CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

HALLBJÖRN'S HALL

 

Though he had never encountered her like before, Atli knew at once she was of noble blood. It was not just the fine weave of her clothes, the softness of her skin and the glittering adornments of gold. It was her whole being - the way she spoke, the way she moved. She was also one of the most beautiful women Atli had ever seen, though perhaps, he thought, that was not saying much. There was, above all, a kind of dignity contained within her young frame by which one could hardly fail to be impressed. All the more odd, then, that she should fling herself at Bjólf with such abandon. Had she thought he was someone else? Some long-lost friend? Atli could not fathom it.

As soon became clear, it was not only he who regarded the scene with puzzlement. Looking around at the faces of the others, he read in them all varying degrees of amazement. And so, bemused or not, he found himself able to chuckle along contentedly with his new-found fellows.

"Please, forgive me," she said, releasing her grip on Bjólf, her face flushed, her head bowed, as if with sudden embarrassment. "We had given up hope..." She smiled and wiped away a tear.

As she withdrew her hand, something caught Bjólf's eye. He caught her hand in his. Around her pale, slender wrist was a thing he had seen only hours before, in the grim, fog-bound delirium of that long night on the heaving ocean. It was the simple, solid band of a bracelet, formed of two interwoven strands plaited carefully together - each no thicker than a barley stalk - one blood-red, the other crow-black. For the space of two breaths he stood with her small, delicate hand held between his rough fingers, scrutinizing it intently, a frown spreading across his forehead. "Where did you get this?" he said.

The woman's face reddened. "It was a gift," she said, seeming suddenly downcast.

"It is very distinctive," said Bjólf. "Are there... many like it?"

"One other. But it is lost. As is its owner..." - she struggled to recover her composure, her voice wavering - "my husband."

The old woman, who had now released Gunnar from her clutches, clasped her hands together and gazed tearfully at her mistress. Turning the band around her wrist, momentarily lost in thought, the young woman looked up at Bjólf, cocking her head quizzically. "Why do you ask?" she said. A look of vague hope then lit her features. "You have seen its like before?"

Bjólf slowly shook his head. "No. Never."

Her eyes lingered on him for an instant, then she gathered herself, standing straight and smoothing her hands down her dress. "I welcome you to Björnheim. I am Halldís, daughter of Hallbjörn, jarl of this land."

"Bjólf, son of Erling," responded Bjólf with a bow of his head, then gestured towards Gunnar. "And this..."

She held up a hand, silencing him. Atli was impressed.

"You and your men are surely tired and in need of refreshment after your long journey. And we should not linger longer than necessary outside."

Indicating for them to follow, she turned and moved swiftly towards the narrow opening from which she had come, the old woman scuttling behind. Bjólf and Gunnar registered her nervous glances towards the dark edges of the forest that surrounded them. They exchanged a silent, questioning look - then led the band of warriors between the great, rough-hewn wooden gates to the interior.

What met their eyes as they entered was a bizarre mixture of sights. Within the colossal stockade lay a wide, open space of grass and beaten earth in which were arrayed a great variety of sturdy, wooden buildings, of considerably greater age and quality than that surrounding wall. Up ahead, at its centre, past houses, barns and a forge and dominating the view, stood a huge hall, its great roof curved along its length like an upturned boat. The thick timbers that supported it were sturdy and of exceptionally fine craftsmanship, the gable ends delicately carved with intertwining patterns of branches and vines, all filled with stylised representations of birds and beasts, the richly decorated boards crossing at the peaked roof and finished with the elegantly sculpted, curving heads of horned stags. Rarely had Bjólf seen a hall of such scale and grandeur.

Yet all about, the haunted, hollow-cheeked faces of the rag-tag band of villagers that silently greeted them seemed to tell a quite different story. For the size of this settlement, they were pathetically few in number and curiously devoid of vitality. Ragged, thin and baffled of expression, they were composed of the leavings of society: the old, the crippled, the infirm, the weak of body and mind. Among them, Bjólf counted less than half as many men as women, and of those, barely a single one between the ages of twelve and forty. Halldís' limited retinue - the nobility among the population - were also few in number, and, despite the few trappings of wealth and the healthier disposition that came with it, seemed ill-equipped to protect even this sorry crew. Of them, only Halldís and her companion - the old woman, Ragnhild - seemed to stand out as still stout of heart, undefeated and indefatigable.

Gunnar had been wrong - the place was not deserted. But the dead, stultifying air of emptiness and desolation hung about its neglected beams and rafters as surely as if it had been left in the keeping of ghosts. A deep, portentous thud sounded behind their backs as the gates were pushed shut, and a huge bar of wood was heaved into place by its weary-looking custodians. For good or ill, Bjólf, Gunnar and the rest were now captive within this strange, necrotic netherworld.

Yet, as they ran the gauntlet of these blankly staring spectres, both sides stunned into an eerie silence by the sight of the other, a change seemed to come over them. Slowly, as if waking from sleep after taking a draught of bitter wormwood, some of the spectators seemed to come to their senses, a light returning to their eyes. They began to murmur to one another as they watched the men march past. Their limbs, too, seemed to stir into life, and some hurried alongside as the party advanced, expressions of excitement creeping across their tired faces as, bit by bit, they realised what this awesome band of fighting men might mean to them.

At the near end of the hall, as they approached, stood a lone, hunched figure, whose gloomy presence, in the space of a moment, seemed to suck the life back out of the party.

Dressed in clothes of once fine quality, topped with a cape of charcoal grey, the man nonetheless seemed an ill fit for his clothes, as if he had somehow shrunk inside them, like a piece of air-dried meat. Yet his skin was so pale that it hardly resembled anything that had ever been alive, and his tiny eyes seemed themselves so devoid of colour that they hardly seemed composed of a distinct kind of matter from his face. This was long and lean with high cheekbones. His thin nose projecting from his pallid, bony face like a blunted axe blade. On either side of it hung curtains of long, lank hair - strikingly blond. His thin beard seemed to sprout only from the end of his chin, and hung beneath in straggly tendrils like the roots of an onion.

The only man in this place who appeared of useful age - around thirty summers, Bjólf would guess - he and he alone appeared unimpressed and unmoved by the sight of the warrior band. In fact, it seemed to Bjólf there was brazen hostility in that peevish scowl. He glared dismissively at Bjólf's crew, looking them up and down with as cold and unsympathetic an eye as a slave trader judging a potential purchase, then cast Halldís a similarly hard and sneering stare. Then, without a word, he turned with a brusque and petulant flourish of his cape and stalked off into the shadows.

Halldís turned to face Bjólf and his men apologetically, her confidence somehow shaken, as if mere sight of the pale man had brought doubts to mind. "I am sorry. What am I thinking? The hall is not prepared. There is no fire in the hearth. It has been closed up for some time and is disarrayed - more a meeting hall for mice and spiders than a fitting place to welcome men." She laughed awkwardly, then looked downcast. "It would shame me to show you into my father's hall in such a condition."

"The sky is hall enough," said Bjólf, with a shrug. He looked about him, at the great open space that extended north of the great hall - evidently a gathering place - in its centre a stone well, richly bedecked with all manner of wild blooms. He gazed up at the sun, a hand shading his eyes, fleetingly catching the scent of the flowers on the breeze. A sense of wellbeing washed over him for the first time in many days. "We're men of the outdoors. The air is fresh and the weather is fine. Better to enjoy it than lurk in the dark." He cast a fleeting glance after their skulking friend, now lost in the shade cast by the hall.

Her face beamed with a smile. "Ragnhild, have benches brought out. And prepare the hall." She turned back to Bjólf. "This evening we honour you with a feast!"

A great murmur of approval rose from the men. Ragnhild clapped her hands with glee before hurrying to her task, and a rush of excitement spread through all about as if the villagers were finally awoken from their torpor. "Food..." muttered Gunnar in grateful anticipation, then rolled his eyes skyward. "Thank you, old Troll-Beater, for looking after our needs." And he raised his Mjollnir hammer pendant briefly to his lips.