There were storm winds in their faces for two days and nights as they continued home. Lightning cracked the sky. Waves high as masts roared over the decks, drenching them, sweeping some of the horses screaming overboard. They were Erlings, though, lords of the sea roads, however wild they might become. This was their element. Ingavin and Thünir sent storms as a trial for men, a test of worthiness. They wiped streaming water from eyes and beards and fought through rain and gale, defying them, as no other men alive dared do.
They came into Jormsvik harbour on a bright, cold afternoon, singing at their oars. They’d lost one ship, Hoddson’s, and thirty-two men. To be lamented and honoured, each one of them, but the sea and the gods claim their due, and where was glory, after all, when the task was easily done?
It was a very good winter in Jormsvik.
IT WAS JUDGED the same way in Esferth and Raedhill and elsewhere in the Anglcyn lands. King Aeldred and his wife and court travelled north to Rheden to celebrate the marriage of their daughter Judit to Prince Calum there. The red-haired princess was fiercely beautiful, even more fiercely strong-willed, and clearly terrified her younger husband. That, her siblings agreed privately, had been predictable. Why should the prince be different from anyone else?
Not remotely overlooked in the ceremonies and entertainments of that fortnight was the moment in the Midwinter Rites when Withgar of Rheden knelt before King Aeldred, kissed his ring, and accepted a disk of Jad from him, while clerics chanted praise of the living sun.
You paid a price to join your line to a greater one, and Rheden was not unaware that Esferth was increasingly secure from the Erlings. It wasn’t difficult to guess in which direction Aeldred’s eyes might turn. Better to marry, turn risk to advantage. They were all one people in the end, weren’t they? Not like the dark, little, cattle-thieving Cyngael on the other side of the Wall.
As it happened, some time before leaving Esferth for the north, the Anglcyn king had put his mind (and his clerics) to work on the formal terms of another marriage, west, with those same Cyngael. Withgar of Rheden hadn’t been told about these plans, as yet, but there’d been no reason to inform him. Many a marriage negotiation had broken down.
This one, however, seemed unlikely to do so. His daughter Kendra, normally the gentle, compliant one of his four children (and best loved, as it happened), had spoken with her father and the Cyngael cleric in privacy shortly after certain events that had taken place at summer’s end by a farm called Brynnfell in Arberth. Events they knew altogether too much about because of her and the young prince of Cadyr, Owyn’s surviving son and heir, the man she intended to wed. She told her father as much.
Aeldred, notoriously said to anticipate almost all possible events and plan for them, was not remotely ready for this. Nor could he furnish any immediate reply to his daughter’s firm indication that she would follow her mother straight to the sanctuary at Retherly if the union—so clearly a suitable one—were not approved.
“It is marginally acceptable, I grant you. But do you even know he wants this? Or that Prince Owyn will approve?” Aeldred asked.
“He wants this,” Kendra replied placidly. “And you’ve been thinking about a union west for a long time.”
This, of course, happened to be true. His children knew too much.
The king looked to Ceinion for help. The cleric’s manner had greatly changed over the course of a few days, with word of events at Brynnfell. He bore a genial, amused manner through the days and evenings. It was difficult to provoke an enjoyable argument on doctrine with him.
He smiled at Aeldred. “My delight, my lord, is extreme. You know I hoped for such a union. Owyn will be honoured, after I finish speaking with him, which I will do.”
So much for help from that quarter.
“It doesn’t matter,” Kendra said, with alarming complacency. “Alun will deal with it.”
Both men blinked, looking closely at her. This, Aeldred thought, was his shy, dutiful daughter.
She closed her eyes. They thought it was self-consciousness, under the doubled scrutiny.
She looked at them again. “I was right,” she said. “He’ll be coming here, with my brother. They’ll be taking the coastal road. They are on the way to Cadyr now, to speak with his father.” She smiled gently at the two of them. “We’ve agreed not to do this too much, before the wedding, so don’t worry. He says to tell Ceinion he’s making music again.”
There wasn’t a great deal one could do about this, though prayer was clearly indicated. Kendra was diligent about attendance at chapel, morning and evening. The marriage did make sense. There had been some brief discussion, the king remembered, about Athelbert and Brynn ap Hywll’s daughter. Well, that wouldn’t need to be continued, now. You didn’t marry two children to achieve the same result.
Ceinion of Llywerth offered his own two wedding gifts to the king. The first was his long-sought promise to spend part of each year with Aeldred at his court. The second was quite different. It emerged after a conversation between the high cleric of the Cyngael and the extremely devout queen of the Anglcyn. In the wake of this frank and illuminating exchange, and after two all-night vigils in her chapel, Queen Elswith arrived at her husband’s bedchamber one night and was admitted.
The queen placidly informed her royal spouse that—upon reflection and religious counsel—his soul was not so very gravely in danger as to require her to withdraw to a sanctuary immediately after Judit was married, after all. She was content to wait until Kendra, in turn, was wed to this prince in the west. Perhaps in late spring? Aeldred and Osbert, in her view, would be incapable of properly dealing with this second celebration without guidance. Further, it now struck the queen as reasonable to spend some of her time at court even after she retired to the sanctuary. These matters could be addressed in a … balanced fashion, as the teachings of faith suggested for all things. On the subject of balance, the king’s earthly state was, certainly, part of her charge.
His diet, for example, with the winter feasting season approaching (Judit’s wedding in Rheden ahead of them), was excessive. He was gaining weight, at risk of gout, and worse. He would need her with him, at intervals, to observe and assess his needs.
The king, who had not suffered another of his fevers since a certain conversation with Ceinion on the ride back from chasing the Erlings to the coast (and would not endure one again, ever), happily proposed she begin such assessing right where they were. The queen declared the suggestion indecent at their age but allowed herself to be overmastered, in this.
YOU’RE TAKING a long time.
You know why. I had to go to my father first, couldn’t rush away. I’m almost with you. Three more days. There are emissaries with us. We’ll present the marriage proposal to your father. I’ll ask Ceinion to help. I think he will.
Doesn’t matter. My father’s going to consent.
How do you know? This is a very—
I spoke with him.
And he just said yes?
Right now I think he’ll say yes to anything I ask of him.
A small silence in the shared channel of two minds.
So will I, you know.
Oh, good.
She’d done her first harvest-time sacrifice, two lambs and a kid. Anrid had added the goat to the ceremony, naming it as Fulla’s offering, mostly to be seen to be doing things the old volur had not done. Changes, setting her own imprint upon rituals, as a seal marked a letter. She’d worn the accursed snake about her neck. It was growing heavier. It had crossed her mind that if the ship from the south came back in spring, it would be prudent to arrange for another serpent. Or perhaps they’d have one on board, perhaps arrangements had already been made.
Frigga, when consulted, thought this might be so.
The harvest turned out to be a good one, and the winter was mild on Rabady. The new governor and volur were both toasted in the taverns, and the women’s compound saw its share of after-harvest gifts. Anrid claimed only a dark blue cloak for he
rself, let the others divide the rest—they needed to be kept happy. And a little bit afraid.
The serpent helped with that. The wound on her leg had become a small pair of scars. She let the others see them now and again, as if by chance. Serpents were a power of earth, and Anrid had been given some of that power.
It was mild enough through winter that some of the younger men took their boats across to Vinmark for the adventure of it. In a hard winter the straits might freeze, though not safely so, and Rabady could be entirely cut off. This year they did learn things, although in winter there wasn’t much to know. A blood feud in Halek, six men dead after a woman had been stolen. It appeared the woman had consented, so she was killed as well when reclaimed by her family. People were too close to each other when the snow came. In spring the roads and sea opened again and pent-up violence could be sent away. It had always been like that. They were shaped by the cold season; preparing for winter, needing it to end, preparing again.
One day, with spring not yet arrived, a small boat was rowed across to the isle. Three mariners aboard, heavily armed, spears and round shields. They came ashore with a chest and a key, spoke courteously enough to the men sent down to meet them. They were looking for a woman. From the town they were sent through the walls and across the ditch to trudge snow-clad fields to the women’s compound. A half-dozen boys, glad of the diversion, escorted them.
The chest was for Frigga. It revealed, when opened in Anrid’s chamber (only the two of them there for the turning of the key), silver enough to buy any property on the isle, with a good deal left over. There was a note.
Anrid was the one who could read.
Frigga’s son Bern sent his respects to his mother and hoped she remained in health. He was alive himself, and well. He was sorry to have to tell her that her husband (her first husband) had died, in Cyngael lands, at summer’s end. His passing was honourable, he had saved other men with his death. He had been given rites and burning there, done properly. The silver was to make a new beginning for her. In a hard way to explain, the note said, it was really from Thorkell. Bern would send word again when he could, but would probably not risk coming back to Rabady.
Anrid had expected the other woman to weep. She did not—or not when Anrid was near. The chest and silver were hidden (there were places to hide things here). Frigga had already made her new beginning. Her son could not have known that. She wasn’t at all certain she wished to leave the compound and the women, go back to a house in or near the town, and she wouldn’t go to her daughters in Vinmark, even with wealth of her own. That wasn’t a life, growing old in a strange place.
It was a great deal of money, you couldn’t just leave it in the ground. She’d think on it, she told Anrid. Anrid had memorized the note (a quick mind) before they put it back in the chest.
Probably not, was what he had said.
She took thought, and invited the governor to visit her.
Another new thing, Sturla’s coming here, but the two of them were at ease with each other now. She’d gone into town to speak with him as well, formally garbed, surrounded by (always) several of the women.
Iord, the old volur, had believed in the mystery that came with being unseen, removed. Anrid (and Frigga, when they talked) thought power also came from people knowing you were there, bearing you in mind. She always had the serpent when she went to the town, or met with Ulfarson at the compound, as now. He’d deny it, of course, but he was afraid of her, which was useful.
They discussed adding buildings to the compound when the last snow melted and the men could work again. This had been mentioned before. Anrid wanted room for more women, and a brewhouse. She had thoughts of a place for childbirth. People gave generously at such times (if the child was a boy, and lived). It would be good to become known as the place to come when a birth drew near. The governor would want a share, but that, too, she’d anticipated.
He wasn’t difficult to deal with, Sturla. As he was leaving, after ale and easy talk (about the feud, over on the mainland), she mentioned, casually, something she’d learned from the three men with the chest, about events a year ago, when Halldr Thinshank’s horse had gone missing.
It made a great deal of sense, what she told the governor: everyone had known there was no love lost between the old volur and Thinshank. Ulfarson had nodded owlishly (he had a tendency to look that way after ale) and asked, shrewdly, why the boy hadn’t come home by now, if this was so.
The boy, she told him, had gone to Jormsvik. Choosing the world of fighting men to put behind him the dark woman-magic that had brought him shame. How did she know? The chest was from him. He’d written to his mother here. He was greatly honoured, it seemed, on the mainland now. His prowess reflected well on Rabady. His father, Thorkell Einarson, the exile, was dead (it was good to let a man have tidings he could share in a tavern), and even more of a hero. The boy was wealthy from raiding, had sent his mother silver, to buy any home on the isle she wished.
Ulfarson leaned forward. Not a stupid man, though narrow in the paths of his thought. Which house? he asked, as she had expected he would.
Anrid, smiling, said they could probably guess which house Thorkell Einarson’s widow would want, though buying it might be difficult, given that it was owned by Halldr’s widow who hated her.
It might be possible, she said, as if struck by a thought, for someone else to buy the house and land first, turn a profit for himself selling to Frigga when she came looking. Sturla Ulfarson stroked his pale moustache. She could see him thinking this through. It was an entirely proper thing, she added gravely, if the two leaders of the isle helped each other in these various ways.
Construction of her three new buildings, Sturla Ulfarson said, when he rose to leave, would commence as soon as the snows were gone and the ground soft enough. She invoked Fulla’s blessing upon him when he left.
When the weather began to change, the days to grow longer, first green-gold leaves returning, Anrid set the younger women to watch at night, farther from the compound than was customary, and in a different direction. There was no spirit-guidance, no half-world sight involved. She was simply … skilled at thinking. She’d had to become that way. It could be seen as magic or power, she knew, mistaken for a gift of prescience.
She had another long conversation with Frigga, doing most of the talking, and this time the other woman had wept, and then agreed.
Anrid, who was very young, after all, began having restless nights around that time. A different kind of disturbance than before, when she hadn’t been able to sleep. This time it was her dreams, and what she did in hem.
HE WAS DOING what his father had done long ago. Bern kept telling himself that through the winter, waiting for spring. And if this was so, it was important not to be soft about it. The north was no place for that. Being soft could destroy you, even if you left raiding for a different life, as Thorkell had done.
He would leave with honour. Everyone in Jormsvik knew by now all that had happened on what had come to be called Ragnarson’s Raid. They knew what Red Thorkell had done to keep them from going to Arberth, and what Bern had done, and how the two of them (the skalds were singing it) had shaped destiny together, after, leading five ships to Champieres.
Two of the most experienced captains had spoken with Bern on separate occasions, urging him to stay. No coercion—Jormsvik was a company of free and willing men. They’d pointed out that he’d entered among them by killing a powerful man, which boded well for his future, as did his lineage and the way he had begun on his first raid. They hadn’t known his lineage when he’d entered; they did now.
Bern had expressed gratitude, awareness of honour. Kept private the thought that he really didn’t agree with this vision of his prospects. He’d been fortunate, had received aid beyond measure from Thorkell, and even though the idea of the attack in Ferrieres had been his by way of his father, he’d discovered no battle frenzy in himself, no joy in the flames, or when he’d spitted a Jaddite cleric on his bl
ade.
You didn’t have to tell people that, but you did need to be honest with yourself, he thought. His father had left the sea road, eventually. Bern was doing it earlier, that was all, and would ask Ingavin and Thünir not to pull him back, as Thorkell had been pulled back.
He set about balancing accounts through the winter.
When you changed your life you were supposed to leave the old one behind cleanly. Ingavin observed such things, cunning and wise, watching with his one eye.
Bern had wealth now. A fortune beyond his deserts: the Champieres raid was being talked about, word spreading, even on the snowbound paths of winter. It would be in Hlegest by now, Brand had told him in a tavern one night, icicles hanging like spears on the eaves outside. Kjarten Vidurson (rot his scarred face) would know that Jormsvik was still no fortress to set himself against, though he was likely going to try, sooner or later, that one.
Bern had begun making his reckoning that same night. Had left the tavern for the rooms (the three rooms) in which he’d kept Thira since returning. He’d offered her a sum of money that would set her up back home with property and the choosing (or rejecting) of any man in her village. Women could own land, of course, they just needed a husband to deal with it. And keep it.
She’d surprised him, but women were—Bern thought—harder than men to anticipate. He was good, he’d discovered, at understanding men, but he’d not have expected, for example, that Thira would burst into tears, and swear at him, and throw a boot, and then say, snapping the words like a ship’s captain to an oarsman out of rhythm, that she’d left home of her own choice for her own reasons and no man-boy like Bern Thorkellson was going to make her go back.
She’d accepted the silver and the three rooms, though.
Not long after, she bought herself a tavern. Hrati’s, in fact. (Hrati was old, tired of the life, said he was ready for the table by the fire and an upstairs room. She gave him that. He didn’t, as it happened, last long. Started drinking too much, became quarrelsome. They buried him the next winter. Thira changed the name of the tavern. Bern was long gone by then.)
The Last Light of the Sun Page 48
