could enter unannounced. She looked down and tried to continue her weaving, when his hand reached over and covered hers. She stared at the long fingers and the ring with its red stone encircled with gold. Only the great and mighty possessed such jewelry, and he flashed that sovereignty every time he reached out or grabbed. Even Christian merchants bowed to its power. All knew this was Sigtrygg, son of Gnupa and Astrid, the Odinkar.
All her godliness vanished with his presence. She was a castanet rattling. She had imagined this moment. She had planned it. She knew that she needed to scream but the words had vanished. Her certainty was ripped into rags.
“Turmeric,” he said. “Already boiled and dried.” He passed a clay jar, as though he didn’t need to explain his absence and there was no reason to resist his company.
She remembered the first time she saw him. It was many years ago in the chapel. He had burst in. The space had been ablaze with light. The afternoon sun was streaming in through circular windows that were clusters of colored stones held together with gold threads. She was kneeling, looking down, when she heard two voices behind her, Persian and Greek. They were yelling about “vitrum” and “renekeha,” glass and color, with little regard for Christ hanging on the cross over the altar. Katerine tried to block out their reckless words but they were loud and persistent. The conversation insisted on infiltrating her prayers. When she turned she saw him—an odd and distracting creature in boots and a bright red, woolen cape. Not really a cape. More like an over tunic fitted to his body with sleeves and hooks that closed in the front. The whole get-up had told Katerine this stranger was accustomed to colder climates. He held a long spear as though it were a walking stick and he was posing, cupping his hands around the ruby-encased handle and leaning back slightly, extending his left leg. His hair was clipped. His white locks were combed up and back but one part spilled over his forehead and shook as he laughed and talked. When he smiled, he appeared to be just a boy.
She remembered the next time. He had come alone. He convinced her to forgo kneeling and sit beside him. He whispered Greek sounds in her ear. Soon he was visiting every day, and she was waiting for afternoons when he would disturb her prayers.
Today he was wearing a fur vest like a common fighter, but he couldn’t look common. When he put on any outfit it became magnificent. Some of it was his height. He towered above others and barely fit inside the small townhouse. Someone should make a statue of him, but they didn’t do that here in the Norse world. They made nothing out of stone, just stole from others, the way he had stolen her.
“Why are you here?” she asked. He was staring at her, the way he had the first time in the chapel when he touched her scarf and pushed it back so it fell to her shoulders. She had allowed her head to be uncovered in god’s house. She hadn’t cared. There was only his glance.
In his eyes, she was a shiny object that someone could love—so unlike the girl who had been pushed about like a dog. When he stared at her, her soul became colors, as though her body were its own chapel.
She hated him. He had animal smells.
His vest was tight over his chest. His body had widened since they had come to Kiev. His face no longer had a boyish quality. His beard showed traces of gray. But he seemed to stand taller. He had mixed it all together—his princely power and his knowledge of the world. He was a true ruler now, not just a spoiled prince.
“Don’t,” she said. She looked down at the woolen threads and at her wrist. She felt the weight of being unwanted. He had taken away her aloneness and when he gave it back, it was worse than never having been cared for. He had pulled her into the light, then shoved her down into a dark hole.
“Why not?” he asked.
“On the table,” she said. “Leave the turmeric there.”
“I miss you,” he said. Katerine wondered what that meant. She had never really missed anyone. Perhaps her mother. If she saw her again, she might allow herself to miss others. Perhaps she missed places, not people. But wanting to be somewhere couldn’t be the same as longing for a person. Whatever the sentiment was, she couldn’t believe he was feeling it. He was playing a game. He wanted to trick and snare her again the way he had done the first time.
She remembered their adventures in Constantinople. They had been in the market on a bench. They had a plate of purple jellied candies and were gobbling them up. Skirts brushed against them. Sounds jumped beside them but none of it mattered. They were inside a magic circle. He took her to a room. The streets were narrow and curved and reminded her of home. The room was a storage space. He closed the shutters and everything became dark, even though it was still afternoon. She allowed his hands to unwrap her. Her skin glowed. It was so unlike a man taking her for his own pleasure.
Now Sigtrygg walked over to the loom. Katerine stared down at the threads. She could feel his shadow cross her. He sat on the bench beside her. She was forced to shove over. He touched her chin, lifted it up and turned her face toward him. Then he kissed her again for the first time in a long, long time. He held her, one arm on her back, the other behind her head. His tongue reached into her mouth. She felt that she should struggle out of his hold. But she didn’t. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary to fight. Perhaps her anger was born of misunderstanding. She was wearing a night shift covered with a shawl. She had meant to dress. But she was alone and lost in the making of cloth. Time had flown. He let go of her. He stood. He bent over her and lifted her like she was a child. He carried her from the bench to the bedchamber. He removed her shawl and pulled off her dress. She lay naked on the mattress and stared out over the townhouse. Thin eerie clouds rose like ghosts from the cook-pot. The air breathing in through the shutters was cold and quiet. He unlaced his boots. His tunic fell to the floor. His mouth was warm on her neck and breasts. His hands moved over her as though she were perfect, and he was assuring himself she were real. She had forgotten that she was beautiful.
His smells were a calming balm that pervaded the bedchamber. She liked being under him. He was a protective blanket. She lifted herself slightly, and then took him skillfully inside her, as she had done so many times before. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His skin was warm and wet. What could be better than this love? Katerine could feel the presence of the Holy Spirit. She could hear the tiny fluttering heart of the holy dove. She knew it had wrapped its wings about them. God had answered her prayers. “Dear god, bring my husband back to me. Let him love me again.” God had heard her desperate call.
They loved again and again. They were one again. Like Adam and Eve in the garden. Two imperfect beings united.
When darkness came, she took a torch and touched it to the fire pit. The flame ignited as she placed it back in its holder on the wall. An undershift hung on a hook. She extended her arm, took the dress and slid it over her head. She lifted her hair with both hands and drew it out so it fell down her back. She moved closer to the fire, stirred the stew in the iron pot. Cinnamon and nutmeg scents rose from the mixture. She was humming. She reached for two bowls.
“I should go now,” he said. Shadows played on his face.
“Go?” she asked. ‘Why?”
“Kama shouldn’t see us like this,” he said.
“We’re together. Kama will be glad.”
“Do you have some water?” he said, standing. His still swollen penis hung unashamed. She ladled water into a mug and passed it to him. He gulped it down. He pushed his hair from his face.
“We’ve been through this too many times,” he said.
She sensed his annoyance.
“You’ve changed,” she said. “That’s
