Daughter of the Wind (10 page)

Hallgerd dined at a broad table, supping on a large piece of fish that had been softened with warm butter. It was delicious. So was the honey wine Hallgerd accepted with thanks, and the ample slice of brown wheat bread and butter.

Servants stole glimpses of her, but the presence of Syrpa at the side, cutting another serving of loaf bread, gave Hallgerd the continuing impression that she was both guest and captive. Chain mail gleamed in the doorway where armed guards stood duty.

“Are you unhurt?” the housekeeper was asking. She gave her words particular weight, and Hallgerd knew that she was asking if her captors had taken sexual advantage of her.

Hallgerd did not answer at once. She knew that silence continued to be a defense, perhaps the only recourse left to her. And possibly Olaf deserved some punishment for his braying laugh, even though she already missed soft-voiced Thrand. At the same time, Hallgerd was aware that Syrpa could be a source of information—and perhaps even prove to be an ally.

“I am not pleased,” said Hallgerd.

“Have they caused you any injury?” said the serving woman. “If they have, my mistress will turn each one of them on a spit over a fire.”

Just as the men and women of villages like Spjothof were reputed to be drunkards, the Danes were imagined to have large appetites for women. Hallgerd was not, however, a maiden, having spent time with Lidsmod under the sky and in their favorite cave. If this would render her an unfit bride, Hallgerd would happily tell this servant about her deep love for the man she hoped to marry.

“They have hurt me, Syrpa, by stealing me from my father's house.”

“Of course,” said Syrpa, and in this eager but flat-toned agreement, Hallgerd could take little comfort.

“What will happen to me?” asked Hallgerd.

“The lady of this house will see you when she wishes,” said Syrpa, with the well-trained air of a veteran retainer, neither friendly nor forbidding.

Hallgerd could scarcely bring herself to frame the question, but needed to seek information regarding the famous war chief. “Is Gudmund the Fair still a killer of men?” she asked.

“Gudmund sails with the best warriors under the sky,” said Syrpa properly, but with an air of cordial calm.

“Has this great jarl,” asked Hallgerd, “sent for me?”

Syrpa's features dimpled with something like a smile. “Gudmund? Oh no, dear child, not that noble warrior.” She laughed, real amusement lighting her eyes.

“Then who has dared to raise his hand against my village?” asked Hallgerd, her pride stung.

“Your hostess,” said Syrpa.

Hallgerd had always enjoyed the long winter nights playing word games with her friends. Now she took no pleasure in such drawn-out conversation. “My hostess, and your mistress,” said Hallgerd.

Syrpa gave a bow of assent.

Danish towns were what Spjotfolk called
deep-wealthy
, well appointed with both furnishings, weapons—and thralls. But she understood, too, that it was very unlikely that a jarl's daughter would be stolen simply to adorn this timbered hall as an exotic bond servant.

“I was raised by my family housekeeper,” said Hallgerd, hoping to form some understanding with this imposing chief servant. “A gentle woman, named Grettir. Kind, and wise. I shall miss her very much, until I see her again.”

“You can send for her,” said Syrpa. “After you have learned to call this place your home.”

Hallgerd chose her words with a certain delicacy. “Syrpa, does your mistress command ships?”

“Her father sails ships from Frisia to the Seine,” said Syrpa. Then, perhaps aware that she had confided too frankly, she added briskly, “You will bathe when you have eaten. And afterward I shall show you your bedchamber.”

“I shall bathe when I choose,” said Hallgerd. She took a sip of mead, a drink she rarely tasted, marveling at the flavor. “Who is it, Syrpa? Who has committed this crime against my village?”

“Arnbjorg, Gudmund's daughter,” said Syrpa confidingly, lowering her voice. “She seeks a wife for her son.”

One of the serving thralls had a patch of dark red on the back of his tunic, a long curve of dried blood. Some mistresses punished slaves with whips, Hallgerd had heard, but most did not. Any show of uncontrollable emotion toward servant and neighbor alike was considered bad manners among the Norse. Still, it was not hard to imagine what cruelty might take place in a house owned by the legendary fighter.

Hallgerd managed to keep her composure. “I do believe I misunderstand you.”

“You will marry into Gudmund's family!” whispered Syrpa.

Hallgerd's throat closed, and she felt the candles around her dim.

“I will pay a heavy price,” said Syrpa, continuing to whisper, “if my mistress ever guesses that I've told.” She paused, perhaps taking in the sounds of the timbered dwelling all around. Then she said, “Gudmund and his family want to ensure a strong alliance with Spjothof, so that your brave village will never again harm Danish settlements.”

“Why is there such a need for an alliance?” Hallgerd managed to ask.

“The Franks are newly powerful, armored and carrying heavy swords. They are seeking new territory themselves, from the south, and need careful watching.”

Hallgerd appreciated the flinty logic of such reasoning. She had heard Rognvald discourse on the Franks over ale, and knew that many forced marriages resulted in strong bonds between old adversaries.

The young noblewoman put her hand over the housekeeper's work-reddened fingers. Such servants gave orders to a staff of servants and thralls, and were respected by fighting men and noblewomen, but there were limits to their power. Hallgerd suspected that Syrpa had come close to violating some confidence by saying too much.

Hallgerd asked, “What is he like, this man I am expected to marry?”

But Syrpa said no more.

Twenty

Hallgerd's bedchamber was adorned with plump pillows and a bear pelt on the floor, an extravagant fur she was reluctant to tread on. Cunningly woven cloth decorated the walls. The red-and-blue-dyed
litklaethi
—colored fabrics—were brilliant evidence of the household's wealth.

Soapstone craftwork was displayed on a side table, including a well-wrought carving of Sleipner, Odin's eight-legged horse. A
taflbord
, for playing games of chance and strategy, was set out, as though to reassure Hallgerd that she would never suffer the stark boredom of a prisoner. The game pieces were agate and jasper, rare minerals in Hallgerd's world.

Serving women brought her a pitcher of wine-and-water and a heated rock, wrapped in homespun, to warm her bedding against the evening chill. These servants lowered their eyes in her presence and spoke in the soft, deferential tones not even the lowliest bond servant used in northern villages.

“Is there anything further we can bring you?” asked one of the young women.

“How many spearmen guard this hall?” asked Hallgerd.

“Enough, if it please you,” came the predictable response.

Hallgerd thanked the servants and they left her, closing the door carefully. The iron chime of a key ring and the metallic click of a lock told Hallgerd that she lacked the one luxury she would have chosen—her freedom.

She pressed her ear against the locked door and heard only muted voices, and the sounds of benches being pushed against the walls as the day drew to a close. There was another sound, too, the harsh voice of Olaf murmuring confidingly to someone in the distance. She could almost make out the words.

Her bedchamber had no window, but she could tell, by the drowsy murmur of the folk in the hall beyond, that night was deepening, and soon everyone but the sentries would be asleep. The butt of a spear tapped the floor just outside her door, and leather armor creaked.

An inner argument had begun playing through Hallgerd's mind.

If she could dally with the people of this house, and put off the hour when she met her intended husband, perhaps she could pass the coming days pleasantly enough. After all, if no one in Spjothof had been seriously hurt, there was only her own capture to be avenged. Perhaps even Hego had only been injured, his life spared. She allowed herself to consider Thrand's gentle manner. Surely such a leader would not have permitted wanton slaughter. She was being treated with queenly comforts, and aside from her loss of freedom, she had an opportunity to enjoy soft-spun blankets and sweet wine.

She could rest for a few days, before planning her escape.

In her sleep, the bedchamber seemed to be in constant motion, rising and falling, floating on the choppy surface of the sea. Olaf was laughing, and Thrand speaking softly, a message she could not hear. Hallgerd dreamed of wings, blue-black, and a black beak.

A large bird, a raven.

The raven spoke to Hallgerd, and she could nearly make out what the bird said, her pulse pounding as she strained into the sound of wind, trying to catch the raven's warning.

Lies, Hallgerd
.

He lied to you
.

She woke suddenly.

The key ring rattled, and Syrpa hurried into the chamber.

“Be quick!” said Syrpa, her own hair undone and flowing down her shoulders. “We mustn't keep Arnbjorg waiting.”

The continuing darkness of the hall beyond, and the first tentative stirrings of birdsong, indicated the earliness of the hour.

Hallgerd was on her feet, body servants helping her into a new chemise of pleated linen. She felt herself being hastily assembled, suddenly wide awake, like a child's puppet sewn together in an instant. Her feet were thrust into lamb's wool hosiery, and a long blue dress was pulled over her, tugged and fastened.

The dress had trailing sleeves—a fashion, Hallgerd had been told, among wealthy ladies. The garment was suspiciously well-fitting, even when the laces down the back were pulled tight, and Hallgerd wondered how many merchant ships had carried spies from Gudmund's family, silently measuring Hallgerd with their eyes.

Her hair was quickly brushed, and Syrpa eyed her critically, making minute adjustments in the dress.

I will see Gudmund's daughter when I choose
.

This was what Hallgerd wanted to say.

But the armored house guards kept a firm grip on either arm as they led her into the hall, toward a blazing fire in the center of the room. There, a woman in an ashwood pale dress was gazing into the flames, iron rod in hand, heating the end to scarlet in the coals.

“Is this she?” asked the woman.

Syrpa made a murmur of assent.

“Step closer,” said the woman by the fire, “so I can see you.”

Twenty-one

A sound startled Gauk, something breaking the surface of the ocean.

He worked the sail so the boat slowed. The day was bright, but he had heard of sea thieves who used one-man vessels to steal up on unsuspecting sailors. Gauk had drowsed, just for a moment, and now his heart raced.

With a snort, and a flurry of white water, something was nearby, salt spray bright in the air.

A seal's head broke the surface of the sea.

He was a creature so dark, the whiskers on his snout were silver, his teeth white and perfect, the ridged interior of his mouth bright pink.

“Are you lost?” Gauk asked, his query a dry rasp.

It was a question of some weight. Gauk himself would have been lost, if it were not for the traditional way-poems that every child in Spjothof knew by heart. These songs were a method of remembering navigational clues—landmarks and sea features. They contained information about rocky outcroppings and towns all the way from the farthest north, south along the Danish kingdom, to the land of the Franks.

Keep the seabirds
,

the guillemots and their kin

within your mast's shadow

sailing north, sailing south
.

The seal parted its bristly snout. Was this animal, too, another Odin presence?

Gauk tossed the butt end of the remaining blood sausage into the water. Some hunters would have thrust a harpoon into the beast as it nosed the morsel—seal skin was valuable, making excellent covering against wet weather. But Gauk made no move to reach for Whale-Biter. Some sailing folk believed that seals were men or women who took to the sea in the form of these long, sleek creatures for the joy of it.

Gauk did not quite believe this, but he welcomed the companionship. The seal plunged deep, pirouetting beneath the boat, trailing a long string of bright bubbles, and vanishing beneath the swells.

Gauk envied the seal its athletic innocence. Gauk had felt innocent, too—before Odin had made him a killer of men.

He did not allow the images from the previous day to enter his mind, an act of denial that took great effort. The men in the water had tried to swim, but the cold stiffened their limbs, until the dark sea swallowed them. Gauk felt soiled, and badly shaken.

But at the same time he felt a deep wonder, too, and an ugly joy. Now that Gauk was bear-clad, no man would ever insult Gauk or his village to his face. Even seasoned fighters would step aside when Gauk entered an ale hall, an ursine pelt over his shoulder or around his waist. Gauk would not feel the boyish awe most youths feel toward veteran fighters and their war tales.

Strider
sailed itself, with very little prompting from him. Blood spatters dried on his shaggy coat, and on his mittened hands. The blood flaked off and turned to red dust, but it left stains. He wore a sword at his hip now, taken from a pirate's dead body.

Life as an Odin initiate held a certain grim thrill. But the reality of such a life tasted bitter now. Stories were told of berserkers who were overcome by bear-spirit during feasts and weddings, butchering innocent celebrants. Such men quickly became friendless. There were stories of brave voyagers who killed berserkers on sight. Gauk himself had seen a berserker on the wharf of a southern port, half-killing a man with his naked fists while his neighbors tried to haul him away. Gauk was afraid of what he had become.