by Joyce Holt
The wind howled all night and into the next day. "The North Wind is in foul temper," someone said as they crowded around the hearth. The small hall was too cramped for wrestling or dancing. There was no skald, so people high- and low-born alike took turns with tales and songs and riddles.
One of the men had to keep climbing into the rafters with a long pole to clear the smoke hole as the snow piled up. Jorunn listened to folk wagering how long the storm would last. Five days, from the look of the clouds, said one. Seven, from the number of deer tracks heading to shelter, said another. "This time of year, we always get a four-day storm," put in the freeholder.
Jorunn guessed three, but said nothing. When she had tried to join the riddling, Gyda had silenced her with a glare. Now she merely held up three fingers when Drifa's glance drifted her way.
The woman smiled and shrugged, but when the storm broke on the third day, Drifa gave Jorunn a shrewd look. "You're not a Finn, are you?" she asked.
Jorunn blew a scornful huff. "Nei, not me. Just a cotter who must read the weather or die."
Over the next few days their route climbed high into the mountains. Jorunn's heart climbed, too, to have peaks and ridges once more cradle the world about her. By now, she had added five more lakes to her list. The great dale they followed speared northwestwards, like the dales of home, but these heights reared taller than any in Telemark.
Ketill the grey-eyed sleigh driver told Jorunn about the rugged range just to the north, the highest realm of the Uplands where jotuns dwelled among the crags and glaciers.
Gyda broke in. "Idle tales to pass the time?" she queried.
"Nei, my lady," he said. "All quite true. I've seen their tracks myself."
"I'm not referring to the tales about trolls. I'm referring to your words, and who you speak them to. You're not hoping to curry favor with my new housegirl, are you?"
"Nei, my lady."
"You know she's not free for dallying. I've had enough of that nonsense disrupting my life. She's not for any man until I deem it timely for my own purposes. Do you understand?"
Ketill nodded. "Ja."
Jorunn's cheeks burned as Gyda sank back amid the furs. She'd found one warm voice upon this bone-chilling journey, and now her mistress had dumped icy water over that small comfort. And for Gyda to declare herself the one to choose when Jorunn could make changes in her life—
"I'm not a thrall," Jorunn said once more. "I'm freeborn, and I've already chosen of my own will to keep away from men."
"Don't want Inga's fate, do you?"
"Long before that, I set my own course."
"So you're not as stupid as you look," Gyda said. "What else can you do besides fetch and carry and quote the Lay of Rig?"
All these days in service, and this, the first time Gyda had bothered to learn about her maid. "Herd sheep," Jorunn said. "Pluck wool and card and spin. Forage in the forests."
"Ret flax? Spin linen? Embroider?"
"Nei, Mistress. But I'm good at finding wild herbs and duck eggs."
"Øy, Brynja, what a treasure we have here. A true daggle-tail from the wilds. With the calluses of the callous and lowly, yet the lore of the learned."
Jorunn's cheeks burned. "My mother once served a noble lady," she began, though she bit back Rimhildr's name.
Gyda just sniffed and turned back to her cousin.
* * *
Later that day, the cousins pointed out landmarks they recognized. Even the weary sleigh horses perked their ears. The long dale of Valdres had veered west-northwest, and soon the horses were whinnying joy at their return home.
The procession turned uphill and wound its way toward the beacon of smoke plumes rising towards a darkening sky. Gyda sat forward, letting the furs fall away from her shoulders. A cluster of buildings appeared ahead, clinging to a south-facing slope all mantled with heavy snow, now turning purple with dusk. They had hardly pulled to a stop in the houseyard before Gyda pushed at Jorunn's shoulder. "Out, out, we're here."
Jorunn tumbled out, and her mistress came right behind. Jorunn's heart snagged a beat at a darkshape dashing from the side, but it was only a coal-black hound. Forever haunted she would be by the mystery of the black-cloaked thief. The shaggy dog yapped welcome around Gyda, who squatted down briefly for a snuggle and a lick on her cheek. Two other dogs circled, tongues lolling. The curling plumes of their tails wagged in welcome, a heart-warming sight but for that link in her mind.
A glimpse of black, the only clue to the true thief. Would the unsolved riddle of the stolen brooch gnaw at her the rest of her life? Jorunn shook herself. Folly, folly, nothing but folly.
Gyda straightened. The boldest spisshund gave Jorunn a sniff then leaped up onto the sleigh to greet Brynja. Gyda strode not for the hall that ruled the houseyard but to one of the stave-planked cabins. Jorunn followed, stamping to waken her numb legs.
Gyda unlatched a door and ducked under the low lintel. "Get in, get in," she snapped at Jorunn from a tiny room just inside. "Close and latch the door."
Jorunn fumbled to do so in the dark.
"The first rule here," Gyda said as she took something from a nail on the wall. "Never open both doors at once. Never!" She unlatched another entry which gave way into a large gloomy chamber. "It's me, my darlings," Gyda crooned as she edged into the dim light. "I'm back, Hiss. How do you fare, Shriek?"
Jorunn heard a scuffling as she stepped inside. She shut the door behind her and peered about what seemed to be a stable with close-set slats barring the one window.
Gyda glided forward, still murmuring endearments. At knee-height, atop a crossbar on a pole planted in the middle of the chamber, a shape moved. A bird, larger than a crow. It spread its wings, and Jorunn realized with a lurch it was a hawk, a big hawk. It launched up as if in attack.
She leaped aside with a gasp, but Gyda simply raised her left arm, now strangely misshapen. The hawk sank talons into a padded gauntlet and settled, wings splayed another moment longer before fanning closed against its frame. It made a clucking sound in greeting.
"Hungry, are you? Poor thing. Girl, fetch two slabs of raw meat."
"What? Where?" Jorunn backed off a step as if the perplexing order had been a slap.
"Beef. Raw. Go fetch a double handful, and hurry. My darlings are hungry." Gyda's voice softened as she turned aside. "Hasn't Toli been out to feed you yet? I'll give the lazy lout a good thrashing, I will."
"B-but mistress," Jorunn stammered. "Who do I ask?"
"Anyone tending a cookfire. They'll know what I want."
"I don't know my way around. Which is the cookhouse?"
"I saw no smoke rising from the cookhouse. Just go to the hall. Stop dithering and get to it."
As Jorunn turned, another feathered shape launched itself from a perch high on the wall. With a wind-whistling swipe of wings, the second hawk swooped straight at Jorunn's face, talons spread in attack.
18 – Daggle-Tail
The hawk shrieked.
So did Jorunn as she dropped to one knee in the gravel, shielding her face with one arm, flinching from those knife-sharp talons.
Wings beat just above her head and past, fanning the air into a dusty tempest. In a half-crouch she scuttled to the side.
Gyda whistled and scolded and dodged to block the bird in one corner, then muttered over her shoulder. "Out, now, while I keep her safely away from the door."
Jorunn climbed up from the floor, scrabbled at the latch, slipped through to the narrow entry way, and flung the door shut. "Ja sure, keep the noble hawk safe," she gasped as she straightened her fur-trimmed hat. "What does the poor sparrow matter?" She stood there a moment, panting and heart pounding, until Gyda called out, "I hear you standing there, Daggle-Tail. Get to your task!"
Jorunn eased out into the houseyard, muttering, "Daggle-Tail, Sparrow Maid. I do have a name, you know."
Folk busied about unloading the sleighs and sledges. She caught a glimpse of Ketill at a lop-sided stride, leading two horses into a byr
e. A sleigh shed stood to the side. Next to that was what must be the cookhouse, then three storage huts on stilts, each crowned with an overhanging guest chamber. Beyond the circle of buildings, a stone's throw away, an open-fronted structure stood by itself. Cotters' huts dotted the slopes further up the mountainside.
Two smoke plumes rose from the keel-shaped mound of Gunnarr's hall, not as tall nor nearly so long as any of Harald's manors. Crossed struts rose at each end of the roof, their protruding ends carved into snarling dragon snouts overlooking the houseyard. Skis and poles leaned against the wall of the hall or stood upright nearby, stuck into snowdrifts. Skis aplenty. She must find someone who would sell her a pair, and a sackful of provisions as well.
This winter, or at the start of the next? Jorunn shuddered at the thought of the long journey in store. She recited her list of lakes as she crossed the houseyard, hesitated at the rowan-sprigged doorway, then let herself in.
Through a light smoke haze she could see Gunnarr and Brynja at the high table, talking with a cluster of steading folk. Houseboys set up trestles along the sides of the chamber. Weavings hung on the walls, so many and all overlapping that Jorunn couldn't see any of the planking. Even in this dim light, rich colors stood out from the pale background of the fabric. She gazed in wonder at all the scenes come to life on panel after panel.
Someone carrying a basket jostled past, greeted her as Drifa and started a remark, then gave her a second look clouded with a frown.
Jorunn stammered an apology as she ducked out of the way, edging behind the first roof post. "When entering an unknown hall," she recited to herself as she gazed around, "be watchful, be wary. Whether friends or foes wait therein is never known beforehand." She ran a finger along the pillar's carvings, a pattern of twining branches and leaves polished to a sheen, and gazed up the post to the planking overhead. Even the roof joists bore designs. What Gunnarr's hall lacked in size, it made up for in adornment.
Among the rich stew of scents – herbs and lamp oil and smoking pine-resin – came the aroma of beef boiling. Jorunn shook herself. Gyda was waiting. She searched in vain for a glimpse of Drifa, the one friendly face she might hope to find here, then gritted her teeth. She had managed to fit in at Dondstad, however awkwardly. She could do it at Kvien as well.
She stepped close to the women at the central hearth, who chattered in low voices as they stirred pots and tended beds of coals. She waited for a gap in their stream of talk, but none came, and at last she had to break in. "Excuse me, may I ask you—?"
One woman glanced up and cocked a brow. "Who are you? We're busy here."
"Gyda—" she began.
"Hah! I must be going blind. You're no Gyda."
"I'm serving Gyda now. I'm new. Gyda asks for raw meat—"
"Where's Inga?"
"Ah, vel, she's not, ah—"
"Not what?"
"Not – fit to travel. Meat? Raw meat for Gyda's hawks, be so kind? She sent me."
This cook nudged the next. "Look what Golden-Hair dragged home with her. Trading off maids like they were naught but hair ribbons."
The other women stood up from their work, brushing strands from their eyes or dusting off their hands. One studied the ragged gown Jorunn used for a shawl and said, "Vel, this ribbon's a bit tattered."
Another called out, "Toli! Øy, Toli, did you feed the terrors yet today?"
A boy in a red tunic leaped down from the dais and bounded past the hearth, shoulder-length flaxen hair flying like a mane. "I did, I did," he cried as he passed, "first thing in the morning, but they're always ravenous. Is she out there? Of course she is." He darted out the door, two spisshunds at his heels.
Jorunn gaped after him, then tried again. "Raw meat, be so kind?"
The women bent back to their work. "He's off to fetch some, never fear."
"But fear those talons, girl. Stay well clear."
"Which talons?" a cook chuckled. "Those of the hawk, or those of the mistress?"
"Many thanks," Jorunn said, and set off after the lad in red. Terrors, indeed. Why ever would anyone pen up the terrors of the sky? She waited outside the hawk house until Toli returned from his errand. Kin of Gyda, she supposed him to be, from the lines of his cheek and brow and the golden hue of his hair.
He stared back. "Vel, go on." He waved a hunk of frozen meat at the latch.
Jorunn opened the outer door and went straight to the inner one.
"Hold it, you addle-head!" the lad snapped with the same bite to his voice as Gyda's. "One door at a time. What are you thinking?"
Jorunn grimaced in the dark. What a welcome to Kvien, getting scolded by a youngster. She let him pass through ahead of her.
"Uncle Ormi took Hiss out this morning," Toli told Gyda, "but no luck in the hunt."
While they talked of hawking, Jorunn glanced warily around the shack. There were only the two birds, one several paces away on the graveled floor, ripping at a hunk of meat, the other still using Gyda's arm for a perch as it snatched at tidbits she offered.
"How many this time?" Gyda asked, never taking her gaze from the goshawk on her gauntlet.
"Two for you," the boy said, "and one for Brynja."
Jorunn stared. Two what?
"Who came for Brynja?" Gyda asked.
"That fellow from Vang again. This time he sent a box of spices and a polished brass mirror. She's in there now, giggling over her reflection."
Even in the gloom of the hut, Jorunn could see a smile spread over Gyda's face. "She likes him," the young woman murmured. "I believe such a ship will sail."
Suitors, Jorunn realized as she figured out the kenning. During their travels, with Brynja pouting about Gyda stealing every man's glance, all those complaints had tripped about in light-hearted jabs. This "fellow from Vang" sending costly gifts, it sounded like a wooing in the final stages. Next would come a brother or uncle of the "fellow" to speak with grandfather Gunnarr, and then to make the trek to Dondstad to talk terms with Brynja's father Hadd.
Gyda murmured at the hawk on her arm. It speared another raw morsel from her grasp and clenched it tight with one foot while with hooked beak it tore its dinner to shreds.
"Don't you want to hear about the other two?" Toli asked with a grin, and ducked out of range as Gyda aimed him a swat.
In a dry voice she said, "Øy, I'm so eager." She turned her back on him.
"A messenger with a gift from the king of Raumsdal, and one from the son of a jarl north of Trondelag, who comes with the blessing of great-uncle Eldi. The jarl's son will soon be coming to see for himself. His man hasn't said, but I'll wager he too has gifts to present you."
"I have no need of gifts. I'm not one to be bought."
"Then can I have them? Raumsdal's king sends you a merlin. They must have heard of your love of falconry."
"A merlin!" Gyda scoffed. "Hiss would devour it in a heartbeat, wouldn't you, my lovely?"
"He wanted to settle it here, on a spare perch. I warned him what would happen. It's leashed out in the sledge shed now."
As her eyes grew used to the gloom, Jorunn stared from one hawk to the other. The one on the floor was a falcon, she realized. A large female peregrine. She'd seen them often in the wild. Fierce queens of the sky, shying from none but the eagles. She never imagined they'd settle for life among mankind.
"May as well get it over with," Gyda said. "They'll be pacing like hounds kept penned too long. Water for my hands," she ordered Jorunn, "and a towel."
"Water and towel and friendly words craves one who comes from a journey," Jorunn quoted as she eased through one door then the other and darted off to the hall, hoping one of the pots dangling over the central hearth was wash water and wondering who to ask about a hand cloth. A few stammered requests gave her what she needed, along with more cold stares as folk looked her over. "I too could use a few friendly words," she muttered on her way out.
In the houseyard Jorunn tended her mistress, brushing a feather from her shoulder and a bit of gristle from he
r sleeve, then followed her inside. Still in travel-worn garb, Gyda met the messengers at the fireside. After proper greetings all around, she begged leave to refresh herself after her journeys. Jorunn trailed after her to the far end of the hall. Brynja tossed a smile from her stool at the high table as they passed, and with cheeks glowing turned back to the men and women deep in conversation with Gunnarr.
"Mead," Gyda said to a housegirl carding wool, then ducked into a small chamber with Jorunn on her heels. The traveling chests already sat against one wall beside a larger one, carved and painted, to which Gyda pointed. "The blue gown with embroidery at the neck, and a white yoke-apron."
Jorunn opened the lid and gawked at the layers of fine cloth inside. How many gowns did Gyda own? Did she share with Brynja? Nei, the two maidens weren't the same height or build.
She plucked at the top dress, and felt the calluses on her fingers snag the fabric. She dug down to a blue dress, slid it out and patted the other garments back into place, then helped her mistress change garb.
"Comb out my hair. No braid." Gyda settled on a stool with the mead-cup the woman brought, and heaved a sigh. "Good to be home," she muttered, sipped, and said little else while Jorunn combed out her long silken tresses.
With Brynja beaming so widely at her suitor's gifts and message, Gyda might soon be without a confidante. Silence would settle like a pall of heavy snow. It wouldn't be up to Jorunn to break the stillness, she knew by now. Gyda wanted nothing out of her but quick, quiet obedience.
Jorunn darted glances around the room as she worked. In the light of a fishy-smelling oil lamp, twining figures showed on the door jamb and lintel. Tapestries covered the outer walls, a deep layer of dried reeds carpeted the floor, and sprigs of aromatic herbs hung from a roof beam. A luxuriant bearskin topped a mound of blankets and cushions on the pillared corner bed.
When Drifa appeared at the doorway, Gyda told her, "Tell them I'll be along soon. Girl, fetch me the teakwood casket from the traveling chest." She unlocked the small box Jorunn brought and drew out a string of amber beads. "Now my blue slippers from the shelf."