Forged in Ice (Viking Odyssey)

by Ken Hagan

  A shrill voice, a child’s, calls down from the pike. ‘I will get you, stranger-man. I will nail you if you come closer.’

  On the rock above, outlined against sky, is the small figure of a boy. He has taken a warrior stance side-on — one foot forward, one back — poised to hurl another stone.

  ‘I’d better stop where I am,’ I shout in return — to play along with the boy’s game. ‘But tell me, nipper, who put you as guard of this place?’

  ‘I’m no nipper,’ he yells proudly. ‘I am Einar’s son. My name is Hvard Einarson!’

  Chapter 20

  The croft is earthen-walled, small and neat, bare but for rude essentials of life, one old beaten pot, a low fire smoking flameless in the hearth. The only furnishings are four sleeping boards on trestles, pushed against the wall by day to serve as benching. No other space or storeroom but the single narrow hall. Through the opened door, daylight does nothing to cheer the place, merely showing how little they own.

  Ma has given over weeping. Her tears, she said, were of joy at seeing me and of pain from hearing what she had feared for Cormac. She sits at my feet in the paltry living space, prayer beads unattended on her lap. A pumice stone, rubbed and worn, shaped like the crossed-hammers of Thor — for Ma, it signifies a holy saint — lies discarded on the floor.

  Ma clutches my ankle, as if never to let me out her sight. She is much thinner now, her brow more wrinkled than I remember, but the voice has lost none of its soft lilt. Her hair has the warm glint of red sand that Da loved when he kissed her and called her Audeen.

  She looks at me with dark eyes, staring a little, listening intently, taking it all in; hearing how the bodies of my sisters and brother were buried in the sands at Suthyre; how Hethrun claimed her reward from Leif Njelson for nursing his son back to health; how my coming to Osvellir was down to the old woman’s scheming and kindness.

  Hvard, to his delight, has found an uncle, one that he had been told was drowned at sea. He sits on my knee, fingering the hornlet around my neck.

  ‘That charm saved our Kregin’s skin,’ says Ma.

  ‘What is under the wax, Nana, how does it work?’

  ‘Ask your uncle, he will explain,’ replies Ma, closing her eyes to secretly relish a memory or ban it from her thoughts.

  ‘It holds a treasure from the past,’ I whisper in response, ‘something lasting that came from Grandpa. It gave me hope while I was lost and brought me here.’

  For the moment, Hvard seems content with that. His head leans trustingly on my chest. My nephew was won over the moment I put him on Srelni, and said how he looked like his father. The sorrel took an instant shine to the boy — maybe because Hvard has been sitting bolt-upright from his first ride, high and proud, without fear. Poor lad, he has had to learn to be brave, barely weaned off the breast when he lost his mother to fever.

  ‘We lost Jo our second winter at Baerskard,’ says Ma. ‘Einar left the summer after to sail east. Your brother struck up with a merchant at Long-fiord, an easterling who let him work his passage on the ship’s crew.’

  ‘Why did he leave? He had barely settled in. If he was itching to be off, couldn’t he at least have waited till this place was in better shape?’

  ‘Wait for what? The croft couldn’t support two men under one roof. It can barely keep one such as Sepp, much less an able-bodied man. Your brother knew he had to make a life overseas. Things might have been worse for us if he had stayed.’

  Ma has it fixed in her head that Einar’s departure was for their sake — and not for his. She can’t see that he deserted his son, left him without a father. Most likely my brother has returned to his old harrier ways. He deserted them all, left poor Sepp on his own to struggle against the odds.

  ‘You have not heard from him, in four, no, five summers?’

  ‘No,’ says Ma sadly, ‘I pray for his return. I pray for Hvard’s sake, not for mine.’ Hvard plays with the hornlet at my neck, pretending not to hear. Ma squeezes my leg. ‘Strange,’ she says, ‘strange that you didn’t come across Sepp on the way here. He set off early for Long-fiord. He was taking a calf to Asgrim to settle last quarter’s rent.’

  ‘It is a long way to the fiord and back. How does he manage without a horse?’

  ‘We don’t think of that,’ says Ma. ‘You know Sepp. He would never complain.’

  ‘But Nana, Nana,’ says the boy, ‘Uncle Kregin didn’t come by the drove trail.’

  ‘Didn’t come by the drove trail? What other way would he have come?’

  ‘He rode the five passes to get here,’ says Hvard, ‘and crossed by Baerskard pike. That’s where I found you, isn’t it?’

  ‘He is right, Ma, I was going to turn back. I was lost until young Hvard started pelting me with stones.’

  He laughs and starts boxing me in the arms with his boy’s punches.

  *

  My nephew, as proud as Thor, leads Srelni to and fro in what Ma calls the paddock. The paddock is a patch of dead ground fenced-in behind the croft. It once held horses, but is now bereft of livestock — a mouldering mud-hole, where a sow and her litter have rooted up everything under the soil. No sign of sow or litter but one solitary porker, the runt of her offspring, foraging outside the broken fence.

  Hvard is filled-out for his tender years, built the same sturdy shape as his mother. Stocky like Jo from the shoulders down, he reminds me more of Cormac than Einar, but his boyish girth counts for nothing beside the horse’s haunches looming over him. Srelni has a mind of his own. Like most young stallions he is not easy to guide, even by reins. And yet, the sorrel suffers to be led by the boy without bit or snaffle. Boy and horse, trusted and trusting, it’s a marvel how each has found the measure of the other.

  *

  I have just heard again from Ma how Alu perished at sea, how my sister was swept overboard from the skiff, with little Mel in her arms, and how in one short, merciful moment — Ma’s way of putting it — they were sucked under the wave.

  I have been told too how Sepp and Einar manned the skiff; how they rowed, heedless of hunger, heedless of thirst — Bedwyr and Jo making four at the sculls when raging seas on the second night threatened to bite the oars from my brothers’ grip. For two days and nights Ma and Vrekla bailed seawater till their fingers were raw from salt. The skiff, drifting landwards when they had almost lost the will to row, brought them ashore on seal islands, a league or two north of Long-fiord haven.

  Each time Ma tells the story, she elaborates, recalls some lost detail — for her sake as much for mine — not realising that every added word stabs me to the quick. I cannot deny her the right to open her heart, if only she wouldn’t repeat things at length, mull over their trials at sea; recite every last turn of events. It is as though she fears that, unless I see what happened with her eyes, I might lose it from my memory.

  ‘You have to visit Vrekla at Twaindale,’ says Ma. ‘You must make time for her.’

  ‘And Bedwyr too,’ says Hvard, ‘right, Nana?’

  Ma nods to the boy, and turns her face away. ‘In summer we send him away to the coast to earn his keep with the fisher folk.’

  ‘He comes to us for yule,’ says Hvard, ‘and stays till Vali’s day. I love it when Bedwyr is here. He and Sepp tell me stories of the Vigtyr.’

  *

  Another chance for Hvard to practise on horseback: I take him farther; let him ride harder, pulling Srelni from gentle trot to brisk canter. The movement of the sorrel under him has my nephew red-faced with excitement. The boy sits snug on the horse, knees hugging flanks, fists tugging Srelni’s mane, as if he has been riding all his life.

  Hvard holds the mane, no reins; my hand on the rope, the horse pulling me on. Srelni breaks into a tolt, too fast for me, I let go, tossing the rope into the boy’s grip, letting them run; Hvard has taken the rope; he’s riding the sorrel with no help.

  ‘He is all yours, nipper, head up, lean forward, that’s my lad!’

  Riding back to the croft, with Hvard sat behind
, the boy takes his hand from my belt and clasps the pike-end. ‘Is that the harrier’s axe,’ he asks, ‘can I touch?’

  ‘The blade is sharp as hell’s teeth; don’t get cut.’

  ‘Is it the same one that finished Drak?’

  ‘What do you know about Drak?’

  ‘Bedwyr told me, he saw it all.’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to stories.’

  ‘But he saw you,’ insists the boy, ‘he saw you cleave the man’s head off.’

  *

  No mistaking Sepp — broad shoulders, hirpling gait — I’d know that shape anywhere.

  ‘Hola, Sepp!’ Hvard shouts a greeting. ‘Look who’s here. I found my uncle!’

  *

  ‘So, like I tell you,’ says Sepp, downing a second horn of water, ‘Jarl’s people do us proud. We depend on them, don’t we, Ma? Granted, things are far from perfect, but we would never get by without Asgrim’s help.’

  ‘Are you telling me the Jarlsons were not to blame for Drak coming after us?’

  ‘Cormac got it wrong, Kregin, pure and simple. Old man Jarl didn’t sell us out.’

  ‘But Sepp, we were hung out to dry, as good as done for when we left the fiord. We didn’t have a chance. Even Helga’s father had turned against us.’

  ‘What gave you that idea?’

  ‘Why did the Skarson ships run south? Skar held to the coast leaving us to head alone into open sea. He left us in the lurch. If we had safety of numbers, three ships together, Drak wouldn’t have dared to pick on us.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ says Ma simply. ‘No one betrayed your Da or the Vigtyr.

  ‘Jarl knew Drak was up to no good,’ says Sepp. ‘The old man tried to buy him off for all our sakes. Silver changed hands. Promises were made on Drak’s side. The bastard broke his word.’

  *

  ‘With what little we had,’ says Ma, ‘if Vrekla had stayed, we couldn’t have coped. I had to think of the boy, of Sepp and me. Don’t blame me, Kregin. We had to let her go.’

  ‘She’s better off where she is,’ says Sepp. ‘Idgar Skarson is a decent man. His daughter died last winter. His wife Gerta is bed-ridden. He needed a woman to take care of things. Vrekla is fine. He doesn’t burden her or beat her like some men would.’

  ‘A daughter of Idgar’s, dead? You don’t mean Helga?'

  ‘No, the other — the scrawny one, Ynvild. She caught something nasty and died. Young Helga is bright as a new brooch, and soon to marry.’

  *

  I have tried to get out of seeing Vrekla, but Ma isn’t having it. ‘To come all this way and not see your sister, unthinkable.’

  ‘But Ma, how can I? I promised Leif I would be back at Long-fiord.’

  ‘Just show your face, for my sake, Kregin, call in at Twaindale and see her.’

  *

  Hvard has come with me on Srelni. I told Ma that I needed his sharp eyes for directions. We have ridden from Baerskard, leaving the highlands behind at the crack of dawn, taking the dales running north. Sepp says that one of them will lead to the coast, taking us out north of Long-fiord. Twaindale is where we are heading, Twaindale and Idgar’s hall.

  While we are on the jolting ride down-dale, Hvard nods off his boy’s grip during sleep held fast on my belt. I will wait till he wakens before riding down to the shore. From a cliff above the sea — the last before our final descent — my gaze lingers seawards, beyond the sea-harr that hugs the shore. My eyes are fixed on the far offing, on a landless space where sky and ocean meet. The mist lifts. My gaze rests closer to land. A league or two out from shore, an arrow-shaped current separates the waves. Along the ridge of water, I can make out shore-boats — shaped like razor shells. Pulled under oars, they run in pairs, a drag-net between hulls, tracking fish in the glut carried by the current.

  There are fishermen’s huts on the shore below, but no houses, no farm buildings or steadman’s hall. We must have taken a wrong turn. This can’t be the way to Idgar’s hall. The fishing beach is alive with women and children. Gulls circle overhead, their black bills opened into a brisk shore wind, pouncing for scraps of gutted fish; waves breaking at the water’s edge. Amid the cry of gulls — fisherwomen’s chatter, singing, shouting, laughter, chorus of noise and banter as repairs are done to the nets, and as last night’s catch is shared and cleaned, next winter’s stock-fish spiked on frames to dry.

  Two slave hands are caulking an upturned hull, one of the long razor-shell boats. Smell of boiling caulk, of seal oil dripping in the fire, of fish innards on the shingle, of sea air laced with the salt of drying fish. Frames of drooping willow, canted seaward, weighed down by hundreds of codfish splayed head to tail, the cool breeze whistling through opened fish-mouths, through gaping guts and gills.

  Hvard, fresh from sleep, hops down off the horse, runs to the two slaves, shouting for all to hear. ‘Bedwyr, he still has the axe. See, on the horse.’

  *

  ‘I would rather stay at Baerskard, if I could,’ says Bedwyr, as he spreads caulk on the hull. ‘I’m not here by choice, master, but your mother knows best, and this is what she wants for me. I am a hireling, and him too.’ He points a thumb at the other slave. ‘We are hired out for the summer.’

  ‘It’s a hard life up there for Ma and Sepp.’

  ‘No one toils like your brother.’

  ‘If anyone can make a go of it, he can.’

  Bedwyr steals a glance at me; turns away. ‘The grass is poor, summers short, stones and bogs everywhere.’ He pauses, dabs more caulk on the rag. ‘No wonder cows don’t thrive.’

  ‘My brother never admits defeat; he will work till he drops.’

  ‘Work won’t kill him,’ says Bedwyr, looking up, ‘but the debts will.’

  I have sent Hvard along the shore, boy and horse. I have told him to let Srelni splash at the sea edge. The sorrel likes to pace through breakers and afterwards rub himself dry. He will roll like a colt on the shingle.

  I lift a rag to help at rubbing the clinker joins on the upturned boat. If I caulk with Bedwyr and the other slave, they won’t get in trouble with the fishwives. The women are eyeing us up and down. ‘This is no way for a man to live.’ I speak quietly in his ear. ‘You are always under watching eyes. Why not claim your freedom? You have earned it.’

  He gives a sideways glance at his companion. ‘I am better off as I am.’

  ‘No one wants slaves, Bedwyr, not these days. It’s a thing of the past.’

  ‘Master, please!’ He asks dismayed, ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘A steadman who owns cattle will make more from leasing them out.’

  ‘Slaves cost nothing. Why wouldn’t it pay to have us look after a man’s stock?’

  ‘It pays to an extent but it doesn’t give best return. A freeman who takes cows on rent finds better grazing for them. He does it for his benefit and the cows give more milk.’

  ‘Begging pardon, master, but that is not true. How could I get by if I raised stock in Baerskard? No summer grass to speak of — nothing grows ten months of the year.’

  I nod to agree. ‘The land is poor. Even if Sepp stays there, things can only get worse.’

  Bedwyr looks at me with scared eyes. ‘Your brother wants rid of me?’

  ‘Far from it — that’s not what I am getting at — but if you claim your freedom, he will not refuse. In Ma’s eyes you are one of the family. You are a son to her.’

  ‘I’d rather remain a slave.’

  ‘But if you are free, you can go anywhere, do as you want.’

  They both put aside their caulk rags and stare at me. ‘What is there for a freed slave?’ asks the other lad suddenly. ‘Unless a price is settled on him. A man needs stock to get started, otherwise freedom is worthless.’

  ‘He’s right,’ says Bedwyr. ‘I can’t expect Sepp to settle a price on my head. Nothing at the croft is his. Your brother owns nothing. He is a slave to debt. He would need to borrow from Asgrim to buy my freedom, and end up poorer than he is now.’<
br />
  ‘The thing is,’ the other lad whispers. ‘Who will take on the likes of us? ’

  Bedwyr draws close — I barely hear him amid the noise of sea and gulls. ‘The tenant men who lease from Asgrim were slaves in his father’s time — before they were freed.’

  ‘Isn’t that what I said?’

  ‘No, master, listen. When Jarl died, Asgrim settled a price on every slave he inherited from his father. The deal was, once they were freed, they had to rent cattle from him.’

  ‘My foster-father does the same.’

  ‘Sure! It worked for Asgrim, his herd and his rents are growing, it worked for the slaves who were set free. A freeman looks after himself. Nothing is more certain. But will they let in others? — Newcomers like us to share in their good fortune — you can forget it.’

  ‘What about Idgar and his brother Morfin, won’t they take on freed slaves, hire them as stockmen?’

  Bedwyr straightens his back and looks at me. ‘You don’t know yet, master, how things hereabouts are done.’

  Hvard is leading Srelni back up the beach, a stranger with him, a young fisherman dressed in sealskins. The boy looks pleased. ‘I told you, Geir. There he is.’

  ‘I’d know you anywhere,’ says the young man, offering me his hand, open-fisted, a mark of friendship. ‘Well, I might have recognised you — apart from the beard.’ I return open hand to Geir Idgarson. We embrace as friends. Auburn-haired, fair-skinned like all Idgar’s family, in manner, in smile, very like his sister. ‘Helga expects you, Kregin, she and your sister are at the steading. It’s not far.’

  ‘They knew I was coming?’

  ‘News travels fast,’ replies Geir, laughing. ‘We heard about you from Mord. With the wedding coming up — planned for next Vali’s day — he comes twice a week to see Helga. He brings gifts to my father — usual stuff: walrus-rope and sealskins — to pay his respect as future son-in-law.’