Chapter Three
“Tomorrow we go back to the beach, check for any wreckage, anything we might salvage.”
Mathios chewed on a piece of meat, savouring the succulent flesh. Olav had managed to fashion traps from debris he found in the barn and had caught six fine, plump rabbits for their supper. They had eaten well, and even the baby appeared pleased with the fare. Arne had insisted they chop the pieces of meat finely for him and the child now dozed on Arne’s lap, the grease from his meal still daubed across his chin.
The wench had not woken up, but she slept more peacefully now that she was warm and comfortable. They had all managed to dry their wet clothing, and now sat around the table on a variety of upturned barrels dragged inside from the barn, buckets, and a crude bench fashioned from planks and two conveniently shaped rocks.
“We are to bed down in here, then, Jarl?” enquired Hakon.
“Yes. We shall be cramped but each man must make himself as comfortable as he can. At least we have shelter.”
The Vikings nodded. They had slept in worse conditions.
* * *
The following morning Mathios woke to the sound of plaintive whimpering from the cot, now situated in a corner as far from the pallet as could be contrived. He shoved himself up on one elbow to see that Olav was already making his way between the sleeping warriors to reach the grizzling baby.
“Hush, lad. You’ll wake everyone.” Mathios watched as his cousin bent to pluck the child from the cot and bounced him in his arms. The whimpering stopped and the baby reached for Olav’s stubby beard. “Ah, you like to play, do you? Later, lad. First we must find you something to eat.”
“There might be more eggs. I’ll check.” Mathios rolled from under the fur he had dragged over himself and stretched. He was stiff, the earthen floor of the cottage offering little in the way of comfort.
“Aye, you do that. I’ll just get this blaze livened up a bit.” Olav held the baby close while he used his free hand to prod the smouldering embers in the fire pit. Mathios dropped a fresh log on as he passed and the flames leapt into life.
He found three eggs. Not much, but with a broth made from the carcases of yesterday’s rabbits it would do to get them started on the day. By the time Mathios returned to the cottage Olav had a pot of water steaming over the hearth and the rest of his men were stirring.
The wench on the pallet remained unconscious, though she did accept a few more drops of fresh water and her skin tone appeared slightly better to Mathios.
After they had eaten their dagmal, the meal traditionally taken by Vikings an hour or so after rising and completing the first tasks of the day, Mathios issued his instructions.
“We go to the beach first, then return here with anything salvageable. Then you, Olav, need to hunt down our supper. Take a couple of men with you. Those staying here can make a start on the roof. I prefer not to have rainwater dribbling down my neck as I sleep.”
“We are to remain here for a while, then?” enquired Ormarr, eyeing their crude surroundings with distaste.
“Unless you have better accommodations in mind.” Mathios quelled his rising irritation at the man’s continuous complaints. “We can make this homestead more comfortable, and there is plenty to eat if we but go out and seek it.”
Ormarr was far from convinced. “What about the local population? We could be attacked at any moment.”
“I suspect our reputation will protect us. A few Celtic villagers wielding pitchforks and shovels are unlikely to pick a fight with armed Viking warriors. If we leave them alone, they will keep their distance.” Mathios got to his feet. “So, the beach.”
* * *
“It is not beyond repair.”
“No, not quite.”
Ivar and Ywan circled the wreck of their dragon ship discussing the sorry state of the craft that had been washed up on the shore overnight. The mast was broken, snapped clean in two, and the bright crimson sail near enough shredded. Just two of the original twenty oars remained, and the keel sported a gaping hole.
“What will it take to fix it?” demanded Mathios. Ivar and Ywan were the most skilled boat builders among his crew; he would accept their verdict on the state of his longship.
“Timber, but there’s no shortage of that.” Ywan tipped his head in the direction of the forest which surrounded them. “With just one axe between us, though, the felling will take a while.”
His brother was more encouraging. “There may be tools we could make use of at the farmstead. We need to have a proper look around.”
Ywan flattened his lips, considering. “And we shall require fabric to repair the sail, good woollen cloth.”
“We shall find some, even if we must weave it ourselves.” Mathios was determined to see the repairs completed, and his longship once more skimming across the waves. “How long will it take?”
Ywan and Ivar looked at each other and Mathios swore they affected some form of silent communication known only to them. “Four weeks, maybe five. Assuming we can find the materials we need, and the weather is kind to us.”
Four weeks. Mathios tipped back his head to stare into the gloomy skies, the remnants of yesterday’s storm still apparent in the various shades of grey. Already autumn was well advanced. Four weeks would see the winter fully upon them. Even if their ship was made good once more, putting to sea would be hazardous to say the least. For the time being, they were stranded on this hostile foreign shore.
Mathios thought quickly through the various implications.
“Right. It looks as though we’re going to spend the winter here. We’ll make the repairs to our ship in readiness for setting sail for home as soon as spring returns and conditions improve. Ywan and Ivar, you will be in charge of the repairs, with help from the rest of us as you need it. Olav, you will ensure we have supplies and that we have stores set aside to see us through the coldest months. Ormarr, you are a carpenter, so when not aiding Ywan and Ivar, you will fashion such furniture as we need to pass the winter months in comfort.”
Hakon was keen to offer his contribution. “I have some skills in metalworking, Jarl. I can make the tools we need if we do not find them.”
“Thank you. All must do their part to make the cottage habitable, and if possible repair the barn so we may make use of it for storage. We start now.”
“Aye, Jarl.” The Viking warriors murmured their assent. With no further prompting from their leader, Ywan and Ivar, aided by Ormarr, started to calculate the quantity of timber required and the likely source of it.
“I saw a stand of decent pines, maybe a mile or so from here,” suggested Ormarr. “Come, I shall show you.”
At last, he has ceased to moan. Mathios grinned as the three set off in search of the wood they needed. Olav was already rounding up those who would join him in hunting. He set off with Hakon and Vikarr in tow.
Mathios returned to the cottage alone. Arne, still nursing his head wound, had remained behind to keep an eye on the sick girl and the now lively little boy. He had strict instructions not to approach the pallet unless it was absolutely necessary, and to ensure the child remained at a safe distance too. The pair were seated at the table when Mathios entered and Arne was attempting to sing to the little boy.
Poor child, has he not suffered enough already? Mathios opted not to comment and instead strode over to the bed.
“Has she stirred?”
“No, Jarl. Not once.”
Mathios went down on his haunches to better inspect her pallid complexion. He laid his hand on the girl’s forehead. She was still overwarm, but he fancied perhaps a little cooler than yesterday. Certainly, she seemed no worse. He settled beside the pallet and lifted her to offer her a sip of water.
“Where are the others?” Arne peered at the door as though expecting the rest of their group to follow Mathios into the cottage.
“We found our ship washed up on the beach, damaged but not beyond repair. Ywan, Ivar, and Ormarr have gone in search of timber in order to start work on it.”
Arne’s face split in a wide smile. “So we can leave here? We are not stranded after all?”
“We are, but only for the winter. The work will take a few weeks, by which time the weather will have turned. We must resign ourselves to spending a winter on these shores, but we shall see our home again before much longer. Olav, Hakon, and Vikarr are hunting, but we shall need to forage too as we can’t live on just meat and fish until spring.”
Arne shrugged. “I have no quarrel with a diet of meat and fish. We are to stay here, then? In this cottage?”
“I see no better solution.”
“What about her?” Arne nodded in the direction of the pallet. “She will not welcome us, that’s for sure.”
Mathios paused, then, “She will have no choice. She will come to realise that we mean her no harm, we just want to share her home for a few months.”
“But what if she refuses? I do not believe she would have done me real harm in the forest yesterday, but it was obvious she was far from pleased to find me there.”
“If she does not cooperate she will find herself tied to that bed until March. She will see sense, eventually.”
“And if she does not?”
“Then there will be consequences. I have no wish to harm the wench, but we are here to stay, and she must accept that whether she likes the idea or not.”
* * *
The following three days were busy ones for the Vikings. They commenced the task of felling trees and dragged the logs to the beach, as well as completing the repairs to the thatch above their heads. All were relieved when the roof was finally made watertight. Ormarr turned his attention to the door next, which was warped and ill-fitting. He managed to alter it to exclude all but the most determined draughts. His rabbit traps set and doing their work well, Olav turned his hand to fishing from the cliffs. He managed to return with several fine cod. Meanwhile Vikarr fashioned a crude lamp from a chipped earthenware mug, which he filled with oil from the liver of Olav’s cod to provide light. They were starting to make themselves comfortable.
“The lad needs milk,” announced Arne, bouncing the boy on his lap as the child chuntered happily. “Where can we get a cow?”
“We could steal one,” suggested Hakon. “There must be other farms in the area.”
“And invite retribution from every Celtic farmer for miles about? No,” insisted Mathios. “We shall trade for a cow if we need it, and for any other supplies we cannot obtain any other way. We also need grain, and the cloth for our sail.”
“What if the Celts do not wish to trade with us?” asked Olav. “And what can we offer as payment?”
“They will.” Mathios was confident. “No one refuses a decent trade, not even the Celts. We have rabbit skins, and could hunt for more pelts. We could trade any fish we don’t need for our own use, or perhaps some fine venison. What are the chances of taking a decent stag, do you think?”
“Fair enough,” conceded Olav. “We shall require arrows, but we can start to fashion those.”
“Right then. The cow first…”
He paused when Vikarr caught his eye from his seat on the opposite side of the table. The youth gestured to the pallet behind him. Mathios turned.
The wench was awake. She lay motionless, her eyes open. They were a dark brown colour, he noted, and she regarded the Norsemen with an expression of pure horror.
Mathios got to his feet and approached the bed. The wench shrank away from him, clutching the blanket to her chin as she wriggled backward until she was pressed against the outer wall of the cottage. Mathios crouched beside the pallet.
“How do you feel?” He spoke in the Celtic tongue, glad that he had learnt it from the slaves in his father’s longhouse.
She did not reply. Mathios reached out and laid his palm on her forehead. It felt cool to the touch, her skin no longer clammy.
“Good,” he said, careful to keep his tone low. “You are much improved.” He reached for the pitcher of fresh water he had insisted they kept close by and poured a little into a mug. “Here, you should drink this.”
The wench continued to stare at him as though he might have sprouted an additional head. Mathios reached for her, intending to assist her as he had while she was unconscious. She whimpered and pulled the blanket higher as though she might yet hide from him.
“You have no need to be afraid, I will not harm you.” He took hold of the blanket and gently but firmly tugged it from her face. The battle was an unequal one. The girl lay still, her eyes like saucers as she awaited her fate.
Mathios reached for her again and this time she offered no resistance as he slid his arm under her and raised her shoulders from the mattress. He placed the cup at her lips and tipped it slightly so she could take a few sips. Her cold fingers curled around his hand as she sought to grip the cup herself, though he did not relinquish it. When she had had enough she turned her face away and he set the cup aside.
“Do you think you could eat anything? We have fish.” He beckoned to Vikarr, who brought a plate over with a portion of that day’s catch upon it. “Try a little, just a few mouthfuls. You must be hungry, you have not eaten for days.”
“I… I…” The wench tried to speak but her voice seemed to have deserted her.
Mathios placed the food on the pallet beside her. He considered picking up a piece of the cod and feeding it to her from his fingers. He might have done so, but when he cupped her jaw to lift her face toward him, she fell into a dead faint.
Not an ideal start. They had work to do, clearly. Mathios laid her back down, made sure the blanket was tucked in around her, and let her be.
* * *
Voices. Men, laughing, talking, their speech incomprehensible.
Footsteps. Heavy, booted feet.
The scrape of furniture, the clash of metal. The crackle of a hearty blaze and the solid thump of a log being tossed into the flames.
Merewyn lay still, listening. Trembling. Something nagged at the edges of her consciousness, something elusive yet compelling, a reason why she must wake up. There was something she had to do, but she dare not. She quaked every time footsteps drew close to where she huddled, barely daring to breathe until they receded again. She dared not open her eyes. If she did not do so, she could pretend that the vision from before had been a dream, a vile nightmare to haunt and torment her in her illness.
Yes, that must be it, a delusion brought on by the sickness she had endured. Her home was not teeming with Viking warriors. It could not be, the prospect was too awful and completely impossible. If those murdering savages had truly returned, she would not be alive to know of it. Merewyn grasped the covers more tightly and prayed that this hallucination would soon pass.
“I know that you are awake, little Celt.”
The voice was low, soft even, the words were spoken in her own tongue but in an accent she did not recognise. She clung to her blanket and her eyelids remained firmly closed.
“You will have to look at me at some time, it may as well be now.”
The fires of Hades would freeze over first. Merewyn lay motionless and prayed for deliverance.
“I have food here. You must be hungry.”
She was. She was famished but terror was a more powerful motivator by far.
“If you will not speak to me, there is another here who you may be more pleased to see.”
He spoke a few words in the harsher-sounding tongue that she assumed was that of the Norsemen, and more footsteps approached her pallet. If it was possible to die of fear she would expire at this very moment.
“Little Celt, your baby has missed you. He needs you to wake up.”
Baby? Connell? Her head cleared momentarily and she knew why she must return to the land of the living. Her tiny, helpless brother needed her, he could not survive without her. How long had she lain here, unconscious, neglecting him?
She had no choice. She prised her eyelids apart.
The man was huge, though she could not tell exactly how tall as he crouched beside her bed. She recognised him at once; he was the one who had shouted at her in the forest and flung her to the ground as though she was weightless. She had thought he would kill her there and then, but seemingly he had not bothered to do so. Yet.
He was handsome, this warrior who had invaded her home, but in a manner that terrified her. His hair was light and fell to his shoulders, and he was beardless. His jaw was strong and square, his nose straight, his cheekbones angular in a face that exuded an air of command. But it was his eyes that captivated her. They were blue, the colour of cornflowers, sharp, intelligent, assessing. He met her gaze steadily and he held it. She wanted to look away but was powerless to do so until he broke the contact by turning to address the man who stood behind him.
Merewyn glanced up now and recognised the other Viking, the one she had found lying on the ground. She had told herself she must put an end to the threat while she could, but the chance was forever lost now. He towered over her, and he held Connell in his arms.
Merewyn let out an anguished cry, a plea for mercy as she reached for the baby. She must save Connell, protect him from harm, from the menace of these lawless, marauding raiders. She tried to sit up, realising too late that she was naked beneath the blanket that covered her.
The Viking chief chuckled and signalled to his man to pass Connell to her at the same time as he reached to lift the blanket and cover her naked breasts.
“You are very lovely, little Celt, but I do not consider it wise to parade your beauty before my men.”
Merewyn had no words. She hugged Connell’s squirming body to her, buried her nose in his hair, breathed in the warm, wholesome smell of him. As far as she could tell he was unhurt but she would put nothing past these men.
“Your food is there.” The Viking beside her spoke again, and gestured to a plate on the floor next to her. “Fish again, for we have rather a lot of it just now. And there is water too, from the stream. We will leave you to eat.”
He rose to his feet, and she could see that he was as tall as the other man though perhaps not quite so brawny. Even so, he was broad shouldered and muscles bulged beneath his light green wool tunic. His sleeves were rolled back to the elbow to reveal arms that were tanned and powerful. One of them, the left, bore the scar of an earlier battle. This man was no stranger to violence and Merewyn had no doubt she would see the truth of that soon enough, when it suited him. She tightened her grip on Connell and watched as both Vikings left her to return to the table where two more of their kind sat and watched the exchange with interest.
The two Norsemen sat down and soon the conversation resumed, a low hum of voices and words she could not understand though there was no obvious menace in them. Her stomach growled and the aroma of the fish was irresistible. Merewyn reached for the plate and pulled it closer, arranging Connell so that he was seated on the pallet beside her. The Viking had given her a decent portion, easily enough for them both.
She picked up a piece of fish and offered it to Connell. He pushed it away and tried to scramble over the bed to the floor.
“No, you must stay here where you are safe.” She grabbed for him at the same time as she put the morsel in her own mouth. It was delicious. She chewed, swallowed, and took another piece, all the time holding on to the wriggling child. “Eat this, Connell. It is good and we may not have food again for some time.” Merewyn resolved to take what sustenance they could, there was no saying when their next meal might come. Usually she had no difficulty in persuading her baby brother to eat, he was ever hungry. But today, when it mattered, he refused the food. “Connell, please eat. And be still…”
At last her pleas seemed to have some effect. The baby settled beside her and rammed his thumb in his mouth. Despite all her efforts Merewyn was unable to coax him to try the succulent fish so she ate most of it herself, saving a portion for the child should he be hungry later. Her hunger satisfied for now, and her concerns for Connell somewhat allayed, she settled back to consider her dilemma.
She had been stripped, that much was clear. What more might they have done to her whilst she was unconscious and unable to help herself? She felt weak, her throat still hurt but not much, and her breathing was somewhat laboured. Other than that she felt no discomfort, and surely she would if… if…
And the Viking had covered her when she had inadvertently let the blanket slip. He had appeared concerned, for her modesty or her safety she was not quite sure, but it was odd, not what she had expected.
She lay down and eyed the intruders warily. They seemed unconcerned at her presence, their conversation casual. The blond chief laughed and slapped the young man next to him between the shoulder blades. The youth grinned back and said something that made his leader laugh again.
Perplexed, but not daring to let down her guard, Merewyn settled back against the mattress. She was weary suddenly, her fatigue the lingering effect of her illness. She rolled onto her side, turning her back on the men in the room and curling around the warm body of her little brother.
“We shall survive, I promise you. I will do whatever I must, but we shall survive this.”