by Joyce Holt
Gyda lurched up, pushed Jorunn out of her way, and climbed out of bed. She stomped in the dark to the door and flung it open.
Light still showed from the hall beyond. Gyda tossed her braid over her shoulder and strode out.
Jorunn sat up, arms around her knees, shivering in the drafts that swirled like wraiths while she listened to the rumble of voices at the high table.
"I have a feeling," Brynja said, "we'll not be getting much sleep tonight."
Gyda talked Gunnarr into mounting a greater guard on Kvien and the approaches than they already had for the threat of trolls. All her own idea, of course. She gave no credit to the musings of a lowly housegirl.
She said nothing when she returned to bed, either, except to complain about drafts through the bedding. Jorunn curled up against her mistress' side. "You're welcome," she mouthed, quiet as a moth's wing-beat.
* * *
Gunnarr saw no need to uproot the household and flee into hiding, but he called upon neighboring bondes to loan warriors and cotters to swarm the mountainsides by day and shelter by night in his own outlying cots. Because of the trolls, it was said, but he posted numerous sentries – sharpest of eye and swiftest by ski – all along the heights overlooking the Keel Road.
One party of guards narrowly escaped another avalanche. One sentry skied over a cliff in a sudden whiteout, broke an arm and cracked his ribs. Fleas returned to infest the hall.
Jorunn helped beat bedding again behind the byre while the other housegirls at the same task muttered to each other about trylleri and aimed wary glances her way.
"So easy it is," hissed a voice, making her jump. "To turn the blame on you." Sverri leaned against the byre wall.
Jorunn shrank back a step.
"If you don't give me what I want, I'll see you cast out into the storm." He grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth.
She straightened and braced herself. "You're the one causing it, glutton!" she snapped. "The nisse ought to make the pig-sty collapse on you!"
He straightened and scowled. "How did you—" he began, then shook it off. "No one will believe you. An outsider, ugly as a badger, branded by demons." He flicked at his own neck.
Jorunn fought the impulse to hunch shoulders, to hide the birthmark.
He laughed and strutted away while words stuck in her throat.
Empty words. No good would they do her, not all alone as she was, a stranger, without kin to back her.
Stuck in her throat. Empty words, words without power. But there were words that did hold power. Words that could make a warrior flinch and cringe and flee into exile. The verses of a skald, shaped by wordcraft into a blade sharper than steel. She knew how to forge them, but did she dare? She couldn't claim to be a skald.
* * *
On the second morning, beacons flared before sunrise. The spisshunds bayed alarm. Gunnarr's small army escorted to Kvien a sizeable party of skiers with Ragnvald at the head. Harald's men, all of them. A band of warriors, armed with sword and spear. Their angry looks turned to wariness as sunrise lit the outnumbering swarm of Gunnarr's swordsmen arrayed in defense of the steading. Even young Toli at his uncle's side brandished a spear.
"Troll-watch," Gunnarr explained to Ragnvald in the houseyard, ringed by his own forces. "Not wise of you to be traveling before full daylight. I'm glad my scouts found you before our restless jotuns did." He scratched his beard. "I must admit to a great deal of puzzlement, finding you coming from the east. Last we saw of you was on the western stretch of the road. May I ask your errand?"
At the hall's doorway Jorunn peered around Gyda. Her mistress stood with arms crossed, one toe tapping, and her lips set thin and grim – once again the very picture of the grappling beast.
Harald's men shuffled about, eyeing the steading folk and making sure to keep hands clasped in front, far from their sword hilts. Ragnvald swaggered a step forward. "My good bonde, I bear word," he proclaimed, "from the lord and ruler of Vestfold, Ringerike, Hedemark, Gudbrandsdal, Hadeland, Thoten, Raumarike, and Vingulmark – who seeks your granddaughter Gyda to wife. But since her father says nei to Harald's generous proposals of alliance, he'll take her as concubine. She is to return with us, if you wish to avoid the wrath of Harald Halfdansson King!"
Gasps and murmurs rose from all sides. Before Gunnarr could say a word, Gyda launched herself out the door and into the houseyard, her unbraided hair trailing like a linen veil, blazing golden in the sun's first rays. "A concubine?" she cried. "A concubine!"
Gunnarr grabbed her arm and kept her out of Ragnvald's reach. Or perhaps he meant to keep Ragnvald safely out of Gyda's reach, Jorunn thought with a twitch to her lips.
"What insult is this you cast in my face?" Gyda ranted. "I'll be no man's concubine! I would not even agree to marry your Harald." She spat in the ice. "Chieftain over a few measly districts on the coast. Why would I throw myself away on a husband so small? So petty? So short-sighted?" She hurled gestures like spears.
"My lady," Ragnvald began, looking offended. "Harald is the greatest king—"
"King? You say king? I laugh! Look at Svearike where Weatherhat has built a great realm from the holdings of a flock of squabbling princelings like your Harald. Look at Charlemagne and the empire he built from the shores of the far southern sea all across Gaul, clear to Saxony and the Dane Mark's borders. Such men are kings, true kings. Your Harald? Hah! A stripling youth at the head of a ragtag host. I will take no husband but the man who forges all the Nord Way into one mighty nation! Tell that to Harald." She spun about and stomped back into the hall.
Jorunn sidestepped Gyda's wrath, took one look out the door at Ragnvald's astonishment, then followed after her mistress. She had to give way when Brynja and her mother swept past, jabbering like magpies as they trailed Gyda into her chamber.
"What are you thinking?" Brynja's mother cried. "Harald holds Ringerike, right at the feet of our mountains. He'll come storming up with the armies of all seven kingdoms!"
"Eight," Gyda's mother muttered.
"You could have put him off with excuses," Brynja said.
"Haughty girl," Gyda's mother said, and pressed her lips thin.
"You've put us all in danger!"
"Foolish to make an enemy of Harald!"
"We'll all have to flee!"
"Why didn't you soothe him with sweet words to give your grandfather time to make a counter offer?"
Gyda waved them all back. "No doubt he's doing just that, this very moment. The menfolk will hammer out an arrangement, and no one will remember a word I've said. But I had to say it! I won't marry the lout, and I won't give in to anyone else's bargaining. Not even Beste-Papa's."
Brynja's mother pushed forward, blustering. "An apology. You must—"
Surprising herself, Jorunn stepped in Dagmær's way. The portly woman drew up, staring down her nose at the roadblock. Jorunn stood her ground.
"I've cast a stone into a pond," Gyda said through gritted teeth. "There will be ripples. Perhaps they will splash onto someone's toes and annoy. Perhaps they will slosh against a logjam, set it to shifting and flood the valley below. Whichever it is, I cannot uncast the stone. Now leave me. I need to think in peace." She turned away, arms crossed again, and stared at one of the tapestries, pursing her lips, knitting her fair brow.
Dagmær made to step forward, drawing breath for another onslaught.
Jorunn held arms out to the side as if blocking a flighty sheep. "Out, p-please," she stammered at barely more than a whisper.
"How dare you!" Dagmær huffed, her bosom lifting in outrage.
"P-please leave, my lady," Jorunn said, forcing the words out one by one.
"Ja, Mother," Brynja said, coming to Jorunn's side. "Give her some time. What's said can't be unsaid."
Timidly at first, Jorunn flapped her hands as she stepped forward, playing shepherdess with one very large ewe.
Dagmær took a step back, then another, then huffed again, whirled and strutted out of the chamber. Aslaug eyed her daug
hter Gyda then followed her portly sister.
Brynja said, "I'll be close at hand if you want me." She crooked a finger at Drifa who swept up a basket of embroidery. The two left.
Jorunn trailed Drifa, but Gyda spoke before she reached the threshold. "You stay."
Jorunn looked over her shoulder, then turned full to face her mistress.
Gyda still gazed at the tapestry. Her fingers drummed on her upper arms for a moment, then she sighed and moved to her stool. "Bring me the bag from the corner."
It was a tall narrow sack of plain wool weave. Gyda loosened the drawstring, took out a roll of thin leather and spread it across her knees. She sat there, staring down at stains on the bleached skin.
"What is this?" Jorunn ventured at last.
"A map." After many heartbeats Gyda glanced up. "A map," she said again. "A drawing of lands."
Jorunn shrugged and tipped her head.
"What Odin's eagle would see if it looked down from the heights of the World Tree, down upon our world Midgard."
Jorunn blinked and leaned in to stare at the blotches on the parchment. "Øy," she murmured. "Those specks are islands, then, and the great stains, the greater lands?"
Gyda traced a path along a coast, between one large blotch and a string of speckles. "The Nord Way. My father dwells here." She plunked a thumb on the coastline. "And here are we, just over the Keel. Here stands Weatherhat in his Swedish realm, ready to gobble up our lands in his next campaign. And this." She spread a hand, fingers extended, and skimmed across the largest patch. "The lands to the south, across the Skagerrak. Not long ago this all belonged to Charlemagne. This is what a man with vision can accomplish. Or a woman, if she speaks into the ear of the right man."
Gyda shook herself, then rolled up the map. In a gruff voice she said, "I hunger. Go see if firstfare is ready, and whether Beste-Papa let that hound of Harald's into the hall or not."
Jorunn found only steading-folk milling about indoors, some attending to their duties and all blustering about the rude demand and unspoken threat from the lowlands. She saw porridge just coming to a boil, and heard of Gunnarr and Lingormr and half their men showing Ragnvald's company the road.
Just as she turned to take word back to Gyda, Sverri stepped into her path.
"More bad luck you bring to Kvien," the pig-keeper cried, his voice resounding. "You'll be the ruin of us all!"
Jorunn stepped back, smacking into a pillar. Drudges and housegirls hemmed in on either side. The troubled looks on their faces turned to scowls, and the hall thrummed with angry murmuring.
No one stood to help her. She couldn't slip away.
"It's her!" Sverri jabbed a finger. "Just look at her! Uglier than me, and that mark on her neck, a brand of evil. She brings the curse upon us all!"
She saw the conniving, the scheming in his eyes. He was making use of this time of tumult to strike back in revenge, and to shift blame for his own misdeeds. Lies, all lies, nothing but words, yet they stabbed like daggers.
Not daggers. Words as blunt as a flimsy paring knife.
Jorunn pushed off from the pillar. She strived to still the trembling of her limbs, while in her mind she snatched the skaldic sword. Arming herself with the meter and cadence of king's verse, its rhyme and alliteration, she steadied her voice, made it ring. "Guilty louts, the loudest, lies and false blame aiming. Wicked folk the quickest, woe and judgment throwing."
Sverri's face went white and he stumbled back a step. Jorunn knew he would have laughed at any feeble protest on her part, but to have skaldic verse hurled his way – uttered in truth, as he knew full well – made his world crumble around him.
Now everyone turned to stare at him. Silence fell all around. His mouth opened and closed like a beached trout.
Jorunn pushed on. "Our lack of luck, your work! Lout! Gad-about! Sneak-thief!"
Sverri's eyes widened. He whirled, plunged for the door, staggered out into the houseyard, before she could finish the eight-line proclamation and seal his doom.
Youths and housegirls all stepped back, giving Jorunn a wide berth. The wary looks they shot her no longer tinged with fear and anger but with respect. She had won no friends, for who wants to risk drawing a skald's wrath?
She clenched her hands to keep them from shaking, squared her shoulders, and turned once more for Gyda's chamber. She pulled up short.
Her mistress stood already at the high table, her narrowed eyes taking in the disturbance.
"So," Gyda said when Jorunn came to her side. That shrewd glance fixed upon her face.
After a few hammering heartbeats of silence, Jorunn said, "Did my own barking, Mistress. Porridge will be ready soon. I suggest sending a goodly portion to the nisse."
Gyda sniffed at the unwanted opinions of the Rabble – but beckoned to a cook, and made it so.
27 – Skald-Maid
Jorunn's thrumming heartbeat settled like a heron come to roost in a willow. The river of everyday chores streamed along below, and she must still go about her duties.
Her thoughts kept swirling back as she worked. Twice already in this young day she'd done what she'd never dreamed of trying even once. She had faced down two dragons before firstfare: Dagmær spouting indignation, and Sverri spewing the flames of false accusation.
Now at the high table, Brynja's mother wouldn't look at Jorunn. Lesser folk did, from down below the dais, with questioning gaze as if truly seeing her for the first time. There was no sign of the pig-keeper.
At her post near Gyda's side Jorunn heard snatches of talk, though not about the shaming of Sverri. Speculation about Ragnvald's errand ebbed and flowed among the steading folk. The clamor lulled when Gunnarr and Lingormr strode into the hall and up to the high table. The steward pounded his staff, silencing the chatter.
Gunnarr faced his folk. "Harald's men are well on their way down the valley. It seems Guttorm Sigurdsson was waiting for them at the lower falls, equipped for a swift return to Ringerike. Sleighs and all."
Voices rose in outrage.
The steward thumped for silence.
Gunnarr went on. "When his men relay to Harald Gyda's reply to his demands, the upstart may well take offense and storm up the dale in full battle array. Lingormr, you take the womenfolk by sleigh over the Keel. Leave tomorrow morn. Pay my respects to Eirikr in Hordaland. Brynja, I will send word to your Mundi that there will be no wedding before Midsummer Day. The rest of us will move stores and livestock to our mountain refuge." He turned to the party of travelers. "The road has been cleared, my men say. They're bringing the sleighs up for you, as we speak. I urge you to go on your way with all speed. Feel free to tell of what you've heard here, for the tidings will come to his ears soon enough as it is. I lay no burden or oath of silence upon you."
"Guttorm the Schemer has met his match in Gunnarr," Jorunn said to Drifa.
The older woman nodded, pursed her lips a moment, then leaned to the housegirl standing at Aslaug's elbow and repeated the phrase.
Jorunn shook her head at Drifa, raising a hand in protest. "Just a passing thought! Nothing of any merit to be quoting like that!"
"Not a Finn, you keep saying," Drifa murmured back. "Next best, a skald-maid, I'm thinking."
"Nei, I'm not—" Jorunn began, but her mistress rose, beckoned, and strode off to the bedchamber. She sighed and followed.
Gyda stood in the center of the room, surveying all encompassed in the tight quarters. "Pack the same items," she ordered. "We've hardly had time to unpack, but it seems our winter of travel must go on longer."
A knot of unhappiness tangled in Jorunn's belly. "We" and "our"— She didn't want to travel east over the Keel. She wanted to ski west and south, home to Morgedal to Svana's side – along the very path Harald's hosts would soon be tromping. A perilous time to set out on that journey, and Kvien a perilous place to stay. The meddling of kings and Norns left her little choice.
"Add in my map case. And this basket of handwork." Gyda nudged a container with her foot. "Must take
the time, I suppose, to finish my gift meant for Brynja's wedding. I shall stitch with the needles Harald Halfwit sent me – may he get much pleasure out of the gifting."
Jorunn scurried to her bidding, stifling a groan. Another busy day when she would get no chance to look after Svana. She pictured Ragnvald and Guttorm skimming with all speed down the long dale of Valdres, back to their master's side, and longed to spy after them as well. An idea sparked. Perhaps she could head for home in spite of the danger, using the key to hunt out a safe path.
Two strapping youths came to fetch the large ornate chests and other possessions the cousins would be leaving behind. Gyda followed them to the houseyard to watch the packing onto sledges, some meant for the journey and others for flight to the mountain refuge, then turned to the hawk-house, planning one last hawking jaunt into the heights.
Gunnarr wouldn't let her go. "We have no time to dance about with trolls," he told her. "Help your mother prepare to leave."
"Very well, after I say farewell to Hiss and Shriek. You will fly them every chance you can, won't you, Beste-Papa?"
"Not if trolls and jotuns and foolish Ringerikers come to besiege us." He draped an arm over her shoulder. "Do not worry. I'll see they're well tended."
Jorunn looked around. Where were the spare skis that had been loaned to the stranded travelers? They must be stored here somewhere. She slipped over to the byre. Who could she ask? Forget about breaking the silver bar in pieces. She'd trade the whole thing, and use the glass beads later to barter for provisions.
She didn't see Ketill. She asked another stableman.
Before he could answer, another fellow spoke from the aisle between stalls. "Looking for skis, are you?" The smith strode out of the shadows. White teeth flashed through the short sable of his beard. "I have skis to spare. Not here, though. Come along to my hut and I'll show you everything I have."
Jorunn backed off as his eyes raked her, head to foot.
"You'll want a ski pole, too," he drawled. "Long and sturdy, to last however long your journey takes."
Jorunn drew what courage she could. She had faced two dragons today. Surely she could handle a third. "I'm not interested in your wares. I was speaking to this good man."
