Later, after we’ve been over it several times, I am no wiser. Bird or man, whoever entered Sessruminger has left no trace behind. There is no sign of forced entry, nor of escape. Sky remains agitated. He refuses to go on his morning walk and will not leave my sight. Finally, I realise that he is afraid I will suspect him of the theft. I lay a hand upon his shoulder in reassurance. “I know it wasn’t you,” I tell him. He looks anxiously towards the hawk. “Either of you,” I add. Relief washes over him. He smiles tentatively. “But I wish that you could tell me what you saw,” I add. His smile melts, replaced by a look of uncertainty. He turns away. “Don’t worry,” I say. “The necklace will find its way back to me, just as it did the last time.”
I wish I could be more certain of these words. Perhaps the necklace was not fated to remain with me, after all. I persuade Sky to rest, then walk outside for some fresh air. It is a cold grey morning. The temperature has plummeted during the night, and the wind bites at my face. A light rain has begun to fall, and as I look out across the mountains, I see a dark curtain of storm drifting east. Once again I remember Berling’s warning. At the time, I was uncertain whether his concern was for me or for the necklace. Now I think he meant us both. In the next moment, I see a lone rider appear in the distance, and before long I recognise one of Odin’s servants. I wait while he approaches and watch him dismount. His coarse linen shift is wet through, and his hair is a tangled dark mass. He turns to me with a look of weary resignation, his lips pale with cold. “Odin wishes to see you,” he says.
“Come inside and warm yourself,” I reply. He nods, following me inside. A large fire blazes in the centre of the hall and the servant walks straight over to it, thrusting his chafed hands towards the flames like an offering. His long, dark hair is plastered to the back of his neck. Beneath it, the skin is angry red from exposure. “Why did he not come to me?” I ask.
He shifts uncomfortably and shrugs. “I don’t know.”
I wait for the rain to stop. It has been some months since I’ve been to Odin’s homestead. It sits high up near the centre of Asgard, with a commanding view over the surrounding mountains. His buildings are all large and well tended. No grass grows in these roofs, I notice as I approach. The main hall is especially grand. The roof timbers have ornate carved wooden ends, and the large front door is magnificently cast in polished bronze. As I enter, I am reminded of his penchant for order. The hall is unnaturally bright, its walls whitewashed to perfection. It is lit by dozens of oil lamps suspended high around the perimeter. The flames dance eagerly, and the walls glisten like the pearly innards of a fine shell. I am unused to such brightness indoors. He is profligate with fire, I think, as I cross the wide stone floor. It is warm underfoot, and I remember that it is heated by thermal water diverted from a nearby spring. It courses like blood beneath the stone. I have a sudden feeling that the room itself is alive; that at any moment it will wake and stir beneath my feet.
At the far end of the hall, Odin perches in a chair, wearing a long robe of woven brown wool and a dark patch over one eye held in place by a leather thong. His coarse grey hair hangs below his shoulders and his face is bronzed and weathered from many years’ exposure.The eye that sees is of a brilliant, youthful, cobalt blue. When I meet his gaze, I am reminded with a sudden lurch why I lay with him all those years ago.
He is flanked by two smaller chairs, one occupied by Loki, his constant companion these past few years. The man is like a second skin he cannot shed, and his influence over Odin is rumoured to be very great indeed. As I cross the hall, Loki rolls his eyes at the sight of me. He leans in towards Odin and murmurs something as I approach, even while Odin waves him away with an irritated hand. Loki’s mother was a giant and he has inherited her height. His long, thin frame is elegantly draped in an ivory cloth shot through with silver threads. His jet-black hair is combed straight back from his wide, pale brow, and despite his fine features, his skin is unusually ashen. He still retains the colouring of his tribe, I think with satisfaction, even if he has managed to shed their vast bulk and ungainly manners. I have never liked Loki, for a multitude of reasons. Even less have I trusted him. Now I ignore him, turning instead to Odin.
“You sent for me.”
“I have an errand I should like you to undertake.”
“Since when am I a servant?”
“We are a brotherhood Freya. We must all earn our keep.”
I nod towards Loki. “What does he do for his?”
Loki straightens. “I steal things,” he says with an insouciant air. His voice rings out across the room.
I look at him and the Brisingamen forms in my mind. He rewards me with a mocking smile. Loki is a shape-changer. He can assume the form of any animal at will: a tiger, a flea. Even a bird. I am a fool. I feel a warm rush of blood rise to my face. I turn to Odin. “And what is it you do to earn your high seat?”
“I make others do my bidding. And it is not as easy as it seems.” Odin’s tone is forceful, but underneath it lies a trace of weariness. I wonder whether his words conceal some hidden meaning.
“The Brisingamen must be returned,” I say.
“Of course.”
“And you must give your word it will not go missing in future.”
“Your attachment to it is very strong,” he replies with a raised eyebrow. I say nothing, refusing to be baited. “Perhaps because you paid so dearly,” he continues. Loki smiles knowingly. I purse my lips.There are no secrets in Asgard. But I am past the point of caring about my reputation. And Odin’s is hardly untainted where matters of the flesh are concerned.
“What is it you require?” I ask.
“I wish you to procure something on my behalf.”
“You have one thief at your disposal already.”
“Ah, but this is much too precious to entrust to an outsider,” he says. Loki stiffens at this slight. Odin toys with him, I think, though I do not know why. I have never understood the nature of their relationship.
“There are few objects more precious than the Brisingamen,” I say.
“This is no object. It is a child.” I raise an eyebrow, as if to suggest that his depravity knows no bounds. “She is my daughter, in fact. And my reasons are entirely just. The girl is an orphan. Her mother and the man she knew as her father are both dead. She is being raised by her grandfather. He is planning to take her abroad soon in preparation for marriage. I prefer that she remain within these shores. This does not seem unreasonable to me, but her grandfather does not recognise my claim. The child’s mother was most discreet, it seems. She never breathed a word of our affair to anyone, not even on her deathbed. So I am left with no entitlement regarding the girl’s future.”
“What can I do?”
“Find the girl and take her to Sessruminger. Treat her well and guard her closely, for her family has much influence and is certain to come after her. Introduce her slowly to our ways. But do not speak of me. Once she has had a chance to adjust to life among the Aesir, I will come myself to Sessruminger and tell her everything. At that point, she will be free to choose.”
“A grand gesture on your part.”
“I would not force her to remain among us.”
“You are certain she is your child?”
He hesitates. “Yes.”
I do not reply at once. Odin shifts uncomfortably. I can see my silence tears at him. When I finally speak, my tone is one of condescension. “So the world of men is littered with your offspring.”
“Just as the world of dwarves may one day be littered with yours,” he retorts.
“You forget that if a seed is sown, I will be the one to watch it grow.”
“You are fortunate to have a choice.”
I look at him askance. “There was a time when you relished the absence of such burdens.”
He shrugs. “My interests have changed over time.”
So he admits to growing old, I think. “You surprise me,” I tell him.
“Sometimes I surprise myself.
”
“What makes you think the girl will recognise your claim?”
He hesitates. Perhaps this had not occurred to him. “Unlike her grandfather, she has nothing to lose by acknowledging me,” he says slowly.
“Only the memory of the father who raised her,” I offer.
Odin frowns. Loki leans forward. “A dead father for a live one,” he offers. “Which would you choose?”
“The one who earned my love,” I reply.
“Enough,” says Odin to both of us. “We will wait and see what she decides. But I expect no interference. From either of you.”
They are both mad, I think.
FULLA
The day Fulla disappears, Hogni is cleaning out the tanning shed. Since his decision to return to Norway, he has thrown himself into preparations for the journey. He and Fulla will take relatively little with them, apart from what is most valuable, but he wishes to leave the farm in good working order. After all, it is his only legacy, apart from her. He has built the farm up from almost nothing, and it has made him a wealthy man. But over the years life has soured him against its abundance. For it was land-lust that killed his only son.
He stares down at the rusted blade in his hand. No man should outlive his own offspring, he thinks wearily. He drops the knife and wipes his hands clean upon a rag. When he comes out of the tanning shed, the sun is high and he suddenly feels hungry. As he crosses the yard towards the house, an odd sight confronts him. In the distance, the lumpen shape of Helga jostles up and down on a fast-moving pony. Behind her, Fulla’s horse trails on a leading rein. But Fulla herself is nowhere. He feels his gut twist. He begins to run at a lope towards her. As Helga draws near, the expression on her face confirms his fears.
Helga halts her horse and looks down at him. “Fulla?” he asks desperately. She shakes her head in response, barely able to speak. She slides off the horse and collapses onto his shoulder.
“She’s gone,” Helga says breathlessly, her large frame heaving. “They’ve taken her.”
“Who?”
Helga looks at him in despair. “I don’t know. It happened so quickly. We were at the baths, and she was in the water. I left them only for a second, and then I fell and hit my head, and when I woke, they were gone.” She breaks off.
“Left whom? Who were you with?”
“A woman.”
“What woman?”
“I don’t know. A stranger.”
Hogni stares at her. “Come into the house,” he says finally. He helps her inside, but not before glancing back at the empty plains behind them. They’ve taken her, he thinks. First Jarl, and now Fulla. Silently, he curses the ghost of Skallagrim.
Hogni gets no more useful information out of Helga. He leaves her in the care of a young serving woman and, taking three able men with him, rides east towards Skallagrim’s farm. It is mid-afternoon when they spot the vast collection of buildings in the distance. As they approach the farm, Hogni searches the yard for signs of danger, but sees nothing unusual. In one corner, a woman washes clothing in a large wooden bucket. And outside the stable, a farmhand is breaking in a horse on a leading rein. Both look up as he and his men ride into the yard. The farmhand halts what he is doing and calls towards the barn. A moment later, Thorstein appears. He stops short when he sees Hogni, then walks slowly towards him. Hogni halts his horse several feet away, but does not dismount. One hand drops down to the hilt of his sword. Thorstein, instantly on his guard, calls into the house for his brothers, and within moments, two more men emerge. They all stare at Hogni expectantly.
“Fulla has been taken.”
Thorstein exchanges a glance of surprise with his brothers. “Not by us.”
“Where is the boy?” demands Hogni.
“At home, where he should be,” says Thorstein cautiously.
“I want to see him.”
Thorstein hesitates, then nods for his brother to fetch the boy. The man trots towards a house at the rear of the yard, and after a minute, returns with Vili. When he sees the boy, Hogni swells with anger. He climbs down off his horse and walks up to him.
“Where is she?” he demands.
Vili shakes his head in confusion. “I’ve not seen her.”
“You’re a liar!” Hogni pulls a knife and rushes towards him. He grabs the boy by the shoulder and spins him around, putting the knife to his throat.Thorstein jumps forward, then stops himself.
“You think I’d harm her?!” cries Vili.
“I think you’re a villain, just like your father was,” Hogni snarls.
Vili’s face contorts with anger. With one hand he reaches up to grab Hogni’s wrist, then throws his other elbow hard into the old man’s side, winding him. Hogni grunts and doubles over, and the boy wrenches frees from his grasp. At the same time,Thorstein leaps forward, his own knife drawn. He sinks it into Hogni’s shoulder in a flash. Hogni drops his own knife with a cry. His men spring forward to defend him, but Thorstein turns on them, the knife still in his hand.They stop short when they come face to face with Thorstein’s knife, still wet with Hogni’s blood. For a moment, no one moves.
“Stop!” cries Vili. He steps between Thorstein and Hogni’s men. Then he turns towards Hogni. “She isn’t here,” he says intently. “But we’ll help you find her.” The boy bends down and retrieves Hogni’s knife, and holds it out to him.
Hogni looks at him, breathing hard. One hand clutches his shoulder; blood oozes through his fingers. He hesitates, then reaches out with his good hand and takes the knife. “We’ll find her ourselves,” he says hoarsely.
He crosses to his horse and, with the help of one of his men, struggles onto its back. The others follow. Vili watches in silence, as Hogni turns his horse around and rides out of the yard.
Upon his return, Hogni dispatches men in every direction to search for Fulla, as well as a messenger to Nidavellir to alert Dvalin. He can think of no other action to take, and the sense of helplessness overwhelms him. His instinct tells him that Skallagrim’s grandson has nothing to do with Fulla’s disappearance, though in his darker moments, he has drawn and quartered the boy in his mind.
“Sit down,” orders Helga, “and let me dress this wound.” Hogni settles himself gloomily by the fire, while she carefully washes his shoulder. He spends the rest of the evening fretting. One by one, his men return in the darkness, having found nothing.
When he wakes in the morning, he is flushed with fever. Helga examines the dressing anxiously. The wound is badly inflamed. She forces him to remain in bed. He sends his men out again to search for Fulla, though this time they do not move so quickly, for they already know that she is gone. At noon, Helga brings him soup made from sorrel. He shakes his head when she appears in the doorway.
“Drink it,” she orders. “It will do you good!”
“I’m not hungry,” he insists.
“You’re no use to her dead.”
Hogni eyes her sullenly, then grudgingly accepts the bowl. He lifts the spoon to his mouth before pausing. “Is it possible she ran away?”
“On foot?”
Hogni shrugs. “Or by some other means. A horse hidden elsewhere?”
“By whom?”
Hogni stares at her and thinks of the boy Vili. Perhaps he was lying after all. Perhaps they planned to meet at a later date, when he was no longer under suspicion. “Helga, did she say anything at all to you? Anything that would suggest that she was leaving?”
Helga looks at him askance. “She was leaving. With you.”
He sighs and looks down at the soup. Has he brought all this upon himself? When he raises his head, Helga regards him thoughtfully.
“It isn’t your fault,” she says. “What’s done is done. She’s out there, somewhere. And now we have to find her.”
Dvalin arrives at noon the next day. At the sight of him, Hogni feels a sudden surge of hope, the first he’s felt since Fulla’s disappearance. Dvalin kneels beside the bed and clasps his hand warmly. “I came as quickly as I could,”
he says, frowning at the dressing on Hogni’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”
The old man gives an irritated wave with his good arm. “It is nothing.”
“When did she disappear?”
“Two days ago.”
“Is Thorstein responsible?”
“Perhaps. But I don’t think so.”
“You’ve seen him?”
Hogni raises his eyebrows, indicating the wound. “He took offence at the suggestion.”
“And you believe him?”
“I don’t know. But with each passing day, I fear for her life.”
“Who was with her?”
“Helga. They rode to the baths, as was their custom. A woman approached them there, a stranger, and joined them in the water. They spoke for a time, then Helga got out to relieve herself. When her back was turned, someone forced a hood over her face. She struggled and fell, and lost consciousness for a moment. When she woke, Fulla and the woman were gone.”
“Who was the woman?”
Hogni shakes his head. “A complete stranger, by all accounts. Helga had never seen her before.”
“I must speak with Helga.”
“Of course. But you’ll be none the wiser.”
Dvalin finds Helga seated on a bench in the scullery, washing an enormous bunch of leeks in a wooden tub of water. There is a small turf fire in the centre of the tiny room, its heat surprisingly warm. The air is dense with the smell of burning peat and the scent of pickling preserves. The walls of the room are lined with earthen jugs of all shapes and sizes, each containing foodstores.
Dvalin pulls a wooden stool up and seats himself next to her, watching as she slits each leek neatly up the centre with a knife. Helga’s face is more bloated than usual, her eyes ringed with dark circles.
“Helga, you must think hard.That day at the baths, are you certain you saw no one else?”
“I saw nothing. They came from nowhere.”
“They struck you from behind?”
She frowns. “No. At least, I don’t think so. I’ve no wound.”
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