Crowbone

by Robert Low

  ‘Olaf,’ he said, before the silence grew insulting, ‘son of Tryggve. I am a true prince of Norway and the rightful king.’

  ‘Just so,’ Arnfinn declared. ‘I had heard this. You have come for my wife’s mother, of course and her son, the last of the brood. Did you know he was the one who killed your father? He tells of it often, for it was the first man he cut down in a fight and he is very proud that it was a king who blooded him.’

  Crowbone raised an eyebrow. Was the man deliberately trying to provoke? Yet Arnfinn’s face was bland, almost cheerful.

  ‘Gunnhild and her son are gone, with a wheen of my men. Good riddance I say, even if it means I have fewer men than I would like if it comes to a fight. My wife is of the same mind, for she is nothing like her mother at all.’

  Crowbone saw it then, a flare like flint and steel sparking in his head. Gunnhild and Gudrod had gone, following the instructions in the monk-message and taking a lot of Arnfinn’s men with them, so that Orkney was only lightly defended. Arnfinn wanted to deal and Crowbone had an idea what he wanted thrown into the trade.

  When he realised what the offer was, the force of it took his breath away. Arnfinn hauled out buckets of silver and offered supplies for Crowbone and all he seemingly wanted was for Crowbone’s men to go away without a fight. All they took in exchange was the body of Rovald, who had wheezed his last and was to be decently howed up.

  ‘Just like that,’ Gjallandi declared into the delight of men loading the stuff on the ships. ‘With no fighting at all, only the threat of it. Young Crowbone here did not as much as wave his sword and all of Orkney handed him its riches.’

  The knowledge that silver could be had for the threat stayed with them all the way to Borg and sat beside Crowbone on the Bull Kings’ feast bench as men roared and boasted and threw bones at each other. Crowbone smiled and nodded, but kept his counsel.

  It did no harm for the men to think that Arnfinn and the rest of Orkney had handed out silver out of fear, but the truth was another piece in the game of kings, a truth arranged in private in the dim dark of the hall; if Gunnhild and Gudrod came back from this axe hunt, Arnfinn would be a man disappointed in the true prince of Norway. It was ceasing to surprise Crowbone, the way folk were prepared to pay to be rid of the unwanted.

  When sufficient honour to each other had been done, Crowbone and the others he had brought – Kaetilmund, Onund and Murrough, who were the captains of his other three ships – thanked their drunken pictii hosts, wrapped themselves in their cloaks and walked out of the gate and back down the avenue of Bull stones, round to the curve of bay and bright red fire-flowers there.

  ‘One day,’ Murrough said, looking back at the bulk of the fort, ‘better men will make these strutters bow the knee.’

  ‘You are only annoyed because they say a man who fights with an axe is no man at all,’ Onund chided and Murrough chuckled in the dark.

  ‘Nor do they fight with the bow,’ he added and shook his head. ‘It is a wonder they have endured this long, what with all that and their silly little square shields and their tunics you could play ’tafl on.’

  Crowbone was only happy to be leaving them entirely, though he notched the place in the tally stick of his head; one day, when Norway was his, this would be a good stepping stone for the rest of the north of Alba.

  Back at the camp, music filtered, strange and fine in the night, as someone plucked strings in a delicate, leaping lilt. Men shuffled in a stamping jig, while others kept time beating hands on thighs and laughing; flames danced shadows and the smell of cooking was a comfort wafted on the cold wash of night air.

  Crowbone came into the middle of them, grinning and getting chaffered about him deigning to join them from his richer revels; he acknowledged it with a good-natured wave and came up to the fire and the player. It was Bergliot, who smiled at him but did not stop her fast fingering of the instrument.

  It was a gusli, which one of the Slavs from Kiev had brought with him, a five-stringed affair called krylovidnye which meant ‘shaped like a wing’. There was another type, bigger and shaped like a helmet and with more string, but this was a good travelling instrument and Bergliot played it well. When she finished, he graciously said so and she flashed flame-dyed teeth across the fire at him.

  ‘Shall I play you something?’ she demanded sweetly. ‘A wee cradlesong, perhaps, like your ma no doubt did for you to sugar your dreams.’

  ‘My ma never played such,’ he answered, harsh as a crow’s laugh. ‘Thralls were not allowed instruments and I was usually chained to the privy, so there was nothing much that could sweeten my dreams save revenge on those who did it to us.’

  There was silence at that, both from those who knew the tale of Crowbone’s past and those finding out about it for the first time. Everyone now knew that the reason they had gone to Orkney was to visit that revenge on Gunnhild. Still, that and the pursuit of an axe now seemed better business with silver weighing the purses tucked under armpits or between their balls and, besides, this so-called prince of Norway had plucked most of them from ruin in Dyfflin.

  Bergliot went still and quiet, her eyes bright in the firelight and so close to tears, it seemed to Crowbone, that he felt ashamed at having been so snarling.

  ‘She did tell me stories, though,’ he added lamely and the tension slid away from the fire. Bergliot wavered up a smile.

  ‘Long ago in Lord Novgorod the Great, lived a young musician,’ Crowbone said suddenly and there was a wind of sighing as those closest leaned in to hear better. ‘Every day, a rich merchant or noble would send a messenger to this man’s door, calling him to play at a feast. The musician would grab his twelve-string gusli and rush to the banquet hall and make them dance. The host would pass him a few small coins and let him eat his fill from the leftovers – on such as he was given did the musician live.’

  ‘My life entirely,’ said the owner of the gusli sadly, a man called Hrolfr, and those who knew him laughed.

  ‘Then you will know this man’s friends,’ Crowbone went on, ‘who would often ask how he could survive on so little. “It’s not so bad,” the man would reply. “I go to a different feast each day, play the music I love and watch it set a whole room dancing.”’

  Crowbone paused. ‘Now that I think of it, I am sure – more than sure – that his name was Hrolfr.’

  People laughed at that and clapped the man from Novgorod on the back, he beaming back at them. Crowbone saw Bergliot, her eyes round and bright as an owl.

  ‘Yet,’ Crowbone went on as more men filtered quietly in, attracted by the news that a story was being told, ‘sometimes Hrolfr was lonely. The maidens who danced gaily to his music at the feasts would often smile at him and more than one had set his heart on fire. But they were rich and he lived on thrown coins and leftovers and not one of them would think of being his.

  ‘One lonely evening, Hrolfr walked sadly beyond the city walls and down along the broad River Volkhov. He came to his favourite spot on the bank and set his gusli on his lap. “My lovely River Volkhov,” he said with a sigh. “If only you were a woman, I’d marry you and live with you here in the city I love.”’

  ‘It is true,’ Hrolfr burst out. ‘Is there another city such as Lord Novgorod the Great in all the world? Is there any better place to be?’

  ‘Silent is a better place to be,’ growled Stick-Starer from the shadows and Hrolfr, prepared to argue the point, was patted and soothed to be quiet.

  ‘Hrolfr played and the notes of his gusli floated over the Volkhov,’ Crowbone continued. ‘All at once a large shape rose from the water and Hrolfr yelled with fear. Before him stood a huge man, with a crown crusted with jewels like barnacles, with a great neck veil of pearls and, under it, a flowing mane of seaweed hair. “Musician,” said the man, “behold Aegir, King of the Waters. To this river I have come to visit one of my daughters, the Princess Volkhova. Your sweet music reached us on the river bottom, where it pleased us greatly.” It was all Hrolfr could do to stammer his t
hanks.

  ‘The King said that he would soon return to his own palace and that he wanted Hrolfr to play there at a feast. “Gladly,” said Hrolfr. “But where is it? And how do I get there?” The King laughed. “Why, under the sea, of course. You will find your way – but meanwhile, you need not wait for your reward.” The king dropped a large fish at Hrolfr’s feet. A fish with golden scales, which turned to solid gold as it stiffened and died.

  ‘Hrolfr was astounded, but the King waved a dismissive hand. “Say no more,” he said. “Music is worth far more than gold. If the world was fair, you would have your fill of riches and no rose would have thorns.” And with a splash, he sank in the river and was gone.’

  ‘Heya!’ bellowed a voice. ‘I am from Novgorod and all I ever got from the Volkhov was a chill.’

  ‘You cannot play as much as a bone flute, Wermund, so that is hardly a surprise,’ yelled a reply and people ordered them to whisht. Crowbone waited, then went on.

  ‘Hrolfr sold the golden fish to an astonished merchant, then left Novgorod that very day on a ship, down the Volkhov, across Lake Ladoga and into the Baltic Sea. As it sped above the deep water, he peered over the rail. “The sea is big enough to swallow whales,” he murmured. “How can I ever find the palace?” Just then, the ship shuddered to a halt. The wind filled the sails, yet the ship stood still, as if a giant hand had grasped it. The sailors grew afraid.’

  ‘I know these sailors,’ Adalbert interrupted. ‘Illi robur et aes triplex circa pectus erat, qui fragilem truci commisit pelago ratem primus.’

  ‘No, no,’ Crowbone shouted as Adalbert opened his mouth to translate. ‘Let me. As hard as – something – wood, I think – and three bronzes once is … the heart of him who … who … who …’

  ‘Is there an owl in this story?’ demanded Stick-Starer.

  ‘Or does it go on in the tongue of Christ priests?’ added Kaetilmund. ‘If so, I will need help with it.’

  ‘Not bad,’ Adalbert admitted, ignoring them all, ‘but it should be: As hard as oak and three times bronze was the heart of him who first committed a fragile vessel to the keeping of wild waves. Horatius.’

  ‘Was this Horatius on the ship then?’ bawled Hrolfr. ‘What happened to me?’

  Crowbone held up his hands and smiled. Adalbert sat, stunned by the speed at which the youth was mastering the Latin that had taken the monk years to perfect.

  ‘The sailors prayed for their lives,’ Crowbone went on. ‘“Do not be troubled,” called Hrolfr. “I know the one he seeks.” And clutching his gusli, he climbed the railing and, before any could lay hold of him, jumped into the waves.’

  ‘Not likely,’ Stick-Starer declared, outraged and men laughed. Crowbone, ignoring them, continued.

  ‘Down sank Hrolfr, down all the way to the sea floor, where he saw, in the dim light, a white stone borg, big as the one to our left. He passed through a coral gate, only now beginning to marvel at how he was alive and breathing like a fish. As he reached the huge wall doors, they swung open to reveal a giant hall. The elegant room was filled with guests and thralls, all of them from under the oceans. Herring and cod and sand eels and sea scorpions, crabs and lobsters, starfish and squid, giant sturgeon and a brace of whales.

  ‘Standing among the guests were dozens of maidens – river nymphs, the Sea King’s daughters. On a great High Seat at the end of the hall sat Aegir and his Queen, Ran, her hair green as wrack and waving in the eddies. “You’re just in time,” called the King. “Let the dance begin.”’

  Crowbone paused and the listeners shifted and grunted in their eagerness for him to go on. He took a breath.

  ‘Soon the whole sea floor cavorted. The river maidens leaped and spun and the King himself joined the dance, robe swirling like rippling sand, his hair streaming like weed. Above, though Hrolfr did not know it, the waves lashed and broke on the shore; ships were whirled like wood chips. By the end of the night, Hrolfr’s fingers were raw and the King well pleased – so much so that he wanted to marry Hrolfr to one of his daughters and keep him beneath the sea. “Your Greatness,” said Hrolfr carefully. “This is not my home. I love my city of Novgorod.”’

  ‘Just as well,’ Wermund interrupted, nudging the real Hrolfr hard in the back. ‘Your ale would always be salty and watered down there, for sure.’

  ‘But the King insisted and the one he chose was the Princess Volkhova,’ Crowbone said, not even hearing Wermund. ‘She stepped forward, her eyes shining like river pearls. She had thrilled to the music Hrolfr had played on the shore, she announced, and now she had him as husband.’

  ‘Hrolfr marvelled at the beauty of the princess, but Queen Ran leaned over so that her wrack-green hair hung close to his cheek and said softly: “If you but once kiss or embrace her, you can never return to your city again.”

  ‘That night, Hrolfr lay beside his bride on a bed of seaweed and sand and fine-crushed pearls – and each time he thought of her loveliness, the Queen’s words came back to him and his arms lay frozen at his sides.’

  ‘Aye, there’s the lie of this tale, right there,’ growled Murrough from the back, his voice thick with bitter irony and yet no-one laughed, hanging on the lips of their young jarl.

  ‘When Hrolfr awoke the next morning,’ Crowbone said, ‘he felt sunlight on his face, opened his eyes and saw beside him … not the Princess but the River Volkhov. He was back in Lord Novgorod the Great. “My home,” said Hrolfr and he wept.’

  Crowbone stopped, confused by the sudden rush of memories, of his mother’s voice, of the privy chain and Orm looking down on him on the day he had released him, standing in Klerkon’s winter-steading with the light dappling through the withy.

  ‘For joy at his return,’ he faltered. ‘Or sadness at his loss.’

  ‘Or both,’ said Bergliot, smiling.

  She came to him later, of course, as he knew she would, silent and drifting as seaweed through the cold dark, while Hrolfr played cradlesongs for the men and heard the tale of himself repeated back and forth as if it had been true.

  ‘Will you wake by the Volkhov?’ she said, sliding the length of her body against his, hot as if it had come from the forge, the fork between her legs hotter still as she moulded it to his thigh.

  ‘Nei. Drowned in the deep,’ he said, reaching for her and she laughed, low in her throat.

  Later, snugged in the harbour of his arms, she asked what had happened to the story-Hrolfr and Crowbone told her – he became a merchant, and in time, the richest man in Novgorod, married a fine young woman and had strong sons, at whose weddings he played the gusli.

  He was happy, Crowbone told her, yet sometimes on a quiet evening he would walk out to the river and send his music over the water. Sometimes a lovely head would rise from the river to listen. Or perhaps it was just moonshadow on the Volkhov.

  She slept, her cheek resting on his shoulder and he could feel her breathe like the sea on a shore, feel the suck and sigh of her and he stayed as still as possible all night, trying not to disturb her, trying to keep her close and afraid that he might succeed.

  ELEVEN

  Finnmark, near Surman Suuhun, the Jul feast …

  MARTIN

  THE scouts came in as the snow thickened and started to swirl, cutting the iron-grey tumble of mountains to dim shadows. They had seen nothing, they said to Hromund, but had shot a reindeer. They pointedly tried not to speak directly to Tormod at all, for he was a thrall and Tormod, used to it, merely listened and spoke quietly to Hromund when they were standing apart from others.

  ‘Nothing?’ Tormod said in a voice that dripped bile. Hromund scrubbed his nit-cropped hair, which gave him his by-name, Bursta-Kollr – Bristle Scalp.

  ‘Eindride is a good man,’ he said stubbornly, while the good man himself laboured with others to string the buck up by the heel tendons. ‘A master bowman, too.’

  ‘I see he shoots well,’ Tormod answered patiently, ‘which must mean he has good eyes. Yet he has seen no sign of the enemy?’

&nb
sp; ‘Other than the one I shot earlier,’ growled a voice, so close to Tormod’s ear that he smelled the rank breath and saw the smoke of it, which made him spring back, startled. Eindride grinned out of the ice-spattered matting of his beard.

  ‘I meant no disrespect,’ Tormod declared and Eindride looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time.

  ‘If I thought that,’ he answered, ‘I would beat you, thrallborn.’

  Tormod’s face flamed; he knew Eindride was a rich bondi in Óðinssalr in the Trondelag, probably the oldest farm in the world, yet the thrall did not like to be reminded of his true status for he was Haakon’s wisest advisor and opened his mouth to say so.

  ‘Has he spoken yet?’ Hromund demanded, before matters welled up. Eindride shrugged and looked over to where the Sami hung, like the buck from a frozen tree branch, by his heel tendons. Eindride had brought him into the shivering camp like a hunting prize from the last scout he had done.

  ‘Ask the Christ priest,’ he answered bitterly, then spat and swaggered away to oversee the butchering of the buck. Tormod watched them tie off the bowels, draw out the guts, belly, liver, spleen, gall, lungs and heart. Rumps and hams, ribs and loin were all neatly cut out and wrapped, yet there was still much left on the carcass. Men ate the cooling liver, chewing with relish and grinning with blood on their teeth. It was the Jul feast and they had been drinking minni toasts with the last of their strong ale.

  The king’s thrall swallowed his anger. Nearby hung the Sami, swinging like the buck and yet able to see what was being done to it – which was, no doubt, part of the Christ priest’s plan.

  Hromund, frowning, went over to where Martin hovered, hunched and hirpling back and forth from his crude sail shelter to a fire. A dark dwarf, the Chosen Man thought miserably. This was the place for such matters, for sure, a place of the jötnar, those blood-thirsting giants who were enemies of Asgard’s gods and kept at bay only by the threat of Thor’s own Hammer.