bisected oozing, creaking domes of mud. Seabirds wheeled in the limpid sky above, mewling and squawking: lonesome, plaintive sounds cutting the air.
Eirik nodded. As the eldest son of Sweyn, the Danish king, he had been sent to help the deposed Anglo-Saxon king in his fight against the Norman invasion. ‘In that case, this place is perfect,’ he said, clapping a large hand on Ragnar’s shoulder, ‘and you and I and the rest of the men can have some fun! I’ve heard these Saxon maidens can be very comely!’
Ragnar shook his head: a swift, brutal movement. ‘Nay, Eirik, I’ve not come here for that.’ His eyes pinched to emerald slits; a muscle twitched in his jaw.
‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ Eirik’s face fell. ‘But you’ll be with us until tomorrow, will you not? It will soon be too dark to travel. Why not have some fun this night, while you can, eh?’ He pushed his knuckles against Ragnar’s jaw, a teasing punch. ‘Besides, what fair maiden could resist that clean-shaven face?’
‘The weather’s too hot for a beard,’ Ragnar said. ‘It’s much better this way.’
‘If you say so,’ replied Eirik, ‘but I swear your mother had something to do with it. Is she trying to turn you into a Norman?’
Ragnar grinned, his teeth white and even in his tanned face. ‘Thor’s hammer, Eirik, what do you take me for? Of course she’s not!’
‘If you say so.’ Eirik chuckled, raising his black eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Well, I still think you should take advantage of this town’s hospitality.’
‘I might.’ Ragnar threw his friend a non-committal smile, reluctance slicing through him. As the shallow-drafted longships approached the shoreline, he gazed across the jumble of thatched, earth-walled huts that made up the town of Bertune. Trickles of woodsmoke rose vertically, hazing the air; figures moved on the shoreline, people stopping and pointing as they watched the vessels approach. He had no idea how long his journey north would take. All he knew was that he had to find the man who had wrecked his sister’s life. Who had turned the happy, confident figure of his sister into a listless, silent wraith. She had not spoken a word since she had been carried off the ship at Ribe.
‘How will you find him anyway?’
Ragnar shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘All I know is that he’s a Norman lord, given lands to the north of Jorvik by the Conqueror. That’s all I have at the moment.’
‘How will you get close to him? These Normans guard themselves well, especially in this hostile part of the country.’
‘I have no idea, Eirik. But once I do, I will find out what happened to Gyda after she was abducted.’ Guilt jabbed through him. ‘We’ve tried everything else.’
He had been the one to encourage her in the first place, told her to travel to England with the man she loved. He narrowed his eyes. For helvede, he had even lifted her on board the ship! He remembered his sister’s delighted laugh as he swung her up and over the gunwale, up to the grinning boy who wished to marry her. Now her betrothed was a dead man and Gyda, when she eventually returned, had changed beyond all recognition.
Eirik peered at him, sensing his friend’s distraction. ‘Are you set on this idea, Ragnar? I hope you deal with him quickly, for I will miss you at my side if there’s any fighting to be done.’ He grinned, a wolfish glint in his eyes.
‘Eirik, if you’re involved, then there will be fighting.’ Ragnar laughed, shaking off the pall of remorse that cloaked his shoulders. Now was not the time for self-recrimination or brooding. That time was done. It was time for action. He owed it to his sister to track down the man who had wrenched her from her lover’s side. To find out what had happened to her.
‘It’s the only thing I live for,’ Eirik replied, turning down the corners of his mouth in mocking sadness.
‘As well as Bodil and the children,’ Ragnar added. ‘Don’t forget them.’ His firm lips quirked with humour. Although Eirik was a warrior, he was also a devoted husband and father who liked nothing better than cradling his latest son against his chest and crooning out the old Norse songs into the poor baby’s ear. Ragnar often stayed with Eirik as he and his family lived nearer to the port at Ribe and so he had witnessed his friend’s softer side on several occasions.
‘And Bodil and the children, too.’ Eirik agreed enthusiastically. ‘That goes without saying.’ He peered over into the water as the ship slowly altered its course towards the shore. ‘Ah, good, it’s not muddy here,’ he said. ‘I can see the bottom. We can haul the ships straight up and keep our boots clean.’
At his words, the wooden hulls scraped gently against the stones and sand; oars were drawn in through the holes cut into the wooden sides, secured for the night. Men leapt out, lithe and long-legged, bracing their cloaked shoulders against the prows, lifting the flaxen ropes to pull the boats further up the shore. Jewelled hilts, from short swords stuck in leather belts, shone out in the dying light as the men shouted, called out instructions to each other. And then the townsfolk ran down to help them, laughing and patting them on the back like old friends, happy that these tall, handsome Danish men had come to help them throw off the punishing yoke of the Norman infidels.
The narrow wooden planks wobbled beneath Gisela’s feet, tipping one way, then the other, brownish water bubbling up from the mud and washing over the flimsy boards, staining her leather boots. Stepping cautiously, she made her way out to the gaggle of children dipping their buckets. Sea birds wheeled about her head, spreading huge white wings, cackling and screeching; fear snaked through her diaphragm. A child squeezed alongside her with a full, slopping bucket, then another, almost pushing her off the plank in their haste to reach the boiling house on the shore.
These salt pans were more basic than the ones nearer the town: shallow pools dug out above the low-water mark, edges shored up with lumps of stone to stop the unstable mud sides caving in. She knelt down on the stone lip, swinging her bucket into the dense salty water, setting it beside her while she repeated the action with the other bucket.
The light was dimming fast now, the sun dipping below the horizon in a riot of pink and orange hues. The Danish longships pulling up to the shore turned to dark silhouettes, the masts a cluster of black poles against the shimmering sky. Although it was only September, the evening air was chill, heralding autumn; Gisela shivered in her thin gown. Her sleeves were wet, splashed with sea water, and she pushed the coarsely woven wool up to her elbows to stop them becoming even more soaked.
For their journey north, her father had insisted that both she and her sister Marie change their fine noble garments to more lowly outfits for travelling, so they would not attract attention. The servants in their castle on the south coast, their new English home given to her father for his loyalty to William the Conqueror, had been happy to supply both girls with serviceable gowns. An underdress of fawn undyed wool, an overdress of darker brown, crudely patched at the hem. The only things Gisela retained from her previous life were her fine woollen stockings, her leather boots and her mother’s silver brooch that held her scarf in place.
‘Come on, mistress!’ a little girl called to her from the end of the plank. ‘The tide is coming in! We must go back now!’ Looking around, Gisela realised that all the children had gone and were walking back to the shore. She glanced at the river; the brown water slopped and churned, the foaming tide beginning to fill the deep crevasses that scored the mudflats. The blood in her toes prickled; she had been kneeling for too long. Scrambling to her feet, pausing a moment to gain her balance on the rickety wooden plank, she reached down to heave up the buckets. Her arms ached, as if they had been stretched to twice their length already.
Not far ahead, some of children had stopped, their gaunt, undernourished frames clustering around each other. She heard a wail, then another, and increased her pace towards them, carrying the heavy pails. A child, the small girl who had called out to her, had fallen into the mud, and was now up to her knees in the thick, gelatinous ooze.
‘How did she get there?’ Gisela asked sternly, looking down at the wan, grime-streaked faces.
The children