Winter Serpent Page 3

  And this hatred was the thing which had destroyed her, she thought bitterly. If she had once been able to give herself over to him, she would not now be sitting so forlornly in the house of the Northmen, waiting for some terrible thing to come to her.

  All that remained was her stiff pride and her stubbornness, the only things which Muireach macDumhnull had given his daughter, the only things that had endured. Calum macDumhnull had taken everything else: the honor of the chieftaincy, the lands which should have been hers in the clan portion, the cattle and the flocks in the Coire which were the chief’s lot, even her dead mother’s possessions. Stolen by a redheaded renegade, a cousin, mistakenly adopted by the generous Muireach and called his foster son. Doireann had never forgiven Calum macDumhnull from the time he had put his foot on the standing stone to claim the chieftaincy, a spindly-legged thief with lies in his mouth, a cheat and a coward. She had spat on him and cursed him in the beginning, but this was before she had learned to fear him and his patience which waited long to destroy her.

  She stirred. It seemed she had sat a long time. Her back was stiff and cramped from the chair. The silence of the house was all-enveloping. It weighted her down like a cloak. For the first time she was hungry. It seemed an eternity since she had had anything to eat.

  The door at the opposite end of the house opened.

  Without thinking, she jerked forward from the chair to her feet and stood in wordless, instant panic.

  A Northman came into the house carrying a pile of skins in his arms. Even through her terror she could see that he did not look at her. He ignored her as he passed the chair and went to the mound of gear. He stood there for a moment, looking down at it, searching for something. He threw the load of hides down at his feet and shrugged.

  She turned her head stiffly as he moved past her, watching him in an agony. He took the topmost skin and went to the pile of gear and began to clear the things away. The shields and weapons he placed carefully against the wall. At the bottom of the mound the outlines of a bed were revealed. It was narrow, but quite long, and had the same carving on the headboard as that which decorated the chair. The Northman took time to tighten the rope framing, putting his foot onto it and kicking it to make sure it was secure. Then he spread the hide over it, whistling as he did so through his teeth. He patted and jerked the hide about, trying it first in one place and then in another, stepping back to look at it critically. When he was satisfied he fetched another hide and spread it on top of the first. As he passed the chair the second time she felt the flick of sharp blue eyes.

  When he had finished with the bed he dragged it into a corner of the house. The rest of the hides he arranged to hang on the roof so that they formed a rough alcove. They kept sliding down, and while Doireann stared at him fearfully, he patiently replaced them until they stayed fixed. When he was through with the bed he went to the gear pile, selected a wooden bucket and a bowl, and went out of the house.

  She sank down into the chair, her knees shaking so that they could not support her. She was sure now that she waited for Sweyn Barrelchest, the old Viking.

  From the angle of the sun through the hole in the roof she judged that noonday had passed. She was very hungry and thirsty, and she wondered if the Northmen had eaten a noon meal. It was senseless that they had given gold to Calum macDumhnull to bring her here, and now seemed bound to treat her as though she did not exist.

  Her eyes stung and were weary from peering through the shaft of light to the door. For a long time she had thought that there would be other Northmen coming into the house but no one had appeared since the departure of the bedmaker.

  She put her hands to her face. In the continuing stillness and waiting it seemed she must at last give way to the tears which she dreaded. But her eyes were dry. Her head throbbed with a dismal pain and her mouth was parched. She gave herself over to silent misery.

  The door creaked on its leather hinges, but she did not look up. Another sound, like rasping, labored breaths, was there at the far end of the room. But no footsteps.

  Listlessly she lowered her hands from her face. The light was poor, the shaft of sun from the smoke hole between herself and the door, making it difficult to see. And the door was flung open, the water shining on the loch outside, the figures in the doorway only black shadows. She could only sit, waiting for whoever it was to come forward.

  The figures shuffled inside, toward the center of the house, and it seemed that one of them stumbled. Now that they came nearer the fire pit some of the yellow light falling there spilled on them. But not enough. They seemed to be made of mysterious bits of light and shadow.

  Doireann leaned forward suddenly, feeling the brush of some presence which flowed out now to meet the waiting walls of this house. Something faint, only sensed like some dim odor acrid, and with the flavor of evil. Her skin felt it.

  The drifting thing passed.

  She saw now that one of the figures was Sweyn Barrelchest, strangely silent, his beard and shirt of ring mail silvered in the light. And as she peered at him, it seemed the thing beside him was an animal, a beast covered with fur.

  The room seemed to turn about slowly and she blinked. She looked again through the light, the dust motes dancing in it. The fire pit she could see clearly; it was well-lit. But the sun was like a curtain between herself and those on the far side.

  The furry thing moved.

  It was some ghost. Or she had fallen asleep and this was her dream. She grasped the bottom of the chair with her hands, feeling solid wood. This was real enough. The wind blew through the open door; she could feel it. She was not dreaming.

  She got up slowly, as though a sudden movement would shatter the magic stillness, and moved behind the chair. She put it between herself and the thing beyond the fire pit without thinking. She could not cry out, utter a sound. Her eyes were straining out of her head, and even then she could not believe what she saw.

  The thing was fur. Or hair. But black and shaggy, limbless, menacing. It could be a large animal, but the light and the uncertainty of its shape made it hard to tell what it was. She had almost come to the conclusion that it was some monstrous ball of hair come to life when she saw the stoop of its shoulders. It might be a bear. The size. The way it stood. The snout with its dry, blackened nose, and sunken holes for eyes. But the eyes did not gleam. Eyes shone in the midst of the gaping jaws.

  At that moment she knew that it was a man clad in some sort of bearskin, the skull pulled forward over his face. Yet it was weirdly real. The man must be a giant, from the size of the thing, and the feeling was still of a beast there and not a man masked as one. She looked to see the paws laced tightly to his hands so that the claws covered his fingertips—the way that he stood within the bearskin as though bent with the weight of it.

  No, not bent with the weight of it she thought feverishly. He crouched because he was the bear. He lived as the bear lived, standing as the beast would stand reared on its hind legs.

  This was not the hunter wearing the trophy skin of the animal he had killed. This was something else. The spirit of the thing was there in its dead skin. And the meaning was hideous. Unfathomable.

  The old Viking, Sweyn, seemed unconcerned. He addressed himself to the apparition.

  “This one have I obtained for you,” he said to it. He waved his hand toward the girl.

  He was proud of himself and his bargaining. The girl made a good appearance. She had put aside her cloak, and her black hair spilled down over her shoulders in the unbound Celtic fashion. He had thought the women of the Scots would be mostly tall and fair, but this one was not. Still, it was a clever thing he had thought of. He was still puzzled that the weasel-like Scots chieftain was so eager to barter her for gold. There could be some blemish or fault which he had not noticed. Still, blemish or not, she had been got cheaply as good-looking women go. And a woman such as this often could be had only for much bloodshed.

  He looked at her with his small trader’s eyes. Her dark hair w
as thickly curling, two small braids laced with ribbons looped before the ears in the manner of the west highlanders, the rest hanging free. The white face was, passionate, struck with an expression of defiance, the eyes wide now in fear, gleaming like bits of blue Irish enamel. They were made to seem deeper, bluer, by the girl’s dark lashes and brows. Her mouth was soft, the upper lip lifted over good white teeth. Her body was slender, but well-made, and would set any man’s hands to itching. She was no field woman. She held herself with something that could be called beauty, and now that he studied her he was sure she was worth much more than the gold he had given for her. He felt very uneasy for a moment. Then he sighed. Whatever the mystery concerning her, she had a very good, almost a remarkable, prettiness. In years to come a man might sit at his hearth and watch this woman with many children about her and one heavy in her body of his own making and still see the beauty and the spirit in her strangely unsullied, still take pleasure in watching her as in any beautiful thing.

  Yes, very nice, he decided again. And strong and healthy. He had made a good bargain.

  He crossed to the girl and, taking her arm, pulled her to the man in the bearskin so that he could see what he had seen in her. The girl tried to jerk away, terrified, stubborn, but he held onto her. It did not hurt that she should show some spirit.

  But the man in the bearskin was wavering uncertainly. One arm reached up clumsily to the bear’s skull and touched it, and he swayed. Sweyn Barrelchest let go of the girl and went to him at once. The furry figure bent to lean on the old Viking.

  They moved toward the bed in the corner, the apparition dragging its feet, body bent. But at the bed he pulled apart from Sweyn to stagger the remaining steps alone, falling upon the bed with a crash that shook its frame.

  “Attend him,” the older man ordered Doireann. She stared at him without moving.

  “Go, go,” he urged her. He put his hand in the middle of her back and gave her a shove forward.

  She took a few steps and then balked, terrified of what she knew he wanted her to do. She did not wish to touch the thing lying on the bed. It still looked more beast than man. But Sweyn Barrelchest was breathing heavily behind her, his hand raised impatiently. She went to the bed and put her finger tentatively on the thick hide. It was silky to the touch but dry, dead. And faintly gritty, stiff with something that had been spilled on it. She rubbed finger and thumb together and quickly wiped her hand on her skirt.

  Sweyn Barrelchest muttered something. She bent at once and took hold of the bearskin. The man lay on his stomach, completely covered by the hide. She could not tell whether he was drunken or sick, or both. She closed her eyes and gave the skin a sharp pull, but it was held fast.

  The giant on the bed made a struggling movement.

  “Yes, let us now free him of it,” Sweyn said suddenly. “Now it is time to release him!”

  He pushed her aside and turned the man over, grunting with the effort. His hands undid the laces which held the pelt to the other. As he pulled it from him the bear’s skull split in two and fell apart.

  Doireann nighean Muireach was astonished at what was revealed underneath. There was a man under the skin, true enough; it had almost seemed some monster would be uncovered, as terrible as the thing which had first appeared in the indistinct light. But this was a man, young, palely fair. Long skeins of yellow hair hung over his shoulders and arms. His face was clean and well-shaven, the expression typically blank. The blow which had split the bear’s skull in two had bitten into his head. Across his skull and into his left eyebrow ran a long, festering wound, a fearsome sight. The rest of his body looked to be unmarked. He wore a leather vest over a fine linen tunic, his legs bare to the knee, the rest covered in crossgartered soft leather boots. He was indeed what the Scots called an athach… a giant among men. The length of his legs hung over the side of the bed, heels dragging on the floor. Sweyn lifted each leg tenderly and swung it over to rest on the bed.

  “Just so have I attended him, many times,” he rumbled. Doireann backed away.

  “Do not stand so, goggling,” Sweyn barked at her.

  “Is this the man I was brought for?” she asked timidly. He grunted.

  She looked again at the man on the bed. “What shall I call him?”

  “Call him nothing,” Sweyn said shortly. “Do not worry him with your chatter. He is Thorsten, son of Eiric, and the Jarl of the men of the longships. He is my udal chief and a great fighter. Now you will heal this wound on his head.”

  Her mouth fell open. These foreigners were all madmen; she knew it. Nothing of what had occurred in this place made sense to her, even now. She looked desperately about her, at the wooden walls of the house, the man on the bed, the unreadable face of the bearded Sweyn, as if to make sure this was real.

  Why did they think she could heal this man with the great gash on his head, she thought stupidly. The Northmen would be most unpleasantly surprised. She knew little or nothing of this. The treating of putrid wounds and fever was the duty of the old ones, the men and women gifted in herbing, trained in the knowledge passed down from the days of the druids. She would never take such a task upon herself. From what she could see of the giant Northman’s head, the wound should have been treated in the very beginning with some poultice, but with what, and how, she did not know. Or perhaps pulled together with a bandage or copper pins as she had once seen. This had been allowed to spread and pull back from the bone. She told Sweyn as much. He pretended not to believe her.

  “All women know healing,” he said with finality. It was useless to argue, then.

  “I could put a poultice on it,” she said doubtfully. “But I do not know any herbs that grow in this place. I think… it might be that I could use sea grass and boil it and put it to the wound very hot. This will cause the evils to withdraw. Perhaps. It will help some, anyway, if the skull is not broken.”

  “Get this grass, then,” he told her, “and I will make the fire.”

  Sweyn made a small hot fire in the pit for her and had a kettle ready for the grass. She put the green stuff into it and added some water, letting it boil for a while. A green froth rose, reassuring her. It did look somewhat like a poultice prepared by an herb woman. She ladled it out onto a cloth she had taken from her own belongings.

  “Perhaps you had better call a servant,” she suggested. “The heat will cause the pain to be very great, and it could be that we will have to hold him down upon the bed.”

  He snorted at this.

  “There are no servants to call here. All are equal, all are warriors who follow the chieftain.”

  Then he laughed.

  “Besides, you will not need men to hold this one upon the bed. He is no cringing youth. Nor could ten men hold him down if he did not wish it. Do what you have to do. I will be with you.”

  She slapped the cloth hastily upon the gash and stepped back. She had made a poor job of it, fearing some outburst. The steaming juices ran over his forehead and dripped off his ears. As Sweyn had, said, the man did not flinch, and she wondered that he could keep his body so still, not even the eyelids flickering. Perhaps he was unconscious. After a moment she tightened the cloth about his head, trying to pull the wound together. The cloth was still hot to her fingers.

  The man opened his eyes and looked at her. They were flat-looking eyes, light in color. He spoke to Sweyn. The other man answered at some length.

  “What does he say?” she asked apprehensively.

  “Oh, he asks where I have gotten you,” he answered, “and I tell him now that brought you from the hall of your brother the Scots chieftain at great price because of your beauty and great talents as a healer. He asks also if you know what you are doing and I tell him, naturally, you are very skilled.”

  He rose to go. He prodded her with his finger.

  “Be careful what you do.” There was a warning in his voice. She stared after him, speechless.

  The man on the bed began to grope about his neck and shoulders as if searching f
or something; he put his hand down on the floor and brushed it. He seemed puzzled. He looked directly at Doireann with his strange light eyes and cleared his throat. He addressed her in what sounded like the language of the Northmen. She could only stare without understanding.

  He tried another language which sounded similar to the first, yet still unknown. He paused, thought for a moment, and then spoke something in which she thought she caught a few familiar words. He repeated them slowly. “No, I do not understand,” she told him. “Only a few words. What tongue is this, a little like Gaelic?”

  “Ja, Gallic,” he emphasized. “Brettish, Armorican.” She heard him say the name of Carlus Magnus, Charlemagne. Yes, there were Breton and Armorican tribes which spoke a language similar to that of the Celts, but the words were changed and difficult. He had asked her something, but she could not tell what it was.

  He made no sign, when she bent over him to remove the cold poultice, that it caused him pain, but the inflamed, raised skin about the open wound must surely be an agony to the slightest pressure.

  When she came back from the fire with a fresh cloth she saw that he had found the bearskin and had drawn it comfortingly up over his chest. No doubt this was what he had wanted. His arms were placed outside the bearhide, palms upward, and she saw with unease the powerful muscles in the shoulders and forearms. It would be simple enough for him to reach out and seize her. She did not like the look of this man with his inhuman eyes, mortally sick though he was. The palms on the bear fur were large and covered with a sailor’s calluses.

  He took no notice of her. He had turned his face to one side, the cheek resting on the edge of the fur, his eyes shut and his face brooding.