Wolfskin

by Juliet Marillier

  A flash of red through the wispy shawl of moisture, and now more colors, yellow, blue, the figure of a fine woman painted bright, riding bare-breasted toward them, not five paces away and moving fast. He heard Ulf’s voice behind him, “Now!,” and then the Danish vessel was upon them, the prow within reach, bold lady and savage serpent eye to eye, and Grim and Erlend reached out with iron hooks to grapple the enemy vessel tight to theirs; beyond that painted figurehead, bright metal flashed through the mist.

  “Attack!” Ulf commanded, and in his voice was the thunderous voice of Thor, urging them on. The fire came again, hot and urgent in his vitals, in his thudding heart, in his bursting head, and Eyvind charged forward, a scream of challenge on his lips. He had waited for this moment all his life. Behind him, the Wolfskins roared as they sprang across to the bow of the enemy ship, their weapons hungry for human flesh.

  There were no Wolfskins among the Danish warriors. Still, the enemy fought bravely, considering the odds. They lost perhaps half their number in that first onslaught. Eyvind knew that he had taken one fellow’s head off his shoulders at a single blow. He recalled a stroke that had seemed to glance off another warrior’s shield, and the surprise on the Dane’s features as he looked down and saw that his arm had been neatly severed. Eyvind had never believed in causing pain when it was unnecessary. He made sure his second blow administered instant death. The deck grew slippery with blood, and one tended to step on things better avoided. The Wolfskins advanced like a dark tide down the ship, the first bench, the second, the third; he heard Hakon screaming behind him somewhere, as if in pain. He saw Eirik turning back, but Eyvind moved on, for his axe was sounding a song all its own, dauntless and unassailable, greeting and farewell.

  As he hacked his way forward, the mist began to lift and the dark shape of another vessel loomed up alongside; there was, perhaps, a whole fleet of Danish ships out there, each with its complement of warriors.

  “Hold hard!” yelled Ulf, now making his own progress along the slick boards of the deck his strike force had cleared for him. “Ware to the starboard flank!”

  But there was no threat. The ship that emerged now between the rags of mist was one of their own, the Sea Princess, with Jarl Magnus himself in the bows watching with interest as his youngest and newest Wolfskin whirled and thrust and hacked his way ever forward, leaving a trail of broken men behind him.

  Later, they told Eyvind that he had killed nine in this, his first battle. The Jarl had his eye on him from that time on. One expected displays of courage from a Wolfskin, but to lead, to provide a rallying point, and to account for so many in one’s first encounter, and that at barely fifteen years of age, was something exceptional. There were rewards when they returned to court. Fine weapons, rich cloaks, horses. For Eyvind that was a strange moment, standing before the Jarl, receiving his thanks.

  “Well, my brave one,” Magnus said expansively, “you’ve seen the riches I bestow on your fellow warriors. Nobody could accuse me of being ungenerous. I know how to reward valor. And you are among the most courageous, for all you’re still a boy. What gift do you want from me? Speak, and it’s yours. What does such a fine fellow as yourself hanker after, I wonder?”

  Eyvind found it difficult to know what to say. Glancing around the room for inspiration he caught the eye of Somerled, who sat among the nobles gathered in Magnus’s hall for the feast of celebration. Somerled raised his eyebrows and twisted his lip, which was no help at all.

  “My lord,” Eyvind said, “I want no reward, though I am honored that you should offer me one. I have all that I need: my trusty axe, my good sword, and a place among your lordship’s Wolfskins. To answer the call of Thor is all that I ever desired in life. I am well content with what I have.”

  Magnus stared at him blankly for a moment, then threw back his head and roared with laughter. Taking their lead from him, the assembled nobles of the household, the warriors and ladies, the visiting dignitaries, emissaries, and scholars joined in. Eyvind glanced at Somerled again. Somerled was not laughing.

  “Well spoken, son,” said the Jarl. “Well said, indeed. You may change your mind as you grow older. So, you will not take silver or gold, or rich garments, or fine weaponry. A slave girl, perhaps? There are many here at court, some no older than yourself, and not lacking in charms, I assure you. A hot-blooded fellow must surely say yes to that.”

  To his mortification, Eyvind felt himself blushing scarlet at these words. He was a man now, there was no denying that. But he had never forgotten what Somerled once told him, and he hesitated, silent. A ripple of whispers and chuckles passed around the assembled courtiers. Thor help him, they’d think him some kind of a freak if he did not reply soon. What kind of man turns down such an offer?

  “Well, boy?” Magnus raised his brows.

  “My lord, I have an even better suggestion.” Heads turned as Somerled rose to his feet, his voice smoothly confident in the crowded hall. “Surely the very best reward for valor is one that lasts forever, a gift which fixes that moment of bravery in our hearts and minds eternally.”

  Magnus frowned. “Go on,” he said.

  “What you need is a poem,” said Somerled. “A fine, heroic verse that sets out the bravery of all who took part in this encounter: yourself as leader, my estimable brother and the other commanders, and the whole force of dauntless warriors who ventured forth against the men of Jutland. And if you would reward the newest of your Wolfskins especially, let us capture his youth and courage in this mode. It is a challenge for your skald, to render such a poem by tomorrow night perhaps, and thus ennoble both Eyvind’s name and your own.”

  “Mmm,” mused the Jarl, a little smile playing on his lips. It was immediately plain the idea had taken his fancy. “Well said, Somerled.” He glanced at Ulf, who sat by him. “Your young brother is a clever fellow, never short of new ideas. A cunning strategist on the game board, too, I understand, and no mean poet himself.”

  Ulf muttered a response.

  “What do you think of this idea, young Wolfskin? Does it please you?” Magnus asked expansively.

  Eyvind breathed again. “Yes, my lord,” he managed, glancing across at Somerled and trying not to make his relief too obvious. Somerled’s mouth quirked up at the corner.

  “Very well, then,” said Magnus. “A poem it shall be, in heroic style; it will be well fashioned, and we will hear it after supper tomorrow. But I will not ask my own skald, Odd Knife-Tongue, to make such a set of verses. That honor shall fall to you, Somerled Gunnarsson. They call you something of a wordsmith. Make us the tale of your young friend’s bold endeavor and of our victory over the Danes. Make it both strong and subtle, stirring and clever. We shall await the result with great anticipation. As for Eyvind here, we shall let him go for now; doubtless it will not be long before he again shines bright among our warriors.”

  So, Somerled had rescued him. Somerled, once such a pathetic scrap of a boy, now moved among these men of power and influence with confident assurance. He was indeed a consummate player of games. Somerled was no warrior; still, there was no doubt in Eyvind’s mind that on this particular field of combat, his blood brother was already a champion. And the poem, once rendered, had been a masterpiece of wording, its allusions so clever even Odd himself was stretched to work them out. Somerled had recited it to tumultuous applause.

  As for Eyvind, his own particular problem was soon solved, for on the night of Magnus’s offer, Eirik found him in the drinking hall, and announced that he was taking Eyvind on a visit, and that he wouldn’t accept no for an answer. That was how Eyvind first met Signe.

  Signe’s house was one of many that formed the sprawling fortified settlement surrounding Magnus’s hall. Many folk lived and worked here, all kinds of crafts were plied, goods made and traded, travelers housed and fortunes told. There were blacksmiths and farriers, tanners and armorers, drunkards and priests. The brothers hurried through the darkened alleys; it was late, though here and there lights still burned, and so
unds of revelry or dispute could be heard. Eyvind tried to ask where they were going, but Eirik hushed him. They stopped before a neat, small dwelling whose steps bore red flowers in a pot. Eirik knocked. The house was in darkness; would not the inhabitants, whoever they were, take such an ill-timed visit amiss?

  A woman’s voice spoke from within: a low, warm sort of voice. Perhaps its owner had been asleep.

  “Who is it?”

  “Open up, Signe! It’s Eirik Hallvardsson, and I’ve my young brother with me.” Eirik was grinning. As the door opened, the grin widened and he stepped inside, enveloping the woman who stood there in his arms and planting a smacking kiss on her lips. Eyvind hovered on the doorstep. This, he thought, was only going to make things worse.

  “Come in, sweetheart.” Now the woman was looking him up and down, and he stared back. Her form was outlined by the light shining from behind her, inside the dwelling house; her dress, perhaps a nightrobe, was of very fine linen, and the curves of a firm and generous figure were clearly visible: long thighs, rounded belly, full, rose-tipped breasts. Her flaxen hair fanned across her shoulders; her expression was friendly. Eyvind swallowed nervously and took a step backward.

  “Come on, dearest, don’t be shy now.” She reached out a white hand; he took it and was drawn inside. The woman turned to Eirik.

  “Off you go now, my fine warrior. I’ll look after your little brother, and send him home in time for his breakfast.”

  “Be kind to him,” laughed Eirik, and all at once he was gone, and the door closed behind them.

  “I–I don’t think…” Eyvind could have kicked himself. He knew what this was all about, he knew what he was supposed to do. Indeed, his body seemed to be preparing itself for immediate action as the woman drew him along the hallway and into a chamber where a soft lamp burned beside a large, comfortable pallet whose rumpled blankets showed that they had, indeed, disturbed her sleep.

  “Now, sweetheart,” the woman said, letting go of his hand and sitting on the edge of the bed. Odin’s bones, her skin was as white and pink as meadow flowers, and she smelled so good, a wholesome, milky sort of sweetness that made him long to set his lips there and there and have a taste of her, but…

  “Eyvind,” she said gently. “That’s your name, isn’t it? I’m Signe, a friend of your brother’s, an old friend and a true one. Eirik tells me all his secrets. Don’t be shy, Eyvind. You’re a man, I see that: a fine man. Your first time, is it?”

  “I–ah–yes, but—”

  “Come on, sit here by me and let’s talk a little. You can talk to me; I’ve heard everything, and more. Why don’t you put your hand here, like this—ah, that’s nice, isn’t it—and I’ll put mine here…no wonder they call you the little ox, sweetheart…now tell me. Something’s worrying you about this, and yet you want it, that’s plain as a pikestaff. Tell me now, Eyvind.”

  Her voice was so kind, and her hand so wondrously exciting, that between those two things he did, at last, manage to blurt out the truth.

  “It’s just—it’s just, I wouldn’t want to hurt you, or upset you.”

  “What? Why would you do that, love? What put such an idea into your head?”

  “I thought—I was told—” The movement of her hand was agonizing, so sweet it was a sort of blissful torture, a tantalizing pain. “Well, that women don’t like doing this, that they get no pleasure from it, and only agree to it because men make them. And I don’t like the sound of that at all. That’s why I haven’t—why I never—”

  Signe had taken her hand away. He thought he might explode with longing, and disgrace himself then and there.

  “Who told you that?” she asked him, her eyes round with surprise.

  “Just someone. I heard it somewhere. A friend.”

  Signe sighed and rose to her feet. Now she would send him away, and he would feel even more of a numbskull than he did already, his body on fire and his stupid tongue unable to say yes.

  “That was wrong, sweetheart,” Signe said gently, and she untied the ribbon at the neck of her gown and let the folds of sheer linen fall to the floor. “It’s up to the man to make sure she enjoys it. Here, let me show you.”

  Over many sweet nights since then, Signe had taught him a woman could indeed take joy in the act of mating, could experience a pleasure as piercingly intense, as blinding in its ferocity as his own. Indeed, he learned that to give enjoyment could be as satisfying as taking it, as she taught him new ways and, later, as his skills improved, they discovered newer ones together. He wondered, at times, about what Somerled had once told him: not a lie, since blood brothers do not lie to one another, but a misapprehension that caused him to think hard about his friend, and what had occurred that terrible summer at the shieling. He would have liked to explain to Somerled that he had got it wrong about women; that if one listened to what they had to tell, and valued what they had to give, and offered them respect, there was a depth of happiness in the congress between man and woman that could not be found elsewhere. But he did not speak of this. Somerled was a courtier, clever, sophisticated, still liable to snap with some cruelty if displeased. Tell him this truth, and it was very possible the only response would be a derisive laugh.

  It wasn’t until much later, when Eyvind was a grown man of eighteen, that Signe told him she’d known he was a Wolfskin from the way he’d made love the first few times: charging straight in for the kill, so to speak, with not a hint of subtlety about it. He had the grace to blush a little, remembering how much she had taught him since then.

  “I was only a boy,” he protested, rolling onto his back to watch her as she dressed by candlelight.

  “Oh, yes, and you’re such an old man now,” smiled Signe, putting on her stockings in a way that made him itch to pull her back into bed once more. But he did not. With Signe, there were certain rules one had to follow. He knew she went with other men, his brother among them. He knew she chose carefully, and that she did not ask for payment, though she received gifts gracefully when offered. He understood the meaning of the pot of flowers, and that it must be respected—it was a sign to show if another shared her bed, or if there might be a place there for him when he needed her. For Eyvind, she usually was free; he knew he was some sort of favorite, and never ceased to be grateful for it. The elegant ladies of the court still alarmed him, even now, with their sidelong glances and clever flirtatious asides. And he would not take a woman as part of the spoils of battle, though some of the others saw that as no more than a Wolfskin’s right.

  “You’re a good boy,” Signe told him, fastening her overdress with its twin brooches, and leaning over to kiss him on the tip of his nose. There was a tantalizing waft of her scent, that warm, enveloping smell that was part of her very self. “Not now,” she said, evading his searching hand. “You’re needed elsewhere today, and so am I. Come on, lazybones, up from that bed and into your clothes before I put you out into the alley stark naked. Not that you’d be left alone there long; there’d be some lonely widow quick enough to get her hands on you, I’ve no doubt.”

  With some reluctance, Eyvind dressed and made his way back to court. He looked for Thord or Erlend in the stables, but there was nobody around but a couple of lads forking hay. It began to rain, droplets at first, then a sudden deluge. Eyvind ducked inside the first building he came to, which was a small annex to Magnus’s great hall, a place favored for embroidery and music and games, since its shutters could be opened wide to catch the morning light. The place was near empty. A couple of women were seated by the far doorway, chatting and sewing, and two people were sitting over a game board, both of them very still, apparently locked in an intense strategic duel. Today, Somerled had the sixteen small soldiers, and the player with the eight, and the tiny king, was a woman. Eyvind stopped in his tracks. Somerled’s opponents were always carefully chosen: visiting nobles, traveling merchants, skalds, or priests: none but the most accomplished and the most devious. He never played with women. And this girl was both young and comel
y, if not exactly to Eyvind’s own tastes. He liked a woman tall and generously built, fair-haired, pale-skinned, soft to touch: in short, a woman just like Signe. But he had to admit, as Somerled caught his eye and the girl rose to her feet, looking him up and down in that way the court ladies had, that this one was not lacking in natural charms. She was of middle height and shapely though slender. Her hair was a dark auburn and elaborately dressed in a coronet of plaits, threaded with some kind of sparkling ribbon; her features were pleasing if a little sharp, the mouth full and red, the eyes dark. Those eyes were very shrewd indeed; Eyvind thought she had assessed him already, and decided he was not worth much.

  “Ah, Eyvind,” said Somerled, not getting up. “Where have you been? This is the lady Margaret, daughter of Thorvald Strong-Arm. She’s come here to marry my brother. But Ulf’s mind is much taken up with other things these days: ships, mostly. He hasn’t a great deal of time to spare. So, as you see, the lady’s having to make do with me. Margaret, this large fellow is my friend, Eyvind Hallvardsson. He is a Wolfskin, and much cherished by the Jarl. We don’t see enough of him these days. He does rather tend to be away raiding strongholds, or chopping off heads, or—”

  “You talk too much, Somerled,” said Margaret crisply, and Somerled fell silent. Eyvind gaped. “Sit here by us, Eyvind,” she went on. “This game’s going nowhere. Perhaps you can help me.”

  “Me?” said Eyvind, as Somerled’s mouth curved in a derisive half smile. “Hardly. I’m no good at games, not this kind, anyway.”

  “No? A shame. I’ll just have to beat him myself, then.” Her dark brows creased in a frown of concentration; her elegant fingers, long-nailed, ring-bedecked, reached to nudge one of her men forward. “Your move,” she said sweetly, looking straight into Somerled’s eyes.

  It was quite a long game. Eyvind had never understood the rules or the strategies; instead of following the pieces, he watched the players. Sometimes he got up to fetch ale, or to stretch his legs. It was very quiet; the others spoke less and less as the morning wore on and the number of men on the board dwindled. It seemed to Eyvind that there were two games being played here: the one with the small soldiers in black and green, hopping about the inlaid squares in a dance of pursuit and evasion, and another, far more dangerous game whose moves were gestures and glances, a slight shifting of the body, the tone of a murmured word. How long had Margaret been here, a day or two? Perhaps he was imagining things, his senses heightened after the night’s activities in Signe’s bed. Foolish. This girl was to wed Ulf; that was why she had come. And brothers were always loyal. Look at him and Eirik. No, he was wrong as usual, a numbskull. No wonder Margaret had dismissed him with a single glance.