King Hereafter (37 page)

To the relieved delight of the hird, unbridled licence for once made its appearance that night, interrupted but not restrained by the arrival of Rognvald, Thorfinn’s nephew. Rognvald, waiting patiently until he judged Thorfinn able to understand what he was saying, reported that Duncan, King of Alba, had just made the rounds of Moray with three hundred men, living in guest-quarters and consuming his tribute, as was his right of choice, instead of having it delivered. He had stayed a week with the Lady of Moray at Brodie.

They were in Thorfinn’s hall-house at Sannick at the time, above the sandy sweep of the bay under the headland. Thorfinn, his hair wet because he had just stuck it into a barrel, said, ‘How do you know all this?’

The dimple showed. Rognvald with the passing of years had only grown, at twenty-eight, more ethereal. ‘I was visiting Groa,’ he said. ‘Your wife. I had found a pair of gerfalcons I knew she would like.’

‘Gerfalcons from where?’ said Thorfinn evenly. He looked, Rognvald noted, as if the founts of energy were less prodigal than once they had been.

Rognvald conveyed astonishment. ‘From Brims Ness,’ he said. ‘I suppose you don’t grudge your wife a couple of birds now and then. I knew it hadn’t occurred to you that she’d like them.’

‘And?’ said Thorfinn.

‘And what?’ said Rognvald. ‘After Eadulf’s visitation, anyone could guess that your dear brother was going to be a little short of provender for his courtmen this year, and you were going to be the provider. I must say, however, he doesn’t share your admirable restraint in the marriage-couch. If I hadn’t been there, I don’t know how your wife might have fared. You know, of course, that his own died of milk-fever. He is in the market-place.’

‘Indeed. Do you think anyone will pick him?’ Thorfinn said.

Rognvald laughed. ‘Next time you say that, loosen your knuckles. He did say that I was to tell you that he was sending to ask Finn Arnason for his daughter in marriage, since you seemed to have voided the bargain. He also said,’ said Rognvald, picking up a cloth from the floor and wiping, gracefully, the puddled ale from the board between himself and his uncle, ‘that he wished to have a little talk with you about the tribute from Caithness. He’s a simple fellow, isn’t he?’ said Rognvald, putting the cloth fastidiously down on the floor again. ‘But I think perhaps you will have to give the matter some thought, if you want to keep Moray. Perhaps you don’t.’

‘Not if I’m going to lose all my gerfalcons,’ Thorfinn said.

Rognvald waited. When nothing happened, he said, ‘I suppose you know how much Duncan hates you.’

‘Does he? On the other hand,’ Thorfinn said, ‘the Lord of Ossory is dying, I’m told, so that none of his Irish friends will be too anxious to leave home just at present, and of course Duncan’s wife’s uncle has just relieved him of half his strength on the border. If I were you, I shouldn’t take it all too much to heart. Groa probably liked it.’

‘Dear Christ,’ said Rognvald simply. ‘What offence are you waiting for, that you will swallow whatever this silly man offers you?’

‘The one he comes and offers me out of his own hand and mouth and not other people’s,’ Thorfinn said. ‘Have you ever climbed that stack out in the sea there? We were just making a wager on it.’

The golden hair shone and the eyes sparkled. ‘No. But I’ll wager I’m faster than you are,’ Rognvald said; and a moment later they were down on the strand with twenty others and pushing off two of the skiffs.

A Salmundarson got his shield on top first, with Thorfinn just behind him, and no one hurt except a kinsman of Isleifr’s who broke his leg in three places and never walked the same way again except on an incline.

They agreed that it was good to have Rognvald back.

Later, the extraordinary gales arrived, and swept cows off the headlands into the sea, and broke down sacred trees, and bowled wicker huts like birds’ nests from end to end of the plough-rigs. At the autumn’s end, Thorfinn came back from his sailing with two shredded sails in
Grágás
and three others dismasted; but in spite of it he had visited Eachmarcach in Man and cleared the sea for him, as well as re-establishing his victualling and repair bases in Cumbria and Galloway, and reminding Diarmaid son of the Cow-Chief whose land it was. His third cousin Thor, whom he happened to meet in the course of it, was glad to pass the time of day with him, and he even had occasion to pick up a little carrying-trade which gave him a profit on a brief trip to Exeter.

On the way home, he stopped off at the Dee estuary and sent a longboat up to Chester with a silk cloak for the Lady of Mercia, as a result of which her son Alfgar came out himself to bring him back to the hall.

In the boat, they talked business. In the hall, Thorfinn walked over to the Earl of Mercia and said, ‘I came to tell you and your wife that the killing of your brother was by no desire of mine. I needed Gruffydd the year before and I may need him again, but not against you.’

‘I am glad you told me,’ Leofric said. ‘But Alfgar here is your strongest advocate. We understand policy, and the need to adapt it. You are running the same risk as my brother.… Do you have news from the south?’

‘Only what you have,’ Thorfinn said. ‘The Lady Emma has sent to Denmark, and her son there is gathering ships and an army. He may take them to Bruges, but won’t attack England, they think, till the spring.’

He paused. His hair had been barbered, Godiva saw, for this journey, and in spite of the hard sailing, he was well and expensively dressed. He said, ‘You probably know that the Hungarians have got rid of their latest king, Peter.
He’s escaped to Conrad’s son, the new Emperor of the Romans. Whether with or without the royal Saxons, the sons of Edmund Ironside he was supposed to be harbouring, isn’t known.’

‘But I’m sure you’ll find out,’ Alfgar said. ‘Your exquisite kinsman of Orkney must surely have heard them talked of in Russia—not that I would expect you to discuss anything as prosaic with that princeling about. Duncan can speak of nothing but your nephew since he came back from Moray.’

‘I heard,’ Thorfinn said, ‘that he had been sizing up the situation.’

‘Are you surprised? My lord Duncan didn’t like one of you sitting on his grandfather’s north coast, and he likes two of you still less, especially now Magnús is growing a beard over there in Orkney. You know Duncan’s wife died?’

‘And I know the implications,’ Thorfinn said.

Godiva said, ‘Forgive us if we don’t go into the implications. Have you had a message from Sulien?’

His face gave nothing away, but she knew she had been understood. ‘There is nothing I can say,’ he said.

‘Come and eat, then,’ said Alfgar. ‘Did you hear about Llanbadarn?’

After a bitter winter, the King of England, Harold Harefoot, died at Oxford in March, aged twenty-four.

The news came to Bruges, where the Lady Emma waited in exile, with her son Hardecanute and sixty hired ships and an army. On its heels came the Bishop of London, to tell Canute’s widow that her stepson Harold was dead, and to offer the crown of England to her son by Canute, Hardecanute of Denmark.

Emma’s three years of exile were finished. In June, she returned to her household in Winchester, and her favourite son was crowned King of England. His first act was to have his half-brother dug up, his head cut off, and his body flung in the Thames.

Although hard to follow, it set the tone for the next half a dozen. Hardecanute announced a massive new tax imposition, and appointed as his regent in Denmark his young cousin Svein, son of the late Canute’s sister Estrith or Margaret.

Svein, who had already decided he was wasted in Sweden, accepted humbly, and all over England the earls sat up and took notice, while Magnús of Norway sent King Hardecanute his congratulations and asked warmly after his health.

Groa, moving from Turriff to Deeside with her five-year-old son and her household, was overtaken and stopped by a fast-riding group of men led by Skeggi, whom she knew but did not approve of. With no preamble, he instructed the Lady of Moray to turn round her troop and accompany him forthwith to the community of St Cormac by Tain.

While excellent in his day at running across rows of oarlooms, Skeggi was less practised at handling young matrons.

‘Lulach!’ said Groa. ‘What has happened? Something has happened to—’

‘Not at all,’ said Skeggi crossly. ‘What could happen to Lulach? You’ve to go and join him, that’s all. Earl Thorfinn’s orders.’

It had been raining. Her garron shook its mane, and horse-smelling spray covered her face. ‘My lord Thorfinn would like us in Tain? I wonder why?’ Groa said. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Sigurd’s cheek bulging where Sinna had fed a cake into it.

‘I don’t know,’ Skeggi said. ‘It’s taken us two days to find you. Where’s your man, and I’ll give him his orders?

‘Never mind,’ Groa said. ‘I’m sure you are as tired as we are with riding. Come to the next lodging with us and tell me about it.’

Skeggi said, ‘I’ve told you about it. Unless I get you back soon, he’ll have my skin for windows.’

‘And if you don’t come with me, so shall I,’ Groa said. ‘Which is it to be?’

She had thirty men with her, to his eight. Her steward, trotting back to them now at her signal, was not a man he knew well. Skeggi rode to meet him and stopped him in the road. ‘I’ve to take her up to Ross. Thorfinn says. She won’t go.’

Groa, riding up, had no trouble hearing that. ‘I don’t recall refusing to go,’ said the Lady of Moray. ‘I do recall refusing to turn round and run at the blow of a whistle. Do we move on and talk at our rest-place, or do I tell Morgund to get his sword ready?’

Unfortunately Morgund, who looked after five districts, was no match for Skeggi, who spent eight months of every year fighting and the rest playing at fighting. ‘I’ve got his sword ready for him,’ said Skeggi prosaically from behind the captain, and indeed he had, with his hand at Morgund’s neck and the point of his own sword pressing against Morgund’s spine.

‘Look, my lady. If I don’t get you back fast enough, it’ll be bloodshed, and if you don’t come away now, it’ll be bloodshed, and all for nothing that matters. Will you turn your horse and ride north, or are you willing to face Thorfinn over what’s going to happen?’

His voice was plaintive, and if she didn’t know her husband’s hird, she would have thought it dangerous bluff.

Fortunately or otherwise, Skeggi didn’t know how to bluff. If she didn’t turn round, he would kill Morgund. And then, of course, the rest of her troop would kill him.

She said, ‘I shall send your nail-clippings to a friend. And your master’s.’ Then she turned her horse round.

Skeggi withdrew the sword and held it out, patiently, to its owner. ‘You’d have to find him first,’ he said. ‘And that’s a task I’d not wish on a one-legged man.’

‘He’s not there?’ Groa reined up her horse. ‘All this rush, and he isn’t even there? Where is he?’

‘I told you,’ said Skeggi patiently. ‘I was to get you back fast. He’ll find out soon enough if I didn’t. And you’ll find out where he’s been when he gets back. Maybe.’

‘If I’m still there when he gets back. Maybe,’ Groa said coldly and rode on, in the rain.

At St Cormac’s when she got there was a flamboyant welcome from Dubhdaleithe and a sweet one from Lulach. Earl Thorfinn and all the hird except Thorkel were missing. There was, however, a box of her husband’s beside a group of new wooden cabins that had been built over the rise from the wattle huts used by the monk and his followers. On top of the box was a packet of neatly waxed cloth, and inside the cloth, when she opened it with no compunction, was a scrap of much-folded vellum written all over in Sulien’s characteristic, flat-topped, beautiful script.

What it conveyed was no personal news, but merely two items from some monkish annals. The first said,
There has perished Donnchad MacGillapadraig, Arch-king of Leinster and Ossory and Champion of Ireland, who found death together with a prey. His successor is chosen
.

The second said,
There sleeps in Christ, Maelmuire Uah Uchtain, coarb of Colum-Cille, and the Fair of Teltown itself on the day after the Feast of St Germain
.

Afterwards, she wondered what Earl Thorfinn would have done if she had gone to Lulach’s mentor to have the note read to her. At the time, she was merely mystified, and ashamed, and resentful because she was ashamed, and because her prying held no danger at all, since her husband was quite unaware that she could read in any tongue, far less Gillacomghain’s Irish Gaelic.

She put the parchment back in the bag, and would have put it in the box to await the Earl’s arrival, except that the box had been locked.

And that, too, she resented.

‘Behave as you usually do,’ Thorfinn had said impatiently to his foster-father before he sailed off so carelessly. ‘What is the trouble? She can stay by the monk with the boys and her household, and you’ll be at Dingwall. Go and see her from time to time. Get her what she needs. Answer whatever you like to her questions. But just keep her there until I tell you to move her.’

This, a man could do with a concubine or even with most married women Thorkel Fóstri had cause to know. But his cousin Finn Arnason’s daughter, this infant bride, this widow, this tall, supple girl in her mid-twenties with hair like haws on the bough, and arched feet that sprang through the mosses of these northlands where she was exiled, was not anyone’s wife, or even the Lady of Moray, but a sharp, buoyant mind, half freed to the winds by this brusque break from routine, half stranded alone in a thicket where pride and fear would not let her rest until she had discovered why she had been brought there.

The thought of Thorfinn tied to a woman was not one his foster-father had drawn pleasure from. But five years of neglect such as this was an offence to the girl’s family—to
his
family—as well as to the young bride. Thorkel Fóstri resented her and was sorry for her at the same time, and the astonishing flowering of her physical beauty made it even more difficult, when he called on her at last, to obey his foster-son’s casual edict.

With no state to keep, with no needlework to occupy her hands while she received complaints and gave orders and entertained visitors, she had left her fine robes in their boxes and dressed as her women did, in a strapped tunic of wool, bright-banded at the hem over gay short-sleeved linen tied with silk at her throat; and her dark red hair, knotted and ribboned, was lifted high from her white nape. She came off the hill to meet him, reluctantly, he could see, while below on the shore came the squeals of her younger son and the women, and Lulach’s white head showed, and his brown, glistening arms, delving for shellfish. Groa said, ‘Come and sit in the sun and tell me what war you are preparing for.’