Erik clapped Snorri on the back. ‘Have they given you an idea for a song, skalder boy?’
Snorri smiled, as though the idea was ridiculous. He didn’t even look at Hekja and Hikki as he shook his head. ‘I make songs about heroes, not thralls.’
‘And your heroes are all men,’ said Freydis.
Snorri nodded, his hand still on Snarf’s head, fondling the big dog’s ears. ‘Of course. Heroes like your father, finding a new land, and your brother, sailing to unknown Vinland and returning.’
Freydis looked out at the ocean for a moment, and was silent.
‘Woof,’ said Snarf, sniffing at Snorri’s pouch again.
Erik looked pleased at being called a hero. He slapped Snorri on the back again, so hard he nearly jolted him into the fiord. ‘By thunder, that was well said, boy,’ he cried. ‘Come and see how heroes feast this afternoon and you can give us your song. And you thralls too.’ Erik turned to Hikki and Hekja, and tapped them with his stick. ‘You can come and listen to his chant, in honour of your run.’
‘Woof,’ said Snarf, as though he could smell the meat already.
But first there was the milk to churn. Feast or no feast, there were jobs that must be done. Gudrun’s hands were twisted with arthritis nowadays, so she was grateful for the help with the butter and she needed a hand lifting the cheese stones26 too.
But now across the fields came the smell of smoke, and laughter. The feast was ready. Gudrun sat back on the butter stool, and looked at Hekja, weilding the butter paddle fiercely like she was trying to paddle life itself into shape. ‘You want to go to the feast?’ she asked.
Hekja nodded.
Gudrun sighed. ‘Be careful, child. The men will have drunk a lot—and they are men.’
Hekja lifted her chin. ‘There is no way I will forget that,’ she said softly. ‘I wouldn’t let any Norseman touch me.’
‘You may not get a choice,’ said Gudrun dryly.
‘I can outrun them,’ declared Hekja. ‘Like I did before.’
Gudrun looked shocked for a moment. Then she shook her head. ‘A thrall takes what is handed out to her.’
She shook her head as Hekja shrugged. ‘No, child, I am quite serious. If a master wants you, you can’t stop him. If you try—if you run—it will be the worse for you. A master can chop your hand off, or kill you if that is his pleasure. The only way for a thrall to be safe is to make sure she stays out of the way, especially when the drink flows freely. Why do you think the mistress hasn’t given you a good dress for the feast?’
Hekja stared at her. Gudrun nodded. ‘The mistress is wise. In that dress you look like a child, not a woman. The men will go for better game than a barbarian who’s dressed in tatters. But you take care. I knew a girl once…’ Gudrun bit her lip.
‘What girl?’ demanded Hekja.
‘Dear girl, I tell you these things only so you will be careful. She was a thrall, from Ireland, when the old mistress was alive. She had a baby, and who the father was no one knew, or cared, except its mother. But winter was coming, and food was short. So one night the mistress ordered the baby taken out and left on the rocks.’
Hekja stared. ‘What happened to it?’
‘It died,’ said Gudrun simply. ‘And its mother cast herself off the cliff, down by Erik’s farm. See, you can see the spot over there, by that twisted tree. And no one cared, for she was just a thrall.’
Hekja lifted her chin. She whistled softly. Snarf came up to her and she hugged him close. ‘I am only a thrall in their eyes, not in mine,’ she declared defiantly.
Gudrun looked worried. But she only said, ‘Try not to get noticed.’
Hekja crossed the fields. She wasn’t sure why she was going—Gudrun’s words had frightened her, even though she had refused to show it, and the noise and strangers laughing held no attraction.
‘I will only stay a little time,’ she promised herself. ‘Then I will sneak back.’
The feast was held outdoors. Big as Erik’s house was, so many people had come from farms up and down the coast for this feast that no house could have held them all.
So the sheep had been moved from a field near the farmhouse, and great fires of driftwood lit there, with whale oil to keep them burning well. Two giant bears were roasting and walrus and reindeer, with great stone platters of wheat bread to soak up their juices. The traders had brought the wheat, for none grew in Greenland. It was their gift for the feast.
There were trestles of other food too—big stone pots of pickled cod tongues and oat cream puddings with onions and sorrel, which were plants the settlers had brought from Iceland, and dishes of buttered angelica and rose root, that grew naturally in Greenland. There were fat ducks stuffed with berries and fish stewed with cream; fermented whale liver, and fresh whale steaks; barrels of barley beer and mead and big stone jugs of buttermilk that had been cooling in the ice-flecked stream, and skyr too.
All the benches had been brought out as well as Erik’s great carved chair, and rocks had been brought up and covered with sheepskins for people to sit on.
No one noticed as Hekja crept up to pick some scraps from a reindeer carcass, stripped of its best meat now and pushed away from the fires, so it didn’t scorch. The visitors all carried their own knives to cut the meat but Hekja didn’t have one. But there were spare knives on the tables, as well as long spoons for scooping out the marrow from the bones.
Hekja sliced off some scraps and laid them on a slab of bread, then handed a chunk of meat to Snarf. Snorri the Skald glanced at her. He frowned, as though wondering what thrall had the impudence to help herself to food at the feast. Then he must have recognised her as the runner, for he said nothing, but kept chatting to the girl at his side. It was one of Leif’s daughters, with gold and brass at her wrists and throat. She had her grandfather’s bright hair and a look of softness in her eyes, from her mother perhaps, thought Hekja, as there was no softness in Erik, Leif or Freydis, or Thorstein either. She overheard two women talking and nodding at the couple as they ate their meat.
‘It would be a grand match for her. His family has great lands in Norway, so they say.’
The other nodded. ‘Maybe the lad would like to mix his blood with that of heroes!’ They laughed together, but Hekja could see that they were half serious.
Hikki was sitting at the back of the crowd with a big hunk of meat on a slab of bread. He raised a hand to Hekja and she slipped across and sat next to him, grateful for a friendly smile.
Hekja sat beside him, on the ground, not on a bench. The noise and crowds and laughter frightened her a little, as did the men who had drunk too much beer or mead or skyr. The women kept the men’s drinking horns full and, as no horn could be put down or it would fall over, it was easier to drain it in one gulp and then call for more. The field was full of shouting and yelling, and already there was a fight, with onlookers cheering the men on.
Suddenly she heard a voice that she remembered. She peered through the wool-clad legs. There was the man Finnbogi, watching the fight, tearing at a hunk of meat with one hand, his ale horn in the other.
‘Into him!’ he laughed, as one man threw another over his shoulder, then pounded his face till he cried for it to stop.
Hekja tensed, and hid the trembling of her hand in Snarf’s fur. She forced herself to look at other things—the fire sparks streaming to the sky, the girls and women splendid in their brightest scarves, wearing their best necklaces, bangles and brooches. Even Erik’s serving thralls had clean aprons on and coloured scarves, although theirs were wool, not silk.
All at once Hekja was conscious of her tattered dress, so short you could see her knees now, and her bare feet hard and callused instead of in soft boots.
Suddenly Erik yelled, ‘Quiet!’ He banged his great stick three times on the ground.
The noise hushed. Bright Eyes, his dog, sat up straight, as though to say, ‘Pay attention to my master!’ People moved closer to Erik’s chair, forming a circle around it. All that could
be heard were hens muttering indignantly and a calf lowing in the distance for its mother, as the people sat in silence.
‘We have been honoured,’ cried Erik, ‘by a visit from our good friends.’ He gestured to the traders. ‘May they return to us often, by thunder, with good profit to us all!’
The crowd roared their approval. Erik banged his stick again. ‘But we have another honour here tonight! Silence for the skald!’
The young man walked into the circle. His sea-stained clothes were gone. In their place were a silken tunic trimmed with fur that looked as soft as snow, and a blue cloak embellished with gems all down the edges. His cloak pin and rings shone in the sunlight and the handle of his dagger was carved and bejewelled, and his yellow hair was tied back with a bronze clip. He held himself proudly. They all do, thought Hekja, half admiring, half resentful, every person in this land, except the thralls. But this youth looked as though from birth he had known that he was heir to great estates.
Even the men who had been fighting were silent now.
The skald lifted his head to the sky for a moment, then began to sing:
‘A song in praise,
Of heroes I raise,
Of danger and death,
And the ocean’s great depth.
‘But one man defied them,
Though they would destroy him,
For courage fills sails,
With more force than the wind.’
The great crowd was silent. Hekja stared at the singer. She had heard her father sing, his voice also so true that people sat quiet even after he had finished. She had heard the men sing on the ship to Greenland. But she had never dreamt a voice could carry as much power as this.
Finally the song’s echoes died away and the audience roared again, the men lifting their drinking horns to toast the singer. Erik tore off one of his great brooches and thrust it in Snorri’s hand, then clapped him on the back. The young man accepted the brooch as his due and fastened it onto his furs.
Leif’s daughter sang next, accompanying herself on a small harp held in her hands. Everyone listened politely, but they weren’t standing motionless, like they had for Snorri.
People helped themselves to food after that and drank deep draughts of skyr and mead and beer. Snarf snuffled round for crumbs. Snorri saw him, and clicked his fingers at him. ‘Here, boy!’ he called.
Snarf bounded up. The young man tossed him a hunk of walrus from his plate, and laughed as Snarf gobbled it.
People called for him to sing again. This time it was a song about a prince, enchanted into ice, and the princess who learnt to sing to the winds so she could rescue him. The crowd cheered again. There was a pause after that, as people waited to see if anybody else would sing.
Suddenly Hekja wondered what would happen if she began to sing. Her voice was better than Leif’s daughter. But probably, she thought, singing was something for free men and women, not for thralls. And then Hekja thought: even if I could, I wouldn’t sing for them. If I sang it would be a gift to them. I will give them nothing.
For a moment the words almost shaped themselves into a song. Hekja smiled to herself. If I ever do sing where they can hear me, she thought, that will be my song.
It was growing dark now. Someone poured more oil on the fires. Fish-oil lamps flickered on the tables, to drive away the night.
A group of men were singing to one side, but their voices were too slurred for Hekja to make out their words. Finnbogi was one of them, waving his horn mug in time with the song. Hekja thrust the memories away.
Suddenly Erik’s stick beat on the ground again. ‘Silence! Let the skald sing us another song!’ His voice was more quavery than it had been earlier. Erik might have been a hero, but he was getting old.
The people nearby quietened, but the men kept on singing—their noise was so loud they hadn’t heard his voice.
In a sudden fit of rage, Erik picked up his carved stick and struck one of the thralls, who was bringing more food out to the tables, on the shoulder. ‘You! Tell them to be quiet!’
The man nodded. ‘Yes, master.’ He made his way over to the men. Hekja saw him pull the sleeve of one, to get his attention and then begin his words.
Hekja was never sure what happened then. But suddenly there was a drunken roar across the crowd.
‘No one tells Olaf Njalsson to be silent!’
Metal flashed in the firelight. Hekja bit back a scream, and stared across the crowd.
Erik’s thrall lay on the ground. His neck was severed. The man he’d asked to be quiet stood over his body, a bloodied axe in his hands. It was one of the traders.
Hekja tried to struggle to her feet. Hikki grabbed her hand and forced her back. No one spoke. A band of silence had tightened around the crowd.
‘That could have been you or me,’ whispered Hikki. ‘Sit still. This is not a time to be noticed!’
Hekja shook her head numbly. She waited for a howl of rage from Erik. She had heard him howl before, across the fields when his best axe was missing or when a thrall was slow to bring him his spear. But now he said nothing, he simply stared across the crowd at the still bleeding body and then at the man with the axe.
Snorri moved swiftly over to the trader. He whispered something urgently. The man shrugged. He bent and wiped the blood off the axe head on the trodden grass. His axe was a grand one, with carving on the handle, and there were carved bracelets about the man’s wrists as well.
Snorri put his hand on the man’s arm then, but the trader shook him off. ‘No one tells Olaf Njalsson to be silent!’ he muttered again drunkenly.
Snorri gazed at him, then looked at Erik. Then he made his way through the crowd towards Erik.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he said formally to Erik. ‘My companion misunderstood. I will pay compensation, on his behalf.’ His hand went to the purse at his waist. ‘Shall we say thirty ounces of silver?’
Erik stared at the young man. Surely, thought Hekja, he will be angry. The dead thrall had lived in his house, had worked for him. But Erik didn’t even glance at the body again.
‘The compensation for a slave is only twelve ounces,’ said Erik.
Snorri laughed. Despite his youth he seemed quite confident beside the older man. ‘Forty ounces then! Shall we call it extra compensation for a guest’s rudeness to a hero!’
Erik clapped him on the back. ‘Well said, by thunder! Now let a hero make a gift to you as well! What will you have? Name it!’ he yelled, lifting his horn in salute to Snorri, then swallowing its contents in one gulp.
Snorri raised his drinking horn in return, and drained it down. He looked around the crowd, considering his prize, then laughed. He pointed to Snarf, who was still snuffling for scraps by the fire. ‘Give me a hero’s dog! And every puppy from his get will remind me of my hosts in Greenland!’
‘No!’ Hekja spoke before she thought. But what did it matter what they did to her? Nothing mattered if they took Snarf. ‘No!’ she yelled. ‘No!’ She leapt to her feet, but Hikki again forced her down. He thrust his hand over her mouth, muffling her words.
‘Hush,’ he hissed, ‘or it will be your body on the ground next.’
But it was as though no one had heard Hekja’s outburst. I am invisible, thought Hekja. Who hears a thrall? She struggled against Hikki’s grip, but he held her hard.
Across the crowd, Snorri didn’t even glance her way. He just continued, as though he hadn’t heard her cry. ‘On second thoughts, what use is a dog to a singer? Will he make my songs for me?’
Snorri smiled, and pointed to the harp that Leif’s daughter held. ‘No, lend me that instrument, so I can play it while I am here, and when I’m gone, you can play it to remember a singer who once had the privilege to play in a hero’s hall.’
Hikki’s hand still covered Hekja’s mouth. She stared through the sea of skirts and trousers. Had she heard correctly? Was Snarf still hers?
Leif’s daughter laughed, and blushed as she handed the singer her harp. A mist of tea
rs and anger clouded Hekja’s eyes. Why had Snorri changed his mind? Had he heard her cry? Or had he simply thought of another way to compliment Erik’s family? Dimly, she heard Hikki say, ‘If I let you go will you be silent?’
Hekja nodded, and he took his hand away from her mouth.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered. ‘But I had to do it. If you had tried to argue they’d have killed you.’ His voice dropped even further. ‘Or worse.’
Across the fire, Erik was delighted. ‘Well said, skalder boy! Sing us another song of heroes then! Daughter! My mug is dry!’
‘He doesn’t care,’ whispered Hekja. ‘He doesn’t care about the poor dead man, or me, or Snarf. We don’t exist. We’re nothing.’ Suddenly she wanted to run, as fast as she could, and never stop. But if she ran now the men would notice her and take it as a challenge. And this time one might catch her.
‘Why should he care?’ said Hikki, and for the first time Hekja heard bitterness instead of pride in his voice. Grand runner he might be, but he was still a thrall.
Hekja got to her feet. For the third time Hikki pulled her down. ‘Stop,’ he hissed. ‘If you go now you’ll attract attention. Wait till the skald is singing.’
‘He should sing of the dead thrall,’ whispered Hekja. ‘He should make a lament for his death.’
‘Forty ounces of silver is all the lament he’ll get,’ said Hikki grimly. ‘Skalds don’t sing of thralls.’
Freydis went to fetch her father more mead. Across the crowd another thrall, a woman, bent down towards the dead thrall’s body. She was crying. But Hikki was right—the skald didn’t even glance her way. He smiled at Leif’s daughter, and stroked the harp strings with his fingertips, as he began to sing:
‘Stand upon the mountain,
Gaze beyond the sea,
There is a new land calling,
Singing “come to me”.
‘Raise the sails, my shipmates,
Fill the barrels well,
I’ll sing of the far horizon,
And what to us befell…’
The song went on and on. Hekja sat silent in the shadows. Now that the crowd was watching the singer Hikki got up to leave, and held his hand out to help Hekja to her feet. Hekja shook her head at him. Just one last song, she thought. After this I’ll go.
They Came On Viking Ships Page 11