Free Two Ravens by Cecelia Holland Page B

and dove into the water.
    Gifu sat on the bank in the sun and watched him. He scrubbed himself with handfuls of river sand. His skin tingled and glowed red under the scrubbing; light-hearted, he sang:
     
    Bless the giant’s daughter  
    That spills you onto the ground
     
    Gifu sat frowning at him from the riverbank. “Why do you do that—go naked in the water?”
    “To get clean,” he said.
    “I would never do that.”
    “You will,” he said, “now.” He started toward her, pushing through water up to his waist.
    She leapt up and ran toward the horse, hitched to a tree downstream. Bjarni chased her. He thought at first that she was making a game of it, but when he caught her she scratched him and tried to kick him between the legs. She bit him. She was frightened. He held her still, with one knee on her waist pinning her to the ground, and peeled off her clothes. She fought, her breath seething through her clenched teeth. Her body was still adolescent. Under her filthy white skin lay ribs delicate as a child’s. He dragged her into the water and washed her hair, picking out the vermin clustered around her nape and crown, and scrubbed her skin clean.
    He let her go on the bank. Before she was dry she scrambled back into her rags of shift and dress and hose. Bjarni sat down on the grass to let the wind dry him.
    “You bastard,” she shouted. “You whore’s son. I hope a snake eats you. Let the Great Snake eat you! I hope you drown. I hope you hang.”
    “If you are coming with me, Gifu, stay clean.”
    She called him more names and gave him more wishes for his death. Running out of wind, she stood staring at him. Her skin was like milk; her drying hair gleamed. Under her gaze he put his clothes on.
    “You are not going to do anything,” she said.
    He started back along the stream toward the road. She ran ahead of him to the horse and climbed into the saddle. He watched the river; among the mossy stones something gleamed at him, faded and gleamed again, a fish. Gifu’s horse crashed through the high grass after him.
    “I’m sorry. I thought you were going to. You know.”
    “What?”
    “You know.”
    The brambles tore at his clothes, his bare forearms. They reached the road, higher than the land around it.
    “Why don’t you want me?” she said. “Am I too ugly?”
    “I love someone else,” he said.
    The horse clopped along beside him, its head lowered. She held the reins in her fists. Bjarni put one hand on the thick mane of the horse.
    “The road is good here. I’ll run until I get tired, and you can ride along.”
    “Who is she? Is she of Fenby?”
    He broke into a run. The horse loped heavily along beside him. They went at his best pace along the road, through the shade of the trees.
     
    THEY CAME TO A TOWN on a height of land above a little river. The plain below the town was busy with swarms of people. Booths of stone and turf stood here and there on the meadow, and people were unloading wagons and talking and making games.
    Curious, Bjarni went around the field, stopping before each of the booths to look over what was happening there. He kept his hand on his wallet. In crowds there were always thieves. A boy passed him, trailing a stink of goat. The meadow grass turned swampy under Bjarni’s feet, and he veered back toward higher ground.
    The stone and turf walls of the booths reminded him of the booths at Thingvellir in Iceland, where the Althing was held; but here the booths had been spread with goods for sale and show. There were stacks of cloth, and pots, iron, cheese, trays of fragrant bread, jewelry and hides and bunches of herbs, and an ale-shop. After the quiet of the road he enjoyed the noise and the jostling crowds, and here at least he understood the speech. He passed a man and a woman on horseback talking in a language he did not know, maybe Norman French. Beside an empty wagon, three young men lounged in the grass, tootling on pipes, patting a little drum. Bjarni paused to