The Constant Queen (40 page)

‘Maybe not but now I am old and staid.’

‘Never,’ Aksel said gallantly. ‘And besides, if you are feeling your age at all, Iceland will make you young again.’

He spoke true. Over the next few days as they journeyed gently across the island, stopping with smiling farmers along the way, Elizaveta felt herself unfolding. The place was magical. It moved
and spoke as if it were alive – as if somewhere below the craggy surface lay a huge lung that, like her, drew in the rich air and then teasingly sent it out again through the bubbling pools
and swirling springs and frothing waterfalls that poured through the whole landscape.

Halldor had been right that there were very few trees but the rocks seemed to grow instead, pushing up towards the clouds in strange twisting formations and Elizaveta could see why
Harald’s loyal warrior had yearned to return. Men sat easily in Iceland’s busy geology, a natural part of the shifting seasons rather than a dominating force. Even their houses huddled
into the hillsides, melding with them.

‘Troll houses!’ Ulf exclaimed delightedly as, on the third day, Halldor proudly led them up a gentle rise to his vast farm on the shores of Lake Myvatn.

Elizaveta looked where Ulf indicated and instantly saw what he meant. The buildings of Halldor’s household were set deep into the hill, dug out of it who knew how far back, with only
triangular porches jutting forth to mark the doors.

‘There are no trolls in Iceland, fool,’ Halldor told his old friend, swinging out of the saddle as they all drew up in the centre of the magical semicircle of doorways.

‘Maybe one,’ Ulf suggested and Halldor punched his arm.

‘Not even one, my friend.’ And in truth, in his homeland Halldor stood tall and straight, his brow clear and his shoulders square, as if he had become permanently his storyteller
self. ‘Out here on the edge of the world,’ he went on as the rest of the party drew up, ‘we have lighter creatures than trolls. We have fire pixies, so small you could mistake
them for normal hearth sparks until they burrow into your tunic and bite at your heart.’

‘At your heart?’ Elizaveta gasped, encouraging him, for hearing his stories again was every bit as refreshing as seeing his world.

‘At your heart,’ he confirmed darkly, ‘as fearsome as love.’

‘Oh, Halldor . . .’

‘You know it to be the truth, Elizaveta, and when that happens the only cure is to find the water sprites.’

‘Water sprites?’

‘Yes. For they slide across your heated skin like the breath of a maiden . . .’

‘Still with the maidens, Hal?’

‘Of course,’ he agreed with a wink, ‘everyone loves a maiden. And they smother the fire pixies and send them screaming back into the bowels of the earth from whence they
came.’

‘Fire beneath the ground? Really, Hal?’

At that, though, Halldor became solemn.

‘Really,’ he said, his voice dropping its storyteller’s lilt for a moment and becoming more solidly Icelandic. ‘There
is
fire beneath Iceland, Elizaveta. It keeps
our waters warm and our land fertile even up here in these dark winter lands. It nurtures us but every so often it bursts out, to show us who is truly in charge.’

‘Bursts out? Where?’

‘In the hills. It blows the tops off and comes out in choking clouds and burning rivers.’

Elizaveta looked frantically around and Halldor laughed.

‘We are safe here, my lady. The nearest one is a day’s ride away. We feel it shake the ground a little sometimes but its tongues have never licked Myvatn. Fear not; the gods will not
play with you in my home.’

‘Gods, Halldor?’

‘Forces if you prefer. I am no pagan, my lady. See our church.’ He indicated a beautiful low structure, the only building not tucked into the hills. It was made of precious wood and
carved and painted all over so it glowed. ‘But I know why our ancestors were. Nature is a part of us here. Sometimes it makes mischief, sometimes it soothes, always it inspires. There are no
gods, no creatures with a will of their own, but sometimes, even now, it feels as if there might be. I do not worship that, Elizaveta, but I embrace it.’

Elizaveta recalled Harald talking of the core truth of Valhalla and shivered.

‘As you embrace the water sprites and the fire pixies?’ she suggested lightly and a gleam came back into his eyes.

‘Ah no, my lady,’ he chuckled, wagging a finger at her, ‘
never
embrace a fire pixie. Now, let me welcome you to my home.’ And what a welcome it was.
Halldor’s farm, if farm it was, ran so far into the hillside that surely only his precious gods could have dug it out.

‘Not gods,’ Halldor said cheerfully as she suggested this, ‘men; my men. They work hard – I feed them well. We’re all happy.’

Over the next few hours Elizaveta was well able to believe that was true as dish after dish was served to their royal party in Halldor’s mole-hall. The space was vast and lined with richly
painted stone behind which, Halldor told them, moss and peat was stuffed to seal out the cold of the earth. The fire – also mainly peat, because wood, fished from the sea, was scarce –
burned low but strong and the stone walls drew in the heat and held it so that you could lean back upon them and feel stroked by natural warmth. Light came from tunnels dug up to the surface and as
night eventually fell, if you angled yourself carefully you could see the stars peeping in at you. Elizaveta loved it. Even more than the hall, though, she loved her bedchamber.

Entered through another porch, a little around the hillside from the hall, it was her and Harald’s own private burrow. The whitewashed walls were painted with biblical scenes set not in
the arid Holy Land but here in Iceland’s own lush, rugged countryside, and hung with rich tapestries of such rough wool it seemed as if at any moment they might leap up and baa. The bed, to
her great amusement and Harald’s delight, was shaped as a longship with the feather mattress set beneath a mock mast which Harald stroked appreciatively and determined to ‘put to good
use’.

There was a copper looking-glass stood against one wall in a twisted gilt frame, and a coffer that sat on feet shaped like those of some mystical beast and – especially for Elizaveta
– a music stool in the shape of a viol. It was a storyteller’s room, full of quirks and humour, and Elizaveta vowed to attempt a replica at home. For now, though, she was content to
enjoy the magic where it belonged especially when, a week later, Halldor promised to take them to the ‘greatest miracle of the whole island’.

This ‘miracle’ was a whole morning’s ride from the lake but their party was eager and excitable. There were some twenty local men and women on horseback and a
dozen pack ponies behind carrying ‘a little dinner’ for when they arrived at their mystery destination. No one was telling Elizaveta what awaited her there, though she’d begged
for information, and her anticipation was growing. Even Aksel refused her entreaties and she could hardly wait to arrive.

‘Is this not the most amazing country?’ Harald said as they rode along together.

‘Magical, Hari. I’m so glad I came with you.’

‘So glad I permitted you to do so?’

‘Exactly that, my lord and master.’

His eyes darkened.

‘Don’t cheek me, Elizaveta, or I shall have to tie you to the mast – again.’

Her loins shivered in remembrance. His time out here had already sculpted Harald’s body as surely as if one of the fire pixies had licked his flesh away. They had feasted, yes, but he had
been out every day with Halldor and Ulf, the three of them riding miles, or trekking along uphill paths and glaciers, or hunting boar and deer for the table.

Elizaveta had watched them ride in one day as she and Greta returned from moss-gathering – Greta being no keener on adding to her mischievous brood of children than Elizaveta – and
had thought them all as young as they had been that first night they’d ridden into Kiev nearly thirty years past. And Harald’s spirit had honed itself with his stomach. He spoke with
new vigour, laughed louder than ever, and sparkled with the glow of adventure rediscovered. Magic indeed.

‘In that case,
my lord
,’ she said now, ‘I fear you are grown unoriginal in your old age.’

‘Unoriginal?! You wait, Elizaveta . . .’

She grinned up at him and he leaned over in his saddle to kiss her so hard she had to grip at the reins to steady herself. They rode on together in contented silence, watching Halldor’s
boisterous Icelandic companions racing each other across the open plain, before Harald said, ‘Would you travel further, Lily?’

She thought carefully.

‘I’m not sure, Hari. The idea of it captivated me, I admit, but there is only so much you can achieve in one lifetime and there is a great deal of the known world I would still like
to see.’

‘You are not tempted, then, by this new land they have found?’

‘Vinland? I was drawn to the novelty of it,’ Elizaveta admitted, ‘but in truth it does not sound a very promising place.’

The explorers, to Elizaveta’s delight, had sailed into Reyjavik from their journey west just two days after their own arrival and Halldor had invited them to his house to share their
adventures with his royal guests. Both Elizaveta and Harald had quizzed them in detail on the new land they had found several days’ sail west of Greenland but there had been disappointingly
little to say.

‘It seems a fertile place,’ they had reported, ‘with many trees and sprawling vines and huge salmon in the rivers.’

‘We have trees aplenty in Norway,’ Harald had said. ‘Salmon too, and we can ship wine from over the Varangian Sea in just a day or two’s sail. What else does this new
country have that makes it worth battling the waves to reach?’

The men had looked at each other, a little lost.

‘Space?’ one had suggested.

‘Space?!’ Harald had laughed. ‘God above, we have plenty of space. We need towns for trade, craftsmen with new goods, mines full of minerals. Have you found such
things?’

‘No, Sire. The natives are nomads, a quiet people who prefer to stay in the bushes than challenge new arrivals. A man could claim rights as their king without having to lift a
sword.’

‘And where would be the point in that? Who wants to be the king of a handful of tribesmen?’

‘I might,’ Elizaveta had heard their leader mumble and she’d risen.

‘Then you are.’

‘Beg pardon, my lady?’

‘What is your name?’

He’d flushed and stammered: ‘Erik, my lady, but I meant no insult, truly.’

‘And I have taken none. Rest easy, Erik. Ambition is a worthy trait and yours should be rewarded. I pronounce you King of Vinland.’

‘But . . .’

‘Sail forth and enjoy your reign.’

‘I . . . Thank you, my lady.’

Elizaveta smiled now at the remembrance of his confusion and his fellows’ uncertain congratulations. She wished them well of the place, for it sounded too dull to tempt her.

‘It seems to me,’ she said to Harald as they reined their horses back to cross a rocky patch of land, ‘that this Vinland is no match for the riches of Europe.’

‘No indeed,’ he agreed. ‘It would be foolhardy to waste good men on such an empty place. England though . . .’

‘Oh Hari,’ Elizaveta begged, ‘let’s not think of politics. We are in Iceland. There are no kings, nor queens either, and it is very restful.’

‘
Restful
, Lily? Has some troll stolen my wife away?’

‘You know what I mean. Look – Halldor is reining in. Are we here?’

She looked around, confused. There was nothing to mark this place out as special, let alone as a ‘miracle’.

‘My lady, allow me!’ Halldor was at her side, offering his arm with a flourish. Elizaveta took it and leaped from her saddle, peering curiously all around. ‘Do you like
it?’

‘Like what, Halldor?’

‘You do not see?’

Elizaveta looked harder but the only defining feature in the rugged plain was a rough crack in the rocky ground before them, as if someone had grabbed the edges and squeezed them together,
forcing them to split upwards.

‘See what, Hal?’ The others were looking gleefully at each other and Elizaveta turned to Harald as he came to her side. ‘Do
you
see anything, Hari?’

‘Only a crack in the ground.’

‘Only a crack!’ the locals chuckled delightedly.

Elizaveta leaned in to Harald.

‘I think maybe
they
are the cracked ones,’ she whispered.

‘Humour them.’

‘Come, my lady,’ Halldor was urging now, taking her arm and guiding her along the rough ridge to where it widened a little. ‘In here.’

‘In there?’ Elizaveta squeaked, peering down the jagged crevice; was this a jest?

She looked desperately around and Aksel took pity on her.

‘Allow me to escort you, my lady.’

‘Underground?’

‘It will be worth it, trust me.’

Greta was coming forward too so Elizaveta submitted, letting Aksel lift her into the mouth of the rocks. A slim corridor led downwards, twisting out of sight and Aksel, ducking low, made his way
slowly along it. Elizaveta glanced back up at Halldor.

‘Are there trolls here after all?’

‘No trolls. Go!’

Elizaveta’s heart was beating with fear. The rock seemed like a great jaw waiting to close in on her but Aksel, who had taken a lantern off one of the serving boys, was disappearing into
it so, taking a shaky breath, she forced herself to follow him. A last glance up revealed myriad faces keenly waiting – for what? – but then her foot slipped and she had to turn
hurriedly back and as she did so the tight walls suddenly stretched out and there before her, rippling softly between natural ledges and pillars, was a pool. She gasped in delight and heard
Halldor’s friends cheer above her.

‘Oh Hari,’ she called up, ‘come and see this – it truly is a miracle.’

She took a few more cautious steps down to where the rock flattened out into a tiny natural jetty. It was warm down here, very warm, and the water, she noticed, was steaming like the shallow
bowls in a sauna. Still moving very slowly, as if this might be some kind of dream, she crouched and dipped her fingers in the water.