Serving women brought her a pitcher of wine-and-water and a heated rock, wrapped in homespun, to warm her bedding against the evening chill. These servants lowered their eyes in her presence and spoke in the soft, deferential tones not even the lowliest bond servant used in northern villages.
“Is there anything further we can bring you?” asked one of the young women.
“How many spearmen guard this hall?” asked Hallgerd.
“Enough, if it please you,” came the predictable response.
Hallgerd thanked the servants and they left her, closing the door carefully. The iron chime of a key ring and the metallic click of a lock told Hallgerd that she lacked the one luxury she would have chosen—her freedom.
She pressed her ear against the locked door and heard only muted voices, and the sounds of benches being pushed against the walls as the day drew to a close. There was another sound, too, the harsh voice of Olaf murmuring confidingly to someone in the distance. She could almost make out the words.
Her bedchamber had no window, but she could tell, by the drowsy murmur of the folk in the hall beyond, that night was deepening, and soon everyone but the sentries would be asleep. The butt of a spear tapped the floor just outside her door, and leather armor creaked.
An inner argument had begun playing through Hallgerd’s mind.
If she could dally with the people of this house, and put off the hour when she met her intended husband, perhaps she could pass the coming days pleasantly enough. After all, if no one in Spjothof had been seriously hurt, there was only her own capture to be avenged. Perhaps even Hego had only been injured, his life spared. She allowed herself to consider Thrand’s gentle manner. Surely such a leader would not have permitted wanton slaughter. She was being treated with queenly comforts, and aside from her loss of freedom, she had an opportunity to enjoy soft-spun blankets and sweet wine.
She could rest for a few days, before planning her escape.
In her sleep, the bedchamber seemed to be in constant motion, rising and falling, floating on the choppy surface of the sea. Olaf was laughing, and Thrand speaking softly, a message she could not hear. Hallgerd dreamed of wings, blue-black, and a black beak.
A large bird, a raven.
The raven spoke to Hallgerd, and she could nearly make out what the bird said, her pulse pounding as she strained into the sound of wind, trying to catch the raven’s warning.
Lies, Hallgerd.
He lied to you.
She woke suddenly.
The key ring rattled, and Syrpa hurried into the chamber.
“Be quick!” said Syrpa, her own hair undone and flowing down her shoulders. “We mustn’t keep Arnbjorg waiting.”
The continuing darkness of the hall beyond, and the first tentative stirrings of birdsong, indicated the earliness of the hour.
Hallgerd was on her feet, body servants helping her into a new chemise of pleated linen. She felt herself being hastily assembled, suddenly wide awake, like a child’s puppet sewn together in an instant. Her feet were thrust into lamb’s wool hosiery, and a long blue dress was pulled over her, tugged and fastened.
The dress had trailing sleeves—a fashion, Hallgerd had been told, among wealthy ladies. The garment was suspiciously well-fitting, even when the laces down the back were pulled tight, and Hallgerd wondered how many merchant ships had carried spies from Gudmund’s family, silently measuring Hallgerd with their eyes.
Her hair was quickly brushed, and Syrpa eyed her critically, making minute adjustments in the dress.
I will see Gudmund’s daughter when I choose.
This was what Hallgerd wanted to say.
But the armored house guards kept a firm grip on either arm as they led her into the hall, toward a blazing fire in the center of the room. There, a woman in an ashwood pale dress was gazing into the flames, iron rod in hand, heating the end to scarlet in the coals.
“Is this she?” asked the woman.
Syrpa made a murmur of assent.
“Step closer,” said the woman by the fire, “so I can see you.”
Twenty-one
A sound startled Gauk, something breaking the surface of the ocean.
He worked the sail so the boat slowed. The day was bright, but he had heard of sea thieves who used one-man vessels to steal up on unsuspecting sailors. Gauk had drowsed, just for a moment, and now his heart raced.
With a snort, and a flurry of white water, something was nearby, salt spray bright in the air.
A seal’s head broke the surface of the sea.
He was a creature so dark, the whiskers on his snout were silver, his teeth white and perfect, the ridged interior of his mouth bright pink.
“Are you lost?” Gauk asked, his query a dry rasp.
It was a question of some weight. Gauk himself would have been lost, if it were not for the traditional way-poems that every child in Spjothof knew by heart. These songs were a method of remembering navigational clues—landmarks and sea features. They contained information about rocky outcroppings and towns all the way from the farthest north, south along the Danish kingdom, to the land of the Franks.
Keep the seabirds,
the guillemots and their kin
within your mast’s shadow
sailing north, sailing south.
The seal parted its bristly snout. Was this animal, too, another Odin presence?
Gauk tossed the butt end of the remaining blood sausage into the water. Some hunters would have thrust a harpoon into the beast as it nosed the morsel—seal skin was valuable, making excellent covering against wet weather. But Gauk made no move to reach for Whale-Biter. Some sailing folk believed that seals were men or women who took to the sea in the form of these long, sleek creatures for the joy of it.
Gauk did not quite believe this, but he welcomed the companionship. The seal plunged deep, pirouetting beneath the boat, trailing a long string of bright bubbles, and vanishing beneath the swells.
Gauk envied the seal its athletic innocence. Gauk had felt innocent, too—before Odin had made him a killer of men.
He did not allow the images from the previous day to enter his mind, an act of denial that took great effort. The men in the water had tried to swim, but the cold stiffened their limbs, until the dark sea swallowed them. Gauk felt soiled, and badly shaken.
But at the same time he felt a deep wonder, too, and an ugly joy. Now that Gauk was bear-clad, no man would ever insult Gauk or his village to his face. Even seasoned fighters would step aside when Gauk entered an ale hall, an ursine pelt over his shoulder or around his waist. Gauk would not feel the boyish awe most youths feel toward veteran fighters and their war tales.
Strider sailed itself, with very little prompting from him. Blood spatters dried on his shaggy coat, and on his mittened hands. The blood flaked off and turned to red dust, but it left stains. He wore a sword at his hip now, taken from a pirate’s dead body.
Life as an Odin initiate held a certain grim thrill. But the reality of such a life tasted bitter now. Stories were told of berserkers who were overcome by bear-spirit during feasts and weddings, butchering innocent celebrants. Such men quickly became friendless. There were stories of brave voyagers who killed berserkers on sight. Gauk himself had seen a berserker on the wharf of a southern port, half-killing a man with his naked fists while his neighbors tried to haul him away. Gauk was afraid of what he had become.
The thought was foreign to the strong young hunter, but he could not put it out of his mind: Perhaps he should fall upon his spear, here, on the open sea. It would be better than returning to his beloved village and becoming a danger to his comrades. Gauk had once entertained a secret whim of being such a killer, and now he would pay any price to return to his former life.
The seal appeared again, and Gauk wondered if this animal was now going to utter some portentous speech. The creature looked happy, alive to some delicious secret.
“Tell me what will happen,” whispered Gauk.
Twenty-two
>
It was a sun-drenched afternoon.
The little town of Blot nestled at the edge of a harbor. The low hills around the settlement were rocky and lush green, with a line of dark forest and fuming hot springs high beyond.
The seal had offered no syllable of prophecy, but Gauk knew where to get help. Spjotfolk had a reverence for this northern village. The town’s name meant worship, sacrifice, and the place had for generations been associated with Odin. Legend had it that one night-dark winter day a fisherman, mending an eikja, a crude sort of boat, spied Odin walking along the frozen land, carrying a two-pronged stick to keep from slipping on the ice.
Blot had been the home of the famous seeress Steingirdr Hakarsdottir, who had foretold the kingship of the old king of Denmark Angantyr. Possessed by envy and frustrated spite, one of Angantyr’s rivals had killed the seeress, cut off her head, and thrown it onto the sea. Within weeks the foolish rival had gone mad, hearing the seeress’s voice in every hissing wave.
A new seer named Jarn Ketilsson lived in the hills above Blot, and for a price this man was as prescient as any prophet who had ever drawn a breath. The story was that this seer had burned out one of his own eyes so he could resemble Odin. Other stories told that he had cut off one of his ears, or axed off one of his hands. In any event, Jarn was reputed to be a knowing and austere man, who turned many seekers away from his door. His powers were expensive, but insight into the future was considered by most Norse a gift beyond reckoning.
Gauk tied the boat against the rude wharf and hefted his heavy load, the uncured bear pelt, staggering under the burden.
A man planing a ship’s spar with a two-handled blade looked up at his step.
“Good shipwright,” asked Gauk politely, “please tell me, which is the way to the house of the seer Jam Ketilsson?”
The shipwright eyed Gauk with an air of cheerful suspicion. “The seer consults with princes,” he said, running a thumb along his blade. “The sons of jarls might be allowed into his company. A sea leader with an armed fleet waiting might, possibly, be allowed to put his head into the doorway of the seer. But not, I think, an ordinary hunter.”
Troubled by this, Gauk set down the heavy pelt and straightened, easing his back.
“And Jarn,” the shipwright continued, “is not pleased at the sight of a bear fur, hunter. Anything that reminds Jarn of a bear killed, or hurt, or even troubled, offends him greatly.”
Gauk sighed, feeling dismal, unequal to the challenge of an audience with the famous seer, but willing to pay any price. “What can I do?”
Perhaps something about Gauk’s downcast eyes touched the shipwright. The man turned away and examined the spruce wood spar. “You’ll find Fat Grim at the top of the road. He’s an honest trader and has been known to set his hand on silver.”
The merchant who fingered the bear pelt did not wrinkle his nose at the overripe stink.
He probed and pinched the fur, but made no remark at the rancid, black flesh along the edges. The luxurious hides of black fox and beaver hung head-down from the walls of Fat Grim’s dwelling, and squirrel pelts were spread on wooden stretchers. In Spjothof such a store of furs would have indicated a dazzling degree of wealth. Fat Grim was a deep-chested, hale man with a gray-streaked beard. He was, as his name had promised, a portly individual. He ran a hand over the thick, bright fur, and noted the place where Gauk had cut it.
“It would have fetched a better price if you’d not cut it so,” said the merchant as Gauk took a seat on a three-legged stool.
“No doubt,” said Gauk. “I would like to sell the pelt—but keep the paws at my hip.”
He had always left bargaining for sailcloth or salt cod to Snorri, who had always had the cheerful retort and the offhand, easy manner that brought a price lower and lower, with laughter and gentle teasing on both sides.
Fat Grim was an old hunter himself, judging from the scar that ran along one arm, a long, pink cord from wrist to elbow, the sort of wound a boar made, slashing with his tusks. The grizzled merchant touched the walrus scar in the bear pelt and said, “You did not kill this bear all alone.”
“I hunted with a friend,” said Gauk. “But as the Norns wove my fate, I had no choice but to kill him with my own hands.”
Gauk had heard hunters and warriors describe their feats with a terse humility, and always had admired the matter-of-fact stoicism of such men. Gauk had never anticipated sounding like this himself.
“No doubt that is why you wanted to keep the paws,” said Fat Grim, indicating the remnant at Gauk’s feet. “As a memorial to your friend.”
When Gauk smiled, but did not make any further remark, the merchant reached for a pitcher and poured ale into a wooden cup. He offered the drink to Gauk, who accepted it in both hands, as good manners dictated. He waited until the merchant had poured a cupful for his own enjoyment. Drinking was rarely casual among Norsemen.
The two drained their cups. It was good, sweet ale. Fat Grim poured them new servings and they both drained their cups again—to show restraint in drinking was unmanly and discourteous. Grim wiped his heavy mustache with his sleeve, took in Gauk’s sword and the dried blood on his tunic, and gave a belch, the sign of a good-hearted appreciation for drink.
“Six seal pelts will fetch an eyrir of silver among the Swedes,” said Grim, “but try to sell seal pelts to the Franks and they’ll ask you to throw in a keg of boat pitch, something they could use.”
Gauk said nothing, aware that he knew too little of such things.
“Bear pelts, though, are a different matter.”
“How much can you give me?” Gauk asked.
Grim raised a finger, silently counseling patience. “Perhaps you would sell the sword strapped around your middle.”
“I won this—” with bloodshed, he nearly said.
The trader sighed. “The Franks have rare ladies. Cream-fed noble folk. They take a special joy in feeling bear pelts against their skin.”
“So how much—”
“I’ve heard such Frankish ladies dream of cloud-borne pleasures when they drowse on such furs.”
“I’ve never met a Dane, let alone a Frankish lady.”
Grim’s eyes grew small as he offered a compassionate smile. He added, “But there are no Franks in Blot, my brave hunter, and not likely to be until much later in the summer—if even then, when their ships call this far north.”
“The seer,” said Gauk, “will want a plump purse before he’ll agree to the son of my father.” Son of my father was the polite, formal way of referring to oneself. Gauk felt disconsolate, and more in need of a seer’s advice than ever.
Grim poured them both more ale. “It is at this point in the bargaining,” said the trader, “that a merchant from one of those fjords to the south cheats the youthful traveler.” They both drank. “They give the hunter a bag of resin and a tethered goose, and weep that the price is too dear.”
Gauk burped. The drink was strong. “It is a pity to cheat a traveler.”
“And the gods,” said Grim, with a bright look in his eye, “loathe a crooked merchant.”
“I’ve heard that is true,” agreed Gauk.
“Although none are cheaters,” said Grim, “like the pelt buyers of that coarse, smoky hole called Spjothof.”
Gauk stood, his fists knotted.
Twenty-three
“What did my ears just hear?” Gauk asked, the old formula for asking for an insult to be repeated.
“I said no one cheats,” said Fat Grim, “and no one fights as badly as the weak-kneed men and women from the stink hole called Spjothof.”
Gauk kicked his stool to one side.
To his surprise, Fat Grim was laughing, slapping the table with his hand.
“Sit down, my good friend—and accept my apologies,” said the stout merchant.
Gauk made no move.
“I recognized a Spjotman when you stepped through my door,” said Fat Grim, “and I played a game at your expense.”
; Conversational sport was prized among all the Norse. Men and women would sit around the simmering stew pot and enumerate the virtues of a certain leader, or ship, or village, and sometimes such talk turned just the opposite in tone, and involved colorful but well-intended mockery.
“Who else but a Spjotman,” Grim continued, “would wear such a fine herringbone-weave tunic?”
“The men of Blot take humor in rough ways,” said Gauk, after a silence.
“We do indeed,” said Fat Grim. “I apologize again to my brave guest.”
Gauk sat. He felt more than a little embarrassed to have been so easily offended at such a traditional form of teasing. Calm in the face of word-sport, like a strong head for drink, was widely admired.
“And to repay you for your patience,” said Fat Grim, “I shall offer my advice.”
Gauk eased himself into a bubbling spring, letting the warm water knead him, the heat of the merry waters seeping into his muscles. Baths were enjoyed throughout the Northland, and the time after the evening meal was often referred to as badferd, bathtime, so frequently did men and women enjoy such quiet pleasure. Fat Grim had cut a slice of boiled seal steak and let Gauk wash the sweet, close-grained meat down with yet more excellent ale. Gauk felt that he had stumbled upon the best hospitality a traveler could desire.
Beyond the bathhouse, through the cracks in the birch wood shelter around Fat Grim’s spring, Gauk observed the merchant’s female house servants at work on his own bloodstained clothing, beating the garments with the vifl, the traditional laundry bat. When the clothes were clean, the house servants hung them on a line between two poles. Gauk watched his tunic and leggings and coarse-woven linen underclothes dance madly, alternately full of wind and empty, an amusing sight, like the crazy, spirited dance Gauk’s neighbor Hego did when he had a belly full of drink.
The span of rank bear skin waited in a corner of the bathhouse, rolled tight.
Daughter of the Wind Page 8