Authors: Dorothy Dunnett
Perhaps he was dead now. Or shamming. Turning back on his elbows, Thorfinn considered both ideas and dismissed them. He had been in too many
battles to mistake what he had seen. Not dead, certainly, although perhaps shamming unconsciousness. And from the way he was stretched, and the little whine he had heard, climbing the slope, it might be a hurt to the chest: at the very least, to his ribs.
Which meant that, even awake, he could not possibly climb out. And of course he himself could not lift him. Even the harness, if he could collect it and join it together, would not stretch from the nearest horse down to the tomb. And his own strength at this moment was not all that great.
What, then? Perhaps, after all, he should try to collect the saddles and fire them. He could throw his coat down. That would give Rognvald a little warmth. He tried to think, rubbing his hands, which he couldn’t feel any longer, and something fresh and cold touched his cheek. He lifted his head.
Snow. It seemed then that tonight the gods had withdrawn their favour. He could not sit out coatless in snow while the fires died. And no one would come, now, before daylight and probably a long time after, for all their tracks would be long since covered.
Thorfinn sighed and then, tightening his lips, made the long crawl down to Rognvald’s saddle-bags. Inside one was a knife in a sheath, which he drew out and slipped inside his own jacket, under the cloak. In the other, blessedly, was a leather flask of something that, when he unstoppered it, proved to be very strong wine. ‘Well, Rognvald my nephew,’ he said. ‘Let me sign the cup to you twice, once for Odin and once for Olaf Sigurdsson’s god, and we shall see what comes of it.’ And he drank.
He rested there only a moment, till he felt the warmth of the drink take effect. Then he stoppered the flask and buckled that, too, to his belt before starting the long drag uphill to the hole again. There he lit another scrap and looked down.
Rognvald lay as he had left him, save that this time he could see, gleaming beside him, a shard of the small embossed bow. What he mostly examined, before the light went out, was the disposition of the stones which provided the stepped roof of the beehive. If he could cling to one of these and it did not give way, he might manage to hand himself down, partly at least. He had marked where to fall, away from the boulders that seemed to litter the chamber, and away from Rognvald himself.
The last thing he did, before he began, was to unbuckle the scabbard that had served him so well as a crutch and lay it, with his sword still inside, where he thought the snow might not hide it completely, at the mouth of the hole.
Everyone in Orkney knew the Earl’s sword: it would not be taken. And if by chance someone came and saw the dead horses, they would not immediately ride away before searching further. He did not want, on the whole, to make his last resting-place here, with the
haug-búi
and Rognvald, away from the sound of the sea. And that they would both be alive when they were found was unlikely. Once he climbed down here, his fate would be Rognvald’s. Which, he supposed, was what Rognvald had wanted, one way or the other, all along.
In the event, he did not have to drop the whole fifteen feet, but the fall was bad enough, when it came, to make him gasp high in his throat as his leg struck the litter below.
Then, with the wisdom of experience, he rolled, and Rognvald’s sword, meant for his throat, buried itself in the rubble where he had landed, taking Rognvald’s body tumbling after it. Thorfinn heard him land and cry out in his turn and, his head swimming, nevertheless flung himself somehow towards the sound. His hands struck Rognvald’s back as Rognvald was attempting to rise, and he felt the damaged ribs give way beneath them. Rognvald gasped, and dropped. All movement halted.
For a moment, the pain from his leg filled Thorfinn’s world. He began to shiver, and then tried to take hold of himself. First, the sword to be found and got out of the way. Then, Rognvald’s state to be distinguished. He had been able to sham unconsciousness, looked upon from above. Close at hand, it would be a different matter. Thorfinn put out a hand, groping cautiously through the rickle of disjointed bones and, touching a sleeve, snatched back his fingers. But the arm did not stir, even though he ran his fingers down it, and at the end he found Rognvald’s hand, fallen open, and then the flat steel of his sword, very near it. Thorfinn felt his way to the pommel and, grasping it, felt for the wall by which he might draw himself up.
The opening in the roof was hardly visible at first. Then, as his eyes grew more used to the blackness, he could see, here and there, the grey glimmer of driving snow up there in the outside world. He lifted the sword and balanced it, judging the trajectory. It would be, to say the least of it, foolish if he threw the thing and it merely came back to his hand, point downwards this time. But when he swung his arm and let it go, it spun quite neatly up and out through the roof-gap to land—from the sound of it, not very far from his own. So, unless he had another knife on his person, Rognvald would have to get rid of him with his bare hands, if he still wanted to, and still could.
A wave of pain washed over him, and Thorfinn sat down. After a moment, he found his flint and tinder again and, coaxing a little light, turned to where he had heard Rognvald fall.
In the blackness that surrounded them, he had forgotten the charnel-house. It was not that, of course: just a burial chamber built of mighty squared blocks, with high wall recesses leading to side chambers. The block of stone that had caused Rognvald’s injury had been the block-door to one of these chambers, tumbled aside centuries ago by the first robbers.
Whatever they had taken from the graves, it had not been the men and women who lay there in the recesses and in this, the main chamber, and even in the passage that he saw ran out, low and narrow, under the hill to one side. As later burials came, the earlier bones had been swept aside, mixed sometimes with bones that, he saw, were not human at all. Wild animals fallen through, once the roof breach had been made, and then trapped. Or the beasts of the dead, sacrificed and put there to serve them. Or later sacrifices, perhaps, in the days when someone had a farm nearby, and the wife of the household would come at certain times of the year, or at some turning-point in the life of
the day, and offer a brace of fowl, or a stoup of milk, or a shank of meat to the
haug-búi
.
They spread all round the other man as he lay, the snub-nosed skulls and slender arm-bones and fretted pelvises, and the dust of them drifted into the wet yellow silk of his hair. Rognvald’s eyes were open and looking at him. Thorfinn said, ‘Where are you hurt?’
Rognvald collected his breath. ‘Does it matter?’ he said.
Thorfinn watched, with regret, his strip of cloth begin to burn itself out, and tore off and added another strip to it. There seemed to be nothing else around them that would give them light or heat, and he would prefer to keep what clothes he did have. He pulled himself over to Rognvald, who did not move, although his hands tightened.
There was no knife tucked in the other man’s belt, or anywhere else that he could see: even his Russian lizard-skin purse had gone, as had the fur hat. Thorfinn leaned on one elbow and, hauling out the flask, unstoppered and proffered it. ‘Don’t thank me: it’s your own. But I expect we’ll both need it before this night is over.’
Rognvald took the flask slowly and then, thrusting it to his mouth, drank greedily in short gulps, punctuated by shallow breaths. His eyes all the time watched Thorfinn. Once, his gaze flicked down and rested on the unusual angle of his uncle’s left leg, no longer held straight by its makeshift splint.
Thorfinn said, ‘I told you. It broke when the horse fell on it. As you say, it probably doesn’t matter, but we might as well do what we can. What about you? Ribs? Collarbone?’ The light was going. He took back the flask and drank from it briefly.
‘Ribs,’ said Rognvald. ‘You fell through the mound, then, as well?’ His face, despite the pain, had suddenly cleared and his eyes, returning to Thorfinn’s, had begun to sparkle. He said, ‘I always have luck. You can’t get back, can you? You’re imprisoned here, as I am. You’re going to die, too.’
‘Possibly,’ Thorfinn said. He knew a little about bones. He added another piece of shirt to the light and, untying Rognvald’s jacket, began to explore with gentle hands. Rognvald’s breath hissed through his teeth, and, sitting up, Thorfinn began to unbuckle Rognvald’s belt and his own. Then he bent to untie the tangle of harness which hung round his leg. ‘Sometimes strapping can help. I’ll see what I can do before the light goes. I can do my own in the dark. Did you strike your head as well?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Rognvald. His eyes were still bright, but he was frowning. He said, ‘You aren’t wearing your sword.’
‘No,’ said Thorfinn. ‘I left it by the opening, in case someone passes. Can you lift yourself?’
Rognvald pushed himself up. ‘
Left it
?’
‘Oh, don’t be a fool,’ Thorfinn said. ‘How often could I have had you killed in the last few weeks, if I’d really wanted? Because you had gone off your head, there was no reason for me to forget that we are kinsmen. In any case, I couldn’t walk, and it had begun to snow. Your tomb looked quite inviting.’
The light went out. He finished by touch what he had started, and cleared the ground beneath Rognvald’s shoulders and settled him. Rognvald’s hand when he touched it was cold. Thorfinn said, ‘Although I don’t know why, in the midst of all the elaborate plotting, you didn’t have the common sense to keep your cloak on. Here. Pull mine over you.’
He dragged it from under himself and flung it over, but did not hear Rognvald move to adjust it. At the moment, in fact, he did not much care what Rognvald did. He was cold, and the pain and the concentration had given him a headache, and he wanted to get the splinting over before he either lost his senses or was sick. Rognvald said, ‘Thorfinn?’
The broken bone, sickeningly, would not stay together. He could hear himself wheezing, and when Rognvald did not speak again, knew that it must be apparent what he was doing; and that Rognvald, unable to help, was at least refraining from intruding on his struggles. Then he got the thing in place, and the splint, and began to do the strapping by touch. The flesh-wounds had long since stopped bleeding, but the sweat was running, again, into his eyes. When at last it was done, he lay back more suddenly than he intended to, and the nest of bones cracked in his ears as he sank back into them. He thought of what would amuse Groa. ‘It was St Winwaloe,’ he said, ‘I think, who slept upon nutshells.’
Groa didn’t answer and all the lights had gone out, so he thought he might as well close his eyes and go to sleep.
He woke because of the nature of a dream he was having; and because he was cold. Not bitterly cold, but the sort of cold one might feel in winter, on a campaign night in the open. The smell under his chin was the familiar campaign one as well, of his old, shaggy cloak, and another man, clearly, was sharing it, although he did not remember inviting anyone. But there was nothing of challenge or provocation about the body pressed close to his own, in whose arms, indeed, he appeared to be lying. It lay only as one man might shield another for warmth, and he was grateful for it. Thorfinn moved a little, and a throbbing pain in one leg seized his senses. He opened his eyes.
Above was not the dark wooden ceiling of any hall he had ever owned, but a pattern of peculiar grey shapes, the biggest nearly circular, and all breathing cold air down on him. By his head, when he looked to see where he was lying, were broken piles of disarranged human bones. And on his other side …
But this time he did not turn, because he knew whom he would see on his other side. He lay still, thinking and looking up at the sky, which told him that it was just past dawn, and that the night was over, and that they were both alive. Then Rognvald behind him withdrew his arm quietly, and shifted so that they were no longer quite together, and said, ‘You fainted. But I think it turned to sleep. What do you feel?’
‘Relief, largely,’ Thorfinn said, and turned his head. Rognvald’s face, dimly seen, was smiling a little. It could be deduced that he had suffered a good deal more pain than his uncle, and had therefore had rather less sleep. But there
was a kind of calmness about him that had not been there before. Thorfinn said, ‘I might even say I was grateful if I didn’t remember that, but for you, I should be whole, happy, and in bed at Orphir.
He was not a stone in the place of an egg, and he was not a wisp in the place of a club; but he was a hero in place of a hero
. What about your bones?’
‘There is still flesh on them,’ said Rognvald. ‘And that, under the circumstances, is what matters. If you are looking for your knife, it is by your hand. It fell from your jacket last night.’
Thorfinn turned his head. The knife he had taken from Rognvald’s saddle-bag was indeed there, where his fingers could grasp it in a moment. He opened his lips and Rognvald said, ‘I know it is mine. Keep it.’
Thorfinn picked it up and laid it where either of them, at need, could obtain it. There was no need to say anything. Unwittingly, he had given the other man the ultimate proof that he meant him no harm. Last night, he had disarmed Rognvald, but had made no attempt to use his own weapon, and instead had done what he could to ensure that he would live through the night. And Rognvald for his part had done as much for him when he was no longer conscious.
Thorfinn said, ‘The flask was yours, too. I have a feeling that, if we were careful, we might get a breakfast each out of it. And then, if you have nothing better to do, we might throw dice for a while. I have a pair in my purse, heavily weighted in my favour.’
Rognvald laughed, and then got rather pale and grinned carefully, his hand to his strapping. ‘Tell me no jokes, and I don’t care what your dice do. Thorfinn?’
Thorfinn unstoppered the flask. ‘Yes?’
Rognvald said, ‘I envy you Alba. It is no secret.’
Thorfinn drank, and then held the flask out. He kept his voice level. ‘There is nothing I can do,’ he said. ‘I have set my hand to it. I would turn back now for no man: not for my closest friend.’ He hesitated, and then said, ‘If you want to see me often in Orkney, all you have to do is make trouble and we shall meet, but as enemies. I would rather be your friend. But I cannot come often.’