Arn grumbled but acquiesced, as he did every time Hlif said she needed Skarfr as protection on one of her outings. Nobody pointed out that her need for protection varied with her mood and she saw no problem gadding about alone when it suited her. Her position as Rognvald’s ward and housekeeper gave her a unique status and her strange manners compensated for her youth. Whether Arn thought her cursed or not, he seemed unwilling to test the limits of Hlif’s authority. Skarfr just did as he was told and hoped that something interesting would happen.
On this occasion, he was required to carry soapstone ware, which he was more than happy to do for a change of scenery. And, as Hlif pointed out to Arn, the pots were for the kitchen so he should be pleased too.
She was explaining their errand to Skarfr as they started off westwards, following the coastline. Beyond the grazing sheep and scrubby grassland, the sea glittered on their left, fringed by dunes and dark curves of sea-wrack.
There had been a new delivery of soapstone from Hjaltland and Hlif wanted first pick of the utensils for the Jarl’s Bu. ‘I give Trygve Trader a pot of honey each month to make sure he tells me first when his brother has brought him new stock. Word gets around fast as soon as the boat’s beached so I have to get there quickly but he won’t sell anything till I’ve had my pick. I want three cooking-pots but they’ll be far too heavy for you to carry so I’ll have them put aside until Rognvald’s carter can pick them up. And I need two oil lamps – you can carry one back – and thirty loom-weights – they can wait for the carter.’
‘So you don’t really need me at all,’ observed Skarfr. ‘The carter could have picked up all that you select.’
Hlif screwed up her mouth, as was her habit when anybody challenged her or disagreed with her decisions. ‘Protection,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m a woman now and must behave as such.’
Once, Skarfr would have laughed but now he held back. He’d listened to Hlif’s conversations with Rognvald about more than sailmaking. He’d seen her management of the supplies needed to keep the Jarl’s household fed, clothed and lodged. She knew the Jarl’s people and the work they did: who would provide raw material; who would make a finished product; and how to connect the various workers. She would never sneer at Thorbjorn’s clerking because every day she checked his ledgers and worked out what would be needed.
If she said she was a woman, he would respect her delusion, although he was still sceptical as to her inconsistent desire for protection. Maybe she liked his company. As he liked hers. The realisation caught him unawares but it was true. He no longer thought her the ugliest girl he’d ever seen. Although there was nothing comely about her skinny frame or speckled face, her expressions could be endearing. She was clever and funny. She was Hlif and there was nobody like her.
He walked beside her, easily adapting his pace to hers, noting her bare feet taking two steps to his one. He’d grown too since they first met a year ago. At fifteen, the gawky lines of his body had filled out and he’d outgrown both his clothes and his footwear. He had considered wearing boots on this outing but his feet were tough enough until winter tested them and besides, he couldn’t squeeze his feet into the ones he owned. Perhaps he could swap them at the cobbler’s for a pair someone else had grown out of or for a dead man’s boots. He’d hardly worn his own but they’d been ill-used by their previous owner so he’d be lucky to strike a bargain as Botolf had done. No doubt the neighbours’ mockery of Botolf’s meanness had goaded him into making basic provision for his foster-son.
He was engrossed in his boot dilemma and feelings of being hard done by when Hlif broke the silence.
‘Sweyn’s on Gareksey and he’s coming here to meet up with Holbodi.’
Who? Why? How did Hlif always know what was happening?
‘I listen to the women talk,’ she answered his unspoken thoughts. And sighed at his obvious ignorance. ‘You don’t know who Holbodi is. Or why Sweyn’s coming. You probably don’t even know that Sweyn’s lord of Gareksey.’
‘I do so!’ retorted Skarfr, stung into forgetting about boots. ‘And he was given it for winning Orkney for our Jarl with his trick with bonfires and sails. Only that’s not the way Rognvald tells it.’
‘Well he wouldn’t, would he. Men like to be heroes of their own stories.’
‘So do women.’
Hlif’s smile was condescending. ‘What would you know of women, cormorant friend?’
‘I know you. And you are always the centre of your own story.’ He wondered whether she’d meant he was her cormorant friend or that he was a friend to cormorants.
She conceded the point. ‘I suppose that’s true. But that’s just natural, wanting to get un-cursed, to make something of my life. I’m not trying to be a saga hero.’
‘You’d have to be evil to be worth putting in a saga,’ Skarfr told her, trying to regain his lost superiority. ‘Like Frakork the witch. Only evil women are important.’
He sensed the change in her, a stillness even though she kept walking and congratulated himself on scoring a point.
‘I see her,’ Hlif said quietly. ‘Frakork.’
The hairs rose on the back of Skarfr’s neck. ‘But she’s dead,’ he said. ‘Sweyn burned her with her longhouse.’
‘It’s a sending. I don’t know what it means but I see her as clear as I see you now.’ She stopped and fixed him with cloudy grey eyes. Her gaze slipped over his shoulder, widened; he shivered, not daring to turn around.
Her eyes returned to his, dulled with fear. ‘I don’t know that I should speak of it.’
‘Then don’t,’ he said quickly.
‘But I trust you.’
Skarfr wasn’t sure he wanted to be trusted but he could hardly say so and part of him wanted her to go on.
‘I see her in the Bu and I see the jarl who was murdered there,’ whispered Hlif. ‘His mouth is open in a scream and he tears at himself as if his tunic’s on fire, burning him alive. He’s screaming the name of his killers.’
Her voice was so quiet Skarfr had to strain to hear her but he knew the story of the poisoned jarl and so must Hlif.
‘His own sisters.’
Skarfr named them and declaimed the whole story as Botolf had when rehearsing it for Skarfr’s edification. Jarl Paul’s own sisters, those witches, Frakork and Helga, who made a beautiful tunic of finest linen with glittering gold thread for their brother, steeped in poison. But Harald, the brother they loved insisted on wearing the tunic, too jealous to trust them when they pleaded with him not to, and so the wrong brother died.
He left a dramatic pause, then in his normal voice told her, ‘This is just a story, Hlif, and has been told well enough to show you its deeds in dark and candlelight.’ He suddenly realised he’d already broken his vow of skaldic silence but as it was only to Hlif it didn’t count. It was more like speaking to himself than speaking in public.
‘No,’ she insisted. ‘He is there. Frenzied, clawing at his breast and neck, screaming in silence, pointing at them.’ Her tone dropped lower.
‘I can see them too. The witches. One is shadowy, in the background as if it wasn’t her idea or as if she’s taking shelter. The other is fierce and strong. She grows as the murdered jarl rushes at her, accusing her. She points her wand at him, mutters spells, but he keeps coming towards her until he touches her and boom! she catches fire. Not poison fire like him but flames as a high as a funeral pyre. A judgement bonfire.
‘It’s all screams. I can feel them even though it’s silent. And then through the flames I can see the wand turning to a walking stick, lengthening, touching the ground so the witch can support herself. And she’s not a witch anymore, just an old, sad lady turning to ashes, crying for her grandson until she disappears.
‘And then I see Sweyn and Thorbjorn and another man. At first I thought they were real, then I recognised the third man and knew they couldn’t see me. It’s Harald grown to manhood and they have swords drawn. Sometimes they jump on each other as if to fight, sometimes they are shoulder to shoulder, seeking, searching – and I know what they want is bad.’
Awed despite himself, Skarfr waited, unsure whether Hlif had paused or finished. Apparently, there was no more.
‘That is a sending,’ was his judgement. ‘But it doesn’t tell us more than we know already. They are powerful men, who could be allies or could be rivals.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘So I haven’t told my guardian. I wait for more to be revealed.’ She hesitated. ‘Once, this Sweyn-sending came so close to me I felt the chill of Valhalla, and I saw what was on the chain around his neck. The head of a man, in small. Not Rognvald and yet something in my mind whispered ‘Jarl’. I don’t know whether the head speaks of the past or of the future.’
Skarfr shook his head. ‘Rumours and stories,’ he said again, recalling Botolf’s glee in reporting the news. ‘Jarl Paul was never seen again after Sweyn kidnapped him and cleared the way for Rognvald. But you must know all this, without any ghosts, and your imagination is making play of shadows.’
‘A little,’ she said. ‘But the women do not talk of such matters and I can’t ask Rognvald whether he profited knowingly from a man’s murder.’
Or even arranged it, thought Skarfr, remembering Rognvald’s pride in taking Orkney. Though it had been through Sweyn’s stratagem, in truth. Maybe he’d also used Sweyn’s help to remove Jarl Paul, permanently. Maybe he’d been gifted the isle of Gareksey for more than his cunning play with beacons and sails.
Some rumours said the kidnapped jarl was blinded and in a Scottish monastery, on his Ness daughter’s orders. He had not been loved by the women in his family. Where his sisters failed, maybe his daughter succeeded, thanks to Sweyn, who’d been banished by Jarl Paul and had his own reasons to wish him ill and support Rognvald.
Jarl Paul’s daughter: Harald’s mother. After installing Rognvald as ruler, Sweyn had backed Harald as second jarl, the choice of Ness and Skotland too. Rognvald had agreed and so Sweyn had put both jarls in power and secured his own future interests. How did Thorbjorn fit in? Ness born, the foster-father, the clerk, always present when Sweyn was roving.
Sweyn. On his way from Gareksey.
Skarfr shook off the dark talk, crossed himself and touched his hammer amulet. Never mind ghosts and sendings. How was the real Thorbjorn going to react when the real Sweyn arrived? And who in Thórr’s name was Holbodi?
‘Why is Sweyn coming and who is Holbodi?’ he asked.
Her eyes glittered in triumph, her moods changeable as a winter sea. ‘Holbodi is lord of the Suðreyjar and he’s taking dragon ships to Bretland.’
Hlif was clearly holding back the most important information to tease him. ‘What’s that got to do with Sweyn?’ asked Skarfr, impatient.
‘Holbodi is hoping Sweyn will add his ships to the venture.’ She paused, enjoying his attention. ‘And he’s going after Olvir, Frakork’s grandson. He’ll offer Sweyn revenge for his father’s murder.’
Everyone knew of Sweyn’s outbursts in the Thing, refusing to accept the manbot payment from Frakork and Olvir, after they torched his father’s holding in Ness, burning alive all in the longhouse over some land dispute. That was the day Sweyn Olafsson took his mother’s name instead of his father’s. Perhaps, when his father was murdered in the family home, the gods had touched Sweyn with the same darkness they’d laid on Thorbjorn. Skarfr remembered the golden giant, laughing at his ambitions and wished them both a fall. Preferably into a fish midden.
‘Maybe you can go to Bretland with the dragon ships, with Holbodi,’ said Hlif.
‘Maybe not!’ Skarfr would not seek humiliation a second time and Hlif should know that.
‘I just wondered but I’m glad. They might be away for years. You should serve in the hall when Holbodi pleads his case, so you know what’s happening. There might be opportunities.’
The water closed in on both sides as the path took them to a small settlement between the sea and the loch of Steinnesvatn. Boats were beached on the lakeside as well as by the open sea, some upturned for a longer stay ashore.
Before Skarfr could respond to Hlif’s suggestion, she spoke again, her tone lightened. ‘Here we are.’
They had reached a longhouse which was easily recognised as belonging to Trygve, the soapstone trader. In the open portion of the house, where others might keep dogs or a goat, there were shelves stacked with soapstone ware. Pots, jars, lamps, plus two boxes that attracted Hlif’s attention straight away. One contained loom-weights but the other made her eyes sparkle. She fingered the blush-pink beads.
Trygve himself came from the interior shadows where he’d been watching his goods.
‘Those would suit you, Hlif,’ he greeted her with the informality of long acquaintance. ‘And the colour is rare for soapstone. It’s from Hlidi’s Bay.’
He pointed at the grey pots and lamps, tinged with orangey-brown. ‘The usual stone-quarry is turning colour with the peat in the water so we’re getting more of that rust in the grey. And they’ve started excavating from another quarry which gives grey-green.’
She sighed and put the beads back. ‘Pink beads and red hair – not a good combination. And dull grey is for cooking-pots. What I’d really love is that grey-green.’
He nodded. ‘I’ll pass on the word. You never know your luck. What are you after today? These are the finest goods my brother has finished.’
Hlif reeled off her shopping list, picked up a cooking-pot and inspected its base and the two holes for suspending it over the fire. ‘Yes, nicely finished, smooth and strong. Tell Skarfr how they’re made.’
Trygve was only too keen to launch into an explanation of his brother’s trade, from cutting slabs out of the rock face with chisels, to hardening the finished utensils with heat.
‘It’s as near alchemy as I’ve ever seen,’ he said. ‘It’s so soft you can scratch it with your fingernail when it’s fresh quarried. You can even chisel out bowls direct from the quarry but the soapstone goes hard when it’s in the air and harder still once it’s heated. There’s nothing else like it and it’s rare. My brother calls it kleber. If you clean it gently with hot water it will last for years.’
And don’t throw it at your apprentice, thought Skarfr.
‘I’ll take these.’ Hlif showed her choice to the trader and, with the confidence of previous transactions, they haggled over a price until they were both happy, although Trygve pretended otherwise, like any trader worth his salt.
‘You’ll be wearing gold beads while I’m so poor I’ll be eating soapstone.’ He grimaced in mock-pain. ‘I’ll put your pots inside till your carter comes,’ he confirmed as they sealed the bargain with coin from Hlif’s purse.
She picked up one of the oil lamps she’d bought and gave it to Skarfr. ‘We’ll take this one with us, to show the quality of your ware.’ She looked around the stacked shelves. ‘You won’t have anything left in a week’s time.’
He beamed. ‘Thank you for your custom. You can tell the Jarl he always gets first pick.’
‘I shall,’ she replied, ‘and you shall have your honey from the carter when he comes.’
As Skarfr and Hlif left, two women arrived and went straight to the box of beads, trickling them through greedy fingers, discussing strings and fasteners, complementary gowns and brooches. They had reluctantly moved on to the utensils as Rognvald’s representatives moved out of earshot.
‘Blonde hair. They’ll buy beads,’ stated Hlif sadly. She waited.
Skarfr had no idea what she wanted him to say.
‘You could at least say that red hair is pretty. Even if you don’t mean it.’ She tossed her head, wisps of the offending locks escaping her clean, womanly coif. A matron while she was still a maid, because of Rognvald’s decree.
Should he say it now he’d been told to? He certainly wouldn’t mean it. Red hair was not pretty. But it was … striking. While he considered the matter and the choice of word, the silence lengthened and he was almost relieved when somebody overtook them from behind on the open track between village and Bu. A distraction and a change in conversation.
But when the man turned to face them and blocked the way, Skarfr’s guts lurched.
‘Run away home, Hlif,’ said Thorbjorn Klerk. He wore casual fighting gear: padded leather jerkin and breeks, boots and a sword. ‘I’ve a mind to continue the boy’s fishing lessons and a maid would get in the way.’
She hesitated.
‘Go,’ said Skarfr, his voice unsteady. ‘You’ll make it worse.’
Hlif ran, without looking back.