The Witches’ Kitchen

by Cecelia Holland

  The two outlanders went off. Slim-Odd blurted out, “Gold-Harald was just here. Damn him, you should have heard him—threatening Toki and you both, he was!”

  “Let him say it to me.” Sweyn went back toward the rapidly draining ale tub. He wondered if Palnatoki had brought more ale and doubted it; his foster-father was no more generous at these things than he had to be. “Where is he now, for instance?”

  Slim-Odd shrugged. “No fighting at the festival.”

  “Ah, sure,” Sweyn said. Then Palnatoki was calling to him.

  Sweyn hesitated, looking for some way to avoid this; Palnatold ordered him around like a slave, or a baby. But he remembered that he owed his foster-father everything, and when the older man called a second time Sweyn went over to where he sat on a big carved bench out of one of the ships.

  A cup in one hand, the other fisted on his hip, Palnatoki was looking keenly around the tent. “Where’s that Irishman?”

  “He went out,” Sweyn said.

  “Damn him, I want him with me.” Palnatoki lifted the ivywood cup in his hand and drank from it. Sweyn reached for it, to take it back to the table to fill, which would also get him out of here. Sometimes he could not tolerate Palnatoki. The Irishman and his boys were good men, Sweyn saw that more and more, and it rubbed him like a burr to see Palnatoki weaving them into his endless schemes. That the schemes were made for Sweyn’s own benefit lay like a cold hand on his heart. So he reached for the cup, to have the excuse to get away.

  “No,” Palnatoki said, and set the cup down, and gripped his arm. “I need to talk to you. Gold-Harald was here.”

  “I heard,” Sweyn said.

  “Now, heed me. If he comes on you, there will be trouble. But unless the King has given his word for it he will not attack you. You must not attack him. Do you hear me?” Palnatoki shook Sweyn’s arm, like an old woman with a mop. “You must not strike the first blow, no matter what happens.”

  “Bah,” Sweyn said. knock his damned head off.”

  Palnatoki snorted at him, his face red, and thrust him off.

  “Ah, you colt. Don’t attack him. But if he attacks you, fight for your life, because that’s what he’s after.”

  Sweyn straightened his sleeve, which Palnatoki had pulled crooked. “I’ll do what I have to do, Foster-Father.” He bowed his head, trying to be courteous. “I won’t strike first.”

  “Good. Now, go find that Irishman and get him back here.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sweyn kept his head bowed still, for fear Palnatold would read in his eyes that he would do nothing of the sort, and went away, back to his friends.

  “Come on,” he said to them; the tub was all but empty anyway. “Let’s go find Conn and Raef and make something happen.” He laid his hand a moment on the knife in his belt. Let Gold-Harald try anything with him, he’d show him real metal. And when it was over, he knew, the winner would decide who had struck first. With his friends at his back, he plunged into the churning traffic of the fair.

  Corban went along through the fair. Gunnhild was supposed to be here, and he kept a watch out for Eelmouth, in the flow of people in the meadow, the bodies clumped around the peddlers’ stalls, the bigger clumps gathered beneath awnings like Palnatoki’s. At the center of every tent, he knew, was a keg of ale, a little whirl of gossip and scheming.

  There were some dozen of these awnings, most bigger and gaudier than Palnatoki’s. He went into the largest, moving in through the crowd toward the center, hoping to see King Bluetooth himself. In the middle was not one but three great tubs of ale, which huge-breasted women constantly ladled into a perpetualring of cups bobbing up and down around them like the mouths of baby birds. Behind them was a cross-legged bench covered with half-eaten loaves of bread and wheels of gnawed cheese. Crumbs and bits of cheese littered the ground, and little birds ran like mice boldly in under the table, among the trampling feet of the crowd.

  But it was not Bluetooth who ruled here, Corban saw, disappointed; it was that same yellow-headed broad-faced man who had come to Palnatoki to insult him, Gold-Harald, who wanted to be King but was not. Many men surrounded him, all trying to speak to him, to get his attention, to hook themselves to his power.

  Looking at him, Corban thought he did see something in him of the boy Sweyn. He wondered if he would have noticed, if Palnatoki had not suggested it. He got a cup of ale and a fistful of bread and went out.

  All around the edge of the meadow there were games-going on. He walked down to a stretch of trampled dirt where men were running races, and suddenly caught sight of Conn, stripped down to his sweat-soaked deerskin breeches, running mightily along in a pack of other men. Hard as he strove, he was behind the leaders and falling back. Corban laughed. Conn would never be good at running. He looked around him and almost immediately found Raef, standing among some other cheering people near the finish line.

  Raef was not cheering; he looked hunched up, cold in the warm Danish sun, his arms wrapped around himself. Corban started toward him, to warn him, and stopped, not knowing what to warn him against.

  He circled away into the fair, watching men throw big stones, and strive to lift even bigger stones. The ground here gave up a constant crop of rocks, he realized, looking around, seeing pebbles thick in the trampled dirt, boulders sunk in the ground. The dried beaten grass was slippery underfoot. The air smelled of dry earth and dead grass and the winter coming. The barrows’ grassy even slopes lay like sweeps of pale brown cloth against the sky. He went off away from everything, down along the broad tableland, and abruptly where the land sank a little came on a place where stones had been set together into a flat floor in the ground.

  His mind flew to the corn dolls; this was a threshing floor, he thought, an old one, not used anymore, seams of tall dry stalks standing up over the flat stones, shivering in the wind off the sea in the distance. But then, coming closer, he saw the great dark stains patching it.

  He stopped where he was. Even from here he could see that those leathery crusts were blood, spilled over and over, blood on blood, ages of layers of it.

  Here no church, no carved stone stood; they would let this disappear into the lush stands of grass. They would forget this had ever happened. He sank down on his haunches, out of the wind, out of sight of the fair. He thought the place still smelled of blood, ages of layers. He took the corn doll out of his sleeve, trying to straighten out the wild jags of the awn with his fingers.

  The quiet settled around him, and as he sat there Benna stole into his mind. In the bustle and crowd of the fair or the ship or the hall, he could sometimes forget about her, but when he was alone like this his mind flooded with her. An unexpected grief pierced him. He went to the edge of the altar, laid the corn doll down on the stones, and went away, up toward the fair again.

  He drank more ale. He went around this time looking for Eelmouth, looking for Gunnhild. He watched men shooting arrows into casks filled with straw; some of the men behind him mentioned Gold-Harald, and he pitched his ears that way.

  “Gold-Harald’s looking for men, still.”

  “He’s going to be too busy making himself King to do anything profitable,” one of the men said. They were directly behind Corban, and he could hear them with no trouble.

  Somebody else said, “Did you talk to the big man—Skull- Grim?”

  “Yes—he says we have no chance—every man in Denmark who can stand upright wants to wear Bluetooth’s bearskin.”

  There was a general groan. Another voice said, “We have to get on a ship.”

  “There’s always young Sweyn, maybe.”

  “Not for long,” said the first man, and they all laughed.

  Corban hung there listening as they chattered on about ships and captains. In front of him one bowman was making shot after shot into a marked circle no bigger than his palm, backing up five paces after each. As he released his arrow, the crowd gasped; as the bolt struck, they all roared.

  Corban touched the sling in his belt; he doubted he coul
d do so well. Certainly not from these distances. The archer had backed up, now, a good stone’s throw from where he had started, another stone’s throw from the target. He raised his bow, down there, and the crowd caught its breath; then the arrow flew, sailed wide, ticked off the side of the cask, and whined away into the grass. The crowd’s voice sagged in a collective sigh of disappointment.

  Behind him, one of the Vikings said, “Palnatoki would make that shot.”

  “Old arms are the best arms,” said another, and the first laughed.

  “Sure, yea, easy to be the greatest archer in the country when you haven’t drawn a bow in fifteen years.”

  Corban drifted away before they noticed him listening. He looked for Conn and Raef at the racecourse again, but now, on the straight stretch of powdery dirt, young women raced, their skirts tucked up between their knees, their braids flying, and the men roaring them on. He stayed to watch them sweep by him. these long-legged women, their faces shining with sweat.

  The sun was lowering in the sky. He was hungry, and he made his way back up toward Palnatoki’s tent, through a straggling crowd of people. Then ahead of him a sudden shouting rose.

  “Fight! Fight!” The shouting billowed up like smoke, full of names. “Sweyn Palnatolcisfostri is about to fight Gold-Harald!”

  Corban swore under his breath. Around him suddenly people were calling out, eager, and surging forward. He broke into a run, weaving his way through the quickening crowd, up toward the clamor.

  The trick, Raef thought, was to look like everybody else. He went along after Conn, trying to imitate his jaunty stride, the loose, careless angle of his swinging arms. He pretended to be happy. He couldn’t bear to make a fool of himself, as Conn did, running in races he couldn’t win, and sporting with girls; but there was a lot to eat everywhere around them, and drink also, and plenty to look at. When in the early afternoon they joined Sweyn and the rest of the brotherhood, and they went around in a great roaring wolf-pack, he howled and swung his arms with the rest of them, and began to feel easier.

  They reeled from one awning to the next, drinking everything they could find. Boisterous, strutting, Sweyn sauntered along ahead of Raef; the more he drank, the more Raef could see a sort of yellow glow around the head of the King’s son. He tried not to see that; that scared him, like the constant little cold thrills along his arms, which he tried not to feel and which meant something bad was going to happen. Conn walked along at Sweyn’s shoulder and they talked like brothers. Raef longed to talk so easily to Sweyn, to anybody, but certainly to Sweyn, the golden one; he wanted to laugh, as Conn did, with his head back, and his eyes flashing, and not know, or even care, that something bad was going to happen.

  In their wolf-pack they followed some girls around a while, begging for kisses, and then in an increasing haze of ale they joined in contests, lifting rocks, and wrestling, which Raef could not bear to do either.

  In the midafternoon they went into the nearest of the great ship-awnings to drink some more. This ale had been watered and there was no bread. Standing there not drinking the bad ale Raef watched a short, square-shouldered, black-haired man moving through the crowd on the far side of the tub, talking to many men but only for a few minutes each. When he spoke he leaned close and whispered into someone’s ear. Nobody looked at him directly.

  Then this man was strolling by their wolf-pack, and Sweyn went up to meet him, saying, “You are Hakon Sigurdsson, I think? I’m Sweyn Haraldsson.”

  The black-haired man looked around him; his gaze passed over Raef, who twitched and turned away. “Yes, I’m Hakon. Oh, yes, Sweyn Palnatokisfostri.” His mouth drew into a slick smile and he put out his hand. “Enjoy the ale.” Without waiting for any answer he turned and went back toward some other men.

  Sweyn said, under his breath, “Someday you’ll beg to say my name, you dog.” Roughly he jerked around and led them straight away out of the awning-tent.

  Raef plowed along after him, at Conn’s shoulder, through the middle of the fair, with all the colors and sounds swirling around his head. Conn grabbed his arm once and said, “You watch this side and I’ll watch the other,” and Raef nodded, but he could no more make sense of what his eyes were seeing than he could speak. Conn swaggered along before him, after Sweyn’s red-gold charge, and then suddenly somebody in front of them shouted.

  They all stopped, jammed together, Sweyn in front of them all. Sweyn said, “Get out of my way, Gold-Harald!”

  “I say you back down,” a stranger’s voice boomed. “Baseborn nobody!”

  Sweyn strutted forward, his hands on his belt. “Well, you talk a lot of fight, anyway, cousin.”

  “Don’t you call me cousin!” Gold-Harald advanced a little. He and Sweyn moved around each other, circling, in a suddenly broad and empty space in the middle of a vast crowd. Opposite him Raef saw a row of stocky men in leather armor, all bristling with swords, their arms and chests heavy with gold. All along the backs of his hands and arms the nerves prickled up like bee stings. He saw blood in the air like a haze. His knife was in his hand.

  People were screaming Sweyn’s name. The prince was almost nose to nose with Gold-Harald, one hand on the sword on his belt. Gold-Harald’s hair bristled. They shouted at each other, garbage words, fight talk. Raef gulped for air; he felt the whole world coming to pieces around him.

  Then abruptly everything split down the middle, half Sweyn’s, his, and Conn’s, the other half to Gold-Harald, and down the divide walked a huge man.

  “What’s going on here?” He pushed between Sweyn and Gold-Harald and shoved them apart. His voice sounded as if it came up from the bottom of a well. Raef stepped back, cool all over; he reached out and gripped Conn’s shoulder.

  “Who is this?” Conn whispered.

  Raef shook his head. “I don’t know.” He had seen him before, several times, during the day—hard to miss, he stood a hand taller even than Palnatoki, and his head was like a misshapen boulder, the bones thick as slabs of stone under his thatch of coarse black hair.

  He had thrust the two men far apart, but now Gold-Harald strutted forward, his face red as a turnip, his sword hanging from his fist. “Stay out of this, Skull-Grim!”

  The giant put his hands on his hips. He looked down at Gold-Harald as if from the top of a cliff. He said, “No fighting. That’s the King’s order. Put it up, Harald, or I’ll break it off.”

  In the crowd of onlookers close around them all, now, somebody laughed. Raef looked quickly around, startled, remembering how they had howled for a fight. In the dense thickets of bodies and faces he saw Corban watching.

  Sweyn said, “He jumped at me. He came at me first.”

  The giant Skull-Grim snorted at him. He wore a heavy black bearskin cloak over one shoulder. Raef thought he was the ugliest man he had ever seen. His voice rumbled out again. “Yes, that’s likely, you’re obviously too busy drinking to fight. Get out of here, and stay out of trouble.”

  Gold-Harald said, “Yes, run, pig-prince.”

  Sweyn bridled up; Conn said softly, “Help me,” and stepped in to grip him by one arm, holding him back. Raef held him by the other. Skull-Grim cast one glance their way and turned on Gold-Harald, and got a handful of his shirt and jerked him up on his toes.

  “Did you hear what I told you? No fighting on the King’s orders.”

  Gold-Harald twisted in his grip and wrestled free. “You can’t hide from me, Sweyn, so don’t try!” He glared at Skull- Grim and marched away. The crowd separated to let him through, and a dozen men followed on his heels.

  Skull-Grim chuckled. He glanced at Sweyn; Raef had let go of him and stepped back a little, but Conn still stood beside him. “You keep your calm, boy.” He nodded. “Both of you.” He slouched away, loose-limbed, his great knob of a head sunk down on his shoulders.

  Conn said, “Who is that?”

  Sweyn sighed; he looked around, probably for Gold-Harald, but Gold-Harald was gone. He said, “That’s Skull-Grim. He’s chief of Bluetooth’s
berserkers.”

  Conn said, “He’s well named.”

  “Oh, he’s got worse names than that.” Sweyn nudged him. They went off again through the fair, looking for more drink. Raef trailed after them, tired. Sweyn went on, “He’s killed dozens of men. Swords bounce off his head. He has arms like tree limbs. And he’s clever, too, don’t let that troll-look fool you. Just the same, that’s odd.”

  “What?” Conn said.

  “My foster-father said if Gold-Harald attacked me, it meant the King condoned it. Then why would Skull-Grim break it up?”

  Conn said, “Who knows? Why make anything of it? It didn’t happen now, but it will happen, someday. Just be ready.” He swung an arm around Sweyn’s shoulders. “Now let’s find some girls.”

  Sweyn gave a bellow of laughter. He looped his arm over Conn’s shoulders and led them all along in a rush. “Look! There’s food!” In a clamor of eager voices they went on into the next tent, Raef just another one among them, his arms still tingling.

  The sun was setting. Corban went back to Palnatoki’s tent; it was all but empty, dark under the pitch of sailcloth, even the table gone. From the back, Palnatoki called his name, and he went into the shadows and found the tall man sitting on his bench, talking to another man beside him on a stool.

  Palnatoki said, “This is Corban Loosestrife, Halcon.”

  The man on the stool was short, with a square chest, thick black hair, and darting eyes. He said, “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” He held out his hand to Corban. “I am Hakon of Lade, anyway, and pleased to meet you, whoever you are.”

  Corban shook his hand. “I have never heard of you, either, sir, so we start even.” He watched Hakon steadily; he wondered how a man who seemed so smooth could be edge-on to everything.

  Hakon ignored him, turning back to Palnatoki, laughing. “You see Norway is still Nor, and Denmark still Gor. What’s this about Gunnhild? Everybody said she was finished with Grayfur, after the squabble they had over that church.”