Skarfr passed on to Rognvald the gossip from Ness about trouble brewing in neighbouring Skotland. He did not mention the source of his information and had burned the message signed with the letter I.
‘Rumours are abroad that Erlend is pressing his claim to be jarl and he gathers men about him. King David has given public backing to Erlend’s right to Orkney.’ Skarfr did not press the point that Erlend’s right to Orkney was arguably stronger than Rognvald’s. Erlend was a jarl’s son while Rognvald was a jarl’s nephew. But Rognvald was older and he was here.
‘Erlend has no support in Orkneyjar and no man here cares what King David of Skotland thinks. He was quick enough to support Harald when it suited him and he enjoys sowing division.’ Rognvald dismissed Skarfr’s concerns, having already spoken with Thorbjorn, whose analysis always showed his own stewardship as a period of peace and prosperity.
‘If Sweyn backed Erlend…’
The Jarl laughed, ‘On that day, the moon and sun would drink ale together in the banquet hall of the sky. You forget that Sweyn killed Frakork and Erlend is of her family.’
It seemed to Skarfr that everyone was related to Frakork but not everyone regretted her death. He did not say so to her brother-in-law. Rognvald had other reasons for ambiguity in his relationship with the sea-rover who had made him jarl and yet flouted his authority at all turns.
Skarfr was dismissed as lightly as his report and he readily left Rognvald dealing with a thousand and one problems caused by the influx of pilgrims-to-be, from Norðvegr and Ness. Their need of shelter and food would pass the thousand and one problems on to Hlif but she was not responsible for their entertainment. The months until spring, when the ships would finally set sail for Jórsalaheim, would be long and fractious, with more men arriving each month until winter storms confirmed that all those intending to come had arrived.
So many names to remember. The leaders: Magnus, the son of Hávard, Gunni’s son; Swein, Hróald’s son; Thorgeir Skotakoll, Oddi the little, Thorberg Svarti, Armód the skald, Thorkel Krókauga, Grímkell of Flettuness, and Bjarni his son; Erling, Jón, his brother-in-law, Aslák and Guttorm. And of course, most important of all, Eindridi, the man who’d inspired Rognvald with the idea of sailing for Jórsalaheim.
In addition to catering for his increased entourage and preventing the inevitable violence they’d wreak on each other if bored, the Jarl was calming rumours that he’d been insulted by Eindridi and that he would take revenge.
The Norðvegr shipbuilder had kept his word and when Rognvald reached Biörgvin, he found an exquisite piece of workmanship, with carvings not only on the prow but also on the vanes, ornamented in gilt. A sun vane, showing the ship’s orientation by the pointer’s shadow, and a weathervane, attached to the mast to show wind direction.
‘She goes like the wind,’ the shipbuilder told Rognvald and so he named her. The Wind-cutter. All considered it a name of good omen and when the wind appeared favourable for the return journey to Orkneyjar, the fleet sailed with the Jarl at its head, as agreed. However, out at sea, the wind dropped, leaving his splendid, heavy ship slower than the others.
From respect, the other captains took down their sails to keep pace with the Wind-cutter and there was a good spirit in the company. But when the wind picked up, the Jarl’s ship stormed ahead and the smaller boats had to use reefed sails to cope with the conditions. Only two boats rivalled the Jarl’s in speed and one surpassed the Wind-cutter both in size, speed and splendour.
Eindridi’s ship overtook the Wind-cutter, proudly flaunting its dragon prow, gilded head and stern, and vibrant paintwork, in flagrant breach of the agreement that only the Jarl of Orkneyjar would have the status of such a dragon-prowed drakkar, as became the leader of the expedition.
Skarfr remembered Thorbjorn’s face whenever Sweyn and the Death-bringer passed the Surf-rider; Rognvald’s humiliation was greater as Eindridi had showed disrespect for their agreement, for the Jarl’s status and for Orkneyjar itself. This boded ill for the coming voyage.
But while men were placing wagers on a fight and the outcome, Rognvald once more showed himself a bigger man than those who pulled his nose.
He was asked in public what he was going to do about such insolence and he replied, in his usual confident manner, ‘Eindridi is a proud man and chafed at keeping pace with those who are clearly his inferiors.’ There was no humility in Rognvald’s analysis of what had happened. ‘Time will tell whether Fortune stays with him or passes him by. We don’t need to change our course according to one he follows in the heat of the moment.’
Who would he rather sail with? Skarfr asked himself. Hotheads or a steady head? The answer was obvious and the put-down achieved more than any wrestling bout would have. There was no lingering ill-will between Eindridi and Rognvald as each man had proved his point, in his own manner.
Instead, petty rivalries broke out elsewhere, between different men; a thousand sparks with fewer men to fight the fires than to start them.
Skarfr and Hlif were usually too busy defending their own bed-spaces from those seeking a warm corner in the Bu, or commandeering everything from cabbages to mail coifs, to even try to meet up.
When Hlif whispered, ‘The Brogar standing stones, in two hours,’ Skarfr immediately suspected the worst. His face must have revealed his feelings because she shook her head, murmured, ‘Not here,’ and moved away to resolve a dispute over smashed eggs. She had told Skarfr about the unthinkable quantity of eggs needed each week and his admiration for her organisation grew, the more he knew about the number of people involved in getting all the resources required to the ever-increasing population in the Bu, the village and the environs.
Understanding how impossibly busy she was made Skarfr even more surprised that she could find time for a spontaneous assignation. Usually, their rare meetings were planned ahead, to free a few hours when nobody would notice them missing simultaneously.
He leaned against one of the ancient slabs of granite, watching the way she would come, past the Steinnesvatn circle of stones, past the Watcher, a fossilised troll guarding the Bridge of Brogar, which was a narrow causeway between lochs, and up to the elevated knoll where the stones of their meeting-place cast long shadows against a backdrop of water and sky.
She ran the last part, the tools jiggling on her leather belt. He didn’t like the new additions of her wand and pouch of rune-stones but he could hardly object to her carrying what she believed to be weapons. And maybe she was right. The witch Frakork had been feared. Until she was burned in her house.
‘I’m coming too,’ she told him as she threw herself into his arms, triumphant.
When Skarfr could speak, without being distracted by the physical charms on offer, he said, ‘But I’m not going anywhere.’
She gave him one of those looks which suggested his intellect was lower than an earthworm’s and stated the obvious. ‘To Jórsalaheim. I’ve been working on Rognvald, letting him see how difficult it is catering for so many and how I can solve problems for him.’
He looked at her shrewdly. ‘You’ve created those problems, haven’t you?’
She tossed her head and some ginger curls escaped her coif. ‘I might have.’ She rushed on, ‘And then this morning, I read the runes for him.’
‘Don’t tell me – the runes said a red-haired woman would travel on the Jarl’s ship or the company would never reach Jórsalaheim.’
‘No, silly. Rognvald is much too sharp for such nonsense.’ Her voice took on the far-away tone in which she told of her visions and Skarfr shivered, holding onto Hlif as if she might be snatched from him by the gods who spoke to her.
‘The runes said that the company would reach Jórsalaheim but Rognvald would be more changed by the journey than by the destination. A woman would change his life. I have seen her, slim and golden.’
Hlif looked at him, her eyes dancing, and her voice was teasing, no longer in another world. ‘I know what you’re thinking. Inge!’
He did not deny it.
She shook her head. ‘No, this is some foreign noblewoman on distant shores but I saw her. When I read the runes, my visions are channelled by them and I would never lie about what the gods show.’
Unlike him. Skarfr flushed. Thanks to him, Thorbjorn would always believe he saw visions and was hiding them and that Hlif was a deceitful fake. She could call herself a witch, carry a wand, wave it about and cast runes but she would never have any power over Thorbjorn. Skarfr had stolen that from her. He shivered, then reassured himself. She didn’t need any power – he would protect her, he vowed, against Thorbjorn, against the gods themselves. And he did not like the idea of her risking this sea voyage.
‘All I had to do then was ask to go on the pilgrimage, as cook and steward. Rognvald was already malleable because of the runes, could work out for himself how a wise woman would contribute to a voyage, read minds and read the weather, so I didn’t need to point that out.’
‘But it will be years voyaging with sea-roving men and staying in barbaric countries.’
Her face darkened. ‘I am well used to being among rough men and will be safer on a ship than anywhere here, especially if I am left without Rognvald’s protection. And yours,’ she added, a little too late for his pride.
He suffered the full weight of her stormy eyes.
‘What if Thorbjorn finds out what we did?’ she asked.
‘That’s old news now, buried and forgotten.’ Skarfr shook off his forebodings. He was confident that nobody would have any reason to reveal the role they’d played in Inge’s escape. ‘No, Thorbjorn will relish his own importance advising Harald, with Rognvald out of the way, and will be too busy to look back.’
Hlif looked less convinced but neither of them wanted to waste precious time together on worrying about what might never happen.
‘I’ll be with you,’ she said, her gaze slipping away and he sensed there was something she was holding back.
He took hold of her chin gently, turned her face so her eyes met his again. ‘Why is it so important that you go?’
Her voice low, she told him, ‘I will go as a pilgrim. In the Holy City, my prayers to the White Christ and to Rognvald will touch him. He cannot help but release me from my doom, let me,’ she hesitated over the word, ‘be with you.’
Marry, he understood but did not say, in case gods more spiteful than the White Christ were listening.
‘Oh, elskan min, my darling,’ he said, voice and heart breaking. Rognvald’s mind was flint and grief surely lay ahead for Hlif, even worse than St Magnus’ mockery of her prayers. Besides, she herself had laid a bane on their marriage. He would no more be a skald than she would be free of her curse. Married or not, they would continue to defy the Jarl and the fate-bringer Norns, in secret, without drawing attention to themselves.
And although he was full of misgivings – Hlif suffering the hardships and risks of the open sea, the proximity of ship life with Rognvald watching their every move – his heart ached at the thought of leaving her for years.
‘We’ll manage somehow,’ he said, capitulating.
They walked slowly across the Bridge of Brogar, past the Watcher until they could see the other great ancient upright, that stood before the Steinnesvatn circle. The great Óðinn Stone, pierced by a hole: a source of magic, whispered by those who said petitions were granted here that the kirk would never countenance.
‘Come,’ she bade him, running to the Óðinn Stone, with that quicksilver movement that made him feel like a bear, lumbering after her. Offerings of flowers, bread and cheese lay beside the monument.
She stopped on the other side, hidden by the ancient monolith, except for her hand through the hole in the rock and her voice, which floated eerily towards him with the timbre of her second sight.
He took her hand, small and still, callouses forming at the base of the slim fingers. The granite circle around their joined hands made a ceremonial ring, the serpent around the world.
Time stopped and with the solemnity of oath, she told him, ‘I am your Valkyrie and would follow you across the nine realms and into eternity.’
As always, the poetry formed in his head and could not be spoken. ‘Jórsalaheim is far enough,’ was all he could manage. Was she disappointed? She said nothing. But she did not drop his hand. He plucked up courage.
‘Into eternity,’ he promised, a lump in his throat, and the inner vows he could not speak were heard by Óðinn. One-handed, he pulled twine from his pouch and bound their two clasped hands. He was pledged to Hlif, handfasted, with the gods as witness. He let Hlif be the one to slip her hand free, taking the twine to her side of the great stone. No more words were needed.
Their stolen hours passed too quickly and life was an endless series of chores for both of them as the days grew shorter and darker, the visitors squabbled more and the spring sailing seemed too far away to keep peace, even as the prospect grew nearer.
In search of entertainment, the Norðmen provoked peaceful villagers into aggression, their buildings vandalised and the farm beasts running amok. Hlif had hidden the large drinking horn and replaced it with a small one in a vain attempt to limit catastrophes after the ‘down-in-one’ competitions. Rognvald was forever paying compensation and soothing ruffled feathers, devising manly contests with sling and sword, riddles and verse, anything to exercise bodies and minds.
Then came the day that great Thórr and the snow jǫtunn Skaði waged elemental war against Orkneymen and visitors alike. The day of the Midwinter Solstice.
Feasts and games were ongoing for the midwinter festival and Rognvald had turned a blind eye to the sacrifices planned or practised, in the old manner. The standing stones were no longer a place for lovers as their iron-hard beds showed rusty stains and offerings that were flesh not flower.
The wind had been howling for blood all night, turning men restless and bad-tempered so Skarfr was not surprised to hear of foolish sorties the next day by foreigners who might be used to facing wolves and mountains but had no stomach for Orkneyjar’s endless winter gales and grey skies.
However, the level of recklessness was beyond imagination and when two Norðvegr men were unaccounted for, enquiries found that they had intended to fish on the loch of Steinnesvatn.
Cursing, but unwilling to abandon them to a cold fate in the worsening sleet and icy gusts, Rognvald chose a company of Orkneyjar and Ness men to retrieve the idiots. Glowering blacker than the clouds, he asked the Norðmen to stay safe in the Bu as they did not know the terrain. For once, they didn’t argue.
Only when the party had set off, wrapped warmly against the hostile weather, did Skarfr realise that a tiny muffled, cloaked figure with them was no intrepid boy but Hlif, with stout boots and stouter determination.
‘Madness!’ he muttered to her as his lips grew dry and chapped.
‘I’ll be needed to nurse them,’ she said. ‘To make sure they’re warmed and brought back alive. For the Jarl to kill them as he chooses!’
Soon, the question was not whether the missing men would get back alive but whether Rognvald and his company would.