Light drizzle numbed Skarfr’s hands but not his spirits and the faering crossed the Pentlandsfjord like a doughty pony. No fancy prancing but reliable. Skarfr was warmed by his good deeds and by the pouch of coins Inge had given Fergus. Whatever plans this fortune allowed him, Fergus did not share, and Skarfr preferred the sounds of the sea to conversation as he cautiously prodded his own feelings, tested the changes.
He pictured Inge, stroked again the silk of her body and hair, accepted the gift she offered him. No simple union, with the dark charm and darker cruelty of Thorbjorn present for both of them. An act of defiance and a flood of quiet tears released, his and hers both as they were freed, even from each other. His final act with her had been a kindness and now he could name what he felt for this woman, goddess springing from the sea, shrew who’d shrivelled Thorbjorn’s manhood, foster-mother who’d tried to form the young Jarl, brave soul who’d faced death open-eyed, skilled navigator and unforgettable bedmate. Inge was all of these and her poetry shaped itself in his thoughts. But what he felt for her was pity.
The moment he’d asked Inge’s hand in marriage, he’d known what was missing. He wanted a woman who took away the loneliness he’d felt all his childhood; a woman to share secrets with; a woman to watch his back as he watched hers; a woman who walked partly in this world and partly with the gods, who accepted his cormorant as he did her fey visions; a woman who knew that furs came down a wide river from the frozen Slav wasteland and that salt came from Venice, and who could organise supplies of both to the Jarl’s Bu; a woman whose mouth had touched his only once in Yuletide laughter, the trace of which still rang in his ears and tingled on his lips.
How had he ever thought her ugly? He remembered their first meeting long ago on the beach, but now Sweyn and Inge no longer had the starring roles, however tall and fair they were. He only saw a water sprite with fiery hair, who’d confided in him and listened to all he said as if his words mattered. Hlif.
The melody that was Hlif played the pipes in his head to accompany her verses. The words danced like a sprite on a beach and Skarfr knew this poem would be a lifetime in the making, never ending.
She could never be his but that hadn’t prevented their friendship until his naive accusation of Thorbjorn. They would take up where they’d left off, with the shared secret of Inge’s escape to bond them even more closely. Maybe, one day, Rognvald would relent, maybe pronounce Hlif free of the curse. There must be a way. Until then, he would be patient, see whether she might feel the same. One day.
Such noble intentions carried Skarfr through the journey home, also noting the Muckle Skerry on his left, then the coast of Orkneyjar and eventually, he and Fergus negotiated the entry to Skalpaflói and beached the faering. He spent the night in his longhouse to reinforce the new regime but Botolf was a spent force, who sought only food and a warm seat. He hadn’t recited in public for years and would never do so again. Skarfr satisfied himself that Fergus and Brigid could continue running the smallholding, as they’d done for years, but now with every right to do so and with the wherewithal to purchase stock and supplies as needed. They seemed to care little that they were property but Skarfr meant to go about freeing them as soon as he could find legal advice.
All his good intentions hit reality and shattered when he returned to Orphir and the Jarl’s Bu. And Hlif.
It was as if he saw her for the first time. So much he hadn’t noticed before. She was wearing a dark blue plaid overdress in fine wool, trimmed with teal braid that matched the three rows of turquoise soapstone beads So, she had commissioned her beads. He should have bought them for her. His eyes followed the slim lines of her gown down to a pair of teal slippers. No longer a barefoot girl.
Her belt had more pouches than a shepherd’s, filled with the tools of her stewarding work. Scissors, weights, keys and a sewing kit.
She’d been right. Turquoise suited her red hair, which peeped in wiry curls from under a demure cap. The cream linen of her undershift enhanced the cream skin of her neck and her fine-boned face overlaid with that unique tracery of freckles he’d seen continue down to her bare shoulders. Peerless.
Her eyes studied his, anxious, storm-grey whirlpools in which he could lose himself.
But they could not talk here, in the Bu, with people all around them and work to do.
‘Meet me in the kirk,’ she told him and rushed off to organise payment for a delivery of fish destined for the smokehouse.
Luckily, the kirk was empty and Skarfr hadn’t been on his knees long before Hlif joined him. Nobody could accuse them of inappropriate behaviour in such public view and pious pose but Skarfr was reminded of their embarrassing visit to St Olaf’s. Even if St Magnus had heard his prayers, Skarfr was angry at the saint’s treatment of Hlif and felt disloyal in feigning worship of the White Christ. The walls loomed, disapproving, enclosing him in their circle.
‘I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been so worried.’
If Skarfr could have bottled the warmth in Hlif’s words, he’d take a sip every day and live contented.
Her tone changed to the singsong of vision. ‘The sighting, the one I didn’t want to tell you. I see it more and more. You’re burning, consumed by flames. Yet you never blacken or shrivel, not like Frakork did. I daren’t touch you for fear of you setting me on fire too. And I’m afraid, so afraid.’ She shivered.
With a heartiness he did not feel, Skarfr told her, ‘These are fears, not true visions, or they are puzzles that mean something different from what’s on the surface. Now I’m here and you’ve told me, you can stop worrying. Thorbjorn hasn’t been near my longhouse and there’s been no burning. Unless something has happened here?’
In a breathless stream, Hlif gave him the news.
‘When I came back, Thorbjorn was off hunting otters on Hrolfsay, for which everyone was truly grateful, as he was in a towering rage.
‘Rognvald judged Sweyn to be in the wrong and has gone to Gareksey to negotiate with him. He’ll have as much chance of making Sweyn pay up as getting a whale to cough up a seal he’s swallowed.
‘To pacify Thorbjorn, our Jarl has made good the deficit to all four captains from his own coffers until he can recover the plunder and make all good between Sweyn and Thorbjorn again. If the gods are kind, Sweyn will go a-viking again.’
Hlif sighed and crossed herself, showing no awkwardness in courtesy towards any deities present. ‘Rognvald sees the best in people and can sometimes bring out that goodness in them. But his Christianity blinds him. All that peace and forgiveness when we’re talking about Sweyn and Thorbjorn.’
She shook her head and her tone was grave as prophecy. ‘Thorbjorn will never forgive Sweyn for this insult. Nor his sister. But only we know the truth about Inge. He’s saved face by bragging that he’s put up with Sweyn’s barren shrew of a sister long enough and has sent her back to her brother as used goods that he’s welcome to peddle elsewhere. He’s asking for a divorce.’
Skarfr winced. ‘So unfair to Inge,’ he said, earning a sharp look.
‘Seeing himself as a hero, with Sweyn his enemy, and divorcing Inge as a way of evening the score, might spare some other woman the fate we’ve saved her from,’ said Hlif tartly. ‘He has a way of making someone weaker pay when he’s humiliated. Your turn now. The crossing went fine? You saw her safe home?’
Skarfr smiled as Hlif pre-empted his responses. ‘Ay, the crossing was fine. She told true about navigating and she found the way without hesitation.’
Hlif made a little noise which Skarfr took to mean respect for Inge’s skills and pleasure that he was acknowledging a woman could have them. He congratulated himself on his new-found understanding of the fair sex.
‘We were exhausted, all the same.’ No harm in building up how hard he and Fergus had worked. A little nudge towards them being seen as heroes. Not like Thorbjorn but just for Hlif to know.
‘We were near to dropping with fatigue when we made land,’ he continued, ‘so we slept together on the beach.’
‘Slept together,’ she repeated slowly. Heedless of the kirk setting or what an observer might think, she took his face in her hands so she could study it, read his eyes. ‘Did you?’ she asked. ‘You and Inge.’ She read the answer in his eyes and her hands dropped. Her eyes were flint.
‘I suppose you’ll marry her now,’ she said, toneless. ‘Make all your dreams come true.’
‘No.’ Words tumbled around his head as Skarfr struggled to find the ones which would put Hlif right, explain the revelation he’d had, without betraying the raw moments he and Inge had shared. He could not feel remorse.
‘She said no,’ he told Hlif and all colour drained from her creamy skin, leaving her freckles a feverish red.
‘I’m no man’s second best,’ she said. She jumped to her feet, shook out her tunic and strode out of the kirk.
Words lined up in his head, all the words that should have been said. Too late.