Oh my golly gosh – I am so so so sooooooo sorry that I have kept you waiting for so long. Real life can be so inconvenient. Thank you to all who have reviewed and who are following the fic. I really will try to devote some more actual writing time to this (as opposed to random day dreaming).
Conversation 3
Blood. Blood everywhere.
"Is he going to live?"
Gudmund looked up at him, his face stern and his eyes stark, and then turned his attention back to the gaping hole in Rollo's chest. "He is badly injured," he muttered, cutting away the blood soaked fabric.
Bjorn grimaced – that much was obvious. Rollo had always been an idol of his younger self; a magnificent specimen of masculinity whose skills with weapons was only matched by his ferocity in battle. Always a handsome man he had never struggled for feminine company, although the almost casually contemptuous manner in which he treated most of them had not sat well with even a young Bjorn. Now though his uncle's face was pale, his eyes were clenched shut and his teeth were gritted against the pain. The portion of his chest which Gudmund had bared and was currently busy stuffing lint into was covered in blood and there was evidence of additional wounds on his chest and on his legs.
"What do you need?" asked Bjorn.
"Fire," replied Gudmund. "Heat me a knife." Bjorn nodded – he had seen it done before. Fire, and his mother's prayers to Freya, had saved his father.
"No," moaned Rollo and Bjorn stopped, looking down at him. His eyes were still closed. "No fire."
"I have to sear the wound shut," insisted Gudmund.
"No," Rollo's voice remained strained but carried more emphasis. "The bag," he swallowed. "Look in the bag."
Bjorn frowned and looked down the pallet his uncle was lying on. There was a small leather pouch tucked under the blanket that was covering his lower torso and Bjorn reached for it, fumbling with the neatly tied cord for several moments before he got it open, tipping the contents onto his uncle's belly. A number of small sheafs of vegetation, held together with thin strips of leather, tumbled out, a strange concoction of scent following the movement.
"Herbs," said Bjorn. "Medicine!"
Gudmund reached over and picked up a sheaf, bringing it to his nose and smelling it. He frowned and carefully extended his tongue to part of the plant. His face contorted and he turned to the side, spitting multiple times. He threw the sheaf back onto Rollo and curled his lip. "Poison," he snarled.
Bjorn looked at his uncle – he was clean and his hair was groomed. His clothes, while they may never have actually left his body, had obviously had the worst of blood, mud and gore rinsed from them. Someone had cared for him, had in fact gone to a lot of effort and judging by the remnants of stitches, had actually tried to heal him and Bjorn wondered whether it may have been Athelstan. He knew that Rollo had never understood Ragnar's appreciation of the monk, had perhaps even resented it and had often made snide comments – for a long time Bjorn had thought the absence of a response by Athelstan to be an indication of weakness. As he had grown however he had come to understand that not all of a man's strength resided in his sword arm and that one glimpse of Athelstan, clad in his monk's robes, without a weapon and yet entirely serene between the Vikings and English soldiers had struck him powerfully. "It is not poison," he said firmly.
Gudmund's look plainly indicated that he was humouring him only. "If I do not know how to use it, even the best of medicines is poison."
"My lord Bjorn?" the shieldmaiden's voice was a little hesitant but she met his gaze clearly. "The priestess – she may know."
Gudmund snorted but Bjorn ignored him. "What makes you think that?"
The shieldmaiden shrugged. "Two days ago everything I passed was water – she showed me what plant to find, how to crush it and soak it in boiling water and then mix with another plant before drinking it. I have been fine since."
Bjorn hesitated – the priestess was Horik's slave and Bjorn had no right to her. But Horik and Ragnar are allies – and Horik must know how important Rollo is to Ragnar. Rollo gave a sigh and subsided into unconsciousness and Bjorn made up his mind. "Do not burn him until I return," he waited the moment to receive Gudmund's grudging nod before turning to run through the camp knowing that Gudmund would only wait long enough to get someone more senior to give him alternative instruction before the blade would come back out.
The tent that he approached was guarded by one of Horik's men, a greasy looking individual that Bjorn had not had much interaction with. His eyes marked the younger Viking's approach and stepped in front of the tent flap as Bjorn would have pushed through. Bjorn straightened, looking down on the other man. "I need to take the priestess."
"Says who?" snarled the man, his grip tightening on his axe. "You're not one of the king's men."
"No," Bjorn smiled, deliberately misunderstanding the Viking's words. "I am the son of Earl Ragnar," he stretched out his father's name. "And of Earl Ingstad." He paused for a moment. "I am Bjorn Ironside."
The Viking twitched. "What you want with her?"
"That does not concern you," replied Bjorn loftily. "It is enough that I want her. Get out of the way."
The Viking hesitated, his eyes flicking over the younger man's figure and how his hand caressed his axe and his own hand clenched. He looked around as if to look for support, but the only ones within eyesight were Earls' warriors. He stepped aside.
Bjorn smiled slightly and stepped forward, keeping his eye on the man and his fingers on his axe until he was inside the tent.
The interior of the tent was almost dark to his eyes and he blinked to bring sight back to them, his nostrils flaring slightly from the musty smell inside. There was a slight noise to his side and he turned; his eyes caught the movement in the air and he reefed up his axe, blocking the attempted blow and twisting. There was a slight yelp and then a rattle and clunk as first the piece of timber and then the wielder hit the ground.
Bjorn straightened, looking at the woman. She huddled on the ground, the under-dress that he had last seen in now filthy with dirt and what was likely blood and in barely mended tatters around her small frame. Someone had given her a haircut and her scalp was entirely bald, marked in numerous places where the knife hadn't been wielded carefully enough. She shivered and he caught some of her whispered words she was praying.
"Your God is nothing," had spat Horik. "Now it is me that you will serve," and he had pushed her amongst his men. Bjorn had tensed as she had screamed, but Ragnar had put his hand on his shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze before turning away, Torstein at his side. Bjorn had looked to his mother and her eyes had been full of pain, but her face had been tense and she had given a slight shake of her head before she too had also turned away. Some battles could not be fought he had understood her but he had hesitated. Porunn (1) was also a slave, there were some who would consider a lesser person, someone who didn't have rights even to her own body. Briefly he wondered if she had ever been in that position before he chased the thought away. Porunn belonged to his step-mother and whatever Aslaug's faults, and for some time Bjorn had not thought much of her, he knew that she would condone the rape of one of her slaves. Neither, he knew, would his father – he had spent far too long with Lagertha to think that a man had any rights over a woman's body that she did not freely invite him to partake in. This woman though, she had no such protection, she was a Christian and King Horik had just made her free to anyone who desired her. Horik himself, along with Erlendur, had walked away, Floki and some of the other warriors headed in the same direction. "Are you coming uncle?" Bjorn had asked, his uncle still standing near the edge of the water, watching the mass of warriors around the priestess. Rollo had looked up at his nephew and offered a brief smile. "Of course," he had replied and walked up the hill, only looking once more.
She should be broken he thought and glanced at the branch that she had tried to hit him with. The gods would always protect strong women he remembered and smiled slightly. He stepped back from her and lowered his frame onto his haunches.
"Priestess," he said in a gentle tone. "I need your help."
Her head raised slowly, her eyes wide at the first words that she could recognise since she had come off the road. Those same eyes ran over his figure, taking in his demeanour and some of the fear seemed to dissipate – although he noted with some amusement that her eyes also flicked to the piece of timber. "How?" she asked suspiciously.
Bjorn grimaced slightly, Gyda had been the one who had wanted to learn Athelstan's language and he had had to pretend that he wasn't interested in learning the words. "You heal?" he said.
Not what she was expecting to hear he thought as he saw her face change. She sat up carefully, keeping her dress tight around her ankles. "You're hurt?" she prompted, her eyes again searching across his frame.
He shook his head, "not me," he had no word for uncle,"….other."
"How?" she repeated.
Bjorn grabbed his knife and she flinched; he held up his free hand and pointed the knife into his chest. She nodded and he stood up, sheathing his knife and then carefully taking a step towards her and held out his hand. She looked at it and then at him. "Please," he said.
She swallowed and her eyes closed briefly. "Mother Mary," she whispered and then opened her eyes, reaching out her hand to take his. She staggered slightly as he pulled her to her feet and he reached his other hand around her waist to steady her. She flinched a little and stepped back, smiling to indicate that she was alright. Bjorn took a glance at her and then looked around, in two strides he stripped the blanket from the bed and then returned to throw it over her shoulders. She looked up at him with some surprise. "Thankyou," she murmured.
"You're welcome," he replied and for that mastery of the language he got a smile.
The Viking on the outside opened his mouth as Bjorn led her out, but one look from him was enough to prevent any words coming out. The priestess paused a moment, grimacing and blinking a little in the bright sunlight for a moment before responding to the gentle pressure from Bjorn's hand and walking forward. She shrunk a bit closer to him as a group of Vikings came towards them, but they were Ragnar's men and while they looked curiously at Bjorn, they made no move to stop him.
"This is the man," he said as he came to his uncle's pallet, Gudmund looking on with disapproval.
She stepped forward, her eyes focussed on the wounds. She picked up the herbs, smelling one and rubbing her fingers on another before touching her fingers to her tongue. She nodded, "good." She placed the herbs to the side, and leaned in, reaching with both hands to pull apart Rollo's shirt. The blanket dropped off her shoulders with the movement but she paid it no attention, although Gudmund's eyes immediately dipped. Bjorn made a slight noise in his throat and stepped half a step closer, and Gudmund's eyes dipped back to Rollo's chest.
"The stitches have been broken in transport," she was saying in a tone of dissatisfaction, and pulled the blanket from the bottom half of Rollo's body. She moved down, paying no attention to the shieldmaiden that has to step aside, and put her nose to a wound in Rollo's leg. She scrunched it slightly and again pulled at the cloth. "This one starts to fester," she commented – to herself he was sure, recognising the signs of a master at his craft She moved back up to Rollo's chest, pulling his shirt entirely away from his side where there was a long gash. She touched the bloody fluid weeping from it and then tested it between her fingers, another noise of dissatisfaction coming from her throat. She moved to the side again, this time it was Bjorn who had to move from her way, and placed a hand on Rollo's forehead, turning to look at him for the first time.
Bjorn heard her gasp and then she banged into him as she almost threw herself backwards. She recoiled off him, turning and looking up at him with wide, horrified eyes. "No, no, no, no," she whispered, shaking her head and backing away from him. And he knew.
"Bjorn Ironside," King Horik's voice made both of them start, Marion stumbling as she whirled around. One of Horik's men reached out and grabbed at her – Bjorn say her rebel against the touch but then still, lifting her chin to glare back at Horik's almost sneering face as he glanced at her before it lifted up to him. Bjorn towered over the King and he didn't think it was co-incidence that Horik stopped some distance away to lessen the effect. "By what right do you accost my man and take away my slave?"
Accost? Bjorn's brows lifted slightly.
"Yes Bjorn Ironside," repeated a much softer, and slightly mocking, tone behind him. He saw the woman start and turn to look with wary eyes. "By what right do you take King Horik's slave?"
Horik's face darkened momentarily at Ragnar's truncation of the issue but smoothed it away, saying nothing.
"Your pardon King Horik," replied Bjorn respectfully. "My uncle is in need of medical attention."
Horik's gaze turned to Rollo's chest and the gaze that was turned back to him held some regret. "Let Gudmund tend to him then."
Bjorn didn't like the tone of acceptance in his king's voice and he spoke with a bit of bite. "Gudmund wishes to burn him."
"Fire cleanses the wound," stated Gudmund.
"My uncle did not wish to be burnt," replied Bjorn.
There was almost pity in Gudmund's gaze. "Fire is painful," he started.
Bjorn didn't even realise that he had stiffened until he saw the woman's eyes widen in fear and Gudmund's words came to a stop.
"You are not implying that my brother is fearful of the process?" interjected Ragnar in silky tones that sapped some of the colour from Gudmund's face. There was a slight rustle amongst the warriors as more arrived to see what the fuss was about; Bjorn felt a presence move in beside his father and knew that it was his mother. Divided they may now be but for him they would always be as one.
"Rollo is a brave warrior," stated Horik firmly, taking back control of the conversation. "Valhalla is calling him."
Bjorn looked down at the pale, drawn features of his uncle and shook his head. His uncle should enter Valhalla the same way he had lived his life: loud, brash, full of himself and with the blood of his enemies still warm on his skin, not just as this hollow shadow. "His family calls him as well," he said aloud.
Horik looked at him in consideration, his eyes flicking to his parents behind him before meeting his gaze. "And you think the Christian woman can help him?" said Horik.
The word referring to her elicited a slight twitch and Bjorn stepped forward as he reached to pick up the herbs. "English medicine," he said. "These are foreign to Gudmund – but not to those who have treated my uncle. And not to the Priestess," he pointed to her with the sheaves.
"What could it hurt King Horik?" asked a mocking voice to the side and Bjorn looked to see Floki's mischievous grin. "Rollo is after all a Christian himself."
Bjorn's brows contracted in confusion and he heard his father let out a hiss of annoyance. Horik swung around with a questioning look at the tall Viking.
"Did Ragnar not tell you?" Floki continued in a teasing voice. "Rollo abandoned the gods on one of our earlier raids."
"My uncle would never abandon the gods," refuted Bjorn indignantly and wondered if he imagined a flicker of regret under Floki's sneering grin.
"It was merely a ruse," continued Ragnar, his tone hard. "To give the English king comfort in his negotiations."
"Rollo has always honoured the gods," stated Horik, again as if pronouncing a finding in court. Floki shrugged, taking a swallow from his drinking horn and looking entirely unconcerned and a trifle amused. "And I think we should continue to honour their way – but," he paused for effect wondered Bjorn. "If Bjorn Ironside wishes to trust to Christian priestess then I have no objection."
Feeling like he had been handed the blade of a double edged sword, Bjorn inclined his head in thanks. Horik stood expectantly and Bjorn turned to look at his father; he was met with wide blue eyes and a slight smirk – a clear it's your party and turned back to the priestess. "Priestess," he started.
A grimace of distaste came across her face as she turned to him. "Do not call me that!... Master Bjorn."
He smiled slightly at the obvious after thought. "Sister Marion," he corrected carefully. "Can you help him?"
"Why should I?" she asked and his brows rose. She cast another glance at Rollo. "What incentive is there for me to do anything?"
Bjorn didn't recognise the word but he thought he understood the basis of what she was asking.
"Can you grant me my freedom?" she continued.
There was no reason to tell the truth: truth would not aid his cause and no-one would think any less of him for manipulating a slave into doing what he wanted. But again the thought of Porunn came to his mind and he dismissed the thought. This woman deserved more than that. "No I cannot," he said gravely. "I have no….. power," the word wasn't right he didn't think but he hoped she would understand.
"What does she say?" asked Horik.
Bjorn hesitated but while his father stayed close, he also stayed silent. This was his battle. "She asks me why she should help." He could almost feel Ragnar's slight smile of approval at his selective translation.
Horik's face darkened and he stepped forward, glaring at the priestess. The woman backed up a little, until she was pressed hard against the Viking behind her. She lifted her chin, gritting her teeth in determination. Horik reached out a hand and took her by the throat: for a few moments she held still as he squeezed and then lifted her hands to grasp at his wrist. She had no effect and Horik was inexorable, squeezing and pressing until he was forced to her knees, her face becoming slightly red. Bjorn ground his teeth, swaying forward just as Horik tossed the woman to the side.
The priestess drew in a gasping breath, coughing and gasping some more. She pushed herself to her hands and knees and then, slowly to her feet, wrapping her arms around her middle and shivering slightly.
"She will tend to your uncle Bjorn Ironside," announced Horik in contempt. "Else I will cut her open and feed her still living flesh to the ravens."
Bjorn bit his lip. "My thanks King Horik," he said respectfully, reaching over to grasp the woman's arm, firmly but gently, and pulling her closer to him. He reached down to the ground and retrieved the blanket, wrapping it around her shoulders again.
Horik nodded. "I will make a sacrifice to Odin for your uncle," he said and turned away with another nod that encompassed Bjorn as well as his parents. The rest of the crowd also turned away and Bjorn turned to his parents, receiving a wink from his father and a slight shake of his mother's head.
"I need fire to heat water," said the priestess, her hands already bloody as she began prodding into the wounds to better examine them – the blanket once more on the ground. Ragnar clapped Bjorn softly on the back and turned to supplement the closest fire ready for the task. "You," she looked at Floki. "I need three – buckets – salt water," she supplemented her words with gestures with her hands and pointing at the ocean.
Floki spat to the side and walked off. Bjorn stared after him in confusion. He just didn't understand the boat builder – he had always been a touch…. abstract but this trip he seemed to be almost affronted by anything that was done.
"Tell your priestess I will get her sea water," Torstein's genial voice distracted him from his thoughts and he turned to see his father's friend pick up a pail from under a tent and head towards the ocean.
"Don't get any sand in it," the priestess called after him and frowned as he just gave a backwards wave. "It is important that there is no sand in it," she said to Bjorn earnestly. "That will prevent the wound from healing."
"I will tell him," said Lagertha and turned to follow the warrior, grabbing another pail as she went.
"Master Bjorn," she caught his attention. "I need you to crush a finger full of this," she held up her finger against the herb, "cut a joint full of this and mix them into a paste with some of the boiling water." She waited until he nodded in understanding and handed him the herbs. He watched for another moment as she took the third herb and pulled off the shoots, rubbing them between her fingers and then leaning forward to rub it against the inside of Rollo's lips. She looked around. "Now please Master Bjorn – time is important."
He knew that while she wouldn't have understood Horik's words, she would have understood his meaning. She was a brave woman this one. "I will protect you," he tried to sound convincing because he knew that he might not be able to, "even if he dies."
She turned to him, her eyes questioning. What she read in his face he didn't know, but she laid a blood stained hand against his forearm. "I do not do this because of your king Master Bjorn. I have watched my sisters being murdered, been stolen from my home, been violated multiple times and degraded into some type of animal. Do you really think I am afraid of death?" her voice chided at him gently, like a mother to a child. "I will try to save this man because my Lord God gave me a gift to use and a thirst for knowledge – not because of any threats that are made to me. If He so wills this man to live, then that will be enough and if not – then I will gladly face His judgement having given my all."
Bjorn nodded. "Thank you Sister," he pressed her hand between his.
She snorted. "Thank me if he lives," she said and stepped back towards Rollo.
Bjorn nodded, smiling to himself as he walked to where Ragnar now had the fire going. His uncle would live – of that he was sure. Odin wouldn't argue with this woman.
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I like Bjorn – I think he has more moral fibre than his father. And much more than his uncle.
(1) I am spelling Porunn's name like this because while I understand the 'P' is not really a 'P' and not pronounced that way, History Channel's website has used that spelling.