Eight
September 1069—north-east Lincolnshire
Sunshine quivered across the water. A skin of limpid light sealing in the deep blue-green depths, bright sparkles forcing Gisela to narrow her eyes as she paused in her work. Touching the brooch at her throat, making sure the long pin secured the wrap of linen around her head and neck, she stared bleakly across the water at the longships entering the mouth of the estuary. Her heart plummeted. Oh no, not them. Not the Danes.
Her hands released the bucket handles and she straightened up, rubbing her chafed hands, raw from rope burn. Blisters had formed on the undersides of her fingers: white, water-filled sacs that would soon start to hurt. The ships were coming closer, their round red shields, gold bosses gleaming, lining along the side of each vessel. The sails had been lowered, rolled up into great bundles of canvas and rope, and the men had taken to the oars to steer the narrow, lightweight crafts up the river. Strings of jewelled liquid trailed through the dusky air as the paddles lifted, then dipped again. A guttural chanting, rhythmic, echoed across the water. The sharp jabs of sound coupled oddly with the dainty twitterings of the wading birds who picked their way through the vast salt marshes that led down to the river, powerful current brown and churning. Like a burn of flesh, panic seared her veins and she chewed fretfully on her bottom lip, forcing herself to control her breathing. They would be all right, the three of them. She would make sure of it.
A cheer went up beside her. Then another. One by one the men and women who worked beside her spotted the ships, then put down their pails, the thick salty water slopping over the sides. Thrusting their fists into the air with jubilation, they turned to each other, smiling, clasping at hands and shoulders. Someone snared her sleeve. ‘We are saved!’ the woman cried, her bony fingers digging into Gisela’s forearm. ‘The Danes will help us! The Danes will send those Normans home with their tails between their legs!’
Gisela pinned a wide smile to her face, hoping to mirror the woman’s excitement. These people could not guess who she truly was! She had to be so careful. Look at their joyous reaction to the Danes’ arrival! They couldn’t wait to be rid of the Normans. What would they do if they knew one was standing in their midst, carrying the salt pails alongside them? They would surely kill her! Her head swam suddenly and she wriggled her toes in her rough leather boots, searching for stability.
The woman said something else to her, nudging her conspiratorially. Failing to understand the quick words, Gisela’s mind washed blank. Even now, even after being in England for all this time, her brain struggled to decipher the outlandish Saxon vowels. She spoke little, her voice clipped and low, hoping not to give away an accent, or any clue to her true identity. Her sister, Marie, was the same, comprehending little of what was said around her, but their father was more adept, having learned the barbaric language as a child.
‘Eh?’ the woman cackled, shoving her, jolting her sideways. Drying salt streaked the other woman’s lined forehead. ‘Don’t you agree, my girl? There’ll be some fun between the bed-sheets tonight, you mark my words!’
The woman referred to the Danes, of course. Their reputation for womanising was renowned, notorious, but not all of it was by mutual consent. She’d heard the tales of Saxon women being dragged to the longships by their braids, or flung across fur-covered shoulders, kicking and screaming all the way, to be taken back to the Norse countries, claimed as Viking brides. She shuddered. England was a heathen country, but the land where these Danes came from? That was infinitely worse.
‘Pick up those pails and move along!’ an older man, beard grey and straggling, bellowed at the workers. ‘And don’t think you’re finishing any time early! We’ll keep going as long as that sun is in the sky!’ His gaze alighted on Gisela, mouth tightening in disapproval. She could tell he thought there was something odd about his latest worker, this slim young woman who had asked him for work a couple of days ago. Gisela spoke quietly, keeping her head lowered, but every time she glanced at him, she knew her brilliant blue eyes held a challenging look. She hoped he wouldn’t consider that she might be a noble, someone of higher rank, and not just a poor peasant desperate for coin. She knew her slowness to respond when he talked to her and the way she fingered the scarf at her neck constantly, like a talisman, might give her away, but she couldn’t help herself. Ultimately, she was a hard worker and so felt confident he wasn’t about to turn her away.
‘Hey, you there!’ He jabbed his fist towards Gisela. ‘Go out on to the flats and help the children bring the brine in from the lower pans! They must be emptied before the tide comes in.’
Turning her head, she stared over the thick oozing mudflats that sloped gently down towards the narrow, fast-flowing channel in the middle of the river. Trepidation flickered in her belly. The tidal flow was sluggish now, almost on the turn, having drained out of the estuary and into the vast North Sea beyond, exposing the slick-topped expanses of mud. Studded with clumps of bristly sedge, the wet bluish-brown surface shone in the evening light. She watched the children head out to the water’s edge, to the rectangular pools filled with the precious salty brine. Why was he sending her out there? The children were half her weight, able to scamper across the wooden planks laid end to end across the mud without disappearing into the treacherous, stinking ooze.
‘But...surely I will sink...?’ Gisela’s voice faltered. A long wisp of pale sable hair had escaped the confines of her headscarf; dancing in the air. She shoved it impatiently back beneath the cloth.
