“Sword to sword, no Dane would be your equal.”
His mother was not entirely blind. If she turned her head, and searched the light, there was a tiny remnant of vision, and she tried to find Gauk with her eyes now. He sat still, knowing that even when she glimpsed him he would be little more than a shadowy outline.
“Ara’s son,” she said, “would have defended his village.”
“I certainly would have done my best.”
Her next words both chilled Gauk, and gave him a deep thrill.
“That’s why Odin has chosen you—and made you bear-pelted. To bring us back our pride.”
Astrid’s father, Horse-Trygg, met Gauk at the door to the family longhouse. In a breach of custom, he did not invite Gauk into the house.
Horse-Trygg was a well-known horse breeder, and so named to set him apart from Trygg Two-Nose, the warrior. The horseman walked Gauk up-slope to the horse pen of long black and white birch wood logs. Horse-Trygg was a small, stocky man, with a way of looking sideways as he spoke, cocking his head and emphasizing his slow speech.
He recounted a horse fight held earlier that summer, with heavy wagers on both sides. Gauk had witnessed the fight—the entire village had, but it was typical of Astrid’s father to recount an event as though he had been the sole witness. Gorm, one of the horse owners, had cheated shamefully, wounding the opposing steed with a blade.
“It hurt my heart,” said Horse-Trygg with a sigh, “to see a fine little fighting horse disabled like that.”
Astrid’s father held out a fistful of toasted barley, and his horses, frisky, short-legged creatures the color of soot on snow, nosed their way forward.
“I owe Astrid my thanks,” said Gauk, “for telling me so frankly what the Danes have done here.”
“Astrid is a clear-headed young woman,” said Horse-Trygg. While not a fighter, Horse-Trygg’s success in breeding and training animals had given him a certain honor, and he spoke like a man who expected his words to carry weight.
“No other neighbor would tell me,” said Gauk.
“Bad luck,” said Horse-Trygg, caressing the nose of one of the horses, “clings to the mouth.”
“I want to speak further with Astrid,” said Gauk.
“Of course you do,” said Horse-Trygg. “All those days out on the ice and sea, and you want to look into a pair of blue eyes and tell your story.”
Something about the man’s tone stung Gauk. “And I want to speak with you.”
“What about?” asked Horse-Trygg, not meeting Gauk’s eyes.
“I’ll have a bride price in my purse,” he said. “By the end of summer.”
“How will you get that, Gauk?” asked Horse-Trygg, digging into his feed pouch for more toasted grain.
“By the labor of my back,” said Gauk. “Planing logs and chopping wood.”
“Ah, Gauk,” said Horse-Trygg in a tone of regret—even sadness.
The horses chewed, their working jaws crunching the grain. Horse-Trygg massaged the ear of a young mare.
“I did, at one time,” Horse-Trygg continued, “think of you as a young man with years ahead of you. I always liked you. But now—”
He let his eyes linger over the bear belt fastened at Gauk’s shoulder. Many men had a grudging admiration for the fighting reputation of the berserkers, while acknowledging that such men were little more than devotees of the sword, lacking in the quiet steadfastness respected among the Norse.
“Now,” said Astrid’s father, “I am not so sure.”
Thirty
Hego’s household ale was thick as soup, with a thick yellow head. He could consume the stuff by the cupful, but he was a little embarrassed to serve it to a visitor.
Gauk drained his drinking horn, a receptacle that had been made from the polished, sweeping horn of a great ox many years ago. The horn stood on little legs of a metal nearly as bright as silver. Hego’s drinking horn had belonged to a distant uncle, a man who had traveled east as far as a land where archers rode horses backward and people played a game consisting of driving a goat’s body from one end of a field to the other. The horn was far from being an object of dwarf craft, but it was the most expensive heirloom Hego owned.
Hego’s ale was brewed by his servant Jofridr, who made a point of keeping the recipe secret. “My husband Rurik liked ale you could spoon out,” Jofridr was saying. “He said ale was like bread but better for the heart.”
Gauk had swallowed his share of the brew. He was perched on the edge of Hego’s tool bench, among the shears and ax heads people had left for the blade smith to sharpen. Hego and Gauk agreed courteously with the long-dead shipmate, and lifted their cups to him.
Jofridr crossed her arms, cleaning rag folded and tucked in her apron. The evening was cold, and yet in here the fire was merry. “Rurik was a real man,” she said. “With warm blood and hot breath.”
“We all raise our cups once more to honor his memory,” said Hego, a polite phrase he knew was appropriate whenever the dead were mentioned by name. This could go on all night, the dead honored by ale drinking until no one could speak or stand.
“We have our memories of better times,” said Jofridr, tears in her eyes.
Sometimes Hego could not follow Jofridr’s train of thought, and he wished he was not in such a dull-witted frame of mind. He had worked cow’s foot oil into Gauk’s sword sheath. Hego did not think much of the scabbard’s leather work. Some squint-eyed craftsman had stitched the horse leather with awl and rawhide, and the result was a scabbard the blade slipped into with a difficulty matched only by the strength it took to wrest it free. It was much better now.
“My Rurik,” Jofridr continued, “was not like the half-men we have around the village today.”
“I’m sure not,” said Gauk, meeting Hego’s eyes.
While women were never law speakers and female servants were relied upon for years of uncomplaining labor, it was not uncommon for these valued family retainers to have many worthy opinions.
“You hear what he says, Hego?” said Jofridr.
“What does he say?” Hego asked, weary affection in his voice.
“Your friend agrees that we are a town of spiritless men,” she said.
Sometimes conversation got Hego into trouble. This was why he liked the company of ewes and breed boars. “Yes, that’s what we are,” said Hego, sure, even as he spoke, that agreeing with Jofridr was not a good idea.
“You see?” said Jofridr, stirring the hearth embers. “We all know it. Only a berserker has any courage in this town, and everyone knows a berserker is worse than a drunk.”
Cold are the counsels of women. It was an old proverb.
Gauk climbed down from his perch on the workbench. He whisked the sword from its scabbard and replaced it, taking a fighting stance a few times to test the leather.
“So now you are ready for an enemy,” said Hego.
“If I ever set eyes on one,” Gauk agreed.
To Hego’s surprise Jofridr burst into tears. “Who is to keep us alive in our beds,” she said, “with only fools to guard us? And which of you will be man enough to bring Hallgerd home?”
Hego could not sleep. Sometimes ale made him drowsy, other times it quickened his pulse and filled him with visions.
Jofridr was snoring. She had drunk her fill of her own ale, and when she spoke in her sleep she uttered names of the honored long dead.
Just as he was about to drift off, Hego heard something. The sound was far away, and very quiet.
Two booted feet stirred the pebbles of the shore. The mares were silent, and the breed ewes did not stir. If the Danes had come again, the animals would have sounded an alarm, and the recently posted sentries would have raised a cry.
Hego rose. The moon had risen, a splinter of blue light slipping under Hego’s door. He found Head-Splitter beside his bed.
A keel makes an unmistakable grating noise, as it is guided over the rounded pebbles of the shore—even a small craft, shoved gently along, in
an effort to muffle the sound.
It was dark.
The moans of the people still hurting from the Danish attack, and the soft murmurs of the people who attended them, were audible throughout Spjothof.
A few guards had been posted, noted Hego, but the veterans were set to guard the mountain passes. Only two sentries defended the fjord. Old Gizzur was slumped beside the wharf, asleep. A young boy, Thorfinn—son of an expert carver—gripped a spear, gazing out at the dark fjord.
Someone had run Strider out into the cold water, the disturbed water lapping faintly at the pebbles along the edge of the fjord. This obscure figure was busy in the prow of the boat.
Hego turned to the young sentry and put a finger to his lips.
Hego held Head-Splitter high, keeping the keen blade dry. He waded nearly all the way to the vessel before Gauk looked up from the provisions he was arranging and said, in a whisper that carried through the silence, “No!”
Hego hurried through the shockingly cold water.
Gauk continued to speak in whispers that echoed softly throughout the fjord. “Stay home, Hego!”
Hego covered the remaining distance, swimming with strong strokes, the battle-ax held clear of the water.
“If you come with me, you’ll never see Spjothof again,” Gauk said, looking down over the side of the skip.
“I’ll fight at your side, and die singing,” said Hego, treading water and shivering. It was an old phrase, taken from some half-remembered saga.
“I’m going to rescue Hallgerd,” said Gauk in a quiet, determined voice. “And if I can’t, it doesn’t matter. Who cares if a berserker lives or dies?”
“Please,” pleaded Hego, “help me out of the water.”
Thirty-one
Hallgerd stepped into the light of the fire, her eyes smarting from the smoke, and waited for her hostess to speak again.
The woman was in no hurry to do so, but at last she broke her silence. “Hallgerd, from the brave village of Spjothof,” she said, her pale, finely woven gown rustling as she moved. “I am honored to meet you at last.”
The woman plunged the glowing end of the hardwood staff into a drinking cup at her feet. It was a method used to warm a drink quickly and to spice it with hardwood, a flavor some people enjoyed. The beverage sizzled.
“All along the north coast,” said Hallgerd, with what she hoped was proud courtesy, “people honor the name of Arnbjorg, Gudmund’s daughter.” Her father and mother would have been pleased at the courteous firmness of her voice, but Hallgerd hoped her hands did not tremble as she accepted the drink from her hostess.
Arnbjorg was an amber-haired woman, and the cloth of her dress was beautiful, like the white of the moon—undyed wool, Hallgerd guessed, of an unusual breed of sheep. The sleeves of the dress were fastened with pretty knots. Not only was the garment attractive, it also demonstrated that the wearer had servants to fasten the sleeves. No one in Spjothof had taken up the style.
Syrpa, standing well out of earshot, kept a bright gaze on Hallgerd, with an unspoken plea: Don’t betray my confidence.
“I am glad to see,” the noblewoman said, “that you are as beautiful as the reports of men portrayed you.”
Hallgerd was determined to make no further remark until she could quiet her pounding heart.
But the woman’s eyes were amused, as though sure that a young woman from a farming village would not know how to speak well. Hallgerd responded in customary phrases, offering respect to the house that had sheltered her for the night. Then she added, trying to sound sure of herself, “I insist that I return home at once.”
“Let’s have our day meal first, shall we?” said Arnbjorg, using the familiar word dagverdr, the same one used by Spjotfolk for the food eaten at daybreak. “And before we eat, drink some of your mead and take a walk with me—I have something to show you.”
Arnbjorg reached out, and Hallgerd flinched.
It was an involuntary start, and she hated herself for not seeming calm.
Arnbjorg gave a quiet laugh. “You have spirit. Snebjorn will be a lucky husband.”
She followed her hostess out the timbered doorway, into the cool morning.
She was grateful to be outdoors again. And Hallgerd wished she could set eyes on Thrand once more—she missed his reassuring glance and his gentle voice. At the same time she suspected that escape down one of these shadowy, crooked lanes would take her to freedom. But which one?
A thin-faced servant came with them, stepping softly behind. Eaves overhung the street, and barrows of raw wool and flax were awaiting entrance into many of the houses. Doors were opening, and yawning, puffy-eyed inhabitants smiled curiously at Hallgerd as she passed. Many of the lintels and door frames were elaborately carved blade work that Hallgerd was forced to admit to herself was capable work.
Alrek the berserker greeted her from an open doorway. He was fastening his sword belt, his hair and beard mussed, his bear pelt askew. A woman’s voice behind Alrek chided him to close the door against the chill. Hallgerd noted to herself with interest that among the Danes it seemed that even the berserkers had wives or frillur—concubines. In many villages along the north coast berserkers had trouble winning the company of women. More than one account told of a berserker who killed a woman while in the transports of bear fury, an act considered shameful.
Hallgerd admired the timbered walls they passed, carved in places with decorations, serpents and ships. She paused at a smoothly hewn ladder. “Can I see the view from up above?” she asked.
Her hostess smiled, but made no remark.
“We have no such walls in my village,” Hallgerd continued, truthfully enough. It was also true that anyone from Spjothof would find such walls confining, preferring the clean, uninterrupted wind off the fjord.
“You’ll never see such a fortress, if you traveled to the edge of the sea,” said Arnbjorg. “My father’s walls are like nothing ever built.”
They kept on and did not stop, past a tanner hanging out his hides, the air nearby redolent with the pungent smell of the curing vat and the stench of untreated animal skins. The tanner was complaining to a thrall, and the thrall kept his rough-wool hood over his head. In Spjothof, tanning was carried out by farmsteads, just like brewing and cloth making, and there were no professional leather merchants.
A bucket of tallow, used in dressing leather and making candles, sat outside a butcher’s shop, and in the open shop of a smith the nearly dead coals awaited the arrival of the craftsman and his bellows. Blacksmiths were rare among the Norse, iron being hard to come by. Such a shop, Hallgerd realized, was further evidence of this town’s wealth.
They came into the shadow of a dwelling so new that sap seeped from its timbers. Even before she approached the threshold she scented it, the building smelling of freshly cut timber and sawdust. Hallgerd did not want to see this place. The door was so new that the blond wood grain caught the early morning sun, gleaming. The roof overhead was shingled with stone—an unheard of extravagance in Spjothof, where turf and wood were the best anyone could afford.
“After my father has returned,” said Arnbjorg, “and the wedding preparations are complete, this will be your home.”
Every step and murmur echoed off the empty walls.
The construction was green pine, the roof posts still seeping subtle beads of sap. The house was like many great houses Hallgerd had seen, the roof beam massive, crossties supporting the weight of the roof. But no building in Spjothof was as grand as this.
In addition to several storage rooms, the house boasted a new feature, one unknown to her—an inner space, open to sky, encircled by the house itself. “It’s a courtyard,” said Arnbjorg. “Frankish traders have told me that such spaces are prized among the people of the south.”
“All the better to keep me prisoner,” said Hallgerd. Nevertheless, the beauty of the building stirred her.
“I knew,” said Arnbjorg, “that you would prove a woman of great will. I am considered a woman o
f spirit, too.” There was a tone of hope in Arnbjorg’s voice as she added, “We will learn to enjoy each other’s company, don’t you think?”
Hallgerd was ashamed she could not make any progress in the contest of wills between Arnbjorg and herself. Every alehouse sported talking contests, proving who could invent the best poem, or remember the most ancient songs. But it surprised Hallgerd that her hostess had sounded just a little needful for a moment, as though she might enjoy the company of a jarl’s daughter, even one years younger and from a northern village.
Her hostess was continuing, “King Sigfred of the Danes has asked my father to fortify this coast. Charles the Great, the king of the Franks, wars against the Saxons, these Saxons spill into our kingdom—so much is unsettled. My father is off supervising the building of walls up and down our kingdom. Gudmund needs an alliance with brave people. With your village in particular. It will buy us peace.”
“Peace, but not friendship,” said Hallgerd.
“My father wants to protect the Danish kingdom,” said Arnbjorg, “from a repetition of that blood-soaked summer when your Spjotmen harried us so badly. I told my father that my plan was wise, adventurous, and that it would work. To unite the men of your brave village with us, you will marry into my family.”
Hallgerd was familiar with the political reasoning behind such marriages, but she felt the breath leave her body as she understood how helpless she was. “My father will have no trouble finding Gudmund’s stronghold, and burning this place to ash.” Hallgerd knew this could well be an empty boast.
She was nearly as tall as Arnbjorg, and Hallgerd estimated her own strength, and how long it would take to strangle the noblewoman with her naked hands.
“I have spoken with my cousin Thrand,” continued Arnbjorg. “He told me every detail of the attack on your village, and how bravely your neighbors fought.” Arnbjorg looked up at the great hole in the roof, where the hearth smoke would rise up into the sky.
Hallgerd made no further response. She was aware that Arnbjorg looked directly at her when she added, “I believe your father will not object to the marriage when he considers the treasures we will offer him in return.”
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