Hush: An Irish Princess' Tale (19 page)

This island meeting offers everything Viking warriors hope for after death. They’re eating boar, listening to music, and buying virgins, all while still on this Earth, still in this life. Viking men who have enough wealth must figure waiting is pointless.

That’s why Clay Man didn’t let his crew assault us. Business is business, after all.

We are almost back at the tent when Clay Man stops at a dice game. A Norse man rolls a bone die. When it settles, he curses and throws his hands up in anger. He grabs his die and stomps away.

“Sore loser?” says Clay Man to the other Norse gambler.

“We’ve been at it for a bit,” says the man. “And the stakes kept getting higher. He just lost an island to me. He can shout a while about that if he wants. I would too.”

“A whole island?” Clay Man rubs his hands together. “I wouldn’t mind wagering a bit.”

“And what have you got to offer?”

“Silver goods. Enough to win an island.”

“Is that so?”

Clay Man takes out a large clay die I watched him make last week. He tosses it in one hand.

“All right, let’s have a go.”

How foolhardy these northern men are, to gamble away whole islands. All at once I think about how Nuada lost his hand. I turn my eyes away.

Clay Man whoops. He won the first roll. Of course. But within a few rolls, the other man catches on: “That die is weighted.”

“Don’t be a sore loser,” says Clay Man.

“Then use my bone die.”

“This is my lucky die,” says Clay Man.

“You’re lucky, all right.” The man stomps over and bumps his chest against Clay Man’s. “You’re lucky my sword is at the smithy’s for repair or I’d challenge you to a
holmganga.”

“A duel on an isolated island—is that what you want? On my island?”

“It’s my island, you dirty Russian cheater.” The man points both index fingers right in Clay Man’s face. “If you dare to gamble again at this festival, I’ll have you brought before the assembly of chieftains and demand you be castrated.”

Clay Man steps back. “Sore losers, all of you.” He pockets his die and leads us away.

We spend a good part of the rest of the day taking down our tent and moving it far from the throngs, far from the dice man. Clay Man grumps continually. He ties us to tent poles for sleep.

Clay Man drops the comb in my lap, just like yesterday morning. “Your turn,” he says in Norse.

I sit here with my dirty, ratty hair and pick up the comb in my lap and throw it across the tent floor.

Clay Man erupts in a stream of Russian I take to be curses. He shakes his fist in front of my face. I stare at him, surprised. He hasn’t threatened me like this before.

“Listen,” he says in Norse. “You’ll ruin my business looking like that. I won’t allow it.”

Thora stands behind Clay Man and gives me a pleading look. She’s so upset, I think maybe she’ll be sick.

Clay Man glares at me. His fist is an empty threat. This is a test of wills. I lift my chin and glare back at him.

Suddenly Clay Man blinks, smiles almost imperceptibly. He swirls around and whacks Thora across the chest so hard, she flies backward and slams on the hard earth. It takes several seconds before she sucks in air again and lets out a whimper.

And I know now: Clay Man was the one who slammed me like that on the ship, when I’d first been stolen—blindfolded and gagged. He was the one who broke my rib. He wouldn’t dare slam me now. But he slammed Thora.

I crawl over to the comb and rake slowly at my messy locks. The comb is made of reindeer antler, so it’s strong enough to rip open the knots. I don’t care if it rips open my scalp.

I swallow and swallow to keep my face from squinching in pain. Thora slowly gets to her feet. She doesn’t look at me. We leave the tent.

Overnight many more people have come. A giant market has assembled. Cocks scream in cages under a cloudless, pale blue sky. Thora moves stiffly, wincing. How many ribs did Clay Man crack?

We stop at a tapestry vendor’s. The vendor stretches out samples of linen and wool, and women explain the scenes of doomsday tales presided over by gods in radiant blues, greens, yellows. The women wove those tapestries themselves. Clay Man buys a pile and tells the vendor to deliver it to our tent.

When he decides he’s paraded us long enough to ensure good business, he brings us back to the tent. It’s set up near a field of purple phlox and the tapestries are waiting for us.

Following Clay Man’s orders, we drape the largest tapestries over the outside of the tent. Soon ours is the most decorated tent at the festival. Then we go inside. Clay Man uses the remaining tapestries to make a divider within the tent. He tells us to sit behind it, in a line.

I stare through the dim light inside the tent at the reverse side of those tapestries. One has men on horseback with shields in one hand and spears in the other. Eagles fly ahead of them and ravens fly behind them. The other has eagles and wolves feeding on corpses strewn across a battlefield.

It isn’t long before we hear footsteps.

“I am Hoskuld.” His language tells me he’s native Norse for sure.

“Welcome to my tent. I am Gilli.”

“Gilli? I’ve heard of you. They say you’re the richest merchant trading here. I suppose you can provide me with anything I might want to buy.”

“That depends. What do you want to buy?”

“A
þræll.
A woman. The right kind of woman, that is. If you should happen to have one you can spare.”

Clay Man laughs. “You appear to think you’ve put me on the spot.” He laughs again. “Don’t be so certain of that.” Clay Man lifts the curtain of tapestries. “Take a look.”

We twelve sit in a row across the width of the tent. I refuse to look up. I’m seated near the outer side, almost as far from this Viking as I can get.

“That one. She’s poorly dressed, but good-looking all the same. Say I wanted to buy her, how much would she cost?”

“Her?” Clay Man’s voice is a screech of surprise. He clears his throat. “Three marks of silver.”

“Three.” The man called Hoskuld sounds taken aback.

“Far too much,” says a third voice. One of Hoskuld’s companions.

Hoskuld’s footsteps come closer. Lord, he stops in front of me. “Three marks of silver is the price of three such
þrælar.
You value this slave-woman rather highly, it seems.”

“You’re right. Choose one of the others. For one mark of silver. I’ll keep this one.”

Hoskuld doesn’t move.

“Do you know who he is?” comes the voice of Hoskuld’s companion again.

“He gets what he wants,” comes the voice of another companion.

“Indeed I do,” says Hoskuld.

His tone is deadly. My spine freezes. Who is he, anyway? I look up and meet his eyes. Blue as the hottest
flames, with a shock of red hair tumbling down to his shoulders. Everyone knows people with red hair have otherworldly abilities. They say it’s lucky to rub the hair of a redheaded child. Hoskuld is no child, though. He’s massive and certainly twice my age.

“Here’s my purse.” Hoskuld keeps his eyes on mine as he talks. “Weigh out the silver in it.”

Clay Man lumbers across the tent. He brings out his scales and I hear him unfolding them slowly. Hoskuld finally takes his eyes off me and walks over to Clay Man.

Clay Man sets the measuring pans in place, then he stops abruptly. “Hoskuld, I am an honest man. I don’t want to cheat you in this transaction. The woman has a flaw.”

“What flaw?”

“She cannot speak.”

“Is she deaf?”

“No. She understands—she follows orders. But she’s mute. Silent as the stork these feathers came from.” He touches the feathers stuck in his hair. “I’ve tried to get her to speak, but not a word comes from her.”

“Finish setting up your scales,” says Hoskuld. “Let’s see how much my money here weighs.”

Clay Man looks at me. In the dark of the tent his eyes glitter like a cat’s. His face has gone flaccid. He
looks much older—ancient. He puts Hoskuld’s silver in one pan. He searches through his clay weights and makes a big show of choosing three. He puts them in the other pan of the scale. “Exactly three marks.”

It’s more than three marks. Clay Man has chosen some of his heavier weights—the ones he uses when he thinks people are too stupid to know better. But the Viking must have heard what happened yesterday. Surely he wouldn’t come into this tent without having asked around first. He must know Clay Man has a reputation for being a cheater. And Clay Man must know that Hoskuld knows.

Of course. Clay Man wants Hoskuld to realize the weights are unfair. That’s why he fussed so over choosing the weights. It’s his only chance of getting out of the deal. Of keeping me.

Hoskuld touches his fingertips to the clay weights. But he doesn’t pick them up. “The bargain is sealed, then,” he says at last. “You take the silver and I will take the woman.”

The men shake hands. Clay Man doesn’t look at me.

Hoskuld rubs his hands together and gives a satisfied smile. “You surprise me, Gilli. I must say you acted uncommonly fairly in not trying to trick me into a purchase.”

“I’m an honest man.”

Hoskuld grins and his ruddy cheeks appear monsterlike. “And those are correct weights, I suppose?”

“For this
þræll,
yes.”

One of Hoskuld’s companions harrumphs.

Clay Man turns his back on them and moves closer to Hoskuld. “You paid the just price for this one. She’s special.”

Hoskuld laughs now. “I suppose Russia must produce some honest folk. After all, our own god Odin came from Russia. From Asgard, on the River Tanais.”

“Not far from my home,” says Clay Man.

“Those stork feathers in your hair, do they come with the woman?”

Clay Man steps back. He hesitates.

“Our god Hoenir is long-legged.” Hoskuld pushes his hair back and looks penetratingly at Clay Man. “Some say he’s a stork. He gave man memory. Throw in those feathers, and I’ll remember you. Don’t throw them in, and I’ll still remember you. Differently.”

The threat hangs in the air. Clay Man pulls the feathers out and thrusts them at the Viking. Hoskuld goes over to one of his companions and hands him the feathers.

While his back is turned, Clay Man reaches inside his shirt and pulls out the leather strap from which my gold teething ring hangs. He quickly tosses it onto my
lap. I immediately tuck it into one of the pockets I’ve sewn inside my tunic. My heart races. I can’t fathom why Clay Man would give me this parting gift, and I don’t care why—I’m just glad to have it.

Hoskuld comes near and leans over me. He is tall and his tunic leaves one arm free, giving me the strange sense that he is off balance.

He reaches out his hand and closes it around mine. He pulls me to my feet and leads me away.

This is a tent. There’s a world outside it. But I’m inside.

The body near me, this man Hoskuld, smells of apple. He ate meat and minced onion porridge for dinner, followed by apple tarts and a cake with cloves and raisins. All of that was after he had already partaken of the pig roasted on a spit outside. He has a formidable appetite.

He talks. He keeps asking me if I’m really mute, or just playing a game. He asked me this as he led me from Clay Man’s tent. He asked me this several times during the evening meal. In quiet tones. He has faith in persistence.

He asks now.

He puts his hands on me.

I could cry out. I could beg for mercy. I have never spoken Norse out loud, but in my head there are so many things to say.

But I won’t speak. This man may never come to believe I’m an enchantress. He doesn’t ask anything of that sort. He gives no evidence of thinking my silence is
anything but defect or determination. I don’t know what he did with the stork feathers. But I do know my silence intrigues him.

Besides, he is an animal Brigid taught me, you don’t talk to animals. You keep your mouth shut and watch them. That’s exactly what she said. Hush, hush. Then they know you’re not going to hurt them.

But they can still hurt you.

The vipers circle. They come in for the kill.

His hands find my roundness. Things that were mine, my personal treasures. Things that made me feel pretty. That amazed me when they grew. That made me glad to be a woman. These were part of a clean me, hidden in my tunic, waiting for me to share them with the one I would choose.