Saga, page 19
‘Tomorrow,’ I said firmly. ‘We cannot meet and talk tonight. You are in a festive mood.’
He sighed and looked deflated. ‘All right, Astrid, meet me at the stables.’
‘No more clandestine visits behind the stables!’ I said. ‘I deserve more than that.’
‘I will take you riding into the forest.’ He grinned and touched his forehead to mine boldly, oblivious to the looks we were getting from his men and his brother Magnus. ‘Come early at sunrise and meet me at the horses.’
Across the room I saw that Bishop Adalbert was deep in conversation with Queen Tora. I looked away nervously as their eyes shot poisonous looks my way.
The sky was blue-green with a glow of orange lighting up the morning when I made my way to the stables. I had left Unn asleep but she knew my plan. I hurried through the gloom, careful that no one saw me, and entered the stables quietly, with only the sound of the snorting and stomping of horses in my ears. The stable hands would be sleeping off their drunkenness for some time yet. The warm, musky smells of horses were a comfort and I smiled at these noble animals, letting their warm breath blow over my skin as they nuzzled my hands.
Olav frightened me by leaping out of the hay stores. He grinned, wrapped his arms around me and twirled me around in delight. I struggled and giggled but was aware of my thicker waist. I wondered if he had noticed.
‘Show me this forest,’ I demanded.
Olav saddled up his favourite horse, mounted it and reached back for me, pulling me up to slip in behind him.
We pulled away from the township with some speed, then climbed up a hill through thin patches of spruce and birch, trunks glinting like silver in the early hours of the morning.
We alighted at a magnificent spot in the open ground that looked back down over the town of Nidaros. A small red fox darted across in front of us and we both jumped. We laughed nervously. Once seated on the ground Olav kissed my cheek and turned my face to his.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he whispered.
‘Olav,’ I began carefully, ‘I have had a change of heart regarding your proposal. I want to be your queen.’
‘But the temple? The Goddess? Your vows?’ he asked. ‘You’ve told me and I understand. I was going to tell you anyway.’
I put my finger to his lips to silence him. I had too much to say. ‘The Goddess works in mysterious ways and can sometimes put us on a different path. Things have changed.’
‘A different path?’
‘I am with child.’
His face turned to stone. The light of his laughter was gone. His eyes were wide and empty. Olav was speechless.
‘Say something.’
He put his arms around me and pulled me to his chest and held tight. ‘Oh Asa, Asa, Asa,’ he groaned, rocking me in his arms.
‘The Goddess has decided for us.’ I spoke softly. ‘She was clearly more inclined to go with your plan that you make me your queen and I suppose that promise we made at the Odin Stone as children really was—’
‘Astrid!’ Olav stopped my words with his harsh tone. ‘I am sorry, but I wanted to see you to tell you before you heard it at court. A deal has been struck with the Danish king, Svend. We are forging an alliance that will keep Norway safe from attack. I am to marry his daughter, Princess Ingerid. I am sorry, Astrid. You were so sure you would not marry me.’
My throat constricted and our baby rolled over in my belly. I wanted to curl into a ball like a hedgehog and roll away down the hill.
‘But I do not marry for love,’ he argued weakly, trying to make excuses. ‘I love you and we can continue meeting each other. You could be king’s consort, like my mother was to my father, and should you bear a son he may one day be heir to the throne. You would not wear the title of first queen but you would be just as important and powerful. Ingerid would have the crown but not my heart.’
‘I don’t want to be your concubine while your wife is your queen,’ I said angrily.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘You told me once that as a king your word would be final, that you could make the law. Undo this betrothal.’
‘It would mean war.’ Olav shook his head sadly. ‘I love you, Astrid, but I will not let Denmark invade my country and kill my people because of—’
‘Say it!’ I challenged him.
‘You.’
‘And your own child?’ I whispered.
A silence hung between us, heavy as a thundercloud.
‘Our child will be brought up at court and may take the throne one day.’
‘What if I bear a daughter?’ I glared at him. My anger began to consume me.
‘Then she is yours to do what you will.’ He shrugged. ‘I would ensure a good marriage for her.’
‘So sons are more important than daughters?’ I demanded.
‘A king’s bloodline is powerful. Sons are preferable.’
‘Even illegitimate bastards?’
‘The king’s son is an heir, no matter the mother.’
‘No matter the mother?’ I seethed. ‘No matter the mother?’
‘My words were ill-chosen.’ He winced and would not look at me.
‘What happened to you?’ I choked back a sob. ‘They did it, didn’t they? They stripped away your Ollieness. You are no longer the man I loved. You are merely the king.’
‘Asa.’ He dropped his head and his shoulders slumped. ‘You are right. They have won. I am their puppet. My father was right, I am weak. I have no choice. I must be the king. That is all there is for me.’
‘Let’s run away. Olav, let us be goatherds in some faraway place.’
‘No.’
I walked away. The pain in my heart radiated out to every part of my body. I walked down the hill towards Nidaros without a backward glance. Olav called out and rode beside me on his horse, begging me to speak to him. I held my tongue in angry silence all the way to town, my boots covered in mud. As we came to the Royal House I stormed off over the small bridge that covered a stream. Olav dismounted and followed. Grabbing my hand, he turned me around roughly.
‘I will never love her. I will never have children with her. Our child will be brought up as a prince of Norway.’
‘Or else, if a mare, to be sent to the kitchen until she can be married off. If I have a daughter she will be initiated into the Sisterhood and be brought up to worship the Goddess!’ I said boldly.
‘I care not, Astrid.’ He sighed. ‘But you should know that there is no future for the old ways. They are dying just like your Mother Thorberg. The Roman Church is strong and pagan ways are being stamped out. I urge you to take the baptism and leave aside the childish devotion to plants, birds and water divining. You cannot win.’
‘You speak of the living body of the Goddess.’ I began to cry. ‘She feeds you, nurtures you and loves you, and you show her such disregard! Who are you?’
Olav picked up a handful of dirt and scattered it to the wind.
‘It’s just dirt, Asa.’ He scoffed. ‘It’s not alive. It’s not the Mother or Nerthus or whatever you believe. The trees are good for wood. They are just trees. That bird? Just a bird. Good to eat. Grow up.’
‘I will have a daughter.’ I sniffed. ‘And teach her otherwise.’
‘It will be what it is, but for now, Asa, keep this to yourself. Tell no one. I will find the right time to tell my mother. She will not be happy and I will be in a good deal of trouble.’
‘You are the king!’
‘Not when I’m with my mother.’
‘I will return to Orkneyjar.’
I stormed across the open courtyard, away from him.
‘Goodbye, Olav!’ I called. I would not look back, ever.
Eyes cast down, I failed to see three men standing before me and almost walked into them as if they were a stone wall.
‘You must come with us,’ the largest one thundered.
‘Of course.’ I was confused. ‘Where?’
They refused to answer and fell into a triangular formation and marched me towards the Royal House, took me to a high room and pushed me through a doorway before slamming the door behind me.
At the end of September the excitement had built and even the maids, Joanna and Mrs Humphreys, were being polite to me. The day of the dinner arrived. The house had been freshly painted white and the garden had been neatly hedged and the roses pruned. There would be twelve for dinner including Mary Berry, a very flamboyant author, and her friend, the sculptor Anne Damer. Another poet, William Wordsworth, would be in attendance with his wife Mary, along with Lord and Lady Rutledge, Mary and Percy, and a surprise guest because Ann said there should always be a surprise guest at a proper dinner party.
I wore my new white embroidered evening dress of muslin and lace. I felt like a bride. My hair was fastened in a bun with loose tendrils falling in curls about my face. A new pair of satin slippers adorned my feet.
The guests began to arrive after sundown.
Mary and I stood by the mantelpiece sipping lemon syrup. Ann was the gracious host. Her husband, William, was the first to arrive and his manservant brought in his suitcases. I was intrigued to watch Ann with him. He was tall and handsome. His hair was dark but streaked through with grey. He kissed Ann on the cheek and she took him by the hand and brought him over to Mary and me.
‘William, this is the girl I wrote to you about,’ she said. ‘My talented scribe and muse. Mercy, this is Mr Radcliffe.’
I curtseyed, and bowed my head to him.
‘It is an honour to meet you, Mr Radcliffe.’
I searched his eyes to see if he remembered me as the thief who had tried to steal his wife’s jewellery all those months ago, back in London. He did not seem to care if he did. He beamed a warm smile at me. He must have known if Ann had written to him of me. If they were planning to adopt me she would have to have told him I was an orphan. His gaze was so welcoming I felt like I was floating on air.
‘And this is Mary Godwin,’ she introduced my friend. ‘William Godwin’s daughter.’
‘Oh, I saw your father only the other day,’ he said, nodding to Mary.
‘I have not seen him for some time,’ Mary said curtly. ‘But if you see him again you may send him my warm regards.’
Everyone bowed deeply as Princess Sophia, the surprise guest, arrived with a maid. The maid was ushered into the kitchen to help Joanna and Mrs Humphreys prepare and serve the meal.
‘Lovely to make your acquaintance,’ the princess said to me.
She was dressed quite plainly and was not at all what I expected a princess to be. She seemed quite homely and rustic compared to the other women, who had clearly embraced the opportunity to dress up and bejewel themselves.
Before dinner the women went to the library and the men to the front parlour. We made small talk and everyone was very friendly. Mary Berry had arrived wearing a coat made of ostrich feathers. She was glamorous and loud, speaking as if she was on a stage and sweeping her arms about theatrically. Ann asked me to sit at the piano with her and we sang her song to our audience and received some gentle applause. I could not believe I was playing for a member of the royal family. If only Mr Riggs, Mrs Montgomery, Mr Lester and his evil son could have seen me. And my mother. I wondered if she was looking down on me from a starry heaven. I hoped so. It was the proudest moment of my life.
Dinner was a delightful affair. William Radcliffe sat at the head of the table with Ann to his left and me to his right. A wife and a daughter.
‘How do you like Windsor?’ he asked me. ‘It’s a long way from your life in Glasgow.’
‘Indeed it is,’ I agreed, and was very careful about how I used the silverware, making sure I took small mouthfuls and spoke only when my mouth was empty.
‘How is your poem coming along, Ann?’ he asked. ‘You must return very soon. Everyone in London is asking after you and I have settled the contract on the new house in Pimlico. You will adore it.’
A new house. Perhaps they were moving to a new house to begin their life with me.
We ate quail and a glazed ham with all the trimmings. There were four courses and I tried not to overeat for fear of filling myself to overflowing. Percy threw mischievous smiles at me and Mary looked pale and tired beside him.
Over pudding the conversation turned from town gossip to philosophical discussions. Mr Wordsworth was discussing Unitarian beliefs and whether the Holy Trinity was a myth.
‘If we start talking religion, Mr Wordsworth,’ Ann laughed and called down the table, ‘we shall end up with bloodshed. Let us have a discussion on the issue of educational opportunity.’
I saw William Radcliffe roll his eyes discreetly.
‘Who deserves more respect, the kind-hearted pauper or the cruel tyrant of a duke?’ she railed. ‘Should a person be afforded respect simply by being born in a certain place to certain people?’
‘Well, there are two ways of looking at respect, Ann,’ Lord Rutledge spoke, his whiskers sticking out from his cheeks so that he looked like a squirrel. ‘Some respect comes from tradition. When you take your hat off for the gentry you are respecting all those who came before them as well. You are respecting our customs and traditions and heritage.’
‘But it is all just a game of masks, isn’t it?’ she snapped back briskly.
‘I heartily agree, Mrs Radcliffe.’ Percy clapped his hands. ‘We all wear masks and it’s time we were more honest about what we are. And that would be a rowdy rabble of selfish hedonists.’
‘Speak for yourself, Shelley.’ Wordsworth laughed. ‘I do believe you invoke anarchy for attention. You have a loud voice and some wild opinions but isn’t that in itself just a mask?’
‘Perhaps you will never know.’
‘Let’s play a game,’ Ann announced, tapping a silver spoon on her crystal glass. ‘Some time ago, my husband and I had a discussion, or should I say, an argument. He said he could always tell a person’s beginnings from their manner, speech and temperament. He did pick me as the daughter of merchants and was adamant I had spent time in Bath. He is a geographical spiritualist perhaps.’
Everyone laughed.
‘Where was I born?’ Mr Wordsworth asked jovially.
William Radcliffe ran his hand along his jaw, his head cocked, taking stock of the poet.
‘Somewhere northwest, and I’d wager your father was in Law.’
‘My goodness!’ The poet roared with laughter. ‘You are good. Are you sure you are not in league with the devil?’
‘Me. Me.’ Percy put up his hand.
‘Oh stop, Percy.’ William laughed. ‘I knew your father so it is child’s play. West Sussex and a politician’s son. He must think your radical views are extreme.’
‘He’s not too fond of them, Sir,’ Percy agreed.
‘But,’ Ann demanded everyone’s attention again, ‘I had a wager with my husband. It was only for a farthing. But I bet him that with education and learning and love and attention, you could take any child from the lowliest of beginnings and pass them off as a child of nobles. I promised him one day that I would be proved right.’
‘Not past me, you could not, dear wife.’ Radcliffe shook his head and turned his spoon over in his dish. ‘I have the ability to see past any mask.’
‘There are twelve of us at this table,’ Ann said, waving her hand around at the assemblage. ‘We have all spent an evening of discussion and delightful conversation. We all look well-bred and well-heeled. But of course it would be easy enough for us to guess who had the most privileged start in life.’
‘Guilty as charged.’ Princess Sophia laughed.
Everyone else laughed with her.
‘Not so easy perhaps to guess who here might have had more to overcome than anyone else? Who was born with the most disadvantage?’
I began to feel a dread creep into my bones like cold.
‘Because to my thinking, a person who is born with a silver spoon in one hand has an easier job of it than one born with a chimney brush.’
‘Well, Mary may be from fine literary stock,’ Percy announced, ‘and she has a keen mind given to her by her parents but her family were not awfully financial. I suspect Mary had the most limited means as a child.’
Mary looked at Percy with horror and from her manner I could tell that she had kicked him under the table. He looked apologetic and turned and kissed her cheek.
‘Go on, William, dear husband, cast your guess.’
He looked about the room. We had been conversing through the fine spread of dinner and I was suddenly terrified that he was going to expose me as a poorhouse orphan.
‘It is a trick question.’ He smiled and spread his hands on the white damask cloth. ‘Because it is you, Ann. Your family struggled and you were sent to live with more comfortable members of your family.’
He looked triumphant. I breathed out a sigh of relief.
Ann clapped her hands and laughed gleefully.
‘Oh, you are very good.’ She levelled him with a look. ‘But you owe me a farthing.’
He looked bemused.
‘You see,’ Ann said, ‘there is a story and it goes like this. I call it the Pauper and the Princess. How often do you think that a starving orphan who roams the streets scrounging for scraps of bread ends up dining at the table with royalty?’
‘I would say rarely, if ever,’ Lord Rutledge scoffed. ‘It’s a fairytale, Mrs Radcliffe. The sort of tale written by those who write nursery rhymes for children.’
Ann stood up, pushed out her chair and called for attention.
‘My story goes like this. A little girl was left as an orphan on the doorstep of the poorhouse. The child was nameless and without a history. She lived on gruel and her hands and feet were bitten by chilblains through the long winters. A kindly keeper who watched the lunatics in the basement taught the girl to read. At sixteen she was sold for five pounds to an undertaker where she wrote obituary notices for the newspaper. After she discovered her master was selling pauper’s bodies to the college for dissection she was threatened with murder and ran away, all the way to London. I met her when she tried to relieve me of my jewellery. She was dirty, caked with grime, thin as a stick with hollowed-out eyes. She was little more than a desperate stray dog.’
