Another battle was over, and this time, King Aethelwulf lost York. Mary wasn't sure how the battle proceeded exactly, since she was charged to look after Ivar's belongings and had to leave the city with some vikings, to make it look abandoned. Later, she only heard that Ivar used sewers for surprise attack, and soon, king Aethelwulf, his sons Aethelred and Alfred retreated out of the town with their remaining men.
When Mary returned to York, the Vikings were already scurrying around, reinforcing the city once again. She had just returned from the tent of injured and was about to do some washing up, when a solder told her Ivar wanted to see her. She was led to some alcove, probably used for horses and was shocked to see a man chained by the neck, and Ivar was sitting next to him.
"Ahh, sister Mary! I thought you might want to see someone," Ivar gestured to the man. "Bishop Heahmund, you said you can show me the true way. Well, I already have someone who could do that, but here I am, still a heathen. Come on, Mary, come closer," Ivar curled his fingers, inviting Mary. She approached bishop carefully. He didn't look injured, just very tired and frustrated. She also vaguely recognised him, but didn't want to risk him recognising her. It was better to remain a boring nun, rather than pique Ivar's interest. Bishop's eyes, however, locked upon her and scrutinised her face closely, but it might only be because he was surprised to see a nun. She crossed her arms.
"Benedictine?" He asked. Mary nodded.
"Right now, a slave," she added.
"You seem to be favored by your master."
Hidden meaning behind Heahmund's words was clear. You aren't chained like me, because you sleep with him. Mary pressed her arms tighter and chuckled dryly. She knew of his adventures, many people did. He was a devoted man, but didn't hesitate to blame her of sins he commits himself.
"Remember your vows, bishop. I hold mine," she said and left without another word, leaving Ivar quite stunned.
Later that day, for the first time since Mary had started serving him, Ivar finaly asked for assistance in bathing, probably because of the wound on his leg. Mary felt unease at being so close to a man, but reminded herself that in this situation Ivar was her patient, not her captor and maintained her composure.
"I was surprised, to be honest, that you didn't jump on your bishop's neck. I though you will be excited to see a priest. Especially because he's so strong-willed about his beliefs. He knew I could kill him, yet he still called the Gods false. Just like you did," said Ivar, while Mary scrubbed dirt from his fingers.
She had pulled her habit sleeves up, but left white shirt low on her forearms, even though she knew they will soak. When Mary moved to Ivar's shoulder, he watched the little droplets drip from the cuff one after another.
"The bishop is known as a good warior and a true believer of our Lord," she said and lathered more soap on a rag, "but he is also a, shall I say, womaniser. No man is safe from sin, but today he accused me of being promiscuous, though I never blamed him."
"Is a man's desire so awful?"
"I have met many people who suffered worse, and yet never allowed their vices to get a hold of them."
Ivar smirked, his eyes glinting cruely. "Always about your sins. Are you really so innocent? Mhm?" He tilted his mockingly to look at her. "Sister Mary, the reluctant caregiver. I must say, I didn't expect a devoted Christian like yourself to be so comfortable around a heathen like me."
Mary didn't falter. She dipped the cloth into the water and wrung it out. "I believe that compassion and care know no faith. It is my duty to tend to your needs, regardless of our differences."
Ivar chuckled, his eyes never leaving her face and suddenly grasped her chin. It took Mary a lot not to flinch, but her breath caught in her throat. "A true believer, aren't you? Tell me, Sister, would you be a good Christian and tend to all of my needs, if I asked you to?"
Not knowing what to do, or where Ivar was going with his taunting, Mary decided to once again dodge the topic altogether. She looked him in the eyes.
"God's love is boundless, and he cares for all His children. And none of us are without sin. We all carry burdens and seek redemption in our own way."
Mary's peculiar,- firm-but-polite voice, irritated Ivar for reasons he couldn't understand. He pulled his hand away and Mary continued her work with unwavering resolve. Ivar's expression darkened and fell silent, eyeing her with despise, as Mary continued the task at hand. The bath proceeded in relative quiet, punctuated only by the soft sounds of water and the gentle scrubbing of the cloth against Ivar's skin. Mary's calm demeanor and unyielding kindness did not crack.
The nights grew cold, and Mary didn't have to sleep in the halls anymore- she was given a fur on the floor in Ivar's chambers.
***
The Viking ships cut through the icy waters of the North Sea, their sturdy wooden frames creaking in harmony with the rhythm of the waves. Ivar and his brothers observed the horizon as York faded into the distance. The decision had been made — some of their warriors remained behind to safeguard the newly conquered city, while the main force set sail for Vestfold.
Onboard, Mary moved about the ship, checking on the wounded and ensuring their makeshift infirmary was secure. The salty breeze stung her face as she gazed out at the vast expanse of water. Nearby, at the ship's edge, stood Bishop Heahmund, still bound by chains, his eyes fixed on the distant Norse landscape.
They arrived at king Harald's ancestral village of Tamdrup, a simple fishing and whaling settlement. As the longships docked, Mary, standing near the prow, couldn't fully hide her distaste for Tamdrup. The stench of fish lingered in the air, and Mary very much missed incense-laden air of the monastery. The quaint village seemed a stark contrast to the grandeur of York. She shot a sidelong glance at Bishop Heahmund, who observed the scene with a detached expression. Mary missed the lush landscapes and refined architecture of England and the whitewashed walls and intricate arches of the monastery seemed like a dream compared to the weathered, sea-beaten buildings of Tamdrup.
Ivar, unfazed by the humble surroundings, crawled towards the prow, his eyes scanning the surroundings. "Welcome to Tamdrup," he told the two christians. "This is where we meet King Harald Finehair."
Whoever was king Harald, he welcomed Ivar warmly. They were given huts, and Ivar and his brothers immediately retreated to the main longhouse—a crude wooden structure—while soldiers and slaves were tasked with setting up the camp. Ivar and his brothers were the only ones given huts. When the men left with Harald, Mary remained standing on the prow and quickly directed the remaining men where to carry their supplies.
Herself, she didn't bother with carrying heavy cargo, and opted to collect more delicate things. Her assertivenes didn't cause any issues among Ivar's crew; everybody knew better than to argue with one of the closest of Ivar's people, especialy rumored by some to be his lover. Not to mention that even as a Christian, she somewhat earned their respect by treating injured solders for months and sticking by Ivar's side even during his worst rages, which, granted, seemed to have diminished somewhat.
She disembarked the ship and stood on the shore, resting a bag on an eroded fragment of a stone wall and sorted small bottles and satchels from a box to the bag. A thrall approached, struggling under the weight of a heavy wooden box and asked, "Where does this go?"
Mary glanced at the box. "Ubbe's hut," she pointed in the direction of a dark hut overgrown with moss. As the thrall scurried away, a Viking from Ivar's crew was passing by when Mary streched her arm out and halted him "Could you bring four buckets of water to Ivar's hut, please?"
The Viking nodded and walked away without question. However, Finehair's people weren't fine with that. As Mary still sorted through her bag while other thralls continued carrying heavy chests, one of them grabbed her arm and harshly turned her to face him.
"Oi, you! Quit dilly-dallying. We ain't got time for your fanciful sorting," barked the burly man with a scowl etched deeply on his weathered face. His hair were black and cut short, sides of his head shaven. Mary, although startled, managed to keep calm. She tried to gently pull her arm free, her eyes meeting the stern gaze of the Viking. "I am just as busy as other thralls. If you need assistance, ask someone else," she replied.
The group of men exchanged puzzled glances. They were left dumbfounded that a mere thrall dared to talk back- the audacity was only amplified as Mary calmly turned back to her bag. Without uttering another word, the black haired man gestured to his companions, and they grabbed Mary by the arms, dragging her God-knows-where.
Fear made Mary's heart skip a beat, but she steadied her voice. "I am under Ivar's orders. He assigned me specific tasks, and I must attend to them." The men didn't seem to have heard her and their grip only tightened as they dragged across the village. Mary, now genuinely afraid, began struggling in the earnest and spoke louder, her voice growing shrill. "Ivar will not be pleased if you interfere with my duties. Release me immediately!"
As they walked behind the longhouse, the Vikings paid little heed to Mary's protests and threw her forwards, making her tumble into snowy bushes. By the time she managed to stand up, she saw one man already holding a thick cane, while another grasped her arm and reached to lift her habit.
She was lucky they struggled with the unfamiliar garment. As Mary's shouts were about to earn her a slap, a window in the longhouse slammed open, and Ivar's furious voice pierced through the air. "What in the name of the gods do you think you're doing?"
The Vikings, caught off guard, immediately released their grip on Mary and she stumbled backward, trembling head to toe. Ivar was halfway out of the window, an intense scowl on his face, glaring at the men. The black haired man was first to appear nonchalant. "Ivar, she spoke back to us. A thrall! We'll round the edges for you, you know," he said, tapping the cane against his palm casually.
Ivar's eyes lit up with anger. "She is MY slave. Touch her again, and I'll personally ensure you regret it." Ivar, still seething, slammed the window shut and disappeared back into the longhouse without uttering another word.
Somehow, conditions were worse than in York. As Ivar pointed that out, Mary countered that, perhaps, the King was just unprepared for so many visitors. Ivar rolled his eyes. There was no tub and no bathhouse, but a feast will be held later in the evening, and after long journey, Ivar wanted to wash. That was why currently, he was sitting in a small basin, while Mary scrubbed sweat and salt from him, her touch gentle and methodical.
"Harald knows damn well what he's doing," he said. "He wants to be the King of all Norway. That's why he will help me take back Kattegat. I will be the king, and after my death, Kattegat will be his."
Mary's movements halted. "Why- do you think you will die, Ivar? As a healer, you seem fine to me. Are you unwell?"
The small room was dimly lit, with a flickering oil lamp casting uneven shadows on the dark walls. He looked at her, his face baring the same defiant expression she had come to expect. His gaze was unreadable, barely touched by weak light. "I am not unwell. But he has to think so, then die before me," he gripped the low edge of basin to steady himself and fully turned to Mary. Suddenly, his face was lit with passion. "To him, I must be a dying cripple. If he believes me to be merely a pawn, I will trick him, and remain the sole ruler."
Ivar's icy eyes bore into Mary's dark ones, which now looked more black than ever. She sensed he was subconsciously looking for reasurance. "You always knew how to use disadvantages for your good. That is wise, my King."
Ivar smiled at the title, and his face began to relax. Suddenly, however, his expression became hard again and he turned away from her, then motioned her to continue working. Mary picked up a scented soap, hoping to chase away at least some of the fish stench. Ivar leaned back slightly and closed his eyes.
"Harald will tell his men that nobody touches my things. But don't walk alone around the village anyway. Keep by my men."
Later, as the feast began, Mary found herself standing further away from Ivar than she was used to. In York, she was almost always right by his side, attending to his needs and ensuring his well-being. However, here in Tamdrup, Ivar had instructed her to stay out of sight. She understood his reasoning; he didn't want to appear weak, especially in front of potential allies. Yet, he had made it clear that she was not to serve anyone but him.
The feast hall was filled with the raucous sounds of revelry, laughter, and drunken cheering. Ivar sat at the head of a long table, surrounded by his brothers and Harald's men. Mary lingered in the shadows, her eyes attentively watching over Ivar.
During the feast, Harald presented to Ivar a beautiful young blonde named Freydis. As Harald led her forward, her movements were graceful and she smiled sweetly. The girl had a long braid of shiny, blond hair and was dressed in simple dress. Mary deducted she looked young, unlikely to be older than Ivar. Mary couldn't hear the entire conversation, but from few words she seemed to be complimenting him, and, as expected, Ivar enjoyed the interaction- he straightened in his chair and a satisfied smile settled on his lips.
"I've heard of York," said Freydis. "What you achieved is incredible, no man could do that. You must be a God! You even smell like one!"
Mary wanted really badly to point out that the smell was cade infusion, and will not last long, since those were her supplies bought over a year ago from a trader back in York. Soon your little God will smell of rotten fish like everybody else, if we don't leave this place.
As the exchange concluded, Freydis bowed and walked back to other thralls, while Mary curiously observed her from a distance, and tried to contain a cheeky smile at girl's antics.
AN
1) "Monaca di Monza" by Giuseppe Penuti
2) "Laivas" (The ship) by M. K. Čiurlionis