“Are you all right?” She nods towards his injured arm.
“It’s nothing. Only a sprain.” He hesitates. “Trika did not fare so well.” His voice falters. “We had no choice. Her leg was badly broken.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “The blame is mine,” he says grimly. “I acted foolishly and rode too hard.”
“You were unlucky,” she insists.
“No,” he says, cutting her off. “I was keen to impress.” He hesitates for a moment. “I saw you in the crowd,” he confesses. An awkward silence follows. Vili glances around a little nervously, then takes a step towards her and lowers his voice. “Fulla, you are betrothed now. Everyone has said so.”
“Yes,” she murmurs. She cannot bring herself to look at him.
“I am sorry for the things I said upon the rift. I had no right. Rolf is a fine man. It is a good thing that you favour him.” Vili pauses, awaiting her response. Fulla raises her eyes to him and tries to speak, but no words come. He looks at her intently. “You do favour him?”
She closes her eyes for a long moment. She knows that she must speak, but cannot think of the answer. Finally, she gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. Vili steps forward, until his face is only a breath away from hers. Then he leans in past her and his lips brush her ear. “Then do not marry,” he whispers. And it sounds to her like a prayer.
She moves her head a fraction closer to his. “I must,” she murmurs. But in the next instant she feels his lips on hers, silencing her. His kiss is soft and warm and urgent; nothing like the ones she has exchanged with Rolf. His arms circle her waist and draw her in tight against him. His face is smooth like hers, his body lean and wiry: a young man’s body, she thinks, and in that instant, she knows that she has erred in her decision. She kisses him with hunger, aware now of what she has been lacking, desire welling up from deep inside.
“Fulla.” A deep voice shatters the darkness.
They both turn at once to see Rolf standing on the main path, not ten paces away. After a moment’s hesitation, Fulla frees herself from Vili’s grasp and steps backwards. Rolf’s face is dark with anger. He moves towards them, his chest heaving, then turns to Vili. “To kiss another man’s betrothed,” he says slowly, “is a punishable offence. Even with her consent.” He stares at Vili. “But you must know this.”
Vili nods. “Yes.”
“What is your name?”
“Vili, son of Ranulph, son of Skallagrim.”
Rolf frowns. “I knew your grandfather,” he says heavily. “Leave us now, grandson of Skallagrim. I wish to speak to Fulla alone.”
Vili hesitates, looking at Fulla. She cannot bring herself to meet his gaze. Her eyes remain locked on Rolf’s face. After a moment, Vili turns and goes. Once they are alone, Rolf takes a few steps towards her.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice sounding hollow.
“Are you?”
She feels a tear well. “You are a worthy man. Too worthy for me.”
“You have played me for a fool,” he says accusingly.
“No,” she replies, shaking her head. “You must believe me. It was myself I fooled. I wanted to be everything you asked for,” she says. “But I’m not.”
He stares at her for a long, agonising moment. “Perhaps,” he says slowly, “the young are easily misled in matters of love.” He pauses. “This man,” he continues. “This . . . youth. For he has that advantage over me. Do you love him?”
She shakes her head. “It’s of no consequence. There is no hope for a union. My grandfather would not hear of it.”
“Nor will I accept you if your heart is fettered by another.”
She hesitates. “What are you saying?”
“That I refuse you,” he replies. He shakes his head slowly. “It is a sorry ending for us all.”
Relief washes over her. “I can think of no other,” she says quietly.
He takes a deep breath and exhales. “I’ll speak to Hogni in the morning.”
“What will you tell him?”
“The truth.”
Fulla takes a small step forward. “I’ve no right to ask anything of you . . .” Her voice falters in the darkness.
Rolf reads her meaning instantly. Silence follows. She can hear his breath as he ponders her request. “If you wish,” he says finally, “I will contrive some other reason.”
She places her hands upon his chest in a simple gesture of gratitude. “Thank you.”
He stares down at her. “Am I never to love and be loved in return?” he says bitterly.
She shakes her head slowly. “I wish I knew.”
“May the gods take pity on us both,” he says.Then he turns away, leaving her alone in the dark.
The next morning, Hogni returns from his meeting with Rolf lit with anger. He stands in the booth’s doorway, his chest heaving. “Leave us,” he says loudly to the others. His men hesitate, then scurry out of the booth in a matter of seconds.
Fulla rises and faces him. “What did he say?” she asks tentatively.
Hogni takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. “He said that you were not compatible. He said that in the end, he did not find you sufficiently agreeable. He said that when he looked for a young bride, he was not looking for a wife who clung so tightly to her own ideas, but one who would readily adopt his own.”
Hogni’s face is red, his forehead damp with perspiration.
“Tell me Fulla, which ideas are these?!”
Relieved, she shakes her head. “I do not know . . . I merely spoke my mind. If I gave offence, I was not aware of it.”
“You are sixteen! You have no ideas!”
“I am sorry.”
“Sixteen! And already you have behind you a failed betrothal!” he blusters. He pauses then and scrutinises her, as if seeing her for the first time. “Tell me this: was there something in him that repelled you?”
“No,” she protests. “Truly there was not.”
“Then how are we to proceed in the business of marriage?” he explodes.
“I do not know.”
“Nor do I,” he says heavily. He sits down upon a log, his anger suddenly deflated. After a moment, she joins him. “We will leave this afternoon,” he says glumly.
Fulla looks at him in surprise. “So soon? Before the Assembly closes?”
“Our business here is finished. If they wish to gossip, they can do so more easily once we have gone.”
She hesitates. “I do not fear their gossip. Nor their ridicule.”
He frowns at her. “Perhaps you should. At the end of the day, a man has only his reputation to speak for him.” He shakes his head slowly from side to side. “A lone tree in an open field withers away, Fulla.You must make yourself compatible.”
They begin packing, and after an hour, Hogni leaves the booth to go and bid farewell to Ari. Once he is gone, Fulla pulls on her cloak and she too slips away, hoping to find Vili. She is not certain of the location of Thorstein’s booth, so she makes a sweeping circuit of the encampment, all the time watching out for Hogni. Finally she spies Thorstein deep in conversation with another man in front of his booth. She approaches them uncertainly. When Thorstein at last registers her presence, he stops mid-sentence and stares at her.
“I am sorry to interrupt,” she says quickly. “I was looking for Vili.”
Thorstein frowns. “He’s with the horses,” he says slowly.
“Thank you,” she says, turning to go.
“What business do you have with him?” asks Thorstein.
Fulla hesitates. “It’s not important,” she says, then hurries away.
The horses are kept in pastures near the lake, and as she walks along the path, she glances back in apprehension, for there are fewer people here and she feels suddenly exposed. When she arrives, she sees two men saddling their mounts and another in the process of shoeing, but Vili is nowhere. Frustrated, she walks slowly back to the encampment. Hogni has returned before her and t
hough he raises an eyebrow when she enters, he asks no questions. After a few minutes, one of his men arrives with their horses and they set about strapping their provisions onto the saddles. “We’ll need but one night’s food for the return,” says Hogni. “I’ve arranged to stop a night at Skokar.” He finishes tying on the saddlebags and ducks back inside the booth. Suddenly, Fulla feels a presence behind her and turns to see Vili. He looks at her beseechingly.
“Thorstein said you were looking for me,” he says in hushed tones. His eyes drift to the horses with alarm. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
Fulla glances anxiously inside the booth, then grabs his arm and pulls him off to one side, out of Hogni’s line of sight. “We must,” she says.
“And the engagement?”
She shakes her head. “Finished.”
Vili takes a step forward, the curve of a smile forming on his lips. He reaches for her hand. “Then you’re free to marry me,” he says urgently.
Fulla shakes her head. “Vili, I can’t. It’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because Hogni would rather see me dead than married to you!” she says.Vili stares at her in dismay. Suddenly, they hear a step behind them.When they turn, Hogni is standing there.
“She’s right,” the older man says, his voice thick with rancour. “But it’s you I would kill.”
“Grandfather!”
Hogni turns to her. “So this is why you were not agreeable?”
She takes a deep breath. “Please, you must believe me. I had no secret design.”
“How could you even think of such a thing?” Hogni takes a step towards her, his voice incredulous. “Have you no shame, child?!”
Vili steps in front of her. “Hogni, please. Hear me out. I was only six when Jarl was killed,” he says emphatically. “I do not even remember my own father’s face!”
Hogni looks at him askance. “So you wish me to forget my son as well?”
Vili shakes his head. “Of course not.”
“Then go back to your people, and leave us with the ghosts of our dead.”
Hogni’s tone is final. Vili takes a deep breath. He looks at Fulla, as if seeking her approval. She gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of her head. “Go,” she says, close to tears.
So he does.
DVALIN
He regrets bringing her. She reminds him of his mother, and it is not just because of the feather form. She is too at ease with herself, too certain of her place within the world. Her confidence borders on smugness, as if her privileged birth was somehow deserved. It unnerves him, for he has never stood so comfortably in his own shoes. And now, to make matters worse, he is beholden to her. The idea rattles him. Perhaps she did save his life, but he still resents her interference. She was meant to ward off violence by her presence, not be the cause of it. She was especially not meant to rescue him once it had begun. He berates himself for having acted with haste and carelessness. They never should have stumbled onto the camp in the first place.
Something else bothers him. He thought he recognised the boy with the hawk as one of Idun’s captors. There had been three of them altogether, the youngest only a lad. But more than six years had gone by, and he is only too aware that people alter over time.The memory of it all sickens him. And soon they will arrive at the Hill of Healing, where he must face Menglad once again.
He glances back at Freya.
She is some fifty metres behind him, a distance she has maintained carefully for the past two hours. She is clearly angry. Perhaps he should just give her the necklace and send her on her way. But not until we see Menglad, he thinks. Freya may be useful to him yet. Already, the terrain around him looks increasingly familiar. He urges his mount up a steep slope, and when he reaches the top, he can see the Hill of Healing in the distance.The sight of it shakes him.Without thinking, he pulls his mount to, his eyes locked upon Menglad’s home. When Freya reaches him a few moments later, he is barely conscious of her presence. She too halts her horse, and looks at him oddly.
“You’ve been here before?”
“Some years ago,” he replies.
“For what purpose?”
“I undertook a commission.”
“For Menglad?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“What sort of commission?”
“A necklace. In honour of her betrothal.”
“Is it true that she can heal?”
He shrugs. “So they say.”
“You’ve not seen it?”
He hesitates. “I’ve seen her relieve the suffering of many who came to her,” he admits.
“Many?” she asks.
“Most,” he concedes.
“But not all.”
“No. Not all.”
“Let’s hope that she can help Idun.” She kicks her horse and it breaks into a lope down the hill. He watches her for a moment.
“Yes,” he says to himself.Then he spurs his horse to follow.
They reach the edge of her estate within a short time. A high stone wall encircles it, and at its entrance is a forbidding iron gate with an enormous lock. They dismount, and he hands her the reins, then proceeds to run his hands along the cracks in the wall. It takes him only a minute to find the key in its hiding place.
“The gate is certainly elaborate.”
“She does not like unwanted visitors.”
“Such as?”
“Giants. Raiders. Mercenaries. Anyone who is prone to fighting.”
Freya raises an accusing eyebrow. He ignores her and unlocks the gate, swinging it open. She puts a hand on its ornate frame. “Did you fashion this as well?”
“Yes.”
“It must have taken you some time.”
“Some weeks,” he says with a shrug.
“And you lived here throughout?”
“I was her guest, yes.”
“You know her well, then.”
“Well enough,” he says crisply, banging the doors shut behind them. Just then, a pair of large black hounds come running towards them, barking furiously. “Easy,” says Dvalin, stepping protectively in front of Freya. The dogs come to an abrupt halt only six feet from him, snarling. Dvalin slowly crouches down on his haunches and holds his hand out to them. “Hello, boys,” he says quietly. “So she’s kept you all these years, eh?” One dog slowly comes forward, sniffing at his hand. Its tail begins to wag, and after another moment, the other approaches. Soon he is petting both of them affectionately. After a minute, he stands and takes the reins from her and they walk through the yard towards the stable, with the hounds following at his heels. He leads the horses inside and ties them to a ring on the wall.
“When were you here?” she asks.
“Four years ago, five. I don’t remember,” he says, loosening the girths on the saddles.
“Six.” Menglad’s voice washes like a wave right through him. He turns around. She stands in the doorway, the evening light behind her, so that he can barely make out her features, just the familiar outline of her presence.
“Perhaps it was,” he says, as casually as he can.
“Now it seems like barely one passing of the moon.” She walks towards him and kisses him on both cheeks in greeting. He freezes as she brings her face next to his, for he cannot help but take in the scent of her. She takes a deep breath and exhales, then turns to Freya with a smile. “You’ve brought someone to meet me.”
“Menglad, this is Freya,” he says belatedly.
“You are very welcome, Freya,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“You must be tired. Come inside and rest from your journey. You must partake of our thermal waters while you’re here. They have wonderful properties and will revive you.”
“So Dvalin has told me.”
“My servant will show you to them now, if you wish. When you’ve finished, we will take some food in the hall.” She calls into the yard and a young girl appears from outside. Freya turns to Dvalin with a look of uncert
ainty.
“The waters are for women only,” explains Menglad. “They’re of no use to him, I’m afraid.”
“A cup of ale will do for me,” says Dvalin.
“Come, then. Let us have wine in celebration of your arrival.” She turns and walks towards the house. The servant touches Freya’s arm, indicating that she should follow in a different direction. Dvalin nods for her to go. He watches her disappear around a corner, then turns and heads towards the house after Menglad. He already feels uneasy, as if he is not in control of his actions. It is a sensation so familiar that it unnerves him. He passes over the carved wooden threshold of the house, into the main hall where a large fire is roaring in the centre of the room. Menglad motions for him to be seated in a throne-like chair by the fire. He sits, letting his eyes roam the tapestries that hang about the walls. He looks at each in turn, remembers the stories depicted in their threads, stories Menglad herself told him in the evenings by this hearth. A pungent smell of brewing herbs comes from somewhere nearby. Menglad disappears into a side room and returns a few moments later with a jug of wine and two earthen cups. She sets the cups on the table and carefully pours wine into both.
“You left it long to visit,” she says finally, handing him one.
“Was a promise made? I do not recall it,” he says evenly.
She takes a sip of wine, then turns away and walks towards the fire. “You no longer travel alone. I heard no news of a marriage.”
For the briefest instant he is tempted to lie. “She is not my wife.”
“I see.Your companion then. She is very beautiful.”
“What of your husband?”
“Svipdag?” She takes another sip of wine. “Away. Raiding. As usual. It is a young man’s pastime. I thought he would grow out of it. But he has not.”
“You have children?”
She purses her lips. “No,” she says. “I have my herbs and my healing. It is enough.”
“Is it?” The words have uttered themselves. He feels himself colour in the semi-darkness of the room.
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