The Book of Bera Read online

  ‘She’s after our handsome Dellingr,’ Thorvald said.

  ‘You want the smith for yourself, then?’ she jibed.

  Thorvald was straight off his horse and had her by the throat. As fast as slicing a boy open. Bera couldn’t breathe and made raspy, gurgling noises. Red specks danced in front of her eyes. She found her knife and jabbed it hard into his side. His jerkin was too thick, breaking her blade off well before it reached his flesh.

  ‘Walrus hide.’ Thorvald loosened his grip and she fell to her knees, spluttering, gasping for air.

  Hefnir hauled her up and onto his horse, keeping a hand on her leg to keep her still.

  ‘Your wife needs some manners, Hefnir. She shouldn’t be disrespectful to Dellingr. And why was she there? She should be running your household.’

  ‘I understand the trouble between you two,’ Hefnir said. ‘But I have more than paid the blood debt, Bera. I have ordered two boats from your father – and taken you as my wife. Remember that. Thorvald, take that bundle home.’

  ‘I’m not part of any blood debt!’ Bera kicked away Hefnir’s hand.

  He got up into the saddle, swung the horse round and headed up the slope, forcing Bera to cling on to him.

  ‘Are we not going home?’ she asked.

  Hefnir could somehow render a question to nothing.

  It was the first time Bera had ridden a horse and she tried to enjoy it. But the worry that there would be trouble when they reached the forge robbed her of any pleasure. They carried on, still climbing. Seabirds screamed and the air tasted saltier. Wind whipped her hair out of its braids and she shut her eyes, feeling the sway and dip of the motion as if she were sailing. She wished she could be alone on the horse, to understand its shifts in her bones and blood, as she did on a boat.

  They stopped.

  A rune stone thrust upwards at black clouds scudding in from the west, tall enough to shred them. It was set at the very top of the cliff that looked out over the Ice-Rimmed Sea, itself as grey as granite. A long shadow picked its way over wind-wizened scrub towards them, like the hand of Fate.

  Hefnir dismounted and lifted her down. ‘Light as a snowflake.’

  ‘I was a stockfish the other day.’

  ‘Well.’ He kissed her. ‘That was before I tasted you.’

  He led her over to the stone. ‘Can you read the runes?’

  Bera left him and ran her fingers over the lines, following them round the broad base until she found her skern leaning against the seaward side. He was tapping the stone with a long fingernail.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

  And I’m pleased to see you, too.

  ‘Anyway, I saw the past, thanks to the smith. You can’t.’

  I can show you it.

  ‘Well, you didn’t this time.’

  He drew his nail down the stone until she winced at the sound and held up her hand as apology.

  Look at this word. Study the runes and remember them.

  There were three, reading ALU.

  ‘Why remember them?’

  I haven’t the least idea. It was carved well before our time, dearie, so I can’t tell you any more. You just said I don’t do history.

  ‘This is the future, so help.’

  He pursed his lips to seem thoughtful.

  Hefnir called from the other side. ‘Are you ever coming back?’

  ‘Quickly,’ Bera hissed.

  The skern frowned. It’s to do with spinning, I think.

  ‘Wool? You’ve come to tell me which runes to knit?’

  Hefnir appeared. Her skern gave him a small wave, as you might to a child.

  ‘What are you doing round here?’ Hefnir marched over to her.

  ‘Talking to my skern.’

  ‘Where is it?’ Hefnir looked the wrong way.

  ‘These runes, look. ALU. It’s important.’

  ‘Ale.’

  ‘No, he says—’

  Hefnir stopped her with another kiss.

  ‘Tell me why you brought me here,’ Bera said.

  He started burrowing under her skirts but it would be even worse to be taken here like a fishwife. Besides, she did not yet have the herbs to stop a baby coming.

  ‘Let go, Hefnir.’

  ‘Only if you do your duty afterwards.’ He assumed consent. ‘This is a touchstone, to make fast our bond. Come on, we join hands against it.’

  It gave Bera an idea. ‘You think us superstitious fools but our way is that you should present me with your father’s sword.’

  ‘The same with us, to give to our son... but that’s not possible.’

  ‘Tell me why!’ She wanted to shatter his granite composure.

  ‘You’ve spoiled my mood. I thought you’d like to feel more bonded. Most women do.’

  ‘How many women have you taken as wife?’

  Bera squared up to him as best she could. He reached over her head to take his horse’s reins, led the horse round and swung himself up into the saddle.

  ‘Are you coming or shall I leave you to walk home?’

  ‘I hate you!’

  She picked up a large stone and threw it at him. Temper spoiled her aim and it missed his head, smashing into a rocky outcrop beyond. The crack startled Hefnir’s horse. It jittered and shied, threw its rider and cantered off down the hill.

  Bera refused to feel guilty.

  Hefnir got to his feet and brushed himself down. ‘You could have killed me.’

  They stared at each other.

  Then Hefnir began a slow smile that made her glow; like a flame being lit. He tucked her under his arm and carried her down to his waiting horse. To her frustration, he threw her up into the saddle and they set off.

  Her feelings were confused. Riling him about other women had started a flicker of jealousy and then, despite herself, desire. Was that love? Even when their bodies were joined, Hefnir’s face was blank. Was he thinking about his first wife? Bera ought to pity her but couldn’t. She wanted to matter to him and stared at his back, this stranger, her husband, willing him to speak, all the way home.

  At the stable, a man came to take the reins and said something to Hefnir, who left the thrall to help Bera down. She jumped instead, even though it was a long way, and tried not to limp as she caught up with this supposed husband who was an unfeeling lump of... any horrible thing. She pounded his unflinching back with her small fist.

  ‘I’m not staying here to be ignored. I’ll take a boat and go home. I will!’

  She froze. A strong, stocky figure came into view, pulling a heavy cart.

  Her father.

  Ottar had come by land, which had taken days. He had not come to take Bera home. The cart was piled with his boat tools, bedrolls, furs, cooking pots and ale barrels. A goat was tethered to it. In the middle of his belongings was a nest in which Sigrid lay, deathly still.

  Bera was stricken. ‘Red-spot?’

  ‘She got worse on the way,’ said Ottar. He leaned against the cart, pouring water over his face and throat. ‘If she’d been this bad at home I might’ve got her on a boat.’

  ‘Only if she was dead,’ Bera said.

  Hefnir grunted. ‘Pity. Then we’d have another boat in exchange for your lodging.’

  Bera studied Ottar’s weathered face for any softness; to see if he was pleased to be back with his kin. There was only the same unrelenting control. She only felt sadness when she should have been furious with him for selling her.

  ‘Why have you come, then?’

  Ottar flicked a thumb at Sigrid. ‘Look at her. I lost my workers to red-spot and all. Your old fool Blind Agnar’s dead.’

  ‘And his old dog?’

  ‘Falki twisted its neck.’

  Sadness upon sadness, stacked upon the loss of Bjorn. That day came clear to her mind; her skern saying there were conditions in taking a tusk and the narwhale’s runes of death. She had misread it all then but was she still doing so? Sigrid was as green as seasickness and her eyes dark pits. Was she goin
g to die? Bera held her necklace, tight.

  Ottar spat. ‘This ’un might live if Bera tends her.’ He jabbed Hefnir’s chest. ‘Not like that pair of sickly redheads you gave me. There was no flesh on them.’ He held up his little finger. ‘Dropped dead soon as look at them.’

  ‘Sigrid can’t come into the longhouse,’ Bera said.

  Hefnir agreed. ‘There is a sick house up by the smithy.’ He his fingers for the thrall. ‘This man will show you the way, Ottar.’

  A vein swelled in Ottar’s temple. ‘My duty was bringing her. It’s her turn now.’ He cocked a thumb at Bera. ‘I had the sickness ages since. Nothing’ll kill me, I reckon. But I’m not doing woman’s work.’

  Bera pulled a blanket over Sigrid’s shoulders. ‘She feels the cold. I’ll mash a healing brew and stay with her.’ Even a sick Sigrid would be a comfort.

  ‘No.’ Hefnir moved her away from the cart. ‘Make your potions, wife, but a thrall will take them and stay. Your place is at your own hearth.’

  Ottar took off his cap and scratched his head. ‘You two wed then?’ He sounded surprised.

  What had Ottar expected? That she would be Hefnir’s slave? Or worse?

  ‘My son needs a mother.’

  She was furious. ‘That was the deal, Father. Remember?’

  ‘Aye, well, I’m glad you got on with it.’

  Hefnir ordered some thralls to take Ottar’s stuff off the cart and then set off with its sick passenger. Bera slipped the goat some bread as they left.

  Hefnir led the way to the longhouse, his long strides leaving Bera and her father behind. Bera was too angry to speak.

  Ottar finally broke the silence. ‘Them two red-haired slave girls. Didn’t last more’n two days before the sickness got ’em.’

  ‘Am I supposed to feel sorry?’

  ‘He tell you where they came from?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Queer that. Hefnir goes and weds a scrawny brat like you cos sea-riders took the Seabost women. But I got them girls.’

  ‘Well, they’re dead now.’

  Along with so many others. Bera began reckoning the losses back home.

  ‘Hefnir mention a serpent thing at all?’ Ottar asked.

  Home, empty of folk. ‘Who’s left to burn the dead?’

  ‘No one.’ He dropped his voice. ‘That’s the other reason we came, to escape them Drorghers. That’s all that’s left now.’

  Bera shivered. She had a vision of black, swollen corpses swarming through the deserted village. Would they stay there? Or would they seek out company? Perhaps rich Seabost was coming to their time of Drorghers. And through her fear came a rush of savage pride. If they came then perhaps Hefnir and his people would thank her for protecting them.

  She spread her arms before the huge whalebone gates to the longhouse.

  ‘Here’s where we live.’

  She enjoyed her father’s look of awe and then the fact that he cringed as the ancestors pressed him when she deliberately delayed opening the inner door. They were hissing the usual words over and over.

  He covered his ears. ‘What they saying?’

  She had no idea. ‘That they hate you.’

  That evening, Bera remembered her vow to be kinder to Heggi, so was furious when a bond formed in an instant between the boy and Ottar. Heggi laughed at his jokes and kept close to him all through the meal, like a clingworm. Hefnir and Thorvald were free with the ale but Ottar drank less than Bera expected. She was ignored by all of them and ate her food messily out of spite.

  Afterwards, Ottar made a ‘horse’ with a few quick axe strokes. It was somehow manly and Heggi proudly rode it round the longhouse, with Rakki barking and thralls yelping as he charged at them. Hefnir wildly urged him on and the noise made Bera want to scream. Heggi finished by rearing up at his father, unsheathing an imaginary sword and plunging it into Hefnir’s chest. His father promptly clutched his heart and fell to the floor, wailing. Heggi jumped onto his chest and tickled him.

  Like she had done to Bjorn, that last morning.

  Hefnir called for help. ‘You’re supposed to defend me, Thorvald!’

  ‘So I will.’

  He grabbed Heggi and bear hugged him till he screamed. Bera could stand it no longer and barged her way past them and out through the byre.

  She may as well go up to the latrine. She felt excluded, unappreciated and unloved. Never had been loved.

  Then the instinctive fear of being in the open kicked in. Were Drorghers really unknown in Seabost? Perhaps they were rich enough to always burn their dead. Or were they lying to hide their weakness or ignorance from her?

  The full moonlight and line of fires kept her path free of them, but she sensed some movement in the shadows so she whistled a tune of protection as she climbed the slope, in case it wasn’t a thrall. When she looked back, nothing stirred. And once inside, the purling of the hens in the quiet dark soothed her still more. Until she saw her skern, roosting amongst them.

  ‘This is the place where Thorvald will suffer.’

  You’re thinking pinworms or skitters?

  ‘I’m thinking death.’

  Found the tusk, then?

  ‘What has the tusk got—’

  He whistled to ease her bladder but wouldn’t speak again.

  Things were calm when she returned. Bera got a thrall to place new branches on the fire and then she threw on some herbs to ward off sickness. For a while they all sat gazing at the flames through a scented haze and then Hefnir spoke.

  ‘Do you have the sword safe, Heggi?’

  ‘It’s with all Mama’s things.’ The boy studied Bera with narrowed eyes. ‘It’s special. Mama gave it to me for when I have a son.’

  Logs crackled.

  A spasm twitched Bera’s eyebrow. ‘That’s the custom.’ She kept her voice reasonable, too proud to let her father know how much Heggi hated her. ‘It was your father’s and his father’s before him. The sword belongs to you now. You keep it.’

  Heggi did not wait to listen. He galloped off down the longhouse, leaving behind humiliation; as if he had slapped her, when she was making an effort to be fair. She pressed her brow to make the spasm stop.

  ‘I’m an axe man, myself,’ said Ottar.

  Hefnir filled his horn with ale. ‘But you want the proper bride day with a sword.’

  Bera resented being left out again. ‘You said that wasn’t possible earlier.’

  ‘Your father had not arrived then.’

  Heggi galloped back to the hearth and pointed at Thorvald. ‘Use his sword. His is special. Use that.’

  Ripping upwards. Bera couldn’t breathe. She wanted to take Thorvald’s sword and drive it through his murdering ribs.

  Ottar went and put his arm round the boy.

  ‘See, his wouldn’t work, lad. By right, Hefnir should dig up the sword from his forefathers’ grave on his wedding night. He’d present it to his wife next day, to keep safe for their firstborn son.’

  ‘I know. Papa did. That’s why I’ve got it.’

  ‘This being his second marriage, your Pa’s got a problem.’

  ‘I can bury your sword again,’ said Hefnir.

  Heggi wailed. ‘It was Mama’s sword and now it’s mine. She’s not going to have it. I hate her!’

  ‘I don’t want anything of hers,’ Bera spat. She wrenched off her silver brooch, with the grooming kit that was touched by death, and threw them into the fire.

  ‘I hate you!’ Heggi cried.

  He flung himself at her and they tussled. Bera’s ring scratched his cheek and he bit her. Bera cuffed him. Hefnir strode across and pulled his son away like a burr from wool.

  ‘You’ve made only enemies since you arrived. The bargain was all on your side, Ottar.’

  Thorvald gave a long belch. ‘Well, this enemy could do with more ale.’

  ‘That’s a lie!’ shouted Bera. ‘I could strike you all down! I am a Valla, like my mother!’

  Ottar scraped the silver brooch away
from the embers with a work-hardened hand. ‘Stop your tantrums, girl, and get to bed. She wants taming, Hefnir.’

  ‘I like a bint with spirit, don’t I, Thorvald?’

  All the men laughed.

  Bera willed her skern to burn them to ash, knowing he couldn’t, so she retreated, wishing she had anywhere to go but Hefnir’s billet.

  This is where trying to be kind got her. Bera lay in the dark, made crosser by the fact that no one followed her. Hefnir was saying something about debt. Then the high voice of an angry child, footsteps, a slap and cries of fear. A heavy door banged shut and it went quiet. Heggi must have been taken off somewhere. It didn’t make her feel better. She would never sleep peacefully in this house as long as she lived. So she had better deal with Thorvald soon.

  Her bride day arrived with a sea gale and driving rain. Bera was startled by a thrall with a bowl of buttermilk and a hunk of bread, well before the day meal. Hefnir’s side of the bedroll was untouched. She snuggled back under the covers and listened to the hammering rain on the roof. It was so loud that she missed footsteps approaching.

  It was Heggi, his face red and swollen.

  Bera waited.

  He kicked the spruce on the floor and then gazed up at the shutter, closed against the wind and rain. ‘I have to say sorry,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Go on then.’ Something in her did not want to make this easy.

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘What are you sorry for?’

  He looked down at the floor, as if the answer was there. When he looked up, his eyes were cold. ‘Nothing. I meant what I said and you know it.’

  Bera sprang out of bed and swung him round to face her. ‘Listen, you little scab. I don’t want to be here. I’d leave in a heartbeat if I could but I’m stuck with it. Hate me all you like but don’t you dare show me up in public again. Do you understand? I won’t be your mother, it would make me sick. So we’ll ignore each other. Now go away.’

  She saw fresh tears on his face before he ran off and felt bad until she heard slow clapping behind her.

  Her skern was sitting on her bed. Priceless. You’re so caring.

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  I’m not so biddable as the youngster. Poor, motherless wee lamb.