by Joyce Holt
"Now I know," Jorunn muttered. She found a pail and gathered hot stones from the fireside ring. She juggled bucket and flatbread as she scurried up the ladder.
"What took you so long?" Dagmær said. "Get those blankets warmed up." She snatched the flatbread and ripped into it with her stubby teeth.
"Wait," Jorunn began, "that's my—"
"Do as you're told and don't talk back, you rude thing," Dagmær said through a mouthful, and turned away.
Jorunn gaped after her, then turned and numbly began wrapping and placing the stones.
* * *
The next morning, Dagmær pulled Gyda aside. "Your housegirl has some ailment of the bowels. You'd best dismiss her and find one in better health."
"The rumbles were nothing but hunger," Jorunn said as she shook out furs.
"And she's impertinent," Dagmær added, shooting a glare. "Talking back like that. Did you hear? Crude and barbaric as well. Leaping down from the loft like a ruffian, can you believe it!"
"Mother!" Brynja said, her mouth twisted in exasperation as she tugged on Dagmær's sleeve.
"I don't want her beside me in the night again. Her bowels are sure to let loose and foul everything with illness and stench."
"I was hungry. Someone took what little I'd gotten for supper." Jorunn kept on folding bedding.
"Sassy and rude! Get rid of her."
"Nei, I plan to keep her," Gyda said, voice cool.
Aslaug clucked her tongue, adding to the barrage of scorn. Jorunn threw her a resentful glance, but Gyda's mother was joining Brynja in pulling Dagmær away. "Don't let your poor night spoil the day for the rest of us, Sister," Aslaug scolded.
Jorunn stayed out of the way of the two women, glad they rode the other sleigh, sorry for Ketill who surely bore the brunt of Dagmær's sharp tongue.
She had no chance to spy abroad with the key until a short stop at midmorning. She saw Svana spinning a not-too-lumpy strand of yarn, Ragnvald and Guttorm skimming down a slope, each with one long ski pole steadying their course, Harald still asleep on a pile of brightly colored cushions, Gunnarr speaking to the steward, and Valka in a dim stall, caught in a shaft of grey daylight from a high window. The girl rose from tending to one of the goats that crowded around, and for the first time Jorunn saw her face.
Small dark eyes, close set. A long nose, too long.
Valka turned with a swirl of underskirt made of unjoined panels, and Jorunn gasped. Dangling through a gap in the skirt panels, showing clear as if in arm's reach, unmistakable in the backlight – a tufted tail.
29 – Seen from Afar
Jorunn's fingers tightened on the key until her flesh turned white. Valka, a hulder-maid! Valka, of troll-kind! What was she doing living among Gunnarr's household?
Not searching for a husband from among humankind or she would have cast a glamour of human beauty upon herself. Nei, she went about shrouded in a shawl, slinking away from com-panionship.
Why didn't the goats trample and bleat in panic? "Øy," Jorunn breathed, "just look how they crowd around her knees, begging for a scratch between the horns."
Jorunn arched brows as it all came clear. The flute, the magical flute – of course! Valka had brought the flute from her otherworldly home, using its trylleri to charm the herd.
That was why the goatherd forever lusted after creamy, buttery porridge. Since cattle do not thrive in Svartalfheim, trolls must steal the delights of cream and butter from other worlds.
By now, Valka had tucked her tail under, donned her outer gown, and wrapped up in her shawl. She settled down among the goats and drew out her flute.
Jorunn shook her head. No wonder Valka didn't fear the pig-keeper. It's a marvel she hadn't ripped his arms off. Why did she hold back and play the simpleton? Why did she hide among Gunnarr's folk?
Why had she shown Jorunn that kindness, shielding her from Sverri's attacks? All the sagas portrayed trolls as creatures of greed and sloth and cruelty, seeking only their own pleasure, looking upon stray folk of Midgard as fair prey.
She put aside the key, for the journey went on. Gyda drowsed off at last, but Jorunn couldn't spy back to Kvien without twisting in her seat and rousing her mistress. The creek bed they followed took a turn to the south, so she whispered a look at Svana hauling a bucket of snow, at Oddleif checking snares in the woods, at Inga stranded at Dondstad.
The pregnant housegirl still looked wan. Jorunn saw her nibble a piece of flatbread from the pouch she'd given her. The girl had finally listened to that word of wisdom.
Inga stood in the houseyard at Dondstad, staring at the hall. Jorunn whispered a look at the building. A section of wall was giving way. Not the door. A hatch she hadn't noticed before. Roald came out, stooping low, bearing the leading edge of a bier.
Someone had died. They were using the death door that would soon be hammered closed, so the spirit of the dead could not retrace its path back inside and haunt the living.
Jorunn's heart clutched with dulled grief, remembering the death door at her own ramshackle hut, her father dragging her mother out with rough hands and rougher speech.
Roald's brother Hadd bore the other end of the bier. They came out into the courtyard, and folk gathered around, many of them weeping. The crowd moved away. Jorunn was left staring at the still-gaping death door.
"Show me who died at Dondstad," Jorunn whispered. She drew a sharp breath, then blurted, "Prince Dond, he's dead!"
Brynja sat forward with a cry. "What? What did you say?"
Gyda stirred. "What is it?" she mumbled.
"Nothing," Jorunn squeaked. "I drowsed off. A bad dream, that's all it was. I'm sorry."
"A dreadful dream," Brynja said with a keen in her voice. "Don't say such things!"
Gyda growled her displeasure, kicked Jorunn's shin, and shifted about. "Can't keep your mouth shut, can you, even when you sleep!"
Jorunn pocketed the magic key and sat back. She no longer doubted what it showed her. It had proved true with Ragnvald and Guttorm, and with Sverri whose guilt had stabbed him deeper than her words had. Valka was a troll.
And Prince Dond was dead.
* * *
At their midafternoon stop, Brynja's mother ranted with gusto, complaining about the hard sleigh seat, her legs falling asleep, the snow clod that struck her in the face from the clopping of horse hooves. "How long must we suffer these indignities?" she moaned. "The mountains just go on forever!"
"We've crossed over the pass," Jorunn said, trying to ease the woman's fretfulness.
"How would you know?" Dagmær snapped, glaring down her nose.
Jorunn shrugged. "The lay of the land, the way side valleys feed into our route."
"What valleys?"
"The smaller creeks that flow into the one we travel upon. See? They angle like arrows pointing—"
Dagmær leaned close, looming like a glacier about to calve. "Don't babble at me, girl. Mind your tongue or I'll have you thrashed." She whirled and swept away. "Impertinent wench! Gyda, why must you coddle this miserable wretch? For Frigg's sake, teach her her place! Better yet, cast her off!"
Coddle? Jorunn hunched against the attack. She'd only been trying to help. But Dagmær couldn't bear to have her ignorance come to light.
More warily than before Jorunn snatched a few glances through the key. She'd had shocks a-plenty already, more than enough for one day. Svana looked bright-eyed, and green-capped Oddleif, as merry as ever. The folk at Dondstad wore glum expressions.
Gunnarr and Lingormr, deep in talk, stood on a high rampart overlooking the dale.
Toli fed the goshawk and peregrine.
Valka looked her old self, a shawl-wrapped huddle in a dim goat shed.
Ragnvald and Guttorm skied with more vigor in the stride, for they no longer sailed down steep inclines. The land had leveled out around them. They had come to coastal lowlands.
Jorunn counted the days. Ja, they'd had three days of skiing at a warrior's pace. Would Harald be roaming his other holdings
, or waiting there in Ringerike for their return?
* * *
Lingormr arranged shelter for the night in the hall of a bonde of meager means. Dagmær did not have to climb a ladder to a loft, but she found other shortcomings to bemoan. The ale was weak. The butter was turning rancid. There was only one corner bed with cushions.
"I'll not have that ill-bellied wretch in bed with us," Dagmær said, glowering at Jorunn.
Gyda rolled her eyes. "There's not room for all the housegirls anyway. You. There." She pointed Jorunn to join two other maidservants on the rush-covered floor nearby.
Glad to keep her distance, Jorunn took a sleigh rug to serve as a blanket and curled up next to the housegirls in such a way as to face east. When everyone else had fallen deep in slumber, she whispered into the key, "Show me Ragnvald."
He was still skiing, by the light of a torch. Going on after dark – he must be close to his goal. Jorunn propped her hand in place and kept on gazing. Was this like the eyesight of Odin's eagle who kept watch over all the worlds from his perch high up the World Tree? Did the eagle ever tire of spying on unending toils far below?
A glint of snot appeared at the tip of Ragnvald's nose. She saw his nostrils flare in snuffles, twitching as he skimmed along. At last he twisted the arm with which he wielded the torch and wiped his nose on his sleeve – alongside several other frozen streaks. Øy, the joys of skiing into the wind.
Once he wavered in his stride. Twice he spat aside. Guttorm appeared beyond him, and the two spoke briefly.
Then their expressions changed, their glances became sharp, alert. They slowed, appeared to call out, cast their guttering torches to the ground. Armed men milled about, ushering them further. The plank walls of buildings flowed past in the background, as if the world was a river rushing past Ragnvald and Guttorm, who shifted foot-to-foot upon an islet.
All through the first watch of the night, Jorunn had followed their progress at a distance, yet she hadn't needed to move the key more than a hair's breadth. Amazing, she thought. Up close, she would need to turn to keep a swift skier in sight. But this prey, so far away, in spite of all their labors had covered only a tiny arc in her view of the wide world.
The men passed through a doorway. She had to squint for a moment, for the scene blazed with torchlight and lamplight and flames in a long central hearth. Jorunn held her breath as Guttorm took the lead, striding up to a dais with its high table and huge carven seat.
"Show me the one to whom Guttorm speaks," she whispered.
It was Harald. He appeared to be giving welcome to his emissaries. The dark lines of his brow arced and straightened and knitted with the twists and turns of conversation.
"Closer!" Jorunn begged, then turned her ear to listen past the sudden thudding of her heart.
"It appearsss," came Guttorm's voice like the hiss of steam from a pot, "that Gunnarr exsspected trouble from sssome quarter. Hisss men outnumbered usss thhhree to one. We could not take her by forccce."
Jorunn filtered out the odd sounds of their voices as they told about King Eirikr's mildly-worded rejection of their offer of treaty, and about their pre-dawn bride-stealing approach to Kvien.
"There's no way Gunnarr could have known our plans," Ragnvald added in a vexed tone. "We slipped past with utmost stealth, as you ordered."
Guttorm spoke. "There's been trouble with trolls, he said."
Harald harrumphed. "A flaw in my scheme we could not have foreseen. Tell me Gunnarr's words."
"It was the maiden herself who turned down your offer, Lord."
"The maiden? Gyda?"
"Ja, Lord," Ragnvald said, his voice sounding wary. "Gunnarr said it was her choice to make and he would not try to reason with her more."
"Not that he had chance to reason with her at all," someone said.
"In truth?" Harald's chair creaked. He must have changed his posture. "She was that forward? What precisely did the maiden say?"
Ragnvald hemmed. "I believe it was the word 'concubine' that did not sit well with her, Lord."
Harald's chair creaked again. "Her words," he said again with a stern edge to his voice.
"Ah, her words," Ragnvald repeated. He cleared his throat. "Something about not throwing herself away, and middling size kingdoms along the coast—"
"Petty chieftains with ragtag hosts," the other voice chipped in.
Harald's voice came crisp and even. "Her exact words, be so kind."
Ragnvald let out a tight breath. "She said, and I quote, 'I will take no husband but the man who forges all the Nord Way into one mighty nation.' My Lord."
A clamor arose. "Haughty girl!"
"Such impudence!"
"The gall!"
"Is she blind? Who could ask for a higher station!"
Jorunn stole a glance.
Harald's face looked like carven stone. The tumult died down as he sat there, unmoving. The corner of his mouth quirked. The dark line of his brow knit tighter.
Ragnvald took a step back.
When Jorunn saw Harald draw breath, she turned her ear to the key.
"Forge all the Nord Way," Harald said at last, "into one mighty nation. Why did I never think of such a scheme? Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant!" The chair gave a louder creak, and there came the sound of pacing on the dais. "I have eight kingdoms under my rule already. Like eight oars in a fishing boat. Why not go for more? Why not build a warship like none seen before in the North?"
Cheers sounded, and the stomping of feet, the clapping of hands, the whole hall resounding until the sound at Jorunn's ear mushed into one muddy buzz.
The din died down.
Harald's voice rose again. "I vow," he cried, and even through the key Jorunn could hear echoes ringing from rafters. "So help me Freyr and Njord and Almighty Odin, I vow I shall not clip nor comb my hair until I have won the throne of every kingdom along the Nord Way!"
Again the key thrummed with distant clamor.
Jorunn gaped into the darkness. What had she just heard? A change in the world, a landslide, an avalanche that would shake every fjell and dale in the North!
30 – Battle Plans
Jorunn listened to Harald's counsel long into the night. His advisers named all the petty kings who ruled the lands of the Nord Way, the coasts of that long serrated waterway in the shape of a giant barbed fishhook. Harald already held the point of the hook – the great Vik – and the downward slope from the point, but other realms lay around the southern bend and up the fjord-riddled west coast, north and north and further north into lands of everlasting ice.
Hordaland among them. The kingdom of Gyda's birth.
Harald's voice burned hotter with visions of conquest. He called for the tally of warriors who could rally within five days, how far abroad the messengers could range to gather a force that quickly.
Ragnvald thought they should head south for Agder, the realm Harald's father once claimed.
Guttorm argued that such sea voyages should wait for summer. "If you want to move now," he said, "make use of the frozen riverways and speed north overland." Up through Gudbrandsdal, over the shoulders of Dovre Fjell, down to the northernmost reaches of the western coast.
Harald said nothing about raging up Valdres to strike at Kvien. He did not mention Gyda's name. Grand battle plans seemed to have pushed from his mind all thought of lovely maidens. His yearning had turned from golden tresses and the fairest face in all the north to golden crowns and the fair taste of triumph.
Jorunn wrapped fingers around the key. "What have you done, Gyda?" she whispered into the dark.
Another jolt shook her. There were no hosts of warriors imperiling the path home to Morgedal, after all. She could have broken free. She could have headed back for Svana's sake. For a second time now, Gyda's tumultuous life was sweeping Jorunn far, far away.
"Coward!" she berated herself. "I should have braved the journey down from Kvien, following my string of lakes. Already a lengthy one, and now, growing longer every day!"
Should she creep outside and steal a pair of skis? But she had no provisions ready for such a grueling trek. It meant death to strike out on her own.
"When we return to Kvien," she mouthed into the dark, "I must start gathering food. Crisp flatbreads. Dried meat. A bag of oats, if nothing more." She tucked the key away. "Gather food, and gird myself to go." Heart still aching with the missed chance, she sank into an uneasy sleep.
The next day the riverbed began to swoop in falls and rapids so sharp that even the heavy mantle of snow could not smooth the way. They left the iceway, instead jigging overland in switchbacks down the wooded hillsides. Dagmær shrieked at the sleigh's each swerve and tilt as the party descended the steep western slopes. All day the land dropped before them. Jorunn felt as if they were falling off the edge of the world.
At last their plummeting descent ended at the head of a fjord on a narrow foot of settled land, one vik of myriads along the jagged coastline of the Nord Way. With a sheltered harbor, a stretch of fields to till along the shore, and many high pastures for summer grazing, a vik might hold a simple log-built cot or a grand mead-hall. Here, a bonde ruled over a modest settlement with several outbuildings. Two slim longships nestled in the still waters side by side like mated swans. A fat-bellied vessel bobbed further out in the fjord. Folk streamed from the mead-hall to greet Lingormr's procession of sleighs, sledges and skiers.
Jorunn scrambled out first. As she reached a helping hand to her mistress, she stumbled and nearly dragged Gyda down with her when someone bumped into her from behind.
"Watch your step!" cried Dagmær, staggering from her own dismount. "Clumsy oaf!"
Jorunn steadied herself and Gyda, hiding a glare. What choice did she have but to suffer the preposterous abuse.
"Now sister," Aslaug murmured. "Don't fret so. All will soon be set to rights. A warm hall welcomes us, and feasting."