Midnight Visitor
- The Grave of Valkyries – Part 1
- The Grave of Valkyries – Part 2
- The Evidence
- A Stopping Place
- The Storm
- Pieces
- Ragnar’s Hall
- Not Like Indiana Jones
- A Homecoming, A Gift
- Dragon Heads
- Dust and Misogyny
- Reykjavík
- Yule
- Stone Walls
- The Vikings
- Mikligarður
- Circumstantial Truths
- Dance With Me
- Antonia
- Find a Question
- A New Home
- The King
- Newcomers
- Three Springs
- Goodbye, Hello
- Unexpected Arrivals
- Bishop vs Rook
- Cause of Death
- Midnight Visitor
- Dark Nights
- Exposé
- Cross
- Good Morning
Rionan was nervous. She knew it would come to this. She tugged at the cords that bound her hands and hissed when they held tight. Abandoning the endeavor momentarily, she sighed and leaned against the church basement wall. Gunnar hadn’t been subtle in the last few months as he prowled around town, inserting himself into conversations and dropping comments here and there. She and Ingrid had watched in distaste from their shopfront every morning as he slid from group to group before slinking back into the church. They easily brought their work to their house and only took commissions. Ingrid was pleased to be away from the soft whispers of witches that Gunnar fanned into calling for an investigation. She told Rionan as much as they lay together in the bed, trying to fall asleep.
“You know I’ll protect you if anything happens, right?” she whispered. Ingrid had nodded, concerned, but assured there was nothing Ingrid couldn’t conquer if she put her mind to it. That included Gunnar. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Rionan whom Gunnar came after.
It was Sigrid, still weak from childbirth and nursing her infant, who answered the door to the local priests who wielded cords and a demand for her arrest. The baby had squalled when they dragged her away from its basket, Rionan quick to follow. She remembered a struggle. A bruise on her cheek attested to her being struck by one Brother. But when they finally deposited her in a wagon next to a shrieking Sigrid, both men had long scratches on their cheeks and necks. She hoped Ingrid would be proud when she found out.
The cellar was damp and smelled of moldy wood and earth. There was no escaping the cold, even when she and Sigrid huddled with the half-dozen other women and men stashed beneath the church floor. Their crimes ranged from stopping a loved one from being taken, like Rionan had tried to do, to wearing a pagan symbol on their clothes. They had taken one man for insulting Gunnar and, by extension, the church. Sigrid’s crime was surviving the birth of her daughter when others would have died. They hadn’t condemned the baby because the midwife claimed one priest had been born in a similar situation.
Despite being proved a survivor of a painful and traumatic birth, Brother Isaac had determined witchcraft must have been involved in preserving the life of the mother and child. The midwife was a constant churchgoer who had delivered nearly every baby in the past decade and was above reproach. Sigrid, however, was a pagan. Therefore, the fine for her crime was steep.
Rionan reached out to where Sigrid shivered despite her down-lined boots and thick dress. Her fingers skimmed Sigrid’s shoulders and rubbed the back of her neck.
“Ingrid will come,” she said in Norse. All of them had adopted the language of the islands when they moved, but at home, they still spoke the Icelandic tongue. Sigrid seemed to draw strength from the familiar words.
“I hope there’s enough for the both of us,” she whispered back in a voice thick with pain.
Much to Rionan’s chagrin, the church insisted the accused pay for their crimes. The price was determined by the severity of the accusation. The church hanged or imprisoned for life those who couldn’t pay. A dull sense of fear settled in Rionan’s stomach when she’d first heard that a month ago. The sisters who raised her clarified one couldn’t buy their way out of sin and that forgiveness came through good works. Knowing she was a hostage of the church brought up a muddled mass of feelings that halted her lips halfway through her nighttime prayers.
The iron gate that closed off the underground cellar opened with a grinding squeal of its hinges. Rionan and Sigrid turned to see the figure of a young deacon carrying a bucket and basket outlined in the doorway. The faint light from the hall outlined his figure in gold and obscured most of his features. There was just enough light to see the squeamish expression on his face as he glanced over the collection of prisoners. His eyes jolted from one to another, not resting long enough to establish eye contact before he was on to the next.
“Bread,” he called in a wavering voice.
As one, their pitiful congregation rose and lined up. They hadn’t been locked away so long that they’d descend into depravity and violence in the face of food, but the teenager jolted back as if they would rush him at any moment. He held the bread basket in front of his body like a shield. The bucket he brought contained icy water from the parish well. When placed in the cellar, each person accepted a pewter cup to keep with them. Everyone pulled theirs out to prepare for the drink. Rionan ran her thumbnail over the uneven surface as she took her spot in line.
“Take your water,” he ordered as he handed out the half loaves to each of them.
As always, they let Jessamine go first. She took priority over everyone else, the smallest of them, barely ten. An older woman behind her pointed at the biggest loaf and encouraged her to take it. The bread dwarfed Jessamine’s small hands, and she scuttled away to dip her cup into the bucket of water. The bucket was small, hardly enough to supply all of them. They’d all agreed that Jessamine should get the only full cup.
After her came the elderly or weak. Rionan was in the middle with the remaining women. Tom, the strongest among them, stood at the back of the line each time. He was a burly man who was heads taller than everyone else, and Rionan’s heart had swelled the first time he marched to the end and glared at anyone who tried to encourage him forward.
With their bread and water in hand, they settled at various spots on the floor while the deacon fled to the parish hall. Rionan nibbled on hers, wanting it to last. The taste wasn’t especially good; the loaf was dense and bland, but she had gotten used to not being hungry and had to remind herself to treasure even this bit of food. Sigrid also ate hers in small bites, tearing off pieces and putting every third in her dress pocket for later. Rionan added the last few bites to her own pocket.
With the bread settled in her stomach like a small boulder, Rionan looked up at the small window high on the wall that showed a miniature slice of the night sky. The tip of a crescent moon and a smattering of stars shone into their space, but Rionan was waiting for something else.
A shadow fell over the light as if summoned, blocking it and sending them back into darkness. No one minded, though. Everyone stood and shuffled to the wall, waiting for the gifts Ingrid would have brought.
Rionan’s lips curled up in her first smile of the day as Ingrid’s beautiful face peaked down at them. There was grime on her face and what little of her shirt Ingrid could see, but she grinned down at them. She shoved a bag through the slit and let it fall into the waiting hands below.
It was too risky to provide things like blankets or other comfort items, but a bit of tobacco and medicine was doable, and Ingrid knew how to smuggle goods when and where she liked. Accompanying the bag was another, filled with jerky, nuts, and dried fruits to supplement their bread. Then she offered a sheep’s stomach filled with rich, sweet, milk. They immediately divided the fatty liquid into cups, and everyone sipped with luxurious sighs. Ingrid whistled at Tom to get his attention.
“A present from your wife,” she whispered, dropping a flask into his large hands. “She also said to give you this.” With a cheeky grin, Ingrid blew a kiss in his direction. Rionan snorted at the blush that infused the hulking man’s face. When everyone was back in their corners enjoying their treats with whispered thanks, she stepped as close to the window as possible.
“Hello, love,” Ingrid whispered. Rionan’s smile broadened.
“Hello,” she whispered back. “Any news?”
They’d been trying to figure out the price situation for the entire week they had locked her and Sigrid up. Though their farm and carving business was doing well, it wasn’t enough to provide the price the church was asking for both of them.
“Not enough yet, but I’m asking around. Bjorn was good enough to visit and provide some funds for us.”
Rionan chuckled at the image of Ingrid’s former first mate sailing to the rescue as soon as his captain called. The man was loyal.
“I have faith in you and Helgi,” she said.
“I have some bad news as well,” Ingrid warned solemnly. “Jessamine’s parents can’t pay for her release.”
They both glanced at the little girl between Tom and Sigrid as they plied her with milk and fruit.
“Is there another way?” Ingrid asked.
“It’s risky, but I’ve already provided the necessary items. In the bag of medicine, there’s a vial with a dot. Pour a little into her milk, not over three drops, and have her drink it early in the morning. It’ll slow her breathing and heart. In an hour, she’ll look dead, and the priests will place her in the parish to be prepared for burial. Someone will collect her body.”
Rionan gaped. “What potion are you trying to give this child?”
“One from an actual witch, love,” Ingrid replied. “Just trust me, it works. And I don’t see little Jess getting out any other way.”
Rionan agreed. They stood together for a few more moments, savoring the lack of distance between them. All too soon, Ingrid had to leave. Rionan sighed as she watched the shadow fade away, and the cold moon greeted her again. Before losing her nerve, she collected the medicine bag and unearthed the bottle Ingrid mentioned. The vial was innocuous and contained a clear liquid. The only thing that made it stand out was the droplet of paint. She sighed and went to explain the situation to Sigrid and Tom. Jessamine was scared, but she agreed when they explained the plan. They gathered around her throughout the night to provide warmth and comfort.
In the morning, the prisoners found Jessamine “dead.” No one saw her or her family again. If the deacons or priests noticed the satisfied smiles on any of their prisoners’ faces, they didn’t seem to give it much thought.