The great feasting hall of Jarl Thorfinn brooded on a hill above the harbour. Its long, shingled roof, looking like the bottom of an enormous upturned ship, rose above its surrounding rampart, higher even than the palisade fence of sharpened stakes that surmounted it. The glowering fortress, Jarl's Gard, spoke an unmistakable message of power and domination to anyone approaching the island. Einar raised his eyes from the prow of the boat to the heavens and thanked the Gods that his journey was finally over.
He had passed the last six days in the pitiless grip of near-constant misery. The boat had rolled over a heaving grey and green sea, sending him running to the side many times to spew hot, sour vomit like an overturned barrel of spoiled ale. The driving wind showered the deck with freezing spray. Einar had huddled under the sealskin covers but they gave scarce shelter from the damp, biting cold. After the first day the food was nothing but flat ale and salted fish seethed in brackish water. Early winter was no time for sailing.
The Orkney islands had finally emerged above the horizon like dark lumps in the grey sea, as if a line of whales had breached in the distance. The steersman pointed the ship in the direction of the largest. They were running before a storm that was already causing the sea to surge and fall around them while the wind whipped the ropes on the mast and strained the sail, driving the ship faster before it. As they neared the harbour, they struggled to furl the sail then the steersman ordered everyone to the oars for the final leg of the journey.
Knowing the storm was on their heels all on board took to the benches and hauled on the oars with the fervour of those who know their lives depend on it. Their powerful strokes propelled the ship into the wide, natural harbour that had been augmented by a stone quay and wooden jetties. The harbour was full of moored vessels: warships, wide-bodied merchant boats and several fat, dumpy craft with curved holds of a type Einar had not seen. Einar’s ship steered a course through the forest of masts until it came to a place on a jetty that was vacant.
As they pulled alongside, another ship caught Einar’s attention. It was magnificent. He had heard of such ships but never seen one until now. It was a warship but required fewer crew than the standard vessels. It was sleek, thin-bodied and honed for speed. It could traverse the great seas of the Northern Whale Road as easily as it could slip up a river. The ship was a snekkja and, like the serpent it was named after, it could strike like a viper. It could travel like an arrow into the heart of enemy territory and deliver its cargo of warriors to attack before the enemy even knew he was under threat, and then get them away again just as fast once the damage was done. Einar felt a little surge of excitement. Only kings and the richest of jarls could afford such a warship and the men who sailed in them were the elite among warriors.
The merchant steersman guided the ship with an expert hand alongside the jetty, then a couple of the crew leapt ashore with warps to secure the mooring. Almost immediately everyone set to work preparing to disembark. Huddled around the harbour between the sea and the jarl’s fortress was a large settlement. It was late afternoon and the gathering gloom of night and storm was added to by a miasma of smoke drifting up through the thatch and turf roofs from fires lit inside. It was obvious from their restlessness that the crew were impatient to get to whatever drinking halls or taverns might be in the settlement.
‘I have to see the jarl,’ Einar said the steersman. ‘What’s the best way to get to his hall?’
The merchant steersman was a large man in his later years who wore a heavy sealskin jerkin. His face and bald head were tanned the colour of old leather from years of exposure to the wind and sun. He gave Einar a wry look that suggested he was trying to work out if the young man was joking or not. When he saw Einar was not, a frown crossed his face.
‘You don’t just walk up to the jarl’s hall and ask to speak to him, lad,’ he said. ‘Jarl Thorfinn is a very powerful man and powerful men have many enemies. He doesn’t let just any farm boy from Iceland knock on his front door. Do you know what they used to call him in his younger days?’
Einar nodded his head. ‘Hausakljúfr,’ he said, feeling a small thrill of pride that he could be related to a man who bore the nickname ‘the Skull Cleaver’.
The steersman glanced down the jetty and saw a small band of men approaching at a brisk pace. Einar noticed that the steersman visibly stiffened at the sight of them and his previous friendly demeanour disappeared like a stone cast into the depths of the sea.
‘Well if you really want to talk to the jarl,’ he said in a low voice, ‘This might be your chance. Here comes one man who might be able to get you in front of him.’
The newcomers were led by an old man with a mane and beard of white hair that spilled around his shoulders and chest. He was dressed in the finest woollen tunic and breeches. A long, blue cloak swathed his shoulders and was fastened at his right shoulder with a large, circular gold brooch that glittered with garnets and other jewels. Despite the fact that he had clearly lived through many winters, the man’s bearing was upright and unbowed. It was obvious that he was someone of wealth and importance. He was flanked by four warriors, each one wearing a polished mail shirt that gleamed despite the dreary weather. Their eyes glared challenge from the shadows of their helmet visors. They had spears and their round shields were painted red with the outline of a black raven.
‘Is that the jarl?’ Einar said, nodding towards the older man.
‘No,’ the steersman replied. ‘That’s Ivar, his uncle. He runs the jarl’s household. Why he wants to talk to me I have no idea.’
‘Bard Harsson,’ Ivar addressed the steersman as he arrived beside the ship, ‘are you still trading? I thought you’d have retired. You must be richer than Fáfnir by now.’
‘Unfortunately not, lord,’ the steersman said, dipping his head in deference. ‘My wife’s appetite for gold and silver outstrips even a dragon’s treasure-greed so she keeps me working.’
Einar could see that the men knew each other. This was not surprising. The merchant had been plying the northern seas for years. Einar remembered him visiting Iceland, so it was safe to assume his face was also familiar in Orkney, Norway, Ireland and all the other ports on the northern trading route.
‘Perhaps she just wants you away from home so she can get up to her own mischief,’ Ivar said with a grin. Bard smiled too but the expression was strained.
‘What is the occasion, Lord Ivar, that the jarl’s steward himself comes to welcome me?’ the merchant asked. ‘Usually his coast guard suffices.’
Ivar’s expression became serious. ‘These are dangerous times, Bard. I’m surprised a traveller like you hasn’t heard. Our enemies are creeping ever closer. The Danes have been sniffing around. There were two raids on outlying islands within the last seven nights. The jarl has charged me to personally inspect every ship arriving in the harbour.’
‘We’ve had a lucky escape then,’ Bard said. Einar felt an involuntary shiver at the thought of it. If Vikings had caught a merchant like Bard in open water it would have been like the Jól festival had arrived early for them. ‘And I am honoured that such an important man as you should take personal interest in my ship,’ the merchant continued.
Ivar grunted in obvious distaste at the man’s obsequiousness. ‘I don’t usually get dressed up in all my finery for this sort of work, I’ll have you know. The jarl is holding a feast and your arrival dragged me away from it so I’d like to get this over with as quickly as possible. These men will be searching your cargo. I know you of old and I don’t expect they will find anything suspicious but I’m sure you understand the situation. What about passengers?’
Bard clapped a hand on Einar’s shoulder.
‘Just the one,’ he said. ‘I carried this young man from Iceland. He says he wants to speak to the jarl.’
Ivar raised his eyebrows, looking at Einar as if he had only just noticed his presence. He looked back at the merchant.
‘Does he now? And why would the jarl want to see him?’ he said.
Bard shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. I just ferried him here.’
‘What business does a boy like you have with the Jarl of Orkney?’ Ivar said to Einar. His tone demanded an answer.
Einar struggled to reply. In truth he had no real idea. He had tried to think it through on the voyage but still he had no plan. He judged, however, that saying he was an outlaw who had come here on the advice of a witch would not get him off to the best start.
‘I wish to enter his service,’ he said.
Ivar chuckled and shook his head. Then he looked Einar over from head to foot. Einar could imagine what he was taking in: his poor, drab clothes, his short, young man’s beard and the little sealskin bag slung over his shoulder that contained almost everything he owned. His lack of any weapons bar the seax at his belt.
‘Really? What service can you offer my nephew?’ Ivar said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘I’m not sure he needs any goatherds right now.’
Einar glanced at the warriors clad in their imposing finery.
‘I can fight,’ he said.
Ivar exchanged knowing looks with Bard. ‘I’ve no doubt you can, son. Most Icelanders would fight with their own shadow. However, not just anyone can become one of the jarl’s Hearth Men. Most men would give their eye teeth – or take another’s from his head – just for the chance. What makes you think you can wash up on these shores and walk into his service? Weapons and armour are expensive. The jarl will need to know he is gaining a real killer for his household before he gives those to you.’
Einar was again lost for words. He racked his mind for some good reason but in truth the whole idea really was as ridiculous as both Ivar and Bard clearly thought it to be.
‘Speak up boy!’ Ivar said. ‘I don’t have all day.’
‘My mother told me to come here,’ Einar blurted out. Even as the words left his lips he felt a flinch of embarrassment.
Ivar threw his head back and guffawed while the warriors chuckled in a mixture of incredulity and contempt.
‘Oh well then that’s different!’ Ivar said as he struggled to get his mirth under control. ‘If your mother said it was all right then who am I to question her motives?’
Einar felt his cheeks flushing deep crimson. He looked down at his feet, unable to meet the eye of anyone around him. He felt crushed. His great adventure, and with it the hopes of his mother in his supposed great future, was floundering on his very first steps away from home. The whole idea was stupid. He may as well get on the first ship he could find that would take him back to Iceland and take his chances when he got there.
‘My mother is Unn Kjartinsdottir, the jarl’s sister-in-law,’ he said, in a last, half-hearted attempt at justification. As the words left his mouth, he felt a stab of guilt at the realisation that he had just broken his promise to his mother not to reveal his parentage except to the Jarl.
Ivar’s mirth disappeared like the bright sun being swallowed by storm clouds. His warriors noticed this and also stopped laughing.
‘What did you say?’ Ivar said. His tone was grave and serious. ‘Your mother is who?’
‘I said my mother is Unn Kjartinsdottir,’ Einar repeated. ‘If you are the jarl’s uncle you must know her.’
Ivar frowned. He narrowed his eyes and looked angry enough that Einar’s embarrassment turned to unease. The steersman saw the look on Ivar’s face and took a step away from Einar.
‘Oh I know her all right,’ the steward said in a growl. ‘Come with me. Now.’