At the gate, both men dismounted and the beardless one hurried towards her. "Merewyn —" he said in a choked voice. "Oh, Merewyn — my dear."
She stood rooted, her hand on the gate, staring at the dark, thin face, its eyes on a level with hers. Her spine prickled. A ghost! Or a troll playing tricks. They did that. Asgerd said so. Could change themselves into any shape they wished to. She whirled around and snatched up Orm, held him tight against her while backing off. She made the sign of the pross.
"No, dear —" said Rumon smiling sadly. "It is really I. We came as quickly as we could, or I would have warned you."
"You came as quickly as you could —" she repeated in a daze, no welcome in her sea-green eyes which had darkened with fear. She stepped farther back, still clutching Orm, who began to whimper.
"May I come in?" asked Rumon gently. "I and my friend, Jorund Helgison, we have traveled a long way together."
Merewyn did not move, but her heart thumped. She saw the glint of the gold crucifix at his neck, she recognized the long-forgotten Enghsh voice, and its aristocratic intonation — the inflection she had once tried so hard to copy when he first taught
her English. "Enter," she said very low. She put Orm down. He quieted, gaping at the strangers.
She led the two men silently back to her house. On the threshold, she turned. Hospitality demanded that she take them in to the Hall, fetch a washbasin and rag for cleansing, food and ale, but she could not speak the necessary invitation. Her tongue had gone dry in her mouth, and she could make it say nothing but a thick questioning sound.
Rumon drew a sharp breath. He had expected to astonish her mightily, but he had also expected to see more than dismay in her eyes once she knew him. "Yes," he said. "It's been a long time since we saw each other last on the Tor at Glastonbury, and I've been searching for you ever since."
"I do not beheve that," she said flatly. Her arms stretched out across the door as though to guard her home. A cloud drifted by, and the clear sunlight fell on her. She had defiant beauty as she stood there; the tips of her long auburn braids were tucked under her girdle from which dangled a bunch of keys, her freckles were almost gone, her whole body was thinner and seemed taller than it used to, while her mouth — which he had so angrily kissed while they were on the Tor — had parted to show her perfect rows of teeth, but not in a smile.
Jorund, seeing that matters were not going as they had expected, and that Rumon, with whom he had endured so much danger, was at a loss, came forward and said politely, "Merewyn Ketilsdottir — can you not give us welcome? We have come very far and would like to rest our horses. Is it too much to ask?"
Quick red flowed up her neck. She turned to the Icelander, who had a good face and steady blue eyes hke Sigurd's. "To be sure you may. You are welcome at Langarfoss. Sigurd will be glad for company."
"Sigurd?" said Rumon.
"My husband," she answered proudly.
"You are not then a thrall?" said Jorund who understood the situation far better than did Rumon.
"Certainly not! My father claimed me as his daughter and heiress at the Thing. Then I married Sigurd in the Borg temple."
Rumon recoiled, staring at her. "Marriage!" he cried. "You call that marriage, Merewyn! You who are Christian, who lived at Romsey Abbey, with your saintly Aunt Merwinna!"
Merewyn's eyes gleamed. She drew herself up even straighten "I am married to Sigurd," she said in a furious voice he had never thought her capable of. "And I suppose you'll say next that he^^ she pointed to little Orm, "is not my true-born son!"
As the two confronted each other, Jorund, who was hungry and more nervous of this outcome than he had been of anything since he had maneuvered the stealing of their ship in that faraway land across the ocean, now intervened. "Whatever you two wish to talk about can wait, I suppose," he said. "When does your husband return?" He looked at Merewyn.
"I don't know," she answered vehemently. "He is searching for a ewe. You shall eat. And I'll find Grim to care for the horses."
She left the two men in the smoky Hall, flew to tell Brigid to attend to the visitors, flew to the field where Grijn was plowing. She gave instructions. And all the time she thought. What is he doing here? What has he been doing all these years? Oh, why am I forced to remember a hfe that is finished?
She came back to the Hall, where Brigid had presented the basin of water, the towel. The men were sitting on the guest bench next the High Seat. Jorund knew the proper place. Mere^vyn brought them each a mug of ale, then said, "The lamb is cooked, I believe. You shall shortly have some."
Rumon cleared his throat, and said quietly, "It is Friday, Merewyn. And that day as I have often told Jorund — who has been baptized a Christian — is the day when we mourn the Crucifixion of Our Lord by fasting. Have you fish, perhaps?"
Merewyn inclined her head. "I'm sorry. I did not think and
Friday, even in English, is named for the Norse goddess Frigg. The way I live now is not yours. Lord Rumon," she said defiantly.
"So it seems," said Rumon, "and that much has happened since I saw you last."
Merewyn silently went to fetch dried codfish. The men ate, then Jorund said, "The lamb smells good, and I'm hungry for meat. Out of gratitude to Rumon's powerful god, I shall take none, yet hope there may be a bite left tomorrow, if your husband will allow us to stay that long."
She murmured something and retired to the women's Cross Bench. There was a long uncomfortable silence. It was broken by the return of Ketil, who was delighted to see guests.
Jorund made discreet explanations, of which Ketil grasped but two things. "Ah!" he cried, gulping down his ale and gnawing at a lamb chop. "I know who you are, Jorund Helgison! I even entertained your father once, when he was up north in Haukadale. I had my own homestead and family there then," he added bitterly. "But never mind that — what is fated must befall — and tell me of your voyages! Did I understand that you went a-viking in the west, to a place nobody knows?"
"No," said Jorund smiling. "It was not quite like that."
"Tell then!" Ketil cried. "Tell me how it was? Did you get much booty? Did you have many battles?"
Jorund looked from Rumon to Mereviyn. Both were utterly still. He said, "Ketil, may your daughter draw near and hear this account? I think it will interest her."
"To be sure! Dottir, come up with me on the High Seat!"
This unusual honor meant that Ketil was in great spirits, and Merewyn did not dare disobey, nor really wanted to. Curiosity was not the least of the emotions she felt. She climbed to the dais and joined her father.
Jorund launched into his narration. He said nothing about the reason that Rumon had become a passenger aboard the Thorgerd, bound for Iceland from Limerick, but he described their captain
— Ari Marson — and their shipload. Then he described the fearful storm which had blown up from the north, and how their steering oar had gone.
"Bad, bad —" said Keril tugging at his beard. "This happened only once to me — you must have angered Aegir — but go on!"
Jorund agreed that Aegir and his nine daughters were indeed angry. That he had made a poem about it.
"You are a skald.?" asked Ketil eagerly. "And can you also tell a saga?"
Jorund modestly answered that he did have talent along these Hnes.
Ketil was entranced. "You will entertain us later, when Sigurd has come home," he cried. "You will stay with us several days, I hope — but in the meantime, what of the voyage!"
Jorund continued. He told of the weeks and weeks they had been blown to the west, of the calms and the fogs and then renewed winds. Of the thirst, hunger, and despair on board. Then he glanced at Rumon, who was staring down at the table. "There were those on the ship who thought our bad luck might arise from this passenger who is a foreigner and a Christian."
"Indeed," said Ketil, with contempt, drawing together his bushy eyebrows. "/ would have thought him bad luck, but then on the Bylgja I would never have had such a passenger in the first place. / was not a trader. But go on!"
Jorund, speaking in the same even voice, said that Rumon had prayed aloud to his god, and that there had been an answer. They had sighted land.
"Land?" said KetH. "What land? Where were you?"
"I don't know," Jorund said. "It is far, far to the west, where we always thought the sea dropped off into Hel."
"And it doesn't?"
Jorund shook his head. "There were rivers and forests and living people there. Skraelings, and also some papas whose fore-
fathers had been Irish. Those had come long before and they called the country Great Ireland."
Ketil looked above his head to his sword, the "Bloodletter," then to the battle-axes. "Did you kill them?" he asked with rehsh.
Rumon clenched his hands, his bowed head fell lower, and Merewyn could not help noticing that he had grown pale. She returned her gaze to the smoky beams across the Hall.
"We only killed the skraeling who was guarding Thorgerd the night we took it back. I think Rumon knows exactly how long that was after our landing. He notched sticks for every day."
"Nearly three years have passed," said Rumon in a thin voice.
Three years of Hving amongst the savages and the half-breed Celtic monks, of abortive secret plans, of searching for their ship, which was hid most cannily when the skraelings were not rowing it on long coastal expeditions. Three years of longing for this woman who sat there so coldly on the High Seat next to her fierce Viking father.
"You were prisoners?" said Ketil, shaking his head in distress.
"Yes, and no." Jorund smiled. "They treated us well, made us part of the tribe, but they knew we couldn't escape without our ship. And the old chief Hoksic never quite trusted us enough to let us near the Thorgerd. Then Hoksic died. During the mourning period their vigilance relaxed, and Rumon here discovered where the ship was hidden eight miles away up a creek. We escaped in her two nights later while the skraelings were having a powwow and the monks were chanting around their Y-shaped chapel in the Place of Stones. Each lot thought we were with the other."
"Ah, what a wondrous thing!" Ketil cried. "I always heard that Ari Marson was a lucky man, and how proud he must feel of making this incredible voyage home at last!"
There was a pause, then Jorund said, "Ari Marson did not come with us, nor did two other members of the crew."
"What?" cried Ketil. "They were dead then?"
Jorund showed embarrassment. This disgraceful explanation for the nonappearance of Ari he had already had to tell several times since the Thorgerd had finally achieved home port at Reykjavik two weeks ago. Even his loving wife Katla after transports of joy — for she had of course believed him lost — had condemned the dishonor of Ari's behavior.
"Well, what then happened?" Ketil demanded. "An Icelandic captain never deserts his ship, and for my part I don't see why Ari did not fight long before, no matter if you nvere outnumbered and killed."
"Rumon would not let us," said Jorund. "The Christian god hates bloodshed."
"Tcha!" said Ketil. "Those Christians I've seen are always a white-hvered bunch. But Ari shouldn't have listened to this foreigner."
"Ari did not njoant to leave," said Jorund reluctantly. "He married Norumbega, the chief's daughter, and is bewitched by her. Most of us took women — not Rumon," he added, glancing from the stony profile at his side up to Merewyn's wide, fixed eyes.
Ketil gave an impatient roar. "Women, naturally! 'Tis what all men enjoy in foreign places. What has that to do with Ari's leaving on his ship? Besides he has a wife, I believe, waiting here in Iceland."
Jorund flushed, feeling himself in deep waters. "We were all made Christians of," he said. "Ari and Norumbega were wed by Christian rites in the chapel at the Place of Stones."
Ketil exploded with a furious noise. Merewyn drew herself in tight and small. Yes, she thought, in truly Christian eyes I am not married to Sigurd. She hardly listened to Jorund's remaining account.
The voyage home had been remarkably easy, westerly winds had sped them all the way, for which Jorund — at the steering oar — gave thanks to the Blessed Lord Jesus, as Rumon had
taught him. They had a stout deerskin sail, sewed tightly together with thongs by one of the crew's women, who had no idea what the thing was for. They had been able to ship enough maize and venison for the voyage, and had filled casks with water as they fled down the Merrimac River. The sixteen men on board had not suffered much. They had landed, and gone to visit Jorund's nearby home for a while, taken horses, and traveled three more days to Borg. Many in the south knew that Ketil-Redbeard, the once famous sea king, lived in the Borg district. Inquiry at Thorstein Egilson's great homestead directed them to Langarfoss. And here they were.
Ketil nodded, pleased by the tale which was interesting as a saga, though there were no good fights, and Ari Marson had certainly disgraced himself.
But now a new thought struck Ketil. Why had the young men traveled up to Langarfoss? Surely not to tell of their adventures, nor even to look upon an old retired Viking. "You have some business to discuss with Sigurd Hrutson, my son-in-law?" he asked, suddenly remembering that Sigurd had recently been in Reykjavik, and wondering if this visit were about the great news of Greenland. "You've met Sigurd?"
"No," said Jorund swallowing. Nothing was going as they had planned — he and Rumon — during the years on the Merrimac, and during the voyage home. They had expected to find Merewyn confined somewhere as a miserable thrall, possibly sold by now to some other bondi.
Rumon, who still had a pouchful of money on him, had expected to buy her freedom and return to England with her, where she would become his wife. All was to be tranquil and orderly — a matter of a few days to arrange — and now Jorund perceived that there were serious complications, including the young woman's manner.
"Well," said Ketil sharply, annoyed by everyone's silence, "so you've not met Sigurd, and I am, to be sure, dehghted to have you as guests, but I don't understand why you honored us."