Éire’s Captive Moon (14 page)

“How did the sales go?” Agnarr inquired.

Thorvald and Bjørn moved to make room for him and his slave. “Well. We sold them all. Tuirgeis kept his slave, and you kept yours, but the rest of them from our ship have been sold. We still have a couple of the monks, though, in Askel’s ship.”

“Good. Slaves can be of use at home as well.”

“
Ja
.” Bjørn nudged Agnarr with an elbow, indicating the
kvinn medisin
with his wooden cup. “So? Have you given her a name yet?”

Agnarr paused. He had not, but that was only because he had thought to wait until he was home. Yet it seemed to him that a perfectly good name was right before his eyes.

“I haven’t decided, but I will have one before we get home.”

“Better give her one now,” advised Thorvald, who had a few slaves of his own, for he rented land from the Jarl. “She’s stubborn, that one. We’ve all seen it.”

Agnarr chuckled. Charis looked up at him. That wariness was back in her pale gray eyes. “Eir. After the goddess of healing.”

“Lofty name for a slave!” Bjørn joked, taking a draught of his wine. “But she’s your
leman
, so it’s up to you!” Was it common knowledge then? Charis—Eir—would surely hear and eventually understand, Agnarr decided.

Well. For the best then. His
wyrd
would not be avoided.

After they had eaten and Agnarr had consumed his share of the heady red wine, he rose. “We’re back to the ship for the night. Any of you coming?”

“No, we’ll be finding good company here ashore!” Raucous laughter circled the group of men. It had been weeks for some of them, since they’d been with a woman. The slaves didn’t quite count, since they’d been forced. But a willing woman—even if paid for—was better than a slave.

“As you will,” he said, drawing Eir to him again. “ ’Til the morning tide.”

They had taken perhaps a dozen steps down the slope when Agnarr addressed his
leman
by her new name. It was time for her to understand her position; no better time, he concluded, than right now.

“Eir.” No response, but that was to be expected. “Eir,” he said again, squeezing her a little to get her attention.

“Ih-shaw?” she asked. He didn’t understand her tongue, but had heard that often enough to know it was a word of affirmation or assent.

Good enough. “You are mine, and I’ve given you a good name. A Norse name. You will grow adjusted to it in time, as you learn what it means. Eir.”

It was full dark now, and he could see no expression in her face, as his own cloak obstructed it. He removed it, impatient to know if she had any understanding of what he was saying.

The waning moon had not yet risen, so it was only the dwindling fires that lit her hair, their light barely touching her face. Truly, he felt, he had chosen a good name. “You are now to be called Eir,” he said again, stopping so that he could clasp her by both arms.

He waited. She pulled back and frowned. “Ay-err?” It was close enough. He pointed at her breast. “Eir.” He pointed to himself. “Agnarr.” Then back to her again.

“Eir.”

His healer was no lackwit. “
Na
! Charis!”

“Eir!” he insisted, pulling her along as he reached the ramp to board the longship. “You are Eir now.”

“
Na
!”

“
Ja
!”

She struggled against him when they got on the deck, and he pulled her aft, farthest from shore, so that they might have some modicum of shelter from any curious ears that heard her shouts of denial.

“That’s enough,” he informed her, trying to sound firm but not angry. “It is time you knew your place!”

The scents of this moment would forever stay with Agnarr. The salt of the sea, the familiar, fishy smells of the ship, Eir’s herb scent blended with her own body’s smell—she always smelled of mint to him, for some reason. He placed her securely on her back on the deck, his cloak under her head.

Fighting back, she growled, “
Né
!”

With one hand, he held her wrists over her head and worked his trousers free with his other hand. “Yes. Now, I hadn’t wanted this to be difficult for you, but I’m thinking that it will never be any other way for a first time, so it will be here and it will be now.”

Charis—Eir—was a strong woman, but Agnarr knew that overpowering her was not his concern. He knew it was going to hurt, but he did not want to hurt her, not really. Just to make her understand her position with him. It was not a position of choice, but of submission.

So he did not crush her, but he did push her dress up, thrusting her apron and its contents out of his way as he covered her with his body.

Chapter 10

“You will tell them that we will be back in the spring, then,” Tuirgeis instructed.

Cowan nodded, resigned, and repeated the leave-taking in the language of the Franks. Latin was known in most circles, but here in the slave market, the local tongue was best. Frankish was becoming more popular under King Louis the Debonair, the son of Charlemagne.

If only slaves weren’t as popular as the local language,
Cowan thought. The trade of humans for money was repulsive to him. From here, he had garnered, the unfortunate captives would be taken south to the heathen lands of the Moors.
A dreadful fate, even worse than serving the Northmen,
he thought. His father had had bondservants, but no longer. Branieucc had rid himself of slaves when he had become a follower of Jesu. Cowan had never owned anyone himself. Seeing the monks and villagers sold off like so many head of cattle grieved him, like a physical ache deep in his stomach.

He had no choice, though, being a slave himself now. Tuirgeis had required his services as an interpreter and Cowan felt bound to obey, for the Scriptures said that a slave should be obedient. He had read about the proper behavior for slaves in the Scriptures that he had helped illuminate with Martin.

That seemed to be in a different life, though, and Cowan had to remind himself that it had been real.

The here and now was more real to the man now called Kingson. A world of brutal men, hard and used to the ways of bartering in humanity. Men who slaughtered the innocent for their treasure or just to destroy. Men who took what they wanted, without care of the pain they caused.

They surrounded him.

Cowan chose to bide his time. He tried to be a patient man. His father had told him that patience marked the difference between a wise man and a fool, and Cowan did not wish to be a fool.

Tuirgeis moved to join some of the men as the sun disappeared beyond the sea. “Food,” he said, pointing at the roasting haunch of some sort of meat.

Mutton
? Cowan wondered, not truly caring. He was so hungry his stomach was clenching in on itself. The sizzling of dripping fat reached into him like a desperate fist, pulling at him so he lurched a pace ahead of Tuirgeis.

He was allowed to serve himself; a measure of Tuirgeis’s trust in him, he supposed. Cowan froze for a moment, thinking. Could he do it? Could he?

“Oh Jesu, help me,” he breathed as he took a cautious step out of the circle of firelight. He felt eyes on his back. He stopped, making a show out of holding his slices of steaming roast mutton. His mouth watered, so this was not so hard to do. One hungry bite followed another, and soon the curious eyes left him to gaze at a woman nearby.

That gave Cowan an idea. He pretended to be enraptured by the overperfumed female and turned to follow her slow, swaying walk.

The fire’s warmth left his back as he did so, and soon Cowan was behind the shelter of a sloppy-looking tent. The fabric had long, jagged rents in it, as if there had been a vicious knife fight within in the not-too-distant past. Smoke wafted through a hole in the roof to float down in incense-laden curls under his nose.

Cowan felt a little light-headed and tried to move quickly away from the cloying scent. But his feet were heavy, his arms heavy, his whole body felt pleasantly at ease and relaxed. The meat in his hands was cooling, but that mattered not at all. The too-sweet incense beguiled him, tugging at his mouth so that he smiled and sank to the dirt at his feet.

“Kingson!”

The deep voice called to him, but Cowan’s mind didn’t acknowledge it. He could see a woman in his mind. A woman with fair hair and a gentle expression. Was she the Virgin Mary? The Mother of God? “Mairi,” he called in
Gaeilge
. “Wait for me!”

But before he could follow her, a rumbling laugh pierced the incense that clouded his thinking. “Kingson, come!” This was in the new language, Norse, and Cowan didn’t remember any of the other words Tuirgeis said until the leader spoke in Latin. “Are you ill? What’s wrong with you?” A pause, and then the huge Northman laughed again. “Ah! Opium. I see. Let us leave this place and find you some fresh air.”

As Cowan was half-lifted from the ground, he felt a deep sadness for having missed the fair Virgin who was beckoning to him. Remorse quickly followed, laced with deep embarrassment.

Opium? Had Tuirgeis said opium?

Cowan tucked his cold meat into the leather pouch he’d been given earlier in their trading that day. His cheeks burned with shame.

All I wanted to do, Lord, was get back to my people. To help them defend against the Northmen. Is that so wrong? Why can’t I escape?

No answer came to him, and the son of King Branieucc sighed heavily as his head slowly cleared from the opium smoke.

A heavy cloud hung over his spirit as he followed Tuirgeis to the ship. Masculine laughter, feminine shouts of protest or denial, or merely weeping came from crude shelters and flimsy dwellings in the trading square. Cowan tried to close his ears and eyes, but could not. He had failed again. Failed to escape.

Before his eyes, he saw Charis’s face as he had seen it when he had intimated that he would perhaps escape that day. She had been scornful, he recollected. Unbelieving. He could not blame her.
You’ve never been successful at escaping anything,
he reminded himself, his lip twisting in grave humor.

He saw nothing on the deck at first. He remembered that Charis and Agnarr were to have stayed here during the day, but in the dark and shadowed stretch of wooden planking, he didn’t see either of them.

He did note the emptiness, however. And he could remember, face by face, each of the ten men and women of Éire who would not be returning to the longship. The healer would be—well, he imagined she would be furious. Cowan couldn’t help but smile just a little to think of her probable fiery response. Her early struggles with Agnarr had won her admiration in more than one quarter.

With a gesture, Tuirgeis attracted his attention and he was shaken from his thoughts. “Kingson. You are better now, yes?”

Cowan inhaled deeply, feeling the disconcerting webs clear from his mind. “
Ja
,” he told the Northman. “I think I am.” He bowed his head. “I am sorry to have—” His jaw froze; he couldn’t continue.

Tuirgeis waved his apology off. “It is not the first time you have tried to leave, Kingson. It will not be the last.” White teeth flashed in the darkness as the Northman smiled. “I expect nothing less. But if you do escape,” he added, menace creeping under the good humor in his voice, “go fast and far.”

The threat was obvious in Tuirgeis’s tone and Cowan nodded his understanding before turning to step over the oars on the deck on his way to the far end. Air. Fresh, salt-heavy air. That was what was needed to finish clearing his mind.

The gentle, soothing sounds of the waves on the sides of the longship were welcome to his ears. No translating here. Only rest and quiet as Tuirgeis retreated to his dinner and heavy wine.

Cowan did not hear Charis at first. He was too absorbed in trying to understand why he hadn’t been allowed to escape.

Why, God in Heaven, why?
 

The plaint was not the first he had groaned in his soul. Over the endless ocean voyage, he had turned himself inside out trying to understand the will of God. Why had the Good God allowed him to be enslaved? What purpose could possibly be served? Didn’t it make more sense for him to be with his father’s people, helping them prepare for a future raid?

Anger had followed next. He had raged quietly on that merciless deck. He was beyond that now. The experience with the opium smoke had been humiliating, but Cowan could not even say for sure why this was. Something broke inside him, though, as he stood there and tried to understand. A hardness disappeared. He felt himself frown before a strange peace filtered into that broken space and wiped the frown away.

“Jesu, I am trying,” he whispered. He was a captive of the barbarians. Perhaps there was a purpose in it. Cowan tried to cling to the peaceful feeling within and settled himself against a large, wooden shield as he sat on the deck.

Soon he heard a sound he had heard far too often on this deck: the tuneless song that Charis had kept up like plainsong for days as she rocked herself under the canopy. He had decided it was her only way of comforting herself, and had not bothered her.

Something in the tune, though, compelled him to leave the remains of his dinner and find her.

He rose to his feet, his gaze piercing the shadowed corners of the deck as he sought the pale woman. A slight rocking motion caught his attention and he made for it—for her—near a barrel of old water aft of his position. “Charis?” he murmured, kneeling next to her.