The Knight of the Red Beard-The Cycle of Oak, Yew, Ash and Rowan 5

by Andre Norton

  Relieved that the warkat wasn’t going to cause any disruption, at least for the moment, Mikkel went to do as he was bidden.

  More tables than for Ridder Shraig’s homecoming feast had been set up, and women were placing platters on them, along with carved wooden spoons. At intervals women set dishes of salt and deep bowls to be filled with more of the savory basting sauce and shared by all the diners, and pots of honey for the bread. Each diner would provide his own personal knife for cutting the meat, and, as before, his own drinking horn or cup.

  The wall torches lifted only a part of the darkness in the windowless room. The main light for the diners was provided by many thick candles set in low dishes obviously made for that task on every table. The wax smelled sweet, like honey.

  At the head table, special care was being taken for laying out the platters and ornamented silver cups. Beside each platter, a woman had placed a napkin, and in the center of the table there was also a dish of salt, a sauce bowl, and a pot of honey for these diners’ exclusive use.

  Gunnora moved through the room, supervising the preparations with a sharp eye, now and then moving a platter or a bowl to suit her. Most of all, though, she paid attention to the head table.

  “You there, Berna,” she said sharply. “Those napkins look like they’ve been used. Go and fetch fresh ones.”

  “Yes, Lady,” the woman said. She went through the door Mikkel now knew led to the private quarters of Ridder Holger and Lady Gunnora. He was curious as to what it looked like.

  “What’re you staring at, boy?” Gunnora demanded. “You’re the one who thinks he’s a prince, aren’t you? I think you must be mad.”

  “No, Lady,” Mikkel said. His neck tingled sharply and he knew he must be careful around this formidable woman. “I do not think I am mad. Though I am the son of a king, I will not ask for special favors nor require being addressed by a lofty title. I have been knighted, though, so I might be called Ridder if this finds favor in your or Ridder Holger’s eyes.”

  Gunnora regarded him at some length. Then she began to laugh. “Now, that is amusing! A boy your age, a Ridder! We must be sure to tell my husband that. He’ll either laugh himself sick or knock you across the room. Now, get busy.”

  Gratefully, Mikkel turned away to try and look busy and escape Gunnora’s attention.

  While the feast was being prepared under Gunnora’s watchful eye, Holger and a few of his Ridders and Adeligs went out into a small hut outside the protective walls for a sweat bath. As an unexpected reprieve, Mikkel was called away from work in the banquet hall to fetch water for pouring over rocks heated nearly to the melting point to create the necessary steam and then to fetch buckets of snow for the after-bath cleansing.

  The Knight-King himself seemed to have nothing on his mind more important than this refreshing ritual. Perhaps, Mikkel thought, he had forgotten about his prisoner entirely.

  But no. When Ridder Holger, having profusely sweated out impurities through his skin, was ready for the snow in the bucket Mikkel carried, he addressed the boy directly for the first time since arriving at Forferdelig Sound and the Upplands.

  “They say you’re a prince. Son of the NordornKing. Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mikkel said. He dared to look Holger in the eye. “His youngest, if it please you.”

  Holger laughed. “And even if it doesn’t,” he said genially. He seemed to be in a good mood after his bath, scrubbing his skin with the snow and turning it red.

  “Did—did my father offer ransom for me?” Mikkel asked, more than a little hesitant lest he ruin Holger’s pleasant frame of mind.

  “Ransom in plenty!” Holger exclaimed. “The fellow we talked to, the one captaining the sharp-bowed new ship, offered it to me in exchange for you. They must think highly of you.”

  The Ice Princess! Father and Mother must want him back very much indeed if they were willing to give up the prize of the Nordorn navy. Mikkel tried to keep his expression from giving away his thoughts.

  “That was my Uncle Rohan, Chieftain of the Sea-Rovers, you spoke to. Was there another man with him?”

  “Yes. Gruff, older, looked like he’d been at sea most of his life.”

  “That would be Count Tordenskjold, Admiral-General of the Nordorn fleet.”

  “Well, he looked to be capable of being very unpleasant if the mood took him.” Holger toweled himself off and began donning the festive garments laid out ready for him. “Wouldn’t fancy meeting him in battle. I wager he knows what he’s about. Not like that fool whose ship you were on. He was barely worth the twenty gold pennies I got for him.”

  Mikkel decided to risk one more question. “And will you trade? Me for the ship?”

  “Haven’t made up my mind yet. Now, run along. I’m sure Gunnora has plenty of work for you to do and if she doesn’t, then Askepott will.”

  Mikkel went to do as he was bid. Despite the Ridder’s careless attitude, he felt more hopeful than at any time since being taken aboard the Wykenig ship that he would, eventually, be returned to his home.

  When the hall—the room Askepott called the Long House—was full of men, many with their ladies at separate tables, Mikkel almost forgot how strongly Gunnora’s aura of Power told him she was, in her own way, far more dangerous than Ridder Holger could ever dream of being. Her attention was turned elsewhere.

  No stew for the diners tonight. This was a real feast. In addition to the roasted meat, there were platters of honey-glazed vegetables—turnips, carrots, cabbages, leeks—and mounds of fresh flatbread. These, Gunnora served with her own two hands to her husband and to the Ridders at the High Table, an honor that she would cede to no other. Another smell of honey, not from the candles, began filling the air in the hall as the women poured the first draft into the diners’ cups. This was mjöð, the honey brew, reserved for grand and great occasions;björr was for all other times.

  The skalds, the musicians, struck up a tune and began to sing:

  Comes now forth Gunnora the Golden,

  queen of Holger, heart of the Upplands;

  heedful of courtesy is she,

  gold-decked, greeting the guests in hall;

  and the high-born lady hands the treasured cup

  first to the Wykenigs’ heir and warden,

  bids him be blithe at the welcoming mjöð-carouse,

  the land’s beloved one.

  Lustily takes he

  banquet and beaker, battle-famed king.

  To those at the High Table then goes Holger’s Lady,

  to younger and older waiting there, till comes the moment

  when the ring-graced queen, the royal-hearted,

  gives thanks in wisdom’s words, that

  she has wed a hero on whom her hope could lean

  for comfort in terrors. The cup he takes,

  hardy-in-war, from Gunnora’s hand, and drinks.

  Bright with gold the stately dame by her spouse sits down.

  When Holger and those in the hall had drunk the cup of mjöð, the women began refilling all beakers with björr. This, too, Gunnora served him with her own hand in his own ornamented silver cup from a pitcher she had personally prepared. Lesser men had to make do with carved wood or horn served by women of the house.

  Later, when the women had cleared away the platters and thrown the scraps to the dogs, the men would fall to the serious drinking. If there were dancing in the Wykenig Long House, it would be in the form of an entertainment—not participated in by the onlookers—but this would not be the night for that kind of frivolity.

  While Gunnora ate, sharing her platter with Holger, she was constantly surveying the room with her sharp eyes. Mikkel could almost see her committing small transgressions and breaches of manners to memory to be used later against the malefactors.

  His nape hairs rose again as her gaze fell on him. She leaned toward Holger and whispered something in his ear, causing him to turn and stare at her. Then he laughed uproariously.

  “I think she’
s told Ridder Holger something about me,” Mikkel muttered to Petra, who was sitting beside him. “Nothing good, I’d wager.”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Petra said. “Look.”

  Holger was beckoning to Mikkel. Resignedly, he arose from the table and made his way through the revelers until he had reached the High Table.

  “Sir?”

  “My lady wife tells me that in addition to being a prince, you fancy yourself a Ridder!”

  “My father, the NordornKing, knighted me on my tenth birthday,” Mikkel answered, trying to sound humble. “It is a custom among the Nordorners.”

  “Now I am glad I decided to keep you for a while, young Ridder.” He turned a shade more serious. “Look you. I have had a good season. The treasury is full. The larders have enough in them to feed us through the winter that is hard upon us, if we are lucky with hunting and fishing. The winter lights fill the sky, there is ice in Forferdelig Sound, and no Nordorn ship, no matter how well captained, will risk sailing northward at this time of year. You are my guest whether you wish it or not. It is an added benefit that I find you amusing. Some of my guests are not so lucky.”

  Unconsciously, Mikkel put his hand on his amulet.

  “What’s that?” Gunnora demanded.

  “Nothing, Lady. Just—just something from home.”

  “Let me see it.”

  There was no denying her, Mikkel knew. So he pulled the chain over his head and handed it to her. She held it to the light, examining the device. Then she passed it to Holger who scrutinized it in turn.

  “The Ash Tree,” he said. “Well now, young Ridder. There is definitely more to you than first appears. Tell me. Do you know how to play Hnefa-Tafl?”

  “If it is like King’s Soldiers, I do.”

  “Close enough, I’ll warrant. Very well, young Ridder—What is your name, anyway?”

  “Mikkel.”

  “Mikkel. That means ‘Red Fox’ in our language. So, young Ridder Red Fox, after dinner we will have our first game. And then, if I’m in a good mood, I’ll send word to the NordornKing that his son still lives. For now.”

  He handed Mikkel his amulet, then threw his head back and laughed loudly at his own wit.

  “You told me you were the son of a king, but not a son of the NordornKing,” Gunnora said accusingly. “Your parents, they are the ones who slew the great Ice Dragon? The Mother?”

  “Yes, Lady.”

  “And they received certain items in a gem-heavy box, to help them on their mission?”

  “Yes, Lady. The Dragon Box has a place of honor in my father’s Hall.”

  “I see. Get back to your table now.”

  Mikkel escaped gratefully to his table where his companions nearly swamped him with questions.

  “Not now,” he told them. “Later, when we have all gone to bed. Then we will talk.”

  He wanted to think about the implications of what Holger had said and the questions Gunnora had all but skewered him with. Also, he wanted to remember, as nearly as possible, what Askepott had told him about the Great Ash Tree. Perhaps this amulet he had borrowed from Mother’s jewel box was going to bring him luck after all.

  Ten

  Again the Great Hall of Cyornas Castle blazed with light, the crystal drops—more like icicles—and twinkling snowflakes reminding knowing onlookers that this was, indeed, the Castle of Fire and Ice.

  Dinner was over, the tables cleared, but the music and other entertainment not yet begun. Three young men stood before the dais occupied by Gaurin NordornKing, Ashen NordornQueen, and the heir, Bjaudin NordornPrince. One could be counted little more than a boy, but the other two, though young, were grown men. Of the three, the boy looked the most at ease; the other two, though they tried to hide it, seemed a little stunned at this turn of events.

  Three women stood nearby, waiting, as did the crowd of courtiers who had come to witness the ceremonies before the last feast of the celebration of Earl Royance and Countess Mjaurita’s wedding. Esander the Good, priest of the Fane of the Castle of Fire and Ice, entered the Hall and took his place before the three young men.

  “Come you now to be betrothed,” Esander said.“So say you all?”

  “So say I, Prince Karl of Writham.”

  “So say I, Duke Bernhard of Yuland.”

  “So say I, Mårten of Mithlond.”

  “And where are the beloveds? Who comes to be betrothed to Prince Karl of Writham?”

  One of Ashen’s ladies, Kaisa, who had replaced Lady Elibit when Duke Einaar claimed her in marriage, moved forward. “I stand proxy for Princess Gizela of Rendel,” she said.

  “And who will be betrothed to Duke Bernhard of Yuland?”

  Another of Ashen’s ladies, Frida, came forward. “I stand proxy for Amilia of the Sea-Rovers.”

  “And who will be betrothed to Mårten of Mithlond?”

  Elin stepped forward, barely hiding a scowl, and took her place beside Mårten. “I, Elin-Alditha NordornPrincess.”

  Esander smiled on the six standing before him. “Then, I—”

  “Wait, good Esander!”

  All heads turned as Bjaudin NordornPrince left the dais and strode down the length of the Great Hall, to return hand-clasped with Lady Laherne. “We come also to be betrothed,” he said as he reached the place where the others were standing.

  “And you, my dear?” asked Esander of Laherne. “Is this your wish also?”

  “It is.” She looked at Bjaudin, her face glowing, her eyes full of love. “I, Laherne of Rendel, do wish with all my heart to be betrothed this day to Bjaudin NordornPrince.”

  “Our great friends’ marriage, Earl Royance and Countess Mjaurita of Grattenbor and of Åskar, has prompted an outpouring of affection unlooked for but happily found,” Esander said placidly. “I charge you—all of you—to seek patiently for deeper affection between you, so that when you wed you will find true happiness and contentment.” He held out his hands, blessing all eight young people lined up before him.

  “Did you know anything of this?” Gaurin whispered to Ashen.

  “No, nothing.” She glanced at Rannore, who seemed as taken aback as any. “Though I cannot think of a better match for our son.”

  He smiled at her with the trace of mischief in his eyes that always made her heart skip. “Then I will say nothing in opposition.”

  Lady Pernille, Chief Musician at Cyornas Castle since old Master Oskar’s permanent retirement, signaled the players who struck up “The Song.” At once, four of Gaurin’s gentlemen claimed their counterparts of Ashen’s ladies as partners; Frida and Kaisa, of course, would dance with Prince Karl and Duke Bernhard. Elin’s ladies Hanna and Kandice took Frida’s and Kaisa’s places with Gaurin’s other two gentlemen so none were awkwardly left without partners. With an aplomb far beyond his years, Mårten took Elin’s hand and led her to her place in the ring of dancers.

  “Come, my Ashen,” Gaurin said, as he arose from his chair. “It is a good day in many ways. I have laid aside my staff, at least for this evening.”

  With a heart made light and glad Ashen took his proffered hand. Let the morrow bring snow and aching cold; this day was a happy one with but a single dark cloud on the horizon. If only Mikkel were here. . . .

  To make up for her gloomy thought, she smiled at Tjórvi, now her foster son, who had been bidden—all but ordered—and had reluctantly come to the Hall for the celebration. Uncertainly, Tjórvi returned the smile. But he did not join the dancing.

  When the tedious evening was nearing completion, Elin found a moment to speak with Granddam Ysa at a small table at the far end of the room where they could be reasonably sure of not being overheard.

  “I thought you said that we would be creating . . . unrest in the NordornLand,” she said a trifle petulantly, “not celebrations.”

  Ysa stared at her granddaughter. “And do you expect duels to break out in the Great Hall? Do you think Aslaugors are going to draw weapons against Lowlanders? Or Fridians? Shall the scholars
of Galinth turn their quill pens into daggers?”

  “I—I don’t know what I expected.”

  “These things take time. While you have been enjoying yourself and flirting shamelessly with those two young men, poor befuddled souls, I have been working quietly, behind the scenes. And not so incidentally, you’ve done a fairly good job of creating unrest yourself. Look at Duke Bernhard and Prince Karl.”

  Truthfully, the two barely exchanged glances and when they did those looks were loaded with icy daggers. “But they aren’t doing anything about it.”

  Ysa sighed. “Child, child, you must learn patience and the art of diplomacy.”

  “This is diplomacy?”

  “It can work both ways—creating peace or destroying it.” Ysa straightened in her chair, her silk skirts rustling. “You must come back with me to Iselin. I see that I still have much to teach you. Also, we can work more openly there, without the great need for secrecy.”

  Elin brightened. “And I can bring that bracelet of Mother’s I told you about!”

  “What bracelet?”

  “Oh—I must have forgotten. There’s a bracelet with nine little teeth strung on a thin chain. I got the oddest feelings when I touched them. Maybe you can help unlock the riddle. You and I together,” she amended.

  “That sounds interesting.” Ysa smiled. “Yes, definitely, you must bring the bracelet when you come. Now,” she continued, “here is what you should do. Tell your mother and father that it is most un-seemly for you and your betrothed to live in such close proximity; therefore, you should live apart for a while. Royance will be too busy with his new bride to pay much attention to you, and there is not another place suitable unless you went to live with your sister in Rendel.”

  “Oh, please, not that,” Elin said, making a face. “Fortunately, Mother won’t want me to go that far distant, with Mikkel still missing.”

  “Just so. Therefore, if you’re to stay in the NordornLand, it must be Iselin. It’s the only place fit to house Nordorn royalty, short of Cyornas Castle. I’ll speak to Ashen and Gaurin in the morning.”