‘Where have you been?’ Arn asked Skarfr, when he arrived back at the Bu. Not waiting for an answer, he continued, ‘The Jarl wants you and Harald in the hall. The boy’s gone already. So hop to it!’
Obedience and service were easier than brooding over what might come of his imposture so Skarfr hopped to it, slowing only when he reached the Jarl’s dais and realised that Rognvald was sitting on the platform in deep discussion with Harald, who was sitting beside him.
Rognvald acknowledged his presence with a nod but gave no instructions so, unwilling to antagonise yet another powerful lord, Skarfr stood and waited. He made every bone in his body show respect. What had Thorbjorn said? His eyes were the problem. Dumb insolence. How was it just to punish a man for a crime he hadn’t committed? For his restraint? Skarfr almost shook his head then reminded himself, Respect.
Harald was studying the chequered board between them, on which carved game pieces were placed. These were nothing like the plain counters which Botolf had used for games of Hnefatafl when he was too bored or too drunk to shun Skarfr’s company.
Rognvald held up a crowned character with a sword on his lap, made of gleaming ivory. ‘This is the king and you win the game when you capture your opponent’s king,’ he told Harald.
A glance made it clear that he was speaking to Skarfr too, who relaxed. This would be easy. It would be much the same as hnefatafl.
As Rognvald introduced each of the pieces. Skarfr realised the differences. Although the king could be cornered by strategy and numbers, as in Hnefatafl, instead of there being only two types of piece, the king and his house karls, here there were six and they all moved on the board in different ways and held different values.
‘A jarl is like a king,’ Rognvald told the young heir to Orkney. ‘He has many enemies and must bind men close to him so they will protect him. You can put the white jarl back in his place.’
Skarfr could see the dragon eating its tail in the knotwork carved on the back of the king’s throne.
‘This is the new game of tafl, that they play in Norðvegr, and there are two kings, like there are two jarls of Orkney. This is the red jarl and he is the enemy of the white jarl. Only one of them can win the game.’
Harald reached out to take the red piece, which was identical to the white one, even down to the dragon in the throne’s knotwork. He raised mud-brown eyes to meet Rognvald’s.
‘Will we be enemies, when I grow up?’
The small hairs on the back of Skarfr’s neck rose as if Hlif’s visions blew cold on the naked skin. Two jarls at a game board. Pawn-pushers. Knight-crushers. War-wielders.
Rognvald showed no such concern. ‘Men will try to make it so but you will always have a choice. As do I. And by my choice you are kin and hearth-guest, as boy and man. I shall teach you all I know of leadership so we can rule these unruly isles together.’
‘But we can kill each other in sport?’
Perhaps Rognvald perceived the unholy light in the boy’s face. ‘Capture,’ corrected Rognvald softly. ‘On the games board, all is permitted within its Rule of Law. As in life, where the Thing calls us to account, by different laws. How will you capture the other jarl on the games board?’
Harald could have modelled for a gargoyle on the new cathedral, so screwed up was his face as he pondered such weighty matters. ‘You said the king moves but one square?’
Rognvald nodded.
‘He’s not much good at attacking then.’
‘No,’ Rognvald agreed. ‘He’s not. He represents too many people to put himself at risk. He is responsible for his realm.’
‘Then,’ decided Harald, his face clearing. ‘He must instruct his men to kill the king. I mean capture him.’ He beamed. ‘And then they could kill him.’
Invisible ants marched up and down Skarfr’s arms as he realised how dangerous this conversation was, not just for the boy jarl but for him as a witness. What if Harald ‘disappeared’ like Jarl Paul had done? By the same hand and for the same reason?
Not a hint of scheming crossed Rognvald’s open countenance but he did not redirect the exchange. Quite the reverse. He built his own construction on Harald’s answers. As impressive as his father Kol’s cathedral-building but in a different plane.
‘When a jarl kills a jarl, what do his people learn?’
‘That he is strong?’ Harald’s voice rose, uncertain.
Skarfr couldn’t help himself. He answered, ‘That any jarl can kill another or be killed. That jarls do not respect the Thing and the Rule of Law. That jarls cannot be trusted.’
‘The apprentice skald has been well taught,’ Rognvald told a scowling Harald, to Skarfr’s dismay. Surely the Jarl knew that nobody liked a know-all. If only he could keep quiet and not just refrain from spouting verse but from making all unsolicited contributions. And solicited ones too, he thought ruefully. But the little flame of hope that still burned deep inside flared a little higher in Rognvald’s approval. Maybe Harald’s dislike was a small price to pay. He’d known worse.
‘What do the ordinary men, the karls, learn from a jarl who breaks the law? What do their goodwives learn?’
Skarfr left the easy question for Harald to answer. Which he did, with a sideways See, I beat you look at Skarfr. The little flame did not falter.
‘They learn to despise the Thing and the law.’
Harald was rewarded with the same even-handed praise Rognvald meted out to all who showed what he called godly virtues. Other men used different terms.
Although he beamed at his success, Harald must also have been thinking of other men as he burst out, ‘Sweyn doesn’t do what the Thing tells him.’ Admiration glowed in his eyes, with no attempt at concealment.
‘Which is why he was exiled,’ replied Rognvald smoothly, unruffled. ‘And he is not jarl so he is…’ He picked up one of the pieces, a helmeted knight bearing a shield, quartered with his device. His horse wore a fringed carapace, all carved in ivory. ‘This is Sweyn,’ Rognvald stated. ‘He is a warrior valued by his king – or jarl.’
Harald’s eyes glowed. ‘So he’s the best fighter because he’s free to do the things the king can’t. He can move fast can’t he?’
‘Fast but not far,’ qualified Rognvald and he showed the knight’s move.
Harald’s disappointment vanished when he realised there was a second knight. ‘And this is my foster-father Thorbjorn,’ he declared. ‘They’re the two best fighters.’
‘Yes, they are. Like all loyal subjects, they will lay down their lives for their lord and it often happens in a game that you must sacrifice a knight to win.’
Skarfr thought of his father, of the price of loyalty. Laying down one’s life for one’s lord did not sound like Sweyn or Thorbjorn but Skarfr could see the points Rognvald was hoping to make. But he was not the only influence on the young jarl.
‘This looks like a woman. What’s she doing here?’ asked Harald with what would have been a sneer from a man but came out as a sulky objection from one so young. He was holding the throned companion to the king, her throne less ornamented, her hair neatly hidden in a wimple beneath her crown and her head resting on her hand. No sword for the queen.
Rognvald’s face showed his forty years, lined and weary. ‘Without her the king is lonely,’ he said. ‘She can move far and fast, do what he cannot. She can win the game for him and when he loses her, no other piece can compensate. See how she has her head on her hands, weeping for those who die. She brings compassion.’ He whispered, ‘Like Gertrud.’
‘Like Inge,’ said the boy firmly. ‘I understand now. And these?’ He held up in turn the bishop, with his crozier, the tip turned sideways; the warder, solid as an Orkney stone tower; and a berserker chewing on his shield in battle frenzy.
‘Next time we shall play a game and you can count how many go to Valhalla from our match. You can go about your duties now. I wish to speak to Skarfr.’
Another resentful look came Skarfr’s way, at being excluded from whatever conversation was to follow. Skarfr would have been only too happy to go about his duties, especially when the question he dreaded came.
‘Where is Thorbjorn?’