It took Helga until noon to summon up the nerve.
In a rare moment of quiet, Hildigunnur had found a spot up against the longhouse wall where she sat spinning flax, the rays of the sun playing on her skin.
Helga approached gingerly. ‘Mother . . .’
‘I know.’
‘W-what?’
The old woman squeezed her eyes almost shut and made a visor of her hand, peering up into the light at her. ‘And I’ve asked, and it is fine.’
Helga searched for words, but they wouldn’t come.
‘What’s fine?’ she blurted at last.
‘You want to leave. You need to leave. You need to find out who you are and where you belong in the world.’ Hildigunnur looked like she was about to say something more, but checked herself. ‘You can go with Thyri and Volund as far as their farm. You’ll work there for a spell, and then move on – they’ll need the help while they’re selling and scaling down. They’re ready to leave when you are. And stop looking like a stranded fish. People will think I raised a halfwit.’
No words came to Helga then, nothing but a pure physical urge. She fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck, squeezing for all she was worth.
‘What’s this? A strangling?’ Hildigunnur managed to cough, but there was a smile to her voice.
Hot tears flowed down Helga’s cheeks, and when she felt a hand on the back of her head, smoothing and stroking, she could feel her lips trembling like a babe’s. Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl. But she didn’t care. This was everything, this woman and her fierce love for her family, her loyalty and the safety she’d provided, everything that Riverside had meant to her. And so she cried.
‘We’ll meet again, my child,’ her mother whispered. ‘I know it. I don’t have much more that I need to do here, and when I’m done, I’ll come and find you, see how you’re doing out in the world.’
It took all the will she could summon, but Helga managed to let go. She clambered clumsily to her feet. ‘Thank you,’ she sniffled, her voice hoarse. ‘I need – what do I have to—?’
‘Pssh.’ Hildigunnur dismissed her with a wave. ‘I packed your things while you were out fetching water. Go and talk to Thyri. We’ll be ready to say goodbye to you in a moment or two.’
*
The road felt odd under her feet, like she didn’t know it as well as she thought she had.
It’s different, walking a path for the last time.
Her thoughts swirled as Volund plodded beside her. She had come to learn to recognise when he was quietly happy, and this was one of those times. Was this how the others had felt? She thought about Agla, arriving at full gallop with Karl and leaving without him. How had she felt? She thought about Thyri, silent even when there was no Bjorn to tower over her.
She thought about Jorunn.
The woman had murdered her brother, just to get to gold that might not even have existed – what had gone on in her mind? Did she have any regrets? She’d never get answers to those questions now, but it felt oddly satisfying to at least know what had happened to Bjorn, and in turn, what had happened to Karl.
‘It’s a long trek,’ Thyri said. Her voice was matter-of-fact.
‘I know.’
‘I won’t be going back.’
Helga swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. ‘I . . . I don’t think I’ll be doing that either.’
‘They may say that my Bjorn did it,’ Thyri said, her voice full of defiance. These words aren’t for me. They are for herself. The realisation was stark, and Helga watched the woman in fascination. ‘And maybe he did – he was acting strange.’ Thyri drew a deep breath and bit through the words. ‘But if he did, someone put him up to it. He would never have decided to kill Karl on his own.’
What do I say? Lost for words, Helga turned around for one last glance at Riverside, her home for more than half her life. The figures at the gate were still visible, but only just: a hulking bear of a man, and in front of him, a willowy woman.
‘Someone told him to do it.’
The woman who defended her family’s honour and her husband’s name to the death. The woman who raised her children to do right, and was furious when they disobeyed. The woman who dealt with potential trouble quickly and decisively.
And then the words came back to her, whispered with the wind from the hills, written in the very foundation of Riverside, a place of honour and dignity, the home of a family who had fought hard for their name, and Helga saw Bjorn, standing by the longhouse, head bowed, taking the command to kill his brother in his sleep and pin it on Sigmar, and she knew who had made him do it.
What boy ever says no to his mother?
Acknowledgements
Without spoiling anything for the people who read this bit first (and without suggesting they reassess their approach to reading), I think I can safely say that this book is a bit of a departure – or possibly an arrival, depending on where you stand.
It would not have been picked up without the savvy of indefatigable agent Geraldine Cooke, Renaissance Woman and all-round legend.
Nor would it have been published without the belief and tireless work of inimitable publisher Jo Fletcher, who has very patiently watched me flail and figure out how to solve a story without inventing a monster or killing another fifteen Vikings and then fixed it when I got it wrong.
It would not have been any good without the support of Nick Bain, who taught me how to do this whole writing malarkey in the first place.
The good people at Merchiston Castle School have been nothing but positive about my writing. Julia Williams gets special mention here for being a splendid librarian, as does Paul Williams for being one of the most impressive and terrifying readers I’ve ever met. Stephanie Binnie has given me more support than I could have hoped for, Gail Cunningham has supplied timely chats and Dr Naomi Steen has been a constant source of encouragement. Furthermore, I wish to thank my students for their optimistic and repeated questions about writer earnings, sales figures and every other detail of my life. When I inevitably earn as much as J.K. Rowling and go on Live at the Apollo, I will bring biscuits.
Family and friends have been crucial, as they always are. Allan and Helen have supplied wit, wisdom and a regrettable lack of stewed fruit. My dear Mum and Dad are nothing like Unnthor and Hildigunnur. Honest. You’re not (except in the good bits, of course, which are entirely based on you). In fact, the author would like to state that all similarities with big family gatherings in Iceland are purely coincidental. Ailsa and Chris (and Anna and Flora), Andrew, and Sarah and Steven have supplied an almost endless stream of positivity, hope and glorious meals. My dear friends – you have made moving to Edinburgh a wonderful thing.
But none of that would matter a jot were it not for my wife, alpha-reader and companion in all things, Morag. She likes to solve murder mysteries so I wrote this book for her.
I hope you enjoy it as well.
Kin (Helga Finnsdottir) Page 26
