Troll Blood (5 page)

H
ilde rubbed tired eyes. It was almost too dark to see the pattern she was weaving. Drafts snuffled and whined under the door. The wooden shutters were tightly fastened. The fire smoked. She longed for a breath of air.

Farther up the room, in the glow of the long hearth, nine-year-old Sigrid was telling little Eirik a bedtime story.

“So there was a terrible storm. And Halvor’s ship was blown along and blown along until he landed in a beautiful country. And then he got out, and he came to a castle where there was an enormous troll with three heads.”

“Isn’t he rather young for that story?” Hilde interrupted. “He’s only two.”

“He likes it,” said Sigrid. “Anyway, it’s keeping him quiet. And the troll said,
Hutututu!
I smell the blood of a mortal
man!’ So Halvor pulled out his sword, and chopped off the troll’s heads.”

“Chop, chop, chop!” chuckled Eirik. Hilde rolled her eyes.

“And he rescued a princess, a beautiful princess, and got married to her. And they lived in the castle together, ever so happily, till one day Halvor began to miss his poor mother and father, who would think he had drowned.”

Hilde wove a few more rows, half listening while the princess gave Halvor a magical ring that would carry him back over the sea, with a warning never to forget her. “‘Or I shall have to go away to Soria Moria Castle, to marry a troll with nine heads.’”

Now there was less bloodshed in the story, Eirik lost interest. He lay kicking his legs in the air, then turned on his stomach and began squirming eel-like over the edge of the bed. Sigrid dragged him back. “Lie still, Eirik, or I won’t go on.”

“Ma,” grumbled Hilde, “I can hardly see.”

“Then stop,” said Gudrun. She was slicing onions, and paused with the knife in her hand to wipe her streaming eyes. “Thank goodness Elli’s asleep at last. I’ll be so glad when she’s finished teething. All that wailing really wears you out….”

“Shall I finish the onions for you?”

“No, go and help with Eirik, I’ve nearly done.”

“Come on, Eirik,” said Hilde, “sit on my knee and listen to Siggy’s nice story. Better chop off a few more heads,” she advised Sigrid from the side of her mouth.

“Halvor was so happy to get home that he quite forgot the
poor princess was waiting for him,” said Sigrid rapidly. “And she waited and waited, and then she said, ‘He’s forgotten me, and now I must go to Soria Moria Castle and marry the troll with nine heads.’”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Hilde, trying to stop Eirik slithering off her lap. “Nine heads coming off soon, Eirik.”

“So Halvor had to find Soria Moria Castle, which was east of the sun and west of the moon, but nobody knew the way. Oh, Eirik, I wish you’d
listen!”

“Eirik,” said Hilde ruthlessly, “listen to the end of the story! The prince chopped off the troll’s heads. Chop, chop, chop!”

“Chop, chop,
chop!”
chanted Eirik.

“You’ve wrecked my story!” Sigrid cried.

“I told you, Sigrid: He’s too little.” She let Eirik slide to the floor. “And he isn’t sleepy. He wants to play. I don’t blame him, either. I know how he feels.”

Gudrun looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” Hilde prowled up the room. “Just—I’m sick of being cooped up indoors. Peer’s having fun on the beach, building that jetty with Bjorn. Pa and Sigurd are on the fell with Loki and the new puppy. It isn’t fair. I wish something interesting would happen to me.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” said Gudrun, “you might get it. It was
interesting
last summer when the house was attacked by trolls, but I wouldn’t want to go through that again. Life isn’t fair, and you may as well get used to it.”

“You always say that!” Hilde wailed. “I’m so
tired
of being
shut up in here, doing the same things, cooking and spinning and weaving, for ever and ever and ever.”

“Hilde!” said Gudrun in surprise. She set down the knife and smoothed Hilde’s hair with a damp hand. “We all feel low at the end of winter. But spring’s here, and soon the weather will be warm again. Think of sitting outside in the long evenings.”

“I suppose,” Hilde muttered.

Sigrid said, “Now your hair will smell of onions.”

“Well, thanks!” Hilde began, when there was a bang at the door. Alf, the old sheepdog, struggled up with a startled bark.

Gudrun’s hand flew to her mouth. “Who’s this knocking after dark?”

“Trolls?” said Sigrid apprehensively.

Hilde got to her feet.
“I’ll
open it. And if there are any trolls out there, I’ll make them wish they hadn’t bothered.”

“Chop, chop, chop!” shouted Eirik. With a nervous giggle, Sigrid hoisted him into her arms, and Hilde grabbed a broom and flung the door open. “Who is it, and what do you want?”

Then she threw down the broom with a cry of delight. “Arnë!”

Arnë Egilsson ducked in under the lintel, pulling off his cap, a broad smile on his face. “Hello, Hilde—don’t hit me! Is Ralf here? Gudrun, I’ve brought visitors.” He paused before announcing grandly, “Here’s Gunnar Ingolfsson of Vinland, with his wife, Astrid, and his son, Harald Silkenhair. Gunnar wants to speak to Ralf. Guess what, Hilde? I’ve joined
Gunnar’s ship. I’m sailing with him to Vinland!”

Hilde gasped. “Arnë, you lucky, lucky thing!”

“Yes, but I’ll miss you. Will you miss me?” he whispered, leaning close. She stepped back with a bright smile.
If my hair really smells of onions, I’ll kill Ma
…

A moment later, people were crowding in. Gunnar Ingolfsson filled the doorframe, a thickset, sandy-bearded man in a heavy wolfskin cloak. After him came a tall, pale girl. A flustered Gudrun came forward to greet them, wiping her hands on her apron. And the last to come in …

Hilde blinked. In walked a boy who made Arnë look like an overgrown, ruddy-faced farmhand. He wore his fine cloak with a confident swagger. Long golden hair tumbled over his shoulders and down his back. Harald Silkenhair?

He’s like a young hero from a saga.

“He’s just like a prince from a fairy tale,” Sigrid breathed. “Hilde, look, he’s even got a sword!”

Eirik struggled, kicking Sigrid with his bare toes till she put him down. He ran forward, a sturdy little figure in a nightshirt, blocking Harald’s way, and gazed up in wide-eyed admiration. “Show me your sword,” he demanded.

Harald’s lips quirked, and he went down on one knee. He slid his sword a few inches out of the sheath. “Meet Bone-biter. No!” he warned, as Eirik’s chubby hand went out. “She’s sharp. Touch the handle.”

Rather uneasily Hilde watched Eirik stretch out a finger. The hilt of the sword was wrapped with silver wire. “Shiny,”
said Eirik, his voice soft with awe. He looked up at Harald. “Did you cut off the twoll’s head?”

Harald frowned. Hilde cut in. “It’s just a story he’s been listening to. He thinks—”

“He thinks you’re a prince who killed some trolls,” blurted Sigrid, blushing.

Harald ran the sword back into its sheath. “Not trolls,” he said, laughing, “not trolls.” He leaned forward and ruffled Eirik’s hair. “When you’re a man, maybe you’ll have a sword like this.” And he got to his feet.

“Wasn’t that nice of him?” Sigrid whispered to Hilde.

“I … suppose so,” said Hilde slowly. Sigrid was right. It was very nice of this young warrior to take notice of a small boy. So why should she feel so uncomfortable about it?
Meet Bone-biter.
Little boys always worshipped heroes, didn’t they? What could be wrong with that?

Harald turned to Gudrun. “Lady!” He bowed over her rough hand as though it were the white hand of a queen, and declaimed with a flourish:

“Goodness!” Gudrun fluttered as Harald let go of her hand. “Poetry!”

“His own.” Gunnar watched his son with a kind of rough delight.

“I’m honored,” Gudrun exclaimed. “You’re most welcome. What a shame my father-in-law isn’t still alive. He was such a fine poet himself. He would so much have enjoyed this meeting.”

Would he?
thought Hilde, watching her mother’s pleased pink flush.
Or would he have thought Master Harald Silkenhair was a young whippersnapper?

She looked at Harald, wondering how many times he’d used that verse. Could he possibly be poking fun? But before she could consider the matter any further, Arnë tapped her shoulder. “Hilde, this is Gunnar’s wife, Astrid.”

Hilde turned, nearly bumping against a tall girl standing close behind her, muffled in an expensive-looking dark blue cloak with the hood up. A brown and white goatskin bag was slung over her shoulder on a long strap, which she clutched with long thin-wristed hands. She had ice-maiden skin, so white and thin that the blue veins glistened through, wide gray eyes, a neat straight nose like a cat’s with little curling nostrils, and pale closely shut lips.

Their eyes met. For a second Hilde felt she was looking into the eyes of a deer or a hare, a wild animal that glares at you before bolting.

Then Astrid pushed her hood down. Out sprang a bright cloud of amber hair, frizzing and fizzling, catching the light in a million fiery glints. The hair transformed her cold, still face.
With her hood down, she was beautiful.

Hilde held out her hand, puzzled.
Gunnar’s wife? She doesn’t look much older than me. She can’t possibly be that boy’s mother!

Astrid touched Hilde’s hand with chilly fingers. There was a pause, and Hilde racked her brains for something to say. “Have you been to Vinland, too?”

“No!” said Astrid in a low, curt voice. After a moment she added with reluctance, “Gunnar and I were only married in the fall. He’s an old friend of my father, Grimolf Sigurdsson of Westfold. He came to stay with us, and—I suppose he liked the look of me. I’m his second wife.”

So that’s it. Poor girl. Gunnar looks older than Pa. I’m glad I don’t have to marry an old man just because he’s rich.
Aloud Hilde said, “How exciting! And now you can travel with him right across the world.”

But perhaps Astrid could tell what Hilde was thinking. Instead of answering she merely raised a scornful eyebrow. Then she stared at the floor. Hilde pursed her lips in annoyance.

“Not everyone wants to travel across the world, Hilde,” Arnë said with a smile. “Seafaring is hard for women.”

“I’d love to go to Vinland,” said Hilde immediately, determined to show Arnë that whatever most women were like, she was different.

Astrid looked up quickly, but before she or Arnë could reply, the door opened. A half-grown black puppy tumbled in
and dashed around the room barking excitedly, followed by Peer’s dog, Loki. A cheerful voice called, “Hey, hey, what’s this? Visitors?”

“Ralf!” cried Gudrun. “Get down, Gryla, stop barking! Sigurd, tie your puppy up. Ralf, look who Arnë’s brought to see us!”

The girls were left together. Hilde was about to make an excuse and slip away when Astrid touched her arm, and said stiffly, “Did you mean that? Would you really like to go to Vinland?”

Hilde opened her mouth to give some airy reply. Nothing came out. The warm, stifling world of the farmhouse wrapped around her throat like a tight scarf. She stared at Astrid, choking on the unfairness of it. Here was this awful boring girl, with her grand snooty manners, sailing off to Vinland while Hilde had to stay at home.

She doesn’t know how lucky she is. Oh, if only I had her chance. I want to see something new. I want to go far away. I want to—I want to find Soria Moria Castle, east of the sun and west of the moon!

Astrid was watching her like a cat. “Come with me!” she said.

Hilde made a strangled noise between a laugh and a hic-cup. “What?”

“Come with me. Ask your mother. I’ll do my best to help you. I’ll tell Gunnar I want another girl for company. It’s true anyway. And then you’ll be on my side, won’t you?”

“On your s-side?” Hilde stammered, taken aback.

Something flashed at the back of Astrid’s eyes. “Nobody asked
me
if I wanted to come to Vinland. Nobody asked me if I wanted to marry Gunnar. Well, my father
asked
, but he certainly wasn’t listening for an answer. He’d already agreed. He wouldn’t insult a man like Gunnar.”

“Was—was there somebody else you liked?”

“There may have been,” said Astrid warily.

“My father would never do that to me,” said Hilde, appalled.

Astrid shrugged. “Lucky you. I thought of putting the cold curse on Gunnar, but someone’s done it already. He’s never warm. See?”

The cold curse?
Hilde twisted around. Gunnar, still wrapped in his thick cloak, was hoisting Ralf’s big chair closer to the fire.

Astrid tossed her head. “Anyway, you needn’t feel sorry for me. I’m married, and I’m making the best of it. After all, Gunnar’s a famous man.
You’ll
never marry anyone half so well known. He treats me well, too. He’s never once struck me. The men say he’s as tough as Tyr, who put his hand in the wolf’s mouth. But he needs me. He has fevers, and sometimes he tries to stay awake because of bad dreams. And he hates being alone in the dark.” Her eyes narrowed. “I haven’t found out why yet, but I will. I know herbs; I know how to mix drafts to give him peaceful sleep. I can wind him around my little finger,” she boasted.

“What about Harald?” asked Hilde.

Astrid gave her a sharp glance. “Don’t be fooled by his looks. His own mother died years ago, so he didn’t mind me at first—he thought I was just a pretty little
thing
that his father might as well have. Now he knows better, and he’s jealous. What do you think of him?”

“Um. Isn’t he a little bit pleased with himself?”

Astrid laughed. “Oh, yes. There’s no one quite like Harald Silkenhair. Well! You might do.”

“Do?” Hilde decided all over again that she didn’t like Astrid. “What for?”

Astrid raised her eyebrows. “Don’t be like that. We could have fun together. You want to come to Vinland, don’t you? Or was that just talk?” she added scornfully.