Forged in Ice (Viking Odyssey)

by Ken Hagan

  Tomorrow Cuin will do his rounds on horseback, taking in Kletturvik, Grisedale, Osvik and Laxvik, visiting guothie Klep at Klepjarns-stead, calling on Leif’s tenants across the water, Blot and Karghyll, even making it up to Hals at Vorgha fell. There is a promise of storytelling and gifts, as much on the board as every guest can eat and drink. I am sure the old uncle will gladly drink his share of the grog when he visits neighbouring farms.

  Sigi has been bragging about his exploits last winter when the ice sports were in full swing at Grisedale tarn, most of his stories too good to be true — dare-devil feats of skating and cleverly worked touchdowns at knatt-ball. If you are to believe young Leifson, no one can beat him over the ice. The lad’s boasting wears thin, even for his sisters.

  Bera whispers to me while her brother is out of hearing. ‘What does it matter, Kregin? Tall stories, I know. We have heard it all before. But at least Sigi is over the worst, thanks to mother Hethrun. It is great to hear him yarn like his old self.’

  ‘I have had an idea,’ says Bera to greet Sigi back in the hall. Her brother gives the shithouse door a hefty slam and settles on the bench. ‘Why don’t you and Kregin play a game of hneff?’

  ‘A great idea,’ agrees Haldis.

  I have to interrupt. ‘I am sorry Bera. I don’t know any board games.’

  ‘You will soon pick it up,’ returns Sigi with a smile. ‘Any dumb mutton can play at hneff. The rules are simple.’

  ‘I have never tried.’

  ‘Nothing is easier,’ answers Sigi. ‘All you do is move war pieces, square by square, on the board. The idea is to destroy the other man’s warriors. It is a fight to the end. The first player to kill off the other man’s king wins the game.’

  ‘Shall I fetch the chequerboard?’ asks Bera. ‘Where is the box?’

  ‘I put away the pieces,’ says Haldis. ‘No one has played while Sigi was ill.’ She opens a bench under her feet and pulls out a box of ‘dice and men.’

  Sigi sits on the hearthside, in best sight of the board. We place opposing pieces on the squares, black versus white; two warrior sets, carved in soapstone, thumb-sized images of jarls, shield-maidens, horsemen, dwarves, killer-hound, serpent and dragon.

  Sigi explains how each strike is made at the throw of the dice; where creatures may move on the board, and by how many spaces; which warriors are weak and expendable, and which are strong or dangerous; and, most powerful of all, winged horsemen who guard the king, too vital to lose.

  No sooner have I grasped the game than Sigi wades into my army hammer and tongs, boldly moving his men that wield axe, arrow and spear. He is carried away by the thrill of battle, as if this fighting on the board was for real, a blood war of hneff and magic. Before long, he sweeps my horsemen aside and has taken my king, ‘wiped me off the face of the earth’ — his words for winning the game.

  Flushed with victory on the board, he can’t wait to line up for another battle of hneff. ‘Come,’ says he, ‘let’s see if you can put up a better fight this time.’

  ‘But Sigi,’ I complain, ‘that’s cheating. You didn’t tell me that move was in the rules.’

  ‘What is your complaint?’ he replies, stealing a glance at Bera.

  ‘Sigi,’ his sister intervenes. ‘You threw only a single four on the dice, but you moved your axe-dwarf nine paces forward. That’s not fair, take it back.’

  Haldis joins in. ‘If the dwarf goes back five, which he should do, Kregin has a chance to nab him. From that square, Sigi, he can put you out of the game.’

  ‘I was not cheating,’ Sigi insists brazenly. ‘My dwarf can go forward by magic-nine. I can use the “magic-nine rule” if the dwarf is in trouble — and that’s what I did.’

  That smart remark gets me riled. ‘What in hell’s teeth is magic-nine? You told me nothing about that.’

  ‘A dwarf can change shape, disappear, re-appear — that’s part of the rules.’

  ‘True, Sigi,’ says Bera, ‘but not after throwing a four, a double-dice is needed for shape-changing, and you must have a shield-maiden protecting the square beside.’

  ‘I am rumbled,’ Sigi replies sheepishly and he moves the dwarf back to where it should have been. ‘Sorry, Kregin.’ He breaks into a laugh. ‘I might have got away with it — that’s hneff for you — all’s fair in love and war.’

  *

  Haldis has been cleaning the hall since daybreak, upturning benches and tables, sweeping ash off the hearth, pulling cobwebs from the rafters, raising a cloud of dust at the gable-door, chasing it under her broom and out into the morning sunshine.

  She is brisk on her feet — no walking-cane today — sweeping the dust in front of her, switching it through the doorway. Leif stoops under the gable and steps inside, dodging the dust and her hefty brushstrokes, no let up from her while he passes.

  The guothie and I have been in the sheepfold with the birthing ewes, waiting for signs of lambing. I follow Leif and his older daughter into the hall.

  ‘Olaf’s wool rent is due.’ She calls after him. ‘Not much, twenty ells of spun yarn and three pelts of raw fleece from the shearings.’

  ‘Why not leave it till after Sigi’s feast?’

  ‘No, Da,’ says Haldis, ‘if we don’t collect when due, Olaf’s wife gets confused. She forgets what she owes. I would go myself but, as you see, I am up to my eyes.’

  I met Olaf yesterday. He is a crofter-man who leases sheep from Leif, his croft less than a morning walk away.

  ‘Let me go to Olaf’s croft.’ This comes from Bera. She gets up from the loom, stretching her arms and neck; ‘I will do the tallies with his wife and collect rent. Kregin can come with me and carry the wool.’

  ‘Where’s your brother?’ asks Leif, ‘isn’t he well enough to go?’

  ‘Sigi was at a loose end,’ replies Bera. ‘He has strolled to the beach. Hethrun is there. She is seeing to the fisher folk.’

  Leif looks less than pleased. ‘If that’s the way of it,’ he says, ‘I will have him working in the byre tomorrow.’

  ‘Truth is, Da,’ says Haldis, ‘I had to chase him from the hall. Now that he is up and about — now that he is back to his old self — I can’t bear him under my feet.’

  Chapter 16

  Osvellir, hall and steading, has been my home these past two years, and Leif Njelson, guothie of Osvellir, my adoptive father. Now that I know him, know him as a son begins to know a father, I can say in all justice that he is a man above men, strong and kind to his family, and a true man of the law.

  Of course, I owe my good fortune to Hethrun. If it weren’t for her, I doubt if the guothie would have given me a second thought. I recall her parting words at the time, shouted at me in an off-handed way from Cuin’s boat, holding Ikki for dear life, while I pushed her and her precious cat off on the water — with old Uncle sitting laughing at the oars.

  ‘It is a fair price,’ she yelled, ‘for getting young Sigi back on his feet.’

  Hethrun made it seem straightforward — a matter of business between her and Leif. I’m not convinced that she didn’t push him into it. And yet the guothie is no push-over. He is too well-versed in the law, too distrustful of her kind, to be deceived by underhand tricks. But I know her kerling ways. She will have played on his feelings as a father, making it hard for him to refuse.

  Leif, being not only a man of the law but also a man of the forge, would have weighed things in the balance, measured earth and ore, as it were, into the furnace, before deciding if it was in his interests to agree. Besides, no man can put a price on his son’s life.

  To give Leif his due, whatever made him take me as a fosterling, once the decision was made, he was as good as his word, the adoption arranged within days, Pils and Djup present as witnesses of law. I couldn’t wish for more. As a son, I am accepted unconditionally. I have two fine sisters who care for me, the best of brothers in Sigi, and good old Cuin to call on when I need advice.

  I am part of a household that wants for nothing. By any measure of
wealth — land or rent, horse or sheep, wool-weave or dairy, barn-stock or byre — our farms prosper. There is no meanness. Hall and steading are run for the comfort of all, be it family, tenant or slave.

  When Father does smithy work at the forge, he chars wood to charcoal, setting aside the pitchy resin to cool. He builds a furnace, fans the flame to white heat, broils bog-ore to a lumpy bloom, and drains off the slag. On each hammered blade or tool wrought at the anvil he leaves the runes of his name, an enduring mark of ownership, a proof of his skill in iron-working. Likewise the farms. He has stamped his craft, his thoroughness on the life of the steading, everything is just as he wishes. But I have learned that Haldis is the one who makes it happen. For day-to-day routines, our sister takes control — not Father, and certainly not Sigi.

  Make no mistake, neither will shirk a day’s toil in copse or fold, or slouch behind a plough; or flinch at the prospect of a sleepless month come lambing-tide, or shrink from making hay, night after night, under a mid-summer moon. But when it comes to it, they are content to let Haldis count up the rents and wool, and tell them which milkers to cull come slaughter-month. No one disputes with her over matters of barn or hearth, table or board. With Leif a widower, his eldest daughter has taken charge of the hall.

  Father’s commitments with ‘the law’ means he is often away, more so at this time of year. Before summer hustings, he is out most days on business, pursuing a claim on behalf of tenants, doing law work for all and sundry.

  Nor does he avoid making house calls, up-fell, down dale, staying overnight with the likes of Pils in Grisedale or Hals at Vorgha fell. He will pay a visit to anyone who asks his advice, whether or not they can afford to pay. It is his way to chase up favours and give them in return.

  This year at hustings, Sigi and I will be with Father in the law-field. We are of age, two brothers together, having reached sixteen summers. It’s time for us to stand with the men and shout when the speaker-man calls a vote.

  Every dispute within a two-day riding of Laxvik is heard at the law-field, witnesses examined, victims spoken to, the same for hustings anywhere, but at Laxvik much of Father’s law work is done beforehand. Nine times out of ten he knows the outcome of a case before it comes to a shout.

  That won’t be true of the beached whale. No one, not even Father, knows how that law-suit will fall. The other day I heard gossip from Olaf — the crofter-man is one for passing on tales — that it might go Blot’s way. Not if we can help it is what I replied, but I am well aware that Father will need every vote he can muster — ours included — to get a verdict for Karghyll. Just think of it. Sigi’s vote and mine will be counted with the likes of Pils and Djup!

  Of course, with Klepjarn involved, the case has to be handled sensitively. Father wants to win, but he can’t afford to rock the boat. Everyone from Klettur Os to Laxvik knows why. Father hasn’t given up on old man Klep choosing Sigi and me as a match for his daughters. The sisters would make decent brides. Grima, the younger, is too bony for my liking, but our sister Haldis says she will fill out ‘bottom and top’, after she’s married.

  Father wants to ‘see his boys settled’, but there’s more to it than that. Klepjarn has no sons to leave land and stock to. Once the old man passes away, the girls, and their husbands, will share everything between them.

  *

  At least once a month in summer, or when Haldis can manage without me, I borrow Cuin’s boat to cross the estuary, and spend a day or two with Hethrun at the lodge in Suthyre. I do odd jobs for her, catch up with news, and hear of her aches and pains.

  In the early days, when I was first fostered, I called on Hethrun every week, fetching gifts of bone-beads or tallow from Osvellir, but she wasn’t having that. She said I didn’t need to go out of my way to please. Nowadays, the most that she will take from me is a bunch of grisly moss pulled from the rocks at Grisedale tarn.

  ‘Are you sure you can spare the time?’ asks Hethrun tartly, when I show up at the lodge gate. ‘Don’t give Ogg a hug! Don’t smother him, Thor save us from your coddling. It’s your fault, Kregin; the goat is soft as a lamb.’ Then, in a softer voice, ‘Come in, have your day-meal, sit and talk to me. Karghyll’s wife sent a parcel of whale-meat, and the pickled parsnips are ripe for eating.’ We both grin over the table at the mention of Karghyll’s whale.

  . ‘That beached whale of Karghyll’s has given Father no end of bother; the case will go to a shout next week at the hustings. It is touch and go who wins.’

  ‘Last thing I heard, the guothie had knocked their heads together. He wouldn’t let his tenants go to law.’

  ‘He had, but Blot won’t let it rest. Blot has ignored our advice and gone to Klepjarn, so now it seems all Laxvik will shout against Karghyll in the law-field.’

  ‘A poor show if Karghyll loses,’ says Hethrun, as she spoons the blubber stew. I nod and sup while she rattles on. ‘Viggi Karghyllson found the whale and claimed it on the spot: finders’ keepers, losers’ weepers. Skogurdale booty, plain and simple, that should be an end to it.’

  ‘But Hethrun, Blot swears that the whale first came aground on his side of the river, and Viggi moved it. He says it should belong to Laugdale.’

  ‘Serve Blot right if he ends up with nothing. Karghyll offered him half — I know that for a fact — but the greedy blighter refused.’

  ‘Now with Klep behind him, Blot has moved for compensation and he wants a stiff penalty slapped on Viggi for moving the whale.’

  ‘Your father is too clever for guothie Klep. He will win the case.’

  ‘Speeches alone won’t do it. Father says when a vote is this close in the law-field, it is all down to favours — how much is owed by what neighbour and to whom.’

  ‘Who would want Blot for a neighbour? So much for ties of blood and kin. Does it mean nothing to him that Karghyll’s son has fathered his daughter’s bairns?’

  Chapter 17

  ‘Please, Da.’ says Bera, getting up from the loom, ‘don’t think me ungrateful.’

  ‘Why, pet?’ says Father softly.

  ‘I know that you have my interests at heart. I am sorry, Da, but I am not keen on going. Why should I be gawped at as a hopeful bride, among all the rest, when that is the last thing I want? What’s the point of me going to Laxvik? I’m not looking for a husband, I’m happy as I am at Osvellir.’

  A tear runs down Father’s blackened cheek. Beard and hands are black from the forge, his long leather apron soiled. If he weren’t reeking of smithy grime and sweat, he would have hugged Bera, there and then, and snuggled her head like a little girl.

  Her answer couldn’t be more than he would wish. He is ready to see Sigi married off, and match me up with that ‘Grima girl’, but he doesn’t want to ‘lose’ his daughters. He wouldn’t stand in their way — if any man with prospects took a shine to them — but he would rather have his girls stay at home.

  ‘I won’t force you, lass,’ says Father. ‘Maybe next summer you will walk out at hustings, and do us proud.’

  Sigi breaks into a laugh. ‘Why not go, Bera? Give the men a chance. You never know your luck.’

  ‘There is not one I’d leave home for,’ returns Bera sharply.

  ‘There will be new lads this year — ones you have not seen before — strangers from the north, ice-heads from Long-fiord. They are coming to show off their horses and fight in the wrestling.’

  ‘No need to coax her, lad,’ says Cuin. ‘Your sister will know when she’s good and ready.’

  ‘Why do we need to change?’ replies Bera, ‘things are just as we want them, Haldis in the dairy, me at the loom. Who will do our wool-weave if I’m not here?’

  Without waiting for answer, she trundles a finished bolt of wool over the floor to the back of the hall, and heaves it on the pile with the rest of our stock.

  *

  Tomorrow sees the hustings begin at Laxvik and from the yard Father has shouted time to go. It is pelting down, splashing to near shoulder-high in puddles. Haldis hobbl
es back inside and shelters from the rain. Bera pulls a shawl to her head, runs as far as the yard-end to see us off. A wet and muddy day, but rain doesn’t dampen our spirits. Sigi has chosen to ride the skewbald, while I have the young sorrel. Father is on lead horse, a bay, and Cuin at his flank. We climb into misty skies to join the bridleway to Osvik, hounds running ahead, pack-horses, servants trailing behind.

  Our three sumpter-horses are laden with canvas, ridge-poles and staves. Once we have found a space on Laxvik common, we will put up three tilts — a tent to sleep in, a shelter to store our victuals (and guard the grog), and the third, an open booth to receive Father’s guests. The ‘law-booth’ is a fancy affair with an awning. The cover is made of old sail canvas. It is so heavy that it needs stout staves and ridge-poles for support.

  This morning, at the last moment, skins from last winter’s seal hunt on the ice were added to the horses’ loads. Father plans to dish them out as gifts, pelts, trimmed and scraped, to buy goodwill and votes in the law-field.

  Our sumpters have been put in Olaf’s charge. The crofter-man will be our servant at hustings, a fortnight’s paid work for him, or more if Father’s law cases overrun. The sumpter work — and the vital task of serving in the booth — could have been given to any of our freed slaves. Ulph the shepherd is a better horseman, and Snorri, Father’s right-hand man at the forge, makes a better pot-server, but Olaf is our tenant; he’s a family man and in debt. Paid hustings work will help him clear some of what he owes.

  We are taking five farm hands to carry ale-bags and victuals. It might have been more, but Haldis put her foot down. ‘Five is enough. I won’t let you have any more.’ She kept saying it, over and, until Father had to give in. This is the month of “three milkings a day”. It takes three men on horses, working in relays, to bring our fresh milk from summer pastures. If she doesn’t have at least three on it, says Haldis, our dairy girls will fall behind in cheese-making, in churning and filling vats with whey.