Heroes of the Valley (7 page)

'I smelled it. Only a fool would have drunk it.' She grinned pleasingly at him.

'The strangest thing,' Halli whispered, 'is that Ragnar hasn't recognized me. I can't understand it!'

She tore a strip of goose from a bone. '
That's
easily explained. When you met him, you wore servant's clothes. He would have looked straight through you, if at all. Now that you're in a Founder's colours and so an approximate equal, he deigns to look at you. Simple. For him it is as if it is the first time.'

Halli shook his head. 'I am glad
I
am not so blind.'

The meal progressed. Halli's suspicions about Hord Hakonsson were immediately confirmed: he had a prodigious capacity for the joys of table. He talked and ate and drank unceasingly, tossing bones upon the floor with one hand while the other waved his empty cup for filling.

It was a different matter with Olaf, who was far more slight, with a frame that was almost womanish and no fine belly on him. Where his brother feasted like a bear, Olaf picked at his plate fastidiously, in the manner of some drab bird, toying with each morsel for so long that Halli became mesmerized and had to drink deep from his beer cup to forget it. He did not think him an impressive guest. But Olaf 's eyes were quick and never still, and he spoke pleasant things to Halli's brother in an undertone, so that Leif laughed foolishly and choked upon his goose.

To Halli's disgust, his mother spent a good deal of time talking with Ragnar, as if he were a person of great consequence. His mood worsened further when he noticed that Ragnar's responses, far from making her bored or impatient as he would have assumed, provoked her regularly to peals of laughter.

Arnkel spoke politely with Hord and Ulfar. Brodir sat at the end of the table, next to Halli. He didn't have much to say at all.

The spit-roasted pig was brought in and the old dishes cleared away. Then Hord Hakonsson banged his cup upon the table and said: 'Arnkel, the food is more than adequate. It easily makes up for the curious poisoning we suffered in your care. I say suffered: in truth Olaf and I were hardly affected; it was this delicate fawn who nearly died.' He leaned forward and ruffled Ragnar's hair roughly. Ragnar said nothing, but stared at his plate.

'So,' Hord went on, 'we shall say no more about it and enjoy your hospitality. I particularly enjoy the cosiness of this little room, which, after the lofty expanse of our hall at Hakon's House, is intimate indeed. So many quaint features – the carvings on the roof arches, for instance.'

'Do you not have such carvings?' Gudny asked politely.

'Possibly so, my dear,' Hord said, 'but in Hakon's hall they are too high to see.'

His brother Olaf said heartily: 'It makes a change to have hot food; in our hall the distance to the kitchens is such that meals are often cold when they arrive at table.'

Halli watched his parents' faces: both wore fixed smiles.

Hord said musingly, 'Yes, this fellowship between our Houses is a fine thing! It puts me in mind of that time our two dear Founders, Hakon and Svein, undertook that adventure in the estuary, the year before the Battle of the Rock. Doubtless you will know the story. You'll recall that sea raiders had been burning settlements on the shore, and that no one knew how to deal with them. But Hakon and Svein . . .'

Aud leaned close to Halli. 'Here we go. Wake me when it's over.'

'But this is a fine tale!' Halli whispered back. 'Though I thought it was Svein and Egil who did the deed.'

'Tales warp to suit the teller,' Aud said. '
I
heard it was Arne and Ketil.'

Hord was already into his stride, slapping the table with great ham fists to emphasize his points. '. . . then the raiders' ship rammed the heroes' boat, causing a great gash in the stern. What did brave Svein do? He promptly stuck his backside in the hole and plugged the leak! This selfless action saved the day, allowing Hakon to fight the pirates off at odds of ten to one, until . . .'

Halli frowned and nudged his uncle's arm. 'This is somewhat different from the version you told me!' But Brodir drank steadily from his cup and did not look at him.

'. . . then Hakon said to the raiders: "Your hospitality has been pleasant, but now we must depart your hall." And he threw his sword as if it were a boar-spear, so that he skewered the raiders' iron-hearted leader through the mouth and fixed him twitching to the mast. Then he grasped Svein by the hair and plucked him from his plughole with a great popping noise, so that the black water gushed in. Together they jumped into the waves. Svein's leggings had ripped; his bottom smiled up at the moon as he splashed and gasped. Of course, he could not swim, but . . .'

Halli watched his parents' faces: his mother had a dull, glazed look; her cheeks were flushed bright red; his father laughed loudly at Hord's tale, louder than anyone, as if he could not contain the mirth within him; he drank heavily between guffaws.

Hord finished his story with Hakon dragging Svein to the shore insensible. He raised his cup to the table and drained it.

Arnkel said heavily, 'Well, well, that was pleasant hearing indeed. I am the happiest of men that our Houses continue such ancient amity. Let past misunderstandings be cast aside and buried with our fathers on the hill.' He drank again. Hord chewed smilingly upon a piece of meat.

'Fine words indeed,' Ulfar Arnesson, the mediator, said. 'Now if I might—'

From the opposite end of the table, Brodir spoke for the first time. 'I too enjoyed the tale. Almost as much as that fine old one about the Trow king's bride. Do you recall it? It seems that when Hakon was walking in the hills – as one could in those days – he was met by a group of Trows who mistook him for a female of their kind – though whether because of Hakon's essential girlishness or the brutish quality of his features (or both) was never quite determined. Well, he was spirited away to the Trow king's bed, where—'

Grey-bearded Ulfar cleared his throat hastily. 'That story is not well-known.'

Brodir blinked at him. 'No? Then you will doubtless wish to hear it now.'

'No, no. Thank you. Did I mention that I am fearful of the black creep this winter down at Arne's House? After a good hot summer it was ever thus. It claimed my poor dear wife last winter, leaving little Aud here motherless.'

Hord and Olaf Hakonsson had both been regarding Brodir closely. With reluctance, they pulled their eyes away and glanced at Aud. 'I am sorry to hear this, Ulfar,' Olaf said.

'As am I,' Arnkel said.

'Yes, yes, it is a sore affliction. I lost many of my farm hands also in the scourge, so that I fear for next year's harvest if more go to the hill.'

Hord made a negligent gesture. 'We can always spare a few helpers from our many farms. Creep is rare beside the sea.'

Brodir spoke loudly: 'If Ulfar is in need. why should he not come to us?'

'Perhaps he knows you have not many men to spare,' Hord said agreeably. 'Also, your farm is hellishly remote.'

'Eyjolf !' Halli's mother said in a hearty voice. 'I believe we have finished with the meats. You may bring us the pudding now.'

The old man stacked up a vast pile of plates and tottered from the hall.

'It is stewed cloudberries,' Astrid said. 'With custard. I hope you like cloudberries.'

'Oh, very much,' Hord said, and he patted his belly.

'We do not get good cloudberries down-valley,' Olaf remarked. 'The soil is rather too rich. Up here, where the land is practically waste, they are delectable.'

Brodir said, 'Your boy there should be wary of eating many, since he evidently has the constitution of a shrew. A single berry might do him a mischief.'

There was a silence. Hord looked at his son as if waiting for a response. Ragnar stared at the table. Slowly Hord's face stained deep red. He half rose from his seat. 'If anyone wishes to impugn the honour of my son, let them address their remarks to me.'

Brodir smiled. 'I would not dream of speaking to him personally, even to ask his name, for fear he collapses and dies from nervous tension. Just to look at him one can see he is a true son of Hakon, well known as a sword-dodger and hedge-lurker.'

Arnkel stood abruptly; his chair squealed backwards on the floor. 'Brodir!' he cried. 'Leave this table now! I order you! Without another word!'

Halli's uncle's eyes were glazed; moisture trickled down his face – his beard gleamed with it. 'Gladly,' he said. 'I have no stomach for this company.' He stood, tossed his cup upon the table and strode unsteadily to the drapes. He hurled them aside. They fell back into place, swung once, hung still.

Silence in the hall.

Halli's mother said, in a faint voice: 'Cousin Ulfar, if Aud is at risk from creep this winter at your House, perhaps you will honour us by letting her stay with us?'

Ulfar's reply was fainter. 'Thank you. Astrid. I will consider it.'

They fell quiet again. Everyone stared at their cups. After an unknown time, with a triumphant rushing and an eruption of fragrant steam, Eyjolf and the servants bustled hot cloudberries into the hall.

O
NE HARSH WINTER SVEIN
and his companions went hunting in the hills. Svein had his bow, but had left his sword at home. In the pinewoods they were attacked by starving wolves. Svein killed three with arrows, but then the wolves closed in; he could no longer use the bow. A great grey she-wolf snapped her jaws upon his forearm; at the same moment he saw another dragging his friend Bork into the bushes by a leg. With a bound Svein leaped after them, seized Bork's wolf under his free arm and snapped its neck like a twig. Only then did he think to do the same with the she-wolf gnawing on him.

The wolf's jaws were locked and they had to saw the head off the body. Svein went home with the head still clamped fast upon his arm.

'What do you think of my bracelet, Mother?'

She prised it off with a crowbar, boiled away the skin and fixed it with his other trophies on the wall above the gate.

As soon as was decently acceptable, the Friendship Feast came to an end. The guests retired to their rooms and the family dispersed gloomily to bed. Halli took a candle and passed down the private corridor. At Brodir's door he paused. From beyond the wood came sporadic sounds: muffled thuds, bangs and pottery breaking.

With heavy tread he went on to his room and composed himself for sleep.

Brodir's behaviour had been abusive and a breach of hospitality, but Halli found the cause of it perplexing. The rage within his uncle, his vehement dislike for the visitors, had clearly existed well before Hord and Olaf Hakonsson displayed their arrogance at table. His mother had known of this enmity – she had even asked Brodir to stay away – and from their frosty greeting, it seemed Hord knew Brodir of old.

What was their association? Halli could not recall hearing his uncle talk much of the Hakonssons when he recounted his youthful travels.

It was a mystery, but Halli felt sure that if he knew the details it would justify the extent of Brodir's fury, if not the way in which it was expressed. Lying in the dark, he stared towards the ceiling, fingernails clenched into his palms as he rehearsed the numberless boasts and condescensions that Hord and Olaf had employed during the meal. Oh, Svein's House was small. was it? Meagre, remote and poorly manned? And great Svein himself a girlish buffoon, scarcely able to get up in the morning without his leggings falling round his ankles? The travesty made Halli grind his teeth.

True, he could take some pleasure in recalling that his tampered ale had laid the Hakonssons low, but what was this but just a trick, subtle and unmanly? How much better it would be to have lived in the age when the heroes walked with swords at their belts, able to challenge one another when their honour was questioned. Ah,
then
Halli would have walked tall. Or at least moderately so. He would have sent Hord and Olaf packing quickly enough had they dared impugn his House!

His eyes closed; he saw himself elsewhere. His sword twinkled in sunlight, the Hakonssons yelped in fear. Aud was smiling at him as he strode along. Up on the hill the Trows prepared to flee his coming.

Visions of prowess enveloped him in pleasant warmth. Halli slept.

Above was a dark sky. Somewhere close was danger; Halli turned round and round, looking on all sides, but whatever it was remained consistently behind him, and his sword was nowhere to be found. His attempts grew frantic. At last, with a cry, he woke to find that he had threshed half the straw from his mattress and was entangled in his blanket like a rabbit in a net.

He lay still for a moment, trying to recall the dream and its significance. All he could tell was that he had a fearful headache and needed urgently to pee. This wasn't especially significant. It was always thus when he had taken too much ale.

A pale light shone at the window. Slowly, stiffly, Halli got out of bed.

To his annoyance his pot was missing. Katla must have taken it for emptying and forgotten to bring it back. The alternative, the water closet, was out in the private yard behind the hall, and Halli had to leave by the back door to get to it. It was very early yet; the sky was just beginning to lighten, and a grey haze hung over everything, motionless and silent. Halli's bare feet plashed lightly on the old Trow stones; he felt the dew on the grass that grew between the flags. A light cold breeze blew against his bare legs and up his nightshirt.

His business in the closet took some time and brought to mind the torrents of springtime that so frequently caused loss of life. But it was over at last and he was much relieved, though his head still hurt.

As he pushed past the door out into the yard, he heard voices from the stables.

The words were spoken too low to be distinguished, but he thought them angry. From where he stood he could see that the stable doors had been pulled open, but the interior was hidden. The voices continued: three men arguing, talking over one another, alongside little separate sounds – clinks of harness, the clip of hooves – which told Halli that horses were being readied for the road.

He scratched the back of his neck, considering. Then he crossed the yard on soundless feet, climbed upon an upturned water butt beside the stable wall, selected a knothole in the wood and peered through.

There was Ragnar Hakonsson, immaculately cloaked and ready for travel, sitting on a fine grey mare. Ragnar's face was taut and drawn, still sickly; he watched an altercation between three men standing deeper in the stable.

The men were lit firstly by the dawn light filtering through the slats in the wooden wall, so that it seemed as if a dozen grey and ghostly spears pierced them where they stood; secondly by the pale radiance of two lanterns, one placed upon the straw beside the nearest stall, the other swinging in Olaf Hakonsson's fist. He and his brother Hord had been preparing for departure; their horses, handsome specimens, sleeker than the up-valley breed. were saddled and waiting, breakfasting quietly from their nosebags. Hord held their reins loosely in one hand. Both he and Olaf wore travelling cloaks wrapped tight about the neck against the morning chill; their boots had been cleaned and polished. As at the dinner it was clear they were richly apparelled, important men.

By contrast, Halli's uncle Brodir wore the same clothes as the night before, his tunic stained and dishevelled, his sleeves hanging loose, his leggings runkled, his hair disordered. It did not seem as if he had been to sleep at all. He stood in a foolish posture, with his head on one side and one thumb hooked into his belt, pointing and gesticulating insolently at the Hakonssons.

Exactly what Brodir said was hard to make out, for his voice was incoherent and muffled by the furious retorts of Hord and Olaf. But Halli guessed his words held little wisdom. He had no doubt the three were continuing the dispute begun at Astrid's table the night before. Olaf Hakonsson in particular seemed incensed – he spoke almost as much as Brodir, with impassioned swings of his arms; the lantern in his hand cast eerie loops upon the stalls and made the household horses start and shy.

Much as Halli loved his uncle, he devoutly wished his father or mother – even Eyjolf – would come to lead him away. But the House was silent still: evidently the Hakonssons planned to leave as early as they could, before their hosts had risen.

It occurred to Halli that he should hurry away to rouse his parents, but his eye was fixed at the knothole as if nailed there.

Then Brodir lurched forwards, jabbing a finger, and for the first time Halli heard him clearly. 'Go ride then and find your women. In all likelihood they will have roosted for the night in trees, like so many carrion crows.' He smiled towards them stupidly and stumbled in the straw.

Now Olaf spoke, in a voice distorted with rage. 'Svein's House is renowned as a nest of inbred drunkards who can scarcely cross a yard without tripping on their six-toed feet. Additionally – as you might know, Brodir – it is famous in our parts for its
lack of land
. 'At this Brodir uttered a curse, but Olaf continued, 'Still, now we have new things to report: we shall proclaim your vile hospitality from the rooftops, and also sing songs of your dwarfish nephew, so ugly that the mountains turn their backs on him and rivers burst their banks when he kneels to drink.'

Hord Hakonsson reached forward, clapped his brother on his narrow back and gestured to the horses. 'This gains us nothing. Leave this sot to his folly.'

With reluctance, Olaf nodded, but he spoke once more. 'You are a notable traveller, Brodir Sveinsson. We will perhaps meet you one evening on a lonely road and continue this discussion. Know that the Council may have proclaimed an end to the old matter, but in our parts your deeds are not forgotten.' He turned and took his reins. Then he set his lantern on the floor and, in an easy movement, mounted his horse. Hord did likewise; they nudged their horses forward until they were level with Ragnar's. Brodir took a stagger and a half-step backwards to let them pass.

As they reached the open door of the stables, Brodir called after them. 'If we meet again, be sure to bring men from other Houses to do your fighting for you. Yes, my nephew may be ugly enough to scare the scales off fish, but he is certainly no coward, while your boy there would hide his face if a mouse passed by. It is clear enough from this that Hakon's blood runs strongly in his veins. Oh, and I haven't forgotten what happened either. I don't regret it – nor its consequence.'

So he spoke; and no sooner were the words out of his mouth than Olaf had leaped from his horse, taken two strides back into the stable and struck Brodir across the face with the flat of his hand. Halli felt the blow as if it had been his own cheek: the shock of it made him jerk up; he cut the bridge of his nose against a splinter in the knothole.

Brodir's head snapped sideways, but drunk as he was – and caught by surprise – he did not fall, or even step back, though blood came from his nose.

Olaf intended this to be the end of the matter; he turned away to remount his horse, but as he did so. Brodir gave a roar of rage and grappled him from behind, clasping him around the neck and dragging him backwards so that he lost his balance and nearly fell. Despite his slenderness, Brodir proved himself no weakling; his arm circled Olaf 's neck as if it were a band of iron; with his other hand he struck repeated blows against his side so that Olaf 's eyes popped and his tongue lolled from his mouth.

But now Hord came rushing, cloak aflap behind him. He had descended swiftly from his horse; now he flung himself at Brodir, striking out with his great ham fists. Brodir dodged the first blow; the second fell against his beard and made him reel, but he held fast to Olaf, and kicked out with a boot, making Hord gasp and fall back against the nearest stall.

Halli had seen enough; without thought he leaped down from the water butt, nightshirt billowing about him, slapping at his legs. He ran round the side of the stable, past where Ragnar sat like a statue upon his horse, staring at the fight with puffy eyes; past the other horses standing still and placid, in and across the straw towards where his uncle and Olaf grappled. Hord saw him coming; as Halli darted close he stretched out a hand and grasped him tight across the arm, then with little effort swung him up so that Halli's feet left the ground. Halli felt a hot and wrenching pain across his shoulder; he lashed out frantically with arms and legs, but Hord's arm was too long and his grip too tight. Hord flexed his arm once and let go his hold. Halli flew across the stable into an empty stall, crashing down against the wooden wall so that his breath was driven from him and white lights swirled against his eyes.

He lay on his side in a mess of straw, tasting blood upon his tongue. The stable seemed to spin, then slowed and stopped. Halli looked up. He saw Olaf Hakonsson lying slumped against the ground, his fingers clawing at his throat. Hord had broken Brodir's grip; now the two of them were wrestling close, arms locked tight against each other. They fought first one way, then the other, in grunting, gasping silence, colliding with the stalls so that the wood split, stirring the stable floor with their shuffling feet until the spears of dawn light coming through the slats about them were thick with whirling dust.

Brodir fought hard, but Hord had a bull's strength. The match was not long; all at once Hord wrenched Brodir round and pinned his arms from behind, holding him fast.

Olaf was struggling to his feet, very white-faced and bubbling at the lips.

Halli moved; a pain flared in his shoulder. He ignored it, sought to rise.

Something heavy crushed his neck. A boot sole, pressing hard.

Ragnar Hakonsson's voice said: 'No. Trow-face – you wait there.'

Halli choked and scrabbled with his fingers at the boot. With bulging eyes he saw Olaf Hakonsson stand contemplatively before Brodir, who waited helplessly in Hord's grip.

He saw Olaf Hakonsson move away, slowly, deliberately, out of view towards the horses. He heard a rasp of leather – a pannier being opened – and the briefest of rummaging. Olaf stepped back into sight, his face expressionless, its pain and anger replaced with calm intention. In his hand he held a little knife, the kind used to cut cheese, trim nails, stone fruit – daily tasks of a hundred kinds.