Daughter of the Wind (16 page)

Hallgerd knew that this was a pointless boast. Any man or woman in Spjothof could recite the route up and down the coast, and most of the children, too. But Hallgerd was pleased that she had correctly judged the degree of her hostess's pride.

“Does he indeed!” said Hallgerd. “You must allow me to express my gratitude to your noble cousin.”

To her surprise, Arnbjorg gave a laugh that was almost friendly. “I do believe that you've captured Thrand's heart, Jarl's Daughter. My cousin speaks of nothing but your great poise during the voyage, your dignity, and your spirit. And, I think, he did mention something of your beauty.”

Hallgerd wondered at the sweep of feelings that rose over her. Was it possible that she blushed?

Her hostess sent the thin, quiet servant who had shadowed them off to locate her cousin, and Hallgerd's heart quickened in anticipation.

Perhaps buoyed by pride in her own town, Arnbjorg allowed Hallgerd to climb one of the timbered walls.

The town of Freylief was on a peninsula of bog land, inlets slicing across the gray-green wetland to the east. In the distance a birch forest stood, a wall of shadow.

Hallgerd took all this in from her perch on the fortification, memorizing as much as she could of the byways and moorings. It surprised her that there was no bottom to her hostess's vanity. No compliment was too great—the citizens were handsomer, their wood smoke more fragrant, the slop buckets in the streets less noisome, than those of any other town.

Small boats nestled among the earthwork fortifications on the landward side of the settlement, where the scything watercourses cut across the wetland. The tide was low, and these stranded boats lolled lopsidedly in the mud. A child and her mother wandered the grassy earthwork, stopping to gather what, at this distance, looked like shellfish. A net mender had spread his morning task on the shoreline and was beginning to tie knots in what gave every appearance of being an ancient fishnet.

The town was bustling. Somewhere a bellows was working, smoke rising from a smith where a metal worker's hammer was making its
ping-ping-ping
. Geese quarreled, and a cart rumbled through a muddy lane. Hallgerd climbed down again, until she stood at the foot of the timber wall.

Thrand hurried along a lane. For a moment Hallgerd was very glad to see the seaman again, and this feeling of welcome did not surprise her. After all, he had been a source of reassurance during the voyage here, and she believed that Thrand had some warm regard for her. Surely he smiled now that he stood before her, and he looked directly into her eyes. Was it possible? she wondered. Had Thrand lied about her father's well-being?

His tunic was smudged with ship's tar—he had evidently been summoned in the middle of overseeing the re-caulking of
Bison
, but his face and hands were pink with recent scrubbing. “I trust that our town's hospitality pleases you,” said Thrand.

“It is hard for an imprisoned woman to say,” rejoined Hallgerd, “what will please her, and what will not.”

Thrand put out his hand and touched her arm reassuringly. “I hope,” he said, “you will be happy.”

“Tell our guest,” Arnbjorg was saying, “how many planks it takes to build one of our household ships.” She said
karfi
, the word for a jarl's vessel, lovely but rarely used in warfare.

Thrand took a moment, glancing from Hallgerd to the busy lane beside them. He did not look directly into his cousin's eye as he said, “They have many seaworthy ships in Spjothof.”

“But nothing compared with ours,” suggested Arnbjorg in an almost hopeful tone.

“My father will look forward to inspecting your shipyard,” said Hallgerd. “When the decks are soaked in Freylief blood.”

Hallgerd was ready to breathe into Thrand's ear,
Please tell me again that my father is unhurt
. She stepped close to him while Arnbjorg was busily describing Freylief's earliest origins, generations ago, when a village of shellfish gatherers arrived and began draining wetland.

Thrand must have guessed the question in her eyes. He inclined his head toward her and whispered, “Be patient.” There was something further he was about to tell her, but he hesitated.

“Do speak up, Thrand,” said Gudmund's daughter, “so I can hear you, too.”

Just then a song rang out—and another. Clear-voiced calls rose from several points throughout the town.

They followed the throngs toward the harbor.

Four warships approached, oars flashing. The arriving crowd of townsfolk began a chant. The pulsing roar was meaningless for a long moment, but then it shaped into unmistakable, joyful syllables as men and women gathered to greet the ships.
Gudmund
.

The name was echoed by a hundred voices.

Later Hallgerd would wonder if she was surprised at the cheers that greeted the famous war chief. Cruel though he might be to his enemies, women held children high so they could see his ships stirring the black water of the harbor.

Arnbjorg hurried Hallgerd back into the hall, and posted a double guard at the young captive's door.

Hallgerd listened as what she assumed were mead barrels rumbled across the hall, and thrall and servant alike scurried, pushing tables and benches into place.

Syrpa entered the chamber and looked on as serving women arranged small white flowers in Hallgerd's hair, the tiny blossoms Spjotfolk called Meadow's Breath. “Speak only when Gudmund asks you a question,” said the housekeeper.

“I know how to speak to a jarl,” said Hallgerd. She tried to sound brave, but her voice nearly failed her.

“No, please forgive me, I doubt that you do,” said Syrpa. “Gudmund is the killer of many men. And you'll be meeting your intended husband this evening, if you receive Gudmund's approval.”

“Then I hope Gudmund loathes me.”

The housekeeper stepped back and surveyed Hallgerd. “You will win the heart of anyone who meets you,” said Syrpa. “Even that great slayer of enemies.”

The young woman dreaded the forthcoming encounter, but would not let anxiety enter her eyes. “Is it possible,” said Hallgerd as servants tied her sleeves, “that you could tell the noble Gudmund that his captive is ill, and that she begs that she could see him some other evening?”

“Gudmund will see you tonight,” said Syrpa, “if I have to drag your corpse across the floor.”

Thirty-three

Hallgerd waited in her chamber as the sounds of laughter and song drifted from the hall. The smell of roasted pork and goose reached her, too. Despite her uneasiness, she was hungry.

Mead cups clanked and chants were recited. From where she waited, secluded in her chamber, she could make out the fine voice of a poet, and a passage of high-verse.

Seas we sailed, iron-fisted
,

spears and shields bloody
.

The wolf-coated, the bear-clad
,

fell away in fear
.

She recalled the poem well, one of hundreds that celebrated battle. She knew the chant would go on to recount the courage of a young woman named Thora, who fought off an army so her brother's spear-slain body could be carried home.

Hallgerd sat on a stool, her fine-wool skirt flowing across the floor. Surely they will forget all about me, she thought as the song came to an end accompanied by cheers. They will drink and play games, she reassured herself. And then they will fall asleep.

This hope kept her heart from pounding.

A time came, however, when the song and laughter ebbed. A voice was lifted in speech, the sound of a woman. Arnbjorg's voice did not carry well through the timbered walls, but the young captive could not mistake what was being said.

The syllables of her own name.

Syrpa hurried into the chamber, mouthing,
Come quickly
.

Hallgerd was already on her feet. If the Song of Thora gave these Danes spirit, it gave Hallgerd herself exactly the same courage. And more.

She left her chamber, and entered the smoky, fire-lit hall.

The hearth smoke was thick, and the benches crowded, faces flushed with feasting.

A man wearing dark blue wool and a silver arm-ring rose as she passed. At first Hallgerd thought this red-bearded man might be the man she was expected to marry. But then she noted the piece of hack silver beside the man's mead cup, and realized that the man was the
skald
, the poet with the pleasing voice. He had just been awarded a piece of war booty—seafaring warriors broke silver dishes into pieces so they could be easily shared.

Poets were as well honored as any warrior among the Norse, and held with an apprehensive respect by many people—they could weave a song extolling a man's skill, or mocking his judgment. “Your voice is a gift,” said Hallgerd, pausing at the poet's bench, “that brings Odin pride.”

A murmur ran through the crowded hall, a tone of approval at her courtesy. Then the folk were hushed, intent on what the poet would say in return. Even the thralls, most of them garbed in light gray or blue tunics as they served the teeming banquet hall, fell silent. Olaf paused, a drinking cup halfway to his lips, and Thrand, seated on a nearby bench, gave Hallgerd a smile of encouragement.

The poet gave a bow. “Just as your beauty, my lady,” he said, his fine voice uplifted, so all could hear, “gives pride to man and god.”

This was met with whispered admiration for both poet and prisoner. Arnbjorg took Hallgerd's hand. Her touch was dry and cold as she accompanied Hallgerd to a place before the high seat at the end of the hall. But Arnbjorg's pulse was quick, her breath fast, Hallgerd could sense. As confident as her hostess could seem, she was apprehensive regarding her father.

Gudmund was white-haired, his locks flowing over his leather-clad shoulders. His nose had been broken at some point in the past, a common injury in an age when combat was hand-to-hand, the bronze boss in a shield's center doing damage where sword work failed. His garments were the shining, flowing fabric Hallgerd had come to recognize, a tunic of sea-blue silk.

The famous warrior turned and allowed a servant to pour mead into his silver cup. He thanked the server in a low voice, and when he turned to face Hallgerd he took time to savor his drink before he lifted his eyes to hers.

“My father's daughter,” she said, “thanks you for your hospitality.”

Gudmund wiped his white mustache with the knuckles of his right hand—his sword hand, deeply carved with scars.

His eyes were measuring, but not unkind. The trace of a smile slowly softened his sun-weathered features. Hallgerd recognized this steady gaze, and it troubled her. She had expected to hate—if not fear—Gudmund, but something about his bearing reminded the young woman of her father.

The legendary sea chief did not speak, and while his countenance was welcoming, he had no intention of trading greetings with her. It was usual for a jarl to measure his silence carefully, and Hallgerd was not offended.

Gudmund gave Arnbjorg a long glance up and down, and made a circling motion with his hand.

“My father wants you to turn around,” said Arnbjorg.

Hallgerd did as she was told, resenting the bloodshot eyes and the mead-wet lips of the warriors around her. She would obey the great war jarl—she had no choice. But she felt a simmering dislike for this hall of curious eyes. She turned all the way around once, until she faced the white-haired man again. But as she did so she took in the expressions of the faces around her, and realized something she had never understood about herself before.

She had been pleased the way her long hair flowed down her shoulders as she looked out of her father's windows, and proud of her clear voice when she sang, and her strong stride when she ran. But not until now did it fully impress her that she was beautiful—enough to make her the talk of distant towns.

Gudmund gave a nod. He lifted one finger, and a young man stepped forward from the haze of wood smoke.

The youth introduced himself—Snebjorg Adillson, “whose father lost his life against the Franks two summers past.” He wore a fine wool tunic, earth-colored, and his appearance was neither pleasing nor displeasing. He was not at all like Lidsmod, whose eyes were always quick, his face alive with feeling. If Lidsmod had been a boat he would have been a quick-sailing craft, with a sharp keel. This young man was like a freight ship—steady, unexciting. But he gazed at her with a warmth—even a pleasure—that could not be mistaken.

The Danish youth Hallgerd was intended to marry continued to speak of himself in the third person, as was proper, saying that his father's son was pleased to offer her shelter and safe harbor. These were customary phrases, and once again Hallgerd recognized that, despite her captive status, the folk of this place were treating her with elaborate courtesy.

She turned to the jarl himself. “Wise Gudmund, I seek your permission to ask a question.”

The legendary warrior lifted his silver cup, and for a while it was as if she had not spoken. Then, before he took another sip, he lifted one eyebrow in assent.

“Tell me, Gudmund,” said Hallgerd, choosing her words with care, “on your honor—does my father still live?”

Thengskapr
.

That was the word for honor Hallgerd used, and she chose it carefully. She was asking for Gudmund's word as a nobleman.

The old jarl put both hands on the arms of his oak chair. With the assistance of a spearman, he got to his feet. He stood swaying, whether from infirmity or an excess of mead, the young captive could not tell. A guard steadied him as he made his way toward Hallgerd.

Gudmund stood before her and ran his scarred hand over her hair. Was there, she wondered, an air of sorrow in his countenance? She was aware that she could have seized a sword from a nearby guardsman's hilt, and run the old man through. But she did nothing while the legendary sea chief put his hand on her shoulder.

He patted her, as a man might console a nervous animal. Or, perhaps, a bereaved daughter. Gudmund turned back to his high seat. The great fighter sat with difficulty, and took his mead cup in hand once again without uttering a word to his captive.