C1 Chapter 1

One evening in the autumn of 1581 when the mist mixed with the crimson glow in the sky over Trondheim, two women made their way through the streets. They knew nothing about each other.

One of them was Silje. She was a girl barely seventeen years old. Her eyes were big and expressionless because she was lonely and famished. She hunched her shoulders to her ears to protect herself from the cold, covering her blue, frozen hands under her clothes, most of which seemed to be made of old sackcloth. She had twisted old pieces of hide around her worn shoes, and she had covered her beautiful nut-brown hair with the woollen shawl, which she used as a blanket when she managed to find a place to sleep.

Silje avoided treading on a corpse in the narrow street. Yet another victim of the plague, she said to herself. This plague – she could no longer remember how many outbreaks there had been this century – had taken her entire family two or three weeks ago. This had forced her to wander and scavenge for food.

Her father had been a blacksmith on a large farm south of Trondheim but because he and her mother and all her siblings were dead, Silje had been driven out of the small cabin they had lived in. What use could a girl of barely seventeen be in a smithy?

In a way, Silje was relieved at being able to leave the farm. She had had a secret which she had never mentioned to anybody. It was hidden at the very bottom of her heart. To the south-west lay the peculiar mountains which she called “Shadow Land” or “Evening Land.” Throughout her childhood, this immense massif had both terrified her and held her spellbound. They were so far away that you could barely discern them. But when the bright glow of the evening sun fell on the rugged peaks, they appeared astonishingly sharp, which triggered Silje’s exceptionally lively imagination.

Then she would gaze at them for ages, full of fear and fascination. Then she would see the nameless creatures that lived there. They would rise from the valleys among the summits, glide silently, searching through the air, closer and closer to her home until their evil eyes found her. Then Silje would run away and hide.

Actually, they did have a name. The people on the farm had always spoken in a low voice about the mountains in the distance, and it was probably their words that had frightened her at first and triggered her imagination. “You must never go there,” they would say. “There you’ll find nothing but witchcraft and evil. The Ice People are not humans. They are the spawn of cold and darkness, and woe betide that person who goes too close to their settlements.”

The Ice People ...? Yes, that was what they were called by the people on the farm, but Silje was the only one who had seen them glide through the air.

She never knew what to call these creatures. They were certainly not trolls. Absolutely not. And they weren’t ghosts either. Devils weren’t the correct name either. Could they be some kind of miracle-workers or spirits perhaps? Once she had heard the landlord call one of the horses a demon. This was a new word to her, but she felt that it was a suitable word for “them.” Her fantasies about “Shadow Land” were so strong that she would even dream about it in her restless sleep. So it was only natural that she would turn her back on the mountains as she left the farm. Her primitive instinct led her to Trondheim where she would find people – hoping to find help now that she was lonely and in need. But she soon realised that nobody would open their door to strangers at a time when the plague followed in the footsteps of those who travelled through the country. What better place for the plague to spread unchecked than in those narrow streets and in the houses that were built so close to each other?

It had taken her the whole day just to creep through the city gates. She managed eventually. She had followed a family that lived in the city and that were to return again after a short spell outside the city gates. She had walked over to the other side of the cart and edged her way past the guards. But once she had entered, she had not found help. Nothing, that is, except a few dry crusts of bread which were thrown at her now and then from a window. Just barely enough to keep her from the grave.

She could hear the sounds of drunkenness and noise from the marketplace by the cathedral. Once, foolishly, she had gone there in order to seek the company of others like herself. But it didn’t take her long to realise the brutal fact that this was not a good place for an attractive young girl. Seeing the mob had been a shock. She tried to put it out of her mind but she couldn’t quite forget the experience.

She had walked for several days and her feet ached. The long, long way to Trondheim had taxed Silje’s energy – and as she found no comfort in the city, her gut feeling was despondency. She felt a painful sense of despondency.

She heard the rats squeal in the doorway she had begun to walk towards, hoping to get a couple of hours’ sleep. So she turned away and continued her hopeless wandering.

Unconsciously, she was drawn towards the glow of fire by the mountain outside Trondheim. Fire meant warmth even if it also meant that corpses were being cremated. The big pyre had burned for three days and three nights now. And next to it was the scaffold.

She hurriedly mumbled a prayer: “Lord Jesus, keep me from all the evil of these lost souls! Give me courage and strength so that with Your grace I can rest there safely for a short while! I so desperately need to feel the warmth from the pyre so that my frozen limbs won’t perish.”

Her innocent heart was filled with dread as her gaze became firmly fixed on the rising warmth of the pyre. Silje plodded towards the western gates.

Meanwhile, Charlotte Meiden, a young noblewoman, was out on a secret errand. She walked in her fine silk shoes through the filthy streets, which were overflowing with dirt since the frost had blocked the gutter. She cradled a tightly wrapped bundle while she sneaked away from her father’s mansion to the city gates, desperately humming a dance melody, a pavane, in an attempt to keep her mind off what she was doing.

It wasn’t easy for her to move. Her lips were white. She had beads of perspiration on her forehead and upper lip, and her hair clung to her temples. How she had managed to hide her condition in these anxious and dreadful months was still a mystery to her. But she had always been small and slender and nothing had really shown. The current fashion had also been helpful, with corsets and flowing crinolines and a dress that was draped straight down from the shoulders, covering everything. Besides, she had always been very careful to pull her corset painfully tight. Nobody, least of all her chambermaid, had any idea at all.

She had hated the life that grew inside her with a fierce intensity! The result of a casual meeting with an incredibly debonair Dane at King Frederik’s Court. It was only later that she learned he was married. One evening of blind passion had resulted in all this misery that had now become her punishment. And all he did was flutter on to make new conquests.

She had done everything to get rid of this intruder in her life: Strong medicine, jumping from high places, warm baths. She had even gone as far as visiting the churchyard one Thursday night last summer. There she had carried out such secretive and horrible things which she had completely suppressed. But nothing had helped. The disgusting being inside her body had clung to life with the persistence of a devil. And she had been ever so scared for all these months! She still was. But strangely enough, right now she didn’t feel the burning hatred against the unwanted being. Instead she felt something different in her heart: a warm glow, an intense sorrow and an unexpected yearning ...

No, she couldn’t allow herself to think like that! Just keep on walking, walking, quickly. Avoid the few people who were out on a night like this. It was ever so cold. The poor, little ... No, no! She caught a glimpse of a young girl, scarcely more than a child, in a side street and quickly slipped into a doorway. The girl walked past without catching sight of her. She seemed so lonely! Charlotte was filled with heartfelt compassion and she straightened her back. Compassion was a feeling which she just had to avoid. She must not be weak!

Above all, she had to hurry. She needed to be back and in through the gates before they closed at nine. She was not afraid of the guards. She had an explanation ready – if they were to ask her. The cloak she had thrown over her shoulders belonged to one of the servants. Nobody would be able to recognise the elegant mistress, Charlotte Meiden, in it.

At long last, she was at the gates. The guards stopped her. She held the bundle for a moment and mumbled: “Another corpse. I’m on my way out to ...”

The guards waved her on without looking at her any further.

She could see the forest in front of her now, the jagged tops of the pines in silhouette against the glow from the pyre. Bright moonlight shone on this frosty evening landscape so it wasn’t difficult to find one’s way. If only she wasn’t so exhausted! She was also in pain and now and then she felt to her horror how something warm, sticky and moist soaked into the towel she had used to stop the bleeding.

The child had been born in the hayloft above the stables. She had had a piece of wood in her mouth to stop herself from screaming. Afterwards, exhausted from her ordeal, she had laid there for a long, long time before she had wrapped the child without looking at it and risen unsteadily, her legs shaking. She hadn’t done anything about the cord. She didn’t want anything to do with that child. She had smothered the child’s low, pitiful cries with a blanket.

The child was still alive. She could feel its tiny movements now and then. Thank goodness it hadn’t cried at the city gates!

She knew that she had removed all traces from the hayloft. If only she could be rid of this burden of shame and return unseen back to the mansion. Then she would be free, free! At last!

Now she was deep enough into the forest. Over there, under the big pine tree, far from the path ...

Charlotte Meiden’s hands trembled as she placed the bundle on the bare, frozen ground. Her chest tightened and her eyes brimmed with tears as she carefully tucked a woollen blanket and a shawl around the small spark of life. Then she placed a mug of milk she had brought with her next to the child’s cheek. Deep down, she knew only too well that the child couldn’t possibly reach the milk. But this was something she didn’t want to dwell on at all.

She stood there for a moment while a sudden, tremendous feeling of loss and despair raced within her until finally she staggered on her frozen legs towards Trondheim once more.

Inside the city walls, Silje continued walking. She was grateful for the moonlight which cast its silver aura over the street. This made it easier for her to watch each step. Step by step, each foot followed after the other – half asleep, without thinking about it. Because if she did, she would feel the cold, hunger and fatigue. She would realise that she had no goal, no future.

Something was crying near her. She stopped. She was in a small alley, making her way towards the western city gates. It was very dark in the alley. The moonlight didn’t reach beyond its entrance. The crying came from a backyard. She caught sight of a door which was half open.

It was the sound of a child that cried. Heartrending sobs. Hesitantly, Silje stepped inside. Moonlight filled the small, open yard, which was surrounded by low houses. A little girl, perhaps two years old, lay on her knees next to a dead woman. The child was pulling and shaking her mother, trying to make her wake up.

Although Silje was little more than a child herself, she was nevertheless a young woman. She was moved at the sight of the small child but the sight of the dead woman held her back. The face and the froth around the mouth were horrible signs that the plague had struck again.

Trondelag, as this part of the country was called, had been badly affected by this plague, which actually consisted of two different illnesses. All kinds of illnesses were said to be the plague, and this time the virus had come from Denmark. It was dubbed “the Spanish flu” or a fever with headache and chest pains. At the same time another type of plague had been brought from Sweden causing boils and a headache which made people mad, causing their temples to ache. Silje knew the symptoms. She had seen them far too often.

The girl had not yet caught sight of her. Silje was so exhausted that she couldn’t think quickly, but she certainly knew this much: She was the only one who had survived the plague in the cabin. She had walked about among the dead bodies in the town without being infected. So Silje didn’t fear for her own life. But what about the little child?

There wasn’t much chance that the child would survive the illness. And if she stayed here on her own with the mother, she would not have a chance at all.

Silje kneeled next to the girl, who had turned her tearful face towards Silje. She was a beautiful little girl, but strongly built, with dark curly hair, dark eyes and strong hands.

“Your mother’s dead,” Silje said gently. “She can’t talk to you anymore. You must come with me now.”

The girl’s lips trembled and the shock had stopped her from crying. Silje rose to her feet and pushed at the doors that opened onto the yard. All three of them were locked. The dead woman probably didn’t live here. Perhaps she had decided that this was a fitting place in which to die? And Silje had already experienced that it was pointless to knock on doors because people just wouldn’t open them.

With a few swift movements, she tore off a strip from the hem of her tattered skirt. She turned it into something that resembled a rag doll. She placed it in the dead woman’s hands so that she wouldn’t return from the grave and look for her child. Then she said a silent prayer for the poor woman’s soul.

“Come with me,” she said to the girl. “We must leave now.”

The child didn’t want to go. She clung to her mother’s coat. It looked nice and wasn’t very worn. The girl was also well dressed. Not extravagant but simple and nice. Obviously, the girl’s mother had been a real beauty once. Now her dark eyes stared blindly at the moon.

It had never occurred to Silje to take the dead woman’s coat to protect herself from the cold. This would be unthinkable for various reasons. Above all, she found it repulsive.

“Come,” she said again, feeling helpless as she faced the crying girl’s sobs. She gently loosened the child’s hands and took her in her arms. “We must try to find some food for you.”

Of course, she had no idea how she would find it but the word “food” worked its magic on the child, who resigned with a trembling, tearful sigh, allowing herself to be carried out of the backyard. She cast a long, agonising glance back at her mother that was full of grief and despair. Silje knew that she would never forget that look.

The child wept silently while Silje carried the child through the streets along the last stretch towards the gates. The child had cried for so long that she was far too exhausted to resist.

But Silje’s problem had become twice as big because now she was also responsible for another person. A child, who in a couple of days was likely to die from the plague ... Until that happened, she would have to make sure that the girl didn’t go hungry.

They were close to the city gates. Between the houses, she could see the glow from the pyres in the square. It was so cold that people couldn’t dig graves in the frozen ground. That was why they burned their dead. There was a mass grave that ... No. Silje didn’t want to think about such tragic things right now.

She saw a woman leaning against the wall of a building. It was obvious that she might collapse at any moment. Silje hesitantly walked over to her.

“Can I help you?” she asked timidly.

The woman turned and looked at her with glazed eyes. She seemed to be a lady of noble bearing but right now she was deathly white and the sweat poured over her face.

As Charlotte Meiden’s eyes caught sight of Silje, she gathered all the strength she could muster and began to walk away.

“Nobody can help me,” she mumbled as she disappeared down a side street. Silje watched her go but didn’t follow.

“I suppose it’s the plague again”, she said. “There’s nothing I can do.”

She was now at the gates. There was still a bit of time until they would be closed. But Silje didn’t want to enter Trondheim again because she realised that nobody would offer help to her or the child. She would try to find a barn in the countryside – or somewhere else.

“Let’s hope we won’t meet any wild animals!”

Only they weren’t any worse than the suspicious characters, drunkards and debauched wretches who would pester her if she got close to their ‘territory.’ People who didn’t care at all about the plague, who could soon be beyond help, and therefore wanted to experience all the pleasures of this life before it was too late.

The palace guard asked where she was on her way to at this late hour. As a matter of fact, he was less interested in those who wanted to leave than those who wanted to enter. She said that they had been turned out for showing signs of sickness, and he accepted this at once, and with a wave of the hand he sent them on their way. He didn’t care whether they carried the infection with them. In all honesty, he couldn’t care less! The most important thing was that they left Trondheim.

The warm glow from the pyre outside the city gates urged her on. Silje began to walk faster because what if they put out the fire before she reached it? But first of all, she would have to walk through the forest which was situated between Trondheim and the scaffold. Silje had lost her way and ended up at the evil place, the scaffold, when she came to Trondheim. But she had moved away fast from the place, terrified by the stench and everything she saw. Now her desperate yearning for warmth made her go back. Just stretching her frozen hands towards the flames, turning her back to the fire, feeling the heat through her clothes, warming a body that had felt nothing but cold for so many days and nights – this would be a dream come true.

The forest ... She stopped at its edge. Like many others who lived in open farmland, she had always been afraid of the forest. It held so many unseen secrets in its shadows. The girl became too heavy for her exhausted body to carry, so she put her down.

“Can you walk on your own?” she asked. “Then I can carry you again in a little while.”

The child didn’t answer but did as she was told, still sobbing quietly to herself. The shadows were so dark among the pine trees. Silje’s eyes had become accustomed to the darkness of night. She pondered that dark wasn’t just black but a long series of nuances – before they turned into what we call grey. She thought she saw secretive beings with burning eyes behind the trees. The little girl was also frightened. Her fear had made her stop sobbing and she just clung very tightly to Silje, moaning softly now and then.

Silje’s mouth felt dry. She tried to swallow. They had to fumble their way step by step, and she tried to concentrate on the glow from the pyres on the other side, which helped. She didn’t dare turn around because she had a feeling that shapeless creatures were dogging her footsteps...

When they were about halfway through the forest, Silje could feel how the blood raced through her body and drained from her face. She was shocked. For the second time that evening, she heard a child’s cry. Only she just couldn’t bear to hear this kind of sobbing.

Her heart was pounding madly. It was the pitiful sound of a baby crying in the forest. This could only be one thing: a myling. She had heard a lot of stories about them and always dreaded that she would meet one. She knew that she was in mortal danger.

Mylings were the spirits of infants born out of wedlock and left to die a very long time ago. Afterwards they would haunt everybody who walked past their hidden graves. She knew only too well the stories of what would happen to those who got too close to such a grave in the forest! They told of an infant child who was as tall as a house and who would scream horribly and follow the poor passers-by, its footsteps pounding the earth, until it caught the passers-by and crushed them. She also knew that such a spirit could transform itself into black dogs, a child’s corpse, ravens and reptiles... each one just as evil as the other.

Silje was transfixed. Her legs wouldn’t listen to her plea to move quickly away from this place. Only the little girl, who was still clinging on to Silje, reacted in a different way.

She said something which Silje didn’t understand. Just one word, a name perhaps? It sounded like “Nadda” or something similar.

Might she have had a little brother or sister who had died recently? This was quite possible.

The girl began tugging at her hand, wanting to draw Silje towards where the cries from the child came from among the trees only a short distance from the path that Silje imagined that they were on.

Silje hesitated. She desperately wanted to get away.

The little girl repeated the word or the name once more, her voice choking with tears.

“But it’s too dangerous,” Silje protested. “We must leave quickly, very quickly!”

But how could they run away? Would they have a tremendous myling snapping at their heels? That would be even worse.

Suddenly, a gentler thought entered her mind. Perhaps mylings wanted to be baptised? Perhaps they were yearning to be united with their mother?

What could one do to bring peace to a myling? Read the sacraments for them? But she wasn’t a priest. Or ... wait a minute! There was an old verse, an invocation. If only she could recall it! It began something like “I baptise thee ...”

Then she thought it would be better to say all the prayers she could remember.

Silje took a deep breath and began reciting all the prayers she had learned, Catholic and Protestant all mixed together, fragments from her earliest childhood and the things the priest had taught her.

She approached the myling very carefully, ready to dash away at the least sign of danger. The myling was silent now. Her prayers had worked!

She was feeling a bit more confident and walked a bit faster while she also tried to put together a ceremony that would be like a rite of baptism. The little girl tugged at her. She wanted them to hurry up.

As they picked their way forward, Silje mumbled with an unsteady voice:

“I found you in the middle of the night. Therefore I baptise you Dag if you’re a baby boy. You were doomed to die once. Therefore I baptise you Liv if you’re a baby girl.”

Did that sound too foolish? Would it be acceptable as a rite of baptism? To be absolutely sure, she added: “In the name of Jesus, our Lord, amen,” knowing perfectly well that she had no right to pronounce such sacred words. Only the priests were allowed to do that.

Was it dangerous to call a myling Liv? Perhaps it would become a mortal again and rise with awesome might ... No, she mustn’t think of such things. She had done her very best and could only pray that it would be enough.

The little girl seemed determined to find the myling, which made Silje even more certain that she had a younger sister or brother. It was no use trying to stop her. She had no choice but to follow. It had to be somewhere. She stopped, bent down and began to search in the dark shadows beneath the trees. Her heart still pounded and her frozen fingers trembled.

But for a human to touch a child myling? What would it feel like? Would there be anything to touch? Perhaps it would be just dried bones? Or would it be slimy and horrible? She wished she could escape from it all when something suddenly made her jump.

The little girl seemed to have found something. She was prattling away, and what she said didn’t make sense. And then Silje heard a rattling noise. She stretched out her hand and touched a wooden handle. It felt like a beer tankard with a lid.

No danger there, she thought, and carried on searching. Clothes ... Warmer than the frozen soil. A small bundle. When she touched it, the weak cries began again. Silje plucked up all her courage and carefully let her hands glide inside the thick blanket. Warm skin. It was a baby – and alive. Not a myling, just a baby that had been abandoned and left to its fate.

“Thank you,” she whispered to the little girl. “Tonight you’ve saved this baby’s life.”

The little girl eagerly touched the baby in the bundle. “Nadda,” she said once more.

The cup. She shook it. Something splashed. Silje put a finger into it and could feel something that was moist. Something that wasn’t yet frozen. She licked it. Milk. Oh, dear God. It was milk!

She awoke with a jerk from her intoxicated state and found that she had put the cup to her mouth, ready to drink the whole lot in one gulp. The children. She mustn’t forget them! But just a little sip? No, because then she wouldn’t be able to stop. The little girl first of all. She would get one third.

She listened to the deep, delightful gulps as the little girl drank. It broke her heart because it was so difficult to take the cup from her. But she had to. The little girl fought to keep it with a fury that frightened Silje.

“Nadda must also have some milk,” she whispered, which calmed the little girl. Anyway, the milk seemed to have taken the edge off the little girl’s hunger – it hadn’t taken much to fill such a little girl’s stomach.

She turned her thoughts to the baby. What was she to do with it? The baby seemed to be wrapped in several layers. Closest to its body it wore a blanket that shone dark grey in the evening darkness. Silje pulled up one corner and twisted it to a point, dipped it in the cup and put it in the child’s mouth.

But the little baby didn’t want to drink. Silje didn’t know much about newborn babies. She didn’t know that often they aren’t hungry during their first day of life, or that not all babies had a strong instinct to suckle straightaway. She just felt helpless and desperate.

No matter what she did, the baby didn’t want the milk. At last she gave up. They had to move on and she couldn’t carry the cup as well. After all, she only had two arms. Feeling a strong sense of guilt, she drank the rest of the milk herself. It didn’t taste so nice any longer, because she knew only too well that she had stolen it from the baby.

She rose to her feet, cradled the baby and took the little girl by the hand. She suddenly let out an almost desperate laugh. What on earth was she doing? It was the blind leading the blind, she thought. How could she possibly help these two children?

The milk had helped them and eased their hunger, both the little girl and herself. Silje’s fear of the forest had begun to release its grip on her because now she could clearly see the glow of firelight between the tree trunks.

She stopped at the edge of the forest and looked down on the dreadful place. A huge funeral pyre spewed stinking clouds of smoke in her direction. She could see the gallows in front of the pyre, dark against the red fire, and next to it stood the instruments of torture, testifying to the fantasy that mankind was suddenly armed with – to inflict pain on others. There she saw the pillory. A pyre had been lit next to it – in case there was a need for red-hot tongs or swords. Large, dreadful hooks on which to hang the criminals and instruments of torture so grotesque and satanic that she shuddered at the sight of them.

One tool stood out from the rest. It was the rack on which the bodies of the unfortunate people were broken. A young man was tied to it.

“Oh no,” she groaned quietly. “No, no.”

She could see his features in the light from the pyre. He was so young and seductively handsome. Silje’s heart cringed with pain. It was as if his pain was transposed to her.

There they stood with the instruments that could crush every single bone in his body. The executioner paced around with heavy, determined steps while he carried a large broad-bladed axe in his hand. So the prisoner was to be tortured before he was to die?

Silje just wanted it all to stop. She hadn’t known many young men in her life but this one was something special. What could he be? A thief, perhaps? No, he couldn’t be because otherwise there wouldn’t be such a crowd of young men and guards. He must be a very important person.

All thoughts of the young man stopped suddenly and she started in fear as a deep voice from the forest behind her said: “What are you doing here, woman?”

Silje and the little girl turned round immediately, and the little girl let out a loud scream. Silje just managed to stop herself from doing the same.

There among the trees was the shape of a figure that looked part human and part animal. Then she saw that he wore only a cloak of wolf skin, which wasn’t long enough to cover his legs. The shaggy hood resembled the head of an animal. She felt there was something wrong with his shoulders – they were broad like an ox. Two narrow eyes gleamed at her in a face filled with drama, exquisite and sinister at the same time. His white teeth shone in a wolf-like grin. The flickering glow from the fire shone on his features one moment and left him in utter darkness the next. He stood motionless. Silje answered in a trembling voice: “We just wanted to warm ourselves by the fire, Sir.”

“Are these your children?” he asked in the same deep voice.

“Mine?” she said, smiling nervously, as she shivered in the cold. “I’m only sixteen, Sir. I found these two this evening. They were left alone.”

He let his eyes rest thoughtfully on her for a long time, and Silje had to look away in fear of his gaze. The little girl was frightened too. She hid herself in Silje’s skirts.

“So you saved them, did you?” he said. Then he asked: “Do you want to save one more life tonight?”

His burning eyes made her shudder. She felt an anxiety which she couldn’t explain. She was shy and confused. “One more life? I don’t know ... I don’t understand ...”

“Your face shows that you’re hungry and undernourished, so you could easily pass for two or three years older than sixteen. You can save my brother’s life. Will you do that?”

The thought rushed through her mind that she had never seen two such different brothers. The handsome, fair-haired young man over there and this creature with his dark, straight wisp of hair hanging over his eyes.

“I don’t want to see him die,” she said hesitantly. “How would I be able to help him?”

“I can’t do it by myself,” said the man. “They’re too many and they’re after me. They also want to capture me, which wouldn’t help my brother at all. But you ...”

He took a piece of paper, which was folded many times, from his pocket. “Here. Take this letter with you. It bears the royal seal! Tell them that you’re his wife, and that these are his two children. You live in this part of the country. His name is Niels Stierne, and he’s the King’s Messenger. What’s your name by the way?”

“Silje.”

He made an expression that showed that he was irritated. “Cecilie, you stupid girl! You can’t have a peasant girl’s name like Silje! You’re a countess, remember? You must slip this letter into his clothes without anybody noticing it and then pretend that you’ve found it.”

“That sounds daring. How can I pass for a countess? Nobody will believe it.”

“Haven’t you looked at the baby you’re cradling in your arms?” he snapped.

She looked down, startled.

“No, but ...”

The fire began to burn more brightly, and she could see everything clearly. The baby was wrapped in a shawl of the finest wool, beautiful and as light as gossamer. Silje had never seen anything like it. Silver threads were woven into it, and the thin woollen blanket underneath had a beautiful pattern that she just couldn’t describe. It was probably white lace. And finally there was a shining white blanket, which was the one she had dipped the milk in.

The man took one step closer to Silje. She instinctively pulled back. There was an aura of pagan prehistoric times about him, a mystical animal attraction mixed with an air of authority.

“The child’s face is covered in blood,” he said, wiping away the blood with a corner of the blanket. “It’s a newborn. Are you sure it isn’t yours?”

Silje felt deeply humiliated. “I’m a virtuous girl, Sir.”

His mouth curled into a little smile, but he cast a worried glance at the execution site. They weren’t ready yet. It looked like a priest was trying to persuade his brother to confess his sins.

“Where did you find the baby?”

“In the forest where it had been left to die.”

He raised his black eyebrows. “Was that where you found the girl too?” he asked.

“No, not at all. I found the girl in town by her mother’s dead body.”

He looked from her to the child. “You’re certainly brave,” he said slowly.

“I’m not afraid of the plague. It’s been my companion for many days. It strikes around me – but never inside.”

Something that resembled a smile showed on his awesome face. “It doesn’t strike inside me either,” he said. “So will you go down there?”

She hesitated, so he continued: “The children will keep you safe. They wouldn’t dare to take a mother with two children. But they must each have a name.”

“Oh, I don’t know whether the newborn baby is a boy or a girl. I’ve baptised it Liv or Dag. I thought it was a myling, so I protected myself with an emergency baptism.”

“I can well understand. And what about the little girl?”

She paused to think then said: “They’re both children of the night. When I found them, they were surrounded by night, darkness and death. I think I’ll call her Sol.”

Those strange eyes looked at her once more. “Your young head thinks in a way that not many others do. Will you go down there, then?”

Such praise made her blush, and she felt a warm glow inside. “I must admit that I’m scared, Sir.”

“You’ll be rewarded.”

She shook her head. “Money is of no use to me. But ...”

“Yes?” he prompted.

The children gave her courage. Looking him straight in the eye, she said: “Nobody will open their door to strangers these days. The children are my responsibility now, and I’m freezing cold. If you could give us some food, somewhere to stay where it is warm, I’m willing to risk my life for the young count.”

The light from the fire had died down somewhat, leaving the stranger’s face in shadow once more. He thought for a moment:

“Don’t worry. I’ll see to it,” he promised.

“Good! Then I’ll be on my way. But what about my clothes? No countess would be seen wearing rags the way I do.”

“I’ve thought about it. Look, take this.”

From beneath the wolf skin coat, he pulled out a deep-blue silk cloak. It reached to his hips – and easily to Silje’s feet.

“There. It will hide the worst. Wrap it closely around you. And take those animal hides off your legs!”

Silje did as she was told. “What about my accent?”

“Well,” he said hesitantly. “It surprises me because it doesn’t sound as if you come from a poor background. You might even pass for a countess. Just do your best!”

She took a deep breath. “Wish me luck, Sir.”

He nodded sternly.

Then she closed her eyes for one moment, taking a deep breath as if to concentrate. She took a firmer grip of the little girl’s hand, and cradling the baby, she walked down to the place where they had begun to tie the young man’s hands.

She sensed the piercing gaze of the wolf man on her back. It felt as if it burned through her.

What a magical and peculiar night, she thought. And this was just the beginning!