The next morning, they were both reflective. Colm said, “I have no marriage price for you.”
Gwyneth said, “I have no dowry for you.”
Colm, sweet-talking man, said, “But I have a morning-gift for you.” He took Gwyneth by the hand and out the door and they stood in the front yard, completely naked, and Colm said, “All of this, all of it, this is your morning-gift.”
Gwyneth looked about her at the field that had not been mowed in years. At the lack of animals in the yard, no pigs, no chickens, not even a dog. At the damaged roof on the longhouse and she asked, straight-faced, “Am I supposed to be pleased or horrified?”
Colm looked around and began laughing. “Whichever it is, I feel the same way.” He gathered himself up and put on his farmer face. “But we will build this up! Sheep, cattle, hay…”
“Chickens!”
“…Chickens. Pigs, horses, goats… I think there’s a place where you can grow barley! That’s something! We can brew beer and…” Colm caught himself waving his arms about and looked at Gwyneth who regarded him, hand on hip, with her eyes narrowed and a smile on her lips. They looked at each other for a silent moment, then ran back inside.
Colm mowed the home field. It was hot in the sun but days were running shorter. The grass might not dry properly. Anyway, it was full of dried grass from years of neglect. How would that affect the hay? But Colm discovered that if he pitched the grass on top of the stone fence, away from the ground, it dried more quickly. Gwyneth helped, too, and Colm mowed the faster for seeing her work beside him. Most of the home field was good hay before the snow fell.
That winter, Colm’s ewe delivered twins. Often a first-time mother will not bear twins successfully, but Colm and Gwyneth saw the ewe through her birthing and coddled her so that she was able to nurse both lambs. The lambs thrived. All this work, all this excitement, everything came along one thing after another so that Colm and Gwyneth never had much opportunity to reflect how happy they were and how delicious they found life to be! Then, in the spring, Bjorn came to see Colm.
Gwyneth was tugging loose fleece from the ewe when she saw the horse approaching. She watched for a minute, recognized Bjorn, called Colm, and went in to prepare what food she could to welcome her guest who was also the former master of Colm and herself.
Bjorn got directly to the point. “Eystein has returned from raiding.” Eystein was brother to Halldor, who had been murdered by Gunnlaug. “He wants to meet you.”
Colm nodded and gestured to his house. “He is welcome.”
Bjorn said, “He, and others, will visit my place soon. You and your wife come, too.”
Colm thought first that Bjorn meant his house was not good enough to entertain Eystein and his father, Magnus, a wealthy farmer. Then he thought that Bjorn was honoring him as a guest. He weighed the two thoughts and decided to take honor above insult. After all, he owed Bjorn much.
Bjorn’s longhall was packed. Marta, wife of the chieftain, Thorolf, sat in the place of honor on the women’s bench -- Aud’s place, when Aud was alive. Her daughter Gerda and the unmarried young women took their places on one side of her. Ingveld, wife to Magnus and mother of the murdered Halldor, sat on the other side ahead of the other married women. Gwyneth took her place at the very end of the bench. She held her chin high and her back erect. Colm ached for her though there was nothing he could do to help Gwyneth’s status except improve his own. Ingveld went down to Gwyneth’s place and took her hand and said some words that caused Gwyneth to smile. Colm smiled, too.
The place of honor on the men’s bench was held by Bjorn, the host, and beside him sat Thorolf, his chieftain. On Bjorn’s other side sat Magnus, Ingveld’s husband. No couple was more unlike: soft-spoken and diplomatic Ingveld and choleric Magnus given to anger and invective. Beside Magnus sat his son, Eystein the raider. Big and broad-shouldered, with a hint of his father’s anger flickering in his eyes, Colm wondered if Eystein had inherited any of his mother’s wisdom.
Next to Eystein sat his lieutenant, Grani Lopear. The top of Grani’s right ear was gone and a white scar ran across the side of his head and down his cheek to the corner of his mouth. He had the coldest, sharpest blue eyes Colm had ever seen. A single glance pierced you to the marrow. He glanced at Colm now, then stood up and gestured for the other men below him to move down the bench. If any man objected to this slight, he did not say so to Grani’s face. Grani beckoned Colm forward to sit between him and Eystein.
Two seats from the host! This was honor! At least, it was honor for him. Those who had to move down the bench had other feelings, perhaps. But Colm took his place without looking at them.
Eystein rose and embraced Colm and kissed him on the cheek. He grabbed him by the shoulders and made a great roaring speech. Colm was so overcome that he missed the words but he took their meaning: Eystein welcomed him and thanked him and loved him for avenging his brother’s murder. Colm had other motives when he drove a knife into Gunnlaug’s heart but no one cared about that.
Then Eystein reached under the bench and hauled out a long parcel that he placed in Colm’s hands. A gift! Colm was both honored and apprehensive. By accepting this gift, he was indebting himself to Eystein, yet there was no possibility of refusing it. Colm untied the knotted thong and unrolled the leather wrapping. He knew already, from the weight, that he was probably being given a weapon.
The gift was a sword, a fine Frankish sword. Colm slid the weapon from its fleece-lined sheath and the greased steel shone in the firelight. Runes were inscribed on the blade – a magic spell, perhaps, or the swordsmith’s name – but Colm could no more read them than he could any other kind of writing. This was a valuable weapon, better than most men in the district owned. Colm thanked Eystein warmly and received a friendly clap on the back that would have sent him over the table if he hadn’t sensed it coming and braced himself.
The men took their seats again and Eystein pressed Colm to tell of how he killed the outlaw Gunnlaug. Colm replied as directly as he could. He added no flourishes or heroics. Gunnlaug had not held a weapon when Colm killed him. Eystein made him tell again the part where Colm shoved the scramasax under Gunnlaug’s ribs and thrust it up into his heart. Colm was aware of Grani’s intense interest. The man never said a word, but Colm could feel his eyes drilling into the back of his head. Then, seized with inspiration, he beckoned a slave forward, a man he knew, and asked him to run to the Trollfarm and fetch the scramasax so that Eystein could view it.
Now the conversation became general. Eystein spoke of raiding. It was no use going to Ireland anymore, he said. The place was looted out. Anyway, the descendants of Ivar who once ruled Ireland and the sons of King Harald Finehair were invading now, one after the other it seemed, trying to establish their own kingdoms. Ivar had many descendants and Harald had fathered a great many sons so this state of affairs would continue for a time.
Colm thought back to what he could remember of Ireland before was taken into slavery. He tried to decide if the country would do well under a Norwegian king, but could not make up his mind. He had been a child when he was taken and he had no knowledge of politics.
Eystein said England was wealthy but well-defended under Edgar the Peaceable and hard to raid successfully. Scotland and West Britain were poor and kept that way by constant raiding from the Norse settlements in the Hebrides. No, said Eystein, the place for raiders now was on the continent. Frankia was all right, though one might run into the dreaded Frankish army, the best in the world west of Greekland and north of Andalusia. Frisia, on the other hand, was disorganized and poorly defended. In fact, the Franks had handed the place over to a Dane to defend. He was a member of the Danish royal line and looking back north to maybe push a relative off the throne. South, no one was looking. There, a raider could slip through the channels between the Frisian settlements. These people still had wealth from their great days, two centuries before, and even now did enough trading to make the place rich.
Eystein went on in this m
anner for a time and Colm’s attention began to slip. Bjorn, he noticed, hung on Eystein’s every word. There was food on the tables now, and beer, and people were becoming merry. The slave Colm had sent to the Trollfarm returned, breathing hard. Colm caught Bjorn’s eye and got permission to give the man a cup of beer. Then he turned to Eystein and made a little speech. He said this was not much of a gift, compared to the one he had been given, but perhaps it might have some special meaning to Eystein and he begged him to accept it. Then Colm gave Eystein the scramasax, wrapped in a scrap of leather.
Eystein unwrapped the knife slowly, then held it up for all to see. The blade was almost two spans in length, edged on one side, and clipped at an angle into a sharp tip. It had runes on the blade, like Colm’s Frankish sword. In fact, from the leather wrapping to the rune-marked steel, it was much a lesser version of that weapon. Now Colm regretted his act. He thought Eystein might think it mockery and Colm was afraid, for he was only a freedman without any status to speak of.
But Eystein treated the blade respectfully. He examined it closely and Colm thought once that he was about to weep, though perhaps it was only the way his eyes glittered in the firelight. Eystein pointed to some dark specks and said they must be blood and passed it around for others to see. Colm had cleaned the blade thoroughly and knew that there was no blood on it, but he held his tongue. The knife passed to Thorolf, who studied the runes carefully.
“Can you read those?” asked Bjorn.
“Maybe. These are Christian symbols here.” Thorolf looked up at Colm. “Where did this knife come from?”
“England, I think. I got it from an Englishman.” A little ripple of laughter ran around the men’s table as they speculated on how Colm the killer might have taken this weapon. Colm did not tell them that he had stolen it from the belongings of an English slave who died. He died of a bellyache, clutching his middle, not from any fight or weapon blow, but there was no use speaking of that.
“English,” said Thorolf, “Well, then, I think these runes say something like…” He looked up to judge the effect. Every eye in the hall was on him. “I think they say, ‘Mankiller’”
“Well named!” said Eystein.
“I thought you would like it,” said Thorolf, with a slight smile, as he handed the scramasax back. Colm heard something behind those words, a little disdain perhaps, and he sensed Grani tense behind him. But Eystein gave no sign of noticing, just grinned the wider as he handled the knife.
Colm felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to face Grani’s blue eyes. “That was a well-considered gift,” said Grani. “Well done.” His lips smiled but his eyes never lost their hardness.
Colm muttered some thanks at the kind words and settled back to his beer. Bjorn was talking. He said, “A man should go raiding once in a while!” He had been drinking heavily and his speech was slurred.
Thorolf said, “Plenty of work for a man to do on his farm without shipping out who knows where.”
Bjorn said, “The world is full of people to see and things to do.” He quoted Havamal, the Words of the Wise One, “‘He who has traveled and seen the world knows the hearts of men.’”
Thorolf replied, “‘A man is his own master at home, no matter how small his hut.’ And better he knows his neighbors well than any foreigners.”
Bjorn: “‘A man who fears death and avoids battle has a sad old age.’”
And Colm thought, “‘The more a man drinks, the less he knows…’” For he could tell where this was headed.
Bjorn said, “Eystein has invited me to go with him on his next voyage.”
Thorolf said, “You would be sorely missed here.”
“Still, I am going,” said Bjorn, “And Colm is coming with me!”
Eystein turned to Colm with a great toothy grin. “With all my heart, I would have you by my side!”
Colm’s heart sank for he knew he could not refuse his former master. He looked desperately toward the women’s table but could not pick out Gwyneth’s face in the low light.
Thorolf said, “If I cannot talk sense to you, then so be it.” He looked toward Colm, “At least you remembered that ‘the best gear to pack on a voyage is good sense’.”
Bjorn huffed, “You think I am a fool?”
Thorolf shook his head. “I think there is enough talk. If this is to be, then I wish you good fortune and a swift return.” He took Bjorn’s arm. “You will be missed and I shall feel the loss until you come back.” And he spoke with such feeling that Bjorn quieted. But Colm felt only a growing chill of apprehension and fear.
Colm and Gwyneth had planned to spend the night at Bjorn’s farm but now they wished to speak privately so they walked back to the Trollfarm. It was very late and the dew had begun to fall. Colm said, “I can’t refuse. I am only a freedman.”
Gwyneth nodded. “I know. There is nothing to be done. I will go and stay at Bjorn’s place while you are away. Not much will be done on our farm.”
“I will do what I can before… Ah, Gwyneth, don’t cry!”
“It’s just that… I was so happy. I thought my life would go well.”
Colm seized her. “We will be happy again. I swear it! Your life will go as well as I can make it.”
Gwyneth nodded but tears ran down her face. “Just come back to me. Whatever happens, whatever you have to do, come back here.”
“Of course I’ll come back. Don’t worry, Gwyneth, I’ll come back because you are here.” Then he took her hand and they walked on slowly back to their ramshackle farm.
The ship slid along the channel through the fog. Brush and thick weeds scraped the hull on both sides. Then the bow raised slightly as it pushed up onto a sand bar. Men jumped out and dragged the vessel up through the brush past the tidemark. Bjorn and a few others stayed behind to guard the ship. Colm moved forward with the rest, silent in the mist, swords drawn. As they worked their way uphill, the fog thinned.
A man suddenly appeared before them, a woodcutter carrying an axe. He opened his mouth to shout but Eystein brought his sword down in a blow that split the man open from his shoulder halfway down his chest. Eystein yanked his sword free from the body and, without a sound, led them forward again.
The village began to be visible now, about a dozen small thatch-roofed houses and some out-buildings. Not much livestock, Colm judged, these were fisher-folk. The townspeople could be seen now, here and there. A man mending a net, two women having an animated, arm-waving conversation, children playing… Someone saw the raiders and shouted. Everyone looked their way. Then Eystein yelled and charged in, the others following.
Colm ran forward, sword in his hand. People ran screaming, some into the brush, some into the water. He saw a man cut down, and a woman. An old man suddenly popped up in front of him, swinging a club. Without thinking, Colm swung back at the man. His sword bit through the man’s leg above the knee. Blood gushed from the cut, the man looked down at his collapsing leg and Colm saw the expression on his face, a look of loss and sorrow, as he realized he was going to die. The man fell, blood still pumping from his leg. Then the blood slowed. Then it stopped flowing altogether.
Colm looked up. The village was almost clear. Most of the people had run off. A few women had run into their houses, perhaps to grab an infant, now they were trapped inside. Grani Lopear stood over a man whose head was bleeding, poking him with a knife, trying to get the man to reveal where hoards of valuables might be hidden. Eystein gestured at Colm and some others, pointing to the area around the village. Colm nodded. He walked past the houses, looking for villagers hiding in the brush. He saw a man running, about forty yards away. A raider chased him and brought him down with a swing of his sword.
Directly before him, Colm noticed a slight movement in the thick undergrowth. Carefully he parted the weeds with his sword. A boy looked defiantly back at him. He was about ten, and held a little girl close, his sister perhaps. She was white and shaking with fear. The boy met Colm’s gaze without blinking, jaw set. Slaves, thought
Colm, they would be sold as slaves. All at once he recalled himself grabbed by an arm and hauled from his hiding place by a raider whose hand was sticky with blood. The terror of that moment flooded his mind so that his vision went white and his heart thudded. When the memory diminished, he did not know for a little time where he was. Then his eyes cleared and Colm found himself gazing into the faces of the Frisian children. He raised a finger to his lips and closed the grass back over them.
Colm stumbled back into the village. Bodies lay here and there on the ground, among them the man Grani had been torturing. The iron smell of blood was in the air. Women were screaming in some of the houses. Eystein, grinning, directed some of the young men into one of them. Other men were going house to house and looting them.
Colm walked into one of the thatched huts. The floor was packed earth but it was covered with clean straw. Some bedding was rolled up in a corner, but a few covers still lay as if their occupant had just risen. There was one low stool. The master’s chair, thought Colm. There was no other furniture. A pot hung from an iron tripod over the small fire pit. Colm lifted the lid. Porridge. A small wooden chest sat against one wall. Flowers and birds were carved in a band around the top. They had been painted once but now the colors were faded. This belonged to the woman of the house who had brought it, filled with cloth and women’s tools, to her wedding and the hopes of her new life. Ah, well, thought Colm, we all may hope. He lifted the lid and rummaged inside.
The Saga of Colm the Slave Page 5