by Joyce Holt
But it was snowing! she wailed in her heart. A blizzard! A death-trap, to venture out into that storm. In her mind she ran the Norns' words over and over again. There had been no promise, no hope in any of it. Doom on every hand, no matter which way she chose to go.
13 – Pillar of Power
As sunset painted the snowscape rose and violet, Hadd led his party up a side valley to take shelter at a small steading set far back from the frozen waterway. There were no crowds of folk in which to mingle and disappear.
"For the longest leap of all," Jorunn muttered as the sleigh pulled to a stop, "stand still right where you are." She had certainly stood still, hobbled at Dondstad by the weather and Groa's scheming. Now came the long leap, hurtling far from home.
If it were Oddleif swept off in such a grand adventure as this – trailing along with high-born folk, traveling from kingdom to kingdom, piled with furs and wearing warm layers of fine garb – he'd revel and laugh at his good fortune. But wherever Jorunn went, she'd be haunted by the thought of her sister left behind. Betrayal stabbed her heart, her own betrayal.
Among the children at this steading was a girl Svana's age. The youngster's face glowed with delight at the bustle of guests to house and horses to stable. When clusters of kinfolk spend most of their lives secluded in their own remote mountain dales, who doesn't relish the chance to see new faces and hear new voices?
Jorunn's heart ached. She and Svana had always crouched in shadows, just as hungry for sight of a new face, but with wariness and a touch of dread, ready to scurry out of reach. This girl laughed and teased and darted among the arrivals.
Guilt stabbed deeper. Jorunn was leaving Svana behind, alone and miserable, with no friend or ally but happy-go-lucky Oddleif.
As folk milled about, Jorunn stole off to the edge of the steading and gazed down the path toward the lake. To try to walk home without skis or snowshoes could rank as hopeless a quest as seeking the foot of the rainbow bridge up to Asgard. But she had to try, didn't she?
Uneven footsteps sounded. Ketill the sleigh driver limped up and stood beside her several long moments. "I'm to fetch you back," he said at last.
Jorunn drew a deep breath and turned. As he walked with her toward the small hall, she thanked him for the hat.
"A small thing, a small thing," Ketill said, waving it off. "Can't have your ears turning blue."
"Small gifts often win great praise," Jorunn said, quoting an old saying. "One little kindness matters much to me."
"There you are," Drifa said and took her arm. "I've been sent to make sure you haven't fled. Come along."
Jorunn hung back. "Whether I stay or go is my own choice, but I couldn't leave without paying you for gown and apron, if you'll sell them."
Gyda strode up, her voice sharp. "Pay with what? I've already promised Drifa compensation when we reach Kvien. So now it is to me you owe your garb. And you'll be earning it through your service. Stop scuttling around, fretting over crumbs and threads."
"I cannot stay in your service, my lady." Jorunn wilted under Gyda's glare. "I must go to the aid of—"
"Go where? How?"
"By foot. In the path the horses and skis have tromped. I must go home to—"
"In those shoddy boots? Nonsense. Your home is with me." Gyda ordered two more servants to keep watch on her fretful maid. "And don't think of talking to the steading folk," she told Jorunn. "You won't gain a place here. They won't dare to take what's mine." She whirled and sauntered away before the words could leave Jorunn's lips.
"I'm not yours."
Gyda showed no sign of hearing. No one at the steading would listen to Jorunn. One of the watchers stayed in sight even while she ventured out to midden or cesspit. She numbly went about her tasks, yielding to the fate foretold by the Norns. They hadn't said what would come after the long leap. That much fate she would make on her own. She would serve Gyda a season, then start the long trek home again. She would need to watch every turn in their path and plant the route in memory. That was a skill she used every time she went foraging in the wilds, but never for a journey so far-flung as this.
After firstfare on the second day, Gunnarr's party set out again. In the pale light of dawn, with a full belly and empty heart, Jorunn watched the steading fall away behind.
The fjells and bergs of Telemark fell behind as well. Mountains dwindled to little more than hills. The world flattened out. Without the comforting ramparts of ridges that had always walled her world, Jorunn felt like a beetle on a threshing-floor.
Gyda scolded her for letting drafts in and finally ordered her to sit still, no more craning for looks at the path behind.
How would she find her way back to Svana if she didn't take careful note? Frozen streams came from either side to join this waterway, making a confusing maze in a landscape without peaks to guide her.
Near noon the riverbed opened out onto a lake twice as wide and twice as long as the first they'd crossed. The sky yawned over the flat expanse.
"The sea?" Jorunn blurted in awe.
"Still a freshwater fjord," the driver said. "The last one before the briny fjords."
"What is it called?"
"Northsea."
She begged Ketill for the names of the two earlier lakes. Now perhaps she could ask her way home again, though it must happen once more in the depths of winter. There'd be no hope of walking back to Morgedal, not through the wilderness of forest cloaking all the banks and hillsides. She must buy a pair of skis. No snowshoes, not for such a long trek.
It took most of the brief afternoon to cover the length of the lake, walking and trotting the horses in turn, and changing to fresh ones halfway along. Smoke plumes rose from the hillsides at frequent intervals. Jorunn spotted a circle of buildings on one headland, but most steadings lay out of sight, hidden further up the vales.
Their path left the frozen lake and climbed over a rumpled landscape to the southeast. Hadd must have sent messengers on ahead, for no one challenged their passage. At three places, folk came out to watch the travelers skim past. The sun set, and still they pushed on in the twilight, until they came to a company of skiers with torches to lead the way.
"Soon we'll arrive at Skiringssal," Ketill said as he slowed his team to a walk. "The first outpost in the realm of Vestfold."
Jorunn sucked in a breath. Not only had she left the mountains and dales of home far behind, but also the kingdom of her birth.
Not that she'd ever seen the king of her lands. Prince Dond, who once ruled in Svearike, had married into the royal family of Telemark while in exile from his own throne.
Brynja leaned forward and asked Ketill what he knew of the realm of Vestfold.
Gyda broke in. "Ruled by a beardless youth of only seventeen winters. His father fell through the ice when the lad was but ten. The vultures of neighboring kingdoms swooped in at once, of course, but his cunning uncle Guttorm managed the battles so well that the young king gobbled up the vultures' own realms. A remarkable comeback. For a while there, the boy showed promise."
"'Boy?'" Brynja echoed. "He's my age! A winter older than you!"
Gyda sniffed. "Too bad he settled for no more than these few coastal lands."
"He who rules the sea, rules the north," Jorunn whispered.
"Glad I am," Ketill said, "that Vestfold's own vulture has little care for inland terrain like Telemark and Valdres, or we'd have to raise levies to guard against his grab for land."
Brynja nudged Gyda. "Glad you should be, cousin, that your father's realm lies beyond the Keel, in the western fjords, well out of reach of young King—" She knit her brow.
"Harald," Gyda said. "Harald Halfdansson. Halfdan once took the rule of Sogn, though, not far north of my own Hordaland. There's nothing to keep Harald's eye from looking beyond the Keel. That's what I would do, if I had the might of a growing empire behind me."
"War-queen Gyda, out to conquer all the north," Brynja teased, her crooked teeth flashing white.
"Why not?" He
r cousin huffed. "Someone ought to do it, harness the wealth of the myriad kingdoms, make our folk a mighty nation instead of a midge cloud nibbling at our neighbors' flanks."
"Like snaring birds," Jorunn blurted without thinking.
Gyda eyed her, one brow raised and her lip curled.
"Like Kon the Young, riding about shooting birds, and the crow tells him: What a waste, he ought to be riding to battle and slaying foes, not magpies." Jorunn found herself babbling, and clamped her mouth shut.
"A drudge knows the Lay of Rig?" Gyda asked. "However did you come by it?"
"My mother. She knew the sagas. She was freeborn, and so am—"
But Gyda had already sniffed and turned back to her cousin, and paid no heed to Jorunn's words.
More torches appeared ahead, and a welcoming bonfire. The procession fed into the houseyard of a steading no larger than Dondstad. Jorunn's back ached from sitting so long. She eased down from the sleigh, took a small casket handed down by her mistress, and helped Gyda out.
The steward of this steading spoke with Gunnarr and Hadd, then they all followed him inside the hall of Skiringssal. Many folk lined the walls, making way for their guests and murmuring in greeting.
By the high carven seat on the dais, among men with weather-crinkled eyes and greying hair, stood a tall, broad-shouldered youth. Over tawny hair that brushed at his shoulders he wore a golden circlet. Silver and gold threads glinted in the trim that bordered his tunic, and his sleeves writhed with embroidered beasts.
As they came closer, Jorunn's gaze caught on the young king's face. If it seemed Gyda had sprung from saga, as lovely as a Valkyrie, then surely Harald Halfdansson could vie with handsome Jarl from the Lay of Rig. Flaxen was Jarl's hair, and fair his cheek, and his gaze blazed like an adder's.
Harald's eyes shone blue-green in the firelight. He hadn't yet had his nose broken, which spoke well for his wrestling skill. His jawline turned a strong, smooth angle, barely shadowed by the downy beginnings of a beard.
Jorunn watched his thin-lipped mouth drop open when Gyda lowered her hood. Into the silence that fell all around, Hadd spoke his greetings and introduced Gunnarr, bonde of Kvien and the mother-father of his daughter, Brynja Haddsdotter.
Jorunn bit back a smile as she watched the menfolk of Skiringssal struggle to pay heed to such trivial matters while bedazzled by Gyda's bright gaze and silken manners. Brynja dipped a curtsy, but everyone was waiting to hear her companion's name. Jorunn glanced at her mistress' face. Surely other maidens had features nearly so fair, but Gyda Eiriksdotter knew how to weave grace and dignity into every movement.
"Trylleri," Jorunn whispered to herself. Supposing she learned the trick, could she lessen her own ugliness? Could the drab brown sparrow turn into, say, a sassy yellowhammer?
Once that enchantment of first sight had passed, Harald's hall burst into clamor. There was the greeting Cup, and trestle tables thrown into place, and a stream of servants bringing platters and bowls. Harald's voice called out as rich and ringing as a skald's, introducing his uncle Guttorm and an ally from another kingdom to the north.
Jorunn followed her mistress to the high table, and stood back with Drifa while the young king settled his guests in place. In the light of torches and lamps, his hair glinted a deep tawny-gold. She sucked in a breath of awe when he passed within arm's reach. A smell of new leather and crushed juniper wafted in his wake.
Jorunn stepped close to Gyda's side and did the reaching required during the meal. The king's folk had slaughtered a pig, and also served up venison and trout. The rich aromas set her mouth to watering. Harald offered dish after dish to Gyda, until her platter overflowed, ensuring a lavish meal for Jorunn afterwards.
At dinner's end, Hadd stood and bowed to Harald. "Your fame has spread, my lord, far and wide. To the tales of your prowess in battle we must add our praise for your generosity and gracious welcome to weary travelers. In gladness for the peace and goodwill that flourishes on our borders, we of the high dales of Telemark bring a friendship token to the king of Vestfold, Ringerike, Hedemark, and whatever other lands you have gained since last we heard word of your triumphs." He beckoned to one of his men.
In one eye-blink, Harald changed from a maiden-bedazzled youth to a pillar of power and authority. He rose from the table and strode to the great carved chair, his gaze regal as he seated himself. At a gesture, his folk brought cushions to pad a bench nearby for Gyda and Brynja.
Jorunn edged aside with the lesser folk, awed to stand even this close to a king who seemed to have stepped straight out of legend.
Hadd brought forth the bundle he'd fetched from the smithies of Morgedal and presented it as a gift from one ruler to another, though the grandsons of Dond held no title. Their power sprang not from throne and crown won in battle, but from wealth in land and cattle and from wide acclaim of their wisdom.
Harald took the long shrouded shape and unwound the fabric. His hands slowed when the hilt came to light. The pommel and guards gleamed in polished silver, embossed with curling designs and wound with twisted silver wire.
Harald traced the design engraved into the wooden scabbard, then gripped the hilt and drew the sword. A long blade slid free, bright in the torchlight. The steel shimmered with chevrons and streaks formed in the forging.
Jorunn watched him weigh the gift in silence, and again felt herself spun into the midst of a saga, as if the ancient wisdom had been rolling down the ages for this very moment. She mouthed the words she knew so well, "A prince's son should ponder long, then speak with sparing words." What a tale this would make for Svana!
Still without uttering a word, he stood and stepped clear, and gave the sword a trial swing. Jorunn half-expected the hall to ring with unearthly chimes, half-thought the blade would blaze with a light of its own.
"From the master smiths of Morgedal," Hadd said, "who labored long over this blade, fit for such a king as you, my lord. Sturdy swords for the fighting man they make as well, in much quicker fashion, but all of good springing iron and edged with the hardest steel."
Harald settled in his seat again with the naked blade resting across his knees. "A thousand thanks to my staunch allies of Telemark," he pronounced at last, "who know how to forge bonds of goodwill, and in the same breath open markets for further profit." The crisp line of his lip, set in stern dignity befitting a king, bent to a wide smile. "And in Skiringssal you are likely to trade away all that profit, for we abound in many rich goods from afar. Hear of the wealth that flows through my lands." He waved a hand, and from the shadows across the room stepped a man cradling a stringed instrument against his shoulder.
Jorunn shivered with the thrill of it. The cleverest of all mankind, a smith of words, a forger of spoken barbs sharp enough to pierce any shield of pride, and now he strode so close that she could see the grain of wood in his harpe. A skald!
"Ah! the dreams I dream by night," the skald sang, fingers striking the most amazing sounds from the strings, "of silks and noble furs. The wine flows free across the sea—"
"Wine indeed! Wine for our visitors," Harald called while the man sang on. "Let my generous mountain guests gain a taste for the fruit of southern vines."
Through that festive evening, Jorunn's gaze wandered from the king to the skald and back again. Harald's lashes and brows stood out dark against his skin, not fading in sandy hues as happens with so many fair-haired folk like Drifa. His umber eyebrows leaped with every change in expression, from knit in contemplation to peaking in humor. His whole body spoke, from his simple posture to the angle of shoulders and the gesturing of hands.
The menfolk talked of weaponry and armor, of trade and shipping, of winter storms and ice floes. Harald seemed amused when Gyda put in a word or two on these men's matters.
Jorunn drank up the elixir of music cast by the skald, though now he merely toyed with a whimsical ballad. When she turned her glance back to the high table, she blinked. There was a dreamy cast to Gyda's gaze, not much different from the bed
azzled looks she left strewn everywhere in her own wake. Not much different from the expression still on Harald's face as the two spoke together in low voices, the older men off on some other topic.
For a moment Jorunn felt a thrill of the sublime, as if she were watching two golden eagles circling about each other on a glorious summer afternoon, the sun striking bronze from their wings, and sure they would go sailing down the wind together forever more. Had the Norns schemed this meeting of radiant Gyda and the splendid young king?
14 – Thrall, Karl and Noble Jarl
In the guest chamber that evening, as they readied for bed, Brynja said, "He has crinkly earlobes, you know."
"What? Who?" Gyda asked, tipping her head against the pull while Jorunn combed.
"Harald. His lobes. Crinkly. Like his mother pinched his ears at birth and they never straightened."
"I didn't notice."
"Nei, you wouldn't. Your eyes were locked with his so tight, a spider could have danced across the web of it."
Jorunn bit back a smile. If only the skald had seen that sight, his harpe would still be humming from the magic of the moment. Of such passion are legends born, and here she stood at the start of it.
Gyda clicked her tongue. "I don't care whether his lobes are pinched or plastered to his skull. He has a nice enough face to look upon—" Her words drawled out, and she took a deep breath. "But I'll not swoon for a man until I find one whose dreams and hopes match mine." She set her shoulders in a determined stance.
Brynja snorted. "Even if he were old and ugly and hunch-backed?"
Gyda nodded, but sounded pained. "Even if."
Jorunn gaped at the back of her mistress' head. Gyda meant to turn away the magnificent young king for the sake of some airy dream?
"You and your grand schemes!" Brynja said. "All shrewd plotting, and no room for a warm heart."
