THREE

‘You’re not used to such fare, I’ll wager,’ growled Knut, the older prince. The boy had eaten all that was placed before him – sausage, salt beef, bacon, and bowl upon bowl of vegetable soup – and drunk his horn of ale, and now he was clearly in trouble, hands clasped over a tight-stretched stomach.

Astrid, pleasantly full herself, looked at him fondly. He was going to be sick, she decided, if not now then later, and his face should surely be white – only his skin was so strangely dark …

‘No, Knut Gormsson, I’m not used to it,’ the boy said.

‘Well at least it’s got you talking normally, and not in verse,’ said Haralt. ‘And it appears you hold an advantage over us. For you have our names, whilst for all we know, you’re a thrall or an outlaw!’

Haralt laughed, showing his teeth, two of which were chiselled across and filled with a deep blue dye after the current fashion. They’d started calling him ‘Haralt Bluetooth’ already – a nickname Astrid thought he preferred far more than being known as simply the son of Gorm. Now she shuddered. She knew that laugh well, and there was not a trace of kindness in it.

‘My name is Leif, lord,’ said the boy.

‘Leif what?’

‘Just Leif. And –’ here the boy smiled through his discomfort – ‘the story of my missing name is well worth hearing. If I could maybe step outside for a moment first?’

‘The bogs are that way, lad,’ said Knut, pointing down the hall. More laughter spread at the speed of his flight.

Told you so, thought Astrid.

Soon Leif returned, walking at a more respectable pace. Astrid had a proper look at him. He was as slim as her, but his face was all hard lines where hers was soft curves, and he had a shock of thick dark hair that rose, unruly, from his head. He was dressed in a plain but well-cut tunic belted with twine, and rough woollen hose: he could easily pass for the son of a farmer or craftsman. Not a thrall, she decided. But not a noble either. Where had he learnt to speak so well?

‘Let’s have your story then,’ said Knut.

Gorm sighed in anticipation. Haralt sank back, and took out his ivory toothpick. Astrid sat close to her mother and leant in, half hoping for an arm around her shoulder. Thyre smiled distractedly, patting Astrid’s shoulder for a moment, then turned back towards Leif. The boy took a deep breath, and began.

‘You ask me, Haralt Gormsson, why I lack a father’s name. More than that, I lack a father. Whoever my parents were, when I was born I must have struck them as strange, for they left me in the forest, that the wolves might have something sweeter than deer for their supper that night. But it was no wolf that found me, so I’m told, but the red-furred sheep-destroyer. A she-fox poked and chivvied me, and rolled me to her earth. It may have been she had no kits, and took me for her own.

‘There I dwelt, beneath the ground, and suckled for a time. And there was fox’s mischief in her milk, for one day, so they say, I must have set off by myself. A tiny, naked, hairless thing, rooting round in the dark. I crawled, not up, but down that hole, pushing soil aside. I wandered long past roots and rocks, surprising worms and busy moles, driven ever deeper, seeking after warmth …

‘Well, when I was deeper than a baby’s ever been, I found my progress halted by a crumbling wall of loam. Either I didn’t much care for going back up, or the soft, cloying feel of that soil between my fingers gave me pleasure, but I soon broke it apart, and, blinking, pushed on through …

‘Only to tumble down, down, down! Down I fell through a cavern higher than this hall, and such a sight it must have been, a muddy babe flung from the skies, plummeting ever faster, till – plop! – I landed in a churn of milk!’

Knut snorted.

Astrid leant forward. ‘A churn of milk? Under the ground?’

‘Hush, child,’ said Gorm, and motioned for Leif to continue.

‘Stubby hands fished me out, dripping wet and white. And it’s this that forms my earliest memory: black and bearded faces, knobbled noses, pebbled eyes and toothy grins. Dwarfs!’

‘Dwarfs, indeed!’ said Haralt. ‘It’s a wonder this addled speech-maker didn’t claim to fall into the mead of Kvasir – the magic drink that gave poetry to the gods.’ But Haralt too was shushed by Gorm.

‘It’s they who raised me,’ said Leif. ‘And taught me rhymes, and stories too, and showed me how to work metals with my hands – but not too well, for fear that I’d teach others, and their secrets would be out. Uri and Skirvir taught me this craft, and Thulinn and Fjalarr taught me to speak. Solblindi helped me to walk in the dark, and Hilding showed me the ways of the sword. Naef gave me my name, Leif, which – as you know – means “descendant”. For, so he said, he’d never seen such a descent as when I fell from the roof! If I wanted any other name, he said, I’d have to win it for myself.’

‘That’s wise,’ said Knut.

‘Fourteen summers passed, and I saw not one,’ said Leif, ‘but lived always in that cavern. That’s where I got this swarthy skin of mine, from being raised by black dwarfs underground.’

‘And then what? You dug your way back up again?’ said Haralt with a yawn.

‘Ingi and Lofarr, and Alfrigg, who rules there, deemed it the time for my living with men. They had a task for me to do besides; it’s they who wish to honour you, King Gorm. First, I was sworn to never show the way, and then they led me by a secret path, and set me on the road to your domain.’

‘The dwarfs acknowledge me?’ said Gorm.

‘Yes – and your right to rule in all the North.’

‘All the North!’ cried Gorm. ‘Hear him! And why should I not still crush the Swedes, and Haakon of Norway, beneath my mighty heel?! I’m not so old as all that, after all.’

‘In other words,’ said Haralt, ‘you’ve come up here, a nameless child with a tall story, to chance your arm at court. You might as well have promised us the sky’s allegiance, or that of the birds.’

‘You know, Haralt,’ chuckled Knut, ‘those would be fine gifts indeed, if one could prove it!’

‘But, lords, I can. I bring a gift,’ said Leif.

Astrid gasped. She just couldn’t help herself. From nowhere, so it seemed, the boy had brought forth a sword. How, just how, had he done that?

Men were on their feet now, down the length of the hall, clapping at the trick, or crying witchcraft. Knut snatched up the blade.

‘Weland,’ he called to a man on the benches, ‘come take a look at this! I’ll swear you’ve never seen its like. Nor could you craft its twin, for all your skill!’

The man Weland, Jelling’s smith, came up to the table. As he leant across Astrid to take the sword from Knut, she caught the reek of sulphur on his clothes and wrinkled up her nose.

Weland whistled. ‘If any other man had spoke those words, Knut Gormsson, and about any other weapon, he’d find its point between his ribs for the offence. But this! I’ve never seen its equal. It must have been just such a blade as this that Reginn forged for Sigurd long ago.’

He laid it down along the table, and at last Astrid could see properly.

Well, what did she expect – it was a sword. But she knew something about swords, and couldn’t help echoing Weland’s whistle. An uncommonly bright, blueish blade, with a wicked looking edge, and the finest hilt she’d ever seen. Inscribed along the blade and picked out, all in gold, were strange and subtle characters, flowing and flicking.

‘These are not runes,’ she said, ‘nor Christian letters.’

‘Dwarf words,’ breathed Knut, his eyes shining. ‘They must hold great power.’

Gorm brought his skeletal fist crashing down on the table, and they all leapt back from the bouncing blade, snatching away their fingers.

Astrid risked a quick glance into her father’s face. If the impact had pained him, as she felt sure it had, his rheumy old eyes gave nothing away.

‘Let it be known I accept this gift,’ said King Gorm. ‘Boy, I name you Skald-Leif for your skill with words. You are to have a seat on my benches here, between Weland the smith and Arinbjorn the Unlucky, and the sword shall hang in the royal bedchamber.’

Gorm clutched at the weapon, and shuffled from the hall. Thyre gave a tight-lipped smile to her children, and to Leif, before hurrying after her husband.

Knut turned to the boy, patting him on the back. ‘Tell you what, little “Skald-Leif”. Since you’re so good with wolves, why don’t you come along on my hunt tomorrow, eh? Then maybe you can make up a poem about my skill! Who knows, you might even kill one yourself …’

Knut broke off, puzzled, to find Leif sprawled on the floor. The back-pat from the prince’s huge paw of a hand had knocked him flying.

‘… Or, maybe you can just tag along and watch,’ Knut finished.

Haralt’s laugh echoed from the beams above; even Astrid hid a grin. The feast was over.