“Said you wouldn’t last,” he said. “Anyhow, wear the eye-patch, hunch your shoulders, speak badly. I thought to pass you off as a servant. A torpari hit in the head in the war. You lost some of your wits along with the eye, but you can still bring drinks and food.”
We talked for a while longer. Eilis had taken the boys to visit her sister at the neighbouring torp; they had left just after mid-day and would not return until after the visiting Härren had gone. I was not to be present at supper, but to come to the hall later. The kitchen servants had been told to clear the food, fill ale jugs, and leave a full barrel in the hall. “I told them I don’t want my visitor’s minds on the girls, not until we finish talking. They’ll do as they’re told,” he said. He stood to leave.
“You’re sure you can do this? Act as a half-witted servant?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said. “But clothes? My cloak gave me away the last time I tried to pretend I was torpari. These,” I indicated my tunic and breeches, “are too good.”
“Leave that with me. You go find Bearga and get acquainted. I expect the first of the Härren to arrive any moment, so don’t linger.”
Chapter 52
In the kitchen the women were busy preparing food, so even if I had wanted to dally with Bearga she’d have had no time for me. She gave me a pot of beeswax and shooed me out, but with a smile. I wondered if Dugar had told her I might want her company at some point. Tonight she’d likely prefer a visiting Harr, who would probably give her a coin or two.
In my room I found a pile of worn clothes, and a plate of cheese and barley bread. I rubbed beeswax into the leather eyepatch until it was supple before I tried it on. It was uncomfortable, and I found it disorienting to be half-blind, but perhaps that would add to my awkwardness. I ran my hands through my hair, so that it stuck up, and smeared ash from the fire on my breeches and tunic, and under my fingernails. Running my now-ashy hands through my hair and beard, I thought I would pass. No one looked at servants, anyhow.
I tried out a few appropriate phrases, hoarsening my voice and using the local dialect. I thought I sounded convincing. There was nothing else I could do. I ate my bread and cheese and waited.
Hours passed; I played my ladhar almost silently, planning for how I would remember everything I heard tonight. I couldn’t risk writing anything down. I would have to remember the facts as a song. I could keep hundreds of poems and songs in my head, and if I used an old tune, then I could play it, reciting the words silently to fix them in memory, and no one would be the wiser.
A rap at the door told me it was time. I opened it, expecting to step out into an empty passage. But Dugar and my brother stood there, and with them a boy of about eight or nine. I frowned. This wasn’t my nephew. Dugar pushed his way past me, indicating for the others to follow. “Shut the door,” he said. My brother kept his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Sören,” Dugar said. “You can guess who this is. You’ll teach him with my boys. He’ll need to learn our tongue, but you’ll know best how to do that.”
Irmgard’s younger son, the heir after Bryngyl. He had been sent here, I realized, to keep him safe. Aaro must be close to declaring himself regent, in Bryngyl’s name.
“Bjørn,” my brother said to the boy in Marái’sta. “You stay here. You can sleep; it is safe. Do not leave the room. Do you understand?”
“Ja,” the boy said, very quietly. He walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge.
“He is exhausted,” Roghan said. “A rough crossing, and we have been riding for two days. I think he will sleep, now.”
The boy lay down on the bed. I went over to him, removing his boots and tucking a blanket and the fur over him. I’d worry about where I slept later. The floor would do. “Well done, Sören,” my brother murmured.
“We’d best go,” Dugar said. “Follow us in five minutes, Sören. Or should I say Saar?” By the end of this, I thought wryly, I’d be like a dog, answering to anything that sounded like the first part of my name.
The boy was asleep. I set a candle in the hearth, a safe place for it to burn; it would provide a little light if Bjørn woke disoriented. Poor child, I thought. He’d been torn from his parents at six, and uprooted again at nine, to a place where he knew no one. He didn’t even speak the language.
I closed the door quietly. Slowly, shambling a little, I made my way to the hall. The Härren would have gone out to relieve themselves, and perhaps to stretch a little, after the meal. I leaned against a shadowed section of wall, waiting. Dugar returned, and shortly after, my brother. Neither man glanced my way. The other three men wandered back in over the next few minutes.
“Saar! Ale!” Dugar called. I picked up a jug, tilting my head to ensure I had the handle firmly in my hands, and shuffled over.
“Who’s this?” one of the men asked, sharply.
“Saar? Just a servant. He’s half-witted,” Dugar said easily. “Took a sword-stroke on the head. Luckily for him the blade was turned, or he’d be dead. He won’t understand most of what we say, and wouldn’t remember it if he did. “
“What month is it, Saar?” a Harr said. I’d had my head bent, but I thought it was Kitrig.
I paused in pouring the ale. I blinked, as if I were thinking. “Winter, lord?” I ventured. Laughter, from Kitrig and others.
“Enough,” Dugar said, but mildly. “We’ve work to do, and if you addle him any more he’ll spill the ale. Finish filling the cups, Saar.”
For the next three hours I filled cups when ordered to, from the jugs and then the barrel, ensuring I fumbled with its bung. Mostly I crouched or stood against the wall, listening, sifting out the important things said and converting them to lines of song. At a break when the Härren went to divest themselves of the ale they had drunk, I reflected, wryly, on what Cillian had said when he had first had to both speak and understand Casilan, and translate it too. Exhausting, he had told us, and now I understood why.
As good a toscaire as he had been, he could not do what I was doing tonight. The thought appeared in my head, unprompted. His bearing, and the trained grace in him; he could never pretend now to be torpari, although that is what he had been born. His years spent at the Ti’ach and in the subtle dances of diplomacy had left their mark. And I, who was born noble, was passing as torpari with a simple disguise and a small change in my speech.
I felt an odd pride, and something more. But the men were returning; I could not examine the feeling now. I began to refill tankards.
“This man of yours looks familiar,” Kitrig said. “Saar, let me see your face.” He put a hand on my chin, turning my head to his. “I’m sure I know him.”
His fingers on my chin prevented me from speaking, but I whimpered, and tried to back away. Kitrig’s eyes narrowed. “Who does he remind me of?” he said to the room.
I could smell the tang of sweat in my armpits, the sharp smell of fear. I clutched the jug. Roghan came to stand beside Kitrig. “Let me look,” he said. Kitrig let go of my chin. I ducked my head. “Look at me,” he ordered.
I met his eyes. Roghan gave a bark of laughter. “He looks like my father,” he said. “He visited here often enough. I think that explains it.” He turned away. “Gods, that makes this idiot my half-brother,” he said, disgust in his voice.
“Well, we all have those,” one of the other Härren said. “Be careful which girl you bed tonight, Roghan; if Gundar left one bastard behind, he could have left others.” He began to tell a complicated story about a torpari half-sister, to ribald comments and laughter. I finished pouring the ale and retreated to my dark corner.
“So,” Dugar said to the assembled men. “We’re agreed? We do nothing until Earl Aaro’s made his announcement, and even then not until the word has spread and we see if Pietar and two or three others support him.”
“I still say we should be among the first to give allegiance,” one of the men said.
“Among the first. Not first,” Dugar said patiently.
“And if P
ietar and his followers don’t support Aaro?” someone asked.
“Roghan?” Dugar turned to him. “Pietar’s your neighbour. What’s he been saying, recently?”
“He’s been making excuses for the infighting,” my brother said. “But my feeling is he’s tired of it, of not knowing where his tribute should be paid. You know it was demanded twice, on our shore? I paid both earls, but only a portion. I think he’ll support Aaro just because he declares from a position of strength.”
“I’d agree, knowing Pietar,” Dugar said. “And where Pietar goes, most of the others will follow.”
“The real question remains,” Roghan said quietly, “if the Teannasach will play his part.” He was so much like our father in his manner, I thought, even if I bore a stronger resemblance.
“The marriage alliance?” Dugar said. “I’ve no reason to doubt it. We’ll send the boy to Dun Ceànnar in the spring, for his safety.”
“Sorley.” I turned to see my brother in the doorway. It was only an hour or two before the household would stir; in the kitchen, the ovens might even now be being prepared for the bread that had risen over night. He stepped in, closing the door behind him.
Bjørn slept deeply. He wouldn’t understand us, even if he stirred. I motioned Roghan to the one chair, and settled myself on the end of the bed.
“You will take the boy south in the spring,” Roghan said.
“Me? No,” I protested. My gut tightened at the idea.
“Yes. Who else will be trusted by the Teannasach?”
“Any of you who met with him,” I argued.
“Not like you will be.” He chewed his lip, assessing me. My father’s habit, too. “Aren’t you expected back, anyhow? You’re not here to offer allegiance to Varsland.”
“I was going to send a letter,” I said. “Not go back myself.”
“Why not?” The boy made a small sound, moving a little in the bed. Roghan had spoken with force. He grimaced, and his next words were quieter. “You can’t stay here, Sorley.”
“I can,” I said. “The boys need a tutor.”
“What happens the next time Kitrig comes by and notices the tutor looks like Gundar? He’s not stupid. He’ll remember the fuss he made about the servant, and make the connection. Anyhow, what about your music? You’re a scáeli now. Doesn’t your council have something to say about what you do?”
“Not as long as I’m gathering songs and teaching,” I said.
He grunted. “In disguise? What are you running away from this time?”
“I’m — ” I began.
“Yes you are,” my brother said, without heat. “It’s what you do. You either go inside yourself, into your music, the way you did after our mother died, or you leave. You went to the Ti’ach so you didn’t have to marry, didn’t you?”
No disgust in his voice, but the twitch in his jaw told me more than his tone.
“And you don’t want your channàdarra brother near your family,” I said. “Isn’t that the real reason you want me gone? I’m surprised you’re entrusting me with Bjørn.”
“By Rögnir, no,” he growled. “Yes, you’re a danger, but not for that reason. I’ve never heard a whisper of your...tastes from anyone, so you’ve kept it well hidden.”
“I did,” I said. “But south of the Wall is a different country, Roghan, and there I am known to share my bed with men, with no shame attached. And I’m not the only man from Linrathe at Wall’s End.”
A shadow of repugnance had crossed his face at my blunt words. But his reply was not what I expected. “Then why don’t you want to return?” His mouth crooked, a little, at my silence. “I’ll ask again, brother: what are you running away from?”
“A betrayal,” I said.
“A lover’s quarrel?” he said, and this time I could hear the disgust.
“No,” I said. “Something bigger. I can’t tell you.” If you hurt him, I will never forgive you. Lena’s words. The betrayal was not all Cillian’s.
Roghan leaned back. “When you didn’t come home when the war started, Gundar, well, he was angry. Betrayal was a word he used, too. I won’t repeat most of what he said; it doesn’t matter now. And for a while I thought the same. But then I started to wonder. You knew more of the world than I did, or Gundar did. Maybe you had your reasons. Maybe, even, you were right.” He eyed me. “You sang a danta at Dun Ceànnar. Heroic deeds, I’ll admit, if not all with sword and axe. You’ve chosen your path, Sorley. But men are just men in the end, not heroes, and men make mistakes.”
He pushed his chair back and stood. “Take care of the boy. Maybe I’ll see you again some day.”
I felt the inevitable sting of tears. “At Gundarstorp, one day, the gods willing,” I said.
Chapter 53
I accepted the coins the Harr offered, slipping them into my belt pouch with a nod of thanks. We’d been here nearly a week, helping with the lambing. “There’s work here any time you want it, Saaren,” he said. “You’re sure you won’t stay?’
“Na,” I said, in the accents of the far north. “I can’t settle, lord. Not yet.”
“Come back when you’ve walked your grief to rest,” he said. “You’ll not be short of work this spring, wherever you go.”
Bjørn waited, holding the pony. The sheepdog crouched at his feet, tongue lolling, her eyes on me. We were half a day from the Sterre; weeks from Dugarstorp. I would send the dog home later today.
Our progress south had been slow, and not just because I was travelling with a nine-year-old boy. Weather and work had restrained us. In my guise as a shepherd and shearer wandering with his son, trying to forget the death of his wife, I needed to accept employment in exchange for food and a bed in barn or byre. We’d been storm-stayed twice, too, waiting out the snow in a hut on a hillside the first time, and a barn the second.
No one, hearing my story, questioned Bjørn’s silence, and as we were both pale-haired and blue-eyed, no one doubted he was my son, either. He’d proven adept with the pony, and quick enough to see how to help when needed, and when he did speak a few whispered words, his accent was close enough to mine not to incite comment. Nor did the privations of our travelling life cause him to complain. A resilient boy. I hoped his brother had the same strength.
We halted at mid-day for a little food. The pony, which carried my shearer’s tools and our other supplies, browsed for grass. We sat on stones that marked the meeting place of the track from the torp we had left this morning and a broad valley running roughly north to south. We’d come up this valley, a week or so earlier.
I unwrapped the offal I’d boiled the night before and tipped it onto the ground, giving the dog permission to eat. She swallowed the meal before looking up at me for her next command. “Down,” I told her. “It’s time,” I said to Bjørn.
He nodded, and crouched to hug the dog, his arms circling its throat. He would miss her, I knew, but we couldn’t take her with us.
When he had let the dog go, I spoke. “Nell. Go home.” She stood, the breeze ruffling her black and white coat. “Home,” I said again. She turned and began to trot north, along the valley floor and the ancient droveway, the wide path along which sheep and cattle had been moved for generations beyond count.
Bjørn watched her for a minute, his eyes dry. “Will she really find her way home?” he asked. “It’s a long way.”
“She’s done it several times,” I told him. “That’s why Harr Dugar chose her to accompany us. The torps will feed her, don’t worry.” I pulled up the pony’s head. “Do you want to ride?”
We reached the guardpost on the Sterre closest to Dun Ceànnar at dusk. In mid-afternoon we’d stopped in a sheltered spot, and with Bjørn’s help I’d cut off most of my beard and trimmed my hair. Gregor would know me. Just before we came into sight of the dyke and ditches, I removed my cloak, adding it to the pony’s burdens. Better it be clear I carried no weapon, even if it meant I shivered.
A shouted command stopped me a distance away. I could see
the silhouettes of two archers on the dyke, bows drawn. “Who are you?”
“A traveller, with news for Lord Gregor, your commander,” I called back. “Tell him this: war in winter sends sorrow soaring.” The code we had decided on: Gregor’s idea, remembering Jordis speaking the words of Halmar’s poem at the Ti’ach so long ago.
“You will wait there,” the soldier said. Bjørn had been walking beside me. I pulled the cloak back off the pony, wrapping it around the two of us. I positioned the pony between us and the steady breeze. Bjørn leaned against me, and together we remained a bowshot’s distance from the border with Linrathe, as the moon rose in the night sky.
I’d had time to think, both over the winter and then walking the long miles south from Dugarstorp. I knew what I had to do, and what I might do afterwards. But before any of that, there was Bjørn. I had to take him to Ruar first.
We’d waited about two hours, I estimated, when a voice called out of the dark. “Come.” We crossed the bridge dropped for us over the ditch and through the guardpost gate, Bjørn stumbling with cold and drowsiness.
“Wait, please,” I said to the soldiers escorting us. I picked up the boy and put him on the pony’s back. “He’s tired.” They didn’t argue. He looked younger than his nine years, short and slight. Something to be used to our advantage.
Gregor met us at the headquarters. “Leave us,” he said to the guards, and nothing to me until we were inside and the door closed. “I’d given you up for dead, Sorley.”
“I wintered north,” I said, moving closer to the fire. “Bjørn, come here.” The boy did as I told him, crouching down and holding his hands towards the flames.
“Who’s this?”
“My son.”
“Didn’t know you had one.”
“Neither did I,” I said, grinning in what I hoped was the right way. “I hadn’t been home since I was eighteen.”
“Torpari born, then?” Gregor asked, pouring ale.
“But a bright lad,” I said. “I’ll find a place for him somewhere.” I’d decided the lie was necessary; even the most loyal officer could let something slip. Only Ruar had to know, for now.
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