Chapter Eleven
It was a long winter. Snow continued to blanket the frozen earth well into February that year, and even when the blizzards finally ceased, the biting winds and driving rain contrived to hamper the repair work to the Viking ship. The men ventured out on those days when the elements permitted it, but progress was slow. Mathios found he was in no particular hurry, but he knew his warriors yearned to return to their homes and families. Their womenfolk would presume them perished, lost to the seas, if they did not return in the early spring.
Mathios had no wife waiting by his hearth. He had been married briefly, but Gudrun had been a delicate woman and it had not surprised him greatly when she had succumbed at her second childbirth. His two sons, on the other hand, had both entered the world in rude good health and had thrived during the three years since in the care of his stepmother. The efficient Rowena now ran his household, and she would ignore all rumours of her stepson’s possible demise until faced with undeniable proof.
Now, in the final week of March, the weather was milder though a stiff breeze stirred the waves of the North Sea as Mathios stood on the beach and gazed out across the grey-blue waters. His home lay perhaps four or five days sailing away, and if the weather continued to be clement he and his men would be able to attempt the trip in the coming days. He shifted his gaze to the newly repaired dragon ship, which sat proud and menacing upon the golden sand, its shallow hull designed to be beached and put to sea at speed. The new mast stood tall and majestic, and the most careful scrutiny would be required to discern where the damage to the timbers of the hull had been. New oars had been carved and now poked through the openings in the side of his ship. Only the sail remained to be added, and he knew Merewyn was well advanced with that. They would need to load supplies, but those were stacked in Merewyn’s barn awaiting the day they would be hoisted onto broad shoulders and transferred to the vessel. They would be ready to leave these shores any day now.
Ivar and Ywan scrambled across the gleaming timbers, checking this, tightening that. A shout from the trees that edged the beach attracted their attention. The men on the ship waved as Arne strode across the sand, young Connell sitting astride his shoulders. The child laughed, his high-pitched cries of excitement reached Mathios even across the distance of a couple of hundred yards or so. Arne passed the small boy up to Ivar then leaped onto the ship himself.
The three Vikings would guard the vessel this night. Since their ship had been rendered seaworthy once more, Mathios had ordered that she be guarded at all times. They could not risk an attack, whether from inland or from the sea. It would appear that Connell was to join their vigil. It did not surprise Mathios to see the child here, he was seldom far away from Arne’s side.
Mathios sighed. He could not put off the inevitable any longer. He had to speak with Merewyn.
* * *
The light was failing. Merewyn leaned forward to peer at the fabric taking form under her fingers and adjusted the lamp to throw a little more illumination on her efforts. It did not help much so she sighed and stepped away from the loom. She had hoped to finish the sail this day, but had been disturbed by various chores that required her attention. The work would be finished tomorrow, for sure.
And the Vikings would leave. They would have no further need to remain here. She should rejoice.
Merewyn gulped, fought back the sadness that threatened to overwhelm her at the thought of her now crowded and bustling cottage falling silent again but for her voice and that of Connell. She dashed the tears from her eyes and moved toward the fire pit to stir the broth she had prepared for this evening’s meal. At the sound of the door opening behind her, she glanced around to see which of the Vikings had returned early from their day’s chores.
“The meal is not yet ready, Jarl.” She offered Mathios a quick smile as she picked up her large wooden spoon. “I had not expected you so soon. I trust all is well?”
“Aye, it is.” The Viking chief removed his heavy cloak and slung it aside, then took a seat at the table. “Come, join me. I need to speak with you.” He gestured to the bench next to him.
“I have work to do. The food—”
“The food will be fine. We will eat well, as we always do. Come, sit.”
Merewyn’s heart sank. His expression was serious. This was the day she had longed for with a fervency that now seemed incomprehensible. For weeks she had prayed that the Norsemen would depart and leave her and her home in peace. Now that the moment was upon her, she was filled with dread. And sorrow. They had not yet departed and already she missed the Norsemen with all her heart. One, in particular, she would remember for the rest of her days. She set aside her cooking implement and went to join him.
“I have almost finished the fabric for the sail. I had hoped to be done by today, but there was cheese to make, and Hakon’s tunic was ripped, so…” She trailed off into silence. Babbling would not help to delay the Vikings’ inevitable departure.
“I am not here to discuss the sail, though I appreciate your work and I have no doubt it will be ready when it is needed. There is another matter I must raise with you. It… it concerns Connell.”
“Connell?” Merewyn furrowed her brow. “Is he all right? He went with Arne to view the latest work to your vessel.”
“Yes, I saw him there. He seemed to be enjoying the excursion. Arne too.”
Merewyn nodded. She was under no illusions about how deeply the little boy would feel the loss of his gruff playmates. He had thrived whilst the Vikings had been here, and not only because of their ability to provide plentiful food. The rough Norsemen were kind to the small boy, they made time for him, played with him, taught him. They had enriched his little world in ways she could never have achieved alone as she toiled to scrabble out a meagre existence for them. Connell had formed a particular attachment to Arne and was never happier than when he was hoisted onto the large Norseman’s shoulders and included in some expedition or other.
Mathios cleared his throat. He seemed ill at ease, which was unusual. The Viking Jarl was usually so confident, so commanding.
“Is there a problem? Something concerning Connell?”
Mathios met her gaze. “Arne is very fond of the child. You will have seen this.”
“Of course. He has been most kind. All of your warriors have, but Arne in particular…”
“Arne has no children of his own. He and his wife have been married for twelve years and no one expects it now. It is a shame, but not all unions are blessed by the gods.”
“I suppose not. Arne would have made a good father.”
“Aye, I know it. He… has spoken to me. Of Connell.”
“Of Connell?” Merewyn was genuinely perplexed. “What of Connell?”
“Arne wishes to adopt him and raise him as his son.”
The words were gently spoken, but Merewyn’s world started to collapse about her ears.
“A-adopt…? But… how?” She backed away along the bench, shaking her head. This was impossible, it could not happen. It just could not.
Mathios took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up so she had to meet his gaze. “Arne wants to take Connell with us when we leave here. The child would return to our home with us and be raised as a Viking. Arne has sought my permission for this.”
“You cannot. You promised. You gave me your word that you would not take us, that when you left we could remain here, unharmed. Free.”
“I am not threatening your freedom, nor that of Connell. To be raised as the son of a Viking is not at all the same as being taken as a thrall.”
“You swore,” she accused, unable to get past the broken promise, unheeding of the rest of his words. “You cannot take him. I… I will fight you. I shall—”
Mathios laid a hand across her mouth to still her protests. “I know. I know what I promised and I will keep my word. If you do not agree to this, then I shall not give my permission.” She made as if to speak again but he shook his head. “No, listen to me first. Before you make your decision, think of what this opportunity might mean for your brother. What is best for Connell?”
“He belongs here. This is his home. Someday, when he is grown, the farm will be his.” Merewyn could conceive of no circumstances in which this unthinkable notion might make sense. She could never allow Connell to be carried off by the Vikings to a foreign land, never to be seen again. “That is what is best for him.”
“Arne is my cousin, my kinsman. He is of the Jarl, a man of wealth and standing in our homeland. His wife, too, has wealth of her own. Sigrunn is a good woman, she would be kind to the boy. Indeed, she would dote upon him. They have no other children, nor are they likely to. Connell will be their heir. Their sole heir. In time, he will be wealthy too, and powerful. He will learn the skills needed to be a Viking, a leader of men. I swear to you that he will be happy, and he will be loved.”
“He is loved already. He means everything to me.”
Mathios took her in his arms. “I know. We all know that and this is why it is so difficult. I know you don’t want your brother to leave, but think of all that Arne is able to offer him. Can you really turn that down on Connell’s behalf?”
“I… I promised my mother I would look after Connell. I cannot let him go.” She was sobbing now, struggling to be free but Mathios held her firm.
“You would not be letting him go. You would be sending him to a better future. Please, at least consider it.”
She shook her head, unable to articulate coherent words any more. Her heart was breaking.
The worst of it was, Mathios was right. Connell need not be condemned to the miserable existence she could eke out for him, a life of struggle and poverty, hunger and back-breaking toil. Of course he would be better off with the Vikings. Of course Arne would make a perfect father for him, and the unknown Sigrunn would replace the mother he had lost so young. She knew all of this, had known it as soon as Mathios started to speak.
But how could she live without him? Her brother was all she had left.
“There is more that you might consider.” Mathios murmured the words into her hair. “You need not stay here, alone. You could come with us. With me. Arne’s longhouse is not far from mine; if you come with us, you could see your brother every day.”
She lifted her tearstained face to look up at him. His handsome features were blurred, shimmering before her. “Come with you? You want to take me too?”
“Only if you agree to come. Not by force.”
“Then… if not a slave, what would I be? What would be my station in your land?”
Mathios shrugged. “You would be found a place, work to do which you would enjoy. You can weave, or you might cook. We have need of a healer and your skill with herbs would be welcomed.”
“I would share your bed?”
“Yes. Of course. Just as we are here.”
“But not as your wife?”
“My wife? I had not—”
“You have no wife at home. Vikarr told me. Why not wed me, if I am to share your bed?”
“Merewyn, it is not so simple. I have responsibilities, my people expect—”
She wriggled from his embrace. “I, too, have a right to expect.” She dashed the tears from her eyes and stiffened her spine as she faced him. “I am not a fool, nor am I selfish. I recognise the opportunity offered to Connell and however much I might long for him to stay here, I will not stand between him and the future you and your people can give him. But… but you insult me, Jarl, if you think I will come with you and live with you as your… your whore.”
“Whore? Merewyn, you would not be that.” His features betrayed his shock at her condemnation. “Never that. I respect you, I care deeply for you. I merely wish to be certain that you are all right, that you are safe, and—”
“If you cared for me, truly cared for me, you would not make such a demeaning offer.”
He frowned, shock receding and irritation starting to show. “I fail to see how it would differ greatly from the life we have here. You have found pleasure in my bed and I have certainly enjoyed your company. I see no reason for it not to continue.”
“This…” Merewyn swung her arm out to indicate the cottage, their surroundings, “this was temporary. One winter, a few short months when fate threw unlikely companions together. We found a way to be, you and I, all of us, but it was never meant to last forever. It was just a winter, not a life. Now you are offering me a life, but not one of honour and respect. You may not consider me a whore, but your people will. At best I will be a figure of fun, or perhaps someone to be pitied. At worst they will revile me. I will be an outsider, a foreigner who speaks almost nothing of their tongue and has no status in their land. So, thank you, Jarl, but no. I shall remain here, my self-respect intact.”
She turned her back on him and started to stir the pot once more.
“Merewyn, we need to talk. You should—”
“Are you still here, Viking?”
She had no notion how she managed it, but Merewyn succeeded in stemming the flood of tears until after the door slammed behind him. Only then did she sink to her knees and weep for the life she used to have, and for the one she had just turned down.
* * *
She hated him. Merewyn harboured no doubt of that, reminded herself of the vile and brutal nature of his kind, the damage all Vikings wrought with their violence, their greed. Worse still, and as she now knew to her cost, the utter devastation they could create with their soft and gentle ways, their easy charm and generosity, their humour, their companionship.
Mathios was a bastard, she reiterated lest she might forget. He was mean and faithless and quite without scruples. He had seduced her, teased her with his clever fingers, his skilled tongue, not to mention his wondrous cock that filled her nightly and often enough during the day too, whenever they were alone. He had promised her nothing but her freedom, her safety as long as the Vikings were here. He had sworn she would not be hurt, yet she lay in her bed unable to drag herself from it to face the daylight. Her heart was shattered, her hopes and dreams in a pile at her feet, trampled by the careless words of a Viking who had meant to treat her kindly yet had no concept of what she wanted, needed from him.
How could he? She had not known herself until the moment he dismissed her dreams and barely formed hopes as mere nonsense, the romantic ramblings of a lovesick wench. He genuinely thought the prospect of returning to his homeland at his side and sharing his bed was a good one. He had expected her to accept.
Now, a lifetime alone stretched endlessly before her. She faced the gnawing, aching loneliness of trying to carry on without even her small brother’s needs to lend purpose to her existence. Merewyn wondered why she did not accept Mathios’ offer. Surely nothing could be worse that the misery that awaited her in just a few short days.
They would be gone. He would be gone.
Yes, she hated Mathios for bringing her to this, but it was not so simple. She knew, too, that this was what love felt like and she did not care for it. Not at all.
* * *
The rest of the Vikings picked up on the mood. They eyed Merewyn with sympathy and concern, but only Mathios possessed a good enough command of her language to properly speak to her and she refused to exchange so much as a word with him. Their meals were now taken in near silence. Connell fretted, also sensing the frigid atmosphere, and Arne tended to him. Merewyn permitted that; after all, it was how matters would be in the future and she could not fault Arne’s care of the child.
She finished the sail and removed the fabric from her loom. Ivar and Ywan carried it to the longship and attached it to the mast. From their grateful, happy smiles she had to assume it suited their needs well enough. The day after the sail was fitted, the Vikings started to haul their supplies down to the beach. They had collected barrels of fresh water, sacks of grain, pitchers of milk, some cheese, a leg of salted ham. Merewyn watched from the door of her dwelling, knowing that their preparations meant their departure was imminent.
She should not complain. The Vikings left her with her home and outbuildings in a fine state of repair. She had crops in her fields, a cow and a goat in her barn, and more chickens than she knew what to do with. She could even contemplate selling her spare eggs or trading them for other goods. Olav had shown her how to catch fish and set traps for rabbits. If her crops failed she would not starve. She might die of loneliness, but she would do so with ample food in her belly.
Since their fateful conversation Mathios had not shared her bed. He slept in the barn with the other warriors. Even Connell had deserted her to share Arne’s rough pallet of hay. After their evening meal on the day she knew would be the last the Vikings would spend on her shores, Merewyn bade each goodnight as they filed out. She reserved a curt nod for Mathios and would not answer when he asked her if she had all she needed.
Of course she did not, but she would not ask him again, not for anything.
When she was alone she wandered about her cottage in the dim lamplight, setting things to rights, clearing away the day’s debris. Anything to stave off the awful stretch of misery that was the night. She would not sleep, had not done so since she quarrelled with Mathios. If she did manage to doze off she would waken again shortly after, fitful, chilled, unable to settle. She had spent most of the last two nights perching on a stool beside the dying embers of her fire and expected to do so again.
The next morning dawned, and even before thin shafts of sunlight crested the horizon the men could be heard moving about in the barn. They would seek an early departure, hope to make good progress while the light held. Merewyn prepared their dagmal and waited for them to crowd into the cottage, to cram their big, hard bodies around her table one last time, demanding food, nudging and elbowing each other for the best seats, the biggest helpings. They did not disappoint her, and this morning, despite her own abject misery, their anticipation, their longing to be at last on their way home permeated the mood of despondency. Merewyn ladled the thick porridge into the rough bowls and even pretended to take a few mouthfuls herself rather than allow Mathios to witness her despair.
Too soon, the Jarl got to his feet. She did not fully comprehend his Norse tongue, though a few words had sunk in over the weeks and months. She now knew enough to understand that Mathios commanded them to assemble at the longship in readiness to set sail. The Vikings did not need telling twice. They were on their feet, milling about, grabbing cloaks, weapons, anything they needed to take with them, then each in turn embraced Merewyn. Arne hung back, Connell nestling in his arms, tucked within the warmth of the Viking’s cloak. The large Viking warrior also hugged Merewyn, then bent to kiss her cold cheek. His smile was sad, yet grateful. He knew the child was only his because she had consented to it.
Merewyn’s lips quivered as she kissed her baby brother for the last time. She could not speak, her silent wishes and heartfelt prayers for his safe deliverance across the water and subsequent happiness among foreigners quite beyond her remaining powers of speech. Arne left, and only Mathios remained.
“Will you not come?” He rested his hands on her shoulders as she set her back to him and gently turned her around. She was weeping now and he wiped away her tears with his thumbs. “I would take care of you, I swear it. You will want for nothing, and if you do not wish to live with me you need not. I will find somewhere…”
“No.” She shook her head. That would be even worse, to live close to him and eventually to watch as he took another for his wife. No, she must find a way to manage. Here. Alone.
Mathios kissed her forehead. “I will not forget you, little Celt. Neither will Connell. I will make sure of it, Arne too. And some day, if we pass this way again, then maybe…”
“No,” she repeated. “No, you must not come back, I could not bear it. Please, just… I want…” She raised her gaze to meet his. “Do not make this harder that it is. Please.”
He kissed her again, a light brush of his lips across hers. Then he reached for his cloak, and he was gone.
Merewyn stood for a long while, staring at the door, wishing, willing him to come back through it. He did not. Eventually she had to accept the truth of the matter. She was quite, quite alone.