Skarfr’s first impressions of the interior of the Jarl’s Bu were filtered through elbows as men jostled each other and jabbed him in the head if he didn’t duck fast enough. He squeezed onto a bench at the back of the hall, guarding the precious pack which would serve as a pillow that night, on the same hard bench, if he was lucky. His feet rested on Botolf’s pack while the skald paid his respects to the Jarl and his guests at the High Table.
Then he drew breath and looked around him. All the lesser guests had found seats at benches against two walls. They could see the central hearth and High Table, if their view wasn’t hindered by the four pillars that supported the great thatched roof. Wood was scarce in Orkneyjar and no longhouse squandered even pine in beams and rafters, however important the owner. Peat, pitch and wattle and daub were used whenever possible.
Tapestries hung on the walls, stopping draughts and celebrating hunts and religious stories. Skarfr recognised Óðinn in one and Mary, mother of the White Christ, in another, but had no idea whether such fine work was local or from Norðvegr across the sea, where the Jarl had come to manhood.
Apart from the rich decor and solid stone build, the Jarl’s Bu was much like Skarfr’s own longhouse, but bigger and better. There were curtains behind the High Table, no doubt concealing sleeping chambers for the Jarl, his wife and other family members or guests of high status.
In the manner of a courteous host, Rognvald played cup-bearer to his guests at the High Table before taking his place on the bench between Thorbjorn and Sweyn. Like three different brews of ale, they dominated the hall from their elevated position on the dais. Blond on the left, amber in the middle and dark on the right.
The Jarl was pleasant-faced, his power lightly worn and dimmed by the young men either side of him, who exuded physical prowess and energy, like mastiffs straining at an invisible leash. Their every gesture and expression issued a challenge, not least when they looked at each other. As if ‘Prove yourself or get out of my way!’ was emblazoned across their tunics.
If he was the master holding those invisible leashes, the Jarl seemed immune to his companions’ domination of the hall, apart from one nervous tic. He stroked a golden brooch on his embroidered jerkin in the same way that Skarfr reached for his hammer amulet when anxious.
Apart from these three men, nobody else in the hall mattered, except perhaps the glittering prize, the woman who sat beside her brother.
Botolf’s self-important nods and bows suggested he thought differently and he barely glanced down the hall to check where Skarfr was seated with his belongings, before he took the place at the High Table indicated to him by a red-headed girl. Honour to the skald indeed.
In clean clothes, with her hair braided and coiled at the nape of her neck, and her face washed, Hlif was a different girl from the wild spirit he’d met on the beach. Skarfr observed her from the shadows at the back of the hall. With minimal nods, she gave brief replies to questions. Never initiating a conversation, let alone talking too much. Dainty manners with the food, which had been served to the High Table first. Eyes cast down. Quite the young gentlewoman. She and Inge were the only women at table so presumably the Jarl’s lady was absent.
His attention moved along her neighbours at table to rest on a little boy sitting to the left of Thorbjorn, his curly brown hair so long in front that his eyes were hidden. His clothes were a miniature version of those of the adults beside him: breeks, leggings and a green wool tunic trimmed with bright red woven braid. The boy looked to Thorbjorn as though for guidance, or even permission, before he spoke to his other neighbour.
The boy. Skarfr remembered Sweyn’s instructions to his sister, to ‘win over the boy’, and suddenly he knew who this must be. Harald Maddadson, the second ruler of Orkney. Until he came of age, he was foster-son to both Thorbjorn and Rognvald, growing up in the Jarl’s court, far from his birthplace in mainland Ness. Waiting for the years to pass so he could claim his inheritance.
Like me, thought Skarfr, with a surge of sympathy.
Knowing that this little boy was Rognvald’s rival as much as his fellow-ruler, Skarfr looked for signs of ill-feeling between them. And found none. The adult Jarl bent his knee when serving the little boy, made him smile as he filled his plate. An observer who knew no better would have thought from his avuncular affection that Rognvald was the first foster-father not Thorbjorn. But the boy looked always to Thorbjorn, who nodded or shook his head and the gesture was apparently obeyed each time.
Then thralls brought platters and Skarfr lost all interest in politics the moment he smelled smokies and fresh bannocks. The yellow smoked haddock flaked onto his warm flatbread. If only Brigid could bake bannocks like this, he’d be happy to eat nothing else. But hers were dry as dust, only edible if dunked in porridge or gruel.
He couldn’t believe his luck as somebody passed him the platter of crackling skin and chicken flesh hanging tender off the bone. His mouth full, he mumbled, ‘Thank you,’ and kept chewing.
His neighbour laughed, creasing a weather-lined face that joined his shoulders with no apparent neck. Built like a bull and cheerfully crunching a chicken bone on one side of his jaw.
‘Look at the boy,’ he said, showing bits of kale stuck in the few teeth he had. ‘Half-starved!’
‘Skald’s a fool,’ replied a man with a scar-gashed cheek. ‘Starve a mutt and he’ll turn one day.’
The grunts could have been agreement or disinterest. It made no difference to Skarfr either way. He knew not to complain. Word always got back to Botolf and he didn’t want this to be his only visit to the Jarl’s Bu so he kept his head down and his mouth full.
Nobody made him eat the kale so he didn’t. And nobody stopped him taking a cup of barley ale though the first gulp made his eyes water and he waited awhile before taking another. The men ignored him as they talked.
‘Full of himself as always, Sweyn is,’ commented Bull-neck. ‘And cool as you please, sitting at table with the relatives of the witch he’s just burned alive.’
Presumably taking this as praise, Scar-face nodded in agreement, chicken grease dripping down his beard as he replied. ‘He kept his word. He told the Thing he’d take no manbot for his father being burnt alive in their hall. He’s been chasing Olvir Rosta ever since, the one who did the torching.’
‘Hah! That one’s well named. Olvir the Brawler, and he’s Thorbjorn’s foster brother. He’s wily enough. He’ll keep running. A fast ship and an ocean between him and Sweyn will cool heads.’
Bull-neck disagreed. ‘Sweyn never forgives. But settling his score with Frakork will calm him for now. She’s the one ordered the burning and who knows what devilment she used to trap those inside.’
‘That witch just got what she gave. Death was too easy for her if you ask me, when you think of all she did.’ He crossed himself against the dark arts. ‘But she’ll pay in the afterlife.’
Then he queried, ‘Relatives? I know Thorbjorn’s her grandson but he’ll have to bite his tongue on the subject if he wants the bride, and her brother for family.’
‘Why, Jarl Rognvald himself is related to the witch. Frakork is – was – his wife’s sister,’ said Bull-neck.
‘He’s probably glad she’s out of the way and none of his doing so his wife can’t blame him. He’ll just say, “Sweyn is Sweyn” and we all know no man controls Sweyn.’
‘Where is she anyway, the Jarl’s lady?’
‘Over in Ness with her folk. Dropped the bairn alive this time but it’s only a girl and the mother’s sickly.’
‘Ay, Jarl Rognvald has no luck with getting an heir so he does well to keep the boy Harald close.’
Skarfr let the gossip float over his head. For once in his life, he ate his fill and was almost regretting that second bannock when he dropped a chunk under the table for the hounds. He’d already slipped a third into his pack, to take home. Cups were filled with ale once more and men were ready to be entertained.