Stars and a Wind- The Complete Trilogy

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  She heard the footsteps in the hard mud but she did not expect the legs to stop in front of her. With her hands full of turnips, even the master of the house would surely take not the slightest notice. But the tanned leather boots remained solidly immovable, and finally Skarga looked up to the face above.

  The man was very tall, as tall as Grimr had been, but this man was heavier with muscle than with lithe speed. His golden hair was a deeper colour, streaked with russet, and his eyes were not cobalt glitter but hard grey under drooping lashless lids. “You are in my way,” he said.

  Skarga remembered not to scowl. She nodded politely and moved tight to the side of the step. The entrance to the longhouse was ample and there was space for three men to pass, but this man stayed where he was. “You are in my way,” he said again.

  “My lord,” said Skarga, reminding herself to behave as a servant, “forgive me.” She scrambled up, bringing her bowls with her, and stepped aside.

  The man stared at her, expressionless, as if she did not warrant the effort of his summoning one. Then he disappeared into the longhouse.

  A servant would have lowered her eyes but Skarga watched the man pass. He was well dressed with a tunic of deep blue wool, bordered in heavily ornate silk. His boots looked as though he walked very little, and his shirt was the finest linen Skarga thought she had ever seen, purest white like the sun on snow. Even his britches were clean and they were tight bound with silk over soft woollen stockings. But he was not a handsome man and his lips were so thin that the weathered skin of his jaw seemed to swallow them up. There was, however, something about him that she found familiar.

  Later, while chopping the turnips into the soup, Skarga asked, “Was that tall man the master?”

  There was a young deer roasting and Egil had been set to turn the spit. The house-slave flopped down on the hearth curb and wiped the sweat from her eyes. “No, the master’s not back yet, thank the gods. I’m behind with everything and he’ll threaten to have me beaten. Not that he’ll do it, mind. Just bluster and yell. If you act afeared, he’ll leave you be.”

  Skarga smiled. “Then who was it came in here sometime back?”

  “Him? That’s our honoured guest,” scowled the woman. “He’s a bard and a mighty important one. Not that he’s well liked I hear, and I’ve heard him called a cruel bastard, but the master owes him and we’re obliged to full feasting hospitality.”

  “I knew a bard once,” said Egil from the other side of the revolving carcass. “Some people said he was cruel too, but I he wasn’t ever nasty to me. He told stories that seemed to come to life and you could see things in the shadows while he talked. Just in the firelight all the monsters and trolls seemed to jump out of the flames. He was a great skald.”

  “This one’s the best,” said the woman with belligerent pride, flouncing up again to wipe the sweat from her cleavage and flick it into the cooking pot. “His reputation travels before him.”

  “He has a sour mouth,” said Skarga. “It seems strange to me that a cold man can make poetry. I thought that about the other bard too.”

  The house slave shrugged. “Who knows what goes through a man’s mind? They don’t think the way we do. Most of them don’t think at all. Fists and feet, not brains. But I’ve heard this one sing, and he’s good. You say your other man made shadows come alive. Well this one does that and more. His shadows are so vibrant, you could bed them. Maybe you’ve heard of him. His name’s Grimr.”

  Skarga stopped chopping, knife poised mid air, and stared. Egil was suddenly immobile. The spit squeaked and paused. “Grimr the Skald?” said Skarga.

  The woman nodded. “Yes, that’s him. Grimr Ulfsson. Be careful of him.”

  “He can’t be,” whispered Egil.

  “Can’t be what? Don’t be a fool, boy,” said the woman. “Get turning that iron, and don’t argue with me or I’ll have you whipped. I know exactly who the man is, he’s been guest here for days, and his damned retinue with him. And he tells his stories every night while he drinks all the ale I’ve made myself sick brewing. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him either, for he’s well known in these parts, with his own lands not that far distant. He’s Grimr Ulfsson the Skald, though some call him Grimr the cruel. And you’d best keep out of his way while you’re here.”

  “Oh, I promise we will,” breathed Skarga.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  But it was not possible to keep out of his way. That evening Skarga followed orders and served the guests. Taking her own meal from what later remained, she listened to the stories of the skald. Vilgeroar, a bowlegged chief with fists twice as large as his face and the ruddy swollen nose of a man who enjoyed his ale, had grinned wide yellow horse’s teeth at Skarga and approved her hire. “And there’s a place afterwards in my bed, girl, if you’ve a mind to it,” he told her cheerfully.

  “He’ll be too pissed to either remember or be capable of it,” the house-slave said later. “If you don’t reckon the smelly old goat, don’t worry. He can’t ever get it up past dinner time. It’s the mornings you have to watch, when he’s only half pissed, and comes swaggering out of the longhouse looking for a skirt to shove his hands up.”

  So that was two men she had to try and avoid.

  Egil sniggered. “They’re both fools, lady. Not worth being wary of. One’s a fat sot and the other’s a fraud. He’s stolen the name and the reputation of a better man.”

  Skarga shook her head. “Fools are more dangerous than wise men. And how are we sure this one’s the fraud? They know him around here. Perhaps it was our captain who stole the name.”

  Egil’s snigger dried up and he raised his chin. “Just because you didn’t like him. But the crew all knew him. He wasn’t the sort of man to take someone else’s good name.”

  “Or borrow a bad one? This Grimr’s a great bard, they say, but a cruel man. That’s a strange reputation to steal. Though when he first arrived, he wouldn’t give any name at all.” Egil still turned the spit handle, Skarga stirring the cauldron although not watching the pot. “Don’t you remember? His crew wouldn’t even say who he was.”

  “He was Grimr the Bard,” said Egil. “The best poet in Midgard and the best captain too. But it doesn’t matter now because he’s dead.”

  “Well, this new one is very much alive,” frowned Skarga, “and I wonder if he knows about the price on my head and my father’s call.”

  Long benches encircled the hearth, built into the steps raising the central quarters from the men’s sleeping booths. Every corner trapped smoke, where the lesser jarls coughed gently into their mead. The women took the eastern side, gossiping in groups, giggling, jingling their bracelets and beads, and boasting of how their men adored, valued and beat them, how hot in bed, how cold in fury. A woman’s pride. The men, jostling in larger noisier groups across the other side where the huge tallow lamps swung from the beams, boasted of recent fights, prowess under the sail, trading and raiding sorties lately planned, sightings of giants in the winter mountains and gifts of new forged metal, swords carrying the charms of eternal life and the runes of Odinn’s eternal protection. Tripped up by the long legged dogs or the sudden scurry of a piglet, they matched cup for cup in contest, or slipped silently to the boards, well content with a night’s feasting.

  The tall man who claimed the name Grimr, stood talking to the chieftain, and boasted of nothing. A man with a reputation had no need. Vilgeroar said, “And it’s been a few hard cold months, but there’s been six brats born to the slaves on my farms and thirty piglets to the sows. It’s a growing prosperity I’m expecting this summer. You’ll be back, later in the year?”

  Grimr nodded, staring over Vilgeroar’s head at the shadows lengthening where the women clustered. The younger ones disguised furtive glances beneath dipped lashes. Grimr read the faces, and understood riddles. Some of the women were frightened. Some were those he had tried out already. The prettiest was the girl he had taken last night, first willing to come to him, and then more than wi
lling to leave.

  The matrons, heavy chested and bored with their clumsy husbands, were more flirtatious and their glances were arch, welcoming, flattering and insipid. A few others were disapproving. It seemed the man was more interested in the scowls than the smiles, and they were the faces he remembered. One was the chieftain’s bored and elegant wife. He had known her many years ago. He thought it might be pleasant to know her again. “Perhaps,” he said, looking back down at Vilgeroar. “First I go north to my cousin. That shouldn’t take more than a month beyond the first days of autumn. Then I may return.”

  “Well, you’ll be welcome,” urged the chief. “The north is a cold dark place and you’ll sleep easier here, where the sun still shines into winter. And, with respect and apology, you’ll surely admit your cousin is a man of no reputation or consequence.”

  Grimr smiled slightly, which was a concession to his host. “I’ve never met the man, nor ever wanted to before now. Indeed, I hear he’s a petty, weak snouted jarl who claims a chief’s title undeserved. There’s a small timbered village, no more, though he rules it for what little it’s worth. But his worth to me isn’t in land. I know why he’s called for my services and I like the task he’s offering.”

  “Then take it whatever it may be, and come riding back to me before winter,” said Vilgeroar. “We feast well here even in the dark months, and there’s more fat cod smoked in my barns than in all Nor’way.”

  Grimr glanced again to the chief’s wife where she stood in her soft blue wool, mouth still distorted by scowls. He smiled again, though studiously insolent. He doubted she’d have the courage to take him on a second time, but many things could be arranged through threat. “I shall decide after I’ve seen my cousin,” he said.

  It was a conversation Skarga did not hear, but Egil, scurrying between legs with spilling jugs of ale, heard it all. Wrists wet with beer, bare feet pattering their own puddles across the boards, Egil did as he had done all his life, a slave serving the lords.

  Grimr travelled with three friends who served him as huskarls and were his retinue. Skarga filled their cups with mead. One seemed pleasant, and thanked her. Skarga took advantage. “Lord, it must be a fine thing to travel with so important a bard. We’ve all heard of his fame. Have you known him long?”

  The man blinked but then, excusing the insolence of her curiosity, decided she was pretty enough to be worth the trouble. “Indeed, girl. My father was jarl to his father. But if his bed’s your ambition, you should think again. You’d be warmer in mine.”

  “I’m more interested in his poetry,” Skarga said quickly.

  “He’s a talent beyond others,” nodded the man. “He’ll recite this evening, if we’re lucky. You’ll hear tales more magical than any you’ve heard before. After some of his best, maybe you’ll consider my bed after all.”

  Skarga stepped back and lowered her eyes, avoiding invitation. “I’ve heard very few bards before, my lord,” she said. “I’m from the north. It’s sparse populated and the bards don’t bother with us. Where does your friend come from? Does he rule his own lands?”

  The man answered her, waving a casual arm due east, but he was impatient and already moving away. “Indeed. Mid-south and inland.”

  Skarga moved beside him, speaking hurriedly. “I’d heard he comes from Ogot’s vik. Ogot King-wisher. Is that far from here? Have you been there?”

  The man looked briefly back at her. “What are you talking about, girl? No, and no intention of going. Little more than a huddle of huts I hear. Ogot’s said to be Grimr’s cousin through his mother, but I doubt they’ve ever met. It’s more than three full days riding from this town and they say it’s a damned dismal place iced by fjords. Why do you ask and what business of a servant’s?” He was frowning and suspicious. It wasn’t the usual slave’s gossip.

  Skarga said, “Forgive me, my lord. I worked there once, and heard tell of Grimr. But it’s not my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “Don’t let Grimr hear you,” nodded the man. “He’d not take kindly to being discussed by slaves and slatterns.”

  Grimr was still talking to the chief and over Vilgeroar’s shoulder their eyes met through smoke and shadow. Grimr’s eyes narrowed with a brief intensity beneath heavy lids. Skarga blinked, surprised, and looked quickly away.

  When the meat hung festooned in shredded tatters, intestines looped from the open gut and the blood all dried to a rich glossy black around stump and hooves, the men slumped down onto the benches and the women hurried to sit beside them. The fire was high and the flames flared fitfully as the wind gusted beneath the longhouse doors. The smoke was risen now, darkening the underside of the thatches where rows of pig sides, strung herring and sheep’s bladders stuffed with herbs hung to dry in sepia perfumes.

  Then Grimr stood before them all, and started to speak.

  The other Grimr, who had taken her to the isolation of the Sheep Islands and then tried to kill her, had told stories too. He had told of the great myths, the movements of worlds and the travels of the monsters that crept upon them. He had told of dark things, of threat and strange promise, of wild men and the battles of the gods. While he had talked, his stories leapt true from the ashes of the fire, and the people watching shrank small while the sagas grew large.

  This was a different Grimr. His voice was not wild or haunting, but nasal and seductive. He himself seemed cold yet as a bard he was as hot as the flames. He spoke more of women than of men, and more of the honey sweet than the darkly threatening. He spoke of women from the western tribes who painted their faces and their genitals blue and wore nothing but gold around their waists. He told of dark skinned women who danced between the trees in the southern empires and would serve a man as long as he wished without ever fainting or pulling away. He described strange customs in strange lands and of water spirits which came from the forest streams and kissed the men they wanted, dragging them down to live with them on their watery pebbled beds until the men sickened and drowned. These women had neither clothes nor legs, for beneath their breasts they grew scaly tails and took their mates as fishes do. Then these creatures sang and smiled as they used the men up and watched them gasp and drown, then ate their whitened flesh as a spider will devour its lover when done.

  Grimr’s voice became so beautiful that it was a song, softly melodic, as he told of a man who had learned the art of loving so well that all the creatures came to watch and to sigh and lay flower petals and soft turfs for this man to sleep and dream. But his loving was so passionate that his wife died of an adoration beyond the strength of a simple woman, and the man wept until he became a stream, and fell into eternity in a tumble of white waters. There was another man, Grimr said, a chief in the great east, whose prick was so long he learned how to make play with himself - and could drink his own seed which was thick and salty as brine.

  Grimr described the mating of dragons, first crooning from their crags, then swooping in terrifying jealousy, and how they gripped their mates and raped them, each mighty thrust like Thor’s thunder, till the mountains shook and the clouds burst.

  He told of a young girl at the beginning of time, as beautiful as Freyja, and how Odinn found her. Being a shape-changer and unwilling to frighten the girl with his own godly manhood, Odinn adopted the guise of Hugin the reflection, one of his ravens, and took the girl beneath his wings. Then Grimr described the love making of a god, which was as gentle as a feather and as powerful as the storm.

  His stories were lascivious but never crude. They tempted but did not disgust. And all the time his voice lapped like the irresistible sea on the sands, and each person in the hall felt soothed and yet excited, as if they had entered a new passion of existence which they could not and would not resist.

  Skarga sat cross legged. She had the slave’s place, back against the jam of the door and curled against the draught, she kept Grimr in sight, but he was too tall for her to see his eyes. Then, although knowing it absurd, she felt he spoke to her alone and the w
ords were designed for her ears above any others. She forgot the rest of the world. She forgot herself. She remembered nothing until Egil nudged her. “It’s time we were gone. Before the men get too drunk. Come on, back to the barn.”

  Splinters of other worlds scattered like beads. Skarga stared. “Who? What?”

  Egil grabbed her arm. They crawled together around the crack of the open door and as the night air swung sharp into her face, Skarga awoke. They ran to the goat barn and jumped into the yielding warmth of straw. Skarga was shaking. “Well,” accused Egil, “seems you got taken by the spell. So you like this Grimr better than the other one.”

  “Horrid boy. No, I hate them both.” Skarga grabbed her cloak, having left it there earlier to use as her blanket. “But I admit he’s a good bard.”

  “So was the other one,” said Egil.

  “This one’s different,” said Skarga. “I’ve never heard tales like that before.”

  Egil sniffed. “That’s because you never let any man touch you. That’s all the magic was tonight. Rutting, that’s all.”

  “And what would you know about sex?” demanded Skarga. “Skinny little brat like you.”

  “Never mind what I know,” said Egil. “At least all the slaves were my friends and they all talked a lot. It was the only fun they ever had, so they talked about it all the time. You never had a friend and wouldn’t talk to anyone. You’ve probably never even been kissed.”

  Skarga blushed into her wolfskin. “Mind your own business. We were talking about Grimr and his stories.”

  “Victorious heroes and seduction for the men,” sniffed Egil. “Then romantic yearning and seduction for the women. It was all about his own prowess in the end. He seduced the whole silly hall.”