The Saga of Colm the Slave
Page 3
Gwyneth left and Colm stepped into the corner of the storeroom, just beside the door. The lamplight from the longhall illuminated a small area inside the door, but it was dark in the corner. Colm shrank back and thought about Braga and the necklace. He had an idea and hoped that it was right. Gwyneth’s return interrupted his thought.
Braga was protesting. “Mistress Gerda wants me. I got to go.”
Gwyneth soothed her. “Just a moment, Braga, that’s all. Just in here.”
Gwyneth persuaded Braga into the storeroom. Colm came up behind her and slipped his hand under Braga’s apron. The slave girl started and jumped back. “None of that,” she said. She gave Gwyneth an accusing glance. “I thought you was better than that!” Braga ran out the door.
Gwyneth wasn’t certain whether to be angry or not. “So,” she said, “Did you make me fetch Braga just so you could fondle her big bottom?”
For answer, Colm held out his hand so that Gwyneth could see that he held Ingveld’s gleaming necklace. “It was Gerda,” he said. “When the fight started, she knocked the cups onto the floor. Then, when Braga was down on her knees picking them up, Gerda hooked the necklace on her skirt under her apron. There it would stay until she was ready to take it. No one would search her again.”
“Of course! And if it was discovered then Braga would be blamed.” Gwyneth looked at the glass baubles shining in the light from the hall. She said, “Any woman would be glad to own such a thing!”
It was true, thought Colm. The necklace was perhaps the most beautiful thing he had ever held in his hands. A cunning and seductive notion crept into his brain then. Colm raised his head and met Gwyneth’s gaze. There he could see the same notion glittering in her eyes. Then they both of them blinked and beheld reality. Colm saw the thin apron of second-grade cloth that Gwyneth wore over threadbare skirts, a cord of hemp making do as a belt. And he knew what she saw before her: a thin young man in a ragged shirt and trousers with patched knees. They owned nothing, not even their own bodies; what could they do with this necklace that was worth twenty slaves like themselves? Even so, if Gwyneth wanted it, she might have it, Colm thought. She might accept her certain doom and his, too, for a moment of pleasure. There would be few enough in her life.
But Gwyneth was a woman of sense. “Now you must find a way to get it back,” she said. Colm nodded. A woman shouted, then another. Gwyneth turned to go, “They’ll search the slave girls now that Gerda can’t find her loot.” She turned back to Colm, parted her lips as if to speak, then thought better of it and left the storeroom.
Colm squatted, his back against the turf wall, and thought about what he should do next.
It was an uneasy night and Colm woke before dawn, lying in the straw in the cowshed with some other slaves. He lay listening to the snores of other men, as the first birds began singing and light began to break. He heard the murmur of women making their way to the shrine for their own secret ritual. Tense, he listened and waited. Soft chanting rose from the shrine, then… A sudden shout! Colm knew that meant the necklace had been found.
The night before, Colm had crept to the shrine. There was no moon and only starlight lit his path. The temple entrance was a black hole before him. Stifling a sudden terror, Colm ducked inside. He crouched, letting his eyes become used to the darkness, straining to see just a little. The chamber stank of blood. Suddenly, Colm saw two great eyes staring into his own. He started and almost screamed before he realized that he was looking into the carved orbs of Thor’s face. The beloved god! The friendly god! Thor’s cold stare pierced Colm like a weapon-thrust. This was no friend of his!
Colm broke free his gaze and examined the other idols in the shrine. Each of the three great stone slabs bore some sign of the deity it represented. Thor held a carved hammer, Njord’s idol was decorated with a ship, and Freya bore breasts of stone. Smaller figures of carved stone or bone or wood stood up from the earth around the large idols. Lesser gods? Great kings? Ancestors? Perhaps no one but the godi knew.
Colm drew Ingveld’s necklace from his shirt and examined Freya’s statue. He had thought the Goddess might have her arms extended to drive her cart, as they were on the pendants women wore around their necks. But the only protrusions on this slab of granite were the two hard breasts. Probably they were formed by wind or water on this stone, and, being noticed, caused it to be selected as an idol. Two sets of carved concentric circles were Freya’s eyes and below them, a great semi-circle meant to be her woman’s smile. But now Freya’s mouth was full of clotted blood that ran down her breasts toward a bowl at the idol’s base.
Colm shuddered. He thought of pitching the necklace into the bowl but was afraid it might not be seen. If only this thing had a neck! Finally, Colm set the necklace on top the idol so that the big red stone hung on Freya’s forehead. “Be satisfied with that,” he whispered, “You heathen creature!” Freya grinned at him but did not answer, something for which Colm was very grateful.
Colm let several of the other slaves get up and wander out before he rose. People were buzzing about in the new day like bees on urgent missions. Their eyes were bright and excited as they chattered about Freya having Ingveld’s necklace! Oh, yes, thought Colm, that greedy goddess! He smiled.
A hand clutched his arm and drew him to one side. Colm’s belly plunged in fear and then he found himself looking into Gwyneth’s face and he felt his spirit rise and fill his chest. She was smiling, then her face dropped and her eyes widened in horror and Colm was afraid again. “Here,” said Gwyneth. She pulled him into the shadow of the cow-shed and rubbed at his forehead. She spat on her thumb and rubbed again. “That’s better.” Gwyneth looked at her reddened thumb and made a face. “Pah! Horse blood!” She looked Colm over, head to toe, but found no other traces of blood.
“Can’t have people thinking I took part in the ceremony,” said Colm.
“No,” said Gwyneth seriously, “They shouldn’t think you put on the airs of a free man. Or that you were mocking them somehow.”
“Well, that’s easy enough to do,” said Colm, “As I suppose you know.”
Gwyneth smiled. “You did well. Everything should be all right now. Ingveld has presented the necklace to Gerda as a gift.”
“So Gerda has everything she wants.”
Gwyneth shrugged. “For the moment. I suppose she wishes for a different husband, but Gunnlaug has little to offer.”
“It was you who told me how to do it, you know,” Colm told her, “When you said that about any woman wanting the thing – well, there was only one that could have it without blame.” Colm started in then with some tongue-honey about her being intelligent as well as beautiful but stopped when he realized Gwyneth was not listening but looking past him. She gave him a quick smile, then slipped away, and Colm turned to find Bjorn, his master, bearing down on him.
“Well, that turned out not so bad,” said Bjorn. He was in a cheery mood. Probably he expected to win some credit with Thorolf for this turn of events, Colm thought. “Now I promised you a reward if things went well, didn’t I?” Oh, yes, you did, thought Colm, but do I want it or dread it? One never knew what the master had in mind.
Bjorn was interrupted as Thorolf walked up. The two men greeted one another and Thorolf echoed Bjorn, “That turned out as well as it could.” He took Bjorn’s hands in his. “You have my thanks. And I have a gift for you as well as thanks.”
Bjorn smiled and ducked his head. So he won favor, thought Colm. That would be to his own benefit as well: a well-fed slave has a prosperous master. Thorolf turned his way. “Don’t I know this slave?”
“He was present when we found Hastein’s body.”
“Ah. Yes. Another situation that could have gone wrong.”
“Yes,” said Bjorn. “In fact, I was about to reward this man. For, ah, his excellent service and so on.”
“I see,” said Thorolf. “What reward were you planning to give him?”
“I thought a sheep, one of the new lambs. I might let him c
hoose the one he wants.”
“Well, he seems a lucky slave to me. It is always a good thing to have lucky men about and one should encourage them. Would you allow me to give this man a sheep of his choosing as well?”
“Of course,” said Bjorn. “Luck must be encouraged.” And the two men smiled and dissembled and blathered at each other, but Colm paid no attention. Two sheep! He would choose ewes, of course, and this time next year he would have four! And eight the year after! Six sheep was an acceptable price for a slave, but… No! He would wait another year, until he had sixteen sheep. Then he would offer Bjorn ten of them for his freedom. No! He would offer him twelve! So that Bjorn would recognize what a man of worth he was!
3.The Trollfarm Killing
Colm was not very pleased that Bjorn wanted him to go along to Althing that summer; he would rather tend his sheep. But no slave could ignore his master’s bidding. And the fact that Bjorn wanted him along hinted that the man might be weighing him as a potential retainer, a free man who would support Bjorn and help him to become more important. “Free” being the operative word here. So it wasn’t all bad. Even so, Colm would rather stay with his sheep. He wished his two lambs to increase to a flock and the flock increase to the point where he could buy his freedom.
The day before riding out to Althing, Colm went up to the shieling to take Edgar some provisions – a bowl of skyr for now and a lump of cheese and strip of dried mutton for the next week or so. Edgar had no teeth left but he could gum at the meat and it would last all the longer. The old man sat with his face raised to the sun, warming himself like a toad on a rock. He grinned at Colm, his wide toothless mouth spread in pleasure. Colm smiled back and was glad to see the old man’s joy at being in the sun and having a useful task to do. Edgar, too, was a slave. He owned no sheep though, owned nothing, not even his own body, which might be sacrificed to some pagan god whenever it had no other use.
Colm caught sight of the flock grazing twenty yards or so downslope from a patch of snow. They would work up the mountainside as it thawed. Colm didn’t have to check the earmarks to know which were his and which belonged to others; he knew his lambs by sight even at a distance. The sheep cropped at the bright green new grass and Colm imagined it all going to fat and wool and meat as he watched and willed his two small animals to put on weight.
A great old wether, guardian of the flock, raised its head and studied Colm. Deciding he was no danger, the wether lowered his head back into the grass. Colm relished the peaceful scene and wished with all his heart that he could stay and be part of it. But, he thought, his heart was so full of wishes already, he could never live long enough to see them all granted. Colm bid old Edgar good day and went back down to Bjorn’s farm to do chores for his master.
In the morning, Bjorn told Colm to take a horse for himself. That was something! Saddle or no, it was better to ride to Althing than run along behind the mounted freemen.
Then Bjorn surprised him further. “It might be useful if you could find a weapon,” he said. It was not a usual practice to allow a slave to be armed. Of course Colm had a weapon hidden away, a single-edged scramasax that he had taken from the belongings of an English slave that died. That one, too, had kept his weapon hidden. “There might be lawsuits that end in trouble,” said Bjorn. He looked keenly into Colm’s face. “We may need every man.”
So Bjorn considered him a man did he? Man enough to ride and fight! Colm scented freedom in his future, closer now, like a prey he was hunting. The scramasax blade was sharp and Colm wrapped a piece of leather around it before putting the knife in his waistband under his shirt where it was not so obvious – though any searching glance would discover it through the threadbare material.
Packs of provisions were slung over the horses and wagons were loaded with the cloth and poles that would be used to construct the tent pavilions that would house Bjorn’s contingent. Some women rode on the wagons, like Aud, Bjorn’s wife – she was visibly ill, losing weight daily, her eyes sinking into her skull. Some women walked, like Aud’s slave Gwyneth, attentive to her mistress, who kept pace with the wagon. Seeing Gwyneth lifted Colm’s heart and when she flashed a bright smile his way, it filled with song like a tree full of birds.
The group made its way down the valley alongside a stream that, here, was easily crossed. Farther along, the stream joined with others to become a river. Thorolf’s farm lay near the river floodplain and his followers, like Bjorn, tended to live on the upland tributaries. Behind him, in the distance, Colm could see the mountain slope where his sheep were grazing. They had come to the end of Bjorn’s holding. There was good land a mile or so across the stream but no one farmed it. Years past, before Bjorn came to Iceland, someone had lived there but, one winter, the farmer and his family had disappeared. Some thought they had gotten lost out in a snowstorm, first one, then those who had gone searching. But others said that evil beings – trolls or water-striders – had taken them. People avoided the place but sooner or later someone would move in. Good land was scarce.
It was late in the afternoon when they finally reached Thorolf’s farm. Slaves unpacked the horses and drove them into the near field to graze. The women went into the longhall to prepare a meal for the travellers. Colm threw some harness and horse-gear across his shoulders and carried it into a turf out-building.
It was a moment before Colm’s eyes adjusted to the darkness inside and he caught only the motion of the two white faces at the other end of the building. Two people, trying to duck out of sight, but there was nowhere to hide. One was Gerda, Thorolf’s daughter, and Colm recognized the other as Gunnlaug, the young farmer who had shoved Halldor at the Spring Sacrifice. The way that they jumped apart was evidence that they did not want to be seen together.
Colm turned to the wall and hung up the harness. Then he turned away to the door without looking back toward Gerda and Gunnlaug. Some things were better for a slave not to see.
Outside, a group of men were gathered in the sunlight. Magnus, Thorolf, and Bjorn were at its center. Colm edged up to hear what was going on. Magnus was an excitable man and he shouted and waved his arms about. Thorolf listened gravely, nodding from time to time. Bjorn stood behind Thorolf, nodding when his chieftain did. It took a moment for Colm to understand why Magnus was so worked up: his son, Halldor, had been killed by Gunnlaug. There was no fighting when the two quarrelled at the Sacrifice, but after letting the matter fester for a few weeks, Halldor had gone over to Gunnlaug’s farm to settle things. Instead, Halldor’s body lay near Gunnlaug’s doorway and Gunnlaug had disappeared.
Colm caught a movement from the corner of his eye. Gerda was slipping past the crowd of men. She threw one beseeching glance at Colm, then joined the women at the longhall. Colm thought of Gunnlaug in the out-building, waiting for a chance to get away. One word and this crowd would be on him like wolves on a deer. Colm caught sight of Gwyneth among the other women and smiled to himself. Right now he felt a softness toward young love. He kept his mouth shut.
After a time, Magnus calmed a little. Thorolf began speaking of the lawsuit they would bring at Althing. He spoke of procedures and he spoke of allies, for even the best-argued suit needed swords to back it. Bjorn spoke from time to time, echoing his chieftain and backing his argument. Occasionally Magnus would flare up and then the other two men would soothe him with words of vengeance. This went on all evening, right through the meal and into the night, the three plotting their actions at Althing.
Ingveld, Magnus’ wife, sat with the women, silent and staring straight ahead. Once, Gerda spoke to her and Ingveld, lips pressed tightly, turned stony eyes her way. It was obvious that she felt Gerda held some responsibility for the death of her son. Bright-eyed Gerda tried to look solemn and bereaved but soon she was chattering with the other young women, all caught up in the excitement. At least, thought Colm, she had enough sense not to wear the necklace of glass that Ingveld had given her as a betrothal gift, a gift that Ingveld meant to buy her son’s happiness.
It was getting dark by the time Thorolf’s caravan reached Thingvelleir. The open plains and lava fields had been given to all as a meeting-place by the chieftain Ingolf some years before. Hundreds of people had already arrived. Some families had well-established areas where they returned, year after year. Thorolf had his own set of roofless turf walls. Colm helped raise a great canopy of cloth over the walls, then went to set up Bjorn’s tents and shelters. The women bustled about, seeing to food and drink and bedding. Thorolf, Bjorn, and Magnus grabbed up torches and went about the encampment, seeking allies for their cause. It was a long day and, when Colm finally lay down, he fell asleep instantly.
The next morning, Colm attended the fringes of the great crowd assembled around one of Ingolf’s heirs, who called on the Gods and convened the assembly. Then the Lawspeaker, Thorarin Ragi’s-Brother, mounted the Law-rock and proclaimed the boundaries of the Althing. No weapons could be shown within these boundaries and all men, even outlaws, were said to be safe here, though no outlaw had ever tested this notion.
When Iceland was first settled, the major families and chieftains were all related by blood or marriage and people got along well. But the generation that followed began quarreling and some chieftains began to seek power over all. So a code of law was brought from Norway and the Althing was created to settle difficulties between people. Iceland had no king but only law. The system was often tested. There were feuds and outlaws but for the last twenty-five years the country had been more or less stable.