Forged in Ice (Viking Odyssey)

by Ken Hagan

  ‘That’s how a law should be,’ adds Cuin, picking up the jest, ‘black for some, white for others, and grey for the rest of us. I will tell you another thing. What do you do if a cranky old goose pecks your ankles once too often? You wring the goose’s neck.’

  ‘I am none the wiser,’ says Helga’s brother, ‘but I take your word for it.’

  *

  Ma complains of being cold. I would send Bedwyr to fetch a fleece from our bunker of stores at the edge of camp, but the lad is fast asleep, or makes out to be, and no one should wake a free man at night without cause. It’s hard not to think of Bedwyr as our slave. ‘That’s all behind him now,’ as Ma would say.

  Our bunker of stores is down by the shore, off Laxvik common, where the horses are. We arrived too late to claim a space near the law-field, and no one thought to offer us a share of their pitching ground, though there was plenty to spare. With our stores being so far away from booth and sleeping tent, I have posted Snorri as look-out, he keeps watch day and night, in case of pranksters and thieves.

  I will take a stroll as far as the bunker and fetch the fleece for Ma; it will clear my head for sleep. I want as much shut-eye as I can: the wrestling starts in earnest tomorrow. Wood smoke between the tents, and a full days-worth of smoke in the night sky, drifting all the way to fallow dale; hounds croaking at the hazy moon, a baleful croaking that comes from hungry bellies. The Grisedale men chain their hounds, starve the animals days on end, to make them keen for a fight. Old man Pils has been known to bet his last breath on a hound.

  This year for the dog-fights, they say that Djup may turn things upside-down; that he has a trick up his sleeve to get one over on Pils. I can’t see it myself. The wise betting is always on Grisedale, never on Djup and his cronies. Unless, like Olaf, you are crazy enough to fancy long odds.

  They don’t hear me coming, Snorri and the others, what with dogs barking, men singing nearby, voices everywhere fired with grog. Just as well I am not a thief, or up to some prank, sneaking up behind, under cover of smoke and darkness. I will take a fleece from under the canvas and be off. No need to disturb their fun.

  ‘So, what about Ulph,’ it is Olaf’s voice I hear plainly, slurring and drunk, ‘you must have heard something, eh Harelip?’ Snorri doesn’t look up from the fire. He doesn’t answer.

  ‘I heard he’s gone to Vorgha-dale,’ says Viggi Karghyllson.

  ‘You heard wrong,’ says young Halson, ‘not seen hide or hair of him up our way.’

  ‘Ulph is a sly one,’ quips Grith, ‘you wait and see: he will turn up, nice as nought, when the fuss has died down.’

  ‘Maybe someone has done him in,’ says Olaf.

  ‘Don’t be a fool;’ says Snorri, ‘you talk as if Ulph has a price on his head.’

  ‘Price on his head or not,’ replies Olaf, ‘he has it coming to him. If it isn’t Mord who skewers him, it will be you-know-who.’

  ‘Enough,’ says Snorri, ‘I won’t hear you speak ill of the young guothie.’

  ‘What did Ulph do?’ asks Pilson, out of the shadows.

  ‘Set fire to Mord’s father’s place,’ a young voice chips in, ‘isn’t that right, Lar?’

  ‘Don’t know, Bjorn,’ answers Lar huffily, jumping up from the fire, ‘I wasn’t there!’

  In the smoky darkness, Lar hurries past, without seeing me, a flash of anger in his eyes. He makes for the shore, where the horses are.

  *

  ‘Please, Grandma Auda,’ says young Hvard, resting his head on Ma’s knees. He has been pleading with her all morning to stay at the hustings.

  ‘We have work waiting for us over there.’ Ma gestures towards Osvik. ‘No end of jobs: our new steading to look after. Life can’t be all sport and play.’

  ‘Just one more day,’ begs the lad. The last thing Ma wants is another day here on Laxvik common. She has not been at her best since crossing the water from Osvik. Yesterday, flies and heat got to her, and then the hounds. Last night she complained of being chilled to the bone. She wouldn’t be here but for the boy. He was keen to see me wrestle, and watch the sports, itching to share the excitement. ‘One more day, Grandma,’ he whispers, coaxing her.

  ‘I am too old for this,’ she says, ‘for crowds and jostle, ale and fights. I have had enough. And the barking from those poor starved dogs, it is never-ending.’

  ‘Grandma, why don’t you go home on the ferry with Sepp and Bedwyr? Leave me here. I will be safe with Uncle Kregin.’

  ‘He’s welcome to stay with me,’ I reply.

  ‘No harm in that,’ Sepp intervenes. ‘What do you say, Ma? Shall we let the boy stay one more day? I will return day after tomorrow and bring him back on the ferry.’

  Ma names her price. ‘You have to promise, Hvard, double chores, my lad, on your return. We all have to work harder. I don’t know how we will cope without Lar.’

  The boy laughs and plies his Grandma with promises, kissing her hand. Ma’s sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed. She is still peeved at me for saying no.

  I need Lar at Osvellir. My mistake was to let him spend those three days at Osvik while the family settled in. Ma was impressed by his care for the horses, and by the way he hangs on Sepp’s every word. Lar and Hvard get on like two hounds from the same litter. Ma took a shine to him when he brought her over the fells from Baerskard. She was upset I didn’t fetch her myself. Can’t she understand? A man in my position can’t spare two weeks from his family’s steading at lambing-tide.

  With the approach of summer, Haldis and I are struggling to get things in order at Osvellir, not through lack of hard work on my sister’s part in barn and dairy, nor from me, finishing long days behind the plough. The truth is, we are missing Father’s steady hand. I had no idea — nor had she — how much he did to plan ahead for the seasons.

  Next month we lose Bera when she moves north to marry Geir. Haldis says it is too much for Svena to manage the loom on her own. She thinks Olaf’s wife will help out in return for a share of the wool. The field-work in the coming months is what worries me — I have no Sigi, no Ulph, no Cuin, no one to replace them, and two stock-hands have run off and left us in the lurch. Summer will see Lar and me toiling night after night in the upper meadows. If we don’t, the hay-making will never be done. As for Cuin, I can’t look to him for support. Suthyre is his home now. Not that I would ask him to muck in for me at Osvellir. The work is too heavy for an old man. And light duties are out of the question at Osvik after what happened to Bera: it’s too fresh in Cuin’s memory.

  *

  Crowds are milling at the moot-stone. They have come to watch the dale-runners warm up for their chase to fallow falls. Runners jog on the spot to loosen their joints, rubbing shoulder and limb, sweat pouring from their faces. Morfin, the only man here on a horse, oversees the push and jostle, one eye on the runners, one eye on the betting. He will hold back the race till the hand-smacking is finished and all bets are placed. There will be sweeteners in it for him. That’s why he took on the job.

  A yell of excitement from Hvard. ‘What’s old greybeard waiting for?’

  ‘That’s Helga’s Uncle,’ I shout to be heard. ‘He is waiting for last bets to be smacked.’

  Seeing Geir stripped and ready for the run, I think of Sigi, and of the morning he climbed up through the mist to the head of the falls. Geir pushes through the runners to get to us. ‘Where have you been, Kregin? We are almost at the off. Where’s Bera?’

  ‘She is here somewhere. You know what sisters are like. She had to look her best after the ride from Osvellir. Don’t worry, Cuin is looking after her, he won’t move from her side.’

  Helga’s brother scans the crowd. ‘Can’t see her; she said she would see me off.’

  ‘She will be here, man, never fear!’

  ‘Hey, Pilson,’ shouts Lar, with a nudge and wink to please Hvard. ‘I thought you would be on the sands this morning, checking the course. A dozen of us were out early to try it out. Looks like the going will be soft for the horses on t
he big day.’

  ‘If it’s soft, I may pull out,’ is Pilson’s quick reply, and he grins from ear to ear.

  ‘We are Grisedale men,’ says young Bjorn, talking big for his years. ‘Whatever happens, we can’t miss the dog-fights, can we?’

  ‘Da has another winner on his hands,’ says Pilson, ‘a hound from hell! Blitsa is her name: she is starving for a fight. I tell you she wakes up with blood in her eyes!’

  Hvard’s eyes light up. ‘Can we go and see Blitsa?’ He looks at me, almost breathless, ‘Pilson will take us, won’t he?’

  *

  Our banter this morning in the booth is about the wrestling later today, no one talks of the horse-race for fear of letting slip their tactics for the big day tomorrow. Karghyll hasn’t made it for his pot of morning ale. Klep sent him on an errand to Vorgha-dale. A man in debt has to run to his guothie’s bidding.

  ‘Will you take on Slegl,’ Olaf grins slyly at me, as he asks, ‘or will you play smart, wait for others to weaken him first?’

  ‘Slegl doesn’t look like a man who will weaken.’ These sharp words come from Lar, who frowns at the crofter-man. ‘They say he is the wrestler to beat.’

  ‘I have to face him sooner or later,’ is my reply.

  Hvard steals a sip from the grog before serving. I pretend not to notice.

  ‘Slegl,’ my nephew shouts in his grown-up voice. ‘Is Slegl the wrestler with short legs? The ugly one with mud on his face?’

  ‘Ugly to be sure,’ laughs Cuin, ‘but the iron-mud is only skin deep. He rubs it on to look like a beast. Under that dirt he is meek as a lamb.’

  ‘Lamb or not,’ says Lar, ‘he is a hard nut to crack. He hasn’t lost a bout.’

  ‘If it were me, Kregin,’ says Cuin, ‘I’d take a warm-up fight, best to get hardened and ready for him.’

  ‘A warm-up fight, maybe, but I won’t have it said that I am avoiding him.’

  ‘If Slegl throws down a challenge,’ says Lar, ‘you can’t refuse.’

  ‘I won’t say no! I will take him on.’

  ‘I wouldn’t stick my neck out,’ says Olaf with some force. ‘No, guothie, you want to stay in good shape for the horse-race.’

  ‘Why not have a go?’ asks Lar.

  ‘I saw him against Viggi Karghyllson,’ replies Olaf. ‘Viggi is no slouch, we all know that, but he was shaken to a mite, white-washed, three falls to none. Slegl is a hard man to topple, with those short legs of his, and thighs thick as a ram.’

  The crofter-man bows towards me, though his voice is anything but respectful. ‘Nothing to be ashamed of, guothie. Wait till Slegl comes to you.’

  Bera takes Geir’s arm and lays her head on his shoulder. ‘I thought,’ she says, ‘I thought we might ride up by fallow dale. Take me as far as the falls, show me where you did it. I want to see the place where it happened.’

  Geir Idgarson blushes at her mention of it. The blush earns him a kiss from Bera. Yesterday Geir saved one of the runners, a young Vorgha herder, from drowning under the falls. It cost Geir the race, but the rescue has made him the toast of the Vorgha men, the proud boast of our booth and a special hero for Hvard. Bera holds Geir proudly. Her man is the man of the hustings.

  *

  Hvard’s fists are tight with anger, his eyes red with disappointment. ‘How did he do it?’ The lad knocks his forehead, as if that might shake away the thought. ‘He is nothing but a muddy dwarf compared to you!’

  ‘Slegl is a good wrestler. I should have done better, but he deserved to win.’

  ‘He used tricks, he cheated: isn’t that it? Isn’t that how he pinned you down?’

  ‘No tricks or foul play — he beat me, fair and square. He wrestled clever — he knew what he was doing.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He has been working on his moves, his shin-breakers and leg-sweeps. Didn’t you see how he wriggles like a slippery fish? I couldn’t keep my grip on him.’

  ‘But Lar said you had him licked. He said you would hammer him.’

  ‘That’s how it goes, son. Maybe for this fight Slegl was hungrier than me.’

  ‘Then you should have gone at him starving, red in your eyes like Blitsa the hound, then you would have won.’

  ‘I don’t mean that kind of hunger.’

  The boy gives me a puzzled look. ‘When I am a man,’ he says fiercely, ‘I will fight hungry, I will starve and starve like a hound. I won’t let a wet fish like Slegl get the better of me.’

  *

  Dawn is not far away. It was a sultry night. Flaps on both sides of the tent are brailed up as far as they will go, to let in air. A warm Os breeze blows salty from Laxvik marshes, shaking the canvas above my head. Ripe smells of dung and stale horse-water in the camp, last sounds of drunkenness gone — the hounds asleep. Today is day of the horse-race.

  Chapter 44

  At Thor’s gate, where our race will begin, I have counted twenty-three riders passing through the sandy gap between moot-stone and shore. They mill and jostle, pushing for position and space near the starting-line. Not all riders who mill and jostle will be with us at the off. Some are betting men, mingling, not to compete in the chase, but to vie for higher stakes. Betting men may look like horsemen ready for a challenge, but what they are up to is to scrutinise on the sly. They eye horses and riders with close attention in search of a winning man and mount — all the while exchanging furtive signals, betwixt and between, on likely odds. A pull of the ear-lobe, a wink of the eye is usually enough to settle it.

  Betting men will run the course in our wake, pursuing their wagers at a distance. They share in the excitement of the chase, taking stock of fights and spills on the way. Some may be tempted to join the race for the final stages. It is open to any rider judged to have passed the starting-line and to have followed the prescribed route. If they see horses falter ahead or front-runners fall, they may put themselves in contention, nip through the weakened field and seize a chance of glory. Or, more probably, they will choose foul-play, putting purse before glory. They won’t hesitate to spoil a man’s chances — even knock him off his horse — in a last-ditch effort to save paying out on a bet.

  This year, Cuin-rua has charge of the starting-cloth. Morfin Skarson, a popular choice with the betting men, has been persuaded to step in as second race-judge. He has ridden to Lax-river, the farthest point to be reached in the race.

  At Lax-river, we have to cross the ford twice by salmon leap, and from there begin our ride back to the finish. It has been known for riders to cheat at the turning point. Helga’s uncle will see to it that every man takes the ford. We must ride to the far bank and back, or, if the water is running high, lead the horse across and back again, before setting off on the return leg.

  Until the last moment — before Uncle calls for the off — I will stay this side of the stone, avoiding other riders in the gap. Best to keep Srelni from the smell of horse-sweat and dung. He is keen enough for a chase without catching race-day fever from over-excited horses. I don’t want him rubbing gaskin and tail with the likes of Olaf’s skewbald or Viggi’s grey mare.

  ‘Things always happen in a race,’ Father would often say by way of advice to Sigi and me, ‘things happen: sometimes untoward, always unexpected, but you must plan your race, and do it your way, without regard to others.’

  I have a race-plan in my head:

  Easy does it, from the off, starting wide of the others, past the marshes, skirting the mud flats, where mud has turned to dust. Next, the causeway: a canter shore-side where women and children will come out of the camp to greet us. After that, a trot to fallow river; ford the river at the foot of fallow dale, let Srelni cool off and take water, before the beach ride past ferry-point-north to Lax-river-ford, and from there, after crossing the ford twice, the long haul back to where we started, not pushing the pace, and yet keeping the race leaders in sight. I won’t let Srelni break into a gallop, much less a full-blooded skight, till we have the moot-stone in sight and make a final dash to th
e finish.

  ‘Is this how you would run the race, Sigi?’ I hear myself whisper to my absent brother.

  Youngsters dodge between horses’ legs, raking dung from the sand, keeping it clean under their tails; no one wants the ‘zing’ of mare or filly in the stallions’ noses. The horses gasp and froth with thirst. Men run to their aid with pails of water. Snorri, with good intentions, would have stuck Srelni’s head in a pail, but I stopped him. Excitement piques a horse to drink too much before a race.

  Asgrim and guothie Klep are on the blind side of Thor’s gate, not far from where I have chosen to wait. Mord comes out of the gap, leaving the runners. He trots past me — I turn my head away — he is off to take a turn with his father and Klep. Gunnar sees Mord break away and follows him out of the gap. The four of them have a lot to say to each other.

  Klep’s house-carle, from on foot, hands the bag to each in turn for a swig of grog.

  From the moot-stone shore-wards, for a length of twenty paces, Cuin has been setting down a marker for the off. He is doing it by walking his piebald, an old favourite of Father’s. With the piebald at the reins, he moves back and forward on the traces to churn a straight line in the sand in front of the starting gap. A week before hustings, I had Lar fetch the horse from the fell, knowing it would please Uncle to ride it. The brave little stallion is sweet-tempered and nippy as ever. He nuzzles Cuin’s shoulder, while busy marking the line proudly under-hoof.

  Klep, from his roan, hails Uncle with a civil smile. ‘Cuin-rua, I hardly recognised you — beard trimmed, gorse-water dye in your hair, a spring in your step — you look like a man half your age!’

  ‘Sea air at Suthyre,’ pronounces Cuin, mounting his piebald with a swagger. ‘South shore air must agree with me.’

  Blot lets go a belch and a belly-laugh, while he scratches his plough-gelding by the poll. ‘Is it sea air, or has someone worked her magic on you?’

  Ignoring him, Cuin peers the other way, as if to check that the piebald has walked a straight line on the sand.