by Joyce Holt
The first young men she asked about Moen both shrugged. They belonged in service to the guests. The third one stared at her crooked nose, then waved his hand in a general westward direction. "Over the ridge. Beside the long creek."
The older men shook their heads. "Not the kind of weather for venturing into unknown terrain. Especially not with those young fools out hunting and already tipsy. You'd need a stout oak shield to fend their arrows, not a red flag."
She tried another youth whose breath smelled of ale. His long rambling directions made no sense. "Turn downhill at Gygri's Nose, giving her a salute as you pass, then circle around the foot of the Nip and—"
Groa grabbed her arm. "More guests soon to arrive," the cook said. "It'll be like a byre on fire with that many folk to feed, all the scurrying and rush. Wait for a clear day after Yule, and I'll pack you a week's provisions for your trek."
Jorunn blinked against the onslaught of snowflakes, and searched the older woman's gaze. "I'm no good at flatbread."
"We have Yrsa for that. Come along."
Øy, what a lure. A week's worth of provisions. Or half a week, for her and Svana both. She should plot a way to fetch her sister and set off together after Yule.
Nei, she must first find a haven. Here? Hidden away in Dondstad's cookhouse?
Jorunn took a step after Groa, then faltered. Rimhildr stood at the door of the hall, speaking to another richly gowned woman. The lady's gaze drifted idly about the houseyard.
Jorunn's skin tingled, and she edged aside toward the shed where her snowshoes still leaned against the wall. Beyond the outbuildings, barely seen through the snow, loomed the somber forest. Head west, and you'll go far. So said the Norns. How she longed, yearned to be on her way.
Heavy clouds muffled the morning into a dim twilight gray, no sun glow to be seen anywhere, spinning Jorunn's sense of direction into a whirl. Which way was west?
She caught the scent of frying trout, and thought again about flatbread with butter and honey. More guests milling about would keep Rimhildr from paying heed to one scruffy housegirl, wouldn't they? The Norns' foreseeing didn't hinge on her leaving this very day, did it?
Veils of snow shifted, twisted, surged like a flock of white starlings dancing on the wind. The smudge of forest vanished as their silent feathers thickened the air. Death waited for any who wandered out alone into this storm. No heading west to Moen. No slogging east to fetch Svana.
With a feeling of mingled doom and guilt, Jorunn turned, leaving her snowshoes propped against a shed, and headed for the cookhouse.
6 – The Golden Maiden
At midday two men on skis arrived at Dondstad, heralding the coming of the awaited guests. Roald sent some of his folk to guide the main party along the last stretch, for snow fell like fleece at shearing time and blotted out all landmarks.
"Fire in the byre," the cook grumbled and set all the drudges to loading platters for the welcome feast. "Yrsa, go tally their number. If more than a score, we'll have to fetch flatbreads from the storage loft and set more porridge to boil."
The housegirl crooked her finger, and Jorunn followed her out through the houseyard and into the hall. "We stand either side of the door and count as they file through," Yrsa said. "I'll do men, you do women and children."
Jorunn nodded and drew back into the shadows.
Up on the dais, Lady Rimhildr oversaw the preparations. She ordered the hounds leashed, lamps lit, and fresh hay and water taken to the stables. Youngsters strewed juniper sprigs to freshen the carpet of bedstraw underfoot.
When Yrsa saw Rimhildr placing cushions on the high seat, she hissed to Jorunn, "Making ready for Prince Dond! Now you'll get your wish. See, they're going to fetch him now."
Roald and Hadd and two strapping youths trooped to one of the far chambers. Other young men sauntered to take up positions along the length of the hall, waiting to set up the trestle tables along the walls after the greeting. Jorunn overheard the two closest to her post talking about the company soon to arrive. Hadd's daughter, a maiden of seventeen winters, and her companion, a year younger, a cousin on her mother's side, along with their grandfather from someplace called Kvien. The youths made wagers about the unknown cousin. How tall. How pretty. Flaxen hair, or tawny, or black as coal.
Jorunn toyed with the end of her own braid. Sparrow brown, dull and drab – not likely ever to catch a young man's eye. A good thing, too, she told herself, quelling a forlorn-maiden's sigh of longing. She had no business dreaming herself into a tale of love. The Norns would spin no husband into her fate.
Roald and Hadd emerged from the far chamber, followed by the youths supporting an elderly man. A wispy white beard wagged like a goat's as Prince Dond spoke with his grandsons, nodded at the youths, made jerky gestures with his gnarled hands. Everyone in his circle beamed back at his words and shining delight.
Jorunn could see little but that aura of gladness. The Prince may once have stood tall as his grandsons, but now was shrunken and wrapped in cloaks, crowned with a warm fur cap. It was the voice of Roald Rygg, not Dond the Thunderer, that boomed through the hall. Jorunn heard only a cackle from the Prince as he sank into his cushioned seat.
She listened to bells growing louder. Soon they clamored near at hand, just beyond the planked walls of the hall. They clanged a last time or two and fell silent. Roald and Hadd left the dais, strode down the long hall, passed within arm's reach on their way out to greet the guests. Tall as spears, the both of them, lean and rangy. Hadd's hair and beard were sandy-gold as the flank of any fjord horse, but Roald's was black as a raven's wing.
Raven black. The color jarred Jorunn. It wouldn't have been a dark head of hair her mother had glimpsed, would it? But Roald surely couldn't have been the thief, not stealing from his own mother. She shook that thought aside. "Cloak or shawl," her mother had said. Not "head of hair."
Now Rimhildr stepped down from the dais, looking over all her realm, ordering folk to fix this or tidy that. Her gaze swept to the doorway – and fixed on Jorunn.
Jorunn's heart thudded. Was that a scowl settling over the lady's features? Jorunn pressed her back against the planking of the wall, tried to shrink out of sight. "Don't look at me," she whispered. "I'm just a dusty brown sparrow, flitting through the underbrush." She dropped her gaze, peering through her lashes in Rimhildr's direction.
She sucked her breath in, for the lady now came striding her way. Should she play dumb? Stammer and lie? Or flee to the houseyard, fetch snowshoes, and blunder into the forest?
Roald strode in through the door, followed by many folk coming in ones and twos. Rimhildr returned to the dais as Jorunn wrapped arms around herself to still her shudders. She forced her gaze onto the people passing by, like trying to count sheep after the wolf has turned aside.
Hadd came in with his arm slung around one young woman, a slender maiden, pink-cheeked from the cold, her braids the color of ripe barley. Beneath the hem of her traveling cloak, her skirts swished in a flash of pale rose. "One," Jorunn counted.
An older man came next, and on his arm another young woman, taller than the first. "Two."
The second maiden let down her hood. The hearthfires seemed to flicker in the draft of so many indrawn breaths, Jorunn's among them. "Trylleri!" she hissed – the word for enchantment. For surely, without the casting of some spell, no woman alive could be so lovely.
The tall maiden walked with the grace of a deer, her gaze as lofty as an eagle's. Her tresses gleamed as golden as the shining mane of the horse that gallops the sun across the heavens.
With murmurs of "Who is she?" and "One of the Æsir, stepped down from Asgard?" the Dondstad folk all gazed in wonder upon the newcomer. Everyone but the elderly Prince himself, that is. The other young woman darted off to the high seat of Dond, who welcomed her with a joyous, quavering cry. "Brynja! My jewel of the north!"
One of the young men standing nearby jabbed his neighbor in the ribs and pointed to the radiant beauty who hung back, wearing dignity
like a cloak. "I've heard of her! Gyda the Golden Maid of Hordaland!"
"What is she doing with our Brynja?"
"Cousins, you lumphead. Fostering with their mothers' kin, same as all the wealthy folk do."
"Wish I could foster out my brat of a sister."
Someone hushed them as Lady Rimhildr offered the mead horn first to the women's greybearded guardian – a wealthy bonde, from the look of his garb. "Gunnarr, we are honored to receive you at Dondstad. Skoal, the Cup!"
Jorunn felt as if she had fallen into a saga. She clasped her own hands tight, interlacing fingers, and with eyes wide watched the rite of greeting.
"Skoal!" Gunnarr replied. He drank a long draught and made a short speech of gladness at the welcome. As hosts and guests alike passed the drinking horn, they wavered like shadows surrounding the flame that was Gyda.
The tall cousin's eyes glinted blue as bellflowers in a woodland meadow. The dusty mauve of high mountain ling highlighted her creamy cheeks. Lips red as forest clover parted to show ivory-white teeth when she spoke, and her words rang like the fluting song of a wren.
Gyda unfastened her wool coat's silver clasps and handed the heavy garment to a servant. Over her blue linen gown hung a blazing white yoke-apron, embroidered in intricate patterns, pinned at the shoulders by bright silver brooches. Amber gleamed at her neck, and looping from brooch to brooch, strings of colorful glass beads with silver coins dangling.
As Gyda made her greeting to the lady of the hall, the dip of her knee and the brief nod of her head seemed not so much the curtsy of a maiden as the blessing of Valhalla's own Frigg on poor mortals far below. And Rimhildr looked glad for the blessing.
Then the lady of the hall shook herself and set about ordering her folk. Chests and bags must be brought in from the sleighs and set in the proper chambers, and the guests made comfortable on cushioned benches at the head of the hall. In the midst of all that bustle, Rimhildr paused for a moment and stared out over the assemblage.
Jorunn's heart quailed. Was she imagining it, or was the lady staring in particular at her?
Yrsa grabbed Jorunn's arm. "The tally! Groa's waiting."
Out in the houseyard where folk still unloaded the sledges, the two of them dodged figures that appeared and then vanished through snow flurries. Yrsa spun one newcomer around and set her back in the right direction. Jorunn would have had to search the cookhouse wall to find the door if the housegirl hadn't led the way.
They gave the cook their tallies, and Yrsa launched into a breathless account of the beautiful maiden come in company with their own Brynja.
Groa snorted and waved them off. "Give her fifteen, twenty years and she'll be as wrinkled as me, and we'll see then who spins their foolish heads just gazing. And more foolish still, the heads that draw such glances. What does such a maiden have to think about all day but how to use her glamour? Vel, stop dawdling! Start more water heating. Quick, quick!"
As she stoked the hearthfire Jorunn noticed that, in spite of those scornful words, the cook donned her shawl and slipped out the door. Jorunn nudged the logs around, trying to warm the chill in her heart. She must take greater pains not to cross Rimhildr's path. That shrewd gaze had pierced like an arrow. Her belly still clenched, her heart still raced at the dread of it.
Her pulse had settled and the water was simmering by the time Groa came back.
"That Gyda, not one to stuff her head with eiderdown after all," the cook said as she hung her shawl. "I heard her talking with the menfolk about Frankish kings and what rubbish they've made of Charlemagne's empire."
"Shar-le-mane? Who's that?" one of the housegirls asked.
"Lived across the water fifty, sixty years ago." Groa checked one of the pots still hanging over the coals. "A mighty warrior, but not right in the head. Won battles on every side until he crowned himself high king from the shores of Saxony to Rome itself in the south." The cook rummaged through herb bags, threw handfuls in the pot.
"Raum?" the wood-carrier asked. "That's in the north, not the south!"
"Not Raum's Dale," Groa said. "Rome. The kaiser's land of old."
"Must have had wits aplenty," someone said, "if he could gain and hold such wide lands."
Groa puffed her disdain as she stirred. "After he conquered, and his foes submitted, he dunked them or dowsed them, then had their heads lopped off."
"Drowned them?"
"Nei, just soaked them good and muttered some chant. So I've heard. Listen here! They're setting up the trestles. Table linens now, you and you and you. Are the platters ready? Cover them, and for Frigg's sake don't trip as you cross the houseyard!" Groa beckoned to Jorunn. "Take this to the stables." She handed over a steaming pail.
"Porridge for the stablemen?" Jorunn wondered as she hefted the bucket, wrinkling her nose at the tangy odor.
"Hah! Mash for a poultice. A lame horse just came in, lagging behind the rest of the party."
Jorunn stepped out into the blizzard. She could see neither haybarn nor byre, though they stood not more than twenty steps away. She aimed herself in the right direction and set off, taking long strides so the drive of her own movement would hold her on course.
Perhaps the weight of the pail shifted her balance, made her veer ever so slightly from a straight line. She counted twenty steps, then thirty – and the ground turned rough, uneven. She had left the houseyard without a glimpse of sledge or sleigh or towering log wall. No shadowy shape of Dondstad-folk. Nothing but shrouds of snow whipping past.
Alone, all alone within a stone's throw of milling throngs of folk, silenced by the muffling storm. To strike out in the wrong direction would mean death.
7 – Rags and Ashes
Jorunn shuddered. This would be a good time for a magic key – if ever there was one – to spy which way to go. Without such a thing, she must rely on her wits. She held still, did not flail about in confusion. She pushed into step again, going backwards, straight back – as straight as anyone can plow when all about, the world swirls white and blinding.
She felt her footing turn firm and even beneath the cushion of new snow. The well-tromped houseyard between the buildings. Jorunn heaved a long breath, making a cloud swept away by the icy wind. She took four sideways steps, then forward again.
Once more the ground turned rough.
Back-stepping to smooth footing, sidling about, pushing forward— On her fifth try, Jorunn found the barn. She groped along the log walls with one numb hand. By now the pail of oat mash no longer steamed. She found the door, fumbled with the latch and edged inside, met by the warm odors of horsehide and manure.
"At last," grumbled a stableman from halfway along the dimly-lit chamber, as he rose from a crouch. He strode along the narrow pathway between the stalls and snatched the pail. "What kept you?"
Jorunn stepped back at his gruff tone. Her floundering between buildings hadn't taken so long, she knew, though it had seemed a never-ending moment on the brink of disaster.
"Take over," he barked at her. "I'm a horseman, not a nursemaid. Good-for-nothing babbler." The man stalked away with the pail of mash, muttering to himself.
Jorunn blinked after him. Nursemaid? Babbler? Take over with what?
Hooves shuffled in the straw. Nostrils blew great heavy breaths. Amid the noise of horses settling in after a long trek, Jorunn caught the sound of muffled sobs. She eased along from stall to stall until she found a housegirl still in traveling garb, hunkered beside a manger. "What is it?" she asked. "Can I help?"
The maiden shook her head, wiped her face, clutched a pot between her knees. "Too late," she whimpered. "I don't know what I'll do. She'll be furious."
"Too late for what?"
The housegirl didn't answer but curled over her pot and retched.
Jorunn had worked too long at her mother's side to mistake the maiden's plight. "You're with child," she said.
"Don't tell! Please, I beg you, don't tell her!"
"Don't tell who?"
"Gyda! She'll have
me whipped for this! Last time a maid of hers— She made me swear— Oh Frigg, what will I do? Where will I go?"
"Hush, hush, just sit back and rest. I'll bring you a weak tea later, and a dry flatbread—"
"Nei, nei, don't even speak of it! Øy, I'm in such trouble!" She fell to weeping again.
Jorunn searched about, found a horse blanket draped over a partition, brought it back to settle over the girl's shoulders. "I'm sorry," she said.
"Don't tell. Please, please don't tell!"
"I won't. I understand. I have my own troubles to keep quiet."
"Do you?" The housegirl wiped her eyes and stared up at Jorunn. She had long tawny lashes, gummy now with tears. Flaxen hair straggled loose from her braids and plastered to her blotched cheeks. "How could you possibly understand? You have a hearth and home, you have a place in a fine steading, people all around who would help you through any hardship—"
Jorunn shook her head like a horse plagued with flies on a summer day. "You're wrong."
But the maiden wasn't listening. "It isn't even my fault. I told him we ought not, but he gave me the loveliest scarves, and promised me a gem, and his eyes like sapphires themselves—" She gagged again.
Jorunn stretched her lips thin. Twice now, folk of one kind or another casting blame aside. It might have been funny if the girl wasn't so wretched. "I'll come back later," she said.
Gyda's housegirl still didn't listen. "She'll call for me, and vexed she'll be when I don't answer, but there's no help for it now. Even if I felt well enough, vel, just look at me!" She pressed hands to her wet cheeks and burst into another round of weeping.
Jorunn blew out a long breath and left the stall, left the barn, stood outside the door, tried to remember the angle back to the cookhouse.
The door opened behind her, and the stableman came out, drawing the housegirl along by one elbow. "Nei, you're not leaving her here. Take her away!"
