Chapter Five
With each passing day Merewyn gained in strength. She still tired easily but was no longer confined to her pallet and took to rising early, with the Vikings, and taking her breakfast with them. Their cheerful conversation echoed around her. She struggled to understand most of it, but had picked up a few words of their tongue. She knew that they referred to the morning meal as dagmal, and that it was eaten all together before they dispersed for their various tasks. There was little in the way of vegetables or grain so their morning fare usually consisted of eggs and whatever meat had been left over from the previous evening.
It would do. Their bellies were full, a luxury Merewyn could barely remember.
As her health returned Merewyn found her inactivity galling. By common but unspoken consent she took over the task of preparing the food that the Vikings provided each day. She was not without cooking skills though she had had little cause to employ them in recent months. Her mother had been a skilled cook, adept in creating delicate flavours to enhance their fare using the herbs and spices she collected from the surrounding countryside. Merewyn still possessed the chest Ronat had used to store her collection of herbs. It was one of the few mementos of her family to escape the destructive fury of the Vikings and she treasured it greatly though she had had little use for the contents of late. Now, she examined the herbs and selected those that could still be used. For the most part these were roots, and dried substances that did not spoil so quickly as fresh ingredients. The rest she discarded. She would replenish her supplies when the spring arrived and the various plants were again available in the meadows.
In Merewyn’s hands Olav’s abundant rabbits found their way into stews, flavoured with rosemary and perhaps a little sage. Merewyn foraged for what she could find to add to the pot: dandelions, nettles, the small green apples that littered the meadow. Fish she would bake with marjoram. The Vikings appreciated her efforts though they bemoaned the lack of milk to make butter and cheese.
“Where might we acquire a cow?” asked Mathios as they shared the dagmal one morning.
“Old Alfred might have a heifer to spare. He has a farmstead perhaps five miles inland.” Merewyn recalled that the elderly farmer had been a friend of her father and they had occasionally purchased livestock from him. Old Alfred’s beasts were healthy and he was known to be fair in his dealings, though whether he would wish to trade with Vikings she could not be certain. She hoped so, since dairy products would greatly enhance their diet and now that she was not constantly occupied in caring for Connell she would have the time to churn butter and make cheese. She recalled her mother had a recipe for cheese that used honey and ginger. Perhaps she might acquire those ingredients too since the Vikings seemed amenable to trading. Sadly, the local population may prove less willing.
“You can take us there?” Mathios regarded her with interest.
“Yes, but Alfred may not wish to trade with you. Or he may not have an animal he is prepared to sell.” There were few in this land who had not suffered at the hands of the Vikings in recent years and Merewyn feared the memories might still be too raw to permit the prospect of peaceful commerce to flourish.
“He will trade with us,” affirmed Mathios. “One way or another. We go next week. By then you will be sufficiently recovered to undertake the walk.”
Merewyn did not answer. One way or another. What did that mean?
If Alfred did not agree to trade willingly with the Vikings, would he be forced to do so? Or worse still, his livestock stolen? If so, she would be complicit in the robbery since she would have led the Vikings to Alfred’s door. What if they threatened the old man’s family, or worse? He had three daughters and several grandchildren. There were menfolk at the farmstead, as far as she knew, but they would be no match for these Vikings.
Why had she not kept her mouth shut? She’d had no need to tell them of Alfred and his herd of fine heifers. This was all her fault. She could not permit it to happen.
The men left to be about the day’s tasks, leaving Merewyn alone. Mathios no longer insisted that one of his warriors remain with her, though he admonished her to rest if she felt fatigued and she was usually willing enough to do so as her strength soon ebbed. She was racked with guilt as she cleared away the remnants of their morning meal and cleaned the platters. There must be some way she could alert Alfred to the danger.
Her musings were cut short by the reappearance of a triumphant Olav, a young boar dangling across his shoulders. He dumped the carcase on the table and said something indecipherable to Merewyn. His delight in the kill was writ across his smiling features.
She just stared at the animal. Had she not been preoccupied with other concerns Merewyn would certainly share his enthusiasm for a decent leg of pork. She could cook it well enough, but unfortunately she had no knowledge of butchering. Luckily it seemed Olav did, and with Vikarr’s assistance he set about slicing the carcase into convenient cuts of meat, some to be consumed in the coming days, the rest to be preserved in salt and stored for the winter. Merewyn ran hither and thither with pails of brine and between them they succeeded in reducing the beast to manageable portions. They would enjoy a fine meal of pork and chestnuts this evening.
Olav and Vikarr left to continue with whatever tasks awaited them outside. Left to herself, Merewyn placed one of the legs of pork on a spit and set it over the fire to roast. When it was tender, a couple of hours later, she sliced it into her pot with some chestnuts and a few leeks she had managed to find in her meagre kitchen garden. She opened her mother’s medicine chest to select the correct herbs needed to enhance the flavour.
It was then that she saw it.
The crinkled mandrake root lay at the bottom of the casket, unused but perfectly preserved. An idea began to form.
Could she? Would it work?
Mandrake was renowned for its narcotic effect. Once imbibed it would induce sleep, for several hours at least. It would require care, naturally, to achieve the correct dosage but the herb was tasteless, so could easily be concealed in food. She glanced at the pot where the succulent pork simmered. The meat would be devoured in no time by the ravenous Norsemen. In recent days they had become accustomed to her adding flavoursome herbs to their meals and would have no suspicions. They would slumber for hours after eating the meat, ample time for her and Connell to make their escape and seek shelter with a neighbour. Not Alfred, of course not, but surely someone would take them in. She had only to remain hidden until the spring, when the Norsemen would leave and she would be able to return to her home. Or what might be left of it by then.
No matter. The Norsemen could do their worst. She had survived their destruction before and would do so again. And this way she could not be coerced into betraying her defenceless neighbours. She could find a way to warn them, in which case they might be able to make ready and withstand any attack. Vikings dealt in stealth and speed, but without the element of surprise they were less lethal.
The plan crystallised in her mind. Merewyn took the root and sought to remember what her mother had told her about the correct dosage. Too much, and the Vikings might never wake up but that was not her intention. She had realised on that first day in the forest that she did not have the stomach for murder. She would do what she had to in order to secure her own safety and Connell’s and that of her neighbours, but she would not resort to killing. That would make her no better than the Vikings.
Ronat had always admonished her to apply great care when seeking to heal with herbal remedies. It was too easy to do harm, and that must be avoided. Not all ailments could be cured, but it was often possible to provide relief, and the mandrake was particularly efficacious. When judiciously applied it would induce sleep, or dull pain. Women such as her mother trod a delicate path between being revered as a wise and good healer and being reviled as a witch. It was an unforgiving career and too many dead patients would soon get a healer condemned to a fiery end. Ronat had been a good teacher and Merewyn possessed many of her mother’s skills. She had little doubt that she could employ the mandrake to subdue her unwelcome visitors long enough to affect her escape.
Merewyn quelled her misgivings at such an act. Her mother would never normally have countenanced such use of her potions, but Merewyn set aside those objections. If she were here now, surely Ronat would applaud her actions. The need was dire and urgent, the circumstances extreme. She had no choice but to use such methods as were available to her.
Merewyn worked quickly. She peeled and grated the root, and took care to add copious amounts of water to the pot to ensure the mandrake potion was well diluted when she added it to the stew. She set aside a little of the unadulterated pork for herself and for Connell. She would need to conjure up an excuse for taking their meal separately; a feigned attack of sudden fatigue would probably do the trick.
Her preparations made, Merewyn sat at the table to await the Vikings’ return.
* * *
It was a cheerful group who trooped into the cottage just before nightfall. Word of Olav’s success in taking the boar had got around and all were looking forward to their evening meal. Connell occupied his usual perch on Arne’s shoulders, and Merewyn rushed to lift him down. She sought to settle him in his cot but unfortunately, the little boy did not appreciate his banishment to the corner and set up an insistent wailing.
“Hush. You will get your food soon enough,” Merewyn admonished him as she gave the cauldron a final stir. Connell continued to complain loudly but she could not attend to him yet.
She did not even need to ask them to sit. The Vikings jostled and shoved each other as they crowded around the table, settling themselves on upturned barrels and makeshift benches as she worked quickly to fill their platters. Vikarr was first, slurping his meal down with gusto. Then Ormarr and Olav. Vikarr was already asking for more even before the rest of his colleagues had been served.
Ivar gave the youth a hard nudge with his elbow and muttered something that caused the others to laugh. Merewyn scurried about, continuing to dole out the pork until all the plates were full. Then she provided Vikarr with his second helping, though she was careful to make it a modest portion. She set her ladle down and regarded the assembled Norsemen with no small degree of anxiety.
Her breath congealed in her throat.
“No!” Merewyn leapt forward to dash the piece of pork from Arne’s hand. While she had been preoccupied in serving out their food, the large Viking must have plucked Connell from his bed and settled the child on his knee intending to share his meal.
All eyes turned to her. Connell set up his wailing again at the abrupt loss of his food. Mathios lifted one eyebrow and regarded her with surprise.
“Is something amiss, Merewyn?” The Viking chief chewed thoughtfully as he waited for her answer.
“N-no,” she stammered. “I merely intended that Connell would eat with me this evening, that is all.”
“He seems content where he is,” observed Mathios, “or he will be once he gets something to eat. Arne…?” He gestured to the warrior to continue feeding the child.
Merewyn watched in horror as Arne selected another piece of succulent pork and offered it to the baby. Connell took it in his chubby fist and started to shove it into his mouth.
“No!” She rushed around the table to grab the morsel before the eager and hungry baby could take a bite from it. “That… that piece is too big. He may choke. Please, allow me to take him. I will cut his meat more finely and you may all get on with your meal.”
Mathios cocked his head to one side as he regarded her. “I am sure Arne does not mind. And the child has had no trouble eating up to now. Leave him be, Merewyn and get your own food. I see you do not have a platter.”
“No, I am tired.” A note of desperation had crept into her voice. “I thought to eat mine on my pallet, and Connell also needs to sleep now. Please, may I take him?”
Arne looked from her to his leader and back, clearly unsure what was happening. Connell set to wailing again. Mathios’ expression hardened, his gaze was suspicious now. He furrowed his brow.
“No, leave the boy where he is. Go and help yourself from the pot and we shall make room for you here.” He shifted on the bench to create a space for her. “Arne, give the lad some of this delicious pork before our ears start to bleed.”
He spoke in the English tongue but Arne took his meaning even so. Another piece of pork was selected and offered. Merewyn sprang forward to dash the entire platter to the floor, at the same moment that Vikarr toppled from his perch on a barrel.
“What the…” Mathios crouched over the youth who lay face down on the floor. He spoke to him in the Norse tongue. The lad’s only response was a gentle snore.
Mathios straightened and glared at Merewyn. “What have you done? What is in this food?”
“Nothing. I mean, just a few herbs, and—”
“Yet you do not eat it, and neither will to you allow the child to do so…” He paused to swipe his hand across his brow and she saw him stagger. The drug was starting to work. She glanced around the table and was relieved to see that the rest were similarly affected. Several of the Vikings swayed in their seats. Ywan had already slumped forward to rest his head on his arms. Just a few more moments…
“The food is poisoned.” Mathios’ tone was accusing, his expression furious. “Is it not?” Despite the effects of the drug he was able to grasp her arm and drag her in front of him. “Tell me…”
Merewyn quaked before his anger. It never occurred to her to lie to him. “N-not poisoned. Merely a sleeping draught…”
“Why?” he demanded. “Why would you do this?”
“I… I was hoping to escape. While you were sleeping.” She tried to wrestle her arm free but he was stronger and held her with ease.
“How long will the effects last? Is the dose fatal?”
She shook her head vehemently. “No, not fatal. Just enough to induce a deep sleep.”
“How long?” he repeated, his voice a low growl now.
Merewyn shook, her terror almost palpable in the face of his fury. She had meant to hide in her bed, stay out of their way until they all succumbed to the soporific effects of the mandrake but her plan was unravelling fast. They would surely kill her for this.
“How long?” he demanded.
“A few hours, no more.” She jumped as Ivar rolled from his seat to join Vikarr on the floor.
Mathios lurched toward her, his tall frame swaying as he fought to hang onto his senses. “You will be tied to your bed…”
Arne got to his feet, still holding Connell. He laid his hand on the chief’s arm and spoke quietly to him. Mathios listened, nodded, and relinquished Merewyn’s arm. “Arne has not eaten… He will…” Mathios finally succumbed to the effects of her drug and crumpled to the floor.
A stony-faced Arne stepped around his fallen chief and grasped her by the elbow. He tugged her across the cottage and shoved her down onto her pallet then set Connell beside her. Next, he produced a kerchief from within his tunic. He did not speak as he pushed Merewyn onto her stomach and pulled her hands into the small of her back where he secured them tightly with the kerchief. He allowed her to roll onto her side, then plucked the baby up again and started to walk away.
“No, wait, please…”
Arne paused and looked back at her over his shoulder. He spoke briefly to her, his tone curt. She did not understand the Nordic phrase, but his meaning was clear enough. She was to wait.
By now the rest of the Vikings were in various states of slumber, either on the floor or slumped over the table. Arne checked each in turn, then placed Connell in his cot. The large Viking spent the next few minutes hauling the cauldron containing the drugged pork from the fire and dragging it across the floor to the door. He left, to return a few minutes later, the cauldron now empty.
As Merewyn watched from her pallet, Arne roasted a few pieces of rabbit meat on a spit, a meal for himself and Connell. He did not offer anything to Merewyn. It seemed she was to go hungry.