Far After Gold

by Jen Black

  “Will they use the shields?”

  Skeggi grunted and Oli shook his head. “Not for this bout.”

  “Normally, they would,” Skeggi told her.

  She supposed Flane wouldn’t use one because Gamel, with a broken arm, couldn’t use one. He was fair to a fault. A man walked around the perimeter of the square, ensured the ropes were correctly pegged down and signalled all was as it should be. Flane came forward and stepped into the square. Once there, he stood straight and recited the rules of the hólmgang in a clear, carrying voice.

  “He has to do it,” Oli breathed in her ear. “Because he’s the challenger.”

  Hostility bubbled through Emer as she gazed at the other man. Gamel looked as grubby and disreputable as ever with his sparse, greasy hair flopping over his limp tunic collar. He scowled and fiddled with the wrapping on his broken arm, and the glances he flicked at Flane would have curdled cream. Emer clasped her fingers together to still their shaking. Although Flane stood ready to begin the bout, Gamel continued to fold and refold the edge of the cloth, and in doing so kept Flane waiting.

  “How do you win a hólmgang?” Emer asked without taking her gaze from the square.

  Oli answered her. “The first man to leave blood on the ground is the loser.”

  Emer waited, but Skeggi added nothing more. She glanced sideways. Skeggi stared straight ahead. “So the one who fights best wins? But…that means…might makes right?”

  Skeggi nodded. “Of course. What else did you expect?”

  “I thought it was some kind of trial,” she said lamely, and wondered exactly what she had expected.

  Skeggi nodded. “So it is. The gods will guide their hands, and the victor’s viewpoint or decision is accepted by everyone.”

  It sounded very odd. “Do they ever, you know…kill each other?”

  Skeggi finally looked at her and saw the way her hands twisted together. “Sometimes,” he said, smiling. “But not today. We all know Gamel is never going to beat Flane.”

  Oli sniggered. “That’s why Gamel is fiddling about with his bandages. He’s scared. He doesn’t want to fight!”

  Emer watched two men chivvy Gamel into the square. To her eyes, Gamel looked almost as powerful as Flane. His customary slouch made him look smaller and less of a fighter, but when he finally stepped over the rope into the square and straightened his back, she saw the two men were almost equal in height and weight. Gamel leered at his younger opponent, but Flane’s face was a blank mask.

  Emer swallowed hard and fought the sick feeling that rose at the thought of Gamel’s sword piercing Flane. Emer had never seen men fight with swords. In fact, she couldn’t remember ever seeing a man on Pabaigh wear a sword. There had been one or two fist-fights when there’d been too much ale available, but that was all.

  Without warning Gamel swung his sword on a line with Flane’s neck. Emer gasped and jumped simultaneously, shocked at the suddenness of the attack. Flane swayed back and sunlight bounced off his own steel as he deflected the attacking blade. The clatter of metal echoed across the loch, underlaid by a disapproving grunt from the onlookers.

  Belatedly she realised Gamel’s low cunning. If Flane had stepped back over the Holm rope and out of the square, then he would have forfeited the duel and Gamel would have won. Emer frowned. Gamel was trickier than she suspected and suddenly seemed a formidable opponent with a hard, grim expression. Flane blocked a thrust to his belly, edged around the square and watched his opponent. The dark leather band at his brow emphasised his sharp, fierce gaze.

  “Skeggi, who makes them keep to the rules?”

  “No one. It is left to the honour of the two combatants to deal fairly with each other.”

  Emer frowned. Surely that couldn’t be right? Gamel would never keep to any rules if he thought he could win by trickery.

  Gamel, his sword a sweep of shining, glittering steel, stalked Flane around the little square. His blade shot forward on a low trajectory designed to slice through his opponent’s thigh muscles. Flane pivoted neatly and the sword slid by without touching him. Gamel, his mouth lifted back from his teeth like a snarling dog, tried the same movement again.

  “Fight me!” Gamel’s tone was an insult. “The sooner this is over, the sooner I get to bed that slave and believe me, she will know her master then!”

  Flane retreated, his expression one of distaste, but the size of the hólmgang prevented his retreating very far. The clang and clatter of blades rang out over the grass, and a low murmur of appreciation came from the watching men. It wasn’t often they saw a fight between a man with a broken arm and an opponent who had endured a severe whipping the day before. They knew it wouldn’t be the best fight they had ever seen, but it held a certain fascination.

  “She’ll make me good bed-sport, then I’ll sell her off—” The rest of the sentence was cut off when Flane suddenly attacked. In a move almost too fast to see, his gleaming sword whisked beneath Gamel’s blade and sliced across his thigh. Gamel cried out, and staggered to one side with blood welling in a bright, steady stream. He trod on the Holm markers, stepped over the rope and admitted defeat with a gesture of his hand.

  A smile flitted across Flane’s pale face and he raised both arms in the air, threw his head back and yelled at the sky. Gamel looked back. His face twisted and he threw himself across the square with his sword aimed straight for Flane’s heart.

  Emer froze. All around her, men opened their throats and yelled, Skeggi loudest of all, at the desecration of all the laws of hólmgang. Emer jammed her hands against her ears to block the offending sound. Flane, with all the skilled reflexes of a tumbler, dropped beneath Gamel’s blade. He caught and held his own weight on his left hand. Emer flinched and turned cold at the stream of pain she imagined must be flickering up and down his back.

  Flane lunged toward Gamel, his sword darting forward and up. Blood bloomed on his tunic where newly healing wounds broke open and his blade took Gamel in the midriff. The steel sped up to his heart. Emer did not recognise it as a killing stroke until the shouts and jeers died away. Unable to look away, she saw Gamel’s frozen expression and watched him drop his sword. He toppled over like a felled tree.

  Flane got slowly and carefully to his feet, breathing hard. Knowing he must be in pain, Emer would have rushed to him, but Skeggi grabbed her arm and held her still.

  “Do not shame him!”

  She gulped, swallowed and watched, a frown fretting her brow as Flane retrieved his sword. Distaste shadowed his face as he pulled the blade free and stepped back from the body. It was over. Relief, slow, deep and wonderful welled up through Emer. She pressed her palms together and found to her horror that she was laughing as she watched men surge forward and surround Flane, all eager to congratulate him. She struggled to restrain her laughter. Gamel, however unpleasant, had died, and it was wrong to show such levity at any man’s death.

  Her man was safe, and she was delighted. Retreating to watch from a distance, guilt flickered through her. She ought to be praying for Gamel’s immortal soul. That’s what her father would tell her to do. She hesitated, stricken. She could not, would not pray for the brutish man. She didn’t care about Gamel’s soul, immortal or otherwise.

  Flane, alive and safe, stood only a pace or two away. She wanted to run to him, fling her arms around him, but hordes of burly men stood between them. She would never reach him. She spied Oli, ejected from the crush of tall, heavy men and seized his hand, smiling.

  Over his tousled head something caught her eye. She glanced up, her eyes narrowed and she squealed. Unnoticed by anyone, a graceful dragon ship, her red and white square sail vivid under the sun, sailed soundlessly up the middle of the loch with barely a ripple at her throat. It made an elegant sight against the dark water of the loch, but Emer shrieked.

  “They’re attacking! We’re attacked!”

  She clutched one of Oli’s hands in a vice-like grip and dragged him toward the dubious safety of the forest.

  *
**

  Wave Walker dropped her sail a little way out and came in the rest of the way under oars. Emer watched as a chunkily built man disembarked at the jetty and greeted Skuli Grey Cloak like an old friend.

  “That’s Snorri Longnose,” Flane whispered against her ear.

  Snorri’s tunic was the colour of blood and six month’s work in gold thread embroidery at the neck and hem flashed and dazzled in the sunshine. Gold jewellery decorated most of his fingers. She decided she liked his twinkling blue eyes set in a skin burned dark by wind and sun.

  Flane’s arm nudged Emer’s shoulders. “Got over your fright now?” He still chuckled now and then over her immediate assumption that the dragon ship was about to raid Skuli’s steading. Oli’s screeching had alerted the men, and only Flane’s reassurances had persuaded Emer down to the jetty. Still feeling a little foolish, she looked at the trodden daisies in the grass, and her smile broke through even though she tried to restrain it.

  “Of course. Are you sure your back doesn’t pain you?”

  Flane wasn’t about to admit that his back felt as if someone had poured salt over it. He shook his head and leaned closer so his whisper reached her ears only. “I’ll wager he’s here to ask for Katla.”

  She looked up, startled, and then turned to stare at Snorri. Some years older than Flane, shorter by at least a hand span and far less handsome, the man exuded confidence.

  “There has been no word, no negotiation. Do Viking men come calling unexpectedly like this and expect to leave with a wife?”

  “Often, yes. Prolonged negotiations lead to complications.”

  “What kind of complications?”

  Flane grinned. “Children.” He laughed as her eyebrows lifted. “No family wants the girl bearing a child out of wedlock, for that would shame them.”

  “But…” She decided to let it go. Allowing young people time to know each other obviously didn’t go down well in this society. “My mother told me my father courted her for six weeks,” she said, “but they were never left alone. One of the old women was always within earshot, so it was embarrassing for them both. Will Katla know he’s here? Will she know why he’s here?” She felt a fleeting twinge of sympathy for the girl.

  “It’s been talked of, over the last few years, so she’ll have a good idea. He’ll offer a good bride price and that will please Skuli Grey Cloak.”

  “Will Snorri take her back to his steading?”

  “It is usual.”

  “It might make things easier for us, perhaps, if she left here.”

  Flane pursed his lips. “That’s if she marries him. It wasn’t that long ago she informed everyone within hearing distance that she would never marry him if he was the last man alive.”

  Emer turned considering eyes on him. “No doubt,” she said, “that was when she had hopes of you.”

  A slow grin crossed his face. “And she’ll have him, now she knows she cannot have me? Is that what you mean?”

  Emer nodded. “I wouldn’t want to stay here if I were her.” To stay and watch the man she loved live with someone else would be terrible.

  Flane stopped smiling. “You’ve forgotten that I’m supposed to be the one leaving the steading.”

  “Ah. Yes, of course.”

  ***

  Skuli’s wife Gudrun unlocked her chests, shook the creases out of three heavy linen cloths and handed them over with some ceremony. The slaves received them, shook them again and laid them over the bare wooden trestles and then set out the lavish meal that would honour Snorri Longnose. Rumour ran around the hall that the meal was in celebration of his request for the hand of the daughter of the steading. Skuli Grey Cloak and Snorri Longnose closeted themselves in Skuli’s room for a good portion of the morning and it was not hard to guess that they negotiated a bride price.

  Katla, unceremoniously ousted so the two men could have privacy, sat by the hearth and sulked. “I know,” she muttered to her mother “a woman’s consent to marry is not required, but I thought my father cared for me more than this.”

  “Of course he cares for you,” Gudrun replied, her big brown eyes soft with compassion. “He looks for your wellbeing in a fine marriage.”

  “But should I not be consulted?”

  “I considered myself lucky your father had a private conversation with me for the whole of one afternoon before the wedding ceremony took place. Everyone thought that was more than enough.”

  Katla shook her head in dismay.

  “You know longer courtships usually end in unwanted pregnancies,” her mother added. “And then, of course, feuds erupt and men die. It is so unnecessary.”

  “He should have asked me!” Katla muttered. “Most fathers ask their daughters if the man will suit before they start negotiations!”

  Gudrun lowered the linen to her knee and embedded the needle through it. “I think, dear, that Longnose’s sudden arrival took your father by surprise. If you have patience, he may yet ask if you consent to the marriage.”

  Still smarting from Flane’s rejection, Katla grimaced. “You told me all those tales of mighty passion, the inn matki munr, mother, and I believed you, but a wedding such as this will hardly be one of passion.”

  Gudrun sighed. “Very few are, daughter. Inn matki munr is for the sagas and songs. But many find love of a kind grows within the union.”

  Katla grunted. “I wouldn’t call it love. Affection, perhaps.”

  “I believe your father has given you everything you asked for until now,” Gudrun said, leaning forward. “You demanded Flane as your husband and grand passion, without considering that Longnose has always been your father’s first choice for you.” Gudrun looked at her daughter with a mixture of exasperation and love plain in her face. “I am sorry you are disappointed. It is indeed sad that Flane seems to love this pretty slave girl.”

  Katla’s lips compressed to a thin, hard line. “What of this Snorri Longnose? Is he well favoured?”

  “You have met him, daughter. Do you not remember him? He is handsome, and proud. He thinks well of himself. He will make a good husband, I’m sure.”

  “Is he loud? Does he laugh often? Does he belch?”

  “He smiles often, and his laughter has a pleasant sound. As to the other thing, I have always been content to sit next to him.”

  Before Katla could ask anything further, her father appeared at the door to their private quarters and jerked his thumb at her. Gudrun patted her hand. “Off you go, daughter. Smile and be pleasant. They are both good men.”

  Reluctantly Katla got up and walked slowly over to join her father. Skuli watched her. “Now, girl. What say you to wedding our neighbour Longnose?”

  Katla scowled. “I do not say anything, father. You know my feelings.”

  Skuli Grey Cloak sighed. “I have grey hairs enough in my beard over this as it is, daughter. He is a good man, has wealth, status and seems virile. It would be a good marriage.”

  “You should have made Flane marry me.”

  “He was unwilling, you know that. It is time you were married.”

  “You mean to marry me to this man even if I don’t consent? Father—”

  Skuli interrupted her with a wave of his large fist. “I wish I had sons. I wish I had many sons! I look to the future of the steading, and Longnose is the future. He will protect you, he’s honest and will not use your dowry as his own.” Skuli shrugged. “If you had married Flane, Longnose would have felt slighted and a feud would likely have developed. You know we have talked of this alliance since you were a child, Katla. Only your foolish liking for Flane Ketilsson prevented it happening long ago. Well, now Snorri is tired of waiting for a wife. He wants to marry tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow!”

  “It is Frigga’s-day tomorrow, the traditional day for brides. It is almost harvest time, and we have food enough to squander on a wedding feast. We might struggle to find honey enough for a month, but his folk can help with that. So tomorrow it is, and Katla—” He hesitated, and smi
led gently. “I would rather you went to this marriage willingly than with bad grace.”

  Katla knew she did not have a choice. Grey Cloak was growing old, Flane was enamoured of his slave girl and who would protect her if she did not marry? Better to marry a wealthy lord than one who could not keep her in finger rings. Her face puckered and she stood undecided for a long, tense moment before, with a small sob, she leant into his arms.

  “Oh father! How is he to look upon?”

  “Come and talk to him, find out for yourself.” He held her off and looked down into her white face. “Dry your eyes and come with me.” She trailed after him, her gaze on the ground until she looked up and locked eyes with the solid, brown-haired man rising to greet her.

  ***

  “Does she like him?”

  Flane pulled his nose away from Emer’s ear long enough to mumble “I think so,” and then went back to sucking her ear lobe.

  She pushed him off. “How can you tell?”

  He subsided gently to the bed, lay on his stomach and leant his head on his forearms. Emer snuggled down beside him, careful not to touch his back. “Go on,” she urged. “Tell me.” If she leant out of the bed space, she could see the two people sitting beside the hearth. They were not alone. Skuli Grey Cloak and his wife sat close by, and could hear everything the young couple said to each other. Everyone in the hall watched from the side of their eyes, and nudges and winks were frequent.

  “I think she does. And he certainly likes her.”

  “Yes,” Emer said patiently. “But how can you tell?”

  “The way she sits so straight and looks him in the eye. If she didn’t like him, she’d avoid him as much as she could. She smiles often, and there’s a flush on her skin. She’s attracted to him. Look at the way he leans forward, to be closer to her. He likes her, too. He’s already thinking of bedding her.”

  “Flane!”

  “You asked me, so I’m telling you. He wants to catch her smell. He doesn’t know he’s doing it, but he is. If he didn’t like the way she smelled, he’d get up and walk away.”