St Olaf’s church was easy to recognise, humbly offering its stone comfort among ramshackle village cots that were little more than sheds. The new cathedral might have land around it but the field was churned into mud by the stoneworkers and the small church had the virtue of being walled and roofed. Orkney’s new saint was better protected from the frequent drizzle here in the company of his Norðman co-martyr than in the imagined grandeur of his future sanctuary.
Hlif pushed open the great wooden door, adjusted her coif for modesty and entered the cool darkness. She crossed herself and Skarfr followed suit, although the gesture was not habitual for him. As one of Rognvald’s household, he was expected to attend church but he still had to copy others’ behaviour to conform to the rituals, as he forgot them frequently. Botolf had treated all Christian practices with impatience, seeing them as an interruption to Skarfr’s chores and his own pleasures, so church attendance had been rare and prayer was a literary conceit rather than a daily duty.
But if St Magnus could help him, Skarfr was willing to pay more than lip service to the Christian saint and his God. He might have given up on his future as a skald but he had no intention of remaining a kitchen boy. His conscience pricked him. And of course he hoped St Magnus could lift the curse from Hlif.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realised that a robed figure stood at the altar, his back towards them as the priest lit one candle from another, then glided to a stone side-alcove and placed the light in a niche. His mouth worked in the candlelight, no doubt in prayer or blessing and he touched a long wooden box illuminated by the new flame. He bent down and picked up objects from around the box, put them into a basket and half-turned, at which point he became aware of the intruders.
‘Those are offerings. St Magnus’ relics must be in the box. You’re a man. You ask him,’ whispered Hlif, hanging back in Skarfr’s shadow.
Her words made him feel taller and he addressed the priest, quietly as befitted the solemn atmosphere. His words came from stories and seemed the right ones for the occasion, although his voice shook as he spoke.
‘Father, we are penitents come to beg forgiveness on the bones of our dear Saint Magnus.’
The priest’s voice quavered even more than Skarfr’s and as the penitents drew nearer, they saw wisps of white hair around his shiny bald pate and his lined face showed his age. His long brown robe created the illusion of a gliding walk but the stick on which he leaned could now be seen.
‘Of course, children. Kneel and open your hearts. The saint will hear your prayers.’ The priest turned back to the wooden box and opened it so they could see inside. Skarfr could hear Hlif’s sharp intake of breath as she looked at the remains of her father’s victim.
Bones were set out at random, with no attempt to show relationships between them. But what drew attention was the skull. In those sockets, a man’s eyes had swivelled, opened and blinked. The teeth were all there and gleamed like walrus ivory although such assets were of little use to Jarl Magnus now. Would the cuts from the axe show in the bone? He peered at the skull, wished he could turn it to see the back.
‘Skarfr,’ hissed Hlif, pulling him down to his knees beside her as the priest began to frown at his inappropriate curiosity. She shut her eyes, screwed up her face and he did likewise. Was he supposed to pray aloud? Hlif wasn’t doing so and he almost smiled at the thought of how the priest would react to her plea.
Please, he began, then the entrance door creaked open, light footsteps tapped on the stone and a boy’s voice disturbed the silence.
‘Father, Bishop William is coming to talk to you about the holy relics. I ran ahead to give you warning but he’s on his way now.’
‘You did well, my child. Walk with me and we will welcome him to our church in a proper fashion.’
With no thought to his two penitents, or the open box of bones, the priest walked slowly to the back of the church with his young acolyte and stood in the doorway. Skarfr watched from half-closed lids, then when he was satisfied that the priest’s attention was elsewhere, he concentrated fully. Now was his chance.
Our Saint Magnus in heaven, please send me on a longship to have adventures and become a true Orkneyman. They said I should bring an offering and these are my special things I’m giving to you. Amen.
He stood up, checked that the priest was still otherwise occupied and opened his pack, turned it upside down over the box of holy relics and fished out his precious bones, distributing the birds’ skeletal remains among the saint’s relics.
There. It was done and the bargain was sealed.
Hlif’s eyes were round, her pupils dilated and suspiciously wet in the dim candlelight.
‘Nobody’s ever done something as nice as that for me, ever,’ she whispered, a catch in her voice.
Skarfr couldn’t tell her the truth so he pacified his conscience with a postscriptum of a prayer. Without kneeling – surely that wouldn’t matter? He shut his eyes and prayed.
One more thing, Saint Magnus. Please lift the curse from Hlif and make her be a normal girl. Amen.
An offering. He needed an offering. And he had nothing left. What could he give? Thoughts racing wildly, he remembered his earlier vow, to speak no poetry. He could make it official, a proper vow. And nothing would show so Hlif wouldn’t know the bones hadn’t been for her.
I give you my vow of poetic silence. He remembered his dramatic recital of the poisoned-tunic story and he added hastily, Except to Hlif because she doesn’t count. And in my head of course, because that’s silent.
He opened his eyes, pleased with himself. He felt so magnanimous that he held out his hand in a courtly gesture, to help Hlif to her feet. She even accepted it and smiled at him. And then a voice rang out like thunder from the doorway, a rebuke from Thórr.
‘What is that cursed child doing in God’s house? Get out, demon!’ The bishop’s arm was lifted, his finger pointing at Hlif, exorcising her from the church.
She dropped Skarfr’s hand, grabbed her skirts and scuttled to the doorway so fast that she had ducked under the accusatory arm before the bishop realised her intention and made a move.
‘You,’ he roared at Skarfr. ‘Move away from the holy relics.’ Skarfr wished he’d made a run for it with Hlif but felt he should put up some kind of defence so he took a few steps backwards then stopped.
Bishop William, younger and more vigorous than the priest, strode to the saint’s alcove, inspected the wooden box and harrumphed.
‘There doesn’t look to be anything missing,’ he declared with apparent disappointment. By this time the old priest had joined him. He too peered in the box and was satisfied.
‘No, my Lord Bishop, I don’t see that anything’s been touched at all. They wanted to pray for forgiveness and they were so sincere…’
Hiding his amusement at the two prelates’ ignorance of the bird bones among the holy relics, Skarfr responded to the implied doubt.
‘We were sincere,’ he blurted out, ‘and we have the right to pray to our saint. We took nothing.’
The bishop looked at him as if he were a dog turd. ‘The sins of the fathers are visited on the children. And on those who keep them company. Leave now and don’t come back or you’ll see the inside of a prison cage. And you may be sure I’ll have words with the Jarl about his household.’
Mention of the Jarl stopped Skarfr saying more and he hurried out the door, wondering whether he could catch up with Hlif. If he succeeded, what could he say to her? Was this Saint Magnus’ reply to their prayers?
He looked around without much hope or enthusiasm and quickly accepted that Hlif had gone. No doubt she’d show up back at the cart when the nones bells rang and she’d had time to lick her wounds. He had no idea where she’d gone so perhaps it was better if he looked around the market, maybe went back to watch the stoneworkers, made the most of the outing for himself as he couldn’t fix the disaster for Hlif.
‘Do you want a woman?’ a voice breathed in his ear.
He jumped, looked at the speaker, saw a lot more of her than was usual when glancing at a woman’s bodice.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Follow me.’
Skarfr obeyed, his heart pounding, trying to ignore the jeers and innuendos sent his way by the traders and their customers.
The woman had no such reticence and she seemed to know everybody by name.
‘If you want to give a girl a hard time, you know where to find me later,’ she yelled cheerfully to those disappointed she was no longer available..
Skarfr blinked at her crudeness but then what had he expected? Before he could change his mind, he was inside one of the ramshackle cots, the earthen floor little cleaner than the street outside, muddied by recent leaks in the roof. A straw pallet was so close to the door he could have fallen onto it and he had difficulty edging around to the far side. He saw a stool and two pails, one full of clean water and one empty, smelly enough for its purpose to be clear.
‘That’ll be a farthing, proper silver mind, and I like payment first,’ she said as she closed the door and only an outline of light remained around the ill-fitting rectangle.
How stupid he was! He’d known she was a whore but never thought about how he’d pay. He wasn’t sure whether he was more disappointed or relieved that he could escape without causing offence.
‘I don’t have any money,’ he stuttered. ‘I don’t have anything. This was a mistake and I’m really sorry but I can go and no harm done.’
Hand on hip, she looked him up and down, presumably seeing better than he could. This was the second time today he’d faced such a calculating look but with a very different set of criteria. And outcome.
She shrugged, letting her loose top slip down off her shoulders and a breast swing free, pendulous as a loom-weight and ten times the size. ‘I like the look of you so this will be a taster.’
She gave him a sly look. ‘And then you might come back to Freyja another market-day.’
She stepped out of the garment that passed as a gown and the outline of her naked body was more pleasing than any door-rectangle.
Skarfr swallowed. ‘I’ve never done this before,’ he owned up.
She stepped forward onto the pallet, closed in on him and rubbed her body against his.
‘I don’t think you’ll have a problem,’ she observed.
He remembered Inge against a wall, Brigid’s soft noises, such different acts of the night. He controlled himself just long enough to say, ‘I want to know how to be kind, give pleasure, if that’s possible.’
She laughed and pulled him down onto the pallet, where he found out that it was indeed possible.
When the door opened again for Skarfr to leave, he was shocked to see the woman who called herself Freyja, in full daylight, without the glamour of lust. There were grimy lines around her mouth and shrewd eyes, missing teeth and slackness in her arms and stomach. She must be at least thirty. Freyja, goddess of love and desire.
‘Be good to her,’ she told him. ‘The woman you marry. And meanwhile, you come back when you want.’
Then she gave a grin more honest than her profession. ‘And then it’ll be a silver bit, however much you play Óðinn to my Freyja.’
Skarfr’s hand went to the hammer around his neck, warding off evil at such a mocking reference to the gods. But although he told himself it was nothing, just a rut with a whore, he walked taller, felt different, had much to think about and only crude words for what had happened. Were there better words?
He remembered the words the woman had used and blushed. Was he as attractive to women as the woman had said? Or was that her trade speaking?
The afternoon light was softening already as Skarfr arrived back at the market stalls in front of the cathedral building site. Traders with further to go than the carter were packing up what wares they had not sold but the hammering of the stonemasons continued its rhythm.
From this direction Skarfr had a fine view of the harbour just beyond the limits of the cathedral’s land. The broad hulls of knarrs, the trading ships, dominated all the fishing boats that were tied or beached. Like a full-breasted woman and her children. Skarfr added the image to his secret store of poetry.
More prosaically, he thought one was probably Kol’s ship, maybe the very one that would take him overseas, to the Old Country, sailing through storms and around whirlpools, evading kraken and the net used to capture men by Rán, the sea-goddess. There would be women, welcoming the heroes wherever they landed. Freyja’s invitation had surely been a sign that St Magnus had heard his prayer and now he was a man, adventures abroad would follow.
He could see his transport home was empty. The carter was chatting, relaxed, so his day must have gone well. Skarfr glanced at the sky. There was just time to take a closer look at the knarrs in the harbour, ships built specifically for cargoes, their hulls shorter, deeper and wider than those of the drakkar dragon ships. He strode off through the builders and their boys, recognised the stonemason who’d talked to him earlier that day. He couldn’t resist stopping to watch once more.
‘You again,’ observed the man, tapping away, hammer on chisel. He looked up at Skarfr. ‘Do you want to try?’ He held out the tools.
‘Yes,’ said Skarfr and took them. It was a day for saying yes.
He squatted on the ground, imitating the mason. The man sniffed him and wrinkled his nose, smiled wryly but spoke only of stone cutting and dressing. He pointed at a pile of red stone blocks.
‘Those are for a pillar. But you can make your mark on this.’
A disappointingly grey block was to be Skarfr’s test piece.
The mason picked up a stick and drew the sign Skarfr had seen earlier, in the earth. He gave the hammer and chisel to Skarfr, showed the lines he’d drawn in charcoal on the stone.
‘Use the chisel edge to chip down the line, then make it broader with little taps of the hammer on the chisel. My mark’s a guarantee of quality, made by me or an apprentice under my supervision. And it secures my pay.’
‘Pay?’
‘Aye, as I told you afore, those show what work I’ve done, for when we’re paid by the piece.’
Skarfr liked the feel of the chisel and scoring stone was satisfying. His hammer-taps became less tentative as he began to gauge the impact of the tools. Mason: stone-scorer, granite-cutter, rock-cleaver.
‘Not as easy as you thought, is it?’ The mason sounded smug. ‘But you’ve made your mark and that’s a start.’
Skarfr looked at his carving with pride. ‘People will see the mark I’ve made, for hundreds of years.’
The stonemason laughed. ‘Oh, it will be there all right, but under a good layer of lime and whitewash. Nobody will know our names are there.’
Skarfr felt foolish. Then he said, ‘But we’ll know.’
The man smiled. ‘Aye, that we will.’ He took the hammer and chisel back, added, ‘If you’re back this way, come and see me. I’ll let you know if there’s a place for a lad willing to work.’
‘Thanks,’ said Skarfr, with no intention of taking up the offer, any more than he intended to return to Freyja’s cot.
He continued on his way towards the harbour but his elation diminished when he recognised a forlorn figure in a dun dress, trudging towards him. Poor Hlif. But why should she spoil his day? He would say something comforting and leave her. Something comforting like—
His mind was still a complete blank when Hlif reached him.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked, buying time to find warm, helpful words. ‘I’ve looked everywhere for you.’
Her expression lightened a little. ‘I went to the sea,’ she said.
He’d often gone to the sea when he missed his parents, when he was hiding from Botolf, when he needed peace and cormorants.
He was going to say so when she sniffed him. Her face took on a pinched look, the freckles bunching and uglier than usual.
‘I can smell her on you,’ she spat and stalked past him. ‘Worse than a fish midden. Stay away from me!’
He flushed, realising that the stonemason had guessed too.
Trailing behind Hlif like a beaten cur, Skarfr plodded back to the wagon, where Viggo was folding the empty table and talking earnestly to a herdsman, easy to identify from his crook and his knife, leather pouch, awl and scissors, hanging from a rope belt. And from the smell of sheep.
Without looking up, Viggo said, ‘Skarfr, you can walk back with the drover and the sheep we’ve gained from today’s trade.’
His accent so thick the words took time to make any sense to Skarfr, the shepherd said, ‘Rest and sup with me in the barn tonight. We’ll set off at daybreak.’
Skarfr grunted assent. That suited him fine. He could avoid company and conversation. He didn’t so much as glance at Hlif as he followed the shepherd but he knew from the coldness on the back of his neck that she was ignoring him. Until now, when it was broken, he hadn’t realised there was a connection between them, a pact against the cruel world, defiance of the fates themselves.
Still, he told himself. It was worth it. He scratched himself between the legs absent-mindedly.
The shepherd looked at him, sniffed and smiled.
Surely not over the stink of sheep?
‘Ewe’s grease rubbed on your cock and armpits,’ advised the man, without breaking his stride. ‘Or you’ll be scratching till you bleed in three weeks’ time.’
Mortified, Skarfr said nothing. When they reached the outskirts of the town where the flock was penned in a large stone fold beside a bothy, he was relieved to see a water trough. Feigning nonchalance, he stripped and doused his body, scrubbing with his nails. Was it his fate to freeze in water troughs after evil-smelling encounters? This time he could blame nobody but himself and there was no Bridget here to comfort him.
The shepherd entered the bothy, came out with a blanket, which he passed to Skarfr, who wrapped it around his goose-pimpled damp nakedness.
His breeks and tunic laid out on the low peat roof to air, Skarfr went into the shelter and sat huddled in his blanket on the straw, as near one curved wall as he could manage. Meant for one person, there was barely room in the bothy for the two of them and the smell of sheep from the shepherd was overpowering as he passed cheese and a stale bannock to Skarfr.
He hunkered down onto the straw, beside the one blanket for his own night covering.
Skarfr suddenly realised what the gift of food, shelter and warmth meant to the shepherd.
‘Thank you,’ he said, accepting a swig of ale from the leather bottle offered. He wondered what he could give as guest-offering to his host. It seemed to be a day of offerings and he mentally reviewed what remained in his pack.
He pulled his flute out of the pack.
‘Shall I play for you?’
‘Aye.’ The shepherd nodded and closed his eyes, his back propped against the stone wall.
Skarfr tested the notes. Thanks to his weathering of the pipe, playing a tune daily, it had taken no harm from its manhandling on the beach and had regained its plaintive tone.
He played a merry scale. The start to the day, anticipation and friendship.
Then he let the music take him somewhere darker, flight from rejection, Hlif and he separate, each one alone.
Slow and sensual, the pipe recalled a woman’s touch, a body soft and curved, opening to his own.
Wonder and then loss, as the last note lingered, a long kiss goodbye to a boy’s innocence.
Skarfr wiped the pipe clean of his spit with a rag-wrapped rod. So it is, he thought. There is saliva in the making of music. The body makes magic in the way of this world, with mess.
The shepherd could have been asleep, his face immobile and his eyes still closed, but tears glistened on his cheeks as they grimed tracks down to the folded hands.
Skarfr’s sense of shame lifted and he lay down to sleep, lulled by the music that played on in his mind.