Sigrun's Secret (18 page)

‘He calls himself the King of Wessex,’ he said briefly. ‘He’s a Saxon.’

When the poetry was over, a woman told, very dramatically, the story of the conquest of Jorvik. I listened avidly, for I knew little of the history of the city. The woman finished the tale with a recital of the current King Siefred’s brave deeds, to which the king listened with obvious pleasure. After the story, Eadred whispered to the king, and then turned to my father.

‘The king would very much like to hear about your country of Iceland,’ he said. ‘Would you be willing to speak a few words?’

I knew my father’s reluctance to tell stories and felt a moment’s panic on his behalf. But there was no need. He was bowing with all his usual good manners and agreeing to speak. I watched as he straightened himself, refused a horn of wine, and took a moment to gather his thoughts.

‘I live in a land in the far north,’ he began, ‘an island surrounded by icy sea, with the frozen wasteland of the gods just a few days’ sail to the north. Even on our island there are vast tracts of ice that would take a man many days to cross. And yet in places it is a warm land, a land of many wonders. Springs run hot out of the ground, so we never need to heat water for bathing. And we have mountains that are alive and at times spew fire and ash into the sky and make the ground shake and quiver beneath our feet.’

His audience was enthralled at once. I was aware that there wasn’t a sound in this crowded room, as the guests almost held their breath, afraid of missing a word of his tale. It couldn’t be completely new to any of them. Other Icelanders must have visited Jorvik, but my father made our land sound mysterious, both blessed and cursed by the gods. He wove a kind of magic in the room while he spoke, and no one interrupted.

When father finished, there was tremendous applause, exclamations and questions. Before we left, he’d been presented with a pair of fine silver brooches by the king as a mark of honour for the story, and had been showered with further invitations. I’d been mentioned to the king as a skilled healer, and engaged to visit his eldest son, Thorvald, who was ailing. I felt a surge of butterflies in my belly at the request. The king’s son was an important patient. What if my new-found skills should suddenly desert me?

The young man sitting next to me looked taken aback when he heard who I was. ‘You’re the healer who cured Leola?’ he asked.

‘I am,’ I agreed.

‘I see. Please don’t feel under any obligation to cure my brother,’ he said, once more depriving me of the power of speech.

As we walked home through the dark streets, I took my father’s arm. ‘So much for lying low in Jorvik,’ I said.

‘Indeed,’ said my father, and his teeth flashed white in the darkness as he smiled.

‘You always were a fine storyteller, Bjorn,’ said Thrang. ‘You’ll be invited everywhere once they get to know how many tales you can recount. As many suppers as you can eat.’

‘I’ve never sought that kind of renown,’ sighed my father. ‘You see, Sigrun, it was my duty before, in my life of captivity, to entertain with stories. So I’ve wished to leave it behind me.’

‘That’s a great pity,’ said Leif. ‘To let such a gift go to waste.’

Father chuckled a little. ‘Very well, I’ll embrace it,’ he said. ‘I have little choice for the time being.’

‘You’ll be well paid too,’ said Thrang. ‘As you were tonight.’

‘Then I shan’t need to rely so heavily on Sigrun,’ said my father. ‘That would be a good thing. Here, Sigrun, I’d like you to have these.’

So saying, my father handed me the silver brooches he’d been given by the king.

‘They’re too precious for me to wear,’ I gasped.

‘Nonsense,’ said all the men at once.

‘Wear them for my sake,’ said my father. ‘Unless we need to sell or trade them, they’re yours. They’ll suit that fine silk dress better than those homemade ones you’re wearing now.’

He began to question Thrang about the various families in the city, so I fell behind and walked beside Leif for the last two streets, holding the valuable new brooches in my hand.

‘Did you enjoy the evening, Sigrun?’ Leif asked.

‘The entertainment, I did,’ I said. ‘The music especially was wonderful.’

‘It was, wasn’t it? And what did you think of Leola, seeing her in company?’

‘She’s very pretty, very graceful,’ I agreed cautiously. I had grave misgivings about the girl’s character.

‘I hope to make her my wife, whatever father says,’ said Leif in a low voice. ‘I’m sure he’ll see her worth once he gets to know her.’

I couldn’t feel that Leola would make Leif a good wife, and I wished I could warn him, but it was impossible for me to divulge her story. I remembered the king’s son, and the way he had eyed Leola during the evening, and shivered slightly. Leif was not the only young man in love with her.

‘What’s the name of the king’s younger son?’ I asked Leif.

‘Knut,’ said Leif. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

‘I had very little speech with him,’ I said briefly.

‘Arrogant so-and-so, isn’t he?’ said Leif. ‘He’s been paying Leola attentions, the dog, but luckily for me she can’t stand him.’

I wasn’t so sure he was right.

Maria was pleased to see us come home. She’d waited up for us, keeping a glow in the fire, and a lamp or two lit, so we could see to get into our furs for the night. The nights were cooling at last now winter was here.

As I lay down beside Maria, I was aware she was restless, as though something was bothering her.

‘We’ve been in the house of your enemy, haven’t we?’ I whispered. ‘I feel as though I’ve betrayed you somehow. Do you forgive me?’

In the darkness, Maria took my hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

‘That’s a relief,’ I whispered. ‘I couldn’t do without you. They treated you abominably at Eadred’s, didn’t they?’

A nod in the semi darkness. Another thought struck me.

‘Did Leola treat you badly too?’

A very vigorous nod.

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ I whispered soberly.

Two days later, Thrang, Leif, and Bjorn all left to sail some goods north along the coast before winter set in. They took our remaining men with them.

‘Isn’t sailing dangerous at this time of the year?’ I asked anxiously.

‘We won’t go out of sight of the coast,’ said my father, giving me a farewell hug. ‘And Thrang is the most skilled captain I’ve ever known. I’m glad for your sake you have Maria to keep you company. Otherwise it would be so lonely for you here.’

‘She’s a very good friend,’ I agreed. ‘But I’ll miss you.’ I hugged him tight and then stood back and waved them off, standing at the front door of the house.

I wandered forlornly down the stairs. A week stretched ahead of me with only Thrang’s two surly slaves and Maria for company. After the excitement of the party, it felt very flat. I sat down listlessly beside the fire where Maria was pounding grain into flour. Unn was out and the house was quiet. The only sounds were the distant noises of the city outside our walls.

‘Would you like me to take a turn with that, Maria?’ I asked at last, feeling I ought to shake off the lethargy that had come over me.

‘No, I like to help,’ said Maria.

For a second or two, I didn’t react. Then it hit me: Maria had spoken. My heart gave a great leap of excitement.

‘What … what did you say?’ I asked her breathlessly.

She smiled but didn’t repeat her words. But I’d heard her. She’d spoken Norse, with an accent, it is true, but I’d understood.

‘I thought you couldn’t speak our language,’ I said at last. ‘That you couldn’t speak at all.’

‘I couldn’t speak,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘A long time, I couldn’t.’ She spoke slowly, hesitatingly, and with a lisp. ‘After they took me. When words come back again, I stay quiet. I speak only to other slaves, never to enemies.’

‘But I’m not your enemy, am I?’ I asked her.

‘No. You help me,’ said Maria. ‘Treat me well.’

‘And you’ve been a good friend to me,’ I said. ‘I’m so grateful for your company. Especially going out to so many strange households in the city.’

Maria smiled a little. I’d told her before how glad I was of her presence.

‘I don’t know how much you’ve heard and understood,’ I said. ‘But my father was enslaved as a child too.’

Maria nodded. ‘People not mind what they say near me,’ she explained. ‘They think I can’t tell their secrets.’

I smiled ruefully. I’d had the same thought. ‘So where did you learn to speak Norse?’ I asked her.

‘I speak bad,’ she said. ‘I listen. And speak with other slaves. We all from different places. We have to speak Norse or Saxon.’

I reached out and put my hand on her shoulder, pressing it affectionately. ‘Will you tell me about yourself?’ I asked her.

Maria bent her head over the grain. After a moment’s silence, she took a deep breath and looked up. ‘I tell you,’ she said. She put the mortar and pestle aside and sat up straight, clearly bracing herself. ‘I grow up by sea, in a country far south of here. Many weeks’ sailing. The summers hot there and winter short. I live with my brother, parents, grandparents. We farm, my father fish. We poor, but life … good.

‘When I ten, raiders come,’ she said. She sighed deeply, looking into the distance, reliving scenes from long ago. ‘No one attack us before. But now they sail right up onto beach. Big, yellow-hair men. No mercy. They cut down my father with swords so his blood runs like river in dust. My grandfather too. They take everything. Burn our home with big fire. My mother she beg them not to take us, my brother and me, when she understand what they want. So they … they … ’

She faltered and stopped, choked with emotion.

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ I said, horrified. ‘If it’s too distressing.’ I felt sick, listening to her tale. I thought of my father. Was this how he’d been taken too? His family killed while he watched, helpless?

Maria wiped her eyes fiercely with the back of her hand and cleared her throat.

‘I have not words for what they do to my mother,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘It make me not speak for long, long time. In the end, they kill her too. I want to die. My heart breaking. Everything—everything I love is gone. But they tie us and put us on their stinking ship. There were others. All young. We sail for weeks. Some die of a fever, my brother too. The men threw them in the sea.’ Maria paused to wipe tears from her cheeks. ‘They do more raids, take more children. They bring us here.’

I sat quite still, chilled by her story. ‘Here to Jorvik?’ I whispered. I wanted to ask her if she knew the men who’d done this to her, if they lived here still, but I didn’t know how to get the words out. Perhaps I was too afraid of what I might hear.

‘Yes, Jorvik. We sold, all of us.’

‘To Eadred?’ I asked.

‘No,’ Maria spoke more freely now that she had finished telling me about her family. ‘To Norse woman first. She made me work hard. I run away. Once, two times. More. So, after two years, she sell me. To Eadred.’

I shuddered. ‘Did he work you hard too?’

‘Not so bad. They are rich. Have many slaves. But he … the master … I don’t like him. He is cruel man, like Leola. I run away again. Lots. But couldn’t get out of city. So he catch me every time. Beat me.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. I knew my words were inadequate. How can anyone express sympathy for such a life with mere words? Such cruelty, such unnecessary pain. And all so some men could earn a little money. I wondered fearfully whether my brother was committing such shameful acts, and then pushed the painful thought away again.

‘Not your fault,’ Maria said. ‘You give me better place to live. You kind.’

‘But I can’t give you back your home or your family, can I?’ I asked her, cut to the quick by this realization. ‘I thought I was so noble rescuing you, but what good is that when my people have destroyed your life? I’m ashamed.’

‘You done nothing to be ashamed,’ Maria said. ‘You help people who are sick. That is good way.’

‘There is always more one can do. There ought to be.’

Maria smiled a weary smile. ‘Perhaps,’ she said.

‘How old are you?’ I asked her.

‘Fourteen, fifteen. I not sure.’

‘The same as me. So you’ve spent four years in captivity? It’s a long time.’

Maria agreed, nodded. ‘Sometimes I want to remember, but I’ve forgotten so much. It’s faded. They even take away my memories.’

I felt deeply sad. For Maria herself and for all the lives torn apart by slavery. I felt sadness for my father’s life, and for mine too, now also shattered by the aftermath of his escape.

‘Were you trying to go back home?’ I asked. ‘The times you ran away?’

Maria shrugged. ‘What I go back to? Everyone killed. My village burned. Nothing. No one. No, I not run to anywhere. Just run to escape beating with stick.’

‘You’ve escaped now,’ I told her. ‘You’re free, for what that is worth. Perhaps it is worth nothing when you have nowhere to go.’

‘It is worth much. Very much. I not forget it,’ said Maria.

We sat in silence. I could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t sound utterly trivial. At length, Maria picked up the grain and began to pound it again.