by Byrne, Lily
“So,” said an elderly, scant-toothed man sitting next to Lini. “You’re the glass and amber worker?”
Lini nodded.
“It must be an interesting trade.”
“He’s chatting you up,” muttered Kjartan in Lini’s ear, making him choke on his mead.
“I hear you are staying with Mildrith and you are best friends with her husband, there.” He nodded at Kjartan. “Such a heroic man, saving so many Byrnham folk from the wolf cult last year.”
Nearby guests murmured and nodded, raising their drinks in salutation to the warrior.
“Yes, that’s right.” Lini smiled at Kjartan.
“We shall always be grateful to you and your kinsmen for saving our women and preventing more killing,” said a broad, sallow-faced man sitting next to the elderly one.
“Thank you,” said Kjartan in surprise.
“I’m fifty, you know,” the old man said proudly to no one in particular. “I’m the oldest man in the village.”
Kjartan laughed, but Lini elbowed him so he turned it into a cough.
“Really? You must have seen so many things,” Lini said politely.
“Yes, I remember the last lot of Vikings arriving. They -”
“More beef?” interrupted a serving woman, and they helped themselves to the juicy meat in thick wine-flavoured gravy while their companion told them about the terrible Vikings. He made sure to make a distinction between them and the current Danish inhabitants of the area, in case he offended the guests.
It was a sedate feast. Two musicians played the harp and the lyre while people ate. Even though they could hardly be heard above the talking, no one threw things at them or pushed them out of the way as they walked past.
It was a relief only hearing laughter and chatter for once, instead of criticism and insults, so the trio from Hallby relaxed. They were aware of the English looking at them surreptitiously but no one mentioned anything out of the ordinary, or sneered or accidentally injured them.
Mildrith’s aunt and cousins were frequent visitors to her part of the table.
“We wondered if we’d see her again. It was so nice when her baby was born at our home,” said Ymma to Lini. “I despaired of her marrying at one stage, then she met Herewulf, God rest his soul. Then she met your friend, Kjartan.”
Lini smiled.
“We’ve had a few changes in Byrnham lately. Lots of people getting married and moving, leaving some houses standing empty.”
He nodded.
“So, you are widowed, yes?” he asked.
“I have been for a few years now. I wouldn’t have another husband, to tell you the truth. Men are far too much bother.” She smiled and he tried not to agree.
A scop, as the English storytellers were called, stepped into the centre of the room, and began telling of a hero performing great acts of bravery to prove his love for his lady, with many references to Mildrith’s cousin and her betrothed, who gazed lovingly at each other. Their friends and relations gasped and marvelled at the correct places in the tale.
To Lini’s surprise, the next person who came to talk to him was the grey-haired priest.
“Good evening. Lini, isn’t it? I’m Ulferth.” He shook hands with him. “Did you hear about the church windows? A terrible waste.”
“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t.”
“You’re very popular tonight,” muttered Kjartan in Lini’s ear.
“Just naturally attractive.” He shrugged.
“Mm.” He put his hand on Lini’s knee, wondering if the priest would notice.
“Young vandals broke the main window a few nights ago. The deacon and I had to board it up.”
Lini made appropriate shocked noises.
“We really need some more glass made for it,” said Ulferth pointedly. “A decorated piece would do nicely.” He indicated the cooked bird on its platter. “It’s a delicious goose, isn’t it?”
*
Lini, Kjartan and Mildrith set off home in the early hours of the morning, with baby Dalla still strapped to her mother’s chest.
“I hope our house will still be standing,” said Lini.
“It will,” said Kjartan optimistically.
The path to Hallby seemed unending, and a wolf howled in the distance. So they walked faster, Kjartan readying his spear.
“I wish we’d stayed with my aunt like she offered. It would have been safer,” quavered Mildrith.
“Where have you been?” asked a Huskarl at the gate. “Doing womanly magic?”
His companion laughed, not allowing the family into the village.
“Please let us in.” Mildrith gazed up sweetly at him. “My baby needs to go to bed. She’s tired.”
He glared at her and looked away, moving to let her past. Kjartan and Lini had to squeeze past awkwardly, but at last they were safe in the village. No one else was around at that time of the morning.
“What were they sneering about?” asked Mildrith. “Do they know something about our house?”
“They always sneer. All Danes sneer at us these days,” said Kjartan.
They approached their home to find it intact; the door was still locked, nothing broken or stolen.
“That’s such a relief,” said Mildrith, leaning on Lini, who unbound Dalla and held her while her mother shook out her bed covers and made sure there was nothing untoward in the cot.
The adults all curled up in bed together as usual, happily tired after the sociable time they’d spent at Byrnham.
*
Later that morning, Lini strode off to his forge feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was starting work later than usual but the break from the hostility of Hallby had refreshed him. The kiln needed lighting and he had a backlog of orders from the locals with their last minute requests for adornments for the Harvest feast. It was funny that however much people insulted and despised him, they still wanted his products. And there was the glass order from the priest at Byrnham - had he been serious about that?
Musing on this, he opened the front door and gasped. Although the doors to the forge were intact, the interior was devastated. His carefully crafted beads dotted the floor, crushed. Window panes lay smashed on the bench. Claw beakers he’d nearly finished decorating were in the same condition. The only intact products were the Jarl’s ornate drinking glasses, sitting untouched.
Then he noticed the kiln. It had been kicked in thoroughly, the door and walls broken. Gasping in horror, he ran to it, hoping it could be mended somehow, but it was ruined, shattered by some very strong boots. He could still see the imprints of them. He could have managed without all the other tools, but not the kiln. It had been his father’s before him. Lini sat back on his heels, his mind struggling to take it in.
What would his father have thought of all this? Johan Thorfinnson had never said much, he was more like his other sons, whereas Lini took after his talkative mother. Lini could imagine Johan frowning at the kiln, and at the situation with Kjartan. But despite that, he wished his father was there to tell him it would all be alright.
He wandered through his broken products, picking up the ruined remains of a favourite piece, and putting it down again. He stared at the kiln, grinding his teeth.
Who the hell would do this to him? End his livelihood with an outburst of violence?
Feeling sick, he strode out of the forge.
*
Returning home, he found Mildrith weaving while Dalla slept, and he slumped to sit on the floor, head down.
“Whatever’s the matter?” she asked, the loom clacking as she worked.
He explained, hardly able to get the words out, and her mouth fell open in horror, although her hands kept moving as the family needed clothes.
“W - What? You can’t work anymore?”
“I’ll have to start from scratch. It’ll take me weeks to get it going again.” He could hardly meet her eyes.
“Who would do such a thing?”
“It could be anyone.
They all hate me and Kjartan.” Lini’s voice was a sulky whisper.
“Bastards. May the wrath of Odin curse them.”
His eyes widened at her unaccustomed words. “B - but you don’t believe in Odin!”
“Well, my God wouldn’t punish them severely enough.”
He laughed bitterly. “When I catch up with them, I’ll - I’ll …”
“Get Kjartan to help!”
“Yes. We’ll cut their hands off.” He thumped the ground with his fist. “Make them pay for taking away my wage.”
She paused, fiddling with the loom. “Come on. We need a drink.”
Fetching some ale, she sat down with him inside the house to avoid the insults of passers-by.
*
“They what?” shouted Kjartan when he got home that evening. “Who the hell was it?” His ice-blue eyes narrowed, his eyebrows low over them.
“I don’t know.”
“You must have some idea!” He stood over the defeated figure of Lini as he slouched by the fire.
“Well, I don’t! It could have been anyone!”
Kjartan sharpened his knife forcefully, grimacing.
“They all hate us. I’m not going to the Harvest Blot, it’s pointless.”
“You must!” Kjartan’s eyes met Lini’s. “We can find out who did it and show them we aren’t beaten!”
“Kjartan, shush! I’ve just got Dalla to sleep again,” hissed Mildrith to her oblivious husband.
Lini stared at him and smiled faintly. “You’re right. Someone must know. Even the Jarl must know something.”
“If he can tear himself away from his wife for a moment. He’s so distracted by her, he doesn’t notice what’s going on anymore.”
“We’ll have to make him notice.”
“And also, the fight school’s closed. I just wasted my time waiting around for boys who never turned up. After all we’ve done for them!”
“Stupid, intolerant people.”
“I’ll help you in the forge tomorrow if you like. When I’ve finished the ploughing.”
Lini stood up and embraced him, but he was still bitter in his heart and nervous of the future if he couldn’t earn money.
*
The next evening, the noise at the End of Harvest blot was deafening with people talking loudly, shouting, laughing. The heat from the fire in the hall was stifling. Mabon was celebrated to mark the safe gathering in of all crops, but everyone knew work never stopped. The arduous threshing and winnowing to separate the grain from the chaff, the autumn ploughing, pruning the fruit trees, all these took as much energy as the harvesting. This feast was a chance to stop for a break from all that, and the Danes took full advantage, talking loudly, drinking and eating all they could take.
Everyone had eaten well on roasted beef, tender pork, full-flavoured goat and salted fish, fresh bread flavoured with honey and chopped nuts, followed by baked apples, spiced pears and plums with honey and creamy sauce. The guests’ appetites were sated, and they turned to the drinks. As well as mead, they could choose beer or ale, and the noise in the room grew louder.
Lini watched the scene with detachment. People pushed and shoved on the dance floor and he could certainly hear some having sex among the dancers, like beasts in the fields. He looked round at his neighbours, who had turned out not to be friends. Which of them had vandalised his forge? Every one of them avoided his eyes, so there was no telling.
He saw Halldora sitting the other side of the room with Kori and Thora, and a man. He had reddish-blond hair and beard, and was laughing with the farmer next to him. Lini half hoped Kori and Thora hadn’t seen him but it was too late.
“Daddy!” shrieked Kori, and climbed off the bench. Halldora restrained him, muttering something and shooting a scornful look at Lini.
Kjartan noticed all this and rolled his eyes at Lini, his mouth an angry line.
“She can’t stop you seeing your children.”
“She can.” Lini sighed.
“What do you expect?” interrupted the fisherman the other side of him. “You left her for him.” He gestured at Kjartan. “You’re less than a man.”
Kjartan turned towards him aggressively so he retreated, but muttered something to his neighbour which made him guffaw as they tapped their drinking horns together.
“You two shouldn’t be sitting together,” said a harsh voice, and they turned away from the glaring fisherman. It was the Huskarl Styrkar who had spoken, his sandy blond hair straggly with sweat, his speech slurring.
“Why not?” said Kjartan. “We live together.”
His statement prompted a burst of sneering laughter from the nearest men.
Styrkar ignored him and grabbed Lini by the collar, pulling him up to face him.
“You’ll have to leave now, won’t you? Your work’s all gone.” He made a mock sympathetic face, his beer-saturated breath making the amber smith gag.
“I can start again,” said Lini through gritted teeth.
“What with? Your kiln’s all gone and so is your glass.”
There was another burst of laughing from Styrkar’s cronies and other men. Kjartan leapt up, and was immediately set upon by one of these onlookers.
“We’ll see what the Jarl has to say about this,” said Lini, holding his nerve.
“He won’t care! His new drinking glasses are untouched, and that’s all he cares about!” Styrkar cackled, pushing the leaner man away roughly. He turned to his friends, still laughing, and they all went off to get more mead.
Lini flopped down in the chair. After nursing Dalla, Mildrith had fallen asleep with her, resting on the table, so he moved some plates and knives out of their way. Kjartan had got into a fist fight, but Lini knew he could handle it and Ragnar and Steinar were already heading towards the brawl, frowning.
Styrkar’s voice rang in his head. ‘His new drinking glasses are untouched.’ Styrkar had talked about those glasses when he came round to the forge. Lini’s mind was slowed by the alcohol and the large meal, but … how did Styrkar know the glasses were untouched? Unless …
He looked round to see Styrkar and his gang staggering towards the door of the hall, singing drunkenly and laughing. His mind suddenly filled with the hot crimson of rage and he stood up to follow.
*
Styrkar and friends were just outside the hall in a small open space between houses, still drinking, laughing and groping the girls they’d brought with them.
Lini marched into the middle of the group, grabbed Styrkar by the neck and pushed him against a house wall.
“You wrecked my forge,” he growled.
“Feeling horny, ergi?” spluttered Styrkar. His accomplices sniggered. “Didn’t think I was your type.”
“You wrecked my forge!”
“Wasn’t me.”
“You took my spare keys and broke in and wrecked everything!”
Styrkar raised his eyebrows at two friends, who dragged Lini off. He struggled violently but wasn’t strong enough to fight both. They held him and Styrkar punched him in the face, but he thrashed around and those restraining him were forced to hold his arms behind his back and pull his hair to keep his head still.
Styrkar’s friends gathered round, jeering and catcalling and other guests from the feast started assembling.
“Coward!” spat Lini, his cyan blue eyes flashing with anger. “Too scared to fight me one-to-one? Your little friends have to help you, yes?”
Styrkar glared at him, then nodded to his friends, who let Lini go. He sprang towards the Huskarl, forgetting all caution, and grabbed him by the throat again.
“You’ve ruined my work!” he snarled.
Unfortunately, however drunk Styrkar was, he was used to fighting and Lini wasn’t. He broke the hold on his neck and pushed Lini backwards again. The lean amber smith fell on the ground, but the other men respected this fight and didn’t touch him. Styrkar grabbed him by the shoulders.
“You’re a disgrace to men!” he growled, his breath still
stinking of beer. “Sansorthinnr don’t deserve respect!” He drew a knife from his belt and Lini’s eyes widened. But Styrkar grabbed his hair, which was tied back in a plain tail as usual and brought the knife to it.
“Styrkar, you can’t!” said his friend warningly.
But he cut through Lini’s hair, despite his struggles, and held the tail up like a prize.
“Now you are as low as a thrall!”
Lini was so shocked he just lay there, so Styrkar punched him.
*
“Kjartan! Come quickly! Lini’s in trouble!” A boy of thirteen, a former student of the training school, fought his way through the mass of drunken bodies in the feasting hall. The fight had been broken up by Ragnar and Steinar, who were still directing the participants away from each other.
Without pausing, Kjartan followed the boy out of the hall. He trusted his students.
*
Outside, Lini’s mouth was bleeding now, but he was determined not to show it hurt.
“Can’t take much more, can you, ergi?” sneered Styrkar, smashing him against the side of the hut. The watching men’s faces were full of excitement at the spilling of blood. They clutched each other, jeering and gasping at each blow.
“You’re not worth my time,” continued the broad Huskarl, throwing Lini to one of his henchman. The amber smith’s tunic was torn, one boot had come off, but Lini gritted his teeth, refusing to make a sound.
The other man caught him and held him for another to punch. Just before the blow connected, however, both Lini’s assailants were violently pulled away and flung to the ground. The villagers gasped.
“Too cowardly for single combat?” snarled Kjartan, glaring down at the pair. They scrambled up but the white-blond warrior was too fast for them. He punched one in the face and lunged his sword at the other, seemingly at the same time. The first collapsed unconscious, the other froze with the sword point at his chest.
Lini had staggered after his attackers let go, and unfortunately fell towards Styrkar, who grabbed him by the neck.
“Your little friend will die if you don’t stop!” exclaimed Styrkar, holding a seax to Lini’s throat.
“Yeah?” growled Kjartan, leaping towards him so quickly he flinched. In that moment, Lini was able to elbow him in the stomach, knocking him off balance and allowing Kjartan to stab at his throat. “Let him go, or you’ll be the one dead!”
