Forged in Ice (Viking Odyssey)

by Ken Hagan

  ‘Don’t worry, Kregin,’ says Lar — he has his mouth full of fish. ‘My sister doesn’t hold a grudge.’

  Hearing this, I immediately guess that Svena has spilled the beans; that she has told her brother what we did in the hayfield. ‘You are not sore at me?’

  ‘No,’ replies Lar. ‘Far from it. As for Svena, it is not in her nature to deny others what she can’t have for herself.’ I search his face in the firelight. He is so busy eating that I can’t guess what he might be thinking — I am none the wiser when he speaks. ‘Our having to leave Osvik was no misfortune. We always thought of it as Finn’s steading, not ours. Believe me. It won’t worry Svena if she never sets eyes on the place again.’

  ‘She has settled well with us, hasn’t she?’

  ‘She and Bera are like sisters.’

  ‘And Haldis too — she may be gruff on the outside, but she is kind.’

  He ponders, and for a moment it has me worried. ‘You have no qualms,’ he asks, ‘taking over the steading at Osvik?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I reply. ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Won’t it be hard to have a place of your own? Being married — starting from scratch? Rearing sheep is hard work, not like horses.’

  ‘I was brought up with sheep. It is second nature to me. Besides, I will have Ulph with me at the start, and Cuin. Come round-up or come lambing-tide, things will always be tough. There is no easy way. You just get on with it as best you can.’

  ‘Aren’t you afraid of landslip? It could happen again, a run-off from the tarn.’

  ‘Cuin says it will be a generation before we are hit by another mud-slide. It takes years for ice and clay to build up on the tarn. Whether it spills or not, what can we do? So what if we lose a few sheep? — At least, last time, the mud stopped short of Osvik woods.’

  Lar might have taken these thoughtless words amiss — to my relief, he doesn’t.

  ‘I’m glad to be out of it, at any rate,’ he says. ‘You won’t catch me up Grisedale any time of year — not if I can help it. I will be sure to keep your father’s mares on the eastern fells, and not let them stray on the heath.’

  ‘What if they do? They might be chased by the stallions.’

  ‘If that happens,’ replies Lar, ‘I will fetch them down for the guothie, never fear, but I will be quick on the heath, and quick off it, before you can say Thor’s lightning.’

  ‘Stale-mate,’ says Sigi in disgust, bad-naturedly sweeping the last pieces off the board.

  Snorri makes a face at Sigi; punches the air in jubilation; skips to his feet, and shakes his fists in a victory jig around the fire. But after a look from Ulph, old harelip thinks better of it. A drawn game with Sigi on the hneff-board is a victory for the likes of Snorri — whereas, for Sigi, playing to a stale-mate hurts worse than defeat.

  ‘No need to rub it in, man,’ says Ulph to the victor, a grin of satisfaction on his face.

  Snorri retrieves the scattered pieces, counts them, one by one, into the pouch.

  ‘A stale-mate is not a bad result for either man,’ says Cuin to no one in particular. ‘Wounded pride, so what? If only all battles might end like that.’

  While the rest of us pull closer to the fire, Sigi slinks off on his own into the darkness. He passes through the sheep — stumbles through the middle of the settled drove — instead of going round them. Ulph mutters an oath under his breath. We hear Sigi, beyond the flame-light, grunting, muttering; relieving his bowels somewhere downwind.

  ‘Cuin-rua,’ says Lar. ‘Why not tell us one of your stories?’

  ‘Why would you want me to?’ says Cuin in a teasing voice. He likes to be coaxed into reciting his far-fetched tales.

  ‘Tell us a horny one,’ says Lar, ‘about lads chasing girls in the woods.’

  ‘What would I know about girls?’ Uncle answers coyly. ‘I never had a wife.’

  ‘Don’t you believe him, Lar,’ says Ulph. ‘Old man Cuin may be off the boil now, but when him were a young buffer, him weren’t slow to slip his hand under an apron.’ Cuin chuckles into his hands.

  ‘Why didn’t you marry, Uncle?’

  ‘Well now, Kregin,’ he replies, ‘maybe I couldn’t grab a woman like Idgar’s daughter, one who would take me on. What kind of woman would marry a hopeless case like me?’

  ‘Uncle,’ I ask quietly, so that no one overhears. ‘Will this gift of ours, helping Idgar out with the sheep, do you think it will work?’

  ‘Hard to say how we stand,’ he replies. ‘I will know better in a day or two after I have seen the girl’s father.’

  The fire crackles and spits. Old Snorri has a stick wedged under it, poking away, grinning to himself, relishing his triumph over Sigi on the hneff-board. Ulph and Lar are bedding down under the tilts. Sigi is snoring. He was asleep half-way through Cuin’s story.

  With Uncle and me still awake, I can’t help but return to what is needling me, ‘Sorry, don’t get me wrong. I am grateful for what Father has done. But for this last visit before winter, why didn’t he come in person? Why send you in his place?’ Cuin feigns a hurt look. ‘Uncle,’ I go on, ‘forgive me. I don’t say that you are not up to it, but wouldn’t it have been better if Father had come himself to see Idgar?’

  ‘Trust your father. He knows what he is doing.’

  ‘Is he staying away on purpose, is that it?’

  ‘Well yes, that’s why he sent me.’

  ‘What is to be gained?’

  ‘My job is to get close to Idgar. I will drink all night with him, if need be.’ He looks at me with a pretence of hurt pride. ‘Hey lad, what’s with the laughter?’

  *

  We stand, staring upwards, our heads craned back, Cuin and I — and now Ulph joins us away from the fire, no others awake, to see the array of lights soar through the night sky. Sprinkled like stardust, green and silvery, from north-star eastward, from westward to north-star, swirling clouds of shifting lights set the heavens a-glare with the “wild hunt”.

  ‘Look,’ says Ulph in wonder, ‘sky shadows, nine huntsmen, nine horses, out to catch the golden boar.’

  Cuin can’t rhyme to save himself — not like a proper skald-man — but he has a go at chanting the old lay, Blood-hunt of the Nine. And while he rattles out the story from memory — nearly a hundred verses — Ulph and I stare awestruck into the night sky.

  *

  At morning light Cuin heaps earth on the dying fire, dowsing the half-charred wood to save it from burning to nothing. He buries the wood under peat to keep it dry for our return. We will retrace our steps after a day or two, heading home after the sheep are delivered to Idgar.

  Some of our woolbacks have wandered off, but a flurry of snow has fallen overnight, making it easy to follow their cloven pad-marks over the white heath. It won’t take long to gather them and make a tally. A count shows three wethers short. Ulph the shepherd and Snorri scamper ahead, expecting to find the stragglers down-dale.

  They are not pleased when we join them at the foot of the fell. With downcast faces they report that three of our drove missing. And what’s more, which has got them riled, they have found footprints in the snow, the footfall of three sets of boots in a muddy slough, right at the spot where the sheep have disappeared.

  Going downstream, as we hunt for a fresh trail, there is no trace of men or sheep, no sign of hooves, no sign of herding feet. A white dusting of snow might have helped us in the search but snow hasn’t fallen on the lower meadows, and the ground is hard.

  ‘Down there, near the fiord,’ says Ulph angrily. ‘Yonder in that big steading — that’s where them will be — them villains from the farm have stolen our woolbacks.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Ulph,’ I reply. ‘The land and steading belong to the Jarlsons family. Asgrim is the priest-man hereabouts. He will have enough meat given free from his neighbours without having to steal from us.’

  ‘Priest or not,’ says Sigi, ‘if they are the culprits, we will have our sheep back, and we will let them taste o
ur anger.’

  ‘Well said, young master,’ says Ulph.

  ‘We will show them a thing or two,’ Sigi says. ‘Are you with me, Kregin?’

  I raise my voice to the same angry pitch as my brother. ‘They better not be playing a trick on us — that’s all I can say.’

  ‘Young masters are right,’ says Snorri. ‘Can’t let sheep-reivers get away with it.’

  ‘Steady, lads,’ says Cuin, ‘stop and think. We can’t blunder in and blame folk, willy-nilly. Ulph, are you sure that our strays haven’t been carried off by foxes?’

  ‘How can I be sure?’ replies Ulph, ‘but do you see any sign of wool or blood?’

  ‘We can’t rule it out,’ says Cuin, scratching his beard.

  ‘If it were foxes,’ says Snorri, ‘us would have fell-hawks in the skies. Birds can sniff carrion from dales away — them would have flown downwind to grab a share of the carcases.’

  ‘Let’s be sure,’ says Uncle, ‘before we make fools of ourselves at the steading.’

  ‘Just tell us what you want us to do.’ says Lar who has shivers from standing still.

  ‘Stay with Ulph. Keep an eye on our sheep,’ replies Cuin. ‘Snorri and I will see if there are trails in the snow. Sigi, you and Kregin, check the dale from the opposite end.’

  ‘Uncle,’ protests Sigi, ‘this is pointless. You saw the hoof marks. You heard Ulph. It’s a certainty the sheep are in the steading fold.’

  ‘Do as I say,’ says Cuin abruptly. ‘Hunt for the strays — or your Da will hear of it.’

  Chapter 24

  Our lost sheep are nowhere to be found on the fell. I doubt if any of us, even Cuin, thought we had a chance of finding them. Our search for the strays has left us footsore and hungry: nothing worse than back-tracking down-dale, over stone and scree, between narrow slippery crags, tramping in snow, trudging in mud, and no reward from aimlessly wandering about. The afternoon is darkening to a wintry evening, when we arrive at Asgrim’s fold. Ulph and Snorri have taken our drove to the edge of the fiord where the sheep have sorrel and seaweed to graze on. Lar will press on farther north with the mares. He has taken our food, tilts and canvas. He will set up camp on the sandy shore below Wasdale. We have agreed a sheltered place to meet him on the beach before it gets dark.

  My guts rumble with hunger. We are teased by homely smells from the steading, comforting reek of wood burning on the hearth, of wholesome broth and bread in the hall. I was not mistaken. This is Asgrim’s home farm. We will get no welcome here.

  I am past caring for our missing sheep. Cuin has no heart for the task either, but Sigi strides past the hounds, crosses the steading yard and makes straight for the fold, expecting to find our sheep among theirs. Without thinking, I run to catch him, to hold him back. If he finds any of ours in the fold, he might do something we will regret.

  The forge-fire in the smithy shed has been lit earlier, the embers left to go out. From the smithy shadows steps a big man, black with grime from the iron-working. He plants his heavy shape in front of Sigi, stopping my brother in his tracks. The man is bare-headed, bald from ear to ear, fringes of hair around the baldness, grey now, not red as I remember them. This brute of a man has to be Asgrim Jarlson.

  ‘Where are you going, young stranger?’ he asks of Sigi.

  ‘To see if our woolbacks are in your fold,’ replies Sigi boldly. ‘Three of ours went missing last night from our camp. ’

  ‘What makes you think they are here?’

  ‘We have scoured the fells looking for strays,’ says Cuin quickly. ‘We found no trace. They might have been mixed with yours during round-up. Of course,’ he adds, ‘if they were, it is an oversight — an honest mistake. Hard to tell sheep one from another on these dark evenings.’

  ‘You will not go near the fold,’ says Asgrim firmly. ‘My word should be good enough. They are not here.’

  Uncle returns smile for grimace. ‘Our sheep are pinched on the tip of their ears,’ he replies mildly, ‘only a snip to show ownership. You could miss the ear-mark, if you weren’t familiar with it.’

  ‘I won’t repeat,’ replies Asgrim. ‘Don’t waste my time.’

  He sets his back to us, as if we are no longer in his presence. He dunks his face in the steaming forge-water, and continues scrubbing down.

  Behind us a young man’s cough, rasping and hoarse — like a man gets from supping too much cold ale. ‘You heard my father,’ the voice says. ‘We don’t have your fecking sheep.’ We turn to face Mord Asgrimson, who has come from the barn.

  Mord’s boots are wet with blood, arms bare, butchering-apron smudged with a kill. He has a cleaver in his gory hand. He holds it menacingly. ‘You better clear off,’ he bellows, ‘or I will set the dogs on you.’

  Sigi hurls a threat in reply. ‘We came for our sheep, we won’t leave without them.’ I step forward and stand shoulder to shoulder with Sigi.

  Four young girls from a dairy shed, hearing the commotion, run out into the yard. The women of the house appear at the gable door. They are red-faced and warm from cooking at the hearth. The last one out — the prettiest — has her babe in arm, child to hand, a third infant at her skirts.

  ‘Eyjolf,’ she calls inside. ‘Out here, man, your brother has need of you.’

  Her husband, interrupted from his tasks in the hall, hurries out as soon as bidden. He fumbles past the women at the door, carrying a carpenter’s saw in one hand, a length of wood in the other. ‘What’s up, Ingrid?’

  I recognise the timid man and his wife. It is Eyjolf, Asgrim’s younger son. I always thought him a decent sort. Thor help him, to be married to Ingrid. I try to catch his eyes but it is his wife who notices me. Her cold look says it all.

  Cuin ignores the onlookers from house and dairy. He has been eyeing Mord up and down, staring at blood on the apron. ‘Not yet slaughter month,’ remarks Uncle. ‘I see you have made a start to the kill.’

  ‘Ours is a big household,’ says Asgrim from the forge, before his son can answer. ‘We have mouths to feed.’ The priest-man has only half-rinsed his bald head in the forge-water; it is still marked with streaks of soot. He licks at his blackened lips, ready to say more.

  Now his son interrupts. ‘Father, we don’t owe an explanation to these tramps.’

  But Asgrim moves towards us, changing his expression to a smile. ‘I am a fair man,’ says the priest-man, drying his head with a smithy rag. ‘I won’t have it said I’m an awkward sod.’

  ‘Well then, steadman?’ asks Cuin.

  ‘Ours is a big concern,’ replies Asgrim. ‘We never cull less than two dozen head — some years twice that.’ Then, seeing our astonishment at the number, he adds by way of explanation, ‘Half the kill is for priestly duties. And we don’t waste hay on sheep due for slaughter. We start butchering as soon as the herd is off the fells.’

  ‘Not,’ adds Mord, ‘that it’s any business of yours.’

  ‘It is our business,’ says Sigi, ‘if they are our sheep.’

  ‘You heard my brother.’ I butt in. ‘You will regret this, Mord.’ I shouldn’t have made a threat, I know, but it can’t be unsaid.

  ‘No, I won’t regret it,’ Mord snaps back, ‘but one of us will.’

  ‘Brother, is it?’ shouts Ingrid, ‘Kregin has a little brother to wipe snot off his nose!’

  Mord finds this funny, but it is Eyjolf, who speaks, not unkindly. ‘Thor’s blood. Kregin Thralson, for years we thought you a goner.’

  ‘Son of a dirty thrall,’ says Mord with a sneer.

  ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead,’ says Asgrim.

  ‘You can’t speak ill of dung,’ shouts Ingrid defiantly. For a moment, in her hard looks, I can see the likeness of her father Drak.

  Asgrim ignores his daughter in law, and sets his eyes on me. ‘One last time, lad, if only for the sake of your dead father — we haven’t taken your stock. What’s three head of sheep? It is nothing to the likes of us.’

  Asgrim’s men have gathered in the steading yard, herde
rs and smithy lads, fowlers and farm hands, some fisted with sticks, others with sickle blades to hand. We are on a hiding to nothing here. Even Sigi can see that.

  ‘Come on,’ says Cuin, pulling my brother’s arm. ‘It could be that we are mistaken. Maybe Ulph or that rascal Snorri will come across our strays by the shore.’

  *

  While we have been at Asgrim’s steading, Lar has combed the beach at Wasdale. He has found strakes of oak from the wreck of a fishing boat washed up by the evening tide. With a good fire to heat our blood, tired though we are, none of us is thinking of sleep.

  Sitting on the wintry beach, we feed our anger with brave words, each one holding a strake of wood between his knees, like a battle standard. No one dares disagree. We will return like for like — however we do it. They must be made to pay, that goes without saying.

  ‘It has to be done tonight,’ this from Sigi. He has said it maybe three or four times. ‘We are a laughing stock. We backed down. They will be in that great hall of theirs, making fun of us, and eating meat at our expense.’

  ‘How can we do it?’ says Lar. ‘There are only six of us against them.’

  ‘A surprise raid,’ replies Sigi. ‘Hit them hard. Strike where it hurts. Run off like blazes, before they gather their wits.’

  ‘Strike at what?’ says Cuin. ‘Whatever we do, they will be after us, mob-handed, and we can’t move fast with a drove of sheep. They will catch us in no time.’

  ‘You are not saying, Uncle, that we will let Asgrim and Mord get away with it?’

  ‘No Kregin, like hell we will. But think! Why are we here? Our task is to get sheep to Idgar Skarson. It’s what your father expects. The drove is for your sake, lad. We mustn’t lose sight of that.’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Lar, ‘maybe we should forget the three that are missing and deliver what we have. They could just as well have been lost to foxes.’

  ‘We can’t call it quits,’ is my angry return, ‘We won’t just do nothing and walk away!’

  ‘What do you say, Sigi?’ asks Cuin. ‘Shall we leave the reckoning till after we have been to Twaindale?’