff of a breeze and wringing what motion might be had from it. He had mastered Mathios’ dragon ships on more raids than the chief could count and was absolutely reliable. Starkad could navigate these seas blindfold, had merely to raise his nose to the air and inhale in order to forecast the weather for days ahead. Despite his advancing years, the man could haul a sail or an anchor with the strength of a warrior half his age, though just in case extra brawn might be required his nephew had been brought along too. Geir was built like a mountain, and though not especially sharp witted, the man had a pleasant disposition and seemingly boundless enthusiasm for their adventure. Starkad grumbled constantly about the clumsy pup under his feet, but the two worked well enough together.
A knarr of this size would usually require a crew of four or five but Bowdyn and Nyle would do their share. Kristin, too, she insisted. It was enough, and Bowdyn now appreciated the relative privacy offered by their arrangement. In the unlikely event that Starkad might find it needful to form an opinion on the unconventional relationship between those for whom he worked, Bowdyn was confident he could be dissuaded from voicing it. Geir, too.
Yes, he thought as the sail caught, billowed and opened to send their small craft leaping forward over the waves, yes, we shall all get along very well indeed.
* * *
They were three nights at sea. Bowdyn, Nyle, and Kristin spent those nights huddled together for warmth beneath an oiled hessian sheet to keep off the cold, fine drizzle that never seemed to cease and could work through their clothing to their very bones. Bowdyn and Nyle insisted on doing their share of the night watches along with Starkad and Geir. All four men agreed that Kristin should not be left to manage the ship alone when they all slept. She quarrelled with them over that, but lost.
Starkad took first watch, then after a few hours he woke Bowdyn to relieve him. If he considered it strange to find the Celt wrapped in the arms of their Viking lady he did not say so, nor did he mention the presence of that same Celt’s brother on her other side. Bowdyn grumbled a bit, but he rolled from the warmth of their bed and did his duty at the helm.
The presence of the other two men did dampen their sensual ardour somewhat, though Bowdyn found it almost as delightful to master their little Viking with his kisses and better acquaint himself with Kristin’s curves beneath the protective covering of wool, leather, and cotton. He groaned out loud when her small, cold hand found its way into his trousers and coaxed his cock into spending beneath the cover of their makeshift shelter. She was as voracious as either of them, it would seem, once her inhibitions had been set aside. Bowdyn had the distinct impression she’d left any such barriers behind at Agnartved.
Within the necessary confines of the knarr the intimacy between the three of them might be restrained but their shared passion grew and flourished unabated. It simmered, emerging in the swift, secret looks they exchanged, the brief brush of a hand, the soft caress of a stolen kiss.
It was on their third day at sea when Starkad pointed out the Shetland Islands, just visible through the mist. “We shall see Orkney by sunset,” he announced, “then we shall keep the Scottish coast in sight till we reach England. You will recognise the spot we seek, will you, lad?”
Bowdyn nodded, though in truth he was less certain. He had never viewed his home from the sea, and even if he had, it had been three years since last they were here. Their farm at Cynwrig could not be seen from the beach, but he felt he would surely recognise the rocky outcrop, the spot where, he gathered, Mathios’ longship had run aground, trapping him and his men there over the course of the winter. Starkad had not been with Mathios then so could not find the location himself, though he had consulted carefully with Olav and seemed confident. Nyle, too. They would manage.
It was their plan to visit the farm, assess the damage wrought by the year or so of neglect since Merewyn, Mathios, and the Vikings had left, spend some time at the graves of their parents, then determine what was best to be done.
Neither he nor Nyle had mentioned the possibility of returning to work the land that was theirs.
They passed Orkney, also shrouded in mist, then caught occasional glimpses of the east coast of Scotland as their knarr ploughed on, heading south.
“See there?” Starkad pointed to a building on a rocky island. “Lindisfarne. Rich pickings to be had at the abbey, I am told.”
“You have been there?” Nyle’s tone was sharp and Bowdyn well understood why. The only reason a Viking would have to visit a remote monastery and abbey would be to plunder and rob.
“No, not me.” The weathered old Norseman gave them both a gap-toothed smile. “I’ve known plenty who have, though. South of Lindisfarne is England. Weather permitting, we should be at your beach sometime tomorrow, soon after daybreak, so you’d best be keeping your eyes open.”
Bowdyn did, but even so, it was Nyle who first spotted the line of rocks snaking out from the sandy beach.
“There,” he cried. “There. That is it!”
Bowdyn screwed up his eyes and peered at the shoreline. “Is it? I’m not sure… Yes!” He grabbed his brother and hugged him. “See, that stand of trees at the top of the cliff? That is where our mother collected her herbs. And that narrow path leading down to the beach? We used to race down there…”
“And you cheated, always started before I was ready.”
“Brother, you would never be ready. I merely—”
“Be quiet, the pair of you.” Kristin linked her arms through each of theirs. “It is good to be back, I daresay.”
Bowdyn was not certain that he would have described it thus, but he acknowledged the sentiment with a grunt.
Starkad dragged on the sail, angling it so that the small craft bobbed neatly into the natural harbour of the beach. The knarr lacked the shallow draught of a longship so could not be dragged right up onto the sand but the old seaman was able to navigate it quite close to the shore. Bowdyn peered over the side when Starkad hurled the anchor overboard and saw that there were five or six feet of water under them.
“We’ll be getting wet,” he announced.
“Looks like it,” Nyle agreed. “Shall we be getting on with it, then?”
Bowdyn leapt over the front of the knarr first, to land in water chest deep. He held up his hands to Kristin. “I can’t keep you completely dry, but at least you won’t need to swim.”
“I can manage,” she retorted, though her expression lacked conviction.
“No need.” Nyle scooped her up and before she could squeak out further protest he had leaned over the side to deposit her in Bowdyn’s arms.
“Odin’s balls, ‘tis cold!” She flung her arms around Bowdyn’s neck and clung on as though she feared she was about to drown after all.
“Such language,” he chuckled as he waded through the water toward the beach he found he remembered so well. “You have clearly been at sea too long and require a spanking to sweeten your tongue somewhat.”
She had the good sense not to argue further. Moments later he deposited her on the soft, sloping sand, her skirts dripping wet but the rest of her dry enough. Nyle splashed ashore behind them, followed by Geir. Starkad would remain on the knarr.
Bowdyn led the way up the beach and into the trees that ringed it. Neither he nor Nyle spoke. There was nothing to say. They made their way along a worn path that they could have negotiated with their eyes closed, it was so familiar. The way was not especially overgrown, and they soon reached the clearing where their childhood home still huddled in the lee of the hillside.
Wisps of smoke drifted from the roof, escaping between the rafters. Someone had lit a fire within. Outside, the barn looked to be in decent repair, three goats were tethered in the meadow, and chickens scratched at the earth.
“Is that a cow in the pen? And crops in the fields?” Bowdyn scanned the scene before them, taking in the homey details that all amounted to the same conclusion.
“Someone is living here.” Nyle spoke the words Bowdyn was thinking.
“Looks like it.” Bowdyn’s tone hardened. “We shall pay them a visit.”
“Oh, yes,” breathed Nyle, his tone ominous.
“Wait.” Bowdyn held up his hand. “We do not know who is there, friend or foe.”
“We shall soon find out,” his brother observed.
“There is nothing to be gained by seeking trouble.” He turned to Kristin and Geir. “You two wait here, under the cover of the trees whilst Nyle and I approach the cottage. If whoever is in there sees a bunch of Vikings approaching they are likely to come out fighting. I know we would have.”
“But we—”
Bowdyn silenced Kristin with one upraised finger. “Nyle and I may be mistaken for Norsemen since we are now dressed in that style and carry Norse weapons, but we still have the appearance of Celts. You two… well, no one would mistake you for other than Vikings. It is best you remain out of sight until we have established that we mean no one any harm.”
“Are you sure we do not?” Nyle’s expression was grim. “This is our land. Our home.”
“It was abandoned,” reasoned Bowdyn, for once the cooler headed of the two. “We should talk first, then, if it comes to blows…”
“We will not leave you to fight alone,” Kristin asserted.
“If we need help we will call for it. Geir, you will come to our aid. You…” he fixed Kristin with a stern gaze, “you will remain hidden, whatever happens. We do not want you put at risk.”
“But—”
“Do I make myself clear?” Bowdyn was not to be shifted on this point. They had accompanied Kristin in order to protect her, not have her rushing to join them in a fight, armed only with her puny dagger. “If we are attacked, Geir will come out, and you will run back to the knarr to summon Starkad.”
Her expression was mutinous. Bowdyn cupped her jaw in his hand. “Your safety is important to us. It is our responsibility to take care of you, so you will obey us in this matter. I will have your word on it, Kristin.”
Her lips flattened in annoyance. It was an expression he knew well enough. Bowdyn arched one eyebrow. “Your word, if you please.”
“Oh, very well.” She folded her arms and stepped off the path and into the shadow of a large, spreading oak tree. “But we will be watching. At the first sign of trouble…”
“…Geir will come forward, his sword at the ready. You will go that way.” Bowdyn jerked his thumb in the direction they had just come.
Kristin did not reply. The matter was settled.
Bowdyn, his brother at his side, advanced toward the tiny cottage he had once called home.
“Wait. Look.” Nyle halted and grabbed Bowdyn’s arm. He pointed to something that had caught his eye over to the right of the dwelling.
“Graves,” breathed Bowdyn. “Come. We should…”
Nyle simply nodded and together they approached the burial site.
“It must be them.” Nyle stood, his head bowed. Bowdyn too. They surveyed the final resting place of Connell and Ronat of Cynwrig.
“These graves are well tended,” Nyle observed. “Someone has cleared away the weeds and planted some daisies.”
“Perhaps Merewyn did this,” Bowdyn wondered.
“No,” Nyle said. “Or if she did, someone has been here since and cared for them. See, the earth is freshly tilled just here…”
“Hey, you! What are you doing there?” An angry shout rang out. The brothers spun around to see three Celt males aged between perhaps sixteen and twenty summers advancing toward them. Each brandished a makeshift weapon—a pitchfork, an axe, a shovel. In fact, Bowdyn was fairly certain he recognised that shovel, he’d laboured over it often enough in his youth. “We’ve had your sort here before an’ we’re not afraid to fight. We’ll defend what’s ours,” the tallest of the Celts shouted, hefting the axe by way of demonstration.
“That’s right, so you can get back in that boat of yours and fuck off,” was the advice of the lad with the pitchfork. “There’s no pickings to be had, not here.”
Bowdyn and Nyle moved closer together and reached for their swords. Including Geir, they were evenly matched and Bowdyn contemplated fighting it out. They all had good Viking blades to draw on, and Olav had trained them well enough.
“I know him,” murmured Nyle, “the big fellow with the axe. Isn’t that Millar, one of Old Alfred’s sons?”
“Grandson,” Bowdyn replied under his breath. “But yes, you’re right. And the others are his brothers; Tod, the youngest one, and Fitch is the oldest.”
“What are they doing here?”
“I suggest we ask them.” Bowdyn took a pace forward, a move greeted by more warning shouts from his three adversaries. He held up his hands to show he did not brandish a weapon. “Hold, we are not here to rob. ‘Tis Millar, is it not? And here are your brothers, Fitch and young Tod.”
The man with the axe narrowed his eyes. “We told you to get out. Go on, fuck off…”
“We’ve as much right to be here as you do. More, even. But we’re not here to rob or to destroy. We want to talk.” Bowdyn had never fancied himself much of a diplomat, but he would try. He had no wish to provoke further bloodshed on this land.
“What’s to talk about with a bunch of thieving Vikings?” the man with the pitchfork chimed in.
“We are not Vikings. We are Celts. Like you.”
“She’s no Celt,” retorted the axe man, eying Kristin who had unhelpfully come running out from the shelter of her oak tree and now stood behind them, her dagger drawn. Bowdyn cursed under his breath and added that to the list of misdemeanours to be dealt with by the application of one of those fine switches he knew were to be had hereabouts.
“She is our companion and means you no harm.” He turned to address Kristin. “Sheathe your dagger. There is to be no fighting here.”
She obeyed, but that would not be sufficient to avert the punishment in store.
“What about that one?” The man with the axe had spotted Geir who hovered on the edge of the trees, clearly at a loss as to what he should do following this unexpected turn of events.
“Another companion, also harmless.” Thank the heavens Geir had not joined in the rush and followed Kristin, his sword in his hand. That could not have been explained and they would even now be fighting for their lives. “He will remain where he is,” Bowdyn assured their suspicious adversaries.
“How many more of you are there?” demanded the axe man.
“Just one. He remained with our boat.”
“How do we know there ain’t a hundred of you cutthroats waiting in the forest, ready to attack us as soon as we put down our weapons?”
“You have our word on it. We are Celts, not Vikings.”
“He is telling the truth.” The smallest man in the trio, perhaps four or five years older than the other two for all his diminutive stature, spoke at last. He set down the shovel and advanced to Bowdyn, his hand outstretched. “I remember you. Bowdyn of Cynwrig. And Nyle too. You were Connell’s boys.”
Bowdyn took the proffered hand. “We still are Connell’s boys and this is our land.”
Millar and Tod stared at each other, then at the newcomers, their confusion evident. “But, we thought you were dead, or worse. Carried off by those savages.”
“We were taken, yes, but as you can see, we are far from dead.” Bowdyn offered his hand to the younger brothers also, as did Nyle. Bowdyn turned his attention back to the graves. “Our parents?”
“Yes,” confirmed Fitch. “Connell and Ronat. Your sister buried them, but later she, too was taken.”
“We know. She is wed to a Viking now.”
From the incredulous looks exchanged by the trio of Celtic farmers, Bowdyn would not have surprised them more had he flapped his arms and taken to the air. “Is she…? I mean, you are…?”
“You have returned to reclaim your land.” Fitch stated the obvious.
“Yes,” agreed Nyle. “This is our land. You do not dispute it?”
The younger men might have done so, but Fitch shook his head. “No, ‘tis yours all right. Our own farmstead became too overcrowded and this place was empty, so…” He shrugged. “Seemed a pity to let it go to waste.”
That did, indeed, seem fair enough to Bowdyn. And looking about he had to admit that these three had tended the place well enough. “It was you who cared for our parents’ graves, then?”
“Of course. They belong here, it seemed only right.”
“We are indebted to you for that.” Bowdyn glanced at the youth who now stood at his side. “And Old Alfred? Does your grandfather still live?”
“Yes, though he is frail now. He will be glad to hear of your safe return.”
“We should visit him, before we leave.”
“Leave?” Millar now balanced his axe on his shoulder. “You have gone to the bother of returning here, yet you do not intend to remain?”
“No.” Bowdyn’s jaw was set. “We are traders now. This is our partner, Kristin Lofnsdottir, who, as you rightly pointed out, is a Viking. And our other companion is Geir, also a Norseman. His uncle has remained on our boat but as we told you, there are just the five of us and we come here in search of trade, not plunder.”
“Then our grandfather will surely be delighted to welcome you as I know he likes to barter.” Fitch turned and headed back in the direction of the tiny cottage. “Can we offer you food, drink, a place to sleep? You will be remaining for a short while, at least?”
It was Nyle who answered for all of them. “A few days, perhaps. And yes, we would be glad of your hospitality, Fitch.”
* * *
The next day saw them tramping the five miles or so through the thickly wooded landscape to reach the farmstead where Old Alfred held court. Both the brothers had determined that he was the elder, the local chief with whom they should do business.
“Vikings came here before. Not the savages who murdered your parents, but the ones who took Merewyn with them when they left. They were fearsome at first, and our grandfather sent the womenfolk and the young ones to hide in the woods. But those visitors turned out to be peaceful. They were traders, too.” Tod offered this as they marched together through the dense forest. “They had fish, and rabbit skins. They wanted to purchase a cow.”
Bowdyn grinned. It was not difficult to imagine Mathios negotiating with Old Alfred. The Viking chief had a way of winning people over.
The woodland began to clear, more daylight penetrating the foliage overhead. After perhaps two hours of walking they emerged into the clearing where Old Alfred’s farm had thrived for more generations than anyone could recall, somehow eluding the Nordic raiders who preyed on undefended villages closer to the coast. Children’s voices, the clatter of wheels, the clip-clop of hooves heralded a busy settlement, and indeed, that was the sight that met their eyes as they entered. Women paused to stare, especially at the elegant Nordic beauty who walked alongside the men. Bowdyn reached for her hand. Nyle already held her other. Let these Britons make of it what they would.
“Our grandfather’s cottage is over here,” Fitch said, leading the way between haphazard rows of pens. Cattle gazed over the fences, goats too. Poultry squawked and flapped underfoot. Somewhere out of sight could be heard the rhythmic clanging of a forge.
Bowdyn remembered this place well; he had visited frequently as a boy and could have located Old Alfred’s home without assistance. Still, he followed Fitch, and ducked his head as he entered the small dwelling.
“Granda, see who is here,” called out Fitch.
The old man was propped in a rough chair covered with sheepskins. He was smaller than Bowdyn remembered, and much more frail. Despite his advanced years, Bowdyn imagined him to be perhaps seventy summers, his rheumy pale blue eyes still glittered with intelligence. There was kindness there, too, and genuine welcome. Unlike his grandsons, he recognised them at once.
“Why, ‘tis Connell’s lads. Nyle, is it? Yes, and Bowdyn too.” He beckoned them closer. “‘Tis good to see you both, and a surprise too. A welcome one, though. Come over here and tell me how you got away from those bastards who dragged you from here.” His sharp eyes caught sight of Kristin. “Aye, an’ I’ll be knowing how you managed to drag one of their finest back with you.” His face split into a toothless grin. “It is not often that I get to entertain such a pretty young thing. Please be seated, my dear. Some mead, perhaps?”
Despite her sharp tongue when riled, Kristin could be charming when she chose, and was far too well-mannered to spurn genuine hospitality. She lowered herself onto a stool beside the elderly farmer and accepted the foaming cup of mead with grateful thanks. Soon Bowdyn and Nyle also nursed cups of decent ale, between swigs acquainting their host with their different stories.
“So, an oar slave.” Alfred shook his head. “You did well to survive that, lad.”
“I was fortunate,” agreed Nyle. “Most did not last more than a summer or at most two.”
“And you,” Alfred turned his sharp, pale blue gaze upon Bowdyn, “I recall you were always handy with horses, though Connell did not keep any in the later years.”
“It is my intention to breed horses eventually,” Bowdyn explained, “and Nyle will be an explorer. A sailor.”
“You could breed horses at Cynwrig.”
Bowdyn shook his head. “I shall not. I will return to the Norseland and trade there. I believe I shall prosper, since the stubby, short-legged beasts they tend to rely on will offer poor competition to the fine animals I intend to offer.”
Alfred nodded slowly. “Aye, I believe you might well.” He looked from one brother to the other. “So, Cynwrig? Will you sell it?”
“We have not really decided…”
“I would offer a fair price, you know that. Fitch is to wed soon, and I had it in mind that he might take the place on. He’ll need somewhere…”
“We have not yet—” Bowdyn began.
“We have decided that we will not be returning,” put in Nyle. “Nor will Merewyn, or little Connell.”
“Little Connell?” Alfred lifted one bushy grey eyebrow.
“Before she died our mother gave birth to a son, sired by one of the Viking raiders. She called him Connell and he is now adopted by a Viking family.”
Alfred appeared shocked. “I had no idea. Merewyn never came here, never sought our help, so…”
“It was hard for her, but she managed. Connell thrives in his new home.”
“Good. I am glad. And Merewyn? Is she well?”
“Aye, she is. She is wed to a Viking chieftain and is expecting a baby of her own soon. You met her husband. He came here, I gather, to buy a cow from you.”
“Ah, yes. I had a good price from him and got rid of my most cantankerous beast at the same time. A decent bargain…”
“You may have Cynwrig,” announced Nyle. Bowdyn turned to his brother, his jaw dropping. Nyle continued unabated. “Fitch may make it his home, work the land, rebuild the farm as he sees fit. In return we want three things.”
“We do?” Bowdyn resolved to clout his brother about the head the first opportunity he got. Meanwhile, he would listen.
“Yes. First, Fitch will pay us one tenth of the yield, each year. That will be the rent.”
And bloody generous, thought Bowdyn. A fraction of the true value.
“Second, we are likely to pass this way again, though not frequently. We shall collect our rent when we do so, and we would expect to be afforded hospitality whilst we are here. Cynwrig will be a safe harbour for us.”
Alfred was nodding slowly.
“And third, Fitch will continue to tend our parents’ graves. They are not to be disturbed, and we would expect to find them well cared for on every occasion we return here.” He sat back, his chin tilted up. “Do you agree to these terms, sir?”
Alfred did not hesitate. “I do. Fitch too.” The old man beckoned his grandson forward from his perch on a bench at the edge of the cottage. “Nyle of Cynwrig will be wanting your word on it, lad. Bowdyn, too.”
“I am happy to give it.” Fitch offered his hand to each brother in turn, then to Kristin. “May I wish you well in your endeavours?”
“We thank you,” replied Nyle, “and we are relieved to know that our family home will remain in good hands.”
“I will take good care of the lands, and those buried within. You need not worry on that score.”
“We know that.” Bowdyn got to his feet. “We have far to travel and we will be on our way soon, tomorrow, perhaps. I wonder, could we return alone to the farm to pay our final respects and say our goodbyes? By the time you come back, the day after tomorrow, say, we will be gone and the place will be yours.”
“Of course,” agreed Fitch. “Take as much time as you like.”
“Just the one night will suffice,” Bowdyn assured him. He, his brother, and Kristin rose to take their leave. “So, tell me, was that a willow coppice I noticed on the way here?”