by Asotir
* * *
THEY DID NOT sit awake that night long, but lay down on the benches and drew their cloaks over them early. Ale will keep a man awake, but the want of it makes a dull night. Swanhild sat long before the fire at the foot of the highseat: she was alone there, and her thinness made her seem almost a child. Now the smile was gone from her lips, and she seemed woeful and lost.
Rannveig came to sit beside her: she had been Olaf’s concubine in the years before he had taken Gudruda to wife. She was broad-shouldered and comely, and her hair was hay-hued and her hands very lovely, but she was a simple woman for all that. She and Swanhild had always got on well.
Rannveig took the younger woman’s hand, and they fell a-talking about Olaf. At first the words came out swift and easy, but then they spoke more slowly, and the words were heavy.
They fell silent a long while. Rannveig crept up on the stones, a little into the highseat’s shadow: the fire’s heat made her skin all red. But Swanhild stayed as she had been. Then all at once they heard a soft ringing, waxing and waning, in the air.
‘What is that?’ Swanhild asked.
‘I know what that is,’ said Rannveig. ‘That is your father’s old sword singing. Gudruda locked it up in the highseat, and there it lies.’
‘It should not sing save to speak of foes or death.’
‘Maybe it mourns your father.’
‘Maybe. But still, he ever told me that sword looked only forward.’
The ringing fell away then, and Swanhild looked about the hall from door to gable: saw the shutbed where she had been born, and the corner where she had played, and the dais where she had wedded Skarphedin. Then she said hastily, ‘I am glad that he is dead. Glad, glad!’
‘Swanhild! How can you say such a thing?’
But the blackhaired woman only shrugged her thin shoulders and stared into the fire.
‘Swan,’ said Rannveig, ‘I have a boon to ask of you: but I know not how to go about it.’
Swanhild turned and touched Rannveig’s knee. ‘Ask it, Rann,’ she said. ‘If it lies in my hand, you’ll have it.’
‘Well then,’ said Rannveig—‘well then: would you let me abide with you and Skarphedin?’
‘Why do you ask that? Does this place now seem hateful to you, too, so that if it fell burning you would only laugh?’
‘Oh, no: Swan, the things you say! But I must leave, and know not where to go. I have spent my life here, and all my thoughts are in this place. But if you will not take me, would you then see if some other would?’
‘Why must you leave?’
‘Oh, that is no great thing. Only, it’s Gudruda, you know. Since your father died, her ways have changed somewhat. Now she threatens me, and calls me a harlot and a strumpet, and shameless, and bids me go. Only, I don’t understand: I always did my best here, and how can she bear me such ill-will because your father found me to his liking? But we did not lie abed together overmuch after he took Gudruda to wife. And now I know not where to go: only I minded me of the happiness I had with the children here, even you when you were little, and I was like your older sister. So I thought, soon you will be bearing, and I could tend things for you and watch over your children.’
Then Swanhild thought awhile; and she said, ‘Rann, few things would I like better than that: but have you not heard that we are leaving Iceland?’
‘Well, there has been some talk of it, but that is all.’
‘That was kept hidden for this, so that Hallgerd should have no warning. But already Skarphedin has been to his foster-brother, and Njal has vowed us a ship: and we will sail from Iceland as soon as ever that ship is “boun:” and tomorrow will we set out for the meeting-place.’
At that Rannveig frowned, and she thought, but she only shook her head. So Swanhild said, ‘But surely we can find room for you on-board, if you will come with us.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘That I care not, so long as it is far from here. To the Swede-realm for this winter: to the Uplands on the Keel.’
‘That is far, Swan, it seems to me: across the sea, far into the east. But I don’t want to leave Iceland: that thought fills me with fear.’
‘Then I will see what I can do for you here. Go to bed now, Rann: take heart and rest. I will see to it that you are not left homeless. But tell me, is no man looking after you?’
Now Rannveig’s cheeks burned a bit more brightly, and she said, ‘Well, Flosi Thorgeir’s son has set his heart on me, and we have lain abed together once or twice since your father died. But he is a poor man, and dwells with his sister Thorhild and her husband Ospak Asgrim’s son. But already they speak harshly of his staying on there with them.’
‘And he is a guest here this night. Does he wait for you then?’ Rannveig nodded. ‘So why do you sit here with me? Go on, and meet me in the morning.’
So Rannveig rose, greatly cheered: bade Swanhild good-night and went to her lover. But Olaf’s daughter sat still beneath the highseat, and bent over her knees, and stared into the fire. The sword set to singing once more; and no man might have guessed what went through Swanhild’s mind then. Her thin face, framed by the black hair, waxed almost holy in its hardness.
Now another came to her while she was musing, and that was Erik Gudruda’s son. He was then on his way to bed. He knelt down on the warm stones and greeted her; she stared still into the flames. Then after awhile he spoke softly and said, ‘He filled that seat well, your father. Now it seems to me that I will be like a child there. Whenever I put my hand to a thing, then I will bear your father in mind.’
But she did not answer.
So he tried again and said, ‘Swanhild, it seems to me now we should agree on how the land should be shared out.’
‘That is little in my mind, Erik, for I will not long be here.’
He looked at her. ‘Then it is true, what men say: that you are leaving Iceland?’
‘Yes.’
‘I heard that Skarphedin went to Breidamerk,’ he said. ‘Will Njal help you, then?’
She looked down. ‘Njal says that he will help us. But that is his wish, that his help be hidden.’
‘Much of Njal is hidden,’ Erik said. He looked about. His mouth opened, but he shut it. Then he said, ‘Even so, I would not have it said that I set out your father’s lands unfairly while you were abroad.’
She looked at him. The long slits of her eyes were almost shut, and the eyes looked strangely from the fire. Then Erik started somewhat, and there was fear and wonder in his face.
‘You will not be unfair, Erik,’ she said; but that voice seemed not her own. ‘I leave it in your hands. I do not know how the law lies, only a stepson and daughter left: and my wedding might not be deemed lawful. But I believe you are the lawful heir, since you are the head of your mother’s family. We will give you no trouble.’
Erik still looked doubtful, but he said, ‘I have been thinking, Swanhild. A part of the wedding-pact between your father and my mother was that Olaf should buy back our old farm. Then I should have a place to go when I wived. It is not big, but it is better than a shieling. Take you that farm to live on when you come back.’
‘I will not come back, Erik. This night will be the last you will ever see of me. But if this farm is not dear to you, then give it to Rannveig and Flosi Thorgeir’s son to dwell on. That should please me.’
‘Then that I will do. Swanhild, I wish you would not go.’
‘If I do not go, then there will be many killings hereabouts, Erik. Would you wish that? Your saying as to the arvel was a goodly one, quite manly. You will be a fine man one day, if you do not pay too much heed to your mother.’
Then Erik muttered a word of thanks, and looked again into the fire.
Then he said, ‘How odd it is: I had thought our next meeting should be very different: you a wedded woman, and I am not a man. But here we are a-talking by the fire just as we did last winter. Maybe it is true after all, that we do not really change at all.’
&nbs
p; At that word a shudder took the blackhaired woman, and she answered, ‘Ah, Erik, and your own words belie you: for I never would have looked for such meanness from you.’
‘Swanhild, I meant no meanness. But if you ever should divorce that man, or if he die, then I wish you to know that you will always have a home here. That I vow before God.’
‘Do not trouble yourself so, Erik. If Skarphedin should die, likelier far it is that I should put his knife to my throat and follow after him, like as queens are said to have done in the old nights.’
Then he paled. ‘Swanhild, surely you would not do that?’
She smiled at him, and her long black eyes were scornful. Then he left her to climb up to his bed; or it might even be said he fled: but she rose, and opened her arms to the fire. Then she went round the fire to where the big outlaw sat alone and had watched them two. And Erik, peeking back from the edge of the loft, saw her stoop to kiss her husband’s open mouth before she sat beside him.
‘Now, husband,’ she said softly to him, ‘this is my will, that you tell me that tale you have ever withheld from me, and that is of what your deeds were, when you won free of Miklagarth and Greekland.’
They two alone were left waking. All around them in the hall the other guests and thralls lay upon their benches sleeping beneath cloaks and blankets: some turned and snored, and others lay still as sacks of lading.
And Skarphedin told her, and said, ‘North I went, into the Rus-land, and there hunted for a winter and sold pelts for gold. Men I knew, and women I had: there is the greatest slave-trade along those rivers. And I heard tell of Erik, Jarl Haakon’s son, how he fought battles there, being cast out from his father’s lands.
‘But I went north again, by the East-way; but all the realms were not then as they had been. Young King Svein Forkbeard gathered men and spoke of harrying the Western Isles, but my heart was not in that. I minded me of Ingebjorg the Fair, and went up north into the Trond-law once again. There I put on old shabby dress and a wide-brimmed hat, and a rag over one eye, like Odin whenas he walks among men. Then none knew me, and I wandered as I would.
‘There too all was changed: old Jarl Haakon was dead—and that was no fit death for him, that had snubbed his nose at Harald Gorm’s son the King. And the young King Olaf had the land between his palms. I told tales of young Jarl Erik and of how he fought in Gardarik, and stirred up folk against the King. Up and down the land the King went, and tore down the temples and put the cross to men. And those that would not take his seaborne gods, them he put to the sword and gave their holdings to his followers. I saw Geitir Aslakson, and he did not know me: he was a king’s-man, and wore the cross on his chest. I saw Aslak’s mound, and Ingebjorg’s, and my son’s. Then I went about the land after the King and at length had words with him. He took me for an old bonder, and gave me questions, and we spoke through the night. But in the morning I went away and filled his kettles with horse-flesh. Ha! That was a trick fit for the High One indeed!
‘I knew not then what I should do, but went into the berg. And there was a woman there, a seeress; and I gave her a coin. She fixed my eye and said, that “there shall the sea-rover go, where he first started; and he shall find there what he looked for once.”
‘I walked before the ships at harbor. One there was with a raven astride its prow: and the bird lifted its wings and screeched and flew off. I asked a man, what ship was that; and he told me it was Thormund Geir’s son’s, and was bound for Iceland. I went to Thormund and had tidings from him. He told me then how Thorold Skeggison was dead, and Njal his son a godi. Then I deemed I had small choice in the matter: so I sought a passage home.’
‘Skarphedin,’ Swanhild asked, ‘did you truly not know the death-rite of the Christ’s-men, that you asked so many questions today? And you have seen so many lands across the seas.’
He grinned. ‘But I deemed it not right that they should treat old Olaf so, and none give them a word of shame.’
Thereat Swanhild laughed out loud: and that was a most unseemly laugh.
They did not sleep in Swanhild’s old shutbed, for the priest had that, and Gudruda bade him stay there. But Swanhild and Skarphedin lay down together on the long bench across from the highseat, like all the other guests. The long-fire’s ruddy gleamings set all the inside of the hall gloomily alight: Swanhild in that light gazed upon her husband’s face and kissed him over and over again. And she murmured in his ear of how she had put herself to sleep here in the years since her mother’s death.
‘The day was aching to me,’ she said, ‘but I was not slow during the night. Then all the world slept, but I waked and knew that all was mine. And I would lie awake until the death-hour, unless I took care.
‘So I devised dreams to lull me: and in the first years I set myself dreaming of my father’s doings in the lands across the seas, such as my mother had told me of; and those tales mingled with the tales of past times, so that some nights I wondered whether my father had indeed been one of King Hrolf Kraki’s champions. Then in my middle years I set myself dreaming of what should befall if all my father’s foes ringed the hall, and piled stones against the doors, and shot arrows through the smoke-holes, and set brands hard up on the walls: what my father would do, and how many of them he would slay before they brought him down: and how I would help him, and make a new string for his bow with locks of my hair. And then in my last years I dreamt only of storms, and how the wind should catch at the turf and tear asunder the roof, so that all the cold, dark night should pour in with the rain, and the long-fire should hiss and go black, and men should shout and curse, but all for nought.’
‘There was a kindly, mild-hearted girl,’ Skarphedin said. ‘Still, it could be said that we are well-suited for each other, you and I. But now I do not wonder, that you had so small a share of suitors out of these lads hereabouts.’ And he grinned.
Then Swanhild’s eyes waxed long, like slits, and her red, thin face looked hungry. ‘There Erik will sit, in the highseat of Olaf and Hardbein and Sigurd: but now I think that seat was not made for such as him, but rather for such as you. And this is my wish, that before we leave here you will make it less easy for Erik to sit there.’
‘Now it seems to me that you have not been sparing of mead-drinking this night.’
‘Oh, husband,’ she answered, sighing, ‘I spoke that only in play. But if I went hence to Svinafell, I need not ride a horse.’
At that he took her face in his big rough hands and let his fingers bend into the thick black crown of her hair. ‘Lovely you are in the firelight,’ he said. ‘Lovelier even than your mother at her fairest.’
Then all at once she fell to kissing him again; and their bodies folded together as though they had called out to each other, in a tongue that was all their own. But Swanhild let roam her hands over her husband’s body, and set to undressing him. Nor did he seem unwilling; but even so he said, ‘That this is unseemly, to be so merry on your father’s burial-day.’
‘Oh, I am wild and feckless as the north wind,’ she said softly into his ear; ‘and I must have you inside me even now, this very moment: else I will scream and waken all the household.’
So he let her have her way, for that was his will too: and they were not quiet about it.