Wolfsangel

26

Adisla sat shaking in the bottom of the ship. She’d had the courage to do what she needed to do to her mother but her resolve had failed her when it came to herself.

She had tried to get her mother out of the bed but it was no use. Disa was too heavy and in too much pain to be moved. Then they’d heard the Danes coming through the farms. Her mother had begged her to do it but the Dane had been grinning at her from the doorway of the house before she’d had the courage. He hadn’t tried to stop her until her mother’s throat was cut. Then she faced him with the knife. He was a jarl, a tough-looking man with a hard, lean face. He was wearing a byrnie and a helmet, carrying a shield and a long seax.

‘Come boat, quick,’ he said in bad Norse. ‘Boat now, quick. Bad for me no time with you. Knife down, break arm. Choose.’

Adisla had heard his words and understood some of them but she could hardly make sense of what he was saying. She’d just stood sobbing, soaked in her mother’s blood, the knife loose in her hand. The Dane had taken it from her and led her out.

She’d often wondered what it would be like to set out in a drakkar for one of the great markets, or to see the southern lands. Now she was going where she had dreamed of, but in the most horrible circumstances. She had feared what would happen to her on the ship but, numb with the horror of what she had done, real terror didn’t bite at first. They had said things, of course — how she was going to get it across a week of ocean until she’d never be able to put her legs together again. Some had even come and drunkenly tried to talk to her, a cross between taunting and a strange sort of wooing.

There was one who chilled her even more than the rough warriors. He was a foreigner, she could see, wearing clothes of blue wool, trimmed with red. On his head was a four-cornered hat, he wore a thick sea cloak and on his back was a shallow round parcel, like a big disc, wrapped in seal skin. He came to her as soon as she was on the ship, examined her with his brilliant blue eyes as if she was a horse he was thinking of buying and then sat down next to her. Adisla looked back at the fires rising from her homeland and wept.

The ship pulled away and the king stood up, declared her his prisoner and told his men that anyone who touched her would find himself swimming home. The oars moved in a steady rhythm, the men drank as they rowed, and Adisla wondered how long the king would be able to control them. He said nothing to her, just threw her a heavy cloak and went back to the tiller.

Adisla resolved not to cry and tried to sleep, but every time she closed her eyes she heard the Danes at the door of her house, saw Manni, brave with his seax, heard her mother begging her to kill her, saw the blood and saw the fires. When she opened them, she saw only the strange savage in his odd clothes, staring at her from not two paces away. She didn’t see lust in his expression, or anything in particular, just an implacable, constant observation.

After an hour at sea she allowed herself a look around. Haarik’s remaining drakkar was alongside but land was nowhere. Her hands were shaking with anxiety. Adisla had never been more than half a day away from her own home but she knew that ships had to cling to the coast. What other way was there to navigate? It was possible to take to the open sea in times of dire emergency, but sailors avoided it whenever they could.

Thick cloud was rolling in and the sun was just a lighter patch on the grey horizon. She could see they were heading north. The rain came on, nagging at the sail in squalls so they moved forward in sudden lurches and drops, making Adisla queasy. Then it really began to pour, curtains of water sweeping across the ship in the rising wind. The crew had abandoned their oars and were now employed in full-time bailing, using helmets, bowls and wooden pails.

Eventually Haarik shook his head. ‘Sail down,’ he shouted.

The problem was not the wind, nor even the swell, which was nothing to trouble an experienced sailor, but the rain. The mast was lowered quickly and soundings taken. Then the anchor was dropped and the sail lashed across the ship, providing shelter but turning the world dark.

‘Join us beneath the blanket, darling?’ shouted one of the warriors to Adisla.

She said nothing, just huddled into the side of the boat for shelter. The cloak at least kept her warm, and the sail kept her dry, though the stink of the men under the cover was terrible and the dark made her wonder how well Haarik would be able to guard her.

Now the motion of the ship was frightful, a regular and relentless rise and fall that seemed to leave her stomach at the bottom of the wave while her head was sent to the top. She couldn’t help but retch and vomit. Her mouth felt dry and she was terribly thirsty, but she wouldn’t ask for water.

Adisla lifted the side of the sail and looked out around her. The light was jellyfish grey, the sea a gentle but stomach-turning swell.

She thought of her mother, she thought of Vali — she knew she would never see him again — and she thought of the wolfman. Had he survived the attack?

She tried to remember the words of the prayer to Freya: ‘For the love I’ve known, lady, receive me.’

Adisla lifted back the edge of the sail and slipped over the side.