‘Doesn’t sound like you like them much.’ Inga sighed. ‘I always thought it would be nice to have a brother.’
‘Brothers bring their own trouble,’ said Konur, knocking back his ale. ‘You know the tales. Of Brani and Brusi. Gerdrik and Arnulf. Feng and Horvand. My father’s lands will be mine. Brothers have killed each other for less.’
‘Do you know how stupid that sounds?’
‘Don’t you trust them?’ asked Einna.
‘They’re no trouble now. But we all grow older. I just make sure they know their place.’
‘Oh, I bet you’re good at that,’ said Inga.
He leaned back, considering her. ‘You like laughing at me, hey?’
‘That’s because you’re ridiculous. You take yourself so seriously.’
‘Well, it’s a serious business. . . Being me.’
They stared at each other, and this time she let him. Suddenly they burst out laughing. Konur threw his head back and laughed long and hard.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Einna.
Inga shook her head. She hardly knew.
‘Now, your cousin Hakan.’ Konur reached for the pitcher again. ‘That one’s serious as the pox.’
The mention of his name suddenly jarred in her head. How could she have forgotten him this whole time they were sitting there? ‘You don’t know him,’ she said, suddenly serious. No one knows him like I do.
‘Don’t think I care to know him much.’
‘Well, you should. He’s. . .’ She checked herself. He’s beautiful. Gentle, wild, strong. . . He’s. . . mine. She wanted to shout it. But no one must know. ‘Ask Einna – she’s been in love with him for years. Haven’t you, little goose?’
‘Shut up, you!’ snapped Einna, colouring scarlet.
‘It’s very sad,’ teased Inga, laying her hand against Einna’s cheek. ‘Like one of the old songs. He doesn’t love poor little Einnaling back.’
‘I can’t think why,’ offered Konur.
‘There you are, little goose,’ smiled Inga. Einna was blushing something fierce. ‘We should send you to Karlsted. You can pick yourself a husband from this one’s brothers.’ Einna squirmed. ‘How about the one that wets his pants?’ Inga clapped in delight.
‘Didn’t I tell you to shut your big hole? I’ll be fourteen this winter. I’ll soon marry a proven man. Not some wetpants baby. A man like. . . well, like you.’ Einna gazed adoringly at Konur.
‘You can’t have forgotten Hakan so quickly, little goose!’ Although hadn’t she just done that very thing?
‘Like Hakan then,’ added Einna. ‘Yes – certainly like him.’ She sighed, going all dreamy.
‘Hakan’s hardly a proven man,’ sniffed Konur.
‘Didn’t your father ever teach you only a fool insults a man under his own roof?’
‘I don’t see him here, do you? Besides, this isn’t his roof.’
‘It will be.’
‘You get nothing but folly from a fool,’ threw in Tolla, before disappearing back into her ale-cup.
‘Truly spoken,’ agreed Inga.
‘That right? Well, just to prove you both wrong, here – another toast. Come on.’ Konur poured again till their cups were brim-full. ‘To Hakan! Son of the great Lord Haldan – may he return here safe. And whole.’
His words suddenly brought back the gnawing dread of the afternoon. It crushed her heart, cold and cruel. Yes – mighty Frey, she prayed, bring him back to me. Inga squeezed the cup in hope.
Konur tapped each cup. ‘There – you have to drink to that now.’ Tolla looked doubtful. ‘All of you.’
They all drank. ‘You’ve my sympathies anyway, Einna,’ he said, wiping his lips. ‘I’ve been thinking of marriage a little myself.’
Inga nearly bit her cup. ‘You?’
‘Why not?’
‘And break the hearts of all those ass-headed thrall-girls?’ scoffed Tolla. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘No?’ he grinned. ‘I’m of an age. I have lands – or will have. I need a wife.’ Inga didn’t like the way he was looking at her. ‘I want a wife.’
‘And who’s the girl fated to have this good fortune?’ asked Tolla. Inga had to admire her. In one word, Tolla could make marrying Konur sound worse than a winter bath in cold piss.
‘No one,’ said Konur, ignoring the jibe. ‘Least, not yet. But she’ll be a worthy woman.’
‘Worthy?’ Inga hit the table with merriment. ‘As if you know what a worthy woman might be, after all those hay-turning sluts.’
‘I mean a woman of beauty. Strong in body, straight in mind. Noble, loyal, obedient—’
‘Docile, dumb, dull and dead! Boring, boring. What is it about mooning fools like you? You don’t want a wife – you want an obliging goat!’ Inga didn’t know why, but she was getting riled.
‘I think she sounds wonderful,’ mused Einna.
‘You would,’ snapped Inga. ‘She’s straight out of some stupid song he’s heard. Come to think on it, maybe you should marry Einna. The two of you could float around with your heads in the sky like two little clouds.’ She gave a sharp laugh, feeling her cheeks flush. The ale was making her louder.
‘I suppose you don’t want a man then.’
Inga snorted. She didn’t like his tone. Besides, she had a man already. ‘I have no need of a husband yet. I’m not even of age.’
‘You will be soon,’ chirped Einna. ‘Then your uncle will start looking for a match.’
‘He’ll do no such thing!’
It was Konur’s turn to laugh. ‘That’ll be news to him, no doubt. You’re dreaming if you think he’ll let you pick a man for yourself.’
‘You don’t know my uncle.’
‘I know he’s a man who knows the world. A man of good sense, at least by reputation. And it’s good sense to see you married with some advantage to your kin.’
‘The world’s a foolish place to treat women no better than cattle.’ Now she was angry. ‘Trussing them up and carting them off to market. Well, my uncle can try all he likes. It won’t happen to me. I’m free – like my mother was free. Folk tried to make her do whatever they wanted, but she never gave up. Isn’t that right, Tolla?’
‘Just so, my kitten,’ soothed the nurse, smoothing down Inga’s errant curls.
‘She married for love. My father married her for love, not for any advantage, as you call it. I’ll do the same. I’ll not be bound by any silly custom, just because someone says it must be. The world can go drown itself in the sea before I’d do that.’
‘But that is the world,’ he chuckled. ‘You can’t escape it. You’d have to drown yourself in the sea before that changed.’ He shook his head, amused. ‘And you say I’m the one with my head in the songs.’
‘You do sound like one, when you talk like that,’ agreed Einna.
Inga could have kicked the table. They don’t understand. Life is a song. If only Hakan would return.
‘I’ve got it!’ Einna’s face lit up. ‘You’re Guldis! Why, you’re just like her. Shut up in her snowy hall. Have you heard this song, Konur?’
‘Here, you can’t sing with a dry throat.’ He raised his cup. Einna knocked hers against his, excitedly.
‘You’re trying to get us drunk.’ Already, Inga’s words felt clumsy in her mouth. ‘We’re not as stupid as your bondsmen’s daughters.’ Her cheeks felt hot. ‘Are we, Tolla?’ She gave Tolla’s hand a squeeze. The nurse gave an affectionate smile in return. Did he think it was so easy? After what he did the last time? Suddenly she wanted the song more than anything.
‘Go on then, Einna. Sing! Sing, my Einnaling!’
And Einna sang, her voice pure as a ray of sun, her pale fingers drumming the rhythm on the table. Inga closed her eyes.
Black were the berries and green the leaf,
When stole away the Asgard thief.
With Freya’s dust and the pelt of Frey,
Loki flew beyond night and day.
He knew a maid in a high-rock hall,
Where ea
gles nest and falcons call.
Long she’d wept as the wind did wail,
For no man rode that stony trail.
Winters came and winters fled,
The lonely maid with lips so red,
Sang of a love that once she knew,
Of kisses soft as morning dew.
Loki slipped on Ingvi’s pelt,
A wolf he came to where she dwelt.
Alone, afraid, the maid—
Einna stopped, then shook her head. ‘Alone, afraid, the maid was . . .’ Suddenly, she knuckled her brow. ‘Pig shit!’ she swore, looking dismayed. ‘I’ve forgotten how it goes.’ So Inga took up the song instead.
Alone, afraid, the maiden screamed.
The wolf she’d feared from darkest dream.
She sang on as the torches burned low. Her voice was a shade darker than Einna’s, singing of Loki’s beguiling love, of the monstrous sons Guldis bore: werewolves, shape-shifters. Of terror and blood, of a hero’s coming and slaying her wicked offspring, of their passionate love. The song ended.
‘You have a sweet voice,’ murmured Konur.
Inga smiled. ‘So sweet it has put Tolla to sleep.’ She looked affectionately at her nurse, whose head was in her arms, the silver threads in her hair flickering gold in the firelight.
Einna’s eyes were still bright. ‘You sing one, Konur. If you can.’
‘If I can?’ He raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Judge for yourself. But first, another drink.’ He poured out more ale. ‘While your watchdog sleeps.’
Konur put down his cup. His voice was deep. He sang almost in a whisper, and soon Inga found herself swept up in his tale. The tale was sadder than hers, the melody mixing bitter with sweet. He wove his story well: of distant lands and cruel kings, of faithful love, of loss and triumph, of wisdom and, finally, of death.
As the song went on, Inga’s mind floated on its currents. Konur could sing, no question. And by the end, her heart had fallen a little captive to his voice.
The last note died, leaving only the crackle of the fire. His song had been long, and now only she was awake. Einna was snuggled close, fast asleep, breathing deep, dream-filled sighs.
‘They must be glad to hear you round the fires of Karlsted.’
‘Every fire loves a song.’ This time he didn’t look at her. His pale eyes were gazing far away into the flames. ‘Did you know it?’
‘I’ve heard it before, long ago. Or one like it.’
He turned away from the fire and his sweet eyes settled on hers. But he said nothing. Instead they sat like that, the silence seeming to linger for ever. Inwardly, she groaned. What was she doing? The air smells rank with trouble. But instead of groaning, a laugh eventually escaped her lips; a tinkling, nervous laugh, not like hers at all.
‘I’ll grant you this, Konur – I can see why all those girls fall on their backs.’ She laughed. She felt stronger when she laughed at him. ‘It may work on them.’ She leaned forward and tapped his cheek. ‘But it won’t on me.’
Suddenly he caught her wrist. She tried to pull away, but he gripped tight. A flicker of fear shot through her. She pulled again, insistent this time, and her hand came away. ‘It’s late.’
Konur glared on, those girlish eyes of his intent; and for a heartbeat, she thought she saw something cruel lurking in their beauty.
She stirred Einna. Her friend blinked drowsily and stretched. Inga got to her feet, feeling suddenly unsteady. ‘Ooh – too much of that stuff.’ She pushed away the cup. Much too much.
She went to Tolla and gently roused her. Einna was already stretching out again, sinking back into sleep, but Tolla rose and lifted her to her feet, pushing her up the ladder to the sleeping-bower on one side of the hall. ‘You too,’ the nurse called, before climbing wearily after Einna.
Inga disappeared into the shadows and returned with a homespun blanket.
‘Men up there.’ She gave a tired nod towards the bower on the other side of the hall.
‘Well then.’ She pressed the blanket into his chest. ‘Goodnight.’ He glanced up into the shadows. The others were now quiet as the dead.
‘Inga, when I spoke of a wife, I meant you,’ he suddenly whispered. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘Shhhh! Don’t be so ridiculous.’
‘Why is that ridiculous?’ His voice sounded all whiny. Stupid.
‘Because—’ she began. ‘Because. . .’ Because of a thousand reasons, surely?. . . Or is it only one? ‘Because I’m not of age. Because I don’t even want to think about marriage. Not with you. Not with anyone,’ she lied. Seemed there was a lot of lying to be done.
‘But you’ll be old enough soon. Next spring. And. . . and I love you.’
‘No, you don’t!’ she hissed, angry that he was being so clumsy. Worried he would do something that would make it even worse.
But he already had an arm round her, mouth lurching at hers. She snatched up her hand between them to prise him away.
‘Stop it, Konur!’ But his eager face kept pressing in. ‘Stop it!’ She wriggled and wrestled, at last getting free. ‘You mustn’t do that.’
‘But . . . but I—’
‘You don’t love me. Stop saying that! How can you? You don’t even know me!’
‘How do you know how I feel?’
She backed away. He was right; she didn’t know how he felt. Truth was she didn’t even know how she felt just then. ‘Just go to sleep.’ And when there was enough distance between them, she fled to the ladder.
‘Inga!’ he called after her. Her hands were already on the rails. ‘Is there any hope?’
She looked back over her shoulder. ‘No,’ she insisted, but his expression was expectant as ever, like some stupid dog who knows he’ll get what he wants if only he’ll sit still and wait. Well, he can wait till the Ragnarok! ‘No!’ she hissed again, wanting to scream it.
Instead, she put her foot to the first rung. But by the time she reached the top, she was wondering why her ‘no’ sounded so much like ‘yes’.
Many leagues north, Hakan watched white tops on dark waves swell about the hull, a thin wind whistling off the sail, the old fear of the sea gnawing at his guts.
The hull lurched, a scuff of spray made him shiver. Two ships had sailed north; one was returning. The other, filled with their dead, was set on a course for the setting sun, flames licking at rope and mast. The fire road would carry their comrades on to Odin’s hall.
They had taken back all the Norskmen stole, leaving behind only the dead women. His father ordered the ship burned on the beach, deaf to Eskel’s protests that it was a fine vessel. Hakan had watched the women’s skin char black before the smoke had swallowed them. The dead Norskmen they left on the fell.
Food for the ravens.
The slaughter was over. But death still lingered.
The two men beside him were slumped against the strakes, dying. Gunnar’s face was haggard, his cheek torn, gobbets of black blood stuck to his pale beard. But it was the wound in his arm that was killing him. Garik was little better. At first, he’d hid the wound in his thigh. But eventually he’d been forced to show it. It was deep. By the second day, his jokes had dried up, and his breeches and leggings were sodden with blood.
What do you say to a man who’s already dead?
The wind gusted. Gunnar shuddered.
‘You need another cloak?’
Gunnar grimaced. ‘Bring me another ten – it’d make no difference.’
Hakan sank back against the planking. His hand went to his own wound above his eye. It smarted from the salt-air, lumpy and tender to touch. His head ached. But he had come through Skogul’s storm. Somehow. And if Njord, the god who ruled this miserable wet wasteland, wasn’t an utter whoreson, his feet would touch the strand of Vendlagard again. He would touch her again.
He would live. These men would not.
‘Are you afraid to die?’
‘No. Just sorry to.’ Gunnar’s shoulders heaved a weary sigh. ‘You ever love anyone?’
Hakan fingered his amulet. ‘No,’ he lied. He heard Garik snicker in the gloom. He wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but then he remembered he was dying.
Gunnar tried to shift his weight. ‘I’m sorry I won’t see my Freya again.’
‘You’ll forget her soon enough, once you cross the rainbow bridge,’ growled Garik.
‘What do you know of it?’
‘Reckon I took my fill of women. I’ve no regrets.’
‘At least she can be proud of you,’ said Hakan. As soon as he said it, he felt stupid.
‘For dying?’ Gunnar shook his head. ‘She’d scold me for a fool, more like.’
‘But the slain will live with honour in the All-Father’s hall.’
‘So they will,’ nodded Gunnar. ‘Are we still the slain if we die in this stinking slop? I guess this lanky bastard and me’ll find out.’
‘No doubt,’ agreed Garik, voice hoarse.
‘We go on a journey from which none come back.’
‘I’ll be sure to ask how much you want to come back when you’ve got a valkyrie’s tongue down your throat.’ Garik chuckled, thin and dry.
Gunnar gestured for the skin. Hakan crouched down and gave him a swig. ‘It’s a well of riches and riddles.’
‘Valhalla?’
Gunnar gave a weak snort and shook his head. ‘The heart of a woman. You could live a hundred lives and never fathom the heart of one woman.’
‘You sound like a bloody woman, talking like that,’ hissed Garik.
‘Maybe love makes men talk so. Love – and death.’
‘We all end up in the same place. If you carry steel. . .’
Hakan saw Gunnar shudder in the darkness. He felt suddenly sad listening to these men, talking like two spirits already dead. ‘Why must we die like that?’
‘We die because we must fight,’ said Gunnar. ‘We fight because we must live.’
‘Live for what?’
‘We live so that one day we die well.’
It makes no sense. But he kept his thoughts to himself.
‘The cold is right through me,’ muttered Gunnar, voice a guttering flame. ‘Keep our names well, boy.’
‘I will,’ he whispered.
‘The blood-river carry me then. Wherever it will.’ Gunnar rolled away, pulling the cloak tighter.
A Mighty Dawn Page 8
