Forged in Ice (Viking Odyssey)

by Ken Hagan

  Father would have taken every man of ours to Laxvik. He believes in showing off what he owns. The more men, the more hounds and horses, he brings to hustings, the happier he will be. Not because he is proud — I dare say he is — but because it pays to swank in the law-field. It pays to make a bold display of power and wealth. A law-man’s power and wealth help him to gain clients. The more claimants he takes on, the more can be skimmed from settlements handed down by the courts.

  I’m not sure how much Olaf knew about Sigi making free with his daughter but, whether he knew or not, it’s a thing of the past. Knara is off her father’s hands now, living over the water in Skogurdale, and married to Viggi Karghyllson.

  As for Sigi, while his love-game lasted, it meant no more than a bit of harmless fun to be pulling up the girl’s skirts and giving her a taste of his pleasure. I don’t know how he managed it in the short moments while her ma’s back was turned.

  Sigi is not one to spare details. From what he has told me, Knara Olafs-daughter is a girl willing to please. She didn’t mind a young man like Sigi finding his way about her. If I was to believe my brother, none of her secret treasures was left undiscovered, before she was bustled off by the crofter-man to be married. I have not said a word to Sigi about Idris Blot-daughter — that episode is best forgotten.

  Olaf is rough with the horses, not in a blatant way, more through lack of forethought. Any fool can see he has got it wrong, the way he has loaded tent poles and staves, and the sail-canvas. He hadn’t sense enough to spread the weight equally over the mares.

  Another cloudburst passes over the fell. Peaty water rushes down the moorland. Flooding from Grisedale bog makes the bridleway slippery. It’s a difficult trek at best of times for these half-wild, unshod horses, but we have had to stop twice by the wayside to re-arrange Olaf’s loads, a hellish nuisance and slowing us down. The hounds are restless, our load-bearers standing around, five of them, cooling their heels, their heads steaming in the rain. If we don’t make it to Osvik ford by noon, as we had hoped, Father won’t be pleased.

  ‘Ulph,’ shouts Father urgently, ‘drop your load. Give Olaf a hand with that mare. The rope is chafing her flanks. No wonder the old girl is complaining.’

  ‘This mud has slowed us down,’ says Olaf. ‘Maybe we need another horse.’

  ‘If we are running behind,’ says Father in a quieter voice, ‘it was my mistake. I should have insisted with Haldis and brought another mare.’

  ‘See how they are weighed down, master,’ complains Olaf, seeing the chance to press his point. ‘When we get to Osvik, why not ask steadman Finn if we can borrow a horse?’

  ‘We will hire, if need be, or buy outright.’ replies Father. ‘I don’t want Finn spreading word I borrowed a horse.’

  ‘Finn-buna won’t be at home,’ says Cuin. ‘He will have left for the hustings. And his wife, if she is there, won’t deal horses for him, be it to borrow, rent or sell.’

  ‘Then we do without,’ says Father.

  ‘What if we share the weight,’ suggests Uncle. ‘With four of us on horseback, it won’t hurt to take a dozen sealskins each?’

  ‘No, Uncle,’ says Sigi, his face flustered and angry. ‘That’s not the answer.’ With that, my brother is off his skewbald, tossing saddle-cloth to the ground. ‘Staves and ridge-poles are in a mess,’ says he, ‘that’s what’s wrong. Let me sort it out! We will transfer the three ridge-poles to my horse, I don’t mind going on foot. Can you carry my pouches, Kregin? The sorrel can bear the weight. A little more won’t hurt!’

  ‘He can do it,’ I reply. ‘But you and I can take turns to ride.’

  ‘Do it, and be quick,’ says Father, with a nod to Olaf.

  Our men drop their loads and get busy unstrapping the staves. The hounds yelping, sniffing and running at our heels; making a nuisance. They must think we have chosen this damp ground to make camp. Uncle whistles off the dogs. He and Father ride on, leaving us to re-arrange the loads. Olaf begrudges our help. He is sore and sullen at being shown up, and not well pleased at Sigi’s interference.

  *

  Finn’s steading is deserted, the rooftop cheerless without smoke, gable door closed. The sow has broken loose, sow and weaners roaming free in a burned-out coppice by the house, rooting under blackened junipers. If the steadman or his family were here, they would have chased their swine back into the pen.

  Finn’s wife and daughters must be up-fell at the milkings, having taken horses to carry the milk. Finn and his stepson Lar will have crossed by ferry to Laxvik, or set out on horseback by the shore.

  ‘Where else would they be?’ asks Uncle, ‘the paddock is empty.’

  ‘I’m glad Finn is not here,’ says Father. ‘We don’t have to beg a horse.’

  *

  We cross at the higher ford — the lower crossing at Osvik was too swollen by rainwater for our baggage-men to chance it on foot. The river flows in torrents from the tarn. In winter, the river hardens at the falls to form walls of ice. You can follow its icy course to Grisedale and reach the tarn. We did the trek in snow-shoes last year, Sigi and I, with Finn’s stepson, Lar. We spent a week skating on the tarn, playing knatt with lads from Grisedale. Once the daylight faded in the early afternoon, we lit fires in a cave and filled our bellies with salt-beef and grog.

  By the stony passes above Grisedale in summer, you can ride under the snow-peaks as far as Long-fiord, skirting the glacier. After six days on the high fells, it is a gentle descent to the haven where kaupships arrive from the east to buy wool. Three years back, Sigi did a wool-ride with Uncle to trade with easterlings. On the passes they saw white foxes roaming the scree, dog-foxes hunting in pairs and vixens with their cubs.

  Sigi — trust him to have an easy ride —is dry from the boots up, having crossed on the sorrel. I am soaked through, wet to the skin, thanks to his shoving me in the swollen river — only a bit of brotherly fun. I stumbled in a second time, laughing, the muddy water flowing ice-cold over my head. Olaf swam to pull me out.

  Once we five are safely over, and after the four laden horses are pulled up the bank, our baggage-men wade the ford, arms aloft to keep ale-bags and victuals dry, hounds barking, swimming at their shoulders, yelping at the swaying loads, as if, to the mind of a dog, men’s bundles ought not to be in the air but grounded to earth, or better still, laid snug where they should be, pressing on men’s necks. On Father’s say-so, even though we are late, sumpters and men are given time to rest before a final leg to Laxvik.

  Birch woods on this side of the river belong to Finn. He has felling rights along the shore as far as the salmon-river. His timber is cut for trade — most of it goes to Klep. Beyond Osvik, Finn’s woodlands are reduced to a waste land of tree-stumps and leaf-mould, axe chippings and sawdust. Through the clearings, we have a clear view to the south shore of the estuary, a haze of smoke from scores of camp fires. Over there, under layers of spreading smoke, along the shore, Laxvik common is massed with tents and tilts of every shape and hue, a great tented gathering of men who have come for trade and sport and law from within two days riding.

  Clouds of sanderlings swoop skywards over the estuary, dense gatherings on the wing, riding the wind, flying east, flying west; circling dizzily in flight, impatient to land. On the sand-flats, at the water’s edge, birds wade and swarm, snatching precious territories to feed.

  As the crow flies, it’s not far by ferry over the Os to Laxvik. Being past noon, the ferryman has sailed home to ferry-point on south shore; no sight of his boat on the water. We leave Sigi, his turn at last on foot. He will wait with our men for the ferry’s return. Father with Uncle, Olaf and me, we keep horse and hound. We will follow the coastal path that takes us across the water at salmon-river. Father and Uncle ride ahead with the hounds.

  Sigi has lit a ‘smoky fire’ to be seen across the Os. He has dowsed the flame with damp kindling to summon the ferry from Laxvik. With luck, he and the pack-men will be on the other side of the water before we arrive.

&nbs
p; Olaf moves at a snail’s pace with sumpters and piebald — too slow for me. I make up my mind to hurry past at a fair tolt, to let the breeze at my hair and beard. With the heat of the sorrel under me, I will soon have my breeches dry. I let Srelni have his head. He has earned the name of Srelni because, once let free of the bridle, he runs off in a flash. All of a sudden, the crofter-man swerves in front of me, his laden horses blocking my path. I am forced to pull up short. ‘I saw how he treated you back there,’ says Olaf, ‘why do you put up with it?’

  ‘Who, what do you mean?’

  ‘Sigi Leifson, the young master,’ replies the crofter-man. ‘His father spoils him. The lad does what he pleases. He gets away with murder!’

  ‘Hold your tongue. Don’t speak out of turn.’

  ‘He gets to wait for the ferry,’ returns Olaf, ‘while we have to bust a gut.’

  ‘Someone has to stay with the ale-bags and victuals, and pay the ferryman.’

  ‘He pushed you in the water at the ford,’ says Olaf. ‘I saw what he did.’

  ‘You have it wrong,’ is my reply. ‘That was just horsing around.’

  ‘Your breeches are wet to the skin, aren’t they?’

  ‘It doesn’t bother me, Olaf, so are yours. I am grateful that you fished me out.’

  ‘Sigi will never accept you as brother. You are a thorn in his flesh.’

  ‘Now you have gone too far!’ I brush past, almost knocking him to ground and strap the horse’s flank.

  Olaf calls after me, as I ride through the woods, his yell too loud for my liking. ‘Young men like Sigi are not to be trusted. You will see. One day he will land you in trouble.’

  Chapter 18

  On our first morning at hustings we waken to the sound of calling birds, hordes of sanderlings on Laxvik marshes. Hounds nearby bark in relays to signal their new territories in camp. Inside the tent, a hum from horse-flies circling above our ears. The day is warm. A biting stench of sea-mud and salt blows inland from the marshes, and a taste of last night’s rain lingers on the dunes. The damp smells cling to the camp, where the air is heavy with smoke from our wood-fires and the earthy effluents of horse and hound.

  Thanks to Karghyll, our sleeping-quarters and our shelter for stores are in a prime spot, only a stone’s throw from the law-field. We have Father’s law-booth pitched out in front for all to see. Karghyll and Viggi came yesterday from Skogurdale. They squatted on our space and chased all-comers till we arrived.

  Yesterday’s feast lasted into the night. Only a few of the revellers have surfaced as yet, apart from servants or slaves tending fires, and gangs of boys snatching a secret run with their fathers’ horses. Karghyll is the exception, we heard him early in the neighbouring tent. He was up with the sanderlings, fresh as a fish — as Viggi admiringly said of his father — considering the amount of drink that he had taken.

  The big man from Skogurdale loses no time inviting us to a day-meal of pickled whalemeat and barley ale. We sit with him and Viggi under their rough grey covers. Father and son have long faces. They know their right to the whale is under threat, now that Blot has won Klep’s support in the dispute against them. Karghyll is at a loss to see how the case can be won.

  ‘Only a month back,’ he begins, ‘it looked a certainty we would see off Blot’s claim. But now it has gone bad on us.’

  ‘Blot needs taking down a peg or two,’ says Cuin, ‘and guothie Leif is the man to do it.’ Karghyll receives one of Uncle’s slaps on the back and Viggi gets an encouraging wink.

  Father nods in agreement. ‘I have never seen a man so full of vanity.’

  ‘Blot is a pain in the neck,’ says Karghyll. ‘See how he swanks and swaggers. He has been like that since Klep took on the claim. He thinks the case is won already.’

  Father chews a mouthful of pickle before he replies. ‘I don’t know what Klep has been saying to make his man so cocky, but for me — by law — things are clear-cut.’

  Sigi chips in. ‘We are going to win, aren’t we, Father?’

  ‘Nothing is certain, son, but — if precedent counts for law — we should win the day. A man has right of salvage to what he finds on the sea-shore. It is a rule of common sense: first to find, first to own. Young Viggi here found the beached whale. It doesn’t matter where he found it — Suthyre or not — he claimed the carcase. That makes it his and his father’s.’

  ‘And who can argue with that?’ says Cuin.

  ‘The thing is, guothie Leif,’ counters Karghyll, ‘Blot has whipped up a storm. He has people to back him from all over, and his fight is as much against you as it is me. Tell them, Viggi, tell them what you heard yesterday.’

  ‘Hals and the hill men of Vorgha fell,’ says Viggi, ‘they’re the latest to turn on us. Grith says it’s because Klep has promised them a massive hike on the price of wool.’

  ‘If Klep talks up the price,’ says Father with a shrug, ‘that is fine by me — good for all of us, eh, Karghyll?’

  Karghyll ignores the encouragement. ‘We are likely to lose support from Djup and the Laxdale salmon-fishers. If their shout goes against, we are done for. Blot is threatening damages. How can I pay?’

  ‘We are not beaten yet,’ says Cuin. ‘Pils and the Grisedale men will shout for us. You can count on that.’

  ‘They’ve not turned up yet,’ replies Karghyll. ‘Where is Pils when you need him? Doesn’t he know what’s at stake?’

  ‘He will come,’ says Father. ‘And Finn from Osvik will listen to reason. He is a hard man, but sound as brass on the law. He will put his voice to what is right. And young Lar comes of age this year — same age as my boys — he will follow Finn’s lead.’

  ‘When is the case to be heard,’ asks Cuin, ‘tomorrow, or day after?’

  ‘Depends on how quick we settle a wool price,’ replies Father. ‘Might be tomorrow.’

  ‘If our friends from Grisedale don’t turn up;’ says Cuin, ‘we are in trouble.’

  ‘Why wait for them?’ Father pauses thoughtfully. ‘Blot might be up for a compromise. We should sound him out before your case reaches the law-field.’

  ‘No sell-outs, guothie,’ urges Karghyll strongly. ‘Don’t back off without a fight.’

  ‘Have you ever known me to let a man down in law? Fighting talk is well and good, but at the same time let’s see if we can strike a deal, find middle ground.’

  ‘What about Klep’s daughters, Da?’ asks Sigi, and he turns to me with a grin.

  Cuin wipes whale-grease from his beard. ‘Those girls have to marry sooner or later. Thor help them! It might as well be you.’

  ‘Maybe now would be an opportunity to use it,’ says Father.

  ‘That’s not all we have,’ says Uncle. ‘You have something else up your sleeve.’

  ‘Blot still owes me for the hay we sent to Laugdale after the ash rains. The debt has been troubling him. I am ready to call it quits. He has only to ask, man to man.’

  ‘Isn’t that what I was saying?’ returns Karghyll. ‘The claim against me and his coddling with Klep, it has all been done, guothie, to get back at you.’

  *

  The open space by the moot-stone is where the fallow-dale race will begin. The sandy gap between standing stone and shore goes by the name of Thor’s gate. Dale-runners stretch limbs and limber up to heat their bodies. They are red-faced, itching to be off, bantering about how agile they are, but it is all hot air — many of them won’t get to finish the course. Their bodies dead as brass from two nights of hitting the grog.

  The lads from Vorgha fell are up for it. Everyone knows they have been sticking to ale. It is better for ‘running men’. Wiry and fell-wise, herding in all weathers out on the heath, they are used to chasing wild after their fathers’ sheep. It is a certainty they will do as last year and send one of their men out in front to set a hot pace. The idea is to run others into the ground. Once their front man has made it to the falls, he will drop out and leave another Vorgha man — with a fresh pair of legs — to race for the fi
nish. In that way they hope to beat ‘tiring’ runners like Sigi on the sprint.

  I can’t see Sigi being beaten. My brother is a strong swimmer and he runs like the wind. The hill-run to fallow falls — he will take it in his stride. The thrashing swim under the falls — through ice-cold water — may be daunting to others, but not for him. As for the steep descent by the dale and the final sprint to Laxvik common, for him it is a dawdle. Sigi is wise to the tactics of the Vorgha lads. If one of them pushes ahead, he won’t hurry his pace. He will bide his time and wait for his chance to make a burst of speed.

  ‘Forget everyone else around you,’ is what Father always tells us. ‘Keep your mind on your own race.’

  ‘You will be at the falls when I start the sprint?’ Sigi asks a third time, as he strips down to his breeches — he plans to run barefoot all the way.

  I take his boots and serk, tie them in a bundle. ‘Wild boars won’t stop me,’ is my reply, ‘I will be there. Be sure you are first across! I don’t want to see another face in the water before yours.

  ‘Where is Uncle?’ Sigi’s face — cheerful since my arrival — turns to a frown of disappointment. ‘I thought he might come to see me off. And Da promised too.’

  ‘They are in with Klepjarn. By the time you have won the race, they will have you married off to Grima! She is the one you really want’

  ‘No, not her,’ he laughs, ‘I shall have Gudrun or nothing. Grima is yours, she is too skinny for me.’

  *

  Srelni, like any young stallion, loves to open his lungs, and run without a rider. I have asked Olaf to run the sorrel to fallow-river and back. It will warm the horse’s flanks before I take him for a lively tolt up the dale. But right now, I have other things in mind. I am in no hurry to get to the falls. Wrestling is what I am after. I want to up my chances for the ‘all-comers’ tomorrow.