Robert Low - The Prow Beast

The queen moaned and sagged. ‘Jasna,’ she said.

‘I have a birthing stool,’ Ingrid said, then waved to the shadows and all heads turned as Botolf stumped into the middle of the fires, grinning. Thorgunna and Thordis looked at each other; no men were allowed at a birthing by tradition and usage.

‘Oh, I am half a bench,’ grunted Botolf, sitting himself on a sea-chest, ‘so half of me is not here at all. The other half will close my eyes if you like.’

He hauled the queen to him, holding her in powerful arms, her legs splayed over his knees, her head resting, intimate as a lover, on his great chest.

‘You’ll ruin those breeks,’ Thorgunna said wryly and Botolf chuckled.

‘I could take them off.’

There was a chorus at that and, suddenly, the queen, sheened face raised, muttered: ‘Not seemly. I will buy you a new pair, Birthing Stool.’

‘That’s better, my pet,’ Ingrid said, sure that her palm-carved runes were working. ‘A little pain and sweat and then the joy of a son.’

‘Jasna…’ whispered the queen.

‘Will someone rout out that fat cow Jasna from her sleep?’ bellowed Thorgunna angrily.

Ingrid looked pointedly at me. I realised I was not welcome in the circle of fires and backed off hastily, while Botolf crooned softly to the bundle in his arms and Ingrid raised her arms and started a muttered prayer-chant to Freyja.

Beyond, where men were, seemed darker away from the fires and I almost fell over Finn and Abjorn, talking urgently with each other.

‘Banished, were you?’ chuckled Finn. ‘Just as well. No place for a man, that. I pity the stupid big arse who is now high-seat for a birthing queen.’

I told Abjorn to send out watchers and he nodded, his face grim and grey in the dark.

‘Those fires…’

He let it trail off, for there was little need to voice it all. Those fires were a sure beacon and I could see the hunting packs of bearcoats and Randr Sterki’s skin-wearing trolls slithering through the dark towards us.

‘There is worse,’ growled Hlenni Brimill, looming out of the dark, dragging a squirming figure by the hair; the Mazur girl yelped as he swung her into the circle of us.

‘That fat cow of a thrall woman is dead,’ he declared. ‘When I went to get her, she was cold and stiff — and this one made a bolt out from under the wagon she was in.’

I blinked. Dead? Jasna?

We went to the wagon in a crowd, the Mazur girl dragged back with us and yelping whenever Hlenni jerked her savagely by her hair. Bjaelfi was climbing out, rubbing his chin and spreading his hands.

‘She is dead, right enough,’ he announced. ‘Not a mark on her I can see — but it is hard enough in torchlight. Perhaps daylight will let me know more.’

‘Not a mark,’ muttered Red Njal from over Bjaelfi’s shoulder. ‘That is seidr work, if ever I saw it. Her hand will wag above her grave, as my granny used to say.’

Desperate eyes raked the girl, who felt them and struggled until Hlenni jerked her hard and she shrieked. An answer came from the dark, from where the fires blazed and I had had enough of it all.

‘Let her go, Hlenni,’ I said and he reluctantly opened his fist; the girl sank to the ground, then stood, with a visible effort. She squared her shoulders and looked at me, chin out, eyes dark and liquid as a seal. I felt a lurch in my stomach, for I had seen such looks before on women and all of them had been rich in seidr and had done me no good with it.

‘Drozdov,’ I said. ‘Is that your name?’

‘What they call me,’ she answered, her Norse of the eastern type and further bent out of shape by her accent; those eyes were fixed on mine, swimming at the brim but not spilling over.

‘Chernoglazov,’ I remembered and she nodded, then said, ‘Yes, lord,’ before Red Njal had lifted his hand to correct her.

‘Did you kill her, then?’ I said, waving one hand at the dark, dead bulk in the wagon.

‘No…lord. Someone came in the night. I heard her make little noise and then silent. I stay hidden.’

‘Someone came?’ demanded Finn, the scorn and suspicion reeking in his voice.

She turned those dark, seal eyes on him. ‘A man, I think. Silent.’

‘What did he do, this silent man?’ I asked and she frowned and shook her head.

‘Something,’ she answered, then the frown disappeared and her face turned to mine like a petal to the sun. ‘Lord.’

‘I knew it was not good,’ she added. ‘So I hid.’

Yes, she would be good at hiding by now, good at staying out of the line of sight and the strong light. Finn looked at me, then at Bjaelfi and shook his head.

‘Was she armed?’ I asked Hlenni and he shook his own shaggy head, reluctantly.

‘You looked?’

He nodded, then added sullenly: ‘No blade is needed with seidr , Jarl Orm.’

A scream split the night and made us all start.

‘Odin’s hairy balls,’ Finn swore, then swallowed another, for it was not good to malign the gods while the Norns were so close, weaving a new life out of the Other.

‘Shave the hairs from your arm,’ muttered Klepp Spaki fearfully.

I looked at the girl again, all wet eyes and defiance in the tight-strung little body. I told Hlenni to watch her the rest of the night, in turns with Red Njal. In the morning, I promised, Bjaelfi, Finn and I would look at the body and find out what had happened and that I was no stranger to seidr and worse.

They had heard the Oathsworn tales — some of them had been there when they were made — so they went off, muttering, to huddle in the damp dark and listen to Sigrith pant and shriek a new bairn into the world.

It took a long while; I dozed until wakened with a shake on my toe, came up with a seax in my fist — which was why Thorgunna, clever woman, had shaken only my toe and stayed clear of a swinging blade. She knew all the men were tight-wound and likely to be armed and leaping from sleep.

‘Done,’ she said wearily and I blinked in the light of her flickering torch; beyond it, the dawn was a thin smear.

‘A boy,’ she added. ‘Healthy and loud. The mother is alive, too, which is good.’

It was good; too many first mothers died giving birth and, in the clearing round the dying fires, I saw the weary, gore-handed women and the blanket-wrapped bundle that was Sigrith. Botolf, a little way away, stretched stiffly and gave me a smile and a wave as I came up, the rest of the men behind me save for those on watch.

‘That was a bloody affair,’ he growled, moving slowly and shaking his head. ‘Odin’s arse, lads, I have stood in shieldwalls that had less hard work in them and less blood and shit and fewer screams.’

‘Take off those breeks,’ Ingrid said to Botolf, bustling forward with a fur bundle which had a squashed red face nestled in it. Underneath, I knew, each limb would be linen-wrapped to keep it straight and fine, having been washed in hot milk and salt. His little mouth was a sticky bud, for the women had rubbed honey in his gums, to promote appetite.

‘First,’ said a waft-soft voice and we stopped, staring at Sigrith, ‘since you did most to bring him into the world, Birthing Stool, you can name him. His father says he is to be Olaf.’

Botolf stopped and scrubbed his beard with confusion, pleased and embarrassed in equal measure. Ingrid handed him the bundle and he played the father, raising it to us over his head, standing proud and tall in his slathered breeks as he called us all to attend.

‘Heya,’ he bellowed. ‘This is the son of King Eirik the Victorious. This is Olaf, Prince of the Svears and Geats.’

We stamped and cheered and there was more than duty in it, for that bairn had come to be the focus of all our lives and we watched as Ingrid handed it to Sigrith — watched, too, as she took it back moments later, when the exhausted slip of a girl fell asleep.