If I Had a Heart: The Saga of Ivar and Ita
Chapter 1
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
In my studies of Viking history, I have read about how Ivar the Boneless was responsible for the founding of Dublin and that three of his sons were Kings of Dublin, being of both Norse and Celtic descent. As an Irish American who is also of Scandinavian descent, and a fan of History Channel's Vikings, I am intrigued by that particular part of this history. However, in my readings, I never found mention of a woman anywhere; Ivar's wife and the mother of his children is never mentioned. So, with this story, I have taken it upon myself to bring such a woman to life. I call her Ita, and she is exactly the woman I would envision for the Ivar the Boneless portrayed in Vikings. I hope you enjoy.
The wind blew cold across the lake and Ita pulled her cloak tighter around herself to keep out the chill. Winter was nearing and if she didn't make it to the next village in time, she might die out there, sick and all alone, miles from home. She was the last of her village, the only one not to be killed by the illness that broke through only a few months before. Before her brother's death, however, he told her of an encampment of Norsemen; he knew they did not usually take to kindly to outsiders, and especially to Christians, but he also knew his little sister was strong enough and had enough wit about her to be able to earn their respect and maybe whatever semblance of hospitality they had in them.
She took one last look across the lake, to the cold, empty houses of her old home, where no children played, no old men told stories 'round the fires, and no women cooked up warm meals in their houses. Then she turned to look up the road ahead of her and she sent up a silent prayer to her silent God. Then she took her first step into the forest.
Thirty miles to the East, three brothers were bickering as brothers do, sitting around a fire near the outskirts of a tiny Norse settlement. The eldest of the three, a tall bearded man with long plaited hair, sat up straight, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he looked down at his youngest brother who sat on the ground, close to the fire. The third brother sat off to the side, listening as the two of them argued over some trivial subject, something to do with who should make the decisions, sometimes giving a word or two of his own opinion.
In truth, he was tired of this argument; it had been going on for years, and he wondered if it would ever end. He didn't care who was in charge, as long as he got his share of the winnings wherever they went. Had he gone with his eldest brother – not the one here, of course; there was another, who was off in some distant land probably having all kinds of adventures – he would not have been dealing with these two right now, or their childish arguments, but he stayed nonetheless. He began to wonder, briefly, why he had made that decision.
"Ubbe, are you not listening to what I am saying?" the youngest brother said. "You treat me like I am a child, like my ideas do not matter, when I have proven time and again that I am worthy of your respect. I should have more of a say in our plans."
"We need to wait, Ivar," the eldest, Ubbe, said with a sigh. "I know you are ready to attack, but you know there is no reason to yet. Waiting will not kill anyone, nor will it ruin our chances of attaining any goal. In fact, it will give us more time. Your problem is that you act without taking the time to think."
"That, I think, is why I am still alive," he returned.
"No, you are alive because Father did not kill you as a baby when he had the chance and Mother guarded you with every fiber of her being until she herself was killed," the quiet brother mumbled. "And because Floki took it upon himself to train you to be as crazy as he was. That, Ivar, is why you are still alive."
Ivar glared. "What was that, Hvitserk?"
"Nothing important," Hvitserk sighed. "Nothing important."
"It was quite a lot to be nothing important," Ivar said.
"I just meant that there are a lot of reasons you are still alive that have nothing to do with yourself," his middle brother said. "Yes, a lot of it does have to do with your quick decision making and the fact that you are mad, but it is mostly luck and the decisions of others."
"Right, and maybe my decision to wait this out could give you a few more weeks at least, brother," Ubbe spoke up.
"Oh, of course!" Ivar cried, annoyed, and pulled himself slowly to his feet.
"Where are you going?" Ubbe asked.
"To think," he answered, giving no other explanation, and trudged off toward the woods.
Hvitserk jumped to his feet to follow his younger brother, but Ubbe grabbed his arm to stop him, and he sat back down.
"Let him go," Ubbe said. "He's just going to sulk. He is fine. He'll be back."
Nearly six hours later, Ita was feeling very weak. She had no clue how far she had traveled. Twelve miles at least around the lake, she knew, but beyond that, she did not know. It could have been a hundred with how much her lungs stung and from the stabbing pain in the muscles of her legs. Still, she pressed on, telling herself with every step that she only had one mile to go. That was a promise she had been making to herself, in fact, for the last ten miles. She stopped and dropped her leather sack of valuables and small belongings, the last remnants of her old life, bent over, put her hands on her knees, and vomited. Her breath shuddered and she straightened herself out, trying to convince herself she was fine despite her cold sweats and the persistent swimming in her head and stomach. She had beat the plague which had killed her people, but its symptoms still lingered, especially when she overexerted herself. Ita grabbed her pack and swung it back over her left shoulder, and she kept walking.
A quarter mile or so after her brief pause, she thought she smelled smoke, and she began to walk faster, looking around for the source. That must have meant she was close to the village, or at least to a traveler who could tell her how to get to the village. She could have run if her feet would have carried her that fast. Instead, she loped clumsily along until, ahead of her and about twenty yards to the right of the path, she caught sight of a fire, and she began to slow her gait to a casual walk, hoping she could pretend she had happened upon this scene.
When she reached the fire, she found that it was tended by a lone man in dark clothing. She watched him from a distance, hidden behind a tree, appraising him to see how dangerous one lone Viking could be before she approached. His face was dirty, as were his clothes, which looked as though they were designed for some kind of battle. He didn't look at all like the men in her village. He looked bigger, stronger, and somehow darker despite the fact that he was just as pale, if not paler, than she was. On his hands were a pair of thick leather fingerless gloves and on his legs were hunks of metal which looked completely foreign to her. To his left, leant against the log upon which he sat, his legs outstretched in front of him, were a long sword and a small, compact ax.
He was armed, but would he harm her? It was a risk she had to take.
She stepped out of her hiding place and walked carefully toward him, making no sound as she trod over the dead, damp leaves.
"Dia duit," she said softly in her own tongue, trying not to startle him, not knowing what could happen if she did.
He looked up at her and cocked his head to the side, not understanding.
"Dia duit," she said again. "Em…cad is ainm duit?"
He shook his head but motioned for her to come closer. Hesitantly, she did.
"Ita," she said, pointing to herself. Then she pointed to him and gave him a questioning glance.
"Ivar?" he said, almost as though he questioned the fact.
He lifted the cup he had in his hands, offering it to her, and she took it without so much as a question and drained it, grateful for something to quench the thirst she'd had since leaving home. He chuckled as he watched her carefully and took the cup back when she was done.
"Go raibh maith agat," she said, and laughed a little at the confused look on his face.
He really didn't understand. Perhaps if he spoke, they could try to understand one another, but the most he had given her was his name and a cup of stale wine.
"Dia duit," she said again, and he thought he understood this time.
"Heil," he said in his own tongue. "Eh, dia duit?" He thought he knew what it meant then, but he wanted to ask. He just didn't know how.
She laughed as she lowered her hood, revealing hair as orange and wild as the flames by which he was warming himself. "Of course," she said in his tongue, albeit with her own accent, which sounded strange to him. "Norse. Why didn't I think of that? I'm sorry."
"You know my language?" he asked, shocked. "Who are you?"
"I told you my name, Norseman," she said. "It's Ita."
"Hm," he nodded, and he looked her up and down like some predatory animal as she stepped around to his other side. "That doesn't tell me how you can understand me."
"Travel," she said. "Well, my father's travel, not mine. He lived in Northumbria for a time, and he knew a few Norsemen."
"Oh, did he?" Ivar said, intrigued and mildly angered as the image of King Aella, blood eagled in front of him years before, passed through his mind. He had been there, and he didn't remember any Celts.
"It was a long time ago," she said carefully, remembering what her father had said about the relationship between the Norsemen and the people of Northumbria.
His eyes followed her as she continued to circle him, intrigued by her slow, graceful movements, but still noticing the slight limp she had on her left side and the way she was favoring her left side altogether, not just the leg.
"Sit," he said, offering her a spot beside him on the log, and she did, sitting the opposite way as him, keeping her left side away from him and her back to the fire; he noticed this and a confused smile began to play at the corners of his mouth. "Are you not afraid, woman?"
"No," she answered without hesitation.
"And why not?" he asked almost sharply. "I would think if I were a woman and I happened upon a Viking in the woods, I would be quite terrified."
"Yes, well I have happened on a lone Viking, and a crippled one at that," she said cockily.
His eyes widened in anger and his lip curled up in disgust at her impudence. But something in him told him not to act; for once, Ivar the Boneless felt he should wait and think things through before acting.
"What makes you think I am crippled?"
"I don't think anyone, even a Viking, would wear such heavy, inefficient things on his legs if he did not need to," she said, glancing down at his leg braces. "I assume they are to help you stand. And I see you've concealed a walking stick of some kind under that blanket." She pointed to his other side. "Perhaps it is a staff, or maybe a crutch. I am not sure, but I know what it is for."
He blinked a few times. She was a bitch, but she was a smart bitch.
"Something tells me I could outrun you if I needed to," she smiled; something in that smile seemed sweet, but there was more to it than that.
"I am a fierce warrior," he said. "I am ruthless, brutal!"
"I never said you weren't, Viking," she said, scrutinizing him again. "Just that perhaps I could get away before you could kill me."
Without warning, he grabbed hold of his ax and swung it at her, stopping just before it made contact with her head. Not because he hadn't truly wanted to hit her – no, it was because in an instant, she had produced a sword from beneath her heavy cloak and stopped it abruptly. Then she disarmed him, knocking it out of his hands, and she took it for herself, depositing it quickly on the ground to her left, out of his reach, the blade of her sword on his neck until she was certain he wouldn't try anything like that again. When he realized what he had almost done – and what she had done – his mouth fell open, but no words came out. He pushed the sword away, shook his head, and he let out a surprised laugh; something about it sounded a bit impressed, even respectful. She smirked as she re-sheathed her sword and pulled the cloak back over it.
"You bitch," he chuckled.
"I suppose I'll take that as a compliment," she said.
He nodded. "Give me my ax."
"Why would I do that? You almost killed me!" she cried.
"Because I want it back," he said. "You just showed me I should not meddle with you. I will not attempt to harm you again. Trust me."
"Take me to your settlement and you can have it back," she said.
"Why would I do that?" he asked.
"Because I need somewhere to go, and I think I could be of as much aid to your people as your people could be to me," she reasoned.
He considered it; she had proven her skill with a blade only minutes after meeting him. Perhaps she could be a good shield maiden. Or at least a very useful slave, he thought fleetingly as he studied her again.
"Fine," he said. "I'll take you with me."
He snatched the blanket off of his crutch and folded it messily, then he tossed it to her. She caught it and tucked it under one arm, watching him intently as he gathered his things, which he shoved into a bag, tucked his crutch under his arm, and stood slowly, not without trouble.
"Do you need help?" she asked, seeing his struggling.
"No," he spat. "I'm fine."
With his free arm, he dumped a bucket of dirt onto the fire, putting it out, and he tossed her the bucket.
"Make yourself useful," he said.
She raised an eyebrow at him and leant down to pick up his ax and tuck it into her belt under her cloak. He watched her do this anxiously and looked away momentarily.
"Please," he added quietly.
With how slow he walked, it took nearly two hours to get back to his people's settlement, though it was only about four miles away. Along the way, he told her he was a prince, that he should have been king, but that after his father's murder, things had gotten very complicated. She didn't know if she believed him, but she didn't argue. He asked about her life, and she told him the truth: that her life was very simple, that she was the daughter of a sailor, having been raised by her mother and older brothers, but that her entire village had been killed off by a disease that no one had any experience with and they didn't know how to treat. She had survived, though, when everyone else either died or left before they caught the illness.
When they reached the edge of the settlement, two guards let them through, greeting Ivar with mixed fear and respect and eyeing her suspiciously. Instinctively, she stuck close. If he'd been a stronger, more able man, she likely would have held his arm or the furs he used as a cloak. Instead, she just kept close, not letting him get more than half an arm's length away from her.
"When we get to my house, you will see my brothers," he told her under his breath, "and their wife."
"Wife?" she asked. "They have only one between the two of them?"
"Yes."
She thought it strange, but said nothing.
"She is a whore," he said. "She has slept with all my brothers, and tried to sleep with me."
Something in his tone told Ita he wasn't telling the whole truth, but she had no doubt that there was at least some truth to his story. If a woman was willing to have two brothers for husbands, she might have been willing to do what he said.
"She was a slave until Ubbe married her," he went on. "I do not talk to her, and I would suggest following suit. But of course, you can do what you wish."
He took her to the open door of a larger house at the center of the settlement and paused just outside, looking at her nervously.
"Ivar?" she said, sensing this anxiety.
"Em, let me do the talking, all right?" he asked. "At least at first. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she nodded, and he led her in.
Inside, she saw two men in two separate chairs by a fireplace, they both looked at Ivar and his new companion with confusion and awe. There were furs on the floor, acting as rugs. A dog sat in a corner, and along the back wall was a table, at which a woman was sat, eating something from a bowl. It smelled good to Ita, who hadn't eaten in nearly three days. Still, she kept close to Ivar as he confidently walked back to the table, barely acknowledging the woman, and dropped his bag onto the table just inches from her bowl. He threw his fur down in a chair and took the blanket from Ita and put it there with it. The bucket, he deposited in the corner across from the one where the dog sat.
"Come with me," he whispered, and nodded for her to follow him over to the two men by the fire, who she assumed were the brothers he had mentioned.
As they got closer, she saw the older of the two look at her face and her red hair curiously. The eyes of the other looked her up and down almost lecherously, becoming more and more predatory by the second, like a vulture who has found a dying animal. Something told her to be more scared of that one.
"Who is she?" the elder asked.
"A Celtic woman I met in the woods," Ivar said. "Her name is Ita."
"She is very beautiful," the vulture said. "Is she your slave now?"
Ivar did not answer, and Ita looked to him expectantly, wanting him to answer.
"I would love to borrow her sometime," he continued, and he stood to observe her more closely.
Ita took a step back and touched Ivar's hand nervously. For the first time, his brother's behavior toward women truly began to worry Ivar.
"She can understand you, Hvitserk," Ivar said.
"That will make things so much easier," he laughed, touching her face.
She turned her head, and he came even closer, leaning in so his face was just millimeters from hers. He licked his lips and tried to kiss her, but she ducked away again. It had now become something of a game for Hvitserk, who now grabbed her left arm. He did kiss her this time, forcefully, and she cried out as she struggled to get away. She pushed him away and punched him hard in the jaw. At the table, the blonde woman's eyes widened for a moment before she went back to eating, deciding it best to stay out of whatever was happening by the fireplace. Hvitserk looked as though he wanted to hit Ita back, but the other brother grabbed him suddenly and threw him back into his chair, giving him a warning look.
"What are you thinking, Hvitserk, you idiot?" the eldest said. "She is Ivar's if she is a slave, and if she isn't, then you better beg forgiveness for what you just did."
"She is not a slave," Ivar said finally. "I want her trained as a shield maiden."
"You what?" the other men said in unison.
The woman at the table looked up again, and Ita looked to her. The woman gave her a sympathetic look and a small smile. Ita tried to smile back, but she was still in shock.
"Yes," Ivar said. "She is very brave, and she knows how to use a sword."
"Are you certain, brother? She does not look like any shield maiden I've seen," the eldest brother said.
"Trust me, Ubbe, she will make a good warrior," Ivar said.
"Can you show me, girl?" Ubbe asked her, keeping his voice low, hoping he didn't scare her as much as his brother had.
She swallowed hard and pulled her cloak back to retrieve her sword. When she did so, they saw Ivar's ax in her belt and they looked at her again in awe. Hvitserk looked at Ivar.
"She has your ax," he said. "Why?"
"She took it," he said. "I pulled it on her and she surprised me by getting that sword out and disarming me."
"Which reminds me," she said, handing the ax back to him, "here you go. You kept your end of the deal; now I'm keeping mine."
"So she does understand," Hvitserk said, impressed.
"Thank you." Ivar put his ax back into his belt and gave her a little smile, at which Ubbe and Hvitserk exchanged a look of mild surprise.
That evening, Margrethe, the woman who Hvitserk and Ubbe shared, made Ita a bed by the fire and cooked her a meal before letting her rest. They spoke a little, and Ita found that she was not quite as bad as Ivar had made her out to be. In fact, she seemed quite nice, even if she probably was a whore. Ita was grateful for her hospitality, and she thanked her profusely as she laid down in the pile of furs and blankets.
"You are quite welcome, Ita," Margrethe said with a smile. "You have had a very long day. Sleep well."
"Thank you," Ita said, yawning.
Margrethe simply smiled and went to her own bed in a separate room. At the table at the back of the room, the three brothers sat, talking quietly amongst themselves.
"You were right," Ubbe said to Ivar. "She is very proficient with a sword."
"I told you," Ivar said proudly.
"She is good. She beat me seven out of ten times," he said. "Her techniques are a little different from what I am used to, but she is still very good. With a little training, I can see her being a fine warrior."
"She would be a good one," Ivar smiled.
"You seem very impressed with this woman," Ubbe said, his eyebrows raised.
"Well that is because I am," Ivar said. "She knows how to fight, and she can speak our language as well as we can."
"She is beautiful," Hvitserk said with a mouthful of food, reiterating his first impression of her. "Do you see that as well, brother?"
"Is she?" Ivar asked, his tone a bit higher than normal. "I hadn't noticed."
Hvitserk smirked and shook his head once as he took another big bite of the meat he was eating.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
In this chapter, I added a bit of the Irish language, and one word of Old Norse. It was only natural to me (the Irish, not the Old Norse – I had to Google that part), so for those of you who did not understand, here are some translations, if you couldn't guess what Ita was saying and how Ivar responded:
Dia duit – Hello (Irish, when spoken to one person)
Cad is ainm duit? – What is your name? (Irish, when spoken to one person)
Go raibh maith agat – Thank you (Irish, when spoken to one person)
Heil – Hello (Old Norse, when spoken to one woman)