by Joyce Holt
"What else do you expect?" Gyda asked. "That's our fate, to seal treaties for our fathers. At least my father has promised me a voice in choosing which one from the clamor of suitors, so I'll be able to pursue my own goals as well as his. Dear Papa. He knows how picky I intend to be."
Brynja narrowed her eyes at the wry note in Gyda's voice. "Picky?"
"He thinks it entertaining when I ask a suitor what he knows about Ludvig the Stammerer. They always gape at me, the poor ignorant lambs, and do their own stammering."
"Ludvig who? Want me to stammer for your amusement?"
"Louis, King of Aquitaine."
"One of your suitors?"
"Nei! Louis rules among the Franks, far away across the sea and beyond the nether-lands."
Jorunn had never heard of any nether-lands, other than the Nether Plains, the world of dwarves, but Gyda seemed to speak of some kingdom here in mankind's realm.
Brynja frowned. "So why do you ask your suitors about some faraway Ludvig?"
Gyda ran a hand along her finished braids, then turned her gaze back to her cousin. "Did you enjoy the wine tonight?"
Brynja pulled back. "I did. What has that to do with—"
"That wine came from Aquitaine, where the Franks have a hunger for northern pelts, of bear and wolf and badger."
"So?"
Gyda waved an impatient hand at Brynja. "Harald couldn't riddle that either, nor did he care when I told him the answer. Trade! Not raiding and pillaging, but trade, and on a grand scale. Profit and wealth to fund the building of a great empire, rather than these measly little petty kingdoms along the coast. He thought at first I wanted another horn of wine, then with talk of trade, that I was trying to wheedle a gift of silk." She sighed, and a forlorn longing riddled her words. "He's not the one for me, I fear."
"Have you told him so?"
"We'll be leaving in the morning, and I won't be speaking to him," Gyda said, voice gruff, "so there's no need to put it into words."
Brynja pouted. "He didn't look at me once all evening. I may as well have been an ugly thrall, for all he cared." She tossed a glance at Jorunn, then turned to make some bidding of Drifa.
"I might be ugly, and plain as a sparrow, but I'm not a thrall," Jorunn whispered.
* * *
In the morning, Gyda complained of a crick in her neck. When the others went to the high table to break their fast, she sent Jorunn with orders to fetch hot porridge – and a bag of cold rocks for a compress to ease the stiffness. "If they ask," she told Brynja, "tell them I will make my farewells when we're ready to set out."
Brynja brightened at the chance to shine on her own, and swept out with a bold swish of her skirts. Jorunn brought porridge and cold stones, though when she offered them, Gyda waved off the bag of rocks and beckoned imperiously with her comb.
As Jorunn combed out those golden tresses, she mused over Gyda's purposes. Could it be counted as a generous move for the king's daughter to step aside, when she had already sampled the suitor's attention and found it lacking?
Still, it showed a glimmer of compassion to dim her own beacon. And to stop baiting the fish she no longer meant to catch. Two ways one could look at it, Jorunn supposed while she rebraided her mistress' hair.
When Gunnarr's summons came, and his men appeared to carry the cousins' baggage, Jorunn snugged down her fur-trimmed hat and followed her mistress out to the dawn-lit houseyard, her old gown still serving as shawl.
Gyda's step faltered. At the sight that met them, her brow tightened and her lips went thin. About the sleighs and sledges ranged Harald and several of his men, already geared up with skis and torches to accompany the travelers.
A broad grin spread over Harald's face, and he skidded to meet Gyda. "Feeling better, I'm hoping?" At her nod, he went on. "Your path runs through my kingdoms for two days' journey. I beg you to allow me to host you at my manors along the way."
"There's no need," she began, but he cut her off.
"We were due to head north, anyway, continuing to collect winter tribute. And how better to spend our skatt than hosting the daughter of Hordaland's king? You didn't tell me last evening you were of noble blood."
Jorunn saw a pained look flit across Gyda's face.
"I'm told it's not wise to boast of royal blood while traveling," the young woman said. "My grandfather says we'd need to double our escort, and scout for ambushes."
"I will gladly see to doubling your numbers until we reach the border of my realm." He turned and called, "Ragnvald! Is all in readiness?"
A stocky man waved back. To Jorunn, the brown-garbed fellow looked like a tree stump against the snow, with ruddy wind-burned cheeks, and hair the same dull hue as his cloak and leggings.
Harald skidded aside to speak with the steward of Skiringssal. Gyda let out a grumbling sigh, motioned Jorunn to mount the sleigh and prepare the furs, then crossed the houseyard to join Brynja in bidding Hadd farewell.
Harald skied beside the sleigh most of the day, on Gyda's side, of course. He spoke across Jorunn, who sat at the outside, shielding her mistress from drafts. She hunkered down out of his way as he pointed out the lands of jarls who owed him allegiance, and told of local folklore. A nisse dwelt in this hollow oak. A fossegrim haunted that waterfall. Tusse-folk often danced by moonlight on the hill to the left.
Ragnvald flanked his lord, and come full daylight, Jorunn saw that his eyes were as brown as the rest of him. He had a husky voice that made her think of rough tree bark. Ragnvald the Treetrunk, she named him in the saga she meant to tell Svana on her return.
From time to time Harald's uncle Guttorm joined them. The older man had a horsey face – large teeth and slack lips beneath a shaggy mustache. His gaze seemed glazed. Was this the same war leader Gyda had called cunning? He looked like a fool.
"Vel," Jorunn muttered in her furs, "Gyda thinks me a fool, and I'd hope to believe otherwise. Like they say, shrewd is he who hides his thoughts, and masters his manners among men."
Wherever they went, folk greeted Harald as warmly as ever the Morgedalings did Prince Dond. There were many offers of hospitality along the way. One youth darted out and gave his king a wooden spoon, the handle intricately carved.
"An odd way of gathering skatt," Gyda said when Harald skied back to sleigh side.
"Øy, this isn't tribute," he said. "That, they pay through their jarls. This is just a friendly gift, which I, in turn, shall bestow upon you, lovely daughter of the western fjords." He flourished a bow without breaking the rhythm of his stride.
"Flatterer." Gyda gave him a cool smile as she took the spoon.
Jorunn could see from the twitch of lips and the knitting of brow how emotions warred within her mistress. Harald's uncle may have won him these lands, Jorunn thought, but it was his own charm that sealed them his in the hearts of his people.
But that charm had little power over one haughty king's daughter who shone with a fierce light of her own. Jorunn could feel Gyda's anger growing as Harald kept pressing for banter about feasting and music and local legends. Her responses grew colder and shorter.
They stayed that night in a grand hall at Borre. This manor overlooked rich farmland and a saltwater fjord, Harald said, though by torchlight the travelers saw only the closest scenery. Nearby lay burial grounds for kings of the last two hundred years. "My father Halfdan as well," Harald said. "Or part of him. Folk all over his realm wanted to claim his body for a mound, so they divided him into four parts. I believe it's his feet and legs we have here."
Jorunn stared at the young nobleman, wondering if he jested, but there was no twinkle in his eye. His brows sat straight and solemn.
"I hope they trimmed his toenails to keep him in the grave," Gyda said in a dry tone, "else you'd have rotting legs hopping about, haunting the poor folk of Borre."
Brynja giggled.
Jorunn shuddered. Not a thing to joke about. Had Svana begun piling stones on their mother's grave? she wondered. She had promised to hurry back soon and h
elp, but that mound would be long in the building. "I will come back, Svana," she whispered amid the clamor of the king's hall.
During the feast, Harald's skald sang the Lay of Rig at Gyda's request. Perhaps Jorunn's mention of Kon Ungr and the crow had left her in mind of it. Odin once descended from Asgard to travel the world of men, chanted the skald. He took upon himself the traveling name of Rig as he visited lowly huts, sturdy log houses, and lofty halls. At each dwelling he took the visitor's right to sleep with the woman of the house, and months later were born Thrall, Karl, and the noble Jarl, each in turn. When the song touched on the daughters of Thrall – Lumpy-Leggy, Tatter-Coat, Daggle-Tail – Jorunn caught Gyda glancing her way.
"I am not a thrall," she said, this time just loud enough for her mistress to hear.
Gyda arched one brow and sniffed, then turned back to the skald who went on about Karl, the freeman.
After the feast, Gyda handed off the new wooden spoon to be cleaned. As she wiped the scooped end, Jorunn studied the carving, intrigued. Snarling animal heads glared with huge eyes at each other, while the beasts' bodies intertwined, bending at angles around the handle. Paws gripped at body parts, and she had to trace to find whether each beast clawed at itself or at its foe.
She tucked the spoon into one of Gyda's traveling chests, thinking of the crude figures Oddleif liked to carve out of bits of spruce. Wouldn't his eyes pop to see such a clever piece!
Jorunn returned to find the skald singing a saga about a prince befriending a hulder-lad who had come adventuring in the world of mankind. The prince saved the young troll from a mob blaming him for sickness among the herds, and together they journeyed home to Dovre Fjell. In gratitude for the lad's rescue, his great-great-grandmother, queen of the jotuns, offered to foster the prince. But he did not wish to linger even a short while in her otherworldly realm, for then he would lose many years among his kindred in the world of men.
Brynja turned to Drifa. "I don't understand," she whispered.
"The old tales," her housegirl replied, voice low. "Those who eat or drink in the Otherworld return to Midgard only to find many winters have fled past."
The prince begged, the skald went on, for any reward other than taking fosterage among the trolls. The jotun queen relented. She granted him a simple gift, a bit of trylleri, the knack of seeing deep into the hearts of his fellows.
"Have you heard this saga before?" Harald asked the cousins after the ending verse.
"Nei," Brynja said for the two of them. "Was it crafted by your skald? He seemed quite pleased with himself as he sang."
"Ja, it was." Harald gave a broad smile. One brow peaked with mischief.
"He did not give the prince a name."
"I asked him to leave the hero nameless for now. After I'm gone, I'm sure it will creep in where it belongs."
Gyda's mouth pursed, but she said nothing.
"You?" Brynja said, eyes wide. "How much of it is true?"
"I did indeed befriend a hulder-lad, when we both were young. We loved to tramp the wilds together." His eyes glittered with humor, dancing his gaze about the room.
"You saved him from a mob?"
"I did. He wasn't to blame for the cattle. Trolls have little magic other than glamour, fooling the eyes of mankind. We think it was a nisse who made all the cows go dry."
"Are you sure he was a troll?" Brynja asked, cocking her head.
Harald grinned and leaned back in his chair. "He let the illusion drop once – while it was just the two of us, hunting a fox by moonlight. Little beady eyes, a nose like a pan handle, hardly any chin. I tripped over my own snowshoes in terror. He laughed till he fell over, and then I saw his tail for the first time."
"Truly like a cow's?"
"Tufted at the tip, and all. He kept it well tucked up when he slipped in and out of my father's steading, and with the glamour, made himself look no uglier than my uncle there." He winked at Guttorm then shot a glance at Gyda, who wore a look of bored disinterest.
"A wintertime hunt, was it?" asked Brynja.
"Ja. Never saw my hulder-friend in summertime. Just too bright, he said. Some hulder-youths learn to bear it, but he couldn't stay under the open sky long past dawn, and only on cloudy days at that."
"And you met his great-great-grandmother? Trolls that live that long—"
"Grow tall as a birch tree. Ja, she was a jotun, giant among trolls. Careful not to step on me. A kindly old soul."
"A jotun, kindly? Ha!" Gyda huffed.
"Was that part true," Brynja asked, "about her granting you a knack?"
"Perhaps." Harald grinned. He rose from his seat and hitched his belt.
"Øy, my lord, do not leave it at that," Brynja said. Her stubby nose wrinkled in her plea.
"Leave I must, for a step out of doors. Too much mead and wine, I'm afraid." He swaggered away.
Jorunn watched him go, then sneaked a peek at Gyda's face. Her mistress had mastered a glamour of disinterest, but Jorunn saw the flick of her eyes, a sidewise glance at Harald leaving.
"Trickery," Jorunn murmured. "Trying to tease you into wanting to hear more."
"Perhaps," Gyda said, then whipped back to herself and glared down her nose at Jorunn. "Don't be thinking to give advice to your betters," she snapped, her scorn stinging like a lash. "Remember your place."
The skald struck up a lively tune. Someone joined in, piping on a sheep bone whistle. Near the central hearth, folk had cleared away trestles and benches, and a young man danced alone at a furious pace while his fellows clapped and hooted.
The halling dance! Jorunn realized as the youth leaped, kicking high, wheeling heels over head. She hid a smile as she watched the men compete to see who could strike highest in those flying tumbles. Wouldn't Oddleif grin with delight to see such a sight!
Gyda gazed on with arms folded, hands clasping her own elbows – just like the fierce gripping beasts carved on the spoon. She wasn't snarling, but neither did she smile, not even when Harald took a turn at the frantic dance.
He returned to the high table, breathing hard and grinning, but his smile faded before long. Gyda would not carry a conversation with him, no matter what topic he tried. "My head aches," she said at last, excusing herself for the evening.
Jorunn slid into step behind her mistress, but not before catching sight of Harald’s face. One brow dipped, the other cocked, like the wings of an eagle heeling over on the wind, ready to slice a new path to its prey.
15 – Spindle in the Branches
Oddleif followed the sound of weeping into the woods behind Jorunn's hut. He found Svana crouched beneath a pine, face buried in her hands. "What is it?" he whispered, glancing about.
No doubt about the cause of her troubles. Her father, Knut. The sour odor of ale still hung on the air. "Did he beat you again?"
Svana glanced up, blinking away the tears. "Nei." She gulped. "I told him the barley barrel was empty. Told him I was hungry. He says, he says—" She sniffed. "He says I can eat after I trade a skein of yarn for grain, and not a moment sooner. And then he scattered my bag of wool and threw my spindle into the branches." She pointed up. "Out of reach. And I'm so hungry!"
Oddleif gazed up. The spindle had caught in a network of dead twigs on the underside of a bough. He grinned. "Hum me a halling tune, and I'll kick it down!"
Svana smiled through her tears. "It's too high!"
"You haven't seen me dance yet." But she was right. His kicks fell short. The two of them took turns lobbing snowballs into the branches, laughing at the spray of ice pellets when the balls shattered in the twigs. One lucky aim finally brought the spindle down.
Oddleif snatched it up and presented it to Svana with a bow. "Now you may spin your wool into barley, my lady," he proclaimed in solemn voice.
She giggled. "If only it were so simple as that." Her stomach growled like a wild beast.
"I've a bit of dried fish to tame that wolf." Oddleif drew a hunk from his pouch and broke it in two. "A feast to last till your sp
inning is done."
16 – Ugly-Glamour
Morning broke at Borre. Jorunn tended Gyda's needs and served her at the king's table, laden with bowls of buttery porridge and platters of fresh lake trout. She saw her mistress draw Gunnarr aside right after firstfare. Gyda's chin tilted in that proud manner she had, and her hand flicked in a dash of irritation.
When they set out on this second day of travel, grandfather Gunnarr took to skis and engaged Harald in questions about their route. The party traveled by land, skirting the saltwater fjords of what they called the great Vik. Jorunn craned her neck to catch her first glimpse of the sea. There was a far shore, not too distant, and several islands breaking up the view. The ice was rumpled and rough, not smooth like lake ice, and gave way further out to open water, dark and choppy.
Many settlements scattered about these low hills. The great Vik provided many lesser viks, sheltered coves where seamen would overwinter – so Jorunn learned from snatches of conversation she overheard.
Harald called a short halt at his manor in Drafn for the midday meal. Gyda deftly switched places with Brynja at the table, the better to escape Harald's scrutiny, and paid all her attention to her food. When they set out again, they left the treacherous half-frozen saltwater fjords behind and once more took to freshwater iceways, speeding their travel inland.
Harald again took up position alongside the women's sleigh. Gunnarr had returned to the second sleigh, stiff from the morning's trek and leaving Gyda without his intervention. She made only short replies to the king's high-spirited words.
Jorunn couldn't help but see the perplexed look grow on the young man's face throughout the afternoon.
Brynja leaned forward to answer some of his questions, and laughed at his jokes.
Eventually Guttorm the Horse-Face skied up to join his nephew, and the two men fell back, discussing matters of the realm.
A cloud of breath marked Gyda's long sigh. "There are days," she muttered, "when I wish for ugly-glamour so I could walk around without having people fawn all over me."