To Lie With Lions: The Sixth Book of the House of Niccolo

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘Blame Herra Oddur, or the Bishop,’ Nicholas said. ‘They wanted you killed. Anyway, you can’t afford to run away now. Men would laugh at you.’

  ‘No, they wouldn’t,’ Benecke said. ‘There would be nobody left to tell them what happened.’

  ‘Not even you,’ Nicholas said. ‘If you go back without me, John will kill you. It’s white bears or nothing.’

  They argued all the way over the river, while the horses wheezed and snorted at angles behind them, their eyes rimmed with white, their broad heads shoved into the current. In the boat, the dog shivered and whined. Nicholas was thinking about Glímu-Sveinn, all the time he was talking. Until now, he hadn’t been sure how far to trust him. Paúel represented authority, and by bartering fish for the dogger, Glímu-Sveinn had committed a crime. He owed something to Nicholas, but need not put himself out to preserve Benecke’s life any more than had the bailiff.

  But it was more complex than that, as the outburst just now had revealed. If Sigfús dies because of the Flemings, I will kill them. Glímu-Sveinn despised Sigfús. He had no relationship, good or bad, with Sersanders. He was giving form to a sense of unease that now appeared to have a reason behind it. Benecke played no part in the equation at all.

  Nicholas understood that, because he too had been aware of unfocused foreboding. He had experienced this manifestation of it often enough in the past: from Julius, complaining of some trouble Nicholas had got Felix into; from Tasse in Geneva, when he had lured another boy into mischief in an obstinate rebuttal of misery; from his mother, when he had dragged off her baby half-sister into some wild children’s game. They had all exploded like that, until he had learned to do things on his own.

  He had not felt like this when his mother died. He had had no foreboding at all. It was only in recent years that he had found himself beset by strange fears and premonitions; punishment for crossing some mystical threshold. He had felt the sense of danger again, ever since setting foot on the banks of Markarfljót. Now, like Glímu-Sveinn, he supposed that he had discovered the cause.

  He put his gloved hand to his throat, and saw Benecke watching him, but in fact he felt better. Sersanders was sturdy and well trained and armed, and the guide was not surely a cipher. As for Kathi, she was probably match for any three bears. Despite himself, the excitement rose in his blood. Kathi had not wanted to miss this experience, and neither did he. It was the threat of the intangible which had shaken him. But of course he could not predict. He had not been able to predict the death of his mother.

  Now there were practical things to be done, and they did them. The ferryman would not come with them, but helped them catch the ponies as they landed downriver and took the three men into his cabin for soup. It was wise, although they wanted to hurry. And the ponies had to be reloaded with the necessary gear ready to hand. Nicholas uncased two crossbows and, keeping one, gave the other with its forked bolts to Benecke. The Icelander already carried a spear and a knife and an axe: it would do.

  When they left, the dog was put on a lead. It ran back and forth barking and no one attempted to silence it. At intervals, Glímu-Sveinn set his lips to his horn. The wind, which had risen a little, was blowing against them, but Sersanders might hear. There were no prints, or none yet, where they were riding, but Glímu-Sveinn seemed to know where to go. Between the bogs and the streams and the lava, there was probably not so much choice.

  After they had been riding for some little while, they were surprised by a brief fall of snow; a shower so fine that it sparkled like dust in the sunshine. When it ceased, the distant landscape vanished, white as a veil, and then returned bit by bit, in coins of picturesque detail. In places, the sky was pewter and purple, flat as a plate, with the cones and glaciers dazzling below it. The wind strengthened. Presently Glímu-Sveinn stopped.

  ‘What?’ said Benecke.

  ‘They have doubled back to the north. They have gone to look for a ferry to recross the Hvita.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Benecke. ‘Where are their prints?’

  ‘After the snow?’ the Icelander said. ‘But if you look, there is the mark of a horse-shoe, in the lee of that boulder.’

  Nicholas said, ‘It could be last week’s. Are you sure about this? We have seen no sign of bear. Even the dog has stopped barking.’

  ‘He was excited,’ the Icelander said.

  ‘He was excited every time we diverged to the south. I think the bear and the bear-cub are there.’ Nicholas spoke harshly, with reason. Every time he looked to the south, his nape pricked like the ruff of the dog, and he wanted to cringe. He repeated, ‘The bear is in the south.’

  ‘You know this land?’ said Glímu-Sveinn. ‘No? Then listen. There are no fish south of here, and no ptarmigan. If this bear has a cub, then I know where she is going. So will Sigfús. So do the foxes: I have seen the prints. Perhaps the foreigners will abandon the hunt; we cannot tell. The only sure way is to track down the white bear and kill it, so that we may all go back safely to Skálholt. I am going north.’

  ‘The danger is in the south,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘Then it is another danger,’ said Glímu-Sveinn.

  ‘Listen,’ said Paúel Benecke.

  The sound came from the north and the east, fragmented by the increasing interference of the wind. Not a scream or a roar, but the high nasal yapping of falcons, mingled with another call, powerful and barking.

  ‘I hear it,’ said Glímu-Sveinn. ‘You wished to see more of our fine eagles, nei? There they are.’

  Nicholas and Benecke stared at them: a cluster of specks to the north, circling and swooping. Benecke said, ‘That is a sad sight. I am sorry, my good man. We should change horses, and hurry.’

  They hardly spoke after that, but followed Glímu-Sveinn’s hammering heels as he thrust his little beast forward, never ceasing except over the bogs and the lava, where he let the animal pick its own way. Once, when the footing was good and the pace swift, Benecke said, ‘Tell me about the girl.’

  ‘She is Adorne’s niece,’ Nicholas said.

  ‘And therefore intelligent, I should suppose? She wanted you to follow?’

  ‘She knows me well enough to expect it. She enjoys novelty: so do I. She is not,’ Nicholas said, ‘playing at maidens and dragons.’

  ‘You reassure me,’ said Benecke. ‘I always preferred the dragon to that simpleton George. You are lovers? Or she wants you to be?’

  ‘For the last time –’ began Nicholas.

  ‘– you are like brother and sister.’

  ‘Not even that. We are, if anything, brothers,’ said Nicholas. He stopped, surprised to think how true it was. He added, ‘She is like a young brother.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Benecke. ‘And you think that is reassuring?’

  Then they got to the river. They dismounted. This stretch of the Hvita was wide, with snow powdering the slush at the edges, and whitening the wide banks of sand which divided the fast, thrusting currents. There was no snow on the outcrops of rock which also stood in the path of the flow, with spume dashing man-high, and shards of ice sliding round them like salmon. The water was white and heavy with discoloured debris, but there was no pumice that he could see. He had been told (by Robin, in tutor/grandfather mode) that pumice was the froth of the lava, and sometimes covered the sea so that ships couldn’t sail. This water was merely opaque and angry and noisy.

  The noise was indescribable; so great that Benecke had to hammer his shoulder to make him look where Glímu-Sveinn was pointing. First he indicated upstream, where you could see the birds of prey now – more of them, and nearer. And then the Icelander turned his wrist down, pointing to the idling edge of the river, where the slush was coloured pink, and the thick milky water was marbled with blood.

  Nicholas turned to his horse, took out his crossbow, and settled the quiver with its barbed bolts at his side. He saw Benecke was doing the same. Then they set off to lead their horses along the bank towards the birds. The packhorses were already tied tail to harness and, b
ut for the dog, would not have followed. Nicholas realised that the dog was barking and snarling, and had been for some time. After a bit Glímu-Sveinn stopped, lifting his arm once again. He wore woollen gloves, with a second thumb sticking out from his little finger. The hand of a troll.

  The bank had become steep, the noise hollow. He was pointing away from the water, to a confusion of hoofprints, and then the clear footprints of people. Two of them had worn fine leather boots. The third wore the soft sealskin shoes of the Icelander, drawn together and sewn in one piece, teasing the snow with the fur on their soles. Sersanders, Kathi and Sigfús.

  ‘This is where they saw the bear,’ Glímu-Sveinn said, ‘and dismounted. They would arm, as we are doing. Whatever it was happened there, just beyond the next bend of the river.’

  There was no blood on the snow, only footprints. They followed the tracks round the bend and, sickeningly, half the river below them ran red. The red came from an island in the centre: a bank of gritty black sand like the others but not, like the others, whitened with snow. The surface was covered, in this case, by the immense yellow-white corpse of a bear. Its two large cushioned hind feet, pronged with black, lay pigeon-toed under its rump, and birds hovered over its flank and its head, scolding the little delicate fox, white as down, already busy there. You could see the dead beast was a female, in milk. Everything, including the fox, was blood-splattered.

  ‘Hà!’ cried Glímu-Sveinn. ‘Hà! Sigfús is sober!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ the Danziger said. ‘If so, where is he?’

  He was speaking in the wrong language; and in any case, Nicholas had already arrived, jumping and sliding, at the bottom of the bank. The birds rose and hovered, complaining. The fox had turned and continued to gnaw, his eyes fixed on the horses and men. He was a good distance away, and there was a deal of fierce white water between them. Benecke arrived, and set his hand to his bow. Nicholas stopped him. Benecke swore.

  Nicholas said, ‘Look. Three sets of prints. They shot her, and came down, but she swam to the island and died there. They tried to wade in and came back – see the prints. Then the sealskin shoes went back downriver alone.’

  ‘Why?’ Benecke said.

  ‘To fetch help. To get a boat. To bring back ropes, if they didn’t have any. The bearskin was valuable. But no one was hurt – there is no blood above the edge of the water. And if someone had drowned, the other would have gone with Sigfús. By the way, he was drunk. He was staggering.’

  ‘Unless they were both swept away,’ Benecke said.

  It had been what Nicholas was afraid of at first. Then he had found the other footmarks, booted, impatient, walking up and down and then turning to reclimb the bank. Nicholas walked over to where Glímu-Sveinn had joined them. ‘What has happened?’ he said.

  The Icelander lifted his shoulders. ‘Putt! The fools! The carcass is ruined! They were unable to cross; Sigfús has gone to get help. There is a farm five miles to the south. We passed near it. But they have filled him full of ale, and he has lost his way, or fallen asleep; who can tell? So after waiting a while, they have grown impatient. The fools!’

  ‘You saw the footprints above? They’ve ridden after him?’

  ‘How would they know where to go? No. They have continued upriver, to the north. Why, I cannot tell.’

  ‘Then we must follow,’ Nicholas said. ‘Or I must follow. You should try and find Sigfús Helgason, should you not? With your dog?’

  Dogs could find human beings under nine ells of snow, Robin had said. You wouldn’t find nine ells of snow anywhere here, unless in a fissure, or a hole in a lava-bed, or unless the snow started again. The water still sparkled in sunlight; the snow that clouded its banks was nothing but eddies scooped up by the wind.

  Glímu-Sveinn said, ‘I cannot leave you.’

  ‘But there is a ferry,’ Nicholas said. ‘A ferry, you said, to the north? We shall take six of the horses and follow the prints of the young people. Then the ferryman surely will help us. Leave the bear. It isn’t worth salving. Find Sigfús and join us once he is safe.’

  ‘You didn’t ask me,’ said Paúel Benecke ten minutes later. They stood, mounted once more, looking after the vanishing Icelander.

  ‘You’ve no say. You’re my prisoner,’ said Nicholas. ‘Why? Have I done something to frighten you?’

  ‘No,’ Benecke said. ‘We have abandoned our guide and his dog. We are two men in a strange land in charge of a handful of horses with, I fear, more snow on the way, and a track to follow which may soon be obliterated. I have never felt happier. Where is the bear-cub, do you suppose?’

  ‘Pursuing Sigfús, very likely,’ said Nicholas. ‘And if he isn’t, he’s smaller than you are. Do you know what I think?’ He had started to ride. Benecke followed.

  ‘You don’t think,’ Benecke said. ‘They were right. They said you were a furious maniac.’ His eyes were gleaming.

  Nicholas said, ‘I think our Flemish couple have gone to the springs. Kathi wanted to see them. They’re over the river.’

  ‘What springs?’ Benecke said.

  ‘Hot springs,’ Nicholas answered. ‘Great big enormous boiling hot gushers, leaping a hundred feet high. Bubbling mud. Steaming pools. Seething rivers. They’re all over Iceland. People cook their food in them, and dry and wash out their clothes, and bathe themselves every Thváttdagr, Saturday. They changed Fryádagr to Föstudagr, Fast Day, but of course they eat fish every day, so they could call it Sinful Blood Pudding Day for all that it matters. Anyway, they got tired of Freya, according to Glímu-Sveinn:

  ‘I will not serve an idle log

  For one, I care not which;

  But either Odin is a dog

  Or Freya is a bitch.’

  Paúel Benecke moaned. ‘You are a maniac! You meant to go to the springs all along!’

  ‘No. Kathi did. But I must say,’ Nicholas said, ‘that now I have leave of Besse, I shall enjoy it.’

  He frowned at Benecke’s uplifted brows. ‘The great white bear. The Muscovites, I am told, call him Mishka, and the Mongolians refer to him as Ese, grandfather. Once, long ago, a young priest called Isleifr from Iceland carried one as a gift to the Emperor, and lived to become Bishop of Skálholt. Nowadays, when one does something without leave in Iceland, one does it by permission of Besse.’

  ‘The tale of your life, I suspect,’ said Paúel Benecke. ‘And of mine, I have to admit. So yes. Let us go. Let us go and visit your devilish cauldrons. I have no desire to meet this Sersanders, but I am much looking forward to the acquaintance of your young brother Kathi.’

  Chapter 27

  I TOLD YOU,’ said Katelijne Sersanders. ‘I told you he’d come. Tie it tight. Tighter. I knew he’d come. You’d better be ready with a merry quip about the Unicorn and the sulphur. Now throw it in.’

  With a jerk of pure exasperation, her brother did as she asked. He said, ‘Nicholas doesn’t know about the Unicorn and the sulphur. He’s probably sunk the Maiden, killed its captain, and thinks that it wouldn’t do any harm to ingratiate himself with the Icelanders and me. God knows the Bishop and the Governor are not fond of the Hanse.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if they were,’ Kathi said, ‘considering how much money they make behind the Hanse’s back. I’m going to call again. Stop your ears.’ She had tried to teach Sersanders falsetto, but he had never been in the Tyrol and couldn’t split his voice into three. She warbled for a long time, with some pride; and was gratified, once again, when someone warbled back promptly. It was nearer.

  Sersanders said, ‘You know, if the wind gets up again, he’ll walk straight across and step into every hot cauldron and boil.’

  ‘Broth again,’ said Kathi automatically. It was true. When the wind rose, or it snowed, you couldn’t distinguish the haze from the vapour. She said, ‘He’ll stop till it clears, or his guide will. And he’ll follow the staves. How many should we cook for, do you think?’

  ‘Two,’ said Sersanders, gazing into the distance. ‘That’s all I can see.
Six ponies, Nicholas and his guide. I suppose it’s his guide. He’s wearing a hat and a boat-cloak. Tell me before you make that sound again.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Katelijne, uncupping her mouth. It had been less a cry of welcome than a crow of shared pleasure for M. de Fleury. He had rounded the hill as she had, lured by the white drifting steam from beyond it. And now he was standing gazing at what lay before him: the whole vast sloping terrain, white and grey, grey and black, of the fuming crust of the earth, below which seethed and bubbled the deep scalding vents from which rose the steam, the sulphur, the mud, the jets of sizzling water and the rivulets which boiled their way through the snow.

  As the cry echoed over the waste, Kathi felt the pressure change under her feet. She looked down. Something spoke: a dark sound below the splutter and hiss of the field. There was a trembling pause. With a roar, the basin behind her gave birth to a fierce jet of steam, followed by a mounting volley of water. It rose and spread in the sunshine and dropped, while the steam blew and rolled in the wind, obliterating the distant figures of ponies and men. By the time it cleared, the beasts had been hobbled, and the men had started to move, and were making use of her marker-staves. There were not very many: they came from Sigfús’s spare tents. She wondered how Sigfús was. She wondered what guide M. de Fleury had got, because he wasn’t walking in front, as a guide should.

  She said to her brother, ‘You jumped. You thought it was ours.’ The geysirs exploded at different intervals. She had chosen the big one to prime. She hoped it would wait until M. de Fleury was here. She had timed it. She had packed it with turf. Sometimes it came when you didn’t expect it. The first time, their tent was too close, and Anselm had been rather angry. Now she thought he was enjoying it almost as much as she was. She wished M. de Fleury would hurry, and then cautioned herself. Shag in soup. She stood, beaming.

  M. de Fleury, when he came up, looked as he had on board ship, blithe as frost on a window. She said with satisfaction, ‘You came.’