The Saga of Colm the Slave

by Mike Culpepper

  Gwyneth saw Braga watching the two young people. Braga’s mouth was twisted and her eyes hard. Gwyneth thought of going over to speak to the woman, then decided better not.

  Colm spotted Thorolf in the crowd and went to have a word with him. Colm sat above Thorolf now in the Logretta and Hallvard sat below. Thorolf could lean forward and whisper explanations of events and point out lessons for the guidance of his heir. He could lean back and discuss matters with Colm, sometimes asking for advice, before rising and speaking to the assembly.

  “Well met,” said Colm.

  “Indeed,” said Thorolf. He wiped sweat from his face. “A fine day.” It was very hot but no one in Iceland ever complained about too much sun.

  “Marta looks well. She has her grandmother’s eyes.”

  “Well,” said Thorolf, “I suppose she can see fairly well.” He regarded Colm. There was a half smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, an expression Colm had come to recognize. He knew that Thorolf understood his plight.

  There was no time to waste, thought Colm. Appropriate or not, he needed to try to head off trouble. “This may not be the time to speak of it,” said Colm, “But I understand there has been talk of her betrothal.”

  “There is always talk of such things when a girl reaches a certain age.”

  “Well, I want you to know that I support Frosti’s suit and will aid it in any way that I can.”

  “I can understand how that might be, but you should know that Marta’s mother, Gerda, has more say in this matter than I do.”

  “Even so, I am talking to you. I am willing to do all that is possible to bring about a successful marriage between Frosti and Marta.” Colm did not mention money and material support, nor did he speak of backing Adals in time of trouble, but his meaning was clear.

  “As to that, I rather think there are better matches for Marta. Adals is a spendthrift and a gambler.” Thorolf waved his hand at the horse ring. “Even were you Frosti’s foster-father, I would not call him a good match. He is dull and foolish. I understand that he makes bad decisions and bargains poorly, too.”

  Colm nodded. “I am trying to remedy that.”

  “I understand and I wish you well. Still, I cannot support Frosti to Marta.” Thorolf pulled his beard and thought a moment. “But speak to Gerda. See what she says.”

  Colm nodded. The first horses were led into the ring and Thorolf went over to watch. Colm caught Gwyneth looking his way and went over to her. “Thorolf says that only Gerda can help Frosti’s suit.”

  Gwyneth nodded and squared her shoulders. “I will speak to her.”

  Colm said nothing. He knew what Gerda’s response would probably be and he did not want Gwyneth to suffer insult. Still, this was for Geirrid.

  “This is for Geirrid,” said Gwyneth, and she went off to find Gerda.

  A shout went up from the crowd. Some farmer’s stallion had been driven from the ring. People hooted and mocked. The winning stallion was led away, perhaps to fight again later. Colm made his way to the ring and waited for the next horses to be led in. Across the way he saw Ljot and Styr laughing together. There was another problem waiting to develop, he thought. As soon as those boys were old enough to lift a sword, there would be plenty of wagging tongues to lash them into a duel, each boy being convinced he fought for his dead father’s honor. A new stallion was led into the ring and the crowd cheered and yelled. Ljot and Styr jumped up and down in excitement.

  Gunnora saw Colm looking across the ring at her boys and smiled. She knew that Gwyneth had been barren since Geirrid’s birth. She watched Colm, noticing the way he held his body and the way he moved. She decided to walk near him.

  Gwyneth came upon Gerda. The two exchanged pleasantries and Gwyneth made flattering comments about Gerda’s look and dress and the quality of her children. “That Marta is so pretty,” said Gwyneth, “And I suppose you’re already thinking of a match for her.”

  Gerda shrugged. “There’s been talk, but I’ve heard no names mentioned that appeal to me.”

  “Well,” said Gwyneth, “As for that, I wouldn’t discount young Frosti...”

  “Never!” Gerda spat upon the ground. “Marta shall never marry the son of a slave! No, not even if that slave were to sit in the Logretta!” She turned and walked away.

  Gwyneth flushed, then drew herself erect with her head high. She turned back toward the horse ring and saw Gunnora walk up beside her husband and bump him with her hip. Then Gwyneth’s vision turned red and she thought of beating Gunnora with a stick, beating her like a dog, but in her thoughts she kept on beating her, beating her until she lay broken and bloody on the ground. Her vision cleared and Gwyneth calmed herself and considered the scene for a moment. Then she walked over to Colm.

  Colm became aware of Gunnora next to him when she started babbling in his ear. Something about the horse fight, Colm paid little attention, his eyes were fixed on the sight of Geirrid in the crowd. Gwyneth came up behind him. Colm turned and grabbed her by the arms and walked her back away. “Geirrid’s here!” he said.

  “Oh, no!” said Gwyneth. Then she said, “Gerda will not allow her daughter to marry Frosti.”

  Colm nodded. He could imagine the words that had passed between Gerda and his wife. Suddenly he put his arms around her. “We will work this out. You’ll see!” But he doubted the things he was saying.

  Gwyneth said, “Yes. It will be all right.” But she heard the doubt in Colm’s voice.

  The last horse fight had been a good one. The two stallions had gone at each other with abandon, biting and kicking, until one farmer withdrew his horse, rather than see it die in the horse ring. But now came the match everyone wanted to see, the one between the stallions of Adals and Gunnar. Colm pushed to the front so that he could watch. Perhaps, he thought, if Adals won a great deal of money, that would take some of the sting from losing the match with Marta. He thought of loaning Adals money to bet or of betting against his horse so that the winnings would be greater. He even thought of paying Gunnar to lose. But these plans could easilly turn bad and create yet another grievance between Adals and Colm, so he rejected them all.

  Gunnar led in his stallion, Gryr. The horse was gray with a dark stripe along his spine. Many people considered this to be the finest kind of fighting horse. There was a scar on Gryr’s muzzle in front of his left eye where he had been bitten before. Gunnar was dressed in a bright blue shirt and patterned silk trousers from Greekland. He wore a wide leather belt and his horse goad had a silver pommel. He had the Swedish bracelet that Colm had given him on his wrist. He looked very fine.

  Now Adals brought in his horse, the one that had belonged to Egil, whose widow had given him to Braga, dark brown with black mane and tail and white stockings on his rear hooves. This stallion was called Raven’s-Mane. Adals wore plain tunic and trousers but he had a red cloth wrapped around his waist. He carried a plain wooden goad. Colm wished he had thought to gift the man with bright clothing or a fancy goad. Yes, he thought, so the drunkard regrets the beer that was spilled instead of drunk.

  Colm felt Gwyneth beside him and thought she trembled a little. “I could not find Geirrid.”

  “He was over there. I saw him just for a moment.”

  “Well, Frosti is occupied now, anyway.” Frosti stood at the front of the crowd with Braga. Her fists were clenched and her eyes bulged.

  Adals and Gunnar released their horses and the two stallions rushed together immediately and reared up, chest to chest, and bit at each other’s mane and neck. The crowd shouted in appreciation. The stallions dropped and Gryr turned as if he were running away from Raven’s-Mane, but instead kicked him hard in the shoulder, then whirled about and reared again. Colm saw that Gryr was a crafty, experienced fighter.

  Raven’s-Mane staggered at the kick but recovered to rear and meet Gryr, but he was a little behind and Gryr bit him, deep, across the muzzle. Raven’s-Mane did not pull away but chopped at Gryr with his front hooves. Gryr, too, was working his forelegs but hi
s neck was extended and vulnerable and Raven’s-Mane cut and bruised him. Both horses fell away and gathered themselves for another charge. Neither animal showed any sign of backing down.

  The air was full of the smell of blood and horses and the sweat of man and beast. Colm smelled the mare as she walked past, circling the ring, staying clear of the fighting except to kick out if a stallion came too close. The sun beat down and increased the heat and the smell of the packed bodies and fighting horses.

  Again the stallions slammed chest to chest and again Gryr bit down on the other horse’s muzzle. Blood poured from Raven’s-Mane’s nostrils as he fought back. The horses parted, then reared at each other once more. This time, Raven’s-Mane used his hooves before Gryr had a chance to bite him. He opened a gash below Gryr’s eye and stunned that horse briefly so that he fell away. Raven’s-Mane charged and reared. People cheered, but Gryr kicked into the stallion’s exposed underside. Colm heard Raven’s-Mane go Whoof! He thought some ribs might have been cracked by the kick.

  Raven’s-Mane staggered back, clearly hurt, and Gryr charged in. Raven’s-Mane reared and the two horses slammed chest to chest and Gryr bit through the stallion’s muzzle once more. This time, when the horses separated, Colm could see flesh hanging from exposed bone. That, and the rib injury, meant that Raven’s-Mane should be taken out of the fight. He looked at Adals but that man raised his goad. He had everything riding on this fight. It was all or nothing now! His horse would fight to the death.

  Raven’s-Mane needed no goad. Injured or not he reared and, this time, bit Gryr right through the nostrils. The horses dropped away and Gryr kicked back but missed Raven’s-Mane, who had learned that move. He, too, was a crafty fighter.

  Once again the stallions reared. People were screaming with excitement. Raven’s-Mane got the bite in first. It seemed as though he would close his teeth on the scar below Gryr’s eye, but that stallion rolled his head and Raven’s-Mane took a piece from his cheek instead. Gryr brought his head around and caught the other horse by the mane, biting, and trying to force him down. Raven’s-Mane pulled away and kicked out but Gryr dodged away.

  Now the two horses faced one another, blood running down their muzzles and pooling on the ground. They gathered their strength and rushed together. Colm thought this was the last of Raven’s-Mane. That horse had been injured too badly to go on much longer. The stallions reared, chest to chest, Raven’s-Mane coming in quickly for a bite under Gryr’s eye. Gryr rolled his head and Raven’s-Mane waited, an instant, then darted snake-like under Gryr’s cheek and bit into his neck below the jaw. Gryr fell back and Raven’s-Mane was atop him, still biting deep into his throat. Gryr thrashed about and fell to the ground. He used his hooves but Raven’s-Mane never loosed his bite. While the crowd shouted and cheered, he held on like a fanged beast, like a wolf, while Gryr’s blood began to spurt and gush onto the ground.

  Gunnar ran forward and signalled to Adals that his horse was done and the match was over. Adals tried to goad Raven’s-Mane away from Gryr but the horse held on. Finally, Raven’s-Mane was pulled away but Gryr’s blood continued to pump out until that horse died there.

  The crowd cheered as Raven’s-Mane made his way to the mare, but he could not mount her. Adals and Frosti rushed forward to help him but their stallion had not the strength. He staggered back and whinnied at the mare. They guided him over to a quiet pen and Frosti tended his wounds while Adals went about collecting his bets.

  The winner of the first fight, the stallion that had driven his opponent from the ring, was brought to the mare. The farmer who owned her was disappointed, he had hoped for a champion as stud. Still, this was something. The crowd shouted approval as the two horses joined. Colm looked around, but there was no sign of Geirrid.

  Back at the Trollfarm, Gwyneth said, “Now that Adals has won, things will be better.”

  Colm shook his head. “We hoped Adals would win so that he would have enough money to make Frosti an attractive match. Now we know that Marta’s family is set against him.”

  “Well, if Frosti couldn’t marry her anyway, will he still blame Geirrid?”

  “Who can say? Given two humiliations, which might a man seek to avenge?” Colm looked at the floor. “I think Geirrid must leave for a while.”

  “Oh, no!” said Gwyneth.

  “It will only be for a time, a few years perhaps, until this matter is forgotten. Marta will marry someone, Frosti will find a match somewhere, and I will try to make his life sweeter.”

  “You will give him money?”

  “Yes, money, and anything else that will keep him from attacking Geirrid.” Colm shook his head. “Perhaps this is because of Gudbrand. Perhaps I should have...”

  “No! There was no other way. Would you have rather seen Geirrid hang?”

  “I would not have allowed that.”

  “Then it would have been doom for us all,” said Gwyneth. “You did the best thing you could.”

  They were both silent for a time. Gwyneth finally spoke, “What was it you and Gunnora had to talk about?”

  “Gunnora?” Colm was puzzled. “I don’t recall... Were we talking?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Gwyneth. “She was rubbing up against you like a cat.”

  Colm slowly shook his head from side to side. “I really don’t...” Then he took a closer look at Gwyneth. “Are you jealous?” He almost laughed. He went over to Gwyneth and put his arms around her. She turned her face away. “Oh, Gwyneth, there is no one for me but you. How could you think otherwise?”

  “I thought maybe I hadn’t... I thought perhaps you are tired of me.”

  “No! Never!” Colm pulled Gwyneth over and sat her on his lap as he had used to do years before. He spoke soft words to her and caressed her.

  When they were first married they sometimes spoke their native languages to one another. Colm’s Goidelic differed from Gwyneth’s Brythonic, but they understood each other’s Gaelic well enough as they lay in each other’s arms. For this was mostly something they did in intimate moments, a secret lovers’ language. They never used this speech in front of other people, not even Geirrid, though Gwyneth had sometimes sung to him in Brython when he was a baby. But when it was important that meaning be absolutely clear, then they always spoke in Norse. The words were more exact, Colm thought, like hard stones laid in a row. Gaelic was music and sounds flowed together and around and twined with one another. It was a language of misdirection. Now he said a few words in Gaelic and caught himself. He did not want Gwyneth to think he was trying to deceive her. She caught his hesitation and laid a finger on his lips. “Hush. I am foolish, that’s all. I know you are true to me.” Then she put her head next to his and murmured something in her Brythonic tongue. So they sat that way for a time, waiting for Geirrid.

  “It seems there will be no match between you and Marta,” said Colm.

  “I know,” said Geirrid, “She will never marry the son of a slave. I figured that out a long while ago.”

  Colm swallowed a bit of anger. He went on, “Well, there seems little for you here except trouble. I propose that you try trading for a while. I will find you a place on a ship and give you money to start with.”

  “Getting me out of the country, is that it?”

  “Do you really want to stay?”

  Geirrid thought for a moment. “No, not really. And I don’t like sheep very much, so trading is probably a good choice for me. I think I can do well at it.”

  “Maybe go east to the Baltic,” said Colm. He could not stop himself from adding, “There is plenty of amber there.” Geirrid regarded his father coolly, looking straight into his eyes. He said nothing. Colm regretted his words. He said, “You need to stay a while until things settle down. Then come back and, if you decide you prefer farming to being a merchant, well, that can be arranged. But just for now, it is best that you leave.”

  “I suppose I might stay away three years.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “That is the penalty for lesser o
utlawry.” A man might be sentenced to something less than full outlawry by being ordered to leave Iceland for a period of time, usually three years.

  “This is not a penalty, it is an opportunity.”

  “I suppose,” said Geirrid. “Well, it appears I have done wrong, though I still don’t understand exactly how. So I will leave for a few years until Frosti forgets that I exist, then I will return and everything will shine like the sun.”

  “I’m sorry, Geirrid, I don’t know what else to do. If you stay I foresee a great deal of bloodshed.”

  Geirrid nodded. “I suppose,” he said again. “Well, then, let’s find a ship and I’ll take my leave.”

  A day or two after Geirrid sailed from Iceland, Colm went in search of Frosti. He did not wear his sword. He found the boy by an upland meadow where he was tending Raven’s-Mane. The stallion was confined in a stone pen while he healed so that he wouldn’t wander off and stumble over the rocks and so that other horses couldn’t get to him and harm him.

  Frosti greeted Colm cordially enough and the two watched the horse crop grass. There was a great scar on his muzzle, but he seemed to be healing well. “That is a very fine horse,” said Colm.

  “Yes,” said Frosti. “Adals now is buying mares and talking of raising a great herd of fighting-horses.”

  “Well, that might be a sound proposition.”

  “It might be. It depends on how well they are trained.”

  “I see,” said Colm. “Do you know someone who can train them?”

  “Adals says that he can do it,” said Frosti, and Colm understood right away that Frosti doubted the man’s ability and was dubious about the entire scheme.