More men put their battle-hardened muscles to work. Within five surges of waves up the sands, the first ship was beached and turned sideways to allow three ponies to disembark from a panel that dropped to become a ramp.
Splashing and shouting, the men moved onto the hard sand, leaving a clear view of the ramp, where a golden-haired giant offered his hand to a woman who could have been his twin, Freyja to his Freyjr. Skarfr realised how wrong he’d been. These were no mere mortals as Hakon had been. The gods had come visiting. Star-dwellers, hurt-quellers, truth-tellers.
From the exquisite gold braid on his cloak to his poise as he gave orders to his men, their leader commanded attention. With the ease of habit, he oversaw the unloading of some packages, which he secured in saddlebags and strapped onto one of the ponies.
The brooch pinning his cloak at the shoulder caught fire from the sun, dazzling Skarfr so that the scene shimmered and glinted, with blurry doubles of men and beasts. He blinked but couldn’t look away from what must surely be a saga in the making.
When the leader’s cloak flared in the breeze, more braid showed, edging a fine blue tunic. Surely he was dressed for ceremony, not raiding? Why was such a man arriving by stealth on a longship? As he came nearer, Skarfr could see the strong lines of his face, cheekbones straight as the water-rune lǫgr and a nose sharp as an axe blade.
While his men stumbled and cursed on the shifting sand, he never broke his stride, careful not to inconvenience the lady whose hand rested on his arm. She held her skirts as Hlif had done but the woman moved in a sensual sway, as if the ship’s motion still rocked her gently.
As tall as many of the men, she embodied her own version of her companion’s coiled power, drawing attention by her silent presence as he did by the authority in his tone. Grace and might, side by side. And if his face was sculpted as a warrior, hers was softened by the pale bloom of her unlined skin, by a gentleness in her blue eyes and by unbound hair rippling in golden waves.
‘I would marry a woman like that and cleave to her all my days,’ whispered Skarfr, heedless of listeners.
Too engrossed in their own conversation to have noticed their eavesdropper, the couple were close enough for him to hear their words. He ducked his head down to stay hidden by the dunes and was surprised to see his companion’s blotchy red face and stubby nose, with no gentleness at all in eyes now grey as granite. He’d quite forgotten his strange new acquaintance.
He put his finger to his lips to shush her and ignored the indignant ‘O!’ shape her mouth made. They listened.
‘Must it be so?’ the woman asked, pleading without hope.
His tone brooked no appeal. ‘We’ve had this conversation. You know Thorbjorn Klerk is too strong to be left unattached and he’ll make you a good husband. We hold the balance of this land between us and we can topple the jarls – or support them.’
‘Or support one of them,’ murmured the woman. Her voice brushed Skarfr’s skin like a warm breeze, raising the downy hairs on his arms. He shivered, omen-touched.
The man laughed. ‘That is why I need you where you can best help me, dear sister. You’ll be the only woman who matters in that fake-Norðvegr court and you’ll see the boy daily. Make him yours, influence him, drive a wedge between him and his foster-fathers without Thorbjorn or the Jarl even noticing. And at the same time, your lovely body and lively mind will bind Thorbjorn as an ally and I needn’t fear an axe in the head from that quarter.’
‘And Jarl Rognvald in all this?’
A shrug. ‘One jarl rules for himself…’
‘But two jarls must heed their people,’ she completed the saying known by all Orkneymen.
‘So we’ll watch and wait. Our father will drink to us in Óðinn’s Hall and our mother will sleep easy.’
‘You have not finished your revenge,’ she observed. ‘Good. Thorbjorn won’t like it though. And the Jarl won’t like you causing trouble.’
Revenge? And who’s the boy? wondered Skarfr, trying to remember all he’d heard about the Jarl’s entourage. Sounds like the boy’s important and Thorbjorn is his guardian. And so’s the Jarl. But it was no good. There had been too many names in Botolf’s lectures and he remembered only those with stories attached. The stuff of sagas, not facts about boys.
Another deep laugh came from the giant, less amicable. ‘Calmer-Jarl. Grown-old-Rognvald. The man likes everybody to make peace as if he’s a nursemaid with a bevy of babies. Your marriage will make him smile till All Hallows. He’ll be in his Christian heaven to see two strong men united by a beautiful woman.’ He kissed his sister’s hand, a gesture that Skarfr had never seen before but liked. Outlandish but courteous.
‘And I must live on this island, alone.’ She flicked strands of hair out of her eyes as the wind plucked at her tresses.
‘We are all travellers.’ His voice echoed her wistfulness. ‘But we return when we can.’
‘You still think this a good idea? To surprise the earl and his gathering, arrive by road rather than at Orphir Harbour?’
Instead of replying, the man suddenly filled Skarfr’s view, lunging forward to grab him.
‘Leave him be!’ shouted Hlif. She rushed at the man, a sparrow against a mountain. He scooped her up and tucked her under one arm, where she dangled, lashing out and trying to bite.
‘Quite a wildcat,’ he observed, unperturbed. ‘It seems we have been spied upon. What shall we do with them, Inge?’
Skarfr turned crimson under the full weight of the sister’s blue eyes, now ice chips. He must have imagined the warmth in them.
‘Our arrival won’t be much of a surprise if these two noise it abroad,’ she pointed out.
‘I won’t, my lady,’ promised Skarfr earnestly. ‘I must go straight home to my master, the skald, to prepare for this evening’s entertainment at the Jarl’s Bu. We live nearby and won’t reach the Bu for hours yet.’ He knew he was gabbling but he wanted her to think well of him and if he just kept talking maybe some of the words would make a skald-shaped impression on her.
If only Hlif could behave with more dignity.
‘I can’t speak for this girl,’ he said. ‘I don’t know her.’
A look of contempt came his way from the bundle of clothing that struggled under the man’s arm, then went still as a dead bird.
‘You’ve hurt her!’
In response to Inge’s words, her brother put Hlif down so she was standing but still within his grip.
He turned first to Skarfr, his eyes cobalt fire, dancing like the northern lights that flickered in winter skies. ‘Tell your skald that Sweyn Asleifsson is come to Orkneyjar and let him pay attention to what he recites so that it does honour to the greatest sea-rover who ever lived.’
From any lesser man such a statement would have drawn at least a cough to cover hidden laughter at such arrogance. But this was not a lesser man. He believed he had earned the title he flung like a challenge.
Abruptly released, Skarfr rubbed his arms and resisted the urge to run away. Conscious of how he might look to Inge, he tried to sound courtly.
‘I will announce your presence to my master, whose skill with words is renowned from the Old Country to this.’
The effect was spoilt by Hlif snorting as if she knew very well he was hoping for reflected glory by exaggerating his master’s reputation. However, when she spoke, her tone was unexpectedly meek, although she held her chin high.
‘I am Jarl Rognvald’s ward and wish only that his guests find their way safely to his Bu and the reception waiting for them. If you wish me to forewarn my guardian that you are here, I will.’
Inge and Sweyn exchanged glances.
‘I think not,’ he said and glanced at her bare feet. ‘But we shall save you a walk and you’ll ride with us. Wait here.’
There was no chance of running away from a band of armed men and Hlif must have known that. Although Skarfr had been dismissed, he waited, whether to witness the next part of the story or for Hlif’s sake, he wasn’t sure.
Sweyn was talking to his men, organising the packhorse and two ponies. Hlif watched Inge walk over to join him, a curious expression in her eyes. Not envy but pity.
‘A good husband is not what she’ll find in Thorbjorn Klerk nor is he a man who’ll be interested in her lively mind,’ she retorted, then looked at him. ‘She’d even be better off with you.’
He flushed, remembering his spontaneous reaction to Inge. He wanted to hit back at her for mocking a feeling so private, so precious.
‘Jealous, you are,’ he teased her. ‘You want me for yourself, don’t you.’
Her face smoothed and her eyes were misty, otherworldly, when she spoke, slowly, every word weighted with importance. ‘I will marry you when my curse is lifted.’ She paused, put all her hurt pride into the second condition. ‘And when you are a skald renowned from the Old Country to this, Skarfr.’
He flushed deeper red, as if his inadequacy was a banner in front of his face and she’d read it aloud as easily as she’d decoded his name.
She turned away, allowed Sweyn to pull her up in front of him on the pony; the last sight Skarfr had of Hlif, on the day they met, was of her in the arms of the greatest sea-rover of them all, riding away from him, fiery red hair flying below the man’s gold halo. And beside them, straight-backed and determined, rode the golden sister.
Skarfr’s heart leapt like a fish. He knew two hundred and forty-three poetic ways to say ‘woman’ and not one of them fitted.
He almost forgot he was cursed.