by Anya Seton
"I think so." She tried to remember what was left in the cauldron. "Dried fish, and skyr anyway — your mother's here."
"My mother?"
She explained breathlessly, thinking all the time how big and strong, yet tender, Sigurd was, and how his blond hair curled a Uttle over his ears, and that his short beard and mustache smelled of the sea spray, and that they would lie together tonight.
They walked into the Hall, and Sigurd made the proper greetings to Ketil and Asgerd. Then he went to their own bed-closet to see Orm; upon finding him fast asleep, Sigurd did not disturb the little boy. He touched him gently on the head, then shut the door.
WTien he came back, Merewyn had a plateful of food ready for him. The menservants were clustered as usual at the end of the forty-foot Hall, and she fed them too.
"What price for the fleeces?" asked Ketil, as soon as Sigurd had swallowed a few mouthfuls.
The young man sighed. "Not good. Though I finally went
to Reykjavik, but there was a trader in from Norway with a load of live sheep, big fat ones, and that was all anyone wanted much."
"Tcha!" said Ketil, scowling. "This is a poor business you have here, and the profits from farming get worse yearly."
"We've had a couple of bad winters," said Sigurd slowly.
Asgerd's sharp glance went from Ketil's face to that of her son. "You both did much better when you went a-viking!" she snorted, and turned the eiderdowns which Merewyn had forgotten.
Ketil slammed down his empty drinking horn. "Asgerd speaks the truth!" He got up and stalked around the fire, frowning.
Merewyn drew herself in, tight and anxious. She looked towards her husband and whispered, "Sigurd, you promised, you swore to me you wouldn't."
Nobody heard her, even Sigurd, yet because there was love between them, he knew what she was thinking. And though much taken up with his own concerns, he had understanding of his wife, and her natural horror of Viking raids.
"Ketil Ketilson, my foster father — " he said formally, because he wanted to penetrate the mead-anger he saw rising in the older man, "Though I had scant luck in Reykjavik, yet I heard news which may be of interest to you. To us. Your kinsman, Erik the Red, is back from his exile. He has spent these years as an outlaw, exploring an uninhabited land he found to the west of us. He Hkes it much, and so much wants to go back there with colonists that he will give anyone who joins up square miles of this rich land. The cHmate is very mild, and the grass high and thick. He has named the place Greenland."
Ketil's attention was indeed caught. He came over to Sigurd, and said, "Repeat what you heard! Erik is back?"
Sigurd nodded. "And will be at the Althing next month looking for colonists."
"He will give away miles of rich land?"
"So they said. And he has already established some homestead for himself up a pretty little fjord in that Greenland."
"What nonsense you talk," cried Asgerd rounding on her son. "I can see where you're tending, and think you've lost your wits. Is Erik Thorvaldson, the outlaw, a man to trust? A man to lead anyone anywhere? He was exiled from Norway, exiled from Iceland for murders, and —"
"Asgerd Orsmdottir!" interrupted Ketil, while his face scar grew purple. "Remember you speak of my kinsman! And he has done no murders — only man-slayings. A very different matter in which honor is involved." The two older people confronted each other angrily, and Merewyn felt immediate sympathy for her father and husband, no matter what it was they were discussing. She wasn't entirely sure.
Sigurd, who hated bickering, downed his homful of ale and said quietly, "My mother — these are men's affairs, and nothing is decided. We must wait for the Althing. In the meantime, I wish bed — with my wife. And am sure you need yours, after the long ride and the care I know you've given to Brigid. All this will wait until later." He stood up, put his arm around Merewyn, and said, "Good night."
Asgerd stayed several days, as was customary, and Merewyn was grateful for the expert, offhand care she gave Brigid who quickly recovered.
Sigurd and Ketil had many a private talk together, especially when they shared the High Seat at meals, but the two women who sat on the Cross Bench at the end under a gable could not be sure what the men were saying, though Asgerd strained her ears to listen. Merewyn did not pry, even alone in bed with Sigurd, with whom she had such happy nights of kisses and deeper pleasure that she scarcely thought of anything else. And everyone was preparing for the journey to the Althing, except Asgerd, who said sourly that such expensive junketings were
not for her, and she was anxious to get home to her sister; to a household properly run, where the clabbered milk called "skyr" was always tasty, and there was abundance of such delicacies as fried whale blubber, raw shark, and pig's liver; where the four woman thralls were efficient, and the eiderdowns aired daily — not in haphazard fashion.
Merewyn received these criticisms in guilty silence, and tried to do better, aware that in Asgerd's eyes — and alas in that of others too — this was a shamefully impoverished household, and that it was partly her own fault since she had stopped her husband and father from their yearly Viking raids.
On June 5th, Asgerd finally left Langarfoss. Sigurd had gone up the Langa River in search of a strayed ewe, Ketil had stalked off to inspect his ship as usual, and had taken tools with him. It was again a brilliant blue day, with high white puify clouds, everchanging, and the golden pyramid of Baula Mountain looking near enough to touch.
Merewyn waved goodbye to Asgerd who bobbed along on one of their horses, escorted by Cormac, the Irish thrall. Merewyn sighed relief, and went to the loom room, where she straightened out Brigid's clumsy weaving. She entered the Hall, and turned the spitted hindquarter of a lamb which was roasting over the fire. She snifi^ed the aroma happily. Fresh meat for a change, but she'd have to smoke the forequarters for the journey to the Althing. And it was such a skinny lamb, the only one Sigurd had dared to spare from the flock. Still, thought Merewyn, determined to be hopeful, the sheep will soon fatten up in the summer pastures, and Sigurd did well at fishing. They had a surplus of drying codfish, enough to sell to the dalesmen, or barter for hay. Even for linen to make me a new headdress, she thought.
She picked up Orm and carried him outside, settling herself on the bench with her wool and spindle. Spinning and weaving at least I do well. She glanced down the road to Borg where Asgerd had vanished earher, then put her spindle down in
astonishment. There were two men on horseback coming towards Langarfoss.
"Blessed St. Mary, not guests!" she murmured, at once concerned about the amount of lamb she was roasting. Would it stretch?
She squinted hard and still did not recognize the men. One was bearded and dressed like an Icelander. The other was not, though there seemed something familiar about the tilt of his head and the way he wore his mantle fastened on the left shoulder. The shaggy mounts were certainly Icelandic.
As they drew near, the one who had no beard waved his arm. She returned a decorous salute and walked down the homestead path to make the proper greetings. Orm trotted behind her.
At the gate, both men dismounted and the beardless one hurried towards her. "Merewyn —" he said in a choked voice. "Oh, Merewyn — my dear."
She stood rooted, her hand on the gate, staring at the dark, thin face, its eyes on a level with hers. Her spine prickled. A ghost! Or a troll playing tricks. They did that. Asgerd said so. Could change themselves into any shape they wished to. She whirled around and snatched up Orm, held him tight against her while backing off. She made the sign of the pross.
"No, dear —" said Rumon smiling sadly. "It is really I. We came as quickly as we could, or I would have warned you."
"You came as quickly as you could —" she repeated in a daze, no welcome in her sea-green eyes which had darkened with fear. She stepped farther back, still clutching Orm, who began to whimper.
"May I come in?" asked Rumon gently. "I and my friend, Jorund Helgison, we have traveled a long w
ay together."
Merewyn did not move, but her heart thumped. She saw the glint of the gold crucifix at his neck, she recognized the long-forgotten Enghsh voice, and its aristocratic intonation — the inflection she had once tried so hard to copy when he first taught
her English. "Enter," she said very low. She put Orm down. He quieted, gaping at the strangers.
She led the two men silently back to her house. On the threshold, she turned. Hospitality demanded that she take them in to the Hall, fetch a washbasin and rag for cleansing, food and ale, but she could not speak the necessary invitation. Her tongue had gone dry in her mouth, and she could make it say nothing but a thick questioning sound.
Rumon drew a sharp breath. He had expected to astonish her mightily, but he had also expected to see more than dismay in her eyes once she knew him. "Yes," he said. "It's been a long time since we saw each other last on the Tor at Glastonbury, and I've been searching for you ever since."
"I do not beheve that," she said flatly. Her arms stretched out across the door as though to guard her home. A cloud drifted by, and the clear sunlight fell on her. She had defiant beauty as she stood there; the tips of her long auburn braids were tucked under her girdle from which dangled a bunch of keys, her freckles were almost gone, her whole body was thinner and seemed taller than it used to, while her mouth — which he had so angrily kissed while they were on the Tor — had parted to show her perfect rows of teeth, but not in a smile.
Jorund, seeing that matters were not going as they had expected, and that Rumon, with whom he had endured so much danger, was at a loss, came forward and said politely, "Merewyn Ketilsdottir — can you not give us welcome? We have come very far and would like to rest our horses. Is it too much to ask?"
Quick red flowed up her neck. She turned to the Icelander, who had a good face and steady blue eyes hke Sigurd's. "To be sure you may. You are welcome at Langarfoss. Sigurd will be glad for company."
"Sigurd?" said Rumon.
"My husband," she answered proudly.
"You are not then a thrall?" said Jorund who understood the situation far better than did Rumon.
"Certainly not! My father claimed me as his daughter and heiress at the Thing. Then I married Sigurd in the Borg temple."
Rumon recoiled, staring at her. "Marriage!" he cried. "You call that marriage, Merewyn! You who are Christian, who lived at Romsey Abbey, with your saintly Aunt Merwinna!"
Merewyn's eyes gleamed. She drew herself up even straighten "I am married to Sigurd," she said in a furious voice he had never thought her capable of. "And I suppose you'll say next that he^^ she pointed to little Orm, "is not my true-born son!"
As the two confronted each other, Jorund, who was hungry and more nervous of this outcome than he had been of anything since he had maneuvered the stealing of their ship in that faraway land across the ocean, now intervened. "Whatever you two wish to talk about can wait, I suppose," he said. "When does your husband return?" He looked at Merewyn.
"I don't know," she answered vehemently. "He is searching for a ewe. You shall eat. And I'll find Grim to care for the horses."
She left the two men in the smoky Hall, flew to tell Brigid to attend to the visitors, flew to the field where Grijn was plowing. She gave instructions. And all the time she thought. What is he doing here? What has he been doing all these years? Oh, why am I forced to remember a hfe that is finished?
She came back to the Hall, where Brigid had presented the basin of water, the towel. The men were sitting on the guest bench next the High Seat. Jorund knew the proper place. Mere^vyn brought them each a mug of ale, then said, "The lamb is cooked, I believe. You shall shortly have some."
Rumon cleared his throat, and said quietly, "It is Friday, Merewyn. And that day as I have often told Jorund — who has been baptized a Christian — is the day when we mourn the Crucifixion of Our Lord by fasting. Have you fish, perhaps?"
Merewyn inclined her head. "I'm sorry. I did not think and
Friday, even in English, is named for the Norse goddess Frigg. The way I live now is not yours. Lord Rumon," she said defiantly.
"So it seems," said Rumon, "and that much has happened since I saw you last."
Merewyn silently went to fetch dried codfish. The men ate, then Jorund said, "The lamb smells good, and I'm hungry for meat. Out of gratitude to Rumon's powerful god, I shall take none, yet hope there may be a bite left tomorrow, if your husband will allow us to stay that long."
She murmured something and retired to the women's Cross Bench. There was a long uncomfortable silence. It was broken by the return of Ketil, who was delighted to see guests.
Jorund made discreet explanations, of which Ketil grasped but two things. "Ah!" he cried, gulping down his ale and gnawing at a lamb chop. "I know who you are, Jorund Helgison! I even entertained your father once, when he was up north in Haukadale. I had my own homestead and family there then," he added bitterly. "But never mind that — what is fated must befall — and tell me of your voyages! Did I understand that you went a-viking in the west, to a place nobody knows?"
"No," said Jorund smiling. "It was not quite like that."
"Tell then!" Ketil cried. "Tell me how it was? Did you get much booty? Did you have many battles?"
Jorund looked from Rumon to Mereviyn. Both were utterly still. He said, "Ketil, may your daughter draw near and hear this account? I think it will interest her."
"To be sure! Dottir, come up with me on the High Seat!"
This unusual honor meant that Ketil was in great spirits, and Merewyn did not dare disobey, nor really wanted to. Curiosity was not the least of the emotions she felt. She climbed to the dais and joined her father.
Jorund launched into his narration. He said nothing about the reason that Rumon had become a passenger aboard the Thorgerd, bound for Iceland from Limerick, but he described their captain
— Ari Marson — and their shipload. Then he described the fearful storm which had blown up from the north, and how their steering oar had gone.
"Bad, bad —" said Keril tugging at his beard. "This happened only once to me — you must have angered Aegir — but go on!"
Jorund agreed that Aegir and his nine daughters were indeed angry. That he had made a poem about it.
"You are a skald.?" asked Ketil eagerly. "And can you also tell a saga?"
Jorund modestly answered that he did have talent along these Hnes.
Ketil was entranced. "You will entertain us later, when Sigurd has come home," he cried. "You will stay with us several days, I hope — but in the meantime, what of the voyage!"
Jorund continued. He told of the weeks and weeks they had been blown to the west, of the calms and the fogs and then renewed winds. Of the thirst, hunger, and despair on board. Then he glanced at Rumon, who was staring down at the table. "There were those on the ship who thought our bad luck might arise from this passenger who is a foreigner and a Christian."
"Indeed," said Ketil, with contempt, drawing together his bushy eyebrows. "/ would have thought him bad luck, but then on the Bylgja I would never have had such a passenger in the first place. / was not a trader. But go on!"
Jorund, speaking in the same even voice, said that Rumon had prayed aloud to his god, and that there had been an answer. They had sighted land.
"Land?" said KetH. "What land? Where were you?"
"I don't know," Jorund said. "It is far, far to the west, where we always thought the sea dropped off into Hel."
"And it doesn't?"
Jorund shook his head. "There were rivers and forests and living people there. Skraelings, and also some papas whose fore-
fathers had been Irish. Those had come long before and they called the country Great Ireland."
Ketil looked above his head to his sword, the "Bloodletter," then to the battle-axes. "Did you kill them?" he asked with rehsh.
Rumon clenched his hands, his bowed head fell lower, and Merewyn could not help noticing that he had grown pale. She returned her gaze to the smoky bea
ms across the Hall.
"We only killed the skraeling who was guarding Thorgerd the night we took it back. I think Rumon knows exactly how long that was after our landing. He notched sticks for every day."
"Nearly three years have passed," said Rumon in a thin voice.
Three years of Hving amongst the savages and the half-breed Celtic monks, of abortive secret plans, of searching for their ship, which was hid most cannily when the skraelings were not rowing it on long coastal expeditions. Three years of longing for this woman who sat there so coldly on the High Seat next to her fierce Viking father.
"You were prisoners?" said Ketil, shaking his head in distress.
"Yes, and no." Jorund smiled. "They treated us well, made us part of the tribe, but they knew we couldn't escape without our ship. And the old chief Hoksic never quite trusted us enough to let us near the Thorgerd. Then Hoksic died. During the mourning period their vigilance relaxed, and Rumon here discovered where the ship was hidden eight miles away up a creek. We escaped in her two nights later while the skraelings were having a powwow and the monks were chanting around their Y-shaped chapel in the Place of Stones. Each lot thought we were with the other."
"Ah, what a wondrous thing!" Ketil cried. "I always heard that Ari Marson was a lucky man, and how proud he must feel of making this incredible voyage home at last!"
There was a pause, then Jorund said, "Ari Marson did not come with us, nor did two other members of the crew."
"What?" cried Ketil. "They were dead then?"
Jorund showed embarrassment. This disgraceful explanation for the nonappearance of Ari he had already had to tell several times since the Thorgerd had finally achieved home port at Reykjavik two weeks ago. Even his loving wife Katla after transports of joy — for she had of course believed him lost — had condemned the dishonor of Ari's behavior.
