Anyway, it was around that time, as I was saying, that I met Tova for the first time. I already knew who she was, in the same way that everyone knew everyone on the manor: the slight girl with the wavy hair who during the day worked in the dairy and sometimes in the evenings attended table, where she’d stand behind Skalpi with his cup in one hand and in the other a jug of ale or wine or water depending on his mood. I knew her name but not much more than that.
Not until the day when I overheard what sounded like a cry coming from the kitchen. It was cut short and quickly followed by what sounded like Orm’s voice, although I couldn’t make out what was being said. A chill rose through me and I quickened my pace, then something made me stop. I’d noticed how Orm and ?lfric had been treating the slaves lately – waiting for one to spill a pail or break a pot, or for the harvest team out reaping the barley to overlook one corner of a field, when they’d set upon them with insults and cuffs around the back of the head and sometimes worse – but I’d never had the courage to face up to them both at the same time.
For once, though, I didn’t hear the reeve’s voice. If ever there was a time to stand up to Orm, I thought, this was it. It was the middle of the afternoon and everyone else was at their tasks: the smith at his forge, the cowherd moving his animals to new pasture, the swineherd out foraging with the pigs in the woods, the others cleaning the pens and helping to lay new thatch on one of the barns. Skalpi was away, as he often was, visiting one of his other manors. And so it had to be me.
What I found when I threw open the door was Orm, with the sleeves of his tunic rolled to his elbows and his hand raised, standing over Tova, who was on the floor in front of him, her back against the wall, her head turned, her eyes closed and face screwed up tight in anticipation. He struck her, hard across the cheek, and was lifting his arm to strike her again when I shouted out.
At once he turned. And saw me. He stopped mid-movement.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
He should have apologised or made himself scarce. But he didn’t. Instead he stood where he was and scowled at me, as if I was the one in the wrong. He was tall for his age, taller than me at any rate, broad-shouldered and thickset as well, with arms like a smith’s from all the time he spent in the training yard. Even though the reeve wasn’t with him, and I was in my own house with a dozen people within earshot if I shouted out, I was still more than a little afraid of him, but I tried not to let it show.
‘She broke a pitcher,’ he said flatly.
‘Get away from her now,’ I told him.
He asked, ‘What’s she to you?’
Trying not to let my voice tremble, I said that I needed her to run an errand for me. He replied that I could have her, but first she needed to be punished for her clumsiness.
‘You don’t get to decide that,’ I told him. ‘Only your father does, and he won’t be pleased when I tell him you struck one of his cup-bearers.’
He glared at me with those small eyes of his. The surprise on his face was gone and in its place was that loathing look I’d grown used to.
‘He won’t care,’ he said. ‘She’s nothing to him. Just a slave. A worthless, stinking slave who deserves to be beaten.’
‘Maybe so,’ I said, ‘but she’s your father’s slave, and if you hurt her so that she can’t work he won’t thank you. He’ll still have to feed and clothe and shelter her regardless.’
‘You don’t tell me what to do,’ he said as he advanced on me. ‘This is my home, not yours. I’ll do what I like.’
I backed away towards what I thought was the door, but instead I found the wall. He pressed close, his breath warm upon my face. At first I thought he might be drunk, even though it was still early in the day. But I didn’t smell any ale on him, and that only scared me more. I didn’t know what he had in mind, except that I didn’t like it. I tried to twist away but he thrust out an arm to stop me. There was nowhere I could go.
‘When your father returns, he’ll hear about this,’ I said, but even to my ears it sounded like a feeble threat.
He raised his hand towards my face and I flinched, thinking that he was about to hit me too. Instead he brushed my cheek with the tips of his dirt-stained fingers, running them softly, almost in wonderment, down the side of my neck towards my collarbone, his broken nails lightly scratching my skin. At any moment, I thought, he was going to pull me towards him and plant his lips upon mine. I could hardly breathe; I wanted to be sick.
‘It’s your word against mine,’ he said. ‘Which one of us do you think he’s going to believe?’
Outside I heard ?lfric shouting, for what reason or at whom I didn’t know, but it was probably one of the other slaves, as it always was. Orm glanced towards the door. He must have come to his senses then, realising that someone else could walk in at any moment, and that if they did it would look bad for him. Because he didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he drew his hand away and without a backward glance stalked out of the kitchen. But I could still feel his fingers lingering, sliding across my cheek, as I heard him greeting the reeve.