Forged in Ice (Viking Odyssey)

by Ken Hagan

  ‘If Da settled it,’ Bera replied quietly, ‘it is for the best. Da knows what he is doing.’

  Sigi is hurt to the quick; he couldn’t care less for the tenancies, but he is upset that Father didn’t confide in him. Like Uncle and me he had no inkling of the sale.

  *

  Fresh-cut birch wood is soft and springy, ideal for benches and bunks. Our carpentry will fit out Finn’s old steading and make it liveable for Helga. As well as new benches, we plan to nail panels to the bare turf wall in the women’s area. Cuin says that, for timber, we need three full-grown birches. We aim to fell and trim one tree in a day. Every morning Father and Snorri are in the smithy hole at Osvellir, forging hooks, hasps and staples, iron pins and clinker nails for the joinery work.

  Bera and Svena arrived here yesterday, bringing the first bag of new nails. The girls plan to stay till the cleaning is done. They are mopping out from floor to rafters, scouring ladles and pans, shining an old copper cauldron with salt and ash, salvaging the dented pots that once belonged to Svena’s mother.

  Haldis has been generous with food from her hearth. She sent oats and barley, and two pickle-tubs of pork from Osvellir. Stock-butter and cheese comes next week.

  As Bera and I were tipping a sack of oats, my sister looked at a cobweb on the rafters and said, ‘We can’t expect your Helga to arrive here and do everything from scratch. Now, if I were to get married, I would be glad if someone did it for me.’

  Cuin has measured up for benches; he likes to turn his hand to wood. ‘Never fear, lad,’ he says. ‘I will have it done in a week.’

  I don’t doubt that a week will finish the carpentry, but I hope Uncle keeps off the grog, otherwise we will end up with benches without hinges and lids, or nailed-up bed-boxes that have no doors.

  *

  ‘Horse-shit.’ Sigi throws down the saw in disgust. ‘For setting fire to Asgrim’s forge! You have it back-to-front, Lar, they have no claim on us — it is we who should have a claim on them.’ My brother sits heavily on a pile of timber, mops sweat off his brow, glaring at Lar — as if Lar is to blame for being the one who passed on the news.

  ‘I didn’t hear wrong,’ says Lar peevishly. ‘Mord has asked guothie Klep to take action against your father in the law-field — a charge of arson — and Klep has said he will think about it.’

  ‘An action against Father, how crazy is that? He wasn’t there.’

  ‘Your father is head of the family, Sigi,’ returns Lar. ‘He is the one who must answer in the law-field.’

  I cut in sharply. ‘We know how the law works. But tell us, Lar, apart from forge and fire, was there any mention of sheep — theirs or ours?’

  My brother barks at me for having asked. ‘It’s all nonsense. Don’t heed anything he says.’

  Lar is hurt by the fierceness of Sigi’s words. ‘Listen, you two, I only repeat what I heard this morning from Olaf, and he heard it from the house-carle at Klepjarns-stead.’

  Sigi looks up frowning. ‘How can Mord make a complaint? His father has no authority in our law-field.’

  ‘More to the point, brother,’ I mutter. ‘We didn’t torch Asgrim’s forge.’

  *

  Something has spooked the birds. Thrushes dart for cover. In the birch-tops, a commotion among the redwings — a flurry of feathers through the air, white feathers from a ptarmigan’s winter moult, the fluffy down favoured by redwings to line their nests. Looking up, puzzled, Lar scratches feathers from his beard. Sigi picks up his axe.

  A man’s shape along the foreshore, a rider the other side of the clearing, he and his horse unrecognizable behind the leaves. If he is on horseback, he won’t have come by ferry. But it is strange that he has ridden into the woods this far north. He must have seen us. He must have heard our axe and saw, and yet there is no cry of greeting from him. It is unusual for a neighbour hereabouts not to announce his arrival.

  ‘Who rides there?’ Sigi shouts a warning through the birches.

  No answer. The rider bridles left and comes towards us into the clearing. It is Bane Morfinson. He is riding Klepjarn’s dunny-mare — no mistaking the man or his father-in-law’s horse. It is the first time we have seen Bane since the bust-up on the ice.

  Bane dismounts from the mare, doing it a knee-over first, with hop and swagger.

  ‘You are off the beaten track,’ says Sigi throwing the axe at his feet. ‘The bridleway to Grisedale is by the river-course, not through here. You have got yourself lost.’

  ‘I am not lost,’ replies Bane, shoving the horse aside. ‘I came by here to find you.’ Sigi stares without answering.

  ‘How is Gunnar?’ asks Lar. ‘Is your brother on the mend?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Bane replies laughing. ‘He is back on his feet, chasing Grima morning and night. He must be doing it right. She is in the family way.’

  My turn to ask, sarcastically, ‘How is Mord?’

  Again a laugh from Bane. ‘No hard feelings. He suffers like a man. Not like some I could mention.’

  It’s too much for Sigi. ‘We don’t take kindly to trespass,’ says my brother. ‘You could have ended up on the edge of our axe!’

  ‘I have come on business,’ says Bane. ‘Klep sent me.’

  ‘What business can you have with us?’

  ‘Timber from Finn’s wood for a start,’ replies the twin. ‘Same terms as before: salmon and wool in exchange. What do you say?’

  ‘It is Father’s wood now,’ returns Sigi. ‘Timber is scarce. He won’t trade.’

  ‘Plenty birch and willow in Laugdale,’ says Lar. ‘The copses near Hollben ghyll, they are in Klep’s hands now. Why not see Blot about it? You can cut as much wood there as you like — for a price.’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Sigi, ‘why would guothie Klep send you here?’

  Whatever the game was, Bane suddenly loses interest in talking timber. He forces a grin. With no more said, he heads off, leading the dun mare, not by the way he came, but down a slope that will take him to the river.

  Before disappearing over the brow, a parting shot from Bane. ‘Next time I see you, Leifson, will be in the law-field. Your Da will answer for what you did. You can’t burn down a man’s forge and not pay for it.’

  *

  Svena’s skirts are wet from fording the river. They cling to her hips and thighs. Lar’s sister has filled out to a womanly shape. Sigi looks her up and down. The girl stoops to lift bread from the basket. Sigi can’t take his eyes off her.

  Lar doesn’t like it. He turns to me with a pointed question. ‘Has Olafs-daughter settled in at the old woman’s lodge? How is the bairn?’

  ‘Hard to tell,’ I reply. ‘The little thing is always asleep.’

  Again Lar presses his point, this time with a side-wink at his sister. ‘What about you Sigi, you will be going to see Knara and the baby, I suppose?’

  ‘Why should I?’ Sigi tosses his bread to the ground and gets up to walk away. ‘I have told you, Lar, till I am blue in the face. The baby is not mine. It is Viggi’s. Knara and he have been married a year. Tell them, Kregin: when am I ever in south shore?’ How can my brother ask me to lie?

  Svena is embarrassed. She pokes her elbow in Lar’s ribs. To spare her more discomfort, I ask, ‘Did you pass Bane Morfinson on the way, Svena? He was riding down to the ford.’

  ‘You can’t have missed him,’ adds Lar. ‘He was on a big dunny-mare.’

  ‘I saw no one,’ replies Svena. ‘He could have been behind the trees and I didn’t hear him — what with the noise of the river.’

  ‘Where’s Bera? Is my sister at the steading?’

  ‘She came with me as far as the river; she was scrubbing pots, when I get back, we plan to bathe in the rock pool by the ford, to get rid of this dust.’ She scratches her head; shakes midges and house dust from her mousy hair.

  ‘Where has Uncle got to?’ asks Sigi. ‘He promised to fetch a horse and haul away the timber.’

  ‘He has not been feeling well,’ Svena replies tactfu
lly.

  *

  It’s hard work to pull a long-saw through greenwood, while spring sap is rising to the leaves. Sigi saws in silence — both hands clamped to the handle at his end of the saw — push-and-drag; now to his side, now to mine, teeth biting into the living birch. With each ‘push stroke’ towards Sigi, and each ‘drag stroke’ towards me, the blade thrusts deeper into the body of the wood.

  Sigi won’t stop sawing unless I do. I won’t stop till the tree is down. Sawdust spills off the cutting-edge, floats in the air, fills our boots, litters the ground at our feet. Sigi’s beard and serk are soaked in sweat, his cheeks flushed from a morning’s work. A fresh scar above the left eye — the welt he took from Mord — stands out on my brother’s brow, as do stitch-marks where Haldis did her work on the wound.

  It is hot, the sky heavy with thunder. It is tempting to take off our serks and strip to the waist, now that Svena is gone, but if we did, midges and flies would be torment to the naked skin.

  ‘Look,’ shouts Lar, ‘a swan!’ A startled swan swoops between the trees, beating her wings. It is rare to see a swan in the woods — no space to mate or fly or spread wings, and no grass to nibble — those birds stick to the river.

  Sigi and I rest our hands from the saw. The swan panics and disappears from our eyes. All we can hear is flapping under the ferns, and a muffled, wounded cry. A different sound, a man’s angry shouting, behind us, tramping, stomping.

  ‘It’s Bane,’ shouts Lar. ‘Why is he coming back this way?’

  Bane scrambles up the bank, chasing the mare. She stumbles; loses her footing, sinks to her hocks in the watery ground. As soon as Bane is over the bank-top, he has a go at the mare, using a switch cut from the willows to whip her. Man and horse are wet-through, matted with reeds from the river. The swan — once out of the ferns — sweeps past us, wings slashing the air. Bane again takes willow to the mare, beating her hindquarters.

  ‘That sickens me,’ says Lar. ‘How can a man torture a horse like that?’

  ‘Klep was a fool to let him have the mare,’ is my reply, ‘unless Bane took her without asking. She is the old man’s prized possession.’

  ‘Looks like Bane had a ducking in the river,’ says Lar. ‘The mare has thrown him. That’s what’s made him angry.’

  ‘Let’s hope she throws him again,’ says Sigi, ‘and next time he breaks his neck.’

  Bane lashes the mare; draws blood from her croup, the dunny’s tail stained with blood. It’s too much for Lar. He picks up a switch of birch, one trimmed of its leaves. He swipes it twice to sound like a whip and makes for Bane.

  ‘I will not wait for a horse to break his neck,’ shouts Lar, ‘I will do it myself.’

  Bane, coward that he is, catching sight of Lar with batten in hand, is soon on the mare’s back. He’s away like the clappers, riding head down under the trees.

  *

  Screams, screams from a woman, high-pitched and terrible, somewhere below us at the foot of the bank: Svena’s pitiful cry, ‘Lar, Lar, help me.’

  ‘It’s your sister!’ says Sigi.

  Lar is off, skidding down the bank as fast as his legs will carry him. ‘Svena,’ he shouts. ‘Stay where you are, I am coming for you.’

  We can’t get a thing out of Svena. She is not in a faint; her eyes are glaring open. Screams give way to broken sobs. Svena won’t speak a word; won’t answer our questions. She is winded, poor girl, from tumbling down the bank, and heart-scared. Her skirts torn, her knees skinned; her hands are red-raw from clutching roots and shale.

  Lar gasps, hoarse with anger, ‘I think he has done something to my sister. Look at her skirts — it must have been him!’

  ‘Bane? ’

  ‘Who else?’

  Sigi takes the girl’s arm, pinching her flesh. ‘Has he hurt you?’ My brother shouts at her wildly. ‘What has that bastard done?’ Svena looks at Sigi; shakes her head violently, looks away; tears flooding now. All of a sudden, the truth dawns on me.

  Chapter 28

  On top of everything we have had the shenanigans from Cuin. He ran off as soon as he had sobered up — when the full horror had sunk in. He crossed by ferry to Laxvik and from there, made it on foot to Suthyre. He has thrown himself on the mercy of Hethrun.

  The kerling doesn’t want him under her roof. This morning, while I was at the lodge, she demanded that I bring him back to Osvellir. Short of binding him hand and foot and carrying him off to the boat, nothing could be done with him. Uncle won’t listen to reason. Knara may plead with him, Hethrun may threaten, but it makes no difference. Nothing can shift the old man from his guilt. He says it is his fault that Bera suffered the terrible assault.

  Had he not been drinking, had he not fallen into a stupor on the floor, he would have been at the river with the girls. They should have been under his protection. He has taken it into his head that, but for him and his drunken neglect, the crime against our sister would never have happened. He won’t be talked out of it.

  In the space of a month, our support in the law-field has melted away. That state of affairs would have been unthinkable before. Three cases taken to law and three cases lost. Father has been cast aside by those whom he thought were his friends. To be on the wrong end of three verdicts, one after another, has hurt his pride and shaken his belief in the law.

  The last outcome — our failure to get Bane convicted for rape —has brought Father to his knees. For a law-man, the disgrace of losing the first two cases was bad enough, but that verdict has hurt him most, since it concerned Bera. It has left him weakened and angry. How can he not be angry, when a daughter’s word and honour are questioned, and the man who attacked her walks free?

  As for the other verdicts against us, we have no choice but to pay up and take the pain. We were found guilty of the fire at Asgrim’s fold. No one believed our side of the story. Evidence of fire-raising — produced by Mord and supported by witnesses — was supposedly found at the scene of the blaze. It swung the vote in Mord’s favour. Not one shout in the law-field was raised on our behalf.

  We have till winter-fall to make restitution for the fire and agree compensation to Asgrim for ‘damages intentional and malicious’. This hits us hard — the compensation alone may cost us a year’s wool-weave. Poor Bera’s toil at the loom has been for naught. It was she who laboured to build our family’s stock of wool — only to see it thrown away. ‘That rubs salt in the wound,’ is how Haldis put it, when our sister was out of hearing.

  The burden on Father of paying a huge amount to Asgrim will sink my prospects of marriage. I am certain to lose Helga. Father hasn’t said as much — not yet. As things stand, I am afraid to tackle him on it, but the near certainty of losing her is tearing me apart.

  My brother’s future is on hold. Father says it might be three years before he can ‘muster the price of a bride’. Right now, to be fair to Sigi, this counts for nothing. The episode has struck fear into the girls. Sigi is distraught for their sake. The tragedy has touched him deeply.

  Yesterday, to comply with the law-field ruling on Viggi’s estranged wife, Father made good the bride-swag to Karghyll. It was a modest outlay compared to what we owe Asgrim, but it keeps Karghyll happy, and at least Knara will be free of Viggi. Knara has settled on a name for her little girl — she is to be called Eyra. Hethrun says they are welcome to stay at the lodge for as long as they want. At Osvellir, Sigi’s part in the affair is almost forgotten.

  Chapter 29

  Our forge has been going non-stop for a week. Snorri Harelip has been sleeping in the smithy-hole, waking at intervals through the night to feed the fire, so that Father can start work at first light. From early morning we hear a constant huff of bellows and the regular roar of flames through the furnace, and through the day repeated knocks of beating gavel, beating hammer, and a steaming hiss of red-hot iron plunged in the water tub.

  Father’s beard is black as night, blackened in soot, his eyes red with smoke and fatigue. The smithy work has not gone well
. He and Snorri have been smelting old iron — rusted tool-heads scavenged from Finn’s midden at Osvik — to cast a blade for our broken ploughshare. Yields of iron off the furnace have been shot through with dross, but Father, true to form, will keep ‘firing up’ till he reaches the right tempering for the metal.

  Haldis ushers Father into the hall, almost manhandles him through the steading door, ignoring his protests at being taken from the forge. He would have stayed at the anvil or stoked the fire with Snorri while he drank his ale, but Haldis fetched him from the smithy-hole, to give him a much needed break from smoke and grime. Her voice is firm. She won’t take no for an answer. ‘Take off your coke-apron, Da. Rest in a cool corner. Here! Slake your thirst.’

  Sigi and I have followed him into the hall with news from the lambing-fold. We have taken a daily tally, again no stillborns, both yesterday’s birthlings on their feet and taking milk — a report that would once have brought a smile to his face.

  All morning Bera has been turning her wool-weave and shaking it into shape. She does a “turning and shaking” once a month to give the wool an airing and shake dust off her stock. No sign of Svena.

  ‘Where’s the girl?’ asks Sigi. He always calls Svena “the girl”. He speaks of her in the same offhand manner even if Lar is present.

  ‘She has gone up-fell with her brother,’ replies Bera, ‘to see last year’s foals from stud, and do a count for Da — it will do her good to be out on the heath.’

  ‘And do us good as well,’ says Haldis sourly. ‘I’m sick of the girl’s long face. You would think it was she who had suffered, and not our Bera.’

  ‘Steady on,’ says Sigi, and he glares at our older sister.

  Bera rushes to Svena’s defence. ‘Please Haldis, I won’t have you speak ill of her.’

  Father has been sitting quietly with his thirst-quencher away from the hearth. From his dark corner we hear him whisper in the shadows, almost to himself, ‘A little patience, daughter, it goes a long way.’