by Alys Clare
I’d had enough. I’d been abducted, borne away over the sea for nearly two weeks, then brought here, to this extraordinary place and the enforced company of people I’d never met in my life. I was quite sure I would be breaking some basic rule of courtesy, but I didn’t let that hold me back. Drawing a deep breath, I marched right up to the dais, climbed on to it, and, standing over the man in the cloak, I said, loudly and firmly, ‘No. I will not sit beside you, or listen to one more word from you or anyone else, until you tell me why I have been brought here and what you want with me.’ I paused, and swiftly all my grievances against this man and his family filled my mind. ‘Your son and his men grabbed me, tied me up and slung me aboard their ship,’ I cried, the words tumbling out, ‘and they did it so cleverly that, to start with, nobody would realize I was gone, but I’ve been away so long that by now my friends and my family will be really worried about me, and my poor father will probably think I’m dead, and that will kill him too because he loves me very much and he’ll be riddled with guilt and believe it’s all his fault because he knew there was danger and he’ll think he should have taken better care of me, and—’
Fear, panic, despair and misery had been flooding through me, but I’d been managing to control them. The thought of my beloved father, however, out of his mind with anxiety, going out every spare moment to waste his time searching for me, was my undoing. To my horror, I felt tears fill my eyes. In a voice that sounded more like a scream, I cried, ‘I want to go home!’
A sort of quiet groan echoed round the hall. As I’d feared, I had clearly done something very offensive. I hung my head, waiting for the reprisal. Would the man in the cloak – Thorfinn – have me forcibly removed? Would Einar leap to his feet and hit me again?
Nothing happened. I raised my head, to see Thorfinn study-ing me. Then, slowly, he nodded. ‘Please, come here,’ he said again.
I looked at him. The skin of his face was leathery and creased and, although in that moment his expression was sombre, I judged by the lines that he smiled a lot and was given to laughter. I stared into his eyes, searching for the threat I dreaded to find.
I went on staring, for what felt like a very long time. He did nothing: he did not speak, did not move. It was as if he was silently saying: Look all you like. I have nothing to hide.
My fear began to ebb away. I was still very apprehensive, and sick with worry about my family, but the sickening dread that these men were about to torture me to find out something I didn’t know had, for the moment, almost gone. Every instinct – and I’ve learned to trust my instincts – was shouting out at me that this old man was not going to harm me, and I reasoned that, if he didn’t want me hurt, nobody else would be allowed to do so either. Whoever and whatever he was, I appeared to be under his protection.
I went to sit in the chair beside him.
NINE
Presently, the sons and daughters sitting beside Thorfinn began to drift away. It was approaching the middle of the day, and I imagined they all had tasks to do. Last to go was Einar. He turned to look back at me before he left, and I thought he was about to speak. Almost imperceptibly, Thorfinn shook his head. Einar spun on his heel and strode away.
Thorfinn looked down at me. ‘Just now, you asked me a couple of questions,’ he said softly. ‘Understandably, you wish to be told why you have been brought here and what we want of you.’ I opened my mouth to ask the questions again, but he put up a hand for silence. ‘Forgive me, my child,’ he said. ‘It is natural that you want to know these things, and you have my word that all will be explained to you in due course.’ When? I cried silently. And how soon will they take me home again?
He nodded, as if he had heard. Then he said, ‘It is my habit, on such days as this, to eat but sparingly during the day, so as to have the best appetite for later.’ I was right, then, about the feast. I wondered what they were celebrating, and how long into the night they’d go on carousing. I wouldn’t be getting any sleep till they’d finished ... But he was still speaking, so I stopped feeling sorry for myself and listened. ‘It would please me if you would now eat with me,’ he was saying, ‘and perhaps you will tell me about yourself?’
It wasn’t fair! He had put off answering my questions, yet now he was expecting me to satisfy his curiosity! ‘Apparently you already know my name,’ I said stiffly. ‘You also seem to know where I live, where my kinsfolk live, and the fact that I regularly travel to and fro between my village and Camb— er, a big town nearby.’
‘Cambridge,’ Thorfinn murmured.
I barely heard. My anger rising again, I hissed, ‘Your son killed my sister’s mother-in-law and my aunt! He came hunting for something, either on your instructions or on his own behalf, and he—’
‘Stop.’ The single word, quietly spoken, had an instant effect: I felt as if the words lining up to tumble out of my mouth had been pushed back down my throat. ‘Have patience, Lassair,’ he went on. ‘For now, do not speak of what you do not understand.’
I understand that my people have been killed, wounded and suffered the distress of having their homes ransacked! I wanted to shout. But there was an unseen power emanating from the huge man beside me, and I did not dare.
Food was brought – flat bread, dried cod, pots of a cool, slightly sharp substance that I guessed was some sort of coagulated milk, and that proved to be delicious – and Thorfinn made sure I took my share. As we ate, he asked me about my village, about Cambridge, about my training as a healer. Although we only spoke in fairly general terms, I had the feeling he already knew much of what I was telling him.
It was very strange, and I still had absolutely no idea why he was interested in my kinsfolk and me, nor what it was he believed we possessed, and that he was going to such extraordinary lengths to find.
The food was all gone. Thorfinn sat quietly beside me. Suddenly I yawned, hugely and uncontrollably. Recalling where I was, belatedly I put a hand in front of my mouth and muttered an apology.
‘Would you like to sleep?’ he asked. I nodded. Despite everything, I could hardly keep my eyes open.
Thorfinn beckoned, and one of the women busy preparing food came across to us, wiping her hands on her apron. He said something to her in their own tongue – thanks to my lessons with Olaf, I could pretty much understand the words – and, with a smile, she held out her hand to me. I got up, and she led me away.
We went on down the hall, then through a narrow doorway into another, smaller room. I remembered that, from the outside, the homestead looked like two buildings set end to end, so this must be the second one. There was a central hearth, and around it wide platforms set around the inside of the walls, strewn with furs and bedding. A group of four or five women sat together close to the hearth, quietly talking. They looked up, nodding to my companion and staring with interest at me. My companion led me to the far end of the room, indicating a cosy corner of the platform, tucked deep beneath the steeply sloping roof. She patted the heavy sheepskins spread out ready, miming sleep by putting her face down sideways on to her joined hands.
I needed no further invitation. I got up on to the platform, crawled inside the nest of sheepskins and curled up. I was aware of the woman’s soft footfalls as she went back to the main hall, and of the gentle, murmuring voices of the women beside the hearth as they resumed their conversation. Then sleep took a firm hold of me, and that was that.
I woke to a babble of muted chatter, interspersed with bursts of laughter and a voice suddenly raised in song. There seemed to be a lot of people in the main hall, and it sounded as if the feast had begun. I looked up at the bit of sky visible through the smoke hole, and saw that it was deep, twilight blue.
I got up, carefully tidying the sheepskins, then straightened my borrowed gown. I smoothed back some loose strands of hair, retied my shawl, then crept across the room and along the short, narrow passage till I was standing in the doorway of the main hall.
Trestle tables had been set out, one each side of the fire pit and o
ne up on the dais. People were seated, on benches and, up on the dais, on chairs. Thorfinn sat on his throne, his back to me. The food smells were wonderful, making my stomach growl. It seemed a long time since I had shared Thorfinn’s light meal. I hoped they hadn’t forgotten about me; perhaps someone – friendly Thyra, maybe – would bring me a platter of varied delicacies ...
A man’s voice, deep and strong, rose up above the others. He was singing, and, from the shouts of male laughter and loud guffaws, I guessed it was a ribald song. It was ever the way, my Granny Cordeilla once informed me, to concentrate on the bawdy, light-hearted songs and tales before and during the feast. When people’s minds are on filling their bellies, she used to say with a wicked grin, it’s no use trying to make them concentrate on some deep, serious and significant tale of the ancestors; save that for when they’re replete, my girl, and you’ll have their full attention.
Would a bard tell a tale later tonight? Would anyone notice if I stayed there, crouched in the doorway, and shared it? I noticed again, as I stood listening, that I could understand quite a lot of what people were saying. It was more than curiosity that prompted my interest: when my granny died, she bequeathed to me the role of family bard. Professionally, I am always interested to hear how a fellow storyteller sets about it.
People were striding up and down the tables now, brawny-armed men and women with bulging biceps, carrying vats of food and ladling it out on to the waiting platters. I smelt a variety of delicious aromas, some familiar, some new to me. Among the servers strode a huge man with white-fair hair, carrying an enormous jug in each hand. His job, it appeared, was to keep the drinking mugs full.
I shivered. It was cold, standing there well away from the heat of the two hearths. My exclusion was making me feel miserable, although I realized it was unreasonable. Yes, they had been friendly – welcoming, even – but I was still their prisoner, and prisoners didn’t get invited to feasts.
Just as I was firmly reminding myself of that fact, a tall, slender figure stood up from a chair on the dais, descended and walked elegantly over to me. It was the elder daughter – Asa – and her expression was cool. Fully expecting to be curtly ordered back to the room where I’d slept, I turned away from her.
She did issue an order, but it wasn’t the one I was anticipating. In a voice as chilly as her ice-maiden appearance, she said, ‘My father invites you to come to the feast. Please, accompany me.’
She turned and walked away, and I hurried after her. Bemused, I hoped they would have set a place for me well away from the dais, where I would be out of the eagle eyes of Thorfinn and his immediate family. They hadn’t: Asa led the way right back up on to the dais, where, on Thorfinn’s left hand, Einar stood up to give me his place.
As he began to move away – I saw that another seat had been brought for him – Thorfinn shot out an arm, and clutched at his son’s wrist. Einar’s wrist was huge, yet his father’s hand easily encompassed it, holding him firm. ‘Einar has something to say to you,’ Thorfinn said, very softly.
I didn’t realize he meant me until, bending to crouch beside my chair, Einar spoke. ‘I regret that I hit you,’ he muttered.
Astounded, it took me a moment to think how to respond. I’d been about to say, Oh, that’s all right, I realize I provoked you. But then I met Einar’s eyes.
My aunt Edild has been trying to teach me how to read people. I’m not very good at it yet. But in that instant, I saw something in Einar that told me to stand up to him. If I meekly crumpled now, effectively letting him get away with what had been a hard and surely unnecessary blow, then he would make up his mind about me and never change it, probably writing me off as a weak and timid little girl who had no guts.
I did have guts; I do. I am descended from many generations of fen people, and life has never been easy. Among my ancestors are wise women, bards and warriors: Ligach the Pearl Maiden sang before kings; my namesake forebear walked with the spirits; and three of my Granny Cordeilla’s brothers fought at Hastings, two of them to the death.
Keeping my eyes on Einar’s, I lifted my chin and said coldly, ‘You hit me hard enough that I was unconscious for a day.’ It was a bit of an exaggeration, but not much. ‘Next time, either give me fair warning and a weapon, or pick on someone your own size.’
I thought I’d provoked him too far. There was dead silence on the dais, and I knew the others were all closely observing. I’d unwittingly spoken so loudly that I guessed some of the people sitting closest at the other tables had heard, too. Einar’s eyes narrowed, and I thought he had gone pale.
The tension was broken by a chuckle, not quite muffled. A male voice said, ‘Sounds fair enough to me, Einar.’ I spun round, to see that the white-fair giant with the jugs was standing at one side of the dais.
Someone else laughed, and others joined in. My eyes flashed back to Einar, and I saw the struggle between lashing out at me – which would surely only serve to increase the company’s enjoyment of his discomfiture – or joining in the laughter. To my relief, he began to smile.
‘I’ll find you a sword,’ he said, holding out his hand, ‘unless you would prefer a battle axe.’ I took his hand, and my own was engulfed. The he let me go and went to take his seat.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. The giant filled my mug, and Thorfinn himself dug his eating knife into the communal dishes, set down before him on the table, and loaded my platter till it overflowed.
As far as I could judge, it seemed that the people here ate anything that the natural world put in their way: salmon, cod, water fowl, swans, puffins, ptarmigan, all featured in the feast. Some of the meats had been fried in what I thought was butter, except, when I asked, Thyra said it was seal blubber. Other meats had been roasted or stewed, and there were also sausages made of liver and blood, appetizingly seasoned, as well as salted fish. More of the soured milk stuff was served, and I learned it was called skyr. I ate everything I was offered, and only stopped when I was starting to feel slightly sick.
Everyone else in Thorfinn’s hall had a greater capacity than I, and for some time I sat back and watched as the feast slowly wound down. From time to time one of the family would speak to me, but I sensed it was more for the sake of politeness than because they really wanted to.
Eventually, even the giants had finished eating; the white-haired one who had carried the ale and mead jugs celebrated the moment with a resounding belch so loud that it caused a round of applause. Then there was a burst of activity as pots, dishes and platters were cleared and the trestles dismantled and stowed away. Somebody threw a huge log on the fire, cups and mugs were topped up, and all the oil lamps were extinguished. Apart from a couple of flares set in the walls, the hall was lit only by the light from the long fire.
I knew what would happen next. I had never in my life been to such a feast as this, but I knew the general form. Now, as well-fed, slightly inebriated people sat back, warm, secure and comfortable, it was the turn of the bard to step forward. I wondered who served that function in Thorfinn’s household. One of his sons? Some long-serving retainer, such as Olaf who sailed with Einar? A wise woman or cunning man, or whatever they were called here?
None of those: the figure who stepped forward into the firelight was broad-shouldered, like so many of these people, and had dark blonde hair whose reddish tones shone bright in the light from the flames. The hair had been plaited earlier; now it flowed in long waves, reaching to the waist.
The bard held up one hand, which I saw held a staff tipped with a brownish crystal shaped to a point. The base of the staff struck the floor, twice, three times. There was absolute silence in the hall.
Then Thorfinn’s daughter Freydis began to speak.
‘In the days of King Harald Fairhair, when brave men in their longboats ever pushed back the boundaries of this world, our forefathers came to this land,’ she said. ‘They were proud and independent, and desired to make a new dwelling place. Despite the dangers and the hardships, which were many a
nd various, they preferred life in a new land that was theirs alone to existence under the tyranny of a king who sought to impose his own wishes on to his subjects.’ She paused, her eyes raking around the intent circle of listeners. ‘Thus it was, or so say the wise, that the perilous, seductive spirit of adventure entered the blood of our ancestors. From that time forward, each generation would throw up one whose feet ever itched to walk upon new shores, and who, despite the love of wife, children and kinsmen, despite the hard-won security and comfort of this our homeland, always wished to seek for more.
‘In the days of our fathers’ forefathers, there lived a mariner whose name was Thorkel Jorundsson.’ The name fell like a spell, and I thought I heard a soft, collective gasp. ‘And his indomitable courage was such that he ventured everywhere that the sun, moon and stars shed light.’ A pause, and once more her gaze swept slowly around her audience. ‘Thorkel knew his destiny from an early age, for it was foretold to him by his mother that he would cross the endless seas and, in time, come to a land of liquid fire where men say time began.’
She had only been speaking for a matter of moments but already she had grabbed her audience, and I knew she would not let them go until she had finished. Freydis was a born storyteller; her very bearing – standing straight, tall and strong, dressed in a beautiful gown of pale wool with silver glittering at her shoulders, pacing slowly, hypnotically, to and fro in front of the fire – commanded her listeners’ respectful attention. Willingly, helplessly, I gave her mine.