Her hostess tugged the door of a storage room, and indicated well-woven cloths already stored there, folded on the shelves, each blue-and-red fabric the result of the finest loom craft. Furs were there, too, examples Hallgerd had rarely seen before—martin, she guessed, as well as fox and sable. This was going to be a handsome house, the home of a wealthy woman. Many stolen brides would accept their position as one of unexpected good fortune.
Hallgerd reflected once again on the fact that kings and jarls could seize a bride as booty, and that this marriage was considered both binding, and a possible source of material advantage for the bride and her village. A forced marriage was often long and fruitful, once rich payment had soothed the offense. Lidsmod was a keen-eyed, good-tempered young man, respected by all, but her father had yet to fully consent to the marriage between the youth and Hallgerd.
Marriages were arranged by fathers, and where two countries and complex politics were involved, Hallgerd had heard of a mundr—bride price—of entire shiploads of cows or horses. Even though his voyage to the west had been successful, Lidsmod would have trouble raising a price that could compete with the means of this wealthy Danish family.
As she stood in the emptiness of this nearly completed dwelling, Hallgerd realized the temptation even a protective and loving father would feel in having his daughter so well married, with a satisfying bride price delivered in shiploads.
“If my father arrives and agrees to the marriage—” Hallgerd began, her voice sounding weak.
She nearly added, I may accept it. But the memory of Lidsmod’s voice, and his touch, silenced her.
“And if your father does not arrive,” said Arnbjorg, “will that not be a sure sign of his assent?”
Hallgerd recalled then Olaf’s voice, murmuring confidingly beyond her locked door last night. She had almost been able to make out the words. Now she was beginning to guess what he had been saying.
Thirty-two
Olaf had been boasting, sharing a secret. One of the servant women had prompted him, keen with questions.
Hallgerd probed her memory, gazing up at the blue sky above the fireplace. As she watched, a raven appeared, a glinting, blue-black pair of wings.
Hallgerd, the raven cried, an utterance that sprang not from the bird’s black beak but from within Hallgerd’s blood.
Two more times it seemed to intone her name. The bird settled on the new, bare timbers of the roof, and looked directly into Hallgerd’s eyes.
Many folk dreaded the possibility that an animal might have discourse with them. But some highborn families had a tradition of accepting wisdom from animals. As a girl, Hallgerd’s mother had once heard a distant buck elk bugle the name of her grandfather, and the famous, white-bearded old man had not awakened the next dawn.
Now this handsome raven parted its beak and gave a cheerless laugh. Hallgerd—trust her not.
This was a fragment of high speech, the way gods and heroes spoke in the sagas. Hallgerd was speechless, both fearful and rapt at this message that came at the raven’s prompting from within her own heart.
Arnbjorg was oblivious, describing the number of thralls that would supply the house with its needs.
Hallgerd gazed upward, unable to move or make a sound. There was no sure protocol for receiving word from the far-seeing god. Hallgerd soundlessly shaped the question, gazing at the great bird, “What can I do?”
The divine messenger had red eyes, unlike the black eyes of an ordinary raven. The black apparition parted its beak. And when Hallgerd heard the voice again, as before, it did not seem to come from the raven’s black tongue, but from within her own breath.
Believe nothing, Jarl’s Daughter.
Hallgerd was silent, praying that the winged apparition would say more.
But the bird shook itself, all its feathers awry for an instant, and then winged away, its flight making a rustling, rhythmic whisper. And it was then that Hallgerd began to guess what Olaf had been saying—that the jarl was not unhurt.
That the Danes had left him bleeding on the ground.
Arnbjorg was describing the cloths that would hang on the walls, scarlet and blue. Gudmund’s daughter had heard nothing out of the ordinary, it seemed, nothing more than one of the town’s ravens croaking.
Hallgerd exercised the greatest self-control. She managed to give her hostess a smile and said, when she was able to make any sound at all, “The seamen of this town are nearly as accomplished as the men of my village.”
Arnbjorg accepted this compliment with a nod.
“My neighbors make strong oarsmen,” said Hallgerd, “but they splash the water, and spill ale on each other, and by the time they reach port they look like they’ve been painted with pitch.”
Arnbjorg gave a gentle laugh. “We are proud of our sailing men.”
Hallgerd could not suppress the thought that Arnbjorg was far too proud altogether. She continued: “I wish you would allow me to visit Thrand. I would like to thank him for bringing me here safely.”
Arnbjorg turned to look at Hallgerd—surprised at the younger woman’s sudden graciousness, or perhaps suspicious. “Thrand knows all the coastal soundings from Freylief to Nidaros,” said Arnbjorg with an air of quiet superiority. “By heart.”
Hallgerd knew that this was a pointless boast. Any man or woman in Spjothof could recite the route up and down the coast, and most of the children, too. But Hallgerd was pleased that she had correctly judged the degree of her hostess’s pride.
“Does he indeed!” said Hallgerd. “You must allow me to express my gratitude to your noble cousin.”
To her surprise, Arnbjorg gave a laugh that was almost friendly. “I do believe that you’ve captured Thrand’s heart, Jarl’s Daughter. My cousin speaks of nothing but your great poise during the voyage, your dignity, and your spirit. And, I think, he did mention something of your beauty.”
Hallgerd wondered at the sweep of feelings that rose over her. Was it possible that she blushed?
Her hostess sent the thin, quiet servant who had shadowed them off to locate her cousin, and Hallgerd’s heart quickened in anticipation.
Perhaps buoyed by pride in her own town, Arnbjorg allowed Hallgerd to climb one of the timbered walls.
The town of Freylief was on a peninsula of bog land, inlets slicing across the gray-green wetland to the east. In the distance a birch forest stood, a wall of shadow.
Hallgerd took all this in from her perch on the fortification, memorizing as much as she could of the byways and moorings. It surprised her that there was no bottom to her hostess’s vanity. No compliment was too great—the citizens were handsomer, their wood smoke more fragrant, the slop buckets in the streets less noisome, than those of any other town.
Small boats nestled among the earthwork fortifications on the landward side of the settlement, where the scything watercourses cut across the wetland. The tide was low, and these stranded boats lolled lopsidedly in the mud. A child and her mother wandered the grassy earthwork, stopping to gather what, at this distance, looked like shellfish. A net mender had spread his morning task on the shoreline and was beginning to tie knots in what gave every appearance of being an ancient fishnet.
The town was bustling. Somewhere a bellows was working, smoke rising from a smith where a metal worker’s hammer was making its ping-ping-ping. Geese quarreled, and a cart rumbled through a muddy lane. Hallgerd climbed down again, until she stood at the foot of the timber wall.
Thrand hurried along a lane. For a moment Hallgerd was very glad to see the seaman again, and this feeling of welcome did not surprise her. After all, he had been a source of reassurance during the voyage here, and she believed that Thrand had some warm regard for her. Surely he smiled now that he stood before her, and he looked directly into her eyes. Was it possible? she wondered. Had Thrand lied about her father’s well-being?
His tunic was smudged with ship’s tar—he had evidently been summoned in the middle of overseeing the re-caulking of Bison, but his face and
hands were pink with recent scrubbing. “I trust that our town’s hospitality pleases you,” said Thrand.
“It is hard for an imprisoned woman to say,” rejoined Hallgerd, “what will please her, and what will not.”
Thrand put out his hand and touched her arm reassuringly. “I hope,” he said, “you will be happy.”
“Tell our guest,” Arnbjorg was saying, “how many planks it takes to build one of our household ships.” She said karfi, the word for a jarl’s vessel, lovely but rarely used in warfare.
Thrand took a moment, glancing from Hallgerd to the busy lane beside them. He did not look directly into his cousin’s eye as he said, “They have many seaworthy ships in Spjothof.”
“But nothing compared with ours,” suggested Arnbjorg in an almost hopeful tone.
“My father will look forward to inspecting your shipyard,” said Hallgerd. “When the decks are soaked in Freylief blood.”
Hallgerd was ready to breathe into Thrand’s ear, Please tell me again that my father is unhurt. She stepped close to him while Arnbjorg was busily describing Freylief’s earliest origins, generations ago, when a village of shellfish gatherers arrived and began draining wetland.
Thrand must have guessed the question in her eyes. He inclined his head toward her and whispered, “Be patient.” There was something further he was about to tell her, but he hesitated.
“Do speak up, Thrand,” said Gudmund’s daughter, “so I can hear you, too.”
Just then a song rang out—and another. Clear-voiced calls rose from several points throughout the town.
They followed the throngs toward the harbor.
Four warships approached, oars flashing. The arriving crowd of townsfolk began a chant. The pulsing roar was meaningless for a long moment, but then it shaped into unmistakable, joyful syllables as men and women gathered to greet the ships. Gudmund.
The name was echoed by a hundred voices.
Later Hallgerd would wonder if she was surprised at the cheers that greeted the famous war chief. Cruel though he might be to his enemies, women held children high so they could see his ships stirring the black water of the harbor.
Arnbjorg hurried Hallgerd back into the hall, and posted a double guard at the young captive’s door.
Hallgerd listened as what she assumed were mead barrels rumbled across the hall, and thrall and servant alike scurried, pushing tables and benches into place.
Syrpa entered the chamber and looked on as serving women arranged small white flowers in Hallgerd’s hair, the tiny blossoms Spjotfolk called Meadow’s Breath. “Speak only when Gudmund asks you a question,” said the housekeeper.
“I know how to speak to a jarl,” said Hallgerd. She tried to sound brave, but her voice nearly failed her.
“No, please forgive me, I doubt that you do,” said Syrpa. “Gudmund is the killer of many men. And you’ll be meeting your intended husband this evening, if you receive Gudmund’s approval.”
“Then I hope Gudmund loathes me.”
The housekeeper stepped back and surveyed Hallgerd. “You will win the heart of anyone who meets you,” said Syrpa. “Even that great slayer of enemies.”
The young woman dreaded the forthcoming encounter, but would not let anxiety enter her eyes. “Is it possible,” said Hallgerd as servants tied her sleeves, “that you could tell the noble Gudmund that his captive is ill, and that she begs that she could see him some other evening?”
“Gudmund will see you tonight,” said Syrpa, “if I have to drag your corpse across the floor.”
Thirty-three
Hallgerd waited in her chamber as the sounds of laughter and song drifted from the hall. The smell of roasted pork and goose reached her, too. Despite her uneasiness, she was hungry.
Mead cups clanked and chants were recited. From where she waited, secluded in her chamber, she could make out the fine voice of a poet, and a passage of high-verse.
Seas we sailed, iron-fisted,
spears and shields bloody.
The wolf-coated, the bear-clad,
fell away in fear.
She recalled the poem well, one of hundreds that celebrated battle. She knew the chant would go on to recount the courage of a young woman named Thora, who fought off an army so her brother’s spear-slain body could be carried home.
Hallgerd sat on a stool, her fine-wool skirt flowing across the floor. Surely they will forget all about me, she thought as the song came to an end accompanied by cheers. They will drink and play games, she reassured herself. And then they will fall asleep.
This hope kept her heart from pounding.
A time came, however, when the song and laughter ebbed. A voice was lifted in speech, the sound of a woman. Arnbjorg’s voice did not carry well through the timbered walls, but the young captive could not mistake what was being said.
The syllables of her own name.
Syrpa hurried into the chamber, mouthing, Come quickly.
Hallgerd was already on her feet. If the Song of Thora gave these Danes spirit, it gave Hallgerd herself exactly the same courage. And more.
She left her chamber, and entered the smoky, fire-lit hall.
The hearth smoke was thick, and the benches crowded, faces flushed with feasting.
A man wearing dark blue wool and a silver arm-ring rose as she passed. At first Hallgerd thought this red-bearded man might be the man she was expected to marry. But then she noted the piece of hack silver beside the man’s mead cup, and realized that the man was the skald, the poet with the pleasing voice. He had just been awarded a piece of war booty—seafaring warriors broke silver dishes into pieces so they could be easily shared.
Poets were as well honored as any warrior among the Norse, and held with an apprehensive respect by many people—they could weave a song extolling a man’s skill, or mocking his judgment. “Your voice is a gift,” said Hallgerd, pausing at the poet’s bench, “that brings Odin pride.”
A murmur ran through the crowded hall, a tone of approval at her courtesy. Then the folk were hushed, intent on what the poet would say in return. Even the thralls, most of them garbed in light gray or blue tunics as they served the teeming banquet hall, fell silent. Olaf paused, a drinking cup halfway to his lips, and Thrand, seated on a nearby bench, gave Hallgerd a smile of encouragement.
The poet gave a bow. “Just as your beauty, my lady,” he said, his fine voice uplifted, so all could hear, “gives pride to man and god.”
This was met with whispered admiration for both poet and prisoner. Arnbjorg took Hallgerd’s hand. Her touch was dry and cold as she accompanied Hallgerd to a place before the high seat at the end of the hall. But Arnbjorg’s pulse was quick, her breath fast, Hallgerd could sense. As confident as her hostess could seem, she was apprehensive regarding her father.
Gudmund was white-haired, his locks flowing over his leather-clad shoulders. His nose had been broken at some point in the past, a common injury in an age when combat was hand-to-hand, the bronze boss in a shield’s center doing damage where sword work failed. His garments were the shining, flowing fabric Hallgerd had come to recognize, a tunic of sea-blue silk.
The famous warrior turned and allowed a servant to pour mead into his silver cup. He thanked the server in a low voice, and when he turned to face Hallgerd he took time to savor his drink before he lifted his eyes to hers.
“My father’s daughter,” she said, “thanks you for your hospitality.”
Gudmund wiped his white mustache with the knuckles of his right hand—his sword hand, deeply carved with scars.
His eyes were measuring, but not unkind. The trace of a smile slowly softened his sun-weathered features. Hallgerd recognized this steady gaze, and it troubled her. She had expected to hate—if not fear—Gudmund, but something about his bearing reminded the young woman of her father.
The legendary sea chief did not speak, and while his countenance was welcoming, he had no intention of trading greetings with her. It was usual for a jarl to measure his silence carefully,
and Hallgerd was not offended.
Gudmund gave Arnbjorg a long glance up and down, and made a circling motion with his hand.
“My father wants you to turn around,” said Arnbjorg.
Hallgerd did as she was told, resenting the bloodshot eyes and the mead-wet lips of the warriors around her. She would obey the great war jarl—she had no choice. But she felt a simmering dislike for this hall of curious eyes. She turned all the way around once, until she faced the white-haired man again. But as she did so she took in the expressions of the faces around her, and realized something she had never understood about herself before.
She had been pleased the way her long hair flowed down her shoulders as she looked out of her father’s windows, and proud of her clear voice when she sang, and her strong stride when she ran. But not until now did it fully impress her that she was beautiful—enough to make her the talk of distant towns.
Gudmund gave a nod. He lifted one finger, and a young man stepped forward from the haze of wood smoke.
The youth introduced himself—Snebjorg Adillson, “whose father lost his life against the Franks two summers past.” He wore a fine wool tunic, earth-colored, and his appearance was neither pleasing nor displeasing. He was not at all like Lidsmod, whose eyes were always quick, his face alive with feeling. If Lidsmod had been a boat he would have been a quick-sailing craft, with a sharp keel. This young man was like a freight ship—steady, unexciting. But he gazed at her with a warmth—even a pleasure—that could not be mistaken.
The Danish youth Hallgerd was intended to marry continued to speak of himself in the third person, as was proper, saying that his father’s son was pleased to offer her shelter and safe harbor. These were customary phrases, and once again Hallgerd recognized that, despite her captive status, the folk of this place were treating her with elaborate courtesy.
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