The Betrothed Sister Page 2

  Gytha grasped her stick and accepted the oarsman’s help. Once down she waved her stick about her head so all Thea could see of Grandmother Gytha was a carved eagle head poking above the side of the ship, and her grandmother’s voice yelling, ‘I hope the Bastard King sleeps uneasy in his bed tonight. I curse him, by the Norns’ spells; I curse him by Christ’s holy blood, by Thor’s hammer and by Freya’s bones I curse him. I pray that he suffers Hell’s fires for his theft of our kingdom.’ The eagle-headed stick rose above the ship’s walls and was shaken up at the stars as if to emphasise her words.

  Godwin’s answering call echoed around the waters, ‘He will pay for Magnus’s death, for my uncles’ deaths, for my father’s death. We will harry England’s shores until he wishes he had never heard of our kingdom.’ He lowered his voice and called down to Thea, whose stiff fingers could hardly grasp the rope as she listened patiently to her grandmother’s diatribe, wanting it over so that Godwin would get her over the side. At last he called down, ‘Now, Thea, come further, hand over hand.’

  Thea climbed steadily, crushing her terror of dropping back down, until, to her relief, Godwin grasped her and swung her over so that she fell past the rowing benches and onto the deck. One by one, the other boats drew up to the big ship. Led by Hilda, Thea’s other aunt, the ladies courageously climbed into the ships. Finally, the children shimmied up and they were all on board. The Sea-Dragon’s sails were unfurled and the seamen seated in the ship’s body began to row. The Wave-Prancer followed. This ship, Edmund explained, carried the rest of their surviving Danish warriors and house coerls, all well-armed and alert. Thea glanced with admiration at their coned helmets and at their great jewelled arm bracelets that glinted through the starlight.

  She watched, thrilled, as Godwin raced across the great rowing benches that ran along the ship’s length and shouted to the men in the Wave-Prancer. There was an answering call as the warriors began to manoeuvre their ship into position beside the Sea-Dragon. When they drew closer, Godwin climbed up onto the wall of the Sea-Dragon. With a yell he leapt over the narrow channel of sea onto the supply ship and was gone. He would command their protection from the second ship which carried the greater number of his men-at-arms and sailors who were also warriors.

  The Wave-Prancer moved away again, oars moving in rhythm. It took up the lead position now. The Sea-Dragon followed and soon they were out from the headland and the island was left far behind.

  Padar joined the women where they made themselves more comfortable by leaning against Gytha’s coffer. Squatting down, he opened his satchel, drew out a large flask and pulled a wax stopper from the skin. He produced a silver cup, and with his eyes twinkling he offered the first draught to Gytha. After the countess drank, Thea and the other women raised the flask to their mouths. It held a concoction of something that tasted of honey and bitter herbs – clashing flavours. Thea did not mind. The liquid coursed through her, for a heartbeat, allowing her thoughts to drift away to far distant lands, to kingdoms that marked the edge of the world.

  ‘A distillation of barley and spices,’ Padar remarked as he took the flask back and knocked off the dregs, stoppered it and returned it to his satchel.

  ‘Just what we need,’ Gytha said as the ship ploughed its way out of the channel, southwards. ‘Now, little man, lull us into sleep with the melodies of my homeland.’ It was as if Gytha was remembering places far to the north that had long been hidden in her soul, the land of the Danes and the country of her youth.

  As Padar pulled his harp from his big leather scrip, the children squeezed up against their mothers. They were all packed as closely as a line of drying cod, twenty of them in all, women and children, jammed into the stern of the Sea-Dragon. Thea looked past them and behind for the necessary. She took note that it must be that covered pail that leaned against the ship’s wall just at the furthest end of the ship where the stern curved upwards into a dragon’s tail. They would need to be careful if they had to crawl around the chests and over to it. Aunt Hilda was famous for her weak stomach.

  The countess huddled down amongst the fur covers. As Padar played his harp her eyelids closed. In sleep Gytha’s aged face relaxed and the lines of long years of care settled. For a moment, Thea glimpsed the fine-bred northern beauty her grandmother had once possessed. The water’s lapping; the oars’ plash; the murmuring of the night breeze and the strains of Padar’s music contrived to shift Thea’s thoughts to dwarf kingdoms under the mountains. She imagined caves along which rivers twisted through pillars of ice. Gradually, her own eyelids closed as she, too, was lulled into sleep by the skald’s melodies and the gentle rhythm of the dragon ship as it ploughed through the sea. She pulled her sheepskin closer and drifted into the territory of uneasy dreams.

  2

  The Prince’s band can pull

  Their oars straight out of the sea.

  Viking Poetry of Love and War, collected by Judith Jesch, 2013

  Thea’s eyes shot open. A grey dawn light was seeping into the sky. She sensed a shifting of bodies. Her bladder ached. There was nothing for it. She would have to use the makeshift privy and, no doubt, she must soon help Grandmother Gytha to it as well. Aunt Hilda was fast asleep on the other side of her grandmother. She leaned forward and peered at her gently snoring aunt. Thankfully, her colour still retained a soft bloom.

  Thea stood unsteadily and lowered herself to crawl over the other women and around their children who were curled up in sleep. The boat was moving so fast it felt as if they were racing away from somewhere or something, rather than keeping the steady pace it had held during the night. Thea crawled past the sleepers and tried to grab the wooden rail running around the dragon ship’s sides. She stumbled as the ship seemed to jolt. Righting herself and looking up, she saw Padar above in the mast calling out to Godwin on the other ship. Godwin called something incomprehensible back.

  She steadied herself and leaned against the ship wall. Edging along it slowly, she managed to reach the bucket. With great difficulty, she squatted down behind a curtain that had been hung like a tent from a hook projecting from the stern. The bucket stank of foul odours, of vomit and excrement both.

  Moments later she rose and allowed her gown to fall around her ankles again. Despite the ship’s roll she managed to extract a ball of lavender that hung from her belt along with her needle-purse and scissors. Trying hard to get the lid back on the bucket with one hand, the lavender ball in the other clutched to her nose, she managed to elbow away the coarse curtain. A moment later she had tripped over, falling into the arms of one of Edmund’s helmeted house coerls. His sword scabbard dug into her thighs.

  ‘Sweet Mary, let me free,’ she cried out.

  ‘What, my lady, taking the Virgin’s name …’

  ‘Move your great leather-clad hulk now.’

  ‘Steady, my lady, steady now. Get back with the other women.’

  An arrow hissed past her to bury itself in the ship’s wall.

  ‘That is a warning,’ he added. ‘It was meant to miss its mark. You women are more valuable as slaves than dead. Next time we might not be so lucky. Keep down and take a look.’

  She twisted her head around to see a ship with two black sails gliding out of an inlet, fast catching them up. A crescent moon was painted on one of them.

  ‘Normans?’ she said.

  ‘No, Moorish pirates come into our waters from the south.’ He tightened his grip on her arm. ‘Go back. None of us are safe. They’ll be looking for captives and ransoms.’

  Edmund had come up behind the Dane. ‘That’s right, Gunor.’ He reached out and helped Thea to step around him. ‘Get back to Grandmother and do not move.’ He glanced over at the privy with its flapping leather curtain. ‘Not even for that.’

  A slew of arrows arched from the pirate ship and hissed their way, but went amiss, hitting the ship’s sides. For a moment the onslaught stopped. Edmund gave her a gentle push. Bent over almost double she retreated. When she paused, she straightened up aga
in, unable to resist looking out to sea, where she discovered the reason for the brief reprieve. Godwin had set up a response from the Wave-Prancer which he had deftly manoeuvred between the Sea-Dragon and the enemy. The pirate ship was only yards behind them, gaining on both of their vessels. She bent down again and scuttled back to her place amongst the frightened women, their shivering children and her grandmother. The women clutched each other, then pulled the children under their mantles and ducked low as the pirates returned fire.

  ‘I need the bucket,’ Gytha said imperiously, rising from her furs.

  ‘You can’t, Grandmother,’ she heard herself shrieking. ‘We are being attacked! Edmund says …’

  ‘Never mind what Edmund says, what is necessary is unavoidable. Help me to it. Take my arm, girl.’

  Despite protests from Aunt Hilda, who was greening at the gills, Gytha dragged her frightened granddaughter back into the danger zone.

  ‘Grandmother,’ yelled Edmund, ‘you can’t.’

  ‘I can and I must.’ Gytha clutched at the wooden rail, pulled herself behind the makeshift curtain and ordered Thea to hold it closed for her.

  Thea’s legs felt weak. She was shaking. She could hardly hold on. ‘Hurry, Grandmother, hurry,’ she hissed through her teeth.

  It seemed to take Grandmother an age. Curses crossed the water followed by the swish of returned arrow fire from the Wave-Prancer. Thea heard screams as men were hit. The battle was beginning in earnest; arrows were fired to kill. Gunor and Edmund shouted orders past the women crouched down behind the coffers, holding their children close, petrified.

  The oarsmen momentarily stopped rowing. Gunor came weaving his way past them followed by Padar who had climbed down from the mast. He spoke to Edmund who nodded. Gunor handed him his arrow quill. Agile as a squirrel Padar scurried up the pole again towards the opened sail and nimbly worked his way above it. He lashed himself to the top of the mast, withdrew his bow, plucked an arrow from the quill, set it, pulled back the bowstring and let it fly.

  The arrow sped like summer lightning over the Wave-Prancer and straight into the enemy’s mast. Thea could not see how it landed but she heard Padar’s yell of success and their crew’s applauding cheer. Gunor stood below Padar and struck a flint into a spark. Once he had set fire to another arrow he thrust it up towards the skald. He followed Padar up the mast. Padar leaned down and grabbed it. Within another intake of breath, he had set the burning arrow into his bowstring.

  ‘Aim for their sail this time,’ Gunor yelled up.

  Padar was light and fast. A moment later, he had let the flaming arrow fly towards the mast of the Moorish vessel so that it caught the very top of the sail. The wind would do the rest.

  Thea was as mesmerised as if she had been watching an archery contest at old King Edward’s court. She moved from her post in front of the privy and scrambled up onto a chest. She leaned over and clung to the ship’s wall. A second arrow arched. Within a heartbeat it was gone. The Wave-Prancer was just to the left of the flaming arrow’s trajectory. She prayed that none of the burning arrows would catch Godwin’s sail. With amazing accuracy three flaming arrows hit their mark and she let go a breath of relief. As the enemy’s sail billowed out it seemed as if it had scooped up a fat fireball.

  The pirates tried desperately to throw buckets of seawater up at the gathering flames. A continuous stream of what now looked like wide, burning, linen ribbons floated briefly in the air, turned into skinny black rags and descended to be tossed about and swallowed by the foaming waves.

  The Sea-Dragon lurched, as with dangerous speed the oarsmen began to row forwards.

  There was a roar of complaint from the privy. The wind-filled curtain flapped open allowing a full view of Grandmother Gytha’s red woven leggings, tied at her knees, and her bunched-up brown undergown. Gytha pulled herself from the bucket and banged its lid back down with a crash. Straightening her clothing, Countess Gytha emerged grumbling, ‘How dare they attack us? Mark this, Edmund, after this wave-dancing and enemy-dodging is over, a seaman must be dispatched up here to empty that bucket. It reeks of pig’s innards.’

  Edmund yelled back, ‘Grandmother, get back, we are not safe yet.’

  Thea clambered down from her perch by the privy and handed Gytha the lavender ball to hold to her nose. She dragged her grandmother back from danger to shelter again behind the chests where the terrified children were shrieking. Their mothers sobbed as they clung to their children and to each other.

  If St Theodosia abandoned them, if the pirates were able to put out the flames and retaliate and their ships were captured, Thea swore an oath. She would kill herself rather than become a hostage or a slave.

  Drawing her seax from its sheath, she grasped it tightly under her mantle. Her grandmother pulled her into her bony arms and whispered, ‘Thea, there will be no need. We shall outrun them. Those bastards are fighting a fire. Anyway, they will not dare attack further into Normandy’s waters, not if a Norman fleet is out.’

  ‘But will the Normans attack us too?’

  ‘They dare not. They promised us safe passage. The Norman bastards will protect their shores, believe me. Besides, Godwin and the Wave-Prancer will be more than the enemy’s match. He will divert the pirate scum from our ship to give us a chance to get up into the Narrow Sea between Normandy and England. Once we are past Brittany’s coast, the devils will retreat.’

  ‘That puts Godwin in danger.’

  ‘He is used to it. Godwin has better marksmen and faster oarsmen than they have on that ship with its ruined sail. By tomorrow morning we shall be breaking our fast by the hearth in a Flanders inn.’

  The countess’s words proved true. The pirate ship was retreating. The Wave-Prancer would hold the mid-channel until the threat vanished into the southern horizon.

  Edmund ordered bread and buttermilk for the women. He followed the servant back to the stern and crouched beside Aunt Hilda. Pale with shock, their aunt was gabbling prayers as fast as a feast-day goose running around a yard. ‘It is over,’ he said to her quietly. ‘You can put your cross away, Aunt Hilda. God has listened to your prayers. Please eat and drink. We have another day’s sea journey ahead.’

  Aunt Hilda shook her head but her mouth shaped a wisp of a smile. ‘No food, just water.’ She studied Edmund for a moment. ‘I have come to a decision. Once we are safe in Flanders I shall seek a life of contemplation.’

  Countess Gytha reached her jewelled hand out of the covers and accepted the bread the servant offered. She turned to Hilda and remarked with an edge to her tone. ‘So God steals another of our Godwin women to be his handmaiden. Well, so be it, if that is your choice, Hilda, my daughter.’

  3

  St Omer, 1068

  The September sun was beginning to streak the sky with gold and pink as late in the afternoon the two ships slid into the shelter of a Flanders bay.

  The ships sailed around a shallow grey headland where tufts of sea grass waved in the breeze. Beyond the headland a shore of lichen-encrusted stones served as a beach. A large jetty pushed out into deep water where they could anchor and tie up the ships. Sails were quickly lowered and safely secured on the decks. Their oarsmen rowed the dragon vessels close to the pier so that one man from each ship was able to climb over and moor them.

  A large crowd soon gathered to gape at the newcomers and an arrangement was brokered with fishermen who were watching their arrival from the quayside. Ladders were raised against the Sea-Dragon’s walls and the women safely disembarked. Once on firm ground, Thea peered past the onlookers and over the low harbour walls beyond the jetty. There, a decrepit town of assorted thatched wooden and stone buildings stretched around the harbour in a semi-circular shape. The town’s church spire poked up towards pale yellow puffs of clouds that hung in the sky like unwashed sheep’s wool.

  A florid-faced man with a head shaped like a turnip pushed forward through the quayside gathering to greet them. His leather apron suggested him to be an artisan. He stared at The
a, Countess Gytha and Aunt Hilda. ‘By St Christopher, your women seem weary. I hazard a guess that you are all travellers, pilgrims?’ He raised his dark eyebrows. ‘Or could you be exiles in search of a place to rest your heads? You would not be the first. You will not be the last now William of Normandy is king in England.’

  Their languages were similar enough for them to understand each other’s tongues. Thea waited patiently with Gytha and the other women. It was true. They all needed to rest. They could not spend another night on the ship, nor were they fit to travel on to Bruges.

  For the time it takes a hunting dog to draw in a breath, let it out and bark, Godwin had taken a step forward, his hand on his sword hilt. ‘You are correct. We are from England. Our women are destined for King Baldwin’s court.’ He surveyed the red-faced artisan. ‘So, my good man, who are you?’

  The man bowed. ‘My lords, I am a humble man, Luc, master shipwright.

  Despite his acclaimed humility, master shipwright Luc wasted no time opening up negotiations with Godwin and Edmund concerning lodgings for the night. He pointed to one of the larger stone buildings in front of the church, a hall house with an upstairs chamber reached by an outer staircase. ‘My own dwelling is a spacious hall.’ Bowing low to them, Master Luc declared his intention. ‘I would be pleased to offer my hospitality in exchange for coin.’

  ‘State your price,’ Godwin said. ‘The ladies can rest here or on board our vessels depending on the cost.’

  Gytha leaned on her eagle-headed stick and grunted impatiently through the negotiations until Godwin and the shipwright slapped hands and a deal was concluded. ‘The cargo,’ the countess said, pointing her stick at Godwin. ‘What shall we do? It must be kept safe.’