by Joyce Holt
"Hush!" Brynja said. "Don't let the Norns hear you say such a thing."
Gyda nudged Jorunn. "When he returns, tell him I'm napping and don't want to be disturbed. And I can tell you now, I'll be napping all afternoon."
"How am I supposed to speak so rudely to a king?" Jorunn said. "I'm nobody!"
"If he's so clever at reading people, he knows full well I don't want his company. It's rude for him to keep persisting. Do as I say."
Jorunn quailed when Harald skied up beside the sleigh, but she did as bidden. She even made a pretense of nudging her mistress.
The third time he appeared, his brows arched like leaping trout at the apology she made, and his gaze fell full upon Jorunn. "Vel, since she's so deeply asleep, she won't hear us talk about her. Tell me, my fur-capped maiden, what most delights your mistress? Song? Silk? Silver?"
Jorunn snugged her rags tighter around her neck, not so much from the cold as to hide the birthmark from his keen glance. "S-story-telling, my lord, I would g-guess." She gulped under the tingling weight of his stare. Those eyes, a warmer blue than the sky, seemed to hook into her soul. She couldn't break his gaze.
"Fables and tales. I see. I must speak to my skald—"
"N-nei, my lord. Stories from afar. Accounts of other kings, other lands. What happens elsewhere in the world." Jorunn felt Gyda's foot jab her ankle, and she clapped her mouth shut. "Fables, too," she squeaked after a moment.
"Tidings from afar." Harald hummed to himself as he skied along, just an arm's reach away. "And what delights you, lucky girl?"
"Lucky?"
"To be forever at her side."
"I – I – I'm glad for a warm hearth and – and scraps from her table."
"Easy to please, I see." He studied her, several heartbeats longer. Jorunn felt her cheeks grow warm. Why would he bother with a lowly housegirl?
"What lake is this?" Jorunn asked to turn the talk to other matters. "It runs on forever!"
"Tyri Fjord. The largest in all my lands. Tell me," he said, refusing to be diverted, "what it is about me she finds so off-putting?"
"Sh-she doesn't confide in me, my lord. I wouldn't know. What's this island called?"
"Utøya. A fascinating place – if herding goats is your passion. She doesn't confide in you? Yet you stay by her side day and night. You must know her likes and dislikes, in men as well as in meals."
"I'm only newly come to this p-position, my lord."
"Ah. I see truth in your eyes. Unlucky for me." His thin lip quirked up in a wry smile. "So I'll have to take her as a beguiling riddle to solve."
Ragnvald the Treetrunk called from behind. Harald gave a polite nod before falling back.
Jorunn found her heart beating like sparrow wings. A king as noble and splendid as any out of legend, taking time to speak with her as if she were a person of consequence, giving her a nod, nearly a bow! When she'd caught her breath, she whispered, "He's gone now."
"There was no need for you to tell him even one of my inner thoughts," Gyda hissed as she squirmed to another position.
"I'm not one to lie, Mistress."
"Play the lackwit, like you've done before."
Brynja spoke up. "Oh don't be so harsh. What harm will it do?"
"Just watch," Gyda told her cousin. "Next time he joins us, he'll speak of other lands. Prying away at any chink he can find."
Sure enough, when Harald caught up again, he launched into an account of strife between kings. "My father took shelter there," he said, pointing out a hall on a hill, "on his way to aid King Sigurd of Ringerike, though he arrived too late to save the old man’s life. That was when my father snatched Sigurd's daughter from Hake, who had stolen her away."
Brynja gave a dainty harrumph. "Hah! One kidnapper stealing from another."
Harald shrugged. "The time-honored way to expand a realm through marriage, though the maiden and her father-king may object. Aren't you glad, my lady Brynja of poor land-bound Telemark, you're not daughter to a king?" His glance strayed for a moment to the lump in the blankets that was Gyda. "At any rate, my father gained not only a bride but all Ringerike, and Hedemark too, further north. And there, after his death, I had to return in full force to reclaim my father’s inheritance. Hogne the Hewer thought he could step in and take the throne. We trapped him and his allies at night, set fire to their hall, then waged fierce battle with those who burst out from the blazing timbers.”
Jorunn's head spun with all the names. A tendril of pity sprouted in her heart for such maidens as Gyda who found themselves playing-pieces on the game-table of kings. No such lofty concerns for a cotter's daughter. All she had to worry about was surviving the ailments of winter, gaining herself a pair of skis, and finding her way home again.
"Another saga in the making, my lord," Brynja told Harald, eyes and cheeks aglow. Jorunn guessed her flush sprang not only from the chill breeze but from the chance to fill in the gap her cousin had left wide open.
Gyda puffed derision but continued to feign sleep.
"Indeed," the young king said. "And it will not be the last saga nor the last battle to come. Even now, Erik Weatherhat of Svearike boasts plans to take back Vermaland, east of Hedemark."
Jorunn heard a sudden intake of breath. "Take back?" Brynja asked in a pinched voice.
"He claims it once belonged to his father, Anund, before Gudrød started raiding and pushing borders. Gudrød, have I mentioned him? My grandfather. Assassinated at my grandmother's orders." When no one responded to this cheerful remark, Harald gave the sleigh's occupants a curious glance then rambled on about other petty kings to north and east.
"Stories from afar, you said," Gyda murmured, barely loud enough for Jorunn to hear. "Hah! His tales, close at hand. The boy is nothing but a backwater chieftain."
Brynja made no answer to her cousin, and only short replies to the handsome young king who skied along at sleigh-side. Jorunn studied the two and traded puzzled glances with Drifa on the far side. Before long, Harald's voice fell quiet. He skied with gaze holding steady straight ahead, the lines of mouth and brow shifting like the ripples of a pond where otters slide their unseen ways below the surface.
As dusk approached, Harald waved Ragnvald up to join him. "Make changes to our plans. I mean to take the Keel Road into Valdres."
Though the names meant nothing to her, Jorunn felt Gyda stiffen under the furs.
"What about the Alting in Vingulmark?" Guttorm asked from behind Ragnvald.
"Ah ja," Harald said, and his face fell. "I gave my word I'd attend that Assembly. Perhaps I can persuade my good bonde Gunnarr to linger in Ringerike until Ting is over, then I could still accompany him home, him and his granddaughters."
Jorunn heard a low-pitched growl from the furs beside her. With Gyda, not all was poise and grace and charm. There was a hint of the fierce gripping-beast in the maiden, after all.
That evening they sheltered at Harald's manor at Hønenfoss, arriving to find another feast already spread in the mead-hall. As they made their way to the high table, Gyda tugged at her grandfather and whispered in his ear.
They had hardly seated themselves when Harald spread his arms wide. "Let my good folk of Hønenfoss shelter you for a rest from your wearisome journeys. Stay as long as you wish. I beg leave of you for a few days to attend the Alting, but then I will return and join your further travels into the mountains, if you'll have me."
Gunnarr made a reply just as graciously worded, but turning down the proposal. "The weather could change for the worse any day, and we've been gone long enough already. There are matters I must attend on my lands. No doubt they keep our own Ting on hold until I return. But thousand thanks for the generous offer."
Harald nodded, appearing deep in thought. To Jorunn it seemed he took pains to avoid looking in Gyda's direction.
Gyda herself gazed down the hall as if watching a distant scene.
The air in the mead-hall seemed close, stifling. Folk sounded ill at ease. Were there troubles brewing in this realm? Harald seem
ed not to notice, though Jorunn saw many worried glances thrown his way. She hunched her shoulders. It felt like the brittle midwinter calm that lurks right before a weeks-long siege of storm and blizzard.
The king gave a shrug, murmured something to Gunnarr, and waved his skald to begin the night's entertainment. The man took up the saga of Halfdan the Black, Harald's father.
A slow smile spread across Harald's face as the skald sang of Gudrød, the tyrant of Vestfold, who wooed Åsa, daughter of the king of Agder. Agder's king refused the suit. Gudrød returned at night with his fighting men, killed everyone but his unwilling bride, and carried her off. In time, poor Åsa bore a son, and a year later plotted her husband's death. Her houseboy speared him as he tottered drunk down a gangplank. In triumph, Åsa returned home to Agder where she raised Halfdan to inherit both kingdoms.
Harald's smile widened at the next few stanzas about Halfdan, years later, pursuing a berserker who had killed the king of Ringerike to the north, and had carried off the king's daughter of twenty winters and his son of eighteen. Halfdan did not restore the maiden to her pillaged home but married her, and gave her brother a position in his household.
The skald had noticed his king's grin and took on a jaunty tone for the last stanza, which seemed clumsier than all the rest. Jorunn guessed he was making it up on the spot. He broke into a falsetto for the last line, a tribute from Halfdan's adoring bride: "Blessed am I, stolen twice in one day, to be booty to one such as you!"
"To my father and my father's father," Harald toasted at the end of the saga, "who knew what they wanted in a bride and let nothing stand in their way!"
Cheer and laughter sounded again, as if in reflection of the king's mood. Harald's eyes glinted and his brows made a leap of humor, but Jorunn didn't trust the set of his mouth. It looked too much like the tight-lipped smile of a hunter in relentless pursuit of ill-fated prey.
17 – Weatherhat
From the look of Gyda's tight face, Jorunn saw that Harald's arrogance hadn't escaped her notice. As the womenfolk readied for bed that evening, Gyda muttered. "All's fair in the grabbing of kingdoms, those fool menfolk think. Bride-stealing, the act of horn-crowned savages before the noble Age of Iron." She made that growling sound again. "The world turns round to a new way, a higher way, but they straggle behind in the dust. What were you doing while I napped, Brynja? Trying to lure the big-headed lout with your fluttering lashes and giddy sighs?"
"At first." A furrow dug into Brynja's brow, and she pursed her lips.
"Something bothers you." Gyda held up her hand to stop Jorunn's combing, and turned to face her cousin. "What is it?"
Brynja grimaced, her hands twisting at her yoke-apron. "Erik Weatherhat."
Jorunn wondered at the odd byname. Odin's hat had a wide brim that magically funneled off the rains, she knew from saga. Did this Erik have such a wonder? Or better still, perhaps he could he wave up a wind with his hat!
"Harald's newest foe," Gyda sniffed. "Svearike's king. What of it?"
Brynja glanced about, then whispered to Gyda. "He's Prince Dond's eldest son. My father's uncle. If Harald knew that, he might try to take me to wife just to spite his rival and drive him from Vermaland. That's not the kind of husband I'm looking for. He's your match, not mine."
"Not mine at all," Gyda said with a sniff. "A petty little boy with his petty little kingdoms on the coast." She reached over and stroked Brynja's shoulder. "I won't tell him. Tomorrow we'll be seeing the last of him. Don't fret."
* * *
Early in the morning, though no one else stirred in Harald's hall, Gyda nudged Jorunn awake and set her to work repacking. Each word was clipped, each gesture sharp, but her eyes shone. "On our way at last," Jorunn overheard her murmur as her cousin Brynja awoke, and a few moments later caught another phrase, "Another hanger-on as welcome as a splinter under the nail." When time came to step outdoors and bid farewell to their host, Gyda had shed her eager air, donning a mantle of dignity.
"Parting gifts," Harald said as Ragnvald Treetrunk brought two items to the houseyard. "A flagon of fruity southern wine for my lovely northern flower. A length of eastern silk the same hue as her own glimmering brow-stars, which shine like the western sky."
The gifts passed from hand to hand, from Ragnvald to Harald to Gyda – who gave the sleek blue silk a moment of interest – to Jorunn to stash away on the sleigh.
"A delight it has been to share your road these three days," Harald went on. "To see the changing seasons of your face, to smell the fragrance of your herbed gowns, to hear the music of your voice. May I ask one small favor before you depart?"
"What might that be?" Gyda asked.
"A kiss."
Brynja's hand flew to her mouth. Her grandfather Gunnarr crossed his arms, frowning. Jorunn held her breath.
Gyda hesitated a moment. "After all your generous hospitality, how could I refuse one—" she took a breath, "small favor?" She let him step close.
Brynja turned away. Gunnarr still frowned. Jorunn gaped until Drifa shook her arm, but even so she snatched another glance.
It wasn't a long kiss. No touching of hands, no surging of heart to heart. Gyda stepped back, eyes downcast. "Thank you, my lord," she said, turned and climbed into the sleigh.
Jorunn scurried in after her. She pulled up blankets and furs and scooted next to her mistress. "You're trembling!" she whispered.
"From the cold," Gyda said. "Tuck those furs in close."
Jorunn snuggled up, then caught her breath. Her mistress still shivered, but didn't lack for warmth, not at all. Gyda radiated heat like unseen embers. Her heartbeat thrummed faster than the pace of the sleigh horses. Jorunn glanced back at the young king who stood watching with an odd look on his face – bemusement, satisfaction, a touch of triumph.
But what had he gained? Gyda the Beautiful and Proud was slipping his grasp. As the morning wore on, Jorunn could feel her mistress shrugging off that unwanted attention, sitting higher in her seat, speaking to her cousin and grandfather and even the menfolk guarding their party.
By noon, clouds the color of dirty fleece shrouded the sky. Her sense of direction addled, Jorunn leaned forward and asked the sleigh's driver which way they were heading.
"Northwest," Ketill said with a glance over his shoulder. "We strike for the dale of Valdres, right up into the heights of the Keel itself. Four days of travel, unless the weather turns foul."
Jorunn added another body of water to her chant of the route home, like blue glass beads strung on a silver wire. Sperdill was another long narrow lake. Then came Tyri, the great Vik, North Sea, Flat-water, Kviteseid-water, linked by the silver strand of frozen creeks, leading back to Svana.
Jorunn fretted. She still had no haven for sheltering her sister. How she wished she'd had time to fetch Svana to the sleigh as they passed through Morgedal.
At the midafternoon break, while stablemen changed out the horses, Gunnarr came and settled in Gyda's sleigh beside Ketill for the next leg of their journey. "During the last two days I couldn't help but notice," the young women's grandfather said, "the cock flaring his tail feathers and strutting the farmyard while two proud hens clucked about nearby, then turned aside to peck in the dust."
Gyda sniffed. "What do you think of that brazen cock?"
"Decked with gaudy feathers he might be – yet armed with razor-sharp claws. I'd rather watch him strut on a rooftop than face him in a cockpit."
"Gaudy indeed," Gyda said.
Gunnarr turned to Brynja. "I think your father wise in flattering the fellow, gifting himself into favor."
Now it was Brynja's turn to lean forward. She gripped her grandfather's arm. "He's soon to enter the cockpit with Erik Weatherhat, squabbling over Vermaland."
Gunnarr's eyes narrowed to slits. "So that's why you turned pale. I wonder if your father knows. A perilous position for him if Harald learns his kinship."
"And for me," Brynja said, sitting back again. She tugged on Drifa, who nestled close and tucked furs
in tight.
Gyda's gaze sparked. "Would Roald and Hadd ally with Weatherhat against Harald?"
Brynja shook her head, and one barley-colored braid slipped free of her hood. "Never! They have no ties with their uncle. Why do you think Prince Dond did not stay in Svearike? When Erik wrested the crown away, he would have penned his father in prison, if Dond hadn't slipped out of his own kingdom and sought refuge with his grandsons in Telemark."
Jorunn's head spun trying to follow the twisted strands of Brynja's story. Among simple folk you needed to rely on kin merely to survive the harsh mountain life. There was no room for jealousy or juggling for power – luxuries that fell to the rich.
Gyda murmured, "I thought Harald gave a different name to the father of Erik Weatherhat. Anund, wasn't it?"
"Dond the Thunderer is a nickname," Brynja said. "No one in Morgedal ever calls him Anund."
"Clever," Gyda said. "The better to hide from a vengeful son. But Beste-Papa, you gave me a jesting answer. What do you truly think of Harald?"
Gunnarr scratched his grizzled beard. "He has a right to be proud of his feats in gaining more lands for his realm. But like all young men, his pride exceeds his deeds. How much of his triumph is his own doing? I suspect most of the glory belongs to his uncle Guttorm, who slyly stays in Harald's shadow." Gunnarr shifted to gaze at Gyda, his weather-crinkled cheeks in sharp contrast with her silken skin. "What are your thoughts? And more to the point, what are your feelings?"
She sniffed. "My feelings matter not at all. You know that." Said so strongly, Jorunn mused, as to quench any such ill-begotten yearning that might be welling in spite of her resolve.
"But my thoughts echo yours," Gyda said. "He hasn't yet earned all the praise he feels he deserves. Strutting like a barnyard cock, indeed. I'm looking for a sharp-hooved bull that could trample such a measly fowl into the dust."
* * *
The journey up-dale to Kvien took much longer than the expected four days. They had to seek shelter during bad weather at another small steading where one main building served as both hall and byre. The freeholders took themselves to a hayloft, giving over their only plank-bed to the guesting womenfolk, partitioned off not by walls but by drapery. Gyda and Brynja grumbled at the stink and shuffling of goats and sheep under the same roof. Gunnarr slept on a pallet on the floor along with his men.
