Orkneyjar was recovering from the influx of foreigners, the frenzy of fitting and supplying ships, the wait for spring weather and tides. Jarl Rognvald had just gone a-viking – or Jórsalaheim-faring as he preferred to call it. There would be honour and saga-stories for the pilgrims, despite the bickering which had marred their departure. Hlif the Housekeeper would be missed in the Bu but nobody was irreplaceable.
Jarl Harald was young but a man for all that, with Thorbjorn’s experience to draw upon. Which was just as well. Rumour said that Erlend had declared himself Jarl, reminding Orkneymen of his rights and that two jarls must heed their people. Rumour also said the unthinkable had happened, that Sweyn was in intimate talks with Erlend, in a fit of pique against Rognvald, Harald and, most of all, Thorbjorn. It would not be the first time Sweyn put a jarl on the throne – or dispatched one.
But Thorbjorn was a match for Sweyn, and Harald was already their Jarl, so men watched which way the fickle winds blew and waited.
Of little interest in the grand scheme, or to anyone around him, an old man withered and was found dead by the hearth in a longhouse in his home settlement. An Irish thrall buried him in a common mound and burned his meagre possessions, except for a missive on parchment that the old man had told him was to be sent to Skarfr at the Jarl’s Bu, after his death.
‘Only after my death, mind,’ Botolf had insisted, knowing the man could be trusted, however badly he’d been treated. Some men’s natures were written so, indelibly honest. Fools.
The thrall, Fergus, gave the letter to a tradesman who was heading to Orphir and could deliver it to Skarfr, as per the name on the outside of the parchment. Or so illiterate Fergus assumed. If the ships had already sailed for Jórsalaheim, no doubt the letter would stay with Skarfr’s belongings at the Bu, awaiting his return. Perhaps Botolf had repented of his wrongdoings and had some last words for Skarfr, so as to end his life in grace.
When the messenger reached Orphir, he found the ships had indeed sailed. The thrall had asked him to deliver the letter to Skarfr personally or to the kitchen-master but what would a man of such low status know of court ways? The messenger was conscientious so he checked the name on the missive and his low opinion of Fergus was confirmed. The letter was for Thorbjorn. This was good news as he could fulfil his mission and Lord Thorbjorn would no doubt reward the messenger’s efficiency, as Skarfr could not.
After reading the missive, twice, Thorbjorn did indeed reward the messenger’s efficiency. With a knife in the ribs, in case he’d read the contents, not just the name on the outside.
Nobody would know that a gangling youth and his whore had made a fool of him, snatched Sweyn’s sister from his grasp and from the satisfaction of vengeance. But now he knew. He read the end of the letter once more.
…installed two thralls – one a woman, even! – as masters, above their status, above me in what should be my longhouse, bringing shame on all Norðmen. You who are Jarl of Orkneyjar in all but name, my Lord Thorbjorn, you who are a foster-father too – and who understand what is due to one who has raised a child not his own – I know you will not let such unnatural, ungrateful behaviour spread its evil contagion.
May the gods reward me as I deserve in the next life for, if you read these words, I have left this one.
Botolf Begla, Renowned Skald to the Courts of Snaeland, Norðvegr and Orkneyjar
Thorbjorn screwed up the parchment and threw it into the fire, his every muscle clenched, his temples pulsing. He sent a message to Harald that he would be absent on personal business for a few days. Then he summoned five men he could trust, had ponies saddled and rode for Skarfr’s longhouse.