The day began badly. Skarfr heard that Hlif had been looking for him but there was no sign of her. He finally tracked down the vague information that she’d headed off towards the ring of standing stones at Steinnesvatn. He’d told her often enough that she was too old now to gad about alone but she still argued that the curse protected her and anyway Rognvald was her guardian. If she didn’t listen to him, why should she listen to someone barely older than her?
The man who’d seen Hlif head out of the village added, ‘Lord Thorbjorn went the same way, not long after, in a foul mood.’
Skarfr’s heart stopped.
‘Jarl Harald was with him.’
No need to worry then. And yet Skarfr’s stomach still churned with apprehension. They probably won’t even meet up. And they pass each other daily in the Bu without Thorbjorn ever having noticed Hlif in that way. And Harald is there.
Harald had grown into a youth every bit as unprepossessing as Inge had predicted, as stolid and competent in all practical matters as he was dismissive of reading, writing and statecraft. If Rognvald’s lessons on ruling wisely had taken root, there were no signs of the resulting fruit. Thorbjorn had changed tack when the reading lessons failed. He’d taken Harald with him on voyages around the islands and flattered the boy’s self-esteem with fights he’d fixed in advance. Sweyn’s absence had weakened the sea-rover’s hold in the young Jarl’s imagination and Inge was just a woman so Harald now followed his foster-father like an orphaned yellow chick follows the goose it mistook for its mother. They would never be of the same kind however much the chick copied the goose but Skarfr understood the compulsion.
He had tried to remain aloof from Thorbjorn and found this easy when the lord ignored him. But the moment he was singled out again, he was drawn into something that was neither friendship nor respect. He felt special, dazzled by Thorbjorn’s unpredictable combination of action and intelligence, so that life became more colourful, cochineal on silver foil instead of charcoal numbers in a drab ledger.
Thorbjorn’s renewed interest would always begin with a question about Skarfr’s visions but despite the temptation to gain status with further lies, the answer was always, ‘None.’ Even when Hlif’s latest visions filled his mind, could so easily have been adapted to pique Thorbjorn’s interest, Skarfr said, ‘None.’ One small act of atonement for the lie that had murdered two men.
Thorbjorn’s humour still blew in Skarfr’s direction sometimes, vacillating but irresistible.
‘I’m going to Papey Meiri. I want you with me,’ made Skarfr’s assent a certainty. Although the magical moment of the cormorant’s creation was past and never mentioned, Skarfr would be allowed to leaf through the bible and travel by illuminations. Creatures and landscapes he only knew from verse and saga, he saw for the first time. Foxes and tigers, snow-capped mountains and deer-filled forests. Skarfr’s head filled to bursting with the poems he would not permit himself to speak aloud. Another penance and a promise to a saint, for which he was rewarded with a warrior’s life. Far different from a pot-boy’s; his horizons were growing with every book he studied.
One time, when Thorbjorn was busy elsewhere and Skarfr was alone in the scriptorium with Brother Kristian, he had asked casually for the words that meant ‘Go and be fishers of men’, that he might see them written in the sacred book.
The monk had thrown him a sharp look, not taken in by this display of piety, but said only ‘Gospel of St Mark or Gospel of St Matthew. Let me see…’ and had turned first to the one that was not the cormorant’s page.
After enjoying Skarfr’s pretence of enthusiasm for a moment, Brother Kristian relented and said, ‘You should see the same story in Matthew too’ and turned the pages with reverence until he reached what Skarfr would always call ‘the cormorant page’.
The bird stretched to swallow its prey, eye and beak-silver bright, just the way Skarfr remembered. His heart clenched like a fist. It meant something when a man offered you a glimpse of his soul in this way, a gift beyond price that could never be taken back. Skarfr stored his knowledge of the real Thorbjorn beside his poetry, deep and secret. The connection when they’d wrestled had begun Skarfr’s joy in his own body. The conversations about stars and tides, fate and gods had shaken his mind free of Botolf, free to soar into dangerous thoughts. More poetry.
Inge was wrong. Hlif was wrong. Women could never understand a man like Thorbjorn. They could never keep up with his brilliance of mind or restless body. He, Skarfr, could forgive Thorbjorn’s treatment of others because a hero should not be judged by common standards. One woman could never be enough for him and his wife spurned him so what was he to do?
But not with Hlif.
Skarfr broke into a run.
He almost ran past the standing stones because their grey domination of the flat grassland showed no hint of human colours. Then something moved behind one of the big uprights at the back of the circle.
He sprinted straight through the middle, past the long flat slab laid like a table-top. He didn’t even touch his amulet for protection against the ancient spirits that haunted this place, so intent was he on reaching the people behind the stones. A change of angle revealed the whole scene.
Harald was lounging against one massive standing stone while Thorbjorn had a woman pinned against its neighbour. Hlif.
This time Skarfr would not back away like a good boy. He would not witness another woman’s I’m not afraid of you face.
‘Go on,’ urged Harald. ‘Same as you did with Inge.’
Blood rushed to Skarfr’s head and he charged at Thorbjorn, shouldering him sideways with the impetus of his move.
Taken unawares and when his hands were otherwise occupied, Thorbjorn was panting, confused, his eyes blank.
Skarfr didn’t wait for him to recover but knocked him to the ground and pinned him there, watching the lord’s face as he realised he was immobilized in a hold that had no way out.
Gradually the light of intelligence returned to Thorbjorn’s eyes and his body stopped struggling. He smiled, tried to speak, coughed.
Skarfr loosened his grip but didn’t move to stand up.
Thorbjorn managed a pale copy of his usual ironic drawl. ‘You should have said she was your whore. You’ve kept that secret, haven’t you! I should have known when she tried the “I have visions” trick on me to get me to stop.’
Startled, Skarfr released Thorbjorn completely, got to his feet and looked at Hlif for the first time.
Her red hair was loose and wild around her bare shoulders. One side of her pinafore top was ripped and hanging, the other side wrenched down her arm. As she adjusted her clothes, tried to pin the bodice back up with her strap brooches, Skarfr could see the silken white skin from her throat to her fingertips, as freckled as her face.
Like fine lace.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked. Thorbjorn was standing now, breathing deeply. Harald merely watched as if the scene had taken a different but equally interesting turn, for an observer.
Hlif’s eyes blazed. ‘My virginity is intact, if that’s what you mean.’
Thorbjorn grinned at her. ‘So you say.’ He winked at Skarfr, who maintained his self-control with difficulty. ‘But you shouldn’t have lied about having visions.’ He shook a finger at her as if she was a naughty child. ‘Your lover here told me about his second sight years ago and the gods won’t look kindly on your pretence.’
Hlif looked at Skarfr in anguished silence.
He only hesitated for a second then said, ‘They were her visions, not mine.’
Thorbjorn laughed. ‘You don’t think I’m going to believe that! Very noble to lie for your lady but it won’t work with me. I have a nose for the truth and have known you a long time.’
He cast a look of regret towards Hlif. ‘Which is why you can fuck her instead.’ He gave a mock bow, as if to a king. ‘Come on Harald, let’s find other sport.’
Skarfr clenched his jaw and fists, told himself Thorbjorn was one Jarl’s foster-father and the other’s trusted advisor, that a fight would achieve nothing. He needed to swing an axe, cut off Thorbjorn’s head –and he needed to stay calm. His body shook with the clash of instinct and reason.
Hlif started walking back towards the village, still in a state of disarray. He knew from her straight back how angry she was. Not just with Thorbjorn.
‘Wait! Hlif!’ He caught her up but she wouldn’t look at him or speak.
He took off his cloak and gave it to her.
She took it, pulled the hood over her spill of bronze curls and marched steadily back to the Bu.
‘I’m making sure you get back safely whether you like it or not,’ he told her.
Still no word.
Just before they reached the first building, Skarfr came to a decision. ‘I’m make a formal complaint against Thorbjorn to the Jarl. For what he tried to do to you.’
Hlif looked at him with contempt and still said nothing. She stalked through the entrance to the Bu, followed by Skarfr, but when she slipped behind the curtain veiling the women’s quarters, he could go no further. He turned back and sought the Jarl, full of righteous indignation, increased by his pangs of conscience. If only he could explain to Hlif why he’d stolen her story. The fear, the heat of the moment. He’d done the same as she had for the same reason.
But they weren’t your visions. And you could have confessed then. It’s too late now.
It couldn’t be too late. He’d get justice from Rognvald for Thorbjorn’s assault on Hlif and all would be well.