The Knight of the Red Beard

by Norton, Andre

  The village, or steading, as the Wykenigs called their townships, was actually a fortress. A double stockade fence made of tree trunks with towers on the four corners guarded a group of huts surrounding a larger edifice. Mikkel realized they were made of daub and wattle like the poor folks back home used to build their homes. These materials were cheap, sturdy, and snug—ideal for cold climes.

  The stockade fence was almost hidden by stacks of firewood. There might have been other buildings beyond the fortress, close to the line of trees and, indeed, other steadings might be scattered along the irregular shores of the sound, but they were invisible to Mikkel from his place on the deck of the ship. All the buildings in the establishment they were approaching, save the central one, appeared to be made of daub and wattle or of wood; the big one was constructed at least partially of stone. It was hard to tell, as the walls were high; however, Mikkel could see by the thatched roofs that many other buildings were attached, seemingly at random. Tiles surrounded the sheltered vents from which wisps of smoke rose, indicating that most of the huts were occupied.

  A child’s shrill voice echoed the horn blasts heralding their arrival. Within moments it seemed that the entire population had emerged from the gatehouse and gathered at the dock.

  “You’re back soon enough!” a woman called. By her demeanor, she was someone of consequence. Her hair shone gold; it was plaited neatly with strings of beads woven into the braids. She wore a dress somewhat finer than those worn by the other women in the crowd, and her jewelry glittered in the twi-night sun. “What did you bring?”

  “Naught but a boy,” Shraig answered. “And a krigpus.”

  “A krigpus? Go back out to sea and drown yourself. You’ve gone mad.”

  “If I have gone mad, then Holger den Forferdelig is even crazier, for it was your husband who bade me bring them here to his steading.”

  The woman stood, fists planted on hips, frowning. “I’ll put the boy in Old Askepott’s charge. As for the krigpus, well, I don’t know.”

  “Let the boy see to him. If either of them gets killed, nobody’s the worse for it.”

  “Come ahead, then.” She turned to a woman standing nearby. “Go and notify Askepott that she’s got another orphan to look after.” She addressed a man in the crowd, a metalworker judging by the apron he wore. “You make ready an iron collar. Just the boy. No need to risk yourself collaring the krigpus.”

  “Yes, Mistress Gunnora,” the man said.

  “Now, everyone, back to work. There are no treasures to be doled out, and we have new mouths to feed.”

  Mikkel had stood still, thunderstruck by this woman and the aura of Power she radiated. The hairs on his head lifted, and might have stood straight up if not for his braids.

  He had lived with the Power of magic, to one degree or another, all his life. Mother had it, inborn, although she almost never used it, as if she were afraid of it. Granddam Zazar had it, old as the earth, and not to be taken lightly. Granddam Ysa had it, true it was out of books, but Power nonetheless. His brother Bjaudin and sister Elin had it; perhaps that was why they fought so much. Even Uncle Rohan had a tiny bit of Power with the silk roses he could take out of the air.

  He had none, and neither did Father, as far as he knew. But Mikkel could sense Power when he saw it or touched it, or it touched him. This Wykenig woman, Gunnora, possessed Power so strongly the air around her presence well nigh shimmered. He wondered that nobody else seemed to be aware of it. And furthermore, while it did not seem to be exactly malignant, neither was it entirely benign.

  The iron collar was not, as Mikkel expected, welded onto his neck. Rather, it was a torque, such as the silver or gold necklets some highborn people wore, locked in place with a little peg to keep the hinge from opening. The collar bore the mark of Holger den Forferdelig, and notified any who encountered one of his slaves or vassals that they were under Holger’s protection. This was not jewelry, but a sign of ownership and the wise bearer did not remove it.

  Old Askepott regarded him with some distaste when the smith brought him to her door and left him and Talkin there.

  “Another younker gets himself caught up in matters too big for him and he gets dumped here, for me to take care of. I’ll say this for you, though, you’re different with your krigpus guarding you. No need, I don’t bite and the kitte would have a rare fight on his paws if he decided to attack me. Are you hungry? I expect so, with naught but ship grub for—how long?”

  “I—I lost count of the days.”

  “Well, come on, come on. And your kitte, too.”

  Askepott bustled inside. The room was larger than it looked from the outside; like the main building, its size was obscured by the number of outbuildings attached to it like barnacles. Mikkel discovered that he had entered a big kitchen. Women moved here and there through the room, setting out stacks of wooden platters, pulling feathers off a couple of fowl, sweeping the floor. Three women kneaded batches of dough at one flour-covered table. All surveyed the warkat with a wary eye, and took care to stay between him and a table or other substantial piece of furniture.

  Good smells were coming from a large kettle set close to the fire, and the old woman was already ladling out two generous bowls of stew that looked, smelled, and tasted much more appetizing than anything he had had since he and Tjórvi had smuggled themselves aboard the GorGull.

  “Needs more tubers, and more salt,” Askepott muttered.

  Mikkel sat at an unused table, applying himself to his meal; Talkin crouched at his feet, lapping up his portion. Askepott pulled up another chair and sat down with her new charges.

  “Where’d you come from, then?” she demanded.

  “I’m—I’m from the NordornLand,” Mikkel muttered around a mouthful of tender meat that tasted similar to fallowbeeste, but was subtly different.

  “Ran away to sea, did you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Askepott laughed aloud. “No need to ‘ma’am’ me, younker. I’m Askepott. That’s what they call me, anyway, at least to my face. What’s your name?”

  Mikkel was beginning to like this brusque old woman; she reminded him in many ways of Granddam Zazar. She had Power, no doubt; she might even possess much the same sort of Power his Granddam did. “I’m Mikkel. And my warkat is Talkin. What’s to become of us?”

  “Well, you’ve been given into my care, so I can assure you you aren’t going to get eaten by some wild Upplander. You look too bulky for your size. Wearing everything you own, are you? Are those the only clothes you’ve got?”

  A little startled by the abrupt change of subject, Mikkel brushed at his sleeve self-consciously. “Yes, ma—I mean, yes, Askepott.”

  “Too fine for the work you’ll be doing, Mikkel. When you’ve finished, I’ll get you some breeks and a shirt and smock more suitable. Things you can get dirty if you need to. Save your good clothes for feast days. I’ll find you a box to keep your belongings in and tell the others to leave them alone or they’ll answer to me.”

  “But these—” Mikkel stifled his protest. He had thought his garments rough indeed, but considering his surroundings, he was willing to save them, as Askepott said, for special occasions. He would be especially grateful if he could hide the two snow-thistle silk blankets he had refolded and returned to their hiding place against his skin and, perhaps, retain possession of them.

  When he had finished eating, Askepott showed him to the room down a short hallway adjoining the kitchen where he was expected to sleep. There were six piles of straw arranged around three walls; five were covered with the kind of rough blankets he had seen in the ship that he’d thought made of inferior snow-thistle silk. Each sleeping place with bedding had a box at its head containing, Mikkel supposed, that person’s belongings. It seemed to be a custom among these people. A table stood in the center of the room, with a pitcher and basin on it, and a few rags. Mikkel wondered if they were supposed to be towels to dry one’s face and hands.

  “That,” Askepott sa
id, indicating the unoccupied straw pile, “is where Hultz used to sleep. He’s left to go on his own, built a house outside the village, the fool. Now it is your place.”

  “Who else lives here?” Mikkel asked.

  Askepott pointed to three piles in turn. “Lucas, Willin, Tark. Over here, against the other wall, is Haldon’s place. She was taken out of her village and left to die because the people thought her mother had had aught to do with a troll. The mother did die, stoned to death.”

  “How did Haldon survive?”

  “Oh, some of the men from our steading found the infant and brought her here. This is the only home she’s ever known.”

  Mikkel digested this in silence.

  “The other girl is Petra. She claims she’s a Rock-Maiden—a princess, no less. Always singing something about sea-green glass.” She tapped her forehead. “Touched. Now, you’d better get out of those clothes while I go and find a box for you to keep them in.”

  “I—I’d rather not.”

  “Don’t be a noddle-noodle,” Askepott said sharply. “You think you have something I have never seen before? I’ll bring you proper clothes. And I need to look at everything you own, so I’ll know if someone tries to take anything. Now, do as I say!”

  Reluctantly, Mikkel began removing clothing, shivering a little in the dank air. Presently, Askepott returned carrying not only a box for his belongings, but trailed by Talkin. The box was already full of clothing, with blankets on top. She dumped everything out on the pile of straw.

  Mikkel had laid out his two changes of clothing, his three pairs of stockings, and his shoes beside the straw pile, leaving him barefoot and shivering in his underbreeks. The blankets were hidden beneath his clothing. He took the trews, shirt, and smock Askepott gave him and put them on gratefully.

  “Keep your stockings, at least for now,” Askepott told him. “And your shoes, at least until you outgrow them.” She began placing the old garments into the box, and uncovered the two snow-thistle blankets he had thought to hide. “What’s this?”

  “Oh, just something from home.”

  “Well, now.” The old woman moved to the bed belonging to Petra and turned back a corner of the blanket. “Our little Princess has something similar. She lined her good, honest bedding with them. I expect you’ll want to do the same.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Mikkel found himself relieved not to have to hide the silk coverings in his belongings box. If he dared use them, he would have had to take them off in the mornings, retrieve them at night, and hope not to be discovered. Also, someone else possessed snow-thistle silk. . . . He resolved to befriend this Petra, if possible.

  Askepott had begun stowing Mikkel’s belongings in the box and now was staring at him, an unfathomable expression on her wrinkled old face. “Very dainty. Are you a prince, then?”

  “Ma’am? I mean—”

  “Well, Petra claims to be a princess, and you possess these silken covers that only Gunnora the Golden has here in Holger’s house. The rest of us make do with not nearly so fine stuff. Also, you are accompanied by a krigpus that nobody yet has tamed.” She reached out and Talkin craned his neck so she could scratch him under the chin. “Must have found him as a kitten. So again I ask: Are you a prince, then?”

  Mikkel knew it was only a matter of time before his identity was discovered; Uncle Rohan would be virtually in Holger’s wake, taking the wind from his sails in his determination to ransom his men and his nephew.

  “Yes, I am,” he said. “I am the youngest son of Gaurin NordornKing and Ashen NordornQueen.”

  “Their Maimed Majesties. That is why you wear the Ash badge?”

  Mikkel touched the amulet he had almost forgotten he wore. “I took it out of Mother’s jewel chest and put it on before I left, for luck. Not that it brought me much.”

  Askepott gave a sharp bark of laughter. “You don’t recognize luck when it slaps you in the face, boy!”

  She got up and shook out the blankets over the straw with practiced speed, smoothing the snow-thistle silk between the rougher layers. Then she straightened the belongings box at the head of the bed, and brushed straws off her skirt. Talkin stepped onto the new bed, kneaded it a few times, and curled up for a nap.

  “Come back to the kitchen with me now. I’ll brew us some tea and we will talk more. You might as well know your princely status means less than nothing here. You’ll be expected to work for your keep. You’ll follow me around for a day, learning where things are, while I decide what you’d be best doing, and then you’ll be no better, no worse, than any of the other children.”

  “You told me about Haldon and how she came to be here. What about the others?”

  “Orphans, cast-outs, bits of flotsam fished out of the sea. We can always use more hands to do the work. Holger can be kind under his gruffness, but never take him for granted. He can also be as cruel and as harsh as anybody in the Upplands. I have seen it.”

  The activities in the kitchen had picked up as more women worked, preparing the evening meal. Apparently, it was to be more stew with, possibly, the addition of the fowl. This stew seemed to be a staple among the Wykenigs, the big kettle never being allowed to empty entirely. The women kneading the bread had disappeared, but the smells of baking wafted through the room. Apparently the oven was nearby; perhaps it was reached through one of the several doors leading from the room.

  Askepott guided him into the inglenook, where they could converse in relative privacy. “This is my spot. No one else comes here. They wouldn’t dare.”

  There was one chair and a small table beside it. A little cabinet stood in the corner, containing jars of unknown substances. A small tea kettle with a lid and a spout sat on a raised iron grate away from the fire. She gestured to one of the women who brought her a jug of fresh water. She poured a little water into the kettle and set it and the grate on the fire to heat while she measured some dried leaves from a jar and cast them into the water.

  “That reminds me of—Oh, never mind,” Mikkel said.

  “Might as well tell me. I’ll have it out of you anyway.”

  “Well, it reminds me of Granddam Zazar.”

  “Zazar. I think I have heard the name.”

  “She once was the Wysen-wyf of the Bog. My mother, Ashen NordornQueen, was her ward, before she was NordornQueen, I mean, and now she lives in The Castle of Fire and Ice. There is a new Wysen-wyf now.”

  “Nayla,” Askepott muttered, almost inaudibly.

  She placed the steaming mugs on the table and sat down. Seeing no second chair and unwilling to leave the warmth of the inglenook to find one, Mikkel lowered himself to the floor.

  “You have seen fit to trust me with your secret,” Askepott continued. “Now you may hear one of mine. Steinvor is my true name though I never use it and I, too, am a Wysen-wyf.”

  “You!” Mikkel exclaimed, startled. “No wonder I—”

  “What?”

  “Well, you reminded me of Granddam Zazar. That’s all.”

  “It’s quite a bit.” The old woman sipped at her tea thoughtfully. “Did any of the people you were with survive when Holger attacked?”

  Mikkel nodded. He had scalded his tongue on the tea, and was unwilling to trust it to speak at the moment.

  “Holger must have stayed to collect ransom. That is why the Marmel came back before him, with you on board. That means that Holger either is unaware of the kind of important fish he has caught, or has just recently learned. Otherwise he would have kept you with him and made your people buy you back at a dear cost.”

  Mikkel risked speech; the scalding tea seemed to heal even as it burned. “How long will I be here?”

  “If you aren’t returned at once to your homeland—in exchange for a handsome payment—then Holger will have decided to amuse himself at the Nordorners’ expense. If that is the case, there is no way to tell how long you will remain. It could be years.”

  “Mother is not strong,” he said. “She is not at all strong. She may die,
not knowing what has become of me.”

  “Now, listen to me, boy. Holger does not find amusement in making ladies die of grief. I have watched his dealings with hostages before. My guess is that he will send reports from time to time about you—your health, how you’ve grown. How much he has come to like you, so that he does not wish to be parted from you.”

  “What do you think he will do with me?”

  “I have no idea. But if you’re a smart lad, you’ll work hard, stay out of sight, do as you’re told. If Holger decides to pay attention to you, then you’ll be at his elbow as long as he wants you to be.” Askepott set her tea aside and arose.

  “The Nordorn army and navy both will come looking for me.”

  “I do not think so. Holger will find a way to deny them, keep them bottled up at home, gnawing on their shields. There will be no brave, rash rescue for you, lad.”

  Mikkel swallowed hard, remembering his manners. “Then I thank you for your kindness. How can I repay you?”

  Askepott emitted another bark of laughter. “Oh, never fear about that, boy! I’ll keep you hopping. Can you milk a snow-cow? Gather honey without being stung? Thatch a roof? Brew björr? No? You’ll learn. Just do your work so Holger has no opportunity to change his mind and decide you’re more bother than you’re worth. At the moment, I’ll warrant, he will be inclined to make a pet of you. I think he will find it amusing. Be pleasant with him, but do not fawn over him or he’ll know something isn’t right. Show him your amulet.”

  “What good will that do?” Mikkel said, touching the gold disk.

  “It is the Ash badge. The Wykenigs revere the Great Ash Tree, from which all life derives. As a son of the Ash, you are special, under its protection.”

  The old woman reached out and patted Mikkel on the shoulder. “All is not as dark as you fear, younker. There is still hope. Now, go to the larder—that’s through yonder door—and fetch tubers for the dinner tonight.”