Although nobody lacked food, thanks to frenzied activity in the kitchen, the evening meal was a sombre affair. The Jarl was listless and even Sweyn’s brilliance was dimmed. He too showed little interest in his laden trencher but fretted like a bridled stallion, snapping at Inge and ignoring Rognvald.
Some well-meaning scion shouted a poetry challenge at the Jarl, who had never turned one down. He nodded, drew himself slowly to his feet, stood looking at the backs of his own hands, spread on the table in front of him, as if they might offer him answers or at least verse. The silence lasted long enough for the audience to begin whispering Skarfr’s thoughts aloud.
He is too old. His rule is over.
Then Rognvald raised red-rimmed eyes and spoke, his voice reaching the back of the hall with the ease of a practised skald.
‘Forgive me if my thoughts turn towards Ness and my skaldcraft follows them. The lady of Orkney, your lady,’ his voice broke a little then steadied, ‘my lady, is worthy of our acknowledgement.’
Then he came out from behind the table, clapped his hands and gestured to a boy to bring his harp. The waiting no longer weighed heavily now that entertainment promised.
The moment Rognvald held his instrument, he straightened into his performer’s stance and his hands moved to their accustomed places on the strings, expressing his feelings once more. The jangling notes laced drama with pain, touching the melancholy humour in all listeners. As the reverberation faded, he spoke, plucking a desolate commentary when the words paused.
‘Border-weaves, beads and ivory combs
I take her, not as gifts
but grave-goods.
While she lies fevered
I wish back hot-headed youth
chasing hawk, hound
and each other
through marsh and mere.
Now my words wear jesses –
a vain attempt to tether grief.’
Skarfr felt his heart would burst and spill out of his eyes in sorrow for his father, his mother, his childhood, even for Hlif and all that could not be because of death and fate. Nobody spoke.
Rognvald nodded sadly, passed his harp to the waiting boy, and left the hall.
Conversation started up again when he’d gone but the solemn mood hung over the evening, black as a Christian funeral pall, smothering laughter.
Skarfr was relieved when his duties were over and he could help himself to leftovers among the dirty pots, and relax in the warmth of the kitchen, away from the tensions in the hall. The following day would surely see Rognvald grant Sweyn his ships and both men leave Orkneyjar; the Jarl for Ness and his wife’s bedside, and Sweyn to join Holbodi. The following day would also see Skarfr training with Rognvald’s men, sanctioned by the Jarl himself. And by Thorbjorn, wherever he might be.
Any envy of the men who would leave with the ships, to Ness and to Bretland, was easily suppressed in anticipation of his first step towards joining the warriors.
Brand-bearers. Heart-hewers. Wolf-brethren.
Next time ships sailed, he might be on board.
Speculation and hope left his chest with his breath as he exhausted the small store of wrestling moves Thorbjorn had taught him. But pride remained as he endured the bear-grip of his opponent and was rewarded not just by encouragement from the circle of men watching the bout but also some practical suggestions. Motivated by the support, Skarfr kept moving, twisting, grabbing. Even though he suspected his adversary was holding back, he felt the rush of success-blood to his face. He belonged.
‘Take his hands so you can break free!’
‘Come on Skarfr!’
‘Grab his legs!’
‘From the inside, from the inside. That’s it!’
All too soon, their turn was over and another pair took the centre so all could learn from mistakes and tricks.
Bear-grip threw a heavy arm around Skarfr’s shoulders, laughed when the boy winced. ‘You shall have your revenge,’ he promised, with what was probably a smile. His mouthful of black-painted and missing teeth offered little confirmation of good humour but he kept his word. ‘Now,’ he told the others, when a changeover was due. ‘I need proper training.’
He lay down on his belly and began push-ups, his rhythm as relentless as a drum, while the watchers roared the beat and Skarfr lost count.
‘Kick him,’ the red-beard who led the instruction and criticism told Skarfr. ‘From the side. He has to tense his chest muscles, make them strong.’
Tentatively, Skarfr aimed a kick at the man who’d defeated him. He’d never kicked anyone before. Or anything.
‘Harder!’ the men yelled. ‘Make him strong.’
Skarfr lashed out. Not even a grunt in response and no change to the rhythm of the push-ups.
‘Catch him out,’ ordered Red-beard. ‘You’re kicking to a rhythm, tricked by your body into copying his. Make your kicks unpredictable.’
This was surprisingly hard and Skarfr had to recite kennings in his head to kick out first to a different rhythm, then without pattern. Who knew that the body had instinctive poetry in its movements, sought the beat? He stored the knowledge for another time.
Both Skarfr and Bear-grip were lathered in sweat when Red-beard called, ‘Enough!’
Skarfr held out his hand to the man on the ground, to help him to his feet. With a black grin, Bear-grip took the arm offered, from respect not from need, his muscles rounded and hard as roof-beams.
‘You have potential,’ Red-beard told him gruffly before ordering the next pair to clinch and begin their bout.
Someone threw them linen cloths and as Skarfr dried his body he became aware of the ripples underneath his own chest, muscles there less developed than in his arms but no longer a boy’s. He would work on his body as Botolf had once worked on his mind, make it a weapon. He didn’t rush to don his tunic, considering his assets and faults in comparison with the men around him. He was tall for his age, long-limbed and strong but he was slim and clumsy, inexperienced in how to keep his balance. He would practise alone on the log across the beck, he determined.
Awareness that he was being watched broke into his thoughts and he slung the cloth around his shoulders. He glanced around the circle of men, found a gap where a woman stood, her lips a tight line of disapproval. He shrugged, aware even as he did so of the muscle movements rippling his naked chest.
Hlif looked away and Skarfr slipped his tunic over his head.
‘Skarfr,’ she called. ‘The Jarl wants you.’
She anticipated his question as they walked towards the hall. ‘I don’t know why.’ She stopped, added, ‘He hasn’t asked for me.’
She turned to go her own way but hesitated, bit her lip and then the words came out in a rush. ‘I saw you kicking that man.’
‘He asked for it,’ explained Skarfr.
Her face whitened. ‘You are indeed Thorbjorn’s man.’
By the time Skarfr realised the misunderstanding, she was gone. That was the trouble with women. They were too ready to believe ill of a man and too ignorant to know what men did.
Composing his expression into one more suitable for his liege, Skarfr entered the darkness of the hall and found Rognvald seated at the table in formal attire, his pathfinder brooch pinned to his cloak and catching the torchlight. No sign of the game board.
He wasted no time on niceties, his face set.
‘I’ve invited Lord Sweyn to join me and I want a witness in case I should take a dispute to the Thing.’
Skarfr swallowed hard. If Sweyn showed no remorse for his disrespect of the previous day and Rognvald went to the Thing for grievance, the result would be exile for the sea-rover. With who knew what consequences. And Sweyn had never shown remorse. Exile was not new to him, though not previously at Rognvald’s hand.
‘You have no dog in this fight and can speak clearly of what transpires, should that be needed.’
The clatter of a warrior’s approach preceded Sweyn into the hall and he strode up to the table with no pretence of humility. And he had not politely deposited his weapons on entry.
Rognvald pre-empted any arrogant speech. ‘You have asked me to offer you ships and I promised my response today.’
The reminder seemed to calm Sweyn, who showed enough restraint to hold his tongue.
‘Your comportment yesterday did not help your case,’ began the Jarl.
Sweyn’s jaw tightened but what either of them would have said next was prevented by a rumpus at the back of the hall and a group of men rushing in, all shouting at once.
Rognvald and Sweyn had automatically reached for their weapons and remained alert, although it was now apparent that the intruders were bursting with news, not violent intent.
‘Two men, without warning or mercy,’ gasped a man in a weatherproof jerkin, who’d reached the table first but addressed himself to Sweyn rather than Rognvald, perhaps because he was the nearer and his weapon therefore more of a threat.
Then another commotion brought Inge rushing through the hall to her brother’s side, livid spots flaring in her pale cheeks, her words cutting through the confusion.
‘Thorbjorn has raided Gareksey, murdered two of Sweyn’s men in coward’s manner, taking them unawares. He cannot get away with this … this lawlessness! Sweyn must leave now and deal with this criminal.’
She looped her arm through her brother’s, heedless of the fact that she was thereby preventing him from rushing out of the hall.
Irritated at being pre-empted, the messenger added, ‘The men were among those who fired Frakork’s longhouse.’
‘Nobody moves,’ roared Rognvald, looking grim, his impassivity shaken. ‘It is but weeks since Thorbjorn – your husband, madam – came to me with the same accusation, regarding Sweyn’s obsessive pursuit and burning of Frakork, despite accepting manbot and hearing the Thing’s judgement.’
‘I said I would not accept manbot for my father’s death!’ Sweyn shouted and the angry echoes fired back from the stone walls.
In calmer tones, Rognvald said, ‘Forced or no, you took the payment, then killed Thorbjorn’s grandmother. In his eyes, he has grievance. And his deed is lesser than yours. If it had been you he killed, the Thing would have a harder judgement to make but you stand before me.’ Almost as an afterthought, he said, with emphasis, ‘Seeking ships.’
‘Leave,’ he ordered, ‘all of you but Sweyn and Inge.’
Skarfr moved to leave with the others but Rognvald snapped at him, ‘Not you, boy.’
He spoke to Sweyn first, curt and to the point. ‘You spoke much of honour. Do you want to pay your debt to Holbodi? Do you want ships to support his revenge? Or do you want to waste your time on the next spat of tit for tat against Thorbjorn in a game of who’s-the-hardest? Two men are worth what to you? More than your honour? More than five ships?’
‘My honour is touched by these murders,’ growled Sweyn.
Rognvald shook his head. ‘Not if compensation is paid. And I shall see to it that Thorbjorn knows my displeasure.’
Sweyn’s lips curled in contempt but it was Inge who spoke. ‘He won’t care a rat’s pizzle about your displeasure.’
Eyes narrowed, the Jarl regarded Thorbjorn’s wife. ‘Apparently he’s not the only one,’ he observed. ‘Those with manners address me as Sire.’
Inge flushed crimson and bit her lip.
Rognvald was unmoved. ‘Let’s mince no more words, madam. Do you seek a divorce?’
Inge’s eyes filled and she hesitated.
Sweyn snapped, ‘Of course she doesn’t.’
Inge’s hand slipped from her brother’s arm and she looked down
‘Then go to your husband’s house, await his return and – what were your words?’ Rognvald asked Sweyn, sarcastic. ‘Ah yes, play peacemaker.’
As Inge swayed on a lonely route through the hall to go back to her husband’s house, the Jarl asked Sweyn, ‘Well?’
Between gritted teeth, Sweyn said, ‘I’ll take the ships.’
Rognvald nodded. ‘Take them and set sail today. I trust your voyage will be both successful and of long duration. When you return to Gareksey after some years, you will be grateful you left.’
It was an order.