Stars and a Wind- The Complete Trilogy

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Skarga sat where she was, remaining safely invisible up to her neck. Hidden by weed and ripple, she began to pick the little wooden teeth from the comb. Each, softened by water, chipped away. The two longest she clutched in one hand, the comb now a sheer point in her other. Aud had never given her the scissors. They lay shining on the grass in the sunshine. Skarga wondered how quickly she might reach them.

  “So come here,” repeated Grimr.

  The sun was behind his head, reddening his hair into fire and turning his lashless stare into black slits. Skarga glared. She was accustomed to being the victim, but it was something she had always fought against. This time she expected no helpful agreement, but she said, “If I come out of the water, will you close your eyes or look away?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Grimr. “And if you irritate me, I shall kill you at once.”

  Skarga let the water lap her shoulders, but, very slowly, she was moving upstream against the current. She inched to where the gleam of metal lay on the bank.

  Grimr watched her, smiling. “Absurdly obvious,” he said.

  She jumped up and ran at the same moment he unpeeled from the bending shadows and in two steps reached the blades, caught them up, and caught her too. Around her waist streaming slick wet, he grasped her and hurled her sideways. She leapt again, rebounding, and jabbed with the shaven comb. She wanted his eye, she caught his cheekbone. Focused, she barely noticed the scissors at her breast. He gripped her hair and hauled her, face down, tumbling into the grass. She looked up and saw he was bleeding heavily, then looked down and saw that she was too. The sharp little points had made a fleshy groove from the first swell of her breast, past the nipple and down across her ribs to the flat of her belly. She felt sick, shook her head and jumped up. Grimr was watching, laughing at her, one hand tight on her ankle. She spat in his face, punched with one fist, and grabbed his hair with her other hand.

  They both fell. Skarga rolled, pulling Grimr with her. Then she saw his laughter. He was letting her fight. Confused, she hesitated. He reached up, grabbed her fist and pressed hard against her knuckles, forcing open her grasp on his hair. Then with both arms around her and hands spread against her buttocks, he bent her backwards. Her blood was thick against his silks. He leaned hard over her. She was weak, losing strength, losing coherence. He bent lower and, eyes half closed, half firelight, kissed her full on the mouth. And as he kissed, he bit. The pain was unexpected and voracious.

  When he let her go she collapsed backwards, tumbling onto the grass. He stood looking down at her. The blood from his cheek was congealing, her own blood still flowed bright. Then he grabbed her arm and although she resisted, hauled her up beside him and began to walk with her back towards the longhouse.

  There were slaves waiting at the doors but Grimr ignored them. He did not return Skarga to the barn. He continued to march her indoors, past the great door carvings, beneath the peering pine goblins and the curved wooden scales of dragons and serpents. He dragged her into the main hall. It was not empty. Several of Grimr’s retinue of jarls lounged there on the benches in quiet conversation over their cups, and at their feet, arms folded on the scrolled bench edge, his face obscured and resting on his wrists, was a young boy. It was warm, too warm beside a high fire, one huge log beneath a smattering of twigs well latticed and blazing across the central hearth. The gangling grey hunting dogs were spread panting on the rushes, as close to the fire as their masters permitted. A few chickens clucked morosely in the far corner shadows, scratching between the piled reeds. Two slaves stood with jugs, ready to call. Skarga’s entry and passage were openly watched, immediately absorbing, the slaves staring, the jarls smiling, talking ceased, looking up intently, raising their cups. One called, “Grimr, a new game? What will you do with her?”

  And another said, “And shall we join you?” Grimr shook his head and laughed. His finger nails around Skarga’s upper arm pressed tighter into little sharp bruises. Utterly naked and with the wound over her breast pumping scarlet, Skarga walked, tripping but chin high and back straight, across the rushes to the far end of the wide chamber.

  She had not shown herself openly naked since a young child. A woman’s flesh remained her own business, she wore her clothes long and kept her body hidden, even in the company of her husband. House walls kept no secrets, the sounds of coupling were common, but as with advantage taken in a quick fuck, all was kept to dark corners and away from the glare of the candles or the fire. Men pissed where they would, but women were discreet beneath their skirts. Nor in death was a woman stripped. Nakedness, even for slaves, meant shame. Skarga had been flogged, bare to the waist. That had, until now, been the greatest shame of all. Unclothed women did not walk amongst men.

  Skarga looked at no one, but she saw them all. She saw the men smirk and sneer. She saw the aroused, contemptuous glint of their fire lit eyes. She saw the astonishment on the face of the young boy in their midst’s, his mouth open. She went where Grimr led her, did not resist since it was hopeless, and pretended, though she did not feel it, to walk with pride. Then Grimr slid back the elaborate screen at the end of the hall and threw her in. She sprawled, saw nothing, and prepared to land on bare earth. But it was as soft as duckling down.

  Skarga adjusted her eyes to the new dark and curled, trying to cover herself. Grimr said, “Don’t get blood on my silks. I’ll send someone to you.” He slid the door shut and Skarga was alone.

  The room was a bed, as grand as a king’s. Heaped with pillows over a mattress not of straw but of feather, it was spread with wool, silk and tapestry. The mattress and pillows were sewn into smoothest linen and well bleached, though the darkness obscured colours and left only texture. It was an enclosed cupboard bed like many doored cots, but it was swathed with a hero’s ransom, and many men might have slept there together had they curled close for warmth as those of the north often did.

  Skarga backed into the furthest corner and pulled a woollen cover up to her chin. When the door once again slid open, she was hidden by both cloth and shadow. Beyond the doorway, the rush of firelight and sudden heat entered in tongues. Grimr said, “I arranged to have you pleasantly clean but you have fouled yourself again.”

  Skarga glared. “It’s blood. You cut me.”

  “You have also rolled in mud,” a statement of fact. “Perhaps I should wash you again. I dislike my bed soiled.” A young woman came forward, clearly nervous, and sat on the edge of the bed to cleanse and bandage the wound. Grimr watched, eyes narrowed, until it was done. Then Skarga was left alone. She was asleep when Grimr finally returned.

  There was little sound from the hall, the crackle of flames, the spit of logs, a low growl from some disturbed animal, the murmur of men. At once Grimr stretched, half lying, half propped against the wealth of pillows. He carried a soapstone bowl and began to take food from it, using his knife to cut the meat. He spoke without looking at her. “Eat. Remember cleanliness however, and elegance. Here I do not permit the standards used by slaves or slatterns. Even a slut from the wild and uncivilised back-waters of the north can master the necessary rudiments of manners, and I punish all those who do not comply with my wishes.”

  Because it smelled glorious, Skarga leaned over, careful not to touch any part of the man, and took food and ate it. She had no knife so chewed the meat from the bone and licked her fingers carefully afterwards, still clamping her elbows to keep the bed covers tight up to her chin. There was hot roast duck with slices of radish, roast mutton on a matting of aromatic herbs, smoked bacon crumbled in soft egg yolk on warm rye bread, and heavy suet dumplings with a filling of onion and smoked trout. Skarga discovered her appetite. She was aware of Grimr’s amused attention while wondering where to wipe the grease from her fingers and from her mouth. She had no sleeve and did not dare use the blankets.

  He slid open the door. A slave came immediately. “Napkins,” Grimr ordered, “and fruit.” He handed out the bowl, now empty of all but bones. The closet door remained open. Though his body bl
ocked the heat, the deep swathed bed bathed in sudden vibrancy. Skarga now saw the black scab of the wound she had made with the comb on the rise of Grimr’s cheekbone. The longer scars on his hand and wrist from her knife were also clear and unbandaged. They had been cauterised and Skarga knew and was pleased that at least she had caused him pain.

  The slave returned bringing another bowl, spoons and a heap of folded linen. There was frumenty under honeyed syrup with a thick layer of berries and softened pears. Grimr passed the bowl to Skarga. He continued watching her. Not knowing when she might be permitted food again, Skarga ate everything. She was careful to use the napkin.

  He spoke softly. “Good. Eat and grow sleek. I like a female with rounded hips and a full arse, not some starved wild fowl with holes instead of flesh between her bones. Strive to please me, and I may delay killing you.” He paused. “Though of course, I may not.” He leaned back on one elbow, eyes half shut under lazy lids, heavy with lassitude. The door, only one crack open, allowed the lamplight in a single stripe across the man’s knees and Skarga’s lap. Grimr stretched a long fingered hand, cupping Skarga’s chin, tilting her face up from the shadows. “But sooner or later you will have to die,” he said. “I’ve not yet chosen how. Flaying perhaps? Slow poison or the tactile pleasure of strangulation? The rich red carnage of an interesting slaughter, decapitation or disembowelment maybe. Or something more elegant? If I slip the roasting spit between your legs, where, do you imagine, it might emerge at the other end?”

  While she lay in silence, Grimr rolled quietly from the bed and disappeared back into the bright lights of the hall, taking the bowl and shutting the door behind him with a gentle click.

  Skarga did not sleep and had wedged herself into the farthest crack between the mattress and the closet wall when Grimr again returned. He slid the door open with a crash and rolled, part dressed and fully drunk, into the central dip where he slept in a coma of rhythmic breathing and without any movement. A slave closed the door soundlessly and utter blackness enveloped them both. After a very long time Skarga slept too. He had gone when she woke.

  She did not eat the simple break-fast brought to her but sat gazing out of the bed enclosure at the new day. It was brighter and warmer and seemed hopeful. Then a slave brought her clothes and told her to get dressed. Delighted, Skarga scrambled to cover herself. The dyes of second hand clothes did not remain bright nor a bleached shift remain white, but these materials, though not new, were as grand as any that were. The woollen stockings were as fine as a caress. The shift was deep pleated and the neckline high and stiff collared with embroidery. The over-tunic was as blue as the summer sky and bordered in thick gold bands. Skarga tugged on the shoes which fitted adequately; well tanned leather, softened and buckled, not boots for marching across the countryside but luxury designed for a lady of the house. With a relief for which she thanked the gods, she leaned forwards, pushed back the door and climbed from the bed into the hall.

  The fire was low, smouldering only hot ashes, and there were no candles lit. An early morning shone hesitant through the window slits. Apart from the scratching of desultory chickens and the usual dogs, the quiet boy she had seen before was curled solitarily dozing in the fire lit corner. There were also two men. The young jarl with whom she had once spoken at Vilgeroar’s feast, asking about Grimr and the vicinity of Ogot’s vik, sat on the bench beside the hearth. He held his drinking horn between loose fingers, conversing at ease. Sitting beside him, nodding and answering him quietly, was Asved. He was wearing her wolfskin cloak, which had once been his own, and which he had now taken back. Skarga had expected many things which had not happened after all, but she had never expected Asved.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Skarga thanked the gods, the spirits of fire, water and earth, and even Grimr himself, that she was now dressed. Indeed, she had never before been so grandly clothed.

  The jarl stood and took her hand, speaking politely with no sign that he recognised who she was, though it was only the day before that he had seen her quite naked, bleeding, and dragged through the crowd to Grimr’s bed. “Lady,” he said, “Will you come by the fire? There’s ale and water and I can call for food if you wish it.”

  Skarga stepped back. “You’re in conversation with my brother. I prefer not to interrupt.” Behind the sparks of the low hearth, the running shadows painted pictures. They carried the memory of Asved in the boat, hurling the small bundle into the waves.

  “Forgive me, lady, but the master of the house has forbidden you to leave the building.” The jarl did not release her hand. “So why not eat and drink and sit comfortably?”

  “Thank you,” said Skarga, “but I’ll sit alone.” She removed her hand from his clasp and went to the far bench, furthest from the fire and the men. The boy had not raised his head, or she might have sat by him instead.

  Asved grinned. “Too grand, big sister, to sit with your own family, or too frightened perhaps? I don’t give an arse wipe for your stupid sensibilities, and I’ve no interest in anything you say. I’m here for the sport. Nothing else.”

  But the jarl came to stand over her, bringing her a beaker of ale. “I’m Ingmar, huskarl to Grimr the Skald, and at your service, lady. I’m called the giant-killer, but I must confess I’ve killed no giants in my life, nor even seen one. It was a name given me when I first met Grimr as a child, since they were the stories I always begged him to tell.”

  “I remember you told me your father was jarl to his father.” Skarga took the proffered ale. “I suppose Grimr’s father was chieftain in this house?”

  “He was king,” nodded Ingmar, “but it was a small holding then, with some outlying homesteads, no more. When the bastard chieftain from over the mountains came marching in with an army of ruffians, our king Ulf Wolf-sight could raise neither ledungen nor sufficient warriors. He was forced to lay down his weapons and promise a yearly geld, swearing allegiance to the new king. But all that’s well nigh forgotten now. Years ago the foreign king tramped off over his mountains with our silver and a couple of slaves, and we’ve heard no more of him.”

  “And Ulf, Grimr’s father?” Skarga said, looking from the window up to the sweep of mountain to the high pass.

  Ingmar smiled. “Grimr killed him,” he said.

  Skarga stared. “No one killed the invading king, but Grimr killed his own father?”

  “The invading king was backed by an army and outnumbered us. Grimr was bare fourteen years old and his father’s only remaining child. But the shame of paying geld to that conquering thug was unacceptable. Grimr slit the old man’s throat one night, then ordered his mother to keep the corpse company in the afterlife.”

  Skarga shivered. “So Grimr’s king now?”

  “He’s never claimed the title,” said Ingmar. “We call no man chieftain. We’ve neither seen the king over the mountain nor paid him since old Ulf wolf-sight was buried. But we serve Grimr, king or no. He’s contemptuous of men claiming kingship with too few warriors for their own defence - but as a skald and a rich man, Grimr’s something far finer. Besides, kings are bound to their lands. Grimr likes to travel. So do we.”

  Skarga looked into the scum of beer in her cup. She said, “Have you travelled with him to the Sheep Islands across the sea?”

  “Indeed we have,” Ingmar said. “But it’s a dreary place and there’s neither good food nor land worth the taking. The inhabitants are barely worth the killing.”

  Skarga said, “So Grimr has a boat?”

  Ingmar frowned. “Of course not. He’s a skald not a salt grimed sailor and this is no sea port. We take ship with the merchant knarrs when we want, though I’d never go west again. Southern lands are richer and warmer, though I love my own land best.” He straightened and looked back towards Asved. “But if there’s nothing else you want, lady, I’m neglecting my lord’s guest, your brother.” Skarga was happy to let him go. She did not sit with Asved and she did not try to leave the hall. She watched the boy for a moment, since he reminded
her of Egil, but this child was better fed, better dressed, and a few years younger. His hair was thick and pale and his shoulders wide for his age. He curled studiously asleep, small fingers gripped tight to his knees, eyes adamantly closed.

  Skarga dozed again in Grimr’s closet bed through the slow afternoon, sun dismal, the hall stuffy, the fire low with tired, dirty smells of sweating animals, ashes and rancid food. She peeped out when she heard furtive noise. The keeper-slave Aud was supervising the preparation of the evening meal, the cauldrons brought down on their chains. Stews already congealed and cold from previous days were stirred, herbs added, with cut roots and the shavings from last night’s roast. The fat bryti and a couple of slaves dragged in a massive log and built the fire high. The pots were hung to reheat.

  Skarga kept within the false privacy of shadows. Not even Aud glanced in her direction. Then skirting the encircling benches, she edged towards the wide closed doors, and stood fingering the curves of the huge hinges. The handles, heavy iron, were sleeping dragons. She clasped one and pushed. No gap appeared, no creak of wood, the door did not open. Beside her a growl accelerated to angry barking, hot breath and a furious snarl. Skarga looked down, backing from the doorframe into the firelight. The largest hound, red eyed, wolf shaggy and taller than her waist, stood bristling between her shadow and the door. She was herded, as some dogs will herd geese, back across the hall. It left her there, trotting quietly to the hearth again where it folded its elongated haunches, grumbling with its companions. Skarga retreated to the bench nearest the master’s bed. Its jaw flat to the reeds, the hound appeared to sleep. Skarga watched it carefully for some time.

  By evening the other jarls and a bustle of tenant farmers with their wives drifted in from the dimming twilight and took up their usual places in the great hall, nobles to the benches, bondi behind. The women, jarl’s and bondi wives, servants, and slaves, ignored her. No one spoke to her though the men looked, knew who she was, and smiled to themselves. The few remaining hours of night were starlit when Grimr finally strode into the hall with six of his huskarls and the young pale boy Skarga had noticed before. The high chair was set. It was grand as any chieftain’s, whatever Grimr’s disclaiming of the title, and he sat in it as any king would, accepting food and mead. He was begged to recite, but shook his head. “Not tonight. It was a long hunt. Take food to the woman.”