Page 20 of A Song of Ravens and Wolves
The ship loomed, narrow neck craning and teeth bared. The Naglfar, she is truly a thing of beauty even now that I have her on dry dock. She served me well. She was my transport that day, packed tight with the rest of what I thought were his hostages and all of us guarded by his sea wolves.
The docked longships pitched and rolled in time with the lapping of the waves. I would not let them see me cry. In the distance, the Jarl’s dragon-headed ship arched its neck against the dawn, like a great selkie cresting and rolling through the water. He made me promise before our son took his first breath, that we would never sail aboard the same ship. If one of our ships were taken by the sea, our son would still have one of us.
My heart thumped in my chest. No matter how I urged my feet to move, they were nothing if not disobedient. They inched their way along the narrow walkway; Angus giving a pitiful whine.
‘Lady Olith,’ said Thorkell, who back then, resembled a barrel with a beard. The Jarl’s interpreter. He outstretched a thick arm pointing to the seat at the prow of the ship. ‘Sit.’
Taking his arm as a ballast, I edged my foot over the prow and onto the tapered deck. The wooden frame, draped with bearskins would be my throne for my journey across the Pentland Firth. Gripping the frame, I lowered myself to be seated.
Before me, row upon row of women perched on benches on the open deck. More than enough to raid any village. Bringing their carnage and fear. Sixty sets of hollow eyes stared back atme. Were they savages or hostages? Prisoners or Danes? I could not tell. One, the nearest of them, with a haze about her, like a half-wild creature stared at my wrist.
I glanced down, the sleeve of my dress had slid up revealing the bracelets that the Jarl had given me. I sucked my hand inside the fabric, away from prying eyes.
I still do not know what I thought they might do; steal them, I suppose. They made me uneasy then. We had all heard the tales of the raids on Iona. We had all lost loved ones. Trusting the Danes was not something that came easy to me.
Angus followed me over the hull in a mass of legs and damp, grey fur. Grateful for the pelts, I pulled one over my lap to guard against the cold.
It started to rain heavily, beating down on us. Even the sails were not enough to shield us from it. Stroke after stroke, the oars sliced through the water. The pace of their drums quickened. They stared, not talking, with expressions of hostile malice.
Thorkell, who spoke little, stood at the figurehead, with his arm wrapped firmly around the wooden, crested neck of the dragon.
‘Are these women your prisoners?’ I whispered.
He let out a deep laugh. ‘Prisoners? They are the Jarl’s shield maidens. Do not let them hear you say that if you want to keep your head. They are his fiercest warriors whom he trusts to escort his bride.’
I glanced back at them. Those were not the hollow eyes of prisoners that stared back at me but the soulless eyes of warriors who had been visited by more than their fair share of death. Their faces were decorated with rune markings as black as coal and at their waists hung the hilts of swords.
A part of me envied them.
The Pentland Firth looked as flat as a silver coin as the prow of the ship sliced through, but I knew from our sailors; just themention of the crossing made the hairs on the back of their necks stand on end. I shuddered.
When Donada would wake in the night crying, I would pull her onto my lap and smooth her riotous hair. I would tell her stories of sneaking out with the fishermen. I would tell her of the sea rising violently with tall, sheer unpredictable walls of water beating themselves against ragged cliffs. I would tell her of the unicorn with its great twisted horn, almost the length of a man, jutting out from its speckled silver carcass, cresting and breaking fiercely against the sea.
Her favourite was when I told her of the morning we had fog, warming the world with its greyness. One of our father’s men, a good sailor had taken me out and allowed me to fish.
The fog descended, crawling across the horizon. Darkening. Swirling. I could see no more than the ship’s prow. Before long, our narrowboat had run aground, beached as a whale on ragged rocks.
It came upon our boat then, curiously, glistening with firth water. Holding my breath, I reached out a hand. Fingers slipped across its skin. Touching it. Caressing it. I’d expected it to feel cold. Its heartbeat against my palm. In a second it was gone, slipping below the surface without so much as a ripple.
The boat moved then. The rocks gave way and let go of its hull. We began to row, arms straining back towards land.
I was no more than a child and I truly believed that the unicorn saved our lives. As we sailed, I fixed my eyes upon the water, willing the Biasd na Sroigag to come beneath the boat and cast the Danes into the sea to be devoured by their sea serpent. Rescuing me as it had the last time.
My journey would not be an easy one. I wondered on which of his ships my new husband had taken his seat. They stretched across the firth like a skein of geese. I shuddered at the suddengale, tightening my grip on the pelt on my lap. How lost did I have to be for the Devil to lead me this far from home?
‘Lady Olith.’ Thorkell cleared his throat. He had not left my side since we set sail.
‘Yes?’
‘Jarl Sigurd wishes you to meet with the seer when we make land. It must be before the wedding.’
I nodded, trying desperately to hide my revulsion. We are all older now, wizened and weary, but I still consult with the seeress. It does not do well to ignore her advice and she has done me well so far.
The narrow firth opened to where I could see nothing but the horizon. Terns and gulls followed in a flash of silver, twisting and turning against the gale. The sail arched and bucked against the squall. The women rowed harder, ugly slashes of fabric with tattooed flesh underneath pushed towards their home. Their home. Not mine.
I tried to angle myself behind the shelter of the sail, but nothing could stop the driving sea spray splashing like shards of ice against my face. How did they not feel it? I was sure it melted against their burning souls.
The more the ship rolled against the waves, the more the little I’d eaten wanted to make a reappearance. In the sea fret, I had lost all track of time. Was it eventide? Without the sun’s arc, it was impossible to tell.
