Flames danced in the fire-pit and the hall was full of the Jarl’s subjects and foreign pilgrims, all celebrating Yuletide. Jórsalaheim-farers saw no dissonance in cheering on the pagan festivities. The two men who’d gone missing on the Winter Solstice cheered the loudest of all, none the worse for their adventure. They’d sheltered under their boat then found a well-stocked farm when the blizzard stopped. Rognvald jovially declared there was no harm done; an adventure added to his saga.
Skarfr sat at the High Table, his stomach in knots, knowing what he must face, remembering a brutal master and a young boy ten years earlier. He was a man now. Ale warmed his belly, instead of souring his guts and turning his mind. Ale: talk-maker, sense-taker, head-breaker.
As he raised his cup, the dragon tattoo rippled on his arm. The dragon and the cormorant, but only he knew the detail and significance of the coupling. Maybe Hlif guessed but they had not found time alone together since Skarfr had been carried back to the Bu in triumph, a skald touched by divine madness, the dragon carver – or the griffon carver – or the lion carver, depending on men’s fancy as the story was retold to those who had not been on the fateful expedition.
One other man had been touched by the gods, lain twitching on the earthen floor of the ancient tomb. But he had merely screamed of haug-boys and had taken two days to return to being the dullard he’d been before. In contrast Skarfr wore a blue dragon on his arm and poetry on his tongue. He could taste the words in his mouth, seeking only the occasion to flame forth, no longer imprisoned.
‘I told you the time would come,’ Rognvald had told his newest skald, with quiet satisfaction. ‘That your body would catch up with your mind.’
Was that what had happened? There were many ways to interpret the cause of this change. Only Skarfr knew of the seeds Botolf had sown, denying them light and air. How they’d grown in secret and bloomed in the dragon’s fire.
The Jarl stood and issued his familiar challenge. ‘Let’s make verse.’ He looked towards Skarfr and smiled, skald to skald. In private he’d been encouraging, told Skarfr he was ready now, but in public there was no patronage.
Rognvald looked around the Bu, seeking inspiration. When he pronounced ‘fire’ as the theme, Skarfr knew the Jarl was offering him an easy beginning, a topic with many well-known kennings to string together like beads on a necklace. Like turquoise beads worn by a fiery red-haired woman.
Skarfr felt Hlif’s eyes on him, sending support. He risked a quick look, skating past Thorbjorn’s dark mockery. He too would remember that night ten years ago. Was he hoping Skarfr would fail again or did he hold some softer emotion for the youth he’d trained in combat? Or both at the same time? Whatever his attitude, Skarfr no longer needed reassurance.
He admired Rognvald’s clever lines. Fire as branch-sorrow and tree-foe, as house-thief and bright wolf of the temple. The audience showed their approbation, pleased with their Jarl.
Then Skarfr stood, pipe in hand. The shadow of a boy stood beside him, tipsy and scared, not ready for what was asked of him. And no shame in that, except for the adult who’d asked. No, not asked but demanded too much, watched him fall and never picked him up.
Rognvald was right. He was ready now. He played a few soft notes, the fire-pit sleeping.
‘Where flame-food lies flat-dormant,
Starved, one touchwood spark will start
The eager flicker-eating force.’
Then he blew sharp notes like sparks through his pipe, a frenzied crackle that reached a crescendo. The fire caught. Now he echoed the Jarl’s fire-song.
‘Hot-headed son of the giant Forgnjotr, he
leaps and licks, this red howling hound,
life-harm and hall’s doom, unleashed.’
The fire music steadied, a dreamy melody showing what a man saw when he looked into the hearth-flames. Warmth, home, a woman. The wolf tamed.
‘Holds every hall its Garmr, Hel-hound,
and its Gunnr, Valkyrie who rides this warg,
makes home from Hel, for heroes.’
A few gentle notes from the pipe lulled the fire asleep again. It was over.
Skarfr waited, never before having felt the silence that followed such a performance. He looked around the Bu, at the listeners seated behind their tables, blinking as they came back from some otherworld of music and poetry. His listeners: cups brimming with Óðinn’s mead.
Then fists banged on wood, followed by shouting and stamping.
Bemused, Skarfr looked back at Rognvald, seeking guidance. He saw tears streaming down the Jarl’s cheeks, unheeded.
The skalds who usually joined in Rognvald’s challenges stood up, looked at each other, shook their heads and pointed to the victor.
As if turned into a standing stone, Skarfr could not move, had no idea what he should do, as acclaim for his verse reverberated around the hall. And in the central fire-pit, the flames burned low and steady, repeating the words of his poem to those whose minds were still open.
With the smoothness of an experienced performer, Rognvald joined him, clasped his wrist in homage, called for quiet in the hall.
Skarfr knelt at his Jarl’s feet, wondering whether he had erred in judgement yet again, a presumptuous star outshining the sun. What would the punishment be? Rognvald’s pathfinder brooch Visivigar gleamed level with his eyes. The sigil showed many directions for Skarfr, born in this moment.
‘When the young man teaches the old, the world is upside down and I must blame the wicked stars for my defeat.’ Rognvald mimed a crook-back walk, making it clear he was the old man, making everyone laugh at him and with him. This was his gift, as much as the wit of his rhyming.
He became serious, raised his hands above his head so that his cape fell back and the chain arm-rings jangled and shone.
‘Let the world right itself again and know that the court of Jarl Rognvald of Orkney welcomes the peerless skald, Skarfr Kristinsson, whose name shall be renowned from the Old Country to this.’
Skarfr’s heart stopped at the words which lifted half a curse, gave him a flicker of hope – extinguished by Rognvald’s next words.
‘My man and my skald, Skarfr Kristinsson shall be a credit to me and to Orkneyjar, from here to Jórsalaheim and all places in between, his loyalty as evident as his gods-given talent. I will always reward such loyalty and such talent.’
Accompanied by more banging and shouting, Rognvald broke one of his gold arm-rings and presented Skarfr with four links of the chain. The remaining links went into Rognvald’s pouch, saved for some future show of generosity. For the Jarl was the Ring-Breaker, a generous lord.
And Skarfr was a hypocrite, mouthing fealty and yet bedding Rognvald’s ward, against his express orders to stay away. He was an oath-breaker if he met with Hlif and an oath-breaker if he didn’t. His moment of glory was the moment the gods damned him.
Rising to his feet, clumsy, Skarfr made his way back to his seat amid praise and congratulations. He regained some of the pride he’d felt at performing his best work, the words running beautiful in his mind and slipping easily from his tongue.
‘Quite a man now, a skald I should say. And one Rognvald values highly. As does his ward…’ The insinuation, the sarcastic voice as Skarfr passed him, could only be one person. Thorbjorn.
Such digs were easy to shrug off, with a humble response. ‘The gods were with me tonight. I thank them and know that will not always be so.’
But Rognvald’s trust was a burden he must carry on his conscience.
Weeks dragged, then flew towards the pilgrims’ voyage. Each meeting alone with Hlif tasted of some new delight and some old sorrow. To be so close together on a ship for years would be a shared adventure worth the telling. And Skarfr’s would be the voice to tell that saga. And yet, the price of that closeness was the pretence of distance, a daily discipline.
In their old trysting-place by the standing stones, Skarfr lay on the grass musing on the path which had led to this moment, to Hlif warm and contented in his arms. He had followed many false turns but he was sure this was his destiny.
His conscience proved to be a more flexible muscle than he’d thought. Would Sweyn, Thorbjorn or Rognvald himself think twice about loving a woman forbidden to them? Wasn’t it a hero’s role to attempt the impossible, to be on the horns of a dilemma and ride them with courage, accepting imperfection? He had come to appreciate Rognvald’s qualities, as man and leader, and he would be loyal – except where Hlif was concerned.
If her hope came true, if the saints heeded her prayers and she gained Rognvald’s consent to marry, then all deceit would be ended. Some days he convinced himself that such would be their future. On darker days, he thought of Rognvald’s unshakeable Christian conviction that he acted in Hlif’s best interest. Skarfr put little faith in prayers to saints but hadn’t Saint Magnus given him all he’d asked for in exchange for the precious bird bones? Adventures and dragon ships? A prick of conscience reminded him that he’d vowed silence as a votive offering in hopes Hlif’s curse would be lifted. He had broken that vow in spectacular fashion.
But surely that was the gods’ decision, not his? After all, he was to be a renowned skald, something which made him smile, despite his fears
Hlif asked him, ‘Why are you smiling?’
‘The curse you laid on me, that you would marry me when I was a skald “renowned from this land to the Old Country”. I might just be that skald. Maybe the cormorant spoke true and I can make sagas. And maybe the first condition of you marrying me is met, so half your curse is lifted.’
Nestled in his arms, she turned to meet his eyes. ‘It was not a curse but a prophesy. So it shall be, my love. I swear, by the dragon.’
She stroked the blue-ashed image on his arm, fork-tongue spitting fire and he remembered her watching his possession by the spirits, an ancient priestess with wand raised. She’d channelled the fire into this brand on his arm, saved his life from fever a second time.
His questing hand hit upon her pouch of rune-stones, beside the wand in her belt, alongside who knew what tools she would bring to the pilgrims’ aid. Not so helpless.
‘I need you at my side,’ he confessed. ‘I’m glad you’re coming too.’
‘I know,’ she said.
He plaited her loose hair, coiled it back up under the demure coif, pinned it in place as she’d taught him, stroked the back of her neck.
‘O vivid Valkyrie,’ he declaimed, ‘your power vaunting,
Your helpless hapless hero lays
In your lap the deeds and dramas of
A myriad marvellous moments.’
She chewed her lip. ‘I like “vivid Valkyrie,”’ she decided. ‘More.’
Kennings slipped from mind to mouth as easily as fish swam downstream.
‘My vivid Valkyrie
Fate-weaver
Hearth-maker
Rune-reader
Heart-breaker
Wool-weigher
Fare-baker
Wand-waver
Life-saver
Elskan min.’
‘More,’ she ordered.
And he knew there would be more. Their saga had only just begun.