Meriel Fuller - Rescued By The Viking

The woman referred to the Danes, of course. Their reputation for womanising was renowned, notorious, but not all of it was by mutual consent. She’d heard the tales of Saxon women being dragged to the longships by their braids, or flung across fur-covered shoulders, kicking and screaming all the way, to be taken back to the Norse countries, claimed as Viking brides. She shuddered. England was a heathen country, but the land where these Danes came from? That was infinitely worse.

‘Pick up those pails and move along!’ an older man, beard grey and straggling, bellowed at the workers. ‘And don’t think you’re finishing any time early! We’ll keep going as long as that sun is in the sky!’ His gaze alighted on Gisela, mouth tightening in disapproval. She could tell he thought there was something odd about his latest worker, this slim young woman who had asked him for work a couple of days ago. Gisela spoke quietly, keeping her head lowered, but every time she glanced at him, she knew her brilliant blue eyes held a challenging look. She hoped he wouldn’t consider that she might be a noble, someone of higher rank, and not just a poor peasant desperate for coin. She knew her slowness to respond when he talked to her and the way she fingered the scarf at her neck constantly, like a talisman, might give her away, but she couldn’t help herself. Ultimately, she was a hard worker and so felt confident he wasn’t about to turn her away.

‘Hey, you there!’ He jabbed his fist towards Gisela. ‘Go out on to the flats and help the children bring the brine in from the lower pans! They must be emptied before the tide comes in.’

Turning her head, she stared over the thick oozing mudflats that sloped gently down towards the narrow, fast-flowing channel in the middle of the river. Trepidation flickered in her belly. The tidal flow was sluggish now, almost on the turn, having drained out of the estuary and into the vast North Sea beyond, exposing the slick-topped expanses of mud. Studded with clumps of bristly sedge, the wet bluish-brown surface shone in the evening light. She watched the children head out to the water’s edge, to the rectangular pools filled with the precious salty brine. Why was he sending her out there? The children were half her weight, able to scamper across the wooden planks laid end to end across the mud without disappearing into the treacherous, stinking ooze.

‘But...surely I will sink...?’ Gisela’s voice faltered. A long wisp of pale sable hair had escaped the confines of her headscarf; dancing in the air. She shoved it impatiently back beneath the cloth.

The bearded Saxon narrowed his eyes. He was big and burly, clearly used to having his orders followed. ‘Are you refusing to go out there, girl?’ He folded his arms, wrinkling the supple leather of his jerkin. ‘Because you’ll receive no coin from me if you don’t!’

Some of the other workers slowed their movements, glancing over at Gisela. Colour rose in her cheeks. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to herself. ‘No, no, I’ll do it!’ she said, grabbing the rope handles of her buckets. Up until now this job had been physically hard, hefting the pails of brine to the sheds where it was boiled down to form the precious salt. The work was arduous, boring, but there had been no danger. But now? Now, in order to quash her rising fear at the thought of going out on the mudflats, she had to remember her real purpose for doing this job. To earn enough money to pay for the ferry across to the north. And to find Richard.

* * *

With a practised eye, Ragnar Svendson ran his gaze along the undulating shore of the river, searching for a safe spot where the boats could draw up. Jumping down from the prow, bracing his long legs against the gentle pitch and roll of the ship, he strode along the middle of the ship, through the men working the oars, towards his friend leaning against the gunwale.

‘What do you think?’ Eirik asked, glancing up as Ragnar joined him.

Ragnar turned his lean, tanned face to glance across the jumbled roofs of Bertune. ‘I think it will do for tonight,’ he replied. ‘The men are tired; they need to rest.’ He flexed his fingers over the smooth wood of the gunwale, rolling his shoulders forward. The journey had been easy and quick from Ribe, the North Sea mercifully flat for once, with light breezes speeding them across the waves to the north-east coast of England.

‘’Tis a pity that we cannot land on the north side, but the tide is too low.’ Eirik smiled. ‘Do you think this small town is ready for us?’

Ragnar stuck one hand through his hair; the vigorous strands fired to white-gold in the light of the setting sun. He laughed. ‘Who knows? We’ve come to help them after all; they should welcome us with open arms.’ He glanced back into the belly of the longship, at the coxswain beating time on a small drum to the forty men on the oars. Each man sat on a chest: wooden boxes that contained their scant possessions for the journey to England. And behind this ship, three more identical vessels followed them up the narrow channel.

‘We can cross on the morrow.’ Eirik smoothed his palm along the polished prow. The curved wood rose up into a figurehead: a dragon’s head with prominent eyes, a tongue of wooden fire. ‘My brother won’t arrive with his fleet for another day or two.’

‘And then you can march together to meet with Edgar Aethling in Jorvik. The city is directly north from here, across the water.’ Ragnar glanced at the far side of the vast, wide river where stiff, dull-yellow reeds bisected oozing, creaking domes of mud. Seabirds wheeled in the limpid sky above, mewling and squawking: lonesome, plaintive sounds cutting the air.

Eirik nodded. As the eldest son of Sweyn, the Danish king, he had been sent to help the deposed Anglo-Saxon king in his fight against the Norman invasion. ‘In that case, this place is perfect,’ he said, clapping a large hand on Ragnar’s shoulder, ‘and you and I and the rest of the men can have some fun! I’ve heard these Saxon maidens can be very comely!’

Ragnar shook his head: a swift, brutal movement. ‘Nay, Eirik, I’ve not come here for that.’ His eyes pinched to emerald slits; a muscle twitched in his jaw.

‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ Eirik’s face fell. ‘But you’ll be with us until tomorrow, will you not? It will soon be too dark to travel. Why not have some fun this night, while you can, eh?’ He pushed his knuckles against Ragnar’s jaw, a teasing punch. ‘Besides, what fair maiden could resist that clean-shaven face?’

‘The weather’s too hot for a beard,’ Ragnar said. ‘It’s much better this way.’

‘If you say so,’ replied Eirik, ‘but I swear your mother had something to do with it. Is she trying to turn you into a Norman?’

Ragnar grinned, his teeth white and even in his tanned face. ‘Thor’s hammer, Eirik, what do you take me for? Of course she’s not!’

‘If you say so.’ Eirik chuckled, raising his black eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Well, I still think you should take advantage of this town’s hospitality.’

‘I might.’ Ragnar threw his friend a non-committal smile, reluctance slicing through him. As the shallow-drafted longships approached the shoreline, he gazed across the jumble of thatched, earth-walled huts that made up the town of Bertune. Trickles of woodsmoke rose vertically, hazing the air; figures moved on the shoreline, people stopping and pointing as they watched the vessels approach. He had no idea how long his journey north would take. All he knew was that he had to find the man who had wrecked his sister’s life. Who had turned the happy, confident figure of his sister into a listless, silent wraith. She had not spoken a word since she had been carried off the ship at Ribe.