The Island House (50 page)
The Lord of Portsol swallowed. Grimor was enormous, just as
his brother was. To avoid the light wheels hanging from the roof, he had to duck his head, and he moved easily, with the grace of a predator.
“Welcome, Lord Grimor, and we welcome, also, your men.” Solwaer stood, hands raised high—an honorable greeting and also a demonstration that he held no weapons. Some in the hall thought their lord rose out of respect for the visitors; they were wrong. With the advantage of the dais, Solwaer stood so he’d be taller than Grimor.
“Magni, son of Ragnar, son of Iarl, son of Othere, son of Britwulf Ironhand, brother to Grimor, step forward.” Solwaer himself pronounced the invitation.
Bear moved into the light. He’d been standing in the shadows behind Solwaer’s seat, watching unseen as the Norsemen strode the length of the hall.
“Magni, do you see this man before me? Do you know him for your brother?” A rhetorical question.
Gazing at Grimor, Bear said nothing. The Norseman’s eyes were locked to his.
Fiachna, standing in front of the dais, flushed a congested puce. He’d only just seen that Bear had usurped his accustomed place.
Solwaer lowered his arms. “Come, Magni, let all hear your greeting.”
An age of silence stretched. None moved in the hall, or scratched or, even, spat.
Walking slowly, as if in pain, Bear stopped at the edge of the dais. Grimor stood, still as rock. Breath was sucked back, collectively, like wind in the eaves.
“Brother?” It was a whisper.
Bear tried again, louder.
“Brother?”
He used the Norse word.
Idorn was shocked. Drops of water were falling into the beard of the raider Chieftain.
Grimor was crying.
“He has the look of my father. This is truly my brother.
Magni,
my brother, is alive!
” The bellow filled the hall—one man’s voice, answered by a roar from many throats.
Bear jumped down into Grimor’s arms, and the two men embraced, both crying.
Solwaer’s people did not know what was being said, but they understood the emotion. Man turned to wife, friend to friend, comrade to comrade, even the children squealed with infected glee and punched each other among the babble of guffaws and yells of happiness. They were all sentimental people, and in a hard world, seeing such a reunion was like being in the tales of the Gods.
Meanwhile the ale girls filled the skins with new beer and mead as fast as they possibly could, for the drinking was about to start.
“Lord Grimor—and you, Magni—join me here.” To demonstrate his superior power in this moment of joy—after all, it was he who had engineered it—Solwaer pointed to the stools now placed on either side of the honor seat. Ostentatiously draped with the finest of winter pelts, they were as large as his, and as high.
The hall was transformed as willing hands hauled trestles and boards to be set along the walls on each side of the central fire pit. The most important men of Portsol and the captains and lieutenants of Grimor’s ships would all sit and eat. Women, children, and the men of lesser importance would watch the grandees at the board, though there would certainly be drink for all. As a gracious gesture, those who were seated would also send platters of food around the lesser men—though not the women or children—from which they could help themselves.
It was a miracle, this feast—not least because the women of Portsol had conjured up so many provisions so quickly. It was true Solwaer had been planning for some months, but much of the food had to be prepared very quickly when Grimor and his men actually showed themselves in the strait. And Solwaer’s people gave the best of what they had to the men who should have been their enemies.
Roasted lamb and kid and even chickens—luxury food—and fresh fish seethed in milk and fennel were brought to the tables in large vessels of earthenware and iron. There was a cauldron of savory, thick porridge made from oats, wild greens, and bacon; and comfrey and onion fritters piled high on wooden platters next to soft, white cheeses of sheep’s milk. And everywhere there were mounds of flat barley bread baked on the stones of the fire pits in houses all around the settlement. These were used to scoop the food to the mouth.
On the dais, as Idorn waited to translate for Solwaer, Grimor and Bear stared at each other and smiled. There was so much to ask, so much to say, and neither knew how to begin the conversation. Bear’s Norse, too, was halting, though hearing Grimor shout happily to his men brought words into his head, words he’d not said since he was a cub.
Grimor waved to Idorn. “Ask him, does his face cause him pain?”
Idorn began, “Lord Grimor asks if your face . . .” Bear grinned at his brother—who grinned back—they both had good teeth.
“I understood—enough. Tell him nothing pains me now because he’s here.”
Grimor, leaning across Solwaer, embraced Bear with a delighted guffaw. “Tell him this was a good answer.”
“And tell him that I am a skald in his presence.”
The brothers beamed—at each other, at the hall, at the men, the women, the ale girls, even at the children. And the people of Portsol wondered why they’d ever been frightened of Bear, or called him a demon. Plainly, he could be quite nice, provided he liked you.
As the roar of the feast grew louder and the faces of all present flushed scarlet with the good ale and heat, Solwaer began to relax. He signaled to Fiachna, now back in his accustomed place behind the Chieftain’s right shoulder.
“Tell the women to keep the beer flowing—not one horn is
to empty without being refilled. And food—tell them to keep cooking.”
Solwaer gazed around his hall with pride. The Norse seemed impressed by his community of well-fed, well-dressed people; even the children were free from rickets—that was testimony to the prosperity of Portsol and to his own wealth. Business was yet to be transacted, but that would come, for now he could only pray that the goodwill exchanged in endless toasts would hold until at least tomorrow. “And, Fiachna, I want you to remain alert. Let there be no fights; keep your best men sober.”
Fiachna rolled his eyes behind his master’s back—too late for that. “See that they keep the peace too.” Solwaer waved the chief carl off the dais with shooing motions.
Fiachna was reluctant to leave. He wanted to hear what was said; worse, he could feel the balance of power shifting beneath his feet.
Solwaer smiled as he watched his carl prowl the length of the hall, scowling. It was good to keep his people on edge; in the end, the best retainers were so often the insecure ones.
It was late in the night, and carousing sputtered on. The older men slept where they’d slumped, the women and the children were long gone to bed, but some Portsol girls giggled on the beach with the hard-bodied men from the ships as glowering locals watched in the shadows.
In the hall, Solwaer stood at last. “Come with me, Lord Grimor, and you, Magni. There are things to discuss.” He beckoned to Fiachna. “Preside for me.”
A stool was quickly placed beside the other three. It was lower, and that did not please Fiachna. As drunk as the rest of them, he was well past surly and heading for rage.
Solwaer belched at the man’s sour face. He clapped his chief carl on the shoulder. “Now, old friend, you be the placeholder; they’ll
obey you, of course they will. Who else would I trust with this? And, remember, no fights. Use this.” He tapped Fiachna on the skull. “Not this,” he directed, slapping the man’s biceps.
One arm slung around Grimor’s shoulders and the other around Bear’s, Solwaer led the brothers from the hall.
Idorn was unsure of his welcome, but he edged into Grimor’s chamber behind the trio. Technically, he was still a hostage—his life forfeit for . . . what? That he did not know, but he’d proved his value today to both Solwaer and Grimor. Did that count?
“Idorn.” Grimor was scowling at the frightened chamber slave as she hurried to pour ale for the visitors.
“Yes, Lord Grimor, what shall I say?”
“Solwaer wants something. Ask him what it is.” He stared at Idorn with hooded eyes.
Idorn nodded, but his heart ramped up. This was a bald question, latent with menace, and there was the tang of hot metal, suddenly, in the air. He began to sweat.
“Lord Solwaer, the Lord Grimor has journeyed far, and you have brought his lost brother to his heart once more. He thanks you for that most sincerely and seeks to show his gratitude. He asks how that may best be accomplished. He also asks that this conversation be a private one.”
Grimor blinked. His eyes became slits. “A lot of words, Idorn.”
Solwaer’s eyes were half-closed also, but for different reasons. He’d tried not to drink much of the ale for which Portsol was, justly, renowned, but it was rude to refuse a toast, the many toasts, proposed by his guests. Red-eyed and thick-tongued, he frowned at the chamber slave. “You. Go.”
The girl blanched. Sober, Solwaer frightened her; drunk, he was utterly unpredictable. She fled.
Solwaer enjoyed obedience—it always improved his mood. “I am honored, but Lord Grimor owes me nothing.” He waved grandly. “And yet there are things, important things, that I shall
propose for our mutual benefit. I wish to speak of these . . .” He belched; it was all becoming very, very foggy . . .
The Lord of Portsol fell forward right off his stool, a slow, boneless slump.
Idorn grabbed his master just before he rolled into the fire pit. Solwaer pushed Idorn’s hand aside good-naturedly. “Just you listen, Idorn. Ears are good.” He collapsed sideways, snoring before he hit the floor.
But Grimor was not drunk, and neither was Bear. The elder brother prodded their host cautiously with his foot, and Solwaer twitched like a dreaming hound.
“Is this real?”
Idorn translated Grimor’s words without a qualm.
Bear crouched beside Solwaer. He shouted, “Wake!”
Solwaer farted and slept on.
Grimor stood. “Idorn, is there a way out of here?”
“Without going through the hall?” Idorn nodded. He felt along the line of hangings. “Here.” A door was concealed in the back wall.
Followed by Idorn, the brothers walked through the darkened settlement. Small fires flickered outside some houses, and there were scuffles and giggles as couples drew back from the light, but the rest of the town slept as they strolled toward the landing beach. Even the sea was quiet, the slump and whisper of the waves enough to cover their words but not hide the meaning.
Grimor stopped. “Is the man a fool, Brother?”
Idorn quickly translated—they all knew who
the man
was.
Bear shook his head. “Solwaer means to consolidate his position as the most powerful man on this coast. He has guile and courage, but desire for wealth drives everything he does, as with all his kind—those who come from nothing. I am the key to the future he craves. So are you, Brother. That is why he asked you to come to Portsol. This could be good for us both.” Bear gazed dispassionately at the hostage. “Tell my brother what I have said,
Idorn. Do not lie. I may not speak as fast as you, but I understand much.”
Idorn gulped. Words hurried from his mouth.
As Grimor listened, he stared at his brother, trying to sense what he had become. Magni had been a child all those years ago, and it was hard to see that skinny boy in this man of knotted muscle. And more than fire had burned those scars into his face; fury lurked close beneath the skin, a desire for vengeance. That could be good.
Grimor held up his hand, palm out, the classic gesture of peace. “What do you want in this, Magni?”
Bear stared at his older brother. The red stare. “Reparation. There is a girl on Findnar.”
“Ah. A girl.” Grimor smiled faintly.
“You do not understand.” Bear did not expect him to. “You and I will take the island—the Christians have had it long enough—and there will be profit, which we will share.”
“With the farter?”
Idorn paused—and then translated the word exactly.
Bear did not smile. “To a degree. There is mutual advantage here, but afterward he will not hold the island or the strait. Those will be ours, our fleet base in the East, and he can expand on the western shore if he proves loyal. I told Solwaer to be careful of alliances; we shall learn if he has listened well enough.” His lips curled back from his teeth.
Grimor nodded slowly. “You have fulfilled the promise I saw in you as a boy. I am proud. We will sail the wide seas together, and none shall prevent our passage. They will sing of us two when we are gone. But first we will make children. Many children. You with this girl, if that is your taste, me with fifty to make up for your one.” He guffawed and slapped his brother’s back.
Idorn rushed to keep up as the conversation flowed back and forth between the brothers. Soon it would be morning, and another day. Was he still a hostage?
