by Asotir
* * *
FOR A SPACE Olaf was still. Then Swanhild asked, ‘Yet father, what of my mother in all this?’
‘Well,’ Olaf answered, ‘great was the friendship between those twain; and some said your mother thought up that prank for Skarphedin: she often gave him counsel. Then came time for the offering for a mild winter, and we bade Skarphedin to the guesting and he came. It fell out that a ship was in to the Hornfirth, and half the shares of it were mine, and half Thorold’s. So I went to bring in the lading and share it out with Thorold. Word of that went up to the East Firths and Yrsi. Hoskuld wastes no time but gathers straightway a great force of men and goes round Vatnajokull and so down by the sand road. But there was a man, Sigfus, and he knew them: came down to Hof and told where they lay. Skarphedin wanted to fare back to Breidamerk. Your mother too would go, and with her four men. Skarphedin said it was not his way to have a women for a shield; but your mother only said, “That you may think and say of this what you will: but I shall now go to Breidamerk and come back at my husband’s side. And there is little you may do about that.”
‘So off they go eastaways. When Hoskuld saw them he knew your mother right off: then he seemed unwilling to go on. But those others behind him muttered and said, “We knew Yrsi well enough, but the son ill. And like as not there is a saddle that must be cleaned when we are back to home.” Then Hoskuld waxed red down to the collarbone, and drove on his horse. They fought there, at that spot you know so well, because there your mother fell. Struck through with a lance and crooked in the rime, and cold: that was how I found her.
‘When Hoskuld saw that she was slain, then he lost all heart and turned back; his men went after him, and Skarphedin followed after them. He cut Hoskuld down out of the saddle, and scattered the others: but Skarphedin went onwards swiftly to Yrsi’s hall and laid a millstone up against the door. Then he set the hall afire and rode up into the fells where none might find him. That summer they gave notice of the suits: they sought the greater outlawry for Skarphedin. Yrsi offered me atonement for your mother; I took none of that. Then I waxed hot and cold, but might think of no deed harsh enough. Ah, that summer was cold, and too many storms rode in off the sea…’
Awhile the old man sat quiet on the lava-stone. The black-haired girl stared at the grave-howes, and did not look at her father.
‘And then?’ she asked at length.
Olaf coughed and scratched his beard.
‘Well, Thorold sent lesser men of his up into the fells, and they bore food and words to Skarphedin. And Njal saw to the defense of his brother. Thorold bade him so play the thing, that Skarphedin should get off with the lesser outlawry. Hoskuld was let fall with no atonement, for that blow and the death of your mother; that was deemed very shameful. But Skarphedin had few friends withal, and some say that Njal did not defend his brother so skillfully this once as he had theretofore. So Skarphedin got the greater outlawry, and he went abroad to work his quarrels: and that was nine years ago and more. Of what he has done in those years, scant tales only have come hither; none at all for some while now. Some said he harried in the Western Isles and died. And now daughter, do you know enough of Skarphedin the outlaw?’
‘No,’ she answered. She looked round, and saw gleams from her father’s eyes. Then she looked away and closed her face. ‘Only father, is that why they name my mother Unpaid-For?’
Olaf looked down as if he had been stuck. Then he coughed vilely and answered, ‘Yes. And do you call to mind how I bore her body into the hall and laid it down upon her bed? Or how I kept her body so all that winter, until the ground should be soft enough to dig up yonder great howe? Why else would you wear her belt now?
‘But if Skarphedin does come back to Iceland, then that is one man I will not be sad to see cut down to death before me. For I hold no other man so blameable for her death. Now chew on that hair, and I will wipe these tears I have no shame of. And as for me, I have wept and now shall be merry: for this turns out to be my wedding-feast.’
The old man stood and loomed over his daughter against the sunset and the last winkings of sunlight across the sea. One last sign he gave to the howe-mounds to hallow them: then clambered up on his old strong pony, and rode down off the fell.
His black-haired daughter watched him for a bit. Then she sat down on the worn stone in his stead.
Ten
THAT NIGHT ROSE cloud-flecked and cold. The moon was thin and sharp. Its light sprinkled the land like a chessboard, and it gleamed from off the frosty peaks and rippled valleys of the glacier Vatnajokull.
But at Hof torches burned about the garth; and the folk stood out, drank mead and laughed. Some were dressed in goodly garb, but many wore the white. By the door stood a tun of mead: therein they dipped their horns and bowls freely.
And within the hall the long fire leaped higher, bright and hotly cheering. In the highseat sat Olaf and Gudruda, and great seemed their happiness: so great there were little tears in the corners of Gudruda’s eyes.
Food was heavy on the boards, pork and meats, lamb, fish boiled and roasted, bread and goose, eggs, curds, sweet-cakes, ripe cheeses. Men and women filled their troughs and emptied them more than once that night: and this only the first night of that feast. Even Thorgrim, full of mead and belching loudly, was merry, in spite of those sour glances he cast now and then over at the beardless priest.
They were crowded in the hall, for many had come and more were hourly looked-for. The bright firelight and the many lamps glowed and sparkled hazy through the mist of smoke and risen dust: cast glowing crowns over their heads, the wimples of married women and temple-ribands of the men.
Of them all, only Erik Gudrudarson seemed unpleased. He wandered about the garth and through the hall twice over, asking after Olaf’s daughter; but none knew where she hid. He went then out to the barn to count the bridles. He came out blushing, for he had happened across a couple rolling in the hay, and been roundly cursed by the man and laughed at by the woman, who cast a love-glance after him as he left.
The night fell colder, and folk filled the hall and emptied the garth. The hollow tun was put aside, and the hall waxed hot with fires and sweating bodies. There were riddles told, verses and stories; and prophecies and jests for the bridal couple. All the people came round before the high seat to offer well-wishes and words of cheer to them.
Then the men’s door swung open and flooded the hall with a bitter cold breath, and Swanhild came in.
Those before her fell still: opened a path before her, and she walked between them cold and chill as a Norn’s child. She did not look at them, but her face was grim. Before the bridal couple she came, as if it were her turn. An ill look, and maybe some fear, fell athwart Gudruda’s face whenas she beheld her stepdaughter. Swanhild was garbed as she had been that even, before her mother’s howe-mound: but there was blood upon the blue-black gown, and blood upon the silver belt: sprinkled over her in little fiery drops: and all of them still wet.
Olaf looked down on his daughter’s face and frowned. ‘Daughter, where were you?’
And she answered, ‘In the temple: and offered up a sheep to Odin, Lord of Hosts. Then I had men singe the sheep’s head: now it is cooking: then you may eat it. And that is my gift to you this night.’
There was somewhat of silence after that. Only Thorgrim shouted drunkenly from the far side, ‘Now, that was well done!’
Gudruda reddened and took her cross in hand. ‘I call that a wicked shameless deed.’ Swanhild looked up at her from out her slanting Finn’s-eyes, and smiled, and showed her teeth points.
‘No good will come of it,’ Olaf muttered. It was then, in the silence, that hoofbeats sounded from the yard. Olaf half rose. ‘Go see who that is.’
They returned saying, ‘It is Ulf Haraldsson, and he would speak to you, Olaf, out in the garth.’ Ulf was one of those who had gone to Breidamerk with Olaf for the arvel-feast; he had stayed behind to be with his wife’s kin there.
‘Do not go, husband,’ said Gu
druda. ‘Surely these tidings are not so needful that they cannot wait.’
‘I will not leave Ulf out in the night,’ Olaf said. ‘Nor will I flee what seeks me out.’ He stood, took from Rannveig a woolen cloak, and went out.
Swanhild stood by herself, deeper into the hall. Erik started to go to her, but stayed himself and turned aside. Then Thorgrim neared her with a bowl of mead.
‘Will you drink, Olaf’s-daughter?’
She looked up at him. ‘Do you not know by now I do not drink, Thorgrim? Or has that mead addled your old brain?’
He shrugged and sat beside her, supping at the mead himself. Then he said, ‘My thanks for what you did this night: more than one should have thought on it. In five days the blood-offering for strength and victory is due, and we shall make it, Westman priest or no. Will you be a ninth, and see the gods reddened? One of Hardbein’s kin ought to be there for it.’
But bitterly she answered him, ‘For what? Those are only poles of wood.’
