“I don’t know,” Corban said, seeing a good time to lie. “I am nothing, I only do as she bids me.” He fingered the red coat; Arinbjorn only spoke so openly with him because of this coat, he knew.
“Well, it’s Gunnhild who bids Eric. She wants him to take on England, which in my view is fairly mad.” His lips stretched into a smooth smile. “The Lady, like as not, wants him to go for Norway, which is even worse—Eric was no match for Hakon in the old days, but now that he’s fat and old—”
He broke off, looking elsewhere. Corban filled his cup again, saying nothing. He realized Arinbjorn was quicker at this game than he was, knew everything already, and was reciting like a bard from his favorite tales. Probably had some matters of his own interest. Arinbjorn drank the cup down appreciatively. “This is good ale.”
“It’s the jug,” Corban said.
Arinbjorn laughed, as if he had made a joke. “Well, anyway. Something has to happen with Eric, but I can’t see what it is. Certainly he’s ruining Jorvik, which was the richest city in England. And there’s Gunnhild. She’s never been content here. His boys are almost old enough to take on the chores, so if he won’t do it, Gunnhild will turn to them soon. But Eric won’t stand for that, I think—that house breeds old men, old and murderous, and when he gets his back up Eric is still a great warrior.”
He held out the cup, and Corban filled it again, and the dansker lord drank. He said, “That’s very good ale, but I’ve paid for it now,” and started toward the door. Corban went alongside him.
“You should come up to the hall,” Arinbjorn said. “I understand the King is very pleased with you, for the sake of that fine load of iron. He’ll give you a place there, although what you’ll get to eat nobody can predict. I’ll be at your ship in a little while. Good day to you, Corban.”
Corban saw him out the door. What Arinbjorn had told him turned slowly around in his head, like something unfolding. He felt the vast churn of some struggle going on around him, but he had no sense of it: who was behind it all, and what they were fighting for. The thought crept into his mind that no one was the master of it, that all these people were only battling for small advantages, while the world fell apart of its own weight.
He reminded himself that usually when he thought he knew something, he was wrong. Holding the jug and the cup, he went over to the hearth, where Arre and Grod were laughing, and Euan was bent over the abacus, moving the beads around.
Grod took the cup and filled it. Arre said, “That jug is never empty.”
Corban said, “Take some with you.” The wonderful jug, like the wonderful purse, was a useless magic. It did no good, but only muddled people’s wits; what he needed was a wonderful loaf, but he had found nothing like that in this house. Now Arre was standing up, her cheeks flushed. “I am going, Corban. I’m very glad to see you.” She laughed again, drunk.
Euan said, “May I have this?” He held out the abacus.
Corban frowned. “No, it is not mine to give to you. Do you know how to use it?”
“I think so,” Euan said. He blinked a few times; Corban wondered if he were a little short-sighted. He said, “It’s very interesting.”
“Come in tomorrow,” Corban said, “and show me how.”
Mav had been singing all day long. The Lady withdrew wearily to her cupboard, and sent a slave for a cup of warm wine. Now at least she knew what she was up against, in working the Danish king’s will with Eric Bloodaxe.
A kink of anger tightened in her stomach. Young Eric had looked like the rising star of all the world. He had been magnificent, then, a golden-haired warrior on the verge of mighty deeds. She wondered if he had ever been a hero, or if it had all been only Gunnhild, clothing him with her expectations even then, when he was young and strong.
The cup of wine came to her hand, and she drank some of it. Taking the gold ring from her arm she laid it on the carpet, and watched the little world appear, with the wrinkled sea waves, and the gilded edges of the land all around its edges.
Now she knew also that Corban’s ship was coming. He was working, at least. He had learned too quickly about the purse, and he was distracted by the idea of saving the people in Jorvik, which was useless to her, and not possible anyway. Certainly it made no sense to send shiploads of corn there, which he would never get a decent price for. In her mind she saw the little bars of gold in her storeroom turning into money, and the money like a flock of little yellow birds flying away out the window.
Still, there would be more money, and Corban had brought her knowledge, which was better than money: she knew now what he needed. If Bluetooth would not, she herself would send Eric an offer of some ships of hers, if he manned them. Once he accepted the ships she could see that he took them off in the right direction. Gunnhild she could lure into the scheme with something pretty—like the vision stones that she collected, foolishly, the Lady thought; all vision stones bent and twisted truth, gave back mostly what the viewer wanted to see, and some were actively false, especially if acquired wrongfully.
Maybe she could secure a false vision somehow for Gunnhild. She thought that over a while, getting nowhere.
She toyed with offering something for the eldest prince, Gimle—a boy of ten or twelve years, she knew—old enough to go a-viking, and where better than Norway? That would suit Bluetooth’s purposes, and hers, just as well as sending Eric off to raid. She considered what might happen if she offered Gimle Ericsson one of her ships for his own.
She smiled. That would boil the family cauldron to a fine hot havoc. She had no use now for havoc, but she would keep it in mind. As for the rest, it was done. She would send the cargos straight off to Hollandstadt, to save Corban’s captain the trouble of sending overland to Hedeby. The letter from Arinbjorn to King Harald Bluetooth, she knew, would be an offer to mend the long quarrel between them, and she would see that lost; it would not do to give Arinbjorn any place with Bluetooth, although he was only a man, and not even a king. A wise, subtle, rich man, though: keep him on the outs with Bluetooth.
With half an ear she listened to Mav’s wild singing, flashing images of Jorvik through her mind. She would send no corn. Let Corban go hungry a little—it would sharpen his wits and teach him how to keep. Picking up the gold ring again, she slid it back onto her arm.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Eric’s hall was packed, more tables out than Corban had seen before, all jammed with men. On every roof post a torch blazed, sending out billows of pine smoke, and the roar of voices was deafening. Corban went in quietly. He saw Sweyn Eelmouth, at a table near the High Seat, sitting with his head thrown back, laughing. He had heard that Sweyn was off on some errand of the King’s but clearly now he had come home again. The rest of Eric’s men were all sitting together at the four tables down the west side of the hall.
Across from them, at two other tables, sat strangers—obviously not dansker—men in darker clothes, with trimmer beards and hair, who did not laugh. Corban straightened himself, and was suddenly very glad of the red coat, which was as good as any in this hall.
He looked for Arinbjorn, and found him, but not where he usually sat on the King’s right hand; he was down the table. In his customary place was a tall man with black hair and a massive gold chain around his neck. Corban walked up between the two rows of tables toward the High Seat.
Eric took up most of the great chair. He seemed grander than Corban remembered him, bigger, with the high head and flashing eyes of a true king. He wore his crown, and his clothes were magnificent. Corban went up before him and bowed.
“Welcome, Corban Loosestrife,” Eric said. His voice boomed, resonant. He turned to the black-haired man in the gold chain, and said, “This man buys and sells in Jorvik for the Lady of Hedeby.”
The tall man cleared his throat. He looked as if he had bitten into a quince. He said, “We are Christians in England. We do not suffer witches.”
On Eric’s left side, Gunnhild stirred suddenly, her head turning, her long golden braids sl
ithering down her shoulder, her feet tucking under her, as if she coiled herself. Arinbjorn was watching Corban. Their eyes caught for an instant and the dansker trader nodded to him. Corban said, “By your leave, my lords,” and went around the end of the table, where Arinbjorn was making room for him on the bench.
As he set himself down, Arinbjorn swung toward him, his eyes glinting. “You’re going to take that? I’d at least insult him back.”
“Who are all these people?”
“Talkers from the English king,” Arinbjorn said. “Meaning spies. Morcar there speaks excellent dansker, although he should know better about the women. But you can thank them for the fine food; Eric has stripped his storerooms to impress them.” He nodded at the great roast boar sprawled across the table in front of them.
Corban pulled a fat back rib off the roasted pig and began to eat. He had given the last of his bread to the people in his house; if he had not come here he would have had no supper, and he ate with pleasure.
The Englishman, he noticed, did not, but tasted only a little of the flesh and made a face, putting his hand on his stomach. On the far side of him from the splendid Eric sat Gunnhild, her hand firmly on the King’s, staring in the opposite direction from Morcar, and smiling.
“What are they spying out?”
Arinbjorn shrugged. “Nothing that will do them any good, I think. Here come the skalds. At least we shall have some entertainment.”
Up the length of the hall paraded a file of men in gaudy tunics, with combed hair and beards and gold rings around their arms and necks. Corban sat back, his belly full. Down at the next table he could hear Sweyn Eelmouth talking, his voice high and clear against the general din. Then abruptly the din hushed, and the first of the skalds began to speak.
The words were dansker, but Corban could make no sense of them, just grand baffling phrases, which the skald rolled out in a high-pitched yell that carried all through the room. Corban glanced at Arinbjorn and saw the merchant lord smiling with delight, his head nodding along with the words, his eyes fixed on the skald. Corban struggled after the meanings of the sweeping chains of syllables, a strange mix of swans and roads and Odin and Thor, booming out in a harsh cadence that made his hair stand on end. As the skald cried his song furiously to its close, he began to feel the huge rhythms of it, the elegance of the phrases; it reminded him of old Irish songs, about a time when men were heroes, and did great deeds.
Except this was not about ancient men, this was about Eric. The song ended with a cascade of praises for the King of Jorvik, who sat with his head proudly high, and the skald bowed almost double and sat down.
“A drapa for the King,” Arinbjorn said. “Everybody makes one now.” He leaned back so that a slave could fill the cup he and Corban were sharing. “A few years ago, Eric caught an old enemy of his, an Icelander who is as good at poetry as he is at killing. Eric was about to take his head, until the Icelander made a great drapa about him, and recited it right here, in front of the whole of Jorvik. Eric was so pleased he let him go. Nobody can actually remember much of that drapa, not even Egil, probably, who made it up, but now every skald in the world wants to outdo the Head-Ransom. It’s a lesson, somehow.” He tasted his ale. “I wish you’d brought some of that ale of yours. This is swill.”
Corban agreed with that. Another skald was rolling out a tongueful of phrases, his arms carving the air in enormous jerky gestures. Under the steady flow of compliments, the King sat sprawled in the High Seat like a cat in the sunshine. His wife was curled beside him, looking elsewhere, her hand on his arm. Corban eased the collar of his red coat; he felt a little drunk, too hot, and stuffed into his coat like meat into a sausage.
Eric lifted his cup and spilled some of the beer down the front of his magnificent clothes. It was the same Eric, for all his royal looks. Corban drew his eyes away from him, his spirits sagging. He wondered what if any of this was real, and what was only in his mind, absorbing something that Gunnhild gave off like a vapor. Suddenly he felt as if he were somewhere else, separate from all these men, watching them through a window.
Beside him, Arinbjorn was leaning forward slightly, his hands propped before him, his gaze intent on the reciting skald. Down at the next table, Sweyn was talking again, under the louder voice of the poet. “I sailed down the coast all the way to Humbermouth, and there was nothing. Not a field, not a cow.”
The words chimed together in Corban’s mind. In his memory he saw a pile of the bloody bones of cows, beside the seacoast. His gut churned. From down deep in his thoughts a terrible knowledge was rising irresistibly toward the surface, something he had actually known for a long time, but had refused to face. He remembered Arinbjorn saying, “Eric sends Sweyn now to do his work.” The back of his neck grew hot. Up into his mind like a blinding white blaze of light came the realization that it had been Eric, that day, in Ireland, those bloody bones, that burning house, those slaughtered people. Eric, and these men.
He held himself utterly still. He laid his hands on the table, and stared down at it, while the first rage broke over him: the will to rise, and strike at them, and kill them all where they sat, with all their murders on them.
Around him they talked and laughed, lolling on the benches, feeling nothing of the furnace heat of his anger. The coat half-choked him. He yanked hard at the sleeves.
He thought of Mav, and he cooled. He came back into himself, as if just now he had floated, a red mist, in the air over the hall. He could not kill these men, not even one of them. And there was Mav, all he had left was Mav.
As he cooled, and as the world rushed in on him again like an icy wind, he felt the pressure of the look, and turned his head and saw Gunnhild, down the table, staring at him.
He lowered his eyes, tingling all over. He got up with a mutter to Arinbjorn and went unsteadily down the hall toward the door.
He walked out to the airy darkness. His skin burst with sweat, and his belly rolled, the meat suddenly bad in his guts, the ale sour on the back of his tongue. He wanted to vomit it up, to rid himself of any taint of Eric Bloodaxe. His head pounded. The coat was too small, too tight. He tore at the front of it, yanking it open, letting the cool air reach him. He walked down toward the river; he felt swollen and clogged and he hardly looked where he was going, but let his feet take him. Slowly his mind cleared. He found himself on the street going down toward the river, near where Benna had sold her pots, and he went on down to the riverbank, and stood looking out over the water.
Damn you, Eric, he thought. Damn you all. Puny little words. He was a puny little man, who had sat among the men who had destroyed his family and not even lifted his hand to strike back.
It was all so twisted and crooked. He loved his sister, he could not fail her. He hated Eric. What was good was evil, or maybe there was no good, only lesser and greater evil. He could not think about it. Everything he did came out wrong. The world was corrupt, too broken to mend.
Not the world, but himself. He felt the cold wind on his face and chest, and the stars rained down their light on him. The rippling of the river reached his ears. He remembered, the winter before, when he was first in Jorvik, when he had gone off into the snowy wildness to hunt. He remembered how he had walked alone looking for hares and deer, and the peace he had felt then. That peace was gone now. Nor could he walk out there again and find it. He was a different man, somehow. He imagined himself trudging along in the snow, the red coat like a wound, like a blood spot against the snow.
He stood staring across the river, trying to make out Benna’s hut, thinking of going over there, and then behind him he heard a low growl.
He wheeled around, his scalp prickling up. For a long moment all he saw was the street rising away from him between two rows of shuttered, silent buildings. Then from the dark between two houses there stepped a wolf, her head low, and her eyes green in the moonlight.
He knew immediately who this was. The breath froze in his throat. The wolf paced toward him, staring at him, and the u
rge flooded into his mind to run.
He forced himself calm. He never took his eyes from the wolf, but watched her slink toward him, her jaws slack, and her tongue lolling out. He felt the ground under him wobble, the path shrink under his feet. An abyss opened up on either side of him. If he ran backwards, he came to the riverbank; if he ran upstream, the foss; downstream, the city wall. She would catch him any way he tried to escape, there was nowhere to hide—no matter how he dodged and doubled, she would catch him at once. He stood where he was, his knees buckling.
She said, “Where do you think you are going?”
“I am—” He cleared his throat. His hands went to the coat, and hastily he pulled it closed around him. In the back of his mind he begged the Lady for a charm. “I am going home,” he said. He took a step forward, straight ahead.
She growled at him. She leaked light, all her edges fiery. “You dare to threaten me and mine.”
“I have no power to harm you,” he said, and took another step straight ahead, toward her, armored in the Lady’s coat. “I am only going home.”
She sprang at him. He crouched, his arms up, and she passed right through him, a hot blast of wind. He let out a yell, but she was gone. He straightened, trembling, sick to his stomach. The world seemed to have tilted up, and now righted itself under his feet, the road before him solid and wide. Up on the height of the city, the church bell began to toll.
He stood where he was, cold. He felt no easier now. The coat had saved him, but she would try again, some other way. The Lady had said he would know what to do. He had no idea what to do. He walked on down the street toward his house, looking over his shoulder every third step.
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