But the thoughts wouldn’t leave her alone. Who was the killer?
Sigmar, with his forces? Sigmar could have done it. He could have snuck in and slit the veins in Karl’s legs. ‘That works,’ Helga mumbled, easing past the gate and making sure it didn’t creak. ‘That works.’ He looked shifty, he’d run away, and there was something about him that suggested he was quite able to handle a knife. But why? If it was just about whether Karl was a bit of a bastard, they could all have done it. And did he kill Bjorn? And what about Aslak? If Karl had had a thing with Runa back in the day, that would explain why she fought with his sister. Had Aslak killed Karl out of fear or jealousy? And who then killed Bjorn? Thyri? Sigmar? Sigmar’s men? Any of the others? Had it been all of them, again? Who was the last to speak to Bjorn – and why hadn’t they said anything?
Helga bit down on her lip until she couldn’t take the pain any more. She had no words – just a growl of frustration. Stopping halfway up the hill, she turned and looked down.
Riverside lay before her, the house and outbuildings and fence, the river catching the night sky and reflecting it back at her. It looks so peaceful, she thought.
And slowly, ever so slowly, the fire of her rage died down and, from within, a forged purpose emerged.
Let’s go and change that.
Chapter 18
Hunted
Gytha leaned in towards her mother. ‘When will this end?’ she whispered, her voice barely audible through the chatter in the longhouse.
‘When the last two men fall asleep,’ her mother replied through teeth clenched in a smile. ‘Now, make yourself look beautiful.’ She turned halfway back to a conversation between two big farmers and a Swede, ably controlled and guided by Hildigunnur.
‘What – for these old farts? I don’t think so.’
Before the girl could blink, her mother’s claw-like hand was around her wrist, pulling hard. Almost without moving, Agla shifted backwards so she was just out of earshot. Under her breath she hissed, ‘You do not get to choose. You do not get to play princess. After all I’ve done for you, do not treat me like your servant.’ She turned, twisted and squeezed the wrist in her grip and looked at the girl’s face contorted in pain. ‘And don’t you dare cry – I spent some of my best colours on making your eyes look nice for tonight. Your father is gone: do you understand me? Gone. There will be no one to threaten on your behalf, and no one to collect whatever you think you’re owed, so you had better learn to be a woman, starting right now. And the first lesson is that you’ll have to know how to pretty your way through boring conversations. Do you understand me?’
When Gytha nodded, her eyes wide, she let go. ‘Good. Go and get yourself a drink.’ She watched as the girl rubbed her wrist. ‘Go.’
*
Helga watched Gytha scuttle away, bowed under her mother’s glare, and inched towards the water barrel. Sure enough, she made straight for the drinks. Out goes the net. Helga looked away so no one would see her put on the soft, friendly face. When she turned back towards Gytha, she looked kind, sympathetic.
‘Hey.’ The girl didn’t notice her at first. Perfect. ‘What are you looking for?’
A tilt of the head suggested that she had been heard and recognised. The stiff neck and shoulders told her she’d picked a good target. ‘Nothing,’ Gytha mumbled into her water jug.
‘I’ll tell you a secret.’ She leaned in, exactly like she’d seen her mother do when she needed to bring someone on board: This is just for us. ‘The next attractive man I see in here will be the first,’ she whispered.
A half-laugh, half-sniff hissed out of Gytha, followed by the merest hint of a smile. ‘Thank you.’
Helga could feel the girl turning towards her, creating a little secret ring of their own. ‘But let that not stop us in finding you a husband,’ she said, lacing her voice with bite. ‘How about him?’ She glanced at a broad-shouldered, thick-bellied farmer deep in conversation with Sigmar.
‘A fine choice,’ Gytha said, taking the offer and playing the game.
‘Thorfinn Breechwetter, of the Breechwetter clan.’ She could feel Gytha stifle another giggle. ‘Found in nature, raised by a family of wild boars. Good for warmth in the winter, great at finding roots.’
Laughter was bubbling in the girl now. ‘Stop,’ she hissed, her eyes begging Helga to do anything but.
‘Although he hasn’t seen his own root in thirty summers.’ A sharp jab in the side of the arm. Gytha’s eyes were sparkling with delight now, and Helga allowed herself a smile too. Though we’re not smiling about the same thing.
‘So maybe not. The world will have to supply its own piglets. How about him?’ Across the room, Sigmar’s right-hand man was busy discussing something with Unnthor. They looked very serious. ‘Agnar the Stick.’
‘Ooh!’ Gytha said, feigning interest. ‘Tell me more!’
‘Agnar the Stick is famous for his stick-shape, and the shape of his stick.’ She could hear Gytha swallow a breath and see out of the corner of her eye how she pursed her lips to keep from bursting out.
‘Explain . . . ?’ she managed.
Helga waited. She needed to time this just right. ‘Apparently Agnar’s cock forks in the middle.’
Perfect. Gytha spat the water that she’d been intending to drink back into her mug. ‘What?’ she sputtered. ‘Where do you even—?’
‘Which has made him a very sought-after suitor, because women have figured they can use one till he’s pleased and then move on to the next one till they are.’
Gytha giggled. ‘You have a very warped mind, Sister!’
Helga smiled at her. ‘And now you’re smiling, so I’m going to say your mind isn’t any less warped.’ Gytha’s smile faded just a little at the corners, and Helga knew that feeling all too well: a cloud drawing over the sun. An argument with the mother? Entirely possible. The fish was in the net; now she just needed to bring her in gently.
‘And just so you know, I know neither of those men.’ She winked. ‘Although the Swede . . . who knows? I’ve heard they’re interesting over there.’
Gytha’s back straightened and her chin rose, just by half an inch. ‘Mother and I will be going to the court now, since Father is dead.’
‘Oh wow – you must be really excited!’
‘It will be lovely, I’m sure.’ The glint in Gytha’s eyes belied the modest words.
You can’t wait, can you?
‘I can’t imagine – It must be very hard for your mother to take on all of Karl’s wealth.’
‘Yeah, uh – she said – we’ll be okay, and then we’ll inherit his share of this place.’
Right, little fish. Let’s see how well you do on dry land.
‘Oh,’ Helga said, looking at Gytha for an eye-blink, then looking away.
‘What?’
‘I thought you knew.’
‘Knew what?’
‘Apparently Runa told Unnthor that she and Aslak were quite poor and that because Karl was so rich he should give up his share to them and their family.’
Gytha’s fragile happiness crumbled in front of her. It started in the forehead, her smooth brow wrinkling, then her pretty little nose twitched, like an animal smelling a predator. The lips wobbled, but Helga could see the effort of will to straighten them out. There they were: the in-drawn breath, the slow exhale, the wan smile.
It was a thing to watch, the breaking of a dream.
And now I need to—
Helga didn’t have time to finish the thought. Gytha was very much her parents’ daughter and the fury bounded forward like a wolfhound after prey. She leaned in. ‘Tell me exactly what she said.’
The feeling of success was so intense that it felt almost uncomfortable. For a moment Helga felt like everyone was watching her, sharing in her triumph, but she dismissed it. In their little bubble of girlish secrecy, she busie
d herself with the first part of her plan.
*
Runa balanced the jugs, two in each hand, and turned from the drinks barrel. Half a step – and the elbow hit her low on the ribcage, hard enough to smart, but not enough to knock the drinks to the floor.
‘Oh,’ Gytha said, ‘I’m very sorry.’
Runa inhaled. ‘That’s all right,’ she said, forcing a smile.
‘I was turning to look for my mother and I just didn’t see you there.’
‘I said it’s fine. Now, step to the side.’
‘Sorry – what?’
‘I asked if you could please step aside and allow me through. I was bringing drinks to the table.’
‘Oh. So you want me to step aside just so you can have what you want?’
‘What are you talking about? I’m carrying drinks.’
Gytha smiled sweetly. ‘Oh, that shouldn’t be hard for you. Just like no man ever gets hard for you.’
Runa’s eyes widened. ‘You bony little whore,’ she hissed. ‘You’re your mother’s get and no mistake.’
The slap rang out across the longhouse, followed immediately by a shriek and the clatter of mugs on the floor.
*
Helga had been careful to turn away and just listen; it wouldn’t do to be caught smiling when everyone else would be shocked. The moment Gytha had thought she’d found out that Aslak and Runa would inherit the farm she was spoiling for a fight, just like her late father. It probably wouldn’t have mattered that it isn’t true, Helga thought. Some people were always ready to believe the worst.
Within a blink, male voices had joined the shrieking and Helga turned to see big bodies rushing over to what could only be described as a pile of limbs on the floor. It was all she could do not to laugh: a gaggle of large men hovering at the edge, not quite daring to touch the two spitting, hissing girls on the floor.
Men fight like bears, her mother had told her: big, slow and lumbering. Women fight like forest cats – fierce, quick and deadly. None of the men looked to be in a hurry to stop Runa, who had twisted Gytha to the floor and landed at least one good punch.
Someone shouldered her to the side, and Helga frowned: a strong shape, moving quickly.
Sigmar.
The Swede pushed through the crowd, carrying something—
—the water barrel.
Luckily, it was less than half-full, but it was enough. The water went over the two women and in the moment that Runa blinked and gasped, catching her breath, Sigmar barrelled into her, sweeping her off Gytha’s prone, howling form and she instantly disappeared underneath the Swede. A hand clutched around blonde hair was the last thing Helga saw, and then Sigmar had her pinned.
Gytha scrabbled to her feet, coughing and crying. She set her feet, poised like a cat, ready to propel herself at Runa, but arms grabbed her from behind; she strained, but Hildigunnur had appeared at her shoulder and was muttering in her ear, her lips moving fast.
Gytha’s face crumpled, and she went limp.
‘Carry her out for fresh air,’ Hildigunnur snapped. ‘Agla!’ Karl’s wife appeared at heel, like a dog; she listened to a few very terse commands, then walked out behind her daughter.
‘Get off her!’ Aslak pushed through the men and punched Sigmar in the shoulder.
The Swede was up and two steps back almost instantly, hands up in the air.
Aslak offered Runa a hand and pulled her up. Blinking rapidly, looking visibly shaken, she muttered something to her husband, who hugged her, then without a word, they turned and left the longhouse.
And that’s that. It was odd, feeling like the hunter and the prey at the same time, but the murderer, whosoever he was, would be a little less certain about what could and could not happen tonight – and that was something. Everyone made mistakes. Sometimes they just needed a little help. She kept her eyes on her target, blocking everything else.
Time for the next step.
She watched them settle like a flock of birds stirred by a long-departed hawk. Before long Agla had cornered her daughter and kept her, soggy and fuming, by her elbow. Hildigunnur had started conversation again with a well-timed and rather rude joke about wet girls, and now they were drinking from the barrels, singing the songs and doing the things they always did. No one was paying her any special attention.
She reached in under the crates, where she knew her mother kept the smelly stuff. We’ll see how well your best homebrew goes down, Mother. Her target was sitting at the far end of the hall, perched on a barrel and looking like a thundercloud. He’d been there since he came back in after calming Runa, clutching a mug and frowning at the world. She took a moment to enjoy just looking at him. There was something pleasing about Aslak’s face, even when he was angry. Was this what it meant to want? Was this how that started? She grabbed that thought, put it in a box and stashed it away. Something to figure out later. She wove through the guests, pouring jug in one hand and two cups in the other, unaware of the eyes following her.
*
Aslak blinked and winced away the taste. ‘I mean, why is it his business anyway?’
‘Exactly,’ Helga cooed. ‘More?’
‘No. Shouldn’t.’ Brief pause. ‘More.’
She flashed an earnest smile at him as she raised the jug of her mother’s vicious brew and sloshed the cloudy liquid into Aslak’s cup. ‘Here you go.’
‘Thank you.’
You probably shouldn’t thank me. ‘You’re welcome. I just think you need the support.’
‘Why would I need s’port?’ Slurring at the edges, but still spiky.
‘I mean – we all saw him.’
‘Who?’
‘Sigmar.’
Unintelligible, angry mumbling.
‘His hands were all over your wife.’
‘He had to—’
‘Oh, he did more than he had to. We all saw it. If anything, he owes you payment for your honour. More?’
Aslak didn’t reply; he just stuck out his cup. When she’d filled it, he downed it in one. ‘He’s a rotten coward,’ he growled.
‘And he’s old.’
‘Yeah. Old.’ The young man’s lip curled in distaste.
‘And he has no right to treat a son of Unnthor like that, and at Riverside too. It’s a slight to your father’s honour.’ Helga watched as Aslak’s grip on the cup tightened. Good. Now, sadness. ‘I don’t know what you could do, though.’
The rangy young man rose. If he was aware of her, he showed no sign.
‘I’ll go and get us some more,’ Helga said quietly, just in case he was still listening.
He wasn’t.
She managed to put most of the guests between them before Aslak’s voice rose over the chatter.
‘Sigmar Goransson!’ One by one, the men’s voices trailed off. ‘Sigmar Goransson, I declare you a coward and a white-bellied bitch!’
That should shut them up. Helga watched as eyes opened wide among Sigmar’s men. Shock? Amusement? Anger?
Over by Hildigunnur and Unnthor’s group, the Swede turned slowly. ‘Who said that?’ – then a masterful pause, until just as Aslak was about to speak – ‘I thought the children had gone to bed?’ Roars of laughter from the men, and behind Sigmar’s head, she caught a glimpse of her mother’s face. She looked mildly annoyed. You couldn’t have done that any better yourself, could you, Mother?
‘Fine words,’ Aslak said, unperturbed, ‘but that is all that old men have.’
Oohs and exclamations from the men: fighting words.
‘Oh, the puppy barks,’ Sigmar said. ‘And he is right, of course.’ If Aslak had any sense, he’d be looking at the faces of the Swedes in the room. They are all too amused by this. ‘Fine words, fine wool, fine women.’
For a brief moment Helga felt a pang of guilt. She had egged Aslak on, set him on the path �
� had she underestimated the Swede?
‘I’ll put you on your back like a woman,’ Aslak growled.
‘Oh, will you, now?’ The timbre of Sigmar’s voice had changed. He was no longer talking to the room – his eyes were focused on the youngest of Hildigunnur’s children. Aslak stepped forward, and a space magically cleared around him. The tiniest of gestures – Unnthor shifted his weight towards the two would-be combatants, then stopped. The gentlest of hands on his forearm – just for a moment – and then Hildigunnur eased back again. Helga frowned. Why would her mother allow Aslak to go up against Sigmar?
She doesn’t know who the killer is either, so she’s creating tension.
We’re playing the same game.
For some reason that didn’t reassure Helga at all, but she had no time to puzzle it out. Aslak roared and dived for the Swede, who sidestepped quickly and delivered a firm slap to the back of the young man’s head.
‘I’m not down,’ the Swede said.
‘Not yet,’ Aslak snapped back. This time the approach was more careful, arms spread out wide. He can’t have had much luck wrestling either of his brothers, but he’ll have learned by watching, Helga mused.
A quick grasp for hold – another lightning-quick chop from Sigmar, this time down onto Aslak’s outstretched arm, and the young man retreated, holding his wrist and wincing. He hit the spot where it hurt the most. It was all too easy for Helga to see Sigmar leaning over Karl’s prone body, slicing with a slim blade.
‘I’m still not down,’ Sigmar repeated, louder this time.
‘Shut up, coward!’ This time Aslak approached slower still, but he kept his hands close to his body, not reaching across; his hands at the ready to hit out at Sigmar as he moved his feet an inch at a time.
Kin (Helga Finnsdottir) Page 24
