Straightening up, I held out my right arm to clasp wrists with him. He took it, then pulled me close and embraced me. I was too startled to react.
After a moment, he stepped back and held me at arm's length, his hands gripping my shoulders. His eyes looked moist.
"You have grown into a fine man," he said. "Your father and Harald would be very proud of you. If you find Toke, be careful. Take no chances with him—kill him as quickly as you can, and be done with it. Then get back here without delay and help me with this hornets' nest you have stirred up and left me to deal with. I am no foreman. I am just a simple carpenter." Dropping his hands and stepping back, Gudrod turned and hurried away, before I could gather my wits enough to answer.
Fasti was standing off to the side, watching. After Gudrod left, he stepped forward and said, haltingly, "M…Master Halfdan?"
"I am not your master, Fasti," I told him. "You are free now."
He stood there, just nodding his head up and down, as his eyes grew moist, too. I felt uncomfortable, and again I could not think of appropriate words to say. I was not used to having anyone care whether I stayed or left. After a long moment he said, in a choked voice, "Thank you. Thank you. May the gods guard you on your voyage, and bring you back to us."
He paused, then extended his clenched right hand out to me, and opened it. Something covered with black feathers was in his palm.
"This is Huginn's wing," he said. "The wing that Toke tore off of her. I kept it to remember her by."
I stared at it, but did not know what I was supposed to say or do.
"The feathers. Use them for an arrow," Fasti said. "Huginn will make it shoot true. Kill Toke with it."
Chicken feathers made poor fletching for an arrow. The wing feathers of a goose are longer and stiffer, and better suited. But Fasti did not know that, and I did not tell him. I took the black wing from him. He said nothing more, but nodded his head in thanks, then turned and hurried away.
At the shore, the Gull and the Serpent, which were tied up along either side of the narrow wooden pier that jutted out into the water, were in the final stages of loading, as the crew members who had, like me, been sleeping ashore, carried their gear to the ships. Near the pier's end, Hastein was wrestling a ram down to the water's edge with the help of Torvald and Stig. I stowed my sea chest and bow aboard the Gull and hurried back to where the two crews' members were gathering around them.
By now Hastein was standing in the shallows, the waters of the inlet lapping around his ankles, the ram at his left side. Torvald, standing on the sheep's other side, had a horn in each of his big hands, immobilizing its head. Stig stood behind Torvald, both hands buried in the wool on the ram's back, holding its body steady so it could not buck or rear.
Hastein raised both arms overhead—his golden godi ring around his upper left arm, and a knife in his right hand—and shouted up at the sky.
"All-Father Odin, mighty, hear us! We ask for your blessing and protection on the voyage we are about to take.
"We pray to you, mighty Thor, as god of oaths and honor. We go to hunt an oath-breaker, a Nithing who has no honor.
"We pray to you, wise Odin, as god of vengeance and death. We go to avenge foul treachery and murder. Help us bring death upon those whom we hunt.
"Brave Thor, master of rain and storm, lord of thunder, grant us fair weather. Accept this blood-offering we give you now. Let the sea drink the blood of this ram, and spare ours. Let its hunger be sated, and spare our ships from wind and wave."
As he finished speaking, Hastein reached down and with a single swift motion, pulled his knife's blade from left to right across the ram's neck, just below its jaw. Blood spurted from the gaping wound out into the water. The ram gave several sharp, convulsive jerks, but Torvald and Stig held it secure.
"The sea drinks our blood-offering," Hastein cried, and the folk gathered along the shore nodded their heads and murmured in approval.
Hastein turned and gestured to Tore, who was standing at the water's edge, holding a shallow copper basin and a short branch freshly cut from a spruce tree. Tore hurried forward, holding them out to Hastein, who swished his knife's blade in the sea, wiped it dry on his trouser leg, and sheathed it. As Hastein extended his hands to take the bowl and branch, Tore's foot slipped on a slick rock in the shallow water, and he went down on one knee. He would have fallen face-forward into the water had he not dropped the branch and put his arm down to catch himself and stop his fall.
The crowd on the shore gasped. Tore looked up at Hastein, a frightened expression on his face, and said, "I am sorry, my Jarl."
Hastein took the copper bowl in one hand, and with his other seized Tore by the upper arm and hoisted him to his feet. Then he bent down, retrieved the spruce branch, and shook the water from it. "It is of no consequence," he said, but I thought his face looked grave.
The ram was beginning to sag in Torvald's and Stig's grasp, as the flow of blood from the wound in its neck slowed to a steady draining instead of pumping out in spurts. Hastein held the basin under its neck and let it fill. Carrying it out onto the narrow pier, he used the spruce branch to paint the prows of the Gull and Serpent, below their carved, brightly painted dragon's heads, with the sacrificial blood as he chanted, "Let breakers spare thee, and waves not harm thee. Turn aside from rocks that lurk beneath the surface, and fly before the wind like a bird."
I was not among those in the two crews who pushed forward, after Hastein returned to the shore, seeking to be anointed with the blood. I did not believe that a few drops of blood from a slain sheep held any power to protect me from death or harm. I could not help but recall a similar scene, up on the Limfjord at Hastein's estate, when a blood-sacrifice had been made before our fleet had sailed for Frankia. Many who had sought the protection of the blood then, at that sacrifice, had not returned from that campaign. The threads of all our lives were in the hands of the Norns, the weavers of fate. When the three sisters decided to cut those threads, nothing could turn the blades of their scissors aside.
Torvald had carried the carcass of the now-dead ram onto the Gull. At least this night our ration of barley and vegetable stew would be flavored with mutton, instead of salted pork. The rest of the members of the two crews were filing down the narrow dock and boarding the two ships. We would be leaving soon.
I had one last thing to do. I searched the faces of the folk of the estate, still standing along the shore waiting to watch us depart, until I saw Gunhild. Pushing through the crowd, I made my way to where she was standing.
"It is my hope," I told her, "that you will not be here when I return. Your father is a jarl. There will be room for you in his household."
"Hrorik was my husband," she replied, in a haughty voice. "As his wife, I am entitled to live on these lands. More so than you are. You are a bastard, and not entitled to inherit."
"Hrorik acknowledged me before witnesses," I snapped. "You were there. And he gave me one inheritance—the farm up on the Limfjord. I am an heir. The only one, unless Sigrid returns, with any claim to this estate."
Gunhild said nothing, but glared angrily at me. Had I been a thrall, I had no doubt she would have struck me.
"You filled my mother's life with misery," I told her, glaring back. "Do you not think I will do the same to you? I do not deny your right to live here, as Hrorik's widow. But you will not be welcome here, nor will your life be a happy one. Go to your father. Perhaps he will find you a new husband."
"You cannot drive me away. And I do not expect you to return. I know my son. Toke will kill you. He will kill you all."
"Halfdan!" Torvald called, from the Gull. "It is time."
As I turned and made my way to the ship, Gunhild called after me, in a louder voice this time, that all could hear. "You saw the omen. We all did. The sacrifice was rejected. You are all doomed—you are cursed. You are all going to die."
6
The Eyes of the Realm
Our company numbered eighty-one warriors and on
e thrall: Cullain, Hastein's Irish slave, who served as cook on the Gull. Forty fighting men sailed on the Serpent, and forty-one on the Gull. Fifty-six of our total war-band were warriors who had long followed the two captains, Hastein and Stig. Thirteen carls from the estate and eight warriors from the nearby village also sailed with us, divided between the two ships. Hrodgar, the headman of the village up on the Limfjord, and my comrade Einar—both of whom sailed aboard the Gull—completed our hunting party.
At my urging, Einar had placed his sea chest across from me, rowing the oar that once had been manned by Odd, in the stern at the second position. Torvald had assigned two men from the village to row the third pair of oars, in the positions behind Einar and me. He and Hastein had made a point of scattering the newcomers throughout the ship, interspersed among Hastein's own men.
While the lines securing the two ships to either side of the narrow pier were being untied and coiled, Hastein, who was standing on the Gull's small raised stern deck, called across to the Serpent. "Stig! Let us row for a bit."
Torvald, who was standing beside Hastein, his hands resting on the carved handle of the steer-board, grunted. "Why?" he said. "There is enough of a breeze to fill the sail."
Ignoring him, Hastein dug his hand into the pouch on his belt, pulled out something, and held it aloft. It was a silver coin. "And Stig—I will wager you this denier that the Gull will reach the chop line, where the mouth of the fjord meets the open sea, before the Serpent does."
Stig grinned and called out to the Serpent's crew, who were readying the ship to get underway. "What say you? Shall I take the Jarl's wager? And his Frankish silver?" When they roared out their approval, he turned back toward Hastein and shouted, "Let us make it two deniers, if the winner is ahead by a full ship's length or more."
Hastein turned to Torvald. "What are you waiting for? Get us underway. I do not want to lose."
Torvald sputtered indignantly. Hastein grinned and strode off toward the bow, making his way through the men milling around on the ship's deck, positioning their sea chests and securing their shields and other loose gear. As he passed near where I was standing, he paused, rested his hand on the shoulder of a warrior named Asbjorn, who kept his sea chest in the stern area and traded off rowing with those of us who rowed the back three pairs of oars.
"Do not row," he said, in a low voice. "I want every new man on an oar for now." To the two men from the village who were standing nearby he said, "You two will be rowing the third pair from the stern, yes?" They bobbed their heads up and down in reply.
"My comrades," Torvald's voice boomed out. All save Hastein turned and looked toward him. "The Gull is a fine ship, but she cannot row herself. The jarl has issued a challenge to the Serpent. It is his silver that has been wagered, but it is we who shall win or lose this race. What do you wait for? Oarsmen, draw your oars!"
Hastein continued on toward the bow. I saw him pause and speak briefly to others among the crew—some his own men, presumably telling them the same thing he'd said to Asbjorn, but also to the warriors from the estate and the village, on occasion pointing to a rowing position as he did.
"Our oars are on the high rack," I told Einar. "All of the Gull's longer oars, for the stern and bow positions, are kept there. The side racks are for the center oars that are all the same length."
The two men from the village—one, who looked vaguely familiar, appeared to be no older than me—followed us. When we reached the overhead rack, I reached up, grabbed the end of an oar, and slid it down. Examining its shaft, I turned and called back toward the stern, where Tore was still lashing his shield against the ship's side.
"Tore," I said, "this one is yours." He straightened up, nodded, and headed toward us. I handed the oar to Einar, who extended it to Tore. As he did, another of Hastein's housecarls, a warrior named Storolf, joined us at the rack. One of Hastein's warriors who'd remained behind during the Frankia campaign to guard the jarl's estate up on the Limfjord, he'd joined the Gull's crew when we'd returned, replacing a warrior who'd been badly wounded in Frankia. Storolf rowed the other oar in the first pair, opposite Tore.
I pulled another oar down. "You can tell by the notches," I explained to the villagers, and pointed to where two small cuts had been made in the oar's shaft, just beyond where a rower's hands would grip it. "This one is for the second position from the stern, where Einar"—as I spoke his name I nodded my head in his direction, to indicate of whom I spoke—"and I are rowing. The two of you will need the oars with three notches."
"Oarsmen, take your positions," Torvald shouted. Hurrying, I handed the oar in my hand to Einar, and slid another down. It had three notches. I handed it to the younger of the two villagers—again wondering why he seemed familiar—and pulled down another, and another, until all six of us rowing the back three pairs had our oars.
"Quickly, take your positions," Torvald called. "The Serpent is already pushing free of the dock. Will you let them beat us?"
Four men were standing amidships, using their oars to push the Gull clear of the dock, while up and down the length of the deck, the rest of the crew who were manning the Gull's thirty oars were positioning themselves on their sea chests, and resting the long shafts of their oars across their thighs. I pushed my sea chest into position and did the same, then reached over to my oar hole in the ship's side, untied the cord that secured its wooden cover, and swiveled it down out of the way.
"Oars out," Torvald ordered. I fed the wide blade of my oar through the cut extending above the oar hole, slid the shaft out until the oar was fully extended, then leaned forward, arms stretched straight out in front of me, holding the long oar level, poised above the water, and stared at Torvald, waiting for his command.
"Ready…pull!" he shouted.
I dropped the blade of my oar into the water, bracing my feet against the deck, and heaved back on it, pulling with my back and shoulders.
"Pull!"
The first strokes were always the hardest. The Gull barely moved each time the banks of oars dipped and bit into the water, and as I strained to drag my oar through each stroke it felt as if the entire weight of the sea was hanging on its blade.
"Pull! Pull!"
Gradually the Gull gained speed, at first moving forward in uneven surges with each stroke but slowing in between, as the rowers raised and returned their oars to ready, until we finally reached that magic moment when she suddenly seemed to come alive and to take flight like the sea bird that was her namesake, skimming swiftly across the surface of the sea, while our oars dipped and flashed in unison.
"Pull, pull, pull!" Hastein was chanting the cadence now in unison with Torvald, as he paced up and down the center of the deck, between the rowers.
In front of me, Tore's broad back rocked back and forth with each stroke. "Ha!" he exclaimed. "We are pulling ahead!"
I glanced sideways as I rowed, and saw that it was true. Although the Serpent had gotten underway before us, now—bit by bit—the Gull was edging ahead. Aboard the Serpent, Stig had changed his own cadence chant from "pull, pull" to "harder, harder." But it was to no avail. The Gull was a very fast ship—faster than the Serpent. And I could see, glancing over my shoulder, that we were almost abreast of the headland that marked the mouth of the fjord.
From behind me, somewhere amidships by the sound of his voice, Hastein called, while Torvald still chanted the cadence, "Rowers…ready…." Then in unison, he and Torvald gave the order: "Raise oars!"
As I pushed the handle of my oar down, holding its blade well above the surface of the water, I could feel the Gull's hull flex and twist as she sliced through the low swells that marked the beginning of the open sea.
"Well done! Well done, my brothers," Hastein exclaimed.
A ragged cheer rose from the crew, as the Serpent glided up beside us. Stig, standing in the stern at her steer-board, shook his head. "For certain, the Gull deserves her name," he said. Pulling a coin from the pouch at his belt, he flipped it across the space between the
two ships.
Hastein grinned as he reached up and caught it. "It was a close race," he answered. "Rowers, stow your oars. Let us spread the Gull's wings, so she can ride the wind."
While the crew members who had not been rowing readied and raised the sail, the rest of us returned our oars to their racks. As he slid his oar into place, the younger of the two villagers said to me, "My name is Bram. And this"— he indicated his comrade—"is Skuli. We are from the village near Hrorik's estate. We both sailed with him to England, in the early spring of this year."
It was apparent that neither of them recognized who I was. They thought me just one of Jarl Hastein's men, nothing more. In truth, there was no reason they should have known me. If either of these two had ever visited Hrorik's estate during the years I was a slave, I did not remember seeing them, and they certainly would not have noticed or remembered a young thrall. And during the brief time when I had lived as a free man on the estate—the weeks between Hrorik's funeral and the ill-fated voyage up to the farm on the Limfjord—there had been little contact between the folk of the estate and those of the village.
"Welcome to the crew of the Gull," I answered. "My name is Halfdan."
Watching their faces, I could see that at first my name meant nothing to them. I could also see, after a few moments, when it did. The young one, Bram, realized first.
"You are… you are Hrorik's…."he stammered, searching for the correct words.
"Hrorik's bastard? I am."
His companion, Skuli, sniggered, but Bram looked embarrassed and turned his face away for a moment, saying nothing. The gesture made me realize why he'd looked familiar to me. I'd seen him do the same, once before.
"Your father and brother also sailed on the voyage with Hrorik to England, did they not?" I asked.
Bram looked surprised. "Yes," he said, nodding his head.
"But they did not return."
"My father, Krok, was killed in the battle with the English. My brother was wounded. He died on the voyage home."
The Long Hunt (The Strongbow Saga) Page 7
