Winter Serpent (17 page)

cramped her, and when she awoke at last it was with a smothering, frightened feeling of being pressed down upon the bed and imprisoned. She pushed the cover away and fanned herself with the edge of it to make a small, cooling breeze.

She lay in the darkness for, a long time, wondering at the warmth of the air so late in the year, seeing the mist curling its fingers through the logs of the wall like a ghost seeking to come in. Curious weather, evil and dreamlike. She shuddered, glad that she was not outside in the forests where the fog would be drifting in pools in the glens and the leaves whispering with the voices of the dead. It was good to have a house to lie in, even though it was the house of the Norsemen.

The Jarl’s weapons were hung on the wall beside her and gleamed reassuringly in the firelight. The heavy iron sword rested in the shoulder belt hung on a peg; the round shield of hide and oak looked down at her. The
size of them and their fine workmanship were the mark of the leader, their owner. There was something of the Jarl’s authority in them and the way they shone in the dark, alien but strangely comforting, as if they guarded her while he slept.

The bed creaked. The Jarl sat up suddenly, his back rigid, staring into the darkness.

“What is it?” she whispered, alarmed.

He did not answer. His head was inclined and he listened intently. She could see his fair hair as tousled and straggling as her own, his white skin where the wolfskin vest parted from his trousers and showed the knobs of his spine. There was something frightening in the way he bent forward, like an animal seeking a scent, sniffing the air. For several minutes he sat like this and the smallest sounds of the sleepers were magnified in the listening silence.

A log snapped in the fire pit and he sighed. He lowered his head.

“I heard the bears outside,” he said gently, the whisper of his words filling the alcove.

“Bears?” she cried. There were wolves and wildcats in the mountains, but they never approached a wooden building such as this with its hated man-scent. “Bears do not prowl the forests this time of year; they sleep in their caves.”

He shook his head.

“They were outside. I heard them snuffling through the walls of the mead hall and I awoke. They came here, yet they did not call me. But they were waiting.” “There are men by the guard fire,” she insisted. “They saw no bears or they
would have given the alarm.”

Her words did not reach him.

“They were here. When they return to their mountains they will leave their footprints in the new snow.”

Now she knew he was still gripped in some nightmare.

“Thorsten Jarl, bears do not roam in the winter. They sleep.” She tugged at the cover. “Let us sleep also.”

He turned to face her. She saw his face drawn, the eyes sunk deep into the sockets.

“Am I not of the brotherhood of bears?” he asked softly. “Do I not know their ways? They were here, near to me, yet for some reason they did not call.” “You are having a dream,” she said. “There are no bears. There is no snow;
it is warm like summer and the air is filled with fog. It is this strange weather which causes weird dreams, or else you have drunk too much beer and are seeing the ghosts which frighten drunkards.”

The words roused him. He seemed to be aware of her for the first time. He stared at her, at her swollen figure, and then remembering the child, drew
the woolen covering about her knees and patted it into place. His face was still open, like a young boy’s roused from deep sleep, free of the sternness which he kept upon it.

“I wish you to understand that I had no choice in this matter,” he said abruptly, as one who resumes an interrupted tale. “Once, when I was a youth and could have escaped it, I considered the matter well. But even then I was set to take the oaths and the tests, because I believed with the rest that it was foreordained that I should become one of them, one of the brotherhood of the forest. Now I know there was little choice, for the signs and omens were there from the beginning. Since I was old enough to handle weapons I have never flinched from the cold steel. The sharp edges bring me no agony. I do not fear the sight of bright blood. It is not that I conquer my fear like some men and cover it with my courage. The fear is not in me. It is like an empty place, not existing. For this my men would follow me to death, for they are afraid of me and know that I am invincible. It has always been so. When I took my first arms with the other youths I was a head taller than my childhood friends and much stronger. The old men singled me out for many honors. It was I over all the rest who jumped in heavy battle gear over the high wooden barrier, setting a mark which stood forever after for all to challenge. Yet it was not strength alone which caused me to make such a mighty bound, but a strange exultation within me which made me sure I would surpass those who had gone before and all that would come after. My father was proud then, and did much boasting upon my name. Was I not the chosen of Thor the Hammerer, the Lightning-flinger?”

For a moment she saw his face light exultantly. He paused. Then he put his hands to his eyes and the triumph faded.

“My father,” he repeated.

She thought he had finished, and started to speak. But he interrupted her, beginning his narrative hurriedly.

“Soon after, when we went to hunt whales in the northern waters where the ice floes are, storms turned us back many times from land and the gales brought snow and ice to cover the mast and shroud the ship beams. I remember well how cold and hungry we were and how the men were sure that we would perish, and called upon Thor and Odin to help us. But these gods did not answer. Instead a great thing happened, a rare thing. I was lying in the bow of the ship half-frozen, keeping watch, looking out upon the unending sea, when I saw white bears swimming toward us, where white bears should never be seen, there in the middle of the sea. They came straight toward the bow of the ship where I was and swam round and looked at me with their little, burning eyes. I saw them with wonderment but no fear, and it seemed that I could hear them speaking to me. The storm grew dark, and I fell on the deck
unconscious. When I came to my senses my father was holding my head and the bears had gone. Vanished. Like a dream, the men said. Then I spoke to my father and told him the white bjorn had commanded me to take the steering oar and bring the ship to land, for they would lead me. They had said I was one of them, and it was not yet time for me to die. Then my father threw his spear into the deck and called upon all to see how the ancient brotherhood of the forest, old as time, had come to his son and claimed him. And for all to look upon me, the bjorn-warrior given his sign, the one who would be the much feared berserkr.”

“Was this true, that you brought the ship to land again?”

“Yes. Without stars, without landmarks to steer by, only the sound of the waves and the knowledge the bjorn would guide me.”

“And this berserkr…”

“An ancient thing. The wild warriors. The possessed. The man brother of the bears. The white bjorn had seen this thing in me. They knew I was one of them and they called to me.”

He was sweating heavily, something odd and dark in his eyes.

“You are afraid,” she whispered. “And you said you could not feel fear!” “No, no,” he almost shouted. He was excited, grabbing her arms and shaking her. “Do you not see? They came to me now to tell me they wait for the coming of my son, who is one of us!”

She screamed.

Instantly he drew her to him and covered her mouth with his hand. Although shaking with excitement, he tried to stroke her hair, to calm her.

They had awakened the others. Doireann heard the voices thick with sleep, drawling the Norse tongue. Someone laughed. Then there was an exclamation. A pause. A shout of dismay.

The hall began to rouse swiftly. There were more muffled shouts, movements, running. From outside the walls of the house there were other noises and a long-drawn-out howl from the fire in the meadow.

With the crash of the trestle table being overturned, the Jarl released her. He jumped up in the bed and tore the sword and shield from the wall. In another leap he was in the room, carrying part of the alcove curtains with him.

Doireann could see him standing, lit by the fire, brandishing his sword over his head as his men, barefoot and half-naked, thundered about in the gloom looking for their weapons. The bull-like voice of Sweyn called again and again for torches.

It was Thorsten who restored order. He put his finger to his lips and stood without moving, and they quieted, listening.

Olav Forkbeard pointed to the roof beams above them. Tongues of flame were licking through the thatch, and a shower of burning leaves fell inside.

Doireann scrambled out of bed and put on her shoes with trembling hands. It took but a moment to fasten the plaid cloak about her shoulders. Those within the hail could hear the wails of the attackers. The Northmen drew their faces up in ferocious grins. The Jarl was saying something in an undertone to Sweyn, who nodded.

There were soft words of command. Half the men of the longships gathered at the main door, behind the Jarl. Sweyn hurried to Doireann and jerked her roughly by the arm, pushing her to the center of the second group. The tall Irishwoman was there, a triumphant look on her face, and Gunnar Olavson carried the Irish girl slung on his back, his sword arm free.

Olav Forkbeard took Doireann’s hand and placed it on his belt. She clung to it tightly, knowing that he spoke to her, but not able to distinguish his words through her terror.

The enemy was clever. As the group led by the Jarl burst through the door that led to the meadow, the attackers were waiting for them, hugging the ground, their blows aimed at the Northmen’s legs. Those who were brought down were trodden upon by the rest as they fought to get clear. Each Northman went through the door giving voice to his battle cries and the clamor was great. Even in the press Doireann realized they were striving to make as much noise as possible to as to divert the attackers from those who would escape by the rear. It was a futile ruse. There were attackers lurking in the dark there too.

For a moment, surrounded as she was and jostled on every side, Doireann lost her footing in the scramble into the night. Her grip was broken on the Forkbeard’s belt and she fell heavily. Luckily, there was no one behind to stumble over her.

It was pitch-dark. There was no moon, and the fog was a thick blanket over the cove. The shouts and shrieks were muffled about her and she could see nothing. She lay on the ground, listening to men struggling about her, and the sound of iron striking iron. She heard Sweyn calling the crews by name, and heard the scattered answers. Someone cried out in Gaelic and then began to scream horribly. She put her head down on the ground and stuffed her fingers into her ears, grinding her teeth, trying to shut out the noise.

Feet thudded on the grass near her and ran past her, and she heard them slipping on the pebbles of the beach, but she could not tell who the runners were. For a moment her thoughts turned slowly.
Where do I go in this night and to whom do I belong
? It was a bitter thought.

The hall blazed up with a red light and showered recognition on the scene. The dark shapes outlined against it struggled fiercely in the glare, and then the battlers separated, shrinking from the light. Some ran, pursued by others. She got to her knees and then unsteadily to her feet. But before she
could do anything else she was overcome by a wave of nausea. She tried to think what could make her so sick. She put her hand to her head and swayed.

Someone seized her.

“So who is this?” a voice shouted in her ear.

Rough hands turned her about so that she faced the light of the burning house.

“Where is Calum toiseach?” a second voice asked, and she recognized it for the voice of Seoras, Calum’s servant.

“Man, is that blood upon you?” the first voice cried.

“Some son of a whore as big as two men caught me on the arm,” Seoras ground out. “I think it is broken.”

She swayed and would have fallen, but they caught her.

“Stand still,” she was ordered. The first man was binding up the servant’s arm. Another dark shape joined them.

“Their ships are burning,” he said briefly, “but it is useless to pursue them.” “Were not the smallboats destroyed?” the first man cried.

“How should I know this? I heard Liam macRuadh calling that they were able to knock holes in the boats big enough to sink them, but somehow the Northmen got them into the water. Perhaps they did sink, after a bit.”

“I could not see very well,” Seoras said. He began to groan. “I would be easier in my mind if I could see my arm, and what kind of blow has crushed it.”

“The binding will still the blood,” the first man assured him. The light began to turn a pearly gray about them.

“Here is the dawn,” the first man muttered. “Soon we will be able to make out how well we have fared this night.”

One of the men took Doireann’s arm, and they began to make their way across the meadow in the brightening fog. Her feet were heavy and her knees trembled so that she was fully occupied with the carefulness of her steps in the tall grass. The dawn wind which came across the meadow was bitterly cold.

She was clear-headed enough to see ahead of them the figure of her foster brother in his plaid and tattered bonnet, turning over the bodies of the Northmen lying on the beach, picking the best plunder for himself and tossing the rest to the men around him. Two of the clansmen were piling the war gear of the defeated in a mound, laying the swords in a row on the beach for later division. It seemed there was a multitude of dead men. As the bodies were revealed sprawled on the sand, the picture of the wedding feast rose to plague her, except that now the clansmen stood about, their tartans fluttering in the wind, and the sputtering hull of one of the Viking ships swung at anchor.