Winter Serpent (8 page)

“What was the ending of it?” the girl wanted to know. Something in all this escaped her.

Hallfreor and Sweyn exchanged looks.

“Oh, the whale was struck and towed to shore,” Sweyn said casually. “It was a great triumph, and one of the first deeds to be told of this man who was to be a great warrior.”

The rain did not slacken that day. With night the showers deepened and thrummed on the roof with a sound that seemed to increase the Vikings’ restlessness. The drinking which accompanied the evening meal had a surly deliberateness about it, and the eating was broken by several fights. A boisterous few, the young Raki one of them, appeared to keep the others in a ferment, and it was late before the quarrels and the drunken shouting died out.

Doireann lay down on the floor as she had done the night before, close by the Norse Jarl’s bed. She did not go to sleep for some time, her mind busy with the words she had spoken before them that day, the curious arguments of the Jarl, and finally, the fear, like an uncoiling snake inside of her, when she thought of his eyes.

In the darkness she could sense that the man on the bed lay also sleepless, staring at the roof beams overhead. For a long time they lay, the two wakeful ones, among the snores and rumblings of the rest.

The next morning was gray. The rain had stopped and a fresh wind from the west promised clearing skies. The fire in the meadow was lit for the morning meal and Doireann assisted Sweyn in the cooking. As she worked, she was
conscious that the Jarl had come out of the house and had placed himself in a spot where he could watch her.

During the morning his flat regard never wavered. He evidently was stronger, for he walked about the beach and talked with the others. But not too much. He let his eyes do his work for him, and she was shaken when he turned them to her.

Her hands trembled as she served him at the noon meal. The crews of Sweyn’s longship had completed a trestle table which they carried into the hall, and they used it for the first time at midday. Doireann spilled the ale that she set before the Norse Jarl, and the liquid ran down the edge of the table and onto his bare knee. He made no effort to wipe it off. He stared at her for some time in cold appraisal and she could only wait dumbly, unable to move. After a few moments, when the others had begun to nudge each other, she broke away from him and fled to the end of the table.

The evening of the fourth day came on in the full deceitful blooming of spring. The weather had been chill and overcast, but now it abruptly turned summery in the midst of the young leaves and the first lush grass underfoot. Doireann had become accustomed to pacing the strand by the lochside at night after the evening meal; the noise and the smoke of the crowded hall and the bedlam of fighting and arguing were wearisome to her, and she had grown restless as the others with the confinement and the relentless regard of the pale-eyed Viking Jarl.

She walked this night along the shore in the stillness of dusk, feeling the heavy-limbed spring all about her, amusing herself by wading into the shallows to look for shellfish which sometimes held fast to the rocks at low tide. There was comfort in the sea wind from outside the bar, which ruffled her gown and sent small waves against the sand in a descending whisper. It was quiet; the muffled roars and drunken singing from the log house were far away. In the meadow the guard fire burned and the Vikings there watched her covertly, but with no thought to disturb her.

As she stood a tall man came out of the hall and went to the fire, and at his words the Northmen answered and pointed to where she was. He turned and started toward her. By his height she knew him at once to be the Jarl.

Her fear rose instantly, yet in this velvet light she saw his figure as human and recognizable. He wore no bearskin, only a tunic, and the metal of his ear medallions and armlets picked up the faint gleam of the sky. When he was close he stopped and stood watching her. She shivered, and the handful of shellfish she had placed on a rocky ledge fell into the water.

He comes quietly, she thought in an agony, and does not seem to be drunk. Perhaps there is some hope because he is quiet. Pray, pray, she told herself. Pray that he does not hurt you too much.

The light made deep shadows on his face. She could not see his eyes. He moved to her slowly, seeming to consider his every step, and when he had come very close he reached and took her wrist, drawing her out of the sea. She followed him obediently; they seemed to go with measured tread from the beach to the rise of alders and into the woods. Under her clothing her skin writhed at the thought of his touch on her. She bit her lips and chewed them so that no frightened sound could break through.

They were enveloped by the dark and secrecy of the place, the leaves of the trees around them fluttering and murmuring in the wind. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her down; she went awkwardly with one foot doubled under her. Without thinking she scrambled over to her hands and knees and tried to rise, to run, but he grabbed the back of her gown and held her. They struggled. He could hold her quite easily; it seemed he only waited for her to cease scratching and flailing about.

She went limp, trying to control her fear. Some cautious voice warned her not to fight him. He could kill her with his bare hands if he wished. She tried to lie still and let him tear at the throat of her dress, her hand across her mouth to keep from crying out. This was her body that no one had touched since she was a small child and now his mouth was on it, his rough hands, violating it. She shook with her terror, forcing him to take a still tighter grip on her.

He was having difficulty with her dress; it was twisted about them. She kicked out at him wildly and then put her elbow against his chest. His grip was broken. She rolled away from him and staggered to her knees. He caught her leg and held it.

“No!” she screamed, and then cursed herself. He pulled her to him over the leaf-littered ground. It was useless to struggle and yet she could not help it.

He held her down and took her chin between thumb and forefinger, turning her face to him, though her neck strained in an agony of resistance. In the dim light she saw only his fair hair and the wetness of his mouth, slightly parted. His mouth was on hers, his panting breath fouling her. He held her down by his weight. She screamed.

Even in the dark she could tell he was surprised. He pulled away from her a little, looking down into her face. Tears were running down her cheeks and when she caught her breath she began to cry loudly, like a child. Between piercing squalls she threw her hands over her face. Only this far could she withdraw from him and no more. What had he expected, some slut who had been cast off from Calum’s bed?

The Jarl pulled her hands from her face and examined the dirty streaks of tears upon it. He was still breathing heavily. She wished that she could stop shaking and sobbing; her very teeth were rattling.

He lowered his head.

“Let us finish,” he said in her ear.

Although it was dark under the alder trees it was not dark enough to cover the white blur of their bodies. He lay quietly beside her, his arm pinning her down. Somewhere about on the trampled ground was the discarded woolen gown; before she could leave she must crawl about, searching for it. In contrast to his stillness she shivered in uncontrollable spasms. She could no longer bite her lips to keep from crying out; they were swollen as if from a beating.

Abruptly he turned his head toward her. “What is your age?” he asked of her.

She clenched her teeth. Now that he had taken what he wanted from her he would not, ever, get anything willingly again. No look, no word. Nothing that he could not force from her. Never again would she think of submission.

“How old are you?” he demanded.

He lifted his arm and prodded her, finally turning her head toward him to see if her eyes were open. They were, and glared defiantly at him.

“You are of an age to bear children?”

His words struck her as wildly absurd. To her horror a crazy ripple of laughter was jolted from her. She choked on it, gagged, and was left between laughter and tears.

His face was wooden.

“Is this then so funny?” he asked.

“Yes. No,” she answered, forgetting her vengeful vow never to speak to him. “This is my eighteenth year,” she gasped. She repeated it over and over as though it had some idiot comfort for her.

He pushed her away from him, making an impatient sound between his teeth. She rolled over, still laughing. He observed her for a moment coldly and then reached for her long and tangling hair. He seized a handful of it and shook her.

She tried to pull away from him, but only collapsed in desperate giggling. He rose on his elbows and, still holding her hair close to the scalp, jerked

her head sharply sidewise so that it hit the ground. He whacked it again and again until a cry of pain broke from her.

“Do not act so,” he said. “Yes,” she whimpered.

“If you would be still for a moment I will speak to you of a very important thing. I have decided that I will take you for my legal wife. I had not planned this, but now I have decided that it will be so. You understand that now things for you will be different than what was planned.”

She understood nothing. She lay dirty, naked, and bruised, and heard him speaking to her and could make no sense of it. He was viewing her with his impassive stare.

“It is my wish that you understand what I have told you and conduct yourself before the others with this in mind.”

He was raving. Now that she was no longer a virgin, did he think that she would propel herself among the others seeking more lust, more outrage? His wife. Was this then some singular honor? It made no difference to her whether he called her wife or woman, slave or slut. Now that she had tasted defeat, let him beware of her vengeance.

“Where are your clothes?” he asked.

She said nothing. He waited and when he saw her sullen face he got up himself, adjusted his tunic, and went to look for the gown. He returned with it in one hand and the belt in the other, which he thrust at her. She slipped the garment over her head and allowed him to jerk it down neatly all around. He gave her hair a brush with his hand, dislodging some of the dirt and leaves.

Then, taking her hand, he led her away from the place.

There was a great clamor in the hall as she slipped in. The room was murky with smoke, but the fire gave enough light to show her face streaked and swollen, hair matted, gown rumpled and stained. There was considerable interest in her entrance and she heard not a few remarks accompanied by laughter; only Sweyn looked away as she made her way to the far side of the room.

The bed had been arranged so that the hides hung around it formed an alcove of privacy. The Jarl’s shield and spear hung at the head, and she saw that her plaid had been placed on the side. This must mean that she shared a bed at last. Wearily she shed the filthy gown and crept under the tartan. The bed felt wonderfully comfortable.

At least I no longer sleep on the ground, she thought grimly. When I can think clearly once more I will doubtless see that what has happened was better than I could expect. I have no bones broken. I belong to the chieftain and he has claimed me for his property. I should soon be dead of this if I were shared among them all.

With this comforting thought, she went to sleep.

She awoke when the Jarl threw his heavy body down beside her, and half rose from the bed, trying to swallow the scream on her lips. He noticed nothing, only drew her to him silently and held her in a loose embrace. He lay relaxed, not moving, and with horror she realized she would lie this way throughout the night. He had gone to sleep.

The first light of dawn touched his face and he stirred and lifted his arms from around her. Taking advantage of this, she quickly rolled away. As he did not seem to waken she swung her feet over the side of the bed and stretched, looking carefully for any signs that the others were up and about.

Now she would remove the outward signs of her defilement. Her box was under the bed. She pulled it out quietly and opened it, taking the double-edged comb and the small copper cleaner for the nails. Cautiously she crept back under the plaid for warmth, taking pains not to disturb the sprawled figure beside her. She undid her hair, shaking loose the small braids looped and tied before her ears and raking them with her fingers, and began to work with the comb. The task was difficult Her hair tended to curl tightly in the damp, and it was tangled from her struggles under the trees. Bits of leaves fell from it as she combed.

She was not vain of her hair, for all that the women of the Coire had admired it so extravagantly. To her mind it was a plain enough color, deep sooty black, and, like any other part of beauty, it was troublesome. Calum used forever to linger to pet it, rolling the curls between his fingers; it was the Viking who had seized it, and her scalp still ached from the roughness of his hands.

I would cheerfully take the knife and cut it off, she thought savagely, and also rub dirt on my face and welcome a sagging body, if only then I would be free of men and their pawings.

Yet, she knew even now that her revenge would be subtler. Let Calum think she was conquered, and also this heathenish lump beside her. She must submit for a time, waiting like a wrestler who guilefully looks for his opponent to feint, then counters with the telling blow. She would triumph over them all, she was sure. Somehow. A man was no match for a woman’s patience, a woman’s enduring spite.