Red-faced and breathless, Harald brushed his curly brown hair out of his eyes and reported for duty, employing the formal ‘you’ and polite language. His courtesy was diminished by a childish lisp and his face marred by a stubby chin and wayward eyes, wild as two shots rolling in a sling, so you couldn’t be sure where he was looking. No wonder he kept his hair hanging over them.
Skarfr flushed almost as red as the boy but not from running. He knew his cruel thoughts were born of resentment. It was not Harald’s fault that he was so young, hardly a suitable mentor for Skarfr. Nor was it Harald’s fault that he was so much higher in rank that there was no way Skarfr could object to the embarrassment. And it was certainly not the lad’s fault if he was ill-favoured.
Harald was as keen as a pup. To judge by his response to Arn’s instruction, Skarfr was just another stick for him to fetch while he wagged his tail and waited for the pat on the head that must surely come. At his age, Skarfr had become an orphan and Botolf’s ward.
‘And show him all the workshops and where we sleep and be back here before service. And if I must run errands, Skarfr comes with me,’ Harald dutifully repeated Arn’s instructions, then his entire face screwed up in thought. ‘I have to go back to the training ground now, quickly. Let’s go.’
‘Go,’ Arn dismissed them both.
And Harald was charging off again, at full pelt once they were outside. Skarfr kept up with him easily, jogging a little behind to show respect. Whatever his feelings, he was an Orkneyman and Harald was his jarl. Or rather, one of them.
The boy, Sweyn had called Harald, the boy Inge was to woo and win, while also wooing in a more intimate way his foster-father, her husband. Skarfr’s heart skipped a beat, remembering the golden goddess, Sweyn’s sister, as he’d first seen her on the beach.
Then his insides twisted at what he couldn’t forget, what the boy had also seen. Whatever the child had made of his foster-father’s behaviour, he would not see Inge as a goddess.
Don’t think of her. Think of politics, like Botolf would.
Harald was growing up in Rognvald’s court but who was more of an influence on the child? Rognvald or Thorbjorn? And what exactly was Thorbjorn fostering in his charge? Did it include perfect amity between the old Jarl and the young?
For the first time Skarfr wondered what evil fate had established two jarls to rule Orkney. Although the saying was One jarl rules for himself: two jarls must heed their people, history told only of rivalry and betrayal, maiming and murder. Rognvald had called Skarfr’s father ‘loyal’ but there had been only one jarl for that brief, peaceful interval. Between murders.
How could a good Orkneyman be loyal to two jarls if they fought each other? Skarfr glanced at the dogged little figure running ahead of him, pumping clenched fists to go faster. What if Harald grew up to want more than Rognvald allowed? What if Harald was encouraged to want more?
‘There,’ Harald flung the words over his shoulder in breathless gasps. ‘Wait here and watch what I do. You can take a turn if you like but I can do it all by myself.’
Skarfr was back at the place where Hlif had brought him, watching Rognvald’s men at target practice with staff slings, two at a time. The target dolls were two upended bales of straw with tin eyes that clanged when a warrior hit his mark.
Each man had his own weapon, the stick rising to chest height when placed upright on the ground, with a hook at the top and two cords attached to the leather sling. When a man’s turn came, he took a practice shot at his target, then adjusted the cords. It seemed to Skarfr that the shorter they were, the further the stone flew. Each man had four stones, carried in a pouch, marked with his rune or sign. One for practice and three for the competition.
And Harald was the lad who ran out to collect the shot and move the targets as demanded, tasks he was taking up once more, with different men. Then the new competitors stepped up. One ruffled Harald’s hair, smiled, then glanced towards the new table-boy. His smile died.
Thorbjorn.
Thinking of a dozen responses to the insults he anticipated, Skarfr was taken unawares by perfume and laughter behind him, then passing him before he realised that ladies had come to watch the men, Inge among them. Thorbjorn’s expression set hard as his eyes followed his wife’s approach. Perhaps his gaze had never rested on Skarfr in the first place.
Harald was waving frantically, beckoning his fellow-servant over to a better position for fetching and carrying, receiving orders, running errands. To receive orders, Skarfr had to be close enough to listen, and if he couldn’t help hearing what was spoken between Thorbjorn Klerk and his lady, that wasn’t really eavesdropping. He was merely obeying Harald and doing his duty.
Keeping his head down, Skarfr trotted after the ladies and past them to join Harald.
‘I don’t need help,’ whispered Harald, puffing the lie to his words, ‘but Arn said you should learn our duties so you can move the targets when my lord says so. Some of them like the challenge of greater distance.
‘That’s Thorbjorn Klerk,’ he said with pride. ‘My foster-father.’
‘He looks a fine man,’ Skarfr forced himself to say. And yet it was the truth. Swarthy in complexion and strong-jawed, peat-brown eyes lit with exceptional intelligence and a young man’s body, honed with physical work and a warrior’s training. A dark mirror to Sweyn’s sunshine.
Thorbjorn raised the stick to its diagonal position, placed the stone in the sling, eyed the target and was about to loose the cords when Inge’s voice rang sweet and piercing across the yard.
‘You always shoot to the left, husband. Remember to adjust.’
Thorbjorn’s shot went so wide it hit a pitcher of water, with a resounding ping.
Inge and her ladies tittered. She walked up to her husband and lowered her voice, although her words still carried clearly across the yard. ‘Too much of an adjustment, I think. Maybe if you drop this shoulder a little.’ She caressed his left shoulder as she applied a little downward pressure, then stepped away quickly.
‘Much better stance,’ she approved, almost purring. Skarfr longed to be the recipient of such a tone, such a touch. No wonder Thorbjorn had reacted as if burned by the open longing in her touch. How had such affection come between them after such a start?
‘God’s breath!’ swore Thorbjorn as his shot went wide again, the other side of the straw target.
His opponent muttered, ‘Bad luck,’ then took his shot without the benefit of suggestions from the audience and scored a competent hit with a resounding clang.
Grim-faced, Thorbjorn adjusted the length of his cords.
‘Never mind, dearest. The fates will be with you next time,’ Inge soothed, unfortunately just as Thorbjorn was taking his third shot. Which hit the ground short of the target.
Thorbjorn pre-empted the other’s shot with a shake of his head and ordered, ‘Boy! Fetch the shot but leave the target where it is. I must go. I have work to do.’
Harald nudged Skarfr, who rushed to obey. So his name was ‘Boy’, just as it had been with Botolf, and he wasn’t important enough to recognise, let alone mock. And Inge loved Thorbjorn. She was clinging to his arm when Skarfr ran to them to give back the stone shot.
‘I hope I didn’t put you off,’ she was saying. ‘I so want to help you perform better.’ She emphasised the word ‘perform’. A man guffawed and Inge turned on him.
‘I don’t know what’s so funny,’ she berated him. ‘A wife should help her husband perform his best and all men have their off-days, when nothing works the way they’d like.’ There was a wistful note in her voice and she seemed innocent of the impact of her words.
Men hid their sniggers. Thorbjorn glowered at them.
‘Do you want Harald with you, dearest? He always cheers you up and he’s just the man to challenge at whatever sport you choose!’ She chucked the beaming boy under the chin as she flattered him. ‘You can show him how things should be done.’
‘No.’ Thorbjorn was curt. ‘Harald can stay as runner for the men. I have bookwork to do and can stay no longer, sadly. My lady.’ He nodded in leave-taking and she shook her head playfully.
‘Books are best left to monks, dear husband, for they don’t mind the ill effects of so much study.’
‘I’m not made for a monastery, my lady,’ retorted Thorbjorn, bantering, ‘although it’s true there are no wives there.’
She laughed, lightly, taking every word in fun and watching him stride off to his books.
‘Do you still want to marry her?’ teased a voice Skarfr knew well. Hlif. She must have been among the ladies with Inge and she’d materialised beside him. Her clothes and demeanour made her seem older but her tone held the same childish provocation as when they’d first met on the beach. Far too honest to be an adult and yet too knowing to be a child. As well-trained in stewardship as he was in skaldcraft. But she would be a housekeeper and he would be – what?
He didn’t deign to reply but his heart thumped at the question. Did he still want to marry Inge? Or even some woman like her? This was his third vision of the golden goddess and he was confused by her infatuation with the man she’d married.
‘She needles him at every opportunity. Worse when they’re alone,’ observed Hlif.
His understanding took a heartbeat to catch up with his ears, his interpretation of Inge’s behaviour thrown completely into doubt. Not wifely affection?
‘What?’ he asked, breaking the first of Arn’s edicts. And then, ‘How do you know what they do when they’re alone?’ He flushed as he said the words aloud, fearing the answer.
Grey eyes danced as if she’d read his thoughts. ‘Because he tells the women he beds and they tell me.’ Then her eyes clouded. ‘She uses women’s weapons, unmans him and he daren’t hit her or she’d tell Sweyn. So he hits other women instead.’
‘That’s not her fault,’ Skarfr reacted instinctively, wondering what women’s weapons were and definitely not wanting to ask Hlif. ‘He treated her badly.’ He didn’t have a word that was big enough for what Thorbjorn had done to Inge. It seemed that forcing his woman against a wall was a man’s right but hitting her was wrong. The sagas made clear that no good came of domestic blows but they said nothing of the other thing. It made no sense and Skarfr was glad he was not a woman.
‘He is a cruel man.’ Hlif’s oblique reply seemed to be agreement with Skarfr’s defence of Inge. ‘I told you I didn’t envy her and that it couldn’t be a happy marriage. But now she’s turned him into a devil. And she’s the only one who won’t feel the damage she’s caused.’
Before Skarfr could think of anything to say, Hlif was back with the other women, demure and silent.