CHAPTER TWENTY

 

BREAD AND BEER

 

For some time they sat as the great clouds hurtled overhead, eating the bread and beer that was brought by willing hands. The bread was gritty and tough - poor flour, thought Bjólf, adulterated with acorns or who-knows-what to make it go further - but the butter was sweet, and the beer, though thin, was welcome relief for their parched throats. Ragnhild and Halldís passed amongst them with great flagons of the stuff, raising spirits wherever they went, broad smiles upon their faces.

"So, have you found out what all this is about yet?" said Gunnar.

"Enjoy the moment, old man," said Bjólf dismissively. But Gunnar knew only too well when his friend was avoiding the issue.

"It's plain they think we have come to fight for them," he said. "It seems we may have survived a battle only to get involved in a war."

"Let's see how this unfolds," said Bjólf. "Perhaps it's in our favour. And if not, well, we restock, make our excuses and get on our way." Despite his cheerful tone, he did not look entirely convinced by his own words.

"At the very least, she should know that we're not the army she thinks we are."

Bjólf looked him straight in the eye. "So, do you want to tell her before the feast, or after?"

Gunnar looked into his beer, then back up at Bjólf, and grunted in assent. He took a great swig, then passed his hand across his wet mouth. "There is something strange here. No young men. The remainder looking like the walking dead, in spite of rich land all about. A wall penning them in like frightened cattle. And a woman lord of a hall!"

"It's not natural!" laughed Bjólf.

"Well, it isn't!" protested Gunnar. He looked about him at the inhabitants of this stronghold, at the haunted expressions behind their smiles. "Are they under siege from the pestilence we witnessed, do you suppose?"

"Maybe. But that doesn't quite follow. You don't fight plague with an army."

"Unless it gets up and walks," said Gunnar.

Bjólf said nothing in return, but simply sat, chewing on his bread, frowning at his own thoughts, and watching Halldís weave to and fro between the benches. He found himself captivated by her. Not that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but there was... something. A curious mixture of strength and vulnerability that he had not encountered before. As she laughed with the men - at the unashamed joy they took in her company, at their gentle flirting - he nonetheless saw a kind of fragility, even sadness, behind the confident persona she presented. And yet, when she drew apart from them to the heavy wooden table upon which the ale had been set, standing lost in her own thoughts and for the moment distant and melancholy, it seemed that it was quite the other way around - that somewhere beyond that sad demeanour lay a core of defiance and courage. She caught him watching and looked away hastily, busying herself refilling the flagon with ale. He stood and moved to join her.

"We're grateful for your hospitality," he said.

"It is an honour," she replied.

Bjólf smiled, sipping from his horn-cup. "Perhaps you have slightly too high an opinion of us."

"It is not matter of opinion," she said, not meeting his eye. "It is my duty. High-born or low, you are our guests, and deserving of every courtesy. That's what my father raised me to believe."

"A man of ideals. That's a rare thing these days."

"He was a good man," said Halldís, hanging her head, "until this loathsome conflict destroyed him."

"The feud with Skalla?" probed Bjólf.

His words seemed to sting her. She dragged the heavy flagon to her hastily, causing some of the ale to slop out on the tabletop as she did so. Frowning, she mopped at it in irritation. "I do not wish to speak of it." Her voice was hard, angry. "Nor will I have his name mentioned here. It is an obscenity among the people of Björnheim." Then, after a moment, she seemed to relent, and for the first time a look of gloomy resignation came over her. A deep sigh escaped her lips, and she began to speak in slow, measured tones. "They came in black ships from a dark fortress in the fjord, and have grown in strength as we weakened." She looked at Bjólf almost apologetically. "We are far from kings and their laws." She looked away again, troubled by memories. "Unimaginable horrors came in their wake. For five years they have taken our crops and livestock. They have enslaved our men and dishonoured our women. It is more than a feud. It is a curse they have brought down upon us."

"But you sent for help..."

"More often than I can remember. None of our emissaries escaped this valley. Each time the bodies of our people - or parts of them - were sent back to us. They were the lucky ones." She shook her head, as if trying to rid it of the dark thoughts that rattled inside. "Those men... they are few in number, but their masters command a dark magic. And so, as you see, we cower in this prison of our own making."

Bit by bit, Bjólf was beginning to build a picture of this place - of this woman - and their desperate history: the oppressed community, the fallen jarl, the lost spouse. Yet each new piece of information he gleaned, illuminating as it was, seemed only to lead back to the same inevitable question. He thought of the bracelet upon her wrist, and of its twin upon the ravaged body in the sea. The body of the husband that he alone knew was dead. The body that was dead and yet still moved. "I had wondered," he began, "if these walls were measures against the plague we had seen hereabouts."

Halldís stared at him, wide-eyed. "I should not have brought you here," she whispered, and hurried away.

Bjólf gazed after her, more bemused and troubled than ever.