by Peter Fox
A shout came from the shore, and Sigvald lifted his head to see Helga making her way towards the jetty. Behind her six men struggled with the awkward bulk of the bed on which Thorvald lay, and despite their best efforts to maintain a steady passage, Thorvald jerked and rolled about alarmingly. Wisely, Helga had administered one of her potions to ensure that he endured no pain, but Sigvald did wonder what damage all this movement might be causing his friend. Helga had decided it best to leave Thorvald exactly where he was and take him, cot and all, onto the ship. It was probably the best solution, but getting the bed up over the shield rail and down onto the deck proved a worthy enough challenge for the burly slaves, who grunted and strained under its weight.
All the while Rathulf sat at the other end of the Vixen in silence, emanating a brooding anger that was making Sigvald distinctly uncomfortable. Beyond him on the shore, Alrik stood with his father, but Rathulf had refused to acknowledge their presence with even a glance. Ingrith had tried to sit with him, but he had angrily shrugged her off, and now she stood up beside her father, growing more upset by the moment. Sigvald’s heart went out to the boy. How could the Gods be so unkind? he wondered. No one deserves this much upheaval in their life, especially one as bright and promising as Rathulf. The boy has already lost his childhood home, and now his adopted hearth has been flattened by an avalanche. At that thought, Sigvald shuddered. What if Eirik had been right all those years ago when they’d first rescued the boy and seen the emblem on his swaddle? What if Rathulf had been born under Fenrir’s shadow, and if so, what misfortune will next befall him, and by virtue of proximity, those dearest to him? Will his father be the next to pay the price of that association? Will I?
Sigvald laughed scornfully at himself. Now I’m sounding like Helga, he thought, but he felt little reassured. Rathulf’s story would have been hooted out of the halls were it a harper’s saga – no sensible man would believe a person’s life could consist of such a litany of misfortune – but a true account it was, and at no time was it more real to Rathulf than now.
So, what are we to do? he wondered, unwilling yet to abandon his cherished plans for their new life in Dumnonia. There must be a way to recover the situation, although obviously his original scheme was now in tatters. He’d had it all nicely worked out: presenting Tariq to Rathulf on his birthday; congratulating Ra on taking the Leap on his Byzantine stallion; and then handing Rathulf his trunk and revealing his glorious Dumnonian heritage. Instead, all that was now in disarray and the young man hated them all and would be little disposed to help his Viking foster-father achieve his ends.
The jarl sighed for what might have been. What a mess. He racked his mind for answers, wondering which of the Gods might take pity on his foster-son. Odin was Rathulf’s patron God of course, being master of Geri and Freki, but Odin had remained starkly ambivalent to the fate of his charge. Who then? Sigvald knew that Rathulf, like most of the young Vikings-to-be, admired Thor of all the Gods, but the Thunder-god also seemed indifferent. Sigvald needed a God who was not so busy that the life of one boy would prove insignificant. Someone who understood the pain of loss and exile. The realisation came to him in a flash: Baldur, the young God so like Rathulf in so many ways; strong, handsome and liked by all, but banished through treachery from his home. Sigvald yanked on the halyard, quite pleased with himself. I shall make such a worthy sacrifice to Baldur, he decided, that the God will have no choice but to heed my plea and take pity on young Rathulf. All that remains is how to do it. He smiled suddenly, remembering Helga’s words about consulting the oracle Valgerd. Of course, he thought, wondering why it hadn’t occurred to him before. The Seer will take my offering.
Satisfied that everything was ship-shape at last, the jarl strode towards the stern of the ship where Helga waited. His wife frowned back at the tent that had been erected on the deck to protect Thorvald from the elements. The fabric flapped noisily in the strong breeze. She shook her head in dismay. ‘This is doing Thorvald little good, and if Rathulf turns those devastated eyes of his upon me one more time, my heart shall break in two. I have never seen him so desolate. Or angry.’
‘Nor I,’ Sigvald said, glancing in Rathulf’s direction, ‘yet thanks to us he has good cause. That said, I am thinking there may be a way out of this. Thorvald shall survive, and Rathulf too.’
She raised her eyebrows, awaiting an explanation, but Sigvald just smiled at her. ‘We each have our ministrations to attend to Helga, and between us, father and son shall live through this.’ Helga gave him a long look, but his confidence must have been enough to reassure her for she smiled, deciding to trust in her husband’s conviction. Ingrith, though, looked unconvinced, and she glared at her love, still hurt by his rejection of her efforts to comfort him.
‘He feels betrayed by us all,’ Helga said in an attempt to soothe her daughter’s mood, ‘and it will take some time for him to forgive us.’
‘Us?’ Ingrith spat back. ‘What have I ever done except love and care for him? How am I to blame in any of this?’ She turned away and scowled out at the water, furious that she had been spurned for no other reason than her association with the bringers of Rathulf’s torment.
As they made their way back to Lærdalsfjorden, the sun broke through the cloud, and Sigvald was gladdened by its warmth, however weak, upon his face. The brisk breeze filled the great square sail, its striped wool bulging and straining against the mast, leaving the slaves free to sit and enjoy a welcome respite from rowing. Sigvald took it as a sign that Baldur had already turned his kindly face towards them.
By early evening they had Thorvald installed in the main house with a sleeping place for Rathulf set up on the house-bench nearby. At first light the following day, Helga set off with her maidservant to gather additional stocks of medicinal herbs from the woodlands further up the valley. She would be away for two days, so she left Sigvald with a list of instructions so long that he could have woven a decent length of rope out of them. He smiled and ushered her onto her pony, hoping his keenness to get rid of her would pass unnoticed. As soon she was out of sight, Sigvald ordered the Vixen launched, and, ignoring the protests of Gormond, prepared to set off in the company of slaves to pull the oars. It had been many summers since he had made a sacrifice of this magnitude, but Sigvald felt confident that the Mistress of Freya would be well placed to make his entreaty to Baldur. But what will she take in return for garnering the God’s favours? Gold? A life? He had just decided that gold would be best when he heard a whinny from Tariq’s stable. He looked up to see Myran storm out of the building muttering something to himself in frustration. Of course, he realised. What better gift in return for my request than Tariq?
He sprang from the ship and ran up to Myran, intercepting him just before he entered the house.
‘I’m taking the horse,’ he said. ‘Get him onto the Vixen and be smart about it. I’ll keep Rathulf occupied.’
‘But he is not ready for travel, master,’ Myran protested. ‘I cannot say how he will sail–’
‘Good thinking,’ Sigvald interrupted. ‘You can come too. Now get on with it.’
The stable master gave Sigvald a long, disapproving look before turning away to do as he was bidden. Sigvald, meanwhile, ducked into the house to check that Rathulf was otherwise distracted. Fortunately, the boy was still so miserable he was barely aware of his surroundings, so Sigvald took his leave and departed with Rathulf none the wiser to his intentions. As a last thought, he grabbed his sea-chest, threw it open to check that it still held some worthwhile goods, then strode down with it to the waiting longship. He ignored Myran’s reproachful glare and avoided looking at Tariq, the latter stamping nervously on the deck to the alarm of the slaves who sat chained to their places on either side of the stallion.
He drove the thralls at a fast pace, knowing that he would be pressed for time as it was, but despite Tariq’s occasional recalcitrance they made good passage and arrived at the Lady Valgerd’s tiny fjord-side home towards the end of the day.
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Sigvald was at once struck by the majesty of the seer’s choice of home-site. Accessible only by ship and flanked on either side by high cliffs that fell straight into the fjord, a small, grassed ledge lay nestled just above the waterline, barely large enough to hold the modest little house that sat huddled up against the grey wall. Sigvald frowned. How did she provide for herself? Where was her ship? Surely she must have some form of water transport somewhere, but Sigvald could find no evidence of a boat. Nor was there a beach or jetty; one simply pulled up alongside the rock ledge and stepped ashore. Another step took him to the heavy oak door. No windows softened the façade, and Sigvald paused at the threshold, his fist half-raised to knock. Should I have made an appointment? he wondered suddenly, feeling vulnerable in this exposed place.
‘How fare father and son, Golden One?’
Sigvald all but leapt out of his skin at the sound of the voice. He whirled around to find a woman standing beside him. He blinked, wondering how she had done that, appearing next to him when he could see no other means of exit or entry. Then his eyes took in her form, and he blinked again. He had been expecting a wizened old woman dressed in grimy clothes with a hunched back, gummy mouth and a wart on her nose. Yet the woman who stood beside him could not have been further from that image. Tall and well proportioned, she matched him for height, and her face was that of a young woman, fair skinned and strong-jawed with not a missing tooth in sight. Fiery red hair tumbled down to her waist, and the rich green dress she wore emphasised the womanly curve of her hips and full, rounded prominences of her bust. Sigvald blinked again.
She smiled back at him with pale green eyes that glinted with a trace of mockery.
‘Greetings, wise one,’ he said, his voice sounding to him like that of a boy who had just been caught with his hand in the honey pot. His eyes fell upon her generous bust again, and he quickly looked away, embarrassed.
‘Greetings Sigvald, Jarl of Lærdalsfjorden.’ The words came rich and low, her voice smoothly confident. ‘You have grown well since our last meeting.’
Last meeting? he wondered, amazed. Surely she can’t be the same woman? Sigvald had met her only once, back when he was a small child. His older sister had been ill, and he had accompanied his mother on the journey, for she had feared the little boy might have been afflicted with the same sickness. He had no memory of what had happened there, but whatever had transpired on that day had worked. His sister had survived to go on to marry and beget three children.
‘Please, just call me Sigvald,’ the jarl offered, thrusting his hand out in greeting. With some effort, he forced himself to keep his eyes firmly fixed on the woman’s face. The hint of a smile touched the corners of her full lips. Odin preserve me, Sigvald thought. No wonder Helga keeps me away from here.
The woman made no move to accept his greeting, and instead kept her arms crossed within her sleeves. Sigvald withdrew his hand and shoved it into his sword belt, rapidly coming to the conclusion that this had been a terrible mistake. Perhaps men weren’t supposed to come here. Perhaps she only gave advice to her own sex.
‘You wish to hold counsel with me?’ she asked.
It was more a command than a question, and Sigvald wondered whether he should answer or simply step back into his ship and escape whilst he still had a chance. Her uncanny ability to read his mind was highly unsettling.
‘Yes, wise one,’ he said before he could succumb to the desire to run away. ‘I wish to make an appeal to Baldur on behalf of my foster son, Rathulf Thorvaldarsson. If it pleases you, good lady,’ he added hastily, having no desire to offend her.
She smiled. ‘Very well, Sigvald of Lærdalsfjorden, let us see how we may help your foster-son.’
‘I have brought Tariq,’ Sigvald offered, gesturing to the yacht. ‘I thought he might be an appropriate exchange. I had intended him for Rathulf’s birthday. He’s from Konstantinoupolis.’
The Lady Valgerd smiled at him, mildly amused. ‘Is that so?’ she said, cocking an eyebrow at him.
‘He really is,’ Sigvald insisted. ‘I know I told Helga he wasn’t, but it was so she wouldn’t be angry with me.’ He stopped, realising he sounded like a naughty little boy.
‘Pray, what use have I for a horse here?’
‘Ah,’ Sigvald said meekly, feeling rather foolish. ‘I thought you would sacrifice him. No? I have gold,’ he added hopefully.
Ignoring his offer, she held the door open for him and waited for him to enter.
‘Right,’ he muttered. ‘We don’t want the horse or gold.’ He took a deep breath and stepped past her into the house.
He let out a grunt of surprise. He stood in a dark passage that opened ahead of him, its rough rock walls leading straight into the heart of the mountain. He glanced upwards and saw that the passage had no roof; instead the space extended into the darkness above. The seer woman brushed past him and strode on ahead, her hair drifting in her wake like an ethereal mist. Sigvald quickly followed, trying to calm his breathing as he walked. It was apparent to him that human hands had not hewed the jagged rock of the passage. Perhaps the ancient fissure had been carved into the rock during the times of the Gods. A tingle ran up his spine. Could she be one of the ageless ones, he wondered. Has this been her home for all time?
Sigvald struggled to calm his frayed nerves, wondering what manner of horrors awaited him at the end of this passage. He was not to find out. The witch suddenly turned to the right and disappeared. A shaft of warm light burst into the passage, and Sigvald turned towards it. The seer stood beside a doorway, holding aside a thick drape. He ducked past it to find himself in a large, brightly-lit room. Shaped very much like any Norse hall, its pine-panelled walls gleamed honey-gold under the light of many lamps, and in the centre of the space, a fire burned cheerily in its hearth. A sturdy iron frame stood over the flames, holding an assortment of cooking pots, while a little to the side stood a large loom with a half-finished bolt of cloth on its frame. A sizeable table sat at one end, while the seer’s bed and dressing space could be seen through open curtains at the other. Shields and weapons lined the walls, interspersed with cloth hangings depicting perfectly ordinary domestic scenes. The hall even had the traditional house-benches running the length of the two longest walls, and it was to one of these that she indicated Sigvald take himself. The chieftain settled down near the fire, awaiting further instructions. He smiled to himself. He had been expecting the seer to inhabit a dank, smoke-filled cave, not this cosy home which, upon consideration, was not unlike his own hall.
The oracle reached up to a shelf and brought down two fine drinking horns which she filled with warm mead from a pot beside the fire. She handed Sigvald his then she settled down on her stool in front of the loom. Soon the shuttle clicked and clacked as she wove out the pattern on the cloth. Sigvald watched with growing wonderment as the design emerged under her deft hands.
‘You may speak,’ she said.
Sigvald snapped out of his trance and cleared his throat. ‘As I said, it concerns the matter of Rathulf Thorvaldarsson. Do you know of him, my Lady?’
‘The Bretlander fosterling?’ she asked without looking up from her loom.
‘Yes,’ Sigvald nodded, wondering how much she already knew about the boy.
‘He follows a difficult path, that one.’
‘He would not disagree with you, although I’m not sure he has had much choice in what has happened,’ Sigvald countered.
‘Nothing happens by chance, Jarl Sigvald. What is it that concerns you about this boy?’ She paused in her weaving and turned her gaze upon the chieftain. Sigvald noticed that her horn of mead still sat untouched on the little table beside her. He had almost drained his own. ‘I am lax in my hospitality,’ she said suddenly, rising to refill Sigvald’s cup. When she had performed her duty as mistress of the house, she returned to her stool and waited for Sigvald to speak. Sigvald looked down into the steaming drink and gathered his scattered thoughts.
‘Rathulf’s father lies strick
en with a wound that will not heal. My wife Helga and I fear that he will die, leaving the boy alone in this world. I wish to plead to the Gods for understanding.’
‘We cannot interfere with the will of the Gods.’
‘He mustn’t die,’ Sigvald said earnestly. ‘Rathulf has been through enough. He has lost his home, his family, his friends, everything. Must he lose Thorvald as well?’
‘We all must die, Sigvald.’
‘I was hoping,’ Sigvald pressed, a sinking feeling settling in his guts, ‘that perhaps the glorious Baldur might show mercy upon Rathulf in return for a sacrifice in his honour.’
‘The Aesir have already decided Thorvald’s fate.’
‘But they haven’t even heard my case!’ Sigvald stared at the woman, shocked that she could show no compassion or concern for Rathulf and his father. ‘There must be something I can offer them in return for their mercy. I will give away all my gold if that is what it takes. Thorvald must live!’
The seer raised an eyebrow at him. ‘You think you can buy their graces?’
‘I mean it!’ Sigvald said emphatically. ‘Take one of my slaves if you will. I have six spare in my boat right now. Take all of them if you must.’
The seer laughed, a rich, musical sound that reminded Sigvald of the little beck beside his home. ‘Slaves?’ she said. ‘For one so important to you? You must give an eye for an eye, Jarl Sigvald. To save one life, a life equal to it must be offered in its place.’