“Why, no. I have my cats. More of them are outdoors right now. I have my thoughts. I have my loom and needles.”
“It must be hard to ply them as—neatly—as you do in winter.” Huge nights, short gloomy days, dim flamelight.
“Oh, in many ways I like winter better than summer. The summer days are too long. The dwellers and their work make too many calls on my heed. The sea-blink is too bright. In winter I can sleep and sleep, or lie awake in the dark, by myself. I don’t let the cats into my shut-bed. I’m learning beforehand how to be dead.”
The big eyes gleamed; the mouth drew back from the teeth in a bone-stiff smile. Ragnhild was a little mad, Gunnhild thought. Maybe more than a little.
She quelled the inward shudder. She had known enough otherness that she could deal with this. “Well, let’s lay heavy things aside and take what cheer we can while Gudröd and I are here. I do hope we aren’t unwelcome guests.”
“No,” said Ragnhild. “I’ve naught against it.” She might have been answering a field hand’s question about some everyday task.
“I’ll come back. Once things are better settled for us, when we understand more clearly what we should do in our war, I can stay longer.”
“As you wish.” Ragnhild tautened, struck by a thought. When she spoke again, it was slyly. “There’s a room in the house that you can have to yourself. It’s small, but you can do whatever you want in it.”
Do witchcraft, Gunnhild knew.
She had seen no cross on the wall, no sign of Christ. Ragnhild must have forsaken him. That was easy, in this heathen land where she could not have met a priest for years. But she had not offered to the old gods either. Instead, she found an icy gladness in weaving their doom.
Gunnhild smiled grimly. “It’s true, my doings are sometimes a bit strange.”
Ragnhild bent toward her. “They watch you on Mainland, don’t they?” she breathed. “They won’t let you work. That’s why I never go elsewhere. Here I’m away from all the eyes.” Again she grinned. “Yes, Mother, I think you may find much that’s to your liking, here with me.”
XXV
Hlödvir Jarl gave Gunnhild a house on Scapa Bay, about two miles from his hall and the town around it on the north shore. A fisher hamlet lay near, otherwise only wharves and sheds. Still, it was a house not unworthy of her, fairly big, with as much timber as turf gone into its making, well furnished, with hangings—not like Ragnhild’s—to brighten its main room and help keep it warm. As at Rackwick, there were cows for fresh milk and butter, chickens for fresh eggs and meat, fields to feed them. All this took a staff of men and women to do the work, and some of them had children. They were always on hand for the queen.
Always watchful. Gunnhild understood.
Hlödvir guested her sons well. That he hardly ever asked her to visit could not be taken as a slight. She was a widow, and old. The jarl’s father, Thorfinn Skull-splitter, would nonetheless often have met with her; but Thorfinn was long dead. Hlödvir kept faith with her kin as best he could bring himself to do. For that she forgave him all else, or at least let it go by.
Even in the dark months, he was much on the move between his holdings throughout the islands. Ragnfröd and Gudröd went too, looking for brothers-in-arms, unless they were off on their own doing the same thing. Thus she seldom saw them either, and then only for short whiles.
At one such time, early on, when they happened to call on her together, she won a kind of victory. Ragnfröd was set on seeking out Haakon Jarl in Norway come summer. Strike before the heathen dog got the land bulwarked against them, as his namesake Haakon Aethelstan’s-foster had done. Naught but a miracle brought that unrightful king down at last, after he had won the battle at Fitjar—God’s mercy, cried Ragnfröd, whereupon he and Gudröd glanced sideways at their mother, lowered their eyes, and said no more about that. She kept her face locked.
No, answered Gudröd, it was too soon. They might throw Haakon back at first, but unless they had the high good luck to fell him, he would raise the folk as he well knew how, he and his slippery tongue. Thrice had the sons of Eirik Blood-ax and Gunnhild surged at Aethelstan’s-foster and shattered, like surf; and that was with the might of Denmark behind them. These days they had merely whatever they could find in the Western Islands. Wisest was to hold off and gather strength until it was overwhelming.
Yes, Gunnhild quietly put in, the friendship between Haakon Jarl and King Harald Bluetooth would likely wear thin. Meanwhile they should send feelers to Harald’s son Sveinn. There was no love to speak of between him and his father. Should the two fall out—which could maybe be helped along—and Sveinn gain Denmark, something might well be done.
“Do you want to die here, Mother?” burst from Ragnfröd. “And you, Gudröd, I tell you you’ll do better as a man than a spider!”
“A man, yes,” roared the other, “but not a blind berserker!”
They sprang from their seats. Gunnhild did likewise. She put her small body between them, calmed them like a horseman calming two stallions, and got them to drink from the same horn of mead.
By now, so much had been said in the hearing of so many men that neither could back down, whatever his second thoughts might be. But she brought them to agreement. Gudröd would keep a half-score ships, to fare in viking. The brothers would share his booty. The rest of the warriors from Norway would follow Ragnfröd, together with such allies as he had gotten in the Orkneys, Hebrides, and Shetlands. If he won his war, he would be the foremost king in Norway; Gudröd would have Harald Grenska’s shires. If Ragnfröd lost, but later the Gunnhildssons won, Gudröd would be overlord.
They clasped hands on that. The heat cooled, the coldness thawed—not altogether, but enough.
Well, Gunnhild thought, hiding a lopsided smile, a she-wolf must keep her young from each other’s throats.
They went their ways. The black months drew in.
She was not left alone. If only she could be, once in a while. There was nowhere to send the servants and the few guards for a night. Were she to do so anyhow, the jarl would soon hear. He had as good as told her he would not stand for anything like seid anywhere near him. She was not now the queen mother of Norway, nor were her sons its kings, who never questioned her and to whom nobody dared drop a hint. They could not afford to upset Hlödvir. In a tiny offside room she kept such costly things as she had been able to take along with her, and the chest that only she ever opened. But somebody would know when she closed that door behind her. It was not thick. They would listen.
She doused anger and gave the staff no more heed than was needful. At least she was free to think. However gloomy, the Orkney winter was fairly mild. She walked along strand and cliffs, or inland for miles, beyond sight of men other than the guards, who had learned to stay well behind and not speak. When walking hurt too much she had a horse saddled and rode. If she lingered for a span at a barrow or standing stone raised by folk of old—or by elves or gods or giants; who really knew?—that was her own business. They saw her brooding. For all they could tell, she was silently praying.
And when she slid shut the panel of her bed, then she was by herself for as long as she wanted.
Like Ragnhild. But no, she would not spend its darkness on getting used to the grave. Too much was left to do. She lay thinking, until she slipped off into meaningless dreams.
Besides, she did not know what awaited her after death, a sleep or an unrestful prowling or the fires of Hell or a rebirth or a oneness with the world or what. She would neither cower nor hope; she would work for the blood of Eirik.
Nor were these days wholly cheerless. Of course she was at the Yuletide feasting. There—as well as a time or two earlier, a time or two later—she got into talk with men of standing, whose ken reached well beyond the islands, from Iceland to Gardariki, from here to Miklagard and Serkland. When she liked them, or it seemed they might be useful to her sons, she set about charming them. That was harder than when she was young and fair to behold. Still, the crone
had a whetted wit; her knowledge went both widely and deeply; they had never before met anybody like her. So when she now and then sent a footling to invite this or that one to visit, oftenest he did.
It had become toilsome for her to make those times merry. However, she had not lost the gift of words. If her smile was creased, it showed white teeth, and she had not forgotten how to aim shining eyes. Some of the men were handsome, which helped. She led them on to talk about themselves, thence about loftier things, such as what was going on in Scotland or England and what should be done about it. Her words got as sharp as any man’s, more so than most. Her guests went home thoughtful, not unwilling to call again. Meanwhile, they would pass on to her whatever news came their way.
Thus Gunnhild began to weave her web anew.
The sun sank to its lowest and swung back northward. Ragnfröd sought her. Eagerness flowed out of the hard, weathered face, the whole hard body: “Mother, great tidings for us! I stumbled on it, unless Heaven guided me. I found that an Irish thrall of Hlödvir’s is a priest. Snatched by vikings, passed from hand to hand, set to drudge work, but a hallowed Christian priest. I’ve bought and freed him. Cael, his name is. He’ll hear our confessions, cleanse us of our sins, and call on Christ to give us victory over heathen Haakon!”
“Well, good,” said Gunnhild. Remembering York better than Ragnfröd did, remembering Denmark and Britnoth, she wondered how much this could be worth. Where was the altar, where the holy water, where the Church itself?
But she would say nothing to dishearten her son. She didn’t like the look of a little, round, grayish growth lately showing on his right cheek. The skin of redheads was less tough than that of others. She kept silence about it, because he would not have taken her elsewhere to try a healing spell. If she went along with this priest, maybe Christ or a saint would remove it.
Cael was young and sturdy, but broken. He no longer knew quite how to say mass—not that he could well have held one here. He did his poor best, though. When Ragnfröd brought him around, Gunnhild knelt at his feet in the offside room and told him she had sinned. By now, she said, she could not recall each misdeed, but she knew she had been prideful, envious, and angry. Cael gave her a few Aves and Paternosters for penance and signed the Cross on her brow.
She said them. It did not stop the wonderings that tumbled in her head.
Men of the islands were making agreements with Ragnfröd. Gudröd meant to take his few ships in viking to Ireland, Wales, maybe Friesland or Brittany; these days, the Normans in France warded their own shores too fiercely. Gunnhild feared for them both.
One night in late winter was cold and utterly clear. She could not sleep. At last she got up, pulled shoes on her feet, threw a cloak around her gown, and stepped outside. Two men on watch drowsily followed. To her they were no more than shadows.
The air lay still and keen. She heard only a mumble that was the tide washing onto the land. Her breath smoked as white as the rime underfoot. Overhead loomed hugeness, stars crowding the black, the Winterway a frozen stream out of she knew not where.
Gods, Powers, Earth, Sky, hearken, she whispered to them. Here I stand, not to beg but to offer. Give my sons victory. Give me a sign, any kind of sign, a sight, a birdflight, a dream, anything. Then if it was you, Christ, I will be yours. I will forswear all others and all that you say is wicked, I will pray and weep, strive for the Faith and put down the heathen, go on pilgrimage, take vows as a nun, whatever you let me know you want of me.
Or if it was you, Odin, I will make great offerings. Flocks and herds shall bleed in your halidoms, yes, men shall swing hanged, and churches shall burn. Oh, first I must win my sons over, but I can. Odin, All-Father, Lord of War; Thor, Warder, Stormbringer; Frey, Freyja, Njord, who make life quicken and the sea yield its riches: give us victory and give me a sign.
Meanwhile—Earth, Sky, Waters, Fire, and every hidden Power—I shall go to the house of my daughter, Eirik’s daughter, where I am free to call upon you. Do you give us victory, and I—I know not what, other than that we shall be kinder to your Finns than erstwhile. With you I cannot bargain. I must seek.
Whoever or whatever you are, only give us victory. Only let me know.
The stars gleamed wordless. Gunnhild went back inside.
In the morning she took up everydayness again.
The year wheeled onward, the sun into spring. The earliest ships with the boldest crews plied the North Sea.
Thus to Orkney came news from Norway. Weather stayed sweet. Fields and fisheries promised good harvests. Folk were happy. Heathendom waxed; Christendom waned. Haakon Jarl had wedded Thora, a daughter of the mighty chieftain Skaga Skoptason. She was very fair and he loved her, although—snickered the man who told of this—it did not keep him from bedding women elsewhere.
Haakon was good enough for such a house, Gunnhild thought bitterly. Her sons had not been.
They would see about that.
Gudröd gathered his vikings, Ragnfröd his fleet.
Gunnhild made ready to return to Rackwick.
XXVI
Wind blew hard and cold from the west. Clouds fled smoky before it. They dimmed the sun as it rose above the heights of Hoy. Seafowl huddled on their stacks and skerries. Froth flew off waves. They ran iron-gray, green when light broke across them. They hit northern headland and southern cliffs, smashed, burst, thundered, churned back with their undertow gulping and sucking; then the next smote and the next. Even between Ragnhild’s thick walls, Gunnhild heard the air skirl and thought that in the bones of her feet she felt an underground shudder.
She had left her bed to find Ragnhild up. With doors shut and windows shuttered against the weather, the room was as murky as in winter. A hearthfire sputtered and reeked, giving scant warmth. It made the eyes of a crouching cat glow like marshlights. The younger woman was dressed for this, while the older wore merely a woolen nightgown, but the face inside the headcloth was pinched and bloodless.
“You’ve slept late, Mother,” she said low.
“My dreams kept me,” Gunnhild answered.
“What did they tell you?”
“If I am to watch over King Ragnfröd, my son, your brother, today is the day to begin.”
“Can you trust them?” Ragnhild’s voice thinned. “Mine are so often baneful. Drows walk from their barrows and ride the roof. It groans under their weight. They drum on it with their heels. Or I’m out alone on the heath and dead men come after me. Their wounds gape like mouths.”
Were Arnfinn and Haavard among them? And how many more? Gunnhild wanted to hold her daughter close, stroke the ruddy hair, sing her to rest. No, she saw, that could not be. Maybe later, back in Norway, after years of being a queen and beloved, the child buried in Ragnhild would awaken and laugh again. But until then, the wind would snatch any lullabies away. Nor dared Gunnhild linger. Her spellcraft was upon her.
She had nothing to say but “The daughter of Eirik Blood-ax should have no need to fear barrow-wights or ghosts. I never have.” That was not wholly true. She drove off memory of some things. “And, yes, my dreams were what I called for. You heard me sing by myself yestereven. I know what I was doing. Now I must go on, or lose the power.”
“Will you—eat first?”
“No, this is best worked while fasting. Only see to it that I’m left alone. Let there be no noises either to trouble me.”
Ragnhild hardened. “There won’t be.” She glanced at the two thralls, man and woman, who had crept into a corner, and pointed. They slunk out. No tales would slip loose from this garth.
Gunnhild lighted a candle at the fire, took it into the offside room, and closed the door. Windowless, about ten feet wide beneath gnarled driftwood beams and the blackness under the rafters, the room was a night around her tiny, guttering flame. Rushes rustled dryly underfoot. She had had a tall three-legged stool made, on which she now put the candlestick. Bending over, she tipped her locked chest and took the key it had been hiding. The weight seemed to shoot a barbed arrow
head into her hip.
She unpacked drum, necklace, bones. She flung her nightgown aside. The chill and the damp gnawed. She undid her braids and shook the frosty tresses down over limply hanging breasts to the belly that sagged—oh, not so much yet—from her hips. It was as white as the belly of a fish. But her hands, her hands at their work were only a little wrinkled at knuckles and finger joints; she kept the nails trimmed; Eirik would have known those hands.
She took the hallowed mushrooms from the bowl where they had soaked overnight and ate them.
She danced, sang, drummed, swayed, gave herself utterly to it.
Sooner than she had hoped, the great bees hummed, the quern milled, she laid her flesh down on a straw tick and went forth into the wind.
Mist scudded. She drew it to her, around her, a thin cloak against the sun. The shadow flew eastward with the cloud shadows.
Orkney, strewn green and brown on a wrinkled, white-flecked sea, fell behind her. The sun lifted in her sight. The sky cleared; water gleamed. Surf made a webwork along the islands and strands of Norway.
She did not cast about in search. The spell led her. A fleet was bound north past fjord-cliffs. From this height the ships were slivers, but she knew them.
She had not feared for them, not so far. Her flight was to spy things out, things of earth and things beyond. If danger waited for her son, she would think on how to warn him, or seek through dream and drumbeat how to help him.
The shadow was too flimsy, too dim. She swooped down to the waves. From their salt and from torn-off kelp afloat on them, she breathed wholeness. Eyes keen, hearing sharp, aware through every feather, a swallow skimmed toward the ship at the fore.
The figurehead was up, a wolf’s head on a snake’s neck. So was the mast. Sail poled out and straining, stays a-thrum, the hull ran heeled over on a long tack. Water hissed by the strakes. Warriors clustered and clung within. Ragnfröd had the steering oar. A smile on his lips, he handled the tiller as deftly and happily as he would the reins of a horse, belike more than he would a woman. He wore no hat or hood, and his hair fluttered like fire.
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