Chapter Thirteen
Merewyn had lived beside the sea her entire life but had no experience of sailing upon it. Her father had been a farmer, not a fisherman. She had no notion what to expect but it was not this. The never-ending motion, the tossing, the churning of the waves caused her stomach to heave and her throat to retch. Her legs would not hold her upright, her limbs were not her own. She either lay on the bottom of the longship, a groaning, heaving knot of abject misery wrapped in blankets that Mathios tucked about her, or hung over the side of the ship casting up whatever sustenance she had managed to swallow. Rarely did she retain anything in her stomach for more than a few minutes before the awful gurgling started again and she rushed for the rail as fast as her ridiculously weak legs would take her.
Olav patted her on the back as she clung to the mast. “It will pass, girl. In a day or so. Maybe a week…”
“How… how long before we reach your land?” She hoped her voice did not sound as desperate as she felt.
Olav shrugged. “A week, perhaps.”
Merewyn groaned and rested her forehead on the smooth wood, then clasped her hand over her mouth and dashed past the grinning Viking.
* * *
Olav was right, as it turned out, on both counts. The horrible sickness did ease after a few days, and as dawn broke on her fourth morning at sea Merewyn was able to gaze across the waves without being overwhelmed by nausea. She even began to enjoy the sense of motion, of speed as the longship flew across the waves. Whatever else might be said of these Vikings, they knew how to build swift ships. And how to sail them. Mathios strode from bow to stern, his long-legged gait sure and steady, his voice strong and confident, his authority absolute as he issued instructions, advice, warnings. His men obeyed without hesitation; no one questioned the Jarl, they just scurried to do his bidding.
Yet this stern master was unfailingly kind and considerate to her. Merewyn had feared he would lose patience as she continued to be wretchedly sick, but he did not. She wondered if he had been quite so solicitous when first the Vikings arrived in her home and she was too ill to be aware of what was happening. She knew he had cared for her then, but had not dwelt upon the details. She did now, as she recalled the countless times he had crouched beside her to offer a cup of cool water, a damp cloth to clean her face, a steadying arm about her shoulders as she moaned over the heaving waves and wished she were dead. Now, as the sun rose to cast a warm, pink glow over the horizon, she returned his concerned enquiry with a tremulous smile.
“I… I believe I feel a little better, Jarl.”
“I am glad of it. Could you manage a few mouthfuls of bread, some cheese, perhaps?”
Her stomach growled, but in hunger now. She had barely eaten since her wedding night. Merewyn nodded and Mathios beckoned Vikarr over.
“My wife is hungry. Could you find her something to eat? Something light, and perhaps a little milk if there is some.”
The youth gave his chief a rueful grin. “I shall try to milk the heifer now, Jarl, if I can get near the beast. She appears to dislike being tethered to the mast and has kicked me the last three times I attempted it.”
Mathios was sympathetic, to a point. “I know. I saw. Try again, lad.”
“Maybe I could help,” offered Merewyn. “Ermenilda is more accustomed to me.” She and the temperamental animal had managed to strike some sort of accord whilst at the farm and the cow generally acquiesced more readily to being milked by Merewyn than by anyone else.
“Ermenilda?” Mathios lifted one eyebrow. “You have named the beast Ermenilda?”
Merewyn tilted her chin at him. “It is a fine name and befits her perfectly. Saint Ermenilda was an abbess, a woman of holiness, piety, and peace. I believe the saint’s fine qualities might bring about a calming influence upon our heifer.”
“It has not worked so far, lady,” observed Vikarr. “She remains bad-tempered and vicious.”
“Perhaps we should name her for a Norse goddess,” mused Merewyn, “since she will be among Vikings. Do you have a suggestion, Mathios?”
“Freya might be a good choice since she is the goddess of love and beauty as well as war. I expect the contrary animal could find something she might identify with in that.”
“I shall discuss it with her.” Merewyn made to get up.
Mathios offered her his hand and pulled her to her feet. “Good luck with that, my love.” He kissed her on the cheek and ambled off to inspect the sails.
* * *
Ermenilda appeared unimpressed with suggestions that she might change her name. She stamped and snorted as Merewyn attempted to milk her, and managed to upend the pail twice during the process. Merewyn persevered, and at last was able to produce a quarter of a bucket of rich, fresh milk to share among the men. The cow seemed less than enthusiastic about any aspect of this journey. Merewyn sympathised. Her own acute bouts of sickness might have ended but she longed for dry land and was convinced Ermenilda’s spirits would be lifted also once she had her hooves firmly planted upon some lush meadow in the Norseland.
“It will not be long now,” she murmured to the discontented bovine. “When we arrive, you shall have fine hay to eat and a warm stable, I promise.” Merewyn patted the cow’s shoulder and moved over to the rail to watch for any sign of land.
She saw nothing that first day, but on the second that she kept watch, their fifth at sea, she spotted a dark smudge on the horizon to her right. Olav was the man closest to her and she called out to him. “Is that land? Over there?”
The Viking warrior shielded his eyes with his hand as he peered across the glimmering waves. “Aye, you have sharp eyes, lady. It is. You have had your first glimpse of our homeland.”
Others crowded about them to look. Shouts and cheers went up as they sighted land. Arne lifted Connell up high so that he, too, could view his new home.
“Where will we land? How much longer before we reach your village?” She directed her questions now to Mathios, who leaned on the rail to her left.
“Another day’s sailing up the coast, though we will come in closer to the shore. My settlement is called Agnartved, which in your tongue means the place cleared by Agnar. Agnar was my grandfather. He chose the place and had his warriors fell trees to make space beside the cove, then he built the first longhouses in our settlement. My father, Agnarsson, added more dwellings as our numbers grew and he built the harbour.”
Merewyn was puzzled. “You were not named for them? For your father and grandfather?”
Mathios shook his head. “My brother bore their names but he died, lost at sea when he was aged just fourteen. I did not grow up expecting to be Jarl but fate has a way of forming her own plans for us. My surname is Agnarsson and my sons bear that name also.”
“Your sons? You have not spoken of them before.”
“Have I not? I am father to two boys; the eldest, Galinn is five summers of age. Petrus is but three. They run their grandmother ragged, and me too when I am at home. I believe you will like them, though they are more of a handful than Connell.”
“What happened to their mother?”
“Gudrun did not survive the birth of my second son.”
“You… you must miss her.”
Mathios frowned, his expression thoughtful. “I did, at first, especially with two young boys to rear, one an infant. Luckily the other women of Agnartved were willing to assist and both my sons thrived.”
“But, what about in other ways? You lost a companion as well as the mother of your young children.”
Mathios shrugged. “I confess, I was at home so seldom during my marriage that I did not consider Gudrun my companion. We were married for barely more than three years and I spent all but four months of that time away trading.”
“Trading?”
“Aye, mostly, though there was a little Viking too. It is in the blood, Merewyn. My stepmother missed Gudrun though. They were friends.”
“She runs your household now? Your stepmother?”
“She does, and she cares for my boys. Rowena will be pleased that I have taken another wife.”
“Rowena? That is not a Viking name.”
“My stepmother is from Wales originally, an Anglo-Saxon thrall who caught my father’s eye.”
“Oh. I see…” Merewyn had wondered about the new family she had married into, but had not expected such a revelation. “Your stepmother was once a slave?”
“She was, though that was many years ago. She has been a free woman for as long as I can recall. Rowena was my father’s bed slave, then I suppose you would say she was his lover since he freed her and she was no longer a slave. He took her as his wife when my mother died. I confess I was not the most welcoming stepson. I resented Rowena, mainly out of misplaced loyalty to my mother.”
“Misplaced?”
“My mother accepted Rowena in her lifetime. Who was I to object after her death? They were friends, up to a point. Certainly, there was not enmity between them. They shared the household and my father, and he treated both well enough. Eventually I came to my senses and made my peace with both my father and Rowena. I am glad I did for he died not many months later and I would not have wished our last words to be uttered in anger. Rowena, too, is very dear to me. I have no idea how I would have managed without her since Gudrun’s death.”
“It sounds a rather strange arrangement.”
“Perhaps, but it is practical and ours is a happy family, I believe. I hope you will find it so.”
“I… I will try. I am looking forward to meeting Rowena.”
“You shall, soon enough. She will no doubt complain that she was not present at our wedding. Perhaps we could repeat the ceremony, in the Norse tradition this time.”
“Of course, if you think it needful, though I have no idea what I would have to do.”
He laughed. “Me neither. It is a complex and lengthy process but I believe we can rely upon Rowena to arrange matters. Despite her own heritage she has become well versed in our traditions. It is a matter of great pride to her that she straddles two cultures and does so effortlessly. I seem to recall being sent to the bathhouse just before the ceremony when I was wed the first time, and there was much discussion of the bride-price and the dowry.”
“I bring no dowry but I will try to adapt to the Nordic culture.”
“I know that. It is fortunate I have sufficient wealth and can manage well enough without your dowry though I think payment of a bride-price will be needful. A woman should not be without personal means.”
“I do not understand.”
“I will settle a sum of money on you. It will be your property and will remain yours throughout your life. Normally the bride-price is paid to a bride’s family, but in this case you shall have it. There are other rituals but we shall impress upon Rowena that the process must be simple and the whole affair concluded in no more than a few days.”
“A few days?” Merewyn gasped.
“Yes. That will allow ample time to introduce you as my bride and establish your place in Agnartved.”
* * *
Merewyn stood beside her tall Viking husband as the longship turned east and headed for the steeply cliff-lined coast of the Norseland. Mathios had navigated their course whilst at sea, but once they came in sight of land he passed the responsibility on to Hakon, who steered them in using landmarks. Now they were headed straight for a sizable coastal village consisting of several dozen dwellings and some larger buildings too. A jetty snaked out from the timber harbour and a plethora of small boats were fastened to that, bobbing cheerily in the waves.
“Our fishermen have not set out today,” observed Mathios. “It is Friday, the traditional day of rest and worship.”
“Your settlement is large,” commented Merewyn. “How many live here?”
“Three hundred. Four, perhaps including the thralls.”
“You keep slaves? Celts?”
“I do not think I possess any Celtic thralls. Our slaves here at Agnartved are mainly taken from Normandy, and a handful which were purchased from traders will have come from further afield. The lands to the east, mostly.”
“Are… are they well-treated?”
“Yes, as long as they do as they are told and cause no trouble.”
“But they are not free.”
“How many of us are truly free, Merewyn?” He took her hand. “Look, there is Rowena, at the end of the jetty. My boys are with her.”
Merewyn picked out the female wrapped in a heavy blue cloak and the two small figures dancing beside her. “They look to be excited at seeing their father’s safe return.”
“Yes. My stepmother will not have accepted that I was dead, but there are always rumours, always someone ready to ferment unease.”
The longship slid onto the soft sand and continued on up the beach. Villagers swarmed about them, shouting, pointing, their faces full of glee. As soon as the dragon ship was moored, Mathios’ men vaulted over the side to splash ashore and greet their joyful families. Merewyn saw Vikarr grabbed by a middle-aged woman and seized in a hug. Olav was subjected to similar treatment. The fierce Viking laughed as he bent to pick up a small boy and girl and waded ashore with them clinging to his neck. Arne bore Connell on his shoulders and made his way to where a woman of perhaps thirty summers awaited him, her expression bemused. He reached her and spoke to her for a few moments. Her features split in a beaming smile and she reached up to take Connell in her arms.
Tears pricked Merewyn’s eyes. She had made the right choice, for Connell at least.
Mathios slung an arm across her shoulders. “Come, I shall carry you ashore.”
“Really, there is no need—”
“Do as I say, wench.” He leapt over the side and turned, his arms outstretched. “Jump over the rail, sweetheart. I shall catch you.”
Merewyn could see nothing else for it. She clambered up and perched on the edge of the longship, then launched herself forward into her husband’s arms.
Mathios strode out of the water and up onto the harbour where Rowena awaited him. The tall, brown-haired woman held herself with a regal air though her smile was pleasant enough. She was flanked by two small, blond-haired boys who Merewyn thought looked like smaller versions of their father.
Mathios set Merewyn on her feet and bent to kiss Rowena. The older woman, Merewyn would have judged her to be perhaps forty summers of age, smiled at him and released her hold on the boys to return his hug. The small boys seized the opportunity to attach themselves to each of Mathios’ legs, both clamouring for his attention. Merewyn could not understand their rapid Norse, but the high-pitched demands as each sought to shout above the other were so funny she laughed out loud at their antics. Rowena turned to regard her quizzically and spoke softly to Mathios, also in Norse.
“Merewyn does not yet speak our tongue, though she is learning,” Mathios replied in the slightly accented English Merewyn had grown to love. She wondered if Rowena had taught him it. “I trust you will help her in that. Rowena, this is Merewyn of Northumbria. My wife.”
Rowena’s eyes widened. She took a half pace back then regarded Merewyn closely for a few moments as Mathios sought to disengage the small boys from his lower limbs. She extended her hand in a polite greeting.
“I am pleased to meet you, Merewyn of Northumbria.”
“Thank you. I have heard much about you.”
“I hope our Jarl has spoken well of me.” Rowena inclined her head in a graceful gesture. “You must be hungry, and tired. I am anxious to hear more of your story but first, shall we return to our longhouse? I have food prepared…”
“That will be excellent,” agreed Mathios, now crouching in front of his two sons. “First though, let us complete the introductions. Galinn, Petrus, please greet your new stepmother.”
Both boys peered up at her. They made no attempt to conceal their curiosity. Merewyn bent forward to offer her hand. “I hope we shall become friends, as your father and Rowena have.”
Neither child gave any indication that they understood her words but one of the boys took her hand and shook solemnly. “I am delighted to meet you…” Merewyn continued, looking to Mathios to identify which child she was addressing.
“This is Galinn.” Mathios laid his hand on the head of the boy who shook Merewyn’s hand, “and this is Petrus.” He spoke to the boys in Norse and Galinn stepped back to allow his brother to also greet Merewyn.
The social niceties concluded, Mathios took each of his sons by the hand. He grinned at Merewyn over their excited chatter. “Come, we will show you your new home.” He set off along the harbour.
Merewyn started to follow. She had taken but two steps before Rowena slipped her arm through Merewyn’s to link them at the elbow. No longer caught by surprise, her smile now seemed genuine and warm. “I really am delighted to meet you, Merewyn. It is time Mathios took another bride and I hope we can become friends.”
“I hope so too.” And Merewyn truly believed that it might be so.
Perhaps her fears of the Norsemen and their way of life had been unfounded. Maybe she could find happiness here.