The Ice Queen (34 page)

Meanwhile, on the farther bank of the river, another army was forming, made up of the jarls' retinues and Yngvar's Swedish warriors. Yngvar must, of course, defend his kinswoman; and the jarls must support Magnus, who was devoted to Ingigerd. So, with much shouting and trumpeting of war-horns, they were mustering at the market end of the bridge. This day looked likely to end in bloodshed.

Flanked by the mayor and his guards, Putscha and I mounted the outer stair of Bishop Yefrem's palace and entered into a large audience room. There, at one end, raised on a dais, stood the Bishop's high-backed throne. The man himself had not yet made an appearance, but his priests and deacons were ranged in their tonsured rows on either side of his seat and nearby a scribe crouched, stylus in hand, over a little writing desk.

Harald, Yelisaveta and Nenilushka occupied a space before the dais which was reserved for the witnesses and defendants. The simple-minded girl started up a piteous shrieking as soon as she saw her father. She would have run to him if Yelisaveta hadn't yanked her back by the hair of her head and slapped her face.

Putscha did not once look at her.

To me it was the sight of Harald that made my heart nearly burst in my chest. Unarmed as I was, I fought to get at him. It was only the mayor's guards who kept me from losing my life then and there. Held fast by them, I could only scream “betrayer” and “bastard” at him across the room.

Outside, what had been a confused murmur of voices now rose in angry shouts and cat-calls. The princess and her women were arriving on mule-back from the convent. Ingigerd had no friend in this crowd. On the arm of her cousin Ragnvald, she made a stately entrance—dressed for
a banquet, not an inquisition, in a gown of red silk with a jeweled tiara on her head. Her stark, impassive features and slightly protruding eyes resembled more the painted face on an icon than anything merely human. She was not here to play the penitent, that much was certain. In her train followed her cup-bearer, her groom, Father Dmitri, several nuns from the convent and, last of all, Old Thordis, who alone looked plainly terrified.

With the addition of Inge and her entourage, the room was full to bursting. Some moments later, the bishop entered from a side chamber and took his seat upon his throne.

“Yefrem, where is my husband?” Inge accosted him at once. “For I recognize no judge but him.”

“What you recognize is no matter to me, Princess,” the bishop answered her sharply. “Your husband is too heartsore even to lay eyes on you. He has sent us word that he will not come at all today. Now sit down on that bench and curb your tongue.”

Pleasantries out of the way, Yefrem plunged straight into the examination of witnesses. Nenilushka was summoned first. With wailing and wild looks, the girl was dragged by Harald himself to the foot of the throne.

In her own words, demanded Yefrem, looking down on her from his great height like Almighty God himself, what had she witnessed on the night in question? Could she point to the two persons she had seen? Could she describe for him their indecent acts and lewd speech?

But the poor girl, made even more idiotic by fear, only howled until Yefrem, with an angry wave of the hand, dismissed her. “Let it be recorded,” he said, “that the testimony of the dwarf, Nenilushka Putschavna, was communicated in private to her mistress, the Lady Yelisaveta Yaroslavna, whose account of it, already taken on oath, we do accept without question.”

The scribe at his desk scratched away furiously.

Then, smoothing his features into some sickening imitation of sweetness, the bishop fixed his eye on Ingigerd and said, “Before hearing testimony of any other persons in this case, we are moved by the example of Our Savior, who forgave Mary Magdalene the harlot, to turn to our daughter, Ingigerd, and entreat her, here in the sight of all, to prostrate herself before God, and, watering the ground with her tears, to make full and public confession of her most hideous sins.”

Ingigerd, by way of answer, spat out the single word, “Eunuch!”

In the moment of uneasy silence that followed this exchange of sentiments, the rumble of the crowd milling outside sounded louder and more ominous. Yefrem's small eyes darted to the door, to the window. He dabbed at his brow which was suddenly damp with sweat. Could it be that our bishop was not a physically brave man?

To be truthful, I was not feeling very brave myself, anticipating that I would be the next one summoned to the foot of the throne. Even if no one stuck a knife in me between now and then, I was sure that I would not be allowed to simply give my testimony. Words meant nothing if they weren't extracted by torture.

But, no, it was Putscha who was wanted next.

“The princess's dog,” sneered Yefrem, leaning forward in his seat with his hand on his knee. “The evil assistant in all her depravity. Already bearing God's curse upon your body, you plunged with her into every species of crime, did you not? Nothing was concealed from you. You can tell us much about her fornication with the outlander, Odd Thorvaldsson, and other sins just as vile, can't you? Show him the knout.”

The flogger, a burly fellow in the mayor's retinue, stepped forward. In his hand he held a thick staff to which was attached, by a swivel-ring, three feet of knotted rawhide, which had been boiled in milk to give it the hardness of metal. He drew it lovingly across his palm. I reckoned he could cut the hide off a bison with half a dozen strokes of that murderous flail.

“Strip him!” cried the bishop.

The dwarf's jacket and shirt were ripped down the back, exposing the bunched muscles of his powerful torso. A militiaman stooped over to make a whipping platform of his back, while another lifted Putscha up and spread-eagled him in such a way that the ‘platform' could grip the dwarf's wrists over his shoulders. The flogger took up his position behind them and massaged his arm.

The first blow opened a gash from shoulder to waist. And so did the next one, and the next; each stroke skillfully aimed at a different spot. After the fifth, the bishop asked whether Putscha had ever witnessed a secret meeting between the princess and any man, be it me or another.

The dwarf was mute.

After the eighth stroke the question was repeated.

By now, Putscha's back was a bloody red mess, and drops of his blood
spattered the floor, the dais, and all the nearer bystanders. Still he would not answer. The flogging continued, nine strokes, ten … The little man bore it with unbelievable fortitude. Not a single groan escaped him, although his daughter howled louder at every blow. After the twelfth the flogger looked questioningly at the bishop as if to say, Another might kill him.

Yefrem nodded and Putscha was allowed to slide to the floor. A guard dragged him back to the prisoner's dock, leaving a sticky, red smear on the floor, and dropped him at my feet. He was conscious enough to show me a twisted smile: blood flowed from his lips and tongue which he had chewed to shreds.

Throughout this ordeal, Inge had watched the suffering of her servant without a flicker of emotion. After all, was not his misshapen little body fashioned by God to be her footstool? And does one weep for a footstool?

“We will return to the dwarf later,” said the bishop.

My turn now, thought I. And it will be worth the beating to confess—not to my affair with Inge but to Dyuk's intrigue with Harald. After Inge's attempt on Harald's life, you recall, Dag had decided to reach out to the boyar faction that hated her, and I volunteered to arrange the first meeting. Since then, there had been several more. Oh, I had things to confess about the mayor and Harald that Yaroslav would hear with great displeasure. Their hatred of the princess seemed to have driven this rather obvious point clear out of their heads. Dyuk might weather the storm but for Harald, at least, it would mean banishment from Gardariki. Without either Norwegian or Swedish fighters to support him, Harald was now powerless and useless.

But my moment was not yet.

“Fetch the woman, Thordis,” the bishop commanded. A pair of guards dragged her from Ingigerd's side.

“Now then, Thordis Helgasdottir,” said Yefrem, making his voice mild, though without disguising the menace in it, “answer me truthfully, as you love God, and no harm will come to you. Have you been a companion to the Princess Ingigerd from her babyhood until this day?”

“Yes,” she answered in a whisper.

“And are you her chief confidante in all things whatsoever?”

Thordis hesitated. In the silence, sounds of battle could be heard outside. The mayor, followed by several of his men, raced out the front door and down the stairs. I observed the bishop mop his brow again.

“Answer me, woman, I warn you. Have you not been a partner in all her depravities? And are you not, moreover, skilled in all manner of potions and charms, both of the sort that sicken and the sort that bind? Are you not, in fact, a witch?”

That fearful word, as good as a death sentence.

The bishop was after more than just adultery. If it could be proved that Ingigerd had had commerce with a witch, she would suffer a far nastier fate than dragging out her life behind convent walls. Probably, Yefrem was mistaken as far as Thordis was concerned, but that wouldn't save the old woman from torture. Only Inge could do that by confessing her visits to the village babushkas.

“No, may the Virgin help me!”

“Virgin, is it? And why should the Blessed Virgin help you? Flog her!”

“Lady!” Thordis shrieked, twisting her body to look at her mistress.

I looked too. Could Inge watch this and not pity the woman who had dressed, bathed, fed, and played with her from infancy? But Thordis, like Putscha, existed only to serve her, and there was no limit fixed to this service but death. The thing that was incredible to me was that
they
believed it as much as she did, for both of them could have saved themselves by testifying against her.

Like the dwarf, the old woman was stripped to the waist and spread-eagled on the guard's broad back. Again the knout whistled and cracked. Her body stiffened, she gave out a cry like a tortured house cat.

I can scarcely account for what I did then. After all, she was only a woman and no kin of mine, and if her own mistress wouldn't save her, why should I? But somehow I seemed to feel the cold breath of Einar Tree-Foot on my neck. He had cared for her—or anyway, she for him.

“Stop it, Bishop,” I shouted. “Let her go, she had nothing to do with any of it. I will tell you what Nenilushka saw that night.”

“Yefrem!” Inge made a sudden dash to the dais, getting there ahead of me. “Now I must speak! To save this young idiot from his folly,” she indicated me with a shaking forefinger, “I have kept silent because I feel in part to blame for his attack on me. You see, we happened to be talking one evening, quite innocently, when this brainless boy, misunderstanding a careless word of mine, took it as an invitation to go farther. Absurd, but he is a vain youth, as anyone can see. That night, the night Nenilushka
was in my chamber—not hiding, as they allege, but prattling to me about something or other in her childish way while she waited for her father—this young man burst in, stinking of strong ale, shut the door behind him and overpowered me, ripping off my shift, and forcing himself between my legs. Nenilushka, may heaven bless her, rushed out the door to find help. Seeing this, Odd became frightened and ran away. A moment later Putscha came in to say that he'd just passed Odd on the stairs and that the brute had knocked him down. Now you have the truth of what Nenilushka saw; such a sight as to rob the poor thing of the little brain she had. Small wonder if her account of it is so muddled. Who could think for one instant that I would take this sorry fellow for a lover? I have told you all the truth, now. Order the rapist to hold his filthy tongue and release my nurse at once.”

“Lord Bishop,” interrupted the flogger, “pardon my clumsiness. The old woman is dead.”

I goggled at Inge. In my slight experience of life I had never known a woman, and scarcely a man, to be so bold a liar. But before I could find voice to answer her, another did: “Bitch! Whore!” Yelisaveta screeched, “Rape, d'you say? No man need rape you! Tell us, mother, did Olaf rape you or wasn't it the other way round?”

In the wink of an eye mother and daughter were on the floor, clawing and pummeling each other as they rolled over and over in a tangle of skirts and long hair. Militiamen and deacons together barely managed to drag them apart. Their clothing torn and their faces scratched, they thrashed and bared their teeth. If either of them had worn a knife, as women often do, one of them surely would have lain bleeding out her life on the floor.

Now everyone was up and shouting. Here came purple-faced Ragnvald rushing to the dais, demanding, “Put Odd to the torture, Bishop! Make him confess to attacking my cousin. You hesitate because it would leave you with no case for adultery. Well, here's what we do to molesters of noblewomen women in my city!”

He thrust at my belly with his dagger, but a militiaman struck his arm aside and others stepped between us. The Jarl of Aldeigjuborg shook his fist and screamed, “I'll have his life before the sun sets, you see if I don't!”

“No, Jarl, that's a pleasure I've promised myself.” This was Harald. He towered over us, holding in his hand the knout, which he had taken from the flogger. As Ragnvald turned, Harald struck at his legs, knocking them
out from under him. In his pain the jarl dropped his dagger and scuttled as fast as he could out of harm's way.

Now Harald and I were face to face and I could do no more than spit at him. He laughed. “Let's see if you're half the man Putscha was.” The knout slashed down across my left shoulder. I felt the shock of that blow all the way to the soles of my feet.

Tears sprang to my eyes, I swallowed hard and braced myself for another blow, but at that moment the door flew open and a breathless militiaman stumbled in, crying, “The Swedes and Norwegians have crossed the river! We're routed. The mayor says to get away—the princess under guard to his dvor, the skald and the dwarf back to the jail!”