by Tim Leach
He lay quite still, the breath struck from him, croaking for air. I looked to Freydis to see what she would do: run or fight or cry. But she did none of those things, merely watched to see what would happen next. It must have been quite a thing, to see her brother treated like a man.
‘You shall have to save that trick for when you are older,’ I said, ‘or you have a sword in your hand. Until then, you do as I say.’
I offered him my hand, he took it, and I pulled him up to his feet. His knees bowed and his back bent as he continued to struggle for air, but he refused to go to the ground again.
‘Sit down. There is no shame in it.’
When he could breathe well, he said: ‘Did I hurt you?’ There was no apology in his voice. I would have been disappointed if there had been. I tried to shake some feeling back into the arm he had struck, for it was still half-numb.
‘Yes, you did. It was well struck. Another year on you and you might have broken my arm.’
He smiled and turned his gaze to his sister, who hovered uncertainly behind me. He beckoned her towards him and took her hand, like he was one of the warrior poets from the old stories who win a woman in a duel. She sat down beside him and put her head on his shoulder.
Cross-legged before them, a poet come to entertain that court of children, I said: ‘Do you want a song? A drapa or a flokk?’
‘No.’
‘A story, then. Of gods and heroes.’
‘No!’ He looked on me like I was a fool, and perhaps I was, for I knew then what he wanted to hear. What else would a child want to hear at a time like that?
‘Do not worry about what you heard today,’ I said. ‘All things will be well.’
‘What about her?’ Freydis said softly.
‘Stay away from Vigdis. She is a liar and a thief.’
‘I do not think she was lying today,’ Kari said.
I cursed the cunning of children.
‘Will our father leave us?’ Freydis said. ‘To go with her?’
‘Of course not. Do you know how well he speaks of you all? His family is all he speaks of to me. You are everything to him.’
‘But she will cause trouble for us?’ the boy asked.
‘Nothing that your father cannot contend with.’
The children were quiet for a time. Then Kari said: ‘Once you told me the story of Wulf, who tried to rescue the woman he loved from Eadwacer. And he tried to get his friends to help him and they would not. He had to fight alone in the end. They killed him.’
‘Will you stay with us?’ Freydis asked. ‘I am afraid.’
I did not reply at first, and Kari repeated his sister’s question: ‘Will you stay?’
‘I do not know if I can,’ I said.
They looked beyond me then and I turned my head to follow their gaze. Gunnar and Dalla, walking towards us, she in front of him and neither of them speaking. I sat cross-legged on the ground amidst the children, as if I were an overgrown infant myself.
When they came to us, they did not speak. I looked upon Dalla, to gain some sense of what she knew, what she thought.
‘I wish you had not lied to me, Kjaran,’ she said. ‘That I had nothing to fear.’
‘I thought it true when I spoke it.’
She nodded to me, but what that gesture meant I could not say. I have seen warriors give that nod to worthy opponents, fathers make such a gesture to sons they never wish to see again.
She reached out for her children. They went to her and she turned back towards the farm without another word.
‘So,’ I said, looking towards my friend. ‘That was your plan?’
He nodded.
‘It wasn’t a very good plan,’ I said.
He almost laughed – his mouth open, his lips twitching to a smile – but the sound would not come. ‘I am not so clever as you,’ he said. ‘Or that bitch Vigdis.’ He fell silent and began to pick at his fingernails; blood or dirt lay under them, I could not tell which. ‘I should never have come to this place,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I understand the sword and the sea. And my wife. Some of the time, at least. But I am a simple man. This seems to be an island of schemers. Women goading men to do their bidding. Men bullying and tricking each other for land. Chieftains growing fat and rich from all the squabbling.’
‘I have cunning enough for us both, Gunnar, and you’re a match for two men with a blade in your hand. We have nothing to fear together.’
‘I do not know what trouble this woman will bring down.’
‘I am not one to back down from a fight.’
‘I would not see you harmed over this.’
‘That is for me to decide, is it not?’ I got to my feet and struck the dirt from my shirt. ‘Did you speak to Dalla?’
‘I told her everything.’
‘What…’ I said no more than that. The look he gave stopped me.
‘And what do we do now?’ he asked.
‘We can do nothing but wait.’
‘That is your plan? It seems little better than mine.’
‘A woman cannot bring a charge against us. She cannot act as a witness. She has no power under the law. She can spread nothing but empty rumours.’
‘And what of the brothers? Men have killed for rumours before.’
‘They have. We must hope that they won’t.’ I hesitated, and then I said: ‘Will you answer me something, Gunnar?’
He set his jaw and said, ‘Ask.’
‘You wanted me to marry her. So that I would stay and be your neighbour.’
‘That is so.’
‘Why did you want me to stay so much?’
He did not speak for a time. He looked out across the open land, the scattered farms in the distance, the black rock of the mountains and the deep green of the valley.
‘I think I will be lonely if you go,’ he said at last. ‘I never met a man I liked so well as you.’ And, as if he had spoken some terrible, shameful thing, he leapt to his feet and strode away. I watched him go, and I did not speak to call him back.
I looked up towards the sun and knew that I did not have much time. The days are so short that early in the year. I took my bearings from the hills and the water and I struck out across the valley, away from Gunnar’s farm.
5
The home of a chieftain is not like any other. It is not a place of darkness and quiet, but of noise and heat and light. Everywhere one looks, servants tread on dogs, warriors boast and wrestle with one another, children scurry in packs. I have always hated such places, yet it was to there that I went – taking the long path around the home of Vigdis, for Hjardarholt, the home of my chieftain, lay just beyond those borders, and I would not set foot upon those lands again.
The sun hung low by the time that Hjardarholt loomed before me. The turf walls of Gunnar’s longhouse might be thought a curve in the land or a little hill, but there was no mistaking this place for what it was. Bigger than a longship, smoke pouring from a pair of chimneys at all hours of the day and night. We have no castles or great halls on our island, but Hjardarholt was as great a longhouse as any Icelander might hope to see.
A thingman, Ketil Hakonsson, sat at the entrance – a merry sentry, who offered me a skin of mead as I came forward.
‘Kjaran! I am glad of your company. Olaf shall be too, no doubt.’
‘The Peacock is within?’
‘That he is. We have not had a skald in the hall for a long time. You will stay, I hope?’
‘Perhaps.’
*
It was not a moment after I entered the longhouse that I felt the embrace of my host. Such was always the way of the man they called Olaf the Peacock: every traveller greeted to his home as a long-lost friend. But then, a man of his wealth and stature could well afford the generosity.
‘You should not be travelling so late,’ he said as he guided me to my place at the table. ‘You must have been walking in the dark for hours. Ghosts, trolls, who knows what else might be plaguing the hills.’
‘
It is good to see you again, Olaf.’
‘What brings you here? More than my good company, I suspect. But we shall come to that in time. Come along and make yourself comfortable. Perhaps you’ll give us a song, if you are not too tired.’
‘Anything to please the Peacock.’
He laughed at the sounding of his nickname. He had earned it from the bronze torc at his neck, the well-wrought rings on his fingers and the gold bands upon his arms, as well as the rich red clothes that he wore, for he was not afraid to show the wealth he had won in his adventures abroad. Quite a sight to look upon, and there were some who whispered womanly rumours about him. But though there was always gold on his arms and a smile on his lips, there was iron in his eyes, a steady sword hand and a strong arm to back it. There were many who had underestimated the Peacock. Some had paid a price in honour and silver when they had tried to cross him. Some had paid with their lives.
‘So,’ Olaf said once we were seated, ‘Gunnar has finally let you go, has he? I thought he was going to hoard you to himself for many summers to come.’
‘A traveller like myself must put in a good summer’s work to earn his winter home.’
‘You would not stay with Gunnar for another winter?’
‘No. It would be ill luck.’
‘Well, there is a place for you here, if you want it. Though I hear Hakon Haroldsson may come courting you. He is building a strong household.’
‘A rival for yours?’
‘Hardly. Though you would break my heart if you chose his hospitality over mine.’
‘Ah, Olaf, but that is the way of the skalds, ever leaving their chieftains unsatisfied. They make for such good songs, do a chieftain’s tears.’
He smiled. ‘Ah, had you been born a slave, my life would have been simpler. To buy and sell the poets as I please and not have to win their favour! It would be an easier world.’
‘I am sure that it would.’
He picked up a piece of bread, tore it in half and handed the bigger piece to me. ‘When I saw you come in, I hoped that Gunnar would be with you.’
‘He is busy with his farm.’
‘He often seems so. It makes a chieftain nervous, to see so little of a man. Especially one such as Gunnar.’
‘He means you no disrespect.’
‘Do not mistake me, I am not a petty king in search of tribute. It is his right to stay away if he wishes. But he is something of a mystery. Men do not like mysteries. There are some who would call him aloof.’
Before I could make a reply, one of the warriors in the hall called on Olaf, asking him to settle some drunken wager or another. He held up his hands in apology to me and stood from the table, a little unsteady on his feet. I watched him speak and wondered if he was quite so drunk as he seemed.
I put down my cup and from the corner of my eye I saw it filled once again. The servant did not go once her task was done, and when I looked upon her in enquiry, she stared back quite openly. A handsome woman; I thought her seventeen or so, with flaxen hair and eyes that seemed to change colour as I looked at them.
‘Do we know one another?’ I said.
‘I have heard you sing. Last winter, when you came here to trade.’
‘Ah, I am sorry for hurting your ears. I was unused to playing for such company.’
‘No need to be modest. It was quite good, you know.’
‘Only quite good?’
She laughed. ‘You belittle yourself and expect to be hailed a master?’
‘The poet’s game. We insult ourselves in hope of praise. An honest response is the last thing we wish for.’
‘I’ll remember that, and lie better in future.’
A man’s voice called to her from across the room. I watched her go and felt Olaf’s hand on my shoulder.
‘I see you have met Sigrid. A princess amongst servants, or so you would think from how she acts.’
‘She’s not afraid to speak her mind, is she?’
‘I do not know how she gets away with it, speaking as bluntly as she does. She does not offend you, I hope.’
‘Quite the opposite. Beauty forgives many things.’
‘Ah, I think now I see why you have left Gunnar for this place. No woman but his wife to look at, and he’s a dangerous man to trifle with.’
‘I do come with another purpose.’
‘Other than to drink my wine and ogle my servants?’
‘Other than that.’
His voice lowered a little. ‘Is it a matter to be spoken of alone?’
‘I need not be exact.’
‘Tell me here, then.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Inexactly, if you must.’
I glanced around the hall, the bands of warriors drinking and laughing together. All the life and power of a great chieftain’s home surrounded us. It was a hard thing to think of danger there. ‘Would you back Gunnar,’ I said, ‘if it came to a feud?’
‘That would depend upon the feud.’
‘A careful answer.’
‘I am a careful man.’
‘There is no feud. Not yet. But there are those who envy him. Who would spread lies about him. Gunnar will fight them, if he has to. I want to know if you will let him fight alone.’
He fixed me with a testing look and for a moment all levity was gone from him.
‘I simply ask that you be ready,’ I continued, ‘if trouble comes.’
‘It does not surprise me that trouble would seek him out. He is the kind of man who inspires envy.’
‘I suppose that he is.’
‘Not in gold or wealth, mind you.’ Olaf smiled to himself and looked down, rolling the lees around the bottom of his cup. ‘He is the kind of man all Icelanders wish that they were.’ He drained what remained and placed the cup down carefully. ‘I will stand by your friend, if it comes to that.’
‘Thank you, Olaf.’
‘But it comes at a price. Not of gold, but of loyalty.’
‘He will be a loyal thingman to you.’
‘Not his loyalty. Yours. You must do something for me.’
‘I am not sure what it is that you mean.’
He did not speak for a long time, his fingers dancing through the candle flame in front of him. ‘Do you believe there are visions from the gods, Kjaran?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then believe me: when I think of you and Gunnar together, I see death. Of one or the other, and many more besides. You are ill luck, as a pair. You must stay away from him.’
I thought on that for a long time, Olaf’s unblinking eyes upon me.
‘If that is what it takes. I will come to you after the Althing.’
‘Good, good,’ he said, almost absently, as though he wished to forget what he had asked. ‘You may stay here as long as you wish. Even winter here if you like.’
I looked around the home that he had built, that proud chieftain’s household. I met the eyes of the serving girl across the hall, those strange and shifting eyes, like some witch’s trick. And I knew that I would not stay long.
*
It was deep into the night when I returned to Gunnar’s home. The fire down to scattered embers, yet even in the dim light I could see the white of open eyes looking back at me.
‘Where have you been?’ Gunnar whispered.
‘I should not tell you that.’
A little gasp, then – almost a sound of pain. ‘I would have thought that you wanted no more secrets.’ A pause in the darkness. ‘Will you stay? Will you stay another year?’
‘I shall stay until the Althing.’
‘So that is where you have been. Finding another hole to crawl into.’
‘Gunnar – ’
‘Enough. Enough of your words. You have said all you need to.’
The white eyes closed and did not open. I waited for a time, to see if he would wake and speak once more. But he did not.
6
Each time before, I had always travelled to the Althing with a delicious anticipation, a warmth in the chest
that is more than a little like love. That year, riding a borrowed horse, I felt nothing at all. No joy or dread, just an absent hollow in my heart.
Gunnar rode beside me, though for all the days we travelled we scarce spoke a word to one another. It had been so since that conversation by the fire.
We had passed the month as strangers; I working the fields with Gunnar’s hired help, whilst he hunted or fished or tended the herd. As the sun came down, I would see Gunnar returning home with a net of fish, racing his son back to the house and losing on purpose, Dalla standing halfway out of the doorway, holding a hand palm up to judge the weight of the rain.
I counted down the days, until it was the height of summer. Then, wordless, Gunnar beckoned me to the stables and picked out a horse for me. We mounted and began the journey to the west. He knew that I was to leave his company at the Althing, though he did not know to where, to whom. And he did not ask.
I kept the silence in the days after, as we went through the mountain passes, across the black plains, towards the heart of the country. He made no sign of reconciliation towards me, nor did he try to drive me away or break company with me. He seemed to be waiting for something from me, and so I sang at the fire at night, even as he lay with his back to me. Perhaps, somewhere in one of the old songs, there were the words that would speak to him, but I could not seem to find them. And there was no more time left.
The sound of the Althing was in the air; first as a whisper, then as a voice, and then as a roar. For you hear it before you see it: the low hum of thousands of voices chattering together, as strange a sound in Iceland as silence in a city. Children who have not heard it before mistake it for the sound of the sea or the growl of some terrible monster. They clutch at their parents, weeping in fear, and are mocked with laughter.
As we rode across the black cliffs, the plain opened out beneath us. Cut deep into the valley, looking as if it were carved out by the shovelling hand of a god, and flanked by the great lake Thingvallavatn, bottomless and still. And everywhere that we looked upon that plain, there were people.
There are no cities on our island. No townships or great settlements of any kind. It is an island of families, a single village scattered across the landscape. A man may have a farm deep within the folds of a valley and, looking out, he might see no other neighbour, feel as if he is the only settler in Iceland.
