by Julia Knight
He limped his careful way across the snowy yard, through the doorway carved in intricate detail of the World Tree and on into the feasting hall. A karl looked at him sideways with a hint of sneer, but he didn’t bar Toki’s way.
The hall was hot and smoky inside. All the paraphernalia of the day’s work, the women’s weaving and sewing and the men’s carving and armour-work, had been cleared away. The benches down either side were fronted with boards over trestles and covered with platters of steaming meat and vegetables. Kettles hung over the long fire pit that ran almost the length of the hall, and the smell of beef filled Toki’s mouth with spit. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had beef. Maybe last Winter Nights feast. He’d managed to sneak in at the end, when everyone was too drunk to notice him. Almost a year. He’d face anything for another taste.
That was the courage he had left now, his chance for bravery, worse than battle in some ways. On a raid he’d at least have the chance for glory or to die a good death and have something to tell Odin of his courage when the time came. In this, if he braved the swords of their words, his prize would be a taste of good meat and to get through the night without shame poured on his head. This was his meagre chance for bravery, and he took it.
He tried to avoid Bausi’s gaze from upon the high seat at the far end and took his place. Not up by Bausi as once would have been his right, but the place farthest from him, by the door.
He’d barely sat down before it started.
“Hey, Toki, come to sit with the real men?”
“Toki, you managed to find a woman stupid enough yet?”
“I found your tongue, it was in the pigsty.”
“It’s his brain you want to try to find,” and on. He shut his ears to it and kept his head down. It was worse that the ones who led the jeers were Sigdir and Ragnhilda. His little brother and the woman he’d once hoped to marry. He wouldn’t let their words wound him, wouldn’t let them carry into his heart, where he was still a man. A man who bore this for love of his brother and sister, because he had sworn to Odin on it and no other reason. Halt leg or not, if not for that, then more than one man here tonight would have reason to fear their words. Yet his fear, that need for their safety, bound his hands more securely than any rope.
Sigdir was Bausi’s man now and Ragnhilda had turned from him the first moment she’d heard of his cowardice, his disgrace. Now she was Bausi’s first wife, heavy with child again. He thought a curse at her, that this child be another daughter, that Bausi would never have a son, no matter how many wives he kept under his roof. He couldn’t bring himself to curse worse, though the deepest part of him wished it. If Ragnhilda’s face was anything to go by—the way it had dried up, as though all the joy was sucked from her—she’d been cursed already. Toki’s shoulders twitched at the thought that conjured, of another curse cut in wood and soaked in blood.
When they’d returned from the fateful raid, had laid Arni to rest and seen the sad, shrivelled body of their father before they laid him too under his howe, when Toki could finally leave his sickbed, then it had started. Bausi was jarl and had led with his ridicule. The rest followed, some more, some less willingly, and soon it had become as though it had always been so, that Toki hadn’t once been a well-thought-of young warrior, hadn’t once talked with the rest of them. Gone simple-minded from the fear, Bausi had told them when Toki wouldn’t, couldn’t speak for fear of the secret falling out, fear of the curse rune and what Bausi might do to Sigdir and Gudrun because of it.
Toki had tried to run once, despite Bausi’s warning that it would bring the curse to bear, when it became clear that Sigdir was letting Bausi’s poison grow in him, becoming a hard and hateful man. Yet there was still Gudrun, he could get her away. One day when she’d been about five, he’d made a last attempt at outward courage, had swung her up on his shoulders in a pretence of a game and left. Desperation had driven him to it, but a man with a halt leg carrying a five-year-old had no chance against the seasoned hunters and warriors Bausi sent after them.
By then it had been clear Bausi was enjoying Toki’s humiliations. Clearer when Gudrun fell ill immediately on their return. Weak, vomiting, seeing things, gradually fading away. Like their father before he died. Things became clearer still when Sigdir guilelessly and earnestly tried to persuade Toki that Bausi was a good man, because he would sit with Gudrun for hours and let no other hand feed her. When the illness mysteriously vanished after Toki went to Bausi and fell to his knees to silently beg, shamed himself still further in the eyes of the village even if they didn’t know what he was begging for. For Bausi to stop poisoning Gudrun as he had their father.
That was the day Toki’s outward courage had run dry, the day he knew that Bausi controlled him as another man controls his horse. When he knew his courage had to stay trapped in his head. He was a freeman, more than a bondi and yet a slave, rune-cursed and a nithing, no one. All he had left were dreams of the day when Gudrun was safe, perhaps married away from the fjord to a good man, and he could stand tall and decry Bausi as murderer. Until that day he kept all look of courage locked away inside, and let them think what they would. He knew his heart was as red as Thor’s blood, as strong, even if they did not.
So now Toki dipped his head and made sure to look no one in the eye. If he could bear it, if he could make himself deaf to it, he could have beef. And maybe, just maybe, he’d get a glimpse of Gudrun. He’d not seen her since he’d gone up to the high pasture in the spring. He needed to know that his silence hadn’t been in vain, as it had with Sigdir, his good heart and strong wyrd lost to Bausi’s lies.
When Toki failed to rise to the bait, the men fell back to their tales of the raid, of what deeds of courage had been done with only the occasional minor dig. Toki ached to start on the meat that lent its steam to the general fug. Yet not until the full had been served.
Ragnhilda brought out a copper drinking bowl ready to serve the first formal drink, but Sigdir leaped to his feet and took it from her with a grin. “My jarl Bausi should not drink from such a tatty thing as that. I’ve a gift for him, and for you Ragnhilda. I ask only that in return my sister Gudrun be allowed to make the first full with them.”
Sigdir lifted a fur with a flourish and brought out three silver bowls, each with three loops on the rim done in the shape of birds. Ragnhilda’s eyes lit up, making her seem years younger, almost back to the girl Toki had been due to marry. Sigdir had chosen his gift well.
“From one of their Christ houses,” he said.
“A princely gift indeed, Sigdir,” Bausi said. “It’ll make a fine addition to the bride price I take with me tomorrow.”
Toki risked a look at the high seat. Sigdir’s face clouded at the dismissal of his gift, but it was nothing compared to the look on Ragnhilda’s. As though Bausi had taken his scramasax and sliced into her heart with it.
“Bride price?” Sigdir asked. “What news is this?”
Bausi stretched expansively and smiled a quiet smile that made Toki shiver and Ragnhilda seem to shrink. Not a smile to herald good news for anyone but Bausi. “Harald Gulskeg King has announced his heir. His grandson Harald, by his daughter and Halfdan the Black. The lad’s still only ten, and the king’s old and failing. Ripe for influence, for one close. And no one closer to the lad in kin than his cousin, the fair Disa. A maiden as yet unwed.” Bausi slid his gaze to Ragnhilda, and his smile twisted at the corner. “Maybe a maiden who can give me sons. Her father’s agreed I might try to negotiate a wedding, but I’m not alone. Other jarls see the opportunity, so I must make the best offer, many, many times the poor-man’s-price. I need as much silver and gold as I can take. I’ve also a dozen cattle aboard my ship, ready to sail tomorrow. This will make a nice addition.”
Toki hardly dared look at Ragnhilda. No matter all the spiteful words she’d thrown at him over the years, once they had been due to marry. They hadn’t been in love—it was a wedding, a deal between jarls, not a love affair—but still part of him felt for her, as he
had then. Her mouth trembled and her fingertips were white where they gripped the silver bowl. Not at the news of the wedding, Toki thought—Bausi already had another wife, little Ingrid, though she’d yet to bear him any children at all—but at the slight to Ragnhilda for not bearing him sons. For her, or the memory of her when she’d thought him strong and brave, Toki wished back his earlier curse and hoped the child she carried was a son. For her sake, not Bausi’s.
Sigdir’s attitude was more unexpected. He was Bausi’s man, through and through, who sat at his right hand, second in rank only to the jarl. Who hung on his every word, copied every action. Yet now he seemed disgruntled, unsure and caught off balance. His hand repeatedly smoothed his moustache and beard and his eyes seemed alive in his head. Restless and wandering. His look caught Toki’s and his scowl deepened.
Toki held his gaze for a heartbeat, kept his courage, his nerve, that long, then ducked his head. No need to bring attention to himself, because it wouldn’t be good attention. Courage in inaction, in silence. A poor thing, but all he had. Even Odin said, “Keep silent with sharpened hearing, with his ears let him listen, and look with his eyes, thus each wise man spies out the way.” Toki held on to this, that he did Odin’s word. Silence was wisdom, Odin’s way. A small comfort among those who looked to Thor’s way, the red way.
Bausi sat up straight in his seat, seemingly unaware of the feelings he’d caused, or maybe he just didn’t care, which was more likely. He stroked at the silver jarl-torc at his neck thoughtfully and nodded. “Ragnhilda, fetch Gudrun and let her serve her first full.”
Toki’s heart twitched. At the least he’d get to see Gudrun, see she was well, let her safety lend strength to him. All he wished for, all he took everything for. His last bravery, to take what ridicule he was given, for her. And then, the beef.
When Gudrun came in, he almost didn’t recognise her, she’d grown so. Tall and willowy for her age, with a soft grace to her movements and gold lights in her hair. Her eyes shone when Sigdir told her she was to serve the full, an honour normally reserved for the highest-ranking woman. Toki’s heart squeezed at the thought that this, this beauty, this grace, was what he protected with his silence. He would brave the dragon of ridicule, best the troll of indifference, no matter if others saw or not, just for this. She would live and he would know it was because of him, a small scrap of courage to keep in his heart. Thor would know, and Odin and one-handed Tyr. It was enough.
Gudrun filled the first bowl with ale and offered it to Bausi with a careful solemnity. He nodded his thanks. “I dedicate this to Odin, that we prevail over the White Christ and his followers, that Red Thor shall smite them with his hammer and lend his strength to our swords. May we all be feasting and drinking in Valhalla a full day before the Christian god knows we’re dead!”
With that, Bausi drank from the bowl and returned it to Gudrun. She turned to Sigdir next, highest in honour after Bausi. He drank and so Gudrun went on, knowing where each man stood in the line of rank by where they sat. Finally, after several refillings of the bowl, she stood before Toki. He looked up at her face, at the worry that suddenly creased her brow. Toki tried a reassuring smile, but it had been too long and maybe it came out wrong because she flicked a glance over her shoulder to Bausi.
“Only the men,” Bausi said with a smirk he didn’t bother to hide, a stroke at his neck. Not the jarl-torc this time, but the black leather pouch that hung inside his shirt. “Toki does not drink the full because he’s not a man, not in Thor’s eyes.”
The calls began again, spearing his heart, shattering his illusion of hidden bravery. A man to his right laughed at the suggestion that Toki lay with pigs, because that was all he could get. Gudrun’s face seemed to waver in front of him, but with a final hesitant glance at Bausi, who nodded approvingly, she joined in the laughter.
The noise of her laugh, of all their laughs, crowded in on Toki. It didn’t matter that much was forced, only that they laughed. That Gudrun laughed, that she was becoming Bausi’s as surely as Sigdir. That all his silence, all his carefully hoarded bravery was for nothing. In his head, he got up, strode to Bausi and denounced him as a murderer, fed him to the wolves of the godis who kept the law. In his head, he was tall and strong, could not be bowed by curse or iron, and he would win, would show the whole fjord the courage inside him. In his head. Yet in this hall he could not, not without sacrificing Gudrun to the curse. It crippled him as surely as his halt leg, and not for the first time he cursed Bausi, cursed the mother who had taught him the runes that bound Toki’s courage tighter than iron.
He got to his feet, blind to everything around him, head dipped to keep his face hidden. He must swallow the courage that begged to be let free, to run through Bausi like a sword. His dreams would accomplish nothing but the death of those he loved. Keep your peace, keep her safe. Silence is our friend. That had been his motto for eight years now. Eight long silent years, hostage to his sister’s safety, and now that sister laughed at him and yet still he must keep her safe. No matter his useless dreams of courage, the slow beat of it in his heart where no one could see. Silence was his only refuge.
He stumbled out into the snow, the chill of it a welcome balm to his flaming face. Not the only refuge—there was Agnar’s house. Bebba was bound to have ale, and hers was the best in the village. Besides, Idunn was one of the few who never laughed, who chided those who did. Though she might never greet him with warmth or a smile, that she had no time for ridicule was good enough.
He needed something to give for the ale. The brace of hares he’d left on Einar’s pack. That would get him enough, maybe. Maybe not, because, not for the first time, he wanted to get very drunk indeed. He took the hares from their loop on the pack and made for Agnar’s.
Chapter Five
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven…
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak.
Ecclesiastes 3:1/3:7
After Agnar left for the feast to celebrate the return of the raiding party, Wilda spent the evening learning where things were kept and what duties she could expect.
“Old Agnar can’t do so much with the stock anymore. He’s got a few thrall boys and such but, well, he’s getting on now. But we makes a fair bit from the ale, because I’m a dab hand. Best ale in the village. So while you’re here you’ll be helping out with the animals and the food, same as everywhere. Maybe we’ll get you to spin and sew too. But mainly, we’re going to make lots more beer. That’s Agnar’s plan to keep himself comfortable in his dotage, even when he can’t cast a cow no more.”
The house was large, at least for one not a thane. One big main room with the hearth at the centre. Two rooms led from it, one a bedroom for Agnar and Idunn, with a sagging box bed covered in blankets and furs. The other seemed newer and was filled with all the makings of ale. It smelled of barley and hops and honey, and reminded Wilda of how Bayen would smell when he came to bed, of mead or beer. It reminded her of home. She turned away. No time for that.
“We sleep on the benches,” Bebba said. “Comfortable enough, and there’s skins and blankets to go round.”
Indeed, the benches were covered in skins, sealskin, wolf, deer, some Wilda couldn’t name. Some with coarse grey hair, some smooth and slippery, some so soft Wilda kept wanting to touch them. Bebba rummaged around in a large chest against one wall. “Here, you’ll find these a bit warmer.”
She handed Wilda a long tunic and another, more of an apron, to go over the top. Not so very different to what Wilda already wore, but thicker and undoubtedly warmer. She’d just finished pinning the brooches that held on the apronlike overskirt when the door banged open with a flurry of snow, and a man ducked through the opening. Wilda flinched, just a little, at the look on his face, a twisted grimace of…she couldn’t tell what.
He stood up straight again, his eyes wide with surprise when he realised she was there, then dipped his head and made for a bench, his lips pinched amidst his be
ard.
“Oh, don’t you worry ’bout him,” Bebba said. “That’s only Toki. He won’t do you no harm. He’s simple, poor lad, don’t talk. Does like his beer though.”
Bebba fetched a wooden cup, filled it with ale and took it over to Toki. He was a big man even for one of the Northmen, made to look even bigger by the fur across his shoulder. His fair hair was braided and his neat beard was two shades darker with a reddish tint. His clothes were clean but tatty and threadbare. Rents in his trousers had been badly patched and the fur at his shoulder was ragged at the edges. He didn’t look up even when Bebba handed him the beer, though he held out a brace of hare.
“He’s a good lad, don’t deserve what that lot put him through. Always pays for his beer in kind, with hare or helping out. Shy though.” Bebba said something to him but was rewarded only with a brief shrug. Toki kept his head down, eyes on his beer.
He stayed that way as Bebba got Wilda to work, cleaning and scrubbing. Whenever his cup was empty he would hold it out and Bebba would go and fill it again. It grew darker outside, the wind sharper so it rattled the wooden shutters Bebba had closed. Finally, when Wilda’s eyes had begun to droop, the door banged open again and Agnar came in, dripping snow and unsteady on his feet.
Bebba got up to help him in, take his cloak and settle him on a bench. “Wilda, you get Toki another ale, will you?”
Toki moved at her voice, a sudden jerking as though surprised. When Wilda brought him the full cup he stared at her, his eyes intense and unsettling. He searched her face, seemingly looking over every part. Wilda didn’t dare move—he looked too savage, too frightening. Yet she didn’t flinch either. Her pride wouldn’t let her, because she was a Christian among heathens, barbarians.
Finally, he set his cup on the floor and stood up, towering over her. When he reached out a hand, she did flinch, a little. His fingers grazed the skin just under her eye, where she bore a scar from the fateful day the heathens had killed her mother. The skin on Toki’s fingers was roughened from work, but his touch was gentler than she expected from such a large man, one of these loud barbarians.