"What does this all mean?" Dame Bergfrid demanded.
Urban took his time formulating his answer.
"There is some occult plot going on, Herre Aske, and you may have discovered a piece of information that might unravel it."
He tossed the rings once in his hand then gave them back. Aske wrapped the pair in his handkerchief and put the inconspicuous lump away.
"I have no idea who that crest belongs to, nor the meaning of that gold symbol, but I do know someone who can tell us. My uncle is a Notaari on Hitilopt Island. He deals with heraldic crests, oaths and legal papers all day long. If anyone would know, it would be him.”
"Then I must join you on your trip,” Aske declared. “God has set this task for me, and I will obey." His tone brooked no compromise, eyes overfull with regret as he looked to his wife's response.
Bergfrid's eyes were hard with an anger that burned and froze at the same time. Absentmindedly she stroked the small bump of her belly. Urban felt a cold chill creep over him as he realized the reason for her fierce reaction. Her hand now white from squeezing Aske's fingers.
Aske did not flinch or try to escape, seeming to take the pain as a form of penance for his beloved. Nor did he back down from her furious glare. In the silence, what seemed like a million words passed between the two which no one could hear but them. Then, Bergfrid looked down at her shaking, white-knuckled grip crushing his hand, stared at it like it was some strange disembodied thing. She blinked, startled at what she was doing, looked back up at her husband who's expression remained the same, determined yet regretful. Sorrow began to overtake Bergfrid. She relaxed her grip. Their fingers regained color as she surrendered to the inevitable.
Urban realized he had held his breath while this argument without words raged. He gasped in both relief and need of air as Aske gave a thin smile, leaned toward his wife and bumped his forehead tenderly as a kiss against hers.
Urban and the others had remained motionless as statues till the struggle passed. Then, with grave determination, Bergfrid closed her eyes for a long blink. A pair of tears rolled down her cheeks, and she looked at the man of God with a fire that Urban found startling.
"Greithr," she said in a voice that was tight with strain." Bring him back to me alive. I do not care in what other condition he might be, he comes home to me alive."
Then with slow, precise words, "Do... you... understand... me?"
Urban could not break the gaze and was completely cowed by the force of her threat. His nod was a short choppy motion like that of a terrified child.
"I understand,” Urban stammered, “and will do everything in my power to bring Herre Aske home to you, as long as God allows it."
Bergfrid nodded at the priest's statement.
"Then we have an understanding and I give you both my blessing, but not my joy." She looked at her husband who examined the nail marks she had made in his palm.
"Husband, do you understand me?"
"You know what God showed me. Do not presume to be His Dame, my Elskling," Aske cautioned her.
The firm but tender response broke her rebellion as Aske shown a light on her desire to control God’s plans. Dame Bergfrid Skjoldsdottir slumped under her grief.
The three timberjacks who witnessed this interplay between their herre and dame never realized such was the character of the relationship. Aske gave in to his wife's grief and took her in his arms as she struggled with her emotions. From the shore, a whistle was heard announcing a steamknarr's departure. It was time for the men to go.
8. Walking the Shore
Brothers Finn and Trygve began the walk down to the village kyrkje from the monastery. The sweet smell of new grass floated over the rich scent of the dark wet soil. Trygve whistled a happy tune as their feet squished along the muddy road. Both men could not help but smile at the day. The sky was a powerful blue, not even a hint of a cloud on the horizon. The far off mountains reflected themselves in perfect clarity on the smooth water of the Kynligrspiejl, from where the village took its name, and made it seem like the island was floating in the sky.
"Finally!" Trygve said, bubbling with joy.
"How long have you been here?" Finn asked.
"I would say close to fifteen winters," Trygve said, his smile passing behind a cloud of nostalgia as he remembered long ago days of freedom. "You are the lucky one, being allowed to walk the shore only two winters after you have arrived.
"I guess that is God's providence for me, my friend,” Finn said.
Bergamot's collar jingled a happy rhythm as she trotted along to Finn's left. Her muzzle was just starting to go white, but she still had the step of a young dog. On his other side, Hawthorn was not much more than a pup freshly out of training. Trygve named him such because of a flower like patch of white fur on his chest. The fawn colored behemoth ranged a little from his master, his nose tempted by all the new scents and excitement of town.
"I guess so. I should not even use such a word as 'luck' around you since we all know how favored by God you are."
Finn did not answer, but instead began to whistle. His celebrity status at the Havarian Estate caused him great discomfort. For once his saga had been told, listeners thought it was a grand adventure, not the horrible trial he actually experienced. Worse, it had become a favorite story to be recited every feast day. If he did not take up the burden of telling the tale, it often became perverted into a heroic epic. His feats embellished, and he became a foolish caricature designed to lampoon the Orthodoxy, while the Abbot Kennetsson was twisted into an irredeemable Priest of Satan for audiences to laugh at.
But during normal time, with the regular routine of the liturgical calendar, he found peace. No one had reason or permission to pester him then. The boring routine of the press room had been a joy. Its monotony provided the routine that his life had lacked for the years that preceded his skoggang.
Every day Finn spent time in the Word, in his own Norroent tongue. The rhythm of the press gave him the ability to turn to prayer and meditate on every page he printed, rather like a metaphorical labyrinth, and he thanked God for it.
Kynligrspiejl was indeed a place of new beginnings, he thought, looking at the flowers blooming on the fruit trees. Here there was fertile philosophical soil for those who believed the Kyrkja must turn back to a more apostolic model of the faith. Unfortunately, every exile ultimately discovered the painful truth about the Reformation: not all reformist ideas were universally held. There was also great differentiation between the brothers regarding which reforms were considered to be equal in importance. The devil was in the details. Most sentenced here were forced to re-evaluate the foundation of their beliefs regarding what was best for the Kyrkja versus what must remain sacrosanct. That, too, was a point of grave contention.
Despite all these chaotic apologetics, Finn, like most others here, found points of agreement. The niding here believed that Scripture should be in the common vernacular so all could learn the Word of God instead of sticking to the Latin Vulgate of Saint Jerome. There was much consensus on stopping prayers to Mary and the saints or treating them as intermediaries to God, particularly from the few Ragnarite and Sanaadian members who lived on the estate. But not everyone believed, like Finn, that the Skaerslinger should be saved instead of exterminated. A few vocal brothers believed that “skeiturhuth” lacked souls or were Nephilim.
Some radicals believed in forcing poverty on the priesthood and the abolition of High Kyrkja pageantry, forbidding all but Low Kyrkja tradition practiced by the apostles and early believers. Still other brothers insisted they should avoid associating closely with the Hird and should keep from being entangled by their misadventures and moral corruption. Many a spirited debate could be heard in the orchards and gardens among the brothers when open discussion was allowed, but one point all of those banished to Kynligrspiejl agreed on was rationalism. Nothing was without cause, even if that cause was God or the Devil. The budding fields of scientific inquiry and scholasticism pointed to log
ic and a rational mind as tools to unravel the mysteries of God's majesty and prove His sovereignty over all creation.
Dirty brown piles of snow sat in the shade of houses and sheds along the road leading into the village. In a way, Finn felt a strange parallel to those melting drifts protected from the sun. Kynligrspiejl was a hive of activity. At the docks several boats from the mines were exchanging their riches for food and supplies. Some fishermen swapped part of their catch from one karvi to another even before reaching the shore. Those who had business with the Havarian Estate passed the brothers on the muddy road. Heavy strongboxes packed on rented donkeys hauled gemstones to be counted and graded by the Kyrkja's lapidaries in the monastery. Then the mine’s factors would be off to deposit their newly certified wealth at the jarl's bank. It cost them a little bit, but a certificate from the Havarians gave extra assurance the gems were genuine and enumerated for a fair price.
"It will be such a change to have a little freedom for the summer," Trygve said as they passed by the small town kyrkje. They waved to the priest as he swept the steps of dried mud tracked there from morning mass.
"I suppose so," Finn said.
Trygve was so animated by nervous energy, Finn spared a concerned glance at him.
"What was that look for?" Trygve questioned with a bit of a snap.
"I guess I never realized how much you hated it here. Personally, I am without complaint."
"That is because you have been here an eighth as long as I have. Soon you will curse the shores of this island like I do. Remember, my first office was that of a friar. Walking an entire lake a season! I miss Lake Manitou. All the little towns and farmholds and so many people. Of course, there I was allowed to take a steamknarr from time to time, otherwise you could never finish the task of walking the shore before winter returned."
"Now that is where I am indifferent. I do not have the same need to be around people as you do."
"I know that,” Trygve said dismissing Finn's preference for solitude as an aberration of character. “You are happy in the cellars working on you know what," Trygve said with a wink about the forbidden Bibles.
"It is how God made me. Although, I do wish I could be on shore watch from time to time,” Finn said considering one of his previous placements. “But that is a younger man's burden.”
"Not me. I was always looking to improve my station. I may have started out walking the shore, but I ingratiated myself to those in power for more distinguished service. That is how I joined the court of Jarl Rondalaettir as his personal bodyguard. Perhaps that is why I was given skoggang after my bishop learned of certain... beliefs I held. They could not risk me teaching that praying to the saints would not help their petitions reach God faster. But that is what I miss. Being in the halls of power and influence. The feasts and quality of people were far more interesting than being stuck in a cell talking only with God." Bitterness crept into Trygve’s voice. “In a way, working in the lapidary with other people’s wealth sliding through my fingers was a cruel taunt.”
Like Trygve, Finn knew what it was like to serve as a bodyguard for important men. It was clear that this young priest was the social animal Finn never could be, and that he looked down on those who did not fit his inflated self-importance. Finn preferred being the shadow in the background, assessing those who came to meet his client and the garish huskarls who were the public face of protection. Even at grand feasts and balls, Finn knew his place. Invisible, but always within a step and willing to take the blade or arrow intended for those who placed their lives in his hands.
Finn had known many others who had succumbed to the earthly pleasures of the Hird courts as Trygve had. The life of a Canon Regular was difficult when the temptations of the flesh were within your grasp. He remembered his first office as a young man protecting a bishop in Mestrflosslithaland whose appointment was politically dubious. Trouble and intrigue abounded there. Finn and his fellow Havarian guardian assigned to the bishop became blood brothers. Until-
An unheard question brought him back to the present and he realized Trygve was waiting for an answer.
"Forgive me, Brother. I was lost in the past for a moment. What was the question?"
"Do you think that if we do well, we might be given a pardon?" Trygve asked, hopeful.
"I do not care if I ever return to that world," Finn answered, speaking without thinking. Concerned more at that moment about finding their boat.
Trygve pursed his lips.
"I should have expected such an answer," he groused. Hawthorn had wandered a little too far away, but a shout from Trygve made the dog startle and rush back to heel.
Finn looked around and realized that in his reverie, they had arrived at the foot of the pier where he had first come to Kynligrspiejl. He began looking for the boat that would take them to Fjellporten where their new commission as itinerant priests would begin.
"Brother, I do not have the same desire to go back into that world that you have. On one hand, I am doing this as a favor but, on the other, I view it as a penance. It is the solitude I will miss most. That might have something to do with why they trust me to walk the shore. I want to come back," Finn explained while looking for a familiar sailor. Perhaps the boat had arrived yet?
"In fifteen winters, we shall see if you change your tune," Trygve said with a smirk as he took hold of the young dog's collar and began reinforcing Hawthorn's training. Finn watched him work with the dog. It was obvious that Hawthorn was not ready for this service. He was too unfocused and lacked discipline, much like his herre.
Finn was now fairly sure this was why Monsignor Frothi wanted him to be Trygve's minder. Many others would have been better suited for the task. But Trygve seemed inordinately enamored with Finn's adventures, much to Finn’s distaste. Perhaps that hero worship would be what took the rough edges and wild temperament off Trygve during their time together, but Finn had serious doubts. Although Trygve was not that much younger in years, he was far more immature and had a powerful spirit of rebellion in him.
The saga of Finn's trip into exile inflamed some sort of passion in Trygve, made him want to shove a fist into the face of those he blamed for his own exile. Combined with a deep-seated resentment, and in spite his generally cheerful demeanor, he could be volatile. Despite these flaws of character, he had won the trust of those who either agreed with his religious positions or were willing to overlook personal habits that disturbed Finn.
The hope was that this commission to walk the shore would calm Trygve's spirit before he got into some mischief. Or if he did cause trouble, the issue would be resolved soon enough. Fredlause rarely lived for long.
Someone farther down the shore was waving at them. It was a sailor in front of a boat, put in at a smaller dock. Finn waved back in response.
"There they are," he said relieved.
"I was starting to wonder where they got to," Trygve said. Hawthorn, now attentive to his master, followed as he slung his pack and started toward the karvi that would take them both to Fjellporten and the beginning of their work. Brother Finn sighed and wished once again for his old harpoon. It felt wrong walking without its comforting weight in his hand.
Brother Finn prayed this would not be Trygve's last trip away from Kynligrspiejl or his own.
9. Fjellporten
Jarl Jakob Vilhoaettir's official seat of power sat on the broad mouth of the Blawisflojt as it flowed from Lake Wanishiabinoogi in the city of Fjellporten. The Ondeaandkorgfjall mountains pressed closely on all sides, with a narrow skirt of foothills, before rising sharply to the north and southwest. To the east a broad quilt of dense pinery stretched to the horizon as the valley descended toward Lake Ogimaque.
The city was rugged. Its stockade walls made of fifty foot tall logs with earth fill between them. It was so thick a two lane cart road ran across the top to service the battlements and hoardings. Adding even more to the impressive structure, the city built three and four story buildings directly against the inner wall. Outside th
e wall a dozen smaller communities lived inside stubby little berms and fences that would not survive a massed attack from raiders or warbands, but seemed more aimed at keeping out the simple creatures and demonspawn that frequently came down from the mountains.
The bustling port was well protected with wing dams made of boulders to keep ice toward the middle of the channel as it drifted down the river. Despite this protection, the port did not have a single pier, relying instead on a long slip for the ships to take shelter from stray ice floes and bergs calved from nearby glaciers.
In the surrounding hills several farmholds took advantage of plentiful caves, turning their homes into camouflaged vaults. If it were not for the cultivated fields or lowing livestock, an unfamiliar traveler could pass by without ever knowing he was near someone's home.
In the center of the Fjellporten rose a small hill from which sprung the Taowrnvilhoaettir, a manor house of impressive defenses and a hall that served as the public seat of the jarl's power. Unlike other such homes for the Hird, this building did not spread out to create a park or an estate. Instead, the Vilhoaettirs chose to build straight up, six stories above the pinnacle of the hill. This height provided an impressive view of the surrounding country. The top of the tower had a parapet allowing guards to see far out over the lake as well as down the river and provided knowledge of ship traffic well before anyone arrived. It also served as a line of communication by flashing light to the fortress at Barskaborg near the border with Ogimaqueland and thereby controlling all river traffic in and out of Wanishiabinoogiland.
"How big do you think the city is?" Brother Trygve asked as they made their way through Fjellporten's cobbled market square.
Brother Finn took a moment to consider the city. The last of the market stalls were closing and the pack animals were carrying away the unsold wares for the night, but the area was still crowded.
Akiniwazisaga: The Inheritance Thieves Page 6
