Erinsong

by Mia Marlowe

  Brenna’s heart fluttered as she and Rika entered the wide open doorway. She squinted at the brightness of the blazing torchlight inside after the darkness in the street.

  The feast was well under way. The aroma of roasted meat and bread and alcohol competed halfheartedly with the smell of too many bodies, not all of them as clean as hers, crammed into one place. There were both men and women in the hall, eating, laughing, and swilling mead, and all of them so big. Even seated, the Norse seemed to dwarf her. She felt very much like a mouse sneaking into a byre full of cats. Cats intent on feeding, at that.

  Her belly clenched as she followed Rika through the throng. Part of her was desperate to see Jorand again, but another part remembered that he would be there as well, the nightmare from her past she now knew as Kolgrim.

  She took comfort knowing that Kolgrim was unlikely to recognize her from that ill-fated day. Sinead had made sure he’d only caught a glimpse of her before she ordered Brenna to run. Besides, Kolgrim had probably defiled so many Irish virgins, he wouldn’t even remember Sinead if she were here.

  Her body stiffened when she saw him. Kolgrim was seated on Thorkill’s right, leaning in to talk with the master of Dublin. Then he knocked back a long horn brimming with mead. The golden substance trickled from the corners of his mouth and dribbled down his russet beard. He put down the empty horn and swiped his greasy lips with the back of his hand. His eyes met hers for a brief flicker and her breath caught in her throat. When his gaze moved on, she exhaled slowly.

  Solveig was seated in the place of honor on her father‘s left side. Clad in a snowy white kyrtle and tunic, with her golden hair dressed in an elaborate series of plaits, she looked pure enough to have stepped from a folio of the Gospels. Her skin was pale as parchment and her eyebrows so blond as to be invisible at a distance, giving her the supremely calm look of the Madonna Herself. Everything about her was pallid, except for her very red mouth. She was quite beautiful, Brenna realized with a pang.

  But when Brenna saw Jorand, the rest of the room, including the fiend named Kolgrim and the lesser demon Solveig, dissolved into nothing. Her husband sat still as stone, a deep frown chiseled between his brows. But stern-visaged or no, his face was like a woodcut of such pure line and balance, it hurt Brenna’s heart to look at him. Even so, she drank in the sight of him as thirstily as a shipwrecked victim craves sweet water.

  When he turned his head and saw her, a smile lit his features. He stood to welcome her. It was all Brenna could do not to run to him, arms outstretched.

  Aye, what we had was real, she thought. But the menace she felt in Thorkill’s hall was real as well and she forced herself to walk sedately at Rika’s side.

  “Bjorn, this is Brenna.” Her new friend motioned to the dark-haired man seated near Jorand. Bjorn smiled at her briefly, but his attention immediately turned to the glorious redhead who was his wife.

  Brenna took her place at her husband’s side. Jorand settled beside her and placed a possessive hand on her thigh.

  “Thank you for coming,” Jorand said softly. “I feared you wouldn’t.”

  “Rika told me ye were planning to challenge Kolgrim in the holmgang,” she answered, trying not to be distracted by the heat of his palm. “Since I’m the reason ye are trying to win back the Codex, I wanted to be here to support ye. Surely Thorkill will hear me testimony as well?”

  “Testimony?”

  “Aye. Ye’ve made a big stramash about your law and all,” she said. “I only hope your holmgang court sees justice done.”

  ***

  “Whatever she’s saying about the holmgang, tell her that, as head wife, mine is the right of first choice among the spoils.” Solveig leaned across Jorand to glare at Brenna.

  “She doesn’t know anything about that,” Jorand said, impatient with Solveig’s greed. “She doesn’t even realize the holmgang is a combat, not a trial. Don’t worry, woman. You’ll get your full due.”

  “I should hope so. I deserve something for the heartache you’ve put me through. First, I’m told you’re washed overboard and grieve for you as a wife should. Then I find you’ve turned Irish for more than half a year. And now you flaunt your little concubine before the whole of Dublin,” Solveig said, eyes narrowed at him. Then she lowered her voice. “But since you’re intent on challenging your old captain, they do say Kolgrim has a stash of hack silver big as a two-year-old child hidden under the floor of his longhouse.”

  Jorand studied Solveig’s flawless face and saw her clearly for the first time. Looking back, he realized he’d been enthralled by her beauty and more than a little dazzled by her father’s power. Now he understood the emptiness of both. He was a fool to let his cock and his ambition lead him into marriage with such a shallow creature. He shuddered to realize that if he hadn’t met Brenna, Solveig might have always been enough for him.

  Solveig hadn’t changed. He had.

  A small hand on his arm made him turn. Brenna. Her name had once more become his talisman, a whispered prayer to keep him sane. When things had become too trying with Solveig the past week, Brenna echoed in his mind. He caught himself chanting it under his breath more than once.

  “When will it start?” Brenna asked.

  “Soon enough,” he said, covering her hand with his own and not allowing her to escape. Even though Brenna was no stranger to hard labor, her smooth palm was still so soft. He inhaled deeply, taking in the fresh, clean scent of her. Her eyes were clear when she looked at him, the soul he loved glistening in their moist depths. The possibility that he could lose her completely this very night flitted across his mind, but he shoved it away. No profit in thinking the worst.

  As if in response to Brenna’s question, Thorkill stood and bellowed for quiet.

  ***

  Brenna listened in tense puzzlement, trying to decipher what Thorkill was saying. Rika leaned in to whisper an interpretation. “He’s calling all to witness the accusation.”

  Brenna nodded. That much made sense.

  Jorand rose and began speaking. Even though he sounded strange in Norse instead of the heavily accented Gaelic he used when he spoke to her, she let his sonorous voice roll over her. She wished she could wrap herself in the rich deep sound, go to sleep and, please God, never wake.

  “Jorand says Kolgrim attacked him during a storm and knocked him overboard to drown,” Rika whispered. “That normally wouldn’t be considered so bad, but Kolgrim struck from behind with no warning.”

  Kolgrim leaped to his feet, his face a snarling mask. Brenna flinched.

  “Kolgrim is demanding the holmgang,” Rika explained. “Jorand wanted to call Kolgrim out this afternoon when he first arrived back, but Thorkill forbade it. Kolgrim had to be told Jorand was not dead as he first supposed. No warrior will stand to fight a ghost, after all. Jorand was under orders not to challenge until after the feast.”

  “So this exchange of insults is Thorkill’s idea of entertainment for his guests?” Brenna asked under her breath.

  “I’m a well-known skald in my own land,” Rika said with a trace of annoyance. “I’ve not been asked to recite all week. Thorkill is not interested in sagas or poetry that don’t tout his own exploits. Alas, I know of none worth retelling.”

  Kolgrim lunged at Jorand, but Thorkill interposed his own formidable body between them and pushed the combatants apart. Then he spoke at length in stentorian tones. When he finished, everyone stood and pushed toward the open doorway.

  Jorand shot Brenna a parting look, then strode away with purpose.

  “What now?” she asked.

  “The holmgang begins,” Rika said, a grim tightness about her lips.

  “But I thought this was the holmgang court.”

  Rika cocked her head at her. “He didn’t tell you. The holmgang isn’t a court trial. It is trial by combat, winner take all.”

  Brenna felt suddenly light-headed.

  Solveig brushed past her, pausing long enough to toss a string of stinging invective toward he
r. She looked Brenna up and down, the expression on her face plainly saying Brenna had been weighed in the balance and found sadly wanting. The beautiful Norse woman made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort and stalked away.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask.” Brenna skittered after Rika as they pushed through the throng toward the doorway. “What did she say to me?”

  “ Pray to your God, Irish,” Rika repeated verbatim, her prodigious memory able to grasp and retell the spoken word with exactitude. “May our husband be victorious. If not, we belong to Kolgrim from this night forward.”

  “No,” Brenna protested. “Not even Northmen could be so barbarous. Surely a man isn’t allowed to take another’s wife.”

  Rika put an arm around Brenna’s shoulders and hurried her along. “It is allowed ... but he must kill the husband first.”

  Chapter Thirty

  He must kill the husband first.

  Brenna hoisted her skirt and dodged in and out among the crowd, trying to work her way out of the jarlhof to find Jorand. She had to stop this insanity.

  “Jorand!” she cried out, unable to see him over the sea of taller bodies.

  Rika caught up to her and grabbed her shoulders, turning her around. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to stop this,” Brenna said. “It’s my fault Jorand is in danger and the Codex is not worth it.”

  “You can’t stop it. It’s already begun.” Rika gave her a shake. “He fights for his honor. Do you want to shame him?”

  That made her pause. Jorand wouldn’t thank her for behaving in a way that brought him disgrace. But she never imagined getting back the Codex would involve such high stakes. As much as she wanted her sister’s child in her arms, the possibility that Jorand could die trying to bring her dream to reality had never entered her mind. She fought to still her trembling.

  “That’s better,” Rika said. “Come. Bjorn will be his second. He will have saved us space. As Jorand’s wife, you are expected to watch.”

  The two women pushed through the throng, out of the jarlhof and into the night. Clouds had blocked the moon’s light earlier. Now they mushroomed into a full-blown thunderstorm. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the bustling throng with flashes that made people’s movement appear macabre and disjointed.

  Rain started to fall, a rustle on the thatched roofs at first, then a steady dripping that soon plastered Brenna’s borrowed clothing to her form and impeded her progress. The wooden planks on the path grew slippery underfoot. A long roll of thunder rumbled over her. A flicker of hope surged up in her breast. Perhaps the combat would be halted due to the gathering storm.

  Brenna elbowed her way through the tight knot of spectators gathered around a roped-off area about twelve long paces square. Someone was pegging a cloak to the ground in the center of the square. The reek of burning pitch invaded Brenna’s nostrils as several men arrived with fresh torches to replace the old ones, already sputtering in the rain. Rather than dampening the spirits of the crowd, the foul weather seemed to add excitement.

  A jagged bolt shredded the clouds and the resounding boom that followed made Brenna jump. “Won’t they stop because of the storm?” she shouted to Rika.

  “Thor favors a good fight,” Rika said with a glance at the sky. New Christian or not, the Norse woman seemed to have a healthy respect for her old gods still. “The Thunderer has come. That makes this holmgang even more propitious.”

  Brenna heard several people bickering amongst themselves and she saw small bags of coin change hands. The Northmen laid bets on the outcome.

  In one corner of the roped area, Jorand and Bjorn were heads down in earnest conversation, deep in discussion of fighting strategy, Brenna supposed. Kolgrim was in the opposite corner, taking practice cuts with a sword as long as his arm. Lightning flashed and his wickedly sharp-looking sword seemed to glow blue for a moment.

  Solveig joined Brenna at the rope, looking down on her with disdain. Brenna saw she was holding a sword, swathed in blood red cloth. When Jorand approached them, Solveig presented the sword to him, hilt first.

  The crowd quieted. Solveig said something to him, her voice ringing clear, without the slightest hint of a quiver.

  “Victory and honor,” Rika whispered, prompting Brenna to offer the correct words of encouragement to her husband. Jorand turned from Solveig to look at Brenna, his face stony and unreadable. Moira had told her Jorand looked like a different man when he slew the raiders on the beach. Hard and vicious. Clearly, he had already passed into a state that would allow him to hack into living flesh without hesitation.

  “Live,” she pleaded in Gaelic. “Just live.”

  Thorkill took his position across the square from Brenna and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  At this signal, Kolgrim opened his mouth wide and made a noise like a bull standing at stud. Jorand answered with a full-throated roar of his own. The two men flung themselves toward the center of the square and met with a resounding clang of steel on steel. Sparks flew as the blades grated along their sharp edges. Jorand and Kolgrim grappled with each other for the space of several heartbeats. After this test of strength and will, which neither of them won decisively, the combatants separated and began circling, searching for weakness.

  Both Jorand and Kolgrim were tall men with long reaches and the small roped-off area designated for their fight meant they would surely connect with every blow. Each man was armed with only a lethal broadsword and a round wooden shield.

  Kolgrim was barrel-chested, carrying a stone or two more in brawn than Jorand. Kolgrim raised his beefy arm to deliver a slashing stroke, throwing his whole weight behind the blow.

  “Sweet Jesu!” Brenna clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out again. The last thing she wanted to do was distract Jorand at a critical moment.

  Kolgrim may have had extra weight, but Jorand was favored with the agility of youth. He managed to dodge Kolgrim’s blade, deflect it with his shield, and deliver a counter stroke aimed at Kolgrim’s sword arm. The older man was quicker than Brenna anticipated, jumping back out of the deadly arc of Jorand’s sword.

  Kolgrim bared his teeth at Jorand in a death’s-head grin.

  ***

  “Thought I killed you once, boy.” Kolgrim sidestepped, looking for an advantage.

  “You thought wrong,” Jorand countered, mirroring his opponent’s movements. He stepped carefully, his footing slick in the rain. “You relied on the sea to kill me. You were either too lazy or too cowardly to finish the job.”

  Kolgrim’s eyes narrowed at the insult. “I see now I was too easy on you. It’s a mistake I won’t make twice. I only sent you into the coils of Jormungand last time. And here you are, back again like a boil on my ass. This go-around, I’ll see you to Hel for certain.”

  Kolgrim’s sword dipped slightly, leaving him open to a swift attack. Jorand lunged, his blade snaking toward Kolgrim’s chest, but Kolgrim lurched to protect himself with the small shield. The point of Jorand’s sword wedged in the wood and he couldn’t wrench it free.

  Kolgrim followed up his advantage, raining a hailstorm of blows on Jorand. He barely managed to cover his exposed shoulder with the shield in time to avoid a slash that would have cleaved him from the base of his neck to his breastbone.

  “My crew thought they’d seen your shade on that beach, you know. That’s the only reason you were able to kill those few.” He hammered Jorand but was clearly frustrated when Jorand met every blow with his sturdy shield until he finally pulled his sword free. “You’re no fighter. You’ve always been just a shipwright.”

  Jorand skewered Kolgrim’s shield. He yanked back on his blade and pulled Kolgrim’s shield from his grasp. Kolgrim’s eyes widened with the shock of finding himself without a defense.

  “I’m fighter enough to beat you,” Jorand said, as he took a step back and pried the splintered circle of wood from the point of his blade. According to the law of holmgang, when either combatant lost a shield, the
fighting was stopped long enough to let him re-arm with one of two spares. A man was allowed three shields in the square, but only one sword.

  “No, my old shipmate,” Kolgrim promised as he slid a heavy fist through the straps of his new shield. “You may not realize it yet, but you’re on your way to Niflheim. Nothing but ice and mist for the dead cursed to the ninth circle of Hel. There’s no coming back from there.”

  “You talk too much.” Jorand launched a series of feints and cuts. When a flash from the heavens lit the combat, his sword glittered like molten silver. A roar of approval boiled up from the crowd and the sky answered it with a thunderous boom.

  Jorand realized the two of them were evenly matched for strength. Each time his steel slammed into Kolgrim’s, the force of the impact shot up through the sword, jarring his joints all the way to his shoulders. There was no give to the man. It was like hacking away at stone.

  “Don’t... worry about... your wives, son,” Kolgrim grunted in short pants between blows. “Once they’ve had a taste of me, they’ll forget all about you.”

  Brenna. No, he couldn’t think about her now. The only way to keep her safe was to win.

  “Besides, the Irish vixen looks a bit familiar. Think maybe I know that one already. Mayhap I opened her up for you. Tight little bitch, isn’t she?”

  The bellow of rage pouring out Jorand’s throat didn’t sound human, even to his own ears. He swung his arm over his head and brought it down with all the force he could muster, again and again, as though he was pounding a stubborn post into the ground. Safe behind his shield, Kolgrim was jarred and battered, but untouched. All Jorand succeeded in doing was wearing himself out.