That woman in my dreams
takes all my joy, it seems.
As I fall asleep, she appears…
Gisli Sursson’s Saga
Starri Deathless let the heavy grindstone spin slowly to a stop. He sighted down the edge of the blade he was honing. It was a thing of perfection, as sharp as that particular blade could ever be. There was one tiny flaw halfway down the edge, but that could not be ground out without ruining the entire weapon. Starri said nothing to Jokul about it.
He had learned not to criticize Jokul’s work, after one casual remark about the balance of one sword had led to twenty minutes of high-volume ranting. Every time he thought Jokul was winding his diatribe down, the smith would start up again, like a fire that would not go out. If Jokul had reacted with physical violence it would not have bothered Starri in the least, but Starri knew he could not endure the ranting any longer.
He set the blade aside. There were no more left to sharpen. But that was all right because he was done with sharpening blades, at least for now. He liked it. It was a prelude to battle. And even if there was no battle in the offing, sharpening a blade gave him that rise of spirit that came with the proximity to a fight. Starri had not been with a lot of women, not like many other men he knew, but he understood that the things one did prior to the final act were intended to make that ultimate release all the more intense.
So it was with the rituals before battle. But, as with lying with a woman, one could only do the preliminaries so many times without taking it to the final act before the whole thing just became tedious and frustrating.
And if he remained stuck in Dubh-linn much longer, he would be there, at the place of tedium and frustration. Sailing with Arinbjorn had been good, leading the little band of berserkers. Starri was no leader; he knew that. He had never been able to concentrate long enough to take charge of anything, himself included, but with the berserkers that had not mattered much. Not much leadership was needed or indeed possible with a group such as that. They had seen fights enough along the coast.
But meeting the Night Wolf had changed things, because he had seen, in that moment on the beach, that brilliant moment of vision, that his destiny was entwined with that man, blessed by the gods.
Starri instinctively reached for the split arrowhead that hung from his neck. Incredible… Incredible that Thorgrim could not see the truth that was so obvious to Starri. He was blessed, and where he went, that was where Starri Deathless would be.
At Cloyne it had been good. Going in through the secret gate. Only the Night Wolf could have known about that. The desperate fighting. Starri felt his mood improve as he reflected back on it. He had almost been slain on that field. Almost. Surely staying close to a man like Thorgrim would bring him soon to an end on the glory-field that would win the admiration of the Valkyries.
But here in Dubh-linn, that would not happen. Here, things grew worse by the moment. Why? Because there were women. Starri did not dislike women. Not at all. But he had seen often enough how their presence complicated everything. Now Almaith had some designs on Thorgrim, right under her husband’s roof. And this Irish girl had arrived. Brigit. And she seemed to have some spell over Harald, so obvious that even Thorgrim recognized it, and Thorgrim was not quick where Harald was concerned. What could this mean?
Their lives were like a great sheet of ice, once solid, flawless and constant, that was now melting, melting, revealing flaws and defects long frozen in place.
This was why Starri loved battle. It was so clean, so unambiguous. The rules were straightforward and clear. As long as he let others worry about the reasons for fighting, and he focused on the fight itself, everything was good.
“Jokul? Jokul the smith?”
Starri looked up. There were two men standing there, big men, with long hair each done up in twin braids, as many of the Norsemen wore it. They wore padded tunics. Long, straight swords hung from their belts. Starri did not recognize them, but that was hardly odd. They looked like most of the men who wandered around the longphort, and Starri was not good with faces in any event.
“What?” Starri said in reply.
“Are you Jokul, the smith?” the man asked again.
Before Starri could reply, Jokul burst from the house where he had been eating his dinner. “I am Jokul, who is it who’s looking for me?”
“I am Sweyn, of Hedeby. This is my brother Svein.” The man in front nodded toward the one behind.
“Huh? Danes, is it? Well, what do you want?” asked Jokul at his most charming.
“We’ve been to see the smith Vali about swords for our men, and…”
“Vali! You can see Vali about nails and horseshoes. I am the only one in Dubh-linn who can make a decent sword. But I don’t give them away, do you hear? You pay a fair price for my work, but that does not mean it’s a low price.”
“I understand,” said Sweyn. “Can we talk about price, and how long it would take to make what we need?”
“Talk,” Jokul said.
“Maybe you’ll invite us in and give us a drink, so we do not have to talk on the street like this was the fish market? My brother and I are thirsty.”
“Humph,” Jokul said, clearly struggling between his desire for business and his unwillingness to part even with a couple of cups of beer for free. This all seemed very odd to Starri. He could see Svein was carrying a skin, and it looked quite full. But then Jokul said, “Very well, come inside.”
The two men stepped through the gate and followed Jokul inside and Starri followed behind because he was curious now. They went into the big room where the table stood by the hearth and Jokul roared, “Almaith! Beer, here!”
Almaith peered into the room, surveyed the situation, and disappeared. Jokul waved toward a bench by the table and the two brothers sat, their bulk dwarfing the furniture. Jokul sat as well, and Starri took a seat on a stool in the corner. He was quiet, his movement so fluid and unobtrusive that no one seemed to notice he was there, and if they did, no one asked why he was.
In the corner, Brigit sat with her hands in a stream of dull sunlight coming in through the window. She was sewing something, but Starri had the impression that it was just for something to do. Harald and Thorgrim had left an hour or so before, Almaith had her hands full keeping up with her increasingly crowded household, and that left Brigit unoccupied. She looked up briefly, ran her eyes over the men at the table, ignored Starri, and went back to her sewing.
Sweyn and Jokul were in an animated discussion about swords, quality of steel, finish of hilts, prices. Almaith came in and set cups of beer on the table and the men picked them up without acknowledging her, as if the cups had appeared of their own volition. Starri paid no attention to the negotiations. Jokul’s work was in great demand, and in the short time he had been there, Starri had heard this scene played out a dozen times.
In truth, Starri was more interested in what Svein was about, which at first glance would seem to be nothing. He did not speak, and he took one sip of beer for every three the others did. His eyes were all around the room. They lit on Brigit and stayed there for a long while. That was not unusual; Starri had noticed that few men could keep their eyes off the girl, but Svein’s face did not wear the same look of desire that he had seen in others. Jokul, in particular, looked at her with something like ravenous hunger. Harald’s look was different, more affection than desire. Only Thorgrim seemed to look on her with indifference.
From Brigit, Svein’s eyes moved up to the ceiling and over to the door that led to the other end of the house. He shifted slightly and cocked his head, just a bit, so he could take in the hearth and the wooden chests pushed up against the wall.
Curious fellow, Starri thought.
Then they heard the sound of feet along the path and the door opened and Harald stepped in. He looked briefly around, seemed to see no one until he saw Brigit. He said something to her in the Irish language that Starri did not understand. Brigit put down her sewing and stood. She looked concerned
, even a little frightened. Harald was agitated, and Starri could see on the left side of his face the unmistakable mark of a solid punch landed.
Did Thorgrim strike him? Starri wondered. That did not seem possible. Thorgrim loved the boy more than his own life. Far more. Starri could not imagine what could provoke him to hit Harald so hard as to leave a mark such as that. He watched Svein as Svein’s eyes followed Brigit and Harald out the door.
“You seem to have quite a few living in your house,” Sweyn observed with a laugh.
“House?” Jokul replied. “It’s a damned inn, I tell you, not a house, with that Irish wife of mine letting every damned stray cat stay here. They pay me half as much as they eat! I’ll be begging bread in the streets in a week, at this rate.”
“Well, you’ve driven a hard enough bargain with me, that should keep a roof over your head for a while, anyway.” Sweyn stood and extended a hand. Jokul took it and shook, but Starri could see his thoughts had already moved on to other considerations. As had those of Starri Deathless.
For some time, he did not know how long, Thorgrim stood by the edge of the water and let the cool sea breeze of late spring envelope him and let the emotions bleed out. Could he return to Vik without his son? Harald was not a boy. He was right about that. At Harald’s age, Thorgrim certainly did not have his father by his side, worrying about his every move. And if Harald was being a fool, surely it was Harald’s place to discover that, not Thorgrim’s place to point it out.
We want the young to learn from our mistakes, Thorgrim thought, and wondered if ever in the history of all humanity such a thing had ever happened.
It was well dark when he turned at last and headed back up the hill, back toward Jokul’s house, though he had no intention of going there, at least not at that hour, not while others were still awake. From the plank road he could see candles burning inside, and occasionally the bulk of Jokul eclipsed the light as he moved past the window.
“Night Wolf,” a voice said. “You are prowling the roads tonight.” Starri Deathless stepped out of the dark. He had been just feet away, but Thorgrim had not seen him, and that was unusual because men generally could not approach Thorgrim undetected. Starri’s voice, unexpected, might have been startling, but it blended with the evening and was no more jarring than a breeze rustling through treetops.
“Starri. You are restless, too.”
“I am.” Starri stopped at Thorgrim’s side and the two men turned and continued on up the road. No thought as to where they were going, no discussion, they just walked.
“We have to leave Dubh-linn,” Starri said at last.
“Yes,” Thorgrim said.
“There are things happening here. Bad things.”
“Yes.”
They walked on. The mead hall was loud and light leaked from around the doors and shuttered windows, but they had no interest in that place and continued past. “My only thought was to get home. I thought it was what Harald wanted, too,” Thorgrim said.
“But now there is this girl?”
“Yes. She makes him her fool.”
“Youth makes us all fools,” Starri said. “Age only makes it worse.”
Despite himself, Thorgrim smiled in the dark. “When he was a prisoner, Harald apparently laid with her. Now she tells him that she carries his child. She says she is the rightful heir to the throne of Tara, which is some Irish kingdom not far from here. She has Harald convinced they will rule it together, if he can raise an army to take this Tara from those who rule it now. So Harald has gone to Arinbjorn.”
They stopped and looked out over the distant sea. The moon was rising and casting a long, textured band of gold light over the water.
“That’s quite a story,” Starri said at last. “Like a nursemaid might tell a child to get it to sleep. Could it be true?”
“I don’t know. I suppose it could.”
“If Tara is the seat of a kingdom, it sounds like it might be some hard fighting to take it. Good plunder, I would think. I am not disappointed at the thought of that,” Starri said.
“I didn’t reckon you would be,” Thorgrim said. “That’s why I didn’t ask your opinion as to what to do. You would fight all the host of Asgard armed with a threshing flail, if given the choice.”
“You would allow me a flail? That would hardly make it fair for the host of Asgard.” They stood for a few moments more, looking out over the water, toward the horizon, black and unseen. “You’ll do the right thing, Night Wolf,” Starri said at last. “You’ll make the right choice, as long as you don’t think about it too much.”
It was quite late by the time they returned to Jokul’s house. The windows were shuttered and no light appeared around the edges. With all that had taken place that evening, Thorgrim would have expected the black mood to be on him, wolf dreams in the offing, but Starri seemed to have an odd, calming effect. He felt steady and even, a ship floating in a calm, flat sea.
Starri settled himself on the workbench and Thorgrim bid him good night, then followed the split log path around to the door. It occurred to him they might have already barred the door from the inside, which would require him to knock and wake someone, but when he tried it, it opened without hesitation. He eased it open as quietly as he could, stepped in and closed it behind him.
He took a few steps into the common room. It was dark, with just a handful of coals burning in the hearth, but his eyes were used to the dark and he could see well enough. Against the far wall, he could discern Harald’s bulky frame under a heap of furs. Thorgrim felt a great relief to know the boy had come back, that he had not driven his son away. He felt hopeful, like things might indeed work out. He had not felt that way for a long time.
Harald was not alone. Looking at the pile of bedding Thorgrim realized there were two under the furs, and the second, he had to imagine, was Brigit. In the quiet he could hear their breathing, sometimes in sync, sometimes separate, but soft and rhythmic.
Perhaps she does love him, Thorgrim thought. He wondered if Harald was the one who saw the truth, who clearly understood the situation, and he, Thorgrim, was the one acting the fool. He stepped back to the door, dropped the bar in place, and then crossed the room to his own bed.
He unhooked the brooch that held his cloak around his shoulders, set it down and let the cloth drop soundlessly to the floor. He took the ax from his sword belt and laid it down within reach, unhooked the belt and set Iron-tooth carefully by the pallet on which he made his bed. He pulled off his shoes and leggings and crawled gratefully under the cover of furs and wool blankets.
Sleep was not long in coming, with the quiet rhythms of the house, the distant sound of Jokul’s deep rumbling snores, the soft breathing of Harald and Brigit. Thorgrim felt the warm wash come over him and he settled into it, let the heavy darkness pull him down.
And soon in his unconscious mind he felt a presence, warm and pleasurable, pressed close, something beyond himself. Slowly he kicked his way back to the surface, not desperate, like a drowning man, but easy, like one who is simply done being engulfed by the warm water. He was not alone under his furs.
“Almaith?” His voice was no louder than a breath.
Almaith ran her hand over his chest. He was still wearing his tunic but he could feel the warmth of her body through the cloth. “I wanted to see how your wound was getting on,” she said in a soft and sleepy voice. “But you were asleep before I could speak with you.”
Thorgrim put his hand on Almaith’s shoulder and let it slide down along her side. She was wearing a leine of thin cloth, so thin it was almost not there at all. Her skin underneath was soft and smooth and firm. She moved slightly under the motion of his hand and pressed herself closer.
“I was worried about you,” she said in the same breathy, sleepy voice. “You and Harald. It seemed like something happened.”
“Something happened,” Thorgrim confirmed. “Did Harald seem much upset, when he returned?”
Thorgrim could feel Almaith shrug. “He
seemed all right. He’s young, their wounds heal quickly. Any sort of wound. Did you have a disagreement over Brigit?”
“Yes. He says she is the rightful heir to some kingdom called Tara.”
“She is,” Almaith said.
Thorgrim was quiet for some time. “She is?” he asked at length.
“Yes. She is Brigit nic Máel Sechnaill. Her father was Máel Sechnaill mac Ruanaid. His kingdom is called Brega, not Tara. Tara is the seat of the kingdom. Not far from here. Some say the king who sits on the throne of Tara is by rights the high king of all Ireland.”
Tara, Brega… He had heard this before, from the thrall, Morrigan. It was coming back to him, like a dream, barely remembered.
“How do you know she is who she says? Do you recognize her?”
“I didn’t at first. But when she told me who she was, I saw it was so. I grew up not far from Tara. I suppose you might say I am her subject. Or would be, if others had not taken the throne on her father’s death.”
They lay together, quiet, for a few moments. Thorgrim listened to the sounds of the household, listened to hear if their soft talk had pulled anyone from sleep, but he could hear no changes. Most importantly, Jokul still snored with gusto in the far room.
“Will you help her?” Almaith asked. “Harald says she hopes to get an army of you Norsemen to put her on the throne. Will that happen?”
“I don’t know,” Thorgrim said. He could hear the note of exasperation creep unbidden into his voice. “This is not our fight. I don’t know what will happen.”
Almaith seemed to hear the note as well. She did not speak again, just pressed herself closer to him and ran her hand softly up and down his chest. He in turn let his hand wander over her shoulder and down her side, let it slide along the soft curve that her waist made as it widened out to her hips. Hard work had kept her lean, but the bounty of Jokul’s thriving smithy had kept her from growing thin and boney, and Thorgrim thoroughly appreciated the result.
Quietly, slowly, Almaith pushed herself up until she was draped across his chest and her lips could reach his. She kissed him and he kissed her back, both with the hunger of people who had delayed this moment until the last, until they could bear no more. Almaith slid further on top of Thorgrim, her hands running over the hard muscles of his arms, and he, with both arms free now, let his hands run the length of her body, down to her pleasantly round bottom, as far as he could reach. His fingers found the hem of her leine and he eased it up and she lifted herself off him, just a bit, just enough for the cloth to pass between them, then up over her head.
Dubh-linn: A Novel of Viking Age Ireland (The Norsemen Saga Book 2) Page 19