Saga, page 16
‘Are you ashamed of me? Me, who you would make your queen?’
‘Darling Asa,’ Olav soothed. ‘It will be all right. My mother hates the pagan ways, but in time perhaps she will see you as I do. Maybe if you pretend to reject your Goddess?’
‘Never!’ I said, horrified.
‘I am sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘It’s all so hard. I hate being king. I thought I would be able to do things my way but I have less power than I did before. Everyone makes demands. I am forced to make decisions that I do not agree with. My opinion or thoughts no longer matter. The bishops continually press me to do their bidding. I still feel torn about sending Gerdie to Denmark against her wishes.’
I melted a little and stroked his arm gently. Olav looked so defeated. His young face had aged.
‘Don’t let them take away Olav,’ I whispered. ‘He’s the best part of the king.’
Olav left to go back to court, spinning me promises for our future. I sat beside my window and was filled with a mixture of anger and sadness. I fought back the tears of frustration. I hated Norway. I hated being separated from Olav. I hated the person that Olav was forced to become.
After the funeral of the mighty warrior-king Hardrada, where Arnórr performed the royal farewell address and I chanted the verse I had written, my confidence grew. My performance had been strong and Arnórr had given me a small measure of praise. He had presented me to the queen regent, who looked me up and down coolly but offered not so much as a word.
I met Olav three times at the stables before he had to go on out to visit the provinces with his brother. While Olav was travelling I concentrated on getting words into my book. I enjoyed writing and found it easy to form the Latin words to lay down the secret knowledge. I began drawing symbols as well. I carved and coloured a blue crescent moon on the cover. I always tucked the book under my straw-packed mattress to keep it hidden from sight.
‘What do you write in there?’ Unn asked.
I walked to the window where my book of parchment pages lay open on my small desk. My awkward words scrawled in dark ink within them. Touching a finger to the delicately crafted letters, I smiled. ‘Can I trust you not to speak of this to anyone?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ Unn replied. ‘My mother is a true believer in the Goddess and has taught me to worship her. I am your devoted servant.’ That was enough for me. I could see in her eyes that she spoke honestly.
‘I write of the True Things, Unn, so that the Goddess will never be forgotten.’
I decided to read aloud passages to her each night.
‘But be sure to tell no one, Unn, not even in passing,’ I cautioned. ‘The Church means to outlaw and stamp out all worship of the Goddess. My temple home is her last resting place.’
Unn helped me to dress for the king’s coronation. I wanted to look beautiful at my first appearance at court as the chief skáld. This felt a little vain but I was living in a world where such things mattered. The women in Nidaros were like painted statues. Their hair was coiled and plaited perfectly, then wound into crowns, and jewels sparkled upon their heads. The clothes were ornate. Back in the islands I had dressed for practicality. Here, it was all about presentation and decoration.
As Unn laced my hose with ribbons of gold, I fiddled with the sleeves of my coat. It seemed almost five ells long with ties that looped the sleeves into folds like soft-poured pudding, all the way up to the shoulders. Olav had sent shoemakers to measure me for custom shoes that were high and edged with silk and threads of gold. I had trouble walking in them, which made Unn laugh as I strode about my bedchamber. I fell back on my bed and lost myself in laughter too.
‘You are like a queen, my lady.’
‘Don’t ever call me that.’ I frowned. ‘I am just Astrid, the simple skáldmær, an apprentice and a Sister of the Goddess.’
‘That’s not what the men-at-arms or the house servants are saying.’ Unn giggled. ‘The gossip is rife.’
‘Really?’ I asked, sitting up, curious. ‘What are they saying?’
‘That you mean to become the Queen of Norway.’
‘They are wrong. I am to be the Mother back in Orkneyjar.’
Unn smiled gently. ‘I see the way you look at one another. He adores you. And you him. Your visits to the stables have not gone unnoticed.’
I gasped. ‘I … I don’t know what you are talking about, Unn.’ The redness of my face betrayed me.
‘I feel I should warn you because I care about you,’ she said gently. ‘People are beginning to talk about you and the king and that could be dangerous for you if the queen is informed. Forgive me for telling you but I am concerned for your safety.’
Outside the sky was darkening and the water moved like molten gold. I thought about what Unn had revealed to me, her heartfelt concern that my relationship with Olav was the subject of court gossip. I needed to be guarded with my feelings for Olav; I needed to show some resolve. Trysts behind the stables could not go on forever. I felt weak that my love for Olav was taking my focus and shifting my judgement. I was given to the Goddess and that was an honour arguably as great as that of being king, even more so.
‘Thank you for telling me, Unn,’ I said and gave her a warm hug. ‘You are more my friend than servant.’
‘Oh thank you,’ she said and held me tightly. ‘That means a good deal to me as I am missing the islands and am so homesick. You help me feel less alone in this strange place.’
At dusk I was led to the bench to sit beside my master and teacher, Arnórr jarlaskáld. He was dressed in fine robes and I could see that he had trimmed his nose hair. He, too, was felled by vanity at times like this.
‘Are you ready?’ he asked quietly. I could tell he was on edge.
‘I will not let you down,’ I replied, my voice betraying my nervousness.
‘Steady your voice,’ he guided. ‘Breathe deeply. Take a sip of honeyed mead before you speak.’
I felt too sick in the stomach to put anything to my lips but took his advice to breathe.
There must have been one hundred torch-bearers, the flames flickering in the wide, long guildhall built for feasting. The two royal brothers sat at the high table, the crowns upon their heads glistening in the firelight. Magnus was as dark as Olav was fair. Both handsome and strong. Beside them sat the toad-like Bishop Adalbert who glared at me from across the room.
The royal servants poured the horns of ale and passed them down the long tables. There were many courses of food but I only nibbled at them like a little field vole. Just enough to quell the uneasy feeling in my stomach. My eyes burned from the smoke that coiled up to the highest reaches of the room and escaped from the central chimney hole in the beamed roof. Fragrant wood was burned, which smelled much better than the seaweed, peat and dung we burned in Orkneyjar.
Lute players accompanied a girl on a harp and they were followed by two men who did acrobatics and juggling. Then the crowning glory of the festivities and entertainments was announced.
‘Skáldmær Astrid will deliver the first high poem for our new co-regents.’
I rose and walked past the long tables to take my place before the mid-hearth fires, looking at the glint of a hundred shields that adorned the walls.
My eyes met Olav’s and his smile was so broad and proud that my agitation and trepidation was calmed. It was replaced by a sense of acceptance and confidence. I would do this for Olav. To honour him. And because I was a girl of the Goddess I wanted the entire court to see that I could hold my own in their world. I could stand before them and speak.
I began. My voice was strong and echoed off the walls. My voice rose and danced among the candlelight. It reached every corner and every eye was on me. My poem was long and I recited it flawlessly. It flowed like water, like air, like the wings of a bird. I finished with a confident flourish.
With hearts peace-ready and hearths aglow
Norway’s royal sons bestow
With ever-ready giving hands,
Wealth to folk across their lands.
These pillars of our royal race
Today are crowned with their father’s grace.
This hall hung high with shields that gleam
Of greater Lords we could not dream.
A golden horn filled to the brink
Give thanks for these two kings – and drink!
Applause rang out and filled the hall, feet stamped in recognition. Olav gave me a nod. I bowed my head and took my place back at the bench. Filled with sudden appetite, I picked my plate clean. Beside me Arnórr put his hand over mine.
‘You were strong, Astrid,’ he whispered. ‘Mother Thorberg would be proud of you. I am proud of you.’
It made me feel warm that he approved of my performance. I looked around the hall at the revellers, celebrating the coronation of their co-regents, and gratefully returned their nods of approval until I reached Olav’s mother at the table of dignitaries. The former king’s consort, Queen Regent Tora Torbergsdatter. Our eyes locked.
She was not first queen but Tora was the most powerful woman in the kingdom. Her family wielded significant power in Norway and her sons were kings. This had made First Queen Elisiv less powerful as she was only the mother of a daughter. Elisiv was gentle and beloved and held the old ways close to her heart, spending most of her time in Orkneyjar. In contrast, Tora was ruthless in her quest for power and was closely aligned with the Roman Church. She had all the bishops wrapped around her finger.
She looked at me as an enemy and I looked away. Arnórr caught the look and leaned towards my ear. ‘It may be best for you to consider returning to Orkneyjar sooner than planned. I can release you from your apprenticeship for you have learned well. Your Latin is superb and you write as well as any monastic scribe! I can teach you no more and I fear—’
I looked up at him sharply. ‘You fear?’ I swallowed a mouthful of pheasant. ‘Fear what?’
He looked into my eyes, touched the blue moon on my forehead.
‘Nothing. But if you ever need my help, Astrid, just ask,’ he said. ‘And stay away from Queen Tora. She watches you very closely; I think she is jealous of your power. Now the bishops are talking. They suspect that you are indulging in sorcery, bewitching the king. He is too fond of you, Astrid.’
I felt pleased but uneasy at his words. Arnórr rarely smiled and the one he gave was not a happy smile.
Much later in the evening as I walked down a corridor on my way back from toileting, a shadow stepped out of a dim alcove. It was the queen regent.
‘Goddess girl,’ she hissed. ‘Mark my words. I know of your sorcery and it is the devil’s work. Be warned, do not bewitch my son. You, a pagan orphan and as dark as the Old Ones from the islands and my golden son? You entertain a foolish notion. Don’t forget that I rule this city, girl.’
‘Yes, your Highness.’ I gave a respectful bow, my cheeks burning.
I hurried back down the long hill to my quarters through the cool night air to find Unn already asleep.
I was shaken by Tora’s threats and could not sleep so I sat by candlelight late into the night, the sky outside a deep purple as I wrote in the book. My bare feet were cold against the straw-strewn floor. I wrote of the sea and the language of birds, of the wisdom of owls, of the meaning in a pattern of stones found by a well.
Eventually my eyelids became heavy, the words swirling beneath my gaze. I took my candle and went to bed, looked up at the ceiling, blew out the candle and shut my eyes, letting my hands rest on my belly, thinking of Olav. I heard a small whisper come up from beneath my fingers. It was like a sigh through my navel that popped at the skin of my palm. I opened my eyes and sat up, letting my hands roam over my belly and up over the curve of my breasts, wincing at the tenderness I had been ignoring for weeks. I challenged myself to remember my last moon-blood and realised it had been back some time ago in Orkneyjar, perhaps at the beginning of spring, nearly four or five moons ago.
I gasped and Unn stirred in her sleep, muttering some unintelligible word.
My heart pounded so hard that I felt the pulse throughout my body. I had been so swept up with Olav and the move to the bustle and chaos of Norway. My mind had been on Latin and words and the shape of letters. I had forgotten to read my own body.
I wanted to scream into the night and run up the hill to Olav.
We were with child. The king and the priestess had made two worlds collide and I did not know how the Goddess or Olav’s White Christ were going to feel about that.
I did know how Tora Torbergsdatter was going to feel.
Ann’s health improved and she was swept up in a new burst of energy. Her poem was unfolding beautifully and she was very pleased with my progress as I grasped new concepts of poetic form and structure.
‘You read so well now,’ she told me after I walked about the parlour reading aloud a tract from an essay by Edmund Burke.
After morning tea we practised at the piano. Ann had taught me to play a very basic tune that she had written herself and she accompanied me in song. She did have a lovely voice, even though she claimed her range was limited. When I sang the song, the results were decidedly less pleasant.
‘I think I shall leave the singing to you.’ I laughed.
‘Yes, perhaps,’ she agreed and joined me in laughter.
‘Keep practising,’ she said, patting me affectionately on the shoulder. ‘I shall be presenting you to society at a special dinner at the end of the month.’
I looked up at her from the piano stool and frowned.
‘I beg your pardon, Ann?’
‘Yes, I think you are ready, almost.’
‘For what?’
‘I have invited a selection of important guests and you will mingle with some of the finest people in Windsor. My husband is coming up from London and it will be a lovely affair. I do not like to go out so much in public but a good dinner soiree in my home is another matter. We will fancy up the house and put on a feast fit for royalty.’
I was excited at the prospect.
‘Will you invite Mary and Percy?’
‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘You may take an invitation over to them this afternoon. You and Mary seem to be getting along well.’
‘She’s very interesting.’ I nodded. ‘They are both extremely interesting.’
Ann went to her desk and wrote out an invitation to the dinner for my friends.
‘It will be your opportunity to present yourself as a fine lady,’ she mumured as she wrote. ‘You have been such a diligent student, Mercy. You have worked hard to polish the rough edges and you have risen like a phoenix from the ashes of your unfortunate past.’
She looked over to me with warmth. ‘Just look at you,’ she sighed. ‘I am so very proud of you, my dear girl.’
I bathed in the glow. If this was love I could drown in it. My entire body seemed to swell with pride and warm devotion to this kindly woman who had opened her home and heart to me, clothing me in the finest fabric, teaching me to expand my mind, introducing me to music, feeding me the very best food. I beamed at her and wanted to tell her that I loved her but was too afraid that she might not utter the words back to me.
‘You saved me, Ann.’ I nodded gratefully and stood up from the piano, smoothing down my skirts. ‘I will be eternally thankful for all you have done. All that I may become in the future will be because of you.’
‘It must be hard for you, without any family,’ she said. ‘And you remember nothing of your own mother?’
‘Nothing,’ I said softly. ‘Only dreams. There is a box of her belongings back at the poorhouse being kept for me. Apparently there is a book. I hope one day to go back and find out what sort of book it is.’
‘So your love of reading may have come from your mother.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You have come a long way from that poorhouse, Mercy.’
I thought of the cruel Mr Lester and all the poor people who were buried in unmarked graves. Unmarked. Unloved. And I thanked providence for sending Ann Radcliffe into my life.
It struck me then. Her husband was coming up from London for the special social event. She was going to present me. I was certain it would be at that dinner that Ann would announce that she and Mr Radcliffe were going to adopt me! The motherless girl and the childless woman would be each other’s saviours.
‘You may take some of the leftover scones from the kitchen next door when you go.’ She smiled.
Percy answered the door.
‘Well, well,’ he proclaimed in his usual boisterous way. ‘Mercy me, what have you brought to satisfy my appetite? Hmmm. Scones and jam. My favourite. Do come in.’
I looked around and tried to ignore the mess. I felt an overwhelming desire to clean it all up for them, although it would probably have been rude to do so.
‘Mary has gone to the bookshop,’ he explained.
‘I should go then,’ I said softly. ‘I just stopped by to talk with Mary about her mother’s book. I—’
‘Oh that.’ He laughed. ‘I beg you not to. She is not so happy to be in the shadow of her mother all the time. Mary means to be a great writer herself. Alas, she does not yet have the passion that her mother had and passion is the key to good writing.’
‘Passion?’
‘You look nervous, Mercy,’ he said, standing close. ‘Are you embarrassed to be here alone with a man? Do I make you nervous?’
The truth was that Percy Shelley did make me uncomfortable because he had such a halo of energy around him. It was intoxicating in a way that did not feel right. He was so handsome and charming and worldly, and it seemed that with almost every word he uttered, he was playing with me. My defences crumbled under his charm.
‘You are a mystery, Mercy.’ He reached out to touch my cheek. I recoiled as his touch seemed to set me alight. ‘The Scottish mist. There is something about you that makes you different and I cannot quite put my finger on it. You interest me.’
