Éire’s Captive Moon (16 page)

Agnarr bent to untie the knots that bound her. “Eir, it’s time to go ashore.”

Charis grimaced. Agnarr was acting strangely, she thought. Hovering, but not wanting to appear so, she was sure. His arms were tight, and she could see the way he was clenching and unclenching his jaw. He was scanning the faces on shore, looking for someone.

Charis glanced back over her shoulder where Lord Tuirgeis was talking to Cowan, who had been released shortly before she had. What would happen when they went on land? Where would he be? Was he the only other man of Éire on the boats? Had they all been sold? Would she be cast adrift among the barbarians like so much old thatch?

Her mind flew back to her girlhood when she had been under Achan’s teaching. He had often sent her out alone to look for herbs. This was frightening to a young girl, for how would she find her way home again?

Watch the signs of nature,
Achan had told her, showing her the tracks of birds and the moss on trees.
Watch for the natural indicators of direction. The Earth gives all her children a way to get home, if they would only heed the signs.

But I’m afraid to go alone, afraid to be alone.

You will sometimes be alone, child, in your life. You are not like everyone else, and that will leave you alone sometimes. Become accustomed to it, come to peace in yourself, and then you will never be lonely.

“Oh, Achan, I’ll try,” Charis said now, into the wind that swept from the green shore. “I’ll try.”

Agnarr thrust some items at her: his shield, his cloak and a leather pouch that she put over her head, so that the leather strap went between her breasts at an angle and the pouch hit her right hip. He eyed her critically before tucking some loose strands of hair behind her ears. “You’ll do,” he proclaimed before indicating she follow him down the boarding ramp.

“Agnarr! Tuirgeis!” voices called loudly, with the joy of welcome.

Her captor/husband waved and smiled at some of the people. And then his voice changed and he called, “Magda!”

“Elsdottir.” The name was whispered about, and Charis wondered at the meaning. Magda was clearly a woman’s name, however, and the woman herself approached Agnarr.

Tall with dark, braided hair, she moved like a woman of status, Charis thought. Her eyes were dark as onyx, and her face was cold. That was Charis’s impression, anyway. But her clothes took her breath away. They were soft, of brilliant blues and yellows, and were embroidered extravagantly. Small designs were everywhere. It could have been a dress for a marriage ceremony. People parted to make room for this woman to walk to Agnarr, who waited at no great distance from the water.

Charis herself was behind him, carrying all he had given her.

“Agnarr Halvardson,” the woman said, reaching to clasp hands with the Northman. “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Magda Elsdottir,” Agnarr said, reaching to embrace the woman roughly, in sight of all. A cheer rose from the onlookers and Charis wondered at this. Cowan had said that Agnarr wasn’t already married. Was this woman his betrothed?

He beckoned for Charis to step up beside him. “This is Eir, my
trell
,” Agnarr said. Charis understood all of what was being said to this point, but when Magda’s nostrils flared Charis lost all comprehension, for the woman started speaking fast and low, almost spitting.

Agnarr planted his feet apart and assumed what Charis recognized as his battle stance. It was the same posture he used with her when he was arguing. She tensed, wondering whether he was going to make a statement
about
her or
to
her.

He and Magda spoke rapidly, so much so Charis had a hard time understanding much of what was being said beyond her name and status. The word
leman
stood out primarily because Magda shrieked it at the top of a shrill voice.

Was that like a wife? Charis tried to turn, to find Cowan so he could explain this to her. If this Magda person were important to Agnarr, then it was likely that Charis would have to understand her and what was going on. Agnarr had much to answer for.

Damn the man for dragging her here!

“Cowan!” she decided, consigning any consequences to whatever netherworld these barbarians believed in. “Help!”

“Eir!” Agnarr rounded on her, eyes flashing. “Silence.”

She glared at him. “I will not be talked about like I was a rock!” she told him in
Gaeilge
.

She knew he didn’t speak her tongue, but he wasn’t entirely dense either. He knew when she was being contrary. He surprised her, though, by calling, “Kingson!” Charis was gratified and wary, an odd combination of feelings to hold at one time. From somewhere in a circle of people not far away, Cowan appeared, being waved off by Lord Tuirgeis.

“Charis,” he said, before catching something in Agnarr’s face and changing her name. “Eir. Agnarr. How may I help?” He also bowed to cold-faced Magda, who sneered at him as if he were some small, smelly animal.

After some discussion, Cowan pursed his lips and stroked his beard. His eyes were twinkling, though, under the red-blond brows, and Charis wondered what was going on.

“I am to call you Eir, as your master requests, all right?”

“No, my name is Charis, blast your eyes!”

Cowan met her fury directly, not looking away. “Not here it isn’t, Healer. Here you’re a slave, remember? The property of this man, and he has given you a name that blends in with these people. Get used to it.” He smiled lopsidedly, as if in apology. “At least, until you shove that herb down his throat or run away.”

“Oh, like you did?” She breathed out a breath full of derision, shifting the shield in front of her.

“Never mind that,
Eir
,” he shot back, the twinkle gone from his eyes. “Agnarr told me why he needed me. What about you?”

She swallowed her irritation with the man and darted a look at Magda. “Who is she and why was she fighting with Agnarr about me?” That much she had understood, but not much more.

“Oh. Well, as to that, lass,” Cowan said, reverting to the tone he had generally used with her, “Magda Elsdottir is betrothed to Agnarr Halvardson.”

“Elsdottir? Halvardson? Can’t they be content with just one name?” It was just one more thing to make her feel uncertain about her position here in this strange place. “And where are we anyway? What place is this? Does it have a name?”

“
Nordweg
. And these people have second names to make a distinction between one person of a name and another. Family is very important.” He indicated Agnarr with a nod. “Agnarr is Agnarr Halvardson; Agnarr, son of Halvard. I would be Cowan Branieuccson, I suppose.”

“Charis Achandottir?”

“
Eir
Achandottir,” Cowan clarified, his voice firm. “So, from what I understand, lass, you’ll be living with Agnarr. He is pledged to be married to Magda here, and she will be his wife. Not sure when that will happen, though.”

“You don’t know or he doesn’t?” Charis asked, suspecting something from the way Agnarr and Magda were staring at one another.

Lord Tuirgeis appeared and said something to Agnarr. “Kingson,” the leader called.

Cowan bowed to him. “I am to stay with him for the time being.” He paused and, on the verge of turning, looked back at her. “I am not sure when I might see you again, lass. Take care of yourself, will you now? I’d not like to see you hurt.”

“Too late for that, isn’t it, Kingson?” she retorted, feeling a little more lost at the notion of his leaving. Was there no one from her own Éire here?”

Cowan just sent her a long, solemn look before turning once again to follow Lord Tuirgeis. “Well now, and good riddance,” Charis muttered under her breath before Agnarr brought her to walk beside him.

“Come, Eir,” he commanded. She suspected, by his stance and the way he eyed the remaining crowd of Northmen, that he said that as much for them as for her. Interesting. What was he trying to prove?

As she came forward, being made to walk next to Agnarr while Magda paced on his other side, Charis’s question about being the only
Gaeilge
-speaker in
Nordweg
was answered.

“
Cailleach
!”

Startled, for she hadn’t heard that word in more than a few moons, Charis stopped, one foot still lifted above the ground as she stepped over a stone. Someone was here from her home.

But whom had they called a witch?

Soon the speaker emerged from a cluster of slaves. A man with the monk’s partially bald head. A man with lean, dark features and a haughty expression. She remembered him as she did every person she had ever treated in her life.

“
Cailleach
,” he said again, glaring at her with an almost deadly gaze. “I know you,” he went on in
Gaeilge
. “And I pray that God may punish you for your evil arts!”

Chapter 12

Bran. It was Bran, cousin of Colum. It had been his leg she had stitched together seasons before, this man who had questioned her skill and had refused mandragora because it wasn’t “blessed by a priest”.

Charis heard her former patient but turned her back, ignoring him. Monks had been calling her “witch” and worse for most of her life. The name had little meaning. If being skilled with herbs and healing wounds made her a witch, then so be it.

Agnarr, though, had other ideas. Charis watched, wary, as the Northman strode right up to Bran. She didn’t hear if any words were exchanged, but a threat was obvious in Agnarr’s posture and in Bran’s embarrassed steps backward.

“Eir!”

It was not Agnarr, but Magda, his betrothed, who called her and Charis stiffened noticeably. Did she have to obey her, too? Is that what being a
leman
meant? Slowly, she turned around, but not to look at the dark-haired woman. Instead, she sought Agnarr’s attention.

“I serve you,” she informed her captor. “Not her.”

Magda was apparently all ready to hand Charis her cloak, a lovely blue garment, but Charis had no intention of serving anyone without a fight. Agnarr was bad enough, but she had plans for him. She would not serve the other woman.

Agnarr’s whole face tightened, from the eyes to the line of his jaw, and Charis braced herself. He had not struck her, but that he could do so was obvious. After exchanging a look with Magda and the monk who’d called her a witch, Agnarr took Magda’s wrap and tossed it over the shield that Charis was already carrying. “You will follow. We will talk when we get home.” Anger froze his voice, but Charis couldn’t make herself care. It was enough that he hadn’t made her obey Magda.

But if the other woman was going to be his wife, that would probably come. Charis felt anger of her own build up along her insides as she followed the Northman. Soon, though, her natural curiosity got the better of her and she started examining plants and the surroundings. Plants, especially, interested her and so many were new here. How was she to learn how to work her healing in a strange land?

At first glance,
Nordweg
was a green land, much like her home in Ragor. There was a village near the water, surrounded by a wooden fence. The water bordered the village on one side, much as the cliff did at her home of Ragor. There were some crops growing, she could see, around the outside of the fence. Sheep were up in the hills, their white bodies clearly visible against the lush green grass. But it was the green itself that reached inside Charis and made her concentrate on her craft and push her worries down inside herself. While trudging on a dirt path behind Agnarr, Charis sought familiar herbs and plants, relieved that it was summer and the growing season, so she could harvest some before the cold killed off her medicines.

Comfrey grew at no great distance from the path; the wide leaves of the smallish plant were familiar to her. It was indispensable to a healer, for it helped many injuries and sicknesses. Dill was off to the right as they turned toward the center of the village. The feathery green plant was excellent for digestive problems and for people who could not sleep. Charis noted its location and wondered who was the healer in this place. Did they have an herb garden?

Her hands were not free, or she would have been rummaging through her pockets to take stock of what was left of her herbal preparations. It would be a long winter if she could not find all she needed. Did they have mint here? What would she do if she couldn’t find it?

Chamomile was still flowering. She had to collect the flowers before they fell, to dry them for use. The plant was near a home to the left. Perhaps the herb garden she’d been seeking? Charis had no idea.

“Agnarr!”

Another
woman? Charis stopped because Agnarr did. Magda had paused, too, and her demeanor was completely different now. A sort of subservience was in her dark eyes.

Charis did not trust it, not for a heartbeat.

“Ma!” The joy in her captor’s voice was unmistakable. “You look well.”

The woman who beckoned to them was older. Gray hair and a lined face surrounded a smile and sparkling eyes that were the same bright blue as Agnarr’s, even at her age. “I am well, son. You have returned!”

Charis tried to follow the conversation after that, but too many of the words were unfamiliar. “Treasure,” she understood, and “longship,” and “slave,” but that was almost the limit of her translating abilities. Then the mother was introduced to her and Charis felt that, perhaps, there might be someone among the Northmen who had compassion. Perhaps.