Orm was fifteen months old, yet already manly, she thought, and so like his father — Sigurd. Orm's curls were golden, he had great blue, serious eyes. She loved him dearly, as she had come — in time — to love Sigurd. And her home. Though at first, this country of ice, snow, boiling waters, and never a real tree had frightened her.
For a while everything had frightened her. She had been nearly mad in those early days. Afraid to speak, almost afraid to move. Frozen, she was then, Uke the glacier behind to the west on Snaefellsnes. And always wondering what they would do to her. She had hated Ketil-Redbeard, her father, never allowing herself to admit that he ivas her father. But she knew it now, and he had been kind to her; not even forcing her into immediate
marriage with Sigurd who asked for her. They had all been patient with her daft state which she could barely remember.
She looked up as a flock of purple snipe flew from the south over her head. That was good luck if they passed from the south, and they were soon followed by four singing swans — MORE good luck! She had learned these things from Sigurd's widowed mother, Asgerd, who had despised Merewyn until the birth of Httle Orm, when her midwifery had saved the baby. Asgerd had quarreled with Sigurd, furious that he should marry a foreign captive, and Ketil's bastard to boot. Matters improved when Ketil adopted Merewyn as his daughter before the local assembly, or Thing, gave her a dowry and proclaimed her his heir, for he had no other hving children. Ketil's wife and two sons had all died together of a spotted lung-rot, while he was out a-viking, some years ago. This sorrowful happening, as Merewyn now knew, had increased his fondness for her. Also she much resembled Ketil's long-dead mother. He often remarked on it.
Merewyn twirled her spindle, and her gaze went as usual towards the beauty of the Hafnarfell Mountains directly in front of her. They loomed up across Borgarfjord, and were all snowcapped, with white snow threads trickling down them Uke a fringe. Vaguely amused for a moment, she remembered how exciting she had thought the littie Mendips in England. But she seldom Hngered on thoughts of England, where she had suffered so much.
The Hafnarf ells were inhabited only by trolls, and the ptarmigan which brave lads sometimes went there to snare. One of the peaks was triangular like a farmhouse gable. She liked to watch it turn rose-violet under the slanting rays of the late-night sun. So did the river Langa turn pink as it meandered down below the mountains to Join the bay called Borgarfjord.
Smiling, she watched Orm make another hole and pack it carefully with stunted bits of grass. The singing swans had gone, but there were many other comfortable noises in the clear
sharp air. A bird said "Tiki, tiki" in a pert way; the lambs bleated as they frolicked on the new pasturage, while the shaggy little horses in the shed snickered occasionally.
Our sheep, our horses, she thought, and the sow about to farrow, and the cow whose milk Orm drank, since her own milk was lessening.
Sigurd has done quite well, she thought tenderly, as a bondi — a farmer. He leased this homestead from Thorstein Egilson, the great chief of Borg. Sigurd was even now in Borg, unless he had had to sail his fishing boat as far as Reykjavik to find the best price for their fleeces. Surely he was happy. He had soon consented to her pleas that he go no more a-viking. Her father had also, but not willingly. Ketil had said with gloom that he was getting a bit old for fighting and raiding and that skilled crews were hard to find. Moreover, he had suffered bad dreams which might be a portent. In the dreams all the foreigners he had killed stood on high rocks jabbering and throwing blood clots at him. One must not disregard dreams.
On the other hand, said Ketil, he was not pleased to be sitting home all summer, carving on bits of wood, or counting sheep. That he did not know what the Noms had yet in store for him, but he hoped it was more interesting than now.
Ketil lived with Sigurd and Merewyn in the homestead. And as she thought about him he wandered outside towards her.
Ketil was over fifty now, a straight-backed powerful man. There were streaks of gray in his hair and beard; the old cheek scar had pulled his right lower eyelid down a bit, and a leg wound made him limp at times; but otherwise he had few signs of age.
He said "Dottir" politely to Merewyn, then picked up his grandson, whom he bounced up and down quite roughly, but they both enjoyed it. Orm squealed with excitement.
"I wonder has Sigurd got a good price for the fleeces," said Ketil, dandhng the child. "But it's getting harder. Too hard. Winter of iron we had this year. The miserable sheep can scarce
yet find anything to browse. And there'll be snow again soon," he added peevishly. "Baula is frowning."
Merewyn glanced towards Baula, a conical mountain to the north now half hidden by misty clouds. She sighed patiently, and twirled her spindle. "Father —" she said. "I was sitting here in the sun, thinking how content we all are, that soon perhaps Sigurd may buy this homestead for us, and that next month we will travel to the Althing. It'll be pleasant to see so many people from all over Iceland. They say it's very gay with music and dancing and the skalds making a special poem at the door to each booth."
Ketil grunted and put Orm down. He looked at Merewyn with tolerant aifection. "Women," he said. "They think of gossip, gaiety, handsome young skalds. We men have graver matters on our minds at the Althing. But you're a good wench, and have earned a little change."
He remembered how unhappy she had been during her first months here. And that because of her pregnancy and then last year Orm's birth she had never been included in the annual journey to Thingvellir where the Icelanders met in Council and decided matters relating to the country. It was a time for the Law-speaker to assert his mind, though the humblest bondi, or yeoman, could speak up if he chose. It was also a time for family outings, for meeting folk from Reykjavik, from the northern fjords, the eastern, the southern, and even the little Vestmann Islands.
"You've become a true Icelander, dottir," he said. He never called her "Merewyn." It seemed to him outlandish, and a reminder of an unconsidered moment of which he was not ashamed, precisely. But there was a faint discomfort about the circumstances which had given her birth, and a stronger one from that moment in St. Petroc's churchyard when he had wanted to rape her. Whole thing best forgotten. She was his daughter and publicly recognized. She was happily married to a good man. She had a fine son. And that was that.
Ketil picked up a pine slab which leaned in readiness against the turf wall, and continued the carving of interlaced vines which he had started on some days ago. The slab when finished would back the High Seat in the Hall which he shared with Sigurd. It would have runes on it to enhance its meaningful beauty. It would be finer than the elaborate doorposts brought from Norway, as fine as anything Thorstein Egilson owned, thought Ketil and made a "Tcha!" sound through his teeth.
He did not like Thorstein, from whom Sigurd leased this homestead. Thorstein was chief of all the Borg district. He officiated as "godi" or priest in the Temple to Thor he had near his house. He was called Thorstein the White because his hair was so flaxen, and he was generally thought to be handsome, though no equal in distinction to his famous father, Egil Skal-lagrimson. Ketil considered Thorstein a high-stomached and mincing fellow, like his cold-eyed wife, Jofrid.
Thorstein had never been a-viking. What did he know of real danger, of the sea's thrill, of the berserker excitement of raids! All Thorstein could do was squabble with his neighbors, and assert his authority. And how did Thorstein get all this authority and lands? Entirely because his old father Egil had moved south and given them over.
Ketil made an angry sound and threw down the half-carved slab. "Dottir," he said, "I'm going to walk to the naust — see how my ship is."
Merewyn smiled, and said, "No doubt, since you do almost every day." As he started off down the road towards Borg, she realized again how discontented her father was especially when May came around, the time he used to go off raiding. The "nausts" were literally nests, or shedded cradles, where ships were kept safe for the winter. But Ketil's great longship — the dragon ship which had carried her to Iceland — had not been out for three years. It lay idle.
Sigurd on his short coastal trips used a small fishing boat with a clumsy woolen sail. If, she thought. Father would only sell
his great ship! — Thorstein had even asked him to — then we could buy our homestead. No longer be tenants. She sighed. Ketil would not sell. He would rather let the Bylgja rot there in the naust, than have her broken up for timber as Thorstein certainly would do.
The sky changed, as it constantly did. Vivid silver-rimmed clouds scudded closer together, patches of blue between grew fainter and Baula, which could be at times, a golden pyramid, was now cloaked in gray. She listened a moment for the sound of Langarfoss — the cataract up the river, and could plainly hear its purring roar as the north wind began to blow.
Merewyn put down her spindle and gathered up Orm. "Come, little heart," she said to the baby. "It grows cold, and is time for something to warm you."
She carried Orm into the homestead, her housewife's keys jingling from her girdle. Keys to the storerooms, and lofts, and the special one for the bed-closet where she and Sigurd slept in privacy. She felt a glow, thinking of all the nights in the box bed with Sigurd. The strength of his arms around her, the feel of his golden beard on her mouth, on her breasts. The feel of that other thing — the pleasure maker, the life-giver — on her thighs — and later, when she and he were one —J the power and excitement and the bliss, up to the moment when he went limp against her, and lay quiet, his big head on her shoulder, sleeping so soon, but contented, she knew, while she murmured the love words he had taught her — "Elsknan min, elsknan min," which in English meant "my beloved." Ah, would he but come back this night, she thought, and was immediately brought to the present by the untidy state of the Hall and the exasperated discovery that the central fire was nearly out and there was nothing cooking in the cauldron.
Most family activities took place in the "stofa" or Hall, which had a long central hearth, and was raftered and lined with wood, though the outer walls were of turf. There was a smoke hole in the ceiling, and four square windows gave sufficient light in
summer, and kept out the winds, for they were filled with hardened, almost transparent membrane made from the afterbirth of cows. Along the walls ran benches and trestle tables. In the center nearest the hearth was the dual High Seat. Above that hung Ketil's great sword, which he called "Bloodletter" and had inherited from his grandfather, as he also had inherited the posts which guarded the door and were carved with vines, swastikas, and little figures representing the gods. The doorposts and the sword had been brought from Norway. Ketil's and Sigurd's battle-axes also hung on the wall, but nobody except Ketil ever looked at them. And when he did he sighed heavily.
Merewyn was proud of her Hall, which was unusually large since the homestead had been built for one of the mighty Egilson family. Now she saw only the clutter of unwashed wooden plates and the dying state of the fire. She looked around for Brigid, the thrall they had brought with them from Ireland, and found the young woman crouched on a stool, idly flicking maggots off a hunk of putrescent lamb.
"Brigid!" cried Merewyn, and added in Celtic, "That meat stinks. It was not well smoked. I told you to give it to the pig! And why are you not preparing our meal?"
Brigid looked around. Her dull, flat face became as lively as it ever did. She had scarcely learned a word of Norse, and was thankful that her mistress's speech was always intelligible.
"I didn't think," said Brigid. "I've a bellyache."
Merewyn put Orm down on the hearth, safely away from the embers. She looked at her handmaiden, who was dressed in the rough gray vadmal all slaves wore. Beneath the stupid face, the thick neck, the pendulous breasts, there was a swelling which she had not noticed before.
"You're with child?" said Merewyn. "Or have you the bloat?"
"I dunno," said Brigid after a moment, and flicked off another maggot. Her stringy black hair fell forward on her shoulders, and she grabbed her middle with both hands. She moaned.
"You must know," said Merewyn sharply, "if you have lain in the grass with some man, or —" She added, remembering that if this was pregnancy, it must have happened during winter, "Have you lain in the straw?"
"Och — aye, mistress," said Brigid, astonished by the question. "Often wi' all of 'em — Cormac, Einer, Grim, and that thrall — can't say his name — one of Thorstein Egilson's shepherds."
"Blessed St. Mary!" cried Merewyn. All their menser\^ants plus one of Thorstein's. And she felt shame for having been so caught up in her own happiness that she had not better regulated her household. She had a sudden memory of her Aunt Mer-winna, and the strict, vigilant rule she kept over many women. While here at Langarfoss homestead in Iceland, there was but one stupid woman for her to rule.
Brigid, seeing her mistress frown, gave another moan, while a ghnt appeared in her eyes. "You was a thrall yourself, mistress —" she said. "You was captured hke I was. But you got luck. You got wed to a bondi. I've a bellyache," she added.
Merewyn's annoyance was silenced by justice. It was true that she had also been a thrall, and had been lucky thereafter. Cormac! she thought — we could handfast her to Cormac, who was also an Irish captive. No doubt Brigid wguld prefer him picked as legal father to her child.
In the meantime, though Merewyn had scant knowledge of midwifery, something must be done. Brigid's moans seemed genuine.
"How many months," she asked, "since you've had your courses?"
Brigid looked up dumbly. This feat of memory was beyond her. "I dunno," she said. "Och, aye — mebbe 'twas at Yuletide, for I had a bloodstain on m' kirtle before the feast."