by Joyce Holt
"My name is Jorunn. In service to Gyda for a while. For naught but a short while, I hope, for I want to go home again."
Still no sound from the goatshed.
"I beg your help on a small matter. A bit of advice, that's all. About goats." Jorunn glanced around the shadowy houseyard, dreading the sight of golden horns and wondering if Valka had gone elsewhere after the hall. "I have meat to share, and porridge. Still warm." She shivered in the icy night wind.
"With butter?" rasped a voice from inside. "The porridge, with butter?"
"Ja, and a sprinkle of cinnamon." Jorunn straightened and stared in hope at the crack of the door. "One little dash my mistress missed."
"Mistress missed," the hoarse voice repeated, then cackled. "But better, the butter. Leave it outside the door."
Jorunn cocked her brow. "I was hoping to ask you—"
"Not now. Maybe later. Maybe not. Don't like talking."
"Later, then." She set down the platter and bowl and sighed. She'd hoped to share a friendly meal. She took one piece of venison for her dinner and left the rest. "I'm called Jorunn," she said again. "I wear Drifa's old green yoke-apron, Ketill's fur cap, boots full of holes—"
"Don't need to know what you looks like. Will know your smell. Go away."
Jorunn backed off, sniffing at the air. Scents don't carry well in the cold, and she'd had use of the wash water this morning after Gyda finished with it. She didn't stink. Her shoulders sagged as she turned back toward the hall. She gnawed at the venison and glanced all around, dreading another episode with Thor's chariot-goat.
It wasn't a buck's shape that lurched from the shadows but a man's. Jorunn squawked as he grabbed her arm.
"Saw you leaving the hall all alone," leered the pig-keeper. "Want a bit of company?"
She clenched tighter the hunk of meat that had nearly slipped from her grasp – and kicked the man in the shin.
He yelped and loosened his grip.
She yanked free, darted into the hall, and worked herself into the cluster of womenfolk scraping bowls by the hearth. She watched the doorway while she finished off the last of her meager dinner, but the pig-keeper didn't enter. When she glanced at the high table, Gyda caught her eye and snapped fingers.
Jorunn sighed, washed her hands, and went to attend.
* * *
Sverri the pig-keeper seemed always to be lurking nearby. Jorunn became wary of venturing out of the hall after dark, waiting until she saw other folk heading out as well. Now would be a good time to have a magic key for spying out the perils of the lusting male – if Thor's chariot-goat hadn't been spouting pure nonsense. She laughed at the thought that such a legend-worthy talisman would ever be fated to fall into the hands of a simple cotter's daughter.
The third night she asked Ketill to accompany her, mentioning the pig-keeper's ill manners.
"I would warn him to stay away," the stableman said, "but that would only goad him on. It would take words from Gunnarr or Lingormr to make the lout pay heed. Sorry to say, I've no weight with them."
"I'll try speaking again with Gyda then." Jorunn grimaced. Her mistress had brushed off her first complaint, and been too distracted to heed the second. But even if Sverri the pig-keeper got banished to his sty, she'd still worry about Toothgnasher coming to bully again, and no words from the bonde would ward off the threat of those heavy gilded horns.
She still had not seen Valka the goatherd, other than as a hump-backed shape in the shadows across the hall. She left a porridge bowl outside the goatshed every evening after supper, but again, that meant a dash outside in twilight's perilous gloom.
Gyda went hawking in the mornings. In late afternoons, if there were visitors, she held court alongside her grandfather and uncle. Travelers stopped in overnight on their way along the Keel Road. The ancient path crossed the mountain spine not far to the west, Jorunn soon learned, and dropped down the steep sea-ward side of the mountains to realms along the coast.
Messengers arrived from other suitors. Gyda entertained them with due courtesy, stashing away their unwanted gifts once they had left. She gave greater attention to simple wayfarers and any tidings they could tell of happenings abroad, spending long hours listening to their tales.
One morning there came news from near at hand. Trolls had beset a company of travelers on the road the night before. Half a dozen trolls, the survivors claimed – mostly of middling size, but one hulking jotun in their number.
Gunnarr called for men to rally on another hunt. Brynja was delighted when her "fellow" arrived at Kvien to join in. Jorunn didn't see much of him, for Gyda kept to her room all morning until the hunters left. Hiding her lamp so Brynja could shine?
That evening, with porridge bowl in hand, Jorunn hesitated to leave the hall. A little quicker, and she could have met in the open with Valka, who had lingered longer than usual among the steading-folk. But now she saw Sverri head out on the heels of the goatherd's shawl-muffled shape. Would he lay in wait outside the door like he had that first time?
Or would he follow Valka? Not a good fate for either of them. She slipped out the door, peering quickly about the gloomy houseyard.
There he went, still trailing Valka. The goatherd hurried her steps, but so did Sverri.
Jorunn set down her bowl, snatched up a ski pole among those leaning against the wall, and darted after the villain.
21 – Goatherder vs. Pigkeeper
Sverri lunged toward Valka, who whirled with a snarl.
Jorunn swung the pole. It smacked across his back so hard, a jolt shot up her arms.
He yelped and staggered into the goatherd who shoved him away. He tripped over something in the gloom, and bellowed a curse.
Valka grabbed Jorunn's arm, hauled her into the goatshed, slammed the door and barred it.
In the darkness, goats set to yammering. Jorunn's heart pounded. Valka's breath rattled, like hail against a thin plank wall.
In moments there came a battering on the door. "Open up, you mountain slut! Open up, or I'll fetch an ax – and not stop with breaking in the door!"
"He can't do that!" Jorunn muttered. "Gunnarr will—" She broke off. Most of the menfolk had skied off on the troll hunt. "Gunnarr would hear about it when he returns, and cast him out of the steading! Though much good that'll do us now."
"Gunnarr won't hear of it," Valka growled. "I take care of it. Never comes to his ears."
The door creaked under pounding fists. Sverri barked curses with each blow. The goats scuffled about, bleating in protest.
Jorunn shifted feet, peering uselessly into the utter blackness of the shed. She winced at the din, for the goats took to butting their partitions. Then she cocked her head at the most unexpected sound – a piping tune, like that of a sheep bone flute, sweet and lilting. The clamor subsided. The goats settled down, though the lout outside still hammered at the door. One last goat-chuckle blended with the melody, drowsy like a summer's afternoon.
Jorunn found herself sagging against a post, battling yawns, barely able to cling to her flagging senses. A foe still threatened, a foe, there was something she ought, she ought to—
The flute notes hurtled into a high harsh shriek. Jorunn shrank beside the unseen post, throwing her arms over her head, sure that Gyda's vicious peregrine was striking again—
Nei, no hawk would take wing in such coal-dark gloom. That made no sense. But panic tore at her heart with each keening note, shrilling ever louder.
She gasped. Something surely was stooping from on high, with talons splayed. A dragon!
Nei, no dragons. What foolishness. She was huddling in a goatshed, for Frigg's sake. What terrors were these, twisting her mind in the dark?
Heavy breathing sounded beyond the door. No more pounding. At the flute's next piercing shriek, Sverri yelped in fear. Running footsteps crunched away over the broken ice of the houseyard.
The shrieks of the pipe burst into higher notes, light and wild, a tune that sounded like laughter. Jorunn hauled herself up
the post. She felt the grain of wood under her trembling fingers, inhaled the odor of hay and manure and wet wool and something else, something smelling damp and silty like clay just dug from a riverbank. "What was that?" she whispered.
Valka croaked a laugh. "Coward running away. Where's my porridge?"
Jorunn blinked in the dark. "Set it down. Grabbed the pole and ran to your aid."
"Didn't need aid. Need porridge. Got butter in it?"
"Ja."
"Vel, go fetch it." A crack of starlight appeared as the door opened.
In the dim glow filtering inside, Jorunn could see no more of Valka than the fringed edge of a shawl wrapping head and shoulders, a nosetip, the glint of an eye. She nodded. "I will. Hoping it hasn't spilled."
"Better not. Better have butter. Lots of butter."
That other odor still wafted about Jorunn, something other than that of goat and her own terror. A dank and earthy scent. Had the small-cattle in their panic churned through their bedding, clear down to the dirt flooring? But it smelled moist, rich, like a deep dark gully in the autumn with leaves just beginning to molder.
She shook her head, sidled through the doorway, and fetched the porridge bowl. Butter still swam in the gruel.
Valka snatched the bowl from her hands and made to close the door in her face.
"Wait, please," Jorunn said, palm pressed against the rough wood planking. "A small piece of advice, be so kind? I don't know who else to ask."
The hunched shape of Valka held motionless for many heartbeats, then shrugged. "Small advice. Talk quick. Want my porridge."
"What can I do to fend off a large he-goat that keeps pestering me?"
Valka snorted. "Whomp him with staff. You done it already. Knock him head over heels."
"Not the two-legged kind. A goat. A buck with long heavy horns. Stands this tall." She motioned with her hand, chest-high.
Valka held still as a stump again. At last she creaked, "Long heavy horns, golden? Talks a lot?"
Jorunn stepped back, eyes wide. "Ja. How did you know?"
"Smelled him. Why you got Toothgnasher pestering you? Him all high and snooty. Was wondering what bring him to wander this corner of Midgard. You?" The goatherd blew a blast of scorn.
"That's what I keep asking!" Jorunn gulped. Who was Valka to be recognizing a creature of Asgard by smell? A Finn magician out of the far north, perhaps. Or a lore-wise seeress, mystical diviner of the unknown, mistress of trylleri. "Please tell me! What do goats loathe? What will drive him away? Garlic? Snakeskin? Clanging bells?"
A goat bell clinked somewhere in the dark, and Valka snorted again. "Nothing he loathes but hard work and Thor's hammer, Mjolnir. Garlic and snakeskin, you think? Hah! He'll make that a fine feast!"
"Should I say his name backwards? Circle him three times sunward? Throw an iron nail over his back?"
Valka drew deeper into the shadows. "None of that works with him. You out of luck."
Whether Finn or wisewoman, the goatherd had already shown her skill with magic. Jorunn tried again. "Could you flute him away?"
"Hah! That only works on empty heads. Not him." She slammed the door.
Jorunn stood there longer, hands clenched. "Worked on me," she murmured. "The goats, and Sverri, and me." She trudged back to the hall.
22 – Gifts from a King
The following evening, Kvien's hounds heralded the coming of strangers. Ragnvald the Treetrunk skied up to the steading, accompanied by half a dozen of Harald's men. Gunnarr called for a feast to welcome the travelers. From her post behind Gyda at the high table, Jorunn listened to their talk.
Ragnvald said he was on his way to visit kin at Møre on the western coast. He also had several errands to carry out for Harald, among them, gifts for Gyda. From his traveling pack he drew and presented a silk-embroidered pouch.
Gyda tipped the contents onto the high table. A slim silver case filled with slender needles. A bag of glass beads in brilliant colors. A set of tablet-weaving cards carved from ivory.
From her vantage point, Jorunn could see the corner of a polite smile touching Gyda's lips as she fingered the trinkets. In a gracious voice, the young woman asked Ragnvald to convey her thanks to his master when he returned to the east.
That night as they snuggled under blankets and bearskins, Gyda grumbled to Brynja, "Needles, beads, weaving tablets. Gifts sure to please any woman."
Her cousin chuckled. "But you're not 'any' woman, and you chafe that he would think you so. I can hear it in your voice."
"At least the king of Raumsdal knew enough to send a merlin." Gyda jabbed an elbow in Jorunn's ribs. "Your feet are like ice, girl. Warm them up before climbing into bed."
"Ja, mistress. More wool to line my boots, perhaps?"
"Those ugly things? Brynja, remind me in the morning to have someone hunt up a decent pair of shoes for Daggle-Tail. I want no more of these icicles against my ankles at night."
Jorunn doubted it was her cold feet that kept her mistress tossing throughout the night. Perhaps she was wondering the same thing that Jorunn did. What errands was Ragnvald sent on? Over the Keel to the western coast. To Møre, he said – which lay a few fjords north of Hordaland, the kingdom ruled by Gyda's father Eirikr.
The next morning Gyda set the needle case to dangling from one of her brooch chains along with her keys and snips. She donned her regal face and joined the menfolk for the early meal. Gunnarr presented Ragnvald and his men with packets of smoked meat before they set off skiing westward on the trail over the Keel.
As soon as the visitors left the hall, Gyda detached the needle case and stashed it in her locked casket. The ivory tablets she gave to her mother, Aslaug. At the high table she poured the beads from one hand to the other, her brows knit.
"Pretty baubles," Brynja said as the glass trinkets winked in the lamp light. Her mother Dagmær leaned in, peering at the beads, desire plain on her face.
"Makes me seethe," Gyda said. "He sends what he thinks a king's daughter might fancy, with no thought for who I am, me, myself. Didn't listen to a word I said along the way or he'd know these are not for me."
"You must be mistaken, dear cousin," Brynja said with mock gravity. "Remember his knack for seeing deep into others' hearts."
Gyda huffed. "He's no different than any other man. They paint an image in their mind, what to expect. Never bother to check it against what truly is." She glanced up and caught Jorunn watching. She held out the bowl of her hand. "But the rabble would dance in delight to gain such a gift, wouldn't they? Go ahead. Take one."
Jorunn shifted feet where she stood. Dare she remind her mistress? "Many thanks, but a pair of shoes would serve me better."
"Impertinent!" said Brynja's mother. "The wretch cannot even comprehend the value you offer, Gyda. Bestow your gifts where folk know the worth!"
Gyda narrowed her eyes at Jorunn for a moment before pouring the beads back into their bag. "Not one for flattery, are you?"
Jorunn dropped her gaze. It was hardly flattering to be called Daggle-Tail and Rabble.
Gyda held out the bag and gave it a shake. The beads clinked. "Vel, take it. I have no use for them."
"All of them?" Jorunn asked, bewildered, as she took the bag. "You said one."
"Trade them for shoes. If you bargain well, you may have a bead or two left over." Gyda sniffed, waved the Rabble away, and turned to talk with Brynja and her mother.
Jorunn backed off, casting a questioning glance at Drifa. The older woman shrugged and shook her head. No shoes to spare, apparently. She wandered down the hall to the central hearth, glancing at the cooks' footwear. No use asking someone with dainty feet.
Gunnarr returned to the hall, with Lingormr and the steward at his side. "And no one noticed?" Gunnarr asked the steward as they passed Jorunn. "How long has that storage loft's vermin-gap been bridged?"
"Long enough for the mice to eat holes in all the bags. What's left can be used for porridge, but—" The steward sucked at his teeth.
"We had a bounteous summer for cheeses," Lingormr said.
Gunnarr nodded. "Use half the cheese stock for bartering. Send someone downriver to trade for barley."
"Øy, another matter for your ears." The steward rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. "Half the cheeses are missing, as well."
"What?" Both Gunnarr and Lingormr halted and stared at the man.
"The mice couldn't have walked off with those," Lingormr said, crossing his arms.
"That one's a mystery," the steward said.
The cooks set to chattering in low voices about thievery and pests, and had no time to spare for Jorunn. Their feet were all too small, anyway.
Toli tromped past. Jorunn gazed at his boots. A better match for size, but she couldn't go begging castoffs from Gunnarr's own kin.
She started for the byre, but her pace faltered. Why would a stableman want to trade for beads? "For a wife or daughter, perhaps," she muttered and went on.
Jorunn had gained herself no more than a few rude comments from the menfolk by the time Drifa came looking for her. "I found fleas in the bedding," the older woman said. "Come along and help beat the blankets while Gyda makes up her mind whether to go out or not."
With arms full of blankets and furs, Jorunn tromped downhill beyond the houseyard to the paddock area behind the byre. Only the tops of fence posts showed through the snowpack, but someone had strung up a rope from the rooftop to the nearest ash tree. The women hung bedding to beat in the chill breeze, singing a threshing song in time with their blows.
The beads rattled in Jorunn's belt pouch as she swung. They wouldn't break, would they? She had nowhere to set them aside. No place of her own. Back home in Morgedal, there was a hollow in an aspen tree where she kept her childhood treasures. A bit of ribbon. A willow whistle. The carving of an owl that Oddleif had made for her.
And the latest rolling pin. Each time she and her mother had shaped the perfect roller for making flatbread, Knut would trade it away for ale.
"How can you master the art of rolling, with such a knobbly pin as this?" her mother would ask whenever Jorunn's round of dough ended up lumpy or torn.
