Winter Serpent Read online

  She stood by him, waiting for him to command her, and as she waited she thought she heard a small sound. An infinitely small sound. She bent slightly toward him, doubtful of the poultice. There seemed nothing wrong with the cloth or the wound. Her eyes searched his face and then she saw a clear drop roll out from under his eyelid, cross the bridge of his nose, and drop off to the leather hides which covered the bed beneath him. The small noise, and then another.

  He’s weeping, she thought. The Northman is weeping!

  At last Sweyn brought her some food. He brought a wooden bowl of stew, dark and oily-looking, seal flesh probably, and a blackened lump of bread baked in the fire. She tried the bread and it was hard as a rock; the stew tasted like spoiled fish. She could not eat any of it and yet her stomach was so empty that it ached.

  The light from the smoke hole waned, and some of the Northmen came in to relight the pit fire. The sap was still running in the newly cut wood and it burned slowly and badly, giving off choking clouds of smoke. They began to make their beds about on the floor. When the room had become thick with the dark and the smoke, she lay down also close to the bed where the Norse chieftain slept, and drew herself into a small knot. There was not much room. It was a small house, crowded to overflowing with the big men.

  Soon she could no longer see clearly the shapes rolled in their cloaks and skins about her; the only sounds were the crackle of the fire, the thundering snores, and the crash of the lord Thorsten as he heaved his body restlessly about on the oak bed.

  She napped fitfully. The earth floor was uneven, bent in the wrong places for her body, and she dared not stir about too much. Her ears strained for the sound of footsteps or other menacing noises, but only the scratching of rats sounded in the walls. She counted the hours of the night with desperation and relived in her mind the events which had brought her to this place.

  Sometime in the late hours before dawn the man on the bed gave a loud groan, loud enough to wake her from her dozing. She tried to ignore it, to burrow under the plaid, but the racket continued. With a sigh she scrambled up, the joints in her legs aching and complaining, and went to him.

  He had writhed about during the night; once more his legs dangled from the bed, feet touching the ground. She tugged at one of them, but it was like trying to uproot a small tree. Also, he had pulled off most of his clothes. The leather vest hung from one arm. She slipped it all the way off and under her hands his skin felt dry and burning. He started, mumbled something, but he was not awake.

  She was very afraid. He was quite sick, probably dying. And it was to be hoped that nothing she had done had brought this about, for if he died she was sure the others would kill her.

  Sweyn was somewhere about among the sleepers on the floor. She tried to remember where she had last seen him. He could not help her, but at least she did not want to be alone with the man on the bed when he died.

  She searched her mind to think of the things which she had seen done for the sick. When children were very ill one could sometimes break the fever by bathing them in cold water. This was all she could remember. The water bucket was hung on the wall at the other end of the house; it was best to make a start somewhere.

  She picked her way across the floor, stepping with her bare feet onto metal objects and fur, and once into an open palm. The owner woke, and raised himself silently on his elbow to watch her.

  Through the open door she could see the guard fire in the meadow and the two shadows of the Northmen before it. The bucket was on the wall by the door where she remembered it. It was half full.

  She went to her task with misgivings. She took the poultice cloth, dipped it into the bucket of cold water, and began to bathe the man’s face and arms and chest. She could not feel any cooling change; instead, the cloth became warm with the fevered heat of his body. She dipped it again, wrung it out. She did this many times until her arms became tired from reaching over him. She blew aside a strand of hair which had fallen down into her face. It was too dark to see what she was doing. She used her free hand as a guide, groping about the man’s body.

  She groaned and put her hand to her back. Many dark nights had she lain awake in her lifetime, but this was the darkest and the longest. She changed her seat, pulling the Viking’s head and shoulder into her lap. She dribbled some of the water onto his chest and stirred it about with the cloth. She despaired of seeing him live. He was too hot, too burning with fever to survive. Her own clothes were soaked with water.

  He was clean, at least. There was no rank body smell brought to life by the water, only the odor of some buttery substance, some oil, that he had rubbed into his skin. She finished the last of the water and, with her free arm, threw off the repulsive bearskin and pulled her own woolen plaid over them both.

  The light was graying with dawn. The old women had a saying: babies are born in the middle of the night, fevers break at morning meal, and men die at dawn. She could only wait.

  She stroked his forehead with her fingertips. This time he did not feel so fevered to the touch. His face was becoming clearer in the morning light, and she examined the gash on his head carefully. It had a puckered, boiled look about it, but it was much cleaner. If he lived he would have an ugly scar.

  One of the guards from the meadow came in and shouted to wake the sleepers. The snores continued. He began to go about kicking at their heads and their rumps, and they rewarded him by shouts and thrown objects. In the midst of the noise Sweyn sat up, bare to the waist, his beard flowing out majestically. He saw the girl at once and got up and scratched himself all over and drew on his ring-mail shirt.

  “How does he do?” he bellowed.

  When he had come close to them the girl told him of the fever in the night. “I thought he would die,” she said anxiously.

  “And now?”

  She shook her head doubtfully.

  The head on her lap said something, not opening its eyes.

  “Ha so, he is not dead!” Sweyn shouted. He smacked her on the back with his open palm. “This was a good job.”

  She had sense enough to put her hand on the man’s head. It was covered with beads of sweat.

  The man on the bed said something to her in the Breton tongue. “Yes, the fever is broken,” she agreed.

  Sweyn was watching her sharply.

  “So you understand this Armorican? Can you speak to him?” “Some. A few words.”

  “This is good.”

  The men talked rapidly in their own tongue.

  “So you see,” Sweyn said, turning back to her, “I did not lie. You are skilled in these things. All women are healers. Mend him quickly. He must not lie about too long.”

  He went off, and the others began to follow him. One or two of the Northmen who looked as though they had some authority or rank above the others came and stood by the bed. She understood nothing of what they said to their chieftain, but they were brief, and they pointedly did not look at her, out of respect, no doubt, to the big man.

  After this her patient dozed. She sat on the floor with her head in her hand and waited for him to waken. When he seemed to rouse a little, she fetched a clean cloth for the new poultice, and as she was placing it on his head he seized her hand and flung the cloth away. He did not release her. Instead, he used her hand to pull himself into a sitting position. He swung his legs to the floor and sat there, shaking his head to clear it. His eyes were glazed with the effort and he was greenish about the mouth.

  He flapped his arm at her unsteadily, as if to beckon her closer.

  “I will get up,” he said, thickly. She backed away from him.

  “Ah no, I cannot hold you up,” she protested, “and it is true you may yet die.” But he was already standing, wavering about. She could not help wincing;

  she expected his fall at any moment.

  He began to mutter in his own language, moving his hand about his throat and chest to indicate something.

  “Bring me, bring me…” he attempted in Armorican, but gave i
t up. “You are going to fall,” she told him.

  He ignored her, his mind fixed on the effort to keep himself upright. “Bring me…” he tried again. He stopped and stood with his head hanging. She tried to think of what he could want. It must be the bearskin. She

  dragged it from under the bed and thrust it quickly at him.

  To her amazement he half held out his hand, then squinted at the hide. A puzzling, stifled sound broke from him and he made a movement as if to push it away. He lost his balance, sank back onto the bed.

  She looked at the heavy bearskin in her hand. It was dirty and stank like a dead animal, but she could not see that it had changed since the morning. He had wanted it then and now could not stand the sight of it. She dropped it, kicked it back under the bed. She did not like to touch it. It had another life, another meaning, to the Northmen, part of some terrible magic, and she was glad he desired to be rid of it.

  She picked up the leather vest. He must mean his clothing. She was right. She gingerly helped guide his arm into the armhole. He managed the rest of it himself. Then he pointed to his head. She started to fetch the poultice cloth but he took her skirt and pulled her back. He pointed again. His hair. It was obvious the Gaulish tongue had failed him and he had run out of words. So now she must arrange his hair. He pulled at the leather tie that held the braid and it came loose, the hair falling over his shoulder with a color like that of grain bleached by a July sun. It was outlandishly long and maidenlike.

  She took her own comb and loosened the snarls. Then she untied the other side and combed until the long hair flowed down from the top of his head like a yellow sheath. She took time to stare at the sight of the hulking giant beneath the long golden hair. She began to bind it up as before. He wore long embossed medallions in his ears. The ears were not pierced; the medallions were hung on loops of leather over each ear, secured by a strand of hair drawn from behind. It took her some time to put them back as they had been.

  When she was finished he staggered to his feet again. He shuffled a few feet while she stood back from him, fearful and impatient at his stupidity, yet impressed with the tremendous strength, the will which showed in his wooden face, the cords standing in his neck.

  He had arranged himself for some display and now that he was on his feet he would go through with it. He stumbled to the far end of the hall and out through the door.

  The Northmen were gathered in the meadow to eat the morning meal. The sunshine was the brilliant, pale yellow of spring and it seemed to put the northlanders in a rowdy good humor—that, and the appearance of their chief who stumbled to a seat on a large rock and allowed food to be brought to him.

  The Vikings had set up a shield in the sand and some of the youngest warriors were running about casting spears at this target. A great whooping and howling greeted a center hit. To Doireann’s eyes there was something dreadful in their massive bodies galloping by, the quick grace of the spears as they sliced through the air. The men had a singularly oafish look to her: the small eyes set back over ruddy cheekbones, long straight noses, and big jaws. When they were laughing, as now, they all showed big white teeth. Like horses, she thought fearfully. Or great thundering cattle. She heard Sweyn’s irritated rumble rise above their noise.

  Suddenly, the scene turned into one of battle. Some angry words exploded and two of the Northmen, their faces contorted with rage, hacked at each other with the spears they had been using for sport. Doireann was astounded to see their faces change so swiftly, becoming ferocious, bloodthirsty. The crowd tripped up one of the fighters and he went sprawling. His opponent was quick to leap on him and drive the spear into his shoulder. He was pulled away by a man in a leather vest with a horsetail fixed to his helmet. The man held rank of sorts; he cuffed the victor about the head and shouted at him. The rest, bent double with laughter, hauled the wounded man off and dumped him into the water. Then they proceeded to bathe.

  Sweyn undressed behind a boulder and joined them. He had an enormous belly which he eased carefully into the cold water.

  Doireann shrank from what was going on. Her eyes hurt from the over-bright sunlight and her ears were deafened with the noise. She managed to choke down some of the food, feeling that she must eat now or begin to starve. The giant Jarl seemed to share her lack of appetite. He sat with his head sunk forward, not touching his bowl. She tried to speak to him, but he gave no sign that he heard. She bent to look into his face. He seemed in a stupor. This, then, was his reward for dragging himself from his bed. They were all monsters, madmen.

  She put down her bowl and moved away from the hunched Jarl. There was nothing she could do for him, certainly nothing she could say which would persuade him to go back to the log hall. She guessed that he was bent on showing himself to the others to hold his leadership over them. Or to show his great fortitude.

  She walked away from the campfire, the group of raucous bathers, slowly. Before her were the woods at the foot of the cliff. Even now, escape might be possible. The Norse chieftain with his cracked head was a dangerous burden. If she should do something wrong in ignorance, caring for him, or if he should suddenly worsen of his own accord, with his wound and his fever, the Northmen would undoubtedly kill her.

  The little forest made a dense cover at the cliff base. There was a path ending here, somewhere, which led along the rock ledges to the headlands above. But she had been struck before with the difficulty of escape from the Viking camp. Anyone making his way up the cliffs would be easily seen from below. And if she could outrun the heavy-footed Northmen, which was doubtful, it was likely Calum’s sea watch was somewhere above. She wished suddenly that she knew where the Picts were now. Her mother’s people had probably moved their sheep to the spring pastures and were scattered in the rough country beyond Cumhainn. Or, with the Northmen in the loch, they were hiding in the mountains.

  She glanced back at the Northmen by the fire. Sweyn Barrelchest had come out of the water and was standing there, warming himself. He was watching her.

  She abruptly sat down on a rock. Escape was useless. It had been an idle thought, but she felt as though the idea marked her with a guilt for all to see. She did not want them to come after her. She must go into the woods for a moment, but not now. The trees were so close that she could almost reach out and touch them, the underbrush thick with vines and brambles.

  Another Northman had come up to Sweyn Barrelchest and, following his stare, stood watching her also. She looked away innocently at the sea gulls diving over the waters of the loch, and then down at her hands clasped on her knees.

  Just then the second Northman bent his head to Sweyn Barrelchest and said something. They both laughed. Sweyn looked away, and the other bent to fill his bowl at the fire.

  She waited until she was certain they would not begin watching her again, and then she stood up and went quickly into the woods. The underbrush was indeed thick. She scratched her hand on a bramble at once: a blackberry, with hooked thorns and green shoots already showing. She saw a small open clearing ahead, but moved away from it. She must hurry, or they would come in after her.

  She was straightening the hem of the arasaid when she heard a small noise. She had a fearful, startled thought of a wild animal close to her and hurried from the spot. But the noises followed. Something, a thrown twig, hit her shoulder. And although she could see the beach ahead of her and was almost out of the trees, she looked back.

  A Pict, snub-nosed and squat, was standing deep in a clump of hollies. Only his head showed, the face lined with the fierce blue tattoos of his people.

  She was too near to the beach and the eyes of the Northmen to speak to him. This was very dangerous. The Pict must have been waiting patiently for her all the morning, lurking in the woods just outside the camp. Only a Pict, the most skilled of hunters and stalkers, could have crept so close.

  He put his finger to his eye silently.

  I watch.

  His finger circled his breast.

  We watch. The Cruithn
e, the Picts, watch.

  She could see Sweyn Barrelchest, his hands on his hips, looking impatiently at the woods. She turned and plunged toward the beach, a last trailing vine of the forest catching at her ankle. She stopped to disentangle it.

  Let the Picts watch, she thought in desperation, if this was all they could do to help her. It was foolish to put one’s trust in the dark people; they were always full of windy plots of one sort or another which came to nothing. She must face her trouble alone.

  2

  The Pict, whose name was Barra, sank back down into the holly bushes, grimacing at the noise of the stiff, sharp-pointed leaves. Cover was difficult this time of the year; the thin sprouting vines and shrubs were not enough to hide the stalker. He had had to go from evergreen to evergreen, and the accursed holly was the worst of all. It rattled like an old woman’s bones when he moved, and cried out to the world that someone was hidden in its depths.

  At least he was well within the thicket of trees, and the Northmen did not seem interested in the woods now that Doireann nighean Muireach had left them. He squatted on his heels, breathing shallowly, his eyes half-closed, alert but patient. He had most of the day to spend in this manner. When the Northmen left the beach he would begin the slow movement through the underbrush to the foot of the cliff and then, in the night’s darkness, up the steep path on the ledges. He did not like the look of this meadow now. With the Northmen’s house in it and their ships outside the bar, it had the look of a trap. There was water all around, and the only way out was up the narrow path.

  A bird lit in the holly branches and looked at him with black, shining eyes, turning its head from side to side in the grave, silly way of birds. Barra stared back at it unblinkingly, his own eyes as black and gleaming as the other’s.

  It had been necessary to come down from the shieling, the pasture, in this way. He was satisfied. Nod Doireann nighean Muireach, daughter of Ithi of the Picts, would know that her mother’s people were close by. They, at least, were not like the Scots; they did not abandon their kind without effort. And this had been easy enough. It was the boast of the Cruithne that they could pass as the hawk’s shadow, that they could lie hidden in a bog for two days unseen, and yet mark the speech of all who passed unawares. This was the way it should be, for this was still their land, the land of the ancient dark people.