TWO

The news arrived before them, for Astrid, still shaken, kept pace with the witless boy, and Bekkhild and the others rushed ahead, eager for warmth, shelter and attention. The grubby faces of the grooms were lit with curiosity as they handed Astrid lightly down, and hauled the boy off Bredi’s horse with rather less grace. ‘Bring him,’ she said to the thralls, and strode into the hall of Gorm the Old.

‘Was it wolves then, Astrid?’

‘You silly girl!’

‘Have you captured an elf on your ride, child?’

The evening’s feasting had begun, and a hundred insolent revellers crowded in on her, closing out the fresh spring air with their faces, their questions, and their bad breath. Chin up, Astrid ignored the voices that came at her from either side, as she walked between the central fires and the long earth banks against the walls that served as benches. She hoped that anyone who saw her red cheeks in the dim light, flushed with embarrassment, would put it down to the coldness of the night and the heat of the hall. But oh, how she hated returning to that crammed, heaving hall; the dark, stinking, smoky prison of her every winter.

They wouldn’t dare address me like that if I were a boy, she thought, and then, I am so very, very hungry. Out loud, she muttered a tetchy ‘Hurry up,’ to Odd and Bredi, who were carrying the boy.

The hall was long: there was none so large in all the North lands. Sweat dripped from red faces, and in dark corners, dogs worried discarded gristle. Somewhere above, between dark rafters, scuttled little spirits that you never saw – tiny guardians of the hall, who slunk down at night to finish the food and sip the dregs from the drinking-horns. People, dogs, spirits: the place was so crowded …

Astrid’s lungs were itching from the fumes and her slim legs were trembling, but at last she was nearing the end. Before her loomed the dais, a platform the width of the hall, floored with oak planks rather than beaten earth, and there, beyond the high table – hard to see for all the smoke, fragrant with the scent of juniper and spruce, and for the shadows that crept from dark corners – there on a craggy throne of greying ash – his silvered beard sweeping the tabletop – there was her father.

Astrid looked up, and though all eyes were on her she was aware only of his: grey, watery, failing, yet still the eyes of a king.

But it was not King Gorm who spoke first. A voice cut in from Astrid’s right – ‘I hear someone got lost playing in the woods.’

She glared, stung out of her silence. ‘I was not lost,’ she said. ‘The wolves had come right up, this side of the gorge. They’ve never done that before.’

‘And of course you’re old enough to say “never”,’ replied the voice. It was dry, amused, dusty: the speaker was her brother, Haralt. Tall and gaunt, he had their father’s long nose, but as yet, only a straggly blond excuse for a beard. At twenty, he was just six years her elder, and Astrid was on the point of a still angrier reply, when a rumbling cough, like distant thunder, came from the depths of the silver beard before her. King Gorm was ready to speak.

‘Dumb brutes would never come so close. When wolves lose their fear like this, there’s sure to be a witch-rider at the back of it, spurring them on. That’s the problem with living by the Yelling Stones – you get all sorts of creatures, drawn to their power.’

‘Really, Father,’ replied Haralt, ‘I wish you’d drop this notion that witches ride wolves like we ride horses. I’ve certainly never seen such a thing.’

‘Small wonder,’ another voice broke in, now from Astrid’s left. This one was low, almost a growl: Knut, her eldest brother, sat at the king’s right hand. He looked like he sounded: big, brown and shaggy. Gold glinted on his massive upper arms.

‘How would you ever see a witch-rider, brother,’ Knut went on, ‘when you’ve never seen fit to come on a wolf hunt! Speaking of which, I may as well take a gang out tomorrow. The men could use a good hunt after sleeping through the winter. Why don’t you come along, Haralt, and see if you can bag the witch yourself?’

‘Some of us have more important things to do than running round the woods, chasing stories,’ said Haralt. ‘And I’ll add this, Knut: if you do think you spot a witch, then ask yourself how many horns of ale you’ve drunk that day before telling any tall tales.’

Astrid sighed. This was shaping up into a typical row – the brothers had never got on. Usually at this point, she shut up and pretended not to exist. It always worked; everyone else somehow seemed to be pretending the same thing. But not this time. She owed it to her rescuer to seize the king’s attention.

‘Father,’ she said, raising her voice above Knut’s next words, ‘I have brought the boy who saved me. He deserves much honour … but … but something has happened to him …’

‘Bring him forward. Let’s see this saviour of yours.’ Again, it was not the king who spoke, but the last of the four who were sat on the dais, this time immediately at the king’s left. Queen Thyre.

‘Here he is, Mother,’ said Astrid, and motioned the thralls forward with their burden. The hall was silent now, so quiet that Astrid imagined she could hear the craning of necks as men fought for a better view.

She had the best view of all, and jumped at the sight. The boy’s eyes had opened, but just the whites – his pupils had rolled round inside his head – and his tongue lolled from his gaping mouth.

Haralt tittered at Astrid’s obvious discomfort.

‘He’s in a trance,’ said her mother, ignoring her second son. She raised her voice. It was high, lofty, commanding. ‘What do you see, boy?’

‘I see you, Thyre, adornment of the Dane-mark.’

Astrid was not the only one to start at this; the boy spoke like two rocks rending, and it was awful to see, for his lips never moved.

‘And I see you, King Gorm, Knut, Haralt, Astrid – all those in this hall, and all their womenfolk and children. But I do not see the hall itself: we walk, a thousand strong, down a road between high mountains.’

‘A vision,’ someone muttered.

‘Hush,’ came a reply.

The boy never paused. ‘Now there is a boiling river ahead. It spits and froths, coming ever closer. Here the road forks; I know not which to choose.’

So terrible was his manner of speech, that all hung on his words.

‘The left leads to a man, who stands alone. His skin is dark; his robes are thin and white; he wears a crown of thorns upon his head. He says we have to walk on the water. The right hand path ends with a ferryman; his raft is broad enough to take us all. This man is old, and leans upon his staff – his face is hid beneath a broad-brimmed hat.

‘So now I move towards him – but some danger blots the sun! A thing with wings descends upon the man, who raises up his staff to fend it off. The creature beats about him, tries to strike … I cannot see … the sun is going … I cannot reach him …’

The boy was frothing once again, windmilling his arms and trying to rise. Astrid was shouldered roughly aside as Odd and Bredi rushed to restrain him, each taking hold of an arm.

Thyre stood up. ‘Awake!’ she said, in the imperious tone she had used before.

At once, the boy snapped upright, quivering like a knife thrown point-first to the ground. Then he stumbled, slumped between his carriers, all tension fled from his body. His eyes opened again, and this time Astrid saw that they were normal. Large, dark, intelligent – but normal for all that. When he spoke, his voice was rough with the effort, yet pleasant enough otherwise.

‘Where am I?’ was all he said.

‘Jelling,’ replied Thyre. She paused. ‘Or possibly, at a path by a river – you’ve been relating a vision. Do you remember?’

‘Perhaps …’

‘The second man was, of course, the great god Odin,’ Thyre mused. ‘In all the stories, he travels in the disguise of a blind ferryman. And you, my liege,’ she said, turning to Gorm, ‘are famed as Odin’s man.’

‘That’s true enough,’ said Gorm. ‘The King of the Danes should worship the king of the gods.’

‘But what attacked him? An eagle?’ said Knut. ‘Who could that be?’

‘Haakon of Norway?’ said Haralt. ‘He’s already caused my friends a deal of harm. Or, of course, it could be just a boy dreaming about a bird.’

‘What about the other man?’ said Astrid. ‘The one with the funny crown?’ But her voice was small, and no one at the high table heard her.

‘The eagle could mean King Otto,’ said Knut, almost to himself. ‘The Saxon always seeks to rule the Dane.’

‘We don’t even know it’s an eagle,’ said Thyre.

‘Enough!’ rumbled Gorm. ‘Two paths for my kingdom, and Odin under attack: clearly, there is much to think on here. For now, my mind would move to other things. You have spoken for the gods, lad. Have you anything to say for yourself?’

Astrid looked back at the boy. The discussion at the high table had given him a chance to catch his breath. He was visibly more confident as he spoke.

‘Honour to you, great Gorm,

And good health to your hall.

I’m brought before heroes,

Borne on Odin’s longship.’

‘He’s a poet!’ cried Knut.

‘“Odin’s longship” – he means a horse,’ Gorm mumbled in delight, to no one in particular.

The boy smiled.

‘Wise ears await my tale,

Words to bring the spring forth.

Come to pledge and praise you,

Parched am I for malt-surf.’

‘Bring the boy ale,’ roared Gorm. ‘I find he has a tongue swift enough to merit much whetting!’

‘Very well put, o King of the Jotar,’ said the boy. A drinking horn was placed in his hand, full of a foaming liquid.

Astrid, standing ignored at his shoulder, eyed it enviously. Not only was he hogging her father’s attention, but now he was being served before her – and she was a princess!

‘Share my beer horn? I’d deem it a favour.’ The boy turned to Astrid, offering the horn, eyes downcast.

Astrid giggled nervously, and took a deep draught. Well, she thought, he did save me, after all.

As if reading her thoughts, Haralt spoke. ‘It seems we owe you thanks, little skald, for getting this girl out of quite a mess.’

‘Why don’t you both join us at the table, and eat and drink your fill?’ said Queen Thyre, and turned to her husband. ‘Whatever size the debt this boy is due, it can begin with a meal, free from questions, can’t it?’

Gorm, still chuckling to himself, nodded his assent, gesturing them forward with a sweep of one bony, jewelled hand. Now there were six at the high table: Astrid’s parents, her two brothers, herself … and the stranger.

‘Thanks for this, sweet Thyre; thoughtful is your judgement,’ said the boy, all in a rush. Only it sounded more like ‘thoughtful is your thudge-um’ because his mouth was full of food before he finished speaking.