Tima bustled in with a wooden platter filled with steaming vegetables, and old Gyn bent over the hearth to strike a flint against the tinder pile. The boys scrambled past the hearth ring kicking up cinders and ash, their little sister Hilda giggling and dancing behind them. Armed with an earthenware jug, Mae began to refill ale horns and bowls. Mog and Bjorn came in the front door, carrying a spit with the suckling pig between them. Gurid and Ursep circled the hall, closing the shutters on the chill night air. The meal began with each heaping their wooden plates with roast pork and finding their seat, the boys still dodging between legs and punting their new ball across the room to each other. Gurid caught them as they passed and pulled them to their seats next to her. Savory smells drew the boys’ attention away from their new toy as their mother handed them each a wooden tray of meat and barley, carrots and peas. The hearth began to crackle as the flames reached for the ceiling and Finn listened to the old raven squawk in the flue. The room quieted to sounds of eating. Happy, Finn let Hilda sit next to him, even though she nodded to sleep and leaned against him for most of the meal. He noticed that the new boy talked earnestly with his brother, nodding at every word from Cub and laughing at his jokes.
After the meal, Yeru recited the poem in which the goddess Freja asks the wise-woman Hyndla to trace the lineage of her lover Ottar. The slaughter feast of Gormanudur ended with drinking and singing, but Finn didn’t join in the celebration. He fell asleep in his seat, head on the table, his little sister nestled under his arm, until his father carried them to their bedrolls along the back of the room.
Chapter 3
Finn
“Dundle knows where the old tower is,” Cub mentioned over breakfast. Sorven was quick to react.
“THE tower?”
“What tower?” Finn asked.
“The tower where grandfather Alf killed the witch.” Cub nodded knowingly, “Kellanthia’s tower.”
“There’s no such thing,” Finn mumbled through a mouthful of porridge, “It’s just a story.”
“Your wrong, woody,” Cub teased—they had begun mocking their youngest brother’s apprenticeship whenever their parents were out of earshot. “Dundle knows the place. I’m going to go see.”
“When?”
“This afternoon, after sword practice and chores,” Cub held his chin up, scowling at the black bird rustling in the chimney. “Father said I could go on Dundle’s last delivery. We are going to take the gelding and the wagon. When we’re done with that last load, we can ride there and back by supper.”
“I want to go!” Sorven pleaded.
“You shouldn’t,” Finn shook his head.
Sorven snorted, “Why not? …The curse? Don’t be a woodenhead!” Cub laughed at Sorven’s joke, clapped him on the shoulder, and Sorven beamed at his older brother.
“Father won’t let us,” Finn demurred.
“He’ll never know. We’ll be gone and back before they miss us. Dundle says it is not that far.”
“Can I come?” Sorven asked.
Cub sized him up, “Yeah, I guess you’re old enough, but you need to bring some protection,” and he patted his sax, held to his belt with a leather frog.
Sorven nodded, “I can get a knife from the barn.”
“And what about pine tar here?” Cub leaned over and put his face close to Finn. “Are you man enough to join us?”
Finn hesitated and dropped his eyes. Cub nudged his bowl.
“No, he’s a coward, little wooden head…”
“I don’t want to go.”
“We have to take him,” Sorven said, “If we don’t, he’ll tell.”
“I won’t,” Finn protested.
“You better not,” Cub rapped Finn’s head with his knuckle, and pushed away from the table. “Meet me and Dundle outside the stockade, down the lane where it turns to Jorvik. Beyond the stand of trees so father’s men won’t see. Just after midday, so don’t be late.” Cub pointed at Sorven then Finn, “Both of you.”
During exercise and weapons practice, Sorven smacked Finn’s fingers with his wooden pretend sword, bringing tears to his eyes. Everyone practiced readiness and weapons, as a good Danish household in a hostile land should, Willa and Kara alongside the boys, Kara showing real skill as a shield maiden.
After, Sorven jumped about all morning, rushing from one chore to the next, dumping the night water for Willa and Mae, carrying kindling in from the pile to stack it where his mother directed. He even asked for more errands when he finished faster than usual. Cub went to work with their father and Mog, checking the winter stores for rat sign and setting snares, repairing the wattle fencing that circled the pig pens. Finn managed his chores with care and deliberation. Using a weighted club on a rope, he broke the ice in the well by drawing the weight up and dropping it a few times, until the crack of the impact was accompanied by a splash of open water. He filled buckets for laundry and carried them to Yeru. The courtyard mud froze solid overnight. As he carried water in from the well, his Mother asked him what was bothering him, but he replied nothing, and tried to smile. Small jobs filled the morning and kept both boys occupied. Passing with an armload of split wood, Sorven whispered to Finn, “This will be fun,” and “Aren’t you excited?” on his way back. Finn tried to ignore him and not think about Cub and his plans. Their mother dressed them in woolen leggings and fur hoods and sent them out to help with the yard work. Under Gaute’s supervising eyes, the boys fed the chickens and sows, carried hay from the rick to the horse pens, and helped Yeru set poles to hang laundry.
“Something’s up with those lads,” Yeru mentioned to Gurid as she prepared pickles, cheese and bread for lunch, “Not a word or complaint this morning.” Gurid tittered, “Yeru, you are never satisfied, are you?” and told Kara and Hilda to go find their brothers for their midday meal.
“I don’t know,” Finn heard her mutter, “not a prank nor a joke, they’re up to something…”
Sorven bolted through the hall doors and plopped into his place at the table. Having set the meal, Yeru turned back to her laundry tub. A meager meal set for midday, water the only drink, the boys helped themselves, Sorven barely chewing in haste while Finn picked at his food. Sven and Bjorn came in from the fields, stopping to pull off their muddy boots before joining the table. Gulping his food, Sorven stuffed the crusts into a pocket and implored his younger brother, ‘Come on, hurry.” Finn watched his Mother and sisters from the corner of his eye, carefully chewing his pickles and cheese. The girls seemed oblivious to them, chatting about needlework and the coming winter storms.
“Psst,” Sorven leaned close to him, “Let’s go.”
Bowing to his insistence, Finn brushed the crumbs from his chest and pushed back on his bench.
“We’re going to play in the woods,” Sorven announced to his Mother and those gathered around the table. Finn nodded weakly.
“Don’t stray far,” his Mother answered. Yeru watched the two leave, Sorven nearly running and Finn dragging his feet behind. She shook her head and went back to stirring her tub. Casting a quick glance around the courtyard, Sorven ducked into the barn and returned holding a short, slim knife that Gaute used for collecting fruit and minor chores. He took his brother by the hand and pulled him out the open stockade gate.
Under low, gray clouds, the hedge along the lane held bare branches crisp with frost. The sky spat a sleety rain earlier in the day, but the wind picked up, the clouds cleared, and the weather grew colder. Small puddles froze in the ruts the wagon left in the roadway. Finn followed a few steps behind his brother. Little pockets of snow banked in the tufts of grass along the edge of the field. Past the hedge, they made their way beyond the pasture to the stand of trees that lined the homestead’s western edge, where their lane made a turn and headed downhill. Tall oaks griping shriveled winter leaves rustled, the other hardwoods holding empty branches up in a tangle that clicked and groaned in the passing wind.
“See?” Sorven pointed down the lane where Cub waved at them from
the wagon, waiting at another turn in the lane. He began to run and called for Finn to join him. They raced to the cart and found Cub and Dundle waiting on the bench seat. Cub had donned his felt cap and wore a heavy cape that wrapped around him like a blanket. From under a homespun hood, Dundle glared at the two younger boys as they climbed up into the bed. The wagon bed held milled lumber, strapped down with hemp rope.
“You make us late,” hump-shouldered in the cold, he grumbled to Cub, “We didn’t need bring them. They slow us down.” He spoke with a heavy Saxon accent. Dundle shifted on the bench, purposely turning away and said, “’Ventures no place for kids.” Sorven squinted at his back and pursed his lips.
“All is right,” Cub answered, giving Whitenose the rein, the wagon rolling forward, “They’re my brothers and in our clan. Sorven is old enough and Finn will stay out of trouble, eh?” He looked over his shoulder at his brothers who nodded in agreement. Sorven gestured rudely at Dundle’s back, and Finn sniggered. Cub flicked the reins harder to encourage a trot.
“Tell them what you told me.”
Dundle turned his head to peer out from the hood at Sorven, ignoring Finn. “There a broken place, up a hill, west a Jorvik. I learn it from a wander monk. A ghost there, in the stones. Monk called her ‘a witch ghost.’ None want to live there no more. When I hear fat Yeru telling that story of Ironfist, I knew this,” he nodded slowly and emphasized his words, “this is the place, that witch place.”
Sorven turned to Finn, smiling widely, wiggling in his seat. Cub chuckled, “Well, we will soon find out, eh boys?” Sorven scooted up closer to Cub’s back and answered, “Yes, yes, we will soon find out.” Finn leaned against the buck board and watched as Cub steered the fell pony out of the forest lane onto a wide, stone roadway, an ancient road that coursed east to Jorvik. A blustery day, few traveled the road and they made good time. Finn watched the big, black bird flit from tree to tree, seeming to watch and follow them.
“Aye, Cub,” Dundle leaned closer and pushed Sorven back in the wagon, “Ya be thinking about go a’viking soon, eh? Make a name for ya clan, bring back big treasures,” Dundle said, “Ya’s a smart one, smart, and strong, and now of age…” he emphasized the word, his hood bouncing with his nodding head. “Ya is of age to go a’viking.” Finn watched Cub square his shoulders and smile at the thought.
“I say, ya need a strong mate, strong like Dundle, eh? Trust-worth-y. Ya can fix it with me uncle. Fix it so’s I get a sword and train to go a’viking with you.” Sorven made a face at Finn—they had heard this before. Finn remembered Dundle asking Cub for a sword a few times in the past months, always admiring Cub’s new blade, always asking if he could touch it or hold it. It seemed to Finn that Dundle had only one thought, how to get a sword and how to go roving for treasure.
“Cub won’t go viking until our uncle returns,” Sorven stated loudly.
Cub sighed. “Uncle Karl’s been gone many a year now. I think father is beginning to think him lost.”
Dundle turned to give Sorven a scowl. “No need to wait for uncle. What your uncle do for you? To leave next summer, you needs to plan, plan now,” Dundle said. “You needs a good plan, you needs to plan.” Finn could see these words were making sense to his oldest brother, Cub nodding slightly as he listened. “A’viking is your way, your clan way. It’s in your blood. You needs a true viking trip to be a true man.”
“Yes,” Cub thought aloud, “we east men have our heritage to consider…Father would be proud if I returned all the richer from a raid. Should the gods smile on me, it would bode well for our homestead to return rich from a raid with stories to tell. And a few manly scars to taunt the maids, eh?” Dundle laughed encouragingly. “Better to increase our holdings and better to support the Danelaw. You have a good point. Perhaps I should speak with father about it. Let me think about this more, Dundle.”
Dundle held up his arm and motioned, “This the place.” Cub drove the wagon down a short, wooded lane off the main road, to a farm house built of wattle and daub, with a thick thatch roof, and a stacked rail fence circling a pasture with a tumbled shed and flock of dingy sheep. Hearing the creaking wagon and snorting horse, a bent farmer and burly woman opened the low door and ducked out onto the stoop.
“Friend Jacobson, our father Alfenson sends his high regards,” Cub called out. The man, shaggy hair tied back in a loose braid and dressed in a dirty leather apron and heavy breeches, crossed the mossy lawn to the wagon. Dundle hopped down and shook Jacobson’s hand. His creased face broke into a warm smile.
“I see you brought help,” he motioned at Sorven and Finn on the pile of wood. “Sure,” Sorven jumped down and began pulling on the ropes.
Jacobson counted a few coins into Dundle’s hand and joined Sorven pulling the planks free from the bed, stacking them carefully. Cub took the lead helping him unload the milled lumber. Sorven imitated his brother, trying to lift the beams and stumbling under their weight, while Finn climbed up on the bench, staying clear of the shifting stock. Dundle counted the coins, his lips moving as he counted. He wet his lips and cast a sideways glance at Cub. He separated the coins in his hands, then noticed Finn watching him, shifting his eyes to Cub and back to Finn. Even with Sorven ducking and pulling, the lumber stacked fast. Apple cheeked, Jacobson’s wife smiled a gap-toothed smile at Finn perched on the wagon shelf. Finn noticed a small freckled child behind her in the doorway. Bleating nearby, the herd smelled of manure.
The wagon unloaded, Cub climbed back to his seat and Finn joined Sorven in the bed. Cub waved at the farmer and his wife, and held out his hand to Dundle, who hesitated, then placed the coins in his open palm. Cub dropped them in a small purse that he kept strapped to his belt, and clicking his tongue, he led the gelding to turn the wagon and return to the lane. At the main thoroughfare, Dundle indicated that they should continue away from their home. The boys eagerly leaned forward to either side of Cub and Dundle on the bench, and, sensing a lighter load on an open road the horse increased his pace to a steady canter.
Karl
Karl woke to damp chill, his wool blanket smelling of wet dog and dried fish, and the room hazy from a peat fire. He had slept fitfully, the winds howling off the bay and a loose shutter banging to an inexplicable beat all night long. Jorn and Snorri still slept on piles of old straw. Arthi, awake by the fire, carved a bit of wood while Marn seemed to be cooking in a blackened tin pot over the smoldering flames. They camped in a narrow, windowless shed on the edge of the town wharf, a cramped, drafty place used to dry cod in summer months. A moon ago, as the ship sailed past moorings in the Moray Firth, he remembered setting a course for the Firth of Forth and the largest city in the land of the Scots, hoping to spend a little of Harald Tangle-Hair’s reward to winter in relative comfort. The Picts and Scots had joined their lands for a generation, and for the most part kept to the land north of the old Roman wall and kept peace with men of the Danelaw. But Aegir, that old sour sea god had different plans for their voyage. Unpredictable weather suddenly turned the seas against them, a harsh ice storm driving the Verdandi Smiles to refuge along the rugged coast line. Luckily, they found a sheltered bay with a small unnamed sea village north of Nectansmere. The moon month Ylir followed their landing with dangerous snows and frigid winds, trapping them on the edge of the northern Pictish wilderness.
No matter, he thought to himself, we are safe and well fed. He pulled on his boots. Standing to stretch, Karl grabbed his overcoat from a peg, quietly cracked the door and slipped outside. Taking care not to slip, Karl followed a path stamped in the snow across the ice reamed and snow bound quay into the tight circle of houses that made up the hamlet. Nine larger homes circled a village square, centered around a wide shallow basin of fresh water, fed from a gurgling brook that wound down from the hills beyond. Ice rimmed the well. Shingled with cedar shanks, the low houses roofs and sidings all weathered a uniform greenish gray. A series of smaller sheds and long, open barns for drying fish surrounded the main buildings, and ricks of spli
t firewood acted as a snow break on the north and western sides of the square. Fishing boats leaned against most of the buildings, stacked carefully and tied down, nets carefully fastened to racks under the open barn eaves. A few gulls perched on the roof peaks, feathers puffed to hold warmth. Morning cook fires drifted smoke across the yard.
The snow seemed scuffled and muddy next to the fish sheds, and a pile of nets appeared to be in disarray. Karl stooped to investigate the broken staves and handprints in the snow.
“Up early, eh Alfenson?” MacDonnell the village elder sat wrapped in a rough homespun rug on a bench. A tall, sinewy man, his blue eyes were red-rimmed, his eyebrows wild and shaggy. Karl nodded and dropped beside him. The old man handed him a section of the blanket to cover his lap.
“Colder this morning,” Karl blew into his cupped hands. “Thought I’d check on my men.”
“They are fine, settled in my town,” MacDonnell squinted nearsightedly. “Well, I tell you, Norseman, at first I was angry you didn’t accept my offer to stay in my home.” Karl listened closely to the old man’s strange accent. “Yet, now I see. I see you move night to night to stay with each group of sailors, each in a different berth. You don’t ask more than you do yourself—smart man, that breeds loyalty.” Karl sat quietly, watching errant snowflakes dance around the shallow well.
“You made a good choice, berthing them around our town,” he continued. “Some, the falconer and the fishermen, and especially that boatwright, are very welcome at our hearths. Others, …well,” he sighed, “frankly, the others scare my people, especially that Chud Sea pirate….”
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